A Dangerous Love by Sabrina Jeffries (22)

Three days after arriving in London, Rosalind leaned against a pillar at the entrance to the Covent Garden Theatre, munching an apple and watching as an assortment of equipages streamed down Bow Street—brilliantly painted barouches, sedan chairs, and phaetons driven by reckless young bucks. London had everything Stratford did not—theaters and shops and coffeehouses.

And people. All sorts of people. Only last night, Mrs. Inchbald had brought her to a gathering of theater folk that included Richard Sheridan himself. She’d even spoken with him, and that was without Griff’s help.

She cursed under her breath. Blast Griff. He was the reason she couldn’t enjoy London as she should. The bloody man plagued her thoughts every waking hour.

She’d tried to put him out of her mind. She’d tried to forget him—but apparently forgetting Griff wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Every time she ate plums or read Shakespeare or saw men playing billiards, she thought of him. Every time she disrobed she remembered their lovemaking. She hadn’t met any men in London who compared to him, and she was always comparing them to him. One man was not as quick-witted as Griff. Another lacked his intensity. Yet another roused a strange repugnance because his hair wasn’t black and his eyes not blue—

Damn him! She hated him for doing this to her, poisoning her for any other man. For not loving her as she loved him. She wiped away the tears that had filled her eyes without her even noticing. She wouldn’t cry over that wretch. She would not! He didn’t deserve it.

He’d probably washed his hands of her already, anyway. He had his bloody certificate, after all. What would he need with her?

Eventually, however, he was sure to cross her path in London. She only prayed it would be many weeks away. By then, she’d be ready for him, ready to appear cool and unaffected.

As if she could ever hide her feelings around Griff Knighton. She swore and stuffed the half-eaten apple in her apron pocket.

“Your mother would turn over in her grave to hear you use such language,” a voice commented at her side.

She turned to find Mrs. Inchbald smiling at her.

“Yes, I suppose she would.” Rosalind prayed her reddened eyes wouldn’t reveal all her misery. “Mama’s strictures about foul language had no effect on me, I’m afraid, although Helena took them quite to heart.”

At sixty-two, Mrs. Inchbald was still a pretty woman, as slender and graceful as she’d been in her youth when she’d played in Convent Garden herself. With a mobcap covering her curls, she seemed as modest and reserved as any older widow, but she was actually quite lively and possessed a fine command of dramatic literature. She was also more generous than Rosalind had expected, for she’d invited Rosalind to live with her until Rosalind got on her feet.

“Speaking of your sister,” the woman said now, “I came by the theater to bring you a letter from her that just arrived. I thought it might be important.”

Rosalind took the letter with an aching heart. Helena would probably have news about the family’s reaction to her mad flight. And Griff’s reaction, too. She tucked it away in her other apron pocket, not wanting even Mrs. Inchbald to watch her read it.

Mrs. Inchbald merely raised an eyebrow. “You know, I was only nineteen when I ran away to the theater, but I remember it well. I expected it to be thrilling but instead found it hard and tedious. Mostly, I was terribly homesick. That’s why I moved in with my actor brother after only a week of being ‘independent.’”

“I’m not homesick in the least, I assure you.” Well, perhaps a little. She did miss having Helena to talk to. And walks in the orchard. She missed Swan Park’s huge open spaces, perfect for reciting lines without worrying who might hear.

That was all she missed at Swan Park, however. Truly, it was. And Cook’s apple tarts, of course.

“You’ve made a promising beginning,” Mrs. Inchbald said. “I wasn’t so lucky. I had to start in a traveling troupe. I hope you appreciate how difficult it is to win a role at Convent Garden on your first try—even a small one like Iras in Anthony and Cleopatra.”

