Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  “You have so much,” she whispered. “How can you wish to end it?”

  His eyes were so clear. Even with the light of one candle flame, she saw deep into his dark pupils. An endless well of darkness. She gasped at the sight, stunned by the agony she saw there.

  “You have so much,” he said, his voice thick but still clear. “Does it give you what you want?”

  She shrugged. “I have food. A home. People who care for me.”

  “And yet you strive for the one thing you can never have.”

  She swallowed and looked away. “I have spent every day since I was six working for the money to feel safe. I have that now, but there is a safety that can only be purchased with a wedding ring. With respectability.”

  He released his breath on a heavy sigh. “Marriage will not bring you safety. The world isn’t a safe place.”

  “It will help,” she said firmly, though in her heart, she questioned. It was so hard to accept that she would live with this fear all her life. That nothing could take it away. So much better to cling to false hope than succumb to despair.

  He seemed to understand her terror as he nodded. “I will not take away your dream.”

  She shuddered because he had just brought her deepest fear to the surface. But then she remembered that they were speaking about him. So she pushed down the knot of anxiety in her stomach and turned back to him. “And will death bring you what you want?”

  His smile was relaxed, so casual as they spoke of his death. “I cannot have what I want.”

  She arched her brow, silently asking what he did want. If he said he wanted her, that without her his life was meaningless, then she would stand up and leave. She would know that he was not speaking honestly and likely never would.

  “Honor,” he finally breathed. “Just as you can never achieve true respectability, I can never be . . . honorable.” His voice hitched before his last word. It was as if he flinched before voicing the thought but forced the word out despite the pain.

  She frowned, trying to sort through his words. “Honor for men is not something I have thought much about. For women, it is to maintain virginity outside of marriage. And that”—she shrugged—“that I lost a long time ago.”

  He gripped her hand, and she knew he wanted to ask, wanted to know her pain. But she shook her head. Her stupidity happened long ago. Or so she told herself.

  “I lost my honor in India,” he said softly. “I hadn’t really thought about honor before then. But having lost it . . .” He sighed. “It is like an emptiness so deep inside me that I am nothing but empty.”

  “What happened, Brandon?”

  He pressed his lips together, and he shuddered. But his eyes never left her face.

  “You promised me answers, Brandon.”

  He arched a brow. “And does that require me to bare my soul?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think it does.”

  “People died because of me,” he snapped. “Good, honest people who trusted me. And then they died. The men, their wives, and their children. Their daug—”

  His voice collapsed on the last word, and his eyes teared as he turned away. He turned so hard that he gasped, his skin whitening in pain.

  “Their daughters,” she finished for him.

  He swallowed. “Sons. Daughters. All dead.” He turned back to her, his eyes shining with anger and tears. “They were Indian,” he said, a challenge ringing in his voice.

  She returned his stare with confusion. “They were Indian,” she said softly. “Yes? How did they die? Didn’t you get your title because of the factory fire? They say you went mad with grief,” she recalled. It had been all the talk at the time. “Kit said you ran screaming into the fire, tearing through the flames to help, but you were too late.”

  “The fire was out by the time I got there. Nothing but ash.”

  But the grief was real. She could see that even now.

  “And it wasn’t just the factory,” he said dully. “There were homes as well. Families. Children.”

  She bit her lip. Fires were a huge fear among her set. The great fire of London in 1666 was over a century past, but everyone remembered. “How is it your fault? If you weren’t even there?”

  He closed his eyes. She thought at first that he wasn’t going to speak, but then he did, the words flowing from him as they might from a doll. If she didn’t see his mouth move, she would have thought he slept.

  “You know, Scher, that you are considered less than a full person by some. Because of your birth, because of your lack of virginity, some believe you are not fully a person.”

  She knew. She felt it daily. “Am I lacking or are they superior?” she wondered.

  “Either way, the end is the same. You are considered less. They believe they are more.”

  “It is the way things are, Brandon.”

  “And why you so long to be respectable. So that you are no longer considered less.”

  She didn’t argue. He was right, though the way he said it reinforced that she reached for an impossible dream. After all, some people would always think less of her. She pushed the uncomfortable thought aside.

  “Imagine those people in a foreign country, Scher. You know how horrible they are to you here. Imagine how terrible they would be to people who are not English.”

  She sighed. “That is an ugly thought.”

  “It happened. It didn’t matter that we were merely a handful of foreigners in their country. The English, as a rule, were arrogant, hateful, greedy pigs.”

  “Surely not all,” she said. Then she squeezed his hand. “And certainly not you. Your pain says as much.”

  “My pain is because I was stupid,” he snapped. “Greedy and stupid, willfully blind to . . . everything.”

  She sighed. “You are not the first person to be stupid in their youth, nor will you be the last. I am sorry that people you obviously loved died in a fire, but Brandon”—she squeezed his hand to soften her words—“this self-abuse is ridiculous.”

  He whipped his hand away from her, obviously unwilling to give up his agony. “You don’t understand,” he rasped.

  “Of course not. You have not told me more than the sketchiest details.”

