Page 29 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

It was too hot. Lady Diana insisted that all the fires be roaring. The mirrors and windows cast back strange, distorted reflections of the candlelight, recalling the night Dorsey’s players had tried to stage a pantomime from the Inferno. The descent into Hell had nearly burned down the theater at Chipping Camden.

Lady Diana fretted that the tea was too cool and the cream too warm. She wanted brandy. After a wearisome half hour of Lady Baeccon holding forth about the grandeur of her homes, the expense of her jewels, and the designs of her new carriage, Cerys wanted brandy, too. She had enough of Lady Baeccon asking about the various plays Dorsey’s had put up, and then describing performances she’d seen that, she implied, were better.

It gave Cerys new resolution about the performance she planned to put on for Lady Baeccon.

Finally, the men adjourned from their port and tobacco and came to add to the oppressive heat and noise of the room. Against her will, Cerys turned toward the doorway as the men’s tread approached.

Mr. Manelli was as severe as ever, his neckcloth tucked beneath the stiff lapels of his coat and his even stiffer jaw. That set to his shoulders hinted they were hard as granite. His hair held its shape still, no doubt a combination of heavy pomade and sheer will.

God help her, she wanted more than ever to muss him. While Lady Baeccon was watching.

She posed herself beside an Oriental vase and stood with careless elegance, chatting with Mame and Dottie. She pretended not to observe how his eyes searched the room and stopped when they landed on her. His brows knit together in a glower, his lips tightened, and for some ridiculous reason, his reaction pleased her. He was still annoyed by the very sight of her, but displeasure was better than the stony mask that dropped over his face when he located Lady Baeccon.

Her ladyship began her pitch at once. “Dante, I recall how much you have always enjoyed music. Do ask Miss Evans if she will perform for us.”

Ah, the classic drawing room competition to see which lady could display the most accomplishments. Cerys had seen this farce before.

She arranged her mouth in an agreeable smile. “My talents, such as they are, are more suited to the stage, milady, not the drawing room.”

“Nonsense, you have us all believing you are a gently bred young lady, though how such a one ends up on the stage, I’d dearly like to know. Come, Lady Diana is falling asleep in her chair. Give us some entertainment.”

Lady Baeccon’s smile conveyed that she expected the entertainment to be thin and poor, at best. Like weak gruel. She was trying to intimidate Cerys by exposing her deficiencies before these well-born and titled men. And Dante.

Little did she know that Cerys had grown up learning how not to be cowed by those born to better circumstances, as this constituted most of the population.

She glanced under her lashes at Dante, who had adopted the patient look of a man who knew that, to be agreeable, he had to suffer the display of feminine accomplishments. But there was a heat in his eyes behind the wary guard. He was still trying to figure out what Cerys was up to.

She flashed him a smile full of demure invitation. “Perhaps a tune or two, then.”

Thankful now for the tutoring Lady Vaughn of Greenfield had insisted on providing her, Cerys seated herself at the pianoforte and performed a creditable version of “The Last Rose of Summer” by Thomas Moore.

“Charming,” Lady Baeccon sneered. “If sentimental. I can see why that piece should appeal to you, Miss Evans. Do you know the one about the pert girl who declares that no one shall govern her, and ages into a sour and fretful spinster?”

“I do not know the tune of it,” Cerys murmured, “though I understand the sentiment, at the end, is the young lady declaring she’d gladly be governed by a worthy man of her choice.” She sent another heavy-lashed look at Dante. He was leaning against one of the marble mantelpieces, a casual stance that showed off every line of his strong and well-formed body.

He likely knew that, the dratted man.

“But I believe your ladyship’s aim was to please Mr. Manelli,” Cerys added. “Shall we ask him if I ought to continue?”

He gave her a cool stare in response. “Lady Baeccon will please herself, as she always has,” he answered in his deep rumble. “My wishes matter very little, I’m sure.”

“Come now, Dante, that is not true. I put great store in your feelings.” As if she sensed the stare her husband leveled at her from across the room, where he was in conversation with Andover, her ladyship added, “On the basis of our past friendship, that is.”

“One would easily suspect, given the nature of his appearance, that it is an impossible task to please Mr. Manelli,” Cerys returned. “Herculean, even. But let us see if we can persuade him to reveal his softer side.”

She threw him an arch glance that suggested an understanding between them no one else in the room was aware of. Lady Baeccon, in response, appeared aggrieved. Mr. Manelli simply looked baffled.

Taking a gamble, Cerys performed one of the few Welsh ballads in her repertoire. Translated, it wasn’t that interesting, a maundering message about religious wanderings and spiritual solace. But it had been written by a woman, a fact Cerys appreciated, and she quite liked the tune. It was the ideal range for her voice, which was pleasant in tone but not altogether strong.

Manelli was at her elbow, the bored indifference gone. “What language is that?”

She gave him a full-bodied smile, practically feeling her ladyship’s eyes cutting into her shoulders. “Welsh, Mr. Manelli. I told you I was raised in Newport.”

“I thought most British tried to discourage the use of the language.”

“The British, perhaps.” She rose from the bench. “But not the Welsh. Mame, would you like to have a go?”

Mame happily monopolized the instrument, while Lady Baeccon, having demanded a musical interlude, was obliged to stay and make admiring noises. But her ladyship was not to be sidelined so easily.