‘Of course,’ she said.
Knight held Venetia in the full blast of that icy gaze for a moment longer, then he pulled Marianne’s hood to shroud her identity and led her from the room.
The door clicked shut, but Venetia was still staring at where they had stood.
He would rather say nothing than offer a lie! Lady Marianne’s words seemed to hang in the air like an echo, making her feel as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs as she remembered words that were so similar.
A knock sounded. The face of the stagehand, who had come to fetch her, appeared around the door. ‘It’s time, Miss Fox.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured but she made no move.
‘Miss Fox,’ the stagehand urged.
She gave a nod and had no choice but to follow him out along the corridor towards the stage.
* * *
The seconds were running out. She reached the wings just in time, a heartbeat and then the lights came to life and she was walking out onto the stage as Rosina to the whistles and whispers and murmur of voices all around. So many people filled the auditorium that the theatre seemed to heave at the seams. She heard someone shout Linwood’s name and it was all she could do to show no reaction.
She contrived to be Rosina. Only Rosina. Speaking the words written in the script, moving across the stage as Mr Kemble had directed her. But she was not Rosina. She was Venetia, and all she could hear was the beat of her heart and the whisper of the pact she had made with Linwood. Her blood ran cold. We are sworn to speak the truth or say nothing at all. She kept on acting, kept on going. But everything was falling into place in her mind. The explanation had been before her the whole time, but she had been too blind to see it. She stopped where she was, midline, stood there silent in the middle of the stage. The enormity of the realisation was such that it made all else trivial in comparison.
She stared around her at the facade of Rosina, at the costume and illusion, and her leading actor, Mr Incledon.
The prompt whispered her missing words from within the hidden box at the front of the stage.
The life of the man she loved was at stake.
The cue came again, so loud this time that the front rows of the audience heard.
Venetia looked out at the huge sea of faces. There were murmurs from them now, a fascinated horror in those expressions. Mr Incledon carried on, delivering the next line of his role as Belville and watching her with mounting anxiety.
But it did not matter. None of it mattered, not the play or the audience or the acting career of Miss Venetia Fox. The only thing that mattered was to know if she was sending an innocent man to his death. And there was one simple way to discover that. We are sworn to speak the truth or say nothing at all.
When at last she spoke it was not as Rosina, but as Venetia. ‘I must go to him,’ she said and walked off stage, leaving Mr Incledon and the entirety of the Theatre Royal gaping in stunned silence.
Chapter Sixteen
From somewhere beyond the prison yard a church bell sounded eight times and Linwood knew that the divine Miss Fox would be on stage now, playing a part while all of London watched. The betrayal felt bitter in his stomach, yet if it were to happen all over again he knew he would do nothing different. It seemed, somehow, that from that first moment upon the balcony of the green room all that followed had been inevitable. As if he ever could have walked away from her. She was the other side of himself. Two people removed from the rest of the world as it played on.
A draught made the candle flames flicker wildly and a commotion sounded outside his cell. Raised male voices, whistling, cheers, shouts, wolf whistles of male appreciation. And then silence. A ripple of foreboding whispered against his ear, followed by the scrape of the key in the lock of his door. The scent of her perfume touched his nose. He raised his eyes and saw Venetia standing there, dressed as Rosina.
The guards stood transfixed by the sight of her and he could not blame them. Venetia Fox was a sight to take any man’s breath away. The luminous pallor of her skin contrasted with the cascade of dark satin of her hair and the deep red of the costume she was wearing. The dress was very risqué, the bodice laced tight to hug her waist and allowing the peep of a white chemise beneath. It outlined the hourglass curves of her body, its low neckline barely containing the swell of her pale breasts. In the soft flickering candlelight she was the very epitome of every man’s fantasy. He felt his blood heat at the memory of her in his arms, of that silken skin beneath his hands, of their bodies merged as one, of the soft cry of his name upon her lips as she found her climax. It took every ounce of his self-control not to show any reaction.
‘Lord Linwood,’ she said, but the formality did not hide her slight breathlessness. She stood there, seemingly as calm and controlled as ever, and yet she was not as calm as she pretended. He could see it in her eyes, in the too-rapid rise and fall of her breasts, feel it in the tension that vibrated in the air between them.
‘Miss Fox.’ His eyes met hers and across the distance of the cell feelings he did not want to name shimmered between them. He shifted his gaze to the guards, pinning them with it. They backed out, closing the door behind them, turning the key, locking Venetia and him alone together in the prison cell.
He made no move.
Nor did she.
‘Don’t you have an appointment on the stage of the Theatre Royal?’
She shook her head. ‘Not any more.’
‘Why are you here, Venetia?’
‘I have something I need to ask you.’
‘And you think I will tell...you, of all people?’
‘Yes.’ She faced him bravely, defiantly almost, as she walked slowly forwards to stand directly before him and look into his face.
He felt his heart beat three times before she spoke. ‘Were you responsible for the fire at my home?’
