“This is Mr. Herbert Trumble and party, Miss Langston,” Mr. Blakely blithely introduced them, and Aunt Alice chuckled softly behind Haley as Herbert made no sound at correcting the man and providing their names or dutifully indicating that she was, in fact, the future Mrs. Trumble of Trumble Textiles and Imports.
“Did you enjoy our humble efforts, Mr. Trumble?” Miss Langston asked, her voice as smooth as silk.
“You are a siren! And I saw nothing humble in any of it!” Herbert almost gushed with praise.
“Ah! You see? A man who knows fine art when he beholds it!” Blakely pronounced. “Would that other investors shared your distinct passion, Mr. Trumble!”
Alice leaned over and whispered in Haley’s ear, “An interesting turn, eh? It’s Herbert’s turn to feel at home, I’d say, and we’re just the tagalongs while they work him over for an investment or two.”
“It’s . . . refreshing for him to be able to speak informally and not feel judged, I’m sure.” Haley tried to come to his defense.
“Well, as refreshing as it is, perhaps you should take heart in it! After all, this may be more of a taste of what’s to come for you than the other London parties we’ve attended. Not that he’s ever lacked for cheer!”
Haley whispered back, “Mr. Trumble makes friends wherever he goes, and you shouldn’t hold it against him if he doesn’t discriminate against—”
“She’d be delighted! Wouldn’t you, Miss Moreland?” Herbert’s words brought her instantly back to the conversation, but she’d missed the transition.
“I-I’m sorry, what will delight me?” she asked, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
“A tour of the very private and exciting spaces behind the stage! Mr. Blakely is offering to lead us into the heart of the magical beast, as he calls it!”
“It is quite a labyrinth, but I vow to return you safely to the world you know,” Mr. Blakely added, waving his hand with the flourish of a practiced showman.
Haley had no desire to face the nightmare of a labyrinth of narrow brick passageways and the confines of a theatre’s makeshift catacombs, but Aunt Alice perked up before she could respond. “A tour! How fascinating!”
Haley shook her head. “I’ll . . . stay here. I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon the world I know.”
“Nonsense!” Herbert looked at her as if she’d suddenly grown a third eye. “It would be rude to refuse such a generous offer, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to insult our friends!”
“No.” Haley took a deep breath. “Of course not. Just promise you won’t leave me.”
Herbert smiled, instantly placated. “Never!” He looked merrily at Miss Langston and held out his arm. “May I?”
The actress took his arm, and Haley had to blink twice to maintain her composure as he walked off on her arm without a thought in his head. Mrs. Shaw started to voice her sympathy, but when Mr. Blakely offered his arm in turn, her attention was also diverted from the issue at hand.
Haley had no choice but to follow behind the quartet and leave the party for an impromptu journey into the “heart of the magical beast.”
It was worse than she’d imagined. Less than twenty minutes into their tour, she’d been forced to stop to unsnag her petticoats from a nail on a wooden prop box, and by the time she’d looked back up the dim corridor, she was completely alone.
Surely Aunt Alice is going to look back and realize I’m not there! But after a minute or two, doubt smothered hope as she accepted that when it came to a man spouting inane bits of prose about her “flowering beauty,” Aunt Alice wouldn’t notice a house fire.
Separated from their small party, her worst visions had come true. Old scenery flats leaning against the walls enhanced the optical illusion that the walls were collapsing around her. The narrow halls and manmade labyrinth of spiral staircases, rolls of canvas, and odd little passages were like an alien landscape, and Haley’s panic began to grow with each step.
She tried to call out for her aunt, but her throat closed tight. She thought she saw shadowed faces in some of the corners; that they were ogre-like added to her terror. The monsters of childish fairy tales took shape around each corner, and she began to shake at the powerful coil of fear that began to tighten inside of her.
This is ridiculous! I’m a grown woman and I’m scaring myself with goblins! I’ll just take a deep breath and go back to the party, and then when the others arrive, I’ll make up an excuse and that will be that!
She tried to retrace her steps, but everything began to look alike in the same oppressive, menacing manner of half-constructed ruins and false walls and doors, as if the very building had been designed to keep her trapped and confused.
The idea made it harder for her to breathe, and Haley knew she was getting closer and closer to an outright state of panic. Thinking about a lack of air was as suffocating a thought as any other, and Haley had to put out a hand against a small, disassembled staircase leaning against the wall to try to regain control.
I’m fine. Lots of air. I’m—
She screamed as the skittering kiss of a rat’s feet and tail moved across her fingers in the dark, and she fainted dead away.
Galen watched with relief as her eyelashes fluttered, heralding her recovery. She was in Indian ruby red again, and the impact of it on his senses hadn’t lessened. He’d laid her on a narrow velvet couch with gilt griffons at her head, pressed a cool wet cloth at the back of her neck, and decided it was better to wait than gently harass her back to the waking world. When her sea-colored eyes took him in, he watched the flood of color in her face and knew she was suffering from a surge of miserable embarrassment at being seen this way. She closed her eyes again briefly as if to wish him away.
“For a woman who never faints, I would say that was well done.”
