Chapter 1
Chapter One
Beads of sweat gathered at Penelope Hervey’s hairline, trickled down her neck, and slid into the hollow between the bare upper curves of her breasts.
Which of the drunken scoundrels would be the cause of tonight’s disaster?
That there would be a disaster was a foregone conclusion. The Pandemonium Playhouse specialized in disasters. What form that disaster might take, and which of their esteemed patrons would be the cause of it, well…that was anyone’s guess.
She had a bad feeling about tonight. To be fair, she had a bad feeling every night she took the Pandemonium’s stage, but tonight the crowd hummed with an ugly energy that went beyond the usual mayhem. Whistles, catcalls, and rotten tomatoes hurled at the stage weren’t going to satisfy this mob.
It had taken a few months, but Penelope had trained herself to dodge the tomatoes. They hardly ever hit her anymore. She’d never been particularly nimble in her past life, but it was astonishing how agile one could become when circumstances required it.
Agility wouldn’t do her much good if she was trampled in a brawl, though, would it?
The rabble in the pit was growing wilder with every passing moment.
She kept one anxious eye on the drunken scoundrels, and the other on the actress dominating center stage.
Florentina strutted, flirted and pouted her way through the final act of Bluebeard.
She was playing the Wife, of course. Florentina always played the lead.
Penelope was playing one of Bluebeard’s murdered wives, but she was dressed more like a whore than a corpse.
She always wore the same costume, no matter what the play was.
A long black wig, a black mask, and a dress with short skirts and a tight bodice that exposed her breasts.
Oh, get on with it, won’t you, Florentina?
Florentina didn’t get on with it. As always, she dragged her final moment out to its bitter end. Why shouldn’t she? No one threw tomatoes at her. The crowd might jeer and hiss at the rest of the players, but they all adored Florentina Fernside.
Penelope’s cheeks ached as she forced herself to hold her smile. If she escaped the stage without injuries tonight, she’d consider herself lucky. Whether she’d be as lucky tomorrow night was less certain, but since she’d arrived in London a year ago, she’d learned to take one disaster at a time.
Florentina batted her long dark eyelashes and blew a flirtatious kiss at the crowd. They roared their approval, but their satisfaction was short-lived. As Florentina made her curtsey and turned to leave the stage in a dramatic whirl of scarlet-colored skirts, the pit erupted into utter chaos.
Brawls weren’t unusual at the Pandemonium, but as the crowd shoved and pummeled each other, a nameless dread lodged in Penelope’s throat.
Something awful was about to happen—she could feel it.
At a glance, there was nothing that made this brawl any different than the others she’d witnessed at the Pandemonium, but it was different.
To Penelope’s horror, she soon discovered why.
This time, the stage curtains caught on fire.
It happened quickly. One moment two furious blackguards were beating the life out of each other, and in the next one had hurled the other across the stage.
The felled man’s boot struck one of the oil lamps that served as floodlights, and it skidded across the floor and landed near Penelope’s feet.
She was nearest the curtain, and so she was the first to see a thin, hungry flame catch the velvet fringe.
No one else noticed. They were so distracted by the brawl they might all have burned to death if Penelope hadn’t let loose a terrified shriek.
Heads swung in her direction, and a shout rose up from the other actors.
Without thinking, Penelope leapt upon the curtain and began stomping on the fringe to beat down the flame, but a shower of sparks shot up around her and caught at the hem of her skirts.
She tried to jump back, but people were crowding around her, yelling and pushing, trapping her in the center of a mass of heaving bodies.
She screamed as she was knocked to her knees, but just as she was in danger of being trampled underfoot or burned to ash, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, hauled her up, and dragged her free of the mob.
Once they were safe, her rescuer set her on her feet and slapped at her skirts.
“It’s all right. It was just a few sparks, and your skirts didn’t catch.
” He glanced over her shoulder. “They’ve put out the flame, as well.
” She wobbled, but he reached out and steadied her with a hand on her arm.
“Good Lord, I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly in my life. You’re not hurt, are you?”
Penelope hardly knew. Her head was spinning and her heart was slamming against her ribs, but she wasn’t in any pain. “No, I’m not hurt, but I…I can’t see!” Dear God, had the heat injured her eyes? Her breath began to come in short, painful gasps as panic overwhelmed her.
