Always a Stranger

by Amara Royce

Genres: Historical Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

When two worlds collide, anything is possible. . . An international affair, London's Great Exhibition has taken the city by storm. As its newest Royal Commissioner, Lord Skyler Ridgemont must ensure the performers are properly contracted. Among them is the delicate and graceful Hanako Sumaki. Draped in vivid silk robes, Hanako's exotic Japanese fan dance captivates Skyler--and he longs to learn more about her. . . But Hanako's enigmatic employer keeps his exquisite charge very close. The consummate artist, she shows the handsome nobleman many faces, but never her true heart, which holds a desperate secret. When Skyler learns the real reason Hanako has been brought to London, he will risk his entire world to win her trust--and save her from losing both body and soul. It's a feat that will require the type of courage only love can give. . . 81,000 Words

Release date: May 15, 2014

Publisher: eOriginals

Print pages: 238

Sample

A chime sounded, soft but distinct, cutting through the incessant murmur of visitors in the Chinese alcove. When he followed everyone else’s gaze toward the sound, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the room. In the expanse between two display platforms, vacant only moments before, stood an exotic creature of stunning beauty. Wrapped in a flowing crimson robe embroidered with lotus flowers and cinched at the waist with a wide belt, the lady stood motionless with her palms flat together over her heart. The dramatic color of her clothing echoed on her lips. Even from a distance, those ruby lips appeared full and soft. Her dark hair, twisted into smooth rolls and held in place with two sticks, contrasted sharply with her powdered skin. The brightness drew attention, but her perfectly placid composure held it. An oasis of serenity in a sea of human chaos.

Only when she finally moved did he remember to breathe. She slid her arms down to her sides, the silk of her gown rippling gently with her movements. When he craned his neck, he could see slim objects slip from her voluminous sleeves down into her hands.

A heavy thump on his shoulder distracted him. “Lord Ridgemont, as I live and breathe. You, an earl. I had hoped to find you here. Of course, the odds that the Great Exhibition’s newest royal commissioner would be in attendance were in my favor.” The Marquess of Bartwell spoke sotto voce, barely audible above the general din of the grand hall. He almost didn’t catch the note of amusement in Bartwell’s voice. “Are you real, or simply a wisp of my imagination? Is it possible I have not seen you in a year, coz? Oh, are you as enamored of these exotic performers as I?”

“You know, I expect, that the His Grace the Duke of Carleton insisted I interview the performers personally and ensure they are properly contracted,” he replied. His coat constricted his neck and shoulders now. Everything tensed at the sound of the new title, the one that shouldn’t belong to him. “Now shut your trap, my friend, and let the crowd enjoy the show.”

Busy work, that’s what the duke had given him. Put him in the role of nursemaid or, worse, herder . . . as if he were a collie nipping at heels. I have found no evidence that Far Eastern performers have been contracted formally, the duke had explained. I hope I can rely upon you to take the matter in hand. You will recall the scandal we suffered last month regarding that sleight-of-hand trickery. It was quite embarrassing how many visitors he swindled before we discovered him. Every element of the Great Exhibition must be beyond reproach.

Looking at this ethereal female, robed in vivid silk and framed by the backdrop of black drapes, he could not believe her to be a thief or a cheat. She could not be a menace to anyone, although Bartwell’s dazed expression suggested she could be capable of mesmerism. She looked delicate and slight, as if she might be blown away by a stiff wind.

Then she flicked open two large red fans with an authoritative thwacking sound. It was not delicate or slight. This was not a parakeet or a pigeon. Her sharp, precise flashes of movement resembled a raptor, swift and dangerous. She twirled and flipped the fans with a mastery that transformed them, wielding them with more audacity than he had ever seen in a ballroom. A remarkable feat, considering how many ladies had communicated with him quite explicitly and persuasively with their fans across crowded rooms. No mere coquette’s device, these fans became weapons, slicing the air and holding her audience in thrall. The metallic clacks as she rhythmically opened and closed them dominated the alcove. She never moved from her spot. Yet the fans danced in the air above her. Blurs of red spun and rippled around her.

Her gestures quickened to a flashing crescendo, and she tossed one fan high into the air. For a moment, her gaze drifted over the crowd before freezing in his direction. If he were prone to fancy, he might say her eyes locked with his. Golden eyes. How extraordinary. Fortunately, he was not prone to fanciful thoughts. The large red fan flipped over and over as it rose toward the ceiling and changed direction, gaining speed on the way down. Her eyes still focused in his direction, she caught the fan neatly behind her, one-handed.

With another sharp thwack, the fans closed. She returned her hands to a prayerful position, fans tucked once more into her sleeves, and then bowed as the audience roared and begged for more.

“Did you see that, Sky? She is magnificent!” Poor Bartwell. So easily distracted by a pretty face.

