Drury Lane Darling

by Joan Smith

  While Nigel rambled on, Pamela sat thinking. She decided that she couldn’t despise the ingenious marquise. All her scheming was not for herself. She just wanted a little security for her son. She wanted him to be respectable, to take a job in the government rather than be an actor like herself. Who knew better than Fleur what hardships the acting life entailed? Always an outsider, hanging on the fringes of society, acceptable enough to the gentlemen for an evening’s entertainment, but not good enough to be presented to their families. It must be a lonesome sort of life. No wonder if actresses took lovers. It seemed they couldn’t have husbands, unless they were as fortunate as Mrs. Siddons and married a famous actor.

  What she could not figure out was the strange manner of Fleur’s disappearance. Why had she been playing dead when Nigel went to her room? Why did first the marquise vanish, then her clothes? And most of all, where was she? The answer, she thought, would be revealed at the theater that evening. When Nigel stopped at the Reddleston Hotel, Pamela had the carriage deliver her to Breslau House.

  Lord Breslau had been home and left again. Miss Agatha handed her a note and a newspaper. “Breslau left these for you. He thought you might be interested in the entertainment pages, Miss Comstock,” she said. All smiles had dissipated. Miss Agatha looked as if she’d just had all her teeth drawn. “And by the by, Mrs. Foster came to call while you were out. I had to tell her I had no idea where you were, or when you would be home. She was extremely upset. I suggest you go to her, or at least write her a note explaining what you are doing here.”

  The malicious glint hinted that Miss Agatha would not mind an explanation herself. There was no longer any need for conciliation. Mrs. Foster had used the words “Miss Comstock’s intended” in connection with Mr. Raleigh.

  “Thank you,” Pamela said, and darted upstairs with her note and the paper.

  Breslau had the paper folded back to the appropriate page. Several items were circled in red ink. She read them even before opening her note. The longest was an article praising Rose Flanders to the sky in her interpretation of Emily in The Deuce Is in Him. The words “she came, she was seen, she conquered,” “not since Mrs. Siddons,” and other unlikely hyperboles jumped out at her. They smacked of Breslau’s mannered speech. If this didn’t bring Fleur back, then they would have to assume she was dead.

  The first item was obviously calculated to throw Fleur into a pelter. It was the second that brought Pamela to her feet with a shriek of outrage.

  Theater lovers will be crowding the greenroom of Drury Lane this evening. The rumor is abroad that Lord B—will be hosting a party and making a surprise announcement. Dare we hope the surprise is his new play, and new leading lady?

  After reading the gushing review of Rose Flanders, one would have to be dull not to guess who this “lady” might be. What infuriated Pamela was the location of the party, the greenroom.

  It was impossible for a real lady to visit the greenroom. Breslau had chosen the spot on purpose to exclude her from the excitement. He could have had it—well, not at Breslau House perhaps, but at an hotel, where it would only be shabby for her to attend, and not impossible. The announcement put Breslau’s note completely out of her mind, but when she threw the paper across the room in a fit of temper, the note fell to the ground and she snatched it up.

  Even the unexpectedly warm salutation didn’t lessen her wrath. “Dearest Pam,” she read with a derisive snort.

  Read the underlined items in the papers before reading this. Sorry about the greenroom, but with all my starched relations, I must keep my work and my private life separate. I have a strong intuition this bash will be awash in infamy and bad histrionics. Even a restaurant is too public. Do come to the theater, though. Tickets enclosed for a private box. Perhaps the Fosters would like to accompany you? If you can stay awake till one or two, I shall tell all when I return. Please don’t remove to the Fosters’ to repay me for my recent annoying stunts. I must see you tonight. It is urgent. I believe we have discussed before the inconvenient urgency pertaining to certain relationships? Best love, Breslau.

  Pamela’s frown faded momentarily and a bemused smile hovered over her features. This was his way of telling her the meeting tonight was a love tryst. How strange that Breslau should have succumbed to her when she hadn’t even tried to attract him. He was much too high for her. Yet despite his aristocratic looks and his habitual air of ennui, Breslau—Wes—had an unexpectedly jolly and common streak in him. He loved the brawling theater life and theater people. A toplofty lord would have no use for such things.

