“Theatre Royal is having a special box built for him.”
“Wood and nails,” Fournier grumbled. “Let them have their old box. We’ll find something better.”
I straightened, turned to the men. “What about a new ballet?”
A metallic silence lay across the room. They turned to look at me—the visitor, the mere woman, who had deigned to enter their conversation.
Fournier recovered the moment with his gruff voice. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Miss Ella Blythe of London, the other matter of business. She’s something of an experiment—a scholarship program I believe will make our theater solvent within the year.”
Experiment. Like a potion to cast a spell of good fortune over the hardscrabble seasons at Craven.
“I wanted you to at least meet her, and I’ll provide you with the business details later. For now, merely observe her poise and bearing, her dramatic appearance.”
They did. I stiffened. “How do you do.”
“That is all, Miss Blythe. Stay and enjoy, or depart, as you wish.”
“What’s this about a new ballet, Fournier?” A mousy little man with well-oiled hair looked at me as he asked the question. “What’s special about it?”
I stepped forward, pushing through the tingle of fear. I stood taller than I ought to. “I believe he could be enticed with a brilliant, sensational new ballet no one has ever seen before.”
The Great Fournier turned his massive frame, looming over me in a way that prompted flight in my heart.
Yet I remained, feet planted on the edge of that precarious platform as I looked up at the man.
“Plenty of new ballets are written every day.”
“This one is quite modern, with a flair of romanticism and the fantastic, which is all they’re speaking of in France these days.”
A pockmarked old man turned up his fleshy lips in a frown. “Who does this little—”
“But most important of all, it features a story he won’t be able to resist.” I dared not glance at this unwritten ballet’s author, whose tension I could feel beside me as an open flame radiating heat.I can play too, Mr. Dorian.“The great mystery of his wife’s most favored ballerina, one of Craven’s own—Delphine—”
“That’s quite enough.” Jack brushed through, shuffling meaway. “I’m sure these men don’t wish to be bothered with absurd suggestions and fanciful ideas. Please excuse yourself and come along, Miss Blythe. These men have a great deal to discuss.”
“But—”
“Now.” His guiding hand was firm against my back.
“Hold on a moment, there.” Fournier’s voice ground our escape to a halt.
Jack stiffened, waiting.
I couldn’t help but smile. I’d always remember this as the day I’d bested the charmer.
“Delphine Bessette.” A tall investor in spectacles spoke up. “It’s quite bold. A real-life tragedy.”
“What’s on the docket now?” another said.
Bellini paced, throwing about his arms. “Shakespeare. Blasted Shakespeare. Everyone’s seen it a hundred times.”
Jack released me and took three slow steps away, his tanned face ashy gray.
“We might be interested in backing this new balletif,” said the mousy man, “it’s as remarkable as the girl claims. If it’s worth our time, I for one could be convinced to raise my contributions by one hundred pounds. Provided the prince does, in fact, consider visiting.”
“Aye,” piped up another. “I’d wager on it too.”
Other murmurs like grumbles came from the other men. “How much will thisbrilliantballet cost us?”
