But just who could Robert cajole to accompany him tonight?
An idea struck Rob, which he initially pushed away, but as he clambered the stairs to his rooms, it took flight.
Why play the peacock for Lady Julia, when he could play the benevolent, generous hero of the poor?
"Balthazar?" he called, as he pushed open the door to his dressing rooms.
The valet looked up from the cravat he was pressing with a flat iron.
"I need you to transcribe a missive," Rob said, "And then have a footman bring it to St Giles."
"Might I ask why we are sending missives to The Rookery?" the valet queried, wearing a look of pain upon his lined face.
"Because we are bringing The Rookery to the theatre," Rob replied, his grin so enthusiastic that it did not falter, even when faced with Balthazar's horrified expression
Chapter Seven
The Theatre Royal in Covent Garden was filled with the great and good of London Town. As Julia took her seat in the box, she cast a glance around her and spotted no less than three viscounts, two earls, and a marquess in attendance.
"It is quite the coup, to have a box for tonight's performance," Lord Pariseau whispered in Julia's ear, for the third time.
"Did you rent it especially?" Julia queried innocently, and Pariseau flushed.
"Well," he blustered, "Not specifically for tonight, but rather for all of the season."
So hardly a coup, Julia thought, though she remained silent for there was no need to quibble over semantics.
"It is kind of you to have invited us," she offered instead, unable to use the singular "me", for it felt too intimate. And, indeed, it was not only Julia who was in attendance; Lady Cavendish, Lady Pariseau—the earl's widowed mama—and Maria were also in attendance.
"I could not imagine watching such a romantic play, with anyone bar you, my lady," Pariseau gallantly replied.
Oh dear, Julia frowned, she hoped the earl would not go mushy on her. She could tolerate many things, but flowery prose was not one of them.
"I have always wondered why people love this story so," Julia replied, as she settled herself into her seat, "When it ends in the death of two young lovers."
"That is a very prosaic summary," Pariseau offered her a grin, "It is not about the end, but the journey to it. I think the audience delights in the hope of it all—the hope that these two star-crossed lovers might make it to their happily ever after."
"But they don't; they die," Julia was dry.
"Yes," the earl gave a chuckle, "But that is Shakespeare's genius; to offer hope and then snatch it away in the final act. I agree, it is not very romantic, but it makes for good theatre."
"Indeed," Julia nodded, unable to add any more to their chatter.
She did not like all this talk of hoping and wishing for the success of two star-crossed lovers, for her own heart had been filled with hope since Aunt Phoebe had mentioned the flying blunderbuss.
Hope is nought but a waking dream, Julia told herself firmly, as she concentrated on making small-talk with Lord Pariseau. It was foolish to wish for Lord Montague, when they were as star-crossed as the characters upon the stage. It was foolish to hope that, despite her cross words, he was out there, plotting something foolish and daring that might take her breath away.
Lord Montague was not her future, Pariseau was, and she would do well to remember it.
"Lud," Pariseau said, drawing Julia's attention away from her inner plight, "Is that Montague?"
"I beg your pardon?" Julia stammered, wondering for a moment if Pariseau was able to read her mind, but then she turned to the direction in which he was pointing, and saw just why the earl had blurted out Montague's name.
Across the way, in the best box in the house, sat Lord Montague alongside six or seven...children.
Not just any children, but street -Arabs, if their dress was anything to go by.
Montague was attempting to control the rag-tag group alongside another bespectacled gentleman, but their efforts did not appear to be enough to tame their motley crew.
The young boys hung over the sides of the box, alternating between dropping fruit down onto the audience in the stalls below, or throwing it at each other. It would have been a disaster, had the stalls not been filled with drunken revellers, equally as misbehaved as the boys.
"What in heavens is he doing?" Pariseau spluttered, "It looks as though he has packed half The Rookery into his box."
Julia's lips twitched, as she valiantly fought to suppress a smile.
