Gail Whitiker (16 page)

Joanna pressed a hand to her stomach, as though to still the nerves fluttering there. Was he really asking her to think of herself in one of those roles? What an outrageous notion! A well brought-up lady would never consider such a thing!

And yet, the idea
was
intriguing. Deliciously so. To think that she could step outside herself, just for a short time, and assume the characteristics of another person, to speak in their language and to express their thoughts. To imagine herself as an actress. It really was quite wicked.

‘I honestly do not know,’ she said at length. ‘I haven’t your knowledge of the plays and so am not as familiar with the characters, but to even think about entering into such an occupation is beyond anything I have ever contemplated.’

‘I sometimes think we should all play another part, even if just for a little while,’ Laurence mused. ‘Most of us live within such narrow confines. Imagine shedding your skin and pulling on someone else’s for a few hours. You must own it has a certain appeal.’

‘Yes, but as much as I might be tempted to try it, the thought of the look on my aunt’s face would always prevent me. She would be horrified!’

‘Never mind that. Is it something
you
think you might like to do?’ Laurence asked.

Joanna thought about that for a moment, allowing her mind to dwell on the possibility. The answer surprised her. ‘Yes, I think I would. Just as I would love to venture into the deepest recesses of a pharaoh’s tomb. But neither of those things is going to happen. I daren’t consider the former and my father won’t allow the latter,’ Joanna said. ‘He draws the line at my undertaking anything of a dangerous nature.’

‘He is right to do so,’ Laurence said staunchly. ‘It would cause me great pain to hear that you had been injured during one of your expeditions.’

The teasing tone was gone; the expression in his eyes very serious indeed. Joanna glanced away and fiddled with her fan. For a moment, they stood in silence as she tried to think of something inconsequential to say. People were looking at them and whispering, smiling and nodding as though they knew something she did not. The ladies were frankly envious and Joanna was astonished to see that a number of gentlemen were dressed similarly to Laurence in black and white. Several even sported flowers, though no one was brave enough to wear a red rose. Clearly, only Valentine Lawe was entitled to do that.

‘Mr Bretton, it is obvious to me that I owe you yet another apology,’ Joanna said at length. ‘I had no idea you were such a talented writer.
A Lady’s Choice
was wonderful!’

Laurence looked at her for what seemed like a very long time, though Joanna was sure it could only have been moments. Then, he slowly began to smile. ‘You owe me no apologies, Lady Joanna. Most men do one thing well and others moderately so. I, on the other hand, do several things moderately well, yet cannot claim excellence at any one.’

‘But that’s not true! The play was outstanding,’ Joanna said in all sincerity. ‘I would never have believed that a man would be capable of writing such a deeply compelling story. You captured the nuances of emotion perfectly. You clearly understood what Miss Turcott was feeling, from the time she was a young woman newly in love until she stood as an old woman looking back on what had gone right and wrong in her life.’

Again, Laurence failed to meet her eyes, focusing instead on the steady stream of people pouring down from the boxes. ‘You flatter me.’

‘No, I do not. I am simply offering praise where it is so clearly deserved.’

‘And yet, what would I not give to be as talented as both you and your father.’

‘Nonsense! I am not a trained archaeologist.’

‘But you are a gifted artist and you have combined that skill with your love of Egypt. That, truly, is a blending of two passions.’

‘Then you must do the same,’ Joanna said. ‘You must become like Shakespeare, setting your plays against the backdrop of ancient Luxor. Your heroes must be gladiators and emperors, and your heroines, queens and goddesses. Then you would truly be combining your talent and your passion.’

He looked thunderstruck. His eyes focused on her face with such intensity that Joanna had to look away.

Had any man ever looked at her with such focused passion before?

Her infatuated poet certainly had not. Aldwyn had been too busy indulging his muse. Nor had Mr Penscott or Mr Rowe or Captain Sterne. No one had ever looked at her the way Laurence was looking at her now.

What was he thinking? What thoughts were running through his head? For a man to write so convincingly, so passionately of love, he must surely have felt it—

‘Good evening, Lady Joanna,’ said a brusque voice behind her. ‘Surprised to see you out here amongst the hoi polloi.’