“You realize,” he responded quietly, “that my mother would still box your ears if she caught you calling me by that silly nickname. We are above such vulgarity . . . or whatever term she uses. No one else has called me Sky since we were in short pants. She would likely give you the full lecture on the succession.”

“You know I cannot help it. Must I really call you Ridgemont? It simply does not suit you.”

It would be best for familial relations if he chose to interpret Bartwell’s comments as benignly oblivious. Yes, Lionel should have inherited. Yes, the accident that had taken both his father’s and brother’s lives last year had devastated the family and thrust him into a role he hadn’t anticipated. Yes, Lionel would have been a better earl, having been bred to the position his entire life, and he would have given a great deal for his brother to have lived, for his brother to have taken his rightful place. But fate had deemed otherwise. If Bartwell truly doubted his fitness to manage the earldom, well, Skyler looked up at the glass and metal grid of the roof and swallowed a retort about glass houses. Despite being raised from birth to be a marquess and acceding to the title when he reached the age of majority, Bartwell had yet to take his seat at the House of Lords. He liked his cousin, truly he did, but sometimes the man needed a sound thrashing.

“Besides,” his cousin continued, “you may not know this, but while you were off doing your pretty little pencil sketches in America or Greece or wherever you were this time, I became your mother’s favorite almost nephew. I think I finally managed to usurp Lord Devin in her eyes.” Bartwell grinned widely as Skyler’s smile faded.

America. He’d returned to London as quickly as he could, dropping all his projects in Philadelphia abruptly, but he’d still arrived far too late. Meanwhile, Bartwell had been here in his stead to console his mother. And now he was not just Skyler Charles Roderick, second son and engineering student. He was the Earl of Ridgemont.

He let the jab at his design and engineering studies pass. Showing resistance would only prolong his cousin’s teasing, a habit that should have faded in childhood. If the man knew of his incipient attempts at designing a flying machine, the mockery would increase beyond reason. While he waited impatiently for the throng to dissipate so that he could converse with the performer, Bartwell refused to leave his side. The woman disappeared into the curtained area behind the displays. He frowned and said, “I must be going. I should take this opportunity to interview that performer and find out who the manager of this troupe is.”

“I was hoping you could give me an introduction.” His cousin fussed with his cuff links nonchalantly and then looked at him expectantly.

“Do not trifle, Bartwell. Your charms are surely best directed elsewhere. And I have work to do.” When Bartwell frowned, he cuffed his old friend on the arm and added, “Come for a visit tomorrow. Perhaps we can go to White’s for coffee.” Still, the man would not budge. Instead, the nuisance kept tossing unsubtle glances toward the curtains through which the performer had disappeared. Those glances made him more uneasy than they should.

Only authorized vendors and staff could enter those areas. Like the duke, Skyler knew of no Asian performers approved by the Royal Commission. He certainly would have remembered hearing of such a lovely one.

“I really must see if the manager is available.”

“I would be happy to assist you, coz.”

“This is official Royal Commission business, Bartwell. Word has spread about that thieving gang of magicians. The few honest ones, unassociated with the criminals, still had to be banned. The Exhibition must not be seen as a center of criminal activity. According to my father’s letters, that was one of the Commission’s initial points of contention regarding this Hyde Park location—such potentially unsavory elements so close to Rotten Row.”

“Then my presence would be a boon. Together we would present quite an imposing front, would we not?”

“Bartwell, you cannot accompany me. I am the official representative responsible for interviewing these performing groups. It would be inappropriate for you to observe.” Inappropriate and annoying. He’d forgotten how exasperating his cousin could be, especially when he wanted something. “Besides, you only wish to ogle that young woman. Such behavior would not further my cause. Go find a nice, proper Englishwoman to pester. That one is not for you.” He knew his cousin’s proclivities too well; Bartwell would be more likely to visit one of the boardinghouses near Fleet Street for female companionship. His stomach turned at the thought, the euphemism a weak shield for how distasteful and destructive such pleasures could be.

Bartwell frowned some more and then said, “Well, then. Dismissed, am I? I doubt my calendar is free tomorrow,” he added pointedly. “But perhaps we can meet again soon. Do not be such a stranger.”

The man gave one longing look toward the curtains before retreating. Although they bid each other farewell cordially enough, his cousin’s stiff posture and the rigid set of his mouth suggested things were not at ease. No matter. If his nose were out of joint, it wouldn’t last. Some things never changed. Bartwell had always been prone to fleeting infatuations and mercurial moods.

Meanwhile, he had actual duties to attend to. He straightened his lapels and crossed through the dispersing crowd to introduce himself to this mystery woman. If he were lucky, her employer would be waiting in the wings, which would make his task much easier. The dryness of his mouth could no doubt be attributed to impending teatime. The pulse of his heartbeat in his ears . . . well, a little nervousness was to be expected of a new royal commissioner, was it not?

