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She gave herself a mental shake and made an effort to retrieve their conversation. ‘I require no chaperon, Mr Vernon. No one expects propriety from actresses. There is some freedom in that.’
He merely sipped his tea.
She took a breath and tried again. ‘Shall we discuss the portrait?’
‘You and I must decide how you are to appear as Cleopatra.’ He spoke as if all emotion had been leached out of him.
Except from his eyes.
‘I am not at all certain how to do that,’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘We try different poses. I sketch you, and we select the best image.’
This struck her as insufficient, like trying to prepare for a play by guessing one’s lines.
‘Have you read the play?’ She rubbed one finger on the arm of the chair. ‘It might provide you with some ideas.’
‘Not since school days.’
He glanced at her hand, and she curled her fingers into her palm. ‘I have my copy in my rooms. Let us get it so you can read it.’
He blinked. ‘There is no need. Bring it tomorrow.’
‘Then we will be delayed another day. My residence is nearby. It will take no time at all.’
He stared at her and the moment stretched on. ‘Very well,’ he finally said.
He went into another room to get his top coat, and a minute later they were outside in the cool, breezy air.
She took his arm and glanced at the street ahead. ‘Which of the “few doors away” is your sister?’
‘Not far.’ As they passed, he pointed to it. ‘This one.’
‘And is there a wife behind those doors, as well?’ Please say no, she thought.
He shook his head. ‘I am in no position to marry. My sister lives with my mother in those rooms.’
Her heart skipped a beat.
‘You have seen my sister,’ he said to her as they walked on.
She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I have?’
‘Hers was the painting you admired at the exhibition.’
She stopped. ‘Of course it was. Now I understand.’
‘Understand what?’
She met his eyes. ‘Why it was such a loving portrait.’
His colour heightened and she sensed him withdrawing from her again.
And they’d almost returned to the comfort between them at the exhibition.
Ariana asked more questions about his sister, hoping she’d not lost him again. She asked his sister’s age, her interests, how she’d been educated, anything she could think of that seemed safe. The short walk, a mere few hundred yards to her residence on Henrietta Street, was by far the most pleasant she’d had in an age.
When they entered the house, he turned towards the open drawing-room door.
She pulled him back. ‘Come up to my room.’
His brows rose. ‘To your room?’
She waved a hand. ‘No one will mind, I promise.’
She chattered to him about how she came to live at this place, about the other boarders who lived there as well, anything to put him at ease, to put her at ease, as well.
When they entered the room, Ariana pointedly ignored the bed, the most prominent piece of furniture and the one that turned her thoughts to what it might be like to share it with him. It unsettled her that he could so quickly arouse such dormant urges in her. If she’d learned anything from her former lover, it had been that her senses were not always the best judge of a man’s character.
She took off her cloak and flung it over a chair. He removed his hat and gloves, but not his top coat.
He glanced about the room. ‘Where is your copy of the play?’
‘On the table.’ She pulled off her gloves and gestured to a small table by the window.
He picked up the small, leather-bound volume. ‘I will have it read by tomorrow.’
He opened the book and flicked idly through the pages. Quickly snapping it closed, he slipped the book into a pocket of his top coat.
Which passage had caused that reaction? she wondered. Antony’s line, perhaps?
There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch; Without some pleasure now.
He seemed to gain no pleasure from her company. ‘I should return to my studio.’
She had not moved from the doorway. ‘When should I come and sit for you tomorrow?’
‘At the same time, if it is convenient.’ His manner was stiff.
‘Tomorrow, then.’ She nodded.
He strode towards her. As he passed, she caught his hand. ‘I would greatly desire our time together to be pleasant. We started as friends. May we not continue that way?’
Again that mysterious distress flashed through his eyes. What bothered him so?
He stared into her eyes. ‘’Til tomorrow, Miss Blane.’
She released his hand and he hurried out of the door. From the hallway she watched him descend the stairs and walk through the front door, not even pausing to put on his hat and gloves.
When Jack reached Adam Street he was still reeling with the unexpected pleasure of being in Ariana’s company again, as well as the crushing knowledge that she was Tranville’s actress.
Jack walked with his head down against the chilly wind from the river. It was even more appalling that Tranville had chosen an actress young enough to be his daughter.
Instead of going back to the studio, Jack called upon his mother. He found her alone in her sitting room doing needlework by the light of the window.
She looked up as he entered. ‘Jack, you are back again.’
He glanced around the room. ‘Where is Nancy?’
‘She and our maid went to the market.’ His mother’s smile was tight. ‘I fear Nancy finds these four walls tedious. She takes every opportunity to venture out of them.’
He did not respond, but stared blankly at the carpet.
‘Sit, Jack.’ She indicated a chair. ‘Tell me why you are here.’
He wandered over to the mantel, absently moving one of the matched pair of figurines flanking a porcelain clock.
Finally he looked at her. ‘Did Tranville tell you that his actress is almost as young as Nancy?’
She stabbed her needle through the cloth. ‘That is no concern of mine, and ought to be no concern of yours, Jack.’
‘No concern!’ He swung away, then turned back to face her. ‘Does it not trouble you? How can it not? How are you able to insist I paint this portrait?’
