by Amy Jarecki
“Us or you?”
“Me, but I think he means all of us.”
“He could use local dancers for the corps.” Pauline reached for a biscuit.
“If so, then possibly your idea to remain in London has merit. I’m sure you’d be one of the first dancers hired.” Bria refilled their cups. “So, with that settled, have you given any thought as to what you’ll wear to Ravenscar’s end of Season ball?”
“There hasn’t been time, but Lord Saye has opened an account for me at Harding, Howell and Company.”
“That’s exciting. I’m thrilled for you.”
“I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”
“How you choose to live your life is not for me to judge. Things are not easy for ballerinas, and I fault you for nothing.” Bria held up her cup in toast. “Let’s visit the haberdashers’ together. I still haven’t spent the twenty pounds Lady Calthorpe gave me.”
“Oh, let’s. It will be diverting.”
THANKS TO PENNYWORTH’S excellent hounding skills, Drake was able to exit his mews, cross to the neighboring rear garden, walk the equivalent of a half-block, and slip into the rear entry of Britannia’s suite of rooms all without setting foot on the street. In turn, she was also able to travel incognito to and from the theater in an unmarked coach, wearing a veil, the butler doubling as her henchman.
Better yet, her butler was married to Miss LeClair’s housekeeper and they were both a great deal older. Indeed, Pennyworth had exceeded expectations with this arrangement.
But time was passing much too fast. It was Sunday and a fine afternoon for a ride when Drake knocked on his ballerina’s door.
The butler answered.
“Is she ready?” Drake asked.
“Right on time,” Britannia said, waltzing down the corridor, wearing a poke bonnet and pulling on her gloves. “I like men who adhere to schedule.”
“Oh? You have established select opinions, have you?” He bowed, allowing her to pass. “What else do you like in men?”
He followed her through the labyrinth of corridors and down to his mews where the grooms had his shiny, black phaeton rigged and waiting with a perfectly matched pair.
Britannia stopped. “Do you mean to say we’ll be riding in plain sight?”
“The only reason we’ve been hiding you is so that no one will know where you’re staying. It is such a nice day, it would be shameful not to enjoy it.”
When one of the geldings stamped his foot and snorted, the lady smoothed her hand along his mane. “These fellows are eager to stretch their legs. They are athletes, you know. Horses need to run just as much as I need to dance.” She performed a neat rond de jambe. “I cannot believe there are only two more weeks until La Sylphide closes.”
Drake’s shoulders dropped. No one needed to tell him Britannia would be returning to Paris in a fortnight. The imminent end of the Season bedeviled him every waking moment. Bittersweet was the anticipation of her departure, but it had to be. He couldn’t admit to falling in love with a ballerina. It simply wasn’t done.
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Drake offered his hand and helped her climb into the carriage. Her fingers were so small in his palm—delicate, yet firm and sure like the rest of her. But the smallness of them made his heart squeeze all the more. Once it became clear Chadwick Theater would be successful, he’d put the impending end of Season out of his mind. True, plans were in motion to bring Miss LeClair back to London for another Season, but the fact of the matter was he could barely imagine having her leave for Paris in the interim. How could he protect her when she was in France?
She had become a friend—damn it all, she was far more than a friend. He looked forward to seeing her dance every night, to venturing backstage and watching her smile as he complimented her performance. And Pennyworth had gone to such great lengths to arrange their secret goings-on. He referred to them thus because they were not having an affair. They had an arrangement. A comfortable, secret, treasured arrangement with stolen kisses here and there. Did he want more? God yes. But at least Drake loved being able visit Britannia whenever he desired with no one the wiser.
Once he climbed up beside her, he gathered the ribbons and headed for Hyde Park at an easy walk. There was no rush. To hurry seemed only to bring the end of La Sylphide more quickly.
“Are you going to Peak Castle after the Season?” she asked.
“I am. I always enjoy spending the end of my summers there. Winters, too.”
“But you adore London and the theater. It’s difficult for me to picture you off in the country.”
“If I recall, I said I once aspired to the boards. I didn’t say I was a consummate carouser.”
“No?”
“Truth be told, I’m a bit of a recluse.”
“And what about your mother? Does she travel north with you?”
“She does. She maintains the dowager house on the shore, though I suspect she prefers Ravenscar Hall.”
“She seems happy there.”
“I think she is.”
“And you’d rather reside in your unpretentious town house?”
“It suits my needs when I’m in London. But my favorite is Peak Castle.”
“What do you like about your grand fortress?”
“First of all, it is familiar. I grew up there. In the mornings, I walk along the beach. No one is about at that time of day. I can stroll for miles discovering the treasure brought by the night’s sea.”
“It sounds marvelous.” She leaned against his arm, smiling. He liked the familiarity of her touch. Through their layers of clothing, the contact made a thrill of gooseflesh rise all the way up to his nape.
When he inhaled, the air caught in his throat. “It is.” He feigned a lazy smile—not wanting to reveal the affect she had on him, lest she draw away. “And the hunting in the North Moors is not to be surpassed in my opinion...I wish...” He held his tongue. Drake had no business stating his dreams aloud. It wouldn’t be fair to Britannia.
