Two Hearts Read online

  Two Hearts

  Barbara Miller

  Dedication

  For my Writing Popular Fiction students at Seton Hill University. I have learned something from each one of them.

  Chapter One

  London, May 1812

  Miss Grace Montrose looked out from her private box at the crimson curtains and gold trappings of the Pantheon Theater. She was savoring once again the final act of Blackwell’s Revenge unaccompanied except by her cousin Maria who snored gently in the corner. Grace had been thinking that she had a nearly perfect life. She rose when she wanted, cantered her mare in the park at the crack of dawn, breakfasted or not as she pleased, accepted only the invitations she knew would not bore her and stayed up all night reading novels when she felt like it. In short she was not married and she liked it that way.

  Suddenly Sir Felix Uttermeyer invaded her box without invitation and seated himself alarmingly close to her.

  “You should not be alone, my dear.”

  “And you should not be here, sir.”

  “You looked like you were in need of company.”

  “I neither need nor want company. I wish to hear the play.”

  He ignored her and whispered a criticism of the acting over the lines of the players. She tried feigning deafness and he merely spoke louder, his full lips blubbering together in a fishlike manner and producing an audible hiss from Lord Morewood’s box to their left. She tried shushing Uttermeyer but the finger to her lips must have conveyed some other meaning to him for he drew his chair toward her and she was forced to whack his hand with her fan breaking one of the ivory sticks in the process and provoking a wicked chuckle from him. She wondered if anyone would notice much if she knocked him into the pit. They were on the first tier and above the noise of it, she did not think anyone would be injured much except perhaps Uttermeyer who deserved it.

  The man laughed at her outrage but that was a mistake. Angry footsteps came around the partition from the next box and Lord Morewood grabbed the slighter man by the neckcloth ordering him with no more than a nod toward the exit to vacate the box. Uttermeyer slipped around the edge of the wall and was gone.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Morewood murmured in an undervoice. “This is not the first time there has been a disturbance in your box.”

  She drew herself up straight. “Not of my making.”

  “Are you implying you have no control over what happens in your own theater box?”

  Grace felt her lips purse and her ire rising. “In a perfect world I would have control but this one is inhabited by men.”

  His bark of laughter surprised her and his eyes sparkled with merriment now not anger. She inhaled and perceived the fumes of heavy drink. The man must be half foxed.

  “I had thought to tip him into the orchestra which would at least have seemed like an accident.”

  “Whereas my interference will cause remark.” His lips curved up into a sardonic smile. “Point taken.”

  “Nevertheless, thank you for your intervention.”

  Grace nodded and Morewood bowed gravely with that tight smile of his.

  When he left her, she began to revise her opinion of him. She had heard he was passionate about the theater but she had no idea he was so militant. It felt good to know someone shared her seriousness even if he was an irredeemable rake with brandy on his breath. Of course the gossips would make much more of his invasion of her theater box than Uttermeyer’s foppish presence but she did not care. She would merely tell them that Morewood had been dispatching a rat which was close to the truth. She was a spinster by choice and men like Uttermeyer should respect that.

  She looked to where her companion, Maria Gravely, slept in the corner. Her slight snores were so familiar a sound they did nothing to disturb the pleasure of hearing one last time the lines of the play she knew almost by heart.

  Over the past ten years she had suffered a proposal from almost every bachelor in London. She leaned forward and peeked around the partition at Morewood who was nodding at the words so expertly delivered by Robert Carstairs who played Blackwell. A confirmed bachelor himself, Morewood had never proposed to her. In fact he had never much more than glanced at her, accepting her for what she was in an offhanded way that made her like him all the more. She looked at him again, amused that he was devoid of female companionship tonight and that his complete attention was on the stage. His blond hair shone in the candlelight and his face was sun-bronzed. He was a noted sportsman, hunting three counties from his estate in Warwickshire yet he kept a presence in London during Parliament. One of his feet was propped up on the rail of the box and she could see a length of muscular thigh.

  If she ever were to marry, though she had no intention of doing so, she would chose just such a man, one who would serve his purpose, then leave her to her own devices while he went about his business. Grace gave her head a shake. Where had that thought come from? Of course she would never marry. What possible need was there? She had plenty of money, a house in Manchester Square and invitations to as many country house parties as she would like during the off season. Failing that, there was her brother’s estate in Yorkshire.

  She thought about Wallace, Ellen his wife and the now five nieces and nephews she could count as family. She always proclaimed them to be growing like weeds. They did, Wallace said, when one saw them only once a year. He thought she was unhappy in London but always managed to drive her back to Town with his ill-concealed attempts to marry her to one of his hunting cronies. He could not understand that she was living the life of which she had always dreamed.

  But the presence of Morewood, leaning back in his chair, running a hand through that long golden hair and nodding at the best lines somehow gave her a slight discontent, an inkling that there might be more to life than a constant round of visits and balls, more even than the theater if only she would have let there be. She pictured sitting next to him, having him reach across and take her hand, perhaps even put his arm around her. Grace gave herself up to the happy daydream that there were only inches between her and Morewood rather than feet.

