Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  The bookseller intervened. “If you would send me your list, I can gather the books and deliver them.”

  “I’d prefer to wander the shelves, see if anything jogs my memory.” Walgrave looked over his shoulder into the long row stretching back behind him and ending in darkness. “Do you have literature in Greek? I misplaced my old copy of Homer’s Odyssey. I’d also be interested in books on navigation or seafaring.”

  “Thinking of returning to the navy, Walgrave?” Aidan lounged comfortably against the table of Lady Wilmot’s books.

  “Only when I need an escape from parliamentary controversy. More often, it’s simply an abiding interest that I satisfy from my armchair.”

  “Then Constance, you must point out your father’s book.” Lady Wilmot put her hand on the bookseller’s shoulder. “Surely, Walgrave, you know The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano?”

  “Ah, yes.” Walgrave gave Constance a more considered look. “The name of your bookshop, the African’s Daughter—it makes sense now. I’ve always intended to read Mr. Equiano’s autobiography, if you have a copy.”

  “I’m happy to show you.” Constance beckoned him to follow her into the dark depths of the store. It was the sort of bookshop one could happily get lost in: long aisles of books, punctuated by a table or a comfortable chair. But he couldn’t risk being drawn to the allure of the books—he had to keep his wits about him.

  The bookseller seemed intent on remaining with him, so he expressed interest in one field after another. Periodically—seeing a book he recognized from a positive notice in the Monthly Review—he would add it to the growing stack in the bookseller’s arms. By the time he and the bookseller reached the far back corner, he had more than twenty titles.

  “My stack has grown almost too tall for you to carry.” He looked longingly at the next shelf. “Perhaps I could continue looking, while you determine how much I owe you.”

  Constance gave a quick sidelong glance to the middle of the right wall—where broadsides and other papers covered a wide brocaded cloth.

  Her eyes returned to his, the hope in them unmistakable. “All of these?” The set of her shoulders was tense. She clearly expected him to decide against his purchases.

  True, he had intended only to buy at most three of the books, but he was unwilling to disappoint her.

  “All.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, then spread broadly. “Of course, your lordship. I will have the total at the desk.” She hurried to the front, balancing his stack of books on her hip.

  Once she was out of sight, he slipped away quietly to investigate. The brocade covered a wooden door, behind which a tiny room housed a desk, a chair, piles of books, and a stairwell up to the bookseller’s lodgings. No outdoor exit on this level.

  “Walgrave!” Forster’s voice resounded down the aisle.

  Harrison pulled the brocaded door shut, using the flat of his hand to control the sound of the door clicking against the jamb. He pulled a book from the nearest shelf.

  “Ah, there you are.” Forster read the sign over the rack of shelves Walgrave stood before. “In household management?”

  Walgrave held up a battered edition of Susanna MacIver’s Cookery and Pastry. “My cook deserves a gift.”

  Forster barked a laugh. “She must, to put up with you. But no matter. We are going. Do you wish for a ride back to Mayfair?”

  Walgrave considered his options. “Would Whitehall put you out of your way?”

  Chapter Two

  “You are late, my dear, very late. The curtain opens in an hour,” chided Mrs. Helena Wells, the star of the night’s main play and editor of the World. “Come in. Tell me what you discovered.”

  But when Olivia stepped into the light of the dressing room, Mrs. Wells and Meg, the wardrobe maid, both gasped.

  “My girl, look at your dress. With those tears, it’s fit only for the workhouse! And you are covered, head to feet, in dirt.” Mrs. Wells wet a towel with water from the basin. “Meg, bring Miss Olivia’s costume here. She can dress with me.”

  Olivia waited until the maid left before speaking.

  “It’s soot. I was followed from my meeting with Mentor, and my only escape was by rooftop.” Olivia scrubbed her hands and face with the towel. Her hands trembled with the aftereffects of fear and desperation. “The descent wasn’t meant for a dress.”

  “I don’t like this. It was much safer when we received all our information by correspondence at the World. Then the only risk came in confirming that what our various writers told us was true. But this new set of informants, insisting on meeting in person, making you skulk about in alleys or taverns, and escape by rooftop! It’s not safe, Olivia. The tips I’ve taught you on how to alter your appearance are little good against a knife or a pistol or a strong man intent to overpower you. And the number of meetings . . . how many this week?”

