A Promise of Scandal (Middleton Book 3) Page 4

  He must not have met Mr. Jennings yet. Poppy shook her head. That or the man was even a better actor than she first thought. She marveled at how quickly he integrated with his environment. And he had sounded so astounded at the comment that everyone was acting in one way or another. He must think he had her fooled with that ruse.

  Shaw had no idea of the truth.

  It was a heady feeling, Poppy mused, to be one step ahead of this towering man. But Poppy did not want to push her luck. The more time she spent in his presence, in all of these people’s presence, the higher the chance of being caught. Best put Shaw on Jennings trail and step away.

  And now that she knew Jennings sparred with Mr. Marks, she merely had to determine what times they met and use that opportunity to search for the necklace.

  Her gaze flicked to the woman sitting beside Jennings and then to the five women gawking at Shaw. The older woman seemed somewhat out of place, a little lonely looking, and Poppy felt instant sympathy swell in her breast. She knew firsthand about feeling out of place.

  “Charlotte,” one of the girls called, sashaying over, eyes roaming up and down Shaw. “And who might this dashing gentleman be?”

  Shaw swept into a deep bow before Poppy could introduce him. “Charles Greenwich at your service, madam. New patron to the Regent Theatre.”

  Poppy rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “Oh!” The girls erupted into giggles. “He’s a handsome one.”

  Shameless, the lot of them.

  And Shaw seemed to bask in the attention.

  But Poppy knew better. He was simply buttering them up.

  Wasn’t he?

  Oh! Why did she care?

  Poppy pursed her lips, knowing the answer and not liking it one bit. Senseless as it was, she was attracted to the man.

  She did not want to be. So she would divorce herself from his company and curb that inclination. It’s not as though she held any animosity for the man. But he was a Shaw. And as far as Poppy was concerned, where a Shaw turned up trouble usually followed. That and Shaw was acquainted with her cousin Belle.

  Poppy’s family could not find out about this adventure of hers. Ever. They’d put her under lock and key if they did. Hence, she had to stay as far away from Mr. Shaw, and all the temptation he brought with him, as far as she could.

  “Miss Rose has been giving me a tour of the theatre,” Shaw was saying.

  “I can give you a thorough tour, Mr. Greenwich,” a girl with blond hair and a black beauty spot said, fluttering her lashes.

  Shaw gave her an indulgent smile.

  Poppy was certain if she rolled her eyes one more time they’d get stuck at the back of her head. “Splendid idea,” she said snippily, almost forgetting to keep her voice lowered as she snatched the chance to escape.

  “Charlotte!” A girl with red hair rushed to her in concern. “What is wrong with your voice? Have you taken a cold?”

  The other women took a collective step away from her.

  Poppy shook her head. “I am merely resting my voice,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “Nothing concerning.”

  “Does Mr. Marks know?” A petite brunette asked, a sly note to her voice.

  Poppy arched a brow but chose to ignore the woman’s tone. She refused to engage in theatre rivalry. Though, risky or not, Poppy was suddenly glad she had the chance to run into Mr. Marks beforehand. Now, at least, she could rest assured her pretense as Charlotte would not falter on the disguise itself.

  “Mr. Marks is aware,” Poppy said matter of factly as the brunette sidled up to Shaw. She curled her lips and then forced a smile. “If you will excuse me, I shall leave Mr. Greenwich in your good care.”

  Shaw’s head whipped to her, and Poppy’s lips stretched a toothy grin before she ducked from the room and breezed out.

  Goodness! Thank heaven that was over.

  Poppy only exhaled a deep breath once the crisp morning air hit her skin.

  ***

  “A moment, Miss Rose.”

  James stopped the actress with a slight touch to her arm just as she exited the building. She turned, those startled blue eyes rounding even as her lips pinched together in displeasure. Ah, so she didn’t like that he followed her. Well, James didn’t give a damn.

  He hadn’t meant to charge after her. Not when there were so many others in the lounge to glean information from. But devil take it if the chit would dismiss him so easily.

  “I’m being pawned off quite a bit today.” James folded his arms across his chest.

  Miss Rose heaved a sigh and fully turned to him. “You seemed to enjoy those girls’ company.”

  “Is that resentment I hear in your tone?”

  “Laughable, Mr. Greenwich.”

  The way she pronounced his name made James frown, but he swiftly became distracted by a wayward strand of hair that had fallen from her pins. He wanted to slide his fingers over the lock—a ludicrous desire.

  He fisted his hands against the whim.

  James could not deny that from the moment he had laid eyes on Miss Rose, he had sensed she would be a distraction. She reminded him of another troublesome wench, one he’d rather not call to mind. It had taken him months to get Poppy Middleton out of his head after he’d met her two years ago. He refused to have another woman hold his interest captive in the same way.

  And yet every impulse flared to life in Miss Rose’s presence. The impulse to protect. The impulse to claim. The impulse to possess.

  The hair at the nape of his neck suddenly stood erect. Chills raced down his spine.

  James narrowed his eyes at her.

  He only got that feeling when he had a lead. And his gut was never wrong.

  She was the matter at hand.

