“I see,” he said thoughtfully, looking very much out of place in his elegant clothes and his sophisticated manner. He studied her books, making a note here and there with his pencil, his company completely forgotten.
Rosemary watched him, fighting the giggle that threatened to burst forth. He could check her figures from now till doomsday, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. This was the circus life, and everyone in it knew the score. Other than Barnum, no one became a millionaire running a show.
His head tipped forward, and in the dim light she noticed once again just how handsome he was. His face seemed perfectly carved, like a statue. His good white shirt had dried somewhat, and she could still detect the freshly ironed creases and the wrinkles she’d created when she’d struggled against him. She blushed at the thought of the way he’d manhandled her, and his own curious reaction later. My God, she thought, annoyed at her own train of reasoning. The man is here to take everything your father worked for. Surely you don’t think him handsome after that?
He glanced up a moment later, putting his pencil aside, an odd expression on his face. Without knowing why, Rosemary braced herself. Something about the way he looked at her was intimidating, and she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like his resolution.
“I’ve checked over your work, and it seems to be in good order. If what you are claiming is correct, then I cannot possibly take payment until winter without assuming a tremendous loss. And to sell the assets now, at the beginning of the carnival season, would be foolishness, indeed.”
She let out her breath, not realizing she’d been holding it. “Thank God. Then you’re willing to be reasonable?”
He didn’t answer at first but merely studied her with a strange smile and a glitter of his own in his eyes. “Of course I’m willing to be reasonable,” he stated, his Main Line accent cool and clipped. “There is but one course of action a reasonable man can take. I will have to wait for my payment, but I’ll be damned to see the income squandered the way it has been. I will let the show continue, but under one condition. I shall be the new manager.”
Rosemary stared at him for a full moment, waiting for him to laugh or to explain that he just wanted to startle her. He did neither.
“Surely, you’re joking—”
“Not at all,” he said briskly. “It is obviously the only way. I shall make the necessary arrangements at my hotel. I trust that you will secure my accommodations and explain the rest to the troupe. I’ve scarcely four months to get this show into shape, so there’s no time to waste.” He rose and grinned at her outraged expression, then cuffed her under the chin. “Good night, Rosemary Carney.”
Stunned, Rosemary saw the tent flap close and the glimpse of rain-drenched night disappear as quickly as it had come. The scent of limewater lingered in the air, and a jagged trail across the dirt floor from where he’d dragged his injured leg was the only evidence that he’d been there at all. Otherwise, she would have been convinced that he had been a ghost from Carney’s past.
Manager. Fury rose within her at his implication. He obviously thought he could do a better job than she of running the circus and making it pay. He, a citified bean counter who’d been pushing a pencil all of his life! The whole notion was laughable. God, it was difficult enough for her, and she had generations of experience behind her.
Outraged, she thought of his high-handed attitude, his obvious dislike and distrust of the circus folk, the way that he’d walked into her tent, coldly informing her that he owned it. He apparently thought that because she was a woman, she was therefore inferior, a popular enough notion, but one she had come to do without in the show. Lord, her father must be rolling in his grave to see the day his circus was taken in hand by the likes of him. None of them ever had any idea of the dreadful turn their loan would take, or that kindly Doc Wharton would somehow spawn a son such as this. Sean would have done without rather than subject his family to Michael Wharton’s sneers and threats, and she would have done without twice.
The sound of singing interrupted her furious thoughts, and she smiled in spite of herself. It was the clowns. After every show, the clowns, the ringmaster, the roustabouts, and several of the performers made a ritual of tasting the town’s local ale before returning to the grueling task of packing up the big top. That their excursion made the work all the more difficult was a fact that none of them seemed to mind. Some things, to circus folk, were worth the price.
“Are you awake, Rose?” Biddle’s elegant voice broke into their bawdy version of a saloon ballad. She held open the flaps, allowing them to enter, grateful that the Gilded Cage’s ale didn’t seem too deadly. All of them appeared to have their wits, and they would clearly need them come morning.
