Page 50 of The Lyon Rampant

“Yes—one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff. An impressively built gentleman and a veteran soldier. I wonder—”

“What do you wonder?” Belinda’s hand rested close to his. It was all he could do not to grasp it and kiss it.

“I had an interesting conversation with the fellow before I went to Devon. It seems someone has performed the miracle of touching his heart. I wonder if that person might be Miss Brent.”

He had expected her, as women usually did, to immediately start asking for details connected with this juicy piece of gossip, particularly as it involved her friend. Instead, she surprised him by asking, “Has anyone ever performed the miracle of touching yours, Piers? Was Charlotte the one?”

“Charlotte? Alas, no. I’m not entirely certain that I have a heart—although I am exceedingly fond of Oliver, even though I’ve never met the boy. And I have an avuncular relationship with young Tom.”

“You’re avoiding the question. I meant, in a romantic way.”

He reached for her again and hugged her to him. “Not until I met you, my bride-to-be.”

She shoved at him, but not hard enough to break his grip. “You’re teasing me again, sir. Kindly desist, or I shall have to punish you.”

“I can’t think of anything more enjoyable.”

“Ah—you’re impossible! You’re almost as difficult a companion when you’re in a good mood as when you’re in a bad one.”

“I see you’re beginning to understand my character, Belinda. I pray it won’t make you hate me.”

She bit her lip. “I was inclined to, at first. But I’m prepared to give you a second chance.”

“Excellent! Then I shall do the same for you.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she turning those words over in her head, in the same way that he was? This conversation was becoming dangerous.

“I’d like to call in at the Old Forum on our way to George Street. There are a couple of messages I wish to leave at the earliest opportunity.”

He would let Belinda think they were business messages, but in fact, he meant to leave farewell messages for both Katie and Sally. If he was going to pretend to be a reformed rake who had met the woman of his dreams, it would be wrong to continue his association with said ladies. Even though theirs was purely a financial arrangement to keep the matchmaking mamas away, his deceit was one he’d prefer Society to know nothing about. He was sure the women would understand, and he’d sweeten the pill with a generous handout and some carefully chosen jewelry. But he needed to do it as soon as possible before they heard about his engagement and started kicking up a fuss, as most of the actresses he knew were prone to do. It wouldn’t take him long to go into the manager’s office and pen a couple of missives to his lady friends.

“I have no objection to a brief stop at the Old Forum. It would be entertaining to see what the theater looks like with nobody in it—even to go backstage.”

“I will give you the full tour at the earliest opportunity.”

There was a sudden spattering noise on the roof and windows of the carriage. Typical! He’d been staying in one of the wettest parts of the country and had mostly enjoyed dry weather, yet on returning to the capital, he’d been greeted with a downpour.

“I think we’ll let the carriage go when we reach the theater, and hail ourselves a hackney carriage to take you to George Street and to take me home. Our coachman won’t want his horses standing around in the rain—and I should think he’d want some shelter as well.”

It was fully dark by the time the coach clattered to a halt in the street outside the Old Forum. Piers directed the man to take their luggage to George Street, and quickly penciled a note to be left for Roland Chetwynd. Then he paid the man off, put an arm around Belinda’s waist to help her walk, and headed for the main doors of the theater.

Deuce take it! They were locked already. He flipped open his watch and attempted to read it in the flickering light of a streetlamp. They must have closed early for some reason—but the caretaker should still be around. With any luck, the stage door would not yet be closed, and if it were, Phillips would hear him knocking and let them in.

“Change of plan, Belinda. Sorry—you may be getting that theater tour sooner than you expected. Can you manage the steps again, or shall I carry you?”

“Much as I would enjoy being carried, it won’t stop either of us from getting wetter, and Araminta would be distressed if anyone saw us. You’re far better known here than I am, and your reputation precedes you. Thus, my reputation would be ground into the mud if we were seen by any of the tabbies.”

He rolled his eyes. It was a great pity he was to be deprived of the luxury of having her in his arms again, but he completely understood her situation.

They made their way down a dark alleyway, and—much to his relief—the stage door gave way to his touch and he escorted Belinda inside. The passageway was still illuminated, and by its light, he saw that she was looking like a drowned rat.

“Yet another change of plan, I fear. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

She stepped away and looked him up and down. “If it isn’t too forward of me, sir, I suggest that you do, as well.”

He didn’t give a damn about himself, but he could not allow Belinda to catch a chill. There was a fireplace in the costume store—only a small one, but enough to reduce the chill in the air in winter. He’d get that lit and warm the room up, and they could find something to put on while their clothes dried. Then he could write those messages to Katie and Sally.

On further consideration, it might be better if he spoke to them in person. Sending a message to someone who’d been your faithful ally in a continuous charade would not suffice—it would be cowardly of him not to speak to the ladies directly. So, all he had to do for the time being was ensure that Belinda dried off, and they continued their journey to George Street.