“Don’t you see? It’s scandalous!” But Parthenope sounded anything but scandalized. “I’m sure some rake is planning a seduction in here. How shocking!”
“Planning a seduction here? Don’t you think there are perhaps slightly … er … more suitable places for a seduction than a box at the opera?”
“Not if you want to make sure the entire fashionable world knows about your latest conquest. I wonder whose box it is?” She craned her neck to look back down the passage at approaching operagoers. “Maybe it’s Lord Byron’s—can’t you see him owning an opera box with a purple divan in it? Very Turkish!”
Sophie snorted. “Or maybe it belongs to an invalid who loves music. Aren’t you getting a little carried away?”
“An invalid wouldn’t come to the opera and lie on a purple velvet sofa. It’s not at all—invalidish enough.”
Sophie struggled to maintain a straight face. “That’s true. A serviceable brown canvas would be much more appropriate for an invalid,” she agreed.
“Stop quizzing me. I’m sure that I’m right.” Parthenope peered across the theater to the boxes on the opposite side. “Oh, famous! I shall be able to see here quite clearly from our box.”
“Shall you? What a happy thought,” Norris Underwood’s voice said pleasantly behind them. “Does that mean I may count upon your undivided attention for the evening?”
Sophie turned. He stood with one hand on the arched door frame, an inscrutable expression on his face that shifted smoothly into a smile as Parthenope turned too and held out her hand to him.
“A delight to see you here. So do the fair Amazons pay tribute to Apollo of the lyre as well as to his sister Diana the huntress?” he asked, raising Parthenope’s hand to his lips. His pale green eyes never left her face.
“Well, we can’t always be on horseback, can we?” Parthenope winked at Sophie and asked, “This couldn’t be your box, could it, Mr. Underwood?”
“I have the pleasure of its use for the evening, thanks to the kind offices of a friend who is unable to attend tonight,” he returned.
“Unusual furnishings your friend has provided,” Sophie couldn’t help saying.
He turned to her and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Sophie. Yes, they are unusual, but most comfortable, I am assured. I believe I saw your father in the passage a moment ago, looking for you. Will you permit me to escort you both to your respective families?”
Sophie took his arm, feeling relieved. For a moment, she had feared he was trying to get rid of her so that he could have Parthenope alone, but if he was offering to accompany them both to their boxes … She gave herself a mental shake. After all, what possible mischief could Mr. Underwood get up to at the theater, apart from his usual flirtatious banter with Parthenope?
“I’ll come see you at the interval,” Parthenope called over her shoulder as they left her at Papa’s box. “I think Peregrine’s coming in at some point this evening—I’ll fetch him along if he does.” Norris Underwood murmured something to her, and she laughed as they swept away.
Papa looked up at her from his seat beside Amélie with one eyebrow raised as she slipped around the curtain.
“I’m sorry—Parthenope,” she mouthed, and took her seat at the end of the group of chairs, next to the comte. Papa nodded and turned his attention to the stage, where the curtain had been drawn back and revealed the interior of a Roman palazzo and a plump, elegantly dressed woman clutching a letter to her heart and appearing to sob. There was a scattering of applause and loud comments from the pit.
As the soprano launched into a passionate aria pledging awful revenge for the capture and banishment of her betrothed by her own father, Sophie scanned the boxes opposite theirs. Where was Parthenope’s, and was she safely back in it? She lifted the tiny set of mother-of-pearl opera glasses Papa had bought for her and squinted through them at the other side of the theater, looking for Parthenope’s gold gown and cap adorned with a rakish plume curling around her dark hair. Finally Sophie spotted her, peering through her own set of opera glasses. She swiftly dropped them and waved. Sophie waved back. Well, at least Mr. Underwood had kept his word. She could relax for now and enjoy the opera.
But Parthenope’s comments about Amélie and Papa, seeming so flippant at the time, kept coming back to her. Was it so far-fetched an idea, Papa proposing to Amélie? She wasn’t sure she was ready to consider the idea of anyone taking Mama’s place, but it was true that there couldn’t be anyone she’d like better to do so. Papa had grown so … so absorbed in his work that it felt as if he sometimes forgot how to be himself rather than the devoted servant of the state.
