No Occupation for a Lady

by Gail Whitiker

  ‘By the by,’ Collins said, ‘is it true you’ve stopped seeing Lady Frances Shaftsbury? I thought the two of you were as good as engaged.’

  ‘We were, until I found out Lady Frances was equally enamoured of the Marquess of Kopeham,’ Alistair said distantly. ‘If I cannot trust a woman to tell me the truth before we’re married, what hope is there for honesty after the vows are taken?’

  ‘All women lie, Dev. Harkens back to the Garden of Eden,’ Collins said. ‘Eve probably told Adam nothing would happen if he bit into the apple, and we all know how wrong that went.’

  ‘Fortunately, there are more women in the garden now and a man isn’t compelled to marry the first one that comes along.’

  ‘Perhaps, but attractive daughters of wealthy earls don’t come along every day either.’

  ‘No, but I will not suffer the company of a woman who lies. Secrets may abound in society, but they have no place in the relationship between a husband and his wife,’ Alistair said. ‘If I cannot trust the woman to whom I would give my name, I would rather not give it at all.’ For a moment, his gaze returned and lingered, somewhat regretfully, on Victoria Bretton. ‘Life is unpredictable enough. No point making it worse by starting everything off on the wrong foot.’

  Chapter Two

  A Lady’s Choice was an amusing satire about the foibles of married life. It was clever without being condescending, moralistic without being straitlaced, and funny without being ribald. Alistair actually found himself chuckling at the subtle innuendos flying back and forth and was moved to think that Valentine Lawe was a man who understood the ups and downs of marital relationships.

  As such, when the actors delivered their final lines and Mr Templeton walked back on to the stage, Alistair rose to his feet along with the rest of the audience to pay the cast a long and well-deserved tribute.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Templeton said. ‘I am gratified by your response and delighted that A Lady’s Choice has lived up to your expectations.’

  ‘Where’s Valentine Lawe?’ shouted a voice from the audience.

  The cry was picked up and echoed throughout the theatre, but Templeton only shook his head. ‘I regret to inform you that Mr Lawe is not with us this evening, but I thank you on his behalf and will be sure to communicate your pleasure to him. And now, I am pleased to introduce the talented members of the cast.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Collins whispered in Alistair’s ear. ‘Pay attention. You’re looking for Signy and Miss Lambert.’

  The performers came out two by two, with the lesser members of the cast leading the way. A young actress whose performance had greatly impressed Alistair turned out to be a Miss Catherine Jones, who took her bows with the portly gentleman who had played the vicar. Miss Lambert, a buxom blonde with a voluptuous figure, came out with the older woman who had played the part of Elizabeth’s mother.

  Collins nudged Alistair in the ribs. ‘There. Take note so you can find Miss Lambert later on.’

  Alistair smiled, but saw no point in telling his friend he would have been far more inclined to approach the sylph-like Miss Jones than the overblown Miss Lambert.

  Then Signy Chermonde and Victor Trumphani made their entrance to a thunderous round of applause. Signy was truly a beautiful woman and Alistair had no doubt she would enjoy an illustrious career both on and off the stage. Trumphani, too, possessed the kind of polished masculine appeal that would appeal to débutantes or duchesses, and after taking their final bows, the pair stepped back to let Mr Templeton reclaim centre stage.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I know I speak for Valentine Lawe when I say how pleased I am by your response to A Lady’s Choice. I hope you will come back and enjoy it again. Now, after a brief musicale interlude, we present Mi Scuzi!’

  Not surprisingly, a good portion of the audience stayed on its feet to get a better look at the people around them, but, having fulfilled his obligation, Alistair decided it was time to leave. Collins would no doubt abandon him to seek out his hoped-for new ladybird, and given that the occupants of the box opposite had already left, Alistair saw no point in staying for the operetta. His grasp of Italian was such that he could follow the lyrics if they were sung with any degree of proficiency, but he feared an English soprano with no ear for the language would mangle it beyond all hope of recognition. Better he leave now while he could still take away a favourable impression of the evening.

  He was almost at the door when he saw her. Victoria Bretton was standing alone in the vestibule, her head down, her attention focused on the evening cape in her hands. She seemed to be attempting to undo a knot in one of the ribbons, but her efforts were hampered by the weight of the garment and by the constant brushing of people as they passed.

  Clearly, the lady was in need of assistance.

  Alistair slowly made his way through the throng and stopped a few feet away from her. She truly was a pleasure to behold. Her face was a perfect oval set upon a slender neck that rose from smooth shoulders seductively displayed by the low bodice of the gown. As he moved closer, his gaze dropped to the rubies nestled in the shadowy cleft between her breasts, aware that the stones were almost as magnificent as what they were nestled in...

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The tone, completely at odds with the colour blossoming in her cheeks, caused Alistair to smile. ‘Forgive me, Miss Bretton. I was lost in admiration of your necklace.’ His gaze rose to a pair of bright blue eyes framed by long lashes under an artful sweep of honey-gold brows. ‘It is...a striking piece.’

  ‘It is a replica of one given to an Egyptian princess by a devoted swain. My aunt was kind enough to lend it to me for the evening.’ Her chin rose, but her colour remained high. ‘May I ask how you know my name?’

