“And Tilde is—?”
“My wife.”
Russell’s brows shot up. “You are married?”
“Perhaps not in the strictest sense, but she has been by my side for as long as I can remember. No one has ever come between us.” Lars stopped in front of a closed door. His steely gray eyes had lost any semblance of friendliness. “The theatre is a gentleman’s playground. Have your fun, Mr. Hawke, but stay away from my woman.”
The actor knocked and tried to slip away, but Russell stepped into his path. “You have no need to worry about your wife. In return, I want you to stay away from Miss Bellerose. I saw the way you looked at her during rehearsal.” If any man lusted after one of Russell’s sisters in such a blatant manner, he would be wearing his face inside out.
A laugh burst from the other man. “That is called acting. I have no interest in Claudine. But if you play with her, I should be the least of your concerns.”
Russell supposed he was referring to the giant who followed her like a pup and obeyed every command she gave. As long as Russell remained in Miss Bellerose’s good graces, he would have no trouble from her man Benny.
The door jerked open, and Oliver Jonas glared at both of them. “What do you want?”
Lars gestured to Russell and sauntered away.
Russell took a deep breath to quiet the anger stirring to life inside of him. The man was impossible. “As I mentioned last night, I want access to your books.”
Jonas nodded sharply and moved aside so Russell could enter. “You can have a seat at the desk while I find what you want.”
Russell gawked at the piles of papers and books scattered around the room. How did the man find anything? He made his way to a massive oak desk that had been pushed up against the uncovered window. A crumpled cravat had been partially shoved between the chair and cushion, and he retrieved it. “When was the last time you had a maid and her duster in here?”
“Never.” Jonas kept digging through a cabinet wedged into a corner by the desk. “But I once knew an actress that liked dressing up as a maid.”
“Enough said.” Russell tossed the cravat onto the overloaded bookshelf before sitting.
Jonas dug out a tattered leather book. “I found the ledger, and I think I know where I put the contracts.”
He plopped his find in front of Russell, creating a small dust cloud. Russell shook his head in disbelief and flipped open the book. In less than five minutes, he concluded Jonas’s recordkeeping was as disorganized as his office.
“I uncovered some of the contracts,” Jonas said and slid them onto the desk. When he perched on the edge of the desk, Russell glanced up. The manager nibbled his fingernail, and his strong brows were raised as if he was waiting for Russell to answer a question that hadn’t been asked.
Russell set the pencil aside with diminishing patience. “Yes?”
“Your father said you have a good head for business. Do you really think you can save the theatre?”
The man looked so hopeful that Russell couldn’t admit that he didn’t know. Until he had a good picture of the financial situation, he was unable to say what was possible. He wanted to keep the Drayton open. “I will do my best.”
Jonas blew out a noisy breath and pushed from the desk. “Thank you.” He returned to searching through his piles.
Russell swiveled toward him on the chair, curious about what he’d said. “Did you speak with my father often?”
“A few times a year. He would call when he was in Town. He would ask about the theatre from time to time, but mostly he spoke about you and your sisters.”
“Whatever for?”
Jonas shrugged, keeping his back to Russell. “He was proud of you, I guess. That is what a man does, isn’t it? He brags about what makes him most proud.”
“I have never thought about it to be honest, but I suppose there is logic in that way of thinking.” When it was clear Jonas had nothing more to offer, Russell continued his assessment of the ledger.
They worked in silence for close to an hour with Jonas straightening his office, and Russell making notes of discrepancies he noticed. “There are seven players with rooms at the Drayton.”
“Mmm, hmm.”
“But you haven’t recorded any payments for the last six months. Did you record them elsewhere?”
Jonas stopped cleaning. “There were a few performances that weren’t well attended. I couldn’t ask them to give up a portion when they earned so little.”
Russell dropped the pencil on the open ledger. “Did they at least invest in the productions? Costumes? Props?”
“Eh...” The manager shoved his fingers through his nearly black hair. “I told them I didn’t require assistance.”
“But you did. Why would you tell them you don’t need their help?”
“I need them. Look at this place.” Jonas waved his hand in the air. “The good actors and actresses want to work in legitimate drama. I was fortunate to find the ones I have, and that was only because most of them knew my mother. Claudine brought Lars and Tilde, but I don’t expect they will stay after her play closes. If I demand the others pay or get out, they will leave.”
That was the most ridiculous argument he’d ever heard. Miss Bellerose told him the other players had nowhere else to go. “You are being duped, my friend. I will speak with them. From now on, their portion of the proceeds will be withheld to cover the cost of room and board in accordance with their contracts.”
“If you think that is best,” Jonas hedged.
Of course it was best. “You don’t see oysters giving up pearls without a struggle, do you?”
The manager blinked.
“Never mind.” His father had never understood the analogy either. Russell should probably find a new one. He consulted his notes then looked up. “Please tell me that you grow careless in the winter and stop keeping records.”
“We close for the winter.”
Russell groaned.
“Covent Garden and Drury Lane are the winter theatres. We are fortunate to be issued a burletta license for the summer,” Jonas said. “Some theatres are not. We try to earn enough in the spring and summer to help us through the rest of the year.”
