» Not Even God Can Help You, [Henry]

[Josephine St. Just]

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Josephine?” Lyra whined, wringing her hands nervously like she had been doing all day.

Josephine glanced at her companion with skepticism clearly written all over her face. “Mr. Everson is not going to cause offense to anyone here,” she couldn’t be entirely sure of that, but she was very interested in him as a person, she wanted to speak to him without an audience and she would watch herself this time, at least a little more than she did in public. If anything, he could be a very interesting friend. Philippe and Lyra did not see it this way however.

The nervous looking woman who followed her around, far more religious than herself, was less likely to believe in Josephine’s innocence in this situation and thought that the woman was looking to make another contact of the likes of Francois. “Comte Philippe expects me to stay with you at all times, Josephine,” she added, “I won’t be leaving.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Josephine sighed, rolling her eyes at her friend who was pawing at her rosary beads. “Put those away,” she snapped, “you needn’t pray for my soul. It’s already too far gone for you to be able to save.” The shocked expression on Lyra’s face and her hurried prayers for forgiveness were enough to make the redhead laugh, and she did. “Calm down,” she smiled, “I’m just teasing you. You might want to put some color on your cheeks before Mr. Everson gets here, he’ll think you fret his company.”

“He would be right to think so,” she answered saucily, still fingering the beads.

Josephine again rolled her eyes at the woman and breezed past her to the bottom of the stairwell. Philippe really did live up to his role as a Comte, the staircase winding upward and into a large, open foyer area with two hallways, separating the sides of the house. “Philippe!” she called, to which she received no answer. Sighing, she took a deep breath and filled her abdomen with air, “Philippe!” her voice vibrated off the walls this time, he had to hear her.

A gruff voice from upstairs replied, “What?!”

“Our guest will be arriving soon!” she yelled back, this was typical in the house; Josephine had no aversion to using her voice and certainly didn’t think it went against any sort of rule inside her own domicile. “You best come down and tear yourself away from your papers!”

“Non! Cinq minutes!” he called down, sounding a bit perturbed.

“D’Accord! Mais cinq minutes, et c’est final!” she returned, agitated at him. He best only take five minutes. She turned to Lyra, “Mr. Everson will be here in cinq minutes,” mocking her cousin, “he expects to just come down later and avoid an introduction at the onset. He is so very infuriating sometimes. Let us retreat to the drawing room,” she ordered, looking to Coursier, the Butler, instructing him to take Mr. Everson directly to the two ladies, having tea ready straight away.

The butler was quick to set to his work and Josephine nodded contentedly, at the very least, they would at least have refreshments ready, even if her cousin was not going to be social at first. Lyra, on the other hand, followed Josephine into the room, bidding God to help them and preserve the goodliness in the house. “Lyra, really,” Joie cut in, “not even God can help you,” she chuckled softly, the woman’s face blanching at Josephine’s gall. Her rosaries resumed while Josephine took a seat, chuckling softly to herself all the while.

[Henry Everson]

Five minutes had not passed before Coursier announced to the waiting ladies, "Monsieur . . . Ivair-song, mademoiselles." Henry stepped out from behind him and bowed deeply, not particularly caring for the way his name had been pronounced. The man had refused to speak English to him. Henry was only glad he was conversant in French, even if his French was pronounced a good deal like Italian.

And he was not a 'monsieur.' He was not Coursier's sir. In fact, he was not anyone's but his own.

"Mademoiselle St. Just," he said, as he straightened, eyes moving to Lyra as he awaited an introduction.

The cousin was palpably absent. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or insulted. Perhaps he ought to try both and see how they felt.

[Josephine St. Just]

Coursier was being overly obnoxious today, it seemed. He could speak English with some proficiency, but refused, and Josephine rolled her eyes at him. Everson was not a difficult name to pronounce, really. He was just being a twit. Josephine stood from her seat to greet him, as any good hostess would and Lyra also begrudgingly rose from her seat, still clasping the Rosary beads near her lap.

“Mister Everson,” she dipped her head in courtesy and glanced at Coursier who seemed entirely disgusted she would speak in such English terms. It was apparent he was Philippe’s man with the way he behaved. Josephine just ignored him and turned attention to the matter at hand. Lyra looked anxious and it was a sign that she had not yet been introduced.

“Where are my manners,” Josephine’s smooth voice practically slithered from between her lips, “Mister Everson, may I present Lyra Corti, my good friend.”

