Playing The Duke's Mistress

‘The main male part is Lothario, I believe,’ Darius drawled.

‘The seducer of women, yes,’ she flashed back in reply. ‘The kind of man who sees all women in one light.’

‘I told you my cousin was clever,’ Herbert said proudly to Mabel.

‘You did, Herbie.’ She beamed at him.

‘Perhaps he isn’t as clever as he thinks,’ said Miss Fairmont.

Her head was held high, revealing the bird-like shape of her collarbones and her long neck. Darius was reminded, suddenly, of a swan that glided on the lake at his country home. It had bitten him, once.

Herbert looked from one to the other. ‘I say, what’s the matter?’

‘Is something wrong, Cally?’ Miss Coop asked.

‘We’re here under false pretences, Mabel,’ the actress said with scorn. ‘For all his contempt of play-acting, the duke has turned in a fine performance.’

Mabel Coop’s hand went to her bosom. ‘Herbie, what does she mean?’

‘I’ve not the faintest notion,’ Herbert replied, slack-jawed.

‘Ask your cousin to explain,’ Miss Fairmont said.

There was a scratch at the door and suddenly two of the inn’s servants entered, bearing aloft silver-domed platters. They laid them on the table.

‘Leave the lids,’ Darius ordered when one of them made to begin serving.

He waited until the servants had left the room. No doubt they would hover outside the door to listen to the conversation between two gentlemen and a couple of actresses. It made it all the more pressing to end this affair immediately. Herbert clearly had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Beside him he noted Miss Fairmont’s slender fingers were gripped together.

‘I suppose we can get straight down to it, Miss Coop. I had hoped to handle this with some finesse, but since Miss Fairmont presses the point...’ A glare in her direction was met with an answering flash of her eyes. With effort he wrenched his attention from her to focus on the blonde actress. ‘You’re a young woman of obvious charms, Miss Coop, but if you have ideas about marrying my cousin Herbert I’m afraid I must put them to rest.’

Her big eyes instantly brimmed with tears. ‘What? Oh!’

‘I say, Darius,’ Herbert protested. ‘We’re here for a pleasant supper. Steady on.’

Darius ignored him. ‘I’m the head of the Carlyle family. My cousin will under no circumstances marry an actress.’

‘What do you have against actresses?’ Miss Fairmont demanded from his right.

He twisted to face her. ‘Must you force me to be blunt?’

Her chin tilted higher. ‘Please. Let’s not play-act.’

Darius shrugged. ‘Actresses are no more than title-hunters.’

Miss Coop gave a shriek.

‘That’s an outrageous thing to say.’ Miss Fairmont hardly raised her voice, yet the anger in it reached him. ‘Women have been on the stage since the days of King Charles the Second. How long will it take for us to be granted respect for our craft?’

‘Acting isn’t a craft,’ he said scathingly. ‘For women, it’s merely a version of the oldest profession, at which they are well versed.’

‘Men are actors, too,’ said Calista.

‘Male actors act,’ Darius conceded, with a derisive look at Mabel’s décolletage. ‘Females of the species merely display their wares.’

‘Now, Darius,’ Herbert blustered from the other end of the table. ‘That’s a bit much.’

Darius took up his glass of whisky. ‘Miss Fairmont is correct about my motivations. My desire is not to spend time in the company of actresses. It is to discover the price of avoiding such company in future. Let’s get down to business. How much money will it take to ensure you leave my cousin alone, Miss Coop?’

Now tears trickled down the blonde woman’s chin into the crevice of her cleavage. Her bosom heaved.

Miss Fairmont leapt to her feet. Except for the two spots of redness in her cheeks her complexion appeared pale, almost waxy. ‘You’re being extraordinarily rude. Don’t speak to my friend in such a manner. You have no right. You don’t know her.’

Darius banged his glass down and stood. Miss Fairmont came to just above his shoulder.

‘I know of actresses. Every actress in Covent Garden wants to marry a lord or a duke. It’s become an epidemic. Perhaps you’re the same. Are you angling for a title, too?’

‘How dare you!’

‘Lady Calista. Countess Calista. Duchess Calista,’ he mocked. ‘Is that why you’re here tonight? Is that your secret hope, like all actresses?’

