The Love List (38 page)

His opponent clearly had the same thought—and thought he knew how to accomplish it.  He feinted hard, slashing quickly in succession.  Aldmere was forced to step back several paces, across the corridor and towards the small room left open at the end of passage.  Damn it—this left Brynne and the child vulnerable.  Rodya took advantage of the fact and lunged again for Brynne.

She ducked and pushed the child away.  He missed them both.

With a snarl he grabbed again.  This time he caught Brynne’s sleeve.  Aldmere lunged toward them as the stranger tugged hard, pulling her toward him.  She didn’t fight the bastard’s pull.  She watched his knife hand and came willingly—and continued her forward motion right past him—throwing him off balance.  In the split second that he wavered, Francis Headley darted close, stuck out her tiny foot and tripped him.

The man went down hard, shock clear on his face.  Aldmere dragged the women away.  They huddled in the doorway to the little room.  He didn’t wait to reassure them, but took a page from Rodya’s book and attacked before he could recover. 

Aldmere caught him half raised and still off balance.  Fury fueled him and he swung relentlessly, one reaching blow after another.  The foreigner scrambled backward, unable to gather himself or do more than deflect Aldmere’s assault.  A first hint of uncertainty crossed his face.

Behind the stranger, at the far end of the passage, a pair of chorus girls came down the stairs, chattering excitedly.  They took one look at the battle raging and let out a duet of fetching screams.

Rodya lost his focus for a moment.  It was enough.  Aldmere struck flesh, a quick, shallow stripe across the man’s chest.  Fear blossomed in the man’s eyes.  Aldmere struck again, a deeper cut across his arm.  The foreigner clutched it, met Aldmere’s eye—and turned to run. 

The chorus girls shrank back against the stairwell wall as the knife-wielding stranger ran toward them, but Rodya drew up short before he reached them.  He stalled at the corner of the intersecting corridor, stopping quick with a strange, gasping hitch to his breath.  Aldmere, his chest heaving, waited.

Eyes bulging, the stranger turned back.  He slid to his knees, a knife hilt protruding downward from under his sternum.

Hatch followed him around the corner.  The blood had crusted on her face and her eye had already swollen shut.  “Ten years!” she screamed at the man.  Aldmere doubted he heard her.  “Ten years and no man has struck me!  I swore to every God in the heavens that it would never happen again!”

Her damaged face twisted, she drew another knife from her coat.  With a sob she buried it deep in the man’s shoulder.  Rodya didn’t flinch.

The chorus girls were screaming in earnest now.  People had begun to pile up behind them on the stairwell.  Aldmere calmly approached the maddened pimp.  Gently, he reached up to stop the bloody blade from striking again. 

“Enough, Hatch.  He’s dead.”

She looked up, her eyes blank.  “Yes,” she agreed with fervor.  “He’s dead.  I killed him.”  He didn’t think she was talking about the stranger.  “Never again,” she whispered. 

“Let’s go now,” he said.  “It’s over.”

Twenty-Four

Hate bloomed in my heart for the first time, but determination did as well, and several other unorthodox traits.  I was not so foolish, either, as to ignore my own culpability.  I knew my life was forever changed, but I also knew what I would do, should I be so lucky as to escape with my life.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

It wasn’t over.  Directly overhead the Grand Spectacle continued.  Music and the thump of marching and dancing feet provided a dramatic background to the unusual drama playing out in the bowels of the theater. Brynne knew that her focus should be on what was going to happen above, but not only was she not sure just what Marstoke's plans were tonight, but she found she couldn’t go, couldn’t leave.  Not now, after watching Aldmere fight for his life.  He’d stepped forward, trying to create order from the mess they’d made.  She waited.  She had to speak with him, touch him.

He had his hands full with a dead man, a murderous pimp, and a contingent of theater workers leaning towards a panicked frenzy.  She went to him and spoke quietly of Rent.  He nodded and had Hatch locked away with her lackey in the unfortunate Mrs. Sherman’s dressing room.  Aldmere promised a couple of carpenter’s a year’s wages to guard the door and keep anyone from going in or out.  He made the same offer to another pair of stagehands—if they would cover the stranger’s body and keep it safe until the authorities arrived.

