Page 4 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Mildred Hayes was not Julia’s aunt. At best, she was Julia’s aunt-in-law, if such a relationship could even be said to exist. Not quite two years ago, Mrs. Hayes’s actual niece, Laura, had married Julia’s brother, Jeremy, Viscount Sterling, and moved with him to Wiltshire. Mrs. Hayes, however, had been determined to remain in London. Not wishing to abandon her elderly aunt, Laura had suggested her new sister-in-law might take her place as Aunt Mildred’s companion.

Relatively few young ladies of seventeen would have jumped at the chance to serve at the whim of a widow who, in spite of her professed Town habits, actually lived quite retired in Clapham. But Julia, faced with the prospect of returning to quiet country life at her brother’s estate, had readily accepted Mrs. Hayes’s offer. Mrs. Hayes had a reputation for being liberal-minded and good-natured.

Most important of all, she loved the theater almost as much as Julia herself.

Julia’s brother had taken her to plays now and again, when he could spare the time and the coin. She had treasured the memories of those evenings in Haymarket and Drury Lane: straining for a view of the lavish costumes and fancying she could still catch a whiff of greasepaint, even from the cheapest seats in the house. Then, she had never dared to dream of what Mrs. Hayes had since provided: tickets for the Season, every performance within her grasp.

And speaking of grasps . . .

The unknown gentleman released her reluctantly, as if she were a thief he had fully intended to turn over to the authorities.

Once freed, she longed to rub her wrist, not because it hurt—he had been neither rough nor careless, despite the quickness of his movement—but to rid herself of the sensation of his unwelcome touch.

The impatient tap of Mrs. Hayes’s cane had given way to a sniff of derision as the widow snapped open her lorgnette and eyed the gentleman suspiciously through it. “Who the devil are you? And what are you doing in my box?”

“Your box, madam?” The words were punctuated with a mocking laugh. “I think you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

All of Julia’s blinking had managed to bring the man into better focus, though his features were still cast in shadow by the glare of light behind. He was not quite thirty, she guessed, impeccably but not ostentatiously dressed, with surprisingly broad shoulders that seemed somehow in contradiction to his aristocratic bearing.

Julia turned and began to murmur to Mrs. Hayes. But before she could request to be allowed to fetch an usher, Mr. Pope, the box manager, appeared beside them as if summoned by the imperious snap of someone’s fingers. Someone’s strong, warm fingers.

Despite her earlier resolve, she wrapped her other hand around the wrist he had held, however briefly, in his implacable grip, hoping her movement was disguised by the folds of her skirt.

Mr. Pope bowed to the gentleman, as if Mrs. Hayes were suddenly beneath his notice, however respectable she might be. “May I be of some assistance, my lord?”

My lord.

Julia narrowly managed to avoid rolling her eyes. She had no good opinion of noblemen—her brother excepted, and then only because he had inherited the title unexpectedly, without the encumbrance and expectations of a fortune to go with it, and not until he had been almost a grown man, past the age of spoiling.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hayes. “You may explain to this”—she tossed another dismissive glance toward him, her lorgnette only half-raised to her eyes—“gentleman that he is in my box, and then do me the kindness of escorting him from it to his proper seat.”

The color that flushed into Mr. Pope’s cheeks was visible, despite the uncertain light in the area between the saloon and the rear of the box, still half-shielded by the curtain. “I, er . . .”

“Aye, Mr. Pope.” She heard a thread of humor in Lord Scottish’s voice now, as he widened his stance and crossed his arms behind his back. “Why don’t you explain matters? I confess I’m most eager to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

“I, er . . .” he stammered again, glancing downward before turning toward Mrs. Hayes. “This is Lord Dunstane’s box and always has been. But as he comes to Town so rarely—almost never—I, uh, I took the liberty of selling the tickets again to you, ma’am.”

The reselling of tickets was a common enough practice. When those with a private box had already seen a performance, or were unable to attend, the box manager was employed to sell the tickets again to another interested party. But what Mr. Pope had done was a clear violation of both theater policy and good manners.

“Pocketed the double profit yourself, I daresay,” added Lord Dunstane. To Julia’s astonishment, he now sounded not angry, but almost amused.

The pink in Mr. Pope’s cheeks darkened to crimson. He did not refute the accusation.

Mrs. Hayes gripped the handle of her cane more firmly. “I see. Then you must forgive us for the intrusion, my lord. We, of course, had no idea.”

She had taken a box this year with every intention of asking friends to join them throughout the Season; thankfully she had not done so tonight. Now Julia thought with some embarrassment of the invitations that would have to be rescinded: Lady Clearwater and her daughters next week; later, Mama and her husband, Mr. Remington, and Mr. Remington’s particular friends, General and Mrs. Scott.

“Perhaps Mr. Pope can find us another box,” Julia suggested.

“Unfortunately, the performance for the next several evenings is . . .” the box manager began. Julia could guess what he was hesitant to say.

Sold out!

She had seen the placard, plastered over the playbill displayed outside the theater. Even if she had not, she might have guessed the state of things from the crush of carriages on Bow Street and the noisy crowd mingling in the vestibule. The size of the audience, the chaos of getting everyone properly seated, no doubt explained the delay in starting the performance.

“I paid for tickets for tonight, Mr. Pope,” Mrs. Hayes reminded him, holding up the thin ivory disk that was marked with Lord Dunstane’s box number. “Tickets you will find some means of honoring.”

Mr. Pope glanced downward into the pit, where patrons seated on long benches could be squeezed together to accommodate another person or two.