Her Secret Affair (25 page)

The very door Isabel now opened.

Unlike Kern, she wasn’t content to wait for a report from Sir John Trimble. She couldn’t trust the man. In the meantime, she needed to use this fortuitous opportunity to question another of the suspects. And perhaps, she admitted, she had a deeper reason. She needed to escape, even just for a few moments, the temptation of Hathaway’s incredible offer.

Proceeding through the doorway, she found herself backstage. The area bustled with activity, and the smell of greasepaint and smoking lamps hung in the air. Behind the closed crimson curtain, a pair of stagehands hauled down a new backdrop, directed by a bald man in a baggy suit. Several minor performers changed costume behind a rickety wooden screen. A singer practicing her scales hit a sour note, much to the noisy amusement of the crew.

Isabel skirted the wall, careful not to trip over a bucket of water with a tin cup and a dead fly floating in it. Several people glanced her way, and she tried to act normal, as if she belonged back here. Not seeing Dickenson anywhere, she went down a passageway off to the side of the stage.

Compared to the elegance afforded the theatergoers, this brick corridor was dank and narrow and dirty. A meager light spilled from a lantern hung at the far end of the passage. Holding her hem above the rubbish-strewn floor, she hastened on her search, peering into rooms no larger than cubbyholes. In one, a plump woman sat before a dressing table and applied carmine to her cheeks. In another, a short, stocky man, naked to the waist, rummaged through a trunk of costumes. The next dressing room was deserted, lit by a guttering candle.

Perhaps he wasn’t here. Perhaps he’d gone down a different corridor. Perhaps—for furtive reasons of his own—he’d left the Opera House through a rear exit.

The door of the last room was closed. Isabel hung back, debating whether or not to knock. Then the door opened and a lanky man emerged, thrust out by a feminine hand. The unseen woman trilled in a thick foreign accent, “
Come osa!
I must prepare for the second act.”

Furtively, he drew her hand toward his crotch. “But I need you now, my dearest, my darling Lucia.”

“Go.” She gave him another shove and closed the door.

Terrence Dickenson turned, smoothing his thinning hair. His lusty smile died when he saw Isabel. “You,” he snarled. “What the deuce are you doing backstage? Looking for a customer?”

“Hardly,” Isabel said. “I wanted to have a word in private with you.”

“Ah, so I was right. You do intend to milk me for money.”

“I want information.” She wouldn’t deny the blackmail; better he should think her capable of exposing his filthy secrets to his wife. “I have some questions for you.”

His upper lip curled, and he ran his hands down his plum-colored coat. Then he stepped toward her, and she felt a leap of fright. But he merely brushed past her and entered the empty dressing room. In the doorway, he turned and beckoned. “Well, come along. We cannot speak out in the open where any plebeian might overhear.”

Isabel hesitated. There was no cause for alarm. She need only scream, and scores of people would come running. Besides, she might never have a better opportunity to find her mother’s murderer.

She walked slowly into the room. In a saucer on the dressing table, a tiny flame shivered in a pool of melted wax. The feeble light played over the untidy surroundings, the remains of a meat pie, the uncapped jars of cosmetics, the clothing strewn over a trunk and chaise. A movement caught her eye, and she spun around to see Dickenson starting to close the door.

“Leave it open,” she said.

Dickenson must have heard the severity in her voice, for he stopped with the door half shut. “Who are you to give me orders?”

“The owner of the memoirs.” For safety’s sake, she added, “And should anything happen to me, I’ve left notice for the memoirs to be published. So cooperate.”

Glowering, he went to the speckled mirror and adjusted his cravat, turning his head this way and that, admiring himself. “Where is your watchdog tonight? Or perhaps I should say, your fellow conspirator.”

“If you are referring to Lord Kern, he is with Lord Hathaway and Lady Helen. They’re waiting for me in our private box.”

“So Kern has sent you to do his dirty work.” Dickenson turned toward her, a sly look in his foxy eyes. “Mayhap the rotter thinks you’ll coax some answers out of me.” He crooked his forefinger. “Come here, my little ladybird, you’re welcome to try.”

Isabel stayed near the door. “You knew some of my mother’s lovers. I should like to know who.”

“Me? Why would you think
I
knew any of them?”

