At the sound of Mr. Throckmorton bellowing her name, Millie swallowed the buttered crab crumpet her son had handed to her and ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure no vestiges of food lingered. Screwing on her smile, she turned to the stage manager, inwardly cursing his name with the gusto of a foulmouthed dock pirate. She’d been in attendance at the soiree for a grueling hour and a half. Indeed she was pretty certain she’d met everyone, smiled at them, complimented them, and done her best not to outright ask if they might have a reason to wish her demise, or Jakub’s capture.
Her cheeks felt weathered, and she worried others could see them twitching with strain. She’d only just found a moment to eat, could she not be left in peace?
Christopher Argent, mysterious as always, lingered behind her the entire evening, and said little unless it was to offer a brief answer to the myriad of questions thrown at them from every direction. Everyone from her acting associates to the Marchioness of Woolerton wanted to know just who was this new companion of hers. Nordic nobility, perhaps? An Irishman? Someone from the emerging wealthy industrial merchant class? Or worse, an American?
As she and Argent deftly fielded their queries, Millie found herself struggling to not ask a few intrusive questions of her own, such as, had any of them recently employed an assassin or two? Though perhaps people in this class used an unscrupulous proxy for such dealings, like Mr. Dashforth, so the likelihood of them recognizing Mr. Argent was very slim.
Throckmorton reminded her of a French bulldog as his round, squat body bounded up to her with unabashed enthusiasm. “Millie, darling, I want to introduce you to the most important people you may ever have the pleasure of making acquaintance with.” He tugged on her elbow toward a pair of couples retrieving champagne from a footman who balanced several crystal glasses on a silver tray.
An uncommonly tall and especially thin gentleman with hair the color of honey and eyes the color of a summer sky handed champagne to a petite, dark-haired woman with exotic, catlike features.
Mr. Throckmorton motioned to them and whispered behind his bejeweled hand, “Lord and Lady Thurston, the Earl and Countess Thurston. Please make certain to compliment them heartily as Lord Thurston has been a longstanding contributor to the theater.”
Millie nodded, used to this sort of thing. Half her job as an actress seemed to be charming potential donors. “What about the other two?” she whispered.
“The Viscount Benchley and his wife. Lord Gordon St. Vincent, the Viscount Benchley, is Lady Thurston’s younger brother. He’s a notorious letch and ne’er-do-well with not a shilling to speak of until his father, an earl of some wealth and consequence, leaves him the title and estates. Pay him no mind unless Lady Thurston seems to think you should.”
“I see.” Millie nodded, casting a longing look back toward the table, first at her son, who stood next to the ever-alert Argent, and then at the food. With a preparatory smile, she lifted an invisible curtain and began to play her part.
“Lord and Lady Benchley, Lord and Lady Thurston, may I present Miss Millicent LeCour, the pride of the London stage?” Throckmorton thrust her forward.
Millie beamed at them all and dipped a curtsy. With practiced charm, she said, “What an exquisite pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope you enjoyed the performance.”
“Now if you’ll kindly pardon me, I see the Duke of Renton over there and he’s promised me a cask of his famous wine.” Throckmorton abandoned her to his guests with practiced ease.
He would pay for this.
Gordon St. Vincent was, indeed, handsome. Lean and elegant in the way of poetic gentlemen, but with robust good looks, curly dark hair, and high color that belonged to an enthusiast of the outdoors.
“Enjoyment is a crass word for what we experienced due to your transcendent performance, Miss LeCour. I was so personally enraptured by you that I demanded Throckmorton make an introduction. And now that he has, I have decided we simply must become better acquainted.” The young man’s enamored fervor was a common occurrence in Millie’s experience, though gentlemen usually waited until their wives were out of earshot before taking such obvious liberties.
Millie cast a glance at Lady Benchley, a plump woman with pleasant features and the most astounding wealth of auburn hair she’d ever seen, who stood physically apart from the family, both figuratively and literally.
“A pleasure to meet you both, Lord and Lady Benchley.”
