“I hope he sang bawdy songs to distract you from gloomy thoughts about your soldier.” Ambrose poured more brandy. “And of course, your soldier would have been singing bawdy songs too! Even while he thought of his friends far away.”
“Did you, Pen?” Orsini blinked his long eyelashes and rested his elbow on the table, cradling his chin on his hand. “Did you think of your friend in Italy?”
“Yes—yes, of course I did.” Ambrose couldn’t bear to look at Orsini as he admitted this, and went back to enjoying Pagolo’s performance. Too late, he realized that he had sounded rather short with his friend, but if Orsini had known what thoughts Ambrose had dwelled on, he might never speak to him again.
Orsini turned his head away to watch the parrot, suddenly silent. Ambrose felt as if he had scolded a child, as though that sharp tone had been meant unkindly and had sliced through his friend’s cheer. Eventually Orsini murmured, “I did not mean to remind you of the battle, Pen.”
“No—it is I who must apologize.” Ambrose brought Orsini’s hand gently to his lips just as if Cosima were real and not his friend’s concoction. “I have many things on my mind, dear friend—which your warm company has almost made me forget.”
“If we might free you from your marital servitude,” Orsini mused, twining his fingers in her—his—own, “you would be allowed back to the theater! So we must decide, you met Cosima on your grand tour? And have we been lovers? Will I be a loud and difficult creature seeking the man who promised me his heart? What is our story, Pen?”
“If Cosima is an Italian actress, then I should be surprised if she were not loud and difficult!” Ambrose laughed. A memory of a theater in Florence and one actress in particular had sprung to his mind, a querulous lady who had demanded the two men accompany her about the city for an evening. And one evening had been more than enough. “But there must be sweetness in her too, or my father will not understand why his son fell in love. He thinks little enough of me now, but if he saw me bullied to the altar he would think even less! And yes—perhaps we were lovers.”
Ambrose stared off at the lanterns as they trembled in a gentle breeze. “Just one snatched night, when we sloughed off our innocence in each other’s arms.”
Orsini nodded thoughtfully, tapping his finger against his chin. “I am, by nature, a calm and cheerful girl, but I do possess a temper when aroused and I shall demonstrate it if required. So, Pen, you will be glad to see me, yes? You have dreamed of one day embracing your Cosima once more?”
Ambrose sighed, assuming the role of a lover. If he acted his pretense, Orsini couldn’t know what truth lay behind his words. “I have dreamt of nothing more these few years past but the moment when I might embrace my darling Cosima again. The memory of her beauty, of her sweet kisses and tender caresses, has been a torment to me. Every night I lie awake on my bed of thorns, unable to stop my thoughts wandering back to her—my darling, my sweetheart, my Cosima.”
“And I, Pen, amore mio, I have never wanted another. When you left me, when our Italian summer ended, I wept until I had no tears left in me.” He caressed Ambrose’s face with his fingertips and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Let us hope some gossip reaches your pappa, of your liaison in the pleasure gardens?”
Ambrose moved his chair closer to Orsini’s until they were side by side. He ventured to put his arm around Orsini’s waist and rested his chin on his friend’s shoulder. “There. Is that not fodder for scandal?”
“How scandalous dare we be in Derbyshire?” Orsini’s mouth was very close to Ambrose’s ear, his voice a low purr. “For your father’s benefit, of course?”
“For Father’s benefit, yes.” And not for any other reason at all. No. None. Not one bit of it. “Perhaps a little kiss—upon the cheek, mind.”
Orsini obliged, his pursed lips pressing softly to Ambrose’s cheek. They lingered there, warm and tender, before he asked, “Like that?”
Ambrose couldn’t reply at first. A sensation had shot through him that he was sure must be akin to a strike of lightning.
At length, he was able to croak his short reply. “Yes.”
And he could say no more.
“Then I shall be sure that your father sees many such kisses,” he replied softly. “And plenty of embraces besides.”
His head resting on Orsini’s shoulder, Ambrose whispered, “You are quite the actor, I must say! You do not mind, despite being a fellow, all—all this? Kissing…embraces…with me? Bearing in mind that I am a fellow too.”
