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 any duke.’

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

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.’

Author Note

I’ve always applauded the daring of great actresses of the past. Historically, ladies of the stage were considered not much better than ladies of the night. For centuries being an actress was a scandalous if not dangerous profession, and the most an actress might expect was to become a wealthy man’s mistress. But in the nineteenth century this began to change. My interest was piqued when I discovered that a so-called ‘epidemic’ of actresses married into the aristocracy. The theatre became a marriage market as well as a playhouse.

Playing the Duke’s Mistress is set in the theatrical world of Victorian London in the mid-nineteenth century. At that time many actresses were labelled title-hunters or worse—as Darius Carlyle, Duke of Albury, initially suspects actress Calista Fairmont to be. Yet not every actress wants a coronet …

Happy reading!

Playing the Duke’s Mistress

Eliza Redgold

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELIZA REDGOLD is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. She was born in Scotland, is married to an Englishman, and currently lives in Australia. She loves to share stories with readers! Get in touch with Eliza via Twitter: @ElizaRedgold, on Facebook: facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor and Pinterest: pinterest.com/elizaredgold. Or visit her at goodreads.com/author/show/7086012.Eliza_Redgold and elizaredgold.com.

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For my muse, Nell Gwynne.

If she’d learnt to write she’d have penned a witty play.

And for my long-time friend Erika Jacobson, playwright and fellow PhD finisher, who loves Nell too.

Acknowledgements

My thanks go first to my fabulous editor, Nicola Caws at Harlequin Mills & Boon in London, who brought this book into being. Thank you, Nicola, for your patience, tact, insight and for your brilliant editing skills.

You are amazing!

Thanks to the Wordwrights critique group for their comments on early chapters and to my critique partner Jenny Schwartz, who calls a plot a plot—writing would be no fun without our beachside café meetings. I’d also like to express my gratitude to the romance writing community, at home and abroad, for their warmth and generosity.

Thanks also to my academic colleagues, including those in the emerging field of ‘Love Studies’.

Finally, thank you to all the romance readers worldwide who keep the dream alive. Long live love!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

What! shall I sell my innocence and youth,

For wealth or titles, to perfidious man!

To man, who makes his mirth of our undoing!

The base, profest betrayer of our sex!

Let me grow old in all misfortunes else,

Rather than know the sorrows of Calista!

Nicholas Rowe: The Fair Penitent (1703)

Covent Garden, London—1852

‘No dinners with dukes,’ said Calista firmly as she wriggled out of her costume and stepped into her petticoats, one lacy layer after another. ‘You know my rule.’

‘Please, Calista,’ Mabel entreated from the other side of the painted screen. ‘It’s a private supper party.’

Calista’s fingers trembled as she adjusted the waistband of her top petticoat. She forced herself to keep a steady hand. She’d lost more weight and had to pull it tighter than usual. ‘A private supper is even worse.’

She tossed a light cotton wrapper over her bare shoulders and tied the ruffled edges loosely across her corset. She knew she ought to put on her dress or even a woollen shawl, but her skin was still warm from the glare of the gas footlights.

Mabel’s voice became a whine. ‘I can’t attend if you don’t come with me. It’s at the Coach and Horses, upstairs in one of those dining rooms. I’m longing to see it. Do you intend to keep me apart from Sir Herbert?’

Calista stepped out from behind the screen and sat down at the dressing table, resting her elbows among the pots and jars of creams and powders.

‘Last month you were besotted with a marquis,’ she reminded her friend, who was slouched on the chaise longue in a pink silk dressing gown. ‘Now it’s a baronet. It’s actresses like you who give us all a bad name.’

She softened her reproving words with a smile. Mabel had a good nature, even if she did care more for flirtation than learning her lines.

Mabel giggled. ‘A bad name has turned many an actress into a lady or a duchess.’

Calista sighed. Ever since a flurry of actresses had married into the aristocracy, many young women had come to consider the theatre as no more than a marriage market. It made it very difficult for those who aimed to become the best at their craft, as she did. Gentlemen from the audience hung around by the stage door, making advances, which Calista was forced to fend off, sometimes politely, sometimes by calling the doorkeeper to hasten the men away. The members of the aristocracy, she’d discovered, the more time she’d spent in the theatre, were the worst. They seemed to think they had offstage rights to an actress, in some form of noblesse oblige. A few so-called gentlemen behaved as if she were no more than a lady of the night. Indeed, some seemed to think actresses and courtesans were one and the same thing.

Calista shuddered inwardly. She’d determined to stick to her rule more firmly than ever before since that awful incident that had occurred a few weeks ago. She’d told no one about it, not even Mabel. It still shook her to think of it, but she had to carry on coming here, carry on performing. She had no choice.

‘I know you have your rule, Cally, but perhaps I’ll be doing you a favour if you come to the supper party,’ Mabel wheedled. ‘It’s true my dearest Herbie is only a baronet, but his cousin is a duke with an enormous fortune. Why, he’s the Duke of Albury!’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

Mabel made a faint moan. ‘He sounds terrifying. Herbie told me to bring along another actress to keep him company tonight. I thought of you immediately. You can cope with anyone.’

Calista picked up a pot of crème celeste, her favourite cold cream. It could remove the thickest powder and paint. She wanted to help Mabel. Beneath her friend’s brazen exterior, Mabel’s heart had been bruised more than once. Still she hesitated. ‘Can’t you ask someone from the chorus?’

‘I could,’ Mabel said doubtfully, ‘but you’re the leading lady. Herbie said the duke is frightfully intelligent and to pick someone who would keep him entertained.’

‘I have no desire to entertain a duke,’ Calista said crisply. ‘He can pay to see my performance, like everyone else.’

‘Please,’ Mabel begged, her blonde curls falling over her dressing gown and her big blue eyes widening in the fashion that had brought her so many admirers. ‘I’m scared to face the duke without you. You’ll know the right things to say. Do come to supper, Cally. Herbie is the man for me. I know it!’

‘I’m sorry, Mabel—’ Calista started. With her finger hovering above the pot, about to daub in the cold cream, she stopped halfway.

