She cleared her throat, twisting her hands in her apron. “Should you go out alone, sir? After what happened this afternoon?”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth in annoyance. His uncle had insisted on having Jem accompany him home this afternoon, so of course, his housekeeper had been apprised of everything.
“I shall be fine,” he said more calmly. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“But—but where will you be?”
“Out on the town,” he answered shortly. Regretting the sarcastic words as soon as they’d been spoken, he added more gently, reaching a hand out to cover hers, “Forgive me. It’s hard to be watched when one is used to going where one pleases. I shall just take a short stroll. I assure you I’ll be all right. My life is in God’s hands now.”
Mrs. Duff just pressed her lips together, her eyes showing a brightness of unshed tears, but she said no more.
He let himself out of his house, feeling as if he’d escaped. From what? The danger was within him. Without making a conscious decision he turned the corner and headed down Union Street for the theater.
When he stood outside the Royal Circus, nothing had changed from the last time. Hawkers stood outside the entrance advertising the evening’s billing. Prostitutes continued strolling along the pavement, eyeing the gentlemen descending from their curricles. The lobby doors stood wide-open, revealing a glimpse of the rich, lit interior, promising a slice of magic for the evening.
Nothing had changed except this time he didn’t have a hope of meeting one of the theater’s principal actresses after the show for supper. What conceit! What a blind, conceited fool he’d been for a space of time.
He shook his head and was about to turn away, wondering why he had come but finding himself still unable to leave. He walked closer to the entrance, telling himself he would simply see what the evening’s fare was.
He could no longer find any sign of the Don Giovanni production Mrs. Neville had appeared in. Instead, all the playbills announced a show called A Tale of Mystery, a “comedy set to music in two acts.” He scanned a poster for Mrs. Neville’s name and frowned, not seeing her in any of the casts of characters. It was as if she’d never formed a major attraction at the theater.
He walked over to the box office.
“Two shillings the pit, four for a box,” the ticket woman told him in a bored tone before he had a chance to open his mouth.
“Excuse me, but is Mrs. Eleanor Neville in any of this week’s performances?”
“Mrs. Neville? She ain’t been with this company in over a month,” she said, disdainful of his ignorance.
“Not with this company?” Had she really lost her place since her illness, or had she left them?
The woman looked beyond him to the next person in line. “Excuse me, sir, but I got tickets to sell. Show starts at seven sharp.” As he turned to go, she said, “You might try the Drury Lane if you want to see Mrs. Neville. Heard she was over there.”
The Drury Lane? What a slow-top he must appear, repeating everything he heard. He stood at the corner, uncertain, but feeling a pull across the river. He reached the corner and, seeing a hack stand, he hailed a jarvey.
“The Drury Lane,” he told him, climbing inside the coach.
A quarter of an hour later he descended the cab and paid his fare in front of the magnificent theater building. It had only recently been rebuilt after a fire. He couldn’t help thinking of the last time he’d been there. He walked slowly up the shallow steps leading to the lobby. Spying a playbill, he went closer and read it. He scrolled down the list of players, recognizing only Edmund Kean’s. There at the bottom of the list of dramatis personae were the only two female characters, one played by Mrs. Eleanor Neville, the other by a name unknown to him.
He turned toward the box office and requested a box. Paying, he received his ivory ticket check.
When he was seated inside, he scrutinized the program.
Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
A New Way to Pay Old Debts
There followed the list of characters and the actors who played them. He skimmed these, not caring who played what, until he came to her name. Lady Allworth…Mrs. Neville.
So, she had achieved her goal. A pity he couldn’t congratulate her. He sat back, covering his eyes from the gaslights with one hand, not interested in his ornate surroundings or in the celebrated company around him. Why was he here? To punish himself? He had no answer.
When the play began, Ian found himself caught up in the story unfolding on the stage. The piece was a comedy, the actors were good, and unlike the pieces Eleanor had played previously, this one was not set to music.
