Lady Midnight (38 page)

Kate laughed softly. Passion, murder, and mayhem in Verona. Just what she needed.

Chapter 21

If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender hiss.

The play was really not so bad, Christina thought as she peered through her opera glasses at the stage below. The theater was not something she usually looked forward to; it was silly and dull, and took time away from her studies, much like tea parties, assemblies, and dress fittings. But this was far superior to the traveling troupes they usually had in Yorkshire. The stage set was quite elaborate, evoking stone, ivy-covered walls and towers, and a hot, blue Italian sky. Right now, the boards were crowded with velvet-clad courtiers at the Capulet ball, dancing while Romeo and Juliet whispered at stage left. Juliet's white satin gown, covered in pearl and crystal beads, shimmered in the footlights, set off dramatically against Romeo's dark blue velvet doublet.

That was the one aspect of the production Christina could not quite approve of. The Romeo. He was far too old for the part—why, he must be
thirty,
at least! And his blond hair was thinning. He was not at all like the man in the box across the way. Now,
he
would make a fine Romeo.

Christina slowly shifted her opera glasses from the aging Romeo and his Juliet to that box. Yes, he still sat there. She had noticed him almost as soon as she had taken her seat, and that in itself was unusual, for she rarely noticed if a man was handsome or not. It mattered only if they knew about plants, like her friend Andrew Price. But this gentleman
was
quite unusual. There was certainly no one like him in Yorkshire.

He was tall and slender, like the fashionable poets the Ross girls swooned over, with black hair that was as glossy as the leaves of the
Zantedeschia aethiopicia.
It was brushed back in neat waves from his face, revealing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the fullness of his lips. He had a rather tragic mien, adding to the Romeo-ness of him. Indeed, tragedy seemed to hover over him like a violet mist, and it was underscored by the black band around the sleeve of his perfectly cut dark red velvet coat. His gaze never left the stage, so he did not notice Christina spying on him. Not that it would matter if he
did,
for she would surely never see him again. No one as unearthly handsome could be found someplace as prosaic as the British Museum or a botany lecture.

When they first took their seats and Christina noticed him there, she had half turned to point him out to Mrs. Brown, who sat in the gilded chair behind her. Somehow, it had become second nature to share things with Mrs. Brown; it was so easy to confide in her. She always understood, not like Christina's mother, who
never
did. But something held Christina back, and she said nothing. She didn't want to seem foolish, like those bacon-brained Ross girls who were always chasing after gentlemen.

She continued studying him as the Capulet ball went on, and Juliet discovered the truth of Romeo's identity. The lady who sat next to the handsome man touched his sleeve lightly, whispering in his ear. He inclined his head toward her, yet his gaze never left the stage. Was she his wife? She was certainly lovely, with rich auburn hair held back by a bandeau of cameos and a gown of amber-colored silk. That would be the one good thing about making her debut and getting married. She could wear things like that, instead of this insipid pale yellow muslin. Perhaps she would choose dark green—it would hide the stains from her experiments so well.

But even if she decked herself in green satin and diamonds every day, she could not catch the eye of a man like that. She was too freckled, with wild, curling hair. Not beautiful and exotic, like Mrs. Brown. Christina sniffed disdainfully and turned away from the man. She didn't care. Really.

Romeo was at Juliet's balcony now, holding his hands up to her beseechingly.

With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do, that dares love attempt.

Would a man ever say such things to her? Christina doubted it. The most romantic thing she had ever heard was when Andrew Price brought her a sample of clematis from London and said, "The color of the leaves is just like your eyes, Lady Christina." And truly, that was finer than any silly chatter of roses and names and "love's light wings."

Eventually, Romeo and Juliet parted with a kiss, and the curtain closed for an interval. Christina lowered the glass to her lap, and the man became a distant blur. She could only just see his Grecian head turn toward the lady at his side.

"Well, now!" her brother Charles said, rousing himself from the nodding drowse he had fallen into sometime during the prologue. He had become rather stout since she had last seen him, and a bit too red in the face. He contrasted so unfavorably to tall, sun-browned Michael, and, not for the first time, Christina was grateful for their life in the country.

"That wasn't bad, eh, what?" Charles went on. He stood up, his pale blue satin coat shining in the light like a gaudy sky. There were tiny rosebuds and vines embroidered on his waistcoat. "I'll just fetch us some refreshments, then."

Mary glanced up at him, a small frown marring her elfin prettiness. "Charles, really, I don't think we need—"

"No trouble at all, lambkins," Charles said. He chucked her under the chin, bent down to kiss her blond ringlets, and exited their box with more alacrity than Romeo leaving the Capulet ball. Mary made a tiny noise deep in her throat, and though Christina pretended to study her programme, she saw her sister-in-law stare stonily at another box across from theirs. Next to the one containing the mysterious gentleman.

Christina peeked at the box, which was occupied by a very pretty, red-haired lady in a bright pink gown. She was surrounded by admirers, but as Christina watched, one more joined their throng. Charles's blue coat was unmistakable.

Mary's fingers tightened on her opera glasses, and her other hand covered the tiny swell of her belly under the red-and-gold muslin of her gown. Christina felt a terrible, bitter wave of pity, and an even stronger resolve—no man would ever treat
her
that way. Better to remain unmarried and comfortable in her studies.

"The play is quite fine, Mary," she said cheerfully, drawing her sister-in-law's attention away from that box. "We can see nothing like it in Yorkshire. It was very kind of you to procure tickets for us."

