“I need to raise cash,” he said. “Heaps of it.”
When he had explained his purpose, the banker said ponderously, “A very worthwhile endeavor.
However, your present balance does not enable you to take on so many projects. You must determine which of them you are most eager to pursue. Perhaps the fencing of disused mine shafts can be put off?”
“Not for long,” Dare answered. “Can’t I rely on my capital?”
“I strongly advise against it. The consols and annuities are rising, as are bank stocks and India stocks.
If you will permit me to make a suggestion?”
He nodded.
“Your quarterly payment for mineral rights falls due next week, at Michaelmas,” Mr. Toplis pointed out. “If you remain here to collect it yourself, you can immediately disburse it to the miners. In the meantime, I shall assist you in setting up a charitable fund.”
Dare endorsed this reasonable course of action reluctantly, knowing that it would delay his proposal to the dearly beloved mistress he intended to win as his wife.
“Our London winters are so detrimental to Signora Banti’s health that the management of the King’s Theatre cannot depend on her to perform in every opera. Therefore, I have persuaded Mr. Taylor that an Italian-trained Englishwoman is exactly what we require to fill out our company.” Michael Kelly’s cheeks plumped in a puckish grin. “We can offer you a salary of fifteen hundred guineas for the full season, plus proceeds from a benefit. As our prima donna, you may claim ‘right of the book,’ should you prefer to substitute an aria of your choosing over the one supplied by the composer.”
Hearing these highly advantageous terms, Oriana realized she was being courted. The reason for this change, she guessed, was Signora Banti’s tendency to sicken and the debt-plagued proprietor’s inability to keep his best performers for successive seasons. Her acquaintances in the orchestra often complained that salaries were in arrears.
“Signor Federici will conduct our singers from the harpsichord, and Saloman leads the orchestra. I, of course, continue in my position as stage manager. I can’t yet tell you when the King’s Theatre will reopen,” the Irishman admitted. “But sometime after the turn of the year, you will begin rehearsing a comic piece new to Londoners: von Winter’s I Fratelli Rivalli.”
As an Englishwoman performing a work by a German composer, she would be opposed by the cabal. These partisans of Italian-born singers and musicians congregated in the opera house gallery, hissing loudly and shouting insults. They would resent her prominence, and exert themselves to interrupt her solos.
“Will I be performing opera seria?” she asked hopefully.
“I can offer you Gluck’s Alceste.”
A French libretto, she thought in dismay, certain to stir the cabal’s resentment.
“We may stage a revival of Paisiello’s Nina—you remember how popular it was two seasons ago.
Your delicacy and naturalness are exquisitely suited to the pathos and sentiment of the title role.”
Now that this opportunity had come to her, Oriana was startled by her wish to discuss it with Dare.
In the years since her mother’s death she’d followed her own inclinations, without regard for any other person’s opinion.
He’d been a long time in Derbyshire. She’d received one letter, brief and affectionate, which had done nothing to allay her fears of an impending break. It was so easy to feign affection in writing, from afar.
She needed to see his face, his eyes, to believe in the sentiments he’d penned from Matlock. They had seldom been apart since becoming lovers, and she’d been unprepared for the effects of this separation.
She found herself dwelling on past conversations, wishing she’d expressed her affection more fully. Often she cheered herself by remembering the delightful hours they’d spent in bed—making love, sharing secret dreams and ambitions, falling asleep still locked in an embrace.
“My dear Ana, your silence makes me nervous. If Sheridan has already made a rival offer to lure you t rury Lane, I hope you’ll grant us the opportunity to improve upon it.”
“I’ve received none.”
“Then I may assure Mr. Taylor that you accept his terms?”
“Not yet.” Her reply brought a frown to his face. Leaving the sofa, she went to him and said, “I’m grateful for your loyal campaign on my behalf. But I was too unsure of the outcome to let my hopes run away with me. I couldn’t even consider Mr. Taylor’s offer until it was formally presented.”
