Page 21 of The Lady Plays with Fire

He ran one hand over his chin, feeling the growth of a three days’ beard. When he was a younger man, his beard had been little more than a golden gleam. Now, at almost thirty, he bore an auburn shadow. He considered calling back Harcourt, his valet, to scrape it away.

But no, his present appearance would have to do. The curtain rose promptly at half-past six. It waited for no man—not even the king.

Though pressed for time, once outside his chambers, he paused again. Rather than descend, he followed the staircase up another flight and stopped before the door to a room at the back of the house, relieved to see a narrow seam of light beneath it.

“Keynes?” He rapped with the knuckle of his first finger.

A moment’s bustle within, and then the door swung open and his secretary bowed. “My lord. May I be of some assistance?”

Keynes had been given, or more likely had chosen, the smallest, most spartan chamber. Though both were narrow, the bed and writing table together hardly left room for a comfortable chair.

Yet Keynes looked comfortable, enviably so, with his spectacles perched on his forehead, his cravat loosened, and the top buttons of his waistcoat undone. Rather than being littered by Graham’s correspondence and bills, as in the study below, the table here contained only half a glass of claret and a thick volume lying face down and open. The book bore all the signs of having come from a circulating library. A novel, then, and evidently of the page-turning variety.

Graham felt a slight pang. Guilt at having intruded on the man’s quiet hours. But also, even more unexpectedly, envy. Such a peaceful, pleasant means of escape, so unlike the various routes Graham had chosen.

He waved off Keynes’s flustered attempt to put his clothes to rights. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

The other man’s hands fell slack, along with his jaw. Graham’s apology appeared to have struck him dumb.

Good God. It was almost enough to make Graham regret having been such a bastard to his secretary all these years.

But not enough to keep him from saying, “I came to find out what you’ve learned about the identity of Miss on Scene.”

Keynes quickly pulled himself together. “Verra little, my lord. I calculated the proportion of nouns and adjectives in the review, to determine if there is anything distinctive about the author’s style. And I made note of uncommon diction. I had nae time for more. I didnae think you would want the matter to take priority over my usual tasks. But if you wish it, I will—”

He moved as if intending to go down to the study immediately and resume his work.

Graham squared himself in the doorway and shook his head. “Nay, Mr. Keynes. That’ll do for now.”

Keynes dipped his head once in acknowledgment. The movement did not disguise the flare of astonishment in his eyes. Clearly, he had not been expecting a reprieve.

In fact, Graham had come tonight, planning on adding to the man’s assignment. Oh, nothing too taxing. A few simple inquiries, nothing more. But enough to further delay progress on the important undertaking of discovering Miss on Scene’s identity.

So instead, Graham said, “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Keynes,” as he turned away from the door.

“Thank you, my lord.” The slightest pause. “From the hour, I ken you’re bound for the theater?”

Graham did not glance over his shoulder. “Aye.”

“Are you quite certain, after your letter this morning, that Mrs. Hayes will nae have claimed the box already for the night?”

He thought of Julia’s small, gloved hand wrapped around the ticket, the way the ivory disc must have absorbed the warmth of her touch.

“In fact, Keynes, I’m certain she has.”

He could also picture how the groove between Keynes’s brows, etched there by years of care and consternation, must have deepened at that reply.

He hadn’t yet been reduced to explaining himself to his secretary, however.

Graham had repeated one simple phrase—Julia Addison is no concern of yours—often enough that afternoon that it had almost become an incantation. He was fully persuaded he spoke the truth. He wasn’t concerned. Merely . . . curious.

And surely a man was entitled to assuage his curiosity.

* * *

Graham arrived at Covent Garden with little time to spare before the curtain rose. Fortunately, he faced no obstacles in gaining admittance, though he was not in possession of the ticket to his box. It had required no more than his name, which had elicited a few whispers and nudges among the staff—those who presumably knew what had become of the box manager—and he had been ushered inside with alacrity.

He found his box full to overflowing with fashionable females, and none of them the women he had expected to find within. Convinced he had taken a wrong turn and pulled aside the wrong velvet drapery, he began a slow, strategic retreat.