Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 4

  "You'll never learn to hold your tongue, will you?" Audrey stepped back and surveyed her work with critical satisfaction. "Or did you expect that fancy Lord What's-His-Name to stand up for you? You're not warming his sheets yet, are you?"

  "No." Not that Blaine hadn't pressed her. Not that he would wait much longer, as he was paying for her lavish accommodations at the Biltmore. He surely meant to share a stateroom with her if he paid her way to London.

  "Well, thank heaven for that, at least." Audrey sounded mollified. "He's not for you. Never mind that he's married; you need a different sort of man."

  Henry Abbey was a different sort of man, but he'd just fired her. Geneva was not disposed to think of him favorably. Garland Humble had been a different sort of man, too. Geneva shuddered. "I shall never marry." Again. Once was enough.

  "Bosh. You'll marry quickly enough, when the right fellow shows himself Hold still. This paste buckle is loose. Those lazy seamstresses!" Audrey pulled a needle and thread from the pincushion fixed like an apron about her waist and took a stitch.

  "I'm married to my career," Geneva murmured. Because a man expected more than I was willing to give. She could still see Humble's face as he'd said "I do." And he really thought he'd bought her.

  "Others, maybe. Because they can't love anything else but. But not you. You'll be wanting a man's love. Wanting babies, too. You're more like me than you think, and when I was your age, miss, I'd been married for six years and had three children."

  Geneva forced a chuckle. This was a familiar tirade.

  "Why is it that we adore to have others repeat our mistakes?" she wondered aloud. "I shall never marry, Audrey, and I shall certainly never have any children. Men are nice to have about occasionally, but they do get in the way of things."

  "That's only because you haven't found the right one yet." Audrey wore a look of unmistakable complacency on her papery face. "Or he hasn't found you."

  "But Blaine is…" Geneva began in half-hearted protest, because she knew she should.

  Audrey merely shook her head of tight, gray curls and took Geneva's face into her two gentle, grandmotherly hands with a sureness that baffled Geneva into silence.

  "Be honest with yourself, Geneva Lionwood," she said with tenderness that threatened to bring tears to Geneva's eyes. "Be honest with your heart, and it will never lead you astray."

  The strains of the overture could be heard from the other side of the curtain. Geneva glanced away at the sound, and when she looked back, Audrey was gone again. Probably off to fix Calve's hemline.

  Zerlina was, for the most part, a delightfully capricious role demanding vocal agility and brilliance as well as considerable acting ability. A mediocre Zerlina could ruin an otherwise sterling production, whereas a brilliant one could save what would otherwise be an exercise in tedium. It was a role Geneva enjoyed and performed with gusto. True, it was only the third leading female, but it offered great exposure, and the cast assembled by Maple son for this performance was competent, if not exceptional.

  The show went off without so much as a missed cue. Geneva was pleased by her performance, her third Zerlina that week at the Academy, and was thrilled that the audience demanded a curtain call for her, as well. Proud, grateful, she curtseyed as low as she dared in her low-cut costume, retrieving roses thrown from the boxes lining the stage. One large bundle of exquisite long-stemmed red roses, which she took to be a favor from Elaine, caused her to direct a look toward his box with the intention of blowing him the kiss she had promised. Her stare, however, was diverted by a markedly tall, shadowy aspect in Elaine's very box, a silhouette that seemed to acknowledge her attention with a slight bow before disappearing from view.

  Geneva was not a believer in things occult, nor was she superstitious in any way. Therefore she could not fathom why such an occurrence, certainly not in the least threatening or even unusual, should send a shiver—of excitement or trepidation?—along her spine. She blinked, and the shadow was gone. Chiding herself for her foolish thoughts amid the din of an adoring audience, she gracefully gathered the offerings thrown at her feet, touched her fingers to her lips and exited the stage.

  She enjoyed the glares Emma Calve sent her way as she slipped back behind the curtain, but did not acknowledge them. She was both charged and exhausted by her performance, and sought her dressing room for a few moments of peace before Blaine came to claim her for the evening.

