by Tuft, Karen
Perhaps she should have kept Hannah here with her after all, but Lavinia had been certain she could manage her entourage for one final evening, and it was important that Hannah and the others leave Town ahead of her. Lavinia was their decoy while they left, and the disguise she’d chosen for later would work better if she was on her own while she slipped out of Town.
What Lavinia hadn’t counted on was Lord Cosgrove being here tonight. Again. He’d mentioned he had other plans for this evening.
Oh, but she was tired of it all.
Stupid, stupid, arrogant man. Stupid, stupid men who wanted the illusion of Ruby Chadwick but knew nothing of the real woman. It was Lavinia’s own fault. She had created Ruby Chadwick in the first place, who was no more real than any of the other characters Lavinia played onstage, not that any of her admirers cared to recognize that fact.
But Ruby had been essential to their survival, providing Lavinia—and by extension, Hannah and Delia and Artie—the financial means to begin a new life. Ruby’s larger-than-life theatrical presence and flirtatious ways had been the reason for their success. Lavinia could not hate Ruby; she owed her too much, and yet it was Ruby who now held her captive.
Lavinia had only to get through this next scene.
Ruby Chadwick’s final scene.
She could do it. If it meant having a quiet life in the country, free to plant flowers and raise a few chickens and sew and read—in other words, live like a normal person did for the first time in her life—she could do it. She would do it.
Lavinia took a deep breath, straightened her spine, pasted a sultry smile on her face, and opened the door. “Gentlemen,” she cooed as she floated out into their midst.
* * *
When Lucas reached the outskirts of London, he took a room at the White Horse Inn, deposited his belongings therein, and then settled at a corner table in the public room to eat a late supper. While he waited for the serving girl to bring him his food, he retrieved the two letters he’d received during the past week from his coat pocket.
The first letter, from his mother, was a lengthy epistle written in her usual loose, flowery script that filled two sheets back and front. She’d also added postscripts in the side margins, so there was hardly any blank space to be found anywhere.
“Lucas,” it said in part, “it has been too long since we saw you. If it weren’t for the small portrait of you we commissioned before you left for the Peninsula, we should never know how you look. I know you will say we saw you briefly when you were on leave three years ago and that more recently you owed it to your commanding officer to see him returned to health. It is what you have written and explained to me before. But surely you have fulfilled that obligation, and your earlier brief stay can hardly imprint your changed appearance into our memory as fully as we would wish.”
The portrait to which she referred was a ghastly thing his father had coughed up the money to commission due to his wife’s constant pestering, only relenting when she had exclaimed that it would be their only remembrance of their dear Lucas were he to die on the battlefields of Spain.
On that happy thought his father had capitulated, hiring a fellow from a neighboring village who claimed to be a portrait painter. After seeing the finished product, it was obvious the man had exaggerated his abilities; although, considering what his father had paid the man, they’d probably gotten their money’s worth. The person in the painting had the same hair and eye color as Lucas, but beyond that, the similarities were difficult to discern.
Still, the argument his mother had put forth in her letter was a valid one. Lucas had changed a great deal since he’d enlisted in the army at age nineteen. He was a man now, not a youth, and his countenance undoubtedly reflected the past seven years of his experience, especially as it related to the harsher aspects of war.
“You will not believe it,” her letter continued, “but James has written to say he will take time away from his duties as a barrister to visit once you arrive. Martha and Albert, sadly, cannot, as Martha is in the family way again and too close to her confinement for travel. Isaac, as you already know, is vicar at St. Alfred’s nearby, and Thomas and Isobel and their brood live here at Alderwood, of course, along with your other siblings, excepting Simon.”
Simon, three years younger than Lucas, was living in London, his mother’s previous letters had informed him. Lucas felt a pang of guilt over that. He hadn’t been inclined to get in touch with Simon when he’d arrived back in London from Spain. His mother would have presumed he had since he and Simon were close in age; Lucas hadn’t had the heart to tell her he had not yet seen his brother.
And there it was—the entire Jennings family. They would almost all be at Alderwood, the family home, and Lucas must face them with a smile and a hearty greeting.
He refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket.
The second letter was from his sister-in-law, Isobel. In contrast to his mother’s, this letter was brief and to the point. “My dear brother Lucas,” it began. Brother, she’d written, when Lucas had expected it to be so much more than that.
“We are all looking forward to welcoming our hero home,” the letter said. “For that is what you are. Our hero. It has been too long, Lucas. Your parents and your brothers and sisters yearn to see you, as do your nieces and nephews, some of whom you have not even met. I yearn to see you too, my dearest brother and friend. Let us put history firmly behind us. Alderwood is your home. It is time to return to that home, Lucas. With affection, your sister, Isobel.”
He had told himself for seven long years that Isobel was now his sister-in-law and that he needed to think of her as such. He had even managed that visit home three years back when he was on leave and had been able to behave civilly toward her and his brother Thomas when he hadn’t been able to avoid them completely.
