A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(25)

Now seemed like a good time to speak with him about what she’d been wanting to ask for months. “Monsieur Bartholdy, do you remember how you once said that if I were a man, I could play for kings?” She paused and took a deep breath. “Do you think it will ever be possible for me . . . to perform?”

Monsieur Bartholdy’s smile faded. He sighed, frowned, and shook his head. “In England, I believe it is impossible. But in France, in Italy, Austria, and Germany . . . perhaps. Perhaps.”

“I only need a chaperone.” Julia swallowed. “Would it be possible for you two to accompany me, for you to take me to Europe?”

He looked at her sadly. “My traveling days are finished, unfortunately.” He seemed to be thinking. “Perhaps if your uncle and aunt understood and supported your ambitions, were willing to promote you, perhaps they could take you to the Continent. I could write some letters for you, and some doors might open.” He gazed at her with pity in his eyes. “I’m afraid I cannot think of any other way for it to work out for you, chérie.”

She suddenly wished she had not asked him, could take the words back. She was angry at herself for wanting something that could never be. It wasn’t as though her dearest wish was to perform, but if she were never to marry, performing would be a more preferable way to support herself than becoming a governess.

Monsieur had once broached the subject with Mr. and Mrs. Wilhern, when Julia was thirteen years old, and asked if they would be willing to take her, or allow Monsieur Bartholdy to take her, on a performance tour of major European cities as a young prodigy. They had refused, as though the very idea was insulting. Julia had developed the impression from them that a young lady performing was disgraceful. But why should it be so?

“It isn’t fair,” Madame Bartholdy said, getting up and walking over to Julia. She laid her hand on Julia’s shoulder. “But one never knows what the future holds.”

“If I weren’t . . . as I am,” Monsieur Bartholdy said, “I would risk it. We would take you, Madame Bartholdy and I. You are of age now.”

“It is no matter,” Julia hurried to say. “As Madame Bartholdy says, we don’t know the future. God may have plans we know not of.”

Monsieur nodded. He had indicated more than once that he was not a strong believer in God. But Julia had always professed to be, and at times like this, wasn’t a Christian supposed to have faith? God could do anything, after all.





CHAPTER TEN


Julia had been very surprised to see Mr. Langdon in this part of London. Amongst the poorer people walking the streets, he was anything but out of fashion with his buff-colored breeches, white shirt and cravat, and rich brown waistcoat and jacket that matched his eyes.

And when he appeared in front of Mr. Bartholdy’s house as she and Felicity were departing, she could not help but smile, even though smiling at him seemed somehow disloyal to Phoebe.

“Mr. Langdon,” she acknowledged.

“We meet again, Miss Grey, Miss Mayson. May I?” He stood between them and offered an arm to each.

She placed her gloved hand on his arm, and Felicity took his other arm, and they continued on their way together.

“Mr. Langdon, please pardon me for saying so, but it seems extraordinary to find you walking here in this part of town. You must admit, this is nowhere near your home in Mayfair.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, raising his eyebrows at her. “Like you, Miss Grey, I have friends in unexpected places.”

“I see.”

He obviously wanted to be mysterious, and it vexed her that he was building her curiosity. Perhaps she could trick him into giving her more information.

“How did you meet Henry?”

His mouth twisted as he smiled wryly. “Henry who?”

Julia eyed him from lowered lids. She was as convinced as ever that he knew exactly who Henry was. “Henry’s mother must be a terrible drunkard to let her children run wild that way. Probably has no morals at all. Poor children, having to suffer for their parents’ sins.”

Mr. Langdon was scowling now and avoiding her gaze. She almost laughed out loud but held her breath instead, waiting to see if he would reveal something.

“Not all poor people are poor due to their own excesses and sins, Miss Grey. ’Tis a misconception all too common amongst those of the upper class.”

“Oh?” she baited him.

“Yes, and—” He looked at her and stopped. She hastily wiped the expectant look from her face, but it was too late.

Mr. Langdon stopped short and turned to face her, forcing Julia and Felicity to stop too, which was quite impolite of him.

“What do you know of Henry’s mother?” he demanded.

“I could ask you the same question. Really, Mr. Langdon, your manner is quite discourteous. Your sister, Leorah, would be shocked at your ungentlemanly manners, no doubt, just as Felicity and I are.”

“Leorah is never shocked by my impolite manners, when I am indeed impolite.”

“Again, I ask you,” Julia insisted, “what do you know of Henry’s mother?”

Mr. Langdon stared into Julia’s eyes. She couldn’t understand it, but the longer she looked at him, the harder it was to breathe. His features, his look, his manner, everything together was affecting her strangely. Her throat constricted, and she blushed.