The burgundy curtains used to divide many of the spaces in the Exhibition could work wonders of architecture. Two men could easily erect frames and drapes that converted an amorphous space into four distinct and intimate display areas with a central backstage area. And those were the easily movable screens. The larger dividers used to break up the massive wings into national sections created a variety of useful nooks, like the one behind the Chinese exhibit.

When he breached the curtains, he nearly stumbled over a scrawny boy, who immediately scampered to the farthest corner of the makeshift chamber and crouched on the floor next to a large steamer trunk. The child’s homespun garments and muddy boots seemed out of place amid the finery of the recent audience. When the boy raised his head, his round face was shadowed by a large tweed cap but was definitely filthy. What he could tell of the child’s coloring and facial features resembled that of the fan dancer. Could this be a sibling . . . or perhaps her offspring? He seemed to be about ten or maybe twelve, and the woman looked far too young to have a child this old. Still, he’d only seen her from afar. He knew little of the mysterious Far East; the practices of foreigners could be unorthodox indeed. He nodded to the child and took in the scene.

The room, if such a makeshift area could be given the honorary title of room, was lined with crates, a simple wardrobe, and the massive trunk against which the boy cowered. The chatter of the ever-shifting crowd outside this little alcove murmured through the fabric walls, and weak sunlight streamed in from the glass ceilings above. Yet there was no sign of the fan dancer, aside from the faint scent of jasmine hanging in the air.

“Where is the woman who came in here a few moments ago?”

Staring, the boy shook his head. The few sounds he made were unintelligible. Patience, Skyler, patience. Communicating with children was not something he did often, nor was it something that came naturally to him.

“The lady with the fans . . .” Ridgemont held up imaginary fans as she had and twisted his wrists in an awkward pantomime. This earned him a reluctant chuckle from his young audience, whose eyes lit with recognition. Gesturing again, he asked, “You know her?”

The boy nodded once, his face quickly turning neutral, guarded.

“Where did she go?”

Again, the boy spoke in an unfamiliar language, almost certainly Chinese or Japanese, while shaking his head emphatically. Really, the Royal Commission should interview all of the performing companies and ensure that they had an English-speaking representative present at all times; in fact, the ability to speak English should be deemed one of the requirements of approval. He supposed this too was now part of his responsibility.

He tried again. This time, he pretended to enter the chamber as the dancing girl, imitating her posture and demeanor, to the boy’s obvious amusement. The child actually giggled. He hadn’t expected to play the clown so soon or so literally in his role as earl. Then he raised his arms ahead of him, pointed, and asked, “Did she go this way?” He turned slightly and repeated the action. “Or this way?”

Finally, the child became more animated and pulled a silky red robe from the wardrobe. Yes, her! His pulse quickened, but he strove to respond temperately. When he nodded, the boy quickly led him to a hidden gap behind some crates and pointed. Peeking through the curtains, he found himself draped in paisley and surrounded by large statues of Indian deities. He stepped out to take a broader look at the crowd around the displays. Given the riot of colors and the constant flow of people, she was well and truly gone.

When he made his way back into the alcove, the child was gone as well.

Bloody hell. Who were these performers? And where was their manager? He wandered around the small room, picking up and inspecting bits and pieces along the way. Figurines, presumably from the Orient, were scattered about. The silk robe lay draped over some crates, and the wardrobe doors stood ajar. This was quite a haphazard group. Unprofessional. As entrancing as the fan performance had been, the Royal Commission would not want to be associated with such shoddiness.

As if pulled to it without conscious volition, he picked up the robe. The red silk confounded his senses, the fiery color confronting his vision while the cool touch of the silk flowed like water through his fingers. And the scent that wafted from it, warm jasmine on a hot summer evening—he found himself drawing deep breaths and had to stop from burying his face in the material. Don’t be an idiot over a bit of fabric. You haven’t been a fool for a pretty face yet. No need to start now. Shaking his head with a self-effacing chuckle, he laid out the robe gently, careful to avoid snagging the delicate fabric.

Hanako’s heart banged against her ribs as she crouched in the trunk. She hated being caged up in such a tiny space, but she hadn’t many options. This well-dressed, well-spoken stranger would not leave! What could he be doing now? No one remained in the chamber, yet he was still here. His quiet movements suggested a randomness that was at least a little reassuring. If he were really searching for something, he would be ransacking the place much more deliberately, opening and emptying as he went. If she were lucky, his idle curiosity would pass quickly. After several long moments, the flapping of curtains and the receding of his footsteps gave her space to breathe. She waited a bit more before pushing up on the trunk’s false bottom.

