Waterford rattled his paper and resumed reading, crossing his long legs in front of him as he leaned back at his ease.
Stunned by the blatant rudeness, Colin sat for a moment without reacting, and then snatched the paper away from the older man, saying, “Sir, at least do me the common courtesy of listening to me when I speak to you.” He tossed the paper aside, out of reach.
Waterford sat up straight and stared steadily at Colin for a moment, his gaze traveling Colin’s bruised jawline before meeting the younger man’s eyes again. There may have been a twinkle in the depths of his odd eyes. “Would it not behoove you to introduce yourself, sir, before you so rudely make demands on my time? And I would have you know from the onset, by the way, that if you are only coming to me because you have been rejected as a candidate of the Gentleman’s tutelage, you will find me a poor substitute. We do not have the same methods, and I do not take anyone on who would pay for their lessons elsewhere.”
Puzzled, Colin stuck out his hand and gave his name, his home county, and then said, “Sir, I have not been to Gentleman Jackson’s at all. He will teach anyone with the coin. I heard that you were the fellow who could teach a fellow, but only if you believed he had promise.”
“Why does that matter?”
“I am not a dilettante, sir; I really am very good.”
“Then why do you need me?”
Colin fingered his bruised jaw. He frowned and stared off through the smoky reading room toward a curtained window, draped in deep red velvet. “I know I’m good, but I don’t know anything about London, how the matches are run, who the fighters are, what I might expect. Also, I lack a certain . . . finesse in the ring, I fear. Things here are different than in Yorkshire. It would take too long to learn through trial and error, and I have only a month or so.”
“And why do you want to box? You are a gentleman and therefore, presumably, an amateur. Surely you should be content to bet on the professionals, as most gentlemen do, and be satisfied with sparring occasionally with other gentlemen pugilists?”
“I’m not a gambler.” Colin shrugged and met the other man’s gaze. “I’m a boxer, and no dilettante. I like it. I’m good at it. It doesn’t really matter my class, does it?”
“You cannot expect to be as good as the men who depend upon it for their livelihood. You don’t have enough at stake.” Waterford again crossed one ankle over the other and sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Colin’s face.
“With or without your training I will fight. I can’t explain it. Some men paint, others compose music, and others . . . others build their whole life around their clothes and jewelry,” he said bitterly, thinking of Lord Yarnell and his perfection of dress and manner. “I fight.”
“I take no money.”
“Good. I have very little to give.”
“I am a stern taskmaster.”
“And I a dedicated student.”
Waterford stood, straightening his lanky limbs and put out his hand. “Then let us see if we can make you a better fighter, Sir Colin!”
Bounding to his feet and shaking the older man’s hand vigorously, Colin said, “You mean you’ll take me on?”
The knight put up one cautioning hand. “First things first. I’ll see what you have, then decide. How about that?”
“That’s fair; that’s more than fair.”
“Let us go back to my rooms. I have a place set up and my manservant, Roger—he used to box until his eye went bad—acts as a sparring partner. We shall see if you’ll do.”
Colin nodded sharply. All he needed was this one opportunity.
• • •
“I’m glad we’re not stuck in some stuffy box, Miss Varens,” Belinda de Launcey said, her arm through her friend’s. “One can’t truly experience the theater that way.”
“Kind of you to say, my dear, since there were no boxes available on such short notice.” They were pulled apart by the buffeting of the crowd, but Andromeda firmly grasped Belinda’s wrist and pulled her back, putting her arm over the girl’s shoulders. “If we had gone to Mr. Lessington’s theater he would have found us a spot, I have no doubt, but his troupe is not mounting anything suitable at the moment. And I truly wanted to see this play.” Andromeda glanced around her nervously. “However, I have not been to the Season in so very long, and I forgot what a tangle it is at this time of year.”
