Chapter 7
A Week Later
It had been quite a long day at the school in the East End, but it had been a triumphant one.
They were currently working on Hamlet, Celia’s favorite of the dramas.
Of course, Macbeth was a close second, but the complexities of the politics and the relationships in Hamlet always made her see the story anew.
And it had changed over the years, the way she saw that story.
When she had been but a young girl, of course, she had understood Hamlet’s early frustration, his impatience with his elders, his moaning. Well, it hadn’t seemed like moaning when she was a girl. It had seemed like plaintive emoting. But now at thirty, she did see the play quite differently.
She was much closer to Gertrude’s age, Hamlet’s mother, than she was to Ophelia in the play.
Hamlet’s age was often contested. Some said he was thirty; others insisted he was younger.
And she could not help but think sometimes that Hamlet complained far too much and really just needed to do something. Anything!
Of course, that was an oversimplification of the play, but her new understanding of it often made it quite interesting, teaching it to the youths who came through the doors of the school. They were putting on a show in four weeks’ time, and there was quite a lot to do.
There would, of course, be set building and costume making, learning of lines, and constructing of the stage. Every time, they did it anew, almost as if they were doing it in Shakespeare’s time.
And, of course, they would invite a host of people to come and see, so that the people of the East End would have opportunities to experience Shakespeare.
Because the truth was none of them could afford to go and see the plays performed in the theaters where her grandaunt performed, or her Aunt Juliet, or one of the latest editions to the family, Muriel.
In those buildings around Covent Garden, the theater was lauded and largely respected. It was a tragedy to her that the theater was not available to so many in the country.
Now, of course, there were seats that were of a slightly less expensive price, but the truth was, unlike in Shakespeare’s time, regular people could not afford to go to the grand theaters in Covent Garden and the like.
Her little theater, well, not her theater, but the theater that belonged to her and her father, sister, grandfather, and mother that was attached to the school?
Well, it was a special little place, because it wasn’t at all like the romantic theaters that so many imagined when they thought of actors and actresses.
No, their East End theater was a vital place where entertainment and storytelling touched the lives of people who sometimes had no reason to get out of their hovels.
Every day, those in the East End had to scrape for a living, or sometimes they spent their entire day in the mud along the road, begging for coins.
She peered out the window at the city she loved so very well and the horrible poverty of the people about her.
Even after almost twenty years coming here, she did not feel inured to it, not at all.
She saw it fresh every day with open eyes, and she understood the cruelty of it all, the disparity of the way that she lived versus the way the people here lived.
It was getting worse.
She wished Emilia was here with her at present. She had questions to discuss about Ophelia, how they should choose to play her, and in which direction they should coach the young actress who had won the role.
They should have a conversation about the abuse of a relationship with a young man, or the way a father and a brother could sway a young woman.
Did a young lady have agency at all? Of course she did.
But it was hard when one had a powerful family who did not care at all about one’s own desire, but only the rise and fall of political events.
Such was Ophelia’s position. She was not merely some besotted, heartbroken maiden.
Celia was so very lucky to be born a Briarwood, as was Emilia. They would never face the same problems as Ophelia.
Yes, she would have loved Emilia’s chatter, but Emilia was tucked up into her bed right now, having developed a rather bad cold.
Emilia almost never got sick. Celia either, except for a very brief bout after the opening of every play at their school.
Both of them were exposed to all sorts of illnesses, and both of them were usually tougher than leather, which was made not far from where they taught.
But for whatever reason, Emilia could not get out of bed and needed rest.
She had been tempted to stay with her sister, because, quite frankly, they were very seldom parted. They preferred each other’s company to almost anyone, but there had been much work to be done, and she couldn’t abandon the students.
There were other teachers in the school, of course, but none of them had quite the same rein on things as she and Emilia, or their father, did.
So, in her beloved, well-worn notebook, she scribbled a few ideas about which direction it would be best to take Hamlet and Ophelia in this particular production.
And then she looked out the window as if somehow, out there on the street, some idea might pop into her head about how best to discuss it with the young lady who was to play Hamlet’s betrayed love.
And then she dropped her pencil right onto the floor. Her hand hung aloft for a moment before she pounded on the roof and all but bellowed, “Stop, Jenkins.”
Jenkins immediately pulled the coach to a stop, despite the fact that they were in the thick of the East End crowd.
She was a common sight.
Everyone was aware of her father’s coach coming into this part of town, and no one gave her any trouble.
And so no one cursed the coach when they came to an abrupt halt.
If anyone else had done such a thing, they would have been pilloried.
She usually never would, but she was so startled that she’d had to.
“It couldn’t be,” she whispered to herself.
She stared out the window, then stuck her head out into the warm summer air and sucked in a gasp, not caring at all for the rather rank odor of this part of town.
“How is it possible?” she murmured, hardly believing her eyes.
“You there,” she called out. But, of course, what a silly thing that was to say, for the object of her shouting had no idea she was calling out to them.
She threw open the door of the coach, jumped down into the mud, not caring a whit about her boots or the hem of her skirts, and charged after the Duke of Roseford.
He was weaving up the street easily as if he was at home there, but a duke should not be in this part of town, and certainly not alone.
She and Emilia were not to be touched. Everyone knew that.
Her coach had two footmen and she was also well prepared.
She had been coming to this part of town all her life.
The family was most welcome here and protected.
She knew that if something were to happen to her, a group of people might rise up to protect her because her family did so much good in the area.
She’d also been trained to fight from a young age. She was mostly safe here.
This could not be said for anyone else from her class who came into this particular part of town. If they did, well, they might not come out again, or if they did, they might come out sans clothes.
