“Inevitable.” He pondered the word and how, exactly, that may pertain to their marriage.
“Yes. Well. You know what I mean.” With flushed cheeks, she made a big show of pulling out a sheet of paper and dedicating herself to her writing. For if they were leaving for Dublin in June, that left little time for her to finish all the things she’d set out to do.
“What do you have there?” Sebastian had lowered his document and looked over her shoulder.
“Oh, only the things I still need to visit in London.” There were quite a few things she could scratch off the list, and quite a few that were still left for her to explore.
“You mean as in seeing the sights?”
“Yes, naturally. I have visited the Tower, St Pancras churchyard, and the Egyptian Hall. Madame Tussaud is travelling, alas, so I won’t be seeing her waxworks.” She scratched through the places on her list. “That leaves me with the anatomy school at the Royal College of Surgeons, butmerely the museum, not the actual dissecting room, which is a disappointment, but I made the acquaintance of Professor Tolliver so that makes up for much of what I missed; he even promised to give me a personal tour. Then the Theatre and—” she hesitated, swallowing the words St Giles Rookery, for something told her he might not approve of that excursion. So she merely repeated lamely, “—the theatre.”
“I admit I have been shockingly remiss in not taking you to see some of the finer entertainments. I believe they are playing a Rossini at the Opera House and a Shakespearean play in Drury Lane. Would you like to attend either event?”
She pursed her lips. “Oh no. I know you don’t enjoy that kind of entertainment. I care little for opera; all that shrieking pains my ears. The theatre might be different, but Shakespearean tragedy is so heavy. I merely wanted to see a particular production they are currently showing at the Minerva Theatre.”
He frowned. “The Minerva Theatre. Isn’t that a theatre in Piccadilly, but of the seedy kind?”
“It might not be as noble as Drury Lane. But they are showing a play there that is tremendously popular.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Would you like to accompany me there?”
“By all means. What are they playing?”
“ ‘The Monk and the Maiden. The Cloister’s Secret. A New Melo-Drama of Terror and Passion’. It was written by Mrs Selina Sable. It is her most popular work. Sounds good, don’t you think?”
Sebastian’s face was a study in horror. “Heaven help me.”
Viola laughed. “You need not bend over backwards if you’d rather not. I suppose I could ask Cousin Georgiana to go with me.” Viola tapped her pencil against the paper. “But then again, maybe not. She is too respectable to be seen watching something like this in public. Even though she reads scandalous romancesin secret, you know. She has the books hidden in a row behind her tomes of classical literature.”
He shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me? I’ll accompany you.”
“But what if they recognise you?”
“We will endeavour to remain unrecognised.”
“Are you certain?”
“By all means. If your heart is set on it. Besides, I ought to at least watch one play by that woman, even if I can’t bear to read her books.”
“Why do you say that?” Viola picked up her teacup and took a sip, while keeping her eyes on Sebastian’s face. “You sound as though you owe her having to suffer through one of her plays, as though it were a matter of honour, so to speak.”
“It is, in a way. It turns out that the anonymous donor to the Irish asylum cause is none other than Mrs Sable.”
Viola spewed her tea out over his documents. She spluttered and coughed. “Oh dear. I am terribly sorry, now I have doused your parliamentary legislation in tea.”
He wiped at the stains with his handkerchief. “She donated half a fortune. One ought at least to be acquainted with what the lady writes, particularly when her work all but saved the Irish asylum reform, and not depend on others to explain it to me. It has become something of an embarrassment that I seem to be the only person in England not acquainted with her works.”
Viola nodded. “In other words, you would swallow every principle, commit the unthinkable and watch her play as a noble penance for her generous donation. I wonder, has she risen somewhat in your esteem as a consequence?”
He smiled thinly. “You may ask me that question again after we have seen the play.”
Viola was ridiculously nervous.
It was one thing to write the book, but quite another to see it performed live. And it was yet another thing to have her husband sit right next to her, knowing he was thoroughly scandalised, likely hating every minute.
He shifted in his seat, glancing at Viola frequently, presumably to see whether she was enjoying herself.
She was not.
The auditorium was filled to the brim; the air was stuffy and reeked of perfume, alcohol, and sweat, and it was far too hot.
