Julian gave a soft whistle that stopped the waiter in his tracks. He turned, gave Julian a nod, and waited for them.
“That was well done. Is that a prearranged signal?”
“No, but it always works. Waiters have very acute hearing, you know. Lean close, here comes another wave of petticoats.”
When they weren’t more than twenty feet from their box, Julian said, “All right, tell me why you didn’t want Sophie to accompany me.”
She stared at her slippers.
“I am not a ravager of young maidens, nor do I plan on trying to attack her, no matter what my mother wishes, so tell me, Roxanne.”
“I am worried for her. The thing is, Julian, you know too much.”
A black brow shot up. He laid his hand lightly on her arm. “Nothing more than any other kindly uncle.”
“All right, here it is. I think she and Devlin would be perfect for each other. They only need time together to come to this conclusion.”
Julian stared at her in amazement. “Stay out of it, Roxanne, that’s my best uncle’s advice.”
When they reached the box, it was to see Devlin sitting between Sophie and Corinne.
He saluted Julian, smiled at Roxanne. “Forgive me for being late, but my mother—well, never mind. My sire tells me the senior Kean—the great Edmund—was finally forced to act beside his son, an event that did not stir his blood, evidently, so my sire told me. The son, my sire remarks to all who will listen, is paltry by comparison, not nearly as dramatic as his father, his declamations too conservative, not enough feeling—in short, my father believes him a stick.”
“If the stick showed any more feeling,” Roxanne said, “I should pick up my chair and hurl it at him.”
Corinne said, “Listen to me, you philistines, you are all too ignorant and too young to appreciate him. He is a master, mayhap not as great as his father, but still . . .”
No one wanted to disagree with the dowager duchess; well, everyone did, but none wanted to have her cannon aimed at him. Devlin gave Julian a lazy look. “Good evening, Uncle, Roxanne. You brought champagne, I see. So did I. With two bottles, we should be able to survive the remaining scenes without undue misery.”
Corinne harrumphed.
Julian merely smiled and handed her a glass filled to the brim with chilled champagne.
“Hear, hear,” Sophie said. She toasted everyone indiscriminately and drank down the glass without pause.
“I see what you mean,” Julian said. “A budding tippler. Let’s see how you behave.” Julian handed Roxanne a glass. He watched her tip back the glass, drink down half of it, lower the glass, hiccup into her palm, and smile widely. “Do you know, Sophie, I think you and I should take one of the bottles and join Mr. Kean onstage. I’ve a fancy to play Sir Edmund Mortimer myself.”
“Hear, hear,” said Sophie again. “I believe my headache only a memory.” She beamed at them all.
During the final act, Roxanne would swear Kean glared up at their box once when he was delivering his lines. Not one of them had thrown anything at him. What did he want?
Devlin Monroe did not return to his box. He sat beside Sophie, refilling her glass until, alas, the champagne was gone.
Roxanne happened to spot Richard Langworth seated in a box to her far left, between two ladies, a mother and daughter, she thought, both very comely. He was looking up at her, and he wasn’t smiling. He gave her a small salute. She snuck a peek at Julian, but as before, he was staring at the stage, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t seeing Kean, of that she was sure; he was seeing something entirely different. She fully intended to ask him about why Richard Langworth believed Julian had murdered his wife, Richard’s sister. Or perhaps he was concerned about his ship that still hadn’t arrived from Constantinople? He was that worried? She wondered what cargo the Blue Star carried.
Julian’s carriage was promptly delivered because Julian told her he always paid the theater postboy a coin to make sure he had excellent placement. As the carriage rocked easily through the London streets back to Lemington Square, Roxanne said, “Richard Langworth was looking at our box. He was in the company of two ladies.”
Sophie said in a lilting, happy voice, “He was probably staring at you, Roxanne. Goodness, all the gentlemen stare at you, you are so beautiful this evening. Your hair is glorious; it glows like a sunset in the candlelight. How I envy you. Don’t you agree, Julian?” She giggled. “Surely an uncle would appreciate an aunt’s beauty.”
“Uncles are strange ducks,” he said.
“This Richard Langworth,” Roxanne began.
Julian merely shook his head at her.
Corinne said, “Perhaps I should speak to Lord Arthur about him.”
“Pray do not, Mama,” Julian said, but he couldn’t help a smile. He tried to imagine Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, receiving that request. Rather like praying to God to take away the pain of your stubbed toe. When they reached the Radcliffe town house, he said, “I will call on you ladies tomorrow, if that is convenient.”