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“Not at all. There is no need to fuss,” Lizzie responded quickly.

“We’ll be leaving long before the crush at the end,” Ben assured him. “I have to get this one home to bed.” Considering how bawdy his highest billed act, Miss Florrie Foss, could be, Clem could only be glad of that fact. He did not think Benedict’s wife would approve of her at all.

Next, he spent a few moments with Frank’s wife, Maggie, whose beauty made up for her lack of sparkling conversation, and with Jeb’s partner, Effie, who Clem had always had a soft spot for. Effie laughed uproariously at any joke he made and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Go on with you, you rogue!” she scolded. “We know better’n to listen to a charming rascal like you. Ain’t that right Mags?”

Clem could not fail to notice the wistful glance Effie shot toward Jeb, who alone out of the men did not seem to think he needed to keep a close eye on his woman. Maggie Toomes smiled her lovely smile before looking to her husband Frank who was filling up her glass. Frank shot her a wink, and she blushed as though they had not been married for years. Frank, Clem noticed with interest, was the only one drinking orange juice along with Lizzie. Had the oldest Toomes brother become a teetotaler?

He spent the next ten minutes or so catching up with old friends and wondering how to effectively make his escape. He had seen the magic act that followed Dora’s a dozen times before at least. The Great Roberto Russo was very polished and professional, but tonight he suffered by way of comparison to the turn that preceded him.

Even the magician’s pretty young assistant could not save him, for all she pirouetted about the stage, presenting top hats and silk scarves and disappearing bouquets. The crowd was restless and unappreciative. They had seen something new and fresh, and they wanted to carry on with their rollicking evening’s entertainment. Dora and Lil needed bumping up the bill, Clem thought. There was no getting around it.

“Clem?” He turned in surprise to hear Dora’s voice close at hand. He turned sharply and found her stood behind his chair, once more dressed in her dark green gown, though her face was flushed and her eyes shining.

“Dora!” He sprang to his feet at once and rounded the chair. Dora stretched her hand out to him, and he captured hold of it, drawing her close against him. She was quivering all over, with excitement he guessed rather than nerves. He cast a quick glance about but no one in the audience seemed aware this tall female in drab olive green was one and the same as Piccadilly Percy.

“Clem,” she repeated breathlessly, her eyes fixed on him alone. “Oh Clem, what did you think?” She looked so open and vulnerable at that moment that he could tell her nothing but the truth.

He should have been waiting in her dressing room to congratulate her, damn it. What the hell had he been playing at? “Top billing,” he admitted, and as soon as he said it out loud, he knew it was nothing but the truth.

She gave a hoarse cry and threw her arms about him. After only an instant of feeling her body’s violent trembling and her hot face against his neck, he circled his own arms about her, holding her tight against him. He didn’t give a damn about the fact he could feel the entire table of his boxing friends’ eyes boring into his back. Not at this precise moment.

“Dora, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear nonsensically. “Dora.” He ran a hand up and down her back soothingly. He marveled that she had been so calm earlier only for the adrenaline to affect her now. Pfeiffer was like that, he thought suddenly, thinking of a fellow fighter. Bastard wanted to punch down a wall long after his foe had been dragged away, bleeding and broken. Then he dismissed the obnoxious Claude Pfeiffer from his thoughts altogether.

“You’re shaking,” he said after a few heartbeats. “Come and sit down.” He maneuvered her to his own chair and saw her seated before acknowledging his friends’ openly curious stares. “Dora,” he said, crouching down beside her and threading his fingers through hers. “These are my friends from the boxing world. Everyone, this is Theodora. My—er—wife.”

Clem heard a sharply indrawn breath, but he kept his eyes trained firmly on Dora whose mouth had fallen open with dismay. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry, am I interrupting your gathering?” she stammered, trying to rise from the chair.

Clem kept a firm grip of her hand, anchoring her to the seat. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “You would have to have met them sooner or later. It may as well be sooner.” He gave her his easy smile, but she still looked stricken.

“I just barged right on in here,” she said apologetically, darting her gaze about the table. “I’m so sorry.”

Her words were met with a blank silence. Clem tore his eyes from Dora to level a frown at his friends. What the fuck was wrong with them?

Nat Jones was already leaning forward. “Not at all, dear lady,” the fight promoter said jovially. “Not at all. I must admit, that ever since I heard the compere announce your name, my curiosity was piqued. I thought perhaps a sister, but—”

“I don’t have any sisters,” Clem responded. From the consternation of everyone else at table, he guessed Nat was the only one who had picked up on Dora’s stage name.

“May I congratulate you, my dear, Mrs. Dabney,” Nat continued. “Your act went down a positive storm.”

“Thank you,” Dora answered, a fresh wave of hot color washing over her. Clem reached to pour her a glass of champagne. Had no one thought to take care of her once she came off stage? he seethed. Where the fuck was Lil?Or even that dishrag, Allsop?

He pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. “Drink this,” he urged. “And take a few deep breaths.”

Effie was whispering in Nat’s ear. Clem thought he caught a bewildered, “What act? Who is she?” Nat muttered something back under his breath.

Effie clapped a hand to her forehead. “She never is!” she burst out. “That was you? That dapper young sprig? I’d never believe it!”

Clem sent Effie a quelling glance, but she had turned and was babbling into Jeb’s ear. Jeb turned a frankly disbelieving gaze on Dora and shook his head. “I don’t believe it for a minute,” he said narrowing his eyes. “You’re trying to pull a fast one, Dabney.”

Clem rubbed his hand over the small of Dora’s back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. “Dora, eyes on me,” he murmured. She swallowed and turned to face him. “Do I need to take you back to the dressing room?”

“No, no,” she said quickly and took a gulp of champagne. “I will be fine directly. I’m still just a little …” Her words trailed off and she flashed a quick smile about the table.

“It was you, weren’t it?” Effie marveled. “Piccadilly Perce, I mean. Lord love you, you was a rare caution up there, I could scarce draw breath for laughing!”

Dora’s panicked smile broadened to a more genuine one. “Yes, it was me,” she said with a hiccup. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Around the table, the urgent whispers were still doing the rounds. He heard an incredulous. “Wife though, did he say wife?” from Jack Toomes.