An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

A side from parading about London in Alethia’s shawl the other day, Lavinia hadn’t been called upon to act since the last play her mother had tolerated her being in at the Tower.

Even then, she’d never been the natural on the stage that Yates or Marigold were. They’d often written their own scripts, but the lines that were clever and fun when Lavinia was rehearsing them went utterly flat when she got up in front of the crowd.

And that was when the crowd had been her parents and the Fairfaxes.

Now she stood on the darkened stage, its heavy curtain cleaned of dust and rehung, and it was a far different audience that was even now filing in. Far more at stake than an evening’s entertainment.

Lives. Hers, yes. She knew there was risk in those moments before her face was revealed, when Rheams, Dunne, and Vernon would be there in the audience. But so many more than hers. The lives of her friends, who filled the places of this building the guests couldn’t see. The lives of the ones she’d left behind in Northumberland, who would be back in the crosshairs if they failed today.

The lives of each woman and child in the Empire House—of every ayah and maid brought to England and abandoned, who had no idea when they sought help from a charity, they were putting themselves in the hands of monsters.

Her hands shook a bit. How could they not? If her lines fled her head this time, Marigold wouldn’t be able to whisper them to her. But beneath the nerves, there was surety.

Not in herself. Not even in Yates and Marigold, Gemma and Graham, the Caesars and Neville and Clementina and Barclay’s crew. Because they were not here for money or position or power or vengeance.

She knew, with every fiber of her being, that God was with them. Because their Father loved what was good and hated what was evil. Because Christ had told them that the angels of the children, the innocents, were always before the throne of God.

They were here to show women like Samira that they were loved.

And men like Babcock what love should look like.

“Nervous?” Yates slipped up behind her in the darkness, his voice so quiet she could scarcely hear it, even with his mouth at her ear.

His breath tickled, making her smile despite it all, and he slid an arm around her waist and anchored her to him for a few seconds.

Her eyes slid shut. It made it no darker, but it still somehow made her other senses more alive. The feel of his strong arm holding her close, the light scent of his soap, the warmth from his bare arms seeping into her. He wore his acrobatic attire, and when she’d first seen him in it two hours ago, she’d indulged in the very thing she’d wanted to do since she first saw him on the trapeze again after she recovered from her illness. She’d slid her hands up his arms, linked them around his neck, and kissed him.

It hadn’t sunk in yet—that he was finally hers, that she was finally his. It would take more than eighteen hours for that. Right now, every time he reached for her hand or pulled her close like this or kissed her—which he’d done every time his sister’s back was turned last night—she felt she must be dreaming.

How could he love her? How could he let her love him? She’d thought this was impossible, had tried to make herself say good-bye to him, as he had to her. She had thought that it would be enough to help others.

It could have been. That’s what he had said, too, last night. He could have gone on living without her. People lived with broken hearts all the time. She could have run her own home for displaced women and children and been fulfilled.

But it was so much better this way—to do it together instead of apart.

Yates pressed a kiss to her temple and let his lips linger. “I’ll catch you,” he said in that same quiet whisper.

She nodded. “I know you will.”

She felt more than heard another figure slink their way in the dark, though she didn’t know who it was until he spoke as softly as they had. Barclay. “We’re missing some.”

Her heart hammered, even as her mind flew over the possibilities of what he meant. “Some what? Cloaks? Masks? Music?”

“Audience members. Your key five haven’t arrived.”

The hammer slowed to a death knell. “They found out.” What else could it be? They’d known that those five—Vernon and Rheams and Dunne, along with the two henchmen, Courtney and Weiss—were the most likely to be suspicious when those ornate invitations arrived. They, after all, were the ones who issued invitations on behalf of the Empire House. No one issued them to them . They’d banked on them assuming Babcock was behind it and storming in to see what he was up to.

From what they’d learned, they each operated with their own authority, except in the most crucial matters, and they tended to inform one another of things only after they were in place. It would fit the pattern, then, for Babcock to make some big decision and only let them know afterward.

Barclay didn’t need her to remind him of that—his family were the ones who had stolen correspondence and files from each man’s home.

“No assumptions,” Yates whispered.