“It is a role, Pen, never fear. Unorthodox, I know, but if it might keep you here in England, Cosima is yours to command.” Orsini was still whispering, maintaining the impression of some scandalous and unheard exchange. “And better with a performer who is known to you than a tavern actress, as long as you have no objections to a pretty Italian in a variety of beautiful gowns?”
“Who could possibly object to that?” Ambrose peered over Orsini’s shoulder. A group of society people, whom Ambrose vaguely knew, had spotted him. From their eager gossip, Ambrose became aware that a novel subject for conversation would be on the lips of all. The Dowager Viscountess Hartington’s unhappy theft would, with any luck, be unseated by the news that the second and youngest son of Mr. Barnaby Pendleton of Derbyshire was intriguing with a beautiful lady in Vauxhall Gardens. “And it’s working!”
“Will we tell him that we have pined for one another?” Orsini smiled. “That it was on your Grand Tour that you fell in love with the toast of the Roman stage?”
Ambrose’s heart bumped up against his ribs. He nodded, only now wondering if he could bear the subterfuge.
For in truth, he loved Orsini.
“Will you take me to Derbyshire with you? Or should my arrival be a surprise even to my lover?”
The thought of explaining themselves at every coaching inn between London and Derbyshire worried Ambrose. Besides, if his father was not expecting an Italian actress to turn up at his door, no matter what wisps of gossip might come his way, then all the better. “A surprise,” Ambrose decided.
“When do you return?”
“Tomorrow.” The word slid sadly from Ambrose’s lips. “I am to visit my brother on the way back. Father wishes me to talk to him of mining matters. My brother runs several collieries—Father couldn’t be more proud of him.”
“One more question… They will suspect issue.” He phrased it so delicately. “We are agreed that our night of passion did not lead to a surprise nine months later? For I expect the matter to be broached!”
“I am the putative father of no one,” Ambrose assured him.
“And my figure thanks you!”
“I’ll drink to that!” Ambrose went to pour more brandy, only for the bottle to present him with an insignificant splash. He mimed taking an almighty mouthful from his glass. “One must pretend, I am afraid.”
“My Pall Mall sanctuary has plenty of brandy, if you are ready to depart?”
“Good brandy, too, I’d wager.” Ambrose rose from his chair and offered his arm. “Unless you should like a dance first? But if we leave before closing, we give more fuel to the gossips than a spirited set of ‘Hunt the Squirrel’.”
“My Lord, Pen, you must have been hidden away! Nobody hunts the squirrel in Rome anymore!”
“It’s all the rage in Derbyshire, I assure you.”
Orsini raised his eyebrow and decided, “Pall Mall.”
Chapter Two
It was long after midnight when the two men found themselves dancing merrily up Pall Mall and into the rooms that were Orsini’s temporary home in London, Pagolo perched on Ambrose’s shoulder and Orsini happily spiraling the gossamer shawl above his head. Knowing Orsini, Ambrose had hardly been expecting a run-of-the-mill lodging house, but the truth was even grander than he had allowed himself to imagine. During the months in which they had roamed the continent he had quickly realized that his friend didn’t like to rough it, but these rooms would have seemed luxurious even to an emperor. It was a mini
ature Versailles, a palace’s worth of splendor crammed into a suite of half a dozen chambers above a clockmaker’s shop a few doors along from Ambrose’s regular city haunt of Brook’s.
Orsini shooed away the maid and valet who rushed to tend them, clearly under the impression that their charge was as female as the audience believed her to be. Finally alone he told Ambrose, “This belongs to Hartington, you know. I rather think it’s where he pops his mistress when she isn’t bedding the king!”
It certainly looked the part, all marble and gold and ebony, vast swathes of red velvet and silk, mirrors and glass and ornate chandeliers as far as the eye could see. It suited Orsini too, whose own noble family favored a touch of the overdone.
“You shall find Pendleton Hall quite pedestrian, I’m afraid!” Ambrose was ushered onto an elaborate gold sofa, and he panicked as the pale silk upholstery came into contact with his outdoor clothes. But Orsini seemed entirely at home here, so Ambrose soon relaxed.
