Chapter 8
The carriage wheels rattled loudly over the uneven Mayfair cobblestones, but Edmund barely heard the noise.
His mind was still firmly anchored to the gravel path in Hyde Park that morning.
He stood by the window of the townhouse study, staring blankly at the passing carriages while Arabella’s hushed, controlled voice echoed relentlessly in his ears.
“The elder sister is everything you feared,” she had told him, stepping close so her words would not carry over the loud promenade. “And the younger one is everything you did not expect. Whatever you are doing, Edmund, you must be very careful who gets hurt by it.”
He had said nothing in response. He had not needed to. Arabella had simply sped up her pace and walked away, leaving him to absorb the absolute truth of her warning.
Careful who gets hurt, Edmund thought, rubbing a hand over his tired face. I am already losing my grip on the board, and the pieces are beginning to move on their own.
“If I am forced to listen to one more exhaustive soliloquy regarding the tragic limitations of pink satin, I shall throw myself from a moving carriage,” Julian announced, shattering the quiet of the study. He tossed his leather gloves onto the mahogany desk and collapsed onto the sofa.
“You are the one who insisted on this theatrical production,” Edmund replied, turning away from the window to adjust the stiff cuffs of his plain brown secretary coat.
“I volunteered to play a wealthy earl,” Julian corrected, dragging a hand through his dark hair.
“I did not volunteer to become a captive audience for a woman who views her own reflection as a religious artifact. Vivienne Ashwell is entirely exhausting. Every single engagement requires me to absorb her complete self-absorption.”
“She is precisely what the solicitor promised on paper.”
“Paper does not have to listen to her,” Julian argued.
“I am treated to endless commentary on fabrics, ranks, and precisely who looked at whom. Furthermore, her subtle cruelties toward her younger sister are becoming completely impossible to endure in silence. She speaks to Corinna as if the girl were a particularly dull piece of furniture.”
A flare of irritation ignited in Edmund’s chest at the mention of Corinna’s treatment. I noticed, he thought grimly. I notice everything about her.
“You cannot call her out without breaking your cover,” Edmund reminded his friend.
“I am acutely aware of my limitations,” Julian grumbled, staring up at the ceiling. “But my patience is wearing incredibly thin.”
“We must attend the private recital at the opera this evening,” Edmund said, pulling his focus back to the immediate tactical requirements. “Both households will be present. You must remain entirely focused, Julian. We cannot afford a mistake tonight.”
“I shall focus on not yawning while Miss Vivienne explains the social hierarchy of London dressmakers,” Julian promised dryly. “But I make absolutely no guarantees regarding my sanity.”
Two hours later, the combined parties converged in the grand foyer of the opera house.
The air was thick with expensive perfumes, the rustle of heavy silk, and the loud, echoing hum of excited voices.
Finding their designated row of seats involved the comfortable chaos of entirely too many people attempting to arrange themselves in a very limited space.
Vivienne immediately took Julian by the arm, securing her prize.
“My lord, you simply must sit beside me,” she insisted loudly, guiding him toward the center. “I require your expert opinion on the tenor’s performance. I am told his high notes are completely uninspired.”
“I would be honored, Miss Ashwell,” Julian said, offering a charming smile that did not quite reach his tired eyes.
Vivienne pulled Julian firmly toward the seats farthest from the aisle.
This arrangement suited everyone perfectly.
Eleanor Ashwell took the seat next to her eldest daughter, while Arabella claimed the center seat.
Phoebe Cavendish efficiently guided Corinna toward the remaining empty chairs near the edge of the row.
By some natural gravity, Edmund ended up taking the seat directly beside Corinna, with Phoebe settling on her other side. It was a perfectly respectable arrangement for a secretary to sit at the absolute edge of the party, and it placed him exactly where he secretly wished to be.
As Edmund settled into the velvet chair, he caught the faint, clean scent of lavender.
In the dim light of the theater, Corinna’s simple dark lavender gown stood out starkly against the sea of heavy feathers and glittering jewels around them.
She possessed a quiet, striking stillness that constantly drew his eye away from the chaotic room.
Before either of them could speak, a loud rustling of heavy fabric announced an unexpected arrival.
