Chapter Two

5 months later…

Ophelia frowned at the envelope the butler had presented to her on a silver salver. The crème parchment had a most unusual image affixed within the seal—a lady perched atop a lion. Using a letter knife, she slit the envelope open. Shock darted through her. It was a bank draft for ten thousand pounds, payable to her father, and drawn from Drummonds Bank, Trafalgar Square.

Ophelia lifted her head and glanced about the small and intimate parlor she had long claimed as her own, designed with elegant decor to suit her personality. Very carefully, she checked the address of the envelope once more. It had been franked to her.

She plopped without any form or grace into the sofa closest to her. Ten thousand pounds. A fortune! One that not even she could scoff away. There was a neatly folded note within the envelope beneath the bank draft. With trembling fingers, she flicked it open.

A song from you to me.

She dropped it as if fire had burned her. Leaning over, she retrieved that small piece of paper. What was the meaning of this? Hurrying to her feet, she escaped the small parlor and made her way down the hallway.

“Clarkson,” she called to the butler. “Did you recognize the livery of the person who delivered this letter?”

Clarkson frowned. “I cannot say, Lady Ophelia. I saw the letter on the mantel with the others.”

“I see.” Ophelia whirled around, strolled down the hallway, and went into her father’s study. Crossing the length of the room, she made her way behind his desk and sat in his chair. She tried to be deductive about the entire matter. The bank draft was made out to her father. Whoever sent it must know much about her father and his finances. Why else would they send money?

A song from you to me.

That seemed to Ophelia the service demanded for the money. The shock of that awareness robbed her of breath, for it meant whoever sent it also knew that Ophelia loved singing. Perhaps even knew she moonlighted in dangerous places she had no business being as Lady Starlight—a rising songbird of exceptional talent and beauty. As so many of the scandal rags touted.

No, no, no!

Breathing evenly, she reined in the panic. Think calmly and logically, Ophelia.

Only her closest friends Kitty, Maryann, Fanny, Charlotte, and Emma knew of her mad scheme, and even then, they only understood a part of it. Cosima, an exiled Prussian princess and another dear friend, had some idea why Ophelia daringly visited the singing taverns and opera houses. Perhaps this draft and demand for a song had nothing to do with Ophelia being Lady Starlight but had everything to do with her father needing money.

“Rubbish,” she whispered, putting the bank draft onto his large oak desk. “Papa is a wealthy marquess. Why would he need money?”

Opening his drawers, she began a careful search. The bottom drawer was closed, and, dropping on her knees, she carefully lowered to the ground, removed her hairpin, and picked the lock. It might not work, since it was only last week she learned the skill.

With a snick, the lock opened, and Ophelia chuckled. She had to visit Maryann soon, and praise her for passing on her lock-picking skills to the other sinful wallflowers—a skill taught to her by notorious rogue Nicolas St. Ives, who had been stealing into her friend’s bedchamber nightly. With a groan, Ophelia tried not to think on the madness of that and the great threat of ruination it presented to her friend.

The drawer opened fully, and Ophelia stilled. There were dozens of letters and bills from creditors stuffed into the drawer. Unpaid bills. “I do not understand,” she whispered in the stillness of the study.

Some of the letters were demands for payments, bills owed from as much as three years ago. “This is not possible.” She opened a few more letters until she could no longer ignore the truth. Her father’s estate was in trouble, and he hid it from his family. Or perhaps only her; Mama and Papa shared everything.

She was about to close the drawer when she recognized a seal from Eton. After a slight hesitation, she reached for it. This seemed to be the headmaster’s fifth letter requesting payment for her cousin’s tuition and room and board. Robert was her cousin and—as her father’s heir, since he had no son of his own—was taken care of by her father.

Yet it was plain as day his tuition was not being settled.

The most awful sensation twisted through her belly. Ophelia scrambled to her feet and stared at the bank draft once more.

Ten thousand pounds.

