“Orsini is quite content to remain as he is—how would he ever explain Cosima to his intended?” He laughed softly at the very thought of it. “No, but perhaps Cosima shall decide that her pledge belongs to Thespis? She cannot love a mortal man, Pen, she must dedicate all that she is to the theater. And filthy songs.”
She pantomimed a swoon, placing the back of her gloved hand to her forehead. “Can you forgive her, darling? Will you still let her lead your Fleet Fortune, even though you must adore her chastely from afar, beside those kings and princes who have begged for La Cosima’s favors?”
Ambrose placed his hand over Orsini’s. “I should love nothing more than to see you on stage in Fleet Fortune! And I shall—no America and certainly no Tarbottoms for me.”
“Your father shall deny permission for the wedding anyway, so our finale has already been written.” She patted his hand. “That is our aim, remember, to put a stop to your nuptials and save you from the mines of America!”
“Yes! And I must make efforts to swerve away from future threats of nuptials.” Visions of dreaded afternoon teas and insipid dances crowded in on Ambrose’s mind. “Once we have brought an end to the Tarbottoms’ plans for marriage, the ambitious aunts and matchmaking mamas will return. Do you intend to stay in London, my friend? For I might move there and give my plays a bash—that would keep the mamas at bay, would it not? And just think of the times we shall have at Vauxhall!”
“I have found London to be most impressed by my talents, and I intend to remain and make it known that you and Cosima have an understanding!” Orsini said merrily. “And that, though you love her from afar, you will not entertain the prospect of another. For, tragedy of tragedies, you cling to the hope that one day she will forsake Thespis for as strapping, handsome soldier.”
Now Orsini paused and gave a mischievous grin that was pure Orsini, the same grin he had worn as they’d cavorted in the Italian surf. “And all the time, as Cosima supposedly retires to her chambers to rest, Orsini and Pen shall be out on the town! I declare, old friend, there is much to be said for playing two roles!”
Ambrose immediately warmed to the idea, but it sparked off another in his mind. “Perhaps I could don the garb of a lady too, and Cosima and I might…might do whatever it is that ladies do?”
“Some men, and I am one of them, are rather more of the feminine appearance.” And it was true, for Orsini was slender, his features delicate and soft. Even his feet and hands were dainty, his limbs lithe. “Others—you, for instance—are so perfectly, beautifully male. I cannot see you in a female guise!”
Ambrose ran his finger down inside his collar, as if it was suddenly too tight. “I suppose the disguise might be rather difficult, for I am rather—” He held up his large, square hand. “Broad. But I am told that I take after my mother—indeed, I am not so short as my father. Speaking of whom, do my parents not seem familiar to you?”
“Well, one might see a little of Pagolo in your father, I think?” Orsini tapped his finger to his chin. “Yes, a busy, stout, noisy little fellow who struts and puffs but means no harm!”
“The similarity had not passed me by!” Ambrose laughed. “But truly, my parents served as the models for Mr. and Mrs. Mallett in Fleet Fortune. And perhaps…” Ambrose tipped his head to one side, watching for Orsini’s reaction, “There is even a little bit of my friend, the wonderful Orsini, in Cosima.”
“Oh, Pen, truly?” He blushed beneath his powder. “I feel that I know her intimately!”
Ambrose whispered, though no one was near, “You inspired me, Orsini! Cosima, the charming Italian girl—well, not that you’re a girl, but even so.”
“If only I were, Pen, for then you might marry me and escape all of those mammas in one fell swoop!” Orsini laughed, the nudge he gave to Ambrose more rogue than ladylike. “Cosima Pendleton, wife of a captain who is not broad but, let us say, beautifully proportioned.”
I would wed you in a heartbeat.
But Ambrose couldn’t say it—his friend would flee if he knew what desires lurked in the shadows of his heart.
“Cosima Pendleton indeed!” Ambrose snorted with pretend amusement and came very close to slapping Orsini on the back in matey fashion. He stopped just in time, as he remembered they were being watched, hawk-like, from the drawing room.
“As long as you would not flee and leave your Cosima sleeping?”