  She admitted to strong emotional stirrings when he tried to kiss her. Her heart had pounded furiously. Even before that—last night at the theater when she felt his eyes resting on her—she had been aware of a growing interest in him. It had seemed too foolish to let the feeling have its head. For some time she sat, her mind roaming over new and happy ideas.

  But as she reread the items underscored in the papers, her frown returned. It seemed Breslau intended to keep all the fun to himself. He might go to the greenroom and enjoy the infamy and bad histrionics while she was to sit in the box, out of it all. In a pig’s eye she would! If there was ever to be anything between them, he must realize she meant to share his whole life. She would attend the party at the greenroom, which meant not inviting the Fosters, and that was a great pity. They would have enjoyed the play.

  Of course, she couldn’t attend alone. She flipped the tickets, pondering who to ask. Nigel was the obvious choice, but would he take her? What if Sir Aubrey tagged along? Very likely Nigel was still with him at the Reddleston. If not, she must discover exactly where Nigel’s apartment was located and visit him there. He had a flat somewhere on Soho Square.

  Further problems came to bedevil her. A glance in her mirror told her she would be as out of place in a greenroom as Hanna More at an orgy. A disguise then. Oh, dear, and that meant going to Bond Street to hire a wig and outfit. She drew a deep sigh. Calling on the Fosters made an unexceptionable excuse to have a cab called. She would tell Miss Agatha she was going to her aunt’s. As she really had to tell the Fosters something, she scribbled up a hasty note saying she was busy that evening, but would call tomorrow, and bribed a footman to deliver it.

  As soon as this was done, she put on her pelisse and bonnet and went belowstairs.

  “Not taking your luggage with you, Miss Comstock?” Miss Agatha enquired.

  “No, Lord Breslau most particularly asked me to remain another night.” She smiled demurely.

  “Hmph. Will you be home to dinner?”

  “Certainly I shall. Lord Breslau will not be here, however.”

  “He didn’t say so!”

  “He told me, Miss Agatha. I shall be going out this evening. Don’t wait up for us.”

  “Us?”

  “Did I not mention it? I shall be joining Wes. We’ll be rather late.”

  Miss Agatha looked as if she’d just been bitten by a snake. Wes, was it? An angry retort transformed itself to a confused smile. “Very well, Miss Comstock. I shall tell Cook. Dinner for three. Or will your intended, Mr. Raleigh, be joining us?” she asked, and looked sharp for the answer.

  “I’m not engaged, Miss Agatha. Where did you get such an idea?”

  Miss Agatha just stared. “Will Mr. Raleigh be joining us?”

  “No, he shan’t. There will be just the three of us.”

  On this phrase Pamela swept out to wait for the cab. She gave directions to the Reddleston Hotel and had the cab wait while she went in to enquire for Mr. Raleigh.

  “Sir Aubrey, do you mean? He has gone out.”

  “No, his son, Mr. Nigel Raleigh. Is he in?”

  “He was in the taproom with his father. I didn’t see him leave. I’ll have a look.”

  Within minutes, Nigel was in the cab with Pamela, absolutely prohibiting her plans for the night. “What would Mama say, you dressing up in my breeches and jacket and going to a greenroom?”

  “I trust you won’t tell h
er. I mean to go, with or without your assistance, Nigel. It’s going to be a very interesting party. Would you not like to come?”

  “I have to work. Since Papa is giving away a thousand pounds to a total stranger, it seems I will have to support myself.”

  “A thousand pounds, eh? Did he say why?” Nigel gave a disgruntled snort. “It seems Spiedel is the orphan son of a friend of his. A bunch of the old crones are getting together and taking up a subscription for the lad. His father died recently, and had run through his estate. Very generous of Papa, I’m sure, handing a thousand pounds over to a stranger. Oh, and incidentally, Pam, he don’t want you to mention it to Mama.”

  “Of course. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “And about Mama’s diamond bracelet—”

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly.

