The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Now?”

  “Why not?” He came to his feet.

  She put her glass on the sideboard. “You are exhausted.”

  “Touching you has exhilarated me.” His arm around her waist tugged her to him. This time, when he kissed her, he did not hurry. And when she caressed his shoulders, it was not to ease his stressed muscles.

  He was right, she decided, as his lips drifted along her neck, setting every inch of her on fire. When he touched her, she felt so exultant she could have danced around the room without touching the floor. Each kiss added to the luscious enchantment he spun around her. The magic of his mouth matched the bewitchment of his fingers coursing down her back and then slowly toward her nape, bringing her even closer. She could imagine his wondrous lips touching her in places which pulsed at the very thought.

  Their wedding seemed like a lifetime away. She hoped each moment beyond his arms would fly by as swiftly as each moment within them. Even so, their wedding night could not come soon enough.

  Priscilla wondered how long she could hold her breath. The lane behind the theater was dotted with puddles of what was not water. One rat skittered away while another watched her and Neville boldly, unwilling to give up its treasure of moldy bread.

  When Neville opened an unmarked door, she hurried through, releasing the stale breath. She took another, then wished she could have waited. All the odors from the alley had followed her into the theater.

  She was astonished to hear voices beyond the piles of boards and a trio of battered trunks. Although no play was scheduled, the back of the theater was filled with people practicing and working and talking. Each of them looked expectantly toward Neville.

  He paid them no mind as he steered her to the left. “This way. Watch out for the coiled rope.”

  Priscilla was glad for the warning because she was trying to scan every inch of the area behind the curtain. Was there a clue here to identify the murderer? If so, she had no idea where to begin to look. Everything was a jumble. Mayhap the stacks of wood and cloth made sense to the actors. To her, it appeared to be a higgedly-piggedly bumble-bath.

  “Is that Mr. Birdwell’s dressing room?” she asked, pointing to a door that gleamed with fresh paint in contrast to the rest of the dusty, unpainted backstage area.

  “Birdwell fancies himself the most important player in this company, and he wants everyone to know that. He keeps his dressing table and dressing box locked away.”

  “What is a dressing box?”

  “It contains everything he needs for the stage. His cosmetics and wigs. He has Reeve guard it as if it were the crown jewels. I suspect only his valet has a key to that room.”

  “Should we try to talk to Mr. Birdwell again?”

  “What else do we have to ask him?” Neville grimaced. ‘We have not discovered anything new.”

  A savage oath came from behind her, and Priscilla whirled. Something flew past a door, shattering into white and blue pieces on the floor. It might have been a vase or a dish. She could not tell because a piece of bright red wool landed on the shards.

  “Morton?” Neville called, keeping her from stepping forward.

  She wanted to tell him that he need not worry. She had no interest in being within range of some other flying prop.

  A wizened man with white hairs sprouting from his skull and cheeks stuck his head out of the room. His dark brown waistcoat was open, and a dressmaker’s measuring string dropped down the front like an outlandish necklace. Gnarled hands and wrinkles gouged into his face announced his advanced age. He moved toward them like a cricket, leaping forward on each bouncy step.

  “I am busy. Can’t ye see that? Go away. I don’t ’ave time fer—” His rheumy eyes widened. “’Athaway, m’boy! The sight of ye is just the thin’ for these sore eyes. Are ye ’ere to reopen the Prince of Wales?”

  “Can we talk in the props room?” Neville asked.

  “Ah, don’t want all of them to be listenin’, d’ye?” He fired a glower at the workers.

  Priscilla was astonished when the others drifted away to the far side of the backstage area. Neville had never given her any clue that his friend was a tyrant.

  “’Oo is she?” Morton asked.

  Neville introduced the props master to her. Morton simply hurrumphed and motioned for them to come into the room.

  Priscilla stepped over the broken ceramic and around the scarlet wool. When she reached the door, she paused to stare in disbelief at the mess within the room. Every shelf was swept clean, and trunks had been emptied. The floor was covered with torn fabric and broken props.

  “What happened?” asked Neville. “I have never seen this room in shambles.”

  “The actors are ’elpin’ themselves to whatever they want.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t,” Priscilla said.

  Neville smiled. “When a show closes abruptly, actors still have to eat.”

  “And they be eatin’ their way right through m’props like a swarm of moths,” muttered Morton. “Not just the clothes, but everythin’.”

  “Anything of value missing?”

  He shrugged. “’Tis too soon to tell much. I ’ave t’get everythin’ put away in the proper place. Then may’ap I can see.” He swore again and pointed toward an empty shelf. “All the props fer Wiggsley’s latest masterpiece were there. Now they all be gone.” ‘They did not wait long to pick the place clean, did they?”

  “They would’ve taken more if I ’adn’t ’alted them. Don’t know why anyone would want broken plates and tableware. They won’t get much fer wot they stole. Dirty whelps, the lot of them.”

  “Speaking of dirty whelps, Morton ...”

  “Wot d’ye need?” the old man asked. “The same as when you ’ave needed costumes before, ’athaway?”

  “Yes, for me and Lady Priscilla.”

