The Diamond of Drury Lane (17 page)

‘I doubt that. Shepherd does not look the type to allow little girls to trick him out of a great prize.
But in any case, you need not worry. I meant that the diamond should be put far out of anyone’s reach. Sent to America, for example.’

‘America! So far?’ I exclaimed. ‘What do they want with diamonds in America? I thought there was nothing but Indians and rebels in America.’

‘That about sums it up,’ said Johnny with a laugh. ‘Come now, to bed with you.’

He helped me to my feet.

‘Thank you, Johnny,’ I said quietly. I had to say it before I left.

‘For what?’

‘For saving my life.’

He bent down and kissed the top of my head like a father or brother might do. Receiving this tender gesture, I felt an acute sense of loss. I had survived by not thinking too much about what I couldn’t have, but tonight I suddenly missed having my own family more than ever. Being with Johnny made me realise what I might have known.

‘It was the least I could do,’ he said, ‘especially as it was the diamond that put you in danger in the first place.’

I was about to put him right on that and explain about the bad blood between Billy and myself, but he ushered me out.

‘No more tonight, Cat. We can talk in the morning.’

I turned to go but a thought snagged me like a hook.

‘Johnny, don’t tell anyone about this, will you?’ I pleaded.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll have to mention it to Mr Sheridan . . . but no one else, I promise. But why?’

‘If Pedro hears, he’ll tell Syd.’

‘Syd?’

‘The Bow Street Butcher. If he finds out what Billy did to me, it’ll be war in Covent Garden. Someone might get hurt and I wouldn’t want that.’

‘I understand.’ He paused. ‘You know, Catkin, you are wiser than you look. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, captain.’

¹
Struck through by the censor.

‘Are you all right, Cat?’

Pedro found me in the auditorium, replacing the candles in one of the chandeliers. Long Tom had lowered it to be within my reach so I could assist him in the neverending chore of keeping the theatre brightly lit.

‘Why do you ask?’ I said, not looking at Pedro as I chipped off the drips of wax from the glass reflectors with my nail.

‘Are you still cross with me? Don’t you want to hear what happened last night?’ He sat down on a bench and rubbed his calf muscles like an athlete limbering for a race. He was expected on stage in five minutes for his rehearsal.

I already knew, of course, that nothing had happened in Covent Garden last night, but he was not to know that. A total lack of interest on my part would look suspicious.

‘So what happened?’ I asked dutifully.

‘Nothing. Syd thinks Billy funked it.’

‘Oh.’ I spiked a white candle on the prong in an empty bracket.

‘I thought you’d be relieved,’ said Pedro in a disappointed voice. ‘This means that Billy’s surrendered the market to Syd, doesn’t it? You’ll be able to go out again. He won’t dare touch you.’

When I closed my eyes, I could still feel the choking pressure of Billy’s razor on my throat and touch the stub of hair where he had shaved off a fistful. Pedro’s comforting words could not be more ill-founded. I swayed on my feet and reached out for the bench to sit down before I collapsed.

Pedro was alarmed. ‘Cat? What’s the matter? You really don’t look well.’ He now noticed my bandaged forearm. ‘What did you do to yourself ?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, taking a steadying breath, determined not to faint.

‘But your arm!’

‘It’s nothing . . . just a cut.’

Pedro gave me a dubious look but did not pursue the matter. ‘Well, I know something that
will cheer you up. Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth are coming to the rehearsal today.’

I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘In what capacity?’

‘Dressed as themselves, of course. Now that you’ve whetted their appetite for the stage, Mr Sheridan invited them to bring a party of their friends. They should be here soon.’

I looked round quickly, wondering if Johnny was in view: he had to be warned. He would want to keep out of sight of such an invasion in case someone recognised him.

‘Come on, Cat,’ chided Pedro. ‘Aren’t you the least bit pleased?’

‘Sorry, Pedro,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘Of course I’m pleased.’ Looking into his deep brown eyes, it was hard to believe at that moment that this was the boy who had cheated on me. He did seem to care. Maybe the diamond-stealing was now all water under the bridge and we could start again?

‘Good, for I told Frank that you’d show them round.’

‘Pedro!’

