Page 8 of The English Wife

“What kind of entertainment?”

“Nothing like that, I promise. It’s just a meal, that’s all.” Kitty hooked the last hook and stepped back, her eyes meeting Georgie’s in the mirror. “A girl needs to fill her stomach somehow.”

And the show wouldn’t run much longer. Kitty didn’t need to say it. It was there in the dusty dressing room, in the empty seats out front, in the desperation beneath Kitty’s crooked smile.

“All right,” said Georgie slowly. Champagne was better than stout any day, particularly if someone else was paying. A lady would blush at dining with strange men, would balk at the implied cheat of taking something for nothing. But she wasn’t a lady, was she? She was an actress. She showed her legs for a living. “Where are they taking us?”

“The Criterion,” said Kitty with satisfaction.

Georgie narrowed her eyes at her as she slid off the stool. “Let’s hope your American is as rich as you claim.”

“Your American,” Kitty retorted. “I have my eye on the toff.”

Georgie grabbed her old coat. “Whatever you say, Lady Kitty.”

“Go on!” said Kitty, but the way she preened at the words made Georgie wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Kitty held out a flask to her. “Just a nip?”

Kitty had taken a nip already. Georgie could smell the gin on her breath, gin and the cloves to hide it. Add a bit of orange peel and she’d smell like Christmas punch.

It wasn’t an escape to which Georgie had resorted, not yet, but there were times when she understood the appeal of it, particularly now, with the chill of winter permeating the drafty back areas of the theater and the slush seeping through the thin soles of her boots.

But they didn’t know these men.

“I’d rather keep my wits about me.” Such as they were. But they’d got her this far, hadn’t they? She’d survived. There was something to be said for surviving.

“Suit yourself.” Kitty took her nip and then another.

Reluctantly, Georgie asked, “Had you ought to, Kit?”

Kitty shrugged. “The cold gets in your bones, doesn’t it?”

She shoved the flask back in the hidden pocket of her coat before pushing open the side door and tumbling out into the cold.

Two men waited in the alley, tall hats pulled low over their brows, the points of their cigars glowing red in the gloom. Their heads were bent close together, their voices low. They appeared to be engaged in some sort of whispered dispute, all the more vehement for being so quiet.

Georgie could feel the door handle cold and hard against her palm, the cold burning through her gloves.

After all this time …

She hadn’t thought about him in days, weeks, but he’d said he’d find her, hadn’t he? She knew that silhouette, she could see it beneath her eyelids when she went to bed at night, looming over her in the half-light, pressing her against the wall. That smell … the smell of bay rum cologne. The tall hat. The caped coat. That coat, flapping around his legs as he thrust against her. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his coat that day. She could still hear the susurration of it, back and forth, back and forth.

Run, run, run, Georgie’s senses screamed. If she moved quickly, she could be away into the warren of corridors in the back of the theater, up into the machinery that skirted the stage. But she couldn’t seem to make her legs move.

She could smell the tang of Kitty’s gin, the acrid reek of the men’s cigars. She could feel the pinch of a blister on her heel, the bruise on her side where she’d been hit by a piece of falling scenery. She was awake. Awake and frozen.

Breathlessly, Kitty called, “I’ve brought her!”

The two men turned, and Georgie’s breath came out in a rush that created a cloud in front of her face.

It wasn’t Giles.

This man was taller, broader, the hair beneath his hat fairer. It was a stranger who stood there. The shorter man tossed away his cigar, ground it beneath his heel, and sauntered forward to take Kitty’s hand. The other man stayed behind, in the shadows. Georgie could feel the clammy sweat in the small of her back, under her arms. She struggled to control her breathing. It was the caped coat that had made her imagine more. The caped coat and the red glow of a cigar in the gloom.

It wasn’t Giles.

It wasn’t Giles.

In a Mayfair drawl, the man with the dark mustache pressed a kiss to the back of Kitty’s hand. “Madama Katerina.”