Page 37 of The Lady Plays with Fire

But just as she began to demur, she caught sight of Lord Dunstane, standing a few feet away with his arms once more crossed over his chest. He was regarding her with a curious expression: part intrigued, wondering whether she would rise to the challenge, she supposed. And part something she was tempted to call jealous, as if he did not like the idea that someone else had been the one to issue that challenge to her.

Slowly, he shook his head. More disapproval? Another warning?

She laid her fingers across Mr. Sawyer’s palm, though her eyes were still locked with Lord Dunstane’s. “Gladly.”

Chapter 12

Graham knew he should put a stop to it. Tell Sawyer enough was enough. Block their way to the steps, if necessary.

But the part of him that knew what was right was rapidly losing ground to the part of him that wanted to see what Julia would make of her moment in the limelight. He wondered whether this moment, this chance, had been in her thoughts when she had asked to watch the rehearsal. Determined actresses had always found ways to catch his notice, which sometimes, yes, had involved an offer to, er, trade favors.

Surely that was not the case this time, however. She’d given him no sign that her interest in the theater extended to acting.

Then again, if not the chance for a moment onstage, what had motivated her request?

“This friend of yours,” Sawyer was saying to her as they passed, his head tipped so he could speak low in her ear, though not so low as to keep his words a secret from Graham, “the one his lordship’s taken an interest in? She cannot be a good friend, if you are willing to let her associate with Dunstane.”

Julia’s eyes darted to the side, not quite meeting Graham’s, though it was obvious to whom her next words were directed. “Is he so very bad, then?”

Sawyer laughed. “Not as bad as Blackadder, if the stories one hears are true. Then again, the two of them are like peas in a pod—”

“Dried-up, bitter peas in a rotting pod,” muttered Mrs. Cole.

“Have you acted before, Miss Hayes?” Mr. Sawyer hastily continued over the interjection.

The false name startled Graham, though he had been the one to supply it. Why did he care what became of her reputation?

“No, never,” she confessed as she reached the boards with Sawyer’s hand hovering too close to her waist for Graham’s comfort. “I don’t suppose I shall be very good.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Cole acidly. “I don’t suppose you shall. But the play’s shite anyway, so what does it matter?”

Graham gritted his teeth together, refusing to rise to the bait. She was a shrew, but, unlike Fanshawe, she was generally regarded as an excellent actor. She would be next to impossible to replace at the last minute. Contrary to Julia’s notion of Perpetua Philpot, the part called for someone with steel in her spine and acid in her veins, not an ingenue afraid of hurting people’s feelings.

“Here,” Mrs. Cole said, dragging the chair back from the escritoire and motioning for Julia to sit. She jabbed her finger against the scrap of paper on which he’d scratched out the new lines. “See what you can make of it.”

Julia glanced at the paper before pushing it aside and picking up the pen. “Thank you. But I have an idea of my own.”

Whatever Mrs. Cole replied was rendered inaudible by Sawyer’s exclamations of approval. “Excellent, Miss Hayes. Breathe some life into the part. Look sharp, Fanshawe.”

Fanshawe had been following Julia’s movements without seeming to watch her. At Sawyer’s command, though, he glared at the other actor. “From the top,” he called and began to read his dreadful poem.

Too dreadful? That was always the danger with satire—too much, too far, and audiences might not follow.

Pulling a pencil from her reticule, Julia quickly wrote something down and then struck a contemplative posture as he recited his lines, in a convincing performance of listening. When her turn came to speak, she got to her feet and began to pace behind her chair as she read her “review,” occasionally pausing to twirl her quill.

She had admitted she had no experience with the theater beyond the audience. The lines she’d dashed off ought to have been terrible. Her performance ought to have brought him to his senses, made him remember what he was about.

Instead, she was a natural.

Oh, there were flaws, of course. No one had ever taught her to project her voice. But her instinctive movements brought a certain visual interest to the part. As a writer, he recognized that sense of urgency, the sometimes-futile hope that activity would stir the brain and drive some useful idea to the fore. And as for the words themselves? Well...

Though too quietly spoken, the newly written lines demonstrated her innate command over the situation. Over him. Her gentle innocence, so different from the older, more jaded Mrs. Cole, was compelling. Riveting.

It was the kiss all over again.

A murmur of praise passed his lips before he could stop himself. And this time, someone was near enough to hear.

“Oh, Miss Hayes,” exclaimed Sawyer, who had dropped back a step after escorting Julia to the top of the stairs and now stood with one foot on the stage, his elbow resting on his bent knee as he watched. “Lord Dunstane approves!”