“I do appreciate it, especially since I know I have you to thank for it. Your influence is the only thing that garnered me the role. To be truthful, I’m mortified that I never knew you wrote plays and were friendly with all the managers.” Indeed Rosalind had realized very quickly that the manager of Covent Garden—John Kemble—and Mrs. Inchbald were…well…quite good friends. “You didn’t speak of your new profession in your letters. If I’d realized how highly you were regarded, that your plays were published and acted, I should never have dreamed of imposing—”

“It’s no imposition in the least.” Mrs. Inchbald chucked her under the chin. “I’m delighted to help the daughter of my dearest friend. Besides, it wasn’t only my influence that got you the role. Your knowledge of Shakespeare had something to do with it.” Mrs. Inchbald cast her a smile. “Not to mention that the actress who was supposed to play the role eloped with an army captain, leaving John in dire straits. He’d despaired of finding anyone in time for tomorrow night who could learn the lines.”

“I’m grateful he considered me.”

“This part will show your talents nicely and should lead to other things.” She paused, searched Rosalind’s face, then added, “If that’s what you really want.”

Rosalind bit her lower lip and averted her gaze. “Of course it’s what I really want. And I’ll join a traveling troupe if I must.”

“No need for that, I should think.” Twirling her walking stick on the floor of the stone portico, Mrs. Inchbald said in too casual a tone, “John tells me your speeches are prettily spoken. He did say, however, that you were a bit…opinionated.”

Rosalind sighed. “It’s true, I know, but I can’t help it. They want me to cut out some of the best parts. They’re having me play the role all wrong—making Iras into a milksop. She may only be Cleopatra’s attendant, but Shakespeare clearly meant her to be vivacious and clever. I mean, look at that scene with the fortune-tellers—”

Mrs. Inchbald laughed. “You do have an enthusiasm for Shakespeare, don’t you? I’d forgotten that the bard was your father’s favorite. I fear you’ll soon learn that actresses in small parts have little say over what lines are cut or how the role is to be performed.”

“What about actresses in larger parts?”

“That depends on the theater manager.”

“I see I’ll have to become a theater manager,” Rosalind mumbled under her breath.

Mrs. Inchbald’s eyes twinkled. “Why? Don’t you like performing?”

Rosalind thought of this afternoon’s rehearsal, and being told always where to stand and how to speak and what to wear when she knew perfectly well how it should be. “I haven’t decided. I like having the attention, I think, but I should like it better if it were done right.”

Her friend looked as if she were trying not to laugh. “Do you think your fellow performers aren’t playing their parts adequately?”

“They miss some of their lines, you know.” She sighed. “But I suppose they’re tolerable. Well, except for that nasty Mr. Tate, who pats my bottom every time he passes behind me.”

“You’ll get used to the men’s attentions. A sharp word will usually gain you some breathing room, though it’s best to be careful how you refuse some of their overtures. Some actors are more powerful than others—you wouldn’t want to offend them.”

That comment gave Rosalind pause. “A…um…friend of mine said that some men consider actresses little better than whores. He—that is, my friend—said that being an actress is degrading. That’s not true, is it?”

Mrs. Inchbald shot her a curious glance. “It depends on the actress. You’re talented and pretty enough, so you’ll be able to do as you please without anyone thinking ill of you once you’re established. Those who lack talent or looks, however, have to…cultivate the right people. I don’t mean resign their virtue, of course. But in such cases, marrying a man who can forward one in the profession isn’t a bad idea. I found it very useful to marry an experienced actor like Joseph Inchbald.”

Rosalind eyed her with shock. “You didn’t marry for love?”

Mrs. Inchbald chuckled. “Love of the theater—that’s what I married for. Why? Is that what you want? To marry for love?”

“Certainly.” She straightened her spine. “If I can’t find a man to love, I shan’t marry at all. I’m quite determined on that point.”

“I see.” She gave her stick another twirl. “Speaking of marrying…while I was talking to John this morning, a man came in looking for you.”

Rosalind caught her breath. “Oh?”

“Oddly enough, it was the same man you wrote to ask me about some time ago. That Mr. Knighton, the one who’s illegitimate.”

