Chapter Four

T he backstage area hummed with post-performance elation and frenetic energy. Actors bustled about, their voices carrying snippets of hushed conversations, while others divested themselves of their extravagant costumes, chatting and reliving the evening’s performance. The room was ripe with the fragrance of greasepaint and the distant echoes of the orchestra still playing their instruments, bidding farewell to the attendees with a graceful ode to Handel.

Amid the normal post-play chaos, Thatcher stood like a solitary figure in the middle of a storm. His dark, unruly hair framed his brooding countenance, and his eyes, the color of a riotous sea, were fixed intently on the wooden dressing table before him. The table was cluttered with scattered scripts, half-empty inkwells, and an assortment of quills, each waiting to etch his genius onto parchment.

His attire was a somber ensemble of a dark velvet coat and waistcoat to match his mood, he belatedly noted with some irony, as his fingers danced lightly across a crumpled page, attempting to coax inspiration from the depths of his mind. He was a man driven by the relentless pursuit of his art, an artist who had elevated the London stage to new heights through sheer determination to succeed.

Tonight, he had succeeded in excess.

The atmosphere backstage shifted abruptly, like a tempest gale sweeping through the room, extinguishing the frenzied voices and quelling the restless energy. Thatcher’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in a mixture of awe and disbelief.

A lady had arrived.

Thatcher’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the vision before him.

“Lady Carlotta Castlebury,” he heard someone whisper from behind, sounding awestruck.

With her hair cascading in golden waves down her tall and statuesque form, she moved with a regal poise that demanded recognition. His attention. And oh, did she possess it.

As he stupidly stared on, her azure eyes blazed with an inner fire, and her lips, soft and beguiling, thinned and set in a determined line. She was a force of nature, this woman. Her entrance sent ripples through the backstage milieu. Actors paused in their preparations, stagehands exchanged knowing glances, and the air itself seemed to quiver with sudden anticipation. The theatre was no stranger to drama, but this unexpected intrusion promised a spectacle of an entirely different kind. Why, she practically shot sparks!

Hot, beguiling, luminous sparks.

Oh, shut up, you bloody cockled poet. Sometimes he annoyed the shite out of himself. Nobody wanted his gushing linguistic nonsense. Not even him.

As Lady Lottie’s gaze locked on to Thatcher, a charged silence enveloped the room. He felt an undeniable magnetic pull, a tumultuous mixture of attraction and apprehension, leaving him momentarily breathless. “Lady Lottie,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a blend of awe and disbelief as their worlds collided.

He felt it. The shift. The tilt. The clicking of cogs into place.

Nothing would be the same.

Thatcher just knew it.

Ah, hell.

Lady Lottie’s blue eyes blazed with a fury rivaling the most fearsome of storms as she confronted him amidst the backstage chaos. Her presence seemed to suck the air from the room, leaving his chest tight and wheezing. He prided himself on his poise and eloquence, but found himself struggling to maintain his composure. Shifting his weight uneasily, he darted his eyes about restlessly as he searched for the right words to counter her coming (and utterly true) accusations.

“What on earth are you doing here, Lady Lottie?” he finally managed to say, though his voice lacked the confident resonance that typically accompanied his words.

Her lips curled into a sneer, and her gaze bored into him like she was a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “I should think it’s quite evident, Mr. Goodrich. I’ve come to confront the thief who stole my play!”

Thatcher’s brows knitted together, and he glanced around, making sure none of the actors or crew members were eavesdropping on their heated exchange, his stomach clenching at her words. Everyone seemed quite focused on their tasks. Which, of course, meant they were listening. “Lower your voice, Lady Lottie. We’re in the midst of cleaning up after the performance, and these esteemed talents require silence as they settle themselves after such exertion and effort.”

Lottie clenched her fists at her sides, her frustration palpable. “I don’t care about your precious silence, Mr. Goodrich. I care about the play you shamelessly claimed as your own just now!”

He sighed, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Lady Lottie, I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Though he did. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

This lady was the owner of the journal.

