Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  She stood still in disbelief. If this information were true, then the government’s role went far beyond maintaining the public good. No, it had actively been targeting and eliminating reformers and planning its suppression of peaceable public meetings far in advance of the events themselves. Her hand, still holding the papers, fell to her side. To publish this—to accuse the government of corruption—that would be treason. But to let the suppression, the violence, go on without check would be immoral. Cerberus certainly merited his nickname.

  It was good she was separating herself from Harrison. The game she was playing could turn bad so easily, and while she had little to lose, he was a rising star in Parliament.

  “’E’s gone, miss. I saw ’is back as ’e walked down the corridor. Then I locked the door, so ’e won’t be returning that way wit’out a key.”

  “Thank you, Horace.” She forced herself to appear calm as she pressed a half crown coin into his hand.

  Horace’s smile turned broad, almost giddy. “Me bride will be ’appy to see this, miss. Enough to pay the bills for better than a month. I’ll be waitin’ by the stage door to escort ye home.”

  “I’ll need a little time. Perhaps a quarter of an hour or a little longer?”

  He bounced the coin in the air, smiling. “Take yer time, miss. Mrs. Wells will ’ave plenty for me to do. Find me in ’er room when ye wish to go.”

  * * *

  Her ruined—and now discarded—walking dress held a pocket in the inner lining. A few whip stitches to sew up the opening and any document she collected from a correspondent was safely hidden. But with the dress gone, her only option was the more obvious place: her reticule. She folded Cerberus’s list, then tucked it into the small space beside her pocket pistol.

  She sat to remove her makeup, but before she could begin, a voice called to her from the other side of the door.

  “Flowers, miss. For your performance.”

  “How lovely. Bring them in.”

  But the man who entered carried no flowers. As he pushed the door closed behind him, she pulled her penknife from her reticule and hid it behind her as she stood. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the man’s speed or the sharp pain as his fist struck her jaw, knocking her back against the dressing table. She reached for her reticule—less to use her pocket-pistol than to hit her assailant in the head with the bag—but it fell to the floor.

  “That’s yer warning. Now y’ listen.”

  * * *

  “Do you still have that key?” Harrison pulled Forster to the side of the box, speaking low so that none of the other guests, particularly not Lady Wilmot, would hear their conversation. He nodded toward a door at the end of the hall, painted to match the walls.

  “The key to the prop room?” Forster asked in his regular speaking voice.

  “Yes,” Harrison whispered, pulling Forster farther into the corner, away from the rest of the group. He didn’t wish to cause a rupture between Forster and Lady Wilmot by revealing Forster’s former liaisons.

  “Sophia has it.”

  “Your fiancée knows that you once had a mistress in the chorus? No wonder she keeps the key to the dressing rooms.” Harrison shook his head in dismay. “I suppose the two of you aren’t as reconciled as I imagined.”

  A broad smile stretched across Forster’s face. “I can’t imagine being more reconciled. You forget, when Sophia was threatened, we escaped through the prop room. I thought having the key tonight might give her an extra measure of security.”

  “Might I borrow it?”

  Forster stared at Harrison with shock, then amusement. “I never thought I’d see the day. Walgrave—steady, constant, unswerving Walgrave—moved by a pretty face. Or was it a leg? There were some very fine legs tonight.”

  Harrison said nothing, trying to look bored. Forster searched his face, then continued, even more amused. “Let’s see here. My bet is on the gypsy. Pretty face, pretty legs, and a dance designed to set a man’s imagination on fire. Edmund is in town. He might know her if you wish for an introduction.”

  “I don’t need your brother to introduce me.”

  “Not the gypsy? Hmm.” Forster could not have looked less convinced. “Then what is it?”

  “One of the actresses looked familiar. That’s all. An old acquaintance I haven’t seen in years. I would like to see if she’s returned to London.”

