With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

“Of course, I make it my duty to know all of my dancers’ affairs, especially yours.”

  “I see.” Bria stopped herself from commenting further. Momentarily, there were far more important things to discuss than Monsieur Tavere’s snooping. “Then do you have any idea where we can find Pauline?”

  “I’ll send someone to follow up with Lord Saye. In the meantime, notify the corps. We must put plans in motion to cover for her absence.”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “And Britannia?”

  “Oui”

  “I am not happy about this. When you do see Miss Renaud, send her to me.”

  A half an hour later when the curtain opened, Pauline was still nowhere to be found. Worried half out of her wits, Bria danced with clipped and frantic movement, her eyes darting to the wings as often as possible, praying she’d catch sight of her friend.

  At intermission, there was still no sign of her.

  In Act II after James chased the Sylph off the stage, Bria raced to the dressing room for what seemed like the hundredth time. Pauline’s toilette remained untouched, but Bria froze when her eyes trailed to her own table. A missive rested against the mirror, addressed to Miss LeClair and written in a bold hand.

  Prickles fired across her skin as she rose on her toes and tiptoed toward the letter. With trembling fingers, she snatched it, turned it over and examined the seal.

  A blank.

  Clenching her teeth, she broke the cowardly seal and read:

  We have Miss Renaud. If you want to see her again, come alone. If you tell a soul, she will die. A carriage will be waiting beyond the stage door upon the last curtain call. Do not hesitate. Speak to no one. Do not stop to change or Miss Renaud will meet her end.

  Clutching the missive to her chest, Bria searched the room. Someone had been inside after intermission while she was on stage. Who? Who could move past the guard without being questioned?

  She didn’t dare ask. Doing so would raise an alarm for certain.

  And why were these beastly people doing this? Pauline had never harmed a soul. Why did this monster choose her? Why not confront Bria directly?

  Who was behind these reprehensible deeds? Why? Lady Calthorpe had invited Bria to tea on the morrow, and Drake had said she was ever so anxious to meet. It seemed unlikely for Her Ladyship to be involved. Didn’t it?

  Beyond the dressing room, the orchestra continued, almost to the finale. Bria only had moments before she needed to be on stage. Shoving the missive into her bodice, she pulled her cloak from the hook, rolled it into a ball, and smiled at the guard as she skipped toward the stage door trying to look as if nothing had gone awry. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was out of the guard’s sight before draped her cloak over the handrail. Then she checked over both shoulders and skipped toward the wings at stage right.

  “Are you all right?” asked Claudio after she took her place beside him, ready for her next sequence.

  As Bria shook out her legs, she gave a curt nod while the girls in the corps danced on stage for the finale. “Worried about Pauline.”

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Perhaps I have.”

  Thank God the music demanded her entrance. If she’d stood there for a moment longer, she would have broken down into a weeping mess. She had to be strong for Pauline. Entrechat, pas de bourrée. The poor girl’s life was in danger. Bria must do nothing to arouse suspicion. No one must know.

  Bria painted on a smile and danced with more emotion than ever before.

  It took an eternity for the finale to end. The curtain calls were torture, but she forced herself to smile, her gaze shooting to the wings, searching for a villain. Was the carriage out there now? How fast could she run for the door? Who might see her?

  When the curtain finally closed, Gérard grasped her hand. “Ma chère, what is the matter? You were dancing as if blown by a tempest.”

  Bria snapped her fingers away. “Of course I was. Pauline is missing.”

  Before anyone could interject, she ran. It hardly took more than a heartbeat to pull her cloak from the rail and swing it over her shoulders. Outside, a coach waited only steps away, the door ajar.

  I will save you, Pauline!

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “What in God’s name are you saying? The woman disappeared from under your nose?” Drake boomed. Now they not only were missing Miss Renaud, but Britannia hadn’t been seen since the curtain closed.

  The air backstage stifled him. Either that or his valet had tied his neckcloth too tightly.

  “N-no,” the guard stammered, thrusting his hands up as he shrugged. “She took her bows and I stood right where I always do. She either vanished into thin air or she exited stage right.”

