Temptress in Training (3 page)

“I'm Sophie Darshaw, miss,” she replied.

The actress smiled. “Well, Sophie Darshaw, you look like an honest girl. I can't imagine there's anything you could have done to deserve such treatment that would leave you like this.”

“
He
would clearly disagree,” Sophie replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“And who is
he
?” the actress asked gently. “Your husband?”

Sophie was only too happy to set her straight. “No, thankfully he's nothing more than my employer.”

“But surely that doesn't give him the right to do this!”

“At least this is all he did,” Sophie assured her. “I know how to handle his likes, Miss Sands.”

“And just look how he handled you,” the actress replied. “You don't need to suffer this, Sophie. No position is worth this. You simply must leave his service.”

“Leave? To go live on the streets?” Sophie shook her head, one unruly lock of her disobedient honey-colored hair bouncing loose of the prim cap where she'd tried so hard to tuck it. “No, I know all too well what leaving would bring, miss. Trust me, I'm better off here.”

“Surely there is somewhere you can go?”

“With no references? No, miss. And I assure you, Mr. Fitzgelder is not likely to authorize a reference.”

Oddly enough, this statement seemed to have quite the effect on Miss Sands. Her eyes grew suddenly huge and her face paled as if she feared a dragon might suddenly leap out and eat them. Sophie wondered if the woman wasn't going a bit overboard with her outpouring of sympathy.

“Did you…did you say Mr. Fitzgelder?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes, miss. He is my master.”

The actress appeared as if she were going to be ill.

“I-I'm sorry,” Sophie stammered quickly. “Did I, er, did I say something wrong?”

“Your master is called Fitzgelder? But surely not Mr. Cedrick Fitzgelder, is it?”

“Yes, miss. The very same. Do you know him?”

Miss Sands didn't answer. By her nervous hand wringing and the way her brown eyes darted around frantically, she didn't need to. Yes, Miss Sands obviously knew Sophie's master. Apparently her dealings with him had been as pleasant as Sophie's.

Without warning the actress grasped Sophie by the hand and pulled her toward the other side of the room, to the doorway that led out of the salon at the rear of the house. Deciding it might be best to find out what this was about, Sophie went along. They made it to the doorway just as an older gentleman carrying a crate came through it. Miss Sands nearly plowed into him.

Good-naturedly, he urged the young actress to be careful. What caught Sophie's attention, though, was that he did it in French. Such a simple thing, yet her soul reacted. The dull pain of loss throbbed to life, catching her off guard by its force, even after all this time being dormant. How silly that words from a stranger could evoke so much of the past!

She carefully pushed old, best-forgotten feelings back into that dark corner of her heart. Her life today had no room for such memories. Things were as they were and she'd do well to keep her mind on today's troubles, not useless memories of things dead and buried.

Miss Sands was breathlessly informing the man—also in French—what she had learned from Sophie. He appeared similarly affected when Fitzgelder's name was mentioned. He scanned the room, then hurried them into a corner where they could duck behind a screened wall that had been erected for concealing musicians during an entertainment. He lowered his voice and rattled a string of questions. Was Miss Sands certain it was him? Had he seen her? What else did she know?

Without bothering to answer him, Miss Sands responded with a barrage of her own questions for the man. What could he have been thinking when he scheduled this performance? Did he not realize this was London and they should have been more careful? What did he suggest they do now?

From what Sophie could gather from their hurried, harried conversation, the gentleman insisted he
had
been careful. He was quite certain Mr. Fitzgelder's name had not come up when arrangements were made for this event. In fact, it appeared he thought he'd been hired by a man named Smith.

Then he noticed
her
. Miss Sands gave him her first name and explained—tactfully—the reason for Sophie's lamentable bruising. The man's distress was even more pronounced. He swore.

“And you've believed her story?” he asked gruffly, still in his elegant French.

Well, that was far from the sympathy she'd hoped for!

“Of course I believe her,” Miss Sands replied. “Just look at her.”

“You trusted her, just because of a little bruising?”

The man eyed Sophie with a dark suspicion. She didn't much care for the intensity of this scrutiny. What exactly did he think she had done?