Her eyes creased in pain. ‘It is what he wishes.’
He felt his face flush with anger. ‘You do not have to do what he wishes, Mother. He treats you abominably.’
Her expression was stern. ‘That is your opinion. In my opinion he has enabled me to live in comfort, to rear my children in comfort, to give them an education, a future.’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘I could debate what sort of future he’s provided Nancy with, but, that aside, have you not more than paid him for what he has done for you?’
She merely pulled her needle through the cloth.
Jack paced before walking to her chair and crouching down so that he was at eye level with her. ‘Mother, I will make a living as an artist. I will earn more commissions. If we economise I will have enough to care for you and Nancy. You do not need to accept another shilling from Tranville. You can tell him to go to the devil.’
She gazed directly into his eyes. ‘I will not do that.’
He blinked. ‘Why not? I promise I can take care of you.’
She went back to her sewing. ‘I am certain you will be very successful, my son, but I still will not spurn Lionel.’
Jack stood. ‘He has spurned you. In the most insulting way.’
She gazed up at him again. ‘I do not need to explain myself to you and I have no intention of doing so. I will not change my arrangement with Lionel.’
It was no use. Where Tranville was concerned his mother was blind and deaf.
‘Do you stay for dinner?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘It is not for a few hours yet, but you are welcome to stay. If you are hungry now, I’ll send for tea and biscuits.’
He shook his head. To sit down at dinner and pretend this day had not happened would be impossible. ‘Do not expect me for dinner. I have much to do tonight.’
She smiled wanly. ‘You are still welcome if you change your mind.’
He walked over and kissed her. ‘I must go.’
She patted his cheek, but her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I hope we will see you tomorrow.’
Once he stepped back out into the winter air, he hurried to his studio and let himself in. He leaned against the door with visions of Tranville hopping from his mother’s bed into Ariana’s.
Throwing down his gloves and hat, he crossed the room to a bureau where he kept paper. Pulling out several sheets, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching.
The lines he drew formed into an image of Ariana.
Chapter Four
That evening Ariana sat at a mirror applying rouge to her cheeks and kohl to her eyelids to make her features display well to the highest box seats of Drury Lane Theatre. The dressing-room doors were open wide, so that she and the other actresses could hear their cues to go on stage. In a half-hour the curtain would rise on the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet, and backstage was its usual pandemonium. People shouted. Pieces of set were moved from one side to the other. Actors, actresses and the ballet dancers who entertained between acts ran here and there in all states of dress and undress.
Ariana loved the commotion. She vastly preferred being among it to walking up the stairs to the private dressing room usually reserved for the leading actress. Her mother had demanded that dressing room, and Ariana had not minded in the least. The backstage bustle energised her.
Her mother’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror. Dressed for the comparatively minor role of Lady Capulet, her mother glared at her. ‘Have your wits gone begging?’
Ariana set down the tiny brush she’d used to darken her lashes. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mama?’
Her mother gestured dramatically in the direction of an invisible someone. ‘Lord Tranville pays for your portrait and an entire play and you refuse his escort. You would not even walk with the man.’
Ariana replied to the image in the mirror. ‘I was under the impression his financial investment was meant to benefit the theatre, not his vanity.’
Her mother threw up her hands. ‘Then you are a bigger fool than ever I imagined.’
Ariana was no fool. She knew precisely what Tranville had hoped to purchase.
She averted her gaze from the mirror. Even if Tranville’s motives had merely been gentlemanly, Ariana would not have welcomed his company. She liked being alone with Jack Vernon. She liked the intimacy of it, liked that he could look at her without anyone else as witness.
Ariana held her breath, imagining him raking her with those eyes and rendering on paper what he saw. It felt akin to him touching her.
Her mother tugged at her shoulder, interrupting her reverie. ‘Tranville has a great deal of influence here in the theatre. You cannot treat him so shabbily without penalty. You profess to wanting success, but, the way you are bound, you will ruin matters for both of us.’
Ariana did indeed wish for success, success as an actress, not as Tranville’s plaything.
The renowned Daphne Blane enjoyed above all things the adoration of men. Her acting career was merely the means of putting herself on display, and her fame came more from the numbers of men with whom her name had been linked over the years than from her roles on stage.
Her single-minded interest in winning the attention of the most prestigious gentlemen had left Daphne Blane little time to be bothered by a daughter. Ariana had been cared for by others. Theatre people were the ones who showered her with attention. They had dressed little Ariana in costumes, painted her face, even allowed her to walk on stage as part of a scene. The theatre had been where she was happiest. She loved it so much she’d walk on any stage, in any role, merely to be a part of it all.
Ariana drew the line at bartering herself to lustful men, even if they would help her acting career. If that was the price of success, it was too high and too false. She wanted to rise on the merits of her skill, nothing more. She wanted to earn the best roles, the best reviews, the most applause, because her performance deserved it.
Her mother, however, had made one valid point. Ariana might not wish to share Tranville’s bed, but she ought not to alienate him completely. He could wield his influence in this theatre for both good and ill.
She turned to look her mother in the eyes. ‘Put your mind at ease, Mother. I am well able to manage Lord Tranville. I’ve managed others like him before.’