Ambrose’s blood turned to ice. His hand was trembling again. “I’m so sorry—for running off as I did, without saying goodbye. You must have thought me so rude. To wake up on your own, after—after—”
After one of the most marvelous evenings of my life.
“I sleep late, Pen, we theatricals always do…especially after a wonderful night and a nice dream.” Orsini gazed up at Ambrose, long eyelashes fluttering. “Wasn’t it a splendid evening?”
“It was,” Ambrose said softly. “I wish there might be many more. And—what was your nice dream? Was it about Vauxhall?”
His companion didn’t answer immediately, but instead lifted one gloved hand to his lips and gave a gentle laugh. Then he looked around the garden, bright in the autumn sunlight, and declared, “It was wonderful. You have a most beautiful home, Pen—it puts the old Orsini palazzo rather in the shade!”
“But Pendleton Hall is so new. And your palazzo is so charming! It has so much history.” The house’s many windows glittered in the sunlight like jewels along a necklace. Ambrose squinted against their brightness. “Even so, I should miss the place if I had to go beyond the seas.”
“Which you shall not. I have promised to save you, and save you I shall!” How overwhelming, how Ambrose’s heart beat faster at the thought—of not being sent to America, of not being married to Harriet dratted Tarbottom! “And we shall laugh about this as we walk in the Italian sunlight again!”
Overwhelmed with impulsive glee, Ambrose forgot himself and grasped Orsini in a tight embrace. “We shall, my dear friend—oh, we shall!”
From the house came the sound of a fist furiously knocking at the glass and Ambrose knew without looking that it was his father, keen to save them any scandal—or any further scandal, given the Italian revelations that day. Reluctantly, Ambrose released Orsini from his embrace. He turned to the house as he took Orsini’s arm again in an unobjectionably chaste manner, so that his father would see he was heeding his rules.
They had reached the edge of an ornamental lake. A bridge crossed over it to an island in the middle with a pagoda and a willow tree. Ambrose could see that his companion was enchanted, but he could feel the heat of his father’s eyes on him. They could go no farther.
“There is much to show you of these grounds, my dear friend—there’s grottos and bridges and statues and temples—but I fear we must remain within sight of the windows.”
Orsini laughed again, then swatted one gloved hand against Ambrose’s arm. The actor let it linger, not so long that Mr. Pendleton would have cause to complain, but long enough to leave him in no doubt as to the feelings of the young lovers. What an actor the Great Orsini was, it was remarkable.
Without thinking, Ambrose touched the edge of his finger to Orsini’s cheek, smiling gently at him. He had to remind himself that Orsini was only acting—Cosima was not real and no matter how convincing it might feel, Orsini was not actually in love with him.
Ambrose dropped his hand away and was suddenly awkward as they walked back toward the house. His companion, happily, did not tease him over his silence but instead was the picture of stately femininity, gazing around at the grounds as they strolled. She hummed very gently, Cosima as demure as Orsini was garrulous, and every bit as enchanting.
“So, Pen, what fun awaits? Your father, Pagolo Pendleton, was chattering about a ball when he tried to stop me from invading the drawing room, something about my not being on the guest list. Is there to be a party?”
Pagolo Pendleton. All Ambrose could see before him was his father, rushing along the marbled corridors, his arms replaced w
ith wings. Those beady eyes that observed all and missed nothing would have been more suited to a bird than to a man.
“Party? Oh, a ball, yes, to celebrate the completion of the ballroom. A chance for Father to strut about on his perch before the great and good and wave his cuttlefish about. And—so he thinks—to celebrate the impending nuptials of one Captain Pendleton to the daughter of American industrialist Theodore Tarbottom!”
“A chance for Cosima to shine!” He released Ambrose’s arm and turned in a neat circle on the spot. “And to dance with her capitano!”
“Mother is insisting I wear my uniform. She was most disappointed when I told her I couldn’t possibly dance with my sword or I would trip over it!” Ambrose babbled, trying to push aside the thought of two men, dancing together at a ball, and only they would know.
Orsini nodded and told him, “I must send to London for a few extra little baubles. Is our Hartington invited? He might carry them north for me!”
