‘You did once.’
‘Yes, until I found out she was the one responsible for the rumour that nearly destroyed Victoria’s reputation,’ Laurence said. ‘I could never share my bed with a woman I didn’t trust or respect. I feel foolish now for even having thought she was what I wanted.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, lad. You’re not the first man to succumb to Signy’s wiles and you certainly won’t be the last,’ Theo said. ‘She’s a damn good actress, both on and off stage, and I expect she’ll get what she wants one way or another. But never mind that, I didn’t call you down here to talk about Signy,’ he said, pulling a letter from his pocket. ‘This came from Loftus this morning. He wants to know how you’re coming along with your new play.’
Laurence frowned as he read the flowing lines of script from Sir Michael Loftus, noted theatre critic and the man whose unexpected appearance in the Brettons’ drawing room one day had been the turning point in Laurence’s life. ‘I thought he was going to talk to me directly about the play.’
‘I did too, but for whatever reason, he seems to want me involved. Maybe because he fears that bad blood between us may not be to his advantage. He wants your next play—’
‘Victoria’s next play,’ Laurence said automatically.
‘Right, Victoria’s next play to be staged at Drury Lane. But since all of her previous plays have been produced here, he’s afraid I’ll be put out over the amount of money I stand to lose. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about the money, but there is your future to consider—’
‘Victoria’s future.’
Theo sighed. ‘Pardon me, Victoria’s future, and I have to agree it would be better served at Drury Lane, especially if she wants to do a work of serious drama. The Gryphon isn’t licensed for that kind of performance.’
Laurence folded up the letter. ‘I’ll speak to Victoria and see where things stand. Between all the preparations for Isabelle’s wedding and my own hectic schedule I haven’t had much time to talk to her these last few weeks.’
‘Fine. Then I’ll tell Loftus it’s up to you...or rather, Valentine Lawe, to decide when and where his next play will be produced. That should keep relations between Loftus and myself on an even keel, and believing you’ll choose the Theatre Royal over the Gryphon will keep Loftus happy with you. We don’t want to make an enemy of the man.’
‘Duly noted,’ Laurence said, getting to his feet.
‘By the by, how did you enjoy Lord Bonnington’s lecture last night?’ Theo enquired.
Laurence stared at his uncle in surprise. ‘You heard about that?’
‘Dear boy, there’s not much I don’t hear about when it comes to my family. I have eyes and ears at every door.’
‘I shall be sure to bear that in mind. But the presentation was excellent. Bonnington is an authority in his field.’
‘He also has a very pretty daughter.’
Laurence supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. For all of his uncle’s considerable business savvy, he was still an unapologetic romantic at heart. ‘Yes, he does. But the lady is not particularly impressed with Valentine Lawe right now,’ he said, before going on to inform his uncle of the circumstances surrounding his initial meeting with Lady Joanna at the bookshop and of his less-than-stellar follow up with her at Lydia Blough-Upton’s soirée.
‘Well, never mind, lad. I dare say you’ll do well enough elsewhere,’ Theo said. ‘Lady Joanna is a lovely young woman, but there are plenty of others who’ll be happy to be seen at your side, Lady Mary Bidwell being one of them.’
‘Thank you, uncle, but Lady Mary is the daughter of a duke,’ Laurence said, not about to mention that she was also a far cry from Lady Joanna in every way imaginable. ‘Even Valentine Lawe’s name won’t carry me that high up the social ladder!’
Chapter Five
After dinner, Laurence spent a few hours with his parents and younger sister in the drawing room before bidding them all goodnight and heading up to his room. While he loved his family dearly, he was getting a little tired of listening to his mother and youngest sister go on about Henry Fulton. Everyone knew that Winifred was in love with the man and that she was hopeful of receiving his proposal of marriage very soon. But the courtship had been going on since well before Laurence had assumed the role of Valentine Lawe and, frankly, he was getting tired of listening to her extol the man’s virtues as though he were some kind of newly anointed saint.
