A Change of Fortune

by Sandra Heath

  “I was under the impression that the opera was equally as tedious as far as you were concerned, sir,” she replied a little acidly.

  His smooth, clever smile didn’t falter. “Ah, but that is only when I’m not in your sweet company, Miss Benckendorff.”

  She said nothing more and a heavy silence descended suddenly over them. Then Rupert cleared his throat, exchanging a brief glance with Edward before offering her his arm. “Shall we go then?”

  Nadia had barely taken her place in the carriage when she noticed something crumpled and white on the floor by her feet. When she picked it up, she saw that it was a lady’s handkerchief, prettily edged with lace and embroidered with the initials M.St.J. Renewed anger flushed hotly through her. That creature had been in the carriage today. He had been with her again and he made no attempt whatsoever to hide the fact, even though he knew she was unhappy about the way he was seen so frequently escorting his mother’s protégée.

  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice as she thrust the handkerchief into his hand. “Miss St. Julienne’s, I believe.”

  He accepted it without a word, which made her more furious than ever. For a moment she thought of getting out of the carriage again, but then the door was closed and the coachman touched the team into action. They drove in silence to Covent Garden.

  * * *

  Guy’s carriage drew up outside the Theater Royal, Drury Lane, and it was immediately evident that the combination of the thaw and the fact that an unknown actor was playing the leading role had kept the crowds away. As Leonie alighted, she glanced up at the austere lines of the theater, rebuilt barely a year before after the previous building had been destroyed by fire.

  There were few people in the vestibule, and the splendid double staircase ascending to the domed Corinthian rotunda was almost deserted. Usually the rotunda itself was an impossible crush before a performance, but tonight it too was almost deserted. They entered Guy’s private box, and Stella immediately sat forward in her chair, gazing excitedly around the auditorium, which was barely a third full.

  Guy drew out a chair for Leonie and she sat down. There were ladies in a box opposite, with diamonds in their hair and at their throats, and when she leaned forward a little she saw others, all of them sparkling with jewels. She was suddenly conscious of how unadorned she was with only flowers in her hair.

  Beside her, Guy seemed to sense that she was thinking. “They look like St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice, as fussy and ornate as a reliquary.”

  She smiled a little self-consciously. “Maybe they do, Sir Guy, but nevertheless I wish that I was like them.”

  “You have no need of such aids, Miss Conyngham, you’re very beautiful just as you are.”

  “And you, sir, are a master of the art of flattery.”

  “I never indulge in flattery, Miss Conyngham, for it is a singularly unrewarding pastime. If one flatters a woman and thus succeeds with her, she must be a shallow creature and not worth the winning. You, on the other hand, would never respond to empty flattery, which would make any such attempt on my part quite futile. So you see, when I pay you a compliment, you may rely upon its being said in all honesty.”

  At last the performance commenced, and at first it seemed as if it were merely an average production, as the unenthusiastic applause of the thin audience showed, but the moment Mr. Kean made his first appearance, an almost electrifying change swept tangibly through the house. He was a small, unimpressive figure, barely five feet, five inches tall, and his head looked far too large for his little body. He was a very strange Shylock, especially as he had dispensed with the traditional red wig and beard and wore black instead, and a surprised stir passed through the audience. But then he gazed from the stage with his burning eyes and spoke his first lines, and the entire audience knew instinctively that they were in the presence of a great actor. Leonie found she was holding her breath, and Stella was spellbound, her lips parted slightly, transfixed by the shuffling figure on the stage. Guy was motionless, at first with astonishment, then with admiration.

  Absolute silence gripped the house, but then Kean’s brilliance drew involuntary bursts of applause, and by the end of the first act he had so asserted his dominance over them all that the dropping of the curtain brought forth a wild enthusiasm which was all the more astonishing since the audience was so very thin. A seething excitement and babble of conversation broke out, and Stella turned at last to Leonie and Guy. “I think,” she said in a trembling voice, “that Mr. Kean is the most wonderful actor there’s ever been.”

