What Happens in Piccadilly Read online

  “Father was selfish. He only ever worried about how being poor affected him. He couldn’t go to the places he wanted and do the things he wanted… meanwhile, we had landlords threatening to throw us out into the streets. There was no money for clothes and no money for food, and he didn’t really care. But that’s not William. William loves us. He wants to protect us. He looks out for us, after all, as much as a little boy can. Father wasn’t mean. He didn’t hit us or yell at us, not very much anyway. But he just didn’t want to be bothered, not with us and not really with Mother… and during his long absences, Mother would take to her bed and wail about it and she didn’t want to be bothered with us either. Anytime William went to her, wanting to hug her or get a kiss from her, she’d just weep harder and send him away. I think he wanted to comfort her as much as to be comforted by her.”

  They kept walking, silently, for a few moments. Claudia was lost in thought, swamped by memories of her parents, by the grief for what was lost and also, it seemed, for the grief of what had never been. For herself, Callie was at a loss. She wanted nothing more than to gather all of those children into her arms and squeeze them and never let go. But confessions like Claudia’s didn’t happen without reason. There was a warning in them as well, and she needed to know what it was.

  “You don’t seem the sort to simply bare one’s soul. In fact, I don’t think if you’d had another choice that you would have told me any of these things. So I must think that there is a reason, Claudia, you’re telling me all of this now,” Callie observed softly.

  “You’re quite right. There is a reason. He’ll get attached to you, you see? Because you’re kind. And so very few people have been kind to William. And I don’t want him to be hurt. I know he’s a boy and he wants to pretend that he’s tough and strong and that nothing bothers him, but I think, in truth, his heart is more fragile than mine or Charlotte’s,” the girl explained. “And he likes you. He likes you quite a lot.”

  “I like him quite a lot, too,” Callie replied. “I like all of you. And I hope that as the days go along, we will all like each other even more. But I’m not going to run off and leave you the way your last governess did. Nor will I ever tell William that he cannot give me a hug or kiss my cheek. I daresay I will give him hugs and kisses until he becomes utterly sick of them and runs away from me.”

  “Everyone says they won’t leave. But in the end, everyone does,” Claudia said.

  Callie wanted more than anything to simply hug the child, to take her in her arms and tell her that she knew exactly what that felt like. But that wasn’t why Claudia had opened up to her. It wasn’t about her. It was about the need she felt to protect her siblings.

  Callie sighed. “We’ll have to let time tell us how it will all go, won’t we?”

  “I suppose we will,” Claudia agreed.

  Changing the subject, Callie gestured toward William who was now climbing the tree he’d apparently conquered during his sword fight. “How long do you suppose it will take for him to expend enough energy to tackle learning his letters?”

  Claudia glanced across the distance between them and where her brother played. “A year or so, I would think.”

  Callie laughed at that. “You read more than a little, don’t you?”

  Claudia shrugged. “I do. But I hate reading boring school books.”

  “Then what do you like to read about?”

  “Adventure,” the little girl answered.

  “I think we might be able to squeeze a bit of adventure into our lessons today. You get Charlotte and I will get William and we will head back.”

  *

  Winn hadn’t gone to his club, after all. While it had been his destination to start, he’d been waylaid by business. That seemed to always be the way. For weeks, he’d been dodging an acquaintance who wanted to lure him into a risky business venture. Risk wasn’t really Winn’s cup of tea. Solid, sound, boring investments with smaller but more certain rewards were fine with him. Still, being dragged along with a group of three other fellows to the home of the fourth man being courted for the scheme, he decided anything was better than his own home and the sweet temptation of Miss Calliope St. James’ company.

  As they reached the elaborate facade of the elegant mansion that belonged to the Gerald Alford, Duke of Averston, Winn couldn’t hide his surprise as his brows arched upward in incredulity. “You’re courting Averston for this scheme?”

