The Masked Heart Page 3

"La Solitaire! La Solitaire!" The enthusiastic chant of the audience rose in a mighty roar as Blaine dropped into a deep curtsy. The flowers raining around her gave the appearance of snow until they fell to the stage in a profusion of color. With a graceful sweep of her arm, she shared the applause with the other players and ignored the tokens of affection thrown by the dandies in the pit. As if they expected no less, the cheers increased.

  In the rising tide of approval, a single white rose fell at her feet. Blaine raised her eyes to the private box of Lord Andrew Farrington. Even at a distance, she was able to see the sparkle of his green eyes as he raised his quizzing glass and kissed the rim in a sardonic salute. Her eyes swept him coolly, before returning to the audience and she favored them with a smile of warmth which she denied her single admirer. Again, she dropped into a graceful curtsy, holding the pose for a moment and then rising to move away from "the rose", the bright spot of clustered footlights. She turned her back slightly, to indicate that the play was continuing, and the audience, used to this gesture by the popular actress, immediately quieted.

  Blaine was enjoying the performance since it was the last one of this production. The pantomime was entitled "Love's Peril or the Wicked Captain of the Guard" and her part was Theodosia, Princess of Egypt, the frequently kidnapped heroine of the piece. The story was full of breathtaking escapes, sword fights, jugglers and, most fascinating of all, a performer who walked a rope that was suspended above the stage.

  The audience always appreciated the light antics of the pantomimes after a tragedy. "Hamlet" had been the early bill and, since the Green Mews Theatre had no license for spoken drama, a chorus had warbled incongruously throughout the play much to everyone's amusement.

  As the green liveried stage attendants moved furniture on the stage for the final scene, Blaine found her eyes drawn to the private boxes at the side of the theatre. Lord Farrington's box was the closest to the Proscenium Arch but she suspected the man would be equally as visible were he in the upper gallery. There was no question that Andrew Farrington was an exceedingly handsome man with his wavy brown hair and flashing green eyes. Keeping well in the shadows of the side curtains, she stared up at him, wondering why she should find him so fascinating.

  For the past three months, the infuriating man had been waging a campaign to gain an introduction. She had heard that he had kept various opera dancers as his mistresses and she suspected his intentions toward her were along the same lines. The mere fact that he would assume she was open to such an arrangement incensed her. Despite the fact that his approach to her had been respectful, she was hard pressed to forgive his arrogant belief that she would not be insulted by such an offer.

  Lord Farrington sat alone in his private box, his pose exceedingly relaxed on the velvet covered gilt chair. He was dressed in black in sharp contrast to the red velvet hangings in the box. His face, above the whiteness of his linen, was tanned and patrician. At this distance Blaine could make out the movements of his hands which were thin, almost graceful and, like his body, only hinted at an underlying strength.

  The audience roared at the antics of the Clown and Blaine returned her attention to the stage. Ever since Joseph Grimaldi had introduced the stylized makeup of his character to the pantomime, the public had taken the buffoonlike Clown to heart. Even at the Green Mews, they were beginning to refer to the character as Joey and sometimes, as tonight, the audience picked up the chant as an additional accolade.

  Hearing her cue, Blaine moved toward the center of the stage reunited at last with Prince Tatum, the hero of the piece. She ignored the sweaty odor of the actor, gingerly accepted his embrace and chimed her voice with his in a sweet duet. As the curtain began to fall, the door in the Proscenium Arch opened and Clown staggered out, dragging the subdued Captain of the Guard on a rope. Blaine dipped into a curtsy as the audience howled its approval of the performance. After numerous bows, the green stage curtain came to rest and the players relaxed.

  "Well done, my dears," John Tibbles said, bearing down on the performers from the wings. "A fitting end to this production."

  As the short wiry manager bustled about the stage congratulating the players, Blaine chatted with the other actors. They were all rather tired but, as always, buoyed up at the end of a performance. John approached her and she smiled, bracing herself for his enthusiastic embrace.

  "My dearest Maggie," he said, using her stage name. "You were truly magnificent this evening. Four reprises on that last solo and 'fore God, the boys in the pit would have quite torn up the scenery if you'd done any less."

  Blaine linked her arm with John as he led her towards her dressing room. In the year that she had been associated with the Green Mews Theatre, the energetic manager had stood as her friend and she enjoyed his company.

