Wicked Company (17 page)

“Bozzy!” she shouted through the biting wind. “Bozzy! Over here! ’Tis I… Sophie McGann! Pray, come in and warm yourself!” With a look of astonishment, James Boswell stared across the ten feet separating them.

“Why Sophie… what in the world are
you
doing here?”

“I could ask you what
you
are doing visiting the Green Canister!” she replied with a mischievous chuckle.

Boswell’s round face flushed crimson and he ignored her teasing comment as he approached her door.

“The night I left Edinburgh, my father had raised the town guard looking for you!” he exclaimed, staring at her through the icy downpour. “That broadside you wrote put him into a right foul temper. I truly think he might have had you hanged. But you escaped his clutches! How the deuce did you
do
it?” he asked admiringly.

“I’m glad you inquired,” she replied saucily, “as you were an accomplice! I was hidden in
your
wicker traveling trunk!”

Boswell stared at her, his mouth agape. “Lud, Sophie, you’re an amazing wench!”

“When your wheel splintered, I rode postillion with your coachman and eventually caught the
Fly
to London.” Her amusement at the episode had blossomed as time and distance lengthened. “Come in, come in, get out of this wretched weather.”

Jamie tramped into the shop, divested himself of his coat, and stood in front of her hearth at the back of the chamber, warming his fingers against the glowing coals.

“I dare say I’ll never tell Lord Auckinleck the conclusion of this amazing tale… the renegade escapes justice in his son’s trunk, only to be taken on by yet another scurrilous book emporium!” Jamie laughed, glancing around Ashby’s.

Sophie, sotto voce, then explained her dilemma regarding her aunt’s frail condition and her own struggle to make ends meet.

“I think, eventually, I can make a success here, selling printed plays and novels and such, but, in the meantime…” Her words drifted off uncertainly.

James Boswell was scrutinizing her in a way that suddenly made her feel uncomfortable.

“I
must say, Sophie, you’ve… not grown, exactly,” said Boswell, “you’re still a wee one, as Robertson always called you… but, you… ah…” He had the decency to flush slightly as his eyes strayed to Sophie’s bosom which had finally, mercifully, begun to fill out. Suddenly, he reached for her hand and kissed it. “So soft…” he murmured against her flesh. His eyes lifted to hers and his lids drooped seductively. “Surely, under the circumstances you face, you’d allow me to offer my protection,”

Sophie felt no tremor of excitement at his suggestive words and gently removed her hand from his.

“Bozzy,” she said with a smile and a shake of her head. “Don’t be ridiculous, especially when I presume you’re on your way to the Green Canister for a remedy for your latest dalliance.” Boswell looked aghast at hearing such blunt honesty. “I am most flattered that you now perceive me a comely enough wench,” she added pleasantly, “but I’d much rather have you as my friend. I’ve so few in this city.” He looked abashed and then grinned, the expression on his broad face almost one of relief. “Tell me,” she asked, “have you got your commission in the Guards?”

Boswell frowned and shook his head sadly.

“’Tis devilish hard to arrange, it seems,” he said. “I have interviews and appointments and try to make my way, but no, I have not got into the Guards.” He looked downcast, but then his face brightened. “But I met the famous Mr. David Garrick of Drury Lane—
and
his most amiable wife. She made breakfast for us, can you imagine that!” Boswell’s features were aglow with pleasure. “And here’s something you’d fancy, Sophie. Garrick showed me his library, with a large collection of good books and some busts and pictures. At noon he was obliged to attend rehearsal and so I left to come here.”

“And have you seen Thomas Sheridan?” she asked eagerly.

“Aye, I called on him almost as soon as I’d arrived. He lives on Henrietta Street… number Twenty-four. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him yourself.”

“I must pay a call,” Sophie murmured, excited to have encountered someone from home and heartened to discover that the world she loved and the people who fascinated her most were literally just around the corner. “By the way,” she said casually, “has Hunter Robertson written how he’s getting on as a bona fide actor?”

