Page 51 of Somewhere I'll Find You
Alerted to Damon's approach, one of the crew members walked over to Logan Scott and murmured in a quiet undertone. Scott's head snapped around, and he regarded Damon with a piercing gaze. His expression was at once guarded and affable. “Lord Savage,” he said easily. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I'm looking for Mrs. Wentworth.” Damon had been driven to come here after being informed by Julia's servants that she had left London and would not be returning for a while. They had refused to reveal more than that, in spite of the bribery and outright threats he had used.
“You won't find her here,” Scott said.
“Where is she?”
Jumping down from the stage, Scott approached him with a cool, polite smile. He lowered his voice as he spoke. “At present Mrs. Wentworth doesn't want to be found, my lord.”
“That's too damned bad,” Damon said evenly. “I'm going to locate her with or without your help.”
Scott's features could have been chiseled from stone. He took a deep breath. “I have a fair idea of what's going on, Savage. It's not my right to disapprove. However, I've invested a great deal in Jessica—and the company needs her talents now more than ever. I hope you'll choose to respect her need for privacy.”
Damon would be damned if he discussed his private life with Julia's employer. But the discomforting truth was that Scott had known Julia far longer than he had. She seemed to trust Scott, and she was grateful to him for having given her the opportunity to work at the Capital. Although she had indicated that their relationship went no deeper than that, Damon couldn't help but be suspicious. How could Scott not be attracted to a woman like Julia?
“Could it be that you have some other interest in keeping her away from me?” Damon asked with a sardonic smile. “Or do all theater managers exhibit such personal concern for their actresses?”
Scott was expressionless. “I consider Mrs. Wentworth to be a friend, my lord. And I will lend her my protection whenever it appears to be necessary.”
“Protection against what? A man who could offer her something besides a life of spinning fantasies in front of an audience?” Damon cast a contemptuous glance at the scorched walls and singed curtains of the theater. “She needs more than this, whether or not either of you wants to admit it.”
“Can you give her everything she wants?” Scott murmured.
“That remains to be seen.”
Scott shook his head. “Regardless of the rights you seem to think you have over Jessica, you don't know her. Perhaps you intend to remove her from the world of the theater and give her substitutes, but she would wither like a cut flower.”
“Spoken as a concerned friend?” Damon asked with deceptive idleness. “Or as a manager worried about his profits?” Although Scott didn't react visibly to the taunt, there was a sudden rigidity to his posture that told Damon he had hit his target.
“She means more to me than profits.”
“How much more?” When met with silence, Damon laughed shortly. “Spare me your hypocritical concern over Mrs. Wentworth. Just don't interfere in my relationship with her…or I'll make you wish to God you'd never set eyes on me.”
“I already do,” Scott muttered, standing like a statue as he watched Damon leave.
The city of Bath had first been built by the Romans around a series of natural hot mineral springs. In the early 1700s, the area was developed by the Georgians into a fashionable resort, with sedate promenades and tall, elegant Palladian terraces. Now in its maturity, Bath was available not only to thetonbut to the middle classes as well. They came to improve their health by drinking and bathing in the medicinal waters, and to renew cherished social acquaintances. Settled along the river Avon among a cluster of lush limestone hills, the city offered entertainment, shopping, and lodgings that ranged from merely comfortable to luxurious.
Walking toward the bath house and thermal spring near her inn, Julia watched the last of the sun's pink and lavender rays disappear behind the New Theatre. It was an elegant building that housed a fine stage and three tiers of boxes, all magnificently adorned with crimson and gold. Julia had been in Bath for a week, and during the last two days she had seen shipments of boxes filled with stage equipment arrive in preparation for the opening ofMy Lady Deception. Some of the crew and cast had also come to town. Logan had sent word that everyone must be fully assembled for tomorrow's rehearsal in preparation for the first performance on Thursday.
During her shopping expeditions and visits to the Pump Room, a magnificent building with Corinthian columns set within and without, Julia had overheard the local gossip concerning the play. Some claimed it was jinxed, and nothing would make them attend. Others expressed eager interest in the production. There was a fair amount of speculation about Mrs. Wentworth, which amused Julia as she sat nearby with a veil concealing her face.
It was necessary to keep her identity a secret. Years ago Julia had learned that she would never satisfy the expectations people had of her. Invariably they wanted her to be like one of the heroines she had played, complete with sparkling dialogue and flamboyant gestures. Even Logan Scott had complained that women desired—and sometimes demanded—that he play the romantic lover for them, just as he did onstage. “It's a common problem for actors,” he had informed her. “People are always disappointed when they find out we're as human as they are.”
When she reached the bath house, Julia entered the small building with its simple Grecian design, and nodded to the attendant who waited inside. Julia had made prior arrangements with the elderly woman that no one else would be allowed in the bath during her evening visit. It was the only way for Julia to enjoy an hour of peace without having to deal with gossip and questions and prying stares of curious women. Conveniently, few people ever wanted to visit the bath house during the unfashionable evening hours. It was believed to be more healthful—not to mention socially desirable—to bathe in the morning.
Julia left the antechamber and went through a warped wooden door into the bathing room. The surface of the water was as smooth as glass, reflecting the light of a single lamp mounted on the wall. Steam drifted from the pool and spread an acrid mineral scent through the air. The heated water would be a wonderful contrast to the cool air outside. Sighing in anticipation, Julia removed her clothes and piled them on a wooden chair. She used two pins to secure her hair in a knot on top of her head.
Carefully she descended the worn steps leading into the water. Warmth lapped against her calves and traveled to her hips, her waist, and then her shoulders as she reached the bottom of the pool. She shivered in pleasure at the penetrating heat, letting her arms float in the buoyant water, splashing it languidly against her throat.
As her body relaxed, her mind drifted from one thought to another. She wondered how Damon had reacted to her sudden disappearance, if he had tried to find her…or if he had been too busy dealing with Lady Ashton to give her a thought. Her imagination conjured a picture of him with Pauline, their bodies entwined in the act of love. She shook her head to clear away the image. It troubled her profoundly, the question of what had happened after she left Damon's home the night of the theater fire. Had Damon allowed his mistress to stay? Had they argued? Made love?
“I don't care, I don'tcare,” Julia muttered, rubbing her wet hands over her face. But that was a lie. Despite all her denials, fear, and stubbornness, she couldn't help but feel that Damon washers. After all she had suffered because of their marriage, she had certainly earned the right to love him. On the other hand, if there was a baby…she wasn't certain she could live with the thought that she had influenced Damon to abandon his responsibilities.
Just as she splashed her face again, she heard the bath house attendant's chirruping voice. “Mrs. Wentworth?”
Wiping her blurry eyes, Julia looked toward the doorway where the elderly woman stood.
The gray curls pinned on top of the old woman's head bobbed cheerfully as she spoke. “Mrs. Wentworth, there's a visitor for you. One you'll be quite happy to see, I've no doubt.”