“I haven't told her anything,” Miss Sands went on, also in a very cultured French. Sophie got the idea they had no clue she could understand them.

“Good. Fitzgelder could be using her to get information,” the man said.

What?
But that was ridiculous. Whatever could they be talking about? She knew nothing about any information. She wasted no time setting things straight, in French.

“Mr. Fitzgelder certainly was not interested in me for information, monsieur.”

They seemed surprised.

“You are French?” the gentleman asked.

“My father was French,” Sophie responded. “But Mrs. Harwell scolds me if I do not speak English.”

“So you understood our conversation,” Miss Sands said.

Sophie shook her head. “Not in the least.”

“Don't lie to us,” the man said, leaning over her so that she was forced to take a step back. “Did Mr. Fitzgelder send you to find out about us?”

“Find out about you? Heavens, if that was all Mr. Fitzgelder asked of me I would not be wearing this,” Sophie replied, touching her swollen eyelid. “Besides, you're in his home. He must know about you already, I would think.”

“What did he tell you of us?” the man demanded.

“He did not mention you at all! I came to you hoping to avoid him.”

The gentleman did not seem entirely convinced. “You had no other reason to ingratiate yourself with my daughter?”

So this was his daughter, was it? No wonder he was concerned. Any father with a pretty young daughter who suddenly found himself in Mr. Fitzgelder's home had good reason to be concerned.

Sophie swallowed and forced herself to meet his flashing eyes as she replied. “Well, I had thought perhaps if I took extra care, Miss Sands might give me a reference so I could find a position elsewhere.”

“See, Papa?” the actress announced. “Surely you can't believe she would ever help Fitzgelder. Look at her! We ought to go while we can and take her with us.”

The man frowned, his thick brows nearly touching above his prominent nose. “But if we leave, that will only alert Fitzgelder that something is not right. No, we must think through this first.”

“It's too dangerous. We must go now!”

“If we go he'll only follow. No, I must think of something else.”

They argued a bit and Sophie felt as if she really ought not be privy to their conversation. Clearly these people had some great, dark reason to fear her master, and it did appear as if Mr. Fitzgelder must have lured them here intentionally. She felt sorry for them, of course, but at the same time she couldn't help but realize things would go especially badly for her if she were discovered in their company.

She tried to excuse herself.

“But you cannot go back to work for that monster!” Miss Sands suddenly protested, grabbing at her hand to keep her hidden with them there.

Suddenly Sophie was inclined to agree. She'd barely poked her head out from around the screened wall and quickly ducked back in.
He
was here.

Miss Sands's father noticed and leaned forward to peer through the openings in the screen. Miss Sands did the same, her breath catching in a way that Sophie could truly not find surprising. Women often did that upon sight of the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman and his arguably perfect features.

“Is that him?” she asked with a mix of awe and astonishment. “Is that Fitzgelder?”

Sophie had to stifle a laugh. As if there could be any comparison!

“No, it's someone else,” her father replied. “I don't know him.”

“Lindley,” Sophie informed them. “His name is Lindley.”

“The earl?”

Sophie nodded.

“We are in trouble, then,” the actor said.

Sophie joined Miss Sands in sending him a curious glance. He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair and sighed. Could these people have something against Lindley, too? Just what sort of actors were these people, anyway? Sophie watched intently as a careful determination stole over the older man's face. His daughter eyed him.

“Papa, who is this Lindley? What have we to do with him?”

“Nothing,
ma chou-chou
. He is merely a friend of Fitzgelder's. But this tells me what I must do.”

“It does?”

“Indeed. I must leave.”

“No, Papa.
We
must leave. Together.”

He shook his head. “No, people must merely
think
we've left together. Remember,
ma belle
, he's never seen you. You must stay here where you will be safe.”

“Safe?
Here?
You cannot be serious, Papa!” Miss Sands protested.

Sophie voiced her agreement. “Beg pardon, monsieur, but Mr. Fitzgelder will surely take notice of Miss Sands, even if he does not know her. I cannot think she'll be safe here!”

The actor simply smiled at them. “She will if she gives the performance of her lifetime.”

