“Splendid.” He wasn’t averse to additional income, nor to enhancing the romance of the sword. But he would appreciate having the privacy to stir up a little passion in his own life.
“Actually, Kenneth,” he admitted, shying away from the brush his valet bore toward his head, “I was thinking—ouch—of a more personal message, from—”
The valet’s brush stilled, caught in Kit’s hair. “Ah. A liaison?” Martin said, eyeing Kit over the lowering brush. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? There were a legion of them. I sent the footman packing and tore up the messages. We don’t want those nasty women around here.”
He ducked the valet and swung around in disbelief. “You did what?”
“You said we should never let a flirtation distract you from a lesson, duel, or performance. I thought I’d be doing you a favor by keeping your mind on course. Wait. There was one message that I promised to give you.”
“Well.”
The valet lowered his voice self-consciously. “The viscountess said—”
“That’s enough, Martin. She isn’t the distraction I was hoping for.”
By the time Violet was convinced that her aunt felt better, she had missed all but the closing acts. Not wanting to disturb anyone, she took a seat at the back of the theater. The audience seemed in high spirits, speculating in whispers what the finale would include. The master of ceremonies was taking bids for a midnight duel with the sword master, all the proceeds to benefit an orphanage or hospital of their choice. It sounded like fun, Violet thought, and if she had a decent purse, she might have bid herself.
She wouldn’t have been the only lady in the audience to do so. The sword master counted plenty of female followers.
She studied the stage, wishing she had been able to find a closer seat. Judging by the set, a candlelit altar and church interior, it seemed like the next scene would be a romantic act. What part would the masked rogue she’d met tonight play? Had she missed him? Godfrey had talked only about his own role. In fact, he’d talked about it so much that Violet felt she had seen it. Or she could convince him she had.
“Ladies and gentlemen! May we have silence in the theater?” The apron lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. “Thank you,” the master of ceremonies said. He paused to acknowledge the marquess and his family in the upper gallery. “And now for our finale, we require one brave young lady from the audience—”
A commotion broke out across the theater. Countless white-gloved hands crested the air like waves. One of the footmen behind Violet said to another, “If only the army could get volunteers that easily.”
Volunteers for what?
The master of ceremonies selected a blond woman in a pale yellow dress from the second row. Sighs of disappointment escaped the ladies not chosen. Violet regarded the empty seat with a wry smile. First seat on the right from the center aisle. Well, it hadn’t taken the rogue long to replace her.
She sat forward, interested to see what mischief she had missed. Would she regret her decision to remain uninvolved? Probably not. She had grown remarkably staid in recent years. Like most young gentlewomen she had learned that a lady obeyed the rules, or broke them to her rue.
The act turned out to be an adventurous escapade that delighted the audience, performed in high-spirited energy. A black-garbed swordsman paraded a white stallion through the theater and up onto the stage to rescue an unwilling bride from a wedding altar. A lively duel between the rescuer and the enraged bridegroom and his retainers ensued.
Violet noticed two assistants waiting at the end of each aisle to catch the horse and its rescued bride, who dismounted as skillfully as a cavalry officer. Of course it was all staged. The rescued damsel worked for the scalawag dancing the villain across the stage at sword point.
To Violet’s frustration he moved too fast for her to get a clear look at him. Strong chin. Limbs as flexible as a dancer’s. Dark silky hair with glints of gold. She felt her skin tingle in recognition.
Just because he’d flirted with her in a hallway? And what part in this performance had he expected her to play? Not only an onstage role, but a private one, no doubt. A backstage affair. Godfrey would have a word or two to say about that. Furthermore, he would have died of shock if Violet had ridden a horse through the theater, her ankles exposed to the audience.
All you have to remember is to put your arms around me and hold on tight.
In that moment, if she could have reached the swordsman, she might have done exactly that.
The action onstage commanded her attention. But in less than a minute the mood of mischief darkened to menace. From behind the pews of the chapel innumerable enemy soldiers sprang up like dragon’s teeth to challenge the stolen bride’s defender. Violet soon forgot this was a performance.
She barely noticed when a footman ushered a late-arriving guest into the seat beside her. The swordsman leaped over the pews with his back to the church altar, his enemies forcing his retreat. One by one, he beat them down until at last he stood against a stained-glass window, trapped, outnumbered.
Violet frowned, caught up in the outcome. The figure onstage represented chivalry, vulnerability, and the unconquerable power of right. He exemplified the courtier who refused to bend to any power but one who treated his subjects with grace. How could this brave knight find victory? It looked as if he were done for.
She cringed as an enemy swordsman disarmed him, slashing a bloody wound from the shoulder of his tunic to his hip. She knew perfectly well it wasn’t real blood. But she and several other ladies gasped all the same. His sword clattered to the stone floor of the chapel.
How at the last hour could a defenseless hero win?
All appeared to be lost.
He fell to his knees, his silky hair covering his face, blood running from his wounds.
Was the audience to be left unsettled and helpless, with even a theatrical triumph denied? The hero they had championed could not die at an altar, grace and victory snatched from his hand.
The light that pierced the stained-glass window behind the fallen knight faded. The stage went dark. Violet felt the uneasiness that gripped the audience.
