Frowning, Giles lowered the day’s Times to regard the thin packet his man was handing to him. “What is this?”

“The delivery boy said it was from Mr. Whattling, sir,” Jacobs replied. “He didn’t wait for a reply. Shall I send someone to ask Mr. Whattling?”

“No, that will be all.” Giles waved him off. He set the paper aside on the teak table at his elbow, taking his feet off the leather-upholstered ottoman. Ripping open the packet, he saw inside two tickets to see Kean at Drury Lane for that night. The accompanying note read, “For all your support, Whattling.”

Giles sighed, leaning back in his padded armchair. Kevin was obviously trying to make amends, but he had signed the card Whattling as opposed to the more brotherly Kevin that Giles had been calling him since they had gone to Eton together. And the angry scrawl was so unlike Kevin’s usual writing. This could only mean he wasn’t entirely over his fit of pique. Besides, the other ticket could only be for Nigel and the fact that Kevin hadn’t had it delivered to his friend’s door clearly showed that Kevin wasn’t willing to face him just yet.

This heiress business was tearing them apart! He had always hoped they’d each find pleasant young ladies to wed, if he could even bring himself to court one and Nigel could bring himself to forget the one who had broken his heart before he had enlisted. Miss Welch, for all Giles’ original objections, seemed as if she might be a good match for Kevin. Why couldn’t she be more reasonable? She was a bluestocking; why couldn’t she see the logic of Kevin’s courtship? Any way she cut it, she was getting a bargain. What kind of person passed up such a paragon as Kevin Whattling?

Still, he couldn’t help but support Nigel’s position as well. There did seem to be something dishonest about courting a woman simply because she possessed a large fortune. He felt it equally dishonest to court a woman simply because she was particularly lovely. A person should be valued for themselves. Why, if he had been valued for only for his face or fortune, he’d have no friends at all!

However, it would have been uncharitable not to have accepted. He could hardly insult one of his truest and dearest friends. Besides, if he and Nigel went, perhaps they might find a way to make amends. Perhaps Kevin would be there smiling as usual, the tension between the three of them would evaporate, and things would be as they were before the infernal mess with Robbie. It was worth a try.

All he had to do now was convince Nigel.

 

–

 

Jenny sat next to George Safton in the center box of the Drury Lane Theatre that evening, with near royalty in boxes at either side. Her companion smiled down at the poor fellows in the pit, as if relishing his more lofty position. He seemed to be most interested in a heavy-set man with a shock of red hair, front row, center. Better him than her.

She couldn’t say what it was exactly that made her take the man in dislike. Since the moment he had arrived at her town house this evening, he had been completely attentive and charming. One could scarcely complain about his spotless black evening wear, although she found she preferred the white waistcoat Kevin wore to Mr. Safton’s black-and-white-striped one. By the way he’d bowed over her hand, she might have thought she was bedecked in a coronation robe rather than her navy silk evening gown with its heart-shaped neckline.

As they had left for the theatre, he had made sure to tuck the ermine-trimmed lap robes around her and Martha, even though she hardly needed them in her navy velvet evening cloak. He had chatted pleasantly with them all the way through London, making Martha blush and giggle with his fulsome compliments. When they had arrived at the theatre, he had ushered them up the sweeping stairs to what had to be the largest private box in the theatre. She and Martha had never bothered to purchase such luxurious accommodations. She should have felt like a princess.

But his attentions only served to annoy her, perhaps because there didn’t seem to be any logical reason for them. He hardly needed her fortune, if the opulent effects were any indication. He certainly wasn’t interested in intelligent conversation—his talks with Martha revolved around the weather, the latest fashion, or their neighbors’ private affairs. And just as when Kevin had arrived on her doorstep, she could not credit that a Corinthian could want to be her friend.

As if he were privy to her thought, he nodded down to the mass of humanity crowded in the center of the theatre now. “Is that our mutual friend Mr. Whattling, do you think?”

Martha, gowned in her usual violet evening gown, tsked as if it were bad form to bring another fellow to their attention, but Jenny’s traitor heart leaped. She leaned forward, craning her neck. The man sitting next to the redheaded fellow was quite tall, but too lean, and his hair in the lamplight looked more brown than gold. She leaned back. “No, I don’t believe so.”

