Finding Love on Drury Lane

by Charity McColl

  The matter must be attended to with discretion, he thought as he sat in his study that night and considered. Was Marguerite so desirous of fame that she would wish her protégé to become a royal mistress? Or would she not prefer the girl to have a discreet lover who would not subject her to public disgrace? For, no matter what, eventually the Prince Regent would move on. Would it not be preferable for Nell Dorchester to enjoy the constancy of a younger man of means who would ensure that she benefitted from the transaction?

  He summoned Linden.

  “Take this to the Theatre Royale and see that it is given into the hands of Marguerite Winslow and no other,” he directed.

  Linden eyed the sealed missive dubiously. “Can you not send it to your father’s house?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “Very well,” Linden sighed. “I suppose I shall be able to deliver it. You won’t object, my lord, if I stay for the remainder of the performance?”

  “As long as you deliver this, you may stay overnight at the theatre and be first for tomorrow’s performance.”

  Linden came home late, but St. John had expected no less.

  “You delivered the letter?”

  “Of course,” Linden said. “She accepted it and said to thank you. I had no idea what she was thanking me for.”

  “I have invited her to join me for lunch tomorrow.”

  Linden was virtually impossible to shock, but his fair eyebrows rose so high in his forehead that they almost blended in with his blond locks. “And your father?”

  “My letter informed her that the invitation was for her alone.”

  “Is that not rather . . . untoward?”

  “Ease your vulgar frame of mind; I have no designs upon my father’s new wife.”

  Linden sighed in relief. “For which I am devoutly grateful. Such a scandalous liaison would have even London shocked. I should have to find another position else my own reputation would be besmirched.”

  “Your reputation,” St. John retorted, “is no doubt well known to every lady’s maid in Mayfair. Not to mention every Bow Street Runner in the city.”

  “It adds to my charm, my lord. If you’ve no further need of me, I’m to bed.”

  “Before you seek your rest from your exhausting labors, please inform Mrs. Hemings that I will have a guest for lunch. Light fare, but impressive.”

  “You are quite sure that you aren’t planning a seduction between the courses?” Linden pressed. “If you are, I should like to have you write my character now so that I may proceed to find employment before the shame ruins my prospects entirely.”

  “Go to bed,” St. John ordered, trying not to laugh at Linden’s cheek. The man was as impudent as one would expect of a youth who had come from one of London’s most nefarious neighborhoods. But Linden had wits and he had made himself indispensable to St. John, who could not have abided a more attentive valet. Linden was versatile, amusing, and free of snobbery, unlike some gentlemen’s valets who lived their aspirations through their masters’ pedigrees. Linden truly was invaluable, but St. John was not going to divulge his intentions to his manservant. The keeping of a mistress would be his business and his alone.

  9

  The Proposal

  He was, to his surprise, a trifle nervous as he awaited Marguerite Winslow’s arrival for lunch. The topic he intended to bring up was a delicate one, but he hoped that his father’s wife was sufficiently worldly to perceive the advantages of what he would propose.

  “Lady Bennington,” he greeted her when Linden brought Marguerite into the dining room. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I assume that you wish to have a practical discussion about my intentions regarding your father. You doubtless want to be reassured that I will not humiliate him or drag the family name through the mud. Thank you,” she said when he poured a glass of wine for her.

  She was dressed in a sea-green gown with a fringed sash around her waist that emphasized her perfect figure. Her hair was piled upon the top of her head in an elegant profusion of auburn. Her scent was unfamiliar to him, but arresting in its fragrance. She wore a diamond necklace that was not, he knew, one of the Bennington jewels. Perhaps she had told the truth when she said she had her own means. Or perhaps, he thought realistically, she had been gifted with the necklace by a past lover.

  “That was not precisely my purpose in inviting you here,” he said.

  “No? You surprise me. Did you invite me here to obtain my assurance that I will be circumspect throughout the duration of the Season so that Elizabeth’s debut will be a success?”

  “That was not my purpose either, although I certainly hope that you will treat my sister’s coming out with the proper degree of . . . shall we say regard, and leave it at that?”

  “I am very fond of Elizabeth. I believe that she is fond of me. We are blessed to have a happy household.”

  “I am gratified to hear it. Shall we enjoy lunch? Mrs. Hemings is an excellent cook and I provide her with too few opportunities to display her talents. Please, sit down.”

  He held out the chair for her so that she could be seated. Sitting down across from her, St. John served her from the platter of Mrs. Heming’s incomparable cold roast mutton, which had been first baked in a delectable sauce. The carrots were sweet; Mrs. Hemings was a martinet for the care of her garden and her vegetables were, she assured him, vastly finer than anything that could be obtained from the marketplace. There was custard, light and tasty. The menu was deceptively simple; it was in the tasting that his cook’s talent for adding herbs and flavorings became evident.

  “Your father would enjoy this repast, I think,” Marguerite said directly. “I wonder that you did not invite him. I hope that you will do so while we are all in London during the Season. He believes that I have gone to call upon a friend. I did not wish him to think that you do not wish for his company.”

