Phoenix rising, p.19
Phoenix Rising, page 19
The joke fell flatter than her usual jibes did with him. Once they were both in the close confines of the carriage and underway, Eliza tilted her head as she considered his fidgeting. “Welly?”
“It’s nothing,” came his sharp reply. “London is full of ruffians, and a gentleman must be on his guard.”
She slapped him on the knee. “I’m afraid you will have to do better than that!”
He pressed his lips together, but finally blurted out, “Let’s just say God didn’t hear my prayer this afternoon.”
The carriage lurched while Eliza digested that particular hard nugget of information. She usually liked being right.
“They attacked me in the street,” Wellington stared out of the carriage window, sounding more outraged when he added, “They even called me by name.”
Eliza’s jaw twitched. “And the Mad Hatter’s tea party rolls on. You know they’re not going to stop, Wellington.”
He adjusted his necktie; and now his gaze, surprisingly hard, fixed on her. “I am fully aware of that, Miss Braun—however, it is not as though we can take the matter to the Director. He would only have his suspicions about us both confirmed.”
That one stung, Eliza leaned back in her seat, unable for once to find a truly pithy reply. Silence would be the most appropriate response.
It did not last long as Wellington’s eyes flashed to her neckline. “Where in the blue blazes did you get those?”
Eliza reclined a little, giving the gems following the curves of her breasts a chance to catch the waning light coming in the carriage window, “Wonderful, aren’t they?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The poor man really needed to get out more. “I was referring to the necklace, Welly.”
Just by his shocked expression she discerned he was imagining all sorts of nefarious ways she had gotten her hands on them. Best to put his mind to rest. She laid a silk-gloved hand on his arm. “There was a very grateful sheik that was happy enough to give them to me.”
The resulting confusion and embarrassment was quite satisfactory. Wellington sniffed, and then returned his eyes back to the street passing by. “I don’t think I need to hear the rest of the story.”
“Good,” she replied mildly. With a tilt of her head she examined his worthiness to enter the hallowed halls of the London Opera. Music Hall was more Eliza’s cup of tea but she had to admit that she liked dressing up—something she obviously shared with the Archivist. Immaculately attired in a very smart evening suit, Wellington Books outdid her impressions of him. In fact, he looked quite dashing in it. “You’ll do,” was her final assessment.
“Why thank you.” And those words were the last they exchanged for a long time. They sat in silence most of the way to Drury Lane. Eliza stared at the odd suitcase shape his fingertips rapped lightly against, and Wellington stared out the window, studiously ignoring her curiousity. The closer they got to their destination, the more a self-satisfied smile began to form on Wellington’s lips.
It appeared that most of London’s high society was attending Verdi’s Macbeth this evening. Wellington stepped down from the cab and assisted Eliza in her descent—which was most helpful because it had been a while since she had worn so much fabric. Her expression reflected many of the patrons’ excitement for the entertainment, but inwardly Eliza dreaded what lay in store for her tonight. Ye gods, how she hated opera. However, the game was, once again, afoot; and she needed to perpetuate the façade and so came the smile and outward appearance of anticipation.
When she inclined her head in Wellington’s direction, she wanted her smile of gratitude to be sincere. Her evening’s deception faltered for only a moment when Wellington slung the strange suitcase in their carriage over his shoulder. If she’d been hoping that the Archivist would leave it behind she wasn’t that lucky. It most definitely did not go with his evening wear, and it would attract attention. By the list in his posture it had to be heavy—but she was damned if she was going to ask him why.
Even with this awkwardness, Wellington still managed to win back her sincere smile on offering his arm to her. There was a charming chivalry in his determination to keep up appearances.
They climbed the stairs to the entrance, in the stream of other fine looking people. Books bumped a few of them with his ridiculous case, but he was so effusively polite and so was everyone else that they made it in with little trouble.
Once in the warmth of gaslight, Eliza took off her cloak and draped it over one arm while a ridiculously tiny evening purse and a vibrant fan hung over the other. The indrawn breath at her side was just what she’d been hoping for. Admittedly she had briefly considered wearing red, but much as she loved that colour it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Her deep green dress drew notice but the kind that she wanted. The sleeves were stylishly ballooning, but set low so that her shoulders were just as fashionably exposed. The dress turned her form into a long serpentine swathe, and exposed enough décolletage to set off her jewels perfectly. Wellington was not the only one that was looking—she could feel many admiring glances. Eliza might have been stripped of her power within the Ministry, but at least she still had this.
