Arch exhaled slowly. The theatre would answer none of those questions, but it might reveal something else. How would Society treat her if they discovered her reformist ways? As it was, her father was a cit, and she was tolerated merely because of her wealth and her mother’s lineage.
As he arrived at Upton Place, the party was assembled in the foyer and very nearly in motion, which, in Lady Upton’s house, meant that everyone stood in a state of elegant readiness whilst servants performed the actual labour of departure. Cloaks were being settled, gloves located, opera glasses remembered at the last instant.
His mother turned the moment Arch entered and gave him a look of such maternal reproach that it might have stopped a lesser man on the threshold. “I had begun to think you meant to join us in the third act.”
Arch removed his hat with a bow that acknowledged both her authority and her injustice. “I am touched to find my presence considered essential.”
Lord Upton, already in his greatcoat and looking resigned to an evening of public civility, cast Arch a glance of dry amusement over his mother’s head. “It is not your presence. It is your punctuality. Presence can be decorative. Punctuality is moral.”
Lady Upton ignored him with the composure of long practice. “We are leaving now. The carriage has been waiting, and Miss Vale—” Here her ladyship’s gaze sharpened ever so slightly. “—has been infinitely more patient than she ought.”
At the mention of her name, Arch’s eyes moved at once to Francesca.
She stood a little apart from the others, already cloaked, one gloved hand resting lightly upon the handle of her fan. Her gown was not so striking as the emerald silk of Lady Stratton’s ball, yet it suited the evening better: a pale blue velvet that enhanced her colouring and lent her an air of composed authority that would have suited a duchess or a conspirator equally well. A narrow band of sapphire at her throat caught the light when she turned, and her hair, arranged with studied simplicity, revealed the elegant line of her neck in a manner that would have distracted any man less determined to remain sensible than Arch Manners—which was to say, he was distracted at once.
His father, having offered his arm to Lady Upton for the walk to the carriage, left Francesca momentarily unattended. Arch stepped forward without giving himself time to reconsider and bowed. “Miss Vale.”
“Major Manners,” she responded, and there was something in her eyes that resembled amusement before she spoke a single further word. “You have arrived.”
“Precisely on time.”
“Your mother does not appear to agree.”
“No,” Arch said, “but then my mother has never considered my opinion indispensable when she has already formed her own.”
Francesca’s mouth curved, and the expression transformed her face with such quick brightness that Arch had the absurd sensation of having been momentarily rewarded. He offered Francesca his arm. “If I am not too late to be of service,” he said.
She looked at him for one measured second longer than civility required. Then she set her hand upon his sleeve. “No, not too late,” she replied.
He felt the light pressure of her fingers through the cloth of his coat with a vexation he found both inconvenient and immediate.
Together they moved towards the door. The air outside held the damp chill particular to a London evening when the fog had not yet descended but threatened to do so. Lantern light trembled over the paving stones. The carriage waited before the house, its polished panels reflecting the glow from the entrance. Footmen moved with silent efficiency, and the horses tossed their heads in impatience.
Arch helped Francesca into the carriage and followed her, taking the seat opposite Lord and Lady Upton. For several moments there was only the movement of the carriage.
Then, Lady Upton, who never left silence unadorned for long, said, “Miss Vale and I were discussing the theatre. I told her that one may judge a city by the quality of its audience more than by the quality of its actors.”
Lord Upton gave a mild grunt. “Then London is overly judged.”
“London,” said his mother, “is obliged to be judged a little, or it would become intolerable.”
Miss Vale glanced towards Arch. “What say you, Major Manners? Do soldiers also pronounce upon the stage?”
Arch met her gaze. “Only when trapped into attending it.”
“That is not a promising beginning,” she said.
“It is an honest one.”
His mother made a small sound which might have been disapproval or delight. With Lady Upton it was often difficult to distinguish between the two. “Arch finds the theatre frivolous,” she explained.
Arch allowed himself the faintest edge of a smile. “’Tis true. It troubled me to think of people enjoying such trivialities whilst my brethren in arms were fighting for their country on the battlefield.”
“Quite understandable. As we are not currently at war, perhaps you may allow yourself a little enjoyment in it tonight,” she replied smoothly.
He inclined his head. “I rather think I might.”
She smiled at his concession.
