A Dangerous Love (38 page)
“Very well,” he said to Lady Helena. “You do what you must, and I’ll do what I must.” Full of impotent rage and frustration—most of it directed at himself—he added, “I’ll find her, however, if I have to scour every goddamned theater in the country. And I swear, if she’s been harmed in the least, I’ll lay the responsibility for it on
your
head.”
He started to walk off, but her voice halted him.
“I make the same promise to you, Mr. Knighton. You’ve already broken my sister’s heart. So help me, if you now rip it out, I’ll rip yours out in return and feed it to those London ‘sharks’ who worry you so.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t even look back at her.
But as he strode away, he heard Daniel snap, “At least the poor man’s got a heart, m’lady. That’s more than I can say for you.” Then Daniel hurried after him.
Tears welling in her eyes, Helena watched both men stride down the stairs. How dare Daniel Brennan call her heartless? If anybody lacked a heart, it was that great oaf of a highwayman’s son who’d taken money to help his employer deceive and destroy them all. How dared he criticize
her
after all his lies?
She struggled to regain her calm. It didn’t matter what the wretched rogue said—she refused to let it bother her. With any luck, she’d never have to lay eyes on him again—him and his sly charm and rough courtesies and subtle ways of making a woman feel as if she actually were desirable and whole—
She groaned.
A pox on you, Daniel Brennan! You and your wicked employer both!
Still, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. She hadn’t once considered the dangers to Rosalind in going off to London alone. Rosalind had always been perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And after what Rosalind had told her about Mr. Knighton’s plans, Helena had been so irate she’d been eager to see Rosalind thwart him.
But what if he did love Rosalind? What if he meant it?
Well, she wouldn’t stand in the way of it, even if Mr. Knighton
was
a toad and his man of affairs a snake. She’d write Rosalind to warn her of his coming and to tell her what he’d said. Then Rosalind could decide on her own about seeing him.
Yes, that’s what she’d do. And then Daniel Brennan could at least acquit her of being heartless.
Players, Sir! I look upon them as no better than creatures set upon tables and joint-stools to make faces and produce laughter, like dancing dogs
.
Samuel Johnson, patron and critic of the theater, as quoted in James Boswell’s
Life of Samuel Johnson
T
hree days after arriving in London, Rosalind leaned against a pillar at the entrance to the Covent Garden Theatre, munching an apple and watching as an assortment of equipages streamed down Bow Street—brilliantly painted barouches, sedan chairs, and phaetons driven by reckless young bucks. London had everything Stratford did not—theaters and shops and coffeehouses.
And people. All sorts of people. Only last night, Mrs. Inchbald had brought her to a gathering of theater folk that included Richard Sheridan himself. She’d even spoken with him, and that was
without
Griff’s help.
She cursed under her breath. Blast Griff.
He
was
the reason she couldn’t enjoy London as she should. The bloody man plagued her thoughts every waking hour.
She’d tried to put him out of her mind. She’d tried to forget him—but apparently forgetting Griff wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Every time she ate plums or read Shakespeare or saw men playing billiards, she thought of him. Every time she disrobed she remembered their lovemaking. She hadn’t met any men in London who compared to him, and she was always comparing them to him. One man was not as quick-witted as Griff. Another lacked his intensity. Yet another roused a strange repugnance because his hair wasn’t black and his eyes not blue—
Damn him! She hated him for doing this to her, poisoning her for any other man. For not loving her as she loved him. She wiped away the tears that had filled her eyes without her even noticing. She wouldn’t cry over that wretch. She would not! He didn’t deserve it.
He’d probably washed his hands of her already, anyway. He had his bloody certificate, after all. What would he need with her?
Eventually, however, he was sure to cross her path in London. She only prayed it would be many weeks away. By then, she’d be ready for him, ready to appear cool and unaffected.
As if she could ever hide her feelings around Griff Knighton. She swore and stuffed the half-eaten apple in her apron pocket.
“Your mother would turn over in her grave to hear you use such language,” a voice commented at her side.
She turned to find Mrs. Inchbald smiling at her.
“Yes, I suppose she would.” Rosalind prayed her reddened eyes wouldn’t reveal all her misery.