  ‘I noticed you when you walked into your box,’ Alistair said, seeing no reason to dissemble. ‘When I asked my companion who you were, he kindly vouchsafed your name. May I?’ he asked, indicating the cloak. ‘Undoing knots is a speciality of mine.’

  She glanced down at the twisted ribbons and, after a moment, said ‘thank you’ and handed the cloak to him, adding, ‘Was there a reason you wanted to know who I was?’

  ‘Curiosity.’ Alistair tucked the garment under his arm and set to work. ‘Most people prefer to observe the antics going on around them than the ones taking place on the stage. You were clearly more interested in the play.’

  ‘It is the reason I come to the theatre,’ she said simply. ‘If I wished to observe society at play, I would go to one of the many soirées held for that purpose.’ There was a brief pause before she said, ‘Why did you come to the Gryphon tonight? To see the play or to watch the other entertainments taking place?’

  Alistair smiled. It seemed Collins hadn’t been mistaken when he’d said that Miss Bretton was fond of plain speaking. ‘I came to see the play.’

  ‘And what did you think of it?’

  ‘That it was humorous, well plotted and skilfully enacted.’

  ‘Then you enjoyed it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you come often to the theatre, Mr—?’

  ‘Devlin. And, no, I do not.’ The knots untied, he shook out the cloak. ‘On the few occasions I have, I’ve found the farces ridiculous, the historical adaptations weak and the melodramas pathetically overacted.’

  ‘But you did not feel that way about this play?’

  ‘No. I was caught up in the story from beginning to end,’ Alistair said, placing the velvet cloak around her shoulders. ‘Something rather rare for me and I admit to being pleasantly surprised.’

  Then she did smile. Gloriously. Without reservation. The way she had smiled at her brother earlier—and the words were out of Alistair’s mouth before he even realised he was thinking them. ‘Miss Bretton, I wo
nder if I might call upon you tomorrow morning.’

  Her eyes widened, but she did not blush. ‘It is very kind of you to ask, Mr Devlin, but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.’

  ‘Of course. Tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘I’m not sure what time I shall be home.’

  ‘The following day, then?’

  This time, a hint of colour did rise to her cheeks. ‘Mr Devlin, pray do not think me rude or unkind, but there really is no point in you calling. You have told me all I wanted to hear.’

  ‘About the play, perhaps, but there is so much more—’

  ‘Actually, there is nothing more,’ she interrupted. ‘I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me, but it would be best if you did not pursue this. It is evident we would not suit.’

  ‘Not suit?’ He gazed at her in confusion. ‘How can you say that when you know absolutely nothing about me?’

  ‘Ah, but I do know something about you, Mr Devlin, and it is that which compels me to demur. Good evening.’

  With that, she walked towards the double doors where her brother was waiting for her and, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, left the theatre with him.

  Too bemused to offer a reply, Alistair watched them go, aware that for the first time in his life he was actually at a loss for words. The lady had put him off! He had gone to the trouble of tracking her down and of making his interest known—and she had put him off. Not because she hadn’t known who he was—but because she had!

  ‘What, still here, Dev?’ Collins said, sauntering across the floor to join him. ‘I thought you left half an hour ago.’

  ‘I did, but I ran into Miss Bretton and stopped to have a word.’

  ‘How providential,’ Collins drawled. ‘Well, what did you think? Was she as tactless and unpredictable as I led you to believe?’

  The question recalled Alistair to the lady’s parting words. ‘I appreciate the trouble you went to in finding me, but it would be best if you did not pursue this. It is evident we would not suit.’

  ‘She was far from tactless, but I am not convinced that meeting me was the highlight of her evening,’ Alistair said drily.

  ‘Nonsense! Any girl would be delighted at being singled out for attention by a nonpareil like you.’

  Alistair didn’t bother telling his friend that Miss Bretton hadn’t seemed at all delighted by her so-called good fortune. On the contrary, she seemed genuinely convinced they had nothing in common—and, irrationally, that irked him. While it was true they might not have anything in common, how could she know until they’d had an opportunity to spend some time together? A man deserved a chance to fall from grace before a lady cast him out. Surely it was only fair he be given that chance before being dismissed out of hand.

  * * *

  Victoria had not spent many hours in sleep that night. How could she have slept when everything within her was shouting with joy! She had wanted to dance across the rooftops, to shout her happiness from the top of St Paul’s.

  A Lady’s Choice had been a success! The cast had recited their lines to perfection, the scene changes had gone without a hitch and the musicians had timed their crescendos and pianissimos exquisitely. If she died this very instant, she would go to heaven with the most contented smile on her face.

  The fact she had spent time talking to one of London’s most eligible bachelors really had nothing to do with it. It had been pleasant to bandy words with the gentleman and flattering to know that he was interested in calling upon her, but at the moment, there was no room for romance in Victoria’s life. And certainly not with a man like that!

  ‘Alors, you are finally awake!’ her maid said, appearing at Victoria’s bedside with a cup of warm chocolate. ‘And looking very ’appy.’

