Anne Barbour (4 page)

“Fellowes told me we have visitors,” she said, and in her voice, thought Simon dazedly, could be heard the melodious chime of distant bells. Advancing into the room, she extended her hand. “You must be Lord Simon,” she murmured. Her celestial gaze traveled about the room to come to rest with mild curiosity on Marcus, who stared in frank appreciation. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward with an outstretched hand.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Timburton. I am Marcus Crowne, Simon’s friend.”

“Oh, my,” chirped Miss Burch. “How silly of me. Lord Simon, may I present Miss Winifred Timburton? And this”—she turned a meaningful gaze on Winifred before gesturing to Marcus—”is the Viscount Stedford.”

The emphasis placed on the latter phrase was unmistakable, and Marcus blushed. Winifred blinked. “How very pleased I am to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Her smile was nothing short of incandescent, and now it was Marcus who blinked. “Tell me,” she asked Marcus, “do you reside in London?”

“N-no,” was Marcus’s stammered response. “I live in Kent.”

“Oh.” Winifred dropped the young man’s hand and turned away from him to Simon. “We were not expecting you so early, my lord. I am sure my cousin Jane has made you comfortable, though.” Her attention strayed, coming to rest finally on the table where the trays rested. “Oh, good, food. I’m simply famished.” In a fluid motion, she hurried to the table and in a moment, with a sandwich in each hand, she turned to survey the little group.

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” she asked. And without waiting for an answer, continued somewhat irritably to Simon, “Mister Soapes says that you do not live in London, either.”

As Simon uttered a startled assent, she turned again to Marcus. “Will you be staying long, Lord, er, Steward?”

“That’s Stedford, ma’am,” replied Marcus somewhat stiffly, “and no, I do not plan to stay but a week or so.”

“Oh, no,” said Winifred calmly, her incredible blue eyes wide and ingenious. “Now that you are here, we’ll need you for much longer than that.”

“I beg your pardon?” Marcus asked blankly.

“What the devil.. . ?” began Simon.

Winifred swung about to face her companion, her eyes sparkling. “Isn’t this famous, Jane? Now we have Lysander and Demetrius!”

“Oh.” said Miss Burch. “Ah. Yes, well, perhaps, but—”

“Who?” asked Marcus.

“What?” echoed Simon.

“Lysander and Demetrius,” replied Winifred with a brilliant smile. “You two will be perfect, I should think. That is ...” She paused, then asked anxiously, “Have you ever acted before?”

Marcus and Simon shot each other a wary glance as two people might who find themselves stranded in a lunatic asylum. Miss Burch stepped forward.

“Lysander and Demetrius are the two main male characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She tittered. “Dear Winifred plans to mount a production of the Bard’s play here at Selworth.”

“Does she?” asked Marcus, fascinated.

“Yes,” said Winifred with pretty enthusiasm. “It’s a delicious comedy, and so popular. With the lovers’ mix-ups and the fairies and the magic in the forest, I think it a perfect choice for country entertainment. But I am having such trouble putting a cast together. Reverend Mycombe and his wife have promised—well, almost promised—to be Theseus and Hippolyta. I shall play both Titania and Helena, and I am still searching for Hermia. I had almost decided I’d have to have Jack Bridges and Tom Dillon for the male leads, but they are really quite unsuitable. Perhaps I can still use them as Bottom and Oberon.”

As she spoke, Winifred fairly glowed, and a becoming tinge of pink spread over her beautifully modeled cheeks. “And, of course, I chose my cousin Jane to play Puck because she is so sm—”

Miss Burch coughed convulsively. “Winifred, dear, perhaps the gentlemen do not wish to participate in the play.” She directed an apologetic look at Simon.

Simon, still immersed in the vision of dumpy Miss Burch in the role of the mischievous fairy Puck, at first made no response to this statement, but coming to himself with a jerk, said hurriedly, “No! That is, I have no inclination for theatrics, and Marcus must be on his—”

“I’d be delighted to be in your play!” exclaimed Marcus, and Simon, whirling to face his friend, noted with dismay that Winifred’s glow of anticipation was plainly reflected in Marc’s light blue eyes. “I have never acted, precisely,” continued the young man, “but I have been a professional entertainer. You see,” he stated with becoming modesty, “I used to be something of an acrobat.”

