And before Sophie could hector Peter into confessing their joint-authorship and his appropriating her latest plot, the manager rushed toward the Greenroom entrance to greet a group of well-wishers who had their hearts set on meeting Kitty Clive.
To Sophie’s surprise, Peter hailed a hackney coach in front of Drury Lane and bid Roderick Darnly a resolute good night as he entered his own vehicle. Assisting Sophie to her seat, the baronet climbed in beside her and closed the carriage door. His face was flushed with excitement, and before she could utter a word, he took her hand and pressed it to his heart.
“Ah… Sophie… what a night!” Peter exclaimed, “and I owe it all to you!” He inclined his head forward, his dark eyes searching hers for some sign that she acknowledged his gratitude. “For the first time, I can see a way for myself in this world… I am sick unto death of drifting along as I have.”
Surprised by this unexpected confession, Sophie merely gazed at him silently as the carriage bumped along through the wide expanse of Covent Garden’s colonnaded Great Piazza.
“I no longer wish to be a mere ‘dabbler,’” he told her earnestly. “I see, for the first time, really, that together we could become as celebrated a play-writing team as Garrick and Colman! Remember
Miss in Her Teens?
That play is
still
staged year after year… the royalties helped Garrick purchase that lovely country house of his, I’ll be bound!”
“Aye… penning plays is by far the most lucrative way for a scribe to earn a living,” Sophie agreed tersely. “I look forward to receiving my half of the proceeds.” She stared at him coolly across the coach and removed her hand from his. “And if we are to collaborate on
my
idea, which you have apparently
already
discussed with Colman,” she added tartly, “I will expect full participation on your part.”
“We could make a fortune, you and I,” Peter said pensively. “The really successful playwrights with one or two pieces a year can earn six hundred pounds, I understand. And the copyright for printed plays, they say, is another hundred! If you produced our work on your own press, we’d probably profit
twice
that!” He recaptured her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wouldn’t need a farthing from my grandfather and we could live like princes!” he continued while gazing into her eyes as if looking for confirmation of his dreams of fame and glory. He took her chin between his fingers and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Witty and pretty, that’s what you are,” he whispered. “What an extraordinary combination.” He shifted his weight to sit next to her on the carriage bench and drew her into his arms. “I promise, Sophie, from now on, I shall heed your strictures to work more diligently. And deuced, if writing more plays won’t provide an excellent excuse to see you every single day.”
Peter’s arms were oddly comforting after an evening of such gut-wrenching tension, and she allowed herself to sink into his embrace. Tilting her head to be kissed, she felt his lips press against hers softly, sweetly, and then with a growing ardor that neither threatened her nor aroused her to a fever pitch. What was taking place between them, she thought vaguely, was not at all like the sense-shattering encounter with Hunter Robertson—but then,
that
had led to nothing but misery, and a painful separation. Peter seemed to be offering some form of personal and professional alliance and Sophie was forced to admit the combination had a certain seductive appeal.
“Will you come to Cleveland Row tonight?” Peter murmured urgently.
His breath was warm and his arms enveloped her protectively. His vow to dedicate his life to something more worthwhile was somehow touching. Considering the deafening silence from Dublin, she was sorely tempted to accept his ardent invitation, but a warning voice urged her to observe the behavior of this would-be playwright a while longer. Their success tonight had prompted Peter to promise to improve his working habits—but would he keep his word?
Reaching up to cup his face between her palms, she said gently, “I’d like to be with you tonight very much, but I shan’t.” She leaned forward to kiss him firmly on the lips. Pulling away from his startled gaze, she smiled mischievously. “However, I
promise
to be at your lodgings tomorrow by ten in the morning to begin our work on
The Provoked Player…
how would that suit?”
“Not nearly as much as if I had you in my bed,” he replied with a crooked grin. “But if ’tis the only way to convince you of my sincere devotion, I will gladly make the sacrifice.”
***
Elizabeth Griffith’s play enjoyed a six-night run thanks only to the amusing afterpiece,
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.
At both the Third Night and Sixth Night Author’s Benefits, Sophie was pleased to discover Drury Lane filled to overflowing, thanks in part to Darnly’s recruiting legions of his acquaintances to support ticket sales. Even so, Sophie hesitated to announce her joint authorship to George Colman and the world, fearing she would jeopardize the vastly improved atmosphere at Cleveland Row.
During February and March, Sophie was gratified to see how studiously Peter applied himself to the work at hand. Together, they penned a first draft of
The Provoked Player
within six weeks. Peter rarely missed one of their writing appointments and virtually ceased imbibing the goodly amount of port and champagne he had been wont to consume. He also curtailed his forays to the clubs he and Darnly had frequented with regularity, including White’s and some mysterious organization that required the pair to don black capes and masks. And to Sophie’s amusement, neither he nor Darnly ever suggested they repair to the Blue Periwig.
Instead, Peter plied her with cunning little gifts—a silver-sheathed quill pen and a fan painted to depict the interior of Drury Lane itself. And he plied her with kisses, taking every opportunity to tell her how lovely she looked and that he hoped he was earning her trust and admiration.
For herself, Sophie was content to drift along in this odd sort of courtship, happy that she found herself dwelling less and less on thoughts of Hunter. Occasionally, however, she dreamed of her former lover and woke up mortified by her half-remembered nighttime fantasies.
On a day in late March she left Lorna in charge of Ashby’s while she dashed next door to the Green Canister to buy a tonic for Aunt Harriet. Her visits to Bedlam dressed as a young boy had become routine and the guards accepted her gifts for her aunt without hesitation, pocketing the gratuity she placed in their palm to ensure delivery. Aunt Harriet would most likely never make use of anything but the food Sophie brought, but she always included in her packages some small token—a special elixir or a small rose sachet in hopes that the poor soul would sense there was someone who cared for her welfare.