Joanna turned around and was surprised to see one of her father’s friends standing there. ‘Lord Kingston, forgive me, I didn’t notice you there. Did you enjoy the play?’

‘Didn’t get here in time to see it,’ Kingston replied, looking decidedly put out. ‘Horse threw a shoe on the way over and I had to send for a replacement. But I expect I would have enjoyed it. I like what I’ve seen of Lawe’s plays. Came for my daughter’s sake, more than mine.’

‘Good evening, Lord Kingston,’ Laurence said.

The marquess’s brows rose. ‘Sir!’

‘You remember Mr Bretton, Lord Kingston,’ Joanna said, surprised that the older man hadn’t recognised Laurence. ‘You were both at Papa’s lecture at the Apollo Club.’

‘We were?’ The marquess peered more closely at Laurence’s face, then let out a snort. ‘Well, I’ll be damned, so we were. Sorry, Bretton. Didn’t recognise you without your spectacles.’

‘Quite all right, my lord. They do tend to change one’s appearance.’

‘Taking in the play, are you?’

‘Actually, Mr Bretton
wrote
the play, Lord Kingston,’ Joanna said. ‘He
is
Valentine Lawe.’

‘Is he, by Jove? And here I thought he was just another of Bonnington’s disciples. Why didn’t you say you were Valentine Lawe at the time, man?’

‘Because I wasn’t there in that role,’ Laurence said. ‘I went to hear Lord Bonnington talk about Dendera.’

‘Of course you did, but that’s no reason to hide your light under a bushel.’

‘Actually, Captain Sterne did draw attention to the fact that Mr Bretton was Valentine Lawe,’ Joanna said, remembering how uncomfortable the moment had been. ‘But I believe you were talking to Sir Mortimer at the time and may not have heard.’

‘Can’t say that I did,’ Lord Kingston said. ‘I’m sure I would have remembered something like that. Well, I must say this is an unexpected pleasure. My wife adores your plays, Bretton. She will be heartily disappointed when she learns that you were here tonight and I had a chance to speak to you and she did not.’

‘Lady Kingston is not with you?’ Joanna said, knowing the marchioness’s fondness for the theatre.

The marquess shook his head. ‘Left her at home with a raging toothache and a bottle of laudanum. But...I say, Bretton, we’re hosting a small gathering at Briarwood Monday next. Why don’t you join us?’

Joanna’s eyes widened. Lord and Lady Kingston’s
small gatherings
were, in fact, select receptions for some of society’s most illustrious members. Invitations were highly coveted and not frequently made available to those outside their gilded circle. The fact Lord Kingston had extended an invitation to a playwright was an honour of the highest degree—and it seemed Laurence was not oblivious to the fact. ‘Thank you, Lord Kingston. I would be honoured to attend.’

‘Splendid. Never hear the end of it if I were to tell my wife I’d met you this evening and not extended an invitation,’ Lord Kingston announced. ‘And you must come too, Lady Joanna, and bring your father and Lady Cynthia. I know Bonnington doesn’t care much for these stodgy affairs, but you can tell him there will be one or two other crusty old gentlemen whose company I dare say he won’t mind sharing.’

‘I will be sure to tell him,’ Joanna said, not at all surprised that her father’s reputation for avoiding society events was so well known.

The marquess moved away, but before Joanna had an opportunity to talk to Laurence about his unexpected good fortune, her aunt came back to join them, all but rubbing her hands together in glee.

‘Well, that was most satisfactory,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘Lady Standish was very surprised to see us sitting with you, Mr Bretton, but I made sure to tell her that you had invited us to join you. It does so elevate one’s consequence to be seen in the company of those with whom others
wish
to be seen. Well, come along, Joanna, it is time we were leaving.’

‘Aunt, we have just been invited to Lord and Lady Kingston’s gathering on Monday next.’

Lady Cynthia stared. ‘We have?’

‘Yes. When I told Lord Kingston that Mr Bretton was Valentine Lawe, he said his wife would never forgive him if he did not invite him to the gathering, and then he kindly invited us as well.’

‘Gracious! An invitation to Briarwood?’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘What an honour.’

‘He seemed to think Lord Bonnington might not wish to attend,’ Laurence said.

