“Oh, it was.” He continued to study the statue as if the ancient messenger held some secret communiqué for him. “All about lost love and remorse and regret.”
“What about repentance?”
“I haven’t finished it yet and I don’t know that I will. The main character is entirely too pathetic. He was wrong, you see, and he knows it, but he’s become too mired in guilt and indecision to see what he needed to do and I’ve grown tired of him.”
“Have you?”
“I no longer like him either, so it seemed pointless to finish writing his story.” Cameron continued circling the room. “The second week was a bit brighter. I presented my book to my father.” He paused. “I believe I mentioned my agreement with him in the note I left in your room the night we—”
She glanced at the open door and waved him quiet. “Yes, yes, I remember.” She lowered her voice. “They really could shoot you, you know.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He shrugged. “By the end of the second week, the book was available for sale. It’s selling quite nicely, thank you for asking.”
Fernando flapped his wings. “Please forgive me.”
“I didn’t ask, nor did I intend to, but I have no doubt of that.” She paused. “The stories were rather . . . entertaining.”
His brow rose. “Not overwritten?”
“Not as much as I first thought.”
“Then you’ve read them again.” He studied her closely.
She sighed in surrender. “Once or twice perhaps.” Or thirty or forty times.
“I see.” His tone was solemn but there was a definite gleam of amusement in his eyes. “By the third week I realized—”
“I’m an idiot,” Fernando announced.
“That too.” He grinned. “So I made some arrangements, bought a parrot, and took the first ship I could get passage on.”
“And?”
“And here I am.” He paused by the fireplace, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned against the mantel in a casual manner. “Are you giving up your quest?”
“I haven’t decided yet. It won’t be nearly as much fun without—”
“Me?”
“Clara,” she said firmly, but she had meant him.
“I, for one, think that would be a great shame.”
“Why?” She narrowed her eyes. “Because it would give you nothing to write about?”
“No, because it would give that diabolical brain of yours nothing to sort out. You could end up in a plot to rule the world.”
She considered him cautiously. “Are you trying to flatter me?”
“Absolutely not,” he said staunchly. “Unless of course it’s working.”
“It’s not.”
He chuckled. “You’re the only woman I know who would take being described as diabolical as a compliment.”
“Diabolical is not for the fainthearted.” Neither was confrontation and candor. She drew a deep breath. “Do you know the worse thing about your stories?”
“Aside from the fact that you felt I was making fun of you?”
“You made her so much better than me.”
His brows drew together. “What?”
“Your Miss Heartley, your heroine. She was smarter and braver and certainly funnier than I am. Her adventures were far more adventurous than mine. Her quest had a purpose whereas mine was just . . .”
“She is fictional, you know.”
“Is she?” She studied him intently. “One does have to wonder who it is you claim to love. Me or the fantasy version of me that you created. This incredible woman who is so much more than I can ever hope to be.” She shook her head. “How can anyone live up to that?”
“You do have a point,” he said thoughtfully.
She stared. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“No.” He picked up a folder that was lying on the sofa beside the cage and handed it to her. “There is a troupe of English actors who are performing a production of readings from Shakespeare. It’s my understanding that it’s a very progressive sort of thing. Costumes but minimal sets and a handful of props. They are giving a special performance for some charitable cause tomorrow night.”
She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. “This is the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
“Perhaps the most romantic scene in the history of theater.”
“Except that they’re dead in the end,” she said under her breath.
“I have arranged for you to read the part of Juliet in the balcony scene.”
“You what?” Her gaze jerked to his.
“Didn’t your great-aunt wish to appear in a theatrical production?”
“She did but—”
“I told you I would help you with your quest and I feel obligated to continue to assist you to check at least one more item off your great-aunt’s list.”
“Is that why you’re here?” She stared in disbelief. “That’s it?”
“I did give you my word, and in spite of what you think of me, I do keep my word. It’s a question of, well, honor, I suppose.”
“Honor?” Surely this was some kind of not very funny joke on his part. “You followed me across an ocean because you felt obligated?”
“I do hate to leave things unfinished.”
“I don’t want your help.” She tossed the folder onto the sofa. “Nor do I wish to have anything further to do with you. And I’m very tempted to have my brothers shoot you, after all.”
He scoffed. “Do you really want them to shoot me?”
“Yes!”
“But I brought you a parrot.”
“I’m an idiot,” Fernando squawked as if on cue.
“And in the best interests of the bird I will keep him,” she snapped.
“I can’t believe a woman who would rescue an elephant would stand by and allow her brothers to shoot the man who has crossed an ocean to lend her his assistance.” He shook his head in a mournful manner.
“Very well then. I won’t have them shoot you.” She picked up Fernando’s cage and started for the door. “But should they wish to thrash you thoroughly in the victorious spirit of two wars with your country, I will not stop them.” She squared her shoulders and marched out of the parlor, up the stairs, and into her rooms, not pausing until she had slammed the door behind her.
