Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1 (14 page)

“When you say it like that, it sounds even more incredible. I’m afraid Odette may be suffering from the same malady as her brother.”

Caroline chewed her lower lip indecisively. “Gabe, I don’t think Odette is a lunatic, nor is her brother. I had a visitor today. Someone you wouldn’t know. Someone nobody here would know. His news was disturbing.”

He stood and walked over to her. “What are you alluding to? Spies? Treason?”

“No, Gabe. Worse… much worse.”

*

Lady Caroline sat cross-legged on the floor of her boudoir a silk robe slipping off her oiled shoulders. The air was heavy with incense. She breathed in deeply and lolled her head back onto the broad shoulder of the man sitting behind her. She felt his hands message her scalp. Large hands kneaded the skin through thick brown hair, relaxing her.

She had told Gabriel very little. She hadn’t wanted him to think
her
a lunatic. “There is powerful opposition to any new way of thinking,” she had told him. “My visitor spoke of a scheme, or a conspiracy of sorts to silence progressive thinkers.”

The man behind her brought his hands together under her jaw and pressed his thumbs against the base of her skull. She sighed and convulsively clutched at his naked thighs on each side of her. He moved her a little away from him and let the robe fall off her shoulders to rest loosely tied at her waist. His hands slid down her neck and over her shoulders bringing pressure to bear on the tight muscles between them.

Gabriel had questioned further. She could see his frustration but only shook her head and put him off. “I really know very little. But I have a feeling the brother and sister Speex might somehow be entangled in all this. Just be careful, Gabe. Be careful and watchful.”

“You are thinking too much,” a low voice rumbled in her ear. “You cannot become one with the deity without complete devotion.”

“Forgive me,” she gasped.

“I’ll try.” His laughter tickled her neck. “Now empty your mind.”

His hands came down again, this time in front, over her breasts. She ached at the lovely contrast of his strong, brown hands against her pale skin. She felt him move onto his knees. He gently laid her down on her stomach, her cheek resting on the velvet throw. He lay atop her, moving with deceptive leisure, one hand still tangled in her hair.

The tightening started in the pit of her stomach pulsing out toward her extremities. She spread her arms out, as if on a crucifix. He let go of her hair and covered every inch of her body with his own. His arms spread out on hers their fingers intertwined. He lay his cheek against her own their ragged breath becoming one.

There was no room for thought.

Caroline lay spent, the weight of him still on her. Finally he pushed up onto his elbows and said with delicate sarcasm, “Are you satisfied, memsahib.”

She smiled seductively back at him. “Yes. Very. Thank you, Aamod.”

Chapter 17

Odette sat on
a crate in between the sliding panels at the back of the stage. They were lovely, like huge pieces of art. In the days before the performance, she had watched as the artisans worked their magic. A mountain scene with towering peaks and green valleys, a sitting room, a poor village—they were all rendered beautifully, transforming the stage and transporting the audience. She sat now among the waving kelp of Triton’s underwater kingdom. Her head rested against the sturdy wood beam supporting the panel.

The theater was practically empty. Only a few of the multitude needed to stage a production were still within. They packed away costumes, took inventory on the various props, and cleaned the house. Whatever was needed to ready the theater for another day. Cara was busy doing something of this sort back in Odette’s dressing room. The one she had used for her audition. Eva had wanted to move her to a larger room, closer to the stage. But, as with most performers, Odette was superstitious. This one had brought her luck, she said. And so the small dressing room was filled to the rafters with floral tributes and delicate gifts—an ivory fan from Lord So-In-So, a ruby brooch from the Duke of Whatever. Odette hardly cared. She was too exhausted.

She should have been glad that this was the last performance for the next fortnight. Her muscles ached and the makeshift pointe shoes barely lasted through a variation. Still she felt a little dejected. It was satisfying work. Just the rehearsals alone were enough to renew her spirit and feed her artist’s soul.

David Garrick had returned only a few days after her audition and was soon at the helm of the new production. He was a small whirlwind of activity. Odette stood at least two inches taller, yet he seemed to fill the space around her. His voice was a beautiful baritone and could be heard even into the most obscure recesses of the theater.

He and Noverre worked incessantly. Odette watched in fascination at what emerged. At first her observations were somewhat anthropological in nature. She listened to their conversations and tried to fit each new idea into labeled categories: “technique,” “movement,” “acting,” and so on. But she wasn’t a scientist or historian, and soon her own need to create overcame her reticence. She worked with the other dancers, but more and more felt herself the student.

This moment in the history of dance—this dawn of a new era—brought her back to a beginning she never knew. A place in the development of her art that was pure and raw. As Noverre freed the steps from the chains of courtly pomp, she freed herself from the last vestige of classical rigidity. She took herself to the place where it all began and was reborn.

How strange, she thought, that Noverre’s creation would morph into something from which she would have to liberate herself… using his creation to do it.

Does everything spiral back on itself? Like time? Does—

“Miss Odette.”