Against her white skin Miss Fairmont’s blue eyes were as brilliant as sapphires. ‘Is it beyond your imagination that some actresses might not want a coronet? I am one of them. I answer to the stage, not to a duke.’

‘Come, come,’ he sneered. ‘You’re indulging in play-acting now.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘My family goes back four generations on the stage. I have a lineage as proud as yours. My mother and grandmother were actresses, and my father...’ her voice wavered ‘...my father was a playwright. You’ll never understand what the stage means to me. You talk of the actresses who left the stage to marry into the aristocracy. I’m sure many of them regretted it and longed for the stage when their husbands refused to allow them to act again.’

‘As I’m sure many aristocrats regret their marriages to actresses,’ he shot back. ‘I’ve seen it myself in the circles of my acquaintance. It never works. It leads to ruination. As head of the family it’s my duty to ensure no Carlyle becomes embroiled in such a disastrous match again.’

Her eyes snapped blue fire. ‘You seem to think being a titled wife is such a prize. Why, I’d rather be a mistress than a wife to an aristocrat like you.’

‘My mistress?’ He raised a brow. ‘At least you’ve made your price clear.’

‘You’re twisting my words,’ she said through pinched lips. ‘I merely mean to say that being a duke’s wife is not what every actress wants.’

‘Every actress has a price.’ He spun on his heel and faced the sobbing Miss Coop. ‘Well? What’s yours, Miss Coop?’

The actress’s lower lip wobbled. ‘I just wanted some lobster.’

Darius released a stab of a laugh.

Miss Fairmont moved swiftly around the table. Even in anger her walk maintained that elegant glide. ‘Come along, Mabel. We’re going home.’

‘Herbie...’

Herbert’s napkin fell to the floor as he stood. ‘I’ll call on you tomorrow, Mabel,’ he said nervously. ‘I promise.’

‘Come now,’ Miss Fairmont urged, helping her friend up and pressing a white handkerchief into her hand. ‘Please. Don’t stay here for such insults.’

Over her shoulder she cast Darius a look of scorn. ‘I only hope no actress ever has the misfortune to become your wife.’

‘What a performance.’ Darius lifted his glass to her. ‘You’re almost convincing, Miss Fairmont. Bravo.’

Miss Calista Fairmont slammed the door behind them.

* * *

Outside on the street Calista pulled her cloak around herself. Beside her Mabel still sobbed.

Never before had Calista been quite so furious.

Title-hunters! How dare he!

The way the Duke of Albury had treated her, as if she were beneath contempt, as if the craft she poured her life and soul into was nothing. To accuse her of only wanting a title, when she went to such lengths to avoid exactly such entanglements!

If he only knew...

Tears stung her eyes. Her fatigue, an exhaustion that went deep into her bones from weeks of worry and lack of sleep, combined with the aftershocks of rage, left her trembling. To have to defend her profession against such aspersions was intolerable.

No dinners with dukes, Calista resolved anew.

Never, ever again.

Chapter Two

When that great man I loved, thy noble father,

Bequeathed thy gentle sister to my arms.

Nicholas Rowe: The Fair Penitent (1703)

‘Cally? Are you awake?’

Calista’s eyes were open before the second word was out. ‘Columbine. What time is it? Are you all right?’

Columbine snuggled into her arms. Even from beneath the bedcovers Calista could feel how thin and frail her sister was. She was much lighter than an eight-year-old should be. She hardly made a dent in the mattress.

‘It’s nine o’clock and I’m very well today,’ Columbine said brightly. ‘I feel much better.’

Calista laid her hand on Columbine’s forehead. It was true, her temperature had dropped and the hectic flush had gone from her cheeks.

‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ her sister said. She slept in the other larger room with their maid, Martha. By day it served as their sitting room, kept warm by the fire. Her own room was little more than a cupboard and a chill one at that.

‘I was later than usual,’ Calista explained. ‘I went out to supper with Mabel.’

‘I like Mabel,’ said Columbine, burrowing deeper into the bed. ‘She always gives me sweets when I come to the theatre.’

