31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

T he Duchess of Brandon had taken a little convincing to see Gregory, which was not wholly unexpected—they were not even acquainted, after all. What was completely unexpected was that there was something of a committee awaiting him in the duchess' luxurious London drawing room when he arrived.

Not only was the duchess present, but her sister Lady Chester and one Lady Eva Galpin. They represented a formidable trio of women: The duchess poised and serene; the younger sister watching his every movement with quick eyes; and Lady Eva, dark and arresting in her beauty, but unflinching in her assessment of him.

"You are searching for Miss Heart," the duchess said from her seat in the middle. It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

Gregory nodded. "I would be grateful if you might be able to help me in this endeavour."

The three ladies exchanged glances. It was the younger sister, Lady Chester, who spoke next. "And why would we do that? You seem...rather eager to find her, to have come all this way just for a governess."

Gregory considered a moment before speaking. "I think we all know that she is not a simple governess. I don't know exactly what she is, but I don't think it matters at this point."

"What are your intentions, exactly? What do you want with Miss Heart?" Lady Eva asked, her tone crisp.

Taken a little aback by the hostile nature of the question, Gregory straightened a little before answering. "I suppose I have two aims," he said slowly. "The first, to ascertain that she is well. I think...I believe she left under some duress, and I wish to ensure that she is unharmed."

"And the second?" the duchess prompted.

"To ask her forgiveness, and to tell her..." Gregory stopped, his throat going a little dry as he searched for the right words. "To tell her something that I should have told her already."

The ladies exchanged another glance. "You have some tender feelings for her," Lady Chester stated, and Gregory could only nod. There was silence, then, and he wondered briefly if the ladies were engaged in some kind of silent communication. They exchanged glances again, and Lady Eva nodded at last.

"We will not disclose any details as to who she really is—that is entirely her own affair, and for her to share if she trusts you—but we will tell you where to find her," the duchess said at last.

A footman was summoned, an address scribbled hastily on a slip of paper, and Gregory was back out on the pavement in front of the townhouse feeling a little dazed. He couldn't help but glance behind him, wondering if it was simply a strange dream. There was no time to consider, however, for his driver was waiting for him, having changed out his exhausted horses for a fresh pair at a livery.

He passed the address onto the driver and climbed inside his carriage. They set off at a smart trot, and Gregory clutched his walking stick so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked a little.

To his surprise, the carriage wound its way through the streets of London and pulled to a stop before a theatre. He opened the vent to speak to the driver, leaning forward.

"Why have we stopped? Go straight to the address I gave you," he demanded.

"We've arrived, Sir," the driver replied. "The Lyceum, no mistaking it."

Dubious, Gregory opened the carriage door and climbed out, staring up at the theatre's edifice. Though it was a Tuesday, there was already a crowd milling about, waiting for the office to open to purchase admittance to the evening show. There seemed a great deal of buzzing excitement, and with a certain amount of scepticism, Gregory joined them. He was not dressed for an evening at the theatre, but he doubted that would matter if he sat in the pit seats.

"No," a woman was saying just behind Gregory, "I've heard she was in Araby, learning to dance from the desert-dwellers."

"You're daft," a man replied. "I heard she was a guest of Napoleon himself, who requested she be brought to Elba to entertain."

Gregory, confused, could not help but turn and, after touching the brim of his hat, ask, "I beg your pardon, but whom are you speaking of?"

The couple exchanged a glance as if Gregory were a simpleton. "Why, the return of the Queen of the Lyceum 'erself, of course. They say she has a new performance, which is why we're all a-waiting 'ere."

"She has been gone a while, then, has she?" Gregory inquired.

"Aye, quite a few months now. There's been some unkind gossip, but I never believed it meself," the woman answered, nodding sagely. The sadly drooping feathers of her faded bonnet nodded along in agreement. "I expect that's why she left London in the first place, to escape the scandal."

Gregory, suspicion growing in his chest, turned back around abruptly. Without really thinking, he shuffled along with the crowd, paid his pence, and received a ticket to the pit sitting. The crowd seemed eagerly abuzz, with the orange sellers joining in the gossip as their knives flashed and they sliced open the fruit before handing it to the patrons.

