Drury Lane Darling (6 page)

Lady Raleigh had been feeling generous, as Aubrey showed no appreciation of the guest, but her generosity had left her with Nigel’s visit. Her breeding remained, and she said stiffly, “The wallpaper is from China.”

“The chopsticks and fans suggested it might be,” Fleur said, in accents that only Breslau recognized as gentle irony.

Sherry was served, and the little group began talking among themselves. Pamela leaned toward Breslau and said, “Well, this is a surprise I must say! I thought Lady Chamaude would wear a disgraceful gown. She dresses just like Mama.”

He lifted a brow. “Then your mama is to be complimented.”

“I just thought she would be more dashing.”

“That would be because you aren’t aware of the role Fleur’s playing this evening. Country gentlewoman, I think, but don’t fear it is Nigel she has her sights set on.”

Pamela assumed it was Breslau himself who was Fleur’s quarry. This struck her as being much closer to the mark. She noticed that a country gentlewoman did not empty her glass quite so quickly as Fleur, nor did she hold the empty glass out for a refill before her host suggested it. She kept these observations to herself. The idea was beginning to take hold that Breslau disliked any disparagement of his leading lady. One eyebrow had a way of rising to denote displeasure. He watched the marquise like a hawk, too, or like a man in love. Strange to think of Breslau being in love with anyone but himself.

Before long Lady Chamaude realized that any attention to Nigel went down ill, so she ignored him. Lady Raleigh was coolly polite, for she didn’t want Aubrey to know what Nigel was up to. The meeting was extremely uncomfortable, but no uproar had broken out by the time dinner was announced. Fleur sat at Sir Aubrey’s elbow, a little removed from his wife, which was a relief. At the end of the table, the hostess watched Fleur as though her guest planned to pocket the silverware. Over the meal, assiduous praise of the viands brought a token glow of pleasure to Sir Aubrey’s face.

“What delicious mutton,” Lady Chamaude exclaimed. “I should love to taste your spring lamb.” And a little sauce for this dry mutton!

“You knew it was our own,” Sir Aubrey said with approval. “Most of the farmers hereabouts raise cattle, you must know. Very few of us are into sheep.”

“Your son is constantly boasting about Belmont,” the marquise told him.

Nigel was astonished to hear it. He would no more have discussed the farm with Fleur than he would discuss the greenroom with his mother. Fleur was certainly up to all the rigs. She just said that to turn Papa up sweet, and it was working, too, by Jove. The scowl he’d brought to the table had mellowed to civility when the ladies rose to leave. How did Fleur even know they raised sheep? You couldn’t see them from the road.

When the ladies retired to the saloon, the gentlemen’s taking of port was enlivened by Nigel’s account of his extraordinary luck. “You’ll never guess what, Papa. Wes has commissioned me to write a play for Drury Lane.”

“Not commissioned!” Breslau objected swiftly. “I just suggested you think about it, after you’ve finished this editing job for Colchester.”

Nigel had been so shocked to hear Breslau ask him to sleep in his suite that some excuse had to be given. Bereft of a sane one, Breslau had fallen back on Lady Raleigh’s suggestion. “Sleep in the cot in my suite tonight, and we’ll discuss it after the assembly.”

“You would do better to come home and learn estate management,” his father said.

“There’s plenty of time for that. You are still young, Papa.”

“How does it pay?” Sir Aubrey asked.

“That depends on how good it is,” Nigel explained. “I’ll get royalties every time it’s performed, and if Colchester publishes it as a book, there’ll be more money. It could run into thousands,” he said blissfully.

“Of course not every play opens at Drury Lane or Covent Garden,” Breslau threw in. “We might want to run it through the provinces for a few months till it’s polished.”

“What kind of a play did you have in mind?” his father asked. “Your mama won’t want you writing anything risqué, lad.”

“I wouldn’t ask Fleur to perform anything licentious, Papa,” Nigel said, offended.

A scowl alit on Sir Aubrey’s brow.
“She’s
to act it, is she?”

“Of course.”

“The play hasn’t been cast. The thing isn’t even in the planning stage yet,” Breslau said hastily. “It will give Nigel something to think about over the coming year.”

“Year?” Nigel scoffed. “I’ll have a finished manuscript on your desk within a month. I’m not one of those fellows who sweats and strains over every word. You’ll see, Wes.”