“Mama’s strictures about foul language had no effect on me, I’m afraid, although Helena took them quite to heart.”
At sixty-two, Mrs. Inchbald was still a pretty woman, as slender and graceful as she’d been in her youth when she’d played in Convent Garden herself. With a mobcap covering her curls, she seemed as modest and reserved as any older widow, but she was actually quite lively and possessed a fine command of dramatic literature. She was also more generous than Rosalind had expected, for she’d invited Rosalind to live with her until Rosalind got on her feet.
“Speaking of your sister,” the woman said now, “I came by the theater to bring you a letter from her that just arrived. I thought it might be important.”
Rosalind took the letter with an aching heart. Helena would probably have news about the family’s reaction to her mad flight. And Griff’s reaction, too. She tucked it away in her other apron pocket, not wanting even Mrs. Inchbald to watch her read it.
Mrs. Inchbald merely raised an eyebrow. “You know, I was only nineteen when I ran away to the theater, but I remember it well. I expected it to be thrilling but instead found it hard and tedious. Mostly, I was terribly homesick. That’s why I moved in with my actor brother after only a week of being ‘independent.’”
“I’m not homesick in the least, I assure you.” Well, perhaps a little. She did miss having Helena to talk to. And walks in the orchard. She missed Swan Park’s huge open spaces, perfect for reciting lines without worrying who might hear.
That was all she missed at Swan Park, however. Truly, it was. And Cook’s apple tarts, of course.
“You’ve made a promising beginning,” Mrs. Inchbald said. “I wasn’t so lucky. I had to start in a
traveling troupe. I hope you appreciate how difficult it is to win a role at Convent Garden on your first try—even a small one like Iras in
Anthony and Cleopatra
.”
“I do appreciate it, especially since I know I have you to thank for it. Your influence is the only thing that garnered me the role. To be truthful, I’m mortified that I never knew you wrote plays and were friendly with all the managers.” Indeed Rosalind had realized very quickly that the manager of Covent Garden—John Kemble—and Mrs. Inchbald were…well…quite good friends. “You didn’t speak of your new profession in your letters. If I’d realized how highly you were regarded, that your plays were published and acted, I should never have dreamed of imposing—”
“It’s no imposition in the least.” Mrs. Inchbald chucked her under the chin. “I’m delighted to help the daughter of my dearest friend. Besides, it wasn’t only my influence that got you the role. Your knowledge of Shakespeare had something to do with it.” Mrs. Inchbald cast her a smile. “Not to mention that the actress who was supposed to play the role eloped with an army captain, leaving John in dire straits. He’d despaired of finding anyone in time for tomorrow night who could learn the lines.”
“I’m grateful he considered me.”
“This part will show your talents nicely and should lead to other things.” She paused, searched Rosalind’s face, then added, “If that’s what you really want.”
Rosalind bit her lower lip and averted her gaze. “Of course it’s what I really want. And I’ll join a traveling troupe if I must.”
“No need for that, I should think.” Twirling her walking stick on the floor of the stone portico, Mrs. Inchbald said in too casual a tone, “John tells me
your speeches are prettily spoken. He did say, however, that you were a bit…opinionated.”
Rosalind sighed. “It’s true, I know, but I can’t help it. They want me to cut out some of the best parts. They’re having me play the role all wrong—making Iras into a milksop. She may only be Cleopatra’s attendant, but Shakespeare clearly meant her to be vivacious and clever. I mean, look at that scene with the fortune-tellers—”
Mrs. Inchbald laughed. “You do have an enthusiasm for Shakespeare, don’t you? I’d forgotten that the bard was your father’s favorite. I fear you’ll soon learn that actresses in small parts have little say over what lines are cut or how the role is to be performed.”
“What about actresses in larger parts?”
“That depends on the theater manager.”
“I see I’ll have to become a theater manager,” Rosalind mumbled under her breath.
Mrs. Inchbald’s eyes twinkled. “Why? Don’t you like performing?”
Rosalind thought of this afternoon’s rehearsal, and being told always where to stand and how to speak and what to wear when she knew perfectly well how it should be. “I haven’t decided. I like having the attention, I think, but I should like it better if it were done right.”
Her friend looked as if she were trying not to laugh. “Do you think your fellow performers aren’t playing their parts adequately?”
