It was pure chance that he happened to see the incident that befell Lazzara while crossing the street. A small, dark-haired man darted after the prince and collided with unmistakable deliberation, pushing him to the cobblestones. Then, with one smooth slight of hand, the miscreant reached inside the nobleman's coat and drew out an object… a leather purse by the looks of it.
It was over in an instant; Lazzara lay sprawled there inelegantly, his features twisted in shock and anger, while the pickpocket fled.
Reacting instinctively, Damon sprinted after the thief while Eleanor gave a small cry of alarm and hurried to assist the prince.
When Damon eventually lost the pickpocket in the crowd, he returned to find her kneeling at Lazzara's side, her worry evident as she helped him to sit upright.
“Were you harmed, your highness?” Damon asked with a sincere measure of concern.
“No!” the Italian snapped. “My purse… that devil stole my purse.” He broke into a flood of Italian, spouting invectives that Damon knew meant devil and blackguard and several more pithy terms describing the vile scoundrel's parentage.
Then evidently recalling his audience, the prince ended his tirade abruptly. “Ah, a million pardons, mia signorina. I am ashamed to have used such language. It is improper for your tender ears.”
At the reference to her tender ears, Eleanor bit back a smile, although when her gaze accidently met Damon's, he could see the glint of humor dancing in her blue eyes. But she quickly erased any traces of amusement.
“It is no matter, your highness. Since you spoke in your language, I missed most of what you said. And in any event, I have doubtless heard worse from my brother and his friends. I have not lived as sheltered a life as the women of your country.”
Despite her conciliatory tone, Lazzara's face was rather red as he stood and dusted himself off, then helped Eleanor to rise. Clearly he was embarrassed at once again having been shown at a disadvantage in her eyes.
He seemed further embarrassed as he muttered, “I regret, Donna Eleanora, that we shall not proceed to Gunter's to fulfil your desire to partake of ices. I have no means to pay.”
Eleanor barely hesitated before giving him an easy smile while brushing at her skirts. “But I have the means, your highness. I would be happy to pay for tea and ices.”
When Lazzara stiffened, Damon could see that Eleanor immediately realized her mistake. She had obviously wounded the nobleman's pride, however inadvertently.
“Pray, allow it to be my treat, your highness,” Damon interrupted smoothly. “You were generous enough to permit me to intrude on your shopping expedition. The least I can do is repay the favor.”
He could see Lazzara warring with his conscience, whether to let his offended pride take precedence or claim the chance to bask in Eleanor's company for another hour.
He chose the latter, nodding brusquely and offering his arm to her.
Damon followed them to the barouche, for which the footmen had somehow miraculously cleared a path. As he climbed in and took his seat opposite them, however, he felt himself frowning at a sudden realization. The pickpocket had had the olive complexion of the peoples of the Mediterranean.
It seemed a stretch to suspect one of Lazzara's own countrymen of perpetrating the theft, although someone acquainted with the prince and familiar with his habits, including where he kept his purse, would have an advantage over the average thief.
More likely, though, the pickpocket was a stranger who'd carefully observed the foreign nobleman shopping at the stalls and targeted him as an easy mark, using the traffic tangle as a distraction.
It still seemed an odd coincidence, however-not to mention remarkably ill luck for Lazzara to have suffered two hazardous mishaps in as many days.
Damon's frown deepened when he saw Eleanor and the prince laughing with their heads close together. Apparently his highness had recovered enough from his embarrassment to reopen his spigot of charm.
The sight elicited the same strong reaction in Damon as a few moments ago, when Eleanor had knelt protectively beside the supine prince. She was far too solicitous for his peace of mind, and much too susceptible to the Italian Lothario's blandishments.
Silently voicing an oath, Damon acknowledged the fierce emotion spearing through him: possessiveness. There was no point in trying to deny his condition any longer.
Indeed, he was quickly coming to the conclusion that he didn't want Elle wedding Lazzara-but not only because he didn't want her to be hurt by making such a wretched choice for her husband.
