Laura dressed not in black but in white. She hadn't bought any black gowns with the money Richard had given her and, despite Miss Dalrymple's advice, she found she preferred white. Black was too much of a reminder that she was still supposed to be in mourning for her husband.
It was only before dinner, as the maid was doing her hair, that Laura realized she had neglected to buy herself any jewellery with Richard's money. Nor did she have any of her own. All her jewellery was still at her father's place. She would never get any of it back now.
She looked critically at herself in the mirror. She was hardly likely to cause a spectacle like this. It was true that the shoulders of her dress were very low, but this only made her throat seem all the more bare. She was unlikely to raise an eyebrow in a church, let alone an opera hall.
But there was nothing she could do about it now and she hated to keep Richard waiting. She shrugged an indigo shawl around her shoulders and went down to dinner.
It was a silent, slow dinner that night. By the shadows under Richard's eyes, she could tell he was fatigued. She was too preoccupied to provide him with conversation either. She had not been properly out in London since before Maidstone died. She was afraid of it, of the crowds, of the gossip, of the stares.
Over the port and nuts, she tried to back out.
"We don't have to go tonight, if you don't want to," she said. "We can go another time."
He looked up from his port, which he had not yet sipped. "I'm sorry. I'm not much of a conversationalist tonight. But we can go. After all, I haven't really taken you anywhere yet. You must be bored."
"It's the pleasantest boredom I ever had."
He gave her a weak smile and twisted the wine glass in his hand.
"Did you finish your speech?"
He frowned. "What— oh. Yes. I'll fix it up tomorrow." He took his watch out of his pocket. "Five to nine. If you don't mind, I'll go change my cravat."
"Please."
He left his port untouched on the table. Laura, finding the nuts unenticing, abandoned them there too and went next door to the study to wait for him. His low mood oppressed her. She could tell he was falling into one of his silences again. Something was wrong, and he didn't want to let her know what.
The papers he had been writing lay strewn across the desk. She hesitated only a moment and then crossed the floor and glanced down at them.
It was not a speech. It was a letter. A few legible phrases leapt out from her, between lines of scratched-out words:
...I thought from you of all people I could expect some measure of support...
...I am responsible for her welfare, certainly responsible in part for the position she is in — a position not unsimilar to yours, once upon a time...
...Your words give me pause, but I see no way out, no possible answer, that preserves Laura's safety. And I would sacrifice my honour, if any such thing remains...
A step on the stairs warned her in time, and when Richard entered the room she was intently examining the bookshelves.
"Should I start on Cicero next?" she said lightly.
"It's in Latin I'm afraid. I only keep it there to frighten my lawyer into thinking I'm an intellectual."
She laughed, turning to him, and then broke off. "What's that?"
'That' was a flat, black velvet box, held open in his hands. Something sparkled within it. And she noticed that he had not changed his cravat.
"A bit of nonsense, really. But they'll go with your shawl. And your eyes."
He came closer, and she saw that they were a deep blue, sparkling stone necklace and two matching earrings. He slipped the box on the bookshelf, took out the necklace, and draped it around her neck. It was cold and heavy.
"I can't, Richard. They're too much."
"Don't make a fuss," he murmured in her ear. "They're only paste. The real ones are in a vault at the bank."
He turned her around and looked her up and down, and he didn't need to utter a word for her to know exactly what he was thinking.
"Now," he said, dragging his eyes away, "I'll leave you to do the earrings, because I don't know how they work."
She gave a subdued laugh. "Men."
"Women." He gave her a smile, and his weariness seemed to disappear in front of her eyes.
Because of that more than anything else, she blindly twisted the earrings in.
"Do they look alright?" she asked.
"Perfect." He squared her face in his hands and kissed her. "Come. The carriage."
It was now Laura who felt fatigued, and Richard who seemed carefree. He made a game of kissing her fingers in the carriage and it was all she could do to laugh and pretend she was amused. Perhaps she did not pretend well enough. He abandoned it as they arrived in Haymarket and got stuck in a slow-moving line of carriages.
