“She’s an excellent actress,” I heard someone say as Milo and I roamed the hallways, mingling with the other audience members. “I ought to have known Holloway wouldn’t put just anyone into his plays. Always the best for Holloway, I’ve always said.”
“I must admit, the girl has talent,” another opined. “It’s not just looks like I’d suspected.”
Whatever they felt about Miss Bell’s relationship with Mr. Holloway, it seemed that her talent was no longer in question.
The second act was even better. It seemed Flora Bell was feeding upon the audience’s approval, absorbing their energy and enthusiasm and channeling it into her performance.
As she spoke her last line I noticed that, despite her disagreement with Mr. Lebeau about the interpretation of the words, there was a new uncertainty in her tone as she spoke them: “‘Life holds darkness and light, and sometimes one must step into the shadows to see which will prevail.’”
The curtain fell, and there was a moment of silence before applause burst forth from the audience. It was not the tepid appreciation of polite spectators, but the thunderous approval of those who marveled at what they had just seen, the true admiration of viewers who had relished an excellent performance.
The curtain rose again and, as Flora Bell came to take her bows, I could see the look of triumph in her eyes. She had won them over, and she knew it. The entertainment notices tomorrow would be full of praise. Flora Bell had just seen the beginning of an excellent career.
I let out a breath, feeling a sense of relief as the curtain fell for the final time and people began to leave their seats. Nothing had happened. I didn’t know why, but the tone of the note had left me believing something would occur during the performance. Now that everything had gone off smoothly, I felt as though a weight had been lifted. “It appears that it was only a taunt,” I told Milo.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said, his thoughtful gaze still on the stage.
The performance concluded, it was time to move on to the gala. I still had not spotted Georgina Holloway, but I didn’t think it unusual that she might have stayed away from the performance. I was glad, for I thought it would be difficult for her, on top of everything else, to see her rival’s success.
I hoped the gala would prove uneventful. If Mr. Holloway was smart enough to keep the two women away from each other, we might be able to pass the evening without incident.
* * *
THE GALA WAS held in the building directly beside the Penworth Theatre, the one that made up the other side of the alley along the stage door. It had apparently once been a restaurant, and Mr. Holloway had purchased it along with the theatre with just such an event as this evening in mind.
I knew Georgina’s charity events were often lauded as the city’s most elegant, and the gala did not disappoint. I stepped into the room and found that it was everything that I had imagined it might be and more. Tables were clothed in white linen with glittering crystal and silver. Towering candelabras held long, flickering candles and each table was bedecked with an exquisite arrangement of flowers. Gold chandeliers, clearly not native to the building, shone brightly overhead, throwing a warm light over everything they touched.
“Georgina has outdone herself,” I said to Milo.
“Did you expect anything less?” he replied.
I certainly hadn’t. Georgina Holloway was the sort of hostess every society woman hoped to emulate. Her parties were legendary. And, given the current situation, she had more reason than ever to put on a good show.
We moved further into the room with a crowd of other guests. An orchestra was playing soft music, and already the room was filled with the clinking of champagne glasses and the laughter of the crowd, everyone in good spirits after enjoying an excellent performance.
Georgina stood near one of the long tables overflowing with food. I was certain now that she had not been at the performance, for I would have noticed her gown in a crowd. It was a bright shade of not-quite-red, like an orange sunburst against the cool, muted tones of the room. The dress was stunning, a masterpiece of fashion, and something more. It seemed to tell the world that no matter what had happened between her and her husband, no matter how magnificent her rival’s performance had been, Georgina Holloway was not going to shrink from the spotlight.
“Amory, I’m so glad to see you,” she said, reaching out to take my hands in her soft, cool ones as we arrived at her side. “You look stunning as always. Hello, Milo.”
“Good evening, Georgina,” he replied.
“It’s you who looks stunning, Georgina,” I said. “Your dress is magnificent.”
“Thank you. I thought something in an unusual shade would be appropriate for a dramatic event.” She did not elaborate on exactly what sort of drama she had anticipated, but there was plenty to be had if one was looking for it.
“You’ve arranged things beautifully,” I told her, looking admiringly around the room. “The gala is sure to be a great success.”
“Thank you. I hope so.” I noticed that she did not ask about the play. Perhaps she had already heard the glowing reviews of Miss Bell’s performance.
Other guests came up to speak with her then, and so we began to move away.
She reached out and caught my arm, however, leaning toward me, her voice lowered. “Find me before you leave, will you, Amory? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
I nodded, wondering what it was that she wanted to discuss.
Milo and I found our place at a table and sat to enjoy the festivities. Everyone seemed to be in excellent spirits, and I thought again how successful an event this had proven to be. Not only were the guests having a wonderful time, but the recipients of the event’s proceeds were going to benefit handsomely. It was unlikely any charity function would be able to surpass it, either in pleasure or monetary success, for years to come.
A short while later, the actors and actresses made their way into the room and were greeted with great applause and enthusiastic cheers.
