17

London, England

The red curtain fell to raucous clapping, whistles, and breaking bottles. A typical Tuesday night at The Scarlet Crown. Originating

as The Spotted Toad pub, the building laid claim to several ghosts and was where Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators met

for a final toast before heading off to their dastardly attempt to blow up Parliament.

Of course, no one could prove that fact, but it made for a good story, and pubs loved nothing more than spinning a good yarn.

A few fires and rebuilds later, the pub was converted into a theater hosting such rousing acts such as Bottleneck Molly and

her whistling set of pipes, the Bacon Brothers and their trick poodles, and the crowd favorite, Blow the Hatch Will, who could

guzzle any brew-filled bottle chucked at him onstage.

Esme glanced at the backstage clock. Nine forty-five. The last performance was scheduled for ten o'clock. A classical depiction

of Salome . Another crowd favorite as Salome somehow managed to misplace four of the seven veils.

"Those vests for Robin Hood's merry men were quite the treat tonight, Dora," Esme said to the costume mistress as she brushed by draped in cheap satins and carrying an armload of men's boots. "You could see all the green sequins to the back row."

"For every one sequin I sew on, they lose twenty," Dora muttered as the tape measure slung around her wrinkly neck threatened

to choke her. "I blame those felt-tipped arrows. They snag on everything, they do."

"Dora!" a female voice screeched from behind a painted backdrop of a temple. "Dora! Where are me veils? There's only the two

here." The Scarlet Crown's very own Salome popped out, black wig askew and rouge rubbed into red circles on her cheeks.

"Here they are. Stop your caterwauling and grab them from my shoulder." Dora sighed and rolled her eyes at Esme.

Salome snatched the silky veils. "You want me goin' on tha' stage withou' a stich, don' ya?" There wasn't enough silk in the

world to cover up her East End origins.

"What I want don't matter much, do it? You've lost nearly all of 'em by night's end."

They carried on back to the dressing room, their squabbling as much a part of the backstage world as scenery props and line

recitation. Others may have grown up with the lullaby of a horse and cart or a nanny's humming, but not Esme, not in the world

of theater. Here was where she'd learned that calling someone "Macbeth" was worse than using a four-letter word. Here was

where she'd learned how to use a cane in one swipe to knock off a too-tall hat that was blocking the stage view. Here was

where she'd learned dramatic Italian phrases from La bohéme . Here was home.

She'd thought returning home was the safest way to lay low and get her feet under her again while she considered her next move. And what to do with the Valkyrie currently hidden in the false bottom of a costume trunk in her room above the theater.

What she was really doing was hiding. Not that she would admit that out loud. A lady was nothing without her secrets, but

in the quiet after the footlights dimmed she could admit the truth to herself. Of course, in the theater the footlights never

dimmed for very long, so it was a sticky wicket she was never forced to contend with at length. Thank heavens for that. However

did truthful souls manage the appalling burden?

Shaking off her tinges of blue, Esme left backstage and took the side aisle, heading to the front of the house where a double

staircase winged its way up to the mezzanine level that had been transformed into the bar area.

"Evenin', Esme," Frankie, the bartender, called as he juggled four glasses in one hand and two bottles of gin in the other.

"Good show tonight," she said, bypassing the worn counter and rows of glittering bottles sitting behind it.

"Tell the boss ta add more comedies," he said. "These dramas whot's too mushy for me."

"You and I both know what it's like telling the boss anything that doesn't already correspond with her plans."

"Too right I do!" Frankie laughed and waved, then turned his attention to a customer.

Continuing down a hallway marked "Private," she passed a few storage rooms before coming to a door at the end. She rapped once, then entered. The room was a decent size with light-paneled walls and the furniture upholstered in pale pinks and watery greens. Potted plants dotted the corners, while framed playbills lined the walls.

In the midst of it all was Mimsy, holding court in the center of a ring of well-heeled gentlemen. Dressed in a gown of silvery

blue, she stood with one gloved elbow propped on the faux marble mantelpiece, blowing out rings of cigarette smoke. She didn't

acknowledge Esme.

"Harold, lamb," Mimsy crooned. "You know The Scarlet Crown is entirely booked until March. I cannot possibly squeeze in another

performer. Not at the expense and pride of one of my actors already contracted."

"Holly Featherlight isn't some two-bit actress," the man, presumably Harold, said. "She has the makings of a star. Think what

it will do for your publicity if The Scarlet Crown is where she's discovered."

