Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

  25

  Jane thought her heart had truly stopped. Somehow, she recovered. “Send him away!” she hissed. “Tell him I’m not home! Now!” And already she was planning her escape.

  For escape she must.

  Sanity fled. She only knew that he was here. Was he coming for Nicole? Did he know about his daughter’s existence? God, if so, he would chase them to the ends of the earth! She would grab the sleeping baby and they would flee now, out the back, as they were, into the night.

  Molly whirled to go, but froze as heavy footsteps on the stairs sounded. She shot a desperate glance at Jane. Too late—he was coming! Jane knew she could not let him come up. She must buy time. She rushed forward, shoving past Molly, and started down the dark stairwell—to come face to face with him.

  “Lindley!”

  The Earl of Raversford stood on a lower step, and they were eye to eye. Hers wide, stunned; his wide, warm. Relief surged, then fell abruptly away. “Are you alone?” she demanded.

  “Yes. Jane, I—”

  Jane sagged against the wall. Her heart was slamming, and sweat had gathered beneath her breasts. “How did you find me?”

  Still on the stairwell, they stared. “I’m sorry,” Lindley said. “I’ve upset you.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Then she had a horrifying thought. If Lindley knew her whereabouts, did he? Jane pulled herself together with great effort. She must be calm, collected. “Forgive me, Jon. Where are my manners? It was just such a shock. Come, let’s go downstairs.”

  “Forgive me,” Lindley said, turning and backtracking. “But I had to come, and I guessed you might not want to see me. I apologize for my forwardness.”

  Downstairs, in the light of the foyer, away from Nicole’s room, Jane could breathe easier. She sighed. “You’re forgiven.” She meant it and smiled, although her heart was still racing from the scare she’d had. And so were her thoughts. Was the earl close by? Did he too know where she lived? Had he sent Lindley? What would Lindley do if he found out about Nicole? “Come into the parlor.”

  “Thank you,” Lindley said.

  Jane paused as he went in, then grabbed Molly and whispered fiercely, “Stay with her. Don’t let her cry!”

  Molly nodded and raced upstairs.

  Jane composed herself before entering. Lindley studied her openly, eagerly, with appreciation. Jane let him, waiting. “Well?”

  “You’re not a schoolgirl anymore,” Lindley said softly.

  Jane didn’t blush. “No, I’m not.”

  Lindley’s smile disappeared. “You’re so beautiful, more than before, I think. On the stage tonight, Jane, you took my breath away, I swear it. I had to find you, to at least say hello and find out how you’ve fared.”

  “I’m doing well, as you can see,” Jane said. “I have everything I want.” She shrugged, moved gracefully to the sideboard. “A brandy, Jon?”

  “Everything?”

  Her back was to him. She stiffened. “Everything. I’m on the stage, my dreams have come true.” Liar! her mind screamed.

  “I’m glad,” Lindley said softly.

  Jane handed him a brandy, taking a small sherry for herself. Lindley’s gaze was warm, unceasing. “So,” Jane asked casually. “Who were your companions tonight? Anyone I know?”

  “He wasn’t with me,” Lindley said quietly.

  Jane met his gaze, then dropped hers. Her fingers tightened upon the glass she held. She wanted to ask where he was. And mingled with relief was disappointment. She refused to acknowledge it.

  “He is at Dragmore,” Lindley stated, watching her.

  Jane shrugged indifferently. Yet she found herself thinking an unwelcome thought: How is he?

  “How did you find me?” she asked quickly, hating her heart for being a traitor to her mind.

  “I followed you.” Lindley’s smile was sheepish. “There were two dozen gentlemen waiting at your dressing-room door, and I knew I had not one chance.” He grinned. “I made a few discreet inquiries, heard about the back exit, saw you and your friend leave. So I followed.”

  “Shame,” Jane said, but she smiled.

  Lindley studied his snifter, his fingers long, his hands graceful but masculine. “What happened, Jane?”

  Jane went tense.

