An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

T he 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 expres sion on 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 how real it 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 the bill 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.

Lavinia took one off the top, examining the wax seal with its columned brick building and arching letters. The stamp was a forgery, based on the pin. “These look perfect.”

“Two more to address, and then I’ll begin on the portfolios. Marigold and some of Barclay’s family will be helping.”

Lavinia nodded. “If you need extra hands, let me know.”

“I will. And Lavinia?”

She paused halfway out the door, turning back.

Gemma gave her a serious smile. “I just want to say I’m sorry for doubting the wisdom in bringing you on board. We wouldn’t have been able to do this without you. You . . . you’ve grown into a woman I’m proud to know. Anytime you need my help with your new venture, you have it. Anything at all. What you’re doing to help women like this—it matters. And I would be honored to be a part of it.”

The approval, unsought and unexpected, made Lavinia’s eyes sting in the best way. She’d found her mind going again and again to the words Alethia had said in the library, letting the truth of them settle in her heart. Letting the promises of the Lord, so often drowned out by her own pain and disappointments, take hold.

Her value wasn’t in whose daughter she was, or whose friend, or in what human loved her. Whether her neighbors and peers respected her or not wasn’t the crux of the matter. Her value was in being a child of God—and pleasing Him in her actions was what she must seek above all.

She would follow this path, this plan to help others, whether it earned others’ approval or not. That sense of purpose had settled deep in her bones as she traveled to London. It made peace settle in a place in her heart she’d thought had burned up with scarlet fever.

And funny thing, that. It meant now, with a friend’s approval echoing in her ears, it could at once soothe a tattered edge and make her more aware than ever that she was strong enough to follow the call of the Lord.

She smiled. “Thank you, Gemma. I’m sure I will need plenty of help. And it means the world that you would offer it.”

She sought out Marigold last, and she could admit at least to herself that it wasn’t because she knew she and Zelda didn’t need any supervision with the costuming. It was because she’d been putting it off. So much needed to be said between them. She knew Marigold would give her another dressing-down and could imagine the words she’d choose this time.

I see how you’re looking at him. Didn’ t I warn you to stay away? You are no good for my brother , she would say. Or perhaps, If you’re going to be so bossy on every case , consider yourself dismissed once this baby’s born and I can take my rightful place again.

But she had her own things she had to say to Marigold too, and those were what really made her put off the confrontation. How was she to look her best friend in the eye and demand respect? Demand to be seen for who she was, not just for what she did or did not feel for Yates? Every time she thought about it, she both knew the words needed to be spoken and got nauseous at the thought of saying them.

She stepped into the dressing room, seeing feathers and sequins and mannequins but no people. Not until the door swung shut behind her with a resounding bang, and a too victorious “Ha! Caught you!” had her spinning around.

Marigold stood grinning in front of the door, feet planted in a way that promised she had no intention of moving again until she’d had her say.

Well. Lavinia could recognize the time had come. She squared her shoulders. “Not exactly like capturing a lion from the savanna, Marigold. You knew I’d be coming by.” But oh, facing off against a villain was surely easier than against one’s best friend. She looked down at her clipboard and spun to the row of mannequins. “How is the costuming going?”

“Are you in love with my brother?”

She paused with a hand out toward the deep blue gown on the nearest dress form and let it fall back to her side, wishing she’d spoken up first. Started on her terms instead of Marigold’s.

But she hadn’t, and so Marigold’s courage in starting the conversation meant they’d start it where she wanted. Lavinia drew in a fortifying breath, turned, and forced herself to meet Marigold’s gaze. “I have not forgotten our last conversation, I promise. You don’t need to worry about me interfering with his life—or with your firm. After this, I imagine I’ll be far too busy planning the conversion of Mother’s estate into a proper home for these women to be in Northumberland much.”