Parthenope was waving at her again. Sophie could see the feather in her cap nodding violently. She raised her glasses again and saw her friend moving her hands about as if trying to pantomime a message … at least until the duchess caught one of them in midair and pressed it firmly back into her lap, murmuring something into her daughter’s ear. Sophie grinned—evidently Parthenope had something interesting to relate to her at the interval—and turned her attention to the stage once more as the soprano fainted elegantly into the tenor’s arms. A murmur of sympathy rose from the audience until someone in the pit below shouted, “Loosen her stays, then! That’ll bring her round!” Sophie giggled and turned to look at Parthenope. She’d clapped the back of one hand to her brow and was shaking her head.
“Poor girl,” Aunt Molly whispered as the curtain came down. “Why doesn’t he fetch her some spirits of hartshorn? He doesn’t look very steady, if you ask me. And that poor girl is going to be sorry if she doesn’t do something about her father. What proof has he got? It’s not fair to keep her away from Don Umberto like that. I shall complain to the manager.”
The comte smiled. “You are sentimentale, mon amie.”
“Well, it’s just like us, isn’t—”
“It’s just a story, Molly,” Papa interrupted her. “Oh, Patten. Glad you found us. La Bertinotti is certainly in voice tonight, isn’t she?”
Sophie turned. A young man had pushed aside the curtain enclosing their box. He bowed, then stepped inside to shake Papa’s hand, and she recognized him as the stranger who had been speaking to Papa and Amélie before the opera. “As I was saying before, she ought to be. She gets paid enough to be so,” he said coolly.
Papa chuckled. “I still think you should be working for the treasury and not for me. Sophie, I don’t believe you had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Patten earlier.”
Sophie nodded politely but she did not care for Mr. Patten’s cravat, which was too fussily tied for her taste, or his eyes, which were too close-set and which were lingering on her.
“Are you enjoying the opera, Lady Sophie?” he asked. “Your father says it is your first visit. Most young ladies of sensibility seem to find it very appealing.”
“I don’t know what is more entertaining—what is happening on the stage or off it,” she answered politely, choosing to ignore his reference to “young ladies of sensibility.” Did she look like someone who would swoon at an opera?
“We are fortunate to be hearing Signora Bertinotti tonight. Many prefer Catalani, but her acting skills leave much to be desired, in my book. She always smiles, even when singing tragedies.” Mr. Patten moved closer, leaning casually against the box’s ornate railing.
“I think you are right, Sophie. The audience is as amusant as the singers,” Amélie put in. She raised one eyebrow slightly, then cast her eyes heavenward. Sophie stifled a laugh and looked away.
Mr. Patten went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Mr. Braham is always a pleasure to hear, though he sounds a trifle off tonight—perhaps the weather disagrees with him. We shall see how Don Umberto does—”
A sharp cracking noise cut off his speech. Sophie looked up and saw his horrified face and upflung arms as he started to tumble backward. The carved wooden front of their box had splintered.
Chapter
9
Sophie gasped and grabbed for Mr. Patten’s flailing arm
. Her gloved hand slid down his smoothly sleeved arm but gained purchase on his hand, and his fingers closed round hers in a desperate grip. She leaned backward, but in her half-seated position could not get the leverage needed to pull him back, even if she’d had strength enough.
“Mon Dieu!” she dimly heard someone exclaim. Then the comte was there, yanking Mr. Patten back into the box, and the three of them stood, panting, while Papa and Amélie and Aunt Molly stared at them.
Aunt Molly spoke first. “What happened? Why are you all standing like that?”
“Monsieur, are you injured?” The comte had gone very pale.
Mr. Patten opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a beached fish. Sophie felt a pang of sympathy for him in the midst of her own shock. “I … I am quite unharmed. Thank you, sir … I…” He turned and looked behind him, and for a moment looked as though he would fall all over again. “I … excuse me!” He clapped a hand over his mouth and plunged out of the box into the passage.