  “I’m sorry, I’m intruding. Nick wouldn’t say much. A few days after my sister’s party I went to his town house to make peace, if I could. It was closed up, and I assumed the two of you had left for Dragmore. A month later I was in Sussex and I stopped by there. And you were gone. Nick said you’d gone back to your mother’s friends in London. He wouldn’t say another word on that topic. In fact, I sensed my life might be in danger if I pursued it.”

  Jane managed a charming smile; after all, she was an actress. “There wasn’t anything else to say. I was not going to get married, and that was that. This”—she gestured grandly—“is my life.”

  His gaze searched hers. It was too probing, too inquisitive, and Jane had too many secrets, so she looked away. When she was certain her secrets were well hidden, she smiled and met his gaze. “I hope you will keep my residence discreet. From everyone.”

  Lindley’s stare was direct. “Are you hiding from someone, Jane?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s funny, but I know Nick as well as anyone does, I think. Although that may not be saying much. I find it difficult to believe he would let you return to the theater.”

  “We fought like cats and dogs,” Jane said calmly. “And this is the result.”

  “Of course.” Then, abruptly, he said, “You’ve changed, Jane. I’m not sure what it is, it’s not your just being older, more mature. I sense something …”

  “Of course I’ve changed,” Jane said. “I’m not seventeen, I’m nineteen. I am no longer quite so naive—I understand life.” Too well, she might have added, but she didn’t.

  Lindley studied her again, too closely, so she looked away. She felt the bitterness and sadness, and did not want him to see it. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

  “Immensely,” he said easily. “You’re a wonderful actress, Jane.”

  “Wonderful,” she echoed. Unbidden, she thought of the applause tonight, enthusiastic but not wild. Tomorrow, of course, the critics would laud her performance, and laud her. A great beauty like her mother, they would say. Some had even said she was more beautiful. But will she ever be the great actress that her mother was?

  Unbidden, she imagined him in the audience, dark and silent, expressionless, watching her as she soared in her performance.

  She shifted uneasily. So many questions clamored in her heart, in her soul. Mostly she wondered how he was, and why.

  Why hadn’t he come after her?

  Why?

  26

  Lindley told himself not to be a fool. Yet that next morning he sent her a bouquet of white lilies. Their pristine paleness pleased him and reminded him of Jane.

  He wondered at the events that had changed her and made her a woman with secrets.

  He wondered what Shelton would do if he knew he had seen her.

  Lindley was torn. He was not a fool, and never had been one. He clearly remembered that summer almost two years ago. He remembered Jane’s eyes, big and blue and able to see no one but his friend, Nick. He remembered Shelton, dark and angry, more so than usual, and he knew Nick had been attracted to her too. It was still amazing to him that Nick had let her go to the theater.

  Unable to help himself, telling himself they were just friends, Lindley sent Jane a note, asking her if he could take her to tea. The invitation was politely declined by her maid.

  Another invitation was also declined, and not one to rely on dismal chance, Lindley went to her cozy home on Gloucester Street

  three days later. He was not infatuated, he was too worldly, yet he was intrigued and he had thought about her quite a lot. He was shown into the parlor, and Jane appeared, looking both stunning and innocent—an impossible feat, he thought—in a rich wine gown
.

  “Hello, Jon.” She was polite but cool. And there was caution in her eyes.

  “Hullo, Jane.” He took her hand and kissed it. Unlike the first time, she did not flinch as if burned, and he wondered how many admirers she’d had. And lovers? It was a rude thought, one he’d had before, and he shoved it away. Yet he was certainly not the only man to be intrigued. She was a charming, disturbing combination of innocence and worldiness, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “Jane, I have the feeling you don’t want to see me.” He, of course, expected her to politely refute this, and then he’d charm her into seeing him.

  “What is the point?”

  Surprised, he could only stare.

  “Why have you come?”

  “Jane, you’re a beautiful woman and an old friend—or at least it feels that way. Why shouldn’t I want to see you?”

  “I have no time in my life for anything other than my profession,” Jane said firmly.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Lindley said easily, but he was hurt by the rejection. He was not used to it.

