Chapter 3 #3
“But she ain’t there,” Dutton said. “All bundled away to Holkham Hall to take the sea air and be near family at her delicate time. And with the pater at the London house while Parliament is sitting, Andover is here all on his lonesome, bravely overseeing the family estates.”
Andover nodded, doing his best to achieve a doleful look.
Dante forced himself to unball his fists.
Just because Andover was a pleasant looking fellow and his wife was not about did not mean the little harpy was in danger from him.
Not every man in the world desired to make an actress his mistress; why, some managed to refrain their whole lives from being entangled in theatrical snares.
But Dante sensed a calculating look in the face of the little termagant as she waved her painted fan back and forth beneath her chin, stirring tendrils of dark hair that had fallen free from her bonnet. She studied Andover like a con artist measuring a mark.
Evaluating him the way Dante evaluated the men he wanted to win commissions from. Studying the best angle to ply, if it be flattery, bargaining, appeals to vanity, or offering a deal too good to resist.
“I am sure Lord Andover would not wish us to trespass on his good nature, or cut up his peace,” she said at last, echoing the matron’s sentiments, but with a gleam in her eye that was less shrewd and more—inviting? Was she turning coy now?
Trying to angle her way into an invitation in truth. She didn’t need protecting from Andover; gods take him, Andover needed protecting from her.
If the Viscount weren’t careful, Elizabeth and the little Howards would be left in Norfolk and a new face would wear the title of Lady Andover.
The little harpy would take what she wanted and never mind whom she hurt in the process.
Dante had her measure, oh yes. She was just the sort of woman who lived by her own rules, and devil take anyone who stood in her way.
“Miss—Evans, was it?” Andover regarded her, waiting for someone to supply the introduction.
The matron nudged her forward, the movement almost imperceptible. “Miss Cerys Van Der Welle Evans.”
She said it as if the name might mean something to Andover. The echo lingered in Dante’s head. Care-is. Not a proper English name. Just like his.
Not a proper English lady. Just as he was not a proper English gentleman.
“Miss Evans.” Andover smiled. “I am certain you and your company would cut up my peace in only the most pleasant ways.”
“For a short time only,” she returned. “It will take some time to build our theater. We shall not impose on you for the whole of it. Only for a little while, until better arrangements can be made.”
Andover gave her a brief bow. A viscount by courtesy, heir to an earl, bowing to an actress! Was the man that taken in by her?
“I shall enjoy the time while it lasts, and hope the better arrangements will be long in the making,” Andover said. He came up from the bow with the girl’s hand in his own and brushed her gloved knuckles with a brief, proper kiss.
And now he was kissing her hand. The little witch had Andover under her spell, just as she had Dutton and Pearson Thompson, if the shared looks of fascination were any proof.
Dante’s jaw hurt from clenching his teeth.
It was left to him to save the lot from their own foolishness.
They couldn’t see what she was, but Dante could.
“What a delight, to have fellow guests at Suffolk House for the time being,” he said. His voice was a low growl, nothing near to delight in it.
Her eyes flared wide, a green flash beneath those dark eyelashes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am staying at Suffolk House as well, on his lordship’s generosity. What a merry group we all will make. I’m sure the short time will pass most pleasantly.”
For the first time, her aplomb deserted her.
Her rose-tinted mouth dropped open. Her clenching fist crushed her fan.
And the bosom he had tried so very hard not to look at heaved upward on a sudden breath.
She looked young all of a sudden, a woman still, but just barely out of the flush of girlhood.
“You?” She nearly yelped the word. “No.” She turned to Mame. “We cannot possibly—”
“Say no, and abuse his lordship’s kind offer,” Mame said, smiling sweetly at Andover. “We will be happy to be your guests.”
Dante saw the trouble brewing. Both the high-born men, and the merchant’s son, had taken an interest in the harpy.
And the matron meant to make the most of that interest, exploiting it, if she could, for the benefit of her troupe.
He had to admire the effrontery, being an ambitious man himself.
They’d managed to station the little actress under all their noses, where she could make the most of her charm.
The question was, would she agree to this? Dante watched her face tighten behind the charming smile. She was angry. Hurt. Wary.
Fortunate he was in the position to put a spoke in her wheels, if she was on the hunt to find herself a rich protector. But Dante suddenly wondered whom he might be trying to protect by interfering with a love affair in the making—her mark, or the girl herself?