As Kit tooled along St. George Street to Hanover Square, where the club members gathered for their outing, the street was fast becoming clogged with sporting vehicles. Thinking he saw Rupert in his new white drab driving coat, he drew up to the curb and jumped from his phaeton. When the tall, slim man turned, however, Kit saw that he had mistaken Jeremy Eaton for Rupert.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Kit could not hide his irritation. The members were mostly titled lords; this was the last place he had expected to see Eaton.
“Hello, Harm. Seems we frequent the same haunts.”
You are certainly haunting me, you bastard!
“Nice cattle; I heard you’d bought yourself a perch-phaeton. Your investments must be paying off. Mine didn’t pan out.”
“Too bad. You should ask your father for advice.”
“My father and I are forever at odds … rather like you and your father were,” he drawled.
“What the devil do you mean? My father doted on me.”
“Bloody ironic, isn’t it, that your hand was the one to pull the trigger?”
“Look here, I’ve had about enough of your insinuations. If you want to shout it to the world that I, not my twin Nick, accidentally shot my father, be my guest. None will believe you.”
“Accidentally?” Jeremy queried, blowing on his hands to warm them. “If I reveal there was nothing accidental about it, all would be ready to believe me, I warrant.”
Kit began to shiver, and he pulled his caped coat closer about his neck. “I’d keep my mouth shut, if I were you.”
Eaton laughed. “Mouths aren’t for shutting unless there are flies about.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand sounds fair enough to me.” He glanced up at the sky. “Could be in for trouble. There’s a storm threatening; wouldn’t want you to get caught in the deluge. I’ll see you at White’s tomorrow evening; I’m always there on Tuesday. Or better yet, I’ll see you at Barclays Bank in the morning. Ten o’clock sharp.”
As his second cousin left him, Kit reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled out his flask. He raised it to his lips and noticed that his hand shook. That fucking parasite! If I ever see him in the road, I’ll run him down! The whiskey warmed and comforted him. What the hell’s the difference? If I empty my bank account, his old man will fill it up for me. Kit began to laugh. Now there’s irony for you!
Alexandra had second thoughts about what she had done; then she had third and fourth thoughts, all filled with misgivings. She removed Dottie’s long, silvery-blond wig and the flesh-colored net garment she had worn as Lady Godiva from the costume trunk. It was her only hope; Alex knew she could never perform stark naked. She also knew that if some other way to acquire money presented itself, she would jump at the opportunity. To take her mind off her performance tomorrow at Charlie’s, which was rushing upon her with the sickening speed of a runaway carriage, she agreed to attend the Covent Garden opera with Hart Cavendish.
The moment she accepted, the Duke of Devonshire penned a note to Aberdeen, the Prince of Wales’s secretary, asking if he could use Prinny’s box at Covent Garden. When Aberdeen gave his consent, as he had in the past for the duke’s father, Hart went shopping. He knew what he wanted and laid his plans carefully.
When Hart arrived at Berkeley Square, Alexandra came down the stairs with an indulgent smile on her face. It would make a pleasant change for him to take her out dressed as a female.
“You look so lovely you take my breath away. I love that lavender gown on you; I hoped you would wear it tonight.”
Alex picked up her violet cashmere shawl and handed it to him. “How very gallant, Your Grace.”
As he wrapped it about her shoulders, he bent to whisper in her ear, “What happened to darling?”
“That was a wager, and if you remind me of that particular evening, I shall no longer think you gallant.”
“I promise to make it up to you tonight, Alexandra.”
In the carriage, Alex was relieved that Hart behaved like a perfect gentleman and sat opposite her. Bemused, she wondered how long that would last. The area around Covent Garden was thick with the carriages of the ton. Everyone was eager to see the new opera, or more precisely, to be seen seeing the new opera. Few of them even liked opera, let alone understood it.
