No Mistress of Mine

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  It was understandable the earl would be concerned. Lola had visited upon Denys a sort of insanity—a passion beyond all reason, ignited the first time she’d looked at him from the stage and given him the wide, radiant smile for which she was famous. It had been a passion so wild and ungovernable that he’d been impervious to the pleas of his family, deaf to the scandalized whispers of society, and utterly blind to the true character of his inamorata.

  Until she’d left him.

  It still made Denys grimace when he thought of the money he’d spent, the fights he’d engaged in, the friends he’d almost lost, and the fool he’d made of himself over a bit of skirt who in the end had proved as faithless as the wind. Looking back, he knew there was only one explanation. He had been mad.

  He was now sane.

  With that reminder, the stunned haze that had been enveloping him all morning dissipated, like a fog lifting off the moors. Though he and the earl had been speaking of two different women, they had agreed on a course of action, and he saw no reason not to carry it through. That required a call upon the family solicitors.

  A hansom crawled past, and Denys hailed it. After the driver had navigated the traffic that always seemed to clog Trafalgar Square, Denys was deposited at the offices of Burrowes, Abercrombie, and Moss in Regent Street. Despite his lack of an appointment, Mr. Burrowes was able to receive him and quite willing to allow him use of their telephone. A call to White’s and a brief discussion with his father verified his conclusions about their earlier conversation, and after offering his father a few reassurances of how he intended to proceed, Denys rang off and spent the remainder of the morning ensconced in Mr. Burrowes’s office.

  Lola, he learned, had not yet called upon the solicitor, but Denys had no doubt she would, and he intended to stay one step ahead of her. After informing Mr. Burrowes of Henry’s death and the terms of his will, Denys then asked how the partnership could be dissolved. Informed that it would require the consent of both parties, the disbanding of the acting company, and the permanent closure of the theater, Denys inquired if he could buy his partner out instead. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he pulled out his watch. “I’ve an hour before my next engagement,” he said, and tucked the watch back into his pocket. “Might we draft terms right now?”

  “Of course.” Burrowes pulled out a sheet of notepaper, took up his pen, and opened his inkwell. “Let’s begin with the purchase amount. How much do you wish to offer?”

  Denys considered a moment, then dictated terms he felt Lola might accept. He must have been generous in his estimate, for Mr. Burrowes raised an eyebrow; but wisely, he made no comment.

  When the terms were outlined, Burrowes assured him a draft would be on his desk first thing Monday. Satisfied, Denys left the solicitor’s office, hailed a taxi, and journeyed to Rules, where he discovered that Georgiana and their mothers had arrived before him and were already seated at one of the restaurant’s red-upholstered booths.

  Lady Georgiana Prescott, the only daughter of the Marquess of Belsham, could trace her lineage back to William the Conqueror, but her image—pale skin, chiseled cheekbones, noble brow, and aquiline nose—might just as easily have been seen on the temples of ancient Greece. Her dark hair was swept back from her face in perfect waves and caught up beneath the brim of a small, elegant hat, with nary a stray tendril daring to escape.

  He and Georgiana had known each other most of their lives. Not that there had been an understanding, precisely, between their families, but it had never been a secret that both sides had always wanted them to make a match of it. Had he not gone to Paris that fateful summer so long ago, the ambition of their families might very well have been fulfilled.

  His passion for Lola Valentine had been not only a shock to both sets of parents but also a keen disappointment. And though Georgiana had never spoken a single word about his three years of insanity—she was far too well-bred for that—Denys suspected their parents weren’t the only ones he’d let down by taking up with a cabaret dancer.

  During the past few months, however, he and Georgiana had begun to reestablish the quiet fondness of their childhood, and Denys wasn’t as inclined to rebel against the expectations surrounding them as he’d once been. In fact, he’d begun to consider fulfilling them instead. He didn’t know her opinion on the matter, for Georgiana wasn’t one to display her emotions, and their rapprochement had not proceeded far enough for him to inquire, but for the first time, he felt as if something more than friendship between them might be on the horizon.