The rouge on her cheeks would come away, like her costume, like the part she played. It was always the same after the tumult of applause at the end of a play when the curtain went down. When she curtsied to the audience there was a moment when she came back, when she stopped playing a role and became her own self again. It was the strangest sensation, as though she was dropped back into her body from the flies above the stage. If that feeling ever disappeared she would give up acting, she’d vowed. It was a kind of vainglory to seek applause for Calista Fairmont. The claps and shouts were for the character she created on the stage, the other person she inhabited the moment she stepped out of the wings.

Tonight, she’d played Rosalind in Shakespeare’s As You Like It. From the first until the final act she became the daughter of a duke, forced to pretend to be a boy and hide in the woods of Arden. It was a role that suited her well, the theatre critics agreed, not merely for her more-than-average height and slim figure, but because of her portrayal of Rosalind’s intelligence and wit. She’d made the role her own.

Yet recently, coming back to herself at the end of the play had felt like a jolt. Tonight in particular she’d experienced a horrid sense of deflation as she had come off stage to become once more Miss Calista Fairmont, with all her troubles. It was as if a dark cloud had edged across the painted backdrop of a perfect blue sky.

In the looking glass, she studied her reflection and saw her fingers now clenching the pot of cold cream. Her hair had been pinned up while she’d played the part of a boy. Laying down the pot, one by one she released the hairpins.

Her black locks rippled over her shoulders, but the curls were limper than they ought to have been. They shone with less gloss than before. Once they had glinted as blue-black as damson plums, or so her father had declared. Columbine had asked if they tasted like plums, too, and their father had picked the girl up in his arms and laughed, declaring that surely his daughters were sweeter than any fruit, his Calista and his Columbine.

Columbine. Her young sister had caught a chill recently and it had given her a high fever. All day she had been red-cheeked, as she had continued to cough and wheeze.

Calista stared again at her own scarlet cheeks. At least the rouge disguised her pallor, and beneath her eyes the dark circles of fatigue were hidden by the layers of powder. If only she could sleep better. Lately all she could do was toss and turn all night. One worry would turn her one way. Then when she flung herself over, yet another would grip her.

Somehow, she must carry on. It might be better to try to keep her spirits high. A supper party would be a diversion from the constant cares that gnawed at her, and Columbine would be asleep at home; her sister and Martha didn’t wait up for her, not any more. In happier days there had been supper by the fire, a chance to talk and to share the play’s successes and failures. But now she walked alone.

Alone.

Her breath squeezed through her lungs. Fear had entered into her body, ever since...

No. She refused to think about it.

She put her hand to her chest and tried to breathe. This choking grasping of air must be what Columbine experienced when she had one of her terrifying attacks. Perhaps it would be good to be with company tonight and she could go part of the way home with Mabel after the supper party.

It might be safer to walk a different way.

There was no reason to hurry home. It was best to let her sister sleep peacefully, even if she could not do the same any more, and she was hungry, too. She might be the leading lady of the Prince’s Theatre and earn wages that were higher than those she had got for playing bit parts, only speaking a line or two, but the pounds weren’t stretching nearly far enough. The cost of warm lodgings, food, the doctor’s bills...all now had to be covered by her income alone. She often pretended to have eaten supper before going home, in order to save the price of a meal. No wonder that beneath the rouge her cheeks were hollowed and fitting her slim body into a boyish costume was easier than ever.

Another long walk alone followed by a restless night full of worry suddenly seemed more than she could bear. Doing Mabel a good turn might take her mind off her cares.

Calista laid down her hairbrush. ‘All right.’

Her friend, who had slumped miserably on the chaise longue, stopped twirling a long golden ringlet in her hand and sat up eagerly. ‘What?’

‘I’ll come and have supper with the Duke of Albury, but I can’t promise to entertain him.’

‘You’ll come?’ A waft of rose enveloped Calista as Mabel leapt up and hugged her. ‘Oh, I’m so grateful, Cally, and my Herbie will be, too. You won’t regret it!’

Calista sighed as she put the lid back on the unused cold cream. Already she suspected she would.

* * *

Darius Carlyle, the Duke of Albury, stretched out his long legs and waited for the actresses to enter the private dining room of the Coach and Horses Inn. The small wood-panelled room, where the oak was scratched and rubbed worn in some places, was safely upstairs, away from the crowd at the tables and bar, yet noise drifted up through an open, lead-paned window from the street below. The fog had crept in earlier in the evening, but it barely muffled the sounds of raucous voices and laughter that rang out all night in this part of London.

Inwardly he groaned. He could be in his comfortable club right now, or at home in his bed in his Mayfair town house, the thick curtains drawn. Why had he allowed himself to get caught up in his younger cousin’s affairs yet again? It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to rescue Herbert from some kind of scrape. Darius had been rescuing him ever since their childhood, when they had attended the same boarding school, and it seemed he was still forced to do so. Herbert was a fool, but he was a Carlyle. As head of the Carlyle family it was up to Darius to sort things out, as usual. No Carlyle would get into this particular mess ever again.

Actresses. His cousin could always pick them. They were like showy birds, fine feathered, their cheap clothes brightly coloured, with too much paint on their faces.

And they always had claws.

Now one of them had got her talons into Herbert and it didn’t sound as if she was going to let go.

She would be made to let go, if he had anything to do with it.

He picked up his whisky glass and tossed back the remnants. He’d use the supper party as an opportunity to assess how far the situation had gone. It would be better to be cruel than to be kind and nip the affair in the bud. He was fonder of his cousin than he cared to admit, always had been. But it was his duty to ensure the Carlyle name wasn’t dragged once more through the mud of scandal. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it had to be done, and Darius never shirked his duty.

Herbert fancied himself in love, but he hadn’t yet made the mistake of proposing to the girl—not that it would make any difference if he had. Proposing marriage to an actress could always be hushed up as long as there was enough money thrown about to muffle the gossip. Actresses could always be bought off. He knew that much.

Darius drummed his fingers on the table. The only question was how much money it would take. Tonight he would find out how greedy and ambitious the actress who’d hooked Herbert was.

Tonight he would put an end to Herbert’s infatuation.

