Violet sighed theatrical y, unable to tear her eyes away from the stage. "Cora should have been in that play," she said, her voice adamant with resolution. "Charlotte Dumont doesn't have anything on her."
"Who?" I asked. The name sounded familiar.
"Why, Charlotte Dumont. The actress."
"She was here?" I asked. Charlotte was the woman who Count DeSangue was consorting with. Maybe this hadn't been such a waste of time.
"Stef-an!" Violet said playful y. "She was the lead actress. Wasn't she wonderful?" Violet's eyes danced, but I wasn't paying attention. My eyes were scanning the crowd for my brother.
"Just once, I'd like to stand out," Violet continued, oblivious to my distraction. "Back at Ten Bel s, I feel invisible. I want to feel unique. Like I did when I was little. You know, when your parents think you're special, and you believe them?" Violet said wistful y as she daintily picked up her skirts to walk down the winding stairs of the theater and onto the street. Watching her from a few steps back, I was amazed at how different she looked from the sad barmaid of last night. In her finery, she had al the confidence and airs of a woman who'd grown up in luxury.
"You are special," I said, meaning it. She was charming and fun and I knew that once she believed in herself, she'd find people who believed in her.
"Why, thank you," Violet said coquettishly. Around us, people turned to gaze at her. I was certain they were gawking because they were trying to place her - had she been one of the comic ingenues they'd just seen onstage? Violet smiled, clearly basking in the attention.
"What shal we do now?" Violet asked, her eyes shining.
We'd reached the cool street and I breathed out, glancing around. Even though it was late, the street was crowded with passersby. A few paces down, I noticed streams of people were entering the smal black door marked STAGE. I made a split-second decision.
"I have an idea," I said. "We're going to meet Charlotte." I pasted a smile on my face as I marched toward the door.
"Name?" a smal man with slicked-back black hair asked, glancing at the leather-bound book clutched in his hands.
"Name?" I repeated, in mock confusion, trying to get him to look up at me.
"Yes, your name," the man said with exaggerated patience, final y glancing up at me. "I'm afraid the party is guest list only."
"Sir Stefan Pine. And my wife, Lady Violet," I added as Violet giggled delightedly beside me. Even though his job was to guard the door, the vague slurring of his words made it obvious he'd been taking in drinks as the audience members had been taking in the performance. I didn't so much have to compel him as confuse him.
"Yes, sir," he said, barely glancing back down at his list as he ushered us inside.
Violet widened her eyes, but I merely placed a finger on my lips and fol owed the crush of people into the cavernous backstage.
We turned into a brightly lit room that was almost as big as a bal room, already fil ed with actors in various states of costume as wel as audience members, whom I recognized as the wel -heeled fel ow members of our box. We were definitely in the right place. Now, al we had to do was find Charlotte. It was almost too easy.
And then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I whirled around.
There, with a wide smile, thick dark hair, and an inscrutable expression in his bright blue eyes, was Damon.
"Hel o, brother," Damon said, flashing a wide grin.
I grinned back. I'd play nice. For now.
Chapter Eight
This is your brother?" Violet asked curiously, her lilting voice rising. "The one who . . ."
"No!" I waved my arm in front of me, as though batting away an absurd question. "An old friend," I lied. My heart thudded against my rib cage.
Even though I'd been actively seeking him out al afternoon, it was a shock to be face-to-face again after al these years.
"Oh yes, Stefan and I go way back." Damon leered. "In fact, sometimes I think I'd die for him." I shifted uneasily, appraising my brother, al too aware of Violet standing next to me. I studied him, taking in each aspect of his appearance.
He hadn't aged. It was a ludicrous observation, but it was the first one that struck me. Of course, I hadn't either, but I was so used to seeing my face in the glass every morning that it wasn't remarkable, just a fact of my existence. But seeing Damon as fresh-faced and wrinkle-free as he'd been the night we'd both died was jarring.
But, on closer inspection, there was a difference. His eyes had changed. They seemed darker, somehow, ful of secrets and horrors and deaths. Who knew what he'd done these past twenty years? If it was anything like what he'd been doing in London, then he'd been keeping himself and local law enforcement agencies quite busy.
"You're looking good," Damon remarked, as if we were neighbors who'd merely bumped into each other in a town square, not brothers who'd last seen each other across the ocean decades ago.
"As are you," I al owed. His dark hair was slicked back and he was wearing an expensive suit with a silk tie knotted around his neck.
"And who's this lovely lady?" Damon asked, extending his hand to Violet.
"She's none of your concern - "
"I'm Violet Burns," Violet said, curtseying and blushing as Damon took her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss.
"Charmed. Damon DeSangue," Damon said. I grimaced at the familiar way the false name dripped off his tongue. I did note, however, that he'd lost the affected Italian accent he'd insisted on using back in New York.
"And what are we doing here?" he asked.