The Masked Heart (Sweet Deception Regency #2) (4 page)

Blaine narrowed her eyes at the contrast between his meekly spoken words and the gleam of arrogance in his eyes. "Your humility is totally apparent, my lord."

Lord Farrington's gaze sharpened at the sarcasm in her voice and one dark eyebrow raised in decided interest. "I am prepared to lay the world at your feet for merely a sign that you do not find my presence repugnant."

A wave of color flashed across Blaine's cheeks at the none too subtle proposition. Better men than he, had offered her a slip of the shoulder and she longed to slap the lazy grin off Lord Farrington's face. Instead, she controlled her emotions and favored him with a smile of angelic sweetness.

"I could never find your presence repugnant," she said, and she gritted her teeth at the self-satisfied look that transformed his expression. "For the simple reason, that I do not acknowledge your presence."

With dainty fingers, she detached his hand from the door as though she were loath to contact any part of his body. She smiled in satisfaction at his thunderous expression from her sharp setdown and, with a final glacial stare at the thoroughly chagrined John Tibbles, she slammed the door.

"The nerve of the man!" Tate snapped, rising with the look of a warrior about to charge the enemy.

Blaine moved across the room to Tate who was glaring at the door in high dudgeon. She patted the arm of her dresser. "Give over, Tate. The man is not worth your anger."

"I cannot believe that Tibbles would do you such a turn," the feisty little woman muttered as she put away her sewing.

"John told me that Lord Farrington was one of the shareholders of the Green Mews." Blaine sighed heavily as she sat at the vanity and began to undo her elaborate hairstyle. Most assumed that her hair was powdered but the white blond color was natural and she pulled at the pins, eager to brush out the curls. "I assume he pressured John for an introduction. John's defection does not surprise me. I have few illusions about men."

"So young and so jaded." Tate's voice was disapproving as she picked up the brush to untangle Blaine's hair. "Tis not a fit life for you, lamby."

With the wisdom of experience, Blaine winced, remembering her naiveté when she had first arrived in London. It was only in blessed ignorance that she could ever have decided to pursue a career as an actress. She had known little of the petty jealousies of the other players, the lustful glances of the men who hoped to bed her or the dogged hard work involved in reaching the top of her craft. She was a star now, for as long as the public chose to lionize her. It was exhausting work to walk the line between keeping the audience at a distance and beguiling them into the belief she was worthy of their adoration. She was on guard every minute, fully aware of how quickly her popularity could fade. She admitted she had been lucky to survive with so few scars other than exhaustion, loneliness, and a total disillusionment with the company of men.

It did not take her long to learn that she could not associate with any of the gentlemen who besieged her with flowers and notes. After the novelty of her innocence wore off, the girls in the dressing room spoke freely in front of her, candid discussions that she would as soon have foregone. From them, she learned the shallowness of the men who showered them with attention. For some of the girls, the life of an actress was no better than being on the streets.

Despite Tate's protection, Blaine learned the crude facts of life in her new world and painfully acknowledged what she had given up by her joining the ranks of actresses, opera dancers and theatrical courtesans. No man of good family would ever look on her as anything other than a woman of easy virtue. Any relationship she entered into would be one solely for the accommodation of some rake's physical pleasure. When not actually performing as an actress, for men of the
ton
, her only value was her facial beauty and her bodily attractions.

Blaine had realized several years ago that she would never marry. She had seen too much of the lustful and depraved side of men to convince her that she would be giving up much. She had cried for the children she would never have but, in her usual common sense way, she had accepted the fact. Through Val and Fleur, she would enjoy a family and, in the rare times she could visit, she would delight in their antics and store them up for the long years ahead.

"A holiday will refresh us both," Blaine said dreamily, relaxing under the rhythm of the efficiently wielded brush. Her eyes were drawn to the single rose in the vase on the dressing table. The opaque green of the Bristol glass accentuated the pure whiteness of the rose. She guiltily raised her eyes to Tate's face in the mirror but the dresser's attention was centered on her hair.