The Carlyle curse must be broken.

The door of the private dining room opened. In came the actresses, two of them, followed by Herbert.

Darius’s lip curled.

The woman with whom Herbert was currently besotted entered the wood-panelled room first. He’d caught a glimpse of her with his cousin before. She wore a purple feather in her improbably golden hair and a low-cut dress that displayed her ample bosom to full effect.

Beaming with pride, Herbert stepped forward. Beneath his sandy hair he’d never lost the plump round face of his childhood. He looked like an excited schoolboy holding an iced bun. ‘Darius, may I introduce Miss Mabel Coop.’

‘Your Grace,’ she said in an accent that made him wince. She swept low into a curtsy, displaying even more of her deep cleavage.

Herbert’s eyes popped.

‘Charmed.’ For a moment Darius wondered if his cousin had gone mad. Could any man willingly contemplate a lifetime of listening to that voice?

He turned to the other, taller woman who had entered the room.

Darius frowned. The young woman’s face was simply covered in paint. Her cheeks were a bright red and she wore thick powder over what appeared to be a fresh complexion. Why did actresses get themselves up in such a fashion? He loathed such artifice.

However, her garments were less showy than her friend’s. She wore a grey woollen cape and beneath it a dress of dark blue that only revealed the upper part of her décolletage. She was thin, too thin for his taste, although her collarbones, he noted, were particularly delicate.

His eyes returned to her face. To his surprise she met his gaze with deep-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her expression held a hint of humour, as though she was aware of his rapid assessment.

Unexpectedly he experienced a flare of physical attraction. He suppressed it instantly.

‘I’m Miss Fairmont,’ she said after a moment, when it appeared Herbert was unable to wrest his attention from the charms of Miss Coop for long enough to perform introductions. Her voice was low and husky, with no discernible accent.

‘Eh, what?’ Herbert stammered. ‘So sorry, allow me to introduce you properly, Miss Fairmont, to my cousin, the Duke of Albury.’

Darius inclined his head. ‘Delighted.’

In reply she made a sketch of a curtsy.

He frowned again. The young woman appeared to be well schooled in manners. Her curtsy held unexpected dignity. There was no flash of cleavage from her, but a dip with a straight back that would present well even at court. Yet the gesture held a challenge. It was not insolent, but showed a certain self-possession that spoke of independence.

He watched as she removed her cloak and laid it on a chest by the door. Yes, much too thin, he thought, as she moved towards the table in the middle of the room, but her walk was elegant, almost mesmerising. She was nowhere near as obviously pretty as Miss Coop, yet it was she who held his attention.

‘Do sit,’ Herbert urged. ‘Supper will be brought momentarily.’

Like a butler, he pulled out a chair for Miss Coop, who rewarded him with another flash of cleavage.

Darius returned to his place at the head of the table, already set with a white cloth, plates and cutlery. Miss Fairmont sat at his right, Miss Coop at his left. From the left he smelled a floral fragrance, so strong it could spoil the bouquet of a good wine. From the right, to his relief, it was clear that Miss Fairmont seemed not to have doused herself in cheap scent. She sat with her back straight, her hands in her lap.

‘Would you care for some champagne, ladies?’ Herbert asked. He brandished a bottle from a melting bucket of ice.

‘Ooh, yes,’ said Miss Coop.

Miss Fairmont shook her head. Darius also declined. Instead he poured a little more whisky into his glass from the bottle he’d ordered up earlier. He’d need it tonight, even if drinking whisky at dinner wasn’t the done thing. In such company he supposed it barely mattered, although he noticed Miss Fairmont gave his glass a perceptive glance.

‘I’ve ordered lobster,’ Herbert told Miss Coop as he shook out his napkin.

She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, that’s my favourite, Herbie!’

Pet name terms already, Darius thought grimly. Mentally he’d already estimated an amount to offer Miss Coop. He nudged the price up a few hundred pounds.

‘Do you care for lobster, too, Miss Fairmont?’ he asked the young woman seated to his right.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied.

‘We’re always starving when we come off stage, aren’t we, Cally?’ Miss Coop giggled.

‘Well, it is hard work,’ Herbert said admiringly. ‘I say, you were very good tonight.’

‘I spoke two lines,’ Miss Coop said proudly.

‘You were marvellous. And so were you, Miss Fairmont,’ Herbert added hastily.

Miss Fairmont smiled. It was an unaffected smile with no vanity in it, which was unexpected from an actress. ‘Thank you.’

Darius gave her a sideways glance. Again she coolly met his gaze.

‘Did you have a speaking part, too?’ he enquired.

Miss Coop squealed. ‘A speaking part? Calista has the main part!’

Darius raised an eyebrow. ‘You do?’

She nodded.

‘Miss Fairmont is quite famous,’ Herbert explained. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘My apologies,’ said Darius.

‘It’s quite all right.’ The corners of her mouth curved. ‘I wasn’t familiar with your name either.’

He drew back.

‘I take it you’re not a theatregoer.’ She seemed unconcerned that he hadn’t heard of her. She didn’t pout or exclaim at his ignorance. Instead she reached for her glass of water and sipped. Her lips were pink and full.

Darius shook his head. ‘I don’t care for play-acting, Miss Fairmont.’

He became aware of her studying him as she replaced her glass on the table. Her head was lowered, but he sensed the acuteness of her dark-blue stare.

‘Miss Fairmont has played many roles of note,’ Herbert went on. ‘Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia...’

‘And the fair penitent?’ Darius asked.

Her head jerked up. ‘You recognise the source of my name. I thought you said you disliked the theatre.’

‘Not the theatre, Miss Fairmont.’ He glanced towards Miss Coop. ‘Play-acting is what I despise.’

When she spoke, Miss Fairmont’s voice held a sharpness that brought him back to look at her. Her lips had tightened. ‘I understand.’

Now he could sense her fragrance as heat reached her cheeks, making them even redder. The scent of her warm body reached him, too, along with the faintest waft of lavender from her hair.

‘I don’t understand!’ Miss Coop exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you two talking about?’