  It was a well-known fact that Averston, despite his title and luxurious home, had little ready capital, at least on a personal level. The houses and properties were maintained by the same trust that governed all the wealth left behind by his predecessor. The former Duke of Averston had never married, but had sired a child out of wedlock to whom all of his personal wealth and unentailed properties had been bequeathed. But until that missing heir was found, there was little Averston could do. Indeed, it seemed his only vice was to continually redecorate and “improve” the properties that were in his care. The only other remaining member of the family was the dowager duchess, a woman known by one and all to be a veritable dragon. She had a separate residence but it was widely understood that she kept her grandson on a short leash.

  “Well, he’s expressed interest and he’s in the process of petitioning the House of Lords to declare the previous duke’s will void in light of the missing heir’s continued missing status. We might get lucky,” Charles Burney, the mastermind behind the imports venture, offered with a grin. “Surely no one thinks the child survived at this point!”

  Unless Burney had some inside information, Winn was fairly certain the man was set for disappointment. Averston and the dowager duchess had been actively trying to break his late uncle’s will since the man’s passing. Still, it was a diversion that would keep him from the chaos of his own home, so he gamely followed the group inside.

  “His grace awaits you in the library,” the butler intoned with all the formality and dignity that a ducal butler should possess.

  Winn wondered for a moment if he might steal him away, but then nixed the idea. His young footman would do well enough. His own household was not nearly so high in the instep that he required such a servant, after all. And the young man had been impossibly proud at the prospect of his improved situation. It wouldn’t do at all to renege on that offer now.

  The library was all the way at the end of a long corridor. Marble floors, art from all over the world and all of it beyond price, along with gilded cornices and elaborate carved moldings combined to create a feeling of opulence and decadence that could only be rivaled by Carlton House itself. It was too much for his taste, too much fuss, too boastful of one’s wealth. It made him distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps because it was such an effrontery when the money being spent so lavishly on such interiors didn’t belong to the man who lived amongst them. It seemed to Winn that Averston would rather squander the money than see it go to someone else, even in theory.

  “Isn’t it a sight?” Burney said, elbowing him in the ribs. “I don’t think Golden Ball himself could surpass it!”

  “That’s hardly an endorsement,” Winn said disapprovingly, “Given that Mr. Ball Hughes is now living in France all but penniless after having squandered his very substantial fortune.”

  That sobered Burney immediately who then straightened and began to speak quietly to his other potential investors. They were halfway down the corridor at that point but Winn simply stopped, struck immediately dumb by the portrait he saw there. The woman in the painting was beautiful—pale, as was the fashion of the day, with powdered hair and elaborately styled hair. But she was also achingly familiar. The bone structure of her heart-shaped face, the fullness of her perfectly bow-shaped pout, and her sparkling eyes all called to mind another woman. It was as if he were being haunted by Calliope St. James, seeing her face everywhere he went.

  “Who is this woman in this portrait?” he asked. But no one answered. The men with Burney simply shrugged and the footmen clearly had no idea.

&nbs
p; Winn continued to stare at it. There were slight differences in her appearance to Calliope’s. The woman in the portrait was older, and there was something more worldly about her, a cunningness in her gaze that his governess lacked. With her hair piled high in the Georgian style and wearing a gown that was daring, to say the least, she was clearly possessed of a less pronounced sense of modesty.

  “I see you’ve discovered the great seductress.”

  Winn glanced up to see that Averston himself had emerged from his study to greet them or perhaps to send them away. The man was known for somewhat capricious moods. Dressed impeccably, his hair styled artfully and his expression cold and calculating, Winn remembered precisely why he’d never liked the man. “The great seductress?”

  “Yes! That is the actress my uncle fell so deeply in love with all those years ago… the one he wished to marry but whom his parents threatened to disown him for even considering,” Averston said. He smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. They remained cold and hard, glittering with resentment. “Her name was Mademoiselle Veronique Delaine. Let us discuss our business first and if you are still curious after, I will tell you the woeful tale of a French harlot and my poor dupe of an uncle. Of course, you cannot let it be known to my grandmother that I uttered her name in this house.”

