by Amy Jarecki
He sighed, pouring for himself. “If it will please Your Grace, I will call into Almacks and dance with Lady Blanche.”
“That’s all I ask.”
IN THE FOLLOWING FORTNIGHT there had been no more incidences of someone rifling through Bria’s things, though the intrusion had made her uneasy. Thank heavens nothing had been stolen—but that made the incidences all the more confounding. Florrie continued to purport her innocence, but Bria didn’t believe her. Aside from Pauline, Florrie had been the only one to see her leave the boarding house with Ravenscar. To add to her guilt, she had clearly been hostile when Bria met her at the theater.
Still, there had been no irrefutable proof and Bria let it pass.
Today, she finally got a chance to venture out alone. Bria rubbed her fingers over the miniature hidden beneath her gown, standing on the footpath in front of the door that read Private Inquiry Office. In small letters beneath read the name Mr. Walter Gibbs, Investigator. Taking a deep breath, Bria clutched her reticule and prayed her two pounds and four pence would be enough.
Inside, a flight of stairs took her directly to the second level and another, rather unpretentious door. She knocked.
A man who looked like a clerk opened the door and looked out over her head. After Bria cleared her throat, he dropped his gaze and frowned. “Hello, miss. Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need one?”
“What is the nature of your call?”
“I have a missing persons inquiry. My name is Miss LeClair from France.”
“I’ll see if Mr. Gibbs can squeeze you into his schedule.” The man gestured to a bench just inside the door. “Please have a seat.”
Bria glanced about the small entry with a pastoral painting askew on the wall. The Inquiry Office didn’t seem busy at all. In fact, it was a bit too quiet.
Before she took a seat, the man returned. “You’re in luck, Miss LeClair. Please follow me.”
She forced a smile, though the man’s harsh mien gave no pretense of friendliness.
Ushered into offices lined with books, the investigator stood from his place at a writing table and was introduced as Mr. Gibbs. “Miss LeClair, I understand you have a missing persons inquiry from France?” He was tallish, clean shaven, with brown hair and a long nose to match his gaunt face—a face that made her feel about as welcome as a moray eel. He gestured for her to sit in a chair across from his and resumed his seat behind the table.
Bria clutched her reticule tighter as she contemplated a hasty exit. If Mr. Gibbs wanted patrons, he might at least try to appear pleasant—and that went for his clerk as well. “Ah, my inquiry is not exactly missing persons...I suppose it is, but the person is missing to me, and most likely not missing to themselves.”
The man snorted with an air of arrogance. “That is usually the case when someone goes astray. Perhaps if you explain your situation, I’ll be better able to discern if I can be of assistance.”
Taking a deep breath, she removed the miniature from around her neck and produced the handkerchief from her reticule. “Pauline and I—”
“Pauline?”
“My dearest friend. If I could call her a sister, I would.”
He leaned forward, eyeing the portrait in her hands, his gaze narrowing. “Go on.”
“Very well. We have already ascertained that the kerchief bears the emblem of the Prince Regent.”
“Mm hmm.” Gibbs reached for the handkerchief then used a quizzing glass to examine the coat of arms. “The prince ascended to the throne in 1820 and passed away three years ago. When did you acquire this?”
“I’m not completely certain, but upon the death of my guardians, if you will, I found it in a box with my name engraved atop.” While the man stroked his chin and looked on with a judgmental glare, Bria continued to explain about her past. She handed Mr. Gibbs the miniature. His eyes popped a bit—not unusual because the woman in the portrait was quite comely.
When she was finished, the man tapped the portrait’s tiny frame. “So, in truth, you have no idea if this woman has any relation to you whatsoever?”
“I do not. Though she might be my mother.”
“And she might not be.”
“True.” Bria’s resolve strengthened with her smile. “But we do have a familial likeness.”
“Hmm.” He picked up the kerchief and rubbed it between his fingers. “When George the Fourth was Prince Regent he had quite a reputation for being a philanderer—there are a great many of his by-blows about.”