Lyra dipped into a courtesy and stiffly remarked, “A pleasure, Signor.” She was being stubborn too, and looking to be an annoyance, unfortunately, Josephine couldn’t send her away: she wouldn’t budge. The woman was a black bull. She was steadfast and resumed her seat as soon as introductions were made.

“Please, take a sit, Mister Everson,” Joie added, motioning to one of the chairs across from her or Lyra – it was his option which he picked. “Tea will be arriving any moment,” she explained, “and I think we have quite a bit to discuss.” She had not forgotten that he did not tell her of Francois at the ball, and Lyra wasn’t going to be spared when it came to that, she wanted to know, and Henry would have to tell her. It was keeping her up at night and he would only be relieving a suffering soul with news, good or bad.

[Henry Everson]

"Signorina Corti," Henry said in his Italian with a deep, solemn bow, hoping to ingratiate himself to the severe woman--he did not miss her rosary--and came up from the bow smiling. He was about to take a seat across from her, either to perturb or to endear; either could be equally amusing, depending upon how the evening unfolded. But at Josephine's insinuation that they were to "discuss"--women always "discussed;" they never simply "talked"--he took the seat near Josephine.

He did not bother to hide that he was hesitant to disclose the information in Lyra's presence. He also had, in his way, formed a favourable notion of Josephine; he didn't want to cause hurt, and though she insisted on hearing the news, he was certain she didn't know what she was setting herself up for.

She seemed a glutton for punishment. "You have not heard much from France, I take it?" he asked. "Surely your cousin is in regular correspondence with people in Paris." He was not being facetious this time. He was being directly circumlocutory for effect. Anything put off so directly could not be good. His eyes warned Josephine.

[Josephine St. Just]

Lyra did not appear to be having as good of a time as she could have, and she scoffed at Josephine who seemed all too eager to talk. Just because she was forced to be in the room, it did not appear she wanted to be forced to listen. Perhaps Josephine could convince her to go check on something, which would be nice. She really wished to hear what Henry knew, as she knew he knew something.

He was reluctant to tell her, however, which meant that it could not have been something she would have liked to hear, but that did not mean she did not want to hear it. Indeed, Josephine was eager to know what happened to her General. Francois had not written and none of her contacts in Paris would write to her about it. Apparently those that got to her and Francois had gotten to others as well.

“My contacts,” she sighed, “don’t speak of everything that would interest me, Mister Everson,” she smiled. “I’ve heard of the latest dress makers and an excellent new opera premiering, but little else.” She sighed, almost sadly, for a moment. She shook her head and relieved her own sadness with an indulgent smile, “And my cousin would hardly write to anyone in Paris that would be concerned in the least with me. Truth be told,” she chuckled softly, a sly look on her face, “he doesn’t much enjoy having me around. Who would have guessed?”

This flippant remark did not upset the woman in the least; her cousin was very uptight and thought she was far too forward and embarrassing for her own good. She should be content to stay behind the scenes, he thought, after so much trouble already, and she only wanted to cause more. How disagreeable, of course, his words were stronger, and in French. Whatever the case, Josephine shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “Perhaps it’d be best to save talk of France for later then…” she suggested rather plainly, looking to Lyra, she would have to whisper something to Marie-Louise when she brought the tea, perhaps she could coerce her to drop something…

“How did you enjoy the rest of the ball, Mister Everson? I’m afraid I did not even get to see you to say goodbye! Whisking all impressionable young blondes off their feet with your charm?” she laughed lightly, taking a jab at his dance with Miss Hurston. To her delight and dismay, Josephine enjoyed Mister Everson’s company, and she felt the need to tease him about that little episode.

[Henry Everson]

"No!" Henry said in a subdued display of indignation. "That is to his own detriment, I fear. I can hardly think him to be in possession of good judgment. Or perhaps he is not in search of enjoyable company."

Pretty compliments aside, Henry had to confess he found himself intrigued by Josephine's wit and history. However, her frivolity could not be denied. Had he been in London or the places he had been abroad, he would have had other matters to discuss and other company to seek. But they were in the country no, and for that purpose, Josephine proved champion company, indeed.

He gave an amused sigh as she brought up the furthest thing from his mind: the ball. "It so happens that pretty impressionable blondes quite enjoy being swept off their feet. I took the two dances with him, and spent another three with Horatia. Forgive me, Lady Horatia. I've forgot you've not met her yet. I looked for you, you know, to introduce you to her but I could not find you. A pretty little revenge you extract for me walking out on you,though I'm sure I quite deserved it." Here, he smiled and looked to Lyra. He had almost a mind to voice his suspicions: that Josephine had gone out for a cigarette, and no doubt the prim woman would not be surprised, but would not approve. He was still trying to decide whether or not he ought to impress the woman or ingratiate Josphine to her, even. However, Josephine seemed to be making little effort herself in that regard. Perhaps it was just as well.

