Chapter 9
There were few places in London as rife with opportunity for mischief as the theatre.
To some, the chandeliered halls and velvet-draped boxes of Drury Lane were hallowed ground: temples to art and refinement.
In Jasper Deverell’s experience, the theatre was less a haven for moral improvement than a sumptuous playground.
Which was precisely why, when the Earl of Langley—now tragically ensnared in a lifelong state of stiff-jawed honour and marital duty—mentioned he would be escorting his troublesome sister-in-law to the theatre that evening, Jasper invited himself along with the easy impunity of an old friend.
He had imagined a very agreeable night of entertainment: Miss Tolliver’s low laughter behind her gloved hand, and perhaps a smuggled bottle of champagne shared from the neck.
Perhaps a moment when Langley’s attention drifted to the stage and a certain young lady’s hand wandered across the velvet armrest between their seats.
Reality, unfortunately, proved far less obliging.
As Jasper stepped into the polished foyer of the Theatre Royal and accepted his ticket from the usher with a languid smile, he read the inscription with dawning horror:
Private Box—His Grace the Duke of Morleigh.
Christ. He was to spend the evening beneath the frigid eye of the Duke of Morleigh, a gentleman who spoke with all the warmth of a court summons!
They exchanged civilities at White’s, certainly, but always beneath the civilising influence of port, and never while Jasper entertained ambitions better suited to shadowed alcoves and absent chaperones.
Any prospect of mischief was therefore extinguished at once.
It was, of course, far too late to retreat.
The usher had already bowed him onwards, the footman had drawn aside the velvet curtain, and Jasper—cursed with generations of excellent breeding—could hardly bolt for the street.
With the resignation of a man proceeding to the gallows, he stepped into the Morleigh box.
Below, the audience murmured and shifted, cloaked and gloved and glinting with diamonds.
Above, the chandeliers burnt with all the fire of Olympus, pouring golden light across crimson drapery and tiers of gilded ornament.
It might have appeared magical, transporting even, had it not been for the unavoidable fact that the duke would be seated within arm’s reach.
The Duke of Morleigh glanced up from his programme. “Deverell,” he said curtly.
“Your Grace.” Jasper bowed first to the duke, and then more deeply to the duchess seated beside him.
“Mr Deverell,” Her Grace replied smoothly. She bore little resemblance to her younger sister; where Miss Tolliver was tall and dark, the duchess was fair and softly rounded, yet no less handsome for the difference. “What an unexpected honour.”
“I find I am often accused of being unexpected,” Jasper returned. “Though seldom with such kindness.”
The duchess smiled.
The duke turned a page with evident disinterest. “You are early. The play does not begin for another half hour.”
Jasper glanced toward the stage, where footmen were still lighting the lamps along the orchestra rail. “I have always considered punctuality an excellent quality in others.”
“Indeed,” the duke returned, with a coolness that did not invite elaboration.
Jasper inclined his head and took a seat. “I must confess,” he added, allowing his gaze to travel appreciatively about the box, “I had expected rather less distinguished company this evening.”
“And rather less illumination, no doubt.”
Jasper bit the inside of his cheek. For a moment, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being seventeen again, standing before his father while the older man measured every inch of him and found it wanting.
Charming, but shallow. Elegant, but useless.
A dandy, said as though the word were something diseased.
Jasper had laughed it off, as he laughed off most things, but he had understood the warning perfectly well: his father allowed for only one sort of manhood, and Jasper had never quite fit inside it.
The duchess’s voice cut neatly across his reflections. “I daresay Lord Langley will be relieved not to shepherd my sister unaccompanied this evening. I have heard the Derby proved rather less than harmonious. Charlotte can be somewhat… spirited.”
Jasper smiled. “I have heard that particular term employed in description of Miss Tolliver. As well as unruly, incorrigible, and, on one memorable occasion, positively dangerous when bored.”
Her Grace gave a hum of amusement. “You must be well acquainted.”
“I could not presume,” Jasper replied with polite ambiguity, just as Lord Langley entered the box looking foreworn.
“Langley,” Jasper greeted. “What a pleasure.”
“Ah, Deverell. You are early.”
“To secure the most advantageous seat, of course.”
“I did caution you,” Theo said under his breath, not troubling to look at him, “that it would not be that sort of evening.”
“Evidently, I misunderstood your meaning.”
