How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(79)
Merrick paid them both a dribble, producing plays with minimal expense in a building that leaked when it rained. Cultivating favor with the wealthiest theater manager in London had been Kit’s goal for months. With a long-running Fleet-produced play, he could repay his debts and move out of his cramped lodgings. Hunger had turned him into a hack writer for Merrick, but he craved more. Success, wealth, a chance to prove his skill as a writer. To prove that his decision to come to London had been the right one. To prove to his father that he could succeed on his own merits.
“Never!” Tess, performing the role of virginal damsel, shrieked from center stage. “Never shall I marry Lord Mallet. He is the worst sort of scoundrel.”
“That’s my cue.” Grey grinned as he tugged once more at his cravat and dashed back into the glow of the limelights. Just before stepping on stage, he skidded to stop and turned to Kit. “You’d better write me a part in whatever play you sell to Fleet.”
With a mock salute, Kit offered his friend a grin. He had every intention of creating a role for Grey. The man’s acting skills deserved a grander stage too.
Kit fixed his gaze on Fleet. He seemed to be enjoying the play, a trifling modernized Hamlet parody Kit called The King’s Ghost and the Mad Damsel. He’d changed the heroine’s name to Mordelia, unable to endure the sound of Ophelia’s name bouncing off theater walls for weeks. Months, if the play did well.
After his eyes adjusted to the stage-light glow, he pointlessly, compulsively scanned the crowd one last time for a woman whose inner beauty glowed as fiercely as her outer charms. He wouldn’t find her. As far as he knew, Phee was home in the village where they’d grown up. When he’d come to London to escape his father, she’d insisted on loyalty to hers and remained in Hertfordshire to care for him. All but one of his letters had gone unanswered, including a note the previous year expressing sorrow over her father’s passing.
He didn’t need to reach into his pocket and unfold the scrap of paper he carried with him everywhere. The five words of Ophelia’s only reply remained seared in his mind. “Follow your heart and flourish.” They were her mother’s words, stitched in a sampler that hung in the family’s drawing room. Kit kept the fragment, but he still wondered whether Ophelia had written the words in sincerity or sarcasm.
A flash of gems caught his eye, and Kit spied Fleet’s pretty companion rising from her seat. The theater impresario stood too, following her into the aisle. Both made their way toward the doors at the rear of the house.
He couldn’t let the man leave without an introduction. Kit lurched toward a door leading to a back hall and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor. He caught up to Fleet near the ladies’ retiring room.
“Mr. Fleet, I am—”
“Christopher Ruthven, the scribe of this evening’s entertainment.” The man extended a gloved hand. “Forgive me, Ruthven. It’s taken far too long for me to take in one of your plays.”
Attempting not to crush the slighter man in his grip, Kit offered an enthusiastic handshake.
“I want to have a look at your next play.” Fleet withdrew an engraved calling card from his waistcoat pocket. “Bring it in person to my office at the theater. Not the one you sent. Something new. More like this one.”
“You’ll have it.” Kit schooled his features, forcing his furrowed brow to smooth. So what if the man wanted a farce rather than serious drama? He craved an opportunity to succeed, and Fleet could provide it. “Thank you.”
“If we can come to terms and you manage to fill my playhouse every night as you have Merrick’s, I shall be thanking you.”
Kit started backstage, his head spinning with ideas for a bigger, grander play than Merrick’s could produce. Never mind that it had taken years to grasp the chance Fleet offered. Good fortune had come, and he intended to make the most of it.
As he reached the inconspicuous door that led to the back corridor, a man called his name.
“Mr. Ruthven? Christopher Leopold Ruthven?”
Two gentlemen approached, both tall, black-suited, and dour. Debt collectors? The instinct to bolt dissipated when the two made it impossible, crowding him on either side of the narrow passageway.
“I’m Ruthven.” Taller than both men and broader by half, Kit still braced himself for whatever might come. “What do you want?”
The one who’d yet to say anything took a step closer, and Kit recognized his wrinkled face.
“Mr. Sheridan? What brings you to Merrick’s?” Kit never imagined the Ruthven family solicitor would venture to a London theater under any circumstances.
“Ill tidings, I regret to say.” Sheridan reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope blacked with ink around the edges. “Your father is dead, Mr. Ruthven. I’m sorry. Our letter to you was returned. My messenger visited your address twice and could not locate you. I thought we might find you here.”
“Moved lodgings.” Kit took the letter, willing his hand not to tremble. “Weeks ago.”
“Your sister has made arrangements for a ceremony in Briar Heath.” Sheridan lifted a card from his pocket and handed it to Kit. “Visit my office before you depart, and I can provide you with details of your father’s will.”
The men watched him a moment, waiting for a reaction. When none came, Sheridan muttered condolences before they departed.