A grin stretched the corners of his mouth. How refreshing to see a woman display such unabashed pleasure. Such a simple thing, eating. But Miss LeClair brought to the table a new sense of passion for well-prepared food.
Her gaze lazily shifted until it collided with his. “This is so good, it must be sinful.”
Drake picked up his spoon and tasted, not quite able to look away. “Cook is a master at tantalizing the palate, but I assure you, nowhere in the Bible does it say that eating stewed plums is a sin.”
“I will trust your word, then,” she said, a bit of mischief dancing in her eyes as she scooped a larger bite. “You said your mother resides in a grand mansion. Do you live here alone?”
“I do, though I keep a small staff of servants.”
“In Bayeux, we had a housekeeper and a cook which was ample for the three of us.”
Drake employed hundreds of servants, but he considered his Half Moon Street town house to have a modest staff. A stable manager, a coachman, two stable boys, a valet, Pennyworth, who went with him whenever he moved houses, two scullery maids, a cook, two footmen, and a housekeeper. If Miss LeClair grew up in a manor with two servants, he wasn’t about to tell her his smallest estate merely supported twelve.
When nothing remained of her dessert, Drake asked, “Are you still hungry?”
“Not at all.” She clutched her palms to her midriff. “In fact, I can barely breathe beneath my stays.”
“See? I told you I would ensure you were filled to the brim before I took you home.”
“Thank you for your kindness.” Sitting back to allow the footman to clear her bowl, she dropped her hands to her sides. “I do have one question for you before I go, however.”
“And what is that?” His heart stuttered as he met her whisky gaze with curiosity. Pretty wasn’t the right descriptor for Miss LeClair. Beautiful? Remarkable? Both good, but not precise.
She clasped her fingers and regarded him with a sober expression, luminous, yet ever so astute. “I want you to know that I understand how important the opening of La Sylphide is to your reputation. If there is one thing I can do to endear myself into the hearts of Chadwick’s patrons, what would that be?”
His answer took no time to ponder. “Your opening performance must be flawless. You have no name, no pedigree upon which to lean, and yet you’ll be dancing in place of a woman who has both. People will be looking for reasons to discredit you. Do not let them.”
Chapter Four
Enjoying a game of billiards, Henry Somerset up-righted his cue stick when his man entered the salon. A chill always managed to charge the air when the former Bow Street Runner made an appearance. With a gaunt face and dark features, had beheadings still been a form of corporal punishment, the runner would have fit the bill for the king’s headsman.
“Your Grace.” The man removed his hat and bowed. “My informant has advised that Miss LeClair will play the leading role in La Sylphide.”
“God save us.” Henry pounded the butt of his cue onto the floorboards while heat flared up the back of his neck. “Why didn’t your people stop the imp in France?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There never is. Damn it all, this should have been avoided years ago. You assured me the child would be brought up to become a governess or at least something respectable.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed while he stood at attention, saying nothing.
“Fie and double fie,” Henry continued, “I blame Sarah Parker for the girl’s disgrace. You never should have trusted her. Thespians are banes of society, women of ill repute.”
“Agreed,” the headsman’s features grew even darker. “They are all debauchers of the worst sort.”
Henry slapped a billiard ball, watching it slam into the bumper. “And you let that foundling come here, blast you.”
“She knows nothing.”
Inclining the cue stick toward his man, Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Mind you, your duty is to see it remains that way.”
“Nearly twenty years have passed.” The runner showed no inkling of fear. “King George is dead. The trail is wiped clean.”
“You’d best ensure it remains so, else we must take matters into hand.” Henry lowered his voice. “You know what I’m saying.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that, though I am and will always remain your servant. Meanwhile, rest assured I shall continue to be vigilant whilst LeClair is in London.”
“Good. And find out what she really does know.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Returning his attention to the table, Henry reached for the billiard rack. “I have avoided a scandal all this time and I am not about to sit idle while the ugliness of the past rears up and smears my family’s name. I am fifth in line to the throne. My daughter has moved on—married a peer, a good man. I will not see her ruined in his eyes.”
“Where have you been?” Pauline jumped off her bed and thrust her fists into her hips. “I was about to inform the stage manager that you’d gone missing.”
Bria’s jaw dropped. “How could you think of doing such a thing?”
“I expected you back hours ago. For all I knew, you’d been kidnapped by an English highwayman or worse.”
“I don’t think there are any highwaymen in London.”
“Well, there are plenty of scoundrels.”
Bria spotted her portmanteau on the bed across from Pauline’s. “Oh good, my things have arrived. Have you been to the bathhouse?”
“I was waiting for you. And you haven’t told me what happened. For heaven’s sake, we’ve been here less than a day and I’m already at my wit’s end.”
“Forever the mother hen.”
Pauline tapped her foot. “Britannia.”
Groaning, she locked the door, took Pauline by the hand, and pulled her onto the bed. “Very well.” Thank heavens only they were sharing the room together. Some of the girls in the corps had to share four to a room. They may have chosen an attic chamber all the way up on the fourth floor, but at least they had privacy. “You mustn’t tell a soul.”
“Do I ever?”
