Maggie MacKeever (21 page)

Since her new dresses weren’t yet ready, Julie wore another of Lady Georgiana’s gowns, this one fashioned with a closely fitted bodice and a deep square neckline in a shade of blue that her ladyship explained was called ‘Marie Louise’ after Napoleon’s empress, and made of a fabric called Caledonian silk for reasons left obscure. The garment was lovely, even if Julie felt it put too much of her person on display. In addition she was fitted out with white kid gloves that reached to just below her elbows, a long rectangular silk shawl, and satin slippers with roses on the toes.

She was fixed up awful nice. Julie smelled a rat. However, she had learned at an early age that one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth unless one wished to become acquainted with its teeth. If Georgiana had taken a sudden inexplicable interest in Julie, Tony was acting just the opposite, shying away whenever she came near him as if afraid she might carry the plague, and leaving her feeling unexpectedly as if she’d lost one of her few friends.

Julie wished she’d never met the Ashcrofts, mother and son. Georgiana left off crowing about Lady Dorset’s comeuppance to marvel at the intelligence that Princess Charlotte had finally refused the Prince of Orange, which came as no particular surprise, for were there not an embarrassment of considerably more handsome foreign princes in the city, and hadn’t the princess been meeting clandestinely with the King of Prussia’s nineteen-year-old nephew? Her ladyship was distracted by another of her cronies then, and Julie took the opportunity to slip away. All in all, now that she had the privilege of observing performances from the luxury of a private box, Julie preferred backstage.

Rose was waiting in the dressing room. She wore Desdemona’s long flowing robe.

Julie pulled out the notebook she’d hidden beneath her shawl. Rose eyed it doubtfully. “That can’t be worth much.”

“Neither was the glove,” retorted Julie. “And a woman hanged herself for that.”

Rose hadn’t known about the hanging. She’d heard gossip; it would have been difficult not to; but hadn’t equated that gossip with Julie’s pilfered glove. She grimaced. “Where did you find this?”

Julie glanced over her shoulder, assured herself that they were alone. “At Wakely Court. I told Ned I needed it and he gave it to me. It’s used for making and breaking government codes.”

Rose opened the notebook, rifled through the pages before locking it away in a drawer. “
Why
did he give it to you?”

Because Julie’s brain had turned to noodles and she’d told more than she should. “He knows about the blackmail.”

“How?”

Julie toyed with the makeup pots. “There’s no flies on Ned.”

There were no flies on Rose, and furthermore she’d asked to have inquiries made. Belatedly, she wondered if it had been the best idea to make Pritchett aware of Julie’s relationship with the earl.

Too late, now, for sniffling over spilt milk. Pritchett had confirmed her suspicions that Lord Dorset was a rogue.

Rose knew how it was with rogues. “You are drawn to him,” she sighed, “like a moth to the flame.”

“Ballocks.” Julie set the makeup pot aside.

Rose knew what she knew, and from experience; and if her amours ended sadly, she had enjoyed herself along the way. Nor had she outgrown the pleasures of the flesh, for she had acquired a handsome new admirer and an assignation after the play. “You must try and fix Dorset’s interest, if you can’t turn away. Cast out lures but withhold the ultimate favor and you’ll have him eating out of your hand. An earl dangling at your slipper-strings can’t do you any harm.”

Julie didn’t tell Rose that matters had already progressed in a manner that strongly indicated withholding wasn’t in her nature. “Mayhap I should lay down on the floor in front of him so that he may trip over me.”

Rose winked. “Arse over teakettle. You can do it, my girl. Keep in mind that gentlemen always want what they think they can’t have. Don’t give me that look! This is a case of do not as I do, but as I say.” There was no time for further good advice. Rose was due to die onstage.

Julie made her way slowly back to the public area. She was in no hurry to return to Lady Georgiana’s box. Was Cap’n Jack in the audience tonight? If so, he was unlikely to be dressed in a high-waisted white muslin gown like the young lady blocking her path.

A familiar young lady with mahogany curls and dimples and eyes of a bright green. Said Clea, “Am I not demure? I have been persuaded that I must learn to walk before I run.” She gazed enviously upon Julie’s gown. “That is an astonishing neckline. I wish I had a bosom. Kane says it doesn’t matter, but I don’t know that I believe him, even if he has had a thousand lovers and should know about such things.”

Ned’s sister was relentless. “I don’t think it’s proper for you to be wandering around by yourself,” Julie said.

