The Emperor's New Clothes (22 page)

Determination raised her chin. Regardless of what Ophelia said, Jenny would not be leaving Dead End. This would be her home now. She dug her heels into her horse's sides and headed toward the Matthews place. The best solution to her dilemma was to make certain Ophelia didn't want to leave either.

And Tyler Matthews was the only sure way to do just that.

 

“I think it's a lovely stage.” Ophelia perched on the edge of the high platform that, with a few finishing touches, would be the center of performance for the Empire City Opera House.

“I think you're right.” Tye gave a jutting nail a single whack with his hammer and nodded in satisfaction. “I think the whole thing has turned out surprisingly well.”

“It's not completed yet,” she said quickly.

“No, but it'll serve for Jack's ceremony next week.”

“Indeed it will.” Ophelia stared out into the area that would be fitted with seats for the anticipated audience that would soon fill the Empire City Opera House. Tye studied her silently. What was she thinking? What were her plans?

The damned town had once again surprised him. He'd never dreamed this building would go up so fast. Aside from getting her money out of the bank, and Randolph said he hadn't seen her make any withdrawals, there wasn't much to keep Ophelia in Dead End. And he would do whatever he had to to keep her here. But the longer she stayed, the more she risked exposure. Now that the building was more or less finished
she could disappear from his life at any minute. Funny about that, though. She'd seemed to revel in the frenzy of activity surrounding the construction. She'd apparently liked the now-daily meetings of Lorelie's Cultural Society. And he knew she enjoyed their evenings spent together on the porch at Jack and Lorelie's, even though whenever he made any kind of definite progress toward getting her in his bed, his aunt seemed to magically appear.

Still, he'd learned a great deal about her. About her thoughts and feelings and dreams. She continued to hide the truth behind her masquerade, and while he would have to determine that at some point, she revealed so much more he no longer cared quite as much about what she continued to conceal. And with every day spent together his admiration grew, and so did his love.

“What are you thinking?” he said softly.

“Nothing of importance. Nonsense really. Can you hear them?”

“Hear who?”

“Why, the audience, of course.” She laughed lightly and gestured at the non-existent assembly.

“Oh, the audience.” He clapped his hand to his forehead with feigned chagrin. “How could I have possibly overlooked them?”

“How indeed.” Ophelia scrambled to her feet and strode to the center of the stage. “Why, just look at them, Tye.” He stepped to her side.

“Over here”—she covered her mouth with her hand as if imparting a secret—“these are the terribly expensive seats, you know, reserved for only the very best people.”

“I see.”

“It's opening night. The men are all charming and handsome and dressed in their finest. The women,
mostly wives, of course, but here and there, is an occasional—”

“Mistress?” He grinned.

She lifted an indignant brow. “I was going to say companion.”

“A companion.” He nodded somberly. “Of course.”

“At any rate,” she continued in a lofty manner, “their gowns are from Paris. Their manners impeccable. And their noses kept firmly in the air.”

He laughed. “I don't think you'll find a gown from Paris anywhere in Dead End.”

“Probably not.” An impish twinkle shone in her eye. “But you might in Empire City.”

“Maybe someday, but right now in Empire City, here's what you'll see on opening night at the opera house.” He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm and escorted her to the left side of the stage. “Over here”—he nodded at the space directly below them—“you'll find the town's banker, Randolph Watson, and his wife—”

“Henrietta,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Henrietta. She'll be all atwitter with excitement. And he'll be ready to burst with pride at this shining symbol of civilization.”

“And rightfully so,” she said with a firm nod.

“In this area, as far from Randolph as you can get and still be in the good seats”—he led her to the other side of the stage—“Joe Simmons—”

“The saloon keeper?”

“Yep. Joe and his wife, Anna Rose, will be seated right there. There'll be the barest spark of anticipation in her eyes that for just a moment will distract you from notice of her rather impressive mustache—”

“Tye!”

He ignored her. “—and Joe will be reluctantly ad
mitting to himself that maybe civilization isn't such a bad thing after all.”

“Only to himself?”

Tye chuckled. “Joe doesn't much see the need for anything that smacks of respectability.”

“I see.”

“And here.” He walked her to the center of the stage. “Just to one side of the middle, will be the town's leading citizens.”

“Big Jack and Lorelie?”

“Other area ranchers will be here, of course, but Jack's the one who's always kind of run things and run them well. And people like him.”

“He's a very nice man,” she said quietly.

