The Lady Plays with Fire

Prologue

Prologue

Castle Dunstane, Scotland

June 1810

Graham McKay sat with his elbows propped on the scarred oak desk that had once belonged to the first Earl of Dunstane, his great-great-great . . . grandfather.

A more sentimental man would have known precisely how many greats.

Despite his present prayerful posture—eyes closed, palms together—Graham was not a man given to displays of sentiment. Or any other sign of weakness. Without looking up, he urged his secretary, Simon Keynes, “Go on.”

“Aye, my lord.” A burr scraped in Keynes’s throat, and papers rustled. “ ‘The scenery has been painted by a skillful hand, and the costumes are well-tailored,’ ” the man read, his voice flat and the words quick, as if he were hurrying through an unpleasant task. “ ‘Very little more may be ventured as praise for Ransom Blackadder’s latest desecration of the stage. Even the best performers of the day could not improve lines so obviously designed to offend and insult, with nothing of humor about them.’ ” A pause, followed by an audible swallow. “ ‘Alas, Mr. Blackadder’s reputation as a playwright does not attract the best performers of the day.’ ”

The crackle and hiss of a fire in the hearth would have filled the awful silence that followed. But it was at least nominally spring, no matter how damp and blustery the day. And coziness had never been Graham’s way.

He ought, however, to take pity on poor Keynes. Bad enough to charge the man with scouring every two-bit, ink-wasting periodical in the British Isles—and they were legion, as it turned out—for any mention of Blackadder’s scandalous, satirical work. To require him to read those words aloud—no matter how critical, no matter how cutting—bordered a little on cruel.

“ ‘Nor,’ ” Keynes concluded, forcing the words over his reluctant tongue when Graham made no sign to desist, “ ‘with so little attempt at decorum or civility, should Vice Is Its Own Reward attract the finest audience, or indeed, any audience at all.’ ”

Splotches of red—mortification, Graham supposed—mottled Keynes’s face, only highlighting his pale, thin features. But really, the fellow ought to be used to it by now. In discussing Blackadder’s plays, the papers always dripped with words like shocking, offensive, disgraceful.

Thanks to them, every seat in the theater was full, night after night.

For his part, Graham felt only relief. If people were daft enough to pay for the pleasure of being spat at and kicked, why shouldn’t he profit from it?

A positive review could set the whole enterprise on its ear. Graham pressed the tips of his forefingers more firmly against his lips, the better to disguise the sardonic smile that had begun to curve them.

“Are there others, Mr. Keynes?” he murmured, once he felt certain of his ability to keep any hint of pleasure from his voice.

He had long since provided a reasonable excuse for his interest in how Blackadder got on. Patron, Graham had described himself. Investor. Interested party. Nonetheless, he wondered from time to time whether Keynes suspected the truth, whether he knew he was, in fact, delivering every scathing review to the playwright himself.

“Surely, my lord, what I’ve read is sufficient to—”

Graham opened his eyes and fixed his secretary with a look.

Briefly meeting Graham’s gaze from behind smudged spectacles, Keynes gulped and began once more to rummage through his battered leather portfolio. Everything about Simon Keynes was thin: his gaunt frame clad in an earthy-gray woolen coat, the precise shade of which blended almost seamlessly into the stone wall behind him; his lips, perpetually pursed; his hair.

At long last, he retrieved what appeared to be a magazine from his satchel. “This is the final item I collected, my lord. Of a rather different character than most.”

A different character?Had Keynes saved the best—or rather, the worst—for last? Graham dipped his chin once to signal the secretary to read it.

Keynes fumbled about for a moment, tucking the portfolio awkwardly beneath one arm and then drawing his thumbnail along the edge of the pages, a hurried attempt to find his place that did not reward his effort. He had to flip back and forth a few pages at a time, until he found what he was looking for. Once more, he cleared his throat sharply before he began.

“ ‘Vice Is Its Own Reward presents a series of vignettes on society’s hypocrisy and double dealing in matters of business, Acts of Parliament, and even marriage vows. One cannot shake the impression that Mr. Blackadder feels himself a man out of time. Perhaps, if he had written at the start of the last century instead of the start of this one, his wit would not have gone so unappreciated by the critics. ’ ”

Something prickled along Graham’s skin, a curious sort of agitation, and his pulse increased by a beat or two. The sensation was akin to the sort of wariness one felt when passing along an unfamiliar wooded path, where the crackle in the undergrowth might be something small and unthreatening. . . or something considerably more dangerous.

“ ‘On the bawdy Restoration stage, or circulating in salons among the great Augustan satirists, Mr. Blackadder would surely have felt more at home—albeit humbled, one hopes, in the presence of their brilliance. Since his lot has fallen to us, however, rather than our great-great-grandparents’” —Graham had the distinct impression the reviewer knew precisely how many greats—“ ‘one might be forgiven for finding it curious that he persists in directing the jibes of an earlier age at the fashionable foibles of his present audience. If Mr. Blackadder wishes to mend our ways by making us laugh at ourselves, he might do better to let us in on the joke.’ ”

Graham could not contain a derisive snort. Every Ransom Blackadder play ridiculed its audience outrageously, duping people into mean-spirited mockery at their own expense. His work never hinted that he believed people might, in a moment of sober reflection, recognize their own flaws and fix them.

