His retainer, the man with the perpetual black gloves, stationed himself against the wall in the back right corner, out of my line of sight. I could not politely catch his eye or engage him in conversation. In my mind I immediately labeled him a bodyguard, higher than a footman, lower than a companion.
Queen Victoria’s mother, the Duchess of Kent and her lover . . . er, officially her comptroller and private secretary, John Conroy, seemed the only people missing. Our attention remained on the Royal Box where blue curtains remained closed, shielding the occupants from view. While the orchestra tuned instruments in the pit, a flutter of the blue curtains across from us, two tiers down, and two rooms closer to the stage arrested all attention in the packed house. Even the timpani and cello silenced. The actors lined up on stage and the director took the center. “Ladies and gentlemen, Her Majesty, Queen Victoria,” he pronounced in tones meant to reach the farthest corners.
We all stood. Unseen hands drew the elegant curtains aside. A delighted gasp rippled around the theater as our young queen stood before us, short, slim, with dark hair neatly parted at the center and drawn up in a simple chignon. She wore a crown made up of fresh spring flowers in shades of white and pale blue to match her simple gown with delicate Nottingham lace and tiny blue glass bead accents.
As one, all attendees curtsied or bowed to her.
I had met her before, but only briefly at an intimate musicale evening when I still chaperoned Lady Ada. Most of England had seen very little of Victoria until the death of her uncle William IV last year. Her mother had raised her more strictly than a nun—actually, some of the nuns I knew on the continent lived lazy and pampered lives in comparison. Her efforts and her attempts to get Victoria to sign a regency agreement until she turned twenty-five had cost her; she was now persona non grata at court.
On this night, the queen smiled graciously at the audience, waved politely to the performers, and sat regally, surrounded by her Prime Minister and other political dignitaries. Obediently and respectfully, we remained standing until she settled in her chair and nodded to the director to begin.
“I’d heard she might come,” Drew whispered under the sounds of people shifting and fluttering printed programs. “Always a nice surprise for our monarch to venture out among her people.”
“I wonder if she needs a translator,” I mused, trying to figure a polite way to offer my services and thus join her in her box. Then I noticed a tall woman of proud carriage and Mediterranean coloring perched on the edge of a seat directly behind the thronelike chair. Victoria had brought her own linguist.
My gaze continued to rove from box to box, high and low. I couldn’t retain any respectability if I leaned out to observe the adjacent seating, but those across the theater offered many opportunities to collect information. I noted various royal and semi-royal (i.e. multiple illegitimate children of Victoria’s uncles) cousins with wives or mistresses. Politicians preened and the nobility looked bored. A few had set their chairs back from the openings where shadows masked their faces, but they could still see out.
Then, as the gaslights came up and the conductor raised his baton to begin the overture, a darkly swathed figure directly across from me leaned forward. My attention riveted on the black veil and loose black clothing. Hard to determine build, size, or gender at this distance or in this lighting.
“Drew?” I whispered leaning close to him as if to exchange an intimate comment about the performance.
“Hmm?” His gaze shifted to the same direction as mine. He stilled. “Should I send a message to Inspector Witherspoon?”
“Not yet. I need to watch more closely.”
But so did Lord Ruthven. He did not bow to propriety and leaned over the balcony, calmly assessing the dark figure. He licked his lips in anticipation of . . . something.
But watch the crowd I could not. Mozart’s masterpiece of opera entranced me. The staging and music flowed in a seamless event. Advances in mechanical sets and backdrop changes looked more real than any theatrical performance I’d seen. I hardly noticed the steam and clanking noise of their movements. That had become so much a part of everyday life, it faded into the background, unless it was timed to punctuate the music. That wonderful glorious music! Madame Penderée as Elvira, and Antonio Valdez as Leporello, her tenor, drew me into the action and emotion as if I participated in the complicated lives, deceptions, and revenge plots of the characters.
