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Ford’s stomach roiled. This was the man Beatrice’s mother wanted her to marry.
Over his dead body.
“Easy now.” Griff laid a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “You’re about to crush that tumbler to splinters.”
Ford glanced down at his hand. Griffith was right. He wanted to be crushing something else. Mayhew’s windpipe. “I can’t sit here while she’s in danger, Griff.”
“Lots of people crowding that opera house. She won’t be in danger.”
“Lots of shadowy corners, as well,” Ford growled. “I’ve got to warn her away from him. What if he proposes to her tonight and she accepts? I can’t stand the thought of Beatrice shackled to that cur for life.”
“What are you going to do, burst into their box at the opera?”
“If I have to.”
“That’ll mean pistols at dawn, my boy. That’s how the Fancy do things.”
“I’m a crack shot.”
“I know you are, lad. I know you are. But what were you just saying about highborn and low? It wouldn’t be a fair fight. He’d find some way to cheat and you’d end up dead.”
Ford jumped off his stool. “I don’t care. I have to do something. I’m going to the opera.”
“You’re not dressed for the opera.”
“My money’s as good as theirs. I’ll bribe my way in if I have to.”
“One kiss and you’re willing to fight to the death for her.” Griff shook his head. “Oy, lad. You’ve got it bad.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Was it a real kiss this time?” Viola whispered, her eyes sparkling in the gaslit opera box.
“Very real.” Beatrice closed her eyes briefly, remembering the kiss. “Not imaginary in the least.” She glanced at her mother, who was occupied with perusing the gathering crowd below their box, leaving Beatrice free to have a whispered conversation with her friend. “I kissed him first, but that was a disaster since I connected with his nose instead of his lips, and then he, seeking to rectify matters, gave me a proper kiss. Wrong choice of words. There was nothing proper about it.”
Viola giggled. “Beatrice. I’m surprised at you.”
“Of course it can never happen again.” She knew that, but her traitorous mind kept imagining second kisses.
“Tell me all about it. Don’t leave anything out.”
The dowager duchess fit her opera glasses to her eyes, searching the crowd. “Where is Lord Mayhew? His mother promised that she would bring him to our box for an intimate tête-à-tête before the opera began.”
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon, Mama,” Beatricesaid loudly. Her mother was seated in a velvet chair at one end of the built-in wooden table made to hold refreshments and opera programs, and Beatrice and Viola were at the other end.
Beatrice rolled her eyes at Viola. “Ugh. Mayhew. He’s been overly attentive lately.”
“I don’t see why not. You’re a great success now and each new gown you wear is more beautiful than the last. This one with the embroidered roses with diamonds for dewdrops is quite the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s dreadfully uncomfortable and very heavy.”
“I wish I had a new gown to wear.” Viola glanced down at her plain white muslin gown with its ordinary blue sash. Her father, a famous composer, was related to an earl by marriage, but a composer didn’t generate much income when he was going deaf.
Due to her father’s worsening infirmity, their income had been sorely reduced, and Viola had been forced to take employment as the music instructor to the Duke of Westbury’s five sisters.
“Take some of my gowns,” said Beatrice. “You’re welcome to them. I must have two dozen new ones hanging in my rooms.” She’d rather be wearing the same plain blue gowns she wore all summer in Cornwall.
“I don’t think they would fit me. I have a much more ample bosom.”