“Don’t rush it. Take your time,” Breslau urged.

During the next half hour, a dozen obscure plots were discussed. Sir Aubrey was nearly as relieved as Breslau to escape tales of sultans and pirates and wild Indians. They joined the ladies for the trip to the Hatfield assembly.

The marquise caused all the stir she was accustomed to when she entered the assembly hall on Breslau’s arm. Word had spread that she would be visiting Belmont, and the town awaited her arrival with bated breath. Like Miss Comstock, they expected a trifle more dash in her outfit, but overall they were thrilled. Several of them had seen her perform in London and came forward to tell her how much they enjoyed her work.

With Lady Raleigh at the helm, there was no question of Nigel being the actress’s first partner. Breslau knew his duty, and he did it. He noticed Fleur’s excitement when General Max entered the hall with his family. His mother and his two sisters and their husbands accompanied him. Max preceded the group with the same stately strut with which he preceded his men into battle. The general had long since abandoned his regimentals, but he still carried himself with a fine military air, and didn’t object to being addressed as General Max.

The general had been an outstanding specimen of manhood in his youth. At fifty, he was still called handsome. His jet-black hair had thinned in front and silvered around the temples. It was true his jaw now more closely resembled jelly than concrete, but his eyes were still steely, and his nose as strong as ever. His shoulders had a harder time remaining erect with the beginning of a paunch to balance, but all in all he remained one of the sights of Hatfield.

All this aging virility had a way of feeling six years old when his mother fixed him with her own icy stare. “Hmph,” she said. “I see Dot Raleigh has brought the actress along. We shan’t recognize her. Dot has promised not to introduce us.”

General Max hadn’t owned up to knowing the marquise. It was his sisters who objected to this rough usage. “Oh, Mama! We can meet her. Everyone is. Look, there’s Lord Breslau standing up with her, and he is top of the trees.”

“Dot invited Breslau to keep the hussy from Aubrey. You ladies must consult with your husbands as to whether they will permit you to know the actress. Max and I shall visit the card room.”

Max installed his mother at the whist table and darted back to the ballroom. It was going to be tricky knowing Fleur when Mama was in the card room, and cutting her when she was present. Mama was good for at least an hour at the card table, and he joined Breslau and Fleur as soon as the music ended.

Breslau breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for Pamela. “Miss Comstock?” he said, and offered her his arm.

She accepted it gratefully, thankful that her first session with Nigel was over. Her smile of relief told the story.

“It’s best to get the unpleasant inevitable over with at the beginning. Then you can enjoy the rest of the evening,” Breslau said.

“Why Lord Breslau,” she exclaimed, frowning. “I don’t in the least mind standing up with you. Where did you get such a notion?”

Breslau was speechless. He was accustomed to being courted, and felt he was doing Miss Comstock considerable honor by standing up with her. His stunned air gave Pamela pause.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh,” she said, aghast. “You meant Nigel!”

“I didn’t realize I featured as an ogre in your mind.”

“Of course not. No one is trying to make me marry you. I should be happy to dance with you. Truly, I don’t mind in the least.”

“No further explanations are necessary, Miss Comstock,” he said through thin lips. “Speaking of marriage, what had Nigel to say about his untimely confession to his mother?”

“I did most of the talking. I rang a good peel over him I can tell you. I told him his father would cut him off. That will make him think.” After a frowning pause, she continued. “You never told me what it was you thought Sir Aubrey had told his wife. When we were speaking before dinner, some confusion arose….”

“A misunderstanding. I assumed Nigel would discuss it with his father first.” He looked around for a set to join.

Pamela frowned, dissatisfied with this explanation. Why should Breslau look relieved when he learned the truth? But a ball wasn’t the place to discuss it. To keep Fleur in good humor, it was to her set that Breslau led his partner. General Max’s sisters, knowing their mama was safely bestowed behind a whist table, flew to join them, just a step behind their husbands. They were perfect pattern cards of smiling admiration. Fleur preened her feathers, and with a coy little smile at General Max, said, “Your sisters are even more charming than you told me.”

This outrageous lie should have set the country bumpkins to smirking in pleasure. Fleur was hard put to account for the sudden stiffening of their faces.

