Carola Dunn (2 page)

The heat of his gaze contradicted the mildness of his tone as he handed his hat and gloves to the obsequious waiter and said, “Allow me to relieve you of your cloak and bonnet, Miss Findlay.”

Paradoxically, the fire in his hungry brown eyes made Lissa shiver--and not entirely from alarm.

Divested of her outer clothing, she somehow felt as exposed in her modest kerseymere gown as she had in the diaphanous stage draperies. She crossed to the fireplace and held out her hands to the flames.

“It is chilly for May,” Lord Ashe remarked. He turned to the waiter. “Turtle soup to start with, and asparagus, and then the finest delicacies from tonight’s bill of fare. Miss Findlay, do you care for creams and jellies?”

Creams and jellies! After a moment of yearning, Lissa said firmly, “I prefer pastries, sir.”

“Pastries it is, and whatever hothouse fruit you have.” He ordered wines with exotic names, which Lissa promised herself not to so much as taste, then he added, “Bring everything at once, if you please. We shall serve ourselves.”

The waiter cast a curious glance at Lissa as she uttered an involuntary, inarticulate protest. She had counted on frequent interruptions from servants.

Lord Ashe nodded dismissal at the waiter and came to join her by the fire, smiling.

“Did you wish to be waited on hand and foot?” he asked in a caressing voice. “Never fear, I shall be your
cavaliere servente
.” In answer to her look of enquiry, he explained, “Your willing slave, a slave of love.”

If only he meant love, not mere passion! Lissa was swept with a wave of longing to be truly loved by this man, or at least to be able to trust him, to let his broad shoulders share the weight of her self-imposed burdens. Impossible dream.

“I am perfectly able to help myself, my lord,” she said primly.

He laughed, but turned the subject as a pair of waiters came in to set the table with a snowy white cloth, gleaming silver and sparkling crystal.

“Is the Royal Coburg a satisfactory employer, Miss Findlay?”

“I was fortunate indeed to find a new theatre about to open its doors when I came to London. It is very difficult to get a place in the established companies.”

“You are a newcomer to the metropolis? I guessed it.”

Afraid he was going to ask whence she came, Lissa frantically racked her brains for a polite but uninformative answer. To her relief, he merely asked whether she had yet viewed many of the sights of the city.

He seemed rather startled to learn she had seen nothing but St. Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey. She nearly explained that, after visits to the great churches upon her arrival, all her time and energy had been spent on the search for work. How close to despair she had often come! How close to despair she was now, for even if tonight’s scheme succeeded, the success would be no more than a temporary remedy.

She nearly explained, but she could not bear that Lord Ashe should suppose her to be making a deliberate play for sympathy. So she smiled, with an effort, and said she had heard there was to be a balloon ascension from Hyde Park tomorrow which she hoped to attend.

“I trust the weather will cooperate,” his lordship observed. “In my experience, these events are postponed as often as not. Ah, here is our supper. Will you be seated, ma’am?”

He held her chair for her, facing the fire not the couch to her relief--relief spoiled when she realized his place was laid adjacent to her rather than opposite. She tucked her feet back under her chair for fear of colliding with his ankles.

However, the savoury odour rising dizzyingly from the tureen before her drove all fears of the baron’s expectations from her mind.

Whether to eat her fill was the only remaining doubt. She glanced calculatingly from the dishes crowding the table top to the figure of her host. Broad shoulders and powerful chest tapered to slim waist and flanks: Lord Ashe did not look as though he was given to overindulgence in food. There would be plenty left whatever inroads she made, and she would regret not having taken full advantage of the bountiful supply should he fail to fall in with her plans.

Turtle soup; asparagus to dip in melted butter; turbot in lobster sauce; cutlets of spring lamb with minted new peas and new potatoes; a fricassee of chicken and mushrooms; stuffed fillet of veal in a pastry case--Lissa sampled everything. She had never eaten such well-seasoned, deliciously sauced, beautifully garnished dishes before.

Lord Ashe watched with an air of amused tolerance. Recalling Minette’s jest about his wishing to feed her up, Lissa almost giggled aloud. He himself ate little, though emptying his glass with some regularity. Lissa took a sip or two of wine after a rather salty mouthful. She did not care for the taste, so was not tempted to drink more, despite his lordship’s occasional gentle urging.

