The Duke's Fallen Angel (Devilish Dukes, #1)

by Amy Jarecki

  Who knew what the gaslights would reveal come opening night?

  Damnation, I am doomed.

  BEFORE HE MADE IT OUTSIDE, a man dressed in full-length trousers and a woolen doublet stepped from the shadows, his neckcloth uneven and hastily tied as if he could ill afford a valet. “Yer Grace, Maxwell with the Morning Post ’ere.”

  Drake stopped. Wonderful. The vultures had already begun to descend, posturing to pick the remains of his carcass.

  “Is it true Marie Taglioni gave ye the slip?” The meddler sounded as if he’d just arisen from the bowels of the East End.

  Drake should have ignored the impertinence and kept going but he didn’t. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

  “Sailors off the ship, Yer Grace. Said ye’re in more trouble ’an King Charlie at Whitehall.”

  “They are mistaken, I assure you.”

  “I’ve seen the passenger manifest. Taglioni wasn’t aboard. Wha’ ye aim to do? Will Chadwicks still open come Tuesday?”

  Well, the bird had already flown and a day hadn’t yet passed. May as well set things in motion and cause a real stir. “Did the sailors not tell you?” Drake leveled his gaze with the journalist’s.

  “Can’t say they did.” Licking his lips, the man leaned in, clearly hungry for a scandal and all too eager to report the news of His Grace’s impending ruination. Once Drake’s lenders caught wind of imminent disaster, they’d be pushing for early payment, eager to claim the premium real estate occupied by Ravenscar Hall.

  “I’ll only say this once.” Drake tapped the tip of his cane on the floor. “Chadwick Theater will open as planned, debuting a mystery ballerina.”

  “Cor.” The man gaped with wide eyes. “But people ’ave paid to see Taglioni.”

  “They have, and I will not honor one single request for an advance refund. If, after the performance, Chadwick’s patrons are not satisfied, the theater will consider any reasonable appeal for reimbursement.”

  “She’s that good, eh?”

  “We shall find out Tuesday evening, shall we not?”

  “If ye please, can ye give us ’er name?”

  “Mademoiselle LeClair. I tell you here and now, London will be dazzled with talent never before seen on the stage.” Drake tugged up his gloves. “Good day, sir.”

  He strode away, swinging his cane as if he hadn’t a care. Unfortunately, the tempest swirling in his chest was as ominous as the thunder overhead. And droplets slapping his face served as dancing pixies sent from Satan come to laugh at his demise.

  Chapter Two

  BRIA DROPPED ONTO A chair in the backstage dressing room and rubbed her neck. Traveling had taken its toll, but she mustn’t give in to exhaustion. For the first time in days, she was finally able to stretch her legs and dance. Being confined in a carriage and then the steamer packet across the channel had all but suffocated her. And then Monsieur Travere had been cajoled into giving a demonstration for the Duke of Ravenscar and Mr. Perkins. Did they not know dancers couldn’t step off a ship and deliver their best? Goodness, she’d spent the entire sea leg of the voyage on deck with her head over the rail.

  To her chagrin, she’d given the worst performance of her life. At least it felt miserable. Wearing soiled traveling clothes, weary, and half-starved, who would not feel miserable? She’d been astounded afterward when Mr. Perkins came forward and told them the ballet would open as planned. Throughout the demonstration, Bria was convinced the duke would make good on his threats and send them away. And all because of her. The man had spoken harshly when he’d confronted the dance master—had judged her before she’d been given a chance to rest and perform at her best. Of course, His Grace couldn’t know dancing the lead role was her life’s ambition. Neither did he know she would expel every ounce of strength she possessed to ensure the theater’s debut was a success.

  If Chadwick Theater failed, she would fail, and Britannia LeClair had worked too hard and fought too many battles to be humiliated and sent back to Paris as a national disappointment.

  Removing her slipper, she massaged her toes. She should have realized the proprietor of Chadwick Theater would be angry, though neither Messieurs Marchand nor Travere had indicated the Duke of Ravenscar had not been informed that Marie had decided to stay in Paris. No wonder His Grace was furious. But his fury burned as if a flame had burst inside her. His words instilled doubt in her abilities.