“They miss some of their lines, you know.” She sighed. “But I suppose they’re tolerable. Well, except for that nasty Mr. Tate, who pats my bottom every time he passes behind me.”
“You’ll get used to the men’s attentions. A sharp word will usually gain you some breathing room, though it’s best to be careful how you refuse some
of their overtures. Some actors are more powerful than others—you wouldn’t want to offend them.”
That comment gave Rosalind pause. “A…um…friend of mine said that some men consider actresses little better than whores. He—that is, my friend—said that being an actress is degrading. That’s not true, is it?”
Mrs. Inchbald shot her a curious glance. “It depends on the actress. You’re talented and pretty enough, so you’ll be able to do as you please without anyone thinking ill of you once you’re established. Those who lack talent or looks, however, have to…cultivate the right people. I don’t mean resign their virtue, of course. But in such cases, marrying a man who can forward one in the profession isn’t a bad idea. I found it very useful to marry an experienced actor like Joseph Inchbald.”
Rosalind eyed her with shock. “You didn’t marry for love?”
Mrs. Inchbald chuckled. “Love of the theater—that’s what I married for. Why? Is that what you want? To marry for love?”
“Certainly.” She straightened her spine. “If I can’t find a man to love, I shan’t marry at all. I’m quite determined on that point.”
“I see.” She gave her stick another twirl. “Speaking of marrying…while I was talking to John this morning, a man came in looking for you.”
Rosalind caught her breath. “Oh?”
“Oddly enough, it was the same man you wrote to ask me about some time ago. That Mr. Knighton, the one who’s illegitimate.”
“Griff’s not illegitimate!” she cried, then bit her tongue when Mrs. Inchbald raised an eyebrow. “I mean…well, some of the gossip about him is false, that’s all.”
“Well, whatever his legitimacy, it seems he’s been
quite generous to Covent Garden over the years, judging from how John fell all over himself offering his aid. Mr. Knighton claimed he was looking for his fiancée—you.”
A blush rose in Rosalind’s cheeks before she could stop it. Griff here? Looking for her? She hadn’t thought he would go so far. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
“Of course not. I figured if you were desperate enough to run away from home and take a new name on the stage, you had your reasons for avoiding the man.” She shifted her walking stick from hand to hand. “He did seem rather anxious to find you, however, and if we hadn’t fed John that tale about you being my country cousin, he would undoubtedly have told the man who you were at once. But John didn’t mention you except to say he’d hired my cousin.”
Rosalind released a pent-up breath. Griff was looking for her. Why? Because his foolish pride was hurt over losing her? She tilted up her chin. Well, if that was the reason, he’d get over it soon enough, the arrogant scoundrel.
“Thank you,” she told her friend. “I appreciate your discretion. Papa arranged a marriage between me and Mr. Knighton, but I found that we didn’t suit.”
“Then why do you blush at the very mention of his name, my dear?”
She swallowed. “Because at one time I thought we might suit. Unfortunately, I expect a great deal from the man I marry, and I discovered it was far more than Mr. Knighton was willing to offer.” She pasted a false bright smile to her lips. “In any case, thank you for telling me of his visit. Now if you don’t mind, I should like to read my letter since they’ll be calling me back to rehearsal any minute.”
“Certainly. I’ll see you later. Tomorrow is the big day, so we’ll eat at home tonight to give you a chance to prepare.”
Impulsively, Rosalind kissed the woman’s perfumed cheek. “You’ve been so kind to me. I can never thank you enough.”
“Nonsense. I’m not entirely sure that introducing you to the theater is a kindness. But we shall see.” She smiled secretively. “Yes, we shall see.”
As soon as Mrs. Inchbald strode off down the street to her lodgings, Rosalind broke the seal on her letter, desperate now to hear what Helena had to say. She quickly scanned Helena’s account of all the ways she’d tried to delay the men’s departure. The next paragraph, however, arrested her attention at once:
They are on their way to London, and Mr. Knighton seems determined to find you. He was furious when he heard of your flight to London, though that soon gave way to worry. You know the man better than I, so you will know if his concern for your well-being is feigned or genuine. He spoke most anxiously of your safety on the roads and in London. He asked for your direction, and I refused to give it
.