"A charitable act, perhaps?" she suggested, as she felt a surge of affection toward Montague, "You are always saying that the poor should be cared for."
"Yes, but not brought to the theatre," Pariseau shuddered, as he peered down his nose and across at Montague, "How vile—I am almost certain I can smell them from here."
"I can't smell anything, except for your pomade," Julia replied sweetly, and Pariseau's chest puffed out proudly.
"Rather nice, is it not?" he asked, entirely missing Julia's subtle barb, "Penhaligon's finest. I am assured that His Royal Highness wears the exact same scent."
"And who would not wish to smell like Prinny?" Julia mused, though again, her sarcasm seemed to go over Pariseau's head.
The lights flickered, indicating that the performance was about to begin, though it did little to quell the noise of the crowd. For some, a trip to the theatre had little to do with watching a play, and everything to do with putting on a performance of one's own. Given the prestige of tonight's event—Montague's guests not withstanding—was it any wonder that as soon as the actors took their places that the audience rose from their seats and began to mingle.
In the stalls below, young-bloods brayed and cat-called to ladies, while fruit-sellers wove their way through the crowds. The boxes were no better, as ladies flittered to and fro, popping into each other for a gossip, as though making morning calls.
Lord Pariseau too appeared to have little interest in the scenes unfolding on the stage below, and he kept up a steady stream of chatter as Act One ceded to Act Two.
Julia "mmhed" and "ahhed" in all the right places, though her attention was not focused on the earl. No, it was attuned to the story taking place below, and when it was not paying mind to that, it was slipping two boxes over to Lord Montague.
Despite Pariseau's disgust at Montague's choice of guest s, the young boys in his care were the best behaved persons in the whole theatre. Julia could not help but smile as she caught sight of them, hanging over the balcony in rapt attention at the play. She doubted that anyone in the history of The Theatre Royal had ever been as attentive as Montague's bunch of ruffians.
Her eyes slid from the boys, searching for the marquess, and when she found them, she gave a slight start. For as raptly as the boys were watching the actors, so Montague was watching her.
Brazenly.
Openly.
Unmistakably.
"I say," Pariseau said, as he too caught sight of Montague, "What on earth is Lord Montague about, staring at you like that? I know your families do not get on, but there is no call for him to scowl across at you so."
Julia rather thought that it was Pariseau whom Montague was now glaring at, but she held her tongue.
"Pay no heed," she instructed the earl, while hoping that she too might take her own advice.
For the remainder of the second act, Julia managed to keep her head turned away from Lord Montague, though her neck ached from the effort of it. As the curtains fell for the intermission, she let out a sigh of relief that her ordeal was partly at an end.
"If you will excuse me, ladies," Pariseau said, as he rose to a stand, "I shall go fetch us some libations."
"How kind," Lady Cavendish smiled, though the dowager countess remained resolutely asleep in her chair.
"I shall just go and say hello to Lady Jersey," Julia's mama said, once Pariseau had gone, "You wait here."
It was evident that the marchioness wished to give Julia a l
ittle time alone with the earl. With Lady Pariseau present—though, unconscious—no one might comment that anything was amiss.
Despite Julia's whispered protests, Lady Cavendish rose from her seat, to go and search for her friend.
"You wait here," she instructed, "For Lord Pariseau."
Julia gave a shiver; she had no desire to wait to be alone with the earl, who might use the chance to whisper sweet nothings in her ear and, perhaps, try steal a kiss.
"Maria, I wish to freshen up," Julia whispered to the maid, who was working on a piece of cross stitch in the corner.
"Right you are," Maria said, offering her a wink as she made to pick up her basket, in which—no doubt—she held a porcelain bourdaloue.
"No, no need for that," Julia whispered, "I just need to stretch my legs."
"I thought you needed to freshen up?"
"Are they not the same thing?" Julia whispered, irritably.
