‘My uncle says he’s never met a more reclusive playwright in his life.’
‘Is that so?’ Miss Wright’s face was, briefly, a study in disappointment. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Perhaps he is afraid of being mobbed in the streets,’ Alistair drawled, ‘by overly enthusiastic fans like you.’
To Victoria’s amusement, the girl actually blushed. ‘It isn’t nice of you to make fun of me, Cousin Alistair. I know you don’t think much of Mr Lawe’s plays, or of anyone else’s for that matter—’
‘On the contrary, I think Lawe’s work is head and shoulders above everyone else’s. I may only have seen A Lady’s Choice, but based on that I am more than willing to acknowledge the man’s talent. Just because I don’t go to the theatre often doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate excellence when I see it.’
For a few heady moments, Victoria allowed herself the pleasure of basking in the warm glow of his praise. That was the worst part of not being able to acknowledge who she really was: being unable to express gratitude to people who enjoyed and appreciated her work. Especially a man like Alistair Devlin …
‘Is he very handsome?’ Miss Wright asked suddenly.
Guiltily, Victoria started. ‘Who?’
‘Valentine Lawe. Your aunt must have made some comment as to his appearance.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m really … not sure. I’ve never asked her what she thought of him … in that regard.’
‘I have a picture of him in my mind,’ Miss Wright admitted. ‘He’s as tall as Cousin Alistair and his hair is just as dark, but he has the most amazing blue eyes you’ve ever seen. When he looks at you, you feel as though he’s gazing right down into your soul.’
‘Really?’ Victoria hardly knew what to say. She’d never given a moment’s thought to her alter ego’s appearance. ‘How … interesting.’
‘And he’s brooding, just like a romantic hero should be,’ Miss Wright went on. ‘But as brilliant as he is on paper, he’s very quiet and withdrawn in person. And he dresses well, but only in black and white. And he wears a single red rose in his lapel and—’
‘A diamond stud in his ear?’ Alistair enquired. ‘Or a gold hoop?’
‘He is not a pirate, Cousin Alistair,’ Miss Wright said, rolling her eyes. ‘He is a playwright. And I’m not the only one who fantasises about his appearance. Ellen Standish thinks he’s fair, Jenny Hartlett is convinced he has red hair and Mrs Johnston is of the opinion he hasn’t any hair at all. But she is partial to balding men, so I suppose that is her idea of attractive.’
Victoria just stared, aware that the conversation was getting more bizarre by the minute. ‘Well, if I am ever fortunate enough to meet … Mr Lawe I will be sure to communicate the details of his appearance to you.’
‘You would do that for me?’ the girl said, looking as though she had been given the secret to eternal youth.
‘Happily. But I should warn you that I have no expectation of seeing the gentleman any time soon.’
‘I don’t care!’ Miss Wright cried. ‘It is enough to know that when you do see him, you will tell me what he looks like and I shall know whether I have been right or wrong. Thank you so very much, Miss Bretton!’
Victoria inclined her head, grateful for having emerged unscathed from what could have been a very embarrassing situation. She didn’t like telling lies, but what was she to do with Alistair Devlin sitting right there? She could hardly admit to being Valentine Lawe now when she had not told him the truth during any of their previous conversations.
She glanced at him sitting relaxed and at ease in the saddle and wished with all her heart that she might feel as calm. But her pulse was racing and when he smiled at her, it only grew worse, so much so that Victoria feared he must surely be able to see her heart beating beneath her jacket. Because his was a smile that was at once beguiling and disturbing, a smile that hinted at things she knew nothing about and had never experienced.
A smile that lingered far longer in her mind than it had any right to, and that would not be shaken, no matter how hard she tried.
Chapter Four
That evening found Victoria alone in the drawing room with a pencil and piece of parchment in her hand. The rest of the family had gone out, and though her parents had asked if she might like to join them, Victoria had excused herself by pleading a megrim. In truth, she was desperate to start writing again and while the evening wasn’t usually a creative time for her, she needed to get past this wretched block and come up with some new ideas.
Unfortunately, the longer she stared at the blank page, the emptier her mind grew. Surely her burgeoning career as a playwright wasn’t already over?
Needing reassurance, Victoria set the paper aside and reached into the pocket of her gown. She had managed to find a copy of Sir Michael Loftus’s review in the newspaper that morning and had torn it out, basking in a warm glow of satisfaction every time she read it … which she’d done so many times she had actually committed the piece to memory …
… yet another piece of brilliance from the inimitable Valentine Lawe, A Lady’s Choice is easily his best work yet. Lawe’s deft handling of an intricate plot is exceeded only by his skilful use of characterisation, and, in typical Lawe style, he has lampooned members of society and the church in a way that one can only admire.
Performed at the Gryphon Theatre by that establishment’s exceptional company, A Lady’s Choice is a lively and thoroughly entertaining romp. I take my hat off to Signy Chermonde as Elizabeth Turcott and Victor Trumphani as Elliot Black, and once again, profess myself in awe of Lawe’s talent. I look forward to seeing many more of his plays …
‘“In awe of Lawe’s talent,” ‘ Victoria murmured, breathing a sigh of pure pleasure. It wasn’t every day Sir Michael Loftus delivered such a flattering review. She knew that as a result of having read several of his less complimentary critiques. The man could destroy a playwright’s career in a single column. Or, as in the case of Valentine Lawe’s, he could make it.
‘What, not locked up in your room writing?’ Laurence asked, strolling into the room with a book in his hand.
‘I can’t think of anything to say.’ Victoria slipped the review back into her pocket. ‘I’m having a devil of a time coming up with any ideas for my next play.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about it. You expended a great deal of time and effort on A Lady’s Choice. It’s really not surprising that the creative well has temporarily run dry.’
‘But I’ve written three other plays and never had this problem before.’
‘No, because as good as your other plays were, they didn’t draw on the same level of emotional intensity,’ Laurence said. ‘You explored both the light and the dark side of love in your last play, Tory, and writing like that takes a toll. As Uncle Theo says, art demands passion and passion demands intensity … and intensity can be very tiring.’
‘I hope that’s all it is,’ Victoria said, refusing to let her mind drift off in other directions
