The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London – 1817
Of the many things Lucy Montgomery had missed about England, William Arden, Viscount Ware, had not been one of them.
Three years had not been long enough.
Three decades probably wouldn’t suffice.
Some men were simply too vexing for words.
Her stomach somersaulted with an unwelcome combination of anticipation and dread as the man in question pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for the quiet corner she’d chosen for herself in Lady Carrington’s ballroom.
His desire to torture her clearly hadn’t abated during her time abroad.
Lucy narrowed her eyes, studying him as she’d once studied a jaguar in the steamy jungles of Brazil; with the same fascinated wariness. She hadn’t seen him since her family had docked in London three weeks ago, and despite her dislike of the man, she could grudgingly admit his physical appeal.
He’d always been attractive, but the scar that now slashed across his eyebrow and cheekbone—courtesy of a French saber at Waterloo—had somehow improved his appearance. There was no justice in this world. He’d been annoyingly handsome before; a dark-haired, indolent playboy, but this new imperfection just added an air of dangerous, rugged maturity that had been previously lacking.
Damn him.
Lucy took a fortifying swig of punch and schooled her expression into one of polite neutrality even as her heart beat faster in her chest. She was three years older now. Three years wiser. She’d survived a shipwreck off Madagascar and the snake-infested forests of South America. She could certainly face one infuriating, sarcastic scoundrel in a ballroom.
However handsome he might be.
Still, her stomach tightened as he stopped in front of her.
“Lucia.”
He said it the Italian way, as he’d always done. Lou-chee-ah. Three syllables, drawing it out like honey gliding from a spoon, and all her good intentions evaporated at the hint of teasing laughter in his gravel-deep voice.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “It’s Lucy. Only my mother ever calls me Lucia—and only then if I’ve done something particularly dreadful.”
His dark brows rose in amusement. “I expect you hear it on a weekly basis, then.”
She ground her teeth, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he knew precisely the effect he had on her. Had always had on her, ever since he’d first come to stay with her older brother during the school holidays, when she’d been a girl.
She forced a sunny smile. “Not at all. I haven’t done anything dreadful for weeks. Months, even.”
“Then you’re probably long overdue.”
An inelegant snort escaped her. “Not me. Lenore’s the scandalous one.”
She tilted her head toward the dancefloor, where her twin sister was laughing up into the face of a clearly besotted partner. “Most people still get us mixed up. Although I don’t see why, when we’re hardly identical.”
“Ah, but I’m not ‘most people,’ am I? I’ve never confused the two of you.” Arden’s mocking expression didn’t change, but something flashed in his eyes as he studied her. “You, Lucy Montgomery, are . . . unforgettable.”
His deliberate pause—and choice of verb—were hardly flattering, and Lucy tried not to wince at the reminder that he’d been witness to some of her most humiliating childhood escapades. She hated the way he always seemed to be laughing at her.
“Yes, well, I’m a grown woman of twenty-two now,” she said haughtily. “I’m past all that foolishness.”
It was Arden’s turn to snort. “Really? Because the Lucy I remember couldn’t pass up the opportunity for an adventure. Or refuse a dare.”
She lifted her chin and met his eyes, despite the quivery, weightless feeling it always produced.
“Not true.”
“So true,” he drawled. “Which is why I bet you’ll be the one to unmask the Phantom of Drury Lane.”
Her own brows rose; she was intrigued despite herself.
“The what of where? I’m not up to date with all the London gossip yet. You’re going to have to enlighten me.”
“It’s been the talk of Covent Garden for months. I’m surprised it hasn’t reached your ears.”
“I don’t frequent the area as often as you do,” Lucy said sweetly, relishing the way his lips compressed at her saucy inference. Covent Garden was known for its proliferation of brothels and taverns. Arden, she was sure, was no stranger to either. “Lenore mentioned that you were ‘particular friends’ with an actress?”
Lucy had digested that news with hardly a pang. Arden always had a woman on his arm. He attracted everyone, from dairymaid to duchess, and he rarely denied himself female company. The twinge in her midsection had definitely not been jealousy.
He sent her an easy smile. “You’re referring to Kitty? Or maybe Barbara? Either way, we’ve parted company. But that’s beside the point. I know the gossip about Drury Lane Theater because I have a financial stake in the place.”
“How so?”
“When the previous building burned down, my father donated funds to rebuild it and became one of the major shareholders. He gifted me his stake three years ago. Just after you left for lands unknown.”
“Oh.”
Lucy couldn’t quite hide her surprise. She’d never imagined Arden as having any interest in business. He’d always seemed too carefree to bother with such serious matters, but perhaps he wasn’t quite such a dedicated libertine as he’d once been. Perhaps the war had changed more than his physical appearance.
The thought was intriguing, but she quashed it. Leopards didn’t change their spots.
“So, tell me about this Phantom, then,” she prompted.
Arden glanced over his shoulder and then leaned in, as if imparting a great secret, and her heart stuttered as she caught a delicious whiff of his cologne.
