“I shouldn’t saddle him up for you then?” he asks, his expressive brows now furrowing in confusion.
“That will not be necessary,” I say. “We’re already quite late for breakfast.”
“Thank you though,” Lucy adds.
We manage to nearly make it to the main house before dissolving into a fit of laughter. It’s a freeing feeling not to be proper, well-behaved ladies. We haven’t had the freedom to be ourselves in so long.
“The poor man didn’t know what to make of us,” Lucy says, sounding as though she will succumb to another fit as we climb the stairs.
“I’m sure he will assume we’re both touched in the head,” I say, and then our laughter begins anew.
Before we reach our rooms, Mary calls out to us with a letter in hand. “Do excuse me, misses, but the post just arrived.”
When I see our father’s name scrawled across the front, I smile. “Thank you, Mary. We’ll just be a few more minutes before we come down to break our fast.”
I turn to Lucy. “A letter from Papa.” When she looks at me with eyebrows raised, I say, “Come, we can read it in your room.”
Once in Lucy’s cluttered room, with nearly every inch of space covered with drawing supplies, I climb onto her bed. She follows, pressing her shoulder into mine to get a better view of the letter.
My Darling Girls,
I hope Mother has been good to you so far. I miss you terribly, especially during mealtimes when I have only a book for company. Mr. Baxter has taken pity on me and now joins me for breakfast and luncheon, though he does so under protest since he insists it’s most improper.
But enough of that. I write to you today to let you know we had to let one of the maids go—Clara. It has come to my attention that she has spread some of Margaret’s story about town. I very much doubt it will affect your stay in London, as the story was treated as less than credible. I only tell you this because I could not bear it if the rumor somehow caught you unawares. The chances of someone hearing a fantastic tale from Gloucestershire are slim indeed.
I pray both of you are enjoying your stay. Be sure to insist Mother takes you somewhere other than a stuffy ballroom while you are there. If you cannot escape yet another ball, then I ask you to keep an eye on Mother. She tends to get carried away with her card games.
With much love,
Papa
“Papa,” Lucy says in a happy sigh as I wonder at the strange mention of Grandmama’s card games. “Oh, but this is distressing news. I cannot believe Clara would do such a thing. I always liked her.”
I think of the young maid with her ringlet curls and sooty eyes, and the way she was often too flirtatious with the grooms.
“Well, she’s certainly done plenty of damage,” I say, my hand a tight fist in my lap. “I suspect Eliza may have heard the rumor.”
Lucy’s eyes widen. “But she only spoke of a rebellious girl from Gloucestershire—never a girl who could use arcana.”
“Yes, but if she knows the first rumor, why not the other?”
Lucy took the letter from me. Her eyes scanned back and forth as if Papa would offer advice. “What should we do?”
“The same as we have been: be on our guard against her. And pray she doesn’t get it into her head to spread the rumor here.”
ELEVEN
ROBERT is able to attend the opera with us, and I squeeze his arm with excitement as we enter the Royal Opera House’s lobby. Red velvet opulence awash in soft lighting surrounds us along with men dressed all in black and women dressed in silks and satins of every color, glittering tiaras atop their heads. The crowd herds us along toward the main entrance to the theatre, with the box seats above. We follow our grandmother to the spot where we agreed to meet Lord Blackburn.
The chattering of so many people creates a constant cacophony of sound, but it only contributes to my own excitement. The title of the opera is scrolled in bold black letters as we walk through one of the doorways that will lead us to our seats: Don Giovanni by Wolfgang Mozart.
“Dowager Lady Sinclair?” a liveried servant asks as we approach the box. She nods, and he sweeps the thick velvet curtain aside. “Right this way, my lady.”
Lord Blackburn stands when we enter, dressed in an elegant tailcoat and trousers. He does a sweeping bow, and a smile lights up his blue eyes. “Welcome to you all. I am so glad you could accept my invitation.”
While my grandmother proceeds to give him effusive praise of his box seats, I curtsy a greeting and go immediately to the railing. Before long, he is beside me.