“I understand. But we are impatient to settle the matter.”
“Tomorrow I depart for Newmarket. While I’m there, you and the opera house will be in my thoughts.”
After he left, Oriana fell prey to an attack of restlessness. She climbed the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber, where Suke was preparing for the journey to Suffolk. This room, her private retreat, was unchanged from her girlhood. The intricately carved bedstead with its rose damask tester and curtains, the inlaid chests and ladylike French chairs, had all been chosen by her mother as worthy of the duke’s daughter. The Poussin oil painting, purchased from Cousin Aubrey, was one of Oriana’s favorite possessions—it had belonged to father.
“I’ve come for my redingote and a bonnet,” she explained on her way to her dressing room. “And my umbrella.”
“A bad afternoon for walking out,” said the maidservant, bending down to lay a stack of neatly folded petticoats in one of the trunks.
Oriana’s errand was important; she would brave the heavy rains. For days she’d waited for another communi cation from Dare, but it hadn’t come, and she was desperate to know his whereabouts. Each time her brass door knocker announced a visitor, her hopes of his return were dashed. Harriot was her most regular visitor, bubbling with excitement over her role as Celia in As You Like It. Matthew Powell had come once, straight from her solicitor’s office, enriched by the sale of her diamonds. Freed from debt, he’d been almost incoherent with relief and gratitude. Today Mick Kelly had come to fulfill her cherished dream.
And in the midst of these events, she could concentrate only on Dare.
Bracing herself against the wind and angling her umbrella to keep the rain off her face, she crossed the square and strolled down Dean Street in the direction of Morland’s Hotel. She handed her dripping umbrella to a servant, and informed the proprietor that she needed to see Ned Crowe.
Henry Morland grinned and jerked his thumb toward the stair. “You’ll find him upstairs, with Sir Darius Corlett’s furniture.”
She discovered the Manxman in a parlor, winding holland cloth around the delicate leg of a an Adam-style console table. An array of similarly shrouded objects surrounded him, and many more waiting to be wrapped—tables, chairs, a set of library steps. Against the wall stood those glass-topped display cabinets made to hold Dare’s minerals and rocks.
“You’re hard at work,” she observed, her buoyant voice at odds with her leaden spirits.
” Ta,” he muttered, securing the protective cloth with a piece of twine. “Mainshtyr Dare sent instructions that I should make everything ready for transport to Deptford. The wagons come in two days to carry his purchases to the docks.”
A sharp spray of raindrops against the glass drew Oriana’s gaze to the window. Watching the water stream down the panes, she asked, “When does the Dorrity set sail?
Ned shrugged. “I’ll be aboard her, that’s all I know-my fiddle, too. I’ve been away from the island long enough.”
“Your master will be in Newmarket. Have you any message I can convey?”
“Tell Mainshtyr Dare he bought too much furniture,” Ned grumbled, moving on to the next piece.
“What you see here is only a part of what he’s got—there are three more rooms, crammed full.”
She forced out a laugh. “I’ll send Sam over to help; that will make your task go quicker.”
This impromptu trip to Morland’s Hotel had leached the few remaining drops of hope from her
heart.
Here was visible, umistakable evidence of Dare’s intent—he would soon return to his island home. Why hadn’t he mentioned it in his letter?
Because, she realized with dire certainty, he believed it would be kinder to break the news in person.
In Newmarket.
Leaving Ned to continue his labors, she made her way downstairs. The attendant opened the door for her, and returned her umbrella. She unfurled it, and set out for home. Unshed tears misted her vision, and her breath came in short, sobbing gasps.
Fate had seldom treated her gently. With one hand it bestowed the coveted position of prima donna.
With the other, it towed Dare away from her.
Much to her amazement—and dismay—she saw the Earl of Rushton’s town carriage standing before her house. The coachman’s head was bowed in discomfort as the rain pelted him, and the capes of his greatcoat flapped in the breeze. Unwilling to reveal her distress to Rushton, she forced her chin higher.
