Miss Dramatic, page 17
“I expected a question about schooling a horse over jumps, not amatory tactics.”
“Mrs. Roberts and I became close shortly after we met. Somebody schemed to separate us or cause trouble between us. They succeeded, though Rose and I are sorting out particulars only now.”
“Rose.”
“Yes, Rose. If fate is kind and the lady willing, I hope to offer her the role of Mrs. Gavin DeWitt.”
“A prudent man would allude to rushing fences and misjudging footing in the face of such a pronouncement. She tossed you into the ditch before.”
They came to the turnoff for Lark’s Nest, and yet, Phillip rode on.
“She never left me that money, Phillip. Somebody else schemed to injure my dignity, and Rose and I never discussed it. She took my hurt pride for an inexplicable rejection, and then she misconstrued some remarks made by another member of the company. Possibly.”
“Dunderheadedness on every hand. Mrs. Roberts is an attractive, comfortably well-off widow. You doubtless had competitors for her attention, whether you noticed them or not. You were the centerpiece of Drysdale’s budding hopes for a London tour, and allowing you to be distracted by a wealthy widow was not in his plans.”
“I was no such thing.”
“Mrs. Drysdale has arrived, and I had the good fortune to partner her at whist last night. She’s looking very much forward to renewing her acquaintance with you.”
“Gemma Drysdale had little enough use for me before, and I lived down to her expectations. I left the company just when Drysdale was considering allowing us to take on the shorter tragedies. She said I’d abandon them as soon as I’d learned a few roles, and she was right.”
And yet, Gavin didn’t sound engulfed in remorse for having fulfilled her worst predictions. “She spoke glowingly of you. Said you had real talent and deserved a better stage for your abilities.”
“If she’s at Miller’s Lament, the other ladies will have arrived at Twidboro Hall.”
Gavin had always been a clever lad. “You went directly to the stables from your bed this morning?”
“In a manner of speaking. Stop dawdling. Herne will grow fat and lazy if you don’t keep him moving.”
Ah, young love. Such an energetic affliction. “Drysdale might well have meddled between you and Mrs. Roberts. You were competition for him on the stage and doubtless made the actors who’d been with him longer discontent. They either resented you or took your part against Drysdale’s less ambitious plans.”
“This has occurred to me. Drysdale likes being center stage, which isn’t the same as having the talent to occupy that spot. He and I need to have a frank and private discussion.”
Phillip’s money was on Gavin, who had the advantages of home turf, personal integrity, a smitten heart, and loyal reinforcements, did he but know it.
“And yonder he comes,” Phillip said. “The man himself, almost as if he heard his cue. I’ll leave you to state your business to him. Shall I take Roland to the grooms?”
Twenty yards up the path, Drysdale was ambling along as if lost in thought. Another unconvincing performance.
“That will suit,” Gavin said, bringing Roland to a halt and swinging down. “Tell the stable lads Roland was an exceedingly good boy. I’ll see you at lunch.” He passed over the reins, touched a finger to his hat brim, and strode forward like a man with a purpose.
Drysdale didn’t check his progress to wait for Gavin, meaning Gavin had to hustle to catch up. That, of course, was deliberate posturing from Drysdale, and Gavin wasn’t in the mood to humor the man—to continue humoring him.
He paced along behind Drysdale about four feet back, scraping his boot against the path from time to time for added effect.
“I can do this all day, DeWitt. Let’s cease with your puerile games.”
“I can do this until the Twid meets up with the Thames miles on, and I have. Many a time. The going always gets a little muddy when the local streams debouch into the Twid, but if one knows the way, the mud can be avoided.”
“How symbolic.”
Gavin halted and stuck his nose in the air. “‘We’ll talk, you and I, about what I’m doing here. For now, I’ll be providing the entertainment, just as I was hired to do.’ I am not entertained by innuendo and strutting.”
Drysdale turned. “You always were a good mimic.”
