“Then what is it?” He raised his brows. “Surely you know, Regina, that I’ll gather precisely what you intend, whether you tell me or not . . .”
She swatted at his shoulder. “God, there is no one more arrogant in the whole of England than you.” And with reason to be. Time had proven that whatever he desired, whether it was information, power, or wealth, he ultimately wrested it for himself.
He bowed his head.
She snorted. “You’re incorrigible.” Reggie smoothed her palms down the front of her night rail. “It is a music hall.”
“A . . . ?”
“Music hall,” she supplied. She braced for his condemnation and criticism. Encouraged by his silence, she gathered her notebook. “There will be folk music and operas and ballet performances.” She rested a knee upon the bench and set the book out before him. “Patrons will not be required to seek out stalls in separate barrooms”—as all theatres did—“but rather will be allowed to consume spirits in the middle of the theatre.” When she’d finished, he availed himself of her work folder and said nothing.
“Ah, a music hall.”
She wrinkled her nose, trying to make sense of those four words.
“And what manner of music will you play?” He drifted reverent fingers over the oxwood keys and ebony sharps, plucking the strains of “Death and the Lady.” “Somber music for your patrons?”
Butterflies danced in her breast. Of course he’d be skilled in even this. When Oliver always mocked music as a lady’s pursuit, Broderick had owned those keys. Before she could answer, he began plucking a more upbeat tempo; his fingers flew over the keys, and he sang in an endearing, slightly off-key baritone.
“There lived a Man in Baleno, crazy
Who wanted a Wife to make him uneasy.”
Reggie giggled. “And you sing.”
He paused midlyric. “Poorly.” He resumed playing. Tipping his head back and forth, he winked at her, and her heart tripped a funny beat.
“Long had he sigh’d for dear Ally Croaker,
And thus the gentle Youth bespoke her:
‘Will you marry me, dear Ally Croaker,
Will you marry me, dear Ally, Ally Croaker?’”
When he finished, he quirked a brow. “Or romantic shows?”
“Of all the girls that are so smart
There’s none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.”
As he sang, she studied his bent head, losing every last scrap of her heart that hadn’t already belonged to him.
When he glanced up, she fought for a semblance of control.
How casual he was in every regard, while inside she remained a riot of emotions and would always be where he was concerned.
He leaned back on the bench. Removing his fingers from the keys, he held a hand out.
“Well?” she asked grudgingly. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d not revealed his opinion about her plans.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.”
He flipped through those pages, working his stare over the details written in her meticulous hand.
“Hmm.”
She tapped her bare foot in an agitated staccato. “What?”
Broderick briefly lifted his gaze. “It’s a theatre,” he said with an air of finality.
“It is more than that,” she said indignantly. She slipped out a rough rendering she’d sketched in her amateur hand and held it up.
His eyes made quick work of the drawing. “The first rule of business is a clear head. It’s dangerous to take suggestions personally.” And mayhap she was not as good a friend as he took her for, because with this talk of her dream and the business she’d soon have with Clara, she clung to this brief interlude. Where there was no mad marquess nor threat of the gallows hanging over Broderick nor resentment between Reggie and Broderick for all that had come to pass between them.
Reggie squeezed onto the bench beside him. “Very well. I’m listening.”
He stared over the top of that page. “Nothing will set you apart.” With that flat pronouncement, he snapped the folder closed and set it down. “You’ll compete with the established theatres in Covent Garden and set yourself for failure. You won’t even survive two months of doors opening.” At that dire pronouncement so emotionlessly delivered, unease sank into her stomach.
And if she failed, she’d be responsible for the eventual men, women, and children who relied upon her and Clara for employment.
“The next rule of business,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “Never contemplate failure. Rather, focus on how you’ll succeed. What will make your venue different, Reggie?”
Picking up her pencil, Reggie tapped it from tip to bottom, back and forth, contemplating her notes. What would set her apart? It was a failing that she’d not considered that before now. Rather, she’d relied upon the talent she and Clara would assemble. But why would patrons visit? “I don’t know.”
He touched the tip of her pert, freckled nose. “Find what makes you different,” he echoed. “Pantomime. Tightrope dancing. A mix of performers outside of musicians.”
She ceased the distracted tapping of her pencil. “You’d have us become a circus.”
“I’d see you thrive,” he amended, handing over her pages.
Reggie accepted the notes. “Either way, we don’t have the luxury of diversifying our cast of performers or stage setting.” With the payments he’d expected, Broderick had eaten into the funds that were to have gone to hiring performers.
“But then who—”
“I’ll perform.”
That effectively silenced him.
Reggie faced him on the bench. “I’ll perform along with several young women Clara knows from Covent Garden. And when I have the funds, I’ll find others. Even those women in your employ.” He stiffened. “Because the truth is, Broderick . . .” She leaned closer, holding his gaze with her own. “If they are willing, I’ll take them. They deserve control of their future, and I’d allow them that, even if you see it as a betrayal.”
Broderick stared at her for a long while.
“You’re right.”
That knocked her aback. “What?” she blurted, her notes slipping from her fingers.
“You are correct.” Rescuing those forgotten pages, he set them down on the pianoforte.
Surely he was ill? She touched the back of her hand to his head. Or he’d gone mad? “You don’t capitulate that easily.”
“So mistrustful.” He laughed, catching her fingers, and then butterflies fluttered in her chest as he drew that palm to his mouth. He brushed a lingering kiss upon it. “It was wrong to resent you for starting again. I want my staff to go with you.”
She made a sound of protest and tried to stand, but he caught her hand, keeping her next to him.
“I was too selfish. Too bent on control. I wanted to order my life and business, but there was you, all along, Reggie. The salvation that I could not be.”
“Stop,” she entreated.
“I won’t. You are more capable than any member of my staff. You’ll care for them. See them—”
“You’re doing it again,” she whispered. “Putting your life in order.”
“Not this time. This isn’t about Maddock . . . or me.” He sat back on the bench. “This is about you. This is about me acknowledging that you can and will create something wonderful. It will thrive and flourish, and it will be because of who you are. I should have supported you from the moment I learned of what you intended.”
Tears blurred her vision, and then a single drop spiraled down her cheek.
“None of that,” he murmured, brushing it away.
Why must he do this? Why must he be this tender, supportive man beside her? Those unsteady walls she’d thrown up around her heart these past days faltered, tumbling down.
He handed over her sheet music. “Sing for me.”
“You want me to perform?” she rasped, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “Now you’re teasing me.” Again, Reggie made to slide off the bench, but he caught her.
“How will you play before an entire hall of strangers if you cannot perform for me, alone?”
“Because it’s not a performance,” she said, her cheeks flushing. “It’s”—she slashed a hand in his direction—“you.”