“Yes, he is.” He placed his hand over hers and nodded at a point beside Big Jack and Lorelie's imaginary seats. “And do you see who's sitting right over there?”

She laughed. “No. Who?”

He gasped in mock surprise. “Don't tell me you don't recognize him?”

She clapped her hand over her mouth. “What a horrible breach of social etiquette. Can you ever forgive me?”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I'll try.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “Now tell me, who's in that seat?”

“Why, Ophelia, that's where the mayor sits.”

“Of course.” She leaned toward him confidentially. “He has excellent seats.”

Tye shrugged casually. “He's the mayor.” He paused and considered his words, then plunged ahead. “Do you see who's in the seat right beside him?”

Ophelia squinted and shook her head, laughter in her voice. “I can't quite make it out.”

“That's the mayor's wife.”

She stilled beside him. “His wife?”

“Yep. I don't know how you can miss her.” Damn, this was hard. His heart was in his throat. He hadn't planned on saying anything like this, hadn't planned on declaring himself at all until he'd wrung the truth out of her, but the moment seemed so natural, so right. “With that hair that reminds you of a summer sunset, and eyes like deep green pools, and the way he looks at her…”

“The way he looks at her?” she whispered.

“Why only a fool would fail to see that he's—”

“There you are!” Lorelie's voice rang from the back of the room, and they broke apart like children caught in the cookie jar. “I have been looking all over for you two.”

“We were just discussing…opening night,” Ophelia said. Surely only he could hear the slight tremble in her voice.

“Opening night?” Lorelie wrinkled her nose. “But aside from Jack's ceremony, and of course a town party, we have no opening night. Frankly, beyond that, no one has really considered exactly what we'd do with an opera house.”

“Eventually, you can get troupes of actors to come and perform. You can even present an opera or a play yourselves,” Ophelia said.

“Ourselves?” Lorelie's eyes widened with delight. “What a charming idea.”

“But keep in mind,” Ophelia said, “it takes a great deal of time for, well, amateurs to put together any kind of real performance.”

“Except for readings,” Tye said slowly, the glimmer of an idea in the back of his mind.

Lorelie tilted her head with interest. “What kind of readings?”

“Well, poetry, for one,” Tye said, the idea growing. “Doesn't your Cultural Society read poetry? Couldn't
you do something with, oh, say Keats' ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn'? I can see you ladies playing the parts of Grecian urns.”

Lorelie paled as if upset by his simple question. How odd. Why should a reference to the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society distress her? No doubt he was mistaken.

Lorelie shook her head. “We're not all that fond of poetry, dear. And we especially dislike urns.”

“Well, then.” The idea snapped into a form so sharp and clear he could have crowed with delight. An idea that would keep Ophelia firmly planted in Dead End for that much longer. “What about Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare?” Ophelia gasped.

“Shakespeare,” Lorelie said thoughtfully.

“Shakespeare.” Tye's voice was firm. “Ophelia is almost an expert on Shakespeare, aren't you?”

“Well, yes, but…” she stammered, obviously not as intrigued by the idea as he was.

“What a wonderful idea.” Excitement rang in Lorelie's voice. “You could direct us. Why, we could do readings from
Romeo and Juliet
and
Much Ado About Nothing
and—what else, Ophelia?”

Ophelia sighed in resignation. “Oh, I don't know,
Midsummer Night's Dream
.”

“
The Taming of the Shrew?
” Tye said, innocence in his voice.

She cast him an irritated glance.

“Or…why not…” He grinned. “
Twelfth Night?
”

Twelfth Night?

The play about Viola? A woman posing as a man? A woman pretending to be someone she wasn't?

He knew!

There wasn't a doubt in her mind. It explained everything. She'd known of his suspicions, of course. She'd have to be a complete fool, given his snide comments
to Big Jack and his interrogation of Jenny, not to have known. But it had all been so terribly subtle, a quiet back-room type of game between the two of them. Until now. His suggestion and the wicked look in his eye was blatant. A challenge if you will.

The man was calling her bluff.

Blind panic seized her, and she wanted to run. Now. Get out of Dead End and never look back. But she'd been in tight spots before, and natural instinct took hold. As quickly as fear had struck, calm descended.

He still didn't have any real proof. What kind of game was he playing now? With that talk of the mayor's wife? And what was Lorelie up to? She'd brought up the subject of marriage as well.

“Ophelia?” Concern laced Lorelie's voice. “Are you quite all right, dear? For a moment you looked as if you might swoon.”

