But resist him she must.
Something must’ve shown in her face, perhaps her internal conflict, for his own sobered, that devastating smile faltering as he stepped closer to her. “Miss Dinwoody? Eve? Is something amiss?”
For the life of her she didn’t know how to answer.
So it was almost a relief when she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Eve Dinwoody? Are you here?”
She turned, her heart plummeting for an entirely different reason as she saw Lady Phoebe, the youngest sister of the Duke of Wakefield.
The woman her brother had wronged so very horribly.
Eve felt her stomach roil. She glanced down at the opal ring gleaming on her finger and back up. “Lady Phoebe… I… forgive me, my lady. I did not know you would be on Bond Street today.”
She felt Mr. Makepeace take her arm, and she was inordinately glad that he was there to steady her.
Lady Phoebe was short and plump and very pretty, and, if Eve wasn’t mistaken, she had a small but significant bump at her waist. She had her hand on the arm of a taller, much sterner man, his dark hair pulled back into a severe braided queue. With his other hand he leaned on a cane.
Lady Phoebe had had a winsome smile upon her face, but it faltered at Eve’s words and she looked a little hurt. “Are you avoiding me, Miss Dinwoody? I vow no matter what happened this last summer I don’t think I have a need to forgive you.”
“Don’t you?” Eve knew she was speaking too bluntly, too plainly, but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d felt horrible when she’d discovered what Val had done, and this was the first time she’d seen the other woman since that fateful night. “My brother tried to do you an unconscionable evil.”
“Your brother, not you, Miss Dinwoody,” Lady Phoebe said softly. “Why, were we all to be judged by our brothers, I’m not sure what we would do.”
“I…” Eve felt tears prick at her eyes. She hadn’t thought to find such simple kindness. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Please.” Lady Phoebe held out her hand. Eve took it—what other choice did she have? “Please, call me Phoebe.”
“Oh, I—”
“And I hope I shall see you at the meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children next week? I know Hero sent you an invitation, for she told me so most expressly. Apparently you’ve missed our other meetings.”
Eve felt the blush climb her cheeks. “I… I don’t know if—”
“But I do know,” Phoebe said gently. “Please come.”
Eve looked a little helplessly at Mr. Makepeace, who stirred and addressed the couple. “My lady, Captain Trevillion. I’d heard you make your home now in Cornwall.”
“I do.” Captain Trevillion glanced down at the woman beside him and Eve was amazed at the softening of his eyes. “We do. My wife and I have come up to London to assist my father in the sale of some horses. Phoebe, I think you remember Mr. Harte of Harte’s Folly? He’s accompanying Miss Dinwoody and Miss Dinwoody’s footman, I believe.”
Phoebe’s blind eyes stared just past Eve’s shoulder. “How nice to meet you again, Mr. Harte. Tell me, how is your garden renovation coming along? I do so miss the theater there.”
Mr. Makepeace bowed, though the lady couldn’t see his gallantry. “Steadily apace, my lady. I hope to reopen in less than a month. I trust you’ll be there?”
She turned to her husband. “What do you think, James? Perhaps we can bring Agnes up for a fortnight or more?” Her head swiveled back to them. “My husband’s niece has never been to the theater.”
“Then she must come to our first night reopened,” Asa said. “I’ll send round a set of complimentary tickets to your brother’s house.”
“Oh, thank you!” Phoebe blushed quite becomingly. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Harte.”
“It’s my pleasure, my lady.”
“Thank you, Harte.” Captain Trevillion nodded at the other man. “Miss Dinwoody. If you’ll excuse us, I believe my wife is meeting her sister for tea and cakes and I’ll be in in trouble if she’s late.”
Mr. Makepeace bowed again while Eve dipped into a curtsy as they made their farewells. She watched as Phoebe and her new husband exited the candelabra shop. It was so wonderful to know the other woman didn’t blame her for her brother’s sin. She really liked Lady Phoebe.
So it was with a smile on her lips that she turned to Mr. Makepeace again.
Only to meet his suspicious gaze. “What exactly did the Duke of Montgomery do to Lady Phoebe?”
Chapter Five
On the day of her seventeenth birthday, the nursemaid took Dove’s hand and said, “The king will command you to dine with him tonight. Do everything that he bids you, child, all but this: no matter what he does or says, never look away from his eyes.”…
—From The Lion and the Dove
Miss Dinwoody glanced about the shop nervously before whispering, “Lower your voice.”
Asa arched an eyebrow, not bothering to do as he was told. “Are you going to answer me?”
She walked away toward the entrance to the shop.
Asa felt his ire rise.
In two strides he was beside her, though he didn’t try to take her arm. Jean-Marie was right behind them, and no doubt keeping an eagle eye on his mistress. “I dislike being ignored, luv.”
“And I dislike discussing my family’s business,” she snapped back as they walked outside. “What happened between my brother and Lady Phoebe isn’t any of your concern.”
He knew what she said was reasonable, perhaps even correct, but something inside him rebelled at being so firmly shoved aside. At being told he had no right to discuss her family and her worries.
At being told to go away like a fucking bootblack boy.