Her eyes opened with a quick start, her feisty spirit returning. “I’m . . . where is this place?” She sat up, temporarily distracted by the shocking sight of a dressing screen draped with corsets and lacy undergarments, brocade curtains that adorned stone walls instead of windows, and, no doubt, the sinking suspicion that she’d landed in another woman’s most intimate closet.
“Miss Langston’s dressing room.” Galen struggled not to smile. “It was the nearest and best place to lay you down. I thought you’d prefer to recover in some privacy.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Besides hiding?” he teased, deliberately holding his position next to the small sofa so that she would keep her seat and have a few more minutes to recover her equilibrium. “I confess I arrived too late for the main performance, but I couldn’t stay away when I saw that there might be a chance to see you alone. Though”—he shook his head—“this wasn’t exactly what I’d envisioned, Miss Moreland. Are you ill?”
“No.” She straightened her skirts nervously then reached up to make sure the ivory combs holding back her curls were still intact. “I don’t . . . like tight spaces.”
For a moment, the memory of chains and blackness came rushing back, and Galen could only nod in sympathy.
She stood, forcing him to also stand. “I should return to the party and wait for the others there.”
“I’ll escort you out.”
She started to reach out to accept the arm he’d proffered, but then she stopped. “What if someone sees us? How will I explain—this?”
“Mere coincidence should do it. I was also at the theatre, and if you wish to deflect anyone’s questions, you could hint that I must have been waiting in Miss Langston’s dressing room when I heard you outside.” Galen savored the look on her face as she absorbed the implications of his offer.
“But that would mean . . .” Her eyes widened. “Were you waiting for her in here?”
“Are you jealous?”
“No!” But he’d caught her in a lie, and they both knew it. Haley stamped her foot in frustration. “I don’t care if you meet every actress from here to the Strand!”
“I shall make a note to that ef
fect.” He crossed his arms, deliberately giving her a look that conveyed his disbelief.
“I thought you said you would retreat forever if I kissed you in the park!”
“I said I would if you commanded it after you’d kissed me, but as I remember it . . . you never said anything remotely close afterward.”
“Well, I’m saying it now!”
He gave her a look full of regret. “Too late. The offer expired as soon as you rode off.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he was sure if she could have spit flames, she’d have set his waistcoat on fire.
It was too tempting. “If you’d care to kiss me again, I could make a similar offer and this time you can send me to the ends of the earth if you remember to.”
“I am never going to kiss you again, Mr. Hawke. What do you say to that?”
“Galen.”
Haley’s eyes widened in apparent confusion. “Pardon?”
“My name.” Galen shifted the weight of his body to the balls of his feet, subtly ensuring that he could move in any direction and with any speed he needed to reach her when the moment called for it. “Vows involving the subject of kissing should always use a man’s Christian name. I’m fairly sure it’s English law.”
“You’re deliberately trying to provoke me.” Her voice was low, her eyes darkening, and Galen held perfectly still, a hunter afraid of frightening off his prey.
“Yes.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I enjoy the way the color in your eyes changes when you are . . . impassioned.” It was the truth, and Galen continued, hoping that just enough of the truth would bind her a little tighter to him. “Because it allows me to catch a glimpse of what you might look like, Miss Moreland, if you ever let yourself go wherever ‘provocation’ might take you.”
“To . . . to what end?” she whispered, then unconsciously moistened her lips with the very tip of her tongue, sending a wrenching arc of need through her opponent to taste her mouth again.
“To allow me to imagine. To allow me to hope,” he replied in the same intimate tone, holding his hands at his sides by sheer force of will, “that a lady”—he took a step toward her, the front of his waistcoat less than two inches from the tiny pleated ruffles on her décolletage—“could change her mind.”
“I . . .” Her confusion was a beautiful sight to behold, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, her lovely chest heaving with the effort to keep up with her pounding heart, but Galen decided it was enough for now.
“Come, let’s get you safely upstairs.” He stepped back and held out his arm. “And since the last thing we want is a scandal, I promise I’ll leave you before we reach the public party and ensure that no one knows that you didn’t make your own way out of these backstage rooms alone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hawke.” She took his arm, her fingers wrapping around the crook of his elbow, and Galen smiled.
“It’s confirmed. He seems to be in pursuit of one particular woman, a Miss Haley Moreland, but we’re not the only ones who are interested in his movements.”
“Naturally.”
“Others are trying to track him.”
“Let them. They are not our concern.”
“They are, if they can engage him and learn what he knows. We have kept the infidels away until now, but if they learn of the treasure’s location . . .”
“They won’t. We will see to these Jaded before they have the chance, and then the thieves can take their knowledge with them to the grave.”
“Yes.”
“Wait for the right moment, and see to his death personally.”
“Yes.”
Chapter 9
Lord Moreland escorted his daughter proudly down the stairs, almost sober for the occasion as a small peace offering to his child. “Isn’t she a vision, Trumble?”
Herbert glanced up to dutifully observe her dress. “Quite right! Which reminds me, Lady Pringley was asking again for your couturier, so be sure to write it down for me so that I can recall it the next time she inquires.”
