Queen of Diamonds (12 page)

At first he worried that his companion would be disconcerted at meeting a duke's daughter, especially after he promised her a night of no awkwardness. Lady Jennifer was a formidable member of society at that, a tall, broad, hawk-nosed spinster at thirty, and seemingly satisfied that way. She was outspoken and opinionated, which also accounted for her unwed state, in Harry's mind. She had a fortune of her own and her father's and brother's consequence to protect her, so she was deemed an Original in the
haute monde
, not an outcast.

Then Harry worried that his seamstress would not know how to address a lady, how to converse with one of her betters, that she would embarrass all of them, and herself. The disloyalty stabbed at him. He'd put her in this situation, and he would see her through.

Harry should have known better. Madame Lescartes curtsied the precise correct degree, with respect but without deference. She held her black head proudly, the feathers swaying majestically. Her spine was as erect as that of any graduate of the most select academy for young ladies, and she conversed in better French than any of those dunderheaded daughters of the nobility. Damn if she was not a lady at heart, Harry thought, as proud as Miss Patterson's aged protector.

“My brother highly recommends I purchase a gown of your design,” Lady Jennifer told Queenie after the introductions were concluded. “And I can see why. Since he is willing to pay for the nonsense, I have agreed.”

“Gold,” Queenie said without thinking, after quickly noting the outdated style of her visitor's gown, with its fitted waist and muddy brown color.

Lady Jennifer raised her prominent nose and her thick eyebrows at the same time, a well practiced method of putting inferiors in their place. “I usually have my secretary send a bank draft. Camden might be rackety, but he is good for the money.”

Queenie blushed. “Forgive me, ma'am. I did not mean to imply mistrust of your finances, nor speak of monetary matters away from the shop. I meant your gown should be gold, a rich heavy fabric, brocade perhaps, or figured satin, bringing out the gold in your hair and your dignity. Like a tsarina from a fable.”

Lady Jennifer laughed, but she was flattered. “Me, a tsarina?” She waved her gloved hand at the stage. “You have been watching too many fantasies and have let your imagination run away with you.”

“No, I see the bearing of a ruler, and a woman who is far too wise to try dressing like a
jeune fille
or in the current mode of filmy fabrics. You have stature. I would make that your signature. No mere miss could match such an effect.”

Lady Jennifer tipped her head a regal inch, already enjoying her role of exotic empress. “I like you, Madame. You are not afraid to say what you think.”

“Not when it comes to fashion.”

“Or otherwise, I believe. I should like to get to know you better, with your permission. I am at home Thursday afternoons. Please call.”

Now Queenie was indeed flustered. “For your fitting?”

“For tea, Madame, for tea and conversation. No, do not refuse over some silly social conventions. A duke's daughter, especially one of independent means and nature, can entertain whomever she wishes, and I wish to surround myself with intelligent women with opinions.”

Queenie had no wish to sit at a lady's table pretending to be what she was not, speaking of a world she did not know. This was her first opera. What could she discuss with a duke's daughter? “But I—”

“You are recently returned from France, I understand. I would seek your impressions of the political climate there. Fashion is not my métier. I shall leave that to you. But rational discourse is. I seek information, firsthand accounts of what you saw and heard and learned.”

Queenie doubted the lady meant seeing the back rooms of dressmaking shops, or learning how to avoid a Frenchman's advances, or hearing French words never spoken in polite drawing rooms.

Her uncertainty must have shown, for Lady Jennifer said, “I count a novelist among my Thursday guests, and a famous world traveler, as well as a scandalously divorced baroness and a former Spanish nun. Do you speak Spanish, by any chance?”

“
Un poco
.”

“You shall do. I will expect you then. If nothing else, the afternoon might lead to more business for your shop.”

“I fear that if I have much more business I shall have to move to bigger quarters and hire scores more workers.”

“That is no bad thing. Too many women are at the mercy of men and the poverty they leave behind. The females need respectable positions if they are to make something of their own lives. We shall talk about that, too. Oh, and a few gentleman attend my little gatherings, so do try not to look so alluring, can you, so we might have a bit of conversation instead of heavy breathing? Your own respiration might be improved, brother, if you raised your eyes from Madame's bosom.”

