Page 52 of The Hunter
She took Jakub’s hand, and he squeezed. “Your hands are cold.” He giggled. “Even through your gloves.”
“Sorry,kochanie,” she mumbled absently as she all but dragged him toward the door. Her hands and feetfeltcold, as though all the blood had drained from them and now hurried to her pounding heart and rushed in her throbbing ears.
The large assassin shadowed them down the hall, without her bidding him to do so, and though she knew he was working on her behalf, it still made her spine tingle to have such a man behind her.
Actors and stagehands alike stopped to ask after her and Jakub, showing their concern and gladness, but then demanding the entire story. She begged off, promising to regale them later and trying very hard not to resent their curiosity.
Millie paused at the door that led from the stage to the carpeted staircase that would take them to the grand foyer below. She took a bracing breath and affixed a smile to her lips that she forced into her eyes with painful effort.
They wouldn’t stay long, she thought as she pressed through the door. The carpets beneath her slippers were plush and silent, though the dark red that she’d once found enchanting threatened to give her a headache.
Peering over the dark banister embellished with gold filigree, Millie noted that some of the cast had already arrived. Rynd, the Othello to her Desdemona, tall and handsome, stood out like a dark and sinewy wolf in a pen full of fluffy, bleating sheep.
He made twice the predator, kissing every lily-white glove and charming every vapid lady with an off-color compliment and a saucy grin. Jane, her dearest friend, deftly avoided the roaming hands of their husbands in the corner by the punch bowl and hors d’oeuvres.
Millie looked down on them with trepidation. Like sparkling butterflies, the noble ladies of thetondrifted from one to another in a swirl of silks, chiffons, and pretense. Their escorts clustered in dapper, expensive black suits, their hands gesturing with the fervency of moth wings in pristine white gloves.
What if someone in the crowd below wanted her dead?
Charles Dorshaw was imprisoned now, to be sure, but he was a hired hand. The second one to make an attempt on her life in as many weeks. Was this what her life had become? Every admirer and theater enthusiast would now be a suspected enemy? She would look for malice beneath propriety.
And for what? What did anyone have to gain from her death?
She started at an abrupt outburst of applause, and blinked rapidly as she became aware that the entire assembly had turned their delighted faces up to her. She’d been announced.
This was her cue.
Unwrapping stiff, cold fingers from their death grip on the banister, she lifted her hand in a wave, hoping the warmth and delight she shoved into her smile didn’t look as brittle as it felt. Adding a little modesty to the expression, she descended the stairs gripping Jakub’s hand like a lifeline.
Argent was only a step behind her, and she speculated at how many people were really concentrating on his cold, brutal, and imposing features. Did anyone recognize him? And if they did, was it because they’d hired him to end her life?
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
At the sound of Mr. Throckmorton bellowing her name, Millie swallowed the buttered crab crumpet her son had handed to her and ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure no vestiges of food lingered. Screwing on her smile, she turned to the stage manager, inwardly cursing his name with the gusto of a foulmouthed dock pirate. She’d been in attendance at the soiree for a grueling hour and a half. Indeed she was pretty certain she’d met everyone, smiled at them, complimented them, and done her best not to outright ask if they might have a reason to wish her demise, or Jakub’s capture.
Her cheeks felt weathered, and she worried others could see them twitching with strain. She’d only just found a moment to eat, could she not be left in peace?
Christopher Argent, mysterious as always, lingered behind her the entire evening, and said little unless it was to offer a brief answer to the myriad of questions thrown at them from every direction. Everyone from her acting associates to the Marchioness of Woolerton wanted to know just who was this new companion of hers. Nordic nobility, perhaps? An Irishman? Someone from the emerging wealthy industrial merchant class? Or worse, an American?
As she and Argent deftly fielded their queries, Millie found herself struggling to not ask a few intrusive questions of her own, such as, had any of them recently employed an assassin or two? Though perhaps people in this class used an unscrupulous proxy for such dealings, like Mr. Dashforth, so the likelihood of them recognizing Mr. Argent was very slim.
Throckmorton reminded her of a French bulldog as his round, squat body bounded up to her with unabashed enthusiasm. “Millie, darling, I want to introduce you to the most important people you may ever have the pleasure of making acquaintance with.” He tugged on her elbow toward a pair of couples retrieving champagne from a footman who balanced several crystal glasses on a silver tray.
An uncommonly tall and especially thin gentleman with hair the color of honey and eyes the color of a summer sky handed champagne to a petite, dark-haired woman with exotic, catlike features.
Mr. Throckmorton motioned to them and whispered behind his bejeweled hand, “Lord and Lady Thurston, the Earl and Countess Thurston. Please make certain to compliment them heartily as Lord Thurston has been a longstanding contributor to the theater.”
Millie nodded, used to this sort of thing. Half her job as an actress seemed to be charming potential donors. “What about the other two?” she whispered.
“The Viscount Benchley and his wife. Lord Gordon St. Vincent, the Viscount Benchley, is Lady Thurston’s younger brother. He’s a notorious letch and ne’er-do-well with not a shilling to speak of until his father, an earl of some wealth and consequence, leaves him the title and estates. Pay him no mind unless Lady Thurston seems to think you should.”
“I see.” Millie nodded, casting a longing look back toward the table, first at her son, who stood next to the ever-alert Argent, and then at the food. With a preparatory smile, she lifted an invisible curtain and began to play her part.
“Lord and Lady Benchley, Lord and Lady Thurston, may I present Miss Millicent LeCour, the pride of the London stage?” Throckmorton thrust her forward.
Millie beamed at them all and dipped a curtsy. With practiced charm, she said, “What an exquisite pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope you enjoyed the performance.”
“Now if you’ll kindly pardon me, I see the Duke of Renton over there and he’s promised me a cask of his famous wine.” Throckmorton abandoned her to his guests with practiced ease.