“Hartington? Here?” Ambrose gawped about at the many-windowed frontage of the house again. “Would he wish to? Gosh—perhaps. Yes, let’s invite him—he might work on my father to convince him that playwrighting is not a fruitless endeavor!”
“Pagolo Pendleton does not need to like me, only to realize that I am a force to be reckoned with.” He winked one hazel eye cheekily. “You mother, on the other hand, is quite the most adorable lady I have ever seen!”
“My mother is adorable—but I thought you would find her terribly provincial, after all those grand people you’ve known.”
“I am very good at being very loud and knowing exactly what to say and to whom, whether I am Orsini or Cosima,” he admitted. “But if I am allowed to choose between a braying city sort and a kind lady with a misbehaving lace cap, I shall choose the latter every time. How fortunate I was that Cosima and her captain met and fell in love on the warm Italian shore.”
Orsini paused, clearly waiting for Ambrose to confirm the fiction.
“Fell in love…in Italy…” Nostalgia washed through Ambrose. He had, yes, he had fallen in love in Italy. He was no actor, but this was a role he could play.
Yet Orsini frowned, his pretty face clouded by pantomimed confusion. “Pen—you do realize that I’m not really a girl who might steal your heart? I am an actor, a man. Am I so believable?”
“Worry not…” Ambrose lowered his voice and turned his head so that his lips brushed Orsini’s ear. “I know that you are very much a man.”
“And very much more popular on stage as a woman!” She winked. “Let us return to the parents before they imagine all manner of wrongdoings and a carriage for Gretna Green!”
Chapter Seven
A silver bowl containing a selection of nuts was balanced on the arm of Mrs. Pendleton’s chair. She took first one, then another, the parrot nodding and opening his beak, or shaking his head if it wasn’t to his liking.
“I see Pagolo’s moved in,” Ambrose remarked as he and Orsini returned to the drawing room. “If he’s not careful, Mother will feed him up and he’ll be too fat to fly!”
The atmosphere was frozen, Mrs. Tarbottom and her daughter still on the sofa, their smiles as pious as they were false, while Mr. Tarbottom and Mr. Pendleton poured over a portfolio of his father’s mines as though it was the finest continental art.
“Mamma!” Pagolo announced, happily peering at his new best friend. Then he began to whistle a sea shanty, nodding his head in time to the tune and his gaze remaining merrily fixed on Mrs. Pendleton.
She wrenched her attention from the parrot to address Ambrose and his Italian lady. “Now, Cosima, what did you think of our gardens?”
“I think you are very lucky,” Orsini told them, demurely taking a seat beside the hearth. “You have a beautiful home, so peaceful. Or peaceful it was until Pagolo arrived!”
“He’s been keeping us entertained!” Mrs. Pendleton stroked the parrot’s head. “Hasn’t he, dear husband?”
All eyes turned to Barnaby Pendleton.
“Well, he’s a cheeky enough fellow, I shall certainly give him that.” Mr. Pendleton sounded just a touch grudging. “Reminds me of someone, but I’m at a loss as to who that might be!”
He took a sip from his teacup and blinked, in time with the parrot’s blinks. Ambrose hid his smile behind his hand and pointedly avoided Orsini’s glance in case it made him laugh. He, however, remained as placid as ever, and addressed Mr. Pendleton politely.
“I shouldn’t like to do business with him.” Tarbottom laughed, though the joke seemed forced even as his wife and daughter laughed demurely behind their fingertips. “I believe he already thinks that this house is his, Mr. Pendleton. Will he also be a partner in our joint mining endeavor?”
“He looks like he might!” Barnaby Pendleton nodded and laughed as Pagolo nodded in response. Ambrose noted this with interest, wondering if his father might be won over by a parrot. “And we shall celebrate that endeavor and hopefully more happy news at our ball next week, shall we not?”
Ambrose made an attempt to head off his father. “Perhaps we should enjoy ourselves and dance, and not think about—”
Ambrose was silenced when Orsini, who had been at his side, suddenly held his hand to his forehead and stumbled, falling back against him slightly. Orsini gave a murmur of discomfort and blinked, as though dazed, before laughing with embarrassment.
