The Prince of Ravenscar (10 page)

Julian sat on Roxanne's left, garbed in stark black, his linen nearly as white as Devlin's face, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic. Roxanne leaned close, whispered, “My father told me Kean could posture better than Elrod, his prized rooster. I will write to tell him I think he may be right. Also, I do believe Kean trumpets louder than Mr. Rickett's cow Lisette when she wants to be milked.”

“I would like to shoot him,” Julian said. “But most appear to be enjoying his performance, which raises serious questions about the taste of our countrymen.”

Corinne sent them both a look, and they subsided.

When the intermission finally arrived on the heels of a five-minute Kean invective, all but one in the Monroe box wanted to cheer.

Sophie jumped to her feet, snagged her gown, and nearly got jerked over the edge of the box. Roxanne caught her and pulled her back down.

Julian was looking at her, an eyebrow raised. “It wasn't that bad, was it? To bring on such despair?”

Roxanne said, “Tell me, dearest, that you only sought escape, not an end to it all.”

“It was close,” Sophie said.

Julian bit off a laugh, since his mother was looking at him. “Miss Wilkie, you would have landed in a mess of drunken young louts if Miss Radcliffe hadn't caught you. Would you like to accompany me downstairs to fetch some champagne?”

His mother said, “I heard her give you permission to call her Sophie. This was three days ago. You may do so, Julian. Roxanne, you may do as you please, since you are not the focus of—well, never mind that. I should love some champagne. One gets so parched watching a great performer.” The look she gave them dared them to disagree. No one was stupid.

It was Roxanne who said, “I will go with you, sir. Sophie has the beginnings of a headache.”

“I assure you there is no need to protect her from me, Miss—Roxanne. I have told your innocent young pullet to consider me a kindly uncle, a comfortable older gentleman in whom she can confide her woes.”

“That is nonsense, Julian,” his mother said. “You are not at all comfortable.”

This guileless comment brought laughter. Corinne blinked, realized she'd uttered a witticism, and preened.

Sophie said, “My headache isn't that bad. I will accompany you to the champagne, sir.”

“If I am not to be your comfortable uncle, then you must call me Julian.”

Roxanne said, “Or you may call him ‘my lord.' That is utterly impersonal, is it not?”

“Oh, dear,” Corinne said. “You mean to say when people greet me as ‘your grace,' I could be any grace at all, and it doesn't really matter?”

Roxanne grinned at her, patted her hand, and rose. “I believe I see our vampire ready to stretch out his legs, perhaps his fangs as well. Look, he is waving at you, Sophie. Why don't you wait for Devlin, and I will accompany his lordship?”

Julian cocked a dark brow at her but said nothing. They made their way down the staircase into the theater lobby, crammed with ladies and gentlemen, many of them appearing to have a great thirst, as all wanted champagne, and all wanted it now. Waiters expertly threaded their way through the throng, ducking elbows, slithering between ladies whose gowns were so voluminous they were momentarily lost to sight.

“Shall I think of you as an uncle also, Julian?”

He didn't answer her immediately. She realized he'd slipped some money to a waiter, who promptly disappeared, only to reappear with a full bottle of champagne and a half-dozen glasses, cleverly held between his fingers. “Shall we follow the fellow, Roxanne?”

“Well, are you an uncle to me as well?”

“I will be your uncle if you will be my aunt, since we are both rather long in the tooth.”

“What a dreadful thing to say,” Roxanne said, then laughed.

“That's better. You do not wish to insult me, since I am providing the champagne. Stop licking your lips.”

“It is Sophie who licks her lips over champagne. She never tasted champagne until last week, and I swear she poured half a bottle down her throat. I fear I shall have to watch to make certain she doesn't become a tippler.”

“Likes the bubbles, does she?” He took her arm and deftly steered her away from a large woman covered in black lace who was on a direct collision course. “Take care, my child. These stairs are more fraught with danger than a battlefield. I was wondering how many petticoats were present this evening at the theater. Do you think if all the petticoats were piled on the stage, they would hit the rafters?”

