Sweetest Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Hoyt

Eve shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. Mr. Harte stepped out about an hour ago and I haven’t seen him since.” She glanced at Jean-Marie, sitting in the corner with a book. He’d put on his half-moon spectacles, which always made him look very scholarly.

  Jean-Marie placed a finger in his book and pursed his lips. “I think he went to talk to Mr. MacLeish. I ’eard ’im say something about the tiles for the roof. Shall I go find ’im?”

  Poor Jean-Marie had been sitting in the chair in the corner for several hours. No doubt he needed to stretch his legs. “Please.”

  The footman went out, but Violetta didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. “You make the accounts, eh?” she said, watching with interest as Eve turned the paper in her hand. “I admire this, the so-orderly mind. Me, I do not have it, I am afraid.” She shrugged elaborately, her smooth shoulders gleaming in a low-cut rose-colored gown.

  “But then you don’t need to keep books, I would think,” Eve said tentatively.

  Violetta’s glance was suddenly sharp. “Books, no, but it doesn’t do to forget about money and where it comes from. My voice is magnificent, but a singer only has a few years at best. I must consider my future when I can no longer sing.”

  Eve shivered, thinking how desperate such a life might become. “Mr. Harte has paid you a great deal to sing in the opera that will reopen his gardens.”

  “Yes, this is so,” Violetta agreed. “But if he cannot find a castrato—and soon—I will have to leave for another house. Even I cannot sing an entire opera alone, and it would be death to go a whole season without singing in an opera.”

  Eve stared. That seemed very cold-blooded, especially considering how she’d first met the opera singer. “I thought you and Mr. Harte had an… er… understanding?”

  Violetta cocked her head.

  “I mean…” Eve cleared her throat, feeling very unworldly. “That is… well, you were in his bed the other day.”

  Violetta threw back her head and laughed, full-throated and ebullient. “Yes, yes, Asa and I shared a passion that night, but it was not so serious, you understand.”

  Eve really didn’t. Why would a woman give herself to a man unless she wanted to keep that man?

  Violetta seemed to see her confusion. “He is so masculine, don’t you think? I love his shoulders and his, how do you say? His heat, his vitality. He is so alive, darling Asa.”

  Eve lowered her eye. She was very aware of Mr. Makepeace’s heat and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to be the focus of it.

  Violetta shrugged, seemingly unaware of Eve’s thoughts. “But alas, he hasn’t the money. Now, I am friends with a duke, and he is not so young and vigorous as Asa, but he gifts me with lovely jewels and a carriage.”

  Eve blinked, a little shocked. Was Mr. Makepeace aware that he’d been thrown over for a richer man? She couldn’t help a pang of sympathy. It would hurt his pride so! “I… I see.”

  “You do not approve?” Violetta raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

  “No,” Eve replied. “That is, it’s not my place to approve or disapprove.” She hesitated, then found herself blurting, “But I don’t understand. Your duke gives you something for your… time. But you went to Mr. Harte’s bed simply because…” She trailed away, honestly confused. “Because you wanted to?”

  “But yes,” Violetta said simply. “He is a very good lover, caro Asa.”

  “You enjoyed it,” Eve said slowly. She studied the other woman intently, completely unable to understand.

  Violetta looked at her a moment, her mobile face stilled, and then her eyes softened somehow.

  “Yes,” she said gently. “I enjoy a man’s embrace very much.”

  Eve glanced down at the hands in her lap. Not for the first time she felt as if she were so different from other women she might as well be something else entirely. A mermaid or a walking statue, perhaps. Something sexless and apart. Something singular, destined to never find a companion, let alone a mate.

  “You do not feel the same?” Violetta asked.

  Eve inhaled, pasting a tiny smile upon her face. “I’m unmarried. Naturally I’ve never felt a man’s embrace.”

  “But you enjoy men, yes?”

  “I…” Eve frowned, thinking. “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, men.” Violetta smiled widely. “Do you like gazing upon the line of their shoulders, the strength of their hands, the hair on their arms? Sometimes it is simply a deep voice that makes me… mmm…” She smiled to herself, her eyes half closing. “It brings a warmth to me here.” She placed her hands on her middle. “When I am near a man sometimes his scent, that musky, male smell, it makes me so weak. It is a lovely sensation, yes?”