“No!” Winifred was almost breathless with awe, and under her admiring stare, Marcus bloomed like a thirsty weed in a spring rain. “Oh, how marvelous!” she continued. “But, you would be wasted on Demetrius. You must be Oberon! Imagine, you’ll be able to leap and tumble just like a real fairy king! Oh! Do but think . . .” She rushed to grasp Marcus’s hand in both her own. “If I can play both Titania and Helena, you could play both Oberon and Demetrius!”

Marcus said nothing, but nodded and beamed in fatuous agreement

Simon experienced an unpleasant chill in the pit of his stomach. Good God, was Marc already smitten with the exquisite Winifred? He felt perspiration break out on his brow. Lord, Diana would kill him. Jared would dismember him bone by bone, and Lissa ... He groaned. Lissa was all but formally betrothed to Marcus. She was a very good sort of girl as sisters went, but she was volatile as flash powder. When she discovered that her older brother had introduced her intended to a siren of Winifred’s blinding attributes, there would be hell to pay. He groaned again.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Miss Burch brightly, her squint more pronounced than ever.

“What? Oh, nothing.” Simon chewed the sandwich, which had turned to ashes in his mouth.

Jane smiled. She had also been watching the interplay between Marcus and Winifred and she was well pleased. The Viscount Stedford, with his property in Kent and probable wealth, was a much better prospect for Winifred than Lord Simon, the perhaps even wealthier but titleless second son. To add to her satisfaction, it was obvious that the viscount was already more than half in love with Winifred. Certainly it wasn’t his passion for the theater that had prompted him to extend his stay at Selworth. True, he did not reside in London, which apparently meant a great deal to Winifred, but he no doubt possessed a town house there. With luck and a little encouragement, he and Winifred would be betrothed inside a month. Jane had no doubt of Winifred’s ability to winkle the viscount out of his country estate and into his city residence.

She shot a glance at Lord Simon. Why, the man was positively livid. Was he jealous of Winifred’s seeming attraction to his friend? A small twinge snaked through her. Unwilling to consider the reason for this momentary discomfort, she rose hastily and moved toward the bellpull.

“If you have finished your tea ...?” she announced briskly. Turning to Winifred, she continued. “The gentlemen have not yet been shown to their rooms, dearest.”

Winifred did not so much as turn her head to acknowledge this statement. “But I wish to discuss the play. And I wish to hear more about Lord Stebbins’s acrobatics.” She began propelling Marcus toward a brocade settee, but was stayed by Jane’s hand coming to rest firmly on her arm.

“Later, dearest. The gentlemen wish to freshen up before luncheon.” She grasped Marcus’s arm and accompanied her words with a gentle push toward the door, which was opened at that moment to admit Fellowes again. Marcus, capitulating to a superior force, merely murmured, “That’s Stedford,” once more and, bestowing another dazzling smile on Winifred, followed the butler from the room. Simon bowed stiffly to the ladies and moved toward the door, pausing there to turn once again to Winifred.

“You are not truly serious about mounting a production of a Shakespearian comedy in your—my—our home?” he asked, with the air of a drowning man grasping at the last floating remains of a sinking ship.

“But, of course,” Winifred replied with a musical laugh. “I am planning to make the stage my career, after all.”

“W-what?” stammered Simon, and Jane could swear she saw the hair on the back of his neck rising.

“Oh, yes. I was planning to go to London this summer, but Jane persuaded me to wait until next year when I am a little older.”

“But, you can’t be serious!” he said explosively. “What about marriage? You will be ruined if you pursue such a mad idea. I—I forbid it!”

Winifred’s smile remained undiminished. “Oh, I hope you will not. I should hate to have to run away. For I am quite determined, you know. I have no interest in marriage right now. Perhaps in a few years, when I am established as a—a prima actress, or whatever they’re called, I shall consider taking a husband—one who can keep me in the luxury I will have become used to. In the meantime, I shall pursue my art.”

This last was uttered with a hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture as she wafted out of the room. Lord Simon whirled on Jane, but possessed of a strong instinct for survival, she scuttled through the door in Winifred’s wake, pretending she did not hear the muttered curse flung after them.

“Run when you will, the story shall be changed.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
II, ii.

Night had fallen on Hampshire, and not a moment too soon, thought Simon morosely. He and Marcus were relaxing in the master’s suite, where Simon had been ensconced earlier with due ceremony by Fellowes, the butler. The chamber in which they sat was suitably furnished in the first style of elegance. Large, comfortable chairs were scattered pleasingly about the room, and a small, efficiently designed writing desk was placed below the window. In the chamber beyond lay an enormous tester bed, hung with rich damask and embellished with old-fashioned carvings of dragons and mandarins.

