CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Loud talking, laughing, gazing after people; all these are improper.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
The golden glister of a theatre could hide a thousand misdeeds: a gilded private box shrouding whispers of treachery or a satin-gloved hand shielding a blade.
With hands clasped, Hugh rubbed a thumb over Ross’ cufflink and watched – the debutantes in fine silks who sighed over the handsome actors, the gentlemen in pristine cravats who chuckled at the ribald jokes, the courtesans who flicked their lace fans and the Corinthians who lounged in practised ennui.
Three tiers of boxes encircled the stage of the Theatre Royal, cradling the haughty elite of London, their attention focused upon the ongoing play while Hugh focused on them.
And he could not help but wonder what lay beneath all the splendour and society sparkle.
The theatre seemed to breathe and murmur, mirroring the emotions enacted upon the stage – desire, deception, melancholy, disguise – all scented with perfume, smoke and beeswax.
A rustle of skirts and his gaze was drawn.
Trimmed with lace, a bottle-green bodice clung to Amelia’s curvaceous form, a lengthy gold necklace forming a beguiling pointer into her fine cleavage. White satin underskirts were covered with a diaphanous silk which shifted and slid above clocked silk stockings, while slippers with silver rosettes shod her modest feet.
Hugh had sensed a certain shyness when she’d first removed her cloak in the lobby yet had no idea why as she was stunning. So much so that words had fled his tongue and he’d wittered some nonsense about her lookingnice.
Dunderhead.
Applause rippled through the audience and Amelia glanced to him.
And he was undone.
Amber eyes sparkled with gold flecks, cheeks gently glowed, and lips were tinted a soft pink. One of the rosebuds he’d sent was fastened to her bodice while the rest nestled in her hair with green ribbons and slender pins tipped with butterflies. In the low light of the box sconces, the ringlets framing her face were lit to gilded threads and how he longed to unravel them.
A hundred cliched expressions of flattery were on his tongue but…he recalled Phoebe’s advice.
“Amelia,” he whispered. “I could not say earlier for I’d not the words but… You are perfection.”
Her lips curved yet she shook her head. “It’s the dress,” she whispered back.
“No. It’s not the dress.” He grasped her white-satin-gloved hand and brushed his lips over the back. “’Tis you. And I’mpleased the rosebuds were delivered in time, for they look…” He reached up a finger to touch.
“I wouldn’t,” she said softly, staying his wrist. “Those hairpins are tipped with a surprise. Not fatal and they are capped, but you would be insensate for several hours.”
How he loved having her by his side. No longer alone.
“Any further hazards I should know of?”Other than to his heart.
She brought forth her gloved left hand. On the middle finger was a gold ring with what looked to be an oval-cut sapphire atop, surrounded by diamonds.
“Pretty. But I’m guessing…”
“The faux sapphire hides a compartment. One push of a certain diamond would deposit opium powder into a glass.”
Hugh shifted in his chair.
“And then,” she continued low, “you already know about the knife in my garter.”
All he could do was return a repressed smile, having wondered on more than one occasion about the contents of her garter.
Amelia flickedher eyes to the occupants of the box two to their left – Lady Twyford and her husband. At least, she presumed it was Lady Twyford as the couple had arrived later than themselves and she wore some type of veil, their wall sconce snuffed.
