“Sinjin,” she pouted, “it’s ever so hot in here, could you procure me an ice, or a sip of something more fortifying?” He eyed her with annoyance, this drinking of hers was no longer the discreet thing she thought it was. All the oil of cloves and mint she ingested could not disguise the ever-present miasma of gin that hung over her. But he rose, and bowed and brushed aside the curtains that enfolded the box. He’d be glad to stretch his legs, and glad for the opportunity to evaluate the other women present tonight, the other women from among whom he’d possibly find her successor. While she, he knew, would certainly be glad of the opportunity to drink deeply from the flask she concealed in her wrap.
He stood in the outer hallway, tall and immaculate in his evening wear, his broad shoulders encased in a close-fitting jacket, his slender waist tapering down to muscular legs, his black hair swept back and cut expertly to accentuate the fine high planes of his face, every visible carefully designed part of him signaling the epitome of the man of wealth and fashion. He stood at the top of his world, by birth, by sex, by fortune and education. And his world was the only world that he cared about.
“Sinjin, by God, it’s Sinjin,” the rotund, balding young gentleman of fashion to his left cried, dropping his quizzing glass and hurrying over to him. “By God, sir. You thought I was dead, confess it? Did you not?”
“Not dead, James,” the Marquis taunted, “only married.”
“Ah well,” mumbled the shorter man, “and so I was, but you were there, Sinjin, so don’t quiz me. But married’s not quite the same as dead, sir. I went the round, you dog, I traveled wherever I could where that cur Nappy was not, and then I came back to town. Only arrived last week. Only settled in t’other day. Only been on the town a day or so and hadn’t seen you anywhere. Heard that you were cuddled up with a new friend, you dog, and never thought to lay eyes upon you so soon. How good it is to see you, Sinjin, how good it is to be back in town. Museums, Sinjin, cathedrals! Flower exhibitions, by God! None of you chaps ever told me what sort of things to expect when I made the leap! No, no, don’t deny it, Sinjin. Only offered me felicitations and gave me a pile of silver and punch bowls that I could never use if I lived to be a Methusalah. Confess it, Sinjin, you never warned me about all the blasted cathedrals I’d have to trek through once I started married life.”
“I never married, James,” the Marquis said, “so how could I give you the benefit of my advice? And how is Lady Hoyland?”
“Breeding,” his companion said briefly. “Quite a good thing.”
“So you did not spend precisely all your time in cathedrals, James,” the Marquis noted with a little smile.
“Sinjin!” James replied, his eyes wide with shock. “No, not a thing to jest about, my man, the lady is my wife. I can’t have you saying such things about the Lady Hoyland, my man.”
“Do you wish to call me out, James?” the Marquis asked, his usually fog-gray eyes admitting little sparks of icy light. “It’s only that I can’t conceive of how the thing could be conceived in a cathedral.”
“No, really,” James said hastily, looking up at his friend. “Don’t jest about such a thing. It’s my wife you know, not a joking matter. You know I couldn’t call you out, wouldn’t want to, but as you are a friend, Sinjin, don’t make me a sacrificial victim to whatever sulks you’ve fallen into.”
“Forgive me, James,” the Marquis said in an unrepentant tone, bending into an insolent bow, “I had forgotten how pious you married fellows are.”
“Well not exactly pious, Sinjin,” James confided. “It’s just that a wife’s one thing, and a woman’s another. Actually, I came here tonight to see if I couldn’t set up something more befitting to my present station…
”
“I understand completely,” the Marquis said, remembering suddenly the spring wedding he had attended, with James standing on the receiving line and little Lady Eleanor, her dark plump little person clinging to James’s sleeve, shyly acknowledging his towering presence.
“James,” he said, a wry smile springing to his lips, “I might have just the thing. Go procure an ice, my boy, a lovely lemon ice, and take it to the…companion…I have seated in my box. Tell her I am detained. She’ll be glad of company, for I shall be a while. And perhaps, James, you’ll be glad of the company as well.”
“What?” asked James. “That lovely red-headed creature? You wouldn’t mind…you wouldn’t take offense?”
