“That might be my fault, dear. To keep the peace, I told him we didn’t expect to be here for long. I think he was imagining us a fixture.”
“Are families permitted here? I know in some sets of gentlemen’s rooms they aren’t.”
“Permitted but not encouraged. And even such elegant rooms aren’t suitable, are they?”
“No.” Kitty thought wistfully of the house, but there’d be no reason to open that up for a week or less, and she must soon return to her duties.
She hoped the Hartleys replied soon. Discovering Diane Dauntry’s whereabouts might be the only truly useful thing she could do while in London. In the meantime, she must consider what to wear to this dinner—her first social engagement as Viscountess Dauntry.
And after?
The night.
Her husband would have no excuse to be out till all hours tonight.
***
After an afternoon with little achieved, Braydon arrived home to find his wife secluded in the second bedroom, preparing for dinner. He washed and changed for the evening, troubled by that. Was she intending to sleep there tonight?
Because of their falling-out about her admirers?
When he entered the drawing room he found her ready, but with a challenging look in her eye. Devil take it, why had she chosen to wear the pagan red gown and the cashmere shawl? With the addition of a very fetching red and gold turban, she’d stop men dead in the street.
He made sure to smile. “You look magnificent, my dear.”
“Too magnificent for a dinner?”
She’d caught his misgivings anyway. “Of course not.”
She was his, and tonight he intended to wipe all thought of other men from her mind. As he put her cloak around her shoulders he murmured, “Tonight, you sleep in my bed.”
Her look was startled but not resentful. Heat flickered behind her green and gold eyes, and her full lips softened, perhaps on the edge of a smile.
Damned witch.
Damned dinner.Braydon arrived at Beaumont’s, house wishing the event already over.
They were warmly greeted by Beaumont’s wife. She performed under her former name, Blanche Hardcastle, and was famous for her prematurely white hair and her habit of dressing only in white, on- and offstage. She was clearly keeping to that even in this time of mourning.
He’d been delighted by her on the stage, but it waspleasant to find that she was as charming and beautiful from only a yard away. She wore the lightest powder and paint, which showed that her looks were all her own, and it seemed her nature was genuine as well.
Even as Braydon greeted her, an uncomfortable scrap of information popped into his head. She’d been known—might still be known—as the White Dove of Drury Lane. Again, a reference to her coloring, but with a slight implication of a disreputable past, as loose women were sometimes called spoiled doves. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising, for actresses were not always pattern cards of virtue, and Beaumont was unlikely to be ignorant of her past.
Especially as—another inconvenient fact—she’d been the mistress of the Marquess of Arden for a number of years, and Arden and Beaumont were old friends. It wouldn’t be the first time friends had shared or passed on a mistress, but for one to marry the lady was unusual. How fortunate that he was able to keep a smooth demeanor while digesting alarming facts.
There was nothing alarming about the Balls. Sir Stephen was certainly not a military type, having a more intellectual appearance. Dark-haired Lady Ball was an elegant charmer.
The other two guests were a fresh-faced young Canadian lawyer, Grantford Torlie, and Miss Feathers, a snub-nosed, bright-eyed actress from Drury Lane. Torlie was introduced as the son of a man Beaumont had known in Canada, and the young man was clearly very happy that Miss Feathers had been invited to balance the numbers.
Despite Braydon’s wish that the event be soon over, he had to admit that the food was excellent and the conversation interesting and frequently amusing. Kitty played her part with ease.
Miss Feathers was young and lively, but she was no fool. When Torlie paid her a compliment that was a little too warm, she dropped into the conversation that she lived with her mother, who was, sadly, strict. “But,” she added, “you would be most welcome to call and make her acquaintance, sir. She was once an actress herself.”
“And an excellent one,” Blanche Beaumont said. “Harriet could still be on the stage in older parts if an infection hadn’t damaged her voice.”
Beaumont said, “It’s time we conquered infection,” and discussion turned in that direction, touching on folk remedies, including maggots. Miss Feathers pulled a face, and Torlie declared he’d not have maggots eating his flesh.
“You’d be a fool not to have them eating an infection that would otherwise kill you,” Beaumont said. He hadn’t said “that could cost you a limb,” because that would cause distress, but it had to have been what he’d thought. Battle-damaged limbs were frequently amputated to remove any danger of infection, but with time and care they might have been saved.
