Drury Lane Darling (4 page)

Breslau inclined his head to hers. A glint of amusement removed the edge of cynicism from his aristocratic features. “If you and your ten thousand pounds have any notion of taking London by storm when you move in with Harley, I might just drop you a hint. Young ladies aren’t required to utter every thought that crops into their pates. A simple blush of pleasure would have been more appropriate.”

“I shall bear that in mind, in the unlikely case that any other gentleman is kind enough to pretend he prefers my company to that of the marquise’s.”

“Young gentlemen, too, are sometimes required to restrain their tongues. Mum’s the word on that charge of pretending. Why do you suppose we bother pretending to young ladies?” he asked with a lazy smile. This was flattery of a high order in Breslau’s opinion. It merited, and in any saloon in London would have earned, a simper of delight. Why did it cause Miss Comstock to frown, and stare at him so oddly.

Good gracious, he’s trying to
flirt
with me! I must set him down at once. “In Chatham, it usually presages a flirtation, but no doubt in London they have some less innocent intention. Which I, of course, shan’t mention after your kind hint. I must have Lady Chamaude teach me to blush.”

“You
are
blushing, Miss Comstock. Well, well. And here I thought Nigel was exaggerating when he called you—” A light laugh lifted his thin lips. “More unutterable phrases.”

Her eyes darted over his shoulder, quite ignoring the advances of the most sought-after parti in London. “Lord Breslau, hurry! He’s holding her hand. His mother will kill him!”

Breslau cast a fairly disinterested eye toward the sofa. “Surely she’ll reserve slaughter for the engagement. Holding hands merits no more than a hundred lashes.”

“Aren’t you even a little jealous?”

“Of whom?”

“Nigel and the Flawless One, of course.”

“No, only of Nigel,” he said, and finally rose to insert himself between Nigel and the marquise, leaving Miss Comstock to sip tea with a pensive gleam in her eye.

She heard the muted hush of angry voices in the hallway, and wandered closer to try to make out the words.

Lady Raleigh was laying down the law in no uncertain terms. “The downstairs bedchamber, you see. The hussy plans to entertain Nigel after we are all abed.”

“Rubbish,” Sir Aubrey said. “Let her sleep downstairs. We don’t want her any closer to the rest of us than she must be.”

His wife approved of this un-Christian sentiment, but still Nigel’s virtue took precedence. “I have half a mind to lock his door and remove the key after he retires.”

“He’d only crawl out the window, if
that
is what they’re up to.”

Lady Raleigh was silent a moment while her mind canvassed other options. “We’ve put Breslau in the Tudor suite. Nigel can sleep in the spare cot in his dressing room.”

“If Breslau sleeps in his own bed.”

His wife was happy to see Aubrey was alive to all the sinful possibilities inherent in the situation. “If he’s with the actress, then Nigel is safe,” she pointed out.

“It will look odd, billeting him on Breslau.”

“I’ll throw some dustcovers over Nigel’s bed and open a bottle of turpentine. I’ll say the room’s being painted.”

“What of the other guest rooms?”

“Not aired, and very drafty. With Nigel’s weak chest, he must have a warm room. I’ll speak to the housekeeper about it at once.”

“That’ll do then,” Sir Aubrey decided. “I’m retiring to my study till dinner. I can’t abide that woman’s vulgar chatter.”

His good wife could hardly believe her ears. It almost seemed her prayers were answered, and Aubrey had given up his shameless ways. To voluntarily remove himself from an actress when his wife wasn’t even in the room was an unprecedented thing. She hastened off to consult with the housekeeper, and Sir Aubrey went to his office, trembling.

How much would Corinne demand? He wasn’t a wealthy man. A thousand pounds would strap him pretty badly. He was sitting with his head in his hands when he heard a light tap at the door. Dot and the servants didn’t bother to knock. It must be Breslau. Was he aware of what was going on? He was a man-about-town at least—he might know what Lord Alban was soaked for.

He hurried to the door. “Sir Aubrey, I find you alone, just as I hoped,” the marquise said, and sauntered in, hips swaying just as he remembered. “You and I shall have a little talk,
hein?
About the olden days, in Brighton. Perhaps we should close the door?” she suggested with an arch look.