Turning to the Archivist, she inclined her head. “Is something wrong, Wellington, dear?”
“Not . . .” He cleared his throat. “Not at all, Miss Braun.”
She raised her fan and pointed it at him, her voice just above a whisper. “I believe in this particular, under-cover situation, you should call me ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or at least ‘Eliza.’ ”
“I think I can manage the last.” His expression hardened, but there was a bit of blush remaining. He then managed, “Eliza dear.”
“Very well,” she nestled in against his side and directed him over to the cloakroom attendant.
After the young man took her cloak he looked with befuddlement at Wellington’s valise. He was trying to be very polite and not ask directly. Finally he had to. “Sir, are you planning to take this into the theatre?”
The Archivist made a stern face. “I am dreadfully sorry but I have to—doctor’s orders.”
“We have a box seat, especially for that reason,” Eliza picked up the hint and ran with it. “My husband must be comfortable.” A little flash of her smile and a switch of posture that displayed her bosom and the jewels resting there, and the young man melted.
“Well, I am sure we can make an exception for medical reasons.” He gave Wellington a small yellow card. “Hand that to the usher.” He leaned forward slightly and added in a hushed tone, “Some patrons insist on bringing their dogs in, so I am sure this is fine.”
“Very sly, Wellington Books,” Eliza muttered as they walked through the main foyer. She had been genuinely impressed at his acting skills. The glance he gave her was indeed most self-satisfied.
After handing in both their regular and irregular tickets, Eliza and Wellington entered the hallowed halls of the London Opera. The theatre, only opened a year before, attracted enthusiastic crowds for more than just a night’s entertainment. This was a place where people wanted to be seen. No one rushed to their seats. Patrons milled about either to admire the fine surroundings or chat and gossip with those they knew. The opera house was a fine confection though: all scarlet and gold, and spiraling curves. The box seats, of which there were six on each side of the stage—grouped in three rows of two—were held aloft by half-naked goddesses. Some of these plainly displayed in a cartouche the crest of the family that paid some exorbitant fee for the privilege of a regular box.
“Do you see it?” Wellington hissed, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her over.
“Yes, yes.” She replied just as quietly.
On the left-hand side, middle row, middle column, the Phoenix painted in gold seemed to shimmer and gleam in the firelight of the theatre’s grand chandelier. Currently this box was empty.
“You know,” Eliza commented under her breath, “for a secret society they aren’t being that secretive.”
“Hubris is a wonderful thing, and it is only obvious to us as we know what to look for. But here’s the sticky thing—we need to be in the box right above that one,” Wellington tapped his case meaningfully.
“Do we?”
“Absolutely.” His expression brooked no further discussion. Whatever he had in that mysterious case of his, he was certain.
“Very well,” Eliza snapped open her fan and turned away ready to make the impossible happen . . . as usual.
“Darling,” the Archivist pulled her close, “do hurry back,” he said for the crowd milling around them. Into her hair however he murmured, “Please don’t kill anyone.”
With a charming laugh, Eliza moved off. He really doesn’t know me—Harry would realise exactly how far I would go. She sighed as she slipped her way through the crowd. It was an easy enough thing to do really: stand at the entrance to the box seats, tickets in one hand, her handkerchief in the other, and look pitiful. She only had to stop two groups of people before finding the right ones.
A tall old man wearing a smart evening’s ensemble and his diminutive wife in a bright blue dress stopped when she asked politely, “Excuse me, but are you in Box Seat Five?”
“Why, yes,” he replied.
Eliza held out her own tickets, her lip trembling a calculating amount. “I was wondering terribly if you would mind swapping with ours.”
The gentleman looked down, “But these are—”
And that was when Eliza’s acting chops kicked in. Turning, she pointed over to where Wellington stood in the crowd, looking lost amongst strangers. “I know, they are perfectly good box seats, but my husband . . .” She flinched. “Well, he has an awful temper and I was supposed to get Box Seat Five.” Eliza fixed them with a pleading look. “He is very particular.”
He looked between Eliza and Wellington, his eyes fogging a bit as he asked, “Particular? Dear lady, I fail to under—”
Eliza drew in a breath and shook her head, “No, no. It is quite all right. I should just . . .” And her voice trailed off. She felt her eyes tear up as she spoke with plenty of tremble and fear, “This is my fault and I should bear the responsibility. Thank you.”
