“I followed you on my own initiative,” John said. He shrugged. “I was curious about your nightly liaisons.” He strolled about the small room, picking up a discarded costume here, poking at her jars of face paint there. He cocked a hip against the edge of her dressing table, his very closeness making the fine hairs on her body stand on end. “And my curiosity was well rewarded. You are quite the surprise, poppet.”
She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. “You’re not angry?”
“What? That you’re not only not Ned Pickle, but now you aren’t even Netta Pickle, the downtrodden woman I plucked from the streets?” He tutted. “Not hardly. Please tell me your name isn’t truly Pickle.”
She bit back her smile. “You’re in luck. My name is Antoinette LeBlanc.” The false name slipped easily from between her lips. She’d been that person for so many years it felt like the truth. “Netta still to my friends.”
He ran his finger down the ridge of her nose then rubbed his fingers together, swirling a patch of face paint between them. “A much more suitable name, although not, I think, the one you were born with.”
Netta’s lungs stalled. She hadn’t even told Cerise her true name. It remained better left unsaid. “It’s the only one I answer to now. Well,” she conceded, “except Pickle.”
“And Mrs. Hardcourt and Colonel Burnwick and Miss Austin.” Cerise retreated to her chair, keeping a wary eye on the man in the doorway as she spoke. “Netta does love to immerse herself in new characters to prepare for a role. It is one of the things we love about her. She has many friends here, monsieur. Many friends who won’t let her come to any harm.”
John ignored the implied warning. “A Colonel Burnwick?”
Netta shrugged. “I played a soldier last summer.”
He examined her bare arms, dropped his gaze to her breeches. “Were you wearing a uniform?”
“Of course.”
He grinned. “I do wish I could have seen that.”
Netta stood and rested one knee on the seat of the chair. “Now that you’ve discovered me, has anything changed? Do I still have the job?” Her heart thumped in her chest. He didn’t appear upset, but no man liked to be deceived. To acknowledge he’d been played for a fool.
But John was no ordinary man. “The only thing that has changed is my increased regard for your skill level and my confidence in your abilities.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know now I needn’t worry about your security. You can handle yourself.”
Wilberforce huffed. Loudly.
John shot him a narrow-eyed glare.
Netta gripped the back of the chair, her muscles going weak. He wasn’t taking the four thousand pounds away from her. She could still rescue her sister.
“Now, poppet, perhaps we might discuss— gah!” John kicked his foot, and a small furry animal flew across the room and hit the wall. He flicked his wrist, and a blade slid from his sleeve into his palm. He bent his arm back to take aim.
Netta stilled his hand. “Cerise and I would prefer not to have blood in our dressing rooms.”
His nostrils flared, his gaze remaining sharp on the intruder. “Better a bit of blood than that disgusting creature.”
She snorted. “Is the mighty Earl of Summerset afraid of a little mouse?”
Wilberforce stepped to the creature and nudged it out the door with his boot.
“The Burns Theatre doesn’t have the funds to keep the rats out.” Cerise ran the end of her belt through her fingers. When Wilberforce limped back into the room, she took a corresponding step away from him. “Netta and I have learned how to manage all kinds of vermin.”
Wilberforce clenched and relaxed his hands, a gesture so quick it was easily missed. “If I’m near, that is a job you’ll no longer have to perform yourself.”
Cerise crossed her arms.
Wilberforce mirrored her stance.
Netta frowned at her friend. “Um, perhaps whatever it was you wanted to discuss is best done in private,” she said to John. Cerise wasn’t overly fond of strange men, but her reaction to Wilberforce was still perplexing. Usually she buttered her words to strangers as heavily as Netta did her morning roll. “Cerise, would you mind waiting next door?”
Wilberforce frowned. “She’s in naught but a wrapper. Whatever talking needs to be done can wait until you’re both properly dressed.”
“I’m an actress,cherie.” The endearment came out as sharp as John’s blade. “I’ve walked around backstage in much less than zis.”
Wilberforce’s face turned a dull red.
