Wicked Company (88 page)

“One hopes not…” Sophie replied softly, mentally seeking assurance from Hunter’s numerous love letters that she had tied with silk ribbons and stored in her desk drawer not fifty yards from where they sat in the Half Moon Tavern.

“I warned the fool that war was coming, and now it has,” Mavis said. “My ship was the last to sail freely out of Annapolis. I’ll warrant you’ll not be seeing Hunter Robertson any time soon.”

***

Sophie attended as many of Garrick’s performances that presaged his retirement as she could, often joining Mrs. Garrick and Hannah More in their private box at the behest of Garrick himself.

Then, on May 15, she and Lorna celebrated Rory’s fifth birthday by taking him to a puppet show at Ranelagh Gardens. They secured a tub of syllabub and three spoons to eat the white, frothy confection in a quiet section of the park.

“’Tis excellent, Mama!” Rory pronounced. “Are you and Aunt Lorna sure you’re quite as hungry as I?”

The two adults erupted into peals of laughter, prompting a crooked grin to spread across the lad’s face that was so reminiscent of Hunter’s, it made Sophie’s heart ache.

“Have as much as you like, darling.” She smiled sadly. “’Tis yours to enjoy. After all, ’tis your birthday, sweet boy.”

During the following week, Sophie had to force herself to continue working on
School for Fools.
Her coffers were dangerously depleted, and with each of Garrick’s “final” performances, she found that she was becoming increasingly melancholy—both for her mentor and herself. Worried for Hunter’s physical safety and disturbed by the lack of correspondence due to the recent upheavals in the Colonies, her heart wasn’t in her writing and she made very little progress.

One evening in early June, following Garrick’s last performance as Richard III, a voice hailed her in the foyer of Drury Lane.

“Sophie, my dear… ’tis charming to have seen you and Hannah More pay the Great Man such devotion of late.” Sophie whirled around to confront Roderick Darnly, resplendent in a pale blue velvet suit decorated with yellow-and-white embroidery.

“You couldn’t have seen Miss More tonight,” Sophie replied mildly. “She has recently departed for Bristol.”

“Actually, I wish to ask of you a slight favor,” Darnly said, surveying Sophie’s serviceable tobacco-colored silk gown, which was etched with a minimum of ruffled batiste at the neckline and cuffs.

“And what might that be?” Sophie inquired warily.

“I cannot discuss it publicly, I fear,” he replied, taking hold of her arm and guiding her down the front steps of the theater where a confusion of carriages and sedan chairs waited to convey patrons into the night. “It concerns a theatrical endeavor. Would you do me the honor of taking a glass of wine with me?” Without waiting for her answer, he hailed his coach driver.

Was Roderick, at last, making an overt bid to gain control of Drury Lane? As much as she longed to flee his company, her future as a playwright might depend on discovering his intentions.

He swiftly opened the coach’s door, assisted her inside, and sat on the bench seat opposite. The coach lurched forward as the horses picked their way through the snarl of traffic clogging the road that flanked the theater.

“I saw you sitting in Garrick’s box with Mr. Sheridan this evening,” the earl began pleasantly, pulling down the window shades inside the coach. A single candle shielded by a glass lamp cast a ghostly light in the narrow confines of the swaying carriage. “Has he agreed to grant you the playbill concession next season?”

“I imagine such concerns have a low priority, considering the other problems he faces in assuming the reins from Garrick,” Sophie responded cautiously.

“Well… the reason I ask, is that I have a little proposition to offer you that might require some of your time. You would not be adverse to being paid for writing anonymously, would you?” he asked, gazing at her speculatively across the moving coach.

“My quill is blunt and my ink pot dry,” she replied, “not to mention my dulled imagination.”

“What I have in mind won’t require much in the way of work,” he said smoothly.

“What won’t?”

“A little amusement I’ve written to entertain the fellows in my club. I’d like you to read it and give me your opinion. There may be one or two scenes you could improve. I’m prepared to pay you ten pounds for your trouble.”

