A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,13
the same path.”
That this had been true before the publication of the book and the staging of the plays, albeit to a lesser degree, I knew for a fact. But if the versions performed at the minor theaters were in any way similar to this one, that influence could broaden. Impressionable boys and frustrated young men who might otherwise have eschewed such unlawful behavior might decide theft was not so terrible an action. That if Bonnie Brock and his men committed such acts and were lauded for it, then why shouldn’t they be also?
I could tell I wasn’t the only one contemplating these thoughts by the gasps and whispers rippling through the crowd. That Gage’s intent had been to turn the focus of discussion away from the characters based on us and toward this moral conundrum was obvious, at least to me, though hopefully not to everyone else. Even Alana appeared aghast by the idea.
“Malcolm begged to be allowed to attend the play with us this evening,” she confessed as Gage managed to maneuver us through the crowd and closer to the doors where Philip intended to meet us. “And I nearly relented, despite the lateness of the hour.” Her nine-year-old son could be very persuasive when he wanted something. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Alana, I hardly think a play would compel Malcolm to live a life of crime,” I argued. “He’s more intelligent than that.”
“Is he?” she demanded to know.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes made me stop. The play had been filled with dashing acts of derring-do and thrilling chases, and all had ended—save one—with a night of camaraderie with his mates, gathered inside a pub or around a fire, drinking and singing and laughing. For a young boy who loved to run, leap, climb, and arrange battles with his toy soldiers, such a life must seem grand.
Before I could form a response, Philip appeared, and we were all occupied with donning our coats and wraps against the chill of the March evening. Once Philip’s carriage could escape the tangle of traffic in front of the theater, the drive to our house in Albyn Place was short. As we said our good-byes, Gage helped me alight from the carriage and climb the steps to our door.
“Good evening, Jeffers,” Gage told our upright and restrained butler as he took his gloves and hat. “I trust you’ve had a quiet evening.”
“For the most part, sir.”
We both paused in removing our outer garments, looking to Jeffers in curiosity.
He retrieved a letter from the table behind him, holding it out toward me. “This arrived for Mrs. Gage while you were out.”
I slowly reached out to take the missive, though Gage and I could both tell from his expression that he had more to say.
“It was delivered to the servants’ entrance by Mr. Locke.”
I sighed. One of Bonnie Brock’s right-hand men. We hadn’t spoken to the inveterate rogue who was causing us so much trouble since he accosted us on the street seven weeks prior. No doubt he’d discovered we’d attended the play at the Theatre Royal and had something to say on the matter.
“Have Bree and Anderley returned yet?” I asked him.
“No, my lady.”
I wasn’t surprised by this, though my aching back wished differently. “Send them up to the drawing room when they do. And will you have tea brought up,” I added, smothering a yawn with my hand.
His shrewd gaze softened. “Of course, my lady.”
“Thank you, Jeffers.”
Gage pressed a hand to the small of my back, guiding me up the stairs to the drawing room at the front of our town house. A fire had already been laid in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the wallpaper patterned with delicate yellow twining roses and the sage green and daffodil upholstered furnishings. I sank into the walnut settee, sliding a pillow behind my back to help alleviate some of the pressure.
“The chairs at the theater are not very comfortable, are they?” Gage asked sympathetically.
“They’re torture,” I confirmed. At least for a woman in my condition. By the end of the play, I’d nearly given up and stood in the back of the box. Only the knowledge that such a move would have been seen by the other audience members as an indication of my agitation had kept me in place.
He sat beside me, urging me to turn and sit forward, and then began to knead my lower back. “Here, darling?”