“If the duke’s actions impact upon my garden, it’s entirely my bloody concern,” he said, sounding like a pompous ass even to his own ears.
She blew out a breath. “This matter has absolutely nothing to do with your precious garden. Why can’t you just let the matter drop?”
Why indeed? Because he’d made his interest known and he wasn’t about to back down now. More, he wasn’t going to be ignored by her, even if she was the daughter of a bloody duke. Other ladies might tell him he was too common, too fucking poor, but he wouldn’t let her do it.
Not her.
He dodged around two ladies standing and gossiping by a shop display, and regained her side. “Did he assault her?”
Miss Dinwoody stopped dead and turned to him. “What?”
It was his turn to eye their surroundings. They stood in broad daylight in Bond Street, the crowds streaming by them. He lowered his head and looked at her intently. “You heard me. Did your brother hurt the lady?”
“No!” Her look was pure aristocrat now, cold and aloof, and it was driving him near insane. “I’ve already told you that I won’t speak on the matter.”
For a moment he stared at her, his rage boiling beneath his skin. Her eyes widened with something that might’ve been comprehension, but he was already turning and shoving his way through the crowd, leaving her behind.
“Wait!”
Her call jerked him to a stop, his chest rising and falling swiftly.
He heard the patter of her slippers and then she rounded his side, peering into his face. Her hand half rose, but she hesitated as if afraid and then let it fall.
She glanced away, biting her lip, and said softly, “Val didn’t hurt her—at least not in the manner that you imply. Val would never hurt a lady so.” She glared at him, her sky-blue eyes sparking as if she dared him to contradict her. “I can’t believe you would think that of my brother.”
“What else am I to think when you won’t tell me the truth?” he growled.
“Not that. Never that,” she whispered, and something in her voice made him want to take her into his arms and comfort her.
He shook his head, glancing around. “Damn it, where is your carriage?”
Asa jerked, having somehow forgotten the footman in the midst of their argument.
Jean-Marie was giving him a none-too-friendly look, but his face softened as he turned to his mistress. “Come, ma chérie, you are tired now. Let us go to your carriage.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
They set off, Asa prowling broodingly behind. At least the position gave him an excellent chance to try to catch a glimpse of her ankles again.
Five minutes later, when they were at last in the carriage and settled, he looked at Miss Dinwoody and demanded, “Well?”
She looked across at him, earnestly. “You mustn’t tell anyone, for the entire matter was made quiet by the Duke of Wakefield.”
Asa placed a palm over his heart and cocked his head mockingly. “You have my word.”
She pursed her lips at his sarcasm.
He stared at her, waiting.
Reluctantly, it seemed, she said, “You remember the kidnapping attempts against Lady Phoebe this last summer?”
Asa arched an eyebrow. “Yes.”
The gossip had it that there had been several attempts to steal Lady Phoebe. Further, some said that at least one of the attempts had been successful and that the lady had been held against her will for days or even weeks—a huge scandal in the aristocracy. Lady Phoebe came from the bluest of blue blood and her elder brother was both powerful and wealthy. The gossip had abruptly died after Lady Phoebe’s marriage to Captain Trevillion.
Happiness, it seemed, wasn’t of any prurient interest.
Miss Dinwoody sat very straight, despite the swaying of the carriage. “Val was the kidnapper. He wanted to force her into marriage.”
“What?” That didn’t make any sense at all. “Montgomery is an aristocrat and rich to boot. If he wanted to court Lady Phoebe, why would he bother kidnapping her?”
“Because he didn’t plan to marry her himself. He wanted to force her into marriage with—”
Here she stopped and pressed her lips together.
But Asa was still boggling over the idea that Montgomery had set upon such a harebrained scheme. “Why?”
Miss Dinwoody shrugged, looking miserable. “He was mad at the Duke of Wakefield and wanted revenge.”
“By kidnapping his younger sister?” Asa stared, trying to work out the Duke of Montgomery’s thought process. “Your brother is insane.”
“How dare you speak about Val that way,” she said quietly.
He hadn’t thought before he’d said the words aloud, but having said them he wasn’t about to back down. Asa leaned forward, ignoring the jolt of the carriage, ignoring the footman’s hard stare, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that said not to antagonize her. “Montgomery’s amoral and crazy.”
She stared at him, her lips stubbornly pressed together.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you helping him?”
“He’s my brother.”
“And he doesn’t care a whit for you or anyone else.”
“You don’t know that.” Her voice had lowered instead of rising, but that only made her words more intense. “You don’t know anything about me and my brother and what he’s done for me in my life. No one does.” She inhaled shakily. “Val might be without clear morals, he may be selfish and wicked and yes, perhaps even insane, but I love him. He’s the only family I have in this world. The only person I can trust.”
He stared at her. She was right: he didn’t know her, didn’t know her past or her relationship with her brother. That was the way it should be.
That was the way it had to be.
He spent the rest of the carriage drive staring out the window and trying to convince himself of that fact.
“LIKE THIS, ALICE,” Bridget said gently—and ever so patiently—as she showed the maid how to polish the filigree on a silver cup.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alice said, applying the rough side of her piece of leather to the cup. “But wouldn’t it be easier to use sand?”
