Chapter 6

6

King’s Theatrein Haymarket was smaller than Spencer remembered. He used to come here for nights of entertainment and in his pursuit of the ladies he wanted to seduce. Lit with fires in braziers, the stone and brick building had columns supported by a pediment. He knew all the dark corners for quick sexual encounters behind heavy curtains while the room was dark and the audience’s attention was on the stage.

But he was not the man he used to be.

He was broken and lost. Would he ever be restored?

He crossed the road, careful to maneuver around the slowly moving carriages that brought fashionable ladies and gentlemen to see the opera.

He was quite late, and most spectators were already inside. He knew from Grandmama, who had heard from Penelope, that the Duchess of Ashton and her husband would be here. If Spencer was lucky, his little Persephone would be, too. Since she was at the ball, and snooping in his study, she must know him somehow. And she obviously wanted to get information about him.

As he presented the footman with his ticket, unease washed through him, and he felt an instinct to shrug his shoulders. Without a mask, he felt too naked. Too vulnerable. The news of him coming back hadn’t yet spread through London, since he didn’t often leave his home. Sooner or later, though, the news would get out through the ship captain and Spencer’s fellow officers who, after several months, had finally come to believe his claim that he was a duke.

There would be no one who remained ignorant of his return after tonight. Opera at King’s Theatre was usually covered in gossip newspapers, and any journalists present would leap at the chance to report on the reappearance of the former Duke of Grandhampton. Especially after his family had been led to believe he was dead and even buried another man’s corpse.

As he strode through the entrance doors, stepping onto the red carpet, he was plunged into the scent of the opera he knew so well. Wood polish mixed with exquisite perfume, the slight odor of dust always present from the carpets and the heavy curtains and drapes. The hallway was loud with people laughing and talking. He recognized many faces. Men he knew from the House of Lords, from his gentlemen’s clubs like Tyche and Elysium, from his boxing club. Ladies he knew socially. His former lovers.

People were looking at him over their shoulders, frowning in confusion, some had wide eyes, others squinted as though trying to see better. Many were whispering. He even heard gasps. Lady Farthing, a widow he’d had an affair with for six months, looked as pale as a sheet and fanned herself vigorously.

In the gold and red vestibule, he quickly became the center of all attention. His stomach churned with the instinct to hide and to escape. Where was a mask when he needed one?

His eyes, however, kept scanning the crowd, not acknowledging anyone, but looking for a curvy blond lady with green eyes.

Lady Whitemouth approached him. “Pardon my boldness, sir…” This tiny lady was the biggest gossip of the ton. Whatever he would say may appear in the society papers tomorrow. “This can’t be…can it? The Duke of Grandhampton?”

He felt his jaw working. He had a choice now. Keep hiding in Sumhall, or behind a mask, or in the shadows. Or announce that he was here and not let Ashton scare him into hiding anymore. Spencer had only suspicions about the reasons for Ashton’s actions towards him. Whatever they were, Spencer felt certain the mysterious Persephone would lead him to something interesting.

Informing Lady Whitemouth meant telling the whole of London he was back. It was time. The war had started with Ashton, and he was ready.

“I am not,” he said. “I am no longer the Duke of Grandhampton, as you very well know. I am, however, Lord Spencer Seaton, and yes, I am alive.”

Her mouth flew open in a silent gasp, her eyes practically glimmering as she looked at her daughter, Lady Isabella, who, Spencer remembered, was so offended by Sebastian’s choice of wife at the ball before Spencer’s disappearance.

No matter. He wanted to find Persephone—if she was here, of course. He kept walking, under the stares and the whispers of people. He was surveying the assemblage of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen when someone called him from behind.

“Spencer!”

Annoyance gurgling in his gut at the recognition of Preston’s voice, he turned.

Preston was breathing hard, his face sheepish. “I arrived to Sumhall earlier tonight and saw your carriage driving away, and so I followed you. I need to talk to you.”

Spencer turned around, his eyes glancing over the heads of people. He could be staring at his Persephone right now, but would he recognize her without her mask?

“This is a highly inconvenient time,” he said dismissively.

“There’ll never be a good time,” said Preston.

Spencer grunted and, his exasperation growing, limped through the crowd, searching for signs of the lady. She had eyes the color of fresh spring leaves. Pretty blond hair. Full lips. The small birthmark near her ear, shaped somewhat like a pomegranate. Sinful curves. An ample bosom, the feel of which made him animalistic.