  As if sensing his gaze, she looked up and spied him by the doors. Realizing he was just standing there like a chump, he started forward at once, making his way toward the table where she sat beside her mother and opposite his own.

  She didn’t smile as he approached, for she had a slight overbite to her teeth, and being of such a fastidious nature, she was painfully self-conscious about it. But she did tilt back her head to watch him with those grave gray eyes of hers as he came toward them, and despite her serious expression, he thought she was glad he’d agreed to join their party.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked, placing a hand on the back of the chair beside his mother.

  That did earn him a smile, a little one that curved her closed lips. “I believe it is now. And I’m gratified that you decided to join us at last.”

  “At last?” he echoed in surprise. “Am I late?”

  She glanced down at the brooch watch pinned to her gray-and-white-striped walking coat. “Ten minutes, I’m afraid. We’d quite despaired of you.”

  He thought he’d left Burrowes’s office with plenty of time to spare, but when he glanced at her lapel, he was forced to admit that Georgiana, as usual, was right. “Sorry,” he apologized as he pulled out his chair to sit down. “I had no idea it would take so long to arrive here from Regent Street. Good day, Lady Belsham,” he added to the marchioness. “Mama.”

  “Regent Street?” Georgiana echoed, as he sat down. “Is that where you’ve been? No wonder you’re late. The traffic is beastly around Trafalgar. I always allot extra time.”

  A declaration that from Georgiana didn’t surprise him in the least. She was never unpunctual. “Shall we order?” he asked, and looked down at the menu card before him.

  “I fear we must,” Georgiana replied. “We have shopping to do, then calls to make, and tea.” She tapped her brooch watch briskly. “Time is getting on.”

  If there was a hint of rebuke in that, he couldn’t see it reflected in her face. Her expression as she looked down at her menu card was smooth and impassive as ever, and he decided he’d been mistaken. He signaled for the waiter.

  “So,” he said, settling back in his seat once their order had been placed, “how are you ladies getting on with your plans for the flower show?”

  “Rather well, for we have at last found a suitable venue,” Georgiana replied. “At least,” she added, looking at the woman opposite, “I think it will suit. Lady Conyers, the hospital fund is your committee’s responsibility. What do you think of my idea?”

  “Oh, my dear, I am relieved.” His mother gave a deep sigh, pressing a hand to her bosom. “And so glad I enlisted your aid. I confess, when you first told me your idea, I was not enthused. But now that we have toured the grounds, I am able to see your vision, and I believe you are quite right. Lady Belsham, what is your opinion?”

  The Marchioness of Belsham, an older, perhaps more rigid version of her daughter, gave a nod of agreement. “The greatest obstacle, of course, might have been Lord Bute.”

  “Lord Bute?” Denys echoed in surprise. “Where is this flower show to be?”

  Georgiana was the one to enlighten him. “Regent’s Park, in the garden at St. John’s Lodge, which is owned, as I’m sure you know, by Lord Bute, who has agreed to allow the event to be held there. I do hope the venue proves a success, Lady Conyers.”

  “Of course it will,” his mother answered warmly, and turned to Denys. “Georgiana’s choice in such mat
ters is impeccable.”

  Georgiana waved aside the compliment with the tactful complacency of one who seldom had occasion to be wrong. “The important thing is the funds raised, and if it works as we hope, this show will bring a great deal of money to the London hospitals.” She lifted her long, graceful hands and crossed her fingers. “Unless it rains.”

  Denys studied her for a moment, trying to imagine that particular possibility, and failed utterly. Anything Georgiana involved herself in always proved a success. If she rode in a point to point, she won. If she hunted, she brought down more grouse than her father. And if she deemed an outdoor venue appropriate for a flower show, Denys couldn’t see even the traitorous English weather defying her. “It won’t rain,” he told her. “It wouldn’t dare.”

  She smiled at that. “There will be tents, of course. But everything will go so much better if the day is fine.” She turned to his mother. “An Afternoon-at-Home is next, I think. We should arrange it at once, before Mama and I return to Kent.”

  “Kent?” Denys echoed in surprise. “I thought you were to be in town for the entire season.”

