The Captain and the Theatrical

by Catherine Curzon

  “Throw your manners aside, Contessina. You may monopolize me all you wish.” Ambrose took Orsini’s arm and led him onto the dance floor, where a set was just beginning. He felt Ambrose’s hand slip into the small of his back, wandering over the boning that gave Cosima her shape. Then—because no gentleman’s touch should linger—the hand disappeared.

  Orsini didn’t care to look for the Tarbottoms, for she knew that Harriet’s triumphant vanity would see her wrapped in those stolen pearls, and hadn’t that been a masked Shakespeare she glanced on the terrace speaking to a Spanish inquisitor? Hartington was here and the thief knew nothing of it, nor her impending and very literal unmasking.

  Ambrose and Orsini danced with gleeful abandon and sure steps, their gazes only for each other. Of course there was no mystery as to their identities and Orsini reveled in it, in the freedom to dance with Ambrose in front of all these people and have none of them know the truth of what they witnessed. Two men in love, outdancing their peers and raising such smiles and appreciation from their audience.

  They received glances from all, both envious and amorous. Pagolo sailed past on the shoulder of a lady pirate, the blue of her gown matching the parrot’s feathers.

  Ambrose laughed. “What an outfit Mama has chosen! And who is that she’s dancing with?”

  “John Bull.” Orsini laughed, but surely the stout fellow in his bright red waistcoat and blue coat could only be Mr. Pendleton. The couple looked happy, he realized, for the first time since he had arrived in Derbyshire and begun the subterfuge.

  Ambrose had brought his mouth close to Orsini’s ear. “I am glad to see them happy again.” The weight of feeling in those few words was not lost on Orsini. He inclined his head until his hair gently brushed Ambrose’s cheek, but said nothing in reply until their dance took them a little beyond the set.

  Only then did he whisper, “I love you, Capitano.”

  “And I you, Contessina.” Ambrose’s hand returned to the small of Orsini’s back, a touch that would have to suffice instead of a kiss.

  Dance followed dance as the time ticked past and for Orsini, there might be no one else in the room but Ambrose at all. They swirled and stepped on the floor, safe in the knowledge that tonight was the last night that would see the Tarbottoms hold any sway over their love.

  Speaking of Tarbottoms, Orsini caught a glimpse of a figure he recognized not by her looks, but by her pearls. Harriet, for surely it was she, chatting with no trace of recognition to Viscount Hartington himself, laughing behind her hand, simpering and giggling, the stolen heirloom around her neck as she did so. She was dressed in Grecian fashion, a Helen of Troy or Penelope in expensive swathes of pale-colored silk. A woman who had been so keen for her engagement to be announced that, rather than make any attempt to dance with her intended, was instead chattering with another man.

  Her mother was dancing not far off, dressed as gauzy Titania, her attention divided between her daughter and the door through which the guests arrived.

  She awaits Orsini!

  Let her wait.

  “One more dance, tato,” Orsini whispered to his lover. “Then I must seek out my brother. Perhaps you will help me search?”

  “Oh yes, one more dance!” Ambrose’s lips brushed against Orsini’s cheek. It could have been by accident, but Orsini knew better. If anyone were to notice their absence then the scandal would be over soon enough, for Orsini had no doubts that Mr. Pendleton would find much to admire in his mother when she arrived in Derbyshire, and she loved Cosima as much as she loved Amadeo. What a fortunate girl and fellow he was.

  There was a lull as the orchestra prepared for the next tune, and the voices around them grew louder to fill the gap. Orsini and his captain took their places, and the music struck up again. On they danced, two men together, seen but unseen.

  “Shall we dance ourselves off to seek my brother?” the peacock-clad Italian asked in a whisper. “And whatever else we might find?”

  “Yes, let’s! To Orsini’s bedchamber?” Ambrose’s mischief sparkled through his mask as they skipped over the dance floor. The crowd was so thick now that their dance easily became a walk and they slipped through the candlelight and silk and out into the hallway, unseen, or at least unremarked.

  Having lived most of his life at Pendleton Hall, Ambrose of course knew unfrequented corridors and staircases. Halfway up a flight of stairs that had been concealed behind a tapestry curtain, Ambrose caught Orsini in his arms.