  "It was the coup of the decade when I managed to lure you away from Covent Gardens to join my troupe. The name of the Green Mews Theatre owes much of the reputation it enjoys to the luster of your performances," he enthused.

  "You are entirely too kind, John," Blaine said, wondering why he should be more effusive than usual. She kept her pace even as she waited for his next words.

  "And now, my pet, after praising you to the skies, is there any possibility I can inveigle you to make an appearance in the Green Room this evening?" he asked. Feeling the immediate tension in her arm, he sighed heavily and patted her hand. "Needn't bristle, darling girl. It was only in light of a question."

  "John, you know Tate would never permit it," she answered lightly.

  "Seems to me that hatchet-faced dresser treats you as though you were all of two and ten," he grumbled.

  Blaine chuckled as she had often had the same feeling but now she used it as a convenient excuse since it coincided with her own desires. From the time she had arrived in London to try to become an actress, she had never gone to the green-walled room to mingle with the upperclass men who came to ogle the actresses and in some cases to choose a new mistress.

  "I would not normally ask but two of your admirers have been most persistent," John continued as they approached the door of her dressing room. "They seek only an introduction."

  "You have been so good to me, John, that it is difficult to refuse you anything but in this I remain adamant." Although she spoke lightly, there was a stubborn edge to her words. Since Blaine was tall, her eyes were on a level with his and she held his gaze for a brief moment before her mouth stretched into a grin. "Will you be joining me for a dish of tea before you race off to receive the congratulations from your clamoring public? Tate will be much put out if you refuse. She has such a soft spot for you, you know."

  "Humph," he mumbled. "Soft spot, me maiden aunt! The biddy fair terrifies me."

  Blaine's dressing room door was snatched open from the inside and the dour Tate stood framed in the doorway. For all her ferocity of face she was a tiny, thin woman of some sixty years. She wore severe black bombazine covered by an ample apron and her gray hair was neatly covered by a white mobcap devoid of lace or ribbons.

  "Well, Tibbles, don't you be nattering me poor lamb's ear off," Tate snapped. "If you're coming in, kindly do so. The air in this noisesome theatre is ne'er good for Maggie's throat."

  Blaine and John meekly entered under Tate's eagle eye and with a shared grin moved to the seats indicated. With another admonishing look, the old woman bustled over to the tea tray and carried it to the table in front of Blaine's chaise longue. The porcelain tea set had been a present from Aunt Haydie and, since her early days in the theatre, Blaine had relied on the ritual to remind her of home and to cast away the feelings of loneliness that frequently assailed her.

  Tate poured the tea into the handpainted, handleless cups set in deep, matching saucers. She handed one to the discomfited manager, placing the small glass cup plate on the table beside his chair with a thump. Instantly she turned with concern to Blaine.

  "You're looking plain peaky," she announced. "You're sorely in need of a holiday. It's glad I am that we'll be out of
London for a few weeks. Now put your feet up and drink your tea."

  Obediently Blaine swung her feet up on the chaise longue and winked at John as she raised her tea and sipped the pungent brew directly from the cup. Preferring the old way, the manager poured his tea into the saucer, then with a quick glance at Tate's back, placed his cup in the exact center of the glass plate on the side table. It always amused Blaine that John should be so terrified of her dresser's censure.

  The warmth of the tea filled Blaine with a sense of well-being. She knew in part that it was the fact that she had satisfactorily completed her month's engagement and would be free to return home for several weeks. It was a far cry from her beginnings in the theatre, when she had gone for more than two years with only a few days at Weathers at Christmas. Looking around the dressing room, she realized how far she had come in six years and was grateful.

  The room was small but at least she was no longer forced to share the communal dressing room with the other bit players. She could still recall her horrified shock at the casual nudity displayed by the women of the chorus. Her painful modesty and strong sense of privacy made her the natural butt of the coarse humor of the other girls. Had it not been for the presence of Tate, who shielded her from much of the abuse, Blaine doubted if she would have survived even a day.

  From her first days in the theatre, she had worked to gain the additional privileges that stardom could provide. To her, privacy was all important. For the last several years at the Covent Garden, she had had her own dressing room and it was one of the requirements she had demanded of Tibbles when he hired her away. As the premier star of the Green Mews Theatre her dressing room was fitted with some comfort. There was a chaise longue, tables and two upholstered chairs to indicate her status in the troop. The triple-mirrored dressing table was old and scarred but the beauty of the intricately carved walnut front was a pleasure to her eyes. Her own addition had been a four-paneled screen of Oriental design. The dark wood moldings were in sharp contrast to the ivory parchment and added dimension to the barbaric red dragons painted on the panels.

