‘I know of actresses. Every actress in Covent Garden wants to marry a lord or a duke. It’s become an epidemic. Perhaps you’re the same. Are you angling for a title, too?’
‘How dare you!’
‘Lady Calista. Countess Calista. Duchess Calista,’ he mocked. ‘Is that why you’re here tonight? Is that your secret hope, like all actresses?’
Against her white skin Miss Fairmont’s blue eyes were as brilliant as sapphires. ‘Is it beyond your imagination that some actresses might not want a coronet? I am one of them. I answer to the stage, not to a duke.’
‘Come, come,’ he sneered. ‘You’re indulging in play-acting now.’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘My family goes back four generations on the stage. I have a lineage as proud as yours. My mother and grandmother were actresses, and my father...’ her voice wavered ‘...my father was a playwright. You’ll never understand what the stage means to me. You talk of the actresses who left the stage to marry into the aristocracy. I’m sure many of them regretted it and longed for the stage when their husbands refused to allow them to act again.’
‘As I’m sure many aristocrats regret their marriages to actresses,’ he shot back. ‘I’ve seen it myself in the circles of my acquaintance. It never works. It leads to ruination. As head of the family it’s my duty to ensure no Carlyle becomes embroiled in such a disastrous match again.’
Her eyes snapped blue fire. ‘You seem to think being a titled wife is such a prize. Why, I’d rather be a mistress than a wife to an aristocrat like you.’
‘My mistress?’ He raised a brow. ‘At least you’ve made your price clear.’
‘You’re twisting my words,’ she said through pinched lips. ‘I merely mean to say that being a duke’s wife is not what every actress wants.’
‘Every actress has a price.’ He spun on his heel and faced the sobbing Miss Coop. ‘Well? What’s yours, Miss Coop?’
The actress’s lower lip wobbled. ‘I just wanted some lobster.’
Darius released a stab of a laugh.
Miss Fairmont moved swiftly around the table. Even in anger her walk maintained that elegant glide. ‘Come along, Mabel. We’re going home.’
‘Herbie...’
Herbert’s napkin fell to the floor as he stood. ‘I’ll call on you tomorrow, Mabel,’ he said nervously. ‘I promise.’
‘Come now,’ Miss Fairmont urged, helping her friend up and pressing a white handkerchief into her hand. ‘Please. Don’t stay here for such insults.’
Over her shoulder she cast Darius a look of scorn. ‘I only hope no actress ever has the misfortune to become your wife.’
‘What a performance.’ Darius lifted his glass to her. ‘You’re almost convincing, Miss Fairmont. Bravo.’
Miss Calista Fairmont slammed the door behind them.
* * *
Outside on the street Calista pulled her cloak around herself. Beside her Mabel still sobbed.
Never before had Calista been quite so furious.
Title-hunters! How dare he!
The way the Duke of Albury had treated her, as if she were beneath contempt, as if the craft she poured her life and soul into was nothing. To accuse her of only wanting a title, when she went to such lengths to avoid exactly such entanglements!
If he only knew...
Tears stung her eyes. Her fatigue, an exhaustion that went deep into her bones from weeks of worry and lack of sleep, combined with the aftershocks of rage, left her trembling. To have to defend her profession against such aspersions was intolerable.
No dinners with dukes, Calista resolved anew.
Never, ever again.
When that great man I loved, thy noble father,
Bequeathed thy gentle sister to my arms.
Nicholas Rowe: The Fair Penitent (1703)
‘Cally? Are you awake?’
Calista’s eyes were open before the second word was out. ‘Columbine. What time is it? Are you all right?’
Columbine snuggled into her arms. Even from beneath the bedcovers Calista could feel how thin and frail her sister was. She was much lighter than an eight-year-old should be. She hardly made a dent in the mattress.
‘It’s nine o’clock and I’m very well today,’ Columbine said brightly. ‘I feel much better.’
Calista laid her hand on Columbine’s forehead. It was true, her temperature had dropped and the hectic flush had gone from her cheeks.
‘I didn’t hear you come in last night,’ her sister said. She slept in the other larger room with their maid, Martha. By day it served as their sitting room, kept warm by the fire. Her own room was little more than a cupboard and a chill one at that.
‘I was later than usual,’ Calista explained. ‘I went out to supper with Mabel.’
‘I like Mabel,’ said Columbine, burrowing deeper into the bed. ‘She always gives me sweets when I come to the theatre.’
Calista sighed, thinking of her friend. Mabel was kind-hearted, and she insisted she was in love with Sir Herbert Carlyle, or so she had declared all the way home after the disastrous supper party. Her infatuations didn’t usually last too long, but that didn’t excuse the behaviour of the Duke of Albury.
The memory flashed in her mind, followed by a blast of anger.
Actresses are title-hunters.
Calista winced. Over and over the phrase rang in her head. It had stung more than the duke might guess. It was galling to think in what contempt he held her profession. She’d never had such sentiment spoken to her face although she knew what people said behind her back. It hurt.
She raised her chin. The opinion of the Duke of Albury wouldn’t put her off her life’s vocation. She would continue to hone her craft until actresses had the respect they deserved, no matter what men like him believed.
At dinner the night before—not that they’d actually eaten anything—she’d studied him. She always studied new acquaintances carefully, for she’d learnt they might have a manner or trick of speech she could later bring to life in a character on stage. Yet, to be honest, it hadn’t been for her craft that she’d watched him. He was a man who compelled attention.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Immaculately dressed in a dark evening jacket, a claret-coloured velvet waistcoat and pristine shirt so white it rivalled new-fallen snow. His evening trousers had been pressed, his shoes polished. She’d noted he wore a crested gold signet ring on the small finger of his right hand. It was a strong, large hand, a whip hand. It was clear he was a man who expected to be obeyed instantly. He could have been a performer himself, having that rare presence a great actor must possess in order to maintain the interest of the audience. His height, his deep voice and his dark good looks would make him a perfect stage hero.
No.
Not a hero.
A villain.
Scraps of dialogue Calista wished had come to her before had kept her awake until nearly dawn. She’d jotted down a few of the lines in the loose-leaf folio she kept on the table by the bed. Her father had always told her that the best playwrights wrote constantly, not just when they were working on a play.
‘Use all your emotions to write,’ he’d told her. ‘The same as when you’re on stage.’