Dare to Love (18 page)

“'As he taken you out?” she inquired.

I shook my head. “He's keeping me under wraps, he says. He doesn't want anyone to see me just yet. When the time is right, he'll launch me with considerable fanfare, but for now—” I let the sentence trail off, realizing I sounded wistful.

“You just stay up there in that studio every night?” she asked.

“Studying,” I reminded her. “I go over my Spanish lessons, and sometimes I practice my dances.”

“And 'e's out every night.”

“He goes to the theater,” I said defensively. “It's his job.”

We moved on down the lane toward the large iron gates that opened onto Oxford Street. Trees on either side threw shadows across the pathway, flickering blue gray patterns dancing on the ground. Leaves rustled overhead, and birds sang throatily, darting to and fro. The sounds of children playing grew distant as we neared the gates. The skirt of my blue-and-violet-striped cotton frock fluttered in the gentle breeze. Pulling open the string of my violet silk purse, I checked to be sure I had a few coins left inside, enough to pay my cab fare back to the studio.

“I suppose you know 'e 'as a lady friend,” Millie remarked.

“I—” Taken by surprise, I hesitated. “I assumed as much. Sometimes he doesn't come in until very late. He makes so much racket that I always hear him. Once he didn't get in until three in the morning … Of course he has a woman. He's an extremely virile man. Men like that always—”

“She's a blonde,” Millie interrupted. “I saw 'im with 'er. I was in a cab, on my way to see one of my regulars, and we were passin' the theater an' it was just lettin' out an' there 'e was, big as life. 'E was standin' at the edge of the street, tryin' to wave down a cabbie, not 'avin' a bit of luck. 'E was wearin' that opera cape, 'ad a silk top 'at on 'is 'ead. I recognized 'im at once. Couldn't fail to, 'im bein' so tall an' dapper-lookin'.”

Millie paused. I refused to question her, affecting an indifference I did not feel.

“'E 'ad 'is arm curled around 'er shoulders. Cool, she was, 'aughty. One of them tall, silvery blondes with perfect, icy features. She 'ad on an ice-blue velvet gown an' looked very put out at 'avin' to stand there while 'e fetched a cab. 'Ave you met 'er?”

“Indeed I haven't.”

“Don't think you'd care for 'er,” Millie informed me. “Way 'e was 'uggin' 'er shoulders, looked like 'e was very fond of 'er. Looked like 'e knew her mighty well.”

“I'm not at all interested, Millie. What Anthony Duke does is none of my business. He could have a whole string of women, for all I care, and knowing him, he probably does.”

“Wouldn't surprise me in the least,” Millie agreed. “Regular tomcat, that one. The tall, lean ones always are. Just watch yourself, luv. I'd 'ate to see you get 'urt again.”

“I'm not going to be, I assure you.”

We passed through the gates, leaving the park behind. Traffic was heavy on Oxford Street, with carriages and vehicles of every description moving up and down, wheels rumbling, horse hooves ringing on the stones. I began to look for a cab, a bit worried about the time. It wouldn't do for Anthony Duke to get back before I did.

“I've missed you,” Millie said. “The place don't seem the same without you.”

“I've missed you, too. This afternoon's been nice. We'll have to do it often. You've been well?”

“Well as can be, dear, still 'opin' to meet the right man, the one who is goin' to reform me and set me up in my own place. Trouble is, the chaps I meet 'aven't got reformin' me on their minds.”

She laughed merrily, looking like a naughty schoolgirl in her yellow dress, her golden ringlets gleaming in the sunlight. I hailed a cab, and as it pulled over, I gave Millie a quick, impulsive hug. I felt a great rush of affection for this saucy minx who bore her lot with such gallant aplomb. The Millies of this world are rare indeed.

“You take care now, luv, you 'ear?”

“I will,” I promised, opening the door of the hansom. “You do the same.”

I gave the cabbie the address and, closing the door, settled back against the dusty leather seat. As the hansom pulled into the heavy stream of traffic, I thought about what Millie had told me. Anthony was seeing a blonde. I wasn't surprised. Why should I be? I certainly didn't care. He could see a different woman every night of the week, as far as I cared. Ours was a business relationship, nothing else, and if he wanted to make a fool of himself over some icy, silvery blonde, that was no concern of mine.