‘Not attend one of the most select gatherings in London? He won’t have any choice!’ Lady Cynthia stated flatly. ‘Thank you, Mr Bretton, for a thoroughly delightful evening. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed one more.’

‘You’re welcome, Lady Cynthia,’ Laurence said, his eyes catching and holding Joanna’s. ‘In all honesty neither can I.’

Chapter Nine

I
t was hardly surprising that sleep was the furthest thing from Laurence’s mind when he got home that night. Not only because Joanna had looked at him with far more warmth than she had on any of their previous engagements, or because she had blushed so prettily when he’d told her how much he had enjoyed the evening.

He couldn’t sleep because the germ of an idea had taken root in his brain. An idea sparked by Joanna herself when she’d said,
‘...you must become like Shakespeare. Setting plays against the backdrop of ancient Luxor. Your heroes must be gladiators and emperors, and your heroines, queens and goddesses. Then you would truly be combining your talent and your passion...’

Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The material was all there. And, as Joanna had said, it would be combining the two things about which he felt the most passionate—writing and the distant past. His setting would be ancient Egypt, and his characters, the pharaohs and gods who populated that world. He knew enough about both to make the story compelling, but where Shakespeare had used ancient Greece and Rome as his backdrops, Laurence would make them integral to the story. He would introduce the gods and goddesses and make them forces for change in his characters’ lives.

It was as though a floodgate had suddenly been opened. Upon reaching his room, Laurence lit the candles on his desk and pulled out a fresh page of parchment. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so inspired...and it was all because of Joanna. His muse...and his inspiration.

He sat quietly for a moment, thinking pleasurable thoughts of her, while allowing other ideas to eddy and swirl like currents in a stream. Then, as they began to coalesce and take form, he dipped his quill into the bottle of ink, drew the parchment towards him and steadfastly began to write.

* * *

Joanna was alone in the drawing room when Mrs Devlin arrived to pay a call a few days later.

‘I hope you don’t mind my stopping in unannounced,’ she said with a smile, ‘but my husband was to have taken me for a drive and at the last minute had to cancel and so suggested that I take a friend instead. I wondered if perhaps you might like to accompany me, Lady Joanna. It is such a delightful afternoon and I did so enjoy our conversation the other evening.’

A little taken aback by the lady’s singling her out for attention, Joanna nevertheless said, ‘Yes, of course, I would be delighted. If you will give me but a moment to change...’

It did take little more than a moment. Joanna exchanged her shawl for a spencer, her slippers for a pair of leather shoes, and her lace cap for the newest and most fashionable of her bonnets. Given Mrs Devlin’s stylish appearance, it would not do to go out looking anything but her best.

Less than ten minutes later, they were seated opposite one another in Mr Devlin’s comfortable carriage, with Mrs Devlin chatting about this and that as they made their way through the streets.

‘Oh, and if it is not too much of a bother, I did say I would stop at the theatre and pick Laurence up on our way back,’ the lady said. ‘He went down for a meeting with our uncle and was originally to have come back with Mr Devlin and myself. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ Joanna said quickly, hoping her pleasure at the thought of seeing Laurence again was sufficiently disguised. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since their night together at the theatre.

You take my breath away.
That was what he had said to her upon her arrival at the theatre, but it was not only the words he had used, but the manner in which he had said them that gave such special meaning to the phrase.

And then, at the conclusion of the play had come that moment when the audience had begun to call his name and Laurence had stood up in the box. Joanna knew she would never forget how handsome he had looked as he’d risen to acknowledge their cheers. How confident he had appeared, yet how unassuming. There hadn’t been a trace of arrogance or pride in his manner, yet he must have known he held everyone there in the palm of his hand.

Just as he held her.

The two ladies chatted about inconsequential matters for the next little while: the price of gloves, the scarcity of good lace, where to go for the finest linens. As such, the time passed unnoticed, and before Joanna knew it, they were pulling to a halt in front of the Gryphon Theatre. ‘Oh, we’re here!’

‘Yes, though I did think Laurence would have been outside waiting for us,’ Mrs Devlin said, looking around. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we shall have to go inside and find him. You don’t mind coming in, do you?’