  It must have showed. Jane’s eyes softened, and she touched his hand lightly. “I’m sorry. I’m being terribly rude, when you’ve never done anything but be kind to me. Shall we walk in the park?”

  “How about Covent Gardens?” he suggested, grinning, the hurt gone.

  Jane flashed him her beautiful smile. “All right,” she said.

  Two weeks later Lindley knew Shelton was back in town from the gossip. He felt a stirring of guilt, but told himself he was ridiculous. It was ridiculous because it had to do with Jane, whom he’d seen four or five times. And whom he was planning on seeing again.

  She was wonderful company, all light and laughter, and she was beautiful. He had stopped kidding himself that he wanted to be with her as old friends. He wasn’t in love with her, which was good, because it wouldn’t do for him to fall in love with an actress when one day he must marry from his own class. Still, she was his friend, and he hoped that soon she would become his mistress.

  But, because she was a lady, and so young, and her innocence was a tangible thing (and he was confused by just how experienced she was), he hadn’t even tried to kiss her. Now, on his way to greet Shelton, Lindley had a disturbing thought. Jane was only nineteen. Was she still technically Dragmore’s ward? If so, he knew he’d forfeit his life if he made love to her. The thought was as shocking as cold water thrown on his face.

  He hadn’t intended to mention Jane to the earl, but now he wondered if he’d better sound out the sensitive topic. How did one tell one’s best friend that he wanted to make his ward, now a stage actress, his mistress? It was all terribly complicated.

  The earl was glad to see him. “I was wondering when you’d bother to come by,” he said, the barest of smiles turning up the corners of his mouth.

  Lindley grinned back. “You know where I live, old man.”

  “But knowing you,” Nick shot, “you’re abed with God knows whom until God knows when, and God forbid I should disturb you from your philandering.”

  Lindley laughed. “And how’s Amelia and Genevieve and who’s the Spanish dancer? Therese?”

  Ignoring all sense of decorum, the men had coffee liberally laced with cognac and cigars at 10 A.M., proceeding to catch up on news, pertinent gossip (only), and their own affairs. They had long since reconciled from the time when the earl had thrown Lindley off Dragmore, although Lindley sensed, always, that something had changed between them and that it would never be quite the same again. He knew Shelton well enough to know that he did hold a mean grudge. He also knew Shelton had forgiven him for taking liberties with Jane. Forgiven, but not forgotten.

  “I’ve seen her,” Lindley said an hour later.

  “Who?” the earl asked, inhaling deeply on his cigar. “Amelia?”

  Lindley shook his head, polishing off the last of the strong coffee. He had a pleasant glow, no doubt about it. “Jane Barclay.”

  For an instant the earl stiffened, eyes wide. Then he dropped his gaze, sipped his coffee—and his cup and saucer rattled when he set it down. Lindley frowned.

  The earl said nothing. His face had become impassive, impossible to read. Still frowning, Lindley said, “She’s quite good, old boy. I saw her on the stage. The critics like her too. And beautiful! A stunner! Even Patricia never had what she had— it’s the innocence and the sensuality. I guess you did the right thing, letting her take to the stage. I’d say she’s quite the natural. Whether she’s as good as her mother, now, that I doubt.”

  The earl looked at him, his eyes black, and Lindley thought that he was angry. Yet there was no reason for him to be, so Lindley guessed he was wrong. But there was tension now emanating from the dark figure sitting near him. “You sound as if you’re in love with her,” the earl said flatly.

  Suddenly wanting to squirm, Lindley denied it vigorously. “Don’t be mad. I’ve a dozen mistresses, as you well know.”

  The earl inhaled deeply. “Did she see you?”

  Lindley hesitated. Now was the time to come clean, if he was going to tell all. He said, “We spoke after the performance.”

  The earl said nothing, his gaze drifting to the windows, staring out at the tree-lined square. It had begun to rain, a thick drizzle.

  “Is she still your ward?” Lindley asked bluntly.

  “Technically,” he said.

  Lindley felt it then, an intense disappointment. He would have to be friends with her, no matter how strong his romantic interest. At least until she came of age.

