Читать книгу Regency Disguise - Gail Whitiker - Страница 11

Lord and Lady Holcombe lived in a magnificent house filled with more exquisite artwork than many of London’s finest museums. The walls were covered with paintings by every famous painter, living and dead, and entire rooms had been given over to showcase the hundreds of sculptures and historical relics Holcombe had collected during his travels around the world.

Meandering through one such room filled with ancient Roman artefacts, Alistair stopped to admire a jewel-encrusted dagger and wondered if anyone would notice if he slipped out through the French doors. As much as he liked the marquess and his wife, they really did invite the most boring people to their gatherings. If he heard one more lurid tale about Lady Tavistocke taking up with a gondolier, he would go mad! Surely there were more interesting topics to discuss? The deplorable conditions in the East End. The bodies found floating in the Thames. Riots and child labour and conditions in the mills. Anything but this mindless prattle …

‘—think Shakespeare was intent on pointing out the frailty of the human mind,’ he heard a woman say. ‘Lady Macbeth was clearly mad, but was it due to the guilt she felt over the murder she convinced her husband to commit, or as a result of her own unending quest for power?’

Alistair frowned. A bluestocking at the Holcombes’?

He turned to see who was speaking—and promptly bumped into another young lady who had clearly been waiting to speak to him. ‘I beg your pardon—’

‘No, that’s all right, Mr Devlin,’ the lady said, blushing furiously. ‘It would be difficult not to bump into someone with so many people crammed together in one place.’

She smiled up at him in a manner that led Alistair to believe they had previously been introduced, but while her face was familiar, her name escaped him entirely. ‘Are you having a good time, Miss …?’

‘Bretton.’ She pouted prettily. ‘We met two weeks ago at the Roehamptons’ reception. I was hoping you might remember me.’

He didn’t remember her. He remembered her name. ‘You’re Victoria Bretton’s sister?’

Her smile faltered, as though he had said something distasteful. ‘Yes. Do you know my sister?’

‘We met last night at the Gryphon.’

‘You spoke to Victoria?’

‘Indeed. I had the pleasure of conversing with her at the conclusion of the play.’

‘A play, which, as I recall, you enjoyed very much.’

Alistair smiled. Oh yes, he knew that voice. Lower pitched and decidedly less breathless, it was not in the least anxious or in any way eager to please. ‘Good evening, Miss Bretton.’ He turned to find the elder Miss Bretton looking up at him. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’

‘How nice of you to say so. Mr … Devlin, wasn’t it?’

Her deliberate hesitation made him smile. ‘I’m flattered you would remember.’

‘Why would I not? It was only last night.’

‘Yet how long the night seems to one kept awake by pain.’

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘I doubt you were in pain, Mr Devlin. Unlike Saurin’s Guiscard.’

‘Ah, but you do not know how I suffered in being so cruelly dismissed.’

The effect of this rejoinder was to make her laugh. ‘You were not dismissed. And even if you were, it was not with any degree of cruelty.’

‘Victoria, how nice of you to join us,’ her sister interrupted in a chilly voice. ‘When last I saw you, you were enjoying the pleasure of Mr Compton’s company.’

Alistair frowned. ‘Mr George Compton?’

‘Yes. Victoria was partaking in a most lively conversation with him.’

‘It was not a lively conversation, nor did I particularly enjoy it,’ Victoria said. ‘I made the effort because Mama asked me to, but having now fulfilled my social obligation, I am ready to go home. She sent me to ask if you would like to leave as well.’

‘I would rather not.’ Winifred sent Alistair a coquettish glance. ‘I am enjoying a conversation with Mr Devlin.’

‘So I see. Unfortunately, Mama said that if you were not ready to leave, she would like you to keep her company for a while. Papa is playing cards and you know she doesn’t like to be left alone at these large gatherings.’

‘But surely you can keep her company,’ Winifred said. ‘You don’t have to go home right away.’

‘In fact, I do. I promised Laurence I would help him with a project and I know he would like to work on it this evening. I am sorry, Winnie,’ Victoria said gently, ‘but I really do have to leave.’

Alistair wisely remained silent. It was obvious the younger Miss Bretton wasn’t happy at being summoned back to her mother’s side, but equally obvious that she knew better than to make a scene in front of an eligible gentleman.

‘Oh, very well.’ Winifred glared at her sister, then turned to offer Alistair an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry we are unable to finish our conversation, Mr Devlin. I hope we will have an opportunity to do so the next time we meet.’