Clea showed not the least repentance. “
You
are,” she pointed out. “I’ve been following you.”

“Yes, but I’m not
. . .
” Overwhelmed by all the things she wasn’t, Julie fell silent.

“I’m not alone, exactly. Just momentarily misplaced.” Clea linked arms with Julie. “Now tell me, what are gingambobs?”

Julie recalled their first meeting, and the way she had behaved. It was a wonder Ned spoke to her. He might
not
speak to her again if she continued this conversation. “Don’t tell me I’m too young,” added Clea. “You’re not much older than I am.”

“I was never as young as you are.”

“Have I annoyed you? I didn’t mean to. It is very frustrating when people refuse to explain things and claim it’s for your own good when what they’re really doing is trying to keep you well wrapped in lamb’s wool. I sometimes feel like I’m locked up in a cage.”

Julie knew what it was like to be imprisoned. “Stones. Gingambobs are stones.”

“Stones?”

“Nutmegs. Twiddle-diddles.” Julie gestured. “A gentleman’s—”

“Testicles.” Clea had been in the Peninsula with her brother and therefore was not half so well wrapped as her cousin Hannah might have liked. “There are many other things that I’d like to know. For instance, how does one go about breaking into a house?”

Ned might overlook Julie battering his person, but damage to his sister would be an unforgivable trespass. As would further harm to his sister’s sensibilities. “Drury Lane is the most haunted theater in the world,” Julie countered. “If you see someone dressed like a nobleman of the last century, with powdered hair and a tricorn hat, a cloak and riding boots and sword, that is the Man is Grey.”

“I’d hoped Wakely Court might have a ghost, but instead we have Cerberus.” Clea glanced over Julie’s shoulder. “Oh, dear. Now the fat is in the fire.”

Julie turned to see Clea’s brother walking toward them. He was
wearing a long-tailed evening coat of bottle green with covered buttons and a pale buff waistcoat. The starched points of his shirt collar framed an intricately tied cravat. His boots were mirror-bright from shining, and his kerseymere pantaloons so well-fitting that Julie felt like fanning herself.

He inspected her in turn. His gaze lingered at her neckline. His eyes burned a brilliant shade of green.

Julie felt embarrassed; she’d wept all over him. And seen him without his shirt. Had felt the evidence of his wanting her. His warm look suggested his thoughts might be following a similar path.

Clea cleared her throat. “Here comes my friend Elizabeth, and her parents. They probably think I’ve gotten lost. Ned is taking me to see a display of equestrian acrobatics at Astley’s Amphitheater, Miss Wynne. Do say you’ll come along.” Before either of her companions could comment, she darted away.

“My sister has a talent for making exits.” Ned watched Clea until he saw that she did indeed rejoin her friends. “What did she want?”

“She may have taken the notion that I know how to pick a lock.”

“I shudder to think what locks Clea may aspire to pick. Since she is determined to make your acquaintance, we may as well bow to the inevitable. I will ask Lady Georgiana if you may accompany us to Astley’s Amphitheater. Would you care for that?”

Would she care to enjoy amazing feats of horsemanship and acrobats, rope dancers and juggling clowns? Had everyone around Julie gone mad? “You don’t want your sister rubbing shoulders with me. What if—”

“Gammon.” Ned took her hand and placed it on his arm. “You said you wanted to be able to do things and go places without fear. Here’s an opportunity. No harm will come to you in my company.”

On the contrary. A great deal of harm could come to her, as well as to him. Still, Julie was touched by the earl remembering that she’d said she wanted an ordinary life.

In an attempt to hide her feelings, she changed the subject. “Lady Georgiana is crowing over the gossip about your cousin. I suppose Lady Dorset is cross.”

“Lady Dorset has taken to her bed,” Ned said with satisfaction. “I doubt she’ll stay there long, alas. One never knows how these rumors get
their start, although Hannah has a notion, and is furious with Kane. I have compounded her chagrin by publicly apologizing to Mrs. Tate for any embarrassment this nonsense — and I did call it nonsense — has caused her. I’m cross myself about the
on-dit
that I left my heart behind in the Peninsula. That
was Sabine’s contribution, I think.” Instead of returning Julie to
Lady Georgiana’s box, he was leading her deeper backstage. “I know so few things about you. Do you wish to marry? Most young ladies your age do.”

Julie was tired of pointing out she wasn’t a young lady. “What would I do with a husband? It’s hard enough to look after myself.”

“Your family should be looking after you.”

