Page 53 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

“ This is where we’re spending our evening?

” observed Marcus as he stared at the sadly dilapidated front of the Oberon.

The once whitewashed brick face was stained with coal grime and the sign proclaiming the music hall’s name above the main entrance was askew, giving the impression that it had imbibed one too many pints.

“I must say, it’s rather rough and ready and not what I was expecting when you proposed a night out at the theater to celebrate finishing your clock design.

” He turned and clapped Lord Kinsale on the back.

“It’s a good thing we brought you along, Phineas.

You can stand in as bodyguard should a brawl break out. ”

The Irish peer grunted and rolled his enormous shoulders beneath his coat.

“I’d-I’d like to say that I’m n-not familiar with barroom b-brawls, but that isn’t the case.

My advice is f-fight dirty. Don’t adhere to any of the London Prize Ring rules.

Dub-Dublin back-street fighting rules are more likely to apply. ”

Xavier cocked a brow and tapped his cane on the litterstrewn pavement. “I’d like to see anyone get close to me once I’ve unsheathed my rapier. But hopefully nothing like that will occur tonight. I’ve already secured us a private balcony.”

“As long as there’s something to drink other than gutrotting gin, I’ll be happy,” said Marcus. “Although, I’m quite looking forward to Mademoiselle Fizgig’s fan dance.”

Xavier gave a huff of laughter. The viscount always had an eye for the ladies, no matter where they hailed from. He was an equal opportunity flirt. Because of his abundant charm and devilish good looks, it seemed the man’s attentions were always welcomed by members of the opposite sex.

The interior of the music hall wasn’t in any better condition than the outside. Once their party was seated at the small dining table in their private balcony, Xavier cast his gaze down to the main room below.

The stall seating one would expect in a regular theater had been dispensed with, and in its place were at least thirty dining tables of various shapes and sizes with four to six mismatched wooden chairs clustered around each.

Suspended above the music hall was a massive gas chandelier that had seen better days.

Half the gaslights didn’t appear to be working and apart from an unappealing festoon of cobwebs (that made Xavier wince) there was a silk stocking and battered top hat hanging from two of the chandelier’s branches.

The proscenium arch needed repairing; chunks of ornate plasterwork had fallen away, and the paint was flaking off.

The crimson velvet curtains hiding the stage appeared to be moth-eaten, and above the scuffed wainscoting on the hall’s walls, the flocked wallpaper was curling at the corners.

Everything looked shabby and jaded, which was a shame, because this musical-theater-cum-restaurant experience had a great deal of potential.

In fact, Xavier had never seen anything quite like it.

He could certainly see the appeal of dining while watching a show.

The issue was, even though it was almost eight o’clock and the entertainment was due to start at any minute, the hall wasn’t even half full.

“The claret’s rather sour and watered down.” Marcus grimaced as he held up his wineglass. “The glassware could do with a good wash too.”

“Th-The ale is acceptable,” said Phinn before he took a rather large pull from his tankard.

Xavier had opted for claret as well, and after he took a sip, he was inclined to agree with Marcus.

Before he could offer his opinion, their meals arrived—Xavier had chosen the beef and kidney pie, Phinn the lamb shank stew, and Marcus the oyster pie—and then the gaslighting was dimmed and a ginger-haired gentleman in a top hat and tailcoat appeared on stage in front of the curtains.

Freddy Evans.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Freddy declared in the strident tones of a ringmaster that carried clearly across the hall, commanding attention.

Even the dull roar of the throng assembled in the public room began to abate.

“Welcome to the Oberon. Prepare to be astounded and delighted. Shocked and awed. Tantalized and titillated. But above all else, entertained!”

“Bring out Mademoiselle Fizgig and ’er fans,” called one bearded fellow, his cheeks ruddy with ale and good cheer, from the main room below. “I’m sure she’ll titillate us.”

Freddy laughed. “All in good time, my good man. All in good time. But first”—Emmeline’s brother whipped off his hat and leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion—“get ready to be horrified and mesmerized by our cast of talented players as they perform The Blue Apron and the Cleaver; or, The Sanguinary Butcher of Cripplegate. ”

As the young man disappeared into the wings, the curtains jerked apart to reveal a painted set that resembled a typical London butcher’s yard—rough red brickwork, sawdust, and crates were the predominant features.

A burly man in a bloodsplattered apron—blue of course—brandishing a cleaver in one hand and a hank of roughly butchered meat in the other, dominated the center of the stage.

A pianist off to one side belted out a series of suitably dramatic chords to herald the butcher’s opening soliloquy.

As the pantomime progressed, Xavier became very focused on his meal. As far as he was concerned, a play featuring far too much melodramatic shouting, screaming, butcher’s off-cuts, and fountains of (hopefully) fake blood, wasn’t to his taste.

Marcus and Phinn seemed equally nonplussed…

at least until the next “eye-opening” act.

Following a lengthy intermission in which presumably the blood and offal and butcher’s bones were cleared away, Mademoiselle Fizgig suddenly appeared on stage as if from nowhere in a dramatic cloud of purple smoke.

