Leonie nudged her way into a better viewing position, next to an older lady and the girl she seemed to be chaperoning.
The wailing woman had taken hold of Swanton’s coattails and was sinking to the ground in an attitude of supplication.
No small acrobatic feat, considering her other hand grasped that of a small child. The child was crying piteously.
“Madam, I don’t know who you are, but—” Swanton began.
“Not know me! Not know me! We were everything to each other! And there is your daughter, your very image!”
The little girl, who might have been about Lucie’s age or possibly younger, was fair. So was her mother. So were a great many other English men and women. Though Leonie had no illusions about men, she had as well no illusions about most things. The scene might as easily have been false as true. Either way, it was well played and couldn’t have been worse timed.
Leonie didn’t need to know the truth to see disaster looming—for the Milliners’ Society, for her shop. And for Swanton, too, curse him.
“Now, now, madam, that will be quite enough of that,” came a firm voice nearby.
It wasn’t Lisburne, who was still trying to make his way through a knot of ladies. It was another gentleman, who looked vaguely familiar. He pushed through the crowd like a policeman or soldier, and the women gave way, though not without exclaiming to each other about his lack of courtesy and What was Vauxhall coming to? and Who did he think he was?
He ignored their complaints and went straight for the blonde woman. “See here,” he said. “A joke’s a joke, but this has gone far enough.”
“A joke!” the woman shrieked. “Ruination! Abandonment! A joke!”
The man took hold of her elbow and said something Leonie couldn’t hear. The woman seemed to sag with weariness. She let go of Swanton’s coat and rose. Still weeping, and stumbling a little as though emotionally depleted, she let the unknown gentleman lead her away. The child’s wailing subsided to sniffs as she went along with the adults.
The audience had remained more or less silent throughout. Some were dumbfounded by shock, others speechless with rapture about the juicy tale they’d tell their friends. For a short time, the silence continued. Then the whispering started, like a wind hissing through the theater. It built to a hum of excited chatter.
The older woman near Leonie took hold of her charge’s arm, muttering, “This is disgraceful. I won’t stay another minute.” Ignoring the younger woman’s pleas, she led her away.
Leonie went out, too.
The scene’s ending rendered Lisburne as dumbstruck as everybody else.
Theaker? Coming to Swanton’s rescue?
Theaker? Playing justice of the peace instead of riot instigator?
Then the whispering started. And grew louder, swiftly driving Theaker to the back of Lisburne’s mind.
“Did you hear what she said?”
“A drunken woman. She ought not to have been let in.”
“Must have been a prank. Somebody’s idea of a joke. In very bad taste, I must say.”
“Can you credit it? Carrying on about unfortunate women and abandoning one he’d made unfortunate, the wretch—leaving her to make shift for herself and his natural child?”
“Shocking scene! But I blame myself. The instant I saw that creature on the stage—like a ballet dancer!—I had my suspicions. I should have taken you away directly. Milliners’ Society, indeed!”
“But Mama, I’m sure it was a mistake. I heard someone say the woman was drunk.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“How dare they harangue us for funds, when he lets his own child go begging, the horrid hypocrite!”
And so the mills of the beau monde began to grind away at reputations—Swanton’s, Leonie Noirot’s, and the Milliners’ Society itself.
Lisburne tamped down his anger. He wanted to hit somebody, but that was the trouble with episodes like this: no proper target.
Realizing the show was over, the crowd swiftly made for the doors. Naturally they couldn’t wait to share the news.
The clumps of women having melted away, he reached Swanton at last.
“No time to try to mend it now,” Lisburne said. No time to get to Theaker and the woman, either. By now they were long gone. “The jugglers come on in a moment. We have to get out of here.”
Swanton met his gaze. “But can it be mended?” he said. “This isn’t like the letters. She spoke of that year in Paris. You remember the state I was in. It’s all a muddle in my mind, those weeks.” He rubbed his forehead. “Simon, what if it’s true?”
“Then we’ll have to make it right,” Lisburne said. “On a host of counts. The Milliners’ Society. Maison Noirot.”