Haley tried to squeeze her father’s arm to signal him, but neither man seemed to excel in discretion.
“Why, it is my daughter’s own creation! Can you imagine?” He patted her fingers, openly proud of her feminine accomplishments. The ball gown was pale hyacinth purple satin piped with the fewest number of required flounces and pleats, over a silver-threaded ivory organdy underskirt. Each point was adorned with tiny embroidered silver flowers inset with small crystals to give the impression that she was dusted in a magical dew that shimmered with each step. Her shoulders were bared, and Haley had dotted her hair with matching silver flowers.
They reached the foyer and the waiting Mr. Trumble, who now seemed less cheerful than usual. “Oh, dear! Well, that is all well and good, but . . .”
“But what?” her father asked. “She looks like a queen!”
“A queen does not make her own dresses, Lord Moreland.” Mr. Trumble’s forehead furrowed as if he were contemplating an impossible problem. “What in the world will I tell Lady Pringley?”
“You could tell her that you didn’t know the name of my couturier, Mr. Trumble,” Haley offered as diplomatically as she could. “And since I have none, it would be the truth.”
“Yes, that may do it, but”—he took a deep breath, then smiled as the solution presented itself—“in the future, you will make use of London’s finest and then we’ll have no need of little white lies. No offense, dearest, but no wife of mine will stoop to such labor if she doesn’t have to. I’m not marrying one of my mill girls, after all!”
“I . . . I enjoy my creations, Mr. Trumble. It calms me to construct my dresses and—”
“I’m sure your father will agree that it is far more calming to have someone else see to it. I think you’ll discover that shopping is much more enjoyable! I had set up credit for you and expected that you would have already made this discovery, Miss Moreland.”
Haley looked at her father but realized that he’d conceded the battle.
“Many women make their own clothes!” she said, hating the note of desperation in her voice.
“Not ladies of good breeding, surely! You’ll not have the time after the wedding, in any case, and”—he straightened his shoulders and she recognized that he was finished with the debate—“it pleases me as your future husband to spoil you in this regard.”
“You deserve to be spoiled, darling.” Her father smiled sadly. “So much like your mother.”
Haley hid her misery with long years of practice, as Aunt Alice finally joined them to allow for their departure. She serenely glided past Mr. Trumble on her father’s arm toward the door and the waiting carriage, and did her best to keep her eyes forward.
“I cannot believe I’m here.” Michael Rutherford growled beneath his breath, for Galen’s hearing alone. He tugged at the lapels of his evening coat, clearly uncomfortable in such formal garb. “You should have asked Josiah to come with you to this damn thing!”
“I haven’t seen him for several days, and frankly, I’m starting to worry.” Galen looked away from his friend, scanning the room for any sign of his quarry. They’d arrived unfashionably early to the ball to make sure of Miss Moreland’s attendance. “Feel free to go and look for him, Michael. Since honestly, I don’t think I’m the one who insisted that you come with me.”
“Like hell, you didn’t! But if you’re giving me a choice now, I’d prefer feeling useful and making sure that Josiah is safe to standing around amidst . . . this!”
“This” was the Duke of Bellham’s grand ball, and one of the most elite and lively gatherings of the year. The duke’s young wife had made sure that her older husband’s deep pockets were exercised to the breaking point to achieve her desire to host the most extravagant party of the Season.
The duchess had outdone herself this year, and there were rumors that the crown princess herself would be in attendance. The entire house was bathed in gaslight and every surface in gold brocad
e, a glittering backdrop outshone by its bejeweled inhabitants as they cavorted and paraded in their finest clothes.
It wasn’t difficult to see it from Michael’s perspective, since he shared the cynical view of a world that paid more attention to appearance than character—but vengeance crowded his thoughts and he desired nothing more than Miss Moreland.
“Do what you wish,” Galen said, his breath caught in his throat as he spied her for the first time. “I will meet up with you later.”
He moved away from Rutherford, his senses coming alive with the awareness that she was once again nearby. She was on the arm of an older gentleman, and Galen didn’t see Trumble, which suited him even better. It was tedious to remain polite while the man bandied about him with the grace of a three-legged Pomeranian, yipping away nonsensically.
As he drew closer, he began to see a vague resemblance between the pair that supplied Lord Moreland’s identity without the ritual of an introduction. Galen noted the subtle signs of a man prematurely aged by poor habits but made no judgment. It was too common among the peerage, and in many ways, a sign of their status that they could cavort themselves into an early grave, or at the very least, enjoy a good case of the gout.
But before he could cross the room, Trumble appeared to lead Miss Moreland off to the dance floor. Galen slowed only for a moment, then decided to take advantage of a different kind of opportunity.
No better way to know the woman than to know a little more about her father. What’s the old argument? If Henry VIII had bothered to sit down with Thomas Boleyn for a good chat, we’d have a different story to tell.
“Good evening, your lordship. If I may, I have had the pleasure of meeting your daughter and Mr. Trumble, and thought I would introduce myself.” Galen kept his approach even-keeled, assessing the man as he went. “I’m Galen Hawke.”
Revenge Wears Rubies Page 11
