Gallant Scoundrel (22 page)

“Amazing,” she whispered in awed tones half an hour later. “I know every word of this play, but actually seeing it performed is a completely different experience from reading it, even aloud. I am discovering an even deeper appreciation of Shakespeare’s work.”

Without thinking, Harry put his hand on hers. “I’m glad you are enjoying it.”

That drew her attention from the stage for the first time since sitting down. Her gray eyes, wide with surprise, flew to his face, but though her hand twitched under his, she did not snatch it back. “I am. Thank you. And thank you, Lord Peter, for inviting us.”
 

Before his friend could turn his head to reply, Harry removed his hand. Xena, he noticed, moved hers to her lap at the same time. Was she disappointed or relieved to be rid of his touch? He wished he knew.

At the first intermission, a steady stream of friends, acquaintances and virtual strangers descended upon them, cramming Peter’s box to bursting as they vied for the chance to appease their curiosity under the guise of paying their respects. Several mentioned invitations already sent, while others invited them on the spot to whatever events they were hosting during the winter.
 

For all that she claimed to be unaccustomed to Society, Xena was charming to one and all, contriving to appear pleased and grateful for each invitation without positively committing to any of them.

“I fear I’ve not had time to look over my calendar properly,” she said repeatedly, always with a smile. “Everything has happened so quickly, you see.”
 

Not everyone who visited the box was so agreeably solicitous, however. Lady Grant, with whom Harry had dallied once or twice when Sir Charles was from Town, took the opportunity to run a critical eye over Xena and deliver a sly allusion or two.

“You must be as brave as the tales say, Mrs. Thatcher, to attempt the domestication of this fellow.” She tapped Harry flirtatiously on the shoulder with her fan. “But no doubt one with your experience following the drum will have the fortitude to bring him back into line should he revert to form—and a most
amusing
form it can be.”
 

She cast a seductive glance Harry’s way—which he returned with a glare. He was about to send Lady Grant to the rightabout when Xena spoke up.

“I don’t doubt it.” If that bland smile cost her an effort, it did not show. “The Lieutenant Thatcher I knew on the Peninsula was nothing if not amusing. ’Tis good to know he is still considered so.”

“Indeed, you might be surprised at the
range
of amusements he has added to his repertoire by now.” With a parting wink at Harry that was clearly as much for Xena’s benefit as his, she sashayed out of the box.

He looked back at Xena with a worried frown, wondering how to undo the damage, but she had turned to greet someone else as though she’d already put the exchange from her mind. Unless she was a far better actress than she used to be, she apparently gave not a fig what Harry might have done—or do?—with other women. Which he told himself was all to the good.

While most of the other ladies spoke politely to Xena, various gentlemen—not all of them unmarried—heaped lavish compliments upon her, congratulating Harry repeatedly on securing such a prize.
 

Despite his oft-stated aversion to matrimony, he could not bring himself to disagree, even privately. That aversion, he now realized, had only begun after he’d believed Xena lost to him forever. The same could be said for the acquisition of those habits that gradually changed him from optimistic to cynical, upright to debauched. A disturbing thought, and not one he had any desire to dwell upon just now.

*
       
*
       
*

When the play resumed, Xena found it much harder to give it her full attention than she had during the first act. Though the performers were superb,
Othello
, with its theme of a marriage gone horribly wrong, was not her favorite among Shakespeare’s works—particularly just now. Still, she was careful to keep her eyes directed toward the stage, even while acutely aware of Harry, so close beside her.

Last night, she believed she’d taken his full measure as a drunken, gambling womanizer. Still charming, still
far
too handsome, but no longer worthy of her respect or confidence. Tonight, however, he was displaying a very different side to his character—polished, erudite, even gallant. She had not missed how coolly Harry had behaved toward that odious Lady Grant, even while Xena struggled to conceal her own reaction to the woman’s innuendoes.

