Page 1 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 1

Cincinnati, Ohio

August 1880

M ANY DIME NOVELISTS EXPERIENCED CREATIVE blocks to their writing, but Lydia Pelton doubted any of them would stoop to impersonating a clown and rescuing a three-legged goat from the circus to overcome them. A wise decision on their part, no doubt. Letting Theresa convince her this was the best solution to both of their problems bordered on lunacy. Not only had they abandoned their corsets and skirts for—Lord, forgive them—oversized trousers and red shirtwaists, but they’d concocted the most ridiculous plan of extracting a bleating goat from the circus. At night. When everything was quiet and calm.

They were fools. The stench of the outhouses they hid behind only confirmed it.

Theresa tugged on Lydia’s shirtsleeve and pointed between the wooden buildings toward the lantern light of the circus grounds’ guard.

If he adhered to the same path as last time, he’d exit from between the colored tents, then meander toward the big tent—the opposite direction of the menagerie.

Lydia scratched at the tacky white paint on her face and watched the light grow brighter. Please don’t let this go like I’d write it.

He exited and proceeded just as expected.

Good. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a catastrophe. After all, if she’d written this, the guard would have visited the necessary and discovered them. It was a perfect plot device for fiction. Not so much for real life.

Lydia leaned in toward Theresa to keep her voice low. “It’s not too late. We should leave now before we’re caught.”

“Don’t be such a coward. You’re a Guardian, and Guardians do not leave the defenseless in the hands of such negligent brutes.”

They might be Guardians, but half of their group were tucked in bed in their homes, like reasonable people. Besides, the oath they’d made during their school days to protect the defenseless hadn’t been meant to extend to animals, but that was Theresa for you. She couldn’t abide the abuse of man or beast—even if that beast were a three-legged goat owned by the Adam Beadle Circus. Lydia should have called on Nora and Flossie for help with her creative block. Maybe then she wouldn’t be in this impossible position with Theresa.

“What if we’re caught?”

Theresa readjusted the cone-shaped hat over the tight bun on top of her head. “With as often as I’ve evaded Grandfather’s and Mrs. Hawking’s supervision—tonight included—you have nothing to be concerned about. Just follow my lead. Now come on. Tipsy needs us.”

She darted to the nearest tent, leaving Lydia to debate her next action in the shadows.

Just because you would pen this as a complete disaster doesn’t mean that’s how it will happen. Just pretend you’re one of your heroines. Or better yet, Billy Poe.

The hero detective of her crime novels embodied bravery, determination, cunning, and strength. To accomplish this rescue mission, she’d take on his persona, not a damsel-in-distress heroine making stupid choices that placed her in danger. Granted, she was making a stupid decision now, but friends did stupid things for each other, right?

Lydia sprinted to Theresa’s side.

The odor of the watchman’s cigarette lingered in the air, but no one else wandered about. They dashed from one tent to the next, pausing at each one to ensure the path remained clear. Once they reached the menagerie tent, Lydia rubbed her palms over her coarse trousers and forced slow, quiet breaths. The next time she wrote a scene where someone sneaked around, she’d remember to include descriptions of sweaty palms, thumping heartbeats, and breaths held until dizzy for fear of being heard. No experience could go wasted. Not even something as absurd as rescuing a goat from the circus.

Theresa had better appreciate how much Lydia valued their friendship.

Muttered conversations and rumbling snores indicated they were close to the compact village of caravan wagons and sleeping tents. Much too close. Based on how many wagons she’d seen earlier, Adam Beadle must employ nearly one hundred people. It would take only one person to spot her or Theresa and sound the alarm.

This was their last chance to reconsider.

She crouched next to where Theresa struggled to lift the canvas bottom from between the tent pegs. “We should leave. It’s too risky right now.”

Her friend scowled. “The last show is tomorrow. It’s tonight or never.”

“Never sounds good.”

Theresa dropped the canvas and planted her fists on her hips. “Neither the Guardians nor a Plane abandons a battle plan when a life is at stake. Tipsy will die if we don’t rescue her.”

“If we get caught—”

“They’ll assume we’re clowns.”

