“Do they?”
“The way I understand it, two blue-eyed people are quite likely to have a blue-eyed child. But I wonder what happens when one person’s eyes are closer to green?”
He held my gaze, and I knew this had nothing at all to do with science. I tried to keep my voice neutral. “An interesting question.”
“Perhaps worthy of investigation in due time, under appropriate circumstances.”
“Quite possibly.”
For a long moment, we studied each other, both well aware that this conversation was part of the surrender negotiations. Appomattox Court House indeed, Toms.
But why does anyone have to surrender? Perhaps we could settle on a draw.
I wondered if Gil was thinking the same thing as he reached over and carefully touched a curl that had escaped my knot, asking: “And what do you suppose that means for dark hair or light?”
“I’ve heard it depends on whether there are other light-haired people in a family.”
“My mother and sister have red hair.”
“As did my father.”
“A ginger would not be unwelcome.”
I had a sudden, and not at all unpleasant, picture of him holding a wee redheaded bundle. We might still be sitting there on the settee like that, me cradling Joseph on my shoulder, Gil leaning down to watch him, all comfortable and safe and happy together, except that like many small people, Joseph was not in on the game.
His bright brown eyes opened suddenly, and he saw me, immediately realized I was not his mama, and started howling. I knew enough about young children to know that it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with wanting Marie.
I rubbed his little back and tried to calm him. Gil put a soothing hand on his head, and Joseph took a breath—then let loose an even louder wail. That was enough for Gil, who backed away and stood there, looking like he desperately wanted to do something but had no idea what it might be.
“Fetch Marie,” I said, bouncing Joseph a bit.
Gil turned for the open door, and just then, thankfully, Marie swept in. I stood and handed her son over and within about a half second, he was back to cooing, making a special point of looking at Gil and me and smiling to be sure there were no hard feelings.
Marie grinned at Gil on her way out. “You’re welcome to sit with Joey anytime, as well, Your Grace. You might be glad for the practice.”
I blushed. Gil even colored a touch. He had, after all, sired “an heir and a spare,” though he’d almost certainly had little to do with their care. The boys, now on either side of twenty, would likely have gone straight from the nursery to boarding school, all probably overseen by his wife until she died ten years ago, because that was the way it was done in his world.
Joseph might well have been his first experience with an upset infant, since nannies generally present aristocratic parents clean and perfect little cherubs at playtime. He hadn’t done badly, considering.
He might actually be good with children. The children I hadn’t thought I wanted or needed for most of my adult life.
Once again, we stood there, just watching each other. It was almost time for vocalization, and we both knew it. Gil finally reached over, took my hand, and kissed it, one of the few socially acceptable gestures available to him.
He held my hand for a long moment. “I shall not forget our little scientific discussion.”
“Neither shall I.”
The rest of the night unfolded according to the usual plan. Ruben was getting better every time. Marie remained transcendent, and I was certainly close to my best. Even Eamon was losing some of his awkwardness. We were not yet falling prey to late-run tiredness, so I was well pleased.
It was only after the show that the evening became noticeably less pleasant.
We could not blame the newspaper contingent for this. Hetty was, of course, doing her duty with hats and society while nosing around for more substantive stories; Yardley was covering a boxing match, quite possibly with a small covert wager on the undercard; and Preston . . . Well, we would only know if there were leftover lemon-curd tarts when we arrived home.
A long run guarantees more visits from stage-door Lotharios, of course, and so it came to pass. While the Captain of Industry appeared to be seeking greener pastures at the moment, Cabot’s friendship guaranteed the presence of the other members of the clan.
Cabot, a good friend and no fool, immediately took the temperature of the room, greeted Tommy, and exchanged quite amiable introductions with Gil. If there was any tension there, I didn’t see it, because the three quickly moved into an easy chat about the unseasonably cold autumn and the various inconveniences of transatlantic travel.
As for the other Bridgewater, it was over quickly. Not only was there no reference to this morning’s passing glance, but there was almost no conversation at all, Teddy being twice as intimidated by the combination of Tommy and Gil, and Mama B taking far too much interest in the duke. And not because she was making offensive assumptions, either.
“That woman looked at me as if I were the Christmas joint of beef,” Gil said with a shudder as she shepherded her son away.
Tommy chuckled. “Would you like me to have a word?”
“Er, no, but good heavens, what are American women coming to?”
“Perhaps she’s never been so close to a British aristocrat,” I offered meekly.
“It wasn’t my pedigree she was studying, Shane.” Gil shook his head and looked a little sheepish as he realized what he’d said. “At any rate, you may wish to limit your association with that branch of the Bridgewater clan.”
“You don’t fancy a wealthy widow?” Tommy teased.
“Agh.” Gil turned to glare at him and laughed when he saw Tommy’s face. “Really, Tom, you should give her the same treatment as that vile Mr. Duquesne.”
“I’ll do my best, Barrister.”
They laughed together, and I realized how comfortable they were with each other. Always good to see my men getting along. Though the reference to the Captain of Industry told me someone had been taking a close interest in my backstage visitors.
My men, indeed.