“Sir John Trimble told me so. It seems you tried to rally the men to stop my mother from finishing her memoirs.”

In the uncertain light, Dickenson paled. He fussed with the diamond stickpin that anchored his cravat. “Trimble’s a bloody liar. He was jealous of the rest of us who had the money to afford Aurora’s services. He didn’t like being put out of the club.”

“Club? Do you mean White’s? Or Boodle’s?”

He chuckled. “’Twas our own private fraternity, that’s what. Those of us who’d caught Aurora’s fancy at one time or another.” His smile took on a carnal quality. “Ah, she was the best there was. The duchess of debauchery.”

Isabel wanted to scratch his eyes out. Yet had not her mother earned the title on her back? Still, it was painful to hear the truth. “You can’t mean you had meetings. Official gatherings of her current and former lovers?”

He shrugged. “We tippled the bottle and traded stories, but we certainly didn’t pay dues or have any rules. Other than the obvious one.”

“Give me their names.”

“Why should I? ’Twas a secret society, no females allowed.” Dickenson grinned, baring a set of pointed teeth. “Unless, of course, you want to continue in your mother’s tradition. What say you? I’d set you up in your own house, buy you a fine carriage, hire servants of your own.”

Bile stung Isabel’s throat. How could her pretty, fanciful mother let herself be used by a league of lechers? “Give me the names, or I’ll have
your
name before the magistrate at Bow Street Office. He’ll be interested to hear how you incited these men in a conspiracy to murder my mother.”

“A whore? Do you think the law would care?” Dickenson held up his hand. “Besides, we didn’t kill her. And I’m cooperating, aren’t I? I only thought it my gentlemanly duty to inform my friends that she was writing about us.”

Isabel curled her fingers into fists and repeated, “Tell me their names.”

Dickenson eyed her as if she were a rabid dog. “Don’t suppose there’s harm in you knowing. Besides me and Lynwood, there was Lord Raymond Jeffries—but he got religion and left the group.” He ticked the names off on his fingers. “Lovejoy died at Waterloo. Blundell’s been off to India these past five years. Who’s left? Ah, yes, Paine shot himself back in ’thirteen after losing his fortune at the faro table.”

Isabel released the breath she’d been holding. She knew those last three names from the memoirs, including the mythological name her mother had given each one: Mars, Hercules, Perseus.

She forced herself to ask, “You were Narcissus. Do you know what name my mother called Trimble?”

“How the devil should I? She never talked about any man but me when we were in bed together.”

“Did you know the man she called Apollo?”

“Apollo?” Dickenson’s face was blank. “Never heard of him.”

To her bitter frustration, Dickenson had added nothing new. “So you went to Lynwood, Jeffries, and Trimble. And you told them that Aurora had to be done away with.”

“That’s a lie. I already told you there wasn’t any conspiracy. You’re putting words in my mouth.” He looked her up and down, and his scowl transformed into a lusty leer. “Come to think of it, I’ve something to put in
your
mouth. Something big and tasty.”

While Isabel watched in fascinated horror, he put his hand to his groin, rubbing slowly up and down, a glazed delight entering his eyes. “Come here, girl. I’ve been a good little boy, answering all your silly questions. Don’t you think I’ve earned a reward?”

A great surge of anger rose in her. This coarse libertine had passed himself off as a gentleman, had acted the injured party when her mother had dared to record his randy exploits. “If you want your reward,” she said, “then you come here.”

He trotted eagerly to her, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his breeches. “Did Aurora tutor you? Did she tell you how I like it done?”

“I have my own methods.” Smiling secretively, Isabel let him get close enough to reach for her. Hiding her fist in her skirt, she drew back her arm. And she did what the aunts had advised her to do if a man ever assaulted her. She punched him in the groin.

Dickenson howled loud enough to wake the dead. Clutching himself, he staggered backward, momentum carrying him out the door. He fell in a pile of rubbish in the passageway. There, he lay whimpering, his lanky body curled around his injured part.

People rushed into the corridor. Cast and crew trotted from the direction of the stage. The fat woman came waddling out of her dressing room. From the other direction, the dark-haired Italian singer converged on him. “
Cuore mio!
What is zis? What ’as ’appened?”

Isabel shut the door on the hubbub. She leaned against the wood panel as the fury washed out of her, leaving her drained and shaking and ill. Dickenson had real cause to hate her now.