The viscountess stepped toward Millie and her husband, but he held up a hand as though to warn her off.
In an instant, Argent was at Millie’s side, his elbow grazing hers with a strange, electric sensation that she credited to the wool of his evening coat. She glanced at him, and though his features remained the same as ever, she read a tension in him. A ready wariness that made her uneasy.
Did he know these people?
The ladies certainly gawked at him with wide eyes, and their fans fluttered with more haste.
She paid particular attention to them all, her anxiety thrumming closer to the surface. Nothing struck her as out of the ordinary, though Argent stiffened next to her as Lord Thurston bent over her hand. Which seemed odd, really, because it was Lord Gordon St. Vincent whose kiss had lingered for much too long.
A sharp breath from the sentinel beside her drew everyone’s notice, and Millie was able to retrieve her hand from Lord Thurston’s clutches.
She gestured to Argent. “I’d like you to meet my escort, Mr. Argent.”
Lady Thurston’s fan fluttered as she dipped a curtsy. “Mr. Argent, did I not see you enter the offices of our solicitor, Sir Gerald Dashforth, earlier today?”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Argent replied lightly.
“It’s only that there aren’t many men of your size,” she remarked blithely. “You’re quite unmistakable.”
“Except there must be, because you are mistaken.” Argent said this with a tight smile, and Millie could feel her brow knit together as she glanced up to him. Dashforth was the name of the solicitor who’d hired Argent to kill her. He had, indeed, gone there this very afternoon. Why lie about it?
“A damn shame about old Dashforth,” Gordon St. Vincent chimed in. “Scotland Yard found him garroted this very afternoon.”
Millie gasped, her hand covering her mouth. Though Argent didn’t react to her outburst, Millie knew he’d done it, that he had killed the man after leaving her in the baths. Why? Had it been warranted? Had they fought each other, or had Argent committed cold-blooded murder only hours before?
“See here, Gordy,” Lord Thurston chastised his brother-in-law. With his dark blue eyes blazing, Millie thought that he must be frowning under his silver-peppered mustache. “The ladies needn’t hear about such violent behavior, especially when they so narrowly missed it. We don’t want them distraught, do we?”
Gordon waved him off. “They’re the ones who insisted we come tonight.” His lascivious gaze drifted back to Millie. “And I’m utterly glad we attended.”
Argent’s fists tightened at his sides.
Adept at dodging unwanted attentions, Millie turned to Viscount Benchley’s wife.
Lady Benchley’s voluptuous form appeared more statuesque in comparison to the slender St. Vincent’s. The unfortunate cut of the lace on her dress didn’t seem to be helping matters at all. She was tall for a woman, almost as tall as her husband, which perhaps explained why he preferred not to stand next to her. Millie found herself pitying the viscountess, as the slump of her wide shoulders expressed more about her than any polite words ever could.
Her smile created charming dimples, though, and Millie was struck by the abject beauty of her jade eyes. If she’d only look up more often, and perhaps worn more becoming gowns, she’d be a rather lovely woman. Millie truly envied her thick, voluminous hair.
“You were wonderful tonight, Miss LeCour,” Lady Benchly ventured, and your costume is lovely. I adore the fashions of the mid-sixteenth century. All those pearls and luxurious velvet; I find it terribly romantic, don’t you?”
“Utterly romantic. And thank you for your kindness.” Millie offered her a genuine smile, though both her mind and pulse were racing. These people … why did they put Argent off so? Did one of them want her dead?
“It takes a certain … economy of figure such as yours, Miss LeCour, to wear a style like that and not make it look like a Bedouin tent.” Lord Benchley stepped forward and addressed his wife with barely leashed disdain. “Some women are lucky that velvet is no longer the fashion, aren’t they, my dear?”
Lady Thurston heartily agreed, a malicious enjoyment glittering in her eyes. “Yes, and that color would make you seem a ghastly yellow, Philomena. Only someone with porcelain skin and lovely dark hair like Miss LeCour could bring such a historical garment to life.”
