Outside the circus, people queued up in a great long snake of thrill seekers eager for the noon showing. And that wasn’t for another hour. Pacing near the back of the throng, Kit frowned. Even if she could sweet-talk the ticket seller into allowing her early entrance or tried to skip beneath the rope, she’d be pummeled by the crowd as a queue jumper.
“Out o’ the way, missy!” a dray driver bellowed.
She whirled, then immediately retreated as two workhorses plodded by. A narrow miss, one she chided herself for. She ought to have heard such a big old wagon coming at her, and she would have, were her brain not so fogged from lack of sleep.
Snap out of it, girl. You’ve got a man to find.
A flurry of little white curls snowed over her as the wagon passed, the load of wood shavings shifting beneath the canvas cover as the dray began to turn into the delivery entrance.
And there she had it. Her way in.
Working fast lest the driver glance over his shoulder, she pulled out a broom from the implements rattling about on a rack at the back. As the wagon lumbered along, she followed close behind, busily sweeping the falling flakes—a moot exercise that any circus hand ought rightfully to question.
Thankfully, none did.
By God’s good grace, the wagon rumbled all the way to the big top. A fresh load of shavings for the upcoming performance, no doubt, but she’d not stick around to find out, not when she was this close to finding Mr. Coleman. She chucked the broom back into the rack then ducked inside the huge tent.
Just past a series of stacked board benches, a huge center ring filled most of the tent, the edges of the circle defined by brightly painted red timbers. Inside that circle, a man in a green long-coat cracked a whip, urging a black bear to continue its trek across a slack rope tied between two platforms. Above, a woman in a scandalous blue satin doublet that ended at the top of her thighs dangled upside down by her knees as she flew through the air on a trapeze. At the far side of the tent, a group of men in what appeared to be bathing costumes jockeyed one over the other until they formed a perfect pyramid. A few other men dressed all in white conversed next to a tiger on a leash—blessedly not close to where she stood. Of all the people under the big top, not one fit Mr. Coleman’s description, though truly it would have been a miracle if he were still in here after Charles’ sighting of hours before.
She clenched her hands, squeezing away defeat, then set her jaw and approached a nearby juggler tossing machetes into the air. She couldn’t help but admire his skill, especially when he didn’t so much as break his trance as she drew near. “Pardon me, but I’m looking for a Mr. Coleman. He was in here an hour or so ago.”
The man shook his head without missing a beat—or a knife. “Don’t know ’im, luv.”
Of course he didn’t. That would’ve been far too easy. After a final glance around the tent, she worked her way over to the performer’s entrance and strode out the back. Here rows of cages, some on wheels, others small enough to be carried with a handle, lined the side of the lane. Past the menagerie, a huge enclosure housed two lions and a man who was attempting to put his head into one of the beasts’ mouths. Kit stared for a moment, mesmerized. She’d faced plenty of danger in her day, but this? Though Jackson might argue otherwise, she’d never willingly tempt death so wholeheartedly.
Turning away from the sight, she stepped into the path of a tall man carrying a wicker hamper. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Coleman. Do you know who he is?”
“Coleman?” The man rolled the name around on his tongue, leastwise it sounded as if he did so. What sort of accent was that? “And zees man, you tell me of him, no?”
“Dark eyes, rather intense.” She parroted back Mrs. Coleman’s description. “A mouth wider than normal set in a very square jaw. He’s got a hump on his nose from a previous bad break, and his hair used to be dark, though I have reason to believe he’s recently dyed it. He could now be towheaded, or he might carry a slight orange tint if the colour didn’t set well.”
“Is zis so?” Surprisingly white teeth flashed in a huge grin as the man held up a finger. “Zis! Zis I can do.”
Kit’s heart skipped a beat at the fellow’s exuberance.
He set down the hamper and flipped up the lid. In a flurry, he rummaged through fabrics and furs and Lord knew what else buried at the bottom. Then he whipped off his hat, shoved a poorly dyed flaxen wig on his head, and poked something into his eyes. Running a hand over his nose, he left behind a lump, then proceeded to push his jawbone and tug at his mouth. When it was all said and done, she’d swear to a magistrate that Mr. Coleman stood before her.
“Zis ze man?” He circled his face with his hand.
Kit gaped. “Are you Mr. Coleman?”
He laughed long and loud. “No, leetle miss. I hate to dizapoint you, but I am not zis Coleman nor do I know heem.” He dipped an exaggerated bow. “I am Rubberface Lorenzo, at your service, madam.”
“Amazing,” she breathed, wide-eyed.
“Ha-ha!” He burst into activity, tugging, pulling, packing. He closed the hamper lid and grasped the handle, straightening to his full height, once again the tall man instead of the faux Mr. Coleman. “Eet ees a surprise what a clever disguise artist can do, no?” He winked then pointed at a woman nearby who braided the mane of a white horse. “Ask Rimma. If zis man you seek ees here, she will know.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Lorenzo. It’s been a delight meeting you.” Though she’d love to linger and ask him about the art of disguise, she dodged around him, set on questioning the horsewoman, Rimma.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said as she pulled alongside the lady—then momentarily lost her train of thought. That wasn’t just any braid the woman worked with her nimble fingers. That sort of weaving was a piece of art, as intricate as a square of Honiton lace.
Rimma paused, glancing sideways at Kit with eyes of such a peculiar amber it startled the senses. She smelled of warm horseflesh and jasmine, a remarkably pleasing combination. “Yes?”
“I was told you are familiar with members of the circus, and if so, do you know where I can find a Mr. Coleman?”
“Mmm,” she murmured, then went back to entwining strand over strand of the horse’s mane. “Ahh. The broom pusher?”
Finally! Kit nodded even though the woman wasn’t looking at her. “Yes.”
