The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  Not that Phoebe would know anything about that, although she’d had a few strange dreams recently.

  The duke bowed over her hand in the approved manner, not touching her bare skin except with the tips of his fingers. When he straightened, his warm gaze turned to cool intelligence as he gave her a brief but thorough visual scan. She returned his scrutiny until he smiled. A broad, jaw-cracking grin that transformed him completely. Plucking out a spyglass, he surveyed their audience below. “Lud, but they must be bored. It appears they find our little scene more riveting than what is happening on the stage. I admit I thought the forepiece a dull thing, but the opera promises well. Have you seen Rodelinda?”

  Phoebe answered in the negative, not bothering to admit that she had never seen any opera, although she understood it involved a lot of singing.

  “You will enjoy yourself, I am certain, especially this new version. Allow me to help you.”

  “That, my dear Col, is why I am here.” Smoothly, Leo inserted himself between them, at the same time turning. “You know Miss Childers, of course.”

  “Naturally.” His smile turned smoothly on to Angela. He bowed over her hand with a grace Phoebe had been unable to observe the first time. She could have sworn he actually kissed Angela’s hand, but Angela showed no sign if he did, merely greeting him and allowing him to seat her on the outside of the front seats.

  Leo allowed Phoebe to sit first, which meant he had the outside seat, neatly trapping her. But with several hundred people watching them, she could hardly demand he let her out. Or that she enjoyed the attention he was paying to her. But she was.

  And she loved the opera. The performance barely grazed the attention of some of the people in the audience. The audience in the gods ate its oranges, fought and yelled encouragement to the singers, who loftily ignored the comments and raised their voices. The gentlemen in the box on the stage continued their game of cards, laughing and passing around wine as if this was an extension of their gentleman’s club.

  But the singers had good lungs, particularly the musico, Cellini. This opera had been revived especially for him, at least she had read that in that morning’s journal. He was a large man, with the pale skin, long limbs, barrel chest, and receding chin typical of so many of his kind, but his voice was an angel’s. A pity he could not act, as the king in the play went through a gamut of emotions, none of which he displayed adequately. Against him, his counterpart, the arrogant Italian Maria Barnadotti, showed more range, but the crowd had come to see Cellini.

  “I’ve never heard a musico before,” she said at a pause between scenes. She turned her head to find Leo watching her, a smile putting creases into his cheeks. “It’s very enjoyable.”

  “Then I am delighted to bring you this treat.”

  “Do you think he m-misses it?” Flicking open her fan, Phoebe covered her face. She should not have said that, but she found talking to Leo so easy she could almost be conversing with herself.

  Leo answered her anyway. “Many castrati come from poor households, so perhaps the loss of their male parts is compensated by the enormous sums of money they may command.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. “But however poor, they must find certain functions difficult…” She tailed off. She’d done it again. With Leo she found sharing her thoughts far too easy. That could not continue. “Oh n-no, how d-dreadful! I should not be talking to you in such a w-w-way. I’m s-s-s-s…”

  He put his hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Do not. I prefer you always your sweet self with me. You have brought me much pleasure with our meetings and our correspondence.”

  “Sorry!” But the word was no longer appropriate. Ignoring the magnificent aria being poured out onstage, she turned her head to meet his gaze. The warmth she saw there could surely not be feigned. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” His lips twisted in a wry grin. “And I look forward to tomorrow’s letter. Your comments on tonight’s entertainment should be untrammeled, especially since this is your first experience of a castrato.” He used the word few people enunciated in public. Most preferred the euphemism of musico, but he had not concerned himself with such niceties. He had flattered her by using the correct term. He must have known she would not protest or go off into a faint.

  Swallowing, she turned her attention back to the stage. The soprano was about to launch herself into a heart-rending declaration of love, at least going from her anguished expression and the way she clasped her hands over her heart.

  “Would you like to use this?”

  Leo gave her a lovely eyeglass, similar to the one Angela owned. It was a gold tube with inset enamel pieces, a lovely object. She smoothed her fingers over the glossy surface. “Is this your c-coat of arms?”

  “It is.” The small, relatively discreet image at the base of the instrument was more for identification than as part of the decoration. The glass collapsed into a single ring-shaped cylinder, which was decorated with rims of chased gold, and at the center, a black-and-gold enameled design. The object was exquisite. When she held it to her eye, it brought everything into clear detail.

  She watched the opera, fascinated by the details she could now see.

  Leo passed Phoebe a glass of wine. She sipped it and let her attention rove over the audience, which had returned to its previous pursuits of gossip and flirtation. And gambling. Everywhere people existed, so did betting. Gentlemen in the pits swept their opera glasses everywhere except for the stage. They lingered on the boxes, blatantly ogling the ladies and the other kind of lady, the lady of the night. This was one of the few places all members of society, including the female section, shared a space with the courtesans. And the common whores, if the activity in the gods was anything to go by. Phoebe averted her gaze, but if she was here on her own, where nobody could remark on her interest, she would have taken a closer look.