I was fond of him, true, in my way. I had to admit that much. It would be impossible not to be fond of him, even though he was an outrageous bully, barking orders, pushing me until my head spun. He was easily wrought up, particularly after we'd been working for hours nonstop. But his outbursts were merely an outlet for all that nervous energy that built up inside. Heaven knows, I'd had a few outbursts of my own, as bad as his. I smiled, remembering the time I had hurled a vase at his head, just missing, remembering his startled expression.

He might be a bully, but he was marvelously stimulating, and his bullying tactics had been highly successful. He had decided that I was to do two dances, one fast and fiery, the other slow and sensuous, and now I had both down to perfection. He had choreographed them himself, basing them on my original gypsy dances. Though I might not have been terribly good at ballet, I was very, very good at these dances, primarily because he refused to let up, kept after me until I thought I would collapse. It was the same with my Spanish. He drove me ruthlessly, forcing me to repeat my lessons over and over again long after my tutor had departed. As a result, my accent was almost perfect, even though my vocabulary left much to be desired.

He was fierce and determined, incredibly demanding, and I had to admit that it was exciting to work with him. I enjoyed every minute of it, even the tantrums. When he was pleased, the bully vanished and the charming rogue returned with that lovely, engaging grin on his lips. Then, he was delightful. He was rarely pleased, though, because he was a perfectionist. Elena Lopez was his creation, and she was going to be a sensation, set the stage afire, have all London at her feet. He would have it no other way.

The hansom shook as we rounded a corner. Through the window I could see a newspaper stall, a small boy in ragged clothes standing in front of it waving a paper. Elena Lopez wasn't a sensation yet, but there had already been more than one article about her in the papers. Anthony had arranged it, of course. He had brought his friend David Rogers up to the studio and they had plotted their campaign together. Both were hearty, enthusiastic, and noisy. Ignoring me, they argued with each other, creating a flamboyant and exotic fictional personality for the fascinating Elena.

Rogers, a ruggedly built, good-natured young man, looked as though he spent most of his time on a soccer field. He had strong, even features, lively gray-green eyes, and thick sandy brown hair brushed rather severely to one side. Heavier than Anthony and not as tall, Rogers exuded an aura of good health and boundless vitality. The two men had become friends when Anthony was working on Fleet Street, and they had kept in close touch ever since. Rogers did feature articles for one of the large newspapers, supplied items for several of the columns, wrote theatrical criticism and, naturally, was writing a play. Anthony had appointed him official press representative for Elena Lopez, and he was to be in charge of all dealings with the gentlemen from Fleet Street. He was also the only one of Anthony's colleagues who knew the truth about the temptress from Spain.

A relatively short “factual” article had appeared two weeks ago, informing readers that the celebrated dancer Elena Lopez had been expelled from Spain because of political unrest caused by her relationship with an unnamed “crown prince.” The crown prince, it seemed, had been squandering a fortune on “the dark, sensuous beauty” and had given her jewelry that belonged to the State. The State had demanded she return the jewels. The dancer had refused. The police had broken into her apartment and retrieved the jewels by force. The crown prince had been officially admonished. The dancer had been banished as “an unhealthy influence.” When she left Spain she still had three pieces of the jewelry the prince had given her, a diamond bracelet, a diamond and ruby necklace, an exquisite diamond brooch. All three had been gifts to Queen Isabella I from Ferdinand V on the occasion of their first wedding anniversary. The jewelry had been craftily concealed in a pair of shoes before the police burst into the dancer's apartment.

A second article had appeared last week. It stated that Mr. Anthony Duke had recently returned from Paris after lengthy negotiations with the Spanish dancer Elena Lopez, who might possibly give her first public performance in exile under the auspices of the Dorrance Opera Company. The dancer was described as “difficult, unreasonably demanding, tempestuous.” Mr. Duke doubted that they would be able to come to terms, as the dancer had no particular desire to resume her stage career. She had allowed Duke to examine the famous jewels, the article continued, but when he questioned her about them, she had snatched them out of his hands, claiming that she had earned them and adding that the whole of Spain could go up in flames for all she cared. The jewels would never be returned.

