Hero suddenly squeezed her hand. “There she is.”
Megs blinked. “Who?”
“Hippolyta Royle,” Hero murmured. “The lady there in that delicious shade of dark coffee brown and pink.” Megs followed the discreet incline of Hero’s head. A tall lady stood by herself, watching the crowd with hooded eyes. She couldn’t be called beautiful, but with her tawny complexion, dark hair, and regal bearing, she was certainly striking.
“Who is she?” Megs wondered aloud.
Hero huffed softly beside her. “You’d know if you hadn’t been hiding yourself away in the wilds of the countryside for two years. Miss Royle is a rather mysterious heiress. She appeared in London out of the blue a couple of months ago. Some say she was raised in Italy or even the East Indies. I’ve thought that she must be a very interesting person, but we’ve not been introduced yet.”
They watched as Miss Royle turned and began strolling away.
“And it looks like I won’t have the opportunity tonight either,” Hero said ruefully. “I see no one to make the proper introductions. But here’s Maximus’s box. Shall we?”
Megs nodded as Hero led the way into the splendid box. It was directly opposite Griffin’s rented box and so was over the other side of the stage from where they sat.
Inside, the box was as luxurious as Griffin’s—perhaps more so. Two ladies sat by themselves, and the elder of the two held out her hand at their entrance.
“Hero, how lovely to see you, my dear.” Miss Bathilda Picklewood had raised both Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, after their parents’ death. A plump lady who wore her soft gray hair in ringlets across her forehead, she held a small, elderly King Charles spaniel on her lap.
Hero stepped gracefully forward and kissed Miss Picklewood on the cheek. “How are you, Cousin Bathilda?”
“Quite well,” Miss Picklewood said, “but I do declare it has been an age since you brought William ’round.”
As if to emphasize her words, the spaniel gave one sharp bark.
Hero smiled. “I shall correct my error as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”
“Splendid!”
“Who is that with you, Hero?” the second lady asked, and Megs felt a pang, for it was Lady Phoebe Batten.
Megs stepped closer, hoping the dim candlelight in the box would help. “It’s me, Phoebe. Megs.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said in a confused flurry. Her eyes were focused on Megs’s face now, but Megs had the sinking feeling that the other woman still couldn’t see her properly. “Are you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, yes,” Megs said, though she’d hardly paid attention. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one, so this is quite a treat.”
“Robin Goodfellow is so clever,” Miss Picklewood said, and Megs scrambled a bit before she remembered that was the name of the actress in man’s clothing. “I believe I’ve enjoyed every play she’s been in.”
“Harte was very smart to lure Miss Goodfellow away from the Royal,” a deep voice said behind them.
Both Megs and Hero turned to see Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield, standing in the entrance to the box, two ices in his hands.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Had I known you’d join us, Hero, I would’ve gotten more ices.”
“Griffin and Mr. St. John have gone to get them for us,” Hero said. “You remember Lady Margaret?”
“Naturally.” The duke executed a very elegant bow, considering he was holding an ice in each hand.
“Your Grace.” Megs curtsied. She’d been acquainted with the Duke of Wakefield for years—he was a political ally of her brother Thomas—but she didn’t know him well. He’d always struck her as a rather daunting gentleman.
“You know Harte of Harte’s Folly?” Hero asked her brother curiously. She took one of the ices and placed it in Phoebe’s hands.
“Not personally, no,” His Grace replied as he offered the remaining ice to Miss Picklewood. “Actually, I’m not even sure that ‘Harte’ is but one man—the backers of the pleasure garden could be a syndicate of businessmen—but in any case it’s well known that Miss Goodfellow was lured away from her previous theater, probably for an outrageous sum of money. It was a smart business move by whoever runs Harte’s Folly, though. The pleasure garden needed a renowned actress.”
“And Miss Goodfellow is the most renowned breeches-role actress in London,” Viscount d’Arque drawled as he strolled into the box. “Your Grace.” He swept a graceful bow. “Ladies.”
“D’Arque.” The duke eyed him noncommittally.
The viscount’s gaze swept over the ladies appreciatively before landing on Megs. He stepped forward and in a swift move had her fingers in his. “Lady Margaret, you’re looking enchanting this evening.”
Megs’s eyes widened as he bent over her fingers.
Directly behind the viscount was Griffin … and Godric.
“THE INTERVAL MUST be nearly over,” Artemis Greaves murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the box?”
“Oh, pish.” Lady Penelope tossed her head, making the jeweled pins in her dark locks sparkle. “Don’t fret so. I haven’t yet greeted the Duke of Wakefield.”
Artemis sighed silently, shifting Bon Bon in her arms as they strolled the corridor behind the theater boxes. The fluffy white dog gave a groan before falling back to sleep. Artemis wished—not for the first time—that Penelope had even a pinch of sense. The little dog, while quite sweet and docile, was getting too old to be dragged everywhere. She’d yipped when Artemis had lifted her from the carriage, and Artemis suspected rheumatism in the dog’s back legs.
“I don’t see why everyone thinks her so fascinating,” Penelope muttered now, drawing Artemis’s attention.
“Who?”
“Her.” Penelope waved an irritated hand to a tall lady disappearing into a box. “That Hippolyta Royle. Silliest name I’ve ever heard. She’s as dark as a savage from Africa, nearly as tall as a man, and not even titled.”