Finding Love on Drury Lane

by Charity McColl

  “I—am used to the country,” he said.

  “I am not, but I own that I prefer to ride when others are not riding.”

  If she rode during the hours when the fashionable ones rode with the purpose of being seen, her attire would be the talk of London.

  “So I can imagine,” he replied.

  She smiled. “As you see, I ride to please myself.”

  “I only hope that you do not persuade my sister to follow your example. It would ruin her chances of a successful debut if she were seen to ride along Rotten Row in the clothing of a gentleman.”

  Her lips, the underlip full, the upper lip curved as if her mouth were some exotic blossom attached to a female who was, in reality a wood nymph, were captivating. “So you attribute to me the status of a gentleman. That is very kind of you. Considering my profession.”

  What the devil was she talking about? “I am referring to your wardrobe, of course. It is most unseemly for you to be dressed as you are and I pray that you will not bring disgrace upon my sister, who plainly holds you in esteem.”

  “I feel the same. Your sister is a gracious, kind-hearted young woman and I too, hope that she will make a successful debut, one that brings her a suitor who is worthy of her.”

  “Then we are in accord.”

  She raised her hat and inclined her head with a graceful gesture made all the more attractive because it so expertly mimicked the movements of a gentleman tipping his hat. She knew it, too; he could tell by the curve of her lips, those lips which would have sent a poet into raptures to find the rhymes to match to their eloquent curves.

  “You will confess, then, that it is a risk for you to be seen in this manner of dress in a place which is known for giving rise to all manner of speculation.”

  She made a show of rising in the saddle to look behind her. “I see no one who can give rise to speculation,” she replied, “except of course, yourself. And I do not think you would do such a thing if you care for your sister.”

  “Of course I care for my sister! I am troubled that she is in the company of a young woman who, it seems, has little regard for the conventions of society. Do you not realize how much harm this can do? Is it not bad enough that our father has married an actress and given cause for tongues to wag? Should my sister suffer as well from the realization that another actress living in the household dresses as a man, in public, and goes riding where she is sure to be seen?”

  “You mistake me, my lord. I ride in the morning so that I will not be seen,” she told him with hauteur. “It is far too early for the young blades and the young ladies to be out. They will ride when it is the proper time for others to see them.”

  “Perhaps the Prince Regent rides early?”

  “The Prince Regent?” she repeated, but there was an expression of wariness in her eyes. “I do not see him.”

  “He is, I am told, an admirer of yours.”

  “You spoke earlier of speculation and gossip. Are you one of those who enjoys those past times?”

  “You are dodging my question.”

  “How should I know when the Prince Regent goes riding?” she asked.

  “Perhaps you came to meet him.”

  “Why should I seek to meet the Prince Regent?”

  “He is fond of actresses. You are an actress.”

  Her brown eyes met his gaze with a look that he could not read. He could see anger in their depths, but her anger, although it plainly inflamed her, did not overrule her. Instead, she gave him an appraising glance that did not veil her contempt. “You are insufferable,” she answered and, digging her boots into her horse’s side, she set off at a gallop.

  It was not the encounter that he had hoped to have with her. But what sort of meeting could he have expected, he asked himself as he headed back to his house. She was an actress, the Prince Regent had his eye on her and she was not, from what St. John had learned, dissuading the future king from his pursuit of her. She was undoubtedly holding out for something more than royal favors. A house, perhaps? Jewels? Who knew what a young woman would bargain for if she chose to accept a prince for a lover?

  Was all of this part of a carefully wrought plan? As Lady Bennington, Marguerite Winslow could bring a semblance of the aristocracy to her social encounters. Would that make Nell Dorchester more attractive as a mistress for the Prince Regent, and if so, how did that affect his sister?

  7

  Meeting Marguerite

  He returned to his house quite out of sorts. Mrs. Hemings, alerted by Linden that the master was in a foul humor, prepared a breakfast of eggs, sausages, and thickly sliced toast spread with strawberry marmalade; that, she was sure, along with a bracing cup of hot coffee, would bring him round.

  Linden brought the tray into the dining room where St. John was going through the mail that had arrived during his absence.

  “I shall not lack for entertainment, I see,” St. John said. “Should I wish to, I am invited to three balls and four suppers for the remainder of the month.”

  “This came just now,” Linden said. “From Lord Bennington.”

  St. John put down the coffee. “Father cannot possibly be up and about already; it’s barely ten o’clock.” He opened the message.

  Dear St. John,

  Please join us at two o’clock for luncheon. Marguerite dearly longs to meet you and I shall not be content until you see for yourself how happy she makes me. I shall not accept an excuse, my boy! You must come so that our family may be complete!

  “It seems that I am commanded to appear,” he said, putting the note down and, taking up his fork and knife, setting himself to do justice to Mrs. Hemings’ excellent breakfast.

  “Half dress, my lord?”

  “Of course.”

  “Brown, black, or blue?”

  “Blue.”

  “Waistcoat?”

  “Cream.”

  “Boots?”

  “Hessians.”

  “I shall put your clothing out for you, my lord.”

  “As always, Linden, you are invaluable.”

