“Castleford,” said the fair face, smiling grimly. “Friend of Morgane’s here. Lucky for you he was in the audience.”
“How -?” began Fancy again.
“We just faced the ruffians down,” said Castleford cheerfully. “They were only a bunch of cowards. Morgane here could have done it alone. I just went along for the lark.”
“Thank you,” said Fancy, her eyes moving back to Morgane.
He shrugged. “You behaved very foolishly.”
Fancy, now that her strength was returning was beginning to feel her usual irritation with this arrogant man. “I was trying to warn Uncle George,” she protested.
“Uncle
George?” said Morgane sarcastically.
Fancy wished she had her strength back;
she longed to slap his handsome face.
“He was Mama’s friend. I have always called him uncle.”
“He’s a fool,” observed his lordship curtly. “An audience like that can’t be reasoned with and should certainly never be threatened. If Kemble doesn’t lower the prices, this theater is doomed.”
Fancy struggled once more to sit up. This time Morgane helped her, one strong arm supporting her back. The room whirled briefly and then righted itself.
Suddenly Cooke appeared. He looked extremely humble as he knelt beside her. “Fancy, m’girl, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I know, Uncle George. I’m all right, really I am. Don’t you fuss yourself.” She looked around her, suddenly realizing how quiet it was. “What happened to the rest of the play?”
“We said we could not continue,” replied Kemble, whom Fancy now saw standing to one side. “And with you lying here unconscious most of the crowd was anxious to leave.”
Fancy raised her hand to her throbbing head.
“How do you feel?” asked Morgane, still in that curt voice.
But Fancy was too exhausted to bristle up. “I am rather lightheaded,” she said. “And my head aches horribly.”
“You had a vicious bump,” observed Castleford. “Wonder it didn’t knock all your brains out.”
This remark earned him a dark look from his friend. “What you need is a little stimulant.” Morgane gave Cooke a glance. “Is there anything left in that bottle of yours?”
Fancy saw Cooke color up, but if he thought of sharp retort, he kept it to himself and hurried off, returning in a minute with a flask which he offered to Morgane.
“I don’t want any -” began Fancy, only to be silenced by a look from the Earl.
“Stop behaving like an obnoxious child and take a swallow. You have certainly caused the company enough trouble already.”
“I?” sputtered Fancy, gazing up into the dark face so near her own.
“Yes, you. There was no need for such heroics. Cooke can hold his own with any audience and at least if they had carried him off he would not have been in the sort of danger that threatened you.”
Fancy colored up again. “I am dreadfully sorry to have caused you so much inconvenience, milord,” she replied icily. “But I did not
ask
you to come to my rescue.”
“Perhaps not,” observed he dryly. “But, connoisseur of beauty that I am, I did not wish to discover your beautiful body lying somewhere in the kennels outside.”
Fancy could not repress a shudder. Mobs could do things like that. She was about to offer the Earl a somewhat stilted apology when he put the flask to her lips. It was either drink or have rum splashed relentlessly down the front of her costume. Fancy swallowed and coughed as the fiery liquid hit her stomach.
Morgane returned the flask to Cooke, who accepted it sheepishly. Then the Earl cast his dark gaze on the rest of the company, still gathered around. “I believe Miss Harper is sufficiently recovered to be taken to the dressing room. Castleford, kindly bring my coat.”
And before Fancy could even think, the Earl was on his feet and had lifted her easily into his arms. “I can walk,” she cried angrily, as he began to move offstage.
“Quite probably,” he returned, unperturbed. “But I do not intend that you should. And it would be of considerable help to me, since you are not exactly of sylphlike proportions, if you could so conquer your aversion to me as to manage to assist me by putting your arms around my neck.”
Fancy, mindful of the others watching and aware of her own lightheadedness, reluctantly did as she was told. His shirt was cool under her fingers and as her hands met behind his neck she felt them brushed by his dark hair. A strange feeling shot through her as she became aware of the feel of his arms around her and, as the room began to whirl once more, she closed her eyes with a sigh and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Thus he carried her to the dressing room where, banishing the others with another dark look, he carried her inside and set her carefully on her feet, keeping his hands on her elbows to support her. “Now, we will see if you can stand.”
