A red waistcoat caught his attention, and Stephen pulled it off its peg. Featuring brass buttons and a slight pattern in the tapestry fabric, Stephen thought it a better choice for the evening. He finished buttoning it and moved to take his leave of Will’s bedchamber when he realized he was being watched.
“The green one would have been my first choice,” Cherice said from where she leaned against the doorframe. “But Devonville tells me you’re after a position at the Foreign Office, so I suppose the red will have to do.”
Stephen nodded. “My thoughts, exactly, my lady,” he said, moving to pull on his topcoat. Cherice was already moving to open the coat for him, though. “Thank you,” he murmured after he pushed his arms through the sleeves.
“I’ll see to it the butler arranges a valet for you on Perkins’ days off,” Cherice said as she watched him do up the buttons.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, my lady. I’ve been dressing myself since I was in short pants,” he replied as he turned his attention to threading cuff links through the holes at the bottom of his sleeves.
“I suppose you didn’t have servants aboard ship,” she said, suddenly realizing he wouldn’t be used to a servant seeing to his clothes.
“None, my lady,” he agreed. “What will we be seeing at the theatre tonight?”
Cherice gave a shrug. “The Merchant of Venice, I believe. Which means Edmund will be playing Shylock.”
Edmund? Perhaps she meant Edmund Kean, Stephen figured. Although his mother had frequently attended the theatre during her days as a courtesan, Marie St. Clair hadn’t done so as much after her marriage. Not having been brought up going to the theatre as an entertainment, Stephen only knew of the actors from what he had been reading in The Times since his return to London. Their personal lives seemed far more entertaining than the plays they headlined!
“Ah, there you are,” his father said as he appeared just outside Will’s bedchamber.
“Stephen is borrowing one of Will’s waistcoats. He’s worn his new one too many times this week,” Cherice said as she joined her husband and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“I rather doubt anyone we meet tonight will even notice,” William stated. “But if we don’t take our leave right now, we’ll be tardy and everyone will notice,” he added with an arched eyebrow.
Stephen nodded and followed William and Cherice down the stairs and out the front door of Devonville House. The town coach waited at the curb. “When do you suppose I will meet Lord Chamberlain?” Stephen wondered after he had taken his seat in the coach. William and Cherice were seated side-by-side and riding in the direction of travel.
“I rather imagine just before the play starts,” his father replied. “We have a box at the Drury Lane Theatre. Lord and Lady Chamberlain will be our guests this evening.”
Stephen blinked. “Oh, that is convenient,” he remarked, suddenly nervous. He had expected an introduction and an opportunity to say a few words in the hopes of landing a position. Instead, he would be spending hours in the man’s company.
“I rather doubt Caro will wish to stay for the second half of the play, though,” Cherice commented lightly. At Stephen’s upraised brow, she added, “She gave Chamberlain an heir not even six months ago, and she doesn’t like to be away from him very long.”
“Neither does Chamberlain,” William chimed in. “The man is my age and just became a grandfather, too!”
Stephen’s attention bounced between his father and Lady Devonville until he remembered Caro was Caroline Fitzsimmons, Viscountess Chamberlain, and Lord Chamberlain was Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain. He quietly thanked his brother for having loaned him a copy of Debrett’s on the ship, although he really wished it had been a newer edition. Although he had spent over an hour reading the one in the Devonville House library that afternoon, he had only studied the pages on the Aimsley earldom.
Cherice sighed. “Now we’ve gone and thoroughly confused you,” she said with a shake of her head. “Caroline and Matthew Fitzsimmons have been married for... oh, dear, far longer than I can remember.”
“At least twenty years,” William finished for her when she threw up her gloved hands in resignation.
“Caro’s niece—”
“Daughter,” William interrupted, wincing when he realized he knew more about Lady Samantha’s parentage than Cherice and shouldn’t have said anything. “May as well be,” he amended with a wave of his gloved hand, hoping she would ignore his correction.