  Leonie nodded, a little shaken by the sheer intensity of the man’s acting. “I think you may be right,” she said. She glanced at Guy. “What do you think, Sir Guy?”

  “He’s certainly a genius,” he replied simply, “and this won’t by any means be the last we see of him.” He leaned forward. “I see that word’s getting out already.”

  Leonie looked down too, and saw several gentlemen leaving their places to hurry out of the theater.

  Guy sat back again. “Before the performance is over, the house will be full, you mark my words.”

  Stella looked at him again, her smile sweet and her eyes as large and innocuous as could be. “What a shame Imogen isn’t here to see it,” she said.

  * * *

  At the opera house, the performance was very poor indeed, and the audience as thin as at the Theater Royal. The house was shuffling and dissatisfied, and already there had been a number of catcalls.

  Nadia’s fan moved slowly to and fro and she sighed. She doubted if she’d ever endured a more boring or irritating evening, boring because of the quality of the production, and irritating because Edward Longhurst was seated on one side of her. Dear God, how she despised him! Why had he had to come tonight, when she’d especially wanted to spend the evening alone with Rupert?

  Gradually she became aware of a stir in the nearby boxes. People began to talk excitedly, even though the performance was still in progress, and then they began to leave their places. What was happening? She turned inquiringly to Rupert, and Edward got up to see what was going on. He returned to tell them that everyone was going over to Drury Lane to see the brilliant new actor playing Shylock.

  Rupert glanced at the stage, where the cast had now been so disturbed by the noise from the audience that they’d missed several cues. “I vote we toddle over and see this new fellow, for to be sure, anything is preferable to this shambles.” He got up and held his hand out to Nadia, thus not giving her any choice in the matter.

  At the Theater Royal, the second act had been considerably delayed by the turmoil in the audience. More and more people kept arriving and now most of the boxes were occupied and there were many standing at the back of the house. What had been a painfully thin house had now become a great crush.

  Nadia, Rupert, and Edward took their places in Rupert’s private box, and Nadia’s mood was now more sour than ever. Her hem was wet and her satin slippers soaked through, and to make matters worse, they had come face to face in the rotunda with Lady Cowper, who had immediately noticed that she was wearing Dorothea’s necklace. Emily was more than a little piqued at the way Dorothea had snapped up Lord Palmerston, and was therefore bound to mention the matter of the necklace to her, since she knew that Dorothea would never have consented to its being borrowed and would therefore be absolutely furious when told.

  Nadia’s fan wafted angrily to and fro as she gazed over the crowded theater, and then she stiffened in astonishment, staring across at the occupants of Guy de Lacey’s box opposite. “Milord?” she said quickly, touching Rupert’s arm. “Forgive me, but I have a dreadful headache and do not think I can endure this crush.”

  “A headache?” He looked at her, but then almost immediately forgot all about her as the curtain at last rose on the second act.

  A prolonged burst of applause broke out, followed at last by a breathless silence as everyone waited for Mr. Kean to make his appearance. He was greeted with the thunderous acclai
m reserved for conquerors, and he responded to his audience, going from strength to strength, and dominating the whole theater as no actor had done before.

  The brilliance of the performance made little impression on Nadia, who was too busy dwelling on Leonie’s apparent restoration to the finer things of life. Anger burned through her as she gazed across the auditorium, and she wondered if Leonie was not only a threat to her own plans, but to Imogen’s as well, for Guy de Lacey did not look as if he were there under duress, and nor did he exude an air of ennui!

  Rupert had at last noticed Leonie. His handsome face revealed nothing of his inner thoughts, but the fact that he glanced time and time again across at the other box conveyed to Nadia that he still found Leonie far too interesting. Nadia sat stiffly, toying with her fan, her loathing for Leonie written clearly in her vindictive green eyes. Maybe Dorothea was not there to lend assistance this time, but there was a new ally now, for Imogen would not be at all amused to learn whom her future husband had escorted to the theater tonight.

