“I need to find the bishop,” Rafe whispered, his eyes scanning the audience. “Can you see him?”
“I cannot. Oh. Percy and Francis.”
Rafe ran his hand down her back. “Who are about to get their comeuppance. Do you want to watch that?”
“Um.”
He glanced at her face. “What are you scheming?”
Her thoughtful look melted into a mischievous smile. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”
Chapter 28
There were many things Thea wished to say to Percy Russell and Francis Upton, but she supposed the right thing would be to warn them that they had taken an intoxicant, and might not be quite themselves.
Unless Martha’s theory was right, and the drug made them more themselves.
When they saw her approaching around the edges of the audience, they elbowed each other and again bowed in unison. Francis’s wig fell off and he giggled.
Ah, so the drug had taken effect.
On stage, Rosamund stood in shocked horror as she faced her disgrace. In the audience, ladies and gentlemen were murmuring to each other. Several people spied Thea stopping next to Percy, and put their heads together to start whispering anew.
“That’s us up there,” Percy hissed to Thea. “We did that to you. Why are those actors performing our story?”
It wasn’t their story, Thea thought angrily; it was her story.
“Now everyone will know,” she replied. “Are you sorry?”
Percy laughed, drawing more stares. It was a bit like a donkey’s bray, his laugh. “It was great sport. Why be sorry?”
Francis giggled again. “The expression on your face when we lied about you at the ball!”
“It was one of my cleverest exploits!” Percy crowed.
“One of our cleverest,” Francis corrected. “Why be sorry for that?”
“Not sorry for that!”
Thea recalled her intention to warn them they had taken an intoxicant, but clearly they did not deserve the least bit of decency from her. Their roles in society had enabled them to ruin innocents like her for sport; now, she returned the favor. Besides, this complied with her three Rules of Mischief: It served the cause of truth, they were definitely villains, and yes, she was enjoying it.
“It’s true, you’re very clever,” Thea said. “Now everyone in society knows it. Look at them applauding, dukes and marquesses and earls. But they applaud the actors, not you.”
Percy sneered. “Stupid dukes and marquesses and earls. They should be applauding me. Me! Applaud me, you fools!”
“Applaud us!” Francis cried. “Don’t forget me, Percy.”
Thea leaned close to whisper in Percy’s ear. “This is your chance to ensure society knows how clever you are. Go tell them it was your plan. Tell them now.”
“Yes, I shall!”
His feet not quite steady, Percy elbowed aside the people in his way and leaped onto the stage. He shoved away the actors; they stumbled back to watch, as Percy planted himself in the center and thumped his chest.
“It was me!” he yelled.
“Don’t let Percy forget about you,” Thea whispered to Francis, who nodded and ran unsteadily for the stage.
“It was a good trick, wasn’t it, how I ruined Miss Knight?” Percy called out to the spectators, who were watching and whispering and watching some more. “It was my idea.”
“It was my idea too,” Francis whined from beside him. “Don’t forget me, Percy.”
Rafe was watching from the other side of the stage, Martha and Sally by his side. Martha wore that impassively curious look she got during experiments. Sally’s hand was plastered over her mouth, her eyes wide with horrified amusement. Rafe’s gaze shifted and found Thea’s. She shrugged and he grinned.
Then her attention was caught by a man pushing to the front of the audience, recognizable by his long white hair and long black walking stick.
“Get down from there, boy,” Lord Ventnor hissed at Percy. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Look, it’s Father.” Percy brayed his donkey’s bray. “Father says I’m not clever, but I fooled him, I fooled you all. We told you tales about Thea Knight, and you believed us.”
“Silence!” Ventnor demanded from the floor.
“You pair of disgusting oafs will stop this now,” ordered another voice, as cold and crisp as a winter’s night. The voice belonged to an elderly man, who was not tall but had such presence he did not need to be: the Duke of Sherbourne.
“What’s that?” Percy said.
Francis squinted. “It’s a duke.”
“A duck, you say.”