by Amy Jarecki
Especially not while La Sylphide was still playing at Chadwick Theater.
This morning, upon Britannia’s insistence, Drake had sent a missive to Miss Renaud explaining what had happened and that the doctor expected Britannia to be able to perform as scheduled the following night.
Drake closed the book of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. “Which do you prefer, tragedy or comedy?”
She narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. “I think comedy, because I enjoy laughing. There’s always plenty of tragedy about, so who needs more of it?”
“Well put.”
A clatter came from the staircase. “No, I will not wait in the parlor!”
Drake set the book aside. “My mother sounds rather upset.”
Britannia tugged the bedclothes up to her chin. “You should have returned to Almacks last eve.”
“I did exactly what I should have done, and she will simply have to accept it. Sometimes dearest Mother forgets I am duke now.” He stood, intending to meet Her Grace on the stairs, but the door to the bedchamber burst open.
“There you are.” The dowager duchess’ gaze shot from Drake to the bed and back, her eyes filling with shock. “I must speak with you in the parlor at once.”
“Excuse me,” Drake said, bowing to Britannia before ushering his mother to the corridor and downstairs. He waited until they reached the ground floor, well out of the dancer’s hearing range before he said a word. “It is not what you think,” he whispered, opening the door to the parlor. “Miss LeClair was injured last eve when her hack threw a wheel.”
“And why are you the poor chap who came to her rescue? Why not appoint your coachman, or a footman or Pennyworth? You are a duke, not a nursemaid.” Mother swept inside and onto a chair. “That woman has no business in this house.”
Drake strode toward the hearth, intent on refraining from engaging in a war of words, but he would make his position clear in a low, intense tone. “I daresay, it is up to my discretion whom I entertain, and you have absolutely no say in the matter.”
“You think not? In light of your carelessness, I believe I should be more involved in your activities. And what about the French dancer’s reputation? What will people think when they discover she’s staying under your roof.” Mother rapped her palm with her fan. “Whether or not you have acted respectfully, the prattle baskets will run rampant with this news.”
His blood simmering to a low boil, Drake threw out his arms. “Bloody hell, she needed my help. She’s not a member of the nobility, and who gives a rat’s arse if the blatherskites out there think she’s my mistress?”
“Mistress? For once in your life would you be serious about taking a wife, and leave the whoremongering to less respectable members of the nobility? For heaven’s sake, I have worked my fingers to the bone for the past few Seasons, taking it upon myself to parade an endless number of debutantes under your nose. And you have yet to look twice at a single candidate. What are you waiting for? A goddess to come down from Mount Olympus?”
“I have never asked you to play matchmaker.” Drake grabbed the back of a chair and dug his fingers into the upholstery. “Mind you, I have plenty of time to find a duchess and I will do so on my own schedule.”
“You are five and twenty. You are a duke who can trace his lineage back nineteen generations!” Mother thrust her fan upward. “The woman above stairs cannot even tell you who her parents were, let alone if they were married. Your father was only six and thirty when he passed. None of us can afford to idle away time, wasting it on women of easy virtue.”
His fingers drilled into the upholstery with such force, the fabric stretched to the point of tearing. “Miss LeClair is not a woman of easy virtue and I resent your referring to her as such. It isn’t like you to be discourteous toward those of the working class.”
“Well,” Mother huffed. “I am at the end of my tether. I, a matriarch of the ton, hosted what should have been the best attended ball of the Season and not even halfway through, you disappeared—along with a quarter of the eligible men in London. I could not believe how you usurped me so!”
Ah, now she reveals the true source of her ire. “I apologize on that account. I had intended only to stop in to pay my respects. I fully expected to return until Miss LeClair’s carriage threw a wheel.”
Mother threw up her hands. “Why were you watching her carriage and not some hired man?”
“She was ready to go home and her companion was not. As her employer, before I rejoined you at Almacks, I felt the necessity to follow her hack to the boarding house to ensure she made it safely.”