“By the excitement in your eyes, I’m assuming this is your first time,” he says.
“It’s amazing,” I say, almost breathlessly.
I have trouble deciding what to look at first. Our box floats high above the stage with ten enormous crystal chandeliers hanging even higher. The conductor leads the orchestra with strong but controlled movements, and just watching the bows of the violins is hypnotizing. Fluttery red curtains are drawn across the stage, which is lit by enormous candelabras.
“It’s impressive for a building with such a cursed history, isn’t it?”
I’m quiet for a moment, embarrassed to have no idea what he’s talking about. But my curiosity wins out. “Has there been much misfortune here?”
To my relief, he doesn’t shame me for not knowing, just nods sadly. “Indeed. It has been rebuilt three times. It burned to the ground twice, which is why it was rebuilt the last time about fifty years ago.”
I shake my head, my eyes still riveted by the orchestra. “How awful.”
“A maudlin bit of trivia, but I am fascinated by the history of places and people. The more unusual, the better.”
Gradually, the crowd gets quieter, and I realize the opera must be about to start. I glance at Lord Blackburn and find he has been watching me with as much interest as I have given to my surroundings. I smile tentatively, but he shows no shame at having been caught staring.
“You must forgive me,” he murmurs, “but watching you is like seeing the opera for the first time.”
Unsure of what to say, I keep my eyes glued to the conductor’s baton.
“I’ve been to countless operas,” he says, “so it’s refreshing to see it with someone who is so obviously enjoying it.”
His clarification melts some of the tension from my shoulders, and I give him a more sincere smile. “Thank you for inviting me, because it’s true, I’m enjoying myself very much.”
“Excellent,” he says. “But come, you must sit. I can’t have you standing the entire opera.” He gestures toward the chairs behind us. As he does, a ring on his right hand catches my eye. The design is similar to a cross but with a loop at the top. I tilt my head to the side. The symbol is unfamiliar to me. A smattering of diamonds gives it a subtle sparkle, but the band is wide enough to still remain masculine.
He catches me staring, and I smile. “I just noticed your ring. It’s unusual. Is it a family heirloom?”
He glances down at his finger as if just remembering he wore a ring. “Oh, indeed. It was my father’s, and I’ve always had a penchant for simplistic designs.”
“Well, it’s lovely,” I say slowly. Despite his casual response, there is something about the ring that causes the fine hairs on the nape of my neck to rise.
The lights in the theatre dim, and I am once again distracted by the splendor of the opera. I take my seat but sit on the very edge, afraid to miss anything. Robert sits to my right, a drink in hand and a tired expression on his face. Grandmama, for once, is quiet. She has donned opera glasses, though, so she is no doubt busy in her scan of the crowd.
Lord Blackburn sits to my left, and as he takes his seat, the dramatic music calms and the curtains open on a haggard servant sitting alone.
As soon as he begins to sing, his voice a deep bass, I am sucked into the story. Though I know my grandmother wanted me to talk to Lord Blackburn and not pay the show any attention, I can’t tear my eyes away from the stage. And when
the female lead takes the stage, her voice a clear, powerful soprano, goosebumps erupt over my skin.
I envy her. I would love to use my voice to provide for myself, answering to no one but me and my talent. What would that be like? How freeing it must be, how self-reliant.
Lord Blackburn sits quietly beside me as I all but ignore him. A few side glances reveal him to be just as interested as me. Too soon, the curtain falls and the lights go up for the intermission.
He looks at me with a wide grin. “I don’t think I need to ask you if you’re enjoying it.”
“I love it,” I gush. “The music, the costumes, the singing. All of it. Thank you so much for inviting us.”
He stands and offers me his hand. “It was nothing, truly. Shall we go have some refreshments?”
I take his hand and join him. “Only if we can return in time. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”
I turn to Robert and Grandmama to see if they want to join us and find Robert asleep, his arms crossed over his chest. If Grandmama cares, she shows no sign of it.
