Harriet turned to him with breathless delight. “Oh, you will love being Lord Finstead. He used to be very handsome.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Used to be?”
“There was a fire,” Harriet explained, her brief sentence ending with the kind of sad sigh Daniel assumed was normally reserved for victims of actual fires.
“Wait a moment,” he said, turning to Miss Wynter with growing alarm. “The fire doesn’t occur on stage, does it?”
“Oh, no,” Harriet answered for her. “Lord Finstead is already gravely disfigured when the play opens.” And then, in a burst of prudence that was both reassuring and surprising, she added, “It would be far too dangerous to have a fire on stage.”
“Well, that’s—”
“Besides,” Harriet cut in, “it would be hardly necessary to help you with your character. You’re already . . .” She motioned to her own face with her hand, waving it in a bit of a circle.
He had no idea what she was doing.
“Your bruises,” Frances said in a very loud whisper.
“Ah, yes,” Daniel said. “Yes, of course. Sadly, I do know a bit about facial disfigurement at present.”
“At least you won’t need any makeup,” Elizabeth said.
Daniel was thanking God for small favors, but then Harriet said, “Well, except for the wart.”
Daniel’s gratitude was swiftly retracted. “Harriet,” he said, looking her in the eye as he would an adult, “I really must tell you, I have never been a thespian.”
Harriet waved this off like a gnat. “That is what is so wonderful about my plays. Anyone can enjoy himself.”
“I don’t know,” Frances said. “I did not like being that frog. My legs hurt the next day.”
“Perhaps we should choose The Marsh of the Frogs,” Miss Wynter said innocently. “Bottle green is all the rage in men’s clothing this year. Surely Lord Winstead will have something in his wardrobe in the color.”
“I am not playing a frog.” His eyes narrowed wickedly. “Unless you do, too.”
“There is only one frog in the play,” Harriet said blithely.
“But isn’t the title The Marsh of the Frogs?” he asked, even though he should have known better. “Plural?” Good Lord, the entire conversation was making him dizzy.
“That’s the irony,” Harriet said, and Daniel managed to stop himself just before he asked her what she meant by that (because it fulfilled no definition of irony he’d ever heard).
His brain hurt.
“I think it would be best for Cousin Daniel to read the play for himself,” Harriet said. She looked over at him. “I’ll fetch the pages right after breakfast. You can read it while we do our geography and maths.”
He had a feeling he’d rather do geography and maths. And he didn’t even like geography. Or maths.
“I’ll have to think up a new name for Lord Finstead,” Harriet continued. “If I don’t, everyone will assume he is really you, Daniel. Which of course he’s not. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off, quite possibly for dramatic effect.
“Unless what?” he asked, even though he was fairly certain he did not want to hear her answer.
“Well, you’ve never ridden a stallion backwards, have you?”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Surely he would be forgiven for such a deficit, because, really. A stallion? Backwards?
“Daniel?” Elizabeth prodded.
“No,” he finally managed to say. “No, I have not.”
Harriet shook her head regretfully. “I didn’t think so.”
And Daniel was left feeling as if he somehow did not measure up. Which was ludicrous. And galling. “I’m fairly certain,” he said, “that there is not a man on this planet who can ride a stallion backwards.”
“Well, that depends, I would think,” said Miss Wynter.
Daniel couldn’t believe she was encouraging this. “I can’t imagine on what.”
One of her hands did a little flip in the air until the palm was facing up, as if waiting for an answer to drop down from heaven. “Is the man sitting backwards on the horse, or is the horse actually moving in reverse?”
“Both,” Harriet replied.
“Well, then I don’t think it can be done,” Miss Wynter replied, and Daniel almost thought she was taking the conversation seriously. At the last moment she turned away, and he saw the telltale tightening at the corners of her mouth as she tried not to laugh. She was poking fun at him, the wretch.
Oh, but she had chosen the wrong opponent. He was a man with five sisters. She didn’t stand a chance.
He turned to Harriet. “What role will Miss Wynter be playing?” he asked.
“Oh, I won’t be taking a role,” Miss Wynter cut in. “I never do.”
“And why is that?”
“I supervise.”
“I can supervise,” Frances said.
“Oh, no, you can’t,” Elizabeth said, with the speed and vehemence of a true older sister.
“If anyone is going to supervise, it ought to be me,” Harriet said. “I wrote the play.”
Daniel rested one elbow on the table, then rested his chin in his hand and regarded Miss Wynter with carefully studied thoughtfulness, maintaining this position for just long enough to make her shift nervously in her seat. Finally, unable to take his perusal any longer, she burst out with, “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing, really,” he sighed. “I was just thinking that I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”
The three Pleinsworth daughters let out identical gasps, and their eyes, wide as dinner plates, darted back and forth from Daniel to Miss Wynter, as if they were following a tennis match.
Which he supposed they were of a sort. And it was definitely Miss Wynter’s turn to volley.
“It is not cowardice,” she returned. “Lady Pleinsworth hired me to shepherd these three young girls to adulthood so that they may join the company of educated women.” And while Daniel was trying to follow that overblown bit of nonsense, she added, “I am merely doing the job for which my services were engaged.”