“Aye, I’m awake. Who could sleep with the lot of you? Get in, I have something to be telling you. Lads, I need your help.”
The clowns looked to one another, the lion tamer frowned, and Biddle was instantly alert. A Carney never needed anyone’s help. They took their accustomed places on the empty crates and trunks that tomorrow would be filled with paraphernalia and gave her a respectful silence.
Rosemary explained Michael Wharton’s odd visit, his threats, and his ultimatum. She left out the part when he’d dragged her up against him, and the odd pleasure she’d felt from being so close to him. The merriment died in the clowns’ faces, and when she’d finished, the performers looked glum. Biddle slammed his fist into his hand, righteously appalled.
“This isn’t to be borne! The nerve of that man! Has he no honor? It wasn’t his father’s intention to persecute those who’d borrowed money!”
“He doesn’t know the meaning of honor,” Rosemary agreed soberly. “Damned landlord, that’s what he is! You should have seen him, sashaying in here like the good President Grant himself, demanding payment! He threatened to sell off our—. What did he call it?”
“Assets?” Biddle supplied helpfully.
“Assets, and he wanted the whole loan paid up this night. It wasn’t until I explained to him that the monies will not be freed until winter that he saw reason at all.” She took a deep breath, the freckles threatening to pop off her face from anger. “Then he stated that His Lordship would wait, but on one condition. He gets to run the show.”
“No!”
“That’s crazy!”
“ ’Tis Carney’s Circus, everyone knows that!”
“I shall refuse to perform! I will not work for anyone except a Carney!”
“What are you going to do, Rose?”
Biddle posed the last question. He had seen the glitter in her eyes and knew from experience that it boded ill for someone. This time he had no question as to whom. Michael Wharton may have education, money, and background, but he’d better get a lot more than that if he planned to best Rose.
“There isn’t much I can do at the onset,” Rosemary replied, answering their thoughts. “We’ve got to go along with him, at least at first.”
“I’ll be damned.” One of the clown-tramps scratched his head through a torn-up hat. “A bean counter managing the circus! The man doesn’t know the first thing about it, and it isn’t like any other business on earth!”
Rosemary stared at him thoughtfully, a slow smile coming to her face. She reached up and exuberantly hugged the tramp, ignoring his squawks and his blushing embarrassment as the other clowns chortled. “Rags, you’ve got it! I love you, you’re the best!”
Biddle and Griggs exchanged another glance, and the ringmaster produced his flask. “Here, Rose, perhaps you should take a sip of this. You’ve been worrying too much—”
“No, don’t you see?” Rosemary’s eyes shone like a child’s. “He knows nothing about it! Why, we can do whatever we like, and he wouldn’t know we were putting him on! And if life becomes too difficult for him, he’ll simply pack up and go back East, there to await payment!” She giggled at the thought, and the same exultant smiles crept across the faces of the men.
“By Jove, Rosie, I think you’re
right.” Rags nodded as Biddle raised his flask sanctimoniously. “To Rose Carney! And may she give Michael Wharton a send-off he’ll never forget!”
Michael grumbled as he walked into his hotel, grateful to be out of the damp night. He’d managed to get a ride with a farmer who’d been returning from a trip to a neighboring town. He’d ridden the few blocks in the back of a wagon filled with apple barrels, and if not for his injured ankle, he’d have tumbled out and walked rather than be tossed like an old piece of fruit himself.
His nose wrinkled, and he rapped for the innkeeper, demanding a bath in spite of the lateness of the hour and the fact that the barbershop had long since closed for the day. The humble woman rushed to do his bidding, giving him a resentful glance as she looked at the clock. But he was well aware that this might be his last civilized bath for some time, and he’d at least start out on this damnable foray clean and dry.