“Yes?”
“Pay me no mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Coy, whisky eyes drifted upward as she regarded him. “Why, because dukes are not allowed wishes?”
His muscles tightened around his lips. “They are not. Dukes are in the business of granting wishes.”
She gave his arm a playful nudge, making those tingles frisk across his neck more erratically. “I didn’t realize you could trace your lineage back to the fairy folk.”
He laughed. “I do like your banter, Miss LeClair.”
“You’ve called me Britannia many times before.”
“I have. Forgive me for taking liberties.”
“I like it when you call me familiar. Though my closest friends call me Bria.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Even wearing a bonnet, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. “Hmm. I think Britannia suits you better.”
“Why?”
“Because you are too elegant for a Bria. You are courageous, beautiful, strong, and have more fortitude than many men I know. That definitely qualifies you as a Britannia in my eyes.”
“Thank you.” As he drove the team onto Hyde Park’s ever-busy Rotten Row, she straightened, leaving an emptiness where her arm had been. “Now tell me, what is it you wish for? What is it a duke’s breeding prevents such a man from uttering?”
“’Tis nothing. And it is no use dwelling upon that which I cannot have.” He slapped the ribbons, requesting an easy trot. “So, before I say another word, there is a reason aside from the weather why I asked you to go riding.”
Craning her neck, she gazed at him, eyebrows arched over those exquisite eyes, the sun turning them amber.
“I have a proposal for next Season’s performances.”
Her rapt interest made it difficult to focus on the subject at hand. “I’m listening.”
He forced himself to look away and offer a nod, greeting a passing carriage. “Rather than one Seas
on-long ballet, I’d like to showcase an assortment of ballets, say, three. With you in the lead, of course.”
“Three will be a challenge.”
“Yes, you’ll need to perform one while rehearsing the next.”
“That sounds like something I’d enjoy—and we’re not unaccustomed to rehearsing by day and performing by night. What would you think about using local dancers?”
“If we can find them, I would prefer it.”
“Perhaps we should open a ballet school.”
Driving the horses off the thoroughfare, he pulled them to a stop. “You sound as if you’ve given some thought to the idea.”
“I envisioned the concept after Pauline told me she was planning to stay on in London.”
“She is? Will you not miss her when you return to Paris?”
“Very much so.”
“Hmm.” He rubbed the ribbons between his fingers. Could he convince her to stay as well? “In light of our new venture, you could stay on as well—you could audition dancers for the new ballets.”
“Mr. Perkins ought to be able to handle the auditions. Besides, as far as I know, no one is trying to stalk me in Paris.”
Drake’s contacts still had no leads on the scoundrel. “Perhaps we should put more thought into your school idea. And as for your stalker, you have my word I will not sit idle while he is at large.”
Britannia leaned into him as she looped her arm around his—an inordinately familiar gesture—one he would cherish always. “Why do you think it’s a man?”
He leaned nearer as well, craving her touch. In a fortnight she wouldn’t be there to caress. How would he survive? “The wheel,” he explained. “Few women would think to loosen a linchpin and if one did, she would be very conspicuous approaching a carriage with a pair of tongs.”
“Unless she has an accomplice.”
“What are you saying? Do you suspect anyone?” he asked, turning his nose and inhaling the scent that was uniquely Britannia.
“Not really. I thought of Florrie at first, but she couldn’t have started the fire—and I don’t think she’s evil enough to do something that might kill me.”
“No. I just do not understand it.” Unable to resist, Drake cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead.
Gossips be damned.
Chapter Seventeen
“MISS LECLAIR, HOW LOVELY to see you again,” said Mr. Harding as Bria entered the haberdasher’s shop with Pauline on her arm.
She gave him a warm smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Please allow me to introduce Miss Renaud. She dances in La Sylphide, as well. If I remember correctly, you had an opportunity to see the ballet.”
“I did, but I have tickets for next week and I am greatly looking forward to seeing it again.”
“C’est bon,” said Pauline. “Next week is our grand finale.”
“Which is why we’re here.” Bria fingered a shiny, pink ribbon. “I’m looking for gloves and accessories and Pauline needs fabric.”
“A new gown?”
“Oui.”
“Do you have a modiste secured?” asked Mr. Harding. “It will be difficult to have a dress made on such short notice. The end of the Season is the second most frantic time for seamstresses—mothers of daughters who haven’t received a marriage proposal are at their wits end.”
Pauline ran her finger around the tip of a frilly, white parasol. “Do you know of anyone who might be taking new clients?”
Mr. Harding snapped his fingers. “I should have thought. A seamstress left her card a few days past. Mind you, I cannot recommend her work, though she was handsomely attired.”
Bria looked to Pauline. “I’ll wager she does good work if she called in here.”
“Oui, oui. I would be grateful if you would give us her information.”
“Very well, I’ll write her address on your parcels before you leave.” Mr. Harding led them toward the back wall lined with fabrics. “Now, Miss Renaud, tell me what you are looking for. New silks arrived from the Orient. I daresay you would look lovely in a daffodil yellow.”
