Page 30 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“My dear Dante.” She cooed and patted the cushion of the chair beside her. “It has been so long. Do join me and we can catch up. I’m ravenously curious to hear what you have been doing with yourself since we parted.”

Her ladyship and her ravening curiosity again. The other woman sent Cerys a smug smile as Dante, having little other choice but to oblige, seated himself. The arms of the delicate mahogany piece were too small for him, and his masculine legs in their breeches and boots quite dwarfed the spindly legs of the chair.

Lady Baeccon had lost her arts, if she ever had any. Perhaps the woman had merely relied on her sultry expressions and magnificent bosom to have her will be done. Cerys had only a modest bosom and looks far too uniformly wholesome to ever achieve an imitation of sultriness, but she was also too wise to force an active, restless man like Manelli to perch in a small chair beside her and listen to Mame sing bawdy tunes about hanging villains and rogues who broke ladies’ hearts. Perhaps Lady Baeccon had become complacent in the effect her bewitching bosoms had on her husband and had forgotten how to do anything else.

Rather than sit attentively, Cerys drifted about the room. She had studied how to move across a stage, how to disappear, how to draw attention. How to convey anger and torment, and how to drift like a flower borne on a stream, relaxed, graceful, dreamy.

She strolled from group to group, ingratiating herself with each. Shored up Dot, who had run out of things to say to Dutton but stood awkwardly with her cup of tea. Dot hated tea. Cerys asked Dutton about his children, and then, perceiving that infants, even his own, held little interest for him, asked him which of the wells of Cheltenham he thought conveyed the most excellent benefits. This subject he held forth on, concluding with an invitation to escort Cerys to several so she might make a sampling herself.

“I should be delighted,” she exclaimed. “I was discussing with Mr. Manelli and Mr. Dorsey how we might begin a survey of acceptable lots for our theater. How helpful it would be to have a guide who knows something of the area.”

Dutton scowled at having his invitation extended to include the other men. Cerys moved on to Dorsey, who was flushed and pleased with himself after performing his version of Feste’s song at the end of Twelfth Night, with Mame’s accompaniment. Cerys stood where the oil lamp could cast a burnished glow on her skin, brushing the tips of her hair silver and gold. She let her shawl fall about her elbows so the graceful silhouette of her gown showed to effect. She couldn’t look in his direction, of course, so she could only hope that Mr. Manelli took notice.

“Lord Andover and Mr. Dutton had some useful suggestions about investors we might approach, and locations we might consider for our new theater,” she greeted Dorsey. His face was flushed with more than self-congratulation, and she recognized the short window she had to get rational discussion from him before he disappeared into the brandy flask tucked into his coat. “The question remains of where we might perform and continue to earn funds while we build.”

“Ah, yes.” Dorsey, with some effort, focused his eyes on her. “The old market house is about to fall down, I’m told. Would be a danger to life performing there.”

“We could try to do some open-air performances at the new market house. Market days are Thursdays, but during the season, there are vendors at the shambles every day. They might prove an audience.”

“Not an audience with deep enough pockets to pay for a building,” Dorsey grumbled.

“But a way to establish our reputation.” Mame should be part of this conversation, as she would recall tomorrow what Dorsey forgot tonight. But Mame had taken possession of the pianoforte and did not intend to relinquish it until her work was done. “I’m told we would have to speak to the commissioners to secure permission, and possibly pay a fee to Lord Sherborne, who is lord of the manor and thus owner of the premises.”

Dorsey peered at her, his eyes somewhat bloodshot. “If you’ve touched up Dutton well enough, then you can get Sherborne to agree, I’m sure.”

“I don’t plan on touching up anyone.” Cerys drew her shawl closer around her arms. The room was still overly warm; it was Dante’s attention making her skin prickle, she just knew it. “Do you think Mr. Thompson would offer us a space to perform?”

“He seems a man who is always on the lookout for new ways to attract income, and it wouldn’t take much to erect a wooden stage for the time being.” Dorsey grunted and patted his pockets. “But I want something grander.”

“That is where Mr. Manelli comes in.”

“Don’t see as how you’ll get him to agree, puss. He don’t seem the obliging sort.”

“I will get him to agree,” Cerys said. “I have a trade to propose.”

Dorsey lifted his eyebrows.

“Do elevate your mind from the cesspit. It is not that kind of trade.”

Dorsey cast his gaze in Mr. Manelli’s direction, and Cerys permitted herself to look.

“He’s a man, Cerys, my pet.”

“I am aware of that.” It was impossible not to be. He was a commanding presence in the room, not just with his size but with his severe beauty. He was not a man born to authority and didn’t have quite that quality to his arrogance. No, his arrogance came from sure knowledge of his own skills. His potency.

And, possibly, knowledge of his own allure. Lady Baeccon placed a hand on the arm of the chaise she occupied, purposefully brushing his arm in order to divert Dante’s attention. It didn’t work. He had his gaze set on skewering Cerys.

She tilted her head to the side, showing her neck, and touched one gloved hand to her elbow, subtly lifting and compressing her breasts. She let her shawl dangle, suggesting that other parts of her garb might fall away with similar carelessness.

“As a man,” Dorsey clarified, “he’s going to try to take whatever he can from you.”

“Dorsey, you’ve known me two years. I’m not a peagoose. I’ve been around men.”

“You’ve never,” Dorsey said slowly, “been around a man who interested you.”

She blinked at him, taken aback. She would expect an astute observation from Mame, perhaps, or even Rhoda, but not Dorsey, and especially not Dorsey in his cups.

She tugged her shawl back onto her arm. “Whether Mr. Manelli is interesting in himself is not to the point. His interest to us is how he might build us a theater.”