Page 77 of An Honorable Deception
This sweet man. She tightened her grip on his fingers. “And if I don’t want that?”
A fire lit in his eyes—not the kind that threatened to burn and consume and bring destruction. The kind that promised to provide warmth and safety without limit. “Then I would say that I would never ask you to share more with me than you want to about what you have suffered—but assure you that I will always listen to anything you need to say. I would promise that though I can’t offer you a title, I can take you wherever you want to go, wherever you’ll feel most safe. I would make certain you understand that though I know I have a bit of a reputation, it isn’t because I ever once treated a woman with anything less than respect. It was only because I hadn’t settled down. I couldn’t.”
Her mouth felt dry, her palms damp. “Why not?”
A small, intimate smile touched his lips. “Because I hadn’t yet met you.”
“Xavier.” She should have had some more eloquent response, something to put words to the swelling in her chest. But his name was all she could manage, and he didn’t seem to mind the lack.
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I know this timing is far from perfect, and I have no desire to rush you. I’ve waited a decade already to find you, I am content to savor each moment now that I have. I only want to make sure I’m welcome.”
The warmth spread from her palm to her veins and pumped its way straight to her heart. “You are very welcome,” she managed to say, though the words were little more than a murmur. “Always welcome.”
He smiled and pressed her hand to his heart, covering it with his own. She didn’t know if it was his pulse she felt hammering through his dinner jacket or her own.
She didn’t much care. She shifted closer, tilting her head back as she did so she could look up at him still. See him smiling down at her.
That fire burned steady and bright in his eyes, and he leaned down a bit. Then stopped and searched her gaze. “May I?”
She curled the fingers of her left hand into the fabric of his jacket, lifted the other to trace the handsome contours of his cheek, and loved that he had asked. “Please.”
TWENTY-TWO
The building was a faded masterpiece, straddling the gap between an old neighborhood and a new. London, Lavinia knew, was full of such stories—what had once been countryside or outskirts getting swallowed up and rebuilt into houses and flats for the ever-increasing number of occupants with their ever-growing income, and with businesses sprouting up along with other new construction to feed and clothe and entertain.
According to Graham’s research, this old theater was soon to be listed for sale now that a new, flashier version had been built a little ways down the street. That one had an electric marquee, moving picture screens, and projectors as well as the stage for live productions. This one could boast electricity to run its lights and equipment, but that was about it.
This one was a behemoth of a generation past. But the lights worked, the catwalks were in place, and it had the theatrical features they needed for their show—furnaces and boilers to produce fog; trapdoors; catwalks capable of supporting a few circus acts.
Barclay crouched in the far corner of the stage, fiddling with a gramophone that looked as though it had been cobbled together like Frankenstein’s monster. Given the expressionon his face, he was far from pleased with the quality of sound they were getting from the wax recording of Alethia’s voice they’d made yesterday, before the first of them had made their way to London.
Lavinia moved to his side, her clipboard braced against her hip, pencil in hand. “Is it going to be a problem?” Her mind scrambled for what they’d replace it with, if so. They didn’t really have other options if they wanted Alethia’s voice to ring out from the wings, aside from allowing the lady herself to come—and everyone had been adamant about refusing that.
But she’d heard plenty of wax cylinders before. They were usually convincing. She’d been shocked, in fact, the first time she heard one, at howrealit sounded.
Barclay glanced up. “The recording is fine enough. But my sister’s phonograph sounds a bit like I rebuilt it from bits and scraps.”
Lavinia smiled. “Did you?”
“I did. Do you know how much new ones cost? Five pounds for a base model.”
She made a note. “Forgive me, Mr. Pearce, if I sound gauche, but ... aren’t you a thief?”
The look he angled up at her was both amused and condescending. “We don’t give stolen items as gifts. Family rule.”
They were a strange lot of criminals, and she wasn’t certain she should have liked them as much as she did. “I see. Well.” She reached into the handbag she’d kept dangling from her wrist for countless other occasions much like this one and pulled out a ten-pound note. “Get something above the base model. We need the best sound quality we can find on short notice.”
He didn’t share Yates’s hesitation over accepting every pound and crown. He pushed himself up and snapped thebill from her fingers in one motion. “Your obedient servant, my lady,” he said with a grin. He tucked the bill into his pocket. “If you think of anything else we’re missing, say the word.”
Lavinia nodded and moved to the next item on her list, peering down into the darkness below the stage through the trapdoor. “Everything look good down there?”
“If you like cobwebs and mouse droppings” came Graham’s voice in reply, though his body remained out of view.
Lavinia wrinkled her nose. “Not particularly.”
“Then ask me again in an hour. But the mechanics of both door and lift are sound.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” She strode off the stage, through the wings, and into the back area of the stage with its multiple dressing rooms and storage cupboards. Gemma had taken command of what had been a manager’s office, and the stack of envelopes on the desk looked promising.