  “Only three. This afternoon, tonight, and tomorrow. I agree: The risk is greater, but the information is invaluable. This afternoon, I was simply stupid—stupid and reckless.” Olivia felt frustration tighten at the back of her throat. “I could have altered my height, or my gait, or used paints to appear old or misshapen. But I did none of it. I only hope Mentor was not also seen.”

  “I imagine you thought it was foolish to put on one set of paints only to come here and put on another.” Mrs. Wells patted Olivia’s arm consolingly. “Yet we should have anticipated someone would try to unmask our Gentleman by unsavory means. Not a day goes by without another letter demanding to know who An Honest Gentleman is, and not a week without another speech in Parliament decrying our Gentleman’s investigations. I thought your sex would protect you from suspicion, but I was wrong.”

  “No, I should have been circumspect.” Olivia refused to be mollified, not when the stakes were so high. “But I was lucky to have seen him following me, lucky to have found strangers willing to help me, lucky even that the bookseller’s building was so suited for escape. Just think—if I hadn’t seen him I would have led him straight to you.”

  “But, my dear, how many times have you been in London—in that part of London—and never been followed?” Mrs. Wells shook her head disapprovingly. “The next time you are in town, we will expand your repertoire of costumes before you have any more meetings. We will talk to the property-master—thicker soles on your walking shoes would make you taller, and wigs . . . we can do surprising things with wigs. Perhaps he’ll even let us borrow that marvelous one you wear in the interlude.”

  A sharp tap at the door silenced the pair, and Meg entered, followed by the wardrobe mistress. The pair placed Olivia’s costume on an empty chair.

  The wardrobe mistress, Mrs. Price, a stern old woman who had been an actress in her youth and still played any hag or witch in the repertoire, examined Olivia. “There’s no salvage for that dress. Soot, you say?”

  Olivia nodded.

  Mrs. Price held out a gnarled finger to Meg. “Get one of the burlap bags. It won’t do to get soot on Mrs. Wells’s feathers. And you”—she pointed Olivia to behind the dressing screen—“I’ll help you contain the mess.”

  At Mrs. Price’s direction, Olivia unbuttoned her walking dress to the waist, then folded the bodice down over the skirt to the point where Mrs. Price held up the skirt by its hem. The pair then rolled the material from Olivia’s hips to the floor. Even so, the dress tucked into the burlap bag with a dark puff.

  “Price, dear, can you find something Olivia can wear home?” Mrs. Wells called from the other side of the screen.

  “She can take the blue muslin walking dress she’s wearing at the end of the afterpiece—but it has to be returned tomorrow by noon.”

  “That’s excellent,” Mrs. Wells cooed. “Of course it will be back in time.”

  Mrs. Price pressed a key into Olivia’s hand, whispering, “My son Horace will watch over you.” Price picked up the soot-filled bag and left the room, calling Meg to follow.

  Olivia, dressed i
n only her chemise and drawers, stepped from behind the dressing screen. Holding out the key, she asked, “What did you tell her?”

  “You are meeting with an old lover.” Mrs. Wells, seated at her mirror, applied white powder to heighten the contrast between her skin and her paints. “He has refused to accept the end of your liaison and might be belligerent. Horace will intervene on the word stop.”

  Olivia stepped back behind the screen to don her costume for the evening. When she finished, she watched as Mrs. Wells rubbed lampblack on her eyelids to define her eyes, then, using a pot of artist’s pigment, painted her lips and cheeks.

  “Can you help me with this, my dear?” Wells picked up a flamboyant hat dyed a rather startling shade of orange with an ostrich feather stuck upright at the back. When she moved her head, the ostrich feather moved with her, creating the effect that the feather shared her every opinion.

  Olivia held the hat straight as Wells pinned it into place. Olivia had come to admire Wells, as an actress, editor, and even an adviser, but with her the story always came first, and Olivia had secrets.

