Wicked Company (78 page)

“Hunter, I—”

Her voice caught and she was suddenly unable to complete her thought. The space between them seemed filled with an emotional charge as potent as the sputtering fireworks ignited earlier that evening. Hunter reached across the short distance separating them and pulled her roughly against his chest. He leaned down and kissed her hard.

“Ah… Sophie,” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to kiss those lips since the day we sat in Darnly’s coach arguing over your play,” Hunter confessed, as he traced the outline of her mouth with his forefinger.

“And I’ve wanted to clear up once and for all this business about Colman’s dismissal and—”

Hunter pulled her close again, his chin resting on the top of her hair.

“Colman’s hired me back,” he announced.

Sophie took a step backward and stared up at him.

“He
has?”
she said, her voice betraying her utter amazement. “But why? When? Did he apologize?”

“Apologize?” Hunter laughed shortly. “Not bloody likely.”

“I suppose not,” Sophie agreed. “I have learned to my sorrow ’tis difficult for your sex ever to admit you’re ever wrong.”

“You may be correct in your assessment,” he said dryly, “but Colman
did
offer me managerial responsibilities, in addition to my performing roles.”

“And you’ve accepted his offer?” she asked.

He smiled down at her ruefully.

“I don’t think I could have endured another season as ‘H. Roberto,’ mucking about with all those mad Italian opera singers.”

“Well, I think ’tis wonderful,” Sophie said slowly, “only I—”

“Sophie?” Hunter said, grazing her cheekbone with the back of one finger. “Did you ask Garrick to hire me this season as well?” She refused to meet his glance, recalling how angry he had become at the Nag’s Head when she had offered to do just that. “Because if you did,” he added quietly, “I thank you for the kindness. That was very generous-spirited of you, especially in light of my idiotic behavior once again.”

She glanced off across the river to hide her disappointment that Hunter had apparently turned down the offer Garrick kindly agreed to extend—at her urging.

Hunter gently took her hand. “The rumors of Drury Lane’s interest in me may have inspired Colman to let bygones be bygones and offer me a superior post at Covent Garden.”

“Garrick told me he wrote Colman a letter attesting that you had not betrayed your theater,” Sophie reluctantly revealed, “and he offered you a place at Drury Lane because he greatly admires your talent. Knowing you were…ah…my friend…played only a small part,” she added, staring vacantly across the water.

“Were
friends?” he asked with emphasis. Sophie remained silent, her eyes irresistibly drawn back to his. “And are you still adamant about not mixing business with pleasure?” he queried.

“To do so has been disastrous thus far,” Sophie replied in a voice tight with emotion.

“You are the most difficult woman of my acquaintance,” he blurted. “And you probably consider me as vain as David Garrick and as disagreeable as George Colman.”

“’Tis a fairly accurate assessment,” she murmured as his thumb began to massage the soft skin beneath her ear.

“And once again, I find myself apologizing for… not only jumping to conclusions about you and Darnly—”

“Which was too
stupid
a notion for words,” she exclaimed crossly.

“Sophie!” he cut in. “Now
you’re
the one not listening! I am apologizing for… blaming you for my troubles and for being too proud to ask for your help. Instead, I hurt us both. I ask you humbly to forgive my conceit,” Hunter concluded quietly.

Sophie gazed up at him for a long moment, then impulsively seized his hand and held it against her cheek.

“Thank you for… saying that,” she replied simply.

Hunter leaned forward and kissed the top of her head.

“As your friend Lorna Blount has repeated to me often enough this summer,” he added with quiet firmness, “with some goodwill on both sides, perhaps we can untangle the coil that has complicated our lives and held us in its grip.”

“How?” Sophie asked earnestly. “Until now, the answer has always seemed that one of us must compromise too dearly in either our life or our work.”

Hunter laced his hands through hers.

“I think ’tis something you said long ago… we should be guided by our
common
good.”

“And who decides what that is?” she asked warily.

“We both do… we can consult, like Garrick and Lacy,” “he grinned. “As partners, they do not always agree, but they wish to see their theater succeed, and thus always seem to come to an accommodation that pleases them enough to continue their joint venture.” He gently grasped her chin between his fingers. “I wish, my darling Sophie, for us
both
to succeed in the venture I see stretching before us—in our lives together… and in our work.” He shook his head with resignation. “I know ’tis taken me overlong to understand that what we both do in the world has import and value… but, truly dearheart, if I didn’t see it before we slaved together over this captivating story of Amazons and soldiers…”

“And now…?”

“I see it now.”

As her throat tightened with emotion, Sophie could only nod agreement.

“So…” Hunter said, coaxingly, “as a first order of business, I would like to propose—for your consideration, I hasten to add—that you permit me to spend this night with you atop that tavern, there.” He pointed across the lawn in the direction of the Myddleton’s Head whose candlelit windows glowed like a friendly beacon in the velvety night air.

“’Tis very noisy in my garret,” Sophie whispered, feeling herself begin to tremble as his thumb strayed along her jaw line. “My chambers are directly over the pubroom, I fear.”

“Dinna ye worry, Sophie, m’lass. We winna hear a thing…”

He clasped her by the hand and set off toward the inn at a determined trot. Sophie grew breathless keeping pace with his longer stride, and was quite flushed by the time they reached the side entrance to the noisy inn and tiptoed up the back stairs like guilty children.

He slid the bolt shut with a resounding thud. The chatter from the patrons downstairs faded into oblivion. Then he turned and leaned his long frame against the door, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the miniature chamber. Moonlight streamed through the window over the bedstead, filling the room with silvery radiance.