“Not at all!” Orsini threw his shawl down atop a gleaming walnut piano. “A touch of brandy? Oh, Pen, the scene in Fleet Fortune with Cosima and the brandy bottle— I thought Harty would die laughing!”
Ambrose gripped the arm of the sofa, awkward at such high praise. “That Hartington himself should find it amusing—well, it caps the globe! And yes, let’s have more brandy and we shall raise a toast to Lord Hartington.”
“Would I be right, Captain, in recognizing a fair few of our old Italian haunts within the more decadent scenes you have created? All those absurd dowagers and flighty Casanovas.” He poured two generous glasses of brandy and waltzed them across the room to where Ambrose was sitting. Orsini’s feet were sure and steady in their dainty slippers, dancing lightly over the deep Persian rugs despite the amount of alcohol they had enjoyed, his eyes half-closed as he hummed a gentle tune. “I am the luckiest fellow alive to have read it, and you are the greatest to have written it.”
“But ‘tis a trifle, my dear Orsini! You flatter me kindly, but I am not sure that it should ever be performed. What would my father say? A poem in the newspaper nearly sent him into apoplexy.” Ambrose swirled the brandy in its glass and breathed the scent of an expensive make. He expected nothing less—Orsini had splendid taste in most things.
“No flattery, Pen, only an honest reading of an excellent debut.” Orsini dropped down onto the sofa beside him in a cloud of lace and perfume. “I have read a thousand comic plays and appeared in the best and the worst and Fleet Fortune is the finest yet. It is a sorry thing indeed that the world will never see it!”
Ambrose did not believe that Orsini’s sincerity was a performance. If his play really was as good as Orsini claimed, then Ambrose might dare to hope that there was something else in the world for him besides soldiering and industry. “It is an age since I last read it. Are you sure it does not sound like a mere youthful squeak?”
“I must tell you something else, Captain P. Promise you will not be terribly angry?” Orsini batted his long eyelashes. “It is a nice something, really.”
“Really?” Ambrose settled against the cushions and grinned at his friend. “I promise not to be terribly angry, but depending on what it is—might I be allowed a tiny bit of anger? Which I shall dissipate by grinding my teeth for a few seconds? You shall barely notice, I swear it.”
“You had asked me not to show your play to anyone in the whole world and I promised that I would not. And I broke my promise and showed it to Lord Hartington, as I have already confessed.” He pouted, his full lips just turning upward into a smile. “And he showed it to Mr. Sheridan. And Mr. Sheridan showed it to the Prince Regent and he to Mr. Bannister and all of them adored it. They clamored for your name but I would not be drawn! Whenever—if ever—you escape the mine for the theater, you will have the most loud and well-connected champions.”
Ambrose stared at his friend, dumbstruck by this revelation. He almost spilled his brandy.
“So—well, that certainly answers my question, then. Not a youthful squeak. Far from it. Goodness me!” Ambrose grasped Orsini’s hand. “My silly play, with Mr. and Mrs. Mallett, and the beautiful Cosima, and the Spanish fellow and… My word. To think, I begged you not to show anyone, for fear they might think it foolish! Perhaps I am a little angry, but look—I have ground my teeth, and my anger is gone.”
“Huzzah!” Orsini laughed, closing his fingers around Ambrose’s hand in turn. “The Spanish fellow is adorable but it is Cosima they are falling over themselves for. I believe every gent would wed her if he could, that little minx you have created!”
“I must admit, she was the most fun to write of all the characters!” Ambrose held Orsini’s hand a little tighter. “I had thought—daydreamed, in my idle moments—that you should make the perfect Fernando, but you are Cosima. You would have to play her!”
“And you can see that I am well used to appearing en travesti.” He gestured to the gown. “It began as a little silliness for carnivale, and has become my fortune!”
Orsini’s lips drew Ambrose’s attention. They were so soft and plump, and red as cherries. A beautiful mouth for a beautiful woman. Gentlemen would swoon for them, searching out those lips for just one kiss, and fading away for want of the owner’s affections.
“You will do my Cosima justice, I am sure of it.” Ambrose raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed Orsini’s. In jest. Of course.
