by Jane Feather
“You don’t care for the idea?”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of playing the part.”
Peregrine laughed. “My dear girl, I doubt there’s a part on any stage in the world that you could not play to perfection . . . Ah, we are here.” He opened the door as the hackney drew to a halt on the corner of Long Acre and James Street. “Let us alight here. We’ll stroll to the Shakespeare Head. They have a pleasant coffee room where we won’t encounter any of the town bucks, and we’ll get a good dinner.”
He jumped down and offered his hand. Alex took it and stepped to the street, instantly overwhelmed by the sounds and smells of Covent Garden, the biggest flesh market in the city and the playground of the licentious rich.
As they walked down James Street, she couldn’t take her eyes from the parading courtesans, the hasty fumblings of lesser whores and their clients behind the pillars of the Piazza, and the kiosks selling pornographic texts and drawings. This didn’t seem the kind of place that the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan would frequent. But he seemed completely at home, guiding her with a proprietorial hand under her elbow, shielding her from passing sedan chairs and boisterous pedestrians, and all the time, she was conscious of his gaze on her, watching her every reaction.
“Here we are.” Peregrine stopped outside a tavern, whose sign bore the face of William Shakespeare. He opened the door and ushered her inside. The taproom was hot and noisy, laughter and smoke curling to the blackened rafters, a log fire blazing in the massive inglenook fireplace. He steered Alexandra through the crowd and into a quieter chamber beyond the taproom and under the narrow staircase.
Several gentlemen with their female companions sat at dinner, and Perry moved unerringly to a small table and benches in the window nook at the far end. “We will be more private here.” He moved the table to allow Alexandra easy access to the bench in the window and leaned back to wave at the tavern wench who was moving among the tables with laden plates and flagons of wine.
She came over quickly. “Sir?”
“Tansy cakes, a pigeon pie, and a flagon of Rhenish, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.” She bobbed her head and vanished, her now-empty tray held high over her head.
Alex leaned back into the window embrasure. “So, tell me, sir, how does a mistress act in public?”
She ought to have been shocked at herself for asking the question, she thought with an inner chuckle, but it seemed entirely in keeping with the present situation.
“I have no idea,” Peregrine answered.
“Have you never had a mistress, then?” She forgot the game for a moment.
He chuckled. “Such indelicacy, my dear.”
“That’s a trifle hypocritical, since it was your suggestion that I play the part,” she retorted.
“So it was. Well, to answer truthfully, I have never kept a mistress. Have I explored the regions where flesh is for sale? Well, yes, within limits.”
Alexandra absorbed this. It seemed rather deliciously dangerous waters to enter. “So,” she said, “if I were to be truly your mistress, would you set me up with a house?”
“That would be customary.” He turned as the serving wench came up with a flagon of golden wine and two goblets. “Thank you.” The girl set down her burdens and disappeared again.
Perry filled the goblets, raising his in a toast. “To a new charade, Mistress Player.”
“A new charade,” she murmured, taking a sip of wine. “Where do gentlemen such as yourself ordinarily set up their mistresses?”
Peregrine looked at her askance. “Are you interested in such a position, ma’am?”
Her eyes danced. She was happy to play this game; it was a welcome change from the usual one. “I don’t know yet. I have to try it out first. But if I’m to play this part, then I need to know the narrative.”
“Of course you do.” Irrationally, he now found himself unwilling to enter into the spirit of the game as readily as Alexandra. “Such a consummate actor must, of course, be fully prepared.”
Alex felt the sting in the words and was silent for a moment. The serving girl returned with a tray balanced on her shoulder. She set a dish of thin, crisp green fritters on the table, then the golden-crusted pie, a loaf of wheaten bread, and two platters, with barely a break in the rhythm of her movements, and then moved away in answer to another call from across the room.
“Ma’am?” Peregrine gestured to the pie. “Will you do the honors?”
