Love in Disguise (3 page)

Fancy had always been polite to the lords who offered to set her up in keeping, but she made it clear to them that she had no need of a man. The theater was her love. And if for some reason they refused to believe her, Hercules was there. Except for that once.

Fancy frowned, remembering the night in Bath when the Earl of Morgane had come to her dressing room. Earlier it had been rather crowded with admirers, a situation that Fancy encouraged, feeling that there was safety in numbers.

But later that night when she had shed her costume and emerged from behind the screen in her dress to go home, there had been but two men standing there: a little foppish
beau
who looked strangely childlike, and the dark-haired stranger, whose scarred cheek gave him a slightly sinister cast.

It was not that, however, that set Fancy’s teeth on edge at the very outset. It was the scene that she saw as she emerged from behind the screen. The Earl was staring the fop down and he was being quite successful. The
beau
turned red, mumbled an apology to Fancy, and scurried out the door like a frightened rabbit.

Fancy found herself alone with a dark man whose gray eyes slid familiarly over her body. He was handsome in a brooding way. Even the scar on his right cheek had a certain charm. He was tall, too, of a height to tower over her. In spite of herself she found she was holding her breath as his eyes continued to rove.

“I hope you have seen enough,” she said curtly. She was angry with him. This man had no right to drive away those whose admiration she had earned.

He smiled sardonically. “Actually, I have not,” he replied with a dry chuckle. “But I don’t suppose you will favor me with anymore.”

“Of course not! Who are you anyway?” demanded an irate Fancy.

The stranger gave an elegant bow and smiled cynically. “I am William, Earl of Morgane, as I’m sure you are quite aware.”

“Why should I know you?” replied Fancy angrily. She was rapidly losing control of her temper and she knew it.

The cynical smile did not leave his face. “Because I am one of the wealthiest men in England and I can buy you whatever you want.” His eyes were frankly appraising and he nodded. “Yes, you are just as beautiful as I thought.”

Fancy stared at the man in amazement. She did not care that he was an Earl. He could be the Prince of Wales himself and she would refuse such an offer.

“I thank you for your compliment, milord, but I believe you have mistaken your woman. I am not for sale.”

Morgane laughed. “So you are one of those,” he observed sarcastically. “Well, let me tell you, my chit, I am not such a chucklehead as to be rooked out of a fortune by a fancy piece such as yourself.” He smiled again, a hateful smug smile. “Quite an appropriate name yours. Prophetic, one might say. But there is no point in playing games with me. I will set you up in a decent establishment, pay your reasonable expenses, give you a piece of fine jewelry from time to time, if you please me. But I expect to be your sole... benefactor.”

In disbelief Fancy listened to the words. He really believed that she would give herself to him in this cold and heartless way.

As he spoke he moved closer and now Fancy realized that his face was only inches from hers. “I believe that I am entitled to sample the wares before I lay down my blunt,” said he. For one terrified moment she stared up into those icy gray eyes and then, as she saw his mouth descending toward hers, her reflex was automatic.

The sharp crack of an open palm meeting a cheek echoed in the room. The Earl’s expression never changed, but his eyes darkened angrily. “Am I to conclude that you have refused my offer?”

Fancy found herself breathing heavily. “I do not care what you conclude,” she cried angrily. “Only leave my dressing room and never come near me again. Never!”

Morgane raised a quizzical eyebrow. “This cannot be the first offer of keeping you have had,” he observed harshly. “I advise you not to hold out for too high a price. Even beauty such as yours fades. Too bad. I would have done handsomely by you.”

“Out!” cried Fancy, her temper now completely out of control. “Out!”

And when he continued to stare at her arrogantly she grabbed the nearest object at hand, which happened to be a box of powder. She would have thrown it at him, for she was driven past all caring by the cynical amusement in those cool gray eyes and the supercilious curl of his lip. But just as she drew back to hurl the box the door opened to admit Ethel.

Sheepishly Fancy returned the powder box to the dressing table. The Earl took the opportunity to bow gracefully and leave. But at the door he stopped and turned.

