“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 Winslowscrawled 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.”
