An Act of Villainy

by Ashley Weaver

  “There are, in fact. Miss Bell has a brother who’s something of a disreputable chap. He’s always coming to her for money, gambling it away, that sort of thing. They recently quarreled when she refused to indulge him any further.”

  “I don’t see how an anonymous threat would change her mind on that score.”

  Milo shrugged. “Maybe she knows he’s behind the letters but hasn’t told Holloway.”

  I considered this. “Yes, that’s possible. Perhaps she doesn’t want him to know that her brother would threaten her. Maybe that’s why she was reluctant to tell him about the letters to begin with.”

  “There has also been some trouble on the set of the play, I understand. There have been difficulties with Flora Bell’s understudy, and some of the actors have been known to be temperamental.”

  “A full cast of possible culprits,” I said, beginning to turn the matter over in my mind.

  “So it seems. Holloway’s worried sick about it, though he tried at first to seem offhanded about his concern. Despite his love for the theatre, the fellow’s not much of an actor.”

  “It would be interesting to talk to Flora Bell, to see how she truly feels about the letters,” I said. “I mean, if they are really puzzling her or if she seems to know from whom they might be coming.”

  “Well, you’re going to have your chance,” Milo said. “Holloway said he would like us to come to the theatre and see the dress rehearsal tomorrow night. He said he would introduce us to some of the actors. I believe that, after some of our recent experiences, he feels we may be able to offer some insight into the situation.”

  I realized suddenly what Milo was telling me. We had once again been called upon to assist in a mystery. I felt that familiar sensation of excitement that came with the prospect of another puzzle before us.

  He went into the bathroom to wash and dress for bed, and I sat thinking of ways we might discover the identity of the mysterious letter writer. It seemed the best place to start would be to determine how the letters had arrived.

  “Have they been posted to her?” I called, when he had turned off the water.

  “No,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “They were slipped under her dressing room door at the theatre.”

  “That seems to narrow it down,” I said.

  “Yes, somewhat. Of course, people are always coming and going. There are the stagehands and those working on building the set. It would be fairly easy for any of them to have done it. Or even for a stranger to have slipped in unnoticed.”

  “It seems to rule out Georgina,” I said. “I don’t imagine she would care to be anywhere near Gerard Holloway and Flora Bell.”

  “Unless she came to the theatre or paid someone else to deliver the letters.”

  He did have a point.

  I pondered this information. Was it possible that the letter writer was serious? Could Flora Bell really be in danger?

  “I see from the gleam in your eyes at the potential mystery I’ve laid at your feet that I am forgiven my late evening,” Milo said, walking to the bed.

  “I’m surprised you’ve told me about it,” I said. “Normally, you’d try to keep me from finding out.”

  He leaned to drop a kiss on my lips. “You’d only find out anyway.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. He was right about that.

  “Besides,” he said, going around to his side of the bed and sliding in beside me, “this seems a minor matter. After all, if someone meant to do Flora Bell harm, I doubt they would warn her about it beforehand. I don’t suppose there will be much danger involved.”

  Milo’s reasoning made sense, and I couldn’t help but agree with him. Unfortunately, we were very wrong.

  4

  I FOUND MYSELF very much looking forward to the dress rehearsal. For one thing, it was going to be interesting to be the first audience to see the play. Gerard Holloway might be perceived as only a dabbler by the serious theatre set, but I knew he was the type of man who threw himself into ventures wholeheartedly and I expected the play would be very well done.

  Of course, more than that, I was anxious to meet Flora Bell and to learn more about the mysterious letters she had been receiving. Now that mystery was in my blood, I was finding it harder and harder to resist its pull. It was a rather unsettling addiction.

  Milo glanced at me as Markham, our driver, drove us toward the theatre.

  “I hope you won’t be disappointed if there’s no sinister undertone to the evening. It may be nothing more than a harmless prank.”

