Miss Dramatic, page 22
“You’ve caused me more than a spot of bother too,” Lady Iris muttered. “I say we summon the magistrate.”
“I say,” Rose countered, “your ladyship accepted an invitation under false pretenses, and more to the point, you’ve bored half the company witless with your herbal blathering. If that’s not an offense against the king’s peace, it’s certainly a violation of the rules of hospitality.”
Lady Iris had the grace to look chagrined. “I am sorry. My interest in herbs is genuine, and I’ve been tracking that necklace for months. Do as you will with Drysdale, but I am determined to retrieve the necklace.”
Do as you will… Gavin thought of all the miles he’d galloped hoping to elude despair, all the letters he’d tried writing to Rose, only to toss them into the fire. He thought of Rose, confidence at low ebb, grieving a failed marriage, then faced with the prospect of a fickle suitor…
“DeWitt,” Tavistock said, “what shall we do with yonder thief?”
The most precious loss Drysdale’s scheming had caused hadn’t been the blasted necklace, or Lady Iris’s time and effort, or Gavin’s budding theatrical ambitions, or even Gemma Drysdale’s peace of mind.
The most precious loss had been Rose’s self-esteem, though she’d regained it and then some.
“Mrs. Roberts,” Gavin said, “the decision is yours.”
Rose and Gemma exchanged some sort of silent communication. “If Gemma sought to profit from her husband’s larceny, she would be kicking her heels in Rome, the necklace long since broken up and sold in parts. She chose to stay by Drysdale’s side, to continue protecting him from his own folly. I’d like to hear what Drysdale has to say to her.”
“So,” said Lady Tavistock, “would I.”
“The jury of the distaff are unanimous,” Lady Phillip said. “Drysdale, this had better be the most convincing speech of your life.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rose wanted nothing so much as to kick Hammond Cicero Drysdale from Berkshire to the Borders, and she was feeling none too charitable toward Gemma Drysdale either. And yet… to be tied to a man whose ambitions exceeded his abilities, a man convinced of his own victimhood, a man loyal only to his own pleasures…
Drysdale wasn’t Dane, but they shared an immature version of honor that came perilously close to self-delusion. She had wanted to believe that Gavin was different, but her faith in a nascent romance had been eclipsed by too much experience with disappointment.
That, and by the Drysdales’ marital drama.
“Drysdale,” Gavin said, “you have the floor.”
The actor remained in his seat. “I never planned to steal that necklace.”
Gemma snorted.
“What I mean is, I had popped into a random sitting room to retie the garters on my knee breeches and realized I was in the private sitting room of the lady of the house. The appointments were old-style and ornate, and that made me curious about the bedroom, which proved to be just as lavishly decorated. The ceiling mural alone had likely cost a fortune, and the bed hangings… I digress.”
No grand gestures accompanied his discourse, which was fortunate for Rose’s temper.
“I was agog at the surrounds,” Drysdale went on more quietly. “Heartbroken, in a sense, to think that one person enjoyed all that comfort and beauty, while my players often shivered in their cots. I know the way of the world, but the world used to appreciate theater, music, the arts. Now… traveling troupes are a dying breed. Every market town has its assembly rooms, every goosegirl can lisp a few lines of Sheridan. The gentry can pop into Town for some professional entertainment, and John Bull otherwise can’t be bothered to waste what little coin the nobs allow him.”
As opening monologues went, Rose was decidedly unimpressed with this one. “You did not steal that necklace to improve the lot of the poor, Mr. Drysdale. You are lucky half the maids weren’t sacked because of your larceny.”
“The maids are sacked, madam, because quite often, they’re guilty of larceny, not that I blame them. I didn’t steal the necklace to fritter the proceeds away in a London gaming hell.”
Drysdale couldn’t know how close his comment came to a hit, given Dane’s proclivities. “What did you plan to do with your stolen goods?”
