by Jenna Jaxon
Once they were safe, her rescuer set her on her feet and slapped at her skirts. “It’s all right. It was just a few sparks. They’re out now.” She wobbled, but he reached out and steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “Good Lord, I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly in my life. You’re not burned, are you?”
Penelope hardly knew. Her head was spinning and her heart was slamming against her ribs, but she wasn’t in any pain. “No, I’m not burned, but I…I can’t see!” Dear God, had the heat from the flames injured her eyes? Her breath began to come in short, painful gasps as panic overwhelmed her.
“It’s all right. It’s just your mask.” He plucked the mask from her face and pulled it over her head, taking her wig with it. “There. Is that better?”
Penelope blinked up at him, her mouth falling open as her blurred vision snapped into focus.
Lord Archer stood before her, his dark blue eyes wide with concern.
She’d spent countless hours staring at this man from her place on the stage, admiring the way the theater lamps caught at the gold strands in his thick brown hair, wondering what he was like, what sort of man he was. Was he kind, or haughty and arrogant? Was he clever, or did he hide an empty head behind those blue, blue eyes? She’d never spoken a word to him, but even so, Lord Archer had become something of a guiding star for her. He was the one beautiful thing she could focus on as she endured night after night of misery on the Pandemonium’s stage.
He was even more beautiful up close. “Tainted Angel,” she murmured dazedly, repeating the nickname the ton had given him. It was a play on his given name, William Angel, but also a reproach for his behavior.
William Angel, Lord Archer, was as wicked as he was beautiful.
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Most people just call me Archer.”
Heat flooded Penelope’s face. She hadn’t realized she’d said his nickname aloud, and now she rushed to correct her error. “I…yes, of course. Please forgive my rudeness, Lord Archer.”
A grin tugged at his lips. “Oh, it’s all right. I never demand a strictly proper address from ladies whose skirts catch fire.”
Penelope gave a startled laugh. “How magnanimous of you.”
His grin widened. “I think so.”
She gave her skirts a nervous twitch, but Lord Archer had smothered the sparks, just as he’d promised. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I’m very grateful, indeed.”
He bowed. “I’m pleased to have been of service, Miss—”
“My lord!”
Lord Archer and Penelope both turned at once to find Florentina mincing across the stage, a deceptively pleasant smile fixed to her painted red lips.
Ah, yes. How could Penelope have forgotten? Lord Archer did have one flaw, and it was a tragic one. He had dreadfully poor taste in mistresses. Otherwise he wouldn’t have chosen Florentina.
“I couldn’t imagine where you’d gone to.” Florentina curled a possessive hand around Lord Archer’s arm. “But here you are, talking with…with…”
Penelope curtsied. “Penelope Hervey, Miss Fernside.”
Florentina knew who she was, of course—they’d shared the stage any number of times—but a nobody like Penelope was far beneath her notice, and Florentina didn’t hesitate to remind her of it. “Penelope Hervey.” She rolled the name on her tongue as if it had a foul taste. “No, it doesn’t sound familiar, but no matter.” She dismissed Penelope with a shrug and turned a simpering smile on Lord Archer. “Shall we go, my love? It’s been a most trying evening for me. The fire frightened me to death!”
The corners of Lord Archer’s lips curled as he studied Florentina, but his expression couldn’t be mistaken for a smile. “How curious. You didn’t appear to notice the fire at all. You have Miss Hervey to thank for putting it out.”
A heavy silence fell as Florentina tried to decide if Lord Archer was seriously demanding she offer her thanks to someone as insignificant as Penelope. When he raised an expectant eyebrow at her, she let out a tinkling laugh. “Why, of course. Thank you, Miss Hervey. It was very good of you. Now, may we please go, my lord? I’m nearly expiring from exhaustion.”
“Do endeavor to stay upright until we reach my carriage, Florentina. Miss Hervey.” Lord Archer bowed again, and this time when his lips curled, his smile was genuine. “That was well done tonight.” He paused, then added with a wink, “I prefer your red hair to that dark wig. I can’t imagine what the theater manager is thinking, hiding you under that thing. Come on then, Florentina.”