“Makes you wonder if Mozart knew in advance that his life would be short,” Lord Ruthven said on a long, awestruck exhale at the end of the first act. “I saw a similar production in Rome last year. His depictions of Hell are inspired. The moment of death and descent near prescient.”
Despite the heat from the constantly working steam and the early June evening, I grew cold at his avid licking of lips and narrow-eyed focus upon the closed curtain and the turn of his thoughts. He had much the same expression as Drew had when he described his fascination with necromancy.
Drew touched my hand to capture my attention. Gratefully, I turned to him, away from the pinched-face baron. A single thrust of Drew’s chin to the box directly across from us and below one tier, above and to the side of the Royal Box. The figure heavily swathed in black had moved and looked to be working closer to the queen. If it leaned over the rail, it could shoot the queen, where she laughed gaily and flirted with the politicians surrounding her.
As if our minds were linked, Drew and I excused ourselves. Once in the long corridor behind the boxes, we set our strides to the same rapid pace, working our way relentlessly through the throngs. He touched the inside pocket of his coat to indicate he carried a pistol, but I already knew that from our lingering grope and kiss in his carriage. I touched my skirt about mid-thigh to let him know I carried a tiny pistol in my garter. He probably knew that as well. He didn’t need to know about the Chinese throwing stars in my other garter, the long and sharp hatpin that could double as a dagger holding my turban in place, or the long, thin blade inserted in the busk of my corset, which for once was not laced too tightly. Then, too, my corded petticoat could be dismembered to produce yards and yards of rope to restrain someone.
We rounded the corner and hastened down the stairs to the more elite level. I was tempted to slide down the banister for greater speed, but too many people milled about for me to make that big a spectacle of myself. Then around to the other side of the theater. On this level, the nobility entertained inside their roomier boxes rather than in the corridor. We had a clear view and empty path to our destination. I lengthened my stride in my haste to assure myself of the queen’s safety.
As we approached our goal, we slowed our pace, peering at closed doors and tight paneling for signs of intrusion, overt or clandestine. At the next to last of the boxes before we encountered a locked private stair, a door opened a crack and no more, as if someone peered out cautiously. I dropped my heels to slow my speed and nearly toppled over at the shift in momentum. We halted directly in front of the opening door. Drew placed himself with legs braced and gun in hand as I yanked the door open wide and out of the clasp of a delicate hand covered in lace gloves.
“What is the meaning of this!” a feminine voice hissed. Traces of a German accent left behind long ago, identified the lady as much as her face would, if she’d revealed it.
“Your Grace.” I dipped a curtsy, a convention not true respect.
Drew pocketed his weapon and bowed shortly and sharply.
“Out of my way,” the Duchess of Kent ordered. But she kept her voice low. A remnant of hesitancy told me all I needed to know.
“You will not be welcome in the Royal Box,” I said calmly, almost pitying the woman. Almost. I knew too much of the cruel strictures she’d placed on her daughter’s life in order to keep her naïve and helpless, opening the door for Her Grace to become regent of England in Victoria’s name long after the queen had reached adulthood.
Much as Lad
y Byron tried to rule Ada’s household. Different methods, similar object, control and power over the daughters in order to protect them. Prestige? Maybe, more likely control. Both women might say they did what they did for love of their offspring. I knew Lady Byron loved Ada, and needed to protect her. I wasn’t so sure about the duchess.
“Welcome or not, I must see my daughter. I must separate her from those greedy men who want nothing but to suck away her power and then discard her. As all men do.”
That explained much. Lady Byron had the same opinion of men and had forsaken their company for her female Furies. That didn’t explain why the queen’s mother had fallen under the spell of her . . . comptroller.
I’d been betrayed by men. Starting with my father, followed shortly thereafter by Percy Shelley. But I’d learned to control my life and take pleasure from men, but never allow them to take more than that from me.
She tried to sidle toward the private stair, leading to the Royal Box and nowhere else.