“What is a burletta license?”
“Only Drury Lane and Covent Garden have royal patents, and it is easy for the theatres to have their dramatic plays licensed by the Lord Chamberlain. A burletta license allows the rest of us poor sods to perform as long as we add music or pantomime.”
“Egads. Don’t tell me Miss Bellerose’s performance is interrupted by someone breaking into song.”
“Claudine would never let me hear the end of it if I allowed it.” Jonas grinned. “We have our ways around the law, Mr. Hawke. Rachel plays the violin during set changes, and occasionally we use her talent to enhance a scene. She is especially good at chases.”
“We need to plan for winter.” Russell made a note on the paper. “Perhaps the theatre can be used for other purposes off-season. I might also have a connection that can assist with procuring a burletta license to perform in the winter. We need to think of an inexpensive act to draw in the commoners. They are your bread and butter in the winter. Perhaps Miss Bellerose has some thoughts on the matter.”
He continued jotting words as ideas came to him. Eventually, the manager cleared his throat.
“Rehearsal will begin soon. Will you be staying much longer?”
“Perhaps another hour.” Russell waved him off. “Go see to your play. It needs to be brilliant if we hope to store enough nuts for winter.”
“Splendid. Now I have you to please as well as Claudine. All of her hopes are pinned on her play being a success.”
Russell smiled and closed the ledger. “Miss Bellerose is brave to present her work. She has already succeeded in my eyes.”
Jonas scoffed. “Only her eyes matter. And if you are here to play like Lars suggested, leave Claudine alone. She has suffered enough. It is time she saw a bit of happiness.”
>
“What happened to her?”
“It is her story but don’t expect her to tell it to you.” Jonas snatched his jacket from an extra chair and shoved his arm in the sleeve. “She is private when it comes to her personal life. I have known her for years, and she hasn’t told me everything.”
“Lars is wrong about me,” Russell said. “I am not here for a dalliance. I have never been that type of gentleman.”
“I know.” Jonas reached his office door. “Your father talked about you a lot.”
As he opened the door, a racket started in the corridor.
“Oliver! Come quickly. It’s Lars.”
Russell jumped up and followed him. The young girl from below stairs hurried toward Jonas. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“What is it, Jane? What happened?”
“I don’t know. He was just standing and talking one moment, and the next he started complaining of feeling dizzy. He tried to make it back to his room, but he tripped and hit his head.”
“Faith!” Jonas pushed past Jane and dashed for the stairwell.
“He’s bleeding,” she wailed. “I think he’s dying.”
Russell put his arm around her shoulders like he would to comfort one of his sisters. She was just a girl, most likely Juliana’s age. “There, there. Cuts on the head often look worse than they are. Did someone go for the doctor?” He handed his handkerchief to her, and she wiped her eyes.
“Yes, sir. Benny was out the door in a flash.”
“Well, once you’ve collected yourself, we will join the others downstairs. I’m sure we will find Lars alive, and the bleeding has probably stopped by now.”
She nodded and sniffled.
Below stairs, the women were crowded around the open door leading to Lars and Tilde’s room. Russell peeked over their heads and discovered Lars was awake and lying on his bed with Tilde perched on the side of the mattress. Jonas was standing at the ready with his hands clasped behind his back, although there wasn’t anything he could do. Tilde held a cloth to her lover’s forehead and murmured to him in German. Blood had soaked through the linen square, but as Russell had predicted, he no longer appeared to be bleeding. His glassy eyes, however, concerned him.
“How far away is the doctor?” he asked.
“He is here now.” Russell turned toward the sound of Miss Bellerose’s voice and spotted her walking down the corridor with an older gray-haired man at her side.
Russell gently herded the women away from the doorway. “Let’s make room for the doctor.”
The man ducked into the room without acknowledging anyone and closed the door. Miss Bellerose frowned. “How are we supposed to know what is wrong?”
“Allow me to translate.” The red head Russell had met earlier pressed her ear to the door. “He is asking how he fell. Tilde thinks he hasn’t been eating enough. Lars doesn’t remember what happened, and Oliver just said he’d been dizzy and tried to make it to his bed, but he tripped.” Her forehead furrowed, and she pulled away from the door. “The doctor said the bump on his head looks bad.”
The door flew open, and Jonas stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He drew Claudine away from the others and spoke to her in a hushed voice. “Take the women to the auditorium. We’re behind schedule as it is, and I want everyone ready for rehearsal when I join you.”
“How is Lars?”
Jonas shook his head. “The doctor needs to complete his exam. We will know more soon. Thank you for seeing to the others.”
“Of course.”
The manager patted her shoulder. “Don’t fret over Lars. We will figure something out.”
“If he can’t go on stage, you know what that means.”
Jonas blanched.
Russell eased back in case the man tossed up his accounts, which certainly seemed possible when he turned green around the gills.
“Maybe he will be all right,” Jonas said in a weak voice. “Let’s hope for the best.”