Suddenly, her palm dampened, and her heart shook violently underneath her breast. This money would help in settling some of the unpaid bills, especially the ones that were owed for more than a year. And also for Robert’s tuition.

Many people sell their art. I would be no different.

“What am I thinking… This is outrageous.”

Taking and using this mysterious money came with strings—dangerous ties that might wrap her in a web beyond her ability to maneuver. The feeling that her life would change, and not in a good way, should she dare lodge this bank draft beat at her senses. Who would send this to her and why? How did they even know her family faced financial difficulties when Ophelia herself had not known it?

Slipping the envelope into the deep pocket of her gown, she hurried from the study and made her way to the sunroom—the drawing room her father and mother favored. The door was closed, and she gently knocked, not wanting to rouse her father should he be asleep.

“Enter,” he called.

Releasing a soft breath, she strolled inside the drawing room.

“Mama, Papa,” she greeted with a smile, hurrying over to their side.

Her mother smiled brightly upon seeing her. “I thought you had taken a walk with Fanny. Are you back so soon?”

Ophelia dipped and brushed a kiss to her mother’s cheek, who reposed on the chaise longue with a cup of tea in her hand.

“Fanny sent a note that she encountered an unexpected delay and must regrettably miss our walk. Instead of venturing out alone, I decided to stay indoors and read.”

Holding tight to the odd twisting feeling inside, she faced her father, who sat in a high wingback chair, a blanket thrown over his knees. The gaze that stared penetratingly at her was a bit guarded.

“How are you feeling today, Papa?”

There was a flash of hurt in his eyes that once again she did not greet him with a kiss, and then his expression shuttered. Since his revelation to her about Sally Martin a little over five months ago, he refused to speak further about the past with her, yet it lingered in the air like a festering wound. Ophelia had not mentioned it to him since, but their relationship had been altered on a profound level.

“I shall be able to resume riding this week. It will be glorious indeed.”

His recovery was slower than anticipated, and Papa had not yet resumed his normal duties. This was the first season he had not sat in Parliament. However, his cronies visited their townhouse frequently, and he had been very hearty in the debates that took place during their dinners. Ophelia sat on the sofa and accepted a cup of tea from her mother. She felt her parents’ curious regard upon her, for it was not often she joined them in their morning routine of spending time together in this room.

Taking a careful sip of her tea, she glanced up. “Is it so odd that I am here? You are staring as if I am a creature!”

“No,” her mother replied with a light chuckle, “but my darling, we know when you want something. There is a very stubborn lift to your chin, and we are merely preparing for how you are going to aggrieve our nerves this time.”

Ophelia smiled wryly. “I do have something I want to ask, but I…” The words were heavy and uncertain on her tongue—so very unlike her.

“Whatever is it, my dear?” her mother asked with a frown.

It was best to get on with it. “Are we in financial trouble?”

Her mother’s eyes widened, and her father had turned into a marble effigy. Her mother’s eyes darted to an empty space high on the wall, and it was then Ophelia noted a much beloved painting was no longer there. Her body prickled with cold. “You had to…to sell this painting, Mama?”

“This burden is not yours to bear,” her father answered, holding up a palm to forestall Mama’s reply. “Ophelia, you are a lady of clever and stubborn manners, but in this matter you will obey my words without question, or I shall be sorely vexed with you. I will have no compunction in ordering you to the country for the rest of the season, young lady.”

“I see.” Her voice sounded so terribly dry, she almost did not recognize it. “Do you wish for me to marry soon? Will this help matters?”

A smile softened her father’s features. “Would you be willing to?”

Ophelia’s throat burned as she recalled her promise to the other sinful wallflowers to be daring and wicked in her pursuits. Wasn’t she already doing that by searching for Sally Martin as Lady Starlight? There was no need to be daring in matters of the heart, especially when she gave little thought to finding this elusive love. And despite her parents’ lamentation about her rebellious ways, she had always tried to put their needs and desires above hers. “If a marriage would help our family, yes.”

