The Ladies In Love Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “Look,” said Cyril. “You shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing you can do, is there? I bet you’ve tried since the day you were born. Are you the only one?”

  “No,” said Poppy. “I’ve two little sisters. They live with me in St. John’s Wood.”

  “Is it nice there?”

  “I’ve a lovely house,” said Poppy proudly. “It’s even got a garden… with an apple tree.”

  “Then let’s go,” said Cyril, wiping his hands fastidiously on his handkerchief.

  “Don’t none of this bother you, then?” asked Poppy, horrified to hear the old cockney speech creeping back.

  “Not a bit,” he said. “I lived on my wits in Sydney. My parents were pretty poor.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But not now.”

  Poppy felt lighthearted. He had seen the squalor of her home, this beautiful young man, and he had not cared one bit, and he was still looking at her with admiration.

  At least she was proud of her new home. It was lovely to descend from the carriage in the quiet, tree-lined street, and to push open the garden gate and be met by the flying figures of Josie and Emily. Cyril was startled by the contrast of this pretty villa, the neat, little governess, and the plump housekeeper bobbing a curtsy on the step and promising to serve tea in the garden, but he managed to conceal it.

  Cyril not only stayed for tea but for supper as well. He accepted Poppy’s suggestion that they take their coffee cups out into the garden, since the house was warm after the heat of the day.

  Cyril sat at a small white iron table, while Poppy sat on the swing and rocked gently back and forth. Both her little sisters were in bed.

  The evening was going down in a blaze of smoky rose and gold. The air was very still and sweet.

  Poppy felt at peace with the world. Cyril’s easy acceptance of her background and his undemanding company had done wonders for her. She had changed for dinner into a soft blond lace tea gown—part of the duchess’s wardrobe—and the lace of her gown trailed backward and forward across the grass as she moved gently on the swing.

  Cyril had chattered and talked at length over dinner about his life in Sydney and his struggle for recognition in the theater. “You must come there with me one day,” he had said. In another man that would have been tantamount to a proposal of marriage, but coming as it did from Cyril, it had only seemed like a further offer of friendship.

  The sky changed to pale green, and somewhere in the bushes a blackbird began to sing.

  “His Grace, The Duke of Guildham,” announced Mrs. Abberley from the top of the steps leading to the garden.

  Poppy stopped swinging and sat very still. Cyril remained rigid at the table, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

  The Duke of Guildham surveyed the scene, his face a careful blank. He had called to make amends to Poppy for having cut her dead in St. James’s Park. His motives in calling, he had persuaded himself, had been entirely those of a gentleman.

  He could not understand his burning anger as he surveyed the idyllic scene in front of him, the blond girl on the swing, the lace of her gown trailing on the grass, and the beautiful young man at the table.

  The duke was in evening dress, since he had been to the opera. His red silk-lined cloak was thrown over his shoulders, and he carried his hat and cane in his hand.

  He walked slowly down the steps. Poppy was not quite sure what was going on. She rose to her feet at the same time the duke began his descent, and Cyril rose as well. Cyril’s profile was turned toward her, but as the duke approached, Cyril flashed him a strange smile, half winsome, half malicious.

  The duke surveyed Cyril, his dark eyes holding a flicker of something that Poppy did not recognize, but it made her feel acutely uncomfortable.

  Then she found herself saying in her best hostess manner, “Your Grace! How kind of you to call. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Plummett,” said the duke. “In a minute. I have some business I wish to discuss with you.…”

  He let his voice trail away and looked pointedly at Cyril.

  “Oh, not wanted, am I?” said Cyril cheerfully. “It’s all right, Poppy dear, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Poppy flushed slightly, and the duke’s face froze with disapproval. What on earth had possessed Cyril to use her first name? thought Poppy wildly.

  But Cyril was bending then, kissing both her hands. He flashed a look at the duke from under his long lashes, and then he was gone.