The three pairs of eyes lingered on Miss Wynter for one more second, then lobbed over to Daniel.
“A noble endeavor to be sure,” he countered, “but surely their learning can only be improved by watching your fine example.”
And the eyes were back on Miss Wynter.
“Ah,” she said, and he was quite certain she was stalling for time, “but in my many years as a governess, I have learned that my talents do not lie in thespian pursuits. I would not wish to pollute their minds with such a sad talent as myself.”
“Your thespian talents could hardly be worse than mine.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That is perhaps true, but you are not their governess.”
His eyes narrowed. “That is certainly true, but hardly relevant.”
“Au contraire,” she said, with noticeable relish. “As their male cousin, you are not expected to set an example of ladylike behavior.”
He leaned forward. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
She smiled. Maybe a little bit. “Very much so.”
“I think this might be better than Harriet’s play,” Frances said, her eyes following her sisters’ back to Daniel.
“I’m writing it down,” Harriet said.
Daniel looked over at her. He couldn’t help it. He knew for a fact that the only utensil she was holding was a fork.
“Well, I’m committing it to memory so that I might write it down at a future time,” she admitted.
Daniel turned back to Miss Wynter. She looked terribly correct, sitting in her chair with her perfect posture. Her dark hair was pulled back into its requisite bun, every strand pinned meticulously into place. There was nothing about her that was remotely out of the ordinary, and yet . . .
She was radiant.
To his eye, at least. Probably to every male eye in England. If Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances couldn’t see it, it was because they were, well,
girls. And young ones at that, who wouldn’t know to view her as a rival. Unfettered by jealousy or prejudice, they saw her the way he rather thought she wanted to be seen—loyal, intelligent, with a fierce and clever wit.
And pretty, of course. It was the strangest thing, and he had no idea where the notion had come from, but he had a feeling that Miss Wynter liked being pretty as much as she hated being beautiful.
And he found her all the more fascinating for it.
“Tell me, Miss Wynter,” he finally said, choosing his words with measured deliberation, “have you ever tried to act in one of Harriet’s plays?”
Her lips pressed together. She’d been cornered by a yes-or-no question, and she was not happy about it. “No,” she finally replied.
“Don’t you think it’s time?”
“Not really, no.”
He settled his eyes firmly on hers. “If I’m in the play, you’re in the play.”
“It would be helpful,” Harriet said. “There are twenty characters, Miss Wynter, and without you, we’d each have to play five.”
“If you join in,” Frances added, “we’ll only have to do four each.”
“Which,” Elizabeth concluded triumphantly, “is a twenty percent reduction!”
Daniel still had his chin resting in his hand, so he tilted his head ever so slightly to give the impression of increased consideration. “No compliments for the excellent application of their mathematical skills, Miss Wynter?”
She looked about ready to boil, not that he could blame her with everyone conspiring against her. But the governess within her was quite unable to resist pointing out, “I told you that you would find it useful to be able to do sums and tables in your heads.”
Harriet’s eyes grew bright with excitement. “Then that means you’ll join us?”
Daniel wasn’t certain how she’d reached that interpretation, but he wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass by, so he immediately threw in his support with, “Well done, Miss Wynter. We all must occasionally venture outside our areas of comfort. I’m so terribly proud of you.”
The look she gave him clearly said, I will eviscerate you, you pompous wretch. But of course she could never utter such a thing in front of the children, which meant that he could watch happily as she seethed.
Checkmate!
“Miss Wynter, I think you should be the evil queen,” Harriet said.
“There’s an evil queen?” Daniel echoed. With obvious delight.
“Of course,” Harriet replied. “Every good play has an evil queen.”
Frances actually raised her hand. “And a un—”
“Don’t say it,” Elizabeth growled.
Frances crossed her eyes, put her knife to her forehead in an approximation of a horn, and neighed.
“It is settled, then,” Harriet said decisively. “Daniel shall be Lord Finstead”—she held up a restraining hand—“who won’t be Lord Finstead but rather some other name which I will think of later; Miss Wynter shall be the evil queen, Elizabeth will be . . .” She narrowed her eyes and regarded her sister, who regarded her back with outright suspicion.
“Elizabeth will be the beautiful princess,” Harriet finally announced, much to the amazement of Elizabeth.
“What about me?” Frances asked.
“The butler,” Harriet replied without even a second of hesitation.
Frances’s mouth immediately opened to protest.
“No, no,” Harriet said. “It’s the best role, I promise. You get to do everything.”
“Except be a unicorn,” Daniel murmured.
Frances tilted her head to the side with a resigned expression.
“The next play,” Harriet finally gave in. “I shall find a way to include a unicorn in the one I’m working on right now.”
Frances pumped both fists in the air. “Huzzah!”
“But only if you stop talking about unicorns right now.”
“I second the motion,” Elizabeth said, to no one in particular.
“Very well,” Frances acceded. “No more unicorns. At least not where you can hear me.”