‘My name, Mabel,’ Miss Fairmont replied swiftly. ‘It comes from a play by Rowe, called The Fair Penitent.’

‘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.

* * *

The square was quiet as he approached the club. The doorman bowed as Darius entered. ‘Your Grace.’

Darius dragged off his gloves and greatcoat. ‘Good afternoon. Is my cousin here?’

‘I believe so, Your Grace. In the drawing room.’

The room was packed. Given the excitement in the air, there appeared to be some sort of high-stakes game happening. Occasionally Darius would join a green gaming table, but whilst he usually won at cards, right now he wasn’t in the mood.

He nodded the curtest of greetings to one of the players seated at the felt-topped table.

Francis, Lord Merrick. Darius curled his fists. He’d never liked him, not even at school. No, that was an understatement. Lord Merrick was the ringleader of the same group of young pups who had given his cousin Herbert so much trouble in his childhood. Frankly, men like Merrick had given both the school and the club a bad name.

Merrick was the worst of the lot. The man lacked any sense of honour, of noblesse oblige. But at least he’d been prevented from making Herbert’s life a misery.

Darius had seen to that.

Now, Merrick leaned over the card table. He wore his sandy-coloured hair too long, an affectation Darius despised, and his pale blue eyes were set too close together as he studied his cards. Nothing was ever pinned on him, but Darius always suspected him of dishonest dealings. There had been a few grumblings of unscrupulous circumstances.

Passing by the players, he spotted Herbert seated at a table by the window overlooking the garden square at the quieter end of the room. Some of the inhabitants were reading, some having tea or a taste of something stronger in the all-male environment, doubtless avoiding the female-dominated ritual at home. Many men used the club as a hiding place.

Herbert stood up. ‘Darius. I’ve been waiting for you.’

Darius raised an eyebrow. Herbert’s tone was surprisingly determined. His cousin was also drinking whisky before six o’clock.

‘Shall we sit?’ he enquired.

‘I’d prefer to stand,’ Herbert replied obstinately. ‘See here, Darius. I’ve got a few things to say to you about Mabel.’

‘You’ve seen her today.’ Darius sighed.

Herbert’s eyes boggled. ‘How did you know that? Never mind. The thing is, I’m going to ask her to marry me and you’re not going to stop me.’

Darius hailed a passing waiter. ‘Whisky.’

He faced his cousin. ‘Let’s sit down. We can’t have a conversation like this at paces.’ More than one pair of eyes watched them from over the tops of newspapers.

‘Now,’ he said, when he had a cut-crystal glass of the amber liquid to match Herbert’s. He hadn’t wanted the drink particularly, but requesting it had given him time to gather his thoughts. It was a useful strategy, making Herbert wait and increasing his tension and uncertainty. His cousin was easily ruffled, easily persuaded—something Mabel Coop had most likely discovered. ‘What’s all this about? I suppose Miss Coop has spent the afternoon crying prettily on your shoulder, playing on your sympathy.’

Herbert grew red. ‘She was most distressed by your callous treatment at supper last night. I spent the afternoon comforting her.’

Darius could just imagine.

‘It made me realise it was time to speak up for myself. But it wasn’t Mabel who made me decide to stand up to you. It was Miss Fairmont.’

Darius choked on his whisky. ‘Miss Fairmont?’

Herbert nodded. ‘I’ve never seen anyone stand up to you like that, Darius. She has inspired me to do the same.’

Darius hid a groan behind his glass. ‘For goodness’ sake, Herbert. The woman is an actress. It was all part of a play.’

Herbert shook his head obstinately. ‘The woman was magnificent. It ought to have been I who stopped you insulting Mabel. I’ve been a coward, letting you run my whole life.’

‘You were grateful enough for my help at school,’ Darius reminded him. Besides Merrick, he’d fought more than one bully on Herbert’s behalf and had a few scars to show for it. Not that he’d ever begrudged his cousin the effort. He’d defend any Carlyle. ‘And I intervened with that barmaid at Oxford...’

Herbert set his chin determinedly. ‘I’m not a schoolboy any more, or such a stupid fellow. Mabel makes me feel like a man.’

‘Can’t you see she’s playing you for a fool?’ The words exploded from Darius’s mouth. In the drawing room, a few heads turned. He lowered his voice. ‘Actresses are all alike. You know our family history. They’ll say anything, do anything, to marry into the aristocracy.’

‘That’s not true,’ Herbert stammered. ‘Why, Miss Fairmont told you last night she’d never marry a duke.’

Darius gave a bark of derision. ‘That was acting at its finest! I promise you, she is a title-hunter like every other actress. I tell you, if I paid court to Miss Calista Fairmont, she’d accept my marriage proposal.’

He remembered she had said she would be his mistress before she’d be his wife. Darius slammed down his glass. A ridiculous assertion. Of course she wanted a coronet. He ought to know.

Herbert shook his head. ‘From what Mabel said today Miss Fairmont wouldn’t let you make her an apology, let alone a proposal. And you owe her one for what you said last night about actresses, you really do.’

Darius stared at his cousin, amazed. ‘What on earth has got into you?’

‘I told you. Miss Fairmont is my inspiration.’

He gritted his teeth. This Miss Fairmont was clearly an actress to be reckoned with. No wonder she had the lead role at the Prince’s Theatre. She’d certainly managed to hoodwink his cousin.

‘Have you proposed to Miss Coop yet?’ he demanded.

Herbert shook his head. ‘Not yet. I was hoping you’d allow me to choose a suitable ring from the family vault.’

The thought of an actress wearing the family diamonds made Darius drain his glass of whisky in one gulp. He’d seen enough Carlyle jewels on grasping fingers to last a lifetime.

He thought fast. He had to stop Herbert making a hasty decision and a disastrous mistake, falling prey to the Carlyle curse. All he needed was some time. This affair would soon fizzle out, he was certain of it.

Then it came to him.

The vision flashed again before his eyes.

Dark hair.

A long neck.

Darius leaned across the table. ‘Listen to me, Herbert. I’m right about these actresses. Let me prove it.’

‘How would you do that?’