“Henry, dear,” the wife chimed in, “I’m sure the view is more than adequate at this sweet girl’s seats.”
“Oh, that is so kind of you, madam,” Eliza said, pursing her lips tight as if to keep from sobbing, “but no, I have failed as a wife and should stand for my shortcomings.”
Both of them gave a start. The wife took Eliza gingerly by the arm. “My dear, these are just seats at the opera.”
“Yes, but he is most . . .” Her voice faltered, and after the moment lingered to where things felt most awkward, Eliza lightly traced her cheek with the backs of her fingers and added, “insistent. But no, it’s all right. I am sure I will enjoy tonight’s performance. It will tide me over in the future.”
They both gasped. Eliza brought the kerchief up to her face and gave a muffled sob, thankful the fine lace and embroidery hid her smile. It had been too long. Eliza so loved her work in the field.
“Give her the tickets, Henry,” the wife insisted.
The man’s shoulders fell, but surrender the tickets he did.
Eliza was about to leave when the woman caught her arm. “My dear, I want you to have this. Please. I insist that you make it a point of joining us for next week’s meeting.”
The card shook in Eliza’s hand.
Clapham Committee for Women’s Suffrage
Felicity Hartwell
7 Ashburn Grove
“I hope to see you there,” Felicity said, giving her arm a tight squeeze.
The laugh was in her throat, but Eliza managed a tight, wavering, “Thank you.”
There were other ways she could have played them, but that had been fun. Eliza strode back to Wellington with the swapped tickets in her hand, giving a long, heavy sigh of satisfaction.
“Everything all right, darling?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room.
A little tilt of her head was all she gave him before leaning forward, whispering in his ear as he had to hers. “They’ll never find the bodies.”
As he went to ask her whatever she had done, Felicity Hartwell of the Clapham Committee stepped free of her husband and struck Wellington hard against the arm with her fan. “Brute,” she snapped, loud enough for attendants and opera patrons to hear.
Wellington looked at the older couple for a moment, then back to Eliza who oddly looked terrified of him.
Then, once they were gone, Eliza’s fearful expression melted away to one of mischievousness.
The conclusion was obvious and he let out an annoyed huff, “Well then, shall we take our seats?”
Eliza smiled sweetly. “One moment, dear,” and then she turned him about towards the box seat bearing the crest of the Phoenix Society. “Our friends are arriving, and I would quite like to have a look at them, quick and fleeting as it may be.”
“Very well then,” he nodded, casually looking away. “Please, do not dally.”
Laughing and lightly touching Wellington’s shoulder, she was able to get a reasonable glimpse out of the corner of her eye at the occupants just arriving. “Two men; one elderly, one in his late twenties to perhaps thirties. Two women. One elderly, smartly dressed, the other in her middle years.” She tittered as she added, “The second woman is in dark blue and wearing enough diamonds to drown an elephant.”
“I wonder if she will get to keep them,” Wellington chortled back as he took Eliza’s hand and led her towards the box-seating entrance, “knowing your love of fine gems.”
“Oh, dear, dear Wellington, what do you take me for?” She sighed and gave a polite laugh as she continued, “I am merely an agent in service to Her Majesty.”
“And the benefits are most evident, from the looks of your apartments.”
“Are you critiquing my refined lifestyle?”
“Merely observant.” He chuckled.
Her fan snapped open as she allowed herself to be led through the crowd. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I would swear we were actually married.”
“I can’t think of anything more off-putting,” Wellington placed his hand in the small of her back as he continued, “than being married to a walking armoury. You, my dear Miss Braun, are a living, breathing advocate for bachelorism.”
Unfortunately they reached the usher and Eliza had to swallow a comeback on that particular jibe. When the attendant opened the door, she glided into their recently acquired seating with all the meekness of a proper English wife.
Once the door was closed, Wellington laid his valise on the floor behind his chair, flicked out his tails and sat. His eyes were on the stage. “I have heard this production is quite magnificent.”
Eliza glared at him, but it was quite ineffective since he didn’t even glance her way. “I hope you have a good explanation for having us be situated above our prey? The usual practice is to be in line of sight.”
“I know that,” he replied mildly.
“So you are going completely against Ministry protocol?” She didn’t enjoy the realisation that her tone was a little bit like that of a fishwife.
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
Eliza’s corset wouldn’t let her sit any other way but straight. If she’d been able she would have slumped in her chair and glared at him.
Dammit, now the orchestra were tuning up.
