The Husband Plot Page 7

  They took a closed carriage to the theater. Since they didn’t have the livery of a great house, they were in the queue for what felt like hours, waiting for their turn to disembark at the entrance doors. Lisbeth filled the time with nervous chatter. She wondered if Adrian could tell her prattle was nervous, or if he thought she actually considered a catalog of all plays she had previously seen good conversation. Surely she was speaking too quickly to sound natural.

  “Have you been to the theater before?” Lisbeth asked, when she felt she couldn’t listen to herself blab on any longer.

  Adrian nodded. “I went quite often at Eton and Oxford, and occasionally to the travelling troupes that stopped near Maidenheath House in Kent.”

  That was good news. Lisbeth adored arts of all kinds, and theater had a special place in her heart. It was nothing short of magic that she could believe a painted set piece was the ocean, or that her nerves could stand on end in fear that Macbeth would murder Duncan. It was when she had discovered Lord Gresham couldn’t rub two words together about art that she had known she couldn’t marry him.

  “What is your favorite play?” Lisbeth asked. “Or if you cannot choose only one – for I’m sure I couldn’t – who is your favorite playwright?”

  Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Would I be an Englishman if I didn’t answer Shakespeare?”

  A boring answer, if it was true. Lisbeth had nothing against Shakespeare, except for that one could easily claim to favor the bard without knowing the first thing about his plays. “I promise not to have your English citizenship revoked if you favor someone else. Even if it is Marlowe.”

  Adrian’s lips twitched in amusement. Not quite a smile, but an expression that leaked into his eyes with a sparkle. “Very well. My true favorite is Monk Lewis.”

  Lisbeth had only heard of Monk Lewis, who wrote both salacious Gothic novels and plays. His drama, The Captive, supposedly had sent audience members into hysterics for its portrayal of a woman wrongfully imprisoned in an asylum.

  Now she wanted to see one of his plays even more.

  “Have you been to Covent Garden before?” Lisbeth asked.

  “Once, when I was seventeen or eighteen, in town with my grandfather. I don’t remember the name of the play, but it starred Mrs. Westin.”

  He looked out the window as he said this, his eyes cast far away with recollection. Lisbeth had heard more than one gentleman sigh over the name of Mrs. Westin, remembering her as the beauty they first lost their hearts to. Lisbeth imagined a woman like Annabelle, with golden tresses and a perfect figure and sultry eyes that beckoned a man closer.

  She could easily imagine Adrian falling in love with someone so beautiful.

  The carriage tugged forward.

  “What are we seeing tonight?” Lisbeth asked. She had been so caught up in the invitation – its proximity to the kiss, its meaning within their week of courtship, its implications on her wardrobe – that she had forgotten to ask earlier.

  “I’m not sure of the name.” Adrian turned his gaze back to her, and it was so intense, she had to look away. “I confess I only wanted to take you to the theater, and I didn’t think to ask what the features are. However, I believe the drama stars Mr. Edwin Clarke.”

  The famous blackamoor actor. The newspapers were in a flurry about him. There were some who didn’t want a black man on stage, displaying human emotions alongside white actors. There were others who said Mr. Clarke was the best actor they had ever seen tread the boards.

  Lisbeth felt Adrian’s eyes on her still, weighing her reaction. She decided on a playful smile. “How daring. What will people say when they hear we have been to see the infamous Mr. Edwin Clarke?”

  She could tell it wasn’t quite the right reaction when he slid his eyes out the window again.

  The carriage finally pulled to a stop at the theater doors, and their footman opened the door to hand Lisbeth down. She lifted her skirts to protect them from mud until she was inside the theater.

  There was so much to love about attending the theater. The energy as everyone assembled, chattering about nothing, judging about everything. The anticipation of waiting for the curtain to rise, knowing one was about to be transformed by a special kind of magic. The unity that everyone there, regardless of birth, was about to experience the same thing.

  Lisbeth was a little too nervous to enjoy the ascent to their box, however. Behind her, Adrian was silent, her misspoken words hanging heavy between them. Ahead awaited his family to welcome them into the private Hathorne box.

