Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella] (4 page)

Blue looked up, at the shadowy fly loft above, where ropes dangled and swayed. Was it his imagination, or did something move in the darkness? Unfortunately, Blue had a very poor imagination.

“What happened?” he asked, though he could plainly see.

“He must have fallen,” the baritone—Damian?—said.

“Fallen or was pushed?” one of the young women said. Blue had not seen her before—she was petite and pretty with curly brown hair.

“Oh, Giuliana!” Carolina cried. “Do not start your talk of phantoms again.”

“It is not talk!” Giuliana argued. “Bianca is dead! And I know what happened to me.”

“What happened?” Blue asked.

“Oh, Herr Hoch, it was horrible!” Giuliana put her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “Last week I was here late after the show and as I was leaving, walking down the stairs, someone pushed me from behind. I took a nasty tumble and almost broke my ankle.”

“You fell,” Damian—no, Damiano—said. “You’d had too much wine.”

Giuliana’s hands flew to her shapely hips. “I did not fall. I was pushed. I know when someone pushes me!”

“Did you see the person who pushed you?” Blue asked.

“That’s just it, Herr Hoch! When I looked back, there was no one there.” She waved her hand artfully in front of her face as a magician might do.

“Stop it!” Andre, the tenor, broke in. “Bianca and now Luca are dead. Must you start rumors? Do you want people saying the theater is haunted? Then no one will come, and we’ll all be out on the streets.”

“She might do very well on the streets,” Carolina murmured.

“So might you,” another voice said, and Blue turned to see Helena. He frowned. Hadn’t he told her to wait in her dressing room? She glanced at him, and then said, to no one in particular, “I wanted to see what all the commotion was about. What—Luca? No!” She rushed to the body, kneeling before it. “Is he…?”

At Carolina’s nod, Helena’s eyes filled with tears. She didn’t speak, none of them spoke, but Blue knew what they were thinking: this was bad luck. Stage performers were notoriously superstitious. It
was
bad luck, but not the kind they thought.

“Someone has to tell Pacca,” Damiano said. “He should be the one to notify… I do not even know who one notifies in such a case.”

“They will probably want to speak to all of us,” Blue said. “Did anyone see anything unusual?” He looked at each person in the circle in turn, and each shook his or her head. “Did anyone see Luca go up to the fly loft?”

“The last I saw him,” Giuliana said, “he was bringing a rose to Helena.”

“He delivered it,” Helena said. “I have it on my dressing table. I must have been the last person to see him alive.” She took a shaky breath. In that moment, Blue was truly sorry she had to be part of this. He had not brought it upon her. It was simply horrible coincidence that both she and Reaper were here. Horrible coincidence that Signor Pacca had crossed the Maîtriser group. The group’s leader, Foncé, was known to kill his victims by carving them up. But when Foncé was not available, Reaper did the group’s dirty work. And Blue happened to know Foncé was unavailable at present. He was running from the agents of the Barbican group. One could only hope Reaper would lead him to Foncé.

“I will find Signor Pacca and bring him back,” Andre told them, making a grand turn and striding away.

“I’m not going to wait here, with a dead body, for Andre to track Pacca down,” Giuliana said. “I’m going home!”

“Giuliana, the authorities will need to question all of us,” Helena pointed out.

“I don’t see why you cannot all go home and come back,” Blue said. He preferred to empty the theater so he could have a look around. “Why not all reconvene in two hours’ time?”

“What about rehearsal?” Damiano asked.

“Oh, hush!” Carolina said. “Who can sing at a time like this?”

Blue had to suppress a smile. Yes, who indeed could sing at a time like this? Certainly not an opera singer who was famed for singing to her last dying stage breath. He glanced at Helena, wondering if she found her comrade as amusing as he, but she was watching him carefully.

“It is agreed,” Damiano said. “We will meet back here in two hours.” Carolina brought a sheet and covered the body, and the company dispersed. Blue was careful to note that the baritone, Damiano, followed Helena closely, catching her elbow. He could not hear what was said, but whatever it was, Helena refused him. The man was none too happy. So the baritone was her lover, then—or one of them anyway.