“Perhaps I ought to warn you, Fancy.” The intimate way he spoke her name made her long to strangle him. “I am a man who gets what he wants. Even if I have to wait for it.”

As the door shut behind him Fancy burst into tears of rage and stamped her feet in frustration, such frustration that it took Ethel many minutes to quiet her.

Indeed, for many weeks after the event she had surreptitiously searched the audience for the sight of that dark sinister face. But the Earl of Morgane never appeared at the theater again. He had left Bath the day after their encounter, Fancy finally learned. And eventually the memory of him had faded from her mind.

But now, she rubbed absently at her bruised lips, now he was right next door. A shiver of fear ran through her as she remembered his parting words that night at the theater. The Earl of Morgane always got what he wanted, did he, she told herself grimly. Well, they would see. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted from her before and he wouldn’t get it now. Fancy Harper wasn’t afraid of any man. She was going to stay right there, right in the house that her cousin Cavenish had left her. Let the top-lofty Earl see how he liked that!

Suddenly she got up and walked to the cheval glass. Carefully she studied her features. Many men had told her she was beautiful and she had always taken it for granted that beauty would last, for some time at least. Not for many months had she recalled the Earl’s harsh statement that all beauty faded. She scrutinized her face again and gave a sigh of relief, her looks were still good. Besides, when they began to fail and she could no longer play young women she would still be able to play many great roles. Look at Mrs. Siddons. Age had not stopped
her.

Let the arrogant Earl rant about fading beauty. Fancy Harper would pay him no heed, no heed at all.

She pursed her lips. They seemed a little swollen, a little tender. That brute had bruised them with his savage kiss.

For a moment Fancy closed her eyes. How strong and hard his body had felt against hers. She felt again the tide of anger that had overwhelmed her with his kiss.

Evidently Morgane believed himself a real prime article. No doubt he had been amazed by her refusal of his offer in Bath. But for what reason he should kiss her now, and like that. Fancy couldn’t say.

Fancy, who, in spite of Hercules, had been the recipient of many kisses, tried to analyze what it was that made this kiss so different. Generally she laughed at the men who made her offers - laughed good-naturedly and refused them.

Never had she slapped a man’s face before that day - nor had she ever done so since. What was it about the Earl of Morgane that raised such violent emotions in her? With the others she had been gently amused, but with him she had experienced a seething rage. Perhaps it had to do with Morgane’s toplofty attitude. Where the others had begged, supplicated, Morgane assumed her compliance. Yes, it must be that, she told herself, that caused the storm in her insides, that made her want to slap his handsome face yet again. Oh, how it made her pant with suppressed anger when he stood there so insolently, those cool gray eyes raking her body.

Fancy turned from the mirror with an exclamation of disgust. The Earl was far too high in the instep for her taste. And that scar. She shivered slightly at the thought of those cold gray eyes meeting those of his opponents. With those eyes, she told herself grimly, the man would have the edge on anyone. Fancy felt cold just thinking about them, but then she scolded herself. She had never been one to back down from a battle. And she would not do so this time - even if her opponent were the fierce-visaged Morgane.

Fancy sank into a chair. The black unruly hair, the icy gray eyes beneath bushy black brows, the aristocratic nose and thin lips, and on his cheek the scar, white against his dark skin.

Fancy shivered again. There was a lot of power in the man - raw arrogant power. What a good actor he would make, she thought, but of course that was out of the question. Earls did not act upon the stage. This Earl apparently did not even think particularly highly of the theater. He seemed to regard it merely as a market place for the acquisition of his latest dasher.

Again Fancy was caught in the memory of that kiss. She should have bit him or stomped on his feet. Anything to keep those lips from meeting hers. Turmoil swept over her at the savage way he had dragged her into his arms. And all the while that miserable Hercules had slept contentedly!

But why had he kissed her like that, almost as a kind of punishment? How terribly insulting the man was. He certainly hadn’t improved a bit since that day in Bath when he had reminded her that men often spoke of their dashers as “fancies.” Well, she thought, tossing her copper curls disdainfully, let the Earl talk. Talk was cheap and her name was her own.

