Love in Disguise (10 page)

“Nonsense,” insisted Fancy. “They do not mean to hurt us.”

Annie shook her head. “I should have died, just died, if they’d pulled me off the stage and tumbled me about.”

Fancy regarded the plaintive young woman with a skeptical eye. According to current gossip, Annie had been “tumbled about” by more than one gentleman in her brief time as an actress. But even Fancy could see that in being tumbled it made a difference who was
doing
the tumbling. So she merely shrugged. “I am certainly not any worse for the experience, as you can plainly see.”

Annie smiled smugly. “I guess not. Not when the Earl of Morgane himself rescues you.” She heaved a plaintive sigh. “Such an out-and-outer. A prime article.”

“I do not find the Earl’s regard for me a happy circumstance,” replied Fancy disdainfully.

Annie rolled her eyes. “My, ain’t we being high and mighty, though?” She tossed her cap of blond curls. “I’ll tell you one thing, the Earl can have a regard for me any day in the week and twice on Sundays!”

“I’m afraid I shall have to decline that honor, my affections being otherwise engaged.” Both women whirled to find themselves facing the Earl and his friend Castleford.

“Oh, milord,” simpered Annie, batting her eyes in a way that made Fancy long to smack her, “I hope you ain’t offended.”

The Earl did not smile. “Since I presume no offense was meant, none has been taken.” He shifted his attention to Fancy in such a manner that Annie had little choice but to consider herself dismissed.

“Good evening, Miss Harper,” said the Earl urbanely, raising her hand swiftly to his lips. They barely brushed the backs of her fingers, and Fancy was startled by the realization that his lips were warm! That must account for the strange feeling that assailed her at their touch.

“I do not find the evening particularly good,” returned Fancy curtly, to the obvious surprise of Egerton who was looking from one to the other in an effort to discover what the situation was.

Castleford apparently decided to pour oil on troubled waters. “May I congratulate you on your performance, Miss Harper?”

Fancy could not help smiling at Castle-ford’s rather clumsy attempt to make peace. “Thank you, milord. I believe I did tolerably well, though I doubt you heard much of what I said.”

“But what I heard was lovely,” said a new voice. Fancy tried not to color up as the Duke of York joined their circle and surveyed her through his quizzing glass.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she managed to mumble. Then, aware of the Earl’s sardonic eyes, she straightened and returned the Duke’s gaze. Up close she could see that he was a fine specimen of manhood. Six feet tall, with a broad chest and muscular frame. A little gone to stoutness, perhaps, but not enough to detract from his military bearing.

Certainly his face was handsome, with a full prominent brow from under which his gray eyes beamed with benevolence. It was a face that bore the look of authority, but it was a kind face too. The army, thought Fancy, had been fortunate to have this man as commander in chief. He looked like a man who cared about his troops.

The Duke continued to beam upon her and Fancy returned his smile with a demure one of her own. There seemed little else to do. But she began to feel rather uneasy. For a certain glint in the Duke’s gray eyes led her to believe that the girl in the dressing room had been right.

Certainly she had nothing against York. And if she were in the market for a protector, certainly his warm gray eyes held the promise of a more thoughtful kindness than did the cool ones of the Earl. She had better just move quietly away. She simply could not bear it, she told herself, if York made her an offer right in front of that top-lofty Earl. She would just slip back to the dressing room and no one would be the wiser.

And so, when York turned to address Egerton, she did just that. But Fancy had reckoned without the Earl. She had her hand on the knob to the dressing-room door when his hand on her shoulder stopped her.

She turned to face him. “I have something to say to you,” said that irritating man, his cool gray eyes noting her expression.

Fancy, already nerved up from the tension of the evening, felt her control snap. “I have nothing to say to you,” she cried, turning back to the door.

Two strong hands fastened on her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Fancy felt her heart rise in her throat at seeing that dark face so close to her own. “You
will
listen to me,” said the Earl evenly.

Fancy struggled to free herself from his grip. The Earl merely smiled. “You may call for help if you choose, but when it arrives, I can assure you that your reputation will be liberally besmirched.”

“What - what do you want of me?” Fancy faltered.

