Most Eagerly Yours (19 page)

“Tell me,” she said, “does this New Age allow for the participation of women?”

“Indeed, when the w-women are as astute as you, Mrs. Sanderson . . . or”—he leaned closer still, face bright with an eager hope that caused her to flinch a little away from him—“m-may I call you Laurel?”

The drawn-out whisper of her first name raised gooseflesh down her back. In his lingering gaze she saw a disconcerting jumble of wistfulness, fear, expectation, while in the accompanying puff of air she received a cloying whiff of brandy.

That might explain the loosening of his tongue and his contradiction concerning his acquaintance with Rousseau.

Before she could answer him, the gaslit sconces throughout the theater began to dim. Behind them, an usher released drapery cords and the velvet curtains fell closed.

“D-damn.” Fitzclarence rubbed a hand across his chin. “I find myself f-far more interested in the present company than in the c-coming performance. I should certainly enjoy continuing our c-conversation at a later time . . . Laurel.”

Oh dear. Had she encouraged him too far? She had only meant to further his confidence, but too late did she realize that what others would take for simple cordiality, George Fitzclarence perceived as flirtation.

Still, she now had an invitation of sorts, and she must not let him forget the offer he had extended.

Was she about to enter into the political intrigues of the Radical Reformers? Butterflies filled her stomach as she continued to tempt fate. “I should like that very much as well, my lord.”

Lady Devonlea leaned around her husband to shush them both. “The curtain is opening.”

From the orchestra pit, the first chromatic chords of the overture burst through the theater, sending a vibration through the very walls. Laurel shuddered, but not in response to the ominous music. Having raised her opera glass again, she glanced across the open expanse above the orchestra seats to discover Aidan Phillips leaning on his balcony rail, staring straight at her.

 

Just before the lights went down, Aidan learned something that left his senses abuzz.

His box sat mostly empty, for much to the disappointment of several marriageable young ladies and their mamas, he had invited only two guests: Henri de Vere and Julian Stoddard.

Stoddard seemed all too eager to discuss the particulars of Roger Babcock’s death. The gorier the details, the greater the pleasure Stoddard seemed to derive from them.

But Aidan most wished to question de Vere. Knowing the former spy would recognize even the subtlest interrogation techniques, he proceeded with the utmost care. Aidan must appear to have no interest in the matter other than an appetite for lurid gossip.

He put Stoddard to good use, manipulating the conversation until the young bounder raised the subject of Babcock’s death himself. So far Aidan had little to go on, only hearsay that the MP had owed Devonlea money, and Lord Harcourt’s own inflammatory condemnation:
I shall waste no energy mourning a rapscallion like Babcock.

As Aidan had done with Major Bradford at the Pump Room, he again raised the possibility of Babcock having been indebted to Lord Harcourt, or perhaps vice versa.

“I heard Babcock died owing considerable sums his widow refuses to acknowledge,” he improvised. “Even old Harcourt has cause for grievance.”

“Harcourt?” Stoddard gave a laugh. “That old miser?”

Looking thoughtful, de Vere leaned back in his chair. “If anything,” he said in a French accent that was noticeably lighter than Claude Rousseau’s, “it was that property by the river that came between them.”

“Property?” Aidan raised his brows and feigned mild interest when in fact his pulse points rapped with the thrill of finally uncovering a worthwhile morsel.

“A warehouse on Broad Quay.” De Vere twitched an eyebrow. “Falling to ruin. I cannot comprehend why either of them wanted the place.”

“Which of them ended up with it?”

“Couldn’t say. Perhaps neither. Supposedly a third party intervened with a higher bid.”

“Whoever the bloke is, he’ll more than likely lose his knickers in the bargain,” Stoddard put in brightly, his mood apparently much improved since he had stood brooding in the lobby.

A warehouse on Broad Quay . . . Aidan would look into it tomorrow. Satisfied for the time being, he relaxed into his seat as the lights began dimming, only to snap back to attention just before the theater plunged into darkness.

Across the way in the Fitzclarences’ box, Laurel sat next to Fitz, their heads close together. Aidan pushed forward, leaning his arms on the railing in front of him and wishing he could steal close enough to hear what appeared to be an animated conversation.

