Page 70 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

Theo hesitated; the other woman’s comment surprised her, but in truth, sometimes Clem did seem a little put out about the most unexpected things. “If he looks concerned, tell him that I have taken Vincent for an escort.” She whirled around at that and hurried into the hall, grabbing her paletot and bonnet off the hat stand. Forty minutes later, she was passing through The Parthenon’s grand colonnaded entrance.

No one was on the door, but as only a few desultory couples drifted out of it, Theo guessed the matinee performance must now be over. She wasn’t even sure what they currently were staging, so divorced from proceedings had she been this past couple of months. She was a little surprised that Clem had not already demanded a tour; he had been keen indeed to get his hands on a share of the place.

Then again, he had been busy lately, what with moving abode, running his own booming business, and seducing her. She flushed and cleared her throat as she walked through the familiar foyer. No doubt he would make his presence there felt soon enough. No doubt also, her brother would blow up again, but she could not bring herself to worry overmuch about that.

They would settle it amongst themselves eventually and she was no longer concerned about it escalating into a physical altercation. Not after Clem’s amused reassurance on that score. She was jolted out of her thoughts by Felix hurrying toward her with a frown on his face.

“Theo, how can I help you?” he asked, greeting her in a lackluster fashion with a wary look in his eye.

She resented the implication that she had no right to be in a theatre she owned a twenty-five percent share in, but let it pass for now. “I am looking for Vincent,” she explained.

“Vincent?”

“Our doorman,” she reminded him crisply.

“What the devil do you want with him?” her brother asked with a bewildered expression. That quickly turned into belligerence as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “If you mean to try and poach him for Dabney’s damned flea-pit—” he began wrathfully.

“Nothing of the sort,” Theo tutted. “What a nasty suspicious mind you have, brother.” Someone else had said that once. Probably Clem. She wholly supported the sentiment in this moment. “Besides”—she cast her eye over the practically empty foyer—“the matinee performance seems to be over, and he will be off the clock from now until this evening.” Felix made a noise of unhappy agreement, still eyeing her as he would a coiled snake. “If you must know, I wish for him to escort me somewhere. You never had any objection before, so I fail to see why you should now.”

Felix relaxed. “Ah,” he said his expression brightening. “Capital notion. Capital. Glad to see you are not letting proprieties slide now you—er—now you have someone else dictating your behavior. You’ll find that Vincent fellow somewhere about, no doubt.”

Theo eyed her brother coldly, then swept past him without another word. “Pompous prig,” she muttered under her breath as she proceeded through to the back and into the rabbit warren that was the staff quarters. She knew Vincent’s usual haunts well enough and found him without too much trouble in a small dimly lit room, polishing his shoes. “Hello, Vincent.”

He started at the sound of her voice and wheeled around. Theo saw the hope rapidly drain from his face and realized he must have taken her for Hetty in that moment. She winced inwardly at inflicting such pain, even unintentionally. “How are you, old friend?” she asked, pretending not to notice his disappointment.

“Very well, Miss Theodora,” he told her dully, clearly trying to pull himself together. “Been keeping busy.”

“So have I,” she chimed in briskly. “I have lately married, have you heard?”

He looked surprised. “No, I ain’t—haven’t heard anything,” he corrected himself. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

She beamed at him. “A Mr. Clement Dabney,” she responded.

“You what?” Vincent looked thunderstruck. “Not the bleedin’ prizefighter?” he choked, bridling. “Why he ain’t—he’s not fit to wipe your boots, Miss Theodora, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do mind, Vincent. I mind very much.”

Hot color bloomed across his gaunt cheeks. “I apologize if I gave offense,” he said stiffly. “But I can’t fink wot that bruvver of yours was about and that’s the god’s honest truth.”

Theo noted with interest that when he became flustered, Vincent’s cockney accent intensified. “Very well, I accept your apology,” she assured him wholeheartedly. “Now I hope you will stand my friend, Vincent, even if you do disapprove of my choice of husband. I was hoping you would fall back on your old role of acting escort, for I find myself in need of one.”

Vincent visibly pulled himself together. “Of course, Miss Theodora,” he said swiftly. “Where we off to?”

“Shoreditch,” she responded promptly. “To a tailor called J. Finch & Sons. I have a four o’clock appointment.”

Vincent seemed to struggle a moment with how to respond to this, but he made a valiant effort and kept his expression and voice blank in his answering, “Yes miss.”

“Should we set off now, for I would like to cover the distance on foot if possible?”

Vincent glanced at the wall and then reached for his coat which was hung up on a peg. “Soon as you like,” he agreed.

They walked briskly and the air was so cold that, for a while, Theo was happy to keep silent beside the hulking doorman. When it became apparent that they would arrive in good time, she allowed her pace to slacken a little and ventured a glance up at Vincent’s granite-like profile.

“Did Felix tell you we received a telegram from Hetty when she arrived in Calais?” she asked, knowing full well that her brother would not have passed on such information to Vincent in a million years.

Vincent swallowed. “He did not.” His throat worked. “She was … well?” he asked hoarsely.

“It was only a few words,” Theo admitted. “Just confirming she had landed safely and was bound for Paris. She promised to write again once she arrived there.”