by Amy Jarecki
He clasped her hand and kissed it. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed me? I cannot manage a complete thought for pining for you.” She thumped the book. “I’ve read the same silly page over and over and still have no idea what it says.”
Laughing, he grasped her waist and twirled her in a circle. “I have stupendous news!”
She braced herself on his shoulders. No, she shouldn’t let His Grace pick her up and spin her around, but it was too fun. “Stop,” she said, giggling.
He wrapped his arms around her while she slowly slid down his body. “Lady Calthorpe gave me leave to share the contents of our conversation with you.”
“Oh my!” Tears stung her eyes as she drew her fingers to her lips. “You’ve seen her already?”
Drake led her to the settee. “I have, and you’d best have a seat.”
As Bria listened to the duke’s story about his meeting with the baroness, tingles spread across her skin. “Lady Calthorpe is my mother?”
“I suspect you’re not surprised.”
Warmth spread through her—after all these years the mystery of the Grand-Duchesse had been solved. “No, though I barely allowed myself to hope.”
“She not only admitted to being your mother, she freely told me what happened.”
“I cannot believe they took me away from my mother at two weeks of age.”
“It is remarkable you survived. Moreover, you are the daughter of a king and a baroness. I knew you were too extraordinary to be a guttersnipe.”
“How can you say such a thing? The news confirms I am the by-blow of a prince who became a king who wasn’t well-liked, and a lady who hid her shame for over nineteen years.” Bria clutched a handkerchief over her heart while hundreds of emotions coursed through her. “I cannot tell you how elated I am to know who my parents were...are in Lady Calthorpe’s case. Though, doesn’t being a bastard lower me in your esteem?”
“You’d be surprised the percentage of bastards who mingle amongst the gentry. In my estimation, your parentage has merit.”
“I understand George sired a number of bastards, none of whom he legitimized.”
“That’s because he was a profligate spendthrift who cared only for himself.”
“Not exactly the type of man I want to refer to as Papa.”
“Whyever not? He did little to improve England whilst he sat on the throne, why not grant him a good deed from the grave?”
A tear spilled onto her cheek. “I love how you can twist every situation toward your favor.”
He winked. “’Tis a prerequisite for dukedom.”
Bria laughed. “Well, I suppose you can make your own rules.”
“Some. Not all.” Drake brushed a lock of hair from her forehead as he grew serious. “Regardless if we’ve solved the mystery of your parentage, we still have no idea who is behind the attacks on your person. Lady Calthorpe intends to discuss the matter with her father, but—”
“The Duke of Beaufort?”
“Yes.”
“Did he not have something to do with my placement with the LeClairs?”
“I imagine so. He’s the man who arranged for your mother to spend her confinement in France.”
“If Beaufort is responsible having them foster me, then surely he cares?”
“I wouldn’t be hasty to trust His Grace. And in the interim, I’m not letting you out of my sight for a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
CHARLOTTE FOUND HER husband reading the Gazette in the drawing room while he sipped his morning coffee.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve asked the coachman to bring the carriage around.”
“Very well, dear.” Frederick Gough, Lord Calthorpe, didn’t bother to lower his paper.
As her finger traced the line of a table sculpture of two dancing nymphs, Charlotte’s heart raced. Last night, she’d paced her chamber for hours. She’d lived a lie for so many years. If only she could reveal the truth, if only she could square her shoulders and tell her husband about her transgressions and have it done with. They hadn’t been blessed with children—doubtless God’s penance for her sins.
Her fingers slipped on the statue, gravely aware that with her next words her life would change.
Charlotte still had her dower funds at her disposal. If Frederick cast her out, she could move to a cottage in the north and live out the rest of her days. Perhaps Britannia would even see fit to pay her a visit now and again.
“I’m off to call on my father.”
“Brave of you.” Freddy flipped the page over. “Have you received a summons from His Grace?”
“No. As a matter of fact, he is unaware of my impending visit.”
Again, the Gazette rustled. “Good strategy, my dear. Attack unawares. You would have made an excellent field marshal.”
“You may be right, especially since I’m going to speak to him about my daughter.” She froze, her hand gripping the statue, her heart thundering in her throat.
While Frederick lowered his paper, managing to breathe was impossible for Charlotte. Gray eyes focused on her, a myriad of emotions passing through them—confusion, shock, anger, horror and more. Her husband’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he slowly drew his finger across the right side of his moustache, then did the same to the left.
“Daughter, did you say?”
“I did.” With a sharp inhale, Charlotte raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “I am not proud of my youth. I fully accept that you have every right to turn me out, thrust me from your life, and never wish to see me again. But I can no longer hide the truth. In the year of our Lord 1814, I gave birth to a girl in Bayeux, France.”
Frederick coughed. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because, at long last, the young lady has found me. I was a coward not to have searched for her, but now that we have been reunited, I will not turn my back on her.”
“I see.” Frederick set the newspaper aside and strolled to the window. “Do you believe I did not know what happened?”
