The Duke's Fallen Angel

by Amy Jarecki

  Hopping up and executing piqués turns until her head nearly collided with the sloped ceiling, Pauline laughed out loud. “You are awful.”

  “I am practical, and let me make it perfectly clear, he did not indicate he might harbor an interest in me whatsoever.”

  “And why not?” Pauline spun back to the bed. “You are darling—one of the loveliest women I know.”

  “Not at all. I’m too thin, and too headstrong, and too independent.”

  “But—”

  “No! Absolutely not. We are no longer having this conversation.”

  “All right then, neither of you seemed to be inordinately attracted to each other...”

  Bria chewed her lip. Pauline’s assumption wasn’t exactly precise, but it was best not to correct her. After all, it didn’t matter if she’d found Ravenscar to be magnificent in a very masculine way. A man like His Grace would never look twice at a foundling from Bayeux. Their classes alone were so far apart, she might as well sprout wings and fly to the moon as to think he would entertain pursuing a woman with no pedigree who had fallen so low as to perform on stage. Thank heavens nothing had come of their meal together. She wouldn’t want to pine for a duke—a man she could never have and who could never fall in love with her.

  “But tell me,” her friend continued, “Do you think he can help you with your quest?”

  A little squeeze flitted in Bria’s stomach. She’d had no success in France. “I wouldn’t want to bother him. He’d consider me impertinent.”

  “Perhaps not.” With a blink of brown eyelashes, Pauline pointed her toes. “After all, we’ve already ascertained the kerchief bears the coat of arms of the Prince Regent.”

  “Who became king and passed away three years ago.” Bria crossed herself to honor the deceased. “If only he were alive, I could have had someone ask his Royal Highness to identify the woman in the miniature.”

  “Someone must know who she is. Even after nineteen or twenty years.”

  “But she mightn’t be English. When I was born, England was still at war with the French.”

  Pauline stretched her leg upward, executing an elegant developpé. “We’ve been over this before. In 1814, the House of Bourbon was briefly restored while Napoleon was in prison. England and France were amicable until the emperor’s escape in 1815.”

  Bria pulled the miniature from beneath her chemise and held it in her palm. The woman in the portrait had a familial likeness and now that Britannia had grown into a woman, she was even more convinced they were related. Ever since she’d found the painting, she’d dreamed the noble lady with porcelain skin and clad in blue satin was her mother. “But she could be Spanish.”

  “She doesn’t look Spanish,” said Pauline.

  “Dutch, then.”

  “You need to find out who the Grande-Duchesse is, whether she is in England or Holland or the Holy Roman Empire. Imagine, you might be a princess.” They’d oft referred to the woman as the Grande-Duchesse—it was akin to their secret code.

  “Foundlings are never princesses,” Bria insisted. “Besides, I honestly have no idea if the kerchief or the miniature have any significance. As I’ve told you before, after the LeClairs died I found these keepsakes in a box with my name engraved in the top. Before that, I’d never laid eyes on them.”

  “Even if she’s not your mother, the beauty in the picture might know something about where you’re from.”

  “And that’s why I keep looking.” Sighing, Bria replaced the miniature inside her bodice, then fished in her portmanteau for a bar of rose soap. “We shall be in London four long months. Perhaps after La Sylphide opens I might happen upon someone who can help me find the Grande-Duchesse. But right now, we have more things to worry about than an elusive painting. And the first is a bath.”

  ON EASTER SUNDAY, DRAKE sat across the carriage from his mother and gazed out the window while they ambled from Westminster Abbey toward the family’s Pall Mall mansion.

  Esperanza? No, Miss LeClair doesn’t have the right coloring for a Spanish rose. Darcia? Amaris? Perhaps Serilda—a maiden in battle armor? Possibly. Parthena? She does seem pure. But I think I’m partial to Bernadette. Yes. Bernadette is French and reminds me of a dancer. I could wager on it.

  “Whatever are you thinking about?” asked his mother, her gloved hands primly folded in her lap.