"And you, Signorina Corti?" he asked in Italian. "Did you find some amiable passtime at the ball?" Though Henry may have made a show of spying at the party, he suspected that this Italian woman had been watching them closely--spying in truth.

[Josephine St. Just]

Shaking her head, Josephine smiled despite herself. She knew a well placed compliment when she heard one; she was, after all, a diva… or she had been. Whatever the case, even if the formal title was gone, the attitude surely wasn’t. It would take a long time to go away and in many ways, she didn’t think it should. Just because she was not on the stage anymore it did not make her less talented or less beautiful, those things she knew well, and others should as well! Thankfully they were always looking for entertainment at balls or she would go absolutely mad – and drive Philippe there with her incessant melodies.

“He is very serious, you see,” Josephine smirked, pursing her lips in much the same manner as he would, furrowing her brows like some sort of wrinkled dog and narrowing her eyes. That was his typical expression, she was afraid. Lyra looked at her with agitation, fingering the holy beads in her lap. Joie only smiled cheekily in return.

The cheeky smile turned to Henry now, vastly amused by his summation of the events of the ball, particularly those with Miss Cecily. Of course, she was glad that he did not go on about her; she would not have been able to handle it. His cousin, however, sounded like a far more amicable person, or at least someone Joie could not take an immediate dislike to. “I am a very busy woman, you know,” she laughed flippantly, her hand tossing to the side as though it were nothing. “Sometimes I get called away at a moment’s notice…”

“Or go outside without alerting anyone for some selfish reason,” Lyra made an aside, pretending to look wholly innocent as Josephine’s glance strayed toward her. Josephine did not have time to say anything before Henry engaged Lyra in conversation, putting her out slightly, but she figured it couldn’t hurt – Lyra did not like the man on principle. It was unlikely she would be interesting or nice enough to engage him for very long.

“Watching over Signorina St. Just,” she returned, happily in her native tongue, making Josephine roll her eyes, “is enough of a job that amiable pastimes are a luxury I cannot afford, especially at balls.” She tilted her head upward, a slight display of distaste for Josephine’s behavior and suspicion for Mr. Everson. She certainly didn’t think anyone capable of being honest, least of all the two people around her at this very second.

Josephine rolled her eyes to remove attention from the dark woman and snorted lightly. “Hilarious, isn’t she?” she sighed. “But, in all fairness, from the sounds of it, you were quite occupied. I should like to meet your cousin, however. Is she a fan of opera?” a genuine question in Josephine’s eyes, after all, it was what she lived for!

[Henry Everson]

Henry was about to respond to Josephine's off-handed excuse with a wry retort, but instead raised his eyebrows at Lyra's self-righteous declamation which cut him short. Her tongue matched her rosary, it seemed.

Likely the cousin was not far behind. Well, this was proving to be a most disappointing evening.

"I should think, signorina," he continued patiently in smooth Italian, "that at such events there are many gentlemen who would willingly watch over Mademoiselle. Is this the cause for your concern?"

He turned his eyes onto Josephine now, affording a modest smile under the gaze of Signorina Corti. "I make it a point to stay occupied for idleness," he now looked markedly at Lyra, "is the devil's tool; do you not think it to be so, signorina?"

He looked about the room at this, eyes settling on the piano. "Perhaps a little music would drive your cousin down, enliven the servants, so dinner might be brought out, and entertain us--we would not wish to be idle. . ." he said, preparing to rise to go to the piano, should Josephine be amenable--and really, why wouldn't she?

"I find that my cousin has a great appreciation for music--Mozart and Beethoven most particularly, but is much more adept in the capacity of appreciator than purveyor of the arts. I on the other hand, play somewhat, if you would care to judge me mercifully."

[Josephine St. Just]

“It is a constant cause for concern,” Lyra frowned and cut a look at Josephine that made the redhead physically wince. She certainly did not mince her words! Joie never thought she would, but honestly, in front of new company? Perhaps it was that she did not want him to return: that was, in her opinion, the most likely conclusion to draw from her behavior. She never let her have any friends! Licking her lips, Josephine turned back to the guest, not dignifying Lyra with a response.

