Midnight at Mallyncourt

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  Midnight at Mallyncourt

  Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow

  To Marilu

  Chapter One

  I NOTICED him immediately. He was tall and blond and strikingly handsome, and there was a rakish air about him. As he stared at me, quite openly, a faint smile curled on his wide mouth, and the vivid blue eyes were filled with that thoughtful assessment I had long since grown accustomed to seeing in men’s eyes when they looked at me, as though I were something they were thinking of buying. I had grown accustomed to it, one had to in my profession, but I still didn’t like it. This particular man made no effort to conceal what was on his mind. Tilting my chin haughtily, I walked on past him. He lifted his elegant beaver top hat. The smile broadened. The blue eyes seemed to dance with secret amusement.

  I walked down the promenade, my long silk skirts rustling, the ostrich plumes on my hat billowing. Perhaps he wouldn’t follow me. Perhaps for once I could enjoy a simple stroll without having to fend for myself. I was accustomed to that, too, and quite adept at warding off tipsy young gallants and boorish middle-aged roués. It was something I had learned that first year with the Gerald Prince Touring Company, and now, after four years, I no longer cringed inside every time I saw that look in masculine eyes. It was an occupational hazard, Laverne had explained, poor Laverne, who hadn’t had that problem for years, reduced to playing minor character roles, finding what solace she could in the gin bottle now that her looks were a thing of the past.

  “A pretty little thing like you, ducky,” she had said, “the men’ll go wild. You’ll have to fight ’em off, all kinds of men, and one of these days you’ll meet one you won’t want to fight off. Take my advice, ducky, make sure he’s rich. With your looks, your breedin’—why, Jenny luv, you could have yourself a bloomin’ earl if you was a-mind to—”

  I hadn’t had an earl. I hadn’t had anyone. That was some kind of record for the Gerald Prince Touring Company. Most of the girls came from the slums, pretty, vivacious, determined creatures who chose the stage instead of the brothel. Only last week Daisy had eloped with a dashing young student from Oxford, and Chloe was debating whether or not she should let her current gentleman friend set her up in a flat in London. I liked the girls, all of them, but my background had been different. Perhaps that was why I still clung to my virtue. Influenced by her pious, straitlaced German husband, our Queen set rigid standards for her subjects, and in drawing rooms all over the country young girls blushed modestly at the least suggestion of anything improper. Strict propriety was rampant, in public, on the surface, but in my profession I saw another side. Nevertheless, I was still as virtuous as any well-bred maiden in white organdy and blue sash, despite the worldly wisdom I had had to acquire in order to survive. The girls couldn’t understand my attitude, but they respected me for it, particularly as I passed no judgments on their own morals. I was virtuous, but I was no prude. One couldn’t be in the theater.

  The theater, I thought wryly. That was hardly the word for it. Fifteen years ago Gerald Prince had been one of the stellar attractions in the London theater, dazzlingly handsome, incredibly magnetic, compared by critics to Garrick, to Kean, but his arrogance, his lack of discipline had brought an early eclipse. Now, at forty, he was still handsome, though inclined to stoutness, and still magnetic enough to play romantic heroes convincingly, but the shabby, tattered touring company he hauled around the provinces was but an echo of what he had once known. I had joined the company at eighteen, and Gerry had assured me we would play London the very next season. Four years had passed. We were in Brighton now, and it was the nearest we had ever come to London.

  Brown velvet reticule swinging from my wrist, topaz silk skirts fluttering crisply, I strolled on down the promenade, savoring the salty air, the sound of waves crashing over the shingles, the shrill cry of gulls as they circled overhead. Fine carriages and elegant curricles rumbled up and down the street, and the pavements were crowded with fashionably dressed men and women, men in frock coats and top hats, women in silk and velvet, smiling, laughing, enjoying the sunshine and the aura of vitality that prevailed. It was The Season, and Brighton was at its best, the hotels full to overflowing, the expensive shops doing remarkable business, the plush restaurants invariably crowded. It was rumored that Her Majesty intended to spend a few days at the Royal Pavilion, even though she claimed it was an atrocity and added that Prinny must have been out of his mind when he built it. But what could you expect from a man who would take up with a creature like Mrs. Fitzherbert, she asked. Whether or not the Queen decided to grace us with her Royal Presence, Brighton was decidedly festive, sparkling with gaity, ablaze with color. I felt some of that excitement now, delighted to be here, forgetting many of the problems that beset me.

