“Go to your room, Madame Marie!” Arden shouted down at her. “You don’t belong here.”
“I’ll decide where I belong, you filthy wretch!” she snapped, casting about for a weapon.
“Stay out of this. It’s not your affair. I don’t want to harm a mother.”
Marie threw her fan, the only thing she had, at his head. “I’ll show you for a mother!”
The closed fan sailed near his face and he lost his balance for a second as he dodged it, but that was all. Marie started climbing down from the balcony, clearly planning to get help—or more ammunition.
Arden turned to me with an unpleasant smile and swiped his big sword. “Never mind her. I’ve always wanted to take you in the final duel.”
“The hell you will.” I stepped into my fighting stance, watching Marie reach the wings out of the corner of my eye. At least she was safe. “I’ll be happy to defeat you yet again before the police drag you off.”
“I’m going to kill you.” He moved a little closer with a wild stroke. “Violette would have wanted to be a wife and mother if not for you.”
“Not me.” I blocked him easily and held my ground. “The music.”
“I’ll settle for you.”
“Not fencing like that, you won’t.” I backed him off.
As duels go, it was rather awkward. He wasn’t especially nimble to begin with, and that big sword (why will men always put their faith in large weapons?) just hampered his limited skill. I didn’t have to do much beyond maintain balance and block his strikes as his swings grew wilder. Eventually, I hoped, I’d just tire him out and hand him over to the authorities.
“It’s all your fault,” he hissed. “Filling Violette’s head with all that nonsense.”
“She had a right to her career, just like you.”
“‘Women’ and ‘rights’ don’t belong in the same sentence,” Arden spat, with another swipe of that silly weapon. “She was going to make me a nice little wife, and I was going to get my hands on her nice little fortune.”
From his expression, I had no doubt that he’d planned to lay lustful hands on more than Frances’s money. My stomach twisted. “You couldn’t win her, so you blackmailed her.”
“Such a harsh word. I simply tried to persuade her that a match would be best for us both.”
“While leaving a handprint bruise on her arm.”
“She would not see reason.” He took a stab in my direction, but I held my ground. “She should just have married me.”
“I doubt her family would have allowed that.”
“You mean your duke? You don’t really think he’s courting you?”
I just kept my sword up for the next block, and refused to take the bait.
“Too bad I didn’t kill him for you yesterday,” Arden went on, advancing a little.
“How’s that?” I backed him off with a thrust.
“I was walking back from the smoke shop when I saw him ambling along, all full of himself, like he’s better than anyone else—”
“Better than you.”
Arden let out a small, bitter laugh. “Is the fair maiden dreaming of our Wicked Duke?”
“None of your damned business.” I pushed him back a little more, realizing unhappily that it brought me farther from the other end of the catwalk and escape.
“More like an old maid than a fair maiden.”
I ignored that as I fended off another of his graceless strokes. “What did you do?”
“Gave him a nice shove into the street. If I’d just been a little faster, I’d have gotten to see his fancy skull smashed under the wheels.”
“Bad luck for you.”
“Good luck for you that I was a little too slow that day outside the Waldorf.”
“What?”
He gave me an evil smile. “That was just for fun. You’re just like him. Think you’re so much better than the rest of us.”
“Better than a murdering blackmailer,” I pointed out with a jab.
“Defending your man again?” he asked with that evil leer. “Don’t worry, he’ll find some other whore.”
He came at me with what was supposed to be a kill thrust. I blocked it and made a hard move forward to back him away. It was too much for him. He couldn’t reverse direction and hang on to the heavy sword, so something had to go. The sword. He fumbled for it, but it dropped and landed on the stage below with another shattering crash.
“Time to give up, Arden. I’m not going to fight an unarmed man.”
“No!” He grabbed my sword blade with both hands and pulled on it, almost throwing me off balance. I had to let go or fall.
But he gained no advantage, losing his balance on the forward motion as he threw my sword down to join his weapon. The sound of it landing reminded me just how high up we were, and what would likely happen to either of us if we fell.
