Bria gulped. To what was Florrie alluding? She couldn’t possibly know what had happened in the bedchamber at the soiree. Could she? Nonetheless, Bria feigned utter innocence. “You know I am not interested in an affair with Ravenscar or anyone else.”
“That’s right.” Florrie followed them inside like an irritating horsefly. “The Sylph is so much better than the rest of us. One successful performance and you think you’re as good as Marie.”
“Stop it.” Pauline shouldered between them. “You were there when Bria told Ravenscar she didn’t want to go shopping with him.”
“But she went, didn’t she? And after I told both of you he was mine.”
“You can have him, or perhaps Lord Fordham. Evidently, the earl is looking for a mistress to keep his lust at bay. Though Ravenscar mentioned no such thing.” Bria stormed into the dressing room.
In the blink of an eye, her blood ran cold. All of her makeup powders were opened, turned over and spilled in a heap. Her hairpins were strewn across the floor, as was an entire parcel of lamb’s wool.
“Florrieeeeee!” she yelled as she faced the devious shrew. “How dare you ruin my things? I know you wanted to dance the Sylph. You’ve always thought yourself superior, but this is taking things too far.”
Florrie stood with her mouth open as if she had only just seen the havoc she’d wreaked. “I didn’t touch your—”
“To the barre, ladies!” bellowed Monsieur Travere. “You’ve had the entire day to chatter. When I make a call for a four o’clock rehearsal, I expect you to be a quarter of an hour early. How many times must I repeat myself?”
“Pardon, monsieur,” Bria said, while she shoved her feet into her slippers.
“Look at this pig sty!” he bellowed, growing red in the face. “Britannia, I am shocked. I expect your toilette to be clean before you leave tonight. You may be dancing the lead, but you have not yet earned fame and fortune. Until you can afford to pay a maid, I expect you to keep your things tidy.”
“Oui, monsieur,” Bria replied while fury thrummed through her blood.
“She didn’t do this,” Pauline said as she started for the stage.
“I do not care.” Travere glared as if he could blow fire through his nostrils. “Britannia will be the one to clean it up.”
Florrie sniggered from behind while they took their places at the barre.
Bria touched her toes where she could give the wretch an evil eye. “Not only did you lay waste to my toilette, you choose to laugh?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll laugh, but do not blame me for the mess. I had no hand in it.”
Now she denies her actions as well.
Toward the end of rehearsal, the boy from the boarding house dashed from the stage door. “Miss LeClair! Someone has ransacked your chamber!”
Chapter Ten
On Saturdays, Drake regularly paid a visit to his mother for tea and cakes. It had become their ritual for sharing their news and planning the weeks ahead.
Mother pulled her shawl about her shoulders. “The days are growing warmer at last.”
“And longer.” The conversation always started with a mention of the weather before Her Grace poured. “I’ll be glad when the rain slows a bit, however.”
“But the rain ensures a healthy harvest come autumn.” She picked up the teapot.
Drake held out his cup. “That it does.”
“And how is your theater venture? It has been nearly two weeks. Are ticket sales what you’d hoped?”
“They are. We’ve been sold out every night, and advance sales for the next two months are strong I’m thrilled to say.”
After his trip with Britannia to Harding, Howell and Company, he’d taken great pains to keep his distance, especially since she was so emphatic about keeping the wolves at bay. Not that he was one of the proverbial wolves. But restraint on his part was certainly necessary. It wouldn’t suit to be caught kissing an employee in his theater—to give her the slightest hint as to how much she consumed his thoughts.
“And your investment?” Mother asked. “Do you think it will be worthwhile in the long term?”
“It should pay dividends tenfold, though I do not expect full recompense for at least two years. After that, I daresay the House of Ravenscar will be wealthier than the crown.” His lenders were content for the most part. And Monsieur Marchand had accepted a renegotiation of the terms. It seemed Drake had dodged financial ruination at least for the time being.
