Page 43 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Without realizing it, she’d stopped reading, her head too full of worry to leave room for anything else.

Beneath the quilt, Mrs. Hayes stirred. “Well?” she murmured. “Is Perpetua going to give this Briggs character a piece of her mind, or what?”

Julia jerked, and the script slid off her lap onto the floor. “I, er—I didn’t realize you were listening.”

“Of course, I’m listening,” she insisted, never opening her eyes. “What else have I got to do?”

“I apologize. I would have chosen differently if I’d—”

“Yes, this story isn’t much like our usual—other than a certain melodramatic flair. But I’m hard-pressed to see how she and this poet fellow work things out in the end. He’s insufferable, and she’s a shrew. I suppose if they end up together, we can be glad they haven’t ruined anyone else’s happiness. What’s the title?”

“It’s, um . . .” She bent at the waist to retrieve the script and mumbled the answer to the carpet. “It’s Ransom Blackadder’s new play, out later this month. The Poison Pen.”

Despite Julia’s efforts, Mrs. Hayes heard every word. “Blackadder? That rascal.” Wincing, she pushed herself higher on the pillows and fixed Julia with a look. “However did you come by such a thing?” Julia chewed at her inner lip, trying to muster a reasonable reply. When none was forthcoming, Mrs. Hayes went on in a knowing voice. “Would it have anything to do with where you were on Friday afternoon, and why I had to fib and tell Mrs. Whyte I’d given you a half day?”

Julia recalled Mrs. Whyte’s expression when she returned. Apparently, neither Mrs. Hayes’s explanation nor Julia’s had been very convincing. There was no disguising the inevitable blush that began to warm her cheeks.

“Or with Lord Dunstane’s peculiar behavior at the Clearwaters’ card party?”

Warmth became heat, rising to the tips of her ears. “What could he possibly have to do with—?”

“Because he’s Blackadder’s patron, isn’t he?” Mrs. Hayes countered with a little hmph of satisfaction. “And he can’t keep his fine Scottish eyes off you.”

The blush grew hotter still, threatening to engulf her in flames. But at least if she were rendered nothing but a smoking pile of ashes, she wouldn’t have to face another question.

She parted her lips to speak, though she hardly knew what words to frame. A lie was perfectly useless. It seemed that, after all, Mrs. Hayes did not need to have her lorgnette to hand to stare directly into Julia’s soul.

“Yes,” she confessed in a rush of breath. “Yes. Lord Dunstane allowed me to attend the rehearsal. At my request.”

Birdlike, Mrs. Hayes tilted her head to one side. “And why would you make such a request of him?”

“Because I—” She glanced down at her lap, watched herself flick one curled corner of the script with her first fingernail. “Because I write reviews of plays for a periodical called Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses. I’m sure you haven’t heard of—”

“Oh, but I have.” Her knowing nod was triumphant. “Goode’s Guide to Misconduct, people say. Lady Clearwater was just complaining about it the other night, how she’d forbidden her girls even to glance at a copy. Of course, any fool would know that’s the surest way to make them desperate to read it.” Her lips slanted in a crooked smile. “Then again, she’s not just any fool.”

In spite of herself and her present situation, Julia giggled. “It’s not as scandalous and shocking as people make out. It’s only that society isn’t ready for young ladies to have opinions of their own.”

Mrs. Hayes was eyeing her once more, a curious gaze, but not—so far as Julia could see—a disapproving or disappointed one. “How long?”

“Since the beginning. Almost a year. We meet regularly in the back room of a bookshop.”

“Ah.” She diverted her gaze toward the ceiling, as if she were trying to recall something. “I suppose that’s why you offer to run so many errands for me—and why they all take twice as long as they should.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Julia agreed, embarrassed and yet relieved to have the truth out in the open. “And a good deal of the letters I claim to write are really drafts of my column, to the magazine’s editor.”

“I suppose you wanted to see rehearsals of the play so you could publish the first review, get the jump on your competitors?”

“Not exactly.” She resumed her restless ruffling of the script’s tattered corner. “It seems Ransom Blackadder took issue with my previous review of his work. The Poison Pen is his rejoinder. It’s about—well, it’s about me. And the Magazine for Misses. Rumor has it, he wants to turn society against us. Expose our identities, if he can.” A shiver passed through her; speaking the threat aloud made it all the more real. “So I used my acquaintance with Lord Dunstane to finagle my way into a rehearsal, to see if it was true.”

“And is it?”

Julia lifted her head and nodded, though the movement was uncertain. “I think so, yes. The script suggests as much. But Blackadder is still making changes to the play.”

Mrs. Hayes sat up a little straighter, ignoring her pain. “He was there on Friday? You’ve seen him?”

“No. He sent new pages with Lord Dunstane. It was clear from the actors’ reaction, it wasn’t the first time he’d made changes, and it seemed unlikely to be the last. Lord Dunstane said I might come back today, and I had hoped—” She gave a little shake, driving away the idea—though not the ache of longing that had accompanied it. “It doesn’t matter,” she insisted, laying the script aside on the marble-topped table. Mrs. Hayes needed her. “Blackadder will do what he wants, in the end.”

Silence hung between them for a moment. Then Mrs. Hayes sighed as she eased herself against the pillows once more. “Of course, it matters. You must go.”