A Promise of Scandal (Middleton Book 3) Page 3

  Poppy inclined her head as she attempted to shift her gaze from Shaw to Mr. Florence. It was impossible. The intensity of his regard burned. Held her captive. She wanted to look away, even instructed her brain to stop being ridiculous, to no avail.

  Shaw was big, bigger than she recalled. He did not tower, he dwarfed, and his focus was aimed entirely on her. Poppy felt like a rabbit trapped in the jaws of a fox.

  The instinct to flee swamped her. She tamped the urge down. At least with Shaw here, no one will look too closely at her. Still, his presence changed things—they must retrieve Beatrix’s heirloom as soon as possible.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Shaw said with a small bow.

  Poppy inclined her head.

  “Miss Rose, I am entrusting Mr. Greenwich into your care.” Mr. Florence coughed again. “He requires a tour of the theatre.”

  Her head snapped to the manager. Wait. What?

  Poppy cleared her throat, ready to protest. She was spared by a new voice intruding upon their group.

  “Ah, Mr. Florence.” Sullivan Marks joined them while wiping sweat from his brow. “Miss Rose.”

  “Mr. Marks,” Poppy croaked in a broken whisper before she could stop herself.

  He frowned at her. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  Her hand settled over her throat. “I’m resting my vocal cords,” Poppy whispered.

  His brows never let up as his gaze lingered on her face a soul-wrenching second before he shifted his focus to Mr. Florence, who immediately sprang into dialogue. “The investor, Mr. Greenwich, I told you about, sir.”

  Mr. Marks reached out his hand to Shaw, giving Poppy a reprieve from his stare as the two men greeted.

  “I was expecting your visit next week,” Mr. Marks said to Shaw.

  “Pressing matters prompted me to conduct business sooner.”

  Mr. Florence nodded and wheezed. There seemed to be a frog lodged in his throat. “I have procured Miss Rose to take Mr. Greenwich on a tour of the theatre. We have already gone over everything else.”

  Poppy’s eyes narrowed on Mr. Florence as he once again prompted a tour from her.

  No.

  She couldn’t be Shaw’s tour guide. A myriad of problems arose at the idea. For one, she’d have to guide him. Poppy could barely conduct herself through the theatre. Beatrix had only explained the directions to her dressing room and where she could find Mr. Jennings’s. Secondly, she’d also have to speak, explain things, and answer questions she did not have the answers to.

  Lastly, most importantly, this was James Shaw. Even if by some miracle she could accomplish all of the above, Mr. Shaw was one of those men that missed nothing. It was his job to notice things—to catch any small nuances that were out of place.

  “Miss Rose?” Mr. Marks raised his brow. “Are you up for the task? Eli can assist,” Marks glanced around, “but he seems to have disappeared.”

  Mr. Florence coughed again. “I would not trouble Miss Rose had I not been feeling under the weather. She knows the theatre like no other.”

  Marks did not look pleased but yielded. “Unfortunately, I have a meeting with my solicitor or I’d have offered. Miss Rose is the best choice.”

  “I would be honored to have the beautiful Miss Rose escort me on the tour,” Shaw answered. That penetrating gaze pierced her again.

  A shiver crawled down her spine.

  Poppy didn’t know what to think of him.

  Marks nodded and excused himself with a lingering glance at Poppy while Mr. Florence backed towards the exit. “If you do not require me any further, I will leave you to your tour.”

  There was nothing for it.

  Poppy was stuck with James Shaw.

  She ought to leave. Now that he was here, the matter of conspiracy was indeed in more capable hands. However, Shaw did not know about Beatrix’s mother’s necklace. She hadn’t mentioned it in her letter to Bow Street.

  Even if he did, Poppy suspected a trinket, heirloom or not, would not make his list of priorities. It was the only belonging Beatrix had left of her mother. Poppy refused to let her friend down. She would conduct her search while Shaw investigated whatever else brewed afoot.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Shaw drawled, brows shifting upward.