The saucer clinked when Mother set down her cup. “With the way the king spends money, I’d say such a feat is not terribly remarkable.”
“You may be right.” Drake sipped his tea. “And how are things with the patronesses at Almacks?”
“Hectic this time of year as usual.” Mother pinched a tiny cake between two delicate fingers. “I expect to see you there on Monday next. Can you believe the patronesses sidestepped protocol having a ball on Monday rather than Wednesday? And when I’m the hostess. By the way, I sent you an invitation a month ago and you haven’t responded.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t realize I needed to send a response, since you know I’ll endeavor to attend.” Frowning, Drake reached for one of three cakes that looked as if the pastry chef had spent hours applying tiny baubles. It took seconds to pop the morsel into his mouth. “But Monday next? Hughes is having a ball that same evening. He’s invited the entire cast of La Sylphide. Such a conflict is inexcusable. Surely he knew about Almacks’ event.”
“Most likely he did, but he’s not one of us, dear. He’s new money.”
“That may be so but, with his fortune, I would think many in polite society would be anxious to befriend him—introduce their daughters and inject some of that newly-earned coin into old and mismanaged coffers.”
“Mr. Hughes is gluttonous and loud.”
“And I venture to guess he did not receive an invitation to the first ball hosted by the esteemed Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar?”
Mother pursed her lips, a telling sign.
“Well, therein lies the problem. I daresay if the dancers from La Sylphide will be attending his ball, so will most of the ton’s single gentlemen.”
“How can you say such a thing? Almacks is the pinnacle of the social elite. It is the place to be seen.”
“Unless the most talented dancers in Europe will be elsewhere with the promise of a more entertaining evening.”
Mother regarded him as if shrewdly aghast, an expression polished by years of being a duchess. “Do not tell me you are planning to attend Mr. Hughes’ ball.”
“I’d planned to.” Suddenly overwarm, Drake stretched his collar. “After all, I am the man who invited the troupe to come to London. I ought to be there.”
“But you have no responsibility to associate with those people outside the theater. You have seen to it they are paid a fair wage, properly housed and fed. Your relationship should be no more than master and servant.”
And Lord High Protector. Drake looked to the portrait of his father above the mantel dressed in military uniform. It seemed the Dukes of Ravenscar were destined to protect something, be it country or damsels. Nonetheless, Mother was right. He’d been reminding himself of her very words every other thought. Still, Miss LeClair was going to Hughes’ event and so were Fordham and Saye, and a number of other dandies who could manipulate themselves under the poor ballerina’s skirts so fast, she wouldn’t know she’d been ravished until it was over.
“Besides,” Mother continued, “Lady Blanche will be at Almacks, and I’ve been ever so anxious for you to meet her.”
“Lady Blanche?”
“Daughter of the Viscount of Falmouth.”
Fowl Mouth. “Ah yes, I recall.” Drake hid his frown behind his cup.
“Do not affect your silent sullenness with me. I expect you to be there and dance with Her Ladyship. I am withering where I sit awaiting grandchildren.”
“Ada has been quite adept at fulfilling your wishes.”
“You know to what
I am referring, and you need an heir. This is the Season, Drake. You are not growing younger.”
He sighed, pouring for himself. “If it will please Your Grace, I will call into Almacks and dance with Lady Blanche.”
“That’s all I ask.”
In the following fortnight there had been no more incidences of someone rifling through Bria’s things, though the intrusion had made her uneasy. Thank heavens nothing had been stolen—but that made the incidences all the more confounding. Florrie continued to purport her innocence, but Bria didn’t believe her. Aside from Pauline, Florrie had been the only one to see her leave the boarding house with Ravenscar. To add to her guilt, she had clearly been hostile when Bria met her at the theater.
Still, there had been no irrefutable proof and Bria let it pass.
Today, she finally got a chance to venture out alone. Bria rubbed her fingers over the miniature hidden beneath her gown, standing on the footpath in front of the door that read Private Inquiry Office. In small letters beneath read the name Mr. Walter Gibbs, Investigator. Taking a deep breath, Bria clutched her reticule and prayed her two pounds and four pence would be enough.
