Chapter Three
This was a mistake.
Rose was not normally one to focus on her instincts; she had never needed to. She could manufacture instincts on command. She was an actress.
Now, as she stood outside Francois’s Restaurant, she was listening to her instincts, and they said, Don’t go in.
There was surely something strange about the tall man—Samuel, though whether that was a first name or surname, Rose did not know.
The man had not introduced himself properly, cad that he was, and precisely why she had bothered to agree to meet him here and then had actually turned up, she did not know.
Her stomach rumbled.
Well, Rose thought bleakly, perhaps because of that.
But no other reason. She would listen to his ridiculous idea, whatever it was, eat as much as was physically possible, and then leave.
She had to concoct a plan of survival, and no great ideas had arrived last night as she’d sat in bed all evening—that being the warmest part of the room—desperately trying to think.
So. Luncheon, hear his nonsense, then back to her lodgings. That was all.
The wonderful heat of the hotel filled her lungs as Rose stepped forward, and though her hunger could still not be ignored, her stiff shoulders loosened slightly as the warmth caressed them.
That was when the scent hit her.
Oh, goodness, there was roast potatoes, and red wine, and garlic, and—
“There you are,” said a confident voice as a man stepped toward her. “I was starting to think you were going to be late.”
Samuel… Mr. Samuel, or Samuel something, Rose did not know, but Samuel nonetheless. He smiled, and she felt her lips curling in an immediate response.
Which was foolish. The man looked just the same as he had yesterday, just as tall, just as broad, just as achingly handsome—
Which was ridiculous. Rose had met enough actors to know that anyone could ooze confidence if they put their mind to it, and there was nothing more attractive than confidence.
She returned his smile. Confidence. “Good afternoon, Mr.…?”
“Call me ‘Samuel,’” said the man, ignoring all etiquette and gesturing forward. “Shall we? I have booked a table.”
Excellent—the man clearly had money. Perhaps he is a patron of the arts, Rose thought with a spark of joy as they stepped forward into the restaurant part of the hotel and the scents of food and delicious wine only increased.
A man who perhaps sponsored a theater—a play!
He was looking for the next Cleopatra. He wanted a Lady Macbeth. He needed—
“I need a menu,” said Samuel, pulling out a chair for her but speaking to a waiter, who bowed his head immediately. “And a bottle of your best red wine.”
Their best? Rose tried not to appear impressed as she sat down and allowed Samuel to push the chair in under her. Well, the man certainly had money to burn. If he made her an offer of a role, she was hardly in a position to decline…but still. There was something odd about him.
Rose examined her dining companion as Samuel took the seat opposite her. He was well dressed, certainly. His tailor had earned a pretty penny and the man’s hair was elegantly coiffed, suggesting a valet. Oh, he was a gentleman, to be sure, but that did not answer the most important question.
Was he about to offer her the role of a lifetime?
“This place is pleasant,” Rose said aloud, as the man did not appear to wish to say anything. In fact, he was gawping.
“Yes, very pleasant,” said Samuel vaguely. “Have you any family, Miss Morgan?”
Rose stiffened, and for more than one reason. Miss Morgan.
What sort of a question was that?
The sort of question that a predator asked of its prey.
Well, at least she had been wise enough to meet the man in a public place. She would have to be certain he did not follow her to her lodgings, but then, Rose was the great Miss Morgan. She had fought off admirers for years.
Ha! For years. Yes, that was precisely why Ted had let her go, wasn’t it?
“Miss Morgan? Ah, yes, I’ll have the soup, then the salmon, and where is that red wine? Ah, here it is,” said Samuel blithely, as though ordering people about and getting his own way was a tad pedestrian. “And you, Miss Morgan?”
Rose blinked. “Me?”
“What will you have? I hear the salmon is very good, but there’s partridge and roast beef if you prefer,” said the man companionably.
Salmon, partridge, roast beef… It would be too much to ask for all three, wouldn’t it?
Just for a moment, Rose’s stomach threatened to overwhelm her good manners. When was the last time she had consumed a hot meal? Not a pie, or a pasty from the street. An actual hot meal, on a plate, with a knife and fork?
Rose looked down at the knife and fork. A lesser mortal would have forgotten how to use a knife and fork.
She looked up at the silent waiter. “The partridge to start, then the roast beef. And all the trimmings. And extra potatoes. And gravy.”
