Oh, just Romeo and Juliet, Othello, MacBeth, Lydia thought rebelliously, but before she could word her scathing reply, the lights dimmed completely and the curtain rose on the first act.
As the play unfolded on the stage, Lydia became very aware of the Count’s hand, which was sliding closer and closer toward her own, which rested on the arm rest. It appeared the Count was trying to engineer a seduction of sorts. Before he could trap her, Lydia snatched her hand away and primly rested it in her lap, which caused Zitelli to give a sigh of frustration that was so loud people turned to look up at them.
“This is one of the best parts,” Lydia hissed, trying to get the Count to look at the scene unfolding beneath them on the stage, and not at her. His brown eyes had born into her from Act One and had he had remained staring at her well into the second act, in what Lydia assumed he thought was an alluring manner.
Alors you are not alluring, sir, she thought grimly, avoiding his puppy dog gaze.
On stage Iachimo had just snuck into Imogen’s bedchamber, to steal her ever present bracelet. A shiver went down Lydia’s spine as she watched, and she thought of the miniature which was still lost. Like Imogen and her bracelet, Lydia’s silver-cased portrait, which she kept in her reticule, went everywhere with her, and if someone had it in their possession it was almost as though they held a piece of Lydia herself. This thought stayed with her until the intermission, and by the time the curtains rose and the lights went up, she had made herself sick with worry.
“A glass of lemonade,” Zitelli said, standing, and stretching, evidently bored despite his professed love of the written word. Quizzing glasses flashed in the direction of the box, the crowd was hungry to see who was accompanying the exotic Italian.
“Aren’t you coming Aunt?” Lydia asked, for Tabitha had remained seated.
“No dear,” her Aunt smiled with delight at her devious match-making plan, “You two run along without me.”
Lydia exhaled so forcefully that the feathers in her turban fluttered, and reluctantly she followed the Count from the box, taking care to stand as close as possible to the Mancinis, lest anyone actually thought she was there alone with Zitelli.
“Are you enjoying the play?” she asked Rosa, the beautiful young woman who appeared to have no interest in her older husband, who walked beside her.
Rosa’s attention never left the crowds, it was as though Lydia had not spoken and the young woman continued to watch every young buck with hungry eyes as they passed by.
“She has very little English,” Zitelli had paused, so that he could fall into step with Lydia as they entered the foyer and he did not bother to keep his voice down as he discussed his guests.
“Evidently,” Lydia murmured, for neither of the Mancinis had blinked as the Count denigrated their language skills in front of them, apparently “hello” was the only word they knew.
The Count excused himself to fetch libations for his three guests, and Lydia and the Mancinis huddled together in the vast, rippling crowd. Space was so confined in the small foyer, that the members of the crowd were constantly bumping into Lydia as they pushed their way to the refreshments.
“Beautiful night,” Lydia ventured, feeling terribly awkward after nearly five minutes of pure silence. Neither of the Mancinis responded, and rather than face watching Signora Mancini smoulder at some young buck, while her husband pretended not to notice, Lydia’s eyes began to rove the crowd.
Perhaps Isabella is here, she thought idly as her eyes raked the well-dressed assembly. Intellectuals and artisans mixed with aristocrats and noble men, in a glittering kaleidoscope of colour. Lydia was busily admiring the emerald green dress, of a beautiful woman who looked most familiar, when the woman’s companion caught her eye.
Lord Sutherland, decked out in his finest, looking cheerful and relaxed as he stood beside the beautiful emerald-clad creature. Lydia felt as though she had received a swift kick to the gullet. She watched surreptitiously as the auburn-haired beauty - who she recognized as being an actress - laid a possessive hand on Sutherland’s arm while she laughed gaily at something funny that Gabriel had said.
“Signorina, you look ill.”
Lydia whipped around to faced Signor Mancini, who had at last found his voice. The older gentleman was watching her with concern, his white eyebrows knitted together in a slight frown. Lydia was sure that her face must be drained of colour, and for the first time in her life she felt as though she was going to suffer a fit of the vapours - or worse, faint.
Only milksops and old maids faint, she reminded herself fiercely.