‘That you even need to ask, Venetia,’ he murmured, feeling the chill blow all the colder through him. Then he glanced away and gave a soft mirthless laugh, before returning his gaze to hers and stepping closer so that she could see the truth in his eyes. ‘No. I am not.’
Their gazes held, locked in this torture together. He could see the tiny pulse that throbbed so fast at the side of that pale throat, the dark dilation of her eyes, the steadfast determination of purpose that filled her.
‘Did you kill Rotherham?’
He felt the involuntary tightening of his jaw. ‘That is not something I am prepared to discuss.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have my reasons.’
From somewhere close by something small and furry scurried. Water dripped down the wall in a slow rhythmic steadiness.
‘Which are?’
‘Again, not open for discussion.’
‘You did not do it, did you, Francis?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘The same question as the first, in disguise. Thus, I give you the same answer.’
‘Then let me rephrase—I know you did not do it.’
‘Dangerous talk from the star witness for the prosecution, Venetia.’
She glanced away at that, but not before he had seen the guilt and unhappiness in her eyes. Both were hidden by the time she looked at him again. ‘We are bound by an oath of honesty, Francis. We have been all along, in every thrust and parry of our duel.’
‘Fishing for truths with truths,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed softly.
Their eyes held, and all of what had been between them, of what still was, pulsated and heaved—a turmoil of barely fettered emotion rattling at its chains.
‘You say nothing over the murder charge because to admit it would be lying.’
‘Or maybe I say nothing because to deny it would be the lie.’
‘They will hang you, Francis.’
‘Most probably.’
‘By your silence you invite them to believe you guilty of a crime you did not commit.’
‘And why would any sane man do that?’ He turned away befo
re she could answer, afraid she might see something of the truth in him.
‘It makes no sense, indeed...unless you are protecting someone.’
He froze, feeling the chill ripple right through him like ice freezing across a lake.
‘You told me once that Rotherham hurt someone close to you.’ Still he did not look at her, even though he knew he should turn and fight a defence. Dread was heavy upon him, making it hard to breath, making it impossible to move. He stood very still, forcing himself to feign normality, exerting a rigid control that would reveal nothing.
‘All the more reason for mine to be the hand that executed Rotherham.’
‘Or to protect the person who did the deed. I have heard tell that your father and Rotherham were old friends once upon a time, until they had a disagreement of such magnitude that they never spoke again. Old friends can become the worst of enemies. Feuds nursed through the years have a way of escalating. And Rotherham was not a man to let things go and move on with his life. My guess is that whatever was between your father and Rotherham lies at the heart of this.’
She was so close to the truth that he felt his blood run cold. He turned to face her.
‘Such imagination, Miss Fox. Worthy of a theatre setting. You should speak to Kemble.’ The words were stiff and cold even though a nervous sweat prickled beneath his arms.
They looked at one another across the distance of the small cell, he hoping that she would be thwarted, her appearing not one whit convinced by his words. All of time seemed to stretch to eternity in the discomfort and fear of that moment.
‘I will not stand as witness against you, Francis,’ she said, and in her voice was a curious mix of both resolve and resignation.
‘Planning to lie and tell them I said no such thing?’
She shook her head and gave a small half smile that was filled only with sadness. ‘Planning to speak the truth or say nothing at all.’
The words echoed in the ensuing silence, words that were etched across his heart.
His heart skipped a beat at her courage and audacity and depth of comprehension. ‘You cannot do that, Venetia.’
‘I think you will find that I can, Francis.’ Her eyes held his with her characteristic challenge and resilience.
‘If you refuse to speak, they will gaol you.’
She gave a tiny shrug of her bare shoulders, as if the threat of gaol meant nothing.
‘Have you any idea of what it is like in prison?’ Did she not understand that she was risking so much more than her career?
She let her gaze wander pointedly around his cell before returning to his eyes. ‘I believe that I do.’
‘Venetia, you do not understand. You are the most coveted woman in all of London. This place is full of men, men who have long lusted after you. The guards are not above accepting a bribe to turn a blind eye, or even indulging their own needs. You would not be safe.’
‘Safe enough,’ she said. ‘It would not be my life they would take.’
‘Do not try to play the harlot, Venetia, for I know you are none of that.’
For a moment the polished mask of the confident, sophisticated woman dropped away and something raw and vulnerable flashed in her eyes. She glanced away, then back again. ‘I made a mistake. I will not compound it by standing as witness against you.’ There was a stubbornness to her words and an utter resolve in her eyes. And as he watched, her full luscious lips pressed firm together in determination.
He raked a hand through his hair and glanced away. ‘God help us, Venetia,’ he murmured, unable to help himself.
‘I am sorry, Francis.’ Her voice softened. For the first time since she had entered the cell her control wavered. ‘I honestly thought you were guilty. I did not mean for any of this to happen. I never thought that we would—’ She bit her lip, as if to stopper the words and glanced down. And when she looked up at him again, he could see the emotion in her eyes that she was trying so hard to hide. ‘I will do anything to save you.’ She turned to walk towards the door.
