Emma, who had been drifting in a dream ever since first setting eyes on the glorious creature who, unbelievably, was returning her gaze with a look of near adoration, literally had to shake herself back to reality to effect the introductions, presenting Victoria as the charge she had been engaged to chaperone.
“Chaperone?” Philip chided solemnly, lifting Emma’s hand to his lips. “What utter nonsense. Why, you can be but little removed from the schoolroom yourself.”
“Oh, Mr. Spalding,” Emma gushed, schoolgirllike, “surely you are funning me. I’m no such thing. Why, I’m already married…and…and a widow.”
“No!” Philip protested vehemently, his rather high, thin voice (the sole blemish that marred his physical perfection, if one was willing to discount his rather shallow mental capacity) quavering with emotion. “I will not hear of it! That you, dearest lady, should have lived in this same world, trod the same earth, breathed the same sweet air, without my knowledge of your existence—why, it defies the imagination! My entire life until this moment is at once a sham, a joke, a hollow wasteland. Only tonight do I begin to live!”
“Oh, Mr. Spalding!” Emma breathed in ecstasy.
“Oh, Mr. Spalding!” Victoria scolded in shock.
“Oh, Mr. Spalding!” Quentin cheered in appreciation.
“Oh, good grief!” Patrick groaned in disgust, immediately earning for himself threatening black looks from the other three observers who, it seemed, agreed with everyone else’s sentiments but his.
“You dare to doubt me?” Philip challenged rather shrilly, dropping Emma’s hand and turning to confront his detractor. “I tell you, Patrick,” he said in awful tones, “much as I responded with raillery when first presented with your plans for this evening, much as I sought excuses to rid myself of the necessity of lending myself to escorting two unknown females to the theatre, I could now go down on my knees to you in thanks.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Patrick pointed out cheerfully. “Your breeches are too tight.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Philip Spalding reached a hand toward his left pocket, forgetting that he had left his gloves in the hallway, for he had every intention of slapping the Earl of Wickford firmly across his cheek. Dropping his hand back down to his side, he demanded haughtily, “Name your seconds, sir! For now you have gone too far!”
“Willie! Willie!” Quentin bellowed in high good humor, running to the doorway to call the housekeeper before racing back to where Patrick and Philip stood, Sherbourne engagingly attractive in his amusement, Spalding magnficent in his fury. “Willie, you have to see this! They’re going to fight a duel over Emma. What a rare treat! Come quick!”
Victoria grabbed onto her uncle’s arm, as the agitated man seemed about to explode, and fairly shoved him behind her as she stepped between the two combatants—one now nearly doubled up with laughter, the other now standing quite rigid in his outraged dignity—and faced the Earl.
“Apologize, sir,” she ordered, her stern expression not quite hiding her unspoken appreciation of the absolute silliness of the situation. “Poor Emma is nearly distracted with fear. Besides, Willie will be in here at any moment, probably waving a poker in her hand, daring anyone to be so foolish as to even think of spilling blood on her carpet.”
Wilhelmina did arrive, just as Victoria had predicted, although she arrived brandishing not a poker but a heavy black iron pot, and Patrick, who knew that Philip Spalding’s only hope of besting him in a duel lay in the obscure chance that they exchanged calling cards at twenty paces, obligingly offered his apologies all round.
“I accept your apology,” Philip said punctiliously, bowing with courtly grace before going over to tuck Emma’s hand protectively through the crook of his elbow. “After all, I cannot forget that it is only because of you that I have been blessed with meeting this wonderful woman.”
“Oh, Mr. Spalding,” Emma gushed on a sigh.
“Oh, Mr. Spalding,” Victoria trilled in warning.
