No Mistress of Mine

Chapter 19

Denys had no intention of being deterred by one refusal. Not now, not when he had her in his sights again, not when they had another chance. The moment he’d seen her face through the window of that taxi, it had reaffirmed what he’d felt from the first moment he’d ever seen her. She was his woman. He belonged to her, and she to him. The question was how to make her see it that way.

Denys walked to the taxi stand on the west side of Nelson’s statue, and as he waited for a hansom, he considered what to do next.

He’d told her their conversation on the topic wasn’t over, but he knew more conversation about this wasn’t going to change anything. He could understand her reluctance to face down society—the ton could be a vicious, unrelenting gauntlet. But the fact that her reluctance was on his behalf, not her own, was frustrating as hell, for he’d face them all down until the end of his days and die with no regrets. He could tell her that until he was blue in the face, however, and he doubted it would make a particle of difference. No, in circumstances such as these, words were useless. Action was what was needed here.

And since he’d rather cut off his right arm than see her looking as she had earlier today in Regent’s Park, whatever action he took would involve much more than persuading her to the altar. It would have to be monumental, something along the line of melting a glacier or moving a mountain, which meant he couldn’t do it alone. He’d need help.

And he’d need time. Time to plan, to make arrangements, to give Lola room to breathe, and hopefully, the opportunity to miss him. Fortunately, time was something he had a bit of, for she had said she wouldn’t leave until the play was finished, and since she was an equal partner, the earl couldn’t close down the theater or shut the play down without her consent.

In the interim, however, his family would need to be dealt with. If they hadn’t already guessed, the flower show and his break with Georgiana would surely show them which way the wind was blowing, and he did not want to reveal his intentions and ignite a family quarrel prematurely. He remembered quite vividly the rows he’d had with his father on Lola’s account the first time around, his mother’s tearful pleas, the endless rounds of calls on him by aunts, uncles, and cousins, the reminders to think of his position and his duty and his family name. He had no illusions that it would play out any other way the second time around.

When it all proved futile, the reckoning would come, and when it did, he wanted it to be on his terms, in a time and place of his choosing. In the meantime, his best course was to go to Arcady. Going to Kent enabled him to avoid, for now, the parade of concerned relatives, and it might also pacify his family and quiet the gossip. It would also ensure that he wasn’t tempted to see Lola, and it would eliminate the possibility he would encounter her accidentally. Leaving town was clearly his best course.

A hansom pulled up to the curb in front of him and stopped. “Where to, guv’nor?” the driver asked, hopping down from the back to pull open the hansom’s wooden doors.

Denys considered a moment, then pulled out his watch and turned toward the streetlight to read its face. It was just past six, which meant he had plenty of time to put the wheels of his plan in motion and still catch the last train for Kent.

“White’s,” he said, and tucked the watch back in his waistcoat pocket. “And there’s half a crown above the fare if we arrive there within fifteen minutes.”

The driver earned that half a crown, depositing him in front of his club with three minutes to spare. By the time those three minutes were up, he had ordered dinner for five in a private dining room and dispatched a footman to South Audley Street with instructions for his valet. Althorp was to pack his things, inform his family he was off to Arcady, and meet him at Victoria Station in time to catch the nine o’clock train for Kent.

He then made liberal use of the club’s telephone. His account was charged an exorbitant amount for the privilege, but he didn’t mind that in the least. After all, when a man called out his heaviest guns, he ought to do it with flair.

Lola tried to be strong. She tried to focus all her attention on her work because that was the only thing she could control. She couldn’t change the world, not Denys’s world, anyway. She tried to tell herself that once she was gone, he’d be able to forget her, and she’d forget him, though she feared that sort of self-deceit wasn’t going to work a second time. Most of all, she tried not to miss him.

In all aspects, she failed miserably. Every morning on her way to rehearsal, she studied his office as she passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of him—alighting from his carriage, walking along the street, or perhaps standing by his office window up above. She could have spared herself that particular torture by turning onto Southampton Street and entering the rehearsal hall by the side entrance, but though it was painful, she couldn’t spare herself that pain.