As Sophie was paying Mrs. Phillips for her latest purchase, Mary Ann Skene wandered into the Green Canister, appearing thin and sallow.
“Here you are, dearie,” Mrs. Phillips said, handing the young courtesan a cotton pouch. “Boil the water and let the packet steep a good half hour. Strain it and drink like tea. Apply the salve several times a day,” she directed.
The woman nodded wanly and departed without another word.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Mrs. Phillips clucked. “Señor Gonorrhea plays no favorites, I can tell you that! I suggest, my dear Sophie, that you take care the company
you
keep as well!”
“You mean Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt?” Sophie replied, surprised.
“Aye,” Mrs. Phillips nodded. “Mary Ann mentioned he’s kept you quite occupied of late.”
“He wishes me to live with him,” Sophie shrugged, “but I’ve declined.”
“Humph!” Mrs. Phillips snorted, taking Sophie’s money for her purchase of the tonic. “’Tis your own affair, of course, but certain men being what I know them to be—
and
since I’m a friend of your aunt—I will make you a present of
this!”
From the shelves behind the counter she selected a sheepskin condom displayed alongside various antidotes for venereal disease. She placed the cylindrical object in its own cotton pouch.
“Really, Mrs. Phillips!” Sophie exclaimed. “I’ve not slept with the man, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I am of the opinion the device is also useful in preventing the getting of brats,” the older woman continued, ignoring her protest. “I strongly suggest you keep it in your reticule at all times and insist Sir Peter
employ
it!”
***
One
rainy afternoon in the middle of April, Peter and Sophie toiled a solid six hours in one sitting, the rewards for such sustained effort resulting in a completed second draft of
The Provoked Player.
“Finis!”
Sophie exclaimed gaily, drawing a line beneath the final speech with a flourish of her pen. “How I
love
to inscribe that word!”
“Bravo us!” Peter chortled, rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles between her strained shoulder blades as she sat at his desk. “Surely, this calls for champagne!” he declared.
He strode over to a nearby wall and yanked a fat, braided silk cord, summoning Mrs. Hood to secure some sparkling wine.
“We’ve none in the cellar, Sir Peter,” the housekeeper responded in her typically uncooperative manner.
“Then go
fetch
some!” Peter said testily.
“I’ll need to pay the tradesman,” she responded pointedly, extending her hand.
“Oh, blast it, woman!” Peter exploded. “Tell them to send me an accounting!”
Before Mrs. Hood could protest, Sophie reached into her reticule and withdrew several shillings.
“Here… let this be
my
gift,” she announced. “You’ve feted me with many a meal while we’ve been working,” she smiled at Peter. “Here, Mrs. Hood… two bottles, please.”
“Very good, miss,” Mrs. Hood sniffed. “I’ll send the footman… if I can
find
him!”
For the remainder of the afternoon Sophie and
Peter sipped excellent champagne in front of the fire and nibbled on toast points and potted shrimp. As the light faded, Peter lit candles around the room and they read aloud the scenes from their play that they found most amusing. When they concluded Act Five—as well as most of the second bottle of champagne—Peter suddenly took hold of one of her hands.
“You’re a partner beyond price, Sophie, my love,” he said as his eyes sought hers. “These last two months have been better than anything I’ve ever known… I am so terribly grateful for your guiding hand… and the confidence you’ve shown in me…”
“We’ve done well,” Sophie responded, marveling at the change in his attitude toward hard work. “’Tis remarkable how splendidly we’ve done, pulling on the same oar…” she noted solemnly before a loud hiccup erupted from her throat.
They burst out laughing and then Peter took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips, murmuring, “Yes… that’s what you’ve proven, to be sure.” He peered at her gravely. “And that brings me to another topic of supreme importance,” he added, licking his lips nervously. “Please, dear Sophie,” he pleaded softly, his dark brown eyes attempting to focus intently on her face, “will you do me the honor… of becoming my wife?”
Startled and somewhat sobered by his unexpected declaration, Sophie stared at her writing partner in shock. She struggled to muster a suitable response.
“’Tis far too soon to consider… such a dire step as marriage,” she managed to say, inadvertently tipping over her empty champagne glass. Setting it to rights, she added hastily, “but I am, indeed, esteemed that you should think to offer—”
“Do you not wish to be a baronet’s lady?” he entreated. “‘Lady Lindsay-Hoyt.’ Oh, Sophie… it means everything that you’ve shown such faith in me. If it weren’t for you, I’d have turned into a total wastrel!”
“Oh come, now,” she giggled, “pray tell me I’m not such a boringly good influence on you as
that!”
“Well,” he said, catching her mischievous mood, “I have found that the notion of your lovely face and form so near—and yet so far—keeps me restless in my bed and anxious to get on with our project each day. And that keen wit of yours is no small attraction, either. I believe ’twill make us
rich!”
She smiled indulgently, reaching over to smooth a stray strand of dark hair off his forehead. “I thought you
were
rich, sir!”
Peter stared at her for a moment, then grinned foolishly.
“Richer! Your wit will make us
richer
!”
“Speaking of riches,” she smiled, “when will we be receiving the fees owing from our Author’s Benefits for
The Footmen’s Conspiracy?
I’m sure our royalties by now will add up to far more than the price of a dinner at the Blue Periwig,” she added pointedly.
Peter frowned and got up to stand beside the fireplace.