‘I’ll hurry, but only because it’s Grandmamma. Besides, no one is ever on time for the theatre.’ George crossed the room to pull the bell rope to call for assistance and hurried into her bedroom to wash and change her gown.
‘The duke said to be there on time,’ Brimstone called after her. ‘Lady Glendower actually wants to see the play.’
George shucked her carriage gown, washed her arms and face with the warm water the maid brought, and selected a gown of bronze silk, trimmed with narrow rows of mink. She dusted her face and décolletage with powder and allowed the maid to help rearrange and powder her hair.
Tugging on her gloves, she re-entered her boudoir. ‘Ready,’ she announced, shaking her head as Gabriel rose, dusting crumbs from his coat and breeches.
The curtain was still down as Gabe led her through the door of Drury Lane. The gallery was filled with roving gentlemen making their way from box to box, fetching refreshments for the ladies in their charge, or merely drifting about to see who was present.
Overly warm air, reeking of sweat and hair powder, pressed in, making George take a hurried breath through her mouth as they plunged through the crowd.
The duke and the dowager countess were already seated in the Glendower box, the countess eagerly spying on her acquaintances through her opera glasses. Candlelight reflected back from the lenses of a hundred other pairs as their fellow attendees did the same.
‘Georgianna, sweetheart,’ the countess exclaimed as they entered, ‘I’m so glad that scamp got you here.’
George kissed the old woman warmly and greeted the duke with a sly smile. ‘Duke, I am shocked to find you concealed here, quite alone, with my kinswoman.’
‘Very good, my dear,’ the duke drawled, silently clapping his hands. ‘You play the outraged matron to a tee. I wonder, wherever did you learn that?’
‘You, Alençon, are a despicable beast,’ interpolated the dowager with a wink for George. ‘My granddaughter may choose to be shocked at your behaviour if she wishes.’
‘Our behaviour, my dear Sophia, our behaviour.’ The duke languidly straightened the lace peeking from the cuffs of his cut velvet coat.
The dowager harrumphed and sent Brimstone scurrying off to fetch refreshments. ‘And none of that lemonade stuff either. Can’t stand the stuff.’
George sat chatting with her husband’s grandmother and the duke until Gabriel returned just as the curtain came up. They did their best to attend to the play over the raucous behaviour of the bucks in the gallery below, but one of the more fashionable impures seated in a nearby box was slowly tossing roses to the men gathered below her, causing a near riot.
‘It’s a damn fine thing I know this play,’ the countess announced with one of her disdainful snorts. ‘Because I can’t hear a thing over those louts.’ And with that, she leaned out over the edge and emptied her glass onto the crowd below.
A howl of protest erupted, followed by what was clearly a fight breaking out. The dowager settled into her chair with the air of a satisfied hen.
On stage, Kemble chewed through his monologues as though he were addressing the troops before a forlorn hope. George drank his performance in. Hamlet had always been her favourite of Shakespeare’s plays, and no matter how it was performed, she always enjoyed it.
The melancholy Dane. The doomed madwoman who loved him. The friends who betrayed him, and who were in their turn betrayed. It was a fascinating story.
When the curtain went down for the intermission, George sallied forth from her box with Alençon, strolling through the crowd to visit friends. They found Lady Morpeth heartily bored by the evening’s performance, but looking forward to the farce.
‘I never could stomach all the ins and outs and thees and thous. It’s simply too much work.’ The countess hid a yawn behind her hand.
George laughed at her friend and went so far as to agree that Shakespeare could certainly be hard to follow, especially when whole scenes had been cut to shorten the running time.
‘You mean it’s actually longer?’ Victoria shot her husband a glare when he had the temerity to laugh.
‘Yes,’ he said, the faintest of smiles curling his lips, ‘but it makes sense.’
‘I sincerely doubt that, Rupert, but I shall allow you and George to like it all the same.’
George thanked her friend for her magnanimity and excused herself, allowing Alençon to lead her on to the Duchess of Devonshire’s box. On the way, he gave a sudden shout of surprise and pulled George to a halt.
‘Lady Bev’s here,’ he whispered, leading her towards a box into which an elderly woman in a deep purple sack gown had just disappeared. ‘Amelia Spence would no more come to see Hamlet on her own than she’d move to Morocco to queen it over the Bedouin hordes.’
‘Are you making poor Lady Beverly another of your flirts?’ George demanded, as the duke led her onward to the box in question. ‘I must warn you, sir, I shall be forced to tell Grandmamma that you are a rake.’
‘Your grandmother, like almost every other woman alive, prefers a rake, my dear. And Prue has been one of my flirts far longer than Sophia.’
George grinned. The old roué was absolutely correct. Dark, dangerous, and likely to lead a lady astray? Those were attractive qualities indeed.
Inside Lady Beverly’s box they found the Earl of Cardross ensconced amongst the ladies, his lavishly embroidered coat resplendent even among all the feminine finery. Lady Beverly was smiling at the earl, while Miss Spence looked on Friday-faced, her grey fringe all but hiding her eyes.
At the front of the box stood a young woman about George’s age. Two middle-aged matrons sat beside her, one dressed in a fashionable gown of striped
