Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nearly a full day had passed without him seeing the little minx, and Dante had control of himself now.
The women of the company had spent the day rehearsing and preparing for their matinee, and so he had been spared any chance encounters in the breakfast parlor, or in the morning room later, where Lady Diana, who liked her meals, had laid on a small nuncheon with tea.
At dinner the previous night, an informal gathering with the company, he had been seated on the same side of the table as Cerys, and a few chairs down, so his gaze could not be drawn to rest on her.
He could hear her voice, though, see the occasional gleam of a silk glove against golden brown skin as she reached for her wine glass, and could hear how earnestly Dutton, again a guest at his friend’s table, had engaged her in low-voiced conversation, punctuated here and there by her throaty laugh.
After the meal, she had eluded all the men to sit beside Lady Diana, whom she evidently amused, and spoke to at length without distributing a single coy glance about the room to see who might be watching her.
It was as though they—and he—had the courtesy not to touch her mind as she chatted easily with their host, now and again plying her fan to move the heated air and waft a gentle breeze over the curls about her face.
There was no coquetry in her as she spoke with the older, highborn woman, and no fawning or flattery either.
She conversed as if she were accustomed to the drawing rooms of lords and higher gentry, and saw no disadvantage to herself she need apologize for, nor any advantage she needed to press.
She carried herself with the same quiet grace she showed everywhere, as if she were not impressed by wealth or title.
After a suitable interval she rose and withdrew from the parlor with two of the other women, claiming the need for final costume fittings, and the glow of the room had considerably dimmed.
Dante had prowled his borrowed bedchamber in the path of the moonlight and grew thoroughly disgusted with himself and the pattern of his thoughts, which were exactly those of an eager suitor who had not been given access to his muse.
He was not courting her, whatever she wanted Bathsheba to believe, and he was not besotted, either. He was far too old for infatuation. It had suited him to escape from Bathsheba’s clutches, and Cerys was his excuse. He would employ the excuse again if need be.
But he saw the trap that lay ahead, now that he was away from her and his mind had cleared.
He would not be taken in by the warm humor of her smile, or the charming way her lips quirked at one corner when she was hiding amusement.
He would not be enchanted by the silver glitter in her green eyes that flickered like sunlight through treetops when she was curious or interested.
He was not trying to arouse her interest. He was not trying to arouse her in any fashion.
He absolutely would not fall under the spell of her charm and intelligence, and thus tumble straight into whatever web she was weaving for him and all of them.
He’d been deceived before and had become wise.
He would keep his head, watch his step, and stop waiting like a cat at a mousehole for her to come round any corner of the house.
He would stop listening for the sound of her voice, and he would most certainly stop trying to discern if the air after she left the room held a lingering scent of jasmine.
Fortunately, at the moment, he had a business discussion to distract him.
People trickled into grand saloon he had designed for Suffolk House, the series of interconnected rooms in one wing of the house that could be opened to create a single reception area that could serve as a ballroom, meeting chamber, or, with a few arrangements of chairs, a theater.
Andover, who liked to entertain and could do so at his liberty with his wife and children absent, had relished the prospect of hosting a bespoke performance by the theater troupe he was housing and had circulated invitations widely throughout the town, especially among the genteel.
The gathering display of wealth, titles, and blooded history in this room would impress even Bathsheba, he’d wager.
Moreover, it was an opportunity for Dante.
Jed Dorsey, already in makeup, left the final preparations for the show to his company and joined Dante at a small folding table in a far corner of the room, where the tall Palladian windows looked out into an afternoon knit of fog.
Andover was there, and Dutton, who could not seem to help putting his nose into every business, and Thompson, who could hardly be denied the meeting as he owned the land under discussion.
Dante unfolded the sketch he had made of the built areas in Cheltenham, and the spaces still free for development. “There.” The elder Thompson indicated a patch of field not far from the end of the Colonnade, between High Street and the River Chelt. “I could lease you a plot there. Fair price.”
