Hugh’s own private box was apparently further towards the stage but he’d managed to swap with an acquaintance for this perfectly placed position.
It allowed a view of the entire theatre, and one became almost overwhelmed with the richness on show. Each time Amelia blinked, another facet caught her eye – the magnificentchandelier, the golden décor, the crimson relief on the theatre boxes.
To watch a play was not the sole attraction for the sophisticated aristocrats in the private boxes or for the swaggering bucks with their chattering ladybirds in the pit. It was also for the vibrancy and sheer occasion.
All seemed possible while watching the thespians enact scenes of unfeasible bravery or deepest emotion, and the audience was filled with aspiration.
Well, most were… Corinthians larked about, quaffing furtive nips of liquor and inspecting the debutantes with far-reaching opera glasses while those same debutantes hid behind fans, eyes flitting like dragonfly wings. But even their stern chaperones leaned upon the velvet balcony cushions, beholding the play with dreams of what might be…
Smiling, Amelia turned her attention to the stage. The opening scene of Shakespeare’sTwelfth Nighthad been a marvel, a mechanically shifting painted coast of Illyria spitting out the shipwrecked Viola who’d disguised herself as a boy.
Amelia had pursed her lips. A very feminine-looking boy with hairless chin and wide hips who wouldn’t have fooled the eyes of a potato but the audience had cheered and the men had whistled.
For much of the play, Amelia had felt Hugh’s gaze linger upon herself like a concealed caress, kindling that flare of flame within, but she supposed he was playing his part, a gentleman enamoured with his Cyprian companion.
His hair gleamed like guineas in the chandelier light, blue eyes more sensual than blithe and with a hooded slant. Clean shaven, his cuts and bruises were still evident but they lent his refined visage a potent air.
A complextrone d’amourcravat festooned his throat and a notion drifted that if a woman did happen to be in a hurry toextract him from it, a knife would be quicker than unravelling that knot. His jacket was coal black but the green of his waistcoat matched her dress and it was threaded with ebony silk, while his fawn pantaloons were so tight it was a wonder he could sit. A knife might be required for them also…
She swallowed.
On the stage, Duke Orsino had now been thoroughly hoodwinked by Viola, the boy who was a girl, even complimenting him on his smooth and rubious lips.
But that was dukes for you.
From the corner of her eye, Amelia caught Sir Edmund Twyford lifting a hand to adjust his wife’s veil. Why did she wear it?
Amelia slanted towards Hugh. “How long will the interval be?”
No answer and she turned her head to find him now intently staring through a brown-leather spyglass at – Amelia reached for her own theatre glasses – a box on the far side which contained a sylph beauty with hair akin to deepest night and skin like marble. Wearing crimson, she appeared like a Venus descended from Mount Olympus.
“Who is she?” whispered Amelia in her most professional tone.
“Who is who?” He still stared.
Applause rippled the theatre. “The woman in crimson?”
Hugh twisted to her, a frown creasing his brow. “What woman in crimson?”
“Over there.”
He peered over the top of his spyglass. “That’s Lady Tremlach. Niece to a bookkeeper at the Home Office. The last woman on Ross’ list.”
Oh.
“I see. That is fortuitous. I suppose you could…” Amelia smoothed her skirts, the green silk feeling rather restrained compared to crimson. “We could kill two birds with one stone tonight then.”
“What are you talking about, Amelia?” He still held a frown until… “Ah.” Hugh shuffled his chair till it clattered against her own. “Take my spyglass,” he whispered as the last scene before the interval commenced, “and close your viewing eye.”
She complied and Hugh placed a hand around her shoulder, his breath disturbing the tendrils of her hair and likewise her peace of mind.
He adjusted the direction of the spyglass so it was aimed at Lady Tremlach.
“Now close your other eye. And look only through the eyepiece.”
Amelia frowned as the circular image was not of Tremlach at all.
But of the Twyfords’ box.
“How…” She drew back to check the spyglass pointed at Tremlach and then stared through it again. Yet the magnified image was of the Twyfords who were absorbed by the play. “How does this work?” she whispered, twisting the spyglass this way and that.
His lips were nigh at her earlobe. “There’s a lens with an oblique mirror inside and a side aperture so you can stealthily watch to your left or right. It’s called a polemoscope. Some chap called Hevelius came up with it.”
“A wonder,” she murmured. “And with it… I can see Lady Twyford leaving their box. Sir Edmund is not following her.”
Hugh’s warm breath left her. “Time for Act Two then, Amelia. Good luck.”
