Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella] (3 page)

“I need to borrow a shirt and coat.”

“Why? I mean, are you leaving?” She clenched her hand on the hilt of the dagger. She would
not
reach out and touch his chest.

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t you wait until dark? What if the man in the mask is waiting for you?”

“I am a spy. I take my chances.” He did not need to remind her he was a spy. She was unlikely ever to forget it.

“I want to clean this wound. You did an excellent job bandaging it.” He was peering at the angry red skin on his side. “But I want to wash it with gin or other spirits.”

“I don’t have any.”

His head bobbed up, his eyes narrow and unbelieving.

“You can search,” she said, wearily. “There’s nothing here.”

“I did search.”

Of course he had.

“Where are you hiding it?”

Insulted now, she rose. “You are the spy. You tell me.”

He shook his head in disgust, and now she clenched her fists to keep from flinging something at him.

“I do not have time for this. Give me your cloak. I will wear it and return it to you this evening.”

“Fine.” She yanked the cords loose and shrugged it off. Anything to make him leave. She held it out to him and saw his eyes widen. “What is…?” And then she remembered.

Her focus the night before had been on the role of Elvira. She had meant to bring a change of clothing to the theater and had forgotten. At the end of the show, she’d had to return the costume. As she was headed directly home, she threw her cloak over her chemise and stays and left the theater thus. But now she stood nearly naked in front of Blue.

For some reason, she had the urge to snatch her hand back and throw the cloak back over her body. She was not overly modest. She’d worn far less in front of audiences of hundreds. But something about the way he looked at her made her face heat and her skin prickle with awareness. Suddenly, she was aware of how tight her stays and how her breasts, though not overly voluptuous, spilled out of the stays. She was aware how light and flimsy the chemise material and of the sunlight behind her.

She was aware that Blue was looking at her with undisguised desire.

She tossed the cloak over his head to stop his perusal. “I thought you were leaving.”

He pulled the cloak off his face and donned it, studiously avoiding looking at her body. “I am. Thank you.”

This was unusual. He never thanked her. For anything. She must have really unnerved him.

“Do you—” He glanced at her quickly, then cut his eyes to a spot above her head. “Do you always go out dressed in such a fashion?”

“You mean undressed?”

“I… yes.” Another glance and then his eyes were back on the spot above her head.

“What if I do?” She didn’t know why she’d said such a thing. She supposed she wanted to challenge him. She supposed she wanted to remind him what she did or did not do now was no concern of his.

His gaze met hers, full of complete understanding. And censure. Would he never forgive her?

“I would not be in the least surprised.”

“No,
you
wouldn’t.” He didn’t think she’d ever change, and she was done with people who watched her and waited for her to make a muddle of her life again. She had changed, but she was not going to prove it to him. She didn’t care one way or another what he thought. She simply wished him to leave.

“I’ll return the cloak,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Don’t bother. I’ll get another.”

He looked at her. “This isn’t the end, Helena. I—”

“Go!” She yanked the door open and pushed him through it. “Just go.”

She slammed the door in his face and leaned against it. She would not cry. He was not worth it, and she’d already cried lakes of tears over Ernest Bloomington. Signora Giansante opened her door and began screaming, and Helena covered her ears and crawled back in bed.

It was a cold bed, and she was alone, and her throat burned with thirst.

She woke in time for a light dinner before she was due at the theater for rehearsals. A quick check of her finances was most disheartening. She could afford little more than soup and day-old bread. Signor Pacca, the purveyor of Teatro di San Carlo, owed her a share of the profits from
L’Italiana in Algeri
, but as was the usual way of things, he had not yet paid her or any of the other singers. She might have gone to work in another theater, but it would be no different.

She dressed in a caramel colored gown with rich brown piping and ventured out to buy her meal. Now she regretted giving Blue her cloak. The weather had not improved, although it was no longer snowing. The cold was so bitter that the clear late afternoon sky looked ready to crack. She ate quickly in the small café where she purchased her meal and a cup of steaming coffee. She could not afford the coffee, but she was so cold she could not resist. Then she hurried to the theater, intent on pilfering whatever cloak or coat she could unearth in the costumer’s room.

She pulled the heavy rear door open and immediately a rich tenor voice wafted over her. She stood in the dark of a scene dock for a long moment, listening to “
Dalla
sua
pace
” from
Don
Giovanni
. She knew the voice. It was Andre. He was an ass, but he had a beautiful voice.

“There you are,” Carolina said, hurrying toward her from the direction of the stage manager’s office. The mezzo-soprano had curly blond hair she wore pinned to the top of her head in artful disarray. “Pacca told me to give you this.”

Helena took the sheet music. “Signor Pacca isn’t here?” Only the principle singers were required to attend rehearsal today, but she had thought Signor Pacca would be lurking somewhere.

“He had an
important
meeting.”

“Of course he did.” Helena sighed. “He’ll pay us.”

“Eventually,” Carolina agreed. “There’s a new accompanist.” She made her way toward the stage and Helena followed, stepping gingerly over ropes and pulleys and dismantled pieces of the
L’Italiana in Algeri
set.

