patron. “According to Aggie, the new Earl taught some kind of ancient history. Dreary battles, dead kings, lostcauses.” She grimaced. “No wonder he acts like an old vicar instead of an Ashlin.”
Hashim’s eyebrows rose.
“I just think he would look rather interesting if he didn’t wear all that black,” she commented. Teasingly she added, “If he’s inclined toward history, we could offer him one of those Roman togas left over from Anthony and Cleopatra . That ought to give him a new appreciation of fashion.”
Hashim didn’t appear to find any humor in her idea, while Riley laughed at the image of the stodgy Oxford professor clad in only a linen sheet.
Until, that is, she thought of his bare legs and long arms, the breadth of his chest covered with only a thin, white cloth.
A heated blush rose on her cheeks as she realized he wouldn’t look all that bad.
Whatever was she thinking? The early hour must be bringing on a fever. It was the only explanation.
Lord Ashlin, indeed!
Even more vexing, Hashim, she knew, liked the bookish earl. “How on earth do you think he can help us?”
He shrugged his shoulders and put his hands together as if he were praying.
“Faith? You have faith in him.” Riley shook her head. “After one meeting you suddenly decide he is my savior. I’ll never understand you. Or is it that you just like him because Aggie found out he’s celibate? You two can start a club.”
Eyebrows raised, Hashim pointed at her.
“Thank you for reminding me. But that is supposed to be a secret. How many tickets do you think we’d sell if everyone knew I was…well, you know what I mean.” She looked up at the house.
For the life of her, Riley couldn’t see how a bookish earl, who’d probably spent most of his life locked away in some dusty library, could do what the most skilled and, she noted with some pique, the most expensive Bow Street Runner had been unable to do—find out who was trying to harm her.
Not that she cared to consider the notion, but there was no denying that the problems at the theatre were not mere accidents, but actions directed at her. The scenery bar crashing onto the stage when she was practicing her soliloquy, the curtains catching fire when she was alone in the house, and this morning, a note.
Leve Englund whore or sufer.
She hadn’t shown it to anyone—certainly not to Hashim, knowing the ugly missive would only send her loyal servant into a dark rage. He considered it his personal mission to keep her safe, and if he saw this latest threat, he’d probably stop sleeping and insist on watching over her twenty-four hours a day.
Still, why would someone want her gone—or worse, dead? None of it made any sense. So she’d stuffed the horrible bit of scratching in her reticule and decided to forget about it.
The Runner she’d hired intimated it was probably nothing more than a prankster or a rival theatre owner trying to get them to close down.
She told herself that was the best answer and set aside her niggling worries to concentrate on the task at hand—convincing their patron not to shut them down. She loved her theatre, and her company of players had become the family she’d never had. She’d be damned if she’d let someunseen coward take away her livelihood and the livelihood of so many other people.
Glancing up at Hashim, she saw that the giant’s expression said what his mutilated tongue could not: You’ll never know without trying.
Still, she felt a tremor of fear, worse than any stage fright she’d ever experienced. “What if—”
Riley’s stalling tactics came to an abrupt halt as the door sprang open, and Cousin Felicity flew down the steps and onto the curb with all the subtlety of a fishwife.
“Oh, my dear, dear Madame Fontaine, and Mr. Hashim,” she cried out, her curious stare lingering unabashedly over Hashim’s closed lips as if she were weighing her own courage to request another peek into his mouth. Instead, she
Hashim’s eyebrows rose.
“I just think he would look rather interesting if he didn’t wear all that black,” she commented. Teasingly she added, “If he’s inclined toward history, we could offer him one of those Roman togas left over from Anthony and Cleopatra . That ought to give him a new appreciation of fashion.”
Hashim didn’t appear to find any humor in her idea, while Riley laughed at the image of the stodgy Oxford professor clad in only a linen sheet.
Until, that is, she thought of his bare legs and long arms, the breadth of his chest covered with only a thin, white cloth.
A heated blush rose on her cheeks as she realized he wouldn’t look all that bad.
Whatever was she thinking? The early hour must be bringing on a fever. It was the only explanation.
Lord Ashlin, indeed!
Even more vexing, Hashim, she knew, liked the bookish earl. “How on earth do you think he can help us?”
He shrugged his shoulders and put his hands together as if he were praying.
“Faith? You have faith in him.” Riley shook her head. “After one meeting you suddenly decide he is my savior. I’ll never understand you. Or is it that you just like him because Aggie found out he’s celibate? You two can start a club.”
Eyebrows raised, Hashim pointed at her.
“Thank you for reminding me. But that is supposed to be a secret. How many tickets do you think we’d sell if everyone knew I was…well, you know what I mean.” She looked up at the house.
For the life of her, Riley couldn’t see how a bookish earl, who’d probably spent most of his life locked away in some dusty library, could do what the most skilled and, she noted with some pique, the most expensive Bow Street Runner had been unable to do—find out who was trying to harm her.
Not that she cared to consider the notion, but there was no denying that the problems at the theatre were not mere accidents, but actions directed at her. The scenery bar crashing onto the stage when she was practicing her soliloquy, the curtains catching fire when she was alone in the house, and this morning, a note.
Leve Englund whore or sufer.
She hadn’t shown it to anyone—certainly not to Hashim, knowing the ugly missive would only send her loyal servant into a dark rage. He considered it his personal mission to keep her safe, and if he saw this latest threat, he’d probably stop sleeping and insist on watching over her twenty-four hours a day.
Still, why would someone want her gone—or worse, dead? None of it made any sense. So she’d stuffed the horrible bit of scratching in her reticule and decided to forget about it.
The Runner she’d hired intimated it was probably nothing more than a prankster or a rival theatre owner trying to get them to close down.
She told herself that was the best answer and set aside her niggling worries to concentrate on the task at hand—convincing their patron not to shut them down. She loved her theatre, and her company of players had become the family she’d never had. She’d be damned if she’d let someunseen coward take away her livelihood and the livelihood of so many other people.
Glancing up at Hashim, she saw that the giant’s expression said what his mutilated tongue could not: You’ll never know without trying.
Still, she felt a tremor of fear, worse than any stage fright she’d ever experienced. “What if—”
Riley’s stalling tactics came to an abrupt halt as the door sprang open, and Cousin Felicity flew down the steps and onto the curb with all the subtlety of a fishwife.
“Oh, my dear, dear Madame Fontaine, and Mr. Hashim,” she cried out, her curious stare lingering unabashedly over Hashim’s closed lips as if she were weighing her own courage to request another peek into his mouth. Instead, she
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