What He Doesn't Know

by Lisa Noeli

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

Her Secret Admirer Miss Josephine Shy is blessed with an exquisite soprano voice that no one outside her family circle will ever hear. As the daughter of a thoroughly respectable vicar, she cannot appear on stage. But when her rapscallion brother bankrolls a new musical theatre production and the famous star loses her voice, Josephine agrees to sing the part--behind a screen, of course. Soon all of London is humming the score of The Shepherdess--and its flock of live sheep are the sensation of the season! All the more reason for the music-loving Lord Daniel York to attend every performance. He is enthralled by the star's exquisite voice, if not her appearance. But when a wayward lamb knocks over the screen and Josephine is revealed at last in all her blushing glory, Lord York falls head over heels in love. . .

Release date: May 16, 2013

Publisher: Regency

Print pages: 224

Sample

“Do be careful, sir,” the stage manager whispered.

Nodding, Lord Daniel York tried to edge past an upended and amazingly round rump, encircled by a short, frilly skirt. He could not see the face of the rump’s owner, who was bent over a box of battered dance shoes and searching through them.

Lord York, being an observant man in a narrow place, noted that her pink knitted drawers sagged a little around the ankles and that she wore almost nothing above the waist, save a scrap of pink gauzy material, carelessly tied around her back. She also sported an enormous wig, which moths had found tasty. He could see the net cap that held the artificial hair in place.

In her haste she tossed several shoes out upon the floor, and he stumbled over one.

Tom patted her rump. “Move over, Molly. Ye’re blocking the way.”

She didn’t budge. Lord York looked around. There seemed to be no end to the backstage labyrinth and no other way out.

Molly continued to rummage through the box. “Can’t find me shoes, Tom.” She sent a few more flying right and left. “Oh, well. I shall have to pinch a pair from someone.” She straightened up and spied another pink-clad dancer, holding her shoes in one hand and sipping from an amber flask in the other.

“Naow, Molly,” the stage manager said in a warning tone. “Remember the sixth commandment. Thou shalt not pinch.”

“But Lucy won’t notice. There’s whiskey in that bottle, mark my words. She’s drunk.”

Readying for battle, Molly pulled up her knitted drawers as she stepped back, bumping into Lord York.

He pressed himself against the corridor wall as she threw him a coy look over her shoulder. “Hallo! Who’s this?”

“A distinguished visitor,” Tom said.

She wiggled her rump against Lord York and laughed. “Oo! How nice. We don’t get too many of those. You look lonely, sir. P’raps I can help.”

Lord York drew a deep breath, but he thought it best not to answer.

Molly turned around and let her body touch his again for a moment. He was not even remotely stirred. She eyed him curiously, adjusting her wig, which had slipped a bit. “Thanks ever so much, Tommy. I likes him.”

Tom took her by the arm to drag her away, none too gently. “Mind yer manners. He has an appointment with Mr. Shy.”

“Oh, right, the new slave driver. Not that anyfink has changed since Shy took over this poxy company. And when is he goin’ to pay us, hey?”

“When the new show earns a profit,” Tom said. “Now shut up, and act like a lady fer once.”

“I am always a lady,” she said indignantly, “in spite of hell.”

A pair of stagehands came through, carrying a long ladder between them and pieces of painted felt over their shoulders. Lord York took advantage of the interruption to move away from Molly and Tom. The heavy tread of the stagehands did not muffle the sound of other footsteps behind him, light and sure.

He turned around. There was no one there. Molly was barefoot and Tom Higgins was standing still. Was he being followed? Whoever it was had a knack for staying out of sight.

Tom gave Molly a severe look. “Say ye’re sorry. ’Tis right rude of ye to wiggle about in that wanton way and speak so forward to our distinguished visitor.”

She put her hands on her hips and pouted. “Beggin’ yer pardon, I’m sure. How was I to know his lordship prefers boys?”

“Molly, ye have gone too far!”

“Ow, shut yer gob. I was only joking. But I do want a rich man, Tom. Keep an eye out.” She favored Lord York with a gap-toothed smile. “The landlady at the boarding house is screamin’ for the rent, bangin’ on me door at all hours. I’m gettin’ circles under me eyes and losin’ me youthful bloom.”

Tom coughed in an exaggerated way.

“None of your sarcasm, Tommy Higgins. I don’t have a shilling to me name and I am in dire straits.”

“We all are,” he muttered.

The dancer wiped away a nonexistent tear and heaved a theatrical sigh, looking for sympathy from Lord York instead. “The bitch threatened to put me and Nippy—that’s me parrot—out on the street. I gave her a black eye, I did.”

“The gentleman ain’t interested in yer parrot.”

“Are ye sure?” Molly looked hopefully at Lord York. “He is a fine bird, sir.”

Tom steered her a little distance away and hissed in her ear. “He is here to see Mr. Shy, not buy a bloomin’ parrot!”

