Читать книгу Playing The Duke's Mistress - Eliza Redgold, Eliza Redgold - Страница 10
ОглавлениеWhen that great man I loved, thy noble father,
Bequeathed thy gentle sister to my arms.
Nicholas Rowe: The Fair Penitent (1703)
‘Cally? Are you awake?’
Calista’s eyes were open before the second word was out. ‘Columbine. What time is it? Are you all right?’
Columbine snuggled into her arms. Even from beneath the bedcovers Calista could feel how thin and frail her sister was. She was much lighter than an eight-year-old should be. She hardly made a dent in the mattress.
‘It’s nine o’clock and I’m very well today,’ Columbine said brightly. ‘I feel much better.’
Calista laid her hand on Columbine’s forehead. It was true, her temperature had dropped and the hectic flush had gone from her cheeks.
‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ her sister said. She slept in the other larger room with their maid, Martha. By day it served as their sitting room, kept warm by the fire. Her own room was little more than a cupboard and a chill one at that.
‘I was later than usual,’ Calista explained. ‘I went out to supper with Mabel.’
‘I like Mabel,’ said Columbine, burrowing deeper into the bed. ‘She always gives me sweets when I come to the theatre.’
Calista sighed, thinking of her friend. Mabel was kind-hearted, and she insisted she was in love with Sir Herbert Carlyle, or so she had declared all the way home after the disastrous supper party. Her infatuations didn’t usually last too long, but that didn’t excuse the behaviour of the Duke of Albury.
The memory flashed in her mind, followed by a blast of anger.
Actresses are title-hunters.
Calista winced. Over and over the phrase rang in her head. It had stung more than the duke might guess. It was galling to think in what contempt he held her profession. She’d never had such sentiment spoken to her face although she knew what people said behind her back. It hurt.
She raised her chin. The opinion of the Duke of Albury wouldn’t put her off her life’s vocation. She would continue to hone her craft until actresses had the respect they deserved, no matter what men like him believed.
At dinner the night before—not that they’d actually eaten anything—she’d studied him. She always studied new acquaintances carefully, for she’d learnt they might have a manner or trick of speech she could later bring to life in a character on stage. Yet, to be honest, it hadn’t been for her craft that she’d watched him. He was a man who compelled attention.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Immaculately dressed in a dark evening jacket, a claret-coloured velvet waistcoat and pristine shirt so white it rivalled new-fallen snow. His evening trousers had been pressed, his shoes polished. She’d noted he wore a crested gold signet ring on the small finger of his right hand. It was a strong, large hand, a whip hand. It was clear he was a man who expected to be obeyed instantly. He could have been a performer himself, having that rare presence a great actor must possess in order to maintain the interest of the audience. His height, his deep voice and his dark good looks would make him a perfect stage hero.
No.
Not a hero.
A villain.
Scraps of dialogue Calista wished had come to her before had kept her awake until nearly dawn. She’d jotted down a few of the lines in the loose-leaf folio she kept on the table by the bed. Her father had always told her that the best playwrights wrote constantly, not just when they were working on a play.
‘Use all your emotions to write,’ he’d told her. ‘The same as when you’re on stage.’
She had no trouble conjuring up emotions when she considered the Duke of Albury, she thought as she gritted her teeth. She could still taste her fury.
Yet for an odd moment, when their eyes had first met, after his almost insulting survey of her face and figure, she’d felt a connection spring to life between them. Something tentative and hopeful that had evaporated in the blast of his arrogant rudeness.
Calista pushed the thought of the duke away and focused on her sister snuggled beside her. When she’d found her father’s half-finished play in his papers she’d determined to finish it. The play was an adaptation of a story, so it was possible for her to pick up where her father had left it. Somehow, continuing his work kept his presence alive. Today, she had planned to write more, but it was Columbine who mattered most. ‘I don’t have a matinee performance this afternoon. Would you like to go to Hyde Park?’
‘Oh, yes, please!’ Columbine leapt up, sending her long black braids flying. ‘It’s hard to be indoors all day with only Martha for company, not that she isn’t very kind to me,’ she added hastily. ‘But I love to spend time with you best, Cally. Can we take a picnic luncheon?’
‘If you like. Go and ask Martha if she will cut us some sandwiches.’
‘She might even put in some seed cake.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
Columbine scampered from the bedroom.
