The Captain and the Theatrical

by Catherine Curzon

  His father was on the terrace, strolling with his guests. Ambrose approached. He didn’t pause, he didn’t wait.

  “Father, I should like to speak with you.”

  Mr. Pendleton turned to look at his son and Ambrose was surprised at his father’s countenance, a pale tinge now on his usually ruddy cheeks. He greeted the request with a simple nod. After offering an apology to his guests, he drew Ambrose aside.

  “How might I help you, young sir?”

  Ambrose lowered his voice and turned away from the guests, aware of the Tarbottoms watching him. “Might we speak privately, Father?”

  “Walk with me.” Mr. Pendleton made his way onto the lawn and began to stroll, knitting his fingers behind his back as he went. “I own that this bother with Mrs. Pendleton’s bracelet has caused me some worry. I cannot see her so upset. It upsets me in kind.”

  Ambrose swallowed, pausing as he chose his words. “Because you married her for love, Father, did you not? You care for her.”

  “I do, sir, and she has always been constant, as have I.”

  As he thought a theatrical could not be. As his own father had not been.

  “Father, I have always been a dutiful son, have I not?” Ambrose briefly touched his father’s shoulder. “I have always done as you wished. I have respected you, even if I have not agreed with you. Because I am your son and I…I love you.”

  Ambrose had not said as much since he was a boy in silk breeches. The words felt strange in his mouth.

  “I love you, son.” Mr. Pendleton drew in a deep breath, his eyes clouding. “If only the lady were not a theatrical, perhaps—”

  “Pray do not be angry with Mother, but she told me about my grandfather.” It hurt Ambrose to say it, and he knew it would hurt his father even more, to be reminded of the cruel hand that fate had dealt him as a boy.

  His nod was brisk, his voice likewise. “Did she now?”

  “I am sorry, Father, to mention it, but I understand—a little, perhaps—why you are against my union with Cosima. And I know that you will think I am abdicating my duty to you, just as your father did to you—but really—” Ambrose stopped walking, forcing his father to halt his progress. “—I love her. And she and I shall be as constant to each other as you and Mother have been.”

  “Your mother has spoken to the parrot more than I. She believes the disappearance of her bracelet is an omen of ill fortune.” Mr. Pendleton shook his head. He looked back at the gaggle of guests, then returned his attention to Ambrose. “Is she so precious to you, son, that it would cost me the society of my youngest lad and my wife if I stick to this path?”

  Ambrose looked into his father’s earnest gray eyes. “I would never turn away from you, Father, but if I were to wed Cosima and you hardened your heart to me…that would be your decision. If you decide to close your purse to me, then I shall work to keep a roof over my head, and my darling Cosima’s. I never meant for this wedge to divide you and Mother—it pains me to think that it is my doing.”

  “My heart could never be cold to you, Ambrose.” His father reached up to slip his arm around his son’s shoulders. “You’re my youngest lad. I confess I never slept a night through when you were at war and I’ll not see the end of you over something so daft as a lass. I’ll make you no promise today but… The young lady’s mother is north of the border, is that right?”

  Hope began to flow in Ambrose’s veins once more.

  “She is, Father, yes.” Intriguing with an earl, no less, but Ambrose thought it prudent not to mention that.

  “Have her son summon her to the Hall, at my expense, and we will see,” Mr. Pendleton decided. “I shall tell Mr. Tarbottom that there is a necessary delay, as I’m sure he wouldn’t want his own lass married if it’s not to a man who loves her. She’s a sweet and innocent one, we need to do the right thing by her and cause her no embarrassment.”

  Ambrose tried to nod, agreeing with his father, when all he could see in his mind was Harriet, smiling while wearing the stolen pearls. “Oh, indeed, sir, she is but an innocent.”

  Which wasn’t something he could say about her mother, either.

  “One thing, Ambrose. Is our contessina really compromised as her brother suspects?” He looked Ambrose in the eye, seeking out the truth. “Speak honestly. Is there a child?”

