A Novella Collection

by Theresa Romain

  Damn the orchestra.

  Vauxhall seemed all false gilt tonight. The crowd gathering before the orchestra was painted and bright as a parrot. On the uniforms worn by the musicians were brass buttons pretending to be gold. If one looked closely at the bright hanging lamps, one could see how withered the trees became from their heat. It was the height of summer, and many of the trees were bare-branched, as if it were January.

  In truth, she was less sour of mood than she was terrified. She’d not walked a high wire without her balance pole all season, but the Barrett brothers insisted, stating that the ropedancer had to perform as part of the fireworks display. During the concert. For the Prince Regent’s birthday.

  Implied, though not stated directly, was that Poppy would be in royal trouble if she did not get onto the wire.

  She wished she were in France already, and not in the same city as a Leo she could not, ought not, see again. Walking a wire over a net—installed at last—that served only to remind her how far she could still fall.

  “Hullo, Madame Haut!” called a familiar female voice.

  Poppy swallowed her fear, wiggled her toes into the end of the second shoe, then straightened up with a smile pasted on her features. “Hullo, Miss Tyburn.” At least she had never faked a French accent with the other Vauxhall performers. “Will you be singing tonight?”

  “During the fireworks, though likely no one will hear me over the glorious noise.” The Prince Regent’s favorite soprano, Edith Tyburn was always friendly to Poppy. With a generous pile of red hair and an equally large bosom, Edith drew every eye when she was performing from the orchestra.

  “Where is that long pole of yours?” Edith looked curious.

  “It was broken during the masque. I thought Lord Bexley would see it stored safely after my last performance.” She ended her explanation there. One shouldn’t criticize a viscount, even if he had caused the destruction of her livelihood through neglect.

  “A week ago and more, that was?” After glancing over her shoulder to check there was no one around, Edith leaned forward confidentially, her breath scented of mint and gin. “Lord Bexley vanished that night.”

  Poppy blinked. “That cannot be. It would have been in the newspapers.”

  “Well, he came back,” Edith granted. “But he hasn’t explained where he went, or why. And Charity Cooper—the alto, you know—told that ratty little trombone player that the viscount’s manservant saw Lord Bexley captured from one of the dark walks.”

  “Captured? You mean he was taken prisoner?” Despite herself, Poppy had to admit this was a good excuse for not storing her balance pole.

  “Exactly.” Edith rocked back on her heels, looking satisfied—until a thought struck her. “Of course, he was at the masked ball last week, so he couldn’t have been gone for so very serious a reason. Oh, wouldn’t it be interesting if there was some really good gossip?”

  “Very,” Poppy said dryly. If you only knew. She could provide a whole scandal sheet’s worth from her own life in the past few months.

  Edith tapped her chin with a gloved finger. “There was that prizefight here recently. Did you see it?”

  “No. I’m not here if I’m not performing.” With one rare exception for old loves who became lovers. “And when I am here, I’m up in the air.” She smiled so Edith would know she wasn’t being unfriendly.

  “Such a show! It was down one of the dark walks. The boxers”—Edith lowered her voice again—“were stripped to the waist. And then there was the most scandalous chase afterwards, with all sorts of traps, and men falling into pits like wild animals!”

  Poppy had to be missing something. “Why were there pits in the ground?”

  “The Duke of Vauxhall,” whispered Edith with a shiver of delight. “He did it! He had them dug. He’s the most dangerous criminal in London.”

  “It does sound dangerous, having pits in the ground,” Poppy agreed. But then, so did walking a wire without her balance pole.

  A wave of applause interrupted their conversation. Edith gasped, her hands fluttering theatrically through the air. “The conductor! They’re about to begin the concert! Oh, la. Here I am thinking about bare-chested boxers when I ought to be thinking about the Prince Regent.” She pulled a face. “Good luck, Madame!”

  Poppy waved her farewell, then drew in a deep breath. Deliberately, she turned, tipped her head back, and looked up at the great height of the mast. The tightrope was as yet in darkness, and the mast loomed above like a great dead tree.