“What happened?” Aunt Molly asked again, plaintively.
“The—the railing appears to have been of poor manufacture,” the comte said, breathing hard. “Lady Sophie, you just saved that young man from a nasty accident.”
“Not at all. You were the one who pulled him back.” Sophie nearly collapsed into her chair. Her heart felt as if it were about to pound its way out of her chest.
“If you had not caught him first, I should not have been able to.” The comte bowed, then he too sat down abruptly.
“Auguste! Are you all right? Would you like my vinaigrette?” Aunt Molly started digging in her reticule.
“Sophie?” Amélie put a hand on her shoulder and bent over her.
“I … I’m fine. Just a little shaken.” She pressed Amélie’s hand and winced. Her right hand—the one Mr. Patten had grasped—felt bruised and sore. She peeled her glove off and tentatively flexed it.
Papa was examining the front of their box. “You caught him before it broke quite through—fortunately for the people sitting below us, too. But it will definitely require replacement.”
“Perhaps the wood is rotted,” Amélie said, watching him.
“Or beetles—they can eat right through a chair in a twinkling. I know,” Aunt Molly said ominously, handing the comte her open vinaigrette. He grimaced and shook his head.
“I see evidence of neither,” Papa said, sounding grim. “I shall certainly have to speak to Mr. Waters about having this repaired.” He rose and turned to the comte. “I must thank you, sir.”
The comte waved him away. “It is your daughter you should thank, my lord.”
Papa looked at her, and his face softened. “Are you all right, Sophie? Do you want to go home?”
“I’m fine, Papa.” She tried to smile, but her mouth felt trembly.
“That’s my girl. But I think I had better go check on Patten.” He touched her shoulder briefly, then twitched the curtain aside and left.
“Sophie, I insist.” Aunt Molly handed her the vinaigrette. “If it wasn’t beetles, then what could have made it happen?”
Which was a very good question. Sophie leaned forward and reached out to touch the splintered wood. A cold tingle pricked at the bare fingers of her right hand. A familiar cold tingle—
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and sat back in her chair.
“What is it, petite?” Amélie turned to her quickly.
“Um … it’s Aunt’s vinaigrette … it’s rather, um … pungent!” Sophie sniffed and blinked her eyes as if they watered, and snapped the vinaigrette shut.
“Of course it is, dear. That’s the point.” Aunt Molly beamed at her. “It’s got wild onion and stinking cabbage powder in it. Feel better? You might want to sit quietly for a minute until the stinking cabbage wears off.”
“Yes, I think I shall.” Sophie handed it back to her and sat down, closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall as if overcome.
Magic again! That icy prickle still vibrating through the wood had been unmistakable. Someone had intentionally made it break, probably with a dissolution spell, though her touch had been too brief to tell. But how—and when? All of them had touched the railing at some point this evening. Why, she herself had leaned on it briefly as she sat down. The thought made her shiver, as did another, close on its heels: Mr. Patten also worked in the War Office.
“Lady Sophie,” the comte said softly. Sophie opened her eyes and looked up to see him bending solicitously over her. “Shall I try to find for you a drink of water—or something a little stronger if it can be found?”
“It was just … so sudden,” she said. Which sounded almost foolishly inadequate, but he nodded.
“C’est vrai.” He looked at the broken railing and frowned. “It was ill done,” he said, more to himself than aloud.
“I beg your pardon?” Sophie asked, but at that moment Papa pushed aside the curtain to the box.
“The footman could not find Waters—I’m sure he’s backstage just now—so I’m afraid we shall have to wait to speak to him till later. I did find poor Patten and put him in a hackney. He looked completely done up.” He looked at Sophie. “He’s Sir John Patten’s grandson—there’s a good property in Shropshire. I believe he was rather taken with you, Sophie—asked me to tender his apologies for his abrupt departure.”
Sophie grimaced, but only said, “That was kind of him, Papa.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go home?”
