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

by Amy Jarecki

  “I think the rose is more vibrant.”

  “Me as well.” Pauline leaned nearer. “You have the most astonishing look in your eye. What is it?”

  She patted the hidden miniature. “I think I might be a bit closer to finding the Grande-Duchesse.”

  “C’est magnifique! Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Later. I’ll relay all on our walk to the modiste.”

  “PRETTY ROSE, YOUR GRACE. Is it for our Sylph?” asked Florrie as Drake ventured backstage after the curtain call.

  “It is.”

  The woman flicked her curls. “You spoil her.”

  “I daresay Miss LeClair has earned far more than a simple rose.”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll be so lucky to receive a flower from a duke.”

  “Then you’re in luck. I bought one for every member of the cast. Mr. Perkins will be handing them out, I believe.” Drake shifted his attention to the guard posted outside the dressing room door. “Is Miss LeClair within?”

  The man knocked. “She is, Your Grace.”

  They waited.

  The man knocked again. “Miss LeClair?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Drake’s heart stopped.

  “Move aside!” he ordered, barreling into the chamber.

  Britannia sat in a chair holding a missive between trembling hands.

  “What the devil is it?”

  With a shrill gasp, she tossed the letter onto the toilette. “’Tis nothing.”

  “Right. Nothing makes you shake like you’re frightened half out of your wits.” Marching forward, he snatched the missive from the table.

  “Don’t.”

  He hesitated. “All right, if you do not want me to read your correspondence, at the least tell me what has upset you.”

  “I didn’t ever want you to know.”

  “Want me to know what, exactly?” He squeezed the rose’s stem so hard, the thorns dug into his palm. Damnation, he’d gone to great lengths to ensure her protection. Was this a clue to the identity of her stalker? About to jump out of his skin, he drew in a deep breath. “By now haven’t you realized there is absolutely no reason to hide anything from me?”

  “Tell him,” Miss Renaud said from the doorway. “Lady Hertford said his mother might know. Alors, this is your only chance of discovering the truth.”

  “Britannia?” He yanked the damned thorn out of his skin and licked the blood. But now was no time to shower the woman with a trite gift. He needed answers.

  “You’re right. Leave us and close the door please,” the Sylph said before picking up the missive and reading aloud:

  “You’ve had your warning. You should have returned to Paris. We do not want your kind here. I know what you are looking for and you shan’t find it. Should you pursue the matter further, you will force me to take drastic measures.”

  “Good God.” Drake slapped the damned rose on the toilette. “Who signed that compilation of drivel?”

  “’Tis unsigned of course, just like the last one.”

  “The last one?” His voice cracked. “How many of these letters have you received?”

  “This is the second. The first came after opening night.”

  “Opening night? You hadn’t been in London a week. To what matter is this phantom referring? Surely, he is mad.” To avoid gripping her shoulders and shaking her senseless, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Tell me at once!”

  “I didn’t want to appear less in your eyes than I already am.” Her shoulders sagged while she tugged the chain that she always wore around her neck until she produced a frame no greater in diameter than two of his fingers.

  “Is that a miniature?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She held up the portrait of a young woman, one with an uncanny resemblance to Britannia. “This was in a box with a handkerchief and a small amount of money. I’d never seen it before Madame and Monsieur LeClair died, but it was clearly mine. I’ll show you.”

  From a drawer in her toilette, she produced a small wooden box with Britannia etched on a brass nameplate and opened it. From within, she pulled out a yellowed handkerchief. “These are the only two clues to my parentage.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  Drake examined the monogram on the kerchief. “This bears the seal of the—”

  “Prince Regent,” she finished. “After my inquiries in Paris as to the identity of the woman in the miniature led nowhere, I thought something might come to fruition here.”

  “And that letter proves you’ve happened on to something.”

  “I don’t know if I have or not.”

  “Whoever the woman in the portrait is, someone is willing to go to great lengths to ensure you do not expose her. Bless it, Britannia, why did you not tell me about this sooner?”