Swanton fell back as though he’d taken a physical blow. “Good God, I’d forgotten,” he said. “Not only me, is it? Madame. Her girls. And it’s worse for them, isn’t it? This is a nightmare.”
“Yes.” Lisburne looked about him. “And I’ve lost Madame.”
Given Leonie’s eye-catching attire, not attracting attention wasn’t the easiest task. On the other hand, she was a DeLucey and a Noirot. Until Cousin Emma had obtained control, Leonie’s parents had let their children run wild in the streets, where they learned less-than-honest ways of making their way in the world. Though limited, the experience had been educational.
Leonie knew, for instance, how to carry herself so as not to attract notice.
She knew how not to look furtive. And if she wanted to do murder at present, nobody could tell by looking at her.
In any case, she wasn’t yet sure who needed killing.
She followed her quarry along the southern covered walk past the Gothic Piazza and on out through the Kennington Lane entrance.
For all this time the gentleman appeared to be expostulating with the woman, and now and again the child recommenced weeping.
Was he threatening them with the authorities or critiquing the performance?
By the time they reached the coach field they appeared to be arguing, and the gentleman made as though to drag the woman somewhere. Then he looked about him, up and down New Bridge Street. A moment later, a hackney pulled out from the cluster of vehicles at the coach field. The gentleman waved it down.
Leonie swore under her breath. She ought to be able to determine whether what she’d seen was real or a hoax, but she was at a disadvantage. The dramatic scene had been so unexpected. Though she was good at reading faces and even better at discerning frauds and fakes, she hadn’t had a clear view. Now she was uncertain, a state she hated.
Maybe the scene in the theater had been exactly what it appeared to be, and this vaguely familiar gentleman was one of Swanton’s friends quietly dealing with an unpleasantness, as aristocratic men were known to do for their friends. Maybe the woman was drunk or deranged. Maybe the gentleman meant to take her to the nearest magistrate. Maybe he was warning or bribing her to go away.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Not that it made a particle of difference what the truth was, Leonie reminded herself. The damage was done. She’d have to devise a way to undo it—which, at present, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to do. Dealing with scandal was Sophy’s forte. But even Sophy couldn’t devise a counterattack without having at least an inkling of the true state of affairs.
This was why Leonie had followed the trio. She’d no assurance she’d learn much, but it had to be more productive than attacking Swanton, and taking him apart, piece by piece.
And so she remained. And watched.
Then, at last, the hack drew up, and she saw him.
The sun had set and the moon hadn’t yet risen, but thousands of lights illuminated Vauxhall. It was as poetic and romantic a scene as Lisburne could wish—and no earthly use, after what had happened.
He stood in the walkway in fron
t of one of the piazzas, only half listening to two of Longmore’s longtime friends, Crawford and Hempton, argue about whether Theaker was trying to get himself into Swanton’s good graces or was up to his old tricks of tormenting him.
Meanwhile, Leonie had vanished.
After a quick search of the theater, he’d hurried out here, where he could keep an eye on the entrance. She wouldn’t have left without her girls, he was sure, and he’d sent a friend to look after them. Now he needed only to keep an eye on this corner of the gardens.
He was debating whether he’d done the right thing in sending Swanton to hunt for her rather than sending him home when, looking toward the entrance for the hundredth time, Lisburne saw her.
She approached in her usual style—a graceful flutter of ribbons and bows, and unassailable self-confidence—but something in the way she carried herself gave him the sense of being borne down upon.
Naturally he went on the offensive, striding to meet her. “Where the devil have you been?” he said.
“Backstage,” she said.
“You were nowhere near the stage,” he said. “I looked. I’ve searched everywhere, and made Swanton hunt, too, to take his mind off that appalling scene.”
“Do not scold me,” she said. “Do not play the overprotective swain, either, because—”
“Overprotective! Swain!”
“That show of possessiveness thrills other women no end, I’m sure, but I’m not thrilled,” she said. “I’m in no mood to be overborne and ordered about and lectured. I realize your nature is protective—”