Staring at her lazily, Hunter shrugged off his coat and began pulling at the buttons of his cambric shirt, tossing both to one side. Sophie’s breathing became shallow and her mouth went dry as he reached down and swiftly removed his buckled shoes, padding in his stocking feet to her side. She leaned against her writing table to steady herself, while Hunter made quick work of stripping her down to her shift.

With his thumbs he eased her last garment past her waist until it fell to the floor of its own accord. Then, as his eyes bored into hers, he took her quill pen off the desk and grazed its feathered tip back and forth around the base of her neck, sending delicious shivers of excitement from her scalp to her toes.

She felt gooseflesh rise on her skin as he skimmed his instrument of exquisite torture between the valley of her breasts, hesitating at her navel and then continued its teasing path to the tops of her legs. There, he began to strafe her thighs with the stiff plume in side-to-side strokes calculated to drive her insane.

“I can’t believe my cursed temper kept me from this,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing her lips. “Or this,” he added, nuzzling her ear. Sinking to his knees, he threw the quill aside and pulled her roughly to him, pressing his cheek against her abdomen and then grazing his lips across her flesh like a parched traveler at a desert well.

Sophie threaded her fingers through his hair and held him tightly. She tried to keep her knees from buckling while his lips sought silent answers to his unspoken demands.

“You are a witch,” he murmured, at length rising to his full height again and playfully shoving her toward the bedstead. “Nay, a sorceress who has powers to exorcise from me those evils of my sex… my arrogance… my awful—”

Sophie threw her arms around his waist, the top of her head tucked under his chin.

“Oh dear God, Hunter… I missed you so much!” she heard herself cry out.

“Sophie… dear, precious Sophie,” he whispered hoarsely, “so did I.”

***

Thomas Rosoman, his wig resting jauntily on a peg near the doorway, greeted Sophie cheerfully enough the next morning, but his smile faded as soon as she explained the purpose of her Sunday visit to his Treasure Room.

“We managers of pleasure gardens do not employ the same system of payment as the Patent Theaters, I’m afraid,” he explained. “Hasn’t Lord Darnly made that clear?”

“He has said you pay a percentage…” she replied in as firm a tone of voice as she could muster.

“Exactly,” Rosoman agreed, looking relieved. “We pay author’s fees based on a percentage of the profits at our season’s end—
after
expenses. We shall declare profits and losses at the end of… ah… let me see now,” he hesitated, “…the end of October.”

Sophie’s glance drifted to the enormous pile of coins that Rosoman had begun to stack like castle turrets across his desk. “As
The Vanquishers Vanquished
has been such an obvious success, are you able to disclose what the house receipts for the piece have been, after ten performances?” she asked with a forced smile. “I would imagine you could, at least,
estimate
what share I am likely to receive. I must plan for the future, you know, sir.”

Rosoman’s glance fell on the pile of money he had been counting and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Ah… I was led to understand that Lord Darnly is looking after your interests,” he said stiffly.

Indignant at the suggestion, Sophie took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

“I am sure you’ve mistaken his meaning, sir,” she said as calmly as she could. “Lord Darnly was kind enough to serve as agent for my play, but monies for my share are to be paid to me directly. That was always my understanding.”

Thomas Rosoman appeared nonplussed and glanced down at a ledger into which he had been entering figures.

“Well, I am afraid you shall have to take up this matter with Lord Darnly himself,” he said gruffly. “He is a participant in this particular venture, along with Mr. Robertson and myself. You’ll have to speak with him and settle this between you.”

“But, I pray you—” Sophie protested, “surely your intent is not to have my play subsidize any failures this summer that were none of my doing! I insist you at least give me a fair accounting of what I can expect to receive from the tremendous success we have all created at your theater,” she demanded.

“I beg your leave,” Rosoman said sharply, “but I fear I must ask you to allow me to continue with my work. Lord Darnly is due here soon, and you can take up this trifling matter with him. Meanwhile, I have a visitor from America waiting for me at Myddleton’s Head to sup midday. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

Sophie knew she could go no further with the matter and exited the Treasure Room barely able to conceal her fury. She seethed with frustration over Rosoman’s assumption that she was to be treated as Darnly’s scribbler.

***

A short, stocky man in his mid-thirties lounged in a corner of the principal chamber of Myddleton’s Head Inn. His rough, homespun linen and outdated clothing revealed him to be the “visitor from America” with whom Rosoman was scheduled to dine. “Do you know who he is?” Sophie asked, postponing her discussion with Hunter about author’s fees to avoid spoiling their pleasant Sunday meal.

“His name is John Henry,” Hunter said, sipping his tankard of ale. “Rosoman tells me he has come to England to recruit actors for a new theater being erected in Annapolis, in the Colonies. ’Tis opening in the autumn season of 1771.”

“You would not consider embarking on such an adventure, would you?” Sophie asked with sudden alarm.

“Of course not,” Hunter smiled across the wooden table. “When I have such prospects in London and you are with me here. The New World holds no enticements, I assure you.”

Sophie felt relieved as the tavern owner’s wife set a steaming pot of ragout on their table and handed them wooden bowls and spoons. They soon fell to eating their supper, but when they had nearly finished, Sophie knew she could postpone her questions about her author’s fees no longer.

“I did not realize you were actually partners with Thomas Rosoman and Lord Darnly in the mounting of my play,” Sophie said casually, scooping up a last spoonful of spicy stew.

“I doubt that ‘partners’ quite describes the arrangement among the three of us,” Hunter replied, reaching for his tankard of ale. “From the first, I liked the basic notion of your play, but I knew we would have to adapt the work for music and dance. Therefore, I insisted that I be paid a percentage fee beyond my wage as a performer. Rosoman agreed. His arrangements with Lord Darnly were made separately—on the day you first arrived at Sadler’s, I believe.”