Gavin had acquired that skill while reciting verse in the snug of the Crosspatch Arms and from performances given before his siblings. Both undertakings had imparted some common sense to him too.
“You learned that I usually exercise my colt along the Twid early in the day, and so you take the first morning constitutional of your long and storied life. You planned to accost me. I’m well and duly accosted, and my sisters expect me for breakfast, so talk.”
Drysdale smiled, adopting the air of the tolerant senior diplomat. “I like your sisters. Miss Caroline will be an original, and Miss Diana will cut a swath in Town. They have provincial charm atop a good education and fine prospects.”
Gavin had started the day with a heart full of joy and determination. He’d had a phenomenal ride on Roland and was already looking forward to seeing Rose at lunch. Drysdale’s mention of Di and Caro put a blight upon all that sparkling wonder.
“My family is not your concern.”
“For two years, they weren’t your concern either. A man who will turn his back on his loved ones is not a fellow of sound morals. Despite his great wealth, he’s also apparently inclined to the occasional bit of thievery. I should know. He used my troupe to disguise—note the irony—his larceny.”
The Twid, swollen with the previous night’s rain, was in lively good spirits, the morning sun brilliant upon the waters. Off in the distance, old Fortinbras bayed a welcome to the morning stage, and yet, Gavin had the sense that evil fairies had transported him from his home surrounds.
“I am not a thief, and you had best explain yourself.”
Drysdale studied the water, his expression one of philosophical resignation. No wonder he stuck to the lighter fare—the tragic airs were not his forte.
“The rest of the cast supports you,” he said. “I’ve questioned them all closely, and while they recall you roaming the Derbyshire venue freely and at curious hours, they don’t condemn you.”
“What on earth would they condemn me for?”
“Immediately following our Derbyshire engagement, you took a notion to decamp. I was adding repertoire, shifting parts, and varying our route all to accommodate your whims, and yet, you turned your back on that opportunity. Why? Because you stole the funds I was paid at that house party, and you stole a certain necklace sitting in the same vicinity. That’s why you quit Drysdale’s Players for no apparent reason. Admit it, DeWitt. There is no other reason for your sudden departure.”
A broken heart was a reason—and none of Drysdale’s bloody business. “I stole nothing, and I had no need of stolen funds. I have no motive, the entire troupe had the same access to these alleged treasures as I did, and you are always in need of coin.”
Drysdale clearly hadn’t expected a logical challenge to his accusations. He stalked off, pivoted, and would likely have shaken his fist at the sky—one of his favorite bits of stage business—had an audience been present.
“You wealthy young wastrels will commit felonies for a lark.” He marched back, stopping just out of pummeling range. “Half this village will attest to the difficulties your womenfolk were in as a result of your thespian adventures. For all the world knows, you did need coin, and you should not have repaid my generosity with betrayal.”
Drysdale’s accusations raised myriad questions. Where had this necklace come from, if it even existed? Had the coins nestled in Gavin’s cravat been the missing sum? If larceny had been committed, who was at fault? What could Rose add to Gavin’s meager recollections of the other house-party guests?
At the moment, none of that mattered. “You expect me to repay the missing money? Am I also to compensate you for this mythical necklace?”
“You are to return the necklace, you dolt. A piece like that is priceless, and I would not accept the money without the necklace, in any case.”
“How can I return a necklace I’ve never seen?”
“If you can’t recall the sight of a rope of rubies set in gold, you are blind as well as arrogant.”
“Sorry. We don’t see much in the ruby line here in Crosspatch Corners. If you can prove I owe you money, I will happily repay a reasonable sum, but I left your troupe without collecting the wages due me, and I gave you three weeks’ notice so you could shift any needed rehearsals. I will consider this distasteful topic closed.”
“No, you will not.” Drysdale took a step closer, then apparently thought better of increasing his proximity. “Between Gemma and me, we can manufacture enough testimony to see you transported at least. If that doesn’t get your attention, then consider the damage I can do to your sisters’ prospects when I pass through my London haunts. A word or two about mental instability in the DeWitt lineage, weak character even for an actor, and recent financial difficulties will work wonders.”