Harry laughed, well aware of his companion's effect on any male over the age of thirteen. Camden, that nonpareil among London notables, actually blushed. So did Queenie. “But I need time for your gown, ma'am.”

Lady Jennifer looked at Harry, so proud, so pleased with himself. “I suspect you need a friend more.”

A sale, a friend, the respect of someone of Harry's own class—and the opera. What more could Queenie ask of the night? She did not even notice that she was grasping Harry's hand when the third act started. She felt the tender warmth seep through her gloves, part and parcel of what he had given her this evening.

Chapter Twelve

The opera ended as expected, with murder and mayhem and melodrama, and last-gasp arias that lasted long enough to wrench the hardest heart. Thunder boomed from the orchestra pit, and lightning flashed behind the painted scenery. Enough tears flowed from the audience to extinguish any fires that the wondrous effects might have ignited.

The gods won, of course. The mere mortal, no matter how fine his voice or how constant his love, never stood a chance. The worst loser, naturally, was the poor female who thought she could change her destiny, the one who gave her heart so unwisely and lost everything she held dear.

Queenie wept, and not delicately like a lady, either. She sobbed and moaned and shook with sadness.

Damn, Harry thought, he could not do anything right! He'd wanted to give her a night of joy and instead he'd brought her grief and pain, and more stares from the other opera-goers.

On the other, brighter, side, now he would not have to worry about escorting Madame Lescartes back through the hordes of would-be admirers as they left the theater. Gone was the gorgeous dasher, and only a swollen-eyed, splotchy-cheeked and sodden female remained. Unfortunately, Harry could not help noticing that her magnificent bosom was heaving, but he told himself no man could consider that a compliment. And no man wanted a watering pot as a bed-warmer.

Of course Harry was not just any man. An imperfect diamond suited him far better than an untouchable cold stone. Now he wanted nothing more than to fold her in his arms, to comfort her and kiss the wetness from her cheeks, her smoky eyelashes, her damp, swanlike neck. If he happened to feel her bosom against his own chest, that was not his intent.

He could not do anything, though, not in front of half of England's elite. He merely handed over his own, larger handkerchief when the tears showed no signs of abating.

“Perhaps we should wait for the corridors to empty,” he suggested when Hellen and Browne started to rise. “There will be less of a crush on the stairs. The carriage will take ages to come around anyway.”

Queenie was grateful to agree, knowing that poor Harry must be mortified at the spectacle she was making. He would not want any of his friends to see her looking like a drowned kitten, nor like an ignorant, silly chit from a tiny village who mistook fantasy from fact. And she did not want him to see her as an overwrought, emotional female, either, subject to megrims and vapors and public scenes. She could only lose his friendship that way…the way the sea sprite had lost everything she valued most.

Besides, what if her crying had smeared the blacking she used to darken her blond eyelashes? Then Harry would know she was fake, living a lie. So Queenie hid in the shadows of the box, hid her face in the freshly laundered scent of Harry's monogrammed linen cloth, and whimpered.

Hellen and Browne were in the shadows too, whispering rather than whimpering. Harry stood and turned his back to give them all privacy, helplessly staring over the balcony railing. He pretended to be studying the departing crowds, planning their own best exit, when something in the pit caught his attention. Something scurvy, with its paw down the neckline of an orange seller.

“Bloody hell, it's my brother-in-law,” he cried, gaining the attention of anyone still in the vicinity who had not noticed the apparently broken-hearted woman and the besotted mooncalves in his box.

Queenie stopped crying, and Hellen and Browne stopped cuddling. They all came to the front of the area to look out over the pit.

“Where? Which one?”

“The bastard with the bald spot on top of his head I never noticed before, about ten rows behind the orchestra. Deuce take it, he is getting ready to leave with the orange girl. Lud only knows where he'll take her.”

And then the gentleman who had spent his adulthood avoiding scandal, who disliked making a spectacle and having his manners and morals dissected, who had been known for years as a sober-sides, stood at the front of his box and shouted across the entire auditorium. “Sir John Martin, you maggot, I want my diamonds!”

Every eye of every remaining opera goer was focused on Harry. Hellen gasped. The dowager still sitting in the neighboring compartment started fanning herself and clucking her teeth in cadence. She did not get up to leave, however. No one seemed to move, except Sir John Martin. He looked up at the tiers, shielding his eyes to see better. He lurched back, obviously recognizing retribution from on high. He looked down at the doxy at his side, then at the exit. Was Harry high enough, that was the question. Martin decided not. He started to run.

