“Then why do you want to go now?”

“I just do. And you must take me. We made a bargain, Julian. You promised me three nights.”

“I promised three social events.”

“The theater is a social event,” she countered. “One I thought you typically enjoy.”

To be truthful, the theater had never held a great deal of fascination for Lily, and even less after she’d lost her hearing. But she just knew she couldn’t sit at home alone tonight, wondering where Julian was and whether he was safe … and now, when she slept, dreaming of his kiss. Since she didn’t suppose she could conjure up a second last-minute dinner party in two days, the theater it must be.

At length, he said, “Leo always had a box at Drury Lane. Unless you’ve loaned it out, I suppose it’s been sitting empty.”

“Oh, dear.” Her stomach knotted. “No. I can’t go sit in Leo’s box. It’s just not right. Everyone will be staring and whispering about him, about me. I can’t abide the thought of it.”

“Shall I find another box?”

“No, no. Everyone will still be staring. And they’ll still be whispering. About Leo, about me, about why I’m not in Leo’s box.” She blew out her breath. This hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all. “Besides, I can’t follow anything from his box. It’s at an odd angle, and much too far above the stage. That’s the reason I stopped attending years ago. I wish I could just go and sit on benches in the pit, the way the common people do.”

“Lily, you’re the daughter of a marquess. You are not common people.”

“Sometimes I wish I were.”

He turned a meaningful glance around the room. Marking the expensive pianoforte, the silver-framed portraits on the wall, the gilt chandelier overhead. “No, you don’t.”

Her cheeks heated as she absorbed his gentle rebuke. Though he pointedly never discussed his past, she suspected that Julian had not always lived so affluently as he did now. She, by contrast, had always enjoyed a life of wealth and privilege. From an early age, she and Leo had been taught to be mindful of their advantages. She could hear Mother’s litany in her ears: Be grateful to God, humble before friends, charitable to those less fortunate.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling churlish and small. Her eyes stung with frustration. “I didn’t mean to sound petulant.”

He caught her chin and tilted her face to his. “You didn’t. Just disappointed.” His gaze searched hers. “This is really that important to you? A night at the theater?”

She nodded. It was that important to her, for reasons she didn’t quite comprehend. “If you’ll take me.”

“I’m going to leave.” Releasing her chin, he warded off her protest with an open palm. “But I will come back for you at seven. Be ready. Do something simple with your hair, and wear your plainest gown.”

“That’s not how I would dress for the theater.”

“Precisely.”

She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Julian. Are we going to the theater in disguise?”

“No. Absolutely not. You’re not attending the theater at all, Lady Lily Chatwick.” He gave her a crafty wink as he backed toward the door. “A common woman is going in your place.”

He bowed. And then he was gone, leaving Lily alone with the thrill of anticipation, a full afternoon to dress, and one very interesting question. If a common woman was attending the theater tonight …

Just who would her escort be?

“Mr. James Bell. At your service, ma’am.”

When Julian returned to Harcliffe House that evening, Lily met him in the entry. He doffed his hat and made a deep bow. So deep that his rain-misted spectacles slid to the end of his nose, and when he straightened, he had to push them back up with a fingertip. An appropriately clerkish touch, he thought.

Lily clapped a hand over her laughter. “No. It isn’t you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He pulled a serious face. “I’m a lowly clerk, as you see. An overworked one, in desperate need of an evening’s diversion at the theater.”

There was more truth to the guise than fiction, and exposing even this much made him nervous. It was an unprecedented risk, coming straight from his offices without even changing his attire. But this was important to Lily. Over the course of their friendship, he’d heard Leo lament many times that he couldn’t coax Lily to the theater anymore. Today, for the first time in years, she’d asked to go. And she wanted to watch from the seat that would best allow her to enjoy the performance. She deserved that much. As Julian Bellamy, he could never escort Lady Lily Chatwick to the pit of Drury Lane, where she would sit front and center, brushing sleeves with working men and their mistresses. They would draw too much notice. Her reputation would suffer, at best.

But as James Bell … he just might pull this off.

He cleared his throat. “If you’d care to join me, miss, I’ve two seats reserved at Drury Lane, in the second row of the pit.”

“You don’t say.” Wonderingly, she shook her head. “I can scarcely credit the transformation. Your hair’s so tame, and those clothes …” She gestured at his buff trousers and brown coat, his simple, unadorned boots. No buttons or tassels to be found. Her gaze made the slow climb back up to his face. “Those spectacles!”

He wrinkled his nose and squinted up his eyes. “Don’t I look like a nondescript mole of a man?”

“Not at all. You’re more handsome than ever.”

He waved off the remark, stepping over the threshold and into the entrance hall.

“No, I’m serious,” she said, her eyes still laughing. “Have I never told you what a penchant I have for men wearing spectacles?”

He couldn’t answer her. For he’d just peered at her through said spectacles, and the twin discs of glass might as well have been air, for all the protection they afforded him against her appearance.

