Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sword had just entered its intended victim when Malcolm Lennox stormed into the Odalisque, his face frozen in a glower.
“Libba!” he barked, evidently caring not a whit for what he was interrupting.
She spun, shocked to hear his voice, as she hovered over Rhys, Lem, and Garrett, considering their placement. “Mal?”
“‘A curse,’” muttered Rhys pathetically, “‘on both your houses.’”
She shot him a glare and motioned for them to continue their rehearsal, moving to the side of the stage to try to intercept her brother before he could get too close. “What the Devil are you doing here? Don’t you have business to attend to?”
“Oh, I did,” Malcolm announced, his jaw clenching. “It changed abruptly. Guess whom I just ran into at the pub? I know what you and Jasper have been up to!”
Libba paused, blinking a few times. “Backstage,” she decided, her heart lodging somewhere between her collarbones. “Follow me.”
She walked steadily, ignoring the delicious ache in her bones that she had been enjoying up until this point. Suddenly, it felt more like a hobbling than a private reminder.
She wound him through the ropes and pulleys, past the dressing rooms, and to her own private office, all the way at the rear of the theater, her blood warming a little more with every step.
She gestured for him to enter in front of her and used the full weight of her body to seal the door shut once they were both inside.
“Well?” he snapped, rounding on her like an angry dog. “Libba?!”
“What, exactly,” she managed thinly, “did he tell you?”
“He didn’t have to tell me a goddamn thing,” Malcolm barked. “Why don’t you just assume I know everything already, hm? How about that?”
“He didn’t …?” she began, cutting herself due to how dry her mouth had gotten. She paused, licking her lips and shaking her head. “So you are assuming—?”
“No!” he snapped. “I have it on good authority. I know what you’ve been up to. How long has this been going on, Lib? How long?!”
“Just since last night,” she said, wilting. “It happened very suddenly. I never thought … I didn’t even realize I saw him that way. But he took me to his flat and it just … happened … and …”
She paused, pressing her lips together.
Malcolm had sagged, the color draining from his face. His furious, ticking jaw had gone slack, his mouth hanging open.
“Oh, shit,” she muttered, dragging a hand over her mouth until her bottom lip was sagging under her fingertips. “That isn’t what you meant. Is it?”
Malcolm’s lips moved. Sounds came out. But no words.
He stared at her for a moment and then plopped into the chair behind her desk, a hysterical, reed-brittle laugh cracking out of his throat. “You …?” he began, staring at a fixed point in empty space, then shaking his head. “He …?”
“Well, this isn’t how I wanted to tell you,” she said immediately, pushing off the door and pacing over to the desk.
She put her hands flat on the glossy surface, bending down to try to get his eyes to meet hers. He did not look up until she had put her face directly under his. “Malcolm,” she said, as reasonably as she could manage.
He stared at her like he had never seen her before in his life, his eyes wide and reddening. “Kill,” he decided. “I will kill …”
“You will not,” she said, frowning and bringing one hand up to grip his chin. “You were angry when you came in here. What were you angry about?”
“Kill,” he said again, blinking with effort.
She slapped him. Not hard. Just a whack to the cheek.
It seemed to startle him out of his fugue, if only for a moment. He blinked four times and then focused on her. “Xandine,” he said. “Templeton-Rath.”
“Oh,” Libba said, her bones going to jelly in her arms. “That.”
“That,” he confirmed. “I … might have invited them …”
“To the house?” she shot back, eyes going wide.
“To Romeo,” he said, wincing. “And Juliet.”
She stared at him for a long, stretching moment and then slid bodily down the front of her desk until she was seated in one of the opposing chairs. “Oh, Mal,” she muttered. “That is bad.”
“You’re not in it,” he said, his voice gone small and childlike. “They won’t see you.”
“I take a bow at the end,” she said, shaking her head. “And they’ve met Lem. He’s playing Tybalt.”
“Oh,” said Malcolm. “‘A curse.’”
“‘On both our houses,’ yes, I know,” Libba said back, frowning. “They’ve seen the costuming. I wore Juliet’s clothes to both of my encounters with them, as Xandine. It is not … They are distinct pieces, Malcolm. Unique.”
“‘Unique,’” he echoed, still as wide-eyed as an owl. “What … Why? I don’t … Why did you …?”
She held a hand up. “Where is Jasper right now? Where are the Templeton-Raths?”
“Cauldron,” he said immediately. “Lunch. But, Lib …”
“No. Not now,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t curse,” he said, half-drowned in his own state of stunned disbelief. “Explain?”
“No!” she snapped again. “I … What do I do? What do we do?”
Malcolm only gaped at her, his cheeks still pale and chalky.
She threw up her hands and collapsed forward onto the desk, her forehead connecting with the polished wood.
There was only one thing to do, and they both knew it.
They had to wait.
*
It took damn near two hours before Jasper was free and could double back toward the Odalisque.
He was still carrying his folio. And the damned pie.