  Behind his two companions, Edward lounged lazily in his chair, not a single undercurrent escaping his attention. So Rupert was still intrigued by the little schoolteacher, was he? And the Russian cat was as green with jealousy as it was possible to be. Oh, what malice there was in the glances she sent across to that other box. He smiled a little, watching as Guy spoke to Leonie again and she smiled and nodded. There was a rapport there which would no doubt be of considerable interest to Imogen, thought Edward, his glance moving slowly over Leonie’s bare throat and shoulders. His blue eyes became even more thoughtful, and a faint smile touched his fine lips. He enjoyed making trouble, and what he had noted tonight offered infinite possibilities for following that favored pastime.

  The Merchant of Venice came to a triumphant ending, and the audience erupted into wild and appreciative applause. Afterward the crush in the rotunda was so great that it was barely possible to move, especially as many were leaving, not feeling in the mood for the farce, The Apprentice, after the strength and magnificence of Kean.

  Nadia, Rupert, and Edward found themselves at the top of one branch of the staircase, and looking across, they saw Guy, Leonie, and Stella descending the other side. Rupert watched Leonie until she passed from sight in the crowded vestibule, and his apparent absorption stung Nadia more than ever. She had to say something derisory about her hated rival. “Rosebuds in her hair and not a diamond in sight—how very rustic she is become.”

  For a moment he said nothing, but then he gave her one of his enigmatic smiles. “You must think me a dreadful boor, my love, for you told me earlier that you had a headache and I paid you scant attention. Allow me to make amends now. I shall, of course, be pleased to take you home. We will go immediately.”

  She stared at him, taken completely by surprise. “Now? But…but will you be staying with me?”

  “My poor darling, how very brave you are, but I wouldn’t dream of it, for I couldn’t possibly impose upon you when you are feeling indisposed.”

  “But you wouldn’t be—”

  “Don’t try to make me feel better,” he interrupted, raising her hand smoothly to his lips. “I have been a poor escort tonight, and for that I must beg your forgiveness. Edward and I will take you back to Harley Street immediately.”

  Her green eyes fled to Edward’s face. He smiled, his glance moving deliberately down to the vestibule, where last they had seen Leonie. Nadia’s lips parted and then closed again, and she looked quickly at Rupert again. “Where will you be going after you leave me?” she asked.

  “Why, to White’s, of course.”

  It sounded so false, and she knew that that wasn’t his intention at all. He was going to look for Leonie Conyngham, in order to begin pursuing her once more! In a daze, she accepted the arm he offered, and they began to descend the staircase. Damn Leonie Conyngham, damn her! She would be made to pay dearly for this latest humiliation!

  Chapter 20

  Guy’s carriage was moving west along Piccadilly, and Stella gazed wistfully out at the wet streets and the great piles of melting snow which stood on every corner. She sighed. “I suppose this thaw means no frost fair after all, and I was so looking forward to seeing one.”

  “Young lady,” said Guy firmly, “if you fondly imagined I would permit you to visit such an unseemly gathering, then you were very much mistaken.”

  “Oh, but Uncle Guy—!”

  “No. Frost fairs are the haunt of every disreputable part of society, and on no account would I have allowed you to go.”

  She pouted a little, but then forgot the fair. “I wish tonight wasn’t ending,” she said. “I want it to go on and on.”

  He smiled then. “It doesn’t need to end yet. We could have dinner at Grillion’s if you wish.”

  She stared excitedly at him. “Oh, could we? A real French dinner?”

  “As French as it’s possible to get outside France.” He glanced at Leonie. “You are, of course, included in the invitation, Miss Conyngham.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to feel—”

  “Obliged again? I don’t, I promise you. I would be pleased to have your company, and I’m sure that Stella feels the same.”

  “I do, oh, I do,” said Stella quickly, looking urgently at Leonie. “Please say you’ll come too.”

  Leonie smiled. “Of course I will. Thank you, Sir Guy.”

  He lowered the window and ordered the coachman to turn north into Albemarle Street.

