With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

“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 Ravenscar. 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?”

  “I think the r
ose is more vibrant.”

  “Me as well.” Pauline leaned nearer. “You have the most astonishing look in your eye. What is it?”

  She patted the hidden miniature. “I think I might be a bit closer to finding the Grande-Duchesse.”

  “C’est magnifique! Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Later. I’ll relay all on our walk to the modiste.”

  “Pretty rose, Your Grace. Is it for our Sylph?” asked Florrie as Drake ventured backstage after the curtain call.

  “It is.”

  The woman flicked her curls. “You spoil her.”

  “I daresay Miss LeClair has earned far more than a simple rose.”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll be so lucky to receive a flower from a duke.”

  “Then you’re in luck. I bought one for every member of the cast. Mr. Perkins will be handing them out, I believe.” Drake shifted his attention to the guard posted outside the dressing room door. “Is Miss LeClair within?”

  The man knocked. “She is, Your Grace.”

  They waited.

  The man knocked again. “Miss LeClair?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Drake’s heart stopped.

  “Move aside!” he ordered, barreling into the chamber.

  Britannia sat in a chair holding a missive between trembling hands.

  “What the devil is it?”

  With a shrill gasp, she tossed the letter onto the toilette. “’Tis nothing.”

  “Right. Nothing makes you shake like you’re frightened half out of your wits.” Marching forward, he snatched the missive from the table.

  “Don’t.”

  He hesitated. “All right, if you do not want me to read your correspondence, at the least tell me what has upset you.”

  “I didn’t ever want you to know.”

  “Want me to know what, exactly?” He squeezed the rose’s stem so hard, the thorns dug into his palm. Damnation, he’d gone to great lengths to ensure her protection. Was this a clue to the identity of her stalker? About to jump out of his skin, he drew in a deep breath. “By now haven’t you realized there is absolutely no reason to hide anything from me?”

  “Tell him,” Miss Renaud said from the doorway. “Lady Hertford said his mother might know. Alors, this is your only chance of discovering the truth.”

  “Britannia?” He yanked the damned thorn out of his skin and licked the blood. But now was no time to shower the woman with a trite gift. He needed answers.

  “You’re right. Leave us and close the door please,” the Sylph said before picking up the missive and reading aloud:

  “You’ve had your warning. You should have returned to Paris. We do not want your kind here. I know what you are looking for and you shan’t find it. Should you pursue the matter further, you will force me to take drastic measures.”

  “Good God.” Drake slapped the damned rose on the toilette. “Who signed that compilation of drivel?”

  “’Tis unsigned of course, just like the last one.”

  “The last one?” His voice cracked. “How many of these letters have you received?”

  “This is the second. The first came after opening night.”

  “Opening night? You hadn’t been in London a week. To what matter is this phantom referring? Surely, he is mad.” To avoid gripping her shoulders and shaking her senseless, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Tell me at once!”

  “I didn’t want to appear less in your eyes than I already am.” Her shoulders sagged while she tugged the chain that she always wore around her neck until she produced a frame no greater in diameter than two of his fingers.

  “Is that a miniature?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She held up the portrait of a young woman, one with an uncanny resemblance to Britannia. “This was in a box with a handkerchief and a small amount of money. I’d never seen it before Madame and Monsieur LeClair died, but it was clearly mine. I’ll show you.”

  From a drawer in her toilette, she produced a small wooden box with Britannia etched on a brass nameplate and opened it. From within, she pulled out a yellowed handkerchief. “These are the only two clues to my parentage.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  Drake examined the monogram on the kerchief. “This bears the seal of the—”

  “Prince Regent,” she finished. “After my inquiries in Paris as to the identity of the woman in the miniature led nowhere, I thought something might come to fruition here.”

  “And that letter proves you’ve happened on to something.”

  “I don’t know if I have or not.”

  “Whoever the woman in the portrait is, someone is willing to go to great lengths to ensure you do not expose her. Bless it, Britannia, why did you not tell me about this sooner?”

  “I-I was afraid. A-and I’m trying to be discreet. Though I want to know who she is, I mustn’t do anything to sully her reputation.”

  “I daresay she deserves any incrimination coming to her.” His ire boiled beneath his skin, Drake hauled over a second chair and sat opposite Britannia. “Is there anything else you ought to tell me?”

  She wrung her hands. “That’s everything.”

  “Very well. Now that we have your darkest secret out in the open, start at the beginning. Is this box how you learned you were a foundling? Didn’t you once say you’d thought the LeClairs were your parents?”