He frowned. “Odd. Mr. Sloane is a particular friend of his. I was under the impression he would request his company if he should have an extra ticket.”

The redhead turned then and glanced back up the theatre, as if seeking someone. He had an open, almost childlike face. Though she was certain he wouldn’t notice her, she found herself smiling at him. He glanced up and smiled back, then reared back and tugged on his companion’s sleeve. The other man turned, and even Mr. Safton could not argue that angular face belonged to someone other than Kevin Whattling. He snatched the opera glasses from the chest of his dun-colored waistcoat and aimed them her direction.

She swallowed, dropping her gaze. “We seem to have caused a commotion.”

“Yes.” His voice was almost a purr.  

She looked his way, surprised, and he offered her a smile. “That generally happens when a noted gentleman accompanies a pair of beauties to the theatre.”

Martha giggled. Jenny managed a smile at the false praise. Then his gaze dipped, and she had the distinct impression he was calculating the cost of the sapphire necklace at her throat.

She turned her gaze steadfastly to the stage below. The intermission between acts had just begun, as had the posturing that went with it. Friends sought out friends, lovers a quiet place to meet. Mr. Sloane and his friend had their heads together, deep in conversation. Very likely Mr. Safton expected her to make conversation. If it had been Susan St. John, Joanna Fenwick, or one of her other friends beside her, she would be able to think of something to say. Indeed, she wouldn’t even have to work at it. But the man beside her was making her more and more uneasy. She let Martha chatter on as her thoughts wandered.

Or rather grew more fixed.

She could not stop thinking about a certain Corinthian. It didn’t help that the play tonight was Hamlet; she kept seeing Kevin in the brooding prince. But even earlier, when she had tried to read the book Susan had picked, she saw him in the characters, especially the dashing Willoughby. When she had tried to catch up on her correspondence with the Egyptian expedition she was sponsoring, she kept picturing him as a Pharaoh, with female slaves at his beck and call, eager to do his bidding. When she had attempted to classify the rare butterfly her entomologist colleague had given her, she caught herself wondering which of the many colors in its wings most resembled the blue in Kevin’s eyes. If she had sent him packing to salvage her intellectual, orderly life, she had failed miserably.

The simple truth was that she missed him terribly. She’d never realized how solitary her life had become. How much more enjoyable it would have been to share her favorite pastimes with someone she admired and respected, better, with someone she loved. Yet, fearing that her emotions would override her reason, she had let them do exactly that, and the result was that she had lost the chance fate had offered her. She should have thought things through more carefully. She should have given herself more time to accustom herself to the idea of being courted. She had behaved like a fool, a term she had never thought to apply to herself.

Yet, it wasn’t entirely foolishness that had caused her to send him packing. She was afraid of him. His very presence threatened to change her whole way of life. Even though she had been wishing for such a change, its sudden advent had been too much for her. Craven, she had refused him. And it was too late to make amends. One did not give a Corinthian the cut direct and try to apologize afterward. She was very much afraid she would never see Kevin Whattling again.

 

–

 

Down in the pit, Nigel dropped his opera glasses to his chest and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s Safton, and with Miss Welch, if I remember the lady correctly from our near miss in the park. It seems she’s found someone who will flatter her more. Trust The Snake to know how to address a lady’s vanity.”

Giles shifted on his feet. “I would have thought more of her. Bluestocking, you know. Surely she can see through such blatant cozening.”

“Women see what they want,” Nigel said. “Besides, if she had any intelligence whatsoever, she couldn’t possibly prefer that viper to our Kevin.”

“Of course,” Giles agreed. “Oh, I cannot bear it. Let me see.”

Nigel handed him the glasses, and Giles raised them to his eyes. Then he stiffened. “Nigel! Safton is leaving. Perhaps he was only visiting.”

“Perhaps,” Nigel allowed. “Although I still ask why.”

Giles lowered the glasses again and shoved them at Nigel. “Now’s our chance. We must warn her.”

Nigel caught his arm as he made to leave. “Are you mad? She doesn’t even know us. Why would she admit us to the box, let alone listen to us malign another gentleman?”

“But we can’t leave her to Safton!” Giles wailed. “Would you let your sister be escorted by the cad? Your cousin?”

“I haven’t a sister or female cousin, as you well know,” Nigel protested, but Giles could tell he was weakening.