Mama had given her that name - out of some favorite play long forgotten - and Fancy would never give it up. Never. And certainly not to please the high-flying conceited braggart next door!

Chapter Three

Long before Fancy felt ready for it opening night was upon her. Actually, her part in
Macbeth
was very small. It was not until two nights later, when Cooke, if he appeared, would be playing
Richard III,
that she would have much of a speaking part. But Fancy had taken a page from the life of the great Peg Woffington. Like that mistress of the stage she would take any part assigned her and do it to the best other ability.

But, alighting from her carriage at the stage door, she was just as excited as she would have been had she been playing a leading role. The theater was her life’s blood and Fancy reveled in every aspect of it. In tonight’s performance of
Macbeth
she would get to see the great John Philip Kemble and his sister, Mrs. Siddons, perform. Two of the greats of the English stage. Of course she had seen them rehearse, but this would be her first chance to see them in action - in front of an audience.

Henry had been a little concerned because of rumors of trouble over the new prices, but Fancy had scoffed at him. “You worry too much, Henry. Remember, this is the theater. When the play begins, every-thing will be all right.”

Henry, whose experience of the theater had included more than one riot, had not been convinced by this kind of logic, but said nothing further. The coachman would come after her early and the grooms would be riding along. In this way she should be safe on the journey home.

Fancy quickly put on her makeup and costume and hurried to a place in the wings. She wanted to hear the great Kemble give the occasional address. The theater was full, she saw, especially the pit where dandies and people of other classes were cracking nuts and peeling oranges, throwing the debris at each other cheer-fully and bantering gaily. The crowd did not seem unusual. Such things were expected of any audience, just as most of the
ton
would spend their time, after a late entry, in ogling each other.

As the curtain drew up and the stately Kemble stepped upon the stage and began speaking, the theater erupted into noise. Hoots, hisses, catcalls, and shouts of “old prices” made the theater a scene of chaos. Some of the crowd sat with their backs to the stage. Others stood on their benches, hats still on, singing and yelling.

Fancy shivered, the men out there were ugly, really angry. Someone could very well get hurt.
Of course she had known about Kemble and the proprietors raising the prices, but she had supposed it was necessary. After all, the old Covent Garden had burnt down last September and it was very expensive to rebuild. And all the actors and actresses had lost their stage costumes, some collected over many, many years and impossible to replace. Too, this new theater was a larger one, very richly decorated. The five tiers of boxes running entirely around the house were supported by slender fluted pillars - and they were gilded. The boxes were highly ornamented and so were the ceilings. The whole thing was supposed to have cost £150,000.

Fancy knew, too, that the new prices were quite high: seven shillings for a box and F shillings for the pit. But could the theater be that important to those ruffians out there, or were they just looking for trouble?

As the play went on the upper gallery grew more and more noisy. A great many soldiers rushed in to capture these rioters, who then let themselves down to the lower gallery and escaped. Fancy could not hear them for the noise in the theater - the cries and shouts created a constant clamor - but Kemble and Mrs. Siddons spoke their lines as though they had the full attention of the house. Their faces never for a second reflected the fact that they were facing a hostile, rioting crowd.

Fancy’s heart swelled with pride for them. And when the time came for her to do her bit, she moved onstage and ignored the audience like a trouper. Later, back in the safety of the wings, she had to admit to herself that she was frightened. The crowd was ugly - very ugly.

She had heard about such things, but they had never seemed real to her. In all her years in the theater she had never seen a rioting crowd. It was not only frightening to her physically, but also mentally. It was rather like having someone in your family suddenly go mad. After all, the audience was a vital part of any performance. And noisy and unruly as they often were, Fancy was accustomed to thinking of them as her friends. Now they had become enemies, suddenly vicious enemies. It was very difficult to bear.

And the concern of the rest of the company, most of whom seemed on Kemble’s side, was very evident.