  Had Perkins hired a complete imbecile to guard the theater’s most important performer? “Your job is to see that Miss LeClair remains in your sight at all times.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Did anyone see Miss LeClair leave the theater?”

  “No, but I thought she seemed upset before she entered for the finale,” said Gérard. “I asked her what was wrong, and she said she was worried about Pauline.”

  “Of course we’re all upset about Miss Renaud as well.” Drake slapped his gloves in his palm. “Was there anyone backstage who shouldn’t have been? Did you see anything unusual? Anything at all?”

  The guard scratched his head. “The lad took a missive into Miss LeClair, but it didn’t seem unusual—he’s done it before.”

  Drake’s gaze shot left then right. “Where’s the boy?”

  Mr. Perkins led the boy onto the stage.

  Eyes round and scared, the stage boy gripped a cap in his hands. “’ere, sir.”

  Drake marched toward the lad. “Who gave you the missive?”

  “I didn’t do nofin’ wrong.”

  “Of course not,” Perkins placed a hand on the young fellow’s shoulder. “Just tell His Grace what he asked.”

  The cap twisted. “I was tendin’ the gas lights like I always do. A man came in and ’anded me the note—told me to put it someplace where Miss LeClair would see it straightaway, ’e did.”

  “What did he look like?” Drake asked trying not to growl while he clenched his fists behind his back.

  “Dunno. Tall and old…a-and ’e ’ad a big nose.”

  “Most likely a messenger,” said Perkins.

  “It seems you’ve managed to lose two dancers in one night.” Drake glared at the theater manager. “Have you received any word regarding Miss Renaud?”

  “Bow Street hasn’t reported back as of yet. But she’s only been missing a few hours.”

  “A few hours can mean the difference between life and death.” Drake’s gut clamped into a lead ball. “Go camp on Bow Street’s doorstep—take the boy. Tell them about Miss LeClair and have the lad give them the description of the messenger. I want to know as soon as they have the remotest clue.”

  “I’ll put a man on it straightaway.” Perkins bowed and started off.

  “Wait.” Drake stopped him. “Did you ask the driver to bring my carriage around?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been advised it is waiting out back just as you requested.”

  “Good. I’ll be chasing a few leads—but they’re only hunches.” He made a point of looking everyone in the eye. “If you received any clue at all, I want notification immediately, is that understood?”

  Perkins, Travere and the entire cast—less two ballerinas—all nodded. With a swing of his cape, Drake marched out the door and gave his coachman instructions to drive directly to Lord Calthorpe’s town house.

  He didn’t care about the lateness of the hour. He didn’t care if he exposed Her Ladyship. For all Drake knew, she could be the one behind the missing women.

  Damnation, if anyone tried to hurt Britannia, he would carve out their heart and show no mercy. Both women had best be unharmed or there would be hell to pay.

  Being caged inside his carri
age was pure torture. He pounded on the ceiling with his cane. “Faster, you bloody laggard!”

  “We’re at a gallop, Your Grace!” bellowed the coachman.

  Drake ground his back molars. For the love of God, he could run faster. He had a matched pair unsurpassed by anything Tattersalls might offer up for auction.

  With no other recourse, over and over again, Drake slammed the pommel of his cane into the seat opposite. By the time the carriage came to a stop outside the Calthorpe town house, the velvet had been bludgeoned to shreds while sweat soaked the band of his top hat. Not waiting for the footman, Drake barreled onto the footpath, up the steps, and pounded on the door. “Open at once! This is a matter of life and death!”

  The gaunt butler popped his nose out the door. “Ravenscar is it? What the devil, Your Gr—”

  Jamming his card into the insolent boob’s palm, Drake shoved his way inside. “Two dancers have been kidnapped from my theater, that is what, one of whom has a rather close attachment with Lady Calthorpe. I’m certain she will be quite anxious to know of this calamity.”

  The man held the card to the candlelight. “Close attachment, Your Grace?”