"Do you have a box?" Laura asked.
"I sent out to my brother-in-law. We have the use of his tonight."
"Oh. Your sister married — he's Lord Farthingdale now, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"But I remember him," Laura said, casting her mind back. "His mother brought him to the hall one Christmas. I pushed him in the cow-pond."
Richard gave a shout of laughter. "He must have had five stone on you at least! How did you dare?"
"I went for the knees. He toppled like a bowling pin. I do hope he's not here tonight. Is he still fat?"
"He is not. My sister rations him on soda bread and broth when he gains an ounce. Poor man. He was destined to pushed around by... cruel women."
"And I was destined to be cruel. I remember calling you all sorts of names as a child." She felt a sudden flash of shame for the sins of years ago, which until now she had almost forgotten. "I'm sorry about that."
He made a sound, as though to brush it off, then he changed his mind and kissed her fingertips once more. "Thank you."
She didn't know what he was thanking for.
They drew up before the theatre entrance, and Richard helped her down. There was a crowd outside, and as they got down, the buzz of chatter and noise suddenly hushed and a chorus of stares greeted them. But if Richard was aware, he showed no sign of it, only tucking her arm into his and heading for the doors.
No one stepped forward from the crowd to greet them, and Richard did not linger there, instead taking her in to the entrance hall, where the acrid smell of gas lamps met them. At the bottom of the stairs to the boxes, he had a quiet word with the attendant and then took her straight up.
The pit was already filling, but there were few people in the boxes yet, most preferring to linger and gossip in the hall. Richard watched the crowd below, but Laura kept her eyes upon the boxes, scanning the people slowly filtering into them and feeling flushes of nerves when she saw those she knew and flushes of relief when she saw those she did not.
Laura soon realized that there was one woman in another box, across the other side of the theatre, watching her. She tried to make out who it was, but it was too far for her to discern more than dark-hair and a pale flash of face, obscured by a set of opera glasses. Laura felt a burn of anger at being so openly scrutinized, but without opera glasses of her own she could not recognize the woman.
The more the boxes filled, the more eyes fell curiously upon Laura and Richard. Richard ignored them so perfectly that Laura wondered if he didn't even see them. When the music started, he relaxed back in his chair and seemed to have no conception at all that the maligned Lady Godfont was staring beakishly at him from the next box and whispering loudly to her companions. Several times, when the music and rush of the crowd dipped low, Laura heard their names mentioned. She was beginning to hate the opera; she wished she had never come. When the first interval came and there was no music to pretend to be distracted in, she was suddenly so profoundly embarrassed she could hardly think. Richard turned to her and asked her if she wanted a drink and, desperate to be out of Lady Godfont's sight, she said yes.
They went down to the coffee room, where Richard pressed through the bulk of people and found her a glass of champagne. While he was gone, she stood with her back against a table and noticed, despairingly, that though everybody was looking at her nobody was willing to meet her eye.
Miss Dalrymple had been very wrong indeed.
Then Richard was back. She sipped champagne and hoped the alcohol would soothe her nerves. It didn't seem to be doing much. Her heart was racing faster and faster.
"How do you like the music?" Richard asked.
"It's very fine indeed. She sings so well," Laura said, without having any idea what the singer was like.
"A fine soprano indeed. Though not a good actress. And I'm not sure the conductor isn't drunk." He frowned. "Not that it's easy to hear the orchestra above all the talk."
"No. I can hardly hear myself think in all this."
He contemplated her a moment. "Perhaps you'd rather we go—"
Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a fat old woman stepping out of the crowd in front of them.
"Lord Albroke," she cried, overloud and overjoyful. "What a rare pleasure! You, at the opera!"
"Lady Roynor," Richard said helplessly, bending to kiss the withered, bejewelled hand she held out to him. "What a surprise."
Those near them turned to watch. The Duchess of Roynor commanded great weight with the ton. Her husband had been a leading supporter of the Whig party when he was alive, and she continued to voice her opinion about things which really the Whigs wished she wouldn't.
