by Cindy Anstey
“Carrie.”
“I tried, really I did.” The pretty doll slumped her shoulders and looked thoroughly dejected.
“Carrie, you goose. All this fuss and worry for nothing. Mr. Northam is not an inexperienced child; he will not be led astray by the amateur maneuverings of a chit.” Juliana lifted Carrie’s chin and then kissed her on both cheeks. “But I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you came to my defense. Now, be off with you. I must complete my preparations. I will be down directly.”
Juliana swiped at Carrie’s backside, intentionally missing. Carrie skipped out the door a much happier girl than the one who had entered.
Unfortunately, she left behind a troubled cousin. Juliana’s thoughts were no longer focused on the disquiet in the household but the significance of being at Hamlet today. Why had Spencer mentioned deceit at the card party? Why did he still want her company when she had told him that their goal was unachievable? Did he really admire her as much as his eyes said?
Not long after she had joined the others in the carriage, Juliana added another query to her list. How much longer was she going to have to sit in this silent, tense coach before she saw his handsome, relaxed face again?
* * *
SPENCER RECOGNIZED JULIANA’S COACH THE MOMENT it pulled to the side of the street. The covered landau disgorged its three passengers into the crowds that were standing under the portico of the Drury’s main entrance. Spencer watched as the cocksure Pyebald offered her his arm and was happy to witness the snub as Juliana placed her arm atop that of her uncle. The pair stepped aside to await the next coach, using the milling bodies of strangers as an excuse to ignore Pyebald—politely.
Spencer was snickering when Bobbington found him.
“What are you doing back there, my friend, chortling to yourself?”
Spencer stepped out from behind the column and into the lantern light. “I thought we were to meet in the vestibule.”
“Yes, so did I.” Bobbington turned at the sound of a familiar laugh.
They both saw that the second coach had arrived. Miss Reeves was the first to be handed out by the liveried footman. She laughed at Mr. Pyebald’s offered arm, waving it off, and waited for her mother’s descent. As soon as the lady had climbed down from the carriage, Miss Reeves lifted her skirts, as did her mother, and they paraded into the building behind Mr. Reeves and Juliana. Pyebald rushed ahead, to be a gallant at the door. Lady Pyebald and Miss Pyebald followed in their wake, greeting and nodding at as many peers as possible in a short space of time. Lord Pyebald followed, ignoring everyone.
“Shall we?” Bobbington swept his arm toward the door, and they filed into the large, noisy vestibule behind a tall lady with an even taller ostrich-plume headband and a jowly gentleman with a dangling quizzing glass. The entrance was overflowing with conversation, elegant gowns, and smartly cut dress coats—patrons of the arts of every size and shape and social position.
Spencer watched Juliana’s party slowly make its way toward the left side of the double staircase. He purposefully led Bobbington to the right. It gave him a better vantage point. He saw that Winfrith was not far behind their quarry and that Bibury was watching from above.
Scanning the crowd as he ascended, Spencer noticed a rather animated group of young bucks laughing uproariously and generally making cakes of themselves; they were in complete oblivion to the delicate sensibilities of those standing next to them. Spencer was not surprised to see Lamar Stamford enfolded in their ranks. Nor was he surprised to see the young man’s eye staring in the direction of the Pyebalds.
Finally, the great moving mass entered the striking domed Corinthian rotunda of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.
“I see we are in good company this evening,” Bobbington commented as they headed toward the stairs leading to their box. He nodded in the opposite direction to a group of somber-faced politicians and their ladies.
Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh, stood talking intently with a man whose face was hidden, at first, from Spencer. He tried not to stare, but curiosity held his eyes in place a little longer than customary. Bobbington must have noticed.
“It’s Frederick Robinson, Viscount Goderich,” he said. His tone was almost bored.
Spencer nodded without comment. He caught Winfrith’s eye and nodded in the direction of the Foreign Secretary and the Junior Lord of the Treasury. He doubted that either was in cahoots with the Pyebalds, for both were well-respected men; however, the theory of a high-level traitor had been put forward, and it had to be explored.