  Ambrose shook his head. “She is not with child, Father. I am sorry to have deceived you, but it was the only way, it seemed, to force your hand. I am not proud of what I have done. Cosima is an innocent, I swear to you. But we do love each other, Father, and the thought of being torn from her is too dreadful to bear.”

  “Summon her mother.” He patted Ambrose’s shoulder and smiled. “And we shall see.”

  “Thank you, Father!” As if he were still a lad, Ambrose gleefully hugged his father, forgetting for a moment how much taller than him he had grown.

  “Now get along with you.” Mr. Pendleton slapped his son’s back. “I’ve a ball to dress for!”

  Ambrose laughed as he gave his father a bow, then scarpered across the lawn. The weight was shifting from his shoulders at last. He ran at a trot toward the stables and the coach house, just in time to see a carriage arrive with distinguished guests on board. Ambrose skidded to a halt and at once assumed the demeanor of a grown man. He went up to the door of the coach, ready to welcome—

  “Viscount and the Dowager Viscountess Hartington, I do believe?” Ambrose realized his mouth was hanging open like a fish’s. He closed it, and grinned broadly. “You are most welcome—sir, madam.”

  “And the wife!” The viscount climbed down and held out his hand. First emerged his viscountess, smiling graciously at the sight of Ambrose. In her hand she held a rolled sheaf of papers that Ambrose recognized as his own play, the copy that Orsini must have passed to the peer to win his favor. She nodded a greeting and stepped aside to allow the elderly lady Ambrose had seen in the pleasure gardens to descend, her face as sad as it had been then, though she mustered a smile for their host.

  “Forgive our coming around the back,” Hartington chirruped, placing his hat upon his graying head. “Mama wishes to sneak in and rest without all that fuss they make at these sorts of things. Truth be told, it was all we could do to convince her out of the house at all, so—”

  “Teddy,” the old lady cautioned, pointing a finger at her son by way of warning, as though he were still in the nursery. A second carriage arrived now and a third, the retinue of the theatrical viscount descending to join their employer in this unorthodox meeting place. Ambrose watched as Hartington dispensed instructions this way and that, while his wife took the dowager’s arm and stood aside from the group, the attention of both women taken by the script that she had now unrolled.

  “The Ladies Hartington shall need to rest from the road and finish reading their play while I plead with Orsini on theatrical matters,” he explained to Ambrose. “One sent late word of our acceptance, but one suspects we passed it on the road!”

  Ambrose spirits soared, but he kept a lid on them as best he could. Although he had the advantage now over the Tarbottoms, he would have to play his hand with care. “My mother set aside our best rooms for you and your party, on the off chance that you would attend. She will be overjoyed that you were able to come. Do follow me—I will show you where they are. I know not where Orsini is—his sister is in residence too, however. He might have gone to speak with her, but I shall find one of them at least, I promise you that.”

  The party seemed happy to simply be off the road and soon the ladies were settled and the business of unpacking the trunks began. With tea summoned, all was soon right with the world, but one thing played at Ambrose’s mind. If she learned of the family’s presence, Harriet Tarbottom would not wear those pearls and would be sure to hide them away from any chance of discovery.

  “They tell me in London that the Tarbottoms are here,” the viscount commented. “Such a charming little family. Would that our eldest were not only twelve years old, I might have s
pied a pretty bride for him in that miss. As it is, he has some years yet before he thinks of such matters!”

  “Ah…might we speak, Lord Hartington? It is, I fear, a subject of some delicacy.” Ambrose nodded toward the large bay window, which could be screened from the room by heavy curtains. With a comical expression of intrigue, the peer followed him to the window with all the enthusiasm of a child at Christmas.

  Lowering his voice, Ambrose told him, “Cosima and Orsini believe they have discovered your mother’s pearls…and the thief.”

  “They have what?”

  “The miscreant and the loot are in this very house. I realize you are friendly with the—” Ambrose bunched his hands into fists. He knew Hartington had no reason to believe him, and might not take kindly to him impugning a young lady of his acquaintance. But Ambrose had to speak the truth. “I am a man of honor—pray understand that I do not make accusations lightly.”

