When the study door swung open without so much as a knock, Leo knew the intrusion could be from only one person. “Not now, Uncle,” he barked even before Bernard stepped into the room. “I’m occupied at the moment.”
Of course it was Bernard. And of course he looked irritable.
Usually Leo was willing to allow his uncle full rights of irritability in their conversations, but he wasn’t up to it today. He’d been feeling prickly himself all day—all week, really—and fighting about the same old nothings with Bernard was the last thing he wanted right now.
Not that his uncle listened to Leo’s dismissal. “You look terrible.” The old man creaked across the study and settled into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Were you out carousing? And you an engaged man?”
Setting down his quill, Leo pressed at his temples. After all the years Richard had smoked in this room, its furniture still held the smell of his pipe tobacco. “I have not been out in Society for a week. Not since I accompanied Poppy Hayworth to the masquerade at Vauxhall. Thank you for your concern, though. It has been noted.”
She would be performing tonight, at a birthday concert and fireworks show. Another in the string of celebrations of the Prince Regent’s birthday.
Leo had thought about visiting Vauxhall tonight, but he’d decided not to. Poppy would be safe on her high wire; he was the one who had fallen.
“Poppy is a good girl,” grunted Bernard. “You should make her your duchess at once, so she can help you administer the dukedom. That should be your first duty. Always.”
Leo let his fists thump to the desk’s cluttered surface. “I am aware of my responsibilities. Why do you think I look terrible, as you kindly put the matter? It’s not because I’ve been carousing. I’ve been trying to make sense of the dukedom’s accounts. Have the tenants in Sussex really been paying only half-rent for two years?” When Bernard opened his mouth, Leo held up a silencing hand. “I’m already looking into it.”
The fortune he’d made in shipping was being steadily parceled out. Here a fence, there a cow, everywhere a thatched roof. And a drainage system for the land on which crops were grown. And the cows…was no one making cheese with their milk?
He dipped the quill and scribbled another note for the steward in Sussex. Likely it was time for a new steward.
When he set aside the quill again, he considered the line of small objects across the front of the desk. A puzzle of interlocking wooden links. An ebony carving of an elephant whose ivory tusks Leo had accidentally pulled out, so that now they could be removed and replaced at will. A china dish of marbles and dice carved from vivid semiprecious stones. All for taking up and fiddling with when Leo’s attention wanted to flit, taking his body along with it.
He took three marbles, big jade ones, from the dish and began tossing them in the air and catching them. Half the reason was because it settled his mind; the other half was because he knew it would annoy Bernard.
“You can’t be looking into financial matters well if you keep playing with children’s toys,” complained the old man. “And you’re not having second thoughts about Poppy, are you? Her occupation is eccentric, but her birth was good.”
Leo had found his rhythm, a high toss of one marble and a quick pass of the other two. He ought to practice juggling with a fourth sometime. “I never doubted her birth or her worth. Honestly, Uncle, I knew her long before you came to live with us at the Sussex estate.”
He could hardly remember a time before he knew her. He could hardly imagine how he’d got through the past years so far away from her.
It had been one week since he’d ducked from under the orchestra at Vauxhall, hand in hand with Poppy. Finally, they had claimed each other, and it had been a pleasure of a sort that brought a man to his knees.
And it had been utterly fleeting.
He was Westfair, and she was with child. He’d never cared about the dukedom before, but that was before it belonged to him. The land, the money—what little there was of it—the tenants, the servants.
The line of succession. The future heir.
Besides this, Poppy remained in England only until she earned enough to leave it forever. She could not really be his, and he couldn’t be hers. Not beyond a single moment. Not even for a thousand pounds.
Some things, as she said, couldn’t be helped. It had been a week since that wonderful, terrible night, and he still hadn’t come up with a way through their situation. A week that had begun with Poppy slipping away from him into a crowd of costumed strangers. With him unable to find her in the crush of people dressed exactly like her.
She was always right. Damnation.
He supposed he had to prepare his uncle for the inevitable end. “I’m not sure I’m the sort of man she wants.” Toss, toss. “I believe she is having doubts about me.”
Probably he should have blamed himself for their parting. But Leo couldn’t make himself say that he didn’t want Poppy.
To the contrary: He wanted her enough for two. He was the one who had said too much; he alone had confessed he had wanted to marry her. He had suggested the fake engagement; he had offered the bribe. He had invited her to the masque, and he had admitted how he longed for her.
And Poppy? Poppy had left, and when Leo tracked down her lodging and asked to speak with her, a hatchet-faced widow said she wasn’t at home to gentlemen callers.
Leo was persistent, but he was no fool. Though wordless, this was Poppy’s answer to his presence in her life.