"I simply don't see how I can make it work."

That was the game. The theater needed to fill up its calendar and there was nothing more alluring to a talent manager's drive

than filled slots. And Mimsy was aces at playing hard to get. She'd pulled herself up through the theater ranks from chorus

girl, to secondary, to understudy, to leading lady, and finally to being owner. It also helped that she was the previous owner's

paramour when he kicked the bucket and left all his shares in the house to her. Mimsy had mourned for promptly one hour before

making changes. The theater had been somewhat profitable before, but under her ownership it had become a raging success.

"Fit her in here and there," Harold continued. "Use her as an understudy. You won't have to pay her as much as your first-rate

performers. All she needs is a chance to be seen."

Mimsy's kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed at the magic words. Less payment. She tapped her cigarette ash into the unlit fireplace.

"Perhaps there's something." It was the same noncommittal tone Esme had learned to mimic to perfection. "Let me think on it

and we can discuss it over lunch next Thursday at the Savoy."

Another gentleman with a belly ready to burst from his waistcoat harrumphed. "But, Mrs. Fox, you've promised to lunch with

me next Thursday to discuss a new backdrop artist."

Esme stifled a giggle. Mrs . Fox, indeed. Both title and name as fake as the black dye coating Mimsy's marcel waves.

"Oh yes. How frightful of me to forget." Mimsy fluttered her long ebony cigarette holder in innocent ignorance. "Confer with

my secretary and she'll find a convenient time. She has a tighter hold on my diary."

One of the men turned to refill his glass from the crystal-cut decanters provided on a side table. His gaze caught Esme and

took her in with an appreciative survey. She wore a white number trimmed in silver fringe with two ropes of black-jet beads

hanging from her neck.

"Who do we have here?" The man grinned. Drink forgotten, he slid across the floor and wrapped an arm around her waist. "You

didn't tell us you had a sister, Mrs. Fox."

Esme laughed lightly and slipped his hook like a fish. "Ah, sir, but when you enter the theater, you enter a world of secrets."

Mimsy's dark red mouth curled into a tight smile. She skipped forward and linked her arm to Esme's, dragging her into the

center of admirers.

"This is Esme." That was all. No relation or affiliation. And heaven knew she would rather go the way of Ophelia than admit mother and daughter. "Gentlemen, this evening has been delightful, but I'm afraid it's time for a girls-only chin wag."

An actress always knew when she was losing her audience.

After toodle-ooing them out the door, Mimsy dropped the act of refinement. "Whew! What a sack of ol' windbags. A girl stoops

something awful low to keep her theater doors open." She dropped onto the delicate chaise piled with velvet pillows and kicked

off her gold T-strapped shoes, closing her eyes with a blissful sigh. "Be a pet and fetch me my cigarette case."

Esme took the silver case from the mantel and crossed to where Mimsy lay. She selected a fag and fit it into the end of the

ebony holder, then lit it with a match. After blowing out the match, she tossed it into the crystal ashtray with half a dozen

other burned sticks.

"You smoke too much."

"Steadies the nerves." Mimsy puffed, exhaling smoke through her nose and pulling it into her mouth like a coiling snake.

"Wherever did you learn to do that?"

"Ain't it something? Learned it off one of them French actresses what come through here last year. Terrible play, but the

audiences love anything exotic. Called a ‘French inhale.'" She cracked open an eye, her eyelashes thick with mascara. "Thank

heavens your bosom never came in. Those pearls would never hang straight if they had."

Esme tossed the cigarette case onto the table next to the ashtray and dropped into one of the matching pink accent chairs.

"That's not what you said a decade ago. I strictly remember you lamenting over my lack of a bosom when I became an adolescent.

Said the lads would never go for a flat-chested beanpole."

"Lucky for you the fashions have changed since then. Now your type is all the rage while I'm left to pinch myself into girdles." Classic Mimsy. Ever so deft at dealing a compliment with a backhanded slap.

Accustomed to dodging such slaps, Esme crossed her legs and settled farther into the chair. "Is the theater suffering?"

"Eh? Oh that. No. We're doing right as rain."

"Then why play the hard-to-get card?"

Mimsy puffed her cigarette, spewing smoke all about. "All them talent managers think their starlets deserve top billing. Playing

hard to get drives their asking price down. The key to a successful business is exclusivity. Same way I taught you to get

a man."

