Page 87 of Regency in Color

Stage fright. You’re forty-bloody-two, and you’ve done this every week for going on fifteen—

Almost missing his cue, he grabbed the horn under the piano and honked it. The crowd laughed.

It was a good lot tonight, full of familiar faces. He always watched the audience to gauge their reaction, but tonight there was only one person he was concerned about.

Sitting in the box with the poise of a visiting dignitary was Andie Archer. Though she watched with rapt attention, there was no telling what she made of it. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous, but he had a good time. Life wasn’t all stuffy musicales and tired concertos, was it?

Almost as if she sensed his gaze, Andie looked down, spotting him in the shadows behind his piano. He couldn’t look away. The few dim lamps in the box limned her face in gold, highlighting the warmth in her expression and the delicious darkness of her eyes.

For a full minute, the noise that always filled his head stopped.

Without warning, confetti fell like rain over his hat and into his lap. The audience applauded, and Frank realized he’d missed the end of the final act. Flustered, he played a few notes, then leapt up to take his bow with the others. He rushed his conclusion, automatic as it was, and managed to mention that the orchestra would be playing at the Waterloo re-enactment in Vauxhall the following month. At least he hoped that was what he said; he could have invited them all to Westminster as far as he knew. Even when he managed to look away from Andie long enough to address the crowd, he was aware that she was there, so he stood a little straighter and smiled a little more.

Good lord, he was pathetic.

Things progressed as usual; the audience reshuffled, some heading to the bar for one last drink, while others filed out in search of entertainment elsewhere. Frank dashed into the kitchen and washed his face in the sink, hanging up his hat and running cold water through his hair. He pulled off his cravat in a single practiced motion and left his coat on a hook by the door. Without the makeup and few costume components, he looked like anyone else and could blend into the crowd without being stopped by people wanting an encore. He was tempted to pour a drink for himself, but he wouldn’t chance missing Andie when she inevitably fled screaming into the night, scandalized by the performance.

Frank took a deep breath, then charged through the door.

The theater was a good deal quieter after the show, only a couple of dozen regulars drinking with the performers while Marcel, Cosimo, and Antonia improvised a little music from the balcony for their own enjoyment as much as anyone else’s. Frank looked up toward the box to find it empty, almost stumbling over Andie as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Mr. Creighton!” she blurted, as surprised to see him as he was her.

He impulsively grasped her elbows to steady her, his breath catching at the excitement in her face. “You’re still here.”

Andie laughed, stepping out of the way of a passing group and moving toward the empty center of the room. “Of course I’m still here.” She shook her head, not knowing where to look. Her expression lost a little of its mirth as she met his eyes. “You’ve…erm, washed.” She motioned toward her own eyes to indicate kohl.

“Oh!” He glanced down sheepishly, only just noticing the confetti still stuck to his shirt. He tried to brush it off to no avail. “Missed a bit as a well. Don’t know why I bother. The whole bloody place is likely three-quarters confetti at this point. It’s the only thing holding the old beast together.” Stop talking, Frank. “Didn’t want to scare you, is all. Which I appreciate is ridiculous, given…” He glanced up at the musicians still dressed as skeletons and the plaster graves on the stage.

“I loved it.”

He looked up, warming at her praise. “Truly?”

“Truly.” She bit her lip, mulling something over. “If I might ask…how did all this come about? It’s like Don Giovanni, but the whole of it’s in hell.”

Frank felt his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Bugger me, I’ve never been compared to Mozart before.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it had been a while. “It started out as a variety show to fill the days between acts. The audience always responded better to gore—the bloodier, the better. The horror draws them in and keeps them there, and the laughs are bigger because they’re more of a relief. There are theaters all over town singing about coconuts and fishwives and what have you, but some of these people work eighty-hour weeks. They don’t want twee songs about courting squires in country lanes. They want to see someone get stabbed.”

Andie cocked an eyebrow, a dimple appearing in her cheek with her smirk. “And the giant spider?”

“Well, how could I resist?” Frank spread his arms wide, making her giggle. “He lives on the bridge, by the by, so be warned in case Lulu ever takes you up there. You may come face to face with a six-foot wool tarantula.”

“I’m most obliged to you for mentioning.” Her smile eased and puckered ever so slightly to the side, and those dimples appeared again. Andie Archer had at least seven different smiles, and each was more glorious than the last. “What I don’t understand is how I’ll fit into”—she motioned toward the carnage of the stage—“all of this.”

“You’ll ride the spider, of course,” he blurted without thinking, sending her into fits of laughter. “Does that mean you’ll come back?”

She bit her lip, considering him. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll come back.”

He wanted to shout, to dance, to punch the air. Instead, he let out the breath he’d been holding all night and gave her a short bow. “I’m most relieved to hear it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Andie extended her hand to shake. “Mr. Creighton.”

Frank caught her hand and immediately raised it to his lips, kissing her glove. “Miss Archer.”

She left with a smile, her eyes still bright with laughter. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Frank didn’t fully relax until Andie was long gone and the theater was finally closed for the evening. As the sounds of the orchestra carousing on the roof drifted down the stairs with the strains of Matthias’s accordion, he checked the locks, turned down the lights, and looked in on Lulu.

He found his daughter in bed, falling asleep over a book. He paused in the doorway for a moment, trying not to laugh as her head dipped toward the pages.

She caught herself drooping and startled awake.

“You should sleep, poppet.”

She yawned. “I’m not tired.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” Sitting in the chair beside her bed, he held out a hand to take her book. She gave it to him with no further protest. Frank held the cover up to the lamp. “Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude. Sounds like a right laugh.”

“Shelley always is.” Lulu studied him carefully. It was still surreal to see his own eyes staring back at him from her sweet face. “Will Miss Archer be singing with us?”

Frank nodded, more excited than he cared to admit. “We’re going to give it a try and see how she likes it.”

Lulu snuggled deeper into her blankets. “I like her.”

“So do I.” Frank put out her lamp with a sigh, quickly kissing the top of her head. “Goodnight, poppet.”

She yawned again. “Night, Dad.”