The audience clapped as Harlequin sniffed the man’s clothing and lifted his leg in the air, causing man to shake his gown hilariously.
Henrietta was caught up along with the rest. For a moment she forgot the constant nagging worry about her father, and she longed, not to be in the audience, but up on the stage.
“Henrietta!”
“I’m coming.”
***
The curtain dropped to hearty applause, as Verity introduced Henrietta to the proprietor, Monsieur Morel, a short man with a jowly chin. Henrietta made him a pretty curtsey, and his eyes warmed. He kissed her hand. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. You are as lovely as your cousin.” He stroked his chin. “In fact, …” He looked at each of them in turn. “I am keen to place you together on stage. Two blondes, one golden as sunlight, one pale as the moon. What a superb combination! We are now permitted to put on a Moliere play, and I plan to doL'école des femmes.”
“How delightful to be a part of your next production, Monsieur Morel,” Verity said. “My first consideration is to locate Lord Beaumont. Where do they keep him? Have you discovered the prison?”
“I am reliably informed that he is in a Paris asylum.”
Henrietta spun away to examine a pile of costumes lying on a table.
“They have converted many buildings into prisons I believe,” Morel continued, his eyes on Henrietta. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Most in their cells end up on the scaffold.”
Verity glanced over at Henrietta, the girl did well to hold her tongue, wrapping a fox boa, she’d found, around her shoulders. “You have the address?”
“This man, he is a lover of yours?”
Verity nodded.
“And you cannot bear to see him lose his head over anyone but you,non?” He chuckled as he wrote down the address.
Verity took the paper from him. “I am most grateful to you, Monsieur Morel.”
Henrietta smiled at him boldly. He raised his eyeglass, his gaze roaming her breasts and waist in her slim fitting bodice jacket. “You might repay me, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Are you available for a… liaison?”
“I should be pleased, monsieur,” Henrietta said, in a skillful interpretation of the French of the lower classes. “When I have recovered from my present… ailment.” She shook her head mischievously. “A bad choice of lover on my part.”
He stroked his moustache. “Indeed, mademoiselle.” He shrugged.
“We are eager to join your troupe,” Verity repeated. “When you have a place for us.”
He rubbed his hands. “I’ll act quickly. I’d be stupid to let you slip through my fingers,” he said. “Your combined beauty will fill the seats in my humble theatre.” He jerked his head at the noise as the theatre filled for the next performance. “My theatre is popular, as you see.”
They walked out onto the avenue. Verity cast a respectful glance at Henrietta. “How does a green girl learn such things?”
“I overheard Cook talking to one of the maids.”
“One of your maids had syphilis?”
Henrietta looked shocked. “No. Scabies.”
“Oh, Henrietta!” Verity shook her head. She examined the paper he’d given her. “Your father is in the Mont Pellier Asylum. Luck might be on our side. I know an actor who took a job there. Times are hard, he may still be there.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Henrietta said. “Let’s go now and see.”
“We’ll have to take a fiacre. It will take us too long to walk.” Verity searched the busy avenue and found one for hire.
“But can we afford it?” Henrietta followed Verity onto the muddy street.
“I’ll negotiate the price,” Verity said. “It is expected.”
After a brisk conversation, a price was agreed on. They climbed inside, and the fiacre lurched off, the wheels clattering over the cobbles. “I shall have to take Monsieur Morel up on his offer,” Verity said, fanning herself inside the stifling carriage. Dark clouds raced across the sky threatening rain. “Our pockets are almost empty.”