The two friends continued to nod their way to their box with no conversation between them and little more than pleasantries shared with the other beautiful people of the Ton. Spencer was surprised when Bobbington showed that he had a few acquaintances in the less illustrious ranks. The fellow had stopped to chat with a short man in a barely adequate topcoat and poorly tied neckcloth. An unanimated, red-haired man with a droopy mustache stood next to him.
Spencer snorted and shook his head. He continued to the box, leaving Bobbington to come at his own pace.
Spencer stepped through the curtains of the reserved box and was eminently pleased with the view. Not of the stage, naturally, but of the audience. He could easily see into the three tiers of balconies and boxes facing the stage. His last visit had required a great deal of neck craning into the higher boxes, but this time his man had found seats in the middle tier. Spencer could see into all but a few if he stood to the front of the box. And he could see down into the stalls if he just leaned a little across the railing.
Yes, excellent view. He would have liked it if the candelabras had been placed slightly lower, thereby casting fewer shadows, but Benjamin Wyatt had not consulted him when the theater had been rebuilt last year. And surveillance was not likely one of his considerations.
Bibury had taken a position opposite and should be able to see the remainder of the audience. Winfrith would remain mobile to wait for movement of the suspected parties.
Excellent.
As he continued to scan the audience, Spencer raised his eyes to an angled box on his left. Within its enclosure, Juliana waited, looking radiant, innocent, and extremely alluring. The Pyebald and Reeves families were there, too, and as much as Spencer knew his concentration should be on the Pyebald men, he found it difficult to look away from the pert figure. A pearl among … he smiled and left the adage incomplete.
There seemed to be a discussion about seating as he watched Juliana shift twice before settling her skirts. She really was quite lovely and fresh. Then she looked over and caught his eye. Her smile was dazzling and without artifice.
“I have a rather strange request of you, my friend.” Bobbington had finally joined him in the box and at the rail.
Spencer turned a furrowed brow to Bobbington. However, the man was not looking at him but into the box of the Pyebalds, just as Spencer had been doing. The expression chiseled on his face was more serious than Spencer had ever seen on his friend before.
“Is something amiss?”
“No, not as yet. However, if there is a to-do this evening, a commotion of some sort that involves the Pyebalds, could you quickly and quietly escort the ladies—”
“What are you on about, Bobbington? What have you gotten yourself into?”
Finally, Bobbington met Spencer’s questioning gaze.
“I’d rather not explain right now, but if you could just—”
“No. I will not just anything. You cannot ask it of me without some sort of explanation.”
Bobbington sighed and bit his lip. “Why can you not simply do as I ask?”
Spencer’s heartbeat had started a steady escalation. “Bobbington, what is going to happen this evening?”
Bobbington pulled Spencer to the back of the box and lowered his voice to a whisper. “We believe that there is going to be a transfer of money or information by a large smuggling organization that we have been following.”
“What! Who is we?”
; “The Home Office.”
“You work with the Home Office? In what capacity? The Home Office deals with domestic problems not—oh, yes. Free-traders. That’s it; you are chasing smugglers. Lawks, why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because it is nothing to you. I only mention it now as I know you have feelings for Miss Telford. I do not want her or Miss Reeves to get caught up in the wave of scandal that will likely ensue. The Pyebalds are in too deep—”
“Tell me you are not planning to arrest Lord Pyebald.”
“We are hoping to catch the man he is meeting and then—”
“No.” Spencer’s voice was sharp and barely above a whisper, but Bobbington recognized the desperation.
“I am sorry, Northam, but—”
“You cannot do this, Bobbington. It is now my turn to impose upon our friendship and beg you to call off your men.” He looked quickly to the stage and saw that they were getting ever closer to the opening act. They needed to be in their seats by then or they would attract notice. “I have been working for over four months to put misinformation in the hands of the French. Vital misdirection to help our war efforts! I need the Pyebalds free and ignorant if this scheme is to work. Call off your men, or better yet add their eyes to ours, and we are sure to catch the traitor.”