Calista lay back against the pillows. From the window opposite, pale sunshine beamed into the small room. The April showers had passed, and now it was Maytime, her favourite season. Summer was at last coming to bring some warmth to the London streets. The cold winter had been terrible for Columbine’s health and Calista had wished she had the money to send her young sister to a warmer climate for those long, cold months. But she couldn’t leave the theatre and take Columbine to Italy or France, where the air might clear her lungs. Nor could she afford to send her abroad with only Martha, loyal maidservant that she was. She was more than a maid, really. Martha had nursed Columbine since their mother had died, and had cared for them both as best she could in the cramped rooms Calista rented. Ever since their father had gone Martha had always tried to refuse the few coins Calista gave her each week.
Calista bit her lip. Last night when she’d told the duke that her father was a playwright, as she’d said it, she realised she had used the past tense.
Had she given up hope?
Perhaps it was time to face the brutal truth.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the linen sheet. She couldn’t. Not yet. She would continue his work and care for Columbine until their father came home.
Yet day by day it became harder.
And more frightening.
She pulled up air through another of those painful, chest-tightening breaths. The tiredness from the night before hadn’t disappeared, and she almost wished she might snatch a few more hours sleep. But it would do her more good to see Columbine play in Hyde Park. Perhaps there would be a Punch and Judy show on such a fine day, or even a brass band playing.
A sunny day in the park would drive the horrible words of the Duke of Albury from her mind.
* * *
Darius awoke.
A vision flashed before his eyes.
Dark hair.
A long neck.
A bite.
The same face had appeared when he had fallen into bed the night before. He’d sent his valet, Hammond, away with a quick word and stripped off his garments to lie awake for longer than the amount of whisky he’d consumed had promised.
At the Coach and Horses Inn, when he’d seen off the actresses, he had expected to feel satisfaction. Instead, as Miss Fairmont had slammed the door of the private dining room, he’d experienced a quick surge of emotion he couldn’t put his finger on.
Compunction?
Regret?
Surely not remorse?
He ran his hand through his hair. He’d had to come down hard on silly little Miss Coop, with her obvious designs on his cousin Herbert.
But he wasn’t entirely sure Miss Calista Fairmont was quite the same type of young woman.
He’d been more harsh towards Miss Fairmont than he meant to be. She’d been caught in the firing line. The Carlyle name meant everything to him and he didn’t intend to let anyone ruin it. But he’d come at her with pistols blazing and though she had fought back with a few fine shots of her own, he hadn’t intended to treat her in quite that manner.
Had he come on too strong? No, he decided. It had been necessary. Cruelty was often kindness in the end. Herbert had to be protected from himself and Miss Fairmont had unfortunately been caught up in it all. Normally he would never have spoken to a woman in such a manner, but drastic action had been called for.
She was only an actress. Yet he had to admit, she wasn’t what he expected from an actress.
Again the vision came.
Dark hair.
A long neck.
And an air of dignity that would have befitted a duchess as she defended her friend.
There it was again. The damnedest thing.
Remorse.
That was it. Remorse.
It wasn’t an emotion with which Darius was overly familiar, and it was damned uncomfortable.
He shrugged it off along with the eiderdown and seized a dressing gown before he rang for Hammond to arrange his morning shave and breakfast.
It couldn’t be helped. The situation had called for speedy action on his part. No actress was going to marry into his family and Herbert did appear to be particularly attached to Miss Coop.
His cousin’s reaction after the actresses left the dining room had only reinforced Darius’s view that he had needed to act, and act decisively.
‘How dare you speak to Mabel that way,’ Herbert had stammered, red-faced. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Darius.’
‘I’ve done you a favour,’ Darius told him curtly.
Herbert would see it his way in time.
His cousin would probably be at their club that afternoon. Darius would talk to him again and convince him a quick cut to break the attachment would be better for all concerned. He’d always been able to guide Herbert. After all, it was his duty to keep him out of trouble, and his affection for his cousin meant he would do whatever was needed to ensure Herbert’s future happiness.
Darius looked out the window. The day was fine, too fine to spend entirely indoors. This morning there were business matters and correspondence to attend to, but in the afternoon he decided he’d go for a walk in Hyde Park.
Darius ran his hand through his hair again.
He possessed a strange urge to see the swans on the lake.
* * *
Calista breathed in the fresh air.
Already she felt like a different person. The air and sunshine was like a tonic. Her fatigue seemed to melt away like ice cream in the sun. Even though she’d lost writing time, she had needed the outing and Columbine needed it even more.