“So, what do we do now?” Even to her ears, her voice sounded petulant.
“Now,” Books said with evident amusement, “we wait.”
“Oh.” And the houselights dimmed. “Lovely.”
It wasn’t going to be. She knew this. This was, after all, opera.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wherein Mr. Books Reveals His Device and
Our Daring Duo Engage in a Spot of
Proper Eavesdropping for Queen and Country
Opera is an acquired taste, and no two productions are the same. Beyond the core basics of the art, opera offers a wide variety of possibilities both for the visual and aural senses. An opera by Mozart will not have the same emotional range as one from Puccini; and as lovely and lush as Bizet’s music is, there are few composers that can capture the epic grandeur in the same way as Wagner. So it is with Verdi and his operatic treatment of Shakespeare’s cautionary tale of ambition. Through his sweeping arias, powerful chorus numbers, and staccato movements, Macbeth’s rise and fall from power took on an even more ominous quality between the haunting melodies of the witches and the prophetic warnings of ghosts and evil spirits.
As Wellington’s eyes drifted from the image of Macbeth and his wife plotting to kill Macduff’s family to his sole companion in Box Five, his smile widened. Agent Eliza D. Braun looked ready to throw herself out of their exclusive seats.
“Do you know what would be a lovely addition to this production?” she asked, her frustration simmering underneath a marginally thin layer of concealment. “Dynamite. Lots and lots of it.”
“Miss Braun,” Wellington chided lightly, trying very hard to quell his amusement. “Remember that we are here for Queen and Country. Keep in mind the task at hand. And besides,” he said, tipping his head back as he reclined slightly in his chair, “this is culture at its peak. Refined tastes for refined palates.”
“It’s opera, mate,” Braun seethed. She watched the stage for a few moments, and then growled, “I know enough Scotsmen to know that if a group of men were wandering across the moors screeching like this lot, they’d be tossed like cabers back here to Pommyland.”
With the scene drawing to a close, a light applause rose from the house. Wellington joined in. He looked over to Eliza who was considering her fingernails.
“Oh, do make an effort,” he said over the applause.
“I don’t like encouraging such behaviour,” replied Eliza, her disinterested gaze returning to the stage as the scene changed to the hills of Scotland. She sighed heavily before whispering, “I’m still a bit confused as to what we are waiting for.”
“It’s nothing,” came his sharp reply. “London is full of ruffians, and a gentleman must be on his guard.”
She slapped him on the knee. “I’m afraid you will have to do better than that!”
He pressed his lips together, but finally blurted out, “Let’s just say God didn’t hear my prayer this afternoon.”
The carriage lurched while Eliza digested that particular hard nugget of information. She usually liked being right.
“They attacked me in the street,” Wellington stared out of the carriage window, sounding more outraged when he added, “They even called me by name.”
Eliza’s jaw twitched. “And the Mad Hatter’s tea party rolls on. You know they’re not going to stop, Wellington.”
He adjusted his necktie; and now his gaze, surprisingly hard, fixed on her. “I am fully aware of that, Miss Braun—however, it is not as though we can take the matter to the Director. He would only have his suspicions about us both confirmed.”
That one stung, Eliza leaned back in her seat, unable for once to find a truly pithy reply. Silence would be the most appropriate response.
It did not last long as Wellington’s eyes flashed to her neckline. “Where in the blue blazes did you get those?”
Eliza reclined a little, giving the gems following the curves of her breasts a chance to catch the waning light coming in the carriage window, “Wonderful, aren’t they?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The poor man really needed to get out more. “I was referring to the necklace, Welly.”
Just by his shocked expression she discerned he was imagining all sorts of nefarious ways she had gotten her hands on them. Best to put his mind to rest. She laid a silk-gloved hand on his arm. “There was a very grateful sheik that was happy enough to give them to me.”
The resulting confusion and embarrassment was quite satisfactory. Wellington sniffed, and then returned his eyes back to the street passing by. “I don’t think I need to hear the rest of the story.”
“Good,” she replied mildly. With a tilt of her head she examined his worthiness to enter the hallowed halls of the London Opera. Music Hall was more Eliza’s cup of tea but she had to admit that she liked dressing up—something she obviously shared with the Archivist. Immaculately attired in a very smart evening suit, Wellington Books outdid her impressions of him. In fact, he looked quite dashing in it. “You’ll do,” was her final assessment.
