“Glory, Livy, and Pippa don’t have to bring footmen with them—”
“What those ladies’ husbands and parents permit is inconsequential. You are my daughter, and I am saying you will bring footmen. Or you will not go at all.”
Angry heat pushed behind Fi’s eyes. “That is dashed unfair!”
“Regardless, the choice is yours,” Papa said flatly.
Before Fiona could respond, the doorbell rang. The Hadleighs had arrived.
Her breath hitching and hands balled at her sides, Fi strove to calm herself. There was no point in arguing with Papa once he made up his mind. She would simply have to figure out some way to manage the latest Draconian requirement.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “Is there anything else?”
Papa sighed. “You know we only want the best for you, don’t you, Fiona?”
With a pang, she remembered a time when she’d been the apple of her father’s eye. When he had given her everything and anything her heart desired. Then, when she was nine, Papa had been shot. Even now, the memory of that terrifying time chilled her. She recalled how still and waxen he’d looked, how devastated Mama had been despite her efforts to hide it. Most nights, Fiona had cried herself to sleep, only to be jolted awake by horrible dreams of loss.
Luckily, Papa had made a full recovery. Since his injury, however, he’d changed. Max had become his favorite whilst with Fiona, he’d become stricter and less indulgent. It was as if his brush with death had made him see her more clearly…and he didn’t like what he saw. She’d tried to impress him with all her genteel accomplishments, her popularity.
While achievements are important, he would say,do not let ambition rule you. Never lose sight of what is important, Fiona: the people you love and who love you in return.
He seemed to see through her machinations, straight to her flaws. The willful and defiant nature she couldn’t change, even if she wanted to. Helpless frustration knotted her insides. It seemed like her fate was to be judged wanting by others. By the snobs, her father…even that blasted Hawksmoor, who thought she was “frivolous” and a “temperamental flirt” even though he hardly knew her.
Who cares what anyone thinks? What I need is to secure my freedom—and soon.If I have to, I’ll marry an oblivious fool to gain my independence.
Tamping down her ache, she brightened her smile. “Of course, Papa. Now may I be excused? I do not wish to keep my friends waiting.”
Fiona and the Hadleighs arrived at the Theatre Royal awhile later, and visitors immediately swarmed the Hadleighs’ private box. Once a wild rake with a tarnished reputation, Livy’s handsome, dark-haired husband was living proof of the adage about reformed rakes. The duke had become a new man since his marriage. Seeing the loving glow in Hadleigh’s midnight-blue eyes when he looked at Livy, Fiona was very glad for her friend.
For her part, Fi worked at being her charming best. Her presence tonight functioned as an alibi, and she wanted to make sure her parents heard about her impeccable behavior. It still stung that her father did not trust her judgement and insisted that she take footmen to Charlie’s…but she would worry about that bridge when she crossed it.
For now, she would focus on the night’s plan.
Anticipation simmered in Fiona as the lights finally dimmed in the theatre, dispersing the visitors from the Hadleighs’ box. A few minutes later, the velvet curtains parted to reveal the ramparts of Elsinore Castle. As the watchmen came onto the stage, Fiona saw Hadleigh bend his head toward his wife.
“Are you certain you do not need my escort, little queen?” he said softly.
“You must hold the fort until Fi and I get back.” Livy brushed her lips against his lean cheek. “We won’t be long, darling.”
Fi and Livy exited the box, hurrying down the empty corridor and stairwell to one of the back exits. Hawker, Charlie’s butler and one of the Angels’ teachers, was waiting for them. Sitting on the driver’s perch of an unmarked carriage, he resembled a brawny pirate with his black eye-patch, short, bristly hair, and fierce scowl. Fi suspected that he used his rough exterior to cloak his gentle heart.
“’Urry up,” he grumbled. “You’ve got an hour and a ’alf before the sweet prince sticks a blade in old Polonius and intermission begins.”
“Well, don’t ruin the plot for us,” Fi teased as she climbed in.
Hawker snorted. “If you don’t know the bard’s masterpiece by now, there’s no ’ope for you.”
Inside the carriage, the curtains were already drawn. While the tavern was a stone’s throw away, Fi and Livy needed a place to change into their disguises. Thanks to the genius of the Angels’ modiste, Mrs. Quinton, the transformation from lady to light-skirt took place in a blink.
The expert tailoring of their evening gowns hid the fact that all pieces were detachable. Delicate tiered skirts were unhooked, thin sateen layers attached in their place. Elegant off-the-shoulder bodices were replaced with gaudy low-cut ones, and their ringlets were covered with heavy wigs. Face paint concealed their features. When the carriage pulled up to the Royal Arms several minutes later, a pair of blonde tarts emerged.
Entering the rowdy public house, Fi assessed the dimly lit space. A carved wooden bar took up one side of the room, behind which the barkeep was filling glasses and palavering with patrons balanced on rickety stools. The area next to the bar was packed with tables, barmaids weaving through the throng, delivering refreshments and dodging groping hands. At the back of the pub, three steps led up to another seating area, the packed booths shrouded by the smoky haze of the hearth.
Fi noted the mix of people present in the front room. From bricklayers who wore the dust of their labor to aristocrats looking to cure their ennui, the Royal Arms opened its doors to all. She saw the way some patrons eyed one another: like predators judging the worthiness of prey. Despite the pub’s cozy ambiance, Fi did not doubt that it was a hunting ground where vice and danger lurked.
Did Lillian fall prey to a predator?she wondered with a shiver.
In an undertone, Livy said, “Shall we talk to the barmaids first?”