Choking down that happy thought, I quickly regained my balance and waited for whatever came next as he wobbled. God forgive me, I’ll admit I thought about just giving him a good kick. Father Michael would not have denied me absolution—but I couldn’t do it.
He finally caught the catwalk rail, glaring at me, breathing hard. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands if I have to.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I snapped, taking a couple of careful steps back. I doubted I could get all the way across to the stairs on the other side before he reached me. No question I would win in a sword fight, but hand-to-hand combat, two stories up, with a larger man determined to kill me—
“Miss Shane!”
I looked across to the wings to see Saint Aubyn throwing something. I caught it by reflex, and only then happily saw it was a dagger. That’ll even the odds, I realized. “All right, then.”
“That won’t save you.” Arden took a menacing step toward me, but then accidentally looked down. His knees wobbled and his face went pale, but he clung to his bravado. “You’re just a woman, after all. I took care of Violette, and I’ll get you, too.”
“With poison,” I reminded him as I inched toward the far end of the catwalk. “A girl’s weapon.”
“No poison this time. I’ll snap your neck!”
It would have been far more frightening if he’d been able to let go of the rail as he said it.
I took another step back, right into a stroke of luck: a couple of ropes within arm’s length. Escape at hand: I could just grab one and swing to safety. As long as I kept my grip. I reached for the closest rope.
He scrabbled toward me, still hanging on to the rail with one hand as he grabbed for me with the other, getting far too close. That was the real danger here: this fool might knock me off balance and kill us both. I jabbed the dagger in his direction. “Back off!”
“Afraid?” He gave a nasty bark of a chuckle. “You were plenty scared when I almost brained you with that sandbag.”
“That was you.” I should have known the night of the girls’ school benefit, the way he’d suddenly appeared right after it happened.
He cackled. “It was such fun to see our precious diva jump for her life.”
“I’m glad I provided some entertainment.” I kept a wry tone as I held the dagger ready, testing the rope with my other hand.
“Oh, the perfect diva. Acting like you’re so far above me, when you’re really just a little Jewish mongrel from the Lower East Side.”
I knew he’d thrown the fighting words because he wanted to rattle me. I met his burning gaze with a cool smile. “I’m Malka O’Shaughnessy’s daughter, and proud of it.”
“Pride won’t save you,” he snapped, trying to lunge at me and not quite managing to let go of the rail. “It didn’t save Violette.”
“I’ll just save myself, thank you.” I held him at bay with the dagger in one hand as I pulled the rope close to me. “I’m leaving now.”
I stuck the dagger in my belt, then took a good strong grip as he again tried to take a step and fought for balance.
“And, by the way,” I s
aid as I took off, “her name was Frances.”
Arden roared in fury as the audience applauded. At first, I thought it was for me, but as I flew down, I saw Tommy and Cousin Andrew finally reaching the catwalk.
“You murdering son of a bitch!” Toms snarled as he grabbed Arden, who might well have come out better in the twenty-foot drop.
The rope was longer than I thought, and I’d slid down with a bit more force than I intended, sending me right into the wings, where I still managed a near-perfect landing by Saint Aubyn. He put an unnecessary, but not unwelcome, hand on my waist to steady me.
I explain, if not excuse, what happened next by the fact that I was still thinking like a swashbuckling hero. I kissed him. I just pulled him to me and kissed him right on the lips—and, yes, in answer to Marie’s question of a couple weeks ago, it was the first time in my life I’d kissed a man, either on the stage or off. In fairness, it was absolutely not an unwanted advance.
Nor was it any pretended stage embrace. It was more like the flash electrical fire you see when an arc light explodes. He responded with enthusiasm and skill—a good thing, since someone ought to know what they were doing here. I came to my senses as he pulled me closer, and quickly broke away.
“I’m sorry,” I started, breathless from the kiss, as well as stunned and horrified at what I’d just done.
