The Songbird's Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  On her way, she bumped straight into Margery.

  “Ah, there you are, lambkins,” Margery said as if he’d been looking for her. She eyed him wryly, knowing full well he’d been holding court with his fans and had likely forgotten all about her. While she didn’t doubt his affection for her was sincere, she also knew stardom was his first and foremost love.

  He led her to his barstool, insisting she take it. Then, noting the slight difficulty with which she climbed atop, he shook his finger lightly under her nose. “You’ve been drinking cocktails, haven’t you? Jack’s doing, I suppose.” He clucked his tongue. “You’re far too young to be drowning yourself in gin, toots. Leave that to the old roués like Jack and myself.”

  Lucy laughed, forcefully dismissing the gorgeous dark fellow from her thoughts. “Then what should I drown myself in?”

  “Why, champagne, of course.” He turned to his fans and announced, “Step lively, m’dears! We’re celebrating Lucy’s return to the fold. You do know who she is, don’t you?”

  “Margery!” Lucy protested, hot blood rushing to her cheeks. None of these people were likely to have the vaguest notion who she was. She’d only had credited roles in three productions—

  “I should say I do!” a plug-shaped youngster with fair, curly hair announced in triumphant, if slightly slurred, tones. “That’s Miss Lucille Eastlake.”

  Lucy’s eyes grew round with astonished pleasure. Someone had recognized her! She laughed. No . . . much to her horror, she realized she was tittering. She cleared her throat and attempted to look as though being recognized was standard for her. “You’ve seen me perform?”

  “Well, no,” the young man admitted. “I don’t go in much for warbly stuff. You were in a pack of cigarettes. On the back of a card. I saved it. You were April.” He leaned closer to her, eyes wide and earnest. “But”—his whiskey-soaked breath washed over her face—“if I ever were to spend money on a ticket to a show like that, it’d sure be yours and that’s the truth.”

  She tried not to laugh. He earnestly believed he was complimenting her. “Why, thank you.”

  He rocked back on the balls of his feet, grinning with gratification, clearly more inebriated than she’d originally suspected. But then, so was she. “ ’low me to introduce meself. The name’s Charlie. Charlie Cheddar.”

  “Charlie?” Margery exclaimed indignantly. “You mean to say you are named ‘Charlie’ and yet you have never heard Miss Eastlake sing ‘In the Moonlight, Charlie’?”

  “No,” the boy stuttered, nonplussed. “I haven’t.”

  “And never shall now,” Margery said ominously, “seeing how the The Debutante’s Complaint ended after only a five-month run. Too bad. The critics universally acclaimed Miss Eastlake’s late second act song in the unappreciated and underutilized role of the maid, Poppy, to be the highlight of the show. The sole highlight, unfortunately. So I’m afraid you’ve lost your chance. Pity, seeing as your name is Charlie and all.”

  “Oh!” The boy looked stricken.

  “Unless, well, unless you could convince Miss Eastlake to sing it . . .”

  “Margery!” She should have expected this sort of nonsense from him. He was a diligent booster of his friends. Even when they didn’t want to be boosted.

  “Oh, would you?” Charlie Cheddar breathed.

  “I’m sure the Savoy’s orchestra—”

  “Ach!” Margery broke in with a derisive snort. “Can barely hear them all they way in here. And what is that they’re playing? A dirge? Terrible stuff. Bound to give a fellow indigestion if he listens too long. Come on, ducks. Sing us a tune.”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Charlie begged.

  “I—”

  “Wouldn’t you like to hear Miss Eastlake sing?” Margery asked the group around them. At once, a chorus of yeses answered him. She was not vain enough to think any of them shared an honest desire to hear her sing. Politeness stirred their assent. What else could they do but agree?

  Still, it was rather nice that they sounded sincere and since she knew from past experience that Margery was not going to let it alone until she’d acquiesced, she might as well enjoy herself.

  “One song,” she warned.

