by Brenda Hiatt
He had behaved rashly in offering that invitation for this evening—it was most unlike him. He not stopped to consider the consequences. He could not even excuse himself on the basis that he was impatient to be finished with this assignment, for that had been no part of his thoughts at the time.
He was, in effect, about to publicly introduce into London society a young woman whose name and character were completely unknown to him. His presence as her escort would be seen as proof of her acceptability, for he was not the kind of man who paraded his mistresses in public. How in thunder was he going to explain who she was? And suppose he ultimately learned that she was indeed a spy? What a devilish stir-up that would cause!
That prospect, however, bothered him less than his impulsive, unprofessional behavior. What had he been thinking of? Green eyes, inviting lips, a smile that did strange things to him?
Too late to ponder these things now. He was not cowardly enough to send a note canceling their evening. But he had better watch himself very carefully, lest he make any more such imprudent decisions.
Jeremy’s valet finished arranging the intricate folds of the baron’s cravat and stepped back to survey his handiwork. Jeremy faced the looking glass and realized that Nicholson was patiently waiting.
“My apologies, Nicholson. What else?”
“After a short while, she went out again with the Irish woman. They went to a dressmaker’s shop on Oxford Street, and made some purchases. Nothing else, sir.”
But that last piece of news was significant. Somewhere, the “señora” had acquired some money or credit. Where, or how? The solicitor?
“Any instructions for this evening, sir?”
“Keep one man watching the lodging house and take the night off for yourself. You’ve earned it.” Jeremy did not relish the idea of sharing his evening with any unseen assistants. He brushed an imaginary speck from his elegant white silk waistcoat and held out his arms ready to receive his coat. “I will handle this evening myself.”
Falcon had been in a quandary about going to the theater. She had never intended to make any truly public appearances—she just wanted to tend to her business and be gone. Somehow she had lost her focus in a moment of weakness. It was a mistake—a big mistake. She should have realized it, she told herself, but it was too late to change the plans now.
Maggie had brought up another aspect of the problem by asking Falcon what she intended to wear. Falcon’s better dresses were in the trunk that had been stolen.
“Oh, Maggie, I don’t know!” she had snapped. “If I had thought, I might have worn my basquiña, but now I have already worn it today. I have nothing suitable. What about you? Have you something to wear? For of course you must come. How could I ever have accepted his invitation? The last thing I want is more of his company!”
Unabashed, Maggie had simply smiled. “Perhaps because ye’d like for once to live life the way ye deserve to! Where’s the harm in a night at the theater? Twill be a treat. As for me, I’ve me best dress to wear, so that’s all right. But you? It could not hurt to spend a little of the ready ye’ve received on a gown or two. Ye must have clothing!”
She suggested they consult with their landlady, Mrs. Isham, who promptly packed them off to her own dressmaker in Oxford Street.
The modiste had two suitable garments on hand, one that had been refused by a client and another that had been made up as a sample. After a hasty fitting and some expert alterations, Falcon and Maggie had returned to the lodging house with a confection of ribbon-trimmed green gauze suitable to be worn in the evening and a promise of a deep burgundy-colored walking dress to be delivered in the morning. Falcon had to confess that her spirits were remarkably improved.
“What do you think?” she asked now, twirling around in front of Maggie and Benita.
“I’m thinking it’s a shame to cover yourself up with a mantilla, ye look so fine, child. Ye’d catch any man’s eye, ye would.”
“That is not the point at all,” Falcon said, failing completely to look as severe as she wished. “It is a pretty gown, is it not? I hope we will not later regret spending the money.”
A discreet knock announced the footman at the door, who informed them that Lord Danebridge awaited below.
“Oh, ¡cielos! Is it time already? Surely he is early!” Flustered, Falcon hurried over to the dressing table and reached for the ornately carved tortoise shell comb that was not yet anchored in her upswept hair. Jamming it in at an angle, she swept the lace mantilla off the chair upon which it had been carefully laid out and held it out, saying, “Maggie, Benita, help me—ayúdame con este, por favor.”
A few minutes later Falcon and Maggie descended to find Lord Danebridge awaiting them in the reception parlor. As he rose to greet them, Falcon thought he looked taller and more handsome than ever in his elegant evening attire. The crisp, stark contrast of his black coat and snowy white linen seemed to emphasize the touch of color in his face and the sun-bleached highlights in his hair. He looked like a man unused to indoor confinement, yet he seemed perfectly at ease in these formal clothes. His eyes lit in unmistakable appreciation as he greeted the women.
“What a privilege to be escorting two such lovely ladies, this evening,” he said, politely including Maggie even though his gray eyes never left Falcon for a moment. “I fear my humble company cannot do you justice.”
Falcon could not resist his infectious good humor. “What, should we wait here for a better offer?”
“You might, but my footman is holding some excellent box seats for us,” he replied, his warm smile expanding into the breath-taking grin Falcon had first noticed in Wickenden. “Besides, you’d risk missing the first part of tonight’s program.”
As Maggie began to help Falcon with her cloak, he stepped in and took it from her. “Allow me.”