Joanna glanced at the imposing façade of the theatre and briefly wondered if they might not be better sending the coachman in, until she remembered that Mrs Devlin’s uncle owned the theatre and that it was very respectable as far as theatres went.

‘I suspect he’s with my uncle,’ Mrs Devlin said as they made their way into the auditorium. ‘You can wait for us here if you like. I’ll just be a moment.’

Joanna had never been to a theatre when the actors weren’t on stage and all the seats were empty. As such, it seemed strange to walk in and not hear the cheers and the laughter of the crowd. She glanced at the stage and wondered how it would feel to know that every eye in the room was on you. For someone who preferred anonymity, being the focus of such intense public scrutiny must be excruciating.

Suddenly, a man walked on to the stage. He emerged from the wings with his head down, looking at the papers in his hand. He wore no jacket, only a waistcoat over his shirt, and his boots made a clicking sound on the wooden planks.

Joanna swallowed as her heart gave a lurch. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bretton.’

Laurence stopped, and raised his head in astonishment. ‘Lady Joanna? What are you doing here?’

‘I came with your sister. Did you not see her?’

‘No, I’ve been in the green room.’

Having no idea what a green room was, Joanna said, ‘She mentioned something about...going back to your uncle’s office. I think she expected you to be there.’

‘That would make sense since I told her I was here for a meeting with Theo,’ Laurence concurred. ‘But I have just been reviewing a few old plays for which I found scripts in the back office.’

It occurred to Joanna, as she drew closer to the stage, that Laurence could easily have been an actor. He was certainly handsome enough to be a leading man and, holding what might have been a script in his hands, he looked completely at ease on the stage, ready to deliver his lines.

‘Are you going to perform for me?’ she asked with a smile.

‘I would, but the scene calls for two people. Rosalind and Duke Frederick.’

‘As You Like It!’
Joanna said. ‘That was one of my governess’s favourites.’

‘Then perhaps you would care to come up and read it with me?’ Laurence said. ‘I have two copies.’

Joanna blanched. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t!’

‘Why not? You said it would be fun to pretend you were someone else.’

‘Yes, but I never thought I actually
would
.’

‘Come, come, Lady Joanna, what better opportunity than this to indulge in a bit of wickedness? There is no one around to see you break one of society’s rules.’ Laurence gazed down at her, every word a challenge. ‘Why not take the opportunity to do something you might never do again? And that you might actually enjoy?’

Joanna felt her pulse begin to race, both from nervousness and from the thought of doing something she had never done before and that by rights she shouldn’t be doing now!

Yet she wanted to, so very much. Laurence was right when he’d said there was no one else here—not a soul to watch her make a fool of herself. There was just the two of them. And it might, after all, be fun...

‘Come on, Lady Joanna, where’s your sense of adventure?’ Laurence whispered. ‘The theatre is a world of make believe. Here you can be Rosalind or Cleopatra. Lady Macbeth or Juliet. Or just...Lady Joanna Northrup pretending to be someone else.’

He was the devil in disguise, Joanna decided as she reluctantly walked on to the stage. Only the devil could make the doing of something immoral feel like it was anything but. ‘If anyone finds out about this—’

‘No one is going to find out,’ Laurence assured her as he handed her one of the scripts. ‘The only people in the building are my uncle, my sister and an elderly stage hand. If there
was
anyone who I thought might take note of your actions, I would tell you. You believe me, don’t you?’

For whatever misguided reason Joanna did. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then let’s give it a go, shall we?’

It all seemed harmless enough. Joanna glanced down at the script and saw that her part, or rather Rosalind’s, was marked in red. Duke Frederick, the part Laurence was reading, was in black. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

At her nod, he took a few steps away. When he turned back, it was as though Duke Frederick stood in his place. He appeared straighter, stiffer, his shoulders thrown back, his head held high. ‘“You, cousin, within these ten days if that thou be’st found so near our public court as twenty miles, thou diest for it.”’