She set the cage on top of her desk. Fernando looked at her and squawked. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, I know.” She waved off the parrot’s comment. “I may well be an idiot myself.” She folded her arms over her chest and paced the room. “It seems to me I was justified in my feelings of anger and betrayal. He did make a fool out of me even if I have come to wonder if being known as a madcap heiress isn’t all that terrible. And it is the tiniest bit delightful to be someone’s inspiration.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But is being sorry enough?” She shook her head. “He did cross an ocean for me . . .” She paused and stared at the bird. “But he certainly didn’t apologize for his behavior. Nor did he take me in his arms, declare his undying love, and beg for my forgiveness.”
“Please forgive me.”
“Exactly like that, but teaching you to say it is not the same thing as saying it himself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” She continued to pace. “The man is up to something, but what? I don’t for a moment believe he came all this way simply to keep his word to help me. No, he has something else in mind.”
“Hello. I love you.”
She paused and stared at the parrot. “You haven’t said that before.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it.” She shrugged. “But you should have mentioned it sooner. If Cameron taught you to say that—and I’m more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on that score—then he’s not simply here to help me with Great-aunt Lucinda’s regrets. No, thank God, there’s much more to his arrival than that. Which is a relief as the
re are very few regrets left on her list and I would be forced to make some up simply to keep him here.” She thought for a moment. “In the spirit of compromise, I shall not allow my pride to stand in the way of my happiness. And any man who would cross an ocean and present me with a parrot—”
“I’m a fool.”
“—should certainly be allowed to atone for his mistakes.” She nodded firmly. “Therefore I will read the part of Juliet on stage, I will check one more regret off the list, and I will wait to see what Mr. Effington-Fairchild-Aldrich comes up with next.”
Tomorrow was her birthday and she was going to read the part of Juliet on a stage, thanks to the man she loved. That could certainly be called not only an adventure but a daring exploit as well. Which only brought her back to the question she still had no answer for.
Did he love her or the better written version of her?
“Brandy or Scottish whisky?” Harry appeared in the open doorway.
“Whisky, I should think,” Cameron said. “And it will be much appreciated.”
“I thought so.” Harry and his brothers filed back into the room.
A few minutes later, glasses had been poured and passed around and all the men had taken seats.
“So.” Joe studied him over the rim of his glass. “You want to marry our sister.”
“I do.” Cam nodded.
“She doesn’t seem very amenable to the idea,” Parker murmured. “Or to you.”
“But I think we all agree that she cares for you,” Harry said. “She wouldn’t be acting the way she has been if she didn’t care.”
“She never acted like this over . . .” Cole grimaced.
“Over Jackson Channing?” Cam asked.
Cole nodded.
“Good.” Cam sipped his drink.
“I’m assuming you have some sort of plan,” Joe said casually. “Given the way she left, you’re going to need a plan.”
“And fortunately I have one.” Cam leaned back in his chair, his gaze circled the group. Four pairs of eyes very nearly the same shade as Lucy’s studied him curiously. It was a little unnerving but not especially intimidating. Not anymore. “Gentlemen, I did not follow your sister halfway around the world to give up now.”
He’d been so busy feeling guilty for his deception he’d forgotten who he was for a while. Certainly he had spent entirely too much time trying to determine his path in life, but once he had recognized his true calling, he hadn’t wavered. He would not waver now. He had not failed to write a book. He had not failed to prove his resolve to his father. And he would not fail to win the hand of the love of his life. “At this point, I believe a grand gesture is called for.”
“You did give her a parrot,” Cole pointed out.
“And that was just the beginning. This is what I have in mind.”
Lucy’s brothers listened to his proposal and not one said it was stupid or far-fetched or couldn’t possibly work. They reminded him of his own brothers, although, of course, his brothers wouldn’t be nearly as polite. They would be far more critical of his plan and far more skeptical about his chances of success.
“I would venture to say this has not been an inexpensive proposition.” Joe chose his words with care. “You’re not interested in Lucy for her money then?”
“You can understand why that would be a concern,” Harry said quickly.
“Of course.” Cam nodded. “One can always use an heiress and I did squander my funds freely in my younger days, but I also listened to the investment advice of my brothers. I can assure you my finances are quite sound. I’m certain your father, as a banker, will be able to verify that.”
Harry nodded.
“The offspring in my family have for generations received substantial trusts upon their majority and there hasn’t been an Effington yet who has lost it completely.” Cam grinned. “And hasn’t gotten it back.”
“Good to know,” Joe murmured.
Harry nodded. “You should know as well, we wouldn’t be helping you if we weren’t convinced she likes you.”
“Although you should be warned, she’s not the same as she was before she went to England.” Cole shuddered. “She’s much crankier than she used to be. Possibly mad.”
