Esta didn’t like it, but Harte was right. They’d come this far, and for her to back out now would mean admitting she was afraid. And she wasn’t about to do that, especially when he didn’t seem to be.
The theater’s marbled lobby gave way to crimson carpet and walls dripping with crystal and gold. Compared to the spare brick exterior, the opulence of the theater itself was a surprise. When they made their way into the theater proper, the cavernous domed ceiling was painted with scenes of angels and gods, while crystal chandeliers lit the entire space with a soft, sparkling glow. Although the bill was vaudeville, the audience could have been attending a night at the opera as they sat in their velvet-lined seats draped in silks and furs and ornamented with jewels. Dressed in their finery, no one seemed bothered by the stuffy warmth of the air. Women lazily fanned themselves and men quietly dabbed at the beads of sweat on their foreheads without complaint.
Esta’s fingers itched. In the dark, it would be so easy to take one or two of those jewels, especially since she didn’t know what else lay ahead for them. The security that one emerald brooch might offer was more than tempting . . . but they still had to find Julien and get the necklace from him. Sticking around long enough to be caught was a rookie mistake, and Esta was anything but a rookie.
They’d only just gotten to their seats when the lights went down, leaving the theater in darkness except for the expanse of the crimson velvet curtain over the stage and making it impossible to talk anymore about what had happened. Next to her, Harte leaned forward ever so slightly, waiting for the curtain to rise. She used the cover afforded by the darkness in the theater to study him, his sharp features all shadow and light from the glow of the stage. His eyes were serious as the first act came on and split the silence with song.
For Esta, the next hour felt like it would never end. Stuck in the seat between Harte, who was leaning away from her like he didn’t want to even bump her elbow, and an old woman whose furs smelled so strongly of mothballs that Esta’s eyes watered, she couldn’t manage to work up any interest in the acts. She didn’t care about the troupe of dancers who kicked their bare legs to the ceiling or the small, goateed man who performed a monologue that at any other time might have had Esta in stitches. Not even the svelte woman dressed all in black who swallowed swords while telling bawdy jokes. It was more than an hour into the show when an act finally caught her attention—a woman who sang in a sultry contralto.
The woman wasn’t classically pretty, but there was something completely compelling about her. She had an interesting face, with pale, milky skin and lightly flushed cheeks. Her wide mouth was painted in a bow, and she was dressed in a glittering aquamarine gown accented with pearls. The woman consumed the stage without moving more than a foot or two in either direction, and her voice . . . It was clear and resonant and contained all the pain and hope and wonder of the lyrics of the song.
“It’s time,” Harte whispered, leaning forward and gesturing for Esta to go.
“What?” She turned to him, confused. The plan was to leave while Julien was on the stage, so they could beat him to his dressing room.
“It’s time,” Harte repeated, nodding toward the woman on the stage.
“I thought we were going to wait for Julien’s act,” she whispered.
“We were.” Amusement sparked in his eyes. “That’s Julien.”
INFAMOUS
1904—St. Louis
Harte knew that he should have prepared Esta for Julien’s act, but the look of surprise on her face made keeping the secret worth it. The delight in her expression was also an enormous relief. The truth was, Harte hadn’t exactly been sure how she would react to learning that Julien Eltinge had made a name for himself by impersonating women on the stage—not everyone accepted Julien’s particular talent. But Esta took one more look toward the stage, her full mouth parted in a sort of awe as Julien hit a heartrending and impossibly high note, and she smiled. Then she gave Harte a sure nod and gathered her skirts in preparation to leave.
She was dressed in a gown of cloud gray, one she’d picked because she’d thought it was sedate enough to avoid notice. He didn’t have the guts to tell her that it had the exact opposite effect. Made from a silk that looked almost liquid, it rippled against the ground as she walked, making her look like some sort of otherworldly apparition. It had drawn the eyes of men—and women—all the way from the hotel to the theater, and it had taken everything in him not to reach for her, to put a proprietary arm around her, so that every one of those onlookers—and Esta herself—knew who she was with.
But he didn’t, because after he’d spent the last twenty-four hours in close quarters with her—first on the train and then as they navigated the unfamiliar city to find a hotel and buy evening clothes—what little self-control he had was fraying.
It had been a mistake to touch her earlier. He’d acted on instinct to pull her out of the way before those men in the dark coats had knocked her over, but the moment his arms had gone around her, he’d sensed her—the energy of her affinity, the heart of who and what she was—even through the thin leather of his gloves and the layers she was wearing. And then she’d settled into his arms as though she belonged there. He could have kissed her right there in the middle of the crowded lobby and damn all the repercussions.
The power inside of him had certainly wanted him to, but the way it had swelled at Esta’s nearness had been enough to bring him back to himself, and he’d held it together. He had pushed the power and all of its wanting down and let go of her. He’d managed to keep his hands to himself ever since. He’d just have to keep managing.
“Harte?” Esta asked.
“What?” He blinked and realized she was staring at him. She’d been saying something, and he’d missed it.
“I said, which way?” she asked, unaware of the true direction of his thoughts.
Once they were back in the lobby, Harte could hear the rumble of applause within as Julien finished his first song, even through the closed theater doors. They’d have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before his act was over—not much time considering that Harte hadn’t had a chance to case the building.
But theaters were all pretty much the same, and Harte understood the rhythm of life on the stage and the way the world behind the curtain ticked like the gears of a clock, hidden and essential. He went with his instincts and led the way to an unremarkable door at the end of the lobby. Once through it, the lights were dimmer and the familiar energy of backstage enveloped him. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust as he took off his gloves—just in case. He prepared himself, making sure that the power inside of him was locked down tight as he took Esta’s hand in his. Ignoring the surge of warmth and wanting that rose up within him, he led her through the maze that was backstage, toward where the dressing rooms were housed.
When they turned a corner, they ran into a woman with dark blond hair and an armful of fabric. From the look of it, she was a costumer, one of the backstage workers who took care of the performers in between acts, and for a moment Harte thought of Cela—of his mother—but when the woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of them, Harte knew it meant trouble.