No Mistress of Mine

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  His presence would ruin everything, and Lola spoke up at once. “Oh, but I’m sure his lordship is far too busy—”

  “I’d love to join you, my friend,” he interrupted, and Lola did not miss his emphasis on the pronoun. “But first . . .” He paused, and when he looked at her, Lola felt her dismay deepening into frustration, for she knew she was about to be called on the carpet and dismissed, as if she were a recalcitrant child. “I hope you will excuse us both for a few moments? I need to speak with Miss Valentine privately about certain details involving our . . . partnership.”

  She decided she was in no hurry to be called on the carpet. Instead of rising to her feet, she gestured to her plate. “But I haven’t finished my lunch.”

  “Yes, you have.” Still smiling, he bent down close to her ear, and when he spoke, his voice was low enough to prevent the man across from her from hearing his words. “Roth only appreciates a scene if it’s on stage, and if you don’t come with me right now, there will be a scene, I promise you.”

  Lola knew that Denys hated embarrassing public scenes, too, but she couldn’t afford to assume he was bluffing. She needed Jacob Roth on her side, and she wouldn’t gain that by embarrassing him in the dining room of the Savoy.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told him. “It seems the business Lord Somerton wishes to discuss with me is urgent and cannot wait. If you will pardon us?”

  As she rose to her feet, the director did also, setting aside his napkin with a little bow. “Of course.”

  “Jacob, I’ve already dined,” Denys said, “but would you be so good as to order coffee? I shall rejoin you in a few moments, and we can talk.”

  Lola didn’t miss the glance exchanged by the two men, nor Denys’s exclusion of her from any further conversation. She, no doubt, would be the primary topic of discussion between them later, but there was little she could do about it, so she followed Denys out of the dining room, across the opulent foyer, and down the corridor to the elevators. One carriage was available, its doors open, a liveried attendant waiting. Denys cupped a hand beneath her elbow and stepped inside the elevator, pulling her with him.

  “Now,” he said, propelling her to the back of the elevator and out of the way as the boy closed the wood-paneled doors and the wrought-iron gate, “tell me what you think you’re doing.”

  “Having lunch?” she suggested with an air of bright good cheer.

  “You mean you were cozying up to my director, though how you found out he would be dining here defies explanation.”

  That made her smile. “I have my methods.”

  “I daresay. And by waylaying Roth in this shameless fashion, what do you hope to gain? Information? Support?”

  “Both, actually, but my main goal was to gain advice on how best to deal with my partner.”

  “I can tell you how to do that. Go away.”

  A little cough broke in before she could reply, and both of them glanced toward the attendant, who was gazing at them in polite inquiry, his hand poised atop the brass orb of the elevator mechanism.

  When she didn’t supply the requisite information, Denys turned toward her with a sound of impatience. “Where’s your room?”

  “Why, Lord Somerton, what an improper question,” she murmured, unable to resist needling him. “I’m not sure I should answer you. The Savoy isn’t really that sort of hotel, you know.”

  “Your room?” he repeated in a hard voice.

  “You’ve become so staid.” She glanced at the boy, who was staring at the floor, pink as a peony, and she took pity on him. “Sixth floor,” she said.

  The young man gave her a grateful glance, then pulled out the handle, turned the crank, and sent the elevator into motion.

  “You didn’t used to be this way, you know,” she went on, returning her attention to Denys as they were carried upward. “You’ve changed.”

  “Yes, I have,” he agreed at once. “I’ve grown up.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?”

  “I do. What would you call it?”

  She studied him for a moment, thinking how to describe the changes in him. Her mind flashed back to their days in Paris and London half a dozen years ago, and the affable, carefree young man she’d fallen in love with. “Sad,” she said at last.

  He made a sound of derision at that description, but though he seemed to want to argue the point, he didn’t do so. Instead, he turned away, staring straight ahead, and they traveled the remaining floors in silence.

  When the elevator deposited them at the sixth floor, she removed her room key from her handbag as Denys handed the attendant a tip, but when she started down the corridor toward her room, he didn’t move to follow her, and she stopped. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No. We can say what we need to say right here. It’s private enough, I daresay.” He cast a pointed glance over his shoulder at the attendant, who gave a start and immediately pulled the doors closed, vanishing from view.

  “Don’t worry,” she said in some amusement as Denys returned his attention to her. “I doubt an elevator boy has the power to ruin your reputation.”

  “It was decided,” he said stolidly, “that we would settle the matter of this ridiculous partnership through solicitors.”

  “That’s what you decided.” She dropped the key into her bag and closed it with a snap. “I decided something different.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish by accosting Jacob while he is enjoying his lunch?”

  “He didn’t seem to mind my company. An unfathomable concept to you, I know, but true nonetheless. As for the rest, solicitors are always so slow, and I didn’t feel it was wise to dither. Auditions for the season’s acting company are on Monday.”

  “A fact that has nothing to do with you.”

