Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

" A re you completely mad?"

Josiah paused, sighing at his reflection. He had been occupied in knotting his cravat in such a way that was elegant enough to call on a lady of the ton, but not so fancy as to be absurd. Beatrice Heart, the perennial female lead of his troupe and dancing partner, had caught wind of his latest invitation, and had called on him in his dressing room after an early morning rehearsal. She was lounging on a settee shoved up against a wall, idly inspecting the flowers and whatnot left for him.

Her blonde hair was cropped short in the Parisian fashion, which highlighted her cat-like features and her elegant neck. She was wrapped carelessly in a dressing gown, her legs stretched along the settee as she sprawled elegantly against one arm. Her entire aspect was feline in nature, relaxed but coiled, as if she could pounce at any moment.

And pounce she did, at least verbally. Josiah had, rather casually, mentioned that he might simply cry off the whole appointment. He wasn't particularly of a mind to placate ladies of the ton, no matter how charming or clever they might be. And really, what would his art be helped by teaching yet more another debutante how to quadrille or sally?

Which is exactly what he said, mostly thinking aloud. Beatrice, however, did not hear idle musing. She was of a decidedly more mercenary bent, something that Josiah both relied on and detested. Beatrice loved dance, but she understood what it was to be hungry and have naught but the clothes on her back in a way that Josiah never could. He was from a wealthy family, his mother having fled France when the unpleasantness began, as she had referred to it. Josiah had taken his first dance steps in the French court; Beatrice had taken hers at a quayside to earn a few hay pennies.

She was naturally offended at the very idea that Josiah would turn down such an opportunity. When she heard his words, Josiah could hear her sitting bolt upright, her casual posture abandoned.

"Are you completely mad?" she demanded, her green eyes flashing in the reflection of the mirror that Josiah was using to tie his cravat. "Do you have any notion of the opportunity you would be simply tossing away?"

"Somewhat, yes, but I imagine that you are preparing to tell me all about it," Josiah drawled, not bothering to turn around.

"Lady Patience Chester is not just the wife of Lord Chester, heir to the earldom; she is also the daughter of the dowager Duchess of Carnegie, and sister to the Duchess of Brandon." Beatrice explained slowly, as if that was the answer to everything.

"Bea, you can't swing a cat in a London ballroom without hitting six girls who are as well connected," Josiah sighed.

"In title maybe, but the dowager Duchess is the very last word in taste among the more established ton. She was absent from society for years after her husband died, and even from nowhere, she still had enough clout to sway London." Beatrice stood and began to pace restlessly, one finger tapping her mouth. "If her daughter takes an interest in our troupe, then the rest of the ton will follow suit. We wouldn't have to scramble for patrons; they would come to us."

"That is all well and good," Josiah agreed grudgingly, "but I am not sure how the other lady fits into the equation."

"You're not much on the town, but Lady Eva Stanton is one of the diamonds of London," Beatrice said, halting her pacing to make a show of holding one hand out, inspecting her nails. "She and Lord Tom Chester ran a very fashionable set of some of the most notable bon vivant. She is supposed to be very beautiful—is she?"

"Yes," Josiah answered without hesitation. "She was quite striking."

Something hard flitted across Beatrice's face, but was quickly tamped down. "Then teach the girl to dance, and she will do your advertising for you."

"That would mean contracting with her mother, a high price indeed." Josiah muttered.

Beatrice shrugged and sank back onto the settee with a flippant wave of her hand. "But is it worth it?"

Josiah knew good and well that she was speaking of the trouble being worth the boon to the troupe, but there was something else in her tone, a kind of hidden meaning. He mentally shrugged and chalked it up to Beatrice's innate need to be the best, most beautiful woman in the room.

Whatever the situation was, Josiah steeled himself as he set out from the theatre. When he placed his hat atop his head, it felt as if he were putting on armour.

