The Bargain (5 page)

But Ariel Harding was not like the women he'd met before, either during the two London seasons forced on him by his mother or the sporadic connections he had formed for himself. She had so far displayed no tendency to flirt or fawn. She had not pouted or preened or cried. What was her game?

In response to some interplay on the stage, Ariel laughed aloud, then turned to look at him and share the joke. Her smile lit her face. Light from the many candles danced in the hazel depths of her eyes. She looked open and honest—and thoroughly delightful. He could detect no scheming shadows in that gaze. An unfamiliar tremor of sensation moved in Alan's chest—as if something had come loose from its moorings for a moment.

He shook his head, shook it off. The prince regent's rich, heavy cuisine did not agree with him, he thought, nor did all these nights in hot, overcrowded rooms where the air was tainted with smoke and perfumes and inane conversation. He needed to get back to his quiet, ordered laboratory, to the company of rational men. If he could only get this ridiculous business of the ghost settled, all would return to normal. He turned toward the stage, his jaw set. When would the damned play be over? He was sick to death of waiting. He wanted to get something done.

The antics of the actors continued, oblivious to Lord Alan Gresham's impatience. Numb with boredom, he made a halfhearted effort to comprehend the story. It seemed to involve a pair of witless young lovers, separated for reasons that he had missed at the beginning of the play. These insurmountable obstacles had, inexplicably, forced the hero to become a pirate in the West Indies. Did anyone in the audience actually believe that a young nobleman could, upon arrival in the islands, immediately gain command of a pirate vessel, Alan wondered? And did they imagine that his crew of bloodthirsty blackguards would tolerate endless maundering laments for his lost Lucinda? The idiot would have been robbed, gutted, and thrown overboard on the first night. And Alan would have very much enjoyed seeing such a scene enacted.

As for Lucinda, her scenes revealed her as precisely the sort of simpering, sniveling female he most despised. Indeed, she epitomized all the weaknesses of the feminine character. She was a slave to emotion, incapable of clear thinking and prey to moods that led her to take actions he found insane. When she determined to disguise herself as a cabin boy and join her hero on his ship, Alan gave up listening. It was beyond absurd. These idiot playgoers would swallow anything. Did they imagine a gently reared young woman would not be immediately found out on a pirate ship? Was it credible that her supposed true love would not recognize her instantly? And did any of these people have the least inkling about the unhappy fate of cabin boys in such company?

When the curtain fell for the interval, Alan was ready to suggest that they leave, returning to question the cast another time. But one look at Ariel's glowing face told him that this plan would not be well received. “Shall I order some refreshment?” he asked resignedly.

“Yes, please,” responded Ariel. “Wasn't it cunning, the way they made the waves move around the ship? I haven't seen that before. And did you notice how quickly the backdrops were changed from the London drawing room to the street in the Indies? They must have some new method for hanging them. The ship was rather well done, too, although I think it's the one they have always used for
The
Tempest
.”

Alan gazed at her, surprised. He had expected some feminine rhapsodies about the romance of the story and the handsome hero.

“Charles Padgett and Mr. Balfour were there,” Ariel continued. “I almost didn't recognize Maria Edgecombe under all the paint and false hair. She was the fortune-teller.” She turned her animated gaze on Lord Alan. “Do you think we could have lemonade? I'm not very partial to wine.”

He gave the order. Then, watching her looking around the audience, he was moved by curiosity to ask, “What did you think of the story?”

Ariel shrugged. “Passable.”

“You did not find it unbelievable?”

“The actress playing Lucinda is not particularly convincing,” she conceded.

“But the events, the whole idea. It is quite impossible.” He was actually rather interested in her answer, Alan realized.

“It's a story,” said Ariel, looking at him as if he had said something odd.

He was about to reply when there was a knock at the door of their box and it opened to reveal two tall, good-looking young men dressed in the height of fashion. “Alan, you sly dog,” said one of them. “First we hear you're living at Carlton House, and now we find you've acquired a
chère amie
.”

“Might want to have a haircut though,” commented the other, looking him up and down. “Your rig-out is tolerable, but the hair, old son.” He shook his impeccably groomed head.

“Do go away,” responded Alan.

“Here now! Is that any way to greet your brothers?” said the one who had spoken first.

“Your
older
brothers,” added the other. “Show a bit of respect, eh?” He waggled his fingers at Alan in good-natured mockery. “Going to introduce us? Don't worry, we won't try to cut you out. It's past time you set up a—”

“Miss Harding, these are two of my brothers,” interrupted Alan. “Lord Sebastian Gresham and Lord Robert Gresham. Pay no attention to them.”

“Hold on,” objected Sebastian.

“Miss Ariel Harding,” Alan finished with a significant glance at his brothers.

“Harding?” said Sebastian. “As in…?”

