Edward watched him for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curved.
“You called her extraordinary.”
“She is extraordinary. That is a statement of fact, not a declaration of intent.”
“Hugo.”
“Edward.”
“You are in trouble.”
Hugo stared at the fire. The flames licked at the fresh log, and the shadows danced across the walls of the study, and the brandy sat warm and useless in his stomach because no amount of it was going to make Edward wrong.
“I know,” he said.
Edward nodded, as if this were the only honest thing Hugo had said all evening. He raised his glass.
“To trouble, then.”
Hugo lifted his own. The crystal rang as their glasses met.
“To trouble.”
CHAPTER 8
“Magnificent production, is it not?”
Lord Cresswell settled into the chair beside Lily with the languid self-assurance of a man who believed his opinions were gifts he bestowed upon the less fortunate. He crossed one leg over the other and surveyed the Theatre Royal with proprietary satisfaction.
“I have always admired Handel’s command of the dramatic. This particular work shows his genius at its most refined.”
The correction formed on Lily’s tongue before she could stop it.Don Giovanniwas Mozart, not Handel. The libretto was by Lorenzo Da Ponte. Handel had been dead for more than half a century before Mozart composed this opera. The error spoke of a confident, sweeping ignorance that demanded correction the way a crooked painting demanded straightening.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“It is a remarkable piece,” she said, and offered him a smile that she had practiced in the mirror that morning. Warm. Open. Interested.
Aunt Margaret, seated to Lily’s right, lowered her opera glasses.
“Handel.” Margaret fixed Cresswell with a look that could have frosted a window. “My lord,Don Giovanniwas composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Handel composedMessiahandRinaldo, among others. He died in 1759. Mozart did not composeDon Giovanniuntil 1787. They are, I assure you, entirely different men.”
Cresswell’s face went the color of claret. Sir Philip Hale, standing behind him, coughed into his fist. Mr. Dunfarrow studied the ceiling with sudden fascination.
Lily watched the humiliation settle over Cresswell’s features, and Hugo’s voice echoed in her mind.
A man who has been humiliated does not forget.
She touched Cresswell’s arm.
“My aunt is a great admirer of both composers.” Her voice carried the warmth she had been practicing, easy and unhurried. “In truth, I confuse them myself sometimes. The breadth of their catalogues is astonishing, and one can hardly keep every detail straight. What matters is your appreciation for the music, and Ican see you have a genuine ear for the dramatic arts. The second act, I think, will be extraordinary.”
Cresswell blinked. The color in his face receded. He straightened and cleared his throat.
“Indeed. The second act. Yes, I have read that the ending scene is particularly powerful.”
“I look forward to discussing it with you afterward, my lord.”
Cresswell brightened. He nodded with renewed confidence and turned to Sir Philip to offer an opinion about the set design that was almost certainly also wrong, but Lily let it pass.
