I was surprised by Johnny’s intimate knowledge of Lord Francis’s circle.
‘The Marchmont boy’s not like his father,’ I said quickly. Johnny looked surprised. ‘What I mean is, he’s still horrid, but he doesn’t share his father’s politics. Lord Francis said he was a supporter of Mr Pitt and dead against reformers. He certainly didn’t like my manuscript . . . thought it revolutionary stuff, unfit for the delicate ears of his sisters, and all because I wrote about what he considers “low” subjects.’
‘Hmm.’ Johnny fiddled with an inkwell on the mantelpiece, his shoulders in a dejected hunch. ‘Backstage at Drury Lane is not as safe as I thought . . . far too public. It’s a shame. I wouldn’t have minded seeing Lady Elizabeth again.’ He turned to me. ‘Is she still as pretty as ever?’
‘When did you meet Lady Elizabeth?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Oh, here and there,’ said Johnny lightly, flicking dust from a brass candlestick.
‘You’re not telling me everything, are you?’ A suspicion was beginning to form in my mind, based on a growing awareness that my friend was not as he seemed.
‘Of course not.’ Johnny smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘But thanks for the warning. I’ll lie low in here until the coast is clear. You’ll let me know when I can come out of hiding, won’t you?’
I nodded. ‘Of course. And yes,’ I added slyly before I shut the door behind me, ‘she still is as pretty as ever.’
I met the party of visitors by the main entrance. They had come in two carriages and on horseback. In the lead was Lord Francis with his friend, the Honorable Charles Hengrave, on a pair of fine geldings, accompanied by a footman.
‘Here she is!’ exclaimed Lord Francis in delight as he bounded up the steps to me, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘You should’ve seen her, Charlie! She flattened that bully and saved my skin. She made a splendid boy.’
I blushed as Charlie gave me a bow and a grin. It appeared that news of our recent exploits had travelled.
‘I hope, Miss Royal, you’ll record your adventures for us,’ Charlie said politely. ‘I am eager to hear all about it from your pen.’
Lord Francis clapped his hand to his head.
‘That reminds me!’ he cried. ‘Father was very impressed by your manuscript. He told me to tell you that he’ll support your first venture into print when you finish it.’
‘In that case, she’d better get a move on.’ This was from Pedro who had ducked out of the rehearsal to greet his friend. Surrounded by the silk waistcoats and velvet jackets of the young nobles, he looked most out of place in his sailor’s costume of blue jacket and white trousers. He was playing and dancing a hornpipe in the musical interlude that night.
Lady Elizabeth arrived on the arm of the young Marchmont. From the pained expression on her normally serene face, she appeared to be doing her best to humour the boy. It was a lost cause: he had come intending to despise everyone and everything. He wrinkled his nose at the tawdry gilt of the auditorium. Drury Lane was in need of renovation and it never looked its best by daylight.
‘Poor Lizzie,’ muttered Lord Francis to Charles Hengrave, ‘she keeps on trying to be polite to Marzi-pain for Father’s sake, failing to comprehend that he’s beyond saving.’
‘Marzi-pain?’ I whispered.
‘Marzipan . . . Marzi-pain Marchmont . . . because of the hair,’ Lord Francis explained in a low voice.
I still looked puzzled.
‘You know, marzipan, that yellowy-white almond stuff you get on cakes?’
He may get it on cakes, but I had never been so lucky. The closest I’d come to confectionery was with my nose pressed against the baker’s window.
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, trying to appear perfectly familiar with all details of the confectioner’s art.
I hadn’t fooled him. ‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Next time you come to tea, I shall ensure that you sample every sort of marzipan under the sun, Miss Royal. Our French cook is a master.’
Marchmont’s voice now reached us. Lord Francis grimaced.
‘It is not a patch on Covent Garden,’ he was saying loudly. ‘Father has a private box there, you know.’
He had better pipe down or he might find himself rudely ejected by one of the crew, I thought sourly.
‘But Mr Marchmont, I’m sure you’ll agree that it is not the gaudy wrappings, but the content that counts. The acting here has no rival with Mr Kemble, Mrs Siddons and Mrs Jordan to call on,’ said Lady Elizabeth as she approached us.
Bless her, I thought.
Marchmont sniffed at this statement but said nothing.
Pedro bowed to the ladies. I curtsied.
‘I was just telling Miss Royal about Papa’s admiration for her manuscript,’ said Lord Francis loudly. He had evidently not forgotten Marchmont’s disapproval of my work and was happy to trump it with a duke’s approbation.
Marchmont gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Your father has peculiar taste, Lord Francis. I grant that she writes a fair enough hand for a girl of her class, but as for the contents . . .’ he left his disapproval hanging in the air. ‘The drawings, however: thinking about them afterwards, I was most intrigued. You surely did not do them yourself, Miss Royal? The style was very distinctive. I could almost swear it was . . . familiar.’ He looked hard at me, his smile as false as a stage moustache. Had he guessed too much?
Unfortunately, Pedro was oblivious to the sensitivity of the subject.
‘No, she didn’t. That was Johnny Smith, the prompt,’ he said. ‘Cat’ll introduce you to him if you’re interested. He does really wicked likenesses, really clever.’
Not for the first time I could have kicked Pedro for his over-eagerness to show off before prospective sponsors. The last thing Johnny needed was for Pedro to go patron-hunting for him.