A startling hint of color touched the warrior countenance. “Janet is no innocent.”
“No, quite the opposite,” Edmond drawled, silently wondering just what the hell was going on between his companion and the maid. “She is a woman who would readily geld a man she felt had done her wrong. And if she did not, then her family would. I would say it is equal odds as to whether you shall have your throat cut by the dangerous maid or by her ruffian of a father.”
Boris appeared remarkably indifferent to the undoubted danger he was courting, leaning to peer out the window as the carriage slowed.
“I suppose this must be the place.”
Edmond lifted his brows at the sight of the terraced town house that was surrounded by a recently enlarged garden complete with Grecian statues and marble fountains. Although unable to compare with the Huntley mansion, it was a lovely neoclassical design that was set back from the road and framed by towering marble columns.
“Rather elegant for an opera singer,” he murmured, before slanting Boris a somber glance. “Remain here and keep an eye upon the house. I want to know if anyone takes an interest in my presence while I’m here.”
Boris frowned. “You intend to go in there alone?”
Edmond patted his jacket where he had a pistol and two daggers stashed. “Never alone, my friend.”
LA RUSSA’S TOWN HOUSE PROVED to be just as tastefully elegant on the inside as it promised on the outside.
Allowing a uniformed butler to lead him up the curved, double staircase to the upper landing, Edmond took close note of the rare Grecian vases that were set in the tiny alcoves along with the collection of Dutch masterpieces that lined the walls. Although he did not claim his late father’s love for art, he fully appreciated the value of such a collection.
Shown into a long drawing room that offered a stunning view of the tiny park built in the center of the square, Edmond was once again greeted by the pleasing combination of classical furnishings and breathtaking works of art. Glancing about the ivory and gold chamber, he realized that there was at least one Rembrandt and two Rubens on the damask walls and a Van Dyke carefully hung above the black marble chimneypiece.
He smiled wryly, accepting that it was not at all what he was expecting. Nor was the woman who rose gracefully to her feet at his entrance.
Tall and slender, she was a traditional English rose beauty. Of course, her glorious blond hair was beginning to show a few strands of silver and there was a network of lines about the blue eyes, but that haunting fragility that had bewitched theatre audiences for the past two decades remained as compelling as ever.
Moving forward, Edmond took the slender hand that she offered and raised it to his lips. “Ah, the exquisite La Russa. As beautiful as the rumors claim.” He ran an appreciative gaze over the pale mauve satin gown that was cut low enough to reveal the tempting swell of her breasts and trimmed with a sophisticated silver foil. She wore no jewels, but the purity of her creamy skin needed no ornamentation. “I understand why they refuse to serve dinner at my club until a toast has been offered in your honor.”
“Please, call me Elizabeth,” she said, her voice a low, husky invitation. “I try to leave La Russa at the theatre.”
“Understandable.” Edmond straightened, careful to hide his impatience that Chesterfield was nowhere to be seen. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
The rosebud lips curved into a knowing smile. “Nonsense. My humble household is honored to be graced by the presence of such a renowned peer of the realm.”
“Not so humble.” Edmond glanced toward the Van Dyke hanging above the mantle. “You possess exquisite taste.”
“There are some women who enjoy fashionable clothes or flashy bits of jewelry. I am rather more dull in my desires.”
Edmond was not fooled for a moment by her ingenuous manner. “You are extremely wise, I should say. This collection is worth a fortune and will only increase in value over the years.”
“A lady in my position must
always think of the future.” As if realizing that Edmond was too perceptive to be deceived by her well-practiced act, Elizabeth offered a genuine smile and moved toward a door nearly hidden behind a large potted palm. “This way, your Grace.”
Edmond readily followed in her wake. “You know, I cannot help but be curious as to how you and Chesterfield became acquainted.”
She gave a low, throaty laugh. “I was not always La Russa, your Grace. When I first arrived in London I was Lizzy Gilford, the poor daughter of a blacksmith with empty pockets and a head filled with foolish notions of the great destiny that awaited me.”
“One that obviously has arrived,” he said dryly.
“Greatness is not singing on a stage or dangling upon the arm of some wealthy gentleman. It is not even acquiring these wondrous works of art, as I have learned from Mr. Chesterfield.” She cast a brief glance over her shoulder. “Greatness is never turning a blind eye to the suffering of others.”
“Ah.” Edmond recognized the wounds that shadowed her eyes. Wounds that might be ancient, but had never entirely healed. “He rescued you.”
“Yes.” She pushed open the door to reveal a paneled antechamber that led to yet another door. “I had barely stepped off the stage from Liverpool when I was approached by a very elegant, very sophisticated gentleman who promised to launch my career on the stage. A lot of rubbish, of course. After he had thoroughly debauched me, he sold me to a brothel and laughed as I pleaded with him to return me to my father.” She briefly paused, as if fighting to keep command of her composure. “He said that the only place for a worthless tart was the gutter.”
Edmond grimaced. It was no surprise that a supposed gentleman would pad his pockets by seducing an innocent wench and then selling her to the local brothel. Hell, he’d known gentlemen who would sell their own sister for a few quid.
“I suppose it is too much to hope that he was properly gelded?”