Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(16)

Arlyss shook her head, brown curls dancing. “They've always been too much alike, I suppose, both of them so in love with the theater that there was never room for anyone else. Then Julia met the duke, and…but that's another story. To answer your question: Julia and Mr. Scott were never romantically involved. She told me that Mr. Scott believes falling in love is the worst possible thing that could ever happen to him.”

“But why?”

Arlyss shrugged cheerfully. “That's the mystery of Mr. Scott. He's a bundle of secrets, that one.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer over her cup of tea. “I'll tell you something that few people know: Mr. Scott was the son of a tenant farmer. He never even went to school. Can you imagine it?”

“No, I…” Madeline was genuinely amazed. “He seems so cultured, so noble—”

“He seems that way,” Arlyss agreed. “But he's come from beginnings that would make yours and mine look like royalty. In fact, Julia once hinted to me that Mr. Scott was terribly mistreated—beaten and half-starved by his father. It's why his family never visits the theater or is allowed to watch a performance. He pays them to stay away from him.”

Madeline pondered the information, while Arlyss delved into the tin of biscuits. She tried to imagine Mr. Scott as a boy, living with poverty and abuse, and it was impossible to reconcile that picture with the powerful, self-assured owner of the Capital Theatre. He had assumed such godlike dimensions in the public's eyes—and her own—that she found it hard to believe he had escaped a past as humble as the one Arlyss had described.

So that was where Mr. Scott's talent came from, she thought with a stirring of compassion. A man couldn't leave his old life and invent a new one for himself without having an extraordinary amount of imagination—and determination.

“Excuse me, Miss Barry,” she murmured. “I have work to do.”

Arlyss winked at her and picked up a play folio, silently mouthing her lines as she memorized them.

Madeline went down the hall to Mr. Scott's office, her heart quickening as she approached the threshold. The door was open, revealing his back as he sat at his massive mahogany desk. His white linen shirt, once crisp and freshly pressed, was now creased as it clung to his broad shoulders. He had discarded the pale gray waistcoat he had worn all day, as well as the black silk cravat.

It was odd to see Mr. Scott still and quiet when he had been so relentlessly active all day. He seemed to have the energy of ten men, striding about his theater like the captain of a ship. One moment he had been directing the actors during rehearsal, alternately cajoling and demanding until their performances satisfied him…and the next he was in the scene painter's shop, moving heavy set pieces and flats, explaining how he wanted them painted until it seemed that he might pick up a brush and do the job himself.

Every member of the company knew that his or her work would sooner or later come under his scrutiny, and they labored to please him. When they were given a word or two of praise, they glowed with satisfaction. Madeline longed to win similar attention from him, so that he would take notice of her as someone other than a troublesome employee.

As Madeline paused in the doorway, Mr. Scott stiffened, the heavy muscles moving across his back. Although she hadn't made a sound, he turned in his chair and glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes questioning.

“Mr. Scott,” she said, “I thought I might be able to help with your correspondence. I noticed how much of it there was, and…I could write letters as you dictate.” She saw the lack of response on his face, and she added hopefully, “I have very good penmanship”

It took him an unaccountably long time to reply. He contemplated the stack of unanswered mail on his desk before his gaze returned to her. Slowly he reached over to a nearby chair and removed a few books that had been piled on the seat. “Why not?” he muttered.

Madeline seated herself and took up a pen and paper, using the corner of his desk to write on. Mr. Scott pulled a page of notes from the top of the pile and read silently, tugging at a forelock of his hair. Madeline had never seen such beautiful hair on a man. There must be many women who were tempted to smooth the rumpled locks.

Guiltily enjoying the novelty of being alone with him, Madeline continued her discreet inspection. His long legs were taut beneath his gray trousers, the muscles long and well-honed. Many of the roles he played required great athletic skill. The rigors of fencing and fighting scenes, played night after night, kept him in superb physical condition.

“Direct this letter to Monsieur Jacques Daumier, rue des Beaux Arts, Paris.” To Madeline's surprise, Scott began to dictate in French. She realized that he was testing her, to see if she really did know French. Rising to the challenge, she began to write diligently.

As Mr. Scott dictated, Madeline grasped that he was helping a manager of the Comedie Francaise to engage a London theater for a brief time, to showcase his performers for English audiences.

“Pardon, sir,” she interrupted in the middle of a sentence, “but I believe that verb should be conjugated in the past subjunctive—”

“Leave it.”

Madeline frowned. “Mr. Scott, I'm certain you understand, how particular the French are about their language—”

“I'm certain I know a hell of a lot more about the French than you do,” he shot back. “And I'm going to conjugate the damned verb any way I please.”