Before she could protest, he shoved her inside the large cupboard where Rosoman had stored the ledger and shut the door tight. Sophie found herself nearly smothered by several cloaks hanging from pegs above her head. Her hiding place was black as ink, except for a pale sliver of light that seeped through a crack at the bottom of the door.
“What did I tell you, Rosoman!” a voice shouted angrily.
“It
was
him stealing across the lawn!”
Sophie identified Roderick Darnly from his accusatory tone.
“The man’s my assistant manager, m’lord,” Rosoman replied timidly. “He has the run of the place…”
“Is it his habit to invade your Treasure Room on a deserted Sunday night?” the viscount demanded. “He intends to rob you, I tell you, and you’re too much of a simpleton to notice!’’
“Rob!”
Hunter exclaimed angrily. “’Tis you, m’lord, who could be accused of committing
that
crime!”
“Robertson!” gasped Rosoman in a horrified voice. “Lord Darnly is our patron…”
“Your savior, is more like it,” Darnly snapped. “This man is in your Treasure Room, snooping about and readying himself to invade your safe. If you are not willing to guard the assets of Sadler’s Wells… I certainly will not hesitate to do so. I have my investment to protect. As a Peer of the Realm,” Darnly thundered in stentorian tones
, “
I accuse
you, Robertson, of attempted robbery. You will come along with me to London and—”
“What is your proof?” Hunter interrupted angrily. “I would be careful whom you accuse of thievery, m’lord. I have seen Rosoman’s ledgers!”
“You presume to invade the privacy of those accounts?” Darnly shouted.
“You have received your percentage—fair enough,” Hunter countered, “but you have lied about the profits of this venture and no doubt intend to withhold from Miss McGann—”
Sophie heard the sudden, loud report of flesh against flesh.
“You dare to slap me—” Hunter growled.
She could hear the sound of a scuffle taking place a few feet from where she crouched huddled in the cupboard.
“God’s bones, Robertson… let go of him… don’t squeeze his throat like that… don’t—” Rosoman was shouting.
Grunts and curses filled the air. Suddenly Sophie heard a thud of knuckles, followed by a groan.
“You’ve done it now, lad!” Rosoman screamed.
Sophie could hear Hunter gasping for breath.
“I’ve… knocked the villain… senseless, but he’ll… live.”
“But when he wakes up, he’ll call you out or have you hanged!”
“For what?” Hunter retorted. “For trying to determine if he’s cheated a poor defenseless woman of her author’s fees?”
Without warning, Sophie slammed open the cupboard door with a bang and startled Rosoman nearly out of his wits.
“I am
not
a poor defenseless woman, Hunter Robertson!” she cried. “But I
am
the writer of
Vanquishers Vanquished,
Mr. Rosoman, and Roderick Darnly never did intend to pay me my fair percentage, did he?” she demanded. “You knew full well this was so, and did nothing about it!”
“I-I—” began Rosoman, flustered.
A groan from beneath the desk startled the trio.
“Our manager will pay you something from
his
share, won’t you, Thomas my man?” Hunter announced, his jaw set. “Just as you will pay me my share right now! Quickly!”
Thomas Rosoman fumbled with a clutch of keys fastened to a ring he had withdrawn from his inside pocket. With trembling fingers, he began to unlock the safe.
“What are you going to do?” Sophie whispered anxiously to Hunter.
“Hurry, Rosoman!” he ordered, ignoring her question. “Two hundred pounds is about what you owe me for my summer’s labors, don’t you agree?”
“’Pon my word, Robertson! You’ve made a fine mess of things…” the manager exclaimed, hurriedly counting gold coins into Hunter’s broad palm. “Darnly’s a very powerful man, you know… he has friends in high places… you’ll be hanging from a gibbet at Tyburne, if he decides that’s where he wants you.”
“A hundred pounds for Sophie…
Now!”
he growled. “And I advise you to pay promptly whatever is legitimately due her when the season concludes. Otherwise,” he added threateningly, “I assure you that word will go out to all players that you’re as big a double-dealer as your silent partner—and you’ll never again lure decent performers to this burgh!”
Rosoman shoved the correct number of coins in Sophie’s hand as if it were his last farthing.
“’Twas never my intention to cheat you, Robertson,” Rosoman replied sulkily, “but you’ve gone too far.… Darnly will see you in stocks, or worse!”
“From what I know of the man,” Hunter declared, stuffing his wages into his waistcoat pocket while glancing down disdainfully at Darnly, still knocked senseless, “I rather think you’re correct. As I have no desire to play the role of condemned prisoner, I shall bid you adieu for the season,” he said, his good humor returning. “My thanks for your confidence in me to date, sir.”
Another groan emanated from the viscount.
“Odds fish, Robertson! He’s coming to…” Rosoman said, wringing his hands.
“I believe a fast exit is called for! My regards to the rope-dancers!” he said almost jauntily.
Hunter seized Sophie by the wrist and pulled her down the darkened passageway and then through the backstage area, releasing her hand only after they had exited the theater. They dashed through the swirling fog across the broad expanse of lawn, arriving breathless at the front of the Myddleton’s Head Inn.
A coach and driver were just pulling up to the front entrance with harnesses jangling, awaiting the last of the tavern’s guests scheduled to make the trip back to London. Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie saw the stocky visitor from the Colonies, Mr. Henry, head toward the carriage on unsteady legs, the result, she surmised, of consuming a quantity of port.
“Darnly neither saw nor heard you,” Hunter panted, leaning against the tavern’s wall. “You shall be able to remain here tonight in all innocence while I make myself scarce for a while.”
“But Hunter!” Sophie protested, “he’ll look for you at Covent Garden! He’ll charge you with—”
“You’re a mere twenty-five years old now, are you not?” interrupted Hunter.