Eva was not typically one for nervous complaints, but she found herself thoroughly in the throes of one while awaiting the arrival of the dancing master. She sat at the little tea table in Lady Patience's parlour and attempted a mask of serenity. If one only looked at her upper half, it would be easy to believe that she was perfectly calm, a pool of still water; however, if one were to catch a glimpse beneath the tea table, it would become quite clear what a ruse this was. Eva's foot tapped nervously, her leg unable to hold still. Her hands, too, twisted into tense knots in her lap.

When Eva's leg jostling became a tad too pronounced and caused the carefully laid tea service to rattle, Lady Patience favoured her with a chiding look. Sheepishly, Eva ducked her head a little, and Patience sighed and smiled a little, as if she knew the punchline to a joke as yet unspoken.

Eva was at the point of despairing of the entire scheme when at last a footman entered, announcing the arrival of Mr. Galpin. For some reason that Eva couldn't fathom, her face flushed with warmth, her heart leaping into her throat.

Stop being ridiculous , she chastised herself. You are not a debutante in the blush of her first Season.

Tossing her head a little, Eva resumed the familiar posture that she typically affected in social gatherings. It was an artful expression of carefully calculated disinterest and haughty grandeur. It had worked her thus far, and she didn't see any reason why it shouldn't now. Her mother was not a particularly wise woman by any measure, but she had firmly impressed upon Eva that if she believed herself to be a grand lady, then everyone around her would begin to believe it as well.

Lady Patience rose to greet Mr. Galpin, and Eva had to bite back the last of her nerves. She glanced up to him once, prepared to greet him casually, but her head was quickly snapping back around to look at him more fully.

He was dressed in buff breeches tucked into glossy brown boots in deference to the winter sludge of London, and a dove-grey coat. His waistcoat, which peeked from the top of the jacket, was cream brocade worked in silver thread. His cravat was a dark wine red, standing out starkly from the starched whites and grey tones of the rest of his ensemble. His collar was cut high along his jaw, which served to emphasise his sharp, angular features.

In contrast to popular fashion, Mr. Galpin wore his platinum hair long, pulled back into a low queue and tied with a silver ribbon. His blue eyes were so light they were almost grey, and seemed to be perpetually hooded. Combined with the well-formed mouth, it gave him a sensuous look, as if he were constantly only just rolled out of bed.

Eva stared up at him, dimly aware on some level that she was, in fact, staring blatantly. It was not that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen—London was full of them, and he was a handsome man—but more the entire picture that he presented. He was an experience .

Vaguely, Eva could hear Patience speaking, inviting Mr. Galpin to sit. Thankfully, she seemed content to do her duties as hostess, carrying the conversation easily while Eva sat there, a little dumbstruck. When at last Eva began to attend what they were saying, it was in the midst of a sentence.

"…prefer mister, or monsieur ? I understand that can be something of a sensitive subject these days," Patience was saying, with all due concern and sympathy.

"Mister is quite suitable, my lady. My father was English, after all, and I can scarcely remember France," Mr. Galpin replied, giving her a banal smile.

"I understand that you learned to dance under the master of the French court?"

"I did." Mr. Galpin delicately set the teacup he had been holding down. "My first memory is tottering along behind him, following his instructions."

"And now here you are, the master yourself," Patience said, her eyes smiling gently. "Would he be terribly proud of you, do you think?"

That caused Mr. Galpin to pause. "Perhaps—I'd like to think so, at least." He lifted his teacup, then hesitated, a smile curling his lips a little. "More likely, he'd chastise me for still not turning my toes out far enough, but of course, that was how you knew he was satisfied."

"Oh?"

"If he found nothing else to complain about, he would harp on one's toes." He looked vaguely wistful, as if longing for the days when he was the one being instructed, rather than the one doing the correcting.

A quiet kind of nostalgia descended on the table then, a comfortable silence as everyone was a little lost in their own memories of younger days. Eva caught Patience's eye, raising an eyebrow and her teacup in a silent salute: She had found a way to set everyone at ease, and to put Mr. Galpin in a tractable state of mind without any forced flattery or simpering. It was impressively subtle.