  Although I had grown accustomed to hardship, to tension, to constant friction, I could still take pleasure in life. I could still smile, still experience a youthful exuberance as I did now. I could still believe that things would get better. I hadn’t lost hope, and I hadn’t become cynical. Not quite. Four years ago, when my parents died in the influenza epidemic, leaving me destitute, I had made my decision, and I didn’t regret it. Not entirely. As the daughter of a country squire, brought up in a ramshackle though comfortable old house and given an exceptional education, there were two choices left open to me when I discovered that all the money was gone, that the house and all its furnishings would have to be sold to pay off my father’s debts: I could become a governess, or I could marry one of the dull, pleasant young men eager to rush to my rescue. I detested the idea of going into service, and I detested the idea of marrying Stephen or John or Reggie just for security, without love. I was young and impetuous and eager to savor life to the fullest, and I saw no reason why I should have to make either choice.

  At that genteel, much-too-expensive school I had attended from twelve to seventeen, I had excelled at amateur dramatics. Both Misses Pennifords had adored putting on plays, and I had always been given the leading roles. I was good, very, very good, even the other girls admitted that, and they said it was a shame the stage was such a wicked place, so improper. If it weren’t, they claimed, I could become a great actress. I was as scandalized as they were at such an idea, but when my parents were dead, when the house and all that lovely old furniture was about to go on the block in public auction, I couldn’t have cared less about scandal. The Gerald Prince Touring Company was playing an engagement in York. I went to the theater. After the performance I went backstage. I was interviewed by the great man himself. He agreed to audition me. When, five days later, the company left town and I left with them, friends and neighbors were as horrified as any of those giggling schoolgirls would have been. Jennifer Randall had been a respectable young woman, an ornament in York social circles, admired by one and all. Now, I felt sure, Jennifer Randall was a name mentioned only in shocked whispers after the servants had left the room.

  I would never be a great actress. I had no illusions about that. I had been a gifted amateur. I was a competent professional, competent enough to climb from dress parts to ingenue roles to Gerald Prince’s leading lady, a somewhat dubious honor. I might shine in his shabby troup, but in the real theater in London I would have quickly sunk into oblivion. I had come a long way since that day backstage in York, I thought, watching a small boy in a blue suit frolicking on the beach with his brown and white terrier. My salary had increased in proportion with my roles, and this in itself was remarkable, for Gerald Prince was not a man celebrated for his generosity. I might ha
ve to mend my own costumes and do my own hair styling, but five pounds a month was an enormous sum.

  I was saving almost all of it. There were a number of expenses, but the extra money I earned sewing for the girls usually took care of them. I loved to sew, was extremely adept at it, and while the other girls were out on the town with their gentlemen friends, dancing, drinking champagne and eating oysters, I could usually be found in my hotel room, mending a pair of tights for Chloe, making a velvet gown for Annabel, trimming a bonnet for Louise. Soon—two more years? Three?—I would have enough put away to open my own modest dress shop in London. It was something I longed to do, one of the reasons I was able to endure the backstage squabbles, the strain of too many performances, the privations of dusty third-class railroad carriages and fourth-class hotel rooms in dismal little towns.

  Two more years, I thought, and then I can give this all up. If only I can keep Gerry at bay.

