Beneath the Mask

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The door swung open, jerking Jasper out of contemplation. He dropped the paper in his hand and tried for a smile, ready to persuade his dancer to agree by any means possible.

  Instead, his gaze met that of an older gentleman in worn but quality clothing. Jasper noticed the thickening around the man’s fingers, indicating a life of labor or at least one to build up calluses. The man’s shoes also showed signs of wear. Clearly not another guest having slipped behind the curtain.

  “What are you doing in my office?”

  The low, calm voice confirmed Jasper’s supposition and fears. A wash of guilt rushed over him for having pried into this man’s business, an intrusion he’d never have accepted with such grace. Curiosity and boredom seemed to have little value as excuses.

  Jasper twisted his mouth into a wry smile and stepped away from the desk to offer a respectful bow. Should he win over the manager, maybe he would find an ally in the effort to persuade his dancer. “I apologize for my rudeness, sir. I had but thought to pass the time while waiting.”

  The man moved past him to straighten the papers into tight piles, unlike the scattered layers Jasper had found. “And my papers seemed like novel reading to one like yourself, I suppose.”

  Meeting the man’s unblinking stare took more of an effort than Jasper would have supposed. It was rare he found a man willing to stand against him, and never in the lower ranks. Then Jasper realized he had not introduced himself.

  Stepping forward with his hand raised, Jasper offered a handshake. “I found them intriguing for sure, both like and unlike the papers I handle myself. Lord Pendleton at your service.”

  The man had seemed about to speak, but he stilled at the sound of Jasper’s name, lips pursed as if in thought.

  “It seems the theatrical life is hardly a source of good revenue,” Jasper offered.

  Reaching out to clasp Jasper’s hand, the man smiled sourly. “Those of us who go into true theater do so for the love of it, my lord, not for the money.”

  Jasper smiled back, tensing his fingers once before releasing the man’s hand. “So you hold yourself in the class with those who find patrons and give up on a normal workday?” he asked, trying to keep the contempt from his voice. It seemed wrong for a woman of such grace to be clutched in the hands of one unwilling to work for his living.

  “I am Monsieur Henre,” the man barked out as if the name should have significance. “I do not run a brothel from my theater. I make the money to keep it afloat by the hard work of my hands and using my skills. I teach your ladies one fraction of the grace I pass to my dancers and yet you see which is valued. My dancers would be more appreciated by your kind if they sought invitations or brought you back here where you have no business being.”

  Any deference his title might have earned had vanished from the man’s voice as he lashed out.

  Jasper’s smile broadened. He nodded, accepting the rebuke. “So, Monsieur Henre. You keep the talent here skilled and pure while the theater rots about your ears.” He waved toward the desk and Monsieur Henre’s fingers clenched on the pile of papers. “It seems you are in need of a patron despite your best efforts.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he stared back at Jasper, then his breath released on an exasperated sigh. “Is that why you burst in on my office, setting foot where none but the dancers should be? To offer yourself as my patron?”

  Jasper froze, surprised and a little taken by the idea.

  “I thought not,” Monsieur Henre said. “You snuck back this way in the hopes of catching one of my girls in less than honorable circumstances. Despite all your talk of patrons, you don’t understand true art. Your groin tightens instead of your heart when you watch the dancers, focused on their short skirts and revealed flesh rather than how their movements enhance the musical presentation, bringing it to life. Get out of my office. I have no use for you besides the entry fee you pay up front.”

  The man slammed his hands onto the table, leaning forward with a ferocious expression that would have made a lesser man tremble. “You have no business back here where I conduct my work. There are no tickets sold to get you here and nothing for you to buy. Get out of my theater before I bar you from the front as well.”

  Jasper stepped backward not out of fear, but out of respect and discomfort. Though he’d never have thought himself one of the dandies, hadn’t he done just that? Hadn’t he watched his dancer’s body? Hadn’t he lusted after her, wanting to capture her for his own? As much as he wanted to protest that he’d touched her soul and she his, how could he when they’d yet to speak?

