Seven Dials - Anne Perry [85]
“ ’Greater love hath no man,’ “ she murmured. “I shall be in your debt.”
“You will,” he agreed fervently.
And his intervention proved necessary. Vespasia almost collided with the bishop outside Garrick’s box.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said with a freezing smile. “How pleasant to see you able to find an opera whose story does not offend your morals.”
Since the tale in question was one of incest and murder, the observation was of the utmost sarcasm, and she regretted it the minute it was past her lips, even before she heard Theloneus choke off laughter and turn it into a cough, and saw the bishop’s face turn a dull shade of purple.
“Good evening, Lady Vespasia,” he replied coldly. “It is Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, is it not?” He knew perfectly well who she was, everyone did. It was intended as an insult.
She smiled charmingly at him, a look that in her prime had dazzled princes.
“It is,” she replied. “May I introduce you to Mr. Justice Quade?” She waved her hand delicately. “The Bishop of Putney, I believe, or some such place, renowned for his upholding of Christian virtues, most particularly purity of mind.”
“Indeed,” Theloneus murmured. “How do you do.” An expression of great interest filled his ascetic face, his blue eyes mild and bright. “How fortunate for me to have encountered you. I should dearly like your opinion, as an informed and, of course, enlightened source, on the choice of story for this very lovely music. Is watching such fearful behavior instructive, in that evil is punished in the end? Or do you fear that the beauty with which it is presented may corrupt the senses before the better judgment can perceive the moral behind it?”
“Well . . .” the bishop began.
Vespasia did not remain. She tapped on the door of Garrick’s box, and the moment it was answered, went inside. She was dreading it. It was going to be forced, because they both knew that she would not have sought him out from friendship, and they had no interests in common.
Garrick was a widower and he had a small party with him, his sister and her husband, who was a minor banker of some sort, and a friend of theirs, a widow from one of the home counties up to London for some reason. It was she who provided Vespasia with her excuse.
“Lady Vespasia?” Garrick raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a good deal less than an expression of welcome. “How delightful to see you.” He would have used the same tone of voice had he found an apple core in his pudding.
She inclined her head. “How typical of your generosity to say so,” she answered, dismissing it as if it had been a vulgarity apologized for at the table.
His face tightened. He had no choice but to continue the charade by introducing his sister, her husband, and the lady who was visiting. Vespasia’s lack of reason for intruding hung heavily in the air. He did not quite ask her what she wanted, but the attitude of his body, the expectant angle of his head, demanded she explain herself.
She smiled at the widow, a Mrs. Arbuthnott. “A friend of mine, Lady Wilmslow, has mentioned you most kindly,” she lied. “And she has asked me if I should encounter you to be sure to make your acquaintance.”
Mrs. Arbuthnott blinked with pleasure. She had never heard of Lady Wilmslow, who, in any event, did not exist, but she certainly had heard of Vespasia, and was enormously complimented.
Vespasia salved her guilt with generosity. “If you are in town for the rest of the month,” she continued, “I shall be at home on Mondays and Wednesdays, and if you find it convenient to call, you will be most welcome.” She slipped a card with her address out of its silver case in her reticule, and offered it.
Mrs. Arbuthnott took it as if it had been a jewel, and indeed in social terms it was, and one that money could not purchase. She stammered her thanks, and Garrick’s sister hid her envy with difficulty. But then,