God, he always smelled delicious. One day she was going to find out exactly which scent he wore and buy a bottle for herself. For no particular reason, of course. She most certainly wouldn’t put a drop of it on her pillow so she could breathe it in while she slept.
His broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the room as she pressed back into the corner, simultaneously breathless at his proximity and irritated at herself for such a reaction.
Her body clearly wasn’t as discerning as her brain.
“The Phantom is a masked figure who’s haunted the theater for months,” Arden said. “He sits alone, in the highest box on the left-hand side of the stage. Sometimes he stays for an entire performance. Other times he only appears for a moment, then vanishes before he can be accosted. Everyone’s desperate to know who he is. And whether he’s real, or an apparition.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Arden raised his brows. “Are you sure?”
“Your ‘phantom’ is flesh-and-bone, Arden, I guarantee it. But why are you so keen to unmask him? If he’s got people talking about the theater, and buying tickets on the off-chance that they might see him, you should be grateful for the free publicity.”
He tilted his head in wry acknowledgment. “I can’t deny he’s been good for business, but it irks me not to know who the fellow is.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Not personally. But plenty of other people have. The rumor is that he’s a veteran, so hideously scarred by a grenade that he wears a mask so people don’t scream in terror when they see him.”
Without meaning to, Lucy glanced at Arden’s own injury, and his lips quirked as he noted the direction of her gaze.
“Do you find me hideous now, Lucia?” he teased, clearly unworried about his own scar. “Do I make you want to scream?”
Lucy’s heart was hammering against her ribs. His words sounded as if they had another, far more seductive, meaning. How had things suddenly become so intimate? It felt as if they were the only two people in the ballroom.
She clenched her fingers into a fist against the sudden bizarre desire to touch his injured face, and rallied gamely. “Scream? Only in aggravation.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Hmm.”
Heat washed over her skin at the intense way he studied her mouth. She bit her lower lip, suddenly self-conscious, and he let out a low sound that made her belly tingle.
She’d kissed his mouth. Just once. Four years ago, before she’d left for Brazil. The shameful episode was etched into her brain. As was the subsequent humiliation.
“You mentioned a bet?” she said breathlessly.
“I did. Kit Hollingsworth is offering a hundred pounds to whoever unmasks the Phantom.”
“And you think that person will be me?”
His gaze flashed back up to hers. “I do. Because if anyone loves meddling and mysteries, it’s you. You’ve been back in London for weeks without a scandal to your name, which means you must be desperate for something to do.”
Lucy tried not to look interested. She had been getting a little bored. Life in the ton was so restrictive compared to the wonderful freedoms she’d enjoyed for the past three years, traveling the globe with her intrepid parents.
Still, the fact that Arden knew her well enough to guess that she’d been longing for a challenge was annoying, to say the least. She hated to be so predictable.
She tilted her head and pretended to give the matter serious thought, despite already knowing she couldn’t refuse such an enticing challenge.
“Let me just make sure I have this right. Kit Hollingsworth will give me a hundred pounds if I prove the Phantom of Drury Lane is a person and not a ghost?”
Arden nodded. “You must provide a name.”
“Very well. It’s father’s birthday coming up next month. I’ll use the money to buy him a new microscope. His favorite one was damaged when we were shipwrecked.”
Arden’s lips curved at her confidence, and he moved back, giving her some space. The noise of the crowd intruded again. “I wish you the best of luck. When will you start your investigation?”
“As soon as possible.” Lucy sent him a questioning glance. “I assume, as one of the theatre’s backers, that you have access to the place whenever you like?”
“I have a key to the side entrance, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not trusting you with it, Lucy Lockit.”
Lucy scowled at the teasing nickname. Lucy Lockit was a character from John Gay’s comedy, The Beggar’s Opera—the foolish daughter of the fictional warden of Newgate, who stole the keys to free her bigamous, cheating lover from debtor’s prison.
“So how am I supposed to investigate, then?”
His easy smile made her feel like she’d walked into a trap. “I’ll escort you, if you like.”
Lucy blinked. Arden had never offered to take her anywhere before. In the past, he’d gone out of his way to avoid her company.
She narrowed her eyes. “You? Escort me?”
He looked almost offended by her skepticism. “Yes, me. We can go tomorrow morning. Hard as this may be for you to believe, Montgomery, but I do occasionally get out of bed before noon.”
A sudden, unwanted mental image of him, sprawled in an artfully concealing tangle of bed sheets, heated her cheeks. He sent her an amused, wicked glance, as if he knew precisely the direction of her wayward thoughts.
“I’ll be there, I promise,” he said. “The entrance for the boxes is on Brydges Street. I’ll meet you there at ten.”
He didn’t wait for her agreement. He simply turned on his heel and walked away.
Lucy watched him leave with mingled relief and regret. Interacting with Arden always left her slightly on edge, but the thought of having something to enliven her day tomorrow was enough to lift her spirits.
Discovering the identity of the mysterious Phantom would be gratifying. But not half as satisfying as proving to Arden that she was a clever, capable woman, and not the foolish girl he’d kissed and then rejected with such obvious loathing three years ago.
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