Masquerading the Marquess

by Anne Mallory

One nobleman at a time. The sentiment was sound.

  Intent on her thoughts, she missed the thoughtful figure standing in the doorway swinging her forgotten cane lightly in his hand.

  Chapter 2

  "Cal, don’t you think you’ve become a bit preoccupied with the Marquess of Angelford?"

  Calliope shot Robert Cruikshank, her mentor and caricaturist extraordinaire, a fuming glance and dropped into her soft leather chair. "He provides so much material. How can one not take notice?"

  Robert shook his head and ran a hand through his fashionably cut locks. "Three more drawings on the same subject—'The Travails of a Marquess.' It’s a bad idea to concentrate on one person, especially a peer who values his privacy. "

  "I know, but admit it, they are good illustrations."

  Robert inspected the drawing in his hand. "Better than good, they are inspired. Just be careful. Angelford is a powerful lord and isn’t accustomed to this type of attention. None of the other artists portray him in such a narrow, unflattering manner. "

  Robert tossed the sheet to her and leaned back, crossing his shiny Hessians on the edge of her worn mahogany desk.

  "At this juncture of your career it would be much easier, as well as safer, to portray those who expect and encourage the notoriety. "

  Calliope groaned. "They’ve all been overworked."

  Robert shook his head with more than a little irritation. "Cal, that’s one thing you need to accept. Everything doesn’t need to be new. One of an artist’s greatest challenges is to create something exciting from the mundane. "

  "I understand Robert, really I do. I just think Angelford is an interesting subject." and he deserves the comeuppance, she added mentally.

  Calliope scanned the image. The marquess was dodging carefully laid traps set by society mamas and debutantes as he scampered after a dozen scantily clad courtesans. Examining the caricature, she felt an odd mixture of satisfaction, anger, sadness and regret. Across the lower right she signed the name Thomas Landes with a flourish and slid the sheet back to Robert.

  He sighed and carefully placed the sheet on top of the other two caricatures of the marquess. "The publishers are very pleased with your work.

  Sales have increased and they are eager for the mysterious Mr. Landes to provide more fodder for their presses. You will notice an increased compensation. "

  He handed her the banknotes and she noticed the look of pride he tried to conceal. She swelled beneath it.

  "Thank you, Robert. You’re a dear friend, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll have a new selection for you next week, and I promise to choose a different subject." Behind her back she flexed her crossed fingers and promised herself she would indeed try.

  His expression turned serious. "See that you do, Cal. I have an uncomfortable feeling about the direction you’re taking with the marquess. Most likely these three sketches of Angelford will be published every two weeks, to whet the public’s appetite. The others you did of him were much different." He shook his head. "Tongues will wag over these new ones, so be prepared for possible repercussions in the next few months."

  "Then again," Robert said, and shrugged in his offhand manner, "since your work is selling well, perhaps you shouldn’t take my advice."

  Calliope laughed but couldn’t hide her nervousness. He looked at her questioningly and lifted his eyebrows. "Out with it."

  "Lady Simpson terminated my employment. I need to retire ‘Margaret Stafford.’”

  "Yes, I know. Even the men at the clubs have been talking about the 'Killroy Incident.' You made Lady Killroy’s ball the event of the Season thus far. She is fair to preening from the attention, despite being called porcine."

  Some of Calliope’s embarrassment must have slipped through her reserve, because Robert reached over and patted her hand. "You should be relieved at this turn of events. If I’m not mistaken, I believe you called Lady Simpson something akin to a harridan quite loudly in front of the entire assemblage.

  "Regardless of your feelings for the woman or the fact that the position gave you entree into the ton, by your own admission you had almost drained her of ideas."

  He motioned to a blank sheet of drawing paper. "You really ought to illustrate the occurrence from Margaret’s point of view. Other artists are bound to capitalize on the subject, and it would be best to have yourself well represented."

  Calliope nodded, opened her top drawer and handed him an already sketched and signed caricature of the event. He took one look at it and roared with laughter.

  The picture illustrated a sparrow with a bandaged leg and spectacles applying tar and feathers to a large-mouthed harpy standing in shock. In the background, ornately plumed birds had wide eyes focused on the twosome, and the flock was depicted gathering up bits and pieces of grain on the floor.

  "And here is another. " She withdrew a second caricature. It was a tribute to Lady Simpson, who wielded a knife as she carved into a roasted pig bearing Lady Killroy’s features.

  "These are fabulous. The public will love them."

  She allowed herself a small smile. Paybacks were quite satisfying. One noble at a time.

  "However, it does leave you in rather odd straits." Robert tucked the sketches into his leather satchel. "You may not be able to get a companion position under a different persona. There are limited ways in which one can appear severely dowdy and not be recognized. And you have stressed to me several times the desire for your real identity to remain anonymous."

