Improper Advances (36 page)

By making her his wife, he could proclaim to her and all the world that they were bonded for eternity.

They could live in the same house—or houses. Share a marital bed. Make love at any hour of the day or night. Bring children into the world and rear them together. He’d give her horses and goats and dogs and cats. Chickens. Cows. Even geese, if Oriana wanted them.

Unable to contain his joy, he laughed aloud. He pounded the planks with his fist—and the platform shuddered.

At any moment he could plunge to his death, and Oriana would never know about his dream. Dare forced himself to lie perfectly still.

He drew slow, calming breaths as he traced the progress of their relationship. Early on, they had each flatly stated their disinterest—he to guard his privacy, she to refute his belief that she was a fortune hunter. But time had brought understanding, and they had altered their opinions of each other. Desperate to hold on to her, he’d chased her from the island to Liverpool. After learning her identity, he had continued his pursuit in London. And throughout, she’d steadfastly denied any desire to wed-an attempt, he suspected, to shield herself from loss and betrayal.

Easy to oppose marriage when nobody had offered it.

In the near future, she would have her pick of two suitors. One possessed an earldom, the other a baronetcy. Each could give her a respected name, and considerable wealth. Which would she choose?

The man who loved her best, Dare hoped, and who needed her the most.

Did she need him? He didn’t expect her to readily admit it. She refused all gifts or any semblance of financial support. He was confident of his ability to arouse and satisfy her passions. He’d been discretion personified. Yet her love was elusive, and he must court it with care and sensitivity.

He had no means of knowing whether his servant had been gone for minutes or hours. His injured knee ached more as time passed. His damp clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He had so much to accomplish—in Derbyshire, in London, at Newmarket—and was impatient to escape his dark, silent prison.

Wingate finally returned with Dan Bonsall and a rescue party. The miners, many of them roused from their beds, brought lanterns and torches; they had buckets and shovels, wooden ladders and coils of rope. Their first order of business was to lower a light into the pit, followed by a bottle of spirits and a blanket.

Dare’s apology for causing trouble prompted many a hearty laugh.

“I remember when you and your grandfather stood vigil with the families all night, waiting to see if the miners would come out again. You’ve come to our aid time and again, sir.”

The complicated process of extricating him was long and arduous. The men decided it was too dangerous to haul him up with ropes—their combined weight could cause another collapse. Dare, mindful of the risk, waited till they unblocked the original entrance to the shaft, enabling him to crawl out.

The first pale light of dawn welcomed him when he emerged from the earth’s depths.
Oriana’s
birthday,
he thought, while the cheering men thumped his shoulder and gripped his hand.

Unlike his rescuers, who collected their implements and trudged off to the mine for a full day of work, Dare was free to return to his lodging for several hours of rest. At Wingate’s urging, he sent for the local physician and grudgingly let him inspect the cut on his cheek and bandage his bruised and swollen knee.

This also gave him an opportunity to find out whether the number of serious accidents had increased since the arrival of the current manager.

“It’s possible,” the doctor replied. “But I do know there’s more sickness than I can remember. Any fever that strikes here runs rampant. The men are working themselves into a state of exhaustion, and too many of their wives and children are underfed.”

With a renewed sense of purpose, Dare left his inn. At Wirksworth, he stopped at the banking establishment of Arkwright and Toplis but found neither man at his desk. Amenable to Wingate’s suggestion that they press on to Matlock, the spa town, he left a message for his bankers.

“I doubt a dose of the waters can heal my injuries,” he commented, as the gig crossed the bridge to the other side of the River Derwent.

“Perhaps not, sir,” his servant replied, “but the new hotel is superior to any in Wirksworth, with views of the dale and the mountains.”

In the morning, Mr. Toplis arrived at their lodging with a document box. Dare’s announcement that he wished to withdraw a substantial sum from his account prompted frowns, and what could only be described as a lecture.

“I’ve brought your account record, Sir Darius,” said the banker. “In recent months, you have drastically drawn down your funds. Almost daily we receive payment requests from our London associates at Down, Thornton, Free, and Cornwall.” He opened his box and removed a narrow ledger.

