“I believe Mr. Nash is somewhat …” Beata hesitated, looking for the right word.
“It was for gentlemen only,” Allan assured her.
“Then uncensored it would be, I imagine, to the prince’s taste,” Beata observed. “How entertaining.”
Rathbone was happy to watch and listen. He went to the theater very seldom these days. He realized with a sudden dismay that he and Margaret had gone on only a few occasions and had rarely cared for the same work. How often had he pretended to agree with her when he had not? Her opinions had seemed predictable to him; they provoked no new questions in his mind, stirred no questions he had not considered before, stirring no new depth of emotion.
It had not occurred to him until now to wonder how often she had feigned an interest in something he had chosen, probably hiding her boredom more skillfully, and perhaps more kindly, than he had done.
The subject had moved to another play now, something a little more decorous. Beata was guiding the conversation into more comfortable areas.
“Did you like it?” Rathbone asked her a trifle abruptly, and then felt ashamed of his clumsiness. He wanted to add something to make it seem less demanding but did not know what.
She seemed amused, far more so than Allan, who had been about to speak and was now at a loss.
York looked from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable.
Beata gave an elegant little shrug. “You have caught me out, Sir Oliver. I’m not certain that I did. People are talking about it, but I fear it is more for the performance than any content of the drama itself. I would have found it more interesting if it had concluded less satisfactorily. An awkward ending would have given one something to think about.”
“People don’t like confused endings,” Mary Allan pointed out.
“A thing should be either a comedy, in which case the ending is happy, or else a tragedy, when it is not,” Allan agreed, supporting his wife.
York was amused. He watched them with undisguised satisfaction.
Beata turned her wineglass gently, watching the light glow through it. Rathbone noticed that she had beautiful hands.
“Surely life is both, even farce at times?” she asked. “A little ambiguity, even confusion, allows you to come to some of your own conclusions. I rather enjoy having to complete the thoughts myself. If the answer is easy, the question hardly seems worth asking.”
“It’s a play-entertainment,” Mary Allan frowned. “We want to enjoy ourselves, perhaps laugh a little. There are times when I find tragedies moving, but I admit it is not very often. And I prefer the ones I know, such as
Beata accepted it without demur. “There is so much in
Rathbone laughed in spite of himself, and reluctantly Allan joined in.
“Did it make you think?” York asked, looking pointedly at Rathbone.
“It certainly made me wonder how on earth an actor can remember all those lines and have energy and attention left to pour emotion into them as well, while still managing not to fall over the furniture,” he answered.
“Training,” York said drily. “They only recite the words; they don’t have to invent them. And a wise stage manager keeps the furniture to a minimum.”
“Perhaps that explains why judges are allowed to remain seated,” Rathbone suggested, then wished he had not.
Mary Allan looked at him as if he were totally eccentric, York pulled a slight face, and Bertrand Allan was confused. Only Beata half hid a smile.
“I hear that the police are investigating the possibility of fraud in one of the local London churches,” York remarked, changing the subject.
“Really! I wonder if that will come to trial.” Allan looked at York, slightly turning his back toward Rathbone.
“Not certain if they can raise enough evidence to make a charge.” York smiled, taking another piece of Stilton. He ate it with relish before replying. “I am very relieved that I am extremely unlikely to get the case. It is always messy prosecuting a churchman.” He looked across at Rathbone with a gleam of amusement. “After your success with this one, perhaps you’ll get it.”
Rathbone was caught out, uncertain as to whether it was a compliment or a joke at his expense. Had he appeared to be too pleased with himself? A case of fraud against a church would not be easy at all.
Intentionally he deflected the barb. “You are quite right; anything to do with religion, money, and the possibility of fraud will make headlines. People will follow the case for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. It will be the topic of heated debates, and no matter what the verdict, it will infuriate as many people as it pleases.” He smiled very slightly. “For that reason alone, I imagine they will be very careful as to whom they give it. I have been fortunate so far, but my experience is very slight.” He turned to Allan. “If you appear in this one, would you prefer prosecution or defense?”
“I don’t think I would be likely to get a choice,” Allan replied. “But I do agree with you that it will be very high profile-if it actually comes to trial at all, that is.”
“Who could a church defraud?” Mary Allan asked of no one in particular. “They are not doing any business. Do they handle so much money that fraud would even be worth their while? Surely not.”
“We will see, if it comes to trial,” York answered her.
She looked concerned. “Do you think it will?”
York considered for a few moments, aware that they were all watching him and waiting. He gave a small smile. “I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I would say about evens.” He looked at Rathbone, then at Allan.
Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “If you were a betting man, what would be your odds on getting a conviction?”
York blinked. “Ten to one against, I should think.”
“What a good thing you are not a betting man,” Beata murmured. “The temptation would be enormous.”
York opened his mouth to retort sharply, and, realizing that she was not even looking at him, closed it again with irritation.
Rathbone saw the smile on Beata’s face, sad, wry, and completely inward, not intended to communicate with anyone else. He wondered what the conversation between her and York would be when the guests were gone and they were alone-or even if there would be any.
Mary Allan gazed around the room. “I think this is so charming,” she remarked, as if everyone had been speaking of décor the moment before. “The colors are so restful, and yet have such dignity.”
“Thank you,” York replied, acknowledging the compliment without even glancing at Beata. Rathbone assumed he must’ve chosen the colors himself.
“I think if I were to do it again, I would choose something warmer,” Beata said deliberately.
York raised his eyebrows. “Warmer? How can blue be warmer, unless you go into purple, which I would dislike intensely. I cannot imagine living with purple curtains.”
She did not retreat. “I was thinking of yellow,” she replied. “I have always thought I would like yellow one day, like sunlight on the walls.”
Rathbone thought how pleasant that would be. He found himself smiling.
“A yellow room?” Mary Allan said, unimpressed.
“What would you do for curtains?” York asked. “I refuse to live in the middle of a glass bowl like a goldfish!”
“Perhaps the color of whisky?” Rathbone suggested.
Beata flashed him a sudden smile then looked down the moment before York turned to stare at her.
“It sounds very …” Mary Allan started, and then gave up.
“Like scrambled eggs on burned toast,” York responded.
Allan laughed nervously.
“Afternoon sunlight, and a good glass of single malt,” Rathbone said with a smile, meeting York’s eyes and
