VIscount Besieged (4 page)

did turn them
penniless from their home, then it was only a matter of time before
she would be in a position to put the family back on its feet. For
Fanny was right, infuriating though that was. Whether or not Lord
Roborough came to the rescue of the family made no difference to
Isadora. Not only did she wish to become an actress in earnest, she
was going to become one. Not as Isadora Alvescot, of course. She
would have to think of another name.

Fanny might have
nosed her secret out, she thought, as she crossed the hall to the
front door and let herself out of the house, but she did not think
her cousin really believed she would do it, any more than did Mama
or Cousin Matty. They had not seemed surprised to hear Fanny accuse
her. No doubt the wretch had told them already. She had probably
been listening at the keyhole when Isadora had been discussing the
matter with Harriet.

She wondered, as
she sped across the wide expanse of lawn to the gazebo that headed
the start of the flowering gardens, if that was what had made
Cousin Matty harp on and on about Lord Roborough.

But all thought
of the Errant Heir left her as she reached the leafy bower that
invariably formed the background to those performances she gave out
of doors, and where, alone, she practised her speeches, peopling
the lawn with an imaginary audience of vast proportions. She had
headed here by instinct rather than design, knowing that the best
cure for the disturbing thoughts awakened by the discussion in the
drawing-room was to devote herself to her art.

Disenchanted
with Lady Jane after the fiasco upstairs, she chose instead to try
out again that speech of Juliet’s before she took the drug that was
to make her appear dead in order to escape with Romeo. It was a
section of the play that was still giving her a little trouble, and
she meant to have the entire role of Juliet perfect for her launch
on an unsuspecting public.

As always, no
sooner did she throw out the lines,
Farewell! God knows when we
shall meet again
, than she was lost in a world of her
own.

The uncertainty
of Juliet grew into fear, the girl’s imagination stirring at all
the hideous possibilities that might ensue.

‘
What
if it be a poison. . .?’

With one hand,
Isadora held an imaginary vial away from her at the full length of
her arm, gazing upon her empty fingers as if she truly saw there
this thing that might, while it promised happiness, deceive her
into death.

As she began to
enumerate the visions of waking in the tomb among the bones of her
ancestors that filled Juliet’s mind—
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but
green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud
—the horror of the
image was reflected in her voice, which shook with fear as her
breath came short and fast.

Her voice grew
in power with the further embroidery of Shakespeare’s persuasive
text, so that at the last she was almost shrieking out the
plea.

‘
Stay, Tybalt, stay!’ Her hand came close as she raised the
imagined vial and cried out, ‘Romeo, I come! This do I drink to
thee.’

With which, she
thrust her fingers to her mouth, threw back her head, and
swallowed. Her eyes closed, the invisible vial dropped from her
fingers, and she began to sway.

But before she
could fall, supposedly drugged, to the ground, an alien sound
penetrated her absorption: a slow hand-clap that echoed in the
still summer air.

Isadora blinked,
opening her eyes. Bewildered, she looked about for the source. It
was not difficult to find.

Almost directly
before her, although several feet away, stood a total stranger. He
was some years her senior, strong-featured, and from his head to
his heels strikingly attired in black. His hands rested together as
they ceased to clap.

‘
Bravo!’ he said. ‘I have seldom seen a more startling
demonstration of grief.’

Chapter Two

Isadora fairly
gaped at him, shocked out of her bewilderment into instant
reaction. Grief? What was he thinking of?

‘
It
is not grief that Juliet is feeling,’ she said unthinkingly. ‘I
should have thought even an idiot would recognise it as fear. One
would suppose that I had mistaken the entire speech. And I know I
am a better actress than that.’

The stranger
bowed slightly. ‘Better, and considerably more mature than is
called for in the part.’

Isadora bridled.
‘I beg your pardon?’

He smiled. ‘It
was meant for a compliment. It takes a degree of maturity to enact
the drama of Shakespeare, no matter the age of the
character.’

‘
Well, that is certainly true,’ Isadora agreed at once. ‘Fanny
is just the right age. Fourteen, you must know. But I cannot
imagine anything less dramatic than the way—’

She broke off,
suddenly struck by the oddity of this conversation. One did not
talk like this to strangers. And where had he sprung from? He had
appeared out of nowhere. Who in the world was he?

Glancing round
at the empty lawns about her, she realised to the full the
peculiarity of his being here at all. She frowned. Perhaps he was
only part of her imaginary audience. She put out a tentative
hand.

‘
I
suppose you are real?’

The stranger
laughed. A solid, reassuring laugh. At least he did exist. Lifting
a hand, he swept off his black beaver hat, and the sun burnished on
auburn hair cut fashionably short and arranged in a deliberately
disordered style. The sudden brightness to his face softened the
strong features—or was it the smile?—and Isadora was conscious of a
tug somewhere in the region of her chest that she did not
recognise.

Involuntarily
she smiled back as he came towards her and took her hand. He was
taller than most males of her acquaintance and she had to look up
at him. A novel—and disconcerting—experience.

‘
I am
real enough,’ he said, and she became aware of light eyes that
crinkled at the corners with warmth. ‘Enough, that is, to
appreciate your very considerable talent. I beg your pardon if I
startled you, however. I simply could not help expressing my very
favourable response.’

Inexplicably
breathless all at once—why she could not have said, unless it was
that such frankly expressed praise did not often come her
way—Isadora gave a somewhat self-conscious laugh.

‘
Th-thank you,’ she managed. ‘You are very good,
sir.’

‘
No,
you are very good,’ he countered. Then he replaced his hat and
leaned back a little. ‘I must confess, though, that I think you
overplayed the climax a trifle.’

