Wicked Company (41 page)

“Sink me, but I never dreamed the man could write so witty a piece!” he exclaimed, motioning her to enter his office.

“Who, sir?” Sophie asked, glancing down to confirm the manuscript in question was actually the one Peter had delivered to Drury Lane.

“That baronet, Peter… what’s his name? I’m just rereading a manuscript that coxcomb submitted last week.”

“Peter Lindsay-Hoyt?” she said. “You like his work?”

“Aye… ’tis most droll… all about a rebellion of footmen in a great house—they force their master to make all sorts of comical concessions.” He pointed a finger at the manuscript. “I want to put this into rehearsal straightaway… it will make a good companion piece to
The Platonic Wife.”

“You’re mounting Mrs. Griffith’s play at Drury Lane?” Sophie said, unable to mask her surprise. For a reputed misogynist, George Colman was certainly offering an important opportunity to a woman novelist like Elizabeth Griffith with no proven theatrical accomplishments—other than as a minor actress at Covent Garden in the distant past.

“Aye… she’s adapted a French comedy in fairly good form,” Colman replied. “That
may
pose a problem with the Lord Chamberlain’s office… but, with a little persuasion, I hope to realize it in December or in the New Year.
The Footmen’s Conspiracy
is as British as a joint of beef. Perhaps ’twill soothe Capell’s Francophobia—not to mention his abhorrence of women—and the little drone will grant licenses to both.”

“Let us hope so,” murmured Sophie, determined to insist that Peter inform Colman immediately of their joint authorship as soon as Capell gave it his stamp of approval, which Sophie no longer doubted that he would.

Colman scrutinized her closely.

“You have copied parts here on occasion, have you not?” he asked.

“Aye… over the summer, in Mr. Hopkins’s absence, I wrote out the ‘sides’ for several actors,” she replied.

“Well, I need a full copy of
The Footmen’s Conspiracy
to submit to the Lord Chamberlain’s office posthaste. I’ll pay you seven shillings if you can deliver it to his chambers by the Thursday.”

Sophie nearly laughed out loud. Here she was being asked to make a duplicate of her own play, and neither Colman nor Edward Capell had any idea it had sprung in large part from her pen.

“I’d be honored to assist you,” Sophie replied. “Have you comments or changes to incorporate in this version?”

“No… surprisingly, ’tis in excellent form,” he replied. “Copy it as quickly as you’re able and return the original to me for safekeeping. The Lord Chamberlain’s office has a nasty habit of not returning manuscripts.”

“Then you’re really going to mount
The Footmen’s Conspiracy?”
she persisted.

“Aye,” Colman replied with a smug grin. “The baronet might even earn a few more quid to add to his ample coffers if the work lasts more than three nights.”

As soon as Sophie raced past the stage doorkeeper and out into Russell Street she hailed a hackney coach. Despite the expense, she sped to Peter’s lodgings on Cleveland Row, bursting to convey the news of their success. At the door, his housekeeper, Mrs. Hood, told her that Peter was entertaining Roderick Darnly and could not be disturbed.

“Well, please inform him I am here,” she said firmly, “and that I am aware of the excellent news that Drury Lane plans to present
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.
I am sure he’ll want to learn all the details from me.”

Within minutes, Mrs. Hood returned and grudgingly showed Sophie into the front sitting room. There sat Peter, Roderick, and to her surprise, Mary Ann Skene, the erstwhile ruffle maker, playing a game of cards at a table set before the empty fireplace. Sophie stared at the homely but well-endowed young woman, recalling that the last time she had seen her was the day Aunt Harriet ran naked down Half Moon Passage. Today, Mary Ann was decked out in resplendent, if garish finery, for this late afternoon tête-à-tête.

“Ah… Sophie, so I understand you are the bearer of glad tidings!” Peter said warmly, taking her arm and guiding her to a fourth chair facing the card table. “I was just saying to Darnly that I must send a note requesting you join us this evening at the Blue Periwig. Now we truly have something to celebrate. We’ll have some supper, a bit of champagne!”

