Anne Barbour (13 page)

A shadow crossed Marc’s face. “She’s not ‘my Miss Timburton,’ Lissa, and as for my playing Oberon—well, we’ll talk about that later.”

Lissa’s pink little mouth opened as though she would dispute this statement, but after a glance at Simon, she subsided. She was not given the opportunity to say more, for at that moment, Jane entered the room.

Jane had experienced an extremely trying day. She had spent most of it eluding Lord Wye’s busy hands and endeavoring to put Winifred in Lord Stedford’s path at every opportunity. Her success in both these efforts had been minimal. She had, further, been incensed by the frequent glowers sent her way by Simon, who apparently thought she was flirting with the man she had chosen for his ward. Then, to top things off, she had no sooner paired Marcus off with Winifred with great success, she felt, for that kiss could not have been mere acting, than his lordship’s wandering fiancée put in an appearance. Beneath the consternation on Marc’s face, it was obvious that young Lady Lissa was the light of his life. Well, hell and damnation, thought Jane. If Marc was truly in love with Lissa, she could not in all conscience continue to throw him at Winifred. But what of Lissa? Did she truly love Marc, or had she rushed to Selworth in the spirit of a dog in the manger?

What a coil it all was, she thought dully, as she entered the saloon. She managed a cordial nod to Lissa and Lady Teague. Lissa did not seem a bad sort, she mused, although endowed with a rather short fuse. Jane had spent a few minutes with Lady Teague, showing her her chambers and escorting her about the house, and she found an immediate rapport with the older woman. Amabelle, Lady Teague, might seem a bit hen-witted, but Jane suspected a shrewd brain lurked behind the clattering jewelry and the dithery gestures.

Charles arrived a few minutes later and at the last moment, before the meal was served, Gerard and Harry skidded into the room, breathlessly apologizing for their lateness.

“Had to post a letter,” said Harry.

“An important letter,” said Gerard, with a significant glance at his friend.

Jane’s forehead wrinkled. She did not at all like the sound of this. It had been her experience that when Gerard and Harry got up to something “important,” dire events followed. With some foreboding, she followed the group into the dining room.

Some minutes later, Simon glanced about in some satisfaction. So far, so good, he thought optimistically. He had managed to seat Lissa next to Marc, and both were still on speaking terms. Charles sat next to Winifred, preening noticeably as she laughed at one of his sallies. Lissa regaled the group with the latest on-dits from London, though Marcus did not seem to be as entertained by them as were the rest of the group. Winifred, however, hung on Lissa’s every word.

“But, do you not go to the theater?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” answered Lissa carelessly. “Almost every night, when there isn’t a ball or a rout or some such.”

“Have you seen Kean?”

“Mmm, yes, I think so.”

“You think so?” Winifred was incredulous. “Surely you would remember if you had seen him as Hamlet.”

“Oh. Well, we see so many—but, yes, I’m quite sure we did attend Hamlet, and I do remember the gentleman who played the title role was quite, er, energetic.”

Simon laughed at the expression on Winifred’s face. “As similar as you two are physically, you do not seem to have much in common.”

Winifred and Lissa looked at each other curiously. Lissa’s mouth turned down.

“Oh, I don’t think—” she began, but was cut off by Winifred’s delighted crow.

“Why, we do look alike, don’t we, Lissa? We have different-colored eyes, but we both have dark hair and lovely fair skin— and we are both beautiful.”

Lissa blinked. Winifred bounced a little in her seat. “I have just had the most marvelous idea!”

Simon’s heart sank.

Winifred leaned forward to speak further to Lissa. “As you know, I am putting on a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I, of course, am playing Hermia, as well as the part of Titania. But I need someone for the role of Helena, and you will be perfect.” She turned to encompass the rest of the table in her glance. “Do you not all agree?”

“But—” began Lissa.

Winifred pressed a hand to her bosom. “Sometimes I am truly amazed at my own cleverness. The fact that Lissa looks so much like me will greatly heighten the impact of both parts.” Her gaze roamed over Lissa’s petite form in clinical detachment. “You are not so tall as I, but I shall wear very flat sandals and we shall build yours up a little. You are not nearly so well rounded either, but,” she continued, oblivious to Lissa’s gasp of indignation, “perhaps we can feed you up between now and the performance date.”

