Finding Love on Drury Lane

by Charity McColl

  “Three o’clock? Who the devil dines at such an hour?” St. John exclaimed.

  “I believe thespians, my lord. They go to the theatre to prepare for the performance and many of them, as I understand, do not care to be overfull from meals when they are on stage.”

  “I see. So if I wish to see my father, I must bring myself and an appetite back here at three o’clock?”

  “He goes to his club after the carriage lets Lady Bennington off at the theatre,” Billings said. “You would be able to meet him there.”

  “So I shall,” St. John said with a grim resolve that did not bode well for Lord Bennington.

  A walk would allow him more opportunity to invigorate his thoughts, but St. John realized that now was the time when he needed to contemplate what he had learned. So he called upon a hackney cab to take him into the shopping district of London where, according to Billings, he would find his sister and this—this protégé of the actress who was now, according to Carstairs, not only Lady Bennington, but also Elizabeth’s stepmother. And his, St. John realized with a forbidding twist of his lips that exposed his own opinion of having a stepmother who was not much older than he.

  Elizabeth was at the mercy of a calculating actress who, having seduced his father into marriage, was now campaigning to outfit his sister so that she would attract some dissolute man to offer for her. No doubt an actor, or some other member of that ignoble profession, who would welcome marriage to an heiress. Elizabeth, uninitiated into the strategies of the ton, would not realize that she was a pawn in the hands of practiced tacticians who viewed her as a lucrative source of funds for their dissolute ways. His father was a fool! But he had always been a fond father. What could have allowed him to so forget his duty that he would permit his daughter to be left to the devices of an actress and her protégé who, between the two of them, no doubt had the direst of plans for a young innocent girl?

  Billings, although he had not uttered a word of reproof, had made his thoughts plain and he was right, St. John knew. He had been a negligent brother, preferring his time spent at the family estate in the country, where he occupied his days with attending to the lands, the tenants and their concerns, speaking with the steward, the stablemaster, the housekeeper on matters concerning Bennington Hall. He fished in the pond in the spring, he took part in the hunt in the fall, and he lived his life according to the seasons of the land. There was the planting and the harvest to occupy his efforts. He was as attentive to the responsibilities of Bennington Hall as his father was dismissive.

  Which left Elizabeth in London with her father, who spent his evenings occupied with a gentleman’s pursuits; parties and routs and gambling, followed by late-night entertainments of which a young girl ought not to be aware. Doubtless Elizabeth was oblivious to the reasons why her father so often came home late and, once abed, did not rise until noon. Perhaps there were days when Elizabeth and Lord Bennington barely crossed paths inside the London house, St. John realized. And now, here was this actress who had suddenly taken an interest in Elizabeth. An innocent would not perceive the motive for such interest, but a gentleman of the world would know very well what was about. Marguerite Winslow and her protégé might have hoodwinked his father, but they would not do the same with him.

  3

  A Family Encounter

  Being in the bustle of London streets again after the tranquility of the country did not appease St. John’s mood. The streets were dirty in comparison to the fresh air and fertile soil of the country; the men and women strolling past were loud, their laughter raucous, their presence stifling, nothing like the open spaces and verdant green landscape that he preferred.

  But he was not here to amuse himself, he reminded as he approached the shops frequented by ladies of the ton. He was here to rescue his sister from the clutches of a malevolent actress and her protégé.

  He found Elizabeth in a dress shop. He spied his sister through the window and immediately strode inside.

  “St. John!” Elizabeth cried happily, putting down the fabric she had been holding up to her shoulders and racing to his side.

  He hugged her warmly, enveloping her in his embrace. Over his shoulder he met the eyes of a goddess. She was tall and slender, dressed in a simple pelisse and an unremarkable bonnet, but clothing was irrelevant; had anyone noticed what Helen of Troy was wearing? Ringlets escaping from the brim of her bonnet were a lucent shade of yellow that seemed to have been cast from gold and rays of the sun. The lustrous curls framed an arresting face with large, long-lashed brown eyes, a dainty nose, and lips that were the color of rose petals, against a complexion that was neither ivory nor tan, but a warm shade in between, as if her hair had been the deciding factor in what her skin tones would be.

  The vision met his gaze with a clear-eyed expression that showed neither surprise nor alarm.

  “You must introduce me to your companion, Elizabeth,” St. John said.

  “Oh, yes, St. John, this is Nell Dorchester, my friend. Nell, this is my brother, St. John Bennington. But how did you arrive so soon? Papa only sent the letter this week, urging you to come to London sooner than you planned.”

  “It seems,” St. John said, “that I must have known there was reason to come sooner.”

  He looked away from the goddess. Like a siren, she took hold of his thoughts and this was no time to be enchanted.

  “I’m so glad you are here. Papa will be so happy. Now that you are here, you can tell me what you think.”

  “What I think about what?” he asked, startled that she would solicit his views on the marriage while the protégé was with her.

  “This fabric,” Elizabeth said. “I am quite partial to the yellow, but Nell thinks the blue suits me better. What do you think?”