“Griff’s not illegitimate!” she cried, then bit her tongue when Mrs. Inchbald raised an eyebrow. “I mean…well, some of the gossip about him is false, that’s all.”

“Well, whatever his legitimacy, it seems he’s been quite generous to Covent Garden over the years, judging from how John fell all over himself offering his aid. Mr. Knighton claimed he was looking for his fiancée—you.”

A blush rose in Rosalind’s cheeks before she could stop it. Griff here? Looking for her? She hadn’t thought he would go so far. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“Of course not. I figured if you were desperate enough to run away from home and take a new name on the stage, you had your reasons for avoiding the man.” She shifted her walking stick from hand to hand. “He did seem rather anxious to find you, however, and if we hadn’t fed John that tale about you being my country cousin, he would undoubtedly have told the man who you were at once. But John didn’t mention you except to say he’d hired my cousin.”

Rosalind released a pent-up breath. Griff was looking for her. Why? Because his foolish pride was hurt over losing her? She tilted up her chin. Well, if that was the reason, he’d get over it soon enough, the arrogant scoundrel.

“Thank you,” she told her friend. “I appreciate your discretion. Papa arranged a marriage between me and Mr. Knighton, but I found that we didn’t suit.”

“Then why do you blush at the very mention of his name, my dear?”

She swallowed. “Because at one time I thought we might suit. Unfortunately, I expect a great deal from the man I marry, and I discovered it was far more than Mr. Knighton was willing to offer.” She pasted a false bright smile to her lips. “In any case, thank you for telling me of his visit. Now if you don’t mind, I should like to read my letter since they’ll be calling me back to rehearsal any minute.”

“Certainly. I’ll see you later. Tomorrow is the big day, so we’ll eat at home tonight to give you a chance to prepare.”

Impulsively, Rosalind kissed the woman’s perfumed cheek. “You’ve been so kind to me. I can never thank you enough.”

“Nonsense. I’m not entirely sure that introducing you to the theater is a kindness. But we shall see.” She smiled secretively. “Yes, we shall see.”

As soon as Mrs. Inchbald strode off down the street to her lodgings, Rosalind broke the seal on her letter, desperate now to hear what Helena had to say. She quickly scanned Helena’s account of all the ways she’d tried to delay the men’s departure. The next paragraph, however, arrested her attention at once:

Rosalind paid no attention to her sister’s ranting about Daniel. Helena distrusted men in general, so she was sure to feel most unfavorably toward Daniel now that he’d proven to be a highwayman’s son and erstwhile smuggler.

Instead she reread the paragraph about Griff saying he loved her. She clutched the letter to her chest and stared blindly off into the street. Could it be true? Surely even Griff wouldn’t speak so cruel a lie only to gain an advantage.

Then again…She reread the letter from beginning to end, her heart sinking as she realized that Helena made no mention of the certificate. Even if Griff thought that he meant what he said, it was only words. As long as he proceeded with his dark intentions, she couldn’t ever believe he loved her.

Or was she being unfair? He’d spent all his childhood under a cloud, and now that he wanted to dispel it she wouldn’t let him. Was that small-minded? Was she asking too much of him?

Dear God, she wished she knew. Because the truth was, she’d not had a moment’s peace from the time she’d left him until now. Despite all the wonders of London and the intriguing aspects of the theater, she missed him sorely. The thought of being an actress paled in comparison to the thought of loving Griff.

She wasn’t, after all, like Mrs. Inchbald—willing to do whatever it took to gain success in the theater. Some things were more important than that to her, she was rapidly discovering. And she very much feared that all the success at acting in the world wouldn’t make her happy if she couldn’t have Griff.

 

Griff paced his office impatiently while Daniel gave his report.

“No one at the Pantheon or the Lyceum has heard of her,” Daniel said, “and there’s been no new actresses at all to hire on. I spoke with all the agents for the troupes, but no one they’d hired sounded like her either.”

“Perhaps she’s in disguise. There’s no telling what Rosalind will do.”