“Forgive me, I—”
“A swoon,” squawked Pagolo as Orsini stumbled again, catching her fingers in Ambrose’s to keep himself standing. He caught Orsini about the waist, aware again of his friend’s talents but more than that, of simply Orsini. He swooned so beautifully, so convincingly, and Ambrose knew that this was a ploy, even if he didn’t know to what end.
“Oh, my word!” Mrs. Pendleton rose with effort from her armchair but was thwarted by Harriet, who was at Orsini’s side in a moment.
“Contessina—you must lie down. Here, let me help you upstairs.” Harriet took Orsini’s elbow, but Ambrose still had his arm around Orsini’s waist. Ambrose saw Mrs. Tarbottom give a soft nod of approval though she remained otherwise still, as though the sight of a young lady in such obvious distress left her entirely unmoved.
What a cold sort of woman.
“Miss Tarbottom, thank you.” Orsini inclined his head very slightly, the feather atop his turban bobbing softly. “I believe a rest will do me no harm.”
He gave Ambrose’s hand a surreptitious squeeze then released it, acquiescing to Harriet’s attentions. Whatever this new scheme was, Ambrose decided, he would follow the theatrical’s lead.
Ambrose released Orsini’s waist. “But you will send notice if you require the attentions of a physician?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing that a noseful of smelling salts can’t remedy,” Mrs. Tarbottom remarked with a grin. “We women are martyrs to swoons—are we not, Mrs. Pendleton?”
Mrs. Pendleton was still hovering above her armchair, as if she couldn’t quite believe that Harriet had usurped her. A puff of air escaped her as she finally dropped back into her seat. “Oh, indeed, Mrs. Tarbottom. Indeed. In this weather, too…”
“Indeed,” said Pagolo, and hopped across onto her shoulder. “Quite so.”
Chapter Eight
As he found himself being escorted from the drawing room by Harriet Tarbottom, Orsini reflected that he hadn’t quite anticipated this new wrinkle in the plan. His intention had been a simple one, to retire to his rooms and prepare for the arrival of Amadeo, the man who even now was hidden beneath dress, padding and makeup. He had foreseen time in which to pull out the male clothes he had brought with him, which were few but flamboyant, and contrive a way to exit unseen and arrive unexpectedly, for he had a feeling that brother Orsini shouldn’t wait to receive Ambrose’s summons but should appear with every gun blazing, furious and filled with righteous indignation on behalf of his sister’s lost virtue. Yet fury and indignation were not emotions that Orsini was particularly au fait with, let alone fears for his fictional
sibling’s virginity.
What fun the role will be. Amadeo but not Amadeo, a man of action rather than rouge and powder.
Yet what if Harriet, his so-called rival for the hand of Ambrose Pendleton, was not so concerned with money and status as he suspected? What if her heart was a kind one and she would appoint herself nurse and companion, at Cosima’s service as she was taken unwell? What if Orsini’s intended request to be left alone to rest until the morning was ignored and he found himself laid in bed with Harriet sitting at his side, reading from the Psalms and administering tonics?
No, that would never do.
“Mrs. Pendleton”—Orsini turned at the doorway to address his hostess—“I wonder if you might permit me to remain in my bed undisturbed until tomorrow. The day is a fine one and I am sorry to miss dinner but I think it will be to my constitution’s benefit if I am able to rest?”
“It’s the springs in the coaches, that’s what it is.” Mrs. Pendleton nodded to her assembly with the sagacity of an expert. “It really does shake one’s constitution, especially over a long journey. Yes, my dear Cosima, you shall rest as much as you need.”
Harriet fluttered her lashes over her doll eyes. Her grip was getting tighter. “Do let me escort you to your chamber, Contessina.”
“This is what happens when young ladies travel alone,” Tarbottom decided. “Why, Contessina, my wife and daughter have a handful of attendants each and we will lay them at your disposal during you brief stay here!”
“Oh, there is no call for that,” Orsini told him, the thought one that hadn’t occurred until now. Attendants? Why hadn’t he thought to bring a dresser or an actress at the very least, someone trustworthy to play the part of maid? “I left London with such haste that my ladies were all still sleeping. I am afraid I am too shy to be tended by a lady that I do not know. It is my Italian blood, you see.”
The Captain and the Theatrical Page 8
