The Duke’s Indiscretion

by Adele Ashworth

  Charlotte couldn’t help but groan, sinking a little lower in her chair again as Adamo began to argue with both the director and the pianist in pure Italian fashion. The backstage hands had been hammering and stomping around on the platform, sewing and creating the scenery, talking and laughing and dropping things, apparently interrupting Adamo so much that he found it necessary to complain about the pandemonium hurting his concentration and causing him to blunder his notes. Charlotte found that rather amusing since he’d been in theater for some twenty-five years and would most assuredly be able to practice above a little loud set building. But then he was the star.

  Sadie tapped her own fan impatiently on her lap, and Charlotte’s thoughts couldn’t help but stray again to things besides rehearsal, to Colin. It had been a week since her wedding night fiasco, and since that time she’d only seen him briefly, usually in passing or at meals. He’d apparently decided to respect her wishes to leave her alone, which was fine with her, and frankly, she hoped he’d never again mention the drunken, humiliating discussion they’d shared in his study. What a nightmare. In some manner, she’d been surprised that her husband hadn’t expected more from her in bed each night, though perhaps he still remained embarrassed by his actions toward her a week ago.

  Her self-imposed celibacy wouldn’t last. She’d started her monthly yesterday, more or less depressing her because she really was hoping, after careful consideration of the horrible bedding on her wedding night, that she’d gotten with child. At least then her duty to him would be over. Yet she also realized what would happen if she carried. The London Gossip Society, as she liked to call the busybodies, would know that Lottie English was either loose, or married, or she would have to hide it and pretend several months of illness. Any of these options could hurt her career badly, a risk she wasn’t ready to take.

  Still, she was now the Duchess of Newark, with a husband to control her, and the constraint in which she now found herself meant she needed to keep her secret identity more than ever and play her part well. That meant coming to the theater as she had before, dressed in unassuming, practical clothing that wouldn’t garner notice, her hair meticulously kept in a conservative style. It meant no glamour. But then, on opening night and for a month or two thereafter, she would be the glamourous Lottie English, made up for the adoring public. She would be the star.

  “Lottie!”

  The interruption jerked her out of her musings and she sat up straighter, smiling at Mr. Barrington-Graham, who’d apparently been talking to her without her awareness. “I beg your pardon, Walter?”

  “Please take your place stage left,” the tall, rather gaunt man directed with exasperation, patting down the sparse strings of hair on his oiled head. “I would like you and Mr. Porano to sing the duet again, and this time I shall clap the beat loudly.” He grunted, then waved his arm through the air. “The rest of you…out!”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and Sadie snickered, gently squeezing her hand in response before she stood and, along with the rest of the dispersing cast, made her way backstage toward the exits. They’d been rehearsing act two all day, but secretly she realized Walter trusted her to help Porano stay on task with his practice, and so the duet it was. Again. After that, it would be a stuffy and hot ride home, a lukewarm bath, light supper, and bed. She couldn’t wait.

  Porano moved his thick figure center stage, scratching his curly, black beard as he studied his sheet music. She lifted her skirts and moved to stage left as ordered. Walter probably wanted them separated, Porano closer to the piano, so that the Italian could hear the music from his right, her singing from his left, with Walter clapping from just in front of the orchestra station.

  The crew had cleared the chairs so that nothing remained on stage but them. Once Mr. Quintin, their regular pianist, acknowledged his readiness from the keyboard, Walter began clapping the tempo, then raised his hand to direct.

  The melody began.

  Knees slightly bent, shoulders back, music held at arm’s length, Charlotte stood erect to lift her diaphragm, drew a full breath through her nose—and then came a startling commotion.

  First a screech, then shouting from the rafters. She quickly glanced up.

  “Lottie, move!”

  Somewhere through a slice of panic, her husband’s voice registered and she bolted forward as a beam of wood swung down from above. Walter grabbed her upper arm and yanked her, but not before the corner of the beam slammed into the back of her thigh, knocking her over to fall flat on her belly near the edge of the stage.

  Suddenly cast members and crew surrounded her, jostling her, speaking to her. Her heart thudded in her breast; her mouth went dry and she couldn’t find her voice if she tried.

  “Lottie! Oh, my God, Lottie, are you hurt?” Sadie asked as she pushed through the small group to kneel beside her, her own words shaky with alarm.

  Charlotte attempted to recover herself as Walter took charge.

  “Back away, everyone, back away,” he said in a commanding, concerned voice. “Please give her air.”

  They all started speaking at once, and even as the shock began to wear off, she couldn’t help thinking of Colin, sitting in the back of the theater, his voice shouting to her in warning, probably just in time to save her life. In her confusion, she couldn’t decide if she should be grateful for his interference or angry that he surreptitiously kept track of her whereabouts. But for a moment, it didn’t matter. Suddenly he knelt beside her, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders as he helped lift her to a sitting position.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and matter-of-fact.

  She raised a trembling palm to cover her mouth, shaking her head as her initial daze turned to disbelief. “It hit me—it hit me in the leg.”

