Page 23 of His Improper Lady

“I understand.”

“Sorry, luv, that’s all I know about the Malones.”

They continued to talk for a few minutes, roaming over all sorts of things besides the pub or the Malones. There was a certain ease in talking to Jessie that came from a shared past, and as the conversation went along, Tom found himself slipping now and then back into his old speech patterns.

He thought of the way Desiree had spoken—not quite the tone of the upper crust, but not that of the streets, either. It was, he realized, much the way he talked. He’d spent years learning his grammar, losing his accent, but he’d never perfectly matched that tone that came naturally to the Morelands and others. Obviously Desiree had done the same thing. And like him, she didn’t belong in either place.

He left the Blue Lion and headed for the Golden Palace. He knew one of the dancers in an act there; he’d had a brief relationship with her that had turned into a sort of friendship after their ardor had cooled. As he remembered, she often rehearsed in the afternoons.

Matilda was happy to see him, but when he asked if she knew anything about the Magnificent Malones, she looked at him, puzzled, and said, “Malones? You mean the bloke that owns this place? He never had an act. He’s, you know, some sort of gentleman.”

“Brock Malone owns the Golden Palace?” At her nod, he went on, “No, not him. These were children and long before your time. But I thought you might have heard of them or know some older performer who might.”

“Oh, sure. Talk to Maisie. Come on, I’ll take you to her.”

It turned out Maisie had no memory of the act, either, but she in turn referred him to a graying magician at another music hall, who nodded and said, “Ah, yes, I remember them—Bruna the Italian Angel and the Magnificent Malones.” He named the act in the manner of an announcer, sweeping one arm out in a grandiose gesture.

“Bruna?” The name on Desiree’s birth certificate had been Stella. “Was that her stage name?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what everyone called her. She really was from Italy. She came here with a show, but after she met Sid, she stayed.”

“Sid?” Tom’s instincts went on alert at the mention of a male name, someone who could possibly be Desiree’s real father.

“Trapeze artist. We used to lift a pint or two. But then I tried my luck in the States. I met him again over there, in fact. Odd, that. After Bruna died, their circus decided to tour America—get rid of the bad luck, I suppose. ’Course, the Malones weren’t still with him then. He joined a different act... I’m not sure what the name was.”

“He left the children here?”

The other man nodded. “Well, they weren’t his, were they?”

That dashed Tom’s rising hope that he had a name for Desiree’s actual father. And he didn’t understand the change in names from Stella to Bruna. “They were just Bruna’s, then?”

Having been born in Italy would negate Desiree’s claim almost as effectively as this fellow Sid’s paternity. But that wouldn’t match with birth certificate he’d found.

“Oh, well, they weren’t hers, either. I don’t know who their mother was or what happened to her, but Sid and Bruna took them in when the little ones were just babies.”

“The twins.”

“Yes.” The magician opened his watch and glanced at it. “Sorry. I need to practice before I go on. That’s all I know about the Malones anyway.”

“Just one more thing. What happened to Sid? Is he still in the United States?”

“No, that circus came back, and I think he joined another one. Circus folk move around a good deal.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No. Haven’t heard anything of him in years. He was never the star of the show, you see. Without Bruna and children, he wasn’t as popular.”

“What was his last name?”

“Upton. Sid Upton.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks for your trouble.” Tom pressed a bill into his hand and turned to leave.

He had barely reached the hallway, however, when the other man hurried after him. “No, wait. I just remembered something that might help you, if you’re wanting to find Sid.”

“What?” The money had apparently jogged the magician’s memory; Tom hoped his information was real and not something made up in a bid for more money.

“I heard that a few years back Sid was working at the Golden Palace. Not onstage—he would have been too old, but backstage or at the door. That sort of thing.”