With Seduction in Mind

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Until it had almost killed him.

  “Sebastian?” Phillip’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

  He lifted his head, forcing a smile. “Of course. You know how moody I am on an opening night.”

  A bell sounded, indicating that the play would begin in five minutes’ time, and Phillip straightened away from the pillar. “I’d best take my seat. My wife will be wondering what’s become of me.”

  “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Yes, well, I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “You must be. The play is rubbish.”

  “You always say that.” Unperturbed, his friend moved toward stage right.

  “I know,” Sebastian called after him. “But this time, it’s true.”

  “Rubbish?” Sebastian stared in disbelief at the folded-back newspaper he was holding. “The Social Gazette is calling my play rubbish?”

  Abercrombie, assuming this to be a rhetorical question, made no reply. Instead, the valet lifted the tray of shaving implements, gave Sebastian an inquiring look, and waited. Saunders, the footman who had brought the morning papers, also stood by without replying, waiting to be dismissed.

  Sebastian ignored them both. He read again the opening line of the review printed in that morning’s edition of the Social Gazette: “‘Sebastian Grant, once considered to be among the most brilliant writers of the nineteenth century, stumbles in his first attempt at comedy, Girl with a Red Handbag. The plot is rubbish—’”

  He broke off in the same place he’d stopped before and glanced at the byline. “George Lindsay,” he muttered, lifting his head with a scowl. “Who the devil is George Lindsay?”

  Abercrombie did not answer, once again ascertaining that a reply from him was not expected. He continued to wait by the shaving chair for his master to sit down.

  Instead, Sebastian resumed reading. “The plot is rubbish,’” he repeated, his ire rising, “‘ with an unbearably trite theme and an utterly implausible story line. As a comedy, it might be forgiven these flaws if it were actually amusing. Alas, this reviewer found these three hours at the Old Vic as amusing as a visit to the dentist.’”

  Thoroughly nettled by what he had read so far, he moved to toss the newspaper aside, but then he changed his mind, his curiosity overriding his disdain. He resumed reading.

  “Everyone knows that Sebastian Grant possesses the aristocratic title of Earl of Avermore, and that estates are expensive to maintain in these times of agricultural depression. Theatrical comedy, however, is not only fashionable, but also quite lucrative. This reviewer can only conclude that in the writing of this play, the author was motivated by monetary rather than literary concerns.’” He paused and looked at Abercrombie. “Well, yes,” he said in mock apology, “I do like to be paid for my work. Shocking, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t bother to wait for his valet to attempt a reply. “‘The result is unfortunate,’” he went on. “‘Instead of returning to London theatre as a first-rate Sebastian Grant, he has chosen to return as a second-rate Oscar Wilde.’”

  With a sound of outrage, he hurled the newspaper through the air, sending its pages flying in all directions. “A second-rate Oscar Wilde?” he roared. “Unbearably trite? Utterly implausible? Damn the impudence! How dare this critic…this blatherskite…this…this nobody who uses adverbs with such abandon…how dare he shred my play in this manner?”

  As Saunders moved to gather up the pages of the newspaper, Abercrombie spoke at last. “Mr. Lindsay must be a man of no breeding, sir. Do you wish to shave now?”

  “Yes, Abercrombie, thank you,” he said, glad for the distraction. “This critic calls my play rubbish, but his review is what belongs in the dustbin. Saunders,” he added, “put that idiotic tripe where it belongs.”

  “Very good, sir.” The footman bowed, but as he moved to depart with the now neatly folded newspaper, Sebastian’s curiosity once again got the better of him. He reached out and snatched back the paper, then he waved the footman out of the dressing room and sat down in his shaving chair. While Abercrombie soaped a shaving brush, Sebastian continued to read the review. It was an infuriating exercise.

