Mortimer blinked. “Pussycats?”
Joliffe all but snarled. “Lap-dogs, then! She is a damned witch—just like Scrugthorpe said.”
“Quiet there!”
“Ssh!” came from all around them.
For a moment, Joliffe contemplated a mill with positive glee. Then sanity intruded; he forced himself to stay in his seat. But his eyes remained fixed on his sacrificial lamb—who had transmogrified into a wolf-tamer.
After a moment, Mortimer leaned closer. “Perhaps they’re softening her up—pulling the wool over her eyes. We can afford to give them a little time—it’s not as if we’re that desperate for the money.”
Joliffe stared at him—then sank his chin in his hands. “Rakes don’t behave as they are to your aunt-by-marriage when they’re hot on a woman’s trail,” he explained through clenched teeth. His jaundiced gaze rested on Amberly and Satterly. “They’re being nice, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you see it?”
Frowning, Mortimer looked across the theatre, studying the silent tableau.
Joliffe swallowed a curse. As for not being desperate—they were—very desperate. An unexpected meeting with his creditor last night had demonstrated to him just how desperate they truly were. Joliffe quelled a shiver at the memory of the odd, disembodied voice that had floated out of the carriage, stopping him in his tracks on the mist-shrouded pavement.
“Soon, Joliffe. Very soon.” A pause had ensued. Then, “I’m not a patient man.”
Joliffe had heard tales enough of the man’s lack of patience—and what usually transpired because of it.
He was desperate all right. But Mortimer had too weak a head to be entrusted with the news.
Joliffe concentrated on the woman seated across the darkened pit. “We’ll have to do something—take an active hand.” He spoke more for himself than Mortimer.
But Mortimer heard. “What?” He turned to Joliffe, a shocked, somewhat stupid expression on his face. “But…I thought we’d agreed there was no need to be openly involved—to actually do anything ourselves!”
His voice had risen.
“Shh!” came from all sides.
Exasperated, Joliffe grabbed Mortimer’s coat and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” He sent a venomous glance across the theatre. “I’ve seen enough.”
He pushed Mortimer ahead of him to the exit.
Immediately they gained the corridor, Mortimer turned on him, clutching his coat. “But you said we wouldn’t need to kidnap her.”
Jollife eyed him in disgust. “I’m not talking about kidnapping,” he snapped, wrenching his coat free. He looked ahead, his features hardening. “For our purposes, there’s a better way.”
He glanced at Mortimer, contempt in his eyes.
&nbs
p; “Come on—there’s a certain party we need to see.”
Chapter Ten
By the time Em took her seat at the breakfast table on Friday morning, she was considering visiting Harry herself. Not that it would do any good—but she felt so helpless every time she looked at Lucinda’s face. Calm and pale, her guest sat toying with a piece of cold toast, her expression distant.
Em swallowed her snort. Feeling dejected herself, she poured a cup of tea.
“Are we going anywhere today?” Heather, seated further down the table, fixed big hazel eyes almost pleadingly on Em.
Em slanted a glance at Lucinda. “Perhaps we’ll just have a quiet day today. A drive in the Park in the afternoon. We’ve Lady Halifax’s ball tonight.”
Lucinda’s smile was perfunctory.
“Greenwich was such fun.” Heather struggled to invest her words with conviction. Lord Ruthven had arranged an outing yesterday to the Observatory, hoping to lift Lucinda’s spirits. He and Mr Satterly, who had made one of the party, had battled valiantly but to no avail.