Happening to raise her lorgnette and peer in his direction, she saw him and went still. Then her hand fell away from her face, leaving her eyes uncovered. Their gazes connected in the instant before the theater fell dark, and as the first dramatic, D minor notes rose from the orchestra, a strange but pervasive foreboding filled him. He sat back again, his hands tightening around the padded velvet arms of his chair even as his stomach clenched around an irrational fear of impending danger.

Perhaps Mozart had simply done his job too well.
Don Giovanni
had never been one of Aidan’s favorites. Its theme of the Commendatore avenging his own murder by dragging Don Giovanni down into hell hit far too close to home for his comfort. Neither of his parents had been murdered, but they might as well have been: his mother by a ravaging illness and his father by a villain who had all but pressed the pistol into his hand and squeezed the trigger.

His skin continued to crawl with a nameless anxiety. Raising his glass, he resumed his distant perusal of Laurel, visible again now that his eyes had adjusted. The stage held her riveted interest as the floodlights flared and the curtain opened upon a dusky courtyard scene. Clutching the handle of her opera glass, she flinched each time the orchestra hit a crescendo. When the actors entered the stage, she seemed swept up in the drama of Giovanni’s relentless pursuit of the innocent Anna.

Suddenly Aidan’s mind filled with images of Fitz pursuing Laurel in similar fashion, and like an arctic wind, animosity spread a bitter frost through his chest. But he had no hold on Laurel Sanderson. No obligation. If she chose to involve herself with the likes of George Fitzclarence, what business or concern was it of his?

Unless, of course, she had an ulterior motive, which would make anything and everything she did very much his business.

Was he hoping for that? Hoping she would give him a reason to interfere in her life, make demands of her, and insist she answer his questions? He looked over at her again, tracing the upsweep of her hair, the curve of her neck, the swell of her bosom.

Yes, he could not deny that he would very much like to make her his business.

D
uring the intermission, Lord Munster’s attentions toward Laurel heightened to an uncomfortable degree. Not only did he continue to address her as Laurel, but he added endearments—
lovely
Laurel,
sweet
Laurel. She enjoyed a moment’s respite when he went to procure her a glass of champagne punch and a plate filled with marchpane cakes, but soon enough he planted himself at her side, so close that each breath she drew came laden with the sharp redolence of spirits.

All of that might have been bearable had he been inclined to continue their earlier discussion. She very much wanted to hear more about these world-altering aspirations of his. Were his goals limited to scientific advancement and the betterment of society, or did they include toppling the monarchy? When he had spoken of pointless traditions, the traces of peevishness in his voice had confirmed her suspicion that sentiments other than altruism drove his ambitions.

Bitterness toward his cousin?

She would not find an opportunity to question him in the lobby, for the noise level allowed for little more than occasional shouted comments. At the earliest possible moment she sought her escape.

Placing her glass and plate on the tray of a passing waiter, she excused herself. “Lord Munster, I believe Lady Harcourt presently wants for a companion.”

“G-George, if you please.”

“Now, Lord Munster, we are hardly well-enough acquainted for that.” She raised a hand to gesture across the lobby. “But see there, Lady Harcourt is standing alone.”

“I d-don’t see her.”

“Near the pillar. Lord Harcourt seems to have abandoned her, and that will never do. Please excuse me.”

“B-but—”

Laurel swept away, squeezing through a crush that quickly closed behind her and cut her off from Lord Munster’s sputtering protest. She lost sight of Lady Harcourt as well, and when she finally arrived at the pillar, the woman had disappeared. Within the confusing tableau of silks, jewels, and tailored black evening wear, she took a moment to reorient herself. She finally spotted Lady Harcourt ascending the staircase with Lady Devonlea and Mrs. Whitfield. Rather than rejoin Lord Munster, Laurel hurried in their direction.

She never caught up to them; there were too many people in the way and one in particular stopped her in her tracks, one foot poised on the riser in front of her. Several steps above, Aidan climbed the stairs flanked by a pair of willowy young blondes, one on each arm. Dressed in the height of fashion and remarkably similar in appearance, they could be only sisters, and barely out of their adolescence. Their giggles carried over the general din, and as Laurel watched through narrowed eyes, one of them turned her cherubic face toward Aidan and touched a finger to her bottom lip in a blatantly suggestive manner.