The playwright was a lady.

This lady.

Thatcher’s palms went damp, and he swallowed hard. Such brilliant talent inside her mind! A mind wrapped in the most alluring package. What was he to do?

“Don’t play the innocent with me, sir. The play you performed tonight, the one you proudly declared as your creation, is mine. ” The lady’s voice dripped with disdain.

Thatcher widened his eyes in feigned surprise, and he was momentarily at a loss for words. “That’s preposterous. I wrote this play myself.”

He watched her anger flare in fascination, noting the beautiful flush it brought to her skin, and she took an aggressive step closer to him. “You must think me a fool, Mr. Goodrich. I recognize my own words, my own characters. I even recognized my own quotes in some of the revisions.”

Thatcher ran a hand through his hair. “This is absurd, Lady Lottie. I can’t explain how you might believe such a thing, but I can assure you that this play is entirely my own work.”

He had to figure a way out of this—and fast.

*

“Now, you hold it right there,” Mr. Goodrich began.

“No, you hold it,” Lottie cut in, uncaring that their heated exchange had not gone unnoticed, and the actors and crew nearby had fallen into a hushed silence, casting furtive glances at the dramatic confrontation unfolding before them.

Lottie’s voice quivered with a mixture of anger and desperation as she stared down the unbelievable man. “I have no reason to lie, Mr. Goodrich. That play is my creation, and you’ve stolen it!”

Thatcher’s eyes flickered with a range of emotions—defiance, guilt, and a hint of vulnerability. He leaned in closer, his voice a low, intense murmur. “Lady Lottie, even if what you say is true, what proof do you have? You’re a woman. How can you convince anyone that you’re the true author of this play?”

Lottie met his gaze, her resolve unyielding, fury a hot ball in her stomach. “I’ll find a way, Mr. Goodrich. I’ll fight to reclaim what’s rightfully mine. And you, sir, will answer for your theft.”

As their confrontation reached its peak, the backstage area at Rhodes Theatre crackled with tension. Lottie’s cheeks flushed with righteous anger. Her blue eyes, usually so serene, blazed with intensity. “You thief!” she accused. “You stole my play, and you dare to take credit for it! The arrogance! How dare you?”

Thatcher clenched his jaw. “I did no such thing, Lady Lottie. I am an esteemed playwright. Why would I need to steal your work?”

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because your own well of creativity has run dry?”

Thatcher went very pale. “You know nothing,” he finally snapped.

Exchanging barbs and accusations, they didn’t hear Rainville, the Duke of Somerton and the theatre’s owner, enter the scene, his imposing presence commanding attention. He surveyed the situation with a raised bronzed eyebrow, a master of control and diplomacy. “Lady Lottie, Mr. Goodrich, I must insist on decorum backstage,” he declared, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. “We’ve guests still in attendance.”

Lottie shot a glare at Thatcher before turning her attention to Rainville. “Look, I beg your pardon, but this man has stolen my play. I cannot stand idly by while he reaps the rewards of my hard labor!”

Thatcher’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “ Your play, Lady Lottie? I have never seen any evidence of your involvement in this production.”

“It is from my missing journal,” she practically growled, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

Rainville’s expression remained impassive as he listened to their conflicting claims. “I suggest we address this matter calmly and rationally, rather than resorting to a public spectacle. The reputation of Rhodes Theatre is at stake.”

Lottie took a deep breath, her anger simmering beneath the surface. “Very well, Duke. But mark my words, Mr. Goodrich, I will prove your theft.”

The bloody thief met her challenge with a defiant glint in his unfairly gorgeous, smoke-colored eyes. “I welcome any investigation, Lady Lottie. The truth will prevail.”

Their confrontation may have been temporarily defused, but the tension lingered between them, like a smoldering ember. Lottie’s voice, though still seething with anger, took on a measured tone. “Mr. Goodrich, you may have fooled the world, but you haven’t fooled me. I recognized my own words, my own ideas, on that stage.”