The next knock announced far more surprising visitors. Rowan Alteiss and his freshly acquitted client. I did vaguely remember Alteiss as an opera fancier; perhaps he’d come backstage at some point.
As impressive as he was in court, Alteiss was rather less remarkable in person. In the same line as his suit in court, his black tie was of good fabric and likely expensive, if too loose on his skinny frame. But his gray eyes were kind and friendly, and his smile was warm and honest as he bowed over my hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Shane. Did I see you in court during the closing arguments?”
“You did. Congratulations on your victory.”
He bowed modestly. “Thank you kindly. Do you know my client?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Alteiss motioned Amelie Van Vleet forward, and I determinedly banished Hetty’s opinion from my mind, doing my best to give the woman before me the benefit of the doubt. She was barely appropriate in a black dress of dull silk. The neckline seemed a trifle much for a recent widow, as did the diamond pendant in her décolletage, but that was none of my business.
Up close, she was older than I’d thought. Definitely a few years past me, and I suspected harder years from the tightness of her carefully rouged mouth and the faint lines beside her deep blue eyes. But her nut-brown hair was shiny, her skin pale and soft, and her figure generous, so I could easily understand the appeal.
Amelie Van Vleet smiled at me. “So nice to finally meet you, Miss Shane. My late husband and I saw your Romeo in San Francisco on our honeymoon, a few years ago.”
“Ah.” I bowed modestly as I caught the first odd note: her peculiar accent. Well, her name was Amelie. Perhaps she was French. “Yes, the Paris of the West.”
“A marvelous city. And a marvelous performance.” She nodded to me. “It was a delight,
but this new work is amazing.”
“Louis is brilliant, and we are lucky to perform his work.” As I gave the anodyne reply, I tried to place her voice. It was definitely an attempt at a French accent, but like one of no French person I’d ever heard. Very strange.
Hetty did not have my grounding in the French language, but she had certainly been around a number of native speakers over the years, so she might have caught the odd inflection without necessarily knowing what it was. For a skeptical journalist, it might be enough to place a permanent question mark. Perhaps I had at least solved that little mystery.
“Miss Shane is, as usual, far too modest. It takes a magnificent talent to truly realize a great work.” As the lawyer spoke, I noticed Gil tensing as he observed the scene, his gaze focused intently not on Alteiss, but on his client. Odd.
“Thank you very kindly.” Genuine compliments like this are always a gift, never to be taken for granted. “We will be taking the production to London soon.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Van Vleet will see it again,” Alteiss said. “She has been considering a trip to look after her husband’s business there.”
“Well,” I offered neutrally, wondering if the prosecutor would really let her out of his sight, “we should love to see you again.”
“Of course. I do love London,” Amelie Van Vleet said with a distinct lack of conviction.
“And don’t we all.” Alteiss smiled politely.
Something very peculiar was swirling in the air, but I did not have a chance to sort it out, because Gil stepped forward at that moment. “Mrs. Van Vleet. How delightful to see you.”
That expression, the blood drained from her face? I actually saw it happen at that very moment.
“Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith,” I intervened, smoothly moving into the formal introductions, “may I present Mrs. Hosmer Van Vleet.”
She held out her hand like an automaton, her eyes flat. “Your Grace.”
“A pleasure,” he said, bowing over her hand and taking another very long and careful look at her. The kind that might well suggest some sort of interest if it weren’t happening inches from the woman with whom he had an “understanding.” The master swordswoman with whom he had an “understanding.”
“Indeed.” She choked out the word, which, even more strangely, came with an inflection that was much more London than Paris, and bowed quickly before turning to her lawyer.
Once again, Alteiss spoke for her. “We’ll take no more of your time, Miss Shane. I merely wanted to congratulate you on your success.”
“Thank you so much.” I bowed.
“A . . . a pleasure.” Amelie Van Vleet’s voice wobbled as she took her lawyer’s arm, and I could have sworn I saw her hand tremble just a tiny bit.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, carefully watching the two of them walk out of the dressing room, noting that Gil was doing the same.
Once the door was closed, I turned to him, and carefully keeping my voice and expression casual, I asked, “Do you know her?”
“We are not acquainted.”
The careful lawyerly answer was more than a little suspicious. I watched him and waited for a moment.
“Obviously, I know her reputation. We may have briefly crossed paths in London.” He held my gaze as he said it, and I understood that this was part of whatever he couldn’t tell me. But why did he have to look so closely at her?
I decided a light touch was best. “Ah, well, at least she didn’t look at you like the main course.”
“She looked at you like the hangman,” Tommy said quietly.
Chapter 19
In Which We Learn More of a Poor Boy of Summer
That night, after the show, Tommy went out with some of the boys from the gym for one last drink in memory of Jamie Eagger. It sounds like an excuse to carouse, but it’s not at all. It actually marks the end of the formal mourning, and the morning after, the fellows wake up with their headaches and go on with life, knowing they’ve properly paid tribute to their friend.
I hoped he’d feel better in the morning, not only for all the obvious and good reasons, but also because we were heading into the last week of the run, always a tense and exhausting time. Of course, I, too, had much on my mind.
