by Mia Vincy
Gripping the velvet curtain, Thea scanned the crowd, searching for Helen, until a drumbeat rolled through the room, and a man in thick face paint took center stage. He launched into a poetry recital, gradually winning the crowd’s attention. The man looked familiar, but Thea could not place him, and her mind was puzzling it over when her roaming eyes landed on Percy Russell and Francis Upton, standing not ten yards from her. They wore elaborate outfits in the ostentatious style of the old French Court: plush coats and ornate waistcoats, with frilly cuffs and lacy cravats. Their eyes skated over her without recognition. Just as well; they would find it great sport to expose her and see her cast out.
As she watched, a footman, white wig in contrast to his brown skin, offered them a tray bearing two drinks. Percy and Francis took the glasses without acknowledging the servant, toasted each other, and tossed back the drinks in a single gulp. They dropped the glasses back on the tray, and then Percy said something to the footman that made them both laugh nastily.
Vile, dastardly knaves. Still nothing harmed or touched them. Even servants went out of their way to please them, and never mind that they were rude. Just look at that footman, heading in Thea’s direction now, unfazed by their rudeness, with the empty glasses rolling around on his tray and an amused expression on his features.
Her features.
The footman was a woman. An unexpectedly familiar woman.
“Martha?” Thea blinked in surprise, and Martha jerked to a halt.
“Thea, is that you?” Martha grinned. “We hoped to see you here.”
“We?” Thea looked at the empty glasses on Martha’s tray. “What are you up to? I do not believe you have taken a position as footman in the Prince Regent’s household.”
“It is a costume party. Entonces, I am wearing a costume.” Martha shrugged and tidied the two glasses on her tray. “It is not my fault if those self-centered snots do not realize it.”
“What was in those drinks?”
“I need more people for my experiments. You see, they are not completely useless.”
“Oh Martha, you didn’t give them your drugs! Not without them knowing!”
“Do not feel bad. It will not hurt them. Remember, it merely makes them behave as they truly are. Watch the theatre now,” she added brightly, and disappeared into the crowd.
Thea was starting to feel as though someone had slipped something into her drink too, for this evening was becoming like one of those dreams populated by everyone she knew. Her parents, Percy and Francis, Martha, and there was the Bishop of Dartford, dressed as Puck, and she finally placed the man on stage as William Dudley, the actor who had pretended to be the zealot outside Rafe’s house, and whom the bishop had seen performing on the road.
Then an unseen drum began to beat, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat late at night. Whispers started and faded, as a figure stalked onto the stage, face and body hidden under a black, shapeless cloak.
The drumbeat quickened. Another drum joined it, and then another, all in overlaying rhythms. The figure began to spin. The drums beat faster. Harder. Filling the room, until Thea felt her skin and bones vibrate. A flute sounded over the top, its fast, high trills weaving through the beats.
On the stage, the figure was whirling and whirling, whirling off the black cloak, whirling so that her skirts flew out, whirling so that the candlelight lit the jewels woven through her bright red hair, and her gold-colored gown glinted, and her gold satin gloves gleamed.
The drums and flute rose to a crescendo. And stopped.
The woman stood still, her arms raised in a V, her face glowing with triumph.
Stunned silence fell.
With unsteady hands, Thea yanked off her mask and stared. A moment later, England’s finest were gasping and applauding and calling the woman’s name.
Sarah Holloway had returned to the London stage.
That confident manner that Thea so admired was in full force tonight, as Sally—the world could call her Sarah Holloway but to Thea she would always be Sally—took command of the awestruck audience. They might rule the country, but in this moment, Sally ruled them. Ventnor had forced her to hide, but she was hiding no more. She stood before the cream of society, proud and compelling, and they loved her, whether they wanted to or not.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Sally said, her rich, melodious voice filling every corner of the cavernous room. “I present myself tonight for one special performance only.”
The audience chorused their disappointment. Thea remembered that Sally had performed alongside William Dudley. That William Dudley’s traveling theatre troupe had been performing on the road to London.
“A special performance for the entertainment of the Prince Regent and his esteemed guests. Tonight’s play uses false names to hide its truth, for this is a true story, and the true actors walk among you in this room. Here is the puzzle and the riddle and the game: Can you unmask the truth of this story? And guess whose tale we truly tell?”
That set them all whispering. Thea’s breath caught, as her eyes strayed back to Percy and Francis. The bishop had said William Dudley’s troupe was performing The Tale of Rosamund. Excitement jolted through her.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Sally said over their murmuring. “We present a short play titled ‘Win Some, Lose Some’.”
Oh. Thea forced a smile. Not her play, then. Never mind. She was happy to see Sally anyway.
But in the next breath, Sally added, “Also known as: The Tale of Rosamund. A winsome lass who was cruelly wronged by two dastardly knaves.”
Chapter 27
Up on the stage, the actors took their places, and the play began. Thea inched back into the alcove, using the velvet curtain to cover her face to her eyes, expecting the whole crowd to turn, to boo and hiss and toss her out.
