Page 72 of Miss Dramatic
Drysdale looked to his wife. “Gemma manages the books, if that’s what you’re asking about.”
Why did Gemma not leave her idiot spouse at the nearest crossroads? But then, Rose knew why.
Drysdale was her husband.
“Mrs. Drysdale.” Lady Phillip rose with her spouse’s assistance. “You and I will meet after breakfast. Good night, all. The evening has been… interesting.”
Lord Phillip bowed and escorted her ladyship from the room.
Tavistock rose and extended a hand to his marchioness. “The hour grows late, and I’d classify the evening as equal parts diverting and taxing. Drysdale, I am not content that you should find financial support as the sole consequence of your mischief. That’s going a bit too far with the quality of mercy, if you ask me. I leave the matter in the hands of those in a better position to decide your fate.”
Lady Tavistock departed on her husband’s arm.
“I’m retrieving that necklace,” Lady Iris said, “and I don’t intend to wait until breakfast to do so. Mrs. Drysdale, if you’d oblige?”
Gemma rose. “I can’t wait to get rid of the wretched thing. Drysdale, I don’t believe Mr. DeWitt and Mrs. Roberts are done with you. Neither, for that matter, am I.”
On that ambiguous observation, she and Lady Iris departed, and Rose was left with her hero and the villain. She was tempted to tell Drysdale that no investments would be forthcoming—Lady Phillip would support her decision, and Drysdale could bestir himself to look elsewhere for his coin—but the Players had been Gavin’s first step toward independence. But for them, Rose would never have met the man who meant so much to her now.
“We will conclude our discussion after breakfast, Drysdale,” Rose said. “You can spend the night in contemplation of your sins. Gemma could have at any point turned you over to the law, claimed ignorance of the whole matter, and seen you onto a transport ship. She’d have been left with the Players and her freedom. She apparently wasn’t willing to sacrifice you to have them. One concludes such devotion is based on virtues I have yet to see you exhibit. Mr. DeWitt, if you’d light me to my room?”
“Drysdale, good night.” Gavin held the door for Rose and accompanied her into the shadowy corridor.
Gavin took a carrying candle down from a sconce, and they walked along in silence as far as the top of the steps.
What had just happened? Rose began to make a list in her mind.
Gavin had been exonerated of all wrongdoing.
Drysdale’s blackmail scheme had been thwarted.
The Players might well be on their way to more solid financial footing, and…
Something else had transpired, something that left Rose feeling a little winded and a lot pleased with herself.
Gavin set the candle on the third stair. “You were magnificent. I would never have put together that whole business about Gemma and the money and the—”
Rose threw herself into his arms and held on tight. “I want to kick him, Gavin. I want to kick him where he will never recover from the blow.”
“Then take his Players from him. He deserves at least that.”
“Do you want his Players?” The answer mattered to Rose, though she could see the notion was an utter surprise to Gavin.
“No, I do not,” Gavin said slowly. “I do not and never did. I want you. I’m very clear on that.”
“Good,” Rose said, taking him by the hand, “because I want you as well. The love nest on the Twid will do nicely, though I suppose we’d best raid the kitchen for some comestibles first, and you’ll have to help me change into an old walking dress.”
Gavin bowed. “Your devoted servant and dresser, madam. I should change into riding attire, and as it happens, I have some here.”
“I can help you with that.” She retrieved the candle and took Gavin’s hand. She could help him with a lot of things, in fact.
Gemma Drysdale was a woman imprisoned by loyalty, convention, and pragmatism, and Rose well knew how that felt. She also knew what it was to be fettered by guilt.
All that was in the past, though. Having seen Drysdale for the whining, scheming, dishonorable pestilence that he was—that he chose to be—and having Gavin’s unshakable support and devotion, Rose Roberts also knew what it was to befree.
Wordsworth’s poetry landed with a soft plop on a placid stretch of the Twid, bobbed for a moment on the surface, then left only concentric ripples expanding across the moonlit water.
A whimsical variation onHamlet’s graveyard scene popped into Gavin’s head. “Alas, poor Wordsworth, I knew him, Horatio.” He squeezed Rose’s hand, hoping to lighten the moment.