Uncle Bernard, of course, knew none of this. “Then you have to settle Poppy’s doubts in you, Leo. You need a duchess.”
“Right, right.” It was easier to agree. Maybe his uncle would leave the study more quickly that way.
“This is not a matter about which to be flippant. Think of what you owe the Billingsley name. The succession, and the Westfair title.”
Another man’s child in place of the future duke? Bernard could have no idea. The more he tried to persuade Leo that Poppy was right for him, the more he confirmed that Poppy had been right instead.
Leo opened his mouth—but before he could reply, the clock chimed the quarter hour. He startled, missing all three marbles, which clunked to the floor and rolled somewhere inaccessible.
Time to check in with himself: Had he been doing what he ought?
Sort of. Mostly. It was too easy to drift from the work before him, to think of Poppy. Of soft skin and seductive moans, of laughter and bare toes and walnuts and furniture dragged all out of place. He hadn’t been thinking of the dukedom at all—and damn the world, damn his bad luck, but the two were mutually exclusive.
Leo bent over, searching the floor for his jade marbles. He found one…two…no, he couldn’t see where the other had gone. When he sat up again, he cracked his head on the underside of the desk.
He cursed, rubbing at the sore spot on his crown, only to meet piercing green eyes with low brows like storm clouds. “Leo,” said Bernard. “You’re not taking this conversation seriously.”
“To the contrary. You have no idea how serious I am at this very moment.” With a clatter of stone on porcelain, he dropped the two marbles back into their dish. “If you want to criticize anything else, I will see you for that at seven o’clock tonight. We can give each other indigestion following dinner. Right now, unless you want to sign some papers and leave London, I must ask you at least to leave this study.”
Bernard folded his arms. He looked like a scarecrow perched on the old leather-seated chair, all elbows and grimaces. “I won’t sign it. Not anything you want me to sign. I won’t have you hurt the dukedom.”
“I don’t really need to have you sign anything, you know. I could pack you off to Sussex and make you live in the dower house there. Surely the Duke of Westfair could summon servants enough to drag one single person from this town house.”
His uncle made a noise of disgust.
Leo felt much the same. He sighed. He drew the little ebony elephant toward him and pulled out its tusks. “These papers are to settle an income on you, Uncle, regardless of the dukedom’s state of affairs. Is it so difficult to believe I do not wish you ill?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s…Westfair.”
Leo bobbled the tiny ivory tusks, dropping them on the desk. “What of it?” His curiosity was piqued by Bernard’s tentative tone. He hadn’t known the old man’s throat could issue such a sound. “I’m doing my best by Westfair. Or I will be, once I’ve had time to straighten out its finances.”
Bernard was silent. His gaze was averted, faraway. Finally he whispered, “It’s all I’ve had for years. It’s all I have left.”
Leo stared at his uncle. Bernard looked frail and old, his vitality leached away with the words, gone from the air.
He had not thought about the matter like that before, that after losing wife, daughter, brother-in-law, sister, nephew, the only thing to which Bernard remained attached was the dukedom that had brought him into Leo’s life all those years ago.
Cautiously, quietly, Leo said, “You will always have a place at Westfair. After my father died, when Richard was but a child, you were the one who helped us to—”
“Don’t condescend to me.” Bernard snapped upright, glaring at Leo with his familiar resentment. “I know you haven’t any use for me. You never have.”
“Uncle, that’s not tr—”
“I won’t be at dinner tonight. Don’t wait for me.”
Leo’s hands balled into fists. With careful calm, he said, “What you’ve said about me is not true. I will have a meal sent to your chamber, if you wish to dine there.”
Bernard’s reply, as he shuffled from the room with a fling of sharp elbows, was profane.
Leo picked up one of his marbles and flung it at the closing study door. The crack of jade against wood was most satisfying.
So. All Bernard had was Westfair, he said? Leo wished he could give his uncle the cursed dukedom. If Leo couldn’t have Poppy, and if his closest living relative wouldn’t listen to him, what was the point of having people call him Your Grace? He was as alone as he’d been when he lived abroad.
The truth was, he’d been away too long. His tenants, his seat in Parliament, might require the presence of the Duke of Westfair. But Leo Billingsley? The world could get along just fine without him. The world, and all the people in it. Especially Poppy Hayworth.
He glared at the clock, which was striking the half hour. Nosy bastard, that clock. Always wanting to know: Was Leo doing what he ought?
He looked at the cluttered desk. At the closed study door, through which his uncle had exited. He thought of the gold-and-white balance pole that had been snapped into pieces. Poppy had said she needed it to perform, but without it, she was planning to perform tonight all the same.