“Leave me alone, brother,” said Spencer.

“I can’t,” said Preston. “Not after how we left things. Not after your letter, and my harsh words, and not after I thought I’d live with regret for the rest of my life knowing I could never make up to you again. Because now, luckily, I can.”

The night Spencer had been press-ganged last year, he and Preston had fought over Penelope. Preston had been sure Penelope was a fortune hunter while Spencer had wanted to propose to her. That night, Preston had been supposed to come with Spencer to Portside, but hadn’t because of their fight. Had Preston come, perhaps Spencer wouldn’t have been press-ganged.

Before leaving for Portside, Spencer had written his brother a letter trying to reconcile with him and finally put their differences aside. And that was what Preston was doing now, trying to mend what was broken, while Spencer was the one running away.

A familiar unease bubbled up. Resentment rose within him, a mix of envy and anger towards his brother. Deep down, he knew Preston was right. He knew he couldn’t avoid Preston and his family forever. But part of him was livid with his brother because he had everything that used to be Spencer’s.

Especially Penelope.

He was distracted by his thoughts as he walked up the plush red carpet of the grand staircase, but reminded himself he was looking for his Persephone. A few people he passed frowned, as they must have recognized him, but looked confused—most of the ton still believed he was dead after all.

“You must be furious,” said Preston as he followed. “In your shoes, I’d certainly be. I took your title, but, believe me, I never wanted it in the first place.”

Spencer should tell Preston he understood his actions. Understood the legal justification, and the reality of it all. But it didn’t change the profound loss he felt.

“And, of course, Penelope…” Preston trailed off and was silent, but then insisted again, “Please talk to me, brother. Am I right? Are you cross?”

In that moment, he saw a woman with blond hair and, with a surge of hope and a pounding heart, he reached her and looked at her from the side. Her lips were thin, and she had no birthmark. Plus her eyes were the wrong color. His chest deflated.

“Are you?” insisted Preston.

Spencer’s blood was boiling. “This is not the time,” he grunted through his teeth. “I am busy.”

“Doing what?” demanded Preston.

“Do not concern yourself with it.”

“Does it have to do with the person who had you press-ganged to the ship? You must stop hiding who that is. I understand you don’t want Calliope to get involved. But you can tell me.”

Spencer resumed walking. He was marching through the assembling audience on the second floor now. Another blond woman of a similar height was talking to a group of well-dressed people, but she was too thin to be his Persephone. He thrilled at the fervor of the hunt that was building inside him, but his brother’s relentlessness exasperated him.

“Leave me alone,” said Spencer. “You’ve meddled enough already. No one asked you to avenge me. No one asked you to marry the woman I wanted. And no one asked you to take my title.”

“You are livid,” said Preston with uncharacteristic sadness. “I am sorry, Spence. For all of it.”

Something in Spencer melted a little. It was so unlike Preston to apologize. Their rivalry has been long and brutal, and Spencer had wanted to make peace with him as well before he disappeared.

In following a number of false leads, Spencer realized he had inadvertently ended up at the Seaton box that the family had rented for generations. Grandmama was there with Jane and Richard as well as Emma and Sebastian, the Duke and Duchess of Loxchester, all of whom looked at Spencer and Preston with surprise in their eyes.

“Spencer! Preston!” exclaimed Grandmama as she made a movement to stand, and Richard helped her up.

“Grandmama,” said Spencer through gritted teeth.

“I thought you didn’t want to go out,” said Richard with a frown.

Spencer sighed. “I didn’t.”

“How are you feeling, dearest?” asked Grandmama. “Is the pain very bad?”

Spencer didn’t want anyone to ask anything about his pain, about him being here, about his search. He wanted to be left alone. He also didn’t want his family to be in any danger.

“I’m fine, Grandmama. Thank you for asking.”

His gaze dropped to the pit, where he saw Ashton with the woman who must be his wife and two young ladies. One of them was blond and curvaceous in a blue silk gown, the other one blond and thin in a white lace gown.

The curvaceous one looked familiar. The way she held her shoulders and her head. Her chin. The way her graceful neck supported her head. And hadn’t he pressed his body against those luscious breasts just yesterday?

A jolt of joy and desire shot through him. She was far away, but the very sight of her made him breathe faster.