  And he’d made her so self-aware standing in the parterre looking as noble as the King of England—no doubt passing judgement like a king as well.

  Somehow, in the next four days she needed to recondition and regain her polish lest she not be ready for Tuesday’s debut. If Ravenscar had truly been deceived, then she had naught but to give a performance as never before seen on the stage either in Paris or London. If he sent her home, her dancing career would be ruined—a travesty that would crush Bria to her very soul.

  What would she do then? Without a reputation behind her, if the London debut of La Sylphide failed, all hope would be lost. Thespians without prestige and notoriety were not trusted anywhere in Christendom. They were looked upon as vagabonds and thieves. She’d end up destitute, lucky to find a position as a serving wench in an alehouse, destined for a life of poverty.

  “Ah, here’s the fille who kept us from a wretched disaster,” Pauline, Bria’s only trusted friend, walked into the dressing room, her arms filled with gossamer and tulle costumes.

  Florrie, who danced the part of Effie, flounced in behind, carrying nothing, of course. “Oui, if it weren’t for your grand jeté at the end of the sequence, I think the duke would have sent us away before I got to know him better.” The girl was forever prowling about for a benefactor. Bria believed the only reason Florrie continued to dance supporting roles was to find a wealthy nobleman to set her up in lavish style. In truth, most of the girls in the troupe were waiting for opportunities to charm a gentleman into establishing them in comfortable accommodations.

  She switched feet, working her fingers from the arch to her toes. “I cannot believe he spoke to Henri Travere disrespectfully. I’ve never seen anyone be so bold before.”

  “I agree, though it was rather fun to watch,” said Pauline. “If His Grace weren’t such a large man, I believe Monsieur Travere would have escorted him outside. Besides, did you see that weapon he was carrying?”

  “His cane?” Bria asked. She’d noticed the piece, elegantly finishing off the duke’s pristine appearance. In truth, every dancer on stage had audibly sighed when the man boldly strode through the parterre, elegant beaver hat in hand, elaborately tied neckcloth, well-cut coat and skintight pantaloons trimmed by a pair of gleaming Hessian boots. Pity he wasn’t a danseur as such a masculine specimen would command the stage in any performance.

  “It had a silver ball on one end.” Pauline drew Bria from her thoughts. “A gentleman’s weapon for certain.”

  Florrie licked her lips. “Do you think it was pure silver?”

  “Of course,” Pauline insisted. “Ravenscar footed the bill for Chadwicks. Did you see the painting on the ceiling? Word is the duke is one of the wealthiest men in England.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad he was amenable in the end,” Florrie said, waggling her shoulders, the tart. “Did you see him? He looked like the prince of darkness.”

  “The prince of dreaaaaams.” Pauline twirled in place.

  Florrie clasped her hands over her heart. “I want him. Do you think he already has a mistress?”

  Looking to the ceiling, Bria jammed the heels of her hands against her temples. “Mon Dieu, you’re not here for an entire day and you’ve already set your sights on a duke.”

  “And why should I not?”

  “Because his class looks upon us as fallen women,” Bria replied. “We have absolutely no chance of marrying anyone from polite society.”

  “Your vision is full of stardust.” Rolling her eyes, Florrie snorted. “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “Perhaps you should
keep your options open,” said Pauline. “We’ll all need benefactors of some sort sooner or later.”

  “I strongly object.” Bria shoved her feet back into her slippers and stood. “I did not come to London to become someone’s mistress.”

  “Is that so, Madame High and Mighty?” asked Florrie. “Thespians do not marry outside their class and, in ballet, women outnumber the men three to one. You will not be nineteen for the rest of your days. And it is unlikely you’ll be dancing past six and twenty.”

  Bria arched her eyebrow, giving the fortune hunter a purse-lipped frown. “Whyever not? Gardel came out of retirement at thirty.”