“You must take my point,” Giles insisted. “The lady probably doesn’t get about much and so cannot know Safton’s reputation. Don’t you see, Nigel, this is just like the situation with Robbie! We cannot let Safton ruin another life!”

Nigel sighed. “Very well. Lead on.”

Giles scurried out of the row and, with Nigel following, hurried through the milling crowds in the lobby, up the stairs and down the corridor behind the boxes. He located the center box easily, then paused to square his shoulders before knocking. Even if Miss Welch vowed never to see Kevin again, she deserved better than Safton.

 

–

 

Martha jumped to her feet at the sound of the knock. “Mr. Safton must have forgotten something,” she cried, hurrying to answer.

Jenny frowned, wondering what their escort could have forgotten that would prevent him from fetching some refreshments from below, as he had promised when he left. Her frown deepened when she saw the two men from the pit in the doorway. While they looked quite presentable in their evening clothes, one in spruce and the other in navy, they appeared a somewhat mismatched set. The brown-haired fellow was tall and angular, with spare hair and features, and the shorter man was round as an orange, with hair to match. What interesting gentlemen she seemed to be attracting lately.

“I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this,” murmured the redheaded fellow Mr. Safton had called Mr. Sloane, wilting under Jenny and Martha’s combined frowns. “I’m Mr. Giles Sloane, and this is Sir Nigel Dillingham. We, er, that is, I, er…”

“We’re friends of Kevin Whattling’s,” Sir Nigel announced, pushing past Martha, who startled. “And we must speak to Miss Welch on a matter of some importance.”

Martha bridled. “Well, I never.”

Something in their attitude told Jenny she should listen to them.

“Let them in, Martha,” she commanded. “I think you will want to thank Mr. Sloane. I believe he’s the one who provided us with the excellent candy. Am I right, sir?”

His face turned redder than his hair. “Yes, ma’am. A small token of appreciation I knew Mr. Whattling would want to make, if he could.”

“Well, they were excellent,” Martha allowed, returning to her seat and spreading the skirts of her evening gown. “You may continue, Mr. Sloane.”

“Thank you, madam.” He nodded to Martha, then turned his gaze on Jenny, but he couldn’t seem to speak. His blush deepened, and he had to look at his companion for assistance.

“Giles felt it our duty to warn you,” Sir Nigel said obligingly, spine as straight as a needle. “We know you have rejected Whattling’s suit, but…”

“But you can call him back if you like,” Mr. Sloane interrupted, odd light shining in his blue eyes.

She wanted to take umbrage—imagine two strangers telling her how to direct her personal life—but he was so very earnest.

“Truly, Miss Welch,” he was pleading, “he is a great gun. Kev and I have been friends since childhood, and I’ve never wanted for a better companion. He’s always stood by me, when I was sick or needed someone to talk with. Ask Sir Nigel here—Kevin saved his life after he was mustered out of the Army and fell on dark times. Nigel might have turned into a maudlin drunk if it weren’t for Kev. Kev is kind, loyal, generous, well as generous as he can be of late, trustworthy…”

“That’s enough,” Sir Nigel warned, face reddening in obvious embarrassment. “The man isn’t dead, and Miss Welch hardly asked you in to give his eulogy.”

Giles snapped his mouth shut, looking down at his feet in obvious misery.

Jenny’s heart went out to him. “It is very noble of you to support your friend, Mr. Sloane. I sympathize with his plight, believe me. But you mustn’t ask me to sacrifice my life for a man I scarcely know.”

“No, indeed, madam,” Sir Nigel said while Giles squirmed. “That is precisely why we’re here. I may not be as eloquent as my friend Sloane, but I can only say that you’ve traded gold for dross.”

Jenny frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your escort this evening, George Safton. He is a liar, a cheat, a murderer, and in no way a gentleman. You may have rid yourself of Whattling on good motives, but you haven’t done yourself any favors by taking up with Safton.”

Jenny could feel herself growing redder with each word as her heart sped. Her intuition had been right! Safton was much worse than he seemed. Beside her, Martha was gaping in astonishment.

“I think, Sir Nigel,” Jenny managed, “that you had better explain yourself.”

“Yes, Dillingham,” Mr. Safton said from the doorway. “Perhaps you’d better do just that.”