Page 36 of Three Weeks with a Princess
“Over my dead body,” Jack muttered.
Since his disastrous encounter with Lia the other day, he’d been kicking himself for making such a hash of things. In his defense, he’d been stunned to see her in such an environment, keeping company with someone like Amy Baxter. As the stepdaughter of the troupe’s manager, Lia might be afforded some measure of protection, but she was still at risk. Anyone with a brain should understand that.
Worse yet, Lia’s mother seemed absolutely fine with the notion of her only child following in her footsteps. Mrs. Lester had even made another stab at it after Lia stormed out of the green room, once more quizzing him on his relationship with her daughter. Jack had replied in an icy voice that Lia was like a sister to him. That Mrs. Lester was disappointed by that characterization was all too evident.
Not that he was actually thinking of Lia in those terms, but he intended to keep that fact strictly to himself.
Gillian’s gloved hand came to rest on his, pulling him out of his dark thoughts.
“You were right to come to us,” she said in a gentle voice. “We’ll think of some way to help my cousin.”
Jack forced a smile. It was a mark of how concerned he was that he’d asked the Levertons for help in persuading Lia to return home to Stonefell. And it was bound to be tricky, at least initially, because he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell her about Gillian—much less that her cousin was a duchess.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to talk some sense into her.”
“She doesn’t seem inclined to take anyone’s advice so far,” Charles said.
“She’s still entranced with the dream of making a life for herself on the stage. But she’ll listen to reason eventually. She always has.”
“You mean she always listened toyou,” Gillian said in a wry tone. “But that was in the past. And as much as you want to help her, you’re not her family. The Lesters are.” She gave him a meaningful look. “As am I, I might add.”
“She’s got you there, old son,” Charles said. “Hard to argue with blood.”
“Her blood relations are utterly hopeless in protecting her,” Jack said caustically. “Besides, with the exception of her grandmother, nobody knows her better than I do. And what I know is that a life on the stage—or as a courtesan, God forbid—is not for Lia. She belongs back at Stonefell.”
With me.
Gillian leaned forward again and gazed at the pit, which had grown exceedingly lively. “Yes, but I must admit I see the appeal. I think we should buy a box for the season, Charles. Then we can come see my cousin whenever we want.”
“I think not,” her husband said in a pained tone.
“Don’t be such an old biddy. It’s very jolly.”
“Vulgaris the term that comes to my mind,” Charles said. “Besides, you’ll send Jack into fits if you encourage Miss Kincaid. We’re supposed to be getting her out of the theatrical life, remember?”
Gillian wrinkled her nose. “I know, but it does seem rather dashing of her. And theatrical pieces can be very edifying, especially Shakespearean dramas or the classics.”
“There is nothing remotely Shakespearean about the Pan Theater,” Jack said, glancing down at the playbill in his hand.
The program was the usual nonsense and started off with a pantomime and a musical piece with a recitation by Mrs. Lester. The main attraction of the evening, the absurdly namedThe Queen of Mount Olympus, was followed by the burletta in which Lia was to appear.A Surprise for the Publican’s Wifefilled Jack with a sense of dread.
“When does my cousin appear?” Gillian asked.
“Not until the burletta at the end,” Jack replied.
Charles let out a groan. “Splendid. We must endure an entire evening of horrifically bad acting and even worse singing—not to mention an audience full of scoundrels, pickpockets, and drunkards. We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives.”
“I’ll protect you, darling,” Gillian said with a grin. “Besides, it can’t be that bad. Lord and Lady Montgomery are just a few boxes over from us.” She leaned out and waved enthusiastically at the startled pair of elderly aristocrats before her husband pulled her back in.
Jack tried to assess the theater with a dispassionate eye. “It actually isn’t,” he finally said.
For one thing, the crowd in the pit and the galleries seemed no worse than in any other theater in London. They were comprised of a mix of nobility and various sorts of respectable shopkeepers and their families, along with the usual disreputable elements. The public rooms were also better than expected, tastefully done up in soothing greens and pale yellows, accented by gilt molding. Though the backstage areas were a dark and dingy nightmare, as he’d discovered to his dismay, Stephen Lester had clearly put some money into creating a venue that could compete with the licensed theaters of Drury Lane.
“The musicians are taking their places,” said Gillian.
After settling in the small pit in front of the stage, the musicians led the assemblage in “God Save the King.” Once the audience was seated again, the curtain went up and the evening’s performance began.
Jack immediately winced at the skimpy costumes worn by the dancers, especially the buxom Amy, but he soon found that the performers were talented and the choreography entertaining. And Marianne Lester was a revelation. She not only had a fine speaking and singing voice, she possessed an arresting sense of drama. Within seconds of stepping onto the stage, she had the enthusiastic audience eating out of her hand. Despite his expectation, Jack enjoyed the recitations, which had been written by her husband and showed a deft turn of mind.