Gavin’s fist in Drysdale’s paunch would work wonders too. “My brother-by-marriage is a marquess, Drysdale. Do you really believe spreading rumors backstage at third-rate houses will be sufficient to counter his influence?”
“Most certainly. Tavistock will take your part out of loyalty and because he sympathizes with a man who’s short of coin. If you doubt I can affect your sisters’ prospects, and you’re happy to risk a trip to the Antipodes—or the gallows—then at least have a care for Mrs. Roberts’s reputation.”
A fist to the gut was too good for such a scoundrel. “Mrs. Roberts is well above reproach in all particulars and has no part in your schemes. Why even mention her?”
“She wanted no parts of you by the time we left Derbyshire. Perhaps you stole more from her than her trust and her time? Maybe she simply tired of your charms and is ready to work her wiles on the next unsuspecting bachelor. Widowhood can turn some women up so wonderfully frisky, but Society expects discretion from those ladies all the same.”
The roar of the river blended with a roar building in Gavin’s soul—of outrage, determination, and disgust. He instead drew upon the civility that a budding respected squire should be able to muster in all circumstances.
He bowed politely. “If you’ve finished reciting your lines in this farce, I’ll be on my way. I know of no missing necklace. I stole nothing from you or from anybody else. I wish you the best of luck with the remainder of your engagement at Miller’s Lament.”
Petty tactics, to break the taboo about wishing an actor luck with a performance, but satisfying. Gavin strolled off, intent on taking the side path that led to Twidboro Hall.
“I’ll give you one week, DeWitt,” Drysdale called. “If you have to retrieve the damned jewels from London, that should be sufficient time, but don’t try my patience any further. When I mutter to my London confreres about your light fingers and the poor character of the women you pursue, my animosity will be unquestionably sincere.”
Gavin ambled along until he reached the turnoff to Twidboro Hall. From the tail of his eye, he saw Drysdale thirty yards up the path, gazing at the river and affecting the pose of the sad contemplative.
What bloody necklace was he pondering—if such jewelry even existed—and who was the true thief?
One thought swam to the surface of the miasma of dread and rage in Gavin’s mind: Rose could not be associated with any of this and most especially not with Gavin himself. Not until the whole sorry business was resolved.
Chapter Thirteen
“You barely spoke to Mrs. Roberts at luncheon.” Diana leveled her accusation at her favorite brother in the whole world, who was also, at the moment, her unfavorite brother in the whole universe.
“You hurt her feelings,” Caroline said, unnecessarily, but Caro was tenderhearted and had caught on to Gavin’s odd behavior before Diana had.
Gavin came around the billiards table and pretended to study the rack of cue sticks. He’d taught them both how to play, and many a winter afternoon had been less boring as a result. Even Lissa and Mama had occasionally taken turns.
“This is what you dragged me up here to discuss? My deportment? I am one of a handful of men participating in this inane gathering. As much as I esteem Mrs. Roberts—very much—I cannot become her personal escort. If you’ll excuse me, I am due to meet with the steward at the Arms. Roland and I will go for our hack thereafter, and I will see you at supper.”
“You are always meeting with the steward,” Diana countered. “Lissa convened with him regularly, too, but she didn’t hare off to the Arms to do it.”
Gavin snatched a cue stick and arranged the three balls on the table—white, red, and spot. “I am not haring off.”
“Yes,” Caroline said. “You are. It’s what you do. We don’t mean you are leaving Crosspatch again. We mean you always have an excuse to go elsewhere. You must hack out on Roland—twice a day, Gavin, every day, rain or shine, without fail. You must meet with the steward. You must call on Vicar. You must see to the accounts. You used to have time to be our brother.”
Diana could not have launched such a salvo with just that blend of pique and wounded pride. Perhaps Caro harbored thespian tendencies too.
