No Marriage of Convenience (5 page)

Riley pushed her fingers up beneath her wig and scratched at her scalp. The towering horsehair contraption always gave her a headache. Not that Aggie’s diatribe wasn’t contributing a fair share to the pounding between her temples.

She tipped her head toward him. “Help me out of this, would you please?”

“Oh, of course, my love.” His great speech forgotten, Aggie sat down beside her and began unpinning the wig ever so gently, so as not to pull her own hair beneath it.
“Whyever does Lord Ashlin want you to tutor his nieces in acting?”

“Not acting. He wants me to prepare his nieces for the Marriage Mart. In exchange, he’s willing not to foreclose.”

Satisfied that all the pins were out, Aggie gently lifted the wig off her head and stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“You teaching them—” His shoulders convulsed. He clutched the chaise for support as he bent over in laughter. “Oh, this is too delicious.” He slumped over and continued to quake and howl until great streams of tears ran down his powdered cheeks. “Tell me, whatever possessed you to agree to such a ludicrous idea? I mean, you, of all people, teaching young girls the art of husband hunting.”

“I hardly see the humor in all this. I saved our company from ruin. Besides, you’re the one who likes to quote the
Observer
’s description of me all the time—‘an enthralling and engaging lady who held the audience’s enraptured attentions with her enticing and beguiling manners.’” Riley plucked at her lacy sleeves.

Of all the people to be thrilled for them, Aggie should be thanking the stars that she had snatched them once again off the steps of debtor’s prison.

“Yes, they did say that, Riley my love. But that is when you act. Offstage is another matter.”

“Obviously, I know something about attracting men.”

“Harumph! That’s a fine bit of nonsense if ever I heard any,” he declared, flouncing back into his seat at his dressing table. “Everything you learned, you learned from me. You may attract them, but you repel them just as quickly. This entire idea is foolish.”

Riley couldn’t agree more, but she wasn’t about to tell Aggie that. “Well, if you don’t like it, you have no one
to blame but yourself. You came up with all that flimflam about me being the incarnation of Aphrodite—whatever that means. And it was you who insisted on spreading those tales that I am the distant daughter of Cleopatra, rescued from a pasha’s lascivious clutches and carried fevered and sickened through the desert by my faithful servant!” she said, nodding toward Hashim. “You’ve got the male half of London delirious to know my ‘Eastern secrets’ and the female half either secretly curious or appalled that I am allowed out in public.”

Aggie made a failed attempt to look contrite. “That ‘flimflam,’ as you call it, has made our every production since
Anthony and Cleopatra
a sell-out!”

“That’s fine now, but the Earl’s addlepated cousin insisted that with tutoring from a
living goddess
—” Riley paused and shuddered.
Aphrodite’s Envy, indeed!
“These girls would be betrothed before they made their debuts.”

“And when are these little angels making their tender entrée into society?”

“The night we open.”

Aggie looked as if he’d not only drunk from Romeo’s vial of poison, but impaled himself on Juliet’s dagger as well. “But that’s only a month away and we’ve just started rehearsals.”

Riley frowned at her best friend. “Don’t you think I’m well aware of that? I told you we should never have borrowed so much money from one person.”

“Well, who would have thought a vital young man like Freddie St. Clair would go and stick his spoon in the wall? Why, he and his charming wife were the toast of London. I remember the time they—” Aggie stopped himself in mid-sentence. “But that’s it! These girls, they are Freddie and Caroline’s, aren’t they?”

“Well, I assume so.”

“Don’t you see, Riley? These girls can’t be anything
but
gifted with charm and grace. You have nothing to fear. A bit of polish, a little practice with their fans, and you’ll have them out the door and in front of a parson before this new Earl can swing a dead cat.”

“Let’s hope so.” While Aggie’s reasoning seemed sound, Riley wasn’t so sure. She had a nagging suspicion the Earl of Ashlin had not only been impervious to her charms, but had also bested her in this business deal.

Really, if they were anything like their gregarious parents, why would they need her help?

A pox and a bother on the man!
And this time she really meant it.

“And when are you supposed to start this charitable endeavor?” Aggie asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, that won’t do at all.” Aggie rose from his chair, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. A tall man of stately bearing, his aristocratic features were the only inheritance he’d received from his noble father, a man who’d kept Aggie’s opera-singing mother as a mistress through four children. Sometimes, when Aggie towered over his audience or whomever he was addressing, it was hard to remember that he was baseborn and grew up much like Riley had, in the back of a theatre.

“What about rehearsals?” he complained.

“You’ll have to make do without me. I didn’t have much of a choice. Lord Ashlin insisted. Either that, or he called in our note in full.”

