The Songbird's Seduction (5 page)

“Because there’s a lady sitting at a table across the room with whom I recently shared a”—he glanced at her—“pleasant evening.”

“So? I should imagine you would be happy to see her again.”

“I would. Except that she’s with her husband.”

“Oh.” Lucy felt her cheeks warm. Silly. You’d think that by now she’d be used to the looser morals that surrounded theatres and music halls. Curious, she turned her head to get a look at Jack’s married lady friend.

Her gaze never made it past the first occupied table.

“Thanks, Lucy. You’re a peach,” Jack whispered. She barely noted his words. She was too busy staring.

Because sitting at a nearby linen-clad table was the most gorgeous man in the room, perhaps in the entire city. He was dark, his sable-colored hair brushed into disciplined order, black pirate’s eyes smoldering beneath heavy winged brows. A perfectly chiseled pair of lips was set in a straight line above a square jaw and a wickedly cleft chin. His skin looked nearly bronze above his brilliant white dress shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie.

She figured him to be near thirty and, from his expression, awfully serious for a pirate. Pirates, in her estimation, ought to have a ready and devil-may-care look. Unless they weren’t very successful pirates . . .

He was writing something on a paper in front of him. When he finished, he looked up and spoke. Only then did she realize he was sharing his table with two other people: a dark-haired lady of a similar age, very elegant and even more somber, and directly across from him, an equally serious-looking taffy-haired fellow.

“I wonder who died?” Lucy murmured as the gorgeous man reached across the table and took the young lady’s hand, not in an intimate way, but more in a gesture of appeal.

Looking vaguely impatient, the woman carefully disengaged her hand, took the paper he’d written on, and rose. The men leapt to their feet, the smaller man pulling out the woman’s chair.

“. . . unused to being surrounded by vulgar theatre sorts,” the woman said with obvious displeasure, looking in the bar’s direction.

It took a few seconds for Lucy to realize that the woman was referring to Margery and his pals. Which included her. Not that Lucy cared. She was too distracted by studying the pirate. Purely for the sake of her craft. Musical comedies were simply stuffed with pirates.

He was, Lucy noted, just as yummy standing as he’d been sitting. He had the physique of an athlete, tall, trim, but broad-shouldered and long-legged. The other fellow . . . oh, who cared about the other fellow?

Her pirate said something more to the woman. She shook her head and hesitated a second before reluctantly touching his cheek in a carefully conciliatory gesture. She turned to the other gentleman, who hastily moved to her side and escorted her out the door. Probably her husband. Poor sot.

And the pirate must be her brother, Lucy decided. That explained the mixture of fondness and annoyance in her attitude. And the reason for her put-out expression. She looked like she’d just told him that she didn’t
ra-lly
care for polo ponies and would he kindly keep that in mind for future birthdays and while he was at it do something about the one he’d given her as it was eating Grandmama’s prize hibiscus. And as an aside, what was he thinking, taking Biff and her (Lucy had decided the taffy fellow’s name had to be “Biff”) to a place crammed with
theatre
sorts?

She had
that
sort of look.
Terribly
well-bred and
terribly
rich and
terribly
bored with the whole thing . . .

Lucy smiled at her nonsensical flight of fancy just as the gorgeous fellow turned his head. Their eyes met.

For one brief second everyone else in the room blurred into shadows. Sound faded until the only thing she heard was the beating of her heart.

He frowned, looking puzzled, making her aware that she was staring. Like a vulgar theatre sort.

She wasn’t vulgar! She had two great-aunts who’d made it their mission in life to see that she wasn’t. But she
had been
staring and that
was
vulgar and
that
embarrassed her.

Though it needn’t.

With his looks and obvious wealth, he must get stared at all the time by chippy young things on the make. Rather than comfort her, it only made her feel dismal. She didn’t want to be just another, well, chippy.