Damiano stomped away, glancing at Blue, who pretended not to have witnessed the exchange. As the singers dispersed, leaving the body to lay in repose, a shapeless form draped in white on a dark stage, Blue melted into the shadows. After a quarter of an hour, the theater was silent, except for the creaks and groans of the building itself. He listened until he was certain he was alone, and then he walked back to the boy’s body. He pulled the sheet off and examined the boy for injuries that might have been sustained before the fall. Had he fallen, been pushed, or was the fall merely a means to cover up another method of death? Reaper was known for his prowess with a knife.

“What are you doing?”

To his credit, Blue did not jump. To his discredit, he had not heard her approach. He gave her an annoyed glance. “Why are you here?”

“Why are
you
?” She stepped into the dim light, looking somehow both small and commanding. She had a presence on stage. She might be slight and a little thinner than she had been before, but she knew how to attract and keep an audience’s attention.

“I’m working,” he said curtly, going back to his inspection. There was no point in asking her to leave. She was not the sort to obey orders. That much had not changed.

“You don’t think he fell, do you?” she asked, and he heard the sadness in her voice.

With a sigh, Blue glanced up at her. “He was your friend, and for that I am sorry. No, he did not fall. He was murdered.”

“Luca had worked in theaters all his life, handled the fly system and the rigging thousands of times. Luca would not have fallen.” She stepped forward, shaking her head. “So he was pushed. Why? Who would want to kill Luca?”

“I don’t think Luca was the target.”

“Then who?”

Blue looked back at Luca, turning the boy’s neck to study the back of his head.

“I see. You’re not going to tell me.”

“The less you know, the better.”

He heard her huff in disgust and allowed himself a grim smile. He moved the boy’s shaggy hair and saw what looked to be a bruise.

“Poor Luca,” she said, more to herself than him. He didn’t answer, but he glanced up to see her pacing. “If someone takes the time to plan a murder so that it looks like an accident, he has planned it meticulously. Coldly and with reason.”

Blue was mesmerized now, watching her stride purposefully, watching her mind unravel the possibilities. He’d always been attracted to intelligent women. Hell, if Agent Saint hadn’t been married, he might have pursued her. But then he’d met Helena, and Saint had paled in comparison.

“That means killing Luca must hurt someone else.” She paused and tapped a finger on her lips. “But who?” She tapped her lips again.

“See, how she caresses her lips with her hand!” Blue said in his best Shakespearean voice. “O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch those lips!”

She frowned at him. “The line is,
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
And, wait a moment, were you giving me a clue?”

“No.”

“You were. Let’s see, in
Romeo
and
Juliet
, both Romeo and Juliet die by their own hands.” She looked at Luca. “That doesn’t apply. But their deaths were tragic. They hurt everyone around them.” She gasped, and her eyes lit. “Luca’s death hurts all of us! If rumors begin that the theater is haunted, we’ll lose funding for the show.”

Blue shook his head. He did not know how she’d come to that conclusion, but she was not far off the mark. “Where is the access to the fly loft?” he asked.

“You are not thinking to go up there.”

“I want to look around, see if the killer left anything.”

She shook her head. “You are still hurt from your wound. You can’t climb about up there.”

“I’m fine.”

She gave him a dubious look and strolled over. Before he knew what she was about, she reached out and poked him in the side.

“Ow! Bloody hell, woman!”

“You are still injured. Not only that, but you’ve never been in this theater’s fly house. How will you know if anything looks amiss?”

She had a point. “What are you proposing?” he asked warily.

“I’ll go up and investigate.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yes, well I didn’t like walking into my room yesterday and finding you sleeping in my bed.” She started backstage, away from where he imagined the access to the fly loft was located.

“Where are you going?”

She glanced back at him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “To change into appropriate fly attire.”

