Page 22 of To Marry and to Meddle
Frances was gazing at her with an eyebrow arched—she seemed to share that particular mannerism with her brother—and an expression on her face that clearly indicated that she was revising whatever her previous opinion of the former Lady Emily Turner had been.
“Let us say,” Frances said, a bit more carefully, “that your reputation has always seemed remarkably pristine to me, despite whatever scandal swirled around you.”
And wasn’t that a pithy way of summarizing why, precisely, Julian had wished to marry her? Lady Emily, whose reputation could withstand a brother’s scandalous duel, a father’s sordid debts, the constant attentions of a man like Mr. Cartham. Who better to drag the notorious Julian Belfry to respectability?
It was an arrangement that Emily had agreed to with her eyes wide open—she had not been misled as to the nature of her marriage, or what her new husband hoped to gain from their union. She had considered it a fair trade, given the freedom, the control over her own life that he offered her. But it was a slightly unpleasant reminder that, as weary as she might be of perfection, that was clearly what Julian expected of her—indeed, it was the entire reason he had married her.
“You can see how wise I was, then, in selecting her as my wife,” Julian said, sounding pleased with himself. Emily’s heart sank ever so slightly at the dismissive words, though she felt oddly comforted to see Frances’s eyes narrow in disapproval on her behalf.
“That’s not very romantic, Julian,” Frances said.
“I apologize,” Julian said with exaggerated gallantry. “Should I instead have mentioned the way Emily’s eyes are like radiant stars, her cheeks the color of a perfect summer rose?”
“Not if you don’t wish me to be ill,” Frances said sweetly. “I was merely hoping to hear you describe your marriage in terms that don’t make it sound like a business transaction.”
But that would be rather difficult, Emily thought, considering the fact that a business transaction was exactly what it was.
Seven
“Tomorrow,” Julian said determinedly, twodays later, “we are going to leave at first light.”
Emily and Frances lowered their teacups in unison, casting glances out the window. After two days of rain—two days during which Julian had, in fits of wild optimism, repeatedly proclaimed that they’d be on the road at first light—the weather at last seemed to have improved.
“It hasn’t rained at all today,” Emily admitted, taking a sip of tea as she continued to gaze out the window. “I suppose we really might be able to leave tomorrow.”
“Please tell me you don’t think you can still catch Delacre, Julian,” Frances said, setting her own teacup down and picking up a pen to continue scribbling at a letter she’d been working on for much of the afternoon. She had been briefed on their aborted chase, and remained skeptical that they would be able to catch the fleeing couple. “You’ve an understudy for Miss Simmons, don’t you? Isn’t this precisely what understudies are for?”
“I do,” Julian said as patiently as he could manage, “but I don’t want the understudy. I want my lead actress to be onstage in London where she belongs, not fleeing to the love nest of a bounder like Delacre. Besides,” he added, “she’sbetterthan the understudy. That’swhy I casther. And this show is a departure for us, and I want to make it a success.”
“Is it not a comedy?” Frances inquired; this was generally what the Belfry was known for.
“It’s what I’m calling anintellectualcomedy,” Julian said. “It’s a reimagining ofMuch Ado About Nothingin which Beatrice and Benedick’s dislike for each other stems from theological differences. It’s by a young playwright named Fustian, and it’s really something—still funny, but with jokes and banter and music of a more elevated nature.”
Opposite him, Emily and Frances both blinked.
“That sounds…” Emily began, then trailed off, clearly searching for the correct adjective.
“Groundbreaking?” Julian suggested.
“Insufferable,” Frances supplied.
He shot her an irritated look and she busied herself with her teacup once more.
“Is there a reason a normal sort of comedy wouldn’t suffice?” Emily asked carefully.
“There are plenty of comedies of ‘the usual sort’ already,” Julian explained. This was all part of his plan for the Belfry, a step toward fulfilling the vision he had of turning what had once been a bawdy, wholly improper establishment into one lauded for its theatrical achievement. “Fustian has something to say about our idea of faith and the limitations of the human mind.”
Frances grimaced at this. “But peoplelikecomedies,” she said. “No one wants to go to the theater and feel like they’re sitting through a sermon.”
“I assure you, they’ll feel nothing of the sort,” Julian said firmly. “They’ll feel… enlightened.”
“Julian,” Frances said patiently, “if people wanted to feel enlightened, they’d go to a lecture, not the Belfry.”
“That is precisely what I’m trying to change,” Julian said, striving to prevent irritation from creeping into his voice. “The Belfry won’t be the sort of theater people attend when they’re half-foxed, looking for a skirt to chase for an evening. They’ll attend the Belfry for its artistic merits. It will become a place to see and be seen among the fashionable set—God knows they’re all desperate to seem more intelligent than they actually are.”
“And that’s why you’re so hell-bent on catching this actress of yours?” Frannie said, still sounding rather skeptical.
“Precisely.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “The last thing I need is bloody Delacre’s name mentioned in the same sentence as the Belfry—the man soils everything he touches. So we need to catch Miss Simmons quickly, before word makes it back to London that Delacre has absconded with one of my best actresses.” He voiced this plan with a bit more confidence than he actually felt; he had a sneaking suspicion that they’d lost a fair amount of ground on the fleeing couple, and with each day that passed, he was increasingly aware of the people in London expecting his return, not least his manager and business partner, Laverre.