She nodded, heat burning her cheeks, fully aware that discovering the identity of the woman in the portrait might end up labeling her as a bastard. Though Bria didn’t know what would be worse, being a bastard and knowing about one’s family, or being a foundling and completely alone.
He pushed the items across the table with a pronounced frown. “Do you truly want to churn up an old scandal which might have brought shame to this woman, and possibly her entire family?”
Bria slipped them into her reticule. “I wouldn’t want the Grande-Duchesse to suffer. Absolutely not. I only would like to know something about my parentage, who I am, where I’m from. If it would be detrimental for her or her family, I would not reveal myself.”
“Your mother may well still be in France, if she is even alive.”
Bria gulped. The man could be brutally blunt. “She could be anywhere.”
“And what about my fee?” Mr. Gibbs picked up a small dagger and started cleaning his nails. “What can you pay?”
“I have two pounds.”
His knife stilled. “Two pounds will merely buy you an inquiry or two and, honestly, this case is so old I doubt it will be worth your coin.”
“If there is anything you can do, anything at all, I would be in your debt.”
“Very well. Since you seem to be eager. I wouldn’t want you throwing your coin away on someone less qualified.” He set the dagger aside then reached a slip of parchment. “You were christened in Bayeux did you say?”
“Yes.”
He dipped his quill in the inkpot. “In what year were you born?”
“1814.”
He wrote her name and birth year on a slip of parchment. “An interesting time in history.”
“Indeed. The Bourbon monarchy was restored for a brief period and it seemed as if Napoleon’s war had ended.”
“If only he hadn’t escaped prison we would have avoided Waterloo.”
“Yes.”
“Is there any other pertinent information you can add? Monsieur LeClair was a successful merchant, did you say?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Gibbs’ quill oscillated through the air as he wrote. “And Madame LeClair provided your inspiration to the ballet?”
“Oui. She was English and gently born. Her father was a vicar from Gloucestershire.”
Again, he dipped the quill in the inkwell. “Interesting. I take it that is why your English is so precise.”
“Since I discovered the keepsakes, especially the kerchief, I’ve always wondered if there was a reason I was placed in a home with a British subject.”
Mr. Gibbs winced, his quill stilling for a moment before he looked up with an insincere smile. “This information is so scant I doubt I’ll be able to churn up a thing. Nonetheless, I will be in touch.”
BRIA EXITED THE PRIVATE inquiry office, anxious to join the troupe for a luncheon and day out in Hyde Park, which was a long walk west along Grosvenor Street, according to the mistress at the boarding house. Mr. Perkins had said the Duke of Ravenscar arranged the affair, though Britannia doubted the duke would be present. Since the opening of La Sylphide, he had been rather scarce aside from his ever-present and commanding presence in his box during performances.
She didn’t blame him for keeping his distance. What must he think of her begging a kiss on opening night? Goodness, she could be daft and ought to be mortified by her behavior. But she wasn’t. Their wee tryst was her secret. A moment in time she would remember a
lways.
In fact, she replayed the kiss in her mind over and over each night before she fell asleep. What would have happened if the maid hadn’t come in? It was impossible to forget the strength of his arms, the way her blood had rushed as if champagne were bubbling through her veins.
She knew why Ravenscar was staying away and she didn’t blame him. He may have pretended to be aloof after the maid caught them, but the tenderness he’d imparted when he had kissed her had to be genuine.
Wasn’t it?
At the corner, she stepped off the curb just as a flower cart pushed past. “Watch where you’re going, miss,” hollered the vendor.
“Sorry.” Picking up her skirts, Bria looked both ways. The traffic was horrendous with carts and carriages all wheeling past at different speeds. When she saw a break, she dashed across.
At least she tried.
A black shiny phaeton sped from behind a hay wagon—straight for her.