  “I still think it’s the gypsy. But I’ll get you the key.” Forster made his way to the other side of the box. Whispering in Lady Wilmot’s ear, he pointed to Harrison. Lady Wilmot’s knowing smile made Harrison wish the ground would open up and swallow him as if he were Doctor Faustus. He could imagine no greater hell than the look of bemused interest on Lady Wilmot’s face as she watched Forster return, key in hand.

  “I must admit, Forster, I’m imagining a hundred ways to kill you. What did you tell her?”

  “Who, Sophia?” Forster shrugged. “Just that you recognized an old friend in the chorus.”

  “Then why is she smiling at me like that?”

  “I’ll offer you one piece of advice, Walgrave: Never underestimate a smart woman.” Forster grinned brilliantly at Lady Wilmot. “We leave for Lady Wilmot’s estate in the morning, so return the key to its place above the door.”

  As Harrison made his way backstage and through the prop room, an old woman glared at him, as if she knew his purpose. But of course she knew. For what other reason did well-dressed men from the boxes take this path? If he was not married and the gypsy was willing, where would the injury lie?

  But in his heart, he could not escape the feeling—however irrational—that he was somehow betraying his wife. He had believed himself married for so long that it would take some time to think of himself otherwise. Perhaps it would be best to continue behaving as if he were married, at least until this business with Olivia was concluded. He thought of the gypsy and her dulcet tones, which seemed even sweeter in memory. No, he was tired of being circumspect.

  At the gypsy’s dressing room door, he paused. He had no flowers, no gifts, only a sincere appreciation of her tantalizingly erotic performance. If he met her, he might find she was only an actress creating an illusion with paints, powder, and talent. Her seductive tones might be replaced by a jarring lower-class accent, and her skin might reveal a hint of the pox. That might be for the best.

  Though the door was only pushed to the jamb, leaving a gap wide enough see a bit of her dressing room, he did not enter. Instead, he paused outside the door, wondering if he should knock, or if he should just go home.

  Beyond the door, he heard muffled voices, one low and ominous sounded threatening. The other, the woman’s voice, was pitched to sound brave.

  He pushed the knob, and the door swung open. The voices came from around the corner.

  “I have nothing to hide,” the woman asserted.

  “Everyone’s got somewhat to hide, you more than others. But for a bit of money . . .”

  “I want you to leave.”

  “Ah, lovey, that’s not a good idea. My master, he is a very determined man.”

  “Tell your master that I do as I wish.”

  “I think you will change your mind, miss. I really do.”

  Harrison stepped into the room from the corridor. From his position he could see the blackmailer—short and wiry—lean toward the gypsy.

  Suddenly the actress moved, grinding her heel into the man’s instep, until he howled in pain. While he was off balance, she shoved him back, angling him toward the door. “Tell your master, if he wishes to blackmail me, he should do it himself.”

  When she pushed the man far enough away, she could see Harrison filling the doorway. She stopped. She looked from the small, wiry man to Harrison, and her face revealed a sudden fear. She felt comfortable handling one man, Harrison realized, but two would be too much for her. He felt obligated to assure her of his good intentions.

  Stepping farther into the room, Harrison grabbed the blackmailer by his lapels and swung hi
m through the open doorway into the corridor. “You, sir, mind the lady’s desires. If she wants you gone, you should be gone.” To keep the man out, he pushed the door shut with a single, hard shove.

  He turned back toward the gypsy, expecting to see relief or even gratitude on her face. Instead she held a penknife before her, defensively, her hand gripping the shaft. Her body was taut and ready for battle.

  The actress pointed an accusing finger at his chest. “I was doing quite well, thank you.”

  “Then allow me to apologize. I thought you might wish for some help. But you are right: You managed that churl quite well.”

  “Why would I want your help?” She refused the compliment bluntly, tossing her deep red hair over her shoulder. Her voice sounded calm, but the blue vein in her neck still pulsed hard. “I don’t know you—for all I know, you could be that man’s accomplice.”

  “I must apologize. I am Walgrave, Harrison Walgrave.” For some reason, he chose to elide his title. “I came to commend you on a brilliant performance.”

