The Stepsister's Triumph (16 page)

“I've lost him, Helene! I've lost him forever!”

Madelene curled up in the old-fashioned curtained bed in Miss Sewell's spare room, her head in Helene's lap and her tears staining Helene's muslin skirt.

Helene laid a gentle hand on Madelene's disordered curls. “Maybe.”

“Oh, that was helpful.” Adele sat beside them with a stack of handkerchiefs, a fair number of which she was using herself.

“She's the one who knows him, and she was there,” Helene said pointedly. “We weren't. It could be true.”

“Oh, stop talking, would you?” Adele took the soaked handkerchief out of Madelene's fist and supplied a fresh one. “Madelene, please, let's sit you up so you can take a little tea.”

Madelene had no idea how long she'd been like this, curled up and sobbing. It must have been quite a while. Helene and Adele and even Miss Sewell had come and gone several times. She'd been changed out of her ball gown at some point, and so had they. The room was brighter than it had been. But all this had passed behind a blur of tears. Nothing seemed real except the pain in her chest, the storm in her mind, and the memory of Benedict's furious shouts. And hers. Especially hers as she flung all those terrible accusations at him.

“I won't stop talking,” Helene was saying over her head. “Because this is true as well. If Madelene lost Lord Benedict because he got a look at a part of her that didn't suit the painting he's made in his head, then Lord Benedict was never worth having.” Helene lifted Madelene into a sitting position so she could look into her friends' faces. To her surprise, Madelene saw the tears in Helene's own bright eyes. “Nothing,
nothing
, is worth sacrificing the chance to become your true self.”

“But what if I'm wrong! What if my true self is . . . dreadful!”

“Then at least you'll know,” Helene answered. “And you can set about becoming not dreadful.”

“You are a deeply strange person,” Adele muttered.

“It's part of who I am, and I
know
that.” Helene took another handkerchief off Adele's stack and began methodically wiping at Madelene's eyes and cheeks.

“But I love him,” Madelene whispered.

She waited for Helene to tell her she was silly. “If he loves you, he'll find his way back.” Helene took the fresh kerchief Adele handed her.

“What if he doesn't?”

“Then you grieve and you survive,” Helene said flatly. “And tomorrow you will know what to do.”

“I'm not like you, Helene.”

“No,” she agreed. “You're better.” She glanced back at Adele, and for a moment something both uncomfortable and unfamiliar clouded her confident expression. “You both are.”

Abruptly, Helene got to her feet and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“What really happened to her?” Adele asked. “It had to have been worse than simply not liking her fiancé.”

“She's never told me.” Madelene stared at the used handkerchiefs spread over the quilts. She felt drained, hollow. If the window had been opened, she was sure the lightest breeze would have blown her away. “What do I do, Adele?”

Adele took both her hands and held them tightly. “What do you want to do?”

What did she want to do? Finally, someone was asking her the one question she longed to hear, and Madelene found she had no answer at all. She wanted to die. She wanted to run all the way back to Benedict's studio and beg him to forgive her. She would swear to do whatever he wanted, be whoever he wanted, if only he would take her in his arms and make her feel . . . everything all over again.

She wanted to never leave this room again. She wanted to never be seen, never be touched, never be hurt, ever.

But then she would miss Cousin Henry's premiere tonight, and Helene and Adele would have to explain her absence, and it might look strange. It might look like things were falling apart, just when people were deciding whether to accept their invitations or not.

Madelene groped for her handkerchief. Adele had another out and ready and put it into her hand. Madelene wiped at the remainder of her tears and her streaming nose.

I will take control of myself. I will hold the space around me.

She straightened her shoulders. “What I want is to wash my face. And then I want a cup of that tea and a light supper. Then I want to dress for the theater. We cannot miss Henry's premiere.”

*   *   *

Somewhere, someone was pounding at the door. It hurt.

Benedict raised his aching head. He was sprawled across the bed in his studio. His hand hurt, and he realized he was clutching an empty bottle of brandy. Twilight deepened across the roofs, sending fingers of red and orange light stretching across the floor.