Cherice’s brow furrowed before she simply shook her head. “Your father gets a little confused sometimes,” she said sotto voce, leaning forward so her comment could only be heard by Stephen. “Lady Samantha wed Lord Plymouth last year and just had a boy of her own.”
Stephen couldn’t help but notice his father rolling his eyes, so he figured the man had overheard Cherice’s comment. But who was Lord Plymouth? Stephen screwed up his face in concentration. “Yorkshire?” he guessed. “A marquess?”
“Very good,” William said with an approving nod. “And not a marquessate I would want,” he added with a shake of his head. “I’ll take a comfortable home in Mayfair over a drafty castle on the moors and troublesome coal mines any day.”
Stephen allowed a grin, wondering if there was an estate home somewhere in Northumberland where the Devonville marquessate was based. He now knew his uncle, Donald, helped oversee the lands with the help of an estate manager when he wasn’t distilling the best scotch in the northern counties.
The town coach slowed and came to a halt in front of the theatre. Stephen was the last to step out, his eyes lifting until he realized the theatre wasn’t the one he remembered from his youth. “Is this... is this the right theatre?” he wondered aloud, rather impressed at how grand the new white building appeared.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re probably remembering the one that burned down,” William said as they made their way up the steps to the faux-columned entrance. “Awful fire, that one, and that building wasn’t that old,” he added as they made their way amongst the masses of theatre goers making their way into the building. “Although this one isn’t quite as large, they can still seat more than three-thousand people,” he commented. Then he pointed across the expanse of seats on the main floor. “See all those chandeliers?”
Stephen followed his father’s finger and realized there were three levels of chandeliers hung at regular intervals around the entire semi-circular theatre, each one illuminating a level of boxes. Some boxes were already filled with patrons. “The number of candles must be—”
“It’s all gas-lit,” William stated proudly. “I do like our box in this one better, too. The view of the stage is far grander.”
Stephen nodded his understanding, his gaze flitting about in the hopes of seeing someone he might know—perhaps one of the chits he had danced with at the Weatherstone ball. But as the Slaters made their way up several sets of stairs, he realized the crush of people made it impossible to make out the faces of the patrons. It wasn’t until they were on the same level as the Devonville box that the crowds thinned and he could make out distinct people in the crush.
“Ah, here we are,” William said as he paused outside the door to the theatre box. He stepped aside to allow Cherice to enter just as the Fitzsimmons appeared at the top of the stairs.
“I apologize for our late arrival,” Matthew said as he gave Cherice a bow and took her hand. “My son was just demonstrating his ability to crawl on his hands and knees as we were about to leave the house,” he said, a bit breathless from the climb.
“So good of you to invite us this evening,” Caroline said as she afforded them a curtsy. She suddenly turned her attention to Stephen. “Bellingham?” she said with a hint of uncertainty.
Stephen bowed over her hand. “Stephen Slater, actually. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said before bestowing a kiss on the back of her satin-gloved hand.
Matthew stepped forward, holding out his right hand. “
I am Chamberlain,” he said, giving the young man an assessing glance.
Stephen shook it as he gave the man a nod. “Stephen Slater, formerly of the HMS Greenwich,” he said by way of introduction.
“I understand you may be interested in a position at Whitehall,” Matthew said as they moved to enter the theatre box.
“Indeed, I am,” Stephen replied, his attention suddenly drawn to a young woman who stood at the end of the hall. Dressed in a beautifully tailored gown of coral velvet, her pale blonde hair done up in a riot of curls and braids, she seemed to be rather interested in their party. She made no move to join them, however. In fact, when she realized she had been spotted, she suddenly turned around and disappeared down an adjacent hallway. Frowning, Stephen was about to enter the box when he realized he did know her.
Lady Jane? No, she had been far shorter and not nearly as blonde. And besides, there was no prune-faced chaperone standing behind her.