Confronted by his expenditures, Dare fell silent. The withdrawals represented payments made to innkeepers, furniture-makers, tailors, Lord Burford, the horse trainer at Moulton Heath, posting houses all over the country, and the Ludgate Hill jeweler. He was dismayed to learn that the amount on deposit wouldn’t help the miners to the extent he’d hoped.

“I need to raise cash,” he said. “Heaps of it.”

When he had explained his purpose, the banker said ponderously, “A very worthwhile endeavor.

However, your present balance does not enable you to take on so many projects. You must determine which of them you are most eager to pursue. Perhaps the fencing of disused mine shafts can be put off?”

“Not for long,” Dare answered. “Can’t I rely on my capital?”

“I strongly advise against it. The consols and annuities are rising, as are bank stocks and India stocks.

If you will permit me to make a suggestion?”

He nodded.

“Your quarterly payment for mineral rights falls due next week, at Michaelmas,” Mr. Toplis pointed out. “If you remain here to collect it yourself, you can immediately disburse it to the miners. In the meantime, I shall assist you in setting up a charitable fund.”

Dare endorsed this reasonable course of action reluctantly, knowing that it would delay his proposal to the dearly beloved mistress he intended to win as his wife.

“Our London winters are so detrimental to Signora Banti’s health that the management of the King’s Theatre cannot depend on her to perform in every opera. Therefore, I have persuaded Mr. Taylor that an Italian-trained Englishwoman is exactly what we require to fill out our company.” Michael Kelly’s cheeks plumped in a puckish grin. “We can offer you a salary of fifteen hundred guineas for the full season, plus proceeds from a benefit. As our
prima donna,
you may claim ‘right of the book,’ should you prefer to substitute an aria of your choosing over the one supplied by the composer.”

Hearing these highly advantageous terms, Oriana realized she was being courted. The reason for this change, she guessed, was Signora Banti’s tendency to sicken and the debt-plagued proprietor’s inability to keep his best performers for successive seasons. Her acquaintances in the orchestra often complained that salaries were in arrears.

“Signor Federici will conduct our singers from the harpsichord, and Saloman leads the orchestra. I, of course, continue in my position as stage manager. I can’t yet tell you when the King’s Theatre will reopen,” the Irishman admitted. “But sometime after the turn of the year, you will begin rehearsing a comic piece new to Londoners: von Winter’s I
Fratelli Rivalli.”

As an Englishwoman performing a work by a German composer, she would be opposed by the cabal. These partisans of Italian-born singers and musicians congregated in the opera house gallery, hissing loudly and shouting insults. They would resent her prominence, and exert themselves to interrupt her solos.

“Will I be performing
opera seria?”
she asked hopefully.

“I can offer you Gluck’s
Alceste.”

A French libretto, she thought in dismay, certain to stir the cabal’s resentment.

“We may stage a revival of Paisiello’s
Nina
—you remember how popular it was two seasons ago.

Your delicacy and naturalness are exquisitely suited to the pathos and sentiment of the title role.”

Now that this opportunity had come to her, Oriana was startled by her wish to discuss it with Dare.

In the years since her mother’s death she’d followed her own inclinations, without regard for any other person’s opinion.

He’d been a long time in Derbyshire. She’d received one letter, brief and affectionate, which had done nothing to allay her fears of an impending break. It was so easy to feign affection in writing, from afar.

She needed to see his face, his eyes, to believe in the sentiments he’d penned from Matlock. They had seldom been apart since becoming lovers, and she’d been unprepared for the effects of this separation.

She found herself dwelling on past conversations, wishing she’d expressed her affection more fully. Often she cheered herself by remembering the delightful hours they’d spent in bed—making love, sharing secret dreams and ambitions, falling asleep still locked in an embrace.

“My dear Ana, your silence makes me nervous. If Sheridan has already made a rival offer to lure you t rury Lane, I hope you’ll grant us the opportunity to improve upon it.”

“I’ve received none.”

“Then I may assure Mr. Taylor that you accept his terms?”

