"Not if she's down there in the pits," Clayton pointed out. "The last time Whitney and Victoria indulged in a similar huddle, it was because Stephen's mistress was in his box with him and Monica Fitzwaring was in the next box with Bakersfield, trying to look as if she didn't know who was one narrow pillar away from her shoulder."

"I remember," Jason said with a grin. "As I recall, they were on the side of Helene Devernay that night."

"Whitney laughed all the way home," Clayton said.

"Victoria declared it the most diverting three hours of the entire Season," Jason added, and leaning forward he whispered jokingly, "Victoria, you are in imminent danger of toppling out of this box."

She sent him an abashed smile but did not cease her scrutiny of whatever they were watching.

"She's leaving!" Whitney said, feeling both relieved and crestfallen. "She didn't wait for the performance to end, and she didn't leave her seat between acts, which means she doesn't intend to meet him here accidentally."

As puzzled as he was amused by their girlish whispering, Clayton leaned sideways, scanning the rows in the pit, but he waited until they were on their way to their next engagement-a lavish midnight supper-before he brought the subject up to his preoccupied wife. "What were you and Victoria doing all that whispering about tonight?"

Whitney hesitated, knowing he would not be pleased that Sheridan Bromleigh had reentered their sphere or be interested in the reasons. "Victoria thought she saw Sheridan Bromleigh tonight. I couldn't get a good enough look at her face to say for certain that Victoria was correct." Clayton's brows drew together into a dark hostile frown at the mention of the woman's name, and Whitney decided to let the subject drop.

The following Thursday, after seeing that their husbands were occupied elsewhere, Victoria and Whitney arrived early at Covent Garden, and from the vantage point of their box, scanned the faces of every new arrival who entered the pit and the gallery, searching for one particular face. "Do you see her?" Victoria asked.

"No, but it's a miracle you noticed her in the crowd at all last week. It's impossible to see everyone's features clearly from up here."

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed," Victoria said, sitting back in her chair when the curtain went up, and they still hadn't had a glimpse of the woman they'd thought was Sheridan Bromleigh last week.

Whitney sat back too, silently sorting out her own reaction.

"Your brother-in-law just arrived," Victoria said a few minutes later. "Is that Georgette Porter with him?"

Whitney looked across the theatre at Stephen's box and nodded absently.

"She's exceedingly lovely," Victoria added in the tone of one who is trying very hard to find and give encouragement about a situation that is not particularly encouraging at all. She liked Stephen Westmoreland very well, and he was one of a very few people whom her husband considered among his close friends. She had also felt an instantaneous liking for Sheridan Bromleigh, who, like herself, was also an American.

Whitney contemplated Stephen's attitude toward the woman at his side, who was smiling at him and talking animatedly. He was listening with a look of fixed courtesy, and Whitney had the impression he didn't know Georgette Porter was talking, or that she had a face, or that she was even in his box. Her gaze shifted inexorably to the seats below in the pits, scanning the rows of heads again. "She's here, I know she is. I mean, I have a feeling she is," she amended as Victoria glanced sharply at her.

"If I hadn't seen her arriving last week and been watching for her to come into the pit, I'd never have been able to point her out to you. We could never find her now, among all these rows of people."

"I know a way!" Whitney said on an inspired stroke. "Look for a head that is turned toward Stephen's box instead of the stage." A few minutes later, Victoria grabbed her arm in her excitement. "Right there!" she said. "The same bonnet too! She's practically beneath us, which is why we didn't see her."

Now that she'd spotted the other woman, Whitney observed her steadily, but not until she stood up to leave did she get a clear look at the other woman's wistful face. "It is her!" Whitney said fiercely, feeling a swift stab of helpless sympathy for the naked sorrow and longing she'd seen on Sheridan's face as she stood up to leave just before the opera's end.

Sympathy was not an emotion her husband was likely to share-at least not unless he too saw the way Sheridan Bromleigh had sat in silence, her gaze on Stephen. But if he were to see it, and if his attitude toward Sheridan were to soften, then Whitney thought he might be persuaded to talk to Stephen, to urge him to seek her out. Clayton was the only one, she knew, who had enough influence on Stephen to possibly sway him.

45

"We mustn't be late." Whitney cast an anxious look at the clock as her husband lingered over a glass of sherry. "I think we ought to leave now."

"How is it I never realized you were so inordinately fond of opera?" Clayton said, studying her curiously.

"Lately the… the performance has been quite riveting," she said. Bending down, she wrapped their son in a tight hug before he padded off sleepily between his governess and Charity Thornton.

"Riveting, really?" Clayton repeated, eyeing her with puzzled amusement over the top of his glass.

"Yes. Oh, and I exchanged our box for the Rutherfords' just for tonight."

"May I ask why?"

"The view from Stephen's side is much better."

"The view of what?"

"The audience."

When he tried to question her further about that baffling answer, Whitney said, "Please, just trust me and don't ask more questions until I can show you what I mean."

"Look," Whitney whispered, clutching Clayton's wrist in her agitation, "there she is. No-don't let her see you looking. Just turn your eyes, not your head."

He did not turn his head, but instead of looking in the direction she indicated, her husband slanted his gaze at her and said, "It would help immensely were I to have some slight idea whom I'm supposed to be looking for."

Nervous because so much could hinge on his reaction and his help, Whitney admitted, "It's Sheridan Bromleigh. I didn't want to tell you in advance for fear she wouldn't be here, or you wouldn't come."

His expression hardened instantly at the mention of the other woman's name, and she lifted beseeching green eyes to his cool gray ones. "Please, Clayton, do not condemn her out of hand. We have never heard her side in the matter."

"Because she ran off like the guilty little bitch she is. The fact that she likes opera, which we already knew, doesn't change that."

"Your loyalty to Stephen is clouding your judgment." When that didn't have any noticeable effect, Whitney persevered with gentle but firm determination. "She doesn't come here for the performances. She never even looks at the stage, she only looks at Stephen, and she always sits in rows behind his box so that he wouldn't see her if his attention wandered from the stage. Please, darling, just look for yourself."

He hesitated for an endless moment, then conceded with a curt, wordless nod, and slid a glance in the direction she'd indicated, off to their right. "Plain dark blue bonnet with a blue ribbon," Whitney added to help, "and a dark blue dress with a white collar."