Page 38 of Three Weeks with a Princess
“That’s called a scroll,” Charles said. “It details the narrative that can’t be explained by the recitations or songs.” He sounded like someone was strangling him.
Jack understood exactly how he felt. Everyone in the pit was now discovering that one of the soldiers was indeed a woman, and a very comely one at that. They were reacting as he’d expected, with a rising tide of loud, ribald comments, a few of which he could make out over the din.
“That’s odd,” Gillian said. “Why don’t they just act it out or present it in a speech, like a Greek chorus?”
“This is how theaters like the Pan get around the legal restrictions on spoken drama,” Charles said.
“You two are missing the point,” Jack growled. “Lia is now front and center in a breeches role, and every damn rake in this blasted theater has taken note of it.”
Gillian grimaced. “That is rather bad.”
“We’ll have to do what we can to minimize the damage,” Charles said. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
“At least she’s off the stage again,” Jack said, relieved that the piece was finally drawing to a close.
The curtain came down, signaling the interval. Jack stood, almost knocking his chair over in his haste. He needed to get downstairs to gauge people’s reactions concerning Lia. If no one realized she was Marianne’s daughter, they might still scrape by.
“I’ll meet you down in the saloon,” he said.
“Jack, wait,” Gillian called out.
He didn’t. A sense of urgency pushed him forward, one that seemed eerily like the sensations he’d felt on the eve of a battle. He knew it was a ridiculous comparison because, after all, no one’s life would be lost. But Lia’s life could be changed forever by what had transpired tonight, in ways that could forever demolish her peace.
He forged his way through the crush in the hall and on the stairs, ignoring both the calls of acquaintances and the entreaties from prostitutes trolling for business. He could never blame those poor creatures for their way of life—after all, the vast majority of them had no other choice. But the hard, grasping look he saw in the eyes of the older ones served as a grim reminder of a future that loomed like an approaching storm in Lia’s innocent path.
Eventually, he jostled his way through to the back of the crowded saloon, where liveried footmen served refreshments. He gave Lester credit for creating an elegant atmosphere that had obviously attracted a fair number of nobility and other prosperous folk to the opening. Right now, though, he was tempted to throttle the man for throwing his stepdaughter to the wolves.
He secured a glass of port and bolted it down in one shot. It seared its way down his throat and exploded in his stomach, but it did the trick of blunting the edge of his fury. Taking a deep breath, he began prowling the room, exchanging the occasional word with a friend but always moving.
And listening.
Although most of the discussion was about the leading lady and the plays, he overheard a number of the men talking about Lia in the most vulgar terms. Two particularly repugnant fellows were graphically parsing her figure, each vowing to seek her out in the green room after the performance. Jack was considering the best way to warn them off without exposing Lia’s identity when a voice blared right next to his ear.
“I say, Lendale, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Theater ain’t usually your style, you know.”
Sighing, Jack turned to greet Viscount Medford, a generally harmless rattle with an unfortunate tendency to gossip. He normally tried to avoid him, but Medford’s mother was bosom bows with Jack’s mother, so in all good conscience he couldn’t snub the poor fellow.
“No, it isn’t,” he said tersely.
Medford, never the sharpest of pins, peered at him with a puzzled expression. “Then what the devil are you doing here?”
“I came with friends.” Jack caught sight of the Levertons making their way over. “If you’ll excuse me, I see them—”
“Certainly, certainly,” Medford interrupted. “But before you dash off, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“Splendid. I was hoping you could introduce me to Mrs. Lester’s daughter after the performance. You must know her, of course, because she lived on your uncle’s estate all those years, did she not? Ah, perhaps that explains your presence. You’ve come to see your little friend. She’ll no doubt be very popular after tonight, eh? Let’s hope she’s as lively as her dear mama once was.”
A series of small explosions reverberated through Jack’s skull.
“I say,” the viscount said as consternation descended on his amiable features, “is she already your light o’ love? If so, didn’t mean to steal a march on you, old man. I was just hoping you could slip me ahead of the line. You know, before the other fellows got to her.”
Before the top of Jack’s head could blow off—or he could smash in Medford’s vapid face—a slender gloved hand clamped onto the viscount’s arm and Gillian spun him around to face her. Medford gaped, obviously surprised by the strength contained in the slim body of the young woman standing before him.
“I suggest you put that thought completely out of your mind,” she said in a voice that all but resembled a snarl.
“How-do, Your Grace,” Medford said in a weak voice. “Um, what thought would that be again?”