This time was different, however, he reflected as he sipped his ale. He was no longer in the army. He had no profession to return to, no home, no solid plans for his future beyond enduring his reunion with his family. To face Isobel again after she’d so easily transferred her affections to his eldest brother—who would become Viscount Thurlby and possess Alderwood one day—would be like a knife blow to his manhood. It had been a knife blow to his heart, a betrayal, seven years before.
Perhaps he’d spend a second night at the White Horse.
He wadded up the letter and tossed it onto the table, then gestured to the serving girl to refill his glass.
* * *
Lavinia batted her eyelashes as she tapped naughty gentlemen on the arm with her fan and sweetly declined expensive gifts—small tokens were one thing, but expensive baubles implied she owed the gentleman more than mere flirtation—and sighed over bouquets of flowers until she thought she would scream.
Lord Cosgrove, of course, then insisted upon escorting her home. On the one hand, his offer discouraged the other men and sent them on their way more speedily. On the other hand, it meant she would be alone with him in his carriage since she’d sent Hannah home earlier so she and Delia and Artie could be on their way.
Lavinia tried to keep distance between herself and the earl on the carriage seat, though it was nearly impossible since there wasn’t much room to begin with and he’d deliberately planted himself in such a way as to take up as much space as possible.
“You look breathtaking tonight, my dear,” the earl said. “A glowing, lustrous ruby of a woman, full of fire within. Your performance onstage tonight was particularly riveting and—dare I say it—passionate.”
“Thank you,” Lavinia purred, praying he wouldn’t notice how tightly she was pressed against the side of his carriage.
“My pleasure, Miss Chadwick. It would be even more to my pleasure if you would allow me to kiss you and not merely compliment you.”
She smiled demurely and extended her hand—with the betrothal ring in full view.
“That is not what I meant,” he said, chuckling. “And you know it, you little vixen. I would have you, M
iss Chadwick; I am determined in this. And I have been more patient in pursuing you than any other woman.”
“And yet, I am not yours to have, my lord,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced surreptitiously out the window behind his back to see how close they were to her little rented house—the house that would be empty and without her friends there to assist her if the earl got out of hand. “I cannot believe you would ask me to betray my betrothed when he is so valiantly fighting against Bonaparte.”
“And I cannot believe that a man who would betroth himself to an actress would be at all surprised to return home and discover his betrothed had added to their income by becoming a rich man’s mistress. He might even be pleased.”
“Such flattering words, my lord,” she said, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. She would not have him see the fear she felt in that moment for anything. “Perhaps you should stretch your imagination to believe that I am a maiden who wishes to remain so until I am married.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake. She’d only meant to imply that she intended to be faithful to her betrothed—make-believe though he may be—as a means of putting Lord Cosgrove off, but the earl, of course, presumed she was now dangling for a marriage proposal.
He already had her trapped in the corner of the carriage, and now he leaned over her, bracing his hands on the walls of the carriage on either side of her, his face next to hers, his lips against her ear. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shuddering in disgust.
“Forget marriage, my sweet. It’ll never happen,” he whispered, tracing kisses behind her ear and down her throat. Lavinia squeezed her eyes shut, frantically thinking how she could repel his advances without incurring his temper. It was a precarious situation; he was much larger and stronger than she and not known for being particularly reasonable when not getting his way. “Be practical, instead,” he continued. “Think of the pleasure we can find together. I will be generous, you know.”
Lavinia shamefully admitted to herself that she might have been tempted by such an offer a mere three years earlier. Her father had just died, the original members of the traveling theater company to which she and her father had belonged had gotten old, and the younger actors had splintered off and gone searching for greener pastures.
If she hadn’t come up with the idea of Ruby Chadwick and if Ruby hadn’t become such a success, Lavinia might have felt she’d had no choice but to accept such an offer as the one Lord Cosgrove was making.
She did have a choice, however. Lavinia placed her hand on his chest and pushed firmly. “While I am sure you are generous with your paramours, my lord, the answer is still no.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Or, rather, I believe I can change your mind.”
The carriage stopped not a moment too soon. Thankfully, Lord Cosgrove had not as yet descended into the wholly undignified behavior she might have experienced at the hands of a rougher man. She’d dealt with such types during her time with the company and didn’t relish contending with the earl in such a manner tonight.
Oh, but she was exhausted.
He sighed impatiently and drew away, then exited the carriage and extended his hand to her, assisting her with aristocratic dignity. He did not relinquish her hand, however, as he led her to her front door. The house was completely dark, and Lavinia prayed he wouldn’t notice and that nothing else might appear suspicious to him.
She tugged her hand from his and turned toward him very deliberately. “Good evening, Lord Cosgrove,” she said in a carrying voice while dropping into a formal curtsy, hoping her actions would put more emotional distance between them.
“I catch your drift; don’t worry, my dear. I will not have it said that I forced a lady,” he replied with an edge to his voice. He moved closer, and Lavinia tensed. “But I believe I have at least earned the kiss I requested.” He took her chin firmly in hand and lowered his mouth to hers, using his vast expertise in an attempt to lower her resistance.
