Authors: Delynn Royer

Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Romantic Comedy, #Western, #Historical Romance, #Westerns

A Touch of Camelot (35 page)

A Bevy of Buxom Beauties!!

Featuring

Lily the Flying Fairy

The Piccadilly Dancers

A Grand Finale March by Twenty Ladies

Around the Circle

So heralded the massive playbill outside DeLancey’s House of Burlesque on Arch Street.

Arthur Pierce knew it by heart, of course. He had set it up himself this morning, and now, as he and his Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity brother Bernard Endicott reposed comfortably in the third row center, he had to admit the playbill hadn’t lied.

“
C’est magnifique
,” Arthur commented, tilting his head back to squint at Lily the Flying Fairy. Clad in a strapless gymnast’s costume, a collection of flimsy scarves, and snug-fitting tights, she arced gracefully through space fifteen feet above their heads on a flying trapeze.

“
C’est merveilleux
,” Endicott agreed, as she began her pendulum swing back toward the orchestra pit. “Want a smoke?” He pulled a silver case from his pocket and offered it to Arthur.

“No, thank you, Endicott.” Arthur settled back in his seat and returned his attention to the rollicking stage where a plump comedian and nineteen Piccadilly dancers were busy jiggling and cooching their way through a sheik and harem number.

Endicott chuckled. “What a job you’ve managed to finagle yourself, Pierce. British Blondes indeed.”

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t pay much, but I suppose there are certain benefits.”

“Like free admission?”

“Yes, but you know what they say: If you’ve seen one leg show, you’ve seen them all.” Arthur propped up his feet and then crossed them over the back of the seat in front of him.

The gaslight chandeliers were dimmed for the show, but the flickering border lights that spilled out onto the orchestra pit and the first few rows of seats served well enough for Arthur to contemplate the worn leather tips of his shoes. He’d shined and polished and babied them for months, but their life was growing short. Thin spots were wearing through in the soles, and the heels were nearly gone.

Despite the feminine pageantry on stage, Arthur found himself weighing the cost of having his shoes resoled against how much he would have to shell out to buy a new pair at Wanamaker’s. “I’ll have to find something else after graduation,” he mused aloud.

“What are you talking about?”

“Another job.” Arthur cast a glance at his friend, who had probably never had to have a pair of shoes resoled in his life. “This one barely pays enough to live on, and my college fund is gone.”

“Oh,” Endicott said pensively. Although they’d been best friends since their freshman days at the University of Pennsylvania, they rarely discussed finances. “But what about that professorial apprenticeship you were offered at Temple?”

“That won’t be available until the fall term, and I haven’t decided yet if I want it.”

Arthur spoke the truth. After two years of prep school, three years at Penn, and a year of night school at Temple, he’d had his fill of academic life. He was itching to see the world.

“Perhaps you could get a job from my father,” Endicott said.

“Shipbuilding, you mean?”

“Bookkeeping. You always were a whiz at mathematics.”

Arthur tried to picture himself stuck behind a desk, running totals on endless columns of numbers. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate. “Thanks anyway, Endicott, but I doubt your father would want me, what with my bad influence over you and all.”

Endicott took a silver flask from his coat pocket, uncapped it, and offered it to Arthur. “Ah, Pierce, it just hasn’t been the same at Penn without you.”

Arthur accepted the flask. “Well, the past is in the past.

"But we had some good times. Remember when you picked the lock on Professor Ludwig’s classroom so we could whitewash his blackboards?”

“Never got caught on that one, did we?”

“No, and I doubt we would have been caught sneaking out of the Quadrangle after curfew either if it hadn’t been for that blackguard, Hughes, ratting on us.”

Arthur took a swallow of gin and passed the flask back to Endicott. “Hughes was just jealous.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Endicott took a swig and tucked the flask away. “His girl was absolutely wild for you.”

“Ah, yes, Elizabeth.” Arthur grinned at the memory of lush blond curls, flirty baby blue eyes, and an hourglass figure. “She was well worth a few demerits, as I recall.”

“That girl was worth expulsion, as I recall.”

“Yes, but, in the end, it was that damn goat that finally did me in.”

“The Provost had no sense of humor. Otherwise he would have seen it was just an innocent prank.” The nostalgic gaiety now faded from Endicott's voice. “No sense of humor at all.”

But a fine sense of business, Arthur thought, knowing his friend still suffered pangs of guilt over the goat episode. They’d pulled the prank together, and they’d been called on the carpet together for it, too. Endicott couldn’t help that his grandfather served on the board of trustees of the university.

In the end, Endicott had stayed, and Arthur had gotten the boot. Two semesters had passed, during which time Arthur had gotten a job as a janitor and stagehand at DeLancey’s. He had soon learned of the free evening tuition for working men offered by the new Temple College on Park Avenue. Upon application and examination, he had been accepted into the senior class at fall term.

Now, with Endicott running a year behind on academic credits, they were graduating in the same year—albeit from different institutions—Arthur with his unshakable A average, Endicott with his gentleman’s C.

In the overhead spotlight, Lily was busy divesting herself of scarves, unknotting one from her waist and tossing it out into the darkened audience.

Arthur nudged his friend’s elbow. “What time is it?”

Endicott pulled out a watch. “Quarter to seven.”

