A bad opening night could herald more than just an early end to a play’s run. It could sound the death knell on a playwright’s career.
‘Give my regards to the cast,’ Laurence said as the carriage drew to a halt. ‘Tell Victor I expect a standing ovation, and Miss Chermonde that her performance had better warrant at least three curtain calls.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ Victoria said as the door opened and James let down the stairs. ‘Whether they heed you or not is another matter all together.’
And then she was alone. Standing in the street as the carriage pulled away, she took a few deep breaths to compose herself. No doubt the actors inside were doing the same. Stage fright was all part and parcel of opening-night madness, but hopefully by the time the curtain rose, the butterflies would have flown and the cast would have settled into giving the best performances of their lives. The audience would accept no less.
Neither, Victoria thought as she knocked lightly upon the unmarked door, would her uncle.
‘Ah, good evening, Miss Bretton,’ said the elderly gentleman who opened it. ‘I wondered if I’d be seeing you tonight.’
‘Good evening, Tommy. I thought to have a word with my uncle before the performance began. Is everything ready?’
‘Aye, miss, as ready as it will ever be.’ Thomas Belkins stepped back to let her enter. ‘Had some trouble with the backdrop for the second act, but we got that straightened away, and Mrs Beckett was able to mend the tear in Mr Trumphani’s costume neat as ninepence.’
‘What about Mrs Roberts?’ Victoria asked. ‘Is she feeling better than she was at rehearsal?’
‘Haven’t heard her complain, but between you and me, she’s a tough old bird who nothing short of death would keep from being on stage on opening night.’
The old man’s cheerfulness did much to settle Victoria’s nerves. Tommy Belkins had been in the theatre all of his life. Once an actor with a travelling Shakespearean troupe, he now worked behind the scenes at the Gryphon, overseeing the elaborate systems of lights, ropes, pulleys and reflectors that created the magic on stage. Both Drury Lane and Covent Garden had tried to lure him away, but Tommy had refused their offers, saying he’d rather work for pennies at the Gryphon than for a grand salary anywhere else.
Not that he did, of course. Her uncle paid a generous wage to all of the people who worked for him. It was one of the reasons the productions staged at the Gryphon were so good. He encouraged a spirit of co-operation and conviviality unusual in the theatrical world, and because Theodore Templeton was known for giving promising young actors a chance, he never found himself short of talent.
Still, in the end, it all came down to the quality of the play, and, knowing it was too late to do anything about that now, Victoria closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to St Gen-esius. It might just be superstition on her part, but she never ventured into a theatre without asking the patron saint of actors for his blessing.
Then, with both her brother’s and Tommy Belkins’s good wishes ringing in her ears, Victoria Bretton—alias Valentine Lawe—walked into the theatre and prepared to face whatever the Fates held in store for her.
The Honourable Alistair Devlin did not make a habit of going to the theatre. It was all right if no other more amusing pastime could be found, but given the choice between watching amateurish productions staged by men and women who suffered from the misguided notion that they could act, or spending the evening in the comfortably masculine ambiance of his club, he would always choose the latter. The only reason he had come tonight was to appease his good friend, Lord Collins, whose repeated requests that he come and see the nubile young actress he was intent on making his newest mistress had finally worn Alistair down.
‘And I dare you to say she is not exquisite,’ Collins said as they settled into their gilt-edged seats at the front of the box.
‘I’m sure she will be all you have promised and more,’ Alistair said, gazing with interest at his surroundings. ‘You have always been an arbiter of female loveliness.’ It was the first time Alistair had ventured inside the Gryphon, but not the first time he had heard about the celebrated theatre. Rumour had it that upwards of eighty thousand pounds had been lavished on the building’s restoration and that a special company had been assembled to grace its stage.
According to Collins—who had already enjoyed an intimate liaison with another young actress from the company—it was not enough that an actor be able to recite his lines without stumbling. He must also be able to portray that character’s feelings in such a way that the audience was moved to laughter or tears, without resorting to the facial contortions and physical gestures so often employed by under-talented performers.
Frankly, Alistair was sceptical. While he knew that some actors were talented enough to pull off such masterful performances, experience had shown him that most tended to fall back on the melodramatic posturings that left him entirely unmoved and prompted audiences to hurl both insults and orange peelings at the stage.
‘By the by, did I mention that Signy has a friend?’ Collins asked. ‘Another actress in the company. You might do well to look her up, given that you’re in the market for that sort of thing.’
‘Thank you, Bertie, but I have absolutely no intention of looking for a new mistress,’ Alistair replied, gazing at the magnificent frescoes overhead. ‘The one with whom I just parted gave a new meaning to the word vindictive.’
Collins had the cheek to laugh. ‘Yes, I did hear something about the glorious Celeste managing to knock over two rather expensive vases on her way out of your house.’
‘Expensive? She wilfully destroyed a priceless Tang horse and a Sèvres vase that have been in my family for generations,’ Alistair murmured. ‘Grandmother Wilson still hasn’t forgiven me for that lapse in judgement.’
Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Celeste Fontaine’s wanton destruction of family heirlooms that had prompted Alistair to end his relationship with her. It was the fact she had lied to him. She had told him to his face that he was the only man with whom she was keeping company, when in fact she had been spending as much time in Lord Lansing’s bed as she had in his.
When Alistair had brought this trifling detail to her attention, Celeste had treated him to a performance that would have done the great Sarah Siddons proud. She had stormed out of the house, somehow managing to consign the two pieces of porcelain to their doom on the way, and the next day, had sent him a scathing letter in which she had told him exactly what she thought of his behaviour, adding that while he was an adequate lover, she believed his skills in bed to be highly overrated.
It was the contents of the letter that had hammered the last nail into her coffin. While not an arrogant man, Alistair took pride in his ability to please the opposite sex. As a callow youth, he had discovered that the sexual experience was heightened if both parties were able to enjoy it, and he had striven to learn the secrets of giving pleasure as well as taking it. So to have his skills in bed mocked by a woman who had never once left him in any doubt as to how much she enjoyed them seemed to him the height of hypocrisy.
Still, he’d managed to have the last word. Only last week, the celebrated courtesan had appeared at his door, saying with every appearance of contrition that she was genuinely sorry for the way she had behaved and that it was only in a moment of weakness she had succumbed to Lord Lansing’s advances. At that point, she had batted her eyelashes and, with tears falling from her famous pansy-blue eyes, had begged him to take her back.
Alistair had not been moved. Giving her a handkerchief to dry her eyes, he had advised her to take herself back to Lord Lansing or whichever gentleman was keeping her and not to trouble him again. The one thing he would not tolerate from those closest to him was deceit. A woman who lied to him once would have no compunction about lying to him again and he had no reason to believe Celeste would not end up back in the arms of the man with whom she had already betrayed him.
Women like that always landed on their feet.