Ariel was examining their visitors with great interest. They were clearly cut from the same mold as Lord Alan—tall, handsome, broad-shouldered men with auburn hair and blue eyes. Robert was slighter, with a narrower face and paler coloring; his hair was almost red. Sebastian, the largest of the three, had the upright bearing and luxuriant side whiskers that marked him at once as a cavalryman; he looked like a lazy, good-natured lion. But although both the newcomers were far better dressed than Lord Alan and obviously very much at their ease, neither of them possessed his air of calm command, his look of razor-sharp intelligence, or his imperturbability. “Do I call them Lord Robert and Lord Sebastian?” she asked. “Are they younger sons, too?”

Robert goggled at her.

“They are,” confirmed Alan, one corner of his lips turning up.

“Some connection of Bess Harding?” asked Lord Sebastian, who was not one to give up on an idea once he had grasped it.

Ariel raised her chin. “I am Bess Harding's daughter,” she answered proudly.

“Miss Harding is assisting me in my investigation for the prince,” Alan added. “My
confidential
investigation.”

Sebastian waved this aside. “Father told us to keep mum about the matter.”

“Didn't know Bess Harding had a daughter,” Robert said, seeming unable to tear his eyes from Ariel.

“I have been away from London, at Ames's Academy for Young Ladies, for several years,” she replied with dignity.

Lord Alan's brothers looked at each other, then at Alan.

“You have mistaken the situation,” he told them.

“What situation would that be?” asked Ariel sweetly.

“Oh, come,” responded Lord Robert. “Daughter of an actress, that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” repeated Ariel in bell-like tones. She fixed Robert with a steady gaze and added, “Precisely?”

Robert coughed. “Er…” He glanced at Lord Alan for help and received a bland stare in return.

“Well?” demanded Ariel.

Robert shifted from one foot to the other. Sebastian grinned, then took a step backward when she looked at him.

“I believe my brothers are surprised to find a female involved in my investigation,” suggested Lord Alan.

Ariel turned to him. “Do you?”

“That's it,” agreed Sebastian quickly. “Surprised. Why, Alan's always saying that females don't have two thoughts to… er… that is…”

“This is deuced odd,” commented Lord Robert. “But then, I should have expected it. Your whole life is deuced odd.”

“That depends upon your point of view,” said Alan. He raised his head at the sound of a chime. “The play is about to start again. Don't let us keep you from your seats.”

“I don't understand you,” complained his brother Sebastian.

Alan smiled at him with real warmth. “I know,” he said.

“I would like to discuss what you and your brothers were talking about,” said Ariel at the end of the play as they waited for the audience to clear out.

“It's of absolutely no consequence,” Alan replied.

“I disagree. They thought I was your mistress. Why can't you just say so?”

He threw her a startled look.

“I don't see how we will work together if you persist in treating me like a fool,” she continued. “It wastes time. And of course, it is quite annoying, not to mention insulting.”

Most uncharacteristically, Alan found himself speechless. “I thought to spare you embarrassment,” he answered finally.

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “It would have been far less embarrassing if you had simply stated that I was not, instead of circling the subject as if there might be some doubt.”

Alan had no answer to this. She was right, of course, but he had never encountered a woman who claimed to share his preference for forthright statements rather than polite evasions.

“We had better settle this matter right at the beginning,” Ariel added.

“What ‘matter'?”

Ariel took a bit of time to rearrange her diaphanous wrap around her shoulders. “We have made an agreement to aid each other in our investigations. It does not include anything more.”

Alan raised one auburn brow. “More?” He was well aware of what she meant, but for some reason he wanted to hear her say it.

She looked directly at him. “I know that men are ruled by their passions,” she stated. “You cannot help it, I suppose.”

“Indeed?” Oddly piqued, Alan added, “And how did you come by this comprehensive knowledge?”

“My mother was… thoroughly conversant with the subject,” replied Ariel stiffly.

“Was she?”

His companion's back grew even straighter. “She thought it best to warn me, so that I would not… would not be… ensnared by a fantasy of love. Or… or anything of that nature,” she added hurriedly.

“Did she? Well, I am in total agreement with her,” commented Alan.

Ariel blinked at him.

“The concept of love is simply a pretty story that people concoct to disguise self-interest and the basic need to perpetuate the race,” he added. “It does not, in fact, exist.”

He seemed to have her full attention now, he was happy to see.

“And I can assure you that
my
passions are wholly under the governance of my intellect, which is man's particular gift, after all. I have told you—I am a man of science.”

“Well,” replied Ariel, “I just wanted it to be clear that there will be nothing of that sort between us.”

“Commendable. I prefer to be clear.”

“And if you should find yourself swayed by the influence of—”

“You need not be concerned about such a contingency. I am swayed by logic, by facts, by concrete evidence—and by nothing else.”

