She rolled her eyes. “Only because my brother would box your ears if anything happened to me. And my parents would still give you a dressing down, too, viscount or not.”
He chuckled. “True. Not one member of your family has ever demonstrated the proper respect for my title.”
“An elevated rank does not necessarily equate to elevated intelligence,” Lucy countered pertly. “True nobility is proved by someone’s actions, not by some dusty old piece of parchment.”
Arden clutched his chest and staggered backward in feigned horror. “Dear God! That sounds dangerously like something a Bonapartist would say. Don’t tell me you’ve returned to London to start a revolution. I’ve spent enough of my life fighting, thank you very much. I plan to live a life of peaceful indolence from now on.”
Lucy laughed. “Fair enough. I promise not to incite any revolutions. Not even the smallest riot, I swear.”
He looked doubtful. “Hmmm. You Montgomerys have a penchant for trouble, but we’ve had plenty of riots here without your interference. The Prince Regent's coach was attacked on the way back from the state opening of Parliament in January, and just this March, in Manchester, a bunch of weavers gathered to protest against their working conditions. You need to be careful. There’s a great deal more unrest than there was when you left.”
“Duly noted. Although I hardly think it’s more dangerous here than being on a ship in a storm in the middle of the ocean. Or traipsing through the jungles of Brazil. Now tell me, which is the Phantom’s box?”
Arden pointed to the left of the stage. “There, the highest of the private boxes. He sent a note addressed to the directors requesting that it be kept empty for his exclusive use, and asking that the candles in that particular chandelier remain unlit.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two, maybe three months ago.”
“Did he say what would happen if his demands weren’t met?”
“No. He just said he was a theater lover who valued his privacy. And since his note was accompanied by five hundred pounds,in cash, the directors unanimously agreed to humor him.”
“Well, now I feel indignant of the Phantom’s behalf,” Lucy said. “The poor soul clearly just wants to enjoy his evenings in peace, but now Kit Hollingsworth has gone and put a price on his head. I bet scores of people are lurking about, trying to win that hundred pounds.”
Arden shrugged. “People have been interested ever since he made his first appearance. You know how London is for gossip. Once an article about the ‘mysterious masked stranger in box number four’ appeared in the newspapers, rumors spread like wildfire.” He tilted his head. “But if you ask me, I think the Phantom secretlylikesthe attention.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, he could simply stay at home, couldn’t he? If he didn’t want to engage. Then, he wouldn’t run the risk of being unmasked. But since hechoosesto keep appearing, it makes me think he likes the thrill of the chase.”
“Hmmm, it’s an interesting theory,” Lucy mused. “And you might be right. Perhaps, if he’s as scarred as everyone says, and doesn’t go out much in society, then playing a game of cat and mouse here at the theater could be a form of entertainment in itself.” She squinted up at the darkened box. “Can we go up there and take a look?”
“Of course, this way.”
A side door led into a corridor, which in turn led to a set of stairs. Arden set off up them with athletic enthusiasm, while Lucy picked up her skirts and mentally cursed the Phantom, whoever he might be.
Of course he’d choose to haunt the highest box in the entire theater.Hedidn’t have to contend with yards of petticoats and a stupid corset, did he?
She hadn’t worn a corset for months while she was abroad. It chafed to wear the restriction now, purely for propriety’s sake. Still, there was no denying it did wonderful things for her bosom.
Her thighs were burning by the time she reached the final flight of stairs, and she tried to distract herself from the pain by noting how delightful Arden’s posterior looked as he climbed ahead of her. His buckskin breeches molded faithfully to his muscled flanks and she sent up a silent toast to the tailors of London who could produce such a form-fitting miracle.
Perhaps being back in England wasn’tso bad, after all.
Arden was waiting for her in the shadowy hallway when she reached the top, looking irritatingly normal, while she tried to slow her panting breaths. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, and for once it had nothing to do with his proximity.
The last time she’d been this out of breath was when she’d raced down the beach toward the Royal Navy warship,HMS Carron, on the way to being rescued after a shipwreck near Madagascar.
She pressed her palm to her chest, and Arden’s gaze dropped to the square-cut neckline of her pelisse, where her breasts rose and fell in time to her erratic breathing.
A muscle twitched in his jaw and he turned away abruptly.
“In here.” His voice was gruff, as if he had to clear his throat.
Just as the staircases had grown narrower with each successive flight, so the corridor that let into the private box had become smaller. Arden pushed open the slim door, ignoring the sign that read ‘PRIVATE BOX, RESERVED,’ and Lucy followed him into the Phantom’s lair.
It was not large, perhaps only ten feet wide, with a waist-high curved balcony overlooking the stage. The floor was split level, with two red velvet upholstered chairs on the upper level, and a two-person red velvet seat on the lower tier. The walls were upholstered in a patterned red silk damask, and despite being unlit, the facets of the crystal chandelier that hung overhead still glimmered faintly in the light from the stage below.