His attention was truly captured when Kean came onstage. The man played an unscrupulous character, using his daughter Margaret for his greedy ends.
Ian’s breath caught when Eleanor came onstage. She was more beautiful than ever. She might never have suffered the ravages of fever. She played an elegant lady, desperate to stop the evil Sir Giles Overreach.
Ian forgot everything but the story unfolding on the stage. Only once did he glance toward the pit, his attention drawn by the crowd’s laughter. It was then he noticed the packed house, and that the audience was clearly enjoying the play.
Eleanor must be happy, knowing the play was a success. He wondered how she had gotten the part. Not that she didn’t deserve it: her acting was superb, an understated dignity the perfect foil to Kean’s evil genius.
He found himself wondering who the real Eleanor Neville was. He could easily believe the role she played onstage now. But there had been that other role, the innocent young maiden seduced by the lecherous parson. And how about the kindly lady entertaining the young children at the mission?
He swallowed, the memories digging at him. What about the woman who had offered herself to him so artlessly, and then kissed him with such passionate abandon?
He rubbed his mouth with his palm, unable to forget her touch. The pain intensified as he thought of her next incarnation, the scornful woman belittling his inexpert lovemaking. Which had been the real Eleanor Neville?
He remembered something she’d told him long ago—that even her name was an invention. Had any of her words to him been sincere? Was everything about her artifice?
During the intermission, Ian idly watched the people below him milling about. He felt no desire to go in search of refreshment in the coffee room. As he skimmed the box seats opposite him, he froze, recognizing the gentleman who rose from his seat and exited his box.
The Duke d’Alvergny. Distaste curled in the pit of Ian’s stomach. Still following Eleanor about. Ian wondered how she was handling him these days. As if it were any of his concern, he told himself bitterly.
He found it hard to concentrate on the remaining acts when the play resumed. His glance kept straying to d’Alvergny’s box. The man seemed as at ease as if he owned the theater.
When the show ended and the actors took their bows, Ian clapped along with the enthusiastic crowd, although his heart was no longer in it. Eleanor deserved the applause, but he felt only a dull aching melancholy in his heart.
He rose to leave, not interested in seeing the pantomime that was to follow the play. He couldn’t help glancing one last time at d’Alvergny’s box, but the man had already left. Where? Ian thought of the greenroom with its lounging dandies, men in wait of their prey. Was d’Alvergny among them or was he admitted to her dressing room?
Pursued by these thoughts, Ian left the theater. Once outside, he hesitated, still unwilling to return to his lonely house. But it was too cold to linger outside, so he began walking with no clear destination in mind. The streets were packed with theatergoers, prostitutes, and late-night diners. He headed to Covent Garden and wandered around the booths, wondering how long he would be able to stand and walk as he was doing.
Feeling tired and cold, he reached the Strand and continued his aimless promenade, jostled by pedestrians. He passed the Sans Pareil Theater, where more theatergoers wer
e exiting. Men shouted for their coaches, laughter mingled with conversation as people discussed their evening plans. Farther down he passed the Lyceum. More crowds to press through. He should have stayed home, safe within his study. The side of his head throbbed with a familiar pain.
Gazing across the street, he glimpsed Waterloo Bridge in the distance. He could call a hack and be on his way home. Instead he plodded doggedly on, not knowing what he was searching for. To recapture the recent past? That was finished.
He ended back up near the Drury Lane, a futile circle. A boisterous group burst forth from a door in front of him. He looked up at the swaying sign, The Craven Arms. Through the thick mullioned windows, he saw a merry crowd seated inside the cozy-looking tavern. Before the door swung shut again, Ian stepped inside.
At least it would be warm. He’d have a bite to eat and something hot to drink and then he’d return home, a pilgrim on an unsuccessful journey.