He was a charming host. Besides keeping her plate filled, as promised, he made her laugh with a droll review of the Coburg Theatre’s melodrama, ballet, and harlequinade, always exempting her own performance from his wit.

He went on to tell fascinating stories of the London theatre world, of Sheridan and Byron, of Kemble, Siddons, and Kean, and the great soprano Catalani.

“You ought to take singing lessons,” he said, “if you wish to advance in your profession. I daresay I could arrange for one of the best teachers to accept you as a pupil. Ah, you have reached the sweets stage, I see. Try one of these
petit puits d’amour
.” He reached for a plate of jam tarts, the crimped puff paste circles glazed to a golden shine around the jewel-bright centres.

Lissa took one. “
Petit puits
...?” she asked, nibbling.

“You don’t speak French? No, of course you don’t.” Lord Ashe looked a trifle disconcerted.

On the point of informing him that, though ignorant of French, she read Greek, Lissa held her tongue. It was bound to lead to unwanted curiosity, and he already sensed something smoky about her antecedents, or he would not have unconsciously expected her to know French.

Before she could think of some way to distract him from the subject, Lord Ashe pushed back his chair and took her hand in his. At the touch of his lean, warm fingers, a shock ran up her arm. She froze.

She had almost forgotten his purpose in treating her to supper.

“
Puits d’amour
, ‘little wells of love.’“ His burning gaze moved from her eyes to linger on her lips, then down to her bosom. “I am eager to discover what you have hidden behind that Puritan costume, my Lissa. If you have eaten your fill, it is past time to plumb the Well of Love.”

Chapter 2

Lissa dropped the remains of her tart. “W-what do you mean?” she faltered through suddenly dry lips.

Lord Ashe raised dark, sardonic eyebrows, tightening his clasp as she attempted to pull her hand free. “Exactly what I said, my dove. I spoke English, not French, did I not? I wish to try whether we shall suit before I offer you my protection. I have already dismissed your predecessor. It is a common enough situation.”

“For you, perhaps!” Indignation warred with embarrassment. “Just because I am an actress, it does not mean I am a l-lightskirt.”

“No? Why the devil do you imagine I invited you this evening? Don’t plead ignorance, pray!” he added dryly.

Abashed, Lissa stared at the crumbs on her plate. “I confess, I did not suppose you wished to congratulate me on my performance.”

“So why did you accept?”

“I was hungry,” she muttered, her face aflame. Then her spirit revived as she reminded herself how much practice she had had at standing up to browbeating. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “And I hoped to be able to take some scraps home for the children.”

“Children!” Lord Ashe pounced on the word, his grip now painful. “I knew you could be neither so young as you look nor so innocent as you claim.”

Biting her lip, Lissa managed not to wince. Show fear and they had you where they wanted you. “I told you I am nineteen,” she said quietly. “The children are my brothers.”

At last he let go her hand. “Brothers?” His penetrating stare held her gaze for an endless moment. She was glad she was telling the truth.

He reached for his glass, drank, then lounged back in his chair. “You are supporting your brothers?” he asked, his tone conversational now.

“I do my best.” Against her will, her lips trembled. She felt for her handkerchief and twisted it nervously between her fingers to stop her hands shaking.

“A poor best, I take it,” he said gently, “if you are reduced to deceit to feed them. Well, I’ll not make matters worse. Come, put on your bonnet whilst I ring to arrange for our leavings to be packed up.”

Her heart too full for words, her eyes misty, Lissa could only look her gratitude. She hastened to obey, glad to hide her face within the depths of the drab bonnet.

The waiter received with astonished resentment Lord Ashe’s order to bestow the broken meats in a basket to be removed from the premises. The sullen glance he cast at Lissa, who was no doubt robbing him of his perquisites, quickly changed to a pitying sneer. Obviously his lordship, disillusioned by the dowd’s lack of hidden assets, was casting her off kindly.

The real wonder, Lissa thought wistfully, was that a gentleman of Lord Ashe’s manifest superiority had for a brief while desired so plain and dowdy a female. Now the false glamour of her stage appearance had worn off, he must be glad of an excuse to retreat.