“I am glad to know you would do your duty should we wish it. However, it will not be necessary,” her father said with a proud smile. “Your mother and I agreed a few years ago that when you marry, it will be your choice, and it must be a love match, yes?”

“Papa…”

“There are no buts,” he said with steel lacing his voice. “Though I am curious as to why you believe we have money problems.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I opened the bottom drawer of your desk and found all the creditors’ letters.”

“The drawer I closed with a key?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He glanced at his wife. “Does our daughter sound contrite, my darling?”

“Not in the least,” she retorted with a laugh, though to Ophelia’s ears it sounded strained.

“Hmm,” he murmured, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “We have indeed overindulged you. I fear it is too late for any lasting corrections, and I am entirely to blame for this lovely travesty.”

Ophelia smiled, for it was a familiar refrain spoken by many aunts and cousins that the marquess’s only child had been educated beyond the abilities of most gentlemen and was overly pampered. Her papa normally responded in a booming and pleased tone that it was love.

“Forgive my prying, Papa, but what about my dowry? Can it not be drawn from to settle some of the bills?”

At their silence, the truth of it sank into her bones. There was no dowry.

The situation was more dire than she imagined, and Ophelia was intimately acquainted with that stubborn flatness to her father’s mouth. It was a look he grumbled that she wore as well as he did. Her father clearly believed this to be his duties and responsibilities, and he would discuss it no further.

Ophelia took a sip of the delicious brew of tea, her thoughts whirling. “There is a rumor about the ton that you…you have increased my dowry. Fanny said she overheard some whispers about it at Lady Franklin’s musicale, and even a few scandal sheets speculated on my dowry, wondering which blessed fortune hunter will convince me to marry this season. I do know that this Lady O they refer to is me,” Ophelia said with candor.

“A ruse, my dear,” her mother said, an unfathomable emotion in her eyes. “A pretense that is unfortunately necessary until your father turns our fortune around.”

Ophelia understood enough about society to know the appearance of money was just as important as having it. “Lord…the Earl of Langdon has asked me to favor him with dances and walks a lot recently,” she said, putting down the teacup she had been holding before her like a shield. “I…”

“Have you fallen in love with him?” her mother interjected.

Love. “No, of course not. I barely know him.”

“Young Lord Langdon has an income of thirty thousand pounds a year. You marrying him will not solve your father’s financial problem. Marriage to the earl would be beneficial to you, my dear. However, while you might be provided for with a handsome carriage, a generous allowance, and many pretty dresses, a marriage without love is like spring in a barren wasteland.”

After glancing fondly at her husband and smiling, the marchioness looked back at Ophelia. “Only marry a gentleman you love, my dear.”

A raw ache expanded in Ophelia’s chest. They had always put her happiness in their minds and hearts, and she appreciated and loved them dearly for it. Many ladies in society, and even a few of her friends who wanted the freedom to marry gentlemen of their choice, were unable to do so, for their families forced unsuitable matches upon them for money, connection, or sometimes power.

Her friend Maryann even now was desperately trying to escape marriage to a most unsuitable earl by casting herself to ruin and using Nicolas St. Ives—the very reprobate who had taught her how to pick locks—to do the deed. Another dear friend, Fanny, had wild plans of running away and hiding as a servant in an earl’s household so as not to marry the old lecher who had actually paid Fanny’s aunt an unmatched sum for her hand. He fairly bought her!

Yet Ophelia’s parents would never force her to marry, a decision that seemed to grow the deeper they fell in love with each other. They were rare, lovely, fanciful creatures, and as she stared at the woman who had raised her, a profound wave of pain and regret blossomed through her. The marchioness had no notion that Ophelia knew she was stolen at birth. How could someone so lovely and kind reconcile her conscience with her husband stealing another woman’s child?