Falcon’s smile disappeared. She tried to ignore the warm flush that crept up her neck and into her face as he arranged the cloak around her shoulders. What a presumptuous thing for him to do! Surely it was improper—it seemed to her a very intimate and familiar gesture. And not a word of protest from Maggie! A fine duenna she was turning out to be! Falcon resolved to have a word of her own with the Irishwoman later.
“What are we seeing tonight?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she was forced to hold the mantilla up and out of the way of Lord Danebridge’s ministrations.
“Kean is performing Richard the Third at Drury Lane. I will be interested to see what you think of him—he has become quite the rage, and his style of acting is quite unique.” The baron’s voice was warm and vibrant close to her ear, and his fingers brushed her neck.
Falcon stepped away, hurrying to fasten the front of her cloak herself. By heaven, she was not going to show that he disturbed her in any way! Wretched man!
“Surely if this Mr. Kean is so popular it is a testament to his skill,” she replied. “I have so little experience with the art of acting, I should be the last person to make any judgment.”
He offered his arm. As he did, she barely made out the words he uttered under his breath, “I believe that remains to be proven.”
The overstated opulence of the Drury Lane theater impressed Falcon beyond all comparison. She could not stop looking—first at the gilded ornamentation around the proscenium, then at the splendid decorations adorning the boxes and the ceiling overhead. Handsome figures of Comedy and Tragedy graced the boxes on either side of the stage. Brilliant lamps with multiple wicks illuminated the entire front of the theater including the pit, although some other portions of the audience areas were cast in shadow. It was only when Falcon realized that most people in the theater were busily engaged in ogling each other that she realized she was drawing her share of curious looks and thought of withdrawing to a less noticeable seat in the box Lord Danebridge had procured for them.
“Are you not comfortable?” the baron asked, rising with her as she stood up. “Perhaps a different chair?”
Falcon sat again abruptly, real
izing that she was only drawing more attention to herself. “I, uh—no, this is perfectly acceptable.” She took a deep breath. “I just—I did not realize that the audience would be on display fully as much as the players will be.”
Lord Danebridge smiled, but she thought there was a curious look in his eyes. “Why, that is all part of the entertainment, my dear lady. To admire and be admired. What do you think of the theater?”
At least she could answer that quite honestly. “Oh, it is splendid, there is no question. I have never seen anything like it!”
“I hope you will enjoy the performances as much.”
He had not taken his eyes off her once. She could not help wondering if he was going to watch the players on the stage half so much as he was watching her.
From Kean’s opening lines, however, Falcon was drawn into the story of Richard III, fascinated with a kind of underlying horror at how close the matter struck to her heart. The Lady Anne’s dramatic curses and appeals for revenge as she was confronted by the villainous character of Richard seemed an echo of Falcon’s own anger over the murder of her parents. She almost cheered aloud when Anne took up the sword against Richard, and could not help but feel dismay when that lady gave up the effort.
“Oh, why ever did she not run him through!” she exclaimed, quite forgetting herself.
Lord Danebridge laughed. “For one reason, the course of history would have been considerably altered, and for another, this would prove to be Shakespeare’s shortest play.”
Kean’s portrayal of Richard captured a sly depravity and outrageous evil that infuriated Falcon. She felt ready to climb onto the stage herself to put a stop to his endless machinations and growing list of murder victims as the play progressed. It was only at occasional moments that she was suddenly and rudely jolted back into the present by the responses of the audience to what was happening on the stage.
The reactions of the audience to the players surprised her. The people in the pit hooted and answered back, and the entire theater would burst into applause after what was judged a particularly fine speech or action. While each interruption startled her, she found it almost a relief to be rescued from the intensity of the emotions the play aroused in her.
She could not help looking down into the pit at those who were the loudest in their replies. At just such a moment near the end of the play she saw something that shocked her more than the audience’s noise or the horror of the story. Amongst the crowd in the standing space behind the benches in the pit a man waved his hat in derision at Richard’s poignant fear and guilt at dreaming of the ghosts of his eleven victims.
“Sweeney,” breathed Falcon, hardly daring to believe it. Could she possibly have found him here, at such a moment? She stood up. She must not lose him now. But she had quite forgotten Lord Danebridge sitting quietly beside her.
“What is it,” he asked in alarm, rising also. “Are you ill?”
Falcon felt as if her head was spinning. “No—no. It’s just—I thought I saw—oh, dear. There’s no time to explain.” She began to move hurriedly towards the back of the box. “I must go downstairs. There’s someone in the pit—I thought I saw someone.”
Maggie had arisen from her chair, her face etched with concern, but Falcon hurried past her.
The baron was at Falcon’s elbow. “Of course, I’ll take you down, if that is your wish.” She could hear the puzzlement in his voice. “Do you not wish to wait for the interval? It is customary for everyone in the theater to mingle then. They are preparing for the final scenes! The sword fight is said to be Kean’s finest moment.”
Falcon shook her head. She might never find the man she thought was Sweeney once the entire audience began to mill about in the theater. Lord Danebridge’s words only pressed her to move faster. She wrenched open the door to their box and nearly ran down the passageway to the stairs. She had to slow then lest she miss her footing.
