Carola Dunn (14 page)

 Yet when they were together he felt she enjoyed his company. His original guess that she was playing coy to lead him on was untenable now he was better acquainted with her candour and openness. No false modesty suggested his person was less attractive to women than his title and his purse. He didn’t understand her.

 He scanned the room. Nowhere a glimpse of tawny curls nor the dreadful lemon-yellow dress. He saw the other actress, Aimée Orlando, in an eye-catching cherry-red gown cut so low it was a wonder she didn’t spill out. Unnecessarily flirting her fan to draw attention to her bosom, she was looking up saucily at.... Devil take it, Henry Ffoliot!

 What the deuce was he doing at the Servants’ Ball? It was all very well for family to attend, and a close friend like David Denham who had often visited Easthaven in boyhood. Ffoliot had no business here.

 No legitimate business, Rusholme corrected himself. The way he was gazing at Miss Orlando’s exiguous bodice was self-explanatory. Well, the vulgar hussy could take care of herself. She was an actress after all. If Ffoliot were to pester the maids it would be another matter.

 The fiddlers started up again. Past time Rusholme returned to his duty in the drawing room. He spent the rest of the evening doing the pretty to Lady Anne while racking his brains for a way to see more of Miss Prudence Figg.

 To see more of her in every sense of the phrase.

 Yet he did not want to figure in her eyes as a persecutor, nor to draw the attention of family and guests to his interest in her. By the time he went to bed, he still had not contrived a viable scheme.

Chapter 5

 Rusholme had arranged with some of the gentlemen to go riding early next morning. Somehow Lady Estella learned of the plan and awaited him in the stables when he went down.

 Through brook and through briar she stuck to his side like a leech. So when they all returned to the house and the butler told him his mother desired a word with him, he was more thankful than dismayed. He’d far rather listen to the marchioness’s strictures on an empty stomach than to Lady Estella’s analysis of their ride while he ate his breakfast.

 He went straight to his mother’s private sitting room, but paused on the threshold to say, “Do you mind my dirt, Mama? I have been out on Salamander. Shall I go and change?”

 “No, no, Garth, come in and sit down.” Her ladyship was clad in an appalling mulberry-coloured morning gown which clashed not only with her favourite green and pink shawl but with the black and scarlet Chinese furnishings.

 Resisting an urge to shade his eyes, her son entered and kissed her cheek. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

 “I wish to ascertain your preference. You do not appear to distinguish either Lady Estella or Lady Anne by your attentions. Which do you favour?”

 “Good Lord, neither! If I favour anyone, which I’m not prepared to say, it’s Miss—dash it, what’s her name?—ah, Wallace.”

 “Miss Wallace? I have scarcely observed you exchanging a single word with Miss Wallace.”

 “Have you tried to exchange a word with her, Mama?”

 Lady Easthaven frowned. “She is a modest, well-behaved young lady. It is a pity her father is merely a baron and her fortune insignificant. However, I don’t mean to cavil at your choice. I shall invite Miss Wallace—and her sister and Mr. Denham, of course—to stay on for a week when our other guests leave.”

 Aghast, Rusholme jumped to his feet and opened his mouth to protest. At that moment the marquis burst into the room.

 “My dear,” he cried, “disaster has struck!”

 “Sit down, Easthaven, and collect yourself,” said his wife, her composure undisturbed. “Is the house on fire?”

 “No, no, nothing like that.”

 “Then there is no need for haste.”

 “You are quite right, my dear. Hello, Garth, you here? Just wait till you hear!” He turned towards the door and said impatiently, “Come in, Hardcastle, come in!”

 Rusholme recognized the man who hovered unhappily on the threshold as the front half of the dragon. He stepped in. “M-my lady,” he stammered, “my name is—”

 “Tell her ladyship and Lord Rusholme what happened.”

 “It’s Ben Dandridge, my lady—”

 “Tony Lumpkin,” elucidated Lord Easthaven. “Seems the fellow used to be a circus clown. He got a bit bosky at the servants’ hop last night and started doing acrobatics on the table. The long and short of it is, the clunch fell off and broke his leg.”

 “Has a physician been summoned, Mr. Hardcastle?”

 “Yes, my lady. My name is—”

 “The fellow will be on crutches for months,” the marquis broke in despairingly. “He can’t possibly play Lumpkin!”

