Grenville swung to me, his eyes narrowing in anger.
"Marianne has the key. Go, Grenville. You cannot be such a fool as to have a falling-out with your mistress in front of Covent Garden Theatre while Mrs. Bennington plays inside."
Grenville drew himself up, but the sense of my words penetrated his anger. He seized Marianne's hand. "Come along."
She tried to resist. "Go," I told her. "Shout all you want to once you get there. Mrs. Beltan has gone home. The house is quite empty."
Without waiting for them to depart, I turned on my heel and stalked back into the theatre.
By the time I entered the box, Mrs. Bennington had finished her scene and left the stage. The audience was talking loudly, laughing and gesturing, some, I saw to my alarm, at Grenville's box. They completely ignored the new scene and the actors desperately trying to say their lines over the noise.
"How strange," Mr. Bennington drawled as I resumed my seat. "I have never before observed anyone leave a theatre once my wife has taken the stage. And Mr. Grenville, no less. The event will be the talk of the town."
Chapter Eleven
Bennington looked amused, not angry. Basil Stokes boomed, "Yes, what happened? Did the fellow take ill?"
"He was not feeling his best," I said. "I am not certain he will return."
"Ah, well," said a gentleman I'd met at White's. "We must endeavor to endure the finest claret and best seats in the theatre without him."
Several men chuckled.
The play dragged on, a lackluster affair. I found little trouble turning the conversation with Mr. Bennington next to me to the events at the Gillises' ball. "Did you know Mr. Turner well?" I asked him.
"No," Bennington said, rolling his claret glass between long fingers. "I do not have much acquaintance in London, after living so long on the Continent. He was rather a rude fellow, and I had little interest in him."
"Did you see him enter the anteroom that night? Just before he was killed, I mean?"
"Oh, yes. He went in about a quarter to the hour. I told the Runner. The Runner is a friend of yours, I believe. He mentioned you."
"He was one of my sergeants in the army," I said. "So you saw Turner enter, but no one else?"
"Not really paying attention, I am afraid. I know you wish to get your colonel off, and I commend your loyalty, but I would not be surprised if Brandon really did peg the fellow. He was red-faced and angry with Turner the entire night."
I silently cursed Colonel Brandon, as I had many times since this business began, for being so obvious. "Any man might be angry with another, but murder is a bit extreme, do you not think?"
"Not in this case." Bennington took a sip of his claret and assumed a philosophical expression. "Turner was a boor. It was long past time that someone stuck a knife into him. I truly believe that a man should be hung for having appalling manners. They are as criminal in my opinion as a pickpocket. More so. Pickpockets can be pleasant fellows. So charming that you do not realize your handkerchief or purse has been lifted until too late."
"You believe Turner was murdered because he was rude?"
"He ought to have been. I believe our Mr. Turner died because he was obnoxious to a lady. Mrs. Harper, I mean. The colonel defended her. He should not be hanged for that."
As he said his last words, the audience began their cheering and stamping again as Mrs. Bennington returned for her next scene.
Interested, I turned to watch her. As before, she waited until the applause died down, and then she began her speeches.
I could not help but be entranced. Mrs. Bennington was young, with golden hair and a round, pretty face. But her girlish looks belied her voice, which was strong and rich. She spoke her lines with conviction, as if the soul of the person written on the page suddenly filled her. She was still Mrs. Bennington, and yet she flowed into her character at the same time. She had a voice of sublime sweetness and a delivery that made the listener's troubles fade and fall away.
Mr. Bennington poked me with his elbow. "I will procure an introduction if you like."
He was smirking. I knew he needled me, but at the same time, I did want the introduction. "Please," I said.
When Mrs. Bennington finished her scene and left the stage, the magic faded. Apparently, that was to be her last appearance, because the audience began to drift away, uninterested in the rest of the play.
Mr. Bennington rose. "Shall we greet her backstage and tell her how splendid she was?"
I had wanted to stay and become better acquainted with Basil Stokes, but Bennington seemed ready to fly to his wife's side. Before I could say anything, Stokes broke in.
"I hear you are all agog for pugilism, Lacey," he bellowed in my ear. "Come to Gentleman Jackson's tomorrow, and I'll show you some boxing." He grinned and winked.
I accepted. I had, with Grenville, attended Gentleman Jackson's on occasion and had even gone a few practice rounds in my shirtsleeves, but to tell the truth, I could take or leave the sport. However, the prospect of questioning Stokes was not to be missed.
I agreed then let Mr. Bennington escort me out.
"He is so terribly hearty, is he not?" Bennington asked. He had to raise his voice over the other theatregoers who poured out of boxes. "So appallingly English. So John Bull. He is what I went to Italy to escape."
He rolled his eyes, oblivious of the disapproving stares he received from the John Bulls around us.
As we walked, I wondered why, if Bennington had gone to Italy to escape utterly English Englishmen, had he returned?
I followed Bennington down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the theatre, then through a short corridor to the green room. Mrs. Bennington was there, surrounded by flowers and young dandies.
The gentlemen present could have been cast from the same mold as Henry Turner. They wore intricately tied cravats, high-pointed collars, long-tailed frock coats, black trousers or pantaloons, and polished slippers. They varied only in the type of cravat pin they sported-diamond, emerald, gold-and in the color of their hair. Brown, black, golden, or very fair hair was curled and draped in similar fashion from head to head.
I did not miss the flash of annoyance in Mrs. Bennington's eyes as she beheld her husband. She obviously wanted to bask in the attention of these lads who brought her bouquets and kissed her hand. Bennington ruined the mood.
From the twitch of Bennington's lips, he knew precisely what he'd done.
"My dear," he said, drawing out the words as he took her hands. "You were too wonderful this evening. Mr. Grenville was so overset with emotion that he had to flee. He left Captain Lacey behind as his emissary. Captain, may I present my wife, Claire Bennington. Claire, Captain Lacey, a very dear friend of Lucius Grenville."
Mrs. Bennington had been looking at me in a rather vacant fashion, but at the announcement that I was Grenville's friend, her expression changed to one of trepidation.
She had hazel eyes, an indeterminate shade between brown and green. Her lips were full and red, and they parted slightly while she gazed at me. As I bowed over her hand, I realized what Louisa and Lady Aline had meant when they said she was an empty vessel. Except for that flash of trepidation, she seemed a rather vacuous creature.
Her hand was soft and not strong, the flesh yielding to the press of my fingers. Her hair was artificially curled; close to, it looked frizzled from too many times with a crimping iron, the color dulled with dye.
"Greet the good captain, my dear," Mr. Bennington prodded.
Mrs. Bennington jerked, as though she were an automaton needing a push to begin its trick. "How do you do?" she said. Her voice, too, was rather breathy, holding none of the quality she'd had on stage. "Grady," she said to an older woman who was tidying the room, seemingly the only person with anything to do. "Bring the captain some port."