She was relieved to hear that the earl apparently had not captured enough shares at Drury Lane to hold sway over the managers and was still confining his artistic efforts to his social circles. Then, she considered her dwindling coffers, funds that couldn’t be replenished until—and unless—Sheridan formally granted her the playbill concession for the 1776–1777 season. Perhaps if she helped the earl with his playlet, she could earn enough to tide her over and, in the process, would have an opportunity to soothe his unwarranted ire toward Hunter.

“I would prefer first to read the… comedy… is it?” Sophie replied carefully. “Then, depending on the amount of work involved, we could further discuss my fee.”

“Always the canny businesswoman, eh Sophie?” he said. “Ah… here we are at Number Ten.”

The coach pulled up to his imposing town house, its columned facade ablaze with candles. Outside, liveried servants lit the path to the imposing front door with flambeaux. A butler greeted them at the threshold, and a maid whisked Sophie’s shawl from her shoulders. She wondered if Mrs. Phillips, who had agreed to allow Rory to sleep on her couch until Sophie returned from the theater, would be alarmed by her lateness.

“Come… a little refreshment is in order while I fetch the manuscript for you.”

Sophie was handed a glass of sweet wine and beckoned to choose a delicacy from several puddings and sweetmeats laid out on a sideboard in Darnly’s paneled sitting room. The chamber’s windows were decorated with forest green brocade draperies edged with yellow fringe and tied back in deep swags by yellow tassels. Sophie sat expectantly on the edge of a tapestry chair near the marble hearth, nibbling on a bit of treacle tart.

“Thank you, Trevor,” Roderick said briskly to his erstwhile factor through the open door as he reentered the room with a thin manuscript tucked under his arm. “I’ll see to the locking up.”

Quickly, Sophie set her glass and plate on a table nearby and rose, as if to depart.

“I shall read it at my first opportunity, and shall give you my honest account of it,” she said, mimicking the diplomatic tone David Garrick invariably employed with untried authors.

“What I would really like is for you to collaborate on the work with me,” Darnly persisted, retrieving Sophie’s abandoned wineglass from the table and folding it into her hand.

“I-I have said to you innumerable times, Roderick,” Sophie stammered, as she gently attempted to free herself from the nobleman’s grasp, “I have retired as a scribe. I have my son to raise and my print work. I can only agree to read your play and… and perhaps offer some few suggestions…”

“Ah, yes, your son. A handsome lad, I’m told,” Darnly replied, withdrawing his hand and reaching for his own wineglass. “It must present some difficulty, managing alone as you do.”

“I manage quite well, actually,” she replied, sipping her wine to cover her increasing nervousness.

“Do you?” Darnly said. “And a fee as my joint author would not be a boon? Come, now Sophie, no need to prevaricate with me.”

“I am perfectly at ease with the life I have created for myself since my muse utterly abandoned me,” Sophie insisted, desperate to escape the earl’s penetrating stare. “I fear I would only taint your work with my lackluster efforts. However,” she added, in a last-ditch effort to appear gracious, “if you would wish me merely to
read
what you have written… to offer a reaction as befits a member of an audience…”

The Earl of Llewelyn took a draught of his wine and then smiled at her, appearing to have come to some decision. “Since you have promised me an honest account of my play, shall I give you an honest account of another reason I am so delighted you have joined me in my home this evening?”

A
frisson
of apprehension shot down Sophie’s spine.

“After giving the matter considerable thought, I would like, my dearest Sophie, to offer you an important place in my life and work,” he said slowly. “I have it on excellent authority that even if Richard Sheridan grants you the playbill concession for next season, he is famous for not paying his creditors. In such strained circumstances, this could produce a situation quite miserable for you and the boy.” He took another sip from his wineglass, observing her closely during his next words. “Sadly, should Hunter Robertson ever attempt to return to London, he would immediately be apprehended by the authorities. However, if you and I could come to some arrangement, perhaps I could have a word with Lord Mansfield to put aside the charges, after all this time.”

