Love in Disguise (20 page)

Fancy stared and then the laughter broke forth again. “I have never suffered from
ennui
,” she replied. “I have never had time. But certainly your advent into my life has caused me considerable suffering.”

“How so?” inquired Morgane with a lifted eyebrow. “I have offered you an establishment, jewels - an honest offer of keeping. I have driven from your doors the droves of swells who lusted after your beauty. And I have just saved you from being another Mary Anne Clarke.”

Fancy shook her head. “You put yourself rather high, milord. I have had admirers before, and I never needed anyone to protect me from them.”

“Except Hercules.”

“Except Hercules,” she agreed.

“Still, if I concede to all that, I fail to see wherein I have caused you actual suffering.” Morgane’s eyes watched her shrewdly.

“You threatened me. You told me to leave the neighborhood.”

“So I did,” agreed the Earl, “but that hardly seems to constitute ‘considerable suffering.’“

“You kissed me,” Fancy cried. “Against my will. And generally made yourself obnoxious.”

The Earl’s lip curled cynically. “I kissed you,” he conceded. “And against your will. Initially at least.” With upraised hand he stopped Fancy’s protest. “But that I have been obnoxious - that I will not concede. Perhaps in the beginning. But not now. During our trip to the opera I believe I behaved myself with the utmost propriety.”

Fancy remained silent, but her eyes were flashing scornfully.

“And surely whatever indiscretions I may have committed in my past pursuit of you may be forgiven by my actions today.”

Fancy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I am sorry, milord, but I fail to see how telling the Duke of York such a tremendous lie at all redeems you.”

The Earl smiled strangely. “Suppose it were not a lie? Suppose I made you a real offer of marriage?”

For a moment the room seemed to whirl around Fancy, but she was no weakling given to fainting spasms. “I do not find your attempt at humor very amusing,” she said finally.

The Earl straightened in his chair and his gray eyes met and held hers. It was like sinking in the ocean, Fancy thought, as she lost herself in the depths of those eyes. “I am a man of honor,” he remarked with a wry chuckle. “And I am willing to stand behind my words to York. I will marry you.”

For the second time Fancy’s senses threatened to desert her. “You are flummering me,” she said finally through dry lips.

Morgane shook his head. “Indeed, I am not. I shall cry the banns as soon as you say the word. And in a few weeks you will be a countess.”

“You are mad,” cried Fancy. “How can you think of such a thing?”

The Earl shrugged. “I have reached the age of two and thirty without losing my heart to a single eligible connection. Perhaps, as my friend Castleford says, it is time to settle down.”

“But - but you don’t love me!” cried a distraught Fancy.

For a moment the Earl’s eyes clouded. “Love is an illusion for moon calves,” he replied. “What is more to the point - I
want
you - and, as even I admit, barring the rising of your temper, you are an enjoyable companion.”

“I am an actress,” cried Fancy.

Morgane raised an eyebrow. “If you are now making reference to the whispers of the
ton,
you may be assured that they are irrelevant to me. I have no intention of wedding some whey-faced pimply chit in order to appease the whispers. And no one will insult you.” His face darkened into a frown. “You can be sure of that.”

“You are mad,” repeated Fancy. “Even to consider such a thing. Castleford -”

“Castleford is my friend. He tried and failed. He will bear me no grudge. He is not that sort.”

Fancy found that her hands were clenched in her lap. It seemed unbelievable that he should have offered her an honor-able marriage. But he had!

Her heart pounded in her throat. If only he had said he loved her. Fancy moistened her dry lips. “I should be doing you a disservice,” she said stiffly, “by marrying you in such case. Though you may not believe it, love is of vast importance in such things.”

The Earl’s mouth tightened. “I have offered you my name and my fortune. More I cannot do. Perhaps I have not made myself clear. Perhaps you would like to indicate the terms of your jointure. I have kept the emeralds. They will be yours. And any-”

“Stop! Oh, stop!” cried Fancy, jumping from her chair.
“Do not speak to me of such vile things.”

