Naturally, he had repressed his baser urges. She was in a terrible spot, after all, and he had promised to help her. She was vulnerable now, and he couldn’t take advantage of that. He wasn’t a thorough-going cad, after all. Stuart told himself again he simply wanted to make her smile, for her own sake, and that this evening was about finding Susan above all else. He had no plan, intention, idea, or even desire to seduce her. None.
“Will I do?” He spun around to see her coming down the stairs. “You said to dress conspicuously.”
Stuart stared. She wore red silk that clung to her curves yet swayed with every step. Ropes of pearls hung around her neck, dipping into the generous cleavage revealed by the gown’s low neckline. Her dark curls were pinned in a loose tumble atop her head, more pearls twined through them. She stopped in front of him, adjusting her long white gloves.
“Mr. Drake,” she admonished, a wry smile pulling at her mouth. “You’re staring.”
Stuart blinked. “Am I? How terribly rude.”
“I suppose I must forgive you, since that was the desired effect. We want everyone to notice us, correct?”
“They’ll notice you, at any rate.” This was a call to arms, to Stuart’s way of thinking. He wasn’t a cad, but he also wasn’t a monk, and she knew it. All right, so it had been his idea to go out tonight, and he had encouraged her to dress elegantly, but surely any other woman would have managed it without being this ... entrancing. Or maybe not; Stuart was beginning to acknowledge his peculiar weakness for this particular woman. He draped her velvet cloak around her shoulders with great care, and she gave him a sleepy-eyed smile that seemed to confirm his instincts. Whether he imagined things or not, this looked to be a very promising evening.
Stuart had secured an invitation to join the Duke of Ware in his box, one of the most prominent in the Royal Opera. He told her he had already spoken to the duke about their hopes for the evening, and when they arrived at the opera, he led her up to the box directly.
When they reached it, Charlotte took the foremost seat without hesitation. She even tugged it closer to the railing, in the process leaning over and giving anyone watching a spectacular view of her bosom. By the time Stuart took the seat beside her, she had taken up a pair of opera glasses and was scanning the crowd. “Have you any idea where he might be?”
Stuart leaned forward and took the glasses from her. “He needn’t be here himself, although that would of course be very convenient. We need the gossips to see us, and that they will.”
Charlotte snatched the glasses back. “Then you don’t think he’ll be here?”
“He may. All I want to do is establish your presence in town.” She still frowned at him, annoyed. “Suppose he does attend the opera,” he said in exasperation. “Suppose he is here tonight in this very building. How the devil would we know?”
Charlotte turned her back to him, raising the glasses again. Perhaps she had made a mistake choosing the opera. It had been her choice, but she ought to have tried to think what a kidnapper might prefer. Still, people were noticing them. She saw a pair of women, heads together and fans shielding their mouths, their eyes fixed on her. In another box sat a man and woman, the man reclining in his seat and watching her with heavy-lidded eyes as the woman spoke directly into his ear, her eyes also on Charlotte. Other people in other boxes were aware of her, some with avid curiosity, some with contempt. Charlotte knew exactly how she looked, and she reminded herself she wanted to inspire their interest, whether good or ill.
She put down the glasses. “What do we do now?”
“Enjoy the opera, I hope.” He was sitting very close to her.
“Do you enjoy opera?”
“I might. This is my first.”
Charlotte almost fell off her chair. “Your first?”
He looked out over the crowd in the pit. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Not all of us have your cultural experiences, m’dear.”
“There is an opera house in the heart of London,” said Charlotte dryly. “I believe it has stood there for many years.”
He affected surprise. “Has it? How extraordinary.”
Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. “What entertainments do you prefer then?” He gave her a smile so beatific it was obscene, and she threw up one hand. “I do not wish to know after all. Please do not tell me.”
“As you wish. I have always preferred to be a man of actions, not merely words.” His voice dropped into a soft rumble, and his blue eyes gleamed.