“This is no time to call me an old crone!” she snapped.
“…and I, not yet thirty,” Hunter grinned at her lopsidedly. “If you have to wait another year or two to be my love… you will, won’t you?”
“Of course, but—”
He leaned down and kissed her fiercely on the lips. Then he pushed her from him roughly and stared into her eyes. “Now, listen carefully,” he said urgently. “’Twill probably all blow over… but from what you’ve told me and what I’ve heard here and about, Darnly has a cruel and curious nature. I think I should make a graceful exit while I still can.”
“Where?”
Sophie demanded. “For how long?”
“If I must leave London for a time, I shall inform you of it as soon as I can… can you trust me on that?”
“Yes… but—”
“Heigh-ho!” the coachman shouted for the benefit of any laggards. The horses pawed the dirt road, their nostrils bellowing steam in the chill night air.
“Whatever happens, you must continue your writing, Sophie,” Hunter said earnestly. “Take a man’s name, or write anonymously if you must, but don’t let what’s happened here stifle your muse. Just keep your distance from Darnly… for your own safety.”
“Yes, but… you sound as if you’re—”
“You’ve talent enough to overcome whomever tries to thwart you,” he said intently. “Garrick saw that long ago. I see it now as well, and I hope—” Filled with dreadful foreboding, Sophie glanced around her shoulder and gasped. A pinpoint of light was dancing near the theater’s stage-door entrance across the green. She could barely detect the murky outlines of Rosoman carrying a lantern in one hand while supporting Lord Darnly with the other.
“God’s eyeballs… they’re coming this way!” Sophie gasped.
“Then, ’tis farewell,” Hunter said quietly, bending quickly to kiss her hand.
Sophie threw her arms around his neck.
“God’s blood, but I love you!” she cried.
“So many unladylike curses,” he teased. “No wonder women scribes are said to be such jades.”
“’Tis no time to jest!” she protested as tears filled her eyes.
“I know…” he replied, suddenly solemn. “You are truly my heart’s own, Sophie McGann. Never forget that…”
The coach driver cracked his whip. Hunter bolted for the departing vehicle and leapt onto the running board. Sophie ran after the spinning rear wheels, calling after him.
“Thank you… thank you for being my champion,” she cried. “Please,
please
Hunter… please come back!”
“I will!” he shouted, unlatching the door and flinging himself next to a very startled John Henry of Annapolis, Maryland.
Sophie waved until her arm nearly fell off her shoulder. Then she whirled around, relieved to see the slow progress of Rosoman’s lantern across the green. As Hunter’s conveyance lumbered down the Rosebery Avenue, Sophie stealthily ducked into the side entrance of the inn to avoid being seen.
***
Covent Garden was abuzz with the scandal concerning the altercation that had taken place between the Welsh viscount and the handsome Scottish actor, Hunter Robertson, late of Sadler’s Wells. Darnly’s own coachman, who had transported the battered aristo to his London lodgings, whispered the tale of the donnybrook to Darnly’s parlor maid, who in turn had described it all to her sweetheart whose job it was to deliver coal to residences throughout the theater district. Soon
everyone
knew some version of the story.
No charges had yet been filed with the magistrates—either for assault, or thievery, or even embezzlement—but the fact was, Hunter Robertson was not among the cast of Arthur Murphy’s
The Way to Keep Him
at Covent Garden on September 24, the first day of the new theatrical season. Nor was Lord Darnly seated in his box for Drury Lane’s seasonal opening that same week.
Tattletales said the man was so bruised, he wouldn’t show his face.
Meanwhile, Sophie had been frantic with worry over Hunter’s whereabouts. Mercifully, an embarrassed Rosoman had kept quiet about her sudden appearance in his Treasure Room when Hunter demanded the proprietor pay her monies owing. As for her part in the ensuing drama, she’d entirely avoided seeing Roderick after the mêlée and returned to London by means of public conveyance, which she paid for, thanks to Hunter’s having extracted the partial payments owed from the owner of Sadler’s Wells.
Upon her arrival at Half Moon Passage, she found a note slipped under her door. She quickly unfolded the foolscap and stared at the familiar handwriting. Then her eyes widened with dismay:
26 September 1770
I exit this stage to seek my fortune entertaining the savages in America. My spies tell me the viscount nurses his injuries with bad grace and I need make myself scarce to save my neck. Thanks to that Colonial John Henry, I depart from Norfolk aboard the
Jenny
, a brigantine bound for the West Indies and thence to Maryland.
Write this player at the American Company, Annapolis.
In haste and with all my love.
H. R.
A season will fly by like Ariel on the wind… courage, my love.
Book 7
1771-1779
Strong tea and scandal—Bless me, how refreshing!
—David Garrick, Prologue to
The School for Scandal
Thirty-One
M
AY 1771
The Jenny’s bow cut across the glassy surface of Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. Standing in the forecastle next to Captain Marshall, Hunter Robertson could discern the barest outlines of the colonial metropolis—with its neat brick row houses lining the south bank of the Severn River—that was their destination.
The seasoned crew took their stations, their bodies glistening with sweat from the oppressive heat beating down on the New World harbor like a layer of cotton flannel. The men nimbly darted up rope ladders to reef the sails, lashing the canvas to the cross spars, keeping the brigantine under control as it approached its anchorage.
“Glad to see there’s no trouble brewing with the natives today,” Hunter grinned, referring to reports of sporadic rebellion inspired by the taxes imposed on the Colonies by Parliament.
“Don’t be so sure,” the ship’s master replied grimly. “Last year, at the end of February, the
Good Intent
wasn’t allowed to land in Annapolis. The merchants and planters didn’t fancy paying King Georgie his duties on the imports she was carrying. So, despite the governor’s squawks, the ship sailed right back to London… with all her cargo!”