She did not look entirely pleased by this assurance, but she nodded. “So we are agreed then. We have a… a business arrangement, and nothing more.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” She rose, head held high, the skirts of her emerald silk gown rustling around her. “Let us go to the office first.” She walked down the steps ahead of him. “I wonder if it's all still the same?” he heard her add in a wistful tone.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they walked past the stage and down a long uncarpeted corridor. The wooden walls were unadorned. It was rather dusty. It was a complete contrast to the lavishness of the painted scenery, Alan thought, and even to the backstage areas he had visited once or twice when he was living in London.

Ariel stopped before a half-open door near the end of the hall. “Mr. Balfour?” she said, pushing it farther open. “It's Ariel Harding.”

Alan caught up with her in time to see the surprise on the face of the slender man who sat at a shabby desk inside the small cluttered room, the evening's receipts spread out before him.

“Ariel?” he said, as if he couldn't believe it. He rose and held out a hand. “You've grown up. Has it really been that long?”

“I'm afraid it has. This is Lord Alan Gresham.”

Watching the man closely, Alan thought he recognized the name. But the only sign was a flicker in his pale blue eyes, and he couldn't tell what thoughts lay behind it. He examined Balfour, realizing that he was older than he first appeared. The stage makeup he still wore covered lines in his face. And his blond hair was liberally streaked with gray, less noticeable against its paleness. He was a small man, but lithe and wiry; probably much stronger than he looked, Alan concluded.

“Lord Alan is helping me look into my mother's death,” Ariel was continuing.

A shadow passed across Balfour's narrow, mobile face.

“He's working for the regent as well,” said Ariel.

Implying, Alan thought wryly, that he was working firstly for her.

“Of course you've heard about this haunting at Carlton House.”

Balfour nodded, with another flicker in those unrevealing eyes. Alan understood suddenly how difficult it was going to be questioning actors, who were accustomed to counterfeiting feelings of all kinds.

“Mr. Cyrus Balfour is the manager of the theater,” said Ariel, turning to Alan. “He is an actor as well, but he oversees everything.” She smiled at the smaller man. “My mother used to say that he does all the worrying, so the rest of the cast doesn't have to.”

Balfour's face grew shadowed again. “We all miss her like the very devil.” He paused. “It was so sudden, so… horrible.”

“I know.” Ariel's smile had faded, and she looked fierce. “I want to talk to you and the others about what happened that night. I
must
discover why she—”

“None of us was there,” Balfour protested.

“And about this supposed haunting,” Alan put in firmly.

Ariel waved her hand as if this was obviously secondary. “People must know things,” she urged. “Someone must have noticed—”

“There was nothing to notice,” Balfour interrupted. “Bess was the same as ever.” He shook his head. “Chance, fate, an overwhelming despair; I suppose it could happen to any of us at any moment.”

Alan eyed him, not sure if this was genuine emotion or acting.

“Well, if it happened to me, I hope someone would try to
do
something about it,” declared Ariel. “You will help me, won't you?”

“I don't want it all brought up again,” Balfour replied. “Everyone's been nervous as a sack of cats. They're just beginning to calm down.”

Alan was about to argue with the man when he realized that Ariel was looking at Balfour with wide, injured eyes, as if she could not believe that he would refuse her this simple request.

The manager shifted uneasily. “You know how it is in a theater. Actors are… volatile. The least thing oversets them.”

Ariel continued to gaze at him like a startled deer.

“And then the play doesn't go, and the audience stays away…” He glanced at her, then looked quickly away and sighed. “Oh, very well. Ask your questions. I suppose the harm has already been done.”

Ariel smiled sweetly, and Alan felt a twinge of sympathy for Mr. Balfour. “I knew I could count on you,” she said. “Bess always said you were steady as a rock.”

He grimaced. “When she was happy with me, she did. But if she didn't get a role she wanted or if one of the young ones upstaged her…” He shrugged expressively.

“Were you in her black books when she died?” asked Alan.

Mr. Balfour turned to look at him. “Just what do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Alan met his irate gaze without wavering. “It would be useful to know if she had quarreled with anyone. Particularly the man in charge of the theater where she performed.”

“Are you suggesting—”

“Bess and Mr. Balfour were friends for years and years,” explained Ariel, throwing Lord Alan a reproachful look.

Balfour took a deep breath; his fists were clenched.

“I am merely seeking information,” replied Alan blandly.

For a moment the tension in the small chamber rose, then the anger seemed to drain out of the manager suddenly; he sat down and hunched over the desk. “No one could draw the audiences like Bess,” he said heavily. “See this?” He gestured at the coins and crumpled bills strewn before him. “It would have been twice as much with Bess onstage tonight.” Forgetting his makeup, he rubbed a hand over his face, smearing it slightly. When he saw the paint on his palm, he swore. “We were friends, but I had more reasons than that to keep Bess happy.”

“Had my mother quarreled with anyone?” said Ariel quietly after a moment.