So, she shifted her gaze a fraction of an inch, tossed her head a little, and pretended to laugh as though in response to something going on behind him. The man’s black brows dipped into a vee of confusion. She raised a hand and wiggled her fingertips coyly at an imaginary friend, keeping her gaze fixed beyond the pirate’s shoulder.

His black eyes narrowed. He pointed questioningly at his chest.

She moved her gaze deliberately back to his face then widened her eyes, feigning surprise. Lowering her lashes demurely, she shook her head and pointed behind him.

He turned around. Since there was no one behind him but an extremely confused-looking waiter, she took the opportunity to do the only sensible thing she could think to do: She fled through the crowd to the other end of the bar.

On her way, she bumped straight into Margery.

“Ah, there you are, lambkins,” Margery said as if he’d been looking for her. She eyed him wryly, knowing full well he’d been holding court with his fans and had likely forgotten all about her. While she didn’t doubt his affection for her was sincere, she also knew stardom was his first and foremost love.

He led her to his barstool, insisting she take it. Then, noting the slight difficulty with which she climbed atop, he shook his finger lightly under her nose. “You’ve been drinking cocktails, haven’t you? Jack’s doing, I suppose.” He clucked his tongue. “You’re far too young to be drowning yourself in gin, toots. Leave that to the old roués like Jack and myself.”

Lucy laughed, forcefully dismissing the gorgeous dark fellow from her thoughts. “Then what should I drown myself in?”

“Why, champagne, of course.” He turned to his fans and announced, “Step lively, m’dears! We’re celebrating Lucy’s return to the fold. You
do
know who she is, don’t you?”

“Margery!” Lucy protested, hot blood rushing to her cheeks. None of these people were likely to have the vaguest notion who she was. She’d only had credited roles in three productions—

“I should say I do!” a plug-shaped youngster with fair, curly hair announced in triumphant, if slightly slurred, tones. “That’s Miss Lucille Eastlake.”

Lucy’s eyes grew round with astonished pleasure. Someone had recognized her! She laughed. No . . . much to her horror, she realized she was tittering. She cleared her throat and attempted to look as though being recognized was standard for her. “You’ve seen me perform?”

“Well, no,” the young man admitted. “I don’t go in much for warbly stuff. You were in a pack of cigarettes. On the back of a card. I saved it. You were April.” He leaned closer to her, eyes wide and earnest. “But”—his whiskey-soaked breath washed over her face—“if I ever were to spend money on a ticket to a show like that, it’d sure be yours and that’s the truth.”

She tried not to laugh. He earnestly believed he was complimenting her. “Why, thank you.”

He rocked back on the balls of his feet, grinning with gratification, clearly more inebriated than she’d originally suspected. But
then, so was she. “ ’low me to introduce meself. The name’s Charlie. Charlie Cheddar.”

“Charlie?” Margery exclaimed indignantly. “You mean to say you are named ‘Charlie’ and yet you have never heard Miss Eastlake sing ‘In the Moonlight, Charlie’?”

“No,” the boy stuttered, nonplussed. “I haven’t.”

“And never shall now,” Margery said ominously, “seeing how the
The Debutante’s Complaint
ended after only a five-month run. Too bad. The critics universally acclaimed Miss Eastlake’s late second act song in the unappreciated and underutilized role of the maid, Poppy, to be the highlight of the show. The sole highlight, unfortunately. So I’m afraid you’ve lost your chance. Pity, seeing as your name is Charlie and all.”

“Oh!” The boy looked stricken.

“Unless, well, unless you could convince Miss Eastlake to sing it . . .”

“Margery!” She should have expected this sort of nonsense from him. He was a diligent booster of his friends. Even when they didn’t want to be boosted.

“Oh,
would you
?” Charlie Cheddar breathed.

“I’m sure the Savoy’s orchestra—”

“Ach!” Margery broke in with a derisive snort. “Can barely hear them all they way in here. And what is that they’re playing? A dirge? Terrible stuff. Bound to give a fellow indigestion if he listens too long. Come on, ducks. Sing us a tune.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Charlie begged.

