The Rake's Proposition

by Bess Greenfield

  Carved gilded angels framed the stage. The actors were clearly in the middle of a rehearsal. Before an idyllic pastoral backdrop, a round-faced blonde woman in a frilly white dress warbled enthusiastically off-key.

  The words were nonsensical, but the tune was familiar. Claudine’s pulse quickened as she recognized the tune. It was one of Alex’s. He was always humming something. Music just came to him in its entirety.

  The pianist, sitting before an upright piano at an angle to the stage, had wavy, dark hair and broad shoulders very like Alexandre’s. Automatically, she rushed toward him. The floor was so sticky her boots made little suction sounds with each step she took.

  When she was only a short distance from him, the man turned. She didn’t know him. The back of her neck prickled with heat. “Pardon me. I thought you were someone else.”

  The man’s mustache slanted to one side as his mouth twisted with disapproval. “The audition ended hours ago. I suggest you show up on time in the future.”

  “May I ask who wrote that tune you were just playing?”

  “Odette Fowler,” he snapped. “If you don’t mind, we’re in the middle of a rehearsal.” His focus returned the stage. “Again, Miss Larraby and this time try to stay on pitch.”

  She couldn’t accept that. He had to be mistaken. She searched the sheet music, desperate to find Alex’s name. Instead, the top of the page read, “Always Beside You” by Odette Fowler.

  The pianist looked back at her with a stony expression. “I’m not certain who let you in here, but I think it’s time you left.”

  “But I wish to speak with the manager, and I was told I could find him...”

  “Out!”

  Feeling foolish and defeated, she made her way to the exit and drifted through the lobby, but when she reached the sidewalk, she could not bring herself to leave and give up her search. That melody kept replaying in her mind.

  An alley to the left of the building led to the stage door, which someone had left propped open. Laughter, conversation, and vocal scales emanated from the end of a long hall papered in red-flocked wallpaper. She approached.

  No one paid much attention to her when she walked inside the stuffy room, which was not surprising given the general atmosphere of convivial chaos. Clowns, chorus girls, and acrobats gossiped, stretched, danced, sewed, or ate, and in the corner, a man in a pale blue linen suit slept with his boater tipped over the top portion of his long narrow face. A small shaggy dog in a matching costume slept curled beside him.

  A dancer practicing her arabesque nearly kicked Claudine in the face. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there,” the petite woman said.

  “Would you happen to know where I might find the manager?”

  “He’s in that room, but he’s not to be interrupted.” She rose to her toes in a relevé. “Mr. Fowler is in there with him,” she added in a meaningful whisper.

  Claudine eyed the closed door of the room in question. “He’s someone important, I presume?”

  The woman gave her a peculiar look and came down off her toes. “I’d say so. He owns this place and a few others besides.”

  “Oh, perfect. Then he’s the man I need to see.”

  “What’s your business with him? He doesn’t personally involve himself in hiring decisions.”

  “I’m looking for my cousin, Alexandre Valencourt.”

  Alertness, perhaps even alarm, flashed in the dancer’s green eyes. Then she lifted her arms and one leg in an arabesque. “Never heard of him.”

  Claudine sensed the woman was lying, and she didn’t like being lied to, especially about a matter of such importance. “I think I’ll just wait for this Fowler fellow anyway.”

  By the door, a tall brawny man in a pinstriped suit said, “Waiting for me? A fine lady such as yourself? I’m honored.” He touched his heart in obvious mockery. With his rough New York accent, slicked back inky hair, and a deep scar that ran parallel to one side of his square jaw, he looked like a caricature of a thug. He would have made a convincing villain on his own stage. “Well? Here I am. At your service.”

  Claudine wasn’t certain if his entire persona was a façade or not. “I must request a few minutes of your time. I’m trying to locate my cousin, and I believe he has some connection with this establishment. I was told he was employed here. Alexandre Valencourt.”

  One dark slash of an eyebrow lifted, but he said nothing.

  “If his name is not familiar to you, perhaps you would recall his appearance. He’s tall, about six feet, and very handsome with bright blue eyes.”

  “That could be a lot of people, doll.”

  Her temples pounded with frustration. No one had ever compared her to a doll in her life, and now it had happened twice in less than an hour. It had to be a problem of skewed American perception. Perhaps the vast dimensions of this city made big things seem smaller. “No, he’s unique. He speaks with a French accent.”

  He grinned, displaying a charismatic smile despite his uneven teeth. “Like you.”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently. “I’m almost certain he composed the song I just heard, but it seems someone else has taken the credit.” She struggled to recall the name. “Odette Somebody.”

  “Fowler,” the man replied in a flat voice, and she realized the name she was searching for was also his. The room became completely silent. Heads turned. Dance routines stopped. Everyone was staring at her now.

  The impresario’s mouth narrowed into a grim line. “What song was that?”

  Claudine wasn’t intimidated. She’d never encountered such a character and found his whole dastardly persona too theatrical to be credible. She hummed a few bars of the melody because she couldn’t remember the words.

  As she sang, his nearly black eyes studied her with smoldering intensity. “It still isn’t clear to me,” he said in a casual tone completely at odds with his suddenly rigid stance. “There’s a piano in the rehearsal room. Could you possibly play if for me?”