Bobbington stared at him for some moments. “I have men in the stalls.” He swallowed hard. “You get to Banks, he’s in the back, red hair and mustache. I will reach Richards. And I want answers when we get back.”
“As do I.”
Bobbington slipped through the back curtain of the box, followed immediately by Spencer. They were racing against time.
CHAPTER
13
In which a sedate evening at the theater is full of revelations
SPENCER THUNDERED DOWN THE STAIRS BUT caught himself at the bottom. Running into the stalls would attract more attention than not being in his seat. Fortunately, the staircase had been empty, and when he emerged from the stairwell, with no apparent haste, the heads that turned in his direction were only mildly interested.
He nodded to a couple seated in the closest row and casually sauntered to where Banks was watching him. Spencer offered his hand. In quiet conversation, he did not greet the man with social niceties—as anyone watching would assume—but quickly informed the man of the change of plans and enlisted his help. Banks looked over Spencer’s shoulder to Bobbington, who was on the other side of the theater talking just as casually to Richards. The nod between them was barely perceptible.
Bobbington smiled an amiable dismissal to Richards and then sauntered over to the stairwell, where Spencer met him.
“I believe the curtain is about to rise.” Spencer could not keep the tension totally from his voice. They both turned toward the stage, ostensibly to gauge the opening of the evening’s entertainment while in fact they were assessing the repositioning of the men. For the first time that evening, Spencer felt that success might be at hand. Six pairs of eyes would definitely see the job done.
Both men casually entered the stairwell, rushed up the steps two at a time, ran down the deserted inner hall to their box, and arrived just as another figure approached with haste from the opposite direction. He was a portly man with a sprinkling of gray in his side-whiskers and a friendly expression plastered on his face.
“Northam, Bobbington,” Winfrith greeted them cheerfully with a voice that was slightly breathless and unusually high. “So good to see you.” He held out his hand toward Bobbington.
Spencer glanced around; the hall was empty of patrons. They could talk without the chance of being overheard.
Winfrith waited for Spencer’s nod before he spoke quickly and quietly. “Just bumped into Lord Ash, my counterpart at the Home Office. It would appear that we have a disaster in the making. Bobbington, you must call off your men—”
“We are ahead of you, Winfrith. Banks and Richards have been ordered to observe, not to arrest. And…” Spencer heard the loud squeak as the wheels that drew up the stage curtain began to move. “We had better get to our seats. Did you apprise Lord Ash as to what we were about?”
“Yes, indeed. And I recommend doing the same with Bobbington before there are any more oversights.” His voice lowered until it was all but a mutter, and Spencer had to strain to hear. “There should have been a sharing of information long before this. Could have worked together. Bloody incompetence.” Winfrith shook his head, rolled his eyes, and then smoothed the furrow on his brow. He plastered his smile back on his face, straightened his shoulders, and marched off.
Spencer and Bobbington entered the box just in time to see the thick red velvet curtain reach its zenith. Spencer nonchalantly swept his tails out from under as he slowly sat down in the plush chair with deliberate ease. He positioned himself so that he could view the stage and the Pyebald box without turning his head. He noted that Bobbington had done the same.
Spencer was conscious of Juliana’s fascinated stare directed solely toward the stage. She seemed unaware of his return.
“Now, I believe we need to get things straight,” Spencer said as the last of the applause for the entering actors died away. He kept his voice very low, and his lips hardly moved.
“I will allow you the honor of going first. After all, I have just pulled my men from a case that was weeks in the making. I need reassurance that I did so wisely.”
Spencer almost smiled, but months of practice kept his lips from curling. “It was in the best interest of the country.”
“So you said, but I would appreciate some details.”
The audience laughed, and Spencer did, too. Bobbington nodded and grinned. Neither had any idea what had caused the hilarity, but it hardly mattered. They only had to appear as if they were attending.