  ‘That’s because I am happy, Angelique.’ Victoria sat up and stretched her arms over her head. ‘It was a very good night.’

  ‘Zey liked your play?’

  ‘They loved my play! The applause went on for ever and the cast was called back three times to take their bows!’

  ‘Bon! Did I not tell you it would be so?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can say that now when you know everything turned out well. That isn’t what we were saying this time yesterday. At least,’ Victoria added with a frown, ‘it wasn’t what I was saying.’

  ‘Zat is because you do not ’ave enough confidence in yourself.’

  ‘That’s not true! I do have confidence in myself, but I write plays that suit me. I don’t always know if they will suit my audience.’

  ‘Of course zey will suit your audience,’ the feisty little maid said. ‘You are very good at what you do! Your uncle tells you so all ze time.’

  Yes, because Uncle Theo had always been one of her most staunch supporters, Victoria reflected. He was the one who had encouraged her to write, impressing upon her the importance of allowing her artistic side to flourish, no matter what her mother or the rest of society thought.

  Speaking of her mother... ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Mama yet this morning?’ Victoria enquired.

  When Angelique didn’t answer, Victoria turned her head—and saw the answer written all over the maid’s face. ‘Ah. I see that you have.’

  ‘Do not take it to ’eart, mademoiselle,’ Angelique said quickly. ‘Madame Bretton does not love le théâtre as you do. She would prefer zat you find a nice man and get married.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but a nice man won’t let me write plays,’ Victoria pointed out. ‘He will expect me to sit at home and knit tea cosies.’

  ‘Tea...cosies?’

  ‘Hats for teapots.’

  ‘Your teapots wear ’ats?’ Angelique frowned. ‘You English are very strange.’

  Victoria just laughed and sent the maid on her way. She sometimes forgot that while Angelique knew everything there was to know about taking care of a lady, she was far less adept when it came to making conversation with one. Still, it came as no surprise to Victoria that her mother wasn’t pleased about her success at the theatre last night. Having been raised in a rigidly moralistic house where the only occupations deemed acceptable for a woman were those of wife and mother, Mrs Bretton decried the idea of her eldest daughter doing anything else.

  A lady did not involve herself with the world of the theatre. A lady did not write plays that poked fun at members of society. And a lady did not discourage gentlemen who came up to them and made polite conversation, the way the dashing Mr Alistair Devlin had last night.

  Oh, yes, she’d known who he was. Between her mother pointing him out to her at society events and listening to Winifred go on about him until she was tired of hearing his name, Victoria knew all about Alistair Devlin. The man owned a string of high-priced race horses, kept a mistress in Kensington and a hunting box in Berkshire, and was equally skilled in the use of pistol or foil. He patronized Weston’s for his finery, Hobbs’s for his boots and Rundell and Bridge for his trinkets.

  He was also a viscount’s son—a man who moved in elevated circles and who possessed the type of wealth and breeding that would naturally preclude her from being viewed as a potential marriage partner. Her mother had been right in that regard. Refined ladies did not direct plays or go backstage to mingle with actors and actresses. And no one but a refined lady would do for Lord Kempton’s heir. As it was, Devlin’s sister was married to an archdeacon, and for all Victoria’s being the granddaughter of a minister, it would not be good enough for Devlin’s family, so why bother to pretend the two of them stood any chance of finding happiness together?

  Victoria was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she heard raised voices coming from the drawing room. But when she recognised two of them as belonging to her Aunt and Uncle Templeton, she quickly changed course and headed in that direction. Given the lack of warmth between her mother and her father’s brother and
wife, Victoria had to wonder what had brought them to the house so early in the day. She opened the drawing-room door to see her mother standing ramrod straight by the window and her father, looking far from relaxed, sitting in his favourite chair. Her uncle stood in the middle of the room and her aunt, flamboyant as ever in an emerald-green gown and a glorious bonnet crowned with a sweeping peacock feather, lounged on the red velvet chaise.

  It looked for all the world like a convivial family gathering—until Victoria realised that no one was smiling and that the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, looking to her father for an explanation.

  It was her uncle who answered. ‘Victoria, my dear, I have just informed your parents of your stunning success at the Gryphon last night.’

  ‘And I have been trying to tell your uncle it is not a success!’ Mrs Bretton snapped. ‘It is an abomination.’

  ‘Come now, my dear,’ her husband said. ‘I think abomination is doing it up a little strong.’

  ‘Do you, Mr Bretton? Well, let me tell you what I think is doing it up a little strong. Your brother, trying to make us believe that Victoria has done something wonderful when anyone in their right mind would tell you she is making a fool of herself!’

  ‘Oh, Susan, you are completely overreacting,’ Aunt Tandy said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Victoria did not make a fool of herself last night. Her work was applauded long and loud by every person in that theatre. Your daughter is a brilliant playwright—’

  ‘My daughter is a lady! And ladies do not write plays!’ Mrs Bretton said, enunciating every word. ‘They do not produce plays. And they certainly do not tell other people how to act in plays. Ladies embroider linens. They paint pictures. And they get married and have children. They do not spend their days at theatres with the most disreputable people imaginable!’