  Phoebe stored up the experience for future consideration, but then a glint in one of the boxes opposite caught her attention. Fumbling for the spyglass, she lifted it to her eye and peered through it.

  A lady sat there with a collection of other people. The glint came from a magnificent necklace that caught the light every time she moved.

  At her strangled cry, Leo touched her arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sir.” She handed him the spyglass. “At least, yes, perhaps. The lady in the b-box opposite, do you know her? For she is wearing something that appears remarkably f-familiar.”

  He peered at the box. “She is masked. I cannot say if I know her.”

  “But that l-looks like the necklace. Lady Latimer described it in d-detail, and I did n-note it b-before it was stolen. If it is the necklace, we may clear this matter up tonight.”

  And then there would be no need for her betrothal to the Duke of Leomore. Phoebe pushed that thought aside.

  If she was not mistaken, the second act was about to come to a close. “Will you take me to walk outside? We may make our way across to the other side and discover the identity of that woman. She could be the thief.”

  Leo leaned across the space between the two sets of seats and murmured to Angela. On her other side, the Duke of Colston Magna lifted his own spyglass. “Good Lord,” he murmured, but Phoebe only knew that by the movement of his lips. She was too far away to hear him properly.

  At the close of the second act, His Grace got to his feet. Both Their Graces, to be more precise. Colston Magna helped Angela up as if she were a delicate piece of porcelain. Phoebe sprang to her feet, eager to chase down the woman who could end her nightmare.

  “Not such a tender flower, then,” Leo remarked, evoking a glare from his betrothed. “Do give the impression you cannot do anything without my support, or I fear my reputation will suffer.”

  Phoebe snorted inelegantly. “I do not believe that for one minute, sir.”

  “Then at least wait for me,” he c
omplained plaintively, so much like a child that she could not hold back her laughter. But she did as he asked, and when he emerged from the box, she placed her hand on his arm. He wore woolen cloth tonight, but so fine her fingers sank into the fabric and paused on the evidence of hard muscle beneath.

  He glanced down at her. “Are we for the chase, then, or would you prefer a gentle promenade?”

  Behind the boxes were relatively broad passageways, and doors into who-knew-what, but probably more staircases. Theaters burned down on a regular basis, about once every thirty years, so these days the architects provided the patrons with ample routes of escape.

  “D-Do you have to ask?” Phoebe demanded before she belatedly realized he was teasing her.

  “We will accompany you,” the Duke of Colston Magna said, easily keeping pace with Leo and Phoebe. “Suddenly the evening is full of promise.”

  At his other side, Angela clung to the duke’s arm and lengthened her pace. “If I had known hunting was planned, I’d have worn boots, not shoes with punishingly high heels. However, never let it be said that a Childers was not game.”

  “I always knew you were a good ’un, ma’am,” her companion answered, “even though I had no sure evidence of it. I have every expectation that you will live up to your name.”

  “Ha!”

  They quickened their pace, passing through the doors at the end and along the corridor behind the auditorium. Well-dressed people stood and conversed there, but Leo effortlessly wove his way through them, heading steadily for the door beyond. It seemed miles away. They kept moving although several people appeared in their paths. The dukes were adept at working their way through without actually stopping, and Angela proved herself no mean practitioner of the art, as well.

  Phoebe’s anxiety rose. Her throat tightened, and her heart increased its beat, thumping against her chest. Leo virtually dragged her along, but anyone watching would have seen very little out of the ordinary.

  He seemed as eager as Phoebe to bring this tawdry affair of the necklace to an end. If he had any sense, he’d be keen to end his betrothal to her, too.

  And then what? After that she’d have nothing to do but retreat and mark the whole adventure down to a memory.

  Finally they reached the end door. People still thronged, but as the footman opened the door and bowed them through, Leo’s hand brushed against Phoebe’s. Momentarily she froze, tingles spreading over her skin from the contact, and she barely managed to keep up.

  Angela had lagged behind, finally snared by an acquaintance, so of course her escort remained with her.

  Leo showed no hesitation. Although this corridor was as crowded as the previous one, he plowed on. “I can see her,” he told Phoebe. Being a head taller than most people here, he had a better vantage point. Phoebe could only see expensively clad torsos.

  A cry of “Ah, Leomore!” was met with a polite, “I haven’t seen you this age, madam! Do give my compliments to your husband,” but he didn’t stop.

  The crowd was thinning now as people were reassembling for the next act, but a glint of light showed Phoebe where they were going.

  Leo stopped stock-still, abruptly enough that Phoebe cannoned into his broad back. Peering around him, she saw what had brought him to such an abrupt halt. The lady was no longer wearing her mask, but Phoebe still didn’t recognize her. This close, Phoebe marked the flamboyance of her clothes, the extravagance of her neckline, and the fact that she was standing in the midst of a throng of men, not a companion in sight.

  Trying to turn, she got into a mess, and lost her balance.

  Chapter 8

  Whimpering, Phoebe grabbed a handful of material and prevented her headlong tumble, but her hoops crushed against him until he spun and steadied her, his hands around her waist. “Dear me, Miss North, we’ll have to get you out of this crush!”