“There is more to this, Riley Eugenia Fontaine, than you are letting on.” Aggie circled her. “You would never have bargained so lightly unless you had some ulterior motive.”

“I haven’t the vaguest notion what you mean,” she said,
not about to give Aggie one hint at her unwanted fascination with the man. Riley rose from the chaise and strolled over to her clothes press.

Opening it up she pulled out two gowns, reworked from their production of
The Lost Princess
, and held them up to Aggie, artfully changing the subject. “Whatever does one wear to tutor young ladies?”

Sufficiently diverted, Aggie forgot his line of questioning, shaking his head at the midnight blue brocade and smiling broadly at the rose chiffon in her left hand. Selecting a hat from the shelf, Aggie launched into a long dissertation on the appropriate dress and attitude a teacher must command.

Riley listened, only half interested, using the few moments to tally up the tasks she needed to complete before her morning appointment at Ashlin Square.

One thing for certain, she needed more information about Lord Ashlin. Something she could use if her lessons with the girls failed.

“Aggie,” she said, interrupting his one-sided argument over the use of firm authority as a teacher or the use of example. “Do you know anything about Freddie’s brother? This new Earl?”

He shook his head. “I can make some inquiries, if you like.”

Riley studied the pink silk again. “Tonight if you could—and no cards—just gossip. When I go in tomorrow I do not want to be unprepared, as I was today.”

“You are taking Hashim with you, aren’t you?” Aggie asked, his concern for her genuine. “I insist. I’ll not have you travelling about this city alone. Not after the last incident.”

Riley shook her head. “I hardly think Hashim’s presence is necessary. He takes great delight in scaring young
girls and I’ll never get them prepared in time. Besides, I think the Earl found Hashim’s presence rather disruptive,” she said, thinking of the maid who’d fainted in the foyer when they’d made their exit from the study. “I’ll go alone.”

Aggie looked from Hashim back to Riley. “You mean the man doesn’t know Hashim isn’t just an ordinary servant but your bodyguard? You’ll have to tell him you go nowhere without Hashim. If you don’t, I will.”

Riley looked up at the ceiling. “And how would you explain the need for Hashim’s constant presence?”

“Though I’m loath to admit it and find it completely out of character, I’d say on this matter I’d tell the truth,” Aggie declared. “Just explain to the Earl that someone is trying to kill you.”

T
he next morning Mason stared out his study window onto Ashlin Square as a hackney delivered Madame Fontaine and her servant, Hashim, promptly at half past nine. He smiled to himself as he watched the woman bring her hand up to shield her eyes from the early spring sunshine.

Must seem quite an ungodly hour for a night creature such as yourself
, he thought, wondering what time in the afternoon actresses usually stirred from their well-appointed lodgings.

Not that he’d ever been to an actress’s apartment, but he could well imagine the place, having been presented by Freddie’s last thespian mistress with the unpaid bills for the rich furnishings and costly bric-a-brac his brother had contributed to the lady’s unholy den.

As he gazed down at Madame Fontaine and mentally tallied the expense of her latest outfit, he realized that not only opulent surroundings, but even more costly wardrobes appeared to be indispensable attributes for actresses.

Though today’s gown, with its deceptively innocent hues of pink, was less ostentatious than yesterday’s, the
dress did little to hide her…how had one of the young bucks at the club phrased it last night?

Ah, yes, Mason recalled,
her devastating charms
.

And this was the woman he’d allowed Cousin Felicity to convince him would be the perfect tutor for his young nieces?

If he wanted them to grow up to be the worst kind of Cyprians!

What had he been thinking?

No, he corrected himself, he knew exactly what he’d been thinking with, glancing again at the glorious rise of her breasts and the seductive curve of her waist and hips as she sauntered toward the steps.

He’d like to hope the chiffon scarf draped over her bare shoulders was her concession to modesty, yet the fabric was so diaphanous that its original nod toward propriety had been lost as it did little to conceal her…how had the other member of his club put it?

Her arresting attributes
.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull his gaze away, however he found it enticed and beckoned by the saucy white plumes on her hat as they undulated with her every sleek movement. Even her powdered and curled hair hinted of slumbering seductive captivity, lying as it did in a thick ringlet of deceptively controlled curls against the bare skin of her neck and throat, just waiting to be unbound and freed by an anxious lover.

In one hot, fleeting moment, he saw himself with her, unfettered of his life of restraint, free to unwrap all her rich trappings one silken piece at a time, in a moonlit room furnished in red velvet and far from Mayfair…far from the responsibilities of…

Eh gads, what was he thinking? In shock, Mason took a deep breath and hastily stepped away from the window.

