A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(24)

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Lan—”

Nicholas shook his head again, frowning.

“Ah, I mean, who’s the bloke with the shiny top hat, Miss Grey? Looks like a fine dandy gentleman if ever I saw one.” Henry winked at Nicholas when Julia turned to glance his way.

She turned back to the boy. “Henry, do you know—”

“We should go, Miss Grey,” Nicholas said, holding her elbow and urging her forward. “You never know when more of these little street urchins will be lurking, waiting to steal your reticule.”

“That’s true, Miss Grey,” Henry added eagerly—too eagerly. “The bloke knows what he’s talking about. You shouldn’t trust street people like me. G’day, Miss Grey. Thankee for the shilling.” Then Henry winked slyly at Nicholas. He was sure Miss Grey must have seen it.

“All done,” Miss Mayson called out as she left the shop and joined them.

Nicholas hurried them both along until they had left the child behind.

“Do you know that boy, Mr. Langdon?” Miss Grey glanced up at him with suspicious eyes.

“Me? How would I know him? Now where did you say your Monsieur Bartholdy lives?”

“I didn’t say, but it’s just ahead, in the taller building there. That child knows you. But how?”

“Do you give that cheeky little blighter money every time you come here?”

“He knows I come this way every Tuesday. And don’t call him a cheeky blighter. He’s a dear little boy. He quite breaks my heart. He takes care of a little sister, and his mother too, and he’s only eight years old himself. He’s very brave,” Miss Grey ended stoutly.

In addition to being a maestro on the pianoforte and having a voice like heaven itself, she also took pity on street urchins no other respectable lady would look at twice. He was almost afraid he was in danger of losing his heart.

Except for one thing: her uncle might be a traitor to England. He doubted Wilhern’s niece, also his ward who owed so much to him, could possibly be as noble as she seemed. If given a choice between her uncle and her country, which would she choose? On the other hand, she might be useful in helping lead Nicholas to the other traitors who were helping her uncle.

“I thought young ladies’ nursery maids warned them not to give money to beggars on the street.” He tried to sound friendly and half teasing.

“They do. But not all ladies listen to their nursery maids.” Miss Grey and Miss Mayson stopped in front of their destination. “Thank you, Mr. Langdon, for your escort.”

“Shall I walk with you back to your carriage when you’re done?”

“That won’t be necessary. Good d—”

“I insist. I shall meet you back here in half an hour?”

“I suppose . . .”

“Half an hour, then.”



The Bartholdys’ maid led Julia and Felicity to the drawing room. Monsieur Bartholdy sat in his usual armchair with a shawl spread over his knees. Madame Bartholdy smiled and held out her hands. “Welcome, my dears,” she said in her lilting foreign accent.

Julia didn’t know much about where they had come from—it was even rumored that “Bartholdy” was not their real name—but she knew that Monsieur Bartholdy had been all over the world, playing for kings and potentates in places Julia had barely heard of. He had many souvenirs—a Russian samovar, silks from the Orient, tea sets from France, and beautiful works of art of every description. But the couple’s furnishings were simple and well worn, as was their clothing, and Julia often worried about them having enough food.

Julia and Felicity clasped hands with Madame Bartholdy, and they kissed each other’s cheeks. Then she went to Monsieur Bartholdy, and he held out his violently shaking hand. Julia squeezed it gently, stilling the shaking. His head shook as well. His eyes, though a bit faded, still looked at her with great intelligence.

“My dear”—his voice also shook—“have you two come to the ‘Bartholdy Infirmary’ to cheer up an old man and his wife? You both are prettier than ever. What have you been doing since last we saw you? Dancing and singing and breaking men’s hearts?”

“Of course not.”

Felicity and Madame Bartholdy had already begun their own conversation, so Julia answered Monsieur Bartholdy and smiled, knowing he was only teasing her. “I have been attending a lot of balls and parties this Season.”

“And impressing everyone with your musical talent. Come, child. Play something for us. Play that piece you played for me last time, the one you wrote yourself.”

“Do you truly want to hear that?” Julia felt pleased that he wanted to hear her own composition. She had wondered if it were any good. She was usually too shy to play her own songs for anyone but Phoebe and the Bartholdys, but if Monsieur Bartholdy thought it was good, then perhaps it was.

Julia sat down at Monsieur’s pianoforte, which was always perfectly in tune. She felt her spirits rise as her fingers touched the keys. She allowed herself to feel the emotions of every measure, playing with feeling, as Monsieur Bartholdy had taught her.

When she finished, Monsieur Bartholdy was smiling, his eyes closed. Madame Bartholdy sighed dramatically. “Wonderful, ma chère fille.”

Monsieur Bartholdy fixed Julia with a fond gaze. “You are a great talent, Julia.”