Lady Lucida? No, she wasn’t blonde, and besides, where was Fred? Why, there wasn’t a potted palm anywhere in the vicinity. Nor had he seen Lady Fletcher or Lord and Lady Bostwick. Yet. It seemed as if the entire populace of Mayfair was in the theatre.
Victoria! The one wearing the pink gown that perfectly complemented her creamy complexion and set off her elaborate coiffure to good effect. The one who couldn’t be a debutante if she tried, for she was far too bold and self-assured. The one whose kiss had left him a bit discombobulated. Or was it her second kiss that had done that?
The one who claimed to have crashed the ball!
Stephen wondered if she had done the same to get into the theatre or if she had a ticket to be there.
“See someone you know?” his father wondered when he noticed Stephen’s hesitance at entering the box. The marquess followed Stephen’s line of sight to where the woman had been standing.
Shaking his head, Stephen turned his attention on his father. “I’m not sure. I thought I saw...” He blinked, realizing Victoria had reappeared at the end of the hall, her rather fetching coiffure different from the one she had worn at the ball. Her gown, a coral the color of the inside of a conch shell, had Stephen imagining her on a sandy beach, beckoning him to follow her as she made her way to some secret place where they could kiss without being interrupted. Without being seen.
What the hell? Where had that thought come from? Stephen wondered as he realized he needed to be thinking about something other than how her gorgeous gown fit her perfect body, of how the snug bodice set off her rising moons and clung to her long legs when she walked. Of how the fabric draped over her bottom and swayed as she walked.
Christ! She wasn’t even walking! How could he even know what she looked like when she swayed?
Walked, rather.
Stephen shook his head in an attempt to clear it.
Victoria was glancing about as if she was looking for someone, her nervousness apparent when she crossed her arms over her chest, a small reticule dangling from her wrist. Unfortunately, the move only enhanced her already delectable cleavage and Stephen was quite sure he gulped.
He hoped his father hadn’t heard him.
A chime sounded from somewhere down below.
“We need to take our seats,” William said sotto voce, his gaze following Stephen’s until he spotted the young woman. She was now the only person left standing in the hallway as the others who had been mingling outside of their box had moved into them to take their seats.
“Miss Comber. I danced with her at Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” Stephen whispered.
William regarded the woman for only a moment before turning his attention back to Stephen, a knowing look crossing his face.
He had been young once—twice, actually—his head easily turned by beautiful chits with pale blonde hair and dressed in watered silk and velvets that enhanced their slim bodies to best effect. They had even been more impressive without their gowns on, he remembered, their delectable kisses and supple bodies welcoming his for nights of passion so intense, he had been left breathless and replete, happy and content. Hell, he had married one and bedded the other for several years and rather wished it were possible to have two wives, especially when they both gave him a son.
William almost felt sorry for his bastard son, except he couldn’t quite bring himself to it. Stephen would have to learn first-hand what it was like to be overcome by a woman. To be forced to think of her day and night until he either found another or decided she was the one.
“Well, it appears she’s been separated from her party,” the marquess said, giving his son an arched eyebrow. When Stephen gave him a blank look, William leaned in and whispered, “Well, don’t just leave her standing in the hall, son. Invite her to join us. She can look for her friends or family during the intermission.”
His eyes widening in surprise, Stephen gave his father a nod and hurried down the hall. Giving the chit a quick bow to her rather solemn curtsy, he moved to take her gloved hand. “Are you lost?” he asked in a whisper, kissing the back of the white fabric. He couldn’t help but notice it wasn’t the same satin glove he had kissed the night before.
“No more so than you,” Victoria said with a hint of mischief as she placed her arm on his.
“There’s no need to be cheeky,” he countered, thinking he might be making a big mistake in inviting her to join them in his father’s box. He was being considered for a position as a clerk at the Foreign Office, after all. “You’re welcome to join me in my father’s box.”
