Once Upon A Regency

by Samantha Grace

  Before Russell could inform them that his friend was only having a little fun, the blond explained that she and her cousin had traveled from Lisbon to Yorkshire to see to an ailing great-grandfather, and their trip was at an end. “We are celebrating our last night in your fine country.” She ran her gloved hand slowly up and down Marcus’s arm. “Perhaps you would care to join us.”

  Unlike his friend, Russell was not in the habit of bedding every pretty woman who crossed his path. He politely wished them a pleasant trip and reminded Marcus that they already had plans. His friend followed his cue and sent the ladies on their way.

  “A sheik and a British officer. I won’t ask what that was about,” Russell said once they were alone.

  “Just a little harmless conversation to pass the time. I’ll expect you to be more fun when we are out on the town tonight.”

  Russell was only in London a couple of days to meet with his solicitor, and a night out with his friend sounded splendid after the discussion he’d had earlier that morning with Mr. Gordon. Perhaps they should start their evening early.

  “I saw a tavern around the corner on my way back from my meeting,” Russell said. “It isn’t far.”

  “There is a restaurant here.” Marcus clapped him on the shoulder and practically shoved him toward the pristine dining room. “A renowned restaurant with authentic French cuisine. You may go to the tavern, but I’m famished.”

  Russell didn’t care for the stuffy setting, but he desired his friend’s counsel on his solicitor’s recommendations for building Rowan Manor’s coffers, and he would only get it if he stayed. As they were led to a table, two matronly women with high collars and graying hair pulled back into tight knots ceased their conversation to watch them cross the room.

  “After all that time in Paris,” Russell said, “I would have thought you had grown tired of French cuisine.”

  One side of his friend’s mouth hitched up. “Two delicacies oddly scarce in a French prison are a good meal and a delicious wench. I expected better from the bastards.”

  Russell smiled in return and slid onto one of the chairs at the round table. To Marcus’s credit, he didn’t seem altered by his six-month incarceration. “I’d forgotten about your troubles there toward the end.”

  “I would like to forget her, too.” Russell’s friend referred to his former mistress and her role in his arrest. Marcus dropped onto the cushioned chair across from him and looked toward the waiter as he approached. “We’ll have a bottle of your finest burgundy and the chef’s recommendation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was Mr. Gordon?” Marcus asked. “He must be getting on in age. He was your father’s solicitor, was he not?”

  “And my grandfather’s, and the man is as dire as I remember.” Russell glanced around the dining room with its silver spoons, bone china cups, and crisp linens embroidered with rosebuds at the corners and repressed a sigh. “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to meet at the tavern? Or there is a coffeehouse down the way.”

  He’d hoped his stay in London would allow him a short reprieve from the female dominated existence he’d been thrust into since his father’s death ten months earlier.

  “I take it from your glum expression, the meeting didn’t go well.”

  Russell didn’t need his solicitor’s advice becoming the latest on dit in tomorrow’s gossip sheets. He nodded toward the ladies across the way. “I fear the dining room might have big ears.”

  Marcus glanced at the women. “That is Lady Reinhardt and her sister. Mother says they both need ear trumpets, but they are too proud to admit it. Speak away. The ladies cannot hear you.”

  Russell lowered his voice anyway. “I need an heiress.”

  “I hardly keep one in my jacket pocket.”

  Russell grinned. “That is Mr. Gordon’s unsolicited advice. He has done well with what I’ve paid him to do, though. Do you recall I found a deed to a small playhouse in my father’s papers?”

  “You were considering selling it upon his recommendation.”

  “Mr. Gordon has been searching for a buyer the past four months, and he finally has one. I expect the sale to be concluded in a few days. There is just the matter of the company clearing the premises. Mr. Gordon has sent several notices, but he has received no response. Unfortunately, the buyer wants to remodel the building and says he has no use for a theatre.”

  “Who does?”

  “I rather like the idea.”