“I doubt she’d go so far as to work in disguise, Griff,” Daniel said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “If you wish, I’ll try to get a look at each woman, but that will take weeks as they’ve been sent off to join their troupes already.”

Feeling the same helpless terror that had tormented him for the past few days, Griff halted at the window to stare out at the teeming streets that might or might not hide Rosalind. “I tried Drury Lane yesterday, but their two new actresses are both blond and short. You know Sheridan’s tastes. Kemble in Covent Garden said he hadn’t hired anyone new other than the cousin of that playwright Mrs. Inchbald. I don’t think Rosalind would consider the burletta or pantomime houses, but we’ll try the Adelphi and the Olympic this afternoon.”

“And when you find her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if she ran off to avoid marrying you before, what makes you think she’ll marry you now?”

He gripped the windowsill. “I don’t know that she will. Some things have changed since she and I last talked, but it may be too late to make a difference. All I want is to be sure she’s safe. I must know that, at least.”

Days of worrying about her, of contemplating the dire things that might have happened to her, had nearly driven him mad.

“What has changed since you talked?” Daniel asked. “Didn’t she give you the certificate? She won’t be any more likely now to stand idly by while you use it than she was before.”

Griff flinched at Daniel’s cold tone. It was hard to remember what he’d been like only days ago, before he’d realized the true depths of his selfishness, which had driven Rosalind to flee from him. “I’ve decided not to act on the certificate until the earl dies. After that, we can all claim that the certificate was found among some old forgotten papers. It’s better for the women that I inherit the property, since otherwise it would go to someone else or even to the Crown if no heir is found. But I’ll do my best to preserve his good reputation and make it seem as if the court case were all simply a tragic oversight.”

“Had a change of heart, have you?” Daniel said quietly.

“Yes.” He left it at that, his thoughts full of worry about Rosalind.

Of course, that didn’t put Daniel off in the least. “So you’re not concerned about your delegation to China anymore?”

“No, damn it! You were right—I was wrong. Now can we stop discussing it? I have more important things to consider.” He drummed his fingers on the sill. “Who have we left out? Perhaps we should go over that list of theaters again.”

Daniel drew out the list, but said, “The lass has certainly got you by the ballocks, hasn’t she?”

“That’s not the only thing she’s got me by,” Griff said quietly. Daniel could torment him endlessly about Rosalind, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.

“She’ll be all right, you know.” Daniel’s voice held pity. “She’s a hardy thing, your Rosalind. We’ll find her, don’t worry.”

“How can I not worry?” Griff threaded his fingers through his hair distractedly. “It’s as if she vanished without a trace, as if she—”

He broke off at the sound of a loud commotion outside his office, followed by the dramatic entrance of the one woman Griff did not want to see just then. His mother.

His clerk rushed in after her, red-faced and worried. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Knighton, I tried to explain you were in a meeting, but—”

“In a meeting, hah!” his mother snapped at the clerk. “Can’t you see he’s merely talking to Daniel?”

Griff waved his agitated clerk off. “It’s all right. Go on back to work.”

As soon as the door closed, his mother strode up to him, her slender shoulders shaking with anger. “Where the devil have you been? You disappear, and nobody will tell me where you went or when you’ll return. Though they did tell me you’d taken Daniel.” She paused in her tirade to shoot Daniel a chastening look.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Knighton,” Daniel said cheerily. “Nice to see you again. You’re looking quite lovely today.”

“Don’t try your flatteries on me, Danny. I know your ways, and I don’t fall for them like all your tarts. I should have known you’d have a hand in this. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She turned her glare on Griff. “Both of you. I thought you said you’d put all that unsavory business behind you. That you and Daniel weren’t going off on any more secret trips to God knows where—”

“I was in Warwickshire, Mother.”

She blinked. “Warwickshire? Whatever for?”

“To visit our mutual friend, the Earl of Swanlea. I was invited.”