The Covent Garden piazza was crowded. She glanced about, searching for Hart’s sisters, but didn’t see them. Hart reached for her hand and said, “Follow me.” She was surprised when he led her upstairs and they were ushered into the Prince of Wales’s private box. “How on earth—? Hart, I thought we were joining your family.” I shouldn’t be alone with him in the Prince of Wales’s private box. Being on public display will cause gossip and set up clear expectations!
Hart held her chair. “I wanted you to feel special tonight.”
Alexandra sat down, surveyed the theater, and suddenly froze. Every eye in the gallery was upon her. Upon them. She saw ladies whisper behind their fans. By displaying her in the Regent’s private box, the Duke of Devonshire was declaring them a couple. Just before the lights dimmed, she saw Christopher Hatton gazing up at her with stunned disbelief.
As the curtain rose, Alex felt her cheeks turn rosy, and she quickly moved her chair farther back in the box. Better get used to being stared at, she admonished herself. Tomorrow night you’ll be on stage! Though she assured herself that she wouldn’t be able to see her audience because of the curtain and the lamplight, it didn’t give her much comfort. Her audience would certainly be able to see her. All of her.
La Cambiale di matrimonio was a comic opera by Rossini, a new composer who was all the rage in Venice. Alex didn’t understand Italian, but soon she was laughing at the antics of the bride and groom and the price they paid for marriage, which was a universal theme. She thought of Rupert and Olivia, and then her thoughts drifted to Hart and herself. Suddenly, she stopped laughing. He wants tonight to be special! Good God, don’t tell me Hart is going to propose!
She quickly glanced at him and saw that his whole attention was focused upon her rather than the stage. He definitely had the rapt look of a man who was totally infatuated. And come to think of it, why else would he have agreed to go along with all her outrageous demands?
When their eyes met, he smiled. Reaching into his breast pocket, he drew out a long, slim velvet case, which he placed in her hands. “For you, Alexandra.”
Her pulse quickened; the brilliant aria faded into the background as her fingers felt the plush velvet and her attention became riveted upon the jewel case. Unbidden thoughts flashed into her mind. She had promised her grandmother that she would marry Christopher Hatton, because Dottie wanted her to have a title and security. But the Duke of Devonshire had the wealth of royalty and could make her a duchess; Dottie would have no objections whatever!
The curtain descended amid applause, and the lights were lit for the interval. Most of the audience arose to make their way to the piazza for refreshments, but Alexandra and Hart remained in their cocoon, isolated and private. She took a deep breath and opened the jewel case. The white diamonds and purple amethysts of the necklace glittered against the black velvet. She stared, fascinated by the brilliance, mesmerized by the dazzling gems.
Hart bent close. “Alexandra, I want to be your lover.”
She blinked and looked up at him. It was a proposal. An indecent proposal! She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She couldn’t say that he hadn’t warned her. The first time he had kissed her and she told him she wasn’t interested in marriage, Hart had declared emphatically that he was not interested in marriage, either. He was asking her to be his mistress, his paramour, and he was perfectly serious.
Alexandra knew in her heart that she did not have the right to be offended. She had brought this on herself with her outrageous behavior. How could she expect him to treat her like a lady, when she had never behaved like one? She had encouraged Hart to take her to every disreputable haunt in London. Was it any wonder
that he expected to become her lover? As she thought about it, she acknowledged that accepting his proposition would give her as much cachet as having a royal protector—more, since the Duke of Devonshire was not a caricature. She glanced down at the diamond necklace and realized she was holding the answer to all her and her grandmother’s financial difficulties. The jewels were a temptation beyond belief. If she let him fasten them around her neck, she would not have to go to Charlie’s. But then she looked back up at Hart, and she reluctantly admitted to herself that it would be impossible for him to be her lover, for love was not involved.
Alexandra closed the velvet case and handed it back to him.
“Damn it, Alex, I know you can buy your own jewels, but won’t you allow me the pleasure of buying you a present?”
“Of course I will,” she said lightly, “but certainly not diamonds. I’m not for sale, Hart.”
“I don’t want to buy you, I just want to—”
“Bed me?” She gave him a provocative glance from beneath her lashes. “You and a thousand others; better get in line.”
