Wicked Company (32 page)

“Go recruit Mavis,” Sophie said flatly. “She thinks she can perform miracles on stage.”

“Mavis has two left feet when it comes to dancing. Please, Sophie. ’Twould be a great favor to me.”

“Hunter, you are granted more than enough favors from women as it is,” she retorted, pulling her shawl closer to her body.

“Sophie… I—I don’t have
time
to discuss what the complications are between Mavis and me,” he said distractedly, beginning to pace before the fire. His worried look was as gloomy as the weather outside her window.

“I suppose you’re too preoccupied with this weighty crisis to squander precious moments on such a distasteful subject!” she retorted sarcastically. “See here, Hunter, this is nothing to do with Mavis. The mere
thought
of dancing on a stage terrifies me. I can’t do it.”

“You danced on the
street
in Edinburgh in front of crowds of people,” he said with exasperation. “And you were dying to dance with me at Miss Nicky’s Cotillion.”

“’Twas different, that,” she retorted, chagrined by the memory of remaining a wallflower at the dance.

“Why? Why was it different? These are simple Scottish dances you already know.”

“Because—”

She couldn’t bring herself to explain how she had been totally captivated by the brash young strolling player the first day they’d met or how much she longed to dance with Hunter that night when all the young women of Edinburgh were making cow eyes at him. But dance
on a stage?
With an audience staring at her, waiting for her to make a slip or a stumble? ’Twas too reminiscent of being called to the witness box to testify at her father’s trial.

“I’ve persuaded John Arthur to pay you a pound a week for as long as you perform,” he said, interrupting her disjointed reverie.

Sophie hated to admit that her profits from selling oranges had been quite meager, no matter how fast she had learned to cut the sections with her knife. After paying Mrs. Hervey for her room and board and other incidentals, she hardly had a farthing to spare. She wondered how she would ever earn enough money to pay for her coach trip back to London when the theatrical season concluded in May. A pound a week was no small consideration.

“Do you think this dancer will be ill the entire week?” she asked sharply.

“I’m positive,” Hunter replied enthusiastically. “She sounded dreadful last night. Sneezed through the entire
pas de deux!”

Sophie sighed and nodded.

“As long as you
swear
’tis mostly steps you’re sure I already know…”

“I’ll change everything to make it that way!” he beamed. He looked around her spartan surroundings. “Quick now, get dressed in something simple you can dance in.”

Hunter was true to his word. Before the afternoon was out he had simplified the steps of a dance that spoofed the foibles associated with Scottish thrift.

“You certainly toady to the English in this piece,” Sophie commented disapprovingly, wiping her damp brow with a corner of her faded blue skirt.

“They buy the majority of tickets,” he replied with a shrug. “Let’s begin again, I want to go over that section where you pilfer the money out of my pocket…”

Hunter hummed the tune the orchestra would be playing and they ran through the steps once again. This time, Sophie thought with satisfaction, she was beginning to feel at ease with the simple musical playlet. Most of it was pantomime, and she felt exhilarated dancing with Hunter in such light-hearted fashion. For the first time in months, her spirits lifted. Suddenly, she found herself grinning as he played the role of a skinflint old swain in love with an avaricious lass determined to separate him from his money. As the routine concluded, Hunter picked her up under her arms and whirled her around in a dizzying circle.

“Brilliant, lass!” he chortled, allowing her body to fall against his as he set her back on her feet.

Sophie stared up at him, acutely aware that he had not removed his arms from around her waist. A strange current of emotion passed between them and as he inclined his head toward hers, she was certain that he intended to kiss her firmly on the lips.

Suddenly, loud clapping erupted from the back of the theater.

They sprang apart, startled and embarrassed. Mavis Piggott, swathed in a stunning blue velvet cloak, strode through the auditorium toward the stage.

“What a little wonder she is,” Mavis said sarcastically. “And I do mean little. She dances those jigs like a regular whirling dervish.”

