Chapter Eight
“Jack, I don’t know why you made us sneak up that dingy back stairway instead of going through the lobby,” commented the Duchess of Leverton. “That’s hardly an exciting way to start the evening.”
“I thought you enjoyed sneaking up dingy stairways and along gloomy corridors,” Jack said as he handed Gillian to her seat. “Especially in pursuit of bloodthirsty brigands.”
Charles rolled his eyes before addressing his wife. “Gillian, it’s not a dingy back stairway. It’s a private stairway for patrons who’ve reserved a private box. That way we can reach our seats without jostling our way through crowds in a lobby full of pickpockets and other disreputable sorts.”
“A private stairway for the snobs, you mean,” said the duchess. “God forbid the aristocracy should ever mingle with ordinary folk.”
Jack cast a glance over the rail of their box to the pit below. “I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that. There will be plenty of mingling between the gentlemen of the Ton and the ordinary folk before the night is out.”
“Ah, you mean they will soon be availing themselves of the company of the ladybirds who frequent the pit and galleries.” Gillian stood to peer over the rail, leaning out to take a good look. “I must say it does look like quite a lot of fun down there.”
Charles reached out and snagged the velvet sash around her waist. “Please sit down, my dear, before you fall out and land on some poor fellow’s head.”
Gillian subsided into her seat, scoffing at her husband’s request. “As if I would ever be so clumsy. You just don’t want me making a spectacle of myself and you know it.”
“I do apologize for being so tiresome,” he said in a regretful tone. “But if you make a spectacle of yourself, no one will watch the evening’s entertainment. You’re much more interesting and prettier than any of the actresses performing tonight.”
Her sherry-colored eyes danced with laughter. “Well done, Charles, turning a scold into a compliment. Then again, you are the most polished man in London.”
“I try, but you do present a challenge, even for my vaunted skills,” her husband said dryly.
“Wretch,” his wife replied. “I intend to ignore you for the rest of the evening.”
That was unlikely; Charles and Gillian couldn’t go five minutes without making sheep’s eyes at each other or slipping off to a corner for a stolen kiss. In society’s view, their recent marriage was scandalous and the gossip surrounding them had yet to die down, but anyone with sense could see they were madly in love and surprisingly well-matched. He gentled her fire and tempered her brash behavior, while she brought a joy and spontaneity to his life.
As if to make good on her word, Gillian gave her husband a shoulder and turned her attention to Jack.
“I’m sure Charles is wrong about me being prettier than all the women in the acting company,” she said. “I’ve heard Mrs. Lester is a great beauty and I have no doubt my cousin is very pretty if she intends to have a career on the stage.”
“Over my dead body,” Jack muttered.
Since his disastrous encounter with Lia the other day, he’d been kicking himself for making such a hash of things. In his defense, he’d been stunned to see her in such an environment, keeping company with someone like Amy Baxter. As the stepdaughter of the troupe’s manager, Lia might be afforded some measure of protection, but she was still at risk. Anyone with a brain should understand that.
Worse yet, Lia’s mother seemed absolutely fine with the notion of her only child following in her footsteps. Mrs. Lester had even made another stab at it after Lia stormed out of the green room, once more quizzing him on his relationship with her daughter. Jack had replied in an icy voice that Lia was like a sister to him. That Mrs. Lester was disappointed by that characterization was all too evident.
Not that he was actually thinking of Lia in those terms, but he intended to keep that fact strictly to himself.
Gillian’s gloved hand came to rest on his, pulling him out of his dark thoughts.
“You were right to come to us,” she said in a gentle voice. “We’ll think of some way to help my cousin.”
Jack forced a smile. It was a mark of how concerned he was that he’d asked the Levertons for help in persuading Lia to return home to Stonefell. And it was bound to be tricky, at least initially, because he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell her about Gillian—much less that her cousin was a duchess.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to talk some sense into her.”
“She doesn’t seem inclined to take anyone’s advice so far,” Charles said.
“She’s still entranced with the dream of making a life for herself on the stage. But she’ll listen to reason eventually. She always has.”
