One Perfect Rose (13 page)

The duchess, Margot, was indeed beautiful, almost as beautiful as Michael's wife, Catherine. Almost as desirable as Rosalind…

Cursing his single-mindedness, Stephen beat a hasty retreat to the farthest corner of the greenroom before the Candovers entered. They greeted Thomas and Maria with familiar ease, then turned to the other long-term players with friendly words. Stephen studied Candover with clinical interest. A few weeks ago, he himself had moved with that same expectation of deference and near-arrogant authority.

As the Candovers took their leave, the duchess looked around the room with a smile for the other members of the troupe. Her gaze lingered for an instant on Stephen, but probably that was because of his whiskers. He inclined his head deferentially, and her gaze moved on. Then she and her husband left the greenroom.

After the door had closed, Thomas raised both arms in a commanding gesture. “There has never been a stage better suited to this play, and the night is full of magic. Shall we go forth and make this a performance that no one will ever forget?”

There was a chorus of agreement from the players. Brian, costumed as Puck, said, “Oh, yes,
sir
!”, then blushed when his voice rang out above the others.

His father grinned, then gestured for Stephen and Rosalind and their attendants. Heralded by a trumpet fanfare, they made their entrance into the glamorous kingdom of the imagination. It was almost full dark, and the stage was lit by tall, flickering torches. High above, in the trees, tiny lamps sparkled like fairy stars.

They swept to the middle of the open stage. As Stephen majestically turned to address his Amazon bride, he saw his sister in the second row.

Despite her stern, uncompromising expression, Claudia was a handsome woman, with the chestnut hair and strong features of the Kenyons. Her hands were clasped primly in her lap, and her quiet husband sat beside her. Stephen wondered what their marriage was like. Did Claudia and Herrington really care for each other, or had they made a mere aristocratic accommodation as strangers sharing a roof? If he were a better brother, he would know. He made a private vow that he
would
know before he died.

It was time to speak. Stephen pitched his voice more deeply than usual, effortlessly filling the amphitheater. He was Theseus, who had fought great battles and done heroic deeds, and now he had come home to join with the love of his life.

Regal and brave, his Amazon queen replied in Rosalind's voice, her words liquid with the sweet eagerness of a woman who could scarcely wait to wed her beloved. Stephen gazed into her chocolate eyes and answered with the unnamed emotions of his heart, letting the Duke of Athens say what the Duke of Ashburton could not.

Then it was time for Theseus and Hippolyta to leave the stage to the young lovers. Rosalind raced off to change to the costume of a fairy attendant, but Stephen was free to watch from the shadows.

As the play progressed, it became clear that Thomas Fitzgerald would get his wish. In his lifetime Stephen had seen
A Midsummer Night's Dream
performed perhaps a dozen times. He had taken part on three of those occasions. But never had he seen a finer performance than on this night.

The setting was pure enchantment, giving the members of the fairy court an unearthly beauty as they watched the strange antics of the humans. Thomas and Maria played the estranged fairy rulers with the snap and bite of a couple who had been together for eons and still had the passion to fight. All of the actors were at their best, with Jessica especially poignant as confused Hermia, whose lover turned against her.

The comedy of errors progressed until it was time for Stephen to go onstage with Rosalind again. He no longer worried about being identified. Many members of the audience knew the Duke of Ashburton, but tonight he was Stephen Ashe, a man freed of the tyranny of rank, and he gave the best performance of his life.

There was a hush after Brian delivered Puck's final speech. Then the audience rose to its feet, clapping and shouting with an enthusiasm that sounded more like working-class London than the usually jaded nobility.

The cast began to take their bows. Stephen and Rosalind made their appearance together, and it was like being struck by a wall of sound. He drank in the clamorous approval, knowing that he had earned his share, and found that it was the headiest of brews. No wonder actors became addicted to this…this rapture. This intoxicating sense of power and achievement.