  She put her hands on the first in a column of metal rungs that marched up the mast, and to the opening strains of a full-orchestra piece, she began to climb. Sixty feet into the air, where a warm wind set the world to rocking, she stepped onto a platform. And waited.

  In the shadow ahead, a lacework of smaller ropes stretched to the ground at angles, pulling her great wire taut along its length so that it would not sway. At the far end—hundreds of feet away, hardly noticeable in the low light—a pair of posts tilted in a great triangle to clasp tight to the end of the rope.

  It seemed far away now, without her balancing pole. Just her and a net, lonelier than if there had been none. And there would be no Leo at the end of the wire-walk.

  She shivered, thinking of her cloak. Of his coat around her shoulders. She missed him like she missed the sky when she was indoors.

  She should never have spent time with him. It was too difficult to guard her heart.

  When the orchestra finished its opening piece, a bell clanged to alert gardengoers to the start of the fireworks display. Behind her, Poppy knew Edith would be ascending to the stage. Rockets were being set into the ground. And then the first firework cracked open in a great flare of light, like a sheet flung over the night sky.

  “Time for the show,” Poppy muttered.

  In an instant, the fireworks were in full bloom overhead, booming and snapping in wheels and bursts of color. Reds and greens and golds, making the sky bright and dark. Spelling out words: God…Save…the…King. Happy…Birthday…Your…Majesty. Edith’s lovely voice darted and soared through the noise of the conflagration.

  Once the words were done, Poppy slid one resined slipper forward onto the tightrope. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, and a hot rain of gold and silver sparks fell all around. To people watching from below, Poppy would be picked out against the night sky, a daring figure almost unbelievably small.

  One step onto the rope, then another. She flung her arms out, up, checking her balance. Was the crowd gaping below her? Was there a crowd at all? She couldn’t look. She dared not look away from her feet, inching forward on this endless rope.

  One step, then another. She was nearly a quarter of the way across now. Each inch, each foot traveled was a laborious distance. The resin on the soles of her slippers clung to the rope, making it pitch and roll underfoot. With a great explosion, the sky lit up in pinwheels of white and scarlet—and with her eyes dazzled, Poppy missed a step.

  Her foot slid right off the rope.

  She tottered, then pitched forward, a scream strangled in her throat. With a desperate grab, she caught the rope before she plummeted—first one hand, then both.

  Below her, the crowd gasped. She flicked her eyes down, down. The audience was looking up at her, openmouthed, pressing against the net. That damned net. She couldn’t let go of the rope. There wasn’t enough net to break her fall.

  Her breath was coming quick and panicked. No! She must not let fear take hold. For a moment, she shut her eyes, ignoring the crowd below, the fiery sky above. She dangled from the rope, her feet kicking nothingness.

  Then, with a heave of muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, she swung her legs upward and caught the rope under one knee. She wrenched her other leg up, hooking it over the rope too, so she hung from all fours.

  She drew in a shuddery breath. All right. She was steady. She could do this.

  At this angle, her skirts w
ere yanked by gravity, and the slight roundness of her abdomen was outlined. She felt a flutter within that was not from fear, and she wondered. Surely it was too early for a quickening? Maybe it was only her heart, reminding her she was not alone.

  Baby, she thought. I’m sorry, baby. We’re all right. I’ll get us down safely. I’ll take care of you.

  Without her balance pole, the familiar rope was an obstacle to be overcome. There was no hope of swinging herself back upright onto the wire—so instead, she hung upside-down as she clambered slowly along its length. Knee after elbow after knee after elbow, she hooked her limbs over the rope and made her slow way to the end. She didn’t look at the crowd again; didn’t think of anything except reaching that blessed endpoint from which she could slide down to the ground.

  Stupid fireworks. Stupid Duke of Vauxhall. Stupid contract that she had signed, that had forced her to perform even without her balance pole.

  Stupid Poppy to count on anyone else. Not for safety, not for love, not for happiness.

