Page 15 of Lyon of Scotland
“Do you know the others in the box?” he asked Scott.
“The young beauty with Miss Gordon is Georgina Gordon-Huntly, a natural granddaughter of the Duke of Gordon. This is her grandfather’s box, but apparently the young ladies are Naylor’s guests this evening. The young gentleman with them is the girl’s brother, Oliver Huntly, newly called to the bar. Ah, and the gentleman entering the box now is Sir Frederic Dove, also from Naylor’s office.”
“I met him this week,” Dare said curtly. He narrowed his eyes, convinced that Hannah Gordon wanted nothing to do with Dove.
“The play is starting.” Scott stirred in his seat with vibrant eagerness. Dare sat back and settled as the heavy velvet curtains swayed open.
The play was enjoyable, if archaic and stilted. Kean’s performance was exuberant, a comical villain who made Dare chuckle and Scott guffaw. But throughout, Dare’s glance drifted toward Hannah Gordon.
She did not laugh, and sometimes lifted a gloved hand to her face. One might think she watched a tragedy. When Frederic Dove, seated just behind her, leaned forward to murmur to her, she angled away as if uncomfortable. That caught Dare’s attention. He sat forward, intent.
Linhope, a friend of many years, leaned toward Dare. “What is going on over there, across the way?”
“Nothing I like,” Dare said. “That is Archibald Gordon’s daughter.”
“The girl from the College of Arms? You should go over there. You always had an interest in her, as I recall,” Linhope murmured. Blond hair gleaming in the candlelight, he sat back.
“I do,” Dare said quietly. He was very tempted to interfere; Linhope had guessed correctly, knowing him so well.
He had been friends with Arthur Hay-Stewart—not yet Lord Linhope then—since their days in Perth High School; after they had each studied law and medicine, they had reunited in the 42nd Highland regiment, called the Black Watch. On the field at Quatre Bras five years earlier, their regiment took a bloody beating in a field of rye. When Dare burned his hands pulling a soldier free of a brush fire, Arthur Stewart’s skill in a makeshift hospital tent had saved him. While he recovered, he had helped Arthur and the camp surgeon, now Dare’s brother-in-law, tending patients. He would always be grateful for their help and friendship.
He nodded understanding to Linhope, and turned as Scott now leaned close.
“What do you think of Sir Frederic Dove?” The poet, too, had noticed.
“I cannot say I am fond.”
“Forward fellow. He will not leave the young lady alone.”
“So I see.” Dare watched as the girl visibly cringed as Dove spoke to her. Fisting a hand, he stood, ready to make his way over there. Hannah Gordon looked frightened of Dove’s sly, aggressive behavior. Dare could not tolerate that. He wanted to grab the man by the cravat and drag him out of there.
“Are you going over there?” Scott asked.
“I am,” he said. Just then, the actors concluded the scene and the heavy curtains drew closed. The interval between acts, when audience members could walk around, chat, and take refreshment, had begun. “Please excuse me,” he told his companions.
Feeling compelled and urgent, Dare strode through the crowded foyer to reach the door leading to the other side of the theatre. Miss Gordon’s situation might be none of his business, but he was concerned. At the least, he had witnessed an older man pestering a young woman. Yet he needed no excuse. He felt protective and indignant.
Wading through theatre-goers eager for refreshment and conversation, he edged down the darkened aisle until he saw Miss Gordon with Frederic Dove. The gentleman towered over her, all but backing her to the wall.
“Lord Lyon!” He heard his name then and turned to see George Naylor waving. “My lord! I hoped to see you here tonight. Excellent play! I would introduce you to my wife, but she went in search of the sugar biscuits and lemonade being served in the anteroom. I am hoping to find something stronger, perhaps a good Scotch. Will you join me?”
“Soon. I see Miss Gordon there and mean to ask if she wants refreshment.”
“Of course. You are friends from Edinburgh.” Naylor glanced that way. “She is with Dove. They will be along shortly.”
Hannah Gordon, listening to Dove’s low monologue, raised a gloved hand to her throat. The gesture sent a spike through Dare. He took a step toward them.
“Sir, a warning.” Naylor set a hand to his arm. “Dove is easily offended, and frankly not fond of Scots.”
“I do not much like his manner with the young lady.”
“I suspect he is unhappy because his son Charles is taken with her—a Scottish girl. Dove would find that unsuitable. One can hardly blame the young man for liking the girl. But his father is cut of different cloth.”
“I do. I believe I shall intervene,” Dare muttered.
“If you must.” Naylor walked away, as if glad to be quit of the situation.
Dare walked through the crowd toward Miss Gordon and Dove, and caught part of their conversation. He tilted his head to listen before he might be seen.