She pushed back her bonnet and lifted her face to the warm rays. May had arrived at last. The garden beds were bursting with bright flowers, including daffodils and the first of the bluebells. Squirrels darted among the trees and one delighted Columbine by peeping out from behind a tree near their picnic blanket. They’d spent a good few hours in the park and as every minute passed Calista felt her spirits lifting.
The park was full of people enjoying the weather. Riders clip-clopped past. Couples strolled together arm in arm or sat on the benches. There were children playing with hoops and balls, and feeding the ducks. Swans glided elegantly across the lake.
With a much lighter picnic basket in hand, Calista was making her way to the Punch and Judy stand where Columbine was watching the puppet show when a man spoke from behind her. ‘Miss Fairmont.’
She turned. ‘Yes?’
The owner of the voice, a portly man wearing a red-spotted cravat, beamed at her. ‘I thought it must be. You are Miss Fairmont, are you not, who has charmed us all lately with your performance of Rosalind in Shakespeare’s masterpiece at the Prince’s Theatre?’
Calista smiled. It was impossible not to smile at the man. ‘I am.’
‘My dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were quite marvellous.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘It’s not kindness, Miss Fairmont,’ he protested. ‘You’re an ornament to the stage!’
He bowed and gave a cheery wave. ‘Good luck to you, my dear!’
Calista watched him disappear down the path. At least someone appreciated what she was trying to achieve. The man’s praise almost took the sting from the duke’s cruel words about actresses merely showing their wares.
Almost, but not quite.
* * *
Darius strolled through Hyde Park, glancing idly at the assortment of groups dotted over the lawns. On the grass, children played under the supervision of nannies who were clustered together chatting. He spotted one or two courting couples. Others were families. All of whom appeared happy and smiling as they took their picnics in the park.
Darius felt the familiar pang before he supressed it instantly. Surely the contented family tableaux he witnessed were a farce. They couldn’t all be as happy as they seemed: these mothers fussing over their offspring, fathers trying to hide their beams of pride behind their moustaches. Two boys were being instructed by their father how to fly a kite while a laughing mother rescued her toddler whose face was smeared with jam from almost falling into the lake. A small crowd of children were gathered by a Punch and Judy puppet-show booth.
Darius stopped in his tracks.
Standing at the back of the crowd was the actress, Miss Calista Fairmont.
There could be no doubt it was her, although she didn’t look like an actress today. In the fresh afternoon air she wore no powder and paint, no garish or florid colours. Her plain grey bonnet was pushed back from her head, revealing her dark hair that shone almost blue-black, like the sky at midnight. In a grey cloak and simple frock with white lace at the collar she looked more like a governess than a star of the London stage. Yet to him it seemed as if she were lit up by footlights.
She had a young girl beside her, who had hair the same colour as Miss Fairmont’s, worn in two long braids that hung over a shabby tweed coat. The two were clearly related. They were watching the show and the girl was laughing.
Then Miss Fairmont laughed, too.
She had barely smiled the night before at the supper party and so he hadn’t realised: Miss Calista Fairmont was beautiful.
Her warm laughter lit up her face. She glowed. Like a candle in a darkened room. Like a light one was drawn to, as if it could make you warm inside.
Darius stepped closer. Intent on the puppet show, she didn’t notice him.
Her cheeks were pale today, though there was pinkness in her face, no doubt from the fresh air and her laughter. Her fresh complexion, presented in its natural state, made him realise she was younger than he’d first thought. She must not be much more than twenty years of age.
She wasn’t much more than a girl. Yet her dignity made her seem of greater years.
Now he saw that dignity was a permanent part of her posture, bred into her bearing. It hadn’t been put on the night before. And there was something else. In spite of her excellent deportment, for such a young woman she appeared to be burdened with care. It didn’t cause her shoulders to bow, or that long neck, but it was there in the set of her face and the way she anxiously watched over the child beside her. At her age surely she ought to have appeared light of heart, here at a puppet show in the park.
But Calista Fairmont wasn’t light-hearted. Even as she smiled that glowing smile he sensed she was troubled. Beneath those sapphire eyes were dark shadows, too deep for a woman her age, and they told of sleepless nights.
Darius frowned. Perhaps the shadows under her eyes told of a debauched lifestyle. But gazing at the young woman who hovered with such obvious concern over the child at her side, he suspected that wasn’t the case.
