The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

and a hot meal. At least he wouldn’t starve, and although he was presently unable to buy his commission, perhaps he could earn his place as an officer through honest hard work.

      “Will just refuses to accept that I’ve created a life for myself separate from everything he values,” James said finally. “I’ve no love for titles and inherited privilege.”

      “He just wants to correct past wrongs. Feels guilty because you had to struggle for so many years while his life was easy. Richard was mad.”

      “Mad, yes, and not too fond of me, either. I know all this, so let’s drop the subject.”

      When he’d left home, he’d thought nothing could be worse than life with Richard, but two years in the army had proved him wrong. The life of a professional soldier was a far cry from the more comfortable existence of an officer. Jonathon had been in his regiment, and they’d become friends whilst sitting in a muddy ditch trying not to be killed. It turned out that Jonathon knew several members of his mother’s family. James’s grandfather owned a Dublin theater, and Jonathon had worked there as an actor and playwright. They’d spent hours plotting ways to escape the service, but these plans became irrelevant when a Frenchman fired a bullet straight at James’s heart; Jonathon shoved him out of the way, taking the bullet himself. James would be forever grateful for this act, although by the end of the day he, too, was struck down. Wounded but alive, both were released from further duty. They’d traveled to Ireland, where Jonathon promised to introduce him to the family he’d never met.

      And they’d embraced him. He’d felt for the first time in many years that he had a family. He’d even adopted his mother’s maiden name, a change that Will took issue with; his name would certainly be a topic of conversation at dinner that night. He’d stayed there for almost a decade, until news of Richard’s death arrived.

      When he’d returned, Jonathon had come with him, hoping to pursue his dream of owning a London theater. He’d saved a bit of money, and James had helped him with the rest.

      “You are being rather stubborn, James, I must say,” said Jonathon, unwilling to let the subject drop that easily. “Will has a point. Richard’s gone. You’ve moved back to London, you’ve claimed your inheritance. So start using your real name, too, and pretend to be respectable.”

      James rose, picked up his jacket once more and headed for the library door without responding to that suggestion. “Sure you won’t come tonight?”

      Jonathon reluctantly rose from his comfortable position and followed him out of the room and across the marble hall. “Theater won’t run itself. By the by, did you enjoy yourself last night?”

      James’s head experienced a tiny pulse of pain at the memory. He knew exactly what Jonathon was referring to. He opened the front door with a quiet groan and stepped outside. “You witnessed my shame?”

      “Kitty Budgen is rather conspicuous, I’m afraid. Laughs like a jackal.”

      “A real friend would have stopped me.”

      “It was too amusing to stop.”

      James hadn’t intended on spending his evening with Kitty Budgen, sometime actress and notorious flirt. He’d gone to the theater merely to sign some papers and had been about to leave when he’d spotted a lone woman seated in the audience. Unaccompanied women were invariably prostitutes and not good for business, so he was going to ask her to leave. He’d been waiting for the right moment, but the longer he watched her the less convinced he became. He couldn’t see her face, but her tight, priggish hair and drab clothes didn’t correspond to a prostitute’s colorful appearance. Furthermore, she definitely wasn’t trying to solicit anyone’s attention. He’d started to lose interest, and then Kitty had come along and he’d forgotten about her altogether…

      How surprised he’d been when he finally surfaced from Kitty’s charms to see the woman now turned around in her seat, staring at him with a mixture of shock and opprobrium. Any doubts he’d had about her status vanished—he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a sincere display of maidenly outrage. He couldn’t blame her, either, all things considered.

      And he’d been damned shocked himself. She was remarkably pretty, a fact he would never have guessed from the back of her head. She was beautiful in a way that Kitty, with her garish clothes and painted face, could never be. He rather regretted the fact that he’d held back from approaching her. He had an idea she’d have been a far more interesting companion.

      “James?”

      He looked up, realizing he’d become lost in his thoughts once more.

      Jonathon sighed. “I said that if I were in your position, I certainly wouldn’t be wasting my time with the likes of Miss Budgen. I’d be dancing with a different heiress every night and fathering weak-chinned, aristocratic brats. What about marriage?”

      James frowned. “You’re as bad as Will. I’m not sure that any self-respecting heiress would waste her time with me, nor am I interested in the least. Now—” he paused, looking north, in the direction of Hyde Park “—I’m walking this way.”

      Jonathon took the hint, but he couldn’t help calling out over his shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction, “Perhaps you should try to be interested. It might cheer you up.”

      Chapter Three

      Eleanor didn’t exactly know what she was doing there, seated once more in the shadowy outer edges of the theater, just two weeks after her first ordeal there. She’d anticipated spending a quiet evening at home with Beatrice and Charles as no social events had been organized. Only that had changed late in the afternoon when Charles’s mother, Lady Emma Summerson, invited them all to dinner.

      “You’ll come, of course, won’t you, Eleanor?” Beatrice had asked. “The invitation is rather tardy, I know, but that’s because something novel has come up. Mrs. Parker-Branch visited Emma late this afternoon with her latest protégé in tow—she fancies herself a great patron, as you know. He’s a Florentine tenor and has agreed to sing for Emma tonight.”

      Normally Eleanor would have agreed immediately, but something—she wasn’t sure what—had made her hold back. “It sounds like a late evening.”

      “I suppose, but you’ve done nothing all day. It won’t be anything too formal, I promise. Say you’ll come.”

      Indeed, Eleanor had meant to say just that. But when she’d opened her mouth something else came out entirely.

      “Perhaps I’ll give Miss Pilkington a visit.”

      A braying voice coming from the center of the audience bought her attention back to the present with a snap. Her first instinct was to turn to see what was happening, but she caught herself in time. She’d been coaching herself all night to practice restraint, only it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She’d been raised to speak her mind, not to lower her eyes demurely.

      The curtains parted, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax.

      Only she couldn’t, nor could she concentrate. She glanced over her shoulder to look at the rows of seats behind her, but they were still empty.

      Don’t be silly, Eleanor, she chided herself as she turned her head back around. He will not be here this time. That would be too great a coincidence.

      The evening’s play was As You Like It, again. She’d returned for a second viewing—not that she’d been able to see it properly the first time—and the chance that he’d also be there a second time was too slim to worry about. It was highly unlikely that she’d see him again in any context. His physical appearance might have suggested he was a gentleman, but his behavior certainly did not. She’d never seen him at any ton events before, and she would have remembered.

      So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? He was no longer a threat; he was nothing more than a spine-tingling—make that very spine-tingling—memory. She wasn’t unused to attractive