Inside, a flight of stairs took her directly to the second level and another, rather unpretentious door. She knocked.
A man who looked like a clerk opened the door and looked out over her head. After Bria cleared her throat, he dropped his gaze and frowned. “Hello, miss. Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one?”
“What is the nature of your call?”
“I have a missing persons inquiry. My name is Miss LeClair from France.”
“I’ll see if Mr. Gibbs can squeeze you into his schedule.” The man gestured to a bench just inside the door. “Please have a seat.”
Bria glanced about the small entry with a pastoral painting askew on the wall. The Inquiry Office didn’t seem busy at all. In fact, it was a bit too quiet.
Before she took a seat, the man returned. “You’re in luck, Miss LeClair. Please follow me.”
She forced a smile, though the man’s harsh mien gave no pretense of friendliness.
Ushered into offices lined with books, the investigator stood from his place at a writing table and was introduced as Mr. Gibbs. “Miss LeClair, I understand you have a missing persons inquiry from France?” He was tallish, clean shaven, with brown hair and a long nose to match his gaunt face—a face that made her feel about as welcome as a moray eel. He gestured for her to sit in a chair across from his and resumed his seat behind the table.
Bria clutched her reticule tighter as she contemplated a hasty exit. If Mr. Gibbs wanted patrons, he might at least try to appear pleasant—and that went for his clerk as well. “Ah, my inquiry is not exactly missing persons…I suppose it is, but the person is missing to me, and most likely not missing to themselves.”
The man snorted with an air of arrogance. “That is usually the case when someone goes astray. Perhaps if you explain your situation, I’ll be better able to discern if I can be of assistance.”
Taking a deep breath, she removed the miniature from around her neck and produced the handkerchief from her reticule. “Pauline and I—”
“Pauline?”
“My dearest friend. If I could call her a sister, I would.”
He leaned forward, eyeing the portrait in her hands, his gaze narrowing. “Go on.”
“Very well. We have already ascertained that the kerchief bears the emblem of the Prince Regent.”
“Mm hmm.” Gibbs reached for the handkerchief then used a quizzing glass to examine the coat of arms. “The prince ascended to the throne in 1820 and passed away three years ago. When did you acquire this?”
“I’m not completely certain, but upon the death of my guardians, if you will, I found it in a box with my name engraved atop.” While the man stroked his chin and looked on with a judgmental glare, Bria continued to explain about her past. She handed Mr. Gibbs the miniature. His eyes popped a bit—not unusual because the woman in the portrait was quite comely.
When she was finished, the man tapped the portrait’s tiny frame. “So, in truth, you have no idea if this woman has any relation to you whatsoever?”
“I do not. Though she might be my mother.”
“And she might not be.”
“True.” Bria’s resolve strengthened with her smile. “But we do have a familial likeness.”
“Hmm.” He picked up the kerchief and rubbed it between his fingers. “When George the Fourth was Prince Regent he had quite a reputation for being a philanderer—there are a great many of his by-blows about.”
She nodded, heat burning her cheeks, fully aware that discovering the identity of the woman in the portrait might end up labeling her as a bastard. Though Bria didn’t know what would be worse, being a bastard and knowing about one’s family, or being a foundling and completely alone.
He pushed the items across the table with a pronounced frown. “Do you truly want to churn up an old scandal which might have brought shame to this woman, and possibly her entire family?”
Bria slipped them into her reticule. “I wouldn’t want the Grande-Duchesse to suffer. Absolutely not. I only would like to know something about my parentage, who I am, where I’m from. If it would be detrimental for her or her family, I would not reveal myself.”
“Your mother may well still be in France, if she is even alive.”
Bria gulped. The man could be brutally blunt. “She could be anywhere.”
“And what about my fee?” Mr. Gibbs picked up a small dagger and started cleaning his nails. “What can you pay?”
