Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  She ate a second sweet, chattering as her maid combed out her hair, until interrupted by a noise, some commotion nearer the door. “Gemma!”

  Miss Holyrood was still.

  “Gemma!” the man called again. White faced, she rose in time to see a tall man plowing into the room with assurance and wiry strength. Her fingers leapt to her mouth.

  He was tall, dressed in black, his face hidden by a half-mask. Beneath it the hair was deep brown, a shade darker than her own. Jasper felt an elbow in his kidney, heard Protheroe rasp in his ear. “The Mystery Man!”

  “So I gathered,” Jasper said, wincing.

  Miss Holyrood looked stunned, but there was no mistaking the delight dawning in her face. “Jack! I never thought to see you today!”

  “Love sped my journey.” He swept to her side and captured her hands. Jasper would have snickered, if not for the blush creeping into her cheeks. She was happy—more than happy to see this man.

  Ignoring the muttering behind him, Jasper catalogued the man’s eyes, the shape of his chin, but found nothing familiar. He didn’t know him. But he must be someone, waltzing in and claiming her like this in front of Saltash and twenty other hangers-on. Bold maneuvers, but she didn’t resent them. Jasper realized with a pained twist of his stomach that she loved this man. He’d seen his sisters tinted with that sublime pink wash too often to mistake the significance. On them it made him uncomfortable, not envious. He sidled towards the door.

  “What’s the mask for?” whispered Protheroe beside him. “Who could be that pretentious?”

  It was a little much, Jasper agreed, but Miss Holyrood seemed to find it attractive. The fellow had no trouble carrying it off.

  Miss Holyrood came to herself, recalling the others in the room. “Forgive me,” she said, smiling at them like she did at the curtain before making her bows. “An old friend. What can one do? And you have been so kind to me.” Hearing the dismissal, her astonished admirers began to move out the door. Jasper lingered till the end, failing to catch Miss Holyrood’s whispered conversation with the unnamed gentleman, but meeting her unguarded eyes when she glanced at the door. They brushed over him and fell on Saltash, still looming like a gargoyle in the corner. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said and curtsied, leading the man she loved through the opposite door.

  “Good night, Fair Cruelty,” Jasper said, bowing to her retreating form. Whether it was his words or Saltash’s disgruntled snort, Jasper couldn’t say, but she glanced back one more time, her mouth curling into an impudent smile. Though it was too late, Jasper blew a kiss, then took himself outside to the company of his friends and the cool of the dark. Miss Holyrood’s lover must be one devil of a fellow—at least Jasper hoped so, for her sake.

  Chapter Three

  Playacting

  Laura leaned against the door until she was sure no one would follow her. “Jack, I thought my heart had stopped!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you till tomorrow at the earliest!”

  “That’s only part of my good news,” her brother said, gathering her into a fierce hug. “I missed you.”

  “Me too.” She squeezed hard. Some things just couldn’t be expressed in letters. It was a miracle every time he returned, hearty and whole. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, stifling a laugh. “What possessed you to come in like that? I can only imagine what the papers will say tomorrow.”

  His coat was new and he smelled of soap. “Don’t give it a thought,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Happy you’re home.” She gave him another squeeze. He looked different—older, his face tanned. He chucked aside the mask, throwing it on the prop table. “What’s this?” she asked, tracing her finger over a white line running alongside his right eye.

  “Splinter. Damn close, but nothing that couldn’t be stitched right.”

  She made a face. “Don’t tell me you did it yourself.”

  “I won’t. You look well,” he said turning her round.

  “Why, thank you,” she said, curtseying as if she were on stage.

  His nose twitched. “Yes, well, I’ve news.”

  “News?”

  He nodded and she felt uneasy at the firm set of his lips.

  “Jack…” she began.

  “Listen. I’ve done it. I’m all but fixed, with a house and everything.”

