Ripped (11 page)

Katie gave a great sigh. She'd never seen such an opulent theater in her life. It was dreamlike and breathtaking. She'd been to plays with her grandmother, but never like this.

Noticing that the others were settling into their seats, Katie unclasped her cape and, careful not to upset the bustle—like a camel hump—at the back of her gown, sank into the seat between Collin, fiddling with his dangling monocle, and Oscar Wilde, smoothing the folds of his velvet knee-breeches.

Lady Beatrix, with the grace of a ballet dancer, lowered herself into the seat across the aisle. She looked beautiful and serene in her orange-and-blue gown, the single, large diamond sparkling at her throat. The Reverend Pinker plunked himself down next to Lady Beatrix and proceeded to read the playbill.

Katie took a deep breath. The air wasn't musty, like in the old London theaters she was used to, but crisp and clean with a hint of fresh paint and lemon polish.

Oscar drew out a pair of opera glasses from his waistcoat and thrust them into Katie's gloved hands. “Take a gander over there,
ma chère
.”

“Where? What should I be looking at?” Katie asked, raising the binocular-like glasses to her eyes. She swept them toward the stage, but the curtain was drawn and the orchestra pit, hidden behind large ferns.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, reached for the glasses and plunked them snugly against his eye sockets. “There is no dearth of opportunity here, young lady. One comes to the theater to spy and to be spied upon. Surely you didn't think we were here for the literary enlightenment and pedantic posturing of an underpaid playwright? Tut-tut, how very
American
of you. Look there, second balcony below, an unsuspecting peeress—lovely in pink brocade and pearls—chatting affably with that notorious rascal—” He swiveled around to the left like a sea captain sighting land. “Ho-ho! And there's poor Lady Fermor who doesn't care a whit for music, but is very fond of musicians. And over there is Lady Windermere. When she married the Duke of Mandeville he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to live in. Now, his grace has twelve houses, and not a single castle. There's Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, who has gout and keeps a second wife in Bayswater. And in the royal box, my dearest, darling Lillie Langtry, looking wonderfully munificent with her grand ivory bosom, large, forget-me-not eyes, and those luscious coils of golden hair—not straw-colored hair, mind you, but the golden red that is woven into sunbeams and hidden in amber. She has the face of a saint, but the fascination of a sinner,
n
'
est-ce pas
?” He thrust the glasses back into Katie's hands. “You must see the world for yourself,
ma ch
è
re
.”

Katie stared at him. Did everyone in this century talk like this, or was it just Oscar Wilde? She raised the opera glasses and scanned the crowd. All around her the flash of satin and the sparkle of glittering jewelry caught the winking light from the gaslit chandeliers.

“Who's that bald guy—er, I mean, gentleman, in the box next to ours?” Katie whispered. The man looked familiar. His bald head was shining like the dome of St. Paul's, rising above thick shoulders draped in a ruby-red sash.

“That's His Royal Highness, the—”

“—King?” Katie sputtered.

“Are you daft?” Collin cut in. “That's the Prince Regent. The Prince of Wales. He won't inherit the throne until his mother, the Queen, dies.”

Of course, Katie muttered to herself. There wasn't a king during Victoria's reign. The Queen's husband was Prince Albert.
Get your head out of the clouds
, Katie chastised herself. Pay attention, and
stay focused!

After the shock of seeing the future King Edward VII up close and personal and looking more . . . well,
real
, than his waxwork replica at Madame Tussauds, it took Katie several minutes before she realized that Toby was not sitting with them.

Was that him in the gallery far below, in the wings off to the left? She raised her glasses and searched the crowd, but with no luck.

Chapter Twelve

You Owe Me Ten Shillings say the Bells of St. Helen's

K
a
tie scanned the crowded theater
. “Where's Toby?”

“Dunno.” Collin shrugged, the gleam of gaslight from the wall jets making his face appear ghostly pale.

“Mr. Wilde? Do you know where Toby is?”

“My dear girl, you must call me Oscar. I insist,” said Oscar. “As to Master Tobias, the dear boy could be here, he could be there. He could be anywhere. Such is the insouciance of youth!”

“Reverend Pinker? Have you seen—” But H. P. Pinker was busying himself looking through his own opera glasses as if fascinated with the winged cherubs carved overhead in the proscenium arch.

Just then, a short man with a thick body and almost no neck—but sporting a profusion of side whiskers and a brown, feathery beard—appeared through the curtained archway and strode down the aisle. When he caught sight of Oscar, he stopped short.

Oscar scowled at the man, then kicked moodily at the balcony footrail. Katie heard him curse under his breath. The whiskered man's beard spread fanwise over his collar with what appeared to be bristling indignation. He pivoted, and bowing low, spoke to Lady Beatrix, but the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.

“Lady . . . Beatrix . . . an honor . . . as . . . always. I brought you a little something. A playbill signed by the playwright, Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, with my compliments.” He gave a curt nod and handed Beatrix the playbill.