  Poppy’s mind snapped to attention. “Yes, of course,” she said in a low tone, barely a whisper.

  She grimaced when his frown deepened. He said nothing, merely stepped in line as she led him back the way she came. Beatrix had said the three houses across from the back entrance south to the main building were the theatre’s offices and scene painting rooms. They also hosted shared and private dressing rooms.

  Poppy sent up a silent prayer she did not rouse Shaw’s suspicion.

  But this man had once saved her life.

  Drat if her heart didn’t beat faster at his presence.

  ***

  Twelve Jennings.

  That was how many Jennings were employed at Regent Theatre. Five of them were women, reducing James’s list of suspects to seven. Seven were still a lot of men to keep track of, so James had dug deeper. He was sure Jennings wasn’t Walker in disguise, merely an ally.

  So many unknown variables made James deuced uncomfortable. The mysterious writer of the message. An uncertain Mr. Jennings. And between them, Walker.

  As James had delved deeper into his list, he discovered two of the Jennings had not been at the theatre in the week the missive was sent to Bow Street. Another Jennings was too old and also too in his cups to fit the criteria of the man James was searching for, and another was deaf, which brought the list down to three possible suspects.

  Investigating three men still took time.

  Patience.

  Effort.

  James was starting to think his cover as a patron might only be a hindrance to this case. Miss Rose’s reluctance to give him a tour, the shocked look she’d sent Florence was proof of that. It seemed that the performers either wanted to steer clear of him in hopes of avoiding his focus or they sought his attention in order to impress him because of his status.

  James doubted anyone would dare to gossip and risk his ill-favor. His ability to gather truth then was limited. And Mr. Florence was of no help whatsoever. The man was as skittish as a newborn horse. James hadn’t been all that surprised when Florence pawned him off on some poor actress.

  James spared a sidelong glance at Miss Rose, who led him down the hallway and into the gloomy sky of the morning. She smelled sweet. Violets, he thought.

  She slowed to a stop in the center of the road, and James drew to a halt beside her. He gave her a curious glance when he caught her staring up at the buildings, brows wrinkled.

  “You look lost,” James observed.

  “Of course I’m not lost.” Miss Rose eyed him askance and pointed to the red brick building before them. “These are the offices. We keep separate storage space and rehearsal rooms.”

  James suppressed a grin as Miss Rose crossed the street stiffly. He’d wager his monthly income that the uppity actress had never set foot in the rehearsal rooms with the other performers. Given the praise that came with her introduction, she appeared to be well spoiled—the favorite.

  “Where is your dressing room?” James asked.

  “In the main building on the second floor.”

  “Preferential treatment.”

  She shot him a glare. “As you must know, the true identity of Charlotte Rose is well-kept. Isolation retains my secret.”

  “A secret implies somebody else knows.”

  “Somebody else does,” she replied cheekily.

  James did smile then. Her posture remained rigid, but her lips fashioned a small smirk. He sensed her dislike, whether of him or for being reduced to his tour guide. James put his money on the latter. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her when Mr. Florence had first approached her. James had been riveted. Still was.

  Puzzling, that.

  The amount of kohl that lined the actress’s eyes raised the hairs on the back of his neck. She hardly looked human. He shuddered again, recalling that first glance. Deep, black circles colored her eyes, her face painted whiter than snow. A ghost. She looked like a wraith that had taken strawberry rouge to her lips and cheeks.

  “Do you always take such avid interest in performers?” she suddenly asked, drawing James back to the present.

  “Where my money is concerned, yes.”

  That earned him a chuckle, the slight sound sliding over his senses, warming his blood.

  James decided to take advantage of her lighter mood. “An interesting fact,” he drawled, “there are twelve Jennings employed at the theatre.”

  “Oh?” she said, somewhat startled. “That is fascinating.”

  James went on alert. “You are not acquainted with them all?”

  “I can’t say that I am. I keep mostly to myself.”

  “Then you are not acquainted with David Jennings?”

  She shrugged.

  “I found Horace Jennings quite entertaining.”