“Why thank you.” And those words were the last they exchanged for a long time. They sat in silence most of the way to Drury Lane. Eliza stared at the odd suitcase shape his fingertips rapped lightly against, and Wellington stared out the window, studiously ignoring her curiousity. The closer they got to their destination, the more a self-satisfied smile began to form on Wellington’s lips.
It appeared that most of London’s high society was attending Verdi’s Macbeth this evening. Wellington stepped down from the cab and assisted Eliza in her descent—which was most helpful because it had been a while since she had worn so much fabric. Her expression reflected many of the patrons’ excitement for the entertainment, but inwardly Eliza dreaded what lay in store for her tonight. Ye gods, how she hated opera. However, the game was, once again, afoot; and she needed to perpetuate the façade and so came the smile and outward appearance of anticipation.
When she inclined her head in Wellington’s direction, she wanted her smile of gratitude to be sincere. Her evening’s deception faltered for only a moment when Wellington slung the strange suitcase in their carriage over his shoulder. If she’d been hoping that the Archivist would leave it behind she wasn’t that lucky. It most definitely did not go with his evening wear, and it would attract attention. By the list in his posture it had to be heavy—but she was damned if she was going to ask him why.
Even with this awkwardness, Wellington still managed to win back her sincere smile on offering his arm to her. There was a charming chivalry in his determination to keep up appearances.
They climbed the stairs to the entrance, in the stream of other fine looking people. Books bumped a few of them with his ridiculous case, but he was so effusively polite and so was everyone else that they made it in with little trouble.
Once in the warmth of gaslight, Eliza took off her cloak and draped it over one arm while a ridiculously tiny evening purse and a vibrant fan hung over the other. The indrawn breath at her side was just what she’d been hoping for. Admittedly she had briefly considered wearing red, but much as she loved that colour it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Her deep green dress drew notice but the kind that she wanted. The sleeves were stylishly ballooning, but set low so that her shoulders were just as fashionably exposed. The dress turned her form into a long serpentine swathe, and exposed enough décolletage to set off her jewels perfectly. Wellington was not the only one that was looking—she could feel many admiring glances. Eliza might have been stripped of her power within the Ministry, but at least she still had this.
Turning to the Archivist, she inclined her head. “Is something wrong, Wellington, dear?”
“Not . . .” He cleared his throat. “Not at all, Miss Braun.”
She raised her fan and pointed it at him, her voice just above a whisper. “I believe in this particular, under-cover situation, you should call me ‘darling,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or at least ‘Eliza.’ ”
“I think I can manage the last.” His expression hardened, but there was a bit of blush remaining. He then managed, “Eliza dear.”
“Very well,” she nestled in against his side and directed him over to the cloakroom attendant.
After the young man took her cloak he looked with befuddlement at Wellington’s valise. He was trying to be very polite and not ask directly. Finally he had to. “Sir, are you planning to take this into the theatre?”
The Archivist made a stern face. “I am dreadfully sorry but I have to—doctor’s orders.”
“We have a box seat, especially for that reason,” Eliza picked up the hint and ran with it. “My husband must be comfortable.” A little flash of her smile and a switch of posture that displayed her bosom and the jewels resting there, and the young man melted.
“Well, I am sure we can make an exception for medical reasons.” He gave Wellington a small yellow card. “Hand that to the usher.” He leaned forward slightly and added in a hushed tone, “Some patrons insist on bringing their dogs in, so I am sure this is fine.”
“Very sly, Wellington Books,” Eliza muttered as they walked through the main foyer. She had been genuinely impressed at his acting skills. The glance he gave her was indeed most self-satisfied.
After handing in both their regular and irregular tickets, Eliza and Wellington entered the hallowed halls of the London Opera. The theatre, only opened a year before, attracted enthusiastic crowds for more than just a night’s entertainment. This was a place where people wanted to be seen. No one rushed to their seats. Patrons milled about either to admire the fine surroundings or chat and gossip with those they knew. The opera house was a fine confection though: all scarlet and gold, and spiraling curves. The box seats, of which there were six on each side of the stage—grouped in three rows of two—were held aloft by half-naked goddesses. Some of these plainly displayed in a cartouche the crest of the family that paid some exorbitant fee for the privilege of a regular box.
“Do you see it?” Wellington hissed, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her over.
“Yes, yes.” She replied just as quietly.
On the left-hand side, middle row, middle column, the Phoenix painted in gold seemed to shimmer and gleam in the firelight of the theatre’s grand chandelier. Currently this box was empty.