No, Damon realized, tightening his jaw, he didn't want her wedding any other man at all.
When discussing even mundane matters, allow a gentleman to show off his knowledge and expertise, even if you know far more about a subject than he does. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…
Damon had difficulty stifling his impatience the following evening as he lounged in the upper gallery of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, waiting for Elea nor to arrive. He had no intention of letting her surreptitiously woo her prince without impediment, certainly not if her pursuit might lead to marriage.
He had no intention, either, of hieing himself back to the Continent, as Elle had so tartly suggested. He'd had enough of foreign lands for a while. And although he wasn't clear precisely what he wanted for his future, he was certain that whatever he wanted was here in England-and that his chief goal just now was to spike the wheels of Eleanor's romance with Prince Lazzara.
Therefore, yesterday at Gunter's, when his highness had mentioned escorting Eleanor and her aunt to the benefit concert here tonight, Damon had scrambled to arrange the seating to his liking. There were no private boxes in the Theatre Royal, but his party had been allocated a prime section of the gallery close to the stage, thanks to his distant cousin, Tess Blan-chard.
As one of the organizers, Tess had hired the theater and constructed the program to offer a variety of theatrical amusements, including opera arias and choruses in English and Italian, skits, dramatic recitations, and a pantomime by the marvelous pantomime clown, Joseph Grimaldi.
The event was considered so exclusive that the denizens of the ton had fought to put down their money for tickets. Prinny himself was scheduled to attend, a coup for Tess, who spent much of her time advocating for charities such as the Families of Fallen Soldiers as well as several orphanages and hospitals. Recently she had joined the youngest Loring sister, Lily-who was now the Marchioness of Claybourne- in starting a home to provide shelter and education for unfortunate women.
Tonight Damon's friend, renowned physician Otto Geary, had been given a seat of honor, since the proceeds of the evening would go to his beloved Marle -bone Hospital. Thus, it had been relatively easy for Damon to drag him here. Even though Otto disliked opera, he'd had no choice but to leave his patients for a few hours.
Damon was seated next to Otto now, awaiting Eleanor and Prince Lazzara's arrival.
“I wish they would hurry things along,” Otto muttered, tugging on his cravat. “I have too much work to do to be lazing about in this indolent fashion.”
“It won't be long now,” Damon assured him. “And you owe Miss Blanchard a show of gratitude, so pray cease your fidgeting.”
The physician scowled briefly before his eyes began twinkling at Damon. “I suspect you are a bit restless yourself, old friend, given how closely you have been watching the door these past ten minutes. And I fathom that gratitude to Miss Blanchard has nothing to do with your insistence on my presence here tonight. You only wanted me here for your protection.”
Damon bit back a wry smile. “That is not the sole reason.”
“But a reason nonetheless.” Otto's amusement broke out into a grin. “In truth, I don't know if I care to be anywhere near you once Lady Eleanor discovers what you have contrived. And in any case, I'm certain Miss Blanchard is more capable than I of shielding you.”
“Perhaps. But there is safety in numbers.”
Tess planned to join them shortly-a fortuna
te situation, Damon judged, since he hoped his cousin might be able to smooth over troubled waters, as it were. Eleanor would not be happy to discover that she and her prince and aunt would be seated so close to him.
He wasn't mistaken. When Elle finally made an appearance, he only had eyes for her, so he didn't miss the narrowing of her gaze when she realized how he had manipulated matters to suit his purpose.
In a similar reaction, Lazzara stiffened with suspicion, while Eleanor's aunt went rigid with disapproval.
Lady Beldon had never forgiven Damon for his rift with her niece two years ago. Accordingly, she was at her haughtiest when he politely rose and began the introductions, although at least she didn't overtly cut him.
Prince Lazzara was then compelled to make known his relative, Signor Umberto Vecchi, a tall, silver-haired gentleman. A diplomat from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies assigned to the Court of England, Vecchi had responsibility for commercial dealings, chiefly the lucrative trade of Marsala wine. And only he seemed unaware of the sudden chill in the air as they all stood for a moment making genteel but awkward conversation.
