The Princess and the Pauper (5 page)

She snorted. “You never followed them
when you were my servant.”

He stopped. He wanted to laugh. To cry. He
wanted to feel her arms around him. He wanted to return the embrace
this time. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her away with
him and never give her up.

He wanted to die.

Grey
set down the luggage and crossed the
hall. She looked at him without fear, her brown eyes knowing and
inviting. He stepped into the circle of light, cupped her cheeks
and lowered his mouth to hers.

She tasted sweeter than he’d
imagined, softer than he’
d dreamed, and his heart pounded so hard in his
chest, the beats echoed in his skull.

He slipped his fingers behind
her neck and pulled her in for a deeper ki
ss. She pressed against him, wrapped
her arms around his waist and cried softly, making him shake as if
with fever. He thought he would lose his balance and pushed her
against the wall, but that wasn’t enough support. He needed a
bed.

Grey grabbed
her hand and pulled her into his
room. He wanted to touch her, taste her with a desire that buried
all his good sense. And when he closed the door and felt her eager
fingers reach for him in the dark, he groaned with pleasure and
gathered her in his arms.

“
Rees, I . . . I . .
.
”

“
I want the same, Emily,”
he whispered, breathless.

He kissed her. Or she kissed him. He
wasn’t sure who was in control. He didn’t care. He only cared about
being with her. About loving her.

The door opened.

Light pierced the room and blinded Grey to
the fist barreling toward his face. Knuckles plowed into his lips
and cheek, knocking him backward and onto the floor. He hit the
ground hard, dazed, blood spilling from his mouth.

Emily screamed, “Papa, no!”

“
You son of a bitch!”
roared Wright. “I’ll kill you!”

Fists slammed down on his chest, breaking
ribs. Grey rolled to the side to avoid the deadly blows and booted
Wright in the shin until the man staggered back,
unbalanced.

“
I didn’t hurt her.” Grey
sputtered, gasping
for air. “I love her! And she loves me.”

Wright regained his balance and turned
his murderous eyes on his daughter. “Is that true?”

Cradling his broken
bones,
Grey
pulled himself up against the wall. He saw the look of horror on
Emily’s face, the whites of her eyes red and glassy with tears. And
then he saw her fuddled chaperone, spectacles askew, step nearer
with the lamplight. He realized the old bird must have woken from
her drunken sleep to find her charge missing and fetched Wright.
And Grey dearly wished she hadn’t picked
this
moment to finally do her duty.

“
Is it true, Emily?”
demanded
Wright.

Emily’s
eyes flitted between the two men. She
covered her mouth with her hands. Tears streaked her flushed
cheeks. She said nothing. But she shook her
head—violently.

Grey’s
heart fell.

“
Liar! Traitor!” cried Wright.
“You dragged her from her bed and ravished her!”

Wright raised his fist again,
but this time Grey didn’t move to avoid it. Emily had denied him.
She had denied the truth about
them
. And that took the breath from his lungs more
than any pummeling.

“
No, Papa!” She jumped
forward and grabbed her father’s arm. “Don’t hurt him. He didn’t
ravish me, I swear.”

“
What?”

“
He didn’t hurt me. You . . . you
stopped him.”

“
He wanted to hurt
you.”

“
But he didn’t. You saved me. Oh,
Papa. Don’t! You’ll go to prison if you kill him.”

“
No judge would convict a father
for defending his daughter’s honor.”

“
Please
, Papa! Think of me. Think of the
scandal. Who would marry me?”

That stopped the man, sobered
him.

“
Get out,” he ordered
Grey, hellfire still
burning in his eyes. “Out!”

He grabbed Grey and yanked him from the
room. In full view of the other servants, who’d gathered at the
commotion, Wright dragged him across the hall and shoved him down
the stairs. He kicked the suitcase after him.

Grey
seized the banister for support,
still dazed. He looked over his shoulder and watched as Emily
reached for the violin case, but her father snatched it first and
sent it into a wall.

The case opened and the
instrument
clattered to the floor before Wright smashed it with his
heel.

Emily gasped and covered her
mouth.

Grey stared at the splintered
wood
—and his
heart hardened.

He looked at
E
mily. She
shook her head again and mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” But it was
too late for remorse.

How quickly love turned to
hate.

CHAPTER
3

Spring

London, 1888

Grey
watched his energetic fingers dance
across the violin’s strings. He ended his latest masterpiece with a
presto passage and yanked his right hand back, raising the
bow.

He couldn’t hear his heartbeat anymore as
the audience erupted with echoing applause. More than five thousand
spectators offered him an ovation, and he bowed before walking off
the stage of the Royal Albert Hall.

The amphitheater still resounded with
acclaim as he entered his dressing room. Closing the door, he
tossed the violin on the Turkish divan, then removed his dress
coat. The room was filled with flowers and cards from men and women
alike, begging for a private audience. He dismissed the fanfare and
poured himself a glass of red wine.

Grey
dropped into a chair and stared at
his reflection in the oval mirror. His music was often compared to
his macabre looks. He had let his hair grow unfashionably long and
unruly. He never wore a cravat when he played, leaving his neck
exposed. And he engaged the violin like a man making mad love to
his mistress. The sexuality of his performances publically
shocked—and privately tempted—his contemporaries, making him a
sensation. He had earned more fame and money as a scandalous, even
immoral musician than a respectable violinist, and that epithet
suited him fine.