  “No, no, I can well imagine that you do not,” the peer replied, his face darkening. “But perhaps you might make your accusations a little clearer, for I fear that I have not quite grasped your meaning! I must speak with Orsini, of course, for I have another pressing matter to discuss with him too. Happily, of a rather more pleasing nature!”

  His play. Could it be his play that Hartington was so keen to discuss with Orsini? No, it was a silly hope. The matter of the pearls, however, had to be addressed.

  Ambrose shook his head. “I have not, for my father and Mr. Tarbottom have been arranging a marriage between myself and— It is Harriet. She is the thief. Not only has she proudly worn your mother’s stolen pearls to dinner, but she has also stolen a bracelet from my mother. Cosima tells me that Harriet intends to wear the pearls to the ball tonight. If she discovers that your mother is in attendance, then, unless she is an utter fool, she will not—so, Lord Hartington, would you mind your presence here remaining secret until Harriet has appeared in the pearls? Meanwhile, I shall hunt out Orsini for you.”

  The theatrical gentleman regarded Ambrose with a rather narrow gaze and for a moment Ambrose thought he might be about to receive something of a dressing down. Then he nodded and pressed his hand to Ambrose’s shoulder.

  “I shall do it, for my mother will know the pearls at first glance. I hope for her sake that Orsini is correct, yet I cannot deny that I wish it were not so, for the thought of a young lady indulging in such—” He shook his head. “You shall know me at the ball, for I will be dressed as the Bard of Avon himself. I say, all of this pearl business might be a play in itself, what? I have no talent for it. Alas, I am but a producer.”

  Ambrose glanced toward Hartington’s wife, who was grinning to herself as she leafed through her quire of papers. He cleared his throat, and said, “I happen to dabble in playwrighting myself, you know. I believe you have read one of my works?”

  The frown settled again as Hartington no doubt mentally sorted through the plays he had read, eventually deciding, “Alas no, I recall no Pendleton play. I would be happy to, of course, if you wish me to give your work a once-over!”

  “Orsini passed it to you, Lord Hartington. It is called…” Ambrose puffed out his chest, as proudly as his father when he spoke of his mines, “…Of Fleet Fortune; or, The Duke’s Disgrace. I am working on another—Avarice and Ambition; or, the Magnate’s Misfortune. There’s a trunk in my dressing room stuffed with the things.”

  “You?” He blinked, then glanced to his wife and mother. “Why, the ladies are reading it even now! I have begged Orsini for your name!”

  “I have had to keep my plays a secret—my father has never been one for the theater, although…Cosima performed the song from Fleet Fortune the other evening and Father did find it amusing.” Ambrose could feel his face heat. “But yes, it is me. The Pen behind the pen, if you will.”

  “Ah, Lady Hartington almost boxed my ears for proposing to La Cosima as a result of her performance of that song. Happily she knows us theatrical sorts well enough.” He laughed. “We shall speak of business later, sir, for I must produce it!”

  Ambrose grasped the viscount’s hands and cheered as if he was swilling pints at a tavern with his troopers. A most ungentlemanly response, but he could not contain his joy.

  “Hartington—you are a king among men! My play—oh! And I will forgive you proposing to Cosima because…well, she’s lovely, isn’t she? My play!”

  “Ladies Harty, elder and younger, here is our playwright!” The ladies looked as though they had little clue what the viscount was talking about, but both smiled politely and made suitably appreciative comments. “Our genius!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say genius…” Ambrose wrung his hands as he grinned from one woman to the other. “More a scribbler, really.”

  “That little pompous fellow, parading here and there.” The dowager viscountess smiled as she spoke, her unhappy demeanor lifting. “Such a creation, Captain Pendleton. He reminded me of my own late father in so many ways.”

  “Ah, Mr. Mallett? His inspiration is strutting about in this very house!” Ambrose shone her a conspiratorial grin. “Say nothing, but I based him upon my father!”

  “Then let us hope he has a well-developed sense of humor.” Lady Hartington laughed, earning an even wider smile from her mother-in-law. “For Harty has every intention of making your play the most sought-after seat in town, sir. We have been reading all the way here, sharing the roles between us, but surely this Cosima can only be played by the Cosima?”