  “He is a dear.”

  James cocked his head. “What about Elliot Jennings? He is the talk of the theatre, reputed to be a silver-tongued devil.”

  “You should not lend your ears to gossip.” She paused at the entrance of the building. “Do you wish for a tour or not, Mr. Greenwish?”

  “Greenwich.” He motioned for her to lead the way.

  Her smile lifted into a forced tilt.

  Two giggling actresses passed them as they entered. Upon spotting him, they batted their lashes coyly.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” they cooed, erupting into fits of laughter.

  Miss Rose said nothing in reply, only eyeing them until they moved on.

  James shook his head. It was hard to tell wheth
er Miss Rose merely took resting her voice seriously or whether she was conceited and unaffected by the people surrounding her.

  James thought about what he had heard about her.

  Nothing significant. Young. Beautiful. A sparkling diamond.

  James scoffed.

  Young, yes. Beautiful? Debatable. A sparkling Diamond? No. She reminded him more of a jagged piece of rock. And yet . . . there was something about her. Something he could not quite put a name to. James found he wanted to wipe away all that paint covering her face. His gut told him there was something not quite right about Charlotte Rose. His gut was never wrong.

  “Why are you resting your voice?” James questioned.

  “For my performance,” she answered without thought. “Why are you so curious?”

  “I’m a curious man,” James said as she led him down a series of hallways. Had James not been so preoccupied with what the actress was not telling him, he’d have realized earlier that for a tour guide, she was not giving him a tour at all, but merely strolling aimlessly through the building. But James was too busy puzzling over the pieces that comprised Miss Rose and how they fit.

  “Have you been employed at the theatre long?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Do you always answer questions with vague answers?”

  “I’m a vague woman.”

  His gut tightened. It did that whenever she spoke. What the devil was that about?

  “Have you noticed anything strange of late?” James asked and regretted the question the moment it left his mouth.

  She shot him a curious glance. “Strange how?”

  He shrugged. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Such as a new investor questioning about strange dealings at the theatre he invested in?”

  James grimaced. “My presence is not out of the ordinary and neither is my curiosity.”

  “Because you wish to determine the value of your investment?”

  “Yes, I’ve invested a fortune in the theatre, therefore in you.”

  She harrumphed. “I am a mere actress. Your question is better directed at Mr. Florence.”

  James’s internal radar went chaotic.

  The nonchalance in her tone felt off. Almost forced.

  Miss Rose was hiding something.

  Could she have been the one who sent the missive to Bow Street?

  “No one knows the ins and outs of the theatre better than its artists,” James remarked. “Am I right?”

  “I suppose.”

  Another vague answer.

  What a remarkably infuriating woman.

  “Do you rehearse every day?”

  A faint crease appeared upon her brow, but she nodded.

  “So you were here last Thursday rehearsing?”

  Her mouth tightened to a thin line. “Yes, Mr. Greenwich. What is it you are getting at?”

  He frowned at her tone. “I merely wish to get a sense of every performer at the theatre.”

  She gave a disbelieving snort but said nothing further, back straightening as she picked up speed. James easily kept pace, his legs much longer.

  He considered her.

  James doubted it was Miss Rose who’d penned a note to Bow Street. The woman did not seem to care much about her fellow performers. She appeared rather uncaring of everything in general, all except her voice. No, James decided. Miss Rose, the young, beautiful, and diamond actress did not possess the heart of a concerned citizen, but rather that of an unconcerned brat.

  Chapter 4

  There was something unimaginably unsettling about James Shaw.

  He was too masculine. Too sharp. Too rough.

  Dangerous.

  Poppy wanted to sag against the wall and steel herself against Shaw’s dizzying presence. Instead, remarkably, she kept her back erect and her posture poised as she led him through the building she presumed was for rehearsing.

  Dear Lord, she had held up against his questioning. That alone deserved a pat on the back.