****

In the saloon, Breslau watched the marquise leave, and was at a loss as to why she should be running after Sir Aubrey. What had she meant by all that talk of Brighton? Breslau was familiar with all Fleur’s moods and expressions. The mood she took to Sir Aubrey’s office was one that presaged no good.

It suddenly occurred to Nigel that he hadn’t exchanged a single sentence with Pamela since arriving. “I wonder what Fleur wants to talk to Papa about,” he said.

“Probably the old days at Brighton. Is her book full of scandal, Nigel?”

“Certainly not! It isn’t that sort of thing at all. Just because Fleur is an actress, it don’t mean she has loose morals, you know. She’s a regular martyr if you want the truth. A heroine. You’ve no idea what that woman’s been through.”

“About two dozen lovers, according to gossip,” Pamela suggested before she got a rein on her tongue.

Breslau listened silently as he went to the side table to exchange his teacup for a glass of wine.

“She has not,” Nigel said like a sulky boy. “It’s just her generous nature that misleads folks. There are going to be a lot of surprised people if they think her memoirs are scandalous.”

“A lot of disappointed people,” Pamela added.

During a short silence, they all heard the sound of raised voices coming from the study. Pamela’s eyes lit up with interest. She noticed that Breslau didn’t return to the group, but hovered close to the door, where he might hope to catch the odd word from the study.

She ran to the table, grabbed a glass of wine, and joined him. The draft from the front door sent a shiver up her bare arms. “It’s nice and cool here,” she said. “So
stuffy
by the fire.”

“Goose bumps become you, Miss Comstock.”

“Shh!” she exclaimed shamelessly, and tilted her head toward the study. “What did she say? Did you catch that?”

“It sounded like ‘your son.’ You don’t suppose Aubrey charged her with corrupting a minor?”

“Brighton—it sounded like Brighton.”

“Shall we put a glass to the door?” Breslau asked, and smiled.

“There!” Pamela said, her eyes glistening with excitement. “She said ‘your son,’ again. Doesn’t she sound angry? I wish Sir Aubrey would speak louder. I can’t make out a word he says.”

“He was always a contrary gent.”

Pamela sidled into the hall, ostensibly to look at a Chinese planter holding a fatigued palm tree, but with one ear turned to the door. Breslau peered toward the staircase, then down the other way, and looked a question at her.

“Something about quarter day,” she whispered.

“What the deuce are you two doing?” Nigel called in a querulous voice, and joined them.

“We were just admiring the palm,” Pamela said, and quickly returned to the saloon with him.

Nigel cast a certain look at Breslau, as though to say, What did I tell you? As dull as ditch water.

That look called Pamela back to her role as dullard. “Mama has a very nice palm in the reading room at home,” she said. “Did I tell you, Nigel, your mother gave me one of Hanna More’s tracts for the reformation of the poor for Christmas? She recommends I join the Religious Tract Society. It sounds very interesting.”

“What do they do?” Nigel asked.

“Why, they reform the poor and write tracts about it I suppose,” she replied vaguely.”

Breslau stared at Miss Comstock, wondering if he had been misled by the woman who had sat with him at the tea tray a moment ago. Had he mistaken country manners for wit?

“Hanna would do better to reform the rich,” he said.

Miss Comstock lifted an innocent eye and replied, “The rich, I fear, are past reclaiming.”

“What are you calling rich, madam? Anything over, say, ten thousand pounds?”

Pamela failed to catch the reference to her dowry. “Ten thousand per annum isn’t rich. It’s obscene,” she replied.

“I didn’t mean per annum. And I hope I am not obscene.”

She inhaled sharply. No one had ten thousand a year. “Do you have that much, Breslau? What on earth do you do with so much money?” Nigel gave a sound of disgust and she quickly added, “Did you ever consider joining the Religious Tract Society, milord? What a lot of tracts we could publish with your blunt.”

“This is true, but I find better things to do with my blunt than chastise the poor for not being rich.”

It was his odd manner of speech rather than his answer that caught her interest. She had observed it twice now. “Why do you say ‘this,’ when you mean ‘that’?”

Before Breslau could answer, Sir Aubrey’s office door suddenly opened and the sound of polite laughter echoed in the hall. Pamela shot Breslau a curious glance.

“I’ll leave you two a moment’s privacy,” he said. “I have a few matters to discuss with Fleur.”