  “You’re leaving the navy?” It was what they’d always planned, but things were different now they were only two. “I—”

  Jack saw her hesitation, rushed over it. “You needn’t work anymore. My friend Bagshot wants me to come set up in Suffolk—his wife’s about to deliver and the local physician’s set to retire. I’ve enough saved to buy the practice and surgery in Bury St Edmonds. As for a house, Bagshot said he’d loan me the rest. Normally I wouldn’t accept, but Laura…I can’t leave you alone like this. Not anymore.” His eyes flicked once more to the green room door.

  “Jack.”

  “It was different when Maman was alive,” he went on. “But a maid isn’t the same—”

  “Alice and Peter take very good care of me,” Laura said, her voice warning him to stop.

  He gave her a look. “You’re telling me no one harasses you?”

  “Not more than I like,” she said stolidly.

  “Or makes things unpleasant?”

  She shook her head.

  “Even our uncle?” he asked delicately. “I was surprised to see him here.”

  “Empty threats,” she said.

  “Maybe. But if you were me…watching them look at you like that…”

  The old argument. Again. “I’d be proud,” Laura said. “Can’t you be?”

  “I am,” Jack insisted. “It’s just…none of them know about Laura Edwards.”

  “Peter does. Mr. Rollins.”

  “I meant them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the closed door. “If you left London, you could be yourself all the time. Be something closer to what you were born to be.”

  She loved Jack. Without his letters, she couldn’t have borne their mother’s loss. And this promise of a settled, prosperous life had always been what the three of them had wished for, worked for. Jack blamed himself for the separations, though she’d forced them on him—his first voyage, his training in Edinburgh, another two years with the navy. And each time they met, he’d promised her it wouldn’t be for much longer, that soon he’d be taking care of her and Maman. He was so earnest about it and loved her so much. How could she tell him she didn’t want to go?

  “You could have a real life. Marry. Have children,” Jack said.

  “You know I gave up that idea a long time ago.” It was one of the more interesting ironies of her life, but outside the theatre she lived as quietly and cloistered as a nun. “It’s impossible,” she said. Even if Laura Edwards attracted a marriageable man, what was she to do—never tell him? The strain of it would poison her. And if she did tell the truth, no respectable man would wish to marry her, not if he was sane.

  “I’m going to see him—them—Bagshot and his wife,” Jack explained. “They told me to bring along my sister. I said she would come.”

  The words hit Laura like a punch. “You didn’t,” she said. “The play’s set to run for another week!”

  “I’ve been gone more than a year,” Jack retorted. “What will the Bagshots think if I leave you behind? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “I am,” Laura protested. It would have been nicer if he hadn’t made such a scene in her dressing room, but—“There’s my work, you see.”

  “You don’t need it anymore. I can easily look after us. And I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “That’s why you came in the way you did?” she demanded, her voice sliding out of control.

  “Stories need a good ending. This one’s yours. Gemma Holyrood retires with her lover and lives happily ever after. No one will ever know any different.”

  Laura steadied herself with a long breath. Never mind she’d thought the speculation o
ver Jack’s identity hilarious or even occasionally useful. Just because he was her older brother he was not allowed to—to manage her. “What if I don’t like your script? Well enough for Gemma if it were true, but what about Laura Edwards?” Her voice turned sing-song, sarcastic. “Laura Edwards the dutiful, if not-so-young-anymore lady vanishes from London forever and keeps house for her brother. After this that’s what I’d do?” Too late, she stopped her tongue. Jack couldn’t have looked worse if she’d slapped him.

  “I thought you wanted us to be together,” he said stiffly.

  “I do,” she said, repentant. “But I’ve—I’ve come to love this,” she said, gesturing at the tools of her art: hair plumes and cosmetics, elaborate costumes shrouded in muslin to keep off the dust. Shoes and boots and breeches, old-fashioned tricorne hats. Laura Edwards might have done for her once, but she liked being Gemma Holyrood. So much more interesting than the woman who’d lost her mother and lived in quiet style in a shabby district of London. She could act for at least another five years before a younger girl replaced her.

