Page 11 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

If the Viscount weren’t careful, Elizabeth and the little Howards would be left in Norfolk and a new face would wear the title of Lady Andover. The little harpy would take what she wanted and never mind whom she hurt in the process. Dante had her measure, oh yes. She was just the sort of woman who lived by her own rules, and devil take anyone who stood in her way.

“Miss—Evans, was it?” Andover regarded her, waiting for someone to supply the introduction.

The matron nudged her forward, the movement almost imperceptible. “Miss Cerys Van Der Welle Evans.”

She said it as if the name might mean something to Andover. The echo lingered in Dante’s head. Care-is. Not a proper English name. Just like his.

Not a proper English lady. Just as he was not a proper English gentleman.

“Miss Evans.” Andover smiled. “I am certain you and your company would cut up my peace in only the most pleasant ways.”

“For a short time only,” she returned. “It will take some time to build our theater. We shall not impose on you for the whole of it. Only for a little while, until better arrangements can be made.”

Andover gave her a brief bow. A viscount by courtesy, heir to an earl, bowing to an actress! Was the man that taken in by her?

“I shall enjoy the time while it lasts, and hope the better arrangements will be long in the making,” Andover said. He came up from the bow with the girl’s hand in his own and brushed her gloved knuckles with a brief, proper kiss.

And now he was kissing her hand. The little witch had Andover under her spell, just as she had Dutton and Pearson Thompson, if the shared looks of fascination were any proof. Dante’s jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. It was left to him to save the lot from their own foolishness. They couldn’t see what she was, but Dante could.

“What a delight, to have fellow guests at Suffolk House for the time being,” he said. His voice was a low growl, nothing near to delight in it.

Her eyes flared wide, a green flash beneath those dark eyelashes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am staying at Suffolk House as well, on his lordship’s generosity. What a merry group we all will make. I’m sure the short time will pass most pleasantly.”

For the first time, her aplomb deserted her. Her rose-tinted mouth dropped open. Her clenching fist crushed her fan. And the bosom he had tried so very hard not to look at heaved upward on a sudden breath. She looked young all of a sudden, a woman still, but just barely out of the flush of girlhood.

“You?” She nearly yelped the word. “No.” She turned to Mame. “We cannot possibly⁠—”

“Say no, and abuse his lordship’s kind offer,” Mame said, smiling sweetly at Andover. “We will be happy to be your guests.”

Dante saw the trouble brewing. Both the high-born men, and the merchant’s son, had taken an interest in the harpy. And the matron meant to make the most of that interest, exploiting it, if she could, for the benefit of her troupe. He had to admire the effrontery, being an ambitious man himself. They’d managed to station the little actress under all their noses, where she could make the most of her charm.

The question was, would she agree to this? Dante watched her face tighten behind the charming smile. She was angry. Hurt. Wary.

Fortunate he was in the position to put a spoke in her wheels, if she was on the hunt to find herself a rich protector. But Dante suddenly wondered whom he might be trying to protect by interfering with a love affair in the making—her mark, or the girl herself?

CHAPTER FOUR

“Turn down the offer? Are ye daft, gel? Of course we’re staying.” Dorsey plopped his battered leather valise inside the open gate. One of the clasps was missing and had been replaced with twine. “Have any of us ever been in stables grand as this one? Not me.” He folded his arms across his round middle and looked Suffolk House up and down with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye.

Perhaps even triumph. None of the others of Dorsey’s Players could boast that they’d stayed in the home of an earl before. Cerys knew she was being mulish, and yet the sight of the elegant stone façade, glowing a sandy brown in the mellow afternoon light, made her stomach twist in upon itself. It wasn’t so much the house she objected to as what—or rather, who—was inside.

“I never been in a grand house,” Rhoda said, eyes wide. “Not even when I made deliveries at Hill House. That old bat of a cook never let one such as I set foot inside the kitchen door.”

“There, pet.” Mame turned a curious look on Cerys. “You won’t deny Rhoda the pleasure, will you? And look how excited our little Tryphenie is.”

“I been inside the big house.” Tryphenie gripped the handle of her cloth bag with pale lines carving her knuckles. “But I weren’t allowed to use the front entrance, if you know what I mean.”

Cerys looked to Dot, who surveyed the house as if she were valuing the cost of the refurbishments.

“And we won’t have to pay a shilling for expenses,” Dot said. “You heard his lordship. We’ll be fed, too. You can’t be thinking to pull caps with the viscount now.”

“But what price will he exact from us in return? Nothing in life comes for free.” Cerys pressed her bag to her middle and played with the strings as if she could untwist her stomach with them. Her bag was as light as the other women’s, but unlike them, she had two trunks piled in the cart that was pulling out of the square to the mews behind the great house.

In part, Cerys’s trunks were furnished with the fruits of her own labors, costumes she’d kept, gowns she’d paid for out of the earnings they all shared. But many of the hats and silk gloves and other fripperies were paid for by the mysterious friends who regularly sent money and always seemed to know where the troupe was staying, whether she’d written home to tell them or not.

If she kept some things to herself, it wasn’t guilt, but caution.