  This woman held the key to an unsolved mystery. James just didn’t know what mystery yet. But once he got a whiff of a suspicious scent, especially when on the job, he pulled on every thread until the entire riddle unraveled before him.

  And, James sensed, Miss Rose had more than one thread to untangle.

  He considered her a moment, recalling the way Marks’s posture had changed when Florence announced she would facilitate his tour of the theatre. Almost caring. He decided to pull on that particular thread now.

  “Are you and Marks more than colleagues?” James asked bluntly.

  Miss Rose’s eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a simple enough question.”

  “I assure you, my relationship with Mr. Marks is above board,” she hissed. “Which cannot be said for your manners!”

  James grunted. “I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “I am in his employ! He was certainly not looking at me anyway other than that.”

  James knitted his brows. Miss Rose appeared caught off guard by his deduction. Was she in earnest or merely naïve? She seemed thoroughly appalled at the idea, and yet, James had not mistaken the look of favor that had passed over Marks’s features. Unrequited love, then? An affectionate employer?

  James shoved the distracting thought aside. He was not here to puzzle over theatre shenanigans. And certainly not Miss Rose’s intimate life. But the more James pulled from her, the more he wanted to unravel. He wanted to solve the mystery of Charlotte Rose.

  Her eyes flashed with anger as she glared at him. “Not to mention, sir, whether your money is invested here or not, who I keep company with is none of your concern.”

  Not if you wrote that missive, Miss Rose.

  “That is a matter for debate.”

  “Are you always this infuriating?”

  “Yes.”

  She cast her gaze heavenward. “I do not consort with members of the cast or staff.” She eyed him up and down. “Or patrons, for that matter.”

  “It must be a lonely existence.”

  Her eyes darkened, and James cursed when her gaze turned speculative. Not the thoughtful kind, either. Frosty. Her reluctance, he should say, to consort with him, was as clear as day.

  Dammit, he needed her on his side, not set her against him. Charlotte Rose was the key. He was sure of it.

  “I have never felt lonely,” she snapped after a short pause, then made an effort to shrug. “At least not when at the theatre.”

  “I admire your strength then. Most women would have been frightened to be alone.”

  “I am not alone.”

  “Neither are you frightened,” he observed. His eyes pinned her in place. Watching. Searching. Seeing everything and nothing at all. The actress was a conundrum. She seemed cold, but he sensed only warmth. She appeared unconcerned, yet he felt her compassion. What the bloody hell was going on?

  “Fear is good,” she said smartly. “Fear keeps you vigilant.”

  “There is a difference between fear and being frightened.”

  She huffed out a breath in answer. James did not miss the slight twitch of her eye. Annoyance. All the white paint in the world could not hide that little action from his gaze.

  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Greenwich, I must go over the notes of my scene now.”

  James nodded absently, watching as she sashayed back to the main building and disappeared from his view. He still had several Jennings to search out and an elusive author to find.

  It was a bloody wonder someone had sent that missive to Bow Street at all. Theatre communities were tight communities. Whoever penned the note would never come out and fess up.

  Could Miss Rose have blown the gaff on Jennings?

  James wished he could ask the wily actress directly. But that would expose his cover, and whether Miss Rose consorted with her fellow performers or not, he doubted she would snitch on any one of them.

  But one irrevocable fact settled in his blood—Charlotte Rose was hiding something. And she had just moved to the top of his lists of suspects.

  Chapter 5

  James wanted to throttle someone. The feeling never came unjustified. At least, not usually. Not without a series of grim events that led to his blood simmering for a good while first. But today was not the usual day it seemed.

  An image popped into his mind, one of Miss Rose’s lips, pink and luscious, ripe for the plucking. It wreaked havoc with the hard-wiring of nerves that connected the sane part of his brain—the part that was focused on the words his brother had just relayed. And it did nothing to ease his fury. In fact, it further spiked it.

  “They did what?” James sputtered, barely containing the bite of egg in his mouth. He swallowed. Then cursed. He set his fork down onto his plate. “When?”

  Derek flicked a card wedged between his fingers with a snap. “The news arrived last night.”

  James snatched the note from his brother’s hand, eyes darting over the two words scrawled in bold, confident, woman’s penmanship.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “My exact thoughts.”

  “Why the hell did you not send for me sooner?” James snapped.

  He had spent the better part of yesterday in idle conversation with every bloody actress at the Theatre. Every last one of them had grated on his nerves. So much so, he had ended his day at Boodle’s.

  James could not see any of them penning a missive to Bow Street. None of them exhibited any markers of anxiety or fear. No indication that they’d overheard a suspicious plot which had troubled them enough to rat out Jennings. Their behavior seemed entirely in place. So much so that each giggle, each coy look, grew more stifling until James thought he’d suffocate.

  Dammit!

  Within the first three seconds, James had known he would get nowhere with the actresses. He knew too that repeating questions and demanding answers that weren’t vague and repetitive would raise suspicion. All he had discovered, he thought bitterly, was that David Jennings snuck around with the shop girl, Elliot Jennings could wield a sword, and Horace Jennings enjoyed his snuff.

  Most of the theatre’s employees—actors and actresses alike—had merely clamored for James’s attention.