  Grillion’s Hotel had in the space of eleven years become one of the most fashionable hotels in London. It had been opened in 1803 by Alexander Grillion, a French chef who had previously been in the employ of Lord Crewe, a nobleman renowned as a connoisseur of food and drink. Dinners at Grillion’s were very expensive indeed, costing between three and four pounds, as Leonie knew only too well, so Stella’s excitement now was understandable, for it wasn’t every day that small girls of only twelve were taken to such grand and exclusive establishments. Nor, if it came to that, thought Leonie a little dryly, were assistant schoolteachers.

  The hotel was at number seven Albemarle Street. The rooms above the street door had grand balconies on which stood a row of pots containing bay trees, and on the pavement by the door two liveried footmen paraded importantly up and down. As Guy’s carriage drew up at the curb, they immediately hurried forward to open the doors.

  Guy escorted Leonie and Stella into a very elegant and hushed entrance hall, from which rose a beautiful elliptical staircase. The maitre d’hotel hurried attentively to greet them. “Good evening, Sir Guy. Ladies. Do you wish to dine? Ah, excellent, please come this way.”

  They followed him into the immense dining room, where ladies and gentlemen sat at candlelit tables and where a small orchestra played on a dais at the far end. The delicious smell of food hung in the air, and there was a drone of refined conversation. They were shown to a gleaming, polished table, in which the reflection of the candelabrum upon it could clearly be seen, and a small Negro boy dressed as a footman brought the menu card. Stella’s eyes shone and she practically trembled with excitement as she gazed all around. Her glance met Leonie’s for a moment, and without a word being spoken, Leonie knew that the girl was exulting in Imogen’s absence.

  * * *

  Nadia had been returned rather ignominiously to Harley Street—at least she felt she had been treated ignominiously, although in fact Rupert had been almost too polite and attentive. She had tried to tell him her headache was better, but he refused to believe her, telling her again that she was being noble on his account and he wouldn’t hear of it. He and Edward had then driven away again, evidently content that she was well and truly out of the way for them to go about whatever devious plan they now had in mind. Well, if they thought Nadia Benckendorff could be disposed of as easily as that, they were sadly mistaken. Taking a long, angry breath, she rang furiously for a footman, and was relieved to see when he came that it was the man who had so expertly stolen Leonie’s belongings from the
seminary.

  “I want you to find me a hackney coach,” she said.

  He stared. “A hackney, madam? But there is a carriage—”

  “I said a hackney, and I meant a hackney,” she snapped. “Do you think I want everyone in London recognizing one of the embassy coaches?”

  His eyes cleared. “Ah, I understand perfectly, madam. I will attend to it directly.”

  He hurried away, and in what seemed barely a minute he returned to tell her that a hackney was waiting at the door. She emerged again into the night, instructing the hackneyman to drive to St. James’s Street and go very slowly past White’s club. Then she sat back on the dingy seat, her hood pulled forward to hide her face from any passerby. One way or another she would find out where Rupert and Edward had really gone tonight.

  But as the anonymous little coach drove past White’s, she feared straightaway that her suspicions had been correct, for there was no sign of Rupert’s carriage outside. In order to make sure, she instructed the hackneyman to drive past again, but still there was no sign of the other carriage.

  She sat back angrily. So, he had lied to her. Maybe he was with Leonie even now! For a moment her fury threatened to get the better of her, but then she struggled to regain her lost composure. She must be logical about this. Rupert wasn’t at White’s, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was yet with Leonie, for she had been with Guy. So the wisest thing to do now would be to see if Guy had taken his guests back to his house in Berkeley Street. After that, the seminary itself would have to be watched, to see who arrived back there with whom. Leaning out, she instructed the hackneyman to drive to Berkeley Street, and to draw up by Lansdowne Passage.

  He looked curiously at her, but then nodded, cracking his whip at his tired horse.

  Guy’s house was in darkness, no lights in the drawing-room windows. Nor was there a carnage waiting at the door. Nadia gazed across, a little perplexed, and then quickly leaned out again and told the puzzled hackneyman to drive on to Park Lane and to stop opposite the seminary. Wearily he urged his horse forward again and set off in the direction of Piccadilly.