Page 13 of The Lady Plays with Fire

But it had been something more than pen and ink that had revealed its author to him. Something about the style, the—the turn of phrase, just as he’d said earlier about the anonymous reviewer.

Of course, Mrs. Hayes might well have dictated the thing, word for word. In which case, he was still at liberty to imagine the spark in Miss Addison’s eye as she was made to express sentiments she would rather not, to express regret and humble thanks—to him. The irritation she must hide behind her mask of good cheer.

It’s very little different from a night at the theater.

The memory of her words gave him an idea . . .

At Graham’s expression, a trace of apprehension slipped across Keynes’s features, as if he sensed he’d made a mistake in tossing out the letter. Graham flicked his hand to wave it away.

“No matter. You still have her direction?”

Keynes squinted at the information underlined by his ink-stained nail. “She lives in Clapham, my lord.”

Clapham? Good God. Poor Miss Addison. No wonder she had not wanted to miss a night out.

Graham reached across the table, picked up the discarded magazine, and tucked it under his arm. “Write and tell her that upon further consideration, I—no, no. That sounds too much like a letter of business. Just say—you’ll know best how to do it—that she is welcome to my box whenever I’m not using it. Aye, that’s right,” he said in answer to the unsubtle lift of Keynes’s brows. But it wasn’t mere generosity on Graham’s part—or, really, generosity at all. An empty box, night after night, was an affront to the men and women on the stage. “And to hell with Mr. Pope.”

If anything, Keynes’s eyebrows rose a notch higher. “The, uh . . . the poet, sir?”

“What? No. The box manager at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. You needn’t involve him.”

A sharp nod, though not quite a nod of understanding. “Of course, my lord. And will you—?”

“No time, Keynes. I want to catch today’s rehearsal of The Poison Pen.” Graham spoke over the other man as he moved toward the door. “I must fig—er, find out what Blackadder means to do about this.” He shook the Magazine for Misses in the air. “Once you’ve sent off that letter, set your mind to uncovering the identity of this reviewer, Keynes. I need to know before opening night, because I intend to issue ‘Miss on Scene’ a personal invitation to the show.”

* * *

With a benevolent smile, Mrs. Hayes poured Julia a second cup of chocolate; that smile turned almost guilty as she filled her own cup for a third time, then added a dollop of cream.

Julia would have preferred tea. Her throat was parched with reading aloud the French romance Daniel had procured for them, a wonderfully ridiculous tale set in a distant castle, where Veronique, obligatory damsel in distress, awaited rescue by her knight, who was taking his own sweet time about the business.

Practicing her French was the only remotely edifying aspect of the experience, and as far as Julia was concerned, that was just as it should be. She preferred novels to more serious fare and often enjoyed the farce far more than the play that preceded it.

As she laid aside the book and reached for her chocolate, Daniel entered, bearing a letter on a salver.

“Bit early for the post, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hayes asked as he approached.

He offered the letter first to Mrs. Hayes, as was proper, and when she fluttered her fingers to wave him away, he turned to Julia. “Came by messenger, this did.”

At that, Mrs. Hayes sat up a bit straighter and returned her cup to its saucer. “Oh? Well, go on, then. See what it says.”

As she fished the letter from the tray, Julia nodded at Daniel to indicate that he could go. A lad of fourteen or so, handsome but not yet tall enough to live out his ambition of becoming a liveried and powdered footman, he backed his way out of the room—but lingered just beyond the doorway to listen. She suspected he would do quite well in one of the grand houses in Mayfair, when the time came.

She slipped a fingernail beneath the seal, absently noting the Latin motto surrounding a rather scraggly-looking flower. No, not a flower, she realized belatedly as she unfolded the note. A thistle.

“It’s from Lord Dunstane,” she said to Mrs. Hayes.

He hadn’t written it himself. Highly unlikely that such a man would have copperplate handwriting flawless enough to do a law clerk credit. Nevertheless, it must express his wishes. It was signed with his name and sealed with his seal. She ran the pad of her first finger over its imprint in the circle of scarlet wax.

“He’s offering the use of his box. On the nights he’s not there, of course.”

That strange, hollow sort of feeling in her chest at the news they would not only have the box, but also have it all to themselves, must be elation.

Yes. Yes, of course, she was thrilled to think that she and Mrs. Hayes would be viewing every performance from a private box at stage left, just as planned. How marvelous to be able to invite their friends, to enjoy even the farces without a grumpy Scotsman leaning over her shoulder, puncturing her happiness with his little grunts of disapproval.

Only a ninny like Veronique would be disappointed at the thought of being spared the company of the villain of the piece.

“Oh, excellent,” declared Mrs. Hayes, clapping her plump hands, the sound muffled slightly by her crocheted lace mitts. “Didn’t I tell you? Does he say when we may take advantage of his generosity?”