Lord of Ice (5 page)

It was the blight of Birmingham—a growing squatters’ village inhabited by criminals, beggars, pickpockets, thieves, and low, skulking rascals of every stripe. They had set up camp on the green and were so insolent that they had frightened the mayor and the town elders into letting them stay, lest they riot. The nearby garrison of soldiers had been stationed there to make sure the filthy creatures kept the peace. Miranda knew it was reckless of her to pass on the outskirts of their territory, but she was almost late and it was the quickest way to the Pavilion. She was freezing in her skimpy costume. Besides, she was not easily intimidated by anyone.

As she came away from the dark, open space of the green and approached the Pavilion, she saw the gaslights shining inside. Her heart leaped with rising excitement. Outside the theater, people were milling about everywhere, queued up to buy their entrance tokens, mostly men finishing their cigars before going in to find a seat. She raced up to the building, attracting numerous stares and half a dozen indecent propositions, but she ignored them and took no offense, for she knew full well how most of the girls in this business made extra money.

She pounded up the wooden steps of the back entrance, her heart racing with excitement. This night was special somehow. She could feel it.

Marching through the back hallway, she flung into the dressing room with a beaming smile.

“Miss White!” the players greeted her, using her stage name. She dared not use her real name, for her Uncle Jason would throttle her if he ever found out about this.

“You’re late! We were beginning to worry!” the clown said anxiously.

“Oh, I’d never fail you, my dears,” she chided gaily, giving his red, waxen nose a honk. Then she shrugged off her rough, woolen cloak.

“Hullo, beautiful,” Stefano, the leading man, murmured, sauntering over to her with a suave smile.

Miranda dismissed his flirtatious look with a laugh and pulled off her snow-caked boots just as Mr. Chipping came bustling into the greenroom, hectic as a wind eddy. The lively little bald man was the manager of the circuit company, which traveled continuously between Birmingham, Coventry, Leicester, and Nottingham.

Mr. Chipping had often averred that her status as daughter of the late, internationally famed Fanny Blair would rocket Miranda to stardom, if she pursued it. He had already offered her the coveted position of juvenile lead, so that one day she might ascend to leading lady, just like her mother had been for a short time at London’s Lyceum Theatre in the Strand, where Papa had first laid eyes on her. He lit up when he saw Miranda.

“Ah, there she is! My darling, my precious babe, my little gem! Not a moment too soon. You’re on in ten minutes.”

“I can hardly wait!” She threw her arms around the little man and hugged him with irrepressible spontaneity. A bit taller than he, she planted a playful kiss on his shiny pate. “I adore you, Mr. Chipping! I’m so happy. Thank you for this chance.”

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection. “You’re welcome, my dear. I know you won’t disappoint me.” He turned to his actors. “Many people have a difficult time of it around the holidays. Let’s give them our best.” He squeezed Miranda around her waist, startling her out of her momentary brooding on the fact that nobody could possibly hate Christmas more than she did. It was the single most painful day of the entire year. “Are you ready, lass?” he asked in a jaunty tone.

She tossed her long locks over her shoulders with dramatic flair and turned on her most brilliant smile. “Always!”

CHAPTER
TWO

Damien cantered his white horse up the sweeping, moonlit road from Stratford, arriving at Birmingham at around seven o’clock in the evening. He slowed the stallion to a trot as they entered Bradford Street and inspected the burgeoning town curiously as he rode through it.

Back in London, the memorial service for Jason had gone smoothly, but Damien had soon begun climbing the walls in his impatience for Bow Street to make an arrest. So far, they did not even have any firm leads. Lucien had finally persuaded him to leave the investigation to the authorities and to go break the news to his ward—the one thing Damien most dreaded. Still, even facing the little orphaned girl’s tears was better than waiting around for something to happen.

Presently, he rode up to the impressive Royal Hotel in Temple Row and took lodgings for the night. The landlord turned awestruck when he read Damien’s signature on the guest register and realized who he was. He gave him the best room in the inn and insisted that he stay gratis, but Damien declined, paying like any other customer. The kitchens sent up a grand dinner, which he ate alone in his rooms.

After bolting down his food as speedily as a starved wolf, he got up and drifted to the window, gazing out at the lights of the town and the dark countryside beyond. The glass panes mirrored his ghostly, hollow-eyed reflection back to him. He glanced longingly over his shoulder at the bed. He was so bored of his own company and, God help him, so starved for sex.

Now that he had ventured out into the world again, he could scarcely believe it had been six weeks since he’d had a woman. The hotel had a rule against bringing in whores, but hell, he was Colonel Lord Winterley, he thought cynically. The staff would surely turn a blind eye if the war hero wanted a lass to warm his bed on this cold winter’s night.

