Chapter Six
“Several,” Neville repeated under his breath. He could hardly wrap his mind around the word’s implications. “Several?”
“More than I can recall.” Mrs. Cartwright turned back to the players.
This close to the stage, their bodies were both cast in shadow, but light from the two large lamps suspended from the ceiling reflected off her face, casting an unholy glow over her eyes.
Or perhaps the peculiar glimmer radiated out from within.
She’d a far-away look—far away and yet completely riveted. Natural in a theater, when one is absorbed by the players on stage. Only she hadn’t been paying attention to the lines.
With creeping certainty, Neville’s understanding evolved.
Mrs. Cartwright was not seeing the play, but something entirely different, though equally vivid.
She had a frozen, unfamiliar expression.
He’d met with Mrs. Cartwright on multiple occasions.
Hell, he’d even flirted with her tonight.
But now, she appeared like a stranger, just another face in the crowd.
Several.
Willard had broken several young women. Could Mrs. Cartwright have been one of them?
Blood thudded in Neville’s ears. Then, like a team of carriage horses freed from their traces by a crash-cracked carriage tongue, his mind bucked in multiple directions, panicked and wild.
Millicent, he was ever aware, was behind him.
And, worse, in a true demon’s care.
He’d only caught a brief glimpse of Millie’s uncharacteristically pale features, but every detail—from her dark hair to her planed cheeks, to the tight bud of her pinched lips—burned behind his lids.
His body urged him to leap up right now and call out her name, but he fought it down.
One wrong move on his part could damn her to hell, the next in the demon’s trail of victims.
This theater held over two thousand. So long as Willard and Millie were prominently on display, every set of eyes became a primed weapon.
All Willard need do was lift Millie’s hand, hold her gaze, and place a lingering kiss on the inside of her glove. A trifle. A nothing. A mere breath’s work. And people would believe she was Willard’s. And after such a public claim of possession, her fate would lie entirely in his hands.
Millie would be bound to the blackguard then in a manner of his choosing, either as his future wife—or his… Neville shivered, not even wanting to think the word for what she could be forced to become.
And Millie wasn’t the only one in his life who Willard was trying to ruin.
In his mind, he saw his brother hovered anxiously over a weeping girl on that very first, fateful meeting with Temperence Wilson last summer in Brighton.
Willard would have chosen just the right spot, picturesque, secluded, intimate—a pleasance beneath a flowing bower, perhaps.
Now, he understood why John had been unable to resist lending help.
John, sensitive John, with his heart of untested honor, would have perceived evil all around, no matter what story Miss Wilson had told. With innocence and beauty hanging in the balance, what was a young man of his tender sensibility to do?
Why, ignore his own peril, and chart a plan of rescue, of course.
And John would have had no idea both he and the girl were both already hopelessly ensnared…
Neville tumbled further back in time, all the way back to a dormitory privy. Somehow, the door’s cold metal handle was still in his grip, its wood panels still vibrating from being forced open.
Wine-dark blood spilled from Willard’s nose, staining his white shirt. Willard’s slackened face bore purpling welts beneath his eyes.
And Asquith—Willard’s simple Simon, his favorite toy—with limp, wet hands red with blood. Droplets pattered from each of his fingers, straight down to his left pinky, which dangled, limp and useless.
Neville remembered placing his hand on Asquith’s warm shoulder, and heard his own voice repeating Simon James Landon, over and over and over, until Asquith finally blinked up at him, remembering his own Christian name.
Heaven help them all. A privy was so mundane. And yet, the stench from that night had carried on, right to this very moment.
Heavy pressure against his shoulder nudged Neville back to the present. He shivered, suddenly aware he was staring down into a tight twist of blonde curls.
“You didn’t think Miss Wilson the only one, did you?”
He heard bitterness beneath Mrs. Cartwright’s whispered words. Bitterness he hadn’t noticed in her before. As had happened the night he’d battered his way into that privy, his mind whirred with crystalline clarity, sending him directives as if by supernatural force.
Get Cartwright home. Steal Millie away. Protect the innocent. Then deal with Willard.
He didn’t have time to find someone he trusted to watch over Mrs. Cartwright, but he would do what he could to make sure someone—perhaps the theater manager—checked with her before the night was through. In the meantime, he would, at least, make sure she had escort.