“Where is Renzo?”

“He has another engagement. He promises to play in the show, but he couldn’t be here for rehearsals.”

“You mean he found paying work.”

“Yes. But the new pianist is really rather attractive. I don’t mind him at all.” Carolina pushed the curtain aside, and the footlights, bright oil lamps lit along the floor of the stage, momentarily blinded Helena. She shielded her eyes and discerned the figures of Andre and Damiano, who sang baritone, beside him.

Six or eight chairs were scattered around the stage, and Andre had his hand on the back of one, while Damiano lounged negligently in another. On a third was draped a familiar cape.

Helena realized Carolina was still speaking. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“I said,” Carolina whispered, leaning close. Every little noise carried when one was on stage. “He has the most stunning blue eyes.”

Helena froze.

“There. See for yourself.” Carolina threw her arms out. “The new accompanist.”

Helena did not want to look. She already knew who was sitting behind the pianoforte at the far end of the stage. But it was like an awful carriage accident, where one sees the blood and hears the screams of the horse and knows there is no saving anyone. And yet one is drawn anyway, to look, if nothing else. Helena had always thought there was something about being faced with her own mortality that drew her to the very brink of death itself. She could not stop herself from looking.

And so she turned and stared at the smiling face of her husband.

***

He’d been playing, and that was the only reason he had not spoken to her. But she’d read his expression well enough. He did not want her to reveal his true identity. She did not know if she could be quite so accommodating, and so she made some excuse and rushed backstage. Now, she sat in the dressing room she shared with Carolina and Giuliana, one of the understudies, and stared at herself in the mirror.

“You knew this day would come,” she said to the pale, thin woman staring back at her. “You knew you’d cross paths again eventually.”

A knock sounded on the door, and she sat straight. It was time for rehearsal, and she had not even warmed up. She sang a quick scale and then called, still singing, “Come in!”

The door opened and a thin, scraggly boy of perhaps fifteen poked his head in. He had a brush of dirt on one cheek, soot in his mop of brown hair, and he gave her a crooked smile. “Sorry to interrupt, Signora Giles. Signor Andre says they will formally begin in a few moments.”

“Grazie, Luca. I will be there.”

Luca was Pacca’s nephew—more likely his illegitimate son—and Pacca hired him to clean, fetch, build sets, or anything else that needed to be done. Luca stepped back and made to close the door, then opened it again and held out a red rose. Helena raised her brows, and Luca lowered his head to hide his flaming face. “This was one of the roses thrown on stage last night. I thought you might like it for your dressing room.”

Helena smiled. Luca was a sweet boy. “I would. Grazie.”

He closed the door, and she placed the rose in an old vase on her dressing table. She hummed a few bars from her first aria and tried to loosen her shoulders. Perhaps she would take the flower home tonight and give it some water. It might live a few days.

There was a knock on the door again. “Yes, Luca?” she sang.

“It’s not Luca.”

She whirled to face Blue, who stood in her door. Leaned, actually. He leaned with one shoulder propped against the casement, arms crossed over his chest. Her heart thudded.

“Who is Luca?”

“My lover.”

“That skinny boy? I don’t think so.” He smiled. It was annoyingly charming.

She glared at him. “If you knew who he was, why did you ask?”

“To see what you’d say.” He was speaking in English, which few of those rehearsing at the theater tonight understood, but he closed the door anyway. She supposed one could never be too careful in his line of work, but she would have preferred he leave the door open. The room felt tiny and cramped with only the two of them in it. He had changed clothing, and now he wore black wool trousers, a white shirt, a simple cravat, and a black coat. His hair was pulled into a queue. He looked the very picture of a pianist, artistic but not overly showy. She could hardly fault Carolina for fawning over his good looks. When he didn’t wear his silk and lace, he looked handsome and virile. “I tried to tell you about my position here earlier,” he said.

“But it slipped your mind.” She sat in her chair and faced him. From the corner of one eye, she could see her reflection in the mirror. She looked haughty and pretentious. She hated herself like this. She hated him for always bringing out the worst in her.

“But you gave me no opportunity.” He moved closer, and she could smell the clean scent of his soap. It had a hint of pine or evergreen, and underneath, there was his smell—the smell of home. “I am here as Herr Hoch.”

“A German?”

“Why not?”

“Do you speak German?”

“Of course.”

She hadn’t known that. She could add the fact to a list long enough to fill the pages of a book. She had known he could play the pianoforte. He’d all but seduced her with his playing when they’d first met. But he was not perfect. He couldn’t sing. He could barely carry a tune. She supposed somehow that small imperfection made him more human in her eyes.

“I fail to see what the Teatro di San Carlo has to do with your precious Barbican group. We aren’t spies here. Only singers and actors.”

“I’m not at liberty—”

She waved her hand, cutting him off. She had heard all of this before, and she wanted him to leave. The room was stifling with him in it. Her face felt warm, and her heart was beating too quickly. “Do not bother. If you have come to my room to ask me to keep your secret, have no fear. I will not reveal your true identity.” And she would keep her secrets as well. She was not anxious to be the source of theater gossip about her failed marriage. Once she had lived for drama, but now her own personal drama left a bad taste in her mouth.