Charlotte pressed her palm into the figurine. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have known? Father ensured my shame—the family’s shame was tidily brushed under the carpet.”
“Indeed, Beaufort worked diligently to see that your reputation was not marred.” As if mesmerized with the rain outside, Frederick clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to face her. “I was there, Charlotte. Remember, we had the first dance of the evening?”
“At Carlton House?”
“All it took was one smile from you and I was smitten beyond saving.”
“But I thought my father—”
“He arranged everything, of course, but not before we discussed what had happened and why you suddenly disappeared. You see, I already knew. I overheard George’s audacious babble before he took you above stairs for your game of charades. I heard his lies. I heard you question him as you ought. He lied about there being a gaming room up there. But I had no idea what he would do.”
Charlotte’s fingers slid from the statue and clamped around her midriff. “No...”
“I did, however, suspect what had transpired when, later, you raced out the door, your hair askew, your eyes filled with tears.”
“You saw me?” she asked in a chilled whisper.
“I bore witness, and if George were not the Prince Regent, I would have challenged him to a duel.” Frederick turned, his eyes tortured and glistening. “I loved you then and I love you more now. I am not a handsome man, Charlotte. I am not a dandy like so many debutantes desire. When it was clear you would not be returning to London, I approached your father with an offer and he accepted.”
A tear slipped onto her cheek. “All this time you knew I had a daughter, but never told me?”
He, too, wiped his eyes. “Your father said the child had been well placed and it was best to let the past lie. I had no reason to doubt him, or his wishes to never mention her. Beaufort felt doing so would cause you too much pain.”
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“But the people who fostered her died.” Moving closer, Charlotte kept her hands clenched at her middle. “At the age of fourteen, the fosterer’s brother told her she was a foundling and turned her out with nothing.”
“Good God.”
“That’s exactly how I feel.” She took her husband’s hand. “And you’re wrong. You are the most handsome dandy I’ve ever known, and you have made me happy every day of these past years.”
He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed. “Then I will not keep you. Go make your peace with the duke. Would you like me to come along for moral support?”
No matter how much she wanted to lean on Frederick’s arm, it would be cowardly to do so. “I’m a grown woman now. I will face my father alone.”
“Then I shall honor your wishes. Send up a white flag if you need my assistance.”
AS BRIA PREPARED FOR the final performance of La Sylphide, not only sadness but worry stretched her heart.
Out of breath, a lad popped his head inside the dressing room door. “She’s not at the boarding house.”
“Zut alors!” Only a half-hour until the overture was due to start, Bria looked to Pauline’s untouched toilette. She could wait no longer. They always covered for each other but, this time, her friend had left things too late.
She found Monsieur Travere on stage, rehearsing something new with a few of the girls from the corps.
“Monsieur, may I have a word?”
“What is it?”
Bria pulled him aside. “Pauline isn’t here. It’s not like her to be this late. I’m worried.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“None. I sent a lad to the boarding house to fetch her, but she’s not there either.” Mentioning Pauline’s arrangement with Lord Saye would only put her friend in more trouble, so Bria turned the blame to herself. “Ever since I moved into my rooms, Pauline and I have not checked on each other as we ought.”
“And she’s been keeping company with a viscount.”
“You knew about that?”
“Of course, I make it my duty to know all of my dancers’ affairs, especially yours.”
“I see.” Bria stopped herself from commenting further. Momentarily, there were far more important things to discuss than Monsieur Tavere’s snooping. “Then do you have any idea where we can find Pauline?”
“I’ll send someone to follow up with Lord Saye. In the meantime, notify the corps. We must put plans in motion to cover for her absence.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And Britannia?”
“Oui”
“I am not happy about this. When you do see Miss Renaud, send her to me.”
A half an hour later when the curtain opened, Pauline was still nowhere to be found. Worried half out of her wits, Bria danced with clipped and frantic movement, her eyes darting to the wings as often as possible, praying she’d catch sight of her friend.
At intermission, there was still no sign of her.
In Act II after James chased the Sylph off the stage, Bria raced to the dressing room for what seemed like the hundredth time. Pauline’s toilette remained untouched, but Bria froze when her eyes trailed to her own table. A missive rested against the mirror, addressed to Miss LeClair and written in a bold hand.
Prickles fired across her skin as she rose on her toes and tiptoed toward the letter. With trembling fingers, she snatched it, turned it over and examined the seal.
A blank.
Clenching her teeth, she broke the cowardly seal and read:
We have Miss Renaud. If you want to see her again, come alone. If you tell a soul, she will die. A carriage will be waiting beyond the stage door upon the last curtain call. Do not hesitate. Speak to no one. Do not stop to change or Miss Renaud will meet her end.
Clutching the missive to her chest, Bria searched the room. Someone had been inside after intermission while she was on stage. Who? Who could move past the guard without being questioned?
She didn’t dare ask. Doing so would raise an alarm for certain.
And why were these beastly people doing this? Pauline had never harmed a soul. Why did this monster choose her? Why not confront Bria directly?
