A good comedy should cheer him up, and Lady Beaton was his favorite type of woman: mature, no nonsense, sure of herself and what she wanted. She was a lady who’d survived a difficult marriage and was intent on enjoying the fruits of her widowhood. She had no interest in remarrying and looked only for congenial company and physical satisfaction. Pleasingly plump, of cheerful temperament, with a bawdy sense of humor and a genuine talent for friendship, she was the closest thing to a friend Jamie had besides Sullivan. Unfortunately, her box was empty, though her footman was waiting with a letter. Her elderly mother, it seemed, had taken ill, and she had rushed to her countryseat to be with her. He looked about the theatre. The pit was full. Lords and ladies, orange girls and apprentices, shopkeepers and laborers, crowded elbow to elbow to see Dryden’s latest oeuvre. He was debating enjoying the box and staying to watch the play—it wouldn’t hurt to be seen there, still of interest and still in London—when a rustle of skirts and a possessive hand on his arm caused him to turn his head.