It was Wednesday evening, and they were making their way through the rude crowds; Andromeda was having second and even third thoughts about the advisability of having young Miss de Launcey with her. It would have been different in a box, where they would have been secure from the impatient crowd. And when one had a box, one was treated infinitely better by the serving staff and everyone else. It had likely not been wise to bring a thirteen-year-old girl with her without the security of a box seat.
Although, from some of the tales the girl had told, Belinda was up to any rig. Andromeda, of course, would never praise her thus to her face. Notwithstanding the use of low cant, which she never indulged in, she also did not think it was wise to praise behavior that could well get the girl in deep trouble.
A skinny man swayed and fell in front of them in the narrow aisle as they tried to fight their way to some seats—a drunken sot, no doubt—and it was just too much. She had not intended to come alone with Belinda, but Colin had not been back all day, and finally, after some persuading from her young friend, she had decided they could go anyway. But this was too much. Andromeda turned and tugged at Belinda. “Come, this is too crowded. I should never have thought of such a mad scheme. I will not have you subjected to this any longer.”
“Miss Varens! Please! Look, there are some seats over there, and a very gentlemanly-looking man seated. Let us sit by him.”
Andromeda pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, clutched her umbrella to her bosom and bit her lip. She looked down at Belinda’s eager face, shining with anticipation, and then gazed around her. The crowd was settling somewhat. The house lights were going down and the stage gaslights were going up, flaring and popping as the gas hissed.
“All right,” she said suddenly. She grasped her young companion’s hand and they made their way between the benches down to the empty spaces, pushing past people’s knees, tripping over baskets of food and wine. She stopped boldly before the man and said, “Sir, do you mind if we sit by you?”
He looked them over, his eyes glittering strangely, but his voice was mannerly enough as he said, “Certainly, madam. Please have a seat.”
The play was engrossing at first. Not liking the look of the fellow on the other side of the empty space, Andromeda had put Belinda between herself and the polite gentleman. After the first half hour of the play the man next to her began to lean heavily against her, and soon he was asleep, snoring loudly in her ear. She tried shoving him back, and her turban became dislodged and anchored over one eye. She fought with it and managed to get it back on top of her head.
Belinda was squirming for some unknown reason, and Andromeda was finding it increasingly uncomfortable. She began to regret such a harebrained scheme and thought that perhaps they ought to leave. But there was no going with it as dark as it was in the pit seating area.
She glanced around, peering through the gloom. They were a good ways from the aisle; it would take a while and cause a commotion if they were to leave. When she turned back it was to see Belinda, her face frozen in distaste or something worse, leaning away from the man on the other side of her.
“What is wrong, Belinda? Are you not enjoying the play?”
Her mouth trembling, the girl whispered, her voice a moan of fear, “Miss Varens, he keeps trying to . . . trying to touch me!”
Andromeda, shocked to her very core, bent over and stared at the man on the other side of her companion, to find the man’s hand on Belinda’s knee. Without another thought, she balled her fist and hit him in the general region of his stomach, or somewhat lower, and the man doubled over.
“What’s w
rong with you?” he hollered, and even over the chatter in the audience and the loud voices of the actors declaiming onstage, it could be heard. “You brought the little whore to be sold, I just want a sample of her wares!”
Andromeda leaped to her feet and beat the man with the umbrella she had brought with her as protection against the misty weather, and then, as the fracas became general, she hauled Belinda to her feet and they stumbled and staggered away from the fray as the serving staff hurriedly lit the house lights, and large men employed to keep calm descended on the scene.
Belinda stopped. Her face was turned up and she was staring above them, and Andromeda was forced to follow suit. There, in a box, was Rachel Neville, her fiancé, and Lady Yarnell in their safe, sequestered box. And with not another soul in sight, even though it was well into the first act. Their eyes were on the mêlée, though, and they did not see the two gazing up at them.
Until Rachel looked down into the pits.
Andromeda paused only a moment as her eyes met Rachel’s, and then she pulled Belinda behind her as they exited the theater, the commotion rising in volume behind them as they made their way through the passage and out to the night, looking for a carriage.