Gavin set his ball to the left of the spot. “We grow up, Caroline. Diana is poised for her come out. You will soon follow in her footsteps. I have more on my mind than teaching you lot birdcalls.”
Gavin could be testy or a touch ironic, but he was never, ever mean. He wasn’t being mean now. He had the same holding-on-by-a-thread look in his eyes that Lissa and Mama had had the whole time he’d been gone. Something or someone had rattled him badly.
Not Mrs. Roberts. She’d been rattled as well, by Gavin’s exquisite—and slightly distant—good manners.
“Gav, what’s going on?”
He chalked the tip of his stick. “Why does anything have to be going on? Anything other than the oddest house party in the history of the entire blighted institution? The usual unbridled curiosity of the neighbors? The equally predictable long-windedness about an approaching harvest that will arrive whether we discuss it or not?”
Caro let forth a harrumph worthy of Grandmama on the subject of Prinny’s financial excesses. Give the child credit, she otherwise held her tongue, another masterly tactic borrowed from Grandmama’s arsenal.
“I’m sorry,” Gavin said, eyeing the table and looking very gloomy indeed. “I am out of sorts, and I do apologize for my short temper.”
“You are haring off again,” Diana said. “Retreating into good manners and masculine condescension. If you don’t nip away to the Arms—and to some of Mrs. P’s best summer ale—you will claim it’s time to ride a horse who could use a day off every now and then.”
Gavin winced. “I’m conditioning Roland. He’s done too much resting in his short life.”
Caroline pushed her specs up her nose. “You are not your horse, Gav, which is fortunate, or we’d never be able to close a window when you were in the room.”
That shot provoked a wan smile. “I am not my horse, but I am the de facto manager of Twidboro Hall. Why don’t you two enjoy a game?”
He proffered the cue stick, and a year ago, maybe even six months ago, Diana would have taken the bait and been pleased to indulge in a generally male and grown-up diversion.
“Why don’t you tell us what’s the matter, Gavin DeWitt? We’re your sisters. We want to help.”
He put the cue stick on the table. “I know you are my sisters. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I really must be going.”
Caroline sent Diana a look, part exasperation, part panic. Very well. Diana would haul up the sororal artillery.
“Be off with you, then,” Diana said, taking up the cue stick. “We won’t bother telling you that we saw Lady Iris rifling Mrs. Roberts’s effects as we went down to lunch. Mrs. Roberts’s room has the best view of the Twid on that side of the house, and we meant to peek out her window to see if you were coming up the path. Lady Iris was in the dressing closet.”
Gavin was no longer eyeing the door. “Go on.”
“We thought she was a maid,” Caro observed. “She was going through the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, like a maid counting linen. We didn’t see her at first, and she apparently didn’t see us. She wore a mobcap and long apron, which struck me as very odd accessories to an afternoon dress.”
“The bell had rung,” Diana added. “Why wasn’t she on her way down to the buffet?”
Gavin had gone very still, staring at the neat trio of balls on the table, the red ball waiting, waiting, for the opening shot.
“Lady Iris was loosely disguised as a maid, and she was rifling Mrs. Roberts’s linen?”
“When she noticed us,” Diana said, “she held out a rolled-up pair of stockings, smiled like a guilty schoolboy, and said, ‘Found them!’ As if one pair of summer stockings would stand out from all the rest. Then she was out the door that opens onto the corridor. She said nothing about it at luncheon.”
“She wasn’t wearing the apron or mobcap at luncheon either,” Caro said, walking around the whole table, as Gav had taught them to do when preparing for a game. “She did go on without ceasing about the medicinal properties of green tea, as if anybody cares to know about that.”
“Precisely the point.” Gavin took the cue stick from Diana and passed it to Caro. “Any sane person would avoid becoming the audience for such a discourse and forget entirely that Lady Iris had been late to the meal.”
“She was,” Diana said, pleased that Gavin was thinking about something besides ledgers, summer ale, and his flatulent horse. “Not horribly late, but slipping into the line when some of the guests were already seated.”