  The play, this Mr. Lindsay declared, was based upon a flimsy misunderstanding, and its hero, Wesley, was too dim for words. A simple explanation by him to his lady love, Cecilia, in Act Two would have resolved everything. Wesley’s attempts to court Cecilia were no doubt meant to amuse the audience, but were in truth, painful to watch and made one embarrassed for the poor fellow. The ending of the play, however, was immensely satisfying in that it was the ending.

  “Ha-ha,” Sebastian muttered, his lip curling. “So clever, this Mr. Lindsay. Full of wit.”

  He told himself to stop reading such idiocy, but he was nearly done, and he decided he might as well finish.

  Those who had hoped Sebastian Grant’s emergence from such a long hiatus would hail a return to the powerful, deeply moving work of his early career will be disappointed. Once a lion of English literature, he has chosen to present us with more of the slick, trivial pabulum that has marked his writing for eight years now. This reviewer cannot help but feel saddened that Sebastian Grant’s most brilliant work is nearly a decade behind him.

  Sebastian snarled, uttering a curse worthy of a Lascar seaman, and once again hurled the newspaper. It sailed over Abercrombie, who’d had the sense to duck, and fluttered to the floor.

  As his valet straightened, Sebastian stared at the untidy heap of newspaper on the floor and felt an overwhelming desire to read the review again. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, but as his valet began their daily shaving ritual, Sebastian could not stop George Lindsay’s words from echoing through his mind.

  …like a visit to the dentist…a second-rate Oscar Wilde…most brilliant work is nearly a decade behind him…

  He had long ago accepted the rantings of critics as an inevitable part of his profession, but this scathing condemnation passed all bounds. And coming from the Gazette, a newspaper owned by his own publisher, was insult added to injury.

  Who was this George Lindsay anyway? What qualifications did he possess that entitled him to slaughter a writer’s work and call it rubbish?

  “My lord?”

  Sebastian opened his eyes, watching as Abercrombie stepped back to reveal his butler, Wilton, standing nearby with a salver in hand. “A letter has come from Mr. Rotherstein, sir,” the butler informed him. “Hand delivered by his secretary. I thought it might be important, so I brought it up to you straightaway.”

  Sebastian sat up, taking the letter from the tray with a feeling of foreboding. He broke the seal, unfolded the note, and read it, not surprised by the lines penned in Jacob Rotherstein’s bold black script.

  Ticket sales for tonight already down thirty percent from last night. If trend continues, the play could be forced to close by week’s end. Word is the Gazette had it right—that the play is a failure. What the devil? Can’t we at least expect a decent review from a paper owned by your publisher? Suggest you discuss the situation with Marlowe at once.

  J.R.

  Sebastian tossed the letter back onto the tray with an oath. Rotherstein was right, of course. Something had to be done. He’d pay Marlowe a visit this afternoon, he decided, and make the situation clear. George Lindsay might not know it yet, but his career as a dramatic critic was over.

  Chapter 2

  I have your review in front of me. Soon it will be behind me.

  George Bernard Shaw

  “Why George Lindsay?” Lucy glanced up from the newspaper in her hand to meet her sister’s gaze across the breakfast table. “What made you choose that pseudonym?”

  “Many great women of literature have chosen to write under the name of George,” Daisy explained and took a sip of her morning tea. “George Sand. George Eliot.”

  The other ladies gathered in the dining room of the lodging house at Little Russell Street were too polite to point out that Daisy was not
yet a great woman of literature, but was at present merely a literary critic, and a temporary one at that.

  “As for Lindsay,” Daisy went on, “I think it sounds quite intellectual and literary.”

  Her friend Miranda Dickinson spoke from beside her. “Yes, but why have a pseudonym at all? Aren’t you disappointed not to have your true name on your first published piece?”

  Daisy was too excited to feel any disappointment. “A critic can’t use her true name. Imagine the repercussions! Resentful writers would be coming to vent their spleens at the poor critic whenever they received an unfavorable review.”

  There were concurring murmurs from the other ladies, and then their landlady spoke. “Regardless of what name you use,” said Mrs. Morris, “you are now a published writer, Daisy. We are all very happy for you.”