She acted as though Joie were really that badly behaved! Really, she just liked to flirt and occasionally took an interest in someone beyond that, but that was rarely. Part of her heart was still somewhere in Paris and had not sent word to her since departure. Perhaps that would eventually sever, but for now the sinew remained intact, though strained, almost to the point of break.

A satisfied nod came on the part of Lyra at his idleness remark, and Joie sighed. She certainly was one who needed to be sucked up to.

At the mention of having some music, Josephine practically jumped from her chair, well, not really. She rose gracefully and her expression brightened considerably. “That would be splendid, Mr. Everson,” perhaps the most sincere comment she had made in the entirety of their acquaintance. Lyra did not look particularly pleased, but it could have been worse. They were only going to indulge in a little music and rush the time from there to dinner, and how could she argue with that? It would get him out faster.

Josephine took a position at the side of the piano, smiling graciously, “I will have to meet her then, I am quite fond of Mozart,” a truth if there ever was one. “His work is incredible, and so full of passion, you can just hear it,” she sighed. Lyra glared. Josephine returned attention to the fact he offered to play, “I will be the most merciful judge you will come across this evening," she teased. How true. "I would be honored if you’d play, then perhaps I can accompany you on something of your choosing, I’m sure I’ll know it,” a little bit of signature cockiness as she leaned on the piano.

[[I intend for Philippe to come down in my next post ^^]]

[Henry Everson]

"Then by all means, signorina, allow me to help you in your tireless efforts. " The mischief in Henry's eyes went undisguised as he abandoned hopes of impressing the woman and instead settled with being a mild perturbance: it seemed he would be so anyways and it was best to at least please one person in the room without entirely insulting the second. He would have to reconsider how the dynamic shifted once the cousin was here.

Yes, the cousin.

Henry rose and moved to the piano, looking through a few loose leafs of music. Yes, indeed. One was Mozart. A German piece. Henry sent her a look of inquiry as he sat down on the bench flexed his fingers, and waited for some signal from her. "We'll just start with this, shall we?" he said, not wanting to offer his baritone to scrutiny against a professional soprano.

And he began to play, allowing her to keep up.

OOC: I am imagining in my head "Als Luise die Brefe" . . . I love that song (even if it only has one measure of introduction). Seems something Josephine would sing: it's about a woman tearing up love letters and throwing them into the fire because she realises he's been writing similar notes to other women.

[Josephine St. Just]

If there was anything to be said about Henry Everson, it was that he had good taste. Peering over his shoulder as he leafed through the music, a smile spread over Josephine’s features. She knew this song very well and practiced it frequently because Lyra and Philippe didn’t understand it, and she enjoyed it. The subject was something rather dear to her heart and with the bar of introduction; Josephine took in a deep breath, filling her core before she started to sing.

She was engrossed with music, so much so that she wasn’t paying attention to much else. She did not notice that Philippe had come downstairs and was standing in the doorway. Lyra’s attention went elsewhere, and Josephine didn’t find that strange, since she didn’t usually pay attention. She turned her attention to Henry and the music, however, enjoying the piece, especially because she didn’t have to play and could use her hands as she would when performing on stage. It felt so… right.

When the piece was over, the soprano seemed to glow – the thrill of a performance well done. Of course, the slow clapping from the doorway offset her positive mood. “Pas mal,” he commented dryly, his eyes turning to the man on the piano bench. “I heard you from upstairs, Josephine,” he said to the redhead, moving around the back of the couch where she had been sitting previously.

“I’m glad you were finally able to tear yourself from your papers,” she was somewhat accusatory in her tone. He was eying Henry with that look he frequently gave her, trying to sum up his actions and character with one glance. He was arrogant enough to think that. “Philippe, this is Mr. Henry Everson,” she tried to smile, “Mr. Everson, may I present Comte Philippe St. Just.”

“I see you’ve found Mademoiselle Joesphine’s music,” he commented, not entirely pleased about the fact. “From the stairs, I thought she may have subjected you to being the dutiful audience, but it appears I was wrong. Is she as pleasurable to play with as she is to talk to?” Obviously, he was digging at his cousin: they did not have the most loving of relationships. He never passed an opportunity to be critical, and the self satisfied smirk on his face made Josephine want to just reach out and hit him.

[Henry Everson]

"Ah. The other St Just," Henry said as Josephine made her introduction. Henry did not specify who the original St Just might be. He rose from the piano bench to give a stiff, character-less and formal bow. The sort an emigré comte may think his due. Henry had grown accustomed to bowing to cowards; it didn't mean much, when all was said and done. He might have easily been tying his shoe.

