Page 38 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“I said nothing,” Graham insisted hotly. He might have dismissed Sawyer on the spot if he had thought he could find some knave better suited to play—well, himself.

Sawyer straightened and turned to face him. “Do you deny you made a noise? A sort-of . . .” He circled one wrist in the air, searching for the word. “A hum. Sounded a damned sight more positive than any other sigh or groan that’s issued from you these two weeks.”

“Oh, this is preposterous,” declared Mrs. Cole from stage left, where she stood with arms akimbo. “Surely you do not mean to tell me—”

Julia, whose cheeks were positively crimson, managed an airy laugh. “I assure you he does not, ma’am. He’s only humoring me to get in my good graces.” She laid aside the lines she’d written as she darted a quick glance Graham’s way, the first hint of uncertainty he’d glimpsed in her since she’d put her hand in Sawyer’s. As if she, too, would like to know what he was about. “For my friend, you recall.”

“Does this friend have a name?” Mrs. Cole narrowed her eyes as she awaited a response, clearly skeptical of Julia’s ability to supply one on the spot.

“Julia,” she answered with an immediacy and honesty that almost made him choke. “And I won’t say more than that, so you needn’t bother asking. No need to tarnish her reputation.”

“Yet,” Sawyer supplied with a knowing chuckle.

“I say,” Fanshawe broke in peevishly. He was still seated at the writing table, now employed in scratching designs into the candle stub with the tip of his pen. “Are we done, then?”

“Somewhere you’d rather be?”

Not for the first time, Graham regretted hiring Fanshawe, who was widely regarded as past his prime. But having discovered the subject of Blackadder’s new play, the fellow had pleaded for a part, no matter how small, desperate for a chance to rehabilitate his name with the critics.

Graham’s question—or the tone in which he’d asked it—had the desired effect. Fanshawe sat up a little straighter, Sawyer sank onto a lower step, and Mrs. Cole’s hands slipped from her hips to cross behind her skirts in a posture that was almost demure.

“No, sir,” Fanshawe ground out.

“Go anyway.” Graham dismissed the lot of them with the wave of one hand. “I wish a private word with Miss Hayes.”

Fanshawe scuttled away, not mingling with the other actors. Sawyer sent a glance toward Julia that was almost wistful, then shrugged and went up the steps as he’d come down them, two at time, crossing the boards with long strides to catch up with the rest of the cast as they left the area around the stage.

Only Mrs. Cole remained, fussing over the papers that were spread across the escritoire, though with the exception of the torn sheet on which he had written the revised lines and the one on which Julia had penciled hers, they were meant to have nothing but nonsense scrawled on them, mere props. Once she had the pages gathered in a bundle, she laid them neatly on the center of the desk, sent a look toward Graham over her shoulder, and said to Julia in a voice intended to carry, “Watch yourself, miss.”

Julia looked taken aback, as well she might. “I’m not going to steal the role from you.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Cole said brusquely, as if such an outrageous notion had never crossed her mind. “Watch yourself around him.”

It was as close as the woman might ever get to a sisterly gesture, those words of caution about an unscrupulous gentleman, given to a naïve younger lady headed toward danger. He couldn’t very well object to them.

He was, however, increasingly convinced that Julia was less naïve—and far more dangerous—than he had at first believed.

As if to confirm him in the notion, she slanted a glance in his direction, familiar mischief twinkling in her blue eyes. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, diverting her gaze to Mrs. Cole once more and mustering a small smile. “You are too kind.”

At that, Graham found himself choking back a laugh, the sound of which—poorly disguised as a cough—made Mrs. Cole spin on one foot to glare at him. “Right, then.” She offered him a half-hearted curtsy. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As the soft scuff of Mrs. Cole’s footsteps faded into silence, he stood watching Julia, who had once more lowered her eyes and resumed the project of neatening the surface of the escritoire. “How long?” he asked when he was certain they were alone. “How long have you wanted to act?”

Her chin jerked up. He expected a protest, a denial. Instead, she stepped around the corner of the desk, putting herself an arm’s length closer to him.

“I was five, or a little more, when a traveling troupe stopped in our village. They stayed two days. Gave three performances on a makeshift stage on the green. I attended every one.” Her head tilted further, and her eyes softened with a faraway expression. “By the end of the first scene of the first show, I’d fallen under the actors’ spell.” Then she stiffened almost imperceptibly and rubbed her hands together as if brushing away the memory. “By the end of the second scene, I had been told in no uncertain terms that actresses were women of low morals and ill repute. That I must never think of doing such a scandalous thing, must never speak of it, never even allow myself to dream.”

“Clearly, you didn’t listen.”

That brought her gaze back to his face, her blue eyes cooler now. Wary. “Oh, but I did.”

“Really?” He closed half the remaining distance between them with a single step. “Dreams are not usually so easy to constrain.”

“Gentlemen’s imaginations may be allowed to run free,” she countered. “Young ladies, however, are expected to regulate their thoughts. The author of every conduct manual and sermon demands it.” She spoke without rancor, though he could guess how such opinions must chafe.

The mention of sermons reminded him of the strictures that her father—his profession, as well as his death—had placed on her upbringing. “I daresay at the ripe old age of five, you were not reading conduct manuals. Who told you such things about actresses, then? Who taught you that thoughts could be penned in like so many dim-witted, docile sheep?”

The simile made one corner of her mouth twitch. “Mrs. Nathan. The wife of the local squire and the most respectable lady in Papa’s parish, not even excepting Mama, who smiled too much for Mrs. Nathan’s liking. She often looked after me, when Papa’s spells of illness required Mama’s undivided attention.”