  People were headed for their boxes, but a few wanted to speak to them. Confused, Phoebe gazed up into his face. “But…”

  With a firm hand, he half-led, half-dragged her to the side of the corridor, then glanced around, opened one of the doors and pulled her inside. Dexterity and smoothness prevented others noting his retreat. Plus, the remarkable beauty of the lady had attracted most eyes.

  “We can’t…” she began.

  “Nobody saw us, thank the Lord.” He dragged one hand over his hair and tugged at the black velvet bow at the back. It fell away, and he closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the edge of the mantelpiece and uttering a frustrated groan.

  They were in a small parlor, a space dimly illuminated by a window high up. A cozy retreat, it held a side table furnished with a decanter, a pair of wine glasses, and a large, comfortable daybed covered by a signature white and gold cloth, proclaiming the flashy, though meaningless, coat of arms of the opera house.

  In short, a room where lovers might tryst.

  Then Leo turned the key in the lock.

  “Sir!”

  “She and her lover were heading in this direction. No doubt this room is laid out for her.”

  “Who?”

  “La Coccinelle. The woman we were trying so hard to speak to. This is typical of her tricks.”

  He turned to face Phoebe. With his hair flowing around him he resembled nothing more than a warrior from the old days, wearing fashionable clothing for a jest. A murderous gleam glinted in his eyes. The smile turned dangerous.

  With a gasp, Phoebe took a step back and fumbled for the door.

  “No!” he cried. “Don’t go, please!”

  * * * *

  When he’d seen who was wearing that necklace Leo knew Phoebe shouldn’t be within the other woman’s orbit. The sight had enraged him, forcing him to seek sanctuary anywhere he could. His protective instincts had impelled him to drag her with him. He should have left her outside. If anyone saw them leave this room, they’d suspect the worst and then they would be truly trapped into marriage, because he would not dishonor Phoebe.

  His only compensation was that he suspected this situation was the last thing the woman had wanted. He saw her plan in a flash, and had done his best to avoid it, only to get them into this mess.

  He lowered his head and took some deep breaths.

  She was still in the room. He felt it, he didn’t have to see the hem of her gown to know that.

  Eventually he lifted his head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Absurd pleasure warmed him when he noted no trace of hesitation. Her impulse to leave had been mere instinct, nothing else. She trusted him.

  “I’m sorry. If I had taken more notice of the woman rather than the necklace this could have been avoided. I was wrong. I do know her.”

  A frown creased her brows. “What do you mean? Who was that woman?”

  Ah, now they reached the sticking point. “La Coccinelle, otherwise known as Lisette. Of course, that isn’t her real name. Lizzie Fisher she is, born near the Pool of London. Her father worked in the docks, her mother was a laundress, so good that her skill gave her the entrée to the best houses in town. Now Lizzie is the most feted courtesan in London.”

  She understood. “And your mistress.” The sparkle dulled, and she looked away from him.

  “Yes. But I dismissed her months ago.” He sighed. “She dislikes me because I left her before she had the chance to leave me. I tired of her behavior, and her extravagance. I will not allow my people to be discommoded by her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sighing, he went to the decanter and poured two glasses of the excellent brandy he found there. He handed her one and took a fortifying sip from the other. “I need this.”

  She swirled the liquid around the glass before taking a sip. No hesitation there, either. “What did she do?”

  “She acted like my wife, not my mistress. She called at my house, demanding to see me, behaving like a lady of f
ashion, not a member of the demi-monde. I still don’t know why she did it. She knows the rules. I had no choice, but I think she knew I was already tiring of her. She does not lack for suitors, so I suggested she moved on to one of them.”

  “I see. Do you think Lord Latimer is one of them, and that his how she obtained the necklace? And would he really give her a family piece?”

  He paused, thinking. La Coccinelle was nothing if not encroaching, but would Lord Latimer be infatuated enough to give her a family treasure? “I don’t know.” He gave her a wry glance as his temper subsided. “Come and sit down.”

  She glanced at the daybed, then at him. He sat, leaned his arm on the back of the wide sofa in an inviting gesture.

  She came and sat at the opposite end of the piece of furniture. His fingers barely grazed the tip of her shoulder. “Do you think that is the real necklace?”

  “I don’t know. It would explain a great deal about this mystery. She is avaricious, and to show herself in such a piece would be to thumb her nose at the society that rejected her. Including me. Perhaps that is what she wants. I will find out, I promise you. She could even have been the mysterious lady in blue who stole the jewels.”

  “If she exists.”

  He raised a brow and she carried on. “L-Lady Latimer would have s-said anything, to detract from her own behavior. D-Did she really see someone? After all, if she had not b-been careless, they jewels would n-not have been taken.”

  She was perceptive, his betrothed. And she was right. They only had Lady Latimer’s word as to how the theft took place. “Real or otherwise, wearing the necklace tonight was unwise. If Latimer gave it to her, it would be as a deliberate insult to his wife.”

  “Would you do that?”

  “Not even if we were living at opposite ends of the house and not speaking to one another.”