by Renee Ryan
Family, the word on Fitz’s mind all morning. “How do you mean?”
“Most of the crew have been with the theater for at least ten years. Same goes for many of the dancers and bit players, the ones who live and work in the city. Take Jessica over there.” He pointed to a young woman in a blue sparkling costume. “She’s performed in every show for the past three years. Bridget, Matilda, and Celeste have as well.”
Will went on to list the wardrobe mistress and set designer as long-time employees of the theater. “Mrs. Llewellyn started the same week I did.”
By the time Fitz left the stage manager to his duties, he had a better idea how the theater worked. What had seemed a frivolous, risky investment at first had turned into something far more promising.
Was he really considering buying the Summer Garden? He did a quick mental dance over the possibility and focused on the more pressing problem of restoring Gigi to her family.
The sooner he spoke to her, the better.
He found her buried beneath a pile of costumes in the wardrobe room, head bent in concentration. The picture she made was so different from any he would have attributed to the spoiled heiress of the past, and yet it was somehow right.
She sat curtained in shadows. Bottom lip tugged between her teeth, she wielded a needle and thread as if she’d been born to the task. The room was cold, the low light bouncing off the sequins and sparkles of a mountain of costumes strewn on an overstuffed sofa, several tables, and Gigi’s lap.
Fitz shut the door with a soundless click and moved deeper into the tiny room, no bigger than an oversized closet. Gigi had twisted her hair into a complicated braid. She’d always had lovely hair, a deep red that showed hints of gold in the sun. Even tucked beneath the mobcap, the blonde strands looked out of place, dull, and lifeless.
Fitz lowered his gaze. He found himself riveted by Gigi’s pretty, graceful hands laboring over a seemingly tedious task. Those long, elegant fingers used to glide across the piano keys and create the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.
Gigi’s talent had been unrivaled among her peers. All young society ladies were expected to play, but Gigi had excelled.
Fitz had spent many evenings in the drawing room of Harvest House watching her at the piano. He’d admired her talent and beauty, mostly from afar, while Nathanial Dixon had swooped in with his phony British accent and fake title. He’d used Gigi’s love of music to worm his way into her heart.
The two of them had played duets. Except, now that he thought about it, Fitz realized they’d only ever played the same song. They never finished because Dixon would say something low, meant only for Gigi’s ears, and she would become too flustered to continue.
All part of the man’s ruse, Fitz thought furiously.
He should have protected Gigi better. She’d wanted romance, soft words, and love. Fitz hadn’t known how to give her those things, not then and surely not now.
He felt the familiar race of his pulse. Regret and longing nagged at him.
Her hands moved with competence and grace, the task far more menial than playing a piece of music written by Mozart or Bach. She’d once had her own maid to attend to her clothing. Now, she took care of another woman’s wardrobe and sewed tiny sequins onto inferior material.
And yet . . .
She didn’t look unhappy. She looked oddly peaceful.
Fitz drew close enough to realize her scent was cleaner today, fresher, more . . . honest.
Ironic, when she was living a lie.
A lie you’ve helped perpetuate.
The leaden feeling returned to Fitz’s stomach.
He’d watched her in silence long enough. When he spoke, his voice sounded like he’d gargled gravel. “Gigi.”
The eyes that met his were wary, vulnerable. For some reason that made matters seem worse.
“I am Sally now. Why can you not remember that?” She sounded matter-of-fact, but a tremor moved through the words. “Gigi no longer exists.”
This was the exact opening Fitz had hoped for. “You don’t need to be distressed. I have no plans to expose you.”
“So you say.” Gigi sighed in cautious relief. “You promised you wouldn’t tell my family where I am, but you didn’t say whether they know what I’ve . . .” She paused, lifted her chin. “Do they know I am a . . . a—”
“Lady’s maid?”
She nodded.
“No, they don’t know anything about where you live or what you do. They don’t know if you’re safe or even alive.”
Setting aside the costume, she gained her feet slowly, carefully. “They know I am well.”
“How?” Fitz moved closer. “How do they know you are well?”
“I send a letter home monthly, by way of a carrier who keeps my location and situation secret.”
Fitz had a thousand questions, primarily, “Who is this carrier, and how does she”—or he?—“deliver your letters?”
Gigi seemed to consider her answer carefully. “I met Sister Mary the afternoon I was supposed to marry Nathanial. She was very kind to me and insisted I keep in touch. I did, and we continue to meet whenever she’s in the city.”
“Which, I gather, isn’t often?”
Gigi shook her head. “She trains traveling nurses at a mission near the Bowery, and does the same in Philadelphia, Washington, DC, and Richmond, Virginia.”
But not Boston, Fitz noticed. “That still doesn’t explain how she manages to get your letters to your family.”
“She mails them from various locations in each city, though never New York.”
Fitz had additional questions, too many to count. But he sensed Gigi had already told him more than she’d planned. If he pushed her too hard, she might end the conversation altogether.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Do you ever wish for a reply?”
“Never.” She said the word with something perilously close to a sob. “I fear any confirmation that my father hasn’t forgiven me.”