“Is the judge likely to do such a thing?” Sophie asked carefully.

Roderick smiled at her calmly, despite his blatant attempt at bribery.

“I would imagine so… if I asked it of him. Then Robertson could return to his homeland and pursue his considerable talents, without this cloud hanging over him. ’Tis a sensible solution for all concerned, don’t you think?” he added pleasantly. “Between our common interests in the theater and our… long acquaintance… I could offer you shelter, good companionship, and a worry-free environment that might well prompt a return of your muse.” He reached for her hand, raising it to his lips as his eyes bore into hers. “And in future, I may possibly be allowed to seek your hand in marriage. At the rate Peter Lindsay is abusing himself, he can’t live forever…”

Marriage!
Putting aside the earl’s sexual ambivalence, she thought, as she reeled from his pronouncements—why in the world would a peer of the realm wish to wed a commoner like her who, for all he knew, didn’t possess the ability to write plays any longer? In the whirl of thoughts caroming through Sophie’s brain, one notion repeatedly struck her conscious mind.

Mavis Piggott will be absolutely livid!

But did this enigmatic, secretive man lust after
her
—or her
pen,
Sophie wondered, her heart thudding as she withdrew her hand from his.

“Thank you, sir, for your concern for my son’s welfare,” she replied, struggling to maintain her composure. She was certain, now, that Roderick’s offer had some baffling, hidden purpose, though what it could be, she had no idea. What was clear, however, was that he was a man who had spent most of his life coveting what others possessed: titles, honors, poetic genius… even inner peace.

Suddenly, she was gripped by an overwhelming fear of how far the powerful earl might go to secure what he wanted. He had lied and cheated at Sadler’s Wells and, like her husband, Peter, was capable of looking one right in the eye in executing absolute larceny. She had little confidence he would keep his promise to withdraw his bogus charges against Hunter, calculating that this gambit was simply his latest, diabolical maneuver to persuade her to do his bidding.
But why?

She sipped slowly on her wine to gain time, acutely aware Darnly was observing her closely. She forced herself to summon a grateful smile to her lips.

“Unfortunately, there is one, immovable impediment to your generous proposal,” she noted quietly. “Legally, I am a married woman. This arrangement you propose could put you at considerable risk from extortion by my wily husband.”

“I assure you, my dear, I am more than a match for a bogus baronet and am willing to provide for your every need and desire,” Roderick replied, suggestively allowing the tip of his tongue to linger at the rim of his wineglass.

“Ah, but could I provide for
your
needs and desires?” she responded, unflinchingly meeting his gaze. “I fear my poor talents would not be sufficient to render the kind of…
personal service…
I am certain you desire in exchange for such generosity.”

The atmosphere between them suddenly crackled with tension. Let the blackguard wonder at the meaning behind her words, she thought recklessly. She was putting him on notice that she was well aware his proposal was certainly not all it appeared to be.

She placed her wineglass decisively on the table.

“And now, I fear, I must bid you adieu,” she said firmly. “Would your driver be so kind as to escort me home?”

Roderick set his glass abruptly beside hers. His offer spurned, he picked up the manuscript he had fetched from his library.

“No matter about this,” he said curtly. “I have decided to turn over this small writing chore to your husband. The rogue still owes me blunt. Let Peter work it off!”

The butler, not the earl, saw her to his coach. As she rocked along in the soft evening air, she wondered if tonight she had, indeed, turned a sometime friend into a powerful enemy.

Thirty-Four

All of London spoke of nothing but Garrick’s upcoming
final
final performance, scheduled for Monday, June 10. Sophie was touched to have received an invitation from the great man himself to join his wife and several intimates in his box for the occasion. Thankfully, the party would not include Hannah More, who had been forced by family obligations to remain in Bristol.