Fancy, alone with only this dark man and his friend Castleford, felt a little tremor of fear. There was so much power in the Earl - raw, arrogant power. He was used to having his way - about everything. And she had twice defied him. Once when she refused his offer of keeping and just lately when he had urged her to leave St. James’s Square.
She forced her eyes to meet his and was aware that she swayed slightly. “If you will release my elbows, I will see.”
With a lazy smile the Earl took his hands away. Slowly, Fancy, putting each foot down carefully, paced the length of the room and back. “I am fully recovered now,” she said politely. “And I thank you for your services.”
“Your thanks are accepted,” replied Morgane laconically, “but my services are not ended.”
As her perplexed expression revealed her bewilderment, he chuckled dryly. “I do not propose to drive off and leave you here. Since we are going in the same direction I shall drop you at your door and thus be assured that you are safe. For one night at least.”
Fancy drew herself up. The thought of a carriage ride in the company of the dark Earl was almost as terrifying as a rioting crowd, but she would not let him see that. “My man, Henry, will be here for me with two grooms, so I will not need your kind escort.”
For a moment the Earl scowled. “I believe I shall just wait around until the redoubtable Henry arrives and thus assure myself of your safety.”
“Milord,” said Fancy. “I really do appreciate your concern on my behalf. But I am a grown woman, perfectly capable of managing my own affairs.”
Morgane laughed, a deep humorless laugh. “You are a foolish chit,” he declared. “Who knows little of life and who thinks herself enamored of an illusory phantom called the theater.”
Fancy bristled. “Perhaps so, milord, but my love is at least genuine, not induced by rich establishments and fabulous jewels.”
“Touché,
” cried Castleford, who had been witnessing this exchange of barbs with great concentration.
Morgane ignored his friend. “Why can’t you behave like a sensible woman? Sell that big house, find yourself a decent husband, and raise a family. You are not meant for the theater.”
“You are wrong,” cried Fancy, forgetting her throbbing head in a rush of anger. “The theater
is
my life. I will
not
give it up. Not you or all the rioters in the world can make me.”
“As I said,” replied Morgane, smiling darkly, “you
are
a fool.”
Fancy, whose fingers had again come to rest on the powder box, fought down the urge to hurl it at this infuriating man. She would not give him that satisfaction.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” said the Earl, reaching for his coat. He shrugged into it and in spite of its having been folded and lain on, it showed hardly a wrinkle. It was cut so well that it clung to each muscle and curve and wrinkles were, perforce, stretched out.
The Earl returned his attention to Fancy. “I imagine that Henry will be here soon. Therefore I propose that Castleford and myself wait outside while you change.” His eyes met hers. “Thus not offending your maidenly modesty.”
Fancy’s fingers closed once more around the powder box, but Morgane, letting his gaze linger there, remarked sardonically, “That would certainly be a peculiar mode of repayment for your rescue. But should the fancy move you, my dear, feel free to hurl it at me. I have never been one to stand in the way of a lady’s pleasure.”
And the Earl and his friend leisurely stepped out, closing the door behind them.
For a few moments Fancy’s fingers trembled so that she was unable to undo the costume, but finally she managed and struggled into her own clothes. As she settled before the mirror to remove her makeup, she scowled at the reflection there. Two great green eyes stared back at her out of a face white as flour. She looked just ghastly. Fancy thought angrily, as she scrubbed away.
Finally she surveyed herself in the mirror. She did not want to face the top-lofty Earl again, but neither did she want to remain alone in the dressing room. And so she moved hesitantly to the door and steeled herself to meet those lazy gray eyes. But it was not the Earl’s lean figure that stood there, but Henry’s familiar one. With a cry of relief, she collapsed against him. “Oh, Henry, please take me home.”
Chapter Four
The next morning found Fancy in much better spirits. She was really none the worse for her experience. She did notice several bruises on her upper arms but they were minor matters, not worth fussing over. The terror of the night before had already started to fade. And, after all, Fancy had made the theater her life. One bad experience would not turn her against it.
