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"Ain't asleep, are you?" The dowager's sharp inquiry jolted Leila from her meditations and to the realization that the curtain had fallen for the interval. While assuring the dowager she was fully awake, Leila darted a glance at Avory's box. Empty now.
She turned to Fiona, who was watching her with a faintly amused expression.
"He was trying very hard not to look this way," Fiona said. "With mixed success."
"I collect you refer to Lord Linglay," Leila said coolly. "I'm told that jerking motion of his head is the result of a palsy." She addressed the dowager. "Is that not so, Lady Brentmor?"
"He's a decrepit old goat," the old lady answered. "Ogles everybody, especially the servant gels." The box door opened then, and she glanced over her shoulder. "Well, look what the Cat drug in."
Leila didn't have to look. She felt the air change and pulse even before she caught the faint, familiar scent. Turning slightly in her chair, she directed her forced smile at David, just as though every iota of her consciousness wasn't concentrated on the man with him.
She directed her chattily bright words to David, too, while pretending not to notice that Esmond, who had advanced to pay his respects to Lady Brentmor, was standing two vibrating inches away.
Several agonizing minutes later, the two men left, and Leila found she couldn't for the life of her remember a word of what had been said. All she could remember was scent...the brush of a coat against the sleeve of her gown...and the stabbing blue of his eyes.
Even while desperately hoping her delirium had gone unnoticed, Leila braced herself for a dose of Fiona's teasing.
The attack came from the other side, however, and the artillery wasn't aimed at her.
"Plague take you, Fiona Elizabeth!" the dowager cried. "What's that boy done to you to be treated so shabby?"
Fiona went rigid. Leila was too stunned to open her mouth.
"He asked after your sister," Lady Brentmor went on, leaning over Leila's lap to scowl at Fiona. "You know he's worried to death about her. And you look at him like he just crawled out of a rathole. Think Lefty's going to do better than him? A royal duke, mebbe? If I was you, I'd be thanking Providence the boy bothered to ask, after the scene you made last winter."
Lady Brentmor drew back. "Threatened to horsewhip him, she did," she told Leila. "Fine manners for a lady, don't you think? Fine way to show her gratitude. Horsewhip him—Langford's heir. Mebbe she forgot how Langford and her pa was bosom bows. Mebbe she forgot it was Langford found places for all them brothers of hers after her pa died."
Fiona had not moved a muscle through this diatribe, but sat woodenly staring at the stage. Now she sprang up. Without a word, she swept out of the box, slamming the door behind her.
Leila leapt up, too, but the dowager grabbed her arm. "Go careful," she said, dropping her voice. "Watch what you say. But don't let her off 'til she tells you. Not just about Avory, but about what Beaumont done. I'll lay you any odds he got his hands on Letty."
Leila glared at her. "That is my friend you just—"
"You can't afford friends this minute, my gel. This is business. You got a job to do. I primed her. Now you best set your mind to finishing it."
Leila shot a glance at Avory's box. The two men were talking, their heads bent close, but she was sure Esmond hadn't missed Fiona's exit. He'd expect answers.
"Goddamn," she muttered, and hurried out of the box.
A short while later, after a frantic search, she stormed into the ladies' retiring room. She dug into her reticule, thrust a coin in the attending servant's hand, and ordered her out.
When the door had closed behind the attendant, Leila marched up to the screen. "I know you're not there on nature's call," she said. "Shall I join you or will you come out and give me the explanation you should have done months ago, Fiona? What did Francis do to your sister, and why do you blame David? And what in blazes do you think to accomplish by hiding her away in Dorset?"
Fiona came out from behind the screen, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Oh, Leila." Her voice caught. "She's breaking her heart over him. What the devil am I to do?"
Leila held out her arms. With a choked sob, Fiona went into them. The tears flowed then, and soon, she was stammering out the story.
It had happened at the Linglays' anniversary ball, in early December. Lettice had danced twice with David, despite Fiona's warnings to keep a safe distance from Francis' friends. Since Lettice had proved incapable of behaving wisely, Fiona had gone after David and warned him off. He left the party immediately after. But Francis stayed to plague Fiona. He had mockingly told her that everyone in the room could see Lettice was besotted. And all would agree she'd make Langford's heir the ideal wife: she was excellent breeding material, wasn't she? The Woodleighs did breed like rabbits. Beyond doubt she'd have David's heir in her belly when she stood at the altar, saying, not "I do," but "I did."
Just as enraged as he'd intended to make her, Fiona had responded by enraging him. She'd taunted him about Esmond.
"Forgive me, Leila," she said, drawing away. "But it was the only way I could think of to upset him."
Leila led her to a chair and nudged her down. "I understand," she said. She found her handkerchief and pressed it into Fiona's hands. "Francis had a gift for finding sore spots and he adored twisting the knife. So you went after his sore spot. Which is only natural. Though usually a mistake. Because, being Francis, he was bound to get even. Which he did, I suppose, by going after Lettice."
Fiona wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "It was hours later when she went missing. I wasn't terribly alarmed. I'd thought Francis had been long gone, that he'd left right after our row. I learned my mistake when I finally found Lettice. In the conservatory. Dead drunk on the floor." She gave a shaky laugh. "She was a sight—half in, half out of her gown. Her hair—" She hiccupped. "But he hadn't r-ravished her. He wasn't that reckless. All he t-took were her g-garters."
"To humiliate her. And you, of course." Leila moved to the washstand. Her hands trembling just a bit, she poured Water into the basin.
"You can guess why he stole them," said Fiona.
Leila kept her back to her friend, while her mind worked feverishly. "A trophy," she said, keeping her voice even. "To show off to his friends."
If he had shown David, she thought as she dampened a dainty linen towel, David would have killed him. Yet the timing was wrong. David would have done it right away, in the first heat of outrage—and not sneakily. David wasn't sneaky. And Francis wouldn't have waited until January—a month and more later—to show those garters. He would have done it within hours, or a day or two at most. And he'd want to show them off to someone he'd believe would applaud his daring. A more experienced rakehell than David. Someone to share a private joke. It would have to stay private, because Lettice was not just a virgin, but one of good family, a member of the nobility. Out of bounds, in short. If word got out, Francis would be...persona non grata. Which he had become. Thanks to…
Leila swung abruptly toward her friend, the damp towel clutched in her hand. "Sherburne," she said.
Fiona stared at her.
"Lord love you, Fiona." Leila shook her head. “I’ll wager David knows nothing about the garters business. It was Sherburne Francis showed them to." She shoved the towel into her friend's hands. "Wash your face. And tell me what’s so unspeakably wrong with David."
The answer Fiona gave proved to be the most venomous serpent of all. And the venom sped through Leila's system, leaving her shaken and sickened. She couldn't afford the luxury of indulging her emotions, however. This was business, as Lady Brentmor had reminded, and Leila was determined to handle it with all the brisk dispatch Esmond would have employed. Not with his infernal tact, though. That was beyond her capabilities at present.
"You asked me before what you were to do," she told Fiona. "You are the man of the family, are you not? David wants to wed Lettice. What would your father have done, in the circumstances?"
"Bid him to blazes, as I d
id," Fiona said. But there was a trace of doubt in her voice.
"Your father would have told him why," Leila said. "Your father would agree that a man has a right to face his accuser. And that man should be given a chance to defend himself if he can."
"Are you mad?" Fiona bolted up from the chair. "I cannot—"
"If you cannot, then you're a coward," Leila said calmly.
Fiona stared at her.
"Well?" Leila asked. "Are you or are you not?"
"Blast you."
That was all the answer Leila needed.