She paled to an unnaturally sickly color. “He invited you? But…but why?”

Griff shot Daniel a glance, and the man beat a hasty retreat. Daniel might have a certain affection for the only woman he ever allowed to call him “Danny,” but he knew better than to stay around when the generally mild-mannered woman was upset.

Once Daniel was gone, Griff leaned back against the windowsill and folded his arms over his chest. He’d hoped to delay this until he’d settled things with Rosalind, but now that his mother was here…

Briefly, he related the story of the letter he’d received and how he’d gone off to Warwickshire with the intention of retrieving the marriage certificate without having to marry one of the spinsters. It was more difficult to explain why he’d wanted it, for now that he’d seen the error of his ways, his motives shamed him. He knew his mother wouldn’t approve, yet he had to tell her all of it, partly because she deserved to know the truth. And partly because he wanted the truth from her.

It took her a moment to digest his tale, but when she did, she sank into a nearby chair. Silver curls bobbed beneath the brim of her bonnet as she shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Did you…did you manage to find the marriage certificate?”

“I did.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled it out and handed it to her.

Her fine-boned fingers stroked the paper wonderingly. “So he really had it all this time. He really…stole it. I was never sure.”

“Yes, he admitted it.”

Her gaze shot to his in alarm. “You talked to him about it?”

He nodded, then dragged in a weighty breath. “Indeed, he told me…” He paused, wondering how one asked one’s mother such a question. “He said…that is, he claimed you were in love with him before you married Father. He even claimed you told him you were still in love with him on your wedding day. That was his reason for stealing the certificate—partly to punish you for not marrying him and partly to gain what he saw as a fairer division of the Swanlea properties.”

His mother’s silence, coupled with her haunted expression, made something twist in his chest, yet a quest for truth drove him on. Shoving away from the window, he strode to his desk. “Of course, I called him a liar to his face.” He paused, half-fearing to ask the question, half-fearing not to hear the answer. “He was lying, wasn’t he?”

When she didn’t answer, he turned to see his mother crying silently, fat tears rolling down her thin cheeks. He struggled for air. “It was a lie. Tell me it was all lies.”

She lifted an anguished gaze to him. “I was so young, Griff, and lonely for attention. My father was too busy managing the theater in Stratford to pay me much heed, but Percival…he shared my love for plays and protected me when boys insulted me and made advances. He was living at Swan Park as the previous earl’s ward. That was long before I met your father, who was off at school. Percival and I…became close. He wasn’t like other men I knew. He was a gentleman, and he always flattered me. When you’re seventeen, you like to be flattered.”

Griff gripped his hands together behind his back. “But did you love him, Mother?”

A look of deep sorrow settled over her still pretty features. “Yes, I did love him. Very much. But I knew he had no future. He was something of a wastrel, whereas your father—”

“Was the heir presumptive to the fourth Earl of Swanlea,” Griff snapped, wondering how he could have so misunderstood everything from his childhood, how he could have let it blindly shape so much of his life.

His mother set her shoulders stubbornly the way she always did when she was cornered. “Yes. Your father had a future, a very bright one. When he came to stay at Swan Park and both he and Percival would visit me, I found I liked him. I didn’t love him as I did Percival, but I liked him. I knew if I married Percival, we’d be…poor and always looking for income. And I’d grown up poor. I despised it. I wanted something better.”

Though he certainly understood that, he couldn’t help comparing his mother’s response to Rosalind’s. Rosalind would never have married to avoid being poor—not his Athena. “Well, if it was poverty you were avoiding, Fate certainly paid a cruel trick on you, didn’t it?” he said, somewhat unkindly.

She regarded him with a melting sadness. “No. Fate meted out a suitable punishment. That’s how I consider it. I married your father for his prospects rather than following my heart, and I paid for it later.” A wan smile touched her lips. “I did grow to feel a deep affection for Leonard, you know. He was quite the rakish character. When you were born, I was so happy I thought I’d die of it. My husband was to be a wealthy earl, and I’d borne him his heir to the title. I was beside myself with joy.”