"No, my lady," Maria whispered back, equally as vexed, "If you say you wish to stretch your legs, I know that you need a walk. If you say you need to freshen up, then I know you need a—"
"Fine," Julia interrupted her, before she said anything uncouth, "I beg your forgiveness; I was mistaken."
"So, you do need the bourdaloue?" Maria queried, confused.
"No, for heaven's sake, no," Julia wailed, "I just need to stretch my legs."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" Maria asked, and with the air of one most aggrieved, she rose to a stand to escort Julia on her jaunt.
Julia told herself that she was simply taking an aimless jaunt, but her slippered feet turned left, in the direction of Lord Montague's box. She smiled blandly at those who passed her, glad that Maria was trailing her, so that it did indeed look like she was off to some feminine recess to attend to her toilette.
One, two, three, Julia counted, as she passed the curtains which shielded the boxes occupants from view.
Four.
"My lady."
Lord Montague appeared, followed by a rowdy bunch of young boys, who stared at Julia with awe.
"She's not a lady, she's an angel," one lad whispered, as he stared up at Julia transfixed.
"Heaven sent," Montague agreed, as he none-too-subtly tried to push the lad and his companions back through the curtain and into the box.
"My lady," Maria, beside Julia, gave a stage-whisper, "That's Lord Montague."
"I know."
Julia felt dazed, as Montague held her gaze, his eyes searching hers for a sign.
"The son of your family's greatest enemy," Maria reminded her, as she glanced between the two in confusion.
"I know."
Montague gave a grin, and Julia gave a rather foolish one back.
"A man you shouldn't be talking to," Maria continued, as she cast both Julia and Montague aggrieved glances.
"I know."
"I think you have lost your senses, my lady," Maria wailed, as she realised that there was no talking her mistress away from Lord Montague.
"I know," Julia replied, though she spoke more to Montague than Maria.
"I need but a second of your lady's time," Montague pleaded, tearing his eyes away from Julia to focus on Maria, "As your humble servant, I beg you, just a moment."
Maria was many things, but she was immune to neither flattery, nor a handsome face. She preened with pleasure at the marquess' gallant request, before giving a nod of acquiescence.
"Just a minute," she said, her cheeks blushing rosy red, "I'll be timing you."
She sauntered off a step or two, leaving Julia and Montague alone, or as alone as was possible, with six young boys watching them from behind a twitching curtain.
"Lady Havisham called you a flying blunderbuss," Julia blurted, accidentally insulting Montague in her rush to form an apology.
"I have been called much worse."
"No—I mean, yes—I mean..." Julia never stammered, but her need to explain herself to Montague seemed to have addled her brain, "I mean, yes ,I am sure you have been called worse, but no, Lady Havisham was not insulting you. Well, not really. But she did say that you were jumping out of trees in Green Park with a Frenchman, which means that you were not lying, and that it is I who insulted you, by calling you a liar."
There, she thought breathlessly, she had apologised, which had surely been her motivation for seeking Montague out.
Surely.
"No apology is needed," Montague gave a bow, "I did promise you the world and disappear, as you so succinctly put it. It is I who should be begging your forgiveness."
"Oh, no," Julia protested, "I should be begging you."
"I insist," Montague interrupted, "It is I."
"Lud," a voice called from behind the curtains, "You're both as rich as Croesus; neither one of you needs to beg."
Julia flushed, unused to being heckled, while Montague gave an amused grin.
"I should flog him blue for his impertinence," he whispered, conspiratorially, "But one has to commend the lad for paying attention to his Greek mythology."
"Er, yes," Julia answered, casting the eavesdropping curtain a confused glance, "Where on earth is he learning mythology? If I am not mistaken, he is a child of St Giles, is he not?"
"He is," Montague nodded, "He is being taught by the good Reverend Laurence, whose charitable works have inspired me to become involved with the education of London's poor orphaned children."
"How kind you are."
"It is the least I could do, seeing how overburdened I am by wealth," Montague answered, casting her a mischievous grin, "Had I mentioned that before?"
