Page 22 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Too late. His presence had been observed. Around him, the ladies’ alarmed expressions told him his own face had settled into its habitual scowl, a mask he had found far more effective at hiding its wearer’s true feelings than even Melpomene or Thalia, the familiar masks of tragedy and comedy. When these women reported on the evening to their friends, they would describe him as angry or irritated or unhappy.

Better that than the truth: surrounded by so many strangers, discomfort had shot shards of ice into his veins and struck up an ominous thudding in his chest. The longer he hesitated, the greater the risk of him turning to stone.

But at the sight of him, the sea of occupants parted to reveal Mrs. Hayes. The widow, already seated in the center of the back row, expressed her delight that he should join them.

And then, over her shoulder, Miss Addison appeared, and his pulse, already rapid, ratcheted another notch upward. She blinked at him twice in evident astonishment before sinking into her seat.

With curtsies, sidelong glances, and a great deal of whispering behind fans, several of the women departed for their own boxes, leaving just five behind: Mrs. Hayes; her friend Lady Clearwater; Lady Clearwater’s two daughters, whose dark-blond hair and elegant dresses were, he suspected, too often mistaken for prettiness; and Julia.

The two Misses Clearwater joined Julia in the front of the box; “the better to be observed,” remarked their mother slyly. Her daughters tittered at the insinuation, while Julia slumped lower in her chair. Or was it his imagination? Was he ascribing his own preference for the shadows to her? Certainly she was every bit as deserving of society’s notice as the Misses Clearwater. Whether she wanted the attention was a question yet to be answered.

Mrs. Hayes gestured him to the chair on her right as Lady Clearwater settled into the chair to her left, behind Miss Addison. He and Julia were thus seated as far apart as the small box made possible, which was, of course, irrelevant to his mission. Perhaps even an advantage. Less of a distraction.

He was more than usually annoyed, however, by the two other young ladies, who—in addition to chattering and fluttering their fans and waving to friends on the opposite side of the theater even after the curtain had risen—dared to send him the occasional simpering glance.

Oh, it was hardly surprising behavior, no matter how often he scolded audiences for it in his plays. Even when the production was something new and exciting—and The Iron Chest did not qualify as either—people came to the theater to be seen and to socialize, to flirt and to fawn, not to listen and learn.

Still, must they continually disrupt his view of the stage, perfectly situated as it was past the end of Julia’s tilt-tipped nose?

Not that he had come to watch the play either. Tonight, he would be among the guilty parties. He had come intending to give most of his attention to Mrs. Hayes.

He began well enough, with a leading question about how often she and her companion attended the theater. But he hadn’t considered just how much of his research would involve listening to Mrs. Hayes rattle on about everything but Julia. By the second act he had accomplished nothing more than confirming what Julia herself had already revealed: she was the daughter of a clergyman, now deceased.

Eventually, Mrs. Hayes added that Julia had been born and humbly raised in Oxfordshire—“just out of reach of everything a girl could truly want, though she never complains, of course.”

Throughout, Julia had remained devoted entirely to what passed on the boards below, indifferent to the noise around her. He supposed, in her time with Mrs. Hayes, she had determined how much of that lady’s flowing stream of conversation could safely be ignored. But at those last words—everything a girl could truly want—her shoulders gave the slightest twitch, as if she were fighting the impulse to twist around in her chair and send Mrs. Hayes a quelling glance.

Just what had the woman inadvertently revealed about her companion’s desires?

Before he could begin to speculate, Mrs. Hayes was on to the next bit of gossip. Buried among a number of far less interesting anecdotes was the information that Julia’s mother had recently remarried and was now Mrs. Remington. And Julia’s brother had not, in fact, followed in his father’s footsteps, but had instead joined the army. “I suppose,” Mrs. Hayes reflected, raising her lorgnette to peer at the occupants of the pit, “he must have thought it a surer route to being able to support his mother and sister, after inheriting more debts than devoirs.”

That was a detail uniquely suited to pique Graham’s attention. He knew firsthand about troublesome inheritances. Something tied up in Chancery, perhaps, or an entailed piece of property that cost more to maintain than it brought in.

“Imagine,” Mrs. Hayes went on, “waking up one morning to find yourself a viscount!”

Better or worse, Graham wondered, than being roused with the news of my brother’s death and realizing I was the earl?

“The title was worth so little that to this day, he still prefers to be called Captain Addison among his friends,” exclaimed Mrs. Hayes, returning his thoughts to the present moment. “Though I believe that’s also to protect my niece,” she added in a softer tone. “My Laura has a stout heart, but after all that nonsense two years ago, what young woman wouldn’t shy away from the prospect of being addressed as Lady Sterling?”

“Forgive me, ma’am. But I—”

I don’t particularly care.

It was Julia he wanted to understand, not her brother—though the information that she was sister to a viscount was a not unpleasant surprise.

Mrs. Hayes, however, was too ready to offer an explanation, whether or not he had expressed a need for one. “It was in all the papers, about that pickpocket who styled herself Lady Sterling,” she told him, openly incredulous that anyone would not remember such a tale. “But I’m glad to know some people have begun to forget the scandal. For all the good Captain Addison and my niece have done, I should like to hear them addressed as they ought to be.”

Mrs. Hayes told the rest of the story with numerous detours and interruptions, but Graham eventually deduced that Lord and Lady Sterling had established some sort of philanthropic endeavor on his estate in Wiltshire—the taste for country living of which Julia had spoken that afternoon—made possible by the substantial dowry Mrs. Hayes’s niece had brought to the match. And they were assisted in the work by Lord Sterling’s mother and stepfather.

Instead of joining them, Julia had elected to put herself at the beck and call of the garrulous Mrs. Hayes. What kept her connected to London? Something more than the prospect of an occasional outing to Covent Garden with her employer, whatever she might claim. And he thought he could guess what it might be.

He had some familiarity with a longing for independence, even to the point of recklessness. But he had never had to battle against the sort of restrictions society placed on young ladies. Here, she had no family nearby to check her, to watch over her. He doubted whether Mrs. Hayes knew that her companion went gallivanting about London on her own. To say nothing of what she might get up to while she was out.

Not that he was concerned about Julia. Merely curious.

If anything, more curious than he had been an hour ago.

Well, as Mr. Pope—the poet, not the box manager—had so succinctly phrased it nearly a century before, “A little learning is a dangerous thing.” Dangerous, not because one should wish to remain ignorant, but because those first sips of new information could be intoxicating, without truly slaking one’s thirst.