Fitz’s heart constricted at the raw emotion smoldering in Gigi’s eyes. His breathing shallow, he asked, “Have you told him that Nathanial is no longer in your life?”
“I keep the letters short. I give no specifics. I merely say that I am happy and well.”
“Why not tell them the truth about Nathanial? Surely your father would have let you come home once he knew the scoundrel was gone.”
Her sad eyes rolled up to his. “The situation is more complicated than that.”
So she’d claimed the other night in the alleyway. “Your father is not as unforgiving as you seem to believe.”
Tight-lipped and frowning, she glanced away from him.
Again, Fitz wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Why can’t you go home?”
Her face filled with unspeakable pain. “What does my father think happened to me?”
This, Fitz could answer without a single fabrication. “He fears the worst.”
“And my mother?”
“She hopes for the best. Your sisters, nearly as romantic as you ever were, seem to believe you are happily married and living out a real-life fairy tale.”
Her lips twisted. “And what about you, Fitz? What do you think happened between Nathanial and me?”
He flexed his hands into fists. “I am in agreement with your father.”
Her face somehow shifted, no longer filled with curiosity or fear but an odd sort of defiance. “You must be feeling very smug.”
Smug? She thought he was happy with the knowledge of her downfall? It was shocking how sorrowful he could feel about something that had happened to a woman who’d all but spurned him.
Gigi had been caught in Nathanial Dixon’s evil snare. The rat had hurt and humiliated her, and had put Fitz in a position to do the same, because it was time to stop dancing around the truth. “Let’s get one thing straight, Gigi.”
She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to correct him on her name.
Fitz talked right over her.
“Despite all the warnings, ultimatums, and threats, you chose to run off with a fortune hunter. It doesn’t matter what happened in that hotel room. For all intents and purposes, you are a”—he paused for emphasis—“fallen woman.”
Fallen woman. Gigi felt her face drain of color. Fallen woman. The words reverberated in her head. Fitz knew . . .
Somehow he knew that she and Nathanial had . . .
Without the sacred vow of marriage . . .
Gigi shuddered at the implacable expression on Fitz’s face. He was right, of course. She was a fallen woman and no amount of atonement could erase her dishonor.
Her skin seemed to prickle and burn white-hot, as if she’d tumbled into a frigid lake.
“You claim it doesn’t matter what happened in that hotel room.” Aware she sounded angry and scared, she took several soothing breaths. “But we both know it does.”
He was silent, which worried her a little. A lot. The only movement was the ticking of a muscle in his neck. After several seconds passed, Gigi thought the conversation was over. Fitz would now leave the room. And New York. And forget he’d ever found her.
But then he spoke. “I don’t care what you did or did not do with Dixon.”
“Of course you care.” She couldn’t let the issue drop. How Fitz viewed her shouldn’t matter. But it did, and she knew why. If he, of all people, could see her as the woman she used to be, without the taint of her transgressions, then maybe she could learn to do so as well. “You once thought me worthy enough to consider marrying me.”
“Your father and I had an agreement, one that was never properly secured beyond a few vague promises.” He moved a step closer. “We are not pledged to one another, nor have we ever been, and thus I do not care if Dixon or any other man ruined you.”
He was too calm, too composed. Gigi searched his gaze. A mistake. His eyes locked with hers, and she saw the turmoil there. Her heartbeat went wild, thudding uneven and heavy against her ribs. Fitz did care but was insisting otherwise. What she didn’t understand was why.
The rebellious part of her wanted to push him.
“We are to be related by marriage, Fitz. My secret disgrace, if revealed, will reflect on you and your family.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she understood why he was here. Why he was really here. He hadn’t come for the pearls. That had only been an excuse. No, he was here to determine the depths of her scandalous act, and then keep the news from getting out.
It made sense. If the truth of her wantonness became public, the scandal would rub off on Fitz’s family.
Perhaps it already had.
With the promise of a potential engagement between her and Fitz, there would have been speculation from his peers when she’d suddenly disappeared. There would have been questions from his business associates. “Did you help my father draft the lie about my studying music in Vienna?”
“No, but I remained silent about the truth.” And that made him complicit.
More to the point, her return would bring questions about their future together. “You don’t want me to go home.”
“On the contrary, I want to make your return go as smoothly as possible.”
“I wish I could believe you.” He’d covered up her sins as surely as if he’d constructed the lie that now prevented her from returning home.
The lie that also protected her reputation.
She didn’t deserve that kind of consideration, even if it was also to Fitz’s mutual benefit. Gigi hadn’t thought of anyone but herself the night of her flight. But Fitz had been forced to think of her since. By remaining silent, he shared in her deceit.
“Does my father truly not know where I am?”
One side of Fitz’s mouth tilted at a wry angle. “He does not.”
“You didn’t tell him you found me?”
Fitz broke eye contact, and his hands found his pockets. “I already interfered in your life once, for which I am greatly sorry.”
He was apologizing to her?
That threw her back a step. Since the beginning, Gigi had been assigning ugly intent to Fitz’s motives. Yet here he stood, taking the moral high ground.
“Had I not inserted myself into the matter,” Fitz continued, “you might not have left home.”
