Mistress to the Marquis. Margaret McPhee

thought again of that moment in Hyde Park.

      ‘Don’t be such a damned fool, Alice Flannigan, you’re imagining things,’ she whispered to herself, using the name with which she had been born, rather than that she had taken for the stage. ‘You put a smile on your face and get through there, girl. Life goes on—if you’re lucky. And he isn’t worth it.’ She rubbed a little rouge on to her cheeks, added a spot to her lips and tucked an errant strand of hair into place.

      Taking a deep breath, she held her head high, fixed a smile on her face and went to sparkle and entice the gentlemen of the Green Room, just as her contract required.