Page 43 of A Game of Scandal

By the time the carriage drew up outside the theatre in Covent Garden, I was calmer, despite the thronging crowd. At least at the theatre I wasn’t expected to make conversation. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that I was being watched.

I was behaving like a fool, I thought. I was always under scrutiny at social events; there was no reason to think it was anything more than that.

Mother seemed untouched by my nerves. She was like a child let loose in a sweet shop.

“We don’t get theatre like this in the country.” She beamed, gripping my arm. “I did get dragged to an amateur production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at one of Lady Wentworth’s house parties, but, darling, it was atrocious. Lord Wentworth’s Bottom left much to be desired,” she carried on in hushed undertones, and I choked, horrified until I remembered that this was the name of a character in the play.

“That’s a shame,” I managed faintly as we stepped through the doors and into the crowded foyer. “Hopefully tonight will be an improvement.”

The play was a new production and it had drawn a fashionable crowd. Mother was busy greeting people, her fingers still clamped tightly round my arm, when I spied someone I knew.

“Lady Felicity.” Sylla Banaji didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard through the crowd; somehow that crisp, regal tone of hers cut clean through the noise, scalpel-sharp. Beside me, I felt Mother quiver with delight.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with the Banajis,” she hissed. Mother may have been a dowager duchess, but no one was immune to the glamour of Sylla and her family. I was certain that she had read all the latest gossip about them in the fashionable periodicals.

I introduced the two of them, and wondered exactly how I could get Sylla alone to confide my worries.

“Your Grace,” Sylla said to my mother, a smile on her face that was a far cry from the scowl I was usually treated to. “I wondered if I could borrow Lady Felicity for a moment. I promised to introduce her to Dr Floyd, a friend of my father’s—”

“Dr Floyd!” I exclaimed, delighted, all thoughts of Laing temporarily wiped from my mind. “But his theories on automorphic functions are fascinating!”

Sylla’s smile seemed to grow more fixed. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear you say so.” Then she dragged me off into the crowd.

“Do you think Dr Floyd will have time to discuss his latest paper?” I asked breathlessly. “Oh! I wish I’d known, and then I could have brought his book with me to get it autographed. I have a first edition, you know. I—”

“For heaven’s sake, Felicity,” Sylla snapped as we moved away from the crowds, turned down a corridor and bundled through a door that swung into a small area that appeared to be used for storing surplus stage make-up and hair supplies.

“What is Dr Floyd doing in a cupboard full of wigs?” I asked, confused.

Sylla’s eyes fluttered shut, and she took a deep breath, exhaling steadily. “There is no Dr Floyd.”

“Of course there’s a Dr Floyd—” I began, but Sylla cut me off.

“There’s no Dr Floyd here, Felicity.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers in a weary gesture. “I just wanted to get you away from your mother.”

Understanding finally dawned. “I’m not going to meet Dr Floyd?” I asked, crestfallen.

Sylla huffed. “I’m sure I can arrange an introduction for another time. I assume you have something to say to me?”

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“I am a highly trained investigator,” Sylla sniffed. “And I haven’t the least idea how you won a single hand of poker when your every thought is written across your face, plain as day.”

“Oh?” I said grumpily. “And what am I thinking right now?”

At that, a cool smile broke across Sylla’s face.

“You’re thinking thoughts unbecoming to a lady, and you haven’t had the required training to carry them out against me. Now, I understand you met Laing at the Wellerbys’ ball. Any further developments?”

“He was pleasant to me, even charming,” I continued, frowning. “And today he turned up at Lady Endsleigh’s afternoon tea. I think he was there … to see me.”

“I would imagine so.” Sylla shuddered. “I can’t think of a single reason to voluntarily appear at such a dreary event. Nothing but dry cucumber sandwiches and spiteful sniping under the cover of polite society.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, then, returning to the matter at hand. “He said something – and I’m not quite sure, but he gave the impression that…”

Sylla gave an exaggerated sigh. “While we’re still young, if you don’t mind,” she said, and made an impatient rolling gesture with her hand.

“I think he wants to marry me,” I blurted out.