‘I look forward to it, Miss Winifred.’

It was the polite thing to say, and when Alistair saw the sparkle return to the girl’s lovely green eyes, he knew it had been the right thing. But he waited until she was safely out of range before saying to the lady who remained, ‘Is your sister always so brusque, Miss Bretton?’

‘Only with me.’ Her smile appeared, but Alistair thought it vaguely preoccupied. ‘She can be exceedingly pleasant to people whose company she enjoys.’

‘She doesn’t enjoy yours?’

‘My sister does not entirely approve of me. She believes I am too opinionated and that I speak my mind when I would do better to keep silent. She also thinks I spend too much time at the theatre associating with people who are not worthy of my regard. An opinion shared by my mother and a number of others in society, I suspect.’

‘They are not wrong,’ Alistair pointed out bluntly.

‘No, but I would be lying if I said it bothered me enough to make me stop,’ she told him. ‘I enjoy spending time at the theatre. I appreciate the beauty of the language, the intricacies of the plays and the diverse talent of the actors and actresses. Had circumstances been different, I wonder if I might not have enjoyed being an actress.’ She gazed up at him without apology. ‘Does that shock you?’

‘You must know that it does. Most ladies take pleasure in more traditional pastimes such as reading and needlework. Activities that do not put their reputations at risk.’

‘Yet you believe what I do jeopardises mine?’

‘You’ve just said that it does, yet you do not seem to care.’

‘Why pretend concern where none exists?’

‘For appearances’ sake?’

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that did the strangest things to his equilibrium. ‘I am past doing things for the sake of appearances, Mr Devlin. Though you cannot be expected to know, I come from a rather unusual family. We are the equivalent of Lady Tavistocke and her gondolier … without Venice and its canals. And before you find yourself tarred by the same brush, I suggest you make good your escape.’

‘My escape?’

‘From my company. I did warn you last night.’ It took Alistair a moment to tie the two together. ‘Is that what you meant when you said we should not suit?’

‘In part. Look around if you don’t believe me,’ she advised. ‘But be subtle, if you can.’

Alistair casually turned his head—and saw a group of dowagers quickly avert their eyes. Standing just behind them, an earl and his countess abruptly resumed their conversation, and as he secured two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, he observed the top-lofty Mrs Howard draw her daughter away. ‘Good Lord, is it always like this?’

‘No. Sometimes it’s worse.’

‘Then why do you come?’

‘Because Mama insists upon it. She is anxious for me to marry so that my sister can do the same. Hence the required conversation with Mr Compton.’

Alistair snorted. ‘The man has four unmarried sisters at home. What kind of welcome do you think you would receive in an establishment like that?’

‘None, but the fact I would have my own establishment is reason enough for my sister to believe I should make the effort.’

‘Nothing would be reason enough to encourage George Compton,’ Alistair said. ‘As for your reception here, surely there are places you could go where you would be made to feel more welcome.’

‘Actually, I don’t do so badly. My uncle and Lord Holcombe did some business together last year and ever since, Lord and Lady Holcombe have been very welcoming towards us.’

Alistair watched Victoria raise the glass to her lips, his gaze lingering on the tempting curve of her bottom lip. ‘So your uncle owns the Gryphon Theatre?’

‘Yes. Does that surprise you?’

‘Only in that if your mother is unhappy with the amount of time you spend at the theatre, I cannot imagine how she reconciles herself to the fact that her brother owns one.’

‘With great difficultly, but as it happens, Uncle Theo is Papa’s brother.’

‘But his name is Templeton.’

‘My uncle did that out of kindness to Mama,’ Victoria explained. ‘He was performing with a small repertory company when my parents met. Naturally, being the daughter of a minister, Mama was horrified that her future brother-in-law was on the stage, so hoping to make relations between them easier, my uncle assumed the surname of the first character he ever played. It made matters better at the time, though once he started buying up large chunks of property in London, I don’t think anyone cared.’

‘So your uncle is an actor.’

‘Was an actor. He gave up performing not long after he married my aunt.’

‘Who, I believe, is also an actress?’

‘Yes, but she seldom appears on stage any more,’ Victoria said. ‘They are both more involved in the production end of things now. Pity, really, since they were both exceptional performers.’

Alistair stared at her in bemusement. A stunning young woman, eldest daughter of a gentleman, speaking not only without embarrassment about the black sheep of her family, but with admiration …?