“Not a line,” Boswell replied cheerfully. “That rogue’s probably too busy charming the wenches at the playhouse to put quill to paper.”

“Speaking of wenches and the mischief they can cause,” Sophie responded pointedly, hiding her disappointment as best she could, “have
you
yet met the famous Mrs. Phillips, dispenser of potions and unsolicited advice?”

“No,” he said, embarrassed.

“How did you learn of her shop?” Sophie persisted.

“From my physician,” Boswell said stiffly. “He sent me to get a-ah—”

“To get a draught for a gentlemen’s ailment, am I right?” she asked. Since becoming a resident of Covent Garden she had learned to speak frankly of such commonplace illnesses.

“Aye,” he admitted, apparently relieved not to have to dissemble further. “A lass who acts at Covent Garden Theater showed me perfidy by not advising me she was… unwell. For some days I’ve observed the symptoms of a strong infection—”

“A gentleman’s disease, indeed! Sounds like the clap, I’m afraid, Bozzy,” Sophie commented matter-of-factly. “Poor you!”

“Aye, Señor Gonorrhea has paid an unwelcome call,” he confessed glumly. “Doctor Douglas says I must take a draught for some days.”

“Well, come along with me. I’ll make the introductions to Mrs. Phillips,” Sophie said sympathetically, for she knew that Jamie Boswell, as charming as he sometimes could be, would be no sweetheart of hers.

Seven

Sophie clasped Jamie Boswell’s hand and dashed fifteen paces through the driving sleet to the Green Canister. Inside the shop, Mrs. Phillips was leading a customer toward the shelves that held a variety of cosmetics.

“I’ve a lovely selection of rouge pots, dearie. A little color is what you need,” the proprietress cooed to the young dancer whom Sophie had encountered her first day in London—the one with the sore feet. “’Twill make those cheekbones of yours so exquisite, you’ll catch the eye of a duke!”

The dancer nodded absently and began to sample various colors from Mrs. Phillips’s stock, dabbing a bit of vermilion paste from each pot on the back of her hand. Meanwhile, Bozzy surveyed the variety of medicines stored in the large glass cabinet on the opposite side of the apothecary shop.

“Mrs. Phillips,” Sophie interjected, “may I present a great friend of mine from Edinburgh, James Boswell, Esquire, a barrister, and mayhap soon a member of the King’s Guards.”

Pulling his gaze away from the rows of apothecary jars, Jamie inclined his head in greeting. Mrs. Phillips surveyed Boswell’s form from the tip of his silver-buckled shoes, up past his ample waistline and soft hands to his moon-shaped face.

“More sensible to stick to your briefs and your books, if you ask me,” she declared, bobbing a perfunctory curtsy. Sophie ignored the look of pique spreading across Jamie’s face in response to such unwelcome advice.

“Mr. Boswell needs your assistance in a medical matter,” Sophie said in a low voice.

“Does he, now?” Mrs. Phillips responded. “Come with me, Mr. Boswell. Alum, is it you want? Or tincture of mercury?”

She led the discomfited young man to the back of the shop where she proceeded to pulverize various substances that, when combined, were supposed to counteract venereal disease. Meanwhile, Sophie glanced in the direction of the dancer who lingered over her choice of rouge.

“So you’ve come from Edinburgh, have you?” the young woman asked pleasantly, gazing at Sophie.

“Aye… I manage my aunt’s book shop, next door,” Sophie responded. “My name’s Sophie McGann.”

“I’m Lorna Blount.” She grinned at Sophie. “I gather your establishment has changed its character somewhat.”

“Aye, and I hope to get new customers because of it,” Sophie ventured. “I plan to stock plays and novels and the latest publications. You know, things that theater people like yourself might enjoy,” she added, hoping Lorna Blount might begin to spread the word that Ashby’s Books was a place to frequent.

“’Tis a capital idea,” Lorna replied enthusiastically, “as long as your prices aren’t too dear. Actors are always short of funds, as you probably know. Have you attended the theater yourself since your arrival?”

“No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t had a chance.”

She briefly recited the formidable tasks that had confronted her as a result of reopening the book shop and alluded to her own lack of funds.