The Earl smiled sardonically. “I had thought by now to have made myself quite clear on that score. I have even considered raising the price, though that goes against my principles.”

“The answer is still no,” cried Fancy. “I cannot be bought.”

Morgane smiled, it was not a pleasant sight. “Plump in the pocket as I am, I cannot compete with York. But let me remind you that his promises are only that - promises. Certainly the case of Mistress Clarke proves that. Whereas you may ask almost any lady of the
ton
and be assured that debts of this amorous nature are always paid promptly by myself. Ergo, I am the better choice.”

He smiled and leaned closer. Fancy felt her heart fluttering in her throat. If he kissed her again now, she would simply die. Yet she was powerless to loosen his grasp.

“Also,” he continued, a glint of humor in his eye, “I am, as anyone can see, in better physical condition and younger than His Royal Highness. I am also quite probably more proficient in matters of this nature, having given them considerable study.”

Finally, Fancy found her tongue. “Undoubtedly you have had more experience with loose women than has York. I do not see that as any cause for rejoicing. In fact, I find it reprehensible.”

His grip on her arms tightened painfully, but she refused to cry out.

“You are enough to drive a man to violence,” said Morgane from between clenched teeth. “I am two and thirty years old. During those years I have not resided in a fairy-tale world of princes and heroes. Instead I have lived in a very real world of needs. I have filled those needs in the best way possible. I am still endeavoring to fill them.”

“You will not fill them with
me,”
cried Fancy defiantly. “I am not a thing to be used. And - and if you were the last man on earth and I were starving, I would prefer death to survival in your company!”

The Earl’s face blanched and his control, too, seemed gone. He shook her violently, her copper curls bouncing against her shoulders. “You are the most impossible specimen of a female that I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. You are a spoiled brat, an upstart little chit who doesn’t know her place.”

Fancy, her head bouncing, could not think. He was too strong for her. She could only hang helpless in his grasp.

“Morgane!” Castleford’s voice rang out in horror. “My God, man, what are you doing?”

The Earl ceased shaking her. For a moment she hung weakly in his grasp. Then his hands loosened and as her rubbery legs were about to collapse under her, a pair of arms surrounded her. “There now, Miss Harper, are you all right? Morgane must have lost his senses.”

For a moment Fancy leaned gratefully against the broad expanse of Castleford’s waistcoat. Then she struggled upright and pulled away. “Thank you, milord.”

Castleford’s usually friendly face looked exceedingly stern. He watched her for a moment to see that she was able to stand and then he turned to Morgane.

“Your conduct toward Miss Harper has been reprehensible,” said he. “I must insist on an apology.”

Morgane remained silent, his gray eyes still glinting with anger.

“William -” Castleford’s voice held a note of sadness.

Suddenly Fancy realized what was going on. Castleford was expecting Morgane to apologize to her. And if he did not - the Marquis would call him out!

“No! Stop!” Fancy moved between the men. “Milord, you must not. I am not hurt.”

Castleford shook his head stubbornly. “As a gentleman I must insist that the Earl apologize to you, or -”

“No!” Fancy was filled with terror. She could not let these men - men who had been lifelong friends - fight a duel over her. Her imagination painted a terrifying picture in which they both lay dead or dying.

“Please, milord.” In her distress she clung to Castleford’s arm. “It was my fault. I - I provoked him. Oh, please!”

Castleford seemed torn by indecision. It was obvious he did not want to meet his friend, but he was genuinely concerned for her.

Suddenly Fancy had an inspiration. “Milord Castleford, if you call out the Earl, I shall never let you into my presence again.”

Castleford seemed surprised by this statement. He considered it for a few moments and then bowed his head. Perhaps, thought Fancy, to hide his relief.

“All right, Miss Harper. I concede to your wishes. But only because of my extreme regard for you.”

“Thank you, milord.” Fancy looked from one man to the other. “And now, if you wish to keep my regard, give me your word that you will not quarrel over me with your friend the Earl.”

Even Morgane seemed surprised at this request. For a long moment Castleford’s blue eyes gazed into Fancy’s. He seemed to approve of what he saw there. When he spoke his voice thickened with emotion. “You have my word, Miss Harper. I shall pick no quarrel with my friend over you.”