Someone was still pounding at the door.

With a groan, Benedict sat up and shoved his hair back from his face. He stared at the carved screens that had been knocked flat on the floor. He remembered doing that. He remembered sweeping them aside with a shout that left his throat raw. Or maybe that was the brandy.

He remembered Madelene was gone.

She'd left him for the false glitter of society. Just like Gabriella. She'd turned on him. She'd laughed at him.

He stared at the empty bottle. No. Madelene hadn't laughed. She'd wept, she'd shouted. She'd said . . . she'd said he didn't know her. Which was true. He'd been horribly, criminally mistaken in his perception of her, and in his belief that she could ever want his protection, or his love.

“Lord Benedict!” boomed a man's voice on the other side of the door. “I know that you are in there, and either you will open this door, or it will be broken down!”

Benedict staggered to his feet. He knew that voice, but he couldn't think from where. He lurched a few steps before he got his feet under him.

“Break it down, Martin,” the man said.

“Stop, damn you!” Benedict shouted, and he flung open the door.

On the other side stood not one man, but two. The first was tall, redheaded, and imposing. He was also incongruously dressed in an Elizabethan costume, complete with a ruff around his neck and a sword at his side. The other man wore only a plain smock and trousers. He also happened to be a giant, with a square head and square fists and bright little eyes.

The costumed man pushed into the studio with the giant at his heels. Benedict reeled backward. The man placed himself squarely in the center of the studio, his feet set broad apart and his hands planted on his hips, so like an actor taking the stage that Benedict's blurred brain finally realized who this must be.

“Henry Cross,” he blurted out.

“Lord Benedict,” Mr. Cross answered. The giant moved behind him and picked up the chair that had been knocked over at some point. He dusted off the seat with his hand and gestured for Mr. Cross to sit.

“Thank you,” Mr. Cross said. The giant bobbed his head. He also took up a position at the actor's shoulder and grinned, showing a wealth of gray and crooked teeth.

“Don't mind Martin,” Cross said to Benedict. “Martin, stand over there by the window, there's a good fellow. You're distracting Lord Benedict.”

Martin did as he was told. The red sunset turned his skin scarlet and gold.

“Doesn't he talk?” Benedict croaked.

“No, as it happens.” Cross settled himself onto the chair. He also pulled his sword out of its scabbard and laid it across his knees. Benedict wished he wasn't so very hungover. The twilight and the remains of the brandy fumes in his head made what had to be a theater prop look very real.

“Martin's a mute,” Cross went on. “But he's very strong. Helps out at the Theatre Royal shifting scenery and so on, and occasionally dealing with . . . gentlemen who might want to get overly familiar with our actresses. Isn't that right, Martin?”

Martin nodded and pressed one fist into his palm.

Benedict felt himself blanch.

“Now, Lord Benedict, we are going to have a talk you and I,” Cross said. “Stop staring at Martin. Stare at me. I've had a letter from Miss Sewell. You know her, of course?” Benedict nodded. “She writes that my dear cousin Madelene came home last night in a storm of tears that it is safe to say was unprecedented. There's some fear for her health, in fact.” He leveled a stare at Benedict that had been known to make grown men back up a full yard. “This was right after she fled your very commanding and apparently very loud presence.”

Martin ground his fist into his palm again.

“Now, you, sir, are a gentleman and a peer of the realm. I, rather famously, am not. If I find out you have harmed Cousin Madelene in any way, I will not challenge you to a duel nor will I follow that ridiculous custom of insisting you marry her to preserve appearances. I will, however, give Martin certain very explicit instructions as to how your person is to be dealt with, an instance I think we would both find ultimately regrettable.”

Benedict swallowed. Martin grinned.

“Is there anything you wish to say in your own defense, Lord Benedict?”

Was there anything he wished to say? Benedict finally set the brandy bottle down. He shoved his loose hair back with both hands and stared about the twilight and the ruin he'd made of his studio. His first instinct was to holler; to throw this man and his bullyboy out and tell them he'd said nothing to Madelene that she did not deserve. That he hoped he never saw her again.