  She sighed, noting the hard set of his jaw. “Look, I realize this is all still quite a shock to you, but does railing against facts accomplish anything? If you intend to continue this intransigence, our partnership shall be fraught with strife.”

  “All the more reason not to continue with it, then.” He spread his hands in a self-evident gesture. “How much?”

  She blinked at the abrupt question. “How much what?”

  “I want to make an offer for your share of the Imperial. I’ll be generous, I promise you. Name your terms.”

  She was shaking her head in refusal before he’d even finished speaking. “I’m not selling.”

  “I should advise you to reconsider. Given our history, we can’t possibly work together.”

  “Ah, but we don’t have to work together,” she said sweetly. “All you have to do is let me know where to send your share of the profits.”

  He didn’t seem amused by having his own words thrown back at him, for his expression became even grimmer than before. “This notion that you and I could ever work together is mad.”

  “I thought so myself at first, but after thinking it over, I changed my mind. I believe it can work if we both give it a chance.”

  “I don’t want to give it a chance. So, how much money will it take to end it?”

  She closed her eyes, remembering how his father had once asked her a similar question.

  How much money will make you go away?

  She opened her eyes and gave the same answer. “I won’t take your money.”

  “Taking all receipts and expenses into consideration,” he went on, and she wondered if, like his father, he was going to pull out his checkbook and start writing a check. “The theater has, at best, a profit margin of five thousand pounds per annum. So twenty thousand pounds is a fair offer, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “More than fair,” she acknowledged, “but irrelevant.”

  “It would be a sure thing, Lola. Theater, on the other hand, is always uncertain. The public’s tastes are fickle and arbitrary. Over half of all theatrical productions lose money.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “The Imperial doesn’t use outside financial backers.”

  �
�Thank God,” she muttered, thinking of Henry’s investors.

  “As a partner,” he went on doggedly, “you would be expected to contribute capital anytime a show fails.”

  “Which is why Henry left me cash along with my interest in the theater,” she reminded him. “And I have cash of my own.”

  “A few flops, and your money will be gone.”

  “Since the Imperial has made money every year you’ve been managing it, I’m not particularly worried.”

  “You seem well informed about our financial condition.”

  “I am,” she countered at once. “Would you expect any less of a partner?”

  “Despite your faith in my abilities, I have backed plays that lose money. You,” he added with a pointed glance, “ought to know that better than anyone.”

  This reminder of A Doll’s House, of how badly she’d failed in her first attempt at acting and how much money he’d lost as a result of her failure, made her cheeks flush with heat, but she refused to be intimidated by that. “Yes, Denys,” she agreed with as much dignity as she could muster. “I do know.”

  “Theater is a capricious business. What I’m offering you is a sure thing. Combined with what Henry left you, it would put an enormous fortune at your disposal, enabling you to live in luxury, with no risk to your future. Or you could marry. You would certainly have a sizable dowry to offer.”

  His assumption that snaring a good marriage prospect and living a life of luxury were what she cared about flicked her on the raw. “If security and luxury and marriage were the only things that mattered to me, I’d have married you.”

  He stiffened, telling her she’d just stepped onto thin ice, but when he spoke, his voice was politely stiff. “Quite so.”

  “Hell,” she said, regretting her impetuous retort. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he cut her off. “What if we make it twenty-five thousand? Thirty,” he added, when she continued to shake her head.

  The ease with which he raised the amount of his offer told her he was prepared to go even higher, but no matter the amount, it remained irrelevant. “Stop, Denys. Please stop. This isn’t about money or what money can buy. It’s about my dream.”

  He stared at her, horror dawning in his face. “Oh, God,” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “I remember the two of us having this exact same conversation about six years ago.”

  “Yes, and A Doll’s House did not change my mind. Despite that failure, I still want to become a respected dramatic actress.”

  “I don’t know whether to admire your tenacity or question your sanity.”

  “Henry’s legacy gives me a chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I fail to see what your aspirations to act have to do with the Imperial or with me.” He folded his arms, looking grimmer than ever. “Perhaps you’d better explain that part.”

  The hallway of the Savoy was not where she’d have chosen to discuss it. On the other hand, he was standing still and listening to her. She might not get a better chance than this.

  “Henry believed in me. He never doubted that I could act.”

  “Good on him. But as far as I know, he never financed an actual play for you, did he?”

  “He would have done. Eventually,” she added, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “But he never got the chance.”

  “Or he never intended to do so because he had already learned from my mistake, and he was just jollying you along all this time so he could make money off you. Either way,” he went on before she could take issue with his assessment of Henry’s motives, “the fact remains that he didn’t renew your acting career himself. He chose to foist you on me.”

  “I’m not being foisted on you! I’m your partner. I’m prepared to assume all the responsibilities that come with that position.”

  “Ah, but owning a theater wasn’t your dream. Your dream was about acting.”

  “The two things are not mutually exclusive, as you well know. Many actors own or manage their own theaters. Sir Henry Irving, for example, manages and acts at the Lyceum. He directs, too.”

  “Sir Henry Irving has the bona fides to back up that sort of hubris.”

