‘Wicked likenesses?’ said Marchmont coolly. ‘I’ve no doubt of that.’
‘But he doesn’t draw much,’ I added quickly, trying to warn Pedro with a look. ‘In fact, it was probably the first time he’s put pencil to paper when he drew for me.’ Pedro looked surprised and was going to dispute this, but I ploughed on. ‘And unfortunately, he’s been called away suddenly to . . . to see a sick uncle. He’s not here. Not in the building.’
I raised my gaze to Marchmont’s heavy-lidded eyes. He was now looking at me with a sceptical curl to his lips.
Guiding the young people around Drury Lane was more difficult than I anticipated. The phrase beloved of Mrs Reid came into my head as I extricated Charles Hengrave and Lord Francis from the basket of the balloon backstage: it was like herding cats. No sooner had I headed off one group from doing something they shouldn’t in one department then a new crisis would erupt elsewhere. Hardest to manage was Marchmont. He seemed determined to open every door and every cupboard. I could’ve sworn he was looking for something and I thought I could guess what it was.
We were approaching the greatest danger: the corridor containing the prompt’s office. I had to think of a diversion before he burst in upon Johnny.
‘Oh, sir,’ I cried quickly as he approached the door, ‘you can’t go in there.’
He turned to give me a bitter smile, scenting his quarry to be nearby.
‘Why not, Miss Royal? Mr Sheridan has given us the passport to roam. He said we were to go anywhere we liked.’
‘Did he?’ I replied, silently cursing my over-generous sponsor. ‘Well, I’m sure he did not intend the permission to include the ladies’ powder room.’
Marchmont flushed and removed his hand from the handle as if it had burned him.
‘There’s no sign,’ he said hotly.
I shrugged. ‘Of course not. Those who need it know what it is. If you require the privy, I could ask one of the stagehands to take you.’
I enjoyed watching Marchmont’s cheeks turn red. ‘No, no, that won’t be necessary,’ he said, striding purposefully off down the corridor.
Just as I was about to congratulate myself on my cleverness, disaster struck. Lady Elizabeth, waiting for the young gentlemen to leave, whispered aside to me, ‘I’ll call in here for a moment and catch you up.’
‘No!’ I protested, trying to stop her. But it was too late. She had opened the door and stepped inside, closing it swiftly behind her.
‘Miss Royal!’ called Lord Francis from the scenery lot at the back of the stage. ‘Miss Royal, tell us again how this balloon thing works.’
I stared at the door in agony, expecting Lady Elizabeth to rush out screaming at any moment.
‘Leave Lizzie; she’ll find us all right,’ Lord Francis continued.
Not daring to imagine what was happening inside that room, I tore myself away and joined Lord Francis, Miss Jane and Mr Charles by the deflated splendours of the balloon. I don’t know what they made of my mechanical explanation: I was so distracted that I must have talked utter rubbish.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’ wondered Lord Francis. ‘Shall we test it out on old Marzi-pain and leave him up there? It would be doing the world a favour.’
Charles Hengrave laughed. ‘Good idea. You still haven’t got your own back on him for snitching to your father about that coach you drove around the Square.’
‘You’re right! How had I forgotten that?’
‘Your problem, Frank, is that you’re too good-natured to bear a grudge,’ said his friend approvingly.
‘Or too absent-minded to remember anything for long,’ added Miss Jane with an indulgent smile at her cousin.
Soft footsteps behind me and Lady Elizabeth appeared at my elbow. She looked a little shocked but managed to give me a small smile.
‘Unusual powder room, Miss Royal,’ she said softly. ‘As I was unable to avail myself of its facilities, perhaps you would be so kind as to guide me to the appropriate chamber?’
‘Of course, Lady Elizabeth,’ I said, feeling a wave of gratitude towards her.
Leaving the rest of the party under Sarah Bowers’ capable eye in the Sparrow’s Nest, I led Lady Elizabeth to the privy.
When she re-emerged, she took me to one side.
‘Do you know who that is, Miss Royal? I assume you do as you were trying to prevent our paths crossing.’
I nodded.
‘So how did Lord Jonathan Fitzroy come to be here?’ she whispered.
‘So he is a lord,’ I said half to myself as her question confirmed my suspicion. Johnny’s knowledge of the Avons and their friends had given me a hint that he had moved in higher circles than the one he was currently occupying. I should have put two and two together when I heard Mrs Reid’s story about the Earl of Ranworth and his troublesome son. The rift between Johnny and his father could be explained by the predilection of the son for treasonous cartoons. And why else had Mr Sheridan despatched Mr Salter off to the other end of the country? My patron knew better than to send a fool like that to find someone. He’d been sent out of the way to stop him recognising his cousin. But Johnny’s identity as Captain Sparkler must be preserved as a secret, even from the Avons.
‘I think Mr Sheridan is helping him until a reconciliation can be arranged with his father,’ I explained. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
She shook her head, her neat ringlets whispering like silk at her neck.
‘No, I’ve given him my word. He said I could tell my brother if I wished, but no one else. He also said I could trust you.’ Her cheeks were now blushing. ‘He said that you’d pass him any messages I might care to send him and you’d bring any word from him to me.’
Clearly there was much more to the history of Lord Jonathan and Lady Elizabeth than I knew. As Johnny’s friend, I felt it my role to blow his trumpet for him.
‘Certainly. I’d like to be of assistance to you both, especially since Johnny saved my life last night.’