His most difficult job, however, was to keep the theater people from indulging in hysterics.  He gathered them up and calmed the hue and cry with a simplified explanation.  Hysterical questions were launched at him, largely from the disposed Mrs. Sherman, but he charmed her with compliments and thanks for her sacrifice.  He charmed them all, in fact, and soon had them settled, quiet and listening.

“I heard of Drury Lane’s triumphant performance in honor of the Tsar and all the other visiting heroes,” he said at last.  “I saw the reviews in the papers, heard Society lauding the players, the music, the spectacle.  I would hate to see you miss your own acclaim for your special performance.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“You have an audience primed to be pleased,” he told them.  “I heard them going wild, cheering the foreign dignitaries.  Now it sounds as if your Grand Spectacle is going off without a hitch.  You can let this incident ruin your carefully planned triumph, or you can carry on with the rest of the evening’s performances and show these heroes of war what a proud tradition our English theater truly is.”

Amidst quiet cheers and scathing criticisms regarding Drury Lane, the theater folk elected to put on their most spectacular show.  And Aldmere finally turned to her.

She’d been sitting and watching from the stairwell, with Francis at her side.  She stood as he looked about for her.  He strode forward, picking up speed with every step until he reached her and lifted her high.  He frowned, his gaze searching and intense, then without a word he lowered his mouth to hers and laid claim to her with a searing, branding kiss.

“Ugh,” Francis groaned.  “If that’s what you are going to get up to, then I’m going to go watch the blokes who are watching Hatch.”

Brynne’s smile broke the kiss, but Aldmere didn’t let her go.  He pulled her tight and buried his face in her hair.

“Your brother?” she asked.

“Safe.  Upstairs, with Stoneacre, trying to get to the Prince Regent.”

She pushed back.  “Stoneacre?”

He sighed.  “Later.  It’s a long story.  I just want to hold you now.”  He breathed in, his grip unrelenting.  “God, I was a fool, wasn’t I?  I’m sorry.  I never should have locked you in.  I only betrayed your trust.”  He pulled away and gave her an exasperated look.  “It didn’t do a damned bit of good, anyway.”

“No, it didn’t,” she said fiercely.  “It won’t serve, Aldmere—you treating me like a hothouse flower.  I won’t be another burden to you.”  She met his gaze directly.  “I didn’t let Marstoke make me feel helpless or defeated.  I cannot let you do it, either.”

He groaned.  “God, you are right.  I will never do anything like it again.  I promise.”  He set her down and ran a gentle finger along her lip, then stopped to gently stroke the corner of her mouth.  “You are mine.  Always.”

She set a hand against his cheek.  “Think carefully, Aldmere, for keeping that promise might be difficult.  You’ve spoken of your tower, your isolation.  Shutting yourself alone up there isn’t the answer.”  She pursed her lips.  “Locking me in there with you isn’t either.”

“No, I panicked at the thought of losing you—and ironically, almost did anyway.”  He pulled her close again. 

She blushed as a passing stagehand whistled at them.

“Perhaps I should have let them run panicking after all,” Aldmere said with a sigh.  “Emptying the theater would have put a definite snag in Marstoke’s plans.  But then we wouldn’t know where or when he would plan a new strike.”

She took a step back.  “But I don’t yet know what he’s planning this evening,” she said.  “Hatch spoke freely of her discontent, but not the particulars of what they mean to do.”

“Ah, he’s had his men place copies of his new
Harris List
under every seat and pit bench in the theater.”

She gasped.

“We’ve done what we can,” he began.

The sound of pounding feet thundering down the stairs interrupted him.  “Your Grace!  Your Grace?”  The call echoed down the stairwell.

Aldmere’s eyes brightened.  “Down here!”

Footsteps echoed and a lanky figure rounded the landing.  He came to a stop at the foot of the stairs.

Brynne gasped.  “Joe?  Joe Watts?”

“Yes, miss.”  He dipped his head.  “So glad to find you safe.”  His gaze raked uneasily over the covered body mere steps away and the bloodstain on the wall.  He glanced back.  “And up to your usual tricks.” 