Marigold looked as though she were the one having trouble finding the right words. “Vinia, that’s not what I asked. Nor my concern.” Her friend blustered out a breath. “I’m sorry. So very sorry. Can you ever forgive me for what I said to you?”

Lavinia frowned. “What?”

Marigold clasped her hands together. “My only thought was for keeping him from getting hurt, but I was wrong. I should have considered your heart, your feelings too, and I . . . I didn’t. And I see how that hurt you, and I’m sorry. So sorry. I would be even if you really felt nothing for my brother, because it was still so wrong of me.”

Even if , she said. Because she clearly could see how Lavinia had still been looking at Yates. But now, with the trembling in Marigold’s voice and with the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t an accusation. Wasn’t something to try to deny, not with her.

Perhaps, even though Yates hadn’t chosen her, that didn’t mean losing Marigold. Perhaps she could find a bit of comfort in her best friend. “You may be surprised at how long I’ve felt this way about him. I know I was.”

Breathing a laugh, Marigold reached for her hands. “I’m an idiot—it must run in the family. I took the liberty of telling him he’s behaving like one, too, refusing to admit he loves you still.” She squeezed her hands but then dropped them and pulled her in for a hug instead. “Don’t give up on him yet, Vinia. He hasn’t yet reconciled the truth before him with the truth that used to be.”

Lavinia clung to her friend, one of the walls she’d built so carefully crumbling away brick by brick. She’d missed this. Missed Marigold. Missed being on her side.

Even so. “Your acceptance means the world to me, Marigold. But Yates has set his sights on Alethia.”

“No, he hasn’t.” Marigold pulled away. “He wanted to. But trust me. When he saw Xavier kissing her yesterday, he barely batted an eye. But when he saw you were still limping, he looked as though he’d have liked to swoop over and carry you the three steps to the carriage.”

Lavinia frowned. “Xavier was kissing Alethia?”

“You have been far too preoccupied with work.” Marigold took her arm and tugged her over to the dresses. “Grab a needle and some beads. I’ll bring you up to date.”

Yates checked the stacks of boxes against the list Lavinia had left with him one more time, smiling a bit at the oddity of seeing the Caesars’ dusty old crates positioned inside the plush interior of the Hemmings’ private train car. “Let’s hope his lordship doesn’t happen by to peek in here before we have a chance to clean it up again, hm?”

Hector laughed and dusted his hands off on his trousers, stepping back to the zebra-drawn vardo. “I like it. Caesars’ Royal Menagerie and Circus is coming out of retirement with style.”

“I appreciate your loaning us the old props.”

That Hector waved off. “You know it makes us happy to see it being used. I almost wish I was coming with you.”

They’d considered it, but in the end, only Zelda had made the trip yesterday with Marigold, so she could help with costuming. The men of the family had decided it would be wisest for them to stay at Fairfax Tower to take care of the animals—and their guests. “I trust if any nefarious villains show up, you’ll set Leonidas loose on them again.”

“I can sadly take no credit for that setting-loose—it was your sister. Besides.” He climbed onto the wagon’s seat and picked up the reins. “I think it would be Pardulfo’s turn. That leopard is getting lazy. He needs some excitement.”

Yates chuckled and climbed up beside him. “Let’s pray he doesn’t find it like that, shall we?”

They drove the short distance back to the Tower, alternating between comfortable banter and equally comfortable silence. The afternoon train wouldn’t leave for another two hours, so rather than twiddle his thumbs in Alnwick, he’d do one more sweep of the Tower to make certain nothing was overlooked, say his farewells to the Barremores and Xavier, and then twiddle his thumbs with any time that was left over.

Which turned out to be plenty. There wasn’t much to check, given that it was all where it should be on the train, so that portion of his plans was done far too quickly. He changed from his dusty clothes into his proper ones and otherwise tidied up, then went in search of his guests.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised to find Lady Barremore flipping through a copy of the London Ladies Journal while the younger two strolled out of sight around the corner of the house. The smug little smile she wore said she knew very well she was letting her chaperoning duties slip a bit, and she was unrepentant.