Blue opened his mouth to ask what that was, but he thought it might be better if he did not know. He would see soon enough, and if it was as he thought, he was in trouble.

Blue would never have made it through an inspection of the fly loft, Helena decided. His injury was part of it. Though he acted as if it did not bother him, she had seen him wince once or twice when he moved too quickly. But the main reason was that the space was small and dark and cramped. Blue hated small spaces. If she’d mentioned this to him, he would have denied it vociferously, so she hadn’t mentioned it. She’d just crawled up here herself, and now she walked along the high, narrow structure to see if anything was amiss.

She paused over the spot where Blue stood, beside the body of poor Luca. She held her lamp high, searching for some sign of a scuffle or otherwise, but there was nothing. If she hadn’t learned to trust Blue and his instincts, she would have thought Luca’s fall an accident.

“Giuliana mentioned someone named Bianca,” Blue said. Helena looked down to find him watching her. It was too dark for her to see the expression he wore, and perhaps that was fortunate. There’d been no mistaking the desire in his eyes when she appeared wearing the breeches and loose tunic she’d borrowed from the costume room. The costume was still embellished with spangles from the production of
Die
Entführung aus dem Serail
, and the footlights reflected off the spangles even up here.

“Giuliana talks too much,” Helena said, resting her arms on the fly railing. “Bianca was Pacca’s lover. The chandelier above the stage fell on her during one of the performances of
The
Abduction
from
the
Seraglio
.”

“In front of the audience?”

“Yes. She did not die immediately. She lingered for a few days, but the injury was to her head, and we all knew she would not recover.”

He asked more questions—who had been held responsible, who had been blamed, who had benefitted—but she was thinking back to that night. The rest of the cast had blamed a phantom, but she had thought it merely an accident. Now Blue’s questions made her reconsider. Had someone cut the ropes with the intent to hurt Bianca? Blue’s questions indicated he thought so. Why hurt Bianca and Luca?

“I hear someone arriving,” Blue said. “I’d rather not be standing here when they see the body.”

Helena was already moving to exit the loft. “We can wait in my dressing room. You know the way.”

He was already there when she opened the door and closed it silently. The voices of Andre and Pacca wafted back, along with that of one of the
polizia
.

“This is about Pacca,” she said to Blue, who was sitting at her dressing table. That bothered her for some reason. She was the only one allowed to sit at her table, in her chair.

He raised a brow, giving her no indication as to whether she’d guessed correctly. “Why do you say that?”

“Bianca was his lover and Luca his nephew, or more probably, his son. These deaths hurt him.”

“They hurt the company too.”

“Yes, but that could also be aimed at Pacca. He has the most invested, financially. You look ridiculous in my chair, you know.”

He smiled. “Do I? It’s quite comfortable.” He settled back, and she seethed inwardly.

“But if Pacca is the target, why not just kill him?”

“That wouldn’t be very much fun, would it?”

Helena shivered. Was that the kind of man they were dealing with? “And what about the man in the alley, the one in the mask? Does he have anything to do with this?”

Now Blue looked away, seeming almost chagrined. He had a coin in his hand, she saw now, and he shuffled it between his fingers as well as any trained magician might do. The coin appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared. “I fear Reaper has a double purpose in targeting Signor Pacca.” The coin flashed and was gone. “He can punish a man who hasn’t paid what he owes—and mark my words, one way or another Pacca will be punished—but he can also lure me here.”

“Why does he want you dead?” She hadn’t said his name.
Reaper
. What sort of name was that? It spoke for itself, and her blood chilled just thinking the name.

“Because the Maîtriser group wants every agent for the Barbican group dead. And I, in particular, have angered the group’s leader, a sadistic little bastard called Foncé.”

“So not everyone finds you charming.”

His fingers stilled, and the coin appeared. Blue looked at her and smiled. “There are a few who still resist my charms.”

“God knows I was never one of them.” She didn’t know why she said as much. Perhaps because he had revealed something to her—information about this Maîtriser group—and she felt obliged to repay in kind. He rose now, and she took a step back.