“Joe is the reason we knew what the marquess was planning here tonight,” Aldmere said.  “Marstoke chased Rudd out of town and confiscated his press to print the List himself.  Joe heard everything and came to me.”

The boy puffed with pride.  “I been sent down to fetch you, your Grace, but first I wanted you to know that we did it!  Flemming and me, we snuck in and watched the place, as you asked.  We saw them come in and place the Lists, just like I heard they would.  Then we waited until they left and switched them all—except for the Regent’s box, like you said—before even the first member of the audience showed up.”

Brynne turned a questioning eye on Aldmere. 

“Joe and my secretary switched most of the Lists out for books of broadsheet ballads.”  Aldmere explained.  “Just as we thought, Marstoke means to blame the Regent for bullying his wife with the List.  He’s hoping to start a riot of discontent against him.  Tonight, in front of the dignitaries, where it will elicit the worst reaction and cause the most harm.”  He clasped Joe’s arm.  “You did well, Joe.  It will help to reduce the crisis, if not avert it.”

“But why did you not switch the Regent’s box?” Brynne asked.

“We didn’t want to tip our hand when Marstoke entered this evening—surely he would notice the switch.  Also, we were hoping to reveal him.  But I’m afraid I made a mistake.  I was only thinking of keeping the audience calm and unaware.  I was focused on preventing a riot.”

“Yes, of course you were!”  Understanding dawned.  “But exposing the visiting dignitaries to the List might be just as dangerous.  Hestia said the List might enrage them.  That many of them were related to the Princess Caroline and to see her so defamed might damage England’s relations with her Allies.”

“Yes.  And I’m afraid we cannot count on the Regent to keep a cool head either.  The Prince has been frustrated again and again on this visit.  He’s been snubbed both by the visitors and by his own people.  I fear the situation has left him even more volatile than usual.  He is bound to be outraged and likely outrageous.  The audience will not understand, but they will bear witness to his temper.”

He frowned.  “And the foreign visitors will not only take insult to the List, but they’ll be treated to a close encounter with the Regent in a fit of hysteria.  And Marstoke will be standing quietly by, ready to fan the flames and use all the resulting scandal to paint the Prince as unstable and perhaps on the brink of the same sort of madness which inflicts his father.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Brynne was shocked at the simplicity and brilliance of the plan.

Aldmere faced upward.  “Let’s go up.  I think that Tru is our best hope now.”

Joe Watts fidgeted.  “It’s your brother trying to see the Prince Regent?  That gentleman, the one you arrived with, Stoneacre?  He said to tell you the Prince will not be disturbed right now.  He doesn’t wish to be seen as inattentive to the Spectacle the theater planned special for him and his guests.”

“Damn.  Tru is the best choice to tell the tale, but it’s long and complicated and will be difficult to relay quickly.  I just hope he can convince the Regent to stay calm.”

Above, the music came to a glorious end.  Thundering applause sounded from the seats.  Now, Brynne thought.  The audience is primed.  They’ll do it now.

Her mind raced.  She stared at Aldmere, who had saved her in so many ways.  Who was inherently generous even when he feared to give.  Who could fight with as much passion as he loved, turn chaos to order and sway men’s minds with the power of his words.

And like lightning from above, the answer became blindingly clear.

She gasped.  “Come!”  She grabbed Aldmere’s hand.  “We can still stop it!”

She pulled him in her wake, through the corridor, and up the stairs, pushing against the flow of sweating and happy performers leaving the stage.  She dragged him past an office and through an army of stagehands working smoothly to shift the scenery.  A small man stood at the scene dock, directing the rapid flow of workers.  They detoured around to a spot in the wings where they could look out at the audience without being seen.   Everyone out there was talking, smiling, and beginning to shift around for the intermission. 

“It can still be stopped, Aldmere.”  She bit her lip.  “But you are the one who will have to do it.”

“What are you going on about, Brynne?”  He pulled her a little further upstage so that they could see the Regent’s box.  Faces there were wreathed in smiles.  The conversation looked genial and easy.  Everyone was still seated save for Marstoke, who was standing at the edge and looking down into the pit.

“Listen,” Brynne begged.  “You said you believed that Fate had been punishing you, all of these years?  Well, then you must concede that it is possible that instead she has been
preparing
you.”