Page 56

Duke of Chelmsford’s Mansion

Berkley Square, Mayfair

O livia could exhibit barely an ounce of enthusiasm for the task ahead of her. Outside her bedchamber window, a weak spring sun pushed at gray-puffed clouds, mirroring her own thoughts.

Everything had come together at once in preparation for her coming-out ball a week from Tuesday.

She’d been so busy learning ballroom “etiquette” from Alice and proper movements from the dance master Her Grace had hired, that she’d convinced herself the actual ball was still somewhere in the far distant future.

But now her cowardly brain had to accept the truth. The ball her brother had plotted and connived to obtain for her was actually going to occur…the following Tuesday. She’d have to bare herself to public inspection, like a mare at an auction at Tattersall’s.

And the hoped-for outcome? Ending up leg-shackled to a stiff-rumped “gentleman” whose hopes and dreams would be nothing like hers. She’d spend the rest of her life living a lie. She knew in her heart of hearts: She was no lady. She was a woman with dreams and aspirations of her own.

Trying on the vast wardrobe that had been delivered that morning from Madame Clarot’s was the last thing she wanted to do.

Each confection was designed to present to perfection her complexion and blue eyes praised by many as startling.

And she had to admit the many evening gowns, dinner ensembles, day dresses, carriage dresses, and one glorious green velvet swirling cape made her itch to try them on and see if she’d look like the elusive “lady” her brother expected her to be.

She slumped into the chair at her ruffled dressing table, put her elbows onto the top, cupped her hands beneath her chin, and stared at the face in the mirror. Her deportment tutor would faint if he could see her now.

Who was she, exactly? Where did she come from?

If she had parents, and surely she did, somewhere, why had they abandoned her to the streets of London when she was a toddler?

The years she’d spent being groomed as a pickpocket sped through her memory like a blur of crowds, constantly moving, like throbbing masses of insects on the streets of London.

She remembered little from that vignette into her past. The part she could not forget were the years after her handler had no further use for her.

Once she’d grown beyond the innocence of a child with impossibly large blue eyes and dark curls, he’d abandoned her back to the streets where he’d found her.

The streets teaming with other men who wanted to exploit her for the only thing she had left.

Something back then had cracked in her still youthful mind. She’d decided she was through with being used. The night Dickie and Will had found her, Olivia had been ready to give herself up to the soothing flow of the Thames.

They’d been her only and best friends since then, and now she’d pushed Will away. He’d not reappeared at the Chelmsford mansion for over a week. Everyone had commented on his absence, even the duke, who inexplicably seemed to miss their daily raids of the biscuit supply in the kitchen.

Her lady’s maid, Louisa, found her there, deep into a dark fit of the blue devils.

“I’m not going to ask why a young woman about to come out into society is acting a if someone stole her puppy, but here’s a new pile of gossip sheets Her Grace just finished reading.

” She plopped the lot on the bed’s counterpane.

“Let me know when you’re ready to try on that magnificent wardrobe of yours. I’ll be down in the servants’ quarters having my morning tea. Just ring.” With that, she left as quietly as she’d slipped in.

Olivia walked over to the selection of scandal sheets, took one, and flopped down on top of the counterpane to read the latest on dits of society’s mistakes. The fact that she wasn’t the only victim of the ton’s unforgiving eye gave her some comfort.

And then she saw it. The on dit was a small item on an inside page, but the words seared into her brain:

What well known opera soprano hides a long, lost illegitimate daughter?

Who could she be? This correspondent has seen a similar set of eyes the rare sapphire color of said soprano’s eyes only once before…

in Mayfair. We prefer not to mention names, but rumor has it the other owner of those eyes will soon celebrate her coming-out ball under an assumed name.

Olivia rang the wall bell for a footman and strode to the parlor’s writing desk.

She had just finished the final flourishes to her message when the footman tapped at the door.

She handed him the folded, sealed missive and explained, “This has to get to my brother at Lady Camilla’s house on St. James Square as quickly as is physically possible.

The young man gave her a quick look of something like a cross between sympathy and understanding, grabbed the message, and took off toward the front staircase at a fast trot.

St. Giles’s toe bone…did everyone read the gossip sheets?

More to the point, did everyone now suspect she was the blow-by of an opera singer?