Joanna stared at him in disbelief. Dear Lord, even his voice was different! It was stronger. Richer, imbued with the authority of a royal duke—

‘Lady Joanna?’ He was Laurence again.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’ Joanna glanced down at the page. Her hands were shaking and her heart was pounding. She’d never felt so self-conscious in her life. She took a deep breath, and began to read. ‘“I do beseech your grace, let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me—”’

‘Slower, Joanna,’ Laurence said, surprising her by the easy use of her first name. ‘In speaking to thousands of people, you must not rush your words. Feel the richness of the language. The beauty of the Bard’s words.’

Joanna nodded and, gripping the papers harder, began again. She wanted to do this well, if for no other reason than to look good in his eyes. ‘“I do beseech your grace, let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me. If with myself I hold intelligence or have acquaintance with mine own desires, if that I do not dream or be not frantic, as I do trust I am not, then, dear uncle, never so much as in a thought unborn did I offend your highness.”’

‘“Thus do all traitors,”’ Laurence replied, striding back towards her, ‘“if their purgation did consist in words, they are as innocent as grace itself. Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.”’

‘“Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor,”’ Joanna said, hearing her voice echo in the emptiness of the theatre. ‘“Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.”’

‘“Thou art thy father’s daughter,”’ Laurence intoned, taking her chin in his hand and tipping it up so that their eyes met. ‘“There’s enough.”’

‘“So was I when your highness took his dukedom.”’ Joanna trembled at the touch of Laurence’s hand, yet it was as though she saw in his face, the face of her scheming uncle and all he stood for. ‘“So was I when your highness banished him. Treason is not inherited, my lord,”’ she said proudly. ‘“Or if we did derive it from our friends, what is that to me? My father was no traitor. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much to think my poverty is treacherous.”’

She went to pull free of Laurence’s grip, but he held her firmly in place, his eyes burning into hers as he stared down at her.

Joanna met his gaze boldly, still viewing him as Rosalind to Duke Frederick, the tension between them causing her breath to quicken and her chest to rise and fall in the drama of the moment.

And then, abruptly, everything changed. It wasn’t Duke Frederick’s face she saw a heartbeat away from hers, but Laurence’s—one that had become dearer to her than any other. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, smell the fresh citrus scent of his soap as he drew closer. In that moment, they were totally alone in that deserted theatre. No one else there...only the two of them.

‘Joanna,’ he whispered. His head bent towards hers, his lips drawing closer as she closed her eyes and reality slipped away—

She heard the applause first. A slow, steady clapping of hands. Then, ‘Bravo, Lady Joanna, bravo! ’Pon my word, I have never seen such a compelling Rosalind these many years.’

Joanna gasped and jumped back, thrusting the script behind her. ‘Mr Templeton!’ To her horror, Laurence’s uncle and sister were smiling up at her from the pit. ‘I had no idea you were there!’

‘I could tell,’ Mr Templeton said. ‘You were amazing! Totally consumed by the part. Laurence, why did you not tell me the young lady could act? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person with no experience step into a role so quickly.’

His words, though flattering, did nothing to lessen Joanna’s mortification. She had been caught on a stage, with her chin clasped in Laurence’s hand, staring up at him as though her life depended on it. And while Rosalind’s had—hers most certainly had not!

‘Yes, well, that was...quite thrilling,’ she stammered, tugging self-consciously at her spencer. She thrust the script back at Laurence, aware that the wretched man was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I really must be going.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Laurence said. ‘Or we could, if you like, run through a scene from
Antony and Cleopatra
. I happen to have some pages from it here—’

‘Thank you, Mr Bretton, but I have had quite enough performing for one day! Good afternoon, Mr Templeton.’

Her face burning, Joanna fled. She didn’t wait for either Laurence or his sister to join her. She ran out to the waiting carriage, only to sit there with her face in her hands, wondering if she would ever recover from the humiliation.

What must they be thinking? It was bad enough she had been heard reciting lines from a Shakespearean play with a certain degree of...enthusiasm, but to be caught staring at Laurence like some love-struck schoolgirl was beyond all explanation! Had they been enacting Romeo and Juliet she might have been able to put the look down to the part she was playing, but there would have been no love in Rosalind’s eyes when she looked at her uncle. There would have been antipathy. Hatred. Disgust.

None of which Joanna had felt—or communicated—during her last few minutes on stage with Laurence. Her secret had been revealed by a man who had been dead for centuries!