Page 26 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Julia tightened her grip on his forearm. “My lord, please. I must know.”

The viscount’s expression sobered, leaving behind just those traces of weariness and giving her the sudden impression that they might not be the result of debauchery after all. He looked . . . worried. “I’m afraid it’s not good news, my dear. For any of us.”

She had been thinking, first and foremost of her own position, and then of the fate of the magazine. She had not considered that even “Mrs. Goode” might be a target of the playwright’s rancor, or the audience’s rank curiosity.

All of them had something to fear from exposure.

“Mr. Blackadder’s play, you mean?”

“Your review must have struck a nerve, Miss Addison. In the play currently under rehearsal, the character of Perpetua Philpot is certainly no flattering portrait of reviewers. A hack, without taste or scruple, a murderous shrew.”

“Murderous?” she echoed. “You don’t—you don’t mean to say that she kills people? With . . . with . . .” Laughter bubbled in her chest, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “She kills people with bad reviews?”

Lord Manwaring looked down at her with frank appreciation in his dark eyes and chuckled too, albeit wryly. “Only one person, actually.”

“Let me guess. A scandalous playwright?”

“Oh, no. A poet. A delicate sort, according to my friend. Probably consumptive. Hence his susceptibility to Miss Philpot’s poison pen. Everyone agreed he wrote awful, treacly stuff . . . no great loss to the world of literature.”

A scuffed red leather ball rolled across the path in front of her. Julia’s steps stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid the two lads in short pants chasing after it. “Lady Stalbridge feared the play would draw notice to my column,” she said, once more struggling to make sense of the matter, “and thus to the magazine. But with what you’ve described, I don’t see how. I’m quite sure my reviews never killed anyone.”

Lord Manwaring chuckled, but the humor did not reach his eyes. “The murder, so-called, takes place early on. The trouble begins at the start of Act Two, when the poet’s brother turns up, determined to discover the identity of the reviewer who blasts hopes and destroys promising careers. The brother is the clever one in the family. Though no one suspects him of penning verse, he dashes off a brilliant but shocking volume in no time, which, of course, attracts the notice of the periodicals and in particular a popular magazine for young ladies.”

“Ah,” Julia sighed as understanding dawned. “I suppose his initials are R.B.?”

Lord Manwaring nodded. “And he gets all the best lines, according to my informant. But Blackadder isn’t satisfied with scandalizing audiences in his usual mode, or even in persuading them to doubt the authority of reviewers. His character is determined to lure Miss Philpot to her doom—and I suspect he hopes to do the same with you.”

“How?”

“My friend couldn’t say. He plays a fellow in the sickly poet’s circle, and having no lines in Act Three, he hasn’t even seen the script for it. But he did say Lord Dunstane was in attendance at rehearsals the other day and hinted that Blackadder intends to make some changes.”

That’s why she had seen him at the theater. Moments before their encounter, and only a few yards away, actors had been spouting the mocking lines that would expose her to audiences’ censure and might spell the end of her work at the magazine—or the end of the magazine itself.

“Is it true, Miss Addison,” the viscount asked as he steered them back toward his stepmother, “that you’ve struck up a friendship with the Scottish earl?” His voice dropped to a mocking whisper with those words, an allusion to the way superstitious actors called Macbeth “the Scottish play” to avoid the witches’ curse. “I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard he’s most unpleasant.”

“He can be,” she readily agreed. “And I certainly would not describe our brief acquaintance as a friendship. Mrs. Hayes’s reserved box at Covent Garden for this Season was, in fact, Lord Dunstane’s box—the box manager resold the ticket, unbeknownst to either party, and his lordship was seriously displeased to find us polluting his sanctuary. But after a bit of grousing and harumphing, he offered her the use of it on the nights when he would be seeking his entertainment elsewhere. So he is capable of something like generosity.”

Though generosity hardly explained his curious behavior of the other night.

“Then no matter how unpleasant the company, you must seize upon that glimmer of finer feeling, Miss Addison.” The earnestness with which Lord Manwaring spoke ran counter to his usually carefree air. “In the theatrical world at least, Dunstane alone has Blackadder’s ear and might persuade the man to redirect his ire.”

Lord Dunstane’s goodwill and influence over Ransom Blackadder seemed to her rather narrow odds on which to pin all their hopes. She wanted to protest even the possibility of success.

But even she, who never gambled, knew enough to realize that one could only play the hand one had been dealt.

She released Lord Manwaring’s arm and curtsied. “I will do my best, my lord. But now, I must go. Any longer, and Mrs. Hayes will wonder what has become of me.”

Lord Manwaring dipped his head, half nod of understanding, half gesture of parting. “I wish you luck, Miss Addison.” Any possibility that she had misread her chances flew when he added, “I fear you’ll need it.”

With a shallow curtsy in Lady Stalbridge’s direction, Julia turned and hurried back toward the apothecary’s shop. Whether Lord Dunstane’s questions for Mrs. Hayes had indicated genuine interest or idle prying, she must find a way to sway him to her cause—without revealing it was hers. And the party at Lady Clearwater’s would be her next best opportunity to attach him.

Before, she had dreaded the evening ahead. Now, a mixture of apprehension and anticipation fluttered in her chest. Though far from the theater, tonight would be her acting debut. She would pretend to be charmed by everything he said. She would convince him to invite her to a rehearsal of The Poison Pen so she could see for herself how to redirect the playwright’s wicked wit and rewrite both Miss Philpot’s future and her own.

Perhaps, if she played her part very well, she might even elicit one of Lord Dunstane’s elusive smiles.

Chapter 9

Graham had expected an insipid evening, and so far, his expectations had not been met.