  A frown pinched Jasper’s eyebrows together even as the bluster drained from Monsieur Henre and the older man sank into his chair as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

  “Just go. As you saw, I have much work to do. Many depend on my efforts to keep the theater open.”

  Moved by the man’s exhaustion, Jasper stepped close again. “I have a bit of a reputation for supporting the arts,” he said, keeping his voice soft. A bark of laughter escaped his mouth as he continued, “A bit of a bad one since I only choose endeavors where the artists actually labor rather than spending their time wooing young ladies. I could help.”

  Monsieur Henre glanced up, a look of hope gracing his features for a moment before a frown soured the expression. “And what will you ask for this offer? A tour of the theater? A free box?” He shook his head. “My dancers are not for sale, sir. Not for any amount.”

  Jasper struggled to keep the guilt from his face. Though he had not considered bartering for her favors, the thought would have come. Still, he couldn’t give up this chance, this possibility. He soothed his conscience with the firm belief that his interest in the dancer extended beyond a wish to get under her skirts. She absorbed him, trapped him as Nimue trapped Merlin. He had to have her.

  “Then your stage will rot and those precious dancers will fall, losing their limbs if not their virtue. I ask little enough in return for my heavy purse: a box, a tour, to meet those upon whom my coin rests.” As further inducement, Jasper pulled out his coin purse, heavy with the plans to meet at White’s later for cards. The coins jangled together, showing amount if not value.

  The older man thrust both hands through his hair, conflicting emotions clear on his expression. His gaze fell to the papers on the desk and he groaned, a sound Jasper took as encouraging.

  Monsieur Henre muttered, “All my life I struggle for every penny while you are happy to exchange more than I’ll ever see on a whim.” He glanced up, staring at Jasper as if to weigh his soul. “Yours is a devil’s bargain. If I don’t accept, I lose everything I’ve worked for. If I do, my dancers become little more than brothel workers, available to the highest bidder. And yet, if the theater is gone, where will they go? I know what reputation other dance halls maintain. I know what happens to those of talent and heart.” He surged to his feet, slamming a clenched fist down on the wooden surface. “I swore to provide a place where they could be just what they wanted to and no more. Dance is beauty, art in motion, and needs nurturing to survive in this harsh world.” He sank back down, bracing his face in his hands. “And yet it’s come to this. I’ll take your purse,” he said without looking up. “I have no other choice.”

  Once again, guilt pulled at Jasper. He hadn’t lied, but neither could he say his reasons were as lily white as this man kept his dancers. A grimace creased his face as he opened the mouth of his pouch and removed most of the coins. He’d have to skip cards tonight, but maybe he’d have something else to occupy his time.

  Monsieur Henre stared at the money now decorating his desk, looking more like a man facing the gallows than one with salvation within his grasp. “When I was a younger man, more hopeful as I set out on the world, I promised I would never sell myself for any cause. Age weakens more than just the bones and life is rarely as simple.”

  Jasper mustered a smile, putting his hand over the older man’s. “It’s not blood mone
y. No one will be surprised that I’ve taken another artistic enterprise under my wing. I ask only for an introduction.”

  Monsieur Henre’s answering smile had a wry twist. “And when word gets round that what amounts to pocket change for your class buys my dancers? What will it matter whether you bed her or not?”

  “Word won’t spread unless you choose to spread it. I have no need to talk up my deeds.”

  “And you managed to make your way through a locked door, found my office, and chose to wait patiently in it all on your own?” Monsieur Henre raised a hand to stop Jasper’s response. “No, I won’t ask. There are plenty who find my rules too confining and I’m sure one of those aided you in. Probably thought I’d head on home after the last performance and that this was the safest place for an assignation. They don’t understand what it takes to keep the soaring beams above their pretty heads.” He swept a mocking bow. “I think you’ve missed your chance for this night at least, and paid a pretty penny for the privilege. She probably heard us talking and scampered away as fast as she could, hoping your good manners would protect her.”

