Ladies adorned in a rainbow of silks and brocades chatted behind fans or sat on straight-backed chairs carved in Queen Anne style and traded the latest gossip and scandal. Scores of gents in white wigs conversed with their companions or clustered around the faro and piquet tables in the enormous card room that featured a coved ceiling. Both chambers were graced with portraits of the late Beau Nash.
“Tell me true, Sophie,” Peter enthused, “have you seen anything like this in Edinburgh? ’Tis grand, is it not?”
A string orchestra began to play a minuet, a tedious exercise performed by a solitary couple in the middle of the ballroom under the scrutiny of countless critical eyes. Flanked by Sir Peter and Roderick Darnly, Sophie admired the dancers’ straight backs and precise footwork, though the performers certainly didn’t appear to be deriving much enjoyment from the exercise.
“The country dances will start soon,” Peter assured her. “Ah… there’s the tune for ‘Drops of Brandy.’ Come.”
After several lively dances partnered first by Peter then by Darnly, Sophie had become quite flushed and the perspiration had dampened her green velvet gown. Suddenly, she spotted Hunter and Mavis standing among the onlookers. Hunter was scowling, and before Sophie could compose her thoughts, he murmured something in Mavis’s ear and advanced to where they were standing.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” he addressed Sophie stiffly, without deigning to look at her two escorts.
“At your service,” Roderick Darnly murmured, and melted into the crowd with a disgruntled Peter in tow.
“That was a rather rude performance,” Sophie commented icily. “You’ve not even been introduced and you—”
“I can just imagine their unsavory reputations,” Hunter said dourly nodding at their retreating backs, “even if you can’t.”
“The friendships I enjoy are certainly no business of yours,” Sophie retorted. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Mavis staring at them with a look of murderous indignation. “I believe your own companion finds her abandonment quite intolerable,” Sophie added pointedly, vexed at Hunter’s presumption that she was some rustic—helpless prey to these gentlemen of means.
Hunter narrowed his blue eyes and, instead of joining the crowd on the dance floor, he led Sophie out of the ballroom and into an alcove guarded by a potted plant.
“I came to fetch you to rehearsal this morning and Mrs. Hervey said two overdressed dandies had called for you earlier to take you to the baths,” he declared angrily. “It took me less than two minutes and a few shillings to determine which coachman at the Cross Baths was liveried to the Earl of Llewelyn’s son.”
“How very clever of you,” Sophie replied sarcastically. “And how unnecessary. As you apparently know, I have been treated to the entertainments of Bath by these two delightful gentlemen and have no need of a
third
escort
.
Especially one who is already engaged,” she added.
“Those ‘delightful gentlemen,’ as you call them, are probably a couple of bounders whose creditors will be arriving on the next coach!”
“Roderick Darnly has his own town house in the Circus!” Sophie retorted scornfully. “His credit must be good enough for that!”
“Ah… so you’ve gone to his lodgings, have you?” Hunter countered. “I never expected you to be that idiotic.”
“The housekeeper was there the entire time,” Sophie replied defensively. “I was merely correcting Peter’s spelling on a play he’s composed.”
“‘Peter’ is it now?” Hunter mimicked. “Honestly, Sophie, do I have to draw a sketch for you about the danger to your reputation—nay, the danger to your very
person
—that you risk consorting with such scoundrels?”
“How
dare
you call Sir Peter and Roderick Darnly scoundrels!” Sophie replied heatedly. “When it comes to exploiting women, I’d say
you’re
the rapscallion of record! Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“I’m warning you, Sophie… I know a few things about the type of company you keep,” Hunter said, grabbing her arm.
“And I know something about the company
you
keep,” she retorted, yanking free of his grasp. “Now, will you please escort me back to my friends and pray, cease your carping.”
“I wish to rehearse the companion dance to
High Life Below the Stairs
tomorrow, ten o’clock sharp,” Hunter said, his jaw clenched. “And afterward, I think we should have a serious talk.”
“I shall be at Orchard Street at the appointed hour,” Sophie replied, straining for composure, “but frankly, Hunter, we’ve nothing to discuss.”
In response, he tucked her arm roughly in his and strode toward a table where a fruit punch was being dispensed. Mavis apparently could not contain her impatience another moment as she now was stalking toward them across the wide dance floor.
“Betsy Neep is still quite ill. I will also need you at the theater for the entre-act to
Catherine and Petruchio,
which we’re performing February twentieth,” Hunter declared.
They had arrived at the punch table amid the milling crowd where they encountered Roderick Darnly conversing with several elegantly dressed young bucks of a similar stripe.
“February twentieth’s my birthday!” Sophie protested, and then calculated that she would need every shilling to survive until she returned to London. “Oh, never mind… I’ll be there.”
Mavis strode up to Hunter and took his other arm.
“Have you given Sophie the news?” she asked archly.
Sophie stared at Hunter, dreading an announcement of their impending nuptials.
“Mr. Arthur regrets to inform us,” he said slowly, “that the theater will be closed most of March and half of April for what he’s indicated is a need for urgent repairs.”
“What!”
Sophie said, startled.
“Actually, our manager has spent as much time in these card rooms,” Hunter said bitterly, “as he has at the Orchard Street Theater. He is embarrassed by debts and cannot pay us beyond February twentieth.”
“The wretch goes to Bristol to play in two comedies to cover his losses,” Mavis said disdainfully, “and the rest of us must fare as best we can!”
Just then, Peter Lindsay-Hoyt sauntered out of the very card room that figured in their discussion and joined his friend Darnly, who was standing just a few feet from where Hunter, Mavis, and Sophie had been exchanging words.
“Ah, Sophie,” Peter said, eyeing her companions suspiciously. “I feared some common vagabond had snatched you away.”
