Page 70 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Nearly there did nothing at all for Julia’s nerves.

Against Graham’s insistence that he would propose again after the play, she balanced the fact that she had heard nothing from him for a week. True, he had evidently sent word to Aunt Mildred—or at least, she had made the announcement over dinner—that they were to have the use of his box on opening night. But there were six of them: Mama, Mr. Remington, Jeremy, Laura, Aunt Mildred, and her. And only six seats in the box. Which meant that Graham would not be joining them tonight, either.

Had he succeeded in revising the play sufficiently to keep her and the rest of the Magazine for Misses out of danger?

Or had he changed his mind? Was this the invitation to Miss on Scene he’d always intended to send?

Oh, if only she could have a look or a word from him before the play began. If only he could be seated beside her and, when everyone else was focused on the stage, reach out and give her fingers a squeeze of reassurance.

The four ladies had traveled in Aunt Mildred’s barouche, while Jeremy and Mr. Remington had elected to call for a hackney. When Julia stepped onto the pavement, she could not determine which of the cabs waiting in the long line of carriages in front of the theater might contain her brother and stepfather.

With Laura’s assistance, she helped Aunt Mildred from the coach. Though improved even more from what she had been a week before, she still moved slowly and stiffly. A jouncing ride across the city had rendered her pale beneath her rouge. But there was a familiar twinkle in her eyes as they joined other theatergoers in the vestibule and waited to be reunited with the rest of their party.

The crush was breathtaking—quiet literally. Fashionably dressed people pressed in on them from all sides. The staircase ascending to the long saloon flowed like a waterfall of humanity, and Julia could imagine that the benches in the pit would be crowded past capacity tonight. Rumor had it even the Prince of Wales intended to make an appearance in his father’s box.

She could not help but think of what Graham had said, about English theatergoers’ eagerness to be mocked. What accounted for their enthusiasm?

Or had they heard rumors about the target of tonight’s satire? The Magazine for Misses certainly had its detractors. Had some number of these people come to join in the mockery at her expense?

Was the person who had sent those awful notes among them?

Julia glanced from one person to the next, from silk gown to quizzing glass, from balding head to elegant coiffure. Which of them had claimed to be R.B.?

Finally, she caught sight of Jeremy straining to search above the crowd. Heedless of propriety, she thrust a hand into the air to signal them. Beside her, and much to her amusement, Laura did the same. Mama sent them both a gently chiding glance, but Julia also noted the eagerness of her expression as Mr. Remington pressed through the throng to appear at her side. The two of them had first met many years ago, before Mama’s marriage to Papa, but circumstances and an ocean had come between them and kept them apart for almost thirty years.

Mama’s face made clear that she did not intend to lose sight of him again.

“About time,” Aunt Mildred grumbled, not quite under her breath, as the six of them formed a phalanx to tackle the stairs.

The curtain to Lord Dunstane’s box stood open, anticipating their arrival. Six empty chairs with blue upholstery awaited them, as always. Julia bit back her disappointment. She had been hoping one of the ushers had been ordered to squeeze in a seventh chair, as was sometimes done. She had been hoping Graham would join them, as a surprise.

After some discussion, Laura, Mama, and Aunt Mildred took the seats in the front. Jeremy and Mr. Remington sat behind their wives, and Julia took the chair behind Aunt Mildred, despite that lady’s objection.

“You won’t be able to see as well,” she insisted. “And worse yet, you won’t be seen.”

But Julia didn’t mind the relative obscurity, tucked behind Aunt Mildred’s turban and almost against the silk-covered wall dividing their box from the next. She could see perfectly fine. Or well enough, at least. And the curtain at her back promised the possibility of escape, if all did not go as planned.

In a box across the way sat the Marquess and Marchioness of Estley and their daughter, Lady Clarissa, who had inherited her father’s golden good looks and her mother’s gift of music. Clarissa caught Julia’s eye; she, too, looked faintly queasy. With a surreptitious tilt of her head, she directed Julia’s gaze to a box closer to the stage, where sat Lord and Lady Stalbridge with her stepson, Lord Manwaring.

Tonight, there was no mistaking that young man for anything but a dandy, in a russet velvet coat paired with a purple- and green-striped waistcoat, a jewel-encrusted quizzing glass, and artfully mussed brown curls. It was a costume that invited even the most jaded theatergoers to stare.

If the world was to discover tonight that he was the famous Mrs. Goode, he appeared to be ready for the attention, prepared to defy their anticipated scorn.

Half past six o’clock came and went. Twice, Mr. Remington pulled out his pocket watch and showed it to all the ladies. In a most uncharacteristic gesture, Jeremy reached out and covered her hand where it lay clenched in her lap. The noise around them rose and fell in waves of speculative chatter and anticipatory hush. At long last, the curtains on the stage moved and finally parted enough for a single person to step through.

Graham appeared, and Julia’s breath caught in her throat.

Even alone on the stage, dwarfed by the gilded proscenium, he cut an imposing figure. The light from the chandelier struck fire from his hair. And he was wearing a kilt! Heat rushed into Julia’s cheeks at the sight of his legs, the memory of his teasing words at the cottage, and the possibility—nay, the certainty—that he had done it for her.

Someone in the audience—Julia felt sure it was Lord Manwaring—whistled.

Graham bowed in acknowledgment, but his stern features did not crack. Against the murmur that began to ripple through the crowd, he raised a hand until silence fell once more.

“On behalf of the playwright and the actors, allow me to offer my thanks for your patience. We have all been waiting eagerly for some time to bring you The Poison Pen. Unfortunately—”

At that word, noise from the audience swelled again, whispered speculations, murmurs of disappointment. Julia leaned forward, gripping the edge of her seat with her free hand, wishing she had the power to make them all hush.

Graham stood, saying nothing more until he was sure he would be heard.