Page 35 of The Lady Plays with Fire

For while thou leav’st me empty-hearted,

From thither to thence my thoughts have darted—”

Evidently, he played the ill-fated poet Lord Manwaring had described. Between the first and second couplet, he broke for an ominous, though hardly convincing, cough.

When he finished, the woman paused in her scribbling to read over what she had written.

“Though empty-hearted he claims to be,

More empty-headed, ’tis plain to see.

The only rhymes he’s fit to parse

I’ll use for paper to wipe my—”

Julia pressed her fingertips to her lips, uncertain whether what she stifled was a gasp or a laugh. Surely Blackadder did not intend to pass that off as a witty exchange. Was that how he imagined Miss on Scene? Did he really believe her capable of writing anything so crude?

Though the character of the reviewer was as least as good a poet as the fellow who was now slumped over his work, soon to breathe his last, pierced to the quick by the woman’s pointed words.

Julia sighed. Perhaps Blackadder hadn’t yet seen the challenge she had issued in this month’s issue of the magazine. Or perhaps he intended to take her advice and shield himself from criticism by making The Poison Pen as dull as possible.

“Nay. Stop. That’ll never do.”

If she hadn’t known already to whom the voice must belong, the shape of that final vowel—dae—betrayed the speaker’s Scottish origins. A man emerged from the shadows at the back of the theater with a sheet of paper in his upraised hand. It took several of his long-legged strides before the stage lights struck a coppery gleam from Lord Dunstane’s hair and highlighted the seemingly permanent scowl etched into his sharp-featured face.

At the edge of the pit, he paused and, to her surprise, tore the sheet in half. “Here,” he barked, thrusting each jagged-edged piece toward one of the principals, who stepped forward together with obvious reluctance and took them from his hands. “Blackadder wants you to read that instead.”

The scene began again, the two performers back-to-back in their opposing corners, once more showing their characters at work. This time the poem, still expressing love for a fleeting muse, was more melancholy than maudlin. The reviewer, however, flatly rejected the poet’s claim to either artistic inspiration or the love of a beautiful woman.

A chill chased down Julia’s spine. With a few strokes of his pen, Blackadder had transformed the play’s version of Miss on Scene from somewhat clever to downright cruel, perhaps in response to Julia’s latest goading words. And Lord Dunstane looked on and nodded approvingly at the change.

Well, no. Not exactly approvingly, though his head did move in an oblique motion as he listened and watched, his arms folded across his chest. When the scene came to a close, with the actor playing the part of the poet splayed across his worktable, he said nothing. A moment’s silence stretched into a minute or more, seeming to echo about the theater with no audience to absorb it.

“Mrs. Cole,” he said at last, addressing the woman who played the reviewer, “I fear Mr. Sawyer erred in his recommendation of you for the part of Perpetua Philpot.” The actress, who had risen to her feet when he began to speak to her, straightened her spine at that, a movement Julia mimicked in her seat, as if she could withdraw further into the shadows, far enough not to witness the tongue-lashing she fully expected to follow.

But Lord Dunstane spoke quietly. Only the theater’s excellent acoustics made it possible for Julia to hear him. “Perpetua is meant to be deadly, it’s true. But she must also be desirable,” he went on before the actress dared to interrupt. “What makes the poet crave her approval? What gives her her power? You play her as an ice queen, cool and remote. But you must think of the to-and-fro between writer and reviewer as a seduction.” Julia felt a blush heat her cheeks. Certainly she had never considered her work in quite that manner. “If she is to be successful at stabbing men in the back, first those men must want to get close enough to f—”

Though unfamiliar with the final word he spoke, Julia could not mistake its meaning. This time, her gasp left her lips before she could prevent it. Heat flamed up from her chest, burning across her cheeks and in the tips of her ears. Onstage, heads swiveled to find the source of the sound, and she tried to duck behind the back of the chair in front of her.

Not soon enough. Not before Lord Dunstane had caught her eye.

She was meant to be a writer, and yet she knew of no word to adequately describe the mixture of sardonic amusement and annoyance that lined his expression. He did not speak, only beckoned her down to the pit with the come-hither curl of his forefinger before turning his attention back to the actors.

In her haste to flee from the box, she tangled her limbs in the drapery and could have sworn she heard a derisive feminine laugh from below. Once she had freed herself, she stumbled to the nearest bench in the long saloon to catch her breath and gather her wits.

She knew she ought to leave Covent Garden entirely. To display good judgment, for once. And certainly, she thought as she glanced around the empty saloon, there is nothing to stop me.

Nothing but her own curiosity. Her desire to see what was behind the curtain, to witness the machinery that made the magic of the theater. And yes, more than a little—she curled her fingers in the plush velvet upholstery—her desire to see Lord Dunstane once more.

I promise you’ll be satisfied.

Pushing to her feet, she descended the staircase with measured steps and crossed the vestibule. The doors leading into the pit were tall and heavy, and she struggled to open one of them. Another sign, perhaps. Another opportunity to demonstrate good sense and leave.

At last, after using the combined strength of both arms to give the handle a determined wrench, she succeeded in opening the door just enough that she could slip inside.

The theater’s horseshoe shape enveloped her, directing her footsteps down the aisle, toward the stage, where the actors and Lord Dunstane had resumed their conversation in voices that did not carry. Three more players, two men and a woman, had emerged from the wings to join them.

Lord Dunstane was standing in the second or third row of the pit. Above, on the stage, the actors towered over him, looked down at him.