  Should she tell Wells that she knew the man who had been following her? Suddenly, and without warning, she remembered the last time he had held her. The weight of his body on hers as he’d pressed her into the wall. She felt again the warmth of his breath against her neck, the caress of his lips moving in a line from her jaw, down her neck, across her chest, slowly, maddeningly, until he’d taken the soft center of her breast into his mouth, and teased it until her whole body ached with need and desire.

  “Olivia! My dear! You are flushed.” The actress searched Olivia’s face for signs of illness or fatigue. “Are you well?”

  Olivia returned to the present moment with a start. “It’s only a bit of stage fright, that’s all.”

  “But there’s no need for nerves. I knew from the moment I heard you sing that you had to perform the gypsy’s role in my benefit. Even if you couldn’t act that voice would mesmerize them. But then when you took the stage—oh, you are made for it! Once they hear you tonight, my benefit will be the talk of the town—and talk sells newspapers, dear!”

  “Well, you will be pleased with your ticket sales for tonight’s benefit. The stage manager says they sold more than four hundred advance tickets.” The thought of that many faces watching her sing made Olivia’s throat go dry. “That should provide a nice income for you and the other actors during the off-season.”

  “That it will, my dear, that it will.” Mrs. Wells preened, pulling on long gloves dyed the same garish orange as her headdress. “Oh, dear, you look green. But once you are on stage, you’ll feel right at home. Besides, there’s no one to replace you at this late hour. Mrs. Farley sent a note only half an hour ago that she will not be performing tonight. The old diva has fallen ill—or rather drunk—for the third time this week, and the understudy Julia is taking her place.” The ostrich feather conveyed Mrs. Wells’s disapproval. “Can you hand me my wrap, dear?”

  Olivia picked up the gossamer shawl, a rich violet, to complete Wells’s costume, but her thoughts were far away. How had Harrison found her? The neighborhood was far from his typical haunts. If he was in that part of London during the day, he had likely been sent there, but by whom? And for what purpose? She had seen him only after she and her informant had parted ways. Still, Harrison may have seen the meeting. Would he recognize the man who had offered her his arm to cross a muddy stretch of boardwalk?

  As she considered whether the entire situation could have been simple chance, Olivia tried to shake off the niggling fear that she had been betrayed. She would have to warn Mentor. It would be risky, even dangerous, to meet again so soon, but she had little choice. Not warning him could be disastrous.

  “Of course, you must be careful.” Mrs. Wells hadn’t noticed that Olivia was lost in her own thoughts, and Olivia struggled to put together the pieces of Wells’s lost conversation. “Would you recognize him if you were to see him again? Did he have any distinguishing features or marks?”

  “Tall, quite tall. Lithe, but with a strong set to the jaw and shoulders. A deliberate walk, firm with long strides.” Olivia closed her eyes, remembering the surprisingly graceful way Harrison moved.

  “My word, girl. How he walks is nearly useless if he comes to the World looking for you. What of his hair color? His eyes? His clothing?”

  “You won’t need to recognize him. I know his name. It’s Harrison Levesford, Lord Walgrave. He was once my husband.”

  Mrs. Wells fell backwards dramatically in her chair. “Your husband? I thought you were a widow.”

  “I am, in a way. But it’s a long and not very interesting story.” She leaned over to buss the older actress’s cheek. “And it’s far less important at this moment than getting into my costume and paints. You’ve given me this chance, and I don’t want to disappoint you. I promise: I will tell you all tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Wells sat brooding as Olivia picked up her costume. Part shepherdess, part gypsy, the dress was designed to tease the audience. The blousy cotton bodice scooped low enough to reveal the soft mounds of her breasts, while the colorful skirt split on one side to reveal glimpses of her calf and knee. Olivia knew Wells was deciding how much to push her, so she kept her silence as she dressed.

  When Wells eventually spoke, it was with resignation. “I haven’t time to find out the whole story and help with your face, so I will let it go . . . for now.” She picked up her pots of paint. “Sit. It’s time to transform you from mouse to temptress.”

  Half an hour later, having described each step, Mrs. Wells handed Olivia a hand mirror. “Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you tonight.”

  Olivia regarded herself with surprise. Wells had thickened and darkened her brows, brightened her cheeks with more rouge, filled out her lips with a deep red pigment, and applied a dark beauty mark under her lower lip at the corner. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

  Wells tucked Olivia’s shoulder-length brown hair under a thick wig of heavy red tresses that reached almost to Olivia’s waist, then stepped back, clearly pleased with her work. “Now let me see the rest of you.”