“Not in the least,” he replied. “Consider it a belated wedding gift. But I’m afraid you’ll have to provide the packaging and the wrapping yourself. And it will not come cheaply.”
“Wouldn’t expect it to come cheaply,” James said eagerly, “but it would be worth it?” he asked in a whisper, like a conspiratorial child.
“I would not suggest it otherwise,” the Marquis said airily, as he watched his friend rush off in search of a vendor.
He felt fractionally taller, and freer than he had a moment before, as he strolled off down the corridor, acknowledging old acquaintances and carefully watching the arrival of latecomers.
He had spent the first act of the Opera out in the corridor, reacquainting himself with an old school chum who had the latest bits of gossip to impart, and he had been feeling so free and relaxed that he was a bit surprised when the doors swung open and the promenade of Opera-goers exited for their intermission. This informal parade he knew was by far the most important reason why most of them had come to begin with.
He saw James with Annabelle on his arm as they walked toward him. She looked up at him for a moment as they walked past, and allowed a rueful grin to touch her rouged lips. He remained still, for if she chose, now was the moment that she could create an unpleasant scene. But gin-bold as she was, she was foremost a woman of business, so she merely allowed herself one last regretful look at the Marquis and then turned her attention to her small, plump companion. James, seeing the marquis standing there, took this opportunity to take one of her cool hands in his moist grip and raise it to his lips. St. John said nothing, so they passed by. “Well done,” the Marquis thought, noting that the transfer had been made as correctly and formally as any ceremony he had ever witnessed.
Quite a clutch of unattached gentlemen now stood against the walls of the corridors, watching the other Opera-goers stroll by. St. John noticed a few old friends, a few older gentlemen, a few young sparks out to make their mark on the town. He felt relieved to be one of their number again, and pleased himself by watching the women of the demimonde self-consciously flirt past his raised quizzing glass. A slight stir in one group to the corner of the hall brought his attention to the entrance of the Duke of Torquay, his presence signaling the beginnings of muttered gossip. St. John smiled, and saluted the Duke with his quizzing glass.
“Sinjin,” the Duke greeted him in his soft hoarse voice, “don’t tell me you didn’t feel the urge to tell the latest
on dit
about me to your friends the moment you saw me? What, you still stand here just to have a word with me? Do you think I can impart something new and exciting that they haven’t yet told you?”
“I don’t need to dine out on your exploits, Your Grace,” St. John answered, looking coldly at the slight figure beside him.
“No, no, you at least do not,” the Duke acknowledged. “You are commonly acknowledged to be my successor, these days, aren’t you? When my dissolute ways bring me down to the worms, it will be you who replaces me, will it not, Sinjin?”
The Marquis did not acknowledge the hit by so much as a lift of his shoulders, but still he felt a cold chill at the words.
Jason Edward Thomas, Duke of Torquay, was already, although he had not entered his thirty-fifth year, acknowledged to be the supreme pleasure-seeker of his day. The joke that made the rounds was that if the Duke could find a way to fit it in his bed, he would bed it. The stories told about him and his exploits on the town beggared the imagination, and although the more sensible of listeners discounted half of what they heard, the half they accepted was shocking enough. Still, he was of impeccable birth, title, and position, and many of the gentlemen who listened avidly to stories of his scandalous exploits, would still have gladly handed over the choice of their eligible daughters to him in wedlock, should the elegant widower ever seek marriage again.
And the same young women whose eyes rounded at the abbreviated tales that filtered down to them of his doings, would still have found themselves eager to be wed to him. For his appearance belied all the gossip and scandal that followed him. Of medium height and slender as a boy, his pale gold hair fell softly upon a white brow. His large clear blue eyes and tender mouth seemed more appropriate to a romantic poet than to the sort of man whose name had become synonymous with license. But St. John had seen the Duke at his play. And the Marquis had known some of the women who had known him intimately, and did not doubt most of the stories that he heard. Something deep within the Marquis bridled at being dubbed the Duke’s successor, but still he acknowledged the truth of the jest.
