Imogen's eyes flared at that. Miss Pythian-Adams was jilted when Draven Maitland trotted off to the altar with Imogen.
"I doubt she will wish to be in my company," she pointed out.
"To the contrary," Rafe said cheerfully, "she has told all and sundry that she considers herself to have escaped a terrible fate. Not," he added, "that her opinion of Maitland is in the least derogatory to his memory." He was feeling altogether better now. Even his head had stopped throbbing.
"You—" Imogen said, and stopped.
"Quite right," Griselda said, patting her hand. "Some people have to wait for reform until the next world, my dear, and I expect Rafe is one of them."
"From what I've heard of the next world," Imogen said, "it might not be displeasing enough to effect a reform. Although"—she bared her teeth in some semblance of a smile—"by every account I've heard, Heaven is a remarkably abstemious location. Given the undoubted state of your liver, you will find yourself there sooner rather than later."
"I will blend into my surroundings," Rafe said helpfully. "Since I gave up alcohol this morning."
"You did what?"
Rafe felt a pulse of annoyance. He shrugged. "There's nothing so unusual about it. You rarely drink, for example."
"Are you giving up whiskey in emulation of me?" Imogen shot him a look of pure scorn.
"Just think how much I look forward to our growing similarities. I do hope that abstemiousness doesn't make me bad-tempered."
She glared at him.
"Or"—he shuddered delicately—"cause me to throw my moral scruples to the wind."
"I doubt that will happen," Griselda said, buttering a final piece of toast. "In my experience, people who reform become remarkably keen to replace sin with respectability. I expect you will marry within a year."
At that, Imogen grinned. "A life entirely of pleasure to be reformed into one of virtue. How very glad I am that Papa chose you as our guardian, Rafe. It will be so edifying to watch your transformation."
But Rafe wasn't going to be drawn by her again. "Griselda, if you are quite done with that marmalade, may I have some?"
"I never eat marmalade," Griselda said absently. "It's not at all good for the waist."
"In that case," Rafe said, "you might as well give me the toast you are holding as well."
"If Miss Pythian-Adams has accepted your invitation," Griselda said, keeping a firm grasp on her toast, "we shall need to arrange a house party in order to cover over the oddness of it all."
"It's a matter of semantics. Theatrical parties are all the rage. An old friend of mine from school, Yates, is quite obsessed with them and wrote me a remarkably tedious letter about some performance of Lovers' Vow. We have a house party already, with the two of you. I'll ask Mayne to join us, if you wish."
"Mayne," Griselda scoffed. "It would be better if Tess joined us. Oh, but she's traveling on the Continent, isn't she? Well, perhaps Lady Finster or Mrs. Claiborne. Or Lady Olney. I know that she is quite enthralled by amateur theatricals. I could ask Mrs. Thurmon. Perhaps…" Her eyes lit up. "Lady Blechschmidt."
Imogen scowled at that. "I thought you and Lady Blechschmidt were no longer speaking. We never did ascertain why she was at Grillon's Hotel in the middle of the night, you know."
"Never make the mistake of confusing reputation with unsuitable behavior, my dear," Griselda said. "Lady Blechschmidt was certainly at Grillon's at an un-savory hour, but since no one knows of it but us, and we told no one, she and I are still the best of friends. More to the point, her reputation is unimpeachable. I shall write to her immediately."
"I think we should wait," Rafe said. "The preparations for my mother's plays used to take weeks. Lady Blechschmidt would hamper us, and it's not as if anyone would wish to see her marching about the stage. Why don't we invite people once we are almost ready for the performance?"
"Am I to understand that you will be taking a lead part?" Griselda asked.
Rafe opened his mouth to say no, but Gabe jumped in. "Yes, he will," he said. "He will play the male lead."
"Like h—" Rafe said and caught his brother's eye. "Oh for goodness sake," he said, "I suppose I will play a role, but does it have to be the lead, Gabe? Why don't you play the lead?"
"If you've given up whiskey, I suppose you'll be able to remember your lines," Imogen said cheerfully.
"That's enough to make a man drown himself in a barrel of malmsey like the old Duke of Clarence," Rafe said. "That and playing Benedict to your Beatrice."
"Mr. Spenser," Imogen said, leaning forward so that the world could see straight down inside her neckline. "What part will you play?"
"The villain," Rafe put in. "Gabe is playing the villain, aren't you?"
"I hadn't thought to play a part myself," Gabe said reluctantly.
"You are the villain," Rafe said firmly. "You shall have to swirl a black cape and affix a mustache to your upper lip."
Gabe opened his mouth and then shut it again after a look from Rafe. Rafe would be damned if he was going to be jockeyed into having a role in a play—when he hadn't the faintest ambition to tread the boards—and let his brother off scot-free.
"When does your young actress join us?" Griselda asked. She clearly had some reluctance to find herself in such company. "And do you think that you ought to hire some other professional actors?"
"Not that we're worried about Rafe playing a convincing romantic hero," Imogen said, more than a touch of doubt in her voice.
Rafe glared at her.
"Miss Hawes will join us just before our performance is ready," Gabe said. "As a professional, she will quickly grasp her part. We will inform her of the play beforehand."
"I think that would be best," Griselda said. "Much though I appreciate the kindness of Mr. Spenser's gesture—although I do think it is overly kind given the situation—I have no particular wish to dine with a woman of that profession."
"You're turning into a regular stuffy Jane," Rafe told her. "Be careful: you'll get your comeuppance by falling in love with an actor."
Griselda didn't bother to respond.
Chapter 10
Misery
Rafe was throwing up again. Imogen could hear him all the way down the corridor. She couldn't sleep. Of course, he deserved all the discomfort he got, but still…
Finally she got up and walked out of her room and down the hallway. It was the dead of night, and Hol-brook Court was as quiet as a tomb.
Imogen stopped outside his door. He was retching again and again. He'd probably curse at her if she entered the room.
Naturally, she entered the room.
"Damn you!" he roared. "Get out!"
"At least you're not naked," she said. He had a towel around his waist, but he was an odd gray-green color, covered with sweat, and shivering. "Do you think you've taken a chill?"
"Out," Rafe said, bending over. "Get. Out. Do you hear me?"