  “And envious, too!” Miranda added, laughing. “Tickets to the opening of a Sebastian Grant play and ten shillings in pay to write a review of it for the newspaper? I wish I’d thought to approach Marlowe and offer to write reviews for him!”

  She hadn’t exactly offered to do it; when she’d called on Lord Marlowe the previous afternoon to inquire about the possibility of earning her living as a writer, he had just learned that his usual theater critic was ill and would be unable to attend the opening that night of Sebastian Grant’s new play. Daisy’s first piece of published writing had been the result of fortuitous timing.

  “One review isn’t much, but it’s a start.” Daisy cast an uneasy glance at her sister. “Lord Marlowe has agreed to read one of my novels and give his opinion of its suitability for publication. I am to deliver the manuscript to his offices this afternoon.”

  Several of the other ladies expressed congratulations at this news, but Lucy was not among them. “You asked Lord Marlowe to read your work?” she asked, a frown drawing her blonde brows together. “You imposed upon Emma’s husband?”

  “I didn’t impose upon him,” Daisy assured her at once. “He told me he welcomed the chance to read a new writer, and said our friendship with his wife had nothing to do with it.”

  Lucy gave a sniff. “Of course he would say that. He is a gentleman. Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?”

  “There wasn’t time. You arrived home just as Mrs. Morris and I were leaving, and I couldn’t stop to explain, for we were already late. I was fortunate Mrs. Morris could chaperone me.”

  “I was delighted to do it.” Their landlady glanced at the other young women gathered around the table. “Being a widow, I am well able to act as chaperone to any of you ladies should you require it. I’m quite happy to do so, in fact.”

  “What on earth spurred you to take your writing to Lord Marlowe?” Lucy asked, returning to the subject at hand. “I had no idea you were contemplating such a course.”

  “Neither did I,” she admitted. “But I was on my way home, and the omnibus stopped right by Marlowe Publishing to take on passengers, and the idea to talk with his lordship just came to me.” She paused, knowing she had to tell Lucy she’d lost another job, but she didn’t want to discuss the embarrassing incident with Mr. Pettigrew in front of the others, and she attempted to skirt the issue. “I never expected him to give me a writing assignment that very day. And when he offered to pay me to write a review of Sebastian Grant’s new play, I couldn’t believe it. Sebastian Grant? One of the most famous writers in the world?”

  “Infamous, you mean,” Miranda put in. “Prudence knows about him, I’m sure. I read in some scandal sheet that he and the Duke of St. Cyres were quite the wild men about town while they were both living in Florence—women, drinking, scandalous parties. Before the duke came home and married our Pru, of course,” she added, referring to their friend and former fellow lodger, Prudence Bosworth, who’d been a seamstress before unexpectedly inheriting millions of pounds and marrying the once-notorious Duke of St. Cyres.

  “Maria knows him, too,” Daisy added, mentioning another former tenant of Little Russell Street as she reached for the jam pot. “Knows Sebastian Grant, I mean. Mrs. Morris and I saw her in the foyer of the Old Vic last night before the play. We didn’t have much chance for conversation, but she mentioned that her husband was backstage with him to wish him luck. She said her husband thinks the man has brilliant talent.”

  “Well, our Daisy doesn’t seem to agree,” Lucy commented with a hint of amusement as she passed the paper to Eloisa Montgomery, seated beside her.

  “But I do think he’s brilliant,” Daisy protested, pausing in the act of spreading jam on her toast.

  “One wouldn’t know that from your review,” Lucy pointed out. “It hardly does the man or his writing any credit.”

  Daisy felt a pang of dismay. “I was too blunt, wasn’t I?”

  “Blunt?” Lucy lifted a brow. “Dearest, you likened viewing his play to visiting the dentist.”

  “Daisy, you didn’t!” Miranda gave a half laugh as if she didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. “Hurry up, Eloisa, and pass the Gazette this way. I must read this review.”

