19

London was awake in all its shades of gray and blue with tints of light peeking over the rooftops. Sitting on the alley curb

behind the theater, Esme sipped her tea and smiled. She'd missed this. Not the grime or cloudy skies but the familiarity it

brought.

Somehow she could never forget the impressions of childhood, good or bad. As much as she hated the soggy newspapers clogging

up the gutters and the smells of ship smokestacks and fish drifting up from the Thames, they were ingrained in her. Without

this, she never would have pushed herself to be more, so she was grateful for the hardships and treasured the quiet mornings

like this before the theater world came alive.

Then again, all theater mornings were quiet since no one rose before noon thanks to late-night performances.

As for herself, she'd tossed and turned all night. The scent of cedarwood cologne had kept her awake. They were alone together for barely a few minutes in the costume closet, yet Jasper had managed to infuse her with his scent until it choked out all possibility of restful dreams. Drat the man. He probably did it on purpose, if such a thing was possible. She wouldn't put anything past him when it came to getting under her skin. Especially after her repeated betrayal.

She glanced down at their wedding photograph resting innocently in her lap. A bit more creased and curled at the corners,

but the fresh faces staring back at her were as happy as they always were. Her melancholy moods had a habit of dragging out

the photo to torment her.

However, in this case she deserved the vexation.

She'd tried to justify her actions and outrun their consequences, but there was the truth punching against her heart. She'd

wronged him and for one of the few times in her life, she regretted thinking only of herself. It was a new feeling, but one

that hinted at a possible goodness lurking within her all along.

How Jasper would laugh at that diagnosis! That thought alone made the corner of her mouth tick up.

The feeling was fleeting. Reminiscent of their time together in France. His blasé coolness about the matter when he'd arrived

at the theater—looking too handsome for his own good in that tuxedo jacket with his hair combed devilishly to the side—had

riled her to no end. So much so that her usual quips refused to come to her rescue, forcing her into a situation she disliked

more than anything. One of vulnerability.

Then again, she wasn't the only one.

Jasper's words had been aloof as he carelessly tossed them out, but she saw the pain stuttering behind them, for it was precisely

the armor she donned when she was too close to breaking.

"Find one beautiful, good thing and I break it before it breaks me." She traced a delicate fingernail around Jasper's sepia

face. "Typical."

"What's typical?"

Esme jumped as Mimsy came up behind her. Tea sloshed onto her knee. She quickly swiped it off and tucked the photograph back

into her garter. Safe from curious eyes.

"Typical how some things never change."

"Stick around the theater and that's true enough. The more things change, the more they stay the same." Mimsy raised a gloved

hand to her powdered and colored face. "Except for the amount of face paint I require. That increases daily."

Esme took in the smart cranberry day dress with cream trim, stylish cloche hat, and figure that was the envy of women half

her age. The smoke and mirrors of theater life was a grand education in how to present one's best image, and Mimsy had perfected

the art.

"You don't look a day past chorus girl."

"Oh, how you flatter."

"I learned from the best."

"Speaking of flattering, where is that charming husband of yours?" Mimsy's dreamy gaze drifted upward to Esme's third-story

window.

Esme's heart gave an involuntary double thump. "Not there."

"Whyever not? If I had a man like that, I'd lock him in and never let him out." Mimsy dragged over an empty crate and dropped

it next to Esme, then sat.

"He has a knack for wriggling loose."

"Then you're not keeping a tight enough hold on him."

"Who says I want a hold on him?" The words soured on Esme's tongue. Odd. They once tasted of conviction and relief. Something

was off with the tea.

"You married him, didn't you? Not to mention that photo you hurriedly stuffed away."

Esme glared into her cup, searching for the offender who was twisting her insides into some unrecognizable state of flustered. A common state when Jasper was involved.

"The two have nothing to do with each other."

"Then whyever did you marry him?"

The woman was annoyingly persistent. Forcing Esme to confess feelings she'd done her best to bury. Run away from or bury,

her most refined instincts when she got caught in a situation over her head. Marrying Jasper was the epitome of in-over-her-head,

so she had run and quickly buried all the might-have-beens between them. Only now they were wriggling loose.

Esme did her best to wrangle them before things got out of her control. "I was khaki mad, like most other women when the army

came sauntering through. Simply could not resist all that masculine charm neatly bundled up in a gleaming uniform."

"I understand the temptation. I've had a number of gleaming uniforms step through my theater doors. None tempted me enough

to tie myself down with apron strings."

That caught Esme's attention. The woman she knew only as a free bird contemplating marriage was as absurd a concept as that

of King George skipping around Piccadilly in naught but his skivvies.

"Would you have accepted if they had offered a ring?"