  Steadily, the tension eased from her shoulders as they made their way through the maze of hallways, peering into each room with expectancy. Though she’d been resistant at first, Shaw, or rather Mr. Florence, had provided the perfect opportunity to inspect the layout and keep an eye out for Mr. Jennings’s dressing room.

  Twelve Jennings!

  Goodness, did Beatrix know?

  Poppy did not think her friend had realized whoever came to inspect her claim would have to investigate twelve men first. The last thing Poppy wished to do was impede Shaw’s investigation into Mr. Jennings. The quicker the scoundrels were caught, the better for Beatrix.

  They would need to pin another note.

  There was, however, one snag to this exploratory opportunity. Poppy had to keep a low profile and not draw attention to Charlotte, something that was all but impossible with Shaw at her side. Eyes drew to him like bees attracted to the sweetness of flowers.

  Her heart stuttered, unreasonably, at the thought that there were undoubtedly dozens of women who would go to great lengths to be on the receiving end of this man’s attention. Poppy wasn’t one of those women, so the feeling was wholly illogical.

  Still, it annoyed her.

  “Have you always wanted to become an actress?” Shaw asked her, his gaze casually observing their environment. Poppy still couldn’t quite believe she had one up on this man.

  She slanted him a sidelong look and shrugged. “All women are actresses, Mr. Greenwich. Charlotte is merely getting paid for her talents.”

  “You speak of her as though she is a different person.”

  “In a way,” more than one, “she is.”

  “I suppose you are right, but surely not all women are deceivers?” His dubious tone made Poppy smile.

  “You must be aware that all girls are schooled from a young age to perfect the talent of acting.”

  “I’m not, no. Aren’t girls supposed to learn how to dance and embroider?”

  “I shall pretend I did not notice your utter lack of knowledge on the better half of our species,” Poppy said and shivered when he chuckled. The sound had a bewitching element. A quality that made her toes curl. “Take swooning for one,” she went on. “A lady can swoon at will, especially if she wishes to escape a particular situation.”

  “You learn that at finishing school?”

  “Not quite, but we do learn it. And we perfect it.”

  “Have you ever swooned at will?”

  “Once,” she admitted. She rubbed a spot at the back of her head. “I cannot say I will do so again soon.”

  “I suppose I stand corrected.”

  Poppy nodded. “Batting eyelashes is also an art. Even a smile conveys a particular talent at acting. The use of a fan. A gasp of shock. All those are tools in a woman’s repertoire.”

  “A smile? A gasp? You seem to be living in a different world than I, Miss Rose.”

  “Not so different when you think about it,” Poppy said. “Charlotte can sit through an entire lecture from Mr. Florence with an indulging smile even if her temper is straining. She can even attempt a coy smile for you, sir, and worm her way out of being your guide.”

  “Ah, but Charlotte is an actress, as is the woman beneath her.”

  “We are all acting in some way or another.”

  “Fake smiles. Fluttering lashes. Swooning at will. It’s a wonder the men of Britain have not revolted.”

  “Why would they? Men are masters of the craft as well. They, you, merely operate on a different stage.”

  “I’m not sure I delight in the notion, though it certainly seems as though you have a point, Miss Rose.” His lips pinched tight, accentuating the strong angle of his jaw. “I shall file the valuable information you’ve imparted away for future reference.”

  Poppy just bet he would.

  They reached an area that Poppy presumed to be a common room of sorts. Four actors lounged on the sofas while a group of five women stood around a table that displayed two or three assortments of bread. She spotted Elliot Jennings reclining on one side of a sofa pouring over some pages—his scenes, no doubt. Beside him sat a lean, older woman, reading a book.

  “As you can see,” Poppy murmured offhandedly to Shaw, “this is the lounge area. Feel free to help yourself to some refreshments.”

  “I gathered as much,” Shaw drawled, a note of amusement entering his voice.

  Poppy watched as he swept the room carefully, his gaze moving over Jennings without hesitation before it traveled over to the women, his lips quirking upward. Poppy narrowed her eyes on him. He didn’t appear to recognize Elliot Jennings as one of the twelve.