“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 rapidly 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 complimentary 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.
“My dear, Britannia.” Lady Calthorpe approached with
open arms. “Your recital was stupendous. Everyone thinks so.”
“How do you dance on your toes?” asked a lady with a purple bonnet.
“We’ve reinforced our slippers,” said Florrie who did not once rise up on her toes during the entire piece.
“But it takes strength and a great deal of practice,” added Pauline.
Lady Calthorpe moved a bit closer. “I’ve been meaning to ask—”
“Do you have any brandy, Charlotte?” the Duke of Beaufort interrupted, turning his shoulder to Bria.
“Always for you, Papa.” Her Ladyship signaled the butler. “Branson…”
Another woman tugged Britannia’s arm. “You outshine everyone, dear. I’ve been to see La Sylphide five times.”
“Five?”
“Oh yes, and I’ll go again.”
“Thank you ever so much. Your patronage means the world to us.”
With every conversation, Bria moved a little closer to the dowager marchioness until she was standing right beside the woman’s invalid chair, taking quick glimpses, trying to determine if the elderly noblewoman had any likeness to the miniature. Bless it, without pulling the piece out and asking Lady Hertford, there was no way of knowing for certain.
Out of the blue, the dowager marchioness grasped Bria’s hand. “I quite enjoyed your dancing, my dear.”
Bria smiled, placing her other hand atop the lady’s icy fingers. “Why, thank you. It is a delight to be here.”
The dowager marchioness blinked, looking a tad ruffled. “I thought everyone in La Sylphide was French.”
“Indeed, we are.”
“You don’t sound French.”
“No, you do not, Miss LeClair,” said Lady Calthorpe, returning with a cup and saucer in hand.
“Charlotte, you’re needed at once,” said the Duke of Beaufort quite sternly.
“If you’ll excuse me.” The baroness rolled her eyes with an exasperated sniff.
Bria curtsied, then returned her attention to the dowager marchioness. “I had an English…ah…governess. In Bayeux. Have you been there?” It was a lot easier to refer to Maman as a governess than try to explain the past.
The Lady Hertford drummed her fingers on her chair’s wooden armrest. “No, I cannot say I have. When I was younger it wasn’t en vogue to travel to France.” She opened her fan and leaned in as if she had a secret. “I’m sure you’re far too young to remember, but the revolution happened with that dreadful guillotine and, afterward, Napoleon’s vile exploits made such an adventure out of the question as well.”
“I can understand why. Except perhaps in 1814 while the emperor was imprisoned.”
Across the room, the Duke of Beaufort entered with the housekeeper who headed directly toward them.
“Ah yes.” The dowager marchioness smiled, her eyes affecting a faraway expression. “1814 was a memorable year.”
Sensing her time had about run its course, Bria grasped the chain around her neck and pulled out the miniature. “Have you ever seen—”
“’Tis time to go, miss.” The housekeeper clutched her fingers around Bria’s arm and forcibly tugged her away from the elderly woman.
Bria signaled to Florrie and Pauline. “But—”
“I’m sorry. His Grace is rather insistent.”
Ravenscar moved toward them, holding a bit of cake between his fingertips. “You’re leaving? So soon?”
“Evidently, our time is up.” Bria glanced to the floor clock before the woman had completely escorted her out of the room. They had five more minutes before twenty had passed. While footmen handed the dancers their satchels and cloaks, Beaufort looked on from the far end of the corridor, supervising the whole of their eviction. Did the duke think they would steal something?
I cannot believe that overbearing curmudgeon.
“What did you do wrong?” asked Pauline.
“This was Britannia’s doing?” Florrie whispered as they were shown out the front door. “Did you insult the hostess?”
“I did no such thing. One moment I was speaking to the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford and the next I was being escorted out of the drawing room.”
The door again opened, but this time Ravenscar, Saye and Fordham stepped outside.
“Fresh air!” said Lord Saye, donning his top hat.
Lord Fordham tugged on his gloves. “I daresay the overpowering essence of perfume was as intoxicating as a bottle of gin.”
“Gin? I do like the ring of that.” Saye turned to the ladies. “Would you care to accompany us to the Royal Saloon?”
Bria tossed her satchel over her shoulder. “No, thank you, my lord.”
“Speak for yourself.” Florrie looped her arm around Lord Fordham’s elbow. “Pauline and I would be delighted.”
Ravenscar inched the satchel from Bria’s shoulder. “If you aren’t up to a tot at the saloon, please allow me to escort you to the boarding house.”