He smiled with an unexpected sense of anticipation. ‘I’ll pay court to Miss Calista Fairmont.’

Herbert’s jaw fell open. ‘What?’

‘It will be a sham courtship, of course,’ Darius explained quickly. ‘She’s declared openly that she will never wed a duke, but if I can persuade her to accept a marriage proposal from me, surely you’ll have to agree that actresses only want one thing. A title.’

‘You can’t play fast and loose with Miss Fairmont’s affections that way!’ Herbert exclaimed.

He shrugged. ‘If she’s as good an actress as you claim she is, she’ll see through my play-acting efforts.’

‘Well, that’s impossible,’ said Herbert. ‘You’ll have no chance with her. Why, Merrick has been after her for months and even he hasn’t had any success. And you know what a way he has with the ladies.’

Darius glanced over towards the card table where the rogue seemed to be engaged in some debate over the winnings. He’d clearly had too much to drink.

‘Merrick is after Miss Fairmont?’

Herbert nodded. ‘He’s very keen on actresses, very keen indeed. He’s a regular at the stage door of the Prince’s Theatre. And Miss Fairmont’s the star of the stage, of course.’

Darius drummed his fingers on the table. So, Merrick had been unsuccessful. He had to admit that only added to her charms.

‘Quite the prize,’ he murmured. ‘Well, well.’

‘I tell you, you won’t get anywhere with Miss Fairmont,’ Herbert said stubbornly.

Darius sought his cousin’s gaze and held it. ‘Give me some time. If I fail, and you still to want to marry Miss Coop, I’ll not stand in your way. But if I persuade Miss Fairmont to marry me, you must promise to think again.’

Herbert averted his eyes. ‘Mabel won’t like waiting.’

‘Some time, that’s all I’m asking of you. Surely you owe me that much. I’ve never steered you wrongly before.’

Herbert’s eyes flickered towards the group playing cards. ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done on my behalf in the past.’

‘Waiting won’t make any difference to Miss Coop’s affection for you, surely?’

‘I suppose not,’ Herbert said a little doubtfully.

Darius raised his glass. ‘Miss Fairmont will consent to marry this duke. I’ll prove to you what actresses are.’

Chapter Three

Yet mark me well, young lord; I think Calista

Too nice, too noble, and too great a soul,

To be the prey of such a thing as thou art.

Nicholas Rowe: The Fair Penitent (1703)

‘Another fine performance, Miss Fairmont.’

Calista spun around to see a tall shadow emerge from the dark laneway into the light of the stage door. The Duke of Albury.

Tonight, he appeared even taller than he had in the private dining room of the Coach and Horses. He wore a top hat and a coat made of broadcloth with wide lapels that emphasised the breadth of his chest. A paisley-patterned necktie was folded four-in-hand beneath his jaw. But his arrogant face with his winged eyebrows and the hard line of his mouth were the same.

The stage door swung closed behind her. She stepped into the lane, but stayed in the light.

‘Your Grace.’ She couldn’t ignore the man or pretend they had no acquaintance. Instead she inclined her neck as little as politeness could possibly allow. ‘I’m surprised to see you again. Particularly at the theatre.’

The duke shrugged. ‘Let’s say I’ve become intrigued. I’m ashamed not to have witnessed your talents on the stage before, Miss Fairmont. Your work is something to behold.’ He stepped closer. ‘I’d like to talk to you, if I may.’

Calista bit her lip. It was never her way to be rude, but she owed this man no politeness and she was exhausted after her performance. She’d got caught up in a discussion about props with the theatre manager and by the time she had removed her costume she had been much later than usual leaving the theatre.

Apart from the duke and the stage doorman, who was a few feet away, busy picking up playbills dropped by the audience to re-use the next day, the alley was empty, thank goodness. Some of the terror that had tightened her chest abated. Usually this area was filled with a crowd waiting for cast members to appear, but the rest of the actors had already gone home or on to further merriment for the night.

She had no time to waste with the duke, nor the energy to duel with him again. He’d already demanded enough of her attention. The sting of his words from a couple of nights before had hardly subsided. The sight of him only reignited her indignation. ‘There’s nothing you might say to interest me.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Not even an apology? Why, Miss Fairmont, don’t you owe it to common courtesy to listen?’

‘It was you, not I who forgot common courtesy the other night,’ she retorted.

‘Then I must prevail upon you to allow me to make up for it now.’ He took another step towards her, closing the gap between them. She could see him more clearly now, even in the dim light from the door. Around his mouth were two brackets that suggested the hard line of his mouth could break into laughter. She found that difficult to imagine.

‘I believe I owe you not one but two apologies, in fact,’ he said smoothly. ‘The first is an apology for not having seen you perform on stage before. It was my loss. You played an exceptional Rosalind. You were—remarkable.’

‘Thank you.’ She inclined her bonnet an inch. If he thought she was going to be appeased by flattery for her performance, he was very much mistaken, and she couldn’t help feeling suspicious.

The line of his mouth curved. ‘You’re the first actress I’ve ever met who doesn’t appreciate praise.’

‘I thought you avoided actresses,’ she replied swiftly.

He released a dry chuckle. ‘Touché, Miss Fairmont. It’s true I have limited acquaintance with ladies of your profession.’

She raised an eyebrow of her own. ‘Yet you seem to have such set opinions about them. Perhaps you ought to learn more before you make such outrageous allegations in the future.’

‘That’s precisely why I’m here,’ he said to her surprise. ‘But let me make my second apology. I ought not to have made such comments about your profession and offered money to your friend.’

Heat surged thought her body just recalling the incident. ‘It was an insult. Not just to Mabel, but to all actresses.’

He bowed. ‘Allow me to express my regret.’

Calista stiffened and tugged her cloak more tightly around her. Something about the way the duke spoke was unconvincing. She could always tell. Her ear was attuned to insincerity, for a line spoken without conviction would never ring true on stage. Was he mocking her?

‘Thank you for the apology. But it doesn’t sufficiently excuse your behaviour, especially as a member of the aristocracy. You have only made me more determined to avoid your kind in future.’ She sketched a curtsy. ‘Good evening, Your Grace.’

