The Masked Heart (Sweet Deception Regency #2) (3 page)

Lord Farrington sat alone in his private box, his pose exceedingly relaxed on the velvet covered gilt chair. He was dressed in black in sharp contrast to the red velvet hangings in the box. His face, above the whiteness of his linen, was tanned and patrician. At this distance Blaine could make out the movements of his hands which were thin, almost graceful and, like his body, only hinted at an underlying strength.

The audience roared at the antics of the Clown and Blaine returned her attention to the stage. Ever since Joseph Grimaldi had introduced the stylized makeup of his character to the pantomime, the public had taken the buffoonlike Clown to heart. Even at the Green Mews, they were beginning to refer to the character as Joey and sometimes, as tonight, the audience picked up the chant as an additional accolade.

Hearing her cue, Blaine moved toward the center of the stage reunited at last with Prince Tatum, the hero of the piece. She ignored the sweaty odor of the actor, gingerly accepted his embrace and chimed her voice with his in a sweet duet. As the curtain began to fall, the door in the Proscenium Arch opened and Clown staggered out, dragging the subdued Captain of the Guard on a rope. Blaine dipped into a curtsy as the audience howled its approval of the performance. After numerous bows, the green stage curtain came to rest and the players relaxed.

"Well done, my dears," John Tibbles said, bearing down on the performers from the wings. "A fitting end to this production."

As the short wiry manager bustled about the stage congratulating the players, Blaine chatted with the other actors. They were all rather tired but, as always, buoyed up at the end of a performance. John approached her and she smiled, bracing herself for his enthusiastic embrace.

"My dearest Maggie," he said, using her stage name. "You were truly magnificent this evening. Four reprises on that last solo and 'fore God, the boys in the pit would have quite torn up the scenery if you'd done any less."

Blaine linked her arm with John as he led her towards her dressing room. In the year that she had been associated with the Green Mews Theatre, the energetic manager had stood as her friend and she enjoyed his company.

"It was the coup of the decade when I managed to lure you away from Covent Gardens to join my troupe. The name of the Green Mews Theatre owes much of the reputation it enjoys to the luster of your performances," he enthused.

"You are entirely too kind, John," Blaine said, wondering why he should be more effusive than usual. She kept her pace even as she waited for his next words.

"And now, my pet, after praising you to the skies, is there any possibility I can inveigle you to make an appearance in the Green Room this evening?" he asked. Feeling the immediate tension in her arm, he sighed heavily and patted her hand. "Needn't bristle, darling girl. It was only in light of a question."

"John, you know Tate would never permit it," she answered lightly.

"Seems to me that hatchet-faced dresser treats you as though you were all of two and ten," he grumbled.

Blaine chuckled as she had often had the same feeling but now she used it as a convenient excuse since it coincided with her own desires. From the time she had arrived in London to try to become an actress, she had never gone to the green-walled room to mingle with the upperclass men who came to ogle the actresses and in some cases to choose a new mistress.

"I would not normally ask but two of your admirers have been most persistent," John continued as they approached the door of her dressing room. "They seek only an introduction."

"You have been so good to me, John, that it is difficult to refuse you anything but in this I remain adamant." Although she spoke lightly, there was a stubborn edge to her words. Since Blaine was tall, her eyes were on a level with his and she held his gaze for a brief moment before her mouth stretched into a grin. "Will you be joining me for a dish of tea before you race off to receive the congratulations from your clamoring public? Tate will be much put out if you refuse. She has such a soft spot for you, you know."

"Humph," he mumbled. "Soft spot, me maiden aunt! The biddy fair terrifies me."

Blaine's dressing room door was snatched open from the inside and the dour Tate stood framed in the doorway. For all her ferocity of face she was a tiny, thin woman of some sixty years. She wore severe black bombazine covered by an ample apron and her gray hair was neatly covered by a white mobcap devoid of lace or ribbons.

"Well, Tibbles, don't you be nattering me poor lamb's ear off," Tate snapped. "If you're coming in, kindly do so. The air in this noisesome theatre is ne'er good for Maggie's throat."

