He’d met his father’s happy accomplice later that day: a plain woman in drab colors, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. Olivia had everything to gain: trading the dismal life of a governess for the rank and wealth of a countess. Even now, he could not blame her. Who would not have done what she had? He only wished some other lord had been the sacrifice. Beneath her demure exterior, she had been well-spoken, well-read, thoughtful in her opinions, perceptive in her observations, and even kind, though his behavior had hardly warranted it. But she was neither adventurous nor daring. Olivia was a swan when he had wanted a hawk.
Yet he’d still felt drawn to her. Like the sirens, she tempted him to give up his plans for adventure and glory and remain in her arms forever. He remembered the feel of her hair, thick and luxuriant. But though he could recall each kiss, each sigh, every moment that he had buried himself in her, he could only remember her face in pieces. Her eyes were bottomless, her brow honest, her cheekbones firm, her jaw strong, her ears a sweet labyrinth. But knowing how many kisses it took to travel to her chin from her ear offered little help in recognizing her in a crowd.
The wailing of Mrs. Wells’s heroine brought Harrison back to the present. He looked over the stage. Mrs. Wells was kneeling, holding a young woman’s body across her lap. Her cries resembled the honking of a goose in flight. Lord, what a sound! And this play was a comedy?
He fought the urge to run from the box and seek solace in the relative quiet of a gambling hell. But he was surprised to find the audience—men and women alike—brushing tears away. Even Lady Wilmot raised her handkerchief to blot her eyes. Harrison looked back at the stage. Perhaps had he been paying attention, he would have found the scene affecting as well, but he doubted it.
On stage, a young man, weeping, sat beside Mrs. Wells and took the dead girl in his arms. “Our parents, united in their hatred of each other’s family, refused our love. Though God had already heard our vows, they rejected our marriage and chose for us other wives and husbands. But you, my sweet Jennie, have thwarted their plots, and shown me the path to avoid the foul marriage my parents have forced upon me.” The actor gently brushed the hair from the dead girl’s face, while Mrs. Wells wept some more, a horrible peacock feather swaying dramatically before her face.
I am not a good audience for this play, Harrison thought, but he forced himself to pay some attention. A good guest should at least know how the confounded thing ended.
The boy-lover raised a vial that had fallen to the floor, and ignoring Mrs. Wells’s protest, drank it dramatically, declaiming to the girl’s corpse, “Life without you is a dark vale, promising nothing but sorrow. But I can die, my sweet wife, and dying join you in paradise.”
Soon, thank God, the young man slumped over as well. From the corners of the stage, pallbearers entered bearing coffins. They lifted the bodies into them and hammered the lids shut. The coffins were left on the stage side by side, as the lamps dimmed for a change of scene.
He unfolded the playbill he had slipped into his waistcoat. Thomas Middleton’s A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, in a new version, adapted for the modern stage by “Dr. Busby.” He hated not knowing who to blame for this bastard Romeo and Juliet. He should have stayed with Palmersfield and Capersby and drunk another bottle of claret.
A collective gasp from the audience drew Harrison’s attention back to the performers. While the priest looked on, workmen were prying the lids from the coffins. What have I missed now? Standing between the coffins, the priest called for the lovers to arise.
The parents—led by a joyful Mrs. Wells and her equally joyful feather—embraced their living children, and the lovers entered the church accompanied by the sound of wedding bells. Drivel, pure and simple. But the crowd’s applause was thunderous.
“What do you think, Walgrave?” Lady Wilmot watched him with all-too-perceptive eyes. “Can two lovers, separated by prejudice, be reunited by the power of love?”
Forster leaned forward to comment. “Be careful how you answer, Walgrave. Sophia believes in the strength of love to overcome all obstacles.”
“I am too jaded to believe in fairy tales.” Harrison accompanied his answer with what he hoped was a winning smile.
“Why, Walgrave, I do believe you have never been in love,” Lady Wilmot chided.