  She looked at Eve. And Eve simply stared back, bewildered.

  “You don’t feel this way?” Violetta’s eyes were sad.

  “I’m afraid.” Eve bit her lip, horrified she’d said the words aloud. But having said them, she went on. “Mostly… when I see or hear or smell a man, I feel afraid.”

  “I am so sorry, cara.”

  Eve swallowed and looked away, not wanting to see Violetta’s pity.

  “It can be very, very nice,” Violetta said kindly. “With the right man, with a man who is good and knows how to touch a woman. It can be… so very beautiful.”

  Eve smiled—stiffly, she was aware—but there was nothing she could say. She knew that she would never feel “nice” with a man.

  It would never be beautiful for her.

  The door to the office opened and Mr. Makepeace came in, followed by Jean-Marie. “Damned shingles! They’ve found a second shipment—and half of those are broken as well. Perhaps between the two cartfuls we’ll have enough shingles to roof the bloody theater.”

  He was like a summer storm, fast and hot and overwhelming in the tiny room. Eve felt her breath catch in her chest, unable to exhale, and she remembered Violetta’s words: He is very alive, darling Asa. Jealousy and want, sudden and overwhelming, beat against her heart.

  Eve glanced away. She simply had no right to feel jealous of Violetta and Mr. Makepeace. She knew that fact intellectually, but alas, jealousy was an emotion unaffected by her mind. She couldn’t entirely shake it.

  Mr. Makepeace had stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowed as he glanced at Eve and Violetta. “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing, caro.” Violetta rose and bussed him on the cheek. “Come, I have questions to ask you about the opera we shall perform here soon. Shall we walk the gardens?”

  “Oh, there’s no cause to leave on my account,” Eve said hastily. She needed to regain her composure. “Please stay. I’d like to take a turn about the gardens anyway.”

  Violetta beamed at her. “Thank you, my friend. I shan’t be long.”

  Jean-Marie raised his eyebrows, but followed her from the office without comment. They made their way through the maze of corridors behind the stage, the music from in front muffled, but slightly louder than it had been in the office.

  Eve turned impulsively to Jean-Marie. “Let’s see the rehearsal.”

  He threw a quick grin at her and they turned, coming out in one of the wings.

  The musicians were indeed rehearsing, but they weren’t the only ones. Polly and half a dozen other dancers leaped across the stage, their gossamer costumes floating rather scandalously around their legs. Because the stage had a half-moon apron that thrust out into the theater they were actually viewing the dancers from the back. When the dancers leaped into the air, they were backlit by the bright lights at the front, like fairies cavorting before a fire. Eve watched, enthralled by their grace, until the piece came to an end.

  Mr. Vogel yelled something to the orchestra while the dancers milled for a moment, drawing nearer onto the main part of the stage. Polly caught sight of Eve in the wings and waved frantically at her.

  “I think she wants to talk to you,” Jean-Marie said beside her, amusement in his voice. “I shall stay ’ere in case it is an intimate discussion.”

  “She probably ju
st wants to thank me for letting her bring little Bets today.” Eve bit her lip in sudden worry. “Unless she has another friend with a child.”

  She heard Jean-Marie’s bass chuckle behind her as she walked onto the stage. She paused a moment to look out into the theater, marveling at how the space seemed darker and somehow larger from this perspective.

  “Miss Dinwoody!” Polly called, and Eve turned toward her. “Come meet my friends.” Polly stood with two other dancers Eve hadn’t been introduced to yet.

  Eve smiled and started toward the center of the stage, and as she did so she heard the most startling sound, a loud abrupt CRACK!

  For a moment nothing happened.

  And then everything gave way beneath her.

  ASA WAS RUNNING even before he heard the final CRASH.

  The corridors behind the stage were narrow and dimly lit because they were the working part of the theater—the part never seen by his guests. He rounded a sharp turn and came out on a wing beside the stage. A half dozen or so dancers were huddled there and he pushed past them to look.