  With the door closed behind her, Geneva was able to shut out the backstage uproar somewhat. She deposited her bundle of botanical tributes onto her dressing table, wishing to scrape the makeup from her face and to free her scalp from the hot wig. Like a falling leaf, a scrap of white paper fluttered to the carpet from the largest bouquet, catching her eye. She picked it up, smiling to herself, thinking of Blame's tiny, cramped scrawl and the trite but sincere words of praise she often found on such notes.

  But it was not from Blaine.

  In a bold, unfamiliar hand was the single word: Delmonico's. Geneva frowned. She thought of the tall specter in Blame's box. Could there be a connection between the two?

  Delmonico's. An invitation? She laughed, admiring the fellow's cheek. Well, she was not fond of Delmonico's, since the opera stars tended to frequent the place. She preferred Sherry's, where she was seldom outshone by any other luminaries, save for New York society itself.

  Delmonico's. The note in her hand seemed to burn her. Its boldness excited her, even frightened her a little. You shall be disappointed, she thought primly, tracing the letters with her finger, whoever you are.

  "A triumph! Perfection! The standard by which all fu-ture Zerlinas should and must be judged!"

  Blame was outside of her dressing room, although there was no telling whom he might be addressing. Quickly, she tucked the small white card into her bosom and sat down at the vanity. She was busy withdrawing hairpins from her wig as Lord Atherton burst into her dressing room, followed closely by the bearlike figure of Colonel James Henry Maple son, whose stem, forbidding countenance was a stark contrast to Blaine's ecstatic one.

  "Was she not brilliant, Colonel?" Elaine breathed, seizing her hand, kissing it several times. "Was she not—"

  "Begging your pardon, Lord Atherton." Maple son was barely civil to Elaine. Geneva felt a spear of ice through her heart as the director of the Academy of Music sent his piercing stare her way.

  "Never," he began, his Oxford accented bass shaking with anger, "on my stage has Zerlina taken a solo curtain call. And she never shall again. Do I make myself clear, Miss Lionwood?"

  After Covent Garden, she thought, lowering her gaze in a show of humility, I will make you regret this, you overbearing, pompous ass. "Perfectly, Colonel." She kept her tone light and pleasant.

  Maple son stared at her a moment longer. She could see, without looking directly at him, his barrellike chest rising and falling rapidly in a heavy pant and his bushy amber whiskers working furiously as his jaw clenched and unclenched. It was as though he had gotten hold of her like a furious, mindless bulldog and was chewing her up.

  If you are waiting for an apology, she thought, not moving, you will stand there until Hell freezes. "Very good," he said finally and, begging Elaine's par-don once again, turned and left them alone together.

  The dressing room was suddenly stifling, and the smell of the multitude of roses nauseating.

  "Geneva, my love." Blaine's cultured tone was low and conciliatory. "He had no right to speak to you so, after such a glorious accounting—"

  "Why didn't you tell him that?" She yanked the wig from her head, sending hairpins flying, and threw it at Elaine's startled face. "Instead of standing there like a whey-faced ninny! How could you, Elaine? How could you let him upbraid me like some common chorister? Is that all I mean to you, that you could allow that pitiful excuse for a director to—to—"

  She was on the verge of tears yet again. She was too easily moved to weep, even with her gremlin about to assist, and it never failed to annoy her. It weakened he
r position in any argument, and caused men, important ones, to dismiss her as overly sensitive, high-strung and emotional. It was a trait she had inherited from her mother, and she regularly cursed that woman for it.

  Even now, Elaine was patting her arm in a patronizing, infuriating manner. "There, there, Gen," he murmured. "Pay no mind to the colonel. The man has his hands full, what with all of these temperamental divas about. Calve probably threw a fit when you drew such applause…"

  Elaine was going on, but she did not hear him. She took several deep, slow breaths in an effort to command herself, and gradually the urge to cry receded. She was still angry with Elaine. But she had already, in one day, angered two men who were very important, not to say crucial, to her career. She could not afford to drive this one off as well, if she had any hope of avoiding a future in vaudeville like her mother. She sighed, and the sigh, she was relieved to note, only caught once.

  The gremlin obligingly popped her tears into his box, like precious, silver-white pearls.