“Oh, Mr. Spalding,” Quentin breathed in anticipation.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Patrick declared loudly, hastily draping Victoria’s evening cloak about her shoulders and giving her a gentle nudge toward the doorway. “I don’t believe I can allow this conversation to go any further. Spalding, old fellow, if you can stop ogling that poor lady long enough to help her with her cloak, I do believe we should be departing for the theatre. Quinton, your servant,” he ended, already on his way out of the room, Victoria at his side, one hand to her mouth as she hid her involuntary grin of appreciation.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“WHAT A WONDERFULLY comic expression on that actor’s face, Miss Quinton,” Patrick whispered into Victoria’s ear. “But, of course, The Critic is one of Sheridan’s best, you must agree, giving the actor much to work with. Ah, look now how he’s waggling his eyebrows in ludicrous dismay, just so,” he ended, aping the actor’s facial acrobatics perfectly.
Victoria’s eyebrows lowered menacingly as she turned her head slowly to stare daggers at her companion, who stopped waggling his eyebrows in order to grin at her irrepressibly. “Oh, do be quiet,” she gritted tersely, hating the man for knowing that her vision of the characters on stage was limited to the coloring of their various costumes; she could barely see their faces, let alone their expressions.
“Then you aren’t enjoying the play?” he pushed, feigning innocence.
“It’s nice.”
“Nice?” Sherbourne repeated. “You admit to this being your first visit to a theatre and after viewing the farce and a full act of Sheridan’s play, the best you can do is to say it is nice? Why, my dear Miss Quinton, how you do run on.”
Her full lips compressed into a tightly curved bow, Victoria said crushingly, “Lord Wickford…go…to…perdition.”
“Isn’t this a lovely evening?” Philip Spalding said blithely, leaning front a little to add his bit to the conversation. “I mean, we did have a bit of a pother earlier, that slight contretemps that I am sure we have all quite forgotten; but now, why I do believe we are all as merry as grigs. Aren’t we, Em—, er, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Right you are, Philip,” Patrick agreed with a smile. Then, leaning closer to Victoria, he said confidingly, “Dead as a house, friend Philip is, for all his grand appearance.”
Lifting her program to cover the fact that she wanted nothing more than to go off into gales of laughter, Victoria turned her attention back to the stage, concentrating on remembering Wilhelmina’s warning about squinting in public.
“Please, Miss Quinton,” Patrick pursued in all seriousness, once Spalding had removed his face from between them and gone back to staring at Emma like a puppy at his first sign of a meaty bone, “I know you are dying to slip on your spectacles so that you might see what you’re looking at. The lights are dim, and I promise not to stand up and whistle everyone’s attention to this box.”
“I am not quite such a zany, sir,” she told him severely, refusing to turn her attention away from the stage. “I would have to be completely blind not to have noticed the stir Emma and I caused arriving in company with you and Mr. Spalding—and stone deaf not to hear the questions and speculations concerning our identities that went winging rapidly through the air while you and Mr. Spalding were disposing of our cloaks. It might interest you to know that we were first thought to be light-skirts, except for the fact that I am not quite pretty enough to fit that role.”
Patrick’s eyes closed for a moment as he digested what she had said. So that was what had put her in such a strange mood, and after she had seemed so happy earlier. Damn! he silently swore, mentally kicking himself. He should have known that his appearance here with Victoria would cause a stir, especially with the handsome Spalding and the too-young, too-pretty Emma Hamilton acting as chaperone, but the anger her words provoked in him on Victoria’s behalf seemed out of proportion to the insult, which was really no more than could have been expected from the gossip-mad ton.
“Would y
ou like to retire?” he asked solicitously, already fairly certain of her answer. Miss Quinton, he had learned, was no simpering miss—it would be totally out of character for her to turn craven at the first hurdle.
Victoria turned to look at him, surprising him mightily by giving him a quick glimpse of her seldom-seen dimple as she smiled. “Actually, what I would like to do appalls even me, who has had years of solitude in which to develop a rather fertile imagination.”
“You want to put out your tongue at the lot of them?” he asked, grinning a bit himself.
Looking at him askance, Victoria scolded, feeling carefree and happy once again. “And you call yourself a rakehell? For shame!”
“I never call myself a rakehell—I’ve never found the need,” Sherbourne corrected scrupulously. “Now tell me, how would you revenge yourself on these unimportant people if you had the opportunity? I admit to being fascinated.”