• • •
“What kind of an idiot would take a child to a theater and sit in the pit?” Andromeda paced, her frilly skirts flying out behind her, as her large feet clumped on the uncarpeted hardwood floor of the Strongwycke mansion drawing room. She whirled and dropped at Belinda’s feet, “Oh, my dear child,” she said, hugging her again for about the third or fourth time. “I am so sorry I took you there! And you were subjected to that . . . that filthy lecher’s groping!”
“Miss Varens, we survived. I’m just fine!” Belinda was curled up in a chair with a warm shawl over her night rail and a cup of hot chocolate at her elbow. Her dark tresses had been combed and washed, losing all smell of the smoky, dirty, beer-drenched theater.
The clock struck midnight and Andromeda dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands, groaning. “And now it is midnight, and you are still up, and no one in their right mind would keep a thirteen-year-old girl up this late. Oh, what a wretched mother I would have made. God knew what He was doing when He saw fit to keep me without husband and children.”
“But that’s not true,” Belinda cried. “Miss Varens . . . Andromeda, you would have made a smashing mother. Look what adventures we have had!”
The vast drawing room door creaked open and Colin limped in, his homely face drawn and weary.
“Where have you been?” Andromeda said, uncovering her eyes and glaring at him, her tone acerbic.
He frowned, crossed to the decanters sitting on a tray on a table, and poured himself some port. “I have had the most amazing evening, Andy. I met a man . . .” He stopped as he took in the scene, his glass halfway to his mouth. “I say, why is Miss de Launcey still up? Don’t children generally go to bed with the sun?”
“I am not a child,” Belinda said. She put her mug of chocolate down with a slam on the table.
Andromeda sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Colin,” she groaned. “I am unfit to have her here at all. I must write her uncle to come and get her, for I—”
“Miss Varens, no, please don’t send me away!”
Colin sat in a chair and looked at the two of them, finally sensing, perhaps, the anxiety of his sister. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”
Andromeda told him the whole tale, and at first Colin was amused, until she got to the part about the groping stranger, the fight, and their flight from the theater.
“This is my fault,” he said, running his knobby fingers through his tousled hair. “I have been sadly remiss and I apologize to you both. I have been a selfish beast, Andy; you should have told me so.” He leaped to his feet, hugged his sister briefly, fiercely, and took Belinda’s hand, squeezing it. “I will do better. We shall go to the theater, and I will make sure we have a box. I may have acquaintances that have one they are not using for a night and we will have a grand time of it. I promise you.”
He gazed at the girl in front of him and crouched down, looking into her eyes. “Miss de Launcey, are you certain you are all right? You have had a shocking evening, and I must be assured that nothing has upset you too deeply. If it has, say the word and we will leave tomorrow for Shadow Manor.”
Andromeda watched her brother, her heart warmed by his seriousness and evident remorse over his inattention.
“I was frightened at first,” she admitted. “But then, sir, you should have seen your sister! She punched the fellow in the stomach—I think it was his stomach—and then when he started yelling . . .” She flushed pink, but then frowned and went on. “When he started yelling, she beat him with her umbrella. It was grand!”
“Maybe we should put you in the ring,” he said, chuckling, with a glance over at his sister, who still sat on a hard chair, her hands knotted in an anxious twist on her lap.
“But we would not have had to go through any of that if Miss Neville had not lied in the first place and promised us a place in her fiancé’s box, and then retracted it, saying there were others,” Belinda said, her tone dark with resentment. “But there weren’t! They had no company. The box was almost empty!”
Andromeda, seeing Colin’s confused look, explained the invitation and the hasty retraction. She passed over the misunderstanding as delicately as possible, but his expression darkened. “We do not know the entire story,” she finished. “It’s possible that some of their company had not come yet, or were detained, or were out walking the hallways. We do not know.”