His unreadable gaze bored into hers, his voice low and challenging. “And how, Lady Lottie, do you explain the fact that you’ve never shared your play with anyone? No one in the theatre knew of its existence.”

“Because I guard my work fiercely, fearing that someone might steal it. Yet, somehow, you managed to do just that.”

Rainville remained a silent, watchful presence. His keen eyes darted between the two of them, adversaries of the first order. Clearly he was assessing the situation. For he knew that the reputation of Rhodes Theatre was at stake, and he couldn’t afford a scandal. Not with Nora’s own scandal so recent in the past.

“Lottie,” he finally interjected, “I understand your concerns, but let us not jump to conclusions. Accusations alone do not constitute proof.”

Lottie’s cheeks flushed with a mixture of frustration and indignation. Oh, she had proof. How about she quote every damned line from memory? “I have been working on that play for months. I know every word, every nuance. I assure you, that play on the stage is mine.”

Thatcher’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Then, Lady Lottie, you must be an exceptionally talented playwright to have created a work that so closely resembles my own style.”

“I won’t stand for this, Mr. Goodrich! I will find the evidence to prove your theft.”

He met her challenge with an easy smile. “Feel free to try, Lady Lottie. But I assure you, the truth is on my side.”

Rainville, ever the diplomat, spoke with authority. “This matter will be addressed privately. For now, we have an encore performance to deliver. Lady Lottie, Mr. Goodrich, I trust that you can set aside your differences for the sake of the theatre.”

Lottie’s spine cracked with stiffness, but she nodded in reluctant agreement. Thatcher, too, gave a curt nod. Rainville’s piercing gold gaze swept over the assembled actors and crew members, effectively silencing the whispers that had spread like wildfire in the wake of Lottie’s confrontation of their esteemed playwright.

Thatcher stood there in his bloody dark, brooding clothes, his dark gray eyes glinting with defiance. Fortunately for him, he appeared to have the wisdom not to challenge the duke’s authority. After all, Rainville was not just the theatre owner; he was a peer of the realm, and his word was law in his domain.

Lottie, though visibly seething, was equally aware of the situation’s delicacy. She had always admired Rainville for his astute management of the theatre, and she knew that this was not the time or place for a prolonged argument. As much as she wanted it to be.

“Ladies and gentlemen, actors and stagehands, we put on a grand performance,” Rainville boomed. “The success of this play is paramount for Rhodes, and I will not tolerate any further disruptions that may tarnish our reputation. Now, get out there with that encore.”

A collective nod of understanding rippled through the room. The actors and crew members knew better than to defy the duke’s wishes, especially on an opening night.

But Rainville wasn’t finished. With a discerning look, he turned his gaze back to them. “Lady Lottie, Mr. Goodrich, I trust you both understand the gravity of your roles this night. The spotlight is on Rhodes, and the eyes of London’s theatre elite are upon us. Stop your squabbling.”

Lottie swallowed her pride and replied with forced civility, “Of course, Your Grace. The show must go on.”

Thatcher, clearly a master of masking his true emotions, offered a polite nod of agreement. “Indeed, Your Grace. We shall not allow personal matters to overshadow the encore performance.”

Rainville’s stern countenance softened slightly. “Very well, then. Let us proceed with the final preparations. And remember, we are a family here at Rhodes Theatre. We support one another, even in moments of disagreement.” With that, the duke exited the backstage area, leaving behind a trail of lingering tension and unresolved issues. Lottie exchanged one last, heated glance with Thatcher before she too turned her attention to the upcoming encore, curious despite herself. That, she hadn’t written.

The backstage chaos resumed, albeit with a subtle undercurrent of curiosity about the lingering conflict. Actors hurriedly reapplied makeup, adjusted costumes, and ran through their lines. Crew members scurried about, ensuring that the set was in perfect order.

Thatcher, despite his awfulness, was a consummate professional. In fact, he was one hell of an actor himself.

He pretended she didn’t exist at all.

When all was finally finished, Rainville reappeared. “Follow me now.”

Lottie didn’t need to be told twice.