The first test of her composure came when she walked past the square gardens, the setting for so many midnight assignations with her lost lover.
Chapter 28
This Newmarket journey was a stark contrast to Oriana’s previous one. No cuddles and kisses, or halting for carnal delights at a roadside inn. This time, unlike the last, she would have preferred to travel alone.
Through lowered lashes, she glanced at the gentleman beside her. Why she’d accepted his offer to escort her to Suffolk, she wasn’t sure—perhaps because she’d been too astonished by it to refuse.
Rushton wasn’t fond of racing, and she’d wondered why he wished to attend October Meeting.
When he informed her that his daughter was married, she understood: He felt lonely.
“Her ladyship’s wedding came about so suddenly,” she said. The bridegroom had not, it seemed, exposed her efforts to bring about the match.
“Matthew dashed off to London in a great hurry, and returned to Rushton Hall the following week with a special license. The next morning, in the drawing room, Liza became his wife. Later that same day, they set out for his aunt’s house in Wales.”
“How happy they must be.” She was pleased that her detested diamonds had paved the couple’s way to marital bliss.
“When I shall next set eyes on them, I can’t say,” the earl told her. “I return to Cheshire before they take up residence at Rushton House.”
His daughter’s changed circumstances had altered him. He was withdrawn and subdued, and his long silences were symptomatic of his discomfiture.
He knew her full history and, unlike Dare, wouldn’t be entertained by tales of her childhood and youth. Nor did he want to hear theatrical reminiscences, or her experiences while living on the Continent.
And she cared not at all for his dry description of recent parliamentary business. With Dare, the constant flow of dialogue ceased only when they were kissing or making love. Sometimes not even then, she remembered, faintly smiling.
“Rushton Hall will seem very empty,” Rushton commented. “But I have hopes of finding companionship.” The silver-streaked head turned toward her, and his hand settled over hers. His palm was unexpectedly damp. “For a very long time I’ve wanted to bare my heart to you. I waited till the furor over the Teversal affair died down. I couldn’t involve myself in scandal while Liza was establishing herself in London society, but her future is settled. Now I am free as never before. Oriana, you deserve a better life—and I mean to give it to you.”
“Better in what way?” she wondered.
“You’ll find out when you marry me. Be my wife, and you will want for nothing.”
Astonished, she replied swiftly, “I can’t.”
“You say that without considering how we will both benefit,” he responded. “When you become a peeress, your days of currying favor with theater managers—and a fickle public—will end. I shall protect you from men like Corlett, who impose themselves on you to bolster their reputations as libertines.”
Pulling her hand away, she said, “For you, marriage t na St. Albans, the Siren of Soho, would be a liability, not a benefit. Imagine the gossip!”
“We’ll never hear it,” he said soothingly. “We shall conduct ourselves with discretion. I won’t mean to flaunt our union, or present you at court, or even live in town. As Lady Rushton, you’ll make your home in Cheshire. I’ve instructed my solicitor to seek a buyer for your Soho Square house, so you can sell it.”
Stung that he should take her acquiescence for granted, Oriana shook her head. “I cannot—I will not accept your offer, my lord. You do me great honor, and I regret disappointing you with a refusal, but I love—” She hesitated. “Believe me, it’s quite impossible.”
His expression was guarded. “Your infatuation with that Manxman clouds your judgment.”
“Not entirely. My answer would be the same if I’d never met him.”
A loveless, passionless marriage, however respectable, was unthinkable. Exile from London, hiding herself in the country—it sounded like a punishment for her waywardness.
“He is unworthy of you, Oriana, and proved it with his scurrilous boasts. I heard him characterize you as a shameless wanton, lying down for him and raising up your skirts and—”
“Don’t,” she choked. “I won’t let you disparage him.”
“I’ll never mention Corlett’s name again, if you agree to marry me.”
She owed him a credible reason for her decision, and easily found one. “My singing, as you well know, is important to me. I couldn’t possibly give it up.”