Her skirts swirled as she made to move past him.

‘Miss Fairmont. Wait.’

Slowly she pivoted.

His coat billowed behind him and in a single stride he was once more beside her.

‘Yes?’

‘It seems I need to be more honest with you.’ He paused. ‘I’m the head of the Carlyle family. I told you that last night. But my cousin Herbert is my personal responsibility.’

‘In what way?’

‘Herbert had some trouble when he was younger.’ He appeared to choose his words with care. ‘I took it upon myself to look out for him.’

She studied him. ‘And you still do.’

He inclined his head.

‘Your cousin is a grown man,’ she said.

‘So I’ve been reminded by him. But old habits die hard.’

Once again she studied his face. This time in his dark eyes she saw honesty and more. ‘You’re fond of him.’

He nodded. ‘He’s a foolish fellow at times. But I must own it. I am fond of him.’

‘I have a younger sister. She means everything to me. If she was in trouble, I know I’d intervene on her behalf,’ Calista admitted.

‘Then you understand family duty,’ he said.

‘Yes. I do.’

Silence filled the misty air between them.

‘Herbert is easily influenced,’ the duke said after a moment. ‘I’d hate to see him duped.’

Calista stepped back. ‘That may be so, but it still doesn’t give you the right to speak to anyone in such a manner. And it doesn’t excuse what you said about actresses.’

‘Perhaps all actresses aren’t the same,’ he conceded.

Was he sincere? Doubt wavered inside her, but she knew it would be ungracious not to accept his apology. After all, he’d come to the theatre to watch her performance, then waited for her in the cold night air.

Calista held out her gloved hand. ‘I accept your apology. I’m not one to hold a grudge.’

He took a step backward. For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to take her proffered hand. Then he reached out his own. His leather-clad fingers enclosed her own. His hand was large, his grip firm.

‘Thank you for being so understanding,’ he said. ‘It’s most gracious of you.’

His fingers trailed across the woollen palm of her glove. Even through the fabric she felt the heat of his touch.

Rapidly she withdrew her hand. ‘I’d defend my sister, Columbine, and Mabel, too, so I understand your impulse to protect Herbert. And you’re wrong about actresses, you know.’

He raised a sardonic brow. ‘Am I wrong about Miss Coop?’

He seemed to discern her inner struggle to find an honest reply. Mabel could be flighty; there was no doubt about that. Calista had witnessed enough of her flirtations, and there had been many, and they often ended in tearful disaster. Whether this affair would last with Sir Herbert was difficult to predict. Yet surely the two of them deserved a chance at happiness, without the interference of the Duke of Albury.

‘Mabel has a good heart,’ she said at last. ‘She believes herself to be in love with your cousin.’

A smile darted at the corner of the duke’s mouth. ‘A most diplomatic answer.’

Calista felt her own mouth turn upward. His gaze followed the curve of her lips.

She felt a flicker, deep inside her, followed by instant wariness.

Calista pulled her cloak over her body. ‘Well, goodbye. Thank you for coming to the play and for your apology.’

‘I hoped you might take supper with me,’ he said suddenly, to her surprise.

No dinners with dukes. She’d broken her rule once in this past week and she wasn’t going to make that mistake again. She ignored an unexpected shaft of disappointment at the thought. ‘Thank you, but I can’t accept your invitation.’

‘I can promise you might actually eat some lobster this time.’

A laugh burst from her lips. The supper two nights before had held some comic elements, she realised now. ‘Lobster is more to Mabel’s taste than mine. But it’s late and I must go home.’

If he was disappointed by her refusal, he made no sign of it. With his hand raised he moved towards the street. ‘Allow me to call you a hansom.’

How she longed for a hansom cab to carry her home safely, but the money could never be spared. Every shilling she spent on herself was money she would be unable to save for Columbine’s care.

Quickly she shook her head. ‘I prefer to walk.’

His eyes narrowed. He lowered his raised hand.

‘Then perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to your lodging,’ he said smoothly.

‘What?’

‘Do you think dukes don’t walk? The streets of London are open to everyone.’

‘But...but my home is a good distance away. The walk does me good after performing,’ she added as an explanation. ‘Fresh air, you see.’

‘There’s fresh air in London? Then I’m sure it will also do me good.’

Was that slight curve of the duke’s lips another half-smile? In the dim gaslight Calista couldn’t be sure.

The burly doorman returned to his post. ‘All right there, Miss Fairmont?’

‘Yes, thank you, Fred.’

The man settled back against the doorframe, his arms folded.

The duke raised an eyebrow.

‘There are sometimes gentlemen who won’t take no for an answer when they ask an actress to dinner,’ Calista told him quietly.

‘Indeed?’ He frowned. ‘I will accept your refusal, but I hope you won’t give me one. You will come to no harm in my company. You’ve already encountered my more undesirable characteristics. I may bark, but I don’t bite. Not often at least.’

Calista bit her lip. Her instinct was to trust the duke. How could that be, after his behaviour the other night? Yet she couldn’t deny it would be good to have company on the way home, especially in the current circumstances.

She couldn’t risk it.

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for the offer. But I prefer to walk alone.’

Ignoring his amazed expression and the renewed band of terror that tightened around her chest, she raised her chin and walked away.

* * *

Darius drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for his whisky to arrive. It had only just passed six o’clock in the evening, which was the polite hour to start drinking, but he’d nearly started earlier in the day, consumed by thoughts of his encounter with Miss Fairmont the previous evening.

At a table by the long window he noticed an acquaintance with whom he often played cards having a quiet drink with his father. The two of them looked relaxed together, comfortable.

For a brief moment Darius wondered what it must be like to have such a companionable relationship with one’s father. He couldn’t recall having a drink with his own papa that hadn’t ended in a quarrel. They’d certainly never chosen to spend time together. Family occasions especially had always been avoided.

No wonder he was so cynical about happy families these days. He’d developed a reluctance—no, an aversion—to ever marrying. He’d seen enough of the so-called happy state to put him off for a lifetime.

When his drink was delivered, Darius gripped the crystal glass harder than usual. He never let his thoughts stray to thoughts of marriage or family life. He possessed too much discipline for that.