  “No one ever uses these stairs anymore—they’re part of the old house. Hear how quiet it is? You’d barely know a ball was carrying on at this moment in this very house!” Ambrose nuzzled against Orsini’s cheek, kissing him. “And no one would know a soldier was hiding here with his lady.”

  “Do you intend to compromise me, sir?” Orsini whispered. “Here in our hideaway?”

  Ambrose’s breath hitched in his throat as he caressed Orsini’s back, sweeping down to rest his hand on Orsini’s buttock. “If you would like me to.”

  “Compromise me.” He smiled. “Enthusiastically.”

  Kisses rained down on Orsini, between murmurs from his lover. “Now what’s all this under your gown, you naughty contessina? Might I be permitted to look?”

  Orsini put his hand to his mouth in a pantomime of shock, then whispered, “I have a rather sizeable secret, sir.”

  “A secret, eh?” Ambrose arched his eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be the pistol I felt pressing against me earlier, would it?”

  “You shall have to discover for yourself, Capitano.” He pressed his hand to Ambrose’s breeches, stroking the hardness that strained within. “What fun we might have with that sash and a sturdy bed!”

  “Would you lash your captain to the bedstead and ride him?” Ambrose nibbled at Orsini’s ear then kissed his way to his chin before dropping to his knees on the step before him. He unbuttoned the front of his breeches then lifted the hem of Orsini’s gown up and over his head. “Now…if only I had my lantern—there is mischief afoot!”

  “I shall ride my captain all night long.” Orsini laughed. With a sharp gesture he flicked open his fan, batting the peacock feathers before his face. Then he whispered, “I wish you well in your explorations.”

  “My word…what a construction! And what a—good Lord, there is a pistol under here, and it looks remarkably like a—” No further words came from beneath Orsini’s skirts once Ambrose had taken Orsini’s erection into his mouth. Murmurs and sighs rose to Orsini’s ears, and looking down he saw Ambrose’s polished boots poking out from under the hem of the peacock gown. What a perfect picture it made, bawdy and forbidden and so Pen. Orsini closed his eyes and gave himself over to his lover’s touch, sighing his encouragement.

  Another sound from beneath the gown told Orsini that Ambrose was pleasuring himself. Unfastening his breeches, indeed. But it did not seem to distract him and he went on teasing Orsini with his warm mouth and his beautiful, soft lips. They could be discovered, he knew, but the thought was a thrilling one and Orsini pressed his hips to match Ambrose’s rhythm, gasping his name. He was lost in a world of pleasure, every touch driving him on toward release.

  A groan came from underneath Orsini’s skirts, then another, and finally a long, drawn-out sigh. But even if Ambrose had reached his pleasure, it appeared that he would not stop until Orsini had found his. Yet the Italian knew that Ambrose wouldn’t have long to wait and he bit back a louder cry, his knees buckling as pleasure surged through him. It was all he could do not to stumble and he reached out one gloved hand, steadying himself against the wall.

  Slowly, Ambrose emerged from under the gown, his hair disordered and a lazy smile on his lips. He didn’t get up at once but stayed kneeling as if he no longer had the ability to stand. “And what a secret that is to hide under your skirts, Cosima!”

  “You must tell nobody, Capitano,” Orsini purred. “Now back to the dancing, sir, and I believe my brother shall soon be with you. Another peacock, you know.”

 
“I shall not say a word of your secret.” Ambrose buttoned himself up again and finally rose to his feet. He tucked a handkerchief into his pocket and gave Orsini a wink before kissing him. Then he bowed. “Good evening, sweet madam.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  They parted with another kiss before Orsini was on his way, ready to play the seducer. It was the matter of minutes to shed Cosima’s costume in his chambers and tuck it away in the dressing room. The makeup was washed away, the hair tied up and the second and, he hoped, last outfit of the evening was donned.

  The suit that would make a Cornuto of Theodore Tarbottom!

  He turned before the mirror to examine this costume, rather pleased with how quickly the sister could become the brother. Richly pigmented iridescent colors were blended into smooth, luxuriant fabric to create a jacket, waistcoat and breeches that appear to be made of myriad closely woven peacock feathers, the white shirt that he wore a mass of frills and lace.

