Much Ado In the Moonlight (55 page)

Life was good and cattle for miles were now safe.

It didn’t get much better than that.

Connor
leaned over the counter and peered into the glass jars. He lifted one, sniffed vigorously, then pulled back and sneezed heartily.

“What, by all the saints, is that?”

“Red raspberry leaf,” Victoria said.

“What purpose does it serve?”

The girl behind the counter, the one with the silver ball coming out the side of her nose and the ring through her eyebrow, sighed wearily. “Female complaints.”

Connor put the jar back with alacrity. “I think I’ll leave all these things alone.”

“That might be best.”

Connor leaned against the counter and let Victoria be about her business. He looked about the Tempest in a Teapot and wondered how Victoria had managed to get her theatergoers out of this place with all its marvelous smells that seemed to make him want to go to sleep and up the stairs to the theater. Perhaps her patrons were made of sterner stuff than he.

And it had taken a bit of stern stuff to acclimate himself so quickly to all that Manhattan had to offer. Indeed, the past fortnight had been a whirlwind of activity, starting with the selling of part of his buried treasure and finishing with trying to get to sleep in Victoria’s small apartment that seemed to be in a place in the city where no one ever slept. And sandwiched between those two events had been a quite lovely wedding and a highly enjoyable honeymoon at Artane.

No wonder Thomas and Iolanthe went so often to visit. Connor had seen the sea before, of course, but there was something quite magical about visiting a keep that stood so close to the shore.

That might have had something to do with the company, though.

He looked at Victoria and couldn’t help a smile. By the saints, she was magnificent, in looks and temperament both. He reached out and smoothed a hand down her hair before he could stop himself.

She smiled briefly at him, then turned back to her business.

“Look, Moonbat, I just want to talk to Mr. Chi.”

“He’s meditating.”

Connor pursed his lips. He’d heard all about the forced takeover of Victoria’s space by a man who apparently twisted himself into uncomfortable shapes and made his fortune teaching others to do the same. Victoria did not have fond feelings for the man. Connor could not blame her, given that the man had laid siege to her theater.

“Is he leasing his meditation space,” Victoria pressed, “or has he bought it?”

Mistress Moonbat shifted uneasily. “He’s leasing.”

“Then I’ll buy him out.”

“But—”

“I’ll offer you double what he’s paying.”

“Vic,” Moonbat said, dragging her name out for a very long moment, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“And jerking it out from under me was?”

Moonbat leaned forward. “Vic, it’s a lot of money.”

“I have more.”

“I’ll think about it. Until then, can I make you some tea?”

Victoria scowled fiercely. “No, thanks. We’ll just go have a hot dog down the street.”

Connor could have sworn Moonbat rushed off to the loo to puke, but what did he know? What he did know was that he had learned to appreciate the hot-dog vendors on the corners of the Big Apple and if Victoria was willing to indulge him again, he would not refuse. He followed her happily from the shop, leaving behind jars of things he was certain Patrick MacLeod would appreciate but that were not precisely to his taste.

“I don’t get it,” Victoria said, looking puzzled as they walked down the sidewalk. “If it’s money, why won’t she budge?”

“There must be more to it.”

“I guess—” She gasped suddenly and dragged him into the alcove of a building. “Look!”

He looked. He saw Michael Fellini strolling into the Teapot as if he owned the place. “Ah,” Connor said wisely, “there is your answer.”

“I should go see what’s really going on.”

“Nay, allow me,” Connor said. “Fellini won’t recognize me.”

“But Moonbat will.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised, but didn’t gainsay him. He patted her affectionately, thought better of it, and kissed her passionately, then trotted off whilst she was still distracted.

Being wed to Victoria McKinnon had been more delightful than he could have imagined—and he had imagined quite a bit.

He approached the store and scouted out any potential locations. He pulled his Yankees baseball cap out of his pocket and clapped it on top of his head, then slunk into the shop and pretended great interest in fruity soaps.