Charlotte stiffened. His words alone had left her twisted almost double with desire; heaven preserve her from any actions. She started talking just to prevent him from doing so. “The first time I heard opera was in Venice. Everyone went; the opera house was filled with people of all stations. I was assured no one paid much mind to the production onstage until someone began to sing, and in the main this was true. But when the prima donna came onstage, the entire hall grew quiet. I had never heard anyone sing so beautifully, like the angels in heaven must sing. She made the audience weep with her, laugh with her, and care for her with their whole hearts. My only thought from that night on was to see and hear more, and I never missed a performance by that soprano.” She stopped, remembering again how mesmerized she had been that night, how completely swept away by the passion in the music.
She looked over the growing crowd toward the stage, where the heavy curtains still hung closed. Lucia had said it was like waiting for a new lover, those minutes backstage before the curtain opened: a mixture of nervous apprehension and sheer elation. Charlotte was acutely conscious of Stuart beside her, dangerously attractive in his eveningwear. She felt that apprehension very strongly, but also some of the elation; she should not be so intrigued by him. Lucia, no doubt, would say it was an omen that she was with him for his first opera. Charlotte wondered if Stuart would be as moved by the music as she had been.
“Your friend,” said Stuart quietly. “Madame da Ponte?”
Charlotte started, jerking her thoughts away from new lovers and omens. “Yes. I have still never heard anyone sing as beautifully as she did.”
“Does she no longer sing?”
“No.” He said nothing, and for some reason Charlotte told him why. “That is my fault. I introduced one of my husband’s companions to her, and he was instantly besotted. In trying to win her favor, he gave her some Turkish tobacco, and then she was instantly besotted—with the tobacco. She began smoking it several times a day, and her voice was never the same. Other singers, younger and more grasping, contrived to take her roles. I invited her to come to England when I got word of my brother’s death, and she accepted, I believe, to salvage her fame before it was entirely gone.” He said nothing, but she felt his eyes on her, and abruptly changed the subject. “This box is ideally situated for our purposes,” she observed, leaning forward again for a view.
Stuart let his gaze rove over her back. Her gown was even lower in back than in front, and his eyes traced the line of her spine up to the heavy knot of dark curls. Her shoulders were entirely bare, and he wondered what she would do if he leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck, right at the necklace clasp as he undid it and let the pearls slide down ...
She sat back, squaring her shoulders. The pearls settled in a wide arc that caught just on the edge of the red silk. “You are not to blame for the tobacco,” said Stuart, willing them to slip into her cleavage, not that he needed any other excuse to look there. He could hardly look away from her at all. “It was her choice to smoke it.”
She flicked open her fan, no longer looking at him. “I do not suffer from terrible guilt, Mr. Drake. I merely think it a great pity. Have you never regretted the unforeseen consequences of your actions?”
He was spared a reply by the arrival of their host. The orchestra was beginning, and Charlotte had turned her attention toward the stage and her back toward him. Stuart gave one last lingering glance at the necklace clasp, acknowledging that this was not the place. But what would Charlotte do, if he ac
ted on his impulse? He suspected part of her would welcome it. The other part of her would undoubtedly pull a pistol on him, though, and Stuart had had enough of that. His entire acquaintance with Charlotte had been one of unintended consequences, but Stuart couldn’t say he regretted it.
The opera was not the best production Charlotte had ever heard. Between acts Stuart brought wine, but they remained in the box, highly visible. A few men stopped by, but only those who knew Stuart or the duke. Charlotte was relieved when the opera began again, and Stuart resumed his seat beside her.
The prima donna was an Italian woman with strong, heavy features. Charlotte thought she might have heard the woman sing in Italy once, a minor role in Rome. Her inflection was florid and her tone slightly nasal, nothing like the clean pure beauty of Lucia’s voice before the cigarettes had stolen it. Letting her mind drift from the overwrought arias, Charlotte wondered what Lucia was doing, and if Mr. Whitley had made enough progress to persuade her to begin singing again. If Lucia came to London with even a shadow of her voice restored, she would be a sensation.