  “I-I was afraid. A-and I’m trying to be discrete. Though I want to know who she is, I mustn’t do anything to sully her reputation.”

  “I daresay she deserves any incrimination coming to her.” His ire boiled beneath his skin, Drake hauled over a second chair and sat opposite Britannia. “Is there anything else you ought to tell me?”

  She wrung her hands. “That’s everything.”

  “Very well. Now that we have your darkest secret out in the open, start at the beginning. Is this box how you learned you were a foundling? Didn’t you once say you’d thought the LeClairs were your parents?”

  “I did.” She wiped her eyes, looking like a half-drowned kitten. “When they contracted smallpox, no one in Bayeux would help me care for them. But they sent for Monsieur LeClair’s brother once they had gone. He was a loathsome man, but he inherited the estate and I was at his mercy.”

  “Good Lord, do not tell me he ravished a child.”

  “No, but he did show me my baptismal record. Translated into English it read: Britannia, no surname, a foundling. Then he cast it into the fire, insisted he had no responsibility for my welfare, and demanded I be gone from his house by dawn the next day.”

  “And you were, what, fourteen years of age?”

  “Yes. With the money from the box, I purchased coach fare to Paris and pleaded with Monsieur Marchand to give me a place in the Paris Opera Ballet School.”

  “And he did so? At the age of fourteen? Did you have any prior training?”

  “Madame LeClair was in the corps de ballet. She’s the one who tutored me in everything. English, Latin, mathematics, and, especially, dance.”

  Scarcely unable to believe the outpouring of her childhood with him having been none the wiser, Drake ferociously twisted his signet ring. “She must have been raised well.”

  “Monsieur Marchand said she was the daughter of a vicar from Gloucestershire.”

  “Interesting, I wonder how such a woman came to be your foster mother.”

  “I have no idea.” Britannia picked up the rose and tapped it against her cheek. “But my birth was definitely recorded in Bayeux. I remember the town’s letters in bold across the top of the document.”

  Drake snatched the missive, rapping it with his finger. “So, the phantom who wrote this—a reprehensible coward—is responsible for the carriage wheel, the fire and two threatening missives.”

  She tried to hide a cringe behind the flower, but her eyes betrayed her. “I believe he also rifled through my things both here and at the boarding house.”

  Fire burst through Drake’s gut. If he ever uncovered the identity of the felon, he would strangle the life out of him with his bare hands. “When was this?”

  “Not long after La Sylphide opened.”

  “And you failed to tell me?”

  “At the time I thought Florrie was the culprit.”

  “Nonetheless, you should have said something. At least informed Mr. Perkins.” Drake’s mind raced. How on earth did a minister’s daughter from Gloucestershire end up in the Paris ballet school...and then move on to foster an infant in Bayeux? Nothing made sense. “Allow me a closer
look at the miniature.”

  The piece had been painted on porcelain and set in a gold frame with no markings on the back. “What was it that Miss Renaud said about Lady Hertford?”

  “I saw the dowager marchioness in Harding, Hamilton and Company and asked if she might know the woman in the picture. It had to have been painted twenty years ago or so.”

  Drake blinked twice at Britannia’s nerve. Not many would be so bold to approach a noblewoman and embark on a question and answer session. “Out of the blue, you walked up to a dowager marchioness and asked her to identify your miniature? Why her?”

  “I hired Mr. Gibbs to make some inquiries and he advised me that Lady Hertford was known to have been—ah—mistress to the Prince Regent during the year of my birth.”

  “Mr. Gibbs of all questionable characters? That man is a scum-swilling snake.” Drake inhaled to keep from cursing the man to holy hell. “When was this? Does the timing of the first missive coincide with your meeting?”

  “Non. I received that letter before I visited his offices. Besides, he’s the one who told me Lady Hertford was the Prince Regent’s only known mistress before I was born. But the miniature clearly isn’t of her.” Britannia ran her finger along the chain dangling from Drake’s grasp. “Oh, but she did tell me the portrait had been painted by—”

  “Adam Buck.” He placed the piece in her palm, relieved to hear Gibbs had acted respectably. “Her Grace used him on occasion.”

