She poked her head out.
Curse it.
A herd of vibrant colour was bearing down the hallway like silked jockeys at Ascot: the interval must have commenced. Amelia gulped, darted out into the hall, and then veered for shelter behind a statue of King Hamlet’s ghost before the ladies entereden masseinto the retiring paddock. Even then, there formed a queue outside the door.
“Did you notice,” a lady in jonquil yellow began, “the…woman with Mr Cadwalader?” She sniffed. “He’s not attended the theatre in an age and now he turns up with some fresh ladybird. Pretty enough but not up to his usual standards by any stretch of the imagination.”
Amelia frowned.
“Oh, you know how Hugh is,” said her companion. “Takes pity on wallflowers so is likely just doing her a favour. Maybe he hopes one of his friends will take her off his hands.”
They both chortled, and although Amelia knew envy when she heard it, the words still stung.
She refused to cower behind statues, however, so she stepped from behind, head held high, and walked with measured step, past the queue, until the line of ladies ended, and–
“Hey, my lovely,” slurred some buck, grabbing her waist. “Are you the interval entertainment?”
Not appreciating the mauling in the least, Amelia growled and swung her standard-issue Foreign Office reticule – with its five-pound weight sewn into the base – up into his ballocks.
As his eyes bulged, breath gone, she fled from his grasp and dashed on down the hall.
Upon reaching the safety of their box, she was about to swish back the curtain when…voices murmured – a rumble and a purr.
“Oh, those bruises, Hugh,” a woman lamented in a Scottish lilt. “Do you have more beneath that waistcoat? If you would allow me, I could attend to them most diligently.”
Lady Tremlach, by the sounds of it, and Amelia bit her lip, hard, could not catch Hugh’s response, but the lady’s laughter tinkled like shards of glass.
Glass that pierced Amelia, jagged and deep. For that is what her jealousy felt like. A physical pain. An ache of longing and impossible envy.
This was why spies should never become involved, why the heart should remain in a locked box. For they had their parts to play and Hugh must discover if Tremlach was their traitor by whatever means necessary. Do what he must.
So she swiped at her eyes and straightened her shoulders, knew she must play her own part.
Amelia swished the curtain aside and dramatically halted, fist to beating heart, face awash with hurt.
It required no act.
Hugh was standing in profile as the lady in crimson, Lady Tremlach, caressed his lapel with a black-gloved hand, her bosom nigh brushing his chest, sultry lips pursed.
To see him thus lacerated Amelia, but…
“Hugh?” she gasped as he twisted. “Who is this lady?” She placed hands to hips. “I’m gone for but a moment and am usurped. How could you!”
His blue eyes were wide. “Amel–”
“It appears there is naught to keep me here.” And she gathered her shawl from the chair.
He reached for her arm but she snatched it away.
“Amelia, I–”
“Our mutual friend went home, Mr Cadwalader, nothing to report, so I should leave you to it.” She stared brightly at them both. “You should stay and d-do what you must.”
And with that, she strode from the box, heard her name called once more but refused to turn.
The hallways and stairs were heaving with ladies, gentlemen and waiters, champagne spilling and laughter too loud. Amelia dodged them all, kept close to the walls, until she reached the lobby where chortling Corinthians were abandoning the theatre for more salacious entertainment.
Not bothering to collect her cloak, Amelia fled. A doorman doffed his hat and cold air smote her skin.