  A small stove and a cot were in an alcove which Tate had taken over, where she might brew tea and rest while Blaine was on stage. The addition of a wardrobe and bookcases gave a more personal touch to the room and filled Blaine with a sense of belonging.

  Tibbles cleared his throat to remind Blaine of his presence and took several satisfying sips from the saucer before setting it on the table. "You'll be back in time for the start of rehearsals on the new burletta, won't you?" he asked, his wide brow furrowed with worry.

  "Never fear, old friend," Blaine assured him. "You know I always come to rehearsal."

  "Not like some I could mention," Tate sniffed, sitting down and reaching into her mending basket for something to occupy her hands.

  "Which reminds me," John said. "Richard Petersham will no longer be a part of our troupe. I warned him about speaking to friends in the audience but tonight his actions were outrageous. Even for him. Not only did he wave and call to various friends but he threw a billet-doux to that red-headed piece of goods in one of the boxes."

  Blaine giggled despite her own disapproval. In most theatres such behavior was considered quite acceptable but she liked Tibbles for trying to raise the standards in his own productions. Even the great John Philip Kemble, actor-manager of the New Covent Garden Theatre, was known to make a sign to a friend while carrying on with the action of the play. Most were less skilled and delighted in the attention of the audience, much to the detriment of their performances.

  "Poor Richard," Blaine said. "You will have to admit, John, that the man does have some talent. He played Prince Tatum quite well, although I would wish he took more care in his personal habits. The audience assumed I was shrinking away from him in maidenly fear but, if the truth were told, Richard smells rather like a wet goat."

  "I gave him a note to Kemble at Covent Garden which said Richard 'ranked' with the best."

  "Oh, John, you didn't!" Blaine gasped in amusement.

  "No, I'll admit it only just occurred to me." John retrieved his saucer and sipped thoughtfully for several minutes before he looked up. "I'm hoping to do Sheridan's 'School For Scandal' later in the year."

  "Really, John. If you push too hard the Lord Chamberlain is bound to close down the theatre." Blaine's face was full of concern. "You've only a license for music and dancing."

  Tibbles sighed, finished his tea and set the porcelain dish on the table. "One must challenge the patent theatres, my dear. I long to do "Othello" but I cannot bear the thought of playing music throughout the performance in order to stay within the letter of my license. Drury, Covent Garden and the Haymarket have the Lord Chamberlain's blessing to put on any drama they wish. Mark my words, there will come a time when all the theatres will be able to do spoken dramas, not just the lighter fare."

  Blaine was reluctant to encourage Tibbles in his usual hobbyhorse, but willingly listened to his grievances against the so-called legitimate theatres. She knew that with the inconsistent licensing, the newer theatres were forced to extravagant excesses to attract an audience. Sadler's Wells had installed a water tank so that they could do aquatic plays which involved sea battles and water rescues. Astley's had an equestrian circle and specialized in daring feats of acrobatic prowess. Since some of the theatres were so large, there was little subtlety to the acting. The emphasis was much more on visual effects and the public clamored for bridges spanning gorges, mounted cavalry, and even elephants. The small intimacy of the Green Mews theatre prohibited such spectacles and was one of the reasons Blaine had chosen to become a member of John Tibbles' troupe.

  "Well, my dear, enough," John said pushing himself to his feet. "I shall not bore you with further animadversions. I shall adjourn to the Green Room to accept the accolades of my adoring public."

  Blaine waved Tate to remain seated and swung her feet off the chaise. She accepted John's hand as she rose and walked him to the door. "Try and stay out of trouble with the law while I am gone."

  "It is an actor's burden, my pet. In the words of the Lord Chamberlain, 'actors performing without a license are vagrants and sturdy beggars.' A trumpery charge at best!" John announced, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. "Have a lovely holiday and hurry back."

  "I shall," Blaine said. She opened the door into the hallway, then froze, blinking in stupefaction at the figure standing outside.

  Lord Andrew Farrington made an exaggerated leg although there was a hint of amusement in his eyes before he bowed his dark head. Blaine swung her head toward the stage manager who was looking slightly abashed at the glare of accusation in her eyes.

