Page 82 of Regency in Color

“What are you waiting for?” He gestured toward the stage and sat behind the piano. “Sing something.”

“Now?” Andie laughed.

“Yes, by God.” He played a few notes for emphasis. “Anything you like.”

Encouraged and relaxing more by the minute, Andie climbed the few steps to the stage and took in the view. The hall was cramped but beautiful in its way, and the chandeliers glittered like dozens of scattered constellations throughout the cavernous balconies. The audience was less likely to have opera glasses, but they’d be so close, they wouldn’t need them. She idly batted the trapeze ring, wondering what to sing.

“All right,” she said. “Here goes.”

* * *

The moment she started singing,it was over for Frank.

He would have thought he was dreaming, but his dreams were never this good. A few actresses and dancers made their way in every week, but this woman was something else. Shy but self-assured, she had appeared in his doorway like a mirage, a vision of buttoned-up beauty in a girlish coat and expensive scarf. Though everything about her from her posture to the pins in her hair screamed that she was pure class, she took in her surroundings with an unguarded wonder that made his heart skip. World-weary and unimpressed from birth, London girls didn’t look at anything like that. When the chandeliers sparkled in her soft brown eyes, he wished he had twice as many.

Frank was no stranger to wonder himself, but this was another experience altogether. He couldn’t look away if he tried. She climbed up on stage, opened her mouth, and the world shifted. That was the only he could explain it; he lost all awareness of himself and his surroundings. It was a joyful, note-perfect “Der Hölle Rache” from The Magic Flute in the original German, but it was more than that. She became the Queen of Night. He had seen the opera plenty of times, but he’d never expected the most convincing rendition of what was essentially a detailed curse to come from a smiling young woman dressed like a love letter in lilac and lace.

It was a disguise, he realized. The violet spencer, the suede gloves, the lip rouge as subtle as pink champagne. Demure had never done it for him, but when she let go, she was anything but. Precise, measured, and a little stiff, yes, but the power and passion and her voice were enough to put the fear of God into any man. More terrifying still, she wasn’t even trying.

She was playing with him.

Frank had never been more frightened in his life.

When she finished, she looked a little surprised by the sudden silence. She gave a perfect curtsy and laughed. Her smile was like someone had ignited the sun.

Stunned, Frank pulled a cigar from behind his sheet music and lit it with a match.

He could see her as the Queen of Night. Not Mozart’s, but something better. She could preside over the variety show, or she could be a new heroine in the Phantasmagoria—those always did better with a beautiful woman fleeing the monsters. He’d dress her in gold dust and diaphanous silk, Grecian sandals, and a crown—no, a halo of stars. No—

“Was that all right?”

He was startled out of his reverie by a ridiculous question in a honeyed voice. When he looked up, she was sitting in the trapeze hoop, spinning in slow circles like she was sitting in a crescent moon.

Feeling like lightning had struck him between the eyes, he jolted back, then took another puff of his cigar to steady his nerves.

“All right?” He ran a hand through his hair. “‘The Wrath of Hell.’ Interesting choice.”

She sighed. “I had an…unpleasant afternoon.”

“Evidently.” Frank laughed. His was getting better by the minute. “What’s your name?”

“Andie,” she said, hopping off the trapeze hoop. “Andie Archer.”

Frank nodded. “I’m Frank Creighton.”

Andie stopped mid-step. “You are?”

“Not what you were expecting?” He stood and shuffled through the music in his bench, brushing fragments of ash away as it fell. It hadn’t caught fire yet, but the music was battered enough without adding burns to it. Finding the piece he was looking for, he propped his cigar in the dish on top of the piano and took the music to the stage.

Her eyes bright and her shoulders a good deal stiffer, Andie lamented, “I’ve made a fool of myself.”

“Not at all,” he insisted. “That’s the most I’ve enjoyed a performance in years.” Well, ever, but he didn’t want to scare her off. “I would like nothing more than to put you on that stage and let you sing anything that pops into your head, but this isn’t exactly an opera house.”

Clearly disappointed, she straightened her scarf. “Well, thank you for your time—”

Before she could leave, he threw himself between her and the door. “Don’t misunderstand me; I need you—” Too keen. Scale it back. “Erm, I want you—” Goddammit, Frank. He cleared his throat. “You’re too good for me. For us, for this theater. We don’t do a lot of opera in the traditional sense, but if you’d be open to singing other parts, they’re yours.”

Her face lit up, but her immediate joy was quickly replaced with a wariness that wasn’t unfounded. “What other parts?”