  Though his stomach leaped, Drake shifted his attention to Her Grace, projecting an image of utmost composure. “Hmm? Not a thing.”

  “I know you better than you think. You have that contemplative look in your eye. Something is weighing heavily on your mind.”

  He released a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Mother always could read him like a book. “I’m concerned about the opening of La Sylphide. There has been a development.” Which was an understatement. Instead of dreaming up names for Miss LeClair, he should have been thinking about how to ensure an entire Season of strong ticket sales to keep Chadwick Theater’s doors open and the lenders away from Mother’s favorite home.

  “Oh?” she asked. “Did the cast arrive safely—yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “The day before.” Bless her for not paying attention to the gossip columns. And with the morning service, Drake hadn’t had a moment to tell her the news. “Unfortunately, the most important and only woman who made La Sylphide a sensation did not sail from France.”

  Mother’s prim lips gaped in astonishment. “You cannot be serious? Marie Taglioni is not in London?”

  “Nor will she be.”

  “Good heavens, this has the makings of a disaster.”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  “What will you do?”

  “They’ve sent an unknown in Taglioni’s place...”

  Mother drew a palm over her heart. “It grows worse.”

  “The woman is quite good, but—”

  “Yes?”

  Drake tapped a cushion tassel, trying to think of the exact word. “Vigorous.”

  “Unusual epithet for a ballerina.”

  “Quite, and I’m not certain if London is ready for her.”

  “But you said she has talent. Will it not be refreshing to see something new?”

  “That is exactly what I keep telling myself.” He stretched his legs to the side and crossed his ankles. “Perhaps it would be better if you wait to hear what the critics say before you came to the theater.”

  “One moment.” Mother held up her finger. “Let me see if I understand. This new Parisian ballerina is very good, but not as poised or restrained as we would expect to see in an English woman. Is that correct?”

  “Mm. Yes.”

  “Tell me, would you go to see this woman perform?”

  A crooked grin played across his lips, yet there was no chance he would detail LeClair’s erotic style to his mother. “Indeed, I would.”

  “And would you enjoy her dancing?”

  “Very much so.”

  Mother snapped open and fluttered her fan. “Everyone expects a bit of sauciness from French performers. Why are you worrying?”

  Because she dances like a hellcat and you will be shocked right down to the toes of your stockings. Not to mention, if she is not sensational, you will disown me. “People will be so terribly disappointed not to see Marie Taglioni, I’m afraid they will try to refund their tickets, even though I’ve made it clear no sales will be reimbursed until after opening night.”

  “Well then, it is doubly important for me to attend and show my support. Remember, the House of Ravenscar dictates fashions and trends as much or more than any other dukedom in the kingdom.”

  Drake nodded. The House of Ravenscar may soon become the Right Honorable Hovel. Bless his mother’s heart. A fierce matriarch, she would not sit idle while gossip about her son ran rife through London—unless things grew out of hand. Then they would both flee to the country to weather the storm.

  “I shall announce an after-theater soiree,” she ventured, already scheming. “Invite the
cast leads, especially your new ballerina. Let us reel in the buzzards before they have a chance to whisper amongst themselves.”

  “Perhaps your idea would be preferable to the champagne and cakes I had planned in the theater vestibule.” People would be less likely to voice any condescending opinions under the watchful eye of Her Grace.

  “Excellent.” Mother reached across and patted his knee. “On a more serious note, a fresh contingent of young ladies has arrived in Town for the Season. Yesterday, I met Lady Blanche Boscawen, daughter of the Viscount of Falmouth and she seems quite enterprising...”

  Drake turned a deaf ear to her banter. He didn’t want to meet the daughter of Lord Fowl Mouth or any of the other chicken-brained debutantes his mother never ceased to parade under his nose. Yes, he had a responsibility to continue the family line, but he would do so in his own time—at least a good five years hence.

  Chapter Five

  EASTER MONDAY, 8th April, 1833

  “Again!” bellowed Monsieur Travere while the dancers in the corps moaned.