Flora Bell led the way, resplendent in her white satin evening gown. She held Gerard Holloway’s arm, her head held high. She was very aware that all eyes were on her as she entered the room, and she seemed just as comfortable with this attention as she had been on the stage.
Someone handed her a bouquet of flowers, which she held in her free hand, and I realized suddenly that her dress almost resembled a wedding gown. I could not help but wonder if that had been the impression she was trying to make, if she had designs upon Gerard Holloway that went beyond a love affair.
It crossed my mind that the two women in Mr. Holloway’s life had dressed for the opposite of their roles: Georgina in the color of fire and desire and Flora Bell in innocent white.
I glanced to where Georgina had been standing a moment before, but she was no longer there. I wondered if she had realized what was coming and had wished to avoid being scrutinized as Miss Bell made her appearance. There was so much potential for things to go wrong.
I hoped the gala would manage to remain a pleasant affair. If only I had known.
* * *
I WATCHED THE cast of characters throughout the evening and found that many of them were still performing, in one way or another.
Gerard Holloway was trying valiantly to play the carefree host, but I could tell that he was tense. More than once I saw him remove his handkerchief from his pocket and dab his brow. To his credit, he had managed to avoid Flora Bell for much of the evening. She had been surrounded by congratulatory admirers throughout the night, so it had not been difficult.
He and Georgina seemed to be avoiding each other as well. The size of the crowd made it possible without attracting too much attention to the fact, but I had noticed them glance in the other’s direction more than once. I wished that something could make them realize that they still cared for each other. I was half tempted to bring them together and give them a good talking-to, but one couldn’t berate one’s friends into a happy marriage, so
it seemed I must leave them to work things out for themselves.
It was just near midnight when Gerard Holloway stood, motioning to the orchestra, who quit playing in a remarkably graceful fading out of notes.
“I’d just like to say a few words,” Mr. Holloway said. “I want to thank everyone who worked so hard to bring this production to life, and all of you who have joined us tonight to benefit this cause. Clearly, it has been a great success.”
The room broke into appreciative applause. When it had died down, Mr. Holloway picked up his glass of champagne. “I would also like to propose a toast. To the talented cast of The Price of Victory. You have surpassed what I imagined as I put these words on paper, and I cannot thank you enough. Especially our rising star.” He lifted his glass. “To Flora Bell and the best cast in London.”
Glasses lifted across the room, though I could feel an undertone of speculation as the partygoers drank their toast.
I looked in the direction in which Mr. Holloway had lifted his glass. Flora Bell stood there, and I was surprised to see she did not look as triumphant as I might have imagined. In fact, she looked almost distracted as she smiled and nodded at those congratulating her.
My gaze then went to the flash of fire-colored fabric on the other side of the room, and I looked at Georgina. She, too, was talking to people around her. She looked very composed, as though the toast had had no impact upon her.
I caught sight of Dahlia Dearborn then. I had noticed her earlier, coming in with the other actors, though she had had no part in tonight’s performance. She wore a gown of copper-colored satin that looked lovely with her coloring, but the effect was marred by the expression of scorn on her pretty face that she was either unable or unwilling to hide. I noticed the glass in her hand was still full. Apparently, she had not joined in the toast.
The music resumed then and couples returned to the dance floor. I lost sight of Georgina and Mr. Holloway as the crowds began to move again.
The room had grown rather hot, and I drank a glass of cold punch and chatted idly with those at our table. Though the party showed no signs of slowing, I was beginning to feel that I had had enough excitement for one evening.
Milo, it seemed, shared the sentiment.
“Have you had enough, darling?” he leaned in to ask me a few moments later.
I smiled at his phrasing. Milo enjoyed a party as much as anyone, but a charity gala was not quite in line with the sort of events he normally found amusing.
“Yes … Oh, but I need to speak to Georgina first,” I said, remembering her words. In truth, they had never been far from my mind. I had looked more than once for an opportunity to speak with her, but she was forever disappearing into the crowd.
I glanced to where I had seen her standing, but there was no sign of her. Nor did she appear to be anywhere else in the room. I realized that Gerard Holloway, too, seemed to be missing. I wondered if the couple had slipped away to have a private conversation. I felt a little glimmer of hope.
Then something occurred to me. Another quick glance around the room confirmed that Flora Bell was not present either. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Had they all gone off someplace to have a scene? I sincerely hoped not.
“Have you seen Georgina?” I asked Milo. “Or Mr. Holloway or Miss Bell?”
“Not recently, no.”
“I do hope everything’s all right,” I said.
“I’m sure it is, darling,” he said. “You’re just on edge because of the letters.”
“That may be, but I still need to find Georgina,” I said.
“I’ll wander around a bit and send her your way if I see her,” Milo said. I knew what the result of his restless wandering would be: liquor and friendly conversations with the prettiest women in the room. I had no great objections, however, as long as he wandered back to me at the end of the evening.
We parted ways then, and I began my search for Georgina. Thinking she might have stepped out to bid some of her guests adieu, I went out into the building’s foyer.