Gilbert Saint Aubyn, damn him, just laughed. “Nothing to apologize for, Shane. Although, after that assault on my honor, I’m afraid you’ll have to marry me.”
I stared at him for a second, and he at me. While it might have started as a joke, it was suddenly a glimpse at an entirely different life than either of us had ever imagined. For at least that second backstage, though, it didn’t seem impossible.
Not only did it feel like we were the only people in the world at that moment, we may actually have been alone, between the curtains, with everyone else’s attention focused on Arden’s apprehension.
Finally I straightened myself and held the dagger out to him, handle first. “Good thing you throw better than you catch, Your Grace.”
“I caught rather well just now, actually.”
That’s a way to put it. My eyes widened, and I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.
“Well done, Miss Shane.” He took the dagger and slipped it back in its sheath as he grinned at me. Not smiled, grinned, like a little boy who was up to something he shouldn’t be. “On all counts.”
“‘O happy dagger,’ ” I managed.
Saint Aubyn nodded at the tomb scene reference and tapped the closed dagger. “Much happier in this sheath.”
“Indeed. Nobody dies in the Balcony Scene.”
“No.” He nodded farther backstage, where Cousin Andrew was dragging a disheveled and dazed Arden Standish away. “But they do get their just desserts.”
“Good thing.”
He returned my own rather dazed stare for a moment. Then: “I believe your public calls.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“Brava, Diva,” Saint Aubyn said, echoing the chant from the audience, and sweeping me a bow of his own.
“Right.” I took a breath and sorted myself out, then returned Saint Aubyn’s bow.
I walked onto the stage to the largest ovation I’d ever received. It was only as I prepared to do my usual encore, and could not remember the opening bars of the piece, that I realized I was shaking and wobbly, and closer to fainting than I’d ever been in my life. From the proximity to my Maker, not the duke, I might add.
Tommy, God love him, swept in from the wings at that second. “Not tonight, folks. The lady’s been through enough.”
“Marie?” I whispered to him as I took my bow.
“Just fine.” He nodded. “Her husband’s already taking her home.”
“Good.” I grabbed his arm, hard. “Then get me home, Toms,” I pleaded as he wrapped an arm around me. “Now.”
“You’re fine and safe, Heller. Anyone who wants you will have to come through me.”
I don’t know how I did it, but I stayed upright and basically calm as Tommy dragged me off the stage and into a waiting hansom. Divas don’t faint or cry in public, and indeed I didn’t. And Tommy won’t tattle about the rest of that night.
Chapter 32
All Things Resolved After the Curtain
By the next day, I was perfectly fine, as far as I was concerned. A small glass of medicinal brandy and a large crying jag were all the healing I required. My doctor, though, pronounced me shaken, if not seriously injured, and ordered me to rest at home for a few days to recover from the shock. I suspected she was really just forcing me to take a break with the next tour coming up fast, and as we know, she had expressed similar concerns before, but you do not argue with Dr. Edith Silver.
So I spent that Sunday ensconced on the chaise in the drawing room, with a pot of Mrs. Grazich’s dainty orange-blossom tea, and a pretty lavender afghan thrown over my feet, reading my reviews and entertaining the occasional visitor. I knew, thanks to a quick call from the telephone in the foyer, once again proving Tommy right for installing the newfangled device, that Marie was on her own chaise, with her own tea, chafing at her own set of orders from her doctor. At least she had the pleasure of watching the small Winslows cavort about the room. Montezuma wasn’t cavorting, but he was staying quite close to me, perched on a bookshelf behind the chaise as if to watch over me, too.
Aside from the reading, the rest of my pleasure consisted of accepting floral tributes and sending them on to the charity hospital. The Captain of Industry, Teddy Bridgewater, and many others I hadn’t thought had the time or inclination to express affection, including the awful Mrs. Corbyn’s kindly old father, had sent a variety of flowers, mostly the infamous red roses and lilies of the valley. And the poor mothers in the lying-in ward would no doubt be delighted to see them. I’d kept all the cards, to send thank-you notes later.
