“The Center’s been swept twice,” Reeve murmured in her ear. “There’s nothing here.”

She nodded and took her seat as the curtain rose.

The play was everything Eve had hoped for, though Hannah doubted anyone in the box had their full attention on the drama and pathos onstage. More than once, she cast a sidelong look at Bennett to find him studying the audience.

Deboque wasn’t there. Hannah hadn’t expected him. Whatever happened, whenever it happened, he would be far away with an alibi as solid as Cordinian rock.

So they would wait. And watch.

When the lights came up for intermission, Hannah could almost feel Eve relax. A false alarm? No. Though she preferred Eve believing it was so, Hannah knew better. There was an itch between her shoulder blades, vague but persistent. Some called it a hunch. Others called it instinct. Hannah had been in the game long enough to know when to wait and when to go with it.

“Would you like something to drink?”

She turned to Bennett, set to refuse. For personal reasons, she wanted him close at hand. “Yes,” she heard herself saying, knowing this would be just one more deception. “I’d love something cool.”

The moment he was through the doors behind them, Hannah leaned toward Reeve. “I’m going to look around.”

“I’d stay close—I have a feeling.” With him it was in the gut. He’d yet to let Gabriella move more than an arm’s span away.

“I do too. Deboque said something about me staying in the audience. I want to take a walk backstage.”

He started to object, but Gabriella took his hand and gave Hannah the few seconds she needed to slip out. She made her way toward the ladies’ lounge until she was certain no one was watching. With the ease of long experience, she slipped into a stairway and began moving down. She had ten minutes, Hannah thought as she checked her watch, before anyone would miss her.

There were costume changes and stretched nerves backstage when Hannah crossed the corridor. Most of the actors were too wound up to spare her a glance. Nothing out of place. Nothing out of synch. And yet, the itch between her shoulder blades persisted.

Chantel’s dressing room door was half-open. The actress caught a glimpse of Hannah, hesitated, then called out. “Lady Hannah.”

Because she saw no choice, Hannah stopped at the doorway. “Miss O’Hurley. Her Highness wasn’t able to come down, but you should know she’s delighted with your performance.”

“Thank you.” Chantel set down the grease pencil she’d been using to touch up her eyes. “And what do you think of the play?”

“It’s gripping. Your interpretation of Julia is breathtaking.”