The attractive young woman wearing nothing but a low-cut beribboned corset, drawers, stockings, and heeled boots then proceeded to flit and prance about the boards, hips swaying, blond ringlets bouncing, and rouge lips pouting.

Even though she had nothing but a pair of ostrich fans to shield her modesty, she didn’t seem to mind the catcalls and whistles and ribald comments of the men at all.

In fact, a good deal of her act involved little more than bottom wiggling, kiss blowing, and saucy winking.

Xavier was nevertheless impressed by her next “feat,” which was to saunter across a very narrow tightrope suspended over the stage.

(Actually, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that Emmeline could walk across a tightrope.)

The next act, a supposed sailor who danced a very poor hornpipe, was booed off.

Then the pianist encouraged the audience to join him in belting out a bawdy ballad about cockles and oysters and pearls, and then another featuring unruly red cocks and warm muffs.

Most of the patrons—including Phinn, who had an impressive baritone—seemed to know the words and sang along with gusto.

When another intermission ensued, Xavier took the opportunity to seek out Freddy Evans.

It didn’t take him long to find the young man.

He was lingering in the downstairs hall leading to the public room, so perhaps he’d been waiting for Xavier to appear; he would have seen that the Duke of St Lawrence had booked a private box.

In any event, Xavier supposed it didn’t matter. As he approached, Freddy said without preamble, “Why are you here, Your Grace?” His wary gaze fell to Xavier’s cane. “Not going to relieve me of my hands, are you?”

“I’ve seen enough lopping off of body parts this evening, Mr. Evans. Your hands are safe. And to answer your question, I’m here to see what the Oberon has to offer. Your sister cares very much about you.”

Freddy gave a snort, perhaps of disbelief. “How is she?”

“Well,” said Xavier. “But she’s no longer in London. She’s at the seaside with my wards and your father.”

Freddy’s mouth worked for a moment, but Xavier couldn’t interpret the emotion behind the young man’s expression. “My father wrote to me a few weeks ago to let me know that you’d acquitted his debt,” he said.

“I did,” replied Xavier carefully. His grip tightened on his silver-topped cane. He sensed tension in the air.

“You didn’t have to.” Freddy’s voice was gruff.

“I wanted to.”

The young man’s eyes narrowed and he hiked up his chin.

Was that a spark of challenge in his gaze?

Or was it stubborn pride or derisive anger?

“Why?” he demanded hotly. “Why would you do something like that? Toffs like you, Your Grace , don’t usually give a rat’s arse about anyone else. You only look after your own kind.”

It was a perfectly reasonable question and not an unreasonable accusation.

Xavier would answer it as honestly as he could.

“Sometimes certain people deserve second chances,” he said, holding the young man’s gaze, “no matter the circumstances of their birth. Aside from that, your sister is an excellent employee. I didn’t want her to be unduly anxious about your father’s difficult…

situation.” He paused for a heartbeat then added, “She worries about you too, Mr. Evans.”

Freddy grunted by way of reply. He waved an expansive hand at the public room. “The Oberon will close within a fortnight. Despite my best efforts, I can’t keep it going.”

Xavier studied the young man’s face; it was partly in shadow, but Xavier was inclined to believe him. “I saw your advertisement in the Illustrated London News, ” he said. “And I was curious. That’s why I’m here this evening.”

Freddy smirked. “Like slumming it, do you?”

Xavier ignored his question. “I think your business has potential, Mr. Evans.”

Another smirk and then a snort. “Well, a fat lot of good such a pronouncement will do me now, Your Grace. That advertisement you saw was my last-ditch attempt to keep the Oberon afloat. But it’s all been for naught.

I’m sure you can see that this business is a sinkhole for money.

I need to refurbish the entire theater. My kitchen needs a better cook.

My cellar needs better wine. I’d like to put on pantomimes that have wider appeal, instead of horrendous penny-gaff plays, but I can’t attract or retain the right talent because the theater is in disrepair and hasn’t a good reputation.

I suspect that you’ve already formed the opinion that my shows are piecemeal at best. And you wouldn’t be wrong.

I’m caught between a rock and a hard place with no way out except declaring bankruptcy, just like my father did.

” A muscle flickered in the young man’s jaw.

“You may not believe me, but it kills me to think my father fell on his sword for me. And I’m still letting him down. Emmeline too. I’m the family disgrace.”

Before Xavier could respond, the music hall’s pianist started to bang out a lively tune and Freddy tilted into a mock bow.

“You’d best get back to your private box, Your Grace,” he said.

“I’m sure you don’t want to miss the rest of the show.

” And then he turned on his heel and pushed through the door leading back to the public room.

I’m the family disgrace…

Two things occurred to Xavier as he climbed the stairs leading him back to his friends. One: It seemed that Freddy Evans had more in common with the Duke of St Lawrence than he knew.

And two: Perhaps Emmeline’s father wasn’t the only one who deserved a second chance.