David swept into the study like a storm, shaking off his gloves and hat as if entering a favorite pub. Felix did not rise from his chair. He swirled the brandy in his glass, savoring the silence for the few moments it had left.
“Carden! I have brought you the worst possible news. London is on the verge of collapse. The clubs are a wasteland. I am told there has been a run on the grocers’ brandied cherries.”
Felix did not look up. “I assure you; the supply here is adequate.”
“Is it?” David inspected the decanter, already a third down. He raised an eyebrow and poured himself a measure anyway. “You look like death, old man.”
Felix sipped, unrepentant. “I have never felt more alive.”
“Rubbish,” said David. He flung himself into the armchair opposite and regarded Felix with frank, theatrical dismay. “I know you. When you feel alive, you break the windows. Or the opposition’s skull. This—” He gestured at the heap of papers, the half-eaten breakfast, the unlit fire. “This is not your style. Where is the man who once bit a baronet for questioning his mother’s virtue?”
Felix closed his eyes, wishing he could recall the energy of that long-ago night. “Perhaps you should try your luck at White’s, David. I imagine there are still a few sodden wretches you haven’t saved.”
David’s smile went crooked. “You wound me. I have come as a friend, bearing gifts. Well, not gifts, tickets.” He held up a gilt-edged card. “Front row at the Theater Royal. The best box. A new tragedy, which I am told is too moving for words and quite possibly illegal.”
Felix did not react.
“Say you’ll come,” David pressed. “You can sneer at the actors and set the city right again.”
Felix found the prospect of the theater deeply unappealing. He could already see the crowd, smell the powder and nervous sweat, feel the itch of judgment from a hundred sharp-eyed ladies. He considered declining, but the alternative was another night pacing the study like a wolf in a cage.
He made a show of considering, then set his glass aside. “Very well. But only if you promise not to introduce me to anyone under the age of sixty.”
David’s face brightened. “Splendid. Wear something that won’t cause a mutiny if you please. I have my reputation to consider.”
Felix grunted, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
That evening, Felix performed the minimum ablutions: clean linen, a black waistcoat, and boots polished by the desperatehands of a new valet. The theater itself was, as always, a fever dream of gold and crimson and voices pitched just a bit too high. David’s box was perfectly positioned to maximize the ability to see and be seen.
Within ten minutes, Felix knew he had made a terrible mistake.
It began with the parade of acquaintances. First, former classmates, then distant cousins, and finally the familiar faces of a dozen ruined evenings past. Each appeared at the box, greeting David with extravagant affection.
But then came the eligible ladies, in the company of their mothers or their cannier aunts. David made the introductions with an air of gleeful malice.
“Lady Pelham, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Carden. You have heard of his exploits, no doubt.”
Lady Pelham, all dimples and eager vowels, simpered. “Oh, yes. My brother said you once rode a horse into the dining room at Oxford and demanded a toast to Bacchus.”
Felix managed to make a thin smile. “The horse deserved it more than I did.”
“Oh, how droll,” she said, missing the sarcasm entirely.
The next was Miss Dennis, who attempted to match him in wit but gave up after two volleys. Felix saw her retreat into a series of nervous twitches and regretted even that small violence.
The rest of the first act was a blur of tedium. He paid no attention to the stage, instead cataloging the audience: a famous courtesan with a new protector; a member of parliament who owed him money; a playwright whose every gesture screamed for approval. Felix could not locate a single face that interested him, not even in the way a hunter is interested in his prey.
He glanced at David, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I am not a performing bear, you know.”
David took a sip of champagne. “You are the only bear worth watching, Felix. But you are doing it all wrong. You must growl a bit, terrify the crowd.”
Felix looked away. “I have lost my appetite.”
“Is it the company?” David asked, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Or is it something else?”
Felix ignored the question. His gaze drifted, unwillingly, to the opposite box, where a family of five sat on the perfect tableau. Mother, father, two sons, and a daughter on the cusp of womanhood. They laughed, pointed out the sights to each other, and seemed entirely unaware of the social theater in which they played a part.
He envied them.