  “I shall certainly invite my father to dine. And Elizabeth as well. And you, again. I seldom entertain, that is all. As I said, my cook is enjoying the opportunity to show off her skills. My father, previously, preferred far richer dishes than this. You seem to have transformed his palate.”

  “He was troubled by severe gout,” Marguerite answered. “I have persuaded him that it is better to eat wisely and avoid the resulting pain that he suffered from his choices. You have avoided my question. If you are not concerned that I intend to squander the family’s wealth, and you are not fearful that I will ruin Elizabeth’s prospects for her debut, why have you invited me here?”

  He had not expected to approach the matter so forthrightly. A proper lady would not have been this direct. However, he preferred this candor to the sort of waltzing with words that a lady of delicate sensibilities would have employed.

  “It is a topic of some delicacy,” he began. “It concerns your protégé. You have been quite mysterious regarding her origins.”

  “Why should her origins be of any concern to you?”

  “She is my sister’s companion. London society is fastidious about such things.”

  “Have no fear. Nell’s past is her own. It will not affect Elizabeth.”

  “I have heard rumors that your protégé is the object of the Prince Regent’s desire.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “He has been seen in her company. He has been backstage in her dressing room. She has been seen in one of the royal carriages.”

  “I see. And you wish me to counsel her to be less visible in what you regard as her indiscretions?” Marguerite took a bite of the roast lamb. “My compliments to your cook.”

  “I shall convey your compliments. I assume that, as her mentor, you provide your protégé with valuable advice?”

  “Nell is a most sagacious young woman; she requires very little advice. She is not inclined to be reckless.”

  “You do not regard the taking of a royal lover as reckless?”

  A morsel of carrot rose upon the fork in Marguerite�
�s hand. “I suppose for some women, it would be a practical arrangement. But Nell is not such a woman.”

  “She is of age?”

  “She is nineteen. Not of age, no, but she is no schoolgirl. If you fear that Nell’s influence will be an unsavory one upon your sister, I can promise you that your worries are groundless. Nell is not that sort of woman. Although she has only been on the stage for two years, she is well aware that human nature is not always reminiscent of sainthood.”

  “You do not deny that she is the object of the Prince Regent’s attention?”

  Marguerite’s gaze turned to the piece of roast lamb that she was slicing on her plate. “If the Prince Regent is pleased with her performance, does that necessarily mean that he is a seducer?”

  “What other reason would he have for pursuing a woman who is so many years his junior? You will, I trust, forgive me for this mathematical interpretation.”

  Marguerite smiled in amusement. “You need not be cryptic,” she said. “I am well aware that I am much younger than your father.”

  “I should assume as much.”

  Marguerite sipped her wine. “Should your cook be complimented for the quality of this vintage?”

  “I am pleased that you enjoy it. I owe that to Linden. He has an unerring talent for choosing wines.”

  “Linden?”

  “My butler and valet. A most versatile servant.”

  “I envy you your household. Your father’s servants, except for Billings, are not nearly so adept. But you did not invite me here to discuss servants.”

  “No. I am sure that you are concerned about your protégé’s wellbeing.”

  “Of course. My lord, this conversation appears to me to have no destination. You did not ask me to dine with you so that we could discuss the conduct of Nell.”

  “During yesterday’s luncheon, you mentioned that your ambition is to retire from the stage when Miss Dorchester is sufficiently established as an actress. Then, you will spend your time in the country. Miss Dorchester, as a young woman on her own in London, will need a protector. Someone who can look out for her in the absence of parents or a guardian.”

  He thought it was going well. He had provided an introduction that sounded, to his mind, quite dispassionate.

  “Nell is most admirably capable of looking out for herself,” Marguerite said.

  “A woman alone, in London? I think that is naïve.”

  “I was a woman alone in London until I married your father. I have long been a widow and after my first husband died, I did not choose to marry again before now.”

  He had not known she was a widow. Not that it signified; a shrewd woman could use her widowhood to her advantage.

  “My condolences upon your loss,” he said automatically.

  “No condolences are needed. He was, unfortunately, a drunkard and a wastrel. An actor, but not a very accomplished one, although he was related to the Kembles.”

  “The royal family of the stage,” he said lightly. “It seems that there are various royal families. A royal favorite, however, cannot be confident that royalty’s favor will last.”

  “I am not sure that I understand you. Or perhaps I understand you too well. Are you warning me that if, as you believe, Nell were to be taken up by the Prince Regent, she would be discarded and bereft when his interest waned?”

  He could not have phrased the matter so adroitly.

  “Yes,” he said. “As a young woman, cast off from a royal lover, she would suffer in her reputation but also in her welfare.”

  “I should never allow Nell to be so ill-used.”

  “Would it not be better if she were to have someone she could rely on now? Someone who would not be so fickle? Someone who would see that her needs were met and that she remained safe and cared for?”

  “St. John,” she began, studying him intently, “are you asking me for permission to marry Nell?”