If the leading man couldn’t perform, finding another actor this close to opening night would be next to impossible, and Russell would be damned if the play closed now. He’d already sent word to his solicitor that he wasn’t ready to sell the Drayton. He would look like a fool if this venture failed. More importantly, however, he couldn’t bear the thought of Miss Bellerose being disappointed.
RESISTING ROMEO
CHAPTER SIX
Claudine felt jittery inside as she led the company into the auditorium. Oliver hated being on stage, but she saw no alternative if Lars couldn’t perform. They would have to find a way for him to overcome his nerves for the good of the company, but she didn’t want to dwell on it now.
“Let’s go on stage, so you can demonstrate what Miss Darlington taught you yesterday,” she said to the women.
Benny and the owner had followed them to the auditorium and claimed spots on the front row while everyone else headed for the stage stairs.
Russell Hawke’s presence did nothing to calm her nerves. She hadn’t quite sorted out the man’s character. Scoundrels tended to stick together, and Mr. Fletcher, the owner’s friend, was undeniably a man of questionable honor. On the other hand, Mr. Hawke seemed to have a conscience. It had been within his rights to evict Oliver and the company, but he had given Oliver another chance to purchase the theatre. Too bad the manager was too stubborn to accept.
She couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Hawke would have agreed to extend the offer again if Oliver had gone to speak with him instead. At six and twenty, Claudine had experience with men desiring her, and the way Mr. Hawke had ogled her outside the hotel told her that he found her attractive. Normally, she wouldn’t be concerned about discouraging him, but he held the fate of the theatre in his hands.
When she stole a glance at him in the front row, he flashed a smile. Her heart skipped and heat flooded over her, forcing her to face the truth. She was attracted to him, too.
Focusing her attention on her fellow actresses, she asked, “Who wants to be first?”
The women took turns showing her how to punch, block, and evade capture if a man leapt out of the shadows.
“Miss Darlington was a splendid teacher,” Rachel said, “but I don’t see how a woman is supposed to flip a man to the ground if he attacks from behind. Won’t he be too heavy?”
Claudine smiled, recalling she had asked a similar question of Regina. “You don’t actually lift him. You throw off his balance. Size can work in your favor. The bigger the man, the harder it will be for him to catch himself, especially if he doesn’t have use of his hands. Let me show you.”
She waved for Anastasia to come forward for a demonstration. Claudine chose her, because she was nearly twice Claudine’s height. Anastasia often stood in for one of the male parts in shows simply because she was tall. A bit of make-up, padding, and a hat could hide her beauty well enough to make it somewhat believable, if she didn’t have many lines.
“I want you to grab me from behind,” Claudine said. Anastasia’s blond eyebrows shot up on her forehead. “I promise not to take you to the ground. I only want to show everyone the steps again.”
“Would you like an actual man for the demonstration?” Mr. Hawke called from the floor.
A delicious shiver ran through her at the thought of him touching her. “That isn’t necessary, sir. Ana will work well enough for our purpose.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” the actress said.
Rachel raised her hand as if Claudine had asked to take a count. “I would like to see Mr. Hawke stand in. I would feel more confident if I can see it is possible with a real man.”
The others agreed.
He was already climbing the stage stairs, and she couldn’t think of a valid excuse to refuse his assistance. Her body tingled in places she really wished it wouldn’t, as his long legs carried him across the stage with a stride that was deliberate, yet unhurried. When he stopped in front of her, a broad smile spread across his face and revealed a dimple in his left cheek. “
I am at your service.”
“You may take my place,” Anastasia said and rejoined the group.
Mr. Hawke claimed Anastasia’s spot on stage. “Did I hear correctly that I am to grab you from behind, Miss Bellerose?”
“Yes, Mr. Hawke,” she said, adding in French, “and you better not enjoy it.”
He laughed. “I promise to despise every moment.”
She flinched, having forgotten he could understand her.
“I told you I studied French,” he said. “I also know German, Portuguese, and Spanish. Can you speak with an American accent? I barely understand a word they say. That would be a safe bet if you want to insult me without me becoming the wiser.”
He winked and the other women giggled.
“I wasn’t insulting you,” she said for the benefit of her fellow actresses. If Mr. Hawke closed the theatre after all, she didn’t want to be blamed.
“No, you didn’t, Miss Bellerose. I simply was offering you options in case you want to abuse me in the future.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Merci.”
She only knew French and English, and a few German words Tilde had taught her. Growing up, her father had always spoken French to her. He’d never stopped missing his native land, but as he’d often reminded himself, there was nothing left for them in France. Claudine was an infant when her father fled their home with her. When she was old enough to understand, Papa told her about the unrest in France and the rumor that he was to be called before the Tribunal. He said Maximilien Robespierre used the trials as an excuse to execute his political opposition, and Papa had been vocal in his commendation of the violence.
She and her father had arrived safely in England, but a distant cousin turned them away. Papa had always said he left everything behind except his most precious treasure. Sometimes he would pretend he couldn’t remember what it was and ask her to guess. She knew he was teasing about having forgotten, because at night, he would tuck her in bed and whisper, “Mon trésor.” Claudine had always felt fortunate that he loved her as he did.
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