He knocked back a gulp of whisky and pulled out his list.

Courting Calista Fairmont.

The words were written in black ink and underlined twice.

He surveyed the list.

He’d planned carefully how to prove that she was just the same as any other title-hunting actress. He had anticipated it would be an easy task. He of all people knew all too well what was required to tempt such women.

To drown any further memories he took another sip of drink.

The previous night he’d gone home and had lain restless in bed for hours. Miss Fairmont’s company had been more stimulating than he’d expected. He couldn’t quite countenance that she’d refused his offer to walk her home.

For a moment, he’d thought she had wanted to accept. There had been a strange flicker in her eyes as she’d looked over his shoulder into the shroud of fog—had it been fear? He could have sworn just for a moment that she was almost terrified, before she’d covered it up with a lift of her chin and a determined step into the dark.

Her dignified acceptance of his apology had surprised him, too. He realised she’d known it to be a sham at first, had sensed it with her woman’s intuition, perhaps, yet when she’d offered him her hand, his own honour had kicked in. He couldn’t shake her hand in mockery. His apology, at the moment their fingers touched, had become real. Even through their gloves the memory of her fine-boned hand in his seemed imprinted in his mind.

Yet he wasn’t going to be fooled by this woman. He’d awoken this morning with a renewed determination to stick to his plan. He wouldn’t allow the Carlyle curse to ruin another generation. But he had to admit the previous evening had been something of a revelation. Above all else, there had been Miss Fairmont’s extraordinary performance on the stage as Rosalind. He’d seen the play before, of course, but never like that. She was Rosalind. She had been utterly believable, completely compelling, as if Shakespeare had created the part especially for her.

And those breeches had revealed a stunning pair of legs.

Of course, it hadn’t merely been Miss Fairmont’s legs that had convinced Darius he must be watching one of the best actresses of her generation. It was her husky, melodious voice that had carried across the audience. Her gliding movements across the stage. The entrances that captured instant attention, the graceful exits. Her timing, both comic and dramatic. Every element had come together into a perfect performance. She was generous, too, allowing the other actors and actresses to shine, appearing to bring out the best in them. He knew enough of the arts to recognise true greatness.

She possessed it.

A waiter appeared, hovering at his table. ‘Another drink, Your Grace?’

Darius shook his head. He tossed back the last of his whisky and folded the list.

Tonight’s performance was about to start.

* * *

Calista stood in the wings and stared.

In the royal box to the left of the stage she spotted an unmistakable figure. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Even in the light of the footlights she swore she could see the gleam of those dark, impenetrable eyes.

The Duke of Albury.

It simply made no sense. She couldn’t fathom it. What was he doing back in the Prince’s Theatre?

‘Calista!’ a stagehand hissed. ‘Calista! You’re going to miss your cue!’

‘What? Oh!’ As she rushed on to the stage she faltered momentarily in her line, but no one else in the cast appeared to notice.

She cast a sideways glance at the box.

It was him. There could be no doubt.

The duke had come to watch the play again.

* * *

‘Hello, Herbert.’

Darius’s cousin jumped nearly a foot high in the air, sending his top hat wobbling. ‘Darius!’

‘I don’t suppose I need to ask what you’re doing here.’

Herbert’s eyes darted away. ‘I, um...’

‘It’s all right,’ Darius said drily. ‘I spotted you inside the theatre. I know you’ve been watching the play. I saw it myself.’

Miss Fairmont had performed even better tonight, if that were possible.

‘So you’re going ahead with your plan to court Miss Fairmont?’ Herbert asked. ‘That’s fast work. Oh, I say, there’s Mabel. Must dash.’

He scuttled away towards the stage door.

Darius frowned as he backed into the shadows in the alleyway. For some reason Herbert’s comment rankled.

Miss Coop appeared from the door encased in yellow fur. The sound of her voice as she greeted his cousin grated on Darius’s ears.

His frown became a scowl. In his worst moments, the sound of a similar whining tone still haunted him. He had taken up the title. It was now up to him alone to ensure the family name suffered no further blackening. The Carlyle curse must be broken. And no matter what else she turned out to be, he must not forget that Miss Calista Fairmont was an actress.

As he watched a group of men in top hats jostle by the stage door his lip curled. Merrick wasn’t among them, although he’d spotted him earlier, in the playhouse. What was the fuss about actresses? The crowd of admirers in the alleyway looked pathetic, waiting like dogs to be thrown scraps by their mistresses.

How he despised that kind of behaviour. Now for his cousin’s sake he was being forced to play along.

A few of the gentlemen were buying flowers from a street vendor. With a flick of his glove he summoned the vendor to his side and passed over a few silver coins. The blooms were scraggy, well past their best, but he bought a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums. No doubt they would appeal to Miss Fairmont’s sensibilities. Surely all women, and especially actresses, liked bouquets.

It was some time before she came out of the theatre.

He stepped out of the fog and lightly touched her shoulder. ‘Miss Fairmont.’

She spun on her heel, her lips pressed together as if she had barely suppressed a shriek.

Darius frowned. There it was again, that look of fear. He could see in the dim gaslight that she was fatigued, too, from her performance. Two faint shadows lay beneath her eyes. Once again she’d put her heart and soul into the part. No matter his reservations about women of her profession, he had to admire her talent. It was extraordinary.

Her shoulders dropped. ‘Oh! It’s you again.’

‘Indeed,’ he drawled. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’

‘I saw you from the stage. I was most surprised.’

‘Were you?’ He made the question suggestive.

She didn’t respond to his tone. ‘I didn’t expect you to watch it again.’

‘It’s you I enjoyed watching, Miss Fairmont.’

She drew back. ‘Oh.’

Darius cursed beneath his breath. He never seduced women in such a manner. Hiding his discomfort, he bowed. ‘I was hoping to have the privilege of offering you a lift home in my carriage tonight.’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I thought I had made it clear last night. I prefer to walk.’

‘I hope I can convince you to change your mind.’

Her expression was frank. ‘Why?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you believe I’ve taken a fancy to nightly exercise?’