“You mean she always listened to you,” Gillian said in a wry tone. “But that was in the past. And as much as you want to help her, you’re not her family. The Lesters are.” She gave him a meaningful look. “As am I, I might add.”
“She’s got you there, old son,” Charles said. “Hard to argue with blood.”
“Her blood relations are utterly hopeless in protecting her,” Jack said caustically. “Besides, with the exception of her grandmother, nobody knows her better than I do. And what I know is that a life on the stage—or as a courtesan, God forbid—is not for Lia. She belongs back at Stonefell.”
With me.
Gillian leaned forward again and gazed at the pit, which had grown exceedingly lively. “Yes, but I must admit I see the appeal. I think we should buy a box for the season, Charles. Then we can come see my cousin whenever we want.”
“I think not,” her husband said in a pained tone.
“Don’t be such an old biddy. It’s very jolly.”
“Vulgar is the term that comes to my mind,” Charles said. “Besides, you’ll send Jack into fits if you encourage Miss Kincaid. We’re supposed to be getting her out of the theatrical life, remember?”
Gillian wrinkled her nose. “I know, but it does seem rather dashing of her. And theatrical pieces can be very edifying, especially Shakespearean dramas or the classics.”
“There is nothing remotely Shakespearean about the Pan Theater,” Jack said, glancing down at the playbill in his hand.
The program was the usual nonsense and started off with a pantomime and a musical piece with a recitation by Mrs. Lester. The main attraction of the evening, the absurdly named The Queen of Mount Olympus, was followed by the burletta in which Lia was to appear. A Surprise for the Publican’s Wife filled Jack with a sense of dread.
“When does my cousin appear?” Gillian asked.
“Not until the burletta at the end,” Jack replied.
Charles let out a groan. “Splendid. We must endure an entire evening of horrifically bad acting and even worse singing—not to mention an audience full of scoundrels, pickpockets, and drunkards. We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives.”
“I’ll protect you, darling,” Gillian said with a grin. “Besides, it can’t be that bad. Lord and Lady Montgomery are just a few boxes over from us.” She leaned out and waved enthusiastically at the startled pair of elderly aristocrats before her husband pulled her back in.
Jack tried to assess the theater with a dispassionate eye. “It actually isn’t,” he finally said.
For one thing, the crowd in the pit and the galleries seemed no worse than in any other theater in London. They were comprised of a mix of nobility and various sorts of respectable shopkeepers and their families, along with the usual disreputable elements. The public rooms were also better than expected, tastefully done up in soothing greens and pale yellows, accented by gilt molding. Though the backstage areas were a dark and dingy nightmare, as he’d discovered to his dismay, Stephen Lester had clearly put some money into creating a venue that could compete with the licensed theaters of Drury Lane.
“The musicians are taking their places,” said Gillian.
After settling in the small pit in front of the stage, the musicians led the assemblage in “God Save the King.” Once the audience was seated again, the curtain went up and the evening’s performance began.
Jack immediately winced at the skimpy costumes worn by the dancers, especially the buxom Amy, but he soon found that the performers were talented and the choreography entertaining. And Marianne Lester was a revelation. She not only had a fine speaking and singing voice, she possessed an arresting sense of drama. Within seconds of stepping onto the stage, she had the enthusiastic audience eating out of her hand. Despite his expectation, Jack enjoyed the recitations, which had been written by her husband and showed a deft turn of mind.
After a short musical interlude, the main performance began. The Queen of Mount Olympus was a ridiculous pastiche of classical myth and Greek history that featured chanted recitations and several musical numbers. The queen, Mrs. Lester, took center stage, cutting an impressive figure in a spangled toga, gilt breastplate, and plumed helmet. The audience loved her, cheering loudly every time she launched into her recitations, which she chanted dramatically in a singsong manner.
The real spectacle began when the first battle scene commenced to loud whistles and cheers. Players garbed as soldiers in short tunics and breeches launched into a mock battle, enthusiastically whacking at each other with painted wooden swords.
“This is much more fun than Drury Lane,” Gillian said, almost doubling over with laughter. “Even if it’s completely absurd.”
“With emphasis on the absurd,” Charles said.
