“There we won’t be, because the first thing Greaves will do will be to have ’Pollo arrested,” Makepeace objected.
“Actually,” Apollo interjected thoughtfully, “I’ve never met… the man.”
Makepeace swung on him, looking betrayed. “What, never?”
Apollo shrugged. “Perhaps… as a baby? I certainly have no… memory of him or the rest of his family. He probably’s never… seen me.” He looked over at Trevillion calmly sipping his tea. “Can Lady Phoebe find… a way to get an invitation to… the house party?”
“No,” the captain said with certainty. “Her brother does not want her to attend social events except those held by a family member. There are very few exceptions. However”—he looked considering—“I believe Wakefield has a house in Bath. It shouldn’t be too hard to suggest Lady Phoebe take the waters. And, since she enjoys the theater very much, she might be able to attend a private theatrical performance for one night. I shall look into the matter.”
Montgomery clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled. As I see it, there’s but one thing to do in the intervening two weeks.”
“And what is that?” Makepeace grated.
The duke turned his bright-blue eyes on Apollo, making him exceptionally nervous. “Why, outfit Lord Kilbourne as the aristocrat he is.”
Chapter Twelve
Ariadne followed the winding corridors of the labyrinth for days and nights. She ate the cheese and bread her mother had hidden in the folds of her robe and drank the dew that collected in the crevices of the stone at night. Sometimes she would hear an animal’s roar or what sounded like a man’s shout, but often she heard nothing at all except the scrape of her slippers on the hard earth of the labyrinth. And then, on the third day, she found the first skeleton…
—From The Minotaur
Two weeks later Lily looked up at the gray stone facade of William Greaves’s country house and thought she should be excited.
It was the first opportunity in months and months for her to perform—and it would be in one of her own plays. By dint of nearly killing herself, she’d finished A Wastrel Reform’d on time and sent the manuscript by porter to Edwin, despite her misgivings. He’d already had a buyer, after all, and they both needed the money rather badly.
She hadn’t been terribly surprised when the Duke of Montgomery had introduced her to the other players and she’d found out she was performing in the play she’d only just finished. William Greaves was the duke’s friend who’d commissioned A Wastrel Reform’d, and she had the lead as Cecily Wastrel. A plum breeches role—and she should know.
All in all a lovely turn of events. Usually she’d be happy and looking forward to both the party and the work.
Instead she felt a persistent melancholy. Caliban—Lord Kilbourne—had to all appearances escaped the soldiers, but she had no idea where he was. Indio had spent the week she’d been frantically writing moping about the garden, bemoaning his loss and driving her half mad. Even Maude, who should’ve been glad all her dire warnings about the man had proven correct, was silent on the subject. The afternoon after the soldiers finally left the garden, Lily had crept into the musician’s gallery and found his meager nest. He’d left a few clothes, an end of bread, and his notebook. This last she’d pocketed as some pathetic token—of what, she wasn’t exactly sure.
So it was with false cheer that she entered the Greaves House hallway. It was an older manse with narrow, dark rooms. She glanced around, already worried about where they could put on the play.
“Ah, our players,” Mr. William Greaves said rather pompously. He was a man in his sixties who’d probably been handsome as a youth. Now, however, he had a uniform dreary grayness about him, with a lined, sagging jawline and a puffiness around the eyes that bespoke too much drink or rich food. “I collect you must be Miss Goodfellow?”
She curtsied. “Your discernment is quite amazing, sir.” She swept wide her arm to indicate the other players behind her. “May I introduce Mr. Stanford Hume.” An older, florid-faced actor bowed stiffly. Poor Stanford suffered from lumbago. “Miss Moll Bennet.” Moll curtsied low, drawing Mr. Greaves’s eye to her lush bosom. “And Mr. John Hampstead?” John grinned and swept a lavish bow. He was tall and thin and wasn’t particular as to the sex of his paramours.
They four were the principal players, though of course there were other actors to fill the remaining parts of the play.
“Welcome, welcome to Greaves House,” Mr. Greaves said expansively, and then rather ruined the effect by becoming practical. “I believe my butler has your rooms ready. I do hope you’ll be joining us for dinner. A most jolly company, I think. Ah, here’s my son and his wife arrived. You’ll excuse me?”
And they were left to the direction of the butler.
Who, naturally, looked faintly contemptuous. “Lake.” He snapped his fingers and one of the footmen came forward. “Show these persons to their rooms, please.”
“Ta, love,” John said cheekily to the butler.
And they tramped after Lake the footman.
“Well, at least they have us inside,” Moll said philosophically as they mounted the stairs. “Last house play I did would you believe they wanted us to bunk in the stables like gypsies? No, indeed, I said. Inside in a room at least as nice as the downstairs maids or back to London I go on the next stage. They grumbled, but I had my way in the end. That was Richard II in Cambridgeshire, d’you remember, Stanford?”
“I do indeed,” Stanford intoned in his plummy voice. “Most depressing production I’ve ever been in.”
“Don’t know what they were thinking,” agreed Moll. “A history play for a house party. Can you imagine?”
The footman, who, unlike the butler, seemed rather in awe of them, showed them to two rooms. After hearing Moll’s story about being housed in the stables, Lily was a bit afraid of what they’d be given. But other than being quite at the end of the hall, their rooms seemed to be nice.
“Better’n the stables anyway,” Moll said cheerfully as she poked her head in the wardrobe. “We’ll be sharing the bed, looks like”—she nodded at the canopied bed—“but I don’t snore, so it should be fine. Best tidy ourselves and go on downstairs. I’ve a feeling we’re the entertainment for the night.”