  The duke pulled forward a seat for Poppy at the table, and then sat down opposite her. He studied her thoughtfully for a long moment, and then asked, “Who was that young man?”

  “Oh—didn’t I introduce you?” faltered Poppy. “He’s a young Australian friend of mine, Mr. Cyril Mundy.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” retorted Poppy hotly. God forbid the duke should find out Cyril was in the theater or he might put two and two together. She did not want any member of the Plummett family finding out about her theatrical career beforehand. But she realized she had been suspiciously rude, so she added hurriedly, “I don’t think he does anything.”

  Again that long look. “I see you have put off your mourning, Mrs. Plummett.”

  “Not really. Only at home,” said Poppy defiantly. “It’s so hot… mourning, that is… hats and veils and things.”

  “How heavy-handed I sound,” said the duke, smiling that sudden, sweet smile of his. Poppy tried to drag back the feeling of contentment and ease that she had felt while with Cyril, but it was as if Cyril had never existed, and she was once more under the spell of this autocratic, domineering man. “At least you have not defied me by going on the stage,” he added softly. “I don’t know why, but I had a mad idea you might do that.”

  “Why?” asked Poppy, her heart beating hard.

  “Oh, because of many things. To prove your independence. MacDonald told me you were very highhanded with him.”

  “He’s rude and vulgar!” flashed Poppy.

  “Yes.”

  Poppy surveyed him with some exasperation. “Then why do you employ him?”

  “For his shrewd business brain, not for his manners.”

  “Oh.” Poppy picked up a little silver teaspoon and began to play with the sugar. “What is this business you want to discuss with me?”

  “I have no business,” he said equably. “I simply wanted to get rid of that young man.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like him. My tastes do not lie in that direction.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Poppy, wrinkling her brow.

  “It’s just as well,” he replied, his expression unreadable in the gathering dusk. “Why I really called was to apologize for not having greeted you when we met in St. James’s Park the other day.”

  “Was that you?” asked Poppy faintly.

  “I was with Mrs. von Dierksen. And yes, it was I.”

  “I thought you were finished with her,” said Poppy.

  “We meet from time to time. Does that disturb you?”

  “No—why should it?” said Poppy, spilling sugar over the table.

  “Strange. I could have sworn you did not like Freda. Ah well, I don’t like Mr. Mundy, so we are equal. Let us talk about something else. Annabelle Cummings refuses to marry Ian, and talks about you constantly.”

  “I thought she might have called on me,” said Poppy.

  “She will. She went to France with her parents to escape the attentions of her fiancé, and sent a notice from there to the Times, canceling the engagement. I myself am going to Deauville tomorrow, and so I shall give her your regards.”

  Tomorrow! Poppy’s heart sank. She had thought herself in love with him, but that was because he had kissed her, and since then she had not liked him one bit. She wished he would go away, yet at the same time she longed for him to stay.

  He fell silent,
and Poppy waited for that old, relaxed feeling between them to return. But the very air seemed to crackle with electricity, and she felt breathless and ill at ease.

  “I must go,” he said, rising abruptly. “May I call on you on my return from France, Mrs. Plummett?”

  “Of course,” said Poppy, suddenly very happy. “When will that be?”

  “Sometime in August, I think,” he said as they walked toward the house.

  When they entered he looked around. “I like it here,” he said. “Very quiet. Not too quiet for you, I hope?”

  Poppy shook her head. “I love it.”

  “Good.” He took her hand and stood looking down into her eyes, his own dark and enigmatic. Then he raised one hand and lightly brushed her cheek. “Thank you for a pleasant visit,” he said. “I am pleased to find you here and not in some theater. Don’t see too much of young Mundy. That sort of relationship never works out, you know. Don’t ring. I can see myself out. Good-bye, Mrs. Plummett.”

  “Good-bye,” echoed Poppy.

  She stood for a long time after he had gone, one hand to the cheek he had caressed so lightly, staring into space.

