Page 36 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER THIRTY
“ Y es,” Beatrice whispered, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Yes, that is it! That is perfection! The finishing touch!”
She stood back to admire her masterpiece, while the footmen she had roped into helping her exchanged amused glances.
The red velvet curtains were out, the black velvet curtains were in.
With one simple change, her theater room had become the stuff of Gothic dreams. Even the glow of the footlights seemed eerier as the dark fabric dulled the amber hue.
“Are you sure you won’t be wanting green velvet next, my lady?” one of the footmen asked with a chuckle.
“No, no, I am quite satisfied now,” she replied, clapping her hands together in excitement.
Ever since she had installed the stage in the old reading room, something had bothered her about it. The room had looked exquisite, she could not deny that, but it had resembled every other manor theater that she had seen. There was nothing different about it.
Now , it is befitting for the Bride of Death, the Sorceress, the Red Widow.
“Is there nothing else you want us to do?” the other footman asked, sounding almost disappointed.
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, I shall assuredly think of something else in due course but, for now, you are free from my mad whims. I expect I have stolen you from more important duties, but I must thank you immensely for your assistance.” She danced a little jig right there on the floor.
“Indeed, the first play performed here will be done in honor of the staff here. All of you will be honored guests. Spread the word.”
The footmen seemed pleased by the gift, chattering animatedly to one another about the shadow puppets and what play they might want to see as they left the room.
Alone, Beatrice stood there for a while longer, in awe of the transformation.
She envisaged a performance of Macbeth, of Hamlet, of Doctor Faustus, anything with ghosts or ghouls or witches or ungodly creatures.
Plays to shock and amaze in this little Gothic theater of hers. Maybe, a small opera or two.
I must show Vincent.
It had been several hours since she had heard his story in the dining room, though he had not been far from her thoughts.
Indeed, she had not planned to transform her theater that day, but the velvet had arrived unexpectedly.
Seeking distraction, she had set to work, making the theater wonderfully gloomy.
She, however, was not sure if she was supposed to feel glum or cheery.
The touch of his hand had cheered her. The way he had leaned down as if he meant to kiss her had thrilled her for a moment.
The sweet blow of his breath to remove an eyelash from her cheek had charmed her.
But the manner in which he had withdrawn had left her confused, and, perhaps, a little glum.
He is not interested in me in a romantic sense, she scolded herself. He was just blowing away an eyelash. There was never going to be any kiss.
Still, after his revelations about his father and his past, she felt like some of the distance between them had been removed.
Some of their misunderstandings, too. It was almost as if she had met him properly for the first time, not the character he showed the world, but the real Vincent behind it all.
“Yes, I must show him this. It is his residence too, after all,” she whispered decisively, rushing out like a giddy debutante attending her first society event.
She found him in his study, hunched over a stack of documents as tall as his head. She had not bothered to knock, and his slight glare told her all she needed to know about his opinion on that.
“Your tedious correspondence can wait,” she announced. “I have a masterpiece to show you.”
He replaced his quill in its holder, his fingertips lightly stained with ink. “I am busy, Beatrice.”
“Yes, well, you can be not busy for a moment,” she urged. “It will not take long. It is just down the hall.”
He frowned. “I have seen the theater room already.”
“No, Vincent, you have not.” She grinned, hastening toward him.
If he would not come with her willingly, then she would have to drag him. Either way, he would be spending the next five minutes, at least, admiring her eerie theater.
She grasped him by the hand, tugging with all of her might. “You will be so inspired that your correspondents will think you have been replaced with a poet. Now, come on, or I shall fetch the footmen to help me carry you out.”
With a bewildered sort of half-smile, he relented. “Have you been eating overripe apples, Miss Johnson? Should I check the bottles of port in the drawing room?”
“I am giddy with life , Wilds! I need no assistance,” she said, leading him out of the study and down the hall, her hand never loosening its grip on his.