‘Anything, Venetia?’ His heart was beating too fast.
She hesitated.
‘If you are so intent upon this path, there is another way....’
His words made her turn.
He walked slowly to her, closing the distance until he was standing directly before her, looking down into her face. He could see the glitter of tears in her eyes, the fast pulse that thrummed in her slender white neck, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts above the neckline of the dress.
The silence rippled all around them.
‘A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband,’ he uttered softly.
It took a moment for it to register just exactly what he was suggesting.
‘Marry me,’ he said and his voice sounded husky.
Whatever it was that Venetia had expected him to say, it was nothing of that. Her eyes widened. She stared at him, even now not sure that she had not misheard. Over the roar of the silence she could hear only the frantic thud of her own heart. Her stomach was turning a sequence of somersaults, her blood rushing so fast that she felt light-headed and weak-kneed. She reached for the back of the chair, but Linwood’s arm was there first, solid, hard, supportive beneath hers. Where his hand held against her waist her skin seemed to scorch.
She looked into his eyes, the eyes of the man that she loved with all her heart, the one man whose wife, were their positions and circumstances different, she would have been overjoyed to become, to bear his children. ‘You cannot be in earnest,’ she whispered.
‘Never more so.’
Her eyes raked his face, seeking the truth and finding it. ‘It is not possible,’ she said. ‘You are heir to an earldom and I am an actress.’
‘I know what we both are, Venetia.’
And he was a man in prison accused of murder, and she the woman who had put him there.
In the silence that followed she studied that handsome face, the strong straight line of his nose, the harsh angles of his cheeks and chin. And those dark eyes so filled with passion, eyes that could reach deep inside her to stroke against her soul. It was her girlhood dream, a fantasy long forgotten—to marry a man that she loved: a strong man, a man who loved her. She would have married him a hundred times over. But not like this, never like this.
‘You would marry me to save me from prison.’ The pain tightened in her chest. ‘I do not know if I can let you do that,’ she said carefully.
There was only the soft sound of her breath and, over it, the loud thud of her heart.
Something flashed in the darkness of his eyes. ‘Marrying you is the only certain way that I might avoid the hangman’s noose.’
The breath moved in and out of her lungs. She saw the tiny flicker of tension in the strong line of his jaw, and where his hand still held against her waist she seemed to feel the beat of his heart resonate through her body. A beam of sun stole through the bars of the tiny high window of the cell, striping light against his face and softening the black of his eyes. She was not sure that she believed him. Her mind was telling her one thing and her heart, another.
‘You did say “anything”, Venetia.’
Their eyes clung together and it did not matter as to the reasoning behind his proposal because he was right.
She nodded, her gaze unable to break away from his. ‘I did.’
The intensity between them did not waver.
‘Could it be arranged in time?’ She knew she should step away, but it was not his hand on her waist that held her there.
‘My father is friends with the Archbishop of Canterbury. A priest and a special licence with our names upon it will not present a problem.’
With her name upon it. She closed her eyes and felt her heart sink, as the realisation dawned. Her name. It did not matter how far she ran, or what she did to escape it, the truth of who she was had always dogged her, snapping at her heels. Always just a breath away.
His mouth tightened. ‘Is the prospect really
so despicable to you?’
She realised how her response must look to him—that she dreaded to be his wife. ‘You misunderstand. It is nothing of that—only...’
His eyes smouldered and glittered with an intensity so razing that it took her breath away. ‘Only...?’ There was something very dangerous in the way he said it.
The moment of reckoning had finally come. Because to save him she would have to reveal part of what she had spent a lifetime hiding—the truth of what she was to Rotherham. To the one man over everyone that she could not bear to know. It would change everything between them. She took a deep breath and felt her breasts brush against his chest with the movement, and the slight increase in the pressure of his hand upon her waist.
‘There is something I have not told you, Francis—something which will make you reconsider your offer.’
‘So many dark secrets, Venetia. Amidst the deception of truths was there ever anything of honesty between us?’
Her gaze was locked in his, his eyes raking hers, but beneath his anger she could see his vulnerability. She reached a hand up and traced her fingers along the beard-stubbled line of his jaw. ‘More than you will ever realise,’ she whispered as she let her hand drop to her side.
The words did not want to come to her lips, but there could be no more evasion. ‘I am not who you think me. I am not who all of London thinks me.’ She closed her eyes, let herself experience this closeness with him, aware of even the smallest sensation, the warmth of his breath against her cheeks, the scent of him—so enticing and reassuring at once—the heat of his hand upon her waist, the strength of his arm beneath her own. Her body leaned against his in one final caress. The wonder of each sensation gathered up and stored in her heart. She knew everything would be different once she told him.
‘Are any of us really who the world thinks us?’ he said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked up into that so-beloved face. The moment stretched, until she forced herself on. ‘Fox is the name I took when I came to London, the name I chose for a new life upon the stage.’
Dicing With the Dangerous Lord Page 19