“I already sent people to investigate. But we can’t wait for them to get back. Pigeon signaled that Babcock’s car turned down the street.”

If there were a knob she could turn to slow it down and give them more time, she’d twist it. As it was, she would have to trust that it was in God’s hands. “Well then.” They would take care of Babcock first, and free Samira. Contend with the murderer and his conspirators afterward. But contend they would.

“Right.” It sounded as though Barclay was smiling in the darkness. “Let’s blackmail some rich blokes.”

She shook her head rather than insist for the twelfth time that it wasn’t blackmail when what they were trying to get out of someone was good behavior. Barclay wanted to think of it that way, and he wouldn’t be convinced otherwise.

Yates gave her a squeeze, pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “See you below.”

“See you above first.”

He moved her six inches to the left—she must have shifted off her mark—and then vanished.

Stirring and murmurs came from the audience, as one would expect from a half-full auditorium. Out there, the ushers—Barclay’s friends in livery they’d found in the theater’s storage rooms, altered by one of his sisters and Zelda to fit them—showed each guest to his assigned seat. But a tap came from backstage, the house lights fluttered their warning thrice, dimmed, and then were gone.

The first strains of music came right on cue. A mournful violin, playing not in the orchestra pit, but from a catwalk, where another of Barclay’s sisters would be well out of danger.

Lavinia could hear the heavy rear door open. How many sets of footsteps entered? She strained to hear over the music, which held long a note that should have been short and then cut off abruptly.

Two. Two sets of steps, praise God. One striding up the path they’d made from door to stage, blocking off every other possible avenue with crates and boxes. Funneling him like an animal through a chute. The second scurrying, as if struggling to keep up.

“Alethia? Is that you, my darling?” A low chuckle sent shivers coursing up Lavinia’s spine. “You do know how I like to hear you play. Trying to please me? Good girl.”

The acoustics of the theater were already brilliant, meant to project every sound from the stage outward. The fact that he was calling out so boldly guaranteed that his voice would make it through the heavy velvet curtain and to the ears of each and every gentleman in the audience.

From the opposite wing, closer to where Lavinia stood, Barclay set the wax cylinder rotating on the phonograph, and Alethia’s recorded voice rang out. “Thank you for coming, Uncle Reuben.”

If the men hadn’t recognized Babcock’s voice, they would know the name. Or sort it out momentarily.

“Samira?” Recorded-Alethia called. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Samira’s answer sounded cautious, but she didn’t hesitate to answer.

She hadn’t been gagged. Was she cuffed? The urchin perched in the eaves would have reported it already to Barclay, but Lavinia could only wonder.

“Why did you come, sweetling? You know I would never have you trade yourself for me.”

They hadn’t known for sure Samira would be given the chance to say anything, though Alethia had guessed what she would say if she did. Her response was meant to answer Samira or demand Babcock to show her, and Barclay had put in a lot of practice controlling the phonograph so he could deliver each subsequent recorded line at the perfect moment.

Mostly it was meant to show Babcock to the audience he didn’t know was listening to every word. “It’s time this ends. What do you want, Uncle? What is it you meant when you offered to take me in trade for her? Are you going to take me to the Empire House? Offer me to your friends?”

Alethia had recorded that part six times before she was able to deliver it with outrage and challenge instead of tears. Lavinia had kept an arm around her shoulders while Xavier clutched her hand.

“For Samira,” she had said. “ I’ll get it right for Samira.”

Had he not been shouting, “Enough taunting me, Alethia. Show yourself!” he probably would have heard some of the rumbling from the audience.

Lavinia’s nerves tingled in her arms. They’d been counting on the men out there reacting to that. Because though every one of them had proven he wasn’t above betraying a spouse or engaging in sin, in forcing women to serve them, this was part of the narrative by which they lived too.

That it was acceptable because they were the betters of those women. They were noble. They were rich. It wasn’t so bad, they told themselves, because those women were foreign. Their skin the wrong color. Their pockets empty.

But one of their own daughters? A lady? His niece ? That would stir the outrage they would never point at themselves.