Those kinds of musings belonged to the likes of Frederick, and for that matter, their sire before them. And the three prior generations of Ashlins who’d built the family’s reputation of being more than willing to tally up debts and vowels in the lusty pursuit of nightly encounters with opera singers…and actresses.

It was a wonder the title or any property remained.

No, Mason told himself sternly, he’d been smart to ignore Frederick’s chiding remarks about the University’s requirement that their professors live celibate lives. The strict regime had taught him how to remain focused on his studies, and now would help him stay the course while he restored the Ashlin name and fortunes.

That is as soon as he got rid of Madame Fontaine and her unwanted influence.

He glanced over at the window, and began considering his choice of words as he waited for Belton to announce her arrival.

Tucking his hands behind his back and pacing around his desk as if he faced a classroom of first-year students, he practiced his opening speech.

“Madame Fontaine, I find your reputation and manners inappropriate for an association with my nieces.” Warming to his subject, he continued, “First and foremost, there is the way you dress. This outfit is a perfect example. It tests the very limits of decency.”

His, mostly
.

Mason ran a hand through his hair. Gads, if he didn’t sound like the worst kind of stuffy antiquated prude.

Rather like old Cheswick who’d taught philosophy for over forty years at St. John’s College. He’d railed at the younger teachers to live the very model of restrained, sober, and chaste lives.

Even as Mason tried to recall some of the man’s more
poignant speeches, he then remembered Cheswick had recently been retired to Bath—and the reasons behind his mentor’s sudden departure. After years of militant temperance, Cheswick had been discovered in his bachelor apartment utterly foxed, singing ribald songs and being bathed by two tempting French-born armfuls named Monique and Marie.

Perhaps Cheswick was not the best guide to call forth at a time like this.

Well, still, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with being a staid, respected man.

Not unless you want to spend your final days singing tawdry verses whilst they haul you away
, a voice not unlike Frederick’s niggled at the back of his thoughts.

Mason shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

Mayhap he should take Cousin Felicity’s advice about finding a wife more seriously. Not some rich, artful minx, like Miss Pindar, but a quiet, moderate girl of good breeding who’d bring advantageous family connections to a marriage. They’d wed, have a passel of well-behaved children, and live out their lives in the relative tranquility of Sanborn Abbey, the Ashlin ancestral home.

Once there, he would see his nieces met only the best young men, and in time they too would be settled just as comfortably, not trussed up and fed to London’s rakes like so many morsels.

Yet even as he envisioned this tidy scheme, a stray thought, a Frederickism at its worse, whispered in his ear.

Little brother, a mistress would be more fun.

“This is ridiculous. He’ll find me out before the morning’s over and everything will be lost.” Riley turned and headed toward the departing hackney.

Hashim caught her by the back of the skirt before she
reached the street. He shook his head and nodded at the imposing front door of the Ashlin residence.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said this is ridiculous. Past ridiculous—it borders on insane! I know nothing about being a lady.”

He shook his head and laid his hand on his heart.

“Well, I know a little bit about being a lady,” she conceded. “But not the kind of lady who lives in a house such as this or attends balls or whatever it is they do in these venerable piles of stone. The likes of what I know will certainly not please him.”

Hashim shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners with good humor.

“Stop that right now,” she scolded. Her friend and servant knew her too well. Then again, they’d been together for ten years, ever since she’d “bought” him from a slaver in Paris. There had been something about the man’s regal stance and nobility, trapped as it was by circumstances that Riley had understood only too well. Having just made her entrée onto the Paris stage, she’d earned just enough money to buy him, and had promptly freed him the moment the papers had been signed.

But the giant had refused to take his emancipation. At least until the debt between them was paid.

She had considered it paid in full years ago, but Hashim just shook his head every time she broached the subject of his liberty.

Over her shoulder, he coughed and nodded toward the front door.

Riley took a deep breath and considered the information she’d had Aggie solicit during the night regarding their patron. “According to Aggie, the new Earl taught some kind of ancient history. Dreary battles, dead kings, lost
causes.” She grimaced. “No wonder he acts like an old vicar instead of an Ashlin.”

Hashim’s eyebrows rose.

“I just think he would look rather interesting if he didn’t wear all that black,” she commented. Teasingly she added, “If he’s inclined toward history, we could offer him one of those Roman togas left over from
Anthony and Cleopatra
. That ought to give him a new appreciation of fashion.”

Hashim didn’t appear to find any humor in her idea, while Riley laughed at the image of the stodgy Oxford professor clad in only a linen sheet.

Until, that is, she thought of his bare legs and long arms, the breadth of his chest covered with only a thin, white cloth.

A heated blush rose on her cheeks as she realized he wouldn’t look all that bad.

Whatever was she thinking? The early hour must be bringing on a fever. It was the only explanation.

