to give Mrs. Spaulding pause for thought. The play would surely have struck her as appropriate fare for Damon Bathory. Even better would have been Richard Mansfield performing his virtuoso _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,_ but that talented thespian had left New York to tour.
Then he caught sight of the marquee of the 13th Street Theater. It offered the perfect choice, the very production of _The Duchess of Calabria_ he'd read about in Mrs. Spaulding's column on Monday. Blood and terror. Revenge and death. A fitting end to Damon Bathory's stay in the city. And it would have the added advantage of making Mrs. Spaulding squirm.
To force her to sit in the audience after printing such scandalous gossip about the performers seemed to Ben a fitting punishment for her sins. She had not enjoyed the production the first time. She would hate having to endure it again.
He affected not to notice when she was seated off to his right, an arrangement that enabled him to keep an eye on her during the performance. She spent a good deal of time scribbling in her notebook, as she had during his reading. He wondered why. It seemed a waste of print to attack the same play twice, but he supposed there was much she could still say about it if she chose.
The story had a number of difficulties, not the least of which was an adaptation that would have had the play's original 17th century author rolling over in his grave. The production was also severely marred by the fact that the leading lady kept losing her voice. It was obvious to Ben, if not to the others in the audience, that the Duchess suffered from a heavy cold. It would have been better -- for those who heard her as well as for her own health -- if she had allowed her understudy to go on.
Unfortunately for Ben, Mrs. Spaulding's earlier commentary had been unerringly accurate. Indeed, he now thought she'd gone easy on the actors. He suffered through to the end, but not without consequences. The sulfurous fumes from torches carried by characters on stage only increased a blazing headache brought on by the abysmal quality of the performance. That Mrs. Spaulding would once again take up her pursuit of him suddenly seemed intolerable to Ben. Where did the woman think he was going to lead her? Into some den of iniquity?
He'd tried scaring her with the Bathory ring at the lecture hall. He'd tried insulting her morals in his hotel room. He'd tried wearing her out by racing up one side of Manhattan and down the other. Nothing had worked. A new tactic was called for.
The crisp, bracing air outside the theater acted on him like a tonic. Anticipation simmered in his veins as he realized what it was he really wanted to do to about the tenacious Mrs. Spaulding.
Should he?
If he acted on the desire uppermost in his mind, he'd hide himself. When she reappeared, looking for him, he'd turn the tables on her and become the one in pursuit. He was certain an opportunity to confront her in private would not take long to present itself.
Grinning at the sheer folly of the idea, he slipped into the shadows, furtive as any villain lurking in the pages of a horror story.
* * * *
Diana was sick of following Damon Bathory. Not at all averse to losing sight of him "accidentally," she dawdled as long as she could on her way out of the auditorium, but this ploy created another problem. Several members of the cast, most of whom she knew well, had spotted her sitting in the audience. Nathan Todd, actor, director, and producer all in one, and an old friend, sent a note by way of the ticket seller to invite her to come backstage.
Under other circumstances, she'd have gone gladly, but ever since Foxe had made his additions to her review, she'd been avoiding an encounter with Lavinia Ross, the company's ingenue and the "Miss L. R." of the piece. Diana would want her wits about her when that confrontation came to pass. She owed the woman an explanation and an apology, and she intended that she would have one,
Then he caught sight of the marquee of the 13th Street Theater. It offered the perfect choice, the very production of _The Duchess of Calabria_ he'd read about in Mrs. Spaulding's column on Monday. Blood and terror. Revenge and death. A fitting end to Damon Bathory's stay in the city. And it would have the added advantage of making Mrs. Spaulding squirm.
To force her to sit in the audience after printing such scandalous gossip about the performers seemed to Ben a fitting punishment for her sins. She had not enjoyed the production the first time. She would hate having to endure it again.
He affected not to notice when she was seated off to his right, an arrangement that enabled him to keep an eye on her during the performance. She spent a good deal of time scribbling in her notebook, as she had during his reading. He wondered why. It seemed a waste of print to attack the same play twice, but he supposed there was much she could still say about it if she chose.
The story had a number of difficulties, not the least of which was an adaptation that would have had the play's original 17th century author rolling over in his grave. The production was also severely marred by the fact that the leading lady kept losing her voice. It was obvious to Ben, if not to the others in the audience, that the Duchess suffered from a heavy cold. It would have been better -- for those who heard her as well as for her own health -- if she had allowed her understudy to go on.
Unfortunately for Ben, Mrs. Spaulding's earlier commentary had been unerringly accurate. Indeed, he now thought she'd gone easy on the actors. He suffered through to the end, but not without consequences. The sulfurous fumes from torches carried by characters on stage only increased a blazing headache brought on by the abysmal quality of the performance. That Mrs. Spaulding would once again take up her pursuit of him suddenly seemed intolerable to Ben. Where did the woman think he was going to lead her? Into some den of iniquity?
He'd tried scaring her with the Bathory ring at the lecture hall. He'd tried insulting her morals in his hotel room. He'd tried wearing her out by racing up one side of Manhattan and down the other. Nothing had worked. A new tactic was called for.
The crisp, bracing air outside the theater acted on him like a tonic. Anticipation simmered in his veins as he realized what it was he really wanted to do to about the tenacious Mrs. Spaulding.
Should he?
If he acted on the desire uppermost in his mind, he'd hide himself. When she reappeared, looking for him, he'd turn the tables on her and become the one in pursuit. He was certain an opportunity to confront her in private would not take long to present itself.
Grinning at the sheer folly of the idea, he slipped into the shadows, furtive as any villain lurking in the pages of a horror story.
* * * *
Diana was sick of following Damon Bathory. Not at all averse to losing sight of him "accidentally," she dawdled as long as she could on her way out of the auditorium, but this ploy created another problem. Several members of the cast, most of whom she knew well, had spotted her sitting in the audience. Nathan Todd, actor, director, and producer all in one, and an old friend, sent a note by way of the ticket seller to invite her to come backstage.
Under other circumstances, she'd have gone gladly, but ever since Foxe had made his additions to her review, she'd been avoiding an encounter with Lavinia Ross, the company's ingenue and the "Miss L. R." of the piece. Diana would want her wits about her when that confrontation came to pass. She owed the woman an explanation and an apology, and she intended that she would have one,
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