  Where the stage had been was now a pile of jagged wood and still-falling dust. Bloody fucking hell. The stage had collapsed into the basement below.

  The orchestra had been practicing in the pit. Some of the musicians were standing, while others were still sitting, holding their instruments in shock.

  As Asa stared, Jean-Marie placed his bleeding palms on the still-standing floor in front of Asa and levered himself out of the ruins of the stage. “Eve.” He inhaled and doubled over, coughing. “Eve.”

  Asa looked at the faces surrounding the stage, but even as he realized that Eve wasn’t among them, his heart knew the truth:

  Dear God, Eve was in the wreckage.

  Chapter Six

  That night the king’s guard came for Dove. They took her deep, deep into the wild forest until they came upon a small hut. Inside, candles flickered against blood-red walls. The king sat beside a table, his enormous belly sagging over his knees, and on the table were a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread.

  The guards departed, leaving the girl alone with her father.

  Dove swallowed before dipping into a curtsy. “Your Majesty.”…

  —From The Lion and the Dove

  The crash of the stage falling had drawn a crowd—gardeners, roofers, musicians, and his theater folk.

  “Help me clear the way!” Asa roared, taking a board and wrenching it from the wreckage. The thought of Eve trapped in the darkness below made his gut clench with stark fear.

  “Did you see her?” he demanded from Jean-Marie. “Is she alive?”

  “I do not know,” the footman said grimly as he worked beside Asa. “She was standing on the stage with two or three dancers when it collapsed. I tried to find ’er, but there are boards in the way and I could not see.”

  “Bring a light!” Asa bellowed as he tore off his coat for better maneuverability.

  He clambered down into the small space they’d cleared. The basement floor was about eight feet below the part of the stage that still stood. Trapdoors in the stage had opened into the basement and the area was also used for storage. The dust was thick here, lingering in the air, and he coughed, squinting through the gloom. He could hear breathing and a low sob close by. He glanced back up to see Vogel thrusting a lit candlestick down to him.

  Asa held the candlestick high. He was confronted by a wall of broken planks and debris.

  Behind him he heard Jean-Marie drop into the small space.

  Without a word Asa jammed the candlestick into a crevice and began heaving at the pieces of wood, passing them back to Jean-Marie as he pulled them free. A huge beam was revealed, lying diagonally across the space. Asa swore under his breath and set his shoulder to the beam. It shifted slightly under his weight, but so did the debris settled on it overhead. If he even managed to move the beam, he ran the risk of a further collapse. He turned sideways and began inching to the right, trying to find a way around the beam.

  “Do you see ’er?” the footman asked.

  Asa squinted, craning his neck. He could just make out a glimpse of yellow satin. The dancers had been wearing yellow costumes this morning.

  “I see one of the dancers.” Where the hell was Eve?

  He moved another awkward step and then was stopped by a pile of planks. Asa took hold of a plank and wrenched it out. By tilting his hips, he was just able to move it past his own stomach and back to the footman.

  He repeated the process twice more and was rewarded by the sight of a pale face. One of the dancers, Polly Potts.

  She was biting her lip, looking frightened nearly out of her wits.

  “We’ll have you out in a trice, sweetheart,” Asa said to her. “Do you know where Miss Dinwoody is?”

  The dancer sobbed. “It’s my fault. I called to Miss Dinwoody to come meet my friends. She wouldn’t have been on the stage otherwise.”

  Asa set his jaw grimly. “Do you see her back there?”

  “I can’t see anything,” was the reply. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Harte.”

  “Never mind, luv. Come, can you crawl toward me?”

  She nodded.

  With his help she crawled from the hollow she’d lain in until she was huddled beside him in the cramped space.

  He patted her shoulder. “Behind me is Miss Dinwoody’s man, Jean-Marie, who will help you out.”

  Polly nodded and crawled toward the light and Jean-Marie.

  Asa got on his hands and knees and wedged himself into the space Polly had just been in. Instinctively his skin itched. Above him were the remains of the stage, balanced who knew how perilously. Should it collapse again he’d be buried alive.

