“In my games, we both come out as winners.”
Chapter Fifteen
John shifted on the hard bench. The Burns Theatre was a far cry from Covent Garden. A splinter dug into his arse, and he frowned. The patrons here should demand recompense for the torture of sitting on these damned benches instead of paying for the benefit. He tossed one leg over the other, rolling onto his hip, away from the bit of wood poking into him. Christ, if—
The threadbare curtains parted, and John forgot his discomfort. Because there, standing on stage left, was Netta.
Even with the carbuncles covering her face and the obscenely large false nose, he knew it was her. The saucy uptilt to her pointed chin. The way she stood with her shoulders thrust just so.
A slow smile stretched across his face. All the nights she’d disappeared from his house. When she’d slipped from his bed last night. She had come here.
He heaved a deep breath. He needn’t worry about her after she left. She had a career to go back to, sad and tawdry as this theatre might be. He would introduce her to the manager of the Drury. Ensure that she had secure work, if she wanted it. With four thousand pounds, she might decide to retire, though he didn’t think it likely. She liked playacting too much. After all, how many roles had she performed for him?
Had she lived on the streets and worked her way up to the stage? Or was she the daughter of a tidy little merchant somewhere and everything had been an act?
He settled back. He would learn the truth after the performance.
Wilberforce slid into a seat at the end of the row, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t seem surprised when Netta came center stage to deliver her lines. Only smiled faintly at the poor joke, then tipped his head to John.
John grumbled. The bloody, sneaking bastard. He’d known all along what Netta was, where she was going. Mother hen that he was, he would have followed after Netta the first time she’d left his house. “You couldn’t have told me?” he muttered at Wil down the empty row.
“Shhh!” a patron hissed behind him.
John blew out his cheeks.The Merry Wives of Windsorwas one of the Bard’s worst plays. It surely did not deserve a shushing. But he settled in to watch. Quietly. And became more entranced with every line Netta delivered as Bardolph.
She was spectacular. Her talent was wasted on such a minor character. When she was on the stage, he scarce noticed anyone else.
His concerns over her acting ability melted away. She had more than enough talent to wrap anyone, including Sudworth, around her little finger. Talent and enough moral flexibility to be the perfect woman for the job.
Shewasperfect. So why did a soupçon of unease whisper down his spine to settle in his gut? He tapped his thumb against his thigh. He had a plan. He had capable players to fill each role of said plan. He should have felt the confidence he did every time before a mission.
Yet the unease wouldn’t go away.
What was he missing?
The curtains fell. John rose and rubbed at the ache in his arse.
Wilberforce wove down the aisle to join him. “A good performance, wouldn’t you say?”
“A surprising one.” John sniffed. “I would have liked to have known where Netta was disappearing to. If only I had a loyal servant to inform me of her whereabouts.”
Wil circled his hat in his hands, his lips twitching. “You never asked me to verify her whereabouts. Sir.”
John closed his eyes. He would not snap at his friend. His shoulders rounded. Especially when said friend had shown more care for Netta than John had.
He should have learned where she went each night before this. He’d thought to give Netta her privacy. Respect her boundaries. But he should have determined that she was safe.
John rubbed a knuckle into his chest. While she lived under his roof, he was responsible for the woman, after all. It could only be a sense of duty that made him feel such. “Well, let’s go see what she has to say for herself. Another amusing deceit, I’m sure.”
“You mean to go backstage to confront her?” Wil’s gaze darted to the now-deserted stage, his eyes flickering with interest. “I believe she shares a dressing room with…with another woman.”
John turned and strode to the aisle. “I’ll knock. I don’t suppose you drove the carriage here?”
Wil shook his head.
No, when following one’s employer, a noisy carriage wouldn’t do. “Well, we’ll have to see if, among her many other talents, Miss Netta Pickle can sit atop a horse for her ride back home.”
***