“It’s not a bog or river meadow?” Dante asked.
“Not that. Near all the major spas, including mine, and the Plough Hotel is right there.” Thompson moved his finger along the scroll of parchment, which each man had a hand in holding open.
“And a fair distance from Watson’s theater, which is in Cambray,” Dorsey said.
“No different from having Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms,” Dutton agreed. “A theater for the each of them.”
“Though we wants everyone to come to our theater.” Dorsey cocked his head, looking from a different angle. “How long a lease?”
“Ten, twenty, or ninety-nine years. Take your pick,” Thompson said promptly.
Dorsey squinted in thought, then looked around, Dante guessed in search of one of the women to do his thinking for him.
He didn’t smell of drink, not yet, but he had the somewhat slow, cautious air of a man who had woken with a thick head and was just now feeling the fumes clear.
Dante had never taken up the habit of overindulgence, after a few youthful experiences of the same.
He was impatient with vice, as a rule. An artisan attempting to rise from the ranks of the tradesmen to the upper bourgeoisie had to be free of them, for every display of cunning, gluttony, vanity, envy, or indulgence would be taken as a sign of his base birth and unworthiness to be considered genteel.
Meanwhile, those born to high stations abused just such virtues all the time, yet even if they fell in public favor—as the Prince Regent had for the general public, given his lavish adoption of all the cardinal sins—he would never have his rank denied him.
George could be an envious fool, an arrogant cad, and a glutton, but he would always be a prince.
Andover could mingle with actors and low persons, even host them in his house, and come away with no more than a low odor that would eventually rub off.
Dutton could take as many mistresses as he liked—several at one time—and he would still be a gentleman, father to gentlemen, in line for a barony in due time.
Dante could adopt vain ways of dress, amuse himself with mistresses, mingle with low persons, and sedate his mind with any manner of compounds, and the gossips would shake their heads and say, After all, what could one expect?
His father was Italian, and no gentleman.
It mattered little that Dante’s mother was a gentleman’s daughter; a lady who had lowered herself might never rise again.
It was why they all focused their energies on rising. Just as Bathsheba had done.
As if she were a shade to be conjured by thought, she appeared, wearing an expensive gown meant for the evening with its low bodice and trim at the sleeves and hem.
The color was the vivid blue-green called drake’s neck, and only a daring matron would wear it when the fashion went for light tones and pastels.
But Bathsheba wanted to be noticed. This was her aim in styling herself the patroness of a special theatrical performance, advertised under her name while Andover bore all the nuisance and expense.
And she had presented herself early enough to come to the notice of all the important people in the room.
She spared little patience for the invalid or aged ladies, no matter how high their birth or title, but bestowed her own particular smile—a combination of admiration and invitation—on the men.
The wealthier the man, the larger the dose he received of Bathsheba’s charm.
Dante felt curiously flat as her gaze landed on him and she began a concerted advance across the room in his direction. Once, knowing he was the aim of Bathsheba’s designs had sent him soaring like a hot air balloon. Now, he wondered why he had ever been so foolish.
“Are these the designs for the theater you are building, Dante?” She didn’t even acknowledge the other gentlemen, though Andover offered a courteous nod and Dutton allowed himself a long evaluation of her bosom.
“Staking out the land, yer ladyship,” Dorsey said with a broad wink that came across as rather hideous given he was made up to look a cadaver. “But ready to build, once the designs are finished and a builder secured, and his lordship hands over the blunt.”
A slight wrinkle of her nose said that Bathsheba didn’t appreciate being addressed by the lowest among them, and in such a familiar manner, and about money. A courtesan striving to take her place among Society as a titled lady had to be a higher stickler than the Queen.
Much the same way Dante, an artist and tradesman’s son, had to be the veritable ideal of a gentleman if he wanted to come close to social approbation.
It made him understand Bathsheba’s niceties, but it didn’t put him in charity with her. He had no soft feelings left where this woman was concerned.