He wasn’t sorry for using their fears and their hopes, their prejudices and their sense of righteousness against them. For distracting them from the truth. He was simply surviving in a world that hated what he was.
Once the audience was on his side, he felt himself relax into his act. He stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to show nothing was hidden beneath them before he ran through a series of his usual, seemingly impossible card manipulations and sleight-of-hand tricks. All the while, he drew the audience in with tales of his travels. He told them how he had been a guest in a maharaja’s court as he swallowed a dozen single needles and thread, and insisted it was the court’s sorcerer who’d taught him to bring the needles back up, threaded neatly at even intervals along the silken string. He’d studied the mysteries of science and alchemy under the most learned men in Europe, and discovered many secrets of the universe in the shadow of the great pyramids.
All lies, of course. He’d never stepped foot off the island of Manhattan, had never even dreamed it was possible until Dolph Saunders had put the idea into his head.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Harte said, drawing the moment out dramatically before he launched into his final effect. “Now I will demonstrate my sovereignty over the forces of life and death. In this, my most daring demonstration, I will require a volunteer. Someone with the strength of will to withstand the lure of the Otherworld and the courage to face what lies beyond the veil of our understanding.”
He stepped downstage so that he could see beyond the glare of the footlights, searching for a mark. Usually, he liked to find a man for this effect, preferably a large one who was clearly doubtful or scowling. Someone the audience would believe to be uncertain, skeptical. But as he screened the crowd, he found someone else in the audience—the girl from the Haymarket.
At first he thought she’d come for him. His gut went tight and his whole body felt warm, and for a moment he couldn’t move. He could only stare at her, like she was some strange apparition he’d imagined into being.
Then he saw she was sitting next to Nibsy Lorcan, and every last bit of his anticipation went cold.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that they were both in the theater, that they had both accosted him the night before. But any of Dolph’s people should have known how stupid it was to use magic in the Haymarket. Had the whole thing been some sort of setup? Another way for Dolph to entangle him?
He’d see about that.
Harte made his way down the short flight of steps to the audience, pretending to still be searching for a suitable volunteer. By the time he’d made it to their row, the girl had found something interesting to examine in the stitching of her gloves. Her jaw was tight, and her cheeks were flushed.
Good, Harte thought. Let her be nervous. His tongue still throbbed, but damn if the pain didn’t also remind him of how it had felt to have her mouth against his. How for a moment—when she had seemed willing to return the kiss—he’d felt a kind of dizzying freedom that part of him itched to have again.
Which just went to show how dangerous she was.
“Miss?” he said, offering her his ungloved hand. “If you would be so kind?”
She glanced up, fear warring with the violence in those strange tawny eyes. “Oh, I’m never kind.” She waved him off.
He offered his hand again, but even as she started to refuse, Nibsy was already pushing her to her feet.
“She’d love to,” he told Harte. There was a spark of something like anticipation in the boy’s eyes.
Seeing Nibsy excited should have put him on guard, but Harte couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Don’t make a fuss,” he murmured when she tried to pull away. Harte was already firmly tucking her arm under his. “You’ll only look like a fool.” He tightened his arm over hers, pinning her in place at his side.
“I suppose you would know best about that”—she gave him a smile that was all teeth—“seeing how you’ve made an art of it.” Her expression was murderous, but for some insane reason that only made him more curious about her.
Because of his success, girls had been only too happy to smile and fawn on him, but none of them really wanted the person beneath the name. They wanted the polished magician, the showman who could wine and dine them and fulfill their dreams of being onstage themselves. This girl didn’t want any of that. She didn’t want him at all, at least not that she would admit.
He liked that about her.
Maybe his mother had been right after all—there was clearly something wrong with him.
“Why are you here?” he whispered, focusing on what was important as he led her down the aisle to the stage.
“I was told there’d be entertainment,” she said, not caring who heard. Then she leaned in, as though to tell him a secret, but spoke loudly enough for the front rows to hear. “I think my escort might have overpromised.”
Harte swallowed his amusement and schooled his features as the audience tittered. “I see,” he said, handing her up the first of the steps to the stage. He followed close behind, and when he got to the top step, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “And last night, is that the kind of . . . entertainment you prefer?”
She whipped around, outrage sparking in those honey-colored eyes of hers, but he only gave her a wink before addressing the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this lovely creature has been so kind as to grace us with her beauty and courage this fine evening. What is your name, miss?”
The girl scowled at him silently until he cocked an expectant brow. “Esta,” she said, apparently realizing that the fastest way off the stage was to cooperate.
“Dear Esta—named for the stars—has graciously volunteered to assist me in one of the most perilous demonstrations of my connection to the powers of the Otherworld.” He ignored the girl’s snort and motioned to a stagehand, who rolled out a large wooden crate that had been painted to look like an ornate wardrobe.
“If you would examine this wardrobe for any inconsistencies, any false backs . . .” He gestured to the crate. When Esta didn’t immediately move, he urged her again. “Please, do remove your gloves and give it a thorough examination.” He held out his hands, as though to take her gloves.
The girl gave him another tart look, but she removed her gloves and handed them over to him. The leather was smooth as a petal, and he wondered again where she’d come from and who she was to have such finely made gloves when she was clearly taking orders from Nibsy.
She began inspecting the box, her pert mouth still scowling, and Harte had the sudden, unwelcome memory of the night before, of how her lips had gone soft and almost welcoming for—
“She’s a ringer!” a drunken voice called out from the audience, a welcome interruption from the direction his thoughts had taken.
“No, I’m not,” the girl called. Then, before he could stop her, she shouted, “You should come up here, too, and see for yourself.” She batted her eyes at Harte. “He can come, can’t he? You don’t have anything to hide . . . do you?”
The audience tittered with laughter.