  “Notify Her Ladyship of my presence forthwith.”

  “Straightaway. Please wait in the parlor.”

  “What is going on?” asked Lord Calthorpe as he plodded down the stairs, wearing full evening dress and looking as if he’d recently returned from a night at a ball.

  “Ravenscar?” Her Ladyship’s startled voice came from behind the baron. “Branson, please open a bottle of claret for His—”

  Drake held up his palms. “Not on my account. Something dire has happened.”

  “At the theater?” asked Calthorpe.

  Her Ladyship drew her hands over her heart. “Oh heavens, please tell me all is well with Britannia.”

  Drake’s gaze shot to the baron. Did he know? This was no time for secrets. “I wish to heaven I could tell you she is well.”

  The countess gasped. “No!”

  Drake glanced between the couple, his lips thinning. Uttering more might very well ruin the woman for the rest of her days. “May I speak freely?” he asked, well aware he’d already said too much.

  Her face stricken, she nodded, looking like the Maid of Lorraine, ready to lead her army into battle. “I’ve told my husband all.”

  Calthorpe gestured to the adjoining room. “Please step into the parlor.”

  Drake moved inside, but he didn’t sit. None of them did. Using as few syllables as possible, he explained how Miss Renaud had gone missing before the final performance of La Sylphide and how Britannia vanished afterward. “All we know is someone gave a missive addressed to her to the stage boy.”

  “Doubtless, it had something to do with Miss Renaud’s whereabouts,” said Calthorpe.

  Drake slammed the ball of his cane into his palm. “That is my presumption as well.”

  “Oh, my Lord in heaven, no.” The baroness’ skirts skimmed the Oriental rug as she paced. “He threatened, but I never thought he’d be mad enough to act. And he brought Miss Renaud into his delusion as well.”

  Shards of ice pulsed through Drake’s veins. “You’re speaking of Beaufort?” Her ladyship nodded while he gripped his cane with iron fingers. “What. Exactly. Did he threaten?”

  “I thought he was just having one of his tirades.” Her Ladyship braced her hands on the back of a chair. “H-he ranted about sending my bastard so far away from England no one would ever find her!”

  Drake’s gut turned to lead. “Good God.”

  “We must make haste. Confront the old fool before he has time to act on his threats.” Calthorpe started for the door. “Ravenscar, your carriage is outside I presume?”

  “It is.” Leading the way, Drake raced out the door.

  Mr. Gibbs sat across the carriage from Bria, his face cadaverous in the dim light.

  “Why is it taking so long?” Bria insisted, grinding her fists into the seat cushion. “I must see Pauline this instant!”

  Never in a hundred days would she have suspected Mr. Gibbs, a former lawman, to be involved in kidnapping. But presently, he seemed to rather enjoy making Britannia uncomfortable. “She’s quite well.”

  “What are you saying? What did you do with her?”

  He pulled the curtain aside and looked out. They weren’t in London anymore. The moon shone blue on the grass as they passed. “I reckon she ought to be waking up about now.”

  “Waking up? She missed the final performance. Pauline would never do that. Not unless someone poisoned her.”

  “Not poison. Just something to make her sleep. Soundly. She’ll wake in some room in the boarding house none the wiser.”

  “The boarding house? Why, it is only three blocks from the theater.” Britannia slid toward the door. “Sir, I demand you tell me what you are playing at this very instant!”

  He grinned, sliding his fingers into his pocket. What was he hiding in there? Blast, it was too dark to make out much of anything. “You see, someone is paying me a great deal of coin to ensure you never trouble Lady Calthorpe or her family again.”

  “Her Ladyship—?” Before Bria could say another word, Mr. Gibbs lurched across the carriage, grabbed her wrist and brutally twined a rope around it.

  Thrashing and kicking, she fought to push him a way. “Stop!”

  He reached for her other wrist, but Bria was faster. Fighting, she slammed her fist into his jaw. The cur snarled and caught her hand, throbbing knuckles and all.

