Authors: Kerrigan Byrne
“It’s after two in the morning, Bea, you shouldn’t have stayed up to wait for me.” Millie fought the woman over her cloak until she somehow became stuck in the folds and had to stand patiently like a child while Mrs. Brimtree uncoiled her.
“Nonsense, I couldn’t sleep until I ’eard all about your debut as the star of the London stage.” With a wrinkled nose, her housekeeper drew her toward her rooms at the back of the apartment, the carpet muffling their steps. “Lord, but you smell of gin and cigars and men who are up to no good.”
“As it so happens, I spent the after party much in the company of all three.” Millie giggled a bit, wishing the edge of bitterness hadn’t crept into the sound. Still, the night had been an incredible success, and through it all she’d been feeling as though her feet would never actually touch the ground.
The gin had helped reclaim her good mood, she suspected.
“I take it opening night was a success.”
“Oh, Bea, they called me back for three separate bows. Three!” Millie twirled in place while Mrs. Brimtree checked the temperature of the water in the deep copper tub and poured a bit of lavender oil into it. “You should see how many flowers are in my dressing room. It smells like a hothouse. It was so exhilarating that my heart still hasn’t slowed.”
And it had nothing to do with Bentley
sodding
Drummle and his unforgettable mouth.
“Is Jakub sleeping?” Millie asked, hoping to free her mind from the velvet chains of the memory.
“Sweet lad only made it to ’alf past one afore nodding off in your bed. ’E wanted to congratulate you ’imself and ’e drew you in your costume and everything.”
That familiar sense of warmth and pride lifted Millie’s lips into an irrepressible smile as she floated from her washroom to her adjoining bedchamber. Lifting the curtains back from the poster bed, she crawled in and nuzzled the downy cheek of the creature she loved most in this world. Her greatest joy and her most terrible secret.
“Mój Syn?” My son?
Jakub’s hair, the color of wet sand, tickled her nose when he lifted his head.
Millie pulled her ridiculously fluffy blankets over him, almost causing his thin body to disappear in the mountain of down-stuffed comfort. “I’m home,
kochanie.
” She used the nickname she’d called him since he was a child. The word for
darling
in their native Poland.
“I waited up for you,” he mumbled.
“I can see that.” Smiling, Millie pushed a lock of hair from his forehead in hopes of seeing his soft doe eyes, but they remained closed. Her sweet boy was locked in that magical place at the surface of sleep where he’d sink back into the depths as soon as she released him to do so.
“You smell.” He wrinkled his nose.
Her smile became a tender laugh as she kissed the forehead she’d just uncovered and rolled off the cavernous bed. “I’m going to bathe and then I’ll come carry you to bed.”
“I’ll be awake,” he insisted.
By the time Millie had gathered a silk wrapper from her wardrobe he’d already fallen into a slack-jawed slumber.
As she watched him, exhaustion began to chase alcohol and excitement from her veins and replace it with weariness. Better finish that bath while she was still able.
Mrs. Brimtree laid out a towel, her imported Parisian soaps, and the scented almond oil that she liked to use to detangle her hair and rub on her skin to keep it soft.
“Go up to George, Beatrice, you know he doesn’t like to sleep without you. I’m too spent to be much company tonight. I’ll tell you all about it over breakfast and I promise I’ll be much more interesting then.”
“All right, dearie.” Beatrice bustled around a moment longer, lighting another lantern and smoothing her wrapper and nightgown where they draped over a screen. “You’re right about my George, of course. ’E’s such a love. Drinks too much and curses too often, but I adore him for all of that.”
“Well, give him this for me.” Millie kissed the lady on her flushed cheek and began to untie her stays, which laced up the front, thus negating the need for help during costume changes.
Mrs. Brimtree hovered, her brow furrowing as Millie peeled her garments from her body. “Miss Millie, can I speak freely?”
“Of course.” Millie pulled pins from her heavy hair, her scalp switching from aching to itchy. Sweat caused by the stage lights and the close quarters of the after party had chilled and dried on her skin, and she looked forward to being clean with a lustful relish.
“It’s just that, you never bring a man ’ome.”
