And for some reason she didn’t want to discuss the big, gentle gardener with her sometimes devious brother. She glanced up at him. “Will you sup with us?”
His own look was swift and calculating, but he took her abrupt change of subject meekly enough.
“I’m sorry, no.” Edwin got up to pour himself more wine. “I have an appointment I must keep this evening.” He took another swallow of the wine and then turned one of his most charming smiles on her. “I came to see how the play is going.”
“Terribly.” She groaned and slumped in her chair. “I can’t think how I ever wrote dialogue before—it’s so wooden, Edwin! Perhaps I should burn it and start over.”
Usually this was the point at which her brother teased her out of her doubts, but he was oddly silent.
She straightened, looking at him.
He was grimacing into his wineglass. “As to that…”
“What is it?”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing really, but I promised to have the play done by next week. I have a buyer who wants to use it for a house party theatrical.”
“What?” She gasped, feeling her chest tighten. For a moment she wondered if the house party the play was intended for was the same one she herself was to act at, but then sheer panic swamped the thought. However was she to finish in a week?
Edwin grimaced, his mobile mouth stretching into a comical shape. “It’s just that I’ve had a bit of bad luck at cards lately. I need my portion of the play proceeds and this is a quick sale. Apparently the buyer had originally engaged Mimsford to write the play, but the old sod has fled London and his creditors.”
They’d made a bargain years ago, when Lily had started writing plays: Edwin would take the plays and sell the works under his name. He was both a man and a much better salesman than she. He knew how to float on the fringes of aristocratic society—something Lily had never wanted to do—and thus had myriad associates. Their arrangement had worked very well in the past. She and Edwin had made a tidy sum together. But now she was at the end of her resources and had begun to wonder if she should try selling her plays herself. Of course that wasn’t very fair to Edwin…
She shook her head, trying to think. “Whom do you owe, Edwin?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” He stood suddenly and tossed back the rest of the wine in the glass. “It’s insulting.” He glanced slyly at her. “And it reminds me of our dear mother.”
That sent a guilty chill down her spine. “But—”
He darted over and knelt in front of her chair, taking her hands. “Darling, it’s nothing to worry about, truly. Just finish the play, hmm? Quick as you can.” He squeezed her hands and bussed her cheek. “You know you’re the best. Far better than that hack Mimsford, and he’s had two smash hits in a row at the Royal.”
“But Edwin,” she said helplessly, “what if I can’t write that fast?”
She saw his eyes darken before he dropped his gaze. “Then I’ll have to find some other means of ready blunt. Perhaps Indio’s father—”
“No.” It was her turn to squeeze his hands. Her heart had begun to beat in terror against her rib cage. “Promise me you’ll not approach him, Edwin.”
“You must allow he’s very rich—”
“Promise.”
“Very well.” He made a discontented moue. “But I need to pay my creditors somehow.”
“I’ll finish the play,” she said, dropping his hands.
He looked up at her through his eyelashes. They really were quite long, she thought absently. They almost gave him an innocent demeanor.
Almost.
“By next week.” His voice was light, but no less hard for it.
“By next week,” she agreed.
“Splendid!” He kissed her again, on both cheeks, and rose to dance across the room, his good humor restored. “Thank you, darling. That’s a load off my mind. Now I really must dash. I’ll be back next week to pick up the manuscript, shall I?”
And he was out the door before she could say anything.
Lily stared stupidly at the door. However was she to finish her play in a week?