She hissed softly under her breath. “’Tisn’t right.”
“What isn’t?” Tyrone asked, following her gaze.
Graham followed as well and saw, to his surprise, the woman he had waltzed with the other night at the Martins’ ball. She was on the arm of Lieutenant Henshaw, a distant acquaintance of Graham’s, but known well enough by sight, and neither the lady nor the gentleman looked particularly at ease presently.
“Henshaw’s companion?” Tyrone suggested, sounding surprised. “What about her? She’s lovely. Why should you disapprove?”
Janet’s fan rapped her cousin’s hand sharply. “Ty, I don’t disapprove of her! She is just as lovely a person as she is a figure. That is Lady Edith Leveson, and she’s finally coming out into Society in earnest.”
Graham stilled, his attention now rapt on the lady, who was lovelier than his hazy waltzing memory had attested. There was a pucker between her brows that should not be there, for it marred her otherwise fair face, and the hold she had on Henshaw was clutching. Out of sheer instinct, Graham looked around them for the weasel, yet saw no sign of him.
Curious.
“She doesn’t look particularly pleased about it,” Tyrone observed, losing his previously light air.
“Do you see how the others stare?” Janet murmured quietly. “Look. Listen. She has somehow become an outcast without having been cast out. It’s despicable.”
Once Graham’s attention had been called to it, the reaction from those in Lady Edith’s presence could not go unnoticed. Wide eyes and whispers followed her; blatant stares and shameless gaping were her fanfare. Yet somehow, she held her chin high, though the tension there was just as visible as her beauty.
Tyrone grunted once. “What is her supposed crime, then?”
Janet shook her head, her glower potent indeed. “Marrying the wrong man, may he rot in torment. The rest is all speculation, but it does quite enough. At least she isn’t without friends.”
Graham nodded at her words, watching as Lady Edith and Lieutenant Henshaw were greeted by the Ingrams and the Vales, and Mr. Vale left no onlooker in any doubt how he felt about their behavior. Only then did he see any sign of weakness from Lady Edith. Her chin quivered, and her cheeks flushed, then she was escorted into their box by Lady Ingram and a clearly pregnant Mrs. Vale.
The men stood outside the box for a moment, conversing quietly, and Graham felt his interest pique as Lord Sterling, Janet’s husband, joined that group, his expression as serious as the rest.
“Not in the box, then, Janet,” Tyrone said unnecessarily, elbowing his cousin. “You were mistaken.”
“I don’t track my husband as if on a hunt,” Janet protested. “Honestly, why should my being mistaken matter?”
“Your being wrong on occasion always bears additional emphasis, I can assure you.”
Janet rolled her eyes and turned to Graham. “May I go in on your arm, my lord? I am currently seeking a replacement cousin.”
Graham felt himself chuckle almost reluctantly, laughter in public not being his usual habit. “If it would please you, my lady.”
“It would please me to have the arm of my wife for a change,” Francis, Lord Sterling, announced as he reached them. He grinned easily at Tyrone and shook his hand, then turned to Graham and sobered only just. “Lord Radcliffe, good to see you.”
Graham inclined his head in an almost bow. “I do believe the right to bear this arm lies with you, sir,” he said to Lord Sterling, holding out Janet’s hand.
Lord Sterling took it, bowed, and brought the hand to his lips. “And what a right it is!”
“Suffocating,” Tyrone groaned. “Please go in, I beg you.”
Lord Sterling and his wife laughed, moving into the box. Tyrone gave Graham a longsuffering look before following them. Graham cast his eyes back towards the box where Lady Edith had vanished, his mind turning over what he had seen and heard.
Would he be able to see her from where he was? The exact layout of the boxes in this theatre escaped him, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he was curious about seeing her. It was clear she had protection, if not interest, and despite his waltzing with her, apparently saving her somehow, he didn’t have any ties to involve him in whatever her situation was.
Nor did he wish to be involved with something that created whispers and gossip.
He shook his head and entered the box, pushing aside the curtains and moving to a vacant chair. He sat and crossed one leg over the other, his attention on the stage as the Sterlings and Tyrone chatted together.
The hum of conversations surrounding him wafted in and out of Graham’s ears, almost lulling him to sleep with the sound, despite his not being the least bit fatigued. How would it affect his reputation if he actually did doze for the duration of the play? At least the first act, anyway. He could scoot his chair back into a corner of the box, out of sight, and have quite a nice rest of it. See what they made of the new Lord Radcliffe then!
A crooked smirk inched its way across his lips, and he aimlessly scanned the theatre, looking without seeing. Then, the box next to his came into view, and with it, Lady Edith Leveson in plain sight.
His eyes rested there, one hand situating itself at his mouth in a gesture of consideration, his attention fully in focus.
She smiled at something one of her friends said, and something in the arch of Graham’s left foot twitched at the sight of it.
So much for dozing.
Chapter Five
Not all theatrics are confined to a stage.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 16 August 1815
Was anyone in the theatre actually watching the stage?
Edith could feel every inch of her skin crawling as she sat in the box between Grace and Prue, her eyes fixed on the actors without seeing a single one of them. The whispers had been difficult to hear, but nothing she hadn’t heard before. The stares, however, were new.
Well, new for London. She’d gotten plenty of stares in York.
A familiar cold shiver ran up her spine as the memories of those stares flashed across her mind, and she suddenly felt small.
If only she were small. If only she could hide from all of this and still accomplish her designs.
How had she so completely underestimated Archie’s influence? Or the impact his death would have had on Society. If not Society, then at least her standing in it. A lesser-known widow of a man who moved in certain circles, however disreputable, and the rumors that would follow that widow.
Define that widow.
What had she been thinking? London had been the worst possible choice in location, the center of Society, why in the world had she come? Why had she chosen it? In theory, it was a place where one could get lost in plain sight, yet she had stayed in the ratty townhouse that belonged to Sir Archibald’s family. She had kept herself in the path of Sir Reginald and any other Leveson relation that might have come along to torment her.
This was her fault.
She could have truly hidden deep in the London darkness, were it not for her pride. She hadn’t thought that existed anymore. More the fool was she.
Gòrach…
Her father’s low, gravelly voice sounded in her mind, ricocheting off every surface, calling her foolish yet again. That had been his only response to her refusals to marry Archie.