They reached a landing, and Leo directed her down a corridor lined with doors. He pushed one open and waved her in.

“We have arrived.”

Anne stepped into the box. Curtains hung on the walls, and a bench was pushed up to the railing. She swayed forward to stand at the rail. Chandeliers glittered from the high, ornate roof, and gilded sconces threw more smoky light into the echoing theater. People filled every available space: boxes, pit, galleries, orchestra. A seething mass that laughed and shouted and jostled with a hard recklessness.

Leo stood beside her. She did not need to gaze at him to know how cuttingly handsome he looked this night. In his dark gray velvet coat and breeches, his red lustring waistcoat embroidered with twisting vines, his tawny hair pulled back with a tie of black silk—no man compared with him. From her high vantage, Anne could see the many admiring glances he received from women in other boxes, even from the women in the upper gallery.

“That is where I usually sat.” She pointed to the rows of benches in the first gallery. Up there were the tradesmen, the professionals.

“Not there?” He nodded at the amphitheater, situated beneath the first gallery, where the fine ladies of quality fanned themselves and gossiped.

“Only if we came after the third act.” Later entry meant paying half price. When she wanted to see the earlier acts, she had to elbow her way into the first gallery instead, beside the ranks of the mercers and Grub Street scribblers.

The whole of the theater echoed the tight regulations of class, for no one ventured where they were not welcome. Young noblemen and officers kept to the benches of the pit, where they could strut, paw prostitutes and orange sellers, and enjoy all the privileges of sex and birth. Less rowdy nobility gathered in the amphitheater. Then came the galleries—the first for tradesmen, the second for servants and ordinary people. The varying price of the seats enforced hierarchy, but tacit understanding did far more to keep everyone apart.

“We didn’t go to the theater,” Leo said, watching the crowds assemble. “Even after my father had made his fortune. He thought it frivolous, a waste of time and money.”

“Then this is your first time in a box, too.” Only the very wealthy took boxes, visible to the entire theater, as much part of the spectacle as what transpired on stage.

He shook his head. “Bram always found us one.” He nodded toward a box across the theater, empty at the moment. “We all came together, after supper. They’re probably all at the Snake and Sextant now. John and Bram anyway.”

At the mention of the other Hellraisers, Anne felt the strings of her nerves tighten further. She attempted a smile, yet it was brittle and could not be long sustained.

Leo pushed back the bench in their box, and seated Anne before settling beside her. She noted the neat movement of his wrists as he flicked the long tails of his coat out of the way. In all things, he was eff icient, tolerating no excess or unnecessary showmanship.

“We are the subject of scrutiny.” Anne tipped her folded, ebony-handled fan toward the many faces turned in their direction. “You are notorious.”

“Perhaps, but you are the one who draws attention, not me.”

She glanced down at her ruby brocade gown, gold lace frothing at the sleeves and low neckline. Still, she had not acclimated herself to wearing such fine clothing. “Is something amiss with my dress?”

He smiled. “Only that you look stunning in it. That is what has everyone intrigued. They are all wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman, and how a knave like me could be so fortunate.”

“Your skill with compliments grows daily.” She flicked open her fan and waved it, stirring hot air against her face.

“Only because I’ve reason to give them.”

Who were these people? These shimmering, shallow people she and Leo had become tonight? Words came from their mouths, but the words were empty, facile. Their emptiness echoed in direct opposition to what was not being said. For it lay between them, the river of doubt, that would drown them if they ventured even a toe into its waters. Fast and deadly, its currents, and so she and her husband stared at each other across the rapids, mouthing pleasantries over its roar.

After the performance at the Theatre Royal, they would proceed on to Ranelagh and its famed rotunda. She had never been, nor to Vauxhall with its Chinese temple and clockwork wonders, and felt no desire to go now, but Leo was determined to fill their hours with as many pleasures as possible—as if to distract her from the black abyss at the heart of their marriage.

The discordant orchestra silenced as a man strode onto the stage, shouting about the evening’s program.

“The performance is about to begin,” Leo murmured.