Spencer began to recount the evolution of his assignment, starting with his trip to France. He described how he had infiltrated the lair of their enemies and eventually gained access to a communiqué being sent to England. The original message had come from one of Napoleon’s lieutenants waiting in Erfurt. Spencer explained how he had embellished the vague request, seeking more specific information regarding troop movements and giving it a sense of urgency. He wanted to track the communiqué quickly and feed erroneous facts to the traitor at the other end. The misinformation had to reach Napoleon before the French marched on Leipzig.
Spencer had accompanied the messenger overland but had then been forced—by a suspicious captain—to find his own way across the Channel. Fortunately, the drunken, distrusting fool had already divulged the landing point in England, as well as the approximate length of the journey. It had not been hard to secure a boat that allowed him to beat the slow scow and be lying in wait for the smugglers to arrive at St. Ives Head. Spencer’s distrust of the Pyebalds had begun not long after.
Spencer glanced sideways at his friend. Bobbington’s expression hadn’t changed. “I am afraid there is no doubt that the family is involved.”
“I knew as much.” Bobbington lifted his chin and smirked, albeit in the direction of the stage. “That is why I developed such a devotion to Miss Pyebald.”
Spencer was nonplussed. “It was an act? For my benefit?”
“Yes, indeed, how else could I explain my interest without divulging my assignment? Rumors of the Pyebalds’ involvement in smuggling had been circulating for some time. This looked to be a perfect opportunity to catch them, and then you showed up on my doorstep … well, I thought I had no choice.”
Spencer snorted. “Well done, my friend; you had me completely taken in. I did not twig to your may game at all.”
“Well, the compliment can be returned, for I had no idea that you were with the War Office. But now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Yes, perfect sense.”
Both were silent for a moment.
Bobbington’s train of thought was obviously running in the same direction as Spencer’s when he finally stated. “As best as we can figure, the Reeves family is not involved, and
neither is Miss Telford.”
Spencer bridled inside but nodded calmly. He couldn’t believe that Bobbington had the audacity to speculate about Juliana’s loyalty. He did his best to forget that he, as well, had harbored doubts not so long ago.
* * *
JULIANA STARED AT THE STAGE, trying not to gape like the green chit she was. She smiled when Carrie did and clapped when she saw a like movement with her aunt’s hands. Above all, she tried to take in every sight and sound that enveloped her.
The actors were marvelous, the costumes as bold and ornate as ever she had seen, and the background painting looked straight from that of a storybook. She had no idea why the audience tittered when Hamlet hiccuped and almost dropped the skull—it was rather rude of them. Or why they booed when Ophelia tripped while trying to glide across the stage. It was such magical drama.
Then there was the theater playing out in the stalls and boxes. Lady Pyebald regaled Aunt Phyllis with a cornucopia of titillating tales of shock and woe in a voice loud enough to apprise the entire group: The friendly, fat-cheeked gentleman in the box next to them was, indeed, showering favors upon his companion, but she was not the daughter that she appeared to be. The tightly trussed woman in a bright red gown with the plunging décolletage seated across from them was not a cheap, light skirt but a countess of ancient noble lineage. The tense white-faced young dandy sitting below with a group of chortling friends had just lost his fortune at the gambling tables of White’s. Lady Pyebald barely paused for breath and hardly looked at the stage.
Glancing toward Spencer’s box, Juliana noted that Spencer was regaining his seat as Bobbington vacated his, again. It seemed that they were restless tonight and not greatly interested in the entertainment, at least not that on the stage.
And they weren’t the only ones. Twice, Lord Pyebald and Maxwell had risen without a word and disappeared through the curtain. In fact, they were gone now. No one had mentioned it, and it would seem that only Spencer shared her puzzlement. On each occasion, he had glanced from her smiling face to the empty seats. Juliana was pleased to note that his eyes never wandered to Vivian. So much for her wiles and preening.
