by Amy Jarecki
Bria spread her arms wide, gesturing from one wall of the carriage to the other. “Am I not riding in your carriage? Surely that is more scandalous in England than riding in an open carriage like a phaeton?”
“Our situation is completely different. You are in my employ.”
“So, in London society, such an arrangement is permissible because of our master-servant status?”
“I deem it is.”
“Then I venture to guess it was completely proper for you to come to your sister’s chamber last eve.”
“No.” His eyes shifted aside, as if he harbored regret for his actions. “I must ask your forgiveness for last night. That was a mistake.”
Her stomach churned. Bria couldn’t look at him. Of course, he’d only kissed her because she’d asked him to. And she had no reason to believe the gesture had meant anything to him. “I thought as much,” she forced herself to say, trying to sound unaffected.
“Nonetheless, I suggest that until you are familiar with London society, you discuss your engagements with me prior to accepting them.”
She considered his request for a moment. On one hand it made sense because she wasn’t completely familiar with England and all their societal rules—in France, with the Revolution and the Napoleon Wars, too many of the nobility had been lost, too many men as well, making it impossible for women of Bria’s class to worry about having an escort for everything. On the other hand, reporting her engagements to Ravenscar was downright awkward and imposing. She would be in London for months and the last thing she needed was His Grace overseeing her affairs.
She crossed her ankles, the gesture making her toes brush the tips of his boots—contact that sent gooseflesh rising across her skin. “I’m sure you are far too busy to concern yourself with something as trivial as my engagements,” she said, trying to sound in control, giving no indication of the queasy grands jetés performing in her insides.
“Hmm.” His gaze met hers, but it wasn’t blasé or impassive. His eyes were as dark and intense as they had been last eve. “Perhaps you’re right. But do not hesitate to ask if you have any doubt about an invitation. Case in point, Fordham’s request to go riding—or any man’s invitation for that matter.”
Perhaps she’d misread his expression. Did he look at every woman with such intensity and then carry on with the conversation as if his gazes were passionless and reticent?
“Thank heavens I’ll be in rehearsal this afternoon.” Bria looked out the window just as the carriage passed a sign that read, “Private Inquiry Office”. “What street is this?” she asked.
Leaning forward, His Grace glanced out. “Regent.”
She made a mental note. There were definitely a few things she wanted to accomplish herself without her employer’s watchful eye. What if she turned up something about her past she’d rather keep under wraps? Thus far, the only person who knew about Bria’s keepsakes was Pauline. Now definitely was no time to reveal her secret. With the papers distorting the truth, who knew what they might report if her inquiries became common knowledge?
Chapter Nine
“AH, MISS LECLAIR, WE’VE been expecting you,” said Mr. Harding, coming out from behind the counter of his haberdashery.
A tad confused, Drake looked from the shop owner to Britannia. Had his mother sent word ahead? “They were expecting you?”
She shrugged, giving nothing away. “Was the incident with the glass of wine in the newspapers as well?”
“It was not.”
Two ladies stared in disbelief while Mr. Harding pulled Britannia deeper into the shop. “I attended the ballet last night and your performance was nothing short of extraordinary.”
Drake rubbed his thumbs under his lapels and gave the women a tepid bow, right before they sidled out the door.
“This is abominable. I cannot believe the clientele they have stooped to entertain, and on Pall Mall,” said a pretentious, elderly woman. She and her accomplice moved to the perfumery rather than the exit.
Drake recognized the woman as the wife of Mr. Wainthorpe. New money, and obviously inflated with her own self-importance. He moved near enough to speak quietly. “Perhaps you’ll find the patrons more to your liking at Leicester Square. After all, I have never been in the company of others when my rank was not lofty enough for my peers.”
Mrs. Wainthorpe huffed. “I was not referring to you, Your Grace.”
He gave a cursory bow of his head. “Did you attend last night’s opening at Chadwick Theater?”
Her arrogant nose turned up with her sniff. “I most certainly did not.”
“I see. Then might I suggest you refrain from being so generous with your opinions until you actually have an idea regarding the subject upon which you are speaking.”
“Ah.” Turning a shade of chartreuse, the woman practically gagged on her own indignation. “I have never been thus insulted in my life...and by a duke of all people. Wait until my husband hears about this.” She snatched her companion’s elbow and started for the door.
Drake followed. “Please do give Mr. Wainthorpe my regards. And let him know he is welcome to join me in my box for tonight’s performance of La Sylphide.”