  Yes, anonymity was essential. Calliope knew society. Lady Salisbury had countless friends who would keep her fully abreast of the latest on-dits. And since Margaret Stafford definitely was in the on-dit category at present, Calliope could only breathe a sigh of relief that she had persisted with the disguises.

  Robert’s hands were crossed in a contemplative fashion as he waited patiently for her response to the dilemma.

  Calliope breathed deeply. "Robert, after much consideration, I have decided to view society from a totally different perspective."

  His eyebrows rose, but he waited for her to continue.

  "However, in order to do so I will need your help finding a man of noble birth who can be completely trustworthy. A nearly impossible request, I know. "

  She saw more interest gather in his eyes. Robert loved a challenge. "Well, don’t keep me in suspense."

  "I’ve decided to become a courtesan."

  Robert’s face went blank. "A what?"

  "A courtesan."

  "A courtesan?"

  "Yes." Her nerves were already frayed.

  He sat up in his chair. "Let me get this straight. You want to be a lady of the night, a bird of paradise, one of the demimonde, fallen?"

  Calliope fought to maintain her composure. "Yes, but in name only. "

  "Ridiculous."

  "No, it’s a perfect cover." `

  "Why not a seamstress?"

  "Too tedious and limiting."

  "Governess?"

  "Too restrictive."

  "Scullery maid?"

  Calliope cringed. "No. Any service position would be skewed to the household I would inhabit."

  Robert’s face had turned an unbecoming shade of red. Calliope jumped into the brief silence.

  "Robert, listen before you negate the idea. I’ve been mulling this over for days." Calliope examined her ink-stained hands as she reviewed her arguments. "This role will be terrific. I will have access to new haunts and will be able to view the ton from a new perspective. The position will give me insight into the vagaries of society and provide , an exceptional opportunity to observe and capitalize on the ton’s wilder side. And I stress it will be in name only."

  Robert paced to the window, his hands clenched at his sides, his protective nature in obvious conflict with the thought of the adventure.

  Calliope held her breath. The room was cloaked in silence, and she shifted uncomfortably. Her plush chair, the one extravagant purchase she had allowed herself from her caricature
earnings, felt hard.

  He had to agree. He had to see this was the best way to proceed. A lady’s companion position was closed to her, thanks to her interactions with the infernal Marquess of Angelford. No other position would do. He had to agree.

  An eternity passed before she saw Robert’s fingers relax. He turned to her, a thoughtful expression on his face. " Your benefactor will need to be completely aware of your position and his role in this undertaking so there is no misunderstanding. In order to meet the appropriate people he will need to be accepted by and have access to the ton."

  Calliope allowed herself a tentative gleam of hope. It must have shown in her eyes, because she received a stern look in return. "This role will not be easy, Cal. The rules of this game are quite different from any you have played thus far."

  She couldn’t stop her head from bobbing in agreement.

  He gave her an admonishing look. "I want you to note I feel this is a dangerous idea."

  Calliope gave a suitably restrained nod.

  He regarded her seriously for a moment and then regained his usual flippant air, tapping his chin. "As odd as it may be, I happen to know just the person who fulfills the criteria. He would find this charade highly amusing, and despite his rakish appearance he is a gentleman and utterly trustworthy. " He paused. "Although he has been out of the country recently, he is well connected and possesses a stinging sense of humor. He would enjoy playing the ton."

  Robert walked to the door and touched the handle. Turning back, he said, "I’m going to contact my distant cousin, Stephen, and get back to you by the end of the week. Just remember my cautions."

  Calliope exhaled and forced herself to relax. She had passed the first hurdle. Despite any mustered objections, the new role would provide a perfect cover with excellent exposure. The familiar excitement of creating a new persona radiated through her. She was anxious to talk to Deirdre.

  A week later, Deirdre Daly rubbed her hands in eager anticipation. "Let me repeat that I think this is a wonderful development. I hated getting you ready for all those boring soirees." Dee grimaced. "What a miserable way to play, no less live."

  Calliope grinned at her foster sister as they pillaged Mrs. Daly’s dressing room at the Adelphi Theatre. "Yes, it was a truly constraining existence."

  But the grin slowly slipped from her face as she mulled the matter further. "Although it is quite advantageous to be one of them. As an outsider looking in, I don’t envy some of the poor debutantes who barter themselves each night on the marriage mart."

  A bitter note crept into Calliope’s voice as the cast of faces who had snubbed her flitted through her head. "However, the ones I feel sorry for are few and far between. Most of the ton is composed of lazy, selfish entities who live off their relatives, contribute very little to society and spend countless hours degrading others."

  Deirdre stopped searching through her mother’s theater wardrobe and cast her a worried glance. "Callie, is something wrong? Your ranting sounds worse than usual."

  Calliope felt weary and older than her twenty-four years. She rubbed her hand over her brow. "No, Dee, I’m fine. I just have a case of opening-night jitters."