  “That was very unwise,” he growled, winding the rope tighter. He opened his mouth wide and stretched his chin from side to side while he knotted the bindings so forcefully her fingers grew numb.

  Bria tugged and twisted, only making the bindings bite into her flesh. “You’re mad!”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Ravenscar will never let you get away with this. Pauline and now me? You will swing from the gallows!”

  “I think not. I am very efficient at covering my tracks. Even if he does figure it out, you’ll be on a convict ship headed for Australia before he can ride to your rescue. And I will be under the protection of my patron.”

  An icy chill thrummed through Bria’s veins. Australia? Convict? Mon Dieu, je suis condamnée!

  With her next inhalation, the parchment in her bodice crinkled. If only she’d left the missive on her toilette, someone might deduce what had happened. How could she have been so naïve to blindly follow the directive in the missive? How could she think she could save Pauline? She, a petite ballerina take on a behemoth the size of Mr. Gibbs? Heaven’s stars, she was smaller than most women let alone men.

  Australia?

  She’d heard terrible things about people who perished, the abysmal conditions, the sickness, the—the rats!

  Oh God in heaven, please tell me this is not happening!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Drake led Lady and Lord Calthorpe into Beaufort’s salon, complete with a mahogany billiards table.

  “Not yet abed, Beaufort?” he asked, sauntering inside.

  “Ravenscar?” The elderly duke stumbled away from the table, cue in hand. “Charlotte? Have you completely lost all sense of propriety? How dare you force your way into my home unannounced?”

  “Beg your pardon, Your Grace. They were too fast for me,” wheezed the butler from behind, who couldn’t be a day younger than eighty. “Shall I bring up a tray?”

  “No, you should not—”

  Ready to beat Beaufort to within an inch of his life, Drake sidestepped along the table. “There won’t be time for niceties.”

  Inclining his cue stick Drake’s way, Beaufort assumed a defensive stance. “Do not move another inch closer.”

  “Or what, pray tell, will you do? Brain me with that skinny piece of maple?” Before the duke could answer, Drake closed the distance, snatched the cue from Beaufort’s hands, cracked it on the side of the table, and broke the damned stick in two.r />
  Lady Calthorpe gasped. “Please, Father—!”

  “Where is she?” Drake demanded, brandishing the splintered end.

  Beaufort spread his palms as if he were an innocent monk heading for compline. “To whom are you referring?”

  Her Ladyship tsked. “Father, lying does not become you.”

  “Whyever not?” asked Lord Calthorpe with a bold display of backbone. “His Grace has been shamming it for so long, I don’t think he knows the difference between truth and fiction.”

  Beaufort shot the baron such a deadly glare, Drake had no illusions as to the truthfulness of the baron’s accusation. He smashed the butt end of the cue stick onto the table. “I’m going to ask this once and if I do not receive a satisfactory answer, my next swing will be at your balding head.”

  The duke narrowed his eyes. “You dare threaten—”

  “It is not a threat. ’Tis a certainty.” Stepping forward, Drake pointed the jagged weapon at the man’s nose. “Where. Is. Miss LeClair?”

  “I have no idea—”

  Her Ladyship threw out her hands. “Please, Father. Help us.”

  Beaufort thrust his finger at his daughter. “Why are you putting this on me? You have no grounds!”

  “Actually, we do have evidence and it all points to you,” said Lord Calthorpe.

  The coward scooted behind a small writing table—little protection it would give if the man didn’t start cooperating. “No one would dare prosecute me. I am a duke.”

  “As am I.” Drake closed in, itching to strike. “And I tell you true, judge and jury are standing before you this night. Now where the hell have you taken Britannia LeClair?”

  Her Ladyship neared. “Where, Father?”

  Beaufort’s gaze shot from one scowling face to another. “Y-you won’t harm me.”

  Rage shot through Drake’s blood like the ignition of a cannon’s fuse. Lunging around the damned desk, he swung back with the weapon, eyeing Beaufort’s neck. He needed the man lucid until he confessed—a strike to the throat wouldn’t knock him out. But the blow would drop him to his knees.