No, they wouldn’t. Clowns were men , and a blind person could see there was nothing masculine about either one of them. Theresa, with her small chest and petite features, might pull off the appearance of a young boy, but Lydia had curves that no amount of binding cloth could hide. Add her thick black mass of curly hair that couldn’t be stuffed inside a muck bucket, much less the triangular little hat tilting to one side on her head, and no one could deny it. She was a woman.

With a coroner father and a healthy imagination, Lydia well knew the risks they faced should the largely male circus population discover them. But Theresa would never retreat. Her big heart outweighed reason.

Lydia sighed. She couldn’t leave Theresa behind. If they worked together, they might make it out unscathed.

Maybe.

“Fine. But you know this is illegal, right?” Lydia wedged her hands between the hard-packed ground and rough canvas.

Theresa joined her. “Not when I’m paying for her. I’ll slip a note and the outrageous sum Mr. Beadle demanded beneath the ringmaster’s wagon door on our way out. I’m not giving the man a chance to raise his price again . I barely had enough from my painting commissions to pay this amount.”

Unladylike grunts escaped as they pulled upward against the tension formed by two tent pegs and the weight of the canvas. They managed to raise an opening about a foot high.

Theresa dropped to her stomach and squirmed her way through. Once on the other side, she held the canvas for Lydia. “Be careful not to stand too quickly. I bumped my head on the underside of a wagon.”

Lydia eyed the insufficient opening. You can make it. Just think small.

She thrust her arms and head through the hole, then clawed at the packed dirt. Filth and pebbles wedged painfully beneath her nails. With toes jammed into the ground, she wriggled until, finally, her bust cleared the opening.

At least Theresa had insisted on wearing trousers. With all the flailing she was doing with her legs, her thighs would surely have been exposed in skirts. Now to get her lower half through.

She glanced around. A few low-burning lanterns hung from wagon fronts and revealed there was nothing within reach. Theresa didn’t weigh enough to hold down a sheaf of paper, but she was all Lydia had.

“On the count of three, pull me.” She dug her toes deeper into the ground outside the tent and grabbed Theresa’s arms at the elbow. “One. Two. Three!”

Theresa yanked. Her grip slipped, and she tumbled against the wagon.

Lydia didn’t budge, but the commotion woke the wagon’s occupant.

Yellow-and-black eyes flashed in the dim light.

A tiger’s clawed paw shot out the cage bars toward Theresa.

Lydia grasped Theresa’s legs and tugged them from beneath her.

Theresa yelped as she fell.

The tiger growled, clearly disgruntled at having missed out on a midnight snack. The paw disappeared, and padded feet paced the small confines of the cage.

Lydia fisted her hands to stop their trembling. Praise God for His protection.

“Thanks for the rescue. Now let’s get you inside.” Theresa crawled to the canvas stretched tight over Lydia’s waist, and tugged.

Unfortunately, without standing and becoming prey for the tiger, her attempts were futile.

Lydia tapped her forehead against the cool ground. Of course she was pinned in place. It was exactly the thing she’d write to build excitement and anticipation for the reader. But this was not fiction, and the anticipation of being caught was making her nauseated.

Canvas bit into her as she twisted onto her side. “Find something to use as a wedge.”

Theresa crawled beneath the tiger’s wagon and disappeared from view.

Rummaging came from the other side of the tent, accompanied by the annoyed huffs, rumbles, and bleats of the other animals.

God, if we make it through this night without injury or detection, I promise Theresa and I will never do something so foolish again. At least not until Theresa’s next harebrained idea.

Maybe bargaining with God wasn’t her most glorious moment, but at this point they needed a miracle.

Theresa came around the side of the wagon with a three-legged goat wobbling behind her on a rope lead. “Look who I found!”

Make that more than a miracle. How would they get a goat out if Lydia couldn’t even get in ?

At least the goat wasn’t the only thing Theresa had brought. She set two small decorative wooden boxes in front of Lydia.

“This is the best I could find,” Theresa said. “Will they help?”

Lydia pulled one closer. “It’s not much, but I guess we’ll see.” She sucked in her stomach and jammed the box into the narrow space between herself and the canvas. With some effort, she forced it onto its tallest side. It only created a couple more inches, but every bit counted. After turning over carefully, she worked the other box into place.

