Love On the Line

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Anabelle Bryant, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Published by Oliver-Heber Books 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Epilogue About the Author CHAPTER 1 LONDON 1817 The glint of his knife caught her attention. Perched high above Vauxhall Gardens, balanced on a tightrope less than two inches wide, Lola York witnessed a murder. Captivated by the brutal act and unable to scream, she remained trapped between the surety of her steps and a death fall to the ground below. Usually, her nightly performances suspended her above the cruelties of reality. Walking the rope was the only time she felt completely safe and utterly free. As though she could finally breathe once she rose above London, unfettered by the sins of the past and uncertainty of her future. But now halfway across, poised between two wooden stanchions, the unexpected flash of moonlight on metal drew her eyes to the violent scene as it unfolded on a shadowy path beyond the grandstand. Horrified and transfixed, she stayed motionless while below multitudes of gathered spectators and excitement seekers waited breathlessly for her next step. Still, she couldn’t move. Not while two dark figures fought, one with malice, the other in defense. The attacker wore a long black greatcoat and came at the other person in a silent rush that took the victim unaware. There wasn’t much else to see. It was over in the length of a few exhales. Someone in the stands yelled an obscenity, impatient with her immobility. She blinked several times in succession and fixed her eyes on the rope, moving forward with rote memory and unerring balance until she reached the other side. An oblivious burst of applause swelled upward into the air around her as she waved numbly to the blurred faces of the crowd. She was a mistress of grace and balance. Nothing was more important than the show. Shaken, she glanced over her shoulder, beyond the grandstand to the darkened path where she’d witnessed someone’s life stolen in a matter of seconds. Now only darkness met her eyes aside from the slumped form of a body left behind. Pickpockets, swindlers, prostitutes and the like, were common to Vauxhall. In fact, many visitors thrived on the danger and illicit juxtaposition the pleasure gardens offered. But murder, murder was unsettling. She had no time to reconcile her thoughts as the grandstand emptied, the show having ended. A heartbeat later a high-pitched scream pierced the air. Several more followed. Male voices barked orders. Crowds dispersed. Others gathered along the path periphery, seeking a bit of morbid gawking. The shrill whistle of the watch sounded. On that isolated path, things were becoming known. Far above the chaos, Lola waited on the wooden platform. “Lola.” She recognized Marco’s voice and glanced to the rope ladder dangling over the side of the platform and down to the ground. Marco DeLeon was a fellow performer and good friend. He climbed halfway and paused when their eyes met. “Are you all right?” He began to climb higher and she stalled him by holding up her flattened palm. Noticing how her fingers trembled, she dropped her hand just as quickly. “Yes. I’m fine.” She wasn’t ready to talk about what she’d seen. Not even with Marco, the one person at Vauxhall who knew about her past. Someone she’d grown close to and shared a brief relationship. Even though they’d separated over a year ago, he continued to be protective and she didn’t want to answer his questions or ignite his concern. The less she told him, the better it would be all around. “A man was killed.” He’d reached the platform, having climbed up anyway. “Did you know?” “No.” She lied and leaned over to adjust her slipper, avoiding his eyes. “Did you see it?” “I saw nothing.” He answered. “I don’t think anyone did. All eyes were on you, on the rope. Everyone else was busy performing or preparing. I was inside the pavilion. I only came out when I heard someone scream.” “What have you learned?” She stepped toward the rope ladder, knowing he would have to descend so she could follow. “Not much.” He spoke as he moved. “A man was stabbed. He’s dead. But it hurts us all. The last thing we need is Bow Street nosing around here. It cuts into the profits.” Marco didn’t exaggerate. The more nobs and cits who sought respite from life’s tedium by visiting the infamous pleasure grounds, the more money there was to be made. Crowds were important. Size definitely mattered. Lola and the other performers were a misfit collection of outcasts and drifters who looked out for their own and shared a common dislike of Runners and lawmen. The entertainers were loyal to each other and rarely asked questions, more interested in their present than another’s history. Lola had come into her occupation on the tightrope by accident, but it suited this new version of her life. Perhaps it was only what she deserved. Past decisions were