Page 32 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Why?” Emily asked slowly, drawing the word out slightly. “We’ve only just arrived in town—word of our marriage won’t have spread yet. Heavens, I haven’t even had new calling cards made—I can hardly go about presenting a card for Lady Emily Turner. Not when I am married.”
“If Miss Simmons is truly not coming back, then word of her relationship with Delacre will soon spread around town like wildfire. We’re fortunate that only a fraction of thetonis here at the moment, but it’s still only a matter of time before gossip begins to spread—and the last thing I need is for the Belfry to get a reputation as the sort of place men like Delacre find women to join their harems.”
“Does Lord Delacre have aharem?” Emily asked, looking shocked.
“No,” he conceded, “but he’s certainly known to entertain more than one mistress at a time, and I won’t have word spreading that he picks them up there—which is why we’ll want to immediately begin putting on a show of being a proper, staid married couple.”
Emily frowned slightly. “Don’t you think it likely thatourmarriage will produce its own fair share of scandal?” she asked. “After all, you’re hardly considered to be the most marriageable of gentlemen, and until quite recently I was being rather obviously courted by another man. We might well shield Lord Delacre and Miss Simmons from gossip, but only with our own marriage, which I hardly thought was your aim.” Her frown deepened. “Besides, I would think that the scandal of a young woman of good breeding marrying an actor and theater owner is significantly greater than that of an actress conducting some sort of liaison with a rogue like Lord Delacre—this can hardly be the first time that’s happened, after all.”
“What do you propose, then?” he asked, suppressing a surge of irritation; he was aware, on some level, that his irritation was directed at himself, for not having considered the concerns she had just raised, and did his best to keep any trace of his annoyance out of his voice, lest she think it was aimed at her. There was something so frightfully innocent about her, still—even now, as a married lady, joined forevermore to a man with a reputation as scandalous as his, she still seemed very young.
“Well, I thought I might wait a bit before attempting to fashion myself into the perfect society hostess,” she said—she was Emily, so he would not have precisely described her tone as waspish, but it undoubtedly was not as sweetly patient as he’d grown accustomed to. “Perhaps I could accompany you to the theater this afternoon instead?”
Julian frowned. “I don’t think that’s terribly wise,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Emily blinked. “Why not?” she asked, tucking Cecil Lucifer Beelzebub more firmly against her breast, where the sheet—tragically—remained firmly stuck. “I thought it might be interesting to see it when a show isn’t in progress—I’ve never been behind the scenes at a theater before.”
“Of course you haven’t,” he said flatly. “Because a theater is no place for a lady.”
Emily stared at him, silent for a moment. “But isn’t your entire aim to prove that your theaterisa place for a lady?” she asked after a beat. “How on earth do you expect to lure society ladies there if you won’t even bring your own wife?”
Julian sighed. “Emily,” he said, “what do you think you could do at the Belfry this afternoon that could possibly lure ladies of thetonthere—sit and needlepoint and receive calls?”
Her face shuttered at his words, and he felt a pang of regret that he’d spoken so harshly. “I didn’t mean—”
“Ithought,” she said, “that if we made it seem as though I were actively involved at the Belfry—taking an interest in the shows you put on, familiarizing myself with its operations, meeting your actors—then we could create the appearance that there was nothing untoward happening there.” In her arms, Cecil Lucifer Beelzebub stirred, cracking open one green eye, and she glanced down, dropping a quick kisson his fluffy head. “Besides,” she added, “it’s not as though I’ve never visited the Belfry before. You can hardly claim it’s no place for a lady—not when I’ve already been there.”
“Emily,” Julian said, sighing again and crossing the room to sit on the bed next to her, “we’ve been back in town less than a day. I have a brewing scandal at the theater, and we’ve a marriage to sell to society. Let’s begin by focusing on presenting the image of the perfectly happy and respectable married couple that people wish to see—becausethatis what will eventually draw them to the Belfry. No one wants to see a wife taking an interest in her husband’s business—they just want to see her acting the way they expect a society wife to act.” He saw her eyes spark at this, and added hastily, “I’m not saying it’s right or fair, but it’s the truth. You know it is.” He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Once more time has passed, you can come to the Belfry one evening—play the part of a proud wife, thrilled over a night out, as if going to the Belfry were no more noteworthy than attending a show at Drury Lane. But not yet. And in the meantime, surely you can…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Occupy yourself? I’ll see to my business, you’ll see to yours, and before you know it, things will be going just the way we planned.”
Emily, it must be confessed, did not present exactly the picture of a besotted bride whose every anxiety had been chased away by the wisdom of her beloved husband, but he decided that a faintly frowning, not-verbally-protesting bride would do in a pinch.
This was all going, if not perfectly to plan, then certainly close enough.
Ten
“Married,” Laverre said for atleast the third time. Julian glanced up from the newspaper clipping he was reading—a review of the production ofMacbeththat the Belfry had staged in his absence—to give his manager an impatient look.
“How many times do you need it repeated?” he asked curtly, not making any attempt to keep his tone pleasant. He and Laverre had worked together for the better part of a decade, and therefore, mercifully, felt little impulse to stand on niceties—not that Laverre was the sort of man to do so with just about anyone, truth be told.
“Well,” the Frenchman said, leaning back in the chair he was seated in on the opposite side of Julian’s desk, “I’m growing a bit concerned that there’s something amiss with my hearing, you see, because I cannot possibly imagine a situation that would convinceyouof all people to take a wife.” Laverre was a short, angular man several years older than Julian himself, and he was famously rather demanding when it came to the theater operations. It was strange to see him reclining casually in his chair, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and Julian immediately sensed a rat.
“Perhaps your imagination lacks scope, then,” Julian said pleasantly, before redirecting his attention to the review. The reviewer for theEvening Starapparently took issue with one of the musical numbers—Julian personally had thought the three witches’ musical rendition of “Double, double, toil and trouble” was quite entertaining—but otherwise seemed pleased.
“Belfry.” Laverre kicked a foot up onto the desk, which was the sort of thing that, had Julian attempted it in Laverre’s office, he was fairly certain would have resulted in his own demise, for all that he was theoretically Laverre’s employer, and not the other way around. “What is this about?”
Julian sighed, and let the newspaper clipping flutter through his fingertips back to the desk. “What do you think it’s about? It’s about convincing someone other than every dissolute gentleman in London to come to one of our shows.”
“And you think that by virtue of you marrying some blond debutante, we’ll suddenly be flooded with the society ladies who have stayed away for the past—oh, how long has it been?” Laverre tapped his chin thoughtfully, though Julian thought darkly that the man probably knew the tally down to the very hour. “Nine years?”
“I don’t expect it to happen overnight,” Julian said in clipped tones. “But it’s a signal to society that I’ve left my days of freewheeling rakishness behind me—I’ve turned over a new leaf, if you will. Besides,” he added, offering his manager a smug smile, “you underestimate Emily. She’s not merely some empty-headed debutante.”
“She paints beautiful watercolors?” Laverre suggested in bored tones. “She can play the pianoforte with uncommon skill? She can discuss the weather for ten minutes straight without launching herself off a balcony in boredom?”
“Yes,” Julian said, “to all of the above. Emily is… perfect.” He paused for a second, frowning; he sounded like a besotted fool, butthat wasn’t really what he meant. “She’s the ideal wife,” he clarified. “She’s beautiful, from an old family with unimpeachable bloodlines, and she has a proven ability to be surrounded by scandal and somehow emerge smelling as fresh as a daisy.”
“Then why on earth was she willing to marry you?” Laverre asked skeptically.
Julian sighed. “Her father’s an idiot and got mixed up with Oswald Cartham.”