How had he gotten himself into this mess? He ignored the sullen looks of the maids as they rubbed their eyes and scrambled to fetch hot water. He climbed the stairs to his room, groaning when his foot made contact with the steps. After stepping inside his room, he slammed the door, overcome with outrage and pain.
It was her. That Irish wench. He cursed as he thought of Rosemary Carney, her eyes laughing at him and dancing like elves. Tiny and freckled, her face lit up by the saffron sheen of her costume, bedazzled by makeup that hid her complexion entirely until she sponged it off, she was like a female leprechaun, full of mischief and madness.
Unwillingly, he thought of her kicking his ankle out from under him, and a responding throb in his leg made him want to get his hands on her once more. He should have thrashed her while he had the chance. Instead, he’d let her go, stunned when he realized that the sprite he held was a woman, and a very desirable woman at that. She was no innocent; he’d seen the awareness spring into her eyes when she struggled against him, and he cursed his own lack of control for responding to her. It was only because he hadn’t had a woman in a long time, he rationalized. Otherwise, he’d be insane for reacting to a painted jester.
He sank down into a seat beside the small desk, resting his foot on another chair while the maids rushed to fill the tub. The thought of Rose Carney kept returning to his mind, and with it a renewed sense of outrage.
She had absolutely no logic at all. He thought back to her performance, certain now that she was the drunken clown he’d seen. God, she had fallen repeatedly from that horse amid thrashing hooves and stomping elephants, only to get up and perfectly execute a backflip. It was a good act, granted, but dangerous, especially for a woman.
“Will that be all, sir?” the maid asked, her voice cold and cutting. Michael dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
The maid brushed past him and accidentally banged her metal pitcher against his foot, shutting the door as he howled in pain. As he cursed the maid’s clumsiness, Michael suddenly remembered that Rosemary had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
And the most winsome smile to match.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAYFAIR IN THE EARLY MORNING didn’t look much more promising than it had the previous day. Michael walked down Main Street, ignoring the curious stares of the local women as he lugged his bags, still favoring his left leg. At least he was bathed and was wearing a fresh change of linen. From the accommodations he’d seen the night before, Carney’s had little to offer in the way of comfort, and he was fully aware that as circus manager he was likely to be spending most of his time in a tent.
Flexing his hand to balance the weight of his bags, he was reassured to feel the heavy thud of his ledger books inside. Carney’s wouldn’t be the same once he got a hold of it. He had spent the rest of the night going over the books and had been freshly appalled. That clown-woman had been telling him the truth; he had verified it several times. But the running of the show had been impractical and improvident, to say the least.
Out of some strange sense of loyalty to farm towns, Carney’s had bypassed the cities. It didn’t take a mathematical genius to figure out that the show would sell twice as well in a densely populated area, perhaps three times. And the circus could be expanded, using the current workers to perform in more than one role. Barnum was hugely successful due to heavy promotion and advertising, utilizing the humbug scam as a way to draw in curious people. Carney’s advertising budget was abysmal. Where, then, did the money go?
Expansion, she’d laughed at him the night before. The books bore her out on that, but she neglected to mention a few more questionable expenses: whiskey, the finest food for the animals, and nightly meat dishes for the performers and the crew. By channeling some of these monies into more productive use, Carney’s could easily become much more efficient and produce the greatest profit in its history.
Michael smiled, the look in his eyes determined. He reached the field where the show he’d been mentally remaking had performed just the previous night—and stared in disbelief.
It was gone. All of it. The tents, the animals, the wagons and flags, the showmen and roustabouts. Everything had disappeared, as quickly and completely as if a hole had opened in the middle of the lot and swallowed up any evidence of the circus. Only a thin layer of sawdust and a sprinkling of glitter remained in the field, tangible evidence that he hadn’t dreamed this.
Carney’s was gone, and if he didn’t move quickly, his opportunity would be, too.
“Ah, I can just see his face when he realizes we’ve given him the slip.” Rags grinned, his bewhiskered chin crinkling like a spiny porcupine.