"Briefly," Julia was dry, though she could not help but smile at his theatrics.
"I am besieged by charitable notions," Montague continued, warming to his theme, "Perhaps even more so than that chap you are sharing a box with. What is his name? Lord Pompous? Lord Painful ? Lord—?"
"Pariseau," Julia scolded, though her mouth was determined to smile, "And you should not seek to insult him. He does good work for London's poor."
"Ah yes, he is forever donating to charitable causes," Montague said agreeably, his words contradicted by a roll of his eyes, "Though I must point out that your Pariseau merely throws money at a problem, whereas I...I—"
"Invite the problem to the theatre?" Julia queried, with a quirk of her brow.
Montague was peacocking! There was no other explanation for his sudden interest in London's poor. It was rather endearing that he had sought to impress her with a gang of rabid children; most other men would have bought flowers, Julia thought, with an amused grin.
"They are children, not a problem," Montague bristled, before he let out a yelp as one of his "children", who had escaped from behind the curtain, began to rifle through Julia's reticule.
"No, Tim," Montague chastised, "We do not steal from Lady Julia; she is a friend."
"Then who do we steal from?" Tim grumbled
"There's a man sitting four boxes down," Montague replied, "You can't miss him; he's got the most enormous head you have ever seen. Why don't you go raid his pockets?"
"You are incorrigible," Julia said, unsure if she wished to laugh or cry at his play acting.
"It's one of my many attributes," Montague was quick, "Have I mentioned them to you before? Young, handsome, heir to a ducal seat ."
"A healthy ego ."
"The healthiest," the marquess agreed with a grin.
The gas-lights of the theatre began to flicker, indicating that the intermission had come to an end, and Julia started. She had not realised that she had been away from her seat for so long. Maria began to cluck and waved an impatient hand for Julia to finish.
"I had best return," Julia stuttered, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder.
Montague nodded in agreement, though he reached out to take her hand, preventing her from leaving.
"Adieu!" he said, as he raised her gloved hand to his lips, "I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave."
"It is I who is leaving," Jul
ia pointed out with a smile.
"Then it is up to you not to take a tedious leave," Montague answered, as he dropped her hand.
Julia nodded, and turned her back on the marquess, though she did long to linger.
Thankfully, Maria was there to banish any thoughts of dallying, and the lady's maid hurried her back to her seat.
"I would consider myself a romantic, my lady," Maria whispered, as she pushed Julia through the curtain, "But I am not so committed to the cause that I would cast myself into a life of poverty. Now sit down and feign innocence."
Which is just what Julia did. She smiled as Lord Pariseau returned with two glasses of lemonade. Grinned conspiratorially at her mama, who thought she had set up the perfect tête-à-tête between Julia and the earl.
And as Act Three began, Julia remained the picture of obedient innocence, as she ignored Lord Montague's intent gaze...as well as the fruit, which flew periodically at Lord Pariseau's head for the duration of the play.
"He is so handsome," Maria said the next day, as she tightened Julia's stays.
"And so tall," she added, as Julia obediently held her arms up, so that Maria might slip her dress over her head.
"And ever so wealthy," the lady's maid continued, as she bustled about to tie ribbons and button buttons, "It's said he owns half of Kent."
"Maria, I believe you are directing the same platitudes at Lord Montague as you did at Pariseau," Julia said, with a light laugh, "I did not think you so fickle."
"Well, where you go, I go," Maria replied with a wink, "And I'm rather partial to Kent. Did you know that's where my grandmother hails from? Horrible woman, but lovely cliffs. You can see all the way to France on a clear day, not that it's worth the glance."
"Views of France aside," Julia whispered, turning to face her maid, "What do you think of Lord Montague?"
The maid paused, and Julia waited with baited breath for her answer. Maria had been with Julia practically since birth and knew her as well as Lady Cavendish—if not better.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 9