Calista sighed, thinking of her friend. Mabel was kind-hearted, and she insisted she was in love with Sir Herbert Carlyle, or so she had declared all the way home after the disastrous supper party. Her infatuations didn’t usually last too long, but that didn’t excuse the behaviour of the Duke of Albury.

The memory flashed in her mind, followed by a blast of anger.

Actresses are title-hunters.

Calista winced. Over and over the phrase rang in her head. It had stung more than the duke might guess. It was galling to think in what contempt he held her profession. She’d never had such sentiment spoken to her face although she knew what people said behind her back. It hurt.

She raised her chin. The opinion of the Duke of Albury wouldn’t put her off her life’s vocation. She would continue to hone her craft until actresses had the respect they deserved, no matter what men like him believed.

At dinner the night before—not that they’d actually eaten anything—she’d studied him. She always studied new acquaintances carefully, for she’d learnt they might have a manner or trick of speech she could later bring to life in a character on stage. Yet, to be honest, it hadn’t been for her craft that she’d watched him. He was a man who compelled attention.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Immaculately dressed in a dark evening jacket, a claret-coloured velvet waistcoat and pristine shirt so white it rivalled new-fallen snow. His evening trousers had been pressed, his shoes polished. She’d noted he wore a crested gold signet ring on the small finger of his right hand. It was a strong, large hand, a whip hand. It was clear he was a man who expected to be obeyed instantly. He could have been a performer himself, having that rare presence a great actor must possess in order to maintain the interest of the audience. His height, his deep voice and his dark good looks would make him a perfect stage hero.

No.

Not a hero.

A villain.

Scraps of dialogue Calista wished had come to her before had kept her awake until nearly dawn. She’d jotted down a few of the lines in the loose-leaf folio she kept on the table by the bed. Her father had always told her that the best playwrights wrote constantly, not just when they were working on a play.

‘Use all your emotions to write,’ he’d told her. ‘The same as when you’re on stage.’

She had no trouble conjuring up emotions when she considered the Duke of Albury, she thought as she gritted her teeth. She could still taste her fury.

Yet for an odd moment, when their eyes had first met, after his almost insulting survey of her face and figure, she’d felt a connection spring to life between them. Something tentative and hopeful that had evaporated in the blast of his arrogant rudeness.

Calista pushed the thought of the duke away and focused on her sister snuggled beside her. When she’d found her father’s half-finished play in his papers she’d determined to finish it. The play was an adaptation of a story, so it was possible for her to pick up where her father had left it. Somehow, continuing his work kept his presence alive. Today, she had planned to write more, but it was Columbine who mattered most. ‘I don’t have a matinee performance this afternoon. Would you like to go to Hyde Park?’

‘Oh, yes, please!’ Columbine leapt up, sending her long black braids flying. ‘It’s hard to be indoors all day with only Martha for company, not that she isn’t very kind to me,’ she added hastily. ‘But I love to spend time with you best, Cally. Can we take a picnic luncheon?’

‘If you like. Go and ask Martha if she will cut us some sandwiches.’

‘She might even put in some seed cake.’

‘I’m sure she will.’

Columbine scampered from the bedroom.

Calista lay back against the pillows. From the window opposite, pale sunshine beamed into the small room. The April showers had passed, and now it was Maytime, her favourite season. Summer was at last coming to bring some warmth to the London streets. The cold winter had been terrible for Columbine’s health and Calista had wished she had the money to send her young sister to a warmer climate for those long, cold months. But she couldn’t leave the theatre and take Columbine to Italy or France, where the air might clear her lungs. Nor could she afford to send her abroad with only Martha, loyal maidservant that she was. She was more than a maid, really. Martha had nursed Columbine since their mother had died, and had cared for them both as best she could in the cramped rooms Calista rented. Ever since their father had gone Martha had always tried to refuse the few coins Calista gave her each week.

Calista bit her lip. Last night when she’d told the duke that her father was a playwright, as she’d said it, she realised she had used the past tense.

Had she given up hope?

Perhaps it was time to face the brutal truth.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the linen sheet. She couldn’t. Not yet. She would continue his work and care for Columbine until their father came home.

Yet day by day it became harder.

And more frightening.