“Not yet.” Her reply brought a frown to his face. Leaving the sofa, she went to him and said, “I’m grateful for your loyal campaign on my behalf. But I was too unsure of the outcome to let my hopes run away with me. I couldn’t even consider Mr. Taylor’s offer until it was formally presented.”

“I understand. But we are impatient to settle the matter.”

“Tomorrow I depart for Newmarket. While I’m there, you and the opera house will be in my thoughts.”

After he left, Oriana fell prey to an attack of restlessness. She climbed the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber, where Suke was preparing for the journey to Suffolk. This room, her private retreat, was unchanged from her girlhood. The intricately carved bedstead with its rose damask tester and curtains, the inlaid chests and ladylike French chairs, had all been chosen by her mother as worthy of the duke’s daughter. The Poussin oil painting, purchased from Cousin Aubrey, was one of Oriana’s favorite possessions—it had belonged to father.

“I’ve come for my redingote and a bonnet,” she explained on her way to her dressing room. “And my umbrella.”

“A bad afternoon for walking out,” said the maidservant, bending down to lay a stack of neatly folded petticoats in one of the trunks.

Oriana’s errand was important; she would brave the heavy rains. For days she’d waited for another communi cation from Dare, but it hadn’t come, and she was desperate to know his whereabouts. Each time her brass door knocker announced a visitor, her hopes of his return were dashed. Harriot was her most regular visitor, bubbling with excitement over her role as Celia in
As You Like It.
Matthew Powell had come once, straight from her solicitor’s office, enriched by the sale of her diamonds. Freed from debt, he’d been almost incoherent with relief and gratitude. Today Mick Kelly had come to fulfill her cherished dream.

And in the midst of these events, she could concentrate only on Dare.

Bracing herself against the wind and angling her umbrella to keep the rain off her face, she crossed the square and strolled down Dean Street in the direction of Morland’s Hotel. She handed her dripping umbrella to a servant, and informed the proprietor that she needed to see Ned Crowe.

Henry Morland grinned and jerked his thumb toward the stair. “You’ll find him upstairs, with Sir Darius Corlett’s furniture.”

She discovered the Manxman in a parlor, winding holland cloth around the delicate leg of a an Adam-style console table. An array of similarly shrouded objects surrounded him, and many more waiting to be wrapped—tables, chairs, a set of library steps. Against the wall stood those glass-topped display cabinets made to hold Dare’s minerals and rocks.

“You’re hard at work,” she observed, her buoyant voice at odds with her leaden spirits.

”
Ta
,” he muttered, securing the protective cloth with a piece of twine. “Mainshtyr Dare sent instructions that I should make everything ready for transport to Deptford. The wagons come in two days to carry his purchases to the docks.”

A sharp spray of raindrops against the glass drew Oriana’s gaze to the window. Watching the water stream down the panes, she asked, “When does the
Dorrity
set sail?

Ned shrugged. “I’ll be aboard her, that’s all I know-my fiddle, too. I’ve been away from the island long enough.”

“Your master will be in Newmarket. Have you any message I can convey?”

“Tell Mainshtyr Dare he bought too much furniture,” Ned grumbled, moving on to the next piece.

“What you see here is only a part of what he’s got—there are three more rooms, crammed full.”

She forced out a laugh. “I’ll send Sam over to help; that will make your task go quicker.”

This impromptu trip to Morland’s Hotel had leached the few remaining drops of hope from her heart.

Here was visible, umistakable evidence of Dare’s intent—he would soon return to his island home. Why hadn’t he mentioned it in his letter?

Because, she realized with dire certainty, he believed it would be kinder to break the news in person.

In Newmarket.

Leaving Ned to continue his labors, she made her way downstairs. The attendant opened the door for her, and returned her umbrella. She unfurled it, and set out for home. Unshed tears misted her vision, and her breath came in short, sobbing gasps.

Fate had seldom treated her gently. With one hand it bestowed the coveted position of
prima donna.

With the other, it towed Dare away from her.

Much to her amazement—and dismay—she saw the Earl of Rushton’s town carriage standing before her house. The coachman’s head was bowed in discomfort as the rain pelted him, and the capes of his greatcoat flapped in the breeze. Unwilling to reveal her distress to Rushton, she forced her chin higher.