  “One song it is,” he agreed and before she knew it, he’d clasped her around the waist and popped her atop the bar.

  Her great-aunts would die of mortification if they saw her perched up here. Simply die.

  Luckily, mortification and Lucy had only a negligible acquaintance. She’d been in so many should-be mortifying situations throughout her childhood that if she had taken to fainting whenever anything embarrassing happened she would have spent the vast majority of her childhood insensate.

  She took a sip from the glass Margery handed her, inhaled deeply, and as the small circle of people about them hushed, began the sprightly, charming little tune that had first won her the notice of the London critics.

  “During the day I see your face is funny,

  Can’t call you handsome when it’s sunny,

  But by the moon’s much kinder light,

  Girls like me lack perfect sight . . .”

  And then she launched into the rousing chorus:

  “In the Moonlight, Charlie,

  You’re a dandy,

  Words like honey, lips like candy,

  You may not have a handsome vis

  But by gum, by moonlight, you’re swell to kiss!”

  It was a ridiculous song, but the tune was bright and catchy and so by the time she finished the last line, everyone around her was joining in to sing the chorus. When she’d finished, she performed a seated curtsey and slipped from the bar lightly to her feet only to be confronted by Charlie Cheddar’s rapt, round face.

  “That was wonderful,” he said. “Wonderful!”

  Good heavens, the boy didn’t actually think she’d been singing to him? Why, what a sweet kid!

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you think . . . That is, would you be so kind as to, well, give me your autograph?”

  “My autograph?” No one had ever asked her for her autograph before! “I’ve never—that is, I would be delighted, Mr. Cheddar.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Charlie. But I don’t have anything with which to write.”

  “No?” The young man looked crestfallen.

  “Now, now. You mustn’t disappoint your public, Lucy.” Margery, who’d been watching the little byplay with avuncular amusement, intervened. “I shall return anon with scribbling apparatus. Be patient!” Once more, he vanished into the crowd.

  Darling Margery, she thought, accepting the new glass of champagne the curly-haired youngster offered. She smiled at him over the rim. He beamed back.

  “Large crowd here tonight,” she said when it became clear that her young swain had used up his small store of conversation.

  “Yes,” Charlie replied eagerly before falling once again into worshipful, and silent, staring.

  “What sort of theatre do you like, Charlie?”

  “None.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked around, hoping Margery wouldn’t be too much longer. The American Bar had gotten even more crowded, every table now ringed with elegant ladies and gentlemen who’d stopped for a post-theatre cocktail.

  “You are even more beautiful in person than on your card.”

  Well, if a fellow were capable of only a few words, those were certainly worthy ones. She dimpled, causing his mouth to slam shut again and fiery red color to bloom in his apple-round cheeks.

  “Here you go, Lucy.” Margery reappeared, holding out a new and expensive-looking silver Conklin fountain pen. Probably a gift from one of his admirers. “And mind you don’t misplace that because—”

  “Yes, yes. I promise.”

  “Good, because it’s—”

  “Is that the Margery? But I simply adore you!” Whatever Margery had been about to say was forgotten as an ardent female fan seized his arm and pulled him around to face her.


  Lucy, well used to the demonstrativeness of Margery’s admirers, particularly the female ones, turned back to Charlie Cheddar, the fountain pen at ready. “Now then, where shall I sign?”

  The question proved a poser. “I . . . I don’t know. Gosh.”

  “Have her sign your cuff,” someone suggested.

  “The menu.”

  “Napkin.”

  “Will you sign my menu, Miss Eastlake?” another young man asked.

  “Hey. Miss Eastlake is signing my menu,” Charlie said with some asperity. “You can wait your turn.”

  “After you’re done with theirs, can you sign my menu, too?” a new voice asked. “I saw you perform the part of Honoria in The Catch of the Season last November. You smoked a cigarette on stage! It was . . . swell!”

  “I nearly choked every time I set the vile thing to my lips,” she confided with a grin.