The smile faded abruptly, and she glanced away. “But such happiness isn’t meant for mere mortals, especially when gained at the expense of someone else. I treated Percival very badly. I didn’t even have the decency to…lie to him on my wedding day, to tell him I didn’t care for him. He looked so lost, so forlorn, and I foolishly thought it would help him to know I still cared.” A shudder wracked her delicate frame. “It only hurt him further when he realized I simply didn’t love him enough.”

“And he nursed that hurt for months,” Griff finished coldly. “So when you and Father flaunted your ‘happiness’ in front of him by inviting him to see me as a baby, he lashed out. That’s when he stole the certificate and had me proclaimed a bastard.”

Her gaze swung to his, full of remorse. “I wish to God I could have kept you from that suffering, my son. I deserved to suffer, but you certainly didn’t. I’d hoped that your father and I could shield you, could prevent it from mattering too much.” She shook her head. “Once he died of smallpox so young, however…”

Griff’s throat felt swollen and raw. “That’s why whenever I railed at Swanlea, you told me not to. Why you never railed against him yourself. Why you never blamed him or sought revenge.”

“How could I blame him? I drove him to it.” She paused, then asked shakily, “Is that what you’re doing now with the certificate, seeking your revenge against him?”

Two weeks ago, such a question would have infuriated him, probably because despite all his denials, it had been somewhat true. “No. Not anymore. That might once have been part of my intention, but now…” He scrubbed his hands wearily over his face. “I suppose I should thank you for not marrying him. If you had, I would never have been born. And neither would Rosalind.”

“Rosalind?”

An urgent need to tell her about the one he loved possessed him. “Swanlea’s daughter, the middle one. I’d hoped to marry her. But she…” He swallowed down the bitter lump in his throat and sat down wearily behind his desk. “She took exception to my plans for the certificate and ran off before I could tell her I’d decided not to use it. I haven’t yet found her. I think…I hope she’s somewhere in London.” He stared blindly past his mother. “I pray she’s at one of the theaters and not on the road being—” He broke off, unable to voice his terror.

“Do you love her?”

He nodded.

“Does she love you?”

“She said she did.”

His mother rose and came to his side, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Then do what you must to find her and win her back, my son. Because no one knows more than I how important it is to follow your heart.”

Beset by a complex mix of emotions—envy, hurt, and perhaps a little betrayal—he lifted his head to gaze into her tearful blue eyes. “Is that why you never remarried? Because you were still in love with Rosalind’s father?”

She sighed. “I never remarried because I learned the hard way that some people only love once. And there’s simply no point to marrying where you do not love.”

He shook his head, trying to take it all in. There’d been so much in his world that he hadn’t seen, too wrapped up in his own concerns to pay it any notice. “I never dreamed you felt all this. That certificate belongs to you more than to me, yet I never once considered that. I never even considered telling you about it or my plans or—”

“You’re telling me about it now,” she said, smiling. “That’s all that matters.”

She squeezed his shoulder, and he clasped her hand tightly, feeling a connection to his mother that he hadn’t felt in years. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d shoved her out of his life, as he’d shoved away everything and everyone who hadn’t been material to Knighton Trading.

The door suddenly burst open and Daniel hurried in. “Griff, an invitation of sorts has arrived for you. I think you’ll want to look at it. It’s from Mrs. Inchbald.”

Griff sat up straighter and released his mother’s hand. “The playwright. She was in Kemble’s office at Covent Garden when I asked about Rosalind.”

“She used to be an actress there, and I believe she was on the stage around the time Rosalind’s mother would have been.” Daniel strode to the desk and tossed down a paper with a note attached. “She’s sent you this playbill. It’s for Antony and Cleopatra at Covent Garden.”

Shakespeare. Damnation, of course! Where else would Rosalind go but to the theater that not only contained a marble statue of Shakespeare, but had scenes from the plays painted in the lobby?