He strode across the stage toward the exit, Florentina clinging to his arm. Once his back was turned, Florentina turned around and shot Penelope a look of pure venom.
Penelope bent down with a sigh and retrieved her mask and wig. It had been another dreadful night at the Pandemonium, but at least there’d been one bright spot in the gloom.
She’d spoken to Lord Archer, and he’d been kind to her.
At least, he’d meant to be. He couldn’t know it, but the fact that he’d singled her out was likely to cause her trouble with Florentina. Penelope thought of the viciousness in those dark eyes, and a shiver of foreboding darted up her spine.
One disaster at a time.
****
Lord Archer didn’t come to the Pandemonium the next night. He didn’t come the following night, or the night after that, either. A week passed, then another, but Lord Archer’s box remained empty. Penelope stood on stage night after night in her whore’s costume, sweat dripping between her breasts, vainly searching the audience for a distraction—a single thing she could call beautiful.
She didn’t find one.
When Lord Archer still hadn’t appeared by the end of the fourth week, she knew he wasn’t coming back. The thought weighed far more heavily on her than it should have, but it was pure folly for her to waste her time mooning over him. It wasn’t as if Lord Archer had been hers, and she’d promised herself she’d cease worrying about things she couldn’t change.
Still, it made for a long month. She was grateful when it ended it last, but she soon discovered the next disaster was already bearing down on her.
The first sign of trouble came after the final performance of the week. Penelope made her way backstage, and had just plopped down into a chair at the dressing table she shared with her friend Dinah, one of the other minor actresses in the company.
Dinah, who was also cursed to spend every night dressed as a whore, was dabbing at her sweaty décolletage with a cloth. She nudged Penelope with her elbow. “You’ll never guess what—”
She was interrupted by a high-pitched scream of fury, then the sound of shattering glass, as if something had been hurled against a wall.
The sounds of destruction were coming from Florentina’s dressing room.
Penelope turned to Dinah, eyes wide. “What in the world was that?”
“My guess is a vase. Perhaps a picture frame.” Dinah smirked, hardly able to contain her glee. “Florentina’s in a bit of a temper, you see.”
Another muffled shout came from behind Florentina’s closed door, then Penelope heard Silas Bragg, the Pandemonium’s theater manager, speaking to Florentina in soothing tones. Silas didn’t put up with any nonsense from his actresses, unless that actress happened to be Florentina Fernside. She was his star, and he’d do whatever he must to keep her happy.
Keeping Florentina happy took up a great deal of his time.
“What’s happened this time? Has she misplaced her favorite face powder again?” Florentina was always in a snit about something. Penelope didn’t pay much attention to her tantrums.
“Oh, no. It’s much worse than that.” Dinah leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Lord Archer disappeared from London without a single word to her. Well, he’s sent her a note at last, and what do you think? He’s broken with her!”
Penelope stared at Dinah, her throat closing. “What, you mean he’s left London, as well?” It was one thing to disappear from the Pandemonium. If Penelope had the cho
ice she’d disappear herself, and never look back—but to vanish from London altogether?
“He has indeed. He’s packed his brothers and sister off to one of his country estates, but no one knows which one they’ve gone to, or why.” Dinah sighed. “It’s too bad of them, really. London will be dreadfully dull without the Tainted Angels here to entertain us with their mischief.”
Lord Archer’s two younger brothers had followed in his rakish footsteps. The three Angels had been scandalizing the ton with their shocking behavior ever since Lord Archer had inherited the earldom a year earlier. Gaming, brothels, duels, mistresses—even Penelope, who did her best to steer clear of mischief, had heard of their exploits.
“Lord Archer’s servant brought round a note for Florentina this afternoon,” Dinah whispered. “Perhaps his lordship has decided to reform his wicked ways. Goodness knows Florentina’s a wicked—”
“Where the devil is Penelope Hervey?”