 “Surely you have other actors in your company, Mr. Hardcastle?”

 The actor-manager gave up his attempt to rectify his name. “None but those who already have vital rôles, my lady, and those not fit to play aught but servants and such. None to spare that’s capable of Tony Lumpkin.”

 “You see, it’s a catastrophe,” moaned Lord Easthaven, slumping into a chair. “I have promised our guests a play and I have already invited all the neighbours.”

 “Nonsense,” said the marchioness bracingly. “Our neighbours are always vastly gratified to be invited to Easthaven on Twelfth Night, with or without a performance to entertain them. Not that I believe it necessary to disappoint them. You—”

 “I have the solution,” Rusholme interrupted before his mother could voice her proposal. He had in fact thought of several possibilities which had not occurred to his impulsive father or the beleaguered manager. One was so glorious, so utterly perfect, he hastened to suppress all others. “I beg your pardon, Mama, but there’s no need to rack our brains. I shall play Tony Lumpkin.”

 Hardcastle blenched and wrung his hands. “But my lord...” he bleated.

 “I was forever winning prizes at school for the recitation of Latin verses,” Rusholme assured him. “A few speeches in English will be simple to get by heart and I daresay you can teach me the rest of the business in no time.”

 “But my lord—!”

 “Do you know the play, my boy?” his father enquired anxiously. “Tony Lumpkin is no dashing hero, he’s a rowdy buffoon.”

 “I know, sir. I’ve always had a fancy to try my hand at a bit of farce.” The notion had never crossed his mind before, but to further his acquaintance with Prudence he was even prepared to make a cake of himself in public.

 “Impossible,” pronounced his mother. Hardcastle cast her a glance of burning gratitude. “It is out of the question for a Warrender to prance about upon the stage.”

 “Perhaps another part,” the marquis suggested. “Hastings is a sedate, gentlemanly sort of fellow. Then the fellow playing Hastings can do Lumpkin.”

 “Tony Lumpkin or nothing!” said Rusholme. He distinctly recalled Tony flirting with Constance Neville. He and Prudence would have to rehearse a great deal to do it just right.

 “Nothing,” snapped Lady Easthaven. Hardcastle nodded vigorously.

 “Come, my dear, let the boy have a bit of fun. He’ll be a staid old married man soon enough.”

 “More staid than his father, I daresay.” With a sigh, she gave in.

 “Good, that’s settled,” said Rusholme. “Hardcastle, if you’d be so kind as to send my lines to the breakfast room, I shall start studying at once.”

 “Yes, my lord,” groaned the unfortunate man, and he bowed himself out.

 Rusholme made his escape before his mama could begin again on the subject of his preferences in the way of brides. If she went ahead and invited Kitty Wallace and the Denhams to stay on after Twelfth Night, perhaps he’d be able to pass it off as due to his own desire to hobnob with David.

 Or perhaps he’d give in and propose to the speechless chit.

 Over ham and eggs and a mountain of toast, he perused his part. As he’d thought, it gave him plenty of excuse to seek out Prudence for rehearsals. Of more immediate use, it gave him an excuse not to listen to Lady Estella, though when she started to praise Salamander’s finer points he found it difficult not to respond. She was an excellent judge of horseflesh, but he was afraid the least encouragement would lead to an endless lecture.

 When he turned the last page, she asked what he had been reading and he explained.

 “Oh, famous fun!” she neighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a part I could take?”

 “I’m afraid not,” he said, repressing an urge to add that it was a pity the horses were all off-stage as she’d do very well in that rôle.

 The others at the breakfast table, mostly gentlemen, quizzed him unmercifully, except David, who seemed perturbed. Rusholme extricated himself unruffled from the goodnatured teasing and went to look for Prudence.

 In the passage outside the room he met the First Footman, bringing fresh coffee and tea.

 “Where can I find the players, Samuel?” he asked.

 “They’ll be breakfasting, I expect, my lord. They’ve their own dining room in the northeast wing, being as they’re not respectable enough for the housekeeper’s room but a cut above the servants’ hall.”

 Rusholme made his way to the northeast wing, frowning as he pondered the footman’s exposition of the actors’ place in the household. Though reasonable, it displeased him, he couldn’t decide quite why. Of course, the company was not really part of the household, standing outside the hierarchy, the sequence descending from marquis at the head to scullery maid at the foot.