  “Writing it was much more difficult than I thought it would be,” Daisy admitted. “When the viscount told me he wanted me to review the play, I had so hoped I would enjoy it. What a letdown,” she added with a vexed sigh and plunked the spoon back into the jam pot. “Why does the man insist upon writing these light, fluffy pieces nowadays? There’s no substance to them! His earlier work is so much better, much more powerful and exciting. I didn’t mean my review to be unkind, truly, Lucy, but I was being paid to be a critic. I had to give my opinion honestly.”

  “I cannot imagine you ever being anything but honest, dear Daisy,” Mrs. Morris put in with a smile. “But in future, dear, it might behoove you to cultivate a talent for delicacy. Particularly if you are reviewing the work of a man.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, ma’am, though I doubt I shall be writing any further reviews. I did this one only because the critic of the Gazette was ill. I arrived at the viscount’s office at just the right moment. Fate, you might say.”

  “However it came about, I cannot help but applaud your initiative,” Lucy said. “You received an evening’s entertainment and earned some pin money as well. Pettigrew and Finch pays you a generous wage, but ten additional shillings never goes amiss.”

  At the mention of her former employers, Daisy wriggled in her chair. “Yes…well…” she mumbled, her secret suddenly feeling like a ten-ton weight on her shoulders. “Er…yes.”

  Lucy perceived her discomfiture. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What are you not telling me?”

  Caught, Daisy braced herself for the inevitable confrontation. “I’m no longer working for Pettigrew and Finch. I intend to make my living as a writer.”

  “You resigned your post at Pettigrew and Finch to be a writer?” Lucy cried. “Are you mad?” The latter question displayed a lapse in tact most uncharacteristic of Lucy, and she seemed to sense it, for she paused, and it was several moments before she spoke again. “Writing is not a practical means of earning a living,” she finally said. “We decided that long ago.”

  No, you decided, Daisy thought, with a flash of resentment. She forced it down. “I’ve always enjoyed writing, and I thought it might be an excellent thing if I were paid to do something I enjoy for a change.”

  “I daresay it would,” Lucy countered at once. “And while you enjoy yourself, the burden of supporting us both once again falls wholly upon me.”

  That stung, for it was nothing less than the truth. Their father’s death fifteen years before had left them with nothing. Lucy, four years older, had been burdened with the majority of responsibility for their financial security. Daisy was painfully aware she hadn’t been of much help in that regard, but this was her chance to change all that. “I’m sorry,” she said with dignity. “I’ve let you down again, I know, but I did not do so on purpose.”

  “Perhaps you could go back to Pettigrew and Finch and ask to be reinstated,” Lucy suggested, a hint of desperation i
n her voice. “Tell them you regret your resignation, that you realize now it was a rash mistake.”

  If one was confessing the truth, one might as well confess it all. “I didn’t resign. They sacked me.”

  Lucy groaned. “I should have known. What did you do? Let your tongue run away with you again, no doubt.”

  “This was not my fault!” she shot back. “Mr. Pettigrew cornered me in the closet, the old lecher—” She stopped, remembering too late that she and her sister were not alone in the room. A hot blush flooded her cheeks, and she took a quick glance around, but the other women at the table seemed to have developed a sudden interest in their breakfast plates. Grateful, she returned her gaze to her sister, and saw that Lucy fully comprehended what had occurred.

  “Oh, God,” Lucy whispered, looking horrified. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I am perfectly well, but I was insulted beyond bearing. Believe me, dear sister, I had sufficient cause to resign, but Matron terminated my employment before I could do so. And she refused to give me a letter of character.”

  “Oh, heavens.” Lucy looked stricken. “And to think I found you that post.”

  “It’s all right,” she hastened to say, wanting to forget the entire sordid episode. “It doesn’t matter. I called upon Lord Marlowe, as I said, about the possibility of writing as a profession, and he was generosity itself. He agreed at once to read my work, and he didn’t seem to feel the least bit put upon. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he published one of my novels?”