  She started and sat up straight when the applause began. Mechanically she rose to her feet and joined in the ovation feeling foolish for missing the end of the last act by brooding on Morewood.

  “Is it over?” Maria asked with a sigh.

  “All but the curtain calls. A spectacular run, almost three weeks.”

  “Do you think you will make your investment back?”

  “I do not care. You know that.” Grace gathered up her wrap and waited for Maria to find her reticule.

  “If you do not recoup your outlay for the costumes then this is an expensive box Mr. Stone puts at your disposal.”

  “It is my only privilege for advising him and being his patroness. The sets, the costumes we helped design were perfect, don’t you think?”

  “Yes but it is over. When does the next play open?” her companion asked as they made their way down the stairs, their progress impeded by the crush of people heading for their carriages.

  “They will do a week or so of Twelfth Night while we finish getting the new sets and costumes ready, then have a day or two of rest before William Marlowe’s next play opens.”

  “My poor fingers will be sore from all the sewing.”

  Grace looked fondly at her slight companion. “You need not help.”

  “If the truth be told I enjoy the excitement of it. It gives me a goal in life. Even if no one in London knows that we have anything to do with the plays.”

  “Be careful where you say that. Society would take a dim view of me being so actively involved in supporting the theater.”

  “A more useful occupation than gossip and morning visits.” Maria yawned.

  They reache
d the front portico to discover that a light rain was falling and waited near the back wall for their carriage to appear. Grace would have walked down the long line of vehicles waiting but she could not spot her carriage and did not want Maria taking a chill. She leaned against the marble wall away from the spatter of rain and closed her eyes to inhale the rich earth scents drifting their way from Hyde Park. How she missed the country in springtime. She had been thinking about buying a country house of her own, just a small one to retreat to when London became a trial. Having a garden to tend might alleviate her boredom. Boredom? So that’s what was bothering her. She did not usually feel so worn until the end of the season. So much for her perfect life.

  “Tom is late,” Maria complained.

  “Don’t chide him when he comes. He was probably waiting in line and took the horses for a turn so they were not standing so long.”

  Though Grace made do with the lightest of capes, the older woman wore a full cloak and wrapped it more securely about her angular frame even though the breeze was almost balmy. Grace regarded her with amusement. Maria was like an old cat, used to its comfort and secure of its place. If she remembered right she was a fourth cousin of Ellen’s who would no doubt have had to earn her keep by plying her needle if Wallace had not unearthed her to act as Grace’s companion when she insisted on taking possession of the townhouse her parents had left her. So she wasn’t even Grace’s cousin. Wallace had not approved but he could not legally stop her. Now Maria was as much a part of her life as her brother had ever been. And she could be just as acerbic.

  “He’s probably drinking at an alehouse.”

  “Oh, I think he must have misjudged the time. If he is much longer, we will get one of the footmen to call us a hack.”

  “Everyone is gone but the gentlemen still visiting the green room. I can hear them laughing at Dame Devlin’s jests.”

  Grace looked about her to discover that Maria was right. There were only a few stragglers making their way to the last of the carriages and a single man standing at the other end of the portico probably waiting for the rain to subside. She thought from his build it might be Lord Morewood. “Very well. I shall—”

  “Yer purse, m’lady,” a wheezy voice barked at her elbow making her jump into Maria. “Now or your life.”

  Grace raised her hand to ward off a possible blow and the cutpurse slashed at the strings of her reticule, yanking it out of her grasp and giving her a sharp pain in her hand. Maria fainted and sank to the marble floor. Grace bent to her friend but looked up at the knife blade in fascination as the thief snatched at Maria’s reticule, cutting its strings with a single swipe. She found herself thinking she might die right here but it never occurred to her to scream. She just stared at the man taking in his filthy clothes and the blank dark stare he gave her. She felt her heart quicken. At least this is real.

  A shadow intervened between them and the torchlight. The man who had been waiting out the rain grabbed the thief and rammed his head against the wall.

  “Yours, I believe,” the man said as he handed Grace her purse and Maria’s.

  She gaped at him. It was Morewood. There was such a contrast between the two men. His eyes were intense and deep, glittering blue even in the uncertain light. “Again, I thank you,” she said without rising. Her kneeling position put her on a level with his thighs and other endowments. Her heart hammered even faster and she felt herself blushing at her own brazen glance.

  “Don’t mention it.” He looked up as someone opened the door. “Here!” he said, calling to the prop men who had come to lock up. “Two of you tie this fellow up and send for the watch. We can’t have ladies accosted in the entryway.”

  Grace had started to fan Maria. Though her color was good her companion was unresponsive.

  “You live in Manchester Square,” Morewood said.

  “Yes, our coachman should have been here.”

  “Yes, he should have but then he is a man.”

  Grace noted the amusement in his tone and was about to defend Tom when Morewood stooped and picked up her companion as though she were a child. He carried the still limp Maria toward an ebony carriage with buff panels that had just pulled up.

  “But what are you doing?” Grace trailed after him, feeling the situation slipping from her control and not liking it. The rain pattered against her face and she threw her hood up as they approached the carriage.

