The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London Book 1) by Adele Clee

Author:Adele Clee [Clee, Adele]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-07-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Nicole had heard talk of the lavish interior of the Haymarket Theatre. Jeremy and Rowena were frequent visitors when the cards were kind, and his creditors appeased. But their family box was now the property of Lord Callum. Won in a game of faro along with Jeremy’s racing curricle and an Arabian horse named Chance, of all things.

And so, Nicole had only ever glimpsed the resplendent building from the outside.

Rowena’s obsession with Parisian fashions meant there were few modistes in London willing to extend them credit. A new gown for Nicole came far down on the list of necessities. Below her sister-in-law’s subscription to La Belle Assemblée. Below the two pugs that saw Rowena sobbing on Jeremy’s shoulder, insistent she would simply die if she didn’t have them. What was the point of wasting funds on Nicole when Lord Mosgrove had already offered an extortionate sum for her hand?

Lord Mosgrove was a man besotted. With an estate that boasted ten thousand acres, he had no need of a dowry. Many ladies were willing to overlook his foul breath, hooked nose and sunken eyes. Yet, to her misfortune, the gentleman had developed a passion for fiery hair and an impertinent tongue.

But six months had passed since Jeremy insisted she marry. With any luck, Lord Mosgrove had found another woman to paw over, had found another ear for his lewd remarks.

“Have you been to the Haymarket before?” Oliver’s rich voice pulled her out of her reverie.”As a gentleman’s daughter, you must have had the opportunity.”

“Never.” Nicole averted her gaze, keen to avoid making eye contact with any of the patrons lingering in the crowded foyer. She pulled the silk wrap tightly across her shoulders. “I am sure it will be a rather enlightening experience.”

Taking possession of her elbow, Oliver directed her to a flight of stairs to their right. The smell of stale tobacco, mingled with the sickly sweet scent of spirits, assaulted her nostrils. They passed ladies with ostrich feathers in their hair, the decorations tall enough to catch light on any one of the candles in the chandelier.

Sneaking the odd glance from beneath hooded lids, Nicole noted numerous gentlemen incline their head to the earl. Some, particularly those with a wicked glint in their eyes and a sly curl of the lip, looked upon her like a thirsty man would a glittering oasis. But Oliver refused to stop and make conversation despite being prompted to do so many times.

“We’ll make our way to the box before we're trampled to death by those eager to claim their seats. The last thing I want is to lose you in the panic. As I’m incapable of finding one lady, it will be impossible to find two.”

All thoughts turned to Rose.

Oliver had charged a groom with the responsibility of riding to Morton Manor. Once there, he was to carry out an extensive search of the surrounding area and befriend the servants at The Talbot Inn.

It was all that could be done.

Even so, how were they to sit at their leisure and enjoy the performance?

Nicole caught herself.

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