"Absolutely," Quentin agreed. "I see no reason why Juliana should sit in solitary state in the drawing room while we sozzle ourselves on port."
"Lucien, of course, would have a different view," Tarquin observed.
Juliana glanced quickly over her shoulder at him, but his expression was as dispassionate as his tone. What difference to the atmosphere would her husband's presence make? A significant one, she reckoned.
But she didn't allow such thoughts to interfere with her pleasure in the evening. She had fallen into this situation, and she might as well enjoy its benefits.
They drove to Covent Garden in the duke's town chaise, Juliana gazing out of the window, intrigued as London moved onto its nightly revels. It was the first time she'd been out in the evening since she had stepped off the coach at the Bell, and when they turned into Covent Garden, she saw it had a very different aspect from the daytime scene. The costermongers and barrow boys had gone, the produce stalls packed up for the day. The center of the Garden was now thronged with ladies accompanied by footmen, soliciting custom, and boys darting through the crowd crying the delights to be enjoyed in the specialized brothels masquerading as coffeehouses and chocolate shops.
Beneath the columns of the Piazza strolled fashionable people, quizzing the scene as they made their way to the Theatre Royal, whose doors stood open. It was now just before six o'clock, and the crowd at the doors was a seething mass of humanity, fighting and squabbling as they pushed their way inside to find a last-minute seat.
Juliana looked askance at the melee and wondered how she was to get through there with her wide hoop. She was bound to tear something in the process. "Doesn't the play begin at six?"
"It does." Tarquin handed her down to the cobbles before the theater.
"But if we have no seats-"
"We do, my dear," Quentin reassured with a smile. "Tarquin's footman arrived at the doors at four o'clock in plenty of time to secure us a box."
So that was how the privileged managed such things. Juliana raised an eyebrow and decided she liked being one of their number. She had the duke and Lord Quentin on either side of her as they approached the massed doorway. How it happened she couldn't tell, but a path materialized through the crowd and she was suddenly inside the theater, her gown in one piece, not even a ruffle torn, both shoes still on her feet, and her hoop behaving itself impeccably. She had a vague impression that her two escorts had touched a shoulder here and there, uttered a few words in low voices, edged an impeding body to one side. However it had been done, they were inside.
The orchestra was playing but could barely be heard above the buzz and chatter as people strolled between the seats, pausing to chat to friends or calling across heads to attract attention in other parts of the pit. Above the racket the cries of the orange sellers were pitched shrill and imperative.
"This way." Juliana was deftly ushered to a box overlooking the stage, where a footman in Redmayne livery stood bowing as they entered. Tarquin didn't release Juliana's elbow until she was seated at the front of the box. "Now, if you don't try to explore, you'll be safe and sound," he said, sitting beside her.
"I shan't go short of entertainment." Juliana leaned over the edge of the box. "If the play is half as absorbing as the crowd, I shall be very well satisfied. Why do they have those iron spikes along the stage?"
"To stop the audience jumping onto the stage." Tarquin smiled at her rapt expression. "You see the rather burly men behind? They're an added deterrent."
Juliana laughed. "I am so glad I came to London." Then she flushed, a shadow dimming the vibrancy of her expression. "Or I would be in different circumstances."
Quentin touched her shoulder in brief sympathy. Tarquin chose to ignore the comment. There was a moment of awkward silence; then the orchestra produced an imperative drumroll. The curtain went up, and David Garrick strode onto the stage to deliver the prologue to the evening's entertainment.
Juliana listened, entranced, as the play began. The audience continued to buzz and hum, carrying on their own gossipy conversations throughout, but Juliana was unaware of anything but the stage. It didn't occur to her as in the least strange that Macbeth should be played in contemporary costume, with Garrick in the title role dressed in the full regalia of a Hanoverian officer.
At the first interval she sat back with a little sigh of contentment. "How magical. It's quite different hearing the words from reading them, even aloud."
"I'm glad it pleases you, mignonne." Tarquin stood up. "If you'll excuse me for a minute, there's someone I must visit." He strolled off, and Juliana returned her attention to the crowd. An argument seemed to be turning nasty in the front row, and a man was threatening to draw his sword. Someone bellowed in jocular fashion and threw a handful of orange peel over the two opponents. There was laughter, and the moment of tension seemed to have dissipated.
Juliana glanced across the pit to the boxes opposite. She saw the duke directly opposite, standing behind the chair of a woman dressed in dark gray, almost black, with a white fichu at the neck and her hair tucked severely under a white cap. She was looking up at Tarquin as he spoke to her.
"Who's the duke talking to?"
Quentin didn't look up from his own perusal of the crowd. "Lady Lydia Melton, I imagine. His betrothed." There was something false in his studied, casual tone, but Juliana was too astonished by this intelligence to give it any thought.
"His betrothed?" She couldn't have kept the dismay from her voice even if she'd tried. "He's to be married?"
"Did he not tell you?" Still, Quentin neither looked at her nor at the object of the discussion.
"No… it seems there's a great deal he didn't tell me." All her pleasure in the evening vanished, and the bitter resentment of the morning returned.
"I daresay he thought his betrothal was irrelevant to you… to everyone," he added softly.
"Yes, irrelevant," she said acidly. "Why should it matter to me?"
"Well, it won't be happening for quite a while," Quentin told her, his voice flat. "The marriage was to have taken place two months ago, but Lydia's grandfather died and the entire family have put on black gloves. They'll be in mourning for the full two years."
"Then why's she at the play?" Juliana demanded tartly. "It seems hardly consistent with deep mourning."
"It is Macbeth," Quentin pointed out. "They'll leave before the farce."
"Seems very hypocritical to me." Juliana squinted across the playhouse, trying to get a better look at Lady Lydia Melton. It was difficult to form an impression in the flickering light of the flambeaux that lit the stage and the pit. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-eight."
"She's on the shelf," Juliana stated.
"I should refrain from passing judgment when you don't know the facts," Quentin said sharply. "Lydia and Tarquin have been betrothed from the cradle, but the death of Tarquin's mother three years ago postponed the marriage. And now Lydia's grandfather's demise has created another put-off."
"Oh. I didn't mean to sound catty." Juliana gave him a chastened smile. "I'm just taken aback."
Quentin's expression softened. "Yes, I can imagine you might be."
Juliana stared hard across the separating space and suddenly noticed that the lady was looking directly at her. It was clear that Juliana herself was under discussion when Tarquin raised a hand in a gesture of acknowledgment and Lady Lydia bowed from the waist. Juliana responded in like manner. "I wonder what they're saying about me."
"I imagine Tarquin is explaining that you're Lucien's bride," Quentin observed. "The Meltons were bound to wonder what he and I were doing in a box at the theater with a strange lady."