No one turned. No one even noticed her, for all were transfixed by the drama unfolding on the stage. Thea let herself relax, and take in what was happening.
Despite everything, her story was being told.
One night in a coaching inn, a man had asked to hear her story, so Thea had stood on a chair and told her tale to a tipsy crowd. That tale had somehow assumed a life of its own, picked up by traveling theatre companies and performed, over and over, so that even as her pamphlets burned and rained ash down on London, her story lived on. To be told to the people she most needed to hear it.
Yet not to the person she needed most.
Rafe.
Thea looked at the actors on the stage, and at the cream of society watching, at Percy and Francis and Ma and Pa. She realized she no longer cared what any of them thought of her. The performance of this play was a victory for her, but a hollow one, for even this she would sacrifice, if it meant she could be with Rafe. Finally, she had figured out what she wanted, and she had already lost it; finally, she had grown up and now it was too late.
Not yet, she thought. It wasn’t too late yet.
She’d find Arabella now, and beg, borrow, or steal money to leave London tonight. The sooner she left, the sooner she’d be at Brinkley End.
Decided, Thea drew back behind the velvet curtain and turned, almost colliding with a large man who had come too close.
He was big and broad, this man, with a great lion’s head over his tousled dark hair, and an intent look in his brandy-colored eyes.
His mouth curved into a half smile.
“There you are,” Rafe said.
The arrangements were cobbled together so hastily, there was the risk Rafe would not find her, but as all the other pieces fell into place smoothly, he had not worried too much. If he could find a tiny flower in the middle of the selva, he could find the woman he loved in the middle of the Prince Regent’s party.
And like magic, he had. He had slipped through the side door into the alcove to watch the play, and there she was. His Thea. He devoured her with his eyes: her hair tumbling in delicate curls, the surprise animating her features, her expressive blue gaze.
It took all his strength not to launch himself at her and haul her into his arms. Tensing every muscle in his tortured body, Rafe prayed, yet again, that this time he had understood. That he had accurately understood Thea’s reasons for leaving and what she needed. That he had finally understood her.
Behind her, the heavy curtains swayed and closed. On the other side of the curtains, actors performed for society. On this side of the curtain lay everything important and real.
Her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears.
“Thea?” Rafe whispered.
Somehow, his hands found hers. She clutched a fan and the Venetian cat mask, but his hands were big enough to hold hers and whatever she carried too.
“I am so sorry,” she blurted out, her voice low and urgent. “I made the wrong choices. I was coming back to you. But…you’re here.”
“I could not wait.” He drew her deeper, into a corner of the alcove. They moved together as easily as if they were both floating. “I heard Ventnor burned your pamphlets. I cannot tell you how much I regret not being there to stop him. I could have stopped him, if only I had come sooner. I’m sorry I let you down.”
“But it does not matter. I’m glad he burned them, because that was how I saw the truth.” Her eyes searched his, frantically. “My story, my reputation, my family: None of it matters. What mattered most was that I lost you.” Her fingers weaved more tightly around his. Something fell to the floor at their feet, but neither paid it any mind. “What I mean is, I love you.”
Rafe’s heart stopped, jolted, tumbled through his body to his knees, and then started up again with as much fervor as if he’d sprinted a mile. Blood rushed in his ears, the audience laughed, but all the noise in the world would not stop him from hearing her words.
“I love you, Rafe, I do, and I have for a long time. I wish I had told you before. Because you should know that you are loved. That you are—you are everything. I should have simply said it, but I was too scared and I got it all wrong, and now you’re here, and I don’t know why you’re here, but everyone’s here, it’s like a dream, and I’m talking too much, and I know you don’t like talking, and you don’t owe me anything but I love you anyway.”
She breathed in deeply, raggedly. Rafe was out of breath too, though he’d not said a word.
“Say something,” she whispered.
He did not dare look away from her, for fear she might disappear. “I understand now, why you had to go. You had to fight your own battles, address your past before you could look to your future. You helped me break free from my past, and you needed to do that for yourself too. I wish I had understood sooner.” He freed one hand, caressed her cheek, chased away the distress haunting her eyes. “You were coming back to me?” he repeated.
“I had to. I resolved to be brave this time. To take a risk, to ask for what is mine. You said you would not come after me, so I vowed to come after you. I vowed to ask you to forgive me and give me another chance.”
“Thea, know that I shall always come after you, as long as you want me. You said you cannot trust the ground on which you walk, but know this: I will be the earth beneath your feet.” He lifted her hands, pressed his lips to her knuckles, and struggled for the words. “I’ve had days to craft a proper marriage proposal, to get it right this time but… I can only tell you that I love you, Thea, fiercely, truly, irrevocably. Just say you’ll have me, and I will be there for you as long as you want me.”
“Always,” she whispered. “Which is precisely as long as I’ll be there for you.”
“Is that a yes?”