Alex sliced into the pie and spooned a large helping onto her companion’s platter, then helped herself more moderately. Succulent steam rose from the dish, and despite the sudden coolness of the conversation, her appetite was stimulated, and she remembered that it had been many hours since she’d last eaten.
She took one of the fritters and bit into it, observing, “ ’Tis been an age since I had a true tansy cake.”
“And when would that have been, exactly?” he inquired, taking one for himself, his eyes on her countenance. “In the young ladies’ seminary, perhaps? Or in your father’s parsonage?”
Damn the man. He never missed a trick. “At home,” she said firmly. “My father’s cook made them very well. She used sorrel and spinach, I believe.”
“Ah.” He nodded and took up his fork. “Nicely dodged, my dear.” He forked a mouthful of pigeon pie. He hadn’t missed the flash of chagrin in those gray eyes.
They ate in silence for a while, Peregrine watching her expression. He had touched a nerve. Alexandra played her various parts to perfection, but she—the real Alexandra—wasn’t really comfortable with the charade. It reassured him a little. If she was a consummate actor, if the deceptions were somehow essential to who she was, then he was in love with an anathema.
He was in love with her. But if this woman were finally revealed as someone he could not begin to love, as against being in love with, then it would be time he withdrew and started to protect himself. But the enigma persisted. He felt now that he was beginning to know the true Alexandra, even through the veil she drew over her identity. But until she was prepared to open herself to him, to seek his help in whatever dreadful situation held her fast, he could only hover, probe, and persist.
Chapter Twelve
Alexandra was acutely aware of her companion’s watchful and questioning gaze throughout the meal, although he said nothing and seemed to be eating with enjoyment. Around them, the voices of their fellow diners rose and fell, masking the silence at their own table. The serving wench set down a basket of custard tarts, and Peregrine refilled their glasses as she took away the detritus of the first course.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled at Alex over his goblet. “So, I bethought me of our postprandial entertainment. You owe me a game of chess.”
Alex looked startled. “Do they have a chessboard here?”
“I don’t know. Quite possibly. But I came prepared.” He reached into the deep pocket of his coat and drew out a delicate enameled case embedded with lapis lazuli. He flicked open the little silver clasp with a fingertip and lifted the lid, which revealed a miniature chessboard of black and white ivory.
“Oh, ’tis beautiful,” Alex exclaimed. “May I see?”
The chess pieces were already in place, held onto the board with magnetized bases. “I am very fond of it,” he said. “It belonged to my uncle, Viscount Bradley. He’s something of a collector, although in general, his collection is representative of rather less socially acceptable art forms.” A rather sardonic smile touched his mouth. “But in a most extraordinary fit of generosity, on one occasion, he gave me this.”
Alex lifted the delicately carved pieces reverently. “They’re jade.”
“Yes. Chinese jade. My uncle acquired it on one of his trips to China.”
“A very well-traveled gentleman,” Alex observed, all their previous constraint forgotten as she examined each piece in turn.
Perry chuckled. “He’s certainly that. He’s traded in India, China, and Japan and amassed a vast fortu
ne in the process.”
Alex looked up from the king she was holding and shot him a shrewd glance. “You don’t sound as if you care for him very much . . . or approve of him.”
“That would be an accurate observation,” he said. “But unfortunately, he holds the family fortunes in the palm of his hand.”
“Oh? How so?” She set down the king on its black square.
“He has made some rather eccentric conditions in his will. My brothers and I, if we’re to inherit his fortune, must dance to a distinctly deviant tune.” Perry took a custard tart from the basket and bit into it with pleasure. “Something you might find some sympathy with, I imagine.”
Alex bit her lip. “There is nothing deviant about what I’m doing.” Which, of course, wasn’t strictly true. She was, after all, engaged in something that could be called thievery if you chose to look at it in that light. She quashed that reflection and met his gaze directly.
“Well, I won’t argue with you,” he said easily. “Since I have no idea what it is you’re up to, I’m not in a position to judge.”
“No,” she agreed, setting the pieces up properly on the board. “If this is to be a rematch, I play white this time.”