Nor was he drinking overmuch tonight. At dinner, he’d been sparing, and though she noticed many of the occupants of other boxes imbibing during the performance, Harry had brought no bottle nor so much as hinted he wished Lord Peter had done so. Could her criticism have effected a change so quickly, or was last night an aberration? She wished she knew.

To forestall another crush of people in their box, Lord Peter suggested they move to the upper Rotunda during the second intermission. The moment they appeared, they were besieged by yet more members of Society eager to meet the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher. As before, Xena tried to be unfailingly polite, while on her guard against another assault like Lady Grant’s.
 

None occurred, but when she heard the Saint of Seven Dials mentioned, she pricked up her ears, still cherishing a faint—surely foolish—hope that Harry might have been doing something other than visiting a woman the previous night.
 

“Not surprised he’s up to his old tricks again,” Lord Plumfield was commenting to any who would listen. “He’s laid low before, you know. Always comes back as soon as the Runners move on to other matters.”

Xena moved closer as two younger women nearby tittered. “I, for one, hope they never catch him,” simpered Miss Melks. “I know you feel the same, do you not, Lady Emma?”
 

Lady Emma, wife of the wealthy and influential Viscount Rockingham, nodded, her golden curls bouncing. “I confess, I’ve had a soft spot for the rogue ever since—” Pinkening, she broke off.

“Ever since what?” Xena couldn’t resist prompting in an undertone, though at the moment Harry was not close enough to overhear. “Never say you have actually encountered the Saint yourself?”

“She likes to hint that she has,” said Miss Melks with a toss of her head, “but I take leave to doubt it.”

Lady Emma made a face at the other girl. “That’s all you know, Lucinda. I am careful not to speak of it within Lord Rockingham’s hearing, as it occurred the very night we met and I’d not have him jealous.”

“Jealous?” Xena repeated as the other girl flounced off with a laugh. “Do you mean to say something occurred between you and the Saint that might cause your husband uneasiness?”

The young matron pinkened further. “Certainly not,” she replied quickly, though in a tone that gave the lie to her words. “But you know how men can be. It
is
a fact that I once met and spoke with the Saint, and that we were not precisely chaperoned at the time.”

Xena burned to know more. “What is he like? Tall or short, dark or fair, uncouth or cultured?” Unfortunately, she couldn’t ask outright whether he had both his arms without instantly arousing suspicion.
 

Lady Emma’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Tall, dark and very
definitely
cultured. Whatever his detractors may say, he’s no common thief. ’Tis my belief he is a gentleman in disguise—perhaps a very highly placed one. Indeed, he appeared to have quite intimate knowledge of the Upper Ten Thousand.”

“How very interesting. I suspected it might be so, from what I’ve heard of how easily he slips in and out of exclusive gatherings. But did he have no, ah, distinguishing characteristic by which you might recognize him again, were you to see him at a gathering such as this?”

“Alas, he was masked at the time, and the room was dim. I can say without reservation, however, that he was perhaps the finest figure of a man I ever encountered…excepting Lord Rockingham, of course.”
 

She turned doting eyes on her husband, who stood discussing politics a short distance away.
 

“My brief encounter with the Saint is a memory I’ll always cherish fondly,” Lady Emma concluded with a wistful smile. “But if I’ve crossed paths with him in company since, he never made the slightest sign, nor can I claim to have recognized him. In truth, I am perfectly content to leave his identity shrouded in mystery. ’Tis more romantic that way, don’t you think?”

“Oh! Certainly.”
 

Xena forced an answering smile as she regretfully relinquished her last hope that Harry might have been the one who’d robbed that Irish peer’s house. If the notorious Saint of Seven Dials possessed but one arm, Lady Emma would surely have mentioned it. ’Twas not a feature easily missed, however dim a room might be.

She was forced to conclude that Harry had exerted himself last night with something far less heroic than playing Robin Hood. Surely it was as well she’d been disabused of such a foolish fantasy. Otherwise his improved behavior this evening might have weakened her determination to keep her very necessary secrets to herself.