Fortunately the tension was relieved when the elderly Dowager Countess Haviland joined them, escorted by her grandson, Rayne Kenyon, the new Earl of Haviland.
The earl was well known to Damon from their salad days at university. Haviland had been an un-apologetic rebel then, and the black sheep of his illustrious family, so it was no surprise that he'd spent many of the intervening years attempting to thwart Napoleon's aim of world domination-reputedly, it was whispered, as a brilliant spymaster for British intelligence.
Clearly his grandmother and Lady Beldon were fast friends. But when another round of introductions followed, Damon noted with some surprise that Lady Beldon seemed to harbor a decided fondness for the handsome Italian diplomat, and that she lost a good deal of her aristocratic starch when speaking to him, almost to the point of coy flirtation.
However, it did not surprise Damon when Eleanor made use of the diversion to take him to task under her breath. “Your machinations are beginning to annoy me excessively, Lord Wrexham. I wish you would stop hounding me in this absurd way.”
Damon raised an innocent eyebrow. “I am hardly hounding you.”
“No? What do you call this?” She waved a hand, indicating the seating arrangements. “You intruded on our excursion yesterday, and now this.”
“I should think you would be pleased to have such a choice view of the performers. Miss Blanchard went to great trouble to accommodate my request. But if you wish, I can ask her to move your party elsewhere.”
With an exasperated huff, Eleanor sent him a quelling look. “You know it is much too late now to relocate. I don't wish to make a scene. But take warning. I will not allow you to spoil my prospects with Prince Lazzara.”
Her words were a challenge, while her flashing eyes pinned him. But wisely, Damon refrained from responding and provoking her further. Then Tess arrived with her spinster friend, Miss Jane Caruthers. Tess greeted him warmly before turning to the others to welcome them to the concert.
Eventually they all took their seats. Tess sat next to Damon, who had settled behind Eleanor and her suitor.
Damon was glad for the opportunity to share Tess's company. A dark-haired beauty with a gracious and serene air about her, she was only a fourth cousin or so, but one of his few relatives and someone he cherished. Tess had been so busy with her various charities, however, they'd had no time for any private conversations since his return to England.
“It is so good to see you again, Damon,” she murmured, leaning closer to be heard over the din of the audience.
“And you, love. You have outdone yourself this evening.”
Her smile was tinged with relief and pride. “I do hope it goes well. If the Prince Regent will only arrive soon, we may begin before the audience becomes too restless.”
The entire theater was resplendent with the cream of society present. The glittering crowd wore their richest finery, and the display of silks and satins and jewels shimmered in the glow of gaslight flame.
Damon had a good view of Eleanor's bare nape and graceful shoulders as she leaned closer to her own companion to discuss the program.
The opening performance would be in English, a chorus from Mozart's Don Giovanni, followed by an aria in Italian from Italy's Gioacchino Rossini, then selections from George Fredric Handel and the Irish composer Thomas Cooke.
He could hear Eleanor questioning Prince Lazzara about opera music-no doubt following the advice of that damned book on how to capture a husband. Her encouragement allowed his highness to boast about the superior nature of his country's contribution to world culture.
“I confess astonishment,” the prince eventually lamented, “that some of your operas are sung in English. The effect will be ruinous.”
Leaning forward, Damon interjected himself into their discussion. “On the contrary, your highness,” he said mildly. “Being able to understand the words makes opera more appealing to the common Englishman.”
Lazzara glanced dismissively over his shoulder at Damon. “What would you know of it, sir? You do not strike me as the sort who would appreciate good opera.”
“You would be mistaken. I enjoy opera greatly. As it happens, I had the pleasure of hearing Rossini's debut of Barbiere di Siviglia in Rome last year.”
Lazzara's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed?”
