Page 65 of Miss Dramatic
He locked the case, replaced the key under the candlestick, and retrieved his brandy from the sideboard.
“Does DeWitt know where the jewels are kept?” Drysdale asked, resuming his perambulations about the library. The question insinuated that DeWittshould notknow where the jewels were kept.
“Of course. Those trinkets are available to all the ladies in the family, including the marchioness’s mother and grandmother. Lord Phillip knows as well. The younger girls have seen the collection, and I believe Diana has tried on a few of the simpler pieces in anticipation of next Season’s folderol.”
“And you intend to execute your duties as host with emeralds gracing your pocket?”
“I’ll take this necklace upstairs to my wife’s dressing closet. She has a final fitting tomorrow for the formal ensemble she’ll wear at Friday’s supper. For the setting to become entangled in the lace of a decolletage would be catastrophic, apparently, though I might find the spectacle entertaining—don’t tell my wife I said that. As the master of this household—in name at least—I alone have responsibility for transporting the jewels to and fro about the domicile. Besides, I need to visit the retiring room. That punch is worse than ale for inspiring regular trips to the jakes.”
Drysdale’s expression went momentarily blank before he recovered his mask of genial reserve. “Mrs. Drysdale is looking very much forward to Friday’s supper.”
“While I look forward to the end of this house party, just between us gents.” Tavistock finished his second half brandy, pretended to trip on the edge of the carpet, and parted from Drysdale at the foot of the main staircase.
He made his way to the study, where a safe had been installed some fifty years past. The time in the library had been enlightening, insofar as Drysdale had announced his ill intentions toward Gavin. The true revelation had been on a different subject entirely.
Acting was whacking good fun. Playing a role, hitting just the right notes to make the part credible without overdoing the whole business… Gad, what fun. Far more diverting and challenging than counting turnips or thumping through another Roger de Coverley at the quarterly assemblies in Crosspatch Corners.
No wonder Gavin DeWitt had run off. His family was trying to turn him into the Marquess of Mangel-wurzels, and he’d had sense enough to flee that fate for a far more appealing venture on the stage.
ChapterFifteen
Supper, a semiformal meal, went by fairly quickly. Gavin was absorbed with amplifying the role he’d created at lunch. The jilted suitor trying manfully to hide his injured pride, while manfully upholding his duties as one of few gentlemen present and manfully consuming a trifle too much wine.
The details—surreptitious glances down the table, tiny conversational lags, a lack of interest in excellent fare—were drawn from his final days in Derbyshire and came all too easily.
Rose, for her part, had lapsed into sniffy disdain toward him while engaging with her neighbors in overly bright conversation about camphor and chamomile, as best Gavin could overhear. Tavistock had sauntered back into the parlor before supper and winked heavily at Amaryllis, the signal that the trap in the library had been baited.
All’s well that ends with Drysdale on a transport ship.
“Ladies,” Amaryllis said from her end of the table, “we would in the normal course withdraw to our tea at this point, but we would leave the gentleman bereft, I’m sure.”
“We few,” Tavistock said, gesturing grandly toward his marchioness. “We bereft few.”
He was either a natural thespian or slightly foxed. Perhaps both. His quip had half the table—those who knew their Shakespeare—smiling.
“I’d thought to gather us around the pianoforte,” Amaryllis said, “but the tuner’s horse threw a shoe, and thus we must improvise. I hoped my brother might entertain us with a few sonnets and recitations.”
The piano at Miller’s Lament had been tuned the day before the first guest had arrived. Amaryllis, in true big-sister fashion, was up to something. The script called for Diana to entertain the guests, but Diana was merely looking at him expectantly.
“Please do,” Lady Phillip said. “We’d love to hear your rendering of the Bard’s verses. I’m sure the Drysdales would enjoy your perspective on say, Sonnet 18?”
“Oh, do,” Gemma Drysdale said. “But not No. 18. I always thought your handling of No. 23 inspired.‘As an unperfect actor on a stage, who with his fear is put beside his part…’You have the nuances with that one.”
Gavin looked to his mother, who occupied the place beside Lady Duncannon to Tavistock’s right. Mama had shown increasing unease with his theatrical tendencies as he’d been growing up, and she had been adamant that Gavinput all that behind him.
Amaryllis had apparently decided otherwise, for at least the next half hour.
Did hewantto offer up those sonnets to this audience?
Well, yes, because Rose was among their number. “A few verses, then,” he said, rising. “No dramatic parts, though. Those take a certain shift in mental focus that eludes me after such fine sustenance and libation.”
“He means food and drink,” Tavistock said, getting to his feet and offering his arms to Lady Duncannon and Mama. “Our Gavin forgot to mention the intoxicating effect of such lovely company. To the music room, my friends.”
In the general crush to leave the dining room, Gavin tried to elbow his way to Rose’s side. Rose took hold of Drysdale’s arm and stuck her nose in the air.
“Please let’s do gain the corridor, Mr. Drysdale. A dining room can grow so stuffy by the end of the meal, don’t you think?”
Drysdale countered with some remark about heat on a well-lit stage, while Lady Iris gave Gavin a sympathetic look and took his arm.