  "… that she was jealous." Blame seemed to be warming to his tirade. "It's plain the woman sees you as a threat to her own position, as well she should. But there. You feel better now? Good. Where shall we go, my pet? Sherry's?"

  Geneva cast aside thoughts of the unpleasantness moments before. The note beside her breast burned her.

  "Delmonico's, I think."

  Blaine was surprised.

  "Delmonico's?" He flopped into her chaise, elevating one leg. "I thought you hated the place!"

  "I—I do," she answered, applying cream to her makeup. "But I should love to see the Cow's face one more time as she remembers my curtain call. Please, Blaine?"

  Blaine chuckled, and she knew she had successfully deceived him. A small triumph, actually: Blaine was alarmingly easy to deceive.

  "Of course, my love," he assured her, adjusting his bold sky-blue cravat.

  Geneva sponged the heavy makeup from her face.

  "Thank you, darling." She nursed her victory as she watched him in her mirror. "And thank you for the lovely bouquet."

  Blame's eyes widened, and his mouth opened. Then he shut it again and swallowed. "I—you are more than welcome, my precious," he stammered, straightening in the chaise.

  Easily deceived, thought Geneva, watching him in the mirror with satisfaction. But not easily deceiving. Elaine was not the party responsible for the flowers, or the bold note.

  But she might shortly discover who was.

  Chapter Five

  Geneva Lionwood made an entrance at Delmonico's that was no less dazzling than her performance in Don Giovanni, and possibly more audacious than her subsequent curtain call. The statuesque soprano descended the white marble staircase like a goddess visiting mere mortals. She wore—rather, she displayed her figure—in a silver-and-white creation accented by a gay white ostrich plume in her upswept chestnut hair. Her white satin gloves came nearly to her shoulders, and from one arm dangled a rather nondescript (save for an outrageous blue cravat) gentleman, like an old fan she no longer used but kept around out of fond habit. She smiled at the waiters and the maitre d', who bowed and scraped like an enthralled minion. This woman, reflected Kieran Macalester, smiling in spite of himself as he settled back in his chair, was going to be one huge handful.

  Garland Humble's three-year-old tintype had not done her justice. Neither had that ridiculous blonde wig she had worn onstage. Geneva Lionwood was graceful, lovely and extraordinarily talented. Ignorant as Kieran was of the sophistication of opera, he knew at least that much. Her performance had inspired him to fetch a spray of roses from a street vendor during an intermission, and even to attach a brief, bold, anonymous note to them. He had watched from the box as she took them from the stage, pleased to imagine that she'd looked directly at him. Her appearance at the celebrated restaurant might be mere coincidence, he knew.

  Or it might not.

  The sparkling vision that was Miss Lionwood was led to a table not far from his own, causing a mild but not unwarranted commotion among the patrons. She was seated amid scattered applause and even a cry or two of "La Divina!" all of which she acknowledged with serenity and regal élan. Her escort seemed pleased by the attention as well, but his annoying expression was one of "see what I have caught!" Kieran disliked him instantly.

  Suddenly, for reasons not immediately apparent, the big room became hushed. Frowning, he looked about and discovered the cause: another woman, whom he recognized as the leading lady—what was her name? Calf?—no, Calve—had entered the room.

  The woman was, quite literally, larger than life.

  The entire room burst into spontaneous applause and all the patrons in the place were on their feet, except for Geneva Lionwood and her escort. Kieran stood as well, and had a sudden inspiration. Unnoticed, he breached the short span between himself and the miffed Lionwood contingent, and bent to whisper in her ear:

  "Go on; stand and applaud. Don't give her the satisfaction."

  All at once she was looking at him. Her eyes were an exotic dark green, like some lush tropical forest. Her rose-petal mouth smiled briefly. He felt a surge of warmth along his spine, and he was surrounded by the faint, intoxicating scent of jasmine.

  "I'll do better than that," she whispered in that rich, thrilling voice of hers. "Watch."

  She rose. He straightened, backing away from her chair. Her escort seemed not to have noticed their fleeting conversation.