Nor could she resist reading the society pages. That was an equally painful exercise, but she craved any information about him she could find. She wanted to know everything—the activities he was engaged in, the places he went, the people he might be with. By the time three days had passed, the papers had made it clear no announcement of engagement between Lord Somerton and Lady Georgiana Prescott would be forthcoming and that it was Lola Valentine’s appearance at the flower show and her wanton disregard for propriety that had caused the breach. Somerton, it was said, was so pained by Miss Valentine’s breathtaking lack of discretion that he’d gone to his estates in Kent to recuperate.

Lola stopped reading the papers after that, but during the three weeks that followed, avoiding the scandal sheets did little to help her to forget him. This was London, and reminders of him seemed to be everywhere—in the lifts of the Savoy, in the growlers that rolled past her on the street, in the flowers of the parks and those sold by the flower sellers around Covent Garden.

She tried to lose herself in work, but that, too, did little to relieve her heartache. She was grateful that her part in Othello was the minor one of Bianca and not the leading role of Desdemona, for she could summon little interest in the play, and this sudden bout of apathy both surprised and frustrated her. After years of training, dreaming, working toward a goal, to have it seem so colorless and unimportant was something she had never anticipated, and she didn’t know quite how to cope. And though she’d been through all this emotional turmoil with Denys once before, it seemed so much harder this time. Unlike last time, she could not run away until the play had run, which meant she was stuck, like a fly in amber, until Othello came to an end. And then, she would have to go as far away as she could get. He’d said their discussion of marriage wasn’t over, and she couldn’t bear to keep having that conversation, for she knew at some point her resistance would disintegrate and she would give in. Where Denys was concerned, she’d always been weak as water.

By opening night, she wondered how she would endure two more months of this. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing room, at her colorless face and the circles under her eyes, and she tried to rouse herself from her apathy. She could not reenter London’s theatrical world as this haunted creature. Her career as a dramatic actress might only span two months, but it wasn’t going to begin with her looking like this.

She opened the fitted case that held her stage cosmetics, but she’d barely finished applying powder to her face and rouge to her cheeks when the door of her dressing room opened. Lola looked up from the rouge pot she was closing and froze as her eyes met those of Earl Conyers in the mirror.

“Leave us, please,” he said to the other girls preparing for the performance, and they scurried out of the room at once. Her own understudy, Betsy Brown, was the last to go, and she gave Lola a curious glance as she ducked past the earl and closed the door behind her.

Lola closed the pot of rouge, took a deep breath, and stood up, reminding herself that she was about to go on stage in front of an audience that fully expected her to fail, and somehow, that made facing Denys’s father a bit less daunting. By the time she turned around, she was composed and calm, and had even managed to paste a little smile on her lips.

“My lord,” she said, bowing her head a fraction. “This is most unexpected. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I doubt it is a pleasure for you, Miss Valentine, and it is certainly not one for me. I shall come straight to the point.”

“Must you?” She widened her smile deliberately and gestured to the bottles of champagne open on the table in the center of the room—gifts to the girls from admiring stage-door johnnies. “Surely you’ll have a drink first?”

He shook his head, but Lola strolled over to the table to pour one for herself, for she could certainly use it. A filled flute of fortifying champagne in her hand, she turned toward him, lifting the glass with a sardonic flourish. “You may now come to that point.”

The inference that she was giving him permission made the earl’s face flush with color, but he didn’t take issue with it. “I came to inform you that I have sold my share of the Imperial.”

Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this, and Lola couldn’t quite hide her surprise.

“Yes,” he said, and it was his turn to offer a little smile. “So you see? Your attachment to my son is over.”

“Does Denys know about this?”

“Lord Somerton,” he said with emphasis, “will be informed when he returns from Kent.”

“I see. You didn’t even bother to consult him?”

“What would be the point? I know his opinion on the matter already.”

“Then you know the Imperial is something of which he is extremely proud, as he should be. And yet, you have sold it out from under him without a thought.”

“You are to blame for that, young woman.”