But Mr. Harcourt had received the Templeton-Raths warmly and Jasper was certain the barrister could handle their petition about the Rusty Reaper without him present. They had, of course, invited him to stay, but he’d said, truthfully, that he’d had urgent obligations elsewhere.
It wasn’t his fault if they thought those obligations were related to EIC. Not his fault at all.
And he certainly didn’t waste any time wondering why he cared if he was being technically truthful about this irrelevant detail after all the other lies.
He walked into the theater just as Juliet drank her poison and slumped forward over that flirtatious fellow who’d batted his lashes at Jasper at the pub a lifetime ago.
“‘For never was a story of more woe …’” said an actor perched on the edge of the stage.
Jasper frowned at him.
Little did he know.
He hesitated in the aisle, searching the faces of the seated cast members who were not in this scene, scattered throughout the front rows.
Lem appeared to be sorting through a stack of papers in his lap. He was wearing a pair of rectangular spectacles, which did give Jasper a moment of pause, but he hadn’t the capacity to consider it just now.
Rhys was dead asleep with his mouth hanging open, head unhinged backward over the top of a velvet tufted chair.
He didn’t see Libba anywhere.
Given the two actors to choose from, he thought the one who was both awake and had his mouth shut might be the best to ask.
“Er, Lem?” he said, sidling over and stepping around a stagehand and an actress who were at the end of his row.
Lem looked up, blinking as though he hadn’t expected to be interrupted.
Jasper realized at just that moment that he’d never actually spoken to this man before. He gave a queasy smile and shifted his weight, the pie sliding down the folio toward his chest. “Afternoon, Lem,” he managed. “I’m looking for Lib.”
“In the back,” said the big bodyguard, nodding with his shiny, bald head toward the stage doors. “With the banker.”
“‘The ban…’ You mean her brother?”
Lem shrugged. “She has many brothers. She is with the one who is a banker.”
“Right,” Jasper said, frowning. “Shall I wait for her out here with you or do you think it’s safe to go back?”
Lem was frowning at the folio. “You have brought us food?”
“Oh!” said Jasper, glancing down at it and then extending both arms with the folio serving as a platter. “Erm. Yes. Have it. Pie, you know.”
Lem’s lips twitched. “You made a pie?”
“The young lady made it, I think,” Jasper answered miserably. “To thank me for the cats.”
“Oh?” he said, a spark of interest in his eye. “Miss Rath made this?”
Jasper shook his head. “Her cousin.”
They stared at one another for an extended moment, during which Jasper wondered if he had begun to sweat. “What’s that you’ve got there?” he asked, placing the pie on one seat and slumping into the other. “Accounts? I can help with accounts.”
“Alas, no,” said Lem, his lips curling at the corners. “This is my … hm. I suppose it is my certificate of birth. Or it will be, if the magistrate signs it.”
“Oh,” said Jasper. “Bit late with that, aren’t we?”
“Just a bit,” Lem agreed with a chuckle. “Do you want me to check in the back and ask if you are safe to approach?”
“God, yes.” Jasper felt like a punctured balloon, his shoulders immediately sagging. “Please. And thank you.”
“It is nothing,” the other man said, allowing himself one more faint chuckle before he stood, deposited his papers atop the pie, and strode off to be proactive in Jasper’s stead.
Jasper clasped his hands in front of him for a few moments. He bounced his knees. He chewed his lip. He looked at the papers.
They were standard legal jargon, he thought, tilting his head to make out the writing sticking out. Prissy and overly formal.
“Paternal claimant, upon issue of unknown child, mother deceased. Issue and estate security forthwith acknowledged.”
He blinked at it for a few minutes. It looked as though this claim of birthright was going to be taking place very soon, within the next few days, based on the dates written here.
So Lem had a father in Brighton?
That seemed a hell of a coincidence.
He reached a hand out, touching the top page, and then startled as Lem came back into view, whipping his fingers back into his lap, where they belonged.
“Come,” said Lem from the door, waving his hand. “Bring the pie.”
“I’d rather leave it here,” Jasper said with a grimace as he stood, brushing his front free of wrinkles. “Do you need your papers?”
“No,” said Lem as Romeo and Juliet reset their death scene and prepared to do it all over again. “I am leaving for the courthouse forthwith.”
“Right-o,” Jasper managed, scrambling to the door. “Good luck with that. And congratulations, etcetera.”
“Hm,” said Lem, still faintly smiling. Still very, very tall. “Thank you.”
“Erm, pardon if it’s untoward,” said Jasper, scratching at his hair, turning to watch the other man pass. “You found your pa, did you? Here in Brighton?”
“That is what the papers say,” Lem answered, his smirk expanding to reveal a flash of teeth. “So it must be true. I will sign. My apparent sire will sign. And then I will have a full name.”
“Oh,” said Jasper, frowning. “Erm. Who was it? Anyone I know?”
“Indeed,” said Lem, chuckling. “It is Julian Harcourt.”
And at that revelation, Jasper couldn’t think of a single thing more to say.