Silence finally descended, as the lamps about the auditorium were gradually extinguished and the darkness grew more profound. The only light of note was that of the footlights on the stage, which cast an eerie, flickering glow. The stage was empty for several moments, and the audience began to grow restless.

Just as Gregory thought that they might begin to become unruly, a figure in ethereal white appeared. The audience gasped, for no one had seen her enter the stage—she simply was . She wore a diaphanous, white costume, layers as delicate as spiderwebs, with large gold cuffs on her arms. She was the very picture of a goddess, strong and proud.

Even from this distance, Gregory knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was Beatrice. His mouth went dry, and his hands reflexively clutched at his legs. He wasn't sure if he even blinked as the performance unfolded, with Beatrice beginning to dance in graceful leaps, music swelling one instrument at a time. She was so light, her steps so effortless, that he was not convinced her feet touched the stage. He had never seen anything like it.

His rapture, which seemed shared by the whole audience, was complete and all-consuming. The stage gradually became bathed in light from behind, like a sun rising. The audience sighed from the beauty of the moment.

From a corner of the stage, a hooded figure appeared. Without warning, he raised his arms in the action of firing a bow, miming drawing back the string and releasing it. Beatrice cried out and fell, the lights and music suddenly cut off. The silence was almost deafening, and more than one person cried out.

Slowly, Beatrice raised herself up on one arm, the other hand clutching her heart, which was now pierced with a shining, golden arrow. Red ribbons tumbled from her fingers, making it look as if she bled profusely. She turned her face to the audience, and with one hand still clutching at the arrow, she reached toward them with the other hand. In pained silence, her fingers stretched out, yearning, and then in the next minute, all was darkness again.

The audience sat in stunned silence for a moment. Slowly, they began to applaud, to whistle and stamp their feet. Gregory could not join them, for he felt as if he were nailed to his seat. He was but one person among hundreds, there was no earthly way that Beatrice could have known that he was there, but he felt without a doubt that this performance was for him. Everyone else in the audience might have ascribed their own meanings to it, but he alone knew exactly what it meant. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, understanding exactly what he had done.

How ever will I make this right? he thought sadly to himself. They were right to be suspicious of me, her loyal friends. And yet...yet, what was she reaching for? He pondered this, his mind racing, hoping though he felt that he had no right to do so.

He sat mutely through the rest of the performances, his eyes looking at the stage but not really seeing anything. To his dismay, Beatrice did not reappear. Before the last performer was done, he excused himself, much to the annoyance of those sitting on the benches around him as he sidled past.

Though he had never been one to hang about theatres, it was easy enough to find his way backstage. It took only a discreet inquiry to be pointed in the direction of her dressing room. It was not a surprise to find a crowd of admirers outside, all clamouring for their few minutes to have Beatrice smile on them.

Gregory could not begrudge them, for he knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of her affections. It was intoxicating, and he had come all the way down from York to have her shine on him again. He shook his head and chuckled a little to himself, tucking himself away in a hidden corner. He did not want to have an audience for his reunion with her, particularly as he had no notion of how it would go.

The minutes passed slowly, and one by one, the well-wishers went on their way. When the hallway was at last empty, Gregory approached the dressing room door. The paint was faded red, but someone had hung a beautifully lettered placard on it that simply read Miss Heart . He had just lifted his fist to rap on the door when he heard voices from within.

"They are a sad, pathetic bunch," a man's voice said. "Hanging about your ankles like eager little puppies."

"You ought to know," Beatrice replied, her voice cutting.

"And yet, your company has cost me far less than the trinkets they offer you," the voice retorted.

Gregory's eyes narrowed; the man sounded familiar, he had heard his voice before... Though it would be impossible to explain to any passers-by, Gregory took the audacious step of pressing his ear to the door.

"After all," the man within the dressing room said, "all it took to get you running home like an obedient dog was a few threats to a sad little country girl." The man laughed then, a cruel, scraping sound, and that was when recognition hit Gregory like a cannon shot. It could only be the man in black from the ball, Judge Horner.

"I won't hear you speak ill of her, any of them," Beatrice snapped. There was a sound that followed, like a box being slammed shut. "It is only for her sake that I am here, and do not forget it."