That flicked her on the raw, and though she didn’t want to make more trouble between Denys and his father than she already had, she couldn’t resist a smart reply. “My, my, who’d have thought a guttersnipe like me had so much power.”

He ignored that. “Your new partner is a certain Lord Barringer, and he intends to bring you a very generous offer to buy you out. I would suggest you consider accepting it.”

“Why should I? Your money didn’t make me go scurrying off last time. Why should someone else’s money do so?”

“Because there will be no reason for you to stay.”

She might have already decided to go, but for the life of her, she just couldn’t bear to admit it here and watch Conyers gloat. “Denys is not a reason?”

“He is the future Earl Conyers. He must marry, and she must be a girl of good family, but as long as you are here, and he is under your spell, he will never consider it. And he certainly cannot marry you.”

“No? Why is that?”

“My dear Miss Valinsky, I know all about you.”

Lola tensed, a sick dread knotting her stomach.

“When you returned to London,” he continued, “I hired Pinkerton men to investigate you. I’d have done it years ago, when you were here before, but at that time, I had deemed my son’s infatuation with you a temporary madness. He’d been involved with women like you before, you see.”

She tried to don a blasé air. “Must have been the shock of your life when Denys decided to marry me.”

The earl set his jaw, looking grim. “It was. And though you refused my money, you did have the good sense to accept Henry’s offer and go back where you came from. When you returned two months ago, however, I immediately set the detectives to work. I know your father was a drunk, and you are a bastard. I know about the dockside taverns where you . . . danced, shall we say? And,” he added, his dark eyes so like Denys’s, and yet, filled with a contempt she’d never seen in his son’s gaze, “I know about your association with Robert Delacourt. I know you are nothing more than a whore.”

She sucked in her breath, feeling as if she’d just been backhanded. That, she supposed, was the intent.

Almost as if he read her mind, he nodded slowly. “Mr. Delacourt is well-known to Pinkerton’s in New York. They know all about him, and they know all about his girls.” His gaze raked over her. “Girls like you.”

She shook her head. “But, you don’t understand—”

“Leave London,” he told her. “If you don’t, or if you ever return, I will give Denys the report from Pinkerton’s. We’ll see if he still wants you after that.”

Denials and explanations died on her lips, for what was the point of them? “What makes you think I haven’t already told Denys all about my past?”

He studied her for a moment before he answered. “Because I believe you genuinely care for my son, and you care what he thinks of you. If you didn’t, you’d have taken the money I offered you when you left for Paris, or you’d have jumped at his proposal of marriage when he offered it, and let him find out after the wedding what you truly are. I think you see as clearly as I do that you could never make him happy and that matters to you.”

She swallowed hard and said nothing. The earl and his Pinkerton men might have gotten some things wrong, but not that. That part would always be true.

“So,” he went on in the wake of her silence, “what is left for you here but to be his mistress? Until he eventually tires of you?”

For pride’s sake, Lola worked to marshal what she had on her side of the ledger. “I am a woman of business. I still own half the theater. I am still an actress, and London is still the world capital of theater. I am building a new career here—”

“A career? Oh, my dear.” Conyers gave her a pitying smile. “I witnessed your last performance here firsthand. I’ve no doubt this evening will be similar. The theater has been a passionate interest of mine since I was a very young man, and I have never seen an actress with less skill than you. My son can’t see it, of course, but others are not so blind. When you fail, Barringer won’t consent to allow you an audition in any Imperial production, and I doubt other producers will allow you that privilege either.”

Lola lifted her chin, a gesture that Denys would have recognized quite well had he been present. But her voice when she spoke was cool and dismissive. “Thank you for coming to inform me of the situation, Lord Conyers. Now, if you don’t mind, I must dress.”

“Of course.” He bowed and departed, and Lola watched the door close behind him through narrowed eyes.

“I may have to leave London, my lord,” she muttered, and raised her glass, “but I’m damned well not leaving as a failure. Not this time.”

With that, she downed the remaining champagne, slammed down her glass, reached for her costume, and prepared herself to give the performance of her life.