“And you?” Fancy forced herself to turn and meet the eyes of the Earl. His face was blank, his eyes devoid of all expression, but she believed that his voice, too, held a hint of emotion. “I have no wish to pick a quarrel with the friend of my boyhood and youth. Nor should I have let him provoke me into such.” The Earl’s eyes seemed to be searching hers, seeking something. But what it could be Fancy was at a loss to know. For all that she could read on the Earl’s face, he still regarded her as a selfish brat. But Fancy could not bother about that.

She put a trembling hand to her head. “I’m afraid I must ask you gentlemen to excuse me now. I have had a rather trying day and I find that I am quite exhausted. All I wish at this moment is to find my carriage and go home.”

Castleford’s face wrinkled in concern.
“Of
course, Miss Harper. Shall I call your carriage for you?”

Fancy inclined her head gratefully. “That would be most kind of you, milord. Henry should be outside with the carriage.”

“I’ll go now, Miss Harper.” Castleford’s eyes turned to the Earl. “Will you go with me, Morgane?”

“Of course.” Before he moved away the Earl’s eyes met hers briefly. “I still think, Miss Harper, that you would be wise to leave the theater. It is not the place for a woman of your sensibility.”

Before Fancy could think of a reply to this rather strange statement, delivered as it was in an extremely friendly tone, the Earl had followed his friend down the hall and out of sight.

Now,
thought Fancy, with a sigh of exasperation,
what on earth did the man mean by that?
What kind of sensibility did he think she had? Was his statement a compliment or an insult?

She was still standing there, trying to puzzle it out, when Henry came to lead her to the carriage.

Chapter Eight

When Fancy woke on Sunday, it was with memories of the nightmares that had haunted her sleep. Sometimes both Morgane and Castleford had been lying dead, their bodies covered with bloody wounds. Other times one or the other was standing, a smoking pistol in his hand, and an expression of absolute horror on his face, over the body of his dead friend. From these terrifying visions. Fancy woke sobbing, to stare into the darkness and offer thankful prayers that she had been able to avert such a tragedy.

Whatever had possessed the Marquis to do such a thing? How vividly she could recall him saying that since that day he had stood as the young Earl’s second he had never wished to duel. And yet he had been about to challenge his best friend - and over a little thing like Morgane shaking her.

Fancy suddenly clutched at the covers. My God! Castleford had conceived a real partiality for her. So strong that he was willing to fight for her.

Fancy heaved a great sigh. What strange creatures men were. She had no feelings of partiality for either man and she certainly had no wish to have them fighting over her. Why couldn’t they just go about whatever it was that lords did with themselves and leave her alone?

She rose from the old bed, pushing aside the deep green hangings, and moved to the window that looked out into the courtyard. It was the end of October and autumn was certainly upon them. However, on this particular day the sun was shining rather brightly.

Down in the courtyard, sprawled in ungainly fashion upon the paving, Hercules was soaking up that sun. Fancy shook her head. Every time the front door opened the great dog was there, eager as a puppy to slip out to freedom - and probably, she thought with a grimace, to throw his huge bulk against the new mahogany door of the high and mighty Earl of Morgane. Well, thankfully so far the dog had not succeeded. She wanted no more coming to cuffs with the Earl, thank you.

With a small sigh she turned to the closet. It was time to dress for another long day at home. Critically she eyed the gowns hanging there, gowns stitched up by the modish dressmaker that Ethel had uncovered. Finally she reached for one of pale green bombazine. Its square-cut neck was trimmed with deep green velvet braid. Another strand of braid ran around under the high-waisted gathered bodice. The sleeves - long and fitted, except where they issued from the little puffs at her shoulders - were also trimmed with the velvet braid. It was a lovely dress and it became her quite well. Even in her disgruntled state Fancy could see that.

She smoothed at the skirt. She had absolutely refused to have a dresser added to her establishment. Footmen, coachman, even French chefs, but no female was needed to help Fancy Harper get into her clothes or take care of her hair. No indeed.