Blaine had taken one bud out of the basket of white roses that had been delivered to her dressing room. Without question, Tate would be furious if she knew that the flowers had come from Lord Farrington. There had been no card with the flowers but Blaine had guessed they were from the arrogant man. He had been inundating her with flowers and gifts for several months.

Since first coming to the notice of the dandies, Blaine had received notes and presents which the senders hoped might predispose her to favor their attentions. The notes went unanswered and the gifts she returned unopened. The baskets of flowers she generously distributed among the bit players. According to theatre gossip, she had never accepted anything from any of her admirers. As her popularity grew, one disappointed gentleman threw flowers at her feet during the performance. She had been so embarrassed that she had not even acknowledged the tokens. The next night others in the audience threw flowers and once more she ignored them. It was this supposed hauteur that earned her the sobriquet, La Solitaire.

The nickname might not have stuck if she had not been solitary indeed. In her six years in the theatre, she had never accepted an invitation from any of the gentlemen who clamored for her attention. In a world where morals were as loose as an old crone's teeth, Blaine's eccentric behavior was noticed. In the beginning it was supposed that she was merely holding out for a better offer. Now, most assumed she had some mysterious private protector and was discreet in her affair. In general, her admirers accepted and prized the elegant dismissal of La Solitaire. All except the persistent Lord Andrew Farrington.

"I've laid out your traveling dress and I'll pack the gown you've got on with the rest of the things here," Tate said, finished at last with plaiting Blaine's hair into a heavy braid. "All of your costumes have been packed and are already in the carriage."

Actors and actresses were generally required to provide their own costumes and a varied wardrobe was a valuable asset for any player. Blaine could recall how Sarah Siddons had wept after the fire which demolished the Covent Garden Theatre five years earlier. Her tears had not been for the gutting of the historic building but for the loss of her immense wardrobe of costumes and jewelry. In the beginning of her career, Blaine had worn the stock costumes from the theatre wardrobe like the other bit players. As her parts increased, she had used her precious salary to buy materials which Tate magically sewed into clothing appropriate to her roles. Reminded of all that she owed the little woman, Blaine rose and hugged her.

"No time for your nonsense," said the flustered dresser as she pushed Blaine away, turning her around to unfasten her gown. "The carriage will be here any second now."

As though she had conjured up the devil, there was a blistering knock on the door and Blaine dashed behind the screen as Tate bustled to the door. She listened to the low-voiced exchange between her dresser and Sarge, her other guardian, as she hurried into her traveling clothes. Her dress was a dark green
mousseline de soie
embroidered with a delicate line of small white satin roses at the neckline and around the edge of the puffed sleeves and the hem. The crisp fabric held its shape while traveling and yet was light and cool in the early spring weather. Clasping her cloak around her neck, she bundled up her discarded clothing and stepped from behind the screen.

"Evening, Sarge. I'm almost ready."

"It's about bloody time, miss. She says," Sarge jerked his head in Tate's direction. "We still have to stop at the 'ouse and pick up the rest of your folderols."

"Stubble it, you old sot," the dresser snapped. "I've enough on my plate to get ready for a stint in the country wi'out your bellyaching."

Since Blaine, in the company of her late uncle's batman Sarge, had arrived on Tate's doorstep, there had been hostility between the old soldier and the London dresser. Sarge had not approved of Blaine's decision to become an actress and he had originally viewed Tate, who worked in the theatre, with the contempt reserved for fallen women, Frenchmen and cats. The two old servants scrapped like bee-stung bulldogs, united only in the protection of their charge, Blaine. Over the years, a mutual respect and affection had grown up between the two but the old habits were comfortable and it seemed to Blaine that they generally enjoyed their brangling.

"Enough, you two, or I shall refuse to leave," she teased. "I know you're anxious to be off, Sarge, but we'll still be making a stop at the Silver Stallion and that little barmaid will be waiting for you."

"Miss Blaine!" the red-faced man lamented. "You'd think Tate and I hadn't done our very best to keep that sort of sordid business from your eyes."

"As if you could," Blaine said under her breath. Aloud she said, "I'm ready."