“Move along, Mr. Finch. You are stepping on my hem,” a booming voice commanded from the aisle.
Lady Sophronia Quill inserted herself into the very end of their row, dropping into the empty seat directly beside Phoebe.
Swathed in an alarming amount of emerald green velvet, she wore a turban decorated with large, bobbing peacock feathers and immediately began narrating the room to anyone within range.
“Oh, look at the Duke of Bedford,” Lady Sophronia declared loudly, pointing a gloved finger toward the boxes above them. “He is wearing that dreadful purple waistcoat again. Someone should inform him that he looks precisely like a bruised plum.”
Phoebe opened her fan with an echoing snap. “I am certain the duke is entirely comfortable in his choices, Lady Sophronia.”
“Comfort has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Cavendish,” Lady Sophronia insisted, leaning forward so her feathers quivered dangerously close to Phoebe’s face.
“It is a matter of visual decency. And oh, heavens above, is that Lady Danbury arriving with the young captain? That means the rumors of her broken engagement must be entirely true.”
The heavy velvet curtains finally parted, and the orchestra began to play a sweeping overture. The audience quieted down, but Lady Sophronia did not let a minor detail like a musical performance interrupt her vital work.
Throughout the first act, the feathered woman leaned across Phoebe at regular intervals, offering loud, breathy whispers that had absolutely nothing to do with the tragedy unfolding on stage.
“Do you see the woman in the third box on the left?” Lady Sophronia whispered urgently during a quiet violin solo. “She is wearing last Season’s color. A tragic shade of peach. It washes her out completely.”
Phoebe did not turn her head, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the stage. “Perhaps she simply enjoys the color, Lady Sophronia. Not every gown is a political statement.”
Lady Sophronia scoffed quietly. “Everything in London is a political statement, Mrs. Cavendish. Look over there. Lord Abernathy arrived with his cousin instead of his wife. That means they are definitely fighting over his gambling debts again.”
Phoebe slowly turned a page of her opera program. “Or perhaps his wife simply had a headache and chose to remain at home with a quiet cup of tea.”
Momentarily derailed, Lady Sophronia spun in an entirely new direction. “Well, what about Miss Bingley? She has been staring at the stage for ten minutes without blinking. I suspect she is actually sleepwalking.”
“I suspect she is merely listening to the music,” Phoebe replied dryly. “A novel concept for this establishment, I know.”
Edmund caught the deadpan delivery of Phoebe’s redirection and fought a sudden, powerful urge to laugh. Pressing his lips together firmly, he glanced slightly to his left.
Corinna was sitting perfectly rigid in her seat. She had pressed her gloved hand tightly over her mouth, and her shoulders were shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. She had clearly heard every single word of the exchange.
Edmund felt a bright bubble of shared amusement rise in his own chest. Neither of them looked directly at the other, well aware that if they made eye contact, they would both burst into highly inappropriate laughter during a tragic aria.
Both remained very still, united in the intense effort of holding it in.
“She is an absolute menace,” Corinna whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her voice barely audible over the cellos.
“An incredibly well-informed menace,” Edmund whispered back, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer to her.
“I am entirely convinced she knows what the King had for breakfast.”
“And she will gladly tell us the moment the tenor hits his high note,” Edmund agreed.
Corinna let out a tiny, muffled squeak of laughter, quickly disguising it as a polite cough behind her program.
Edmund smiled in the dark, feeling the stifling weight of the evening temporarily lift.
Sitting here in the shadows with her, sharing a quiet joke while the rest of the world performed, felt remarkably natural.
On the far side of the row, the situation was entirely different.
Vivienne talked to Julian throughout the entire performance, refusing to whisper as she demanded his constant attention over the orchestra.
However, from his vantage point, Edmund could see that Julian’s attention was actively drifting.
He kept his face turned politely toward Vivienne, but his dark eyes kept sliding past her.
He was watching Arabella.
Seated just beyond Vivienne, Arabella was listening to the music with complete and total absorption. Her gentle face was illuminated by the soft glow of the stage lights, making her look completely at peace.
A cello began to play a slow, descending scale, the melody dripping with a haunting melancholy. Edmund watched Julian lean slightly to his left, inching away from Vivienne’s endless chatter.