She said this to Ethel very plainly as she breakfasted on the substantial plate of ham, muffins, eggs, and sipped her tea. “You cannot expect me to give up my life’s work,” she insisted, “simply because some foolish men want to riot.”
“It ain’t safe,” replied Ethel sourly. “You might get pulled off the stage again and this time there wouldn’t be no Earl there to save you.”
Fancy wrinkled her nose. “The Earl of Morgane is far too high in the instep. He needs taken down.”
Ethel shook her head dolefully. “No good comes from mixing with them quality folks. They’s different somehow.” From Ethel’s glum expression it was evident that she did not find the difference to her liking.
Fancy’s laughter rang out. “Oh, Ethel. They’re not that bad.”
“Humph! Haven’t none of ‘em been to see you, have they? Or even spoke to you on the street?”
Fancy’s eyes danced. “The gentlemen have been very kind. They always nod when we pass.”
“Humph!” repeated Ethel. “Gentlemen, indeed. They all got an eye for one thing. You mark my words. It was a bad day when we come to St. James’s Square. A bad day all around.”
Fancy, seeing the Earl of Morgane’s scarred face flash before her eyes, shivered. Certainly the Earl was not the sort one would wish for an enemy. He looked positively sinister with that scar and those mocking gray eyes.
“Never mind, Ethel. We’ll be happy here. And if the neighbors don’t accept us - that’s their loss.”
She pushed herself back from the table and smoothed down the gown of green-sprigged muslin that clung to her shapely figure. Though not a single soul had come to call in the several weeks they had lived in St. James’s Square, Fancy always dressed as though they might. “Where is Hercules?” she asked.
“He’s around here somewheres,” replied Ethel, her hands flying to her ears as Fancy pursed her lips in a shrill whistle that caused more than one of the smart young footmen to shift nervously at his station.
From a distant part of the house a clatter could be heard approaching and then Hercules slid to a halt only inches from a pedestal that held an expensive vase. Ethel shook her head. “That dog don’t belong in no house. He’s a sheep dog, he is. Ought to be outside somewheres minding sheep instead of eating us out of house and home.”
“Now, Ethel.” Fancy patted the great dog’s shaggy head. “You know he has always earned his keep. It’s just that Mr. Kemble doesn’t think I need him backstage now.”
Hercules’s eyes, behind their screen of shaggy brown and white hair, peered at each of them in turn as if asking for an explanation of the whistle. His great tail thumped the floor happily, to the imminent danger of the vase.
“Come, Hercules,” said Fancy. “I’m going to study my lines in the sitting room and you shall keep me company.”
Hercules, with a fond look at the doors that led outside, obediently followed her, and as she settled in a chair with the script the dog plopped himself at her feet with a sigh of reproach.
Fancy scowled at him. “You silly dog, you needn’t look at me like that. I didn’t tell you to go running off to the Earl’s house in that stupid fashion. What did you want anyway?”
In answer to this query Hercules merely opened one eye momentarily and then closed it again. Fancy laughed. The dog assuredly felt put upon because he was forced to remain indoors. But
she
was the one who had had to face the supercilious Earl.
What a shame, she found herself thinking, that he was so excessively arrogant and toplofty. Even with that scar he was a very good-looking man - broad in the shoulders and lean in the hips. Every bit a man. If he had a better temper any woman would be pleased -
Fancy caught herself and frowned. How absolutely ridiculous. To be thinking such thoughts about a man. And such a man. Besides, his temper
was
the vilest, and he was intolerably overbearing. No woman in her right mind would form a partiality for such a creature.
With this settled, she picked up her script and began to study her lines. This was an off day for her since she did not appear in tonight’s performance and she must make the most of it. No time for sitting around thinking about a man who had rescued her and then scolded her like she was the merest chit.
Fancy was pacing the floor sometime later, repeating her lines for Morton’s
School of Reform,
when the door knocker was heard. It was such an unusual sound that Fancy stopped in her tracks. It hardly seemed possible that someone would be coming to call. Yet assuredly someone
had
knocked.
She found herself standing immobile, holding her breath, until she heard Henry say, “This way, milord.”