method of hers for gaining information. Glancing into her reticule to make sure she had a few coins for the bribe, she whisked along the curve of the mezzanine hallway where it hugged the back contour of the closed auditorium.
As she came around the bend, she finally saw the orange-girl she was after, but she ducked into the nearest curtained alcove with a gasp. Someone had beaten her to it!
Ever so cautiously, Carissa peeked around the edge of the alcove. Blast it, who’s that? He stole my plan.
Then a chill came over her as she studied the man talking to the orange-girl.
He was beautiful, black-haired, and windblown, as if he’d just come back from his travels; and from his muscled body to his dark scowl, he looked decidedly mean.
Her mouth went dry as she watched him bribe the orange-girl for a look at the note some lady, perhaps his lady, had exchanged with Beauchamp. Carissa’s heart pounded. Oh, Beauchamp, I hope you didn’t sign your name.
They never did, on those clandestine notes.
Surely he was too smart and experienced for that. But if he had made that mistake, she feared the rakehell might be headed for another duel. It looked as though she might not be the only one feeling jealous tonight.
Huddling behind the curtain of the alcove, she watched in trepidation as the handsome, black-haired man read the note and scoffed.
A snort of cynical laughter escaped him. He shook his head with a bitter smile, then tautly asked the orange-girl for another piece of paper, which she gave him. He crumpled the original note in his fist and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
Then he wrote back another message of his own.
With a dark look, he handed his note to the orange-girl, laying a finger over his lips, as if warning her to secrecy.
He slipped a paper bill into her hand and sent her on her way. Still unaware of Carissa, the stranger watched the orange-girl hurry off, his arms akimbo, his feet planted wide. Then, with a cold smile, as though satisfied his trap was laid, he pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the theatre.
Carissa eased out of her hiding place a moment later, dread tingling through her body. Oh, Beauchamp, you’re being set up. She scarcely dared imagine what might happen to him if he went to meet his femme du jour, whoever she might be. He could be killed!
Once more, Carissa was in motion, hurrying after the orange-girl to stop her from delivering that note, which was naught but a piece of treachery. Beauchamp might be a bad, decadent libertine, but she was not about to let anyone murder him!
Rushing after the orange-seller into the quiet side hallway that backed the row of private theatre boxes, she skidded to a halt.
Too late!
The lump had just stepped through one of the narrow doors, halfway down the row. Oh, no. What do I do now?
Heart pounding, she glanced around uneasily.
Merely standing there, unchaperoned, in a part of the theatre where she did not belong was something of a gamble.
Having missed the orange-girl, the thought of venturing into Beauchamp’s box to try to warn him—to risk being seen there by the other snoops in the audience—made her blood run cold. She could not afford in any way to become an object of gossip herself.
She already had too much to hide.
With that, she realized the intelligent thing to do was to abandon this mad quest immediately, go fleeing back to her seat, and pretend she had seen nothing.
But a man’s life could be at stake.
And although he was entirely exasperating, the world would be a darker, duller place without him. Come to think of it, perhaps she could turn this little twist of fate to her advantage . . .
Oooh, she mused. An exchange of information. Yes!
If he’ll tell me where Daphne and Kate went and what the deuce is going on, then I will tell him what I saw. That’s fair, is it not? If he refuses, then maybe the rogue deserves what he gets.
Unsure what to do, she crept toward the door to his box, then stopped. He was
As she came around the bend, she finally saw the orange-girl she was after, but she ducked into the nearest curtained alcove with a gasp. Someone had beaten her to it!
Ever so cautiously, Carissa peeked around the edge of the alcove. Blast it, who’s that? He stole my plan.
Then a chill came over her as she studied the man talking to the orange-girl.
He was beautiful, black-haired, and windblown, as if he’d just come back from his travels; and from his muscled body to his dark scowl, he looked decidedly mean.
Her mouth went dry as she watched him bribe the orange-girl for a look at the note some lady, perhaps his lady, had exchanged with Beauchamp. Carissa’s heart pounded. Oh, Beauchamp, I hope you didn’t sign your name.
They never did, on those clandestine notes.
Surely he was too smart and experienced for that. But if he had made that mistake, she feared the rakehell might be headed for another duel. It looked as though she might not be the only one feeling jealous tonight.
Huddling behind the curtain of the alcove, she watched in trepidation as the handsome, black-haired man read the note and scoffed.
A snort of cynical laughter escaped him. He shook his head with a bitter smile, then tautly asked the orange-girl for another piece of paper, which she gave him. He crumpled the original note in his fist and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
Then he wrote back another message of his own.
With a dark look, he handed his note to the orange-girl, laying a finger over his lips, as if warning her to secrecy.
He slipped a paper bill into her hand and sent her on her way. Still unaware of Carissa, the stranger watched the orange-girl hurry off, his arms akimbo, his feet planted wide. Then, with a cold smile, as though satisfied his trap was laid, he pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the theatre.
Carissa eased out of her hiding place a moment later, dread tingling through her body. Oh, Beauchamp, you’re being set up. She scarcely dared imagine what might happen to him if he went to meet his femme du jour, whoever she might be. He could be killed!
Once more, Carissa was in motion, hurrying after the orange-girl to stop her from delivering that note, which was naught but a piece of treachery. Beauchamp might be a bad, decadent libertine, but she was not about to let anyone murder him!
Rushing after the orange-seller into the quiet side hallway that backed the row of private theatre boxes, she skidded to a halt.
Too late!
The lump had just stepped through one of the narrow doors, halfway down the row. Oh, no. What do I do now?
Heart pounding, she glanced around uneasily.
Merely standing there, unchaperoned, in a part of the theatre where she did not belong was something of a gamble.
Having missed the orange-girl, the thought of venturing into Beauchamp’s box to try to warn him—to risk being seen there by the other snoops in the audience—made her blood run cold. She could not afford in any way to become an object of gossip herself.
She already had too much to hide.
With that, she realized the intelligent thing to do was to abandon this mad quest immediately, go fleeing back to her seat, and pretend she had seen nothing.
But a man’s life could be at stake.
And although he was entirely exasperating, the world would be a darker, duller place without him. Come to think of it, perhaps she could turn this little twist of fate to her advantage . . .
Oooh, she mused. An exchange of information. Yes!
If he’ll tell me where Daphne and Kate went and what the deuce is going on, then I will tell him what I saw. That’s fair, is it not? If he refuses, then maybe the rogue deserves what he gets.
Unsure what to do, she crept toward the door to his box, then stopped. He was
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