How wrong he was. As much as she’d wanted to blame him—as much as she had faulted him—Fitz’s meddling hadn’t pushed Gigi into Nathanial’s arms. She’d have left with him anyway. That’s just how enamored she’d been with the scoundrel. How gullible and naïve.
“You tried to warn me,” she admitted, reminding herself of that fact, too, and feeling even more wretched than before. When Fitz had confronted her about Nathanial nearly a year ago, he’d started out with tact, but when that hadn’t worked, he’d resorted to shock, then cold, hard bluntness. She’d been so outraged at the time. But looking back on it now, Gigi couldn’t deny that his intentions had been honorable. When hers had been anything but. “I refused to hear your concerns.”
Fitz did not press the issue. He simply stared at her in that patient way of his.
Gigi swallowed. Fitz’s silence said more than actual words. She’d never understood him, and was even more confused by his behavior now. Had he displayed a hint of fury or censure or any number of reactions, she would have bolted.
Taking care to keep as great a distance between them as possible in such a small space, Gigi glanced at the ceiling, the costume-draped wall, anything to avoid Fitz’s gaze. The man she’d all but jilted. She closed her eyes, reeling from a powerful onslaught of emotion. Guilt, humiliation, confusion, and the ever-present self-loathing.
The sound of material rustling told her Fitz had shifted his stance. She opened her eyes and found him still watching her, waiting calmly for her to speak again. Not a single piece of his hair was out of place. The hand-tailored suit he wore cost more than her yearly salary, five times more than the money she needed to buy back her great-grandmother’s pearls.
She couldn’t bring herself to look away. She was too intensely aware of his presence. How had she missed the way Fitz commanded a room? Always, he lived decisively in his skin. The hand-tailored clothing nothing but expensive drapery.
“Why?” she asked. “Why didn’t you come after me sooner? Why now?”
His lips pressed into a flat line, the only indication he wasn’t as calm as he’d appeared. “It’s taken me this long to find you. You are very good at hiding. I had to hire two private investigators.”
Her pulse danced. Fitz had hired men, as in plural, to find her. The confession should have infuriated her. Instead, she felt something in her simply let go.
All this time, he’d been searching for her. Eleven months and countless deceptions.
She’d changed her name, taken different jobs, never staying in any position longer than a few months. Each of her previous employers had thought it their idea that she’d moved on to a position they’d handpicked just for her, when Gigi had maneuvered the situation herself.
She’d made sure no one recognized her. If anyone had, the story her family had made up would have been scrutinized. All it would have taken was one slipup and the truth would have been revealed.
Gigi was suddenly tired. She didn’t want to keep hiding and worrying and being afraid of exposure. For months, she’d donned a disguise and had lost herself in the process.
And still, Fitz had hunted for her. For reasons she couldn’t fully comprehend. He spoke plainly and seemed sincere, yet Gigi sensed he wasn’t being completely authentic. He was holding a portion of himself back.
Of course he was holding back. She’d treated him callously, thinking only of her own happiness. Instead of demanding the explanations he deserved, Fitz was . . . apologizing.
Her face burned.
Pain burst inside her heart and leaked all the way to her soul. Her mouth shook, but no words came out. She stood closer and closer to Fitz but was not aware of moving. Perhaps because she hadn’t moved. Fitz had been the one to c
lose the distance between them.
“Gigi—”
“My name is Sally. Sally Smith.”
His hands clasped her shoulders gently, tentatively, as if he understood he needed to handle her with care. Did he know how much his consideration stung? Much more harshly than a slap in the face would have.
“You are Gigi Wentworth,” he whispered, lowering his hands and stepping back.
“Not anymore.”
His expression filled with compassion. “So you say. But I still see her in you. I hear her in your voice whenever we are alone.”
So he’d caught that. No matter how hard Gigi tried, she couldn’t seem to flatten out her vowels in his presence.
“I also see Sally Smith, a woman you created out of desperation. The real you is somewhere in between the two.”
He couldn’t be more right. Or more wrong.
The old Gigi was no longer inside her. Nathanial had destroyed that part of her, as surely as if he’d buried a knife in her heart and twisted. She couldn’t bear Fitz championing her. What had she done but cause trouble for him? She’d hurt him terribly, simply because he’d not been exciting enough for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The words were so inadequate. That didn’t make them any less true.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Gigi.” Fitz’s voice was soft and kind. So kind her throat clogged.
Fitz was proving himself a good man. Deep down, Gigi had always known this about him. She might have even reconciled herself to the prospect of marrying him if he’d been a little less formal and set in his ways. His lack of imagination and inability to live in the moment had scared her. She’d feared never living up to his standard of perfection and thus had convinced herself they would never suit. The rumors about him and his cousin had sealed his doom.
But there had been other signs.
Gigi had watched her best friend, Verity, suffer in a cold, loveless marriage arranged by her parents. Her friend had become a shell of her former self and had wanted more for her own future. She’d wanted passion and adventure.
Be careful what you wish for, Gigi.
Fitz had said that to her, on more than one occasion. He’d meant to caution her. She’d taken his words as a challenge. She’d pushed him to be the man she wanted instead of appreciating the man he was.