At the same time, the candle lights and lamps were being snuffed by the footmen and more lights were being lit on the stage. People started to take their seats.

He didn’t have much time.

“Please, excuse me,” said Spencer.

He rushed away as much as his leg allowed, cringing as sharp pain exploded through his thigh. It took additional effort not to show he was in pain, to keep his face straight.

Through the crowds of people, who were now pouring in to take their seats, he was a fish swimming against the current. Dozens of faces of ladies and gentlemen flashed before him as he pushed through them. Perfume and cologne mixed in his nostrils with the sharp tang of aromatic vinegar. It came from vinaigrettes that ladies carried to mask the unpleasant odors common in large gatherings of people and for direct inhalation of their healthy vapors. He had missed the scent of the opera, of alcohol and exuberance, and yet, part of him now longed to be at sea again, to smell the brine and the wind and hear the cries of the sailors manning the ship and singing simple songs that told of the land and of the families everyone missed.

Unfortunately, as Spencer hurried downstairs, Preston continued following him and, thanks to his perfectly healthy legs, was now descending by his side.

“Do you still love her?” asked Preston, his gaze dark and burning.

Did he? He had loved her, he was pretty sure.

It was the prospect of his future with her, of making her his duchess, that had kept the light in his soul alive. Even in the darkest days and nights in the belly of the ship when he lay feverish and delirious with his thigh split open and death breathing right behind his shoulder, this vision kept him going.

But now she was his brother’s wife…

“Rest assured, brother,” said Spencer as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Preston. With most people now settled in their seats, only a few ladies and gentlemen hurried past them up the stairs to take their places. “Whatever my feelings are, I have no intention of pursuing your wife. I swear it.”

He walked through the hallway now and towards the doors to the auditorium on the ground floor.

“I didn’t think you would pursue anyone’s wife,” said Preston, walking by his side, undaunted. “I know you’re a man of honor. But that doesn’t answer my question if you love her.”

“What does it matter if I do or if I don’t?” barked Spencer. “I’ll never have her. She’s yours. She’ll always be yours.”

“Stop, Spence.” Preston grasped Spencer’s elbow and turned him so they were face-to-face. “What can I do to change this? Had I known you were alive, I’d have never thought to marry the woman you wanted.”

Spencer’s chest warmed and ached. “Nothing. You cannot do anything except for leave me alone.”

“I never wanted the title. You’ve always been the one who was supposed to be duke. All I want is my brother back.”

Yes, it was hard to see someone else living Spencer’s life, including a happy marriage with the woman who was supposed to be his.

Especially when that someone was Preston. Especially when Preston was so…healed. So whole. So kind. So open.

And right now, Spencer was the exact opposite of that.

“That will never happen, Preston,” said Spencer, his voice crisp and aching. “Your brother died on that ship. The man you see before you now is someone else.”

Hurt crossed his brother’s gaze, but Spencer could not talk about it. Not now. Not with him.

Not when he had a Persephone to hunt for. It seemed that was the only positive strand of light in his life.

When the footmen opened the doors for him, he entered the dark pit. The opera had already begun, the lovely voice of the actress resonating through the room. As though to laugh at him, destiny had it that it was Persephone singing on the stage, and Hades, a round baritone in a toga, echoed her.

“I don’t believe that, Spence,” whispered Preston loudly. “I know you’ve gone through a lot. I know you’ve lost much. But you can heal. I know that because I have healed. So I will help you—”

While Preston talked, Spencer looked around. The place where he’d seen Ashton, his wife, and the two blond ladies was empty. He growled in frustration, turning around and surveying dozens of faces. Colorful lights and explosions were flashing from the stage. Light experts were probably making special effects by throwing different metal salts into the fires. A dangerous business, which caused several fires in this very theater a few times per year.

The hissing of the burning salts and the acrid scent brought a tightening of his gut as he remembered the hissing of the cannons on his ship and the whistle of cannonballs flying through the air. He resisted the urge to duck each time an explosion went off.

He couldn’t see Ashton, but the most likely place for the powerful duke was in the private boxes. He looked up to the boxes, peering into the faces that were illuminated by the flashes of light.

There. He could see Ashton’s square-jawed face, his wife, and the two ladies. The prince regent was sitting with them and whispering something into the ear of the thinner lady, who stared into space with big, frightened eyes. The other lady threw worried glances at her.