Again that uncomfortable feeling came over him.
Remorse.
He slammed it away.
No matter how young and unaffected she looked in the park, Miss Fairmont was still an actress.
He turned away. What could he say to her? He had to protect Herbert and he had done what he needed to do, even if he regretted that this woman had suffered his scorn in the process.
Darius pulled his coat tighter. The air had suddenly chilled. As he walked back to his club in St James’s he became even more determined. No actress was going to get her claws into a Carlyle again. He would convince Herbert to give up Miss Coop before he got in too deep. Darius knew more than any man that actresses were title-hunters. There was no doubt that Mabel Coop would destroy his cousin, his reputation and his happiness. Darius had to prove it.
* * *
The square was quiet as he approached the club. The doorman bowed as Darius entered. ‘Your Grace.’
Darius dragged off his gloves and greatcoat. ‘Good afternoon. Is my cousin here?’
‘I believe so, Your Grace. In the drawing room.’
The room was packed. Given the excitement in the air, there appeared to be some sort of high-stakes game happening. Occasionally Darius would join a green gaming table, but whilst he usually won at cards, right now he wasn’t in the mood.
He nodded the curtest of greetings to one of the players seated at the felt-topped table.
Francis, Lord Merrick. Darius curled his fists. He’d never liked him, not even at school. No, that was an understatement. Lord Merrick was the ringleader of the same group of young pups who had given his cousin Herbert so much trouble in his childhood. Frankly, men like Merrick had given both the school and the club a bad name.
Merrick was the worst of the lot. The man lacked any sense of honour, of noblesse oblige. But at least he’d been prevented from making Herbert’s life a misery.
Darius had seen to that.
Now, Merrick leaned over the card table. He wore his sandy-coloured hair too long, an affectation Darius despised, and his pale blue eyes were set too close together as he studied his cards. Nothing was ever pinned on him, but Darius always suspected him of dishonest dealings. There had been a few grumblings of unscrupulous circumstances.
Passing by the players, he spotted Herbert seated at a table by the window overlooking the garden square at the quieter end of the room. Some of the inhabitants were reading, some having tea or a taste of something stronger in the all-male environment, doubtless avoiding the female-dominated ritual at home. Many men used the club as a hiding place.
Herbert stood up. ‘Darius. I’ve been waiting for you.’
Darius raised an eyebrow. Herbert’s tone was surprisingly determined. His cousin was also drinking whisky before six o’clock.
‘Shall we sit?’ he enquired.
‘I’d prefer to stand,’ Herbert replied obstinately. ‘See here, Darius. I’ve got a few things to say to you about Mabel.’
‘You’ve seen her today.’ Darius sighed.
Herbert’s eyes boggled. ‘How did you know that? Never mind. The thing is, I’m going to ask her to marry me and you’re not going to stop me.’
Darius hailed a passing waiter. ‘Whisky.’
He faced his cousin. ‘Let’s sit down. We can’t have a conversation like this at paces.’ More than one pair of eyes watched them from over the tops of newspapers.
‘Now,’ he said, when he had a cut-crystal glass of the amber liquid to match Herbert’s. He hadn’t wanted the drink particularly, but requesting it had given him time to gather his thoughts. It was a useful strategy, making Herbert wait and increasing his tension and uncertainty. His cousin was easily ruffled, easily persuaded—something Mabel Coop had most likely discovered. ‘What’s all this about? I suppose Miss Coop has spent the afternoon crying prettily on your shoulder, playing on your sympathy.’
Herbert grew red. ‘She was most distressed by your callous treatment at supper last night. I spent the afternoon comforting her.’
Darius could just imagine.
‘It made me realise it was time to speak up for myself. But it wasn’t Mabel who made me decide to stand up to you. It was Miss Fairmont.’
Darius choked on his whisky. ‘Miss Fairmont?’
Herbert nodded. ‘I’ve never seen anyone stand up to you like that, Darius. She has inspired me to do the same.’
Darius hid a groan behind his glass. ‘For goodness’ sake, Herbert. The woman is an actress. It was all part of a play.’
Herbert shook his head obstinately. ‘The woman was magnificent. It ought to have been I who stopped you insulting Mabel. I’ve been a coward, letting you run my whole life.’
‘You were grateful enough for my help at school,’ Darius reminded him. Besides Merrick, he’d fought more than one bully on Herbert’s behalf and had a few scars to show for it. Not that he’d ever begrudged his cousin the effort. He’d defend any Carlyle. ‘And I intervened with that barmaid at Oxford...’