Balfour sighed. “You know how she was, Ariel. She and Maria were forever sniping at one another. She raked one of the young girls over the coals a month or so ago, and then gave her a silk gown a few days after. There was nothing unusual that I saw.”

Ariel nodded somewhat sadly.

“What about outside the theater?” asked Alan. “Had she any… that is, were there any particular ‘friends' who…?”

“Who was her latest conquest?” put in Ariel without embarrassment, earning a surprised glance from Alan.

“The Earl of Dunbrae,” answered Balfour matter-of-factly, “gave her a ruby the size of a quail's egg.”

Ariel's eyes had narrowed. “I didn't find it in the house. I suppose one of the servants may have…” She trailed off.

“She might have hidden it,” suggested the theater manager. “Wasn't something you'd just leave lying about, believe me.”

Ariel nodded. “Bess and the earl were…?”

“He seemed mad about her—as they all were. And she was leading him a merry dance.”

Ariel nodded again, as if this were what she had expected to hear.

Alan remained silent, having been suddenly struck by the notion that he would no doubt be expected to approach the earl, an irascible man thirty years his senior, and attempt to interview him about the death of his mistress. He was having no difficulty, unfortunately, picturing the scene.

“We'll talk to the others,” Ariel was saying. “If you should remember anything else…”

Balfour shook his head. “Nothing to remember,” he replied. When she started to speak again, he waved a hand. “I'll try, I'll try.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him, and the manager gave her a wry look in return.

They returned to the dusty corridor and followed it until it took a sharp turn into another, which clearly stretched across the back of the entire building. A series of doors opened off it, and a number of voices could be heard. “You should let me talk to the actors,” said Ariel.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're likely to upset them,” she explained. “You did Cyrus, and actors will require an even more delicate touch.”

“I am capable of questioning all sorts of people,” declared Alan. “My ability to get to the heart of a matter and elicit the facts has been much admired.”

“But we want much more than the facts.”

“More? There is nothing ‘more.'”

“Of course there is. Just let me take the lead,” said Ariel.

“And ask nothing about the events at Carlton House, as you did with Balfour?” He shook his head. “I think not. That is why I am here, and I shall certainly question everyone about it.”

“It is only because of me that you have the opportunity,” she answered. “And I think you might be a little more—”

A head appeared at one of the open doorways along the corridor. “Hullo?”

“Mr. Padgett,” said Ariel, sweeping forward to greet the man. “It's Ariel Harding.”

The head cocked, then the rest of the figure appeared—a tall, muscular fellow, Alan observed, with a magnificent profile and a leonine mane of pure white hair. His face was handsomely craggy and showed few signs of age, though he must be past fifty.

“Little Ariel?” boomed the newcomer. His voice was deep and resonant, clearly trained to reach the farthest balconies. “My brave and tricksy spirit?” he continued. “‘Thou shalt have the air at freedom.'”

Ariel stood straighter and clasped her hands in front of her like a child making a recitation. “‘Full fathom five thy father lies,'” she intoned. “‘Of his bones are coral made / Those are pearls that were his eyes / Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange.'”

“You haven't forgotten! Good, good.” The older man turned to Alan as if they had been acquainted for years. “I taught her the whole part of Ariel when she was eight years old. I thought it might go over well—a child as the magician's helper, you know. We were going to suspend her from a cord and let her fly across the stage. Even had the wings made.”

“
How
I wanted to do it!” declared Ariel.

“Pluck up the backbone, you were,” agreed Padgett. “But Bess didn't like the idea, so it came to nothing in the end.” He looked very solemn suddenly. “My condolences, my dear. Awful thing.”

“Yes.” Ariel paused and swallowed. “This is Lord Alan Gresham,” she said then. “He is helping me look into Bess's death. Lord Alan, this is Mr. Charles Padgett. But you will have heard of him, of course.”

Padgett preened a bit.

Refusing to be pushed, Alan said, “Will I?”

The older man drew himself up into a magnificent huff.

“We came to talk to you about Bess,” Ariel added quickly.

Neatly implying, Alan noticed, that they were consulting him first and foremost, without of course saying so.

Padgett appeared to consider remaining offended, then gave it up for a more congenial role. “Come into my poor premises, and I will do what I can,” he replied, gesturing them grandly into the room behind him.

It was a tiny, wildly cluttered chamber, the walls bulging with costumes hung on hooks, the floor crowded by an overstuffed armchair and a mirrored dressing table on which pots and vials and tubes vied for space with scraps of false hair, bits of putty, and a vast litter of personal objects. The disarray, and the closeness of the atmosphere, made Alan take a step back. When Ariel sat down in the armchair, he indicated with a gesture that he would stand. Padgett spread his hands, then took the stool before the vanity. There was barely an inch between his knees and Ariel's, Alan saw. How did the man bear such disorder?