  The property was a surprise in more than one way. His father had never been keen on the theatre. The only time Russell recalled his father behaving like a child was when Mother wanted him to accompany her to a play she had read about in the newssheet. He’d puffed out his chest and became rather blustery, so Mother had attended the play without him and invited Russell to join her.

  Unlike his father, Russell loved the theatre. He’d even fancied himself an aspiring actor at one time, although he hadn’t performed since his sister Juliana accidentally stabbed him during their annual Christmas pageant. He’d bled on Mother’s Aubusson, and she’d forbidden any more performances involving weapons.

  Angels do not wield swords, Mother had said.

  Of course they do. How are angels supposed to wage war against the powers of darkness without weapons?

  No more weapons. I mean it.

  Since his argument hadn’t swayed her, his interest in acting had ended at the advanced age of ten.

  Russell thought he would enjoy keeping the theatre, but the profits had been declining for the last three years, and projections for this year weren’t promising. The wisest choice was to let it go.

  “Once the sale is finalized, there will be enough to invest in Rowan Manor and sustain the lifestyle to which we’ve grown accustomed, but Mr. Gordon insists if I want to see my sisters well-settled someday, I need to marry into money.”

  “He always was a romantic,” Marcus said. “What do you think of his advice?”

  Russell shrugged. “Even with Lilith married, I still have mother and the three youngest under my care—not to mention the servants. I suppose marriage is one way to reinforce the family coffers, but I never imagined myself becoming a gold-digger.”

  “Oh, that is right.” Marcus smirked. “You are the romantic.”

  A group of older men entered the room and were treated to the same scrutiny he and Marcus had received from the ladies. The waiter returned with a decanted bottle of red wine and two glasses. Once Marcus approved the wine, the waiter filled both goblets and left. Russell’s friend sipped his wine and narrowed his eyes over the rim of the cut crystal glass.

  “Is this a ploy to earn my sympathy, so I will take one of your sisters off your hands?”

  Russell scoffed. “And curse one of them to a match with a scoundrel like you? Never.” He was joking, mostly. His friend had always liked the ladies, and Russell didn’t want to see any of his sisters married to a libertine. “I happen to love those girls.”

  “Even the one with the annoying laugh?”

  “I don’t know which one you mean.” Russell smiled, because he did in fact know his friend was referring to Maggie’s donkey laugh, and doing so affectionately. “And in answer to your question, I love them all.”

  If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be in London sorting out their futures so soon after losing their father. Discovering his sire had neglected to set aside dowries for his three youngest sisters had come as a shock. Every time Russell had asked about the estate, Father had told him all was well, and he needn’t worry. And because he had never disappointed Russell in the past, he had believed him. He should be angry with his father for his neglect, but in reality, Russell loved and missed him a great deal.

  “Do you intend to follow Mr. Gordon’s advice?” his friend asked.

  “I’ve barely had time to ponder it. I suppose now that I’ve come into my inheritance, Mother will be pressuring me to find a wife, too. If I do marry, the lady will need to be exceptionally tolerant. Rowan Manor
is filled with many majors marching around and giving orders.”

  How his father had sired daughters with the ability to make headmasters look like doting grandmothers, he didn’t know. Yet, his father had managed it quite well.

  “I recall receiving my orders on more than one occasion,” Marcus said with a grin. “I do miss the cheeky misses. Have you seen the theatre?”

  “There is no point. The Drayton won’t be my problem much longer.”

  “Aren’t you curious? You have always favored the theatre. I am surprised you have been able to refrain from taking a peek.”

  Russell suspected staying away was for the best. The playhouse was a financial liability, and he couldn’t afford to be seduced by the mystique of the theatre.

  A movement at the doorway caught his eye. He looked up to find a young woman with chestnut hair detaining one of the hotel footmen outside of the restaurant. The color was high in her cheeks, and she spoke in a breezy voice that was too soft for him to make out what she was saying. Eventually, she tossed up her hands, expressing her frustration.