*
       
*
       
*

“I’d say your first appearance in Society as man and wife was quite the success.” To Harry’s disgust, Peter positively preened as they waited for his carriage afterward. “As I predicted, you are become the hit of the winter Season.”
 

“Peter, dear,” Sarah admonished before Harry could think of a retort. “Isn’t it enough to be right, without gloating about it?”

He grinned down at her fondly. “As you’ve reminded me before. And you’re right, of course. Sorry,” he said then to Harry. “I know there were some awkward moments for you both tonight, and I must take responsibility for that, as well.”

“Well you should,” Harry replied. “Can’t deny I’ll be glad when you’ve found someone else to make a project out of. Young Flute, er, William, perhaps.”

“Yes, he’s next on my list.” Completely unabashed, Peter grinned and began talking of Sarah’s hopes for her brother—with no mention of the Saint of Seven Dials, of course—until the two couples parted for the night.

Back at their temporary lodgings in Grosvenor Street, Harry cast about for some topic that might stave off the awkwardness that threatened now he and Xena were alone again. He was about to suggest another glass of port in the library when she forestalled him.

“I believe I will head to my bed,” she said with a barely-concealed yawn. “After years of country living, I fear it may take me some time to become accustomed to Town hours, and tomorrow I must begin replying to all those invitations.”

“I, ah, can help with that if you wish,” Harry offered, though he knew it was customary for wives to handle that sort of thing.
 

She sent him a smile of thanks but said nothing, instead turning to make her way up the stairs, the heaviness of her steps confirming her weariness.
 

Harry followed as far as the library where he paused, thinking to have a glass or two of port himself, at least. But then he decided against it. If he were truly going to assist Xena with those blasted invitations tomorrow, best he get a decent night’s sleep himself.
 

He therefore surprised Brewster by achieving his own bedchamber some hours earlier than was his wont. His valet did not comment, however, simply helping him off with his evening clothes and on with his nightshirt before leaving him.
 

Rather too restless for sleep, no doubt because most nights he would still be gaming—or housebreaking—for some time yet, Harry began pacing the room in his stockinged feet, attempting to plan his next foray as Saint. Instead, he found himself beset by visions of Xena as she’d been this evening—sitting rapt in the theatre box, thoroughly enjoying the play; laughing lightly at the outrageous compliments paid her by various gentlemen; turning her head so that a dark curl bounced against her elegant throat…

Suddenly, he became aware of soft sounds in the next room—the sounds of Xena preparing for bed. Without intending to, he padded to the dressing room door, which happened to be ajar, that he might hear better. He heard the murmur of her voice as she spoke to her maid, then a slither of fabric over fabric—her gown being removed? Though he knew it was madness, he put his ear to the crack, imagining Xena in only her shift…then without it.

Giving himself a stern shake, Harry pulled away and betook himself to bed. There was no point tormenting himself when Xena had not so much as hinted at even the least desire to treat their marriage like a real one.
 

It was a long time before he finally fell asleep.

X
ENA
WAS
surprised to find Harry already at breakfast when she came downstairs the next morning—nearly as surprised as she’d been on hearing him come upstairs mere minutes after she’d begun getting ready for bed. At the time she’d sleepily assumed he meant to change and go back out.

“Thought you’d want to get an early start on all those infernal invitations,” he greeted her without the least appearance of someone who’d been out carousing until all hours.

“Oh. I, ah, yes. We may well have callers later, so the more we can manage beforehand, the better, I suppose.” Uncertain how to behave in response to his unexpected cordiality, she busied herself with filling a plate from the sideboard.
 

 
After they’d breakfasted, Harry did indeed help by reading invitations aloud to her, with an occasional opinion on whether one should be accepted or declined, while Xena penned replies. She’d been relieved when Lord Peter had informed her that only dinners and other entertainments where guests would be seated required a written response. Balls and routs could be attended or not, as other engagements allowed, as no one was expected to spend an entire evening at any given one.