  She could in fact play by ear. “Certainly,” she said, striding into the indicated room, relieved that someone was finally taking her seriously.

  The room was small and smoky, containing little more than an upright piano with a small cushioned bench. The door clicked shut as she sat before the piano. She flinched at the sound.

  Mr. Fowler sauntered over and leaned by the edge of the keyboard. “How devoted you must be to come all the way to America to look for your cousin.”

  Clearing up his misassumption would serve no purpose. She hadn’t come here to discuss her problems with a stranger. “He’s always been more of a brother to me.”

  He tilted his head. “Is that so?”

  She began to play the tune, but after no more than five bars, he put his hand over one of hers, trapping it against the keys. A discordant chord rang out. “That’s enough. I know the one. You have a good ear.”

  She noticed his hand was misshapen due to some sort of horrific accident though he still had all his fingers. Her mind reeled at the possible causes as she slid her hand from underneath his.

  “Does my injury disgust you?”

  She’d seen far worse. Paris abounded with aging veterans from the war against Prussia. Some were maimed and scarred. Others had lost limbs. “No.”

  “I worked with animals once. Lions, bears, tigers, animals that didn’t always take well to captivity.” He grinned wryly. “Some of my miraculous feats of bravery didn’t work out as I’d anticipated. I should have stuck with boxing.”

  Her empathy did not lessen her discomfort. She leaned away slightly.

  He looked amused rather than offended by her attempt at evasion. “You certainly are a peach. Let me have a good look at you.” He tilted her chin to study her face at various angles. “I like your voice.”

  Offended by the contact, she pushed his hand away. “You couldn’t have heard more than three notes.”

  He shrugged. “I like your face and figure even more. I’m prepared to offer you a job on a trial basis
. Two shows a day. Six days a week. Thirty-five dollars a week. I can even offer you a room nearby for five dollars a week. I’ll just take it out of your salary for your convenience.”

  She had to fight the urge to laugh. Never would she be desperate enough to work for the likes of this man. “No, thank you. As I said before, I only came here to ask about my cousin. Do you know him or not?”

  His nostrils flared. “Oh, I know him alright. The bastard stole from me.”

  “Impossible! Alexandre would never steal. He is a gentleman.”

  His face went taught. Lines of anger etched the sides of his mouth. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

  Instinct told her calm, cool reason was the best way to deal with a hot-tempered man so she tried to speak calmly, “No, but I do think there might have been some misunderstanding. I’m certain we can resolve this.”

  His thin lips stretched into a mirthless grin. “Maybe so… I’m not saying you could ever wipe the slate clean for his crime, but accepting the fine job I’ve graciously offered you might make me more inclined to leniency toward other members of your family.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. Why are you so unwilling to resolve this matter in a reasonable and gentleman-like manner?”

  His dark eyes glittered. “That’s the second time you’ve used that word. It’s as though you’re trying to tell me something.” He put his uninjured hand to his mouth in a mockery of contemplation. “What could it be? Hmm. Maybe you think yourself above me. Is that it?”

  She wasn’t about to be led down that dangerous path. “You might be making up this whole story.”

  “Then I suppose you have nothing to worry about. Good luck finding your cousin before I do. I may not be a gentleman, but I have useful friends all over this town.”

  Her heart raced. Apparently, his menacing aura was not an act. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not, peach. I’m threatening your cousin or your brother or whatever you’d like to call him.”

  He extended his maimed hand. “Do we have a deal?” The satisfied set of his small mouth told her how much he enjoyed coercing her into accepting his lousy offer. He was a true bully. He thought her helpless and alone, but he was wrong.

  She would tell Leo. Leo would certainly come to the aid of his former friend. Then it occurred to her she couldn’t tell Leo about Alex without admitting who she was, and that might change everything between them.

  She made a last effort to settle the matter herself. “When did this alleged theft occur? Why don’t you tell me how much you think he took? I’ll find some way to pay his debt.”

  “It’s not a number, peach. It’s a person. Your fine gentleman cousin stole my wife.”

  * * *

  Leo tried to focus upon the blueprints arrayed before him on his desk. The project had consumed him for the past year, but at this moment he couldn’t summon even a passing interest. The entrance particularly displeased him. “Gargoyles? What were you thinking?”

  “You specifically asked for them before your trip,” Brent Atwood replied. Innovative and indefatigable, he’d designed all of Leo’s music halls and theaters for the past three years.

  “Did I? All he could think about was Madeleine. He’d awoken that morning when her silky hair tickled his cheek, and he realized he’d been holding her all night long with one leg draped over her as if he feared she might escape. He’d never felt this way about a woman before. His experience with Helen had made him wary.

  But, despite the secrets she still kept from him, he trusted Madeleine. He could think of no explanation for this blind faith he had in her. Perhaps it was her innocent eyes, her unaffectedness, or the calming way she spoke. This was the sort of fatuous rubbish that crossed his brain at least three times an hour.

  Such a weakness of the mind could only lead to trouble. He’d left for his offices at dawn, far earlier than usual, hoping a little distance would help him regain his perspective and his control. He’d only known Madeleine for a little over a week, far too soon to declare his love, and yet he had, in words and on paper, heedless of the consequences.