Except that was not true. None of it. He had not gotten drunk and raged because he did not want to see her again, but because he could not bear the idea he'd lost her. It was the knowledge that he'd been unable to stand against the memory of that old pain and see clearly that had so devastated him. He was a painter, but his eyes and imagination had utterly failed him. After all these years, Gabriella had still blinded him.

“I have not hurt her,” Benedict whispered.

Cross nodded. “That is an excellent beginning.”

“I would never hurt her.”
Except I have. With every careless word. By playing to her fears and my own.

“Better and better.”

“I love her.”

“Ah. The plot turns.”

Benedict licked his lips. “Do you . . . Has she said if . . .” Cross arched one professionally eloquent brow. “No,” Benedict said hastily. “I should not have asked that of you. I apologize.”

Cross waved this away.

Benedict swallowed hard. “What I have done . . . I have . . .”

What had he done? He only wanted to protect her, to cherish her, to keep her safe from the knife that was society, to . . .

To put her on a windowsill in a pot. To make sure she got just enough sun and just enough water and just enough . . .

“I have made a terrible mistake,” Benedict croaked. “And I think, sir, I need your help to correct it.”

For a moment he thought Cross would refuse. He was sure that the actor would tell him to never come near Madelene again. He watched Cross get to his feet and raise his sword. Martin started forward, and Benedict, to his shame, lurched back. But Cross just sheathed the rapier with a single decisive gesture.

“Very good,” he said. “What can I do?”

What? But Benedict knew, and in knowing his head became instantly clear. “Mister Cross, I assume you have a valet. I wonder if I could borrow him for a few hours?”

*   *   *

It was fair to say that the Theatre Royal was mobbed. The whole of the fashionable world seemed determined to cram itself inside to catch a glimpse of Henry Cross and Mrs. Jordan in their revival of their famous roles as Benedick and Beatrice in Shakespeare's
Much Ado About Nothing
.

Miss Sewell, anticipating the scene, had her man Taggert join them for the evening in borrowed livery, so he could clear a path through the crowd when the carriage pulled up and the girls stepped out.

A week ago, two days ago, Madelene might have been overwhelmed with delight or anxiety at the glamor and whirl of the scene. Now, she looked on the whole of it and felt nothing at all—not as the crowd cleared back to see them pass because they were beautiful and becoming known. Not even as they walked through the theater's gilt and red velvet foyer, which was utterly transformed by the crowd and the noise and the lights. Not as she heard the approving murmurs about their looks and their clothes.

They were all wearing Adele's gowns, of course. Madelene was dressed in cream satin and silk with intricate beaded lace trimming the full hem and short train. Her cloak was deep gold lined with white. With the broad band of cut glass gems in her hair, Adele assured her she looked like a queen.

And still, she felt nothing. It took all Cousin Henry's teaching just to keep her head up as she walked down the hall. Her mind remained a blank. Thought and feeling had been wiped away when Benedict turned from her, and no new feeling had yet arrived to take its place, except one.

She did not want anyone to see how badly she'd been broken. Maybe she was shattered into a thousand pieces, but no one could be allowed to know. No breath or hint of that would reach Benedict—Lord Benedict. She would be perfect tonight. She would not let her friends down.

Miss Sewell, looking splendid in her rich blue and silver gown, led them down the Theatre Royal's curving hallway toward their box, only to find someone had gotten there before them and was engaged in a bitter discussion with an obstinate footman.

“. . . You are mistaken, sir. This box is reserved for Mister Thomas's cousin and her particular friends.”

The matron tapped her son on his shoulder with her lace fan. “Tell the man he's wrong, Peregrine. This is our box.”

“I am not wrong, madame, sir,” the footman said. As Miss Sewell sailed up to him, his solemn face broke into a smile of welcome. “Ah! Miss Sewell! And Miss Valmeyer! My name is Fuller. Mister Cross directed that I was to see to your wishes this evening. The box is entirely ready for you and your guests. If you will step this way, please?”