  At last, she reached the end of the wire. She couldn’t look down, not yet. Not until her feet were planted on the earth. Praying and cursing at once, she caught the downward rope and slid to the ground, hands grasping the rope tightly as claws.

  Sweet, solid earth. Blessed earth. Let the sky explode into so many false stars; she had made her way along the wire, and she was safe.

  Hands grasped her waist from behind.

  Curse that guard. She turned. “Le—oh.” She halted the name half spoken. “Lord Nithsdale.”

  She shook free of his grasp as a chill raced over her, scalp to toe. For here stood the father, if one could use such a nice word, of the child growing in her womb.

  Chapter 5

  “Poppy, dear.” The marquess beamed at her. He made an unlikely villain, with a pleasant face and cherubically curling blond hair. “You vanished from your home! I was so worried about you.”

  This. This was why she had wanted to go to France. So she would never be caught unawares by this—this creature pretending to be a gentleman. Her stomach pitched and roiled. Her guard was gone again, and the attention of the crowd was back on Edith and the orchestra. There was no one to help her but herself.

  For the flutter within, she would do it. She would do anything. At least Nithsdale didn’t know of it. Leo was the only person she had told she was pregnant.

  She lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes. “Were you truly worried, Lord Nithsdale? If you cared about my well-being, you ought to have obeyed when I screamed for you to stop touching me.”

  He blinked, then shook his head as if dismissing the thought. “I can’t imagine what you mean! You know I’ve always been very fond of you. Here, walk with me for a bit. What a performer you are!”

  “In everything I have told you, my lord”—the words were sour, and she spat them out—“I was completely genuine and honest. I never wanted you to touch me. I do not wish to accompany you.” Where was her guard?

  “Nonsense!” He laughed. “We always had a good time together. You’re a romping gal. Come, let’s be off.”

  She could only goggle at him. “You cannot fathom why I do not want to be with you?”

  “Not at all! Most unsporting. Why, you ought to treat an old friend of the family better than this. Your cousin thought so. He’s the one who told me how to find you. He’s as worried as I was!”

  Was her cousin worried? Had he confided in Nithsdale? Had she been wrong about how upset Cousin Hayworth was? Maybe he had been angry with Poppy, not with his friend.

  Then Nithsdale’s fingers closed about her upper arm, tugging—and her questions vanished like a balloon being popped. No. She knew what was real, and what the marquess had done, and how her cousin had reacted. “You’re wrong,” she said, and his fingers closed more tightly.

  She knew where this would go, where it had already gone once. The smile that never fell, the pale eyes that held no feeling at all. His veneer of courtesy covered selfishness so deep, there seemed no person within it.

  So she wrenched free, and she ran. Leaving her case behind, with her sturdy shoes, her cloak—all of it. She ran with all the fearful energy bottled in her body as she’d hung from the tightrope; she ran, wincing as stones pressed into the thin soles of her slippers. She would run forever if she had to.

  Or—no, she couldn’t. She had run into a wall of shrubbery that stretched off to the left and right, and she couldn’t go forward. Was that his breathing, harsh behind her? Quick as thought, she darted off to the left, running deeper into the park.

  Her breath grew short; her strides wanted to slow. She mustn’t! Not now. To get away from him, she’d turned in absolutely the wrong direction. Here, the lamps were strung farther apart, and some were not lit at all.

  “Poppy! Poppy, wait! I only want to talk to you!”

  He was far too close. Not much more than an arm’s length behind.

  “No talking!” she gasped. “No touching!” My contract clearly states I am not to be touched.

  “Poppy, really.” Somehow, he laughed. He sounded amused, the devil. “You can’t imagine how many women would love to be in your place right now.”

  “Zero!” she shrieked over her shoulder, willing her rubbery legs to carry her a bit farther.

  And then she saw something that made her feel a bit more fortunate: a darkened tent at a distance, and between her and it, a pool of darkness. A pit dug into the earth at the side of the path?

