The idea didn't occur to Lucien until he was striding past Covent Garden. He'd promised to meet up with Ianthe again in an hour, but as he turned down a familiar street, he caught a glimpse of the Phoenix Theatre in the distance, and his footsteps stalled.
Within two minutes, he was pushing his way into the auditorium. The room was silent, the stage barren. Lucien stalked halfway down the aisle, then paused, a prickling sensation tickling over the back of his neck.
He turned sharply.
Remington Cross watched him from the entrance with those dark, enigmatic eyes, his hands in his pockets. He was stripped to his waistcoat and his shirt collar lay undone, as if the man had been at repose. Lucien hadn't felt a single ward set about the place, but his presence had obviously been detected.
"Fancy seeing you here." Cross's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"A warm welcome." Lucien's lips thinned. "I'd stay to play, but I've got heavy matters weighing upon my mind. I don't have time to fence with you."
Cross's expression flattened, and for a second, it felt like he faced a tiger, lashing its tail as it considered whether to pounce, or whether to hear him out. "Ianthe?"
"At the heart of my concern. I need to ask you some questions, and I don't think I can tell you why."
"Come," the man told him, and strode toward his chambers backstage. Once there, Cross poured them both a whiskey, then nursed his own. "Is she safe?"
"I'm not certain. She's currently visiting a friend, searching for news of Morgana de Wynter and the Earl of Tremayne."
"Morgana? She's back in England?" That arched a brow. "And you left Ianthe there alone?"
"I don't think we're going to find Morgana. And... I don't think Morgana is a danger to her." Not yet, anyway. If Ianthe had delivered the relic, then Morgana might have disposed of her. That she was still alive and hunting her blackmailer meant that the deed hadn't been done yet.
He hoped.
"What is going on? I don't like the sound of any of this. Morgana's involvement in anything is bad news."
"I don't know if I trust you," Lucien replied bluntly.
"Well, that's the first sensible thing you've ever said, but then you wouldn't be here if you had anywhere else to go, would you?"
They shared a look.
"I'm not a fool," Cross murmured. "Something's stirring in the Order, and there are potent signs that something big is about to happen in London. Now you bring up the name Morgana. That doesn't ease my mind one whit. Ianthe is dear to me. I should not care to see her in over her head."
"That's the reason I'm here, actually," Lucien replied. "I don't trust the Prime, not entirely, and I have a horrible suspicion about something. If I'm right, then so are you. Miss Martin is well and truly in over her head."
"Tell me."
"Answer this question for me first: Who is Louisa?"
If anything, Cross actually paled, despite his olive skin. "Tell me." He put the whiskey glass down with a flat, ringing sound.
"Who is Louisa?" Lucien repeated in a softer, firmer tone. There was a feeling of inevitability hanging around him, a faint ringing in his ears. Ianthe's revelation that morning about their past dalliance had rocked him, but in the wake of realizing she was his thief, he hadn't followed that thought through to its natural conclusion.
And now it was starting to make itself known. A cold sweat sprang down his spine.
"You know her history. Tell me, did you never wonder why her father threw her out?"
Lucien scraped a shaking hand over his face. "Her sorcery, I presumed." He'd hoped.
Cross examined a penny, flicking it over and under his fingers until it seemed like it vanished between each flick of his hand. "Ianthe's first act of Expression came when she was twelve. Her father suffered her to live under his roof for another five hellish years."
Which meant that something had happened to force Grant Martin's hand. Something beyond Expression. Louisa was the key to it, he felt.
And why did most fathers cast their daughters out at that age? What secret shame drove such an act?
"She has a daughter," Lucien blurted, and the instant the words formed, they felt like truth. The faint silvery lines about her hips and breasts had drawn his attention, but he'd barely seen her in enough light to notice if she wore stronger marks of childbirth or not. A lot of women bore faint marks gained when their weight fluctuated, or when their courses first arrived and their bodies changed. Not all of them were mothers.