  “For a year.” Grumbling, Florrie plopped her makeup valise on an open toilette. Brand new and smelling of lacquer and fresh paint, the dressing room for the principal women contained five toilettes with mirrors, which allowed for the three leads and two understudies.

  Glancing to Pauline for support, Bria stood her ground. “A woman can aspire to other pursuits.” She tried to sound convincing, but everyone knew if her stage debut was not a success, there would be little chance of ever being anything but a member of the corps.

  “Why are you so contrary to the notion of becoming a gentleman’s mistress?” Pauline asked, the turncoat. “Truly, all the great vocalists and ballerinas have benefactors. ’Tis the way of things, and come Tuesday you will be in the starlight. Men will be interested.”

  “Wealthy men,” Florrie added. “Excepting Ravenscar. He is mine.”

  Noticing a tear in one of her slipper ribbons, Bria fished in her sewing kit for a needle and thread and set to mending. What would she do if she were forced to leave the stage? Change her name? Forge references and become a governess? That might work until she was found out and thrown into prison. Still, if she didn’t set the bar high for herself, no one would—and nary a soul would give a fig.

  “I want no part in charming a man merely for his wealth. What happens when the dancer loses her looks or the gentleman grows tired of his mistress? She ends up out in the cold without a single silver coin in her reticule.”

  Rouge pot in hand, Florrie leaned closer to the mirror. “That’s why a girl must strive to please her benefactor, then she’ll have nothing to worry about. If you continue to keep your legs crossed, you’ll be finished by the age of six and twenty with nowhere to go.”

  But Florrie hadn’t been abandoned at the age of fourteen. In the past five years, Bria had scratched and clawed for her hard-won success, learning the brutal lesson not to rely on others for anything. “Who knows, perhaps someday I’ll be lucky, fall in love, and marry.” If there was one thing Bria craved more than dancing, it was to have a family of her own. But she wasn’t about to say that in front of Florrie—who knew how the girl would use such information against her at the most inopportune time? Goodness, she hadn’t even told Pauline about her dreams to be a mother, have a hoard of children to love and cherish, to no longer be alone.

  “I’ll always have somewhere to go,” Bria added, trying to sound self-assured. Bless it, she would struggle for the rest of her days if she must.

  “I wish I had your confidence,” said Pauline.

  “I’d call it arrogance,” Florrie added.

  Bria didn’t care to argue. Was she confident? Yes, she had to be in order to withstand Messieurs Travere and Marchand. Toes bleeding, she had worked hard every day to ensure she kept a place in the corps de ballet, and it was no windfall last year when she’d earned the right to be Taglioni’s understudy. What would she do when she was six and twenty? Heaven’s stars, that was seven years away. How could she think that far ahead when there was so much to concern herself with now? She tied a knot and snipped the thread. A woman of six and twenty was still in her prime. Bria practiced more and worked harder than any of the others. Why would she not be able to continue dancing at least until she found a decent man with whom to raise a family?

  Still, doubt pulled at her insides. What if something happened? What would she do if she were gravely injured?

  I know what I would not do.

  “Come.” Pauline tugged Bria’s arm. “We’re all tired. Let’s go see the boarding house we’ll be calling home through August.”

  “You go ahead with the others.” She pulled away. “I must rehearse.”

  “You cannot be serious,” said Florrie. “Everyone is exhausted. You have dark circles under your eyes. If you stay any longer, you’ll make yourself ill.”

  Bria held up her hands. “I disagree. My legs are stiff from traveling and I’m not about to step on stage for our premiere without being in peak condition.”

  Pauline looked her from head to toe. “No one is in better condition than you.”

  “That’s because I practice more than everyone else.” Bria sighed, giving her friend an appreciative smile, grateful to have someone who cared.

  Pushing to her feet, she headed for the stage while the other two followed.

  Florrie tapped her shoulder. “It isn’t safe to venture out alone.”

  “The boarding house is only three blocks away. I’ll be fine.” Stretching her arms over her head, Bria bent from side to side.

  “Very well, mon amie.” Pauline gave her a peck on the cheek. “But do not stay for more than an hour. Someone needs to look after your care and, since you’re averse to it, I’m taking a stand.”