Her legs taking over, Bria took a flying leap toward the curb, her toes just catching the edge. With a sweep of her left leg, she cheated death by a fraction. Behind her, the carriage’s wheels screeched as the driver pulled two chestnut horses to a halt. “Madam, are you trying to commit suicide?” A deep voice boomed.
She cringed. Indeed, Bria would recognize that voice anywhere. Slowly, she turned and faced Ravenscar, the figure of masculine perfection, the ribbons held firmly in his gloved hands, looking like king of the courts, ready to send her to the bowels of the Tower to face the executioner for making a frantic dash in front of his carriage.
Until those icy blue eyes opened wide with recognition and something intense. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Britann—ah, Miss LeClair, I am astonished to see you here. What on earth are you doing dashing across the busiest street in London?”
She glanced back to the inquiry office, thanking the stars she wasn’t standing in its doorway. “I’m heading for your luncheon at Hyde Park.”
“You’re walking all that way? Mr. Peters was supposed to arrange carriages.”
“He did. Ah...the day is so lovely I thought I would walk instead.”
The duke leaned toward her and offered his hand. “Well, you may as well ride the rest of the way. Come, I’ll give you a lift.”
His hand completely covered hers as, with one arm, he hoisted her up, her feet hardly skimming the steps. She slid onto the bench and folded her hands atop her reticule, all too aware of the man beside her. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace.”
“I’m not sure how kind I’m being. After seeing you fly in front of my team, I was certain I’d be scraping your bones off the cobblestones.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t see your carriage behind the hay wagon.”
“We’re fortunate you are so nimble, else my theater would be without its Sylph.” He cued the horses for a walk, then grinned down at her. “Other than running out in front of carriages, have you been well?”
“Yes, thank you. Though...” She stopped. What should she say? I’ve missed seeing you backstage? I wonder if you would mind kissing me again since last time we were interrupted, and I have the strongest feeling there would have been more?
He regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “Yes?”
“It is always comforting to see you in your box every night.”
“I wouldn’t miss a single performance.”
“I’m glad. I like having you there. I feel as if we are...” Good heavens, it would be nice if she held her tongue.
“You were saying?”
“Friends.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose we are. Though I’ve never...”
Now His Grace wasn’t finishing his sentences. That simply wouldn’t do. If he didn’t finish, Bria mightn’t sleep at night for trying to figure out what he was about to say. “You’ve never what?”
“Well, all of my friends are men.”
She wound her finger around her reticule’s drawstring. “Most of mine are women, aside from the men in the corps, of course.”
As they turned into Hyde Park and approached the white tents set up for the luncheon, Pauline and Florrie stood side by side and gaped. Bria put her finger to her lips to shush them.
“Ladies,” said Ravenscar as he pulled the horses to a halt. “My team nearly trampled our Sylph when she dashed across Regent Street.”
“Alors,” said Pauline, clapping her hand over her heart.
Of course, Florrie showed no sympathy. “Always out to attract attention are you not, Bria?”
She didn’t wait for Ravenscar to walk around and help her down. “Not that kind of attention.”
As soon as Bria’s feet hit the ground, Pauline pulled her aside. “I thought you were going to see the investigator,” she whispered.
Bria checked behind to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “And that’s exactly what I did.”
“And His Grace just happened past?”
“His phaeton nearly ran me over, mind you.”
Pauline giggled. “Imagine if you’d been injured. He’d be irate and have no one to blame but himself.”
Bria looked his way. Ravenscar stood beside Mr. Perkins looking directly at her. She quickly turned her back. “He was furious with me, but I didn’t see his carriage from where I was standing.”
“I imagine you frightened him something awful.”
“He frightened me, that’s for certain.”
Pauline tweaked the bow on Bria’s bonnet. “He’s still watching you.”
She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know Ravenscar was staring. The heat of his attention seared her spine with the intensity of blue flame. “He’s probably just ensuring no one else tries to run me down.”
“I think he likes you.”