Hart laughed, and the tension between them was broken. The lights in the theater were snuffed, the curtain lifted, the music rose and fell in great crescendos. When the opera was over, the performers took their curtain calls to great applause.
In the Covent Garden piazza, Alexandra stopped to admire the pretty items that were on sale. “You may have the pleasure of buying me that mask, Your Grace.”
As he paid for it, he remarked, “Why would you want to cover your lovely face, Alexandra?”
“To hide my blushes from indecent proposals, of course.”
She heard Hart say, “Oh, hello, Kit. Did you enjoy the opera?”
Alex looked up into Christopher’s dark face and felt guilty.
“I did; Italian is one of my favorite languages. Magnificent artists, the Italians. I recently bought Canaletto’s Regatta on the Grand Canal.” He looked at Alex. “I’d like you to see it.”
Hart frowned. “I think you’re mistaken about the title, old man. Regatta on the Grand Canal hangs on my wall at Chatsworth.”
Alexandra saw Kit’s reaction to Hart’s words. His face had a closed, masklike expression, but his gray eyes changed dramatically. They took on the color of pewter storm clouds. Alex had drawn enough attention to herself tonight, the last thing she needed was an escalation of angry words between these two men. She said quickly, “It was lovely to see you, Kit. Good night.”
Christopher Hatton was angry at the entire world. Fate was conspiring against him, and he felt impotent to do anything about it. Hart Cavendish escorting Alex all over London was the last straw! The past few days had been a nightmare in which his money was being syphoned from him in a never-ending stream. First by that bloodsucking swine, Eaton, and now by a fucking unscrupulous art dealer. First thing in the morning, I’ll return the Canaletto painting and demand my money back. Then I’ll have the bastard arrested and lay criminal charges! He would go tonight, except the shop would be closed. So Kit did the only thing he could. He walked the short distance from Covent Garden to the Hoops and Grapes and got quietly, steadily drunk. When he was offered opium, he bought some and smoked it.
By Saturday afternoon, Alex was resigned to her fate. Before she dressed, she donned the flesh-colored net garment, which clung like a second skin, then put on double petticoats and two sets of garters on the theory that the more articles of clothing she had to remove the less time she would have to spend exposed. When Dottie spied the long, blond wig and new mask lying on her bed, Alex knew she would have to tell her grandmother a white lie.
“Masquerade party tonight?” Dottie sounded puzzled.
“Yes.” It could be called a masquerade party, I warrant.
“Who is your escort, and who’s giving the party?”
“Olivia and Rupert. Some friends of the Hardings, I don’t even recall their name.” That lie is doubly devious to make sure Dottie won’t want to come with me.
“Better you than me, darling. I’d prefer being buried alive.”
An hour later, Alex took her courage in both hands, stiffened her backbone, and walked into Champagne Charlie’s. A room with a dais at one end had been set aside for tonight’s performance. Charlotte King, knowing exactly the atmosphere she wanted to create, had had transparent drapery installed, made from golden gauze. It would be backlit by the warm glow of gas lamps. On stage, Alexandra’s performance would be softly illuminated, while her audience would be in darkness. Alex was thankful that the curtain separated them, making it feel as if she were alone. Though this was an illusion, at least she would not be able to see her all-male audience.
“What props will you need for tonight?” Charlie asked.
Alex had thought long and hard about this and knew it would be more effective if it were kept as simple as possible. “I’ll need a bed and a chair … perhaps a small screen to hang my garments on as I remove them?”
Two servants brought a white iron bedstead to the stage, and another carried a feather mattress, sheets, and pillows. Alex stared. “Black satin sheets?”
“All the sheets at Charlie’s are black satin. Makes female flesh look erotically decadent and tempting, don’t you think?”
Alex did indeed. Once the stage was set, she watched the servants carry in chairs for the audience. Three dozen was a preposterous number; Alex hoped only half a dozen would be filled. When one of the girls showed her the invitations Charlie had sent out to her clients, Alex was rendered speechless.
