Page 12 of The Vagabond Viscount
The other night. What a disaster that had been. Flynn still didn’t know what he should do. Augusta had been furious when she stormed out of the orangery. The memory of the anguish on her face as she brushed past him sat etched in his mind. She had called him out on his dithering. On his refusal to speak to his father.
Can you blame her?
Of course, he couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that he wasn’t able to tell her the truth of his situation. That he didn’t dare offer for her hand. His lie had finally borne fruit, and it was a bitter harvest.
How can I tell her that I am a coward who lives in fear of his own father?
“The truth is, I was feeling a little unwell, so I took myself off home. Didn’t want to be around other people if I was coming down with something.”
Another coward’s lie.
One day, some day, he would stand up to Earl Bramshaw. And damn the consequences.
What would be left of him afterward, Flynn dreaded to think.
ChapterSeven
Flynn slipped out of Bramshaw House early Saturday morning. The theatre wouldn’t be open until eight, but he didn’t want to be around the house while his father was at home.
Just after dawn, Earl Bramshaw had started yelling at the servants and in Flynn’s experience that was never a good sign. Taking his temper out on the staff would only last for so long. In his bitter understanding, it was often a prelude to the main event. Dishing out verbal and physical abuse was what his father seemed to live for when it came to dealing with Flynn.
It was far safer for him to be out the house and wandering the streets of London rather than lingering at home waiting for the moment when the hammer might fall.
He had a well-used list of places where he could go in the meantime. On Saturdays, his usual haunt was a coffee house just off Oxford Street. A discreet place whose owner didn’t mind that Flynn lingered long after his coffee and small breakfast had been eaten. The kindness of strangers, who had, over the years, become friends, was a rare gift in his life.
The rest of the day was spent wandering through various shops and haunting places where the store owner never complained if he didn’t actually buy anything.
By the time he did reach Covent Garden late that day, Flynn was tired. He could also admit to being a bundle of nerves. His relief at Gideon’s immediate acceptance of the invitation to tonight’s play had been dampened somewhat with the discovery that while Augusta was attending, it was under noted sufferance. With Lord Matthew Kembal making up the fourth member of the party, Flynn could only hope he would add his customary light-heartedness to this evening’s event and save it from being a complete disaster.
I just have to try and avoid upsetting Augusta as much as possible.
The Kembal siblings met him inside the elegant foyer of the theatre. Flynn shook hands with Gideon and Matthew, then bowed low to Lady Augusta.
He took in her pale lilac and white floral gown. Such an outfit might make another girl look washed out, but Augusta’s long brown locks only served to highlight the delicate lace overlay to magnificent effect. Flynn longed to run his fingers through her soft tresses and place a tender kiss on her lips. To drop to his knees and offer up his heartfelt apology over the pain he continued to cause her.
You truly are a beauty. Any man would be honored to have you as his wife.
“Lady Augusta, you look wonderful,” he said.
The soft smile and glint in her eye, which she normally greeted him with, was missing. Augusta gave him a brief, cursory nod. “Lord Cadnam. Thank you for inviting us this evening. The play should be interesting. I hear it is a new version of a previous one that didn’t do so well.”
Gideon, love him, gave Flynn a cheerful pat on the back. “Now then, Augusta, one should never look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially not when it comes with food and drink. And I’m sure the playwrights have been hard at work ironing out any creases in the production.”
Matthew chuckled. “We live in hope. But if it’s a long-winded mess, then we shall just have to press on with making use of the wine and whisky.”
His guests’ words sent Flynn’s hopes for the evening crashing around him. The play had already been dubbed a disaster. Of course, that was why he had been given the free vouchers. It was because no one wanted them.
Tickets gripped tightly in his hand, Flynn led his party of guests up the stairs and to the private box that had been reserved for them.
Please don’t let this play be an utter shambles.
* * *
His prayers were not answered. Less than an hour later, Flynn was silently cursing the so-called friend who had gifted him the tickets. The play was, as Lord Matthew had described, a long-winded mess, and the songs were nothing short of awful. Patrons had begun to file out of the theatre long before the main intermission. The number of empty seats in the stalls was fast becoming an embarrassment.
From where he sat in the private box, Flynn was certain that for every person who rose from their seat and departed the theatre, the actors on the stage died just a little. People didn’t go quietly either. Some were already shouting for their money to be refunded before they made it out into the foyer.
The only blessing was that Matthew had taken the seat next to Flynn, leaving Augusta placed on the other side with Gideon. He didn’t want to face her, not after the ball and especially not after this travesty of a play.
