Page 57 of To Marry and to Meddle
Sophie shook her head. “I’m afraid not—I heard all about you from friends, though,” she added. “I gather you were quite spectacular.”
“She was,” Julian confirmed. “Why do you think I poached her for the Belfry?”
“That is Lord Julian’s habit these days,” Miss Congreave said, rolling her eyes. “If he hears of any actor or actress having a modicum of success anywhere else, he is desperate to have them performing on his stage instead.”
“Because we are going to have the finest theater in London,” Julian said mildly, in the tones of a man who had explained this many times over. “We’ll need the finest talent, if we’re to do that.”
“And yet youdohave the finest talent, writing a play that I know would be a smash hit—”
“A smash hit that no gentleman will wish to watch,” Julian interrupted, and Emily could tell by his tone that this was the subject about which they had been arguing when she arrived—and, furthermore, that it was not the first time they had had this argument.
“What is the play in question?” Emily asked, curious.
Miss Congreave turned to her at once, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. “It’s a comedy, my lady—a burletta written by a young playwright who lacks experience, but who shows great promise. It would feature entirely women—”
“Which no gentleman is going to come to buy tickets for,” Julian interrupted.
Sophie laughed incredulously. “I’m sorry, Belfry, but I was under the impression that there was nothing gentlemen liked more than watching a whole bevy of attractive women prance around the stage together.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t bethatsort of show. It’s a comedy—a satire of aristocratic ladies.”
“That sounds rather entertaining,” Emily said, her interest piqued.
“I think it is, my lady,” Miss Congreave assured her. “Lord Julian himself laughed out loud whilst reading the script.”
“But it’s not the sort of show gentlemen will want to see,” Julian insisted, seeming to grow more frustrated by the moment. “I’ve been running this theater for nearly a decade. I’ve worked out which shows will drive a man to buy tickets, and which ones won’t.”
“But,” Emily said slowly, an idea having suddenly taken hold in her mind at his words, “what if gentlemen weren’t who you were trying to sell the tickets to?”
Three confused expressions met her eyes.
“What if,” Emily continued, “instead of trying to attract gentlemen, you tried to lure their wives here instead?”
“Thatiswhat I’m trying to do,” Julian said impatiently. “Have you not understood anything we’ve discussed? I want to make the Belfry a place gentlemen will feel comfortable bringing their wives, and to do that—”
“No, no, you misunderstand me,” Emily interrupted. Sheneverinterrupted, but her mind was racing now, this thought that had suddenly taken hold seeming less and less insane by the moment. “I don’t mean that you should attract wives who want to be escorted by their husbands—what if you made this show something aimed at ladies, and ladies alone?”
A slow smile began to creep across Sophie’s face. “Take the traditional notion of the Belfry—a theater for gentlemen and their mistresses, but nowhere a real lady would dare set foot—and turn it on its head?”
“Precisely,” said Emily. “If there was a show directed squarely at them—depictingtheirworld—”
“But it is not a flattering portrait,” Miss Congreave warned. “It’s a satire of proper society ladies. They might take offense.”
“Oh, I’m certain some of them would,” Emily said, nodding. “But ifwe can get them talking about it—convince enough of them that they wish to see it, if only so they’ll know what everyone else is discussing—well, gossip can really do all of our work for us.”
“And then they’ll be so offended that they’ll never set foot in the Belfry ever again,” Julian said flatly. “Which would serve my purposes… how, exactly?”
“But it would make you the talk of the town,” Emily protested. “Don’t you see—people would entirely change their opinion about what the Belfry is, and who it’s for.”
“Because they’d be convinced that it was nothing to be taken seriously,” Julian continued, crossing his arms over his chest; Emily could see him digging his heels in, and she wanted to shriek with frustration.
But Emily Turner never shrieked. She never raised her voice.
Previously, she would have let the matter drop. But not this time—for she was not Emily Turner anymore. She was Emily Belfry. And this time, she would convince him—somehow. But just not yet.
So instead of protesting further, she merely smiled and said sweetly, “We’ll see about that, husband.”
Seventeen
