She was all set to have Warburton turn him away, until she learned he’d brought an acquaintance. “Lady Honoria St. Gregory,” Warburton intoned as he ushered the lady and Lord Robert into the sitting room. Emily was thoroughly sorry for the gown she’d worn. It was a ruffled pink silk day dress her father had had made for her. She’d hoped she’d spill enough paint on it that she wouldn’t feel guilty giving the thing to the rag man. But painting had once again proven difficult, and the gown had won over The War of the Roses. “I have been telling Lady St. Gregory all about your work,” Lord Robert explained after they had been seated in the claw-footed chairs near the fire. Lady St. Gregory was already glancing about at the battle scenes. She was younger than Emily had expected, perhaps only ten years Emily’s senior. Her glossy black hair was swept back from a high-cheekboned face; her gaze was as icy blue as the short jacket and matching gown she wore. Her soft pink lips somehow managed to convey her feelings better than the rest of her calm face.
