“Let’s write her now and solicit her opinion.” Annabelle crossed to Peter’s desk to find a fountain pen and a sheet of paper. “I hardly know what to say.”
Her long face always looked more serious than her actual mood, but this time the two seemed to match. After a minute spent staring at the page, she scratched a few short lines:
Would you accept my brother? Forgive me, but there aren’t many options. He is harmless and you should be able to manage him easily.
“You do realize that I can read, don’t you?” Peter asked. “I should take back my agreement, for that.”
“Oh hush,” chided Annabelle gently. “Enjoy your beautiful bride and your six thousand pounds. You’re getting the best end of this deal.”
Thirteen
The next week seemed to drag on so slowly it became a torture. Lyman awoke each morning conscious that he had one day less before Ellen’s suit reached Consistory Court. He informed Mr. Hirsch of his troubles (though he could ill afford to spend money on a solicitor these days, his landlord was good enough to offer occasional, friendly advice to the man paying him rent), and was advised that if he wanted the divorce to go through swiftly, the best thing he could do was to stay away from the hearing. The courts were suspicious of collusion, and he would only muddy the waters if he admitted any of the allegations against him. He needed to appear indifferent.
It would give credence to the claim that he’d abandoned his wife.
Lyman was on watch for any further news from Michael, but he, too, seemed to have decided that silence was best. When some mail finally did arrive over breakfast on Monday morning, it was nothing more foreboding than an invitation to the theater.
I was planning to attend Martin Chuzzlewit tonight at the Lyceum with some friends. My parents weresupposed to join us, but they’ve just remembered another engagement. Would you like their tickets? You may safely consider this invitation to fall within the terms of your request that our meetings be strictly a business arrangement. I hear the theater is under new management, so this is essential research for my book!
—D.
P.S. We have more women than men in our number, so you may bring another gentleman along if he is not too dull.
Lyman smiled to himself. The tone was so much like Della that it was hard not to imagine her voice speaking the words as he read.
I should probably decline.Nothing had changed since they’d last spoken—his days of social acceptability were numbered. But wasn’t that all the more reason to seize the occasion while he still could? And she’d been considerate enough to spell out plainly that she expected nothing more from him than the pleasure of his company (and possibly that of a not-too-dull friend). It seemed churlish to refuse.
He lowered the note and spoke to Clarkson, who was eating his eggs across the breakfast table. “How would you like to come and see a play tonight? It’s a Dickens adaptation.Martin Chuzzlewit. There’s a group going and they have extra tickets.”
Clarkson took a moment to swallow his food before he replied. “I could probably ask Mr. Hirsch for the evening off. They won’t mind the intrusion?”
Clarkson watched him with a cautious eye. Certainly there were some members of the ton too snobbish to mingle with anyone a touchlower down the social ladder, but Lyman didn’t think Della fit that category.
“Not at all. They asked me to bring another gentleman to balance their numbers.”
Clarkson inclined his head in agreement, and Lyman began penning an inquiry for the errand boy to send back in reply. As he wrote, Mr. Wood asked archly, “Who’s the invitation from?”
“Just a friend,” Lyman replied absently. A moment later, he thought to add, “A gentleman who enjoyed my books and wanted to introduce me to his set.”
“Is he anyone I might have heard of?” Wood was trying very hard not to crane his neck, but his eyes kept darting down to the letter, no doubt wondering whether Lyman’s friend was important enough to warrant his interest. He was a hopeless social climber. At least there was no risk that he might identify Della from a simple “D.”
“I’d be happy to attend if there’s an extra ticket,” Wood continued hopefully, evidently having judged it likely that Lyman’s friends would be worthy of his acquaintance. “I do love the theater.”
Lyman raised his eyes to Wood while the ink on his message dried. “I’m terribly sorry, but there’s only the pair. Perhaps another time.”
Wood ground his teeth, but he and Clarkson left to attend their work shortly after, while Lyman dispatched his reply with an errand boy.
Later that evening, he and Clarkson found Della and her party waiting for them outside the theater. She introduced them to Mr. and Mrs. Williams, a dark-haired couple who seemed quite attentive to each other, and Miss Williams, who bore a strong resemblance to her older brother and said very little to Lyman beyond her initial “How do you do?” Once everyone had exchanged a few pleasantries, they went upstairs to find their box.
So this was the other co-owner of Bishop’s that Della had mentioned. Lyman had been expecting someone older. None of them could be beyond their mid-twenties. It seemed their club had been founded by people without much experience in life. Perhaps this explained why they weren’t yet doing well enough to hire more staff to lighten the burden on Della.
Mrs. Williams seemed to share his curiosity, for she fixed her attention on him immediately.
“Couldn’t your wife join you this evening, Lord Ashton?” she asked him as they moved to take their seats.
Lyman struggled not to flinch. He hadn’t been expecting that. “No,” he replied carefully. “She’s not in town at the moment. She prefers the country.”
Once the words had left his mouth, he realized they were probably false. Ellen would need to come to London once the court proceedings began, if she hadn’t already relocated before filing her suit. Was that why Mrs. Williams asked about her? Had they met somewhere?
