Chapter 27
Inside the auditorium, it was dark and quiet, the audience spellbound, and on the stage, bathed in light, Jane performed.
He stood very quietly, his spine rigid, his back to the doors leading to the lobby.
He made no move to find a seat, and he made no move to leave.
Indeed, even though it was the third and final act, he had only just arrived.
He stared, un able to peel his gaze away from the actress, just like everyone else in the theater.
Beneath his breath, the Earl of Dragmore swore crudely.
God, he hated her!
After all this time, he had thought he would feel nothing. That he would be cold and indifferent. Yet it was not cool indifference flowing through his veins, but hot anger. He trembled with it.
Hearing about her yesterday, he had not been able to stay away.
She was beautiful—as Lindley had said. She was a contradiction, both angelic innocence and carnal sensuality. His lips sneered, and he wondered how many lovers she’d had since him. He told himself he did not care, and this time, he cursed aloud.
“Shhh,” fifty people hissed at once.
He ordered himself to leave, but he did not.
And when she was particularly funny, and everyone around him roared in mirth, he did not laugh. He did not even smile.
She had left him.
He had loved her—and she had left him.
As intense as his anger had been in that moment, his despair had been worse.
Yet he had not let her go to London alone and fending for herself.
He had sent a runner immediately to Gordon at the Lyceum, to ascertain that she had arrived safely and was cared for.
That assured, he had given in to his fury and hatred, spending his days in dark, angry despair, seeking solace in a bottle, closed up alone in his library.
After a few days he returned grimly to the living, to run Dragmore.
The anger and hurt faded to manageable proportions, and by a month’s time, he felt nothing at all.
He met with Gordon once, to determine the extent of the responsibility he owed Jane.
For she was still his ward. Gordon assured him Jane was no burden, that he loved her as he would a daughter, having loved her mother as a friend.
Not satisfied, the earl made arrangements to support her financially.
He did not see Jane, indeed, made damn sure they met at Tavistock Square to avoid this happening. And then he put her out of his mind.
Except, sometimes, in the lonely darkness of the night, she came to him and, half asleep, he reached for her—but it was only a dream, and she was not there.
The play was over, and Jane was taking her bow alone before the crowd, which was roaring its approval.
The earl stood frozen, his gaze never wavering from her.
She was beaming, ecstatic, and when someone pelted her with red roses, she laughed, picking one up and waving it at the audience.
He felt a chink in the armor of his hatred.
Her joy was nearly contagious. Desperately he wrapped the cloak of burning emotion more tightly around himself, standing more rigidly, fixing a look of loathing upon his features.
She disappeared backstage amid shouts of “Angel! Angel! We want Angel!”
Angel, he thought savagely. Witch was more like it. And he clenched his fist so hard it hurt.
In the lobby he paused, the crowd flowing around him, giving him the usual wide berth and even wider stares.
Those who did not see him were chattering animatedly, with laughter interspersed and many comments of praise for Jane— especially among the men.
Nick could feel his heart throbbing with dark intent.
In fact, he became aware of his entire body pulsating, alive and heated.
He knew he should just drag his damn feet to the main doors and leave the goddamn theater.
Instead, he abruptly turned and went backstage.
Jane was flushed and smiling. She knew that tonight she had been better than ever, and she could not wait to read the critics tomorrow. “Jon,” she cried, whirling, her chiffon floating around her, “have I ever been better?”
Lindley grinned. “I don’t think so, darling, never.”
Jane turned to Robert Gordon. “Have I?” she demanded. “Have I?”
“Never,” Robert assured her. “Maybe tonight calls for a special celebration.”
Her laughter was rich, warm and undeniably infectious. “I feel like dancing!”
“This can easily be arranged,” Lindley said eagerly, catching her hand and pulling her to him. “Shall I take you dancing, Jane? And to supper?”
Jane looked at him flirtatiously, her mood too impossibly good, her elation making her float like the angels in the clouds above. She opened her mouth to reply, knowing she was flirting and knowing she should stop, when from outside the door came the sound of thunder.
And then again thunder boomed, as someone banged once, furiously, and the door shook.
Everyone inside the room froze, then Gordon started forward, frowning angrily. Jane reacted with instinct—and intuition. “No!” she shrieked. “Don’t open it!”
“Who is it?” Gordon called rigidly. “No need to break the door down, man!”
“It’s the Earl of Dragmore” was the frozen reply.
Jane went white.
Seeing this, Lindley’s hands went to her shoulders. “It’s all right.”
“No! It’s not,” Jane cried frantically, clinging to Lindley. Then, to Robert: “Don’t open it! Don’t let him in!” She had one coherent thought among the knifing panic, and that was to escape.
“Jane.” Gordon frowned. “We must be civil—”
But Jane was already across the room, her fear giving her wings, and at the back door.
“Delay him,” she cried to the two men in a whisper.
“Delay him, tell him I just stepped out and I’ll be back —please!
” Neither man could deny her appealing look.
And then she rushed out, the door drifting shut behind her.
The thunder came again. “Open the goddamn door, Gordon,” the earl demanded. “Now—before I break it down!”
Gordon and Lindley exchanged glances. “Maybe you’d best do as he suggests,” Lindley said, shooting a glance at the door Jane had escaped through. He didn’t like her reaction to the earl, not at all.
“Let’s give her another minute,” Gordon said, low. “Although why she—”
Thunder boomed, wood cracked, and the door flew in off its hinges, the earl’s shoulder behind it. He righted himself, his face a grim mask of determination—and then he saw Lindley. Anger blazed. His gaze swept the room, seeking Jane. “Where is she? I know she was here—I heard her.”
“She’ll be right back,” Gordon said calmly. “Damn it, Shelton, there was no need to break down the door!”
But Nick wasn’t listening. He was staring furiously at Lindley. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Lindley smiled easily. “The same thing as you— I came to see Jane.”
They stared at each other.
The earl looked around again, taking in the soft Aubusson carpet, the plush settee, the rosewood butler’s table, the dressing table and gilt mirror.
He eyed the many vases of flowers, and the Chinese dressing screen—black with inlaid gold and opal dragons.
His gaze lingered on a wispy blue satin robe hanging upon it.
Then he saw the other door, near the dressing table, and in a stride he reached it and flung it open.
He stared down the black hallway. Then turned.
“She left,” he said, his tone low and barely controlled.
Neither Lindley nor Gordon responded.
With a violent cry, the earl’s arm swept out, and he savagely cleared the table of its contents, sending a vase of roses and all Jane’s toiletries smashing to the floor.
A shocked silence followed.
The earl broke it. “Where is she?”
Lindley didn’t move a muscle, but Gordon grimaced.
“Where is she?” When Gordon didn’t respond, the earl leapt. He threw him against the wall, pinning him there. Gordon cried out. “Tell me, damn it, before I break your neck,” the earl shouted.
Lindley hauled on the earl from behind, trying to drag him off Gordon. “Stop it, Nick, damn it, stop it!”
The earl froze, Lindley’s assault no more bothersome than an attack of gnats, and then he slumped, freeing Gordon. He leaned against the wall, forehead pressed there, shoulders slumped. Gordon skittered away. “I’m sorry,” the earl said heavily. “I’m sorry.”