If
Romeo and Juliet
was supposed to have been a comedy, Lindley could have called the presentation of the balcony scene quite successful. The young man playing Romeo had been nothing short of hilarious. Not that he was trying to be, of course. Sadly, Lindley believed the young pup's nervous posturing, effeminate mannerisms, and the way he continued to recite Juliet's lines instead of his own was entirely unintentional.

Not that Juliet was any better. She was worse, in fact, and no spry young maiden, either. Indeed, Juliet was particularly older and far more world-weary than her tender Romeo. Lindley was not convinced it was merely her shoes that creaked as she walked toward her shifty young man. It did not play well.

What on earth had Fitzgelder been thinking when he secured this bloody theatrical troupe for his Thursday night rout? His guests—accustomed to entertainment that was a bit more titillating—were growing restless. Lindley hoped Fitzgelder hadn't paid much for this mess of a production.

It would seem, however, their host considered whatever he'd paid to be too much.

“This is bullshit!” Fitzgelder erupted as Romeo continued to rail on and on about the angelic virtues of his grandmotherly Juliet. “What the hell are we watching here? Where is the real Juliet?”

The actors, understandably, were thrown off balance by the interruption. Romeo was especially flustered. It made sense, of course, as he'd been the one to introduce himself as Alexander Clemmons, the unlikely leader of this sad little troupe. Naturally he'd be the first one Fitzgelder had hauled off to jail for impersonating, well, an actor. It seemed he might possibly be considering hiding behind Juliet, which really would not have been an altogether bad idea since she appeared rather formidable with her beefy fists jammed into her hips and her fiery eyes daring Fitzgelder to insult them again.

The man happily obliged. “
This
Juliet is a sixty-year-old hag! For God's sake, where is the actress who ought to be playing this part? I had it on good authority Miss Sands was part of this troupe and that she, at least, could provide some enjoyment!”

The nervous young Romeo darted a longing look toward the door at the back of the room. Would he bolt? Lindley couldn't say that he'd quite blame the pup, but it appeared he chose to weather the storm. Romeo drew a deep breath, smoothed his pitiful—and dreadfully unfashionable—mustache, and stepped forward.

“I'm sorry, sir, but our lovely Miss, er, Draper here,” he said, glancing around the room and then nodding toward Juliet, “is well-known for her excellent abilities. She is acclaimed by royalty, applauded by gentlemen, praised by her peers—”

“And too bloody old to play the damn part!” Fitzgelder interrupted. “Where the hell is Miss Sands?”

Romeo was concerned. He looked helplessly off to the side and Lindley happened to catch a glimpse of movement. Was someone there, in that little screened alcove just beside the actors' playing area? Yes, he believed so. Someone was there; someone female, he presumed, as he caught the hint of skirts.

“We have no Miss Sands, sir,” Romeo said. “Only the actors you see before you.”

And that, of course, was a lie. Lindley had gotten very good at sniffing those out. True, Romeo and his aged Juliet were at center stage, while the three other actors just waiting at the side for their cues to enter were the only ones who had performed thus far, but Lindley had no doubt their young leader lied. Why, Lindley had no idea.

What he did understand, though, was that Fitzgelder hired a troupe that he expected to bring some actress named Sands. No Sands appeared and the troupe leader claimed he had no such person, yet someone was in the alcove wearing a skirt. This smelled of intrigue.

But whose? Clearly it was not a part of any plot Fitzgelder had. The grumbling bastard was most unhappy with the way things were going, that much was obvious to a blind man. Did Romeo have some plot of his own? Lindley had no clue.

But he knew how to find out.

Lindley slipped out of his seat. He hadn't been forced to attend several of Fitzgelder's disgusting Thursday entertainments and not managed to familiarize himself with every inch of the man's town house. He knew if he could leave the room undetected it would be a simple matter of wrapping around through the house to the rear. There he would find the musicians' entrance into that screened alcove.

If Fitzgelder was looking for an actress named Sands and that very woman was in this house hiding from him, then she was indeed someone Lindley would like to meet. Very much.