“Damn it, he is going to get away!”

His
chérie
was sniffling behind him, his family heirlooms were speeding toward the doors, and Harry was never going to make it down the stairs in time. Hell and damnation, then he'd go over the balcony!

Harry started to climb up on the railing. Hellen shrieked. Browne and Queenie both grabbed for the tails of his coat.

“You'll be killed, man!” Browne yelled.

“Do not do it, my lord! It is too dangerous.” Queenie was sobbing again. “No jewels are worth your life!”

The dowager next door swooned. So did half the misses in pastel gowns. The other half was screeching like they'd seen a mouse, or a madman. Gentlemen started placing bets on Harry's making it down to the pit in one piece. The orchestra struck up a waltz,
The Leaves Fall in Autumn
, and the opera manager jumped on the stage and started calling for calm.

“Do not panic, dear sirs and madams. All will be well.”

Which meant everyone panicked, naturally. Those in the cheap seats started rushing toward the doors, rather than get flattened by a bellowing Bedlamite who thought he could fly. Who knew what the knock-in-the cradle nobs would do next? If nothing else, they clogged the aisles, so Martin could not reach the street.

Harry noticed that while he stripped off his gloves. Then he looked down, far down. Perhaps swinging from railing to railing like an ape was not the best idea, especially not in evening pumps and closely fitted jacket. Letting Martin get away was worse.

“I am coming, you crook!” he yelled. He pulled out of his friends' grip and dashed for the rear of his box, shoving Hellen aside and nearly mowing down the hired footman who was waiting for orders to send for the gentleman's carriage.

“Follow him!” Queenie demanded. “He could get hurt!”

The footman and Browne both looked at her as if dementia was contagious. The footman was trained to be helpful, not heroic. Browne was brought up to guard women in his care.

“Go!” Queenie shouted, but did not wait. She grabbed Hellen's arm and started tugging her past the slack-jawed servant and Browne.

The hallway was nearly empty, since those who had not already departed had returned to their boxes to view the spectacle—or nurse their nerves. Queenie could see Harry tearing down the corridor toward the stairs, yelling for anyone to get out of his way.

She followed, Hellen at her back, Browne and the footman finally running behind them. Everyone seemed to be shouting questions, no one having answers.

The stairs were more crowded, and more confused, as everyone there wanted to know what was happening, and where. Should they go up, down, stay? A few of the older opera patrons were furious at having their evening pleasure destroyed by being bowled down by a bacon-witted viscount on the way home. The younger generation were all geese and gudgeons anyway. One ancient baronet was flailing his cane in the air, to the consternation of those trapped nearby. Another relic was clutching his heart, but that was because his wife was striking him there with her fan, for making her miss the most excitement of the evening. Blighted love and blithering baritones aside, this was bound to be tomorrow's choicest morsel, and she was stuck in a stairwell? She shoved past the others to chase Queenie and Hellen and their followers.

Another level down and Queenie could tell where Harry had passed by the muttering and the head shaking and the ladies leaning against their escorts in distress or because they could without being scolded by their mamas.

When they were finally on the main level, Queenie was undecided which way to turn. The hall was crowded, the auditorium still half filled. Fistfights had broken out among those who had been shoved, and shoved back. The music lovers in the pit were not of the polite world, and were not inclined to accept slights, slurs, or slaps graciously. Betting circles were established around each makeshift mill, which further hindered any outward exit.

A group of orange sellers grew angry that their wares, both fruit and sexual favors, would go unsold. Too many of their customers were running before the Watch arrived, or running to make wagers. The girls started throwing the oranges.

Queenie could not spot Harry. She simply was not tall enough. So she stood on a vacant chair.

“There he is!” she pointed toward the right, clambered down and started off again, begging pardon, asking permission to pass—or pushing like everyone else.

Harry was leaping over benches, and sometimes those seated in them, rather than attempt the clogged aisles.