Millie froze with both hands locked in her hair, the statement astonishing her into stillness. If Mrs. Brimtree knew how close she’d come to bringing one home tonight. If she knew the manner in which she’d conducted herself. The woman would bundle her back up and ship her off to church.
“I have Jakub,” she said gently. “It wouldn’t be seemly.” Mr. and Mrs. George and Beatrice Brimtree had been her butler and housekeeper for almost two years now, as she’d been able to afford them, but in such a short time, they’d become like family. Though they were a couple deeply in love, they’d never before dared to remark on Millie’s solitude. What was it about tonight that she must be constantly reminded of her loneliness?
“It’s just that, women like you, wot have a mind of their own, and money besides, they tend to wait for the perfect gent to come along.”
Millie blinked, lowering her hands. “Do they?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as a familiar pang of loneliness stabbed her in the gut, where excitement and arousal had been only hours before.
“I worry all the time, that you spend yer nights acting out stories about ’eroes spouting sonnets, killing themselves in the name of love, or fighting off tyrants and monsters and saving the damsel. That man. That perfect ’ero, ’e’s not out there, but there are plenty of good’uns worth your time.”
Like who? Bentley Drummle? Lord, she was really terrible at keeping him out of her thoughts. The brigand. The ne’er-do-well. She should have gone with her first impression of him.
Beatrice didn’t look her in the eyes as she spoke, and Millie thought her hesitance and concern was endearing. “You sometimes have to make allowances for them. For example, maybe ’e’s ’ansom, but smokes like a chimney. Or maybe ’e’s kind, but milk gives ’im the brimstone winds. Or say ’e’s rich, but ’as a few bad teeth.”
“Are you saying you think I’m a snob?”
The fact that Mrs. Brimtree didn’t deny it hurt worse than Millie thought it would have.
“Sometimes, accepting a man just as ’e is, flaws and everything, chases the loneliness away, and over time those edges dull. If ’e feels like you love ’im for all that, ’e’s more likely to be loving you still when your youth, fame, and beauty ’ave gone the way of things.”
“I’m not lonely,” Millie lied. “I have Jakub.”
“Inn’t right that the boy ’as no father. And in no time, ’e’ll grow up and ’ave a family of ’is own. And then where will you be?”
Millie turned away from Mrs. Brimtree, the conversation making her feel more exposed than taking off her clothing. “Trust me, it’s better this way.” Jakub needed more protection than most boys, all because of his mother’s terrible secret.
“But—”
“
Good night,
Beatrice,” Millie said firmly. “Please don’t forget to give my love to George.”
A quiet moment ticked by, then Millie moved to the tub.
“Yes, mum.”
Millie waited for the door to click before she stepped over the rim of the copper tub and sank into its depths with a breathy sigh. Bowing to her public on that stage, she’d thought nothing could cast a pall on this brilliant night. The most wonderful and affirming of her life thus far.
She’d been wrong.
Beatrice only called her “mum” when she was displeased about something. The woman thought she was giving kind advice, but she didn’t know how dangerous the world was out there for her and Jakub. That allowing just any man into her life would shatter the safety and comfort that she’d created for them.
Jakub deserved to be safe and grow up without fear. He deserved the best she could give him. Better than her parents and brothers had done for her. Better than the rakes and noblemen who chased her skirts, but not her heart.
And better than Bentley Drummle.
Damn it.
How was it that he wormed his way into her thoughts every ten seconds? It was the paradox of his face. Had to be. Warm skin, fair and yet darker than his red hair and eyes warranted. Like he’d lived in sunnier climes. There were other contradictions she’d experienced firsthand A hot tongue. Cold eyes. Rough hands. Gentle fingers. Hard mouth. Soft lips.
Millie cursed, splashed the water, and cursed again, this time in Polish.
Forget about men. She had a career to build. A son to raise. And for now, for
him,
she’d just have to content herself with her onstage heroes, because she knew that Mrs. Brimtree was right about one thing.
They did not exist out here in the real world.