Since she wasn’t paying attention to the opera, her ears gradually became attuned to the low voices behind her. Stuart, who had sat in perfect silence through the first acts, had begun a quiet conversation with the duke, who sat behind him. Without meaning to, she began listening.
“I received a notice from Barclay yesterday,” murmured Ware.
A long pause. “Ah,” said Stuart simply, but Charlotte sensed a great deal of dismay in that small word. Who was Barclay? And why would Stuart be upset by mention of him?
“I expect he simply didn’t know where to reach you,” added the duke. “He had already sent to Oakwood Park.”
A longer pause. “I cannot afford to pay him yet,” said Stuart, his voice somewhat strained.
“I understand.” A very long pause. “I do not mind,” said the duke so softly Charlotte could barely make out the words.
“No,” said Stuart more harshly. “I mind. I’ll find a way.”
The opera ended, and everyone applauded. Charlotte turned her head just enough to see him from the corner of her eye; his face was set, his eyes melancholy. He didn’t notice her watching for a moment, and when he did the sadness disappeared at once.
“Simply brilliant,” he said, leaning forward to rest his arm along the back of her chair. “What was the story? Ware and I have a wager: is it secret lovers?”
“All Italian opera revolves around secret lovers,” said the duke with a faint smile.
“In this instance, you are wrong.” The Duke of Ware was the most beautiful man Charlotte had ever seen. Tall and golden-haired, his face appeared sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Charlotte had to remind herself not to stare every time he spoke to her. His eyes were a mesmerizing mixture of blue and gray, but his smile barely touched them. He had been formal and polite to her, and although he and Stuart were clearly old friends, there was a reserve about him that made Charlotte wonder how the two of them had ever gotten along. “The lovers are not secret,” she said. “They are to be married. The other characters try to cause trouble between them.”
Stuart turned to the duke. “I was counting upon an evening of lovers’ laments. How disappointing.”
“As you do not speak a word of Italian,” teased Charlotte, “you may persuade yourself you have had one. Perhaps I did not tell you the truth.”
He shifted, nearer. His arm rested lightly against the back of her shoulders. “But I know you did.”
“Absolute trust?” The duke’s eyebrow went up as he turned to Charlotte. “That is a rare thing indeed to give another person.” Disconcerted, she looked away, right into Stuart’s eyes. For a moment, neither moved, and she knew in that moment the duke had put his finger on it. She did trust Stuart. It left her delighted, and uneasy, and more than a little surprised. Was it natural to trust him now, when she had so recently distrusted him completely? Was it wise, to depend so much upon him after she had done so much to make him dislike her? Or was she fooling herself, persuading herself he was a better man than she’d thought simply because it would allow her to justify other feelings?
“Yes,” she said, tearing her eyes from his. “Exceedingly rare.” There was a moment of silence. “I am sorry there were no lover’s laments, for the sake of your wager,” she said to fill it. “I enjoyed it all the same.”
“As did I,” murmured the duke. Charlotte looked up to see he was regarding her with a strangely intense expression. For a moment those magnetic blue gray eyes searched her face, almost hungrily, as if looking for some particular resemblance or feature. She wanted to look away but somehow couldn’t.
“Well, splendid! Perhaps Ware will abandon his long-favored theater haunts for the opera.”
Charlotte started at Stuart’s lighthearted remark. The duke’s expression closed immediately, becoming distant and cool.
“Perhaps.” He stood. “Pray, excuse me, Madame Griffolino, Drake.” He bowed and moved away, leaving Stuart furious at himself and yet unable to forget how Ware had been looking at Charlotte. Ware hadn’t looked at a woman that way in years. What the devil would he do, if the reclusive duke finally came out of his shell to pursue her? How could he compete with a man like Ware? And should he even try to, when he had so little to offer Charlotte himself?
“He’s very lonely, isn’t he?” said Charlotte softly, watching the duke.
