in the glass was enough to reassure her that it would not be her appearance that fell short of expectation that evening. Her gown of imported ivory silk was in the first state of fashion, and the exquisite pearl-and-ruby necklace lent to her by her aunt served as the perfect accessory. The flashing crimson stones nestled sweetly in the décolletage of her gown, which, as Aunt Tandy had pointed out, was neither too demure nor too daring, and her hair, once likened to the colour of clover honey, had been swept up and arranged in a most sophisticated style by the skilled hands of her aunt’s French maid. She looked every inch the proper young lady society expected her to be.
What would they say, Victoria mused as she turned away from the glass, if they knew what this evening was really all about?
The house was quiet as she made her way down the long curving staircase to the black-and-white-tiled hall. Candles flickered brightly from wall sconces and chandeliers, casting a warm golden glow over the elegant furnishings, while portraits of long-dead aristocrats stared down at her, their critical expressions seeming to offer silent disapproval of her plans.
Victoria paid them no mind. Her concern was with the living, not with the dead.
Besides, they were not portraits of her ancestors. The paintings, like the house, belonged to her father’s brother and wife, an eccentric pair of retired actors who owned a theatre as well as several houses in and around London. They had kindly allowed Victoria’s parents the use of this house for the past two Seasons so that Victoria and her younger sister could make their entrance into society. Victoria had taken her bows last year, and with Winifred doing so this year Mrs Bretton was hopeful that at least one of her girls would end up married by the end of it.
The prospect of returning home to Kent with two unwed daughters in tow was simply too humiliating to be borne.
‘Good evening, Miss Bretton.’ The butler greeted her at the door. ‘James has the carriage ready. Your brother has already gone out.’
‘Thank you, Quince.’ Victoria turned to allow the elderly gentleman to settle a velvet cape about her shoulders. ‘Do you know where my parents and sister are dining this evening?’
‘I believe with Sir Roger and Lady Fulton, miss.’
Ah, yes, the baronet and his wife—a prominent society couple with two sons of marriageable age, the eldest of which Winifred was hopeful of attracting. She certainly wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to spend time with him for something as trivial as a night at the theatre.
After all, what was the opening night of Valentine Lawe’s newest play when compared to the prospect of batting eyelashes at Mr Henry Fulton over the silver epergne?
‘Thank you, Quince,’ Victoria said, careful not to betray even a twinge of disappointment. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, miss. Oh, and your father asked me to wish you … a very successful evening. He said you would know what he meant.’
Victoria smiled. A few simple words, as enigmatic as they were brief, and her spirits rose immeasurably. Dearest Papa. Always her ally, even in this. She thanked the butler and walked out into the cool evening air. The late April day had been unusually warm, but the evening temperatures had begun to drop as soon as the sun went down, making her grateful for the enveloping warmth of the cape.
‘Evening, Miss Bretton,’ the coachman said respectfully.
‘Good evening, James.’ Victoria smiled as the under-coachman helped her into the carriage. They didn’t have an under-coachman at home in Kent. There they functioned with only a cook, two maids, a kitchen helper and a good-natured fellow who served as both footman and groom. If they had to get anywhere, they either walked or used the gig. It was only since coming to London that Victoria had been exposed to such luxuries as personal maids and closed carriages, and the one into which she stepped now was sumptuous in the extreme. The interior was lit by the glow of two small lamps, the walls were lined with maroon silk festooned with gold tassels and the cushions were of plush maroon velvet.
Her brother was already seated inside reading a book. Laurence was a fine-looking fellow, or could have been if he made more of an effort. His jacket of dark-blue superfine over a plain white waistcoat didn’t fit quite as well as it had last year and his thick, wavy hair was dishevelled, giving him an appearance of rumpled affability. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a very handsome nose and he had a smudge of what looked like ink on his thumb.
‘Let me guess,’ Victoria said as she sat down across from him. ‘White’s Observations on Certain Antiquities, or Norden’s Travels in Egypt and Nubia?’
‘Neither,’ Laurence said, dutifully setting the book aside. ‘A recently acquired copy of Sa-vary’s Letters on Egypt. I thought it would make for some light reading on the way to the theatre.’ He took off his spectacles and placed them on top of the book. ‘What about you? All ready for what lies ahead?’
‘I suppose, though I confess to being hideously nervous,’ Victoria confided. ‘What if no one comes?’
‘Of course people will come. Uncle Theo expects the theatre to be sold out.’
‘Uncle Theo is an optimist.’
‘No, Uncle Theo is a man who knows his business,’ Laurence said calmly. ‘He should, given the number of years he’s been at it. And experience has shown that Valentine Lawe’s plays always do well.’
Victoria settled back against the velvet squabs and wished she could feel as confident as her brother. While it was true that all three of Lawe’s previous plays had met with critical acclaim, that wasn’t to say that any of his future works would be guaranteed the same high level of success. The theatre-going public was notoriously fickle. What pleased them one day offended them the next and, given the decidedly satirical nature of Lawe’s plays, it was quite possible some prominently placed personage, believing himself to be the butt of Lawe’s wit, would take exception to the humour and proclaim his disapproval to anyone who would listen.
Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. In less than thirty minutes the curtain would rise and A Lady’s Choice would make its début. The best anyone could hope for was that Laurence was right and that their uncle knew what he was talking about.
As usual, traffic in the city was dreadful—an endless stream of hackneys, barouches, tilburys and phaetons trundling over the cobblestones en route to their various evening pleasures. Victoria saw long line-ups of carriages outside several of the large houses in Mayfair and felt a moment’s relief that her destination was not a grand house this evening, but the Gryphon, London’s newest and most elegant theatre. Once a rundown warehouse, the old building had been extensively refurbished and was now filled with a small fortune in Italian marble, Venetian glass, and brocades and silks direct from the Far East. The seating was roomier and the boxes grander than at any other theatre in the city and the frescoes on the ceiling were said to have been painted by a descendant of Michelangelo himself.
As to the nature of entertainments provided, the Gryphon was not licensed to present legitimate drama, so had to settle for a variety of works ranging from comic operettas to the occasional burlesque. In the relatively short time it had been open, however, it had gained a reputation for providing quality entertainment and tonight promised more of that with the début of Valentine Lawe’s newest play. Rumour had it that Sir Michael Loftus, theatre critic for the Morning Chronicle, was going to be in the audience, and Sir Michael’s stamp of approval was as good as God’s when it came to anything to do with the stage.
That,