Simon sat at the desk, with Marcus sprawled nearby in a satin-covered wing chair, eagerly perusing the copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream given to him earlier by Winifred.

Simon’s earlier admiration of that young lady had rapidly given way to an urgent desire to wrap his fingers around her lovely throat. All through luncheon she regaled her increasingly disinterested audience with tales told by her stepmother about the delights of life on the London stage. Despite his best efforts, he had not been able to sway her in her determination to follow in Millicent’s footsteps. The beautiful widgeon could find no flaw in her ridiculous scheme. The fact that she would be ruined socially, particularly in the unlikely event that she became a success in the theater, meant nothing to her. “For,” she concluded ingeniously, “my stepmama was the toast of the London stage for years, and she married Papa in the end. She was received everywhere.”

“Well, not quite everywhere,” intoned Miss Burch repressively. “The Duchess of Bentwater gave her the cut direct when they were both visiting at Maybridge. The Earl of Granbrook’s seat,” she explained to Simon. “Of course, everyone knows the duchess is extremely high in the instep, but there it is.”

“Oh, pooh!” was Winifred’s response. “As though anyone would care what that old gargoyle thinks.”

Simon had nearly cried out in his despair. With such an attitude, Winifred would be lucky to receive a proposal from the local tinker.

Returning to the present, he bent an accusing glare at Marcus, who was still perusing the play manuscript. “I wish you would put that damned thing down. You cannot be serious, after all, about appearing in Winifred’s production.”

Marcus lifted startled eyes. “Of course, I am. It sounds like great fun and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Simon snorted. “Since when did you develop such a consuming interest in the Bard?”

Marcus gazed blankly at him for a moment, then started up indignantly.

“You don’t think I’m sniffing around Winifred, do you?”

“Oh, no,” came the sarcastic response. “Why would I think that, when you spent the entire afternoon practically glued to her pink little fingers? Good God, Mark. I never saw anyone make such a cake of himself.”

“I was not glued to her fingers. I may have taken her hand a few times ...”

Simon snorted again.

“But it was only in courtesy, I assure you. As for making a cake of myself, you merely mistook my enthusiasm for... for—

“For an absolutely nauseating display of adolescent infatuation.”

Marc leaped to his feet. “Now see here, Simon, I do not intend to take this from you. Are you forgetting Lissa?”

“No, but it’s apparent that you have.”

“What?” Marcus swelled with indignation. “That’s just—just nonsense! I love Lissa. I have from the first moment I saw her.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Simon was unmoved. “Then, how could you behave in that revolting manner to Winifred this afternoon?” he snapped.

“I told you,” the young man replied with wounded dignity, “I am interested in this project of hers. Can’t you get it through your head that I am looking forward to acting in that play?” When Simon made no response beyond hardening an already belligerent stare, Marc dropped the book on a nearby table and leaned forward. “Simon, I was not raised to be a peer. I spent most of my life in the streets of Paris, scrabbling for a living, never knowing of my background. I discovered that I had a talent for acrobatics, and that I could earn a living at it. I did a little acting, too, and I discovered something else about myself. Performing is food and drink to me.”

“Mmm,” said Simon warily. “I recall Diana saying something about your incorrigible tendency to make every situation into a melodrama.”

Marcus grinned. “Guilty as charged.” His face grew serious again as he turned to pace before the fireplace. “I have an itch that has remained unscratched for three years now—ever since I assumed my title, for the duties of viscount do not ordinarily include tumbling in a ring or posturing on stage.” He turned again to face his friend. “I’ve worked hard at being a good landlord. I’ve studied land management and I pay attention to the needs of my tenants. But, I’ve missed the actor’s life, Simon. I’ve missed the posturing and the camaraderie—and the adventure of it all.” He shuffled his feet. “You know, when I asked to come with you to Hampshire, it wasn’t just a desire to visit another of my estates. I thought it might be a chance for a lark—and that’s what it’s turning into. An opportunity has fallen from the sky to let me live the life of an actor again for a little while—-at least, part of it. Winifred’s little theatrical won’t be the same as professional theater, but it will be a taste. And,” he concluded with a pugnacious thrust of his jaw, “I intend to enjoy every minute of it.”