“You can’t resist me?” he said quietly. She did not like the seductive tone in his voice.

“I’m certain I could now.”

He moved closer, and she felt the heat of him, felt the solidness of him. He was really here, in the flesh, his body all but touching hers. She felt a wave of dizziness at being this close to him.

“Shall we test that theory?”

“No.” She stepped back again and felt the wall behind her. The dressing room was much too small for the two of them. Strangely enough, it had seemed to accommodate Carolina, Giuliana, and she on many occasions.

“One kiss.”

“No.” But she was already leaning toward him, already anticipating the feel of his mouth on hers, the movement of his lips against hers. Would he taste as she remembered? Would his kisses make her senseless as they once had?

“Then resist me,” he whispered. “Tell me no.” His lips brushed hers. “Push me away.” His arms wrapped around her, dragging her against him. He was so warm, so solid. Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back. His lips traced a path down her throat, and she shivered. “Deny me.” He nipped her jaw. “If you can.”

And then his mouth was on hers, and it was as though the spark from a fire had leapt onto dry hay and ignited. Her whole body roared to life, consumed by heat and yearning and voracious desire. She dug her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth hard against hers. She felt as though she would die if he didn’t kiss her deeply, thoroughly, completely.

She might have been mortified by her need, if he had not abandoned all pretense himself. His mouth slanted over hers, taking and taking again what she offered so freely. His hands roamed down her back, cupping her backside and pulling her hard against his erection. She rocked against him, and they both groaned. He didn’t taste as she remembered. He tasted better. He smelled better. It was as though she was a shipwrecked sailor finally returning home. Every taste was sweeter, every sensation sharper. Her breasts ached until he took one in his hand, his thumb brushing over her nipple, making it peak and tingle. All she could think was how easy it would be to drag the tunic over her head, loose her stays, and push his mouth to her aching flesh.

“—looked in her dressing room?” came a disembodied voice. She only heard the end of the statement because Blue pulled back from her. Even as she heard the words, she was crying out, grabbing him back. She needed his arms around her as she needed air to breathe. She gulped, trying to catch her breath, feeling like a fish floundering on the shore.

“Ernest,” she begged, and she wanted to be ashamed of the need in her voice, but she couldn’t seem to muster any emotion but desire.

“Shh.” He pressed a finger over her lips, and she fought the urge to take it in her mouth. “They’ve returned.”

“Who?” Why did he not kiss her again?

“The company.”

“Oh.
Oh
.” She stepped away from him, straightening her tunic and feeling her hair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the corner and wished she hadn’t. Her eyes were bright, her lips swollen, and her face flushed. She looked thoroughly debauched.

When she looked back, Blue was watching her. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”

“We never do,” she said, thinking of all the times they’d tried to keep away from one another and ended up twined in each other’s arms. Once she had thought they were fated to be together. But Fate was a cruel mistress.

He looked away. “I’ll go out first. You change back into your gown and come in a few moments.”

She nodded. She was used to subterfuge with him. She’d thought when they married, they would no longer have to pretend, but it appeared some things never changed.
And
why
should
they?
she thought as he opened her door and slipped out. He was a master of disguise. She had taught him the art of false appearance—costume, makeup, wigs—and now even she did not know who he really was.

But she did know two facts about Ernest Bloomington. First, she was going to take him to bed. Second, he was going to leave her again.

***

Blue said nothing during the investigation and questioning that followed. He watched and he listened and he tried his damnedest not to think about Helena. He finally saw Signor Pacca up close. The man was as much a fool as he’d expected. No one with a mustard seed of sense wronged the Maîtriser group. He must have known Luca’s death was no accident. The Maîtriser group would have sent him threats, but he pretended to be as shocked as everyone else. Pacca was fortunate Foncé was in hiding at the moment, the Barbican group hot on his heels. If Foncé had come after Pacca, the man would already be dead.