“Which she did not.”
“Alas, no.”
Mother opened her fan. Flicking it passionately, the plume atop her hat flipped about while she looked up at the picture of the thirteenth duke hanging above the mantel. “Why must Chadwick men be so difficult? All I ask is that you take my recommendations seriously. I do not maintain a hectic social calendar for my health.”
“I thought you enjoyed being an engaging grande dame.”
“In truth, I do it for you. All of it.”
Drake unclamped his fingers from the chair. “Next you’ll be telling me you wish to retire to the dowager house at Peak Castle and idle away your remaining years painting landscapes of the shore.”
“The idea has its merits.” Mother snapped her fan closed. “That is if you were properly situated, spending the Season in Ravenscar Hall with a new bride and my grandchildren.”
Though his lenders were satisfied for the moment, at some time he needed to tell his mother about the Pall Mall mansion and how close she came to residing in the country permanently. However, today was not the day. Not when she was already riled. He dropped to his knee and took her hand. “You have nothing to worry about from me. I will marry. But I must find someone who takes my fancy. Someone with whom I can be allies.”
“I daresay familiarity comes in time.” She smacked him on the shoulder with her damnable fan. “Though not when you are entertaining the bit of muslin upstairs. There is nary a distinguished prospect out there who will bide her time while a potential suitor dallies about with mistresses. And all the diamonds of the ton are courted early in the Season so their weddings can be announced by the end. You must act swiftly. Lady Blanche, in particular, will not have a second Season, not a woman of quality like the daughter of Viscount Falmouth.”
Drake stood. “What do you find so alluring in Her Ladyship?”
“She’s well-mannered, has an impeccable family, and she’s quite handsome if I may add.”
“I found her rather plain. Rather guileless and sheltered.”
“She is young, my dear boy. A canvas upon which you can build.”
“I understand your anxiousness for me to marry, but I do not want you to feel as if it is your responsibility to find my bride. I will know the right woman as soon as I set eyes on her. Next Season the theater will be fully in Mr. Perkins’ control and I will not have as much with which to concern myself. Perhaps then I’ll find my duchess.”
“Next Season?” Mother drew a hand over her heart. “I could be a withered prune by then.”
“You will not be.” He kissed her hand. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Miss LeClair’s bedside. We are reading A Comedy of Errors next.”
“If you must.” Mother gave a wee snort. “At least spirit her out the mews and have her taken home in a hackney. There’s no point in making a grandiose display of your escapades. Polite society will not understand.”
He placed his palm in the small of her back and started for the door. “Very well. I will be more discrete.”
“You care for her, do you not?”
“Let us say I admire her,” he said over his shoulder. “Miss LeClair has inner strength that I haven’t encountered in many women.”
“Well, perhaps once she returns to France, you’ll be more amenable to the idea of marriage.”
“Perhaps.”
After Drake escorted his mother o
ut, he looked at the stairs with a sense of foreboding. The woman occupying his guest chamber was more tempting than lemon cream. More desirable than any debutante in London—any female in London for that matter.
But she was in his employ.
Britannia was not his to kiss. She was not his to caress or fondle or for him to do any of the other things he’d lain awake at night trying not to think about.
Mother had been right on a number of counts. The one he remembered most? There was no chance he would be able to choose a bride while Britannia LeClair remained in England.
A FEW WEEKS LATER, the stage manager popped his head in Bria’s dressing room as the dancers were preparing for the night’s performance. “Miss LeClair, there’s a Mr. Gibbs at the stage door asking to see you.”
Her heart skipped a beat as she clasped Pauline’s hands. “He’s the investigator I went to see,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes. I hope he has some news.”
“Come with me—he’s a little chilly.”
Mr. Gibbs stood outside, smoking a pipe. He pushed off from the wall as the dancers approached, the moonlit alley doing nothing to make him more amiable.
