about the evening’s performance, that his attention was caught by a movement in one of the boxes opposite. A young woman had stepped through the curtain and into view, emerging like a radiant butterfly into the sunlight. She was garbed in cream-coloured silk that shimmered with every movement and long, smooth-fitting gloves that covered slender arms from fingers to elbow. Her hair, a soft mist of golden curls, was arranged attractively around her head and, in the flickering light, Alistair saw flashes of crimson at her throat. She paused for a moment to watch the antics of the dandies and young bloods in the pit below, then turned to bestow a smile on the older woman and younger gentleman already seated in the box.
It was the smile that stopped him. As innocent as a child’s, it tugged at something deep within Alistair’s subconscious, reminding him of a time when life was simpler and pleasures more easily found. She looked as though there was nowhere she would rather be and nothing she would rather be doing than sitting in her box watching the performance taking place below.
Was that what drew him to her so strongly? he wondered. The pleasure she took in an activity he and the rest of society took so entirely for granted? Or was it the fact that she was, even to his experienced eye, an incredibly beautiful woman? Draped in silk and chiffon, she had the face of an angel, but a lush, sensual figure that made him think of hot nights between soft sheets and the sweet rush of intimacy as scented limbs wrapped around him and drew him close.
Unfortunately, given that the first thing the lady did was reach for the hand of the gentleman who rose to greet her, Alistair doubted it would be his body she ever wrapped them around. The two soon had their heads close together in conversation, and while it was clear the gentleman was no match for her in appearance or style, there was no denying the strength of the connection between them.
Lucky devil, whoever he was.
Then a ripple of anticipation as a tall and distinguished-looking gentleman walked out on to centre stage. He was dressed all in black, his long cape over breeches and boots giving him a decidedly swashbuckling appearance. Not a young man—his dark hair and beard were liberally threaded with silver and his lined face reflected the experiences of a lifetime. But he had a presence that could not be denied and when he held up one gloved hand, silence descended.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Gryphon. My name is Theodore Templeton and tonight we present for your enjoyment two productions making their début on the London stage. Mi Scuzi, an operetta in Italian by Giuseppe Fratolini, and A Lady’s Choice, a new work by the renowned playwright Valentine Lawe. The inimitable Signy Chermonde will play the role of Elizabeth Turcott opposite Mr Victor Trumphani in the part of Elliot Black. And now I invite you to sit back and prepare to be entertained.’
A polite round of applause greeted his words, as well as the expected whistles and jeers from the dandies in the pit. No sooner had he left the stage than the orchestra began to play and the curtain swept majestically upwards to reveal a setting reminiscent of a Mayfair drawing room, with a single actress, an elderly woman, seated in a wingback chair.
Alistair, who knew all too well that the build up to such productions was often the highlight of the performance, settled back and prepared to be bored.
He was not bored. He was mesmerized, the opening scenes of the play capturing his attention in a way no other stage performance ever had. The plot was intriguing, the dialogue witty and the cast gave such outstanding performances that, as the evening wore on, Alistair found himself growing more and more surprised.
This was not the type of performance he had come expecting to see. Knowing the play to be new and the company young, he had expected the production to reflect those shortcomings. But try as he might, he could find nothing to fault in either the play or in the actors’ portrayals of their characters. Even the rowdies in the pit were silenced.
If this was an example of Valentine Lawe’s talent, Alistair could well understand why the man was so popular. He was actually disappointed when the actors left the stage at the end of the first act.
‘Well, what did you think?’ Collins asked over the sound of enthusiastic applause.
‘That it was far, far better than I expected,’ Alistair said generously.
‘Not the play! Signy! Is she not the most glorious creature you’ve ever seen?’
Alistair frowned. ‘Signy?’
‘The actress playing Elizabeth. Jupiter, don’t tell me you didn’t notice her?’
Alistair glanced down at the stage. Of course he’d noticed her, but as Elizabeth Turcott rather than Signy Chermonde. She was the glorious, titian-haired temptress who had made her first appearance on stage in the guise of an elderly woman sadly recounting the events of her long life, only to reappear in the next scene as a blushing bride on what was clearly the eve of her wedding. ‘Yes, she was beautiful,’ he agreed, ‘but I was more impressed by her talent than I was by her appearance.’
‘Then I can only hope she is as gifted in bed as she was on stage,’ Collins drawled. ‘Speaking of that, what did you think of Miss Lambert? And don’t tell me you didn’t notice her. Old Parker nearly fell out of his box the first time she walked on stage wearing that filmy white nightgown.’
Alistair laughed. ‘Yes, I noticed her. She was very convincing in the part of Miss Tremayne.’
‘Miss Tremayne?’ Collins said. ‘What’s got into you tonight, Dev? The last time we went to the theatre, you couldn’t even remember the title of the play, let alone the names of the characters.’
‘That’s because the play wasn’t worth remembering and the actors were similarly forgettable,’ Alistair remarked. ‘This, however, is a first-class production.’
‘Well, of course it is. Valentine Lawe is fast becoming one of England’s foremost playwrights. Even a Philistine like you must have known that.’
The fact Alistair did not know failed to arouse any feelings of remorse or guilt within his breast. None of his family were ardent theatre goers. His parents refused to go as a result of the tragic events surrounding their eldest son’s scandalous marriage to an actress, and his sister and brother-in-law, the Venerable Simon Baltham, Archdeacon of Swithing, were of the belief that the theatre was a breeding ground for sin. It was their studied opinion that those who disported themselves upon the stage were vain and immoral creatures who sought aggrandisement through their occupations and were possessed of neither high moral fibre nor any discernible degree of integrity.
Ironically, it didn’t stop them from attending the occasional operatic work, but seldom were they heard to praise a performance or to compliment any of the singers.
For his own part, Alistair didn’t care. The only reason he had limited his exposure to the theatre was out of respect for his parents’ sentiments and in an effort to maintain family harmony. A decision he hadn’t come to regret … until tonight.
He let his gaze fall again on the occupants of the box opposite. The young lady was watching the antics of two young men rearranging props on stage, and looked, if possible, even more radiant than she had before the commencement of the first act. Her hand was again clasped in that of the gentleman sitting beside her, and when he leaned over to whisper something in her ear, she laughed and looked up—and, unexpectedly, locked eyes with Alistair across the theatre.
It was a fleeting glance, no more than a few seconds in length, but for the brief space of that time, the noises around him seemed to subside and it was as though only the two of them sat in that crowded theatre. He watched her laughter fade until only the shadow of a smile remained, and though she didn’t acknowledge his gaze, the soft colour blooming in her cheeks told him she was just as aware of him as he was of her.
As her glance slid away, Alistair leaned over to his friend and said, ‘Collins, that woman in the box opposite …’
‘Lady Lucy Prendergast?’
‘No, the box above. Wearing the cream-coloured gown.’
Collins raised his opera glasses