  He turned then to glare at her. His eyes were rimmed in red, though she had not seen any tears fall. “Do you challenge me?” he asked. “To see if I will tell you all?”

  She arched a brow. “I do nothing but see to your wounds and sit with you for a time.”

  “You demanded answers,” he snapped.

  “And you have expressed nothing but self-indulgent pity. Brandon, either tell me what happened and why it eats at you or be done with this.” She leaned forward. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps it was the confusion in her own life, but she was impatient with the games he played with words. “You are in pain, that much is obvious. You believe yourself a fool who has caused people to die.” She shrugged. “I cannot speak to that, except that whatever happened, it is over now. What do you build today on the ashes of yesterday?”

  “Nothing.” His gaze turned to the opposite wall. “Absolutely nothing.”

  She waited for a time, wondering if he would say anything more. But he remained stubbornly silent. It was his pride, she knew. For all that he was bitterly depressed, his pride stubbornly clung to his pain. But until he chose to release his personal agony, he was no good to anyone. She pushed to her feet.

  “You are not worth my time, Lord Blackstone. Good night.” So saying, she left. She heard him gasp behind her. She doubted anyone had ever thought to walk out on him. But she was tired. Bone tired. She had nothing left to give a man who would not fight for his own life.

  She walked home quickly. She could tell by the lights in the playhouse windows that someone was still up. Someone sat in the Green Room, though it was well past the hour when the troupe players were abed. She glanced in the window and released a moan of frustration. Kit sat at a table, her account books spread before him.

  She must have ma
de a noise. She must have done something because he looked up in surprise and their eyes met through the window. There was no help for it now. She would have to talk to him.

  He was up on his feet in a moment, his eyes narrowed in worry. She gestured to the side door then picked her way through the broken glass and trash. He pulled open the door and stood there, hands on his hips as he glared at her.

  “Scher! What are you doing out? And dressed like that? I thought you had a headache.”

  “I did. I do,” she responded wearily, annoyed with his curt tone. “But Martha needed some help.”

  He stepped back as she slipped inside. Then he stuck his head back out the door, looking up and down the deserted alley, as if he expected to see the Prince Regent spying on her. When he pulled back, it was to watch her pull her ugly hat off her head with a pinched look to his face.

  “Who is Martha?” he asked.

  “She used to be part of the troupe. Had a wonderful hand with costumes. But then she got married and works in a shop.”

  “So why does she need your help?” His tone was getting surly, and she frowned at him in confusion.

  “Her husband died, her eyes blur now, and her hands are none too steady.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Why?”

  He pursed his lips, his eyes visibly scanning her outfit. “You take quite a risk going out dressed like that. What if someone saw you?”

  She blinked, her eyes feeling dry and gritty. “Who would see me? Everyone here knows me. I have been walking about at night like this since . . . well, since I could walk.”

  “But you cannot do that now that we are engaged.”

  He took her arm and escorted her back to the Green Room. She didn’t want to go. She was tired and too likely to say something she regretted. But there was no help for it. Leaving now would cause a scene which would only keep her up longer. Still, she tried to find a way.

  “I’m so tired, Kit. And I still have a headache. I understand that you’re worried about my reputation.” It was a lie. She didn’t understand it at all. She was in her own neighborhood, for God’s sake. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she kept her tone conciliatory. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try to do better—”

  “It’s not your reputation anymore, sweetheart. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Now that we’re engaged, what you do reflects on me.”

  “I know that, Kit—”

  “And my wife simply can’t be running around at night dressed like that!”

  She lowered her head and kept her voice soft. “I’m sorry, Kit.” The words tasted bitter in her throat but she said them anyway. It was easier than sorting through whether she was feeling outrage because he was being high-handed or guilt because she had been seeing Brandon without telling him. Why she didn’t just say she had saved his cousin from certain death, she wasn’t sure. But she got the feeling that Brandon wasn’t ready to let his family know what had happened. So until he chose to notify his relations, she would respect his wishes and stay quiet.

  And while she was mulling over her conflicting feelings, Kit gestured her to his table. Even pulled up a chair so she could sit.

  “There, there, Scher. No harm done. Let me get you some wine.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “But you’re probably tired and thirsty. And as long as I have you in private, I have some questions to ask you about the accounts.”

  Scheherazade groaned. “Surely you don’t mean now. It’s almost four in the morning!”

  “Is it?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Awful late to go visiting.”

  He had her there. She shot Kit a glare. “Martha used to be with the troupe. She understands how late I work here. And as I was bringing her food, she could hardly complain about what time I brought it.”

  He cocked his head, his expression becoming a caricature of canny. He really wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions, and what she saw now was suspicion. Pure, narrowed-eyed suspicion. “You took her food? Don’t you think you have enough drain on the funds here?”

  “What? Drain? Kit—”

  “Just hear me out,” he said, rapidly flipping through the pages of the book. “Look at this number for food and wine. That’s for one week!”

  “We sell that at twice the price.”