Zitelli arrived back, holding four half empty glasses of lemonade, cursing the crowds that had pushed him and caused him to spill half their contents.
“I am sorry,” he said, proffering the glasses to the ladies first, then Signor Mancini, who took his before speaking in rapid fire Italian to the Count.
“You are ill?” Zitelli gasped, sloshing the rest of his lemonade onto the floor as he turned to Lydia.
“Just a tad,” Lydia whispered; people had turned to stare after the Count’s loud outburst, and the last thing she wanted to do was attract the attention of the Marquess.
“I will bring you home,” Zitelli said firmly.
“No.” Lydia was firmer, and she held a hand up to silence the Count. “Please fetch my Aunt, she will take me home, then you and the Mancinis can enjoy the rest of the play.”
Startled by the ferocity of her tone, Zitelli left and returned after a few torturous minutes, with a rather worried Tabitha. The Dowager Duchess looked suitably concerned; Lydia was never unwell, she never suffered migraines, or came down with colds, Tibby often said she had the constitution of a plough horse coupled with the temperament of an alley cat. Quite the menagerie all rolled into one petite package, she had declared with a smile.
“Oh dear,” Tabitha looked flustered as she took in her near transparent niece.
“I’ll be fine once I get home,” Lydia reassured her, for it was true. Once she had put a suitable amount of space between herself and the Marquess - and his mistress - she would be fine. She could not bear to turn her head, lest she caught sight of the two together, and for the first time in her four and twenty years she feared that she would publicly break down in tears.
“Alright my dear,” the Duchess responded, placing her arms bracingly around Lydia’s shoulders and shepherding her away from the trio of Italians. The crowd seemed to part for Tabitha, and together Aunt and niece made their way swiftly to the exit.
“I say, Lydia,” a voice called from behind. It was Sutherland, pushing his way through the masses, his blond head towering above the other men’s.
Tabitha paused. Lydia scowled.
“Was that Zitelli I saw you with?” Gabriel’s face wore a frown.
“And so, what if it was?” Lydia’s voice shook with anger. “At least I can say I was forced into his company. Nothing compelled you to come here with Miss Marnell did it Gabe? Nothing except your trousers.”
Lydia threw an icy glare at the Marquess, before turning and storming out the door, followed by a rather startled Tibby. Her heart seemed to freeze over with every step she took, and though she wanted to turn, to take one last look at Gabriel, she rather thought that the venom of her gaze might have reduced him to a pile of ash and that thought made her so satisfied, that if she turned and found him still standing, she would have been terribly disappointed.
The doorman called for their carriage, and Lydia and Tibby stood waiting on the steps of the theatre. She shivered, despite the warmness of the summer’s night. Catherine Street buzzed with the noise of the many revellers passing to and fro, as well as street vendors selling sugared almonds, beggars looking plaintive, and a few scandalously dressed tarts. The dark ebony carriage arrived, and Tibby hurried forward, though Lydia paused. She had sighted a familiar red scarf in the crowd.
Carmen.
The Gypsy, as though she could feel Lydia’s gaze upon her, turned and gave her a smile
, that seemed almost menacing. Her eyes followed Lydia as she hurried to the safety of the carriage, and as the driver took off, Lydia pulled back the tasselled curtains at the windows to check and see if she was still watching. She was. Standing stock still in the middle of a crush of people Carmen’s eyes met Lydia’s and she waved. A slow, mocking wave that sent shivers down Lydia’s spine.
“You’re really very pale Lydia,” Tibby commented with concern, watching her carefully.
“It’s nothing, really,” Lydia replied softly, closing the curtains on the streets of London. “I’m just ready to go home.”
To Ireland, she added silently to herself, for she was finished with England. And English men in particular.
Chapter Thirteen
The evening wasn’t going exactly to plan.
Gabriel had arrived at the Theatre Royal, expecting that his title might blag him a seat, but the lure of Mrs. Sarah Siddons had proved too great a pull, for half of London seemed to be clamouring around the foyer.
“I’m sorry my Lord,” the gentleman at the ticket office said, sounding not one-bit apologetic. “The show has been sold out for weeks, not even the Prince himself could get a ticket.”
