Finding Love on Drury Lane

by Charity McColl

  Lord Bennington was more than ready to continue the saga. Marguerite, it seemed, was a paragon of beauty, a testament to virtue, a monument to her art. When she was on stage, it was as if there was no one else; she took command of every role she played. Of course, he was enthralled by her performances and in a matter of time, he managed to go backstage to meet her. As an actress, she was not confined by the stodgy rules of the times; she maintained her virtue entirely on her own merit, Lord Bennington explained, without confining herself to silly edicts imposed by society. They had discovered that they had much in common and--

  “I realized that I was in love. I did not expect to be. I am not an old man, you know, but I am not young any more. Still, she makes me feel as if I am young again, but with the seasoning of a mature man who knows what he wants.”

  His father looked at St. John as if he expected a response. St. John said nothing. That he was thinking that his father was the very epitome of an old fool who had obviously fallen for a calculating strumpet was something better left unsaid. At least for the time being.

  “We shall go together to the theatre tonight,” Lord Bennington suggested enthusiastically. “You shall see her perform first, and you shall understand what I am telling you. Then we shall return home and you shall meet her in person.”

  “I cannot go to the theatre tonight, I have a prior engagement which I cannot break,” St. John lied. “Another time.”

  “Tomorrow night, then!”

  “Alas, I am spoken for. But we can make plans to meet with your Helen of Troy, certainly. Do you ever dine at home?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly, although I confess we are not at home as often as we would like. Marguerite has a great many friends, you see, and we are often invited out.”

  “Elizabeth must get quite lonely,” St. John said.

  “Oh, no, not at all. Marguerite’s protégé, Eleanor Dorchester, is there. She is devoted to Marguerite, and Marguerite to her. They are quite like sisters. She and Elizabeth have become very good friends.”

  “Eleanor Dorchester? I don’t believe I know any Dorchesters.”

  “No, you would not know her. Nell—she is called Nell—is a young actress, quite skilled at her craft. Marguerite predicts that she will be quite the rage. Just now she is playing small roles, ingenues, that sort of thing. She’s quite pretty. She has been very good for your sister. Gets her out of that shell of hers. You know how shy Elizabeth is. She’s becoming more poised. It’s a very good arrangement, having her there.”

  “Is now the best time to have an actress living there, with Elizabeth due to make her debut this Season?”

  Lord Bennington appeared taken aback, as if the thought had not occurred to him. “Why, surely that is of no consequence,” he said. “Elizabeth is a girl of absolute and unquestionable virtue. I wonder that you can suggest such a thing. Really, Sinjin, I wonder at the cast of your mind sometimes.”

  “My mind? It is no more than what the minds of everyone in the ton will be thinking when they see Lady Elizabeth Bennington in the society of an actress!”

  “Oh, bosh. You are becoming quite stuffy, my boy. They’ll think nothing of the sort. Nell is most presentable. When you meet her, you will see what I mean.”

  “I have met her,” St. John disclosed. “I came upon them at the dressmaker’s shop.”

  “Then you know the truth of what I say. She is as regal as a member of the royal family—more so, if one tells the truth, as no one can say that the Hanovers are particularly regal in their bearing.” Lord Bennington leaned in so that his words could not be overheard. “In fact, the Prince Regent has shown an interest in Nell. I have seen him at the theatre, and after the performance, he has gone to see her.”

  “The Prince Regent! Is she his mistress?”

  “No! I told you, Nell’s virtue is unquestioned. But I suspicion his motives. Why else would he be so attentive if not because he has noticed her remarkable beauty? I have said as much to Marguerite, but she assures me that Nell is in no danger. Marguerite is a most vigilant abigail. Really, Sinjin, again, I marvel at your thoughts. You are displaying a rather foul perspective. I hope that you will not be so coarse when you visit; Marguerite and Nell are not at all accustomed to such vulgar manners, you know.”