  All except Charlotte Rose.

  She did not clamor. She did not eagerly spill nonsense or petty news. Oh, no, the little actress had been too thoroughly annoyed at his presence. And he’d been thoroughly drawn in by her. More aptly, he’d been twisted in knots over her, his cravat feeling as if it pulled tighter and tighter as each second passed.

  “I did not want to interrupt your investigation,” Derek said. “We still don’t know who sent the missive,” a moment of silence, “or the card.”

  James met his brother’s gaze. “You compared the penmanship?”

  “It’s not the same woman.”

  James flicked the card over between his fingers. “What the bloody hell does this mean?” The answer flashed through his mind even before his brother replied.

  “There are two women.”

  Bloody hell. “How can there be two women? Does that even make sense? I spoke to every single female at the theatre. I’m telling you, Derek, not a single one of them exhibited markers of anxiety.”

  “This woman sent the card directly to our home, James.”

  Shite.

  “My identity has been compromised.” James dragged a hand through his hair. “Everlasting hell. Who the bloody hell is she?”

  He peered at the card again, the bold scroll Elliot Jennings neatly pinned between its corners. Someone at the theatre knew he was investigating Jennings, and that he was decidedly not Greenwich.

  “Whoever they are, they have the upper hand.”

  “Unacceptable.”

  “Agreed.”

  James scowled. He had pulled on more than one thread and one of them seemed to have unraveled—but not in the way he bloody wanted it to. He needed to find the author—authors—behind these messages. Who the devil were these women? How did they know him?

  No one had acted out of place.

  His thoughts turned to Miss Rose.

  Except for her.

  The bells in his gut had tolled in her presence. Only her. Not even Elliot Jennings had aroused James’s suspicion when they had been introduced.

  James’s frown deepened.

  Miss Rose hadn’t acted afraid. Or concerned. Odd, yes, but that could be vanity, James supposed. Her identity was a well-hidden secret, after all.

  Two women.

  Was Miss Rose one of them? James could not help but wonder.

  He had brought up Jennings as a subject and mentioned there were twelve to provoke comment. She hadn’t seemed to know much about any of them. Hadn’t appeared at all interested in the topic. A ruse? James scratched his chin in thought.

  “You have no idea who could have sent the card?” Derek asked. “Recognized no one at the Theatre?”

  James shook his head in answer. He hadn’t recognized anyone he may have met before entering as Mr. Greenwich.

  “Nothing on Jennings?” Derek pressed. “Elliot Jennings.”

  “We exchanged a few words, nothing that had set off any alarms. He was sparring with Marks when I arrived.”

  “Dammit, we need to find these women, James,” Derek said. “They know who you are. Know about Jennings. They know more than we bloody do.”

  “I’m aware,” James growled. “Though they seem to want to help.”

  “They don’t want to be identified either. It doesn’t sit right with me that they know about us when we know nothing about them.”

  Neither did it sit right with James. But he had spoken with everyone at the theatre and the only person he had felt any form of spark around had been Miss Rose. Whether a spark of attraction or a spark of suspicion, no one else had set off any bells in his gut. Not even Elliot Jennings, which disturbed James greatly.

  More than anyone, Jennings ought to have set off every nerve in James’s body. So why the hell hadn’t he? Was it because James had been too distracted with Miss Rose? James refused to accept that. He was nothing if not focused. Always. Yet he could not deny he was, perhaps, focused on the wrong individual.

  James supposed it was possible that Jennings hadn’t set off his nerves because he wasn’t the sort of criminal that James was used to hunting. Jennings might be a reluctant pawn.

  Which was why he needed to find the authors of the messages. She, they, seemed to be the key to this entire mystery. One of them had named Jennings. He was sure they knew more than what they had provided in their clues. James had to find them post-haste.

  “I’ll look into Marks. Perhaps he is involved in some way as well. Have you noticed anyone acting suspiciously?” Derek continued his questioning.

  “It’s a bloody theatre,” James said, flicking the card onto the table. “It would be odd if they didn’t.”

  Derek grunted. “So look for the person not acting out of place.”

  “First, I have to determine what that looks like. Whoever these women are, they are our first credible lead in months. Walker is making a move, and soon.”

  “That bastard is nothing but a bloody ache in my temple.”

  “Who could be anyone,” James growled. “How the hell do we have no portrait of the man?”

  “We don’t even have his name, James. We only know him as ‘Walker’ and we’re assuming that it is, in fact, his last name. We cannot narrow down our search without a name.”

  “Does anyone use their real bloody names anymore?”

  “Names are overrated,” Derek said in the way of answer. “You know this first hand.”

  Of course, he did. That didn’t mean it didn’t annoy the hell out of him.

  James closed his eyes, one woman, in particular, coming to mind whose real name remained a mystery. A specific bit of conversation between three actresses held the forefront of his interest.

  “How is your voice coaching lessons with Charlotte going, Mary? You seem much improved,” Sarah-May asked.

  “Oh, we are to resume in a week or so. She is resting her voice.”

  “Resting her voice?” Another actress said on a giggle. “Why is she resting her voice? She’s never rested her voice before.”

  “Is that unusual for her?” James asked the women.