There was no mistaking what they’d been up to, the smell of stale sex was as thick as woodsmoke in the air and the woman was twisted round Jack like the Serpent round the Tree of Knowledge, the Devil in a woman’s flesh. They had not even troubled to turn down the lamp or close the door properly in their shameless frenzy.
Richard was horrified and thrilled and a little gleeful. Surely, this was a sexual secret even guiltier than his own. What depravity must Jack be capable of, to couple with his own sister? What else might he have done, or be willing to do? And for an instant more fascinated than repelled, Richard wondered if he might be able to strike some sort of bargain with Jack —
But as if the Devil himself had heard his reckless thoughts, the woman's eyes opened. She lifted her head without a sound or a word and stared at Richard, freezing his blood. Richard’s panic increased when the creature hissed something to Jack in an incomprehensible babble, a foul, un-Christian tongue, the speech of a demon.
Tory did not know what had wakened her. But as soon as she saw Richard Gabriel’s long, forbidding face staring down at them, her foggy wits sharpened into action.
"Compañero, arriba! Wake up!" She shook Jack by the hip, not even realizing she had fallen into the Spanish that had always been their language of emergency. "Levantarse, hombre! Andale!"
Jack had to come from a very deep, very faraway place to answer Tory’s voice. When he finally got his eyes open, he greeted her with a slow, drowsy smile, delighted to find her in his bed. Only her anxious expression and the glance she darted over her shoulder persuaded him to tear his contented gaze away from her. But when it came to rest on Richard Gabriel’s stupefied countenance, looming up at the foot of the bed, Jack suddenly remembered where they were and what they were about.
"Bloody fucking hell!" Jack jerked himself up on one elbow, reaching reflexively for bedclothes that were far out of his grasp. It didn’t matter; there was more at risk than his modesty, depending on what Richard did in the next few seconds.
"Richard, please, I’m so sorry . . . " Jack blundered on, but he had absolutely no idea what to say that could possibly make it right. "I should never . . . I mean, this is inexcusable, but I . . . we . . . it’s not what it looks like . . . " He stumbled to a confused halt, shocked to hear himself utter such a banality, praying that this was just another nightmare. Tory, who had scrambled off of him and rolled onto her stomach with the bedsheet dragged up to her waist, now dropped her face into the pillow, stifling a groan. Richard continued to stare at him with the accusing expression of a stone Gothic saint.
This was not the Jack Richard knew, cursing in that vulgar manner, babbling like an incoherent fool. That woman must have bewitched him. But perhaps Jack was not yet damned, perhaps he could still be saved. And might not Richard save a portion of his own tormented soul if he helped rescue Jack from the Devil? This might be another test from the Lord, a definitive opportunity for Richard to return to grace. For whom the Lord loveth, He correcteth. Perhaps there was still hope.
"Please, Richard, sit down," Jack pleaded, struggling to sound rational. "Can we not discuss this?" The situation might yet be salvaged if he could keep Richard here in this room, prevent him carrying his tale abroad, purchase his silence, somehow. "As a favor to a friend?"
"Cast her out." Richard’s voice rasped like sandpaper. It was the first thing he had said.
"What?"
"Cast out the Devil’s harlot and we shall talk."
Jack stared at him, utterly speechless.
"The Devil wants your soul, Jack, and she is his instrument. Out with her!"
"Richard, what in the name of all bloody hell . . . "
A shiver in the cloud of dark, wanton hair on the pillow beside Jack drew Richard’s attention. For an instant, he saw her dark, mocking eyes rise up to regard him over her shoulder.
"Wicked succubus!" Richard cried, then turned outraged eyes again on Jack. "Cast out Satan’s whore and live in the light of the Lord!"
He was stumbling toward them now, brandishing something he'd scooped off the floor like a weapon. "Cast out the harlot! The Jezebel — "
"That's enough!" Jack exploded, stretching to the foot of the bed in one swift lunge to wrench the object from Richard’s grasp, sending the older man staggering back a few steps. "Don't you ever speak that way to her!"
Richard blinked back at him, astonished. There was Jack, naked on the bed and up on all fours, like a beast, with a rage in his eyes Richard had never seen there before. He understood all too clearly that it was too late. The Devil had Jack; he would soon have them all. What could he do? How could the rest of them protect themselves?
Then, up the stairwell and through the open door came the comfortable laughter of Miles Fairweather from the taproom below, over his nightly porter. Richard’s eyes locked on Jack’s. He could not save Jack, but he could prevent the contagion from spreading to the rest of the company.
"Incest! Fornicators!" He flung the words at them as he backed out the door. In the hallway, he turned toward the front stairs, bellowing "Fairweather!" in his upper balcony voice. Then he was gone.
"Hellfire and damnation," Jack groaned, sinking back down into the bedding. He glanced over at Tory, who had been strangely silent. "Rusty . . . are you laughing?"
She rolled up on her side, her eyes damp, her cheeks pink with suppressed mirth. When she saw the thing he still clutched absently in one hand — it was one of her discarded walking boots — her hilarity bubbled up again.
"My hero!"
Jack looked at the boot in his hand and tossed it aside, forcing down a grin of his own. He glanced again at Tory, who was absolutely irresistible when she was wheezing with laughter.
"I can’t help it, hombre," she apologized. "I haven’t heard so much fire and brimstone since the Old South Church in Boston!"
"I don’t suppose you care that we’re about to be thrown into the street," he reproved her, for form’s sake. "That no company in England, reputable or otherwise, will ever employ us, once news of this episode gets out."