  Morton eyed her up and down before nodding. “I think I ’ave the very thin’ for ye.”

  With a quick efficiency that Mrs. Moore had tried to instill in the household staff, the props master dug out clothing for them.

  Priscilla’s nose wrinkled as she took the dress that

  smelled as bad as the alley behind the theater. “Do you have shoes?”

  Morton hooked a thumb toward a dark green trunk. “Ye can look in there t’see if anythin’ be left.”

  Setting the clothing on the floor, Priscilla went to the trunk and peered in. Shoes of different styles and sizes were haphazardly thrown into the trunk. She knelt and began lifting them out. Red satin slippers were fine enough for a cyprian’s ball. She set them next to a single flannel shoe that had holes worn into the sole.

  “Anything for me in there, Pris?” asked Neville from behind her.

  “How about these?” She held up a pair of men’s shoes with wooden heels that would serve someone playing a dandy or a member of the old French court.

  He took them and laughed. “I would fall off these and break my neck in about three steps.” Tossing them atop the other shoes she had pulled out, he said, “I can wear my boots if there is nothing in the trunk. All I need to do is scuff them up a bit and—”

  She yelped in pain and pulled her hand back. Blood slipped down her thumb.

  With a curse, Neville grabbed a strip of cloth off a shelf and, dropping to his knees beside her, pressed it against the incision along her thumb. She winced, but bit back her gasp of pain.

  “Wot is ’appenin’?” called Morton.

  “She cut herself,” Neville said through clenched teeth.

  “On wot? Just shoes in there.”

  “I think something else is in there.” More gently, he asked, “Can you hold this, Pris?”

  ‘Yes,” she replied. “It looks worse than it is.”

  As he reached into the trunk, she urged him to take care. He lifted away the shoes that had fallen when

  she jerked her hand back. Slowly he lifted out a knife. Its blade was stained with her blood.

  “It looks like t
he one that killed Harmony,” she breathed.

  “And the one in the murder victim on stage.” He wiped the blood on the other end of the fabric.

  Morton stepped forward and squinted at the knife. “I was wonderin’ where that got to.” He picked up a wooden box with more knives and held it out to Neville. “Ye can put it in ’ere. One less I ’ave to look fer.”

  “You are missing other knives?” Priscilla asked.

  “The box was tipped over when all this—” He gestured to the messy room. “When all of this was wrecked. I found most of them, but a few are missin’.”

  “How many?”

  “’Oo knows? I ’aven’t counted the lot yet.”

  “Are the knives you use for props this sharp?” she asked.

  The old man scowled as Neville drew another piece of fabric across the blade and watched its edge slice through the material. ‘They are supposed to be dull,” Morton said, “but someone ’as sharpened this one.” His eyes widened again. “Do ye think one from m’room killed the lady in the box?”

  Neville turned the knife over and over in his hands. “It is possible, but it is just as possible the murderer brought the knife with him. This is a common sort of blade.” He tossed it into the box Morton held. ‘That is no help.”

  “We ’ope someone finds that blackguard,” the props master said. “One lady be dead, but we will starve if we don’t get back to work.”

  Trying to tear a smaller strip off the fabric, Priscilla said, ‘We hope to find a solution to both.”

  The old man chuckled. “I wager ye do.” He took the material from her, ripped off a piece, and with care bound her thumb. “There ye be, m’lady.”

  “Thank you, Morton.” She picked up the clothes she had dropped on the floor. Breathing shallowly, she asked, “Where can we change?”

  “I don’t think ’is ’igh-and-mightiness is in right now.”

  “Has Birdwell been here?” Neville asked.

  “’E comes and ’e goes.”

  “Where does he go when he is not here?”

  Morton shrugged. “’Oo knows? Probably drinkin’ ’imself ’alf-blind in ’is fancy ’ouse. Doesn’t matter. ’E isn’t ’ere. Ye can use ’is room.” He pointed toward Mr. Birdwell’s dressing room.

  As Priscilla was about to step out of the props room, Neville put a hand on her arm. She was about to ask him what was wrong, then saw the actor’s valet come out and look around the open area.

  “But his man is standing guard,” Neville murmured. “Reeve will not let anyone in there.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Could he be trying to protect Mr. Birdwell? But that makes no sense if Mr. Birdwell is not at the theater.”

  “’E must be ’ere.” Morton shook his head. “Probably foxed, so Reeve is protectin’ that door as if a king’s ransom be behind it. Guess ’e’s tryin’ to practice for ’is soldierin’.”

  “When is he planning to leave for the Army?”

  “Don’t know. ’E just talks ’bout it. Talks ’bout it all the time and ’ow she won’t be able to resist ’im once ’e’s a soldier.”

  “She who?”

  “No idea. One of the gals ’ere at the theater, I suspect, as ’e is ’ere most of the time. I don’t think ’e’s gone to sign up. I thought ’e’d be gone by now. ’E is right eager to get away from Birdwell. As soon as ’e gets the money ’e needs, ’e’ll go.”

  “Money?” asked Neville. “What does he need money for? He cannot be considering buying a commission, can he?”