  “Of course I won’t be disappointed if nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I may heartily disapprove of Flora Bell—and Gerard Holloway—but that doesn’t mean I wish her ill.”

  “I don’t think it’s serious between them. It’s an infatuation on Holloway’s part, nothing more,” Milo said, as though that made everything all right. I felt that little twinge of sadness, but I pushed it away. This was not a discussion I wished to have in front of Markham.

  “I’m also interested to see the play,” I said. “I didn’t know Mr. Holloway was a writer.”

  “Yes, well, you know he likes to throw himself into all sorts of projects. I believe he tried his hand at acting and wasn’t much of a success. I suppose playwriting and directing appeal to him more.”

  The Penworth Theatre was a lovely old building that had seen better days. The paint was faded and the red velvet seats were worn, but there was an air of quiet dignity about the place, as though it knew its own worth and was unashamed of its somewhat shabby appearance. In fact, I suspected that was exactly the reason Gerard Holloway had not had the building renovated.

  We had walked in through the open front doors and into the auditorium without seeing anyone, but a moment later Gerard Holloway came out onto the stage and spotted us.

  “Oh, good. You’re here,” he said in what seemed to be an artificially jovial tone as he came down the little flight of steps off to one side of the stage.

  “Thank you for having us, Mr. Holloway,” I said when he reached us.

  He smiled, a bit tightly, I thought, and I wondered suddenly if the invitation had been extended more to Milo than to the pair of us. “I do hope you like the play. We’ve worked very hard on it.”

  “Gerry! Gerry, where are you?” The voice came from somewhere backstage, rising as the speaker came nearer. “Gerry?”

  “Yes, Flora, I’m here,” Mr. Holloway called. His voice sounded slightly strained, and his posture seemed tense, as though he was bracing himself for something unpleasant.

  There were footsteps on the stage. Then she stepped into the light, and I got my first glimpse of Miss Flora Bell.

  She was beautiful, I would admit that much. A halo of golden curls surrounded a cherubic face that managed to convey both sweetness and sensuality. With her wide blue eyes and pink cheeks and full lips, she would not have been out of place in a Botticelli painting.

  “Oh, hello,” she said when she saw us. She came across the stage and down the steps, in graceful, measured movements. She wore a pale blue satin gown in the high-waisted Regency style, which clung to her figure and swirled about her feet as she moved toward us. She was certainly aware of how to make an entrance.

  I glanced at Milo to see what sort of impression she might be making on him, but, though he was watching her as I was, it was impossible to tell anything from his features. It was always difficult to tell what went on behind those blue eyes of his, but, in this instance, I could guess. No doubt he thought her stunning.

  She came to Gerard Holloway and clasped his arm, pressing against his side. “These are your friends, I assume? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said stiffly. He didn’t seem at all comfortable to have her on his arm. I assumed it was because I, a close friend of Georgina’s, was present. If he felt uneasy, I could only think that he deserved it.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ames, allow me to introduce Miss Flora Bell. Flora, these are my old friends Milo and A
mory Ames.”

  She smiled up at us. More specifically, she smiled at Milo. I had not been able to tell what he thought of her, but it was very apparent what she thought of him. Her blue eyes glittered with interest as they scanned his face. Not that I could blame her for that; his dark good looks and vivid blue eyes had the same effect on most women.

  “How do you do?” she said. To her credit, she pulled her eyes from Milo and gave me a smile as well. “It’s so nice to meet some friends of Gerry’s. We’ve been rehearsing so often, I feel as though I’m beginning to lose touch with the real world.”

  Though I didn’t want to admit it, I could see why men might find her difficult to resist. She had a charm that was not typical, an airy warmth that apparently encompassed everyone with whom she came in contact. That didn’t excuse Gerard Holloway’s behavior, of course, but it made it a bit easier to understand.

  “Speaking of the rehearsal, we’d better get the show started,” Gerard Holloway said, disentangling her from his arm in a movement that was not entirely subtle.