“Who is that?” he asked Preston.

“Where?” Preston asked and followed Spencer’s gaze. “Oh. It’s the Duke of Ashton, his wife, and of course you know His Highness.”

“Yes. And the two young ladies?”

“I believe those are Ashton’s nieces.”

As soon as Preston’s words left his mouth, a deafening boom shook the floor beneath Spencer’s feet. Spencer shuddered and ducked. He could almost feel sharp snaps of wood splinters from the ship’s hull flying around him, about to shred his body.

The explosion caused several bursts of fire to land on the wooden floor, the curtains, and the wig of the opera singer. She screamed as she threw her smoldering wig on the wooden floor of the stage. More screams came from the audience and a loud, panicked murmur spread through the theater like flames.

As chaos erupted, people leapt up, causing chairs and benches to topple over with resounding crashes. Some fell and screamed in pain. Someone pushed Spencer.

“We have to leave!” Preston tugged him towards the exit.

Smoke filled the room.

And among all that, Spencer was frozen, his heart pounding like a drum. Flashes, explosions, wood splinters flying around… He wasn’t in the theater anymore. He was back at sea, at Lake Erie, as his ship was being blown to pieces and so was his leg. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His body was as rigid as stone.

“Spencer!” A desperate voice came as though from afar, and the tugging finally got him to move…

Then there was a female scream. Close by. From up in the rigging.

No, there were no women on the ship. He was dragged out of his nightmare. Someone needed his help. He blinked, looked up. He was standing right under the balcony of one of the boxes.

A woman in a blue dress held on to the balustrade for a moment, dangling in the air. She scrabbled about with her free hand, trying to grip the edge of the balcony. But her fingers pulled away one by one, and she dropped… Acting on an instinct, Spencer leapt forward.

His leg burst in pain as he took on her sudden weight. He grunted but stood his ground. This was nothing compared to the rocking ship he had lived on for the past year.

He looked down at the astounded face of the female in his arms. He liked the weight of her, the warm curves. His heart drumming, his gaze dropped to her lips with that Cupid’s bow. Full. His gut flipping, he looked near her earlobe. Yes, the little pomegranate-shaped birthmark. His whole body buzzed, pain in his leg dissolving and forgotten. Her eyes…yes, the brilliant apple green of a spring. And her smell… Good heavens, he’d know her scent anywhere—wildflowers and pomegranates. Her hair, silky and golden, brushed straight without fashionable curls around her face, made her look like a maid or a governess.

A naughty governess he ached to plunder.

People kept rushing by and pushing him, Preston kept calling his name. The fire was now brighter, and the room was filled with so much smoke his eyes began burning. But he might as well have stood in the eye of the storm—he felt as solid as a rock with this woman in his arms.

“Persephone…” he murmured.

Her eyes, which were already open in shock at the almost deadly fall, went even wider. Those lips he’d kissed insatiably just last night opened in astonishment.

“Excuse me?” she murmured, trying to wriggle out of his arms, but he held her tight.

She was Ashton’s niece.

Goddamn it. Ashton’s niece! A dozen questions roamed about in his mind, from what was her real name, to was she really plotting against her uncle, to was she as evil as him?

At least now that he knew who she was he could find out all those things…but not at this precise moment. The acrid smell of smoke was so strong now it burned his nostrils, his throat and chest hurting.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She nodded. He gently put her on her feet and took her hand in his. Fire was burning through the wooden walls now and the cardboard and wooden props on the stage. With guilt, Spencer realized he had completely forgotten about his family. Preston was fine, but his elderly grandmama was upstairs. But Richard and Sebastian were with her, along with their wives. They would make sure she was all right.

“We have to go, Spence!” said Preston, and he finally looked at his brother, who held his bent arm over his nose.

He nodded, and they all hurried outside with the last of the theater guests.

When they stood in the fresh air, he turned to his Persephone, who stared at him with wide, glistening eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

Disappointingly, her hand slipped out of his. And before he could offer his help to take her and her sister home, she slipped through the crowd of onlookers. He darted after her, elbowing through people, but, just like at the ball, she was gone.

Damnation!

The woman’s ability to disappear was uncanny.

But now that he knew her identity, she couldn’t hide from him for long. First thing tomorrow, he would find out her address and call on her.