Eventually Jasper found her. He scanned her companions as he approached.
"Miss Gray didn't come, did she?"
"As she said."
"What are you doing in this crowd, Sprite? You despise them," he whispered.
"So does Dent," Ophelia confided.
Jasper gave a brief laugh. "Well come with me. I can keep you from Dent and Miss Mercer
-
Elphinstone. I've got someone I want to show you."
Ophelia gave him a questioning look but allowed him to lead her away, suffering only a few quips from the crowd as they departed. Jasper's energy told her he'd had some luck in his search. "You found Burke?"
"Yes, and he was most helpful, but he told me something strange, too. I don't know what to make of it." Jasper steered her through the crowded ballroom, across the grand entry, and into a long salon set up for cards. Ladies and gentlemen gathered around a dozen tables for everything from whist and loo to more serious games of hazard and faro.
"See that fellow?"
Ophelia followed his gaze to a tall, raven
haired gentleman in an extremely elegant evening coat.
"Revelstoke." Jasper leaned close and whispered, "Burke swears the fellow is wearing one of Prince's Mirandola's coats."
"What?"
Jasper started to repeat himself, but Ophelia interrupted.
"Why would he be wearing another man's coat, and how would he come by it?" Jasper plainly had not thought through Burke's information. "Did you understand Burke?"
"Of course I did."
"Revelstoke must be wearing a coat
like
the Prince's—he must have the same tailor."
Jasper frowned; obviously he hadn't considered that. "I've got to talk to Revelstoke," he said, his brow furrowed. "But I can't just ask him his tailor's name."
Ophelia laughed. "Get me a glass of champagne."
No one could say later precisely how the accident occurred. Lord Revelstoke turned from the table, just as Lady Ophelia Brinsby moved to elude her disapproving brother, who was about to snatch away her champagne. Her glass held high, Lady Ophelia whirled into Revelstoke and showered his coat from the lapels to the waist with bright, bubbly wine.
"Miss!" Revelstoke jumped back too late.
"Look what you've done, Jasper," Ophelia told her brother.
Jasper stepped forward to offer his handkerchief. "I beg your pardon, Revelstoke."
He raised his quizzing glass as if Ophelia were a species of insect.
"I'm so sorry,"
Ophelia murmured contritely. "You must let us take care of your coat."
"It's nothing," said Revelstoke, dabbing his coat with Jasper's linen.
"Oooh nooo,"
said Ophelia, with the intensity of the very foxed. She swayed toward him and put a light hand on Revelstoke's arm. "You must let us replace the ruined coat. Who is your tailor?"
"Really, miss."
"I insist. We'll take care of it tomorrow." She tried to look devastated. She was aware of the stares of others and knew her victim wanted to be let off the hook.
"Very well," said Revelstoke. "Lucca of Maddox Street."
Ophelia smiled sweetly. "We'll be there in the morning to see to your new coat," she promised. Then her brother whisked her away, leaning close to speak in her ear, apparently chiding her for her high spirits.
"Sprite, you're a genius," he whispered.
Chapter
9
A
lexander kept Raj to a steady walk through the gray streets. The stallion had nearly overcome his tendency to shy at the city's frequent offenses to a horse's dignity and sensibility. Rumbling coal carts, bell-ringing hawkers, absurd clattering phaetons brought barely a flinch. But Jasper Brinsby seemed to have forgotten Raj. His curricle was his favorite toy, the one he called for whenever he came to the stables. Like his sister, he moved with impatient energy from one idle pursuit to the next.
Alexander liked to imagine that he would offer for Raj as soon as he returned to himself, got Trevigna's affairs settled, and had suf
ficient guineas in his purse…
if that day ever came.
Raj tossed his head as the final turning brought the scent of the park, fresh from a rain. At the gate Alexander had to rein in for two gentlemen who rode past, serene in their assumption of privilege. When they passed, Alexander urged Raj to a canter along the north ride.
His trips to the park had become like the practice he'd abandoned in his adolescence of examining his conscience. No point in recalling one's sins, if in the recollection, one sinned by wanting to repeat them. And he did want to repeat them.
Along the north ride he could recall the teasing touches of the first day, which led as inevitably as the path itself to the hollow where Ophelia had escaped through the ducks. Beyond the Serpentine were the ridges over which he'd pursued her until they'd tumbled to the grass. In the distance was the road that led to the Grays' garden.
His experience with Ophelia was unlike any he'd had before. With Blanca in the hills there had been an immediate and fierce consummation. Later, in Venice, when he had gone at Lucca's insistence to Magdelena, the famous courtesan, he had experienced in a single night an erotic progression from innuendo through a catalogue of pleasure to repletion, like saying an alphabet. But with Ophelia desire was not an episode; it was a territory he had entered where eyes and hands and voices spoke in unguarded ways.