He made it perfectly obvious he felt them incapable of improvement.

“Thank you, Keynes. You may go,” he said, with a dismissive flick of his hand.

But Keynes didn’t move, didn’t close the magazine, didn’t even look up. “If it please your lordship, there’s a bit more.”

Again, the prickle of warning chased down Graham’s spine, sharper this time.

Keynes adjusted his grip on the magazine, holding it farther from him, as if he struggled to bring the print into focus. Or couldn’t quite believe what it said.

“ ‘This reviewer, however, doubts Mr. Blackadder’s goals are so noble,’ ” he read. “ ‘And if I am right in my conjectures, what a pity to waste such a formidable talent on mere disdain for one’s fellow creatures.’ ”

Graham dragged in a sharp breath through his nostrils. It wasn’t exactly praise, at least—though formidable talent came dangerously close.

He had been even less prepared for pity.

“Who?” he demanded. “Where?”

Keynes jumped at the questions. “A newish publication, sir. Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses.”

“Misses?” Graham echoed, incredulous. “A ladies’ magazine?”

“Young ladies, sir,” Keynes clarified—a trifle gloatingly, to Graham’s ear. “And as to who wrote it . . . Well, all the columns are anonymous, except for one by Mrs. Goode, and I suspect even that is an assumed name. This review is attributed to ‘Miss on Scene.’ ”

“ ‘Miss on Scene,’ ” Graham repeated beneath his breath. “ ‘Miss on—’ ” In spite of himself, he broke off on a wry chuckle. “Ah. Clever.”

He didn’t intend the remark as a compliment.

Keynes didn’t seem to get the joke.

“Mise en scène,” Graham said. “French for stagecraft.” He thrust out his arm, palm upward. As Keynes approached the desk, he let the magazine fan closed before handing it to Graham.

The edges of the paper were soft and tattered, as if this particular copy had been read repeatedly and given up reluctantly. On the cover, two caryatids—columns in the shape of women—framed the title: Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses. Below, the magazine purported to “Promote Rational Conduct and Improve Wisdom among Young Persons of the Fair Sex.”

Someone had crossed out the word Misses and inked in another above it: Mischief.

Graham glanced up at Keynes for an explanation. “The content of the magazine is not necessarily what most would deem proper for young ladies,” the secretary said.

Was it Graham’s imagination, or was that a smile twitching at the corner of the man’s mouth?

“Obviously,” Graham shot back. “What would proper young ladies need with a review of Vice?”

To the extent that he wrote for such an audience at all, he certainly did not do so for their amusement. And he cared not at all for their opinions, good or otherwise.

“Some go so far as to call it Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Misconduct,” the secretary continued, after dipping his head in acknowledgment—and perhaps to hide another smirk. “The associated scandal has only increased the publication’s popularity . . . not unlike the work of a certain playwright. Forbidden by parents, governesses, and the like, the magazine mostly circulates surreptitiously, from hand to hand. Hence the rather battered appearance of this copy. I had to pay dearly to get it. From what I’ve been able to determine, every fashionable young lady in London knows what the Magazine for Misses has to say, even when they personally have not been fortunate enough to see the latest issue for themselves.”

As Keynes spoke, Graham leafed through the well-read pages. At first glance, nothing struck him as remarkable: sketches of the latest fashions; gossip passed off as news; advice.

But when he attended more closely, he discovered the advice columnist urged the shocking step of breaking off an engagement with a notorious rake (“better a contented spinster than a miserable wife,” opined someone calling herself Miss Busy B.), and the fashion plates were satirical renderings of the fashionable nearly worthy of one of Ransom Blackadder’s plays.

And speaking of . . .

The paper crinkled beneath his fingertips as he sought and found the review by Miss on Scene. Settling in to read, he was interrupted by Keynes’s shadow falling across the page.

“The estate business will wait until tomorrow,” Graham said. He did not look up but twitched his fingertips in a dismissive wave. “You may go.”

He heard Keynes’s intake of breath, the prelude to some objection or rebuttal. The estate business was surely more important than some silly review; his secretary had been away for a fortnight, during which time correspondence had been piling up. Graham knew it all too well.

But in the end, Keynes said nothing, merely turned and walked away, closing the heavy door with a soft click. Graham wasn’t even sure the man had bothered with the customary courtesy of a bow.

He was too absorbed in his reading to care.

What a pity to waste such a formidable talent . . .

Slapping the magazine shut, he moved as if to fling it in the direction of the empty hearth. But at the last second, he caught himself, dropping the magazine on his desktop instead and smoothing the wrinkled cover with his palm.

What a pity . . .

With automatic movements, he drew a stack of clean foolscap from a drawer and fished a pencil from a tarnished silver tray, touching the tip to his tongue. Ransom Blackadder was going to have to teach Mrs. Goode’s Misses a lesson. The author of that ridiculous review would soon understand the misery that befell a young lady foolish enough to play with fire.