Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Rigoletto
The Royal Opera House rose before us like a temple to beauty and excess, its facade ablaze with gaslight against the darkening London sky.
Steele descended from the carriage first. Once he assisted his aunt, his gloved hand closed around mine, steady and sure, as I gathered my skirts and descended to the pavement.
“You look lovely tonight,” he murmured as he offered his arm. I took it, acutely aware of the heat of him through his coat sleeve, of the faint sandalwood scent that clung to him as we made our way toward the entrance.
“Thank you. My maid will be pleased her efforts have not gone unnoticed.”
Tilly had swept up my copper hair was swept up in an elaborate arrangement of curls. The neckline of my midnight blue silk gown was perhaps a touch daring for an unmarried lady. But tonight I would not think of such things. Tonight, I would simply enjoy myself.
The grand foyer swallowed us in a tide of silk and spectacle—the cream of society greeting one another with practiced smiles, everyone watching everyone else to see who was wearing what and, more importantly, who was with whom.
The weight of curious glances followed us as I knew it would. Lady Rosalynd. With the Duke of Steele. Again.
Let them whisper. I no longer cared. I was on the arm of the most enigmatic man in London, and I intended to enjoy every moment of it.
Lady Lavinia slipped her hand through his other arm with the ease of long familiarity. “Shall we, my dears? I do so hate to miss the overture.”
We ascended the sweeping staircase and passed through gilded corridors until we reached Steele’s private box. Lady Lavinia entered first, settling into the chair at the back with a contented sigh.
“There now,” she said, arranging her skirts. “You two take the front. My eyes may not be what they once were, but I hear perfectly well. And I am sufficiently visible from here to satisfy the gossips.”
The twinkle in her eye suggested her eyesight was perfectly sound, and that she knew precisely what she was about.
“Rosalynd.” Steele took my gloved hand and raised it to his lips. The gesture was irreproachably proper. The look in his eyes was anything but.
“Your Grace,” I said, smiling despite myself.
One corner of his mouth quirked—that almost-smile I had come to treasure precisely because it was so rare.
Was he remembering our last encounter? The way he had touched me. The fire he had lit in me. At times, it was all I could think about. Tonight, I did not have to imagine it. I felt it, low and insistent.
I glanced away before I did something that would truly set the gossips talking.
“The opera house is magnificent,” I said lightly. It glittered like the inside of a jewel box.
“Indeed,” he replied.
From our box, the view was commanding—tier upon tier of velvet-draped balconies rising toward the ornate ceiling, each occupied by London’s elite in their finest attire.
Diamonds flashed. Fans fluttered. The great chandelier blazed overhead, scattering rainbows across the gilded moldings.
Below, in the stalls, lesser mortals craned their necks to see who sat where—and with whom.
And everyone, it seemed, was looking at us.
Matrons trained their opera glasses not on the stage but on Steele’s box. Whispers bloomed behind fans. Knowing glances passed between ladies who had spent years trying—and failing—to marry their daughters to the most eligible bachelor in England.
Lady Rosalynd. In his box. Chaperoned, but only just.
“You’re tense,” Steele murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred the curls at my throat. “Ignore them.”
“I am not tense,” I lied.
“Your shoulders are nearly at your ears.” His hand found mine in the darkness between our chairs, his fingers threading through mine. “Better?”
Impossibly, infuriatingly, it was.
“You’re going to start a riot,” I said softly. “Holding my hand in full view of society.”
“The curtain provides adequate cover,” he replied, a smile in his voice. “And I could not care less what society thinks.”
Behind us, Lady Lavinia studied her program with magnificent absorption, oblivious to our murmured exchange and Steele’s gentle touch. In other words, the perfect chaperone.
In the adjacent box—separated from ours by a thin partition and a curtained doorway—a stout, silver-haired man settled into his seat.
The woman beside him was considerably younger, handsome, dark-haired, her throat adorned with a rather spectacular diamond necklace.
She leaned toward him, speaking rapidly in low tones.
He waved her concerns away with an impatient gesture.
“Sir Edmund Hale,” Steele said quietly, following my gaze. “And Lady Hale.”
“You know them?”
“Of them. Hale made his fortune in industry—railways, mining, shipping. A man known for taking risks.” Something in Steele’s tone suggested those risks were not always wise.
Intriguing. But before I could ask more, the house lights dimmed and a hush swept through the auditorium.
The orchestra struck its opening notes. The crimson curtain began to rise.
Verdi’s music filled the opera house, rich with tragedy and passion. I had always loved Rigoletto—the doomed jester, the innocent daughter, the curse that destroyed them both.
The production was magnificent. The soprano’s voice soared through “Caro nome” with heartbreaking purity. I leaned forward, utterly absorbed, while Steele’s thumb traced slow circles against my palm.
I did not pull away.
By the third act, the tension onstage had reached its peak. The duke—the character, not Steele—had seduced and abandoned poor Gilda. Rigoletto had hired an assassin. And Gilda—foolish, love-struck Gilda—sacrificed herself to save the man who had ruined her.
The storm scene was masterfully staged—lightning flickering, thunder rolling through the house, the soprano’s voice rising above it all in her final, desperate aria. Tears pricked my eyes as Rigoletto discovered her body and realized the terrible price of his revenge.
“La maledizione!” his anguished cry rang out.
That was when I saw the movement.
A shadow slipped through the curtain at the back of the Hales’ box. Just a flicker at the edge of my vision—so quick I might have dismissed it, had I not caught the glint of metal in the dim light.
Every instinct I possessed screamed a warning.
“Steele—” I breathed.
He’d gone rigid beside me, his grip tightening on my hand. He had seen it too.
Onstage, Gilda breathed her last. The music surged toward its tragic crescendo.
And then came the scream.
Not from the stage.
From the box beside us.
Lady Hale’s shriek cut through Verdi’s music like a blade through silk. The orchestra faltered, then fell silent. In the terrible hush that followed, she sobbed and cried out words I could not make out.
Steele was on his feet at once, pushing through the curtain into the adjacent box. I followed without thinking—propriety be damned.
Sir Edmund Hale sat slumped forward, head bowed as if in prayer.
But he was not praying.
The stiletto protruding from his back made that abundantly clear. The blade was buried to the hilt. Whoever had done this knew precisely where to strike.
Lady Hale had collapsed against the wall, her diamond necklace askew, her carefully arranged hair tumbling from its pins. She made sounds—not quite words, not quite sobs—her gaze fixed on her husband’s body with an expression I could not immediately name.
Shock, certainly. Horror, most definitely. And beneath it all—fear.
Blood spread across the back of Sir Edmund’s evening coat, dark and glistening in the dim light. Too much blood. Far too much for him to survive.
“He’s dead,” I said, distantly.
Steele checked for a pulse anyway, his expression grim. After a moment, he shook his head.
Around us, chaos erupted. People rose in their boxes, craning to see what had happened. Performers froze mid-tableau onstage. Someone shouted for a doctor. Someone else screamed for the police.
But the shadow I had glimpsed—the one with the metallic glint—was gone.
Slipped away in the darkness while every eye had been fixed on the stage.
Steele met my gaze across the body. In his eyes, I saw the same realization forming in my own mind.
Our evening of romance had just become a crime scene.