“You know,” Eliza commented under her breath, “for a secret society they aren’t being that secretive.”
“Hubris is a wonderful thing, and it is only obvious to us as we know what to look for. But here’s the sticky thing—we need to be in the box right above that one,” Wellington tapped his case meaningfully.
“Do we?”
“Absolutely.” His expression brooked no further discussion. Whatever he had in that mysterious case of his, he was certain.
“Very well,” Eliza snapped open her fan and turned away ready to make the impossible happen . . . as usual.
“Darling,” the Archivist pulled her close, “do hurry back,” he said for the crowd milling around them. Into her hair however he murmured, “Please don’t kill anyone.”
With a charming laugh, Eliza moved off. He really doesn’t know me—Harry would realise exactly how far I would go. She sighed as she slipped her way through the crowd. It was an easy enough thing to do really: stand at the entrance to the box seats, tickets in one hand, her handkerchief in the other, and look pitiful. She only had to stop two groups of people before finding the right ones.
A tall old man wearing a smart evening’s ensemble and his diminutive wife in a bright blue dress stopped when she asked politely, “Excuse me, but are you in Box Seat Five?”
“Why, yes,” he replied.
Eliza held out her own tickets, her lip trembling a calculating amount. “I was wondering terribly if you would mind swapping with ours.”
The gentleman looked down, “But these are—”
And that was when Eliza’s acting chops kicked in. Turning, she pointed over to where Wellington stood in the crowd, looking lost amongst strangers. “I know, they are perfectly good box seats, but my husband . . .” She flinched. “Well, he has an awful temper and I was supposed to get Box Seat Five.” Eliza fixed them with a pleading look. “He is very particular.”
He looked between Eliza and Wellington, his eyes fogging a bit as he asked, “Particular? Dear lady, I fail to under—”
Eliza drew in a breath and shook her head, “No, no. It is quite all right. I should just . . .” And her voice trailed off. She felt her eyes tear up as she spoke with plenty of tremble and fear, “This is my fault and I should bear the responsibility. Thank you.”
“Henry, dear,” the wife chimed in, “I’m sure the view is more than adequate at this sweet girl’s seats.”
“Oh, that is so kind of you, madam,” Eliza said, pursing her lips tight as if to keep from sobbing, “but no, I have failed as a wife and should stand for my shortcomings.”
Both of them gave a start. The wife took Eliza gingerly by the arm. “My dear, these are just seats at the opera.”
“Yes, but he is most . . .” Her voice faltered, and after the moment lingered to where things felt most awkward, Eliza lightly traced her cheek with the backs of her fingers and added, “insistent. But no, it’s all right. I am sure I will enjoy tonight’s performance. It will tide me over in the future.”
They both gasped. Eliza brought the kerchief up to her face and gave a muffled sob, thankful the fine lace and embroidery hid her smile. It had been too long. Eliza so loved her work in the field.
“Give her the tickets, Henry,” the wife insisted.
The man’s shoulders fell, but surrender the tickets he did.
Eliza was about to leave when the woman caught her arm. “My dear, I want you to have this. Please. I insist that you make it a point of joining us for next week’s meeting.”
The card shook in Eliza’s hand.
Clapham Committee for Women’s Suffrage
Felicity Hartwell
7 Ashburn Grove
“I hope to see you there,” Felicity said, giving her arm a tight squeeze.
The laugh was in her throat, but Eliza managed a tight, wavering, “Thank you.”
There were other ways she could have played them, but that had been fun. Eliza strode back to Wellington with the swapped tickets in her hand, giving a long, heavy sigh of satisfaction.
“Everything all right, darling?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room.
A little tilt of her head was all she gave him before leaning forward, whispering in his ear as he had to hers. “They’ll never find the bodies.”
As he went to ask her whatever she had done, Felicity Hartwell of the Clapham Committee stepped free of her husband and struck Wellington hard against the arm with her fan. “Brute,” she snapped, loud enough for attendants and opera patrons to hear.
Wellington looked at the older couple for a moment, then back to Eliza who oddly looked terrified of him.
Then, once they were gone, Eliza’s fearful expression melted away to one of mischievousness.
The conclusion was obvious and he let out an annoyed huff, “Well then, shall we take our seats?”
Eliza smiled sweetly. “One moment, dear,” and then she turned him about towards the box seat bearing the crest of the Phoenix Society. “Our friends are arriving, and I would quite like to have a look at them, quick and fleeting as it may be.”