There didn’t seem to be any table available, but the brawny waitress squeezed him into a dark corner. He gave his order, no longer feeling hungry for anything. At least he wouldn’t be noticed in this shadowy nook. No one here knew of him and his disgraceful collapse in the operating theater today. He could imagine the headlines—Surgeon of Repute Imperils Life of Patient When He Falls into a Swoon During Operation.
Cridley would probably call him in on the morrow. Ian would tender his resignation, of course. Cridley could call it a “leave,” but in any case, they would both know it to be permanent. Ian sat sipping his tankard, the pasty on his pewter plate forgotten as he went over the recent events of his life, everything seeming to unravel in a few short weeks…months.
A gust of fresh, cold air pushed the smoke farther into the room each time people entered or exited the tavern. Ian glanced toward the door, watching the latest entrants. His tankard stopped before it reached his lips, as he watched Eleanor come in, followed by the Duke d’Alvergny.
The tankard never reached his lips. He heard its thud on the wooden tabletop, not noticing the contents spilling over it until they splashed his hand. Without conscious thought, he removed his hand, his eyes all the while on the woman who retained the power to slice him open and disembowel him with excruciating finesse.
She handed her cloak to d’Alvergny with a practiced smoothness and followed the waitress. Despite the crowded tavern, the two had no trouble procuring a choice table by a window. Ian remembered his first evening with her, in just such a place. Her back was to him, so there was no danger of his being seen.
He needn’t have worried. She seemed completely engrossed with her present companion. Ian watched her profile as she turned a moment to consult the waitress. She was breathtakingly lovely as always. His scientific mind went over every detail with meticulous thoroughness.
Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he rose slowly, the ale curdling in his stomach, and threw down some coins. He’d just endured the most agonizing few minutes of his life.
He left the smoke-filled tavern, the woman he’d given his heart to as unaware of his presence as if he’d been a fly on the wall.
Eleanor dug into her plate of beef and vegetables with relish, always famished after a performance. It also gave her a good excuse to ignore d’Alvergny. What a bore he was becoming, monopolizing her company. Just because he’d set her up in a wonderful house on Jermyn Street didn’t mean he owned her.
“Mrs. Neville, you were simply magnificent tonight!” A tall young gentleman stopped by their table, boyish enthusiasm coloring his voice.
She smiled graciously. “You flatter me.”
“Not at all, you are a goddess among women. You make Lady Allworth sound sublime.”
“You are too kind. Who is your friend?” she asked with a glance at the dark-haired gentleman behind him.
“This is Rupert, Viscount Stanley. He is half in love with you, too, but is too shy to own up to it.”
“Why don’t you two join us?” she asked with an inviting smile, throwing a careless look d’Alvergny’s way.
The two gentlemen accepted immediately and hailed the waitress to bring some chairs. Soon, Eleanor found herself regaling them with tales of what it was like to work with Kean. Seeing the younger man, Stanley, hardly able to say a word to her without blushing, she paid especial attention to him, drawing him out with consummate skill.
“I think it’s time we were leaving,” d’Alvergny said once their dinner dishes were cleared away.
“It’s early yet,” she replied, sparing him only a glance.
“It’s past twelve,” he replied, flipping open his watch.
“I’m sure you don’t retire till dawn,” she told Stanley, who blushed and stammered a reply.
“Nevertheless, it’s time to depart,” the duke insisted, standing. The other gentlemen rose immediately, each reaching into his pocket to withdraw money.
She waved their intention away. “His Grace will cover it.” She threw him a smile. He said nothing, but tossed some sovereigns onto the table.
In his carriage, the two were silent. She wondered whether this was what a couple who’d been married for years felt like.
At her door, she turned to him, putting a hand to her forehead. “I’m tired tonight. Perhaps you’ll call round tomorrow.”
“A pity, you didn’t seem tired at all at the restaurant.” He descended the carriage and held out his hand for her. She had no choice but to follow him, her heart sinking.
Once inside, she asked him if he cared for any refreshment but he declined. “Well, I’m off to bed, then,” she said with false brightness. “I shall see you in the morning.”