  “Thank you.” Bria squeezed her friend’s hand. “I do appreciate your concern.”

  With a snort, Florrie flounced out behind Pauline, much the same as she had flounced into the dressing room. Bria shook her head. Truth be told, Florrie, a daughter of two principal dancers, had loads of natural ability but the girl was lazy. Both Pauline and Bria had to work like beasts of burden to earn their places in the company, though even Pauline had a better pedigree. Her father was a composer.

  Honestly, Bria had no idea what her pedigree might be. Once she’d started earning a meager wage, she had made inquiries and was still clueless as to the identity of the woman in the miniature from the wooden box she’d found the day before she’d been mercilessly turned out of the home she loved. The box had contained no memorandum, only a brass plate engraved with one name, “Britannia”. Not long after she’d arrived in Paris, she asked Monsieur Marchand what he knew about Sarah Parker and had only learned that the woman she’d once believed to be her mother had, indeed, been a member of the corps and was the daughter of an English vicar and had been well educated.

  AS BRIA MOVED TO CENTER stage, she looked over each shoulder to ensure she was alone, then she slid down until her legs were stretched as far to the sides as humanly possible. She lay her stomach on the floor, holding the position, willing her mind to embrace the pain. No, sliding into this pose was not ladylike for a female dancer but, in private, Bria worked through a number of exercises of her own design to improve her flexibility and strength. Some she’d learned as a child and others she’d copied from the male dancers and made them her own, each intended to give her an edge against her competition.

  After four years in the corps de ballet, Bria had fought her way past protégés like Florrie, though she’d only stepped in for Taglioni a few times at the famous Salle Le Peletier. This trip to London was Bria’s chance to prove she was worthy—worthy in her own right. This was her opportunity to prove she was as good as everyone else out there who knew who their parents were, who had a sense of identity. Bria’s mother—the only mother figure she knew—had introduced her to dance, and she’d embraced it with every fiber of her being. Ballet had become her sole master. It possessed her, drove her, consumed her.

  After stretching and already warmed up from rehearsal, she started in on changements, one hundred of them, followed by grands battements then leaps, one after another in quick succession around and around the stage as she breathed life into her limbs and willed away the stiffness caused by the past days of traveling. Her last grand jeté took so much effort, she landed with a huff. Crouching, her hands on her knees, she panted and fought to ca
tch her breath. “Merde, je suis fatiguée.”

  “Je comprends porquoi,” said a deep voice from the wings.

  Britannia jolted upright, her heart racing. “Who’s there?”

  The Duke of Ravenscar meandered from the abyss of black curtains and onto the stage, his gaze trained on her. Bria clasped her hands under her chin and scooted back as he neared. The man was nearly twice her size, black hair, startling eyes—vibrant blue like the color of a shallow sea. When he’d been speaking to Monsieur Travere on the parterre, he’d appeared poised and severe but now, looming so near, he was nothing short of dominating. “Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked, his French practiced, but not Parisian.

  She stood her ground and lowered her arms. She must not show fear, not to the man who held her future in the palm of his hand. Bria had faced powerful men before and the only way to earn their respect was to project an air of confidence no matter how much her insides quaked. “I do, Your Grace. Latin as well.”

  “Surprising for a...” His voice trailed off as he rubbed his neck and glanced away. Goodness he was imposing and, as everyone had noticed, well-formed.

  “A ballerina?” she ventured, too aware of the poor opinion society harbored for artisans. Truth be told, the Paris Opera Ballet was infamous as being the “nation’s harem”. Nonetheless, what was true for some did not apply to all, and Bria’s love of her craft would not be sullied by falling victim to the wiles of men.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “women in your profession are not known for their...ah...intellect.”

  Her spine shot to rigid with a jolt. “I emphatically disagree with you on that point. To be proficient one must be shrewd and learn quickly.”

  “Ah...perhaps that’s why you’re dancing the lead role. Forgive me if I was unduly coarse.” Dark, expressive eyebrows drew together. Heavens, his gaze disarmed her. “Your English is very good.”