The girls in the dressing-room were all chattering and laughing, but everyone fell silent when Silas’s harsh voice echoed throughout the room.
Penelope shrank down in her chair and turned her stricken gaze to Dinah.
Dinah stared back at her, eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, no.”
Oh no, indeed. No good ever came from being summoned by Silas Bragg.
Silas’s oily gaze slid around the room until he spied Penelope, then he jerked his head toward the hallway. “In my office, Miss Hervey. Now.”
Penelope shot Dinah one more desperate look, then followed Silas’s retreating back.
“Shut the door behind you and sit down.” Silas leaned back in the chair behind his desk and rested his hands on his bulging belly.
Penelope sat, sucked in a quick breath, and braced herself for the next disaster.
“All you had to do was stay out of her way, and you couldn’t even do that, could you? I took you for one of the smart ones, but you’re as dim-witted as the rest of them.” The legs of Silas’s chair hit the floor with a thump. “You’re out. Get your things and go.”
Penelope stared at him. “Out? But why?”
Silas shrugged. “You’re a pretty little bit of stage dressing, and you do well enough playing whores and bar maids and the like, but Miss Fernside wants you gone, so you’re gone. Simple as that.”
For one awful moment, Penelope couldn’t squeeze out a single word. She’d never fit in at the Pandemonium. She’d been expecting this day to come for the past year, but now that it had, she was stunned. “Please, Mr. Bragg. I’ll apologize for whatever it is I’ve done to offend Miss Fernside—”
“You can’t apologize for this. She says it’s your fault Lord Archer broke with her and buggered off to the country.” Silas shook his head in disgust. “You silly chits never learn, do you? Stay out of Miss Fernside’s way, or your days are numbered. She says you were flirting with Archer, or some such nonsense.”
Flirting with him? Certainly, she had been, if avoiding a fiery death could be considered flirting. Good Lord, she was a fool. She would have been better off letting the theater burn to the ground than to speak to him.
As soon as Lord Archer took notice of her, he’d sealed her fate.
Anger sparked in Penelope’s chest, but what use was there in defending herself? The truth didn’t matter here. All that mattered was Florentina, and Florentina wanted her gone.
Dear God, what was she going to do? She had no family, no money, and no prospects. Dinah would insist on helping her, but she wasn’t any better off than Penelope was. Both of them were scraping to get by as it was.
Silas’s sly brown eyes flicked over her face. “Mayhap there’s one thing you could do for me. A job, of sorts.”
Penelope regarded him warily. Silas looked awfully pleased with himself, and when Silas was pleased, it generally meant something sinister was afoot. “What sort of job?”
“Lord Snedley is having a Christmas party at his country house in Essex. He wants two girls for a, ah…Christmas theatrical, of sorts. He mentioned he’s taken a fancy to you and would be gratified if you’d attend his party. You’d go at once and stay until Twelfth Night.”
Penelope smothered a snort. Lord Snedley fancied everything in skirts. He was a lecherous old bounder, and she doubted he’d be satisfied with only a Christmas theatrical. If she agreed to go he’d assume she was encouraging his advances, and that was the last thing she—
“He’s offered twenty pounds.”
Penelope’s gaze shot to Silas’s face, her mouth dropping open. “Twenty pounds!”
Silas smirked. “Ten pounds for me, five for each girl, and Snedley’ll send his carriage, so you don’t have to take the stagecoach. A trip to Essex will keep you out of Florentina’s way for long enough she just might forget her grudge against you. You do well for Snedley, and maybe I’ll consider keeping you on here, after all.”
Five pounds each? God in heaven. To have such a sum tucked away would be an unimaginable luxury. She couldn’t refuse five pounds, or the chance to keep her place at the Pandemonium. As miserable as she was here, she hadn’t anywhere else to go.
Penelope swallowed. It was a house party, nothing more. She wasn’t obligated to fall into Lord Snedley’s bed, regardless of what he might expect. She’d take Dinah with her, and they’d stay together the entire time.
“Well, Miss Hervey? Do we have an agreement?”
