Lucasta squeezed the girl’s delicate wrist, fighting back the hot lump in her throat. Judith did not want her pity. “Jem—Rudyard—will never approve.”
Judith tilted her head. “You don’t wish to perform?”
“I wish it above anything.”
The thought thrilled and terrified her, how much she wanted this. To stand on a stage, fill a room with her voice, tell a story with her music. To move and uplift, teach or embolden, to heal, or simply stir hearts worn by the toils of the world.
And it would be good for Judith to be seen and acknowledged. After all, she was the granddaughter of a marquess. Lucasta could choose a simple air, one Judith could learn quickly. A benefit concert for foundlings should be the one place in the world she could reveal herself and be shielded from censure.
And Lucasta could sing. In public. Her grand, too grand for her, dream.
Lucasta exhaled. Aunt Pevensey would never approve. Aunt Cornelia would make her feelings clear in some swift and soul-crushing fashion.
“I adore the thought,” Lucasta said. “But I fear the consequences.” Being laughed at, or simply though common and unimpressive, was the least of it.
A small smile curved Judith’s bow-shaped lips. “Then let’s not tell Jem just yet.”
Bertie wriggledwith the secret all the way home. Several times, as she turned to address her in the back, Lucasta saw the other girl press her gloved knuckles to her lips as though she were holding back words.
She dreaded Jem’s response when she broached the subject. She had never seen him lose his temper, but he was excessively protective of Judith. No doubt he would have thoughts as cutting as Aunt Cornelia’s about his family performing in a public venue.
He might forbid her music lessons with Judith when he learned what they were plotting. Cast out of the warm circle of Rose Hollow would be like being cast out of paradise.
“Are you attending the Countess of Calenburg’sconverzationethis evening?” Jem asked as they made their way through Knightsbridge, now a familiar trek. “Your diary seems over overfull of late, Miss Lithwick.”
“I think you might call me Lucasta,” she said with a laugh. “Yes, the Countess is a friend of Miss Gregoire’s, and I am always interested to see what her artists are creating. If my diary isoverfull, it is only because everyone oftonis still puzzling over what about me Smart Jeremy could possibly findfascinating.”
Was she imagining an irritated twitch to his shoulders? “I am sure you have risen to notice on your own merits.”
“You must be aware it is you who has made the Gorgons so admired,” she said.
That, and the succession of sumptuous, splendid, well-fitted gowns delivered from Mlle. Beaudoin’s, all with the gracious plea to wear with her compliments and, if asked, be so kind as to give Mlle. Beaudoin as the name of her modiste. The Gorgons were necessary at any social occasion whose hostess wished it a success, and Lucasta’s gowns had turned her from an antidote to a fashion plate.
Cici delighted in the change as well. Major Mallory found many a young buck vying for the hand of the Pevensey daughter as she was swept along in the wake of the Gorgons.
“Your cousin seems particularly attentive,” Jem remarked, his tone flat.
Lucasta studied the elegant mansions that lined the road, their gardens gray-green under the lowering clouds. Every time they stepped out the door to another evening’s entertainment with the Baron’s self-congratulatory smile and her aunt’s unhappy glances, Lucasta looked for the snare at her feet. And she watched in apprehension for evidence that her cousin had taken up his old habits.
Trevor Pevensey spent a great deal of time at his club, out riding, and amusing himself with his friends, but every young man of his age and station was expected to gamble, drink, visit loose women, and amuse himself with the latest freak of fashion.
If Trevor stayed within his means, there was every chance they could both eventually free themselves of his parent’s expectation. Lucasta suspected he had no strong wish to marry her, either. But if he fell into straits, lost pots of money, orbrought down some other trouble upon his head, then Lucasta—or rather, her presumed inheritance from Aunt Cornelia—might look a good deal more attractive.
Unless Lucasta sang at a public concert and Aunt Cornelia, outraged, cut her off completely. Lucasta would be free of the Baron’s machinations and her plague of suitors in one fell swoop.
Thrown entirely onto her devices, her meager savings, and the good graces of whatever musical students she could attract to her conservatory. Hardly a promising start.
The drifting mist turned to a gusty drizzle, then the low clouds opened for the first time in weeks, releasing torrents of rain. Lucasta gasped as a sheet of cold water swooped under her bonnet and slapped her in the face. Behind them, Bertie squealed in discomfort.
Jem, the wretched man, laughed and urged the horses to a brisker pace. “Now, that’s bracing!” he shouted. “Makes a man feel alive.”
“Oh, Jem, it will ruin my new hat!” Bertie wailed.
“Never fear, Bert, we’ll duck into the shop and wait it out.”
Lucasta was glad that the sheets of rain dimmed the outlines of traffic and other obstacles before them. She crouched under her woolen cloak as the cold rain furiously pelted them. “Your shop will not be open on Sunday?”
“No, and the draper’s assistants will be out on their half day.” Jem steered them toward the glass-plated front of a large, attractive shop on Piccadilly. “We shall have to shift for ourselves. Can you manage?”