  Russell shifted slightly to the edge of his seat. “What do you think is happening there?” He nodded toward the scene just beyond the dining room.

  Marcus craned his neck to look over his shoulder as an uncommonly tall man came to stand behind the woman. When he bent forward to whisper in her ear, she shook her head, sending her earbobs swinging.

  The footman gestured toward the dining room.

  She glanced toward his and Marcus’s table. She was pretty in an unusual way, with a narrow face and strong chin that might look severe if she didn’t also possess high, round cheeks and a lush mouth that gave her a slight pouty appearance. Her vivid turquoise blue gaze locked onto them as she took a determined step toward their table. The intensity of her stare knocked the breath from Russell’s lungs.

  “Ma’am, please wait out here,” the footman called.

  His request went unheeded, and she strode into the dining room.

  The footman started after her, but the large fellow accompanying her planted a hand against his shoulder. The other diners fell silent and appeared as powerless to look away as Russell was.

  “Do you know her?” his friend asked before Russell could pose the same question. He didn’t have time to answer before she was upon them. Crossing her hands at her waist, she smiled at Marcus. A prick of jealousy made Russell sit up taller. The most beautiful women were always drawn to his friend.

  “Bon jour, gentlemen.” Her melodious voice was a perfect match to her French accent. “I realize interrupting your meal is impolite, but this is a matter that cannot wait.”

  “Bon jour.” A wolfish grin spread across Marcus’s face. “How might I be of service, beautiful?”

  Her smile thinned. “I would like a word alone with Mr. Hawke. Would you excuse us?”

  When Marcus’s jaw dropped, Russell barely held back a laugh. His friend wasn’t accustomed to women dismissing him so easily, and he wasn’t prepared to surrender. “Surely, I am the better man to come to your rescue.”

  “I don’t need rescuing.” Her sculpted eyebrows arched above her chilly gaze. “May I speak with Mr. Hawke alone, please? I will be brief.”

  His friend’s jaw hardened. She squared her shoulders. Everyone in the restaurant had ceased their conversations to stare. Any moment, the silent battle between the woman and Marcus was going to erupt, and Russell didn’t relish the thought of seeing his name included in the gossip sheets tomorrow.

  Shooting out of the chair, he skirted the table to take her elbow. He’d removed his gloves in preparation of taking refreshment, and her soft skin warmed beneath his palm as a pink flush rose in her cheeks. His heart thumped heavily in a manner he’d only achieved after a good tumble with a woman, and never from a mere touch.

  “Thank you, miss, but now is not a good time.”

  She glowered at his fingers curled around her arm just above her elbow. “Unhand me, monsieur.”

  “Please, don’t kick up a fuss and come with me,” he whispered, aware of all the onlookers.

  “I said unhand me. I know my way out.”

  “Leave your name and where I might reach you with the concierge.” He released her, and she stalked for the exit. He should have allowed her to go and returned to the table, but his curiosity was piqued by what such an extraordinary woman could want with him.

  She looked over her shoulder and drew to a halt when she saw he was following her. “I said I am going,” she hissed.

  “Allow me to see you to the door.” He held out his arm.

  “I don’t require an escort.”

  “I know, but perhaps we could speak briefly in the corridor.”

  She took his elbow and held her head high, moving with the grace of a highborn lady as they continued toward the exit. The man who’d arrived with her turned away from his post guarding the footman. She held up a hand to stay him when it looked like he might barge into the dining room. He heeded her command, much to Russell’s relief. They had already created enough entertainment for the afternoon. One of the older gentlemen offered him a sympathetic smile as he and the woman passed their table.

  “That is the trouble with mistresses,” he overheard the man say and gritted his teeth.

  “I am no man’s mistress,” she shot back.

  “They are not worth your notice,” he said under his breath. “Please keep walking.”

