Page 58 of Beguiled
“Excellent.” He turned to David. “Do you know what the play is, Mr. Lauriston?”
“Rob Roy,” David answered.
“Ah, one of Sir Walter’s works. I should have guessed. The King loves them. Will the play be very different from the novel, do you suppose?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” David answered vaguely, though he really had no idea.
On the other side of the carriage, Murdo stared at them, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. He remained silent while Sinclair chattered to David, asking him whether he’d enjoyed the ball on Saturday and how he’d liked the dancing, the music, the supper.
David could see how a man like this could become a King’s favourite at so young an age. He was a pleasure to talk to, with his sparkling eyes, ready smile and amusing conversation. He could see too that there was more to him than this happy and pleasing exterior. The blue eyes that twinkled so easily held a keen intelligence and a watchfulness that was belied by his careless manner.
It was another few minutes before the coachman thumped on the roof of the carriage to signify they had reached the doors of the theatre.
“Ready to charge when I give the order?” Sinclair asked with a grin.
“This is not one of your battlefields, Sinclair,” Murdo said dryly.
“Don’t you believe it,” the captain replied, half rising from his seat. “This mob might adore the King right now, but it could turn on us all in the blink of an eye. We’re as close to revolution now as we’ve ever been, gentlemen. Can’t you just taste it in the air?” His eyes sparkled, as though the prospect of revolution was positively delightful.
He stood up, then, rocking the carriage in the process, and threw the door open, jumping down and almost knocking over an old man in a drab coat that had seen better days. The man’s shabby appearance was brightened by a smart, new-looking saltire cockade on his lapel. He let out a yell when Sinclair all but fell on top of him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the captain said apologetically, brushing the man’s coat down with a brisk arm movement. His actions managed to elicit an answering smile from the old man, even as Sinclair manoeuvred him deftly out of the way and moved forward to knock at the closed doors of the theatre, Murdo and David a step behind.
A moment later, a slot in the door shot open, revealing a suspicious male face. On seeing the captain’s splendid uniform and Murdo’s elegance, the suspicion faded away to be replaced by an expression of obsequious pleasure that only deepened when Murdo stated his name and informed the man that he had a box waiting for him.
“Please stand aside while I open the door, my lord,” the doorkeeper said. “We are not allowing any of this mob in till His Majesty has arrived and is seated, but those that have aboxmay make themselves comfortable and call for refreshments in the meantime.” He opened the door by the merest crack, obliging them to squeeze themselves through the tiny gap, then closed and bolted the door behind them.
The doorkeeper transpired to be an elderly man in moth-eaten highland apparel that looked more like an old theatre costume than anything else. All the colour had faded out of the fabric, turning what would once have been a red-and-green plaid to something that looked more like pink and blue. The sporran that hung at the front of the man’s kilt looked even worse—like one of the dead rats David’s father’s terrier used to bring out of the barn at home, clamped between its jaws.
The doorkeeper clicked his fingers, and a boy—similarly bedecked in faded tartan—appeared to lead the way up the winding stairs to Murdo’s box. After three long flights of wooden steps, they reached the floor that led to the boxes. Halfway along the corridor, the boy stopped, opening the heavy velvet curtains with a distinctly theatrical flourish and ushering them inside. Murdo flipped a coin to the boy as they walked past him. He caught it and pocketed it with a grin, gave a brief bobbing bow and left them, promising someone would come to take their refreshments order directly.
Inside, the box was positively luxurious, and David guessed it must be one of the best in the theatre. The floor was carpeted with a heavy Turkish rug and furnished with four gilt-painted chairs and a small table to hold their refreshments. The curtains at the back kept any draught off.
David stepped forward to the edge of the box, curling his fingers over gilded and moulded plasterwork as he scrutinised the other boxes, some of which were already occupied. Was Elizabeth here yet? he wondered. Would she come at all?
He could see no sign either of her or of Kinnell. Not yet.
“Mr. Lauriston, would you care to sit by me?”
David turned his head. Sinclair had made himself comfortable on one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out and his black boots gleaming. He’d discarded his shako on the chair to his right, and his hands cradled the back of his dark head, scarlet-clad elbows sticking out.
He really was a very comely man.
The captain raised a questioning brow and gestured to the empty chair to his left with a jerk of his head.
David wondered where Sinclair wanted Murdo to sit. Presumably on the fourth chair, on the other side of his ridiculous hat.
Whatever the captain’s views were, Murdo had other ideas. He lifted the shako up by its black plume and tossed it at Sinclair, sitting himself down in its place.
“This ismybox, and Mr. Lauriston ismyguest,” he said. “He will sit beside me.”
For a moment, David just stared at him, astonished by his blatant possessiveness.
“Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” Sinclair said archly.
David opened his mouth to demur, but before he could get a word out, Murdo replied, “Yes. It is.” He gave the captain a steady look, a distinct challenge in his gaze.
Sinclair chuckled. “I did rather wonder,” he admitted. “And I don’t blame you for warning me off, Murdo. He’s awfully fetching, this one.”