The Duke's Fallen Angel

by Amy Jarecki

  “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 you 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.

  It only took a few minutes to whip a half-dozen stitches. She pushed her foot back into the slipper and pulled the ribbons tightly across the arch of her foot. Taking extra care, she wound the shiny satin around her ankle, ensuring the laces were tied snugly, and the knot tucked inside. Rising onto her toe, she tested her repair.

  It will hold.

  The music indicated she still had a time to spare. She moved to her toilette to freshen her lip rouge and looked in the mirror.

  Then she froze.

  Mon Dieu!

  It wasn’t her reflection that stopped Bria’s breath, it was the fire blocking the doorway.

  A spark popped and sailed toward her legs while the flames leaped higher. Spinning in a circle, she frantically searched for something, anything to staunch it. With no other option, she grabbed her cloak from the peg.

  “Help!” she shouted, thrashing the woolen garment atop the fire. Heat from the flames burned Bria’s face as she gritted her teeth, furiously working to snuff it. The stench of sizzling wool stung her nostrils. “Help!”

  Screams and shouts came from the stage, but Bria didn’t stop. The smoke grew thicker as she worked, her eyes burning.

  She gasped for breath, her arms beginning to shake from her effort.

  “Stand back!” On the other side of the doorway, a prop laborer wielded two pails of water.

  Bria scooted away while the man doused the flames. The timbers hissed and crackled as black water washed over her slippers.

  “My God, what happened?” Ravenscar asked, barreling into the dressing room with Mr. Perkins on his heels.

  All eyes shifted to Bria while the duke reached for her shoulders, stopping before he touched her. “Miss LeClair, are you injured?” His tone was stately and official, as if they had never shared a kiss or stolen moments alone in his town home. But then the entire cast had congregated just beyond the door.

  Bria smoothed her hands down her tulle skirts and felt no pain. “I think not.”

  “Nonetheless, we will close the theater for the night.” The duke turned to Mr. Perkins. “Make the announcement. Refund all tickets.”

  “No!” Bria caught Mr. Perkins’ wrist before he started off. “Is anyone else injured? I heard screaming.”

  “That’s because we saw the fire,” said Florrie.

  Turning to the duke, she stretched to her full height. “If it was just me who was in danger, then I assure you I am well enough to continue.”

  Ravenscar pulled the singed cloak from her hand. “Are you certain? You’ve had a terrible scare. No one expects you to carry on.”

  “I expect to finish the performance, and I am perfectly able.” She stepped over the charred threshold, beckoning Mr. Perkins. “Come with me, sir. I will help you explain to the audience.”

  On stage, the theater manager held up his hands, requesting silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, we suffered a small fire outside Miss LeClair’s dressing room. She assures me she is unharmed and intends to continue with the performance.”

  Bria threw kisses to the audience. “Mes amis, thank you for coming tonight. Please forgive the interruption. The fire has been doused with no harm done. Please resume your seats.” She gave a nod to the conductor while Monsieur Travere called for places.

  THOUGH HE LAUDED BRITANNIA’S heroics, Drake sat through the remainder of the performance with every muscle in his body clenched. Britannia could have been badly burned. Christ, she could have died. Who gave a rat’s arse about his theater? The woman he’d come to admire and adore above all other performers had been in frightful peril.

  Before the curtain call, he found Perkins. “Bring Miss LeClair to my rooms. I need to have a word.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. If it’s about the fire, I assure you I will have an investigator here first thing in the morning.”

  “Good man. And we’d best step up the security. Something is afoot. I feel it in my bones and we will not sit idle whilst some dastard plays us for fools.”

  Chadwick Theater had a small suite of offices behind the fourth tier of boxes where Drake paced until Perkins showed Britannia in. He gave the stage manager a nod. “Please leave us.”

  “As you wish.”

  Still in costume, Bria waited until the door closed. “Your Grace, I assure you I am unharmed.”

  Releasing a pent up breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he took two steps and pulled her into his arms. “Dash it all, my heart nearly burst to smithereens seeing you there, charred with smoke, a half-burned cloak in your grasp.”

  Her hands slipped around his waist as she rested her head against his chest. He cradled her to him. It drove him mad not to be able to hold her like this whenever he pleased. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “You? The fire frightened me, not you...and whoever lit it. My oath, the thought of losing you scares me to my bones.” He strengthened his grip around her, wishing never to let her go. “You must know how dear you are to me.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” It took all his self-control to keep from saying he hadn’t looked at another woman since Britannia had stepped into the theater in April. To stop himself from declaring he wanted to be the man to protect her for the rest of her days, he buried his nose in the curls piled atop her head. Now was no time to turn into a lovesick fool. It was his duty to see to her safety, and he’d just failed miserably.

  Drake squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her forehead, not yet ready to release his embrace. “Is there a reason someone might be trying to hurt you? Did you have a bad experience in France you haven’t told me about?”

  She turned her face up and looked at him directly without a hint
of fear. “Nothing like this ever happened to me in France.”

  Yes, those whisky eyes were pure and honest. Britannia’s gaze mesmerized him. Staring at her lovely face made a fire rage in his breast and a tempest swirl in his loins. He had no business holding her in his arms. But for once in his life, he threw propriety out the window. Without another word he shifted his gaze to Britannia’s lips—the color of roses, pert and perfect. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head and met those delicious lips. He’d only intended it to be a light kiss, but the womanly sigh of desire rumbling from her throat drove him straight to the brink of insanity.

  In a rush of passion, his mouth opened against her, begging for more. As if consumed by madness, he rubbed his hands up her back, threaded his fingers through her curls, and dove deeper into heaven. His balls were on fire. His cock harder than it had ever been in his life.

  And God save him, she turned to sweet, warm cream in his arms. A valiant foe, she matched him swirl for swirl, caress for caress, moan for moan.

  It wasn’t until he backed her against the wall that he realized how far he’d gone—how close he was to raising her skirts and taking her where he stood.

  A lead ball sank in his gut.

  Britannia LeClair was not his to love. And he could not ever break her heart.

  With his next breath, he pulled away. “Please forgive me.”

  THAT NIGHT DRAKE DIDN’T sleep and as dawn rose, he didn’t bother ringing for his valet. He donned a pair of buckskins, top boots, and a morning coat. Downstairs, he found Pennyworth in his chamber, preparing for the day’s work.

  The butler immediately rose to his feet. “Your Grace. I didn’t expect you so early.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Of course, I am at your service.”

  “There was a fire at the theater last eve.”

  “My word. Was anyone injured?”

  “No, by the grace of God. However, too many things have happened to Miss LeClair to be coincidence.”

  “Do you think the young lady is in danger?”

  “I do not know yet, but I will no longer sit idle while there is the possibility that someone is, indeed, trifling with her.”