He shook his head and took two pawns from the board. “This is not a rematch, my dear. You and I have never played a game of chess.” He put his hands behind his back, moved the pieces between them several times, and brought them out. “Take your pick.”
Alex had to admit he was right. She certainly hadn’t given him a game. She picked his right hand, which revealed the white pawn. “Well, it comes to the same thing,” she observed, playing the queen’s gambit, pawn to queen four. She helped herself to a tart, settling comfortably into the window seat. Would he decline or accept the gambit?
Peregrine chose to decline it, and Alex smiled. Much more interesting that way. Peregrine decided he didn’t like that smile. His opponent seemed far too sure of herself for comfort. And as the game played out, he saw it slipping from him with an inexorable momentum that he could not begin to arrest.
“You are the very devil, Alexandra,” he exclaimed as she forced him to move his king’s bishop so that her pawn had an unimpeded path to his back line. She merely smiled that smile again and moved the pawn, dusting off her hands in a symbolic gesture. “My pawn is queened.”
“Nicely played, ma’am.” A voice spoke suddenly over her shoulder. “Sullivan, m’dear fellow, you appear to be facing checkmate in three.”
Alexandra looked up, startled. A tall gentleman in a white wig, wearing a somewhat threadbare brown coat, stood behind her, looking down at the board through a quizzing glass.
“I didn’t expect to run into you here, Maskelyne.” Peregrine rose to his feet. “I’d assumed you’d be dining as usual at the Royal Society.”
“Oh, you know what they say about change,” the newcomer declared. “ ’Tis as good as a rest. Besides, on Fridays, the kitchen serves tripe, and ’tis a dish I abominate.”
Peregrine turned to Alex, who was still sitting at the board, gazing at their new arrival with an air of almost wonderment. “Mistress Player, may I introduce the Reverend Nevil Maskelyne. Maskelyne, Mistress Player.”
“An honor, Mistress Player.” The gentleman bowed low.
Alexandra found her tongue. “Indeed, sir, the honor must be all mine. You are Reverend Maskelyne, the astronomer, are you not? I followed your writings when the Royal Society sent you to St. Helena last year to observe the transit of Venus. I am most fascinated by the principle of parallax, sir. If ’tis possible to measure the distance from the earth to the sun, then all knowledge of the size of the solar system will be laid open for us.”
Her face was flushed with excitement, her eyes aglow as she continued in a rush, “And I understand you are at present working on a book about your research on the voyage to use the lunar position to determine longitude.”
“You are very well informed, ma’am,” the Reverend Maskelyne said with a rather gratified smile.
“Amazingly so,” Peregrine concurred. “You never cease to amaze me, Mistress Player. Where, I wonder, did you have access to my friend’s research?”
Alexandra said stiffly, “Scientific papers, particularly those from the Royal Society, were of particular interest to my father.” Which was true, she reflected. Her father had stimulated her interest in mathematics, science in general and astronomy in particular, and had once shown her a letter from the Reverend Maskelyne in answer to a research query of his own, but it was Helene Simmons, who had a connection with a member of the Royal Society, who had provided her with much more detailed information on much of the research of its members. She had shared this knowledge with her pupil, and the two of them had spent many long nights happily studying the skies from the Barton cliff top through Helene’s telescope.
Perry wondered if he believed her and then decided it didn’t matter. She had the knowledge, however it was acquired.
“Indeed, ma’am, I wonder if I was acquainted with your father,” Nevil Maskelyne said. “I correspond regularly with gentlemen who have an amateur interest in astronomy. But a Master Player . . .” He shook his head. “I confess, the name does not ring a bell.”
Get yourself out of that one, Mistress Alexandra. Peregrine waited with interest to see how she would respond.
“I doubt you would have corresponded with him, sir. He was very much a recluse,” Alex prevaricated. The urge to expand the lie was difficult to resist, but she had learned to keep the untruths as brief and simple as possible. Sir Arthur Douglas had, indeed, corresponded with Master Maskelyne on at least one occasion to her knowledge. He had many friends who were members of the Royal Society and corresponded with them regularly.