Er, herby soaps.

He decided right then that he much preferred the fruity sort.

He eavesdropped with enthusiasm, but wondered if his ears were beginning to fail him. He listened to Michael Fellini spew forth his drivel, listened to a very fond good-bye which, he saw by means of a casual glance over his shoulder, included much kissing, then waited until Fellini had left the shop before he followed him. He flashed Moonbat Murphy a glance of annoyance.

She grasped frantically for herbal comfort.

Connor quickly returned to Victoria’s side. “You will not believe it.”

“Tell me,” she said. “Was there money exchanged?”

“More than that.”

“Really? What?” she asked, wide-eyed.

He took her hand, then pulled her along with him. “It would seem that Fellini wants your wee Teapot for himself. I daresay he’s enough of an actor to leave Mistress Moonbat believing that he loves her in truth.”

“Really,” Victoria said in surprise. “But the Bat isn’t that gullible.”

“Perhaps she’s been sniffing too many of her wares and has dulled her senses.”

“Did he kiss her?”

“Do you care?”

“Only in that I’m relieved I never succumbed,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“I might have had to do him damage, otherwise,” Connor said pleasantly. He looked at her and knew she fretted. “There will be other theaters, Victoria. ’Tis not this one that holds the magic; it is you who brings magic to stage.”

“I want to believe that.”

“You should,” he said firmly. “We will find another place.”

She nodded and fell silent. Connor allowed her peace— such as could be found in Manhattan. He looked about them as they walked, marveling that so much of humanity could dwell within such a small space, yet still manage to live their lives in relative contentment. Och, aye, there was the occasional bad apple, but that was to be expected. What manly man could go about his labors without the odd comment now and then? And what wench worth her salt could avoid a colorful pronouncement when vexed overmuch?

Connor had worried once or twice on the plane flight over if he would manage to live in Victoria’s city without longing for the countryside. Of course, he’d wondered several things on that flight over, when he’d seen the earth below from a vantage point he never would have dreamed of during his lifetime. But Manhattan pleased him well for the time being. He supposed it was possible that they wouldn’t be there forever.

They certainly wouldn’t be there if Victoria could not find a site for her plays.

“We have to meet Fred in ten minutes,” Victoria said. “You’ll like the restaurant.”

“I’ll have a hot dog for dessert.”

“Of course you will.”

The interview with Fred was pleasant. Fred vowed to get to the bottom of the conundrum. Apparently, he knew a guy. What that meant, Connor couldn’t have said, but Victoria seemed to be satisfied. All Connor knew was that Fred shared his dislike of Michael Fellini and his affection for Victoria McKinnon, and for that Connor approved of him heartily.

The afternoon was passed most satisfactorily, plotting Fellini’s demise with Fred. Then he and Victoria retired to her small house. It was little more than a box with a window, but Connor found it to his liking. Then again, perhaps it was that he found the company to his liking.

In the end, what pleased him the most was the fact that Victoria was his and that she welcomed him into her arms and into her bed.

That took up a goodly part of the afternoon quite satisfactorily.

Connor considered over supper, then thought some more as they ventured out into the evening to take in a play on Broadway. It was a musical and Connor enjoyed it, though he was not overly impressed with the acting.

Victoria was better.

But he hesitated to tell her so. She would have to come to the conclusion on her own. Perhaps a return to Thorpewold now and again wouldn’t be unthinkable. After all, Thomas had gifted it to Victoria as a wedding present—not that he’d needed to. Connor would have purchased it, but the damned stubborn man had refused. Connor had accepted it, more willingly than he normally would have, simply for Victoria’s sake.

Aye, they could open their own theater there and likely make a goodly living doing so. Not that they needed the gold, but he suspected they would both go a little mad not doing something constructive. Bairns would hopefully come in time and then their lives would change again, but for the moment, he was content to watch Victoria tread the boards where she could.

“You’re thinking,” she said, tilting her head back to look at him from where she rested in his arms.