The stage lights blazed on, and the curtains swung open. Lavinia knew to expect the spotlight so she had her eyes closed, but it would have blinded Lord Babcock, whichever way he looked. And what he’d see, when finally he could, would be Lavinia, standing stage left with her back to him. Wearing Alethia’s shawl and shoes and jewelry.

What the audience would see would be him, stalking the width of the stage toward her, and Samira in whatever state he had her in.

Lavinia opened her eyes. She couldn’t see the audience either, not yet, but she wanted them to see her.

Some of them would know her. Too many. They would see, as they looked more closely, who she was.

“Is that what this drama is about?” His voice was closer now, though his steps were unsure. “You learned about the Empire House? You don’t need to fear that. You know very well I wouldn’t put you there. What have I always told you? You are mine, no one else’s, even if I’ve let Samira stand in for you.” A few more steps, more decisive. “And I don’t much appreciate you flaunting yourself in public with that self-righteous prat of a duke’s son. What do you think to gain from that alliance? Do you think to tell him? Confess to him? About us ?”

A shiver coursed up Lavinia’s spine. He was close now. Nearly close enough. A lunge, and he could grab her.

Close enough that he’d realize that her voice wasn’t coming from her . But they didn’t need him to stay convinced much longer. One moment more. Only one. Because Alethia had one more line.

“Samira, step onto the red X !”

They’d counted on him releasing her by then, as he drew closer to Lavinia, or at least to have loosened his grip enough that Samira could dive away. They’d trusted that the alarm in Alethia’s voice would trigger Samira’s instincts to do what would keep them both safe. That she would obey, and she’d do it quickly. That she would see the red X applied to the floor and get herself to it within seconds.

If not, then Babcock was on a collision course with Yates.

She heard the movement from behind her. The squeak as Yates swung down on the trapeze he’d secured to the ceiling. The undeniable gasps and shouts of the crowd as he arced across the stage too quickly for them to see more than his black clothing and mask, scoop Samira up on his way down, and then take her back with him to the other side.

Lavinia glanced up and to the left for a second. Long enough to see Yates land on a catwalk with the easy grace of a monkey, Samira held securely in one arm. Thank you, Lord. Then she faced forward again.

Babcock was no doubt stunned, but he reacted as they’d assumed he would. He didn’t spin and run away from the unexpected snatching of his bargaining piece. He surged forward. His fingers curled around her arm.

This—this was why Alethia couldn’t be here. She should never have to face this man again. Never feel his bruising hands on her, even for a moment. It made Lavinia’s stomach flip, too, but not like her friend’s would have done.

Visibly, she made no reaction. Mentally, she breathed one more prayer for the Lord’s hand to guide her, to open her lips.

Love lives only by sacrifice. That was the truth she’d decided to wear as her mask. That was where her strength must come from.

Babcock jerked her arm, trying to make her turn to face him. She kept her feet planted, but she granted him a turn of her head. Slowly. Deliberately. Very aware of the eyes on them. More, of the image she was creating for them.

Marigold had built her public persona with feathers and beads, hats and gowns, with silence and style that allowed her to move invisibly because no one looked beyond the fashions to see her face. Lavinia would build hers from strength and mystique, public championing and private work. She would make herself a force to be reckoned with. A name to be sought when one needed aid—and to be feared to those causing the pain. She was done fading into the shadows of her own suffering and grief. Done fearing that she could trust no one, even herself. She would trust God. She would trust the family that had chosen her. She would make sure others could trust her .

And it started today. Now. This minute.

She locked eyes with the startled man and delivered her first line. “I invite you to take your hands off me, Lord Babcock. I am not a helpless child for you to attack.” She projected her voice out into the crowd, like Neville and Clementina had taught them to do when they were children. She knew well the actors were in the wings, mouthing her lines with her and making certain the theatrical equipment was functioning properly.

Babcock released her arm as if it had burned him, his face a knot of fury and confusion. He would recognize her, even if he couldn’t readily find a name to put to her face. She recognized him . A familiar face in crowded ballrooms.

“What’s the meaning of this? Where’s my niece?”

Lavinia gave him a cool smile. “With that self-righteous prat of a duke’s son, of course.” A bit of improvisation there, but she thought Neville would approve. Yates was no doubt grinning as he delivered Samira to Merritt and made his way below-stage.