“How very kind of you, Mr. Stoker. Let me introduce you to my friends. This is the Reverend H. P. Pinker who runs the East End Charity Mission for Widows and Orphans. Rev. Pinker, this is Mr. Bram Stoker, the theater manager.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Stoker. A pleasure indeed. A lovely theater. Quite outstanding, I must say. The recent renovations do you credit.”

“Thank you, sir. The pleasure is all mine.” Stoker shook Pinker's hand vigorously. “I am familiar with your good works. If I, or the theater, can assist you at any time with your charitable endeavors, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“
Omigod!
That's Bram Stoker. He wrote
Dracula
!
” Katie gasped.

“
Dracula?
”
Collin looked confused.

“You know! Count Dracula, the vamp—” Katie bit back her words.
Dracula
must not have been written yet.
Damn, damn, double-damn. I have to be more careful,
Katie told herself. But it was hard. She had fallen into a rhythm with the people in this century. And Collin looked so much like her own cousin, Katie kept forgetting which was which.

Oscar gawked at her. “Certainly not!” he sputtered. “I mean to say, to be sure it
is
Bram Stoker. But he's no more a writer than a flea. His last endeavor,
The Primrose Path,
was an abysmal failure. And
Dracula,
you say? As in Vladimir the Impaler?” Oscar's lips curled in disdain. “The man doesn't have it in him to write a decent grocery list, let alone—” He drew in a sharp breath and jumped to his feet.

“
Ahem
!”
Oscar wagged his finger in Mr. Stoker's direction. “You're not writing anything gothic and ghoulish per chance, are you, old boy? It's a morbid fancy if you are. The reading public won't go in for folklore about vampires.” The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.

“How could you possibly know?” Stoker's voice was a husky croak.

The Reverend H. P. Pinker dropped his opera glasses with a loud
clunk!

Bristling like a porcupine, all quivers and whiskers, Stoker picked them up. It appeared that he might hurl them at Oscar. His grey-gloved hand shook with rage.

“My advice to you, old boy,” Oscar said cheerily, “is stick to what you do best—managing a theater. For pity's sake, leave the scribbling to us who scribble for our livelihood.” He sniffed at the flower in his lapel. “Every jack-a-napes and his great aunt believe they can put pen to paper and write novels with the abandonment of a whoremonger. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast, I fear.”

“Oscar, please!” Lady Beatrix implored.

“You, sir, are mistaken. I have been doing some little research . . . er . . . on . . . European folktales, to be sure. And vampires in particular. But how on earth did you . . .?” Bram Stoker stroked his fanlike beard. “Only my wife knows . . .” His voice trailed away. He looked devastated.

“Ah. And how is your dear, sweet Florence? Give her my regards. Perhaps it was
she
who told me you were meandering down the supernatural primrose path,” Oscar said with all the vitriolic acerbity of a poison arrow aimed straight for the heart.

Bram Stoker sputtered indignantly: “Y-you haven't spoken to my wife. You wouldn't dare!”

“Daren't I?” Oscar's left eyebrow shot up.

“My wife and I have no secrets from each other.”

“Ah! I am sorry to hear that. It has always been my contention that the proper basis for marriage is mutual misdirection.”

A shudder passed through Bram Stoker, and his bushy beard twitched convulsively, then he turned on his heels and darted down the aisle, disappearing through the curtained archway.

“Oscar. You are a beast!” Beatrix chided. “I won't have you acting like a truculent schoolboy whilst a guest in my grandfather's box. Go apologize to the man at once. The fact that you were his wife's former suitor is no excuse. And when
did
you last see Florence?”

“
Spurned
suitor. I fled Ireland when she accepted that pitiful excuse for a man, and I haven't clamped eyes on her since. Very well, I'll apologize. I
was
rather monstrous.” Oscar smiled in mock contrition. “Everyone knows that Mr. Stoker is so desperate to be a writer he'd stab his own mother in the heart just to inscribe an epigram on the poor woman's tombstone.”

Katie laughed out loud. The history books didn't lie. Oscar Wilde
was
witty and snarky. But he was wrong about Bram Stoker's writing abilities.
Dracula
would be the bestselling horror novel of all time, with a gazillion knock-off movies and vampire books all thanks to Bram Stoker who started it all.
And a good thing, too
, Katie thought,
because I love the TV series
True Blood.

Oscar Wilde leaned over to Katie and said in a stage whisper: “Did you notice the perspiration bursting out across Mr. Stoker's forehead like noxious dew? And that stony face? So like marble in its melancholy? Vampires indeed. No one will read such drivel. What next,
ma cherie?
Werewolves? Witches? Wizards? All cultivating their supernatural proclivities at my alma mater, Oxford College?”

“Or an English boarding school,” Katie said. She grinned, thinking of Hogwarts.

“How droll! Vampires at Eton.” Oscar roared with laughter, but sprang to his feet when Lady Beatrix demanded he leave at once and make amends.

