“Oh.” He looked genuinely disconcerted. “I assumed that was when the performance commenced.”
She smiled and patted his arm. “In London, yes, but here”—with a small wave, she indicated the crowd—“people value the opportunity to meet as much as the music.”
His expression grew faintly aggravated.
Then she realized what he’d said. “You secured a box? At such short notice?” Given this was the Council House hall, there were only a handful of boxes available.
He met her eyes and arched his brows. “Another of those things about being a nobleman—everyone wants to cultivate your patronage.”
She couldn’t miss the cynicism in his voice. “I suppose that’s true,” she murmured. “And here, there are far fewer nobles on the ground.”
He grunted softly, then a stout gentleman and an overdressed lady sporting feathers in her hair and diamonds by the pound pushed out of the crowd before Kit and Sylvia.
“I say, Miss Buckleberry”—she recognized the gentleman as one of the city’s aldermen—“pray do the honors and make m’wife and I known to your companion.”
Sylvia had relaxed; now, she felt Kit stiffen beside her. But there was no help for it. “My lord, allow me to present Alderman Henshaw and Mrs. Henshaw.” To the Henshaws, she said, “Lord Cavanaugh.”
The alderman bowed low, and Mrs. Henshaw sank into a flamboyant curtsy.
A quick glance at Kit’s face showed he’d adopted a carefully neutral expression. He bowed slightly—just enough not to give offence. “Alderman. Mrs. Henshaw.”
Henshaw straightened and beamed. “I hope you enjoy your visit to our fair city, my lord.”
Mrs. Henshaw hung on her husband’s arm and all but gushed, “I’m one of the patronesses of the music society—it’s an honor to have our gathering graced by your presence, my lord.” Mrs. Henshaw’s eyes brightened. “Do you plan to be in town for long?”
“As to that,” Kit coolly replied, “I can’t say.”
The alderman made some comment about a recent council decision regarding the docks, one Sylvia as well as Kit took note of, but Kit responded to that and all other attempts to lure him into conversation with distinct coolness and an aloof, somewhat haughty mien.
His behavior in this company stood in stark contrast to the ease with others that Sylvia had seen him constantly display over the past weeks.
She wasn’t surprised when, where the Henshaws had led, others quickly followed. She found herself called on to perform a stream of introductions for the luminaries of Bristol society. Only in a few cases did Kit unbend enough to freely engage with those wishful of making his acquaintance, and notably, those instances involved officials who connected in some way with his new business or, on two occasions, with the school.
For all the rest, Sylvia got the distinct impression that Kit bore with said luminaries on sufferance. To her, he appeared uncomfortable, almost defensive, which, given his background, seemed decidedly strange.
Then old Lady Creswick, resplendent in puce with the feathers from half an ostrich pinned about her person, stumped to a halt before them. She addressed Kit directly, claiming to have met him years before. “In London, although I daresay you won’t remember. You were a dashing young scoundrel, turning ladies’ heads right and left.” Gripping his fingers in her claw-like hand, Lady Creswick grinned toothily into his face. “I knew your mother quite well.”
Although Kit didn’t move, with her hand still tucked against his side, Sylvia sensed him all but recoil. The smile he bestowed on her ladyship, while outwardly amenable, was distinctly brittle. “Indeed?” His tone couldn’t have been more distant.
“Heard about her death,” Lady Creswick continued. She cocked a brow at Kit. “Accident, was it?”
If he could have physically retreated, Sylvia sensed he would have. This time, his “Indeed” was cloaked in ice.
Lady Creswick noticed, but merely shrugged. “Happens to us all, one way or another.”
A stir among the crowd had Kit looking over the heads. He’d expected to draw some attention, to meet a few people and chat, but he’d found the degree of interest well-nigh suffocating. How Ryder bore with it, he didn’t know. Luckily, the doors to the hall proper were being opened, and the ropes cordoning off the stairs to the boxes had already been removed; he could see couples trailing up the red-carpeted stairs.
Closing his hand over Sylvia’s where it lay on his sleeve, he smiled vaguely at Lady Creswick. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am, we should find our box.”
Without waiting for any acknowledgment, he nodded to the old lady, and the instant Sylvia rose from her curtsy, he steered her toward the nearest staircase.
As they ascended and the noise a
nd press of bodies decreased, he felt relief flow over him. When they found their box—the best in the house—and he followed her inside, that relief rose in a wave and swamped him, and the pressure about his lungs and chest fell away.
He seated Sylvia in one of the chairs at the front of the box, then sank into the chair alongside. He glanced out and down into the body of the hall, in which the serried rows of seats were slowly filling. Most of the orchestra were already on the stage, tuning their instruments.
After a moment staring at the sight, he drew in what felt like his first real breath since Alderman Henshaw had accosted them, then exhaling, he turned his head and looked at Sylvia.