Though not accustomed to catering for outside parties, the Piazza found crocks and cans enough to accommodate every morsel. Lord Ashe brushed aside apologetic explanations of the necessity of charging for the loan of the containers. A potboy lugged the heavy basket out to the lamplit street where his lordship’s hastily summoned town carriage awaited.

Lissa’s plan had worked. She had eaten well and had enough left to feed the boys for two or three days. So she could only attribute her low spirits to the prospect of the long trudge home carrying the spoils.

Curtsying, she breathed a heartfelt “Thank you, my lord,” and reached for the basket.

He forestalled her, slipping a coin to the lad, who dashed back to his work. Hefting the basket, Lord Ashe enquired, “Where do you live, Miss Findlay?”

“On the other side of the river, sir, in Lambeth, near the Coburg Theatre.”

“Back to Lambeth, Burr,” he called to his coachman.

“There is no need to take me so far out of your way, sir.” Lissa was not at all sure she wanted him to know her precise direction. Worse, what might he not attempt in the privacy of his coach, with none but a loyal servant to hear her cries? “I can very well walk.”

“So far out of my way is far enough to walk, burdened,” he said mockingly, as if he guessed her thoughts, “and the streets around Covent Garden are far from safe for a lone female at this hour of the night. By the new bridge, Lambeth is no great distance to drive. Besides, I am curious to meet your brothers. Come.” He held out his hand.

Short of engaging in an undignified and undoubtedly unsuccessful struggle for the basket, Lissa had no choice but to abandon it or obey. He handed her into the carriage. Following, he set the basket beside her and sat down opposite, thus relieving her immediate apprehensions.

She was very tired. As the horses trotted along the Strand, she drifted into a half-doze, from which Lord Ashe roused her only when, at the far end of Waterloo Bridge, the coachman needed further directions.

Much of Lambeth was still laid out to market gardens, but the streets of mean tenements were gradually encroaching. Here street lamps were few and far between. For a few minutes Lissa was too busy directing the driver to worry about what to do when they arrived at her lodgings. Then the carriage pulled up before the dark doorway and it was too late to prepare a speech.

“You do not really want to come in?” she pleaded, trying to make out Lord Ashe’s expression by the light of the carriage lamps as she stepped down.

“I do,” he said firmly. “Wait here, Burr.”

She unlocked the door and led the way up the dilapidated stairs. The lingering smell of boiled cabbage seemed worse than usual tonight, perhaps because she had for once eaten her fill. On the first landing she picked up the tallow candle left burning for her by a kindly landlady, adding its fumes to the fetid atmosphere. Lissa knew there were worse odours she might yet have to endure if she had to remove to cheaper rooms to save a few pennies on the weekly rent.

Behind her, Lord Ashe made a choking noise, hastily smothered. His firm tread followed her up the second pair of stairs, up and up, till they reached the door to the garret under the roof.

The door creaked open. By the light of her candle, Lissa saw Peter in his nightshirt slumped at the battered deal table, his fair head pillowed on his arms, fast asleep.

Swiftly she turned, finger to her lips--too late.

“You live here?” said Lord Ashe, his voice harsh.

She nodded. “You
would
come,” she whispered.

“Lissa?” Peter mumbled drowsily. “It was getting dreadfully late. I was worried. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late.”

He sat up, blinking at her. “Here, we saved you a bit of currant bun. Michael found a penny in the street and bought a bun, though I told him bread is better value. There’s not much left, I’m afraid. He was dreadfully hungry so I let him....” Catching sight of the figure in the shadows behind Lissa, he stopped and stared, then jumped to his feet. “Who’s that?”

“Lord Ashe. He...he brought me home from the theatre.” She prayed the boy would not guess her escort’s original intentions. At eleven, Peter was as fiercely protective of her as of his younger brother, and a few weeks in London had taught him far too much about the ways of the world.

She cast a rapid glance around the narrow, chilly attic room. It was as tidy as it could be with her pallet bed in one corner and their few books neatly piled in another, as clean as borrowed broom and scrubbing brush could make it. Moving aside, she let Lord Ashe step in.

“Good evening, my lord,” Peter said, executing his best bow.