  “Thank you,” Winn replied. “Let’s all get this business sorted out, shall we?” He would certainly find the time to wait for that particular story. He had the distinct impression that he suddenly had a very key piece of the puzzle himself.

  “What’s this scheme of your, Mr. Burney?” Averston demanded as they all made their way into his study. Like the rest of the house, it was richly appointed and ornate to the point of being obscene. Red velvet on the chairs, thick and heavy brocade on the walls and gold trimming on everything—it looked more like a throne room than a study.

  “I’ve a cousin in Virginia who has recently acquired a tobacco plantation,” Burney said.

  “How did he acquire this property?” Winn demanded.

  Burney shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Is your cousin Phillip Burney? The one who fled England in disgrace for gambling debts?” Averston asked.

  “It is,” Burney replied. “But he’s doing just smashing in America. Land of opportunity and all that!”

  “I’m sure he is. For now, at any rate,” Winn said. “Burney, these other gentlemen can do as they wish but I’ll not put money on a shipment of tobacco from a farm won on the turn of a card by a man who has never been able to pass up a game of chance in his life. Your cousin is just as likely to lose this plantation tomorrow as he is to see the goods ever set sail for England. Furthermore, I won’t do business with anyone who holds slaves, and if he won the plantation, he won them as well. I can’t do it.”

  “I’m in agreement with Montgomery,” Averston said. “Your cousin is a bad investment, Burney. I urge you, for the sake of your own fortune, to look elsewhere as a means of making your mark. He’ll only see you beggared.”

  Burney rose, clearly annoyed with the lot of them. “I’ll see myself out. Ferris, Sewell?”

  The other two gentlemen, toadies of Burney’s more so than actual investors, followed him from the Duke of Averston’s study as he left in a huff.

  “He’s a fool,” Averston said to Winn.

  “Many young men are,” Winn agreed.

  Averston surveyed him. “But not you. Never you. Though you hardly qualify as young anymore, do you?”

  Well, that certainly stung a bit. “I’m not exactly in my dotage,” Winn protested.

  Averston grinned, but again it wasn’t a warm expression. The man didn’t seem to do warm, per se. “Not what I meant. You, Montgomery, were born an old man. Always prudent, careful, cautious, you never overspend, over invest, lose at the tables or take extravagant mistresses. In short, you’re quite dull.”

  Winn didn’t take offense. Why would he when everything the man said was true? “I never felt the need to do any of those things. Besides, my younger brother had all of that covered for the family. They hardly needed the both of us to do so. Then it would have been redundant. If that makes me dull, so be it,” Winn stated. He didn’t like Averston but he didn’t dislike him either. He found the man cold and they certainly moved in different circles, but there was something about the man he didn’t quite trust. Averston struck him as a man with secrets and that always gave him pause.

  Averston considered him for a moment, his gaze curious and lingering in a manner that left Winn very uncomfortable. “You wished to know the history of that portrait… of Mademoiselle Veronique Delaine, did you not?”

  “I did,” Winn agreed.

  Averston moved toward the door and back out into the corridor. Winn followed until they were both standing once more before the portrait.

  “My uncle, as I’m certain you know, was a confirmed bachelor. Rather like yourself, I think, and myself as well, I suppose. What’s your reason for maintaining your bachelor state?”

  “I’ve yet to meet a woman I wish to spend the remainder of my life with,” Winn replied. “Though I’m certain I one day shall. Or at the very least, one I don’t mind so much.”

  Averston nodded. “I see. And young Mr. Burney… what do you think his marital prospects are?”

  Winn shrugged. It was an odd question, but he answered it regardless. “Burney is little more than a pup yet. I daresay he has plenty of time to sort it out. Why do you ask?”

  Averston’s mouth turned in a patently false smile. “Just thinking that his poor business acumen may be quite distressing to the future Mrs. Burney. That is all. I wondered if perhaps there was some young miss on the line destined for a disappointment.”

