A Mystery of Errors by Simon Hawke Page B

take place, so that she could at least attempt to dress accordingly. As a result, she had chosen one of her best dresses, reasoning that it was better to be overdressed than underdressed for any occasion. And third, once she had arrived at the playhouse, he had not even bothered to meet her himself, instead sending a mere servant to escort her to his private box up in the galleries, where he waited like some potentate condescending to, grant a common petitioner an audience. Mr. Gresham certainly seemed to think rather highly of himself. Well, she labored under no illusions that she was going to change that. Nor did she care to. But she could certainly do something about how he thought of her.
    She had already decided that she was going to flirt in Mr. Gresham's presence with every man who caught her eye, but she had not yet even laid eyes upon her haughty host when she had started flirting with that handsome ostler who had so abruptly flung open the coach door and started shouting before he even knew who was within. Obviously, it had been a case of mistaken identity. But even so, that still said something about him, in that he did not hesitate to assert himself, and rather strongly, in the face of someone of superior social standing. It was, after all, clearly a gentleman's coach. For that matter, there was every possibility that he had
not
been mistaken, and that it
was
Anthony Gresham against whom he held a grudge. How could he have known that it was not Gresham in the coach? There had been such fire in his eyes! In all honesty, she had to admit to herself that her exchange with him had not been part of her original plan.
    Drummond had witnessed it, of course, and he would surely report it to his master, for that was no more than his duty, and so it was just as well. It had worked out exactly as if that was the way she'd planned it. Save that she hadn't planned it and she hadn't known that Drummond would be there to see it. She would not make excuses to herself. There was no denying that the young man had an effect upon her. She had flirted with him because she wanted to.
    What was his name? Smythe-something. No, Something-Smythe. Symington Smythe. That was it! It sound so euphonious. He certainly was handsome. And those shoulders! He seemed well-spoken, too, not at all thick, coarse, and rough-mannered, like so many of these common louts who worked around the Theatre, with their incomprehensible burrs and brogues and slurring speech and nose-wiping and forelock-tugging gruntings. She had, of course, been to the Theatre many times before, since her father was one of the investors whose money had helped build it, but this was the first time she had ever seen this rather striking young man. He must have been newly employed. Pity he was just an ostler. There could be no question, really, of her becoming more intimately acquainted with anyone like that. Her parents would both throw fits. Which, it occurred to her, was a tantalizing idea in itself.
    The ensign hoisted in the turret an hour before the start of each performance was fluttering in the cool, late afternoon breeze as they went through the gate, past all the groundlings who had already arrived long since to jostle for the best positions in the rush-strewn yard. The hawkers were selling their refreshments and the trumpets were blowing the three blasts of the fanfare, signaling that the play was about to start as they mounted the stairs up to the expensive private boxes in the upper gallery, which were all screened off on the sides, blocking off all views except the one directly to the front. And therein, the much-lauded Mr. Anthony Gresham awaited her.
    Having already formed a rather low opinion of him, Elizabeth had somehow expected his appearance to live down to it. She had imagined that he would be fat and unattractive, and probably with pockmarked skin. Instead, she was surprised to find that he was quite good looking, in a roguish sort of way, with well-formed,