A girlish smile flitted across Mimsy's powdered face. "Years ago maybe, but my youthful idealism wanted a duke or a lord, and they weren't interested in marriage. At least not to me. Actresses were little more than acceptable mistresses. They already had their fine ladies to call wife while I was little more than a distraction. A jolly good distraction, but never suitable for respectability. So I waited and waited for my prince charming to come along and sweep me off to his castle and leave all this behind." She gestured to the dank gloominess around them.

"But I was never truly loved by any hand that touched me. The years passed and I realized my prince was never coming, so I

set out to become ruler of my own kingdom. And now here I am, a queen with her own Scarlet Crown."

"What if the prince were to come along now?"

"He'd find out he was too late. The boredom of hearth and home isn't for me. Something I've tried instilling in you since

before you could talk. Men promise the moon, kisses, and love, but all they really want is someone to wash their socks. Where's

the excitement in that?"

Esme dropped her gaze to her left hand where a small gold band once briefly rested. Her thoughts filled with the man who had

put it there.

"What if there was a man who lived for the same excitement as you?"

"Show me the man and I'll show you a smooth liar."

"Jasper is the one man who I believe could lasso the moon if he wished. He's rather obnoxious about his capabilities." It

was devilishly attractive.

"Then why are you so eager to toss him aside?"

Attention snapping up, Esme raised incredulous eyebrows. "It's what you taught me, remember? Best to exit the stage before

the trapdoor swings open under you and all that. No one wishes to be left lying broken in the sawdust."

"And has he left you broken?"

"I thought about breaking but couldn't quite get the pieces apart."

"Stubborn."

Esme gave an unladylike snort. "Pardon me, but I've heard you refer to that as self-preservation."

Mimsy primly crossed her ankles. A move she used onstage to indicate righteous authority. "It is when the man doesn't want

you. The man I met last night looked to be very much in love with you."

"Your eyes are going bad because that man wanted— wants —to throttle me."

"More to my point. Why is he so angry?"

"Because I made him believe things were possible."

"Do you believe they're possible?"

The question prickled under Esme's skin, scratching against her so-called refined instincts and revealing furrows of fear.

Fear that she might actually care for him. Fear that they could be something great together, but if she allowed herself to

care, it gave him power. Power to hurt her, to break her heart, to leave her. She refused to live in that kind of helplessness.

"Would it be so terrible if we fell in love?" Jasper's words whispered in her ear, racing a thrill through her heart. For the first time, the mention of love didn't send

her into a cold sweat.

"I want to," she said softly.

"Then believe."

"This from the woman who told me not to be led around by my heart. Who told me to always be the first to leave because commitment

is a death sentence."

Mimsy flapped her hand. "I say a lot of things, but I've also seen a lot of things. I know the difference between a man in lust and a man who's had his heart bruised. And you, my girl, have ground his beneath the heel of your expensive shoes—which you must let me borrow sometime. They are quite divine." She pursed her dark red lips and looked at Esme with rare clarity. "I see yours is smarting too."

"There are too many things... We can't... I've betrayed him too many times."

"If that were true, he wouldn't have chased you down."

"He made it very clear he's not chasing me . There's something else... unfinished business between us. Once it's settled, we're going our separate ways."

"Far be it from me to offer reasonable advice on relationships, but I will tell you that life is too short for regrets."

A question burned in Esme's mind. One she'd been too afraid to ever ask. It was too personal, and she and Mimsy were never

personal, but she couldn't allow the moment to pass. It might never come again.

"Do you ever regret my father?"

Mimsy's thickly caked lashes fluttered in surprise. "Your father... ah yes. Stan Littlespick, or Littlesbrick, something

like that. A stevedore from Wapping. Great big hands, sky-blue eyes, and coal grime behind his ears."

"So not an aristocrat."

Mimsy laughed. "Furthest thing from it, but we had a few good laughs and a few months later, you came along. He was long gone

by then. I still think of him from time to time, but the image has gone all fuzzy." Her mouth quirked in a dreamy way before

softening as she looked to Esme. Quickly squashing that sentiment, she pulled her cigarette case and lighter from her purse

and lit a fag. "You on the other hand, have managed to stick it out."

"A delight for you, I'm sure. A snot-nosed kid is what every aspiring actress craves hanging onto her costumed train."

"You were snot-nosed a great deal of the time, but we made it, you and me. We're fighters, Esme." Grinning, Mimsy tapped her ashes onto the concrete curb. "We're never down for long. And now look at us, like sisters we are."

An awareness swept over Esme that went far beyond distinctive, familiar bonds. It was an understanding of seeing someone familiar

in a new light, as if a side of them that had been hidden in shade had finally been uncovered. A side she was proud to understand

as a piece of herself.

"Fighters, indeed."

Never one to dwell too long on a scene, Mimsy ended the moment by standing and shoving the crate back against the theater

wall.