 

S
OPHIE HID IN THE SCREENED ALCOVE AND LISTENED.
The air in Mr. Fitzgelder's crowded salon was close and uncomfortable compared to the damp evening air she'd just come in from. How near she'd been to escaping this place! But things had not gone as planned and Miss Sands's father had sent her slinking back to warn the actress.

Sophie had crept in through the rear of the house and made her way down servants' passages. Certain she'd been undetected, she'd ducked into the alcove through the little doorway meant to be used by musicians. If she tiptoed close to the screen now, she could peer through to see Mr. Fitzgelder and the dozen or so inebriated guests who lounged on chairs facing the small area that had been designated the “stage.” Stepping farther back against the wall, she could still be undetected by the audience yet see out around the screen and watch the performance.

It was an odd sensation, being there like that. How many times before had she stood in the wings, peering out onto a stage, watching in awe? Hundreds, she supposed.

Mamma had been an actress; lovely, graceful. Every audience who saw her throughout England was quickly enthralled. Papa had been dashing and handsome, charming everyone and bartering a dazzling wage wherever they might perform. Indeed, the theater had been a place of wonder and fascination for Sophie. It was with many tears and protests that she left it all those years ago when Mamma and Papa decided she ought to have a proper upbringing and sent her off to live with Grandmamma.

Life had begun a downward spiral after that. She sank back into the corner, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes, shutting out the memories. There was no room in the present to pine for the past. Right now she needed to compose herself and think of a way to get her message to Miss Sands without being seen by Mr. Fitzgelder.

As her body began to calm from the exertion of her hurried return to this house, the irritation from those dratted pantalets became evident once again. She'd not had the chance to remove them. Well, Miss Sands was clearly occupied on stage just now, and it was rather private back here in the little alcove…Perhaps she might dare to finally rid herself of the things.

Carefully, she tucked herself as far back into the corner as possible and struggled to keep herself silent—and modest—while reaching up under her skirts to untie the strings at her waist that held up the pantalets. It was awkward, to say the least. And quite disconcerting, given the sounds of actors and audience only a sheer screen away.

She jumped involuntarily, slightly bumping into the screen, when Mr. Fitzgelder's voice boomed from his place in the front row of chairs. He had some very unpleasant things to say about Juliet. Sophie cringed as the horrid man ranted at the unendurable performance and demanded that Miss Sands be presented immediately. He seemed quite unwilling to hear any claims that she did not exist. Indeed, it appeared the girl's father had been correct not half an hour ago when he'd whispered in Sophie's ear that this must be a trap and that Fitzgelder was clearly expecting them. Miss Sands was in danger.

How foolish Sophie had been to involve herself in this! She knew what unpleasantness Mr. Fitzgelder might be capable of. If he had something against these actors, it would not go well for her to be found assisting them. Oh, but indeed it had been a mistake to come back here, even for the worthy cause of warning Miss Sands. She should steal up to her little garret, gather the few belongings she'd left there, and be gone once and for all. Better to be off on her own than to be in the middle of whatever this was.

Heart pounding, she increased her efforts with the pantalets.

The contrary strings were very nearly undone when Sophie's nervous fingers froze. She could hear Fitzgelder's feet pounding the salon floor—he was coming closer, approaching the stage, demanding to know where Miss Sands was. In only a moment he might come charging back behind the alcove to find her, instead. In his state, Sophie trembled to think what he might do.

But Miss Sands, in her new disguise as Mr. Clemmons, held things in control. Sophie heard the woman clear her throat and address Mr. Fitzgelder in a voice that was remarkably calm and almost not feminine. She announced that yes, their patron for the night was indeed correct and there truly had been a Miss Sands in the troupe.

“But she left,” the actress-portraying-an-actor made clear. “She is gone.”

“Gone?” Fitzgelder bellowed. “When?”

“Some time ago.”

Mr. Fitzgelder was not satisfied. “How much time ago? A week? A day?”

“An hour, sir. She left an hour ago with one of our actors.”

“Where were they going?”

“I don't know, sir. I only heard of their defection just as we were to begin performing.”

Fitzgelder's voice had leveled to a moderate roar, but it was clear he was not entirely ready to believe this story. “Who did she leave with?”

“Er, Miss Sands left with one of our actors, sir.”

