Imogen had a flash of blinding guilt. "Oh darling, don't worry!" She ran over to give her a kiss. "I shan't go out with Mr. Spenser after this evening. You mustn't be so worried about next spring. Really you mustn't. You are a beautiful young woman."

"I am—" Josie stopped. "I'm tired of my own tedious thoughts on the subject."

"I shall be entirely circumspect," Imogen promised.

He was leaning against the orchard wall, waiting for her. And despite all her resolutions, despite the stern talking-to she had given herself on the way down the stairs, despite her flirtation with Rafe and her conversation with Josie… Imogen's heart was beating quickly.

Her conscience was keeping up a furious inner commentary. You're acting no better than a trollop! You kiss one brother during the afternoon and then…

He came forward to greet her, face shadowed by the twisting apple trees, and a hat pulled low. She couldn't see his eyes: were they expressionless, indifferent, as they had been at supper? But he spoke, and the slow scholar's tone of him melted her bones. "Lady Maitland. I feared you would not arrive."

"Punctuality is the prerogative of kings," Imogen said. "Not being royal, it would be presumptuous of me to be on time."

He bent to kiss her hand. "I am glad to see you. I feared that you had changed your mind."

"I almost did."

He held open the orchard gate.

"Where shall we go tonight?"

"I thought perhaps we should leave the fair folk of Silchester to their own devices. There is a pantomime in Mortimer."

"A pantomime! Isn't it early for a pantomime? Why, we are still in October."

Gabe handed her into the carriage. "In London pantomimes play every day for three months prior to Christmas. I admit to taking a childish pleasure in a panto."

Imogen seated herself, arranging her cloak in such a way that her breasts were not too naked in appearance.

The carriage took off with a jolt. She felt a thrum of panic: what if he expected to kiss her immediately? She tried to think of some sort of polite conversation. "Have you ever seen Joseph Grimaldi?"

"The clown? I saw a performance of his last year. I do believe that his rendition of 'Hot Codlins' could give you and the lovely Cristobel a run for your money."

Imogen couldn't think of anything else to say, and Gabe seemed to feel as little inclination to speak to her, although he also showed no propensity to leap across the carriage and kiss her. It was disconcerting. She and Rafe had talked so easily this afternoon: was the current silence because a man interested in an available woman has no reason for speech?

The thought was disquieting.

But she couldn't help but be cheered by the pantomime. "Will it be Cinderella?" she asked. "My sisters and I read about the play in Ackerman's Repository when we were living in Scotland."

"Very likely," Gabe said. "It is the most popular panto, I believe. I saw it when it first appeared on Drury Lane… ten years ago that must have been."

"Do you enjoy theater other than pantomimes?"

"I am fond of it, although I have never acted myself. I admit that I am not particularly looking forward to playing a part."

"Mr. Medley seems respectable enough. Think of me: I have to play an innocent country miss."

"Who snares the biggest rake of them all," Gabe said. "You trounce the city ladies, Belinda, and Mrs. Loveit, and take home the prize."

"If Dorimant can be called a prize."

"My brother will play Dorimant well, don't you think?"

"Well, he's hardly a rake," Imogen said, feeling a queer pang of defensiveness.

Gabe laughed. "A lady of your propriety may not even recognize the hallmarks of a rake, Lady Maitland."

Imogen narrowed her eyes. "I can assure you," she said frostily, "that my longer acquaintance with your brother has led me to an understanding that he is nothing like Dorimant. Perhaps, sir, you ought to switch places with him and play Dorimant yourself."

He laughed, and it was uncanny how much he sounded like Rafe. "My brother would be pleased by your loyalty."

Imogen sniffed and walked into the Fortune Theater, sweeping past the boy holding open the door before he could do more than ogle at her chest. The anteroom of the Fortune was awash in swags of red velvet and opulent lighting.

"It seems they have gas lighting," Gabe observed.

"This is one of the most important theaters outside London," announced the concierge, who waited to escort them to their seats. "The best in the county attend our performances." He looked sideways at Imogen's crimson gown.

"I thought we might be too obvious if I took a box," Gabe said into her ear, as they walked down the central aisle. "But I didn't want us next to the stage."

"Why not?"

"I gather you have never seen a pantomime?" Gabe said, guiding her to follow the attendant with a light touch on her back.

"No," Imogen admitted. "I know they traveled to Glasgow in the past few years since they became so popular in England, but my father was not fond of traveling." Because, she added silently, he would never have spent money that could have been spent on the track.

"In that case, I am honored to introduce you to the panto, and I assure you that we do not wish to have seats in close proximity to the stage."

Imogen sat down in a seat lined with red velvet. There were boxes to the sides, positively dripping with velvet and chains of paste pearls.

"Remarkably vulgar," he commented in a low voice.

"I like it," Imogen said. "It reminds me of a picture of a gilded chariot I saw once." Somehow she had formed the opinion that pantomimes were wild affairs, full of screaming people of the lowest caliber. But all those she could see around them were of the middling sort: honest burghers, butchers, and country squires.

Directly before them a worthy matron wearing a bonnet of purple cloth turned with velvet looked about, swept an imperious glance down their row, and then looked sharply away, her very bonnet trembling with indignation.

Imogen turned to Gabe, biting back a laugh. "My gown is remarkably suited to this particular theater. But apparently it is ruffling sensibilities."

"Don't worry," Gabe said in his deep, professor-like voice. "If you look at my costume, I am dressed as a sailor on leave. The costuming company erroneously thought there was a sailor in The Man of Mode. I do believe that I shall readily be taken as a sailor with his— shall we say—Whitefriars nun?"

"Whitefriars nun?"

"A popular pun. Whitefriars is a less than salubrious area of London, which used to house a monastery. Nuns are, of course, sworn to a life of chastity—"

"And the current occupants of that district do not adhere to ancient standards," Imogen said, giggling. "I feel positively wicked."

"Well, you are embellished with a remarkable amount of color," Gabe said. "Any impartial judgment must label you a bird of paradise or something equally colorful."

She smiled at him.

"I shall have to wash that off your lips before I kiss you."

The laughter died in Imogen's throat, leaving her staring into his almond-shaped eyes. They were not indifferent at the moment, not at all. He bent his head close to her face. "What a pity this is such a well-lit theater," he murmured.