a toast.
‘Here’s to life,’ he said slowly.
One begun, one ended. Two babies, born on exactly the same day to two very different women, and a family lost to Brenna.
A coldness began to settle inside of Nicholas, an answer to a puzzle he didn’t want to find, a premonition of Brenna’s fear, of her secrecy, an understanding of Michael’s protection and an explanation for Daphne’s madness. He squashed it down, not willing to dissect it at all further, and questioned Charlotte instead. ‘Do you ever come down to London?’
‘Oh, hardly ever,’ she laughed. ‘We have a relation there, my father’s brother.’ She glanced around uneasily. ‘He has a house in Camberwell, I believe. A Sir Michael De Lancey—mayhap you know of him?’
Nicholas made light of his answer, unwilling to take the subject any further for he didn’t wish to alarm Daphne or inadvertently frighten Michael or Brenna into flight.
‘It’s a big place,’ he replied flatly, his eyes flitting unbidden back to the visage of an unlawful male heir and a family portrait which should have proudly held the likeness of a woman who was becoming increasingly important to him.
The drive back to London was a long one for Nicholas, all his energies spent trying to unravel the puzzle of Brenna De Lancey Stanhope, and, on arriving in town he directed his driver to deliver him to his club instead of Pencarrow House.
Almost the only other occupant of the place as Nicholas walked through the salons was the Earl of Drummorne, Francis Woodhams, sitting ensconced in an armchair by the fire, brandy in hand and lost in thought.
‘Penny for them?’ Nick chided as he sat to join him, beckoning a passing waiter for a whisky.
Brown eyes rose in greeting, a tepid smile barely lighting them in humour. ‘Sit at your peril, Nick, for I warn you today I am not good company.’
‘Did your brother abscond with more of the family jewels?’ Nicholas quipped without apology, thinking of Bertrand, a known gambler whose excesses seemed paid for only by Francis’s good intelligence in business.
‘Nay, it’s Louisa. She’s leaving me!’
‘But you only just returned from Paris and, from all accounts that I’ve heard, the trip seemed more than a success.’
For the first time Francis smiled. ‘I thought so too! It seems, however, the life of a well-bred courtesan is not enough for her. She wants her independence.’
Nicholas grimaced. ‘Tough to promise,’ he said with feeling.
‘My thoughts exactly. Seems she has a woman friend in business on the east side of town, someone from her far and distant past. The woman is the epitome of “unconventional femininity”, according to Louisa. Together they could rule the world.’ He up-ended his glass. ‘Louisa working in an orphanage. Can you even imagine it?’
‘Hell!’ Nicholas lurched to his feet. ‘Not the Beaumont Street Orphanage run by Brenna Stanhope?’
Astonishment raced across Francis’s brow. ‘Yes. I’m sure that is the name she mentioned…’
‘Interesting, indeed.’ Nick stood, running his hands through his hair before facing Francis urgently. ‘Where’s Louisa now?’
‘She’s at the town house. You want me to go with you right this minute?’ Francis groaned and stood. ‘This had better damn well be important, Nick.’
‘Believe me, it’s very important,’ came the cryptic reply, and Francis hurried to catch him up.
The walk through Hyde Park to Mayfair was a long one and Brenna paused to look around her, the semi-dusk of the early afternoon burying the city under a carpet of smoke.
London. It was glorious and dismal, rich and poor, elegant and tatty. Here, in an area favoured by the fashionable and wealthy, the houses changed their coats; larger, spacious, gardened and well to do, and Brenna, walking now into Mount Street, smiled as she caught sight of Louisa waiting patiently at the corner, parasol opened above her to guard against the dampness in the air.
‘Brenna!’ The girl came forward. ‘It seems an age since I’ve seen you.’
‘It has been,’ Brenna returned, kissing the offered cheek lightly, her eyes widening with astonishment at the beauty before her. ‘And how a year in Paris has changed you, Louisa! You look wonderful.’ Her glance fell across the colourful silk bodice of a day gown cut daringly low.
Louisa smiled, tucking errant blond curls beneath a lace-edged cap. ‘Francis bought me a whole wardrobe in Paris. He bought me this too.’ She pulled forth a necklace, laced in gold and emeralds, and Brenna, holding them, felt the warmth of Louisa’s body on the metal.
‘And you’re happy?’
‘I am trying to be, though sometimes…’ Her blue eyes darkened as she struggled to continue. ‘Sometimes I would like to be more in control of my own destiny, Brenna, and determine my future just as you have yours. But enough of that. The reason I have asked you here today is to give you a gift!’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, and from Paris no less! You’re to come right now and try it on. Francis has just left and won’t be back till tomorrow at least and I have the apartment entirely to myself.’
Brenna stepped back, unsure about continuing. They met usually in some anonymous safe place far from the real world of either, and seldom discussed the past that bound them both together. Now, well dressed and pampered, Louisa wanted no recollection of her early years, and Brenna had little want to delve there either. It was as if in this mutual pact of silence something was salvaged, some sense of dignity and honour, some shape of a past that mitigated their guilt and let them stand free and independent.
‘I’m not sure,’ Brenna hedged, thinking of some reason to leave, but seeing the hurt of disappointment in Louisa’s eyes. ‘Well, perhaps only just quickly. I really can’t be long.’
‘Nay, not long.’ Louisa wound her arm through Brenna’s and excitedly bundled her down the street, stopping at a well cared-for, semi-detached house that lay wreathed in elegant black iron lacework. Finding the key, she pushed the door open and Brenna, stepping inside, was assailed by the unmistakable smell of expensive perfume.
‘Up here!’ Louisa beckoned, running up steps draped in eastern carpets. ‘I want to show you your present.’
Brenna followed, crossing to a bedroom that filled the whole front of the house, French doors spilling out to a balcony and lawn lace curtains shielding it from the view of others. Her mouth fell open with amazement.
‘This is your bedroom? You sleep here?’ Her eyes noted a bed, easily the largest she had ever seen, and shifted back to the woman beside her, her dimples appearing as unexpectedly as the sun after a long and dingy day. ‘Goodness, Louisa, but this is decadent.’
Louisa chuckled and threw open her cupboards. ‘Wait till you see the rest, but be warned against criticism, Brenna, for our childhood of otherwise has taught me to enjoy excess.’
The words were said gently and Brenna sobered, running her fingers now through yards of silk and velvet and tulle in the shape of what seemed like a hundred gowns hanging in proud array. ‘They’re beautiful, Louisa. I think that this Francis must truly love you.’
Blue eyes twinkled. ‘He does and one day he’ll realise it, but for now…’ She went to one end of the cupboard and pulled forth a gown still wrapped in calico to shield it from the light of day.
‘This is yours, Brenna. I found it at Bussy’s. The madam there said it had been ordered by the daughter of a Marquis who had never come back to claim it and I thought of you straight away.’
Brenna pulled off the drab material that enfolded the garment, and her eyes were filled with wonderment at the sight before her: an evening gown of dark red silk, high backed and