What a dunce he was. Rosalind must be Mrs. Inchbald’s “cousin.” His heart pounding, Griff read the note first. All it said was “You may find this performer interesting.” He glanced at the top of the playbill. It was for tonight’s performance, the first. He scanned the bill, hoping against hope until he noticed a circled item that listed the actress for the part of Iras as “Miss Rose Laplace.” Nothing else.

“The woman who married Percival was named Solange Laplace,” Griff’s mother said, reading the playbill over his shoulder. “Does that help?”

Griff nodded as relief coursed through him. “It’s her, thank God. It has to be. And if Mrs. Inchbald was the ‘friend’ Lady Helena spoke of, then Rosalind is at least safe, for the woman is well respected and responsible. Though I do wonder why Mrs. Inchbald decided to send this to me today when she said nothing about Rosalind yesterday.” He stared down at the playbill. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be at that performance tonight, you can be sure.”

Then what? He had to see Rosalind, if only to make sure she was happy and well. He wanted so much more, but he feared he didn’t deserve it, and she’d surely feel the same. She might even truly want to remain on the stage. Well, she could perform on horseback at Astley’s amphitheater every day for all he cared, as long as she agreed to marry him.

But what if she wouldn’t even see him? Or worse yet, suppose she saw him and refused his offer of marriage again? He didn’t think he’d survive that. Yet how the devil was a man to convince a woman he loved her when she’d lost her faith in him, when she thought he cared for nothing but himself and his company?

You will do anything for Knighton Trading—whether consorting with smugglers or defaming innocents—so what place could a mere woman like me have in your life? Well, I can’t marry a man who cares so little for me.

It suddenly came to him what he must do. Rosalind wouldn’t believe mere words anymore, and he couldn’t blame her. But he could offer her something she would believe.

He glanced at the time for the play, then at the clock on the wall. He only had five hours to manage everything. It would have to be enough—because he couldn’t wait another day. Not for this.

“Mother,” he said as he rose from his chair, “I’m afraid I must leave you. I have some urgent matters to attend to before the play.”

She arched one silver-streaked eyebrow. “I hope you plan to bring me to this performance tonight. I should like to meet my future daughter-in-law.”

“I warn you, it’s by no means certain she’ll agree to marry me. I’ll ask her, but I won’t try to change her mind if she refuses. I did that before, and the result was disaster.”

“She’ll marry you. I know she will.” His mother eyed him fondly. “How could anyone refuse my son?”

“For my sake, I hope you’re right and not just speaking from motherly affection.” He forced a smile. “I suppose this would be the right time to ask for your blessing.”

“As if you’d pay me any heed if I didn’t give it,” she teased. “You don’t care in the least if you have my blessing. You never have, you rascal.”

He stared at her, realizing for the first time how much his ambition must have cost her, how often he’d thoughtlessly left her alone to worry while he pursued his own dreams. Why had he never seen it before?

Because he hadn’t had Rosalind to show him all his faults before.

Impulsively, he caught her hand and kissed it. “I confess that if Rosalind will have me, I plan to marry her even if you do protest. But I don’t think you will. I may have disappointed you in the past, Mother, but this is one time I think you’ll be pleased. And yes, it does matter to me that I have your blessing.”

Her eyes again filled with tears as she gazed into his face. “Of course you have my blessing, dear boy. And you could never, ever disappoint me.”

Scowling at her tears even as a lump caught in his throat, he dragged out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Then stop that crying, will you?” he said gruffly. “I swear, you and Rosalind with your tears—you’ll drive a man mad.”

As she sniffed and made good use of his handkerchief, he turned to Daniel. “All right, man, let’s go. You and I have business to take care of at my solicitor’s.”

“Business?”

“Yes. I’m going to do what most decent men do when they plan to marry: I’m getting rid of my mistress. The woman I love won’t have me unless I do.”

And without bothering to explain his enigmatic statement, he strode from the room.