A broken laugh flew out of her lips, and on it rode the word he longed to hear: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
She laughed again, but she was crying too, and fighting both. He knew how she felt for he felt it too: so much emotion that his body could hardly contain it, and his cheeks ached from smiling and his eyes stung.
“You’re crying,” she said.
“I am not.”
This time, when she laughed, that breathy, tear-hued laugh, he captured it with his mouth. As soon as his lips touched hers, time disappeared, along with his breath, so he took hers: took her breath, took her love, and offered all of his. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her body to his. She matched his ardor. Her hands slid around his neck, the mask dangling from her fingers thwacking him and sending his lion’s head tumbling to the floor.
“We have to get out of here,” Rafe muttered against her lips.
“Yes.”
“Get home.”
“Yes.”
But that meant releasing her, and he could not bear to do that yet, could not remove his arms. Thea let her forehead fall onto his shoulder, and Rafe rested his cheek on her hair. His chest was still tight with emotion, and his body ached with desire. He reminded himself to breathe, but breathing didn’t seem to matter, not when he had found her and never had to let her go.
Time lost meaning, until the rising voices of the actors on the other side of the curtain reminded them to ease apart.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rafe muttered. He scooped up her fan, assessed the fallen lion’s head and decided it could stay. “The bishop has obtained a special license and set the paperwork to rights. We can marry tonight if you wish. Unless you want a big wedding.”
“All I want is you. Oh, I must tell Arabella. Oh, and Sally and Martha. And… Oh, but this was you! The theatre. Of course it was you!”
“I failed to stop Ventnor from burning your pamphlets, but I could still make your story heard. The Royal Household was eager to accommodate my request to present a play by the Luxborough Players.”
“The Luxborough Players?”
Her pleasure so delighted him, the Royal Household might as well have named him king. “All the best earls and countesses own a theatre company.”
She pressed a hand to his chest, her eyes concerned again. “You do so many things for me, and I do nothing for you.”
“Such things are easy for me. I’m an earl, remember, whether I want it or not. And you have done everything for me. Everything.” He lowered his head to kiss her again, remembered where they were, and stepped away. “Now that I know you, I know I want to be part of this world, with you. So I intend to take my seat in the House of Lords properly. There is much we must do better—improve conditions in asylums, abolish slavery, reform voting, provide education. It means we will live in London half the year, while Parliament is sitting.”
Thea’s eyes widened. “But all those people! All that talking!”
“It will be a trial,” he agreed glumly. “But I’ll be with you.”
“We’ll build you a darling little greenhouse here in London, where you can escape when you need time alone. And we’ll spend the other half of the year at Brinkley End, I hope?”
“You will not grow bored there? You know I do not need the company of many people,” he reminded her. “And if you do…”
“I would not say I need other people, although I do like them.”
“And if there are no people?”
She sighed dramatically. “Then I suppose you will have to do.” She grinned and patted his cheek. “I shall write my stories. Besides, a countess can do all kinds of useful things. I could fight rumors, for example, and give a voice to those who have none. Although I doubt I’ll be a very good countess, and society may not accept me.”
“You will be the very best countess and society will love you. They’ll deal with me if they don’t.”
“What about your plants and medicines?”
“Martha and I will hire others to work with her. I have agreed to let Sally and Martha live in the Dower House. It seems that they, ah, wish to set up a household together.”
“Together, together? Well, there’s a surprise. How marvelous for them.”
“It is rather, isn’t it?” He lowered his head then paused. “Bloody hell, if I kiss you again… Can we stop all this blasted talking and get out of here?”
They snuck up to the curtain like na
ughty children, and peered at the stage. It was nearing the scene at the ball, where the two dastardly knaves told society lies about Rosamund to bring about her ruin.
“I need to find the bishop,” Rafe whispered, his eyes scanning the audience. “Can you see him?”
“I cannot. Oh. Percy and Francis.”
Rafe ran his hand down her back. “Who are about to get their comeuppance. Do you want to watch that?”
“Um.”
He glanced at her face. “What are you scheming?”
Her thoughtful look melted into a mischievous smile. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”
Chapter 28
There were many things Thea wished to say to Percy Russell and Francis Upton, but she supposed the right thing would be to warn them that they had taken an intoxicant, and might not be quite themselves.
Unless Martha’s theory was right, and the drug made them more themselves.
When they saw her approaching around the edges of the audience, they elbowed each other and again bowed in unison. Francis’s wig fell off and he giggled.
Ah, so the drug had taken effect.
On stage, Rosamund stood in shocked horror as she faced her disgrace. In the audience, ladies and gentlemen were murmuring to each other. Several people spied Thea stopping next to Percy, and put their heads together to start whispering anew.
“That’s us up there,” Percy hissed to Thea. “We did that to you. Why are those actors performing our story?”
It wasn’t their story, Thea thought angrily; it was her story.
“Now everyone will know,” she replied. “Are you sorry?”
Percy laughed, drawing more stares. It was a bit like a donkey’s bray, his laugh. “It was great sport. Why be sorry?”
Francis giggled again. “The expression on your face when we lied about you at the ball!”