A sense of utter wretchedness filled the aching hollow beneath Laurel’s breast. Raising her skirts, she hurried on blindly and hoped he would not see her. Or if he did, that he would not notice the moisture clouding her vision.

Minutes later, she came to a halt as the house lights dimmed and the corridor emptied. Looking about, she discovered nothing familiar, not the runner beneath her feet nor the damask covering the walls. Even the wall sconces were of a subtly different shape from those she remembered outside Lord and Lady Devonlea’s box. Had she climbed too far?

Turning, she began to retrace her steps. From behind the closed velvet curtains, a low drone of conversation drifted from those who had resumed their seats. As Laurel approached the corner, someone came hurrying around toward her. A hooded cloak flew out to tease the shadows.

She let out a gasp at the same time he pulled up short. He lingered several yards away, his face unfathomable but for the dull gleam of his eyes. As his black cape sifted into place, a treble note of fear trilled through her.

She shook her trepidation away. He was merely a man hurrying to find his seat, as she must do.

“Excuse me, sir.” She attempted to sidestep around him. He shifted to block her way.

“Simone?” His voice was a rough whisper. He hissed several more words that sounded French to her. He pressed closer. Laurel caught a brief glimpse of his features—hooked nose, thin mouth, craggy chin. His dark eyes sent shivers down her back.

She retreated a step. “Please, I don’t speak much French. Are you lost?”

He repeated the first word: a name—Simone? Laurel felt sure it was when he added another to it: de Valentin.

Her throat gone dry, she shook her head. “I do not know whom you mean. Now let me by.”

“Non, mon Dieu.”
He came closer still, his stride urgent, angry.
“Vous n’êtes pas Simone. Vous êtes Lissette.”

His hand came up. She recoiled, filled with bone-numbing dread and an inexplicable sense that she should know him. Relief poured through her when two ladies and a gentleman rounded the corner. The man brushed the stranger’s shoulder.

“Terribly sorry,” the gentleman said. The trio continued on, passing through a set of velvet curtains into a box.

As if from far off, Laurel heard the heavy rhythms of
Don Giovanni
rise from the stage as the second act commenced. The notes burrowed inside her, warning of danger. This man in his hooded cloak could well have been the ill-intentioned Don and she his victim. She considered darting into the nearest box when footsteps along the corridor heralded another approach. The stranger jerked his head toward the sound, spat an incoherent word, and pushed past her.

Her heart careening, Laurel whirled to watch him until the blackness at the end of the passage swallowed his form. The music built to a crescendo that spread ripples of unease through her, though she could of think of nothing as unsettling as the stranger’s cold stare, his harsh words. . . . What did it all mean?

Without being able to recall how or why, the rhythm of his stride, the set of his shoulders . . . even the vehemence of his incomprehensible oaths, seemed uncannily familiar.

But from where?

The name he had spoken echoed in her mind. Simone de Valentin. A quiver began at her core and trembled outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. In her mind’s eye, flames raged—the flames of the dream that had haunted her since her earliest days, her dimmest memories. She felt suddenly small and helpless and terrified as her mind filled with the shrill sound of a woman’s scream, the crack of an explosion, and a figure draped in black speeding toward her down a corridor.

“Laurel?”

The whisper from behind her sent her spinning into panic. She tried to cry out, but an arm like an iron band went round her and a hand covered her mouth.

 

“Laurel, it’s me, Aidan. Stop struggling, and for heaven’s sake, don’t scream.”

For several seconds fear held her rigid against him. Gradually the resistance drained from her limbs and he turned her to face him. Lingering panic glinted in her eyes.

He pulled her close, feeling the hammer of her heart through their clothing. From far off, the opera gathered force with deep harmonies driven by the lower register of violas, cellos, and basses. Laurel’s hands clutched convulsively around his coat sleeves. Her body melted against his. With a tremulous sigh she burrowed her face into the side of his neck with a sweetness that silenced his suspicions and imprinted a burning desire on his soul.