“I think we know,” Colin said, his expression somber. “She had a strange fit of generosity and then regretted it.”
“She seemed so genuinely happy to see us yesterday,” Andromeda mused. “I don’t want to think she just changed her mind.”
“She’s not the girl we used to know, Andy,” he said, putting one hand over hers and squeezing. He stood and straightened. “Anyway, I shall be a better brother and friend from this night forward,” he promised. “We’ll see the theater the way we should, in high style. But right now, I think everyone should go to bed. I know I will. I have had an exhausting evening.”
“At least you are not bruised,” Andromeda said.
“Oh, not in any places that you can see, my dear,” he said over his shoulder as he limped toward the door. “Not in any places you can see. I will tell you all about it on the morrow.”
Chapter Six
Another day and another boring musicale . . . or was this to be a recital? Rachel could not remember. She hadn’t slept well and she knew she looked haggard, the dark circles under her eyes attesting to a troubled conscience. But throughout her sleepless night she had not been able to forget the puzzled expression on Andromeda Varens’s face when she looked up during that awful disturbance at the theater and saw Rachel, seated in elegance and safety, while she and Belinda were forced to flee the pit.
And Rachel could not forgive herself. Strange, since she had never been given to fits of remorse. But Andromeda Varens was an old and valued friend, even if they had not been close for the last few years, and Belinda! Belinda was now her sister’s niece. How could she abandon her like that? She was not accustomed to self-blame, and as she reflected on the mêlée, it took all of her considerable willpower to remain seated calmly, gloved hands folded, feet primly together, fan clasped demurely on her lap.
She should have done something. Yarnell, alarmed by the disturbance, had ushered his fiancée and his mother out of the theater to their carriage, and Rachel had searched the crowd for Belinda and Andromeda, but had not seen them. As a result, she had spent a wretched night worried for them. She should have done something, should have said something to Yarnell, but she had dithered in indecisiveness, and had, in the end, done nothing. She knew that if anything had happened they would have heard by morning from Colin, but still—
Lady Yarnell and Lady Beaufort, seated on either side of her, clappe
d politely at the end of a piano piece that resembled the original only in that the right notes were played. But the pianist had no natural ability, so it sounded leaden and forced, devoid of spirit as no piece of music should be. Nonetheless, Rachel clapped too.
Just then a beautiful young lady, blond and slim, wearing a gorgeous georgette afternoon gown in pale pink and rose, drifted over to them. “Why, Lady Yarnell, how nice to see you again! And Lady Beaufort; I have not had the pleasure for several years, I believe.”
Rachel gazed at her with interest and waited for an introduction. But although Lady Yarnell murmured a greeting, there was no introduction forthcoming. Very odd; very rude! The young lady, probably a few years older than Rachel, lingered.
Finally Lady Beaufort, after trying to catch her sister’s eye, said to the young woman, “Miss Danvers, it is lovely to see you. May I introduce you to Miss Rachel Neville? She is affianced just recently to my nephew, Yarnell. Miss Neville, may I introduce Miss Millicent Danvers? She is a resident of Barcombe, the village near the Yarnell estate.”
Rachel nodded politely to the other lady. “Will you sit with us, Miss Danvers?”
“I would be happy to, Miss Neville. What a lovely gown you are wearing! The blue matches your eyes, almost.”
Quite in charity with so good-natured a personage, and, if truth be told, quite willing to have her thoughts distracted from her own failings as a friend and sister, Rachel moved over, making space for Miss Danvers. “I was thinking the same of your gown; not that it matched your eyes, of course, but that it is lovely.”
“Thank you. Shall we agree that we are quite the best-dressed young ladies here?”
Rachel broke into laughter but stifled it as Lady Yarnell sent her a quelling look. A lady did not laugh in public and she knew it, but a polite tinkling titter was allowed, was it not? Weary of being censured by her future mother-in-law, Rachel determined to break free, if only for a few moments.
A Lady's Choice Page 5