Smacking Pauline with her reticule, Bria shook her head. “Stop. He likes all of us. That is why he’s sponsoring today’s luncheon. Speaking of which, let us find a place to sit.” As far away from His Grace as possible.
Chapter Eleven
PREPARING FOR THE HUGHES ball, Bria turned in front of the mirror, making the pink organza skirts of her new ballgown billow. “I think I like the latest style, not quite off the shoulder,” she mused, adjusting her stays so her bosoms showed a hint of cleavage.
“And those gigot sleeves are a work of art.” Pauline nudged beside her, smiling in the mirror. She brandished a white ostrich feather and pinned it in Bria’s hair. “And I do believe this is the first time you are wearing a prettier dress than me.”
Biting her lip, Bria looked to the worn floorboards. Her friend was right. Pauline wasn’t wealthy, but her father always ensured his daughter was stylishly clothed—and her gown was darling. “The blue makes your eyes stand out like stars.”
“At least it’s my favorite color.” Pauline handed Bria a blue feather which she in turn pinned so it dangled just above her friend’s eye.
“The feather adds a saucy touch.” She gave her work a pat. “And this will stay in all night.”
“I believe you. Those pins have teeth.”
Bria stepped back and admired her work. “You do not want the plumes to fall in your eyes whilst you’re dancing, do you?”
“Non.” Pauline picked up both pairs of elbow-length gloves and handed the pink to Bria. “It is a shame there is a ball at Almacks tonight. I’m afraid there won’t be many people at the Hughes private event. What say you?”
“I have no idea. Regardless, I intend to have a lovely respite. What with the traveling, the rehearsals and performances, both of us need a night out.”
“And we shall have it.”
Bria pulled their cloaks off the hooks. “’Tis time to head downstairs. The carriage should be waiting.”
The pair had decided to pay a little extra and hire a hack between themselves. Too many times Bria had shared rides with six others and they always managed to be the last to leave, which meant feeling like a wet rag the next day.
Once they arrived, it took about a half-hour bef
ore the carriage processed through the queue on Mr. Hughes’ oak-lined drive. Against the dusky sky the sprawling mansion posed a picture on a well-manicured estate in Kensington.
Bria and Pauline both sat forward, eagerly watching out the window. “Did you know there is a royal palace not far from here?” Pauline asked.
“I did not.”
“Imagine, your ancestors may have built it.”
Bria gave her a nudge. “Stop. My ancestors were more likely to have spent time in the Tower of London’s dungeons than a royal palace.”
When the carriage finally stopped in the circular drive, they were met by footmen who escorted them up a marble staircase. After checking their cloaks, they received their dance cards and were announced as Miss LeClair and Miss Renaud.
Not unlike balls in Paris, a number of important people queued in a welcoming line and greeted guests, with Mr. Hughes at the end. He had thick sideburns and a moustache, spoke with a pronounced lisp and smiled warmly at his guests. Moreover, he was the first to sign both Bria and Pauline’s cards.
“I think he’s genuinely happy to have us here,” Bria whispered as they moved into an enormous ballroom painted in white. The chandeliers overhead glowed with hundreds of candles made brighter by squares of mirrors. It wasn’t quite as opulent as Ravenscar Hall but, still, the room oozed wealth.
“Oh, I daresay he is thrilled to invite an entire troupe of dancers to his ball. We are professionals. There’s no one better with whom to enjoy a waltz.” Pauline spread her arms wide. “Look at all the coattails. I’m guessing there are far more gentlemen in attendance than at Almacks.”
Bria admired an entire line of men in pristine black tailcoats. “I pity those poor debutantes who are anxious to find husbands.”
Pauline chuckled. “I doubt pity is the right word.”
Thomas Newport stopped and bowed. “Miss LeClair, Miss ah...”
“Renaud,” Bria finished, curtsying before turning to her friend. “Pauline, have you had the pleasure of meeting the Earl of Fordham?”