Isadora’s
feeling of cordiality faded and her tone became frosty.

‘
Oh,
indeed?’

‘
All
that rhetoric about
loathsome smells
and—’

‘
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth
,’
quoted Isadora in a metallic sort of voice. ‘Yes, what about
it?’

‘
Well, what about it?’ said the stranger, frowning. ‘The
imagery is enough by itself, I would have thought. There can be no
need for you to reinforce it in that shrieking tone you chose to
adopt. Rather more the
Macbeth
witches than Juliet, don’t
you think?’

‘
No,
I do not,’ Isadora snapped. Witches indeed! How dared he?
Immediately after paying her that compliment too. It was like a
douche of cold water. Forgetting the difficulties she had been
experiencing with this very part of the speech, she demanded
crossly, ‘Who are you to tell me how to act? And just what do you
know about the matter?’

‘
Not
much,’ he responded quite mildly. ‘But this I do know: you will
never make much of an actress if you are not prepared to listen to
constructive criticism.’

‘
Constructive? You said I sounded like a witch!’

‘
Only
in the climax. I cannot fault the rest of the speech.’

‘
You
astonish me,’ retorted Isadora. ‘Let me tell you that I don’t give
a fig for your opinion, favourable or otherwise.’

Infuriatingly,
he grinned at her. ‘How should you when you profess not to know who
I am?’

‘
Profess? I don’t know.’ Great heavens, but she would hit the
wretch in a moment! ‘Who are you? Tell me at once. And while you
are about it you may also explain why you are lurking about our
grounds, and why you crept up on me only to make impertinent
comments about my acting.’

Instead of
complying, the gentleman merely tutted in a mock-reproving way.
Isadora glared at him.

‘
Stop
that!’

He raised his
brows. ‘My dear girl, I am simply expressing my disappointment that
you find my comments on your acting impertinent. I thought I had
made it clear how much I approved of your performance. In fact,
that is why I am here. I was wandering around the gardens and,
hearing you begin, was irresistibly drawn to listen.’

Isadora tried
not to be mollified. But that was very difficult when those
crinkling eyes invited her to be so. And his comments were so
acceptable. She pulled herself together. This would not do. An
explanation was still wanting.

‘
But
why were you wandering around the gardens? And you still have not
told me who you are.’

‘
I
would have thought that was obvious. I guessed your identity at a
glance.’

‘
Did
you indeed? How extremely clever of you, when I am in
my
garden.’

‘
And
you are dressed in mourning,’ he agreed, ignoring the point of her
remark. ‘Added to the fact that there is only one young lady in
residence.’

‘
That
is where you are mistaken,’ announced Isadora triumphantly, ‘for
there is also my cousin—’

‘
The
Dotterell girl?’ he queried, breaking in. ‘But she is not, I
understand, of an age to concern me just yet.’

Isadora frowned
at him, puzzlement creeping in under the annoyance she still felt.
‘Concern you? How in the world—?’

She broke off,
staring at him blankly. He knew about Fanny? Why should it concern
him? Who— ? No! But… No, he couldn’t be.

The
stranger grinned again. ‘I see you have guessed it.’

‘
You
can’t be…’ Isadora said in a dazed way. ‘It isn’t true.’

‘
I’m
afraid it is, though,’ he said, and bowed. ‘I am Roborough, ma’am.
And you are Miss Alvescot.’

Isadora was incapable of speech. Roborough? The
viscount?
Impossible. This was he? No, no. She was asleep,
dreaming. A nightmare! How could he be Roborough? The viscount
was—well, not this kind of a man.

‘
I
see the news comes as something of a surprise to you,’ he said in
an apologetic tone.

‘
Surprise…?’ repeated Isadora vaguely. She drew a breath,
trying for coherence. ‘No, indeed, it is not surprise.’ She flung
up her hands to her head suddenly, blurting out, ‘I am utterly
bewildered!’ Her hands dropped. ‘You are truly the viscount? Lord
Roborough?’

The gentleman
nodded, saying lightly, ‘I am desolated to be obliged to reiterate
it, since it obviously troubles you so much, but yes, Lord
Roborough.’

Isadora gazed at
him in a good deal of consternation. What had she done? What had
she been saying to the man? And she had promised Mama that she
would do nothing to ruin the family’s chances. She ought to
apologise. Placate him. Only it went so much against the grain that
she did not know how she could even begin to form the necessary
words. Great heavens, how was she to know? It had not been her
fault. He was to blame, not she. What did he mean by creeping
around incognito in that way?

A soft laugh
interrupted her thoughts, and his face came back into focus.
Isadora frowned at the amusement in it.

‘
What
in the world is so funny?’

‘
Have
you any idea how much of what is passing in your mind is mirrored
in your countenance?’

‘
Yes!
It is the mark of an actress.’

‘
A
natural actress, yes. Believe me, you are far more effective when
you are natural. You should cultivate the trick of it in your
playing.’

All desire to
placate this man vanished instantly. Isadora’s chin came up. ‘Are
you at that again? I should like to know where you come by your
expertise, my lord
.
I suppose you must have seen dozens of
better actresses in order to be able to offer me the benefit of
your no doubt excellent advice.’

‘
Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Miss Alvescot,’ said Roborough, his
tone mild. ‘But yes, I have seen many actresses. None, however, as
good as you. Except perhaps Mrs Siddons.’

The
matter-of-fact way in which he made the statement lent it a
sincerity that laid Isadora’s ruffled feathers. He really meant
it. And he probably had seen dozens of actresses. Softening, she
was about to speak and thank him prettily. But his lordship was not
finished.

‘
It
is a pity,’ he added, ‘that you will never display your talents
further afield than your own garden.’