  He was inclined to disagree with the protégé on principle, despite her allure, but he considered the matter. Elizabeth had their father’s blue eyes and brown hair and he had to agree that the blue muslin seemed to enhance her coloring more than the yellow silk.

  “I should not presume,” he evaded, “you must choose for yourself.”

  “Then I shall choose the yellow,” Elizabeth declared.

  Was this the same biddable sister who always sought his counsel and obeyed his wishes without demur and would not decide until he had weighed in with his views?

  “On second thought,” he said, “I like the blue.”

  Elizabeth smiled in triumph. He did not recall ever seeing such an expression on her face. She looked as if she were quite willing to challenge his judgment. What was the protégé teaching her?

  “You can wear it with the Bennington sapphires,” he said, carefully watching to see how the protégé reacted.

  Her countenance did not change, but Elizabeth’s was animated. “I am sure that Marguerite will let me do so,” she said. “You are exactly right, St. John. The sapphires will be perfect with this frock.”

  “Marguerite?” St. John inquired blandly. “Who is she, and why should she care whether or not you wear our mother’s sapphires?”

  Elizabeth faltered. “Oh,” she said. “You don’t know.”

  “Lady Elizabeth,” the protégé said, “would you like me to finish your business here while you and your brother return home?”

  “But what about you, Nell?”

  The protégé smiled and once again, she was a goddess, the full lips curving like an exotic flower. “I shall take a hackney and return soon. I have other business to conduct.”

  “But you will be alone,” Elizabeth protested.

  Although she did not look his way, the protégé’s smile widened as if she were anticipating his thoughts. “I shall be perfectly all right,” she replied. “I can take care of myself.”

  In the hackney with her brother, Elizabeth fretted. “Nell should not be without a chaperone,” she said.

  “Are you her chaperone?”

  “Of course not, silly, but we are together and so it is all right. But on her own is a very different matter. We ou
ght to have brought her with us.”

  “I am sure that Miss Dorchester can, as she said, fend for herself. We have matters to discuss. Father is married?”

  “Yes—but he wants to tell you himself,” Elizabeth said, as forlorn as a child who has unwittingly given away a secret.”

  “Why don’t you tell me first? I promise to act as if I am surprised.”

  “You won’t be angry?” his sister asked urgently, turning to face him so that she could read his expression.

  “I don’t know. You have not told me anything yet. Father is married. To whom? A respectable woman widowed by the war? A worthy matron with grown children who occupies herself with good deeds of charity? I believe that Lady Melsing has been widowed for several years. Has Father taken her to wife?”

  “No . . . oh, St. John, you mustn’t be angry,” Elizabeth begged “He has married Marguerite Winslow. She is very pretty and very amiable and I like her very much.”

  “Marguerite Winslow!” he said, reacting as if he were hearing the news for the first time. “Surely not the actress!”

  “Yes, but she’s not at all what you would expect.”

  “I would not expect our father to marry an actress!” St. John retorted. “I would expect him to show a modicum of decorum, if not for himself, then for you. You are about to come out this Season. Does he want you to be exposed to the malicious tongues of the ton? She will not be invited to the homes of the best families. How will that affect you?”

  “Now that you are here, you shall escort me,” Elizabeth said warmly, not denying his prediction.

  “So I shall,” he agreed, “but first, you must tell me what is going on. I assume that the actress is living with you and Father? Who is this Miss Dorchester?”

  “She is the most splendid person, St. John, truly she is. She has traveled all over the world and she is so interesting to talk to. She is—“

  “A well-traveled itinerary is, to be sure, an admirable trait, but it does not betoken a woman who can be received in the homes where you will be entertained. Who is she?”

  “She is . . . she is an orphan,” Elizabeth said quickly.

  “Who were her parents?”

  “I don’t know. She has never said and I should not be so rude as to inquire.”

  “Father should have inquired for you. She had parents at some time, I should think, had she not? Were they respectable?”

  “I don’t know, St. John, and what does it matter? Nell is my friend!” Elizabeth declared. There was a defiant intonation in her voice that he did not care for. It was, no doubt, one of the results of her association with that enticing but unsuitable protégé of Marguerite Winslow.

  “It matters a great deal. You will make your debut in London society this Season. You are a Bennington. You may entertain the prospect of an advantageous marriage with your heritage. You would not like to see your prospects ruined because Father has, once again, gotten himself into a scrape.”

  “Papa is very happy with Marguerite. She amuses him. She is very entertaining.”

  “I daresay other men have found her so before. But they were not foolish enough to marry her.”

  “St. John! That is a beastly thing to say!” his sister, who heretofore had regarded him as an oracle, upbraided him sternly as if he were still in the schoolroom. “You have not met her; you cannot judge her simply because she is an actress.”

  There was a nugget of truth in his sister’s words. Although he knew very well what kind of women became actresses, and what sort of men kept company with them, he could not, in fairness, assess her without meeting her first. He knew, without meeting her, what he would find, but it was no use explaining this to Elizabeth. It was best to keep his verdict to himself until he had had time to investigate the matter thoroughly. After that, he would decide what to do. Perhaps Father could be bribed to return to the country for the duration of the Season so that Elizabeth could make her debut without the glare of scandal overshadowing her appearance in society. As for the actress, that would take some additional consideration. Now that she was the wife of a titled aristocrat, she would not be easily dismissed.