  "Forgive me, my dear," John mumbled. "I had quite forgot I told Lord Farrington to await me here and we would go on to the Green Room together."

  Blaine pulled herself upright, her face set in icy dignity as she started to close the door. Lord Farrington was too quick for her and his hand shot out, holding the door open by main force. His tanned fingers were so close to Blaine's face that she could feel the heat from his body. Her heart lurched and unconsciously her eyes rose and she felt impaled by the sharp green gaze he bent on her. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed convulsively but was unable to break contact with his searching glance.

  John Tibbles' voice sounded unnatural to her ears and seemed to come from a great distance. "My dear Maggie, may I present Lord Andrew Farrington. Lord Farrington, Maggie Mason."

  "It is my greatest pleasure, Miss Mason, to finally meet La Solitaire. Your performance this evening was flawless."

  Blaine let the sound of his words wash over her, annoyed that, despite her antipathy toward the man, she liked the deep timbre of his voice. She would have thought she would be disappointed with a closer inspection of Lord Farrington but his actual presence was almost overwhelming. If possible, he was more handsome than she had suspected with none of the lines of dissipation so prevalent in most of the gentlemen who frequented the theatre. There was authority in his
bearing and a character etched into the lines of his fine-featured face. She was annoyed with herself for staring at the handsome nobleman, but at his nearness, she had dissolved into the veriest ninnyhammer.

  "Thank you," she said, finding her tongue at last. She took a step backward and prepared to close the dressing room door but his words held her in place.

  "Since you have failed to respond to any of my notes, I hoped to impress you with my earnest desire to make your acquaintance by presenting myself at your door with great humility."

  Blaine narrowed her eyes at the contrast between his meekly spoken words and the gleam of arrogance in his eyes. "Your humility is totally apparent, my lord."

  Lord Farrington's gaze sharpened at the sarcasm in her voice and one dark eyebrow raised in decided interest. "I am prepared to lay the world at your feet for merely a sign that you do not find my presence repugnant."

  A wave of color flashed across Blaine's cheeks at the none too subtle proposition. Better men than he, had offered her a slip of the shoulder and she longed to slap the lazy grin off Lord Farrington's face. Instead, she controlled her emotions and favored him with a smile of angelic sweetness.

  "I could never find your presence repugnant," she said, and she gritted her teeth at the self-satisfied look that transformed his expression. "For the simple reason, that I do not acknowledge your presence."

  With dainty fingers, she detached his hand from the door as though she were loath to contact any part of his body. She smiled in satisfaction at his thunderous expression from her sharp setdown and, with a final glacial stare at the thoroughly chagrined John Tibbles, she slammed the door.

  "The nerve of the man!" Tate snapped, rising with the look of a warrior about to charge the enemy.

  Blaine moved across the room to Tate who was glaring at the door in high dudgeon. She patted the arm of her dresser. "Give over, Tate. The man is not worth your anger."

  "I cannot believe that Tibbles would do you such a turn," the feisty little woman muttered as she put away her sewing.

  "John told me that Lord Farrington was one of the shareholders of the Green Mews." Blaine sighed heavily as she sat at the vanity and began to undo her elaborate hairstyle. Most assumed that her hair was powdered but the white blond color was natural and she pulled at the pins, eager to brush out the curls. "I assume he pressured John for an introduction. John's defection does not surprise me. I have few illusions about men."

  "So young and so jaded." Tate's voice was disapproving as she picked up the brush to untangle Blaine's hair. "Tis not a fit life for you, lamby."

  With the wisdom of experience, Blaine winced, remembering her naiveté when she had first arrived in London. It was only in blessed ignorance that she could ever have decided to pursue a career as an actress. She had known little of the petty jealousies of the other players, the lustful glances of the men who hoped to bed her or the dogged hard work involved in reaching the top of her craft. She was a star now, for as long as the public chose to lionize her. It was exhausting work to walk the line between keeping the audience at a distance and beguiling them into the belief she was worthy of their adoration. She was on guard every minute, fully aware of how quickly her popularity could fade. She admitted she had been lucky to survive with so few scars other than exhaustion, loneliness, and a total disillusionment with the company of men.