God help her if he was the murderer.

*   *   *

Kern made a quick search of the foyer and the box seats and the general admission audience. The second act would start soon; the orchestra was already tuning up their instruments. Isabel was nowhere to be seen. Surely she wouldn’t have dared to leave the theater.

He didn’t believe for a moment that Banbury tale about a headache. She courted trouble somewhere, he was sure of it. So much for any gratitude she might have shown Hathaway for granting her that dowry.

As a last resort, Kern strode backstage. Lamps flickered over the empty stage. The drop scene showed a moonlit night, the painted canvas anchored from behind by ropes and pulleys. He wondered why the place was deserted. Surely the crew should be preparing to open the curtains. The singers should be gathering to await their cues.

The buzz of voices drew him toward the rear of the stage. People crammed a narrow corridor, some standing on tiptoe as they strained to see over the others. Several of the women were giggling.

Bloody hell. He had the sudden strong certainty that he would find Isabel at the center of the fray.

He shoved his way through the throng. The stench of perfume and unwashed bodies stung his nose. “Get back to work,” he said. “You’ve a show to get on.”

Grumbling, the laborers and costumed performers heeded his command and headed in the direction of the stage. The crush lessened, and Kern found himself gazing down at a familiar face.

And he understood why Isabel had disappeared.

Terrence Dickenson lay with his head cradled in the lap of the voluptuous soprano who had starred in the first act. Dickenson moaned piteously while cupping his groin, though he didn’t look sorely wounded. He took full advantage of the singer’s crooning sympathies by nuzzling his cheek to her pillowy bosom.

Kern seized Dickenson by his coat, hauled him to his feet, and thrust him against the brick wall. The soprano shrieked, rattling off what sounded like Italian curses. He ignored her. “Where is she?”

“She?” Dickenson sputtered. “Who?”

Kern tightened his grip. “Don’t play the muttonhead. You know who I mean.”

Dickenson’s eyes bugged out as he gasped for air. “She’s … in … there.” He managed to nod toward a closed door.

Kern let go. Dickenson sank into an undignified heap. Changing allegiance, the soprano sidled up to Kern and rubbed herself against him like a cat in heat. “
Gioia mia.
You are a beeg, strong man. Come, you tell Lucia your name.”

“You’re wanted on stage,” he said, giving her a push in that direction. The rejected singer spat out another string of invectives. He jerked Dickenson to his feet and shoved him after her. “I’d advise you to run home. Before I decide to make adjustments to your face.”

His shoulders hunched as if anticipating a blow, Dickenson hurried away down the corridor after the soprano.

Kern rapped on the door. He tried to open it, but an obstruction blocked it. The knot in his chest twisted tighter. Had she been hurt? Had she collapsed in front of the door? “Isabel. Are you in there? Answer me.”

For one terrifying moment he heard only distant music as the orchestra launched into the opening strains of the second act. Within, all lay silent. As silent as a tomb. He was preparing to hurl himself against the wooden panel when the knob rattled and the door swung inward.

He stormed into a cluttered cubbyhole lit by a single candle. Isabel hovered in the shadows behind the door. He seized her by the arms. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Of-of course, I’m all right,” she said, though her voice shook. “I’m perfectly fine.”

The relief that washed over him was so profound he forgot his anxiety, his anger. He forgot all but the feel of her, supple and warm, so close to him. He shaped his hands to her slender waist, the rounded bottom, the womanly hips and breasts. Her hair smelled faintly of roses, and the softness of it caressed his cheek. He imagined that dark hair strewn across a white pillow, and the light of a candle glowing on her pearly skin, and himself descending to her nakedness, kissing her, touching her, tasting her …

His mouth pressed down on hers, thirsting for her sweetness. She kissed him back without reservation, with all the ardor he had ever dreamed of in a woman. He couldn’t imagine her belonging to any other man, kissing anyone else so passionately, though surely she must have done so. Her lips were soft and seductive, conveying a depth of feeling that enraptured him. He knew he should not be here with her, not like this. Though his heart hammered the truth, he held her close in his crushing grip, unwilling to let her go.

“Oh, Kern,” she whispered against the madly beating pulse in his throat. “I’m glad you came looking for me.”