“I-I’m not sure… I—” she stammered, suddenly shy. She had severe doubts that her only evening gown, a lavender garment cut down from Aunt Harriet’s limited wardrobe, would be suitable for such an elegant-sounding establishment.

“Of
course
you’ll join us,” Roderick said briskly. “I’ll have my coach call for you by seven.”

Sophie hurried home in high spirits to make herself ready. Within the hour, the clatter of hooves on the street below told her Darnly’s coach had arrived.

Sophie did her best to maintain a calm demeanor when Darnly’s party was led by a liveried servant into an elegantly appointed private dining room of the Blue Periwig. The walls were covered in a rich, sapphire brocade. Heavy matching draperies pulled back by corded gold ties framed the large-paned windows on one side of the ornate chamber. Opposite stood a wide sofa in matching blue brocade that appeared to Sophie to be as large as a bed.

The revelers settled into their chairs at the small, intimate dining table, which was laden with crystal and fine china and illuminated by a five-branched candelabra. Soon, bumpers of wine and delicate shelled oysters were served by an army of white-gloved waiters. A mock turtle soup, rich with carrots, onions, veal broth, and laced with a touch of Madeira was followed quickly by a terrine of potted beef. Next came roasted pigeons smothered in currant sauce presented on silver scallop shells. As more wine was poured into the crystal goblets, Sophie’s eyes widened at the sight of glass dishes heaped with whipped syllabub swirling around bits of savory macaroons and featuring the rare condiment coconut.

After the servants had silently departed to allow the guests to enjoy their pudding in private, Roderick rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet and raised his wineglass.

“To our authors!” he toasted Peter and Sophie with an expansive gesture. “May your quills remain sharp!” He then sat down abruptly and leaned conspiratorially toward Mary Ann Skene and whispered something unintelligible into her ear.

“Hear! Hear!” Peter chorused, glancing over at Sophie a bit bleary eyed. “May our pens never waver!”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Sophie replied, feeling warm and giggly and wondering at how light-headed she was.

Mary Ann was flushed scarlet and seemed more than a bit stewed herself. Even so, she somehow maintained enough coordination to slide spoonfuls of frothy syllabub into the open mouth of her companion.

“Tell me, my partner,” Peter said, fingering the scrap of lace that decorated the sleeve of Sophie’s lavender gown, “have you thought about what we can serve up
next
to our esteemed manager, Mr. Colman? He asked me if I had any other ideas as witty as
The Footmen’s Conspiracy.”

“I will tell you a notion I had,” Sophie said, feeling a silly grin spread over her features, “if
you
promise to inform Colman we both wrote the play and if you will tell me what fees you expect!”

“Fees?” Peter replied, looking puzzled. “Unless it plays extremely well, ’twill hardly cover the cost of this fine supper. Fees?” he repeated waggishly, staring intently into her eyes. “I think I’ll pay you what’s owing you thusly!”

Fueled by his bottle of champagne, he pulled Sophie to his chest and kissed her with the full force of his open mouth. She was so startled by his abrupt action that she lay in his arms unprotestingly. His lips pressed insistently against hers, his tongue, smelling sweetly of spirits, insinuated itself boldly into her mouth, sending an odd languor throughout her body. His hand slid up the front of her bodice and molded itself around her small breast, kneading it with gentle urgency.

“Sophie…” he murmured against her lips.

His kiss was quite unlike her memory of Hunter’s passionate embrace, but, whether the wine, the lavish banquet, or the pleasant fellowship was responsible for her feeling of goodwill, Sophie yielded herself to the warmth of Peter’s embrace, and the gentle, pleasurable sensations they evoked. In light of Hunter’s continuing silence, she allowed herself the comfort of leaning into Peter’s chest, savoring the luxury of human contact after so lonely a summer. At length, some small, sane portion of her mind remembered the presence of Roderick and Mary Ann. She pulled away breathlessly and stared at the youthful aristocrat with some confusion.

“You have quite confounded me,” she whispered. “I was asking you about fees… or was it you who were asking me?”