Fortunately, Reverend Maskelyne showed no interest in pursuing the subject. He returned his attention to the miniature board. “I wonder, ma’am, if, in my friend’s shoes, I were to move my bishop to queen three, like so, it might avert mate by exposing your king in four moves to a threat of check from my king’s rook, thus forcing a draw.”
Alexandra frowned at the board for a few moments, then, without saying anything, moved her knight. Both Peregrine and the astronomer examined the board anew. “I don’t see how that move . . . Oh, yes, of course.” Peregrine shook his head. “No.” He held up an arresting hand as Alex moved. “Let me play this through.” He moved a piece and glanced at the astronomer, who gave a rueful nod.
“Aye,” he said. “If the lady plays the knight, then ’tis inevitable. You must bring the last two pawns into play, my friend, like so, and the lady will play her bishop, like so.”
“And she will have my king, like so,” Perry said, laying the king on its side. “One of these days, we must play a game I can win. How’s your piquet?”
She shrugged. “I enjoy the game, sir.”
Maskelyne laughed. “Well, I’m for my dinner. I’ll leave you to your inevitable defeats, my friend.” He laid a hand on Perry’s shoulder before bowing to Alexandra. “Your most obedient servant, Mistress Player. ’Tis a great shame the Royal Society do not permit ladies on the premises, because I feel sure you would hold your own amongst what we like to consider our august company.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Alex bowed from her seated position and began to put the chess pieces on their correct squares once more as Maskelyne departed.
Perry’s hand closed over hers as she lowered the delicate lid of the box. Her hand stilled beneath the warm pressure of his, and she felt her breath suspended, as if she were waiting for something unknown but of vital importance to happen. Around them, the cheerful noise of the coffee room continued, but she heard it now as if from a distant plane.
Peregrine moved his free hand to cup her chin, lifting her face so that her gray eyes met his penetrating gaze. “Your father corresponded with the Reverend Maskelyne, didn’t he, Alexandra?”
“Yes,” she murmured. Suddenly, the lies overwhelmed her. She couldn’t keep them up any longer, or at least, not tonig
ht.
“So, who was he?”
She jerked her chin out of his hold and stood up abruptly. “I have to go home.” She slid her hand out from his on the chess box, and he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, although his mouth had thinned and his eyes showed clear disappointment.
“Come.” He put a hand under her elbow and ushered her out of the coffee room, through the raucous crowd in the taproom, and out into the equally raucous Piazza. He ushered her along the colonnade to Russell Street, where a line of hackneys waited. “Berkeley Square,” he called up to the jarvey as he handed Alexandra inside.
He climbed in after her, closed the door, and settled on the opposite bench, regarding her gravely. “I would like you to agree to something, Alexandra.”
A little quiver of apprehension crept up her spine. “Agree to what?”
“That you will tell me no more lies. They do neither of us any good. I know when you’re lying, so ’tis pointless for you to make the effort. And they make me very angry. I don’t care to be angry; I find it a tiresome and wasteful emotion.”
Alex closed her eyes for a moment against the light flickering from the torches in the street outside. “I cannot tell you the truth,” she said, her voice sounding to her ears as if it were coming from some distance. “If you press me to do so, I cannot see you again.”
“And do you wish to see me again?” He didn’t move from his seemingly relaxed position against the seat back.
“Yes,” she said softly. In her present state, she couldn’t have lied about that if she’d been told that the headsman awaited her on Tower Hill if she told the truth.
Slowly, Peregrine smiled, and the grimness left his mouth. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I most certainly wish to see you, Alexandra.” He leaned forward, took her arms, and pulled her across the small space separating them. He drew her down beside him and then knocked with his fist on the roof of the hackney. The coachman slowed his horses and leaned down from the box, and Perry pushed his head out through the window.
“Take us to Stratton Street,” he instructed.