  “I do strive to be so, my lord.”

  “Please tell Mrs. Hemings that she will not need to bother with lunch.”

  “And supper?”

  “No . . . .I might as well venture to White’s. No doubt the wagering has already begun on how long it will take before my father’s matrimonial reformation is challenged. After meeting la Winslow, perhaps I shall be better informed to make my own bet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sound disapproving, Linden.”

  “Not at all, sir. But I am planning to attend the theatre tomorrow and I should be grievously disappointed if today’s luncheon does not go off well and it should afflict Lady Bennington’s performance.”

  St. John placed his knife and fork on his now-empty plate. “I shall endeavor to do my best not to ruin Her Ladyship’s humor,” he promised.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When he entered his father’s house, Elizabeth was waiting for him. “How handsome you look, Sinjin.”

  “And how beautiful you look,” he said, kissing his sister fondly. “Is that new?”

  “Yes, do you like it?”

  “Very much. I don’t recall ever seeing you wear red.”

  “Marguerite said that it suits me.”

  “Does she?”

  “Dear Sinjin, please don’t use that forbidding tone. You must give her a chance, you know,” Elizabeth cajoled, linking arms with him as they walked toward the dining room.

  “Must I? Why?”

  “Because she is deserving of it. Papa is so much happier now and it’s delightful to see them together. Promise me that you will not be so stern with her? You look quite alarming when you are stern.”

  “It is not my intention to be stern,” he said. Dear Elizabeth, so young and so unaware of how fragile a thing a young girl’s reputation was. He wondered if the protégé would be joining them. His morning encounter with Nell Dorchester did not indicate that
another meeting, so soon after, would be an improvement.

  He needn’t have been concerned. When he and Elizabeth entered the dining room, only Lord Bennington and his new wife were in the room.

  Marguerite Winslow went to greet him in a rustle of olive green satin which set off her brilliant auburn hair and sparkling blue eyes. He was surprised to see that she was actually a rather petite woman; he had expected a Junoesque female, and not this dainty specimen of femininity.

  “Bennie has told me so much about you,” she said. “I could not wait any longer, but must meet you without delay. Thank you for coming.”

  Bennie? He supposed that was his father, grinning at his wife’s side.

  “Lady Bennington,” he said formally, bowing from the waist. He was absurdly relieved to see that the sapphire ring worn by his mother did not adorn the new Lady Bennington’s finger.

  “Marguerite,” she corrected him. “I am unused to the title and in my intimate circle, which I hope is where you will be, I remain Marguerite.”

  At least she didn’t expect him to call her Mamma, he thought. He simply bowed again and took his seat at the table.

  The luncheon was simple: soup; turbot and new potatoes, with vegetables; cheese, and fruit. His father had always preferred richer repasts and St. John wondered if this was another one of those reforming efforts which the actress had inflicted upon Lord Bennington.

  “Are you fond of the theatre, St. John?” Marguerite asked as they began eating.

  St. John noticed that she cut her food into small bites and chewed slowly. While she ate, her blue eyes were intent upon the others as they spoke, as if the conversation and not the food was the reason for them to be at the table. It was, he had to admit, a disarming trait. No doubt it had been very effective in snaring his father; older men relished being the center of attention when they were no longer able to compete with younger men for a woman’s attention.

  “I am indifferent,” he said. “I go upon occasion.”

  “Sinjin prefers the country life to London,” Lord Bennington explained. “He is happiest tramping about the grounds with his walking stick and Cassius for company.”

  “Cassius?” Marguerite inquired.

  “A mere hound,” St. John answered. “No particular pedigree and no special talents. He is content to accompany me on my walks.”

  “Sinjin is concealing his affections,” Elizabeth laughed. “He dearly loves Cassius and Cassius is devoted to him.”

  “Did you bring him with you?”

  “No, he would not fare well in the city. He enjoys his freedom and there is none of that for a dog in London.”

  “A pity. I am very fond of dogs, but you are accurate. It is unkind to confine them in a city as noisy and crowded as London is. I look forward to meeting Cassius,” Marguerite said. “When I leave the stage, I shall be able to get a dog as well. Bennie has agreed.”

  Bennie.

  St. John kept his face blank. “Leave the stage? Are you planning to do so?”

  “Eventually. First I want to make certain that Nell is established. After that has happened and she has begun to perform lead roles, I shall feel more confident about leaving her. She is extremely talented, but the acting world is fiercely competitive and she must win her laurels on her own. As she shall,” Marguerite declared in a voice that rang out as if she were delivering a speech from one of her plays. “She is enormously talented. Have you seen her perform?”

  Not on stage, he thought, but having seen her in male attire, astride a horse, he could not help but regard her appearance as a performance of sorts.

  “I have not had that pleasure,” he said.

  “You must. She is exquisite. She is performing tonight. It’s a lovely role. She plays a young girl who masquerades as a youth in order to be near the young man who has captured her heart. He, sadly, is not worthy of her. She has some very good lines. Although she is not the lead, she steals every scene that she is in. There are experienced actors far beyond her years who do not have her sense of timing.”