Even little Betsy and Jackie Martin appeared at the door late in the morning, bearing a damp clutch of daises that had certainly been pillaged from a corner of the park, and before Rosa could shoo them back to their mother, I invited them in for a few minutes of awestruck chat. The daisies went in a glass on the bookshelf below Montezuma.
Shortly before noon, obscenely early for him, Preston brought the latest batch of newspapers, along with yet another iteration of the riot act. He was on his way to the Beacon, so he had a limited amount of time to yell, which was a mercy. Tommy, still good and mad at me, didn’t stop him, just sat in his corner and pretended to read. Finally Preston noticed I was perilously close to tears, patted me on the head and ended with: “I was worried about you, kid.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Try not to scare me, huh? And let him watch out for you.” He indicated Tommy, who looked up from his book with a somewhat contrite expression.
Of course, I couldn’t stay at odds with him. “All right.”
Preston kissed me on the top of the head. “Good girl. Is Mrs. G about?”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. “About and fussing over her poor invalid,” I growled, indicating the vile tea.
Preston smiled. “Perhaps I’ll go distract her for a few moments before I leave for the office.”
“If it stops her from making more orange-blossom tea, Godspeed.”
“Glad to help.”
“I’ll bet you are.” I couldn’t help smiling when he straightened his tie and smoothed his hair as he marched out. I wasn’t sure exactly how courtship was conducted among the mature-adult set, but I had the distinct impression we were all about to find out . . . and I was quite sure I could find a suitable song to offer for that particular blissful occasion. Even Tommy was smiling a little, not that he’d let me see it. I hid my grin behind the latest papers.
The headlines described me in such terms as LADY SWASHBUCKLER SAVES THE DAY and DIVA SOLVES MURDER BEFORE CURTAIN CALL, which vastly overstated my detective skills, if not my admittedly impressive swo
rdsmanship. Hetty’s version in the Beacon was, of course, the best, but we had to see how the others told the story. All were exceedingly complimentary and melodramatic. Even “The Lorgnette” struck a serious note: Let us offer a prayer of thanks for the safety of our heroic trouser diva, and for the soul of the troubled young man who caused so much harm. All in all, a good day in the papers.
Tommy, I suspected, would have liked to use some unprintable words. He had barely left my side, sitting across the room and occasionally tossing a newspaper my way, while looking like a thundercloud, except for a friendly greeting he’d given the children—and that one glance at Preston, because, after all, he wasn’t the one who’d caused all the trouble.
Of course, it was merely the typical Irish male reaction to a loved one’s danger. We have seen this before. He was no doubt itching to punch someone, but, of course, there was no one to blame but Arden, and the law had charge of him. Plus, Toms had already helped drag him in. So he sulked and read his book.
I knew how this would end, and I’ll warrant you do, too. Eventually he would say something really sharp to me, I would probably cry, and we would make up with a walk to the ice cream parlor. I rather wished we could just skip to the ice cream, since it was late enough in the spring that there just might be my favorite flavor: violet. I was quite sure Dr. Silver would not mind my rising from the chaise for that.
Toms hadn’t said anything about my backstage indiscretion with the duke, which, even though he was restricting himself to surly syllables, would not have passed without comment. And after reading the papers, I was reasonably certain that neither he nor anyone else had seen anything. I had no intention of ’fessing up, which left me with the odd feeling that I might have gotten away with it, though I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted that. And the enforced rest gave me far too much time to think.
Worse, what I found myself thinking about was not how utterly unladylike my behavior had been, or even of the potential consequences to my reputation. No, despite being a woman of years and discretion, I found myself remembering the feel of Saint Aubyn’s lips on mine, and the unavoidable electricity between us. Preston would smirk and raise a glass, Dr. Silver would probably tell me that’s exactly how normal, healthy people react when they’re attracted to each other, and Marie would likely remind me that the body will not be denied, but that was slim consolation.
A Fatal Finale Page 25