  And there was still another question. “Are you going to go see her? She plays at the Criterion.”

  Savagely the earl ground out his cigar. “No.” He lunged out of his chair. “I’m meeting Amelia at Harrod’s and taking her to dinner. Care to come?”

  Politely Lindley declined. And he felt relieved with the earl’s answer.

  27

  Inside the auditorium, it was dark and quiet, the audience spellbound, and on the stage, bathed in light, Jane performed.

  He stood very quietly, his spine rigid, his back to the doors leading to the lobby. He made no move to find a seat, and he made no move to leave. Indeed, even though it was the third and final act, he had only just arrived. He stared, un able to peel his gaze away from the actress, just like everyone else in the theater.

  Beneath his breath, the Earl of Dragmore swore crudely.

  God, he hated her!

  After all this time, he had thought he would feel nothing. That he would be cold and indifferent. Yet it was not cool indifference flowing through his veins, but hot anger. He trembled with it.

  Hearing about her yesterday, he had not been able to stay away.

  She was beautiful—as Lindley had said. She was a contradiction, both angelic innocence and carnal sensuality. His lips sneered, and he wondered how many lovers she’d had since him. He told himself he did not care, and this time, he cursed aloud.

  “Shhh,” fifty people hissed at once.

  He ordered himself to leave, but he did not.

  And when she was particularly funny, and everyone around him roared in mirth, he did not laugh. He did not even smile.

  She had left him.

  He had loved her—and she had left him.

  As intense as his anger had been in that moment, his despair had been worse. Yet he had not let her go to London alone and fending for herself. He had sent a runner immediately to Gordon at the Lyceum, to ascertain that she had arrived safely and was cared for. That assured, he had given in to his fury and hatred, spending his days in dark, angry despair, seeking solace in a bottle, closed up alone in his library. After a few days he returned grimly to the living, to run Dragmore. The anger and hurt faded to manageable proportions, and by a month’s time, he felt nothing at all.

  He met with Gordon once, to determine the extent of the responsibility he owed Jane. For she was still his ward. Gordon assured him Jane was no burden, that he loved her as he would a daughter, having loved her
mother as a friend. Not satisfied, the earl made arrangements to support her financially. He did not see Jane, indeed, made damn sure they met at Tavistock Square

  to avoid this happening. And then he put her out of his mind.

  Except, sometimes, in the lonely darkness of the night, she came to him and, half asleep, he reached for her—but it was only a dream, and she was not there.

  The play was over, and Jane was taking her bow alone before the crowd, which was roaring its approval. The earl stood frozen, his gaze never wavering from her. She was beaming, ecstatic, and when someone pelted her with red roses, she laughed, picking one up and waving it at the audience. He felt a chink in the armor of his hatred. Her joy was nearly contagious. Desperately he wrapped the cloak of burning emotion more tightly around himself, standing more rigidly, fixing a look of loathing upon his features. She disappeared backstage amid shouts of “Angel! Angel! We want Angel!”

  Angel, he thought savagely. Witch was more like it. And he clenched his fist so hard it hurt.

  In the lobby he paused, the crowd flowing around him, giving him the usual wide berth and even wider stares. Those who did not see him were chattering animatedly, with laughter interspersed and many comments of praise for Jane— especially among the men. Nick could feel his heart throbbing with dark intent. In fact, he became aware of his entire body pulsating, alive and heated. He knew he should just drag his damn feet to the main doors and leave the goddamn theater. Instead, he abruptly turned and went backstage.

  Jane was flushed and smiling. She knew that tonight she had been better than ever, and she could not wait to read the critics tomorrow. “Jon,” she cried, whirling, her chiffon floating around her, “have I ever been better?”

  Lindley grinned. “I don’t think so, darling, never.”

  Jane turned to Robert Gordon. “Have I?” she demanded. “Have I?”

  “Never,” Robert assured her. “Maybe tonight calls for a special celebration.”

  Her laughter was rich, warm and undeniably infectious. “I feel like dancing!”