“May I escort you to your boxes, ladies?” Lord Crispin’s voice pulled her back.
“My party is just over there.” Lady Ashford squeezed Tavy’s fingers. “Octavia, I will call upon you tomorrow.” She moved away.
The baron took Tavy’s arm. “Are you enjoying the play?”
“The scenery is—” She flicked her gaze around, but the elegant party had gone. “It is interesting, my lord.”
“Miss Pierce, will you do me the honor of calling me by my given name?”
“If you wish, Marcus. We have been friends for two years, after all.”
“Octavia— May I call you Octavia?”
“Yes.” He already had.
“Octavia, I hope to be more than friends.”
“Thank you, Marcus. I know. My father told me, of course.”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “You are priceless.” He patted her hand and led her into Lady Fitzwarren’s box. The dowager had not yet returned. Marcus’s brow beetled. “I don’t like to leave you here alone.”
Octavia took another slow breath, this time of intention.
“Why don’t you sit with us for the remainder of the play?” she said. “I am certain Lady Fitzwarren would be happy for your company.”
“Would you?” His eyes glimmered with confidence. Life married to this man could suit her. She would have the freedom to do whatever she wished as a married woman, and an inestimable companion.
“I enjoy your company, Marcus. I quite like you, in fact.” The words felt strange on her tongue. But she did like him.
He squeezed her fingers. “I will bid my party adieu and return shortly.”
Alone, Tavy glanced at the unruly crowd in the pit, avoiding the boxes above. Apparently the fashionable set never remained through an entire play. Of course, she didn’t know anyone amongst that set, so really it did not signify where she looked.
She folded her damp hands, heart pattering behind her ribs. Like a caged bird’s wings. Her skin felt hot all over now and uncomfortably tight. Some sort of delayed reaction, no doubt. It had been seven years, after all. Quite a long time. Quite a foolishly long time.
Voices came from the other side of the partition, hushed and urgent, Marcus and another man. The conversation of the rowdies in the pit below had reached a clamor. As she’d done in the bazir and society parties in Madras for years, Tavy tried to focus upon the furtive conversation.
“I will not,” Marcus said. “I signed it once before because of our agreement—”
“And you’d better again, milord,” a scratchy voice replied, “assurin’ that ship leaves wi’out inspection, or you know what’ll happen to—”
“Don’t think you can threaten me.” Marcus’s voice crept higher.
“I just did, milord. You’d better agree or I’ll be visitin’ you at home the next time.”
“You would not dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Footsteps sounded and Marcus appeared beside her.
“My apologies. I was detained by an acquaintance.” His face looked oddly blotched.
“Marcus, is everything all right?”
“Certainly.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “Especially now that I am with you.”
“I heard some of your conversation just now. It sounded like that man was threatening you.”
“Of course not. Octavia, I have a great many business associates, just as St. John. Some are less genteel than others, I’m afraid. But this is nothing to concern you, merely a typical transaction. Men’s business.”
He patted her hand. For the second time that evening. Tavy had the urge to remove her fingers from beneath his and throw her gaze across the theater.
The actors retook the stage, and she pinned her attention to them until the applause ended and Marcus escorted her to the carriage waiting along the crowded block.
“There you are, dear girl.” Lady Fitzwarren’s multiple chins bounced, her violet taffeta skirts billowing as she strode toward them at a clip far too rapid for a woman of her ample girth. “Crispin, you are gracious to see my charge to our carriage.”
He handed the dowager up, a rumbling fit of coughs and snuffles accompanying her ascent. She waved a scented kerchief and settled onto the squabs.
“You must join our party at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes, and his gaze shifted about the street. Gaslights burned amber halos across the pavement, heavy mist swirling about the people departing the theater like ghosts in a dream.
“Marcus,” Tavy said quietly, “won’t you tell me what distresses you?”
“My dear,” his brows knit, “if we are to get along well together you must leave the minor unpleasantries of business to me and content yourself with being beautiful and charming.” He took her hand. “Simply having you by my side relieves all foolish displeasures, I assure you.”
Tavy nodded, but conviction settled. This could be her project. Marcus had trouble with a dishonest man of business. He would not share the problem with her. But if her future lay with him, she must do what she could to help. And she was fortunate to be perhaps the single lady in London who knew where best to seek assistance with this sort of challenge.
A frisson of old doubt mingled with new certainty glistened up her spine. Pushing the sensation away, she took a step up, lifted her gaze past his shoulder, and her breath failed.
As though it were yesterday and not a lifetime ago, in a street crowded with market stalls instead of carriages, bathed in sun rather than misty midnight rain, Lord Benjirou Doreé stood at a distance, watching her. Perfect, clear awareness shone in his dark eyes.
She stared back and his regard did not falter.
“Why do you keep that man in your service?”
She dragged her gaze away and followed Marcus’s up to the coachman’s box where Abha sat beside Lady Fitzwarren’s groom.
“He—” Tavy caught up her breath. “He has been with me for years.”
“It is unseemly for a lady to go about London with a manservant of that sort.”
She slid her fingers free. “Thank you, my lord. I will take that under advisement. Good evening.” She stepped into the carriage. The baron bowed and shut the door. Tavy sat back and closed her eyes, fingers clamped about her reticule.
“What a splendid outing,” Lady Fitzwarren exclaimed. “I daresay I’ve never met with so many friends at one theater production. I’m simply exhausted from talking.” She chuckled liberally. “But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, you are such a demure lady now. Don’t remember you being like this when you were a girl. How you used to kick up a lark wherever I took you and St. John’s sisters about town. Must be that horrid East Indian sun. Bakes a girl’s head until she ain’t got two thoughts in it to rub together.” She cracked a laugh, then her voice sobered. “Or perhaps it was that awful Imene Stack. Wretched woman. Don’t know why your mother let her have the care of you, though it ain’t charitable to speak ill of the dead, of course.”
Tavy bit her lip and reached for Lady Fitzwarren’s fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for all those larks years ago.”
Taffeta rustled. The dowager surrounded her hands.
“Dear girl—”
“It was not the East Indian sun.” She could not open her eyes. The image behind them was too fresh yet far too familiar. “Although it may have had something to do with Aunt Imene.” Her lashes parted and she met the dowager’s concerned gaze. “But I think perhaps I am through with it now.”