  It did not take her long to learn that she could not associate with any of the gentlemen who besieged her with flowers and notes. After the novelty of her innocence wore off, the girls in the dressing room spoke freely in front of her, candid discussions that she would as soon have foregone. From them, she learned the shallowness of the men who showered them with attention. For some of the girls, the life of an actress was no better than being on the streets.

  Despite Tate's protection, Blaine learned the crude facts of life in her new world and painfully acknowledged what she had given up by her joining the ranks of actresses, opera dancers and theatrical courtesans. No man of good family would ever look on her as anything other than a woman of easy virtue. Any relationship she entered into would be one solely for the accommodation of some rake's physical pleasure. When not actually performing as an actress, for men of the ton, her only value was her facial beauty and her bodily attractions.

  Blaine had realized several years ago that she would never marry. She had seen too much of the lustful and depraved side of men to convince her that she would be giving up much. She had cried for the children she would never have but, in her usual common sense way, she had accepted the fact. Through Val and Fleur, she would enjoy a family and, in the rare times she could visit, she would delight in their antics and store them up for the long years ahead.

  "A holiday will refresh us both," Blaine said dreamily, relaxing under the rhythm of the efficiently wielded brush. Her eyes were drawn to the single rose in the vase on the dressing table. The opaque green of the Bristol glass accentuated the pure whiteness of the rose. She guiltily raised her eyes to Tate's face in the mirror but the dresser's attention was centered on her hair.

  Blaine had taken one bud out of the basket of white roses that had been delivered to her dressing room. Without question, Tate would be furious if she knew that the flowers had come from Lord Farrington. There had been no card with the flowers but Blaine had guessed they were from the arrogant man. He had been inundating her with flowers and gifts for several months.

  Since first coming to the notice of the dandies, Blaine had received notes and presents which the senders hoped might predispose her to favor their attentions. The notes went unanswered and the gifts she returned unopened. The baskets of flowers she generously distributed among the bit players. According to theatre gossip, she had never accepted anything from any of her admirers. As her popularity grew, one disappointed gentleman threw flowers at her feet during the performance. She had been so embarrassed that she had not even acknowledged the tokens. The next night others in the audience threw flowers and once more she ignored them. It was this supposed hauteur that earned her the sobriquet, La Solitaire.

  The nickname might not have stuck if she had not been solitary indeed. In her six years in the theatre, she had never accepted an invitation from any of the gentlemen who clamored for her attention. In a world where morals were as loose as an old crone's teeth, Blaine's eccentric behavior was noticed. In the beginning it was supposed that she was merely holding out for a better offer. Now, most assumed she had some mysterious private protector and was discreet in her affair. In general, her admirers accepted and prized the elegant dismissal of La Solitaire. All except the persistent Lord Andrew Farrington.

  "I've laid out your traveling dress and I'll pack the gown you've got on with the rest of the things here," Tate said, finished at last with plaiting Blaine's hair into a heavy braid. "All of your costumes have been packed and are already in the carriage."

  Actors and actresses were generally required to provide their own costumes and a varied wardrobe was a valuable asset for any player. Blaine could recall how Sarah Siddons had wept after the fire which demolished the Covent Garden Theatre five years earlier. Her tears had not been for the gutting of the historic building but for the loss of her immense wardrobe of costumes and jewelry. In the beginning of her career, Blaine had worn the stock costumes from the theatre wardrobe like the other bit players. As her parts increased, she had used her precious salary to buy materials which Tate magically sewed into clothing appropriate to her roles. Reminded of all that she owed the little woman, Blaine rose and hugged her.

  "No time for your nonsense," said the flustered dresser as she pushed Blaine away, turning her around to unfasten her gown. "The carriage will be here any second now."

  As though she had conjured up the devil, there was a blistering knock on the door and Blaine dashed behind the screen as Tate bustled to the door. She listened to the low-voiced exchange between her dresser and Sarge, her other guardian, as she hurried into her traveling clothes. Her dress was a dark green mouss
eline de soie embroidered with a delicate line of small white satin roses at the neckline and around the edge of the puffed sleeves and the hem. The crisp fabric held its shape while traveling and yet was light and cool in the early spring weather. Clasping her cloak around her neck, she bundled up her discarded clothing and stepped from behind the screen.

  "Evening, Sarge. I'm almost ready."

  "It's about bloody time, miss. She says," Sarge jerked his head in Tate's direction. "We still have to stop at the 'ouse and pick up the rest of your folderols."