He placed his hand on Mrs. Cartwright’s head, holding her cheek gently against his chest. As he did so, he brushed the arm of the man with whom he’d exchanged words earlier, purposefully catching his attention.
The man scowled, annoyed to have his enjoyment of the play interrupted again. His companion leaned forward and caught Neville’s gaze.
Neville glanced pointedly down. He mouthed, “Take care of her.”
The man’s frown deepened, and he pursed his lips. However, the woman with him nodded.
“Please. I must go.” Neville’s words remained soundless, but urgent.
The man studied Mrs. Cartwright, raised his brows. Finally, he shrugged, then nodded, too.
One problem temporarily solved.
A sudden, thunderous applause matched the beat of Neville’s heart. The noise and commotion provided further cover for his actions. He dipped into his pocket, drew out a coin, which he then slipped to the man. Mrs. Cartwright had not noticed.
Neville glanced to the nearest light, one hanging just above the empty Royal box. Dancing flames inside the globe rose as if sorcerer-summoned, and the glow increased in pace with the swell of chatter and rustle of fabric.
He risked one last glance at the Eltenham box.
Willard was still there. At present, he was helping his mother to her feet. Millicent, already standing, appeared engrossed by Willard’s task. Neville suspected she was simply unwilling to acknowledge the young men in the box.
Good. He’d always known she was smart.
But still, he couldn’t be easy. Her posture was one of uncertainty. She held one arm straight and the other crossed over her stomach. And she was clutching her elbow so tight, indentations wrinkled long lines in her glove, obvious even from this distance.
He had a few moments of reprieve, but she was still in danger.
Willard had somehow separated Millicent from her gaggle of brothers-in-law, chaperones and sisters, a group more numerous than the most fecund of geese with their goslings.
Such a feat could not have been easy. Neville doubted the blackguard would have put himself to the effort—unless he’d had a plan.
But nothing too improper had happened publicly—yet.
Just improper enough to inspire a flurry of Fleet Street cartoons on the morrow. Neville could see them now—Millicent at the center of a bouquet of young men, with painted cheeks and an exaggerated bosom. Her courtiers would be drawn with wide, oversized eyes, all fixed on her bounteous breasts.
Any male attention she received after tonight would be of the vile kind.
Damn Willard for exposing her in this fashion.
But such concerns were for the morrow. For now, Neville had to rescue her before she came to further harm. Somehow, he had to reach her, and he had to get her alone. And both objectives must be accomplished without placing her in greater danger, raising public alarm, or exposing her to actual ruin.
Pity he had no sword sharp enough to slice through such a Gordian Knot!
“Why, Mr. Mann,” Mrs. Cartwright said, “you look as if you are about to cast up your accounts.”
“There are privies if you need them, Gov,” added the fellow Neville had just paid to see Mrs. Cartwright safely home.
Mrs. Cartwright’s attention snapped to her side, studying the man with narrowed eyes.
“Fancy privies, too.” The man transferred a suddenly sheepish gaze to Mrs. Cartwright. “If you’ll pardon.”
Mrs. Cartwright inclined her head.
“You just stay here with us until your companion returns,” the man’s female friend added.
“If you must go, go.” Mrs. Cartwright sent Neville a quick, dark look. “But you’re sure to be too late.”
Not if he had any say. Neville angled his way toward the row’s end.
He then raced down the aisle, twisting his body to pass both men and women alike.
Moving with singular purpose, he ignored all protest and headed toward stage right.
As he hastened, he racked his memory, searching for the details of the layout he’d learned on his private tour.
Instead of heading for the chambre de la commode, he slipped into another room—one that he thought contained a passage to the stage. From there, he hoped he could get to the second level. And then…
He stopped short.
Neville certainly could not demand to speak with Millicent, not without raising undue notice. Especially dressed as he was now. The garments that had served as cover were now an impediment. Damn.
He could not command his way to the upper level. He wasn’t even “Lord Neville” tonight!
“I am sorry, sir, but you cannot be in—”
Neville glanced back to the man who’d spoken.
“What the devil?” The manager cried. “Nev? Is that really you?”
“Harris! Thank God.” His short prayer was sincere. “I need to get to the upper level.”
His friend eyed him up and down, appearing simultaneously skeptical and alarmed.
“Harris,”—he seized the man’s arm—“my dear friend—”
Harris’s brows went up.
“—I must find a place I can meet privately with a lady. Preferably on the same level as the boxes.”