  “You’ve made so many sacrifices for me,” Jack began.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a sacrifice,” she muttered, massaging her forehead so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Maybe I wanted this all along.” It was true, though Jack had never seen it. Even when she was only a seamstress she never wanted to work anywhere but the theatre. She could imagine her father here. He’d have loved seeing her speeches, discovering the workings of the mechanical sets…

  Jack turned away, walking to the shelf of shoes, nudging a crooked one back into line. “You can’t stay here forever,” he said. “And after that scene in your dressing room—”

  “I know.” She was lucky. Many girls never made it half this far. It couldn’t last. Five years ago Rollins had replaced Sylvia Long, no longer Her Mightiness. Sylvia made her living blackmailing old lovers now. Her memoirs would be published next year and apparently it cost at least twenty pounds to keep a man’s name out of them. Rollins had a new scandal-maker to play opposite Laura, a pert and pretty harlot named Sarah who’d become a good friend—but Laura’s acting career was like walking a tightrope with everyone waiting for her to fall. She’d sold herself as the angel and chances were they wouldn’t forgive her if she ever played whore.

  Jack switched to French, their language for secrets, for things that mattered, perhaps the deepest, truest thing about them. The words were laced with pain. “Laure, would you just try? You owe me that much. All along, I believed—”

  French made her cry and think of Maman. Laura answered in English. “I did too. I just didn’t expect it this soon.”

  “It’s been eight years.” He sighed. “Maybe it isn’t your dream anymore, but it’s always been mine.”

  She knew life was hard for him. Leaving her and Maman again and again, the last time knowing Maman’s health was failing. Time at sea could be ruthless and bitter, never mind the danger. Jack had gotten fevers…that new scar…and stitched together broken men as their lifeblood dripped through his fingers. And all the time he’d felt guilty for leaving her.

  Jack slid his hand into his pocket. “You really meant it, didn’t you, when you told me you didn’t mind. I thought you were just being brave.”

  God forgive her. She couldn’t hurt him so. Laura swallowed, licked her lips. “I’ll come. As soon as the show’s over.” She had to try. Maybe she could work less, perform only during the Season and join Jack for the rest of the year. Being with him didn’t mean she had to give up everything.

  Jack swallowed. “Laura, I spoke to Mr. Rollins tonight.”

  She fought the urge to clench her hands. He was excited about his prospects. She could undo whatever he’d done.

  “You can come with me tomorrow if you wish.”

  She drew a deep breath. He was offering it as a choice, so she could compromise too. “I see.” She didn’t like it, but it was the reason one had an understudy. Alice wasn’t terrible and she’d be over the moon at this chance.

  Yes, she owed it to Jack to at least go to Suffolk and weigh her options. Less time on stage wouldn’t be all bad. If she took fewer roles a year it would help Sarah, who’d like having first pick of the parts. “I suppose it’s been a while since I took a holiday,” she said evenly. “I expect if I asked, Mr. Rollins would give me a few weeks’ leave.”

  Fearing he might lose her for good, Rollins offered a month. “Is this just a holiday? Or does your brother know of your trouble with Saltash?” he asked.

  Laura glanced to the door of Rollins’ office, making sure it was shut. She shivered in spite of herself. “I can’t let him know.” If he did, Jack would end her career at once. She wasn’t going to allow Jack or a demented old man bully her away from the stage. “Two weeks is all I need. All I want,” Laura assured him. “You know I couldn’t keep myself away any longer.”

  “Two weeks then,” Rollins said, scrawling out the notice he’d have printed for the playbills. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Laura buttoned herself into her Miss Edwards cape, avoiding her reflection in the window. Without the bright white she used for Gemma’s off-stage appearances, she looked drab as a mouse. She set the bonnet squarely on her head—it was such a staid thing there was no point even trying to put it at a more fetching angle. Halfway to the door Laura stopped, remembering one last thing. She reached under her collar for the clasp of Gemma Holyrood’s gold chain. Unclipped, the necklace slid into a pool of gold in the palm of her hand: precious, more than just metal, it was the symbol of who she was. “Keep this for me.” She slapped it onto Mr. Rollins’ desk.