She started violently.

“Sorry, miss, didn’t mean to scare ye,” creaked the elderly theater attendant.

He was a type with which Odette was very familiar. In every theater she had worked there was always one like him—an old man of indeterminate age, white hair, and a mustache. He had been in show business in one form or another all his life. At The White Swan, his name was Jonesy, here, it was Topper. He carried a large bouquet of very expensive flowers.

“Oh, no, Mister Topper, I’m fine.”

“Topper, miss, just Topper.”

“Right, sorry. How can I help you, Topper?”

“You can’t help me, miss. I mean. I don’t need your help. It’s just, Miss Cara, she’s looking for ye.”

“Oh. I should be going then.” She pushed off the crate and pulled the soft linen robe closer around her. “Thank you, Topper.”

“Oh, and miss. These flowers, thems for ye.” He held out the bouquet.

He looked odd and rather comical. The bouquet was so big it seemed as if his head grew right out of its middle. Odette realized she knew nothing about him.

“Are you married, Topper?”

He looked surprised but answered readily enough, “Yes, miss. Near twenty-five years.”

“Well, Topper, please make a gift of those flowers to your wife.”

“I couldn’t be doing that, miss. They’re much too grand.”

“Tell her it’s an apology from the theater for keeping you at all hours.”

“She don’t mind, miss. She knows it’s me job. She’s a right good un, me Nellie.”

“Then she’ll enjoy the flowers. Please, Topper. From me.”

“Well if you insist, miss.”

“I do.”

Before he could say another word, Odette rose and fled down the narrow corridor to her dressing room. She stopped just outside the door surprised to hear voices within. They were women’s voices, one of them Cara’s, and the other, vaguely familiar.

She opened the door to Fancy’s bright blue eyes and saucy smile. “Bet you’d given me up,” she said with a gruff laugh.

Her mischievous ways were infectious, and Odette returned the smile. “Indeed I had.”

“I was a bit worried you’d got yourself another girl, but Miss Cara here says it ain’t so.”

Odette surveyed her. With her face scrubbed of its heavy makeup, Fancy looked as young as her fifteen years. She was wearing a well-cut wool dress of modest design. It flattered her full figure and the rich chocolate color set off her eyes and skin to advantage.

My pearl necklace put to good use.

“No, I haven’t,” Odette replied aloud. “But why the delay? It’s been over a month.”

Fancy blushed and looked a little uncomfortable. “You’ll forgive me, miss, but I thought you were a bit touched in the upper works, if you take my meaning. It ain’t every day a lady hands me a pearl necklace and tells me to meet her in two weeks time.”

Cara leaned forward and patted the girl’s hand. “No one’s blaming you, Fancy… a perfectly natural assumption.”

Odette rolled her eyes at them.

“I just wanted to make sure you were on the up and up. So’s I waited. We heard about you, even us girls on the street. The gentry coming to see you and all. Still, I figured you could be a passing fancy, right?” She smiled wide at her little joke but then turned serious. “I came to see you dance two nights ago. After that, I figured no one could be that lovely
and
crazy.”

Odette felt a quick constriction around her heart and the familiar pang of guilt. Cara merely cleared her throat. “Well, Fancy, you would be surprised how often that particular assumption has proven wrong. But you are correct in deducing that Odette is not ‘touched in the upper works.’ ”

“Thank you, Cara,” Odette replied sarcastically. Her qualms aside, the girl’s appearance was fortuitously timed. Established as Odette was at the Theatre Royal, it was time to turn her attention to implementing Odell’s plan. She was determined to make some progress in the next few weeks.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“I share lodgings with some other girls on Little Hart Street.”

“Covent Garden! Wonderful! Cara and I live on Exeter Street, near—”

“I know where Exeter is.”

“Good. Because that’s where we’ll be meeting. Never here, at the theater.”

Odette had thought long and hard about what to tell her yet-to-be-formed network of informants. She needed a good cover story that would protect both the informant, in this case Fancy, and the mission. What she was about to say was distasteful but necessary.

She straightened her shoulders and took a businesslike stance. “I need information. A dancer’s career is often short. So I have to take advantage of the time when I have society’s attention. As you so shrewdly surmised when we first met, many wealthy men pay their addresses to women such as me.”

Fancy looked around at the flowers and gifts, physical confirmation of Odette’s words, and nodded knowingly.

“All I know of these men is what society tells me. But I am aware that the public face is not always the private person. I cannot afford to fall in with a man who is not both kind and generous.”

Fancy creased her forehead. “And you want me poking my nose about… getting you information on the gentry?”

“Only in the most discreet manner. Mostly I need you to keep your ears and eyes open. You needn’t ask many questions. It’s not just their involvement with prostitutes.” And here she had to tread carefully. “But also their general character. Are they open and tolerant? How do they treat the women with whom they associate? Are they involved with secretive groups?”