For everyone’s sake he hoped Fulton would just make up his mind and get on with it.
Then there was his father, who’d sat in the other corner happily immersed in his book and his cognac, chuckling to himself every now and then over some cleverly written phrase or amusing witticism. Ever since his eldest daughter’s highly successful marriage to Lord Kempton’s heir, Mr Bretton had taken to indulging in a glass of brandy before bed, saying that it helped him fall asleep and that it kept the nightmares at bay.
Laurence suspected it was just his father’s way of celebrating the good things that were happening to the family. Given how close they had come to complete ruination, he really couldn’t blame him.
‘So, how’s your new play coming along then, Mr Bretton?’ his valet asked as he helped Laurence out of his evening clothes and into a heavy silk robe. ‘The girls are all curious about it below stairs.’
Laurence smiled as he tightened the belt around his waist. ‘It’s coming along fine, Edwards, thank you. In fact, I plan to be up for a good few hours yet, so I’ll likely need fresh candles in the morning.’
‘I’ll make sure to tell Betsy, sir,’ the valet said. ‘Goodnight.’
Laurence waited until the door closed again before crossing to his desk and taking out a slim stack of papers. He’d started the play last year, just before the news that he was Valentine Lawe went public and not surprisingly, in the months following that stunning disclosure, he’d had precious little time to work on it. His days had been filled with literary readings and luncheons while his evenings had been taken up with attending the many glittering society events to which he was routinely invited.
But now that the initial frenzy was over, Laurence found himself with more free time and was able to get back to working on the play.
The problem, nothing about the play was working. Not the plot or the characters, not even the dialogue. Sometimes, in a brief moment of clarity, the words he wanted to say would magically appear on the page in exactly the way he wanted to say them, but more often than not, all he saw was a blank sheet. Too many times the conflicts he’d thought strong ended up being weak and far too easily resolved. Either that or his characters’ motivations were not compelling enough, or worse, made no sense at all.
Those were the moments through which Laurence struggled. He felt like he was waging an ongoing battle with characters over whom he had no control and who kept taking the play in a direction he didn’t want it to go and he honestly didn’t think it was supposed to be that way.
He remembered how happy Victoria had been during the writing of her second and third plays. Her head had been filled with ideas and her hands had flown across the pages in an effort to get the words and the story down.
Of course there had been moments of frustration, but for the most part, it had been an uplifting and fulfilling experience.
There was nothing even remotely uplifting about what Laurence was doing. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t even sure he liked the story any more. He certainly didn’t like his characters. What did that say about his skills as a playwright?
‘It says,’ Laurence murmured in disgust, ‘that you are not cut out to be one.’
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice. If, as he suspected, Victoria was not working on a new play, it meant someone else had to—and that someone was him. When he had assumed the role of Valentine Lawe, he had also assumed the obligations. By confirming the man’s existence, he had established a belief that there would be more plays because society—and Sir Michael Loftus—
expected that of him. If he didn’t produce, both would turn on him like a vengeful lover.
Theo had said it himself. Sir Michael could be very helpful to those he liked, but if you crossed him, you risked arousing the devil.
Laurence had no desire to arouse the devil. Too many people had played that game and lost, which meant that this book, or rather, this pathetic collection of words and thoughts with virtually no plot, seriously flawed pacing and a cast of characters even the best troupe of actors would be hard pressed to make interesting, would have to do.
The devil was close by and no one knew better than Laurence how wretchedly unprepared he was to do battle.
* * *
It was nearly two weeks before Joanna finished Volney’s Travels. The book contained a far more detailed account of life in that time than any of the other books she had read, but the fact she had made notes as she went along contributed much to the time it had taken. The author offered such fascinating insights into life in the Ottoman Empire that she had found herself reading many of the sections several times over. She could see why Mr Bretton had recommended it.
