Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  UNDER A LUCKY STAR

  Diane Farr

  Chapter 1

  May, 1803

  The Divine Sophronia was the toast of London. Her astonishing voice had ignited a fever of admiration among the ton. The fever failed, however, to infect Derek Whittaker. It wasn’t that her singing failed to move him. It’s just that it moved him toward the door.

  The famous soprano waddled purposefully toward the footlights. An aria was plainly imminent. An expectant hush fell upon the audience. Several spectators near Derek actually leaned forward, mouths agape, in a kind of delirium of pleasure.

  Derek decided he had had enough. He was positioned, as usual, at the back wall of Lord Stokesdown’s box. No one would notice if he simply disappeared. During the orchestra’s introductory flourish, he slipped neatly through the curtain behind him and escaped.

  There were advantages, he reflected, to being a lowly secretary. He shared many of the amenities enjoyed by the aristocracy—witness his presence at the opera tonight, for example—but he labored under none of the tedious social obligations. He was free to form his own opinions because, frankly, nobody cared what they were. No one’s eyes were upon him. No one observed his comings and goings. Provided he returned at the interval, when Lord Stokesdown or one of his guests might want him, it didn’t matter whether he listened politely to Sophronia’s caterwauling or spent the evening playing mumblety-peg in the cloakroom.

  Derek hovered at the fringes of every society event, invisible as a ghost. And, come to think of it, just about as penniless. What Lord Stokesdown paid him amounted to something less than he might make as a butler or a valet. But a Whittaker, of course, could not take a post as a butler or a valet—a rule that made little sense to Derek, but which he accepted with the same cheerful shrug he accorded most rules.

  What can’t be cured must be endured, as his old nurse used to say. And besides, he liked Lord Stokesdown. He was busy, he was useful, and he enjoyed it when duty demanded his attendance at balls and dinners and plays. He did not resent the fact that he, Derek Whittaker, was never invited to the festivities. Often it was better to be a ghost than a guest.

  He wandered down the softly lit passage, enjoying the solitude. The opera sounded faintly through the curtained openings in the wall beside him and echoed with pleasant spookiness against the high, arched ceiling. A bit of distance muffled the shrillness of Sophronia’s voice, and added a peculiarly haunting quality to the orchestra. He rather liked it.

  An usher stood at the head of the stairs. He had been slouching against the railing, listening to the music, but Derek’s arrival caused the young chap to snap to attention. Derek hid a grin. It was his evening clothes, of course. He had been mistaken for a gentleman. He was a bit vain about his togs—and why not? Were it not for the inconvenient birth of brother Hector, he would be, in fact, a gentleman.

  He approached the usher, addressing him in a conspiratorial whisper. “I say. How much time before the interval?”

  “Quite a bit of time, sir.”

  “Anyone mind if I have a look about?” He jerked his chin, indicating an arched doorway where the well-lit passage dwindled into shadow.

  The usher looked vaguely surprised. “No, sir. I shouldn’t think anyone would mind.”

  “Good lad,” said Derek approvingly. “Thanks.”

  With a friendly nod, Derek headed out of the light and into the shadows. He could still hear the opera in the distance, but he was completely alone. His skin prickled with pleasurable anticipation.

  There was something indefinably exciting about exploring places where he had no business being. He was a little ashamed of this peculiar hobby, but it had held an irresistible allure for him since childhood. One of the many advantages of his ghostlike existence was that he could, and frequently did, slip his chain and wander about strange places unescorted.

  The theater proved, to his keen delight, to be a vast rabbit warren of a place. He always carried a flint and a bit of candle somewhere on his person, on the off chance he might need it, but the management of this establishment evidently ran it with a liberal hand. Wherever he roamed, lamplight gleamed here and there to show him the way. It seemed a shocking waste of oil. There wasn’t another soul in sight.

  The narrow passage he was exploring suddenly turned a corner and he found himself in a small, dusty room. He supposed he must be nearly to the stage area by now. Across from him, a flight of wooden stairs led up and out. Over the foot of these stairs yet another lamp hung from the ceiling on a chain, feebly illuminating what appeared to be a collection of disused props stacked haphazardly about. Derek wandered from item to item, examining them with mild interest. He was idly studying the crude decorations adorning a muslin screen, when a sudden tingle of awareness caused him to turn.

  There came a soft footfall on the stairs to his right, and the faint slither of silk. He felt his eyebrows climb with surprise when a girl came into view, clutching the rickety banister as she descended. She was evidently all alone. When he looked at her she flinched, then froze in place. Her eyes dilated as she stared, motionless, at Derek.

  Derek felt his jaw start to drop. With an effort he reanchored it, keeping himself from gaping at her. Her beauty was unbelievable. She might have been any age between sixteen and twenty…and she was the loveliest sight he had ever beheld. Almost other-worldly. He had always been partial to blondes, but this girl took blondness to an entirely new level. Her fair hair captured and reflected whatever light was available, shimmering like moonlight on water even in the dim glow cast by the overhead lamp.

  It was difficult to discern her station in life, for the cut and style of her simple, white gown were very much de rigeur for a young lady of breeding—but the material of which it was fashioned was scandalously revealing. The thin silk clung to every line and curve of her slender form. It was hard to tell whether she was a lady of quality or a bird of paradise.

  She was so astonishingly beautiful that for a heartbeat or two he could notice nothing else about her. Then he saw that her eyes were stark with fear.

  “Help,” she whispered. She stumbled down the stairs toward him. “Help me.”

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