“Bring your brother with you,” she says, when she sees me looking in her direction. “I’m off to find Lady Hasting.”
I poke him not too gently in the arm, and he wakes with a snort. “How could you sleep through that?” I demand.
“I wasn’t asleep,” he says, his voice groggy.
“Very well,” I say, “then what’s it about?”
He shrugs. "It’s in Italian."
I let out a huff. “Well, Lord Blackburn and I are going to the lobby for refreshments. You’re welcome to join—if you can manage to wake up.”
He stands and stretches—probably just to annoy me. “I’m awake.”
“This way to the lobby,” Lord Blackburn says, his voice betraying a hint of a laugh. He holds the curtain aside for us.
“You can go fetch me some tea,” I tell Robert. “It’ll help you wake up.” A teasing grin slips out, and Robert returns it.
“Very well.”
Lord Blackburn offers me his arm as we stroll down to the lobby. His arm seems much thinner than the earl’s, and I blush when I realize I’m comparing how muscular they are. He smiles down at me, his eyes focused on my face for just a shade too long, and a wave of awkwardness washes over me. Inwardly, I admonish myself for the feeling. We’ve been getting along so well it doesn’t seem fair to be uncomfortable.
But as my eyes search the lobby for a crop of dark hair, I know why I feel this way. Because of him.
Instead of the earl, I see Penelope standing against the wall, her dress a bright peacock blue. When she sees me, her eyes brighten, and she gives a little wave.
“There’s Penelope,” I say. “I should go say hello.”
“Indeed, and I should do the same with Lady Hasting.” He nods his head in the direction of the lady in question, for once not wearing a hat.
“Oh yes,” I say with a grin. “I almost didn’t recognize her.”
He chuckles as he walks away.
“Penelope,” I say when I reach her side, “it’s so good to see you here. Are you enjoying the opera?”
She gives a sigh in appreciation. “It’s wonderful. I absolutely adore Donna Anna. Her voice is gorgeous.”
I’d forgotten Penelope is a music enthusiast as well, and I probably surprise her with my own enthusiasm. “It’s divine! I couldn’t tear my eyes from the stage, and it took everything in me not to beg the director to let me join.” I laugh a little to let her know I’m joking; though, it’s partly true.
“I know what you mean,” she says. “It would be such a dream to be able to sing and play music all day every day.”
“What? And miss out on the balls? The husband hunts? Never,” I say teasingly and she laughs.
Abruptly her smile disappears, and I turn to see what has caught her eye.
“Miss Sinclair,” Lord Thornewood says gruffly, “might I have a word with you?” He is dressed, as usual, all in black. I’m bewildered by his tone, and even more bewildered by his presence here, though perhaps I shouldn’t be. Nearly everyone in society is present here tonight.
I raise my eyebrows at Penelope slightly—to cover up the way my heart is now beating furiously in my chest. “Certainly,” I say. “Penelope, will you excuse us for a moment?”
She nods, and I follow the earl as he walks away, his back stiff. He leads us to an alcove just off the lobby, and the sudden quiet is unnerving after the loud din of so many people.
He turns on me, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “Was that Lord Blackburn’s box I saw you in earlier?”
I’m sure my expression is the picture of confusion. With effort, I smooth out the wrinkles in my forehead. “You know it was.”
“And your grandmother approves of this?”
His tone is so condescending I instantly prickle. “Of course she approves. It was her idea—not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Then your grandmother is misinformed about Lord Blackburn’s character,” he says with a sneer on the last word. “I have it on good authority that not only is he a gambling rake, but he is so indebted he must find a nice fat dowry if he ever hopes to settle his accounts.”
My eyes go round, and I take a step back. Surely my grandmother would have found out as much as she could about Lord Blackburn. She was friends with his aunt for one thing. And Lord Blackburn has been nothing but kind to me. I think of the way Eliza whispered in Lord Thornewood’s ear while they were dancing, and of his answering smile. If this is his source, I have nothing to fear. And yet . . . the whisper of caution within me is difficult to ignore.
