But after the last act ended and a servant brought them backstage, he began to think he’d been proved wrong in that, too. For as they wended their way through a warren of dressing rooms, they could hear the porter arguing with a woman in French. There was no mistaking the dulcet tones of Mademoiselle Servais, who was clearly annoyed.
“I don’t care how important these men are,” she said. “Cursed Englishmen, always expecting to get their way. I have to get back to my grandmother. If she should wake and become confused—”
The porter said something Gregory couldn’t make out, and the woman released a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, very well, then. If you must. I know you need the funds.” Her voice hardened. “But don’t expect me to fawn over them. I have no patience for men who are arrogant, usually with no reason.”
No reason? Apparently my lady actress had her own delusions of grandeur. And he didn’t have time for such nonsense, damn it.
But before the porter could even answer her, the servant who’d fetched them from the box showed them into a room little bigger than the coat closet in Gregory’s London town house, with scarcely space enough for her and the porter, much less him and Hart.
With a nod at Gregory, the porter slid past them into the hall, leaving them alone with the actress. Too late to escape now. She stared them down unrepentantly, though she had to know they’d overheard her insults.
She was still in costume, but he noticed things about her that his distance from the stage had obscured—like her voluptuous bosom and surprising height. Her prominent chin gave her the look of a woman of purpose. And up close, she looked younger than she had onstage. Even the heavy theatrical makeup couldn’t disguise the tight skin of her neck, her youthful hands, and the lack of lines about her mouth and eyes.
Her gorgeous mouth and eyes. Her scarlet-painted lips were unexpectedly full, the kind that made a man want to taste and tongue and suck. Her stunning green eyes shone iridescent in the lamplight from between long, lustrous lashes. They enticed him, and that put him on his guard.
Those eyes seemed to be assessing him, too—weighing his worth, character, and proclivities in the same way he often did those of other people. It disturbed him to be on the receiving end. Who was this chit, anyway?
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said in excellent English. “What may I do for you?”
Hart offered her a courtly bow. “We came to express our admiration for the performance.”
“Did you?” She met Gregory’s gaze coolly. “I don’t think your companion has the same purpose.”
Had he been scowling at her? Probably. The woman had thrown him off his game. He’d spent years schooling his emotions into calm, and it vexed him that she had managed to ruffle it.
Forcing a smile, he dipped his head. “On the contrary, I found your acting quite proficient.”
“What effusive praise,” she said dryly, surprising him with her knowledge of English vocabulary. “I shall try not to let it go to my head.”
“What he meant to say was—” Hart began.
“I can speak for myself.” Gregory wasn’t going to be chided by some French actress. Nor was he going to “fawn over her,” to use her words. “You’re clearly an adept performer, mademoiselle, at least in a comedic role.”
“What exactly does that mean? What’s wrong with a comedic role?” she asked in a voice smooth as butter. But her gaze sliced into him like a blade of carved jade.
It unsettled him, made him impatient to be done with this. “Surely you will admit that such roles lack the deep feeling of dramatic ones. So of course they are easier to perform.”
To his surprise, that garnered him a light, tinkling laugh that thrummed along his every nerve. “If you think that, sir, you have never been on the stage.”
Hart stepped forward. “He didn’t mean to insult—”
“Of course not.” The gleam in her eyes mocked Gregory. “He is merely stating the usual opinion of an English lord—that great literature should always be très tragique.”
The word usual arrested him. “It isn’t merely English lords who hold that opinion, but arbiters of culture of every rank.” Damn it, he sounded as arrogant as she’d assumed, the opposite of what he wanted.
That seemed to sober her. “Every rank? Truly? Because I generally find that such opinions come from those who have never lived with tragedy, whose moated castles protect them from poverty and violence.”
“Poverty? Yes.” The image of his mother’s battered features swam into his memory. “But no one escapes violence in this age, regardless of their rank.”
“Come now, sir,” she said coldly, “if that were true, men of your sort wouldn’t find tragedy entertaining. But those of us who toil daily in the darkness prefer to be taken away from it, if only for a short while. We prefer to laugh. And I truly believe that making people laugh is a noble endeavor far superior to making people cry.”
Impossible woman. What did she know? “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion. But I would point out that Shakespeare is lauded for his tragedies more than his comedies.”
“By whom? I like his comedies very well. Though I confess I prefer Beaumarchais’s farces. Or, in your language, the excellent work of Oliver Goldsmith. She Stoops to Conquer comes to mind.”
She was beautiful and well read. He began to regret his caustic words earlier, which had put her on her guard.
“That’s my favorite of Goldsmith’s, too,” Hart put in, clearly determined to be part of the conversation.
“I have never seen or read it,” Gregory said bluntly.
Humor lit her face. “Of course not. But you should. You would approve of the hero, I daresay.”
Hart laughed. “Touché.”
Not knowing anything of the play put him at a disadvantage. Gregory hated that. “And I assume that you, mademoiselle, approve of the title, since the woman gets to ‘conquer.’ ”
“I do indeed enjoy that, but mostly because of how she conquers—by revealing to the hero his little snobberies and hypocrisies.”