Not that he had sent a servant to inquire of the Vauxhall management.
Not that he was greedy for every scrap of news about her.
Not at all, because that would not be doing what he ought.
And so he located the marble he’d just thrown, and the other one that had escaped his juggling, and he put them in their dish. He replaced the little elephant’s ivory tusks. And he took up a quill.
If no one needed Leo Billingsley anymore, he would have to be Westfair, and Westfair alone. No matter how many times the clock chimed. Onward, forever.
And if that was the case, he might as well go to Sussex. There was no reason for him to stay in London anymore.
***
Poppy couldn’t perform without her balance pole—yet here she was, slipping on her tight performance slippers, trying not to glance over her shoulder at the orchestra’s raised platform. The musicians were tuning their instruments, as carefree as if no one could ever have made love or been devastated while listening to them play.
Damn the orchestra.
Vauxhall seemed all false gilt tonight. The crowd gathering before the orchestra was painted and bright as a parrot. On the uniforms worn by the musicians were brass buttons pretending to be gold. If one looked closely at the bright hanging lamps, one could see how withered the trees became from their heat. It was the height of summer, and many of the trees were bare-branched, as if it were January.
In truth, she was less sour of mood than she was terrified. She’d not walked a high wire without her balance pole all season, but the Barrett brothers insisted, stating that the ropedancer had to perform as part of the fireworks display. During the concert. For the Prince Regent’s birthday.
Implied, though not stated directly, was that Poppy would be in royal trouble if she did not get onto the wire.
She wished she were in France already, and not in the same city as a Leo she could not, ought not, see again. Walking a wire over a net—installed at last—that served only to remind her how far she could still fall.
“Hullo, Madame Haut!” called a familiar female voice.
Poppy swallowed her fear, wiggled her toes into the end of the second shoe, then straightened up with a smile pasted on her features. “Hullo, Miss Tyburn.” At least she had never faked a French accent with the other Vauxhall performers. “Will you be singing tonight?”
“During the fireworks, though likely no one will hear me over the glorious noise.” The Prince Regent’s favorite soprano, Edith Tyburn was always friendly to Poppy. With a generous pile of red hair and an equally large bosom, Edith drew every eye when she was performing from the orchestra.
“Where is that long pole of yours?” Edith looked curious.
“It was broken during the masque. I thought Lord Bexley would see it stored safely after my last performance.” She ended her explanation there. One shouldn’t criticize a viscount, even if he had caused the destruction of her livelihood through neglect.
“A week ago and more, that was?” After glancing over her shoulder to check there was no one around, Edith leaned forward confidentially, her breath scented of mint and gin. “Lord Bexley vanished that night.”
Poppy blinked. “That cannot be. It would have been in the newspapers.”
“Well, he came back,” Edith granted. “But he hasn’t explained where he went, or why. And Charity Cooper—the alto, you know—told that ratty little trombone player that the viscount’s manservant saw Lord Bexley captured from one of the dark walks.”
“Captured? You mean he was taken prisoner?” Despite herself, Poppy had to admit this was a good excuse for not storing her balance pole.
“Exactly.” Edith rocked back on her heels, looking satisfied—until a thought struck her. “Of course, he was at the masked ball last week, so he couldn’t have been gone for so very serious a reason. Oh, wouldn’t it be interesting if there was some really good gossip?”
“Very,” Poppy said dryly. If you only knew. She could provide a whole scandal sheet’s worth from her own life in the past few months.
Edith tapped her chin with a gloved finger. “There was that prizefight here recently. Did you see it?”
“No. I’m not here if I’m not performing.” With one rare exception for old loves who became lovers. “And when I am here, I’m up in the air.” She smiled so Edith would know she wasn’t being unfriendly.
“Such a show! It was down one of the dark walks. The boxers”—Edith lowered her voice again—“were stripped to the waist. And then there was the most scandalous chase afterwards, with all sorts of traps, and men falling into pits like wild animals!”
Poppy had to be missing something. “Why were there pits in the ground?”
“The Duke of Vauxhall,” whispered Edith with a shiver of delight. “He did it! He had them dug. He’s the most dangerous criminal in London.”
“It does sound dangerous, having pits in the ground,” Poppy agreed. But then, so did walking a wire without her balance pole.
A wave of applause interrupted their conversation. Edith gasped, her hands fluttering theatrically through the air. “The conductor! They’re about to begin the concert! Oh, la. Here I am thinking about bare-chested boxers when I ought to be thinking about the Prince Regent.” She pulled a face. “Good luck, Madame!”
