Ten Ways to Ruin

“I can pay him. But the only condition is he must be willing to come to my sister’s home to teach me. My mother would never allow me to paint in oils.”

Oliver’s brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “A secret, eh? Then I shall definitely help you. Let’s say we set off to Soho straightaway?”

“Now?”

“Yes. No time like the present. It will also keep me out of the house for a while. I’m hoping to avoid my father for as long as possible. He is aware that I’m home but assumes it is only to attend the ball tomorrow.”

“Do you think we should send a note first to see if he is accepting callers?”

“No. The man is likely at home painting or teaching.” He finished his tea and biscuit before rising with his arm extended to Emma. “Shall we go?”

“I need to fetch my cloak,” Susan said with a smile.

“No,” Oliver replied. “You must stay here. Mother is expecting Baron what’s-his-name. The one with the lisp.”

“Summerfield.” Susan nodded. “She will be furious if I am not home when he pays a call. But I would prefer to accompany you both. Emma should have a chaperone.”

Emma chuckled. She’d known Oliver since he was eight. “Oliver is like a brother to me, Susan. We will be fine. I would say enjoy your call with Baron Summerfield, but I do remember you stating he was a dreadful bore.”

“Yes, indeed. I have told Mother several times that I will not accept him should he ask, yet she continues to let him call on us.” Susan released a long sigh. “I suppose I will have no choice but to stay.”

Susan turned her gaze on Oliver. “You had best keep Emma safe.”

“Of course I will. We are only going to Soho.”

“Yes, and there can be some dangerous ne'er-do-wells there,” Susan retorted with a scowl.

“We shall meet Mr. Bowles and determine if he has an interest in teaching me. Then Oliver will return me to my home.”

“Exactly,” Oliver added.

Before Susan could invent some reason for them not to leave, Emma followed Oliver out of the salon. The footman collected her cloak as they for the carriage. Oliver met her in the hall after retrieving his black greatcoat.

Emma smiled at the dashing figure. Oliver was the creative sort that young ladies fell in love with at the drop of a pin.

“Oh miss, wait for me,” Mary said, striding down the hall with a basket. “Look at the lovely oranges Mrs. Hanson gave us.”

Emma’s smile turned downward. What was she supposed to say to Mary? Her maid would insist on escorting her.

“Oh dear,” Oliver said, looking out at the rain. “I only have the phaeton, and there is not enough room for your maid.”

“Miss?” Mary frown at Oliver. “I can walk home. It is only a few blocks, and I have an umbrella. But do take the oranges, so I don’t struggle with them and the umbrella.”

“Of course.” Emma reached for the basket. “I am dreadfully sorry about making you walk back. Tell Mamma that I will be home in an hour or two.”

Mary glanced suspiciously between Oliver and Emma. “Where am I to tell her you went?”

That was indeed the question. Emma pondered ideas for a long moment before saying, “Just tell her you had a headache and returned home without me. She will assume I am still calling on Susan.”

Mary rubbed her temple quickly. “Well, at least then I am not lying to her. I do have a bit of an ache there today.”

“Very good, then,” Emma replied. “I shan’t be too long.”

Following Oliver out the door, Emma noticed the rain had turned into a downpour, increasing her guilt over her maid. It shouldn’t matter. They would have been forced to walk home together anyway. The two-seater phaeton would not give her much protection either. She was bound to become just as wet or wetter than Mary.

EMMA STOOD DRIPPING at the door of Mr. Bowles’ studio on Frith Street while Oliver used his cane to knock on the door. A sliver of apprehension danced up her spine. After a moment of waiting, she said, “Perhaps we should come back on another day.”

Oliver glanced over at her as she pushed back a damp strand of hair. “You do look like a drowned rat.”