She pulled up air through another of those painful, chest-tightening breaths. The tiredness from the night before hadn’t disappeared, and she almost wished she might snatch a few more hours sleep. But it would do her more good to see Columbine play in Hyde Park. Perhaps there would be a Punch and Judy show on such a fine day, or even a brass band playing.

A sunny day in the park would drive the horrible words of the Duke of Albury from her mind.

* * *

Darius awoke.

A vision flashed before his eyes.

Dark hair.

A long neck.

A bite.

The same face had appeared when he had fallen into bed the night before. He’d sent his valet, Hammond, away with a quick word and stripped off his garments to lie awake for longer than the amount of whisky he’d consumed had promised.

At the Coach and Horses Inn, when he’d seen off the actresses, he had expected to feel satisfaction. Instead, as Miss Fairmont had slammed the door of the private dining room, he’d experienced a quick surge of emotion he couldn’t put his finger on.

Compunction?

Regret?

Surely not remorse?

He ran his hand through his hair. He’d had to come down hard on silly little Miss Coop, with her obvious designs on his cousin Herbert.

But he wasn’t entirely sure Miss Calista Fairmont was quite the same type of young woman.

He’d been more harsh towards Miss Fairmont than he meant to be. She’d been caught in the firing line. The Carlyle name meant everything to him and he didn’t intend to let anyone ruin it. But he’d come at her with pistols blazing and though she had fought back with a few fine shots of her own, he hadn’t intended to treat her in quite that manner.

Had he come on too strong? No, he decided. It had been necessary. Cruelty was often kindness in the end. Herbert had to be protected from himself and Miss Fairmont had unfortunately been caught up in it all. Normally he would never have spoken to a woman in such a manner, but drastic action had been called for.

She was only an actress. Yet he had to admit, she wasn’t what he expected from an actress.

Again the vision came.

Dark hair.

A long neck.

And an air of dignity that would have befitted a duchess as she defended her friend.

There it was again. The damnedest thing.

Remorse.

That was it. Remorse.

It wasn’t an emotion with which Darius was overly familiar, and it was damned uncomfortable.

He shrugged it off along with the eiderdown and seized a dressing gown before he rang for Hammond to arrange his morning shave and breakfast.

It couldn’t be helped. The situation had called for speedy action on his part. No actress was going to marry into his family and Herbert did appear to be particularly attached to Miss Coop.

His cousin’s reaction after the actresses left the dining room had only reinforced Darius’s view that he had needed to act, and act decisively.

‘How dare you speak to Mabel that way,’ Herbert had stammered, red-faced. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Darius.’

‘I’ve done you a favour,’ Darius told him curtly.

Herbert would see it his way in time.

His cousin would probably be at their club that afternoon. Darius would talk to him again and convince him a quick cut to break the attachment would be better for all concerned. He’d always been able to guide Herbert. After all, it was his duty to keep him out of trouble, and his affection for his cousin meant he would do whatever was needed to ensure Herbert’s future happiness.

Darius looked out the window. The day was fine, too fine to spend entirely indoors. This morning there were business matters and correspondence to attend to, but in the afternoon he decided he’d go for a walk in Hyde Park.

Darius ran his hand through his hair again.

He possessed a strange urge to see the swans on the lake.

* * *

Calista breathed in the fresh air.

Already she felt like a different person. The air and sunshine was like a tonic. Her fatigue seemed to melt away like ice cream in the sun. Even though she’d lost writing time, she had needed the outing and Columbine needed it even more.

She pushed back her bonnet and lifted her face to the warm rays. May had arrived at last. The garden beds were bursting with bright flowers, including daffodils and the first of the bluebells. Squirrels darted among the trees and one delighted Columbine by peeping out from behind a tree near their picnic blanket. They’d spent a good few hours in the park and as every minute passed Calista felt her spirits lifting.

The park was full of people enjoying the weather. Riders clip-clopped past. Couples strolled together arm in arm or sat on the benches. There were children playing with hoops and balls, and feeding the ducks. Swans glided elegantly across the lake.

With a much lighter picnic basket in hand, Calista was making her way to the Punch and Judy stand where Columbine was watching the puppet show when a man spoke from behind her. ‘Miss Fairmont.’

She turned. ‘Yes?’

