She turned big, beseeching eyes first to her brother, then to Sinjin. God help him, Sinjin couldn’t be the one to refuse her. Besides, everyone in that room would protect her—he, himself, would do so to his dying breath.
“Fine. Polly goes with Em and Strathaven. The earl,”—Kent jerked his chin in Sinjin’s direction—“rides with me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Descending from the carriage, Polly spotted Sinjin and Ambrose standing at the entrance of a rickety building. Over their heads, a painted sign boldly proclaimed, “Welcome to The Cytherea: Where Every Performance Guarantees a Happy Ending.”
Polly hurried over, accompanied by Em and the duke.
“There’s an entrance around the corner,” His Grace said. “It’ll take us directly backstage.”
“Lead the way,” Ambrose said.
As they all moved on, Polly whispered worriedly to Sinjin, “How was the ride over with Ambrose?”
“You’ve heard of the Spanish Inquisition?” came the wry reply.
“Ohno. I’m so sorry—”
“Kitten, I’m teasing. Be at ease.”
Searching his vivid midnight blue gaze and aura, she saw that hewasteasing. Partly, anyway, for faint annoyance did speckle his glow.
“Did Ambrose ask a lot of intrusive questions?” she said.
“He asked me questions that any good brother would ask. In his shoes, I’d do the same.”
“Thank you for understanding,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for believing in me.”
Basking in the warmth of his regard, she returned his words. “You’re welcome.”
His lips formed an almost boyish curve. He was always handsome, but when he smiled at her this way, his mouth a gentle contrast to the wicked slash of his cheekbones and hard line of his jaw, he was undoubtedly the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm and guided her through the entryway, bending his head to avoid the low-hanging beam.
Inside, her eyes slowly adjusted to the windowless gloom. She saw a host of cluttered vanities, dark islands around which some dozen or so actresses gathered. The women were laughing and chatting as they primped themselves in the cracked looking glasses, their auras flittering around them like bright butterflies.
Polly’s eyebrows rose at the cast’s skimpy attire. Most of the ladies wore short filmy robes, paint… and very little else. She glanced at Sinjin to gauge his response.
He was scanning the crowd impatiently. “Who should we talk to first, I wonder?”
“Well, knock me down with a feather! If it isn’t my fair lady.” A bespectacled blond fellow came rushing over, and, to Polly’s surprise, stopped before Emma. His waistcoat was ink-stained and his cravat raggedy, but he made a leg with remarkable flourish. “Miss Kent, how smashing of you to pay me another visit,” he said with a dazzling smile.
“She’s the Duchess of Strathaven now.” His Grace came to stand behind Em, his icy green gaze narrowed on the newcomer’s face.
The blond fellow’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Oh… you broughthimback as well.”
“Everyone, this is Mr. Dunn,” Em said briskly. “He’s the resident playwright, and we made his acquaintance during the course of another case. Mr. Dunn, I’m afraid we need your help again.”
“I live to be of service to you, lovely lady,” the playwright declared.
From the look on her brother-in-law’s face, Polly predicted that if Mr. Dunn continued in this vein, his days of being of service would be numbered.
She spoke up hastily. “Mr. Dunn, we’re looking for information concerning Nicoletta French. We believe she may have some connection with this theatre.”
The playwright’s bespectacled gaze shifted to her. He jolted as if struck by a thunderbolt.
“You,” he breathed.