* * *
Christopher Argent’s hands ached with cold. He’d scaled a wrought-iron gate and climbed the stone stanchion to the lower ledge of Millie LeCour’s apartments. His fitted waistcoat had hindered his reach, so he’d abandoned it, leaving it hanging from one of the many tall iron points of the gate. The wind snaked through the narrow corridor of Drury Lane and stung his flesh through his shirtsleeves like the lash of a whip. In fact, the similarities of the pain were uncanny. Except, he supposed, a whip was a more localized pain, and the chill of the wind could be felt over his entire flesh. Regardless, the residual burn was remarkably comparable in both cases.
The empty street had an apocalyptic quietude that appealed to him. A cold like this, one that left crystalline swirls of frost over the whole of the city, drove even the stoutest of night stalkers and criminals indoors.
Argent was used to the cold. Was born to it and honed from it. He only had to worry about it when it affected his physical performance.
Like now, when he could sense the joints in his hands stiffening with each passing moment. Galvanized, he judged the length of distance to the second story with a few hurried calculations, and crouched to leap.
The coarse brick of the ledge bit into his fingertips, but he ground his teeth together and used all the honed strength in his arms and back to pull his chin above the ledge. Once his upper body was secure, he checked to see that no one was looking out of the window toward the street.
The soft glow of a lantern pierced the night, but from his precarious vantage, he could tell he wasn’t in danger of being detected as a Japanese screen protected the window from view even though the drapes were open.
With a grunt, he swung his leg up and found purchase enough to lift the rest of his bulk and stood, turning so his back was against the narrow red brick wall between two arched windows.
He’d conquered walls with thinner ledges, but not many.
Tucking his hands beneath his arms to warm them, he strained his neck to peer into the window. The Japanese screen about four paces inside consisted of three panels skewed into diagonal sides so they could stand upright. A panel depicting an Asian landscape blocked his view.
Argent could only see the gleam of a copper tub through a slivered crack in the bent screen. Steam rose above its rim, so he waited a few minutes to make sure no one was submerged.
The time he spent waiting unsettled him. If nothing else, he was a patient man. His profession was about timing. The time it took to enter someone’s home. The time it took for a mark to strike out, pass out, or bleed out. How long it would take him to make his escape. Or, most importantly, how long it took his clients to make their payments. So taking the time to decipher whether Millicent LeCour’s head would appear above the bathwater took on a distinctly anticipatory edge.
Argent blinked. And just what did he anticipate? He couldn’t say. In fact, he couldn’t remember anticipating much of anything before. And so his brain wouldn’t dare answer the question.
But his body did.
His lips throbbed with the exquisite memory of her mouth pressed against them. His skin felt warm, the heat radiating out from his quickening blood. His cravat became tight, his clothing binding. Especially his trousers. His lungs seemed to need more room than his ribs were willing to give, and suddenly it was impossible not to fog the window with his overheated breath.
There it was again. Desire. A thing as foreign to him as were warmth and kindness.
He wanted Millie LeCour with an intensity he’d never before felt.
But … why? He’d fucked plenty of women in his lifetime. Willing, trained, and uncomplicated.
Disposable.
Why her? Why now?
What was it about the actress that entranced and aroused him? What about her was different from everyone else?
His unerring eye for detail was a greatly relied upon attribute. Once his notice touched something, it was calculated, analyzed, prioritized, and then shelved in its correct location. Things, people, places, events, they were all part of the landscape and each held an equal measure of curiosity and emotional ambiguity. He thought the same of a lovely clock as he did about a lovely woman. They were both curious and complicated with cogs and bits that took a man’s intense scrutiny and precision to understand. Both of them served a useful function in the world.
And both were easily broken.
But for some perplexing reason, Millie LeCour refused to be shelved or classified. Her details were so … they were too … bemusing? Uncommon? Curious?
After his first attempt at her life had been thwarted, primarily by that thoroughly unexpected kiss, Argent had stalked her all night, suffused with fascination. How had she manipulated him with something as simple as a kiss? Why had he paused when a quick snap of her lovely neck would have uncomplicated things immensely? How had she recovered so quickly from their encounter when
he,
the man hired to snuff out her life, still itched with the memory of her downy skin beneath his hands?
A slew of noble rakes and roguish upstarts had vied for a word with her all night, for a touch, a dance, or a smile. And she’d given of them freely. Flitting from one admirer to the next like a coy butterfly, ever avoiding the net.