  She had met his family at the wedding, of course, but Lisbeth had been so overwhelmed by the nerves of the day that she hardly remembered what she said. She had kept stealing glances at Adrian, wondering how her new husband felt about his wife. Now she would find out what kind of impression she’d made.

  Lisbeth didn’t usually concern herself with how others perceived her. She knew she generally made a favorable introduction, for her wit was fashionable and she was not so uncomely that she would offend anyone. Adrian’s family, however, was different. If he ended up granting her the annulment, they would likely be her sworn enemies beginning about one week from that night. If Adrian didn’t annul the marriage, then his family was now hers. When he left for the West Indies, they would still call on her. She might celebrate holidays with them. If there was a child – quite unthinkable at the moment – they would lay claim to its attention and love.

  His cousin Robert was laughing when they walked into the box. Robert had the same broad forehead as Adrian, but his hair fell flat against his head where Adrian’s stood in tight, proud curls. She already knew Robert by his laugh, a carefree guffaw that other gentlemen, who didn’t stand to inherit a dukedom, might try to curtail.

  At the moment, he was entertained by Adrian’s sister Mary. The daughter of Mr. Bartholomew Hathorne’s first marriage, Mary looked almost nothing like her brother. Everything about her was pale to the point of sickly: wispy white blond hair, skin so translucent one could see trails of blue veins on her wrists and neck and temple, and eyes the faded blue of dusk. She was slender, too, and narrow-faced. The only family resemblance was in expression, for she and Adrian wore the same careful mask of indifference whenever emotion wasn’t called for.

  It was Adrian’s grandmother, the Duchess of Berkwell, who greeted them. “Mrs. Hathorne, what a treat it is for me to call you that.” She clasped one of Lisbeth’s hands in affection, then turned to press a kiss on Adrian’s cheek. “You two are going to be the talk of the evening. Everyone is anxious to greet the new couple.”

  Lisbeth did like the duchess. She was not much taller than Lisbeth, though she wore her stature with much more grace, perhaps because her shoulders and hips were within fashionable reason. That night, she wore a green gown and a string of matching emeralds at her neck, which set her brown eyes glittering in almost the same way Adrian’s did. She was the type of duchess who had people’s respect by virtue of existing, and so she did whatever suited her, whenever it suited her. Including running her fingers against Adrian’s side to tickle him. “A smile would not be out of place, you know.”

  Adrian obliged, though what he mustered up barely broke his careful mask. “I should hope there are more interesting people here than a mere gentleman and his wife.”

  “A mere gentleman with fifty thousand pounds per year and a connection to the Duke of Berkwell,” the duchess corrected. “The ton is foaming at the mouth to get in your good graces.”

  Lisbeth resisted the urge to raise an I-told-you-so eyebrow at Adrian. He was quite incorrect about how he would be received. Money and family were all one needed to win the heart of the peerage, and he had both.

  “Grandmama, you are hogging them,” Mary said. “I want to get to know my new sister.”

  “But then I shall be stuck with Adrian,” Robert objected, “and I already see him too much.”

  Lisbeth did love a good fight for her attention. “There is no reason I can’t speak to both of you at the sa
me time.” She joined them at the balustrade, overlooking the theater house.

  Her nerves fading away, Lisbeth could almost hum with the energy of the Covent Garden Theater Royale. The boxes were practically full, men of all classes milled about the ground floor, and the whole place thrummed with excited conversation. In that very moment, Lisbeth imagined, someone was being introduced to their future spouse; someone else was discovering her husband’s affair; some lords were discussing the bill; and behind the curtain, in some bowel of the building, the magical actors were dressing to bind every single person with the same spell.

  Mary was busy pointing out her acquaintances, most of them lords and ladies Lisbeth had also met the previous year at the Season.

  “Oh, and there is Lord Brabourne with his uncle, Lord Everly, the Marquess of Verne.” Mary asked, delicately signaling to a box across the theater. “Have you been introduced? They are close to the family.”