Equally aware, however, that she had kept it longer than intended, Joanna set out for Green Street the very next day. She had some shopping to do and so would not be taken much out of her way to return the book on her way there. With any luck, Mr Bretton would not be at home.
Joanna knew it was silly she should feel that way, but the truth was, she still wasn’t comfortable in his company. While she had moved past the issue of his not having told her the truth about his being a successful playwright the first time they’d met, she could not so easily dismiss the events that had taken place on the night of her father’s lecture. First the scene in the hall when Mr Bretton had taken her to task over what she had said about his not being able to be both a historian and a playwright—even though it was his omission of the facts that had caused the conflict in the first place—and then that disturbing interlude in the carriage on the drive home when he had displayed such kindness.
Joanna had not expected compassion or understanding from the man when she had talked about her mother, and his demonstration of both had left her feeling decidedly confused. So she had chosen avoidance as the way of dealing with him and had drawn out the time for as long as she could. But one could only hold on to another’s possessions for so long and, knowing she had gone past that point, Joanna set out, hoping simply to drop the book and leave.
* * *
Unfortunately, as so often happens when one has wishes to the contrary, Mr Bretton was at home and when Joanna was shown into an elegant drawing room, it was to see him seated at the pianoforte playing an extremely complicated study. She heard only a few bars of the piece before he looked up and saw her, but it was enough to give her yet another tantalising glimpse into the complexity of his character.
‘Lady Joanna,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Mr Bretton.’
At the same time, his sister, whom Joanna’s aunt had pointed out to her at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception, rose to greet her. ‘Lady Joanna, how nice of you to call. I am Mrs Devlin.’
‘Good afternoon,’ Joanna said. ‘I hope I am not intruding.’
‘Not at all. I just came to pay a call on my brother and said how pleasant it would be if someone else were to arrive as well, and now here you are.’
It was impossible not to like Victoria Devlin. Her natural vivacity and bright, sparkling eyes were guaranteed to make a guest feel at ease and Joanna found herself smiling back at the lady as though they were friends of long standing. ‘I was en route to do some shopping and thought I would return Mr Volney’s book on the way. Your brother was kind enough to lend it to me and I have enjoyed it immensely.’ Joanna turned to look at the gentleman who was still standing by the pianoforte and said, ‘Forgive me for keeping it so long, Mr Bretton, but there was a great deal of material to be covered.’
‘No apologies are necessary, Lady Joanna, I was not anxious for its return,’ he assured her. ‘I have been reading Viagio che o fato l’anno 1589 dal Caiero in Ebrin navigando su per el Nilo.’
Joanna’s eyes opened wide. ‘By the gentleman who called himself Anonimo Veneziano?’
‘The same.’
‘How interesting. I wasn’t aware it had been translated from the original Italian.’
‘It hasn’t.’
She blinked. ‘Oh.’
‘May I ring for refreshments, Lady Joanna?’ Mrs Devlin enquired with a smile.
Stifling a sigh, Joanna shook her head. It seemed that once again she had severely underestimated Mr Bretton’s abilities. ‘Thank you, no. My maid is waiting outside and I have several more errands to attend to.’
‘It was good of you to take the time to bring the book back,’ Mr Bretton said, finally moving away from the piano.
‘As I recall, it was condition of it being lent,’ Joanna said, though her cheeks grew warm under the intensity of that crystalline-blue gaze. ‘You play very well, Mr Bretton. I have not known many gentlemen who are as musically gifted.’
‘I find it a relaxing pastime,’ he replied. ‘It takes my mind off other things.’
‘Unlike writing, which demands that one’s mind be present and engaged at all times,’ Mrs Devlin said. ‘Isn’t that right, Laurence?’
Joanna saw the affectionate glance that passed between brother and sister and envied them their closeness. It was at times like these that she wished she had siblings of her own. While she was fond of her cousins, it wasn’t the same as having a brother or sister with whom she could share confidences.