“Sir, what if my father should see?” Orsini’s voice had changed just slightly, the timbre raised a little into a softly feminine register. “We might not be so alone as we believe!”
Ambrose smiled, recalling the lines of the play that he had written in what seemed like another lifetime. Before Waterloo, before American industrialists and their awful daughters. He assumed what he thought might be a passable Spanish accent and spoke the lines of lovelorn Fernando. “Señorita, my heart’s desire, no one passes by this bower. We shall love unseen and unknown!”
“One kiss,” Cosima agreed with just the right combination of enthusiasm, desire and uncertainty. “And then fair Cosima must away, Your Grace.”
Those lips. Goodness.
Ambrose grinned playfully as he leaned nearer to Orsini, as if he really was just about to—
Oh dear. Ambrose brushed his lips across Orsini’s and felt once again that jolt, as if of lightning. He wanted to kiss Orsini, just as he had wanted to all those years ago when they had swum together in the sea.
He had never stopped wanting to.
Yet perhaps this happened all the time in theatrical circles, for Orsini simply fell back onto the sofa, laughing. He raised his brandy glass and told Ambrose, “We make the most marvelous Cosima and Fernando, hiding away in their little Italian paradise until the end of time, she innocent in her beauty, he handsome in her arms.”
Ambrose unplaited his fingers from Orsini’s and gripped the arm of the sofa again. A nice, solid sort of chair it was, a reliable, comfortable piece of furniture—and why did his heart beat so thickly now, pounding in his head as if his ears should burst?
“I do hope one day to see Fleet Fortune on stage.” Ambrose took a long, brave swig of brandy. It burned its way down his gullet. “Perhaps you might tour it on the continent when things are more settled again?”
“Of Fleet Fortune; or, The Duke’s Disgrace, by A Gentleman.” Orsini took on a rather faraway look. “I simply will not allow you to be spirited off to America against your will. It is a fine sort of place, I hear, but surely a fellow should harbor some desire to move if he is to do so? One cannot force a playwright into a mining office and say to him, there, now make money and forget the stories you wish to tell!”
“I have no choice in the matter.” Ambrose finished off his brandy and attempted a smile. “I have a vague notion, however, that Mama does not like the thought of me going beyond the seas. She complained of a nightmare the other morning—of a terrific storm and a shipwreck! I do hope that I shan’t drown. It would be most inconvenient.”
“You shall not b
e there at all, Pen, for Cosima is to descend on Derbyshire and demand the hand of her lover, just as he promised it to her all those years ago. Never fear, my friend, you shall be saved from your marital fate!”
Seemingly satisfied with that conclusion, Orsini snuggled closer to Ambrose. In the elaborate marble fireplace the fire was beginning to die, the room growing darker despite the overdone chandelier that hung high above them. It was the sort of room Ambrose’s father would no doubt approve of, for it screamed of wealth and opulence and the world that Barnaby Pendleton, born with barely a penny to his name, had managed to claw his way into. Barnaby, who had no education but possessed a fierce ambition and intelligence and the determination to make something of himself, and who had given his two sons every advantage that money could buy. The elder had already done his bit, an heir and spare, a wife, a hand in the family’s industrial might, and now it was Ambrose’s turn. Waterloo was two years ago—the time had come for him to join the firm too.
“I cannot bear the thought of leaving for my bed in the house on Cavendish Square. My dear friend, I am so contented here!”
“These are the rooms of a concubine, Captain.” He raised one immaculately arched eyebrow, his slender face full of mischief. “Would you like to share my magnificent harlot’s bed?”
“How jolly decent of you to offer, Orsini.”
Ambrose watched the fire collapse in on itself. Having nearly kissed, was sharing Orsini’s bed a wise idea? But Orsini had treated their near-miss as a joke—he clearly felt no awkwardness there. And surely he felt no desire for a pointless gentleman like Captain Pendleton, not when there would be all those pretty actresses at his command. Even if Ambrose desired him, even if having Orsini cuddled to him made his heart sing—Ambrose would not wish to embarrass his friend. If he kept to the edge of the bed, with Orsini on the other side, then all would be well.
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 3