His breath upon her neck traveled warmly through her body, drawing forth memories of the night before, its furious passion. Only in absolute darkness had he finally stripped bare, so she knew him by touch alone. And in that heightened sensitivity, she discovered something upon the hard, solid muscles of his shoulder.

A scar. Thin, as if made by a rapier’s point.

Just as Lord Whitney had described.

Having a scar upon one’s shoulder did not constitute evidence that one was in league with the Devil. It meant only that, at some past moment, Leo had been wounded by a sword. And Lord Whitney knew about the wound.

And yet ... And yet ...

Anne gazed at Leo as he sat back to watch a flock of dancers in gauzy skirts take the stage. A chorus of hoots rose up from the pit. Long and sleek on the bench, Leo observed the dancers with a cool remove, as if indeed witnessing the behavior of a species of pretty, giddy birds. He watched the theatergoers with the same detachment. But when he looked at her, his wintry gaze warmed, and her heart responded with a painful, sweet throb.

I have fallen in love with my husband. But, God help me, I do not trust him.


People came and went across the stage. The dancers flung themselves around with more flamboyance than grace. A man came out and belted comic songs, earning him roars of approval. Then painted backdrops of Italian gardens were propped against the back wall of the stage, and a clot of actors pranced out, mouthing words of intrigue.

Many times in the past, Anne had sat in the gallery and wondered about the experience of sitting in a box. The unobstructed view of the stage. The even better view of the theatergoers. How marvelous, she had thought. What a rarified place, untouched by deprivation, rich with delight.

Now she sat in one of those boxes. She could see everything, everyone. And she felt herself utterly removed, as if she were encased in glass. She could not smile or laugh. There were only the thorned vines knotted around her heart, piercing her with every breath.

Yet she was not alone in her disquiet. Throughout the theater, the crowds stirred, restless, ill at ease. The theater was never a calm place, but this night, it felt volatile. Voices from the crowd came too loud, people shoved one another. Tears from women, angry words from men, as if everyone tapped into a font of bitterness beneath the floorboards.

“There’s Bram and John,” Leo murmured.

She glanced across the theater and saw the two men come into a box. Heads turned at their entrance, and no wonder. They were striking men, both tall, commanding attention by their presence alone. John escorted a lady in a low-cut yellow gown, and Bram ushered in two women. Courtesans, clearly, by their gaudy laughter.

As Anne watched, the Hellraisers took their seats, the courtesans fluttering around them. Bram whispered something to one of the women and she giggled, nestling closer, while the other toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. John seemed less engaged in the actions of his companion, spending his time surveying the crowds with an icy, critical eye. When his gaze fell on her and Leo, Anne suppressed a shiver.

Can he hear my thoughts? Does he know what I think, even across the expanse of the theater?

Leo raised a hand in greeting, but kept his seat.

She was glad he did not want to join his friends in their box. For at the Hellraisers’ entrance, the crowd grew yet more restless. The actors could barely be heard, bawling their lines above the growing din.

“An ill feeling tonight.” Leo frowned and leaned forward, scanning the theater. He looked down into the pit. Perhaps he recognized some faces there, for his expression tightened. He stood and placed his hand on her elbow. “Time to leave.”

Anne rose, grateful. She needed out of this place. Yet as she got to her feet, a girl down in the pit shouted.

Two orange sellers struggled. One of the girls had her hands wrapped around the throat of the other, whilst her opponent gripped her hair. Men close by tried to separate the orange sellers, but the girls could not be pulled away. They struggled with each other, knocking into the people around them. Like a pebble dropped in a lake, their violence rippled outward, as men in the pit began to fight one another. Elbows and fists were thrown. Someone drew a sword.

Several men threw a bench onto the stage. The actors scurried back, and shielded themselves as more benches came flying up. The actors fled into the wings as men clambered onto the stage.

Women in the amphitheater screamed. The galleries erupted. People strained to reach the exits, their progress impeded by brawls. What had been, moments earlier, simply a theater now became a scene of chaos. Even the boxes exploded into violence.

“Goddamn it.” Leo wrapped an arm around Anne’s shoulders and urged her back.