At length, however, Mr. Galpin seemed to shake off the reverie, and arranged his features into a pleasant expression. It was a little startling to see, this contrast between what had been genuine, instinctual pleasure, and the carefully constructed mask he wore now. Eva could not help but wonder if she, too, looked as sharp and wooden with her practised expressions.

"Now, as charming as I find your company, how might I be of service?" he asked, all congeniality.

Patience regarded him coolly for a moment, giving nothing away. Again, Eva had to admire her; she had been on the receiving end of this inspection before, and she knew that Patience was meticulously sizing Mr. Galpin up.

"Mr. Galpin, I do not believe in false flattery," she said at last. He looked as if he might protest, but Patience merely raised a hand. "You may therefore take it quite literally when I tell you that you and your performers are the most distinguished and talented I have ever seen." A wry smile as she paused. "Of course, there are some who would say that I may not have seen very many, which is true. But I am quite firm in my tastes: When I decide that I like something, that is it." Here, she made direct eye contact with Mr. Galpin again, and her soft eyes sharpened. "In short, I would like to become your patron. You will find me a generous and affable patroness."

Mr. Galpin absorbed all of this, saying nothing for several beats. Eva watched, a little fascinated; she could almost see the inner workings of his mind, calculating and weighing the proposal. She was intrigued that he did not accept out of hand, though that could simply be born from a desire to not appear desperate. Eva did not believe that to be the case, however; he did not have the hollow-cheeked hunger that seemed to haunt a lot of performers.

"Are there any terms you would care to stipulate?" he asked finally.

"There is not," Patience said, then checked herself. "Well, perhaps one."

"Yes?" Mr. Galpin asked, looking as if he were bracing for the worst.

"That you create and perform as you see fit. I will not have you beholden to some absurd standards of the ton." Here Patience actually snorted a little, lifting her chin. She looked far more like her mother, the dowager, than anyone would have dared to comment. "As if the ton are experts in the arts. No, I leave it entirely in your hands."

Mr. Galpin did not seem to know how to respond to this. He stared at Patience, who ignored him for her tea. Eva could feel herself grinning, for he clearly was put on the backfoot. His ice-blue eyes flicked to her, and she nearly froze.

"And what about…?" he asked, jerking his head in Eva's direction. Her amusement soured a bit at being referred to like a piece of luggage left unattended in the corner. This manifested in her tossing her head proudly again, a barely contained sneer on her face.

"Lady Eva is her own woman, and your business with her is entirely independent of mine," Patience said calmly. "Though I would naturally encourage you to take her on. She was quite taken by your performance."

Eva shot a glance at Patience, who studiously ignored her. Now it was her turn to be inspected by Mr. Galpin, and to her credit, she did not shrink away from his probing gaze.

"I imagine that I shall need to come to terms with your mother," he said, unable to stop his mouth from quirking as he spoke.

"That is correct." This certainly seemed a negative in his deliberations, and Eva could not exactly blame him.

Why do you wish for my instruction?" he asked, pinning Eva to her chair with a direct gaze.

Eva stared directly back at him, and she had the distinct impression that they were engaged in a kind of test, a silent battle of wills. Eva, never one to shrink away, righted her shoulders, refusing to give in. "It's because of what I saw on the stage that night," she said at last, feeling as if it would be pointless to lie.

"What did you see?" he asked, his voice coaxing.

Eva reached to pour more tea, and Mr. Galpin's eyes snapped to the movement, like a predator that sees something rustling in the grass. He watched the movement closely, analysing and curious. Slowly, Eva withdrew her hand, his eyes following her the whole time.

"I saw possibility," Eva answered finally.

Wordlessly, Mr. Galpin's eyes slid back to her face. Slowly, deliberately, a smile began to spread across his face. Eva, despite her careful control of her expression, found that she couldn't help but smile in return.