“No,” Bria stood and opened her portmanteau. “But this is different.”
“Mon Dieu!”
“Um…” She took out a clean chemise, trying to think how she could omit as many details as possible. “When I was practicing on stage I grew so hungry I managed to fall into the arms of the Duke of Ravenscar.”
Pauline’s eyes practically popped out of her head. “You did what? How? Didn’t he leave the theater?”
“He came back.” Rolling the chemise around her hands, Bria explained all to her only friend, including the reason why Ravenscar had returned, the unbelievably delicious food and what he’d told her she needed to do to be successful. The entire time he’d acted gentlemanly and had been rather annoyed when she’d asked his coachman to leave her a block away from the boarding house. He’d allowed it, though he did insist on riding along and watching until she was safely inside.
When Bria finally took a breath, Pauline was gaping like she’d just opened a present filled with gold coins. “You were invited into His Grace’s town house? Scandalous!”
“Tais-toi! Who sided with Florrie about the virtues of being promiscuous?”
“You know I was teasing.” Clapping her hands, Pauline giggled. “What is it like? Is he as handsome up close as he appeared from the parterre?”
“Ah…the house is very stately, but not overdone—masculine décor.”
“He is a bachelor, I suppose one would expect the interior would appeal to manly tastes.” With a rapt glimmer in her eyes, Pauline clasped her hands. “But what about him?”
Bria gulped, not wanting to divulge too much. Good heavens, she couldn’t admit that the man set a new standard for attractiveness. Though they had no secrets, this once it might be prudent to be vague. “I imagine with a face like his, the duke has a mistress for every day of the week.”
Hopping up and
executing piqués turns until her head nearly collided with the sloped ceiling, Pauline laughed out loud. “You are awful.”
“I am practical, and let me make it perfectly clear, he did not indicate he might harbor an interest in me whatsoever.”
“And why not?” Pauline spun back to the bed. “You are darling—one of the loveliest women I know.”
“Not at all. I’m too thin, and too headstrong, and too independent.”
“But—”
“No! Absolutely not. We are no longer having this conversation.”
“All right then, neither of you seemed to be inordinately attracted to each other…”
Bria chewed her lip. Pauline’s assumption wasn’t exactly precise, but it was best not to correct her. After all, it didn’t matter if she’d found Ravenscar to be magnificent in a very masculine way. A man like His Grace would never look twice at a foundling from Bayeux. Their classes alone were so far apart, she might as well sprout wings and fly to the moon as to think he would entertain pursuing a woman with no pedigree who had fallen so low as to perform on stage. Thank heavens nothing had come of their meal together. She wouldn’t want to pine for a duke—a man she could never have and who could never fall in love with her.
“But tell me,” her friend continued, “Do you think he can help you with your quest?”
A little squeeze flitted in Bria’s stomach. She’d had no success in France. “I wouldn’t want to bother him. He’d consider me impertinent.”
“Perhaps not.” With a blink of brown eyelashes, Pauline pointed her toes. “After all, we’ve already ascertained the kerchief bears the coat of arms of the Prince Regent.”
“Who became king and passed away three years ago.” Bria crossed herself to honor the deceased. “If only he were alive, I could have had someone ask his Royal Highness to identify the woman in the miniature.”
“Someone must know who she is. Even after nineteen or twenty years.”
“But she mightn’t be English. When I was born, England was still at war with the French.”
Pauline stretched her leg upward, executing an elegant développé. “We’ve been over this before. In 1814, the House of Bourbon was briefly restored while Napoleon was in prison. England and France were amicable until the emperor’s escape in 1815.”
Bria pulled the miniature from beneath her chemise and held it in her palm. The woman in the portrait had a familial likeness and now that Britannia had grown into a woman, she was even more convinced they were related. Ever since she’d found the painting, she’d dreamed the noble lady with porcelain skin and clad in blue satin was her mother. “But she could be Spanish.”
“She doesn’t look Spanish,” said Pauline.
“Dutch, then.”
“You need to find out who the Grande-Duchesse is, whether she is in England or Holland or the Holy Roman Empire. Imagine, you might be a princess.” They’d oft referred to the woman as the Grande-Duchesse—it was akin to their secret code.
“Foundlings are never princesses,” Bria insisted. “Besides, I honestly have no idea if the kerchief or the miniature have any significance. As I’ve told you before, after the LeClairs died I found these keepsakes in a box with my name engraved in the top. Before that, I’d never laid eyes on them.”
“Even if she’s not your mother, the beauty in the picture might know something about where you’re from.”
“And that’s why I keep looking.” Sighing, Bria replaced the miniature inside her bodice, then fished in her portmanteau for a bar of rose soap. “We shall be in London four long months. Perhaps after La Sylphide opens I might happen upon someone who can help me find the Grande-Duchesse. But right now, we have more things to worry about than an elusive painting. And the first is a bath.”
On Easter Sunday, Drake sat across the carriage from his mother and gazed out the window while they ambled from Westminster Abbey toward the family’s Pall Mall mansion.