“I have two pounds.”
His knife stilled. “Two pounds will merely buy you an inquiry or two and, honestly, this case is so old I doubt it will be worth your coin.”
“If there is anything you can do, anything at all, I would be in your debt.”
“Very well. Since you seem to be eager. I wouldn’t want you throwing your coin away on someone less qualified.” He set the dagger aside then reached a slip of parchment. “You were christened in Bayeux did you say?”
“Yes.”
He dipped his quill in the inkpot. “In what year were you born?”
“1814.”
He wrote her name and birth year on a slip of parchment. “An interesting time in history.”
“Indeed. The Bourbon monarchy was restored for a brief period and it seemed as if Napoleon’s war had ended.”
“If only he hadn’t escaped prison we would have avoided Waterloo.”
“Yes.”
“Is there any other pertinent information you can add? Monsieur LeClair was a successful merchant, did you say?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Gibbs’ quill oscillated through the air as he wrote. “And Madame LeClair provided your inspiration to the ballet?”
“Oui. She was English and gently born. Her father was a vicar from Gloucestershire.”
Again, he dipped the quill in the inkwell. “Interesting. I take it that is why your English is so precise.”
“Since I discovered the keepsakes, especially the kerchief, I’ve always wondered if there was a reason I was placed in a home with a British subject.”
Mr. Gibbs winced, his quill stilling for a moment before he looked up with an insincere smile. “This information is so scant I doubt I’ll be able to churn up a thing. Nonetheless, I will be in touch.”
Bria exited the private inquiry office, anxious to join the troupe for a luncheon and day out in Hyde Park, which was a long walk west along Grosvenor Street, according to the mistress at the boarding house. Mr. Perkins had said the Duke of Ravenscar arranged the affair, though Britannia doubted the duke would be present. Since the opening of La Sylphide, he had been rather scarce aside from his ever-present and commanding presence in his box during performances.
She didn’t blame him for keeping his distance. What must he think of her begging a kiss on opening night? Goodness, she could be daft and ought to be mortified by her b
ehavior. But she wasn’t. Their wee tryst was her secret. A moment in time she would remember always.
In fact, she replayed the kiss in her mind over and over each night before she fell asleep. What would have happened if the maid hadn’t come in? It was impossible to forget the strength of his arms, the way her blood had rushed as if champagne were bubbling through her veins.
She knew why Ravenscar was staying away and she didn’t blame him. He may have pretended to be aloof after the maid caught them, but the tenderness he’d imparted when he had kissed her had to be genuine.
Wasn’t it?
At the corner, she stepped off the curb just as a flower cart pushed past. “Watch where you’re going, miss,” hollered the vendor.
“Sorry.” Picking up her skirts, Bria looked both ways. The traffic was horrendous with carts and carriages all wheeling past at different speeds. When she saw a break, she dashed across.
At least she tried.
A black shiny phaeton sped from behind a hay wagon—straight for her.
Her legs taking over, Bria took a flying leap toward the curb, her toes just catching the edge. With a sweep of her left leg, she cheated death by a fraction. Behind her, the carriage’s wheels screeched as the driver pulled two chestnut horses to a halt. “Madam, are you trying to commit suicide?” A deep voice boomed.
She cringed. Indeed, Bria would recognize that voice anywhere. Slowly, she turned and faced Ravenscar, the figure of masculine perfection, the ribbons held firmly in his gloved hands, looking like king of the courts, ready to send her to the bowels of the Tower to face the executioner for making a frantic dash in front of his carriage.
Until those icy blue eyes opened wide with recognition and something intense. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Britann—ah, Miss LeClair, I am astonished to see you here. What on earth are you doing dashing across the busiest street in London?”
She glanced back to the inquiry office, thanking the stars she wasn’t standing in its doorway. “I’m heading for your luncheon at Hyde Park.”
“You’re walking all that way? Mr. Peters was supposed to arrange carriages.”
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