Arabella tilted her head. Her eyes shifted from the stage, meeting Julian’s gaze in the dim light.
Edmund watched Julian’s shoulders drop. The rigid, practiced posture of the wealthy earl melted away, leaving only a soft, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes. For a fleeting second, the loud theater faded, leaving only the quiet space between them.
Then, Julian blinked.
He sat up rapidly, his spine snapping straight against the velvet chair. He swallowed hard, breaking the gaze instantly, and stared fixedly at the stage with a locked jaw.
Arabella’s hands tightened around her program. Edmund heard the quiet crinkle of the thick paper as her knuckles turned white. She lowered her chin, her expression closing off completely, and did not look his way again.
Edmund watched the silent exchange, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He is forgetting himself, he realized with a spike of dread. He is falling for her, and she is paying the price for our lie.
When the curtain finally fell for the interval, the audience erupted into polite applause. The bright gas lights in the theater were brought up, instantly shattering the intimacy of the dark.
“Oh, thank goodness that act is over,” Vivienne announced loudly, standing up and smoothing her skirts. “The soprano was simply shrieking by the end. My lord, I believe my ribbon has come loose. I must find a mirror immediately. Please wait right here.”
“I shall eagerly await your return, Miss Ashwell,” Julian said, offering a polite bow.
Vivienne swept out of the row, dragging a reluctant Eleanor with her to locate the ladies’ retiring room.
Lady Sophronia also departed, loudly declaring her intention to discover exactly what Lord Fife was drinking in the lobby, and Phoebe accompanied her, likely to ensure Sophronia did not start a riot.
The row suddenly emptied, leaving only Edmund, Corinna, Julian, and Arabella behind.
Julian, suddenly freed from Vivienne’s constant demands, found himself standing directly beside Arabella.
The awkward silence stretched between them, thick and palpable.
Edmund watched Julian open his mouth to speak, his posture entirely stripped of the booming confidence he used when playing the earl, but no words came out.
Beside Edmund, the faint rustle of silk pulled his attention back. Corinna had shifted in her seat, closing her program and resting it in her lap.
“The music seems to have left a heavy impression on everyone this evening,” Corinna murmured, her gaze resting lightly on Julian and Arabella before sliding over to Edmund.
“It was a very tragic act,” Edmund replied smoothly, keeping his face perfectly impassive.
Corinna tilted her head, her gray eyes catching the light.
She did not press him with questions, nor did she make a grand accusation.
She simply watched him with a quiet, knowing intelligence that made his pulse jump.
She looked at his hands, resting tightly on his knees, and then back up to his eyes.
She is calculating my every move, Edmund thought, a thrill of genuine danger racing down his spine, and I am handing her the pieces without even speaking.
“I find,” Corinna said softly, an intriguing smile playing at the corner of her mouth, “that watching the audience is often far more entertaining than watching the stage.”
“A secretary must observe the room, Miss Ashwell,” Edmund offered, retreating behind his usual defense.
“Indeed, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna agreed smoothly. “You do play your part exceptionally well.”
Before Edmund could figure out exactly how to navigate the subtle trap she was laying, Vivienne’s loud voice rang out from the aisle.
“I have returned!” Vivienne announced happily, sweeping back into the row and looking completely refreshed. “My ribbon is perfectly secure. My lord, I hope you did not miss me too terribly.”
Julian instantly slipped back into his role, offering a dazzling smile. “The minutes felt like agonizing hours, Miss Ashwell.”
The quiet tension in the row vanished completely as Lady Sophronia returned to her seat, bringing a fresh wave of chaotic gossip with her.
Phoebe took her place with a highly amused expression, and the orchestra began to tune their instruments for the second act, filling the theater with a discordant hum.
Edmund looked at Corinna. She was already looking straight ahead at the stage, her expression perfectly serene once again.
She had not pushed him for answers, but as the gas lights dimmed and the heavy curtains rose, Edmund sat in the darkness, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the brilliant girl beside him.
She was silently taking apart his carefully constructed lie piece by piece. As the music swelled around them, Edmund realized with a jolt of pure adrenaline that he was terrifyingly eager to see her next move.