Jack, however, felt as if a very large sword had just whacked him on the back of the head, because unless his eyesight had rapidly begun to fail him, one soldier looked very familiar.
“Goodness,” Gillian said. “I think that soldier standing by the proscenium is a female.”
Jack squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, hoping they were deceiving him. That hope was dashed when he cracked his eyelids open again.
“I’m afraid so,” he said, barely able to choke out the words.
Both Gillian and Charles looked at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Charles looked back at the stage. “Good God, is that Miss Kincaid?”
“It most certainly is,” Jack ground out.
Gillian leaned forward to get a better look. “That’s Lia? Well, I must say she looks very dashing in that outfit. Don’t you think so, Charles?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he replied in a faint voice.
Jack stared until he thought his eyes would pop out of his head. Lia’s costume was scandalously revealing. The form-fitting tunic revealed the lovely swell of her bosom, before nipping in to showcase her trim waist. It barely reached midthigh, which meant her shapely legs, clad in breeches that unfortunately fit her snuggly, were on full display.
The only saving grace was that she was not front and center on the stage. Because it was a crowded scene with frenetic activity, her identity as a woman might go unnoticed. Jack clutched at that faint hope as if it were a rope tossed to a drowning man.
“You didn’t tell me she was playing a breeches role,” Charles said, his consternation clear. It wasn’t uncommon for certain actresses to don breeches and play a male part, but those roles were notorious for attracting all sorts of salacious attention from male audience members.
“Because I didn’t know,” Jack said. “That blasted girl doesn’t tell me anything anymore.”
Gillian shot him an irritated look. “I shouldn’t wonder, if you speak to her in that tone of voice.”
Charles shook his head. “Under the circumstances, Jack’s dismay is quite understandable, my love. This sort of thing won’t help Miss Kincaid’s reputation at all.”
She shrugged. “I don’t see why. I wear breeches myself on occasion.”
Her husband stared at her in disbelief. “Only in the country when riding, and very discreetly. You certainly don’t go parading around in front of half of London.”
Lia had retreated and was now partially concealed by the proscenium. Jack couldn’t understand why she was in the scene at all because she didn’t seem to be doing much of anything.
“This theater is not half of London,” Gillian pointed out. “Besides, she’s entirely covered, so I don’t see what you and Jack are fussing about.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Charles said in a long-suffering tone.
He alluded to his wife’s unconventional upbringing in Sicily and her sometimes equally unconventional behavior. But unlike Lia, Gillian’s powerful relatives could and did protect her from both malicious gossip and ill-intentioned men.
Lia’s family didn’t even care to try.
“I’m not sure anyone’s yet noticed that this particular soldier is a woman,” Charles said, craning forward to peruse the audience. “With a little luck—ah, she’s disappeared backstage.”
“Thank God,” Jack muttered. He and his friend exchanged a relieved glance. “I think we dodged a pistol ball on that one.”
“Look! There she is again,” Gillian said. “Now what is she doing?”
Appalled, Jack saw that Lia had quickly reappeared, accompanied by one of the other soldiers. They carried a large piece of fabric to the front of the stage and unrolled it.
“That’s called a scroll,” Charles said. “It details the narrative that can’t be explained by the recitations or songs.” He sounded like someone was strangling him.
Jack understood exactly how he felt. Everyone in the pit was now discovering that one of the soldiers was indeed a woman, and a very comely one at that. They were reacting as he’d expected, with a rising tide of loud, ribald comments, a few of which he could make out over the din.
“That’s odd,” Gillian said. “Why don’t they just act it out or present it in a speech, like a Greek chorus?”
“This is how theaters like the Pan get around the legal restrictions on spoken drama,” Charles said.
“You two are missing the point,” Jack growled. “Lia is now front and center in a breeches role, and every damn rake in this blasted theater has taken note of it.”
Gillian grimaced. “That is rather bad.”
“We’ll have to do what we can to minimize the damage,” Charles said. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
“At least she’s off the stage again,” Jack said, relieved that the piece was finally drawing to a close.