  “We are, but we still have so much to finish at home before we settle into the house in Cavendish Square. We only came up to town to assist your mother.”

  He wondered if he might be the reason for Georgiana’s willingness to help with a charity that wasn’t her own, but he dismissed the thought. Georgiana loved charity work. “There’s the Bring and Buy for the church tower,” she went on, proving his point. “And the Sale of Work for orphans, and, of course, the village school. We simply must find a new teacher.”

  “It seems I won’t be seeing you for ages,” he remarked, and as he spoke, he felt rather relieved. Lola and Georgiana were two distinct parts of his life: the past and—possibly—the future. He deemed it best they not collide in the present.

  “We shall only be away for two weeks,” she assured him, and turned to her mother. “But don’t you think, Mama, that an Afternoon-at-Home is the perfect paving of the way for Lady Conyers’s flower show?”

  “I do,” Lady Belsham replied at once. “We shall be able to inform all our friends of the hospitals’ dire need for funds.”

  “Just so,” her daughter replied. “And yet, we must also provide an atmosphere of infinite leisure in which our friends are completely at ease. There must be the right mix of people, as well as good food and plenty of excellent champagne.”

  “Thus priming them perfectly to pull out their bank books,” Denys added in amusement.

  Georgiana gave him a look of reproof. “I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly as that.”

  Of course not, for Georgiana was never blunt. Subtlety and restraint were in every inch of her. He continued to study her as they dined, while they discussed his mother’s flower show, and it struck him—not for the first time—what a perfect wife she would make. She was well-bred, intelligent, loyal—

  But not the least bit exciting.

  The moment that pesky little thought crossed his mind, he quashed it by reminding himself he was done with excitement. To fulfill his duty to his name and title, he needed to marry, and in that regard, Georgiana was as close to ideal as a man could find. He could think of no reason not to marry her.

  A ringing endorsement.

  “Denys?”

  “Hmm?” He came out of these contemplations to find the object of them looking at him inquiringly. “Sorry. I was woolgathering, I’m afraid. What did you say?”

  She gestured to his plate. “I asked if you were finished. We really must be on our way if we’re to do any shopping today.”

  “Of course.” He set aside his napkin and hailed the waiter, and minutes later, he was assisting the ladies into a taxi.

  “Are you certain you won’t come with us?” Georgiana asked him through the window.

  “Shopping in Mount Street?” He made a great show of looking appalled. “I’d rather work.”

  “A gentleman shouldn’t work at all,” she said, frowning a little. “Especially during the season. Surely you can take time away from that beastly office? We could forgo our shopping,” she offered, and glanced at her companions. “Couldn’t we?”

  Despite the eager assent of their mothers, Denys had to refuse. “I am flattered by the sacrifice, ladies,” he said, smiling, “but I’m afraid I have far too much on my plate today. Othello is coming up at the Imperial, you know, and it’s the first play of the season. There’s a great deal to do.”

  It bothered him, somehow, mentioning the Imperial to Georgiana, and he was glad he’d moved forward so quickly with the strategy he and the earl had discussed that morning. The sooner Lola Valentine was out of his life again, the better.

  He waited until the cab had turned the corner, then he turned and started up Maiden Lane in the opposite direction, heading toward his offices. He turned onto the Strand, and as he passed the Savoy Hotel, it occurred to him that it might be wise to inform Jacob of the Imperial’s change in ownership, however temporary that change might be. If he was lucky, he’d find the director still in the restaurant, lingering over his dessert.

  Careful to avoid the broughams, hansom cabs, and other vehicles circling the Savoy’s U-shaped courtyard, he entered the hotel and crossed the lavish foyer to the dining room.

  “Lord Somerton,” the maître d’hôtel greeted him as he paused inside the door. “This is an honor. May I show you to a table?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Roth. Is he still here?”

  “He is, my lord, but . . .”

  The other man paused, a curious reticence suddenly entering his heretofore unctuous manner, and Denys looked at him in some surprise. “Is something wrong, monsieur?” he asked, as a dull red flush crept into the maître d’hôtel’s cheeks.

