In the end.
Suddenly, I knew the answer. I knew what must have truly happened to keep them apart. It was what Aunt Lucy refused to say, and the reason my father hadn’t ever come forward for us. Disappeared, Mama Jo had said, and “right under your nose” was Jack Dorian’s cryptic clue, and there was only one answer that fit both of those.
We had a half day on Monday, and I should have rehearsedbattementsto strengthen muscle control, but by late afternoon when we were released, I was dragging my aching body toward the infamous actor’s church instead, in search of closure. There was an angst alive inside of me, an unfinished thread in mytapestry, and it would forever haunt me—hewould forever haunt me—until I knew. Part of me grieved the possibility while the other felt a tired sort of relief at the realization that my father may not have rejected me after all.
St. Paul’s. I would see for myself.
I set out the moment we were dismissed for the heart of Covent Garden, but my aching feet, tight with pain, took me only as far as Lion’s Head Inn on the corner of Middle Temple before they seized up. Wincing, I curled into a bench tucked in the shadows of the building to peel off my boots and expose my raw feet to the open air. It was daring among the great throng of people, but I was desperate.
I gifted myself a few precious moments of rest on the fringes of the activity as my feet throbbed behind my skirt hem, watching people and carriages hurry through the square, voices raised and laughter echoing off stone walls. The smell of sausages from a cart on the next block mingled with the dust and fog, making my stomach clench. It was only a few more streets to the church. Seven or eight at most.
I’d last, if I could keep my feet bare and out of view. Rotten traitors.
Then a shadow was there, hovering over me as I poked at the raw flesh with a fingertip. I looked up into the roguishly playful face of Jack Dorian. He watched me, arms behind his back. “Running over the coals now, are we?”
I grimaced. “It’s terrible, how unforgiving a wood floor can be.” Then heat poured over my skin as I realized my indecency and drew my feet back under my hem.
“Especially with the hours you put in.”
“I hold myself to high standards.”
“Are you finding your dancing much improved for all this?”
I pressed my lips closed and merely looked at him.
“Give them here.” He knelt before me on the walk and pulled one foot toward him before I could object, and inspected it.
Face warm, I felt every inch of my status as a theater girl. “I appreciate the effort, but I’ll be quite all right.”
He raised an eyebrow. “All that practice will be wasted unless you do something for those feet now.” He released them, allowing me to tuck them out of sight again. “You know, the least intelligent choice I ever made was to ignore my sword-fighting wounds after a particularly hard battle. Well, no, theworstchoice was challenging a giant to a swordfight in the first place.”
I bit my lip against a retort and tried—really tried—not to roll my eyes.
He stood and looked at me pointedly, arms crossed. “I have lanolin ointment at my flat, if you’d care to brave it. It’ll help.”
I flushed at the notion. In his flat, alone with him? “That isn’t necessary.”
“Very well then, a hand, perhaps. You’ve somewhere to be, do you not? Come, I’ll help you get there.”
Warning signals flared. I bent forward and shoved ankle boots onto my stockingless feet. “Really, Mr. Dorian. I can take care of myself.” All I could think in that moment washigh moral characterandabove reproach—lines in my contract—and all the eyes on us now. Well, and the fact that I couldn’t seem to shake the man loose.
“Why, when you don’t have to? Wherever you need to be, let me take you.” He stepped close, gaze holding steady but tinged with a smile. “Remember, I know some of your secrets more thoroughly than you do.” His voice was low and private yet inviting. Gentle. “You may find me quite valuable for morethan a mere walking stick. And for the record, the name’s Jack. Just plain Jack. And I’m only offering to help.”
I steeled myself against his attempt to win me over. The bet. Of course, it was all about the bet. I tensed with the awareness that he, at some point, was going to attempt to kiss me. Every shield was in place. Yet when I looked at him, I felt the echo of curiosity clang through my being. What knowledge did this man have of my father? What might he tell me that could change everything? “Very well, then.Mr. Dorian.You’re kind to offer your help.”
He bowed as if I were a lady, a comical grin on his face, and it was troubling how much I wanted to laugh. “I promise to be on my very best behavior. I also promise you won’t get very far in whatever you’re doing without my help.”
Within minutes, the man had handed me into a hackney cab and climbed in after me. He had a convincing way about him, that Jack Dorian, and I was not easily convinced. At least, I didn’t use to be.
I looked him over from across the dark vehicle. “You must have other places to be.”
He shrugged. “No place I wish to be. A most disagreeable engagement that I don’t mind missing, if the truth be known.”
I stared at this man across from me, openly judging his fickle nature.
“Where to?”
“Just to St. Paul’s on Bedford Street. Truly, a cab isn’t necessary for so short a trip. You’re kind to offer, but it must be less than a mile.”