  Chapter 10

  June ended, and the month of July fled past as Poppy slaved hard at rehearsals. The news of Poppy’s promotion had reached the ears of that former leading lady, Elaine Pym, who took to turning up at the theater and howling insults from the pit every time Poppy sang, until Mr. Lewis had told the infuriated Miss Pym that she would either get on stage herself and rehearse for the second lead or leave the theater. Miss Pym chose to leave, and so the second lead was played by Hetty Parget, elected from the chorus. Hetty now found she was faced with as much envy as that directed toward Poppy, and therefore decided to become Poppy’s friend.

  Hetty was a plump little girl with a merry, roguish eye, which belied the fact that she was quite terrifyingly genteel. She was also very much in love with Cyril Mundy, and since Cyril was always to be found in Poppy’s company, it was an added reason for Hetty desiring to be friends with Poppy.

  Mr. Lewis had told Poppy that he was not going to give her any advance publicity, for fear the duke or his family might try to do something to stop the show. Also hints about a new and intriguing leading lady would serve to draw a large audience on opening night.

  Cyril had become almost a part of Poppy’s household. Emily and Josie adored him, since he acted the part of favorite uncle and often took them to the fair on Hampstead Heath when Poppy was rehearsing. Poppy was grateful for his company. Strangely enough he never asked her about the duke, and although he was always around, their friendship remained light and easy, never developing into intimacy.

  Yet he did not seem interested in any other woman, and after a time Poppy ceased to worry about it. The combination of Cyril and hard work successfully kept the duke’s image from her mind, and Mr. Lewis began to complain that her singing was losing that bittersweet pathos which had so charmed him.

  Poppy would only laugh and say, “I’m saving it all for the opening night,” but in truth, she found it hard to be sad. The days were long and golden, and hard work and good food had made her beauty quite dazzling. Poppy was obsessed with cleanliness. Her burnished hair shone like the sun. She hardly ever wore any makeup offstage, and her large eyes shone with a deeper, more intense blue than ever before.

  Then there was Hetty to take tea with between rehearsals, Hetty to exchange girlish gossip with. But the gossip was always light, and never did Poppy mention the duke’s name.

  Then one day he returned from France, just about at the end of August, unannounced, arriving late in the evening as he had done before.

  For once Cyril was absent, and Emily and Josie were in bed. Poppy realized with a lurch of her heart that she had been waiting all those weeks for just that moment, to see him walk slowly down the steps into the garden in the fading light, where the long shadows spread over the dew-laden grass, and the air was heavy with the scent of roses.

  In the villa next door someone was rehearsing at the piano, playing the same stammering phrase over and over again.

  “Well, Mrs. Plummett,” said the duke quietly. “And how are you? You look very beautiful.”

  Poppy gave a little bow from the waist, in acknowledgment of the compliment, but remained silent while he studied her thoughtfully.

  She was wearing a pale-green chiffon gown with a high collar. Her thick hair was piled on top of her head, accentuating the slope of her shoulders and the length of her neck.

  She had lost the last vestiges of puppy plumpness, and her beauty had become more romantic than chocolate-box.

  “It’s been a curst flat summer,” said the duke, yawning, stretching his long legs in front of him.

  “Was Freda with you?” asked Poppy.

  “No. Is it important?”

  “Of course not,” said Poppy quickly.

  “And what have you been doing with yourself?” The duke observed curiously the rising blush on Poppy’s face. At least, he was sure it was a blush. Damn! It must be that creature Cyril!

  “Oh, nothing,” said Poppy. “Taking the girls on outings. Shopping. Going to church. Things like that.”

  The musician next door abandoned the phrase that had been giving him so much trouble and launched into a rippling Chopin waltz. The notes tumbled across the garden, and the duke tilted his head a little to one side, listening, totally absorbed, until the pianist struck a wrong note and sent out a crashing chord of sheer frustration.

  “Pity,” commented the duke. “He was doing quite well for a bit. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Poppy. “I don’t know any of the neighbors.”