  “I did.” She wiped her eyes, looking like a half-drowned kitten. “When they contracted smallpox, no one in Bayeux would help me care for them. But they sent for Monsieur LeClair’s brother once they had gone. He was a loathsome man, but he inherited the estate and I was at his mercy.”

  “Good Lord, do not tell me he ravished a child.”

  “No, but he did show me my baptismal record. Translated into English it read: Britannia, no surname, a foundling. Then he cast it into the fire, insisted he had no responsibility for my welfare, and demanded I be gone from his house by dawn the next day.”

  “And you were, what, fourteen years of age?”

  “Yes. With the money from the box, I purchased coach fare to Paris and pleaded with Monsieur Marchand to give me a place in the Paris Opera Ballet School.”

  “And he did so? At the age of fourteen? Did you have any prior training?”

  “Madame LeClair was in the corps de ballet. She’s the one who tutored me in everything. English, Latin, mathematics, and, especially, dance.”

  Scarcely unable to believe the outpouring of her childhood with him having been none the wiser, Drake ferociously twisted his signet ring. “She must have been raised well.”

  “Monsieur Marchand said she was the daughter of a vicar from Gloucestershire.”

  “Interesting, I wonder how such a woman came to be your foster mother.”

  “I have no idea.” Britannia picked up the rose and tapped it against her cheek. “But my birth was definitely recorded in Bayeux. I remember the town’s letters in bold across the top of the document.”

  Drake snatched the missive, rapping it with his finger. “So, the phantom who wrote this—a reprehensible coward—is responsible for the carriage wheel, the fire and two threatening missives.”

  She tried to hide a cringe behind the flower, but her eyes betrayed her. “I believe he also rifled through my things both here and at the boarding house.”

  Fire burst through Drake’s gut. If he ever uncovered the identity of the felon, he would strangle the life out of him with his bare hands. “When was this?”

  “Not long after La Sylphide opened.”

  “And you failed to tell me?”

  “At the time I thought Florrie was the culprit.”

  “Nonetheless, you should have said something. At least informed Mr. Perkins.” Drake’s mind raced. How on earth did a minister’s daughter from Gloucestershire end up in the Paris ballet school…and then move on to foster an infant in Bayeux? Nothing made sense. “Allow me a closer look at the miniature.”

/>   The piece had been painted on porcelain and set in a gold frame with no markings on the back. “What was it that Miss Renaud said about Lady Hertford?”

  “I saw the dowager marchioness in Harding, Hamilton and Company and asked if she might know the woman in the picture. It had to have been painted twenty years ago or so.”

  Drake blinked twice at Britannia’s nerve. Not many would be so bold to approach a noblewoman and embark on a question and answer session. “Out of the blue, you walked up to a dowager marchioness and asked her to identify your miniature? Why her?”

  “I hired Mr. Gibbs to make some inquiries and he advised me that Lady Hertford was known to have been—ah—mistress to the Prince Regent during the year of my birth.”

  “Mr. Gibbs of all questionable characters? That man is a scum-swilling snake.” Drake inhaled to keep from cursing the man to holy hell. “When was this? Does the timing of the first missive coincide with your meeting?”

  “Non. I received that letter before I visited his offices. Besides, he’s the one who told me Lady Hertford was the Prince Regent’s only known mistress before I was born. But the miniature clearly isn’t of her.” Britannia ran her finger along the chain dangling from Drake’s grasp. “Oh, but she did tell me the portrait had been painted by—”

  “Adam Buck.” He placed the piece in her palm, relieved to hear Gibbs had acted respectably. “Her Grace used him on occasion.”

  “And that’s about the whole of it. With Mr. Buck being English, and the monogramed handkerchief, I cannot help but conclude that my mother was from Britain.”

  “Has anything else happened that you haven’t told me about? What about the wine incident with Lady Calthorpe?”

  “Surely that was an accident. Mon Dieu, she invited us to her home for a recital.” Britannia replaced the chain around her neck. “Though…”

  “What?”

  “’Tis but a feeling.” She shook her head. “I’m certain I’m wrong”

  “We’ve not much to go on. Feelings are mechanisms to tell us things that may be lurking beneath the surface. You’ve started down this path, you may as well tell me the rest.”

  “Very well.” Britannia met his gaze with a deep inhalation. “At the Calthorpe town house, I saw a portrait of Her Ladyship in the corridor outside the ballroom. For a moment I thought it had a likeness to the miniature. But truly I couldn’t be sure and discounted it as silliness. Of course, if the baroness knew she was my mother and wanted to keep the fact hidden, she wouldn’t have been so kind.”