“You mean like a Hellfire Club?” Fancy whispered, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard some of them young lords get up clubs and engage in all sorts of low behavior. My mate, Sally, says she was rounded up with some other girls for a party. An orgy, she called it. She’d never seen such goin’ ons… rich food, drink, and the like. She wouldn’t eat or drink nothin’ though. Says some of the girls got to acting funny after imbibing, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s exactly the type of information I need. Who hosted this party?”

“Sally said the Marquis of Ridgeleigh, the duke’s son, was the ringleader.”

Odette looked over at an elaborate display of hothouse flowers sitting on the dressing table and smiled ruefully. The Marquis was hardly older than she and well on his way to a life of gaming and dissipation. It was a pity. He was a nice-looking boy and not without charm. But the lethal combination of wealth, leisure, and entitlement encouraged the worst in him. There were many like the Marquis. Fertile ground for someone like Drake.

“Fancy, I don’t expect you to ever be part of these ‘festivities.’ And you must never follow up on information if it puts you in jeopardy.”

“So I’m to stay on the street.”

“Only as a front. Perhaps you can tell your friends that you have a regular customer, but you still like to get out and socialize.”

Fancy looked off into space with a pensive expression. “Aye, that might work. I know a girl who’s got her a regular. His wife’s an invalid-like so she meets up with him a few times a month. Pays good and it’s, you know, cleaner.”

“I pay better and you don’t have to sleep with anyone either.”

Fancy flashed her cocky grin. “Even better.”

A light knock on the door and Davis, the dresser, poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, miss, but the coachman is here for the flowers.”

“Thank you. Tell him to come on in.”

Davis opened the door wide to a large black man in a long cape. He was followed by two well-built lads about Fancy’s age. “Where are they going tonight, Miss Odette?” His voice was too big for the small room and Odette imagined the force of it pushing the walls back a few inches.

Mister Ignatius Harris was a coachman. Or rather he owned a fleet of coaches. In her rambles as a boy, Odette had spotted him. A free black man, and a successful businessman to boot, was not a typical sight in eighteenth-century London. She was curious and tracked him back to his coaching yard.

Asking around she discovered his father was an escaped slave from the West Indies, and his mother the white daughter of a local coachman. Ignatius himself was a Londoner born and bred. While his parents’ relationship had generated hostility, Ignatius was accepted as a local lad and exceptionally well regarded. Unlike so many, he treated his horses kindly and his people even better. He was known to be an honest and generous man. Odette figured she could use one of those and so hired him as her personal coachman.

“I think, Mister Harris, you should choose. Last night it was the Orphan’s Hospital, so—”

“Magdalen House!” Fancy offered, but then blushed painfully as all three males in the room looked at her aghast.

The hush was broken by Ignatius’ gruff “Ahem.”

“Well, I think that’s a fine idea, young lady. I guess that place needs some brightening up as well as any. What do you say, Miss Odette?”

“I say, the Magdalen House it is.”

“Well, boys, don’t stand there gawking, let’s get these flowers outta here.”

It took a few trips, but soon the room was empty of the riotous color and heavy perfume of multiple bouquets.

Ignatius Harris stood in the doorway. “Will you be needing a ride home, miss?”

“Yes, thank you. We should be ready shortly.” She smiled warmly, grateful for his kindness to Fancy.

After he left, Odette got dressed. She spoke all the while to Fancy, giving her details on how to contact her and when to come to the house. “If it’s an emergency, you can leave a note with Topper, the theater attendant. He’s very reliable and discreet. But please don’t come here otherwise. It’s important that you are not seen by any of the patrons. I really don’t want these men making a connection between us… ah… in case they catch on to what we’re doing,” she qualified, not wanting Fancy to think
she
was in any way objectionable.

“As a matter of fact.” Odette was struck with an idea. “I have something you may be able to use.” She walked behind the large dressing screen and pulled a folded cloak from a pile on the linen shelf. “This cloak is well made and light enough for this time of year. Even better, the hood is deep and can easily cover your face.”

She handed it to Fancy who took the garment and rubbed the soft fabric along her cheek. A gesture that made her seem a mere child.

“I can’t be taking this,” she exclaimed. “It’s not flashy-like, but I can tell its quality.”

“I don’t wear it. The color doesn’t become me.” It was a deep midnight blue. And while it wasn’t her favorite color, she didn’t use it mainly because her clandestine wanderings were typically accomplished in boy’s clothes. “It will just sit on the shelf if you won’t have it.”

Fancy swung the cloak over her shoulders where it fell in soft folds and pooled on the ground around her feet.

“It needs to be taken up a few inches,” Cara observed. “If you come with us now, I’ll hem it and you can see where we live.”

The three women gathered their various belonging. Leaving the hair piece in place, Odette tied a silk scarf around her head and pinned a large-brimmed hat on top. With hats and wigs she was able to conceal her short hair. Since their encounter with Ethan Graham, she was overly cautious about her public appearance being construed as anything other than female.