  Olivia stood, smoothing her skirts, then lifted her chin and held her shoulders back.

  “Turn.” Mrs. Wells waved her hand in a circle. “But as you will on stage. Use your body, your clothes, to captivate me.”

  Olivia paused and closed her eyes. Imagining herself in her part as a seductive gypsy, she stretched out her arms shoulder level, then began to undulate her hips and arms slowly as she turned.

  “You will drive the rakes mad.” Mrs. Wells held out a fan. “Now what signals are you to use for this meeting with your informant?”

  Olivia removed her instructions from her reticule. “To refuse the meeting, I open my fan but snap it shut against the palm of my right hand. But I’m not going to refuse.”

  “You have no idea what might happen between now and the end of the play. It’s best to keep your instructions in mind, in case something unanticipated happens. Tell me the rest.”

  Olivia sighed, knowing Mrs. Wells was right. Too much that they had not anticipated had already happened. “To accept the meeting, I open the fan with my left hand and draw it down my jawline. The meeting itself will take place in the prop room beside the old lion cages, immediately following my performance.”

  Mrs. Wells placed her hand on Olivia’s arm. “My dear, are you certain you wish to risk this meeting? My gut tells me this man is dangerous. Surely writing another novel would involve fewer dangers.”

  “You simply don’t like his pen name.” Olivia tried to keep her tone light.

  “Cerberus. Guardian of the gates of hell. Now why would such a name give me pause?” Mrs. Wells’s ostrich feather turned down, disapprovingly.

  “There’s more at stake than my safety, Helena. We need Cerberus’s information.” Olivia put her hand on top of the older woman’s. “But I’ll be safe. We planned it this way. The theater will be full. Horace will be watc
hing to protect me if I need him. This is the safest possible place to take this man’s measure.”

  Mrs. Wells embraced her unexpectedly. “Be wary, Livvy. I’d rather lose the most scandalous information than see my best correspondent harmed.”

  Olivia tied a loosely knit shawl at her hip and tucked the fan in at her waist. She held up her reticule. “When I go onstage, might I leave this here?”

  Mrs. Wells began to reply, but a loud voice from the corridor called, “Mrs. Wells. You are needed on the stage. Mrs. Wells.”

  “I must go, dear. I promised to show Julia the changes we made yesterday to the fourth act. She dies then, you know, and very prettily.” The actress took one last look in the mirror, then headed to the door, answering with only partial attention. “You may remain here until your performance. And leave anything you like, dear, anything at all.”

  Chapter Three

  “Drinking without me, gentlemen?” Harrison asked his two oldest friends as he entered his study.

  Henry, Lord Capersby and John, Lord Palmersfield, were collapsed in the two most comfortable chairs, legs extended, cravats untied, each holding a full glass of wine.

  “I see you’ve found my best claret.” Harrison loosened his cravat while glancing at the clock. He had more than enough time to share a drink with his friends, change clothes, and meet Forster and Lady Wilmot at the theater.

  “Join us, Walgrave. We’ve left you the couch.” Capersby gestured broadly, or as broadly as he could from the depths of his chair. “We’re discussing the newest rage of a novel. Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the Edinburgh Review, calls it ‘immoral, corrupt, and improper for women.’”

  “Listen to this one.” Palmersfield held up the Monthly Review. “‘The plot is instructive, encouraging dissolute young nobles to value their estates and family ties, particularly their faithful and long-suffering wives. But we cannot laud the story itself. Beginning with war and espionage, the narrative progresses through every gothic abomination imagined by Horace Walpole or Monk Lewis. Murdered corpses rot in the ancient manor walls, long-lost heirs are identified by bloody birthmarks, unearthly music fills the manor at night, and ghosts walk from paintings. Rape, shocking incest, and other sins lead our noble protagonist—we cannot call him a hero—to a cruel and bloody end, justified by his dereliction and deceit. How much better would the novel have been, both for public morals and private instruction, if the lady proclaimed as its author had relied more heavily on the model of Mrs. Radcliffe?’”