  “My apologies, my lord. I had not been informed you would be joining Monsieur Roth for luncheon today.”

  “I shouldn’t think you had,” Denys answered. “He doesn’t know I’m here, but I daresay he won’t mind if I join him.”

  The maître d’hôtel, accustomed to giving way to the aristocracy, capitulated. “Of course,” he said, and began leading Denys between the crowded tables toward the far corner of the room. “I ask your lordship’s pardon, for I did not mean to be impertinent. It is only that Mr. Roth is not alone today. He is having luncheon with a lady, you see.”

  “A lady?” Even as he spoke, Denys felt a sinking feeling in his guts, and when he followed the footman, he was not surprised to find Lola sitting with the director of his next play, looking far too intimately acquainted with the fellow for his peace of mind.

  She smiled at the director, the same heart-stopping smile that had enthralled not only him, but also most of his friends, Henry Latham, and audiences from Paris’s cabarets to New York’s Madison Square. Denys knew how much havoc that smile could create, and he cursed the fateful night in Paris when Nick and Jack had first dragged him to the Théâtre Latin.

  Chapter 4

  Lola knew the crucial moment was at hand. Mr. Roth’s stomach was full, his second glass of wine and his dessert had been consumed, and his gaze was warmly admiring. It was time to make her move.

  “Mr. Roth, I understand the Imperial’s first play of the season is to be Othello?”

  “Yes, indeed. I myself shall be directing.”

  “Really?” She gave him her best look of amazement. “Why, how wonderful. You see . . .” She paused, leaning forward in a confiding manner. “I have always wanted to act in drama—”

  “I don’t know why,” a wry voice cut in. “You always seem to have plenty of drama in your private life.”

  Damn. Lola caught back a groan. She’d known, of course, that once he learned she didn’t intend to sit idly by, he wouldn’t either, but she had hoped it would take him longer than a mere three hours to discover what she was up to.

  Still, she was a partner now, and by finding her here, he knew she intended to act like one. “Lord Somerton,” she said, pasting on a smile and tilt
ing her head back to look him in the eye. “How lovely to see you again so soon. What are you doing here?”

  One dark brow lifted. “I might ask you the same question.”

  She shrugged and took a sip of wine. “Is it so surprising? I’m staying at the Savoy.”

  “And dining with my managing director, I see. How fortuitous.”

  “Wasn’t it, though?” she agreed, choosing to ignore his implication of her opportunism. “Here I was, having my lunch, when who should I find being seated at a table right by my own?” She paused, gesturing to the man opposite. “None other than Jacob Roth, London’s most lauded theatrical director.”

  Denys, however, was no fool. He smiled at her. “Bribed the waiter, did you?”

  She laughed as if that were a joke, and, fortunately, Mr. Roth did the same.

  “Really, Somerton,” the director reproved, “you do Miss Valentine little credit. I doubt she would have to resort to bribery to have her way with any man. One of her smiles,” he added with a little nod to her, “would be more than enough persuasion to give her whatever she wanted.”

  Lola could only hope he meant that.

  “And in any case,” Roth added, “it was I who initiated conversation, breaking all rules of etiquette, I am sure. It was my idea that we dine together.”

  “It’s amazing,” Denys murmured, “how often someone else’s idea also happens to be just what Miss Valentine wants.”

  Lola widened her smile. “Only because I’m open-minded enough to consider the ideas of others,” she said sweetly.

  “Either way,” Roth put in, “having her join me for luncheon has been a pleasure though I am quite saddened by the news of Henry Latham’s death.” He shook his head. “A great loss to theater, on both sides of the Atlantic.”

  “A great loss indeed,” Denys agreed. “But did Miss Valentine tell you of her own good fortune? She’s taken Henry’s place as my partner in the Imperial.”

  His voice sound so genial and so insincere, she grimaced.

  Roth, luckily, didn’t seem to notice. His expression lightened once more. “Yes, so she has informed me. I envy you, my friend. Most business partners are not so charming as yours.” He gestured to the table. “Will you join us?”