“It’s just your mask.” He plucked the mask from her face and pulled it over her head, taking her wig with it. “There. Is that better?”
Penelope blinked up at him, her mouth falling open as her blurred vision snapped into focus.
Lord Archer stood before her, his dark blue eyes wide with concern.
She’d spent countless hours staring at this man from her place on the stage, admiring the way the theater lamps caught at the gold strands in his thick brown hair and wondering what he was like, what sort of man he was.
Was he kind, or haughty and arrogant? Was he clever, or did he hide an empty head behind those blue, blue eyes?
She’d never spoken a word to him, but even so, Lord Archer had become something of a guiding star for her.
He was the only beautiful thing about the Pandemonium Playhouse.
He was even more beautiful up close. “Tainted Angel,” she murmured dazedly, repeating the nickname the ton had given him. It was a play on his given name, William Angel, but also a reproach for his behavior.
William Angel, Lord Archer, was as wicked as he was beautiful.
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Most people just call me Archer.”
Heat flooded Penelope’s face, and she rushed to correct her error. “I—yes, of course. Please forgive my rudeness, Lord Archer.”
A grin tugged at his lips. “It’s all right. I never demand a strictly proper address from ladies whose skirts nearly catch fire.”
Penelope gave a startled laugh. “How gallant of you.”
His grin widened. “I think so.”
She gave her skirts a nervous twitch, but Lord Archer had smothered the sparks, just as he’d said. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I’m grateful, indeed.”
He bowed. “I’m pleased to have been of service, Miss—”
“My lord!”
Lord Archer and Penelope both turned at once to find Florentina mincing across the stage, a deceptively pleasant smile fixed to her painted red lips.
Ah, yes. How could Penelope have forgotten? Lord Archer did have one flaw, and it was a tragic one. He had dreadfully poor taste in mistresses, and here was proof of it.
“I couldn’t imagine where you’d gone to.” Florentina curled a possessive hand around Lord Archer’s arm. “But here you are, talking with…with…”
Penelope curtsied. “Penelope Hervey, Miss Fernside.”
Florentina knew who she was, of course—they’d shared the stage any number of times—but Penelope was far beneath her notice, and Florentina didn’t hesitate to remind her of it.
“Penelope Hervey.” She rolled the name on her tongue as if it had a foul taste.
“No, it doesn’t sound familiar, but no matter.
” She dismissed Penelope with a shrug and turned a simpering smile on Lord Archer.
“Shall we go, my love? It’s been a most trying evening for me. The fire frightened me to death!”
The corners of Lord Archer’s lips curled as he studied Florentina, but his expression couldn’t be mistaken for a smile. “How curious. You didn’t appear to notice the fire at all. You have Miss Hervey to thank for alerting us to the danger.”
A heavy silence fell as Florentina tried to decide if Lord Archer was truly demanding she offer her thanks to someone as insignificant as Penelope.
When he raised an expectant eyebrow at her, she let out a tinkling laugh.
“Why, of course. Thank you, Miss Hervey. It was excessively good of you. Now, may we please go, my lord? I’m nearly expiring from exhaustion. ”
“Do endeavor to stay upright until we reach my carriage, Florentina. Miss Hervey.” Lord Archer bowed again, and this time when his lips curled, his smile was genuine.
“That was well done tonight.” He paused, then added with a wink, “I prefer your red hair to that dark wig. I can’t imagine what the theater manager is thinking, hiding you under that thing. Come on then, Florentina.”
He strode across the stage toward the exit, Florentina clinging to his arm. Once his back was turned, Florentina turned around and shot Penelope a look of pure venom.
Penelope bent down with a sigh and retrieved her mask and wig. It had been another dreadful night at the Pandemonium, but at least there’d been one bright spot in the gloom.
She’d spoken to Lord Archer, and he’d been kind to her.
At least, he’d meant to be. He couldn’t know it, but his singling her out was likely to cause her trouble with Florentina. Penelope thought of the viciousness in those dark eyes, and a shiver of foreboding darted up her spine.
One disaster at a time.
* * *
Lord Archer didn’t come to the Pandemonium the next night.
He didn’t come the following night, or the night after that, either.
A week passed, then another, but Lord Archer’s box remained empty.
Penelope stood on stage night after night in her whore’s costume, sweat dripping between her breasts, vainly searching the audience for a distraction—a single thing she could call beautiful.
She didn’t find one.