Page 8 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Interesting,” he replied with a sage nod. “I would have described it as insipid.”

The flare of her eyes reflected surprise but not, he thought, disagreement with his assessment.

“It happens sometimes,” he went on, leaning slightly toward her so as to be heard when he lowered his voice. “Even the great actors are affected by opening night jitters.”

Miss Addison glanced again toward the boxes. “Then perhaps Mrs. Hayes should have accepted Mr. Pope’s offer to find us tickets for another night.”

He recalled Miss Addison’s quiet noise of displeasure at the prospect. She must have been looking forward to this evening for some time. Now she was disappointed by how things had unfolded. Disconcerted.

Well, tonight had not gone as he had planned, either.

In the distance, a jangle of bells signaled the end of intermission. He held out a glass of cloyingly sweet ratafia. “For your aunt.”

Some indefinable reaction wrinkled across her brow and was gone. “Mrs. Hayes is not my aunt,” she said, though she accepted the glass. He expected some further explanation—he had quite plainly heard the older woman call Miss Addison her niece—but none came. She turned toward the entrance to the box, then glanced back over her shoulder when she realized he had not followed. “You do not intend to watch the rest of the play?”

He contemplated another hour of sitting beside her, her profile inserting itself into his view of the stage, the soft scent of her soap intruding on his senses. He shook his head. “Another night may be better, as you say.”

She seemed to sense his reluctance was not based solely on the mediocre performances. Swallowing back whatever retort she had been about to make, she curtsied rather stiffly instead. “You have that liberty, I suppose. It is your box.”

The crowd divided them as people made their noisy way once more into the theater. He watched Julia’s retreating form until it was lost to him among the throng.

Alone at last, he glanced down at the remaining glass with a grimace. He had intended it for her.

Placing it untasted on the pedestal of the statue, he hurried down the staircase to the exit.

Chapter 3

Insipid.

She had been trying for half an hour to finish her review of Othello for the Magazine for Misses. Every word had been a struggle. Too frequently, the words that suggested themselves to her mind had belonged first to Lord Dunstane.

Not that two people mightn’t choose to describe a play in similar terms. Particularly not a shared experience of a performance. Or part of one, anyway.

Oh, but she was glad he had left at intermission. His presence in the box had been a weight on the evening, a looming shadow. The mere memory of him sitting beside her sent a prickle down her spine, forcing her to sit up a little straighter.

She dragged her pen through the word, pressing the tip so firmly into the paper that it tore.

“Oh, drat!”

Mrs. Hayes, who was seated by the parlor’s large window overlooking Clapham Common, glanced up from the letter she had been reading. “What’s that you’re working on, my dear?”

“A letter to Daphne,” Julia fibbed.

Daphne, Lady Deveraux, was also Miss Busy B., the Magazine for Misses’ advice columnist—a role she continued to fulfill even after marrying the very rake she’d infamously advised a reader against. She was quick spoken, bordering on impetuous, and Julia had liked her instantly.

Julia did write to Daphne often. But this morning’s missive was, in fact, intended for Lady Stalbridge, an elegant older woman with whom Julia could have no plausible reason for corresponding. Hence the lie. The countess was the editor of the magazine, about which Mrs. Hayes—thank God—knew nothing at all.

“A frustrating letter, it would seem,” Mrs. Hayes acknowledged, before returning to her reading.

“Yes, ma’am,” Julia agreed, sliding a fresh sheet of foolscap from the shallow drawer of the escritoire. Fortunately, Mrs. Hayes never stinted with the supply of paper and ink. “I have been attempting to describe the play last night, but I cannot seem to find the words this morning.”

“Dull,” Mrs. Hayes suggested without looking up. “Spiritless. Wooden. I have rarely been so disappointed by an opening night. I almost regret insisting that we stay.” She paused to murmur over something she read, shaking her head as she refolded the letter and laid it aside before turning to the next. “At least the farce was tolerably amusing. A pity Lord Dunstane missed it, don’t you agree?”

She could picture the scorn with which Lord Scottish would have viewed such silliness, the disdain with which he would have listened to her laughter.

Oh, his hauteur was unsufferable. Unforgiveable.

Or ought to be.