He was looking about her room, studying it, seeing God knew what in every little crevice. He turned, and she studied his broad back and slim waist. While her mind screamed that he was dangerous to her, her body screamed desire. Her lips tingled as she imagined tracing a light path down that muscled back with her mouth and tongue. She clutched the arm of the chair and made herself focus.

“Is that all?” she asked pointedly. Why would he not leave already? She could play the role of stranger to her husband in public, but obviously she was not so good an actress as to play it in private. A few more moments, and her resolve would break.

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she felt the air catch in her lungs. Her belly tightened, and she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. When Blue looked at someone,
really
looked at them with those piercing sapphire eyes, the effect could be unnerving.

Or incredibly erotic.

“You are no longer drinking.” It was a statement, not a question. She felt as though he could see directly through her, to her innermost wishes and desires. Could he see how she trembled on the inside from the intensity of his gaze?

She clapped because she needed something to occupy her shaking hands. “Bravissimo! You are indeed a spy. Though I do not think it would take a spy to discern the truth in that statement.”

“Why?” He waved his hand at her annoyed look. “Why did you stop?”

“I wanted to.” It was a childish response, but she felt suddenly defensive. She did not want to discuss this with him. It was too personal, the memories too painful. She wanted to surround herself with people who hadn’t known her before. She did not want this intrusion into who she was now from who she had been then.

“I was always under the impression you wanted to stop before. You told me as much. On numerous occasions.”

She opened her mouth to explain, but no words came. How could she explain without saying so much more than she wanted? Without apologizing? Without blaming? “I do not wish to discuss this. You have your secrets. I have mine.”

“My secrets are related to my work. But who I am, my life, is open to you and always has been.”

She wanted to laugh. His statement was so far from the truth, it was ludicrous. Sadly enough, he probably believed it. She could have responded in so many ways. She settled for the most diplomatic reply she could think of, hoping he would leave her in peace now. “Your life has always been, and will always be, the Barbican group.”

“Once I had hoped that would not be the case,” he said quietly. The tenor of his voice made her breath catch. No, she could not go back. She did not want to remember the past. It was too painful.

“Stop.” She held her hand out, and he gripped it. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and the feel of his skin against hers made her whole body heat. “The past is over and done.”

“I’ll always love you. I always have.”

That hurt. The words plunged into her, piercing her like a blade. She didn’t believe him, but the words hurt anyway. She wanted to ask him if he’d loved her when—but she could not bear to remember it. She could not bear to remind him. He was so close now, close enough that she could have reached out with her hand and touched his face, stroked his hair, kissed his eyelashes, his cheek, his lips…

She could have fallen into his arms, felt safe there—for a little while. But was she willing to risk the predictable safety she had now for the dangerous safety of his embrace? “Ernest…”

A woman’s scream pierced the quiet, echoing through the theater. Helena knew that scream. It was Carolina’s. Her gaze met Blue’s, but he looked away, his expression expectant.

***

He wanted to go back in time, to give her another moment to say the words on her lips. They would have certainly been a rejection, and he wanted her rebuff, but there was a small part of him that wanted her acquiescence. He still remembered what it felt like to hold her, kiss her, sink into her and feel her move under him.

But work called. Work always called, and it always came first.

“Stay here,” he ordered her, all warmth and emotion flooding out of him. He was cold logic and steady reason now. He wanted her out of the way so nothing would distract him from doing what he’d come here to do. And he wanted her far away from any danger. Boston would have been a good locale for her at present. Boston or perhaps China might be distant enough. But if he asked her to leave, it would only make Reaper suspicious. He might finish his work all too quickly and move on. Then Blue would be back where he had started. He had to catch Reaper now or more agents would die.

“What’s wrong?” Helena asked. Her voice was cool and composed. Most women, after hearing that scream, would have been in hysterics. But Helena, for all the drama he knew she was capable of, seemed uncharacteristically calm. Perhaps she really had changed.

But he was not certain he was ready to believe it. The implications were too great. He was happy with his life the way it was now. He had important work. She did not fit into his plans.

“Just stay here,” he ordered again. “And lock the door.” He opened it and stepped into the corridor, heading for the sound of voices. His side, where she had shot him, still burned when he moved. The wound was not serious, but it was an annoyance. He would have to move gingerly for a few days. When he saw the small group of people standing on the stage and staring down, their faces pale and shocked, his worst suspicions were confirmed. He’d seen the reaction a thousand times. He knew what it meant.

“Scusi,” he said and pushed his way through. The fair-haired mezzo-soprano—he thought her name was Carolina—knelt beside the body, weeping long and loud. She had the lungs for the opera. He could barely hear himself think over the sound of her mourning. Blue looked at the victim and felt his throat tighten in sympathy. It was Luca. Poor boy must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Blue felt the skin on his back prickle. He’d seen the boy not ten minutes past. Which meant the Reaper had been here, walking among them, not so long ago. He could still be here now.