“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. Lyingbastard, 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 knowledgeshehad 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 naïve 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?”
Chapter 12
Archiechewedtheinsideof his cheek as he watched the crowds leaving the theater. Marigold had gone in some time ago, long enough that his driver demanded more payment and Archie’s legs had been itching for movement.
When the doors burst open at last, scores of men spilled forth, setting out on foot or packing four to a hack before departing. Moments later, the wealthier gents, distinguishable by their fine clothing and the carriages lined up on the curb to spirit them to their destinations, began their departures.