“Tell him we want our money!” Molly called. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She broke free of Tom’s grip, and Lord York watched her warily.

“Ye are really very handsome,” she said boldly, sidling closer. “Such long legs. And such a manly form. A noble sort o’ nose too. And beautiful eyes. A luv’ly head of hair. I love to run me fingers through a man’s hair and yers is nice and dark. And ever so silky.” She came closer still. “Are yer teeth real?”

“That’s enough!” Tom snapped.

She stuck out her tongue at the stage manager. “His lordship won’t give us a smile and he hasn’t said a word. I was curious, that’s all.”

She twirled a stray lock of her wig around one finger and batted her eyelashes. “Forgive me impertinence, sir. But I prefers natural choppers, especially in an older gentleman. Not that ye are old, of course.”

Lord York merely nodded, nonplussed by Molly’s unwelcome flirting and her odd questions. He kept his gaze fixed on her face, thinking that she had once been passably pretty.

Were she not wearing that moth-eaten wig, were her face not covered with thick white paint from her forehead to her chin and her blue eyes not bloodshot for God only knew what reason, she would be passably pretty still.

But working in the theater changed even the loveliest girls quickly, save for the few who became stars—and those fortunate ones glowed all too briefly. He felt a flash of pity for Molly.

Certainly she had missed her chance or perhaps had never had one at all. The hard expression on her face and the heavy stage makeup destroyed any illusion of beauty when seen so close. Still, Lord York managed a fractional smile.

“Behave yerself,” Tom growled. “The gentleman is a lover of the arts.”

“Fancy that. I do love a man who loves the arts.” She smirked at Lord York, whose smile vanished. He could think of no response, and said nothing.

“I would be happy to demonstrate my terpsichorean skills for him. Oo! Just thinking about it makes me shiver!” She clasped her upper arms with both hands and rubbed imaginary goose bumps, causing her barely clad bosom to jiggle.

Lord York could not help but look, though he found the sight curiously unexciting.

She laughed again, more rudely than before. “What did you say your name was, ducks?” Molly left off rubbing her arms and tugged at the waistband of her pink drawers again, hitching them up rather inelegantly.

“He didn’t say.” Tom scowled. “And I shan’t tell ye. Now cover up before ye catch cold, and be off.” He picked up a large, paint-spattered piece of felt that the passing stagehands had dropped and put it over her shoulders.

Molly flung it to the floor with the hauteur of a duchess—a deeply offended duchess. Then she turned up her nose and sauntered away. She stopped to talk to the other dancer, taking a long swig from the bottle Lucy offered before handing it back.

“Sorry, sir. Molly does put on airs, considerin’ she is only a nimp.”

“A what?” Lord York found his voice at last.

“A nimp. You know, a lady of the Greekian forest. All the rage with the bucks and the blades, the nimps are. And the sadders likewise.”

“The who?”

“The sadders—you know, the hairy blokes that chases the nimps.”

Understanding dawned and Lord York smiled. “Ah, yes. Nymphs and satyrs. Educated theatergoers will enjoy a classical touch, I am sure.”

Tom nodded. “Exactly. The nimps and sadders are all from the chorus and used to going about nearly naked.”

“I see,” said Lord York, a little stiffly. He had not been informed that his first venture into theatrical production would involve naked performers. He made a mental note not to send free tickets to his Methodist aunt. “And what do they do?”

“Oh, prance about,” Tom said cheerfully. “The nimps bang tambourines and make a racket in case the play caused anyone to fall asleep. Then the sadders chase them and try to pull their clothes off. It is a most edifyin’ spectacle.”

“Indeed.”

“The rehearsals commence today, sir. You can watch if you like.”

“Thank you. Perhaps I will. But I seem to remember that our proposed play had nothing to do with ancient Greece. Was it not set in a fashionable London drawing room?”

“It was, yes,” Tom said cautiously.

Lord York raised an eyebrow. “Where is it set now? Are there naked nimps—nymphs—in it?”

“Course not. They can never remember lines. Naow, the Drury Lane Company beat us to the drawing room, is all. They are offerin’ a sophisticated comedy of manners. Cupid and the Countess, I believe it is called. So we decided to cancel The Mistress of Mayfair and do The Shepherdess instead. It is a rustic love story.”

“I am not familiar with that play,” Lord York said.

“Hasn’t been written yet. Our dramatist is working on it. Would ye like to meet him?”

“Certainly.”

“We gave him an office upstairs. Makes him feel important and he can’t hurt anybody. Temperamental fellow, he is.”

Tom led Lord York down another corridor, and they climbed a spiral staircase to the next level. Lord York looked behind him. He had heard light footsteps again—he was sure of it. But there was no one there.

“Tell you what really sets him off—doin’ things over. He thinks every word he scribbles ought to be chiseled in white marble for eternity. He takes himself far too serious.”