The Earl’s mouth tightened further into a cruel thin line. “These ‘vile things,’ as you call them, are the realities of the world. Such chimeras as love will gain you nothing.” He rose to his feet. “I believe I shall leave you to some contemplation. York will not expect any public announcement for a few days at least. Take time to consider. You are the first to be offered the chance to become the Countess of Morgane. Need I remind you that I am not exactly unsought after? Indeed, almost any anxious mama of unmarried maidens would consider herself blessed beyond measure by such an offer for her daughter.”

“Then she would be foolish beyond measure,” cried Fancy, driven quite to distraction by her desire to accept him on any terms and her efforts to fight that desire.

The Earl advanced toward her. “My offer still stands. Should you change your mind, you know where to reach me.” He bent low over her fingers and then he was gone.

In the warm room Fancy shivered. She had just turned away the man she loved. It was abundantly clear to her now that she loved him. And if he had once mentioned that emotion she would have flung herself into his arms and followed him anywhere on the face of this earth. But he had not and, as she stood there, two great tears rolled down her cheeks.

How could she marry him, loving him as she did, heart and soul, and knowing all the while that to him she was nothing but a toy?

Chapter Fourteen

And still the riots continued - the hisses, the catcalls, the banners on the boxes, the placards in the hats, the O.P. war dances, the speakers dragged out by Bow Street Runners. There even appeared men with huge false noses who swaggered about the theater making carousal and others dressed like women who assailed those in the private boxes with coarse remarks.

And every night in the carriage with coachman, two grooms, and Henry to keep her safe, Fancy shrank from the hoarse cries and raucous laughter as rioters crowded people off the pavement and into the wet, dirty kennels. Through all of this Fancy could only sigh deeply. She was very disturbed by the change in her beloved theater, but she would not give it up. On that score she was quite determined.

And every night, no matter what the play, the Earl of Morgane appeared in his box. Sometimes Castleford was with him, but more often, especially after the first night of the play, the Earl sat alone in solitary splendor. One thing Fancy noticed was that no rioters ever came near Morgane’s box, not to whistle or to harangue the crowd or to rail at him coarsely.

And Fancy could easily see why. Morgane’s face, as he sat there seemingly oblivious to the clamor around him, was exceedingly stern. The cold gray eyes were fixed on the stage, the thin lips set firmly. Not by a single look did the Earl of Morgane condescend to notice the presence of the rioters. He lounged in his seat, as though in the utmost comfort, and stared fixedly at the stage.

Fancy could not understand the man, nor herself. Eight days had passed since he had offered for her, eight days in which it seemed that only the theater and her love for it kept her from losing what little sanity she had left. Certainly she knew that it was the height of madness even to consider marrying the Earl - a man who confessedly knew little and cared less about love. To marry such a man would just be asking for trouble.

And yet some perverse part of her kept insisting that perhaps it
would
work. And at least she could be with him. For Fancy was aware that every waking moment the thought of Morgane was with her. Some-times, most unexpectedly, she would hear the particular intonation of his deep voice resounding in her head. At other times his darkly handsome features would flash into her vision. And always there was within her the deep longing for the touch of his hand, the embrace of his arms.

“Bedlam,” said Fancy to her reflection in the cheval glass as she tied her nightcap over her curls. “I shall be ready for Bedlam any day now if I keep on like this.”

Then she turned from the mirror, blew out the candle, and crawled between the deep green hangings and under the feather quilt into the old bed. But she did not sleep. For a long time she lay muffled in the thick darkness, the curtain on the bed keeping out the least suggestion of light. Finally she sat up angrily and threw them back. She could at least watch the fire that flickered on the hearth.

And then, just as she was finally sinking into forgetfulness, there came the sounds of disturbance from below. There was a brisk knock on her door and Ethel hurried in, a lighted candle in her hand. “The Earl’s below,” she told Fancy. “He’s come with his pistols.”

“Pistols!” Fancy sat up quickly.

“There’s rumors them rioters is planning to set Kemble’s house afire.” Ethel’s usually dour face was even gloomier.

“But - but -” Fancy swung her feet down and gasped as they hit the cold floor. “Why is the Earl
here?”

Ethel set the candle down and groped for Fancy’s slippers. “I ain’t sure,” she replied as she helped her mistress into them. “Henry’s the one as let him in. But don’t you go for to blame him for that. My Henry’s a brave ‘un, but the Earl - he’s got them two pistols.”