Bria introduced Pauline. “Please tell me you’ve found something.”
“I have news, though I doubt you’ll like it.” Gibbs tapped his pipe on the brick wall. “The Prince Regent’s only known mistress in 1814 was Isabella Ingram, now the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford. Presently, she is still living, though she has attained the ripe age of four and seventy. Might I add that it is highly improbable Her Ladyship is your mother. No woman could possibly survive confinement at the age of three and fifty.”
“I see.” Bria pressed her hands to her abdomen. “That is disappointing.”
“As I said before, it will be highly unlikely to discover the identity of your mother after nineteen years. The kerchief could have come from anywhere—even purchased as a keepsake by some passerby—most likely a Frenchman.”
Bria shifted her fingers to the miniature, secure beneath her costume. “Does the dowager marchioness reside in London?”
“She does, though it would be an impertinence to request an audience with the woman and show Her Ladyship your portrait. I daresay exposing her past indiscretions at her advanced age may lead the poor marchioness to her grave.”
Bria’s shoulders fell. “Thank you for your assistance.”
He gave a clipped bow of his head and tucked his pipe into his waistcoat pocket. “I wish you well, miss. And heed me when I say you are better off not pursuing this further. Sometimes it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Pauline grasped Bria’s hand while Mr. Gibbs strode away. “So that’s the end of it?”
“He’s given me what my two pounds paid for.”
“But we’ll each be receiving ten pounds for the private recital requested by Baroness Calthorpe. Perhaps he can dig deeper?”
Bria opened the door and pulled her friend inside. The baroness had been gracious to request a recital, scheduled for Monday next. “As he said, Mr. Gibbs is not eager to pursue the matter further. I suppose the man is fearful of ruffling aristocratic feathers.”
Pauline shuddered as they returned to the dressing room. “He doesn’t look as if ruffling anyone would bother him in the least. I think he’s just uninterested. ’Tisn’t easy digging up the past.”
“Well, it was worth a try.” Bria slid into her seat and picked up her pot of rouge. “At least we can discount King George as a candidate for my father.”
“I wouldn’t discount anything.”
Chapter Fourteen
AT THE GRACIOUS INVITATION of Baroness Calthorpe, Bria, Charlotte and Florrie arrived at the Mayfair town house wearing long tulle costume skirts beneath their cloaks.
“The recital will be in the ballroom,” said the housekeeper, leading them through the ground-floor corridor with high ceilings and gilt wainscoting. “The orchestra has already arrived and is preparing for your rehearsal.”
“We still have an hour before the performance, correct?” asked Bria.
“Yes. Her Ladyship will bring in her guests at half-past two. Afterward, you are welcome to remain for tea and biscuits—but only for twenty minutes, and I will be watching the clock.”
“We’ve been asked to have tea with the baroness?” asked Florrie.
The housekeeper pursed her lips as if she didn’t approve of the gentry rubbing elbows with entertainers. “Her Ladyship thought her guests might want to ask questions.”
Passing a portrait of the baroness, Bria stopped and gasped. As a younger woman, Lady Calthorpe had been as lovely as the woman in the miniature. If only she could ask the housekeeper in what year had it been painted. She chewed her lip and finally relented. “Do you know how long ago Her Ladyship sat for this portrait?”
“Please hurry along,” the woman said without answering the question.
Bria hastened to catch up. “It is very kind of the baroness to invite us. We shall do our best to answer any queries that come our way.”
“It must be amusing to be a performer.” Not sounding terribly sincere, the woman opened a pair of double doors and gestured inside.
“Being a dancer is very diverting,” said Florrie, waggling her shoulders, the tart. Always count on Miss Bisset to lower the standards of any event. Bria had thought twice about asking Florrie to be the third in the trio, but she knew the dance and it had taken little effort to revive the opening scene from Ballet of the Nuns. It premiered at Salle Le Peletier in 1831. All three of them had danced the number with Marie Taglioni in the lead.
