And of course, there was the fact that he was so terribly attractive. She bit her lip and stared down into her glass of lukewarm lemonade, remembering his words of a few moments ago.
I’d like to see you tipsy.
She couldn’t imagine why he would want such a thing. During the fine nights when she’d walked home from the showroom, she had seen drunken people stumbling along the sidewalk or through the open doorways of taverns as they sang boisterous songs at the top of their lungs. Drunkenness didn’t seem a desirable state at all.
Still, as she remembered his words, she wished one of Berliner’s gramophones could have recorded the moment, so she could relive it whenever she liked, hear again the strange, soft note in his voice that had made her blush all the way down to her toes.
“If you please, sir?” someone said from the doorway, breaking into Prudence’s thoughts.
She turned in her chair to see a liveried footman standing by the entrance to their box, a tray in his hands on which reposed several tall crystal flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. “I’ve something for the Ogilvie party.”
“There must be a mistake,” Uncle Stephen exclaimed as the footman brought the tray to the table. “We did not order this.”
“Compliments of his grace, the Duke of St. Cyres,” the footman explained as he popped the cork on the champagne. He poured the sparkling wine into the glasses and brought the first one to Prudence, presenting it to her along with a small white envelope. “For Miss Bosworth, from His Grace.”
She snatched the envelope before her aunt could do so. Setting aside her glass, she broke the seal and unfolded the note.
Miss Bosworth, the only thing duller than German opera is lemonade. Your servant, St. Cyres.
She read it three times, running the tips of her fingers just beneath the strong, stark lines of his handwriting, then reluctantly tucked the note away into her evening bag.
“How considerate he is,” she said, responding to her aunt’s sour expression with a sweet smile as she picked up her glass. She took a sip of her champagne and found it every bit as delightful as its reputation warranted, but it was only a temporary diversion from the even more delightful topic occupying her mind.
Turning her attention to the other side of the theater, she took her opera glasses from her pocket and lifted them to scan the boxes opposite.
She found him almost at once, as if she had sensed where he was by some mysterious spiritual connection between them, and it jolted her to discover he was looking at her, too. He was leaning back in his chair, his opera glasses folded in one hand, his flute of champagne held in the other, staring straight at her across the expanse between them, his head tilted to one side, a hint of a smile curving his lips. The sight of him watching her brought a rush of pleasure so acute it hurt.
She lowered her opera glasses and lifted her flute of champagne in acknowledgment of his gift. He lifted his in reply. They each drank at the same time, and the moment made her feel giddy, as if she’d drunk the entire bottle of champagne instead of just two sips.
The lights lowered and the opera resumed, putting an end to the magical moment. She leaned back in her chair and turned her gaze to the stage below, but in her mind she saw only him. Heavy German music reverberated through the theater, but all she heard was the whisper of her own wishful hope.
If only…
Prudence pressed her fingers to her lips. Impossible that a devastatingly handsome duke would ever fall in love with a plump, rather ordinary spinster who had calluses from needlework on her fingers and the blood of ordinary Yorkshire country folk in her veins. Impossible, and yet, she sat in the dark and imagined it anyway.
Chapter 5
London’s newest heiress demonstrates a profound interest in art. What a happy coincidence some of London’s most eligible bachelors share her enthusiasm.
—The Social Gazette, 1894
Rhys pulled a newspaper from the pile beside his plate of eggs and bacon and grimaced at once. Talk of the Town. A journalistic endeavor that made him wish he owned a parrot, so suitable was it as a depository for bird droppings.
Much to his relief, however, London’s most sensational newspaper was far too preoccupied today with news of Miss Prudence Abernathy to make snide comments about the financial status and wicked ways of a certain duke. Their account of the seamstress-turned-heiress substantiated what Cora had told him the night before, though it glossed over her illegitimacy and spoke of a halcyon Yorkshire childhood Rhys viewed with skepticism. Bastard children never had an easy time of it, and childhoods were never halcyon. They were the torture one spent the rest of one’s life recovering from, though perhaps his own hellish upbringing had given him a rather jaded view on the subject.
