Free Sheri Cobb South by Brighton Honeymoon Page A

Sir Aubrey’s protests, the baronet being loth to let his host bear the entire cost of the Brighton sojourn. But Mr. Brundy had insisted, and as Sir Aubrey was well aware that the weaver could buy him several times over, he capitulated with a good grace. As they assumed their seats, however, Sir Aubrey repaid his friend’s generosity by ushering Polly and Lady Tabor to the chairs at the front of the box, leaving Mr. Brundy and his bride to enjoy the privacy afforded by its shadowy recesses.
    “It may interest you to know, Miss Crump,” said Sir Aubrey, seating himself between his mother and Polly, “that I last attended the theater in the company of your brother. We were at Covent Garden in London, and it was on that occasion that he spotted Lady Helen Radney, as she was then, in a box across the way and vowed to marry her. Within four days, I saw them joined as man and wife.”
    With an effort, Polly refrained from turning to look over her shoulder at the man under discussion. “I had no idea he was so ruthless,” she said, barely suppressing a shudder.
    “Ethan, ruthless?    I should rather describe him as determined—the only shared characteristic, I might add, that supports your claims of kinship.”
    “You find me determined, sir?” Polly asked, not quite sure whether to feel flattered or insulted.
    “My dear girl, I find you positively obstinate.”
    Polly was spared the necessity of a reply by the raising of the curtain—a fortuitous circumstance, as Sir Aubrey’s pronouncement had rendered her momentarily speechless. She had never been to the theater before, and so was soon able to forget her companion’s disturbing remarks in the magical world unfolding on the stage below. Alas, her reprieve was to be a short one, for the first act had not yet ended when Sir Aubrey leaned over to address her in an undervoice.
    “I was not aware that you had other acquaintances among the ton,” he remarked.
    “Nor have I, sir,” she replied, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur.
    “You may not know him, but old ‘Carrot’ Camfield certainly seems to know you,” he said, nodding in the direction of a box on the opposite side of the theater.
    Gripped by a horrible premonition, Polly scanned the far side of the theater until she located the gentleman to whom Sir Aubrey referred. Her greatest fear since arriving in Brighton was that one of Mr. Minchin’s regular customers might recognize her—a fear she acknowledged as largely irrational, since she hardly recognized herself in her elegantly dressed and stylishly coiffed stranger she occasionally glimpsed in the mirror. Nevertheless, she was relieved to discover that the man eyeing her through his quizzing glass was a complete stranger. Her relief was short-lived, however, for the gentleman regarded her with an unwavering gaze which put her quite out of countenance. She could think of no reason for him to do so, for she was quite certain she had never seen him before, much less been formally introduced. He was fifty if he was a day, and his old-fashioned queue, which in his younger days had no doubt provided the inspiration for his sobriquet, had faded to a more muted, albeit undeniably orange, hue. She could not imagine why he should take such an interest in her.
    Unless...
    She allowed her gaze to drift back in his direction, unconsciously twisting one red-gold ringlet around her finger. Yes, he was certainly old enough to be her father, and one might detect a certain resemblance, even from this distance. She wished she might have a closer look at his face, the better to discover what color were his eyes, but although Lady Tabor’s opera glasses lay unused on her ladyship’s lap, Polly dared not ask to borrow them for the purpose of ogling an unknown gentleman across the theater.
    “Who did you say he was?” she asked Sir Aubrey.
    “He is styled Lord Camfield, but the earl’s intimates call him Carrot—an appellation which, I believe, was even more apt in