"Get a man." Esme twirled the end of her pearl ropes. "Have you changed your tune about settling down to slippers and pipe?"

Smoke sputtered from the older woman's nose. "I'd be better off listening to a soprano shatter glass and stab me in the eye

with it than ever tie myself down to a man. Best to have flings. No mess, no commitments. Pure freedom."

There it was. The Fox ladies' mantra. Avoid commitment at all costs. Now here they were, master free, bouncing down a line

of men and living the life of swells. Wasn't it brilliant? Rising, Esme moved to the side table and poured herself a gin and

tonic.

"I thought you were kicking up your heels with that banker from Whitehall." She returned to her chair and sipped her drink.

"That was over a year ago, pet. Can't let them hang around too long. They start getting ideas."

Ideas such as marriage, hardly. More like ideas of leaving and finding a younger pair of arms. Best to leave first and consider

it your idea all along. It was the only way to maintain control.

Esme ran her finger around the edge of the cool glass, the drink suddenly heavy in her stomach. "What if the right man came along?"

"Learned long ago there's no such thing. Only kind that exists is the man for right now. They want too much, and guess who

always gets stuck footing the bill?" Mimsy made a bump gesture over her stomach. "Us. You and me, we're not cut out for all

that hearth and apron strings nonsense. Look at us, we're free."

"Yes, indeed. Free as birds." Why hadn't the gin kicked in yet?

Propping her stocking-clad feet on a plump cushion, Mimsy tapped her cigarette ash into the tray behind her head. She missed

and the ash floated to the floor.

"Speaking of which, how long until you take flight again?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Concern is all."

"Let us not pretend you've ever hosted a maternal bone in your body. Motherly concern is not your style." Ah, there it was

trailing through her at last. Nothing like the tranquil cooling effects of a good gin.

"Don't use that dreadful word." Mimsy shivered as if the image of a doting Madonna terrified her more than panning in front

of a full house. "My only concern is to keep you from moping too long. You only return home when your tail is tucked between

your legs. Because of a man or an art deal gone wrong, so I want to know how long it'll take this time."

It was true that Esme didn't often step foot in The Scarlet Crown when life was jolly. She was far too busy plying her trade in jewels and art, a trade she had neither confirmed nor denied as being on the up and up to Mimsy. They had an unspoken policy of not asking, and therefore needing no explanation. Yet in coming home, there was always an admission price of sorts to pay.

Esme drained her glass dry and prepared herself for the inevitable. "Out with it."

"With what?"

"With whatever task you wish to employ me in."

A moment's hesitation and finally out it came. "Thelma is out sick—"

"No."

Mimsy sat up straight, kicking the cushion away from her feet. "She has only a few lines in the second act. You'd be onstage

less than a few minutes."

"Do you not remember the last time I was forced into a performance? I tossed my cookies before uttering a single line."

"That was ages ago." Mimsy waved her hand as if it were no concern at all. "Surely you can muster the strength to push through.

After all, the show must go on."

"It can go right on without me." Standing, Esme moved again to her newest best mate, the loaded side table. "Backstage, I'll

lend a hand. Out front, no. Find someone else."

Mimsy pounced on the offer. "I do need a prop master. Wallace got smacked in the head with Tybalt's sword during last week's

Romeo and Juliet . You can fill in until he returns from hospital."

"Swell." Three cubes of ice this time. Clink, clink, clink. Such a magical sound they made falling into the glass.

Knock. Knock.

Quick as a flash, Mimsy swung her legs off the chaise and strapped on her heels. She pinched her cheeks and casually angled herself on the cushions with one arm thrown carelessly over the back of the seat. She never let an acting opportunity pass her by.

" Entre ," she called in her best Gladys Cooper voice.

The door opened to reveal one of the Crown's ushers, dressed in a smart uniform of scarlet and navy.

"Excuse the interruption, Mrs. Fox. There's a gentleman here to see you."

"Who?"

"He didn't give his name, only said that he's your husband."

"Husband?" Mimsy's drawn-on eyebrows pinched together. "Someone is playing a cruel joke, for I am a widowed lady."

The usher shrugged. "Sorry, ma'am, but he said he was here to see Mrs. Fox."

" Miss Fox," came an altogether too familiar voice from the other side of the door. "A mistake easily made."

The door swung all the way open. Jasper glided past the usher and into the room. His eyes swept the space until lighting on

Esme with cool directness.

"Hello, darling wife. Did you miss me?"