A Study in Scoundrels
Page 28
“That’s only the backside of the curtain. Merrick puts the best side out front. We all have our flaws. The art is in how well we hide them.” Grey had such a way with words Kit often thought he should be a playwright. “Would you truly jump ship?”
“I bloody well would.” Kit slanted a glance at his friend. “And so would you.”
Merrick paid them both a dribble, producing plays with minimal expense in a building that leaked when it rained. Cultivating favor with the wealthiest theater manager in London had been Kit’s goal for months. With a long-running Fleet-produced play, he could repay his debts and move out of his cramped lodgings. Hunger had turned him into a hack writer for Merrick, but he craved more. Success, wealth, a chance to prove his skill as a writer. To prove that his decision to come to London had been the right one. To prove to his father that he could succeed on his own merits.
“Never!” Tess, performing the role of virginal damsel, shrieked from center stage. “Never shall I marry Lord Mallet. He is the worst sort of scoundrel.”
“That’s my cue.” Grey grinned as he tugged once more at his cravat and dashed back into the glow of the limelights. Just before stepping on stage, he skidded to stop and turned to Kit. “You’d better write me a part in whatever play you sell to Fleet.”
With a mock salute, Kit offered his friend a grin. He had every intention of creating a role for Grey. The man’s acting skills deserved a grander stage too.
Kit fixed his gaze on Fleet. He seemed to be enjoying the play, a trifling modernized Hamlet parody Kit called The King’s Ghost and the Mad Damsel. He’d changed the heroine’s name to Mordelia, unable to endure the sound of Ophelia’s name bouncing off theater walls for weeks. Months, if the play did well.
After his eyes adjusted to the stage-light glow, he pointlessly, compulsively scanned the crowd one last time for a woman whose inner beauty glowed as fiercely as her outer charms. He wouldn’t find her. As far as he knew, Phee was home in the village where they’d grown up. When he’d come to London to escape his father, she’d insisted on loyalty to hers and remained in Hertfordshire to care for him. All but one of his letters had gone unanswered, including a note the previous year expressing sorrow over her father’s passing.
He didn’t need to reach into his pocket and unfold the scrap of paper he carried with him everywhere. The five words of Ophelia’s only reply remained seared in his mind. “Follow your heart and flourish.” They were her mother’s words, stitched in a sampler that hung in the family’s drawing room. Kit kept the fragment, but he still wondered whether Ophelia had written the words in sincerity or sarcasm.
A flash of gems caught his eye, and Kit spied Fleet’s pretty companion rising from her seat. The theater impresario stood too, following her into the aisle. Both made their way toward the doors at the rear of the house.
He couldn’t let the man leave without an introduction. Kit lurched toward a door leading to a back hall and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor. He caught up to Fleet near the ladies’ retiring room.
“Mr. Fleet, I am—”
“Christopher Ruthven, the scribe of this evening’s entertainment.” The man extended a gloved hand. “Forgive me, Ruthven. It’s taken far too long for me to take in one of your plays.”
Attempting not to crush the slighter man in his grip, Kit offered an enthusiastic handshake.
“I want to have a look at your next play.” Fleet withdrew an engraved calling card from his waistcoat pocket. “Bring it in person to my office at the theater. Not the one you sent. Something new. More like this one.”
“You’ll have it.” Kit schooled his features, forcing his furrowed brow to smooth. So what if the man wanted a farce rather than serious drama? He craved an opportunity to succeed, and Fleet could provide it. “Thank you.”
“If we can come to terms and you manage to fill my playhouse every night as you have Merrick’s, I shall be thanking you.”
Kit started backstage, his head spinning with ideas for a bigger, grander play than Merrick’s could produce. Never mind that it had taken years to grasp the chance Fleet offered. Good fortune had come, and he intended to make the most of it.
As he reached the inconspicuous door that led to the back corridor, a man called his name.
“Mr. Ruthven? Christopher Leopold Ruthven?”
Two gentlemen approached, both tall, black-suited, and dour. Debt collectors? The instinct to bolt dissipated when the two made it impossible, crowding him on either side of the narrow passageway.
“I’m Ruthven.” Taller than both men and broader by half, Kit still braced himself for whatever might come. “What do you want?”
The one who’d yet to say anything took a step closer, and Kit recognized his wrinkled face.
“Mr. Sheridan? What brings you to Merrick’s?” Kit never imagined the Ruthven family solicitor would venture to a London theater under any circumstances.
“Ill tidings, I regret to say.” Sheridan reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope blacked with ink around the edges. “Your father is dead, Mr. Ruthven. I’m sorry. Our letter to you was returned. My messenger visited your address twice and could not locate you. I thought we might find you here.”
“Moved lodgings.” Kit took the letter, willing his hand not to tremble. “Weeks ago.”
“Your sister has made arrangements for a ceremony in Briar Heath.” Sheridan lifted a card from his pocket and handed it to Kit. “Visit my office before you depart, and I can provide you with details of your father’s will.”
The men watched him a moment, waiting for a reaction. When none came, Sheridan muttered condolences before they departed.
Kit lost track of time. He shoved Sheridan’s card into his coat pocket to join Fleet’s, crushed the unread solicitor’s letter in his hand, and stood rooted to the spot where they’d left him. Father. Dead. The two words refused to congeal in his mind. So many of the choices Kit made in his twenty-eight years had been driven by his father’s wrath, attempts to escape his stifling control.
Now Kit could think only of what he should do. Must do. Look after his sisters. Return to Briar Heath.
He’d leave after speaking to Merrick. Any work on a play to impress Fleet would have to be undertaken while he was back home.
Home. The countryside, the village, the oversized house his father built with profits from his publishing enterprise—none of it had been home for such a very long time. It was a place he’d felt shunned and loathed most of his life. He’d never visited in four years. Never dared set foot in his father’s house after his flamboyant departure.
As he headed toward Merrick’s office to tell the man his news, worry for his sisters tightened Kit’s jaw until it ached. Then another thought struck.
After all these years, night after night of futile searching, he would finally see Ophelia Marsden again.
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A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
Dear Reader,
I hope you liked the latest romance from Avon Impulse! If you’re looking for another steamy, fun, emotional read, be sure to check out some of our recent and upcoming titles.
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Nicole
Editorial Director
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on, USA Today bestselling author CHRISTY CARLYLE writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
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ALSO BY CHRISTY CARLYLE
Romancing the Rules series
Rules for a Rogue
The Accidental Heirs series
One Dangerous Desire
One Tempting Proposal
One Scandalous Kiss
Coming Soon
How to Woo a Wallflower
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Rules for a Rogue copyright © 2017 by Christy Carlyle.
A STUDY IN SCOUNDRELS. Copyright © 2017 by Christy Carlyle. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Digital Edition APRIL 2017 ISBN: 978-0-06-257237-0
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-257238-7
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