All at once Victoria was shaken with an almost overpowering urge to take the Earl’s lean face between her hands and plant a smacking kiss squarely on his mouth, as all around her gentlemen cheered and ladies swooned.
“I, er, I…” she stammered, realizing she could not voice such outrageous thoughts aloud—most especially to Patrick! “I believe I should like to pour lemonade all over everyone sitting below us in the pit,” she substituted swiftly, knowing it to be a paltry revenge indeed.
“I say,” Philip Spalding ventured, leaning forward once again, “I hate to interrupt you, but the curtain has come down for intermission. Lemonade, anyone?”
Victoria bit down hard on her bottom lip and immediately took refuge once again behind her program.
“What a splendid good fellow you are, Philip,” Patrick said in answer, trying hard not to look at Victoria. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Hamilton run along ahead and secure us some before the crush becomes too thick, and we’ll join you in a few minutes. Miss Quinton,” he added, giving Victoria a quick wink, “you did say you desired lemonade, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Victoria, her gaze directed toward the empty stage, answered straight-faced, although her amber eyes were twinkling.
Patrick smiled knowingly. Covertly reaching out a hand and placing it warningly on her bare forearm, he said coolly, “Yes. Miss Quinton does indeed desire some lemonade, Spalding, just as you thought. Kindly procure her five dozen glasses, if you please.”
“Five dozen gla— What?” Spalding gasped.
“You’re too kind,” Victoria gushed, turning toward Spalding and batting her eyelashes in imitation of an exotic-looking creature she had seen draped on some young buck’s arm as they had entered the theatre.
Philip Spalding had a reputation for being kind, considerate, and always willing to put himself out for a lady, but this time he was having second thoughts. “I—I’ll, um, I’ll see what I can do. Sherbourne,” he said in bewilderment before nodding in the Earl’s direction and holding out a hand to Emma—who declined to leave her charge. Then he fairly fled from the box just before Patrick and Victoria, feeling very much in tune with each other, collapsed against each other in glee.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THERE DID EXIST in London a few dedicated souls whose primary reason for being in attendance at the theatre that night was to view the goings-on taking place on the stage, but, for the majority, it was those periods of intermission that drew them, dressed in their silks and satins and glittering jewels.
For it was during those precious moments spent in the crowded hallways and foyers behind the boxes where those of the ton sat that people knew they would view the real drama of the evening. It was here that they all came, to see and be seen, to be brought up-to-date on the latest scandals, and to indulge in minor intrigues of their own.
During this, the first long intermission of the evening, an impeccably dressed Pierre Standish wended his way easily through the crush of people standing in the wide hallway behind the boxes to the place where Sir Perkin Seldon stood exchanging pleasantries with a minor member of Parliament, the chubby man’s usual endearingly vacant grin demonstrating his willingness to agree with anything the ambitious man was saying as Sir Perkin unabashedly used his fingers to eat from the small plate of delicacies balanced in the other man’s hand.
“Ah, Sir Perkin, here you are,” Pierre drawled urbanely as he came up behind the verbose member of Parliament. “Stuck with yet another prosy bore, I see. You really must attempt to exhibit more discretion, my dear fellow. It is after all, only a small plate.”
“How dare you! Just who do you think you are to—” the “prosy bore” objected hotly at once, only to cut short his tirade on a gasp as he turned his head and saw the man he believed he had been about to slice into ribbons with his eloquence; he ended by mumbling something incoherent into his highly starched cravat.
Raising one dark brow the merest fraction, Pierre intoned icily, “My dear fellow, excuse me, but I have no recollection of expressing any desire to have speech with you. Be a good sport, won’t you, and toddle off now.”
The man, his face now a most unbecoming shade of puce, obliged by immediately backing up three paces before turning on his heels and disappearing into the crowd, leaving Pierre to remark cordially to Sir Perkin, “I do believe I like that man, don’t you? He’s so very obedient; much like a spotted terrier I remember from my bucolic youth. Do you think he could be taught to fetch?”