“Not mad exactly.” Parker shrugged. “No madder than any other woman, that is. Rather more, well, obstinate and decisive, I would say.”
“But we like her better this way.” Joe grinned. “I’m not sure why.”
“Because she’s, I don’t know, blossomed, I think. Grown perhaps.” Harry studied Cam curiously. “Is that your doing?”
“As much as I’d like to say it is”—Cam shook his head—“I had nothing to do with it. She was already quite remarkable when I met her. Perhaps it was because she was no longer paying attention to expectations.”
“Regardless, she’s not the same.” Harry grinned. “And she’s not going to make this easy for you.”
“Bloody hell, gentlemen.” Cameron raised his glass to his future brothers-in-law. “She never has.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucy studied the short flight of open steps that led to a small, rolling scaffold with a platform no more than five or six feet across and prepared herself to ascend it. This was nothing really. At least not when compared to climbing onto the back of an elephant. But backstage at a theater was darker and far busier than she had imagined.
Excitement mixed with apprehension in the pit of her stomach and she started up the steps. The scaffold was behind a scenery flat painted to portray the front of Juliet’s house. When given her cue, Lucy would step from the scaffold, through dark, sheer curtains, and onto Juliet’s balcony, whereupon she would try very hard not to make a complete ass of herself.
Lucy had never been on a real stage in her life. And while this wasn’t a complete play, this performance of Shakespearean readings was undeniably a theatrical production. In a real theater with, God help her, a real audience. People she didn’t know although, given it was a benefit for charity, she suspected there were quite a few people in attendance who were acquaintances of her or her family. One simply couldn’t avoid it and, well, she didn’t really care. Apparently, she was taking this madcap heiress business to heart.
She had been accompanied by her parents and her brothers tonight but had yet to see Cameron, although she was confident he was here. How else would she be able to graciously thank him for his assistance and forgive him as well? Her brothers had said remarkably little about their talk with him, although Harry had casually mentioned it did seem the man was not lacking financially as arranging her appearance tonight had taken a bit of maneuvering and had not come cheap. Plus there was a sizable donation to the charity involved as well. His financial stability was a relief but, while the thought had nagged at her, she had never truly believed he was interested in her money. Just as she had always truly believed he was a good and honorable man.
Lucy stepped onto the platform to await her cue. Behind her, the wardrobe mistress straightened the skirts of her blue brocade Juliet costume. With its trailing sleeves and square cut bodice, it was perhaps lovelier than it was authentic. But this was the theater after all, a world of illusion, and the moment she stepped on that balcony, she would be Juliet. A thrill ran through her at the thought. No wonder Great-aunt Lucinda wanted to be in a theatrical production.
In the spirit of adventure, while she did have the lines written in a large notebook designed to resemble an antique book, she had memorized them as well. It wasn’t difficult as every schoolgirl probably knew the immortal words by heart. The reading was to start with her first line, which she had pointed out to the stage manager was not the beginning of the scene. He had strongly advised her to keep her opinion to herself and read what was in front of her.
From the right wing, the stage manager cued her. This was it then.
She held the book open in front of her, parted the curtains, and stepped onto the balcony. The bright light hit her and she noted how the blinding brilliance k
ept her from seeing little more than endless rows of indistinct faces, relatively anonymous and therefore far less intimidating.
Lucy sent a silent prayer heavenward and drew a calming breath. “Oh Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
A male voice sounded below her and off to one side, out of the pool of light, and she couldn’t see the speaker.
“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”
She continued. “ ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name?”
“Exactly,” Romeo said.
“Exactly?” She frowned and looked down at the lines. That wasn’t right. Perhaps this actor was as much of an amateur as she was. After all, this was a charitable event and if her part could be arranged for, no doubt Romeo’s could be as well. Still, the man surely had the lines in front of him. All he had to do was read them. She cleared her throat and continued. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. So—”
“Indeed, what is in a name?”
“I wasn’t finished,” she said in a hushed tone. “And I already said that.” She scanned the lines. She was right. She had said that. Goodness, this erstwhile actor playing Romeo was going to make a mess of the whole thing. She leaned forward to peer over the balcony. All she could see in the pool of light on the stage were his leggings and shoes.
“It bears repeating.” Cameron stepped into the light. She should have known the moment she heard his voice, but apparently stage fright hindered one’s powers of observation.
“What are you doing?” she said in as quiet a voice as she could manage.
“Ah, my sweet Juliet, you shall see.” He flashed her a grin, then turned toward the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen. As this is the last presentation of the evening, I have taken the liberty of rewriting the scene.”
A murmur of surprise waved through the audience.
“It’s Shakespeare,” she said in a low, urgent voice. What was the man thinking? “You don’t rewrite Shakespeare!”
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress Page 33