Mary turned to her and smiled—but her eyes were overly bright, almost manic. "I am very glad you are enjoying it, Christina. I adore the theater myself, but can seldom coax your brother to attend with me."

"Then he is a fool, to miss out on so much."

"I agree. A very great fool."

Mary's voice was full of steel, but thankfully Christina was saved from answering when Michael rose from his seat and said, "Shall we walk a bit?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, darling," Mary said. "The doctor says I must take light exercise regularly or my ankles shall swell, which would be a terrible tragedy."

She also stood, and took Christina's mother by the arm before sweeping out of the box. "Now, Mother Jane, you must visit my modiste while you are in Town. She could do wonders for dear Christina..."

Christina trailed after them slowly, followed by Michael and Mrs. Brown. Perhaps they would encounter the tragic gentleman on their stroll.
That
would certainly be more interesting than yet more prattle about modistes!

* * *

"Are you enjoying the performance?"

Kate smiled up at Michael. It was dim in the corridor, the flickering sconces casting dancing shadows over the silk-papered walls and over Michael's face and hair, gilding him in edges of light. She did not take his arm—they didn't touch in any way—but she
felt
close to him. His clean, sweet, soapy scent reached across the narrow space to caress her bare arm.

She swayed a bit toward him, and answered, "Yes, very much. The production is quite fine. It was very kind of your family to include me in the outing."

They paused for a moment at the turning of the passage, letting the others get ahead of them, mingling into the crowd. Michael's hand brushed lightly over her fingers, under the fringe of her shawl. The silk clung to the dark blue superfine of his coat. "You should be able to attend the theater every night!" he murmured. "And balls and suppers, concerts—anything you like. Anyplace where your beauty could be seen and appreciated, as it deserves."

Kate gave a quiet laugh. "Oh, Michael. If I wanted that, I would have stayed in Venice. I much prefer evenings by the fire at Thorn Hill, listening to Amelia at the pianoforte. That is the only place where I have ever felt truly beautiful."

Michael laughed, too, a rough, rueful sound. He lightly brushed back a wisp of hair that had drifted from her tight chignon, tucking it back into its pins. "I also have a yearning for my own hearth. These crowds don't suit me after the quiet
of
the moors! How my old friends would laugh if they saw me now."

"Will you see any of them while we are in Town?" And if he did, would he give in to the lure of a noisy, wild past, the gaudy pleasure of the city? For Kate knew all too well how the past could beckon, even when it had been soundly rejected. She would hate to see that happen to Michael, her angel. He was perfect just as he was.

He shook his head. "Perhaps I will see one or two of them—Society is so small, it would be inevitable, especially if I attend even a fraction of the events Mary has planned. It won't be in the same way, though. I'm not the same man any longer."

"No."

His pensive frown turned suddenly to that familiar grin, bright and charming. "Enough of this nostalgia!
Romeo and Juliet
has enough gloom and regret to fill one evening. You look lovely tonight, Kate.
That
is what I really wanted to say."

Kate smiled, too, to make him happy. She tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. It was a new purchase, a far too extravagant creation of black Spanish lace trimmed in silk fringe. She had hoped it would dress up her old dark blue silk, her one evening gown. "Thank you, Michael. I nearly had to come out in my day dress, for my silk went missing from the wardrobe."

His gaze shifted away, his smile becoming secretive. "Missing?"

"Yes. But then it turned up just in time for me to dress. It seems Christina had sent it down to be pressed."

"Ah."

"Yes. It's quite suitable for a governess, of course, yet I must say I rather envy your sister-in-law that red-and-gold muslin she is wearing! So very stylish."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it, bonny Kate," Michael said, offering her his arm as they resumed their progress along the corridor. "You would outshine every lady here if you wore homespun and ashes."

"Like Cinderella?"

"Exactly so."

Kate laughed, and gestured toward a lady in the crowd some distance from them, her back half-turned to them. She had dark hair, like Kate herself, but where Kate had always feared she appeared too much like a Gypsy dancer, this lady was a Madonna on a sunny chapel wall in Tuscany. She was very small and slim, with shining, straight black hair caught up like wings in a jeweled comb. She wore an exquisite gown of gold lace over ivory satin, and antique gold earrings swung flirtatiously against her rose-tinted cheek. She was only half turned toward them, the crowd flowing around her, but even from this distance Kate sensed her great confidence and style—and the expensive cut of her gown.

"I doubt I could outshine
her,"
Kate said with a laugh. "She is so very..."

Then the woman turned fully toward them, and Kate's words faded. She knew her! It was Elizabeth Hollingsworth, the artist. Instinctively, Kate shrank back behind Michael's shoulder, as if she could somehow hide that way.

But there was no hiding. Michael's smile widened as he saw Elizabeth Hollingsworth, and he called, "Elizabeth! By Jove, but it's good to see you."

He started in the direction of Elizabeth, drawing Kate with him. When she hesitated, he glanced down at her with a questioning frown.

"Michael Lindley!" Elizabeth answered, her serene Madonna face breaking into a grin of her own. A mischievous saint. She broke away from her admirers and hurried toward them, going up on the toes of her tiny gold slippers to give him a quick double peck on the cheeks. Kate took the chance to slide her hand away from Michael's arm and slip into the shadows along the wall. "If it isn't old Hellfire Lindley himself. We haven't seen you in an age, you wicked man. Not since you chose to bury yourself in the country."