Drew stepped in her way.
“As you would have done,” I accused the duchess. I could say such things. I had no place in her society, and therefore nothing to lose by insulting a royal.
She gasped and her posture stiffened. “I must see my daughter. I must warn her . . .”
“She is well protected, Your Grace,” Drew said.
“By such immoral riffraff as you two?” She tried to sound outraged, but I suspected much of her energy dissipated in the face of opposition.
“Yes,” I replied, as if proud of being immoral riffraff. “And others who are loyal to the crown. Now may we escort you to your carriage?”
She stalked toward the theater front, shaking off the supporting hand on her elbow that Drew offered.
“Speaking of carriages, should I summon mine as well?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.
“Not yet. I wish to see the end of the performance.” And observe Ruthven’s obsession.
The second act lived up to the expectations of the first. Vivid sets, gorgeous costumes, and voices so well-tuned to the orchestra as to make my heart ache and my lungs tremble. Each exquisite note that lingered and faded to nothing kept the audience on the edges of their seats. Ruthven pushed himself so far forward as to lean over the rail, still crouched as if sitting but with no chair beneath him.
Not a single sound wafted from the audience, not a whisper or rustle. More than one jaw gaped. Her Majesty’s eyes grew wide and round above the lace fan she held before her face.
Then the horrific and yet mesmerizing climax when death and hell consumed Don Giovanni in dark flames.
I could smell the brimstone. The actor’s screams lingered in my ear long after his “death.”
I shivered in fear.
Finally, the audience gasped as one when the fire ceased abruptly to reveal a pile of ashes where the actor had writhed moments before.
“I have to know how they do that,” Ruthven whispered.
I wondered if he meant anyone to hear his utterance.
When the actor reappeared to take his bow, the audience applauded with extra enthusiasm—for his performance or the fact that he survived, I couldn’t tell.
“That was dramatic. And exhausting,” Drew said as he slumped in his seat, gaze still fixed upon the closed curtains after the cast, director, and conductor had all taken their bows. Flowers still littered the stage apron, far too many bouquets for the performers to gather.
I nodded agreement, too drained to speak.
The others of our party prepared to leave, many of the ladies still fanning flushed faces. Then they had all departed with thank yous for sharing the box and reassurances they would reciprocate, etc. etc. etc.
I heard little of the ritual phrases; my attention lingered on the breathtaking opera, and Lord Ruthven leaning over the railing, a puzzled frown on his face.
“Ruthven, there are ladies present.” Drew looked pointedly at me. Then he relaxed into his chair as if he had made his point and no longer needed to reinforce it. “And if you must learn the secrets of stage effects, I suggest you become a patron of the arts and thus gain a detailed tour of the entire theater.” Drew affected a lazy drawl. His clenched hands belied his lack of interest. “All tricks and sleight of hand. Distraction and misdirection.”
“That I may do. I may have to forgo a few little luxuries to afford a large donation, but the knowledge gained should be worth it.” He bowed abruptly to us and strode out of the box with new purpose and energy. His bodyguard lingered a moment, briefly scanning the box and the theater beyond before he clicked his heels, bowed shortly and abruptly, and left. I hadn’t seen his gloved hands leave their clasped position behind his back.
Drew and I stared at each other. “What was that about?” I finally asked.
“I do not want to know. Ruthven’s esoteric hobbies range widely.” Drew dismissed my question with a flip of his fingers. But he broke eye contact and turned his gaze toward the stage and the emptying theater.
“Is he a necromancer, enthralled with death and its imitations?”
“Leave it, madam. Do not ask questions if the answers will frighten you.” Abruptly he stood and offered his hand to assist me.
I wouldn’t learn anything by angering him. So I placed my hand in his open palm. But I stood on my own power, not leaning into him, or taxing the strength of his arm.