Miss Comstock’s eyes had lost their kittenish look. An angry hue suffused her cheeks. Nigel might be against this match; his opposition was nothing to Miss Comstock’s. She dreaded as much as a moment alone with her reluctant suitor. Breslau would like to have stayed for her performance of a prude, for he had decided that was what accounted for her sudden change in manner, but if Fleur was up to something, he wanted to know and put a stop to it.

A self-promoting autobiography was all well and good. It might heat up interest in his leading lady, but he didn’t want her blackmailing her former patrons. That stunt would empty the theater, if word got around. Her raised voice had sounded quite angry. It wasn’t like Fleur to be so obtuse. She had recently developed a bourgeois mania for respectability. He assumed her persistence in getting herself invited to Belmont had been a step toward making herself respectable.

Sir Aubrey’s study door was closing when Breslau reached the hallway. Fleur was just snapping the clasp on her reticule and smiling contentedly. Breslau stared a moment at the reticule, then lifted his icy eyes to his leading lady.

Fleur was not unduly perturbed by that look, but she was swift to speak of other things. “I hoped Sir Aubrey might recall a few anecdotes for my memoirs, but I drew a blank. What a gothic old heap this place is. I daresay they water the wine. I could use a glass of brandy.”

“You won’t find any here, but the wine is excellent. You haven’t done something foolish, have you, Fleur?”

The marquise assumed her most innocent pose, eyes wide open and guileless, a pucker of her brow indicating confusion. “What do you mean, Wes?”

“It sounded as if you and Sir Aubrey were arguing.”

“Not at all. I scolded him a little for his bad memory, but we patched it up in the end.”

“He is on excellent terms with Max, you must know,” Breslau cautioned.

“Why do you think I’m here?” she asked, and laughed. “General Maxwell mentioned he would be attending the winter assembly at Hatfield.”

“Does Max know you’re here?”

“I hinted I would be visiting Belmont. He didn’t believe me.
Now
he’ll see I’m accepted in respectable homes.”

“So that’s it!” Breslau said, and nodded. “You hope to get an offer from him.”

It was common knowledge in theatrical circles that General Maxwell was pursuing the Flawless Fleur. No one, including Breslau, knew what degree of success he had had, but Fleur was still residing in her own apartment, and paying her own rent. Max certainly didn’t have marriage in mind, but apparently Fleur was holding out for a golden ring.

A prim and proper lady wouldn’t do for a gent like General Max, who had spent his youth racketing around from war to war. The chief obstacle was the general’s mother. Mrs. Maxwell was a friend of Lady Raleigh’s, and of similar piosity. As she had a large fortune and two daughters, there was plenty of competition for the fortune.

“I don’t plan to grow old and fat and gray on the public stage, like Mrs. Siddons,” Fleur replied. “When I am past it, I shall marry and become a Mrs. Grundy. Max is the likeliest prospect at the moment. You must stand up with me at the assembly this evening, Wes, and present the loftiest lords at the ball to me. Max doesn’t care a groat for such things, but I must impress the old Tartar.”

“This is not the point at which our interests touch, Fleur,” he said, but in a bantering way. “I’m in no hurry to lose my leading lady.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to retire for three years. I have every intention of performing in a few
tragedies
first,” she said, and placed her hand on his arm.

“Make it a few comedies, and I might be coerced into helping you.”

“You know how to put me in an agreeable mood,” she teased, and began walking down the hall with him. “Greed is the last infirmity of noble minds, according to your Shakespeare.”

“Actually it was Milton, and fame is the spur, not greed.”

“
Pedant!
”

Pamela watched them from the saloon. She felt a little stab of annoyance when the Flawless Fleur reached up and wagged Breslau’s chin. Such a familiar gesture betrayed close intimacy. Nigel followed her gaze and his eyes blazed with jealousy. He was on his feet in an instant, pelting toward them.

“Sonny.” The marquise smiled fondly and put her hand on his arm. This motion stirred no emotion but a mild surprise in Pamela’s bosom. “Be a darling and show me to my room. You know Maria, my dresser, was unable to accompany me because of her wretched cold. I must prepare my own toilette. And really I’m aching with fatigue.”

“I’ll call a servant to help you,” Nigel said at once.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll run along now and rest before the ball this evening. What hour does your dear mama serve dinner?”

“Usually at six, but with company here she’s putting it off till seven.”