The knight could not fail. Evil must not win.
The curtain closed on his unmoving figure. Was it over?
“For God’s sake,” one gentleman muttered, “get up. It cannot end like this.”
“Get up!”
“Get up!”
The audience chanted the words with righteous anger, with passion. Their voices resounded to the painted medallions of the soaring plaster ceiling. The swell of emotion that swept through the small theater mounted until Violet’s very pulse echoed the same refrain.
Get up. Get up. She knew it wasn’t real. And yet she believed in the hero’s pain with all her heart. Get up. Get up.
Show us it can be done. Give us courage. Help us. Stand up for what is right.
It’s only an act, she thought. The fallen swordsman was just trying to make an assignation with me. Of course he isn’t going to die. The cheeky rogue had the vigor of a dozen men.
“Get up,” she whispered, her voice joining the others. And as she spoke an image from long ago stirred in her mind. “Get up,” she said, shaking her head in frustration as the image subsided before it could take shape.
He reminded her of . . .
The curtains opened again. Mist swirled around the warrior, who slowly rose to approach a massive anvil in which was embedded a sword.
Appearing from the wings to flank him at either side came a dozen knights in foot chains. One dared throw him a pair of gauntlets. A second wiped the blood from his shoulder with a cloth. Two others defied their captors by struggling free and helping him put on a tunic. A fifth knight—heavens above, Violet thought, stifling a giggle, it was Godfrey—knelt at his side.
When the knight stood, the audience held its collective breath. And when he pulled the stone from the anvil, he rose above disgrace to defend those who could not defend themsel
ves. The sword glittered over his head. It shone as he lifted it to the cheering audience, a young Arthur in a satin tunic. It rang as he broke the chains that bound his knights.
Violet sniffed. He reminded her of every girl’s hero, she supposed. A man who could chase a child through a house when he was about to perform the show of the season and not lose his patience. A man who even managed to plot an after-performance rendezvous.
A legendary hero or a consummate artist? Perhaps it didn’t matter. Tonight he had staged a call to arms to help the downtrodden, using the romance of the sword to inspire. Never mind that he had inspired romantic notions in the ladies watching him, Violet included. She gave a sigh.
No wonder Godfrey bragged that he was one of only twelve students chosen to perform. And what dreadful timing for Violet to miss his important scene. She would never hear the end of it.
The end.
She blinked.
The Marquess of Sedgecroft had come onstage to deliver his final words.
The crowd cheered wildly. Grayson Boscastle, the fifth marquess, was a gregarious lion of a man, beloved by London society despite, or perhaps because of, his previous sins.
“We are all of us tonight a privileged class,” he addressed the audience. “We have dined on the food prepared by the finest chefs in England this evening. We have been well entertained. And we have no doubt spent more hours pondering our evening dress than we have the beggars we passed on our way to the tailor’s or the mantua maker’s. But for your generosity, the destitute, the downtrodden, and I thank you. And for the heart-stopping sword duels in which my son is eager to engage me, I thank Master Fenton and the dedicated students of his academy.”
Master Fenton.
He appeared at Sedgecroft’s side, the epitome of sensual elegance. Violet couldn’t take her eyes from him.
She wished she hadn’t come here tonight.
A horrible pain had pierced her heart. It took her a moment to work out what she was feeling, but then she knew. It was the pain of wanting what could never be.
To think she had been instantly attracted to that gorgeous and graceful man. How shocking of her. Virtuous Miss Violet Knowlton should never have even contemplated such a romance.
It was better to consider this a case of infatuation at first sight. Did she believe such a thing was possible? But how else could she explain the strange connection she had felt to him, as if she had known the alluring Fenton all her life?
There was a simple explanation.
She had fallen in love with a romantic hero, as had so many ladies in the audience.
Christopher Fenton.
The name wasn’t familiar.
He took three bows to thunderous applause.
And then quickly disappeared from the stage.
Chapter 5
Violet noticed that she wasn’t the only member of the audience mesmerized by the performance. Several guests remained in their seats, staring at the deserted stage. Even the gentlemen could be overheard lavishing praise on the dramatic spectacle.
“Yes, yes,” one said. “I know it was nothing but an illusion. Well, illusion and skill and hard practice. But with the world as disillusioned as it is, what is wrong with a night of forgetting what one may face tomorrow? We need to be uplifted to carry on.”
Violet silently agreed. Illusion. Yes, knightly tales and gentlemen fighting off street ruffians made for good drama.
“He is magnificent,” a woman whispered in the shadows somewhere behind Violet. “I vow he’s seduced the entire house. It isn’t fair. I spotted him first. Now every lady in town knows who he is.”
“Be quiet,” her companion said with an embarrassed laugh. “He might still be backstage and listening.”
“Good. Then I can make him an offer. It’s said that his sword can be bought.”
Violet rose to her feet in indignation. How dared this vulgar woman ruin all the lovely feelings that his performance had awakened?
She turned. She knew better than to venture an unsolicited opinion, but before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Isn’t he known for his chivalry?”
The two ladies stared at her in annoyance. The first, flawless in a costly cream silk gown, smiled. “Would you like me to let you know when I find out?”