Pedro leapt to his feet and gave me a bright smile. ‘Well, I can’t, can I? I’ve got to be on stage.’ With a final stretch, he bounded away like a gazelle, climbing over the bars to the orchestra pit and up on to the forestage.

Typical! I had just begun to like him again and he had sprung another surprise on me, using me to entertain his guests. If it weren’t for the fact that I liked Lord Francis too, I wouldn’t let him get away with it!

I found Johnny in the wings, running through the cues for that night’s play with Mr Bishop. Hovering behind the stage manager, I tried to attract Johnny’s attention. This couldn’t wait: they could be here at any moment. Finally, my friend looked up and saw me waving at him.

‘Mr Bishop,’ said Johnny quickly, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt this, but could we finish this later?’

The rebuff annoyed Mr Bishop. He was clearly having one of his bad days, but even he found it hard to show offence at Johnny’s polite but masterful manner.

‘If you must,’ he said grudgingly. He stuffed his
dog-eared copy of the script into a deep jacket pocket. ‘I’ll see how the enchanter’s laboratory is coming along. Problem with the hidden compartment . . . keeps springing open.’

He shuffled off, yelling to the carpenter to hurry. It appeared the poor chippie was going to bear the brunt of his anger.

‘This better be good, Cat,’ said Johnny, steering me into the prompt’s office. ‘I have to tread carefully around Bishop. I think he suspects something.’

I hurriedly told him about the arrival of the party of young ladies and gentlemen. Striding to and fro in front of the fire, Johnny ran his fingers distractedly through his hair.

‘Who do you think will come?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘I met a few of their friends at the tea party. Besides Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth, there was a young lady called Jane, a young gentleman called Charlie, and the Marchmont children.’

‘The Honorable Charles Hengrave, I imagine,’ mused Johnny. ‘I don’t know the girl, Jane . . . probably some poor relation from the country. As
for the Marchmonts, I know them all right: horrid little bores, the whole family. I can only tolerate the father because of his political views. As a man, I find him repugnant.’

I was surprised by Johnny’s intimate knowledge of Lord Francis’s circle.

‘The Marchmont boy’s not like his father,’ I said quickly. Johnny looked surprised. ‘What I mean is, he’s still horrid, but he doesn’t share his father’s politics. Lord Francis said he was a supporter of Mr Pitt and dead against reformers. He certainly didn’t like my manuscript . . . thought it revolutionary stuff, unfit for the delicate ears of his sisters, and all because I wrote about what he considers “low” subjects.’

‘Hmm.’ Johnny fiddled with an inkwell on the mantelpiece, his shoulders in a dejected hunch. ‘Backstage at Drury Lane is not as safe as I thought . . . far too public. It’s a shame. I wouldn’t have minded seeing Lady Elizabeth again.’ He turned to me. ‘Is she still as pretty as ever?’

‘When did you meet Lady Elizabeth?’ I asked, intrigued.

‘Oh, here and there,’ said Johnny lightly, flicking dust from a brass candlestick.

‘You’re not telling me everything, are you?’ A suspicion was beginning to form in my mind, based on a growing awareness that my friend was not as he seemed.

‘Of course not.’ Johnny smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. ‘But thanks for the warning. I’ll lie low in here until the coast is clear. You’ll let me know when I can come out of hiding, won’t you?’

I nodded. ‘Of course. And yes,’ I added slyly before I shut the door behind me, ‘she still is as pretty as ever.’

I met the party of visitors by the main entrance. They had come in two carriages and on horseback. In the lead was Lord Francis with his friend, the Honorable Charles Hengrave, on a pair of fine geldings, accompanied by a footman.

‘Here she is!’ exclaimed Lord Francis in delight as he bounded up the steps to me, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘You should’ve seen her, Charlie! She flattened that bully and saved
my skin. She made a splendid boy.’

I blushed as Charlie gave me a bow and a grin. It appeared that news of our recent exploits had travelled.

‘I hope, Miss Royal, you’ll record your adventures for us,’ Charlie said politely. ‘I am eager to hear all about it from your pen.’

Lord Francis clapped his hand to his head.

‘That reminds me!’ he cried. ‘Father was very impressed by your manuscript. He told me to tell you that he’ll support your first venture into print when you finish it.’