Queenie could not see the fleeing brother-in-law, but doubted he could have escaped. Harry would have stopped his mad dash if the man was gone from the building, wouldn't he? She tried to keep him in sight, but he often landed between the benches on his hands, sometimes having to fend off belligerent sots who had emptied their flasks before the second act. Sometimes he seemed to slip on rotten oranges, skidding forward. Twice he landed a punch before some thug could swing at him while swinging at anything that moved. More often he simply moved faster. Once a group of young men, students, they seemed, picked Harry up and propelled him forward over their heads, laughing uproariously. Others applauded. More females fainted.

Queenie was too intent on keeping Harry in sight to swoon. Otherwise she might have, and happily, to avoid watching him get pummeled and pushed. Her breathing was ragged, her heart was racing, her mouth was too dry to call out to the clunch before he was killed or arrested. All she knew was that Harry was alone. She had to get to him, to help him, to stand by him. Then she would murder him with her bare hands.

So Queenie followed in his wake as best she could. She lost her shawl, her rosebuds, and a bit of skin. She had lost her dignity ages ago, and her temper. Why would a black-toothed blighter think he could pinch her bottom at a time like this? She swing her reticule and now the lecher had one less rotten tooth.

Hellen had been hauled in by Browne ten rows back, Queenie thought, but she could hear her friend screaming that her pearls were broken. A group of soldiers and their soiled doves hurried back to help retrieve the baubles, and pocket a few, which left Queenie a more open space ahead.

Now that she was closer, she could see that Martin was stuck in the crowd with no way out, for the press in front of the doors was impossible to penetrate. And Harry was getting closer.

Martin looked around, frantic. No one was coming to his aid. In fact, once the crowd realized that he was the intended target of the assault, they backed away, giving Harry room. He launched himself through the air and landed atop the lighter, smaller, but more desperate baronet. Martin kicked, and Harry rolled off, clutching his other family jewels, to the hilarity of the watchers who were eager to be entertained, now that they were not in danger.

Harry leaped to his feet. He swayed a bit, cursed a bit, but made his large, capable hands into fists and came on toward his lying, thieving brother-in-law, blood in his eyes.

Martin had his walking stick in his hand, though. He beat Harry on the head and shoulders, while ducking and bobbing. “I can explain. I only borrowed the diamonds.”

Harry landed him a facer. “And my horses.” Harry hit him again. Blood spurted from Martin's nose. “I want them back, and you gone from England, do you hear me?”

But Martin had heard his nose break, and feared for every other bone in his body. This was not the easygoing Harry Martin knew and despised, the simple farmer content with his mangel-wurtzels. This was raw fury, looking as if he'd be content with nothing less than Martin's liver and lights, on his breakfast platter. Besides, Martin had no where to go, except to prison or the gibbet.

So he twisted the knob on his walking stick and unsheathed the sword hidden in the cane. He slashed out. Harry's left sleeve was torn, and some of his skin with it.

The crowd gasped. This was no longer fun, not even a fair fight. Hands reached for Martin, and got scraped and bloodied in return. His hair was dangling in his face, drenched in the sweat pouring off his forehead. He circled the area like a cornered rat, which he was. Harry came on, his right arm wrapped in his ruined coat he'd pulled off.

“My sister will be free of your filth at last,” he rasped through clenched jaws. “A widow.”

Holding his protected arm in front of his face, Harry leaped straight for Martin. Someone screamed, perhaps Queenie. The sword went flying, but so did Martin. Harry had hit him so hard, the dastard flew backward on the orange-coated floor and skidded under the legs of the closest watchers. Harry fell too.

Hands reached to raise Harry to his feet. He turned around, tried to clear his battered head with a shake, and saw his brother-in-law scrabble along the floor, under feet, under skirts, toward the door.

Harry would have followed, but then a woman landed in his arms.

“
Chérie
?” he asked, falling back to the ground with her in his lap.

She was weeping and patting at his bleeding arm, the cuts on his head, the bruises on his cheek. “Please, Harry, please do not go after him.”

He could not if he wanted to, Harry decided, for his legs were like rubber and his left arm could not even rub the precious girl's trembling back. Besides, the circle of onlookers was too close, offering aid and encouragement and congratulations, and whistles were blowing, warning that the Watch or the sheriff or the men from Bow Street were on the way. His supporters hastened toward the now-open doorways. Only a few people remained close by, one holding a trumpet, as if he were ready to defend the opera with his horn. Browne and Hellen came hurrying forward, and the footman stood up from under the bench where he had taken shelter.