  Gerald Prince was a ladies’ man. Most of the girls found him both seductive and fascinating and were delighted to share his bed, and, sensing my abhorrence of such conduct, he had been content to carry on a mild, jocular flirtation with me, never pressing for more. It was only recently that he had grown more persistent, more determined. The roles we were playing had something to do with it. Lucrezia Borgia was the most daring production Prince had ever attempted. I played Lucrezia, and he was Cesare. There was a violent, passionate love scene in the fourth act. Of late he had played it for real, seizing me brutally, leaving me bruised and shaken after the curtain fell. He had taken to lingering in my dressing room, too, lounging against the wall with arms folded over his chest, those magnetic brown eyes with their heavy lids never leaving me as he made idle chitchat in his husky voice.

  We were doing Lucrezia Borgia again tonight. I dreaded it. The play never failed to bring out the worst in my employer. Gerry had left me alone for four years, content to dally with the merry, chattering creatures who gladly made themselves available. He was bored with them now. Now he wanted something more challenging. Everyone in the company was aware of it. Some of the men were even betting on whether or not he would succeed. I prayed he would find someone else to amuse him. I prayed we would drop the Borgia play from our repertory and go back to drawing room comedies and melodrama. Gerald Prince could dismiss me at a moment’s notice. I had seen him dismiss others without the least qualm. I needed my job. I needed those five pounds a month.

  Leaving the promenade, I strolled up one of the side streets and soon found myself across the street from the Royal Pavilion. Standing beneath a leafy shade tree, I stared at it. With its turrets and domes and oriental windows, its ornate pillars and colorful gardens, it was like something out of an Arabian Nights adventure, a pleasure palace unlike any other in all of England. The interior, I had heard, was even more bizarre and exotic, all done in Chinese style with fabulous colored glass chandeliers and handpainted wallpaper. Queen Victoria’s room, however, was more modest, as prim and decorous as the lady herself, done in shades of lavender, blue and white with none of the oriental gimcrackery she considered so vulgar. Many a scandal had exploded within those walls while Prinny and his fellow rakes drank and gambled and dallied till dawn. Perhaps because I was so worried about the present, I wondered what it would have been like to have lived in those not-so-distant days.

  “Miss Randall?”

  I turned, startled. The man I had noticed earlier on the promenade was standing beside me, the elegant beaver top hat in his hand. So he had followed me after all. I should have known it.

  “Go away,” I said. My voice was sharp.

  “I want to talk to you,” he replied, totally unruffled.

  “Nothing you could say would possibly interest me.”

  “You’re wrong,” he drawled.

  “Shall I summon a Bobby?”

  He shook his head slowly, watching me with those vivid blue eyes. He was tall, over six feet, with a superb, muscular build. His brown leather knee boots were polished to a high sheen. His tightly fitting tan trousers and matching frock coat were obviously the work of a master tailor, and the white and brown striped satin waistcoat was the latest word in fashion, as was the black silk ascot. He was a gentleman, I could tell that from his beautifully modulated voice and superior manner, but to my eyes he was no better than the robust young students and flashy businessmen who thought any woman on the stage was easy prey. I stared at him haughtily, ready to demolish him with my tongue. He smiled, as though anticipating it. A lock of dark blond hair had tumbled over his forehead.

  “I suppose you’ve admired me from afar,” I said peevishly.

  He shook his head again. “I saw you last night for the first time. A most inferior performance, I thought. The second act—you threw away your best lines. You let Prince upstage you in every scene. Any actress worth her salt would have put him in his place.”

  “You’re a critic, I take it?”

  “I rarely go to the theater,” he replied. “My name is Edward Baker, Miss Randall. I have an interesting proposition to make—”

  “I’ve had a number of propositions, Mr. Baker, and none of them have been interesting. You’re wasting your time.”

  “I think not,” he said.