‘Devlin, where on earth have you … oh, I beg your pardon.’ Lord Collins came to an abrupt halt. ‘I wasn’t aware that you and the lady were engaged in a conversation.’

‘Then you’re the only one in the room who isn’t,’ Alistair drawled. ‘Miss Bretton, I believe you are acquainted with Lord Collins?’

‘Indeed, I’ve seen him at the Gryphon quite often of late,’ Victoria said with a smile. ‘I believe he has a fondness for Miss Chermonde.’

To Alistair’s delight, Collins actually blushed. ‘The lady and I are … acquainted, yes.’

‘Then a word of advice, my lord,’ Victoria said. ‘As my uncle is aware of your … acquaintance with Miss Chermonde, I feel it only fair to warn you that, if you do anything to adversely affect the quality of her performance, he will take you to task. My uncle demands a great deal from the members of his troupe and if an actor or actress delivers a substandard performance, he will be looking to know the reasons why. And I should tell you that in his younger days, he had quite a reputation as a pugilist.’

Collins’s blush receded, leaving his face starkly white. ‘I appreciate the warning, Miss Bretton, but I can assure you I would never treat Miss Chermonde with anything but the utmost respect and I intend to shower her with gifts that will keep her very happy indeed.’

‘Good. Just please do not feed her oysters,’ Victoria said with a sigh. ‘She will ask for them, but they make her sneeze and that ruins her voice for a good day and a half.’

‘Then there will definitely be no oysters,’ Collins said stiffly.

‘Thank you. Well, I had best take my leave. Good evening, Lord Collins. Mr Devlin.’

Alistair bowed. ‘Miss Bretton.’

Collins gave just a brief nod and waited until she was safely out of range before saying, ‘Trumped-up little baggage! Imagine telling me what I should and shouldn’t do with my own mistress. I should have told her it was none of her business!’

‘But you did not,’ Alistair said with a broad smile. ‘In fact, your response was uncommonly meek for you, Bertie.’

The other man flushed. ‘It was not meek! I was merely being polite. But you see what I mean about her being outspoken. And about how people treat her.’

‘I saw a few old tabbies turn up their nose, but if she was that unacceptable, she wouldn’t be here. They don’t get much stuffier than the Holcombes.’

Collins sighed. ‘You know Theo Templeton’s her uncle, right? Well, he’s also reputed to be worth a bloody fortune. No one knows where the money came from. Some say it’s his wife’s, others say he won it at cards. Either way, he’s as rich as Croesus and doesn’t give a damn what society thinks about him.’

‘What has any of that to do with Miss Bretton?’

‘Last year, when Holcombe ran into financial difficulties, Templeton bailed him out, no questions asked,’ Collins said. ‘Everyone’s dying to know why, of course, but Holcombe isn’t talking and neither is Templeton. But it’s the reason Holcombe won’t hear a bad word spoken about Templeton or about any member of his family, if you know what I mean.’

Alistair did. ‘You’re saying Templeton’s kindness to Holcombe is the reason Victoria Bretton is accepted in society.’

‘In part. Her immediate family are mindful of the proprieties, but her aunt and uncle are not and neither is she. She has gained a reputation for being blunt and there are those who predict she will suffer for it. In which case, having Holcombe on her side is a definite advantage. There’s not many who’ll gainsay a marquess.’

Alistair stared into his empty glass. No, there weren’t. He’d dealt with his fair share of toad-eaters in his life and his father was only a viscount. There was even more grovelling the higher one climbed on the social ladder.

But Victoria’s uncle wasn’t even on the social ladder. He and his wife had both acted upon the stage, and the fact he was rich or that he had bailed out a peer of the realm would make no difference. He would still be viewed as a mushroom at best and an actor at worst; both of which would serve as strikes against him and against members of his family. ‘Does Templeton move much in society?’ Alistair asked now.

‘To the extent he wishes. Beyond that, he doesn’t seem to care.’

‘What does he care about?’

‘His wife, his theatre, his brother and his niece. Everything else can go to hell as far as he’s concerned. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.’

And Collins would know, Alistair reflected, given his current association with Signy Chermonde. ‘An interesting man.’

‘Eccentric, if you ask me,’ Collins said with a sniff. ‘But, when you’re that rich, you can afford to do as you please. Victoria Bretton, however, is another matter. The lady falls somewhere between the devil and the deep blue sea. Even her own sister keeps her at a distance.’

