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He’d borrowed Humphreys’s clothing for the occasion. No one looked twice at him. In a baggy jacket and corduroy trousers, flat cap low on his brow, he blended. A very good thing. There’d be hell to pay if he were recognized out with such a woman.
Suddenly, she was before him, as close as she’d looked through the glasses.
“By all means, use them,” she said tartly. “Reconnoiter a route to open seats.” She glanced toward the pit, intercepting a male gaze, hot and insolent. She stared back until the man whispered something to his companion and they both turned, laughing. She shook her head, running her fingers along the little red beads sewn up the sides of the gown. He knew what she was thinking. The men who ogled her missed the point. The dress deserved attention. She was the mannequin, displaying it. But the freedom of her movements, the boldness of her gaze, her strong, supple, contemporary body made the dress come alive. In short, she mesmerized. The dress was stunning, yes. But Miss Coover—with that defiant chin and animal confidence—she could start a fad for sackcloth.
Did she always take the opportunity of a night out to advertise her aunt’s most daring designs?
“Give them to me, then,” she said. He handed the field glasses over. They were too plain to pass as opera glasses, made of heavy, dented brass. She swept the gallery and the stage and the ornate walls of the building itself, turning in a slow circle. He glared at the men who hovered to enjoy the view. He’d be lucky if he made it out of here tonight without a riot.
“Wonderful,” she said, sighing. “I’d like a pair myself.”
He took them from her, dropping them in his pocket with a smile. “Your eyes are sharp enough.” Too sharp, some might say.
She shrugged. “For now.”
A blond man, broken-nosed and bull-necked, stopped to stare. Anthony edged close to Miss Coover, leaning over her, dropping his voice to an intimate rumble.
“Do you know the freckles on your left cheek make the Pleiades?”
She glared. “So does the spatter of mud on my left shoe. Turn your binoculars on that.” But her lips twitched. From the corner of his eye, he saw the blond boxer move on.
“I can’t be sure she’s here.” She spoke quickly, a line between her brows. “I hope I didn’t promise too much. Priscilla Millard—she’s a singer—she said she remembered a Nixon, a dark girl, in some of the musical acts, but . . . she might have been mistaken, or this might be an off night.”
He nodded, wanting to put her at ease. She sounded defensive, as though anticipating his bad reaction to a bad outcome.
“Not to worry. Either way I’ve gained an evening in your company.”
Despite himself, he uttered this bit of gallantry in earnest. She heard it, his sudden sincerity. If before she’d sounded defensive, now she looked . . . pained. Her throat worked as she swallowed.
“We should enjoy it,” he said. He’d been disappointed so many times, constructing Effie from glimpses. Masses of rich black hair disappearing into a doorway. A bold profile passing in a hansom cab. The glimpses never materialized into the whole.
Miss Coover was here, in the flesh. He’d be mad not to appreciate every second.
He gave her a slow smile, taking her arm and steering them through the crowd. “What do you most enjoy at the theater?”
“The acrobats,” she said immediately. “When they climb on one another’s shoulders to make pyramids. It’s amazing what they can do. It’s living sculpture. Oh, and the scenery, of course. And the costumes. What about you?”
She didn’t wait for him to answer.
“The horses,” she said at the same time he did. They both burst into laughter. Their rib cages expanded and her arm, her breast, pushed into his side.
“I went to all the battles staged at Astley’s,” he said. “Any hippodrama, anywhere, I was there.”
“Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses,” boomed Miss Coover. “That’s what Aunt Marian says whenever anyone mentions horse drama.”
He grinned. “No one goes for the dialogue, it’s true. Who needs lines? The band strikes up, the hooves pound, the muskets pop.” He shook his head. “It was my idea of paradise.”
She snorted, but the corners of her mouth still twitched with mirth.
How easy it could feel between them. How enjoyable, despite the inauspicious circumstances. A man and a woman flirting at the theater. The air was warm, even sticky. They stopped as a mass of men shoved by, sailors. He took the opportunity to loosen his collar. She traipsed about without a corset. Why mightn’t he undo a button? As he spread the fabric, he saw her eyes slide to his throat and cling for a moment. He grinned so hard he had to bite the inside of his cheek.
But suddenly, she sobered, squaring her shoulders. Her gaze grew penetrating.
“I’ll enjoy myself more fully, I’m sure,” she said, “once I have your assurances that the condemned buildings have been saved. How did Lord Mabeldon receive you?”
Startled, he stepped back. For some reason, he hadn’t expected she’d speak so directly, so briskly, press him so soon. But of course. She faced eviction. Her aunt, too, those little girls and their adventuresome dolls. An evening out at the theater brought her no joy, in the circumstances.
“Lord Mabeldon did not receive me.” He let the words fill the sudden gulf between them. He’d set out to call, via the glasshouse, where a tipple made him maudlin. On the street, he’d spied a cab drawn by a familiar-looking horse, starved but blue-blooded, an old thoroughbred, once a favorite on the racecourse. He and Cecil used to watch him race when they were boys. He forced the cabby to take him to his license owner, from whom he’d bought the decayed creature for the change in his pocket. That’s what he’d done with himself these past two days, played nursemaid to a half-dead stallion in the stable, taking breaks to fortify himself with his own medicine of choice.