A silence ensued, during which Jasper made three distinct attempts at conversation within the first five minutes, each of which met with only the most meagre success.
The duke replied once with a courteous syllable; the duchess answered kindly enough, though with the distant air of royalty; and Theo said nothing at all.
Jasper took up the programme. He read the title of the evening’s performance four times and could not have repeated a word of it. By the half-hour, he began to suspect Miss Tolliver might not appear at all.
Good God, he thought, what is the matter with me?
It had been a kiss. Or two. Two remarkably agreeable kisses, certainly—but still no more than that. He had just begun to contemplate the mortifying possibility that he might, in fact, be very nearly in love with her, when the velvet curtain stirred.
Miss Charlotte Tolliver swept into the box like a spring breeze.
She sank into a graceful curtsey before the duke, then bent to kiss her sister lightly upon the cheek. “Georgie, how divine you look. Positively radiant. How fares young Henry this evening? Not in attendance, I trust?”
“At home,” the duchess replied, permitting a smile. “Biting the staff and refusing to be put to bed.”
“A true Tolliver,” Miss Tolliver said cheerfully.
“A Morleigh,” the duke muttered, though one corner of his mouth betrayed him. The duchess reached across to pat his hand with fondness.
Jasper kept his gaze fixed upon the carpeted floor until Miss Tolliver reached him, and only then did he lift his eyes.
Her gown was pale gold, embroidered with tiny rosebuds so fine they seemed painted by hand.
Her curls were swept high, with a few rebellious tendrils spilling down the nape of her neck.
He rose, as courtesy demanded. “Miss Tolliver,” he said, and to his horror, his voice emerged higher than intended.
“Mr Deverell,” she returned, offering a nod.
Without awaiting further invitation, she swept past him and took the vacant seat at his side.
“How tragic,” she murmured to him alone, as she arranged her skirts. “We are chaperoned.”
“Imagine my disappointment. I had every intention of being thoroughly improper this evening.”
“You still might,” she said, unfurling her fan with a flick, “should you be so bold as to whisper something scandalous during the second act.”
“I am seldom at a loss for a scandal, Miss Tolliver,” he murmured. “Though I confess, I do prefer an audience inclined to admire it.”
“Remind me, what is the evening’s offering?”
Jasper stared at her in dismay. He had spent the past half-hour studying the programme, and could not for the life of him recall a single word of it.
“Much Ado About Nothing,“ Theo supplied grimly from behind them, as though to remind them of his continued existence.
“How fitting,” she replied, without troubling herself to glance over her shoulder.
Beside her, Jasper’s mouth curved slowly, the expression of a gentleman who had just conceived a remark he considered exceedingly clever. He leant a fraction nearer, lowering his voice. “Miss Tolliver—shall I play the Benedick to your Beatrice?”
She laughed merrily at that, and the duke and duchess turned their heads in mild curiosity at the sound. “Only if you are fond of being bested.”
“Relentlessly.”
They subsided as the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the overture. The curtain rose upon Messina awash in soft draperies and military finery.
Miss Tolliver shifted in her chair, her sleeve brushing the fine wool of Jasper’s coat. The contact was feather-light—accidental by all appearances—and yet his skin tightened beneath it. A moment later, the warmth of her knee met his.
He attempted, in vain, to fix his attention upon the stage, but it proved impossible.
Each time Beatrice delivered a barbed remark, he felt Miss Tolliver’s shoulders lift with silent laughter; each time Benedick blustered with wounded pride, she shifted again—some infinitesimal movement of silk and nearness that rendered Shakespeare secondary.
It was intolerable. It was also, he admitted privately, magnificent.
Midway through the second act, as Benedick lamented the absurdity of surrendering one’s heart to a woman, Miss Tolliver leant in, her breath stirring the hair at Jasper’s temple. “Why have you not kissed me again?”
The question landed somewhere decidedly south of reason. “We are not precisely unobserved.”
“I did not say here,” she breathed. “Though I concede the darkness makes it tempting.”
“There have not been many other opportunities.”
“You might have called. Or tossed pebbles at my window beneath a full moon.”
“Wrong play, my dear,” he replied under his breath. “Romeo and Juliet is next month.”
“As is the next full moon. Ought I to expect your arrival beneath my window, sir?”
“Miss Tolliver,” he said quietly, “you are flirting perilously close to impropriety.”