"And Mrs... Maidstone, isn't it?" The duchess turned to Laura. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Albroke?"
"You appear well-informed already," Richard said, trying to smile to take the edge off his tone. "Your grace, this is my friend, Lady Laura Maidstone. My lady, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Roynor."
Laura curtsied and briefly took the duchess's hand. It was so cold and smooth under her touch that she could hardly tell where the duchess's hands ended and the many rings that covered them began.
"And aren't those beautiful sapphires," Lady Roynor said, her eyes sparking with interest. "Really, the exact colour of your eyes. You ought to be careful you know, someone might mistake them for gemstones and pluck them right out."
Laura smiled weakly. "I hope not."
The duchess gave her a strange smile and moved off into the crowd. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, people seemed to make a path for her. Then the sea closed over again and she was gone.
Laura gave Richard a confused glance. "What was—"
"—Lord Albroke!" A woman, who until now had been standing two feet from them without even looking their way, as though completely unaware of their presence, suddenly gave Richard her hand. "How lovely to see you."
"Lady Grantours," Richard said, rather grimly. "Do let me introduce you to my friend, Lady Laura."
After that, they could hardly get back to their box for people waylaying them. It was well into the second act by the time they got there. Richard shut the box door behind them with a sigh.
"Is this why you wanted to go to the opera tonight?" he asked, leaning against the door to catch his breath. "Was it planned?"
"Not by me," Laura said, fanning herself. "Miss Dalrymple suggested it."
"Miss Dalrymple," Richard said severely, "has a bet with Lady Roynor that by the year's end you will no longer be my mistress."
"Does she really?"
"Yes. Interfering old woman. No doubt she thought being shunned in public might send you away."
Laura frowned. "I suppose Lady Roynor forestalled her. I only hope Miss Dalrymple hasn't bet more than she can afford to lose."
"Five hundred pounds," Richard said drily. "But I won't chuck you in. Not even for her sake."
Across the theatre, the dark-haired woman was again examining Laura through her opera-glasses. Laura tried to keep her gaze on the stage.
"Are there other bets, Richard?"
"I've heard of several."
"Ah."
The strains of the music —someone was dying, loudly, over seven stanzas— swelled forth. Laura waited until the actor fell to the floor of the stage.
"Are you going to tell me about them?"
"No. I will not."
Perhaps it was better that way.
The second interval was as sociable as the first, and in the last few minutes of the third act, Richard turned to Laura and asked if she would mind leaving early to avoid the crush in the entry hall.
She was as willing for that as he was, but as they crossed the marble floor of the empty hall, a low, melodious, feminine voice echoed forth from behind them.
"Richard."
They turned, and Laura saw it was the dark-haired woman who had been watching her through the opera-glasses. Up close, she was a tall, broad woman, some years older than Laura, and handsome rather than beautiful
Richard sighed. "Oh. It's you. I thought it might be." He held out a hand glumly, and she gave him two fingers to shake. "Sorry about the box. Farthingdale said you wouldn't want it tonight."
"Farthingdale was wrong." Now, Laura recognized Richard's sister. It had been fourteen years since they had last met, but Elizabeth's manner didn't seem to have changed. She always had been cold, imperious, and disapproving.
"Lady Farthingdale," Laura said, giving the briefest of curtsies.
A faint sneer appeared on Elizabeth's lips, uncomfortably familiar in expression to one Richard occasionally wore, but she did not turn to Laura nor give any indication she had even heard her. So much for Lady Roynor's opinion. Elizabeth had always had her own standards.
"I was going to visit you earlier," Elizabeth said, "but it did not seem suitable. No matter. I will be sure to come by some time. Bye-bye."
She turned and went back the way she had come, without waiting for Richard's reply. At the door, the footman called that their carriage was ready, and Laura and Richard left in silence.
"I didn't know your sister was in London," Laura said as the carriage rolled off.
"She doesn't call on me often." Though he tried to keep his tone light, Laura could tell he was unhappy. She reached out and took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers faintly.
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A/N: we meet the last of the three Armiger siblings, Elizabeth.