Lily blinked in surprise, her own voice lowering instinctively. “He’s very big—over six feet, with wide shoulders and large hands. He has brown eyes and brown hair worn long. He’s not handsome.”
Lady Phoebe frowned thoughtfully. “Does he have any mark about him?”
“I don’t think so, unless you consider an especially large nose a mark?” Lily shrugged helplessly.
“What do you know of him? His family? His friends?”
“Nothing,” Lily whispered quite truthfully, dread filling her heart. “Nothing at all.”
“Blast,” said Lady Phoebe.
“What is it?” Lily asked, afraid of the answer. “Who do you think he is?”
“Oh, no one.” Lady Phoebe waved an impatient hand. “It’s just that the captain is so mysterious. I vow he does it simply to vex me. Is he still watching?”
Lily glanced up to see that the captain was indeed staring at them. “Yes, my lady.”
“Of course he is,” Lady Phoebe muttered. “Well, might as well wave him over. I thank you, Miss Goodfellow, for a most enjoyable morning. I hope I may call on you again someday?”
“I’d be honored,” Lily replied as Captain Trevillion again joined them.
“If you’re quite ready, my lady,” he said.
“Oh, all right,” Lady Phoebe replied, getting to her feet.
Captain Trevillion moved adroitly to place his arm just where her hand would land when she rose. “I, too, shall bid you farewell, Miss Goodfellow.”
“Sir. My lady,” Lily murmured.
The captain tipped his hat and she watched as they left.
But the feeling of dread stayed with her. Who had Lady Phoebe thought Caliban was? For despite her disavowal, Lily couldn’t help but think the other woman had had someone particular in mind when she’d asked her questions.
Lily glanced down at the remains of their tea. The question was this: how dangerous was it for her to become involved with Caliban when she didn’t know who he was?
DESPITE MAKEPEACE’S IRE, MacLeish wasn’t a bad sort, Apollo thought late that afternoon—although he was very young to be designing and building independently. But he did seem to at least understand the concepts of architecture. The proof, Apollo supposed, would come when the architect showed them his designs for the theater and opera house and whatever else the duke wanted and was willing to pay to have built in the garden. Until then Apollo decided to give the lad the benefit of the doubt.
Now, though, he found his steps quickening as he walked to the theater. He wanted to see Lily again—without inquisitive strangers or odd architects turning up and, if at all possible, even without her scamp of a son and her disapproving maidservant. He’d forgotten, in those long years in Bedlam, through fear and grief and pain, what it was like to simply be with a pretty woman. To tease and flirt and yes, perhaps steal a kiss.
He didn’t know how she felt about that kiss—or if she’d let him kiss her again, but he was certainly going to try. He had lost time to make up—much of life itself to live. He’d spent four years in limbo, simply existing, while others found lovers and friends, even started families.
He wanted to live again.
But as he neared the theater he heard first the sound of voices raised—and then a male voice shouting.
Apollo broke into a run.
He burst from the trees to find a slight man in a purple suit and a white wig standing intimidatingly close to Lily. She wore a shawl over her red dress as if she’d been prepared for their stroll. The two stood in the clearing outside the theater.
“—told you I needed it,” he was saying, his face thrust into hers. Apollo could see spittle flying from his mouth. “You’ll never sell it on your own, so don’t even try it.”
“It’s my work, Edwin,” she replied to the lout, bravely enough, but there was a waver in her voice that made Apollo see red.
“Who are… you?” he demanded, advancing on the two of them, hands clenching and unclenching.
The man swung around and blinked at the sight of Apollo as if he hadn’t heard him draw near.
“Who’m I? Who… who… are you, you great ox?” he asked, mocking Apollo’s halting speech.