  “I cannot picture anyone else in the role, it is true!” Ambrose nodded with enthusiasm. “Her rendition of the song is perfect—even better than I had it in my mind as I wrote.”

  “Sir, we shall see it staged, I swear it.” Hartington patted Ambrose’s shoulder then withdrew his hand. “If you will excuse me, sir, I shall tell the ladies of your suspicions and our scheme. It is a shock, I confess, but we shall soon have it resolved one way or the other.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Ambrose bowed. “I shall see you all later at the ball!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Orsini, Amadeo, La Cosima—call him what you would—was the happiest he could ever imagine being. He was in love, he was loved, and he would be the most fabulously dressed person at the ball not once but twice.

  There was nothing in life that could not be made even better by a fine suit and frock, Orsini decided as he turned this way and that before his mirror, satisfied that this was the most wonderful collection of silks and laces on the face of the earth. Toiled over day after day, week after week by the finest seamstresses in Italy, it was a creation from the mind of Orsini made into a dazzling reality. For tonight, the Orsini siblings were to be peacocks at last.

  His gown was a wonderful vision of peacock feathers, a train draped over one of his slender arms, shimmering black gloves caressing his olive skin to the elbow and a feathered fan dangling from one perfectly-formed wrist. That celebrated hair, auburn and tumbling, hung loose over his shoulders and a spray of peacock feathers rose from it, just as they fluttered at the edges of his bejewelled blue fan. At his throat and wrist emeralds glittered like the brightest stars in a moonlit sky but more priceless than any emerald, more perfect than any gown, he would soon be forever in the arms of Captain Pendleton.

  First, though, there was dancing. Dancing and plotting and the marvelous Viscount H., who had arrived just in time for the final act. Before any drama, Cosima would dance with her capitano and excuse herself to take the air. Then a quick change would allow Orsini to make his appearance, clad in a suit embroidered with a pattern of those same peacock feathers, capturing attention just as Cosima would before him.

  And Harriet will hate it.

  When the clocks struck eleven Orsini would be back here in his room, waiting for Mrs. Tarbottom, and ten minutes after that, Ambrose would be at the door with Mr. Tarbottom. What an unsuspecting dupe the American was and how starkly he would learn of his wife’s betrayal, but Orsini felt not a jot of sympathy. All the Tarbottoms would receive precisely
what they deserved.

  Orsini’s heart beat fast with excitement as he made his way through the house toward the ballroom, following the sound of happy conversation and sprightly strings. He longed for the moment when he would see Ambrose, his capitano, clad in his uniform, and they would dance before the crowd just as they had danced on an Italian beach beneath the noonday sun long ago. At the doorway he paused, a shake of his head informing the bewigged flunkies there that he wished no introduction, not even a witty one to conceal the identity of the lady beneath the peacock mask. Unseen by the dancers, he watched Britannia dance with Caesar, Henry VIII take a turn with a feathered devil who boasted a considerable décolletage, and all around them were the characters of myth, legend and storybook brought vividly to life. He could hear slippers and boots keeping time in the dance, the rustle of silk and the swish of lace their accompaniment while a dozen sweet perfumes and spicy colognes mingled in the summer night, the fragrances suggesting intrigue and, perhaps, a little touch of scandal.

  Although he was wearing a mask, it was obvious who the dashing officer waiting by the fireplace was. Captain Pendleton, a breathtaking sight in the shiniest boots Orsini had ever seen, his breeches fitting just so to his muscular legs. The scarlet and gold of his jacket were as bright and alluring as the sun, and the tasseled sash around his waist seemed designed to fall as suggestively as possible over his firm thighs. Captain Pendleton crossed the room in a few steps and bowed before Orsini.

  “Madam?” He lifted his mask just a fraction and winked.

  “Capitano.” Orsini swept his gaze over his lover, glad for the voluminous petticoats and skirts that held up the superstructure of his gown. They hid a multitude of sins, as the saying went, including the response of his own body to those wonderful breeches. “They say it is terribly bad manners to monopolize a gent for every dance, but I may forget my manners tonight. Shall we dance?”