Chapter Eight
A RIPPLE OF CONTENTMENT sent languid warmth through my arms as I tried to finger comb the mass of tangles in my hip-length hair. Drew had tousled it lovingly, and I could not regret that. But the rats’ nest of the aftermath defied every brush stroke. Static electricity only made it worse.
The sounds of gentle splashing in my dressing room alerted me that Drew had almost finished cleaning up. I hated that he’d see the mess of my hair.
“Let me do that,” he said softly, padding up behind me on bare feet, wearing only his silk undergarment. He took the boar’s hair bristle brush from my hands and began applying it judiciously at the tips of my hair where the tresses curled around his fingers.
I swiveled on the low stool before my dressing table to give him better access.
“Such a luxury to have someone else deal with this,” I said. “I could get used to having you around.”
“Nonsense.” He kissed the top of my head. “Neither of us wishes to give up a mote of independence. You will not let me set you up in a home of my choosing and I will not give up the freedom to come and go as I please without requesting permission from anyone.”
Like his wife.
The argument was an old one, rehashed at regular intervals. He wanted me in an establishment of his choosing. I wanted to build a life for myself to have a living when he left me. As I knew he would eventually.
Men always left.
For now, however, I’d enjoy his company.
I handed him my comb as he worked his way upward with the brush.
“I will be gone for a few days,” he said hesitantly, tugging gently and therefore ineffectively at the mat of hair near my crown.
“Oh?” He often left to deal with business at his country home, or to visit relatives. He never sought out political allies on these ramblings. He hadn’t a political bone in his body.
Other bones, yes. Very lovely bones.
“Ruthven has invited me to his estate to consult on some of his inventions.”
His eyes would not meet mine in the mirror.
“Is that wise?”
“He’s a friend. We have much in common.” He set the comb and brush on the table and turned me to face him. “Why don’t you trust him?” he asked kissing my nose.
“I . . . I’m not certain why.” I would not bring up his fascination with death, so similar to Drew’s. They both frightened me as they licked their lips in anticipation when they talked about death, almost as if the b
iological function was a person. A person they wished to know intimately.
“To make up for my absence, I made you something special,” he said, almost without pause. He rummaged through his clothes for a midnight-blue velvet box. Too big for a ring, too small for a necklace. He had, upon occasion, fashioned lovely jewelry for me. Usually he gave it to me before we left for a social engagement so that I might wear it for others to admire and envy.
“What’s this?” I stroked the soft covering, sleeker than a kitten’s fur.
“A memento, to remember me by. Fondly I hope.”
“Just how long do you expect to be gone?”
“Long enough for you to count the hours of missing me.” Impatiently, he flicked up the hinged box top.
Nestled into a froth of emerald-green silk sat a clockwork hummingbird; the bejeweled and enameled feathers looked real. I touched the long beak. A tiny prick of blood appeared on my fingertip. “Oh!” I jerked my hand away, finally feeling the tiny bit of pain after the fact.
“Let me show you,” Drew laughed as he touched a long bit of green enamel at the base of the tail. A spring whirred, the bird chirped, and the back opened to reveal a tiny clock face and a compass.
And beneath the compass, a little well for . . . a small thimbleful of poison?
“I can always tell the time and know where I’m going, even without your guidance,” I said amazed at the delicate detail.
I could also use it as a weapon to ward off pickpockets and unwanted admirers.
Or to draw blood for arcane magic rituals.
Drew was gone when I awoke at dawn. The little hummingbird sat on my dressing table, bright and cheerful, a lovely reminder of the previous evening. I tucked it into my pocket, mindful of the sharp beak, and let its slight weight remind me of the man who had crafted it.
Helen worked in the kitchen, preparing the first batch of pastries. Mickey swept the front stoop diligently, with determination if not expertise. I patted his shoulder, then indulged in a brief hug. He flung both arms around my waist. His fingers clutched at my skirt fiercely. Certainly, I’d have to find him an apprenticeship soon if he’d tamed enough to return affection.
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