  Jasper shrugged, unable to give the woman’s name anyway. If she’d told him, he’d forgotten in his need to speak with the mystery dancer.

  “Come,” the older man said, rising to his feet with half the energy he’d shown earlier. “Now’s the best time for that tour, if a bit dark. At least we won’t be tripping over performers and the others who keep this hall running.”

  Jasper let Monsieur Henre usher him out of the office, hearing the underlying thought that this tour would provide no tantalizing glimpses that a younger hour might have.

  DAPHNE DREW THE BRUSH THROUGH her hair one more time, staring at her face in the mirror. She looked pale, her features pinched as if she tottered on the edge of a collapse. At that thought, her eyebrows moved closer and her lips turned down, the expression reminding Daphne of her mother’s warnings.

  The frown deepened. What did she care about keeping pretty? She’d never have the opportunity to find someone to love. Even in dance, her features hid behind a mask. She could make as many lines on her face as she wished and no one would ever care.

  Fingering the ribbon she used to secure her mask when on her face, Daphne wondered if anyone would ever truly know her. Willem would never really be a friend even if she somehow repaired the breach while whom else could she trust? Even her sister hadn’t known, or shared her own secrets either.

  Daphne froze as sounds of movement came from outside the dressing room. She’d been careless, believing herself alone. Grabbing for the mask, she knocked it off the table and it slid behind the room’s only privacy screen, a leftover from the former lead dancer.

  Panic welled up, but then Daphne relaxed. Monsieur Henre. It must be. She’d stayed late, hoping to tell him of the new development in her marriage situation. Everyone else had left long ago.

  She stood, turning to face the door as she considered what she could tell him. Daphne refused to give up. No matter how unlikely, somehow she’d make it work. She wouldn’t give up dancing for some title-seeking upstart who cared nothing about her.

  The door opened without even a knock, Monsieur Henre’s familiar form filling it.

  Daphne opened her mouth, ready to tell him everything, when another, taller form appeared. With a squeak of surprise, she dove behind the privacy screen, scrambling on the floor for her mask.

  “Hello?” Monsieur Henre called. “I thought everyone had left.”

  She stepped out as soon as she’d tied the ribbon, one hand pressed against her blouse as she tried to still her agitated breathing. “I’m here,” Daphne’s voice came out barely a whisper. “I wanted to speak with you.”

  Monsieur Henre paled, his expression holding as much strain as hers had in the mirror. “Ah. I didn’t expect you or I wouldn’t have burst in.”

  Daphne let his words fall into the silence, unsure what to say. Instead, she glanced at the man who had followed her teacher, curiosity pulling at her.

  At first, he seemed no different than the other gentlemen she’d seen with good looks, stylish clothing and nice grooming. Then something pulled her attention back, whether the command he exuded or the delight on his face at the sight of her, she couldn’t tell. Daphne couldn’t take her gaze off him, wanting to understand the puzzle of his athletic form matched to lines she’d seen on her father’s face formed by serious thought. Who was this man?

  As if in answer to her question, Monsieur Henre coughed, drawing her attention back. He waved at the stranger. “This is Lord Pendleton. He’s agreed to be our patron.”

  Daphne sucked in her breath on a gasp, all curiosity vanishing in the face of horror.

  The mask must have hidden her reaction because her future husband swept a bow and took hold of her hand, picking it up from where it hung lax at her side. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he murmured, placing a kiss on the back of her hand as if they stood in some fancy ballroom rather than in the dingy dressing room of a dance theater. “May I have the honor of seeing your face?”

  She directed a terrified stare at Monsieur Henre, begging for rescue. Her teacher couldn’t have known or he’d never have risked this encounter.