  She’d been warned beforehand that playing the part of a young girl who had yet to make her bow but smoked behind her parents’ backs might shock the older audience members. Apparently it had not shocked everyone. And even though she knew that male competitiveness had more to do with her current popularity than an appreciation of her voice—or whatever it was they appreciated—it felt good. No, it felt grand.

  “Let me get you another glass of champagne, Miss Eastlake,” Charlie said and, before she could refuse, hurried off.

  Margery leaned close, whispering in her ear. “Go on, ducks. Enjoy yourself!”

  So she did. She scribbled her name on the menu a young man handed her and presented it with a flourish. No sooner had she finished with that one than another took its place and then another. She flushed, smiled, and flirted, alternately taking sips of a champagne glass that miraculously never went dry. She traded quips with the various young men handing her items to be signed, her signature becoming bolder with each autograph. It was ridiculous. It was nonsensical. It was wonderful!

  “Miss? Excuse me, miss.”

  She turned, her hand already stretched out to accept whatever this new petitioner might want autographed, and froze.

  Her pirate stood before her.

  He looked horribly self-conscious. “You . . .” Their gazes caught. Held. He frowned again. He frowned an awful lot, her pirate.

  Her pirate. She smiled, floating on the euphoria of public adulation and more alcohol than she’d ever consumed at one time. He looked so nonplussed. Rather sweet, really . . . Why was he standing there?

  Oh, yes! She remembered. He was waiting for her autograph. And now that he was here, he was clearly too embarrassed to ask her for it. It was adorable.

  She smiled graciously. “No need to be bashful, my good man. I’ll be happy to sign your. . . .” She looked around for his menu or card or napkin and didn’t see anything she could write on. “What is it you wish me to sign?”

  His scowl deepened. “What? I don’t want you to sign anything.”

  She blinked, feeling a little muddled. “You don’t?”

  Her heart began pattering pleasantly in her chest. He couldn’t be . . . Why, he wasn’t going to ask her to join him at his table? Well, of course he was! How forward! How naughty! But how deliciously tempting! She forced herself to remember her great-aunts.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly!” she fluttered as she wondered if perhaps she could.

  “Couldn’t what?”

  “Accept an invitation to dine from a complete stranger. I mean, I am sure you’re a very nice man and all but—”

  “What?” Deep color swept up her pirate’s neck, turning his tanned face an even richer color. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  She frowned, all interior fluttering abruptly halting in the face of his explicitly unflirtatious tone. “What am I talking about? What are you talking about?”

  “My pen.”

  “What?”

  “You have my pen. I would like it back.”

  She stared at him. “Now see here. I may have been precipitous in declining an invitation you hadn’t yet finished—”

  “Finished?” he cut in, startled into rudeness. “I hadn’t started one. Why would you make such an assumption?”

  Assumptions? He didn’t . . . ? She wasn’t . . . ? He hadn’t . . . ?! Oh, dear. Pride alone allowed her to keep her chin up. “I saw the look in your eye.”

  “What? There was no look in my eye.”

  “There was,” she said. “Which is how I deduced your intention. It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened to me, you know.” It was the second time. The first had been an invitation from a middle-aged, overweight financier who’d ambushed her at the stage door and which, needless to say, she’d refused in no uncertain terms. But the gorgeous man with the cleft chin needn’t know that. A girl had her pride.

  “That was not my intention.”

  “You’re self-conscious,” she said, with dawning understanding. “I daresay you don’t generally approach strange women in hotel bars.”

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “No. I do not.”

  “You don’t look the type,” she agreed. “Which is why you are now attempting to mask your embarrassment by coming up with an excuse for your impulsive act. One that will, as they say, allow you to save face.”

  His frown had disappeared, replaced by an expression of amazement. “Incredible,” he murmured.

