Playing The Duke's Mistress. Eliza Redgold

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      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.

Chapter Two

      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.’

      She had no trouble conjuring up emotions when she considered the Duke of Albury, she thought as she gritted her teeth. She could still taste her fury.

      Yet for an odd moment, when their eyes had first met, after his almost insulting survey of her face and figure, she’d felt a connection spring to life between them. Something tentative and hopeful that had evaporated in the blast of his arrogant rudeness.

      Calista pushed the thought of the duke away and focused on her sister snuggled beside her. When she’d found her father’s half-finished play in his papers she’d determined to finish it. The play was an adaptation of a story, so it was possible for her to pick up where her father had left it. Somehow, continuing his work kept his presence alive. Today, she had planned to write more, but it was Columbine who mattered most. ‘I don’t have a matinee performance this afternoon. Would you like to go to Hyde Park?’

      ‘Oh, yes, please!’ Columbine leapt up, sending her long black braids flying. ‘It’s hard to be indoors all day with only Martha for company, not that she isn’t very kind to me,’ she added hastily. ‘But I love to spend time with you best, Cally. Can we take a picnic luncheon?’

      ‘If you like. Go and ask Martha if she will cut us some sandwiches.’

      ‘She might even put in some seed cake.’

      ‘I’m sure she will.’

      Columbine scampered from the bedroom.

      Calista lay back against the pillows. From the window opposite, pale sunshine beamed into the small room. The April showers had passed, and now it was Maytime, her favourite season. Summer was at last coming to bring some warmth to the London streets. The cold winter had been terrible for Columbine’s health and Calista had wished she had the money to send her young sister to a warmer climate for those long, cold months. But she couldn’t leave the theatre and take Columbine to Italy or France, where the air might clear her lungs. Nor could she afford to send her abroad with only Martha, loyal maidservant that she was. She was more than a maid, really. Martha had nursed Columbine since their mother had died, and had cared for them both as best she could in the cramped rooms Calista rented. Ever since their father had gone Martha had always tried to refuse the few coins Calista gave her each week.

      Calista bit her lip. Last night when she’d told the duke that her father was a playwright, as she’d said it, she realised she had used the past tense.

      Had she given up hope?

      Perhaps it was time to face the brutal truth.

      Her fingers gripped the edge of the linen sheet. She couldn’t. Not yet. She would continue his work and care for Columbine until their father came home.

      Yet day by day it became harder.

      And more frightening.

      She СКАЧАТЬ