"I have the fight of the century on my hands. Tad Barker, the baritone, is coming to ask me for a raise later today, and negotiations

won't be pretty, so I need a new hat to suffer through it. You're going shopping with me before the shops are overrun with

housewives. Come on."

With one last long puff, she tossed her cigarette into a puddle between the uneven cobblestones and marched back toward the

door.

"Housewives," Esme said, standing and following her inside and up the stairs to their private rooms. "You mean those respectable

women who wouldn't be caught dead on the same footpath let alone the same shop as actresses."

"Those old biddies cluck away, but it's my theater their husbands come to because they're bored stiff at home."

Esme breezed into her room and opened the wardrobe where a handful of new dresses hung. After escaping France with barely

more than the clothes on her back, several shopping trips had been required to replace what she'd lost.

"I wonder how they feel knowing it's their husbands' money going to pay for all your new chapeaus."

"I don't care how they feel, and I adore my new hats." Mimsy studied the pink hat atop her head in the mirror with a satisfied

smirk. It was a confection of bows and ribbons she'd purchased the previous week for when the health inspector came for his

yearly investigation. All the ruffles managed to distract him from writing up violations, or so Mimsy claimed.

Esme chose a forest-green number with drop waist and pleated skirt and a woven picture hat that perfectly framed her face.

She crossed the room to where her purse lay on the costume trunk and noticed the lock had been removed.

Her heart gave a little jump. She flipped open the lid. The old costumes inside had been shifted. Her heart gave a double

jump.

"Has anyone been in here?" Kneeling, she dug through the jumbled clothes to the bottom and pressed the lever for the hidden

compartment.

Empty.

Her heart dropped through the floor.

"Hmm?" Mimsy turned her chin for a better angle in the mirror. "Oh, that was me. I was looking for Cleopatra's wig and remembered

putting it in one of these old costume trunks. Can't find a thing in all the mess, but then I remembered that one has a false

bottom. No wig but I did find the most delightful tiara. Like a pair of wings. I've never seen it in one of our productions

before, but maybe one of the costume designers stashed it there."

Horrifying spots danced in front of Esme's eyes as she ran her fingers over the bare wooden bottom in disbelief.

The Valkyrie was gone.

"Where is it?"

"What?"

Esme slammed the lid shut. "Mimsy! Where is it?"

"I took it to Stockton's yesterday. The stones on the tiara didn't look like our paste ones so I asked for his assessment."

"The tiara is mine and you took it to a pawnbroker without consulting me?"

Mimsy frowned in the mirror. "Really, darling, quit shouting. I didn't realize it was yours, though honestly you should thank

me for having an estimate done. The thing wasn't worth a brass farthing."

"Stockton told you that?"

"He sent a note round yesterday afternoon saying not to bother coming back for it. Not worth my time. I might though. Could

be a nice addition for one of our King Arthur shows." After tucking away a wayward strand of black hair, Mimsy spun to face

her.

"What's wrong with you? You've gone all peaky."

Esme shot out the door and barreled down the stairs. Not worth a brass farthing. Stockton knew his onions, so why claim the

tiara was worthless as paste?

A terrifying truth lodged in her gut. Stockton would have known immediately the Valkyrie's value. That slippery eel also would

have known which buyers' noses to waggle it under for a profit.

Her stomach churned with sickness as she raced out of The Scarlet Crown, Mimsy's shouts falling behind her, and hailed a taxi.

"201 Gower's Walk, please," she said to the driver, climbing in and slamming the door. "And hurry."

An excruciating twenty minutes later, the taxi screeched to a stop near a worn brick building sagging against its neighbors.

"Stockton's Pawnbroker" was painted in faded black above the door. Esme paid the driver and hopped out, then marched straight

into the store.

The bell tinkled violently as she swung open the door. It was a cramped, musty space with a glass counter at the back and the walls lined with shelves stuffed to the gills with odd junk. Castoffs from the desperate in need of a quick coin.

A younger man with a pock-marked face slipped out from behind the curtain separating the front room from the back. "Need help,

lady?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Stockton."

"He's busy in the back." He jerked a professional thumb over his shoulder. "Got a few of granny's pearls to pawn off?"

"Not today. An item was brought in by mistake yesterday. I want it returned."

His ratlike face lit with interest. "Is that so? Well, we don't give away our business for free."

Her fingers strained against her purse handle. Calm and cool, that was how she would remain no matter how sorely she was tempted

to behave otherwise.

"I'm certain once Mr. Stockton learns of my unique situation, he will gladly rectify the oversight for me."

"I'm good at rectifying things for ladies. Just say the word and I'm at your service." He leaned a scrawny elbow on the counter

and looked her up and down like prized beef.

Calm and cool were overrated. "Say another word like that and the only service you'll be rendered is a sock in the jaw."

Miffed, the boy straightened. "Look, lady. Mr. Stockton don't like to be disturbed—"

"I do not care for his whims. I demand to speak to him at once."