“What are you doing here?” Hunter demanded.

“I paid you a call, darling. When I found you not at your lodgings, there was only one other place you could be.”

“Only one?” Hunter replied coolly.

From his distant demeanor, Sophie wondered whether he had yet learned that Mavis was with child. If he had, was he displeased?

“Have we finished?” Sophie asked quietly.

“Well… ah…” Hunter temporized.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” she said quickly, “and this exercise has fatigued me. I’ll just be going.”

“Be here at ten tomorrow morning for a final rehearsal,” Hunter ordered. “No social engagements this evening, mind you,” he added sharply. “You’ll need every ounce of energy you’ve got for tomorrow night.”

“So will
you,
” Sophie retorted sharply, looking pointedly at Mavis. Before Hunter could reply, she quickly departed.

***

Sophie felt physically ill as she began calling out her wares in the theater foyer. Hunter’s “Entertainments” were scheduled after the presentation of the comedy
All in the Wrong,
but already, her skin had begun to feel clammy with stage fright. Even so, she could not afford to pass up an opportunity to earn a bit of extra money and resigned herself to her fate.

“Oranges… Spanish oranges… six pence for delicious oranges!” she called, feeling her stomach churn alarmingly at the thought of her imminent performance.

“Sophie, my dear, ’tis all the talk in Bath, this debut of yours,” Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt exclaimed, sauntering to her side with the imposing Roderick Darnly, the Earl of Llewelyn’s second son, in his wake. “‘For the first time on any stage! Sophie, the Orange Girl!’” he said, quoting the placard affixed to the theater outside.

“’Tis a tiny part… and I’m filling in only until some poor lass recovers from the ague,” she explained hastily.

“Well, we shall be your faithful supporters, cheering you on from our box,” Roderick Darnly commented with apparent gravity. But his cool appraisal of her face, figure, and ridiculous milkmaid costume did little to bolster her confidence.

“Well, I’d best be getting back stage,” she said nervously.

Before she realized what Peter was doing, the baronet had seized her hand and brought it to his lips.

“All good luck, Sophie,” he murmured over her fingers. “And I hope you won’t forget our plan to meet tomorrow. We can show you all the pleasure spots of Bath and you can read a bit of my play, eh what, Darnly?”

“Miss McGann seems in little need of the medicinal baths, but perhaps tomorrow night’s ball might amuse her,” Darnly suggested as he raised a scented handkerchief to his aquiline nose.

Sophie stared at the two men, chagrined.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized. “I’m sure I must rehearse. I’ve a new piece to learn.”

“Ah, yes… the budding player,” Roderick Darnly interrupted. “Another time, perhaps. Come, sir… we must take our seats.”

Sophie turned over her remaining oranges to Nancy Quinn and dashed out the front door. She bolted down Orchard Street and reentered the theater at the stage door just in time to hear the restless audience hissing something happening on stage that displeased them. Ten minutes later, she was staring, white faced, into the peer glass while the character actress, Mrs. Lee, helped arrange her coiffeur.

“Here, dearie,” she said, brandishing a comb. “Let a few of those charming auburn ringlets cascade down your pretty neck.”

“Ready?” a masculine voice called urgently from the threshold.

Sophie turned to face her dancing partner who stood waiting at the door, outfitted as an old man with makeup to match.

“I-I’m shaking…” Sophie choked. She was amazed by the transformation of Hunter wrought by stage artifice. He wore a grizzled wig and he’d drawn deep age lines around his eyes. Other charcoal marks extended from the corners of his nose to the corners of his mouth. “You look a hundred and two!” she exclaimed.

“And you look absolutely lovely,” he said quietly, advancing into the chamber.

“Oh, Hunter,” she wailed. “I c-can’t do it! I can’t face all those people. They’ve been
hissing!”