Damon smiled. “Yes, and since it is just the sort of comedy we English enjoy, I would not be surprised if it were soon to be performed here in London in our language.”
Lazzara gave a delicate shudder, clearly looking down his royal nose at this violation to his sensibilities, while Eleanor frowned at Damon.
He caught her reproving glance, but sat back satisfied that he had at least made her think about the vast divide between their two cultures.
Beside him, Tess watched him with curiosity, but then her attention was diverted by the commotion across the theater in the opposite gallery. The audience was rising to acknowledge the arrival of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. Damon could almost feel his cousin breathe more easily once Prinny's entourage was finally settled and the performance began.
On her part, Eleanor sat stewing during the first performance, deploring her powerful physical awareness of Damon behind her. Mercy, he looked stunning in a black evening coat, with the crisp white lace of his cravat a perfect foil for his sun-bronzed skin. It had required a valiant effort to tear her gaze away from him.
At least her efforts to ignore him were helped by her frustration. The vexing rogue kept appearing during her outings with the prince, making an utter nuisance of himself and driving her to distraction.
Yet she couldn't deny that his very presence set all her nerves and senses humming. Admittedly, Damon was the most enlivening, stimulating man of her acquaintance, if one admired clever, well-informed minds, which unfortunately she did. She would have liked to ask him about his recent travels on the Continent… but under no circumstances would she encourage such familiarity between them.
She was genuinely glad, however, to meet Damon's friend, the preeminent physician, Mr. Geary. She'd heard much about Geary's successes in bringing patients with serious illnesses back from death's door. Reportedly, his hospital was unique in that he insisted on immaculate cleanliness-a demand that was scoffed at by many of his peers but that was gaining credibility in the medical field. Eleanor admired scientific genius, particularly anyone who succeeded in going against the grain of society.
She also admired Damon's cousin for her charitable works. Eleanor had met Tess Blanchard several times during the past few months, due primarily to the lady's close friendship with the three Loring sisters. They all taught classes at the sisters’ Academy for Young Ladies, along with Jane Caruthers, who managed the school's daily operations.
And just recently Eleanor had approached Miss Blanchard to ask how she might contribute to her valiant efforts at reducing the poverty a
nd misery of the less fortunate.
Thankfully Eleanor was better able to ignore Damon when Madame Giuditta Pasta stepped onto the stage to sing an aria from Rossini's Barber of Seville, “Una voce poca fa.”
The Italian soprano had recently made her London debut, and although the reviews thus far had not been particularly favorable, from the first liquid notes Eleanor found herself spellbound. She sat rapt as Madame Pasta's voice soared with exquisite brilliance, and when the last beautiful note faded, Eleanor had tears in her eyes. Then when she wiped surreptitiously at the moisture, Damon reached over her shoulder and silently handed her his handkerchief.
As Eleanor glanced back instinctively in gratitude and murmured “Thank you,” she made the mistake of meeting Damon's eyes. Her heart gave a small leap at the hint of tenderness she saw in the dark depths. A tenderness that was reminiscent of the private moments they had shared during their betrothal.
He had been watching her enjoyment, Eleanor realized, flustered and dismayed at the thought.
Quickly, she averted her gaze and faced forward. She had difficulty paying attention to the music that followed, yet eventually she rallied to applaud the dramatic readings, to smile at the comedic skits, and to laugh with delight at the antics of the pantomime.
When the concert ended, Eleanor's composure had steadied somewhat, and she felt as if she could actually face Damon with equanimity.
That is, until they exited the gallery with the large crowd of theatergoers. Lady Beldon had insisted upon leaving at once, not wishing to wait until last for their carriages to be brought around.
As their party made its way along the corridor and down the wide staircase, Prince Lazzara shielded Eleanor from the jostling while Signor Vecchi saw to her aunt's defense.
They had nearly reached the lower landing when suddenly the prince lurched forward into the throng below. With a surprised cry, he tumbled down the final three steps, nearly dragging Eleanor with him.
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