  “You are very proud of her,” he said. So that was where she had acquired the ease with which she wore men’s clothing.

  “Very much so,” Marguerite acknowledged. “It is splendid to see someone so young and talented grow in her prowess.”

  “You have known her long?”

  “All her life.”

  “She is a relative, perhaps?”

  “Only in my heart,” Marguerite said, and then, so deftly that he did not realize how skillfully she had managed to change the subject, she was bringing Elizabeth into the conversation. “Nell and Elizabeth have become great friends, have you not, my dear?”

  Elizabeth happily continued the conversation. It was clear that she and the protégé were friends, at least in his sister’s opinion. Was Nell Dorchester a true friend or was she an actress here as well, feigning friendship so that she could capitalize upon the loyalty of a young girl who knew so little of the world that she could not possibly suspect the machinations of others?

  As Elizabeth spoke, St. John glanced at Marguerite. Her eyes met his over the rim of her wine glass. Her gaze was direct. Was there a challenge in those eyes? He could not be sure. Was she warning him from seeking to find out more about Nell Dorchester? Or was she daring him to try?

  8

  A Decision is Made

  There was something unsettling about Marguerite Winslow Bennington, St. John thought as he was admitted into White’s, greeted with affection by several of his comrades from his school days, endured having toasts to his great fortune in acquiring such a glamorous stepmother as Marguerite Winslow, and then invited to wager upon how long the actress would remain the toast of Drury Lane, now that she was Lady Bennington. He begged off the wager with the quip that he could not afford such stakes while his father was in town.

  “Lord Bennington has become quite the devoted husband,” complained George Bayard, one of the friends from the long-ago days at Oxford who had been sent down for some sort of misbehavior. “He’s no longer any fun at all.”

  This was not the first person to comment upon his father’s reformed character. Was it true that Lord Bennington now eschewed the vices he had been wont to enjoy? During lunch, Marguerite had made no claims to a life of abstinence from the past times which entertained the upper classes. She enjoyed betting on horse races, she told St. John without apology, and never missed the Newmarket races in April and October. She was, she confessed, a martyr to fashion and could not abide to be thought behind the times. Of course, she had added, it was fortunate that she had her own money and had invested wisely so that she could indulge in her little sins. He wondered if that disclosure had been intended to ease his concerns that she might have married his father for the Bennington wealth, or if its purpose, if she knew that it was St. John and not his father who controlled the pursestrings, was to delude him into thinking that she was actually a model of frugality, with financial means of her own?

  He decided that it would be worthwhile to inquire of Carstairs what he knew of Marguerite Winslow’s finances. Then he sat down with a brandy and joined the others at the window. He had no intention of making one of the outrageous wagers for which the spectators at White’s window were famous, but it was a diversion that could take his thoughts away from the mystery of Marguerite Winslow and her protégé.

  It was not long before the attention of the window watchers was captured.

  “It’s an equerry from the Palace!” exclaimed George. “Is he coming in?”

  “Equerries won’t be admitted into White’s,” derided another gentlemen. “A servant is a servant, after all, even if he does serve the royal family.”

  “I’ll wager he’s bringing a lovely to the Palace for the Prince Regent’s pleasure,” declared George. “What say you, Sinjin? Will you wager?”

  “Why should the Prince Regent be sending an equerry to procure a woman on the public street?” St. John inquired, bored with the exchange.

  �
��Will you not wager?” George pressed.

  “I will not.”

  “I will,” announced another young man, unknown to St. John. “What’s more, I’ll wager that she will appear before that carriage across the street has passed out of sight.”

  Other gamblers, eager to expand upon the terms, pronounced their adaptations to the proposed wager. St. John allowed his brandy to be refilled. How tedious this was. He ought to simply go home, or perhaps he ought to join a different club. Boodle’s, perhaps.

  “Isn’t that Nell Dorchester?” queried George.

  “Where?” St. John inquired, rising to his feet.

  “Aha, so you too have fallen under her spell!”

  “I have never even seen her playacting,” St. John evaded. “I have merely heard of her.”

  “You must do more than hear of her,” George raved. “She is a meal for a man’s eyes.”

  “Hush—she’s going to the equerry! The carriage is still within sight, but soon, soon, it shall not be!”

  “She is being helped into the royal carriage! The carriage is turning!”

  “Why should she be getting into the royal carriage?” St. John asked, his heart sinking as he realized that the rumors were true.

  “You have been rusticating in the country,” George said. “All London knows that she is the new favorite of the Prince Regent. He goes to the theatre at least once a week to see her, and he visits her backstage. Now, see, she is being brought to the Palace. There is a new favorite gracing the Prince Regent’s bed. A wager on how long she will remain the favorite!”

  As the gentlemen clamored to join the betting, St. John left the club. To think of that lovely, independent-minded young woman accepting the role of a royal mistress was troubling. While it was true that he had considered offering to make her his mistress, he was at least young and, he hoped, not unattractive. What, he wondered, would Marguerite Winslow say if he offered her protégé his protection in those terms which a woman of the world would understand. And which, no doubt, she had availed herself of before convincing his gullible father that she deserved matrimony.