The tide of familiar pain and guilt rose to choke her like thick smoke. The marchioness had given her so much love and understanding over the years, Ophelia should be contented. However, for the last several weeks, she had risked her reputation to locate Miss Sally Martin. Should the marchioness find out about this, it would crush her.

And what would her father say?

Concealing her distress, Ophelia rose. “I promised Kitty I would write her a letter. I will see to it now.”

“Is she not somewhere on the River Nile with her duke?”

“Yes, that is the most recent update.”

Her mother smiled, for she enjoyed hearing about Kitty and how she had managed to have her most reclusive duke fall hopelessly in love with a known wallflower—not that she knew the full scandalous truth of their courtship. Ophelia swept from the drawing room and closed the door. Once outside, she could not move. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and fought back the tears that burned behind her eyelids.

Her mother and father adored each other and did not care if people frowned upon how they doted on each other publicly. At her first coming out, Ophelia had shamelessly used their obvious adoration to secure a promise from Papa that she would be able to select her own husband. She’d also promised to wait for someone to love. Though for many years her parents had hoped she would marry Lord Langdon, to her surprise, they had been positively thrilled at the notion of her waiting to find her match.

Ophelia’s eccentric interests, artistic sensibilities, and impetuous energy would not recommend her to be anyone’s wife. Or so her mother groused several times over the years—even though she had done so with little gravity and more with fondness, lending support to Ophelia’s wishes. But Ophelia had come to this realization herself when she had come out at eighteen. Every gentleman she had walked with showed very little interest in her peculiarities, some even scoffing whenever she spoke with animation of her great love of music, art, and literature. They did seem captivated by her beauty and dowry.

It was by choice she had remained unattached. It wasn’t that she did not want to love someone or eventually marry, but no one compelled her heart to shake or inspired her to hunger for more. Since her debut, there was only one gentleman she had ever flirted with and allowed for the possibility they might one day marry—the Earl of Langdon.

He was handsome and gallant; however, despite their long-standing acquaintanceship, Ophelia felt no romantic sentiments whatsoever toward the earl.

She would have doubted the existence of this passionate love if she did not observe it in her parents, and if her friend Kitty had not fallen hopelessly in love with the Duke of Thornton. Maryann also wore a similar look whenever she talked about Nicolas St. Ives. So this love existed. Perhaps one day Ophelia might encounter it, and then she would embrace it wholeheartedly.

If she were to marry, Ophelia would want that gentleman to be her friend, one in whom she could confide anything. Would any gentleman understand that Ophelia was a bastard even though she had been raised with the advantages of a legitimate child? Would that gentleman understand that she wanted to find the woman who birthed her to know what became of her? Would she be able to talk about this strange sense of loss and pain she felt at never knowing Sally Martin? Did she have siblings? Or other aunts and uncles? Was she a lot like Sally Martin, or were they different?

Shrugging away those haunting questions that had revealed no answers, Ophelia wondered what her next possible step was now that she had confirmed her family was truly burdened with financial difficulties. What should she do about this strange offer? Dipping into her pocket, she reached for the bank draft.

Do I dare?

That the sender hid their identity said to Ophelia it was a gift offered for a diabolical purpose.

Princess Cosima was the only confidante Ophelia could dare to ask about this. Cosima was not a member of Ophelia’s intrepid sinful wallflowers coterie, but Cosima had become a dear friend to Ophelia over the last few months. Quickly searching for quill and ink, she dashed off a note and instructed the footman to deliver to a particular home in Russell Square. Ophelia then called for the carriage and her lady maid, Hattie, and made her way to Kensington Gardens.

Several minutes later, she descended the carriage with the aid of the footman, then went to the section of the garden, a private area, where she often met Cosima. A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and roses. She sat on a stone bench and waited. It did not take long for her friend to arrive, and Ophelia grinned, truly happy to see her. Cosima wore a gown of rose-colored silk trimmed with lace and a hat with plumes of flowers slanted rakishly atop her dark red hair styled in a fashionable cut.