Lord Ashlin, indeed!

Even more vexing, Hashim, she knew, liked the bookish earl. “How on earth do you think he can help us?”

He shrugged his shoulders and put his hands together as if he were praying.

“Faith? You have faith in him.” Riley shook her head. “After one meeting you suddenly decide he is my savior. I’ll never understand you. Or is it that you just like him because Aggie found out he’s celibate? You two can start a club.”

Eyebrows raised, Hashim pointed at her.

“Thank you for reminding me. But that is supposed to be a secret. How many tickets do you think we’d sell if everyone knew I was…well, you know what I mean.” She looked up at the house.

For the life of her, Riley couldn’t see how a bookish earl, who’d probably spent most of his life locked away in some dusty library, could do what the most skilled and, she noted with some pique, the most expensive Bow Street Runner had been unable to do—find out who was trying to harm her.

Not that she cared to consider the notion, but there was no denying that the problems at the theatre were not mere accidents, but actions directed at her. The scenery bar crashing onto the stage when she was practicing her soliloquy, the curtains catching fire when she was alone in the house, and this morning, a note.

Leve Englund whore or sufer.

She hadn’t shown it to anyone—certainly not to Hashim, knowing the ugly missive would only send her loyal servant into a dark rage. He considered it his personal mission to keep her safe, and if he saw this latest threat, he’d probably stop sleeping and insist on watching over her twenty-four hours a day.

Still, why would someone want her gone—or worse, dead? None of it made any sense. So she’d stuffed the horrible bit of scratching in her reticule and decided to forget about it.

The Runner she’d hired intimated it was probably nothing more than a prankster or a rival theatre owner trying to get them to close down.

She told herself that was the best answer and set aside her niggling worries to concentrate on the task at hand—convincing their patron not to shut them down. She loved her theatre, and her company of players had become the family she’d never had. She’d be damned if she’d let some
unseen coward take away her livelihood and the livelihood of so many other people.

Glancing up at Hashim, she saw that the giant’s expression said what his mutilated tongue could not:
You’ll never know without trying.

Still, she felt a tremor of fear, worse than any stage fright she’d ever experienced. “What if—”

Riley’s stalling tactics came to an abrupt halt as the door sprang open, and Cousin Felicity flew down the steps and onto the curb with all the subtlety of a fishwife.

“Oh, my dear,
dear
Madame Fontaine, and Mr. Hashim,” she cried out, her curious stare lingering unabashedly over Hashim’s closed lips as if she were weighing her own courage to request another peek into his mouth. Instead, she began a fluttering rush of words. “Why I can’t tell you how delightful it is to have you, and I do mean
both
of you, here again at our humble residence.” The woman barely took a breath as she caught Riley by the elbow and towed her up the steps.

“My best friend and dearest confidante,
Lady Delander
,” Cousin Felicity said, emphasizing the woman’s name as if to tell Riley how truly important this Lady Delander was, “will be pea-green when she learns of the veritable social revolution Lord Ashlin has undertaken by engaging your services. I would venture that you may find yourself no longer tromping about the planks, as they say in the theatre. Why, you’ll be completely booked, and I do mean in complete and utter demand with only the best young ladies seeking to learn your…oh, how does one say it…” she spared a blush at Hashim, before she whispered into Riley’s ear, “your Eastern secrets.”

Eastern secrets?
Eh gads, it was worse than she thought.

Riley took a deliberate step backward from the door,
but between Cousin Felicity’s grip on one elbow and Hashim’s firm hold on the other, escape appeared impossible.

Aggie’s favorite encouraging words peeled in her ears.
Fortitude, my love. Fortitude.

Glancing around the formidable Ashlin foyer, with its grand marble staircase, dark oak trim, and yellow brocade curtains, she tried to tell herself it wasn’t so different from the lobby of their theatre.

Well, without the marble. And the Ashlin house didn’t smell of spilled wine and forgotten chestnuts.

“Once I tell our little secret to Lady Delander—”

“We won’t be telling anyone about Madame Fontaine, Cousin Felicity,” Lord Ashlin announced from the door of his study.

His interruption startled Riley, not only with the firm order underlying his words, but with the deep tones that rustled up her spine, leaving her both breathless and filled with a strange anticipation.

Pox and bother,
she silently cursed. He had the ability to set her at odds with just the sound of his voice. Riley could well imagine the Earl using his rich baritone to coax a woman into something less benign than just keeping his secrets.

Thank goodness he found her barely tolerable, as evidenced by his glowering expression. She didn’t even want to consider what she would be willing to do for this man…

“But, Mason—”

“Not one word, Cousin,” he told the lady, his sharp intent unwavering.

Riley could see a room full of students snap to attention under such a command.