Yates didn’t blame her for it. It wasn’t as though they were about anything shocking. Given the total adoration in Xavier’s eyes every time he’d looked Alethia’s way since dinner the other night, and the way he held her hand as though she were the finest china, he wouldn’t step a toe out of line before they were safely wed. Not that he’d proposed yet, it seemed. If he hadn’t managed it by the time they wrapped this business up, Yates would have to deliver a few well-placed prods.

They painted a pretty picture, strolling arm in arm through his garden, smiling at each other. They looked so happy, despite everything that would be happening in London tomorrow, that he couldn’t help the twinge in his chest.

It wasn’t because they were happy together . That truth had settled rather easily into his heart the moment Xavier confessed she was more than a passing fancy. It was that Yates wasn’t. Not like that.

And the irritating fact that he knew he only had himself to blame for it.

He jogged to catch up with them. “Pardon me, my lord, my lady, but you seem to have strayed out of view of your chaperone. Thought I’d better point it out.”

“Always such a conscientious host.” Xavier drew them to a halt on the path, but he certainly didn’t aim his feet back toward the balcony where her mother sat. “All loaded up?”

He nodded. “We’ll send an update the moment we can.”

Alethia’s fingers looked tense on Xavier’s arm. “I still wish I could be there.”

Yates smiled. “Lavinia will represent you well.”

She nodded, then studied his face for a long moment. “My lord, if I may be so bold ... there is always the chance that things will go wrong.”

He knew that, much as he denied it. Much as they did what they could to prevent it. The mere mention of the possibility made his stomach go tight.

It could go wrong. One of those men could pull out a weapon that their gatekeepers didn’t spot. They could charge the stage and overwhelm her. Babcock could demonstrate a new kind of violence, enraged by the deception.

Lavinia had volunteered for this deception—and, honorable though it might be, she could pay the price.

What was it Xavier had said of Alethia? That the thought of someone trying to kill her, to snuff out the light she was in his life ... it wasn’t to be borne.

Yates had imagined a world without Lavinia many times before. He’d had to. She’d been on the brink of death for years. He’d prepared himself for that world, readied his eyes for the dimness. Told himself his only hope of going on was to mourn her then, say good-bye, reclaim the heart she hadn’t wanted anyway.

But now? This Lavinia? The one who had offered her heart but then stepped aside, despite the obvious pain, because she thought he’d find his happiness somewhere else?

Alethia gave him a soft smile. “Don’t go into that theater tomorrow with this still hanging between you, my lord. Go in armed with as much love as you can grasp. I promise you, it is the only thing that will see you through.”

He smiled back, reached out to touch her elbow in thanks, and then clapped Xavier on the shoulder. “Whenever she misses Penelope and Zelda, just drop in. Your perpetual invitation has been reinstated.”

Xavier’s chuckle followed him back to the waiting carriage.

The trip to London was no longer than it ever was, and more comfortable than usual in the private car, even given its overburdened state. Yet it felt as though he’d been traveling four days rather than four hours by the time the car was unhitched and the “brothers” Barclay had sent to lend a hand had unloaded the supplies into a variety of carts and wagons and he followed the procession to the location Graham had chosen for them.

Another day, he would have taken the time to appreciate the aging structure, to wonder at how Graham always managed to discover the perfect sets for their work, to try to see it through the eyes of the men who would file through the front doors tomorrow, thinking it a private show for Empire House patrons—one they must attend for a special announcement.

Today, he had one goal, and one goal only. He hurried through the foyer and into the auditorium. When he spotted Lavinia on the stage with Lucy, he jogged down the aisle and vaulted onto the scuffed platform.

She looked up when he landed, but he couldn’t quite read her eyes. Maybe it was the imbalanced lighting—or maybe he couldn’t see through his own hopes.