Herbert set his chin determinedly. ‘I’m not a schoolboy any more, or such a stupid fellow. Mabel makes me feel like a man.’
‘Can’t you see she’s playing you for a fool?’ The words exploded from Darius’s mouth. In the drawing room, a few heads turned. He lowered his voice. ‘Actresses are all alike. You know our family history. They’ll say anything, do anything, to marry into the aristocracy.’
‘That’s not true,’ Herbert stammered. ‘Why, Miss Fairmont told you last night she’d never marry a duke.’
Darius gave a bark of derision. ‘That was acting at its finest! I promise you, she is a title-hunter like every other actress. I tell you, if I paid court to Miss Calista Fairmont, she’d accept my marriage proposal.’
He remembered she had said she would be his mistress before she’d be his wife. Darius slammed down his glass. A ridiculous assertion. Of course she wanted a coronet. He ought to know.
Herbert shook his head. ‘From what Mabel said today Miss Fairmont wouldn’t let you make her an apology, let alone a proposal. And you owe her one for what you said last night about actresses, you really do.’
Darius stared at his cousin, amazed. ‘What on earth has got into you?’
‘I told you. Miss Fairmont is my inspiration.’
He gritted his teeth. This Miss Fairmont was clearly an actress to be reckoned with. No wonder she had the lead role at the Prince’s Theatre. She’d certainly managed to hoodwink his cousin.
‘Have you proposed to Miss Coop yet?’ he demanded.
Herbert shook his head. ‘Not yet. I was hoping you’d allow me to choose a suitable ring from the family vault.’
The thought of an actress wearing the family diamonds made Darius drain his glass of whisky in one gulp. He’d seen enough Carlyle jewels on grasping fingers to last a lifetime.
He thought fast. He had to stop Herbert making a hasty decision and a disastrous mistake, falling prey to the Carlyle curse. All he needed was some time. This affair would soon fizzle out, he was certain of it.
Then it came to him.
The vision flashed again before his eyes.
Dark hair.
A long neck.
Darius leaned across the table. ‘Listen to me, Herbert. I’m right about these actresses. Let me prove it.’
‘How would you do that?’
He smiled with an unexpected sense of anticipation. ‘I’ll pay court to Miss Calista Fairmont.’
Herbert’s jaw fell open. ‘What?’
‘It will be a sham courtship, of course,’ Darius explained quickly. ‘She’s declared openly that she will never wed a duke, but if I can persuade her to accept a marriage proposal from me, surely you’ll have to agree that actresses only want one thing. A title.’
‘You can’t play fast and loose with Miss Fairmont’s affections that way!’ Herbert exclaimed.
He shrugged. ‘If she’s as good an actress as you claim she is, she’ll see through my play-acting efforts.’
‘Well, that’s impossible,’ said Herbert. ‘You’ll have no chance with her. Why, Merrick has been after her for months and even he hasn’t had any success. And you know what a way he has with the ladies.’
Darius glanced over towards the card table where the rogue seemed to be engaged in some debate over the winnings. He’d clearly had too much to drink.
‘Merrick is after Miss Fairmont?’
Herbert nodded. ‘He’s very keen on actresses, very keen indeed. He’s a regular at the stage door of the Prince’s Theatre. And Miss Fairmont’s the star of the stage, of course.’
Darius drummed his fingers on the table. So, Merrick had been unsuccessful. He had to admit that only added to her charms.
‘Quite the prize,’ he murmured. ‘Well, well.’
‘I tell you, you won’t get anywhere with Miss Fairmont,’ Herbert said stubbornly.
Darius sought his cousin’s gaze and held it. ‘Give me some time. If I fail, and you still to want to marry Miss Coop, I’ll not stand in your way. But if I persuade Miss Fairmont to marry me, you must promise to think again.’
Herbert averted his eyes. ‘Mabel won’t like waiting.’
‘Some time, that’s all I’m asking of you. Surely you owe me that much. I’ve never steered you wrongly before.’
Herbert’s eyes flickered towards the group playing cards. ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done on my behalf in the past.’
‘Waiting won’t make any difference to Miss Coop’s affection for you, surely?’
‘I suppose not,’ Herbert said a little doubtfully.
Darius raised his glass. ‘Miss Fairmont will consent to marry this duke. I’ll prove to you what actresses are.’