“Well, I’m more than pleased to know you,” Lorna responded eagerly. “I dance the hornpipe and do a bit of tumbling in the entre-acts at Drury Lane, but I love to read, so I’m happy to hear of your efforts at the book shop. My father was assistant music master at Covent Garden until he died. He’s the one who made sure I learned my letters.”

“You can read
and
tumble?” Sophie said, admiringly.

“That… and I dance in taverns when Garrick can’t employ me.”

Sophie turned to indicate the companion with whom she’d entered the shop.

“My friend James Boswell, there, knows Mr. Garrick. He sounds like a wonderful fellow.”

“He is,” Lorna replied eagerly. “Not like so many of those actor-managers who only offer you a role for a
roll
in the feathers!” Both girls laughed at her joke.

“Garrick’s a man who prizes his wife, is he?” Sophie wondered aloud, remembering the loving relationship between her own mother and father.

“Oh, yes, and Mrs. Garrick loves
him.
She gave up her dancing when they married, and quite wonderful she was, too,” Lorna replied. She tilted her head to one side, looking thoughtful. “I’m not performing on Wednesday… I could gain us free entrance to
The Two Gentlemen of Verona,
if you’d like. ’Tis by Benjamin Victor who shuffled some of the Bard’s words to appeal to modern audiences.”

“Shakespeare? Oh, that would be
wonderful!”
Sophie said excitedly. “That’s really kind of you, Miss Blount.”

“Lorna, please,” she insisted. “’Tis no bother. The boxkeeper’s a friend. He’ll find us seats as soon as the play commences.”

“I’d quite like that,” Sophie said eagerly.

“A few minutes before six o’clock then,” Lorna replied, “in front of Drury Lane.”

“Six o’clock,” Sophie confirmed, “and thanks, awfully.”

Lorna was silent for a moment, fingering the pot of rouge she had finally selected for purchase.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow a novel to read once in a while, Sophie?” she asked shyly, slightly embarrassed by her request. “I do so love them, and I have lots of time to read when I’m backstage, waiting to perform.”

“Of course,” Sophie responded, warmed by the notion that Lorna Blount and she could become fast friends. “When you’ve purchased your rouge, pop into the shop. I’ve got one or two really good ones to show you.”

Boswell had concluded his transaction with Mrs. Phillips and approached Sophie’s side, his eyes fastening appreciatively on the pretty blond woman standing next to her.

“May I make the acquaintance of your ravishing
amie,”
he requested with an ingratiating smile.

In Sophie’s view, James Boswell became a different creature when interested in a woman. His round, intelligent countenance grew animated, his eyes intense. He began to exude a palpable magnetism that invariably drew females to him and made them forget he was certainly not the handsomest of men. Bozzy’s alert, intelligent gaze mesmerized his prey and turned them into willing lambs submitting to his wolflike charm.

“Lorna Blount, may I present James Boswell, Esquire, late of Edinburgh,” Sophie said, observing Lorna’s responsive glance. “Well, Bozzy,” she inquired sweetly, “was Mrs. Phillips able to give you something satisfactory for your ailment
d’amour.”

“Uh… why yes,” Bozzy replied, visibly ruffled by Sophie’s candor.

“How fortunate,” Lorna murmured, averting her eyes demurely.

Jamie cast Sophie an annoyed look and begged to take their leave. Impulsively, Sophie put her arms around him and gave him a sisterly hug.

“Forgive me,” she whispered into his ear. “I have every confidence you’ll soon recover, but Lorna’s a friend as well…”

He patted her on the back in a gruff gesture of amnesty.

“Until next time, then,” James Boswell saluted them with reasonable good grace and bid them both a hasty farewell.

***

Sophie remained preoccupied with improving the atmosphere at the book shop, but did not forget her rendezvous with Lorna scheduled for a little before six on Wednesday. However, on the morning of the appointed day, Sophie had barely unbolted the shop’s door before Lorna arrived, breathless with the news that there would be no performance at Drury Lane that night.