Page 12 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

T he Gaiety Theater at the corner of the Strand and Aldwych was bustling when their hack pulled up, and Marigold’s gaze tracked men of all ilk hovering around the entrance through the grimy window. “Why was he sending jewelry to a b-b-burlesque theater?”

Archie shifted. What did a sheltered noblewoman understand about what happened behind those doors? He didn’t want to shock her. While burlesque operas were no longer in fashion, many West End theaters funded their musical comedies with evening productions. That night’s performance, Vandervell’s Our Traviata, would make dear Mr. Verdi roll over in his grave or develop a raging cockstand.

The receipt from Garrard what he would give to return home to a woman like Marigold—

No, those thoughts would only feed the lurid thoughts his imagination fed him every time he so much as paused, when he remembered the delicate touch of her hands and how she’d asked him to pleasure her—

Dammit, Archie!

“Um, I suspect he was sending the jewels to a… a dancer.”

Her nostrils flared and her spine stiffened. “Oh.”

“But we don’t know for sure,” he hastened to add. “We’ll look for her inside.”

“But there was no name on the ledger,” she reminded him, her eyes wide and glued to the theater entrance. The show must be almost over, meaning the window of time to identify the mistress was closing.

“Let me do what I can,” he said, infusing more confidence into his voice than he felt, but he couldn’t stand to see her that way, her features pinched as though she were fighting back tears. Or worse, as though she was making herself feel nothing at all.

After passing off several coins to the hack driver—Jasper would be furious when he returned with empty pockets and no idea how much he’d spent—Archie made his way to the side of the theater. Unfortunately, a burly man, one Archie would love to have as a defenseman on the Rovers, blocked the entrance.

“‘Scuse me, mate!” Archie jumped, moved out of the way just in time to avoid being run over by an older man, his grizzled face contorted as he pushed a cart overloaded with packages up the alley.

“Thank god,” the potential defenseman said as the older man approached. “Murray’s losin’ ‘is mind in there. Girls were going to go onstage half naked in the finale.”

“Easy,” the man replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “Couldna gotten ‘ere any faster—”

The man’s sentence was lost as the overloaded cart tipped to the side, spilling several paper-wrapped bundles into the street.

One bounced and landed at Archie’s feet.

He picked it up, intending to hand it back to the men, but they hadn’t noticed him, busy as they were rescuing the packages from the muck of indeterminate origin running through all the alleys of the West End.

Do whatever it takes to win , he recalled Nathan saying. Without a word, Archie tucked the package under his coat, turned, and left the alley, his pulse thundering and his conscience plucking at his insides.

Marigold watched through the carriage window as Archie navigated through the crowd and disappeared down the alley beside the theater. The pride she’d experienced at discovering the jewelry receipts scattered at knowing she was once again helpless, watching her fate unravel outside her control.

Hundreds of people were inside those doors; how would Archie find the person who’d received the jewels without a name?

Her attention caught on a well-dressed gentleman as he departed the front of the theater, donned his hat, and waved for a passing hack. As the carriage stopped, she recognized the paper the man tossed to the street.

A playbill.

She waited, her heart thundering, until his coach pulled away before cracking the door open. Familiar anxiety plucked at her, whispered then screamed for her to remain where she would not be noticed, where she wouldn’t cause a scene or be a bother. Exactly what the marquess would expect from her.

That idea sent her feet to the pavement, and she scrambled to the discarded paper, clutched it in trembling fingers.

“Marigold!”

The air rushed from her lungs when she saw Archie hurrying towards her, a parcel tucked under one arm. He was on her in an instant, his hand on her shoulder and pulling her close—

Too close , their chests brushing as she sucked in a breath.

She stepped back, lifted her discovery between them. “The p-playbill,” she whispered as he guided her to the carriage and helped her inside. “I thought there might be a clue.”

He settled on the squab beside her, his thigh pressed against hers. “Brilliant. Any ideas?”

His proximity sent heat coursing through her, but she shook it away to focus on the crumpled pages of the playbill. “None yet…” Name after name, nothing standing out, until—

She froze, then grabbed the receipts from the opposite seat. “Here,” she said, her voice tremulous as anticipation thrummed. “All the jewelry… What is common?”

Archie leaned in, his smoky scent flooding her nostrils and scrambling her senses. “They all have pearls.”

Satisfaction swelled in her chest as she pointed to the playbill. “Look at the dancers.”

He chuckled. “Marigold, you’re incredible.”

“Thank you, Agnes.” The tightness in Marigold’s chest loosened enough for her lungs to function again as she handed over the slip of paper bearing Archie’s direction in York. The dressing room’s miniscule dimensions meant, even with her back against the door, she hardly needed to extend her arm to reach the place where her husband’s former mistress sat. “I’m so grateful for whatever help you can offer.”

Talking her way backstage hadn’t required any talking at all with the parcel in hand, Pearl Winslow scrawled in Marigold’s hand as the recipient. The noxious cocktail of pride and indignation towards her husband had propelled her to the stage entrance, demanding she deliver the parcel herself. To her amazement, the burly man guarding the door had nodded and let her pass without another word.