“Exactly what Gemma foresaw. New sets, new costumes, decent rooms for the summer at a northern spa town. Time and energy to tackle the more ambitious theatrical works. If the troupe could develop a circuit of those spa towns, then a school for the dramatic arts might not be too big a stretch in a few years. I may not be directly descended from Thespis himself, but I am a fair director and a better teacher.”
Gavin, Rose noted, did not contradict Drysdale’s claim.
“Hammond,” Gemma said tiredly, “how many trinkets and spoons did you intend to steal before you gave up on that dream? A noticing footman, a sharp-eyed maid, an innkeeper with a dim view of actors… You put us one accusation away from ruin, time and again. A spoon isn’t worth your life.”
“And what if,” Drysdale said, sitting up straighter, “that spoon stood between us and utter failure, Gemma? Yes, I have dreams, but the players need to eat. They need shoes and scripts. Spoons go missing all the time.”
Rose had heard enough. “If I were a jury, Drysdale, I’d convict you of blind arrogance in addition to thievery. What you need is sponsorship, and you are too proud and dunderheaded to ask for it.”
“Hammond Drysdale wouldn’t ask Saint Peter for admission to heaven,” Gemma said. “I’ve tried telling him that good theater has always been appreciated in Merry Olde, but he won’t even try to find us a patron. He claims that’s the difference between actors and beggars. We have our pride, they have their occasional crust. He has yet to explain why that makes acting the better choice.”
“It’s not a choice,” Drysdale said with some of his old hauteur. “The stage is a vocation. One cannot refuse the call of his art any more than a warhorse can ignore the drums presaging battle, and whom would I ask to sponsor us? The Players are the provincial hacks all of London disdains, no matter that our comedy is better than theirs and our actors more versatile than that lot in Drury Lane.”
“If you’re so accomplished,” Rose said, “then don’t look for sponsors, look for investors.”
Lady Phillip whispered something in her husband’s ear. Lord Phillip kissed her cheek.
“I might know some interested parties,” Lady Phillip said. “We’ll want budgets, estimates, and schedules. Records from the past few years’ performances. A list of the troupe’s repertoire, the current members’ abilities, assets and liabilities, that sort of thing.”
Drysdale looked to his wife. “Gemma manages the books, if that’s what you’re asking about.”
Why did Gemma not leave her idiot spouse at the nearest crossroads? But then, Rose knew why.
Drysdale was her husband.
“Mrs. Drysdale.” Lady Phillip rose with her spouse’s assistance. “You and I will meet after breakfast. Good night, all. The evening has been… interesting.”
Lord Phillip bowed and escorted her ladyship from the room.
Tavistock rose and extended a hand to his marchioness. “The hour grows late, and I’d classify the evening as equal parts diverting and taxing. Drysdale, I am not content that you should find financial support as the sole consequence of your mischief. That’s going a bit too far with the quality of mercy, if you ask me. I leave the matter in the hands of those in a better position to decide your fate.”
Lady Tavistock departed on her husband’s arm.
“I’m retrieving that necklace,” Lady Iris said, “and I don’t intend to wait until breakfast to do so. Mrs. Drysdale, if you’d oblige?”
Gemma rose. “I can’t wait to get rid of the wretched thing. Drysdale, I don’t believe Mr. DeWitt and Mrs. Roberts are done with you. Neither, for that matter, am I.”
On that ambiguous observation, she and Lady Iris departed, and Rose was left with her hero and the villain. She was tempted to tell Drysdale that no investments would be forthcoming—Lady Phillip would support her decision, and Drysdale could bestir himself to look elsewhere for his coin—but the Players had been Gavin’s first step toward independence. But for them, Rose would never have met the man who meant so much to her now.
“We will conclude our discussion after breakfast, Drysdale,” Rose said. “You can spend the night in contemplation of your sins. Gemma could have at any point turned you over to the law, claimed ignorance of the whole matter, and seen you onto a transport ship. She’d have been left with the Players and her freedom. She apparently wasn’t willing to sacrifice you to have them. One concludes such devotion is based on virtues I have yet to see you exhibit. Mr. DeWitt, if you’d light me to my room?”
“Drysdale, good night.” Gavin held the door for Rose and accompanied her into the shadowy corridor.