  “Yes, I know,” she said demurely. “I am good at reading people. It’s what I do, after all.” She fluttered her lashes just to let him know there were no hard feelings. “Certainly this is not the first time nor, dare I say, shall it be the last that a gentleman has sought an introduction through unusual means. But that’s no reason to claim ownership of a very expensive pen that does not belong to you.”

  “But it does.” He was openly exasperated now, running a hand through his hair. Just as she’d suspected it would, it tousled up into thick, loose curls. “Are you listening to me, young lady?”

  She flushed. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t been. “Of course. But if the pen is yours how then could my friend Mr. Margery have loaned it to me, making me promise to look after it?” she asked reasonably enough, because, truth be told, she was becoming a bit annoyed he wouldn’t simply own up to being overwhelmed by a desire to speak to her.

  “I have no idea,” he said, by all appearances attempting to master a nearly equal frustration.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “But it is mine and I would very much appreciate it if you would return it to me.”

  This was getting out of hand. “Now see here, this is a very expensive instrument and I am not going to simply hand over my friend’s pen so you can preserve your dignity.”

  “What dignity?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “Everyone is staring at us. And I know it is expensive. It is one of the reasons I am willing to make a public spectacle of myself in demanding its return. That, and the fact that it was a gift.”

  She looked around. Those in their immediate vicinity had stopped talking and were regarding them with amused interest. A small group nearby had even turned their chairs for a better view.

  Heat swept into Lucy’s face and suddenly she was eight years old again and at her great-grandmother’s house, being introduced to the Tartar for the first and only time while Uncle Mikhail stood by, hat in hand, extolling Lucy’s many virtues as a battalion of servants looked on: She could mimic any bird, sing like a nightingale, sit quiet as a cat at a mouse hole through even the longest sermon, even cook. Some.

  “Why she can brew up a pot of—” he’d continued.

  “Be still,” Gertrude Litton’s voice had cut across Mikhail’s words like a whiplash. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

  She had turned away without another word.

  The butler had ushered them out, and they had passed beneath the amused and pitying gazes of the assembled servants.

  Though since then Lucy had turned making a spectacle of herself into a career, she did so on her te
rms, fully in charge of the role, the stage, and her lines. Now memories of that long-ago encounter washed over her, the feeling of public humiliation biting as acid. Her cheeks grew warm.

  “Hey! If Miss Eastlake says thas her pen, then ish her pen.” Charlie Cheddar suddenly reappeared. He’d apparently tucked into a few more drinks in the interim and was now prepared to play knight-errant, which was categorically the last thing she wanted. “You better clear out if you know whas good fer you, mister.”

  “Oh, for the love of Mike,” the gorgeous man muttered.

  “Put ’em up,” her blond champion commanded, raising his fists and wobbling slightly where he stood.

  “Would you please tell your young man to put his hands down so we can settle this matter?”

  “He’s not my young man,” Lucy said, desperately wanting to escape the growing snickers of their impromptu audience. “And as far as I am concerned the matter is settled. Good evening.” She wheeled around and started to move away. He took a step after her.

  Riiiippp.

  She stopped dead.

  Laughter, surprised laughter, the kind people take care to quickly stifle but that invariably burbles up again in spite of one’s best intentions, rose all around her. With a horrible sense of foreboding, she twisted at the waist and looked down. The seam up the back of her gown had ripped open, exposing the very sheer petticoat beneath. The hem of her dress was caught under one of his highly polished shoes.

  “Ohhhhh!” A wail of distress escaped her throat. She looked up and met his gaze. “Do something!”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he pulled off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Come on,” he said, taking her elbow in hand and moving her forward.

  “You cad!”

  Before she realized what was happening, Charlie had grabbed hold of the dark-haired man’s shoulder and spun him around. She turned just in time to see the youngster’s fist collide with the gorgeous would-be pirate’s jaw and his eyes go wide.

  He crumbled to her feet.

  “Mister! Mister!” A frantic female voice called Professor Ptolemy Archibald Grant from blissful oblivion.