“N-no. Really, I’m quite well. And I should like to see more of the opera.” She paused, then added, “Even if Mr. Braham is a trifle off tonight.”
Papa chuckled. “Point taken—both points, in fact. And there is the curtain, so you shall have your wish.” He resumed his seat next to Amélie and murmured something to her that Sophie couldn’t hear.
Sophie sat back in her seat and slowly wiggled her glove onto her hand as Signora Bertinotti resumed being agitated at stage left. She would have liked to run her hands over the splintered section of railing again and try to feel the magic that had been used, to find some hint—anything!—of who had done it and why. Sometimes the emotion of the person performing the magic would make its way into the magic and could be sensed by others. It might be informative to know if these had been the acts of an angry or vengeful person. But it would be too difficult to explain away what she was doing … and besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get that close to the broken place. Heavens, what would Parthenope think when she came at the interval—
Except that the interval had already happened. And Parthenope hadn’t come.
Sophie found her opera glasses—undamaged after tumbling from her lap onto the floor when she’d risen to save Mr. Patten, thank goodness—and scanned the boxes opposite them. Yes, there was the Revesbys’ box.…
There was no sign of the gold hat and its outsized feather.
Sophie lowered her glasses and frowned. So Parthenope wasn’t in the box with her parents and the guests she’d seen there before. What was so odd about that? Perhaps she had needed to go to the necessary or had stopped to talk to an acquaintance on her way to visit and been detained.
But it just didn’t seem like Parthenope not to have at least poked her head in to say hello—at least, not after all the purposeful gesturing and waving she’d done during the last act. She’d definitely looked as though she had something to say. Perhaps she’d seen something amusing taking place on Mr. Underwood’s purple velvet sofa.
She stood up abruptly and bent to whisper in Amélie’s ear. “I should like to go use the necessary. I’ll be back directly.”
“Of course—we did not have a chance for that after…” She gestured at the broken railing. “Do you wish me to come with you?”
“No. That is,” Sophie amended conscientiously, “not unless you wish to.”
Amélie patted her hand. “I am not in need. Go, then, ma chère.”
Sophie nodded, and taking her cane, slipped into the passage. Once there,
she paused, leaning against the wall. The thought of Mr. Underwood and his sofa suddenly seemed as worrisome as magically splintering railings. What if Parthenope had been waylaid by him on her way to visit Sophie? Highly doubtful, yes … but she could not get the thought of it out of her brain. If only she had a mirror in her reticule—then she could ask it to show her Parthenope. But she didn’t. And what made her think she could do a scrying spell anyway? The only thing for it was to go to Mr. Underwood’s box and see if Parthenope was there. If she wasn’t, she could apologize for intruding. Quite simple, really … except that the last thing she wanted to do was visit that box.
But the memory of the purple velvet sofa and the way Mr. Underwood had looked at Parthenope as they stood there earlier propelled her away from the wall and down the passage. Mercifully, there were no lingerers in the passage—evidently those of a more social bent had already ensconced themselves in their friends’ boxes for visits. Sophie walked as quietly as she could, not letting her cane tap on the parquet floor, until she arrived at the fourth box down from Papa’s. The curtain was indeed drawn over the entrance. Sophie drew close, listening, but Signora Bertinotti and Mr. Braham were engaged in a passionate duet onstage, which obscured every other sound in the theater. Taking a deep breath, she parted the curtain and peeked inside … and found herself almost nose-to-nose with a wild-eyed Parthenope.
“Sophie!” she gasped. “Thank God! Help me!”
* * *
Sophie goggled at her and realized that her friend was hanging bodily over someone’s shoulder. Parthenope squirmed furiously and beat at her captor’s back and posterior with both fists, exclaiming, “Put me down!” in an outraged whisper.
Two things occurred to Sophie. The first was to say “I told you so!” in an insufferably smug tone.
But that wouldn’t help Parthenope, which was the second and far more important thing. If she didn’t do something quickly, the entire theater would soon notice that there was something much more interesting going on in this box than onstage.
Courtship and Curses Page 11