  But he could hear a low, continuous moaning, animal and hurt. His teeth gritted against the thought of Eve making that sound.

  Mechanically he dug through the wreckage, trying not to think too hard when the moans suddenly stopped. She was all right. She must be all right. He couldn’t fathom never arguing with her again.

  He reached for the last plank, noting absently that fresh sawdust lay on the strangely even end. He pulled it toward himself and then froze for an instant.

  The plank was half sawn through, the wood pale and fresh and ending on jagged splinters where it had broken the rest of the way.

  Asa inhaled, tamping down rage, and pulled the board out, passing it without comment to Jean-Marie.

  When he bent to look again he met Eve’s wide blue eyes and went light-headed with relief. “Are you hurt?”

  She half sat, half lay surrounded by debris and with a dark-haired dancer sprawled across her lap. Eve licked her lips and he saw that there was a smudged trail of blood at her temple. “You have to get her out, Asa. I… I don’t know if she’s breathing. She was moaning before but now she’s stopped making any sounds.”

  He glanced at the girl across her lap and knew immediately that it was too late. “Eve, are you hurt?”

  She lifted a hand, touching her golden hair, grimy with dust. “I… my head?”

  He nodded. Either she’d been hit on the head or she was dazed from the collapse. “Hold on.”

  A great beam blocked his way to her. Asa braced his legs, wrapped his arms about the beam, and yanked.

  For a moment nothing happened, save for his muscles trembling under the strain.

  Then the beam gave with a creak and a shower of smaller debris.

  Asa panted a moment, inhaled deeply, and, using his legs, shoved himself backward, hugging the bloody beam to his chest like a lover. Thrice more he did it until Jean-Marie’s hands were helping to lift the damnable thing off him.

  “Eve?” asked the bodyguard urgently.

  Asa realized that he couldn’t see her, only hear her voice. “She looks largely unhurt. Deborah, one of the dancers, is lying on her. I’m going to hand Deborah back to you.”

  “Is she—?” Jean-Marie started, but Asa gave him a sharp look and shook his head.

  The footman winced before noddi
ng. “Very well.”

  Asa crawled back into the space to find Eve with her hand on Deborah’s cheek. She looked up, her eyes stricken. “She’s very badly off.”

  “Let me take her, luv,” Asa said.

  He looped the dancer’s slack arms around his neck and gently lifted her, pushing backward with his legs to half carry, half drag her out.

  Jean-Marie took her without comment and Asa dived back in again, cautiously shoving aside planks of wood. Eve was nearly prone, a pile of broken boards lying directly on her right leg. Asa winced at the sight and started pulling the boards off her.

  “Can you move, luv?”

  “Yes, of course,” Eve replied, and she even sounded a little insulted.

  Asa felt a grin split his face. “That’s my girl.”

  He pulled away the last plank, freeing the leg. He bent to examine it. To his relief there was no blood on her dress. He glanced up. Broken boards hovered overhead, ready to crash down at any moment.

  He looked back at Eve, holding out his hand. “Come on, then.”

  She looked between him and his hand, pressing her lips together, but not moving.

  He frowned. “Eve.”

  She inhaled and took his hand, awkwardly inching toward him without a sound.

  “Brave lass,” Asa purred.

  He caught her other hand, ignoring her flinch, and pulled her into his arms. What a small thing she was! She might be tall, but Eve’s body was as light as a bird’s. He could feel the delicate bones of her shoulder, the slender span of her waist, and he thanked God that she’d not been crushed by the planks falling on her.

  She trembled against him as he made his way back toward the light and those waiting for them. She held her body stiffly, almost away from him, and he would’ve made some sarcastic comment, but then they were in the light.

  “Ah, ma petite,” Jean-Marie rumbled when he saw them. “You ’ave been so courageous. A little more and this will be over.”

  The footman reached for Eve and for a moment Asa fought the urge to tighten his arms.

  Then he was surrendering Eve to Jean-Marie, who lifted her up onto the solid floor of one of the wings beside the stage.