"No," the judge said, his voice lower. "Don't you ever forget that it is within my power to ruin her, too, and I will not hesitate to do so, should you take it into your head to give me trouble."

"I know," Beatrice replied, her voice tired.

Gregory couldn't explain what happened next, other than he had several thoughts enter his head at the same time. The primary among those were, This man has threatened Florence, immediately followed by, Beatrice! You brave, brave woman!

As these thoughts were colliding in his head, Gregory's body, battle-tested and used to acting on pure instinct, had grabbed the door knob, and bodily forced the door open. He came to awareness as he stood in the doorway, not sure who was more surprised by the sudden intrusion: The judge, who glared at him with blatant hostility, Beatrice who gaped open-mouthed, or Gregory himself.

"You dare—" the Judge began, stepping forward.

Gregory, completely ignoring him, sidled past him and came to stand before Beatrice. It was startling to see her like this, dressed in the height of fashion in a dark purple bombazine dress and a Claremont bonnet. Rosettes and trims announced her as a woman of means, and the feathers in her bonnet were curled into fashionable swoops. She looked nothing like a governess, and every bit a lady of the town.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, and when Beatrice nodded, he took her hand. "I am come to throw myself on your mercy," he said, speaking more earnestly and with more feeling than he had allowed in years. "You needed me to have faith in you, and I didn't; what's more, you fell on your own sword to protect a beloved daughter. You are the best, and worthiest of women I have ever known. When you were gone, I—it was too much. I don't know how to be without you."

Beatrice listened to all of this, her eyes softening as Gregory spoke. She made no move to reply, however, standing perfectly still again. Gregory, greatly daring, clasped her hand in both of his now, bringing it to his chest.

"Please," he said quietly, "please tell me that I have not lost you for good."

A slow smile spread across Beatrice's face, her eyes shining with emotion. She did not say anything, but she added her other hand to their joined hands, pressing his fingers tenderly. Gregory felt himself smile as well. The world, which had been tilted oddly ever since Beatrice's departure, shifted a little on its axis, and Gregory felt a bit steadier, his feet more firmly on the ground.

The moment was shattered, however, by cruel laughter from the other side of the dressing room. Gregory, loath to turn his face from his darling Beatrice's, levelled a scathing look on him. He did not need to see Beatrice to know that she, too, regarded the judge with an expression that would have burnt him to a cinder if she had been able. They turned to face him, his right hand holding tightly to her left.

"Oh, really, this is too much," the judge said, still chuckling. "You are good, Beatrice, I will give you that," he said, nodding at her. "You've really cast a spell on this mess of a country bumpkin. And you!" he said, turning his attention to Gregory. "You, a gentleman, reducing yourself to grovelling to this—this—"

Faster than the judge could react, Gregory lashed out with his free hand, seizing the judge by the cravat. He dragged the other man close, so close that their noses were nearly touching.

"You will consider your next words carefully," Gregory said, his voice so soft that it was barely audible. "You will not insult the lady in my presence again."

"How dare you?!" the judge cried. "You do not know who I am!" Outside the dressing room door, in the narrow hallway, a crowd was beginning to gather, brought by the judge's histrionics.

"No, Your Honour, you do not know me ," Gregory replied, his voice low and controlled. "You have insulted me, my daughter, and the woman I love. I demand satisfaction," he enunciated clearly, raising his voice just enough for the observers to overhear. As if on cue, they gasped and began to murmur amongst themselves.

"You—you cannot mean—" the judge stammered.

"I will see you tomorrow at dawn," Gregory announced, refusing to turn the judge loose.

Beatrice, her eyes darting between them, put the fingers of her free hand to her mouth. "You can't," she whispered. "Gregory, please, you can't," she pleaded. "He's not worth it!"

"Probably not," Gregory agreed, "but you are. Besides," he added, with a smile that only emphasised the scar on his face, "it's been some time since I shot a man." Unseen by the judge, he squeezed Beatrice's fingers. After a moment's hesitation, she squeezed back, and Gregory knew that she understood his ruse then.

"Shot a man?" the judge repeated, his eyes darting to Beatrice.