Reaper was not quite so efficient.

And then there was the nagging thought that perhaps Pacca was not the real target at all. Perhaps Pacca was a convenient tool to lure Blue here. How else to explain the masked man trailing him the past couple of days?

Blue watched Helena as she moved among her fellow singers and dancers. She was calm and comforting, not at all the woman he remembered in that respect. She used to feed on drama. Now she tried to quell it. He shouldn’t have kissed her. She’d said she could resist him, and for some reason he had to prove she could not. The kiss had only frustrated him because he wanted her more, and he still knew it would never work between them. He’d tried once and failed. She’d failed him. Even if he could forgive her, which he did not think he could, they were too different.

Finally, the interviews were over and the company was released to return to their homes. Pacca canceled rehearsals for the following day, and everyone dispersed. Blue had a hotel, but he followed Helena home, intent on making certain she arrived safely. When he saw the lamp light the windows of her room, he returned to his hotel. He tried to sleep, but every time he allowed his mind to rest, it conjured images of Helena. He could keep her at bay if he concentrated on work, and he read document after document about Reaper and the Maîtriser group. Finally, at dawn, he slept a few hours, waking when his stomach growled in angry protest.

He stumbled out of the hotel, in pursuit of coffee and something resembling an English breakfast, and found himself outside Helena’s building again. He stopped himself before he went inside and knocked on her door. Instead, he stood in the cold snow, watching swirling flakes land on his dark greatcoat and melt away.

He heard something behind him, turned, and came face to face with her. She did not look surprised to see him. Instead, she stood with the basket she carried resting on her hip and stared up at her building.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to see what’s fascinating enough to persuade you to stand in a snowstorm.”

Blue looked up at the gently falling flakes. “This is hardly a storm.”

“Just wait.”

Blue breathed deeply and had to admit the air had an ominous feel to it. “Then I suppose I should return to my hotel.”

“Have you eaten?” she asked, hefting the cloth-covered basket from her hip.

Blue’s gaze fastened on the basket. Was it possible she had food inside? “No.”

“Come with me then.” She strode past him, toward her building. “I have enough for two.” She didn’t look back to see that he was following. She obviously expected a man to come when she called. He would have liked to prove her wrong, but his belly was leading his legs. Before he knew what he was about, he’d taken the basket from her and carried it.

Once in her room again, Blue noted it was in much the same condition as he’d seen it the other night. She might have picked some of the clothing up off the floor, but by and large, the place was still cluttered, messy, and very much Helena. She indicated the table, and Blue shooed the cat off before setting the basket on the scratched wood. Helena brought cups and plates and began unpacking her breakfast. She had a large jug of strong
caffè e latte
,
fette
biscottate
, and jam and butter. “And voila!” she said. “Colazione!”

Blue lifted the checkered cloth hopefully, but the basket was empty.

“Looking for sausage, eggs, and black pudding? You won’t find that sort of thing in Naples. Even if you could, I could not afford it.” She handed him a mug of steaming coffee.

“Not even tea?” he moaned.

She laughed. “We’re in Italy. You drink coffee and milk.”

Blue sat in one of her battered but comfortable chairs and allowed her to prepare his meal. There was something comforting about having his wife perform this small domestic chore. Had she ever done so when they were together? He could not remember her doing it.

“Butter or jam?” she asked after laying a slice of the hard bread on a plate.

“Butter,” he answered, taking the plate. He took a bite of the bread. “Not bad.”

She smiled. “I’ll give your regards to the chef.”

“Your lover?” he said without thinking.

Something that looked a great deal like pain flashed in her eyes. “No. She is only a friend.”

“She?”

She sat across from him, avoiding his eyes. “Women can cook too.”

“Of course. I should not have asked such a thing in the first place.”

“You can hardly be faulted.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the awkwardness between them growing.

“How is your sister?” he asked at the same time she said, “Are your parents well?”

Both gave a nervous laugh, then Helena said, “Adelaide is well. She is married now with two children.”