As she passed a display of gloves, Bria stopped. “I think I’ll do some browsing if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,” said Mr. Harding.
She bent over a pair of white kid gloves exquisitely embroidered with a rose vine extending from the fingers all the way up to the elbow. Beneath the glass, she could only imagine how much they cost. She craned her neck for a better look at the tag, partially hidden by the little finger—Italy. No price showed.
Why not indulge myself for once?
Before Bria asked the attendant to bring them out, her attention was drawn to a conversation near the counter. “How about a thread waxer? The ladies say there is nothing better to crimp the ends for easy threading,” said a clerk near the sales counter.
“Let me try one,” replied an elderly woman, her voice reedy. “I’m not about to purchase anything until I’m confident it will work.”
Unable to see the patron who was talking, Bria moved a bit closer until a woman in an invalid chair came into view. Oh my! Holding a quizzing glass, the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford ran the end of a string of silk across a ball of wax made to look like a strawberry with a silver cap fashioned like leaves. Her hand trembled while she bit down on the corner of her lip and attempted to thread a needle while continuing to hold the glass.
“I daresay you need more hands, my lady.” Bria stepped into view. “Can your lady’s maid help?”
“She can, but I’m not dead!” The woman stiffened, regarding her with enormous, rheumy eyes. “I would like to do some things myself.”
Bria glanced to the clerk. “Do you have a monocle? That might be the solution for Her Ladyship. At least it would free both her hands for embroidery.”
“Indeed.” The man smiled broadly. “We have quite a selection of monocles. Give me a moment and I’ll bring over the display.”
Finally, my chance.
Pulling out her miniature, Bria snatched the opportunity to speak to the dowager marchioness before the man returned. “Good day, Your Ladyship. I do not imagine you remember me.”
The woman cheeks wrinkled with the purse of her lips. “My mind isn’t completely gone. You are the young lady who dances with such passion.”
“Thank you.” Bria held out the miniature. “I was wondering if you might help me. After the couple who fostered me passed away, I found this portrait in a box bearing my name along with a handkerchief that sported a royal monogram. I think the lady in the painting may be a relation of sorts, but I have no way of knowing. You wouldn’t happen to recognize her?”
The old woman raised her quizzing glass and examined the miniature. “Lovely. She looks like you. When did you say the woman sat for the portrait?”
“It must have been around 1814, possibly a bit earlier.”
The woman turned a tad green. “I must say my memory isn’t what it once was.”
“Thank you for humoring me. I am grateful.” Bria reached for the miniature, but Her Ladyship leaned closer with her glass.
“A moment. This was painted by Adam Buck. An astounding artist, the favorite of the royals.”
“Even twenty years ago?”
“Especially twenty years ago. Whoever the lady in this miniature is, I can say she is someone of importance. Of that I have no doubt.”
“Is Mr. Buck still in London?” Bria had never bothered with the signature because, to her, it was illegible. Fancy it had been painted by someone famous.
“Alas, no. I attended his funeral not but two months past.”
“Two months?” For the love of God, Bria had been in London nearly four. If only she’d had this information when the ship arrived, she might have gained an audience with the artist who painted the Grande-Duchesse. “Thank you. You have given me more information than I have been able to uncover in five years of searching.”
“Hmm.” The dowager marchioness tapped her quizzing glass on her armrest. “You might ask Ravens
car. After all, you are performing at his theater.”
“Ravenscar, my lady?”
“His mother is a patroness of the ton and has been for over twenty years. If anyone can identify your mystery lady, it is she.”
“Wonderful idea, I shall ask.” Bria slipped the miniature back in its hiding place. Honestly, she hadn’t wanted to involve the duke for a host of reasons, the first being he was her employer and she cared very much what he thought of her. When they’d first met, he had been intent on uncovering information about her past and she’d been afraid to give it. She still wasn’t enamored with the idea, especially if the outcome proved her to be a bastard.
“Here we are.” The clerk approached with a velvet-lined tray sporting at least a dozen delicate monocles, a few dainty enough for Her Ladyship’s use.
“Do other noblewomen use these?” Lady Hertford asked.
“Yes, indeed, a great many gently-bred women have them. Might I suggest the one with the ivy leaf bale?”
“Oh, yes,” Bria agreed. “That one is ever so feminine.”
“May as well.” The dowager marchioness nipped the monocle with her perfectly manicured pincers. “It is astonishing the crutches a lady must resort to using in her old age. Hence this chair. I loathe it.”
The clerk straightened. “But an invalid’s chair enables you freedoms you wouldn’t otherwise have, my lady.”
Her Ladyship blinked in succession, affixing the glass in place. “Which is why I am sitting in it sampling monocles and thread wax.”
“I think the glass looks quite distinguished.” Bria curtsied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best join Miss Renaud.”
Out of the corner of her eye, a dark shadow moved past the window. But when Bria turned for a better look, the only person she saw was a boy selling newspapers.
“Bria, I need your opinion.” Pauline dragged her to the rear of the store. “Which ribbon looks best with the yellow organza, the white or the rose?”