"No, I don’t care," she agreed, shaking back her hair and fixing him with her dark eyes. "Because it was worth it. You are worth it, Jack. I would rather starve to death in your arms than spend one more night apart from you."
"So would, I mi vida," Jack confessed. "And it looks like we’ll soon get our chance."
Footfalls were already stomping up the stairs, so Tory unwrapped the sheet from her hips and let Jack slip underneath, beside her. He just had time to yank the blanket up over them both where they sat when Richard came back into the room with Miles Fairweather, who still held his pot of porter aloft in one hand, like a charm to ward off the vision of madness he saw before him. He peered down at the bed and muttered a rather indifferent "Good God," less an expletive than an attempt to inject something into the shocked void.
"I am sorry, Mr. Fairweather," Jack apologized, his manner much more relaxed, now. "I know this is damned awkward."
"A bit more than awkward, isn’t it?" Fairweather fretted. "It’s a damned disgrace." But his tone was more sad than angry. "I suppose you’ll tell me this is not what it seems."
"It’s exactly what it seems," Jack replied, unabashed. "Except for one thing. Mrs. Lightfoot is not my sister, as you may have guessed by now. She’s my wife."
"The monster has married his own sister!" Richard croaked. He had never, ever, encountered sin of such Biblical enormity.
"Victoria is not my sister, Richard," Jack repeated patiently. Then he turned again to Fairweather. "That was an unforgivable lie. But the fact is, sir, we were starving quite literally on the day you met us and we were desperate. As you know, there is often a prejudice among theatrical companies against engaging married couples, because of the complications of traveling together."
"Ha!" Fairweather injected, very nearly jovial. "More fool I to entertain such a prejudice, given the state of my own wife, eh?"
"Still, we have deceived you, sir, and we have been very indiscreet," Jack went on, with another apologetic glance at Gabriel. "We shall abide by whatever you decide to do with us, but . . . do you suppose you gentlemen might retire for five minutes and allow my wife to dress?"
"Certainly, certainly," Fairweather exclaimed, glad of an excuse to withdraw and consider what ought to be done. "Perhaps you’ll be good enough to join me downstairs," he nodded to Jack. "If you’ll allow . . . " he caught a glimpse of Gabriel’s steely expression, " . . . er, someone to escort Mrs. Lightfoot back . . . "
"I’m not going back to the ladies," Tory declared, startling the men, who were now obliged to cast uncomfortable glances in her direction. "My place is with my husband."
"Why . . . just as you wish, my dear," Fairweather agreed, now plainly eager to be gone. "You shall both join me downstairs, then? We’ll sort this out in a civilized manner. Come, Mr. Gabriel . . . "
As soon as they had retreated, Jack threw off the bedclothes, bounded across the room and shoved the door shut tight. Then he began gathering up the cast-off clothing, picking his way back to the bed.
"You see how refreshing it is to tell the truth at last," Tory observed, throwing her arms round her drawn-up knees. "I feel so cleansed."
Jack shot her a caustic glance.
"I’m only trying to prevent a lot of ugly gossip that would keep us from every working in this trade again. Or any trade." He dumped the little pile of clothing on the bed next to her, then sat down on the edge to pull on his shirt.
"Besides, it’s not a lie," he added. "You’re my wife in everything but law, compañera. I could not be any more yours if we were welded together by God Almighty himself."
"You have behaved very badly, haven’t you?"
Jack and Tory sat across from Miles Fairweather at a back table in the coffee room, deserted at this late hour.
"There’s poor Mr. Gabriel thinking himself fearfully mocked," the manager went on. "And the house all in an uproar; the dear Lord only knows what the gossip will be like."
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Fairweather. We never meant to cause you all this trouble." Jack didn’t know what else to say. "You’ve every right to be angry."
"Then there is the business of deceiving me in the first place . . . "
"That was my fault," Tory interjected. "Don’t blame Jack, it wasn’t his idea."
"Indeed, I might have taken you on in any event, under the circumstances. And your . . . husband, as well. But now . . . "
Tory’s heart was sinking, but she would not drop her eyes, like a shamefaced girl. She would never be ashamed of loving Jack.
"Now," Mr. Fairweather continued, "I have seen what you can do. I popped round to the playhouse this evening and saw a bit of your playing. Capital stuff, wasn’t it? The fact is, I find you both an asset to this company. We must alter the bills, of course, which will come out of your salary. And I do not know what we shall tell the public. Theirs is the pardon you must beg, not mine. It’s a very great pity that Mrs. Fairweather is indisposed at the moment, she always knows what to do. But, in the meantime . . . " He looked again from Jack to Tory, " . . . in the meantime, I should think the caravan."
"Caravan?" Jack echoed.
"Quite right. Quartered round back in the yard adjoining our lodging house. Nothing fancy, is it? And a bit of a damp smell when it’s not been much in use, I’m afraid. But it’s got a bed, hasn’t it? And it’s private. Stay there tonight and we’ll sort your lodgings out in the morning."
"Do you mean . . . we can stay?" Tory scarcely dared to breathe the question. "You’ll not turn us out?"
"My dear, we’ve another week of bens coming up. It’s not as if I were offering you a holiday at the seaside. I’ll want hard work."
"You shall have it, sir," declared Jack. "And thank you. You won’t be disappointed."
"Indeed, I had better not be," agreed Miles Fairweather. "But I must warn you both, you must consider yourselves on probation after this escapade. You and Mr. Harding are a similar type, after all, Mr. Dance." The manager shook his head. "I may not be able to support you both for an entire season."
Top: Gustave Dore, from The Dore Bible, 1866
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