‘No, it will not because Miss Golding will be leaving us. Is Miss Poole aware of what has been going on?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are lodging with her still?’
‘Sir.’
‘Then you had better think up an explanation for why you are not getting paid this week, Merrick.’ The young man looked up sharply, the boyish charm slipping. ‘I will add your wages to what I owe Miss Golding.’ That, at least, ought to please his sentimental new partner. If she ever came back.
‘Be very clear about this, Merrick. I am keeping you only because of Miss Poole. She’s a better actor than you’ll ever be and I doubt she’d have the lack of judgement to expose her spotty buttocks to my guests either.’ That produced a furious blush, but Merrick held his tongue.
‘Nothing to say? I need hardly add that if I find you involved with any other female in this company I will ensure that Miss Poole is fully aware of it. I’ll even hand her the blunt carving knife. Now get out of my sight.’
Methodically Eden opened his notebook, crossed out the line about the three actors and added a note about Merrick and Golding’s wages and the need to cast another ingénue, then went to open the door. ‘Millie!’
‘Yes, Guv’nor?’ She appeared round the corner, her face screwed up in her usual earnest scowl. ‘Post, Guv’nor.’ She thrust several envelopes into his hand.
‘Thank you. Go and make sure Mrs Furlow’s dressing room is in good order.’ The maid scurried off and Eden leaned back against the doorjamb, his eyes unseeing on the deserted passageway, wondering if he was coming down with something. He felt decidedly odd. After a minute he scrubbed his hair back with both hands, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars.
There was no time to be ill and no excuse for indulging himself by looking for symptoms either. Eden went back into his office and glanced at the clock. An hour to the afternoon rehearsal. Time to read his post, send Millie out for some food and decide what to do about finding a replacement for Harriet Golding.
There was, almost inevitably, an invitation from the Corwin household. This time it was for a soirée, two evenings hence. Having survived one of Mrs Corwin’s soirées before, he was not over-eager to repeat the experience. Did he still need Corwin’s money? He was reluctant, but the man had not asked for any involvement with the theatre, not like Lady Maude, and money, wherever it came from, was money.
The other invitation emerging from the pile was unexpected. Lady Standon requested the pleasure of his company, again for a soirée, again in two evenings’ time.
It had not been uncommon for him to receive invitations from members of society since his arrival in London, especially those of the faster set. His wealth, and the rapidly growing popularity of his theatre, accounted for it, he supposed, in the same way as prominent bankers or merchants would receive invitations if their manners were sufficiently refined. Such outsiders showed a hostess was daring and completely secure in her own position.
Occasionally he accepted when one of his particular friends pressed the point or when an evening’s entertainment included a celebrity singer or writer he was interested in. But he was wary, for he realised that, for some of the female guests—and on one occasion, not just the females—his person was the attraction. As a decorative exotic it seemed he was a desirable accessory on a lady’s arm and in her bed. He was not averse to a brief dalliance with charming ladies whose husbands were either tolerant or neglectful, but he liked to make his own choices. He was aware it had given him a certain reputation.
But Lady Standon did not appear to be the kind of lady who thought that slumming it with men from beyond her social circle would be amusing; in fact, he rather suspected she was unfashionably attached to her husband, a man who looked as though he would kill anyone who so much as laid a finger on his wife. Maude would doubtless say they were in love. So there was a strong possibility that, after meeting him in Maude’s box, she had simply included him on her guest list with no ulterior motives.
Eden pulled the notepaper towards him and began to write, one letter an acceptance, the other a regretful refusal due to a prior engagement. As he sealed them he smiled, amused at his own choices.
Millie poked her head round the door. ‘I’ve done the room, Guv’nor. You want me to take your letters?’
‘Yes, send one of the lads to deliver them now.’
Eden was not surprised to find Corwin waiting in the office when he came back after rehearsal. Millie had provided the merchant with tea and he sat in front of the desk, seeming, to Eden’s resentful eye, to occupy more than his reasonable share of the space.
‘Well, my boy,’ he began. Eden showed his teeth in what might be construed as a smile and sat. ‘As you can’t come to Mrs C.’ s soirée, there’s a little chat I think we should have.’
‘Indeed?’ Eden injected polite boredom into his voice.
‘Mrs C. is that disappointed, I can’t tell you,’ Corwin remarked, stirring a heaped spoon of sugar into his cup. ‘Bessie, I said to her, it’s about time I settled matters right and tight with Mr Hurst, then we’ll all know where we are and he won’t be bashful about accepting invitations. Why, I said, he won’t need them!’
Eden raised an eyebrow. ‘I would regret causing Mrs Corwin disappointment, but I am afraid my refusal is due to the fact I will be at the Standons’ soirée that evening, not to any bashfulness.’
‘Lord Standon? Well, that just goes to show what I said to my Bessie was right—you’re just the man we need, sir.’
‘For what, exactly?’ Eden asked, knowing all too well what the answer would be.
‘Why, for our girls!’ Corwin took a swig of tea.
‘All of them? I fear that is illegal in this country.’
‘Ha! You’ll have your joke, sir.’ The merchant did not look as though he found it funny. ‘No, whichever of them you choose, although Calliope is the eldest. Once one of them’s wed to you, the others will get off soon enough, I make no doubt of it, especially with the fine friends you’ve got, my boy.’
Eden toyed with the options before him, of which physically ejecting Corwin was the most tempting. Uno, due, tre, he counted silently, then smiled. ‘You flatter me with your proposal, sir, but I must decline.’
He expected anger, but Corwin’s face merely displayed indulgent understanding. ‘I know what it is, and it does you honour, my boy, but we don’t take any account of the circumstances of your birth. Why, Mrs C. herself never knew her father, let alone him being an Italian prince.’
‘You would oblige me by ceasing to discuss my parentage, Corwin. What you think of the circumstances does not interest me. I have no intention of marrying one of your daughters and that is the end of it.’
The other man’s face darkened and he set his cup down sharply. ‘Then you’ll not get a penny piece of my money for your damned theatre.’
Eden shrugged. ‘Your decision, sir.’
‘So you do not intend doing the honourable thing, despite compromising my Calliope?’ the other man blustered.
‘Ah, so you did know about that very unwise visit, did you?’ Eden relaxed against the high-carved back of his chair, aware that when he did so the soaring eagle at the top seemed to rise from his shoulders, claws outspread, threatening. A theatrical effect, but it amused him.
‘Corwin, I may be a bastard, in all the ways that word can be defined, but I am not able to compromise one young lady while she is chaperoned by her sister and, happily, by a respectable third party who happened to be having a business meeting with me at the time.’ The merchant’s face fell, ludicrously. ‘I suggest you go home, tear up whatever draft contract you have been working on and go and seek your sons-in-law elsewhere.