  Winn frowned. The conversation had taken a turn he was befuddled by. “I couldn’t say. I’ve never discussed the matter with him. Our families are close, but Burney was always more a compatriot of my brother than mine. Though I daresay I shall be in attendance at his sister’s debut. It would be a terrible disappointment to her mother if I were to ignore our family’s long connection.”

  “Have you designs on the girl, then? I can’t quite see you with a fresh out of the schoolroom miss, Montgomery.”

  Immediately, the image of Miss St. James appeared in his mind. But not as a prim and proper governess. No, he was imagining her in a gown similar to the one in the portrait, which would bare her shoulders and the creamy swells of her breasts while her brown hair cascaded in rich waves over her back. It was an image that was far too enticing for his own good.

  “Well, then,” Averston said, “Let us satisfy your curiosity about the portrait. While in Paris, my uncle saw her perform just before the Revolution and was utterly smitten. He begged her to come to England, fearing what might become of her if she remained in France. So she did. And she performed here for many years… but when she became with child, well, he was no longer content simply to have her as his mistress. He wanted her as his wife. Obviously my grandparents refused… my grandmother quite vociferously. As they should have, I suppose.”

  “Why should they have?” Winn demanded. It was scandalous, certainly, but the previous duke had been a man fully grown.

  “Because she was common… an actress, no less, and one with quite a storied and sordid past. Hardly the fitting bride for a duke,” Averston said, completely unaware or perhaps uncaring that he sounded like a pompous ass. “Some noblemen might deign to muddy their bloodlines by wedding filth and settling what should be no better than bastards into the House of Lords, but it’s a terribly selfish thing, don’t you think? Or so, I’ve always been told.”

  “No, not really. I think a man ought to marry where, when and how he chooses and I think it ought not matter in the least what anyone else thinks of it,” Winn said. Although, he might not have expressed such an opinion before setting eyes on a pretty governess.

  Averston’s eyebrows arched upward and he laughed. “Perhaps you are more like your wild younger brother than I thought! Such
radical views to be expressed by a man who has spent the majority of his life making no waves at all. Tell me, Montgomery, will you be searching for a bride in St. Giles? Spitalfields, perhaps? White Chapel? The Devil’s Acre? You’ll set the ton on its collective ear yet!”

  “I’m not searching for a bride. I have a nephew who will inherit. I’m content enough with that,” Winn insisted. It was what he’d always told himself.

  “Ah, but you won’t hamstring him as my uncle did me, will you? Saddle him with a title and no funds with which to support it? All of this—all that you see here—it isn’t really mine, is it? I just get to borrow it until whatever unworthy bastard he sired is found.”

  “What became of Mademoiselle Delaine and her child?” Winn asked.

  “Lost. I’m afraid my grandmother is quite ruthless,” Averston admitted. There was some sympathy in his voice, though it was scant. “Mademoiselle Delaine met a terrible fate at the hands of some brigand… likely hired by dear old granny. Though she’d hardly leave any evidence behind. She’s vicious but sly as a fox.”

  Winn blinked at that. “You think the dowager duchess had your uncle’s mistress, the mother of his child, murdered?”

  Averston shrugged again. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Thank God I wasn’t born with some sort of obvious defect… she’d likely have drowned me in the bath.”

  The day was getting stranger and stranger and all Winn wanted was to be away from Averston and his family dramas which were worthy of any Greek tragedy. But first, he had to know. “And the child? Was she still with child when she was killed?”

  Averston laughed. “I should have been so lucky. No. She’d whelped the bastard already and hidden it away. Her dying words to some loud-mouthed vicar were of the child’s fate. ‘She lives. Find her,’ Mademoiselle Delaine reportedly whispered.”

  Winn looked back at the portrait again, a sick feeling burning in his stomach. It was the weight of dread. Recalling Miss St. James’ story to the children about her parentage, or at least what he’d managed to overhear, the similarities were uncanny. “And what did this vicar do?”