At the threshold to the theater room, however, she skidded to a sharp halt. For him to receive the full effect of the new stage, he could not simply wander in. A theater deserved an entrance more dramatic than that.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
Vincent pulled a face. “I am not going to do that.”
“You must , Wilds. Close your eyes and trust me for a moment,” she said in earnest, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.
Maybe it was the mild madness in her eyes, maybe it was an act of generosity, maybe he was just eager to get it over with, but Vincent puffed out a breath and nodded. “Very well.” He closed his eyes. “If there are obstacles in there to trip me, I shall not be pleased.”
“I shall guide you with the utmost care,” she promised, as she opened the door and led him through.
Keeping tight hold of his hand, she stood flush against his side, stealing a sneaky glance up at him. He looked surprisingly serene with his eyes closed, his mouth slightly quirked in that same bewildered smile.
How handsome you are… She took a moment to admire his lips, absently wondering what it would be like to be kissed by them.
“Can I open them now?” he asked, his tone impatient.
“A few moments more,” she replied, snapping out of it.
Refusing to be distracted again, she focused on the spacious room and the neatly arranged rugs that marked out the ‘auditorium.’ There were no chairs as of yet, but that could be resolved when she had an actual audience.
Blushing as she touched Vincent’s side and the middle of his back, feeling the muscle ripple beneath his tailcoat, she positioned him in the center of where the audience would sit. She let her hand stay on his back a moment longer, as she assessed the view, needing it to be perfect.
“Wait just one more moment,” she urged, reluctantly letting go of him.
For the full effect, she needed the drapes to be closed, mimicking the darkness of true night.
Jittery with excitement, she hurried over to the windows, drew the curtains, and looked back once more.
The footlights were perfect against that sheen of black velvet, the mood gloriously spooky.
All she needed was Banquo’s ghost to appear on stage, and she would have collapsed with the joy of it.
“You can look,” she declared breathlessly.
But what if he hates it? She had not thought of that.
“Goodness…” was all he said, as he stood silhouetted by the hazy glow from the stage. Rather like an apparition himself. A very handsome, not at all unwelcome one.
She approached with caution. “Do you like it?”
“I… am not certain what I am looking at,” he replied with a stiff laugh. “It does not resemble any stage I have seen before.”
“Exactly!” she crowed, clapping her hands.
“This is to be the Crypt Theater. A place where the veil between worlds is thinnest, where the forces of good and evil wage war, where creatures of myth and legend are so close you could touch them, where you leave wondering if you have just spent a few hours in a different realm entirely.”
He glanced down at her, his eyes shining in the gloom. “Pardon?”
“You remember my séance?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, imagine that as a performance to astound and mystify,” she said eagerly, her excitement rising afresh. “Imagine if people could enter a different world, just for the length of a specially designed play. One where the audience is as much a part of the performance as the thespians.”
He looked mildly horrified, even in the dim light. “I think that would see us cast out of society as heretics and occultists. We would never be able to show our faces again.”
That did not sound so terrible to Beatrice, but she could see that Vincent needed a different kind of convincing. Indeed, for reasons she could not explain, she really wanted him to love this as much as her.
“Do you know what the most popular periodicals are?” she said bluntly.
He shook his head. “I have not the faintest idea.”
“They are stories that are controversial in society. They are stories that young ladies must stuff down the back of armchairs, so they are not found by prim parents,” she said, bursting with enthusiasm.
“They are stories of murderous brides and dreadful curses, swashbuckling captains and warrior damsels, secret lovers and deals with the devil. The young seek out what is thrilling, and the old cannot help but be curious, though they claim otherwise.”
For a time, Vincent stayed quiet, turning his attention back to the black velvet curtains and the sulfurous glow of the footlights. He tilted his head to one side, as if scrutinizing it. And the longer he took to give his opinion, the more Beatrice’s excitement became nerves instead.
“Beatrice, I must ask you a very serious question,” he said at last.
Her heart lurched. “Go on…”
“You are not a witch, are you?” He peered down at her. “This curse you claim to have with weddings; you did not place it on yourself, did you?”