  Around Orsini’s slender neck was a peacock-patterned cravat tied into a bow of ridiculous proportions, fastened with an emerald pin the size of a child’s fist, for what was a peacock suit if it could not be accompanied by ridiculously expensive jewels? Emerald buckles adorned his mirror-polished leather boots and around him there was a cloud of delicate perfume, rendering him almost perfect. All that remained was to take a turn around the dance floor and ensure that Mrs. Tarbottom had seen her false suitor.

  And pray that Pen does not lose track of the time!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ambrose returned to the ballroom a little crestfallen to be losing his Cosima, for he could not dance with Orsini in his arms without his lover transformed by a gown and makeup. He registered several lingering glances from various ladies in the room, from the youngest to the oldest, and he smiled at them in return. He wasn’t sure he was imagining it but even one or two of the male guests were taking an interest in his uniform. Not for the first time, Ambrose wondered just how many other men were like himself and Orsini, denying who they were and who they loved.

  He and Orsini had found a way to be together, as long as this evening went to plan. In fact—

  “Amby!” A pirate grabbed his elbow and piloted him toward the window. A pirate who looked remarkably like his mother. “Amby, I don’t know what happened—he was here one minute, then the next he’d vanished!”

  “Vanished?” Ambrose scanned the room. “Who—Father?”

  “No!” Mrs. Pendleton shook her head. The long striped scarf she had tied about her hair into a piratical turban began to come loose, and Ambrose made an attempt to rescue it before it unraveled and slipped off. “Pagolo! He disappeared, and I’m beside myself! He was on my shoulder while I danced with the viscount, then he beat his wings and was gone. And the windows are wide open, Amby! He must’ve flown outside. Oh, I haven’t lost him, have I? Tell me I’ve not. He’s my little companion, and I’ll never look myself straight in the mirror again if he ends up—ends up— No, I cannot bear to say it!”

  Alarm gnawed at Ambrose. If he had to help his mother look for a parrot in an enormous, dark garden in the middle of the night, then he might not be in time to rescue Orsini from Mrs. Tarbottom’s clutches.

  “Mama, please—he’s a sturdy old beast. He’s probably off somewhere romancing a…peacock.” He attempted a laugh. “Come, shall we dance? They’re about to start another set.”

  “No. No, I cannot, for I’m that worried I cannot think, Amby! I’ll put my feet in all the wrong places.” Mrs. Pendleton nudged Ambrose as Harriet wandered into the room. “And where do you think she’s been? If they’ve done anything to my Pagolo, I’ll wring their necks like turkeys—all three of the Tarbottoms, the blighters!”

  Ambrose placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders and steered her to the refreshments table. “A drink will steady your nerves, Mama, then we shall find Pagolo.”

  Mrs. Pendleton shot away from Ambrose and clasped the sleeve of William Shakespeare, who was taking a drink. “You haven’t seen my parrot, have you, Lord Hartington? Oh, please say you have!”

  Another grabbed his other sleeve, a woman with white hair whom Ambrose knew immediately was the dowager viscountess. She was clad in an elegant pale blue gown, her face concealed beneath a simple mask, but when she spoke, every word paid witness to her outrage.

  “Those are my pearls around that creature’s throat,” she said urgently, nodding toward Harriet. She was deep in conversation with her father, who pointed a reproachful finger at his daughter before he stalked from the room. “Your father’s crest shall be on the clasp, I know it!”

  She was silenced by a great shriek of excitement that came from the doorway as, over the heads of the dancers, flew Pagolo. Something glittered in the candlelight, a string of gemstones it seemed, held by the avian in his beak. The crowd parted to allow him to settle in front of Mrs. Pendleton and set down the treasured bracelet she had thought lost.

  “Oh, my bracelet!” Mrs. Pendleton gasped as Ambrose crouched to pick it up for her. “Pagolo, you clever fellow!”

  “You’re a naughty little dipper, Harriet,” Pagolo told her in a game approximation of Mrs. Tarbottom’s most indulgent voice. “Whatever will your papa say? Lock the box now, keep it safe! Show Papa!”

  The orchestra were between tunes and the room had fallen silent. Pagolo’s words had rung through the room and as Ambrose and Mrs. Pendleton had turned to stare at Harriet, so had everyone else.