Gavin took a carrying candle down from a sconce, and they walked along in silence as far as the top of the steps.
What had just happened? Rose began to make a list in her mind.
Gavin had been exonerated of all wrongdoing.
Drysdale’s blackmail scheme had been thwarted.
The Players might well be on their way to more solid financial footing, and…
Something else had transpired, something that left Rose feeling a little winded and a lot pleased with herself.
Gavin set the candle on the third stair. “You were magnificent. I would never have put together that whole business about Gemma and the money and the—”
Rose threw herself into his arms and held on tight. “I want to kick him, Gavin. I want to kick him where he will never recover from the blow.”
“Then take his Players from him. He deserves at least that.”
“Do you want his Players?” The answer mattered to Rose, though she could see the notion was an utter surprise to Gavin.
“No, I do not,” Gavin said slowly. “I do not and never did. I want you. I’m very clear on that.”
“Good,” Rose said, taking him by the hand, “because I want you as well. The love nest on the Twid will do nicely, though I suppose we’d best raid the kitchen for some comestibles first, and you’ll have to help me change into an old walking dress.”
Gavin bowed. “Your devoted servant and dresser, madam. I should change into riding attire, and as it happens, I have some here.”
“I can help you with that.” She retrieved the candle and took Gavin’s hand. She could help him with a lot of things, in fact.
Gemma Drysdale was a woman imprisoned by loyalty, convention, and pragmatism, and Rose well knew how that felt. She also knew what it was to be fettered by guilt.
All that was in the past, though. Having seen Drysdale for the whining, scheming, dishonorable pestilence that he was—that he chose to be—and having Gavin’s unshakable support and devotion, Rose Roberts also knew what it was to be free.
Wordsworth’s poetry landed with a soft plop on a placid stretch of the Twid, bobbed for a moment on the surface, then left only concentric ripples expanding across the moonlit water.
A whimsical variation on Hamlet’s graveyard scene popped into Gavin’s head. “Alas, poor Wordsworth, I knew him, Horatio.” He squeezed Rose’s hand, hoping to lighten the moment.
“Not Wordsworth,” Rose said, leaning against his side. “I commend to the bottom of the Twid the old Rose, the one who could not speak up for herself, the one who was fine when her heart was breaking and fine when she should have been furious. I still want to kick Drysdale, but I no longer want to kick myself.”
“Ah. A good feeling. Do you want to kick me? I should have known you would not cheapen what was between us with an offer of coin.” Gavin had certainly been kicking himself over that error.
Rose, to her credit, was quiet for a moment. “The ladies in your life have been less than supportive, Gavin. I’m sure some part of you was expecting that I’d let you down too. I don’t need or want to kick you, but perhaps you need to pitch something into the river too?”
Gavin wasn’t about to toss his family into the water. He loved them dearly, for one thing, and for another, they could swim like porpoises. Rose was right, though. The DeWitt ladies hadn’t supported him, hadn’t even seen him, really, but that had apparently changed.
“Maybe I’m the one who needs a dunking. Can you swim?”
“Yes.” Rose headed up the bank to the towpath. “Don’t tell anybody, but I was raised in the country after all, and summers do get so wretchedly hot.”
Gavin began a mental list of adventures he and Rose would share. A midnight swim in the Twid, a mounted race across the countryside with her on Roland, a night at the opera in the finest box to be had… and many, many quiet walks wherever Rose sought to lead him.
“What will you do with Drysdale?” Gavin asked.
“I don’t know yet. I’m more focused on what I’ll do with you in the next several hours.”
“I have a few suggestions.” He caught her again by the hand and drew her in for a kiss, which turned into a long, lusty, and mutual indulgence.
“I do believe,” Rose said, marching off several minutes later, “you’d be more comfortable without your clothes, Mr. DeWitt.”
“These hot nights,” Gavin murmured, catching up with her. “Such a tribulation.”
They reached their trysting place, and Gavin soon had himself and Rose free of every stitch. Her lovemaking acquired a strategic quality, full of self-restraint on her end while she drove Gavin witless with her caresses and kisses.