  She snapped her mouth shut, although the crimson blush staining her cheeks led him to believe she had much more she would like to say to the gent.

  Once they reached the dining room entrance, she didn’t release him as he’d expected, and he walked with her until they passed through the hotel doors and stood on the walkway outside.

  Russell experienced a slight pang of regret when she dropped his arm. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of Mr. Fletcher. He is not accustomed to...” He trailed off, unsure how to explain Marcus was not used to rejection without offending her.

  Her formidable companion had followed without uttering a sound and stationed himself in front of the hotel door, blocking the entrance.

  “Your friend is not accustomed to chivalry?” she supplied. “Manners? Common decency?”

  “Now, see here.” Russell couldn’t allow the insult to Marcus to pass without feeling disloyal, and he suspected the two interlopers had just managed him. “You are the one who barged in and interrupted our meal. Even now, you are keeping me from my friend.”

  “Please, go.” She thrust her hip to one side and braced her hand on it. “I told you I didn’t require an escort.”

  His gaze slid over her sensuous curves with a will all its own.

  She cleared her throat.

  His head snapped up. “My apologies.”

  Her eyes narrowed as if she’d caught him peeping in her window.

  Irritation flared inside of him. He was sorry for his lapse in manners, but he would be damned if he apologized for appreciating what any man passing by on the street could see.

  “As long as you have pulled me away,” he said, “why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “You are closing the Drayton Theatre.”

  “I am, and I can assure you, Miss...?” He raised his eyebrows in expectation of her supplying a name.

  “Claudine Bellerose. I am an actress and a playwright at your theatre. There are several of us in the company.”

  My theatre. Damnation. He liked the sound of that. The Drayton had simply been a name and numbers written on a piece of paper when he’d crawled from bed that morning. Now he couldn’t help picturing a cast and crew, stage settings, and costumes. His blood ran a bit hotter as he realized he owned an actual theatre. Unfortunately, reality extinguished his enthusiasm. He didn’t have time to invest in the business, and it certainly wasn’t profitable under the current manager.

  “I assure you, Miss Bellerose. Closing the theatre was a difficult decision.”

  “Was it? We had no adv
ance notice. If you had been weighing your options, you might have alerted us ahead of time. You’ve given us a week to clear out of the theatre.”

  “By advance notice, do you mean I should have had my solicitor send a letter informing Mr. Jonas four months ago that I would be selling the theatre and offering to make reasonable arrangements if he wished to buy it?”

  Her plump lips turned down. “Well, yes. That certainly would have provided ample warning.”

  “Or perhaps I should have urged my solicitor to write again six weeks later when Mr. Jonas didn’t respond to the correspondence, followed by another letter at the three month mark to inform him another buyer was showing interest in purchasing the building and closing the theatre.”

  “Oliver Jonas, you infuriating man,” she grumbled in French. “You are careless and disorganized, and I might just strangle you when I get back.”

  Russell chuckled to hear some of his own thoughts spoken aloud. Mr. Jonas’s lack of attention to this matter had been infuriating indeed.

  She froze. “You understood me?”

  “French was part of my studies, although I understand the language better than I speak it. Where are you from?”

  Her eyes shuttered. “Seven Dials.”

  “What a clever girl,” he muttered, although she was no girl, and he didn’t find her answer amusing. She knew he was asking about her origins, not where she’d ended up. “I am sorry Mr. Jonas didn’t take advantage of my offer, miss, but there is nothing I can do about it. You and your fellow thespians are expected to clear the premises by the deadline.”

  “Where do you expect everyone to go? For most of the company, the Drayton is their home and only means of support.”

  “Can they not find work elsewhere? There are more theatres in London than I can count.”

  With one hand still on her hip, she wagged the pointer finger of her free hand in his direction. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find work with another company? The season is in full swing. Casts are already chosen, and performances are underway. Closing the theatre will displace everyone who relies on the Drayton for survival.”