  “Oh.” She lowered the knife, but did not set it aside. The pulse still pounded hard in her neck. “What pretty compliments have you to offer?” He was surprised at the disinterest in her voice.

  “Your voice was exceptional, and your rapport with the audience was the greatest of any this evening. I’m surprised Mrs. Wells allowed such a stellar performance at her benefit.”

  “I owe Mrs. Wells a great deal. Few actresses would allow an untried singer so large a part.” Her eyes never left his. She was still wearing her final costume from the afterpiece, a demure blue muslin walking dress, appropriate to her role as a country squire’s daughter. He noticed again the way the bodice skimmed her breasts and waist before falling gracefully over her hips to the floor.

  “After that performance, she should ask you to perform in all her benefits. It will improve ticket sales.” Somehow he was trapped spouting inanities about audiences and tickets, when what he wanted to say was that he felt like he had fallen into the depths of her brown eyes.

  “With Wells and Kean on the playbill, the sales were robust enough.” The gypsy placed her penknife on the dressing table. “Audiences know actors rely on the profits from the benefits to survive in the months when the theaters are closed.”

  There it was: his opening. He took it, then held his breath. “How will you survive?”

  “My reserves are adequate, if not ample.”

  At the word ample, without thinking he looked at her breasts, then as quickly looked away. He wasn’t some randy schoolboy visiting his first prostitute. The silence grew between them. Harrison was afraid to look anywhere but at his shoes. How had he lost all his skill at making fine speeches? The Walgrave who swayed Parliament seemed to have gotten lost somewhere between Forster’s box and the gypsy’s dressing room.

  He glanced at the door. Would it be wisest simply to retreat? But he didn’t wish to go, not yet at least, not while he still felt inexplicably drawn to her. “Perhaps I could escort you to dinner at my club. The chef is very fine.” He looked up to watch her response.

  “Why?” She raised a single eyebrow, then wrapped the colorful gypsy shawl around her shoulders, as if she were cold.

  “I would like to know you better. You say you are an untried actress, but you showed a mastery of the stage that takes others years to perfect.” He pointed to her shawl. “You wear the gypsy’s shawl over the squire’s daughter’s dress. You play them both so well, I’m left to wonder which role suits you better—the flamboyant gypsy, or the demure squire’s daughter? Or is it more complicated? Are you a gypsy with a hint of reserve, or a proper lady with a desire for adventure?”

  “Those are roles, nothing more. If I blacken my teeth and hook my nose with putty, will you wonder if I have a penchant for casting spells in my garden?” She sat on the well-worn ottoman before her dressing table and folded her hands primly in her lap. Long, slender hands. He wondered what it would feel like to take one of her hands in his. “How exactly do you wish to know me better? Intellectually or carnally?”

  Harrison choked and coughed. How could one small actress steal all his words while making his palms damp and his heart race? He should have expected such directness; any actress of her skill would have to juggle propositions of all kinds, from the merely friendly to the erotic. He’d already seen how she managed threats.

  He nodded toward the shut door. “I thought my name might offer you some protection.”

  She stared at him for a moment, as if she had expected him to say something else. Then she shook her head. “I can manage on my own, even without the protection of your name.”

  “But that man . . .”

  She raised her hand to cut him off. “That man is another matter entirely and none of your concern.” Her voice was chiding. She might be amused or angry, he could not tell. “Are you always so clumsy when talking to women you wish to . . . know better?”

  “I appear to be out of practice talking to beautiful women at all.”

  “That sentence is better, but still not quite good enough to merit my continued attention. Give me one good reason not to send you on your way.”

  She was rejecting him out of hand. He hadn’t considered how that might feel. But now he knew. It felt like he’d been pummeled in the stomach. Without thinking, he confessed a piece of information he had not intended to reveal. “You remind me of someone I lost long ago.”