  He looked into her eyes pointedly and asked again, “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I—I don’t think—” She winced as she attempted to move her leg. The dull ache in her thigh had turned to shooting pain and she sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Perhaps a little, but—it’s getting better.”

  Colin’s lids narrowed as he continued to watch her skeptically. “Can you stand?”

  She nodded, clutching his arms as he gently pulled her to her feet. Clinging to him, she placed her weight first on her uninjured leg, then the other, from tiptoe to heel as the pain began to dissipate. “I’m fine,” she said, her tone forcefully bright.

  “Your grace?” Sadie said from behind him.

  Colin turned and took a cup from her.

  “It’s brandy,” she offered, patting Charlotte on the arm.

  “Drink this,” he said, sniffing it first, then lifting the glass to her lips.

  She did as ordered without argument, taking several sips of the burning liquid that warmed her tongue and slid down her throat.

  The crowd began to disperse, talking among themselves. Two brawny stage hands lifted the beam and carried it backstage; Adamo burst into one of his typical Italian diatribes, his hands in the air as he walked away; Edward Hibbert, the theater manager, pulled Walter aside, engaging him in deep discussion. She felt better, in control of her emotions again, and she concentrated on her breathing, keeping herself steady. She didn’t dare look at her injury here, for she’d have to lift her skirts far too high for decency, but she knew she wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t that kind of wound, though she’d likely suffer a nasty bruise come morning. That being said, she supposed she was grateful for it. If the beam had hit her in the head, she’d be dead already.

  Finally Colin stood back from her and Charlotte noticed immediately how people instinctively moved away from his commanding presence, several minor cast members and costumers staring at him in awe, then curtsying or nodding in acknowledgment. Even now, she knew they were all questioning his reason for being at their closed rehearsal, his immediate response to the mishap, that they would whisper for days about his reaction and obvious concern for her person. And although none of them knew the Duke of
Newark personally, they knew of his reputation, everyone did, and speculation would soon turn to rumor. Her only hope was that her fellow cast members would be gracious enough not to ask any delicate questions regarding his reasons for attending her at the theater day after day.

  “Your grace,” she said, forcing a pleasant smile on her lips, “thank you for your help, but I do think I’m fine now. Really.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, staring down at her through narrowed eyes. “My driver will take you home.”

  It was a strong statement, catching them all by surprise, including her. She usually took public transportation so no one would be the wiser. Yet she could never argue with him here, in front of everyone. And nobody else would dare question a nobleman, either, though this spectacular turn of events would be the talk of the theater once they left—especially among the women.

  After assurances to Walter, Sadie, and even Porano that she felt much better and would be just fine, Colin gestured and said, “This way, Miss English.”

  As she limped her way toward the backstage door, his hand firmly on her elbow, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder for one last look at several of the workers standing around the spot where she had been spared certain serious injury, all of them studying the rafters, mumbling among themselves.

  And then without another word, she found herself stepping into one of her husband’s decorated carriages for a quiet trip home.

  The ride back to his townhouse proved slow and hot, the streets crowded and the air inside his coach stagnant, making a usually short trip long, unsteady, and uncomfortable.

  Charlotte sat across from him, staring blankly out the small window she’d cracked in the hope of a comforting breeze that never ensued, her forehead creased in deep thought, her skin pale even in the heat that she occasionally attempted to ward off by waving her fan. He hadn’t said much to her since they’d left the theater, and she didn’t appear to feel like talking, which he supposed was understandable considering the events of the last hour. Still, she had to be badly shaken, and as her husband and protector, he supposed it was his duty to demand answers to a few delicate questions regarding an accident that, after considerable consideration, seemed highly suspicious. He’d heard the hammering, heard a crack, shouting, and a commotion in the rafters, and instinct had made him call out. It was the only time in three hours that she had been standing alone, without other cast members near her, and the entire episode seemed…planned. Or extraordinarily accidental. But maybe he just felt the suspicion in his gut.

  Shifting his large frame on the hot leather seat, he pushed up his shirt sleeves in an attempt to stay cool, then decided it was time to broach the subject with her.

  “May I be blunt with you, Charlotte?” he asked, his tone a bit more “mother hen” than he had hoped.

  She blinked and turned to face him. “Pardon me?”

  He tendered her a reassuring smile. “I don’t think what happened on the stage today was an accident.”

  For a long moment she just stared at him, a certain turmoil crossing her features that he could read like a book. Then she shook out her skirts and looked away once more.

  “Of course it was an accident,” she countered through an exhale. “Accidents happen at the theater all the time, your grace—”

  “Not deliberate accidents,” he cut in, irritated that she refused to either acknowledge the issue as important, or didn’t want to confess her doubts to him.

  “Accidents, by definition, cannot be deliberate,” she informed him through a sigh, folding her hands in her lap. “But more to the point, you can’t possibly think someone deliberately tried to hurt me.”

  Raising his brows, he replied, “Can’t I?”

  “Such a thought is ludicrous,” she chided.

  Shrugging, he pushed for detail. “You don’t think there might be one or two people in the production who are jealous of your success? Who might have something to gain if you’re…disabled in some manner?”