  “May’ap ’e be tired of bein’ ordered ’round by ’is ’igh-and-mightiness. May’ap ’e wants to order folks ’round.”

  “And,” Priscilla said softly, “being an officer might be what he needs to do to impress his lady fair.”

  He pointed in the opposite direction. “There be some small chambers over there. Ye can use them.”

  “I know where they are,” Neville said.

  The old man chuckled, the sound like a rusty rasp. “I forget. Ye know yer way ’round this theater.” He turned back to gathering up the scattered costumes, clearly dismissing them. “Jes bring back them things in the same condition I gave’m to ye.”

  Priscilla smiled. Such an order was sure to make Mrs. Moore happy. The housekeeper would not want such malodorous garments in her laundry room.

  Neville led her out of the room and toward the shadows at the right.

  “He is watching us,” Priscilla said.

  “Reeve?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She stole a glance back at where the valet was staring after them, his eyes narrowed into slits. “Why is he distressed to see us?”

  “Anyone with half a brain would be distressed by what has been happening at the theater. He is no fool. He knows we are trying to find who killed Lady Lummis, and he knows Birdwell is a suspect. It must be galling him that he cannot protect Birdwell from the suspicions.”

  “It is more than that.”

  ‘Then what is it?”

  “I am not sure I can put it into words.”

  He opened a door she had not seen. “You can change in here. I shall be next door and will meet you back out here.” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “Unless you would like some help.”

  “Are you offering?”

  “Who else?”

  “I thought, as I am in the theater, I might have a dresser of my own.”

  “Like Reeve?” He gave an emoted shudder. “Heaven forbid.”

  “Heaven or you?”

  He gave her a quick kiss, then, as she turned to go into the room, drew her back to him. Edging her cheekbones with his thumbs, he smiled. “Most definitely me, Pris. I don’t want to share you with any other man.”

  “/would forbid that.” She laughed.

  “Go and change.”

  “If you will let me go . . .”

  “In a moment.” He caressed her mouth with a gentle hunger that swept through her, taunting her to surrender to their longing. Not satisfied with her mouth, he tasted her cheeks, her eyelids, the sensitive line of her neck. Whispering her name against her lips, he captured them again. She clung to him, having all she wanted, but aching for more.

  She was trembling as she stepped away before she could not fight her desires any longer. He gazed down at her as if trying to memorize every facet of her face. He started to say something, then opened the door just beyond where she stood. He went inside, closing the door after him.

  Priscilla shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Releasing it slowly, she reminded herself why they had come here. They must think about finding Harmony’s murderer.

  As she opened the door and started in, she looked again at Reeve to realize he was still staring toward her. What was bothering the man? Was it more than his employer still had not completely cleared his name? His hands were tightened into fists at his sides, and, even from across the backstage area, she could see his chest heaving with his rapid breathing. He seemed ready to explode. Why? Did he fear Neville had come to shut the theater down for good? That made no sense. He must have heard Morton’s laugh, and the old man would not have been in a jolly mood if Neville was putting him out of a job.

  The valet’s gaze caught hers. She tried to pull hers away, but he held it for the length of three heartbeats. He stood too far away for her to read the emotions in his eyes before he rushed back into Mr. Birdwell’s dressing room, closing the door without a sound.

  Something was not right with the valet With him, or with his employer? Reeve had been a mirror for Mr. Birdwell’s emotions each time she had seen them together. He was overly solicitous of Mr. Birdwell’s concerns, a toad-eater in everything he did for the actor. Did Reeve suspect his employer of being the murderer and wanted to make sure no one else had the proof that would send Mr. Birdwell to the gallows? Her fingers gripped the door. Did Reeve know that Mr. Birdwell was involved in the murder of his mistress?

  More questions she had no answers to. Mayhap finding the person who had bought the
stolen brooch would give them the clue to unravel the web of lies and half-truths around this crime.

  She hoped so.

  Chapter Nine

  Priscilla hated how she smelled and how Neville smelled and how the street reeked worse than both of them. She wondered how Morton had ingrained the odors into these rags. It would have been as simple as dragging them through the puddles behind the theater, but she hoped he had found another way.

  The same type of puddles were scattered along the street where they walked as if accustomed to such a setting. Hearing a screech from her left, she stared at a building leaning toward the street. Half the glass in the windows was broken, and the steps were covered with the contents of a recently emptied chamberpot. This section of London had burned in the Great Fire less than two hundred years before. Setting a torch to it again to drive out the rats and the bugs and the odors might not be a bad idea.

  “Don’t gawk, Pris.” Neville’s voice was a low hiss. His face was covered with dirt he had gathered up from the theater floor and spread across his cheeks. With a floppy hat pulled low over his brow, she would not have recognized him. She hoped no one else would. “You will attract eyes we need to avoid.”

  “Every time I come to one of these sections of London, I cannot help staring.” She pulled the brim of

  her tattered bonnet down to shadow her features. “I feel sorry for these people.”

  “Some of them would not feel sorry for you if they knew who you really are.” He put his arm around her shoulders and held her closer.