But this was no normal visit, and no normal play.
For perhaps the dozenth time since asking to use their private box the day before, I wished we could have found a way to discourage Alana and Philip from accompanying us. Though in the past the unflinching support of my sister and her husband had been a bolster to me, lately it had become a burden.
No, that wasn’t quite right. I would always be grateful for their love and care through all the difficulties of my scandalous past. That would never change. Rather their attitudes of mind toward it had. While in public they still displayed their unwavering support, in private their impatience had begun to show.
“What is the world coming to?” Alana grumbled as we entered the box. “A fortnight ago Philip and I came here to see A Winter’s Tale and now we’re here to view this . . .” she gestured with her playbill “. . . drivel.” She sank into her chair, allowing her white fur boa to drape elegantly around her shoulders. Her lavender gown was the latest in fashion, with a wide flounced sleeve, a matching ribbon stomacher, and round bows marching down the skirt in rows and across the shoulders. Her chestnut hair, two shades lighter than my own, was dressed high on her head in braided loops and accented with a spray of flowers.
Meanwhile, I’d been forced to alter an older gown of azure blue to accommodate my ever-expanding waistline. I made no complaint. My maid, Bree, and the seamstress I’d hired had done a marvelous job. I had never been vain about my appearance or paid particular attention to what was fashionable. Although I admitted to a faint twinge of uncertainty seeing how puffy my face looked in the mirror in the morning, and I was growing tired of how awkward I now felt in my own body.
Gage helped me into my chair before sitting beside me, looking as astoundingly handsome as ever in his dark evening attire. The artfully tousled curls of his golden hair glinted in the light of the wall sconces, accenting his healthy bronzed complexion and finely sculpted cheekbones. “Yes, well, we’re not here to judge the quality,” he replied to Alana’s comment. “Merely the content.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Gage and narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, perhaps wondering, as I was, whether he was growing just as irritated with their carping. “We’re well aware that you and Kiera had no control over the publication of that book or the production of this play,” she retorted, turning back toward the stage. She twitched her shoulders, adjusting her posture. “Though I’m sure you realize you would never have been at risk to be included had you not had dealings with that man.”
I rolled my eyes, not caring if Philip or Alana saw me. Of course we knew it. And if we hadn’t, she’d already reminded us of it at least three times.
As if recognizing this, Philip reached across to rest his hand over Alana’s in her lap. “They know, darling. Let’s not rub salt in the wound.”
Her shoulders tensed and she arched her chin in the air, but she listened to her husband and controlled her tongue.
I knew Alana was only worried about me. Her biting comments had begun after I’d been injured from a near tumble down a flight of stairs during our last murderous inquiry. While we’d made up from our quarrel, her feathers were still ruffled, particularly by this latest development—the adaptation of The King of Grassmarket into a play.
And the Theatre Royal’s rendition wasn’t the only one. With the book’s rampant popularity, theaters all across Edinburgh—perhaps all across Scotland and even into England—had taken notice. Soon each theater’s resident playwrights were racing to produce a script and compose music to accompany the flash songs in thieves’ cant cleverly alluded to in the pages of the book. Versions of The King of Grassmarket were already being staged at the Adelphi, the Grand, and at least half a dozen minor theaters and penny gaffs for the working classes. In fact, while we waited for the curtain to rise at the Theatre Royal, Bree and Anderley—our intrepid and capable lady’s maid and valet—were on their way to one of the more respectable minor establishments to view another version of the play.
I cast a glance past Gage’s shoulder at the audience packing the theater and then turned away, doing my best to ignore the hundreds of eyes in the other boxes eagerly fastened on us, undoubtedly whispering about our appearance. My fingers plucked at the embroidery adorning the skirt of my gown, anxious for the performance to begin. Then it would at least be easier to pretend I wasn’t being sliced to ribbons by vicious gossip.
Gage reached over to still my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “You’ve faced worse,” he murmured in encouragement.
I inhaled a deep breath, releasing some of the tension coursing through me. “I have.”
“And then you were alone. At least, this time, we’re together.”
I smiled softly. “Yes. You’re right.”
His pale blue eyes held mine steadily as he lifted my hand and pressed his lips to the satin of my glove. I could feel the warmth of his breath even through the fabric.
As the orchestra began to tune their instruments, my attention shifted back to the stage, though I kept Gage’s hand clutched in mine. Nerves fluttered in my stomach, and I knew a moment’s uneasiness about precisely what sort of story we were about to see depicted. But seconds after the curtain rose, everything fell away, and I became absorbed in the play.
It unfolded in three acts, the first focusing on Brock Kincaid’s childhood. It opened with his birth and the abandonment of his father—a shadowy figure not named in either the book or the play, but implied
