She was the aunt of Lady Charlene, the last woman to jilt him, with Sarah’s blessing, of course, because that was how contrary Mrs. Pettijohn could be.
And now here she was, wearing barely anything and flaunting herself in front of the male population of London.
Then again, Mrs. Pettijohn was an actress. Actresses put themselves on display for a living, although Gavin could never have imagined the proud woman he’d parted company with in Scotland would parade so much of herself. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
She twirled the rope, holding the last note of her song and Gavin crossed his arms, waiting for the black-haired wig to fly off her head. Then the world would know their glorious goddess was nothing more than a surly shrew with fiery red hair.
But she did look good.
Dangerously good. The sort of good that makes a man prickly and hungry. Even a man like himself who prided himself on his control and tried never to have the thoughts he was having now.
The spinning rope slowed and lowered her to the stage. The jewels around her mask sparkled in the candlelight. Her arm extended with grace as she brought her song to a close. She turned, looked once again directly at Gavin, and smiled with a smug little lift of the lips as if she felt she’d put him in his place.
Lust died a quick death.
Knowing her as he did, how could he have even responded to her in that manner?
Of course, the audience had no such hesitations. They went wild in their enthusiasm, crying, “The Siren,” as they pounded the floor with their feet. They clapped. They whistled. They shouted for more—and she preened in their adoration.
She waved, accepting their adulation, pointing her bare toes in a dancer’s graceful stance as if she knew how strenuously Gavin disapproved, as if she performed for him. In fact, it was all he could do to not jump onto the stage and either throw his coat over her to hide her nakedness or carry her off to his bed—
Gavin might not have jumped on the stage, but Rov did.
In a blink, before anyone could react, he leaped from the box and rushed to Mrs. Pettijohn. He grabbed her around the waist, swung her around to face him, and attempted to kiss her. The black wig fell to the floor and now everyone knew her secret as the deep red hair she’d been hiding tumbled down to her waist.
Gavin reached for the edge of the box, ready to fly to Mrs. Pettijohn’s aid and rip Rov’s lips off of her body. However, she did not need him. Her knee came up, and with a robust, unerring movement, caught Rov squarely in a very sensitive place. Indeed, if Rov was like Gavin at this moment, he was probably fully aroused so her well-placed attack had greater impact.
Rov doubled over in wheezing pain.
There was a moment of shocked silence and then the audience burst out into laughter, one beat before mayhem broke out. Everyone decided to follow Rov’s example. Men jumped onto the stage from expensive private boxes or clambered over the musicians’ pit and pulled themselves up. They all had one desire and that was to put their hands on Mrs. Pettijohn.
She saw what was coming for her and had the good sense to run.
Chapter Three
Stupid, she had been so stupid . . .
Sarah didn’t know what man had accosted her. She’d been focused on Baynton—the proud, mighty duke sitting in his box watching her with his arms and legs crossed as if in judgment.
Oh, she’d wanted to shout at him to look at her now! All of London was at her feet. She had power, too. She also had talent and even though she was considered old for an actress at four-and-thirty, men now acclaimed her. She was the Siren!
That had been her last thought before she’d been flipped around and bussed on the lips by the lout who had accosted her. She hadn’t even known who he was, except that he sat in the duke’s box.
Had Baynton put him up to attacking her? Was this his way of delivering a comeuppance?
If it was, she was sorely disappointed in the duke. The kissing attack was far from original.
Fortunately, having spent the last few weeks trying to keep her identity a secret so as to not harm her reputation, Sarah knew every hidey-hole in the theater. She dashed backstage, heard the pursuit of a horde of men behind her and, with quick thinking, knelt and began feeling for the line of the trap door located in the floor. Digging her nails into the wood, she lifted the door and jumped into the darkness below, closing it behind her.
No call of alarm went up. And within the span of four racing heartbeats, there came the sound of heavy boots and shoes overhead. Men shouted at each other. “There she went,” one called.
“Who grabs her first, has her first,” was the buoyant answer and the pounding feet stormed over her head.
Sarah crouched, covering her ears, not wanting to hear any more. What if they realized they were following the wrong trail? Would they return to the theater and hunt her down?
And what would they do once they caught her? She dared not think on it.
Her hand brushed against her mask and she was surprised she still wore it. She took off the fanciful thing and threw it. She would never play the Siren again. Ever.