  5

  Aunt Augusta Weighs In

  Lord St. John went to his London house in an ill temper. The idea of his father lecturing him on his manners! His father, Lord Bennington, the rogue who was known throughout London as a man who had no more interest in a woman’s virtue than he had in a vicar’s sermon, a man who relished a wager on the most absurd provocation, a man who embraced folly as if it were a favorite mistress, to chide him for vulgar manners!

  “Sir?” Linden, answering the door, raised his eyebrows questioningly when St. John entered the house, slammed the door behind him, and thrust his hat into Linden’s hands.

  Because St. John did not entertain in London, taking full advantage of the fact that, as a bachelor of means, he could rely on ample invitations out when he wished the company of others, he kept a simple household at his London residence. Linden served a multitude of purposes; he was content to be butler, valet, and general factotum. He preferred the variety of his duties and St. John preferred to be unencumbered. A maid and a cook made up the rest of the staffing for the London house, neither overworked, as St. John made few demands upon them. The arrangement suited all of them and the staff regarded St. John with affection; not having a Lady St. John in residence was an advantage, they agreed.

  “I suppose you have heard the news?”

  “What news?” Without being asked, Linden followed his master into the study and poured whiskey from the decanter.

  “My father has married an actress.”

  “Ah. I believe Lord Bennington is the envy of his friends, married and otherwise, for his choice of a wife.”

  Linden was immune to St. John’s glare.

  “Is he? You might have written me to tell me of this news.”

  “Your message last week said that you would be arriving today. I only learned of the marriage two days ago. I did not think it would serve any purpose to write when you would find out yourself in person.”

  “He’s a fool.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Not yet. He wanted me to join him at the theatre tonight to see her perform. What do you know of Nell Dorchester?”

  “The actress?”

  “Of course, the actress! Is there another Nell Dorchester?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Linden said, unperturbed by his master’s irritability. “She is the most beautiful female on the stage.”

  “You have seen her?”

  “I have had that fortune. Why do you ask? I thought Lord Bennington was married to Marguerite Winslow, not Nell Dorchester.”

  “That is who he is married to, of course!” St. John snapped. “It’s bad enough that he’s married to a woman so much younger; do not, I pray you, make it worse by thinking him married to someone even younger!”

  Linden surveyed St. John with an assessing gaze. “Has your lordship dined?”

  “What the devil—no, I have not.”

  “I thought not. I’ll speak to Mrs. Hemings and she will send up something for you. Perhaps you will feel less bilious when you have eaten.”

  “I am not bilious!”

  “Lady Reynolds called earlier; I told her that you were expected today. She asks you to call upon her.”

  “Aunt Augusta? She must be as dismayed by the news as I am.”

  Aunt Augusta was his mother’s older sister. She had been devoted to her younger sister and distraught at her death. As St. John struggled with his grief and loss, it had been Aunt Augusta, not his father, who provided the comfort that sustained him through those dark months. And it had been Aunt Augusta who had moved into the manor to tend to him and the infant Elizabeth, bringing her brood with her so that St. John could have his five cousins to distract him. His father had gone to Londo
n; he had said that it was too hard to stay in the house where his wife’s presence would constantly remind him of his loss.

  Perhaps he meant it. But it had been then that St. John, only eleven years old, had begun to view his father with critical eyes. Aunt Augusta had felt the same, he knew. He had not been so young that he did not understand her reaction to the gossip that traveled from London. Lord Bennington was assuaging his grief in the company of a notorious member of the ton, or he had lost extravagantly at cards.

  No doubt she was inflamed at the news of his father’s mésalliance and wanted to let him know how she felt about it. Aunt Augusta was not one to mince words.

  As he ate the lamb stew which Mrs. Hemings had brought to him, St. John felt his spirits rise at the thought of what Aunt Augusta would say to his father when she saw him.

  “Linden!” he called. “I’m going to see my aunt.”

  “Will you dine at home, my lord?”