  Geneva Lionwood fixed a dazzling smile upon her arresting features and applauded even as she snaked through the adoring crowds toward the very object of their attention. She walked boldly right up to the large, plain, square woman in a black satin gown that was a bit too tight, and even as the latter glared at her, Geneva seized the broad diva's shoulders and kissed her soundly upon each cheek. This demonstration was greeted by still greater applause, and Calve, not to be outdone, had no choice but to return the favor. A real piece of work, thought Kieran, unable to smile any wider.

  Geneva headed back to her seat, her smile as innocent as a baby's, her eyes, those smoky emeralds, glimmering. Kieran laughed. "Sir! Have we been introduced?" There was a chilly edge to the man's cultured English accent.

  Startled, Macalester wrenched his attention from the gloriously theatrical Miss Lionwood to her considerably more prosaic escort. In Texas, or any place west of the Mississippi, Kieran would have been vindicated, he realized with amusement, for introducing his closed fist to the man's aquiline nose. But this was New York: slights real or imagined were punishable in far more civilized, and more dangerous, ways. Kieran reached into the inside breast pocket of his jet-black dinner jacket for his newly acquired gold card case and one of several fine forgeries contained therein.

  "R. Hastings McAllister, San Francisco, sir," he responded, his blessedly glib tongue easily losing its natural east Texas twang and finding educated address. "Colonel Maple son recommends me, as a representative of the San Francisco Opera and Light Theater Company."

  The man scrutinized the forged letter and calling card by holding both right up to his nose. Kieran did not look away from him, although he was acutely aware that Geneva Lionwood had returned to the table. Geneva Lionwood Humble, he reminded himself Although certainly, he had seen precious little evidence of humility displayed by her so far.

  Geneva, exhilarated by her most recent performance, managed not to look directly at the ruggedly attractive stranger with the bold, dark-eyed gaze as she resumed her seat with his self-assured assistance. She ignored the look of displeasure on Elaine's face, keeping her smile politely interested.

  "San Francisco!" she interjected, having heard that portion of the tall stranger's remark to Elaine. "Your friend has come a long way, Elaine. Introduce us."

  She allowed herself to look at the man at last. Barely half a yard away from her, the stranger rose from his bent-over position, slowly, to his full height. She felt a rush of warm wind, like the beating of wings of a large, predatory bird. He wore an elegant evening suit not unlike Ela
ine's own, or, for that matter, every other man's in the room. But it was not his finely tailored suit that arrested her attention.

  His wide-set dark eyes, very nearly the color of anthracite, met her gaze with a boldness she found both intriguing and unsettling. His mouth, almost crudely wide, widened still farther to the corners of his very square, smoothly shaven jaw, displaying even, white teeth. His dark hair shined in the glow of Delmonico's fabulous chandeliers, and it was overlong, curling slightly about the stiff white collar of his shirt and jacket.

  His was a face that commanded attention, a face one could call sensual, if not exactly handsome. Coupled with his tall, powerful build, which not even the finest tailoring could camouflage, the man's presence was compelling, at least. She found herself wondering what the exquisite tailoring did hide…

  Blame issued perfunctory introductions with little warmth, his tone flatly implying that he hoped this interloper would leave. His annoyance delighted her.

  "You've come a long way, Mr. McAllister," she remarked gaily. "You must join us. Mustn't he, Elaine? I am amazed that the reputation of Delmonico's spans the continent."

  R. Hastings McAllister sank his frame into a chair between Geneva and a frankly scowling Lord Atherton. She probed his steady gaze, hoping the attorney would betray himself into confessing that he was responsible for the rose bouquet and the accompanying note. He, however, met her challenge without even a flicker of that bold stare.

  "Not so much the legend of Delmonico's as the legend of Lionwood" was his smooth response.

  Flattery always found favor with her, and this San Francisco lawyer's was no exception. His voice was a lovely baritone, his accent utterly unplaceable. There was an intimacy to his words, though, that made her cheeks warm, and she found herself looking at his hands on the white damask tablecloth. They were fine, strong hands, neatly manicured, if somewhat rough-looking to belong to an attorney. Powerful hands. Ex-citing hands. Geneva shivered at the thought of them touching her.