Page 32 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

Meg smiled sweetly, as much to herself as to the older man. He had already done more for her than he could possibly know.

London

C hristine’s excitement at meeting Letitia for tea before calling on Adèle had faded to anxiety.

Erik’s clear worry about the encounter had not helped at all.

She told him, and herself, that this was not another Pauline.

This was a woman who was known (infamously) throughout London.

She wouldn’t betray them. It could be dangerous to see Adèle, yes, but hopefully, Pauline was halfway to New York by now.

London felt different, Christine had decided.

Or maybe it was better to say she felt different in London.

Her nightmares had started to fade, replaced by dreams of green hills and empty libraries.

She didn’t know what those visions meant, but she welcomed them, along with her waking fantasies of other ways to discipline her husband that were quite pleasant as well.

Would a woman like Letitia know about such things or would that be too forward to ask about over tea?

She would have to see how the friendship evolved.

This was a good thing, Christine assured herself as she fixed her hat and looked around the ornate interior of the tearoom to which she had been directed.

It was filled with palms and fine China on display, as well as lamps of colored glass and ornately carved wood paneling.

It screamed of riches, but in a subdued, English fashion.

It was a sharp contrast to the simplicity of Paris bistros, and Christine doubted she would be able to get a good cup of coffee here.

“There you are, Mrs. Gilbride!” a trilling voice called, and Christine rose to greet the gorgeous woman.

She was in a dress of pale yellow satin edged with lace, carrying a matching parasol.

It didn’t escape Christine’s attention that most of the eyes in the room turned toward them as she rose to greet Letitia.

“It is so very good to see you,” Christine said in her rehearsed English, and Letitia pouted and placed a hand on Christine’s cheek. “Was that bad?” she asked in French.

“Not at all, my dear,” Letitia replied in French as well. A woman at the table next to theirs gave a quiet huff of disapproval. “I just love to speak French and scandalize stuck up English harpies.” Letitia turned to the woman and smiled.

“I like you,” Christine laughed as they sat. “I do need to practice my English though. If we are to stay.”

“Do you intend to linger in London or somewhere else on this dreary island?” Letitia asked with delight.

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t dislike it so far.”

“But you were in Florence before? And Paris! Oh, I adore Paris.”

Christine knew Letitia meant it kindly, but it only made her heart ache. “It’s a wonderful city. What did you do there?”

“Why, it’s where all the best women of my persuasions learn their skills,” Letitia said with a wink, and Christine suppressed a guffaw. There were still women looking at them from all around the room.

“Do these ladies here know your... gifts?” Christine asked. It had been Letitia’s idea to come here, but they had not been served at all yet.

“Oh, yes. Their husbands even more,” Letitia replied. “Though they would never admit it. I like to come here once in a while to remind them all that I’m still here and still thriving.”

“How delightful. I think you’ll like Adèle and she you.”

Christine stopped. Adèle had once been brazen in her pursuit of lovers who could advance her career and keep her comfortable, until one such lover had turned on her in the vilest way because of Christine. Adèle said she forgave her, but would she want to see Christine after everything?

“Did you know her as a musician? Were you a singer too?” Letitia asked.

“I was. I performed at the Opéra with her,” Christine confessed, and Letitia looked adequately impressed. “I met my husband there. He was my teacher, but I decided I wanted a different sort of life.”

“What sort is that?” Letitia asked kindly, only for Christine to sigh.

“You see, that has been our problem. We needed a different life, but we weren’t specific in our petitions to fate of what exactly that meant.

So we wander.” The honesty was a relief.

Erik had never been one to plan ahead far, and while Christine had nurtured many dreams before, they had not been solid, realistic things. Just dreams.

“Well, now you’re in the land of practicality and propriety. I’m sure it will encourage some realism,” Letitia laughed. “Though that would be a shame, I think. Magic and mystery are so much more fun.”

“One can’t live on those,” Christine murmured.

“You’d be surprised. Come, it’s time for our appointment. I have my carriage – well, Bernard’s. He’s quite accommodating.”

“Don’t you want to wait for tea?” Christine asked, but as she looked around, the disapproving looks sharpened.

“They’ll never serve me here. And I’ll tell you a secret,” Letitia replied, and took Christine by the arm. “I hate tea.”

“So do I,” Christine giggled so loudly that one old woman looked ready to faint.