  She looked at us with a conspiratorial smile. “Always the show. Well, I do hope you enjoy it, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. Perhaps we can speak again afterward. Or go to dinner? Gerry, might we all go to dinner?”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Gerard Holloway said. There was the faintest tinge of impatience in his tone now, and even Flora Bell seemed to realize that she shouldn’t press the topic further.

  With one last smile in our direction, she turned and walked back up the stairs onto the stage and disappeared from sight.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” Mr. Holloway said quickly, as though he was avoiding having to say anything about Miss Bell.

  “Thank you,” I said, equally glad to avoid the topic. “I’m very much looking forward to seeing the play.”

  He smiled at me, a bit of relief evident on his features. Milo was right; Gerard Holloway was no actor. It was painfully obvious that he was embarrassed about his liaison with Flora Bell and was trying to keep from making it evident. Well, he had no one to blame but himself.

  He left us, and Milo and I moved to seats in the center of the theatre, a few rows from the front. It seemed like it would give us the best view of the stage.

  It was a new experience for me, to have an entire theatre to myself. It was going to be an interesting way to watch the performance.

  I was especially intrigued now that I had been introduced to Flora Bell. I wondered if that pleasant energy she had presented would translate well to the stage.

  “What did you think of Miss Bell?” I asked Milo in a low voice as we settled into our seats.

  “She’s a pretty girl, if you like that sort of thing,” he replied without any particular enthusiasm.

  “Blond-haired, blue-eyed beauties, you mean?” I said dryly. “You don’t like that sort of thing, I suppose.” He could not convince me for a moment that he had not been impressed by her. Even I had had a favorable impression, despite my determination to dislike her.

  He slid his arm across the back of my seat and leaned close, his breath whispering down my neck. “You know perfectly well what I like.”

  The lights dimmed just then, and I turned my attention to the stage, though I was suddenly very aware of the warmth of Milo beside me.

  The red velvet curtains parted, revealing an elaborately decorated drawing room. Though the theatre was not new, Gerard Holloway had clearly spared no expense on the sets.

  Flora Bell stood alone on the stage, her blue evening gown gleaming in the footlights.

  “‘There’s a ball tonight, but there is no celebration in my heart,’” she said.

  The play was set during the Napoleonic Wars. Flora Bell played Victoire, a young woman whose lover must choose between his love for her and his loyalty to France.

  I was not exactly sure what I had been expecting of Flora Bell. Perhaps, given the circumstances of her sudden rise to fame, I had thought that she would be nothing more than a beautiful girl who had been in the right place at the right time. It was a surprise to me, then, to discover that she was a superb actress.

  When she first walked out onto the stage, I could think of nothing but her relationship with Mr. Holloway and the mysterious letters. Only a few moments into the performance, however, I ceased to remember that she was anyone other than the character she was portraying. Every word, every expression, every subtle gesture, served to convey the essence of Victoire, a woman who struggles to deal with her personal heartache as well as the defeat of her nation’s armies.

  There was something mesmerizing about Flora Bell when she was onstage. It wasn’t just the bright lights shining on her fair skin and golden hair, nor was it the warm, clear tone of her voice that carried her words out across the auditorium. It was some unnamable quality, a talent that surpassed mere words or gestures.

  “She’s wonderful,” I leaned to whisper to Milo.

  He nodded.

  Though Flora Bell’s character was the undisputed focus of the play, she was not the only one who gave a noteworthy performance. The lover, Armand, an officer in Napoleon’s army, was played by Christopher Landon. Mr. Landon was very handsome and there was an easiness to his performance, as though he was so comfortable with his dashing and heroic character that it was no great effort to portray him.

  The best of the supporting actors was Balthazar Lebeau, who played Durant, a wicked nobleman, also vying for Victoire’s hand. I remembered Mr. Lebeau’s name from when I was a girl, as he had once been a matinee idol and acclaimed Shakespearean actor. I hadn’t heard much of him in the past several years, but I could see why he had enthralled audiences.