“Like you look after your sister? You should keep her miles away from me.”

“I have yet to prevent Clea doing anything she wishes. You will have delivered the notebook. How did you manage that?”

“I told Lady Georgiana it was a spiritual lesson-book and I thought I should have it with me if I was going somewhere so wicked as the theater. She told me I must make sure to keep it out of sight.” Julie grinned. Ned laughed.

They were deep in the bowels of the theater, in a storage area
containing flats not in use for the current production — temples and tombs, palace interiors and exteriors, city walls and rural
prospects — alongside a pair of wave-rollers, complete with handles
for turning them, and a cloud apparatus machine. Ned backed Julie into the shadows and took her face between his hands and brushed a kiss against her lips.

An entirely too chaste kiss. He’d had his hand up her skirt. Julie wanted it there again.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Ned murmured, “and I won’t be held responsible.”

Was he going to offer her that slip on the shoulder now? Julie wondered what she would say. Rather, she knew what she wanted to say, but wondered how to properly phrase it. ‘Tumble me now’ sounded a trifle too direct.

“Ned,” came a voice from behind them. “I’ve had the devil of a time finding you. I am sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s I who am sorry,” Ned said, but to Julie. “Kane, I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to Miss Wynne.”

“So I have not. My pleasure, Miss Wynne.” The baron’s tone suggested it wasn’t pleasure that he felt. “Much as I dislike to interrupt your conversation, Ned’s presence is required elsewhere.”

Julie flushed at the emphasis he put on ‘conversation’. Ned took her hand. “Indeed my presence
is
required. By Miss Wynne. If that is all
. . .
”

“The Royals have arrived. Platoff  is growing bored of all these tedious long dinners and requires intelligent discourse for a change. Which, oddly, he expects you may provide.”

The men were angry with each other. Julie suspected it was her fault. She said, “I’ll make my own way back.”

“You will not. Platoff can wait.” Ned kept firm hold of Julie. The baron turned on his heel and strode away.

He knew, thought Julie. Lord Saxe knew who and what she was. “I can’t go with you to Astley’s,” she said.

“Have you ever been to Astley’s? Do you think you wouldn’t enjoy it?” She shook her head. “Then I’ll hear no more arguments,” said Ned.

Lady Georgiana was pleased to see the earl, and delighted to utter civil whiskers about his poor cousin, and surprisingly gracious about the proposed excursion to Astley’s. Ned left the box accompanied by the audience singing “God Save the King”. The Czar cordially joined in. A pity Their Majesties had missed
Othello
altogether, murmured the spectators, but at least the afterpiece remained to be enjoyed.

“Slyboots,” said Georgiana to Julie, after the singing had ceased.

Julie protested, “I felt the need for some air.”

“Proper young women don’t need air.” Lady Georgiana raised her quizzing glass and inspected Julie through the lens. “You have gotten rumpled. Where is your notebook?”

“I encountered someone more in need of it than I.”

Lady Georgiana harrumphed, then settled back to enjoy
The Woodman’s Hut
, a somewhat tedious undertaking that was enlightened by frequent demonstrations from the audience. Julie was left to her own thoughts.

On the one hand, she wanted more than anything to go to Astley’s with Ned and his sister and pretend for a short time that she was an ordinary person with an ordinary life. On the other, while Ned might be trusted not to betray her, she hoped, his friend the baron would no doubt be pleased to see her hang.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Every day should be passed as if it were to be our last.
— Pubilius Syrus

Tony might have thought —
if
he thought, which he took great pains to do as seldom as possible, because the inevitable conclusion he arrived at on those rare occasions when he chose to exercise his
brain was that he was in a sorry plight — he would be safe in Bond Street from interruption by scolding mamas and Bow Street Runners who were no better than they should be. And in fact he had executed many errands without the sort of interruptions that plagued him of late. He had visited Schweitzer and Davidson of Cork St, Meyer and then Guthrie, establishments that enjoyed his patronage and were
hopeful that at some time in the near future he might settle his accounts; had ordered trousers from Stultz and Hessian boots from Hoby in St James St; had visited a hatter and hosier and perfumer and paused by a confectioners shop for a cherry tart, even though his mama, who said he should keep an eye out for his
manly figure, would have disapproved. But Tony’s mama disapproved of so many things that it was difficult to keep track of them, and he was forever setting his foot wrong, at which point she would either fly off the hooks or look at him in that pitying manner as if
she was lamenting his lack of wit
.