  The protégé . . . that was another matter entirely. If he were going to spend the entire Season in London, shepherding Elizabeth to engagements, he would benefit from a private arrangement with such a delectable creature. He could rent a small house for her on the outskirts of London where he could visit discreetly. How he conducted himself in private was his own business; he, unlike his father, was able to maintain a private life which was not the talk of the ton. The protégé would, no doubt, appreciate the advantages of a concealed arrangement which provided for her in the accustomed manner. Other women of her class did, and why should she be any different?

  4

  The Happy Bridegroom

  By the time St. John located his father in what had formerly been his least favorite club—Lord Bennington belonged to many and his son had naturally gone to his favorite haunts, one by one, only to be told that His Lordship was not present—he was out of sorts and ill-tempered. Traveling about London in search of his wayward father was not an enterprise likely to nurture a good humor. So when he was admitted to the final club where his father could be, and informed that His Lordship was present, St. John felt only irritation.

  His father was restfully ensconced in a chair that could only be described as comfortable, for it had no esthetic advantages that St. John could perceive. He was reading a newspaper and sipping from a goblet which, St. John was surprised to see, was nearly full. Perhaps he had not been at the club long enough to drain the glass with his usual alacrity.

  “Father,” St. John said, standing in front of his father’s chair.

  Lord Bennington looked up. Immediately, an expression of delight suffused his handsome countenance. “My boy!” he exclaimed, putting down the newspaper and rising to his feet. “How delightful to see you. The mail coaches must be running at extraordinary speed; I only just sent my letter, urging you to come to London earlier, and here you are.”

  “I missed your letter,” St. John said.

  “Oh, well, I’m sure the mail is running well anyway. No matter,” his father said, signaling for the servant. “Brandy? Wine?”

  “Yes,” St. John said.

  Lord Bennington showed confusion. “Which is it to be?”

  “Wine, if you please,” St. John directed the servant.

  “My boy, I am delighted to see you. Absolutely delighted. I cannot wait for you to meet Marguerite.”

  “Marguerite.”

  “Yes.” An expression of what St. John could only regard as boyish shyness came over his father’s face. “I confess it. I have fallen in love. I did not think I could ever meet a woman who charmed me as your mother did—and of course, no one will ever take her place—but Marguerite . . . “ he paused, considering, St. John supposed, the rapturous charms of the actress whose name his father repeated as if it were a sacred incantation. “She is a most astounding woman, Marguerite Winslow.”

  “She is an actress, is she not?” St. John inquired flatly.

  “Yes, she is, and most gifted. Have you seen her perform?”

  “I have not had that pleasure.”

  “That’s because you spend so much time in the country, my boy. You must come to London more often so that you can partake of the city’s marvels. I know! We shall go to the theatre together tonight and you can see for yourself what I mean. She is . . . Sinjin, words cannot do adequate justice to her beauty, her presence, her enchanting ways, her voice . . . “

  “You sound like a boy who has just fallen under the spell of his first love.”

  Instead of being insulted, Lord Bennington chuckled. “I daresay I do. I feel that way at times. She is . . . how can I describe her?”

  “No need,” St. John said curtly. “I am sure that I shall be inspired to come up with my own adjectives when I meet her.”

  His father was impervious to the ironic tone. “Oh, yes, no doubt. Prep
are to be captivated.”

  “I am not sure that I wish to be captivated by the woman who is now my stepmother,” St. John replied.

  His father brushed that thought away. “Of course there is no consideration that she will be anything of the sort to you,” he said. “You are much too close in age. She has not told me her age, naturally; women never disclose that sort of information. But you are eight-and-twenty and I cannot think her more than five years your senior.”

  “How very charming,” St. John observed.

  “Yes, she is. I confess that when I first met her, I did not have marriage in my thoughts. We are men of the world, my boy, and you will not be shocked to learn that I did not regard myself, since the loss of your dear mamma, as a man who would wish to acquire a wife. But Marguerite is a virtuous woman and she was not flattered by my suggestion that she and I might enjoy one another’s intimate company without, as they say, benefit of clergy.”

  “What a surprise.”

  Once again, Lord Bennington failed to detect the sarcasm in his son’s voice.

  “Yes, I agree. One hears that actresses . . . and I own that my prior experience led be me to be sure that she would accommodate my offer. She did not. In fact,” Lord Bennington beamed at the memory, “she slapped my face.”

  “How very astute of her.”

  “Astute? Oh, you mean because she felt that, as a gentleman, I should treat her as a lady.”

  “That was not precisely what I meant,” his son corrected him, “but pray, go on. I am enraptured by the tale of your romance.”

  “It is a tale worth telling,” Lord Bennington agreed. “As you know, I have lived what some would call the life of a reprobate since the death of your mother. I make no apologies for it; I was a widower and I confess it, I am not a man to be solitary. I have always been fond of the theatre, as you know.”

  His father was fond of actresses, that much St. John could confirm. He merely gave a noncommittal nod.