Charlotte King commends herself respectfully to Lord —— and takes the liberty of advising him that Saturday evening at 8 o’clock precisely the beauteous, virginal Caprice will present her celebrated performance of poses, in the style of posture artiste, Lady Emma Hamilton.
At seven-thirty, Alex withdrew behind the curtain and stood just inside a stairwell door on one side of the dais. The long, fair wig was firmly anchored to her head and her mask was in place. She pulled her cloak more closely about her as she felt her heart race; she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. This didn’t happen, of course. She strained her ears, but all she heard over her own heartbeats was the sound of a door opening. Minutes later the gaslamps were lit, which was her cue. For one horrific moment Alex felt paralyzed, and her limbs would not move. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and launched herself into the void.
Her movements were languorous, yet studied. She entered her bedchamber through the door and slowly, gracefully closed it. She posed prettily before she removed her cloak. As her hands moved delicately to take off that first piece of clothing, she heard an audible intake of breath. She hung her cloak over the screen, then sank down in a curtsy for her next pose. When she straightened, she twirled around, sending her skirts billowing about her like the petals of a rose in full bloom and at the same time allowing a glimpse of ankle. Alex knew she was creating a magical image in the imagination of her audience. She was a young debutante, just returned from a masked ball.
Suddenly, she yawned. Then her next pose was a full stretch. It was a tantalizing hint of being tired, so that her audience would anticipate that she wanted to go to bed. Slowly, she began to remove one long kid glove an inch at a time. When her arm was finally denuded, she heard a collective sigh. Even more slowly, she unfastened the buttons of her gown, one provocative button at a time. She pushed the sleeves down from her shoulders, leaving them bare, and posed again. She stepped from her skirts, and in a swirl of petticoats, hung the gown over the screen. She sat down on the chair and went through the titillating female ritual of brushing her hair. Then she lifted one leg and posed before she removed a garter. She repeated the movement with her other leg, then stood and removed her second petticoat. She sat down again, this time to take off her slippers, her second set of garters, followed by her hose. As she inched a stocking down her leg, Alex heard a collective aahhh.
The appreciative murmur told her that her performance was a success so far. She stood up, clad o
nly in her short shift, and posed, hands on hips, wondering how she would gather the courage to move on to the next revealing step. Modesty prompted her to turn her back to the curtain, while she unlaced her small busk. She set it on the chair, then slipped off her drawers. As she posed before them with the curve of her buttocks revealed, it drew spontaneous whistles, and she realized that there were more than a half dozen spectators on the other side of the curtain. Alex feared if she didn’t finish this performance quickly, she would faint.
Cupping her hands over her breasts, she turned slowly, and suddenly it dawned on her that the red-gold curls on her mons, which clearly showed through the netting, did not match her silvery-blond tresses. She removed her hands from her breasts to give her audience something else to look at. She forced herself to yawn and stretch one last time, then climbed onto the bed and lay down on the black satin sheets. Mercifully, the gas lamps were snuffed.
The applause was instantaneous and thunderous. To Alex’s burning ears, it sounded like a huge crowd. She became aware of male voices shouting something, and it finally occurred to her that they were shouting, “Encore, encore!”
Someone backstage hissed, “Curtain call!” Alex jumped from the bed and grabbed her cloak from the screen. She straightened her wig and touched her mask to make sure it was in place, then covered from throat to toes with her cape, stepped through the curtain and bowed. Her mouth almost fell open; not only was every seat filled but many more men were standing. She backed through the curtain and vowed that she would never again step through the curtain that served as her barrier of protection.
Christopher Hatton, fearing that if he showed his face about town he would be laughed at, withdrew into a protective shell. The shop where he had bought the Canaletto painting was empty; the art dealer vanished into the night. Kit had spent a fortune, and he had been royally swindled. End of the year bills came flooding in, and to add insult to injury, he received a note from Barclays Bank informing him that his account was overdrawn. Whenever his balance had been low before, John Eaton had filled the coffers. Kit cursed his financial advisor and sent a note to his London office, asking him to come round to Curzon Street.
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