“I merely know love’s limitations. In my experience, a dead lover tends to remain dead, and she certainly doesn’t spring to life on the church steps.”
“Beware, Sophia.” Forster shook his head. “In Parliament, he’s famous for chipping at an opponent’s position until he has dismantled the whole.”
“There are arguments, and there is truth. When you love someone, it is a truth that admits no argument,” Lady Wilmot pronounced firmly.
“I agree, your ladyship. Many a fool who has set his cap on love refuses to hear any argument.”
“I fear you will not approve of the afterpiece—in it, a case of mistaken identities leads to true love,” Lady Wilmot teased.
He read the title on the playbill. “Ah, I know this piece. It’s silly.”
“Silly?” Lady Wilmot raised an eyebrow. “Another might call it sweet, even charming.”
“Let’s review the plot, shall we, my lady?” Harrison pronounced with a wink. “Two young persons, unacquainted with one another, are betrothed by their fathers. The young man is sent to visit his fiancée, but disguises himself as a cowherd in order to discover her true character. The young woman, like-minded, disguises herself as a gypsy, hoping to intercept her betrothed and observe his character at the market. Cowherd meets gypsy. She sings a provocative love song, and they fall immediately, irrevocably, and passionately in love.”
“Do you find love at first sight so impossible to believe?” Sophia tucked her hand around Forster’s elbow.
In his mind’s eye, Harrison saw Olivia, standing on the battlements, the starlight behind her, her soft body calling to him despite his anger. He pushed away the memory. “Oh, no, Lady Wilmot, I’m sure someone somewhere has loved truly and well from the first moments of a chance acquaintance. But whenever I hear such a story, I always wonder if it is love or indigestion.”
“You devil.” She shook her head in mock dismay. “Someday, Walgrave, you will fall in love, and I will be the first to send you flowers.”
“Whiskey, my lady. If you ever discover I am besotted, whiskey will be the cure. It is unfortunate that after this evening’s performance, half of the unmarried audience will believe that arranged marriages between perfect strangers lead to true love.”
Forster leaned forward to quiz Harrison. “And the other half?”
“They will be intent on taking advantage of each believer’s gullibility. No, don’t roll your eyes at me, Forster. I wear my skepticism proudly.”
“Even if you find the plot foolish, you will likely admire the quality of the musical performances.” Forster wrapped his hand around Lady Wilmot’s. “Apparently the actress who plays the gypsy sings with the voice of an angel.”
“Look, the curtain is being drawn already.” Lady Wilmot turned silent, her attention fully on the stage.
Harrison shifted his legs and settled in for another inane performance. But he would survive another hour, especially if it meant he could avoid making a decision about his failed marriage. It was his fault that Olivia had come to question the validity of their marriage. He had known from her letters that she was growing restive, but he had done nothing to increase her happiness.
Yet all thoughts of his failed marriage disappeared when the actress who played the gypsy-heiress took the stage. Harrison’s seat in the corner of Forster’s box was closest to the stage, not five feet from the spot where the gypsy stood. Her hair, a brilliant red, fell down her back in long tresses, tied back loosely by a brightly colored ribbon. Her mouth was a red wound, begging to be kissed into health.
Her clothing was intended to capture the interest of the male portion of the audience. The cut of her bodice rested low on her breasts, reveal
ing almost everything a man might wish to see, particularly when she leaned forward provocatively. The material of her skirt was split from knee to hip along the side of one leg, and as she walked, she pulled one edge forward, then back, tempting the audience with a soft knee or a slender thigh.
Harrison leaned forward, mesmerized, and the gypsy turned to look at him. When their eyes met, he felt a depth of connection that caught his breath. He had no doubt she had felt the electricity between them; the look on her face appeared both startled and wary. No woman had captured his attention in years, and he could not pinpoint why the gypsy did.