Sir Perkin brought his bushy brown brows together and scratched at his shiny, balding pate before speaking. “He took his plate with him,” he lamented briefly. “The ham was quite tasty, too.” Then, his frown deepening, he asked, “Did—did you want to talk to me?”
“Now what idiot was it that said you were slow?” Standish returned with a slight smile, moving over to lean one strong shoulder against the stuccoed wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest to demonstrate that he was posing no threat to the small, chubby gentleman, but merely passing the time in idle conversation.
“But—but you never have before,” Sir Perkin pointed out, a bit relaxed, but still quite obviously confused to have been singled out for such exalted—if not exactly sought after—attention. “Not that I mind, you understand,” he pushed on quickly, as Standish tilted his head slightly to one side to stare at him inquisitively. “It ain’t as if I go around in your circles, so to speak.”
“Ah, my dear Sir Perkin—or perhaps you will allow me to call you Sir Perky, as do your intimates?” At the sight of Sir Perkin’s eager expression and madly bobbing head, Pierre continued ambiguously, “Thank you, you sweet man. You are indeed as kind as your reputation would have me believe. I cannot imagine why I have waited so long to seek you out, can you?” Standish sighed audibly. “I must only blush as I admit that I do, alas, have an ulterior motive for approaching you at this time. Please forgive me, dear Sir Perky, for I mean to use you for a little project I have in mind.”
Sir Perkin swallowed down hard, nearly choking on the bit of ham he had just removed from his pocket and popped into his mouth. “Forgive you!” he exclaimed, flattered as only the terribly naive or happily simpleminded can be.
Standish only blinked once and held his tongue, for it was clear his companion was not finished.
“Mr. Standish, I am your servant! I’ll dine out for at least a month on just the story about how you routed old Simpson so famously a moment ago, and it’s no wonder—with my pockets to let yet again—that I shall trade on it shamelessly,” Sir Perkin added candidly, for it was common knowledge that the genial young man was in low water, and not above stuffing his pockets with tidbits from his hostesses’ platters in order to feed his ravenous appetite.
Pierre smiled now in genuine amusement as Sir Perkin enlarged on his statement by giving his generous stomach a comforting rub at the thought of the delicious joints of fine beef and heaps of sweet pastries soon to be his. Obviously the intoxicating promise of unlimited food had banished any fear of Standish from Sir Perky’s head.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
&n
bsp; PHILIP SPALDING, being the dependable, trustworthy gentleman that he was, had already found his way to a refreshment booth, procured two glasses of lemonade—and two others containing a somewhat stronger liquid—and was returning to the box just as Patrick escorted Victoria and Mrs. Hamilton into the wide hallway.
“Isn’t he just the most handsome, genteel gentleman you have ever seen?” Emma asked Victoria in a breathless voice, squeezing the younger woman’s arm to hold her back as Sherbourne walked off in order to meet Philip halfway and relieve him of one of the glasses.
“The Earl?” Victoria asked, tongue in cheek, as she was still in a very good mood, her playful bantering with Patrick having eased any remaining apprehension about having decided that she could eliminate him as a suspect in the Professor’s murder.
Emma’s lips thinned a bit as she realized she was being teased. “As to the Earl, my dear, I was not so unattending that I did not notice the rather intimate exchange between the two of you when Mr. Spalding left the box. I would be shirking my duty as your chaperone if I did not point out that such familiar behavior is not acceptable. There, I’ve said it. Now let’s enjoy ourselves, shall we?”
Victoria, unused to doing the unacceptable—and delighted to hear that she had—decided to take this gentle rebuke as a compliment to her easy adaptation to a new, more free lifestyle, and only quipped airily, “Am I to infer then that mooning over each other like two lovesick calves is acceptable, my dear, levelheaded chaperone?”
Emma’s pretty face flushed becomingly, making her look like a young girl. “Oh dear, is it that obvious? I vow I don’t recall when I was ever thrown into such a pelter, even when I first met my dearest, departed Harry. Am I being a complete ninny, Victoria, do you think, or am I not being overly optimistic in believing that Mr. Spalding returns my regard?”
The questioning Miss Quinton Page 14
