Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(40)

“Yes, Mr. Bellamy? Can I help you, sir?”

“Holling, have you a winter cloak? Something drab and utilitarian?”

“No, sir. My winter cloak is ermine, lined with silk.” The corner of her mouth twitched.

He cut her a droll look. “Why, Holling. It’s your annual flare of personality.” He tsked. “Subdue it, please, and just fetch the cloak. Her ladyship requires loan of it.”

“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper curtsied and left. A minute later she returned with an armful of heavy wool in a dark shade, the ideal hue between charcoal gray and beef-drippings brown.

“Perfect,” he said, taking the cloak from Holling and promptly swinging it around Lily’s slender shoulders. Thanks to the disparity in the two women’s body shape, he could nearly wrap the thing around her twice.

As he fastened the ties and tucked in the edges, wrapping her tight as an Egyptian mummy, Lily’s bottom lip protruded in a pout.

When he yanked the hood up over her curls, she frowned down at her shapeless woolen cocoon. “I look like a charred potato.”

“Ah, yes. Wholesome.”

“Lumpy.”

“Come along, then. I have the costermonger’s wheelbarrow waiting just outside.”

Despite herself, his charred potato quivered with laughter. As he could not offer her his arm, Julian gave her a stiff thump on the shoulder, prodding her into motion. She turned her back to him and shuffled toward the door.

“I’ll repay you for this,” he heard her growl.

“No doubt.” He smiled, and was further amused to catch Holling smiling, as well. “What is it, Holling? Are you ill?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the bird, isn’t it? You’re vexed about the bird.”

“No, sir. Well, perhaps a bit, but …” The older woman sniffed and wiped her eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellamy. It’s been too long since her ladyship enjoyed herself, that’s all.”

Dear devoted Holling. Julian was glad Lily had her. And now, he was mildly regretful about the bird.

“She’ll enjoy tonight,” he assured the housekeeper. “I’ll see to it.” If there was one thing he knew well, it was how to keep a lady entertained. His challenge would be ensuring that he didn’t enjoy the evening too much. Memories of their kiss had haunted his every thought that day. They would likely do so for years to come. And good Lord, that gown …

Holling helped the cause of restraint by sending him out the door with a pocketful of guilt. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “It’s an unconventional outing, but I believe the late Lord Harcliffe—God rest his soul—would approve.”

With a grim sigh, Julian tugged down the brim of his hat. Leo, approve of this? He sincerely doubted it.

Chapter Ten

They were late for the curtain, just as Julian had planned. Much better to enter the theater during the preliminary entertainment, when most eyes were hopefully fixed on the stage instead of idly roaming the crowd.

The hack let them out near the side entrance. Here was another helpful factor in maintaining their disguise—the theater had separate entrances for separate classes of ticket-holders. Members of the gentry and nobility occupied the boxes and entered through the grandest, most central way. Their servants climbed a steep, humble staircase to the shilling seats in the gallery. And those with three bob to purchase a seat in the pit—tradesmen, scholars, occasionally their wives and more often their mistresses—entered through this passageway.

He paid their entrance at the door. Halfway down the tunnel, Lily pulled up and refused to budge.

“Not until you un-truss me,” she insisted, screwing up her lips to send a burst of breath upward, toward a stray ringlet dangling between her eyebrows like a sausage link. Her huff briefly lifted the curl but failed to dislodge it. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I need the use of my arms.”

After a moment’s pause, during which he considered the inherent dangers of removing his glove, putting a hand to her fair, lovely brow, and tending to the stray lock himself … Julian capitulated. He released all but the uppermost ties. Immediately, she reached up with one elegant, white-gloved hand to brush the impertinent ringlet aside. A ray of peach iridescence burst from the brown-gray wrap.

“You must keep it on,” he admonished, tugging the garment tight around her shoulders in case the tunnel’s dim lighting prevented her from understanding his words. “The hood as well.”

She signaled agreement with a nod.

When they reached the house, Julian scanned for the two boys he’d paid to reserve their seats. There they were, in the center of the second row, staring slack-jawed as a mustachioed man led a trio of trained poodles through their paces on stage. Just viewing their wide-eyed expressions, Julian paused, reluctant to disrupt the boys’ enjoyment. But then the younger one caught sight of him, elbowed his friend, and together they rushed to vacate the seats, hungry for their promised shillings. Much as they liked the entertainment, they wanted the coin—and the food it would purchase—more.

Julian slipped each boy a crown instead. He could well remember that hunger. At their age, he would have waded through molten lava to retrieve a sixpence. A sixpence was a true windfall—it meant three trips through the soup line for him and Mother, each. More like four for him and two for her, because she always spooned some of her portion into his bowl. They could have dined on a crown for weeks.