Before he could even begin to tease out the answer, she turned away, flirting with other members of the audience. He felt bereft. Eventually however, her eyes returned to his, and she began to sing in a rich mezzo-soprano. Her low tones were close to tenor, while her upper notes soared expressively. It was an earthy voice, the kind that made men think of naked flesh and welcoming bodies. A voice made for sex, Harrison thought, then wished he hadn’t. Thoughts of sex inevitably made him think of his wife, of warm nights spent in her arms, and all the cold ones without her.
Only once in his life had Harrison felt the dangerous pull of love, and that it had been for Olivia was . . . unexpected.
Olivia, his dutiful and practical wife. His father had declared Olivia to be the woman Harrison would “love until divided by death.” The problem came—Harrison realized years later—in the way his father had phrased it. If his father had said instead You will love with so great a passion that the joy of it wakes you up in the morning and eases you to sleep at night, Harrison might not have bolted. But he’d already lost so much to death; he couldn’t give up on his dreams of adventure to watch time slip away on a country estate. The wars were his excuse to leave, and though he’d returned to England, he’d never come home to the estate or to Olivia.
He gave the gypsy a long, assessing stare. She was luscious, all shapely legs and generous curves. Each note of her song was filled with longing and heartbreak, making him want nothing more than to pull her against him in a firm embrace. He imagined kissing her neck in a line to her breasts and pushing up her skirt to reveal more of that tantalizing thigh. Hers was a siren song dizzying in its intensity, making him want to forsake home and hearth to follow her anywhere.
If he were truly not married, he could take a mistress. Who better than this woman who heated his blood with a glance and the curve of a beckoning finger? His bed had been too long empty. He had been faithful to Olivia, but if he was free he could return to sea, join one of the expeditions to the Arctic, take a mistress or choose a wife—anything he wished. While he might still dream of Olivia, he could—with the right distraction—forget.
He’d spent his adult life focusing on his career. But perhaps he should not hold himself apart, but allow himself to become entangled. What if he chose a woman who could capture his body but never hold his heart? He looked at the gypsy once more, at her shapely leg and her ample bosom. She moved with the grace of a dancer and the elegance of a duchess. Surely an actress would do. She would be unlikely to challenge his mind, however well she satisfied his body.
He willed the gypsy to look at him again, but her gaze avoided his. Even so he never stopped watching her. Disappointment, anger, manipulation, suspicion, affection, desire, love, all played on her face with a sincerity unequalled by the other actors. She played the role so effortlessly that it seemed that she wasn’t acting at all, that this temptress was her natural self.
As he watched her movements, he wondered if he had seen her on the street, not Olivia at all. If she were as alluring in life as she was on stage, and if she possessed at least half a brain, then perhaps he might take a mistress to begin his unmarried life.
When the final curtain fell, he excused himself and hurried from the box, intent on intercepting her before she left the theater. But a slow river of playgoers filled the corridors, blocking his way. He looked over his shoulder at Forster’s box. How easily could he climb over the short wall and onto the stage? But that would attract more attention than he wished to garner.
There was another way, if Forster would agree.
Chapter Six
“Well, this is a surprise.” The man standing in the half-light by the lion cages motioned his hand at her costume. “That performance was stunning, my dear. The brothel keepers will see an increase in business tonight. But you as the Honest Gentleman—that’s an even more impressive performance.”
She gave her best confused look. “Patrons are not allowed in this part of the theater. You need to go back.” Knowing Horace was hiding in the shadows, she decided to test Mrs. Wells’s belief that Cerberus was dangerous.
“Oh, yes, I forget the formalities. Let’s see: I ask ‘Can you direct me to Canterbury Cathedral?’”
“I said patrons are not allowed here.” She stiffened her back and pointed her finger to the door. When he stepped forward into the light, she would be able to see his face.
The man looked confused. “Oh, yes, certainly. My mistake.” He began to back away, stepping farther from the light.
“What would be your business at the cathedral?” she called after him, waiting to see his reaction.