The article had generated considerable interest and caused a spate of angry letters to the press, letters that crackled with moral outrage, and vehemently protesting the dancer's appearance in England. Rogers and Anthony had spent several uproarious hours composing the letters, vying with one another to see who could be the most incensed. Their original letters had prompted several sincerely outraged citizens to write in as well, and both men were delighted. Their campaign was working splendidly. Elena Lopez had already created a small stir, and, with Anthony's assistance. Rogers was currently working on a long “exposé” article that, they assured me, would have all London talking about the notorious Spanish temptress.

As the cab rumbled over a bridge, I could smell the river and knew we were nearing the studio. Elena Lopez had already taken on a life of her own in the pages of the newspapers. Elena Lopez was living in Paris, drinking champagne, wearing velvet gowns, flashing her jewels, and Mary Ellen Lawrence was being jostled about in a shabby old hansom with dusty interior, wearing an old blue and violet striped cotton dress and wondering if she had enough coins in her purse to pay the cabbie. The fiery creature who was already flesh and blood in the minds of many had nothing to do with me. Elena Lopez was a brilliantly conceived hoax, and I wondered if I would be able to carry off my part of it without mishap.

The horses stopped and the cabbie leaped down to open the door for me. Counting out my coins carefully, I could see that there were just enough, not even one left for a tip. The cabbie, looking disgruntled, grumbled to himself as he got back up on his perch and drove away. I stepped into the dim foyer and began to climb the stairs, wishing fervently that the studio were on the ground floor. No wonder Anthony was so lean and trim, I thought. All these stairs would keep anyone in shape.

I passed the door to his private quarters and moved on up to the studio. The door was standing open, and I stepped inside, startled to find Anthony pacing up and down, hands clasped behind his back, his jaw thrust out angrily. When he saw me, he stopped and glared. Looking unusually handsome in glossy black boots, dark maroon trousers and jacket, and a waistcoat of dark cream satin embroidered with darker cream leaves, his eyes seemed to snap with blue fire. His cheeks were flushed. A heavy brown wave fell across his brow.

“Something wrong?” I inquired.

“Where have you been?” he thundered.

I didn't like his tone. “Out.”

“Where have you been?”

“Now just a minute—” I began.

“I'm in no mood for games, Mary Ellen! Tell me!”

“I went to lunch with a friend, and then we went for a stroll in Hyde Park.”

“You've been with a man!”

Could he possibly be jealous? The idea enchanted me. I moved airily toward the door to my bedroom. He sized my arm, his fingers tightening brutally.

“Answer me!”

“I wasn't aware you'd asked another question.”

“You've been with a man, haven't you?”

“If indeed I have, Mr. Duke, it's no concern of yours.”

His eyes flashed. His brows were lowered menacingly. His mouth was a tight, terrible line, and his nostrils flared. I had never seen him so angry. I felt a small, triumphant thrill, and decided to be angry, too, but in a cool, ladylike way. I pulled my arm free and stared at him with frosty composure.

“You don't own me,” I snapped.

“What ingratitude!”

“I'm supposed to be grateful?”

“I'm spending a bloody fortune on you! I'm up to my ears in debt already, and the real expenses haven't even begun. Your clothes, your costumes, and your hotel suite are going to be the best, mind you, the best suite in the best hotel. Elena Lopez can't receive the press in a tattered cotton dress, in a shabby garret studio. I've fed you! I've put a bloody roof over your head! I've—”

“You've fed me, yes!” I was beginning to feel real anger. “You've had Cleeve bring up a tray. We haven't dined together once since that first night. Not once. You've never taken me to a restaurant. You've kept me shut up here in this—”

“I'm keeping you hidden! No one must see you. No one must know about you. When Elena Lopez finally comes to London—”

“I'm getting weary of Elena Lopez!”

“You bloody little—”

“I'm warning you, Anthony. If you strike me, if you dare raise a hand to me, I'll walk out that door and—”

“Try! Just you try!”