Jack’s voice cut through with saucy irritation. “Ten thousan—”
“It might be had for quite a bargain. Its author is already writing ballets for Craven.”
All those stiff necks swiveled toward Jack Dorian, and the thunking of the clock again filled the silence.
His eyes flashed, chin jutting as he attempted to formulate a response.
“Indeed.” Fournier rose, a tower of pressurized emotion, and turned his heavy gaze on Jack—poor Jack. “Have something for me to look at by next week. If it’s decent, we’ll have three, maybe four weeks to prepare the dancers. We’ll have to use familiar variations. Standard scores. It isn’t ideal, but neither is it impossible.”
“The dancers can wear costumes we have lying about, rather than sewing new, yes?” This came from a tall man in the back who’d been silent until now. “Shall we put it to the others?”
“Of course we should, but there will benewcostumes.” Fournier was nearly growling. “New and spectacular. We can do that much in short order, at least. I want sensational sights, stunning dancers, everywhere he looks.”
“What if he does not come? We’ll have invested all this—”
“Then we’ll give London the most brilliant show it has ever seen.” He spun, punctuating the conversation with a firm period.
That was my cue to leave, it seemed. I slipped toward the tall double doors and lingered, looking back toward Jack—but he had disappeared. Clinging to the knob, I searched each corner of the room for him once more.
Then I was pummeled from behind, Jack’s whisper assaulting me. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
I spun on the man and lifted a demure smile. “Why, of course I do. You’re quite welcome, Mr. Dorian.”
“Jack. It’sJack,for all that is holy. As in, Jack, the one you lately threw to the lions. Placed between the two iron jaws of a vice.”
“It wasn’t easy to speak out that way.”
“Congratulations on finding your voice at so opportune a moment. Now if you’d kindly undo what you have done...”
“Jack.” I placed my hand upon his chest, where it looked surprisingly tiny. “I knew you wouldn’t go out and grasp it for yourself, so I merely did it for you. A little shove off the barn loft, if you will.” I gave a wry smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return home.”
“Oh no you don’t, your ladyship. You’ll stay right here.” He spun and slid like a panther between me and the exit. “You’ve delivered me into a heap of trouble, and you can make up for it right now with a little favor to me.” He propelled me forward, one hand on the small of my back, and I braced myself, clutching a chair.
“What is this favor?”
“You shall see. Look, the subscribers have begun sneaking in the back. They’re the annual box seat holders, so you’ll want to impress them too. One most especially. I imagine you’re bright enough to figure out who.”
My smile faded. He guided me toward Bellini, who was speaking to a cluster of new arrivals in top hats and tails—including one who was the very image of the portrait hanging in the theater. Even from a distance, Marcus de Silva swept me with an accusing glare that made me want to shrink away.
26
Athudding pounded in my head, filling my ears. My steps slowed as we neared the small gathering of subscribers, a repelling fear pushing me back. They were discussing the royal visit, being caught up on all that had taken place, and Jack’s ballet.
Jack cleared his throat, and Bellini turned. “Ah, here she is. One of our dancers this season, and a little experiment of Fournier’s. One we hope you will consider backing in the future.”
I took two small steps forward, back straight, and tipped my head in a small greeting.
“She’s one of London’s own. If all goes well, Fournier is convinced that scholarships like hers may cost a small fortune, but they shall keep us from paying any more dancers from the continent outrageous sums to dance for us. A regular investment in London girls such as this one could save the theater’s financial state and boost the profit margin by nearly thirty percent.”
I blushed at the mention of money, and the heat deepened at the continued stares of these dour-faced men standing about in the Great Fournier’s parlor.
There was a powdery smell to the air in this corner, or perhaps that was merely the scent of my fear. I tried to glance at everything and everyone except Marcus de Silva, but the edges of my vision always seemed to catch on his striking face, that gaze narrowed on me. He was so silent he might have gone unnoticed by everyone, except for how his presence filled the room—at least for me. That quiet steadiness pulsed in waves perhaps only I could hear, thrumming like a heartbeat in my awareness.
“Can she be trusted?” This from a gent in striped gray with a carnation in his buttonhole.
“She’s not missed a single day of training.” Bellini’s voice carried with ease through the group. “In the end, she’s proven more dedicated than dancers raised up in the normal fashion.”
But not more talented, apparently.