He took her arm as she passed him. “You’ll see me tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked in haughty disdain.
“I think you need reminding of who is master in this arrangement of ours.”
“Don’t be tiresome, d’Alvergny.” She refused to ever call him by his given name.
Before she could evade him, he kissed her in a bruising, punishing kiss that held no warmth or tenderness. She struggled to break free but his grip was like iron.
“Now that we have taken care of the preliminaries, I expect your full cooperation tonight.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked coldly, hating the very sight of his cleanly shaven, well-fed look.
“Then I shall take great pleasure in demonstrating my superior strength.”
The next instant he took her by the arm and threw her away from him with such force she went flying backward, hitting an end table and landing on the floor. She stared at him, her mind refusing to believe what he’d just done.
He smiled down from his great height. “Don’t think of screaming. I pay those servants of yours, and they know who is in charge. In future, you will never presume to treat me like one of your lackeys. You kept me dangling for months, but now you’re mine, bought and paid for dearly. Do I make myself understood?”
She struggled to stand and he offered her no aid. “I belong to no man.”
In reply, he walked over to an umbrella stand and removed his riding crop. Slapping it rhythmically against his leg, he returned to her. Despite her urge to take a step back, she stood her ground.
“Next time, it will be that pretty face of yours, and you won’t be fit to be seen on the stage.” He smiled, a smile so sinister she put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. “I put you on that stage, and I have the power to take you down again, do you understand?”
She nodded, terror immobilizing her.
He laughed, a deep, self-satisfied sound. “Who do you think engineered your last accident?”
“Wha-what do you mean?” she asked, her mind going to the only accident she’d had on the stage.
“The faulty trapdoor,” he reminded her softly, the smile still playing along his fleshy lips.
“How…how could you…” She stared in horror, her mind refusing to grasp the implications of what he was saying. “I don’t believe you.”
He laughed. “Money can buy anything, including trapdoors that unhinge at the most inconvenient or—shall we say convenient—times?”
What kind of monster was he? “I could have been killed.”
He shrugged. “Then no other man would have ever known you. As it is, I am the only man who can have you!” With those words, he raised the riding crop and brought it smartly against her bare arm. She flinched at the stinging pain.
He touched her cheek with the handle. “Remember, not a word or your pretty face will be maimed beyond recognition.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ian slept fitfully that night, waking time and again with the wisp of a dream he couldn’t quite regain. He felt the blackest despair he’d ever experienced in his life—greater than after the bloodiest battle on the Peninsula. There he’d fought against death, too busy rescuing life to have time to dwell on it. He hadn’t been responsible for taking men’s lives, only in trying to save them, so the panorama of the battlefield had only confirmed to him the fallen nature of humanity and the need for a redemptive savior.
Now it was not only his own imminent end he faced, but also the betrayal of a woman, the only woman he’d ever given his heart to. Oh, the perfidy of woman! For this he’d saved himself? In vain, all in vain. The bitterest pill was the fact that he still wanted her. Her kiss still haunted him.
He fell asleep again from sheer exhaustion, only to awake again. This time he remembered the last fragment of his dream.
Search the Scriptures. A voice had been telling him to search the Scriptures. What did it mean? He had been searching and studying the Scriptures diligently. What more could he do?
Wearily he lit his candle, knowing he’d get little more sleep that night. His clock read four in the morning. Rubbing the gritty fatigue from his eyes, he sat up in his bed and reached for his Bible.
It opened to his marker. His eyes fell on the twenty-first verse of Mark 11: “…behold, the fig tree which thou cursedst is withered away.” Ian felt a stillness permeate his being. His eyes scanned the verses above it. He’d read them only yesterday, but they hadn’t held any particular significance for him then. Now he scrutinized them carefully. The verses recounted how Jesus when he’d passed a fig tree the day before had cursed it because it hadn’t contained any fruit. The following day the disciples, passing by it again, noticed that it had dried and withered to its very roots.
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