Page 19 of The Lady Plays with Fire

She had reviewed The Iron Chest once already in the magazine, and though each performance was something new and she looked forward to attending tonight, she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for devoting another column to a play everyone had seen. Nothing new to interest those with . . . discriminating tastes.

Good heavens, had she really spoken so saucily to Lord Dunstane?

Evidently, possession of the ticket to his box had made her bold—or relieved her of her good sense.

But it had seemed, just for a moment, as if her daring would be rewarded with an elusive smile. She would swear she had glimpsed a hint of one playing about his lips.

Not that she had been staring at his mouth, of course.

Though it was as sharply sculpted as the rest of his features, and so firm she was beginning to doubt there was any hidden softness within. Perhaps he was simply hard everywhere.

Warmth rose to her cheeks. A ready blush was a curse she shared with her brother, though she had always considered that he, with his slightly darker coloring and brighter eyes, wore the color better.

This was more than a blush, though. This was heat in unexpected places and a quickened pulse and—

“Miss Addison?” Lady Stalbridge’s piercing look had no difficulty traversing the length of the scarred oak table and pinning Julia squarely in her straight-backed chair. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Perfectly, ma’am.”

Painful though it might be, she would remember Lord Scottish’s caustic comment about her taste in reading, his gravel-voiced dismissal, the speed with which his curricle had spun away. Those were sufficient cures for whatever ailed her.

At her reply, Lady Stalbridge looked skeptical, as well she might. But Julia could sense something more than skepticism in her expression. Was she disappointed? Displeased?

She had begun the meeting with good news. Did she have bad news to report, as well? To Julia in particular?

Constantia paused in her sketching and lifted her head to glance between them. Whatever it was, she sensed it too.

“I—I apologize if my latest column is not up to my usual standards,” Julia stammered. “There’s been no new play at Covent Garden since my last, so my only option was to review the opera I attended with Mrs. Hayes at the Haymarket a few nights ago.” There had been nothing severe about her assessment this time, because her thoughts had been elsewhere during the performance, such that she could hardly distinguish one part from the next.

“I am aware that the theater’s bill does not always coincide neatly with the magazine’s publication schedule.” With the tip of her index finger, Lady Stalbridge separated a half-dozen sheets from the top of her stack and laid them aside, face-down. “The problem is not with your next column, Miss Addison.”

The stress she placed on the word next made it a clear she intended to imply a contrast with last.

“Is it—were readers unhappy with my review of Othello?”

Lady Stalbridge fixed her with another assessing look, and the others fell perfectly silent. Clarissa’s hands slid from the edge of the table and into her lap.

“Our regular readers? No, I don’t believe so.” Three more sheets joined the smaller stack. “However, Mrs. Goode has had the honor of receiving correspondence from two noted scholars of Shakespeare’s tragedies, the manager of the recent production, and someone purporting to be a close personal friend of Mrs. Siddons.”

Silence reigned once more, broken after an interminable moment by Theo’s wry laugh. “I hope they wrote to praise Miss Addison’s honesty. She had the right of it.” A shudder passed through her. “Oh, I despise that play.”

At that, Lady Stalbridge’s lips twitched in a sort of bemused smile.

Julia’s breath eased from her. “But if you weren’t intending to speak to me about my last review, ma’am, or my next, then—?” Clearly, the countess had something on her mind.

“Much as I agree with Miss Nelson, I am concerned about the convergence of the Othello review and another matter of which I have recently been apprised.” And then, she pushed away from the table, rose to her feet, and began to pace. Though her steps were measured, as always, it was nonetheless a hint of agitation none of them had ever seen her exhibit. “This morning, I had the pleasure of breakfasting with my stepson, who is always full of . . . interesting information.”

Gossip, Julia translated in her thoughts. Innuendo. Rumor. And the subject might be anything, for Lord Manwaring sometimes moved in less-than-refined circles.

“By chance, have you heard about that new poet, Lord Byron? Most particularly, his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers?”

Baffled, Julia shook her head.

“Well, it was meant to be anonymous, though of course everyone now knows.” Constantia had returned to her sketch and did not look up as she spoke. “He took issue with what the Edinburgh Review had to say about his first book of poems. So, he wrote a . . . well, I suppose you could call it a scathing review of reviewers, in verse. And savaged a number of his fellow poets, too, for good measure.”

“Oh,” Julia said. Another bad-tempered nobleman. But she was no less baffled as to what this Lord Byron character had to do with her. She didn’t review poetry, after all. Or aspire to write it.

But Lady Stalbridge said, “Precisely,” as if Constantia’s explanation had clarified everything. “Ransom Blackadder’s new play, The Poison Pen, has begun rehearsal, and the few who know anything about it have taken to calling it . . .” Speaking the epithet seemed to require an unusual degree of fortitude. She paused to draw breath and moistened her lips, but did not break her nervous stride, though the room only permitted a few steps in any direction. “An English Reviewess and the Scots Bard.”