Miss Picklewood darted an arch glance at Trevillion as she took Lady Phoebe’s arm. “Yes, quite a coincidence.”
He didn’t bother replying as he followed the ladies. Miss Picklewood was a disconcertingly perceptive lady for her age and he’d had the feeling for quite some time now that she’d be formidable should the need arise.
The door was opened by a fawning butler who took the ladies’ wraps before showing them into a first-floor drawing room. This room at least was brightly lit—dozens of candles fluttered at their entrance, mounted on chandeliers, and candelabra were set here and there on tables. One end of the room had been cleared to serve as a stage, with a trio of musicians in the corner. Several rows of chairs faced the area. A dozen or so guests were already seated in the chairs, chattering as they waited for the play to begin.
A man some sixty years of age approached them. “Ah, Lady Phoebe, I presume?”
His voice was very loud and he was looking at Miss Picklewood.
Lady Phoebe’s smile was a bit strained. “Yes, I am she. Mr. William Greaves?”
“Indeed, my lady,” he replied, still loud.
“May I present my dear cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood? And this is Captain Trevillion.”
Trevillion noted with amusement that Lady Phoebe didn’t bother explaining his presence. Their host bowed to Miss Picklewood and turned to him, his eyes widening when he saw the pistols Trevillion wore upon his chest. “Oh… er… most welcome.”
“Thank you, sir,” Trevillion replied.
“There’ll be a ball after the play—a sort of midnight festivity. I hope you’ll be able to attend, Lady Phoebe?”
“Lady Phoebe will be returning to her home after the play,” Trevillion replied for her, earning himself a glare from his charge. It couldn’t be helped, however. A seated performance was one thing. A dance at a stranger’s house was another. Wakefield wouldn’t like it—and Wakefield paid his wages.
“Yes, well, let me show you to your seats,” Greaves said, indicating two empty chairs at the front row. “Miss Royle said that she was friends with you, my lady.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lady Phoebe smiled.
A dark-haired lady next to the empty chairs turned and waved at their approach.
“I wasn’t aware, however… that is, I’ll have a footman fetch another chair,” Greaves mumbled.
“No need,” Trevillion said briskly. “Let the ladies sit amongst friends. I’m quite happy to find my own seat.”
Greaves nodded gratefully and led the ladies to their places.
Which left Trevillion free to slip into place in the empty chair beside Kilbourne at the back.
“I see you found a way to attend,” Kilbourne said, low.
“Indeed.” Trevillion watched as Greaves fussed over Lady Phoebe’s seat. “Lady Phoebe enjoys the theater in whatever form.”
“And had she not?”
Trevillion glanced at the viscount. “Had she not, I would’ve found another way to meet with you. I wouldn’t force her to attend an event she didn’t like.”
“I meant no offense,” Kilbourne said.
Trevillion inclined his head, his mouth thinned. “Have you discovered anything yet?”
Kilbourne hesitated, but shook his head. “Not as of yet. I’d hoped to search my uncle’s rooms, but haven’t found the right moment.”
“More guests mean more servants about,” Trevillion replied. “Yet you hesitated before you spoke, my lord?”
Kilbourne grimaced. “It’s nothing. The duke mentioned this morning that my uncle has a valet who spent time in Newgate—an odd origin for a manservant, you must admit.”
Trevillion shrugged. That was the thing about London: a man could completely remake himself.
“And then,” Kilbourne continued, “Miss Goodfellow’s brother took care to warn me that we couldn’t trust Montgomery.”