“Ophelia, once again you sent a cryptic and most intriguing note,” Cosima said, coming over to kiss her cheek.

They sat on the bench, and Ophelia sighed gustily. “That is because I received a most cryptic gift. I am not sure if I should even call it such!”

Cobalt blue eyes widened. “I am intrigued.”

Ophelia handed her the note and the bank draft. Cosima stilled, a flash of worry darkening her eyes before her lashes lowered.

“You know who sent it,” Ophelia whispered. Suddenly her heart started a wild dance beneath her breastbone.

Is it you?

Devlin Byrne—a man who lingered in the shadow of Ophelia’s footsteps, yet a man she had never met. Several weeks ago, it was this phantom gentleman who had sent Princess Cosima to Ophelia’s side as a favor. That had shocked and bewildered Ophelia for days, but it had never occurred to her to refuse his largess, for it was he who paved the way in the underworld, a force that protected her from all manner of undesirables as she walked freely through London’s dark and seedier pathways without fear of discovery or harm. Whenever she brazenly moonlighted as Lady Starlight, it was as if she took a noonday stroll in Hyde Park.

His protection permitted Ophelia to ask discreet questions about Miss Sally Martin, a young girl who once lived in Luton, Bedfordshire—one who had danced and sang privately for many wealthy men. A woman who had eventually become the celebrated mistress of the influential and powerful Marquess of Shelton.

Some remembered her; others pretended ignorance. All were tight-lipped with information about Miss Martin. She had vanished, as if the sum of her life had been reduced to a plume of smoke that wafted away with no evidence that it had existed. Ophelia had known Mr. Byrne’s protection would come at a cost, even though Cosima had denied it and called it a kindness. Ophelia had scoffed at that bit of rubbish and waited for demands to fall at her feet. But surely this could not be it months later? And how was giving her ten thousand pounds for a single song equitable?

“Is it…is it him, Cosima? Devlin Byrne?”

Her friend did not reply, and a tight silence fell between them. Ophelia’s thoughts raced. Since he had inserted himself into her life, she had made it her business to find out about him, paying keener attention to every mention of his name.

Devlin Byrne was a man who stood on the very edge of respectable society, with his close associations and rumored partnership with a most notorious gambling den. It was said he had fought more than one duel, developing the reputation of being a crack shot and a man who did not give second chances.

The times he had been mentioned in the newssheets had been sparse. They freely speculated on his money, for he was an exceedingly wealthy entrepreneur who had been grudgingly interviewed by The Morning Chronicle on the state of the financial district and the terrible economy of the poorer class.

His views on the reforms that were needed had been insightful, controversial, and profound. His arguments that there should be equal rights to education and mobility among the classes had not sat well with the lords of society. She recalled her father in one of his political meetings suggesting that this man—who clearly was not “one of them”—could not truly understand the reasoning and presentations from political and economic elites if he were used to the gutter.

The cheers from her father’s cronies had been raucous in their approval, even though Devlin Byrne’s dogged rise to wealth and influence in the society had been remarked on frequently by their very set. They had been outraged that a piece Mr. Byrne wrote had been featured in the famous Political Register. It had been shocking to everyone that Cobbett had allowed a guest article, but, given his many criticisms of the government, Ophelia had not thought it so odd. The viewpoints had been similar.

Her father and his cronies speculated about Mr. Byrne’s family and his background, which was shrouded in much uncertainty—was he a Scotsman, an Irishman, half-British, a mongrel? His uncertain origins did him no favor amongst the ton. One scandal sheet had said his family and connections were unworthy of any mentions, thus making the man himself unworthy of the ton’s regard and admiration.

“Will you not answer me?” Ophelia asked softly, aware of the slight tremble in her voice.

Cosima sighed. “Possibly. I cannot say for sure. However, I do know if it is not Devlin who sent this to you…it cannot be someone from our world, or someone who knows Lady Ophelia and Lady Starlight are one and the same.”

Some of the awful tension knotted in her belly loosened. “Why not?”