Lord Thornewood’s expression turns smug, and anger burns inside me. What right has he to warn me when he keeps company with Eliza? “I wouldn’t trust gossipmongers if I were you, my lord. It just so happens I was also told you were an infamous rake.”
The expression melts from his face. He leans in closer to me, and my breath catches in my throat. We are safe from prying eyes here in this alcove, but it doesn’t make me feel any less exposed. Perhaps he does have the gift of arcana after all. “This is your response then?” he says.
I think about him flirting with Eliza on the dance floor and straighten my spine. “It is.”
His eyebrows crease the skin between his eyes, darkening his nearly-black eyes. “Very well. Forgive me for intruding. Believe me, it was kindly meant.”
Before I can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd.
I wish I can say my little tête à tête with Lord Thornewood doesn’t prevent me from enjoying the opera. And to an extent, it doesn’t. But I have to fight to stay immersed in the beautiful music and the costumes and the drama of it all where before it was effortless.
Hateful man. Just because he heard a rumor at his club—no doubt in the midst of gambling himself—he has to burden me with it. Lord Blackburn has been a gentleman since the moment we met.
We give a standing ovation at the end of the opera, and Lord Blackburn grins down at me, his face softened by the dim lighting. I smile back, all the while searching his face for some indication he has bad intentions. Guilt twists through my stomach. Do I truly feel apprehension toward Lord Blackburn? Or are Lord Thornewood’s words clouding my opinion of him?
“I know we didn’t get to speak much,” he says, “but I truly enjoyed watching this with you.”
His words are so sweet the knife of guilt causes another stab of pain. “You were a superb opera-watching partner.”
“Wasn’t this your first opera?” he asks teasingly.
I smile wryly. “Yes, but anyone who enjoys it as much as I do and who can sit in companionable silence with me must be the best.”
“Perhaps I sat in silence because I have nothing of interest to say.”
“For shame, Lord Blackburn. That is not true at all.”
“You are too kind,” he says, his expression more serious—except for his eyes, which still maintain that sparkle of good humor.
“I must th
ank you again for inviting us,” I say as Robert joins my side, looking very much ready to go. He barely stifles a yawn, and I shoot him a look.
“Believe me, it was my pleasure.”
My grandmother repeats my thanks as profusely as she did when we first arrived, as if mine wasn’t good enough. I turn away from her and roll my eyes at Robert. He chuckles softly.
“I hope that invitation to your stables still stands,” Robert interrupts my grandmother, and Lord Blackburn turns. “I’ll be returning to Oxford on Saturday.”
“Ah,” Lord Blackburn says with a nod. “Of course. You are both welcome to come tomorrow if it suits you. Though I must add Lady Hasting has invited a few others there—mostly family, but also Miss Uppington and Miss Gray, I believe.”
I have to stifle a groan. Can I not do anything without Eliza showing up, too? I’m surprised I haven’t run into her here.
“Such a large party,” Grandmama says, her tone almost gleeful. “You honor us with an invitation.”
“No, I’m thankful you expressed interest. I only hope I don’t bore you with my endless talk of the horses.”
“Not as long as we can ride,” Robert says wryly. “That should negate any time wasted on conversation.”
Before Grandmama can admonish Robert for speaking so candidly, Lord Blackburn lets out a loud laugh. “Not one for idle conversation, I see. That’s good. I will certainly make riding the priority then.”
Robert claps him on the back. “Good man.”
Grandmama looks as though she may strangle my brother, so for his own good, I say, “Shall we return to the lobby?”
“Forgive me,” Lord Blackburn says. “I hadn’t noticed how late it is. You must be exhausted.” He offers me his arm, and I take it, soothing my grandmother’s wrath.
As we stroll through the lobby, my skirts swishing pleasantly against my legs, I feel a tingle of awareness on the back of my neck. I turn my head, and my eyes instantly land on Lord Thornewood. He leans casually against one of the lobby’s columns, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers. His expression is at once dark and unreadable. My stomach flutters, and I turn away.
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