  “I have bona fides, too, Denys. I have accomplishments. My one-woman show has been a hit for five seasons running.”

  “Which is still musical revue. A Doll’s House aside, you have no real acting experience.”

  “That’s not true. I’m acting every moment I’m on stage.”

  “It’s not the same thing, and you know it. So, what is expected of me, then? Because you’re my partner, I am now required to put you in my plays?”

  “Our plays,” she corrected. “And hiring the season’s acting company is not your decision, or mine. It’s the manager’s. And choosing who in the company is cast in each play is up to each play’s director. You relinquished control of all that when you took over for your father.”

  “As I said earlier, you are well-informed. And since Jacob Roth is my theater manager, as well as the director of our first play of the season, you are here to butter him up.”

  “I wasn’t buttering him up! All right,” she amended, as he gave her a skeptical look, “maybe I was, but so what?”

  “You think a few smiles over lunch will gain you a place in the company? Or did you offer him something more?”

  Lola bristled. “I am not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

  “You needn’t pretend it’s an alien concept to you,” he shot back, his voice tight. “But Jacob won’t play that game. He’d never put a woman who can’t act in one of his plays just because he wants to sleep with her.”

  “I didn’t become your lover because of your contacts in theater, and I never used our relationship as leverage for my ambition to act. Never. A Doll’s House might have been a failure, and my poor performance might have been the reason why, but I never asked you to finance that play for me.”

  “That’s true,” he admitted, but the bitterness in his voice told her there was no victory for her in the admission. “Putting you in that play was my folly and mine alone. It was also one of the most painful performances I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Lola sucked in a sharp breath, surprised by how much it hurt to hear him say that even though she knew it was true. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not so long that I’ve forgotten what happened. Do I need to remind you how all the critics shredded you into spills? How we had to close the play after only a one-week run? How your fellow actors blamed you for bringing the entire play down?”

  “All right, you’ve made your point,” she muttered, hating that years of hard work and proved success could not seem to erase her biggest, most spectacular failure. “But it was the first dramatic role I’d ever done, and I’d had no training. Since then—”

  “The Imperial is a Shakespearean theater,” he cut in. “Have you any experience in Shakespeare? Any at all?”

  She thought of all the time she’d spent studying, all the mornings when, still bone-tired from the previous night’s show, she’d gotten out of bed to attend acting classes, to study with tutors, practicing roles such as Juliet, Lady Macbeth, and Desdemona, reciting passages from Hamlet or The Tempest, until now, she knew the lines of Shakespeare’s greatest heroines by heart. “I have training in Shakespeare, including Othello. I know the role of Desdemona backward and forward—”

  “In other words,” he cut in incisively, folding his arms, “you’re a dedicated amateur.”

  “I am not an amateur! I have vast experience on stage and a proved record of successful performing. And I’ve spent all my spare time training for dramatic acting. Henry hired tutors, I went to classes. He even worked with me himself. He taught me so much—”

  “Yes,” Denys cut in, his voice icy. “I daresay he did.”

  Frustration welled up within her, for though Denys was the only man who’d ever backed her in something that didn’t involve using her body in a provocative way,
she knew damn well he hadn’t done it because he thought she had talent.

  “Considering our prior relationship,” she said coolly, “I don’t think you have room to take the high ground on what Henry did for me, do you?”

  He stiffened, demonstrating she’d made her point. “Either way, A Doll’s House was a huge mistake, and I never make the same mistake twice.”

  She took a deep breath, reminding herself they were supposed to be on the same side. “Denys, I realize you lost a lot of money—”

  “Sod the money. My involvement with you cost me something far more important than money. It cost me the respect of my family, something it’s taken me years to earn back.”

  “Having spent over a decade strutting around a stage, displaying my body for men to look at, I think I know a little something about lost respect, too,” she shot back.

  He pressed his lips together and looked away, shaking his head, and she didn’t know if he was trying to deny her point, or if he was just so exasperated with her that he didn’t know what to reply. “Denys, your relationship with your family isn’t at risk. They can hardly blame you for any of this. Besides, it’s Roth, not you, who makes the final decision about which actors are hired for the season, and your family knows that.”

  “And you think that lets me off the hook and makes everything all right?” His gaze swerved to her again. “The moment London society finds out about this partnership, they’ll think we’ve rekindled our affair, Roth be damned.”

  “I realize you’ve always cared what people think far more than I ever have, but being that you’re a man, this situation won’t hurt your reputation.”

  “You think not? If you’re in one of my plays, I’ll be the laughingstock of London for being twice a fool over you.”

  “You’re only twice a fool if I fail. If I do well, you’re clever. Nothing succeeds like success.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not willing to take that risk a second time,” he said dryly.

  “So what will you do? Attempt to block me? Tell Roth not to let me audition? Why not just trust our manager to make the right decision? I’m willing to accept it either way,” she went on without waiting for an answer. “I didn’t come into this expecting a place in the acting company just because I’m a partner. I’m happy to audition like any other performer. I just want the chance to prove myself.”