The applause started before the curtain even began to close, and the audience was on its feet before the hem hit the floorboards. The roar of the crowd impelled the actors to go out and take their bows, but when it was her turn, Lola was too stunned to move. During the past three hours, she’d been so driven, so focused on her performance, that now, when the play was over, she felt dazed.

“Lola, c’mon.” Blackie grabbed her hand. “They’re calling for us, love.”

“Did I do all right?” she asked, yanking her hand out of his and gripping him by the arms. “Blackie, tell me the truth. Did I do all right?”

“All right?” Blackie laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, a grin splitting his dark, Irish face. “By God, you were brilliant.” He grabbed her hand again, adding over his shoulder as he started toward the stage with her in tow, “Even Arabella might be pleased.”

“I doubt that,” she said, but her reply was drowned out by the roar of the crowd as Blackie dragged her onto the stage. Hand in hand, they stopped in the center and looked at each other, and then, Blackie gave her a wink, and they bowed together.

The audience was not satisfied, however, and it wasn’t until they had offered two more bows that they could return to the wings. But even then, as fellow actors darted back and forth all around her, talking, laughing, congratulating each other, she still couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

A hand thumped her back in approval, and she turned as John Breckenridge, the star of the play, paused beside her. “In the beginning, I had grave doubts about you, Miss Valentine,” he told her. “I was sure you’d fall on your face, but you proved me wrong. I’ve lost a fiver over it, but I don’t mind. You were good. Truly good.”

Her lips parted, but her throat closed up, and she couldn’t seem to offer a reply. John Breckinridge was one of London’s finest actors, worthy of the comparisons that had been made of him to Sir Henry Irving. Hearing praise of her performance from him was one of the sweetest things that had ever happened to her. “Thank you,” she managed at last. “Thank you.”

Jamie Saunders stopped beside him. “Good work, Lola,” he said, and held out his hand to her. She shook it, and he turned to John. “I believe you owe me a fiver. I’ll take it in ale at the Lucky Pig, thank you.” He glanced at Lola. “Some of us are going to the pub at the end of the street to celebrate. You’re welcome to join.”

Lola considered, then shook her head. Leaving London would be hard enough as it was. “Thank you, but I’m exhausted. Good night.”

She returned to her dressing room, and she was grateful it was empty. The moment she was inside and had closed the door behind her, her knees went wobbly, and she had to sit down.

She plunked down in front of her dressing table and stared, wide-eyed, at her reflection, trying to assimilate what had just happened. “I did it,” she whispered. “Oh my God, I just did Shakespeare.” Joy rose up inside her like a rocket, and she laughed out loud. “And I was good. How about that, Lord Conyers?”

But then, she looked down and saw her empty champagne glass on the powder-dusted surface of her dressing table, and all her joy died away.

She might have proved Conyers wrong about her talents, but she knew it didn’t make any difference. She still had no future here. Not now.

Had Denys seen her tonight? she wondered. Or was he still in Kent? What if he came backstage to congratulate her? To take her to dinner as he used to do so long ago? What if he asked her to marry him? How many times could she say no before she weakened and said yes?

The door opened and she jumped, then let out a sigh of relief that it was only Betsy. The girl sat down at her own dressing table farther along the wall and reached for a jar of lanolin to remove her paint and powder. The cosmetics hadn’t been necessary tonight, for Betsy had no part in the play, but as Lola’s understudy, the girl had to be prepared to go on stage at any moment regardless.

At any moment.

“Betsy?”

The girl turned her head. “Hmm?”

“You know the part, don’t you? You’ve been rehearsing Bianca, right? You haven’t been slouching or missing your rehearsals?”

“Oh, no, Miss Valentine.” The girl’s eyes widened. “I know we’re almost never rehearsing in the same rehearsal hall, so you don’t see me much, but—”

“Good.” Lola cut her off, and stood up. She grabbed her cosmetics case. “Be ready to go on tomorrow night. The part is yours from now on.”

She walked out before Betsy could recover her surprise enough to reply.