“I—”

“Wouldn’t you like to hear Miss Eastlake sing?” Margery asked the group around them. At once, a chorus of yeses answered him. She was not vain enough to think any of them shared an honest desire to hear her sing. Politeness stirred their assent. What else could they do but agree?

Still, it was rather nice that they sounded sincere and since she knew from past experience that Margery was not going to let it alone until she’d acquiesced, she might as well enjoy herself.

“One song,” she warned.

“One song it is,” he agreed and before she knew it, he’d clasped her around the waist and popped her atop the bar.

Her great-aunts would die of mortification if they saw her perched up here. Simply die.

Luckily, mortification and Lucy had only a negligible acquaintance. She’d been in so many should-be mortifying situations throughout her childhood that if she had taken to fainting whenever anything embarrassing happened she would have spent the vast majority of her childhood insensate.

She took a sip from the glass Margery handed her, inhaled deeply, and as the small circle of people about them hushed, began the sprightly, charming little tune that had first won her the notice of the London critics.

“During the day I see your face is funny,

Can’t call you handsome when it’s sunny,

But by the moon’s much kinder light,

Girls like me lack perfect sight . . .”

And then she launched into the rousing chorus:

“In the Moonlight, Charlie,

You’re a dandy,

Words like honey, lips like candy,

You may not have a handsome vis

But by gum, by moonlight, you’re swell to kiss!”

It was a ridiculous song, but the tune was bright and catchy and so by the time she finished the last line, everyone around her was joining in to sing the chorus. When she’d finished, she performed a seated curtsey and slipped from the bar lightly to her feet only to be confronted by Charlie Cheddar’s rapt, round face.

“That was wonderful,” he said. “Wonderful!”

Good heavens, the boy didn’t actually think she’d been singing to him? Why, what a sweet kid!

“Thank you.”

“Do you think . . . That is, would you be so kind as to, well, give me your autograph?”

“My
autograph
?” No one had ever asked her for her autograph before! “I’ve never—that is, I would be delighted, Mr. Cheddar.”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie. But I don’t have anything with which to write.”

“No?” The young man looked crestfallen.

“Now, now. You mustn’t disappoint your public, Lucy.” Margery, who’d been watching the little byplay with avuncular amusement, intervened. “I shall return anon with scribbling apparatus. Be patient!” Once more, he vanished into the crowd.

Darling Margery, she thought, accepting the new glass of champagne the curly-haired youngster offered. She smiled at him over the rim. He beamed back.

“Large crowd here tonight,” she said when it became clear that her young swain had used up his small store of conversation.

“Yes,” Charlie replied eagerly before falling once again into worshipful, and silent, staring.

“What sort of theatre do you like, Charlie?”

“None.”

“Oh.”

She looked around, hoping Margery wouldn’t be too much longer. The American Bar had gotten even more crowded, every table now ringed with elegant ladies and gentlemen who’d stopped for a post-theatre cocktail.

“You are even more beautiful in person than on your card.”

Well, if a fellow were capable of only a few words, those were certainly worthy ones. She dimpled, causing his mouth to slam shut again and fiery red color to bloom in his apple-round cheeks.

“Here you go, Lucy.” Margery reappeared, holding out a new and expensive-looking silver Conklin fountain pen. Probably a gift from one of his admirers. “And mind you don’t misplace that because—”

“Yes, yes. I promise.”

“Good, because it’s—”

“Is that
the
Margery? But I simply
adore
you!” Whatever Margery had been about to say was forgotten as an ardent female fan seized his arm and pulled him around to face her.

Lucy, well used to the demonstrativeness of Margery’s admirers, particularly the female ones, turned back to Charlie Cheddar, the fountain pen at ready. “Now then, where shall I sign?”

The question proved a poser. “I . . . I don’t know. Gosh.”