Couldn’t be.
His friend was less of a theatre patron than Felton.
No, he was at Sandlin, personally overseeing the packing of his military maps for his family’s move to the country and caring for his pregnant duchess.
Rose Street was noisy. The Lamb and Flag tavern was open for business. Cheers and jeers sounded from the patrons. Was that cooking beef and onions scenting the air? Cecilia’s favorite was beefsteak.
Food. Their special language.
Her face lit when he’d brought her treats from his travels. Through the window of the loud tavern, he saw his man-of-all-work sitting at a table swilling ale. Watson might be singing.
More hidden talent amongst those closest to him.
The door of the establishment opened, and the song and fragrance of the hot food touched Felton. When he stepped inside his stomach growled almost as loudly as Cecilia’s had.
Drinking tunes were boisterous. People stumbled over one another.
Watson waved him forward to his table. “You done, sir? Can we go?”
Thick, tightly curled hair parted to the side and tied back, Watson sat back with his red jacket opened. He stared at the singers in the back of the tavern. “I can get the carriage.”
He didn’t ask about Cecilia or if Felton had made amends to his wife. The matter-of-fact man must not think it possible.
“Lady Gantry is in the middle of finishing a commissioned painting. That’s when we leave.”
“Oh, the marchioness is working. I see, my lord. Modern marriages, I take it.”
This didn’t feel very modern. It felt very old, a mirror to his stepmothers’ and the duke’s fraught unions.
Oh lord, that couldn’t be how Cecilia felt—trapped and angry.
Sighing like his soul would escape, Felton called to a barmaid. “I’m going to head back to the Drury Theatre with something to eat and a tankard of coffee that Lady Gantry and I will share.”
Watson’s thick brows went up. “Oh. Very good, sir. She’s happiest when you two are together, eating.”
His tone was sarcastic and grating.
Felton sighed again, his lungs shriveling as he dropped into a seat. “My wife and I are speaking to each other. That’s progress.”
“Modern and with progress, indeed.”
Even with a little island accent, the flat pronouncement of Felton’s failings was not appreciated. He’d fire the man if Watson wasn’t a paragon of hard work and good sense and hadn’t saved his and Johnson’s backsides in Grenada.
Felton leaned forward. “She’s painting, sir. You remember how focused she becomes.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Watson drank more. Foam covered his lip.
Drumming the table, Felton glared at his man. “Maybe you can suggest what’s good.”
“The food here is quite delicious, my lord. She’ll appreciate it like the marmalade. Spared you the toga, I believe.”
Did everyone know his business? “You do ridiculous things when you wish for peace.”
Watson chuckled. “When you were away, Lady Gantry would paint all day without stopping. I think only you made sure she ate.”
He glanced at his man’s face. “You never saw to it?”
“Lady Jane had me on other tasks. Then I was to take care of the Gladstones when they visited. They were a sizable contingency with competing attentions.”