There was no sign of Georgina, but there was a familiar figure near the cloakroom. The Holloways having thought of everything, the furs and hats had been transferred from the theatre. It seemed Balthazar Lebeau was preparing to make his exit, for he was talking to the hat check girl, leaning toward her, a smile on his face as he spoke to her in a low voice.
His efforts were apparently not in vain, for the pretty girl was laughing at something he said, her cheeks flushed.
I hated to interrupt, but I felt that it might be my only chance to speak with him.
“Mr. Lebeau,” I called.
He turned at the sound of his name, a smile coming instantly to his lips. I had the sensation that the smile had less to do with how he felt about me than the habit of presenting his customary persona to the world. He draped a black cape across his broad shoulders with a flourish and moved toward me.
“Mrs. Ames,” he said pleasantly, taking my hand and bowing over it. “How lovely you look this evening.”
“Thank you. Are you leaving the gala so soon?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I have an appointment for drinks with a noted producer. There may be another play in my future, a better one than this.”
I thought it odd that he had made such an appointment on the night of the gala, but I didn’t know how such things worked. Perhaps the producer had limited time to spare.
“I won’t keep you, then,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance tonight. You were wonderful.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, his tone tinged with the faintest trace of regret. “It is not, by any means, the greatest of my roles, but I do hope that I can bring a bit of light to a darkened stage, breathe a bit of life into lifeless lines.”
“You don’t like the play?” I asked. I didn’t know how much he would want to confide in me, but it didn’t hurt to try.
“It’s not the fault of the play,” he said, which was not exactly a direct answer. “It’s just that my talents exceed the part I have been given.”
One could not accuse him of false modesty. One could not, in fact, accuse him of any modesty at all.
“I think it’s a very crucial role,” I said, though I knew he had coveted Christopher Landon’s part. “After all, there is a certain amount of importance that hinges upon your character. It is only through his treacherous actions that we see the nobility of Armand and the strength of Victoire.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He drew himself up. “I have performed for kings, Mrs. Ames. I was not meant to be a member of the supporting cast.”
I had heard rumors about Balthazar Lebeau, about his unruliness, his penchant for drink, his personal scandals. All things considered, I thought it generous of Gerard Holloway to ask him to be in the play.
That was not to say, of course, that Balthazar Lebeau was not talented. He was. What I had said had not been empty flattery. There was an elegant ease he had on the stage, a naturalness that was curiously at odds with the affected persona he presented face-to-face. It was almost as though the stage was his real life and everything else was the act.
“I have very much admired your illustrious career,” I said sincerely. “But I suppose there is always room for new talent. Flora Bell and Mr. Landon were wonderful; perhaps they will follow in your footsteps and become the next stars of British theatre.”
The words had a curious effect. His expression went blank, as though his features could no longer support the amiable mask he had been wearing. His eyes, which thus far had always seemed to exude a lazy amicability, were suddenly sharp and hard.
“A star of the British theatre?”
He stepped closer, and I fought the urge to step back. It wasn’t that it was a threatening gesture. It was just that something in his posture and expression were so different from the Balthazar Lebeau I had met that it was like being advanced upon by a stranger.
“The lesser talents of the world will come and go,�
� he said in a rough voice that had lost all the luster of oration. “But true artists will stand immortal.”
Then, instantly, the mask was back on, and he smiled. “Goodnight, Mrs. Ames.”
“Good night, Mr. Lebeau,” I murmured.
It was not until he turned and walked away, his evening cape fluttering behind him, that I realized I had been holding my breath.
9
STILL UNABLE TO locate Georgina, I wandered back into the ballroom and immediately encountered Christopher Landon. He seemed well into his cups, for his eyes were bright, his handsome face flushed.
“Good evening, Mr. Landon,” I said.
“Good evening,” he replied.
“Allow me to congratulate you on an excellent performance. I enjoyed the play immensely.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I wonder if you’ve seen Miss Bell?” I asked casually. “I have been wanting to congratulate her too.”
“I haven’t seen her since after the performance,” he said. “We all came in together and then she disappeared. Perhaps you might ask Holloway where she went.” There was a certain bitterness in his tone that he made no effort to hide.
“I don’t seem to be able to find him either.”
An expression of contempt crossed his features. “Then they’ve probably sneaked off together. It seems just the sort of vulgar thing Holloway might do.”
It did not, in fact, seem at all like something the Gerard Holloway I knew might do, but it was so difficult to tell as of late what sort of behavior he might have adopted.
“I assume he’s trying to woo her back after that row they had,” Mr. Landon went on.
“A row?” I asked. It seemed he was inclined to gossip, and I certainly had no objection.
“Yes, they were shouting quite loudly at each other just minutes after the play ended.”
“I wonder what they might have had to quarrel about,” I said innocently.
He smiled, his eyes hard. “I don’t know, but Gerard threatened to wring her neck, and there was something smashed in her dressing room before she came out.”
An Act of Villainy Page 7