Lavinia endured the earl’s kiss, despite the repugnance she felt. It was safer to do so than to resist, especially since he’d indicated he would leave afterward.
He eventually drew away from her and dropped his hand. “Well,” he said. “Well, well, but you are a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Do not presume to think matters have been resolved between us, my dear Miss Chadwick. On the contrary, I believe the game is just beginning. I am a determined man—and I always get what I want. Do not doubt me on this score.” He bowed to her. “Adieu, then. For now.”
She watched him return to his carriage and climb inside before she turned and unlocked the door to her house. Once she’d closed the door behind her, she relocked it and rushed to the parlor so she could continue watching until his carriage retreated from sight.
With Lord Cosgrove finally gone, she made her way in the darkness to the back of the house, where Hannah had left a change of clothing for her. It was time for Ruby Chadwick to disappear for good.
But first she needed to catch her breath.
Lavinia’s entire life had revolved around the theater. She’d been born into it, the daughter of an actor, who’d also been a drunken womanizer, and a mother who hadn’t cared enough about her own daughter to take her with her when she’d left. All Lavinia had ever wanted was a normal life and a normal home, away from the clamoring crowds and predatory men she encountered every evening. And now she had the means to do it, if everything continued to go according to plan.
She hurriedly changed out of her red velvet gown, carefully folding the beautiful garment before putting it in her bag. The dress would never be the same after traveling in such a manner, she thought sadly. Hannah was gifted with the needle, and the gown was a masterpiece.
She tucked her earbobs and necklace into the bag as well, nestled into the folds of the gown. The jewelry was expertly made, but they were paste costume pieces created for the theater, as was the matching ring on her finger. They’d been created for her to wear while playing Anne Boleyn in Henry the Eighth—well, more like a shortened, somewhat musical version of Henry that the troupe had performed in Dorset a few years back. When the troupe had disbanded, they’d divvied up the props and costumes, and she’d kept these, along with a few other items. They weren’t real, much like her life on stage and her identity as Ruby Chadwick weren’t real. They had come in handy tonight though.
She quickly donned the drab gray dress and cloak Hannah had left and twisted her unmistakable red hair up and tucked it inside the oversized lace cap she would wear under her bonnet. Then she peered into the mirror and dabbed on theater paint to aid in her disguise, but there was no disguising her facial features from anyone who knew them well. She would have to hope she didn’t run into any such person.
She left the house through the kitchen entrance in the back, quietly making her way through the garden gate and keeping in the shadows until she was several houses away from her own. As careful as she’d been, she had to be sure Lord Cosgrove hadn’t sent one of his lackeys to spy on her. She wouldn’t put it past him; the man was too possessive. Too obsessive.
Finding a hackney ended up being more difficult than she had expected, but she finally managed to get one and, after a long, tense drive, she was finally in the courtyard of the White Horse on the northern outskirts of the city, near the borough of Barnet, her bag by her side as she dug money from her reticule to pay the hackney driver his fare. All she needed to do now was find Hannah and Delia and Artie.
It wasn’t quite midnight, which was good, although she really hadn’t expected to be cutting it so close on time, drat the Earl of Cosgrove. He’d nearly ruined everything.
Despite the lateness of the hour, there was a surprising amount of activity at the White Horse. A group of passengers was exiting a stagecoach and hurrying inside the inn for the night while grooms busied themselves tending to the horses.
She handed the money to the hackney driver, picked up her bag, and crossed the cou
rtyard toward the entrance of the inn. Once inside, she stayed near the door to survey things and search for her friends. At least one of them, if not all three, was supposed to meet her in the public area of the inn.
The large public room was still busy despite the lateness of the hour, the majority of its tables occupied. A group of local men sat at the bar, drinking. Serving girls wandered from table to table, refilling glasses and clearing away empty plates. The air was warm and heavy, and the smell of roasted mutton and potatoes filled Lavinia’s nostrils as the low hum of conversation swirled around her. Her stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten since luncheon, being too nervous to eat before this particular evening’s performances—both onstage and off—but she needed to find Hannah and the others first before addressing her hunger.
She looked around the room but couldn’t see them, which was troubling. Delia and Artie were dears, but they tended to leave the details up to Hannah, and Hannah had been worried enough about the details tonight to get them confused.
Hannah wouldn’t have gone to someplace called the White Hart instead of the White Horse after all, would she?
Would she?
Lavinia frantically cast her eyes around the public room again, praying she’d simply overlooked her friends the first time. This go-around, she noticed a man sitting alone at a table in the corner. He didn’t appear to be much older than herself, a few years at most, and yet there was a look about him that told her he was older than his years. He was intently studying a crumpled piece of paper that sat on the table next to his empty supper plate.
Even though he was seated, it was obvious he was taller than the average man. One long leg extended out from beneath the table, and the hand reaching for his glass of ale was large and competent looking. The fact that he was a lone traveler had also made him stand out from the crowd.
Her gaze moved on, although it became readily apparent that Hannah and the others weren’t here. And then she spied a group of gentlemen who were familiar to her, seated at a table to her right, playing cards. She froze at the sight.