“Of course I don’t blame Henry,” said Fancy. “But I still don’t understand why the Earl is
here.”

Ethel, bringing Fancy’s dressing gown and helping her into it, shrugged. “I’m sure
I
don’t know. I ain’t had much to do with quality and I ain’t got no idea how their heads work.”

Fancy tied the ribbons of her dressing gown and turned toward the door. “I guess I’ll have to ask the Earl myself.”

“Wait!”

Fancy turned in surprise and in a minute Ethel had whisked off the nightcap. “That Earl’s got a sharp tongue,” was her only comment. “No call to give him reason to use it.”

As she made her way down the staircase, candle in hand, Fancy still could not understand Morgane’s actions. But she did understand that her heart was pounding in her throat and the hand that held the candle was trembling.

As she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Morgane’s voice coming from the drawing room. “Rouse the footmen, the grooms, the coachmen,” he was saying. “And do it now.”

Fancy drew herself up and entered the room to be met by a look of bewilderment from the obviously distraught Henry. “Milord, I must ask for an explanation of this strange conduct,” she said firmly.

Morgane flashed her the merest of looks, but did not answer. “Do it now, Henry, we’ve no time to lose.”

“Milord! Henry is not going to do anything until you have the courtesy to inform me as to the nature of this matter.”

The Earl swung around to face her, his eyes glittering. “There’s no time for courtesy now,” he said harshly. “The mob has threatened to burn Kemble’s house.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Fancy patiently. “But that does not explain why you are
here.
”

“Because certain factions of the rioters have taken a dislike to a particular redheaded actress, a friend of Cooke’s, and the rumor is that they may attempt to burn her house down around her ears.”

Fancy felt a sudden wave of weakness hit her. “You mean - my house?”

The Earl nodded. “Now, Henry, hurry.”

Henry waited for no further word from his mistress but moved quickly off.

“But why should anyone want to burn
my
house?” asked Fancy.

The Earl shrugged. “No one can find rhyme or reason in the actions of a mob. That is why they are so much to be feared.”

As Fancy stood shivering, uncertain what to do or say, Ethel bustled in with some firewood and built up the fire that smoldered on the hearth. “It’s a wicked cold night,” she remarked to no one in particular. “Decent folk ought to be snug in their beds.”

The Earl smiled sardonically. “Too bad the rioters are not of that sentiment.”

Ethel soon had the fire blazing high, its cheerful warmth, combined with the glow of the additional candles that she lit, gave the room a more comfortable look.

“Here, now, Miss Fancy,” said Ethel, taking a firm hold on her mistress’s elbow and guiding her to a chair near the fire. “Do sit down here and get warm and I’ll make a nice pot of tea.”

She pulled another chair near the fire and addressed the Earl. “You might as well be taking the load offen your feet, too, your lordship. God knows, if a mob be coming here, we’ll hear ‘em soon enough.”

“Thank you, my good woman. You have a head on your shoulders.”

Ethel’s only reply to this was a slight sniff of disparagement, but her eyes gleamed brightly as she hurried from the room and she was heard to remark to the frightened kitchen maids as she hustled in her task of making tea that the Earl weren’t no common kind of lord. Not at all.

Fancy, still half asleep and frightened by the appalling vision of a riotous mob armed with torches, stared unseeing into the flames, her arms wrapped around herself and still shivering.

She was aroused from this terrifying vision by the touch of a warm hand on her cheek as the Earl adjusted a shawl around her shoulders. “Here,” he said in that strangely gentle voice he had used in his coach on the way to the opera. “You are shivering.”

“Thank you,” Fancy murmured, pulling the shawl tighter around her. It was not the chill of the drawing room that made her shiver so, but the fear, fear of the beast that a mob could become. Such a beast could destroy everything she had.

Her shoulders trembled at the thought. And then two strong hands rested there. “Come, girl, where’s your spirit? We’ll keep them off. That’s why I sent Henry to rouse your men.”

Fancy, looking up into a pair of warm gray eyes, longed desperately to throw herself into his arms. There, she saw with sudden insight, she would feel safe - only there.