The man immediately resumed the agreed-upon dialogue. “King Henry sends me to murder the archbishop.” His voice sounded annoyed, but not angry.
“Then murder him you must.” She kept her hand hidden in the folds of her skirt, her grip on the penknife steady and firm. “I am the emissary of An Honest Gentleman. I take him your information; he chooses what to use and what to discard. Are you Cerberus?”
“I am, and as such, I prefer to deal with the gentleman himself. I like to know the character of those I work with.”
“And yet the lantern over your left shoulder reveals traces of paint on your collar.” She waited. Most men would look over their shoulder at the lantern, giving her an opportunity to see his face in the lantern’s light, but he did not. “Perhaps you only prefer to deal with those you can deceive.”
Cerberus paused for a moment, then shrugged. “What if I confided that I have a disfiguring skin disease?”
“I wouldn’t believe you.”
“And you shouldn’t, my dear.” He leaned into the space between them, moving only his upper body, but never passing beyond the line of heavy shadow on the floor. “Ah, this will be fun. I haven’t had a worthy op . . . collaborator, for some time.”
“And yet, you almost called me a worthy opponent.” The old surge of excitement warmed her veins. “I will warn HG to treat your information with care.”
“Ah! HG, so those are the writer’s initials.”
“They are. HG stands for Honest Gentleman. I think, good sir, that you wish to know who HG is more than you wish to help him shed light on injustice.”
“Can I not wish for both?” Clearly enjoying the repartee, he stepped toward her, into the half-light. She could almost make out his features. “I prefer to make my bed with those who share my agendas.”
“Stay away.” She held open her palm to reveal her penknife. “We will not be bedfellows. I am simply a messenger. And do not underestimate my penknife. It may be small, but a well-placed stab can be just as fatal as that of a larger knife.”
“I rarely underestimate a blade . . . or a woman.”
“Tell me what you wish HG to know.” She resisted the urge to step farther away from him, to create a safer distance between them. She would not show fear.
“Ah, I’ve written it down. It’s in my pocket here. It’s not quite the information I promised, but it’s valuable all the same.” He patted the outside of his coat, then held his hands out to his sides. “I have no interest in harming you, my dear gypsy. You are my only method for communicating with your HG.”
“Set your information on the box to your right, then leave.”
Extending his hand into the half-light, but keeping his face obscured, he showed her his forefinger and thumb, and slowly—theatrically even—r
eached into his pocket and pulled out a fat packet of papers. His hand came fully into the light as he placed them slowly on the box. A thick raised scar marred the back of his hand. “What if I wish to give HG more information in the future?”
“Do as you did before. Send HG a letter at the World. He will decide if he wishes me or one of his other messengers to meet with you. This time you were allowed to determine the time and place, but from henceforth, HG will decide when and if he wishes to meet you.”
“A wise man as well as honest.” He backed further into the darkness. “This has been a pleasure, HG, a pleasure.”
Horace emerged from the shadows.
“Make sure he is gone, please.” She felt the energy of the moment drain away. She was certain his final “HG” was simply an attempt to rattle her, but she couldn’t stop feeling that she’d been exposed.
The hulking man turned toward the exit without a word.
She opened the packet. A list of various reform societies and their planned meetings. Nothing she couldn’t find by reading the Times or half a dozen other periodicals. She suspected that it was a ruse to discover An Honest Gentleman’s identity, but surely there was more to it.
She turned through the pages again, noticing that many of the meetings were marked in the left margin. Daggers, asterisks, crosses. Some meetings were identified with one mark, some with all three. At the bottom of the last page, she found a legend. Dagger meant the group had a member who was a government agent; asterisk meant the group had been targeted for suppression by whatever means; crosses meant a member or members had been killed.
She read back through the list, focusing on the daggers. Westminster, Stockport, Oldham, Blackburn, Halifax, Birmingham. All meetings that had been suppressed, sometimes violently, by the government. More than a dozen meetings that hadn’t yet happened were also marked for suppression.
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