Tate took the bundle of clothes and placed them in the top of the portmanteau along with the last of Blaine's theatrical makeup and the precious tea set. Closing it, she handed it to Sarge and crossed to fuss over Blaine.

"Pull the hood up snug around your face and once we're outside stay close to Sarge."

Blaine smiled at the oft repeated cautions but she obediently raised her hood, feeling stifled in the stuffy air of the theatre. She followed Sarge along the hallway back toward the stage, walking carefully in the dim light of the wings. The huge man outstripped her as they crossed the stage and Blaine stopped in the center, looking in bemusement at the tiers of seats. The vast emptiness always awed her with its blandness; under the stage lights there was such an aura of mystery about the unseen audience. At Tate's hiss, she turned away and continued across the stage, plunging into the darkness of the wings.

"Careful, my pet, there is danger in the dark," came a voice at her side and Blaine gasped in fear as a hand clamped around her wrist.

"Where are you, lambie?" Tate called, her voice tight with worry.

Fighting the pressure on her arm, Blaine batted away the drapery hangings until light filtered into the wings and she was able to see who had accosted her.

"Unhand me at once, milord," she snapped.

At the barely concealed contempt in her voice, Lord Talbott Stoddard's blue eyes narrowed for a moment before his mouth flashed into a white-toothed grin of apparent amusement. He released his grip on her wrist and held the curtains graciously for her just as Tate descended on them.

"What's all this then?" the dresser shrilled, pulling Blaine away from the hovering figure.

"It is nothing, Tate. Only Lord Stoddard." Blaine could hear the hiss of Stoddard's breath at the implied insult. She felt justified in giving him such a setdown because in defiance of her refusal to acknowledge him, he had become increasingly persistent in his attentions over the last several months. He was tall with the body of an athlete and the face of a Greek Adonis. She could not like the man despite his cherubic face and head of curly blond hair. There was something about his pale blue eyes which chilled her.

"Miss Mason was lost in the wings," Stoddard explained to the angry dresser. To Blaine, he said, "If you were mine, goddess, you would not need to find your way alone."

Instead of a blush of embarrassment at his plain speaking, Blaine felt a rush of anger flood her cheeks. After years of brushing off the blatant advances of eager dandies, she found herself unable to dismiss this man lightly. Beneath the softly spoken words there was a hint of menace which she could not deny and, notwithstanding her bravado, she felt a frisson of fear in Stoddard's presence. She moved a step closer to Tate and then turned, her face lighting up at Sarge's welcome appearance.

The enormous man said nothing, only glared at Lord Stoddard through slitted eyes until, with a graceful bow, the nobleman turned and crossed to the far side of the stage. Tate and Sarge closed in around Blaine and hurried her through the labyrinthine halls until finally they exited the building onto a dark side street. The carriage was waiting and after bundling the women inside, Sarge leaped to the driver's seat and they were off.

Inside, Tate treated Blaine to a blistering of her ears but she barely acknowledged the woman's words. She had been badly shaken by the brief encounter with Stoddard. From the first time that she had seen him, she knew he was dangerous and in the ensuing months there had been nothing to change her opinion. She shrugged away her uneasiness, determined to think only about the joyful reunion with Fleur and Val and her two week holiday at Weathers.

Chapter Two

Lord Andrew Farrington elected to walk home rather than endure the confinement of his carriage. The late March weather was warmer than usual, although there was a bite to the air that indicated spring was still only a promise not a reality. Drew walked with head bent, a look of discontent playing around his normally smiling lips. He strode along the cobblestones, his cloak bellying out in the wind and his stick swinging loosely at his side. After only one glance the denizens of the night shied away from accosting the young gentleman. There was an assurance in the man's bearing that suggested he would not be an easy mark.

"Damn!" He spat out the word and slashed impotently at the night air. He had rarely experienced such a frustrating evening. He had obviously been wasting his time in pursuing La Solitaire. The much sought after Maggie Mason had stared at the rose he had thrown at her feet as if it were the most contemptible of objects. She had glanced at him coldly with her golden eyes and then, as if to indicate how little she cared for his interest, had bestowed a breathtaking smile on the audience.