“Behave yourself,” Bria whispered, pulling her slippers out of her satchel.
“I always do.”
“Keep in mind we are the hired entertainment, not the guests,” Pauline added, carrying her slippers to a padded gilt chair. Up near the orchestra, five rows of like gilt chairs were neatly arranged facing the lion’s share of the ballroom floor.
Britannia discussed the music and tempo with the conductor and by the time the guests entered the hall, the dancers were ready for their performance. A privacy screen and three additional chairs had been placed at the rear where the dancers stowed their things and waited out of sight from Her Ladyship’s guests. Florrie peeked through a gap made by the hinges. “Lord Fordham is here,” she said, not even trying to hide the excitement in her voice.
Pauline joined her. “There’s Lord Saye. He mentioned he might come.” Pauline had been spending a great deal of time with the viscount—often out all night.
“Have only gentlemen come to the recital?” asked Bria.
“No. There are more ladies than men.” Pauline straightened. “Though it might interest you that the Duke of Ravenscar just took a seat at the back.”
Bria clamped her fingers around the base of her seat, willing herself not to dash to the screen and peek out like an eager child. Aside from seeing his chiseled silhouette in his box at Chadwick Theater, she hadn’t spoken to him since the wheel incident. “Well, at least there are a few familiar faces.”
The baroness gave a brief welcome to her guests after which the orchestra played an introduction while the dancers took their places. Bria could have performed the sequence in her sleep which was a very good thing. Without the gaslights to dim the view of the audience, at every turn, she managed to end up looking directly at Ravenscar.
He was a head taller than everyone in the audience, and he watched with the same intensity Bria always sensed in Chadwick Theater. No, she didn’t stop and look at him—check to see if he was watching only her, but the tingles twitting about her skin insisted his mesmerizing blue eyes missed nothing.
She liked his attention. Craved it. The potency of his gaze enlivened her. As if rays of sunshine flowed through her limbs, Bria gave her all to the piece as if floating on air.
By the time the trio curtsied to the sound of polite applause, she couldn’t keep her gaze from the duke. Moreover, the man didn’t bother looking away. Did he know how rap
idly he was making her heart pound?
To her surprise, Ravenscar stood, strode forward and took the stage with the dancers as if he belonged in the scene. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you may be aware, Miss LeClair, Miss Bisset and Miss Renaud are presently performing Chadwick Theater’s own La Sylphide. As Baroness Calthorpe’s esteemed guests, I have complementary box tickets for Thursday night’s performance if you should desire.”
“May we invite our husbands?” asked a woman in the front.
“Of course you may.” Ravenscar gestured with his palm. “The baron and baroness would like you to join them for tea and cakes across the corridor in the drawing room, and our ballerinas will be on hand to answer any questions you may have for them.
“Are you taking bookings for more recitals?” asked a woman dressed in lavender.
Bria stepped forward before the duke could reply on her behalf. “We are.”
“Please, everyone to the drawing room,” he said. “We’ll chat more there.”
Bria moved beside Ravenscar as they waited for the guests to exit. “Is the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford in attendance?” she whispered.
“Indeed. She was sitting in the invalid chair in the front row.” The duke offered his elbow. “May I inquire as to your association with her?”
“I read something about Her Ladyship not long ago—the article mentioned that she’d once been a great beauty and...” Bria hadn’t thought her answer through and stopped before she blurted the woman had been the Prince Regent’s mistress.
“I see.” Ravenscar cleared his throat, stopping in the doorway. “George had quite a taste for the ladies.” Drat it all, he’d guessed.
Bria chewed her lip. “I’d heard the same.”
“And you are blushing to your toes, miss.”
With a devilish wink, he ushered her to the drawing room. To Bria’s delight, she spotted a tray filled with glasses of raspberry cordial. As Ravenscar was pulled away into the throng, she helped herself to the libation—tart, sweet and delicious.