“Thank you, Lorelie, I fear it was just a momentary twinge of”—she slanted Tye a pointed glare—“indigestion.”

“Then you will help us put on a reading of Shakespeare?” he asked.

“I don't see how I could possibly refuse.” She smiled graciously, but seethed inside. He'd tricked her. She wasn't sure how exactly, but he did.

Very well. She still had a week in which she could safely stay in Dead End. And she grudgingly admitted she liked the members of the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society, and she liked the town and, well, now and then, she even liked the mayor. This might be fun. Besides, she wasn't planning on leaving yet anyway.

Though she'd won a tidy sum from the Cultural Society initially, she'd since had less success. She wasn't sure how it happened. On any given day, she'd win just a little more than she'd lose. At this rate it would take
next to forever to get even a paltry amount together. Still, she could afford to stretch her stay here as long as possible. She could easily leave the day before the arrival of the Queen's representative and be long gone before anyone noticed.

And as for Tye, why on earth was he looking like a cat sated with cream? What would she do about him? Certainly, seduction was still in her plans, if she could avoid Lorelie long enough. An idea simmered in the corners of her mind.

She cast him a sweet smile, and his grin faltered, as if he feared what she might be up to now. She was right about him. He was smart. But he had greatly underestimated her.

She was smarter.

“No, no, no, Anna Rose, you're supposed to be the Queen of the Fairies. It requires a very light touch.” Ophelia smiled her encouragement, and sighed to herself.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to allow the ladies to select their own readings. But who would have ever dreamed the very sturdy Anna Rose Simmons had a secret longing to play Titania? Right now, Anna Rose and the other ladies made even Keats look appealing. No doubt these women would make far better Grecian urns than wood nymphs or fairies or virgins.

“So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist the female ivy, so…” Anna Rose's voice rang out with all the authority, and much of the charm, of a barkeep breaking up a free-for-all.

It was all Ophelia could do to keep a supportive smile on her face. No doubt Shakespeare could probably overlook the rather fascinating facial hair of this
Titania. After all, most of his female roles were played by men. But that voice…Ophelia shuddered. He must surely be rolling over in his grave at the enthusiastic desecration of his works. It wouldn't surprise Ophelia one bit if the Bard's ghost showed up any minute in erie, indignant protest.

It was all Tye's fault, of course. The day after he'd suggested this farce he'd shown up with a stack of volumes of Shakespeare's plays. The Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society had descended upon them like a Biblical plague of locusts. Before Ophelia could utter a word of protest, she had a matronly rancher's wife declaring herself to be Cleopatra, an elderly spinster memorizing Juliet's lines and the quiet, retiring sister of a shopkeeper spewing the speeches of Lady Macbeth with a vengeance that widened even Lorelie's eyes in surprise. There was no casting according to type in this little performance.

Ophelia had to admit that though there might not be a lot of talent here, there was a great deal of fervor and unrestrained eagerness. It was, in fact, quite a lot of fun. The women had even changed their organization's name. From now on they were the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society and Theater Troupe. Every morning they rehearsed. Every afternoon they won and lost tremendous wagers in continuing games of high-stakes poker.

“Do you think we're ready, dear?” Lorelie settled in the seat beside Ophelia.

“As ready as we're ever going to be.”

Even the opera house was ready, the finishing touches essentially complete, the seats installed, the curtains hung. It wasn't a huge building, no match for the theaters of Denver or Kansas City, but it was a nice opera house nonetheless.

“I do hope so.” A nervous note sounded in Lorelie's
voice. “Why, Jack's ceremony is the day after tomorrow.”

“It will certainly be something to remember.” Ophelia cast the older woman a confident smile belying the pang of regret shooting through her. She wouldn't be around to see Lorelie take the stage for her reading of Kate's “husband” speech from
The Taming of the Shrew
. Lorelie was one of the better actresses in the group.

Lorelie leaned closer as if to impart a secret. “I do believe I'm experiencing a good deal of stage fright.”

“You'll be fine.”

There was every possibility Lorelie wouldn't perform anyway. Ophelia planned to sneak herself and Jenny on the afternoon train tomorrow. Word of her disappearance probably wouldn't get around town until the Queen's man arrived for Big Jack's celebration. Then the truth would come out.

Lorelie sighed. “I would so hate for Jack to be disappointed in my performance.”

“You needn't worry. I'm certain he'll love it.”