No,
he thought stoically after a moment.
Discipline.
No women. No hard liquor. Discipline was everything. Pushing away from the window, he paced restlessly in his room. He could not give in to temptation. As much as he ached for someone to touch him, he could not risk unleashing his emotions, could not let go of his rigid self-control. The problem was he could no longer trust himself, his own reactions. He would never purposely harm a woman, but what if he went mad again and lashed out without meaning to? After what had happened on Guy Fawkes Night, he dared not trifle with anything that had the potential to awaken the beast inside of him. The wild release of passion might prove just the sort of dangerous catalyst that he would be wiser to avoid.

Standing near the foot of the bed, he rested his hands on his hips with a huge sigh. The night was still early, but perhaps he need not shut himself off entirely, he thought. It had been good to see his fellow officers at Jason’s memorial service. He knew that his good friend, Lieutenant Colonel George Morris, was stationed in Birmingham. He decided to pay him a visit. There could be no harm in that. He quickly doffed his dusty traveling clothes and dressed in his uniform, deliberately leaving his dress sword and pistol behind. Though he felt rather naked going out at night in a strange city without his weapons, the world would be safer if he did not bring them. His mood improving at the thought of seeing old Georgie again, he jogged down the stairs and asked the concierge for directions to the local barracks, then set out on foot, heading east through the city.

As instructed, he made his way to Cole’s Hill and down Belmont Row. 'Sblood, he seemed to pass a wench on every street corner, he thought, each one prettier than the last, murmuring soft invitations to him as he marched by, trying to lure him off the straight and narrow. He kept his stare ahead in staunch resolution. Turning right onto Duddeston Street, he saw the barracks and breathed a sigh of relief to have escaped the sirens’ calls.

When he went in, the junior officers on duty greeted him joyously and made much of him. His cheeks flushed at their praise. Gruffly he asked for Morris.

“He’s gone down to the Pavilion to watch the show,” the subaltern said.

“The Pavilion?” Damien asked.

“An amphitheater down the road. The circuit company comes in once a month. Only blasted thing there is to do around here.”

“Aye, but they’ve got the prettiest dancing girls in the county,” the other sergeant added with a grin.

Damien stared at him. He swallowed hard. “Dancing girls?”

“Aye, Colonel. I can send a lad down there to fetch Colonel Morris for you.”

“No, I, ah, think I’ll go look for him myself,” Damien said gingerly, already heading for the door. “Got nothing else to do.”

“Enjoy, my lord!” they called after him, laughing, winking at each other knowingly.

A few minutes later, Damien bought his painted wooden token at the door and walked into the bright, noisy, chaotic Pavilion Theater, blinking against the light from the three large chandeliers that burned brightly above. Underfoot, a layer of straw had been thrown down to soak up the mud and melting snow from the audience’s shoes. It rustled under Damien’s boots as he stalked into the mobbed theater. At Bayley House, he had grown unaccustomed to so much color and clamor. It put him on edge.

He stood in the aisle with his back to the stage, scanning the double-tiered horseshoe of seats for his friend. He had hoped to pick Morris out easily by his uniform, but a full third of the audience were soldiers in red coats. With a distracted frown, he searched the sea of faces, brushing off an ale seller, quite indifferent to the exploits of the cape-and-dagger hero in the Gothic musical playing out on stage. Indifferent, that was, until he heard the voice.

Her
voice.

No shrill soprano, the woman’s voice was a sensuous alto that brimmed with velvet warmth. Its rich, smoky timbre captured his senses and made him go still. From his vantage point, he saw the calming effect it had on the mob, as well. Intrigued, he turned around, saw the singer, and dropped his jaw.

His mouth watered; his eyes glazed over; his gaze swept the young beauty’s tall, statuesque form.
Damn,
he thought, she was all . . . luscious curves. He had a vague impression of luxuriant, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back, but was so enthralled with her skimpy costume, abundant breasts, and robust hips that it was at least two or three full minutes before his lustful stare traveled up to her face.

He felt his heart skip a beat.
Good God.
Heart-stoppingly lovely, she was, an angel’s face to match that golden voice. Roses on snow, he thought. Ruby lips, creamy skin, sparkling emerald eyes. The bold beauty appeared to be in her early twenties. He scrambled to borrow a program from the fellow next to him and found the name of the actress playing the heroine in
The Venetian Outlaw
. Staring at her, he handed the broadsheet back to the man.

Miss White.
But not pure, he fervently hoped.

That wasn’t her real name, of course. They never used their real names, as he knew from his wide experience with women of her breed. He eased down dazedly on the nearest seat and watched her for the next two hours, mesmerized.

Whatever ailed him, he forgot it. She was a joy to watch, playing her part with good cheer, lusty confidence, and tart wit. With a provocative switch of her hips, she could make the entire male half of the audience roar with devotion. Damien shook his head in private amusement, but when she smiled, she dazzled him. He scowled when her silly musical was over, for the stage was a barren wasteland without her on it. He sank down, sprawling in his chair, and rocked his knee impatiently, waiting for her to come back. He bought a mug of ale and haughtily regarded the acrobats twirling this way and that. He saw no point in their gyrations, but their act gave him time to think. By the time they cleared the stage, he had made up his mind.

