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Lavinia could hear movement and the low hum of conversation increasing outside her dressing room door. The gentlemen were on approach. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, which, like Hannah’s, were on edge. Not that she would let Hannah—or the gentlemen outside the door, for that matter—suspect it.
“Livvy!” Hannah held up the finishing touch for the costume. It was a ring with a large ruby set in it, and Lavinia never went out in public without it. It was one of her greatest defenses against the ardor she constantly fended off from all her admirers, supposedly given to her by her make-believe betrothed, who was serving as an officer in Spain.
Whenever an admirer attempted to seduce her—and it had happened frequently since arriving in London—she would delicately dab away tears and claim she could not betray her betrothed, who was serving King and country so heroically.
The admirer in question would immediately remember he was somewhat honorable and beg her forgiveness. Most of the time.
Lavinia suspected that part of her overall attraction in Town was the fact that none of her gentlemen admirers had been successful in their pursuits of her so far. Unfortunately, a few of the more ardent ones were becoming impatient, especially the Earl of Cosgrove. Lord Cosgrove was a man in his late thirties, tall and blond, who could have been handsome had he not spent the last decade or so indulging himself in a variety of vices.
He’d been getting more and more aggressive the last few times he’d been to the Orpheus to see her perform, and Lavinia had begun to feel threatened. It didn’t help that Alfred Hinchcliffe, greedy bounder that he was, encouraged these attentions to her, especially from wealthy, titled admirers like the Earl of Cosgrove.
Even thinking about the earl gave Lavinia the shudders.
She snatched up the ring and hurriedly slid it onto her finger. She could tell by the rumble outside the door that her admirers were getting restless. “You have the receipts I got from Hinchcliffe?”
“Yes, Livvy.”
“Good. And you remember the plan?” she asked Hannah once more. “Most importantly, you remember that if I don’t make it there by midnight—”
“We goes on to the next post stage without you. I don’t like that part, Livvy, and I mean to tell you—”
“I’ll be there, don’t worry. It’s only a contingency plan. Now, go!”
Hannah picked up the bag and opened the door. “Move back and let me through,” she grumbled to the group of men gathered there. They groaned and booed when they saw it wasn’t Ruby Chadwick finally making her appearance. Through the crack in the door, Lavinia could see Lord Cosgrove standing amongst the other men.
She shut the door, leaned her back against it, and gritted her teeth.
Perhaps she should have kept Hannah here with her after all, but Lavinia had been certain she could manage her entourage for one final evening, and it was important that Hannah and the others leave Town ahead of her. Lavinia was their decoy while they left, and the disguise she’d chosen for later would work better if she was on her own while she slipped out of Town.
What Lavinia hadn’t counted on was Lord Cosgrove being here tonight.Again. He’d mentioned he had other plans for this evening.
Oh, but she was tired of it all.
Stupid, stupid, arrogant man. Stupid, stupid men who wanted the illusion of Ruby Chadwick but knew nothing of the real woman. It was Lavinia’s own fault. She had created Ruby Chadwick in the first place, who was no more real than any of the other characters Lavinia played onstage, not that any of her admirers cared to recognize that fact.
But Ruby had been essential to their survival, providing Lavinia—and by extension, Hannah and Delia and Artie—the financial means to begin a new life. Ruby’s larger-than-life theatrical presence and flirtatious ways had been the reason for their success. Lavinia could not hate Ruby; she owed her too much, and yet it was Ruby who now held her captive.
Lavinia had only to get through this next scene.
Ruby Chadwick’s final scene.
She could do it. If it meant having a quiet life in the country, free to plant flowers and raise a few chickens and sew and read—in other words, live like anormal persondid for the first time in her life—she could do it. Shewoulddo it.
Lavinia took a deep breath, straightened her spine, pasted a sultry smile on her face, and opened the door. “Gentlemen,” she cooed as she floated out into their midst.
* * *
When Lucas reached the outskirts of London, he took a room at the White Horse Inn, deposited his belongings therein, and then settled at a corner table in the public room to eat a late supper. While he waited for the serving girl to bring him his food, he retrieved the two letters he’d received during the past week from his coat pocket.
The first letter, from his mother, was a lengthy epistle written in her usual loose, flowery script that filled two sheets back and front. She’d also added postscripts in the side margins, so there was hardly any blank space to be found anywhere.
“Lucas,” it said in part, “it has been too long since we saw you. If it weren’t for the small portrait of you we commissioned before you left for the Peninsula, we should never know how you look. I know you will say we saw you briefly when you were on leave three years ago and that more recently you owed it to your commanding officer to see him returned to health. It is what you have written and explained to me before. But surely you have fulfilled that obligation, and your earlier brief stay can hardly imprint your changed appearance into our memory as fully as we would wish.”
The portrait to which she referred was a ghastly thing his father had coughed up the money to commission due to his wife’s constant pestering, only relenting when she had exclaimed that it would be their only remembrance of their dear Lucas were he to die on the battlefields of Spain.
On that happy thought his father had capitulated, hiring a fellow from a neighboring village who claimed to be a portrait painter. After seeing the finished product, it was obvious the man had exaggerated his abilities; although, considering what his father had paid the man, they’d probably gotten their money’s worth. The person in the painting had the same hair and eye color as Lucas, but beyond that, the similarities were difficult to discern.
Still, the argument his mother had put forth in her letter was a valid one. Lucas had changed a great deal since he’d enlisted in the army at age nineteen. He was a man now, not a youth, and his countenance undoubtedly reflected the past seven years of his experience, especially as it related to the harsher aspects of war.