“I was thinking of your Ophelia,” he said with a smile. “I would like to see you do something else.”

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted, “but I don’t know how. Then again, if Bernie the Bardmaker has made it so I have no actors left, maybe I will be happily without a choice.”

“But until then,” he said purposefully.

Aye, they would keep themselves busy somehow.

Victoria
could hardly believe she was engaging in her current activity, but all signs pointed to the fact that she was puttering. She never puttered, preferring to take on things that required the full use of all her mental faculties. It was amazing what losing her venue, losing her actors, and losing her reputation all in a single week had done to her.

She stopped in front of the window and stared outside. All in all, it had been a very good month. She’d gotten married, she’d had a wonderful honeymoon, and she was currently delighting in each day that brought her new hours to spend with Connor.

Of course, the fly in the ointment had been Bernie the Bardmaker, who had managed to make it so no one wanted to work for her. She hadn’t been surprised.

She hadn’t been happy, either.

Contemplating the potential for Michael’s theatrical demise with Fred had taken up the better part of the past week, but now she was left with the tatters of her theater career and no needle and thread with which to mend it.

She looked down the street and found herself smiling in spite of it all. Connor was coming home from a brief trip to the local deli. She had frisked him for lethal weapons on his way out, so she hadn’t really worried that he would get into trouble, but with Connor, you just never knew.

He bounded up the steps and into her apartment. “My lady,” he said with a low bow. He straightened and presented her with his spoils. “Turkey and swiss on rye, hold the mayo and do some business with the mustard.”

She laughed. “You’re sounding very modern today, my laird.”

“Och, nay,” he said with a smile. “’Tis just my line I practiced for the man at the deli. He glowered at me so the other day when I attempted to converse in a normal fashion that I felt I had to humor him. He makes bloody good sandwiches and I didn’t want to anger—”

The phone rang. Victoria was so surprised she jumped. It had been days since the phone had rung in that businesslike, not-family-on-the-other-end kind of way. She looked at Connor briefly.

“I have a feeling about this,” she said slowly.

“Fate?” he asked, unearthing his treasures from the deli sack.

“Indigestion, probably,” she muttered as she walked over and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Victoria?”

She frowned. Not family, not Bernie, not Fred with news about a hemorrhoidal flare-up for Michael. “Yes,” she said slowly. “This is Victoria.”

“Stuart Goldberg here.”

Victoria choked. She didn’t mean to, but she was caught so off guard she couldn’t stop herself. Stuart Goldberg was her arch-enemy, her nemesis, the man who had made a career of poaching her best actors for his productions, which were far closer to Broadway than hers were. It took her a moment or two to be able to speak. “Stuart,” she wheezed. “How lovely to hear from you. What do you want?”

He laughed easily. “Always to the point, aren’t you?”

“Really, is there any subtlety left between us?” she managed. “Unfortunately, I can’t provide you with any sport today. My stable is quite empty.”

“Sport?” he echoed. “What a quaint term.”

“I’ve been in Scotland for the summer. It rubbed off on me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

Victoria waited. Stuart seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to gather his thoughts. “Well?” she prompted.

“Well,” he said slowly, “this is the deal. I’m doing the Scottish play.”

She pursed her lips. “How nice for you.”

“Well, it was until three days ago when I lost my queen. I think you know her: Cressida Blankenship.”

“She bailed on you?”

“Yes, damn her to hell. And get this: She’s signed on to do
Twelfth Night
with Michael Fellini.”

Victoria considered furiously. She didn’t know anyone who was doing
Twelfth Night
. Well, she didn’t know anyone doing it that Bernie would consider up to Michael’s standards. “He’s acting in it?” she said. “For whom?”

“He’s not acting, he’s directing.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. I have no sense of humor.”

“Well,” Victoria said, somehow not very surprised by anything she was hearing. Michael had wanted to direct. Now he had his chance. “That’s good for him, but it leaves you in sort of a bind, doesn’t it?”