Cosima’s eyes held hesitation, as if she were unsure of how much to share.

“Please tell me,” Ophelia urged.

“No one from our world would dare approach you. Is Lady Starlight not his proclaimed woman?”

Ophelia stared at Cosima as if seeing her for the first time. Ophelia turned her words over, assessing them from all angles, and only arrived at one inescapable truth. No one would dare approach her like this in a clandestine and suspicious manner in fear of Devlin Byrne’s reaction. That evening weeks ago, when the sky had been painted in hues of vermillion as the sun lowered, the snow falling on the ground to cover the villains’ footsteps who approached sneakily, someone had overheard her scandalous declarations.

It had not been the first time a footpad or dubious men had approached her. But it had been the first time she felt not even a smidgen of fear. For Ophelia knew by then she had the protection of a mysterious benefactor.

“Do you know who I am?” she had tossed out recklessly when a man with rotted teeth approached her, his two friends edging closely behind.

Without giving him a chance to respond, she’d curled her lips in a sneer and said, “I am Devlin Byrne’s woman. Do you dare?”

That man had faltered, his gaze cutting from left to right in clear dismay. Then he had bowed and hurried away from her. She vaguely recalled a low, masculine laughter, and a large dog strolling behind her.

Oh God. How utterly absurd and…wonderful.

Ophelia had only been using his name and the suggestion of an intimate connection to scare away those men. She sat there, amazed and very shaken. “He is very influential in his circle. Is that it?”

Cosima met her eyes, a peculiar gravity in her regard. “Devlin Byrne is respected for his business acuity, his ruthless shrewdness, and…”

“And what?”

“He is very protective of you,” Cosima whispered, curiosity and perhaps a touch of envy rich in her blue gaze.

Ophelia stiffened and looked down at the note.

A song from you to me.

Dear God. A fresh and dreadful thought occurred to Ophelia. What if…what if all of this…this protection he offered from the shadows, this money he submitted on a silver platter, was a carefully constructed lure to trap her?

But lure her into what?

Surely it could not just be for a single song.

Ophelia was worried, for she found him vaguely disturbing and a compelling character. She thoroughly loathed that she was also intrigued.

Who are you, and are we to finally meet?

“Are…are you not his lover, Cosima?”

Cosima’s eyes widened before she laughed, the sound tinkling and lovely. “I was not aware the gossips wondered if Devlin and I were lovers. How positively crass. Can a lady and a gentleman not be mere friends? Must the waters be muddied with such idle talks?”

Ophelia flushed, for it was in her loftier circle—the one Princess Cosima was excluded from—that they whispered these rumors behind their fans. Even her dear friend Kitty had asked if the exiled princess was not Mr. Byrne’s mistress. Shame burned through Ophelia, and she touched her friend’s shoulder. “Forgive me for even asking something so nonsensical. I do not even know why I asked it.”

Cosima grinned naughtily and waved her hand. “I am not offended because I have flirted shamelessly with him. A great waste, I am afraid. That man is like a block of wood. Nay, some wood might have more feelings. He has no idea what flirting is.” She assessed Ophelia with curiosity glinting in her gaze. “Are you going to accept the money?” Cosima asked.

Ophelia hesitated. “No.”

“You should.”

“Surely I cannot.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Tear up the draft and ignore everything.”

Ophelia stood and lifted her face to the sky. “I believe that is what I will do.”

They walked arm in arm along the garden paths, chatting and indulging in light gossip, a thing Cosima adored. Especially if it was about lords and ladies of the ton. Though Ophelia tried to relax and put the bank draft from her thoughts, it was as if it burned a hole in the pocket of her carriage dress, taunting and tempting her.

Her father was still in recovery. Where would he get the money from to start repairing the estates? This money would only help so far, but even the servants of their townhouse had not been paid a wage in months! And they had families of their own but remained steadfastly loyal to the marquess.

Oh, what should I really do?