  His deep, rich tones were mesmerizing, his every move calculated to enhance his speech. Whether it was due to natural talent or years of experience, he was clearly a master of his craft, and I found myself wishing that he had more time on the stage.

  The play, though framed in the somewhat melodramatic context of a young woman’s tragic wartime romance, served to illustrate the struggle between love and loyalty, the need for self-preservation, and the desire to follow one’s heart no matter what the odds. In the end, Victoire found that happiness is an ending we are often denied. Armand killed in battle, her prospects vanishing before her as her country faces defeat, she was forced to consider the unthinkable: that she must ally herself with Durant.

  As the play drew to a close, she stood alone on the stage. Instead of the blue dress, she now wore one of scarlet that emphasized her pale skin and flaxen curls. Stepping forward, she was bathed in light, Victoire’s mingled grief and strength, the agony of conflict, etched into every line of her beautiful face.

  “‘Life holds light and darkness, and sometimes one must step into the shadows to see which will prevail.’”

  The curtain fell and I blinked, suddenly remembering where we were. So entranced had I been by the story and the actors’ power to tell it that I felt vaguely as though I had just awoken abruptly from a dream. I was struck by the fact that Victoire had not made her choice. It was left to the viewer to decide what she would do, an interesting concept.

  “What do you think?” Milo leaned in to ask me.

  “She’s brilliant,” I said, my eyes still on the stage.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It certainly wasn’t what I expected.”

  It was not what I had expected either, and I found that Miss Bell’s talent was somehow more disturbing to me than if she had been a mediocre actress.

  The curtain rose, but the actors did not come to take their bows. Instead, Mr. Holloway stepped out on the stage. I had almost forgotten that we were at a dress rehearsal and not an actual performance.

  “Well, what did you think?” he asked. Something in the way he asked it made me think our answers were important to him.

  “It was excellent,” I said sincerely. As much as I had wanted to dislike Flora Bell and the play out of loyalty to Georgina, I couldn’t deny that it was good and that Miss Bell’s performance had been something spec
ial. “I think you’re going to have a great success.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say so. There are always a few things that seem to go wrong at a dress rehearsal, but I thought tonight went well. Come backstage, will you? I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  We rose from our seats and went down the aisle to the front of the theatre, where we took the steps up onto the stage. From there we followed him backstage and through a tangle of twisted ropes, props, and stagehands, until we found ourselves in a long, dim corridor. There were several doors along the walls, and I saw that all of them were unmarked, except for one that had a star on it and the name “Flora Bell” written in dark letters.

  “Most of the actors have gone to change,” Mr. Holloway said. “The uniforms are uncomfortable. But they should be out fairly soon.”

  As if on cue, the door nearest us opened and Christopher Landon, the male lead in the play, came out into the corridor. He was tall and handsome, with dark blond hair and an appealingly angular face. Dark eyes came up and saw us standing there, and it seemed as though impatience flickered across his expression before he suppressed it.

  “This is Christopher Landon,” Mr. Holloway said. There was something in his tone that I didn’t quite know how to interpret. It wasn’t dislike, exactly, but there was a certain wariness there, as though the two of them were not on the best of terms. “Landon, allow me to introduce you to my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Ames.”

  Judging from Mr. Landon’s expression, he didn’t seem any keener on Mr. Holloway than Mr. Holloway did on him. Nor did he seem particularly interested in meeting us.

  “How do you do?” he said without enthusiasm.

  “I very much enjoyed the play, Mr. Landon,” I told him.

  “Thank you.”

  “I was very particularly struck by the ending. I can’t really believe that Victoire would have accepted Durant.”

  Mr. Holloway smiled. “That is for you to decide. But, alas, sometimes the villain wins, Mrs. Ames.”

  Flora Bell’s door opened then and she came out into the corridor dressed in an evening gown of aubergine satin.