Coop muttered something under his breath.
“Pardon me? I don’t believe I quite caught that,” Dany said, feeling rather smug.
“I said, men shouldn’t think when they drink. I believe we did consider that possibility, but not seriously. I suppose we’d better hope Mrs. Yothers is guilty, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes, we most certainly should. You men should also confine yourselves to war, and leave intrigue to the ladies. We’re much better at it. A brothel. I suppose that’s better than saying he murdered his valet, or some such thing.”
“That also was considered, but Darby pointed out that then he’d be forced to polish his own boots, which he deemed totally unacceptable for a man of his stature.”
Dany looked at Coop in astonishment but quickly noticed the twinkle in his eyes—those marvelous green eyes, more priceless than any emerald—and the two of them fell against each other in shared laughter.
It was as if they’d known each other forever. And wasn’t that wonderful? They had bumped up against the edge of ridiculous and, oh, what a marvelous collision it was.
Dany could believe they were simply two people who had met and liked each other, and could possibly be passing beyond mere liking and on to something else, something perhaps even rare and magical. For this moment, these few fleeting moments, it could be believed that their lives were perfect.
Save for the blackmailer, the chapbooks, Mari’s letters and her soon-to-return husband, a totally ridiculous engagement and the constantly ticking clock hanging over all their heads...
COOP BELIEVED HE had never so enjoyed an evening at the theater, and he had yet to more than occasionally glance toward the stage. There could be dancing elephants in pink tulle skirts twirling on the boards for all he knew, or cared.
Watching Dany’s reactions to all that was transpiring around them was so much more entertaining. She was by turn amused, dismayed, curious, as excited as any child, and just the once, had waggled her fingers (the hand with the emerald riding atop the glove) at a rude dowager across the way who had aimed her lorgnette at their box, until the woman looked away in shame.
Not that most every eye hadn’t been directed at them at one time or another once they’d entered the box and taken up the chairs in the front row. There was nothing like the ton to speed news across all of Mayfair with the velocity of a volley of loosed arrows.
At the moment, Dany was leaning slightly forward, her toes tapping, as the corps de ballet—Coop believed they were meant to be angels—performed on the stage. After all, there were wings involved, although most Covent Garden dancers were, as a group, farther from innocent angels than most any group Coop could think of. Darby, it was rumored, had bedded all of them.
Darby had probably launched that rumor.
In any event, this evening Dany and he were the guests of the Duke and Duchess of Cranbrook, who insisted on the more informal Uncle Basil and Aunt Vivien, which was what Coop, Darby, Rigby and of course Gabe had called them in their youth, when they were frequent guests at Cranbrook Chase and Basil was still thrice removed from the dukedom, intent only on staying as distant from responsibility as a generous allowance permitted.
But one by one, Basil’s older brothers, each just on the eve of their sixtieth birthdays, had, or so it was told to Coop by Gabe, unexpectedly opened their eyes wide, said something on the order of “Erp?” and mere seconds thereafter shuffled off this mortal coil for “a better place.”
Eventually, the trio of erps left Basil the dukedom and, as he was approaching his sixtieth birthday in November, the notion that he was next. He had fallen into a sad decline, refusing to leave his rooms at the ducal estate. Boosting the man from his doldrums had fallen to Gabe, which meant Coop, Darby and Rigby were immediately called upon for their assistance.
Them, and the parrots.
Basil had gone from a man hiding from his own fate to a happy fellow who, if he was going to have to die, would make the most of his remaining time. He now spent that time doing what he pleased, when it pleased him, and chasing a giggling Vivien around the bedroom. He did a lot of the latter, and not always in the bedroom.
Not that there was anyone, Gabe included, who was about to point out that, since Clarice was living under their roof; they just might be setting a bad example for Miss Goodfellow and her ardent Rigby when it came to public displays of affection.
As if Clary and her Jerry gave a fig for conventions. Clarice was Rigby’s first love, and love had fairly slammed him in the face like the broad end of a shovel, convention be damned. Their wedding, slated for Christmas at Cranbrook, couldn’t come too soon.
Just as Gabe’s marriage to his Thea, especially as he was heir to the dukedom, had only been put off until after the duke’s birthday celebration—or funeral, whichever way a gambling man might wager in the clubs.
Lovebirds. Coop knew he was surrounded by lovebirds. Thank God for Darby, the happily dedicated bachelor who had— Wait a moment. Hadn’t Darby been in on the plan to have his good friend compromise Dany into a betrothal?
Why would he have done that? Why had there been such a twinkle in his eye as he’d convinced Coop it was a necessary strategy if they were to catch out the blackmailer?
And then he remembered. They’d been at Oliver’s residence that first day—and how long ago it seemed now. Darby had said that he was an observer, and Dany had asked him what he was observing at the moment. That’s when he’d looked at Coop for a long moment in that way he had and said, “No, not today. I think I’ll wait. It might be safer.” And then he’d made an excuse to leave Coop and Dany alone.
No, that’s impossible. The viscount Nailbourne in the role of matchmaker? He couldn’t have seen something neither of us saw. Still don’t see.
Do we?
Do I?
Coop looked over at Dany, who was still tapping her foot, even sighing in pleasure, as the angels continued their hopping, skipping dance about the stage. There was so much joy encased in that small body, so much energy and love of life. Clearly, she wanted to stand up and dance.
Suddenly he wanted to dance with her, right here, at this very moment, and the world be damned. He, Cooper Townsend, good friend, granted, but occasionally accused of being a bit of a sobersides, voluntarily making a cake of himself?
Had Dany caused this change in him?
Was there another answer?
No, none that he could think of at any rate.
It was as if she’d been fashioned especially for him, to shake him awake, make him realize all he’d been missing by being so rigid and commonsensible. Why should the duke be the only one to see life as something to be enjoyed to the hilt?
But now what? This was a temporary betrothal; he’d promised Dany as much. Damn Darby for a troublemaking soothsayer; now what should he do?
“Look at the third one from the left, dearies. Her plump bakery shop bouncing and jiggling like blancmange. She could do with a wide strip of linen tied around her bosoms, to my way of thinking. Many more years of flapping those things about and they’ll be at her knees.”
Thunk. Welcome back to reality, old sport. Unexpectedly tumbling into love isn’t your only problem.
How had he forgotten that his mother was seated in the row directly behind them, and what were the chances he’d be killed instantly and painlessly if he stood up and threw himself out of the box and down into the pit below?
“Minerva, please, you can’t say things like that around...” he said, but then closed his mouth as he realized Dany was laughing.