“I suppose.” Stuart’s frown turned to a scowl. It rubbed him the wrong way to hear her pity poor Ware, who lived in the finest house in London with his every need and wish satisfied at once. Ware, who could have any woman in England for a snap of his fingers. Ware, who had the influence and wealth to take London apart brick by brick until Susan was found.
Stuart sprang to his feet, hating himself for thinking such a thing. Ware was his friend, a gentleman who would never ... He looked at Charlotte, lush and sensual in her crimson gown, her ropes of pearls sliding tantalizingly into her cleavage. Friend and gentleman or not, a man would have to be blind not to be attracted to her. “Shall we go?”
She looked up in astonishment. “But we haven’t spoken to anyone! I thought you hoped to hear gossip that might help us find Susan.”
Stuart shifted his weight. “People come to the opera to talk about each other. It should be easier to let the kidnapper hear of you than for you to hear of him. I doubt we’ll hear anything of Susan here.”
“Oh.” She wilted a bit, and Stuart felt like a cad all over again. He knew the chance of hearing something among the ton was very small, but he’d hoped going out would be good for Charlotte ... just not so good she ended up a duchess. It was jealousy, pure and simple, and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t deny it. Not even the reminder of how acute his own troubles were becoming could distract him. And Stuart didn’t quite know what to make of that.
CHAPTER TEN
Charlotte was early to breakfast the next morning, not surprised to find Stuart there ahead of her. He had taken breakfast at his parents’ house every day, although thankfully Mr. Drake had been absent since that first morning. And because she knew he would be there, Charlotte came down as well; it would be rude to avoid him, after all his help. So she told herself, even as her heart lifted a little at the sight of his welcoming smile.
“No word from Pitney,” he said, seating her. “I expect to see him later today, though.”
Charlotte sighed, her moment of happiness fading. “He’s had no news at all.”
“Don’t be discouraged. He’s good at finding people; it was the one skill I particularly required. Pitney may seem slow, but he’s following his method, and has all but guaranteed results.” He took his own seat. “Have you any news from your friend?”
Charlotte poured a cup of tea. “No. All her letters are filled with gossip and—and other news.” She avoided his gaze, not wanting to share all the details of Lucia’s fascination with his friend Mr. Whitley, or her lurid questions about Stuart. “But nothing of Susan.”
> “Well, we didn’t expect much. Don’t take it too much to heart. The center of our effort is still in London.” He looked up with a slight toss of his head to clear the hair from his eyes, giving her a quick smile. Charlotte stared, arrested by that careless motion. There was something so familiar, so intimate about noticing he needed to have his hair cut. No man had ever been so informal around her; they had always been turned out in their best, to impress and seduce and awe. Even Piero had refused to see her each day until his valet groomed him. But Stuart had sent away his valet to look for her niece. His hair was too long because he was neglecting himself to help her.
Even though she knew very well that Stuart had sent his valet back to Kent, it had never fully sunk in how much that signified. Not only was Stuart helping her, he was doing it at great inconvenience and cost to himself. He had sent away his only servant, imposed on his friends, and subjected himself to the hostility of his father’s house, all to help her find Susan.
No one had ever put themselves out for her. For the most part Charlotte simply accepted this fact; it relieved her of any obligation to put herself out for someone else, after all. But here sat Stuart, helping her almost as if he did it just for the sake of helping her. As if her happiness were all that mattered to him. As if he cared about her.
“Did you enjoy the opera?” she said, flustered by her thoughts.
“Very much,” he said. “I never would have thought to spend an evening listening to singing, but it was splendid.”
“I’m so glad. I have always found the opera enthralling.” Something in her tone must have betrayed her less musical thoughts, for Stuart looked up.
“I, too, found it most stimulating,” he said, his eyes darkening as he leaned toward her. “I’m so glad you suggested it; I couldn’t have enjoyed it half as much with anyone else. I should be very happy to escort you, any time you wish to go.”
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