‘In that case, she’d better get a move on.’ This was from Pedro who had ducked out of the rehearsal to greet his friend. Surrounded by the silk waistcoats and velvet jackets of the young nobles, he looked most out of place in his sailor’s costume of blue jacket and white trousers. He was playing and dancing a hornpipe in the musical interlude that night.

Lady Elizabeth arrived on the arm of the young Marchmont. From the pained expression on her normally serene face, she appeared to be doing
her best to humour the boy. It was a lost cause: he had come intending to despise everyone and everything. He wrinkled his nose at the tawdry gilt of the auditorium. Drury Lane was in need of renovation and it never looked its best by daylight.

‘Poor Lizzie,’ muttered Lord Francis to Charles Hengrave, ‘she keeps on trying to be polite to Marzi-pain for Father’s sake, failing to comprehend that he’s beyond saving.’

‘Marzi-pain?’ I whispered.

‘Marzipan . . . Marzi-pain Marchmont . . . because of the hair,’ Lord Francis explained in a low voice.

I still looked puzzled.

‘You know, marzipan, that yellowy-white almond stuff you get on cakes?’

He may get it on cakes, but I had never been so lucky. The closest I’d come to confectionery was with my nose pressed against the baker’s window.

‘Oh, of course,’ I said, trying to appear perfectly familiar with all details of the confectioner’s art.

I hadn’t fooled him. ‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Next time you come to tea, I shall ensure that you sample every sort of marzipan under the
sun, Miss Royal. Our French cook is a master.’

Marchmont’s voice now reached us. Lord Francis grimaced.

‘It is not a patch on Covent Garden,’ he was saying loudly. ‘Father has a private box there, you know.’

He had better pipe down or he might find himself rudely ejected by one of the crew, I thought sourly.

‘But Mr Marchmont, I’m sure you’ll agree that it is not the gaudy wrappings, but the content that counts. The acting here has no rival with Mr Kemble, Mrs Siddons and Mrs Jordan to call on,’ said Lady Elizabeth as she approached us.

Bless her, I thought.

Marchmont sniffed at this statement but said nothing.

Pedro bowed to the ladies. I curtsied.

‘I was just telling Miss Royal about Papa’s admiration for her manuscript,’ said Lord Francis loudly. He had evidently not forgotten Marchmont’s disapproval of my work and was happy to trump it with a duke’s approbation.

Marchmont gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Your father has peculiar taste, Lord Francis. I grant that she writes a fair enough hand for a girl of her class, but as for the contents . . .’ he left his disapproval hanging in the air. ‘The drawings, however: thinking about them afterwards, I was most intrigued. You surely did not do them yourself, Miss Royal? The style was very distinctive. I could almost swear it was . . . familiar.’ He looked hard at me, his smile as false as a stage moustache. Had he guessed too much?

Unfortunately, Pedro was oblivious to the sensitivity of the subject.

‘No, she didn’t. That was Johnny Smith, the prompt,’ he said. ‘Cat’ll introduce you to him if you’re interested. He does really wicked likenesses, really clever.’

Not for the first time I could have kicked Pedro for his over-eagerness to show off before prospective sponsors. The last thing Johnny needed was for Pedro to go patron-hunting for him.

‘Wicked likenesses?’ said Marchmont coolly. ‘I’ve no doubt of that.’

‘But he doesn’t draw much,’ I added quickly, trying to warn Pedro with a look. ‘In fact, it was probably the first time he’s put pencil to paper when he drew for me.’ Pedro looked surprised and was going to dispute this, but I ploughed on. ‘And unfortunately, he’s been called away suddenly to . . . to see a sick uncle. He’s not here. Not in the building.’

I raised my gaze to Marchmont’s heavy-lidded eyes. He was now looking at me with a sceptical curl to his lips.

Guiding the young people around Drury Lane was more difficult than I anticipated. The phrase beloved of Mrs Reid came into my head as I extricated Charles Hengrave and Lord Francis from the basket of the balloon backstage: it was like herding cats. No sooner had I headed off one group from doing something they shouldn’t in one department then a new crisis would erupt elsewhere. Hardest to manage was Marchmont. He seemed determined to open every door and every cupboard. I could’ve sworn he was looking
for something and I thought I could guess what it was.