Page 45 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“Ten, twenty, or ninety-nine years. Take your pick,” Thompson said promptly.

Dorsey squinted in thought, then looked around, Dante guessed in search of one of the women to do his thinking for him. He didn’t smell of drink, not yet, but he had the somewhat slow, cautious air of a man who had woken with a thick head and was just now feeling the fumes clear. Dante had never taken up the habit of overindulgence, after a few youthful experiences of the same.

He was impatient with vice, as a rule. An artisan attempting to rise from the ranks of the tradesmen to the upper bourgeoisie had to be free of them, for every display of cunning, gluttony, vanity, envy, or indulgence would be taken as a sign of his base birth and unworthiness to be considered genteel. Meanwhile, those born to high stations abused just such virtues all the time, yet even if they fell in public favor—as the Prince Regent had for the general public, given his lavish adoption of all the cardinal sins—he would never have his rank denied him.

George could be an envious fool, an arrogant cad, and a glutton, but he would always be a prince. Andover could mingle with actors and low persons, even host them in his house, and come away with no more than a low odor that would eventually rub off. Dutton could take as many mistresses as he liked—several at one time—and he would still be a gentleman, father to gentlemen, in line for a barony in due time.

Dante could adopt vain ways of dress, amuse himself with mistresses, mingle with low persons, and sedate his mind with any manner of compounds, and the gossips would shake their heads and say, After all, what could one expect? His father was Italian, and no gentleman. It mattered little that Dante’s mother was a gentleman’s daughter; a lady who had lowered herself might never rise again. It was why they all focused their energies on rising. Just as Bathsheba had done.

As if she were a shade to be conjured by thought, she appeared, wearing an expensive gown meant for the evening with its low bodice and trim at the sleeves and hem. The color was the vivid blue-green called drake’s neck, and only a daring matron would wear it when the fashion went for light tones and pastels.

But Bathsheba wanted to be noticed. This was her aim in styling herself the patroness of a special theatrical performance, advertised under her name while Andover bore all the nuisance and expense.

And she had presented herself early enough to come to the notice of all the important people in the room. She spared little patience for the invalid or aged ladies, no matter how high their birth or title, but bestowed her own particular smile—a combination of admiration and invitation—on the men. The wealthier the man, the larger the dose he received of Bathsheba’s charm.

Dante felt curiously flat as her gaze landed on him and she began a concerted advance across the room in his direction. Once, knowing he was the aim of Bathsheba’s designs had sent him soaring like a hot air balloon. Now, he wondered why he had ever been so foolish.

“Are these the designs for the theater you are building, Dante?” She didn’t even acknowledge the other gentlemen, though Andover offered a courteous nod and Dutton allowed himself a long evaluation of her bosom.

“Staking out the land, yer ladyship,” Dorsey said with a broad wink that came across as rather hideous given he was made up to look a cadaver. “But ready to build, once the designs are finished and a builder secured, and his lordship hands over the blunt.”

A slight wrinkle of her nose said that Bathsheba didn’t appreciate being addressed by the lowest among them, and in such a familiar manner, and about money. A courtesan striving to take her place among Society as a titled lady had to be a higher stickler than the Queen.

Much the same way Dante, an artist and tradesman’s son, had to be the veritable ideal of a gentleman if he wanted to come close to social approbation.

It made him understand Bathsheba’s niceties, but it didn’t put him in charity with her. He had no soft feelings left where this woman was concerned.

“I will be glad to advise you on designs, my dear Dante. I have been inside all the important theaters in London, and a few regional ones.” She came close, almost leaning on his arm, a familiarity he would grant only to a sister. Or a wife, if he ever took one.

He would never choose a wife like Bathsheba. He began rolling the map, an excuse to free himself from her touch. “I have Cerys to tell me what the actors want in their theater. She has already given me several ideas.”

He acknowledged his error as Bathsheba’s eyelids flared, then tensed. “Cerys,” she whispered.

He stiffened his back. Curse his tongue. “Miss Evans.”

Dorsey nodded, not at all offended by Dante’s use of his favorite’s given name. “Good eye on that one. Excellent taste. You can trust her to know what’s right for us.”

“I think you will find it often said of me that my taste is exquisite,” Bathsheba replied with a haughty tilt to her chin. “I’ve proven so on many occasions.”

She drifted her gaze over Dante, letting a coy, knowing look slide into her eyes that suggested her choice of him, once, had been an example of her taste. An example of his foolishness, of which he did not care to be reminded.

“Like your choice of husband?” Dante asked.

She recoiled slightly, taking the insult for what it was. Her eyes narrowed.

“I would not put so much faith in the whims of an untried girl,” she said, her voice a hiss.

“Aye, mayhap not an untried one.” Dorsey nodded, reaching beneath his coat to adjust his suspenders. “But she don’t know our Cerys, do she, Mr. Manelli?”

Dorsey couldn’t have made a more effective thrust if he’d been given a mark. His affectionate tone, his use of the girl’s Christian name, and the assumption of familiarity between Cerys and Dante—all of it served as a goad. Bathsheba’s cheeks tightened, a sign she was biting back a barb. She wouldn’t allow herself to show spleen before Andover. Bitter, unpleasant women did not get invited to round out the numbers at dinner parties thrown by the sons of earls.

“Just how great a stake is Baeccon willing to make if Mr. Dorsey’s Hamlet is a success?” asked Dutton, who had nothing better to do than thrust his nose into the affairs of others.

“It must be a very great success,” Bathsheba answered. “His lordship is canny about his investments. He will only be persuaded to part with his funds if the prospect seems likely to repay him several times over.”

“As has his investment in you?” Dante could not help asking.

Her eyes flickered as she registered the blow. Dante probed his feelings for repentance. There was none. Baeccon was a profligate and a spendthrift, but he modeled himself after the pleasure-seeking Prince Regent without having the same bottomless coffers. Dante had inquired relentlessly about the man years ago, when Bathsheba had first thrown him over, and the image he’d gained of his lordship then was not flattering. It had taken no more than a few desultory questions around Cheltenham, in the last day or two, to confirm that his lordship’s reputation had not improved.