“Go with him, Pinker, do,” Lady Beatrix implored Reverend Pinker. “Make sure Oscar gives the poor man a proper apology.”

Pinker nodded, and a moment later he was propelling Oscar Wilde down the aisle and out the archway at the rear.

A bell chimed. Then chimed again. The play was about to begin.

Ushers in velvet uniforms scurried about the theater turning down gas jets in brass sconces. A bellboy dressed all in blue with gold braid at his shoulders strutted across the stage in front of the curtain, holding a large sign for all to read:

STRANGE
CASE OF
DR JEKYLL AND
MR HYDE
ACT I

The orchestra struck up something in a minor key, and when the red curtain began slowly to rise, the chandelier suspended high above flickered and went dim.

“Beatrix. Lend me your opera glasses,” Collin whispered.

“I don't have them,” she whispered back.

“I can't bloody well see without them. Deuce-it-all.” Collin snapped his fingers as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I remember now. You gave them to Major Brown.”

“Did I? I thought Reverend Pinker was holding them for me.”

“No. I distinctly recall you gave them to Major Brown.”

“Well, then. He'll bring them later. He's joining us after the second act.”

“Where is Stink Pink? Why hasn't he returned?” Collin demanded, craning his neck around. “He's got a pair. I saw him using them.”

“Shh.” Beatrix put a gloved finger to her lips just as a dozen drums, reeds, horns, and xylophones rang out all at once.

Katie clasped the armrests of her chair and peered down at the stage. Her heart was pounding.
This is amazing! I
'
m about to see the first-ever, opening night of
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
How crazy is this?
Her stomach tightened. She could almost feel the jangle of musical notes from the orchestra rising inside her along with the swell of anticipation from the crowd.

“I can't see without opera glasses! I'm nearsighted as a church mouse. That blighter Major Brown botches everything.”

“Hush, Collie,” Lady Beatrix whispered. “Your vision is fine. Mr. Whistler says you have the eye of a true artist. An eye for detail. So stop this foolishness.”

“My own sister knows naught about me,” Collin grumbled. “I can't see in the dark. No one can.”

Collin whispered something to Katie, but she ignored him as she stared down at the stage. The view from the Duke's private box was amazing. Grandma Cleaves often took Katie to the National Theater, but their seats were never this good. Last month they saw the musical
Backbeat
about the Beatles, and when Katie had texted Courtney to tell her how fabulous the songs were, her sister texted back: “Poor you. Grandma Cleaves hates music. Did she ruin it for you?”

Courtney and Grandma Cleaves are like oil and vinegar,
thought Katie.
They don
'
t mix.

Katie tugged her thoughts back to the present. The velvet curtain had risen fully above the stage now, revealing an English sitting room. An actor with a long, lean jaw hastened across the stage to thunderous applause. So thunderous that the backdrop scenery — painted to resemble a wall, with a real door but fake windows — wobbled slightly.

He must be famous
, Katie thought, judging by the still roaring crowd. There were no movie stars in this century, she reminded herself. Stage actors were the mega celebrities here. Katie's eyes grew wide with excitement. She loved historical novels and old plays. Loved acting them out in her bedroom. But Courtney was the showbiz type — the true actress in the family.

When the clapping finally died down, the actor strode to a writing desk at the front of the stage, near the footlights.
“
I thought it was madness
!”
he boomed out, flinging a sheaf of papers onto the desk.
“
But if anyone can help, it will be Dr. Lanyon. He is Henry Jekyll
'
s oldest friend. I shall go to Lanyon
'
s house immediately.
”

A solemn-faced butler shuffled forward.
“
Very good, Sir. Your coat, Sir
.
”

A doorbell chimed from somewhere off stage.
“
Now who the devil can that be?
”
intoned the actor, stroking his long, lean jaw, and then in exaggerated surprise:
“
Why! It
'
s Dr. Lanyon. The very person I meant to consult! Come in. Come in.
”

“Katherine!” Collin hissed. “Did you bring opera glasses? I can't see their faces! Blast it all. How can I watch the play?”

“You have
ears
don't you?” Lady Beatrix whispered angrily from across the aisle. “You don't need to see. Just listen.”

Katie nudged Collin's elbow and pointed to the monocle dangling from a black ribbon around Collin's neck. She'd never seen a real monocle before today, only in the movies. She assumed that the circular lens was a sort of magnifying glass.

Collin stared down at the monocle and let out the same exaggerated gasp of surprise as the actor had just exhibited on stage. Scooping up the lens, Collin plunked it into the folds of his left eye and leaned over the padded handrail, peering down at the people below like a jeweler examining rare gems. He was bending so far over the railing, it was no surprise to Katie when the monocle popped out of his eye. She watched it sail outward on its black ribbon, only to swing back and thump him on the chest.

Collin yelped and cried out: “Pinker's down there. I saw him. Near the orchestra.” He turned and shouted in Katie's ear. “Quick as a wink I'll go fetch Stink Pink.” And with that, he leapt up and hurried away through the darkness.