"Plans? Is there a card party planned or some debauchery?" Lady Meriton suggested with a laugh.
"Neither. I have it on the best authority that they gather to rehearse a play."
Lady Meriton groaned. "Do not tell me Sir Harry is organizing another of his amateur theatricals?"
"Yes, and I understand the play is one he wrote himself."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Lady Meriton, torn between laughter and exasperation.
"I think you have the better of me and know something I don't. Has he written other plays before this?"
"Not exactly, but I do remember a ghastly rewrite he did of a play two or three years ago. All who saw it were shocked, and a trifle angered. Fortunately, we were all kept laughing too much for there to be lasting malice."
"I don't think I've heard this tale. Please, enlighten me. It may serve to prepare me for whatever he has in store for his audience. I'll have you know we have already received invitations—the first issued, I understand." She refilled her aunt's cup from the china pot then moved the tray onto a bedside table.
"It was a parody of sorts, though Sir Harry swore we were maligning him greatly to consider it such. He rewrote one of Shakespeare's plays."
"What did he do, make a comedy out ofHamlet?"
"No, nothing so broad as that. He rewroteKing Richard III,making that beastly king seem saintly and divinely led."
"Gracious! A Herculean effort! How successful was his interpretation?"
Lady Meriton rolled her eyes. "It was a bit much to accept, though it was all done with verve. Some characters were pricelessly drawn. The two murderers were wonderful—but there, I'll admit he didn't alter the play drastically. Now that I consider it, I believe Randolph played one of them."
Talkers are no good doers.
The line echoed in the passageways of her mind. It was the line Mr. Waddley recorded in his journal. It was the line Randolph tossed off at Lady Amblethorp's musicale. It was a line fromKing Richard III!
"Cecilia, are you certain you are feeling well? You're looking pale," worried Lady Meriton.
"What? No, I assure you, I'm fine. I'm afraid my mind was wandering, trying to recall what I could of the play. It will be interesting to see what Sir Harry has devised for his new theatrical. Were Mr. Rippy and Lord Havelock in that earlier production as well?"
Her aunt nodded. "Lord Havelock played Buckingham, and Mr. Rippy, along with Randolph, bounded on and off stage in several different guises. It seemed to have a cast of thousands and a very socially mixed lot it was, too. But that's common for any of the plays he decides to produce. This is an annual event with him and has quite become a favorite with theton."
"I never knew any of this! I mean, we all are familiar with Sir Harry's penchant for spouting lines from plays, but I didn't realize he was so enamored with the stage."
"Oh yes, it has even been joked that he could out-Kean Mr. Kean. That is sheer nonsense, of course. No one can match the great Mr. Edmund Kean! Nonetheless, that gives you an idea of the degree of seriousness with which he approaches acting."
"Yes, indeed. Well, you've talked long enough. It's not good for your throat to do so much talking. Why don't you try to rest now, and when you wake, I'll have a new novel for you."
Lady Meriton reached out to squeeze Cecilia's hand. "You are such a comfort to me while Meriton is out of the country. I'm so glad I have you with me."
"I'm glad to be here, too," she assured her, smiling mistily.
She stood up and removed the cup from her aunt's hand, setting it on the tray. She pulled the blankets up farther on Jessamine's shoulder. "Now to sleep."
Lady Meriton nodded and turned on her side, her eyes already heavy.
Cecilia picked up the tray and carried it out of the room. Seeing Lady Meriton's dresser approaching her, she absently handed the tray to the woman. She restlessly tossed the chatelaine into the air two or three times, her mind analyzing possibilities and plots. She hurried down the stairs to the library and hopefully a collection of Shakespeare's works that includedKing Richard III.
* * *
The chilling rainof the previous night had blown through London leaving the air fresh and clean though unseasonably colder. Cecilia, dressed in a warm, lavender wool gown topped by a russet spencer, thrust her hands deep into her fur muff when she set out for Bell's Gallery of Arts. In deference to her aunt, she was accompanied by Sarah, now officially raised to the status of lady's maid, and the two traveled via the Meriton carriage. Cecilia would have preferred walking briskly, but she knew that would not be in keeping with her public persona. She was beginning to chafe at the creation she made—and all its attendant limitations.
Nonetheless, she had high hopes her quest was nearing its end, and she could quietly retire from society and be the person she wanted to be. Not that she was too sure who that person was. She only knew it wasn't the flighty, silly widgeon of London repute. She was also beginning to think it wasn't the retiring country widow. What—or who—was left in the gulf between troubled her.
She looked out the window as the carriage clattered around a corner. Until recently, that was how she viewed life through a carriage window—protected from the elements and her fellowman. She sighed. She'd been an onlooker at life for five and twenty years. That was not how she wished to spend the next five and twenty years. Her dreams of bringing Mr. Waddley's murderer to book served as a catalyst. Now she was uncertain as to the final result.
