Page 51 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“My gentleman?” Cerys raised her brows innocently and lifted her sword in salute to Kiddell, indicating her readiness for another round. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Gentlemen don’t sign contracts,” Kiddell said. “They give their word and then go back on it as they wish. En garde.”

Cerys flexed her knees in the guard position, lifting her free hand in the air. “That must be why Mr. Manelli wants things in writing.”

“He’s not a gentleman, so he’d know?” Dorsey set aside one sword. “This needs mending.”

“I didn’t say that. They all need mending. One’s going to break off in my gullet if we don’t find a smith who knows how to deal in stage foils.”

“Well, it’s on you, gel, to get him to make up designs that will gain us subscribers. Thompson says the rich men about here are touched up all the time for building projects, the way the town is growing, so we must be sure to impress them. But get him to give us a fair price for his services.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave her a sly smile.

“I am certain I do not take your meaning.” Cerys lunged at Kiddell and slipped past his guard. “Point to me.”

“Don’t be dense, girl. You claimed from the first you could cozen him, so make short work of it. I don’t want to be waiting eleven months like Kemble did for Covent Garden to be rebuilt.” Dorsey popped the blossom onto the tip of his foil and pointed it at Cerys. “I don’t want my costs to run over the way his did, either. No good opening our new theater with price riots and having to cheat ourselves on tickets to woo people inside.”

Cerys flicked her sword against his. “Now you put your faith in me? When before you didn’t trust me as far as you could winch me on the stage pulley.”

“You’ve got the airs of a Siddons and you’ve got a knowledge of these gentry morts, and you’ve got the face.” Dorsey circled the point of his sword around that area. “Make it useful. Won’t hurt to show the bosoms a bit more, maybe.”

“That won’t do for Hamlet at all.” Cerys lunged at him, and he parried.

“Have a care, gel, I’ve been acting in companies since before your father was spawned. I’ve seen many a woman lose her good sense when it came to a man.”

“That won’t be me, Jed Dorsey. I know a hawk from a hernshaw.”

“When the wind is southerly,” Fred piped up. “Act Two. Dorsey, can’t I be her understudy? Hackett’s too old.”

“This doesn’t seem fair, two opponents against one. And the one a lady to boot.”

Cerys couldn’t stop the thrill that soared through her at the sound of his voice. She faltered in her attack, and Kiddell scored a touch on her shoulder.

“Manelli.” Dorsey put up his sword. “We were just talking about you.”

About how Cerys was instructed to manipulate him for the benefit of the company. How much had he overheard?

She glanced at his face, his jaw set, brow creased. All of it. He’d heard all of it.

“May I?” He walked to the pile of stage foils Dorsey had just inspected.

Dorsey watched him warily. He never liked letting outsiders see behind the stage curtain. “Put the blossom on if you mean to use a sword. I can’t have my actors sliced up. We’ve a matinee to perform at Thompson’s Spa tomorrow, soon as the scaffolding’s in place.”

“Then let us hope it will not rain.” Dante tested two of the swords, then chose one and attached the small protective button to the tip.

“You are abroad early,” Cerys observed, although the day had fully broken and most people who earned their way through the world were awake and moving about in it. Only those with the luxury of wealth could lie abed till noon and count on servants to bring their breakfast.

Dante aspired to the rank of gentleman, but nothing about him seemed to suit that distinction that men seemed to guard so jealously. He didn’t have the soft, rounded shape of the over-fed. He was well-built and powerful, and as he made a few practice lunges and feints, she could see he was all muscle. He didn’t have the indolent manner of a lordling, either; he had the sharp, brooding stare of a hawk. Instead of lying about at his leisure, he was abroad at daybreak like a man of industry.

He worked with his mind as well as his hands. He earned his own way in the world. He could wear a fine coat and a starched neckcloth to dinner and cut his meat with all the tidiness of one trained to high circles, yet he seemed perfectly at his ease here with them, a ragbag of actors who had come from all stations of life and followed a trade generally considered far less respectable than his own.

“’E’s not a gentleman,” Meek observed, echoing Dorsey.

“That is true, Master—?” Dante stepped into the group, foil pointing toward the ground. He knew how to hold it properly, Cerys noted.

“That’s Meek.” Dorsey pointed with his sword.

“You played the melodies,” Dante said. “They were well done.”

“His own compositions,” Dorsey said. “That’s Fred.”