The great khan was back, looking more flushed than ever, his face red with heat or exertion or drink, his breathing heavy. Again that sense of familiarity poked at Lucasta. The sight of his face brought dismay, annoyance, and even a touch of—fear? Whowashe?
“You,” Minnie shouted, raising her spear, “are a pestilence!”
“You do not recognize me, cousin?” The emperor threw his bear skin cape at Jem, who caught it. He unwrapped the turban and tossed that at Trevor, who also caught it out of reflex. Then he tore off the beard and mustache that had disguised his face.
The sideburns were his own, as were the heavy eyebrows and the brown curly hair that capped his head. He met Lucasta’s eyes with a quizzical look, touched with mockery, and finally she recognized the nose.
“Gale!” Trevor spoke first. “Where in God’s name did you come from?”
The other man held Lucasta’s eyes. “I find my dear cousin has been spirited away from her proper home, and I’ve come to retrieve her. Miss Lithwick—dearest Lucasta—why did you ever leave Bath? This place—” His eyes flickered over Trevor’s deepening scowl, then the transfixed faces of the other girls. “This company, clearly, is not for you.”
“Who are you?” Annis demanded. “And how do you know Lucasta?”
The other man looked expectantly at Trevor, who set his mouth in a mutinous line. Lucasta opened her mouth, but she was still too stunned with surprise to speak.
“Very well,” the man snapped, annoyed at the indignity of having to perform his own introduction. “I am Roland, the Viscount Frotheringale. This lovely apparition—this goddess in truth—is my cousin, Lucasta. My cousin, and—” His voice took on a warm, silken quality— “I hope, very soon, my affianced bride-to-be.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Are ye all right, mum? It’s Friday-faced ye are today.”
“Aye, ye look a mite knocked up. Been dipping in the Blue Ruin?”
“No, Philippa,” Lucasta answered, forcing a smile. “I do not drink gin.”
“Well, ye look done to a cow’s thumb. Ye’ve been trotting too hard, trying to get us into shape for the concert. We’re such regular dunces, I can’t doubt yer a deal fagged.”
“You’ve been doing wonderfully, Camilla, working very hard to learn your songs. I’m quite proud of you all.”
“It’s ’im,” Hester guessed. “The swell as comes to hear you sing wi’ us. What’s ’e done, then? Cutting shams? On the rocks? Found out e’s a ladybird, or a side-slip somewhere?”
Lucasta coughed. “Do you mean J—Lord Rudyard?”
“Aye, ’im, the Corinthian. The one danglin’ after ye.”
“I can say with authority that he is not dangling after me, Hester.” Lucasta’s heart squeezed, and for the tenth time in an hour, she told herself to stop thinking of Jem.
“Well, ’e’s a nonesuch, top o’ the trees, and if he’s trying to rivet ye, I say ye let ’im, even if ’e does have a by-blow stashed somewhere about,” Hester advised.
“Likely he does,” Isadora agreed. “Why else’d he want to be a guv’nor here?” Her eyes widened. “D’ye suppose it’s one o’us?”
“Don’t be a gudgeon, ’e’s trying to cut a wheedle with Miss Lucasta.” Hester, one of the older girls who had won the coveted honor of giving a solo performance, fixed Lucasta with a grim look. “Mind ye don’t take Spanish coin from ’im, now! A girl lets ’er guard down, and afore she knows—” She snapped her fingers— “she’s leavin’ a bundle at the gate with a note and a wee remembrance.”
Many of the infants signed onto the rolls of the Hospital came with some identifier pinned to their blanket, a piece of fabric or a small token by which the surrendering parent hoped to identify their child when circumstances improved. The hospital staff kept careful records of these tokens, though they were rarely called upon. Most foundlings lucky enough to survive their childhood left the gates of the Hospital of their own volition, with a set of new clothes and a few coins donated by benefactors.
“It is time we focused on the task at hand,” Lucasta said briskly. “The concert is a fortnight away. Eliza needs to practice her solo of ‘Au claire de la lune.’ Isadora, Camilla, Philippa, we’ll run through your trio of ‘The Trees They Grow So High.’ And I’m very glad we can practice our hymn today with Mr. Handel’s organ, which I have wanted to play my whole life.”
“What about your solo, Miss Lucasta? Aren’t you going to do ‘The Bells of Aberdovey’?”
Lucasta’s heart pinched again. That was the song Judith had wanted them to perform. She’d practiced for hours in the parlor at Rose Hollow, to the great delight of Mrs. Cadogan. But she might never see Judith or Mrs. Cadogan or the halflings, as Jem called the younger ones, again.
Her hands trembled at the thought. She’d not seen Jem since the masquerade, days ago. He’d seemed even more furious withthe sudden appearance of Frotheringale than he had been with Lucasta, but she’d not had time to protest before Trevor whisked her away into a dance. Between the attentions of the Pevenseys, the Gorgons, and Bertie, claims to her hand from no less than a dozen gentlemen who were fulsome in their compliments, and demands from nearly as many young ladies wanting to quiz her for information about Trevor, there had been no opportunity for either Frotheringale or Jem to approach Lucasta even if they’d wished it.
And Jem, she feared, didn’t wish to approach her ever again.
“I’m afraid I won’t be performing, girls.” It took all Lucasta’s training to keep her voice steady. “My accompanist, sadly, has proven unable to keep our engagement.”
“Then you won’t sing at all?”