To call the expression on Philomena St. Vincent’s face crestfallen would have been putting it kindly. Something about the bruised, wretched unhappiness drawn upon her features left no doubt that the woman was ill-treated and entirely lonely. Her eyes returned to the floor, and desolation rippled from her in an almost palpable wave.
Instinctively, Millie rushed to her rescue. “Oh, but Lady Benchley, what any woman wouldn’t give for your uncommonly lovely hair, and those breathtaking eyes of yours. Your coloring, milady, is indeed enviable.”
“I’ve always preferred dark hair and pale skin.” St. Vincent kicked dirt on his wife’s proverbial coffin. “The contrast is rather … exotic, wouldn’t you agree, Thurston?” The brothers-in-law both examined Millie in a way that caused her to fervently wish she were fat, and golden-haired.
“You are too kind to me, Miss LeCour,” the viscountess informed the crimson carpets.
Millie wanted to escape this cruel, miserable family as quickly as possible, and began to think of excuses to do so.
“You really are,” Lady Thurston agreed. “Much too kind to her.” Her shrewd, dark eyes drifted down to Jakub and sharpened to a razor’s point. “And who is this charming dear boy?”
“This is my son, Jakub.” Millie didn’t want to introduce Jakub to these awful people.
Her son clutched her skirts with one hand, but offered a shy bow as his manners dictated.
“A son?” Gordon St. Vincent let out a chuckle that ended on a bitter note. “Would that either of us knew what that was like, eh, Fenwick?” He elbowed his brother-in-law in a gesture of collusion, but the earl merely slid him a look of exasperation. “I’m getting too deucedly old to be the dashing young St. Vincent heir anymore. I’ve been married five years, and Fenwick twice that long. You’d think an heir would appear after a decade from one of us.”
A terrible stillness permeated the undertones of the gathering. Glasses clinked around them, and the chandelier glimmered off noble opulence. The assembly’s diamonds sparkled with the effervescence of their expensive champagne as they laughed and drank and by all accounts enjoyed themselves. Every one of them oblivious to the dangerous vibrations building in their corner that Millie couldn’t quite understand.
Just who were these horrid people, and what the devil was going on here?
“What lovely blue eyes your child has.” Lady Thurston bent to inspect Jakub and then straightened to tug at her apathetic husband’s sleeve. “It’s extraordinary that her son’s eyes should be so blue when Miss LeCour’s are so dark, don’t you think so, darling?”
“What?” The man covered a yawn with the back of one white glove. “Oh, certainly, my dear. What did you say his name was?” he asked disinterestedly.
Millie glanced up at Argent, signaling for him to save her, but he stared at Lord Thurston with uncharacteristic intensity. “Jakub, my lord, his name is Jakub.”
In an instant, Lord Thurston resembled a hound en pointe.
Millie wanted to be mistaken when she saw the wonderment with which he considered her son. She wanted to shove Jakub behind her skirts.
“Jakub, you say? You don’t come across that name often, do you, boy?” Fenwick gave Jakub an arrested stare.
“No, milord,” her son answered solemnly.
“It’s more commonplace in our native Poland.” Millie had to strain a bit more to moderate her voice. Something had opened a pit of dread deep within her. She had the sense she’d stepped into a den of vipers, and not for the first time, she was relieved to have their king at her side.
“Poland?” Thurston could have been struck in the face for all the astonishment he conveyed. “How old are you, boy?”
“I have nine years, sir.”
The look Lord Thurston gave Millie could have incinerated every building in Covent Garden. She read confusion, anger, and disbelief in his wrathful glare.
“You’re being ridiculous, David, really.” Katherine Fenwick took her husband by the arm. “Can’t you see you’re distressing the child with your silly questions?”
“I think he’s shy,” Lady Benchley ventured. “Perhaps we’re embarrassing him with all our notice?” She offered Jakub a kind smile.
“Yes,” Lord Benchley hissed, his hand snaking out and seizing his wife by the elbow with bruising force. She paled and bit her lip, her large eyes filling with pain and moisture. “Why unsettle the child with our consideration when it is Miss LeCour who should be the focus of our undivided attentions?”