  Deirdre did not look appeased, but she returned to her task and changed the subject. "I believe you are still on the hook for painting this Saturday. Mr. Franklin still has the ague."

  Calliope sighed. For as long as she could remember, she had worked backstage at the Adelphi Theatre, filling in for whoever was absent. Set painting was just one of the many tasks she had undertaken over the years.

  "How did I get roped into that again?"

  Deirdre wagged her finger at her. "No complaining, remember?"

  "I wish I hadn’t been so excited when my first caricature sold. Otherwise I never would have told you to remind me not to complain about working backstage."

  "Well, you mustn’t blame me. I wasn’t even in the Life in London production. Blame Robert."

  But Calliope would never blame Robert for anything. She had met Robert Cruikshank backstage two years ago when the Adelphi produced Life in London. Robert had helped illustrate the famous serial by Pierce Egan and had popped in for several of the performances during its over three-hundred-night run at the Adelphi. One night he had ventured backstage and observed Calliope creating illustrations of the dandies who patronized the rooms of the actresses after each performance. He had been her secret sponsor ever since, toting her caricatures to Ackermann’s and returning with her profits. Under his tutelage her caricatures had become increasingly popular.

  "I suppose I can fit painting into my schedule. Drawing in the park is never as nice as sitting in the middle of paint fumes all day."

  A hatbox fell from a shelf and Deirdre grunted as it hit her shoulder and bounced off. "I’m not going to feel sorry for you, if that’s what you’re after. At least you won’t be practicing dance steps all day with that taskmaster St. Albin." She shuddered as she bent to retrieve the box. "I swear the man has taken lessons from Satan himself."

  "Dee!"

  Deirdre shot her a look of pure innocence. "I’m only stating the obvious, Callie."

  Calliope chuckled and walked toward the closet. "What are you doing in there? I have to meet with Robert’s cousin soon and I need an appropriate garment."

  Deirdre muttered what sounded like a mild obscenity and then triumphantly held up a flowing piece of material. "Here it is."

  "Um, where’s the rest of it?"

  Deirdre shot her a long-suffering look. "You will look fabulous in this. Now try it on."

  Deirdre thrust the dress toward Calliope. The soft silk whispered against her hand, and she fought the urge to stroke the gorgeous fabric against her cheek. It was a lovely shade of turquoise and the material seemed to pool around her.

  Deirdre shoved her toward the dressing room and bustled around picking up odds and ends, periodically dismissing and keeping items.

  Calliope slowly undressed and slipped on the gown. Deirdre helped her fasten and arrange the material.

  "Now, this is excellent."

  Calliope frowned. "I repeat, where’s the rest of it?"

  "Now, none of that. It was your idea to pose as a courtesan, and you certainly can’t play the role in your typical clothes. Besides, it’s about time we got you into something a little flashier. With all of those drab, dull outfits it’s no wonder you didn’t pick up an admirer or two."

  "Dee, you know how difficult it is in the foreground. Too much attention would’ve dragged me further into the viper’s nest, and made it more difficult to hide our lies."

  "Your companion references were well faked. Our contact has been superb in digging up the necessary documents each time. But you did garner your share of attention during the 'grand exit' "

  "And, unfortunately I’ve brought myself to this."

  "This will be a splendid entertainment. You just have to immerse yourself in the role. Mistress to a cousin of a duke and earl, how exciting!"

  Calliope frowned at the revealing dress. "Mistress in name only, and I’ve always been more fond of being in the chorus."

  "But now you must be stage front. It’s the only way to attract the attention and get the information you need. You’ve been in the theater business too long not to be able to play the lead role."

  Deirdre picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table. "So sit down and let me ready you for tonight. A handsome gentleman, a marvelous evening gown, a lovely coiffure, stunning jewelry and a new identity. I quite envy you the adventure."

  Calliope laughed and plopped into the proffered chair. "Yes, I seem to remember you were quite willing to go along with all my schemes."

  Deirdre pulled the brush through Calliope’s hair and fond remembrance lit her eyes. "I was al ways the one in trouble, however. Mother and Father seemed to think you were the innocent one and I spearheaded the mischief, when really it was the other way around."

  There was no antipathy in the statement, only happy memories. The smell of bur
ning assailed Calliope’s nostrils. Her breath quickened.

  "Lud. The iron is too hot." Deirdre fiddled with the iron and Calliope tried to bring her breathing back under control.

  Anything connected to fire always caused her anxiety.

  It was so long ago, yet she could still remember the feel of the cinders in her hair. Her home engulfed in flames, her mother’s departing form as she ran back inside the inferno. She shut her eyes, trying to block the images. That night had brought her into the care of the Dalys. She had no how she managed to make it to their home, but she liked to think it was her mother’s spirit guiding her to safety. Her mother had been friends with the acting family, but hadn’t visited them often at their house.