"Comte," he murmured respectfully. It was the man's house after all. He'd not get in a duel before dinner. Preferably, he'd not get in one at all. Once more, Henry was impressed with the idea that his persistence had poor pay-off. He ought not to have invited himself here.

The interplay between cousins--the banter--was an uncanny doppleganger to his own relationship with his cousin, but there was an undercurrent of malice and disrespect here that made Henry feel like a voyeur, sitting in someone elses' sitting room and listening to snubs that should never be exchanged in the presence of company.

"I find that hard to tell," Henry skirted, "but I think it may be easily said that there is something singularly pleasant in the quality of Mademoiselle St Just's voice which advantages both, I think. But I am not the first to notice this, of course. Mademoiselle," he said, turning his gaze to Josephine, though the words were intended for Phillipe, "the people of Paris must lack their prima donna terribly, being so fond of it. In fact, I would scarcely be surprised if such a performance was the only thing they ever truly loved . . . or missed."

There. Josephine may well object to the painting of the French people (though Henry himself would stand by its judgment to the end: the French people were frivolous and mobbish), but, if taken correctly, it was the refugee comte which must take the snub. The war was over--both of them, in fact--and yet here he remained, unwanted and unsought for by his own people. Well; Henry couldn't say the comte didn't deserve this subtle observation. Besides, though it might have sparked future emnity, the comment evened the scores. Henry had never been fond of spiteful attacks. Attacks should be strategic and carried out with purpose fora purpose.

He smiled easily and turned back to Phillipe, wondering if the man had any sort of purpose, now hiding in England, having relinquished his true title and lands in France. Since the man seemed neither fond of singing nor speaking with Josephine, he reasoned the man at least would be inordinately fond of himself; he hoped he would likewise be fond of speaking--even singing--of himself. "Comte, I confess I am impressed with these grounds; I had not expected them to be so extensive. Are you planning on making your remove to this place permanent?" To avoid a reading of impertinence, he added, "I myself have been considering the same thing, but find it hard to gather a survey of the people's character and daily living here. Perhaps, as you have the advantage of me in this particular, you could tell me what you have thought of Middleton."

[Josephine St. Just]

Josephine was glad Henry could be more of a civil human being than her cousin. He had a famous temper and gave into fancies as though it were his business. If he felt the urge to say something, he typically did. Perhaps that was where he and Josephine differed, typically she tried to hold her tongue, or say something in a very… subtle way, if she needed to say it. He, because he felt he had the right, could say whatever he wished in the plainest manner he could think of.

And she simply glowed at the compliment she received. Lyra scoffed at her, but Josephine looked positively thrilled, a radiant smile directed toward her cousin for spite. But, she also smiled merely for the fact she loved being praised. Whether or not it was sincere, she had yet to determine, but from a man like Henry Everson, she could figure there was a little truth in the matter.

“I have heard word of weeping on the opera steps,” she laughed like a bell and pushed herself away from the side of the piano. “It is always a point of displeasure in my book that my cousin never had the opportunity to see me perform,” she added, “Mr. Everson, I cannot recall if you ever saw me on stage. I pity you if you haven’t,” she smiled sadly, “and with no opportunity here… well, you’ve both missed out!”

She resumed her seat next to Lyra when Henry addressed Philippe. She listened with interest on the point of his residence in Middleton, however. Lyra seemed a bit concerned and tried to drag her into a bit of conversation, but Joie’s monosyllabic responses killed it where it stood, she was more interested in what the men were saying.

“Thank you,” Philippe nodded, “It is most recommending to Middleton that the land be so agreeable. It is a good place to settle when first choices are not available,” the Frenchman conceded, though he did not sound thrilled. His lands in France were permanently out of his possession and his money/title didn’t mean anything to them anymore. He supposed the darker man his cousin brought to the house was well aware of this. But, he set his jaw and attempted to be cordial as much as he could. He did not want to be the bad neighbor – although if it kept his cousin in line… things to weigh.

Josephine saw his contemplative look and she gnawed on her bottom lip. Philippe, on the other hand, looked relaxed, but wolfish at the same time. “I find myself in London much of the time, but Middleton is a choice area to escape the business of town. The social life, I find, is a little taxing – quite a bit of gossip, but the residents are harmless and mean very well. It is a safe environment,” he glanced to his cousin, in particular at this moment, “and quiet.”

[Henry Everson]

Henry did not much veil his chuckle at her simpering. He suspected there was little performance in it: she truly was that thrilled. . . and vain. He was gaining a better picture of her now, but didn't like her any less for it. He cleared his throat softly.