Argent stepped forward, cutting off Millie’s caustic reply. “Miss LeCour’s attentions are already promised to me this evening.” Though his tone was pleasant, his glare could have frozen the flames in the candles, and left no question as to the salaciousness of his insinuations.
For all they knew he was a lover, staking a claim. Most actresses had consorts in the open, why should she be any different?
And still her cheeks burned, because this was no act. She’d promised him that tonight she was his.
He turned to her, the arrangement of his features communicating nothing, but something about the way he pressed toward her and Jakub with his size conveyed to Millie that he’d had enough. “The carriage is waiting. Excuse us.” He guided her toward the door without so much as a by-your-leave.
Millie had to admit, she appreciated the expressions of outrage and indignation he’d left in their wake, though she did not appreciate being herded like so much sheep.
“My cloak,” she protested.
“There’s a blanket in the carriage,” he said through gritted teeth.
“How would you know?” She paused, searching for Mr. Throckmorton in the crowd and noting all the whispers directed at her from behind lace fans and snifters of expensive liquor. “Not all the hired carriages have blankets, and I can’t just take my leave without—”
Argent bent down to press his lips close to her ear. “If I have to listen to those fucking people for one more moment, I’ll spill their entrails on the floor in front of everyone. The choice is yours.”
Millie could feel her eyes peel wide, and knew those who stared at her assumed her lover had just whispered something salacious and lustful in her ear.
How wrong they were.
It wasn’t the violence in his threat that shocked her the most. It was the ardent manner in which they were delivered. Heat flickered in those words, the first heat she’d heard in that ever-arctic voice of his. And Millie had the feeling that if any warmth trickled to the surface, an inferno billowed beneath it.
“Very well, let’s go.” She clutched Jakub tighter and followed him out to where a row of lavish carriages lined Bow Street.
Millie pressed a glove to her heated cheek; the chilly air felt good and the darkness enveloped her with a strange sort of release, though the thought of poor Philomena St. Vincent weighed heavily on her conscience.
“I think Lord Benchley hurt Lady Philomena, Mama,” Jakub worried aloud.
“I think so too, darling. What a villainous beast. I’m of a mind to tell someone.”
The other theatergoers parted for them on the narrow walk as Argent led them in the direction opposite to Flower Street where a police wagon lurked and something dark was being scrubbed from the paved stones.
“Telling anyone wouldn’t do you any good,” he informed them dryly. “St. Vincent is within his rights as a husband to treat her how he likes.”
“And I’m within my rights as a woman to kick him in the—” She looked down at her son, whose eyes drooped with weariness. “The shins,” she finished, deciding he’d heard enough vulgarity for one night.
Argent turned and considered her from beneath a heavy brow. “If you like, I could—”
“Don’t—finish that sentence.” She held her hand up. She’d never even struck someone in her life, she wasn’t about to go around flippantly ordering their murders.
No matter how badly they deserved it.
He shrugged and paused next to a luxurious conveyance with a resplendent matching set of dark stallions.
“Surely we’re not … absconding with someone’s carriage,” she whispered.
His look could have dried all the lakes in Cumbria. “This carriage is mine, and I’ve already had someone stow Jakub’s art supplies inside. And your cloak.”
Though the carriage had no footman, the driver leaped down and opened their door.
“Thank you, Mr. Argent,” Jakub called as he scrambled inside. “Mama, it’s soft in here!”
Millie faltered, peering into the blue silk and velvet interior with an impending sense of finality. She felt like the proverbial sacrificial virgin. This was the point of no return. The threshold from this side of her harrowing day, to the other side. To his domain. Or lair. Argent seemed like the kind of man who would have a lair. Like a troll, or one of the monsters from the penny dreadfuls.
Or the devil.
A glance back at him pressed her to take the driver’s hand and allow him to lift her inside.
She’d been a fool to even consider she’d had a choice.