Every morning her eyes met his with a little shock, a quick look away that acknowledged awareness. Their hands met through gloves and clung beyond his duty to assist her. He steadied her horse while she mounted, brushing past him in a swift surge of movement that awakened a beat in his loins. When their ride ended, there came a moment more intimate than the most scandalous waltz, when he put his hands to her waist and she slid down into his arms, her scent around him, her weight in his hands.
It was like launching his boat for the point of
Laruggia against the afternoon breeze, a constant wind in his face, the boat rocking over waves, and every other minute turning his hand, his body, the stick, so as not to spill a breath of that wind from his taut sail. And when he reached the point, he would come about and let the wind swell the big-bellied sail and blow him home.
The real park—the trees coming into leaf, the twittering birds, t
he reviving green of the grass—
held almost no interest for him, except as a map of his strange unacknowledged flirtation with his mistress. What did he see in her? A blithe realist without illusions, not a dreamer like himself. She would not attempt to reform society, did not imagine it could be reformed. Society enclosed young women of privilege in a maze of restrictions. Ophelia Brinsby simply tucked clippers in her pocket and cut her way through the hedge.
He wanted her to want him. Her confession of weakness in the garden puzzled and inflamed him. So he rode, unconscious of his surroundings, inventing conversations and other meetings in that garden in which she did not pull away and he went on caressing her sweet breasts.
She had been the wise one, sending him word that she would not come to the stables again. The church had a phrase for frail virtue like his. They called it avoiding the near occasion of sin. He wondered how long she would avoid him.
J
asper knocked on Ophelia's door early the morning after the Ingram ball.
"What are your plans for the day?" he asked.
"I'm free." Ophelia pulled the counterpane
over Berwick's manuscript. "Did you want me to come with you to Revelstoke's tailor?"
Jasper nodded. "But if you have plans,
well…
"
"I don't." Ophelia watched her brother move restlessly about her room.
"Well, then, some other day," he said, as if he hadn't heard her at all. He strode for the door.
"Jasper?"
He paused.
"Did you want to include Miss Gray in our adventure?"
"Yes." The single fervent syllable seemed wrenched from him.
They passed the tailor's shop three times before they were sure of the spot. Nothing so obvious as a sign marked the establishment, but Jasper, peering in the grimy bow window, insisted that all the accoutrements of a tailor's shop were there—weighing chair, cheval glass, sporting magazines.
A little bell tinkled as they entered, and from behind a brown velvet curtain came an indistinguishable muttering. A moment later a tall, elegant man stepped through the curtain. His features—great dark eyes, an imposing brow, and a full, sensuous
mouth—were not at all English.
The man bowed. "I am Lucca," he said in a lightly accented voice. "Please sit and tell me how may I help you."
Ophelia glanced at Jasper, wondering if they hadn't stumbled upon the missing prince himself.
The thought must have crossed Jasper's mind,
because he met her look with a warning nod and began introducing their errand.
He steered Hetty to a low chaise, offering his arm as if she might stumble on the threadbare carpet. Ophelia gazed about the shop, noting the bare walls, their paper faded around several rectangles of darker hue where pictures must have hung once. Only one remained. She did not recognize the subject, but the painter's style looked familiar. The name eluded her, but she suspected the artist's work was too fine for the walls of a small, unprosperous shop.
"We've come to see if you can replace a coat," said Jasper. "For Lord Revelstoke. You made one for him recently, and quite by accident the coat's been damaged."
Lucca's face remained impassive.
"We're entirely to blame for Lord Revelstoke's loss," said Ophelia.
"Naturally, we would like to replace the coat," Jasper concluded. He might as well have addressed the wall. The only response from the haughty Lucca was a slight raising of the straight, black brows.
"You do remember Lord Revelstoke?" Ophelia asked.
"Yes, certainly," said Lucca. The dark eyes were not as imperturbable as the face. Lucca looked like a man who was thinking furiously. "A black coat, evening wear."
"Yes," said Jasper.
"And you would like another, just like it?"
"Yes," Jasper agreed, looking at Hetty as if the investigation were making great strides.
"I'm afraid I cannot be of assistance in this
matter," said Lucca. He made a small bow and muttered something.
Jasper's head turned sharply. "I beg your pardon."
"
Cavoli riscaldati.
Reheated cabbage." An impatient sweep of his arm accompanied the phrase.
Ophelia exchanged a glance with Hetty. Lucca's connection with the missing prince seemed more probable by the minute. Jasper leaned forward as if to catch the man's meaning. "I don't understand."
Lucca threw his hands up in the air. "I do not repeat myself," he said. "One jacket is a work of art. I do not make two of the same." He crossed his arms over his chest, a sullen curve to his mouth.
Jasper frowned. "Look here," he said. "You will be well compensated for your work."
Lucca shrugged. "I tell you, it's not possible. One time, one coat."
