Page 48 of The Lady Plays with Fire

And as she listened, she noted a few significant changes, too, which only made her task more difficult. How could she possibly prepare a defense when the battle lines kept shifting? She would have to write to Lady Stalbridge this evening and—

“Rough night, m’lord?” Mr. Sawyer called out with a laugh, breaking character—though only slightly. The poet’s brother was witty and wicked. Audiences would love him, precisely because they knew they shouldn’t.

Julia refused to look over her shoulder. Not even when the answer to Mr. Sawyer’s question was delivered in a soft Scottish brogue.

“Aye, rough.” A few rows behind her, a bench creaked as he sat down. “Just the way I like it.”

I’m a demanding lover.

The words, both the memory of those from the past and the echo of those in the present, set something aquiver inside her, made her curl her fingers around the front edge of her seat.

“Let us hope the lady’s wishes were also taken into account,” said Mrs. Cole with a huff of disapproval.

“Oh, aye,” Lord Dunstane answered coolly— though his voice made Julia flush. “Never you fear about that.”

From the side of the stage, Mr. Fanshawe cleared his throat. “May we continue? With your permission, of course, my lord.” The mulish set of his jaw made clear how little he appreciated having to ask.

Lord Dunstane must have granted his permission with a nod or a gesture, for the rehearsal resumed a moment later, the two principals once more back-to-back at their desks, Mrs. Cole reading with great satisfaction of the poet’s death while Mr. Sawyer looked over his brother’s papers and plotted his revenge.

“Better,” declared Lord Dunstane when they came to a stop, not disguising his surprise. “Livelier.” A long pause followed, and from the expressions on the actors’ faces, she could imagine his contemplative pose. “Hearing the second act, I wonder now whether it wouldn’t improve matters further to shorten the first? Get to the heart of the conflict.”

Mr. Fanshawe bristled. “I beg your pardon, sir. If you cut my lines, how will the audience grasp the source of the animosity between the younger Mr. Briggs and Miss Philpot?”

“I think they might feel more sympathy for your character, Georgie,” said Sawyer, rocking back onto the hind legs of his chair, “if they heard less of his doggerel.”

Mr. Fanshawe’s eyes flashed defensively, as if he had written the awful poetry himself.

“What say you?”

No mistaking that Lord Dunstane’s quiet question was intended for her. She had not heard him move, but he was closer now, nonetheless—close enough that the actors couldn’t overhear what he’d asked her.

At last, she dared a backward glance and found him standing just over her right shoulder. He did indeed look as if he’d tumbled out of bed at two o’clock in the afternoon. Hardly unheard of for a lord, she supposed. His linen lacked its usual crispness. His coppery hair was mussed.

Somehow, his disheveled state made him handsomer still.

She turned back toward the stage and pushed to her feet. “The problem,” she announced in a voice that carried, “isn’t Mr. Fanshawe’s poetry. The problem is Perpetua Philpot’s motivation.”

That got Mrs. Cole’s attention. Lord Dunstane murmured, “Go on.”

“We’re asked to believe she writes these heartless reviews because she’s been jilted by a poet. But it’s quite clear she’s a poet herself—and a good one, not some mere poetess.” In popular parlance, the feminine version of anything was always the lesser. The term was bitter on her tongue. “If Mr. Blackadder would help us see her instead as a thwarted artist—”

“Audiences might have some sympathy for her, too,” finished Mrs. Cole with a nod of something like solidarity for Julia.

“But I forgot,” added Julia, tilting her chin to direct her words to Lord Dunstane, though she did not meet his eye. “The playwright doesn’t require such a complex emotional response from those of us in the seats. It might interfere with our willingness to view her only as an object to f—”

Whether she possessed the courage to utter that shocking word remained unknown. Lord Dunstane spoke over her.

“Thank you for your insight, Miss Ah—Hayes.”

He’d almost addressed her as Miss Addison. An honest slip, she told herself—but also a stark reminder that he had the power to ruin her if he chose.

She must learn to disguise her frustration.

“That’s enough for today.” Lord Dunstane dismissed the actors, chipping away still more at Mr. Fanshawe’s role. “Blackadder will be pleased to learn of your progress,” he called after them as they filed out through the back of the stage as before, talking and joking with one another. Mr. Sawyer tried to put his arm around Mrs. Cole’s waist; she slapped his hand away, though without rancor.

When they were gone, Lord Dunstane stepped into the aisle. “You weren’t here on Monday,” he chided as he gestured for her to accompany him out.

“No.” The climb toward the door was steeper than she remembered, but he did not offer his arm. “My aunt needed me.”