This business with the play troubled her. It hinted at an evil madness. While it was true that the real King Richard III had been partially vindicated by history of the crimes claimed by Sir Thomas More and through him, Mr. Shakespeare, the fact that the play was used to perpetuate—and perhaps rationalize—crime worried her. There was a sordidness to it. A joke gone awry, as Jessamine said Elsdon's production had gone.
Did Elsdon see himself as Richard? Did he possess that Machiavellian nature shown to such a successful advantage in the play? Or was he yet another pawn?
She withdrew a kid-gloved hand from her muff and rubbed her throbbing temples. She'd not been prevaricating when she told Branstoke that headaches plagued her. They were headaches of worry and uncertainty.
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply and letting her breath out slowly. She didn't open her eyes again until she felt the carriage stop and the footman jump down to open the door.
"Please, allow me." It was the measured deep tones of Lord Havelock. His tall frame stood at the door; a graceful white hand held out to her.
"Lord Havelock!"
"Mrs. Waddley," he returned with a bow.
"I mean, what a surprise meeting you here today! Such a coincidence and in my time of need."
He raised a dark eyebrow, his lips lifting slightly in unvoiced question. "Ah—then I take it you have not heard of the most recent scurrilous cartoons created at our dear regent's expense?"
"No, not at all."
"A sad business, but come and see," he said, leading her toward the press of people about the store window.
Skillfully he threaded her through the crowd until she was in front of the window where several cartoons were displayed. They were caricatures against Prinny and showed Princess Caroline as the innocent victim.
"I swear, they are more comical against her for what she is not!" she blurted out, then hastily bit her lip. "Though I'm not certain I understand them," she amended, looking up wide-eyed at Lord Havelock.
A puzzled expression flew across that gentleman's features.
"Do you think we might go in now? It is so dreadfully cold out here. So easy to take a chill. Lady Meriton has one, you know, a chill that is. She is feeling low, so I've promised to find her a new novel to read. Can you recommend one, my lord?" she prattled, looking up at him guilelessly.
He shrugged slightly. "Of course, Madame. I believe there are one or two new ones, most likely written anonymously byA LadyorA Gentleman," he said as he opened the door.
"I do so love novels!” she said. She turned to look back at him as she went inside. “Everyone in them is full of good health and wit. It fatigues me just to contemplate how anyone could devise novels! I cannot understand why they would wish anonymity."
"I understand that sometimes their characters are drawn from life and often not sympathetically. Their real-life models take offense." He led her to a sale table, Sarah following along behind.
"Oh. Is that why Sir Harry's version ofKing Richard IIIwas not popular? Did he do that?"
"What do you know of that?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing. Only that he rewrote some of it and that his changes were not looked upon with favor. Aunt Jessamine told me about it when we were discussing Sir Harry's upcoming production." She clapped her hands together. "She said Randolph played one of the murderers of the princes. I should have loved to see that. I can't imagine Randolph as a murderer, can you? Oh, that's a silly question. Of course, you can. You were in the play too, she said, as Buckingham."
"A traitor's traitor," said Randolph, coming up behind them.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Randolph!” she said, laying a hand on her brother’s arm. “I want to apologize for being so snappish at Oastley."
Lord Havelock bowed, leaving them to the private discourse he knew Cecilia desired. She smiled her appreciation.
"Eh?" Randolph looked at her in surprise. "What? Oh, that's quite all right, little sister. But you know, you could stand to listen to your brother now and again, especially as father is still off looking for cures for dropsy." He led her to an isolated bin of prints.
"Yes, I know, Randolph," she said humbly, her eyes downcast and her tongue set firmly between her teeth.
"You here without that dragon aunt of ours?"
Her eyes flashed upward then away as she recalled her supposed newfound humility. "She has been very nice to me. I don't like you talking of her so," she said, her gaze sliding to meet his. "Besides, she's sick, quite done up, poor thing. I know exactly how it is, too. I promised her I'd find her the latest novel to read."
"Someone sick besides you! Pon'rep if that ain't something! I was asked the other day—and dash it if I can recall by who—I was asked if you were sickly as a child. Had to think on that. Don't recall you ever so plagued."
Asked! She'd give a monkey to know by whom. "Not so much, no," she admitted carefully. "My health broke when Mr. Waddley died, you see. Both my spirit and my body crumbled. Dear, dear Mr. Waddley, such a gentle, God-fearing man," she murmured as she thumbed idly through a bin of prints.