  “It was Fleur who started up this whole collection for Spiedel. She knew his mama, you see. She’d been giving Spiedel a little money herself from time to time to keep him out of the poorhouse, since the fellow refuses to ever do an honest day’s work. I told you how generous she is, but naturally she can’t assume his whole upkeep herself. She spoke to some of the late Mr. Spiedel’s friends and started the ball rolling. Papa was short of blunt, so he donated the bracelet since Mama never wears it. But then he thought better of it, and decided he could spare the money if he put off getting the stalls fixed. That’s why he was visiting Fleur’s room the night she disappeared, but she was already gone. I daresay the bracelet will turn up when they find Fleur’s body, and we’ll get it back. You’d best not mention the bracelet to Mama, either.”

  “There is no reason why I should.”

  So that was to be the story. Very well. It cast a lovely, generous glow over all the miscreants, and kept Mr. Spiedel in the dark about his true parentage. She wondered if Fleur herself knew which one was the boy’s father.

  “About tonight, Nigel…”

  “I’ve already told you, I ain’t going.”

  “As you are editing Fleur’s memoirs, and dramatizing them for the stage, should you not be there?”

  “What has this got to do with Fleur? It is to be Rose Flander’s party.”

  “But only think if Fleur isn’t dead at all. If she’s only been—captured by French spies,” she said, grasping wildly for something to appeal to his romanticism. “The papers mentioned the possibility. She might escape and come to the greenroom. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  “By Jove, Pam! What a bunch of dunderheads we are! We haven’t even begun to look into that possibility! She is often pestered by the Frenchies trying to get her to work for them.”

  “She is so very clever, she might very well escape.”

  “I shouldn’t put it a pace past her.”

  “So you’ll lend me a jacket and a pair of trousers. You are so sma—so lean and elegant. I could wear your clothing without much adjustment. Why don’t we go around to your apartment now and get them?”

  “There’s no need for you to put yourself to so much trouble, Pam. You would hate rubbing elbows with cits and rakes.”

  At her wits’ end, Pamela put her hand trustingly in his. “I want to be with you, Nigel.” She smiled. “I cannot go without a disguise.”

  Nigel looked first shocked, then gratified. “I never knew you was such a game chick, Pam. If you’re up to it, then I’ll help you, but for God’s sake don’t let Breslau see you. Hang in the shadows. Not that he’ll be paying any heed to you now that he’s decided to make Rose his new flirt.”

  “Thank you, Nigel.” She smiled. “There is just one more thing. I shall need a place to change. I’ll wear my gown when I leave Breslau House, and change at your apartment.”

  “You can’t come to a bachelor’s apartment.”

  “I can’t change in the carriage. You can scout out the building, and I’ll go in when no one is around.”

  “I suppose that would be all right. At least Papa hasn’t taken into his noggin to attend the play. He’s going to a concert of antique music. I near choked when he told me. He’s been talking like Mama this trip. All about the evil of the theater. He tried to forbid me to write the play for Fleur, but when I pointed out there was a thousand pounds to be made up from his giving Spiedel our money, he tucked in his horns pretty quick.”

  “You are clever.” She smiled approvingly.

  “It seems everyone knows it but me. Here is Breslau begging me to write a play for Drury Lane. Always was a bit of a modest fellow,” he boasted.

  “I’ve often noticed it. You didn’t pull the check string, Nigel. We’re going to your flat now.”

  “No need, since you’re going to change there tonight.”

  “That’s true,” she said, blinking in surprise that he should have thought of it.

  “Just leave everything to me, m’dear. I say, Pam, don’t you think it’s time we discussed setting the date for our wedding? Best to get on with it.”

  Pamela felt like screaming. She gave a grimace that was halfway between a smile and frown. “Later.”

  “You can leave that up to me as well. I rather think St. George’s in Hanover for the ceremony. You don’t mind if we’re married in London? As a dramatist, I’ll have to make my home here. You’ll want a few weeks treacle moon in the city before you go back to Belmont and start filling our nursery.”