  Morewood did not answer her until he laid Maria on the carriage seat and stepped down again. “Conveying her home. You mean to go with her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course but—” Grace clutched their bags nervously, not liking the slimy feel of them after they had been in the hands of the footpad.

  “But only if I am not in the carriage,” he guessed. “No matter. They can come back for me.”

  “I am not afraid of you.” Grace stepped forward and felt his warm touch guiding her elbow as she entered the carriage and slid to the left side of the remaining seat.

  “Very well then. James, Manchester square. The stone house on the corner.”

  Lord Morewood climbed in and filled the rest of the space. Since Maria occupied all of one seat, Grace found herself thigh to thigh with Morewood and she did not flinch from him since she had asserted she did not fear him. In fact he exuded a comforting warmth. No. Not comforting so much as stirring, a vibration in the air between them.

  But beyond a glance at her he was acting the perfect gentleman. “Does your companion have a habit of fainting?”

  “No. Never but we have never been robbed before.”

  “You should not be out alone at night.”

  It was the kind of thing a brother would say and it irritated her. “I said our coach was to be waiting. Something must have prevented it.”

  “Good thing you had the sense to hand over your purse. The fellow would have had no compunction about killing you both.”

  “I realize that. I did thank you for saving us. But he would have got no more than a handkerchief and a paper of pins from me.”

  “Oh, that is smart. Not a guinea to your name if you had to hire a hack.”

  “Of course I have money. I simply do not carry it in my reticule.”

  A flash of light from a torch they passed gave her a glimpse of his face, capturing a quizzical look. “Where do you carry it?”

  “In my—none of your business.”

  “Oh, there,” he concluded. “That is like to get you killed too.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him but decided she did not want to continue this line of conversation. “It was a wonderful performance tonight.”

  He hesitated but finally accepted the change of lead like an ill-trained horse. “Yes, a shame to end it just when the actors finally have it right.” He leaned back in the seat. “But it’s always better to leave the crowd wanting more than to play to a half-full house.”

  “I quite agree but I had no idea you took such an interest in the production side of the theater.”

  His head twitched in her direction, then he glanced out the window. “There is little else of interest in London. Why are you at the Pantheon for every performance?”

  “It’s difficult to take it all in with a single sitting and these lines by William Marlowe seem to speak to me in a special way. I should dearly like to meet him. Have you ever encountered him?”

  Morewood hesitated again and she wondered why.

  “You’d be disappointed,” he said with a tone that suggested regret.

  “I should like to judge that for myself. Will you introduce me to him?”

  He coughed. “Why?”

  His drawl sounded bored but he was pretending. She could tell.

  “There are one or two questions I want to put to him.”

  “About what?”

  He sat up straight, pulling at the silk of her gown with the movement and starting that fluttering of expectation in her stomach.

  “The play of course. Why did he decide to make this one a traged
y, when his comedy The Grass Widow had been so successful?”

  “You don’t like Blackwell’s Revenge?”

  “Of course I like it but he was taking a bit of a risk. People were expecting another comedy.” She waited patiently and he finally turned to her, his mouth grave as deep thought carved two lines between his eyebrows. “I think he is stretching his wings, seeing what he can do.”

  “Had you that from Marlowe himself?”

  “Yes. No. It is obvious.”

  “Obvious to you but—”

  “I believe we have arrived at your house.” Morewood hopped out and took Grace’s hand as she descended. Then he stepped back in to pick up Maria.

  She should be worrying about her companion and here she was admiring how the muscles flexed in his thigh when he stepped down with his burden.

  Grace preceded him up the steps and produced a key from her inside pocket through a placket in her dress. He seemed amazed that she opened her own front door.

  “Have you no servants?” Morewood asked as he carried Maria inside.

  “None that I want waiting up for us. Would I be imposing to ask you to carry her upstairs?”

  “Lead on, McDuff.”

  Grace picked up a candle and lighted the way to her cousin’s second-floor bedroom, then put holder on the night stand and stripped back the covers before Morewood laid Maria down.

  “Should we not send for a doctor?” he asked. “She might—”

  Suddenly he grabbed Grace’s left hand and held it up to inspect it. “You did not tell me you had been cut,” he said with something like pain in his voice.

  “I have not. Oh, I see you are right. I thought it was just the strings of my reticule cutting into my hand.” No wonder the purse had felt greasy. Grace looked down at the darker splashes on the ruin of her midnight blue silk, then toward the dressing table but saw nothing convenient to use as a bandage.

  “There is blood all down the side of your gown,” he said in amazement.

  “Oh dear and probably all over your coach as well.”

  “Damn the coach!” Morewood said, his expression changing from surprise to impatience and then tenderness as he produced a large pocket handkerchief and bound the cut on the palm of her hand as though he did such things all the time. She watched in fascination as he gently tied the bandage in place wondering herself how she could not have felt the wound. Perhaps the excitement of the moment. Indeed she did not feel it now except for a fluttering in her stomach and she doubted that loss of blood had anything to do with that.