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LOVE ON THE LINE
ANABELLE BRYANT
1
LONDON, 1817
The glint of his knife caught her attention. Perched high above Vauxhall Gardens, balanced on a tightrope less than two inches wide, Lola York witnessed a murder. Captivated by the brutal act and unable to scream, she remained trapped between the surety of her steps and a death fall to the ground below.
Usually, her nightly performances suspended her above the cruelties of reality. Walking the rope was the only time she felt completely safe and utterly free. As though she could finally breathe once she rose above London, unfettered by the sins of the past and uncertainty of her future.
But now halfway across, poised between two wooden stanchions, the unexpected flash of moonlight on metal drew her eyes to the violent scene as it unfolded on a shadowy path beyond the grandstand. Horrified and transfixed, she stayed motionless while below multitudes of gathered spectators and excitement seekers waited breathlessly for her next step.
Still, she couldn’t move. Not while two dark figures fought, one with malice, the other in defense. The attacker wore a long black greatcoat and came at the other person in a silent rush thattook the victim unaware. There wasn’t much else to see. It was over in the length of a few exhales.
Someone in the stands yelled an obscenity, impatient with her immobility. She blinked several times in succession and fixed her eyes on the rope, moving forward with rote memory and unerring balance until she reached the other side. An oblivious burst of applause swelled upward into the air around her as she waved numbly to the blurred faces of the crowd. She was a mistress of grace and balance. Nothing was more important than the show.
Shaken, she glanced over her shoulder, beyond the grandstand to the darkened path where she’d witnessed someone’s life stolen in a matter of seconds. Now only darkness met her eyes aside from the slumped form of a body left behind.
Pickpockets, swindlers, prostitutes and the like, were common to Vauxhall. In fact, many visitors thrived on the danger and illicit juxtaposition the pleasure gardens offered.
But murder,murderwas unsettling.
She had no time to reconcile her thoughts as the grandstand emptied, the show having ended. A heartbeat later a high-pitched scream pierced the air. Several more followed. Male voices barked orders. Crowds dispersed. Others gathered along the path periphery, seeking a bit of morbid gawking. The shrill whistle of the watch sounded. On that isolated path, things were becoming known.
Far above the chaos, Lola waited on the wooden platform.
“Lola.”
She recognized Marco’s voice and glanced to the rope ladder dangling over the side of the platform and down to the ground. Marco DeLeon was a fellow performer and good friend. He climbed halfway and paused when their eyes met.
“Are you all right?”
He began to climb higher and she stalled him by holding up her flattened palm. Noticing how her fingers trembled, she dropped her hand just as quickly. “Yes. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t ready to talk about what she’d seen. Not even with Marco, the one person at Vauxhall who knew about her past. Someone she’d grown close to and shared a brief relationship. Even though they’d separated over a year ago, he continued to be protective and she didn’t want to answer his questions or ignite his concern. The less she told him, the better it would be all around.
“A man was killed.” He’d reached the platform, having climbed up anyway. “Did you know?”
“No.” She lied and leaned over to adjust her slipper, avoiding his eyes. “Did you see it?”
“I saw nothing.” He answered. “I don’t think anyone did. All eyes were on you, on the rope. Everyone else was busy performing or preparing. I was inside the pavilion. I only came out when I heard someone scream.”
“What have you learned?” She stepped toward the rope ladder, knowing he would have to descend so she could follow.
“Not much.” He spoke as he moved. “A man was stabbed. He’s dead. But it hurts us all. The last thing we need is Bow Street nosing around here. It cuts into the profits.”
Marco didn’t exaggerate. The more nobs and cits who sought respite from life’s tedium by visiting the infamous pleasure grounds, the more money there was to be made. Crowds were important. Size definitely mattered.
Lola and the other performers were a misfit collection of outcasts and drifters who looked out for their own and shared a common dislike of Runners and lawmen. The entertainers were loyal to each other and rarely asked questions, more interested in their present than another’s history. Lola had come into her occupation on the tightrope by accident, but it suited this newversion of her life. Perhaps it was only what she deserved. Past decisions were better left unexamined at the moment and like Marco, everyone in employ at Vauxhall had secrets of their own to protect.
Theodore Michael Coventry,third Earl of Essex, awoke to the sound of loud pounding. Fighting off the weight of interrupted sleep, he glanced at the clock on the mantel and startled to awareness. At this hour? Who the hell knew he was in house anyway?
With a breath composed of annoyance and impatience, he left the comfort of his chair near the fire and answered the door. Having only just returned to London the day before, he hadn’t secured the staff needed for his town house in Mayfair.
From what he could tell, little had changed in the city of his birth since he’d left two years ago to travel abroad. Perhaps he hadn’t changed either, that same relentless restlessness in his blood persisted, even now at half past midnight. It could be nothing more than exhaustion. Sleep often escaped him and the deep slumber he’d experienced before the knocking began was ever elusive and rare.
Drawing a cleansing breath, he lifted the latch and opened the door. Two men stood on the front steps.