The newspaper also waxed volubly on the happy days she had spent in Sussex with her aunt and uncle after her mother’s death. Her mother’s family, the paper said, had cared for her with overwhelming kindness and generosity, and that statement gave Rhys all the more reason to view this account of her life with a jaundiced eye. He remembered her words from the night before about reconciling with her mother’s family, and if her life with the Feathergills had been so blissful, there would have been no reconciliations necessary. Besides, he’d met the aunt. Kindness and generosity were not what came to mind.
Not all the morning papers displayed the sort of treacly sentiments about Miss Abernathy and her family expressed by Talk of the Town, but he knew reading about her wasn’t going to help his cause, and when his valet entered the breakfast room a few minutes later, Rhys was happy to set aside the morning papers in the hope of more useful information. “Well, Fane, have you determined Miss Abernathy’s plans for today?”
The valet paused beside his master’s chair. “She intends to visit the National Gallery this afternoon. There is an exhibit of French painters on at present, and Miss Abernathy, I’m told, is fond of art.”
“The National Gallery?” He stared at Fane, a bit doubtful that a former seamstress would choose to spend her time looking at paintings. “Are you certain?”
Fane looked affronted by the question. “Sir,” he said with feeling.
“Forgive me,” Rhys apologized at once. “But it never ceases to amaze me how you find out these things.”
His valet gave a discreet cough. “I happened to encounter Miss Abernathy’s new maid—Miss Nancy Woddell, her name is—in one of the laundry rooms of the Savoy. She and I are of the same mind, sir, that the laundering of our employers’ clothing requires our personal attention.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, though it would be a happy day indeed if I could actually afford to stay at the Savoy. But do go on.”
“Upon finishing our tasks, Miss Woddell and I were able to take the service lift together. We discovered, to our mutual surprise and delight, that our separate destinations were on the very same floor.”
“A most amazing coincidence,” Rhys commented, vastly entertained.
“Yes, sir. Miss Woddell and I conversed in the corridor outside Miss Abernathy’s suite for quite some time.”
“You devil.” He began to laugh. “Fane, I had no idea you were such an accomplished ladies’ man.”
“Five years in your service has been very useful to my education, sir, in many respects. Miss Woddell, by the way, was quite impressed by my position as valet to Comte Roselli. He married that Austrian princess, sir, if you recall. Ladies’ maids always enjoy hearing about princesses.”
“I shall take your word for it, and I applaud your ability to charm members of the fair sex in the laundry rooms and corridors of hotels, although I feel compelled to point out you are no longer valet to Roselli, but to me.”
“Yes, sir. But I thought it best not to volunteer that information. Maids often tell things to their ladies, and Miss Abernathy might receive the impression you sent your valet to spy upon her. We don’t want the young lady believing you would do something so desperate as that.”
“We? Awfully presumptuous of you, Fane, to take such a personal interest in my pursuit of Miss Abernathy.”
Fane’s reply was succinct and to the point. “If you marry Miss Abernathy, sir, I get paid.”
Rhys couldn’t argue with logic like that.
He arrived at the National Gallery well ahead of Miss Abernathy, Fane in tow to perform the necessary reconnaissance. His valet’s forewarning of her approach was perfectly timed, and at the moment she entered the gallery where the works of some contemporary artists were on view, Fane had vanished altogether and Rhys was demonstrating vast interest in a Renoir.
“Your Grace?”
He turned, looking—he hoped—surprised to see her. To his relief, she also seemed surprised to see him. She came toward him, the silk of her pale blue walking suit rustling with each step. Perched on her dark hair was one of those enormous hats shaped like an oversized dinner plate and piled high with a froth of dark blue ribbons and cream-colored ostrich plumes.
“We meet again, Miss Bosworth,” he said, and doffed his own hat with a bow.
When Rhys straightened, he found that she was smiling, her upturned face alight with such genuine pleasure at the sight of him that he was caught off guard. Silly of her, he thought, and painfully naive as well, to display her inner feelings so openly. Hadn’t anyone ever taught her to play the game?