“He’s probably questioning his own sight right now,” William, the knife thrower, added. The others nodded. William was nearly blind, and if anyone was an expert on the subject, it was himself.
“Thought he’d get away with bossing us around!” Leonardo smirked in self-satisfaction. “Carney’s Circus belongs to Carney and none other!”
Rosemary smiled, feeling like a captain who had just won his first battle. Actually, it had been purely coincidental. Circuses always packed up in the middle of the night and tried to leave at the first signs of dawn. Besides not having to pay a lot fee for an additional day, the practice maximized travel time. She had counted on Michael Wharton’s ignorance of the practice and hadn’t been disappointed. Now she rubbed her hands with glee, picturing his righteous indignation. “Was it our fault that he didn’t know that the circus always leaves early? Besides, I need to find a replacement for William’s assistant. I can’t be waiting around for His Lordship.”
The others laughed, sitting comfortably inside the circus wagon. They were tired from the previous night, but no more tired than at any other departure. In truth, they worked together like a well-oiled machine, the roustabouts following the orders of the boss canvasman and neatly unhitching the huge tents until they lay on the ground like puddles of mercury, shimmering in the moonlight. Before the material barely settled, the next row of canvasmen rolled the tents into neat little packages barely hinting of their former splendor. In no time they had the entire circus packed up and loaded onto the wagons, rolling toward the next town, where they would begin the process all over again.
Rosemary grinned. It was almost too easy. The clowns were all congratulating themselves on their cleverness when Biddle spoke, his aristocratic face troubled as he reached for his flask.
“I don’t mean to put a damper on everyone’s spirits, but do you really think he’ll just give up? Michael Wharton must have been very determined to come all the way out here from the city. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him.”
The grins faded and the clowns looked to one another in bewilderment. What Biddle said contained a grain of truth, and none of them could deny it. Their eyes shifted to Rosemary.
“I expect Biddle’s right, and that eventually he’ll catch up with us.” She shrugged as if unconcerned. “But he doesn’t know where we’re going, and there’s no one in Mayfair to tell him. Who knows? Perhaps if he decides we’re not worth it, he may not even sho
w up.”
The clowns chortled in agreement, but Biddle shook his head, then took a deep sip of his flask. Michael Wharton was no dawdling schoolboy to be ditched at the last minute without repercussion. He only hoped that Rose had taken that into consideration.
He was almost running back to town, his face growing more thunderous with each step, his black brows drawing across his eyes. Farmers stepped out of his path, crossing themselves as he hurried toward the train station, pausing only where the boldly colored poster still advertised Carney’s.
How dare she! The thought reverberated through his head until he was practically blind with fury. He recalled last night in excruciating detail and grew impossibly angrier.
She’d stood there, inches away from him after kicking his foot out from under him, pretending to obey, when all the while she had this planned! No wonder she agreed so sweetly to his demands. She never had any intention of fulfilling them.
Never before had anything like this ever happened to him. He felt…impotent, for God’s sake! Unwillingly, he recalled the mischief in her green eyes, the soft curve of her smile, the crackle of her red hair, which he’d wager was real. She certainly had the personality for it.
The sign. He stopped again to read it in front of the feed store. It was sheer torture to see the red and blue lettering, to know he’d had the circus in the palm of his hand, that he’d had Carney literally where he wanted her, and then had let them go. He made himself reread the damned sign as a self-imposed torment similar to probing an aching tooth.
There it all was, exactly the same as yesterday. The bawdy pictures portrayed the trapeze artists, the elephants, the daring lion tamer, and the winsome clowns. And there, in the center of them all, was Rosemary Carney’s painted face, grinning at him.
The train whistle screamed in the distance, announcing the locomotive’s arrival. Michael Wharton hefted his bags and started for the station when the small print on the bottom of the poster caught his attention. Shading his eyes from the morning sun, he read:
Defiant Rose Page 4