  He continued to stare at me, completely at ease even though he could see me bristle. He was in his early thirties, I judged, and he was incredibly handsome. The wide, curling mouth was both sensual and cruel, and the dark brows were decidedly unusual, one almost straight, the other arching, giving him a roguish, inquisitive look. There was an arrogance about him, a certain aloof quality that made a striking contrast to the potent virility. Irresistible to women, I thought, and vastly experienced. Obviously wealthy, too. Any of the girls would have been immediately enthralled, delighted to have been accosted by him like this, yet I felt nothing but irritation. Still, there was something different about him. I couldn’t decide what it was, but I sensed it immediately. He was interested in me, and the interest wasn’t entirely physical.

  “Did you get the roses?” he asked idly.

  “So you’re the one who sent them,” I said.

  “A token of my esteem.”

  “Even though I gave a wretched performance?”

  “Even though you gave a wretched performance,” he agreed.

  “You’re terribly insolent, Mr. Baker.”

  “It’s one of my more attractive qualities.”

  “I suppose you expect me to thank you for the roses.”

  “Not especially.”

  “One of the girls, Sally, also received a bouquet of roses last night. There was a diamond bracelet attached to hers.”

  “You feel you should have received a bracelet, too?”

  “Not at all,” I said icily, “I merely wanted to point out that sending me a dozen long-stemmed red roses gives you no right whatsoever to approach me in this—in this insufferable manner.”

  “Most women enjoy being approached by me,” he said lazily.

  “I don’t doubt that. I’m not ‘most women,’ though. I’m an actress, Mr. Baker. I’m not a prostitute. I perform on the stage—exclusively.”

  The wide mouth lifted at one corner in a sardonic grin, and the vivid blue eyes were amused. There was a cold, steely quality about the man that was strangely attractive. His serene composure, his quiet, silken voice merely emphasized it. Edward Baker, elegantly, almost foppishly dressed, calm, confident, seemed, because of this, far more masculine than the more aggressive, robust types who swaggered and flaunted their virility. I was attracted to him, in spite of myself, and he was perfectly aware of it. That irritated me all the more.

  “I had a reason for approaching you, Miss Randall.”

  “I’m certain of that,” I snapped.

  “You’re intrigued. Admit it.”

  “Mr. Baker, I—”

  He scowled, his features suddenly hard, the blue eyes cold.

  “Enough!” he said sharply. “I intend to talk to you. I’m wearied by all this banter.”


  “If you think—”

  “I think you’ll listen to me!”

  “You’re mistaken about that!” I retorted.

  I started to move away. He seized my wrist. His fingers wrapped around it like tight steel bands, and when I tried to pull away they tightened even more. I winced. He was hurting me. He knew it. He was a man used to having his own way, a man who would brook no opposition. There was cruelty in that handsome face, and I sensed that Edward Baker was totally without scruples. Sapphire blue eyes icy cold, features impassive, he gave my wrist a savage twist. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

  “There’s no reason for you to be so skittish,” he said, and again the voice was calm, silken. “I have no intentions of raping you here in broad daylight. I have no designs on you whatsoever, Miss Randall. I want to discuss a business proposition, and, by God, I shall, whether you like it or not. Come—”

  He moved briskly toward the small park at the end of the street, still holding on to my wrist, and I could do nothing but stumble along after him, tottering on my high heels. My skirts billowed in the breeze. The ostrich plumes waved. I had never been so humiliated in my life, my anger mounting with each second that passed. Reaching the park, he pulled me over to a small gray wooden bench in front of a clump of rhododendron bushes abloom with brilliant purple and purple-red blossoms. He shoved me unceremoniously onto the bench, and, seeing the expression on his face as he stood in front of me, I didn’t dare attempt to get back up. No man had ever intimidated me before. This one did.

  “Now,” he said, “we’ll talk.”

  “You must be very pleased with yourself,” I told him. “Terrorizing helpless women—”

  “Certain cases call for stronger measures than others,” he replied in that smooth voice. “You’re a very stubborn young woman, Miss Randall. I’m not accustomed to meeting such determined opposition.”

  “You’re accustomed to having your own way.”