Blaine and John meekly entered under Tate's eagle eye and with a shared grin moved to the seats indicated. With another admonishing look, the old woman bustled over to the tea tray and carried it to the table in front of Blaine's chaise longue. The porcelain tea set had been a present from Aunt Haydie and, since her early days in the theatre, Blaine had relied on the ritual to remind her of home and to cast away the feelings of loneliness that frequently assailed her.

Tate poured the tea into the handpainted, handleless cups set in deep, matching saucers. She handed one to the discomfited manager, placing the small glass cup plate on the table beside his chair with a thump. Instantly she turned with concern to Blaine.

"You're looking plain peaky," she announced. "You're sorely in need of a holiday. It's glad I am that we'll be out of London for a few weeks. Now put your feet up and drink your tea."

Obediently Blaine swung her feet up on the chaise longue and winked at John as she raised her tea and sipped the pungent brew directly from the cup. Preferring the old way, the manager poured his tea into the saucer, then with a quick glance at Tate's back, placed his cup in the exact center of the glass plate on the side table. It always amused Blaine that John should be so terrified of her dresser's censure.

The warmth of the tea filled Blaine with a sense of well-being. She knew in part that it was the fact that she had satisfactorily completed her month's engagement and would be free to return home for several weeks. It was a far cry from her beginnings in the theatre, when she had gone for more than two years with only a few days at Weathers at Christmas. Looking around the dressing room, she realized how far she had come in six years and was grateful.

The room was small but at least she was no longer forced to share the communal dressing room with the other bit players. She could still recall her horrified shock at the casual nudity displayed by the women of the chorus. Her painful modesty and strong sense of privacy made her the natural butt of the coarse humor of the other girls. Had it not been for the presence of Tate, who shielded her from much of the abuse, Blaine doubted if she would have survived even a day.

From her first days in the theatre, she had worked to gain the additional privileges that stardom could provide. To her, privacy was all important. For the last several years at the Covent Garden, she had had her own dressing room and it was one of the requirements she had demanded of Tibbles when he hired her away. As the premier star of the Green Mews Theatre her dressing room was fitted with some comfort. There was a chaise longue, tables and two upholstered chairs to indicate her status in the troop. The triple-mirrored dressing table was old and scarred but the beauty of the intricately carved walnut front was a pleasure to her eyes. Her own addition had been a four-paneled screen of Oriental design. The dark wood moldings were in sharp contrast to the ivory parchment and added dimension to the barbaric red dragons painted on the panels.

A small stove and a cot were in an alcove which Tate had taken over, where she might brew tea and rest while Blaine was on stage. The addition of a wardrobe and bookcases gave a more personal touch to the room and filled Blaine with a sense of belonging.

Tibbles cleared his throat to remind Blaine of his presence and took several satisfying sips from the saucer before setting it on the table. "You'll be back in time for the start of rehearsals on the new burletta, won't you?" he asked, his wide brow furrowed with worry.

"Never fear, old friend," Blaine assured him. "You know I always come to rehearsal."

"Not like some I could mention," Tate sniffed, sitting down and reaching into her mending basket for something to occupy her hands.

"Which reminds me," John said. "Richard Petersham will no longer be a part of our troupe. I warned him about speaking to friends in the audience but tonight his actions were outrageous. Even for him. Not only did he wave and call to various friends but he threw a
billet-doux
to that red-headed piece of goods in one of the boxes."

Blaine giggled despite her own disapproval. In most theatres such behavior was considered quite acceptable but she liked Tibbles for trying to raise the standards in his own productions. Even the great John Philip Kemble, actor-manager of the New Covent Garden Theatre, was known to make a sign to a friend while carrying on with the action of the play. Most were less skilled and delighted in the attention of the audience, much to the detriment of their performances.

"Poor Richard," Blaine said. "You will have to admit, John, that the man does have some talent. He played Prince Tatum quite well, although I would wish he took more care in his personal habits. The audience assumed I was shrinking away from him in maidenly fear but, if the truth were told, Richard smells rather like a wet goat."

