Page 71 of The Lady Plays with Fire

When the uproar had settled, amid reprimands from various spots about the theater for “Quiet!” he crossed his arms behind his back, dipped his head, and began again. “Unfortunately, we will be unable to bring you tonight’s performance, as we find ourselves without our leading lady, Mrs. Cole, who plays the part of Perpetua Philpot.”

Mutters of disappointment surged, fans snapped open, and a few people stood to depart.

Julia’s heart pounded. Had this been Graham’s plan all along, not to go through with the play? But no, she could not imagine he would have allowed the theater to fill with people who were now poised to leave, even more disgruntled than if they’d sat for two hours having their taste criticized and their flaws made ridiculous.

Had Mrs. Cole refused to go on after all the last-minute changes?

Or had Graham discovered that she had something to do with the notes? Might she be the mysterious person who had signed herself R.B.?

Then again, it could simply be bad luck. A head cold or sore throat might make it impossible for her to perform, and Julia could not remember having heard any mention of an understudy.

And if that were the case . . .

“Wait!” she called down, scrambling to her feet. Jeremy’s hand gripped hers, urging her back to her seat. She slipped free of his grasp and stepped to the front rail of the box. “Wait.”

Throughout the audience, heads began to turn. Ladies whispered behind fans and gentleman pointed discreetly. Quiet, though not silence, returned to the theater. Most of the people who had stood up sat down again. Graham tipped his head to one side, his expression that familiar mixture of disapproval and bemusement. “Aye?”

She held up a finger, asking for a moment, and then turned to leave the box.

Jeremy stepped between her and the curtain. “What do you intend to do?”

“Julia, Julia,” Mama sighed. “You’re making a scene.”

“Is there a better place for it than the theater?”

That voice belonged to Aunt Mildred, who had turned partly in her seat, the better to favor Julia with a sly wink. “Let her go.”

When that command was not immediately heeded, she struck the floor with her walking stick to reinforce it. With the closest thing to a glower Julia had ever seen, Jeremy reached out a hand and drew back the curtain at the rear of the box. “I hope you know what you’re about,” he said in a low voice as she passed.

She didn’t. Or at least, not entirely. But her slippered feet carried her swiftly down the staircase and through the vestibule. Two ushers guarded the heavy double doors into the theater. Startled, one of them reached for a handle so as not to impede her progress. In another moment, she was at the foot of the stage, looking up at Graham. The little staircase had been taken away.

Graham squatted at the edge of the stage and said in a low voice, “What is it I’m waiting for?” His bare knees above his stockings were a distraction.

“Let me help.”

One brow arced. “Help?”

“I can play Perpetua Philpot.”

The expression that crossed his face was only slightly less doubtful than the one he had worn during rehearsal when she had first taken the stage. “Aren’t you worried about your good name?”

She wasn’t certain whether he’d intended the play on words—good and Goode, her “Goode name” being the name under which she wrote for the magazine. Still, she returned a mischievous smile. “I thought you might be more worried about yours.”

Blackadder’s name, that was. But also the name he’d offered to share with her.

His lips quirked in answer. Then he motioned to her right with a nod of his head.

“Psst!”

She turned to see Mr. Sawyer gesturing to her through the crack of what would otherwise have been a hidden door.

“This way,” he directed, urging her through.

Julia slipped past the actor into a narrow corridor, and as the door shut behind her, she heard Graham say to the audience, “If we may beg your indulgence for a few more moments, it seems the show will go on after all.”

“What happened?” she demanded of Sawyer who was already hurrying back along the corridor, which ran below and along the right side of the stage. “Where’s Mrs. Cole?”

“No one knows,” he answered without a backward glance. “Not like her to be late. Dunstane even sent a boy to her rooms. No sign of her anywhere. Here.” He pushed open another door, where she found a room full of costumes. “Be ready in five minutes.”