  “No, at my club.” He might as well face the amused speculation of London and his club was as likely as any other place to bring him in contact with his acquaintances who would be only too eager to share with him their thoughts on his newly acquired stepmother. On second thought, “Yes, I believe I will dine at home. Tell Mrs. Hemings not to go to any great trouble over what to prepare.” He could not hold off his introduction to the new Lady Bennington for long. Perhaps it would be best if he stopped by without advance notice. Catch them all off guard, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the protégé as well. She was flying high if she planned to entice the Prince Regent. Father made it sound as if she was as pure as a vestal virgin, but if Prinny were hovering, he was likely planning to be successful in his endeavors.

  The thought made him cross. To think of that beauty with the creaking corsets of Prince George was an assault against one’s sensibilities. Did she think that becoming the mistress of the Prince Regent would lead to better things? Then she was a fool. He would cast her off eventually, and then what? She would become another man’s bit of muslin. And another. That beauty would be marred by the crass commerce of intimacy as it was practiced without---

  St. John stopped his thoughts. She could be an actress, a prince’s mistress, or she could go to the devil. What was it to him?

  His aunt greeted him affectionately. Seeing her was always a delight, and a pain as well; she reminded him of his mother, who remained beautiful and young in his memory. Aunt Augusta retained her fine-boned features and her hair, although it had faded from brilliant bronze to a paler hue in which white was generously present, remained as abundant as ever.

  “Sinjin, it’s wonderful to see you again. You spend so much time in the country that you become quite a stranger to us. I suppose that if Elizabeth were not making her debut you would not have come to London for another month.”

  “Or two,” he grinned. “Are you taking charge of the arrangements for her debut?”

  “I am helping Marguerite with them.”

  “Mar—the actress?”

  “Lady Bennington,” his aunt corrected him.

  His aunt instructed the maid to bring refreshments. St. John protested; he had just eaten and was not hungry, but Aunt Augusta paid no mind.

  Once inside the drawing room, with the doors closed and privacy theirs to command, Aunt August arched her slender eyebrows. “Now, then, tell me what you are about. You disapprove of your father’s choice of wife.”

  “I should have thought you would as well. How could he, after marriage to my mother, choose an actress?”

  “Very easily, I should think. She is lovely and witty and she amuses him. He drinks less and gambles less.”

  “He sounds very respectable, to hear you tell it. Perhaps all men of his age should wed wives two decades younger and they would turn into reformed characters.”

  Aunt Augusta considered this as she sat on her chair, her knitting in the basket at her feet, her cream-and-black striped skirts arrayed around her. “Perhaps they would,” she said thoughtfully. “I sometimes wonder how Bertram would have fared, had I died before him.”

  “I do not think he would have fallen under the spell of an actress,” St. John retorted, thinking of the quiet, scholarly uncle who had taught him to read The Iliad in Latin. He had spent hours with his uncle in the library after his mother’s death, filling his dark hours with the stories of heroes who were stymied by the Fates and surrendered to destiny. It had, in its way, helped his sadness.

  “Do you think your father is under a spell? Have you seen them together?”

  St. John knew that his aunt’s question was deliberate. She would have known that he had not had time to do so. “Not yet,” he replied grudgingly. “I have been spared that delight.”

  “She is not what you are expecting. Oh, yes, she is lovely and she belongs to a profession which is viewed with suspicion by those who are more than happy to attend a performance but just as eager to look down upon those who provide it. I certainly hope that you would not be so hypocritical.”

  “I am not so avid a theatre-goer as my father,” St. John answered stiffly.

  “Marguerite makes no pretense of being anything other than what she is. She is known for her exquisite sense of fashion; she will do well by Elizabeth and will choose wisely for her wardrobe.”

  “What of her protégé?” he asked, intentionally drawing the young woman into the conversation.

  “Nell? Yes, she has a sense of style that is her own, but it is Marguerite who will know how to outfit your sister so that she achieves success.”