  Refusing to give in to her exhaustion, Bria threw back her shoulders and moved to center stage. She would ignore the searing pain in her toes and her aching muscles no matter what. Yes, hours ago blisters had formed and by the way her toes stung, they were bleeding. She’d bled many times before, though now there would be no time to heal.

  “The lot of you sound like a herd of goats! Where is your grace? You spend a week traveling and your journey wipes away years of study? Need I remind you our debut is tomorrow?” Red in the face, Travere stamped his foot. “We are already in jeopardy of losing our contract. Do you want to return to Paris in shame?”

  Bria hung her head. Everything this day had gone wrong. The orchestra played all the wrong tempos, Chadwick Theater’s stage was narrower and deeper than Salle Le Peletier and it made the choreography awkward. The side seam on her costume tore, her wings had fallen off twice. Good heavens, if the ballet opened today, they would be laughed out of England.

  “No!” she shouted. “We will not consider returning to Paris.”

  In quick succession, Monsieur Travere rapped his baton on the edge of the stage. “You say that, Mademoiselle LeClair, and yet your performance today has been abysmal. Just like everyone else’s.”

  She gripped her arms across her midriff, internally berating herself. The dance master was right. She’d been awful. If she didn’t pull herself together, she would let everyone down—the troupe, the duke, and, most of all, herself. If she danced like this during the performance, she might as well go throw herself in the Thames. She would be worthless, a fallen woman with nowhere to turn, as helpless as she’d been when she’d been cast out of her home by her assumed uncle. This was her chance. If she failed, Monsieur Marchand would never allow her to set foot in Salle Le Peletier again.

  “Pardon me, Monsieur Travere,” said the conductor. “But the orchestra is done for the day. We’ve already exceeded our contract by an hour.”

  “Are you out of your minds?” the dance master shouted, throwing his baton out to the parterre. “Your performance has been the worst of the lot. How can we open tomorrow with the rubbish you played this day?”

  The conductor slammed his score closed. “You, sir, are a hothead, and I will remind you I will be standing here in front of the stage, commanding the tempo when the curtain opens tomorrow. Fear not. I am, and my musicians are virtuosos. We have taken your direction, made changes accordingly, and now we are leaving.”

  While the musicians walked out, Travere kicked a music stand, sending it clattering to the floor. Then he glared up at the stage. “At whom are you staring?”

  Bria glanced at the others over her shoulder. They all looked as haggard as she felt. “We go again,” she said, assuming her position. “That is what you asked.”

  He swept his arm through the air. “One, two, three, four, five, six...”

  Spinning across the stage, she steeled her mind to the pain. Her blisters had bled before, and it would happen again. Later she’d soak her toes in brine and tomorrow night she’d wrap them, but right now she would endure the pain and show the Duke of Ravenscar exactly how much she wanted, needed, desired to play the role of the Sylph. No one would smite her opportunity. Bria’s toes could bleed through her slippers and she would not utter a word of complaint. Grand jeté, fouetté and pose in attitude. On and on she danced, willing herself to be strong. After a simple pas de bourrée, she stumbled, her toes torturing her efforts. Recovering quickly, Bria didn’t stop. She didn’t grimace. She endured through to end of the finale. Only then did she dare to glance at the dance master.

  Travere pursed his lips, disappointment broadcast in his stance, his frown, his sullenness. “Enough!”

  Everyone exited the stage while Bria dropped to the floor and removed her slippers. Good heavens, six of ten toes were bloodied. I cannot allow a few tiny blisters make me founder. Not again. Tomorrow must be perfect!

  “Do you have a salve for those?” She looked up to find Mr. Perkins offering her a stoppered jar. “Put this on after you soak your toes tonight, and then ensure you apply a healthy dollop before you wrap them for tomorrow’s performance.”

  Accepting the gift, she stood. “Are you familiar with toe dancing?”

  “No, but I am familiar with blisters.”