"What kind of tailor are you?" Jasper demanded. "Surely you have forms, patterns. How do you expect to maintain an establishment?"
Lucca drew himself up. "Lucca's is not the holy water font for every passerby to dip his hand in."
Jasper reddened with uncharacteristic temper. Ophelia saw that he did not like being put off in front of Hetty.
"Excuse me," said Ophelia. She smiled as sweetly as she could. "Jasper, perhaps you could have a coat made for yourself. You admired Revelstoke's coat, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Jasper, whirling on Lucca with a
challenging glint in his eye. "What can you do for me? Can you create an original for me?"
There was a long pause. Ophelia caught a glare from Lucca.
"Of course," he said to Jasper. "What sort of coat interests you, my lord?"
Jasper ran a hand through his hair. "A green one."
"Oh, a green one." Lucca's full mouth curved in disdain. He looked Jasper up and down, and gestured for him to turn.
Jasper did as the tailor bade him.
"Walk," Lucca urged.
An impatient breath escaped Jasper, but he took a turn about the room. Hetty's glance followed him until he turned and caught her gaze. Their eyes met and held while Ophelia and the supercilious Lucca were forgotten.
"No," said Lucca. "I can do nothing for you."
Jasper swung to face the tailor. "Why not?" he demanded.
"You do not know what you want." Lucca's voice rose. "Look at you." Lucca stepped forward and pulled up the seams at Jasper's shoulders. "Excellent shoulders hidden with this slope. And here." Lucca indicated the bottom of Jasper's waistcoat. "Too long, two inches too long, hides the waist. And here." Lucca gave a tug to Jasper's cravat, untying it. With swift fingers, he redid the knot. Then he turned Jasper toward the cheval glass.
"Now see here," Jasper protested. "My tailor is—"
"—Poole. I know. I recognize the work."
Jasper stared at himself in the glass. The careless new folds of the cravat changed his appearance, slightly perhaps, but definitely. He turned to Hetty with a surprised look.
"You see, my lord. Not this English stiffness. You
want
…
sprezzatura
."
Ophelia regarded the change in her brother. There was something familiar in the new fall of his cravat, but she couldn't place it and she needed to get Jasper's mind back on his investigation.
"What cloth do you suggest for him?" she asked Lucca.
"Cloth?" Lucca lapsed into his uncomprehending state. This time Ophelia was sure there was furious thinking going on behind the blank expression. "I will show you a coat I just finished. That will give you an idea. Excuse me."
He disappeared through the velvet curtain, and they could hear his footsteps on stairs. Ophelia walked over to examine the painting. Even with a closer look she did not recognize the building, or the setting, which did not seem English at all. B
ut the painter's name in the corn
er was Canaletto, certainly an artist fit for a royal commission.
"What an odd fellow," said Jasper. "I thought for a moment he might be Mirandola, lofty enough for it."
"What does Prince Mirandola look like?" asked Hetty
Ophelia turned. She hadn't thought to ask the question. Hetty was looking up at Jasper, who seemed to forget how to speak. "Well, he's tall and dark and
…
"
Jasper stopped and stared. "I have no idea what he looks like."
It was an astonishing admission. Ophelia couldn't remember either of her brothers ever admitting ignorance. "You don't know what he looks like?"
Jasper laughed an odd, dry laugh, without enjoyment.
"Oh, dear," said Hetty, looking stricken, as if she'd wounded her idol. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have asked."
Jasper took a deep breath. "No, it's exactly what you should ask. How can I hope to find the man without knowing what he looks like?" He stared at Hetty with a kind of rueful reverence. "I suppose you think I'm an idiot to go racing about, not knowing what I'm looking for, dragging you along to this second-rate shop where the tailor doesn't know how to win a client."
Hetty shook her head.
"He may not have to win many clients if his sole client is the prince," said Ophelia. "He's certainly familiar with Italian."
"If he
is
the prince's tailor, how does that help us? The prince won't be dropping in for new coats now."
At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Ophelia put her finger to her lips to quiet her brother.
Lucca returned with three coats. Hetty stood, and Lucca spread them lovingly across the chaise. "Green," he said.
The shades were subtle, the cloth fine. Ophelia could not resist touching the soft, smooth wool. The styles differed, but there was an obvious sameness to the three coats. She lay one down on top of another, noting the length of the
sleeves and breadth of shoulders. Lucca watched her with a narrowed gaze.
He turned to Jasper. "Does my lord wish a coat, then?"
Jasper nodded. "One like that," he said, pointing to a double-breasted jacket in a deep forest green.
A pained look crossed Lucca's face. "Of course
,"
he said. He began to gather up the coats. "One moment. We measure, then you go." He took the coats through the velvet curtain and returned with his measuring tape. He turned Jasper this way and that, stretching the tape across his shoulders and down his arm, making note of each length.