"I’ve got to go.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a lecture to give at the historical society. My history professor talked me into it.”

“When does it start?”

“Seven.”

“Seven? You’ll never make it.”

“Another student is supposed to speak until seven-thirty.”

Endicott eyed him dubiously. “Did you bring your notes?”

“What notes?”

“Well, you’re certainly not intending to go dressed like that, are you?”

“Dressed like what?”

“No waistcoat. No tie.”

Arthur looked down at his rumpled shirt. “Oh. I suppose I should stop by my room first.”

“I doubt you’ll have time. That professor of yours will have your head.”

Arthur looked up at the stage ruefully. He would miss the show’s grand finale—twenty Buxom British Blondes, no less. He sat up and reached for his coat. “Professor Hawthorne is the least of my worries. He may have my head, but it’ll be Delafield who’ll swing the axe.”

“Delafield? Who’s Delafield?”

“My lecture partner.” As Arthur struggled into his suit coat, he imagined Chelsea Delafield’s stiff-necked posture and disdainful expression. “Queen of the Arctic,” he muttered.

“What?” Endicott brightened. “You mean, your lecture partner is a woman? Is she pretty?”

Arthur absorbed his friend’s ribbing drily. Having been educated at an all-boys prep school before entering Penn, Endicott was fascinated by notions of unsegregated classrooms.

“Pretty?” Arthur repeated. "Technically, I suppose she is, but, I assure you, she’ll freeze your nether regions solid before you can get within ten feet of her.” He glanced around for his hat. “Now, where...?”

Arthur spotted it on the floor. “Oh, damn, look at that.” He snatched it up and slapped it against his knee before setting it on his head.

“Take heart, Pierce,” Endicott gloated as Arthur edged past him toward the theater aisle. “At least you’ve got me to fill you in on how the finale turns out.”

As a pink and silver dusk descended to blanket the City of Brotherly Love, Maximillian Hamilton paced before the raised stoop of a two-story red brick rooming house on Pine Street. He pulled a gold timepiece from his pocket and flipped it open. Seven o’clock. “Blast,” he muttered, snapping it shut.

In the gathering shadows of the evening, this quiet, working-class neighborhood appeared almost deserted. Most of the residents were already in their homes, but that knowledge lent Max little comfort out here on the empty street.

Sensing her master’s uneasy mood, Crystal turned away from her stealthy investigation of the stoop next door. She settled down by Max’s foot and peered up at him through glowing amber eyes.

“Yes, Crystal, I agree. The sooner we complete our task, the better.”

At the sound of footsteps, Max looked up to observe the only other living soul now visible on the block. The brass-buttoned policeman had been strolling in this direction for quite some time, twirling his billy club and stopping to check the gas lamps that lined the street.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, pausing before Max. His gaze dropped to the leather valise that sat unattended by the stoop. “Can I help you with anything?”

Max tipped his derby. “No, thank you, officer. I’m waiting for an acquaintance.”

“Hmmmmm. You’ve got a nice evening for it.”

“That is indeed true.”

The peeler touched his cap. “Have a good night.”

“Thank you, officer. I plan to.”

Max watched until the man disappeared around the comer. While he had never been partial to law enforcement, he nevertheless lamented this particular officer’s passing. After all, there was something to be said for feeling secure in one’s person, and Max was feeling anything but secure in his person. He was acutely aware that the invaluable contents of his valise had put him at risk ever since leaving London almost a week ago.

Crystal mewled, breaking into her master’s unsettling thoughts.

“I know. I feel it too.” Max stooped to scratch behind her ears. “It seems unlikely that we could have been followed, but the feeling is there. We’re being watched.” Max studied the impassive row of red brick buildings across the street. “But from where? And by whom?”

Crystal let out a soft hiss. Max looked down to see her ears perk. Rising slowly from her haunches, the cat tensed, her back arched, and her tail stiffened in warning.

Max turned toward the street corner around which the peeler had just disappeared, the same street corner with which his erstwhile companion seemed so concerned.

“What is it, Crystal?” he whispered, one hand dropping to the inconspicuous bulge of a revolver at the side pocket of his tweed cutaway coat. The sound of approaching footsteps on the pavement reached his ears, and it was with relief that he spotted its source.

Dressed in a rumpled coat and trousers, a jaunty youth in his early twenties rounded the corner. With his hands in his pockets and whistling a catchy tune, this bloke hardly seemed the type to be called upon to deliver a lecture. Max, however, who had traveled the world over, knew that Americans were nothing if not unconventional.

Other than his informal attire, this fine-looking young man fit the description Max had been given of Arthur Pierce. Max allowed his hand to fall away from his pocket and to move instead to retrieve his valise. “Mr. Pierce?”

The young man halted just short of the stoop and Max found himself faced with a pair of discerning blue eyes. “Yes?”

“My name is Max Hamilton. Might I have a word with you?”

"I don’t have much time right now.”

“It’s a matter of great importance.”

“I’m sorry, mister, but if you’re selling something, I’m flat busted.” He started up the steps.

Max absorbed this slight with amused tolerance. The lad was oh-so-very young. “Mr. Pierce,” he said, injecting a note of polite authority that could not be ignored. “Time is of the essence. I’ve come all the way from London to speak with you.”

Look for Book Two in the Camelot Series . . .

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