Page 8 of A Wallflower Demands Satisfaction
With that, she turned and used the pointed end of her parasol to thrust hard onto the top of one of Dickie’s boots.
“Ow—why’d you poke me?”He moved away from her to the far side of the path.
“Because that seemed to be the only way to get your attention.”
“I’m listening.”
“I haven’t decided yet if I want to spend the rest of my life with some high-in-the-instep ‘gentleman.’”
“I knew it…youdowant Will instead.”He doffed his bowler hat and slapped it hard against his trousers.“Are you saying you want a man whose whole life, night and day, is devoted to work with the Peelers?What kind of marriage would that be?With the small amount of blunt he makes, you’d be back running the laundry at Goodrum’s before I could say ‘cock o’ the walk.’”
She turned on him, furiously windmilling her fists at his chest.
“Now wot?”He gently took both of her gloved hands in his.
“What’swrongwith my running a profitable business like the laundry?Whywouldn’tI want to go back?”
As the first tear spilled down her cheek, her brother ceased his “helpful” speech and simply took her in his arms while she sobbed out her frustrations.The thing was, she had no idea why she was frustrated.Will was the best friend besides her brother that she’d ever had.Why would she marry him and spoil that?
5
APRIL 17, 1830
MADAME CLAROT’S MODISTE SHOP
* * *
Bond Street, Mayfair
Madame Clarot gave her assistant a measured look.“The opera singer, Miss Constantia Villeneuve, is coming in today for a final fitting on a gown I designed and began work on last month.”
Her partner Marie nodded, but there was a question in her eyes.
Annnalise acknowledged what she assumed her partner was thinking.“Yes, Miss Whitcombe is the very image of Miss Villeneuve, but we mustn’t even whisper a word of comment about the extreme likeness.”
“Surely Miss Villeneuve would know if Miss Whitcombe were her daughter.”
“Perhaps, but that is none of our business.”Annalise raised an index finger in warning.“Not a word…to anyone.Our business depends on discretion in all things.If our clients suspect we are revealingon ditsabout their private lives, we would have to wave good-bye to all of this.”She swept her arm around the elegant surroundings of the shop they’d worked years to build with the custom of the wealthiest women of the ton.
“Of course,” Marie assured her, but later that day she paid a hack driver to deliver her to Monmouth Street where all the most successful gossip sheets were printed.
* * *
April 17,1830
Covent Garden Theatre
London
Constantia Villeneuve frowned and handed over a fistful of five-pound notes to a well dressed man who visited her every Thursday afternoon at her dressing room at the Royal Opera.She had no idea how much longer she could appease the bastard before she’d have to confess all to her current protector, Lord Brantford, and throw herself at his mercy.
Even though she played most major parts that became available in London for coloratura sopranos, the pay she earned was barely enough to fulfill the blackmailer’s never-ending demands.At the moment she was playing the Queen of the Night inDieZauberfloteat the Covent Garden Theatre.Without the support of Brantford, she wouldn’t be able to keep a roof over her head in her tiny cottage in St.John’s Wood.
She gave her chin a stubborn tilt.“When will I be able to see my child?”
“I’m afraid that would not be wise at this particular time.”
“Why?Is there something wrong with her?”A note of panic crept into her voice.