One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,32

handsome spy…well, she would probably have heart palpitations.

Fortunately, all that was over. Mama’s heart was perfectly safe.

Amanda gave herself a little shake and looked about at the bustle, the great variety of people, the gowns and the jewels and the headpieces. A night at the theater offered ample distraction, and she would not ruin its pleasures, or the enjoyment of her friends’ company, by sulking.

The Hursts had excellent seats, a box near enough the stage that Amanda could immerse herself entirely in the performance, but not so near that she was distracted by the thick paint the actors’ wore or the spittle that flew from their lips. Mr. Kemble was, as promised, extraordinary as Posthumus, the princess’s would-be lover.

So lost was Amanda in the story unfolding before her, Rebecca had to tap her twice on the knee with her folded fan to pull her attention from the stage. “My dear, do you recognize that gentleman over there?” She tipped her head slightly toward a box on the other side of the theater, where a dark-haired man sat alone. “He has been staring at you all evening.”

Not wishing to return the favor, Amanda sent a quick glance in his direction, too quick to be sure of much of anything.

“Oh, of course he would return his attention to the stage now.” A huff of somewhat amused annoyance underscored Rebecca’s whisper. “He must know I’ve caught him at his rudeness.”

Amanda looked again. Looked, but would not stare. Each time she let her eyes drift across the theater, another piece of him came more clearly into view. Rather outrageously dressed, the sort of person who wished to draw attention to his clothes. A pink silk coat, an embroidered floral waistcoat, and a collar so high and so stiff he must have difficulty turning his head. And twirling a quizzing glass in the fingers of one hand.

With each glimpse, her chest tightened, until she was nearly breathless. Brown hair, darker than she had first imagined. A chiseled profile.

She was imagining things. It couldn’t possibly be…

He turned toward her then, lifted the glass to his eye so imperiously, he might have been a duke. He gave no nod, made no acknowledgment that he had been seen.

“Magpie.”

Her lips shaped the name, but made almost no sound.

“I beg your pardon?” Rebecca said, leaning toward her in a way that momentarily blocked him from Amanda’s view.

“Whoever he is, he’s a preening sort, I’ll say that much.” With an exaggerated movement, Amanda squared herself in her seat and would look nowhere but at the stage.

But beneath that performance of indifference, her heart clattered in her chest and heat threatened to rise to her cheeks.

We shan’t require anything further from you.

So what was he doing here tonight?

She held herself stiff for the remainder of the performance, willing herself not even to glance in his direction again. So stiff that Mr. Hurst was obliged to help her to her feet when the play was over.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

“Marvelous,” was her reply, though she no longer had any sense of what she’d witnessed.

Thankfully, that was a sufficient reply to encourage Mr. Hurst to launch into his own analysis, comparing this performance to ones he had seen in the past, decrying the modern practice of changing the endings to certain plays. Most of all, he mourned the inestimable losses when Shakespeare’s genius was cast before indolent, indifferent audiences, like pearls before swine—“too rich and too comfortable,” he complained as they fought their way to their carriage. People nearby cast him looks ranging from tolerant amusement to anger. “Not as it once was, when everyday sorts of people jostled for position in the pit and the actors had to keep them hanging on every word if they wanted to be heard above the crowd.”

The crowd. Amanda would not look for Major Stanhope, would not try to pick him out among the milling throng of theater-goers, turned loose into the warm night. He had as much right to an evening’s entertainment as the next fellow, and doubtless Rebecca had exaggerated his notice of her.

“Still, it was a fine cap on the season,” Mr. Hurst was saying as he helped first his wife and then Amanda into the carriage.

“Indeed,” Amanda murmured her agreement, only half hearing him.

“Yes, town will be deserted soon enough.” The streetlight streaked Rebecca’s face, making her expression impossible to read. “Will you be leaving for the country soon?”

Since James’s death, she had kept to the confines of Bartlett House, unable—or perhaps