“And well they should. They paid good siller to see
All in the Wrong
and Mavis hasn’t bothered to learn her speeches. But no matter, Sophie,” he added with mock solemnity. “There’s no escape.”

“Just smile, dearie,” Mrs. Lee said, giving Sophie’s hand a squeeze, “and they’ll never look at your feet.”

With the veteran player’s advice ringing in her ears, Sophie allowed Hunter to take her by the hand and lead her to their stage left position to await their entrance. Mavis and her fellow actors were delivering the concluding lines to an audience that seemed more intent on chatting than watching the play. Sophie noticed Hunter’s mouth had flattened out into a grim line, but he squeezed her perspiring palm encouragingly.

“Remember, you don’t have to utter a word. Take Mrs. Lee’s advice: just smile and dance,” he said, sotto voce. “Leave everything else to me.”

The applause was humiliatingly sparse as the actors took their bows. Mavis stalked off stage and nearly collided with them in the wings.

“Beastly crowd!” she said, looking furious. She scrutinized Sophie’s appearance, adding maliciously, “They’ll howl a novice like you right off the stage.”

Before either Hunter or Sophie could reply, Mavis stormed off and the orchestra began the musical interlude before the second half of the evening’s presentations—the much-heralded “Entertainments.”

“All right, poppet,” Hunter said in a low voice, adjusting his tam on his powdered gray locks, “grin and enjoy yourself.”

“As if I
could!”
Sophie muttered, forcing an idiotic smile to her lips as she skipped on stage.

The crowd took its time to settle down, and Sophie could hear whispers buzzing from box to box. Soon, however, she began to concentrate on the simple dance steps and pantomime bits of comedy. An appreciative burst of laughter greeted her the first time she raided Hunter’s coat pocket of gold ducats. The music played faster and faster and their droll jig sped to its farcical conclusion. Sophie gazed up at Hunter with a look bordering on amazement. The audience was not only clapping but actually stamping its feet with approval. The contrasting heights of the two dancers and the choreography’s blatant buffoonery apparently rendered the portrayal of a Scottish skinflint amusing enough to please the crowd, especially one that had endured the lackluster comedy preceding the act. Finally, the tomfoolery concluded with Hunter chasing Sophie off the stage.

Panting with exertion in the wings, Sophie watched as Hunter hurled himself past the flies. As applause began to rumble across the foot candles, he turned, strode toward her and in an instant, swept her off her feet in a bear hug. Before she could even catch her breath, he set her back on her slippers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he brought his lips down hard against her own. He pressed a palm against each of her ears, blotting out the sound of the raucous cheers and encasing her in a new world of warmth and sensuality. He kissed her long and thoroughly until her legs felt wobbly and she found herself clinging to him fiercely and kissing him back. The audience was still cheering when they finally pulled away from each other, their breathing ragged. They exchanged a look of utter astonishment. Then, as if waking from a dream, Hunter seized her hand and dragged her back on stage where they acknowledged the applause with bows and curtsies.

At length, they exited toward the tiring-rooms, so short of breath they couldn’t speak. A beaming Mr. Arthur clapped Hunter on the back and pinched Sophie’s cheek approvingly. Hunter barely had time to give her a second hug before dashing to the men’s tiring-room to prepare for another musical number. Sophie remained rooted to the spot, trying to still her pounding heart.

Sir Peter Lindsay-Hoyt and Lord Darnly were among the first audience members to greet Sophie in the Greenroom. As she accepted the young men’s compliments, she could see Mavis out of the corner of her eye, striding toward Hunter the moment he entered the crowded chamber. The actress had changed into a magnificent gown of burgundy silk, its tight-waisted bodice and low-cut design revealing creamy breasts barely contained by the rich ruby fabric. Resolutely, Sophie turned her back on the pair’s animated conversation and gave Peter her complete attention.

“You were a staggering success!” exclaimed the young baronet. “Darnly, wouldn’t you call Sophie’s debut brilliant?”