“It’s ruddy Shakespeare,” Gabe responded sourly, “What the blooming hell is wrong with people, does no one realise how dull he was?”
“It’s not Shakespeare they’re here to see, my Lord. Though you might try to lower your voice - the acting folk won’t take too kindly to you slandering their bread and butter. Shakespeare often pays the rent and feeds the children.”
The voice that spoke was assured, and carried perfectly over the din of the crowd. Gabriel turned to find Kitty Marnell, the famous actress and Sebastian’s childhood friend, standing behind him.
The statuesque, flame haired beauty, wore a look of amusement as she took in Gabriel’s dilemma. Like Sebastian Black, Kitty was raised in the slums of St. Giles’, so to see a member of the ton reduced to begging - albeit for a theatre ticket - amused her no end. Her plump lips were curled into a gleeful smile, and she did not try to hide her enjoyment.
“Well if any of the acting folk feel like calling me out over my slur, they’re more than welcome too,” Gabriel responded dourly. He was desperate to see who it was that Zitelli was fraternizing with, so that he could expose him for the dangerous fraud he was.
“Luckily for you, m’lord,” Kitty replied brightly, “T’was only I that heard it, and I’ve no intention of calling you out for I’ve the poorest shot in all of England.”
“Lucky me,” Gabe replied dryly.
The actresses’ eyebrows shot up to heaven.
“Lord,” she sighed dramatically, “It’s usually Sebastian that’s the crotchety one, what’s got your bloomers in a twist then?”
“I wanted to see Cymbeline, but there’s no tickets left,” Gabe said, trying not to look too pitiful.
“You that hates Shakespeare is desperate to see Cymbeline. Well I never…”
Gabriel had the definite feeling that he was being mocked.
“I have an ulterior motive for attending, I assure you,” he said blithely.
“Well lucky for you,” Kitty eyed him up and down, “So do I, and I’ve a spare ticket if you’ll help me with my task…”
“What is it?” Gabe asked, knowing he sounded less than chivalrous, but also knowing that Kitty was always up to something duplicitous.
“I’m trying to make someone jealous.”
“Ah.”
Gabe smiled, as long as he had known Kitty, she was always trying to make some poor sod jealous. Her beauty was legendary, and she played every man with a pulse like they were a piano and she was Mozart. There were bets numbering into the thousands in the betting book in White’s, as to who would be the man who finally plucked the untouchable Miss Kitty Marnell. For though she allowed men to wine, dine, and shower her with diamonds - she never took any to her bed; her virtue, it was said, was untouchable.
Though Gabe had often heard her laugh that her virtue was merely unaffordable to most men. It was quite a clever trick, men threw money at her to see if she would yield - they had almost made a sport of it - and the girl from St. Giles’ now lived in the lap of luxury in Kensington.
“Are you in?” Kitty raised an eyebrow in question and Gabriel quickly assented. He would do anything to get into the theatre, and when he considered the actual lengths he was willing to go to, accompanying Kitty Marnell didn’t seem all that bad.
The lights had dimmed by the time the pair arrived in the tiny box, to the left of the stage. Gabriel scanned the crowd for Zitelli, but caught no sight of the florid Italian.
“Who are you trying to make jealous?”
The question came in a knowing whisper, making Gabriel start.
“You have the look of a jealous lover,” Kitty said softly, a smile on her face, “And I should know, I’ve seen enough of them.”
“I’m not a jealous lover,” Gabriel muttered, as to the left the first act began to unfold on stage, “I’m here on very important business for the Crown.”
“Of course, you are,” Kitty replied pityingly.
The first two acts of the play dragged by, with Mrs Sarah Siddons drawing applause every time she opened her mouth, it was most grating and made the long play seem even longer. The only time that Gabe paid attention was when Iachimo, the villain, stole into Imogen’s bedchamber and stole her bracelet as she slept. A gnawing, uncomfortable feeling sat heavily in his chest, and it took him a moment to realise that this was guilt. He had had no right to steal Lydia’s miniature, and even though he had returned it, his conscience was still not clear.
