Playing To Win

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Sera said petulantly. “What about a fencing master who can act?”

“Who do you think they are?” Armand pointed to the men on the stage, who shrugged and waited.

“The villain hasn’t many lines. Hire an actor for the count, and a fencing master for the villain, to make the count look good.”

“I suppose it’s worth a try. You two, wait here for me. Come back to the dressing rooms, Sera. There’s someone I want you to meet.” He led her to the cramped dressing rooms under the stage, which always seemed to her like the cabins on a sailing ship.

A handsome young man with hazel eyes looked up from a script he was studying.

“Count DeVries!” Sera said.

“If you think so, then we had better hire him.”

“Albert Brel,” said the man, with the faintest trace of an accent.

“This is Miss Serafina Barclay, one of my...patrons, but that is to be kept in the strictest confidence.”

“Of course,” said Brel, seeming surprised to be trusted with this secret.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” Sera seated herself and listened to Brel read a scene. He needed some work, but the script was new to him, and he would sound ever so much better onstage, rather than in the cramped dressing room. Sera approved Travesian’s choice on the spot and went contentedly home, feeling the morning had been well spent.

* * *

“And what are you studying today, child?” Barclay asked as he entered his library. The foolishly fond smile that he reserved for his only child masked an acute business mind, but matched his lack of adroitness when it came to women.

“Just the papers. Not much going on just now. Shall we go out to Gott Farm for a week?”

“I must have been neglecting you, if you are that bored with town.” Barclay pulled his waistcoat down over his slight paunch, and Sera smiled at this new habit of her father’s.

“I am never bored.”

“But you scarcely go out, except to the libraries or galleries.”

“Nonsense. I go to the theater several times a week.”

“Always to the Agora—the same play.”

“Travesian does it so nicely, though—I never tire of it. Wait until he tells you about next season’s production,” she teased. “I have asked him to dine with us Sunday.”

“I’m almost sorry I ever invited him here.”

“That’s not true. You find him entertaining, too.”

“As Henry VIII, not always as a dinner guest.”

“But he can enliven the dullest party.”

“Precisely!” Her father began pacing, hands behind his back. “You should not be throwing dull dinner parties for me. You should be going to balls and routs and whatever those other things are.” He fluttered an impatient hand. “You should be meeting people your own age.”

“But I do go to balls and parties with Lady Jane, and I meet a great many people my own age.”

“You do?”

“You know it is insulting of you to be so transparent, Father, dear. You are leading up to something. I can tell. And it must be disagreeable, or you wouldn’t be at it so long.”

“I do underestimate you. I hope what I have in mind will not be disagreeable. A dinner party for some...friends of mine.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? You know I love to entertain your friends. Who is it? Mr. Southey, or Lord Grenville perhaps?”

“No...no, I don’t think that would do,” Barclay said after a moment’s thought. “Why did you—?”

“There are one or two questions I would like to ask them.”

“I thought so. Just such a dull evening as I have been complaining of. No, this will be Lord and Lady Cairnbrooke—and their son, Anthony, to make up even numbers. Lady Jane will be here.”

“Oh.” Sera feigned surprise. “Who else?”

“No one else,” her father said innocently.

“Perhaps I will ask Armand,” she teased, then took pity on him when she saw his terrified look. “Come now, Father, let us leave off with this jousting. This is one of Lady Jane’s arrangements, isn’t it?”

“Well, she did suggest the meeting—and the whole point of her taking you about is to find you a suitable husband.”

“Yes, I know, and poor Cairnbrooke is probably still so weak from his wound he can’t evade the trap.”

“I’m quite sure he comes willingly.”

“Which is why his parents are bringing him, his mother for moral support, while his father holds the gun to his head.”

“It is not like that at all, I assure you.”

Sera sent him one of her penetrating looks.

“All right, I suppose that is a pretty accurate picture, but do you mind so much?”

Sera chuckled. “You are incorrigible. Is there nothing you won’t do to get rid of me?”

“This time it will be different. He’s not marrying for money, but to put a stop to all this talk about him and the Vonnes. It is an excellent family. You will have a title. I have spoken to his father...that is...” Barclay had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Just how far have the arrangements gone?”

“What do you mean? The details of the meal I—”

“I mean, have you only drafted the marriage settlements, or has his mother already written the announcement for The Post?”

“Well,” he said with a paternal smile, “the first is pretty well taken care of, not the second—not to my knowledge, anyway.”

“I suppose I have to marry someday. I just always assumed it would be another dull banker or lawyer, not such a romantic figure as Cairnbrooke.”