 Was Prudence pleased with him for dancing with the scullery maid? he wondered. Should he tell her what the girl had said? Would it amuse her or would it look too much like conceit?

 He’d wait and see how angry she was with him for insisting on playing Tony Lumpkin.

 As Rusholme entered the long, narrow Elizabethan gallery where the company sat at breakfast, silence fell and every head swung round. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a slight bow.

 Dismay, resignation, annoyance—no face indicated gratitude for his helping them out of their difficulties, he noted wryly. He sought out Prudence. She looked thoroughly flustered.

 When Prudence had learned, half an hour earlier, that Lord Rusholme insisted on taking Ben Dandridge’s place, her first reaction was resentment. How dare he pursue her when she had so plainly rebuffed him! Then honesty compelled her to admit she might have confused him by dancing and chatting and laughing with him.

 Next modesty came to the fore. She flattered herself to suppose an interest in her had anything to do with his wish to strut upon the stage. Perhaps he hoped thereby to evade those marriageable damsels the marchioness had presented for his choice. Perhaps he didn’t want his father to be disappointed and he had not considered alternative solutions. Perhaps it was merely a whim. That she could understand: after all, a sudden whim accounted for her own acting career.

 Nonetheless, the prospect of flirting with him—even in double make-believe, playing Constance pretending to love Tony— alarmed and embarrassed her. Thus, when he appeared in the doorway, the sudden rush of gladness which lifted her heart thoroughly bemused her.

 And when his eyes met hers and he smiled, how could she not smile back?

 “I hoped for some advice on learning my part,” he said, “but I see I am too early.”

 “No, no, my lord.” Mr. Hardcastle sprang to his feet. “Won’t you join us?”

 “Thank you, I’ve eaten, but I’ll take a glass of ale.”

 Someone fetched one of the heavy, dark oak chairs from the row against the wall and the others shifted along to make room for him, just opposite Prudence. He sat down and Mrs. Hardcastle filled a glass from the pitcher of home-brewed ale.

 “May I introduce my people to your lordship?” said Mr. Hardcastle. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll present them by their rôles so as not to confuse you with their real names.”

 “An excellent notion,” Rusholme agreed. “I confess myself a rank amateur.”

 Several people nodded in approval. At least the fine gentleman wasn’t pretending he knew more than those who earned their living in the theatre. Among her other qualms, Prudence had feared he would meet with a hostile reception. She should have known he was quite capable of charming everyone.

 “You already know me as Hardcastle, my lord. This is my wife, in real life and on stage, Mrs. Hardcastle. Miss Kate Hardcastle, Miss Constance Neville and a maid, Sir Charles Marlow and the servant Diggory, Hastings, and next to you, my lord, Young Marlow. Then there’s wardrobe and props people, and our scene-painter. And down the other end there’s various servants, who also play the landlord and your lordship’s drinking companions, besides shifting scenery and so on.”

 Rusholme rose and bowed again. “Have done with ‘my lord,’“ he said, “I am Tony. If you feel particularly respectful you may address me as Mr. Lumpkin, or Squire.”

 As everyone laughed, Prudence knew she was right. Rusholme would have them all twined around his little finger in no time. All except her, she vowed.

 “If you want help to learn your lines, Tony,” said Aimée, the first to avail herself of his permission, “Seraphina—Constance Neville, that is—she’s been helping me and she’s ever so clever at it.”

 “Thank you, Miss Hardcastle. May I prevail upon you, Miss...er...Miss Neville, to give me the benefit of your assistance?”

 Prudence bit back a sigh. For the sake of the company she could not refuse. There went her hope of having no more to do with him than strictly necessary. “Of course, my...Mr. Lumpkin. I am at your service.” She stood up, pushing back her chair. “Over by the windows, I should think, where the light is good.”

 Pausing, she wondered a trifle derisively whether he would stoop so far as to move two chairs into position himself, or expect someone to do it for him.
She
wasn’t going to.

 After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted one of the solid, unwieldy, old-fashioned things in each hand and carried them to a corner by a window. He placed them far too close together for Prudence’s liking. Joining him, she dragged one round with its back to the window. The effort required made her marvel at the strength in his hands, wrists, shoulders, to have carried two so easily.