Mrs. Stearne, the elder of the two, lifted a sapient brow and said to her brother, “Why, Max, you neglected to tell us you had the honor of the marquise’s acquaintance before this evening.”

The younger sister added mischievously, “Mama will be so thrilled. You must present the marquise to her. Perhaps we can all sit together for dinner.”

Fleur was something of an expert at reading expressions and interpreting snubs. No sloth herself in delivering a setdown, she replied haughtily, “Unfortunately I have promised to dine with Lord Breslau. Perhaps another time, ladies.”

General Max glared at the assembled company. He didn’t know which one he’d like to run his sword through first. How dare Fleur announce their friendship in front of his family! How dare his sisters roast her in public. And worst of all, how dare Breslau try to cut him out!

The innocent chit with Breslau was the only one he could speak to without cursing, so he ignored Fleur’s taunt and turned his fulminating stare on Pamela. “Visiting Belmont again, eh, Miss Comstock? I hope we shall soon have the permanent pleasure of your company amongst us.”

His speech brought a frown to the last smiling face in the group, and in this awful mood, they began dancing.

“Do I detect undercurrents in our set?” Pam asked Breslau when the steps of the dance allowed them a moment’s privacy.

“If you’ve detected the ill will, then it’s no longer an undercurrent.”

“Is she General Max’s flirt?” Pam asked eagerly.

“Not when she is at Hatfield, it seems.”

“Mrs. Maxwell wouldn’t approve.”

As soon as the dance was over, Maxwell’s sisters flew toward the card room. General Max knew he was in for it, and got rid of Fleur before his mother could come pouncing down on them. He left her standing alone, turned tail and ran without even thanking her for the dance. Fleur’s nostrils quivered in mute fury. She retired from the floor with Breslau and Pamela.

Breslau tried to calm her. “Fleur, don’t let this—”

“Save your directions for the stage, milord. This is my affair.” She strode angrily off to the ladies cloakroom to recover her equanimity.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be exciting!” Pamela exclaimed. Her topaz eyes were gleaming with the unwonted pleasure of the melodrama.

“You’re in for even greater excitement before the night’s over. Fleur won’t take this sitting down.”

“I wonder why she started all this brouhaha. I don’t mean about Nigel—I acquit her of that. But if she’s a close friend of General Max’s, she must know how his mama would dislike the friendship.”

“Fleur doesn’t flinch from a little drama. Fur will fly before the night’s over,” Breslau replied. A frown pleated his brow as he watched her stormy exit.

“I had the impression at dinner that she was walking on eggs, and bending over backward not to upset the Raleighs.”

A smile quirked Breslau’s lip at this mixing of metaphors. “She was bound to crack a few shells, trying to walk on eggs in such an ungainly posture.”

“You know what I mean.”

They strolled to the refreshment parlor for a glass of ratafia, which inferior beverage was still popular in the provinces. Her recent encounters with drama made Pamela realize how dreary her life was. For a brief moment she began visualizing herself in Fleur’s shoes.

As Breslau led her to a seat she said, “It must be exciting, working in the theater. Producing plays is a game, really. I fancy anyone could do it.”

“Fancy again. It’s hard work.”

“Of course, it’s rather déclassé,” she added pensively.

Once more Breslau’s mobile brow rose to denote his disapproval. “Oh, I don’t mean for you, Lord Breslau. How quick you are to take offense, like a deb of uncertain provenance. I was thinking of myself as an actress. It can’t be infra dig for a gentleman to involve himself peripherally in the theater.”

The sensitive eyebrow rose higher. Breslau considered himself more or less the focus of Drury Lane.

His companion ignored these subtle signs of dissatisfaction. “Acting would be out of the question,” she continued. “Do you think it possible for a lady to, perhaps, write a play?”

“Unexceptionable,” he admitted. “Even the Religious Tract Society couldn’t object. Your mentor, Hanna More, turned her fine hand to it, with considerable success, I might add.”

“I wonder if I could do it.” Pamela mused.

Breslau was a trifle put out that the young lady was at so little pains to institute a flirtation. In this mood he said, “You’re too young, and unaware of life to try it for a few years yet. One must live before she puts her experiences to paper.”

“Nigel has no more experience than I have,” she snipped, and turned her head away to show Breslau she was unhappy with him.