“I do not wish to be in your stu—in your play,” said Lissa in a high-pitched, breathless tone.

“There, there,” said Winifred, as though to a recalcitrant child. “Of course, you do. It will be great fun and you will have a good time.”

Ignoring the small choking sounds emanating from Lissa, Winifred sat back in her chair, a beatific expression in her violet eyes. “I cannot believe how well things are going. Except for the vicar and Mrs. Mycombe, of course. They will be here tomorrow to rehearse their parts as Theseus and Hippolyta, but I fear they are quite unsuitable. Why, the vicar must be sixty if he’s a day, and his wife is not much younger, and thin as a bed slat besides.”

“Winifred,” said Jane sharply. “The vicar and his wife are doing this as a favor to you. The whole idea of appearing in a play goes very much against the grain for both of them. You knew before you set out on this project that there are few around here who can measure up to your criteria for acting talent.”

Winifred sighed, and a frown creased the ivory perfection of her forehead. “That’s true.” She turned to Simon and flung out her arms, knocking over a glass of lemonade as she did so. “That is why I must shake the dust of this backwater from my feet, my lord. Oh, just imagine what it must be like to perform with the like of Edmund Kean, or Mrs. Siddons.”

Simon felt his stomach tighten. Across from him, Charles leveled his quizzing glass at Winifred. “My dear Miss Timburton. Are you saying that you have an inclination to perform upon the stage in London?”

Damn! thought Simon.

Winifred turned to Charles, her lovely face a study in innocent enthusiasm. “Oh, yes, my lord, I wish it above all things. It is what I was born for!”

Charles dropped his quizzing glass in astonishment, but Winifred did not notice, having abruptly lowered her head and her attention to the blancmange before her.

“But,” said Charles, still in a state of stupefaction, “ladies do not perform upon the stage.”

“This one intends to,” said Winifred calmly, her eyes still on the blancmange.

“Of course, she is not going to London to be an actress,” interposed Simon irritably. “She has been spouting this nonsense for some time, but I assure you, nothing will come of it.”

Winifred did not reply, but, spooning the last of the custard into her mouth, shrugged her shoulders expressively.

Later, alone in his study with Charles, Simon expounded on this theme.

“I don’t know where or when she took this maggot into her head, Charles, but I assure you, I have no intention of allowing my ward to make a spectacle of herself upon the stage in London or any other locality. The thing is . . .” He shot a speculative glance at his friend. “The thing is, she’s been so damned isolated here in Hampshire. All she’s ever known are a parcel of raw bumpkins. She’s never become acquainted with a real man of the world—a man of fashion, such as yourself.”

Charles polished his quizzing glass vigorously with a corner of his handkerchief. “Oh,” he said. “Ah.”

Simon’s sally had not met with the reception he had hoped, but he pursued the topic, undeterred. “Yes, I’m quite sure that when she gets out in the world a bit and is introduced to more men of your calibre, her attitude will change radically.”

Again, Charles refused to rise to the bait, satisfying himself with a noncommittal, “Harrumpf.”

What the devil was the matter with the fellow? Simon wondered in angry bafflement. He had as much as said outright in their infrequent correspondence that he was looking for a mate, yet when he was handed a perfectly splendid specimen on a silver salver, all he did was bark and waffle.

The next day saw a visit from Reverend Mycombe and his wife. Winifred gathered everyone into the Crimson Saloon for a rehearsal that soon turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. The vicar had forgotten his spectacles and had difficulty reading his lines. His wife, a kindly soul, but possessed of a horror of all things theatrical, read her part in a barely audible monotone, frequently lifting her eyes heavenward as though asking forgiveness.

Meanwhile, Lissa had apparently convinced herself that if she was to protect her vested interest in Marcus, it behooved her to maintain a vigilant surveillance on “that wicked cat,” as she persisted in categorizing Winifred. Thus, with a great show of condescension, she reported for duty as Helena.

Charles, noted Jane with mixed feelings, had abandoned his pursuit of her own unwilling person for the moment. He was, instead, pattering after Winifred, his nose fairly twitching in anticipation, like a scrawny rodent scrabbling for crumbs on the kitchen table. Winifred accepted his blandishments with the aplomb of a seasoned siren, portioning out inviting smiles at regular intervals and fluttering her lashes. She allowed him to run his fingers over her shoulder, and to squeeze her hand with disgusting frequency. Once he even slid his arm about her waist, and was rewarded with a demure giggle. Jane could have slapped the girl.