"Mademoiselle St Just is too humble if she thinks she has not been performing," Henry said with a false demureness. "And her pity may best be directed somewhere else, I think." He smiled more easily now to soften his moves--and poorly laid at that. He was losing his touch. Henry was maintaining a volatile neutrality, the best he could maneuver while in the house of one person while being regarded as the particular friend of another.

Henry ought to have known that those who were neutral were on the whole either victimised or despised, but he was not feeling equal to the task of an all-out battle just yet. Well, perhaps there would not be one. Philippe St Just held the potential of being civil, even if he did not have the capability of being prudent. It was something, and it could be cultivated into something more.

He had to admit he had a little pity for the man. He knew the situation well. In fact, his was not at all dissimilar except that his native land was perhaps no longer his first choice. There were other things to consider . . . and Italy may still be within grasp . . . Yet if Philippe had come to the side of the British and offered assistance, he would have been restored his lands, as so many others had. That was his choice, and it had been a poor one. To be pitied, to be sure.

"In London? Indeed? I am sure we must have seen each other at some point." From what he gathered of this man, they probably held a great many acquaintances--if not friends--in common as well. Well, he would not exclude the ladies so blatantly and rudely. He heard no conversation from their quarter. He again cleared his throat. "I do not think it always necessary to escape London to escape business. Perhaps if it is not too distasteful, Mademoiselle St Just and Signorina Corti may venture into town to see a play." He gave a satiric smile, "I'd not suggest an opera, for there may be weeping on the stairs for quite different reasons; it is not so good as Paris, I have heard. And certainly not as good as Italy," he said pointedly to Signorina Corti, hoping to pull out a response other than a sour smile from her.

[Josephine St. Just]

Lyra had a singular habit of scolding Josephine for any display of vanity she exhibited. Unfortunately, that resulted in a rather smart smack to the thigh that no one else would notice. Josephine, however, felt the sting and glared at her companion. Lyra turned back to her beads with little interest in Josephine’s feelings, and the redhead pursed her lips in anger. Oh that woman! She certainly sat on quite the moral high horse, but that didn’t make her better than Josephine, not at all!

It did convince her to smile a little less brilliantly, fear for another sting on her leg, and she was slightly flushed from anger. If no one had seen the swat, they might think it to be humility. Lyra was sneaky like that. She did not even WISH to speak to the woman at the moment, so fully upset with the way she was trying to handle the situation – poorly in every way. She would surely have a red spot on her thigh for at least another day… blemishes!

Philippe did not enjoy the suggestion that the ladies be taken into town. He felt like Josephine would find herself in trouble and Lyra would be powerless to stop her, or be dragged along. With a nervous smile, the Comte’s hands clenched around the chair he was standing behind, his nails digging into the plush fabric. “I’m not sure Signorina Corti would appreciate the English stage very much,” he laughed, looking to the women, “and after so long in such big cities, I’m sure the ladies enjoy some time in the country.”

Of course, Josephine had to cut in here. “I would love to see a play,” she sighed, leaning over, “and to see London. I have only been for three days and I have been told you could live there a lifetime without having seen everything. It would be a crime to deprive of us of that opportunity,” she smiled as sickeningly sweetly as she could at her cousin who could do little more than smile with a sneer back.

Lyra, however, also had something to say. “Perhaps a play, not too risqué, of course, would not be so bad,” she looked to Henry, “but, as Mr. Everson suggests, opera is out of the question. Without a suitable cast of talented singers, particularly Italians, it would be a waste of money and more than a little painful to the ears.” At Josephine’s expression of feigned hurt, Lyra rolled her eyes, “You were trained in Milan, Josephine. You might as well be Italian yourself.”

The redhead gave her a little pleased smile, died down a bit at her steely gaze. She did not want to be thwacked again. Philippe shook his head at them both. “Perhaps next time I go to London I may let the ladies come along. I could not deprive a diva and her entourage, after all,” he chuckled softly, though a hint of bitterness came out.

“Why would you want to?” Josephine asked with a smile, “There’s no point in it when you only live once. Although, I might be interested in the English Opera just to have a good laugh. I would even pay for my own ticket,” she chuckled. “Perhaps Mr. Everson would accompany us, since you hate the theatre so much, Philippe?” She looked at him in all sincerity and he appeared to have nothing to say to that. Her gaze turned to Henry - trying not to smile too wide - Lyra's hand was ready and waiting.