‘Speaking of which, Lady Joanna, I recently came into possession of another book you might be interested in reading,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘It is by the French archaeologist, Denon, entitled Travels in Upper and Lower Egypt—’
‘—during the campaigns of General Bonaparte in that Country,’ Joanna said, excitement lending a slightly breathless quality to her voice. ‘Yes, I am familiar with it, but however did you manage to find a copy?’
‘The owner of a small bookshop on Oxford Street knows of my interest in such things and keeps his eyes and ears open for the rare and unusual. He contacts me whenever something new comes his way. Being an artist yourself, I think you will find it very entertaining.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I would. Thank you, Mr Bretton,’ Joanna said, blushing. ‘It was...very kind of you to think of me.’
‘Speaking of which, I understand we are to make up a party for the theatre,’ Mrs Devlin said.
Joanna sent her a blank look. ‘We are?’
‘Yes. My brother received a very nice letter from Lady Cynthia, asking if his offer to escort the two of you to a performance of A Lady’s Choice was still open.’
‘And I wrote back to say that it was,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘I have also invited Victoria and her husband to join us, so we will be five.’
‘Unless there is someone else you would like to include?’ Mrs Devlin added quickly.
‘Someone else?’ Joanna said, glancing from one to the other.
‘Your aunt indicated that Mr Osborne or Mr Rowe might be interested in accompanying you,’ Mr Bretton said in a carefully expressionless voice.
Joanna felt her face burn. How could her aunt have suggested such a thing? Mr Osborne was of no more interest to her than Mr Rowe, but now Mr Bretton and his sister had reason to believe otherwise. ‘I regret that my aunt thought to take advantage of your offer, Mr Bretton, by including people with whom you may or may not be acquainted. But I can assure you I am happy with the company as it stands. And I am looking forward to the evening.’
It was a comment made more out of obligation than because she genuinely felt it. Joanna had never been an avid theatre goer given that so many of the plays she had seen were not in the least memorable. The writing was poor, the acting worse and once the audience began hurling orange peelings and fruit at the stage, the evening degenerated even further. But as she sat in the carriage heading for Bond Street
a short time later, she realised she was looking forward to giving the theatre another try, if for no other reason than to see what manner of playwright Laurence Bretton really was.
She had seen him shine in a world that was not his own. She was curious to see how he conducted himself in one that was.
* * *
That evening saw Joanna and her father, along with Lady Cynthia and Mrs Gavin and her husband, engaged for cards and dancing at the home of Lord and Lady Breckinridge. Not surprisingly, her cousin Jane did not attend.
‘She’s at home, poor darling,’ Mrs Gavin murmured in response to Joanna’s question. ‘Her stomach wasn’t quite the thing so I sent her off to bed with a posset.’
Joanna offered a suitable response, but in truth she hadn’t expected anything else. Jane often came down with an illness right before a social engagement. Her mother tended to put it down to a delicate stomach, while Lady Cynthia was of the opinion the girl suffered from a weak constitution. Only Joanna knew the poor girl was paralytically shy and that she would do almost anything to avoid having to appear in public.
How she was ever to find a husband was a question no one seemed willing to address, but as Joanna walked into the magnificent Park Lane mansion, she thought it just as well Jane hadn’t come tonight. The fashionably dressed crowd, most of whom occupied the upper echelons of society, would certainly have made Jane’s knees tremble. Joanna was thankful she had chosen to wear the newest and most elegant of her gowns, knowing that anything less would have been deemed inappropriate. Fashioned in exceedingly flattering lines, with a bodice cut low enough to expose the rounded tops of her breasts and in a shade of pink not deep enough to be called rose, it was as stylish as any in the room.
‘Why look, Joanna, there is Mr Bretton,’ Mrs Gavin said as they moved into the largest and most ornate of the reception rooms. ‘And keeping very good company, I might add. Lord Trucklesworth is to his right, Lord and Lady Kempton are to his left and he is speaking to Mr Devlin, who is, of course, married to his eldest sister. And is that not Lady Mary Bidwell standing with them?’
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