Harriet and Elizabeth both looked as if they might argue, but Miss Wynter interceded, saying, “I think that’s more than fair. You can hardly stop her from talking about them entirely.”
“Then it’s settled,” Harriet said. “We shall work out the smaller roles later.”
“What about you?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Oh, I’m going to be the goddess of the sun and moon.”
“The tale gets stranger and stranger,” Daniel said.
“Just wait until act seven,” Miss Wynter told him.
“Seven?” His head snapped up. “There are seven acts?”
“Twelve,” Harriet corrected, “but don’t worry, you’re in only eleven of them. Now then, Miss Wynter, when do you propose that we begin our rehearsals? And may we do so out of doors? There is a clearing by the gazebo that would be ideal.”
Miss Wynter turned to Daniel for confirmation. He just shrugged and said, “Harriet is the playwright.”
She nodded and turned back to the girls. “I was going to say that we may start after the rest of our lessons, but given that there are twelve acts to get through, I am granting a one-day holiday from geography and maths.”
There was a rousing cheer from the girls, and even Daniel felt swept along in the general joy. “Well,” he said to Miss Wynter, “it’s not every day one gets to be strange and sad.”
“Or evil.”
He chuckled. “Or evil.” Then he got a thought. A strange, sad thought. “I don’t die at the end, do I?”
She shook her head.
“That’s a relief, I must say. I make a terrible corpse.”
She laughed at that, or rather, she held her lips together firmly while she tried not to laugh. The girls were chattering madly as they took their final bites of breakfast and fled the room, and then he was left sitting next to Miss Wynter, just the two of them and their plates of breakfast, the warm morning sun filtering upon them through the windows.
“I wonder,” he said aloud, “do we get to be wicked?”
Her fork clattered against her plate. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sad, strange, and evil are all very well and good, but I’d like to be wicked. Wouldn’t you?”
Her lips parted, and he heard the tiny airy rush of her gasp. The sound tickled his skin, made him want to kiss her.
But everything seemed to make him want to kiss her. He felt like a young man again, perpetually randy, except that this was far more specific. Back at university he’d flirted with every woman he’d met, stealing kisses or, more to the point, accepting them when they’d been offered freely.
This was different. He didn’t want a woman. He wanted her. And he supposed that if he had to spend the afternoon being strange, sad, and disfigured just to be in her company, it would be well worth it.
Then he remembered the wart.
He turned to Miss Wynter and said firmly, “I am not getting a wart.”
Really, a man had to draw the line somewhere.
Chapter Eleven
Six hours later, as Anne adjusted the black sash that was meant to denote her as the evil queen, she had to admit that she could not recall a more enjoyable afternoon.
Ludicrous, yes; completely without academic value, absolutely. But still, completely and utterly enjoyable.
She had had fun.
Fun. She couldn’t remember the last time.
They had been rehearsing all day (not that they planned to actually perform The Strange, Sad Tragedy of the Lord Who Was Not Finstead in front of an audience), and she could not begin to count the number of times she had had to stop, doubled over with laughter.
“Thou shalt never smite my daughter!” she intoned, waving a stick through the air.
Elizabeth ducked.
“Oh!” Anne winced. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth assured her. “I—”
>
“Miss Wynter, you’re breaking character again!” Harriet bemoaned.
“I almost hit Elizabeth,” Anne explained.
“I don’t care.”
Elizabeth exhaled in a puff of indignation. “I care.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t use a stick,” Frances said.
Harriet spared her sister a disdainful glance before turning back to the rest of them. “May we return to the script?” she said in a voice so prim it spun right into sarcasm.
“Of course,” Anne said, looking down at her script. “Where were we? Oh, yes, don’t smite my daughter and all that.”
“Miss Wynter.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t saying the line. I was just finding it.” She cleared her throat and waved her stick in the air, giving Elizabeth wide berth. “Thou shalt never smite my daughter!”
How she managed that without laughing she would never know.
“I don’t want to smite her,” Lord Winstead said, with enough drama to make a Drury Lane audience weep. “I want to marry her.”
“Never.”
“No, no, no, Miss Wynter!” Harriet exclaimed. “You don’t sound upset at all.”
“Well, I’m not,” Anne admitted. “The daughter is a bit of a ninny. I should think the evil queen would be glad to get her off her hands.”
Harriet sighed the sigh of the very-long-suffering. “Be that as it may, the evil queen doesn’t think her daughter is a ninny.”
“I think she’s a ninny,” Elizabeth chimed in.
“But you are the daughter,” Harriet said.
“I know! I’ve been reading her lines all day. She’s an idiot.”
As they bickered, Lord Winstead moved closer to Anne and said, “I do feel a bit of a lecherous old man, trying to marry Elizabeth.”
She chuckled.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider swapping roles.”
“With you?”
He scowled. “With Elizabeth.”
“After you said I made a perfect evil queen? I think not.”
He leaned a little closer. “Not to split hairs, but I believe I said you made a perfectly evil queen.”
“Oh, yes. That is so much better.” Anne frowned. “Have you seen Frances?”