Page 8 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
Kit shook his hand, taken aback at the man’s friendliness. He certainly wasn’t used to that.
“Come on in. We’re finishing up for the night, but I could show you around.” He beckoned for Kit to follow him into the theater’s back entrance.
The space was shadowy and cramped with costumes, extra sets, and ropes and rigging to move things about on the stage. But his gaze kept drifting to the woman still on the ladder wielding the paintbrush. Her long blonde hair was pulled up in a messy but attractive style on top of her head, fastened with a green ribbon that was coiled between tumbles of gold strands. He had the sudden desire to pull on that ribbon and watch her hair cascade down. She was a petite creature, perhaps only just above five feet, and yet she still had a strange, enchanting presence that left Kit all too aware of her.
Flory talked about the play they were preparing and pointed out various things Kit would need to clean, but Kit couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pretty little set painter. She seemed to be lost in the mastery of her work, and he imagined how her sets would look upon the stage when the fires were lit and the place glowed with merriment and warmth. They would look magnificent. She wiped at her face with the back of one hand and a smudge of dark green paint marred her cheek. Kit wanted to smile at the adorable imperfection of this little creature.
Something inside him went very still. His heart gave a wild sort of thump-thump in response. Hewassmiling. He’d gone so long without a genuine smile that he’d forgotten what it felt like... howgoodit felt.
“Well, that’s the tour. Would you care to report in tomorrow evening, around six?” Flory asked. “Even if we’re rehearsing, we always have some tidying up to do. We tend to be a bit... well...” With a good-humored smile, Flory gestured to the trail of discarded costumes that led to changing screens in the wings off the stage.
“Six,” Kit echoed, though he had no intention of returning, not like this. When he came back, he would be as Lord Kentwell, and Flory would likely not remember the shaggy, bearded man in sailor togs.
Kit walked with Flory to the back door, and with a polite nod at the stage manager, he stepped back into the street. The door closed, and yet Kit didn’t leave. He lingered. He needed to focus, not on some pretty chit and her talents but on the clerk’s daughter. She was the prey he needed to chase to ground. Vengeance was all that mattered to him. He couldn’t let any other emotion take hold.
* * *
Suzannah Townsendcarefully descended her short ladder and retrieved the glass bottle of water she kept on the floor next to her palette of paints. She swirled her paintbrush inside it, washing away the paint from the last touches she had made to the forest scene for their play. There were still some parts she wanted to deepen with more color, but they had so many sets still to do that she knew she couldn’t focus too long on any single background setting.
The stage manager joined her by the ladder. “Are you done for the night?”
“Yes, I think so, Flory. It’s not perfect, but it will do.” She still stared at the forest scene. “Were you just talking to someone?” She vaguely remembered he’d been walking about the stage with another man a few minutes ago.
“Well, I was... It was rather odd, actually.” Flory folded up the small ladder and carried it off stage. Suzannah walked alongside him, carrying her palette and jar of water. They both paused just off the stage, where Flory set his ladder against the wall, and she set her palette on a small writing desk.
She wiped the clean brush on a spare bit of cloth to dry it. “What was odd?”
“Well, some chap turned up at the back door. I thought he might be one of our new backstage hands. I showed him around, but he was quiet. Theater people are never quiet—except you.” Flory shot her a teasing smile.
Suzannah poked him with the wooden handle of her paintbrush. “That’s because I’m a painter. I’m supposed to be quiet and reflective, not noisy,” she reminded him.
“Good point,” he agreed with a laugh. “Are you ready to go home?”
“I think so. I’ve got to get some rest. We have so much work to do before the play opens.”
“Give me a few minutes to finish up here and I shall walk you home,” Flory offered with a slight bow. “You’ve got a bit of paint on your cheek, love.”
Suzannah wiped the paint off and kissed his cheek. “Ever the gentleman. I shall be all right. It’s only a short way.”
Flory frowned. “I’ve seen that boardinghouse you live in, Suzannah. It’s not exactly in the best part of town.”
She didn’t need reminding of that. A year ago, she and her father had lived in a nice suite of rooms in a much better part of London, but since he died she’d been on her own, and what little money she’d had after paying her father’s final expenses had vanished quickly. Her landscape paintings that she sold to tourists who visited London paid for her food, but the money for her room at the boardinghouse came from the theater.
Wealthy patrons were recruited for each play, and they usually paid for decent set production and design. Thankfully, her wages were a part of that. But there were often lean weeks between plays while the producers searched for financiers for the next production.
“I’ll be all right, Flory.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You can’t walk me homeeverynight.” With that, she collected her cloak and reticule before heading for the back door.
Admittedly, she did not like walking alone. She knew the dangers, but she had to learn to face them alone. Flory would not always be there to protect her.
The streets were empty of people, but rather than feel relieved, she had the eeriest sense that she was being followed. The hairs on the back of her neck rose in warning. She was almost at the street that led to her boardinghouse when the door of a nearby tavern burst open and a trio of drunken men stumbled out, laughing uproariously. The sudden sound of their laughter jarred her to a halt, which in turn caught the attention of the three men.
“Well now, there’s a pretty dove,” one man cooed.
Suzannah got her feet moving again and started to cross the street toward the boardinghouse. The one who had called to her trailed behind, his companions with him, their laughter increasingly unsettling.
“Here, little dove, come home to roost with me,” the second man jeered, and slapped his thigh. “I’ll give you a good home.”
Suzannah broke into a run. If she could just reach the boardinghouse—