Gil handed Rosa and me into our hansom and wished us a good night, but he seemed distracted. And I was quite sure that the distraction had begun when Amelie Van Vleet appeared in the dressing room.
Surely not.
Whatever else I might, or might not, know about Gilbert Saint Aubyn and the world at large, I could say with a high degree of certainty that any man who might find Amelie Van Vleet appealing would not take the trouble to cultivate an “understanding” with me at the same time. If only because I had the distinct impression that she would be a far easier conquest.
Not kind at all, no matter Hetty’s speculations and the woman’s unfortunate legal history. I had no right to make assumptions about her virtue or lack thereof. Nor did I have any right to assume that Gil would show interest only in me.
Yes, the “understanding.” But more importantly, I reminded myself of Aunt Ellen’s excellent maxim, deployed when one of the older cousins came home sobbing because her beau had cast eyes on some other girl: “They’ll look until the lid’s nailed down, acushla. It doesn’t mean anything. Men are men. Learn it now.”
Learn it now, indeed.
I should note here that while Uncle Fred of beloved memory always had a sparkly Irish rake smile for a comely female of any age, he also never so much as thought of straying, and until his last breath he professed his adoration for Aunt Ellen and amazement at his incredible good luck in winning her. So in that case, the look was indeed just a look.
And Amelie Van Vleet certainly offered much at which to look.
Rosa noticed my quiet but left me to my thoughts for the ride home. As usual when we share, I had the hansom drop her at her home first. When I finally slipped into the town house, still feeling maddeningly blue and lonely, I wandered down to the kitchen for a soothing cup of mint tea, only to discover I wasn’t alone at all.
“Miss Ella!” Mrs. G was at the stove, fussing over something, and Preston was sitting at the table. Both appeared more than a little guilty. And absolutely adorable.
Just the happy surprise I needed.
“Hello.” I carefully controlled my smile. “So kind of you to drop by to start the baking for tomorrow . . .”
She happily played along. “Just so. Mr. Dare was seeing me back from a most improving talk at the museum, and I remembered that I hadn’t set the sponge for the bread.”
Remembered also, I was sure, that you can’t possibly have a civilized conversation with a gentleman caller in your flat with two nibby children in their late teens lurking about. I glossed right over that, noting that while Preston wasn’t blushing, his ears were turning pink. “What sort of talk?”
“Oh, it was fascinating. A gentleman who’d been exploring in the Antarctic talked about what he’d seen. You and Mr. Tommy must read his book. You’ll love the pictures of polar bears.”
An improving talk at the museum was one of the few appropriate ways for a courting couple of any age to spend an evening together away from the prying eyes of family. More, the very public nature of attending a lecture together was an announcement in itself, which I knew I’d best not acknowledge.
“Polar bears sound very interesting, indeed.” I smiled. “I’ve just come down to make another cup of mint tea so I can sleep and—”
“Little Rosa is a dear thing, but she probably doesn’t know how to make a proper cup of mint tea. I always add a pinch of lavender flowers for the calming effect.” She took down a cup and set it down beside the other two on the counter. “I’ll make it for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I’m already making a nice little pot of tea for Pres . . . Mr. Dare.”
“Yes. Very kind of you to squire Mrs. G here and home.”
He tried to glare at me
and failed miserably. “Always happy to protect a pretty lady.”
Mrs. G blushed.
“But I stopped by because I wanted to tell you what I’ve learned about poor Florian Lutz,” Preston continued.
I sat down at the table. Preston and I both knew that he could easily have passed on this information at tea next day, since it was Sunday, but it made a convenient story. Far be it from me to ruin that.
“That poor young man Albert Reuter is accused of killing?” asked Mrs. G.
“Yes. He played for the Cleveland Spiders, so I asked the boys and did a little digging in the morgue.”
Mrs. G winced.
“Newspaper morgue,” I clarified quickly for him. “It’s where they keep all the clippings and stories.”
She nodded, and we both waited. Preston is an excellent storyteller and loves an appreciative audience.
“Well, as you know, nobody makes a living playing baseball,” he began, “so he was actually training with his father, the cabinetmaker Ernst Lutz.”
“Ernst Lutz? Lutz Pianos?” I asked. I knew I had heard the name Lutz before.
“The very one.”
The kettle whistled, and Mrs. G bustled for a moment while I thought about that. Like many furniture makers, Ernst Lutz produces the occasional piano between sideboards and whatnots. Unlike many others, his pianos are ones we’d want to play. While I have an extremely good, and insanely expensive, instrument in the studio upstairs, the Lutz upright in the drawing room is better than serviceable, at a reasonable price.
“So Florian had a connection to music,” I said after everyone had tea and a plate of lemon tarts had appeared by magic, “before he ever met Albert’s sister.”
“That’s how he met Albert’s sister. Seems the Reuters were buying a piano so he could practice, and she went along because she played, as well.”
“And Cupid’s arrow struck.”
“So to speak.”
“Poor children.” Mrs. G shook her head. “I hope they were happy while they were together.”
A Fatal First Night Page 15