Lucy, however, was not so conflicted. She grinned wide and ran to wrap her arms about his waist. “Mr. A!”

He hugged her back, then caught her wrists when she made to let go, lifting a brow. “My watch.”

Her grin only went impish as she dangled the pocket watch she’d lifted and dropped it into his palm.

He lifted the matching brow. “Wallet.”

She snickered and handed that back too.

He nodded, knowing well she wouldn’t have kept them anyway. Then he grinned and tapped the end of her nose. “Now. What you are about to see is something you should absolutely never let any man get away with. Not unless you know him and trust him, or perhaps if he’s saving you from a runaway streetcar or meteorite crashing to earth. Understood?”

Lucy lifted her own brows.

Lavinia frowned. “What—”

Her question turned to a squeal as he scooped her up like he’d done when they’d first got back to the Tower, hoisting her over his shoulder and making a dash toward the wings. He spotted Marigold grinning in the hallway backstage as she pointed him toward an empty room.

Lavinia was laughing, but it wasn’t so bright, so unbridled, so free—and that was his fault. His fault the script played out differently this time.

But then, it was a different script altogether. He toed the door shut behind them and then let her slide gently back to her feet—but he didn’t let her go. Never again would he let her go. He framed her face in his hands, rested his forehead on hers, and debated which of the thousand variations he’d gone through on the train were right.

None of them. There was only one right thing, so he did it. He tipped up her face, tilted his down, and kissed her. That, after all, was what she’d said he should do to make it better. He kissed her, and her arms snaked around his neck. He kissed her, and her lips parted under his. He kissed her, and his heart thudded as fast as hers had in the stable, and he felt more alive than if he was soaring on the trapeze.

He kissed her so that she could have no doubt, no fear. So that she would know. And then, when he had to break free for breath, he found the words.

“I lied.”

“What?” Her eyes were so beautifully dazed, so green and deep and vulnerable. That was what had been missing in her gaze these last two weeks—the vulnerability. The openness. The trust.

He kissed her again, soft and quick. “I never got over you. It went dormant, but it’s like those beans they’re pulling out of the tombs in Egypt. Give them a little water, and they sprout to life again.”

“Yates.”

Now he knew why he’d reacted as he had when she said his name. Because she said it like it meant more. She said it like it meant mine. And that’s exactly what he’d always been.

“I love you.” He breathed it against her mouth, tasted the words on her lips.

She kissed him, settled her hand on his chest, over his heart. “I lied too. When I said I couldn’t trust my heart, that I’d run from love. What I always meant was ‘unless it was you.’ You, I trust more than myself. You, I know will always catch me up whenever I try to run.”

“Always.” Though he’d done a lousy job of it these last few weeks. He abandoned her lips, but only so that he could trail his over her jaw, to the place beneath her ear that he’d dreamed of kissing for a decade. “I think we need some ground rules, though.”

Her breath caught in a delicious tangle. “Do we?”

“We do. For instance, set hours for Imposters work. You can’t keep the pace you’ve been going, or you’ll collapse. So when you work too long, I want permission to kidnap you.”

“Fair enough.”

He slid his hands down her arms, then settled them on her waist so he could pull her against him. “Time in the gymnasium—that should be together. If you injure yourself, I reserve the right of inspection.”

He pulled back so he could see her flush. Inspecting a lady’s thigh wasn’t exactly proper.

But it would be. He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “And once we’re married, I think it’s only fair that we give each other at least twenty-four hours’ notice before anyone goes flitting off on a case and putting themselves in danger.”

“Well now you’re just being presumptuous.” Her fingers threaded through the hair at the back of his head, but there was still enough space between them so that he could see the gleam—that blessed, brilliant, unfettered gleam—in her eyes. “Who’s to say we’ll have twenty-four hours’ notice? This work is fast-paced sometimes. I think we’d better agree to flit together.”

He made a show of considering, said, “Deal,” and sealed it with a kiss.