Poppy waved her farewell, then drew in a deep breath. Deliberately, she turned, tipped her head back, and looked up at the great height of the mast. The tightrope was as yet in darkness, and the mast loomed above like a great dead tree.
She put her hands on the first in a column of metal rungs that marched up the mast, and to the opening strains of a full-orchestra piece, she began to climb. Sixty feet into the air, where a warm wind set the world to rocking, she stepped onto a platform. And waited.
In the shadow ahead, a lacework of smaller ropes stretched to the ground at angles, pulling her great wire taut along its length so that it would not sway. At the far end—hundreds of feet away, hardly noticeable in the low light—a pair of posts tilted in a great triangle to clasp tight to the end of the rope.
It seemed far away now, without her balancing pole. Just her and a net, lonelier than if there had been none. And there would be no Leo at the end of the wire-walk.
She shivered, thinking of her cloak. Of his coat around her shoulders. She missed him like she missed the sky when she was indoors.
She should never have spent time with him. It was too difficult to guard her heart.
When the orchestra finished its opening piece, a bell clanged to alert gardengoers to the start of the fireworks display. Behind her, Poppy knew Edith would be ascending to the stage. Rockets were being set into the ground. And then the first firework cracked open in a great flare of light, like a sheet flung over the night sky.
“Time for the show,” Poppy muttered.
In an instant, the fireworks were in full bloom overhead, booming and snapping in wheels and bursts of color. Reds and greens and golds, making the sky bright and dark. Spelling out words: God…Save…the…King. Happy…Birthday…Your…Majesty. Edith’s lovely voice darted and soared through the noise of the conflagration.
Once the words were done, Poppy slid one resined slipper forward onto the tightrope. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, and a hot rain of gold and silver sparks fell all around. To people watching from below, Poppy would be picked out against the night sky, a daring figure almost unbelievably small.
One step onto the rope, then another. She flung her arms out, up, checking her balance. Was the crowd gaping below her? Was there a crowd at all? She couldn’t look. She dared not look away from her feet, inching forward on this endless rope.
One step, then another. She was nearly a quarter of the way across now. Each inch, each foot traveled was a laborious distance. The resin on the soles of her slippers clung to the rope, making it pitch and roll underfoot. With a great explosion, the sky lit up in pinwheels of white and scarlet—and with her eyes dazzled, Poppy missed a step.
Her foot slid right off the rope.
She tottered, then pitched forward, a scream strangled in her throat. With a desperate grab, she caught the rope before she plummeted—first one hand, then both.
Below her, the crowd gasped. She flicked her eyes down, down. The audience was looking up at her, openmouthed, pressing against the net. That damned net. She couldn’t let go of the rope. There wasn’t enough net to break her fall.
Her breath was coming quick and panicked. No! She must not let fear take hold. For a moment, she shut her eyes, ignoring the crowd below, the fiery sky above. She dangled from the rope, her feet kicking nothingness.
Then, with a heave of muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, she swung her legs upward and caught the rope under one knee. She wrenched her other leg up, hooking it over the rope too, so she hung from all fours.
She drew in a shuddery breath. All right. She was steady. She could do this.
At this angle, her skirts were yanked by gravity, and the slight roundness of her abdomen was outlined. She felt a flutter within that was not from fear, and she wondered. Surely it was too early for a quickening? Maybe it was only her heart, reminding her she was not alone.
Baby, she thought. I’m sorry, baby. We’re all right. I’ll get us down safely. I’ll take care of you.
Without her balance pole, the familiar rope was an obstacle to be overcome. There was no hope of swinging herself back upright onto the wire—so instead, she hung upside-down as she clambered slowly along its length. Knee after elbow after knee after elbow, she hooked her limbs over the rope and made her slow way to the end. She didn’t look at the crowd again; didn’t think of anything except reaching that blessed endpoint from which she could slide down to the ground.
Stupid fireworks. Stupid Duke of Vauxhall. Stupid contract that she had signed, that had forced her to perform even without her balance pole.
Stupid Poppy to count on anyone else. Not for safety, not for love, not for happiness.
At last, she reached the end of the wire. She couldn’t look down, not yet. Not until her feet were planted on the earth. Praying and cursing at once, she caught the downward rope and slid to the ground, hands grasping the rope tightly as claws.
Sweet, solid earth. Blessed earth. Let the sky explode into so many false stars; she had made her way along the wire, and she was safe.
Hands grasped her waist from behind.
Curse that guard. She turned. “Le—oh.” She halted the name half spoken. “Lord Nithsdale.”
She shook free of his grasp as a chill raced over her, scalp to toe. For here stood the father, if one could use such a nice word, of the child growing in her womb.