  “And that’s about the whole of it. With Mr. Buck being English, and the monogramed handkerchief, I cannot help but conclude that my mother was from Britain.”

  “Has anything else happened that you haven’t told me about? What about the wine incident with Lady Calthorpe?”

  “Surely that was an accident. Mon Dieu, she invited us to her home for a recital.” Britannia replaced the chain around her neck. “Though...”

  “What?”

  “’Tis but a feeling.” She shook her head. “I’m certain I’m wrong”

  “We’ve not much to go on. Feelings are mechanisms to tell us things that may be lurking beneath the surface. You’ve started down this path, you may as well tell me the rest.”

  “Very well.” Britannia met his gaze with a deep inhalation. “At the Calthorpe town house, I saw a portrait of Her Ladyship in the corridor outside the ballroom. For a moment I thought it had a likeness to the miniature. But truly I couldn’t be sure and discounted it as silliness. Of course, if the baroness knew she was my mother and wanted to keep the fact hidden, she wouldn’t have been so kind.”

  Unless she’s in the dark as well. Lady Calthorpe’s father was the Duke of Beaufort, a very powerful man. He’d also been the person holding the overfull glass of port at Her Grace’s soiree.

  “May I borrow your miniature?” Drake asked. “I’d like to present it to my mother without her knowing it is yours.”

  “Do you believe she would lie about it if she knew?” As she gave it to him, her fingers lightly brushed his.

  A whisper of awareness danced up his arm. “Honestly, I have no idea what to think.”

  As he stood, she did as well. “I’d rather go with you.”

  “Allow me to test the waters first.” He cupped her face his between his palms. “You have come to mean so much to me, I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

  While her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth, Britannia’s gaze meandered to his lips. “Thank you for the rose. ’Tis for me, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Pulled by an indescribable force, Drake dipped his chin. “I’d hoped to deliver it under happier circumstances.”

  Yes, he knew the last place he should kiss her was backstage.

  Merely one stolen kiss behind a closed door?

  On a relenting sigh, he lightly brushed his lips across hers. Her sweet, soft breath against his mouth hinted of unspoken promises.

  Forcing himself to drop his hands to his sides, Drake backed toward the door. “Please forgive me. I shall visit my mother on the morrow.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  STILL WEARING HER DRESSING gown, Bria read the morning Gazette while sipping tea in her parlor. The rooms Ravenscar had provided were so comfortable, she rued the need to return to Paris. But staying in London was out of the question. As soon as the Season came to an end, she must leave. Even the idea of returning next year was dangerous. What if the scoundrel behind all these awful deeds remained at large? What if he tried to kill her? Or kill someone else? What if the fire had grown out of control? She would already be dead, moreover, she might have been the cause of other deaths as well.

  “The Duke of Ravenscar, miss,” said the butler.

  Not waiting for her reply, His Grace stepped into the parlor, his face grim. “Mother has gone to bloody Brighton.”

  The saucer clinked as Bria replaced her cup. “Oh no. And I’d hoped so much for her to be able to identify my miniature. When will she return?”

  “I have no idea, but I am not waiting. ’Tis just over a half-day’s journey. I’ve asked the grooms to prepare the town car. Will you go with me?”

  With the flurry of butterflies in her stomach, she almost said yes. “But I’d miss tonight’s performance.”

  “Your understudy can cover for one night.”

  “Florrie?” Bria snorted. “She’s awful on point.”

  “’Tis only this once. Let the girl have a turn. Besides, I’ve already sent word to Mr. Perkins.”

  “Without asking me first?”

  “I can always advise him of a change of plans, but I need your answer forthwith. Do you want to come along or not?”

  She wouldn’t hesitate if anyone in the troupe besides Florrie was her understudy. Bria tapped her fingers on the teapot handle. If she did take the night off, it would give Pauline a chance to dance the part of Effie. “All right, I’ll go.” Bria stood. “But first I must change.”