“Very well then,” he nodded, casually looking away. “Please, do not dally.”
Laughing and lightly touching Wellington’s shoulder, she was able to get a reasonable glimpse out of the corner of her eye at the occupants just arriving. “Two men; one elderly, one in his late twenties to perhaps thirties. Two women. One elderly, smartly dressed, the other in her middle years.” She tittered as she added, “The second woman is in dark blue and wearing enough diamonds to drown an elephant.”
“I wonder if she will get to keep them,” Wellington chortled back as he took Eliza’s hand and led her towards the box-seating entrance, “knowing your love of fine gems.”
“Oh, dear, dear Wellington, what do you take me for?” She sighed and gave a polite laugh as she continued, “I am merely an agent in service to Her Majesty.”
“And the benefits are most evident, from the looks of your apartments.”
“Are you critiquing my refined lifestyle?”
“Merely observant.” He chuckled.
Her fan snapped open as she allowed herself to be led through the crowd. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I would swear we were actually married.”
“I can’t think of anything more off-putting,” Wellington placed his hand in the small of her back as he continued, “than being married to a walking armoury. You, my dear Miss Braun, are a living, breathing advocate for bachelorism.”
Unfortunately they reached the usher and Eliza had to swallow a comeback on that particular jibe. When the attendant opened the door, she glided into their recently acquired seating with all the meekness of a proper English wife.
Once the door was closed, Wellington laid his valise on the floor behind his chair, flicked out his tails and sat. His eyes were on the stage. “I have heard this production is quite magnificent.”
Eliza glared at him, but it was quite ineffective since he didn’t even glance her way. “I hope you have a good explanation for having us be situated above our prey? The usual practice is to be in line of sight.”
“I know that,” he replied mildly.
“So you are going completely against Ministry protocol?” She didn’t enjoy the realisation that her tone was a little bit like that of a fishwife.
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
Eliza’s corset wouldn’t let her sit any other way but straight. If she’d been able she would have slumped in her chair and glared at him.
Dammit, now the orchestra were tuning up.
“So, what do we do now?” Even to her ears, her voice sounded petulant.
“Now,” Books said with evident amusement, “we wait.”
“Oh.” And the houselights dimmed. “Lovely.”
It wasn’t going to be. She knew this. This was, after all, opera.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wherein Mr. Books Reveals His Device and
Our Daring Duo Engage in a Spot of
Proper Eavesdropping for Queen and Country
Opera is an acquired taste, and no two productions are the same. Beyond the core basics of the art, opera offers a wide variety of possibilities both for the visual and aural senses. An opera by Mozart will not have the same emotional range as one from Puccini; and as lovely and lush as Bizet’s music is, there are few composers that can capture the epic grandeur in the same way as Wagner. So it is with Verdi and his operatic treatment of Shakespeare’s cautionary tale of ambition. Through his sweeping arias, powerful chorus numbers, and staccato movements, Macbeth’s rise and fall from power took on an even more ominous quality between the haunting melodies of the witches and the prophetic warnings of ghosts and evil spirits.
As Wellington’s eyes drifted from the image of Macbeth and his wife plotting to kill Macduff’s family to his sole companion in Box Five, his smile widened. Agent Eliza D. Braun looked ready to throw herself out of their exclusive seats.
“Do you know what would be a lovely addition to this production?” she asked, her frustration simmering underneath a marginally thin layer of concealment. “Dynamite. Lots and lots of it.”
“Miss Braun,” Wellington chided lightly, trying very hard to quell his amusement. “Remember that we are here for Queen and Country. Keep in mind the task at hand. And besides,” he said, tipping his head back as he reclined slightly in his chair, “this is culture at its peak. Refined tastes for refined palates.”
“It’s opera, mate,” Braun seethed. She watched the stage for a few moments, and then growled, “I know enough Scotsmen to know that if a group of men were wandering across the moors screeching like this lot, they’d be tossed like cabers back here to Pommyland.”
With the scene drawing to a close, a light applause rose from the house. Wellington joined in. He looked over to Eliza who was considering her fingernails.
“Oh, do make an effort,” he said over the applause.
“I don’t like encouraging such behaviour,” replied Eliza, her disinterested gaze returning to the stage as the scene changed to the hills of Scotland. She sighed heavily before whispering, “I’m still a bit confused as to what we are waiting for.”