Roxanne lightly tapped her fist against his arm. “I daresay they might make a pile so high they would spill out onto the street. Oh, dear, the waiter is escaping us.”

Julian gave a soft whistle that stopped the waiter in his tracks. He turned, gave Julian a nod, and waited for them.

“That was well done. Is that a prearranged signal?”

“No, but it always works. Waiters have very acute hearing, you know. Lean close, here comes another wave of petticoats.”

When they weren't more than twenty feet from their box, Julian said, “All right, tell me why you didn't want Sophie to accompany me.”

She stared at her slippers.

“I am not a ravager of young maidens, nor do I plan on trying to attack her, no matter what my mother wishes, so tell me, Roxanne.”

“I am worried for her. The thing is, Julian, you know too much.”

A black brow shot up. He laid his hand lightly on her arm. “Nothing more than any other kindly uncle.”

“All right, here it is. I think she and Devlin would be perfect for each other. They only need time together to come to this conclusion.”

Julian stared at her in amazement. “Stay out of it, Roxanne, that's my best uncle's advice.”

When they reached the box, it was to see Devlin sitting between Sophie and Corinne.

He saluted Julian, smiled at Roxanne. “Forgive me for being late, but my mother—well, never mind. My sire tells me the senior Kean—the great Edmund—was finally forced to act beside his son, an event that did not stir his blood, evidently, so my sire told me. The son, my sire remarks to all who will listen, is paltry by comparison, not nearly as dramatic as his father, his declamations too conservative, not enough feeling—in short, my father believes him a stick.”

“If the stick showed any more feeling,” Roxanne said, “I should pick up my chair and hurl it at him.”

Corinne said, “Listen to me, you philistines, you are all too ignorant and too young to appreciate him. He is a master, mayhap not as great as his father, but still . . .”

No one wanted to disagree with the dowager duchess; well, everyone did, but none wanted to have her cannon aimed at him. Devlin gave Julian a lazy look. “Good evening, Uncle, Roxanne. You brought champagne, I see. So did I. With two bottles, we should be able to survive the remaining scenes without undue misery.”

Corinne harrumphed.

Julian merely smiled and handed her a glass filled to the brim with chilled champagne.

“Hear, hear,” Sophie said. She toasted everyone indiscriminately and drank down the glass without pause.

“I see what you mean,” Julian said. “A budding tippler. Let's see how you behave.” Julian handed Roxanne a glass. He watched her tip back the glass, drink down half of it, lower the glass, hiccup into her palm, and smile widely. “Do you know, Sophie, I think you and I should take one of the bottles and join Mr. Kean onstage. I've a fancy to play Sir Edmund Mortimer myself.”

“Hear, hear,” said Sophie again. “I believe my headache only a memory.” She beamed at them all.

During the final act, Roxanne would swear Kean glared up at their box once when he was delivering his lines. Not one of them had thrown anything at him. What did he want?

Devlin Monroe did not return to his box. He sat beside Sophie, refilling her glass until, alas, the champagne was gone.

Roxanne happened to spot Richard Langworth seated in a box to her far left, between two ladies, a mother and daughter, she thought, both very comely. He was looking up at her, and he wasn't smiling. He gave her a small salute. She snuck a peek at Julian, but as before, he was staring at the stage, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn't seeing Kean, of that she was sure; he was seeing something entirely different. She fully intended to ask him about why Richard Langworth believed Julian had murdered his wife, Richard's sister. Or perhaps he was concerned about his ship that still hadn't arrived from Constantinople? He was that worried? She wondered what cargo the
Blue Star
carried.

Julian's carriage was promptly delivered because Julian told her he always paid the theater postboy a coin to make sure he had excellent placement. As the carriage rocked easily through the London streets back to Lemington Square, Roxanne said, “Richard Langworth was looking at our box. He was in the company of two ladies.”

Sophie said in a lilting, happy voice, “He was probably staring at you, Roxanne. Goodness, all the gentlemen stare at you, you are so beautiful this evening. Your hair is glorious; it glows like a sunset in the candlelight. How I envy you. Don't you agree, Julian?” She giggled. “Surely an uncle would appreciate an aunt's beauty.”