Bria caught the leather strap. “I assure you, that isn’t necessary.”
Ravenscar tugged harder. “I’d be no gentleman if I didn’t insist.”
She relented. “Have you no carriage, Your Grace?”
“I didn’t need one.”
“Oh, that’s right, you like to walk.”
He offered his arm. “I do.”
“I do as well.” Her palm felt nice in the crook of his elbow, almost as if it belonged there. Almost. But if anything showed Britannia her place in the world, it was being tossed out of Lady Calthorpe’s town home as if she were about to steal the silver.
“How is your head? All healed?” he asked.
“For the most part. There’s still a tad of bruising, but I covered it with pearl powder.”
“Do not say that too loudly. In England the use of products to enhance one’s appearance is strictly frowned upon.”
“Unless you’re a stage dancer.” As they strolled further from the town house, the hotter Bria’s nape grew. “I do not know what happened back there, but I think the Duke of Beaufort decidedly doesn’t like me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Initially the housekeeper told us we would be given twenty minutes to answer questions at the tea. I was discussing France with the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford when Lady Calthorpe joined the conversation. No sooner had she asked me a question when the duke demanded her immediate attention. And the next thing I knew, we were escorted out the door.”
“Hmm, that does seem rather odd. Perhaps Beaufort was involved in the Napoleonic wars and rues any discussion of France.”
“If so, then why did the baroness invite him? Further, why did he come to the recital? He knows all of us are from Paris.”
“True.” The silver tip of Drake’s cane tapped the footpath. “Though I don’t think he’s an admirer. He canceled his box after opening night.”
“Oh dear, I am sorry.”
“Not to worry, it was snatched up the same day.”
On the opposite side of the street, Bria spotted Mr. Gibbs watching them. She gave a wave and the detective tipped his hat before heading off in the opposite direction.
“You know that man?” asked Ravenscar.
“I do. He’s an investigator.”
“Why on earth would you need to be acquainted with an investigator?”
Bria could have bit her tongue. If she had thought, she might have ignored Mr. Gibbs altogether. “He has an office on Regent Street. I asked him to look into a personal matter.”
He cast a dark look out of the corner of his eye. “What personal matters could a Parisian ballerina possibly have in London?”
“Believe it or not, my life didn’t begin the day I stepped on Chadwick Theater’s stage.”
He stopped and faced her. “That is not an answer.”
She looked up at a lamp post—anywhere so she didn’t have to meet the intensity of his gaze. “It is a private matter. One I’d rather keep under wraps.”
Crossing his arms, his black eyebrows drew together. “One y
ou do not care to share with me? Do you feel you cannot trust me—after everything?”
“It has nothing to do with trust. I must pursue this alone. And after five years, I’ve discovered no one can help me. Not even, as I have discovered, Mr. Gibbs.”
They walked in silence until stopping outside the boarding house. Drake released Bria’s arm and smoothed his hand along her shoulder. “I’m sorry I questioned you. All of us have business to attend. It was shortsighted of me to assume you would not.”
“Thank you.”
“But I want you to know I am a resource for you. Whatever you should need.” He brushed a curl from her face. “You do know that, do you not?”
Her heart melted at his simple gesture. If only he weren’t a duke. “Yes, and I appreciate everything you have done for me.”
He grinned. “I’ve missed having you in the guest chamber.”
“I’ve missed being there as well. You spoiled me far too much.”
He brushed her cloak with the tip of his finger. “Britannia…I can’t…because you are a…it wouldn’t be…”
“I know.” She rose up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for being a gentleman.”
Before she wrapped her arms around him and completely humiliated herself by declaring her undying love, Bria turned and dashed inside.
Chapter Fifteen
En arabesque, the Sylph kissed the sleeping James in the first scene of Act One as she did every night. And when he awoke, the mythical creature dashed to the wings.
“That was lovely, ma chérie,” said Pauline, kissing Bria on both cheeks. “How do you make it better every time?”
“You are full of nonsense.” Raising her skirts, she pointed her toes. “My right ribbons have come loose. ’Tis a miracle I didn’t fall on my face.”
“You’d best hasten to fix them…that’s my cue,” Pauline said as the music changed.
“Bonne chance, mon amie. Dance well.”
Bria hastened to the dressing room while the rest of the cast danced onto the stage for the second scene. Not only had Bria’s ribbons come loose, the stitching had worked free yet again and was holding by two tacks. Quickly removing the slipper, she plucked a threaded needle from the pincushion where she kept it at the ready.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 189