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‘For a scapegrace such as myself, yes, you are.’ He was still smiling, but something changed in his expression as he asked, ‘Do you never want to rebel?’
‘Society is full of well-behaved, unmarried girls,’
Julia pro tested, avoiding the question. ‘To be anything else is to be considered fast, and that is a definite handicap to one’s marriage prospects. Look what happened the other day.’
It was his turn to flinch, but he let the comment pass. ‘Yes, but you are not one of those just-out, fluffy-brained little things, are you?’ Hal leaned a shoulder against the wall, her hand still in his, and frowned at her. The theatre seemed to have gone quiet, perhaps for the noon meal, and they were quite alone.
‘Are you politely telling me I am on the shelf, Major Carlow? At my last prayers?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I am trying to under stand you, and you have avoided answering my question, just as you warned me you might.’
Julia felt the warmth of his hand enveloping hers and the stillness that surrounded them. He had used a cologne that morning, or perhaps it was his soap: just a faint hint of sandal wood teased her nostrils.
‘Yes, I do want to rebel some times,’ she said finally. ‘I should not have entered that dressing room just now, I should not be standing here with you. I should have run from that clearing the moment you made Fellowes release me. And I should not snap at gentlemen who give me well-meaning warnings about my conduct.’
‘Is that what he did? Pompous idiot,’ Hal said. ‘I should have called him out.’
‘You cannot call someone out for being pompous.’ Her little finger had found the signet ring on Hal’s hand and she realized she was fiddling with it. She stopped abruptly.
‘How did he find anything to criticise, anyway?’ Hal asked.
‘I admitted I knew you,’ Julia confessed.
‘Ah.’ Hal released her hand and stood up straight. ‘Well, in that case, I forgive him. He was quite right to warn you.’
‘Major Carlow! You cannot spend time alone with me now, er, chatting and then lecture me on the unwisdom of such be ha vi our.’
‘Why not? I am dangerous; you know it and you should be avoiding me, for you have the evidence now. You are correct, I’m afraid: Society being what it is, the responsibility is down to the lady.’ He moved away and began opening doors and looking in.
‘Oh, so the responsibility is mine, is it? And what are you doing?’
‘You are supposed to be the virtuous one,’ Hal pointed out with exasperating logic, closing another door. ‘Here we are, just the thing.’ He ducked into the room and emerged with a large bouquet, ribbons trailing. ‘For La Catalani? But you cannot just steal flowers!’
‘It is only theft if I remove them from the premises with the intent to permanently deprive the owner of them,’ Hal said, revealing a worrying familiarity with law-breaking. ‘Now, let me do the talking; this is her room.’
He knocked on the door with a name-card thumb-tacked to it. ‘Major Carlow and Miss Tresilian for Madame,’ he announced to the elderly maid who answered, sweeping in on the words, then stopping dead so abruptly that Julia bumped into his back. ‘Madame! Your very humble servant and admirer. I had to come: I could not stay away when I heard the dreadful news that you were unwell.’
‘Unwell?’ A heavily accented, rich voice demanded in tones of outrage. ‘Unwell? Me?’
‘But yes, Madame. When I heard that you had declined the most prestigious, most historic event ever to take place in Brussels, I knew there could be but one explanation. Do please accept this humble token.’ He was presenting the flowers, Julia assumed, unable to see around him. She con tented herself with admiring the elegance of his back and the width of his shoulders.
‘Lovely,’ Madame said vaguely. ‘Emily, find a vase. What event?’
At last, Hal moved far enough in for Julia to see. The singer reclined on a couch, eyeing her visitor with interest. And it was not the event that she was concerned with, Julia could tell. It was the handsome man standing in front of her. She glanced at Julia, dismissed her of no importance, and fixed her large dark eyes on Hal again.
‘Why, Lady Geraldine Master’s reception in honour of the Duke of Wellington,’ he said. ‘The greatest living general, the man who will defeat Napoleon in the defining battle of our time. The man who will save Europe. Everyone will be there, their children will talk of it—and they will not be able to say, Madame Catalani graced it with the power and beauty of her singing and the glamour of her presence.’
You have to admire his technique, Julia thought, struggling to keep a straight face. The prima donna was almost certainly old enough to be his mother, her high-piled hair was an improbable shade of brown and her figure was, to be kind, voluptuous—and she was regarding Hal with the air of a cat who has just seen her next meal. It occurred to Julia that it was her responsibility to get Hal out of there with what remained of his virtue intact. She avoided thinking about the implications of the fierce feelings the other woman’s scrutiny aroused.
‘I had no idea it was an event of such magnitude,’ the singer said slowly. ‘You describe it with such…passion.’
‘How can one fail to be passionate in the presence of such high art and great beauty?’ Hal said in throbbing tones. Julia raised her hands to her mouth and bit hard on one knuckle to suppress her giggles. ‘And when that passion meets the power of a man such as Wellington—history will be made.’
‘Tell me the date again. You will be there?’
‘The eighteenth of June. If I have to walk over hot coals, Madame, I will be there.’
Julia choked as quietly as she could. The dresser produced a diary; it was consulted, and Madame agreed she was free to attend.