“That may be all to the good, Higgins. Drama should be serious.”

Tom only shrugged. “It don’t sell tickets.”

“Is that the only consideration?”

The stage manager gave him a disbelieving look. “We must offer a full programme, sir. The public wants their pantomimes and dancing girls and Italian acrobats and mathematically gifted horses. That means a five-hour show.”

“Dear me. Where does it begin and how does it end?”

They had reached the top of the staircase and proceeded to a closed door. Tom rapped upon it. “With Hugh Newsome, our resident genius.” He opened the door.

“I heard that,” the dramatist grumbled. “If I am a genius, I am insufficiently appreciated.” He closed an old folio of plays and balanced a sheaf of paper on top of it, which immediately slid off and scatted over the floor. “Damnation! Everything and everyone is against me!”

“Calm yerself, Mr. Newsome,” Tom said patiently. “Is there anyfink I can get fer ye? A nice new pen? A secondhand dictionary? What does it take to make a writer happy?”

“Money,” Hugh retorted.

“Well, there’s precious little of that around,” Tom said. “This here is Lord Daniel York, by the way. He might be investing in this production and the theater.”

The dramatist’s expression brightened immediately.

“Sir, you appear to be a man of culture. I created a farce of matchless sophistication. Is it fair that it is removed from the bill simply because Drury Lane is offering something similar? Is it fair that I am asked to write a completely new play and compose love songs for country bumpkins whose greatest talent is herding sheep?”

“I cannot say,” Lord York murmured. It was clear that the dramatist was prone to hysterics. He had no wish to encourage him.

Hugh ran a pudgy hand through his hair, which was already standing on end. “I find it infuriating! There were seventeen enchanting new musical numbers in The Mistress of Mayfair and now I must start over! Did Tommy mention that I am a lyricist? I tell you, I am insufficiently appreciated!” He gestured wildly and knocked over a stack of books that had been haphazardly piled behind his chair.

Tom examined his dirty fingernails nonchalantly. “Aye, he is, sir.”

“Well then . . . to the tavern! Would you care to join me, Lord York? I find that yelling makes me thirsty.”

“Thank you but no.”

“I meant no offense, sir.”

“None taken. Pray continue, Mr. Newsome.”

The dramatist gave him an implorng look. “Could you ask Shy to increase my fee? I should not have to beg.”

Lord York nodded politely. “It is a reasonable request. I shall discuss the matter with him.”

“Thank you.” Newsome frowned.

“Mr. Shy was askin’ for the new pages, Hugh. The players need to start learnin’ their lines. Have you done ’em?”

“Yes, yes, It is easy enough to write for rustics. Not as though they talk in polished epigrams. But I am not bitter. No, I have bid adieu to my beautiful bon mots and wonderful witticisms.” Newsome gathered up the scribbled pages of the new play and thrust them at Tom. “These are the first two scenes, ready to go to the copyist. Please see that the original is returned to me, with a clean copy for my own use.”

“When will you finish?” Tom asked. “We all wants to know how it turns out. Mr. Shy said to tell you that he is agog with anticipation.”

“Agog, is he? Damn him! I will be finished when I am done!” Newsome bellowed.

“What?” Tom said, giving him a baffled look.

“I am waiting for in-spi-ra-tion,” the dramatist said through his teeth. “Not that a stage manager would know what that word means. You seem to think that I just crank it out.”

“But you do just crank it out, Hughie. Mr. Shy says that you go through pens and paper like they grows on trees.”

Newsome pounded the desk with a pudgy fist. “He has no respect for the creative artist! And don’t call me Hughie!”

“Mr. Shy did get the one and only Lizzie Loudermilk to sign on for The Shepherdess,” Tom pointed out. “She’ll make your songs sound twice as good as they are. All of London will be hummin’ yer catchy little ditties.”

“You are right about Lizzie, I suppose.”

Tom nodded. “I’m always right.”

“Miss Loudermilk is extraordinarily talented,” Lord York began, “and deservedly popular. But I must confess I did not quite understand what part she might play in an elegant farce.”

Hugh Newsome snorted. “Nor did I. But she is perfect for rustic comedy. She is six feet tall in stockings and has a voice that carries to the topmost gallery. Not to mention that ghastly red hair.”

“Don’t forget her gigantical bosom,” Tom said with a huge grin. “A very fine sight it is.” The thought made him sigh with admiration.

The dramatist picked up a quill and nibbled on it thoughtfully. “I must create a strapping blacksmith to play opposite her. A man of few words and great strength. Someone who will make her seem delicate and feminine.”

“Ah, ye’re missing the point. Lizzie is magnificent just as she is. Many men appreciate a queenly lady.”

“Well, they will have plenty of opportunity to appreciate Lizzie,” Hugh said. “She is o. . .