The curtain came down, signaling the interval. Jack stood, almost knocking his chair over in his haste. He needed to get downstairs to gauge people’s reactions concerning Lia. If no one realized she was Marianne’s daughter, they might still scrape by.
“I’ll meet you down in the saloon,” he said.
“Jack, wait,” Gillian called out.
He didn’t. A sense of urgency pushed him forward, one that seemed eerily like the sensations he’d felt on the eve of a battle. He knew it was a ridiculous comparison because, after all, no one’s life would be lost. But Lia’s life could be changed forever by what had transpired tonight, in ways that could forever demolish her peace.
He forged his way through the crush in the hall and on the stairs, ignoring both the calls of acquaintances and the entreaties from prostitutes trolling for business. He could never blame those poor creatures for their way of life—after all, the vast majority of them had no other choice. But the hard, grasping look he saw in the eyes of the older ones served as a grim reminder of a future that loomed like an approaching storm in Lia’s innocent path.
Eventually, he jostled his way through to the back of the crowded saloon, where liveried footmen served refreshments. He gave Lester credit for creating an elegant atmosphere that had obviously attracted a fair number of nobility and other prosperous folk to the opening. Right now, though, he was tempted to throttle the man for throwing his stepdaughter to the wolves.
He secured a glass of port and bolted it down in one shot. It seared its way down his throat and exploded in his stomach, but it did the trick of blunting the edge of his fury. Taking a deep breath, he began prowling the room, exchanging the occasional word with a friend but always moving.
And listening.
Although most of the discussion was about the leading lady and the plays, he overheard a number of the men talking about Lia in the most vulgar terms. Two particularly repugnant fellows were graphically parsing her figure, each vowing to seek her out in the green room after the performance. Jack was considering the best way to warn them off without exposing Lia’s identity when a voice blared right next to his ear.
“I say, Lendale, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Theater ain’t usually your style, you know.”
Sighing, Jack turned to greet Viscount Medford, a generally harmless rattle with an unfortunate tendency to gossip. He normally tried to avoid him, but Medford’s mother was bosom bows with Jack’s mother, so in all good conscience he couldn’t snub the poor fellow.
“No, it isn’t,” he said tersely.
Medford, never the sharpest of pins, peered at him with a puzzled expression. “Then what the devil are you doing here?”
“I came with friends.” Jack caught sight of the Levertons making their way over. “If you’ll excuse me, I see them—”
“Certainly, certainly,” Medford interrupted. “But before you dash off, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“Splendid. I was hoping you could introduce me to Mrs. Lester’s daughter after the performance. You must know her, of course, because she lived on your uncle’s estate all those years, did she not? Ah, perhaps that explains your presence. You’ve come to see your little friend. She’ll no doubt be very popular after tonight, eh? Let’s hope she’s as lively as her dear mama once was.”
A series of small explosions reverberated through Jack’s skull.
“I say,” the viscount said as consternation descended on his amiable features, “is she already your light o’ love? If so, didn’t mean to steal a march on you, old man. I was just hoping you could slip me ahead of the line. You know, before the other fellows got to her.”
Before the top of Jack’s head could blow off—or he could smash in Medford’s vapid face—a slender gloved hand clamped onto the viscount’s arm and Gillian spun him around to face her. Medford gaped, obviously surprised by the strength contained in the slim body of the young woman standing before him.
“I suggest you put that thought completely out of your mind,” she said in a voice that all but resembled a snarl.
“How-do, Your Grace,” Medford said in a weak voice. “Um, what thought would that be again?”
“Engaging in any kind of nasty thoughts, much less conduct, with my cousin,” she said.
“Your Grace,” Jack warned, appalled that Gillian would so brashly allude to Lia’s parentage.
When she held up an imperious hand, he bit back a curse. In that moment, she looked entirely like a woman with the blood of princes running through her veins. He cast a glance around the room. Where the hell was her husband?
Jack spotted Charles across the room with Sir Dominic Hunter, a magistrate with close connections to the royal family—and to Lia’s family as well. The two appeared to be speaking earnestly.