She laughed, an attractive low chuckle. ‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

‘Perhaps I’ve taken a fancy to your company.’ He was startled to find that wasn’t quite a lie. Now that she stood in front of him again he realised just how charming a woman she was. Watching the play night after night hadn’t been the trial he’d expected. In fact, it was becoming quite the reverse. ‘I’d enjoy more of your company, if you will do me the honour.’

Her next words surprised him even more.

She stepped closer, and spoke quietly, but with a firmness that was unmistakable. ‘Your Grace. I appreciated your apology last night. But as a rule, I don’t consort with gentlemen from the audience. It gives rise to...’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘Unfortunate impressions. Thank you, but, no.’

This time it was he who took a step back. ‘No?’

‘No,’ she said firmly. Then she curtsied. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the play. I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the theatre.’

Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she made for the street.

‘Miss Fairmont. Wait.’

She swirled back, sending the fabric of her cloak flying.

‘Will you at least take these?’ He pushed the clump of chrysanthemums towards her. Suddenly their yellow seemed brassy and brash.

She inclined her head and took them in one hand. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

Leaving Darius standing in the alley, she disappeared into the fog.

* * *

Calista chuckled as she dipped her pen in the ink, poised over her folio.

The night before, when she’d refused the company of the Duke of Albury, she’d wanted to laugh, his expression had been so comical. She still couldn’t understand why he’d been there a second time.

When he’d touched her shoulder he’d given her a fright. It had been a relief to see it was him and not—

The pen slipped from her fingers. She put her hand to her tight chest. Her senses were still on high alert. Once again, she’d almost been tempted to accept the duke’s offer to walk her home. Her instincts made her yearn to trust the duke, but she knew she had to suppress the feeling. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone.

Calista picked up her pen and tried to breathe.

* * *

Darius studied the tumble of gems that lay in open boxes in front of him.

He couldn’t believe Miss Fairmont had refused to let him accompany her home a second time. At the stage door the night before he’d watched, stunned, as she stepped briskly away. It had been so unexpected that he hadn’t had the wits to make a rejoinder and convince her otherwise. It had been a most unusual, indeed, disconcerting experience.

After her rebuff, he’d gone home to study his list. It was time for the next item.

Glistening on black velvet, the jewels formed a rainbow of colours. White diamond. Green emerald. Red ruby. Blue sapphire.

There it was. The sapphire engagement ring surrounded by seed pearls that his father had possessed the decency not to use again. He clamped it in his fist. He could still recall how the ring had become looser on that thin finger, until one day it had slipped off. He wouldn’t have been able to have borne seeing it on another plump, grasping hand. It would have been the ultimate insult.

He unclenched his palm to study the ring. The sapphire blue was so deep. It reminded him of Miss Fairmont’s eyes. He put the ring away in its box and snapped down the lid.

He slid it into his pocket. It didn’t belong in the vault.

He paused, surveying the remaining jewels. Now, what would tempt an actress? He’d seen enough to know. The brighter, brassier and more vulgar the better surely.

He passed over the strings of pearls, imagining them around Calista’s swan-like neck.

They would suit her, but he needed something more extravagant. Pearls spelt class. To tick this particular item off his list he needed a bauble that signalled money. That was what she’d be unable to resist, he was certain. After all, he’d seen the strategy work with one particular actress every time like a shiny charm.

Then he spied it, the perfect item. A gold bracelet, chunky with red ruby hearts. He winced as he remembered its history. It wasn’t one of the family jewels. He held it up and dangled it from his fingers. The rubies glowed blood red. He weighed it up and down in his hand. It would be heavy against Calista’s delicate wrist. But it would no doubt appeal to her.

Darius dropped the bracelet into a velvet pouch. It would do the trick.

* * *

‘Please accept this token of my admiration.’ Calista read the note from the Duke of Albury in amazement.

Why was the duke sending her a gift? Had he not understood her refusal?

She shook open the velvet pouch. Glimmering gold and red burst out and snaked on to the dressing table.

‘Did His Grace bring this himself?’ she asked the stagehand coldly, then modulated her voice. It wasn’t this man’s fault. He was only the messenger.

The stagehand shook his head. ‘No, Miss Fairmont. It was a valet and he’s gone. But he said the duke will be in attendance tonight.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

He thought she was playing games with him, Calista realised, feeling sick. He had presumed she’d be unable to resist a glittering bribe.

With distaste she picked up the bracelet. The gold chain was thick and five ruby hearts hung from the clasp. She couldn’t imagine the kind of person who would wear such an ornament.

Calista’s fingers clenched around the metal. A token of his admiration.

She felt a wave of nausea, then anger. For all his dislike of Mabel’s affair with his cousin, it seemed the duke was just like all the other aristocrats who hung around the stage door behaving as if actresses were part of the night’s entertainment, whether on or off stage. It was disappointing. She’d almost begun to think better of him.

Calista fumed. Tonight, after the show, she would make it clear to the Duke of Albury that the last things she wanted were his bracelet, his flowers or his attention.

She pulled the string of the velvet pouch tight.

* * *

Darius took out his watch from his waistcoat pocket and cursed.

He’d missed the performance of As You Like It.

The meeting he’d attended earlier had turned into drinks and then dinner at his club. It was House of Lords’ business, and the governing of the country couldn’t be stopped for a play, but he was stunned to realise how annoyed he was to have missed seeing Calista Fairmont on stage again. He’d seen her perform two times now, but still a part of him had been eager to see her play the lead role again, and not just for a glimpse of those excellent legs.

Hurrying along the London streets, he pocketed the watch. She usually left the theatre later than the other cast members, so he might still be able to catch her.

Who knew? She might even be waiting for him, the ruby bracelet dangling from her wrist and a coy expression on her face.

Surely no actress could resist such a bauble.

He turned into the alleyway. In the dim light he saw two figures in the fog.

He could just make out Miss Fairmont’s slender figure, but it wasn’t as upright as usual. She wasn’t cowering, her spine was too straight for that, but she was certainly backing away from the taller, male, top-hatted figure who had backed her against the alley wall.

Darius shouted, ‘What in hellfire is going on here?’

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