“You may sing as often as you please, at home. Is it the music you crave, or the acclaim it brings you?” he asked shrewdly.
“I want both,” she admitted. “My art and my audience.
I do enjoy singing for myself, alone in my music room, or for my close friends. But I also need a stage or concert hall. If that makes me a selfish, shallow person, there’s no help for it.”
To become his countess, she must abandon the career she’d begun at six years old and the richly varied existence filled with music and racing and interesting, creative people. Even worse, she’d have to sever her relationship with Dare.
As a prima donna she would remain in London from winter until summer, when the opera season concluded. More than ever before, she’d be the target of unwanted attentions. The pro-Italian claque would create disturbances, controversy would overshadow her artistry, and all the worst gossip about her private life would be resurrected. But her liaison with Dare could continue, and that, she realized, was the greatest advantage.
As she examined the two opportunities fate had presented, she found both of them lacking. She was no longer entirely comfortable with the familiar existence of Ana St. Albans. But she’d be miserable if she married the earl for convenience, just so she could call herself Lady Rushton.
Their long and awkward journey through Essex and Suffolk ended that night at Gwynn Cottage on Mill Hill. Rushton led her up to the door and kissed her hand before driving back to the Wheatsheaf, the nearest public inn, to seek lodging. She didn’t expect him to remain in the vicinity longer than a single evening. He hadn’t joined her because he liked racing, but to propose matrimony.
“You shouldn’t ought’ve come all the way from London in a day,” Mrs. Biggen scolded her gently.
“Poor dear, you’re looking wan and weary.”
“I’m not surprised,” Oriana replied, accepting a cup of tea.
“Did you dine on the road?”
“Twice. First at Epping, and later at the Crown in Bishop’s Stortford.”
“Fancy a bit of fish?”
“This is all I need.” She sipped the hot brew gratefully.
A countess, she marveled. I could have been a countess— still could be, if I wanted. Only she didn’t. A prima donna, that’s what I shall be, just as my mother dreamed. But the price of her success was terribly high—an inevitable separation from the man she loved. Their love affair afford
ed her many joys, but it also brought despair. Because it was no longer their secret, she must prepare herself for a raging storm of scandal in the days and weeks to come. And she knew he could not remain in London indefinitely.
“A gentleman stopped in to see you no more than an hour ago.”
“My cousin Burford?”
“Nay, ‘twasn’t his lordship. A fine, black-haired fellow, looking like he’d got the worst of it in a brawl.
He’d come over from Moulton Heath to hear the reading of the Steward’s list.”
Dare Corlett, in a fight? “Does he mean to return?”
Mrs. Biggen’s jowls waggled when she shook her head. “Didn’t say. Likely you’ll see him at the course tomorrow.”
Oriana did not doubt it. His filly was running.
The Beauclerk contingent had cause for celebration when Lord Burford’s black horse Weymouth won the very first race, besting Lord Clermont’s entry on the Flat. Dare, at the Armitage stables, heard the cheers but didn’t learn the result until the Duke of Halford announced it.
Lavinia, her willowy figure significantly rounder than it had been in July, said, “Madame St. Albans will be pleased at her cousin’s victory. I hope she laid money on Weymouth.” When Dare failed to respond, she asked, “Have you placed your bet?”
“Twenty-five guineas, to win.”
“A paltry sum—for an owner!” The duchess shook her sleek black head. “You mystify me, Sir Dare, really you do.”
“I’m a shining example of Manx thrift,” he pointed out virtuously. His unwillingness to risk a large sum on his filly stemmed from his need to hoard his money for the Derbyshire miners. He explained to Lavinia, “I’m more a guardian to Combustible than a master. I feel responsible for her, but ours is a distant relationship.”
“Why did you buy her?”
He couldn’t admit that he’d been persuaded by Oriana’s conviction that the filly was a winner, or his own need to please her and strengthen their connection. “Because she’s beautiful and gifted, and deserves a chance to prove her breeding and her talent.”
Improper Advances Page 29