“You told me that already! Who the devil is he? Where is he taking her?”

Miss Sands hesitated. Sophie held her breath. They hadn't planned on Mr. Fitzgelder wanting so very many details.

“Er, he's a Mr. Chair, sir,” the actress said finally, making Sophie wince. Honestly, what sort of name was
Chair
? How could the woman expect their angry host to believe that?

“Mr. Chair?” Fitzgelder gawked. “Miss Sands ran away with Mr. Chair?”

“Er, Chair-ing-don-ton,” Miss Sands amended with halting creativity. “George Chairingdonton, sir. I have no idea where they were going.”

“Nearest place they could rent a bed is my guess,” another voice interrupted. Sophie made out the voice of the older woman who'd been playing Juliet. “Miss Sands is just
that
sort of a person.”

It would seem the woman was trying to help by distracting their host from the unlikelihood of there truly being a Mr. Chair-ing-don-whatever. Her methods, however, could not be entirely acceptable to Miss Sands. My, but what an insult to the poor actress! Still, it did seem to divert Mr. Fitzgelder from questioning the man's unusual name long enough for Miss Sands to continue supplying excuses.

“So, since that particular actress is miles away giving entertainment in parts unknown, why don't you just sit yourself back down, sir, and let us make you forget all about that little, er, tart? How about some acrobatics for you, sir?”

Sophie could hear Mr. Fitzgelder's protests, but the mention of an energetic show seemed to have struck a chord with the guests in the audience. The actors quickly joined Miss Sands in encouraging them, and before long Sophie could hear the sounds of furniture being arranged and props moved on the staging area. It would seem an acrobatic display was imminent and disaster had been avoided. The thumping and scuffling of actors tumbling all over themselves and Mr. Fitzgelder's guests cheering them on drowned out whatever protests Mr. Fitzgelder might have been uttering.

Sophie leaned forward just enough to peer around the screen and catch Miss Sands's eye. She hoped to signal her to make the most of things and get away while she still could. Miss Sands, unfortunately, didn't seem to get the hint. Or perhaps she hadn't actually seen it. Her eyes, Sophie realized, were not actually fixed on her but on a space behind her, toward the narrow door leading into the alcove.

Sophie could feel it suddenly, the chill that coursed down her spine. Someone was with her, there in the tiny space. She ought to turn to look but she truly did not want to. The hairs prickled at the back of her neck, and somehow she knew exactly who she would find.
Oh, dear.

Knowing it could not be avoided, Sophie turned slowly to find the man propped in the narrow doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, violet blue eyes flashing a combination of amusement and ice.

Her quick intake of breath was just enough to loosen the ties on the almost-removed pantalets. They fell to the floor in a warm velvet pile, spilling out from under her skirt and displaying themselves to the world.

Lord Lindley's icy eyes went from her ashen face down to the wilted garment. He cocked his head, raised one brow, and brought his gaze back up to meet hers.

Then he smiled.

 

W
ELL, THIS WAS QUITE THE LAST THING
L
INDLEY EXPECTED.
Sophie Darshaw? Undressing right here behind this screen, practically in public? He watched her, determined he must be mistaken. She couldn't really be hoisting her skirt, working to untie whatever undergarments she had there, could she? It appeared that she could.

And it appeared he was rather intrigued by the sight. He supposed he really ought to clear his throat or tap the door frame to alert her to his presence, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, it was his duty to investigate every remarkable activity going on here tonight, wasn't it? And the two delicate ankles exposed where Miss Darshaw's skirt was raised truly were remarkable.

But Lindley did not have to work to remain undetected by her. The girl, it seemed, was perfectly focused on the action beyond the screen. Keeping her bottom half carefully out of view, she was leaning dramatically forward, peering around the screen and trying to capture the eye of that popinjay Romeo. It made for an even more remarkable view from this side.

However, it didn't last long. Somehow she realized he was there. With something like horror in her eyes, Miss Darshaw turned slowly. Her efforts with the undergarments must have been successful. With the beguiling whisper of fabric against skin, her pantalets pooled on the floor, tantalizingly peeking out at him from under her skirt. By God, were they constructed of
velvet
?