Regency Disguise. Gail Whitiker
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to discuss,’ Alistair said, ‘except when I can take possession.’
‘Well, I suppose if everything meets with your approval, there is no reason why you may not do so as soon as you wish.’
‘Excellent. Have you brought the papers with you?’
‘Er … no.’ Mr Brown’s cheeks coloured. ‘I had no idea our business would be concluded so swiftly.’
‘Then I shall meet you at your office in precisely two hours. Pray have the papers ready for me at that time.’
Without waiting for the estate agent’s reply, Alistair headed back in the direction of his phaeton.
It always amazed him how some people could make an entire afternoon’s work out of what should have been a simple transaction.
Still, the main thing was that the house was perfect for what he had in mind. It would take work to make it into what he wanted, but he had accounted for the cost of renovations in his calculations. It was unlikely he would have found anything better. If he had, the price would have been that much higher, or it would have been too far out of London to make it viable.
No, Gunninghill House would do nicely, Alistair decided, glancing up at the old stone building one last time. It had everything the children needed. For that, he could forgive the less-than-efficient Mr Brown his numerous shortcomings.
Although Victoria preferred dramatic works, she occasionally went to the King’s Theatre for operatic performances. She had been fortunate enough to hear the great Italian soprano, Angelica Catalani, perform some years earlier and remembered it as being one of the few performances where the audience had actually been well behaved. Even the dandies who typically made the evening performances into something of a spectacle had been content to sit and listen to the diva sing.
Tonight, she and Laurence were to see a production of Tancredi by Rossini before going on to a card party at the home of one of Laurence’s friends. Victoria had heard great things about Fanny Corri, who had been cast in the lead role, and expected it would make for a pleasant change.
What she had not expected was to see Alistair Devlin and Miss Wright seated in the company of another well-dressed couple in one of the best boxes in the house.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man was following you,’ Laurence murmured.
‘Good thing you know better, then, isn’t it?’ Victoria quickly looked down at the stage. She had no wish to be caught staring at Alistair, but it was hard not to let her eyes drift in that direction. He was like fire on a winter’s night—a source of heat that could burn if one ventured too close.
The performance began shortly thereafter and was a delight from beginning to end. Miss Corri was exceptional in the role of the heroine, Amenaide, and the mezzo-soprano singing the part of Tancredi had a marvellous voice. Only the gentleman playing Orbazzano fell short of expectation.
‘I think he might have been the understudy,’ Laurence said as they made their way out of the box at the end. ‘He certainly wasn’t up to the calibre of the other singers. But Miss Corri was well worth hearing. I suspect there will be a line up outside her door this evening. I wonder if Devlin will be one of them. Rumour has it he’s looking for a new mistress.’
If either of them thought the nature of the conversation unusual, neither of them said so, perhaps because they had each been exposed to the theatrical world for most of their lives—a place where morals were lax and love and sex interchangeable.
Yet another reason, Victoria reflected, for men like Alistair Devlin to avoid her.
Still, the thought of him vying for the favours of an opera singer left her with a distinctly unsettled feeling. She preferred not to think of him as a man who took advantage of such women, yet everyone knew that well-born gentlemen chose mistresses from within the acting profession. She’d heard stories about his liaison with Celeste Fontaine and of their tumultuous parting, but she couldn’t recall there being whispers about any other woman having taken her place.
Not that she cared, Victoria assured herself. What Alistair Devlin did with his personal life was certainly no interest to her.
Pity, then, that he should be the first person she encountered upon entering the lobby.
‘Good evening, Mr Bretton,’ Alistair said. ‘Miss Bretton.’
‘Mr Devlin,’ Victoria said, striving for a casual tone. ‘Did you enjoy the performance?’
‘Mildly. I am not a great fan of opera, but I was persuaded to come by my sister and brother-in-law and prevailed upon to bring Cousin Isabelle as well.’ He turned to introduce the couple standing behind him.
‘A mediocre performance at best, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Bretton?’ the Archdeacon enquired.
‘The tenor’s performance, perhaps, but I thought Miss Corri was exceptional,’ Victoria said, grateful not for the first time for the anonymity of her name. In her last play, she had poked fun at the character of an archdeacon, and while she hadn’t had any particular archdeacon in mind, she suspected if Alistair’s brother-in-law had seen the play, he would have taken offence. ‘While she is not in the same league as Catalani, her voice is very fluid and her range is astonishing. I venture to say she has a promising future ahead of her.’
Mrs Baltham’s left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. ‘You seem to know a great deal about such things, Miss Bretton. You are an aficionado, perhaps?’
‘Of course she is!’ Miss Wright said with all the naïveté of youth. ‘Miss Bretton’s uncle owns the Gryphon Theatre. I’m sure she knows everything there is to know about opera and the stage.’
It was not a recommendation. Victoria knew it from the way Mrs Baltham’s nostrils suddenly dilated, as though finding herself in the presence of a vaguely unpleasant smell. ‘Really? I was not aware of the connection.’
‘It is not generally well known,’ Laurence remarked.
‘And I am sure you are happy it remain that way,’ the Archdeacon replied stiffly. ‘Come along, Isabelle.’
The dismissal could not have been more obvious. The Archdeacon and his wife moved away, leaving poor Miss Wright to follow numbly in their wake.
Victoria didn’t say a word. Quietly fuming, she kept her eyes on the floor, painfully aware of the snub she and her brother had just been dealt.
‘Well, I’ll just go and find the carriage,’ Laurence said, obviously feeling the awkwardness of the situation. ‘Coming, Victoria?’
‘A moment, Miss Bretton,’ Alistair said quietly. ‘Please.’
Victoria glanced at her brother and nodded. ‘I’ll be along directly.’
Laurence bowed and left them. As soon as they were alone, Alistair looked at Victoria with an expression she could only call pained and said, ‘I am truly sorry for what just happened. They had no right to speak to you like that.’
‘It is not for you to apologise, Mr Devlin,’ Victoria said, anger lending sharpness to her tone. ‘Clearly, your sister and brother-in-law are not as impressed with my connection to the theatre as Miss Wright so obviously is.’
‘I fear they share my father’s opinion in that regard.’
‘Then why did they come?’ Victoria was stung into replying. ‘Is opera not a form of theatre?’
‘I’ve always thought so, but the Archdeacon is of the opinion that the talent required to sing opera well puts those performers ahead of commonplace actors. It doesn’t make any sense, but it is beyond my power or interest to try to change his mind. But I am sorry that you and your brother had to suffer for his prejudices.’
Victoria managed a thin smile. She hadn’t been sorry to see the Archdeacon leave. She hadn’t liked him any more than he had liked her. But she did regret that Alistair had been there