Hunter drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the youthful baronet. It was common knowledge that actors were the legal equivalent of what the government was wont to term, “rogues, vagabonds, and vagrants,” and Peter’s comment came perilously close to an out-and-out insult.
“Actually, I feared some coxcomb had exhausted her patience and thus I came to inquire of Miss McGann if all were well,” Hunter retorted, as his affront found its mark. He turned to Sophie and added, “I trust I shall see you at the theater at ten o’clock on the morrow?”
“Ten o’clock,” Sophie murmured, wondering how in the world she would be able to pay what she owed Mrs. Hervey during the weeks the Orchard Street Theater would be dark. Her eyes somberly followed Hunter and Mavis’s retreat.
“’Tis plain to see that actor and his lady have upset you,” Darnly observed. “Did I hear that rogue expects you to perform on your birthday? Poor you.”
“’Tis of no consequence,” Sophie murmured. “What
is
disturbing is that the Orchard Street Theater is closing for six weeks,” she sighed. “’Tis bad news for players and house servants alike.”
“Not to worry, Sophie!” Peter countered enthusiastically. “In fact, it couldn’t have come at a better time! Now you can devote yourself entirely to
The Footmen’s Conspiracy .”
***
Oddly, the next few times Sophie and Hunter were forced to rehearse the musical pieces scheduled for the final performances in February, it was Hunter who avoided discussion of any serious topics. Sophie had been girding herself for an unpleasant dissection of Hunter’s entanglement with Mavis, but strangely, he gave no indication now that he wished to take up the delicate subject. Instead, he kept relations strictly professional and she reluctantly decided ’twas all for the best.
On Monday, February 20, a simple nosegay of hothouse violets was left without a card at her door. She was touched to have her birthday remembered and thanked Peter for his thoughtfulness when he called to escort her for a celebratory breakfast.
Sir Peter smiled when she inquired if he had been her benefactor. “Players frequently receive flowers from their admirers. I’m delighted you like them. And as tonight is your last performance for a while,” he added eagerly, “I presume I will be employing your copying services as of tomorrow?”
“My
collaborative
services, don’t you mean?” Sophie chided gently. It was their first meeting out of the presence of his constant companion, Roderick Darnly. “I think ’twould be best if we are perfectly frank with each other, Sir Peter,” she said formally, looking directly into his dark brown eyes that were fringed with short, stubby black lashes.
“Just ‘Peter’ will suffice,” he reminded her softly, sipping his cup of chocolate.
“For your part,” she continued, unsettled by the intimate tone of his voice, “you bring the basic idea and some amusing characters to this effort. I contribute my experience of stagecraft, and some literary and copying skills. ’Tis an
equal
partnership,” she pronounced, “…or
must
be, that is, if we are to proceed.”
Peter’s gaze turned away from her face and focused on his cup of steaming chocolate.
“Well, Sophie, your suggestions for the piece do seem awfully clever, but, after all, ’twas
my
idea at bottom.”
“Yes, and I can assure you, sir,” she replied briskly, “that if you take this play as you originally wrote it and submit it to a Colman or a Garrick, you will receive an ever-so-polite note of rejection!” She leaned forward over the small table separating them. “You must decide if you merely wish to dabble so you can tell your friends you’ve composed a play, or bear down and do the
real
work of play writing—which is rewriting. I’ve seen it often enough with writers such as Mrs. Sheridan and Mrs. Clive… this business of creating frothy diversions for the stage requires real
effort
. ’Tis not merely some amusement that just anyone can bring off. ’Tis hard, brain-cracking
work!”
She looked at him kindly. “Why not think about it further and let me know what you decide?”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Peter looked discomforted. He toyed with his knife, carving marks in the snowy table linen. Then, he set the knife down purposefully and glanced up at her, a lazy smile spreading across his face.
“You are a hard taskmistress, Sophie, but how can I resist?” he said softly. “’Tis time I did something useful with myself. Starting tomorrow, we are collaborators.”
“And we will share in the credit and profits equally?” she persisted. “I will waive my fee for copying, since you’ve so kindly had me as your guest these several times.”
He bit his lip, as if deep in thought. Then he reached over and took her hands in his, intimately lacing their fingers together.
“You’re a clever lass,” he said finally. “I admire that.”
***
The dance divertissements following the performance of
Catherine and Petruchio
were well received by the audience that evening, but there was no repeat of the passionate kiss between Hunter and Sophie at the conclusion. Sophie bade farewell to her friends in the Orchard Street Company, realizing several of them could not afford to wait out the hiatus until the theater reopened in six weeks’ time—and would move on. Hunter was still in the tiring-room when Sophie ducked out the stage door on her birthday eve and walked home alone in the chill February night air.
During the next few weeks, a daily routine began to emerge. Roderick Darnly sent his coach each morning around ten to fetch Sophie to his lodgings while he and Peter took the baths, had their breakfast, and then enjoyed a morning constitutional. Sophie sat at the lovely desk in Darnly’s sitting room, rewriting and then recopying sections of the manuscript. She was perfectly aware that most of the changes and suggestions were hers. However, the basic idea, as Peter had pointed out, remained his, and Sophie felt that with their understanding of an equal partnership, the arrangement would be mutually satisfactory.
At around three o’clock each afternoon, Darnly’s coach returned to the Circus to collect Sophie and deposit her at whatever eating house or tea shop the men had selected that particular day. After a delicious meal that her two companions insisted on providing, Sophie briefly informed them of the progress of her day’s work. Peter would then respond to the changes she’d made on the manuscript the previous day and offer his opinion on the additions she planned to write during the next scheduled working session. For his part, Roderick Darnly appeared to have carefully scanned every revision she’d left on the desk in his sitting room.