But now, she was having difficulty maintaining her ire.

Agnes, who went by Pearl when she was dancing and singing for the Gaiety, wasn’t the seductive harpy Marigold had expected.

Agnes was a year or two younger than Marigold, but her life growing up in Cheapside showed in the lines around her lips and the circles beneath her eyes no powder could eliminate entirely. He told me you knew about our arrangement , she had said, nostrils flaring and her icy blue eyes flashing when Marigold explained who she was—who her husband was.

She’d been certain the marquess would provide her with sufficient income to live comfortably while pursuing more serious acting roles. But he’d ended their relationship several months ago without warning, and the rumor among the girls at the Gaiety was that he had taken up with a dancer at the Theatre Royale.

The woman had the decency to appear abashed. “You shouldn’t be thanking me.”

“His letters to you will help,” Marigold said, surprising herself with her temerity. “Not as much as t-testimony would.”

“I’m still not sure. I need to find another patron,” she said, a flush visible beneath her stage makeup. “If my name comes out, no one will take me on.”

“I understand,” Marigold repeated, hoping the dancer would lose the vengeful flare in her eyes. While she wished her husband absent from her life, she wasn’t prepared to be accountable for his murder. “You’re certain the letters mention my not knowing about the affair.”

She nodded. “He swore again and again you knew and approved of us.” Her frown deepened. “I feel terrible. Lying bastard , I should—”

“And anything else that might help,” she interrupted. Archie waited for her in the hack, undoubtedly worried that she hadn’t returned when the show ended. While a part of her wanted to run back to the safety of his presence, she couldn’t help noticing a surge of pride, her battered ego shedding some of its scar tissue with the knowledge she had solved this problem, that she had advanced her case one step closer to a divorce.

“Yes, of course, of course,” Agnes sputtered. She released a shuddering sigh and settled further into the velvet-upholstered chair. “All this anger is terrible for both of us, and I can’t afford to waste away pining over that dog.”

Marigold forced a smile and shifted her reticule on her lap. What was the proper etiquette for scheming with your husband’s former mistress? “I agree,” she managed. “I should go—”

“What about you?” Agnes asked, a mischievous smirk pulling at her painted lips. “You’ll have your freedom soon. What will you do with it?”

Marigold glanced towards the large mirror hung above the cluttered vanity. Long, filmy scarves draped over it, making her reflection shimmer and soften, like she was seeing through time to the woman she might have been, had she not married the marquess. What would her life have been if she’d waited to marry? Would she have found someone she loved, who would love her in return? But then she wouldn’t be a mother to Reggie or Matthew, and the prospect of their absence made her throat clench.

Archie’s face came to her, unbidden. Perhaps if she’d given herself more time, she would have found someone like him.

She could have found Archie.

She blinked several times to shake away the vision that formed against her will. What a ridiculous thought. He was too young and in no way someone who would cavort in society. They would have been impossible then, as they were impossible now.

Her head needed to remain out of the clouds and firmly planted in her present predicament. “I’ll go to America, I think. I have family there.”

“That’s lucky. What will you do for work?”

Marigold’s gut clenched. “I d-d-don’t know yet.” Once again, her planning had stopped at the imaginary moment the divorce was final, but she hadn’t considered how she’d support herself once she was no longer a marchioness. Neither sister who lived in America was wealthy, and her family estate was under severe financial strain.

What a na?ve fool she’d been.

“I’ll bet you could do all sorts of things,” Agnes said.

I’m certain you could do anything you wanted. And I want you to be certain, as well.

“Some things,” she demurred, Archie’s words ringing like a mantra.

Agnes chuckled. “You’d be a great chorus dancer!”

Marigold released a bark of incredulous laughter. “Me? No, I could never.”

Agnes stood and came behind Marigold, looking at their shared reflection. “You have the looks for it, and the legs.” Her nose wrinkled. “Bust is a little small, but we can work with that. The gents would line up for you.”

“No one would notice me,” she whispered, hating how the words escaped without willing them, as though they’d been carved into her consciousness and identity without her consent.

Agnes had already picked up a tin of rouge and swiped a bit on Marigold’s pale cheek. “Don’t you want to show your husband what he’s missing?”

She wouldn’t spare a concern for the marquess. The last time she’d pretended to be someone else, she’d met Archie, and as much as she regretted her deceitful actions that night, borrowing clothes and playing a part had freed her, let her glimpse the life she would have when the marquess was gone from her life.

Agnes brushed rouge on the other side of her face. “I might even have a dress in your size.”

Her reflection did look warmer, brighter, perhaps prettier. Was this the real Marigold, the one she could have been, hiding behind a few filmy layers like her reflection? Could she take the power that warmed her chest and hold it for a while longer?

She exhaled a huff and lifted the tin of rouge from the vanity surface. “Would you show me how to color my lips?”