  “Of course,” he said, sweeping it into his hands without looking up. He knew she’d be undone if he looked at her with solemn eyes.

  “Will you explain to the others?” Laura asked. She’d rather let Mr. Rollins break the news to Dan, the lead actor, and Sarah and Alice. Not saying good bye gave her good reason to come back; besides, Laura didn’t think she could keep a smile on her face when Mr. Rollins told Alice the news. She was pleased Alice would have a chance, but this show was having a spectacular run and it was hard handing it off. “Just tell them I’m on a short holiday.”

  “No one needs to know more than that,” he said.

  Mr. Rollins escorted her out of the office where Jack was waiting. “You take good care of her, Mr. Edwards.”

  “I will,” Jack said, oblivious. She’d never told him that two years ago Rollins had insured her for a thousand pounds. She didn’t keep secrets, exactly, but she knew it pained Jack a little that she was such a success. Even Maman, who’d chaperoned Laura’s dressing room and seldom missed a performance had never boasted about her daughter the actress.

  “See you in two weeks,” Laura said, waving good bye to Mr. Rollins and Peter. It was a pledge.

  Chapter Four

  A wandering breeze

  Jasper was good at avoiding discomfort, especially the self-inflicted kind. Nevertheless, he put off his departure the next morning so he could walk round to Covent Garden first. It was a whim he couldn’t justify but harmless—though he had no real reason to go, he also had no reason to resist.

  Besides, he liked London’s vast inventory of people, pleasures, and amusements. The market here, for instance, where you could easily spend an entire morning watching people whistling, walking, and bargaining: tired mothers with heavy baskets of shopping and children clinging to their skirts, nimble crossing sweepers and stall keepers with stout shoulders and wide aprons. Afternoons you could drink yourself stupid at Watier’s Club (a poor idea) or a seedy tavern (generally worse) or at any one of a dozen gradients in between. Evenings were for flirting, cards, scrutinizing people at the theatre, and a glittering parade of dinner parties. Once you tired of that you raced to Brighton for more of the same—it wasn’t a bad place, Brighton, and when it palled there were the Shires and Newmarket. As a matter of fact, Jasper couldn’t think of any truly disagreeable place, except home,
and he certainly wasn’t going there. Sophy had tactfully invited him to stay at Chippenstone. And though London was the most agreeable place of all—generally, he qualified, stepping over something indeterminate and odiferous—it wasn’t a bad thing to exchange the summer stench and heat for the quieter pleasures of the country.

  After all, things never got too quiet with Sophy around. Even if she was turning soft-eyed and weepy and quite unable to ride, she had a knack like no one else for making him smile. He should bring her a present. He stopped to admire a posy of pinks, moving away before the flower seller got too hopeful. Pretty blooms, but they’d wilt in this heat before he ever got within hailing distance of Chippenstone.

  He bought an orange instead, dropping the peels as he walked, eating the segments one by one. It was tasty and sweeter smelling than the milling crowd, but oranges were untidy fruit. Even after wiping with his handkerchief his fingers were sticky, forcing him to leave off his gloves. Circling round a wheelbarrow of fish and the jaw-cracking cries of the vendor behind it, Jasper turned the corner and strolled up to the theatre where red ink bulletins slashed across the notices for the current play.

  “Hmm,” he said to no one in particular. Miss Holyrood would not be appearing in this evening’s performance. Seemed she and her lover were having a happy reunion indeed.

  “They say she’s sick,” said a smirking flower seller crouched next to her baskets, resting her back against the wall.

  “Pity,” Jasper said. “Do they think she’ll recover quickly?”

  “Lawks, I don’t know!” chortled the woman. “But they say with diseases of the heart—”

  “I’ll take that one,” Jasper pointed out a flower. Removing the fading bloom from his buttonhole, he dropped it to the ground and replaced it with the carnation he’d chosen.

  “Very nice, sir, if you’ll forgive my saying so,” the woman said.