  “And pack a portmanteau. We’ll stay over by the sea and come back first thing in the morning.”

  “There are rooms enough for the both of us?” she asked.

  “Yes. My town house in Brighton is every bit as big as the one on Half Moon Street.”

  “The mind boggles at the extent of your wealth. I simply cannot fathom it.” Bria used a hand bell to ring for her maid then quickly hastened to her chamber to don a day gown and pack her necessities in her only portmanteau.

  Ravenscar set the Gazette aside and shot to his feet as she returned to the parlor, the butler following with her valise. “That was quick. Any other woman would have taken until midday.”

  “I suppose a woman with few possessions, accustomed to doing things herself is a bit more efficient than one who has been pampered all her life.”

  “Are you saying my mother isn’t efficient?”

  “I have no grounds upon which to judge, but I’m guessing she would spend a great deal of time deciding which gowns to bring, which shoes, hats, gloves, jewelry, fans...need I go on?”

  Ravenscar took the portmanteau from the butler. “We’ll be slipping out unawares, so I will do the honors, thank you.”

  Bria led the way to the servants’ stairs. “You seem like any normal man when you carry my things.”

  “Normal? How do I appear otherwise?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re a duke...one of the untouchables.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have you know, I certainly have carried my share of crates and trunks over the years.”

  She giggled, unable to picture Ravenscar trudging along a footpath with a trunk on his back. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “I haven’t always been a duke. And I didn’t receive any preferential treatment when I was at Eton or at Oxford.”

  By the time they reached the mews, the carriage was rigged, its doors turned to the shiny, black panels without the Ravenscar crest and the coachman was standing at the block ready to lend a hand.

  THEY’D BEEN TRAVELING for hours when, the town car jerked and wobbled from side to side. With a g
asp, Bria braced her palms on the velvet seat.

  “Ho!” hollered the driver.

  Drake pounded the pommel of his cane on the ceiling. “What the devil is—?”

  “Aaaaaaaack!” Bria cried as the carriage jolted and came to stop, sending her flying through the air, straight toward His Grace.

  Before she could grab something to stop her momentum, his arms wrapped around her. “I have you,” he grunted in her ear.

  Yes, he did.

  Breathless and stunned, Bria looked into his eyes. Beautiful, expressive eyes stared back, concerned, and a deeper emotion she couldn’t put a name to.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice husky.

  He cared. Yes, she knew he held her in high esteem, but now she was certain his regard for her extended much further than friendship. His concern made her want to embrace him and never let go.

  She nodded, not bothering to look back to her seat. If only she could stay in his arms for the duration of the journey.

  Outside, the clatter of horses passed them.

  “Apologies, Your Grace,” the driver hollered from above. “We barely avoided a collision.”

  “Carry on,” Ravenscar replied before returning his attention to Bria. “I rather like this new seating arrangement.”

  Unable to help herself, she brushed her fingers over his exquisite silk neckcloth. “It is...um...cozy.”

  Black eyelashes fanned his eyes while he slid his palm along the curve of her waist. “And my hand fits ever so nicely right here.”

  A tiny gasp escaped her throat. “Your Grace—”

  “Britannia, when we are alone, I want you to call me Drake.” Licking his lips, his gaze shifted to her mouth. “You may not realize it, but ever since you asked me to kiss you at Mother’s soiree, I’ve thought about that moment at least a hundred times a day.”

  Was she floating? Bria could have sworn she’d just turned weightless. “Only a hundred?”

  “Is it not obvious? Though propriety insists I remain aloof, I always seem to lose myself when we are alone.”

  “Y-you do?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  The inside of the carriage turned into the Sylph’s magical forest as their gazes held with an awareness deep with meaning. How could she resist him when he looked at her with such fierce desire? How could she resist a man who’d protected her and shown her boundless kindness at every crisis? Drake had established her in a suite of rooms without asking for anything in return. And now they were traveling to Brighton for the single task of querying his mother about the identity of the mysterious Grande-Duchesse at long last. What other nobleman would go to such lengths?