“Only twenty minutes ago or so.” Concern creased her forehead. “Is something amiss?”
“I’m sure everything is fine. Take care of Lady Macbeth if you would.” He handed off the small dog but turned back to her. “Please, tell me she took the Huntley carriage.” He shut out the sound of his voice, begging.
She flinched. “No, sir. She dressed in dark wool and took public transport.”
Fuck. He breathed in through his nose to stave off the wave of panic. He let out the air slowly. “Thank you, Brita. I shall find her.” He shut the door, then frantically rang for Potts. No one of the nobility visited Drury Lane before three in the afternoon. He glanced at the clock. Ten.
~~~
It was still early by the time the hackney drew near Covent Gardens. The gardens were bustling with throngs of market dwellers. Gabby was not so foolish to take the note she’d received at complete face value. It had indicated she enter through a back door of the Theatre Royale as the front would be locked to the public. Florence Groves finally reaching out had Gabby determined to help her. The missive had been cryptic, but Gabby wished to be seen as one who could be depended upon, show that she was a woman of action, not just the empty words most the benevolent patrons of the past were known for. Help but don’t get too close. Cholera, you know. Vermin, infestations… the list was endless.
She had the driver take her down James Street to Russell and back before allowing him to drop her at an opening off Brydges Street. It seemed, by far, the safest, considering her surroundings. Thank heavens she wore Brita’s wool dress. A mob cap covered her dark curls, and she was careful to keep her head down. She tossed the driver a coin. “There’ll be another, if you’re here when I return.”
Gathering her skirts and her courage and a last look around, Gabby stole through the single path behind the theater. The hair on her nape stood on end. But she couldn’t discern if her instincts were telling her that it was Florence Groves in trouble or herself. There were no loiters in the narrow passageway, so she breathed through her nerves and hurried along, searching for a way to enter.
The overcast sky and damp air and the chilled breeze cut through the thick wool of Brita’s loaned frock. If she held out her arms with her palms flat, she could probably touch both walls simultaneously. She shivered, but continued on with one sturdy booted foot before another. Shards of glass and garbage were gathered in corners. She jumped over wet puddles of substances she refused to think they could be. Past broken windows and dark spaces, she made her way—an unlatched door!
Her heart bruising her ribs, she stopped. She tugged it open to a lowly lit hallway. This had to be it. Gripping her skirts, she stepped over the threshold and followed low-lit sconces down a narrow corridor. The rank smell was nothing like the greasepaint from the other night. It was worse, tenfold. She tugged out her handkerchief and put it over her nose. Not a single person stopped her from her path, every step took her closer to that putrid smell that out-reeked the Thames.
She couldn’t understand why she didn’t turn and run as fast as her heavy skirts would allow, but some inner resolve stiffened her spine, and kept her moving forward, quaking in her boots with every step. A myriad of small rooms were off the hallway that appeared to wrap behind the stage to the other side. It was just on that other side where the smell grew so unbearable, Gabby’s eyes watered. She’d once stumbled upon a henhouse that had been ravaged by foxes and no one had disposed of the eggs, and they’d rotted. This smell was so much more malodorous. She couldn’t take it another minute. Florence was obviously not there. She turned to retrace her steps, past a chamber full of costumes. Brilliant colors in shades that blazed from scarlet and jeweled to drab hues, similar to what she wore now. Various items hung on pegs, others thrown over screens.
She didn’t linger, desperate for London’s coal-laden air. The sight of an oil lamp’s flickering flame caught her eye. She was backstage. She could tell by the high ceilings and the catwalks above. It seemed extremely careless, not to mention hazardous, to leave a lamp burning. She would use it to guide her way back.
Still, covering her nose, she moved toward the light, but the closer she grew to the light the more putrid the smell. She couldn’t leave it burning. The entire theater could burn down. She worked her way around debris and drop cloths that littered the floor, discarded costumes—
Gabby stopped. Costumes that didn’t look right. She ventured closer and tripped, her knees hitting the wood floor hard. What the devil? Her eyes followed what her brain refused to conceive… a stake protruding from a… a… body.
Not just a body. Stanford’s body. His chest.
Pooling blood dampened her skirts. She stumbled back, crashing into a table with medieval helmets, and swords. Metal against the wood floors echoed in the vastness of the theater. In her panic to scramble away, she fell again, creating more noisy havoc.
All the while chanting: Don’t faint. Don’t faint. Don’t faint.
~~~
Raindrops splattered James’s leather gloves as he jumped from his horse off Brydges Street. Brilliant. His gaze swept the area.
A single, idle hackney occupied by a scruffy driver was the only conveyance on the street. He must be waiting on Gabriella. He had to be. The missive James found in her desk had directed his wife to the Theatre Royale.
“You, there,” he said to the cabby. “I’m looking for a young woman.”
He spat out a stream of spittle. “Ye’ll find ’em on every corner, guv. Pick one.” He took a swig from a flask then let out a belch.
“I’m looking for a specific young woman,” he ground out. “She had a meeting at the Royale.” Panic infused James, but he squeezed his hands into fists when all he desired was to strangle answers from the man. “Did you drop a young woman in a dark wool dress here, sir?”
“Iffen I did, wot of it? She tol’ me t’wait, she did. ’T earn double me pay.”
James didn’t loiter, his untethered horse forgotten, as he raced down the alleyway, terrified of what he’d find. The back door of the theater stood ajar. He didn’t hesitate, slipping inside.
The hallway was low-lit with widely spaced sconces, allowing him to rush headlong down a winding narrow passageway, his greatcoat billowing out behind him. The scent of death sent his blood spiking with dread—not the stale stench of death, but the fresh scent of bodily fluids released on the instant life was lost. He clamped the horrifying visions down from all but one facet: find Gabriella. He reached a fork at the stage and paused, his eyesight now adjusted to the gloom. The empty stage sent him running down the path behind. So far as he could ascertain, the theater was empty.
A scream rent, so chilling, his skin raised in bumps. Across the expanse, he saw her, on the floor. He ran over. A table sat askew, and war props were scattered around her. “Gabriella!”
She looked up at him. Her waxen features reflected the ghostly flame of an oil lamp burning. “He’s dead.” Shock made her voice faint.
His horrified gaze moved to her gloved hands gripping the hilt of a dagger. A dagger protruding from a very dead Baron Stanford.
Instinct took over. James crouched down and moved his hands over hers. So much blood. And still warm. “Loosen your fingers, darling,” he said softly. “I’m here now. I’ll keep you safe. We must leave at once.”