Once Mrs. Wainthorpe fled out the door, Drake took a good look around the shop for any other snobbish prudes who might be lurking. Fortunately, the remainder of the patrons were tending to their own affairs.
Mr. Harding had taken Britannia to the rear of the shop where they were looking at fabric. Drake hastened toward them. “To begin with, Miss LeClair will need a ball gown, an evening gown, two day gowns, matching trimmings, and a cloak.”
“Mais non.” Shaking her head, Britannia slashed a parasol through the air as if it were a foil. “One evening gown. At these prices, I can afford no more—and I’ve yet to pay a modiste.”
“What makes you think you’re paying?” Drake asked. “As I said earlier, it is in the interest of Chadwick Theater for you to present well in public as our premier ballerina. You are a diva—one of England’s most acclaimed guests and must be attired accordingly.” Drake snapped his fingers at Mr. Harding. “Miss LeClair’s expenses shall be invoiced to me.”
Britannia reached inside her reticule and pulled out a missive. “But I have—”
“I’ll hear no argument.”
“Very well.” She replaced the document. “I’ll allow Chadwick Theater to intervene this once only.”
Mr. Harding licked his lips, all too anxious to show them the latest fabrics and matching fans, gloves, hats and reticules. After a good two hours of selecting the finest of everything Harding, Howell and Company had to offer, Drake escorted Britannia a few blocks to the modiste for measurements.
“I do appreciate your generosity, but last night you said you would replace one gown. That would have been enough. What are people going to think? You purchased an entire new wardrobe on my behalf, not to mention all the accessories to go with them. They will assume the worst.”
The same thought had passed through Drake’s mind, though he’d discounted it. Besides, let the vultures think what they like. Perhaps if Fordham believed Britannia to be Ravenscar’s mistress, the rake would set his sights on Miss Bisset or one of the other dancers. “People will assume what they will. I care not. Ours is a professional relationship and that’s what matters.”
“To you.” She walked on at a ferocious pace. “I’m not enamored with the idea of people thinking I am your mistress when I am not.”
Drake lengthened his stride. “Would you like to be? Rhetorically speaking, of course.” Damnation, the words passed his lips before he had a chance to swallow them. What a nonsensical thing to ask.
She stopped, thrusting her fists downward. “Absolutely not! Aside from the fact that I hardly know you, I have no intention of becoming anyone’s mistress. Ever!”
Drake grinned. Had they not been standing on a busy footpath, he might hug her and whirl her around in circles. Fordham be damned. Perhaps his question wasn’t as shortsighted as
he’d thought. Her conviction gave him a great deal of ease. He would stand beside his commitment to avoid becoming involved with anyone at Chadwick Theater, and he needn’t worry about his lecherous friends...for the most part. Though he would be keeping a very close eye on their activities where Miss LeClair was concerned.
It was unfortunate his mother hadn’t introduced him to any ladies with Britannia’s fortitude, however. When he did decide to marry, he sincerely hoped to find someone with her pluck, her spirit, her stamina. Confident, virtuous, hard-working and determined to succeed—he barely knew the woman yet had uncovered many redeeming qualities. She was certainly an inspiration for other young ladies eager for a profession in the performing arts.
AFTER ARRIVING AT THE boarding house much later than she’d intended, Pauline met Bria in the entry. “Have you been with the duke all along? ’Tis almost time for rehearsal.”
Bria glanced at the floor clock at the end of the corridor. “If I’d known it was going to take so much time, I would have insisted on going on one of our rest days.”
“We haven’t a moment to lose or we’ll miss our warm up.”
“Heaven forbid. Monsieur Travere will start recruiting replacements for us both.”
Bria gave her parcels to the houseboy and paid him a halfpenny to take them up to her room.
Pauline tugged her out the door. “Did you hear? The entire troupe has been invited to a private ball to be held by Edward Hughes—word is his estate is magnificent. He inherited a vast fortune from his stepfather who was an admiral of all things.”
“Truly?”
“Oui, a fortnight hence on a Monday when the theater is dark.” Pauline leaped with a little jeté. “I am so looking forward to it!”
Bria looped her arm through her friend’s elbow. “And we’ll have a whole day to prepare. C’est manifique!”
Florrie met them at the stage door. “Here’s the prima donna come from her trip to the elite modiste. What was it like to rub elbows with England’s nobility? Did the duke give you a French kiss?”
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. I’m billeted as 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 li
es 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.”