"I gave him a note to Kemble at Covent Garden which said Richard 'ranked' with the best."

"Oh, John, you didn't!" Blaine gasped in amusement.

"No, I'll admit it only just occurred to me." John retrieved his saucer and sipped thoughtfully for several minutes before he looked up. "I'm hoping to do Sheridan's 'School For Scandal' later in the year."

"Really, John. If you push too hard the Lord Chamberlain is bound to close down the theatre." Blaine's face was full of concern. "You've only a license for music and dancing."

Tibbles sighed, finished his tea and set the porcelain dish on the table. "One must challenge the patent theatres, my dear. I long to do "Othello" but I cannot bear the thought of playing music throughout the performance in order to stay within the letter of my license. Drury, Covent Garden and the Haymarket have the Lord Chamberlain's blessing to put on any drama they wish. Mark my words, there will come a time when all the theatres will be able to do spoken dramas, not just the lighter fare."

Blaine was reluctant to encourage Tibbles in his usual hobbyhorse, but willingly listened to his grievances against the so-called legitimate theatres. She knew that with the inconsistent licensing, the newer theatres were forced to extravagant excesses to attract an audience. Sadler's Wells had installed a water tank so that they could do aquatic plays which involved sea battles and water rescues. Astley's had an equestrian circle and specialized in daring feats of acrobatic prowess. Since some of the theatres were so large, there was little subtlety to the acting. The emphasis was much more on visual effects and the public clamored for bridges spanning gorges, mounted cavalry, and even elephants. The small intimacy of the Green Mews theatre prohibited such spectacles and was one of the reasons Blaine had chosen to become a member of John Tibbles' troupe.

"Well, my dear, enough," John said pushing himself to his feet. "I shall not bore you with further animadversions. I shall adjourn to the Green Room to accept the accolades of my adoring public."

Blaine waved Tate to remain seated and swung her feet off the chaise. She accepted John's hand as she rose and walked him to the door. "Try and stay out of trouble with the law while I am gone."

"It is an actor's burden, my pet. In the words of the Lord Chamberlain, 'actors performing without a license are vagrants and sturdy beggars.' A trumpery charge at best!" John announced, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. "Have a lovely holiday and hurry back."

"I shall," Blaine said. She opened the door into the hallway, then froze, blinking in stupefaction at the figure standing outside.

Lord Andrew Farrington made an exaggerated leg although there was a hint of amusement in his eyes before he bowed his dark head. Blaine swung her head toward the stage manager who was looking slightly abashed at the glare of accusation in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my dear," John mumbled. "I had quite forgot I told Lord Farrington to await me here and we would go on to the Green Room together."

Blaine pulled herself upright, her face set in icy dignity as she started to close the door. Lord Farrington was too quick for her and his hand shot out, holding the door open by main force. His tanned fingers were so close to Blaine's face that she could feel the heat from his body. Her heart lurched and unconsciously her eyes rose and she felt impaled by the sharp green gaze he bent on her. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed convulsively but was unable to break contact with his searching glance.

John Tibbles' voice sounded unnatural to her ears and seemed to come from a great distance. "My dear Maggie, may I present Lord Andrew Farrington. Lord Farrington, Maggie Mason."

"It is my greatest pleasure, Miss Mason, to finally meet La Solitaire. Your performance this evening was flawless."

Blaine let the sound of his words wash over her, annoyed that, despite her antipathy toward the man, she liked the deep timbre of his voice. She would have thought she would be disappointed with a closer inspection of Lord Farrington but his actual presence was almost overwhelming. If possible, he was more handsome than she had suspected with none of the lines of dissipation so prevalent in most of the gentlemen who frequented the theatre. There was authority in his bearing and a character etched into the lines of his fine-featured face. She was annoyed with herself for staring at the handsome nobleman, but at his nearness, she had dissolved into the veriest ninnyhammer.

"Thank you," she said, finding her tongue at last. She took a step backward and prepared to close the dressing room door but his words held her in place.

"Since you have failed to respond to any of my notes, I hoped to impress you with my earnest desire to make your acquaintance by presenting myself at your door with great humility."