  He choked on the wine he had sipped. “Marry an actress! Good God, no! I am proposing to make her my mistress!”

  10

  St. own Considers His State

  “Mrs. Hemings is not happy to be deprived of one of her choice cutlets,” Linden said as he handed the raw meat to his master. “But when I explained that you suffered a black eye as a result of an unfortunate fall, she relented.”

  “Thank you,” St. John replied.

  “I did not tell her that your injury was the result of a well-aimed blow from Marguerite Winslow’s reticule.”

  “The woman must keep gold nuggets in her reticule,” St. John complained as he adjusted the meat to an advantageous position covering the bruised, darkening orbit of his eye.

  “Not a bad weapon,” Linden considered. “I hear that she is a wealthy woman in her own right, so she could very well have gold in her reticule. I have not heard that; it seems that it would be a lure to thieves. But perhaps she is as capable of dealing with them as she is with . . . what did you say, by the way, that stirred her to such a response? You did not criticize her acting, I trust? She’d not be likely to take that calmly.”

  “No, I did not. Please bring me whiskey and extend my apologies to Mrs. Hemings for the regrettable usage to which her cutlet has been put. Tell her not to go to any trouble for supper. I shall be dining in—for the foreseeable future—but at present, I do not anticipate a great appetite.”

  He thought he had managed the matter artfully. As an actress, she could not be ignorant of the fact that many gentlemen chose women of her profession as mistresses. He was not proposing to treat Nell Dorchester ill, nor to deprive her in any way. He desired a domestic arrangement which would have been circumspect and beneficial to both of them. He would enjoy her company and her loveliness, and she would benefit from his financial providence. It seemed, at least it had seemed, to be a most advantageous offer. As Miss Dorchester was only nineteen, he thought that he had done the right thing in going to Marguerite with his offer. Why she had suddenly, after he told her his notion, risen from her chair with the fury of a harpy and assailed him with the reticule that she wore at her wrist, he could not guess. As he had put his hands to his pained eye, Marguerite had opened the doors.

  “You had best see to your master,” she had instructed Linden. “He may be blind. But first, I need to leave. You will procure me a hackney cab.”

  Linden, to his credit, had managed both tasks with a minimum of delay. Now that the moment of crisis had passed—Marguerite had departed, St. John was not blinded—he stood over his master, who was reclining on the couch with a cut of meat over his eye, studying him.

  “I suppose,” he began, “you have already begun to consider how you may mend this breach.”

  “How I may mend it? I am the injured one.”

  “Perhaps. She appeared to be genuinely shaken when she took her leave. As she is your father’s wife, I would advise some gesture of contrition.”

  “She will not speak of this to my father,” St. John said. Somehow, his intuition told him that this day’s conversation would remain entombed in Marguerite’s memory. She would not forget it, which meant that she would not forgive it, but she would not proclaim it, either. She was, he realized, too proud. But how had he offended?

  “My lord,” Linden started to speak, then paused.

  “Proceed, Linden,” St. John said wearily. “You will not rest until you have spoken.”

  “Did you insult Her Ladyship?”

  “My conversation did not concern Her Ladyship.”

  “Who, then?”

  There was no use in keeping a secret from Linden. “I merely suggested that if her protégé were seeking a protector, I would be happy to serve in that role.”

  “Protector—you mean you asked her to arrange for Nell Dorchester to become your mistress?”

  “It merely seems that I would suit better than the Prince Regent, would I not? He is older and vain and besides, he is fickle.”

  “He is also the heir to the throne. If she wanted a lover, she might want one with
a crown. Does she want a lover?”

  “He has been seen in her company. Why else would a royal prince be seen in the company of a young actress?”

  Linden agreed that this was a puzzle. “As to that, I cannot guess. But, if I might, my lord . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You do not spend enough time in London.”

  “What the devil has that to do with anything?”

  “You will pardon my presumption, my lord, but it strikes me that by bringing your suggestion to Lady Bennington, you might have given the impression that you regard her as . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, my lord, as a procurer. If she has a genuine affection for Miss Dorchester, she would have been deeply insulted by your words.”

  “What has that to do with the amount of time I spend in London?”

  “In London, my lord, actors are their own sort of royalty. I know that they are regarded with less than respect, but they are a realm unto themselves. We go to see them perform, just as we gather along the streets when there is a royal procession. We deliver flowers and our adoration. We cherish them. They are used to affection, not contempt.”

  “I was not contemptuous. I think Miss Dorchester is a lovely, clever, admirable young woman.”

  “But you have never seen her perform. On the stage, an actress overlooks her kingdom and accepts the reverence of her subjects. You made this offer to Lady Bennington as if Miss Dorchester were no more than a common trull.”

  “I never said anything so base!”

  Linden held up a hand of caution. “You have not paid court, my lord, to the stage where she rules.”

  “This is a lot of nonsense, Linden. You are suggesting that I would have done better in my suit had I first gone to see Miss Dorchester perform on stage? I fail to see what one has to do with the other.”