It was bad enough that they'd all know she wasn't a real countess. They'd also realize she wasn't even a very good thief. She'd only managed to get a minimal amount of her money out of Randolph's bank, and hadn't won nearly as much from the Cultural Society as she'd expected. All in all, she'd leave Dead End with a pathetic amount, compared to what she could have gotten, of barely more than eight hundred dollars. Of course, it was considerably better than thirty-two dollars and seventeen cents, and she'd never had this much money in her life, but it didn't come close to what she wanted or needed. And it scarcely seemed worth the effort.

Lorelie brightened. “Well, he does love
me
, and I suppose that will make a bit of a difference.”

“I suspect love might make a difference,” Ophelia murmured.

She'd even failed at her plan to seduce Tye. Certainly, the man was around every evening, but she could never seem to get him alone. She still wasn't sure exactly what to do with him or about him. Thank goodness he hadn't brought up that marriage nonsense again. Marriage, and/or love, was not in her future. No matter what Tye knew, suspected or believed, the complete truth in all its deceitful glory was certain to destroy any feelings he had for her. It would be bad enough if that happened before they wed, but after would be disastrous. No, the only person Ophelia could count on was herself. She was not interested in marriage, and regardless of the suspiciously sentimental thoughts she had about Tye, she was not interested in love.

“I do have a confession to make to you, Ophelia.”

Ophelia curved her lips upward in a tolerant smile. “What kind of confession could you possibly have, Lorelie?”

“I shall very much miss you when you leave.”

“What?” Ophelia widened her eyes in surprise and forced herself to remain calm. “What do you mean?”

A puzzled frown drew Lorelie's brows together. “Why, nothing at all. Except you've extended your visit much longer than you originally intended.” She studied her thoughtfully. “Have you ever considered staying here permanently?”

“Living in Dead End?”

“No, dear, living in Empire City.”

“No, Lorelie.” Ophelia laughed, a slight, unexpected shade of bitterness in the sound that echoed the odd pang inside her. “I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible.”

“Why not? You have nothing left to return to En
gland for. This would be the perfect place to start a new life.”

“It is a nice town,” Ophelia said softly.

“With very nice people.” Lorelie nodded firmly. “And many of those nice people are men who need wives.”

“I believe you mentioned that before.” A wry note sounded in Ophelia's voice.

“Did I?” Lorelie's eyes were innocent, her manner vague. “Well, then, obviously if I'm bringing it up again, there must be a great deal of merit to the idea.”

Ophelia chuckled in spite of herself. “I have no intention of remarrying.”

Lorelie rolled her eyes heavenward. “My dear, you simply must cease your mourning for Alcazar—”

“Ambrose,” Ophelia said without thinking.

“Addison?”

Ophelia drew a deep breath and glanced up into Tye's amused gaze. “No,” she said firmly. “Ambrose.”

“My mistake.” He grinned.

“Tyler.” Lorelie raised a brow. “What are you doing here? Surely you've not come to offer your services? Although I daresay we could use a male presence. Anna Rose's mustache is the most virile thing in this presentation. Still, we are sadly lacking for someone to play…oh, say, Romeo.”

“Romeo?” He sank down in the seat next to Ophelia. “Sounds perfect for me.”

“Perfect is not precisely the word I'd use,” Ophelia said.

“Ouch.” Tyler winced and clasped his hand over his heart in a theatrical manner. “You wound me, fair lady. Why dost thou cast such aspersions upon my innocent person?”

“Innocent?” A laugh slipped through Ophelia's restraint. “Romeo was an innocent, a mere child. I
scarcely think anyone in their right mind would cast you in that role.”

“Hah! I'd be wonderful! Magnificent! None better.” He leapt from his seat and vaulted onto the stage, halting Anna Rose in mid-word. “If the charming Titania will forgive me.”

He caught her hand in his, brushed his lips across it, then swept a dramatic bow. “I need your enchanted land, my queen, for the barest of moments if that is indeed your pleasure.”

Anna Rose stared stunned; then an odd giggle squeaked out like a rusty hinge stiff from lack of use. She bobbed a stilted curtsy, too-black curls bouncing around her head. “Of course…my lord.”

“Now, let's see.” Tye's eyes gleamed with a teasing light that clenched Ophelia's teeth. What was he up to now? “It was Romeo you asked for, I believe.”

“I didn't ask for anything.” Ophelia rose from her seat.

“Romeo would be wonderful, Tyler,” Lorelie said. Ophelia cast her an exasperated glance. “Well, it would.”