  Monsieur Henre clapped Lord Pendleton on the back, releasing a laugh that sounded forced to her ears. “Now what would be the mystery in that? She must stand silent and separate or half the draw will vanish and your investment with it. A one such as that needs to be worshipped from afar or else her flaws would show.”

  Daphne pulled her hand free, just stopping herself from angrily refuting her teacher’s implication. Instead, she looked at her future husband to see his reaction, unable to stop her fascination even with so much at stake.

  Memory of the description once given conflicted with what she’d imagined to find. Could he really be interested in the arts? And looking for a wife who had more to offer than fine fashion sense and a piercing giggle?

  He turned to face her, startling Daphne with his intense regard. “A name then? Can I have your name?”

  A strange heat started in Daphne’s center and moved lower, bringing with it sensations she’d never felt before. A blush crept across her face, and she ducked her head to break the connection.

  “She needs no name for you to enjoy her dance,” Monsieur Henre said, stepping physically between them. “I think you’ve seen enough of the dressing area. Why don’t we go admire the stage?”

  The lord looked like he was going to argue, his body tense, but then he nodded, a short, jerky motion. Before either of them could react, he stepped around her teacher and captured Daphne’s hand one more time, pressing his lips to the back. “Until we meet again,” he whispered, claiming her gaze with his own for a long while.

  Daphne released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding as the door closed behind them. She sank to the floor, one hand pressed over her pounding heart. How could she hope to deceive someone like that? He didn’t seem the type to be happy with a simple lie, not with his commanding air, nor could she imagine him letting her go her own way.

  That last thought melted away the last of his influence, anger taking its place and sending her back to her feet. “How could he?” she demanded of the empty room. “How could he plan to marry me in the morning and that very night go chasing after dance hall performers?”

  She stamped her foot, unsure whether to be angry for the poor, sheltered maiden suffering a contracted marriage or insulted by his obvious assumption that a dancer was available for more than her performances.

  “This is the man you want me to spend my life with?” Daphne charged her absent parents. “No wonder Grace left him. He probably flirted with all the young ladies present right in front of her.” The memory of those smoldering eyes distracted her, calling up emotions she’d only considered in the abstract.

  What would it be like to have such a man at her side? From what Penelope’s sister had said, he appreciated a thinking woman. Daphne shivered at th
e thought of being appreciated by him and her lips curled into a smile.

  She raised a hand to touch her mouth, and her fingers brushed against the mask. His reasons for being here returned to the forefront, and a frown wiped out her pleasant thoughts. Daphne turned to gather her things. She’d hoped to talk to Monsieur Henre, but she wouldn’t take the chance of meeting that man again. She’d have to find a hackney on her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “If only I could peel off that mask, I’d die a happy man,” Jasper told Aubrey as the coach headed back to the dance hall for the third time that week. He’d gone every night, unwilling to miss a moment with his dancer, knowing she must feel his presence from the comments others made of her increased intensity. She knew he watched, and she danced only for him.

  Aubrey laughed, the sound sour. “You are obsessed, my man. You talk of nothing—and probably think of nothing—else. I never thought to see the day when your interest exceeded mine in something so refined, but I’ve just about exceeded my patience as well. We never do anything else anymore.”

  Jasper shoved his friend’s shoulder. “And you didn’t behave the same when that West End trollop caught your eye? At least what I have is pure. You were full of plans to undercut FitzWilliam.”

  Aubrey frowned, no sign of his normal good nature in the expression. “That’s what worries me. What fool ever characterized a mistress with the word ’pure?’ Certainly not you, before this. Just because you can’t touch her doesn’t make her better than any other woman down here. Don’t pin too much on her or you’ll fall hard when her cracks show.”

  Shaking his head, Jasper stared out the window rather than at his friend. “Her manager said much the same the other night,” he muttered. “But I don’t think so. She’s everything she appears to be and more.”

  “I guess you did manage something the other night, you sly fox. How much did it take? Will you keep her on Regent Street? Or do you have another place in mind?”