Simon at first seemed pleased with this turn of events, but even he began to look uncomfortable at Charles’s improper behavior. As it happened, however, Simon was soon distracted as Winifred at one point turned her attention to his acting skills. After fifteen minutes of the most minute critique of his performance, he looked ready to do murder. Jane smiled, and the next moment was shaken by a sudden and unwelcome urge to smooth away the lines in his tanned forehead with her fingertips and to press her mouth to the rigid line of his jaw.

Good Lord, what was the matter with her? Her thoughts flew to the scene in his study the day before. Simon Talent was a perfectly ordinary man—well, almost perfectly ordinary if one discounted those gold-flecked brown eyes and the authority he wore as casually as a comfortable cloak. Still, there was no reason her knees should turn to jelly every time he smiled at her or why her pulse should race like a wind-blown leaf every time his hand brushed hers. Get hold of yourself, my girl, she told herself firmly. He is a good-looking man, but you’ve known good-looking men before. And this one will be out of your life in a few weeks’ time. She stiffened her shoulders and forced her attention to the scene being played out on the stage.

“My lord,” Winifred was saying. “You have only one line in this scene, but it is an important one. You must show the audience your love for Hermia.”

“Winifred,” said Simon through gritted teeth. “I have repeated the line twenty-four times in the last five minutes, with a different inflection each time. There are only so many ways I can say, ‘You have her father’s love, Demetrius.’ The damned line doesn’t make a particle of sense, anyway.”

“Well, of course it does!” gasped Winifred, as though Simon had just spit in church. “Shakespeare always makes perfect sense. Lysander is telling Demetrius to relinquish his claim to Hermia.”

“Then why can’t he just tell the stupid sod to push off?”

“Because,” replied Winifred patiently, “they did not speak so in Elizabethan times.”

“Simon,” interposed Jane, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, “you know very well what the line is intended to convey, and I’ll warrant you could recite it beautifully if you could just contain your spleen for a few moments. You are behaving like a child at table who must eat his vegetables before he can go out to play. Just do it, and do it quickly, and it will all be over.”

If anything, this piece of totally unwanted advice caused Simon’s expression to further darken.

“My spleen is no concern of yours, Miss Burch,” he snapped, but turning, he recited the line once more, this time to Winifred’s satisfaction.

A few minutes later, when he was able to exit the stage, he strode to where Jane sat in a far corner of the room, sheltered by a large potted plant, her lips moving as she memorized her lines.

“I wish to speak to you,” he said baldly, “about—about my aunt.”

“Your aunt? Lady Teague?”

“Yes, that aunt,” he said replied acidly. “I believe she is the only one of my aunts in residence at the moment—although, at the rate the house is filling up, I shouldn’t be surprised to see one or two more drift in at any moment.” He shook himself. “I went to her chambers to speak to her this morning, and found her sewing. She said she was working on a gown for you. I must tell you, Miss Burch, that I am appalled. I did not ask Aunt Amabelle here to see her relegated to the role of ladies’ maid.”

“Good Heavens!” said Jane, stricken. “I can’t imagine—oh!” she said, her face clearing. “Lady Teague is sewing costumes for the play.”

“What?”

“Yes, she took one of my old muslins and she’s converting it into appropriate fairy attire. She says she thinks she’ll even be able to manage wings. And you should see what she’s creating for Winifred.”

“What?” repeated Simon incredulously. “I don’t believe this. How could you coerce that poor old lady into what’s nothing less than:—than slavery.”

Jane was somewhat taken aback by his thunderous tone, but she told herself he was merely allowing himself an outlet for the ill temper that had been building in him ever since he’d agreed to be part of the cast of Winifred’s play. Well, if Lord Simon thought she was going to cater to his foul moods, he was very badly mistaken.

“Don’t be silly,” she said calmly.

Simon took a step toward her, but, though her heart beat a little faster, she did not retreat. Gazing coolly into his hot brown eyes, she continued, “It was your aunt’s idea to make costumes for the players. She was telling me how much she regretted that there was not a suitable part in the production for her, then she asked if she thought she might be of some use with her needle. I must say we’re fortunate to have her, for she’s prodigiously talented.”