The owner of the voice, a portly man wearing a red-spotted cravat, beamed at her. ‘I thought it must be. You are Miss Fairmont, are you not, who has charmed us all lately with your performance of Rosalind in Shakespeare’s masterpiece at the Prince’s Theatre?’

Calista smiled. It was impossible not to smile at the man. ‘I am.’

‘My dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were quite marvellous.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘It’s not kindness, Miss Fairmont,’ he protested. ‘You’re an ornament to the stage!’

He bowed and gave a cheery wave. ‘Good luck to you, my dear!’

Calista watched him disappear down the path. At least someone appreciated what she was trying to achieve. The man’s praise almost took the sting from the duke’s cruel words about actresses merely showing their wares.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

Darius strolled through Hyde Park, glancing idly at the assortment of groups dotted over the lawns. On the grass, children played under the supervision of nannies who were clustered together chatting. He spotted one or two courting couples. Others were families. All of whom appeared happy and smiling as they took their picnics in the park.

Darius felt the familiar pang before he supressed it instantly. Surely the contented family tableaux he witnessed were a farce. They couldn’t all be as happy as they seemed: these mothers fussing over their offspring, fathers trying to hide their beams of pride behind their moustaches. Two boys were being instructed by their father how to fly a kite while a laughing mother rescued her toddler whose face was smeared with jam from almost falling into the lake. A small crowd of children were gathered by a Punch and Judy puppet-show booth.

Darius stopped in his tracks.

Standing at the back of the crowd was the actress, Miss Calista Fairmont.

There could be no doubt it was her, although she didn’t look like an actress today. In the fresh afternoon air she wore no powder and paint, no garish or florid colours. Her plain grey bonnet was pushed back from her head, revealing her dark hair that shone almost blue-black, like the sky at midnight. In a grey cloak and simple frock with white lace at the collar she looked more like a governess than a star of the London stage. Yet to him it seemed as if she were lit up by footlights.

She had a young girl beside her, who had hair the same colour as Miss Fairmont’s, worn in two long braids that hung over a shabby tweed coat. The two were clearly related. They were watching the show and the girl was laughing.

Then Miss Fairmont laughed, too.

She had barely smiled the night before at the supper party and so he hadn’t realised: Miss Calista Fairmont was beautiful.

Her warm laughter lit up her face. She glowed. Like a candle in a darkened room. Like a light one was drawn to, as if it could make you warm inside.

Darius stepped closer. Intent on the puppet show, she didn’t notice him.

Her cheeks were pale today, though there was pinkness in her face, no doubt from the fresh air and her laughter. Her fresh complexion, presented in its natural state, made him realise she was younger than he’d first thought. She must not be much more than twenty years of age.

She wasn’t much more than a girl. Yet her dignity made her seem of greater years.

Now he saw that dignity was a permanent part of her posture, bred into her bearing. It hadn’t been put on the night before. And there was something else. In spite of her excellent deportment, for such a young woman she appeared to be burdened with care. It didn’t cause her shoulders to bow, or that long neck, but it was there in the set of her face and the way she anxiously watched over the child beside her. At her age surely she ought to have appeared light of heart, here at a puppet show in the park.

But Calista Fairmont wasn’t light-hearted. Even as she smiled that glowing smile he sensed she was troubled. Beneath those sapphire eyes were dark shadows, too deep for a woman her age, and they told of sleepless nights.

Darius frowned. Perhaps the shadows under her eyes told of a debauched lifestyle. But gazing at the young woman who hovered with such obvious concern over the child at her side, he suspected that wasn’t the case.

Again that uncomfortable feeling came over him.

Remorse.

He slammed it away.

No matter how young and unaffected she looked in the park, Miss Fairmont was still an actress.

He turned away. What could he say to her? He had to protect Herbert and he had done what he needed to do, even if he regretted that this woman had suffered his scorn in the process.

Darius pulled his coat tighter. The air had suddenly chilled. As he walked back to his club in St James’s he became even more determined. No actress was going to get her claws into a Carlyle again. He would convince Herbert to give up Miss Coop before he got in too deep. Darius knew more than any man that actresses were title-hunters. There was no doubt that Mabel Coop would destroy his cousin, his reputation and his happiness. Darius had to prove it.