CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“The mind has no confidence in itself, and at the same time it is not aware of its own debility.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
The actor’s voices fell to muted as Amelia crept down the theatre hallway in pursuit, statues of Shakespeare’s characters watching her furtive movement with marble eye.
From Phoebe’s plan, Amelia knew Lady Twyford was headed for the ladies’ retiring room and as the interval had not yet begun, solely a few maids scurried about with trays.
Perfect.
It had been agreed that if the lady did not leave her seat until the interval, then Hugh would keep Sir Edmund occupied while Amelia would lure his wife away, but such a ruse might have been rife with difficulty.
This way, the lady would be alone.
The retiring room door was closed when Amelia reached it so she softly twisted the handle to peer inside.
A lone maid dried chamber pots while Lady Twyford was seated on a chaise, veiled hat cast aside, skirts hitched to her knees and a shoe flung to the floor. A groan emerged as she massaged her stockinged foot.
Entering the room, Amelia could not help but grin. “New shoes?”
The lady startled and glanced up, but then smiled in such a winsome manner that Amelia blinked. Twice.
Their suspect was not at all what Amelia had expected. In her early fifties or thereabouts, she had gentle blue eyes, but with more than a few lines about them attesting to some hardship, and she’d such a…fragility that Amelia could not imagine the hard-edged Roberts as her lover.
“All I did was walk from the carriage,” the lady said in a hushed voice whilst removing her other shoe, “and it felt as though the back of my heel was being rubbed by a hedgehog.”
With a laugh, Amelia sat herself on the chaise also. “I know the feeling.” She waggled her feet. “These are new and feel as though they’ve shrunk from when I tried them on at the cobblers.”
Lady Twyford returned a low chuckle. “Are you the lady I saw with Mr Cadwalder?” She chewed her lip. “I suppose you are his… Well…” A blush tinged her cheeks. “Friend.”
Amelia smiled but her mind was whirling as this woman seemed so sheltered and fledgling in speech. “I am indeed with Mr Cadwalader, but…” Amelia tapped her lip, knew she must hurry before the interval was upon them. “I’m sure I recognise you from somewhere.”
Creases appeared upon the lady’s brow. “I doubt it. I reside in the country and do not go out much, but I-I do so miss the theatre.”
“Ah,” Amelia nodded. “But I’m sure I’ve seen you before.” She cocked her head. “The Bowl Tavern, perhaps?”
The shoe clattered to the floor. “T-the Bowl?”
“Why, yes. That was it. And your lavender fragrance is the same also.”
Those blue eyes swung swifter than a weathercock in a storm, from ease to…fear. “W-who are you?” And she backed away along the chaise.
“I mean you no harm, my lady. I–”
“Go away,” she whispered. “Please, go away. Am I not punished enough in life?”
“My lady? I…” Amelia frowned. “Roberts is a dangerous man and–”
“I know that!” she shrieked, causing the maid to peer over. Lady Twyford shoved a hand to her mouth. “He…he’s a cruel monster but…”
Amelia bit her lip. The Prince had assumed wrong. They were no lovers.
So she rose to her feet, opened her reticule, approached the maid and placed a cache of coins into her palm.
The maid nodded and left them.