Gregory stiffened. “An intriguing assessment coming from a woman who’s—”
“A mere comédienne?” she said archly.
“So young.” Damn, he’d really put her back up with his ill-considered remarks earlier. “How old are you, anyway? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
When she blinked, he knew he’d guessed correctly. Then she attempted to mask her surprise by fluttering a fan before her face. “You should know by now, monsieur, that a woman never tells her age. It dulls her mystique.”
The coy remark made him scoff. “Only if she’s old and losing her attractions. Clearly you are neither. I would say you have mystique to spare.”
Amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Ah, so the haughty English gentleman can exert himself to be charming when he wishes.”
In that moment, he glimpsed the real Mademoiselle Servais—flirtatious and full of joie de vivre beneath the prickliness he’d brought on with his condescending remarks. He wished to see more of that Mademoiselle Servais.
Allowing his gaze to skim down her lush form, he drawled, “It is no exertion at all with you, mademoiselle. Forgive me if I gave you the idea that it was.”
When the faintest tinge of color pinkened her pretty cheeks, Hart cut in to say, “To be fair, my companion spends his days in the somber profession of politics. He has little opportunity to perfect his ability to charm women.”
Just as Gregory bristled at that characterization of him as some sort of bumbler in the art of flirtation, she added lightly, “And probably little inclination, either. He relies on his rank and riches to charm them.”
Gregory fixed her with a steady look. “I would never be so foolish. Women of any worth generally see past such trappings.”
She met his gaze with an unnerving intensity. “Ah, but I suspect that you find few women of such worth in your circles, eh, monsieur?”
“I certainly don’t find them very often in theaters.”
He’d meant the words as a compliment to her—an implication that she was the exception to the rule.
But his tone must have resisted translation, because she blanched, then nodded regally to them both. “In that case, you will not mind if I excuse myself. It is long past time I returned home.”
Devil take it. What was it about her that made him speak so clumsily?
“I’m sure his lordship didn’t mean—” Hart began.
“I know what he meant,” she said. “I have more experience with his kind than he thinks.”
This was the point where he should apologize, should explain what he’d been trying to say. But he’d be damned if he’d curry the favor of some French actress who thought him beneath contempt. He was the bloody undersecretary of the foreign office, for God’s sake. He didn’t cower before anyone.
Hart glared at him, but Gregory ignored the man. “Well then, mademoiselle, perhaps we shall see you when you are more at your leisure.”
Her green eyes glittered. “Oh, I don’t think I shall ever be at my leisure for you, sir.” As Gregory tensed, she turned to cast a dazzling smile at Hart. “Though your charming companion is always welcome.”
Hart started to return the smile, then caught himself with a nervous glance at Gregory, and an unfamiliar sensation tightened the muscles of Gregory’s belly. Jealousy? No, that was ridiculous. He’d just met the woman. What did he care if Hart got the benefit of her smiles? She was playing them off against each other. That was all.
Though Gregory knew that game, he’d never been the loser in it. “Good. Then he can stay and entertain you with his charm.”
Turning on his heel, he left the dressing room, angry at her and angry at himself. She’d made him lose control, and he never lost control. But the damned chit had essentially given him the cut direct! No one ever dared.
Footsteps sounded behind him. “That went well,” Hart grumbled.
Gregory bit back the impulse to say something snide. He’d already revealed too much of himself to Mademoiselle Servais in front of Hart as it was; he damned well wasn’t going to add insult to injury.
He fought to make his voice sound bored. “You were the one who wanted to dally with an actress. You should have stayed.”
“She didn’t want me there.” Hart’s tone sharpened. “She ignored me completely, except when she was trying to goad you. She was only interested in you.”
Was the man mad? “If she was interested in me, it was merely as a razor strop for her sharp tongue. Nothing more.”
“Didn’t seem that way to me.”
Gregory was in no mood to argue with him.
“I suppose this means I’ve failed the test,” Hart added.
What test? Gregory nearly asked before he remembered what Hart meant. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He wasn’t about to reveal how she’d rattled him. “Some actress’s poor attempts at insult have naught to do with whether I can use you as an informant. So if you come across anything you think I might use, let me know.”
It was an idle promise, after all. What could the man possibly learn out on James Island?
“Oh! Well. Thank you, then,” Hart said jovially. “Good of you to offer.”
They walked out of the theater together.
Hart cleared his throat. “The night is still young. Would you want to—”
“Sorry, old chap, but as I said before, I have reports to write. Have a good trip.”
He left Hart gaping after him. Gregory didn’t care. Much as he liked the fellow, he’d had enough of company for one night. He had work to do.
So why was he still seething about the actress’s responses as he entered the inn? She was no less impudent than any other Frenchwoman to an Englishman. He ought not be annoyed, but he was.
Because she was sharp. Observant. Quick-witted. All things he admired in a woman. He wasn’t used to having such a woman not admire those things in him.
Except that there had been the one moment when she’d blushed and he’d thought perhaps she . . .
God, he didn’t care! Absurd that he should even think he might.