  In a thin voice, Pamela said, “I’ll just leave all that up to you, Nigel.”

  He smiled contentedly and drew her arm through his. Before it had quite come to rest, Pamela found an excuse to remove it. Such was Nigel’s passion that he didn’t bother to pursue her errant fingers.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was eight o’clock when Mr. Patrick Ryder stood in front of Nigel’s mirror in borrowed breeches and trousers to examine herself for telltale signs of femininity. Patrick Ryder was the name chosen for Pamela, in case anyone should enquire. The clothing fit disconcertingly well. With her hair tied back and the linen stock nestling against her chin, Pamela felt she could pass for a very young gentleman, one who was not yet put to the inconvenience of a regular shave. The wadding in the borrowed jacket lent her an impressive set of shoulders. With the jacket closed, she managed to conceal the hasty stitches that kept the breeches from slipping down. Nigel was quick to point out that he had had that outfit since university. It no longer fit him, but was too good to throw out.

  “There won’t be a gentleman under thirty wearing silk stockings and knee breeches,” he worried. “All the bucks have switched to pantaloons. I shall have to say you’re a country cousin. That might account for it, and for the antique hairdo as well. You look a quiz, Pam.”

  “I think I look very handsome,” she decided, turning this way and that. “I need some wadding for the toes of these slippers, though. They shuffle when I walk. Can you lend me some handkerchiefs?”

  The handkerchiefs were brought forth, two in each slipper, and with them in place, Pamela practiced walking back and forth with her toes slightly turned out, to give her a more masculine strut.

  “Just stick to the shadows, and you’ll do,” Nigel decided. “No one will take a second look during the show. We’ll keep our seat after the performance till the greenroom has had a chance to fill up. Let me do the talking. Your voice is a dead giveaway.”

  Pamela tightened her throat and spoke in a gruff voice. “Oh, I say, Nigel old boy, a chap can’t stand silent as a jug all night, what?”

  He stared in amusement. “How did you do that?”

  “I copied Papa.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “Why not?”

  He frowned in distaste. “You do it too well. You don’t even seem like a girl.”

  “That’s the whole point, ain’t it?”

  “Now you’re using men’s words. I wish you would stop it, Pam.”

  “Jolly good sport. What say we stop at a tavern for a wet before the play, eh?”

  “We’re late already,” he scowled, and stalked out of the apartment without holdin
g the door for her.

  No one gave Pamela a second look when they alit to enter the theater. A few heads turned after they were seated, but heads always turned to see who was occupying Lord Breslau’s box. The occupants that evening were not of sufficient interest to keep many glasses trained on them. They didn’t even see the one pair of glasses that studied them for several minutes. Their holder stood at the edge of the stage, concealed behind the curtain. Lord Breslau was not greatly surprised. He had rather expected Pam would come masqueraded in a blond wig, but so long as she was there, he was content.

  When he had confirmed that the young gentleman with Nigel was Pamela, he looked once more to the pit. It was a lady all dressed in black that intrigued him. What had first drawn his attention to her was the heavy veil covering her face. He had never seen the bonnet before, but it was stylish dramatic. The next few hours were only a time to be endured by all till the real excitement began.

  Nigel had seen the play dozens of times, and Pamela had seen it just the night before. Nigel passed the time by scanning the boxes and pit for his father. Secure that Sir Aubrey had not come, he said at the first intermission that he was going for a stroll and would be back presently.

  “I’m going with you,” Pamela said at once, and rose.

  “No, you ain’t. I don’t plan to be seen on the strut with a flat wearing a monkey suit.”

  She acquiesced with a celerity that a brighter man would have found suspicious. As soon as Nigel was gone, Pam left the box and went alone into the hallway, where theatergoers stood in clusters, laughing, flirting, and occasionally talking about the performance. Idle curiosity to see how the great disported themselves when at leisure was not her only motive. Naturally she would keep her eyes and ears open for anything that might relate to Fleur’s disappearance. A glimpse of Mr. Spiedel would have been welcome. Catching Breslau out in a flirtation even more so.