  The boxing match. She’d found where it had been held, and she’d found one of the Duke of Vauxhall’s traps. Bless you, Edith, and your beautiful gossiping tongue.

  Had Nithsdale noticed it? Maybe not. He was focused on following her, catching up a little more with every stride, so her spine fairly prickled with the feel of him at her back.

  She pounded toward the pit, then skated its edge. As her path bowed, she was counting on darkness and Nithsdale’s urge to be quick as an arrow shot to lead him right into it.

  He fell, with less a sound than a sudden lack of it. No more crunching of twigs, no more heavy breathing at the nape of her neck.

  Momentum carried her forward a few more steps, and then she bent double, heaving for air. Wrenching her head around, she looked for him lest he had escaped. Tricked her. Again.

  The patchy light of the occasional lamp revealed nothing. The tent was silent. The path was empty.

  And from the pit, dug deeper into the ground than a man’s height, came a mighty bellow of rage.

  Once her racing heart had slowed, Poppy crept nearer the pit. Not to the edge, just close enough to see the marquess’s disheveled form hopping about.

  He looked up and caught her eye. “Poppy!” His anger was all pleasantry in an instant. He extended a hand. “Help me out, there’s a love.”

  “ ‘There’s a love’?” she mimicked, putting her hands on her hips. “Really, Nithsdale? A term of endearment?”

  “What?” He reached for the edge of the pit. She scooted back, keeping her toes well out of reach. “Come on, help me out. You’re a strong girl, Madame Haut.”

  “Not strong enough.” She eyed him, then decided. “No. You can stay down there.”

  His smile cracked. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m not going to stay down here.” His fingertips scrabbled in crumbling dirt. “Come on, Poppy. We’ve always been fond of each other. Help me out, do.”

  If she lived the rest of her life in France, she would never forget this night. The familiar, choking scent of bitter oranges in his favored cologne. The sky full of bright, lingering smoke. The dark earth holding him like a secret.

  She took another step back. “You’ve always been fond of me, have you? Was that fondness when you locked us in the conservatory together? Was it fondness when you tore my clothes away despite my pleas? Fondness for me that made you force yourself on me, though I screamed for help and clawed your face? Anything to try to stop you?”

/>   The look on his face was that of a man who didn’t understand a word, and was waiting for her to stop talking.

  It was unbelievable. Yet here he was. She shook her head. “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you? You think you can take whatever you want.”

  He sighed. “Enough, Poppy. I can tell that you are overtired. Go get some help for me, would you?”

  “Helpless though I am? Helpless though you thought me? Why, I don’t know if I’m capable.” She spoke sweetly, but her teeth were gritted hard. “No, I don’t think I am quite capable of fetching someone to drag you out of the dirt.”

  When he opened his mouth to speak, she plunged ahead. “For your edification, Lord Nithsdale, I am betrothed to the Duke of Westfair. Perhaps he can see to you getting what you deserve once I tell him how you have treated me tonight.” Sorry, Leo, for dragging your name into the matter. Though it was a comfort to speak his name, as though Leo were there with her for an instant.

  “How I’ve treated you?” Nithsdale was all indignation, picking up his hat and punching it back into shape. “All I wanted to do just now was talk to you, and you ran away. Very rude of you.”

  “Oh, you want to talk? Fine. Talk. I’ll give you two minutes.” She gave a little kick with her slippered foot, sending dust into his face.

  “Why…” He settled his hat on his head again. “It’s not so much that I have something particular to say. Just that I wanted to speak to you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “But well done you, getting engaged to the Duke of Westfair.” He winked, his cherub face all smudged with dirt. “Does His Grace know you were mine first?”

  “His Grace,” she snapped, “knows that I am a person worthy of respect. And I know that too. And I was never yours. I belong to myself.”

  With each word, she felt taller and stronger. The rubbery weakness had left her legs; her heart thudded with steady certainty.

  “What a shame,” she added, “that you didn’t treat me as I deserved. As anyone deserves. Perhaps a night alone with your thoughts will help you understand how you wronged me.”