At first thinking he was going to have her removed from this level of the theatre, Victoria gave him a look of surprise. “Truly?” she whispered. “You would save me from certain societal suicide?”
Stephen blinked before giving her a quelling glance. He nearly blinked again when he again noticed the color of her eyes, a sort of silver-gray he had seen nearly every day of his life before he left England on a naval vessel. They were the same color as his mother’s. And he would have continued to stare into them except he noticed her expression. He angled his head. “Having to wait in the lobby for the intermission isn’t necessarily societal suicide,” he replied, knowing she would have to wait before being allowed to take any of the seats on the main floor. “You would no doubt have a number of fellow stragglers and latecomers with whom to wait for the intermission.”
“I wouldn’t though,” she whispered with a shake of her head. “I would simply take my leave altogether. I wish to see the entire play, after all.”
Stephen led them back to his father’s box. “How should I introduce you?”
Victoria nearly stopped in her tracks, not having thought that far ahead when she decided to see if she could gain entrance to someone’s box instead of having to sit in the cheap seats down below. “Miss Comber, of course,” she replied, her grin as teasing as her earlier manner. “Or had you forgotten?”
As if I could forget, he nearly replied, remembering all too well what her kiss had done to him. And how he would now be forced to sit with her for hours!
Quirking his lip, Stephen waved her through the door to the box, ducking in behind her just as the curtain lifted to reveal the stage. In the dim light, Stephen had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust before seeing her to a seat behind Lady Chamberlain. He took the chair next to hers, settling into it as he noticed the viscount giving him a glance. He nodded to the man, realizing with a bit of disappointment that they would have to wait until the intermission before discussing the position at the Foreign Office.
Unfamiliar with the story of The Merchant of Venice, Stephen was soon caught up in the tale of an aristocrat in need of a loan so that he might court a woman named Portia. Since he certainly had no intention of borrowing a large sum of money when it came time to pursue a wife, Stephen couldn’t understand why a man like Bassanio would expect his best friend, Antonio, to loan him the money, especially since Antonio had apparently had to bail out the nobleman many times before. Either Antonio was a very good friend or he was entirely too trusting, S
tephen decided. The shipping magnate didn’t even have the money to give to his friend, and so had to borrow it from Shylock, a Jewish moneylender, with a promise to pay it back by a certain time.
Given how poorly Antonio had treated Shylock in the past, Stephen could certainly understand why, if the loan couldn’t be repaid on time, Shylock demanded a pound of flesh from the merchant. When it was time for the intermission, Stephen was almost hoping Shylock would be able to take his pound of flesh.
When it came to the test to gain Portia’s hand—her father had devised a plan to have her suitors choose between three caskets—Stephen found himself imagining Victoria’s father doing something similar. As for which casket he would choose in pursuit of Portia, Stephen could certainly understand why the other suitors would choose the one of gold or the one of silver instead of the one filled with lead—although he rather doubted he would choose any of them. They would all weigh far too much to transport! Besides, he rather doubted Victoria would simply accept whatever man chose some random casket, no matter what was inside. He thought her far too independent.
She would probably be offended by the whole ordeal! Yes, better he not choose any of the caskets.
When the curtain lowered for the intermission, the general noise level in the theatre suddenly increased as people stood up from their seats and began conversing. Stephen was aware of people in the hall behind their box and was reminded that Victoria probably wished to look for whoever she had come with to the theatre.
“Oh, Stephen, do introduce us,” Cherice said when she turned around from her front-row seat and pretended to discover Victoria sitting next to him for the first time. Stephen was quite sure she was aware of the young lady’s arrival just as the play started.
Victoria was quick to get to her feet and perform a perfect curtsy. Stephen gave Cherice a nod. “Lady Devonville, Lady Chamberlain, may I present Miss Victoria Comber? I hope it was acceptable that I asked her to join us. She was separated from the rest of her party when the chime sounded.”
The Caress of a Commander Page 17