  “No,” he interrupted. “You sell it at three times the price.” He gestured at the board that listed the prices per glass. Then he pulled out a sheet of figures. “At that rate, we should be making money hand over fist, but we’re not. Where is the extra money going? To people like Martha?”

  She shook her head. “The money for Martha came from my own pocket.” Her voice was tight, and her head began to pound. “But there are other costs. Spills, for one. Angry customers for another who are always soothed by a free glass of wine.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “No, Kit, it’s not!” She was fast losing control of her temper and could not manage to keep her tongue civil. “Do you think I haven’t thought about this? Do you think the playhouse turns a profit by accident? You have just now started to look at how we live. Do not assume you can understand us by a few days studying the books!”

  “Now, now, sweetie,” he soothed. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you’ve done a bad job. By all accounts, you’ve done an incredible thing here. But now that I’m here, we can start to think larger. Bigger.” His eyes started sparkling in delight. “Just look what I have drawn up.”

  He pulled out a sheet. It was a sketch, done in a rather fine hand. “That’s lovely, Kit. Who drew it?”

  “I did,” he said with a slight flush. “Do you see it? Do you like it?”

  “I do,” she said honestly. “You have real talent.”

  He grinned. “Thank you. So you understand what I’m planning, what we could do here!”

  Scher frowned, her gaze hopping from his exuberant expression to the sketch in front of her. It was a theater scene with boxes and a stage. She could tell that the stage was too small, as was the space for the floor audience. And the ornamentation on the boxed seats seemed too ostentation for her tastes, but it was a lovely picture nevertheless.

  “I’m sorry, Kit. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s The Tavern Playhouse. This playhouse after a few renovations.”

  She blinked, her mind at last understanding what he meant. “That’s much too grand for us!” she exclaimed. And the expense of renovating to what he wanted? It boggled her mind!

  “But that is exactly the thing,” he cried, jumping a little in his seat with his excitement. “It isn’t too grand. It is exactly grand enough!”

  “No, Kit,” she said, pushing the paper back toward him. “It’s not possible.”

  “But of course it is. It will take some time, of course. And careful management, but think of the money we could make—”

  “No, no!” she said, wishing she had the words to explain why it wasn’t possible. “London already has two grand theaters—”

  “We shall outshine them both!”

  “But we can’t! Not here. Not with our players.” The objections lined up in her mind, too numerous to express all at once.

  “Then we shall get better players. And you shall see. Once the money begins to roll, everyone will be happy!”

  She sighed. “You, maybe. But not Delilah. Not Seth or Joey or anyone else in the troupe. Kit, don’t you see? Your plans just aren’t possible for us.”

  His face hardened, his hurt and anger palpable in the room. “You will see,” he said firmly as he put away his sketch. “I mean to make these changes, Scher.”

  “No, Kit—”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to put it like this. I value your opinion, Scher, but I am in charge now. I will do what I think best.”

  A chill ran down her spine, the impact of his words hitting her like a club to the head. “You said that I was good with money, Kit. When you proposed, you said you would take my direction.”

  He straightened. “But I am the man,
Scher. And I can see possibilities where you don’t.”

  What he saw was a pipe dream, but he didn’t understand that. “It will be a disaster,” she said firmly. “And everyone here will suffer for your dreams.” She pushed to a stand. “We aren’t toys to be pushed around for your games. That is too grand a plan for us. If you do not see that, then . . .”

  He stood as well, his expression almost sympathetic. “Then what, Scher? Do you say that you don’t want to marry now? Will you give up on being respectable just because you are too prideful to let someone else manage the playhouse?”

  “Pride!” she exclaimed. “You do not understand how a troupe of actors works!”

  He took a step forward and touched her arms. His caress was gentle and there was pity in his eyes, but he did not soften his words. “You cannot manage the playhouse and raise our children at the same time. Lady Scher cannot be a respectable wife and mother.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I know this is hard, Scher, but if we are to marry, you must give up the work you do here.”

  “No,” she whispered, stunned to feel the ache in her chest. How she had longed for what he offered. A home, children. “The Tavern Playhouse is my life,” she murmured. “I was born in this very Green Room!”

  “And now you will finally be able to leave it.”

  But she couldn’t leave it in his hands. Not if he were to run the Tavern Playhouse into disaster! But of course, that was exactly whose hands would be at the reins. A husband automatically owned all a wife’s assets. He brushed at her cheeks, and she realized belatedly that she was crying.

  “It is late and you are overtired. Plus, we have Lily’s tea party tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes and her body swayed under the weight of it all. She had forgotten about the countess’s party. Another afternoon of being picked at and judged.

  He gathered her tight and let her rest on his chest. “You should rest. I want you in your best looks tomorrow. Have you got a new gown?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, startled to realize that Kit’s clothing didn’t smell so nice. She was used to the scent of men’s sweat. There were times when she felt like she would never get away from the smell. He was cradling her body, holding her as if she could lay her burdens on him, and how she wanted to surrender to the illusion. But she couldn’t, she realized with horror. She didn’t trust Kit at all.