“How doyouknow about this tunnel, Arden?”
“The architect, Benjamin Wyatt, is good friends with my father. He showed me the plans. This tunnel was already here when he redesigned the theater, though. I’m not sure when it was originally built. London has a whole warren of secret tunnels and passages below it. Ah, here we are.”
Lucy bumped into him again as he stopped and finally released her hand. A crack of light entered the tunnel, outlining him as he pushed open what was presumably another door, and the sound of distant voices intruded.
They stepped out into a large, vaulted cellar, in which a single oil lamp illuminated another set of steps to their right. Arden straightened and pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. It settled into a perfect, albeit damp, wave, and she snorted to herself. The scoundrelwouldlook handsome after a drenching. He’d probably look handsome after months trekking through the sweaty, muddy Amazon, damn him.
“There’s a mezzanine floor above us, and above that is the stage,” he whispered.
He turned, and his lips twitched as he noticed her bedraggled state. Lucy scowled at him, silently daring him to laugh.
He shook his head. “Dear God, you look like a drowned rat. You can’t meetanyonelike that, Lucia, not even a ghost.”
“You’re the one who pulled me out of the carriage,” she growled.
He pressed his lips together, clearly trying to subdue his amusement. “Let’s see if we can find you some dry clothes. We’ll use the backstage route, don’t worry.”
CHAPTER6
With a huff of resignation, Lucy followed him. Above them, the sound of shuffling feet and muffled voices indicated the evening’s performance was well underway.
Arden led her to a set of narrow wooden stairs, which ascended to a small backstage room full of wigs and costumes.
“You can’t use any of these,” he said quietly. “They’re for later in the play. We’ll have to go up to the store rooms in the attic. That’s where all the extra unused costumes and props are kept.”
Lucy’s shoes were so wet that she left dark footprints on the boards as they sneaked past the dressing rooms and started up another set of stairs. Her sodden skirts weighed twice as much as usual, and she bit back a complaint as she followed Arden upward.
“I suppose, between your months in the rainforest, and that shipwreck, you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time being wet.” Arden’s amused voice floated back at her down the stairs.
“It’s not a sensation I enjoy,” she grumbled. “Which is ironic, because it rains so much here in England that being damp is almost a permanent state. We should have settled somewhere warm and dry, like the Sahara.”
“Ah, but then you’d be complaining about the heat,” he chuckled. “If travel has taught me anything, it’s to appreciate the comforts of home.”
Lucy grunted.
After what seemed like an endless ascent, Arden stepped through a darkened doorway. The scrape of a flint was followed by a mellow glow as he lit an oil lamp, and she gazed around in wonder at the cavernous loft that was revealed.
Exposed wooden beams ran along either side of the vast room, where several distinct areas had been created; woodworking tools on one table, paints and brushes on another. An even larger area had been set aside for the storage of costumes and props.
“This is as big as a ballroom!” Lucy breathed. “I had no idea this existed.”
Arden sent her an indulgent smile over his shoulder. “We’re right above the auditorium and stage. The space runs almost the entire length of the building.” He waved toward the far end. “Further back, over there, is above the flies—where the scenery is pulled out of sight by a series of ropes and pulleys.”
The area was clearly a dumping-ground for all manner of unwanted items. Tall shelves overflowed with hats and canes, teapots, globes and vases. Larger items created a bizarre forest of obstacles; towering stacks of chairs, huge pillars painted to look like marble, cardboard trees, and rolled oriental carpets.
In the flickering shadows, everything seemed fantastical, like a bizarre dream world.
Arden beckoned her forward, and she skirted a gaudily-painted wooden carousel horse and dipped a mocking curtsey to a dressmaker’s mannequin in a shimmering opera gown.
“Here you go. Take your pick.” He swept his arm in a grand gesture to indicate row upon row of costumes, all hanging on rails. “We both need to get out of these wet clothes. I refuse to have survived four separate battles in France just to succumb to an ague here in England. That would be a paltry way to go.”
He placed the lamp on a dressing chest, then peeled off his wet jacket to reveal a white shirt. The front section had not been spared the rain, and Lucy tried not to notice the way it had become almost transparent. When he untied his cravat, she hastily turned to inspect the numerous costumes on display.
“They’re arranged by size,” Arden said easily. “Small at this end. They should be about right for you.”
Lucy bit back an instinctive retort about his ability to accurately guess a woman’s garment size. No doubt he’d had plenty of practice. Still, the idea that he’d been thinking abouthermeasurements, estimating the size of her breasts and hips and waist, made her skin heat in a way that chased away the lingering chill of the rain.
“What’s your fancy?” he asked.