“Well then, Duke,” he drawled, “it is most fortunate for our audience that we stand here together. It saves them a great deal of effort and eyestrain if we stay here thus, in tandem.”
“It does,” the hoarse sweet voice acknowledged. “It might, dear Sinjin, save you a great deal of trouble, too, for then I could not make a move you could not emulate immediately,” he remarked, glancing up through his long lashes at the tight face next to him.
The Marquis pretended not to have heard, as he felt the unease spread through him, but he was spared any rejoinder as the Duke’s head turned.
The wide china eyes flew open and the slight body almost visibly trembled, like a dog at the hunt. “My God!” the Duke breathed in hushed undertones. “Who is she?”
The Marquis looked with relief toward the woman whose presence had stirred his companion so. Yes, he admitted, she was worthy of the attention.
Even at this distance he could see that she was young, almost pitifully so, although many of the other women might have been of an age with her. She wore no rouge, no paint, and so her face looked more vulnerable against the background of this gathering. She was dressed simply and elegantly in a high-waisted blue velvet gown that accentuated her high breasts and slender figure. Her gleaming chestnut hair had been drawn up tightly, and only one long curl brushed against her shoulder. Her eyes were large, wide, and frightened, and a strangely vivid grass-green color which accentuated the clear whiteness of her skin. She was innocent of jewelry, of paint, but it was the innocence in her face that troubled St. John. She could almost pass for a woman of quality. But then, what would she be doing here on this night?
She stood, wide-eyed, her cloak thrown over one arm, as she realized the attention she had drawn to herself by exiting from her box. She turned and spoke in a low voice to the other woman who emerged from behind her, another young woman, but this one all frizzy ginger hair and freckles who wore a plain serviceable dress. A maid? St. John frowned. What the devil would a young woman with a maid be doing here at the Opera on such a night, when the courtesans flirted and vied for new liaisons? Unless she was a shrewd wench who had discovered a new ploy. But the look of fright in her eyes dissuaded him from that flight.
But his former companion, the Duke, had not waited to speculate. With the swift grace he was famous for, he had already achieved her side. She looked up at him in incomprehension. St. John could not hear a word that the Duke spoke so softly into her ear, but he could see the color drain from her already white face. She gripped the other woman by the arm and then almost ran to the top of the long stairs.
For only a moment the Duke stood still, as if bemused, and then he signaled swiftly to his man, who came to his side to listen to the quick, soft instructions and then, nodding, was gone. The Duke strolled back to St. John’s side. “Not quite flown,” he whispered in that intimate voice. “My man will wait to see her coach, to get her direction. It’s a shame that her courage deserted her. She will be quite a success. I think that the stir she caused quite overset her plans. And as to your plans, St. John? I noticed that you have so generously given over your seat to your friend. Would you care to share my box for the duration of the performance?”
“Thank you,” St. John bowed, “but I seem to have already achieved my plans for this evening, and so must be off to more profitable sport.”
“It will do you no good,” the Duke smiled. “I have already set my sights upon her…unless you care to vie with me for the honors?”
“I am not quite so exacting in my requirements this evening, Your Grace,” St. John retorted. “I’ll leave that field open to you. Remember, I am marked to be your successor, not your equal.” And, smiling pleasantly with a humor he did not feel, he left.
II
Regina Analise Berryman was in a rage. When she had returned from the Opera, a combination of shame and shock, coupled with the lateness of the hour, had sent her into an unaccustomed state of subdued self-recrimination. She had lain awake for many long hours, until the sheer weight of the night had sent her drifting off into a restless sleep. But when Belinda had drawn back her curtains to admit the shallow morning light, she had awoken to a healthy sense of fury.
She drew the belt on her morning gown and, unable to find her slipper’s mate, sent the orphaned partner flying to the wall. “Why,” her first words to Belinda were, “did you not tell me
exactly
why last night was not a proper night to attend the Opera?”
Belinda eyed her new mistress warily. This was not at all like the quiet, amiable, green young girl she had been serving for the past weeks.