She had him on his back, which was lovely and maddening and exactly where he wanted to be.
“You will regret this obstreperousness, madam.” He stroked her hips and knees, and she retaliated by using the end of her braid on his nipples.
“Will I? Will I regret it any time soon, or do you propose to lecture me—finally.”
He’d taken himself in hand, found his destination, and begun the joining. “You’re in a hurry now?”
“I’m in… transports. Do that again.”
He kept the rhythm slow and sweet, like the soft summer night that gave them such lovely privacy. Rose began to pant gently. She stopped tormenting him with her braid and crouched close enough to kiss him.
“Rose?”
“Hmm?”
“I do love you. I have from the first moment I saw you reading in the… Not fair, madam.” She’d pinned his hands beside his head. “I want to touch you.”
“What do you call this?” She gave a little fillip with her hips. “A wave from across the ballroom?”
“Diabolical woman.” Gavin could break her hold easily, but relished the novelty of Rose in charge of every particular. She apparently liked it, too, because she dallied with him until he could not have quoted the Bard to save King Henry’s army at Agincourt.
“Diabolical man.” Rose began to shudder, and a moment later, Gavin was shuddering right along with her. The satisfaction was cataclysmic, overwhelming every sense and dissolving Gavin into a sparkling sweetness suffused with joy and love.
“No handy quote?” Rose murmured drowsily a few minutes later. She breathed with him, rising and falling on his chest as if he were the Thames and she a one-woman pleasure barge.
“I love you. Not very original, but profoundly sincere.”
She kissed his chin. “Love you too. Have forever. I’m falling asleep.”
She dozed off as Gavin stroked her back and marveled at the wonder of Rose Roberts. She deserved a proper proposal, bended knee, a pretty bauble—rubies, perhaps?—and a lovely little monologue about happiness and fate and…
Gavin’s eyes grew heavy as he composed an offer of marriage in rhyming couplets. His caresses slowed, and soon, the tide of love took him gently out to sea.
Rose woke aware of a pleasant soreness in novel locations and of Gavin’s arm wrapped around her waist. Some inconsiderate bird insisted on greeting the day, though the merest hint of gray suggested sunrise was still a good hour off.
She and Gavin had time yet for one more… serious conversation.
“You ’wake?” Gavin gently brushed a bristly cheek against her shoulder, and temptation blinked awake as well.
“Dozing.” Rose linked her hand with his. “We should be dressing soon.”
“Clothes. Bah. It’s summer. I might even let Roland have a day off. I’m told horses and people both benefit from rest.”
“What do you benefit from?” A version of this question had vexed Rose even in sleep. What did Gavin need to toss in the Twid? What dream would inspire him to his greatest accomplishments?
“The past few hours have done me a considerable power of good,” Gavin said, rolling to his back. “You see before you—or you would if you rolled over—a man awash in delight. Words fail, Rose. And the notion that I must present myself, coherent and properly attired, at my sister’s table later today… I don’t want to leave this place, where I’ve made such lovely memories with you. I don’t want to think, don’t want to”—he paused to yawn—“make small talk. I’m composing the most impressive, moving, sincere proposal in the history of romance. Consider yourself warned.”
“If you offer me that proposal now,” Rose said, “I will render you the standard you-do-me-great-honor rebuff, Gavin.”
He half sat up and leaned over her as she lay on her side. “Rose? Did somebody put a pile of coins among your clothes? Have I bungled? Is there some impediment I must remove?”
“You have not bungled.” She rolled to her back to face him, and that was a mistake. Gavin was luscious with a morning shadow of beard, hair tousled, eyes alight with tenderness and concern. “I bungled. I made Dane’s happiness, his approval of me, the center of my world. Trying to please him, to appease him, to win a smile from him, became my unrelenting challenge. You aren’t happy here in Crosspatch Corners.”
He drew back. “I’m not miserable, but we don’t need to bide at Twidboro Hall. I can move to Hampshire, if you’d rather.”