  “And the Prince Regent? Does he not object that this young woman is less than fashionable?”

  “I did not say she was unfashionable, I said she has her own sense of style. And what has the Prince to do with any of this?” Aunt Augusta demanded.

  The maid brought in a tray and, despite the fact that he had eaten, St. John was persuaded to take a slice of seed cake, always a favorite of his, and to accept a cup of tea, which Aunt August poured, dismissing the maid.

  “Father mentioned that the Prince Regent attends her performances.”

  “Does he? She’s far too level-headed to succumb to his silly blandishments,” Aunt Augusta said.

  Foolishly, he felt something stir in him, something pleased and hopeful, as if the fact that the goddess could see through the Prince Regent would make her more amenable to St. John.

  “Do you think so,” St. John asked, keeping his tone casual, as if he did not particularly care and was only making light conversation. “Not many actresses would find themselves immune to the blandishments, as you put it, of a royal lover.”

  “When you meet Nell, you will see the truth of what I say.”

  “I have met her,” he answered.

  That was all he said, but Aunt Augusta studied him with her warm brown eyes. “I see,” she said.

  And he had the feeling that she did indeed, see.

  6

  An Encounter Along Rotten Row

  St. John spent a restless night, finding sleep elusive. His aunt’s acceptance of his father’s entirely unsuitable marriage was jarring. His own feelings for a young woman who was also being pursued by the Prince Regent were unsettling. His sister’s forthcoming debut, and the peril it now faced as a result of Lord Bennington’s marriage to an actress, was worrying; Elizabeth was a gentle girl, far too fragile to handle the crass, calculating gossips of the beau monde.

  He did not wish to admit it, but he had neglected his sister, preferring life in the country to London. That left Elizabeth dependent upon his father for company. No wonder she had succumbed so easily to the attention of an actress. And her protégé, the self-possessed, exquisite Nell Dorchester. The attention that she should have been confident of receiving from her family had been denied her through their father’s self-absorption and her brother’s own---own what? Preference to live his life without accepting the emotional responsibilities that went with family? Was he so selfish? Or had he adopted the armor of distance after the death of his mot
her because it was easier not to open one’s self to affection, which could so easily lead to sadness?

  It was just after dawn when he arose from bed, far too early for a London gentleman, but the perfect hour for a man who rose with the sun when on his country estate because there was work to be done. He didn’t bother to awaken Linden; he could dress himself without assistance.

  He saddled his horse and headed for Rotten Row. At this hour of the day, a ride would be just the thing and there would be few others out to bother him. It was not a fashionable hour.

  London, early in the morning, acquired a charm that it did not have during the busy daytime when the streets and sidewalks teemed with carriages and pedestrians, as the noise and smells of the capital conspired to engulf one’s nostrils and ears by overpowering the senses. In the morning, with the sun just rising, the city was, if not precisely quiet, at least respectful of the dawn.

  He was accustomed to being in the saddle early when at home, starting every morning with a ride over the grounds. It was not the same in London, but as his horse trotted along, he was able to enjoy the scenery around him. London, too, had its allure, he realized. It was simply more alluring when there were fewer people about.

  His lip curled. He had spoken too soon. Another rider was coming his way, on the opposite side of the path. No matter, a simple tipping of the hat would suffice for a greeting.

  As the horse, a high-spirited black who displayed an admirable gait, approached closer, St. John’s eyes widened. Astride—astride!—the horse was the protégé. She was wearing what looked to be—but surely could not be—men’s trousers, a man’s shirt, a waistcoat and coat, and boots. And a hat, which she tipped toward him with a grin which seemed to carry a faintly impish air.

  “Lord St. John,” she said, pulling on the reins with a firm grip. “You are, I see, also an acolyte of the dawn.”

  She was just as lovely in male garb as she had been yesterday in her frock. Her golden hair gleamed beneath her sober black hat. Her brown eyes held a hint of mischief hiding in their depths.