Letitia whisked them away to the waiting carriage, smiling all the while. She was like a beam of summer sun with her yellow dress and blonde hair, and it made Christine feel warm to be near her.

“Erik loves tea. He makes some himself,” Christine volunteered when they began to roll along.

“What an interesting and mysterious man your husband is. A Frenchman with the name of a Viking and an Irishman.”

“His mother was Irish.” Christine wondered if that information was wise to volunteer in this city.

“So was mine,” Letitia replied, and Christine relaxed. “Though I keep that quiet among the upper crust. A whore they can tolerate, but an Irishwoman enjoying life in their midst is something beyond the pale.”

“Is the prejudice really so bad?” Christine knew there was no love lost between the nations – one occupying the other – and that had been why it was such a shock to find herself here with him.

“Certainly. Worse in America though, I’ve heard.

I have friends that went there for a fresh start and it’s been a struggle.

Everyone seems to be leaving éire,” Letitia said with deep sadness.

“But here I am, in this lovely town, trying to make it as wild as I can, bringing a bit of Dublin and Paris to the mix.”

“Tell me more about your life here?” Christine asked hopefully. She didn’t want to think about America and all the places she couldn’t be. Only the place she was. “Are all your parties as exotic as the one last night?”

“Far more so,” Letitia grinned. “I have various circles of friends and acquaintances. Some, I invite to salons to bare their minds and souls in music and conversation, but the genuinely interesting ones I invite to enjoy bare asses and rare entertainments from other friends.”

“My goodness,” was all Christine could say, blushing to imagine such an event.

“It’s very much the opposite of goodness,” Letitia replied. “The other month, we had the most expert flogger in attendance. Men were lining up to have a go under her whip in front of everyone. She punished them quite fitfully for begging.”

Christine didn’t even try to keep her jaw from dropping. “Oh.”

“Dear me, have I shocked you? I assumed a singer from Paris who runs in the same circles as dear Howard would know of such things!” Letitia grasped Christine’s hand comfortingly. “You are married to a man who goes about in a mask.”

“That’s only because—I mean, I’m not offended! I—” Christine didn’t have the words, so she only laughed.

“Intrigued then?” Letitia asked with a sly smile, and Christine’s cheeks burned.

“I was not expecting such conversation,” she finally said, and it was Letitia’s turn to laugh.

“When you meet a courtesan for tea, you must adjust your expectations.”

“Apparently,” Christine muttered.

“Ah, here we are,” Letitia blessedly exclaimed.

They exited the carriage and beheld a handsome townhouse, far more luxurious than the flats in Paris. Adèle was doing well for herself here. A quiet maid let them in and showed them up to the door of a parlor, letting Letitia in first.

“Miss Ryan, a delight to meet you,” came a voice Christine had not heard for months. She wasn’t prepared for how the familiarity struck her heart. It had been so long since she’d had anyone she knew besides Erik with her.

“Madame Valerius, thank you for receiving me. It’s an honor to even share a room with such an artist,” Letitia was saying. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have brought you a very special gift to celebrate your success here in London.”

“A gift?” Adèle asked as Christine stepped into the room.

For a moment, she froze, looking as if she could not believe who she saw before her.

The last time Christine had seen Adèle was at the wedding before she and Erik had fled Paris forever.

Now here Christine was, standing before her friend like an errant child come home to a parent after running away.

“I believe you two know each other,” Letitia said, breaking Adèle from her stupor.

“I hope you don’t mind me joining—” Christine’s apology was eclipsed by the sudden power of Adèle’s embrace as she hugged Christine so tight she could barely breathe. Christine’s fear evaporated, replaced by overwhelming affection and gratitude for Adèle’s grace.

“Dear God, girl, I thought I might never see you again,” Adèle whispered into her hair. Christine drew back, sniffling and trying to keep her tears at bay.

“I wrote, but—”

“I left Paris only a few weeks after you,” Adèle explained. “I didn’t let anyone know where I was. I assumed you were too busy getting ravished from here to Calcutta by your infamous husband to worry about me.”

Somehow, that was what broke Christine and she gave a laugh that was half a sob. “I missed you,” she whispered.

Adèle smiled. “And I you. Oh, Miss Ryan. I’m sorry, I nearly forgot you,” she added, turning to Letitia and wiping her eyes.