Esperanza? No, Miss LeClair doesn’t have the right coloring for a Spanish rose. Darcia? Amaris? Perhaps Serilda—a maiden in battle armor? Possibly. Parthena? She does seem pure. But I think I’m partial to Bernadette. Yes. Bernadette is French and reminds me of a dancer. I could wager on it.
“Whatever are you thinking about?” asked his mother, her gloved hands primly folded in her lap.
Though his stomach leaped, Drake shifted his attention to Her Grace, projecting an image of utmost composure. “Hmm? Not a thing.”
“I know you better than you think. You have that contemplative look in your eye. Something is weighing heavily on your mind.”
He released a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Mother always could read him like a book. “I’m concerned about the opening of La Sylphide. There has been a development.” Which was an understatement. Instead of dreaming up names for Miss LeClair, he should have been thinking about how to ensure an entire Season of strong ticket sales to keep Chadwick Theater’s doors open and the lenders away from Mother’s favorite home.
“Oh?” she asked. “Did the cast arrive safely—yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“The day before.” Bless her for not paying attention to the gossip columns. And with the morning service, Drake hadn’t had a moment to tell her the news. “Unfortunately, the most important and only woman who made La Sylphide a sensation did not sail from France.”
Mother’s prim lips gaped in astonishment. “You cannot be serious? Marie Taglioni is not in London?”
“Nor will she be.”
“Good heavens, this has the makings of a disaster.”
“My thoughts precisely.”
“What will you do?”
“They’ve sent an unknown in Taglioni’s place…”
Mother drew a palm over her heart. “It grows worse.”
“The woman is quite good, but—”
“Yes?”
Drake tapped a cushion tassel, trying to think of the exact word. “Vigorous.”
“Unusual epithet for a ballerina.”
“Quite, and I’m not certain if London is ready for her.”
“But you said she has talent. Will it not be refreshing to see something new?”
“That is exactly what I keep telling myself.” He stretched his legs to the side and crossed his ankles. “Perhaps it would be better if you wait to hear what the critics say before you came to the theater.”
“One moment.” Mother held up her finger. “Let me see if I understand. This new Parisian ballerina is very good, but not as poised or restrained as we would expect to see in an English woman. Is that correct?”
“Mm. Yes.”
“Tell me, would you go to see this woman perform?”
A crooked grin played across his lips, yet there was no chance he would detail LeClair’s erotic style to his mother. “Indeed, I would.”
“And would you enjoy her dancing?”
“Very much so.”
Mother snapped open and fluttered her fan. “Everyone expects a bit of sauciness from French performers. Why are you worrying?”
Because she dances like a hellcat and you will be shocked right down to the toes of your stockings. Not to mention, if she is not sensational, you will disown me. “People will be so terribly disappointed not to see Marie Taglioni, I’m afraid they will try to refund their tickets, even though I’ve made it clear no sales will be reimbursed until after opening night.”
“Well then, it is doubly important for me to attend and show my support. Remember, the House of Ravenscar dictates fashions and trends as much or more than any other dukedom in the kingdom.”
Drake nodded. The House of Ravenscar may soon become the Right Honorable Hovel. Bless his mother’s heart. A fierce matriarch, she would not sit idle while gossip about her son ran rife through London—unless things grew out of hand. Then they would both flee to the country to weather the storm.
“I shall announce an after-theater soiree,” she ventured, already scheming. “Invite the cast leads, especially your new b
allerina. Let us reel in the buzzards before they have a chance to whisper amongst themselves.”
“Perhaps your idea would be preferable to the champagne and cakes I had planned in the theater vestibule.” People would be less likely to voice any condescending opinions under the watchful eye of Her Grace.
“Excellent.” Mother reached across and patted his knee. “On a more serious note, a fresh contingent of young ladies has arrived in Town for the Season. Yesterday, I met Lady Blanche Boscawen, daughter of the Viscount of Falmouth and she seems quite enterprising…”
Drake turned a deaf ear to her banter. He didn’t want to meet the daughter of Lord Fowl Mouth or any of the other chicken-brained debutantes his mother never ceased to parade under his nose. Yes, he had a responsibility to continue the family line, but he would do so in his own time—at least a good five years hence.
Chapter Five
Easter Monday, 8th April, 1833
“Again!” bellowed Monsieur Travere while the dancers in the corps moaned.
Refusing to give in to her exhaustion, Bria threw back her shoulders and moved to center stage. She would ignore the searing pain in her toes and her aching muscles no matter what. Yes, hours ago blisters had formed and by the way her toes stung, they were bleeding. She’d bled many times before, though now there would be no time to heal.
“The lot of you sound like a herd of goats! Where is your grace? You spend a week traveling and your journey wipes away years of study? Need I remind you our debut is tomorrow?” Red in the face, Travere stamped his foot. “We are already in jeopardy of losing our contract. Do you want to return to Paris in shame?”
Bria hung her head. Everything this day had gone wrong. The orchestra played all the wrong tempos, Chadwick Theater’s stage was narrower and deeper than Salle Le Peletier and it made the choreography awkward. The side seam on her costume tore, her wings had fallen off twice. Good heavens, if the ballet opened today, they would be laughed out of England.
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