Perfect. Now she just had to wiggle inside without her rear end knocking the boxes over. Maybe they’d get Tipsy out without being caught after all.

“Stop!” A man bellowed the order from outside the tent.

Of course. She should’ve known better than to even think they might succeed.

Well, if she was going to be caught, it wouldn’t be with her body half outside. She rolled onto her stomach and kicked toward Theresa.

Before she could maneuver herself fully inside, a slippered foot landed on the back of her calf and rolled off. She winced, and the person who’d stepped on her grunted. Seconds later, the full weight of their body crashed atop her legs. Once again, she was pinned partially outside the tent.

Really, God? Was this punishment?

Unable to move, she listened as multiple sets of feet pounded closer.

“I’ve got this one, you grab the other,” the same voice yelled.

The person on her legs scrambled to get up, and the pressure on her legs lifted. Using her elbows as leverage, Lydia attempted to pull the rest of herself through the tent’s makeshift opening. She managed a couple of inches, but with a painful jolt, the weight on her legs returned, heavier this time, almost as if a second person had joined the first.

A scuffle ensued, and the weight shifted. “Don’t be getting any funny ideas,” the pursuer growled. “You’re under arrest.”

Great. Just what they needed. The police. But they hadn’t been shouting at her. They were after someone else, and that person was now writhing around on her legs. Unfortunately, once the officer removed his quarry, he wasn’t likely to miss her legs sticking out from the tent. If she and Theresa didn’t disappear posthaste, Papa would hear of her escapade within the hour and make her a cadaver for the morgue’s collection.

Lydia stretched her arms toward Theresa. “When I say now ,” she hissed, “pull!”

Theresa looped Tipsy’s lead to a wheel’s spoke on the next wagon over, then planted her feet and leaned forward enough to avoid the tiger’s reach.

The clink of iron outside the tent indicated the application of handcuffs. A moment later the weight on Lydia’s legs lifted.

“Now!”

She pushed with her feet. Theresa heaved.

Her hips cleared the opening, and Theresa tumbled backward.

Lydia jumped up, only remembering the tiger when its paw swiped at the hat still tied to her head. She shrieked. The hat came loose and flew through the air, bouncing off poor Tipsy’s face. The goat scrambled awkwardly to the end of its lead and bleated with the volume of a fire bell. Then, as if that weren’t enough, the tiger roared.

“By thunder! What was that?” the officer outside exclaimed.

Uh-oh. Time to make a swift exit.

Lydia bent to retrieve the borrowed hat. A man’s face peered through the still-propped-open space at the base of the tent. The dome-shaped hat strapped to his head left no question that they’d just been caught by the police.

“Hey, you!” the officer called. “Stop right there!”

Theresa tugged Tipsy’s lead free, grabbed Lydia’s hand, and dragged them through the narrow space between the tent and wagon wheel.

“Hall! There’s two more of ’em inside! Yount! Slide through and corral ’em.”

And now there was to be a chase too? Had God decided to bring one of her books to life? She glanced back in time to see a twig of a man in an officer’s uniform slide through the opening with far more ease than she.

Theresa took the lead, slowing only when her three-legged goat couldn’t keep pace. Without any discernible logic, she cut between the wagons and temporary pens. Camels spat in their direction. Elephants trumpeted at them. A trio of black-and-white monkeys jumped and screeched inside their short red cage wagon like they were vicious and rabid. One reached out and tried to grab Lydia as she passed.

Enough was enough.

Only one real exit existed—through the tent’s flap and out into the circus camp.

Two steps from freedom, she crashed full force into a man’s short, lithe, muscular body. He took one wide-eyed look at her and then grinned.

Wasn’t he one of the aerialists she’d watched at yesterday’s show? Great. Now they were going to have the circus as well as the law after them. She should have known that if she wouldn’t have allowed her characters an easy escape, God wouldn’t either.

Before she knew what had happened or how, her feet left the ground and her body flew through the air like she was an aerialist herself.

Only her flight didn’t include grabbing a trapeze.