The door burst
open
.

“
That was a smashing
performance, me old mucker!”

Harry Hickox strode into the
room with the confidence of a
n intimate friend, one who knew he’d be tolerated
under any circumstances. He was a young man of aristocratic blood
with no fortune or influence, and he’d appointed himself a central
part of Grey’s musical attaché, travelling with him abroad and now
here in London. He was the one constant in Grey’s haphazard
life.

Grey
swirled the wine in his glass. “I
always give a smashing performance, Harry.”

“
But never at the Royal
Albert Hall! You’ve made it, chum. Londoners finally love
you.”

“
Yes, finally.
I didn’t think it
would ever happen. A prophet is honored everywhere except his
hometown.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Nothing. Grab that bottle of
wine
, Harry.
We must celebrate.”

In truth, Grey wasn’t in a
festive mood. One thought had tormented him throughout the
performance. Was
she
in the audience? He had played as if she were. He had
played for her. It was his greatest triumph because he had put all
his anger, all his regret into the instrument, treated the
instrument as if it were her, and he was spent. He had nothing left
to give, not even a celebratory hurrah for achieving his childhood
dream.

Harry
swiped the bottle of wine. “It’ll be
in all the broadsheets tomorrow. Soon you’ll play for Her
Majesty!”

Grey snorted at that. He had
toured the world
over, playing for commoners and royals alike. The
broadsheets at home had always reviled him for his “continental”
morals, much looser than those of England. And it was often
prophesized he would
never
play on English soil. But when morals had gotten
in the way of fashion, fashion had won. Grey Rees was the height of
fashion. Londoners could not snub him any longer without taking on
the dreaded stigma of being behind the times.

“
Where shall we go to
celebrate?
”
asked Harry. “White’s? Brooks’s? Boodle’s?”

Having
no interest in any of the
aforementioned gentlemen’s clubs, Grey shook his head.

“
Then what about one of these
invitations?” Harry plucked a card from one of the many floral
arrangements. “Surely one of these must tempt you?”

“
I’m afraid not, my
friend.”

“
You’re a bore!
How dreadful. You
mustn’t let word of it leak to the press or you’ll be
ruined.”

But
Grey had already been ruined once—and
survived—so the threat of a similar fate had no merit. He shrugged.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Harry.”

“
You don’t appear the least bit
sorry. You’re taking the part of a brooding artist, suffering from
ennui too far. It isn’t healthy. Or profitable.”

“
I don’t need
more money.”

“
Don’t you dare blaspheme!
One
always
needs more money.”

“
I’m just tired,
Harry.”

Tired in his mind, his
bones
and his
soul. He’d depended on grit and bile to get him through tonight’s
performance, and now that it was over, there was nothing left to
drive him, to inspire him, only the hollow thought of more tours,
snobbery and heartless flattery.

The other man
sighed. “At least
come home with me and visit Mama. She hounds me, Grey—hounds
me!—for your company.”

But Grey was even less
interested in Lady Hickox, his
mistress. She had rescued him from obscurity and
launched his musical career abroad. She had taught him about
business and pleasure, but he had grown tired of her, as
well.

“
Give your mother my
deepest regard, but I must decline.”

Harry rubbed the back of his
neck in obvious discomfort. “She’s going to cut me off, Grey. I’m
her youngest. I’ve no fortune to inherit. I live entirely off her
good graces. And I’ll
not
remain in her good graces if you don’t visit her soon.
Can’t you two lovebirds patch things up?”

“
I’m afraid I can’t prostitute
myself for you tonight.”

“
And why the devil not? You’ve no
other plans this evening.”

Grey
downed the wine in his glass. “I’ve
plans after all, it seems.” He snatched the first invitation in
reach and passed over the gold embossed lettering. “At
Woodward’s.”

~ * ~

Grey scanne
d the smoky interior of
Woodward’s Gentlemen’s Club with indifference. The bright red walls
and dark wood paneling hinted at a high-class brothel. A woman’s
laughter from one of the anterooms confirmed it.

Though he
had no interest in gaming or
whoring, Grey wasn’t prepared to go home, either. To be alone. Not
tonight. The night he had achieved his greatest dream and no
meaningful soul had shared it with him, save Harry, who was more a
court jester than a confidant.

No, Grey would sit with a bottle of brandy
and watch other men fall to ruins. The senseless orgy might smother
the memory of one empty seat in the Royal Albert Hall reserved for
his grandfather . . . and for her.

A l
iveried footman approached him. “Good
evening, sir.” He bowed. “Might I assist you?”

Grey presented the illustrious invitation
card, a true waste, for the club would see little profit from a
guest as apathetic as Grey.

“
Right this way, sir.”

T
he servant extended his gloved hand, and
Grey followed him through a warmly lit passageway . . . right past
the main lounge and game room.

He
frowned, but said nothing. He had not
looked at the card’s interior message, just the front address so he
could direct his coachman. But when the footman guided him through
another passage—then a hidden door in the wall—Grey wondered what
sort of invitation he had accepted.

After descending a series of
carpe
ted
steps, he found himself in a small, shadowed theater. There was a
low stage at the front of the room and about thirty upholstered
seats forming a semicircle. The footman gestured in welcome, and
Grey took the corner seat in the third and last row to avoid the
other gentlemen.