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His reply seemed to astonish her, before she decided he was joking with her. She gave a chuckle and shook her head. For the rest of the night, her eyes kept returning to the box in dazed gratification. Should he have presented them to her as a gift? Clem wondered.

She might have liked to open the box herself. On further reflection though, he decided she would probably never have opened them in the first place. No, he had better carry on opening them himself and setting them where they would catch her eye.

“When are you going to take me to your theatre for a tour?” he asked abruptly.

Dora almost dropped her notebook. “Whenever you like,” she answered at once, sitting up in her seat. “I think Felix said they were currently staging The Duchess of Malfi. It’s a Jacobean tragedy.”

Clem shrugged. One more play was as good as another in his view, and they fixed on the following evening. When the time came, to his surprise, Clem did not feel one bit of the triumph he had thought he would on viewing The Parthenon through the eyes of a fifty percent shareholder.

He finally got his introduction to Vincent it was true, and both of them looked the other up and down as though sizing an opponent. There was a definite gleam of hostility in the other man’s eye, and it belatedly occurred to Clem, that at least part of the reason for that might be Henrietta Fields’ secret visit to his office shortly before her elopement.

This man had accompanied her on that day, though he had not been privy to their business discussion. He guessed from what Dora had told him, that Vincent would never betray her sister by telling this to Dora, but all the same, it caused Clem a moment’s unease as he returned Vincent’s steady, cold gaze.

“Vincent can seem a little unfriendly on first acquaintance, but when you get to know him, you soon realize that is not the case.”

Clem merely grunted and busied himself glancing about the empty front of house. The place was like a mausoleum, he thought scathingly as they proceeded through, arm-in-arm.

I see what you mean now about The Eagle being alive,” Clem murmured in Dora’s ear. “This place is dead.”

“Yes,” Dora agreed sadly. “It is, isn’t it?”

After showing him the offices, plush though faded like everything else about The Parthenon, Dora led him up the stairs to the circle and one of the fancy private boxes which still looked quite grand in the dimmed lighting. From what Clem could tell, only one other box was occupied of the eight that were available.

The curtain was drawn up and the players began to tell their tale and a damned dismal tale it was too. Clem folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, preparing himself for a trying evening. He thought he managed to follow it for the most part, but Lord, what a lot of fuss about nothing!

He could understand avarice as well as any man, but why two brothers should cut up rough about their sister marrying, even if it was beneath her, was beyond him. “This play is even worse than that dull shepherd piece I saw you in,” he hissed. Dora winced. “Explain to me why this tragedy is more acceptable than that Shakespeare you spoke of?”

Dora leaned into him. “Webster’s humor is dark, but never lewd,” she whispered back.

“So, two brothers plotting against their sister is perfectly acceptable, but a bit of crude humor is beyond the pale?”

“Precisely,” she answered him straight-faced.

Clem shook his head and rolled his eyes up to the decorated ceiling. He owned half that ceiling, he reflected, examining his feelings; but no, he did not feel even a glimmer of satisfaction about that fact.

When the curtain fell on the first act, he let out a sigh of relief. “I suppose a drink is out of the question,” he said without much hope.

“We are not licensed to serve alcohol,” Dora said apologetically. “None of the theatres are to my knowledge.

“No one would see us in this box,” he pointed out, glancing around.

“But where would you get it?”

“Depends on how long the interval lasts.”

“A quarter of an hour.”

He stood up. “Do not stir a step.”

“Clem are you really—?” but he had already ducked out.

He only had to run in to three establishments before he could procure what he wanted, and Vincent’s eyes did not so much as flicker when Clem passed him with a nod, carrying a champagne bottle and two glasses.

He lightly ran up the stairs and was back in his seat in the box just as the curtain was raised. He brandished the bottle and Dora laughed. “You said you’d find some.”

“By hook or by crook,” he agreed, popping the cork. Dora looked around at that, wide-eyed with alarm, but Clem could not bring himself to care about the few turned heads. “Tell me this at least has a happy ending,” he murmured, passing her a glass.

Dora screwed up her face. “I’m guessing you have not much experience with Jacobean tragedy.”