He had to have her. Devil take his vow. He was only a man. One of his closest friends had just died. Was that not a more-than-adequate excuse to seek comfort from a lady of the night? He would keep the liaison as brief as possible, leave the candles burning throughout his chamber—hell, he’d give her a gun if that was what it took to protect her from himself—but if he did not have her, he would die.

In his mind, it was already arranged. He’d call on his ward at Yardley School in the morning and visit Morris at the barracks tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, his sole mission was to coax that luscious creature back to his hotel and straight into his bed.

The competition was sure to be fierce. She would no doubt have many admirers, but he was prepared to pay more than he could spare and even to try out his new title if that’s what it took to impress her.

She appeared next in the series of dances that ended the night’s entertainments, the grand finale. There were a dozen girls dancing on stage, but he could not take his eyes off the dark-haired beauty. He sat, entranced, caught up in growing desire and anticipation. Biding his time until he could learn every curve of her face and body with his hands and his lips, he studied the lass from a distance. Her rosy cheeks had a youthful roundness that added to her air of charming exuberance. She had a strong chin and dark, highly defined eyebrows that stood out sharply against her creamy complexion, giving her face an expression of saucy willfulness. Aye, she had a bit of the devil in her, and there was nothing he liked better than a naughty girl in his bed.

Having lost all track of time, he was sorely disappointed when the ballet ended and the dancing girls flitted lightly off the stage, returning with the rest of the evening’s cast to take their bows. Somehow Miss White became even more lavishly beautiful when the crowd applauded. She held out her hands gracefully, then curtsied as though to the queen. When she lifted her head again coming back up, her gaze traveled slowly, savoringly, over the audience.

Damien stared at the tears shining in her eyes, all at odds with her radiant smile. Tears, he realized, of gratitude.
You live for this moment, don’t you, beauty?
She seemed to absorb the audience’s outpouring of warmth and affection like a rose drinking in the summer sunbeams. As he sat there, very still, his chin resting on his fist, a part of his heart he had long presumed dead went out to her, he knew not why. There was such sincerity in her face. He was trying to figure out the best way to approach her when her survey of the crowd suddenly came to him—and stopped. From halfway across the lighted theater, their stares connected with a force that nearly flattened him.

Damien couldn’t move. His heart hammered. He could barely breathe, powerless under the spell of her emerald eyes.

She suddenly tore her gaze away, a bright blush rising in her cheeks. If his stare had flustered her, she recovered quickly, blowing the crowd one last merry kiss before striding off the stage with impetuous haste.

The curtain closed and the chase was on.

He was already on his feet, stalking down the aisle against the flow of the exiting crowd. He couldn’t recall the last time he had bedded a girl who could still blush.

People jumped out of his path when they saw him coming, his fierce, single-minded stare fixed on the stage door as though it were a Spanish fortress town that he would take or die trying. When he noticed the men continually being turned away from the backstage area, a slight, predatory smile curved his mouth.

Perhaps they were content to take no for an answer, but he would not be denied his conquest. He left the crowd clamoring at the main door and went in search of another entrance.

Weary but exhilarated after the six-hour program, Miranda accepted the three shillings that were her night’s pay, said her good-byes to Mr. Chipping and his players, and left the dressing room eating the last few bites of a sausage tucked into a split roll. She was starved after her night’s exertions, having been denied her supper as part of Brocklehurst’s punishments. Big Dale, the company’s “heavy” or villain—who was actually a tender-hearted giant of a man—had let her take his little wine flask filled with good burgundy to wash down her sandwich and to warm her belly for the cold walk home.

Bundled up once again in her rough woolen mantle and battered black half boots, she walked down the cramped hallway to the back door of the theater to avoid the mob of men, mostly soldiers, demanding, as soldiers were wont to do, to be introduced to the girls. Though she still felt buoyed up with exhilaration after the show, the prospect of the long walk home made her sigh wearily, for her legs already felt like jelly from the strenuous demands of the ballet. There were any number of rogues clamoring to get backstage who would have gladly driven her home, but she could not risk anyone making the connection between Miss White of the Pavilion Theater and Miranda Fitz-Hubert of Yardley School.

A pang of dread darted through her to recall her appointment tomorrow with Mr. Reed and his birch, but she refused to let anxiety quash the warm glow of triumph she felt from the audience’s generous applause.

They adored me,
she thought happily, taking a large bite of her sandwich. She pushed open the heavy door with her hip and stepped out into the cold winter night. Stray snowflakes swirled around the wall-fixed lantern like moths. As she started walking down the theater’s wooden back stairs, she suddenly stopped chewing and froze.