“Uncles are strange ducks,” he said.

“This Richard Langworth,” Roxanne began.

Julian merely shook his head at her.

Corinne said, “Perhaps I should speak to Lord Arthur about him.”

“Pray do not, Mama,” Julian said, but he couldn't help a smile. He tried to imagine Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, receiving that request. Rather like praying to God to take away the pain of your stubbed toe. When they reached the Radcliffe town house, he said, “I will call on you ladies tomorrow, if that is convenient.”

With Corinne's spy Jory doubtless on his heels, Roxanne thought, and nodded. And maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. She wanted to know more about Richard Langworth, if he posed a threat to Sophie.

Sophie was humming as Mint assisted both her and Roxanne out of their evening cloaks. She realized she was happy. She felt light, her feet gliding above the floor. She breathed in and laughed. If it had rained, she didn't think she would have minded at all. She realized in that moment she hadn't laughed much since her mother had died.

She turned to speak to Roxanne, when Mint drew in a deep breath and blurted out, “Your sister is here, Miss Roxanne. Lady Merrick.”

Oh, no, not Aunt Leah.
Sophie's feet hit the floor with a solid thunk. She sobered very quickly. She hadn't seen her aunt Leah since her mother's funeral, but she well remembered her endless criticisms of Roxanne, heard throughout her life, comments not meant for her ears. She saw Roxanne had stilled.

The glorious days of champagne and laughter, she thought sadly, were over.

T
he next morning, Roxanne eyed her elder sister across the breakfast table. Sunlight flooded through the bow windows, haloing Leah's head, and it made her look quite angelic, which, Roxanne thought, had to give one serious pause about angels.

Leah was here, actually here, and what was one to do? She hadn't said last night why she'd come, merely kissed her sister's cheek, nodded briefly to Sophie, and taken herself off to bed. Elvira, her maid of ten years, plump and merry, followed behind her, looking exhausted, Leah's jewelry casket hugged close.

Leah had married two weeks before her twentieth birthday to a naval man who'd had the misfortune to drown five years later when the ship he captained ran aground during a violent storm off the northern coast of Portugal. The first mate had perished as well. No one was able to explain why Captain Merrick hadn't been piloting the ship during a storm or why he'd fallen overboard, much less why his sailors hadn't saved him. Like most sailors, he couldn't swim, and that surely made no sense at all.

Leah Cosgrove, Lady Merrick, had worn black gloves for twelve months, and not a day longer. She was now twenty-nine, two years Roxanne's senior, quite lovely with her nearly white blond hair, fair complexion, and a reputation as the most graceful of the three Radcliffe sisters, a vision to behold when she waltzed. And the meanest, Roxanne thought, staring at her sister calmly sipping her tea, her eyes locked on Sophie, who was picking at her eggs, keeping quiet, smart girl.

Leah said finally, her voice so sweet, it nearly dripped, “Father was worried about you, Roxanne.”

What was this about? “He was? I received a letter from him yesterday. He said nothing about worry. Indeed, he hoped Sophie and I were enjoying ourselves.”

“He would not want you to think he felt you were incompetent, and so he asked me privately to come to assist you with our niece.”

Sophie looked ready to leap at Leah.

Roxanne smiled. “I don't think Sophie needs assistance from anyone. She is smart, bright, and not a fool.” Excellent words, but still, she sounded defensive, Roxanne thought, a weakness her sister would exploit. She eyed Leah, wondered how she could get rid of her, decided it would take a dozen strong men to haul her away, and unfortunately she knew only two such men who might be willing—Devlin and Julian. Life, she thought, wasn't fair. Why hadn't her father warned her? Ah, he would have warned her, and that meant he hadn't known Leah was coming.

Leah said, “Well, then, I shan't have to be bothered with Sophie, since she is so smart and bright. I can shop to my heart's content, and see—never mind that.”

Sophie said, “I haven't seen you since my mama's funeral, Aunt Leah. What have you been doing?”