Apollo’s eyes narrowed. “Why today?”
“Didn’t you know?” Montgomery had that look of amusement that Apollo was beginning to loathe. “Additional guests arrived late last night.”
And he threw open the door to the breakfast room, revealing Edwin Stump, his mouth full of toast.
But it wasn’t Edwin that Apollo stared at. There were two other people in the room—a rather plain but gentle-faced lady and, beside her, a big man with an olive complexion, a scowl twisting his features. He had one green eye and one blue.
Beside him Montgomery went very still before whispering, in a tone of delight, like a little boy offered a huge bag of sweets, “Oh, how utterly wonderful!”
LILY WATCHED FROM a chair later that morning as Stanford struck a pose and declaimed, “ ‘An’ if ever I see my daughter in such a position again, mark me well, gentlemen, I shall’… er…”
He sneaked a glance at Lily, who didn’t have to refer to the pages in her hand. After all, she’d written A Wastrel Reform’d. “ ‘Disembowel the deceiver,’ ” she said, supplying the rest of the line.
“ ‘Disembowel the deceiver.’ ‘Disembowel the deceiver,’ ” Stanford muttered to himself before nodding and resuming his pose. “ ‘I shall disembowel the deceiver so that ne’er again may he so deceive again.’ ”
Lily winced. It wasn’t exactly her best line, but then she’d written the second half of the play in only one week. Her first play had taken a year to write.
Of course, she’d burned it after that.
“Darlings!”
She turned at the voice and stared, hardly believing her eyes. Edwin stood in the doorway, arms thrown wide, in a new sky-blue satin suit, apparently expecting his usual welcome.
Well, and she supposed he had cause to. Moll and the other actresses rushed to him, Moll cooing over him. Stanford and John approached more slowly, but they were equally admiring in their own way.
Ridiculous to pout. No one but her and her brother knew that she was the real playwright.
“Robin, sweetheart,” Edwin called, strutting toward her.
Lily repressed the urge to roll her eyes at him. He was always careful to call her by her stage name in the company of others, even when all the other actors knew quite well what her real name was.
She submitted to a buss on her cheek and then smiled sweetly at him. “Might I have a moment of your time, brother dear?”
“Naturally.” He glanced about to let the other actors know what a doting older brother he was.
“Alone.”
The first inkling that something might not be right seemed to seep into his eyes. “Erm… certainly.”
She rose, set down the pages, and led him into the small antechamber, closing the door quite firmly behind them.
“What—?” he began, but she cut him off quite satisfyingly with a slap across his face.
“Lily!” His eyes were wide and hurt, his hand to the side of his face.
She set her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ‘Lily’ me, Edwin Stump!”
“I don’t understand,” he tried.
So she slapped him again. “You set the soldiers on Apollo. They might’ve taken him to Bedlam—or hanged him. All because you were miffed that he’d thrown you out of the theater.”
“I wasn’t miffed,” he said, drawing himself up and straightening his white wig, which had become rather askew. “I was worried about your safety.”
“My safety?” She knew her mouth was agape, but she just couldn’t help it. Edwin could be such a prize ass sometimes—and what was worse, he seemed to be under the delusion that she was a simpleton. “Are you insane?”
“No, but he is.” Edwin backed up a step. “A deranged killer! Everyone has heard.”
“He is not a deranged killer,” she said very, very softly as she crowded Edwin into a corner of the room. “And you know it quite well. You’re being spiteful—and you’re hurting me.”