  Harriet took off her mask and stamped her foot. “That proves nothing. Only that Pagolo is a thief and should be plucked and stuffed and served for supper!”

  Mrs. Pendleton crooked her finger at Harriet. “Come here,” she said, in her sternest voice, which Ambrose hadn’t heard since he and his brother had skidded down the stairs on a priceless Turkish rug.

  Harriet folded her arms in obstinate silence, her nose poked up toward the ceiling.

  Mrs. Pendleton beckoned her again. “Come here, Miss Tarbottom, and return those pearls to their rightful owner.”

  “They’re mine!” Harriet screeched.

  “Let us not make a show of ourselves,” Viscount Hartington said, gesturing to the orchestra to play on, which caused the reluctant audience to disperse. “If the clasp bears our crest, I’ll wager the trinkets pilfered through the season will be amongst your haul. If not, then I shall owe you more of an apology than I can rightly give. Perhaps Mrs. Pendleton might remain here with you while the captain and I seek your parents. Then we shall examine the clasp.”

  Pagolo, however, was having none of that and hopped across to sit on her narrow shoulder, as though appointing himself jailer. The dowager was likewise less than willing to follow her son’s chivalrous lead and instead held out her hand.

  “My pearls, Miss Tarbottom,” she demanded. “Now, if you please.”

  “I…I was only looking after them. You’d left them lying around. I can’t help it if you’re careless.” As she’d spoken, Harriet had been unfastening the necklace, and she now placed it on the dowager’s palm.

  “Lying around?” Mrs. Pendleton glared at her. “Just as my bracelet was lying around—inside its case!”

  “Let us see what your parents might say about this,” the viscount said, fixing Harriet with a dark glare. Ambrose, however, suspected they knew full well what she had been up to. And her father’s money would doubtless see that she escaped any real punishment, though for a woman like Harriet, scandal might be punishment enough. “Captain, will you join me in my search?”

  Ambrose nodded. There had to be time—it could only be half past ten, as long as the clock he’d checked outside the ballroom had shown the right hour. “My father and Mr. Tarbottom are doubtless discussing marriage business—let us try his study? Do follow me, your lordship.”

  Together the men strode from the room, leaving Harriet Tarbottom safe under the watchful eye of the ladies Hartington and Pendleton.

  “The parrot is very vocal,” the viscount commented as they went.
“Do you think— Captain, were the words he repeated truthful? Are we to believe that the girl’s mother indulged her stealing?”

  “Her mother…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off as he tried to find the words without making public slurs against a guest in his parents’ home. “I do not wish to speak ill of a lady, and I say this not to escape marriage to her daughter, but it is the truth, sir. Her moral compass is somewhat…you do understand? It might appear that she is a good woman, however…”

  Ambrose glanced from the corner of his eye at the viscount.

  “They were guests in my home. I confess we all grew somewhat fond of them,” Hartington admitted. “There have been three or four thefts to my knowledge during the season, always from houses holding jolly gatherings. This is a bad business indeed if all is as it seems.”

  “If the Tarbottoms were at all of those gatherings, I believe we can be confident of the thief’s identity.” And to think Ambrose would have been sent beyond the seas, when Harriet Tarbottom should’ve been put on the next ship to Botany Bay.

  “I doubt that those involved shall pursue this matter in the courts, alas, for what rich man wishes to advertise that he is a dupe who could be robbed by a young lady and suspect nothing?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I rather think that her marital prospects have decreased somewhat, though!”

  “Unless she wishes to marry a gentleman of the highway!” Ambrose began to laugh, but it caught in his throat as he heard raised voices from the direction of his father’s study. “Excuse me, Lord Hartington, we must hurry, I fear.”

  Ambrose ran to the door. “Father?”

  “Dictated to by a damned peasant like you!” he heard Tarbottom bellow. “Think about the marriage, reconsider the investment, he says! You, sir, have damned me to bankruptcy! I have creditors waiting!”

  Ambrose didn’t wait to be admitted and shoved his way into the room. There, clad in the ermine robes of a king, Theodore Tarbottom was stood inches away from Mr. Pendleton. The American was a head taller than Ambrose’s father but the little Yorkshireman wasn’t cowed, his hands balled into fists on his hips and the expression on his face all too familiar from Ambrose’s occasional childhood misdemeanors.