When she first heard the rustling of the drapes, she had just barely managed to tuck her bright gown into the wardrobe and mask the white face powder with ash. The susurration of the fabric should have been swallowed up in the noise of the Exhibition, but it cut through the background noise as loudly as a thunderbolt. This was why she always shoved her hair into a cap immediately after a performance. This was why she kept this costume on under the kimono.

She had sensed his intent halfway through the fan dance. It was easy to distinguish his attentiveness from the usual avid but innocuous audience. Here was a man with questions. With purpose. She welcomed neither. His eyes bore into her, apart from all the other gazes from the crowd. She’d barely managed to direct her focus back to the fans before she nearly dropped one. As the performance continued, despite herself, she wanted to please him—not the audience, just him. His eyes—bright, almost feminine, almost inhumanly green—shone with an admiration and approval she craved. That she craved it unnerved her. She’d forced herself not to look at him. But she could tell from the determination in his eye that he would seek her out afterward. She did not sense, though, the same kind of lasciviousness or menace that poured off most men who dogged her skirts. His head and shoulders towered above the women around him, and some of the men as well. Admiration suffused his face, but not lust. Even masked lasciviousness was easy to identify now, coming off people in waves. He didn’t emanate that baseness. Nor did he display the kind of impertinent curiosity about foreigners that often had her gritting her teeth, as if she represented all Japanese women, or rather all women from the Orient, for it seemed few people even attempted to differentiate the nationalities.

Mr. Broek would have to be told about this gentleman’s interest, and he would not be pleased. This was the risk of Broek’s ploy; the Exhibition would draw attention that could not be fully controlled or contained. She didn’t want any of it.

Last night, through the wall, she’d heard one of the women weeping and others trying to comfort her. Only when Broek’s slow, measured footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs, like a subtle but undeniable threat, did the crying stop. If she could have, she’d have escaped years ago, even with nowhere else to go. She looked back with a bitter laugh at how subtly and inexorably escape became impossible. She picked up the small jade elephant, rolling it between her palms, feeling it warm from her skin. It had been Takara’s favorite toy as a young child. Broek promised her that her sister would not be included in the auction, would go with her under a guarantee of exemption. It would be part of the agreement of sale. A bitter sliver of laughter escaped her—an agreement of sale.

Without any doubt, this young stranger was a gentleman, with his finely tailored clothing and imperious bearing—straight backed but with a languor to his movements that suggested a life of ease. He’d surely been raised for a life of power and privilege, and he wore them both comfortably. His jovially condescending tone likewise suggested he found novelty in her childlike incomprehension. She should have felt relief and pride that her boyish performance was so convincing, but instead she’d struggled not to reveal herself, not to show how very well she understood his intentions, how very little she was impressed by him. She’d wanted him to see the woman behind the facade. A ridiculous, irrational instinct. He was likely just another of the Jade Garden’s potential customers—she could not allow herself to forget that. He might even be persuaded to bid.

She tucked the elephant into her pocket and finished sorting through the trunks, packing away the items from the fan performance and laying out everything needed for the next show. Broek changed the arrangement of performances weekly. The new addition for this week was the juggling.

There should be flames or swords, he had said. She’d managed to convince him that such dangerous items would entail undue risk and draw unwanted scrutiny. Not to mention her personal safety. No, he couldn’t risk damaging her person when he had so much yet to gain. Now that they’d been in London long enough for word to spread, the bidding would begin shortly, he promised gleefully, as if she and the other women had anything to be happy about.

She tossed the silver balls into the bucket with a clang before reining in her temper. She rolled the jade elephant figurine between her palms, pausing only to swipe hot tears from her cheeks, and then began counting backward from ten in Japanese. Ju, kyu, hachi. Then in Dutch. Then in whatever languages came to mind. By the time she got to Spanish, her movements were precise and controlled again. Second basket—dried fruits. Third basket—scarves and cricket balls. When everything was packed away, she picked up the jade carving again, rubbing the spot between its large ears as she considered her options again. Considered what would be needed to free herself and all the women from Broek. There is no clear path. But one thing was certain—she would have to act soon.

“So, Ridgemont, what have you learned? Have you been as enthralled by the petite dancer about whom so many of our guests have raved?”

At least His Grace the Duke of Carleton had given him enough time for proper greetings and a coffee before looming over him. After all the accumulated heat of the day, the offices of the Royal Commission of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations were brutally oppressive. He wished he could doff his jacket for some relief. None of the other gentlemen, dressed impeccably, showed any such signs of weakness. He surreptitiously ran his finger under his damp collar. From the day he’d returned to London, he felt a lack of air. The suffocating feeling was worst in the House of Lords, but it simmered here too.

There have been rumors, the duke told him hours earlier, of some unapproved performers—most recently, some Orientals in the Chinese section. Every element of the Great Exhibition must be beyond reproach. Make sure they are . . . civilized.

“I have indeed, Your Grace, seen a charming fan dancer but was unable to locate her or her employer . . .