Olivia knew the one person who most certainly would have read that on dit and would know better than anyone what this could mean for her. She had to see the duchess, Olivia’s former savior and employer, Captain El.

A pril 19, 1830

Bow Street

Near Covent Garden Theatre

Will trotted up Bow Street at a fast clip, trying not to stand out in his garish Peeler uniform. He’d tried to time his comings and goings so that he didn’t overlap varying shifts of Runners. He didn’t want to be marked as showing up at the same time every day.

He’d bribed a worker at the Covent Garden Theatre to let him know when the famous opera singer, Constantia Villeneuve, who was performing as Queen of the Night that month in Die Zauberflote, came and went from her rehearsal sessions.

He’d taken up a discreet spot safely hidden in an alleyway to spy on the woman who’d come to the station the week before inquiring as to the whereabouts of her lost daughter.

Will fairly ached with the need to tell Olivia.

He so wanted to let her know her mother had not abandoned her, but instead had apparently turned her over to criminals who’d at first extorted money from the woman ostensibly to care for the babe.

After years of lies, they’d simply told her the girl had been adopted and then severed contact.

Now, she was desperate to find her daughter.

He secretly wondered if Miss Villeneuve had told his captain the whole story.

What had happened to bring on her sudden desperation?

Telling Olivia the story her heart needed to hear was out of the question before she secured a good marriage.

No gentleman of the ton would want to take to wife the by-blow of a famous opera singer.

He promised himself he’d send a long letter of explanation once she was safely married.

And then he saw the same man who’d shown up at exactly the same time each day.

He entered the performers’ entrance as if he belonged there, but Will suspected otherwise.

The dark-haired man showed up each day a half hour before Miss Villeneuve ended her rehearsal.

He dressed in the finest of clothing and was picked up by his own personal carriage at the end of his visits.

The unknown man left about twenty to thirty minutes later carrying a thick envelope. Several minutes after his exit, the performer herself left through the side stage door, her shoulders slumped and her head down.

One day Will ventured into the theater and introduced himself to the stage manager. “I’ve been on this beat a few weeks, and I’ve noticed a man who seems not to be a performer going through the stage door each day at the same time. Is he an employee here?”

The other man tilted his head and gave Will an odd look. “Are you one of those boys who can’t stop eyeing Miss Villeneuve?”

Will steeled himself not to react or, God forbid, flush bright red. “I’m merely executing my duty, sir.”

“If you’re going to watch over the theatre, then you might want to acquaint yourself with the ways of opera singers, actresses, and the like. The man you’re concerned about is Baron Barclay Reynolds, and I presume he’s, um, one of Miss Villeneuve’s protectors.”

“Thank you sir, for all your help.” Will slapped the dust off his stovepipe hat against one trouser leg, gave the manager a short bow, and escaped back out onto the street to trot back to his regular beat.

A week wasted, and he was no closer to finding out what had so terrified Olivia’s mother that she’d come to his station for help.

A pril 19, 1830

Duke of Chelmsford’s carriage

Streets near Piccadilly

Perseus Whitcombe, Duke of Chelmsford, had observed his newly found niece, Olivia, mope about the house so often in the last few days that he’d decided to take things into his own hands.

Even as he’d made the decision, he knew Her Grace would give him a tongue-lashing for interfering in the poor girl’s affairs. And a good tongue-lashing from Eleanor sometimes turned out to be so enjoyable that, frankly, he could not envision a down side.

And so here he was having his driver slowly course along the streets of Will Beckford’s beat whilst also sending two of his strongest footmen running along side streets to see if they could get a glimpse of the missing Peeler.

After showing up almost daily for weeks, the man had virtually disappeared for the last week and half leading up to the imminent coming-out ball.

Olivia was never going to find a husband with a long face and trembling frown.

After several hours of twists and turns, Percy knocked on the roof of his cavernous carriage. When his coachman pulled up the perfectly matched grays, Percy stuck his head out the window and said, “Let’s go out on Piccadilly for a few streets.”

“Goin’ to be slow work this time of day, Yer Grace.”

“What else do I have to do today?” Percy asked, and motioned the man onward before sitting back inside against the soft squabs. He’d nearly drifted off to sleep when he heard one of his running footmen shout, “There he is?—.”