But time to get back on script. “She sends her regrets. She did wish she could be here to witness your collision with heavenly justice, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Not since she learned exactly what you are.”

He scoffed a laugh. “My sister? She’s too stupid to have put together more than an afternoon tea.”

“Your sister is clever as a snake.” She took the shawl from her shoulders slowly, gracefully. She let the fabric twirl like a ribbon and then tossed it at him. “Her only uncertainty was whether her husband knew her brother had threatened her daughter’s innocence, whether he would protect or harm her—hence why she kept Alethia from you both from the moment you returned to England. But she knows now. We all know—we know that you meant to steal the innocence of your six-year-old niece and only stopped because her ayah offered herself in her stead. We know what you intended time and again. The things you said to her. The bruises you gave her. How you skewed every supposedly innocent, familial touch. We know how sick and wretched you are.”

“What? Reu—what have you done ?”

They’d known, when they delivered Barremore his invitation, that he wouldn’t be a silent member of the audience. They’d mitigated it by seating him up in one of the boxes, as they’d meant to do for Rheams and the others, had they shown up. He could shout, but he couldn’t put a halt to the show. Not given the fact that they’d barred the doors behind him and had a few thieves only too happy for an excuse to tackle him, should he break through.

“Bar?” Now Babcock began to look worried. He spun toward the audience, shielding his eyes from the blinding spotlight and trying to squint through it.

Lavinia let loose her rehearsed laugh. “You don’t think this whole show is for you , do you? My, what arrogance, my lord. Though do keep your seat, Lord Barremore. The show has only begun.”

“Show.” Babcock edged backward a step, balling the pashmina in a fist and tossing it to the ground.

“No, no, my lord. Not that way. Your mark is here.” She pointed to another X on the stage floor, this one in blue. He wouldn’t move toward it, not like Samira had. Hence the myriad clicks that echoed from around the theater. The unmistakable sound of pistols cocking. “Do take your place. Those aren’t stage props.”

They were, in fact. Only Merritt’s sidearm was real, he being the only one properly trained to use it, and he had it with him to protect Samira. The rest of them would rely on good old-fashioned stage magic.

His face hard now, calculations running through his eyes, Reuben Babcock slid one step forward onto the mark. “What is the meaning of this, my lady? Who is out there?”

Another laugh, and the house lights came up long enough to show him the auditorium, forty seats filled with England’s finest—and worst. His friends. His neighbors. The men whose respect he counted on to do his business.

The men whose vices he counted on to mask his own.

She didn’t have time to watch his expression move from shock to fury to dread. Nor to see the mirroring looks on the audience’s faces when the darkness they’d been hiding in was stripped away. Several looked about to stand and flee, but the prop guns that looked so real corralled them right back into place, in the hands of the masked “chorus members,” as they’d been calling the crew made up of street rats and thieves.

Lavinia spread her arms wide, a ringmaster ready to call out the elephants and dancing bears. “My lords and good sirs, you crème de la crème, you pillars of society—come! Get lost in our show, feast your eyes on our brilliance—as we have been feasting ours on yours . Reach under your chairs, you so-called gentlemen. See what we’ve prepared for you.”

She spoke in the cadence Franco had always used to entrance the circus audience, to get their hearts beating in rhythm and direct their eyes wherever he pointed. In this case, to their own seats. They had two actors in the front row, there solely for this moment, to provide the example. They leaned down first and pulled out the envelopes fastened to the bottoms of each chair, and the other soon followed suit.

Forty envelopes rustled. There were a few startled exclamations as the men flipped through their portfolios, and she could well imagine their outrage.

Photos catching them in every act they wouldn’t want their wives to see. Copies of less-than-honest business transactions, which should have been safely locked away in their studies. Proof of mistresses, illegitimate children, and any other sins Barclay’s people had been able to get evidence of. All there, tidy and accusing, staring them in the face.

Lavinia raised her arms, Samira’s bangles catching the light. “You like a good show, is that it, my good sirs? Diversion, entertainment? Then behold!”

She held her pose as the circus sprang to life.