The Duke of Roseford must have been deep in thought because he did not stop. She chased after him.
“Your Grace,” she called. “Your Grace,” she called again, louder and louder.
He still did not seem to hear her, as if he had not yet truly grown accustomed to being called Your Grace.
And so, finally, she stopped, took a breath of air, and rattled out, “Dominic Longfield, turn about.”
And he did.
First, he hesitated. His strong shoulders rippled under that glorious coat as night began to fall and the street was turning pitch black. It was rather late, and there were no real lamps in this part of town, but the lamps attached to her coach did give a bit of light.
He turned oh so slowly, and the moment his eyes locked on her, his lips parted and he let out a note of alarm. “What the blazes are you doing here, woman?”
“I could say the same of you.”
“No, you cannot,” he said. “I am a man and you are a woman.”
“That is a very obvious thing to say, Your Grace,” she said. “And I am more than aware of my sex. I’m glad to know that you are aware of yours. One would hope so, since you are a duke and not a duchess.”
He scowled at her. “You could be murdered in this part of town.”
“You could be murdered in this part of town,” she replied ripely.
He snorted. His arrogance was appalling…and strangely attractive. “No, I could not. But you? Do you have some fairy curse upon you, or some magical protection?”
She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t need magical protection. I have practical protection. Do you?”
He cocked his head a little bit further to side, mocking her, apparently, and gestured to his cane. A cane that she had not noticed.
She arched a brow, ignoring the crowd that slipped about them like water around rocks. “Are you going to brain someone with that?”
“I will if I have to,” he said, also ignoring the crowded street. Most of the inhabitants were already three sheets to the wind with gin and showed no interest in anything but getting more intoxicated. “And there’s more inside of it.”
He slipped the handle out and bared a flash of steel.
“Oh, I see. You are a bit prepared.”
“Of course I am,” he drawled.
She straightened her bonnet, her notebook still in her other hand. “Is that why you look so at ease?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “You really shouldn’t be out on the street. I’m going to have to speak to your family about you.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “They know that I’m here. And I didn’t think you were the sort to go slumming, if I’m quite honest.”
“I’m not slumming,” he said.
“Yes, you are,” she said with a touch of disdain, rather disappointed. “You don’t belong here.”
“Why do you think I don’t belong here?” he asked.
She frowned. “Because you’re a duke.”
“How very narrow-minded of you,” he said. “And I suppose I should be grateful that you are concerned for my safety, but I am perfectly safe.”
“You are not,” she returned.
He leaned down, closing the gap between them, folding his hands behind his back, his cane clasped in his leather gloves. “I assure you, I am perfectly safe. This sort of place is where I was raised. I’m accustomed to these people, I prefer these people, and I live here.”
Her jaw dropped. “You do not. I would’ve heard about it.”
“It’s rather recent,” he admitted. “But this is my home, and perhaps you are too busy to listen to the gossip. You always seem to have your head in a book.”
He looked to the journal in her hand.
“Oh, fair play,” she admitted, curious now and pleased that he had noticed those things about her. “That is true. I’m not really interested in gossip.”
“So you see,” he continued, “you just might not have heard about it.”
“It is possible,” she allowed before she pursed her lips. “You live here? Don’t you have some mansion along the river?”
“I’m getting it pulled down,” he replied.
“You’re getting it pulled down,” she echoed, barely believing her ears.
A muscle in his jaw clenched. “Yes, every stone. I’ll keep the art though,” he said. “And, of course, I will sell it at auction and use the proceeds for a good cause.”
She blinked at him. “I don’t follow.”
“You don’t need to.”
“You should get in the coach with me,” she said at last, feeling as if he was speaking a language she did not currently understand.
“I’ll take you somewhere safe. You’ll be fine, and perhaps we can get you a doctor.
You seem as if you might need assistance.
You might have been exposed to a bit of mercury or something. ”
He laughed. “Am I so very odd to you?”
“Well, the truth is I’ve never met anybody so like my family. And so, yes, it is quite odd.”
“You come with me instead,” he said then abruptly.
She jerked her chin back. “Why would I go with you?”
He waggled his dark brows at her. “So I can show you where I live, and you can understand that I am quite safe and that this is exactly where I belong.”
She looked over her shoulder at the coach and up to the driver.
Jenkins gave a quick shake of his head. “You should go home, Miss Briarwood.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “Yes, I suppose I should, but I have made my life what it is by doing things I shouldn’t, so I’m going to go and see where the duke lives, Jenkins. You, of course, may follow us, but I have to know.”
“You have to know,” the duke replied, his eyes dancing with light as if her curiosity awoke something joyful in him. “Why do I feel as if that phrase has gotten you into trouble before?”
She smiled at him. How could she not? “You, sir, are a mystery.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said, loving it every time she cheekily called him sir instead of Your Grace. “Would you like to solve me?”
She bit her lower lip.
“You would,” he breathed.
“No, not a bit,” she said quickly. She couldn’t have him thinking that. Even if it was true.
“Is that why you helped me a few weeks ago?”
“I had no intention of seeing you again,” she said, her voice shaking, much to her irritation. “I have no intention of seeing you again, but I admit, I am most curious about you now. Lead on and show me your home.”
“This way,” he said, gesturing forward, clearly pleased at her interest. He gave a look to the coachman, who looked as if he was about to die.
“I promise, I won’t let anything happen to her,” Roseford said.
The coachman shook his head. “I’m not worried about her, Your Grace.”
And she laughed a full-throated laugh because the look on the duke’s face was positively priceless.