  She squirmed a little on the seat. “My goodness, it’s so hot today—”

  “Charlotte, stop avoiding the issue and talk to me.”

  Her gaze shot back to his face, eyes narrowing as her expression went flat. “You’d like to talk? Then answer this, sir: Why were you there?”

  For a slice of a second, it crossed his mind that she might actually consider him to blame for the ordeal, as he’d been the one to call out to her first with a warning just barely heeded, that he was the only person in the theater at the time who really had no business being there, and the one person she found herself distrusting. And yet he had trouble believing she would doubt him to such an extent. More likely it angered her that he’d been watching her every move without her knowledge or consent.

  “I was there because I admire the theater,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And now that…well, now that my wife is the star soprano of the next production of Balfe’s most famous opera, I just thought I’d wander in to view for myself what you do each day when you’re away from me.”

  She blew a stray lock of curly hair off her cheek. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think there’s anyone alive who would deny me.”

  That didn’t seem to faze her. She continued to eye him candidly, lids narrowed in speculation, head tipped to one side. “Don’t you have anything more important to do with your time, sir?”

  He wanted to know her more, trust her better, before he revealed exactly what he did for the Crown. So instead of revelation, he casually replied, “Not really. I have wonderful employees who manage my estate, leaving me all the time in the world to entertain myself by watching you.”

  One side of her lips twitched up and she glanced away again, obviously deciding not to comment. Colin took that to mean she had very little regard for him and his apparent laziness. He didn’t mind. Eventually, she’d learn the truth and he’d relish the look on her face when she did.

  He tried to stretch out a bit, his legs cramped and uncomfortable in their confinement. They were still several streets away from his townhouse, and moving slowly, occasionally stopping for pedestrians and hired hacks, giving time for the sounds and smells of the busy city to drift in through cracked windows and assault the senses.

  “You sang beautifully today, as always,” he said, attempting a different approach to garner information since they had the privacy and weren’t going anywhere fast.

  Peering outside, she admitted, “I know the music well, but I still have trouble blending the higher octave in act two with Mr. Porano. He blames me for the inability to get it perfect, but we all know it’s really his problem with the tempo—”

  “Mr. Porano has problems with the tempo?” he cut in, amused.

  She glanced at him askance, her luscious mouth open a little. Then she snapped it shut and huffed, “Oh, never mind. I’m sure it’s all very tedious to you.”

  He waited for a moment, then countered, “Not really. I’m aware of the great Italian tenor and his antics. Remember, Charlotte, I’m a proud opera aficionado.”

  She shook her head gently, her lips curving into a half smile as she realized he teased her. “The man is a very talented buffoon, but of course you didn’t hear that from me, sir.”

  Colin grinned, enjoying their easy banter. “A buffoon, eh? And the other performers?”

  She reopened her fan and began waving it slowly, absentmindedly. “I’ve sung with most of the others before, so I know their abilities and the manner in which they interpret music.”

  “I see.” Of course he didn’t really care in the least what the others were about, their talent or lack thereof, but discussing it gave him the opportunity to learn who among them might have reason to resent his wife, or dislike her enough to want to do her harm.

  “So tell me who they are,” he pressed, wiping his perspiring neck with his palm.

  “Who they are?”

  “Your fellow cast mates.” He shrugged. “Who’s playing whic
h part?”

  For a second or two she gazed at him dubiously, as if she were going to ask him why on earth he cared, then obviously decided against it by proceeding without question.

  “Well,” she began through a fast exhale, “Porano plays Thaddeus, the leading man, though it’s my opinion that he’s too old for the part—an insignificant little issue that doesn’t seem to matter much in opera. Anne Balstone, a magnificent contralto, by the way, plays the Queen of the Gypsies. I’ve only been on the stage with her once, but she’s a lovely person, if a bit conceited.”

  “Aren’t they all?” he asked with droll humor.

  She gave him a crooked smile in return. “That’s mostly an act. In my experience, many talented singers, even those who are famous, are quite insecure.”

  “Are you?”

  “Ha! Of course not.”

  Colin observed her closely for a moment, enjoying their rapport, quite taken with the honest smile on her face. She really was a lovely woman, even dressed in a modest, light brown day gown, her hair piled without flair atop her head. But he didn’t want to stifle the moment by changing the conversation to something more intimate.

  “Go on,” he urged with a wave of one hand. “Who else is in the cast?”

  She pursed her lips and rubbed her nose with a finger. “I play Arline, as you know, the leading soprano. Buda, Arline’s attendant, is played by Sadie Piaget, a young French soprano who’s been with me on the English stage for nearly three years. Unfortunately, Buda isn’t a singing part in this opera, so she also has singing parts in the chorus. She’s probably the only person in the cast who I’d actually call a friend.” She tapped her fan against her fingers, thinking. “Then there’s Raul Calvello, another Italian, a bass, but he’s performed on the English stage for nearly thirty-five years and more or less counts himself an Englishman. He’s a rather quiet gentleman, very nice.”