Simon leaned forward until his face was inches from Christian’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy glance around. He didn’t care. “Why are you following me?”
Christian blinked rapidly. “I’m your friend. I—”
“Are you?” His words seemed to hang in the air, almost echoing.
On stage, Hamlet drove his sword through Polonius. The actress playing Gertrude cried shrilly, “O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!” In the next box someone shrieked with laughter.
“Are you my true friend, Christian Fletcher?” Simon whispered. “Do you guard my back with a loyal eagle eye?”
Christian looked down and then up again, his mouth grim. “Yes. I am your friend.”
“Will you second me when I do find him?”
“Yes. You know I will.”
“I’m grateful.”
“But how can you keep doing it?” The younger man’s eyes were intent. He leaned forward, drawing Lucy’s gaze again. “How can you keep killing men?”
“It doesn’t matter how I’m able.” Simon looked away. James’s open eyes, staring into nothing. “The only thing that matters is that it’s done. That my brother is avenged. Do you understand?”
“I . . . yes.”
Simon nodded and leaned back. He smiled for Lucy. “Enjoying the play, my lady?”
“Very much, my lord.” She wasn’t fooled. Her gaze darted between him and Christian. Then she sighed and looked back to the stage.
Simon scanned the audience. Across from them, a lady in embroidered scarlet turned her lorgnette on him, posing self-consciously. He looked away. Below, a broad-shouldered gentleman pushed his way through the crowd, elbowing a wench. The woman shrieked and shoved back. The man turned and Simon leaned forward to catch sight of his profile. Another man rose to join the argument, and the first man turned aside.
Simon relaxed. Not Walker.
He’d spent the past few days since he’d received the threatening letter searching everywhere for the last man in the group that had killed Ethan. Christian may have followed him to the gaming halls at night, but the younger man hadn’t seen Simon during the day at the coffeehouses, at horse auctions, or roaming the tailor shops and other establishments for gentlemen. Walker was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he hadn’t gone to ground at his estate in Yorkshire either. Simon had paid ears in that vicinity, and there’d been no reports of Lord Walker. He could, of course, have fled to another county or even overseas, but Simon didn’t think so. Walker’s family was still in his town house.
On stage, an overlarge Ophelia sang her despair at the desertion of her lover. God, he hated this play. He shifted in his chair. If he could just get it over with. Duel Walker, kill him, put the man in his grave, and let his brother rest at last. Maybe then he could look Lucy in the eye without seeing accusation—imaginary or real. Maybe then he could sleep without fear that he’d wake to the destruction of all his hopes. Because he couldn’t sleep now. He knew he woke Lucy at night with his movements, but there seemed no help for it. His dreams, both waking and sleeping, were filled with images of Lucy. Lucy in danger, or injured or—God!—dead. Lucy finding out his secrets and turning from him in disgust. Lucy leaving him. And when he had respite from those nightmares, there were the older ones to haunt him. Ethan imploring. Ethan needing. Ethan dying. He fingered the place where the Iddesleigh signet ring should have lain. He’d lost it. Another failure.
The crowd erupted in shouts. Simon looked up and was just in time to see the final bloodbath that ended the play. Laertes’s sword work was particularly egregious. Then the audience applauded—and jeered.
Simon got up to hold Lucy’s cloak for her.
“Are you all right?” she asked him under cover of the noise.
“Yes.” He smiled for her. “I hope you enjoyed the theater.”
“You know I did.” She squeezed his hand, a secret wifely touch that made the entire tedious evening worth it. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“It was my pleasure.” He lifted her palm to his lips. “I shall take you to every one of the bard’s plays.”
“You’re so extravagant.”
“For you.”
Her eyes grew round and liquid, and she seemed to search his face. Didn’t she know the lengths he would go to for her?
“I never know what to make of Hamlet,” Christian said behind them.
Lucy glanced away. “I adore Shakespeare. But Hamlet . . .” She shivered. “It’s so dark at the end. And I never think he fully realizes the hurt he’s done poor Ophelia.”
“That business when he jumps into the grave with Laertes.” Rosalind shook her head. “I think he felt the most pity for himself.”
“Perhaps men never do comprehend the wrongs they’ve done to the women in their lives,” Simon murmured.
Lucy touched her hand to his arm, and then they were moving with the crowd toward the doors. The cold air smacked him in the face as they made the entrance. Gentlemen stood on the wide theater steps, shouting as they ordered footmen to fetch their carriages. Everyone was leaving at once, and naturally there weren’t enough runners to go around. Lucy shivered in the winter wind, her skirts whipping against her legs.
Simon frowned. She’d catch a chill if she stayed outside much longer. “Stay here with the ladies,” he told Christian. “I’ll fetch the carriage myself.”
Christian nodded.
Simon shoved through the milling crowd, making slow progress. It wasn’t until he’d reached the street that he remembered he shouldn’t leave Lucy. His heart jumped painfully at the thought. He glanced back. Christian stood between Rosalind and Lucy at the top of the stairs. The younger man was saying something that made Lucy laugh. They looked fine. Still. Best to be cautious. Simon started back.
Which was when Lucy suddenly disappeared.
LUCY STARED AFTER SIMON as he made his way through the crowd in front of the theater. Something was bothering him, she could tell.
Rosalind shivered on the other side of Mr. Fletcher. “Oh, I do hate these crushes after the theater lets out.”
The young man smiled down at her. “Simon will be back soon. He’ll be faster than waiting for one of the footmen to get the carriage.”
Around them the crowd surged and flowed like the sea. A lady bumped Lucy from behind and muttered an apology. Lucy nodded in reply, still staring after her husband. Simon had disappeared the last couple of nights and had returned late. When she tried to question him, he’d joked, and if she questioned him more, he’d made love to her. Urgently. Relentlessly. As if it was the last time every time.