Page 73 of Some Like It Wild
She was forced to edge under Connor’s arm when he refused to relinquish his grip on Crispin’s cravat. Despite his befuddled state, Crispin had no trouble focusing on her lovely face.
“My sister Pamela is missing,” she said, enunciating each word as if speaking to a child. “We have reason to believe she may have been taken against her will.”
“Your sister? Ah ha! I knew you weren’t her maid!”
“Yes, I’m afraid that was a bold-faced lie. Now we were hoping that you—or perhaps your mother—might have some information as to her whereabouts. Unfortunately, we can’t question your mother because her bed is empty.”
A helpless giggle escaped Crispin as he imagined them bursting into his mother’s bedchamber and manhandling her in such a manner.
Connor shook him until his teeth rattled, forcing Sophie to beat a hasty retreat. “If you can’t tell us where to find Pamela, then I’d strongly suggest you tell us where to find your mother.”
Crispin snorted with laughter. “She’s probably out collecting eye of newt or skinning some kittens to make a new pair of gloves.”
Growling beneath his breath, Connor lifted him clean off his feet. For a dizzying moment, Crispin feared he was about to go sailing through the nearest window—without the benefit of having it opened first. But Connor simply tossed him back onto the bed before raking a hand through his hair in disgust.
Crispin’s dream grew even stranger when a breathless footman in full livery came charging into the room. “There you are, my lord,” he said, sketching Connor a hasty bow. “We’ve been searching the entire estate for you. This missive just arrived. The man who delivered it claimed it was urgent—a matter of life and death.”
Connor snatched the folded piece of vellum from the servant’s hand. While he scanned the lines scrawled on the paper, the footman eyed their odd little party with some trepidation. Connor’s valet winked at him, which only seemed to worsen his agitation.
Sophie stood on tiptoe to peer over Connor’s shoulder, a frown clouding her pretty brow. “I know this address. It’s the Crown Theatre on Drury Lane. The one whereMamandied.”
Ignoring the throbbing protest of his head, Crispin sat straight up in the bed. “I know that address as well. I took my mother there once so she could see Marianne Darby on the stage. Mother went to take tea with her a few times after that. I believe she saw her last on the very day she died.”
Crispin finished his cheerful recitation to discover they were all looking at him as if he’d sprouted a second aching head.
Even after all these months, the smell of char and ruin still lingered in the air. Connor stepped over a crumbling timber, marveling that such a wasteland could have once been a thriving theater. The roof had collapsed in the flames that had devoured the building, leaving three towering walls still open to the sky.
Dawn would be coming soon, but judging from the dark bellies of the clouds brooding over the theater, it would bring with it not sunlight but rain.
Connor edged his way around a blackened column to find himself staring into the hollow eyes of a plaster cherub, its once elegant gilt veneer now blistered and peeling.
From behind him, Brodie let out a low whistle. “If e’er there was a place for ghosts, laddie, this is it.”
Connor glanced back at the cloaked girl gingerly picking her way after them, knowing she had more reason to fear the ghosts that haunted this place than they did. He’d brought Sophie along against all of his best instincts. The note he’d received had warned that Pamela’s life would be forfeit if he notified the duke or the authorities that she was missing and Sophie had threatened to throw the tantrum of all tantrums if left behind. He could only pray that Pamela would have a chance to yell at him for letting himself be bullied by such a spoiled slip of a girl.
A footfall sounded to the left of them. Connor swung around, drawing his pistol.
Crispin slowly emerged from the morning mist that was creeping through the shattered beams of the collapsed galleries. He lifted his hands in the air, looking sober in more ways than one.
“What are you doing here?” Connor asked without lowering the pistol.
“I want to help. She’s my mother. I might be able to reason with her.” When Connor cocked a skeptical eyebrow, he added, “There’s always a first time.”
“Are you armed?”
Crispin nodded, opening his coat to reveal a rapier and two dueling pistols.
Sophie sniffed. “What? Was the greengrocer all out of rotten cabbages?”
Disregarding Connor and the threat of his loaded pistol, Crispin lowered his hands to glare at her. “So you’re willing to overlook the fact that my mother may very well have burned your mother to death in her bed, but you won’t allow me to forget that bloody turnip, will you?”
“It was atomato.” Folding her arms over her chest, Sophie presented her back to him, her slender shoulders stiff.
Connor slid his pistol back into his belt with a sigh. “You can stay. But I’ll expect you to do as I say.” He nodded toward Sophie. “And if you get in my way, I’ll let her shoot you.”
Crispin nodded grimly, then fell into step behind them. When he tried to help Sophie over a splintered board, she jerked her elbow out of his reach.
As they ventured deeper into the blackened heart of the theater, measuring each step as if it would be their last, Connor could feel his own heart begin to pound in a painful rhythm. Since watching his parents die, he hadn’t known a moment’s fear over his own well-being—not even when the hangman had slipped that shoddily knotted noose over his head. No matter how desperate the situation, his hands had always been steady, his aim ever keen. But now there was something more precious at stake. Something he valued far beyond his own misbegotten life.