“Easier, perhaps,” Bridget said. “But the sand would wear away the silver and the filigree over time. That’s why we use a piece of leather and hard work.”
“Oh.” Alice knit her brows, apparently contemplating that as she bent to her task.
Bridget sighed silently as she watched Alice. Everything took just a bit longer with this maid—instruction, work, even getting ready in the morning. She knew she should’ve let Alice go from Hermes House at the start, but Bridget simply hadn’t the heart to do so. A girl like Alice would have a hard time finding a decent job in London—she’d become a maid at Hermes House only because her cousin was one of the footmen. Left to her own devices in the city she might very well fall into a procurer’s hands. No, Bridget decided, she wouldn’t let Alice go.
Even if she did take a trifle more effort.
Bridget gave an approving nod to the maid—receiving a shy smile in return—and turned to leave the butler’s pantry, closing the door behind her. She made her way down the narrow back passageway and into the huge kitchens. Mrs. Bram, the cook, was chopping vegetables while several scullery maids scoured the floor.
“Agatha,” Bridget called to an upper maid just entering the kitchens. “Are you done dusting the music room?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said promptly. Agatha was a sturdy woman of forty years or so, stolid and dependable.
“Good,” Bridget replied. “Please help Alice polish the silver in the butler’s pantry. And Agatha?”
“Ma’am?”
Bridget looked her in the eye. “I’ve counted and recorded every piece of plate in the pantry. See that nothing goes missing.”
Agatha swallowed audibly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Bridget nodded and turned to walk to the front of the house. She might be too softhearted to let go a slow maid, but that didn’t mean she was a fool. The silver plate in the butler’s pantry was worth more money than any of the servants in this great house would ever see in a lifetime.
She was making her way along the dark servants’ passage when a small shape suddenly appeared ahead.
Bridget stopped short, her hand involuntarily going to her heart.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Crumb,” came Alf’s cheery greeting as he moved closer.
Bridget eyed the boy through narrowed eyes. “Where did you come from?”
Alf shrugged. “St. Giles, if you be needin’ to know.”
Bridget ignored the cheek. “I was just in the kitchens and you certainly didn’t come in the servants’ entrance. I would’ve seen you.”
“Maybe I felt like comin’ in the front like proper folk,” Alf said, his chin tilted cockily.
“Neither you nor I qualify as ‘proper folk,’” Bridget retorted. “At least not when it comes to aristocratic homes like Hermes House. See to it in the future that you enter through the servants’ door.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Alf replied, touching a finger to his wide-brimmed hat.
“And why are you in Hermes House, might I ask?”
“Doin’ my job, ain’t I?” Alf said. He leaned to the side, pointedly looking behind Bridget. “Now can I get some tea or not?”
Bridget eyed the boy. He hadn’t exactly answered her question. But then the duke had always been a secretive sort. Perhaps Alf really was about business he couldn’t discuss. She sighed and moved aside. “Very well.”
“Ta.” Alf ducked past her, hurrying off to the kitchens.
Bridget watched him go. There was something about the boy that was just a little… strange.
She turned and glanced down the servant’s passage. Alf had come from this direction, but there were no doors along the way, only the single entrance at the end that led into the front hall. He must’ve entered the passage without her noticing.
Thoughtfully Bridget fingered the wooden paneling on the wall. And then, on a whim, knocked.
The wall rang solid.
Well, of course it did. Shaking her head at he
r own foolishness, Bridget continued on her way.
EVE WAS SQUINTING at a receipt, trying to decide if a smear of ink was a seven or a nine, when the door to the theater office opened the next morning. Music drifted through the door—apparently the orchestra was rehearsing today.
“Oh, pardon me,” came an accented voice, and Eve glanced up to see the outrageously beautiful creature who had been in Mr. Makepeace’s bed that first day. What had he called her? Oh, yes: La Veneziana.
Eve straightened at her cherrywood desk, feeling especially drab in her sensible brown frock. “You don’t happen to have a child as well, do you?”
So far this morning two of Polly Potts’s dancing friends and one actress had stopped by to inquire if they too could bring their children to the theater while they worked. Apparently there was an epidemic of child care problems. Eve couldn’t very well say no when she’d already granted Polly permission to bring little Bets, and so she’d said yes in each case.
She was beginning to wonder, however, how Mr. Makepeace might take it when he found a bevy of small children running about the theater.
Perhaps she should look into hiring a nanny for the theater.
“No, I don’t have a child.” The soprano glanced at Eve a little oddly. “I was just looking for Asa. You are Miss Dinwoody, yes? I think we met at Asa’s rooms.” She tilted her head, revealing the gap between her teeth as she smiled. “Though per’aps you do not recognize me clothed.”
Eve felt heat climb her face. “I do recognize you, Miss… er…”
“Please, you must call me Violetta.” She shrugged, dropping into Mr. Makepeace’s empty chair. “Everyone does who does not call me La Veneziana.” She wrinkled her nose. “Signora sounds so very old, do you not think so?”
“Erm…”
Violetta poked at a doorknob that Mr. Makepeace had inexplicably left amid the clutter on his desk. “Do you know where he is?”
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