Yes, Alistair had seen first-hand evidence of that. The lovely Winifred had all but curled her pretty little lip during her conversation with her sister, and if her mother was pushing her in George Compton’s direction, it was evident the family was determined to marry Victoria off to any man who expressed an interest.

And yet the lady didn’t seem to care. She had walked around that room with her head held high, blissfully serene in the face of all those hostile stares. She was the one who had drawn his attention to the way people were looking at her and to the effect it could have on his reputation.

What did that mean? That the lady truly was impervious to the snubs and the remarks people were making about her? Or that she was simply a better actress than the celebrated Signy Chermonde could ever hope to be?

It was Victoria’s habit to write early in the morning, usually long before the rest of the family were out of bed. Her mind was clearest at that time of day, and it was during those pre-dawn hours that she did her best work. But when on the morning following the Holcombe’s soirée, the words did not flow freely, Victoria did not immediately put it down to anything that had taken place at the soirée.

While it was true the memory of her conversation with Alistair Devlin had kept her awake long into the night, she couldn’t believe it was the reason she was feeling creatively stifled this morning. That kind of reaction usually came about as a result of her emotions being tied up in knots, and given that she and Alistair had spoken on only two prior occasions, the chance of having developed any kind of feelings for him was highly unlikely.

Yes, he was charming, and there was no question he was intelligent, but while those were qualities she would always admire in a man, Victoria wasn’t looking for them in Alistair Devlin.

She shouldn’t even be thinking about the man. Her uncle had made it very plain that she would end up nursing a broken heart for her trouble because Alistair’s position in society, and his father’s antipathy towards the theatre, would always preclude them from having a relationship.

Then why did she keep thinking about him? And why, if he wasn’t interested in her, had he sought her out and spoken to her at the theatre?

That was the question plaguing Victoria as she trotted her mare along Rotten Row an hour later. She had given up on the idea of writing and had asked for her mare to be saddled and brought round, hoping that a change of scenery would be good for her. But even though her groom rode far enough behind so as not to disturb her concentration, her mind remained stubbornly and most disappointingly blank. No clever ideas leapt to mind, and while she was reluctant to put a name to the cause, Victoria had a sinking feeling it was all because of—

‘Miss Bretton,’ came an all-too-familiar voice. ‘What a surprise. I’d not thought to see you out so early in the day.’

Victoria looked up—and instinctively her hands tightened on the reins. ‘Mr Devlin.’ The last person she’d needed—or wanted—to see. ‘I cannot think why. I did not stay late at the Holcombes’ soirée.’

‘No, but most ladies do not care to ride in the Park at a time of day when society is not around to admire them.’

‘Ah, but I ride for pleasure. Not to be stared at by those who opinions matter not in the least.’

‘Yet, anyone who sees you cannot help but be impressed by your beauty.’

Unexpectedly, his boldness made her laugh. ‘It is a little early in the day for such excessive flattery, Mr Devlin,’ she said, flicking a glance at the lady at his side, who wore a striking burgundy habit and was riding a pretty dapple-grey mare. ‘Are you not going to introduce me to your companion?’

‘But of course. Miss Victoria Bretton, may I present my cousin, Miss Isabelle Wright.’

Victoria started. His cousin?

‘How do you do, Miss Bretton,’ the lady said in a bright, youthful voice. ‘What a pleasure to finally meet you. I was introduced to your sister at the Roehamptons’ reception a few weeks ago and thought her ever so nice. Your aunt and uncle were there as well.’

Not having been at the reception, Victoria assumed Miss Wright was referring to her mother’s brother and wife who lived in Edinburgh. ‘I wasn’t aware Aunt and Uncle Taitley were in London.’

‘Oh, no, not that aunt and uncle. I meant the ones involved with the Gryphon Theatre. They are related to you, aren’t they?’ Miss Wright said. ‘Mr and Mrs Templeton?’

Astonished that a cousin of Alistair Devlin’s would be familiar with the owner of any theatre, let alone the Gryphon, Victoria said carefully, ‘Yes, they are.’

‘I thought so. I was terribly pleased to meet them. I truly believe your uncle stages some of the finest productions in London.’

‘Why don’t you tell Miss Bretton the name of your favourite play, Isabelle?’ Alistair said with a smile.

The girl laughed. ‘I don’t suppose it’s all that surprising. A Lady’s Choice, by Valentine Lawe. Cousin Alistair tells me you’ve seen it too, Miss Bretton.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Did you not think it brilliant?’

‘Well, I’m really not sure—’

‘Oh, but you must, because Valentine Lawe is the most talented playwright in all London. Surely we can agree on that?’