Penelope forced herself to look Silas in the eyes. “Yes, we have an agreement.”
“Good.” Silas’s lips stretched into a leering grin, and a chill rushed over Penelope’s skin at the sight of his sharp canines.
He looked like a wolf with one tooth already sunk into its prey.
CHAPTER TWO
Brightlingsea, Essex
December 27
William Angel, Lord Archer, had gone to great lengths to ensure Cliff’s Edge Castle was smothered in Christmas cheer. The fire was roaring in the grate, the spicy scent of gingerbread wafted through the air, and fresh boughs of greenery hung in every doorway. He’d overseen every detail himself, hoping the festive air would help reconcile his siblings to their fate.
He’d nearly convinced himself it was working, too.
Up until tonight, that is, when he’d happened to look out his bedchamber window as he was dressing for dinner and spied the youngest Angel, his sister Madeline disappearing into a carriage that was waiting for her in the yard, half-hidden behind the stables.
They’d only been at Cliff’s Edge for four weeks and she was already attempting an escape.
A vile curse fell from Will’s lips. “I should have realized something like this would happen. That carriage was waiting for her, Oliver, and she damn well knew it would be. They planned this. Now Rowley’s got his hooks in her, he won’t let her go without a fight.”
“We’ll catch her.” Oliver tapped his heels into his horse’s flanks and drew up alongside Will. “She can’t be more than a mile or two ahead of us.”
Oliver was the next eldest after Will, and the most reliable of the two younger Angel brothers. Will shook his head. Christ, things were grim indeed if Oliver could be considered the sensible one. Three weeks ago, he’d been caught in a compromising situation with a jealous viscount’s mistress, and nearly been killed in a duel. Fortunately for Oliver, his opponent hadn’t been a crack shot. The ball had passed clean through Oliver’s shoulder, but the hot-headed viscount had been aiming for Oliver’s heart.
Still, Oliver was more trustworthy than their youngest brother. A few weeks before they left London, Christopher had challenged Lord Eggert’s son to a carriage race in Richmond Park. He’d destroyed his new phaeton and lost an enormous sum of money in the wager, too—a sum Will had been obliged to pay.
His brothers were troublesome enough, but at the moment they were the least of Will’s concerns. His sweet, innocent sister had fallen prey to a fortune hunter. Will thought they’d left the scoundrel behind in London, but Mr. Rowley had discovered their whereabouts, and now Maddy, who f
ancied herself in love, had fled into the night with him. Will hadn’t the slightest doubt Rowley intended to ruin her and force a marriage.
“Was Rowley in the carriage?” Christopher was staring straight ahead, his face grim.
Will shook his head. “I couldn’t tell.”
Damn it, they had to catch her…
“He’s likely waiting for her a few miles off. Too much of a bloody coward to come to Cliff’s Edge for her,” Christopher said, his tone scathing.
Oliver’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Maybe a ball between his eyes would teach Rowley a lesson about trifling with young ladies.”
It was on the edge of Will’s tongue to point out a ball in his shoulder hadn’t taught Oliver one, but he bit the words back. “Maybe it would, but I don’t intend to find out. No more duels, Oliver.”
Mud flew from their horse’s hooves as they galloped over the rutted road, splattering Will’s spotless black breeches and his favorite Weston coat. If there was a puddle about, Diablo’s feet seemed to find it. It had taken his valet ages to dress him for dinner this evening, too. All that effort to transform him into a proper gentleman, wasted.
When he caught up to Rowley, he was going to take great pleasure in dragging him out of that carriage and tossing him face down in the mud.
And holding him there, with a boot heel against his neck.
As for Maddy—
“Did you hear that?” Oliver drew his horse to an abrupt halt and went still, listening. “It sounds like a squeaky carriage wheel.”
Will’s head snapped up. The noise was faint, and he couldn’t make out a thing in the thick darkness that surrounded them, but he slowed Diablo to a halt alongside Oliver’s horse. They waited, and before long they heard it again—the squeak of carriage wheels, laboring to roll through the thick mud.