The curtain flapped open. A lanky man with thinning white hair and glasses thick as jam jars stepped out.

"Get in the back, boy. That's no way to speak to a lady." Curling his lip at Esme, the boy scrambled out of sight. Mr. Stockton locked his attention on her. Sharp brown eyes peered out through the glass lenses. "Apologies. After the war customer service has become appalling."

"Quite."

Adjusting his glasses, Stockton, too, had the gall to give her the once-over. His at least was less perverse than the boy's.

"Well, well. Esme Fox. It's been some time since you've graced my shop. Last time I believe you were here with a pocket watch

and silver-capped cane."

Memories of her petty thievery still touched a sore spot deep inside her. She shook it off, not allowing her stare to drop

from his inquisitive one. "I've been out of the country."

"Trying foreign pockets now?"

"They're a bit fuller than British ones."

"An odd coincidence you showing up today when I had the pleasure of seeing your mother only yesterday." He rubbed at a smudge

on the counter with his jacket cuff. The smudge merely spread.

"Yes, she told me. For an erroneous transaction." She tapped her toe with impatience.

"Erroneous? No, my shop prides itself on honorable deals."

"We both know that's a lie. Honor has very little to do with turning a tidy profit, otherwise you wouldn't have told Maud

that tiara was a fake. You should know better than anyone it's the real deal."

"What will you give me for it?" His eyes gleamed behind the jam jars.

He could gleam all day. She wasn't giving an inch. She'd worked too hard to be thwarted now. What her plans were for the Valkyrie

she had yet to decide, but they certainly didn't involve being misplaced into the grubby hands of a pawnbroker.

"Nothing. It was taken without my consent; therefore, the transaction is null."

"That is not how this works, Miss Fox."

"Listen here, you slimy eel—"

The front door pushed open, tinkling the bell. Esme turned and readied to tell the newcomer to buzz off for his ill-timed

entrance. Until she saw it was the last person on earth she needed to come calling at that heated moment.

She leveled an icy glare at Jasper. "Of course you pick this moment to waltz in."

"I told you. My spies are everywhere, and if you think I'm about to let you jump into a taxi and speed off without raising

my curiosity, then you have not been paying attention to my determination." He strode right up to her.

She backed up, bumping against the counter as his toes nearly touched hers.

"How many times are we going to act out this scene?"

"As many times as it takes," he said.

"Stubborn."

"Reckless."

He smelled positively delicious. If they weren't under a time constraint, she might devote a moment longer to the way his

lips—

"If this is a lovers' discussion," Stockton rudely interrupted, "take it outside. You'll scare away all the customers."

Esme rounded on him. This interview was getting wildly out of hand. She had to keep her head on straight. "Your usual customers

are too busy sleeping off last night's pints."

Jasper's expression darkened as he glanced around the shop. "Why are you at a pawnbroker?" His mouth flattened like the edge

of a sword. "Where is it?"

She nudged away from him. "Don't stand there accusing me."

"There's no one else to accuse," Jasper said.

"If you must know, none of this was my doing, but it has become a situation that I am working to correct."

"Then allow me to assist you." He pinned his stare on Stockton. "I presume you have the tiara and refuse to return it."

Stockton jutted out his wrinkled chin. "It's mine. A deal was made."

"By someone who did not have the authority or my permission," Esme corrected.

"If I needed permission for every object to cross my counter, my shop would have closed long ago."

"You old swindler!"

"As if your scruples have climbed so high out of the mud." Stockton sneered. "I remember your filthy face pressed against

my window when you were no higher than my knee. Wanting all the shiny things you could never afford, so you pinched them instead.

You and your mama strutting around giving yourself airs. Ha! Heifers dressed in silks."

Esme balled up her fist and reared back.

Jasper caught her intended punch in his hand.

"He's no more than a bag of bones," he said with irksome calmness. "You punch him and he'll likely crumple into dust, and

then we'll be forced to comb through this filth hole in search of the item ourselves."

He dropped her hand, then leaned across the counter and grabbed the front of Stockton's smeared shirt, yanking him forward

until they were nose to nose.

"You say one more word like that to the lady, and I promise a broken nose will be the least of your worries. Do we understand

each other?"

Stockton's mouth flopped open like a fish's.

Jasper shook him until the old man's head wobbled back and forth. "Well?"

"Y-yes."

"Good." Jasper released his grip. "Where is the tiara? I won't ask again."

The door crashed open, sending the bell flapping wildly.

"Oh for the love of applesauce and crackers—" Esme whirled around to tell off the latest intruder, but six police officers

stormed in.

A bully sergeant with a gleaming badge elbowed his way to the front of the group, a billy club swinging in his hand.

"Esme Fox, you are under arrest for the theft of the Roxburgh diamonds."