The slight tilt of his head, that tiny look of incredulity that the waiter gave Samuel, did not pass unnoticed. “But madam, the partridge, it is not a starter. It is a main course.”
“I said what I wanted,” Rose said imperiously, looking down her nose at the man who was standing above her, which was no mean feat. “Go along.”
The waiter bowed, and bowed to Samuel—which was odd—before hurrying away.
When Rose turned back to her dining companion, it was to see that Samuel was not only smiling faintly but nodding to himself.
Nodding?
“Very good,” he said aloud.
Rose frowned, her mouth watering as he poured her a glass of wine. A very large glass. “What is?”
“You are,” he said brightly. “You are precisely the sort of person I was looking for. An excellent actress.”
It was difficult not to preen, and so Rose did not attempt to. It was delightful, after that debacle with Annabelle, to be so praised. “You have heard of me, then?”
“Not in the slightest,” came the slightly less flattering remark. “But I am already impressed by your talents. Might you regale me with a list of some of your roles on the stage?”
A sense of peace radiated over Rose, loosening the tension in her shoulders, as it felt more like a proper interview now. She listed a number of her roles, as well as the venues, her chest puffing more with each entry on her list.
Eventually, Samuel held up a hand. “Thank you. Impressive, but I’ve heard quite enough. At this point, I prefer to see more of your talents in action.”
Rose opened her mouth to ask precisely what talents he was speaking of when their starters arrived. The partridge was…large.
“You did say,” began the waiter.
“I know what I said,” Rose replied eagerly, placing her napkin on her lap and trying not to salivate openly. Goodness, it smelled spectacular, with a plum dressing and crispy skin and—
Oh, dear God. It tasted even better.
Trying not to moan in delight, Rose swiftly consumed five mouthfuls of the thing before looking up and realizing that Samuel was staring, soft eyes brimming with unbridled delight.
She bristled. “What?”
“You know, I thought for a moment that I should not suggest my…my plan to you,” said Samuel, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “And now I can see you are just perfect for it. You’re pretty, too. That helps.”
Vague passing compliments from gentlemen who did not even bother to properly introduce themselves were not supposed to be so pleasing.
Rose tried not to flush. It did not work, which was most odd.
She had always been expertly in control of her flushes.
It had been what made her such a great Rosalind.
“Helps how?” she asked warily, trying not to swallow a roast potato whole.
Samuel leaned back in his chair and examined her for a moment. When he spoke, it was in a cautious tone. “I am in somewhat of a predicament and I believe you may be the person to help me.”
“A predicament?” Rose repeated.
There were those instincts again. They were telling her to run—well, to finish her luncheon then run—and not give this man the time of day. They were telling her, in truth, that this was not a man to be trusted.
The man shrugged. “A vaguely complex legal matter. One I cannot overcome alone.”
Rose glared. Well, she finished the last carrot, had a large swig of the heady wine, then glared. “I am not a thief, nor a liar.”
“And I would not ask you to be one,” Samuel said smoothly. “In fact, if you are able to help me in this…this delicate matter, you would actually make me less of a liar than I have already been to my mother.”
To his mother? That was interesting. The lie, whatever it was, clearly bothered him. Rose was a student of the arts, an actress extraordinaire, and that meant she could read body language better than she could read a book.
The man was nervous. Unsure of himself, unsure of this plan, and certain, she could see it in the flinch of his jaw, that he had no other option.
Interesting. So he needed her.
“I think you had better tell me what sort of problem you have managed to get yourself into,” Rose said slowly. “Then we can see just how my acting abilities—extraordinary as they are—can help you. If they can help you.”
“Oh, they can help me,” said Samuel blithely as Rose took another sip—fine, a gulp—of the delicious red wine. “I need you to become my wife.”
Rose sprayed red wine across the white tablecloth.
“Oh, dear, did it go down the wrong way?” Samuel asked calmly. “Here, have my napkin.”
It was a miracle she did not have red wine dribbling down her chin. Lifting her own napkin to frantically dab at her lips, Rose spluttered, “B-Become your w-wife? You cannot be serious!”
“Deadly serious, I’m afraid,” said Samuel cheerfully. “I need a wife by the end of the week.”
Rose stared at the man who was clearly insane. Need a wife—by the end of the week? “One does not proposition love and marriage to random women whom one accosted on the street!”