As if they had rehearsed it, she shrugged and sighed. "I would have thought you would recognise Colonel Hillmot, hero of Waterloo. He shot no less than a dozen men clean off their horses on the first day alone."

"N-now, let's not be hasty," the judge said, all of his cruel bluster gone. "Surely this is unnecessary. I never meant—"

"Oh, but you did," Gregory said. "Am I to understand that you will not be accepting this challenge?"

Another murmur arose from the crowd. To be called out in such a manner, to insult a man and then have a challenge for a duel issued, was not something one could ignore. Though duelling was ostensibly illegal, to refuse the challenge was the height of cowardice and shame. Not appearing on the field of honour was to invite social ruin and ridicule of enormous proportions.

"I...I can hardly—it's..." the judge attempted to explain. Gregory, disgust writ large on his face, released the judge, casually shoving him backward so that he stumbled a few steps. His cravat was ruined, the knot askew and stretched oddly.

"It is to be expected," Gregory said loud enough to be overheard. "Those who prey on the weak are always cowards. Now, you will leave Miss Heart be, or I shall put it all about London that you are a coward and a fiend. I doubt that Miss Heart is your first victim, and I suspect there are others waiting in the wings, eager to pounce at the first sign of weakness from you."

"I won't forget this," the judge said, attempting to smooth his rumpled shirt and waistcoat. "You'll be sorry, I promise you—"

Beatrice, still for the last several moments, raised her arm again as if she meant to strike the judge. Instinctually, the judge cried out and raised his arm, ducking his head to avoid the blow that never came. Beatrice burst into laughter, loud and mocking, throwing her head back.

The stagehands, actresses, and passersby that had clumped up outside the dressing room, began snickering as well. The sound echoed in the hallway, and the judge, his face red, rounded on them. Gregory, too, could not suppress the laughter that welled up inside him as well.

"Get thee hence," Beatrice said between laughs, "before I break your nose again."

The judge, wordlessly, with his lips pressed into a thin white line, made a great show of smoothing his hair and pulling his jacket straight. With false dignity, he left the dressing room, his nose high in the air. The crowd hissed and jeered at him as he departed, which made Gregory chuckle again.

"That's a lovely sound," Beatrice said softly, and Gregory turned to find her smiling warmly at him. "I don't know that I've heard you laugh before."

"I haven't had much reason to, before you," he admitted. Sweeping his hat from his head, he gave Beatrice a grand bow. "Might I escort you from this place?" he asked.

Beatrice, laughing again, nodded and slipped her arm through Gregory's. Replacing his hat on his head, Gregory squired her grandly from the theatre.

When they were outside in the London night air, they paused beneath a streetlight. Beatrice took a deep breath. "That was very kind of you, and chivalrously done," she began, releasing his arm. "But now that you know what I am—the sort of life I lived—you must see why I cannot return to your house to be a governess. I could jeopardise everything for your daughters." As she spoke, tears filled her eyes again, and she looked away.

Gregory reached out with one gloved hand, and gently touched Beatrice's chin, fingers lightly ghosting along her jaw so that her face turned back to him. "I agree," he said softly. "You cannot return to my house as a governess." Beatrice smiled sadly, sniffed a little, and nodded. "That is why I should very much like you to return as my wife," he finished.

Beatrice's eyes went wide. "You cannot be serious," she whispered. "No one would let us be in peace. Society would—"

"Hang society," Gregory said, stepping closer to Beatrice. "What do I care for them? You filled my house with laughter and happiness, and... You are an infuriating woman, and I want to argue with you every day for the rest of my life."

"My time with you, with your daughters, was the happiest time of my life," Beatrice admitted. A single tear spilled out over her cheek, and Gregory swiped it away with his thumb.

"That's all that matters then," he said, and leaning down, pressed his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. She inhaled sharply, surprised, and he pulled back to search her face. Before he had the chance to do so, Beatrice had flung her arms about his neck, her petal-soft lips finding his in a deeper kiss, nearly knocking him over.

It was such an earnest, enthusiastic kiss that it earned more than a few hoots and whistles from those passing by the theatre. Normally, Gregory would have found such a breach in decorum unthinkable, but he realised that with Beatrice in his arms so deliciously, he didn't give a fig about the good opinion of London.