  “I met Lord Brabourne at the wedding.” In her fever of nerves, Lisbeth had barely noticed the man other than to note he was not a blood relation to the Hathornes. She did remember him snaking a thin-lipped smile at her upon introduction. Now, she took a closer look from across the way. Lord Brabourne was perhaps a decade older than her, with thinning blond hair and a curled moustache shining with wax.

  “He is the more persistent visitor of the two,” Mary said, with a soft expression that Lisbeth couldn’t interpret. She wondered if Mary mentioned Lord Brabourne as a potential suitor. A year older than Adrian, Mary must have been almost twenty-five, though she was unmarried. Lisbeth understood she’d been affianced to a man who was killed with Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar; she supposed it must have been a love match, else Mary would have made another connection by now.

  “You are lucky you haven’t been introduced to the uncle yet,” Robert drawled. “All Lord Everly talks of are his daughters and his horses.”

  “He only speaks of his daughters because he hopes you’ll marry one of them,” Mary rejoined. Lisbeth was a little surprised at how easily she poked fun at her cousin; given her wan pallor, Lisbeth had expected Mary to be careful and reserved.

  “Everyone hopes I’ll marry one of their daughters. Yet I have no plans to tie my neck in that noose until I am well into the next decade, so they should all start speaking of something more interesting.”

  Lisbeth began to fan herself innocently. “Do you not find women interesting by their own merit, Lord Eusford? Or must they be under consideration for the singular position as your wife to deserve your attention?”

  “You wound me, dear cousin.” Robert clamped a palm across his heart. “That you would think so lowly of me, and that you would call me by so formal a name. Please say that you will call me Robert from here on out.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You miss the point, Robert. You offend my sex when you so thoroughly dismiss us as a topic. Perhaps Lord Everly has been trying to impress upon you the brilliance of his daughters’ embroidery skills because they are truly inventive. Are you not interested in how the other half spends our time?”

  “I think the trouble is that Robert has never sewed a stitch in his life,” Mary chimed in. “You would not dismiss such accomplishments if you knew how hard it is to do successfully.”

  Robert leaned against the balustrade with a game smile. “Why, is it harder than horseback riding?”

  “By miles,” Mary nodded.

  “Than country dancing?”

  “By a hundred allemandes,” Mary said.

  “Than sword fighting?”

  “By a thousand tiny pricks to your finger,” Lisbeth exclaimed, leaning in to join the game.

  A hand landed on hers, and Lisbeth suddenly realized Adrian stood beside her. He watched them with that mask of indifference, but his fingers were cold against her skin. She turned her smile to him. “Your sister is showing me how to torment Robert when he says something thoughtless.”

  “Lisbeth is a natural at it,” Mary laughed.

  Adrian nodded. “I can imagine.” His eyes drifted to Lisbeth’s. “Shall we take our seats?”

  “Of course.” Lisbeth wasn’t sure what Adrian wasn’t saying, but she was fairly certain she was supposed to understand something from the way he looked at her.

  She had never imagined a husband could be such an enigma.

  Nor had she imagined she would want to sneak out of the box with said enigma and plant another kiss on his delicious lips.

  The family let Adrian and Lisbeth sit in the front row, with Mary on Adrian’s other side and the duchess and Robert behind in a second row of seats. The curtain rolled open on applause, and the first attraction of the evening began – a recital by a soprano visiting from Hanover. As a rule, Lisbeth preferred orchestral music to the piercing tones of song, yet when she closed her eyes in the theater, she could feel the full-bodied trills slide across her soul. And when she thought about the miracle of a human body creating such a perfect, beautiful sound, Lisbeth’s eyes stung with tears.

  She wasn’t ready for the music to end when the audience erupted in applause and the soprano retreated. Lisbeth stayed in her seat, letting the beauty settle into her bones. She peeked at Adrian, who stood in ovation. He wasn’t quite smiling, but he did glow.

  “What did you think?” she asked when he sat back down.

  “Exquisite.” His words came fast, with a heat Lisbeth hadn’t heard from him before. “She paired such power with feeling. The lyrics were so beautiful. It made my hair stand on end.”

  “You speak German?” Lisbeth hadn’t understood the lyrics, except for one word she recognized as black. “What was she singing about?”