Doing a show was always an exhausting business, and Lola never failed to fall asleep afterward the moment her head touched the pillow. Tonight, however, sleep chose to desert her. She had promised Denys she would stay until the play’s run ended, and she’d already broken that promise, but that wasn’t what kept sleep at bay. No, what kept her tossing and turning was fear—fear that even though she was leaving, Conyers would still tell Denys about the most sordid aspects of her past. If that happened, Denys would come to the same conclusion Conyers had. He would think she’d prostituted herself.

She turned over with a groan and cursed herself for ever returning to London. And yet, how could she regret it?

Tonight, she’d achieved the one goal she’d set for herself in coming back. But far more important, she’d been given the chance to see Denys again, to be in his company, to have his arms around her and taste his kiss and revel in his lovemaking. How could she regret that? How could she regret those blissful moments together after the flower show?

He is the future Earl Conyers. He must marry, and she must be a girl of good family, but as long as you are here, he will never consider anyone else.

Conyers’s voice echoed through her brain, and Lola turned onto her side with a moan, grabbing a pillow and holding it over her ear. That, of course, didn’t help a bit.

What is there for you here, but to be his mistress?

Why? she wondered in despair as she tossed the pillow aside and rolled onto her back. Why couldn’t society and his family just leave them alone? Why couldn’t they just be allowed to be together as lovers? Why couldn’t they just enjoy each other for as long as it lasted? Why the hell couldn’t anything with her and Denys ever be simple?

You will always be his ruin.

As those words echoed through her mind, she felt the truth of them more than ever before. Something seemed to crack inside of her, crack wide open, and suddenly, she was crying. Lola turned on her other side, curling into a ball, but she couldn’t hold it back, and for the first time in years, she cried herself to sleep.

“Good morning, Miss Valentine.”

The cheerful greeting of her maid woke her, and Lola opened her eyes, blinking a little in the morning light. Her eyes hurt, the dry, burning hurt that came after a crying jag. “What time is it?” she asked, sitting up on her elbows to find her maid at the foot of her bed with a tray.

“Half past twelve,” Marianne answered. “Your usual time after a show. Would you like to dress? Or have breakfast first?”

“Neither.” She sat upright in the bed, shoved a lock of her hair out of her face as she worked to clear her sleep-clogged senses. “Marianne, I need you to do something for me first thing. I need you to go to Cook’s and arrange for us to return to New York.”

The maid’s lips parted in surprise, but she was too well trained to question her mistress. “Of course. When would you like to depart?”

“As soon as possible, so you’d best go now and make the arrangements.”

“Yes, ma’am. But won’t you wish me to dress you before I go? And have breakfast sent up?”

“No.” Lola sank back into the pillows. “I just want to go back to sleep. Feel free to have luncheon while you’re out. And wake me when you return.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The maid departed, and Lola closed her eyes, but just as she fell asleep, she was awakened again, this time by a knocking sound.

She sat up, looked through the open doorway of her bedroom and realized the knock she’d heard was coming from the outer door to the suite.

“Miss Valentine?” a muffled male voice called from the corridor.

Still dazed, her eyes heavy with sleep, Lola shoved back the counterpane with a sigh, got out of bed, and walked to the doorway of her room.

“Miss Valentine?” the voice called again. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she answered. “What is it?”

“Room service, ma’am.”

Damn it, she’d told Marianne she didn’t want breakfast sent up. She frowned, trying to think. Hadn’t she told her that?

“Miss Valentine?” the voice called. “Breakfast and coffee.”

Coffee? Lola lifted her head, her spirits lifting a bit. After the night she’d had, coffee sounded awfully good. “Just a moment, please.”

She returned to her bedroom, opened the armoire, and pulled out a soft green tea gown that buttoned in front. She slipped it on over her nightdress and did up the buttons, then shoved her feet into a pair of silk slippers. Dressed, more or less, she returned to the sitting room, retrieved a sixpence from her handbag, and walked to the door. She opened it, but though the man standing outside her door with a cart wore the livery of a Savoy footman, he was definitely not a member of the hotel staff.

“Denys?” She rubbed her fingertips over her sleep-dazed eyes, wondering if she was dreaming. “What are you doing here?”