Chapter 8 #2
“It might come as a shock, but I agree with Melinda. Howden would be a calming influence. And I know how much you dislike living in the house.”
Lord Howden returned to his seat and handed her a pair of theatre glasses. “You may want them for the transformation scene.”
His aunt tapped Emma on the shoulder. “Use them to look anywhere but the stage. And I’ve a nip of something in a flask if you need to settle your nerves.”
Lord Howden leant closer, his mouth too near her ear. “Be warned. My aunt has a delicate constitution and carries rum in her dainty flask. I fear she’s taken more than a swig already.”
She smiled, though daren’t turn her head. It wasn’t his breath she wanted on her lips. “Then I shall take no more than a nip, simply to be polite.”
“My brother refuses to watch anything but Shakespeare,” his aunt muttered. “He turned up his nose when I mentioned this.”
Lord Howden gave a faint, apologetic laugh. “Excuse my aunt. She often gets confused and hasn’t quite accepted my father’s passing.”
“Of course. There’s no need to explain.”
Emma’s fingers tightened around the theatre glasses. This was a new play. And the brother Mrs Ashcombe spoke of had been dead just over a year.
Before she could decide whether grief or rum had loosened the woman’s tongue, the orchestra began the overture. Low strings shivered beneath the horns, and a hush passed through the house as the curtain parted on moonlit cloisters.
Dark-robed figures crept between the arches, muttering of curses and infernal fires while the orchestra rumbled beneath them.
But her thoughts weren’t on the play. There was an hour until she was due to meet Mr Stanton, and all she could think of was him waiting alone outside the coffeehouse.
She picked up the glasses and feigned interest. But the prickle at her nape had nothing to do with the draught or the haunting melody. She turned the glasses towards the opposite box, and every thought scattered. Mr Stanton was watching her.
Relief hit first. She’d not let him down.
Then confusion. Whose box was he sitting in, and who was the auburn-haired woman tucked between him and his friend?
He should have been at home, yet there he sat, arms folded, his gaze fixed on her as though she were the main attraction.
She lowered the glasses before Melinda could notice the direction of her stare. Her heart was still misbehaving. She told herself it was the shock of seeing him unexpectedly. That it had nothing to do with the memory of a church floor and the press of his mouth.
Mrs Ashcombe must have noticed her shiver. She dangled the silver flask over Emma’s shoulder. “Take a sip now, dear. There’ll be the Tombs of Memphis soon.”
Emma pulled the stopper, took a nip, and ignored Lord Howden’s mutter about his reckless aunt. The rum burned her throat and warmed her cheeks. And still, Mr Stanton stared.
The two bottles of burgundy his lordship had ordered arrived during the scene change. The attendant began pouring, but Melinda took over, handing out the glasses from the walnut table.
Emma received hers last and tried to hold the crystal stem without her hand shaking. Lord Howden played the gentleman and took the glass from her.
“I wouldn’t want you to spill wine on your gown,” he said, his voice smooth enough to stiffen every muscle, his gaze on her chest like insects crawling beneath her skin.
But the lord’s expression shifted when he noticed Mr Stanton in the opposite box. “Damnation. Is nowhere safe? Must he hound me at the theatre? That man would sell his soul for a story.”
Melinda leaned between them, no doubt regretting her decision to sit at the back. “Who?”
“Stanton. Who else?”
The mere mention of his name stole her breath. “Perhaps he’s here to see the play,” she said, though he’d not looked at the stage once.
“Then why the blazes is he looking this way?” Lord Howden’s affable manner soured. “It’s ironic. He styles himself as a champion of the truth but lied about murder.”
Emma straightened. “You mean his theory about your father?”
“No. That duel on the heath years ago. A young man died, and Stanton helped bury the truth. He’s lucky they didn’t hang him and the rest of that wretched set.”
Emma took the glass from him and forced herself to drink. The wine steadied nothing. “That’s a serious claim, my lord. Was he accused of deceit, or merely blamed because he was there?”
Was any of it true? If it was, what did that make the man she’d begun to trust? She didn’t look across at the opposite box. She couldn’t.
Lord Howden scoffed. “They all told the same story. No wonder Stanton bought a newspaper. He spins lies and dresses them as truth. That’s how the devil earned his moniker.”
Emma lowered the glass. “I see.”
She did not. Not clearly. But she understood one thing well enough. Lord Howden hated Mr Stanton with a bitterness that had been building long before tonight.
And yet, Mr Stanton could have thrown her out of The Sentinel, brushed aside her doubts, or burned Mr Bellingham’s confession. He hadn’t. He’d risked his reputation to help her find the truth.
Melinda chimed in, but Emma barely heard her. The wine, the heat, the revelation, and her sister’s vitriol had left her head spinning. She finally looked at Mr Stanton. He said something to the elegant woman beside him, then she stood and left the box.
Emma seized the chance to explain why she was at the theatre. “If you’ll excuse me. I must visit the retiring room.” She stood, though her vision blurred.
Mrs Ashcombe shot to her feet, then caught the back of her chair with a small laugh. “I shall come too, dear. Best catch your breath before the next scene.”
Melinda tutted. She snatched Emma’s glass from her hand and placed it on the table, smiling tightly for Lord Howden’s benefit. “Be quick,” she whispered. “This night is swiftly turning into a farce.”
Melinda’s complaints could wait. The walls were closing in, her options narrowing to the world beyond the theatre door.
She followed Mrs Ashcombe out.
“I might visit the saloon,” Mrs Ashcombe said once they’d left the box. “Any excuse to avoid watching the ghastly spectacle.”
How odd. “Lord Howden said you were keen to come.”
“He caught me gossiping with the servants and refused to leave me at home.” The lady tittered to herself. “How is anyone supposed to know what’s happening in their own family if the men keep secrets?”
Emma’s pulse quickened. It didn’t help that someone appeared behind them on the landing, keeping pace. At least it wasn’t Melinda.
“The men?” Emma said. “I thought Lord Howden was the only gentleman left in the family.” Which explained his eagerness to marry and produce an heir.
Mrs Ashcombe glanced briefly behind. “The only one left, or the only one anyone dares speak of? Now run along to the retiring room and say you lost me en route.”
Emma didn’t go to the retiring room. She waited until Mrs Ashcombe entered the saloon and then made for Mr Stanton’s box.
He wasn’t inside. He was pacing the corridor with the auburn-haired woman from earlier. The moment he saw Emma, he broke off the conversation and strode towards her.
“Are you alone? I wasn’t sure you’d lose your chaperone.”
“Mrs Ashcombe is taking refuge in the saloon, and my sister is busy plotting my future. I have a few minutes before she sends out the brigade.”
His fingers closed over her elbow, his thumb resting on the bare skin above her glove.
The memory of last night returned with indecent haste.