  “I know enough to understand.” Adrian looked almost shy, drawing his shoulders and arms within the frame of his body. “It was a song of homesickness. She longed to go back to her childhood, to her mother, and to the land she knew.”

  Lisbeth closed her eyes again to remember the music. She had felt longing, but she hadn’t thought of it as homesickness. For her, the song had been a wish, a dream for a beautiful future that could never be.

  She didn’t dare say so to Adrian. Not here, at least, in public, where a personal conversation was impossible.

  They were interrupted, anyway, by the arrival of none other than the Lords Everly and Brabourne. The latter hung a step or two behind his uncle, as if a lackey waiting for his superior’s orders. As for Lord Everly, he was even bigger than he’d appeared across the theater, both in height and girth, obviously following the fashion of the Prince Regent. His cheeks jostled as he bowed to the duchess. Then he turned to peer at Adrian.

  “Mr. Hathorne, I see you have made good on your father’s promise and found yourself a wife.”

  Adrian bowed his head. “Lord Everly, may I present to you Mrs. Hathorne. I believe you are acquainted with her father, Lord Dawes.”

  Lord Everly flicked his eyes over her, and Lisbeth suddenly felt woefully inadequate in her velvet dress displaying so much shoulder.

  “A pleasure to meet you.” But he didn’t bow to her or ask any further polite questions. He returned his attention to Adrian. “I shall write to the assembly in favor of your privilege bill. In a few months, we can finalize all the other paperwork.”

  Adrian bowed his head again. Behind his uncle, Lord Brabourne watched the exchange with a gleam in his eye that set Lisbeth’s hair on end.

  “Come now, Everly,” the duchess cried, “the theater is no place to discuss business. What did you think of Miss Stienburg’s performance?”

  “I cannot lie to you, Your Grace. Brabourne and I talked through the whole thing. Lady Everly has decried us as utterly hopeless.”

  They were supposed to titter along with his laughter, excusing the man his artlessness simply because he owned up to it. Lisbeth could only manage a small smile.

  “Why come to the theater if you don’t enjoy it?” the duchess asked. “Surely you and Brabourne could have the same conversation at White’s if you so choose.”

/>   “We are here for the second act,” Lord Everly said.

  “Ah yes, the famed Mr. Clarke. He is supposed to be the most talented actor London has ever seen.” The duchess beamed. “I am here for him, too.”

  “Your Grace will forgive me if I don’t believe that abolitionist propaganda. How could an ape be more talented than Edmund Keane? Eh, Hathorne?”

  Lisbeth’s whole body cringed at the word. She wanted to slap Lord Everly. She wanted to spit at him and chase him and his nephew out of the theater and leave them to the mercy of the Covent Garden guttersnipes.

  Instead, all eyes were on Adrian. Poor Adrian, who wore that mask of indifference, although Lisbeth was close enough to see a little, momentary quiver at his jaw.

  He didn’t smile for the lords. But he did bow his head, a third time.

  Robert was the one who spoke. “As the ladies are always reminding me, most of us men are nothing but apes. Either way, I’m looking forward to the performance.”

  Everly and Brabourne finally left, though with such a glow of satisfaction about them that Lisbeth’s stomach churned. She looked to the duchess, then Mary, for a sign of how she was supposed to react; Mary started a monologue on how much she admired the soprano’s gown, and the duchess seemed happy to listen, as if nothing untoward had just happened.

  For his part, Adrian stood silently, his eyes focusing so hard on his sister that Lisbeth suspected he wasn’t seeing Mary at all.

  The interval finally ended, and they all resumed their seats a little too eagerly. Across the way, Lisbeth could see Lord Everly sitting smugly in his box, hands clasped around his stomach like a proud little king. Behind him, Lord Brabourne ran two fingers along the curl of his moustache.

  She slipped her hand into Adrian’s. She leaned into him, so close that, if she grew tired, she could rest her head on his shoulder. Maybe she would, indecent as it was, to show the whole theater exactly how Adrian fit into her world.

  The curtain raised to considerably more applause than the first act. The scene began with English actors, and Lisbeth let herself get caught up in the story of two courtiers plotting to win the affections of the queen.