  “And you here alone all day! Strange.”

  “I’m not very sociable,” said Poppy defiantly.

  “A pity,” he mocked. “I was going to take you driving tomorrow.”

  “Who says I want to go?” flashed Poppy, made clumsy by sudden embarrassment.

  “Nobody says,” he teased. “You don’t have to do a thing you don’t want to do.”

  “I would like to,” mumbled Poppy.

  “Speak up,” he said sharply.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Poppy crossly.

  He gave a little sigh. “Shall we start again, Mrs. Plummett? Would you like to take a drive with me tomorrow?”

  Poppy thought quickly. She had rehearsals in the afternoon, but—Oh, she wanted to go with him so very much, because when he found out that she had defied him and had returned to the stage, she would surely never see him again.

  “At what hour?” she asked.

  “At the fashionable hour. Three o’clock.”

  “I—I c-can’t,” stammered Poppy. “I have a previous engagement.”

  “With Cyril Mundy?”

  Poppy nodded. Well, she would be seeing Cyril at the theater, so it was a sort of previous engagement.

  All of a sudden the duke found himself becoming very angry indeed. With an effort he suppressed his rage.

  “Have you ever been to the opera?” he asked suddenly.

  “No,” said Poppy.

  “Then come with me tomorrow night. To Covent Garden. I have a box.”

  “Yes…” said Poppy in a dazed manner.

  He made her a brief bow. “Till tomorrow,” he said, and turned and was gone, while she sat alone in the garden, feeling the happiness well up inside her.

  Poppy managed to get rid of Cyril at the end of the next afternoon. She did not tell him she was going out with the duke, for she had an instinctive feeling that if she told him, he would stay on. She pleaded a headache, and said she was going to have an early night, sighing with relief as Cyril took himself off.

  Everyone in the house was excited over Poppy’s visit to the opera. The mistress going out with a real-live duke added luster to suburban St. John’s Wood.

  Poppy realized she would have to wear black if she were to appear in public. Mourning was expected to be worn for at least eighteen months, and she knew the duke
would not approve of her in half-mourning for such an occasion.

  Before Cyril had arrived that day, she had bought an evening bodice, very low cut and trimmed with black jet. Worn with a long black silk skirt, it would serve very well. The artificial roses she wore in her hair had to be black as well, and her only jewelry was the little coral necklace that Annabelle had given her.

  Black lace mitts covered her arms. She selected a dull green-and-gold stole to wear about her shoulders, feeling she could not bear to put on one more piece of black.

  She was ready and waiting a good half hour before the duke was due to arrive, her nervousness affecting the whole household.

  The little governess, Miss Villiers, could hardly wait for Poppy to leave, so that she could rush to her room and write home all this fascinating news to Mother. Mrs. Abberley and the housemaids each planned how they would pass the important gossip along the street in the morning. None of the other servants had mistresses who went to the opera with dukes.

  He arrived very promptly, magnificent in evening dress, looking very remote and formal. He looked at her for a long moment without speaking, while she fidgeted and wondered if there were something up with her appearance.

  The duke thought privately that she looked magnificent with her creamy shoulders rising from the black, jet-trimmed bodice, which winked wickedly in the evening light. He wondered briefly if he should tell her that, as a widow, she should not expose so much flesh, and should go and put on a fichu, but she looked so nervous, so happy at the same time, and so very beautiful, that he promptly put it from his mind.

  Mrs. Abberley rushed to arrange the shawl around Poppy’s shoulders. Emily, overtired and overwrought with all the excitement, decided all the ceremony must mean that Poppy was leaving forever, and began to cry, and had to be soothed with promises and sugarplums before the couple left in the duke’s carriage.

  As the duke led Poppy up the staircase of Covent Garden Opera House, he was startled at the attention the girl was receiving. Heads turned, monocles were fixed in eyes, lorgnettes were raised, as they made their stately ascent.