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Authors: Laura London
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“I know that I didn’t read well this afternoon, but I’m positive that there must be something that I could do in your company. I’ve had experience in the theater . . .”
“My eye and Betty Martin!” flashed Scott, recognizing the lie. “Frankly, I don’t get the feeling that you’ve had experience at much of anything—you’ve been looking around like a barn mouse in a cat’s nest. Take my advice and go home to your mama.”
Frances indulged in some very unchristian thoughts about her attitude toward clever men before saying, “I would be happy for even a tiny part.” She held up her thumb and forefinger close together, demonstrating the insignificance of the role she had in mind.
“Miss Brightcastle,” Scott whispered in an attitude of lending a helpful hint, “even a tiny part takes talent. In the bit you chose, Juliet was dying; you read it as though she were already a ten-hour corpse.”
Frances bore the snub as well as she was able. “Perhaps you could use someone to do mending? I would be willing to work for very little money.”
“This city reeks with chits who are willing to do mending for very little money. I can’t help you.”
Scott turned from her to his cup and his pile of papers. While Frances might be Dogged Determination incarnate, she could recognize a lost cause when she saw one. Knowing herself to be dismissed, she turned to leave, and bumped suddenly and distressingly into Lord Landry. Her recall was quick and clumsy; she bounced back against Scott’s arm and heard him swear as hot coffee splashed on his hand.
“Miss Brightcastle,” said Lord Landry, laying an emphasis on her surname that told her clearly that he had not forgotten she had given him a different one not two days earlier. His knowing eyes enfolded her in their warm green glow. “How charming to stumble into you again.”
Frances saw Scott glance at her with some surprise and a dawning interest. He looked toward Landry to study the famous playwright’s expression with academic curiosity. Then Scott said:
“Friend of yours, Landry?”
A slow, sensual smile curled on Lord Landry’s lips. His gaze never left Frances’ face. “She might be,” his voice was gentle, “if she wanted.”
Fresh hot color swam to Miss Atherton’s cheeks. She almost choked on her fury, and when the words did come, they tumbled out in shaky haste. “It was bad enough that you made that offer to me in private! It’s nothing short of infamous that you should repeat it in public!”
Frances could see that her words had contained a misleading emphasis when Scott responded with barely lifted brows and drawled:
“Oh, I’m deaf, don’t worry; just like talking to a peach pit.” He gave Frances’ shoulder a squeeze with one wide, raw-boned hand. “You didn’t tell me you were Lord Landry’s friend, Miss Brightcastle. Naturally, that changes your situation.”
“I am not Lord Landry’s friend!” declared Frances, her tone arctic. She turned on Landry, glaring at him as his iniquities massed in her mind like charging cavalrymen. And the first thought to break into words was:
“You told me your name was David!”
“My first name,” acknowledged Landry, with a little smile. “I didn’t suppose that knowing my title would have made a difference to you. Would it have?”
Frances made an about-face and marched from the theater without a word.
Chapter Four
A cold rain battered London from dirty gray skies and pedestrians took to their heels, seeking shelter in street-side shops. But Frances was so angry when she left the Drury Lane Theatre that she walked more than half a block before she realized that she was in the midst of a spring downpour. The shops were brimming with a rough company of porters, draggle-tailed vendors, and crossing sweepers. After looking in vain for a hack or a sedan chair that might be rented, Frances decided regretfully that she would have to walk home through the wet. In the rainstorm, a
“My eye and Betty Martin!” flashed Scott, recognizing the lie. “Frankly, I don’t get the feeling that you’ve had experience at much of anything—you’ve been looking around like a barn mouse in a cat’s nest. Take my advice and go home to your mama.”
Frances indulged in some very unchristian thoughts about her attitude toward clever men before saying, “I would be happy for even a tiny part.” She held up her thumb and forefinger close together, demonstrating the insignificance of the role she had in mind.
“Miss Brightcastle,” Scott whispered in an attitude of lending a helpful hint, “even a tiny part takes talent. In the bit you chose, Juliet was dying; you read it as though she were already a ten-hour corpse.”
Frances bore the snub as well as she was able. “Perhaps you could use someone to do mending? I would be willing to work for very little money.”
“This city reeks with chits who are willing to do mending for very little money. I can’t help you.”
Scott turned from her to his cup and his pile of papers. While Frances might be Dogged Determination incarnate, she could recognize a lost cause when she saw one. Knowing herself to be dismissed, she turned to leave, and bumped suddenly and distressingly into Lord Landry. Her recall was quick and clumsy; she bounced back against Scott’s arm and heard him swear as hot coffee splashed on his hand.
“Miss Brightcastle,” said Lord Landry, laying an emphasis on her surname that told her clearly that he had not forgotten she had given him a different one not two days earlier. His knowing eyes enfolded her in their warm green glow. “How charming to stumble into you again.”
Frances saw Scott glance at her with some surprise and a dawning interest. He looked toward Landry to study the famous playwright’s expression with academic curiosity. Then Scott said:
“Friend of yours, Landry?”
A slow, sensual smile curled on Lord Landry’s lips. His gaze never left Frances’ face. “She might be,” his voice was gentle, “if she wanted.”
Fresh hot color swam to Miss Atherton’s cheeks. She almost choked on her fury, and when the words did come, they tumbled out in shaky haste. “It was bad enough that you made that offer to me in private! It’s nothing short of infamous that you should repeat it in public!”
Frances could see that her words had contained a misleading emphasis when Scott responded with barely lifted brows and drawled:
“Oh, I’m deaf, don’t worry; just like talking to a peach pit.” He gave Frances’ shoulder a squeeze with one wide, raw-boned hand. “You didn’t tell me you were Lord Landry’s friend, Miss Brightcastle. Naturally, that changes your situation.”
“I am not Lord Landry’s friend!” declared Frances, her tone arctic. She turned on Landry, glaring at him as his iniquities massed in her mind like charging cavalrymen. And the first thought to break into words was:
“You told me your name was David!”
“My first name,” acknowledged Landry, with a little smile. “I didn’t suppose that knowing my title would have made a difference to you. Would it have?”
Frances made an about-face and marched from the theater without a word.
Chapter Four
A cold rain battered London from dirty gray skies and pedestrians took to their heels, seeking shelter in street-side shops. But Frances was so angry when she left the Drury Lane Theatre that she walked more than half a block before she realized that she was in the midst of a spring downpour. The shops were brimming with a rough company of porters, draggle-tailed vendors, and crossing sweepers. After looking in vain for a hack or a sedan chair that might be rented, Frances decided regretfully that she would have to walk home through the wet. In the rainstorm, a
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