Somewhat nonplussed, Victoria took a moment to straighten her mare’s reins. How bizarre. She had never been asked a question about Valentine Lawe before, so really had no idea how to answer it. ‘I suppose I would have to say that he is … quite good.’

‘Quite good? My dear Miss Bretton, he is exceptional!’ Miss Wright exclaimed. ‘I’ve seen all of his plays: A Winter’s Escapade, Genevieve, Penelope’s Swain. But I think A Lady’s Choice is definitely his finest. Have you met him? Cousin Alistair said you must have, given that your uncle produces all of his plays.’

‘That would seem logical, but as it happens, Mr Lawe tends to keep … a very low profile,’ Victoria said, sticking as close to the truth as possible. ‘My uncle says he’s never met a more reclusive playwright in his life.’

‘Is that so?’ Miss Wright’s face was, briefly, a study in disappointment. ‘I wonder why?’

‘Perhaps he is afraid of being mobbed in the streets,’ Alistair drawled, ‘by overly enthusiastic fans like you.’

To Victoria’s amusement, the girl actually blushed. ‘It isn’t nice of you to make fun of me, Cousin Alistair. I know you don’t think much of Mr Lawe’s plays, or of anyone else’s for that matter—’

‘On the contrary, I think Lawe’s work is head and shoulders above everyone else’s. I may only have seen A Lady’s Choice, but based on that I am more than willing to acknowledge the man’s talent. Just because I don’t go to the theatre often doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate excellence when I see it.’

For a few heady moments, Victoria allowed herself the pleasure of basking in the warm glow of his praise. That was the worst part of not being able to acknowledge who she really was: being unable to express gratitude to people who enjoyed and appreciated her work. Especially a man like Alistair Devlin …

‘Is he very handsome?’ Miss Wright asked suddenly.

Guiltily, Victoria started. ‘Who?’

‘Valentine Lawe. Your aunt must have made some comment as to his appearance.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m really … not sure. I’ve never asked her what she thought of him … in that regard.’

‘I have a picture of him in my mind,’ Miss Wright admitted. ‘He’s as tall as Cousin Alistair and his hair is just as dark, but he has the most amazing blue eyes you’ve ever seen. When he looks at you, you feel as though he’s gazing right down into your soul.’

‘Really?’ Victoria hardly knew what to say. She’d never given a moment’s thought to her alter ego’s appearance. ‘How … interesting.’

‘And he’s brooding, just like a romantic hero should be,’ Miss Wright went on. ‘But as brilliant as he is on paper, he’s very quiet and withdrawn in person. And he dresses well, but only in black and white. And he wears a single red rose in his lapel and—’

‘A diamond stud in his ear?’ Alistair enquired. ‘Or a gold hoop?’

‘He is not a pirate, Cousin Alistair,’ Miss Wright said, rolling her eyes. ‘He is a playwright. And I’m not the only one who fantasises about his appearance. Ellen Standish thinks he’s fair, Jenny Hartlett is convinced he has red hair and Mrs Johnston is of the opinion he hasn’t any hair at all. But she is partial to balding men, so I suppose that is her idea of attractive.’

Victoria just stared, aware that the conversation was getting more bizarre by the minute. ‘Well, if I am ever fortunate enough to meet … Mr Lawe I will be sure to communicate the details of his appearance to you.’

‘You would do that for me?’ the girl said, looking as though she had been given the secret to eternal youth.

‘Happily. But I should warn you that I have no expectation of seeing the gentleman any time soon.’

‘I don’t care!’ Miss Wright cried. ‘It is enough to know that when you do see him, you will tell me what he looks like and I shall know whether I have been right or wrong. Thank you so very much, Miss Bretton!’

Victoria inclined her head, grateful for having emerged unscathed from what could have been a very embarrassing situation. She didn’t like telling lies, but what was she to do with Alistair Devlin sitting right there? She could hardly admit to being Valentine Lawe now when she had not told him the truth during any of their previous conversations.

She glanced at him sitting relaxed and at ease in the saddle and wished with all her heart that she might feel as calm. But her pulse was racing and when he smiled at her, it only grew worse, so much so that Victoria feared he must surely be able to see her heart beating beneath her jacket. Because his was a smile that was at once beguiling and disturbing, a smile that hinted at things she knew nothing about and had never experienced.

A smile that lingered far longer in her mind than it had any right to, and that would not be shaken, no matter how hard she tried.