“Mr. Matthews. Tye.” Ophelia said with a glare. “Get down here right now.”

He shook his head. “Alas, dear lady, you asked for Romeo and you shall have him.”

“I didn't ask—”

“A grave? O, no! A lantern, slaughtered youth, for here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes this vault a feasting presence full of light….”

Astonishment widened her eyes. She'd expected Tye to go for the obvious, the balcony scene with its sweet, yearning romance. Instead, the man was reciting Romeo's speech when he finds Juliet dead.

His voice rang through the theater with a resonance she hadn't expected. “O my love, my wife! Death, that
hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath no power yet upon thy beauty….”

This was quite enough. She should have known he'd get the word “wife” in there somehow. Her patience snapped. “Tye!”

“Hush,” Lorelie said under her breath.

Ophelia stared at the older woman. Lorelie's gaze was fixed on Tyler with a rapt attention as if she'd never seen him before. Ophelia's gaze skimmed over the dozen or so women gathered in the opera house. Each and every one was caught in the heart-stopping sorrow of young love foiled by death.

“…and, lips, O you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death.”

Reluctantly, she had to admit he was good. Quite good. He would have made an excellent actor. The stage door would have been jammed with women seeking his notice. Even though she didn't consider him at all handsome, some women might very well find the combination of a tall, hard body, golden hair and chocolate eyes appealing for something beyond a simple night of passion. Ophelia was not, however, one of those women.

“…here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”

Silence hung in the theater for a long moment. Then, applause and excited chatter erupted.

“Why, Tyler Matthews I never dreamed—”

“—you could have gone on the stage, I do—”

“—even in Denver I never saw—”

He leapt from the stage and grinned at Ophelia. “Well?”

She favored him with a benevolent smile. “Satisfactory, nothing more.”

“You were wonderful,” Lorelie said stoutly.

Ophelia shrugged. “Adequate, really quite adequate.”

Tye heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Critics.”

“What are you doing here anyway, dear?” Lorelie asked him.

Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. “We do need to get back to work, so if you don't mind…”

“Oh, but I do, Countess.” Humor and desire sparked in his eyes. Was she the only one who noticed? “I've come to take you away from all this.”

Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “Take me away…where?”

“I had Alma pack us a basket. I thought we'd ride to a favorite spot of mine and enjoy the rest of this beautiful day.”

“Ride?” Dear Lord, not on horses.

“I have that silly little carriage of Lorelie's outside.” Tye leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I just thought after spending every day for a week with the dear ladies of Dead End doing their best to slaughter Shakespeare every morning, and do whatever silly, female thing they do every afternoon, you needed a break. What do you say?”

She stared at him, then nodded abruptly, her decision made. This was her chance, possibly her only chance, to be alone with him. Excitement and fear shivered through her.

“Good.” He exhaled as if relieved at her agreement. “Aunt Lorelie, I'm kidnapping the countess for the afternoon.”

“Rescuing would be a more appropriate term,” Lorelie murmured.

“Did you say something?” Tye frowned at his aunt.

“No, no, dear, you two run along.” Lorelie waved her hands as if to shoo them away.

“If you're sure you don't need me?” Ophelia cast her an uncertain glance.

“We'll manage to muddle along without you. I sus
pect what we need most of right now is simply practice.” Lorelie leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “I do believe you've done all you can, and we're very grateful.” Lorelie studied her for a moment, then clasped Ophelia's hand in her own. “I have become quite fond of you, you know. We all have. We very much feel as if you are one of us.”

“Thank you.” Ophelia tried to swallow past the aching knot in her throat. Why hadn't she noticed before now? She liked these women a great deal. They'd welcomed her as one of their own. It would be far harder than she imagined to leave. They were, after all, such very nice people. She made a silent vow never, ever to take advantage of very nice people again. One way or another, the price one paid was apparently much too high.

“Shall we go.” Tye quirked a brow and offered his arm.

She hooked her hand through his elbow. “Lead on.”

He escorted her toward the door and said under his breath, “I was excellent, you know.”

“You were awful,” she said softly.

“I would have made a magnificent Romeo.” A smug note sounded in his voice.

She laughed. “You would have made a passable Bottom.”

“Bottom?” He furrowed his brows together and opened the door for her.

Satisfaction surged through her. Finally, she'd stumbled across a reference he didn't pick up on at once. “Surely you remember Bottom? From
A Midsummer Night's Dream?
”