do you do, Miss Bretton,’ the lady said in a bright, youthful voice. ‘What a pleasure to finally meet you. I was introduced to your sister at the Roehamptons’ reception a few weeks ago and thought her ever so nice. Your aunt and uncle were there as well.’
Not having been at the reception, Victoria assumed Miss Wright was referring to her mother’s brother and wife who lived in Edinburgh. ‘I wasn’t aware Aunt and Uncle Taitley were in London.’
‘Oh, no, not that aunt and uncle. I meant the ones involved with the Gryphon Theatre. They are related to you, aren’t they?’ Miss Wright said. ‘Mr and Mrs Templeton?’
Astonished that a cousin of Alistair Devlin’s would be familiar with the owner of any theatre, let alone the Gryphon, Victoria said carefully, ‘Yes, they are.’
‘I thought so. I was terribly pleased to meet them. I truly believe your uncle stages some of the finest productions in London.’
‘Why don’t you tell Miss Bretton the name of your favourite play, Isabelle?’ Alistair said with a smile.
The girl laughed. ‘I don’t suppose it’s all that surprising. A Lady’s Choice, by Valentine Lawe. Cousin Alistair tells me you’ve seen it too, Miss Bretton.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Did you not think it brilliant?’
‘Well, I’m really not sure—’
‘Oh, but you must, because Valentine Lawe is the most talented playwright in all London. Surely we can agree on that?’
Somewhat nonplussed, Victoria took a moment to straighten her mare’s reins. How bizarre. She had never been asked a question about Valentine Lawe before, so really had no idea how to answer it. ‘I suppose I would have to say that he is … quite good.’
‘Quite good? My dear Miss Bretton, he is exceptional!’ Miss Wright exclaimed. ‘I’ve seen all of his plays: A Winter’s Escapade, Genevieve, Penelope’s Swain. But I think A Lady’s Choice is definitely his finest. Have you met him? Cousin Alistair said you must have, given that your uncle produces all of his plays.’
‘That would seem logical, but as it happens, Mr Lawe tends to keep … a very low profile,’ Victoria said, sticking as close to the truth as possible. ‘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.
There were only two cast members on stage when Victoria arrived at the Gryphon to speak to her uncle the following morning. Miss Catherine Jones, the young lady who had been engaged in the role of understudy to Signy Chermonde, and the actress playing Elizabeth Turcott’s mother. Why the great actress herself wasn’t on stage was anyone’s guess, though Victoria suspected it probably had something to do with Lord Collins.
Fortunately, Miss Jones was giving a marvellous performance
