THE CACOPHONY IN the Adelphi Theatre’s main arena was like a roaring sea. Instruments were tuned as hundreds of people babbled and shifted, rustling into their seats and greeting one another. My head was still pounding from Sikes’ treatment earlier, and the silk cravat Adelaide had picked out to hide the swelling marks on my neck where he choked me was a cool comfort against the pain. Having just survived a murder attempt and nearly becoming a casualty in what was clearly a war between Smithson and Roger Colley, I would have preferred an evening clutching a glass of brandy in the bath, but my reluctance had not been long lasting. As Adelaide had put it, this was what we had been waiting for.
I’d sent word to Dickens for him to round up a few more “war men” to keep an eye on myself and Mis
