“It is,” Belfry conceded, without a hint of modesty. “And it nets a pretty sum for me, make no mistake. But I’ve lately become a touch restless. I should like to test myself a bit. I want to elevate the overall tenor of my theater, and for that, I need respectable ladies to attend my shows.”

“Why would you wish for that?” Violet asked blankly, causing Belfry to grin and Penvale to make an odd choking noise that Violet believed was the sound that resulted from a meeting of laughter and claret. But her question was genuine. The Belfry had carved out a rather nice niche for itself in London society: a space designed by and for the aristocracy, but with a distinctly masculine bent. It was, as Jeremy had once said admiringly, as though a gentleman’s club had been transformed into a theater.

“I love my theater, Lady James,” Lord Julian said, and he was uncommonly serious as he spoke, his gaze meeting hers directly without a hint of mockery or teasing. “I am proud of the productions we put on, but I also believe that we can do better—but we won’t do so, and I won’t attract truly top-notch talent, until the theater is seen as an institution as respectable and lofty as Covent Garden and Drury Lane, and I am licensed to perform serious drama, as those theaters are. I need men to bring their wives to my shows, not their mistresses, and I don’t know how to convince them to do so other than to lead by example.

“So, I will take part in your little ruse—I shall put on false whiskers and mumble to your husband about your delicate state, and look very grim and concerned. But I shall do so only if you give me my word that you and Lady Templeton will attend one of my productions. Soon. And bring as many of your friends as you can.”

“Well,” Violet said slowly. It would be terribly scandalous to attend a show at the Belfry—she could already hear her mother’s screeches echoing in her ears—but she found the prospect somewhat appealing. As it so frequently did, Violet’s curiosity got the better of her.

“This is my final offer,” Lord Julian added, seeming to mistake her hesitation for an imminent denial. “Do we have a deal?”

Violet’s mind raced as she pondered the logistics—she would have to convince James to escort her, and that would be tricky in and of itself. And she needed to bring friends? Respectable friends? She thought of all the married ladies of her acquaintance; to a one, they were far too concerned with their reputations to consider attending. But then her thoughts turned to Emily—Emily, who was still unwed, but who had two married friends who were perfectly capable of serving as chaperones, especially if Emily’s mother was somewhat misled as to their destination.

“I’ll see your respectable wives, and raise you an eligible miss,” Violet said, making up her mind all at once.

“We have a deal, then?” Lord Julian asked, setting down his glass. He now gazed at her keenly, his blue eyes intent.

“Yes,” Violet said firmly, lifting her own glass in a silent toast. “I believe we do.”

Five

When James returned home at midday the next day, after yet another early-morning departure, he would have been hard-pressed to explain even to himself why he did so. He had plenty with which to occupy himself this afternoon, and yet all morning thoughts of his wife had not been far from his mind. He couldn’t possibly seize on any reasonable explanation for it, other than her illness of the previous week—which had apparently been naught but a trifle, as she’d been up and about as usual the following morning. But still, it had made him take more than his usual notice of her. All day, he’d had the image of her sitting by the fire, her hair in a girlish plait; mentally, he lingered on the soft swell of her breasts beneath the fabric of her gown, imagining how they would have felt in his hands.

It was disturbing; he had spent four years cultivating a carefully maintained coolness where Violet was concerned, and yet a faint cough and a fluttering handkerchief seemed enough to undo a composure that had been years in the crafting.

James was surprised, upon arriving in Curzon Street, to see the door open as he approached his home, and Wooton’s anxious face peeking round the wood, clearly looking for him. While James prided himself on having a well-trained staff, this degree of anticipation of his arrival seemed a bit excessive.

“My lord,” Wooton called as soon as James was within earshot. “I am glad you are returned.” This was alarming in the extreme; James could count on one hand the number of times he had ever heard Wooton’s voice containing emotion.

“What has happened?” James asked, mounting the steps and entering the house.

“A physician is here, my lord.”

“Worth?” James demanded, naming the physician he had consulted when in town since the days of his boyhood.

“No, my lord. A man called Briggs, I believe, and unknown to me,” Wooton said, and he gave James a significant sort of stare that made James take a second, longer look at his butler.

“Where is this Briggs, then?” he asked impatiently.

“I believe he is with Lady James—”

“You are sadly mistaken in your belief, my good man,” came a voice from the stairs. “As I am now here.”

James turned to the stairs and saw a gentleman of indeterminate years descending toward him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, dressed in plain black, carrying a case in one hand. He had a set of bushy gray whiskers that covered much of his face, and his eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of spectacles, but as he drew nearer, James could see that his skin was largely unlined, and he thought that this Briggs might be a fair bit younger than he appeared upon first glance.