  “If that was intended to gain my sympathy, I find it falls flat.” She grew silent for a moment. “I am not interested in being wanted for my resemblance to another person. If we were to begin a liaison, you would always be watching for glimpses of that other person, and you would never see me. No, I prefer to be known for myself.”

  She turned to face the ruined mirror before her dressing table. The reflective mercury was pocked and clouded, and he could see her face only imperfectly. “But not all of my fellow thespians are as scrupulous as I am. Beatrice next door has been interviewing possible protectors, but hasn’t made her final decision. If you hurry, you can likely gain her undying devotion before she leaves the theater.” She pointed to the door, and his heart fell to his feet.

  “I assure you I saw no one but you on stage all evening.”

  The gypsy rolled her eyes. “Beatrice won’t care if you didn’t notice her, as long as you offer her carte blanche. Compliment her legs. She hopes to make a name for herself in breeches roles.” She turned her back to him, leaving him to marvel at the line of her neck and the set of her shoulders.

  “I must explain. All evening, I felt this tension between us, an attraction, a connection. When you ended the song, you looked at me. Tell me you did not feel it as well.”

  “What do you want me to say, your lordship? That our eyes met and I felt the earth tremble beneath my feet, that the stars seemed to dim in the heavens, that my world will be incomplete until I hold you in my arms?” She waited for his answer, and he found himself unable to respond. “I thought so. Ignoring any connection between us, why did you choose me to approach? Because I perform provocative songs on the stage? Because my flirting with the audience suggested I will be as free with my favors in life as the character I play on stage? No, your lordship, I am not the woman you think I am. Besides, men like you rarely marry actresses, unless of course we have the wit and beauty of the Countess of Derby. And I am not interested in being any man’s mistress, stealing his minutes from his family and his wife.”

  “I’ve recently discovered I’m not married.” For all his vaunted skill at convincing the inconvincible in Parliament, he was floundering for any excuse to stay in her room.

  Her laugh was almost a bark as she pulled back in surprise. “That’s a strange discovery. How does it happen?” She leaned forward conspiratorially and said in a half whisper, “Did you have your wife murdered? Has she been lost at sea?”

  “No. Apparently our banns weren’t read. If they weren’t read, we are not married.”

  “You are serio
us.” She sat back, regarding him anew. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “For years, I’ve felt constrained by my marriage, but now if my marriage is a fraud, then I may do as I please. Admire a tempting actress, dine with a lovely woman, take a mistress, go back to sea, whatever I wish.” He stopped, suddenly realizing what else it meant: that Olivia would be gone from his life as surely as if she had died. But he pushed the thought away. For Olivia to have taken this step meant she was already gone.

  “Are you well, sir?” The actress’s voice turned soft, even kind. “Your face for a moment was quite blanched.”

  “What? Oh, yes, I am well.”

  “Are you certain you didn’t kill your wife?” Her words were skeptical, but her face wasn’t wary. It seemed only sad.

  “As far as I know, she is well, perhaps even happy. She is suited to the country and a quiet life. I am not.”

  “And you have come to me to inaugurate your newfound freedom. Have you made a list of things you wish to do? Number one: take a mistress. But surely you’ve had mistresses before. No, your list should include only those things you have never done.”

  “Then number one stands. I never wanted my wife, but I didn’t wish to hurt her either.” He never spoke so openly with strangers; perhaps it was the arc of energy that still, he believed, passed between them. “But I must admit, I haven’t filled in the other numbers on my list.”

  “Might I give you some advice, your lordship?”

  “If I let you advise me, will you come to my club for dinner?”

  She shook her head, this time with clear sympathy. “You have recently discovered that the world you thought you knew doesn’t exist. You chose me for a mistress because I remind you of a woman from your past. You claim you are free to do anything you want, but you can’t even fill in number two on your list.”

  “Take you to dinner,” he announced triumphantly. “That’s number two.”

  “If dinner is a prelude to seduction, then it’s simply part of number one. You will never be happy until you reconcile with your past.”