  "Stubble it, you old sot," the dresser snapped. "I've enough on my plate to get ready for a stint in the country wi'out your bellyaching."

  Since Blaine, in the company of her late uncle's batman Sarge, had arrived on Tate's doorstep, there had been hostility between the old soldier and the London dresser. Sarge had not approved of Blaine's decision to become an actress and he had originally viewed Tate, who worked in the theatre, with the contempt reserved for fallen women, Frenchmen and cats. The two old servants scrapped like bee-stung bulldogs, united only in the protection of their charge, Blaine. Over the years, a mutual respect and affection had grown up between the two but the old habits were comfortable and it seemed to Blaine that they generally enjoyed their brangling.

  "Enough, you two, or I shall refuse to leave," she teased. "I know you're anxious to be off, Sarge, but we'll still be making a stop at the Silver Stallion and that little barmaid will be waiting for you."

  "Miss Blaine!" the red-faced man lamented. "You'd think Tate and I hadn't done our very best to keep that sort of sordid business from your eyes."

  "As if you could," Blaine said under her breath. Aloud she said, "I'm ready."

  Tate took the bundle of clothes and placed them in the top of the portmanteau along with the last of Blaine's theatrical makeup and the precious tea set. Closing it, she handed it to Sarge and crossed to fuss over Blaine.

  "Pull the hood up snug around your face and once we're outside stay close to Sarge."

  Blaine smiled at the oft repeated cautions but she obediently raised her hood, feeling stifled in the stuffy air of the theatre. She followed Sarge along the hallway back toward the stage, walking carefully in the dim light of the wings. The huge man outstripped her as they crossed the stage and Blaine stopped in the center, looking in bemusement at the tiers of seats. The vast emptiness always awed her with its blandness; under the stage lights there was such an aura of mystery about the unseen audience. At Tate's hiss, she turned away and continued across the stage, plunging into the darkness of the wings.

  "Careful, my pet, there is danger in the dark," came a voice at her side and Blaine gasped in fear as a hand clamped around her wrist.

  "Where are you, lambie?" Tate called, her voice tight with worry.

  Fighting the pressure on her arm, Blaine batted away the drapery hangings until light filtered into the wings and she was able to see who had accosted her.

  "Unhand me at once, milord," she snapped.

  At the barely concealed contempt in her voice, Lord Talbott Stoddard's blue eyes narrowed for a moment before his mouth flashed into a white-toothed grin of apparent amusement. He released his grip on her wrist and held the curtains graciously for her just as Tate descended on them.

  "What's all this then?" the dresser shrilled, pulling Blaine away from the hovering figure.

  "It is nothing, Tate. Only Lord Stoddard." Blaine could hear the hiss of Stoddard's breath at the implied insult. She felt justified in giving him such a setdown because in defiance of her refusal to acknowledge him, he had become increasingly persistent in his attentions over the last several months. He was tall with the body of an athlete and the face of a Greek Adonis. She could not like the man despite his cherubic face and head of curly blond hair. There was something about his pale blue eyes which chilled her.

  "Miss Mason was lost in the wings," Stoddard explained to the angry dresser. To Blaine, he said, "If you were mine, goddess, you would not need to find your way alone."

  Instead of a blush of embarrassment at his plain speaking, Blaine felt a rush of anger flood her cheeks. After years of brushing off the blatant advances of eager dandies, she found herself unable to dismiss this man lightly. Beneath the softly spoken words there was a hint of menace which she could not deny and, notwithstanding her bravado, she felt a frisson of fear in Stoddard's presence. She moved a step closer to Tate and then turned, her face lighting up at Sarge's welcome appearance.

  The enormous man said nothing, only glared at Lord Stoddard through slitted eyes until, with a graceful bow, the nobleman turned and crossed to the far side of the stage. Tate and Sarge closed in around Blaine and hurried her through the labyrinthine halls until finally they exited the building onto a dark side street. The carriage was waiting and after bundling the women inside, Sarge leaped to the driver's seat and they were off.

  Inside, Tate treated Blaine to a blistering of her ears but she barely acknowledged the woman's words. She had been badly shaken by the brief encounter with Stoddard. From the first time that she had seen him, she knew he was dangerous and in the ensuing months there had been nothing to change her opinion. She shrugged away her uneasiness, determined to think only about the joyful reunion with Fleur and Val and her two week holiday at Weathers.