  Someone knocked upon one of the double doors between his office and the reception area. Mr. Clarkson, his secretary, entered. “Forgive me for interrupting you, sir, but there is a young lady here who insists upon seeing you immediately.

  It had to be Madeleine, but why would she come here? “Send her in at once.” He noticed her distress as soon as she entered his office. “What’s wrong? Where’s Guillory? How did you get here?”

  She swept toward him, stopping in front of his desk. “Leo, I’ve just learned the most disturbing news, and I’m not certain what to do.” Then she noticed Brent, standing by the bookcase. “Oh, you’re not alone.”

  Brent drank in the sight of her, from her plumed straw hat to her tan kid boots, and unnecessarily smoothed down his straight, orderly blonde hair, something Leo had never seen him do before.

  An introduction could not be avoided. Should he continue to introduce her as his sister? No one would believe that. He certainly couldn’t introduce her as his mistress. Her sudden appearance in his office felt incongruous.

  As he struggled to come up with a decent explanation, the moment stretched out awkwardly until at last he said lamely, “Mademoiselle, this is my architect, Brent Atwood. Brent, this is Mademoiselle Madeleine Lavoie, an old family friend from Paris.”

  Brent stopped fidgeting with his bow tie, took two steps forward, and lifted Madeleine’s hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Enchanté.”

  Leo had definitely never seen him do that before. He knew he was glowering like a petulant child, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t ready to share Madeleine with the world. More to the point, he hadn’t figured out any sphere for her other than a deeply personal one.

  Madeleine’s troubled expression grew even darker. “I fear I’ve interrupted you. I’ll go.”

  “No. I’ll go,” Brent said with an insipid smile upon his face. “Clearly, you have something very important to discuss.” Before leaving, he turned and flashed a look that only Leo could see, half amusement, half envy. “Get back to me about the plans whenever you have a free moment. No hurry,” he said over his shoulder.

  Madeleine seemed hesitant to speak once they were alone. She studied the brass pendulum clock on his desk. “I feel extremely close to you now, that I can depend upon you.”

  He came around the desk and took her hands in his. “You can. For anything.”

  Her lips wavered. “I’m so relieved to hear you say that because I need your help, but first I must admit to you that I’ve deceived you.”

  Relief filled him. She was going to tell him the truth of her background, and there would be no more secrets between them.

  “I am not Madeleine Lavoie. I am Claudine Valencourt. I’ve known you since I was a little girl.” Her face scrunched oddly in a failed attempt at a smile.

  He let go of her hands and stared at her in disbelief. It didn’t make sense. Claudine Valencourt was a child. Alex’s cousin. He scarcely recalled what that girl looked like. It had been years since he’d last seen her, and she’d never left that much of an impression in the first place. She was quiet and skinny, a bit of nuisance with her tendency to stare at him with those enormous blue eyes…

  “That’s impossible.” But he was beginning to realize that it wasn’t. Her eyes resembled Alex’s.

  “No, it’s true. You and my cousin Alexandre were once dear friends so I know you will be just as concerned as I am about his current situation.”

  He struggled to consolidate his two distinct images of Madeleine, the cabaret singer, and Claudine Valencourt, the privileged and sheltered daughter of a French aristocrat and an American heiress. In the end, he could see her only as that proper little Valencourt girl, and in that light his conduct was unforgivable. “Why have you done this?”

  “You know why. Everything I told you that night on the steamer is true. I was ruined. I had to leave. And then yo
u made me that offer. It was the ideal opportunity to escape.”

  Something twisted inside of him. He felt like he was awaking from a dream only to realize he’d committed a crime in his sleep. His head was pounding. “Do your parents have any idea where you are right now?”

  “No. I could not tell them. I just went away.”

  “Have you no idea what you’ve done to them? They might think you were abducted. You might have been raped or murdered, for all they know.”

  “I was going to write to them soon to tell them I was safe.”

  “You were going to… How much time has gone by since you left? How selfish can you be?”

  Her hand pressed against her chest. “Selfish?”

  “And childish.”

  “How can you say that? You of all people should understand. I was sparing them from my disgrace.”

  He laughed bitterly. “That was a different situation entirely. I had no choice. I would have been thrown in jail. I had no money, no influence, no power to dispute that man’s lies. You had a choice. You could have told your parents what that man did to you, and they would have believed you and supported you. I know they would have. So you spared them nothing. You only made them suffer unnecessarily and in the end, you made everything worse.”

  It didn’t occur to him that he was being too harsh until he saw tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly, the situation didn’t seem nearly so clear. The urge to hold and comfort his Madeleine nearly overcame him, but he remained where he was because she wasn’t his Madeleine. She was Claudine, a girl he never had a right to touch.

  He flinched at his memory of what he’d done the night before. What would her parents think of him now? They’d shown such generosity to him so many years ago and he’d disappointed them. Now he’d seduced their child into becoming his mistress… “I’ll telephone them at once. I’ll tell them we met in Paris, fell in love, and decided to marry. They’ll guess the rest.”