Lily looked stunning. And not in an “Oh, what a pleasant surprise” sort of way, but in a “Help, I’ve been clubbed with a mallet and am suffering visions” sort of way. She wore a diaphanous creation of peach gauze, held together with … with strands of ether, apparently, and seeded with an alarming number of brilliants and pearls. And the cut of the gown … If that squared neckline edged but a half-inch lower, Julian felt certain he—and any ogling passersby—would be treated to a tawny glimpse of areola.

The prospect left him breathless.

“That,” he finally managed to croak, “is not your plainest gown. In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen you wear a gown that so completely failed to approach the definition of plain.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s the point. All my gowns are plain. The only dresses anyone’s seen me wear for months are black or gray or dark blue. Even before I entered mourning, my tastes were modest. That’s why this is the perfect disguise.” She twisted in place, and the gown threw an audacious shimmer about the room. “It’s horrid, isn’t it? It’s been in my closet for years. I never wore it anywhere.”

“This will never work. Everyone in the theater will be staring at you.”

“They might stare at the dress, but they won’t see me in it.” She flicked open an ivory fan, obscuring the lower half of her face. The mischievous quirk of her brow drew his attention up, to the cluster of overwrought ringlets piled high atop her head and tumbling loose around her ears.

“What have you done to your hair?” he asked. “Lily, you were meant to look like a commoner, not like a common—”

“Trollop? Why not?” She raised her eyebrows coquettishly. “Surely a lowly, overworked clerk like Mr. Bell deserves a treat for himself now and then?”

Oh, no. They would not play this game. They would not.

“Go upstairs and change,” he told her.

She lowered the fan, and her face fell. “Do you know how long it took me to dress? We’d miss half the play.”

Julian bent his head and raised a hand to his brow. “Holling!” he barked.

The stout, middle-aged housekeeper took her time shuffling out—presumably to belie the fact that she’d been standing just on the other side of the door.

“Yes, Mr. Bellamy? Can I help you, sir?”

“Holling, have you a winter cloak? Something drab and utilitarian?”

“No, sir. My winter cloak is ermine, lined with silk.” The corner of her mouth twitched.

He cut her a droll look. “Why, Holling. It’s your annual flare of personality.” He tsked. “Subdue it, please, and just fetch the cloak. Her ladyship requires loan of it.”

“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper curtsied and left. A minute later she returned with an armful of heavy wool in a dark shade, the ideal hue between charcoal gray and beef-drippings brown.

“Perfect,” he said, taking the cloak from Holling and promptly swinging it around Lily’s slender shoulders. Thanks to the disparity in the two women’s body shape, he could nearly wrap the thing around her twice.

As he fastened the ties and tucked in the edges, wrapping her tight as an Egyptian mummy, Lily’s bottom lip protruded in a pout.

When he yanked the hood up over her curls, she frowned down at her shapeless woolen cocoon. “I look like a charred potato.”

“Ah, yes. Wholesome.”

“Lumpy.”

“Come along, then. I have the costermonger’s wheelbarrow waiting just outside.”

Despite herself, his charred potato quivered with laughter. As he could not offer her his arm, Julian gave her a stiff thump on the shoulder, prodding her into motion. She turned her back to him and shuffled toward the door.

“I’ll repay you for this,” he heard her growl.

“No doubt.” He smiled, and was further amused to catch Holling smiling, as well. “What is it, Holling? Are you ill?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the bird, isn’t it? You’re vexed about the bird.”

“No, sir. Well, perhaps a bit, but …” The older woman sniffed and wiped her eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellamy. It’s been too long since her ladyship enjoyed herself, that’s all.”

Dear devoted Holling. Julian was glad Lily had her. And now, he was mildly regretful about the bird.

“She’ll enjoy tonight,” he assured the housekeeper. “I’ll see to it.” If there was one thing he knew well, it was how to keep a lady entertained. His challenge would be ensuring that he didn’t enjoy the evening too much. Memories of their kiss had haunted his every thought that day. They would likely do so for years to come. And good Lord, that gown …

Holling helped the cause of restraint by sending him out the door with a pocketful of guilt. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “It’s an unconventional outing, but I believe the late Lord Harcliffe—God rest his soul—would approve.”

With a grim sigh, Julian tugged down the brim of his hat. Leo, approve of this? He sincerely doubted it.

Chapter Ten

They were late for the curtain, just as Julian had planned. Much better to enter the theater during the preliminary entertainment, when most eyes were hopefully fixed on the stage instead of idly roaming the crowd.

The hack let them out near the side entrance. Here was another helpful factor in maintaining their disguise—the theater had separate entrances for separate classes of ticket-holders. Members of the gentry and nobility occupied the boxes and entered through the grandest, most central way. Their servants climbed a steep, humble staircase to the shilling seats in the gallery. And those with three bob to purchase a seat in the pit—tradesmen, scholars, occasionally their wives and more often their mistresses—entered through this passageway.