The other woman sighed. “There’s no need to taunt her. She looks as fresh as a May queen.”
Violet lowered her gaze, surprised at her outburst. She’s wrong, she thought as the ladies exited the theater, laughing all the way. He can’t be bought. Not like that. At least, she hoped he couldn’t.
“I’m not fresh, either,” she muttered, turning again without looking where she was going.
“Excuse me, miss.”
She blushed. Not only had she walked into a footman, but it was the same one she had lost earlier in the night. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s quite all right, miss.”
In fact, she was so flustered that she started when she felt a firm hand turn her by the elbow toward the door. She wasn’t quite ready to join the rest of the party. She needed a moment more for her daze of emotions to settle. She wanted to linger just a little longer in a world where a happy ending was assured.
The magic would wear off by morning. It might be gone before she reached the carriage and returned home. Except . . . there was still a ball to attend, and dancing always brightened her spirits.
She cast a wistful look at the empty chair in the second row and looked up into Sir Godfrey Maitland’s smug face. “Well, what did you think?”
“What a wonderful entertainment.”
He was still wearing his sword and theatrical garb, glancing about every few seconds to acknowledge a compliment from guests who recognized him as one of the players. “And my act?”
“I missed your performance,” she said quickly. “But I saw you at the end.”
“You did what?”
“After Aunt Francesca took unwell, I didn’t know—I went the wrong way and—”
“You missed my performance?”
She nodded slowly. She wasn’t ready to tell him about the interlude in the hallway with his fencing instructor. In hindsight it was fortunate that she hadn’t given her name or engaged in any flirtatious gestures that could have been carried back to Godfrey.
“Well, you wouldn’t have wanted for anything to happen to my aunt for the sake of a little sword fight. And the marchioness was so kind—”
“The marchioness?” He drew her away from the crowd of chattering guests that spilled out into one of three halls. “You spoke to her in person?”
“Yes, Godfrey. She took Aunt Francesca upstairs into—” A small group of ladies and gentlemen broke between them, tossing back apologies as an afterthought. “I did mention that my uncle befriended Lady Sedgecroft’s father in Falmouth years ago.”
“Yes, but I didn’t realize she would go out of her way to return the favor,” Godfrey said. “This might end up being the best thing that has ever happened to us.” He gripped her arm and pulled them back into the flow of traffic. “I don’t mean that Francesca is unwell, of course, but that you’ve strengthened your connection to Sedgecroft’s wife and I have been invited to a private party—”
Violet looked past him, her attention diverted. A commotion had erupted at the end of the hall; a surge of energy swept through the air, and she felt herself caught up in its undercurrents. Some excitement had attracted all the young ladies to the masterful figures posed on various steps of the marble staircase.
“It’s Fenton and his players,” Godfrey remarked in surprise. “They’re being interviewed, and I’m supposed to be part of it. You don’t really mind, do you, Violet, if I leave you alone with Francesca for an hour? I’ve been invited upstairs.”
“How pleasant for you, Godfrey.”
“It’s an exclusive affair for the gentlemen who performed or contributed heavily to the benefit.”
She widened her eyes. “So there won’t be any actresses or wives?”
“As if a woman of your beauty and virtue had reason to be jealous of another.”
“Just remember these are business connections,” she said under her fan.
“I’ll do my best,” he said softly against her cheek. “And you remember that we’re going to another fencing competition at Hyde Park the day after tomorrow. This time you will watch my performance. I shall see you shortly at the ball. Don’t forget to be agreeable to anyone you meet.
“If anyone should ask where I am on your way out,” he added, “tell them I am attending a private party with Sedgecroft and Fenton.”
Against her will Violet glanced over the crowd to the figure who had turned to mount the double staircase. He was dressed simply, in a white linen shirt and tight black pantaloons. She couldn’t see whether he was wearing a sword or not, but as the other players were, she thought he might be. He was attractive, nonetheless.
Fenton. He shook his head when a gentleman offered him a champagne flute. He appeared to be searching the crowd for someone. She assumed that this time it wasn’t a lost child.
Perhaps he’d been in an unguarded mood when she’d met him earlier. He didn’t look as playful or approachable now. But then, he was caught in a crowd, and everyone seemed to be vying for his attention. Any other man would have been exhausted after his strenuous performance.
He still exuded enough vitality to charge the room. Was it possible that he was looking for a way to escape, or for her? No. She was a ninny for letting the thought cross her mind. How many times had her aunt told her that one lady was never enough for a rogue?
“Do you want to meet him?” Godfrey asked her unexpectedly. He must have noticed the direction of her gaze. Then, before she could answer, he lifted his arms over his head. “Fenton! Over here, by the door!”
Fenton turned in Violet’s direction.
And Violet caught a tantalizing glimpse of his face before he noticed Godfrey waving his arms like a windmill, and glanced the other way.
Oh, dear.
Whomever he was looking for, it wasn’t Godfrey. In fact, Violet felt embarrassed on her fiancé’s account. He acted at times with a sense of entitlement that tempted her to pretend she didn’t know him.
A Bride Unveiled Page 5