Page 24 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

“Truly, I’m fine. I seem to be compelled to keep remembering last night’s embarrassment, that’s all.”

“The spilled wine, you mean?”

Amanda mustered a tinkling laugh at her own expense. “What else? Now, Mr. Hurst, tell me about the play, if you would.” She needed to turn the conversation and give everyone in the carriage something else to think about.

As Mr. Hurst began to sketch out the story—involving a wicked queen, a duped king, a daughter denied the right to marry her true love, and two sons, kidnapped in their infancy and restored to their places in the succession to the throne at last—Amanda fought to keep her attention from wandering back over the various plot twists in her own life. Despite her careful upbringing, the girl of nineteen who had once so enjoyed an outing such as this had been ill-prepared for the life—and death—that had followed. But what she’d lacked in wisdom she had gained in strength, the strength required to be a countess, to bury her husband, to shield her boys. If she hadn’t the savvy to spy on behalf of the Crown, she at least had what little wit it took to outmaneuver Lord Dulsworthy.

“I am so glad you’ve joined us at last, Amanda,” Rebecca said as the carriage rolled to a stop near Covent Garden. Her voice dropped a note lower. “I’d begun to think you’d decided to mourn Lord Kingston forever.”

She had the grace not to sound skeptical, though she certainly had reason to be. Though over the years she had developed an affection for the man she had married, Amanda had never pretended to be making a love match. No one would have expected it of her—least of all her husband.

“Mama has been very protective of me,” Amanda answered after a moment.

Her friend nodded, a knowing expression in her eyes. “Mrs. West always was, as I recall.”

Amanda only smiled. Mama still wanted to shelter her, to give her the best, by which she meant the safest—and the dullest—life possible. If she knew about Amanda’s involvement with a codebook, a secret mission, a handsome spy…well, she would probably have heart palpitations.

Fortunately, all that was over. Mama’s heart was perfectly safe.

Amanda gave herself a little shake and looked about at the bustle, the great variety of people, the gowns and the jewels and the headpieces. A night at the theater offered ample distraction, and she would not ruin its pleasures, or the enjoyment of her friends’ company, by sulking.

The Hursts had excellent seats, a box near enough the stage that Amanda could immerse herself entirely in the performance, but not so near that she was distracted by the thick paint the actors’ wore or the spittle that flew from their lips. Mr. Kemble was, as promised, extraordinary as Posthumus, the princess’s would-be lover.

So lost was Amanda in the story unfolding before her, Rebecca had to tap her twice on the knee with her folded fan to pull her attention from the stage. “My dear, do you recognize that gentleman over there?” She tipped her head slightly toward a box on the other side of the theater, where a dark-haired man sat alone. “He has been staring at you all evening.”

Not wishing to return the favor, Amanda sent a quick glance in his direction, too quick to be sure of much of anything.

“Oh, of course he would return his attention to the stage now.” A huff of somewhat amused annoyance underscored Rebecca’s whisper. “He must know I’ve caught him at his rudeness.”

Amanda looked again. Looked, but would not stare. Each time she let her eyes drift across the theater, another piece of him came more clearly into view. Rather outrageously dressed, the sort of person who wished to draw attention to his clothes. A pink silk coat, an embroidered floral waistcoat, and a collar so high and so stiff he must have difficulty turning his head. And twirling a quizzing glass in the fingers of one hand.

With each glimpse, her chest tightened, until she was nearly breathless. Brown hair, darker than she had first imagined. A chiseled profile.

She was imagining things. It couldn’t possibly be…

He turned toward her then, lifted the glass to his eye so imperiously, he might have been a duke. He gave no nod, made no acknowledgment that he had been seen.

“Magpie.”

Her lips shaped the name, but made almost no sound.

“I beg your pardon?” Rebecca said, leaning toward her in a way that momentarily blocked him from Amanda’s view.

“Whoever he is, he’s a preening sort, I’ll say that much.” With an exaggerated movement, Amanda squared herself in her seat and would look nowhere but at the stage.

But beneath that performance of indifference, her heart clattered in her chest and heat threatened to rise to her cheeks.

We shan’t require anything further from you.

So what was he doing here tonight?

She held herself stiff for the remainder of the performance, willing herself not even to glance in his direction again. So stiff that Mr. Hurst was obliged to help her to her feet when the play was over.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

“Marvelous,” was her reply, though she no longer had any sense of what she’d witnessed.

Thankfully, that was a sufficient reply to encourage Mr. Hurst to launch into his own analysis, comparing this performance to ones he had seen in the past, decrying the modern practice of changing the endings to certain plays. Most of all, he mourned the inestimable losses when Shakespeare’s genius was cast before indolent, indifferent audiences, like pearls before swine—“too rich and too comfortable,” he complained as they fought their way to their carriage. People nearby cast him looks ranging from tolerant amusement to anger. “Not as it once was, when everyday sorts of people jostled for position in the pit and the actors had to keep them hanging on every word if they wanted to be heard above the crowd.”