Page 56 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Violet and Diana do have a way of making interesting things happen,” Emily agreed, reaching up to adjust her bonnet. She was wearing a new gown of white satin, with a new blue spencer to match the embroidered blue vines on the gown’s skirts, and as she prepared to alight from the carriage at the theater her dashing husband owned, she was feeling very far removed from the prim and virginal Emily Turner who had begun the Season last spring in her usual gowns of pale pink and a polite smile fixed upon her face.
“It’s not just Violet and Diana,” Sophie said as the door opened and she prepared to step out. “Last I checked, you’ve made the most interesting match of the year, done so without even asking your parents’ permission, and are currently on your way to visit an establishment where no proper lady should dare tread. You’re perfectly interesting in your own right, Emily Belfry.”
She then took the proffered hand of the footman and stepped down from the carriage, leaving a slightly flabbergasted Emily in her wake.
It wasn’t that Emily thought herself dull—it was simply that she had always considered Diana and Violet to be more interesting than her. They were louder, more outspoken, less concerned about always saying and doing the right thing. And yet, Sophie’s words rang in her head.
Shewas interesting.
“Are you sure you’re not concerned about being seen in such a place?” Emily asked as she alighted from the carriage, repeating the query she’d asked upon collecting Sophie at her home. It had been something of an impulsive decision to stop and invite Sophie on the way to the Belfry, but Emily knew that Violet had already—very reluctantly—agreed to have tea with her mother that afternoon, and Diana and Lord Willingham were meeting with the rector at St. George’s to discuss their impending nuptials. Sophie, however, had been at home when Emily stopped by, and had professed herself delighted to accompany her.
“I know you’re widowed,” Emily added, “but if you don’t wish to risk your reputation—”
“As a matter of fact, I’m feeling perilously unconcerned with my reputation of late,” Sophie said lightly, twining her arm through Emily’s as they made their way up the steps past the graceful columns atthe building’s entrance. Unlike on her previous visits with Julian, Emily had chosen to enter through the front doors instead of the stage door; she was curious to see the entrance hall of the theater in the light of day, without a crowd of dissolute gentlemen obscuring her view.
“I rather hope,” Sophie continued, “that if I’m just a little bitmoreunconcerned, a certain insufferable gentleman will grow irritated enough to do something about it.”
Emily frowned, Sophie’s words drawing her back from her contemplation of her surroundings. “Are you talking about West?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that supposition,” Sophie said airily as they walked through the doors, which was really all the answer Emily needed. She knew that Sophie and Lord James’s brother had something of a history—they had been courting years earlier, before West had been involved in the curricle race that had killed Lord Willingham’s brother, and grievously injured himself in the process. Emily did not know what had happened thereafter, only that Sophie had somehow ended up married—in rather hurried fashion—to Lord Fitzwilliam Bridewell, an old friend of West’s who had himself been killed on the Continent a few years ago, leaving Sophie a very young widow. Just this past summer, Sophie had been involved in a brief affair with Lord Willingham, one that had ended with relative haste without any bad feeling on either side, a liaison that Emily had always found somewhat surprising, since they did not seem particularly well-suited. She could not help but wonder if there might have been motives that she was not privy to.
It was all very curious. And, while Emily might be polite enough not to press, she was not so unobservant as to have failed to note more than one lingering glance, on the part of both WestandSophie, when each thought the other wasn’t watching.
There was no opportunity to continue this line of discussion, however, since Sophie had drawn them to an abrupt halt in the foyer of the theater. “It doesn’t look very scandalous by the cold light of day, does it?” she asked, craning her head back to take in the chandelier suspended from the soaring ceiling above them, its candles extinguished.
Emily turned in a slow circle. The first time she had visited the Belfry with her friends, she had been surprised by how luxuriously appointed it was—she didn’t know what, precisely, she had been expecting, but given the theater’s reputation as something almost akin to a gentlemen’s club—albeit one where they could bring their mistresses—she’d thought it would look a bit seedier. Instead, she’d been met with the sight of thick carpets and silk damask paper hangings on the walls, and now, knowing the money Julian had poured into renovations, she could see what care had gone into so many of the details. Something within her clenched as she took all of it in. She might find Julian’s fixation on the status her connections and reputation could bring him a bit ridiculous, but he had poured years of his life—and, from the looks of it, a not-insignificant portion of his inheritance—into this place. She wanted him to achieve his goals.
“No,” she said, in belated reply to Sophie’s query. “I don’t think I’d realized how… elegant it is, I suppose.”
“It is, rather,” Sophie agreed. “More elegant than you’d expect, given its reputation,” she added, echoing Emily’s own thoughts.
“That,” said Emily firmly, linking her arm through Sophie’s once again and preparing to plunge deeper into the theater, “is why we are here.”
They found Julian not in his office, but in the wings of the stage, deep in conversation with a woman, paying no heed to the stagehands wheeling several pieces of completed scenery past or the sounds of theorchestra rehearsing in the pit. As they drew nearer, Emily registered the dark mane of curls and realized the woman in question was Miss Congreave, the understudy for Miss Simmons. And, judging by the way her arms were crossed over her chest, whatever she was discussing with Julian was not making her terribly happy.
“No,” Julian said flatly, not having noticed Emily’s approach. He was wearing a shirt and waistcoat, but his jacket was nowhere in sight, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, leaving his forearms bare. Emily paused, her gaze snagging on that expanse of bare skin for a moment—who would have possibly thought forearms, of all things, could be seductive? She continued her perusal, noting with appreciation that his cravat was loosened enough to show a bit of his throat. By the time her gaze made it up to his eyes, she realized that Julian had noted her presence and was watching her with some amusement. She blushed, realizing that she had essentially been ogling him, and, glancing sideways, saw that Sophie was biting her lip, apparently to prevent laughter as well.
“Julian,” she said, deciding that the best course of action—as it so often was—was to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. “There you are.” She approached him a bit hesitantly, given their argument of two nights before, and saw a faint trace of her own wariness reflected in his gaze, which actually reassured her a bit.
“Emily,” he said, reaching out for her hand to draw her closer. Glancing over her shoulder and registering Sophie’s presence, he inclined his head. “Lady Fitzwilliam, welcome to the Belfry.”
“It’s much more impressive than I was expecting,” Sophie said frankly, and Julian laughed.
“I don’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult.”
“A compliment,” Sophie said, grinning at him. “Men are so quick to take offense, it would be such a nice change if you didn’t.”
“Very well,” Julian agreed, and Emily had to press her lips together to prevent herself from smiling. Despite their quarrel, it was very difficult to not like him when he was determined to be charming.
“What brings you ladies here today?” he added, before seeming to belatedly recall that he wasn’t alone. He turned back to Miss Congreave, who was watching this scene curiously, and offered her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry—Miss Congreave, I believe you remember my wife, Lady Julian?”
“Of course,” Miss Congreave said slowly, looking at Emily with no less interest than she had displayed on their first meeting. This look had grown familiar to Emily by virtue of the fact that everyone at the theater had greeted her with some version of it upon first making her acquaintance. She supposed they must all be intrigued to meet the lady who had convinced Julian Belfry, eternal bachelor, to hop to the altar, though she felt like publicly announcing that she, not he, had been the one to require a bit of convincing.
“This is my friend Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell,” Emily said, gesturing to Sophie, who smiled at Miss Congreave.
“Miss Congreave, you appeared at the Adelphi last year, did you not?” Sophie asked, and Miss Congreave nodded, smiling at the question.
“I did. Did you have the opportunity to attend one of my performances?”