“Your cousin?” Medford repeated, peering at Gillian with all the comprehension of a plate of boiled potatoes. Then his brow cleared. “Yes, of course, Lia Kincaid is your cousin! You’re both royal bas—”
“Careful, Medford,” Jack interrupted in a lethal voice.
“Yes, of . . . of course,” Medford stammered, taking in Jack’s glare. “And I understand completely, Your Grace. No need to worry about a thing.”
“There’d better not be,” Gillian said. “Now, please be off before I decide to become unpleasant.”
Since Gillian’s version of unpleasantness could be an uppercut to the jaw or worse, Medford gave a fumbling bow and retreated, almost running into Charles.
“That was not very wise of you, my love,” the duke said in disapproving tones.
“What?” She rounded her eyes in a completely unconvincing assumption of innocence.
“You know very well. Announcing to the world that Miss Kincaid is your cousin.”
“You have the most disgustingly acute hearing,” she complained. “I was barely speaking above a whisper.”
“Trust me, you weren’t,” Jack said, eyeing the people around them. Several had obviously heard the exchange with Medford and would no doubt be spreading the most interesting on-dit to hit Town in ages.
Gillian shrugged. “It’s not as if people don’t know who our fathers are. They’d make the connection soon enough. I simply refuse to stand by and let people insult the poor girl.”
“I understand, but I’d prefer that we not draw the picture for them until we have a chance to come up with a strategy to deal with the situation,” Charles said.
Jack shook his head. “Too late for that now. We might as well go back to our seats and see what other disasters are in store for us.”
Gillian grimaced. “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to cause more problems.”
He briefly pressed her shoulder. “None of this is your fault. It’s mine for making such a hash of things with Lia.”
“Perhaps we can save the self-flagellation for after this gruesome evening has concluded,” Charles said dryly. “For now, I’d like to return to our box and pretend that I’m not in the middle of yet another spectacular scandal.”
“But I never cause scandals anymore,” Gillian protested.
Her husband scoffed as he took her hand and led her out of the rapidly emptying saloon.
As they made their way in silence back to their box, Charles made a point of directing his most killing glare at anyone who stared at his wife or dared to start to comment. Because Jack did the same, they cleared their path like a hot knife slicing through butter.
The curtain rose on A Surprise for the Publican’s Wife and, as its unfortunate title suggested, it was a bawdy romp that soon had the audience roaring with laughter. Fortunately, Mrs. Lester was not in the production; she rarely played comic roles. Jack could only imagine the glee that would result if Lia and her mother appeared on the stage together.
As Jack waited for Lia to appear, it felt like the Sword of Damocles was poised over their heads. When she finally walked onto the stage, carrying a large pitcher on a tray, he took in her costume and barely held back a groan.
“That’s not good,” said Gillian in a massive understatement.
Playing a tavern girl, Lia wore a simple blouse tucked into a skirt that displayed her shapely legs well above her ankles. Her blouse was cut so low that the top of her stays peeked above the neckline, over which her breasts swelled in tempting mounds. Her hair was pulled back from her face to fall in an extravagant tumble around her shoulders. With her cheeks flushed, she looked madly delectable, as the whoops and cheers from the male members of the audience made all too clear.
“Oh, God.” Charles sighed. “This is a complete disaster. I have no idea how we’re going to fix this.”
“We’re going to—” Jack broke off and leaned forward, frowning.
Balancing her tray, Lia walked carefully across the stage, where the leading lady and other actors were gathered around a table singing a ridiculous drinking song. Clearly, her role was to replenish their mugs. It seemed a simple enough task, but Lia had the oddest look on her face. Jack swore he could see her nose twitching.
Because he’d spent a lifetime getting to know her, he knew for a fact something was very wrong now.
The lead actress held up her mug to be refilled, not missing a beat of the song. When Lia froze, the woman waggled her mug and shot her a quick, fierce scowl. Pressing her lips together, Lia reached for the pitcher.
Before her hand touched it, she let out an enormous sneeze. It was so violent that the tray flew from her hands and the contents of the pitcher tipped onto the head of the leading lady. To the utter delight of the audience, the drenched and furious actress leaped up from her chair and commenced screeching in a voice loud enough to wake the dead.