Page 12 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

They already looked at her differently, treated her differently, because she was the leading female, because people came from other towns to see her, or so they claimed. How much differently would she be treated if her companions knew that, while her birth might be no better than theirs, she once ran with a quite different group of friends?

Mame snorted. “Aye, there’s a cost for everything. But if the lord or his mate wants to demand anything we can’t give, I’ve no doubt you’ll put him in his place, with a flea in his ear to boot.” She regarded Cerys the way Dot and Dorsey were regarding the property, as if pricing the value of each part. “You’ve dealt with great folk afore, haven’t you?”

Cerys bit her lip and stepped through the gate, down the gravel path. The shrubbery laid out along the front of the house, as high as a man, kept passersby from peering into the ground floor windows, but she still felt exposed.

“They come to performances, don’t they? Lords and ladies, gentlemen and their wives.”

“In your other life,” Mame corrected, following Cerys with her own bag in tow. “Your before life. You weren’t the least impressed when the heir to an earl and the heir to a baron strolled up and starting talkin’ at ye.”

“They’re men just like Hackett and Kiddell,” Cerys said, glancing back at the two men who were arguing over how many other houses the Earl of Suffolk might own. “Put on their pantaloons one leg at a time, and button their falls just the same.”

“Or unbutton them,” Mame said shrewdly. “Were you a fancy piece, then?”

Cerys stiffened, but pushed away the reaction. Actresses were known to take on protectors, whether to supplement their income or find some greater security than that afforded by the stage. Their reputations were one of the things her mother had moaned about when Cerys declared her dream to run away and tread the boards.

“No,” she said, starting toward the front porch, lined with columns and shaped like the door to an ancient temple. She had expected flourishes from Mr. Manelli, ambitious touches that reflected his high opinion of himself. But she had to admit, however much she objected to the man on general principle, he had superior taste.

She paused to study the house, taking in what he had created. She could see the shape of a medieval manor in its bones, with the hipped slate roof and the visible chimneys rising above. But two large circular bays fronted the central portion like a set of welcoming arms, their sashed windows rising in symmetrical columns, and two wings spanned out from the middle block like panniers on the skirts of an antique court dress. The whole was balanced and lovely, and she couldn’t find fault with it, much as she tried.

“The bays remind me of Penrydd Castle in South Wales,” Cerys said. “Have you seen it? Lovely little pile, with four curving towers at each corner, much like a medieval keep.”

“Can’t say I’ve been frequenting castles,” Mame commented. “Are you saying you have?”

“It is near where I grew up,” Cerys said.

Rhoda tilted her head curiously. “Thought you was born in Bristol.”

“But I grew up in Newport. In Wales.”

“A Welshwoman!” Dot crowed. “Finally. A clue.”

“Really, my past is no great mystery,” Cerys said. “And not nearly as interesting as the tales all of you can tell.”

“We’ll know the truth of it someday.” Mame lifted the large iron knocker and banged it against the door. “Now mind, none of us expect you to lift your skirts and turn up your heels if any of the lordlings ask it. Unless, of course, you wish it so.”

“I told you, I am not in search of a keeper. And besides, the Hon. Mr. Dutton is married.”

“So’s Andover,” Mame remarked, “but when did the shackle ever keep a man from dipping his wick where he liked?”

“Dipping his—?” Tryphenie’s puzzled look smoothed to wide-eyed comprehension. “Oh. You mean our Cerys is⁠—”

“No,” Cerys snapped. “She is not.”

“Not with the Italian, at any rate.” Dot leaned against one of the columns of the porch, eyes narrowing. “What d’ye have against him, anyway? You were raking him over the coals back at the spa.”

“I was merely trying to depress his pretensions.” Cerys sniffed. “He thinks far too highly of himself, and expects everyone to bow and scrape to his genius. Really, it’s insufferable. He’s worse than the lordlings.”

Rhoda looked about in admiration. “He made a fine house.”

“Probably copied the designs from somewhere,” Cerys grumbled. “Really, is there no porter in a house this size? Butler? Footman? Anyone?” She reached for the knocker to bang it again, and the portal swung inward while she stood with her arm raised in the air, like a town crier calling for attention.

From the shadowed depths of the foyer came the full-on stare of Mr. Manelli, attached to the man himself, who was larger than she’d realized when she stood this close to him. He recognized her, and his thick brows lowered as far as they could go.

His eyes truly were piercing, not black, but a velvety dark brown that stood out against the golden-brown tones of his skin. Surely that was malice gleaming in his eyes, not to be mistaken for intelligence or, God forbid, interest.

A prickly heat spread over her skin at the recollection that Mr. Manelli had caught her admiring his shape. Particularly the snug fit of his pantaloons.

“No one appeared fast enough to suit you, Miss Evans?” he said coolly. “Do bang the knocker again if you feel the need.”