A confession is in order, he thought grimly to himself. How could he start off his new life with Lydia, if he concealed the fact that he had once tried to hurt her?
The curtain dropped for the intermission, and the gas lamps went up, illuminating the packed theatre. Gabriel and Kitty left, each saying they wished to get refreshments, but both really on the hunt for their prey.
“Well, is he here?”
Gabriel watched Kitty with amusement. She was standing facing him, and to the outside world must have looked like she was deep in conversation with the Marquess, when really her eyes were focused on a point past his shoulder, not his face.
“Yes,” Kitty replied, smacking his arm, and laughing jovially, while still focusing on the man she wished to attract. “The blighter is here with another woman.”
Gabriel could not resist, he turned his head and followed Kitty’s gaze to where Lord Theodore Epsom stood by a gilded column, conversing with an elegant, elderly matron.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Gabe snorted, “I believe that is Lady Epsom, Lord Epsom’s grandmother.”
Kitty pouted; it seemed that you Lord Epsom had ignited the flames of jealous passion in the actress, and not the other way around. Gabe was curious, he had never known Kitty to pursue a man who was not interested in her, was it possible that she had finally fallen in love?
He never got to voice his question, for finally Zitelli came into sight. Dressed in an outrageous coat of lavender that was trimmed with gold piping, the Count was slowly making his way through the crowd, clutching four glasses of lemonade. Gabe followed his progress with his eyes, chuckling as the Count lost the battle to keep his drinks intact, and spilled half of them over a rather unimpressed Earl.
Zitelli joined a trio, two of whom were facing toward him, and another - dressed in a ridiculous turban - who had her back turned.
“Any idea who they are?” Gabe nodded subtly towards the group, “The couple, the foreigners standing with Count Zitelli?”
Kitty peered through the crowd at the group of Italians, her emerald eyes lighting with recognition.
“That’s Signor Mancini and his wife,” she whispered, “The Signor is a great patron of the arts - he has a yearly subscription for a box in every theatre, including this one. His wife is a great patron of the arts as well, though only if the artist is a young, str
apping male.”
Kitty’s lips quirked with amusement.
“Any chance the Signor could be involved in anything shady?” Gabriel asked in a whisper, his eye still on the group. Zitelli had disappeared, back up the sweeping staircase, but his co-conspirators were still present, sipping mildly on their lemon cordial.
Kitty gave a rather unladylike snort at the idea of Signor Mancini being involved in anything sinister.
“Hardly,” she laughed, “He’s as true as a die. Why apart from his wife the only other people he entertains in his box are politicians like your brother in law.”
“Bernard?” Gabe stroked his chin; perhaps this Mancini was a spy, sent to infiltrate Whitehall.
“Mmm,” Kitty replied, bored with their discussion, she had resumed watching Lord Epsom forlornly.
Gabe’s imagination, which was imagining a complex series of events in which Count Zitelli and Signor Mancini had managed to dupe the political set into believing they were harmless, when in fact they were villains, was cut short by the arrival of the Dowager Duchess of Blackmore. What on earth was she doing there, and accompanying a harassed looking Zitelli at that?
Gabe watched dumbfounded as the Count led the Duchess to his small group, and anger swelled as the mysterious woman in the turban finally turned and revealed herself to be Lydia. All kinds of emotions raged through him - the primary being jealousy - as Zitelli fussed over Lady Beaufort, pawing at her like the dog he was. Which was an insult to dogs, for Gabe had two wolfhounds and both were less slobbering than the cretinous Count.
“Excuse me Kitty,” he said abruptly, as Lydia and the Duchess began to make their way to the front door of the theatre. Cursing the crowds, Gabriel pushed his way through the milieu of people.
“I say, Lydia,” he called, fearing he would not reach her before she made her exit.
Lady Beaufort stopped and turned to look at him, her beautiful face blank of any expression.
“Was that Zitelli I saw you with?” Gabe asked, filled with righteous indignation. Had everything that had transpired between them at Lady Jersey’s ball been just a game to her? She knew how much he adored her, that her name was written on his very soul, and yet she had still seen fit to step out with Zitelli.
A Lady Like No Other Page 10