  “Thank you.” She assumed the position to rehearse the scene yet again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Practicing. I cannot go home this night until I am satisfied.”

  “You’ve practiced enough.” He offered his elbow. “Let us take a walk.”

  “But—”

  “Just a brief stroll through the theater. In my experience, an artiste who has been working all day will only see her performance decline until she has rested.”

  “Your experience?”

  “I’ve been involved with theater management all my life. Though, as I’m sure you are aware, this is the first time toe dancing has been performed in Britain.” When she took his arm, he strolled down to the parterre. “Why are you a dancer?” he asked.

  Bria almost laughed aloud. “I love ballet with my whole being. I cannot imagine doing anything else.”

  “I can tell you’re passionate about it by the way you dance from your soul. I’ll wager you want to be successful so badly you ignore your own needs.”

  She nodded, deciding not to tell him about swooning into the Duke of Ravenscar’s arms.

  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  Had His Grace told Mr. Perkins about the swooning incident? She hoped not. “I ate a good breakfast.”

  “So, you’re tired, you’re hungry, and your feet hurt like they’ve been branded by a red-hot poker. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, scraping her teeth across her bottom lip.

  He took her by the shoulders. “I’ve been watching you rehearse all day. Believe me when I say the conductor has noted the musical issues, you are the most excellent ballerina London has ever seen, and if you do not go home and take care of your feet, Chadwick’s patrons will not witness what I have seen. Do you understand?”

  No matter how much she wanted to object, she let out a long breath and nodded. As they turned back toward the stage, she asked, “Of all the operas, plays and ballets, why did Chadwick Theater choose to open with La Sylphide?”

  “Ravenscar wanted a spectacle that would be unmatched for the Season. He saw the opening debut of the ballet last year in France and knew then he had to have it. I must say, however, I do not think he would have chosen La Sylphide if Monsieur Marchand had told him Marie Taglioni’s understudy would be taking her place.”

  A lump the size of her fist expanded in Bria’s throat. If the ballet failed, only she would be to blame. “And I have disappointed him royally.”

  “Not you, my dear. If the blame lies with anyone, it is Marchand.” When they arrived back at the stage, Mr. Perkins patted her hand. “Now take my salve, have a good rest, and
give us a stellar performance tomorrow night. Promise?”

  “I promise to do my very best. I give you my oath I will not disappoint you or the duke or the patrons of this theater.” She curtsied while her heartbeat rushed in her ears—her entire body tense with nerves. On the morrow she must face the most important day of her life. “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter Six

  CHADWICK THEATER, TUESDAY, 9th April, 1833

  Drake had spent the better part of the day avoiding the uproar that came with the first Morning Post released after the holidays. Well aware there was a five-minute overture, he arrived at the theater two minutes after the performance began, looked no one in the eye and hastened straight for his box. Mother was already seated with her usual friends: widows, Lady Anabelle and Lady Eloise, and Mr. Edwin Peters, a well-to-do gunsmith who kept company with Drake’s mother far too frequently.

  He kissed her on the cheek. “You look lovely this evening.”

  Mother rapped his arm with her fan. “I was about to think you had decided not to come. It’s not like you to move to the rear of the guard in battle.”

  “Only avoiding being mobbed by hundreds of livid patrons.” Regardless of his attempt to smooth things with the papers. The dashed headlines had read, “Ravenscar’s Fortune in the Hands of a Foundling”. He’d strangle Maxwell if the man ever again dared to show his face. Drake greeted the other guests and took his seat, opening his program for the first time.

  Britannia LeClair.

  Fancy that. The Sylph was named for his beloved Britain. That was one which hadn’t crossed his mind. Britannia? For a French lass? But he liked it. The name suited her tenacity.

  He sat back and focused on the curtain while angry stares from boxes across the theater fixated on him. No, Drake didn’t need to look to see people staring. Some dared to boo, while the hiss of whispers singed his ears, as did the rumbling murmurs from the gallery. Above the orchestra, the tension in the air was as charged as a courtroom trying a murder case.