“About our next venture.” He smiled, pouring more champagne. She stole a glance at their dinner companions who had at some point removed themselves to the blue brocaded couch on the far side of the room. Roderick Darnly was tipping his champagne glass against Mary Ann’s lips while she stroked her hand against his satin-clad thigh. “I’ve racked my brains for an amusing notion, but can’t think of a thing,” Peter acknowledged candidly.

Sophie licked her lips and smoothed her hair in an attempt to regain her composure. Peter was smiling and his thumb was gently strafing the side of her cheekbone. He looked at her expectantly.

“Now that we’ve proven ourselves as dramatists,” Sophie said earnestly, focusing her eyes with some difficulty, “you
will
tell Colman we’re to share author’s credit, won’t you?” After all, she realized, Peter—with Darnly’s help—
had
been the one to get the play accepted by George Colman. “’Tis so much less forbidding to work with a partner, Peter, but I must have your solemn pledge that if we succeed in getting our first play past the censor, you shall disclose I am your joint author on this one
and
the next.”

Peter merely smiled and raised her hand to his lips.

Sophie added, “And no more galloping off to the country when we have work to do, agreed?”

“You are such a scold, Mistress McGann… but a beautiful one,” Peter replied, leaning forward to kiss her on the nose. “Now tell me your notion for a new comedy.” He looked over at Roderick whose head was tilted against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. His linen was in disarray and Mary Ann was busily nuzzling her lips against his chest in a most provocative manner. Peter called across the chamber, “Darnly… sorry to interrupt, but we need your thoughts on this. Sophie has an idea for a new play.”

The Earl of Llewelyn’s son reluctantly rose to his feet and pulled Mary Ann to hers. With his arm draped casually around her shoulder, he sauntered back to the dining table and the couple again took their seats. Sophie, befuddled by the wine she had consumed, cleared her throat and hesitantly proposed a farce about a tempestuous, aging actress who falsely assumes that she remains the public’s darling.

“However, behind her back, the younger players invent backstage ploys that eventually trick her into yielding to a prettier, younger, less pretentious actress who takes over her roles while the grand dame is suitably relegated to playing old crones. I thought to call the piece
The Provoked Player,
” she finished, and then hiccupped.

“This couldn’t be based on that wretched woman in Bath we observed on stage who was so horrid… Mavis Somebody?” Roderick chuckled. “We met her with young Hunter Robertson that night at the ball.”

“It could be based on any number of actresses,” Sophie replied warily, resolving not to imbibe another drop of champagne.

“Well, Darnly… d’you think you could again use the power of persuasion at Drury Lane if we dash this off?” Peter asked. He nodded in the direction of their benefactor. “My friend, here, has some influence, now that he’s quietly purchased a mortgage on some of Lacy’s shares, don’t you, old chap?”

“’Tis good only for a few free tickets in a favorable box,” Darnly shrugged, sipping more wine, “but I shall put in a good word, if I can.” His eyes fastened on Sophie’s flushed face and he took her hand in his. “I am most happy to advance the fortunes of those who show genuine talent,” he added in a low voice.

He stooped to kiss her fingers and his lips lingered an instant too long for common courtesy. Despite Peter’s inebriated state, Sophie sensed he had noticed Roderick’s gesture and was displeased.

“Sink me, Darnly, if I shall allow you to charm this little morsel away with promises of fame and fortune! You stick to your ruffle maker, old man… I shall jolly well reserve Sophie for m’self, thank you very much! Now, if you would be so kind as to allow me the use of your coach, I shall escort the lady home.”

“As you wish,” Roderick said with a shrug before rising to his full height.

Peter took Sophie by the arm and bid a curt adieu to Darnly and Mary Ann, who was toying with the stem of her champagne glass, looking bored.

“The Honorable Mr. Darnly has reserved the Blue Periwig’s finest suite for himself and Mistress Skene, and I think we shouldn’t prevent their making use of it a moment longer!” Peter said pointedly. “We bid you good night. I’ll settle the account with you later, if I may.”