He stalked up the stairs, so lost in replaying their conversation that he didn’t at first hear the innkeeper hail him, and when he did, he rounded on the fellow, snapping, “What is it?” in French.
The man paled. With a shaky hand, he held out a small envelope. “Th-this message just came for you, my lord. I was told to put it right in your hand.”
Gregory spotted the seal belonging to one of his informants from Gibraltar and muttered, “It’s about damned time.” At last, word from someone concerning John’s mission. He would rather it had come from John, of course, but . . .
That gave him pause. Why hadn’t it come from John? As he hastily opened the letter and scanned its contents, his stomach began to roil.
My lord, our mission was compromised. You were right to advise caution, but I’m afraid it did no good. I regret to inform you that your brother is dead. He decided to . . .
A description of what had gone wrong followed, but the words swam before his eyes. His knees buckled beneath him and he sat down hard on the stairs.
His brother was dead? It couldn’t be. How could it be? Impossible.
But clearly it was true. There was no reason for the man to lie.
Gregory stared sightlessly past the innkeeper to the taproom below, crowded with men drinking and carousing. And to think that only a few hours ago, he too had been . . .
Grief clogged his throat with tears he couldn’t shed. How was he to go on without John? How was Mother?
Oh, God, Mother. This would destroy her.
“John, you reckless fool,” Gregory hissed.
Despite his cautions, the lad had gone and gotten himself killed. And it was all Gregory’s fault—for using him in the first place, for not reining him in. For not being more of a father to him once their own father was gone.
Gregory stiffened. Not gone. Murdered. Best never to forget that, or he would truly lose his soul. Or at least the part of it that still had a conscience.
What had that actress said? I generally find that such opinions come from those who have never lived with tragedy, whose moated castles protect them from poverty and violence.
Anger flashed through him, tangled up in his sorrow and guilt and pain. Damn her to hell. She had no idea what she was talking about. A moated castle kept things in as well as out. It could hide shame and heartache, neglect and abuse, blood and gore and death.
Especially death. And now John was dead. Dead. Gregory must get that through his head or how was he to continue?
So as he let his grief overtake him, let himself sink into its madness, he put all thoughts of Mademoiselle Monique Servais from his head for good.
One
Dieppe, France
October 1830
Monique Servais sat alone in her dressing room, reapplying face paint between acts. Once again, the Dieppe theater was performing Le mariage de Figaro, but this time she was playing the Countess and not Suzanne.
She grimaced. Of course she was playing the older woman these days. Some ingénue had the role of Suzanne now that Monique had reached the advanced age of twenty-four.
No, that wasn’t fair. It was her peaked appearance and her lapses in remembering her lines that had relegated her to the lesser role. She got little sleep anymore, with her grandmother Solange wandering outside the apartment at all hours.
So it was just as well that Monique had an easier part. She would soon have to hire a servant to keep watch even at night. And how was she to pay for that? It wasn’t as if the theater would give her more money, especially in her current state.
A knock came at the door, and Mr. Duval poked his head inside. “There is a gentleman who wishes to meet you after the performance.”
“Another?” She waved her hand dismissively. “You know I don’t do that.”
“I think you may want to speak to this particular man, my dear. He says—”
“I don’t care what he says or how much he pays you.” She swiveled on her chair to look at Mr. Duval. “I can’t linger after the performance these days—you know that. Grand-maman is getting worse. Besides, I hate all those leering fellows. There was that merchant who thought he could convince me to become his mistress by giving me a fur tippet. And that . . . that vile Dutchman who wanted to suck my toes.”
So far she’d avoided taking a protector. But if Grand-maman got worse, she might have no choice.
She shuddered. “Not to mention the baker with the admittedly delicious cakes who also stank of fish. Even you said it wasn’t worth the money he paid you for an audience with me.”
“And let’s not forget that British lord, the one who annoyed you so thoroughly.”
Gregory Vyse, Baron Fulkham. Even after three years, she remembered his name. And his faintly accented French and the way the room had seemed to shrink to fit him when he walked in. Not to mention his eyes, so starkly blue in his handsome face, and his wealth of wavy hair, black as a starless night.
Curse him. Turning back to her mirror, she resumed touching up her face paint. “British lord?” she said with forced nonchalance. “I don’t remember any British lord.”
Mr. Duval chuckled. “You rage about him every time anyone mentions the virtues of tragedy over comedy.”
“He was arrogant and insufferable in his opinions,” she snapped. “Of course I rage about him.”
“So you do remember him,” Mr. Duval said smugly.
She glared at Mr. Duval in the mirror. “I remember that you forced the man on me and that I regretted it. Just as, no doubt, I will regret the one you are trying to make me see tonight.”
“This one is different.”
“You always say that,” she muttered.
“He’s from Chanay.”
She paused with her powder brush in midair. Grand-maman was also from Chanay, in Belgium. “What’s his name?”
“The Count de Beaumonde. He says he’s your great-uncle. Your grandmother’s brother-in-law.”
She recognized the name. Grand-maman had spoken of the count many times, and with great affection, too.
The Secret of Flirting Page 2