Who was behind these reprehensible deeds? Why? Lady Calthorpe had invited Bria to tea on the morrow, and Drake had said she was ever so anxious to meet. It seemed unlikely for Her Ladyship to be involved. Didn’t it?
Beyond the dressing room, the orchestra continued, almost to the finale. Bria only had moments before she needed to be on stage. Shoving the missive into her bodice, she pulled her cloak from the hook, rolled it into a ball, and smiled at the guard as she skipped toward the stage door trying to look as if nothing had gone awry. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was out of the guard’s sight before draped her cloak over the handrail. Then she checked over both shoulders and skipped toward the wings at stage right.
“Are you all right?” asked Claudio after she took her place beside him, ready for her next sequence.
As Bria shook out her legs, she gave a curt nod while the girls in the corps danced on stage for the finale. “Worried about Pauline.”
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Perhaps I have.”
Thank God the music demanded her entrance. If she’d stood there for a moment longer, she would have broken down into a weeping mess. She had to be strong for Pauline. Entrechat, pas de bourrée. The poor girl’s life was in danger. Bria must do nothing to arouse suspicion. No one must know.
Bria painted on a smile and danced with more emotion than ever before.
It took an eternity for the finale to end. The curtain calls were torture, but she forced herself to smile, her gaze shooting to the wings, searching for a villain. Was the carriage out there now? How fast could she run for the door? Who might see her?
When the curtain finally closed, Gérard grasped her hand. “Ma chére, what is the matter? You were dancing as if blown by a tempest.”
Bria snapped her fingers away. “Of course I was. Pauline is missing.”
Before anyone could interject, she ran. It hardly took more than a heartbeat to pull her cloak from the rail and swing it over her shoulders. Outside, a coach waited only steps away, the door ajar.
I will save you, Pauline!
Chapter Twenty-Four
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME are you saying? The woman disappeared from under your nose?” Drake boomed. Now they not only were missing Miss Renaud, but Britannia hadn’t been seen since the curtain closed.
The air backstage stifled him. Either that or his valet had tied his neckcloth too tightly.
“N-no,” the guard stammered, thrusting his hands up as he shrugged. “She took her bows and I stood right where I always do. She either vanished into thin air or she exited stage right.”
Had Perkins hired a complete imbecile to guard the theater’s most important performer? “Your job is to see that Miss LeClair remains in your sight at all times.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Did anyone see Miss LeClair leave the theater?”
“No, but I thought she seemed upset before she entered for the finale,” said Gérard. “I asked her what was wrong, and she said she was worried about Pauline.”
“Of course we’re all upset about Miss Renaud as well.” Drake slapped his gloves in his palm. “Was there anyone backstage who shouldn’t have been? Did you see anything unusual? Anything at all?”
The guard scratched his head. “The lad took a missive into Miss LeClair, but it didn’t seem unusual—he’s done it before.”
Drake’s gaze shot left then right. “Where’s the boy?”
Mr. Perkins led the boy onto the stage.
Eyes round and scared, the stage boy gripped a cap in his hands. “’ere, sir.”
Drake marched toward the lad. “Who gave you the missive?”
“I didn’t do nofin’ wrong.”
“Of course not,” Perkins placed a hand on the young fel
low’s shoulder. “Just tell His Grace what he asked.”
The cap twisted. “I was tendin’ the gas lights like I always do. A man came in and ’anded me the note—told me to put it someplace where Miss LeClair would see it straightaway, ’e did.”
“What did he look like?” Drake asked trying not to growl while he clenched his fists behind his back.
“Dunno. Tall and old...a-and ’e ’ad a big nose.”
“Most likely a messenger,” said Perkins.
“It seems you’ve managed to lose two dancers in one night.” Drake glared at the theater manager. “Have you received any word regarding Miss Renaud?”
“Bow Street hasn’t reported back as of yet. But she’s only been missing a few hours.”
“A few hours can mean the difference between life and death.” Drake’s gut clamped into a lead ball. “Go camp on Bow Street’s doorstep—take the boy. Tell them about Miss LeClair and have the lad give them the description of the messenger. I want to know as soon as they have the remotest clue.”
“I’ll put a man on it straightaway.” Perkins bowed and started off.
“Wait.” Drake stopped him. “Did you ask the driver to bring my carriage around?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been advised it is waiting out back just as you requested.”
“Good. I’ll be chasing a few leads—but they’re only hunches.” He made a point of looking everyone in the eye. “If you received any clue at all, I want notification immediately, is that understood?”
Perkins, Travere and the entire cast—less two ballerinas—all nodded. With a swing of his cape, Drake marched out the door and gave his coachman instructions to drive directly to Lord Calthorpe’s town house.
He didn’t care about the lateness of the hour. He didn’t care if he exposed Her Ladyship. For all Drake knew, she could be the one behind the missing women.
Damnation, if anyone tried to hurt Britannia, he would carve out their heart and show no mercy. Both women had best be unharmed or there would be hell to pay.
Being caged inside his carriage was pure torture. He pounded on the ceiling with his cane. “Faster, you bloody laggard!”