Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Like most of the upper echelons of the ton, the Duke and Duchess of Fournier rented a box at the Theatre Royal, at both Drury Lane and Covent Garden.
They had mostly remained unused since Audrey and Philip had wed.
It wasn’t that Audrey didn’t enjoy the theatre—she was captivated by the actors’ abilities to assume a character’s role and portray it with such convincing emotion.
They made it appear so natural, so easy, all while more than half of the audience was busy chatting and looking around the room at who was present and who was not.
That was what Audrey disliked about the theatre—the stage performance was never the reason any of them were in attendance.
Ironic how Wednesday evening, she was not in attendance at Covent Garden to watch the performance of Artaxerxes either. She had become what she disapproved of. She supposed, however, that if she could get a private moment with Lord St. John, it would be worth the hypocrisy.
Greer had made her inquiries at Wimbly Manor, where her cousin Bethany was a kitchen maid.
Bethany’s beau was a footman at the manor, and he’d reported that the younger Augustus had turned down an invitation to a dinner at Lord and Lady Granger’s on Wednesday evening as he would be attending the performance at Covent Garden.
Whether or not it was an excuse, or the truth, remained to be seen.
True to her word, Audrey had written the pertinent details on a slip of parchment, but before she could send a footman off with it to 19 Bedford Street, she glanced through the morning room window and spied another avenue of communication.
She marched outside and across the street, to where an odorous young man of about eleven or twelve was attempting to hide behind a lamppost.
“Your employer is expecting this. Please deliver it,” she told the boy, whose soot- and grime-creased hand accepted the note as if it were a dead mouse.
He’d gaped at her, speechless.
“Why does Mr. Marsden call you Sir?” she asked.
The boy straightened his back then and stuffed the note into his pocket. “He called me ‘boy’ at first, but when I told him I weren’t no boy, he started calling me ‘sir.’ I says I prefer that, and it stuck.”
She’d bit back a smile at Mr. Marsden’s humor.
A response arrived that same evening, delivered by Sir to her back door and brought to Audrey by Greer.
I’ll see you there, was all it said. She’d set the slip of paper on her lap, running her fingertips along the inked words.
She’d opened her mind, allowing the paper to show her the image of her kitchen maid, scowling at Sir as he presented her with the message, then further back, to the image of Mr. Marsden at a desk, folding the note and handing it to the boy.
She couldn’t picture Mr. Marsden attending the opera. It was unlikely he even possessed the proper attire. Then again, he did employ a valet. With that thought, she’d asked Greer to bring her the most conservative gown she owned.
Her lady’s maid had only blinked when Audrey explained it would be for the opera but had asked no questions.
Instead, Greer made her opinion clear in the choice of dress: a deep maroon silk with black pearl trimming and not a ruffle or frothy bow in sight.
As Mr. Marsden had said, with the duke about to go to trial for murder, attending the opera would be scandalous.
A benefit luncheon was one thing. An evening at the opera was quite another.
A somber gown would not dissuade the gossips from lighting London’s upper crust on fire with the news of her outing, but at least she might appear solemn, attempting to keep a firm chin through it all, rather than celebratory.
She began to sweat on the ride to the theatre, despite the late April chill.
Even during normal circumstances, she deplored having so many eyes assessing her, and tonight it would be an onslaught.
If St. John was not seated in the Wimbly box across the theatre from her own for the first act, she and Greer, who had come as her companion, would certainly not stay past intermission.
But that still left her with an hour or more to endure the endless stares and whispers.
Carrigan pulled into the queue of carriages and as soon as she was helped to the curb, eyes found her. Heads bent together and lips moved swiftly. She took a breath and cut her gaze straight ahead as she walked into the theatre, trailed closely by Greer.
“Would you like me to await you in the withdrawing room, Your Grace?” she asked. It was where the rest of the maids would be.
“Thank you, Greer,” she replied. “Don’t be alarmed if I don’t meet you during intermission.”
She nodded knowingly and departed. Audrey took the carpeted steps to the third level, where her box was located, and as soon as she entered, she closed the door and stood with her back against it.
That had been a lot tougher than she’d suspected it would be.
Not one person she’d passed had so much as nodded in greeting, let alone addressed her.
Attending Lady Wimbly’s benefit luncheon had done nothing to repair her tattered status among the ton.
Audrey was now a social outcast through and through.
A part of her—a very large one—wished to flee.
Just turn around, find Greer, and meet Carrigan in the queue outside.
It would be easier. However, there would never be a time again when eyes did not stare, and mouths didn’t whisper.
Best to stay and see through the task she’d set out to accomplish.
Several frenzied heartbeats later, Audrey released a long breath and stepped from the shadowy recess of her private box, into the light.
Faces turned in her direction, the most obvious ones from the long benches of the house seats below.
After a thorough sweep of each row, where the lower gentry classes were seated hip to hip, her chest tightened.
Unless he was running late, Hugh Marsden wasn’t in attendance.
Perhaps he hadn’t been able to secure a ticket after all.
No matter. Audrey could accomplish her goal with or without him. She peered across the house floor to the partitioned private boxes, stacked five high, a dozen to a row. Most were filled with their occupants, including the Wimbly box.
A young man sat with an insouciant slouch, as though already bored, surrounded by two ladies and two men.
A chime of recognition echoed in the back of her mind.
She had seen this young man before, though not at any of Lady Wimbly’s parties.
He had dark hair, the style a bit long to accentuate the soft curl of it.
He was handsome in a refined and haughty sort of way.
Beside him, Audrey recognized Lord Ashbrook, the heir to an earldom, and his sister Lady Mary, but the other two guests were unfamiliar.
They all seemed merry, except for St. John.
His attention drifted toward her box. She quickly cut her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring.
But then, she startled as her eyes met with a person who had already been looking at her.
He sat in a box on the second level, in a fine black suit and a snow-white cravat.
Hugh Marsden held her stunned gaze, the corner of his lips resisting an amused grin.
Audrey snapped her parted lips back together, the momentary lapse of decorum embarrassing.
What on earth was he doing in Lord Lindstrom’s private box?
The man seated next to him wore a suit just as stylish and bespoke as Mr. Marsden’s, though he was unfamiliar.
Lindstrom, a marquess, had a handful of sons.
This might have been one of his spares, since it certainly wasn’t his heir, Lord Chandler.
Audrey quizzed the Bow Street officer with a frown and a widening of her eyes as she shifted them toward his companion, but of course, he had no way of explaining just now.
It didn’t matter anyhow, she supposed. He was here as he’d said he would be, and at intermission, she would make it her mission to bump into St. John.
Looking up at his box, she was again put off her guard to find the young man staring at her.
She drew in a sharp breath and forced a gracious nod of her head in acknowledgement.
St. John’s expression was flat, unaffected, and yet the way he shifted his gaze toward the stage without recognizing her greeting, hinted at tension. As if he was unsettled by her presence.
Perhaps Greer’s cousin hadn’t been as circumspect as Audrey had hoped. St. John might know that she was here for him, not the performance.
The orchestra in the pit below had started to warm their brass and strings, and finally, were ready to begin.
As the stage filled and the music and voices rose toward the muraled plaster ceiling, Audrey stole quick glimpses toward the Lindstrom box, then the Wimbly one.
St. John seemed to be totally devoted to the performance, while his companions whispered and laughed together.
It was as if he was doggedly trying not to meet Audrey’s eyes again.
Although, it was just a suspicion. She had no earthly idea what was going through his mind, or if her presence even registered.
On the other hand, she and Mr. Marsden clashed eyes time and again. Whenever she caught him watching the performance, his expression was as bored as St. John’s.