Lord Danebridge touched her arm. “Don’t leave me behind, fair one. You might get lost.”
She did not care if he was behind her or not. Only one thought filled her mind—Triss had not been able to locate Sweeney, and now she thought she had found the man. She could not let him get away. She had to know if it was really him.
Words from the stage rang in her ears as she opened the door into the lower theater and began to search among the standing crowd for the man she thought she had seen. “A bloody tyrant and a homicide; one raised in blood and one in blood established…”—so Richmond exhorted his soldiers to rise against Richard. As far as Falcon was concerned, he might just as well have been describing Sweeney, the man most responsible for her parents’ deaths.
She found her task less easy than she expected—amongst the crowd she could not get her bearings or make out the man she sought. In distress she turned to ask Lord Danebridge to point out as a reference which box they had been sitting in, only to find he was no longer behind her. Well, she could not wait for him to catch up. Determinedly, she plunged on, squeezing through the press of bodies. If she worked her way through the standing crowd from one end to the other, surely she would come upon the man.
And then what? If he was Sweeney, what would she do? She had not planned so far as that. It would be too dangerous to reveal who she was, but she had to make contact, create some connection. Señor Sweeney, is it you? A friend bid me to seek you out. What good fortune to run into you here! All she needed was an address, a place where he was staying, a way to find him again, if she could but find him this once.
A firm hand clasping her arm halted her urgent progress. “What is your hurry, señorita? If you are late for a meeting, perhaps I can help you find a better use for your time.”
She turned to see what stranger had addressed her. “Please,” she said, carefully accenting her words, “do not detain me.”
Unfortunately, the rude fellow found this humorous. When he began to laugh, she jammed her elbow into his ribcage and as he reacted she knee’d him as hard as she could in the groin. She apologized to those she jostled and then hurried on through the crowd. Being raised among soldiers had its own rewards.
She reached the opposite side of the theater without finding anyone who resembled Sweeney. Had she really seen him? Or had she conjured him up out of her own distraught state of mind? No longer certain, she paused to let her racing heart slow to a normal pace, finding welcome support against the wall. She continued to scan the faces of those on benches within the pit, allowing that Sweeney, if she had indeed seen him, could well have found himself a seat. Lord Danebridge found her there a few moments later.
“I did not know I had brought a madwoman to the theater,” he said, standing disconcertingly close to her and staring down at her with an odd expression on his face. “Do you know what havoc you have left in your wake? They are taking bets on who you are, and have already dubbed you ‘the Spanish Spitfire.’ Kean is warming up to his final death scene, and you have effectively stolen his thunder. Tomorrow I have no doubt that the papers will have as much gossip about the mysterious Spanish lady who caused turmoil at the show tonight as there will be commentary on the performance.”
He paused for breath, his eyes as dark as smoke and locked with hers. For a long moment it seemed to Falcon that they just stood there staring at each other, and then the baron reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. He turned her towards the stage, saying, “Look. They are fighting—now Richard meets his end.”
If she had not found Lord Danebridge so distracting Falcon would no doubt have admired Kean at that moment—his fall in death seemed so real, it riveted the attention of every pair of eyes in the theater. How much easier to watch him than to consider her own thoughtless actions! But the baron had not removed his hands from her shoulders and his touch was causing strange tremors to run through her veins.
“Come, now is my best chance to slip you back upstairs unnoticed. Richmond has still one long speech before the play is done,” he whispered.
His hands slid from her s
houlders but one hand remained at the small of her back, guiding her towards a small doorway nearby that opened onto narrow, winding stairs. Falcon took one last despairing look behind her, but still saw no trace of Sweeney.
“We must hurry,” Lord Danebridge urged.
The stairs opened into the upper level passage on the opposite side of the theater from his rented box. Taking her by the hand he led her quickly past the doors of the private boxes on that side, through the upper lobby and finally regained his own box on the other side. Just as the theater erupted in wild applause for the finished play, he closed the door and pushed Falcon into a chair in the shadows at the very back of the box.
“What happened, child?” Maggie asked, her eyes as round as marbles. She looked as if she had aged a year in the few minutes Falcon had been gone.
“Nothing, Maggie,” Falcon replied with a deep sigh of frustration. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Except, of course, for the small matter of her having bodily assaulted a rude fellow who accosted her as she pushed her way through the entire standing gallery and her having drawn the curious attention of half the people in this theater by so doing,” Lord Danebridge amended.
“I hope you are planning to explain what that was all about,” he continued. “But in the meantime, I must warn you that we are likely to have visitors now, during the interval. I know a number of my friends saw us sitting here during the performance, and they will want to be introduced.”
He touched the black lace that covered Falcon’s head and shoulders. “Would you consider removing the mantilla? If they meet you without it perhaps they will not later connect you with the gossip in the papers.”
“Too late for that,” Falcon said tartly. “Since they have already seen me, what is to be gained?” She could not risk removing the veil. What if there were other people who had known her mother? It was clear from her visit with Mr. Fallesby that the resemblance was striking and her mother was well-remembered.
The baron sighed. “Somehow I was under the impression that you were uncomfortable about attracting attention. Apparently I am mistaken about that—and perhaps other things as well.”