He made a sweeping bow, Rosalind's hand in his, profoundly grateful that he had been given the chance to taste this life that was so different from his own.

After the performance the audience came down to the stage to mingle with the actors. Several women, Stephen saw, were heading purposefully toward him, so he slipped away and retreated to the farthest corner of the men's dressing room. Earlier Rosalind had told him that the cast, still in costume, would go up to the castle for a reception with the duke's guests. After an hour or two, Thomas and Maria would collect their crew and they would drive back to Whitcombe by moonlight.

Stephen waited until he could hear no more voices before he removed his wig, beard, and costume. There would not be another performance of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
in his last few days with the company, so he said a nostalgic good-bye to Theseus as he packed his royal robes and hairpieces away.

Then he picked up the costume chest and carried it outside. Since he was the only member of the troupe not at the reception, he might as well make himself useful.

He set the chest in the back of a wagon. Aloysius was sleeping underneath. The dog raised its head, then whined and thumped his tail. A whiff of tobacco smoke came to Stephen. He spun around and saw the glowing tip of a cigar a dozen feet away.

An amused voice drawled, “So it really is you, Ashburton.”

Hell and damnation. Stephen sighed and leaned back against the tail of the wagon, crossing his arms over his chest. The moonlight was bright enough to show the other man's tall, dark figure and the general cast of the hawklike features. Stephen had been caught red-handed by the Duke of Candover.

“Good evening, Candover,” Stephen said with resignation. “How did you identify me? I thought I'd disguised myself rather well.”

“Margot recognized your voice,” the other man explained. “When she said you were playing Theseus, I thought my darling bride had drunk too much claret with dinner. Then I saw that the playbill listed the Duke of Athens as Stephen Ashe, which seemed suspiciously similar to your name. I decided to see for myself when you didn't come to the reception. I should have known Margot was right. She's uncannily good with voices and accents.” The end of his cigar flared as he drew in on it. “One of the unexpected benefits of marrying a lady spy.”

Luckily another advantage of a lady spy was that she was capable of being discreet. Stephen asked, “Does anyone else know?”

Candover shook his head. “Only the two of us. Care for a cigar, by the way?”

“Thank you.” Though Stephen seldom smoked, he welcomed having something to fidget with. He accepted a cigar and light from the other man.

Candover tapped a glowing ash from his cigar. “The Fitzgerald Troupe is remarkably fine for a company of strolling players, but still an unlikely place to find you. Dare I ask why you're here, or is it none of my business?”

Deciding that a degree of honesty would be best, Stephen said, “Do you ever get tired of the obligations of rank?”

“Sometimes. Not often, but sometimes,” Candover said thoughtfully. “So you're taking a holiday from dukedom.”

“Precisely. One I would just as soon keep private.”

Wicked amusement in his voice, Candover said, “You're really quite a decent actor, but I suppose your family might not approve of your new career.”

“Michael would probably laugh after he recovered from the shock, but my sister, Claudia, would have palpitations,” Stephen said frankly. “And by the time she finished scolding me,
I'd
be having palpitations.”

The other man laughed aloud. “I take your point—your sister is a formidable woman. I won't reveal your presence. I'm surprised Fitzgerald hasn't let the cat out of the bag, though. He must be elated to have you in his troupe.”

“He doesn't know. No one in the company does.”

“You certainly believe in anonymity.” The duke dropped his cigar and crushed the butt under his heel. “Sure you don't want to come up to the castle? You could put that shrubbery back on your face, and no one would ever know.”

“Why borrow trouble?” Stephen released a mouthful of pale smoke. “Besides, I'm enjoying the night. It's peaceful.”

“Very well.” Candover offered his hand. “Good to see you again. You must visit us sometime in your proper persona. Or will you stay on the boards?”

“No danger of that. I'll be leaving the troupe in another week or so.” Stephen shook the other man's hand. “Please give my regards to your clever duchess.”

He drew another mouthful of smoke from the cigar, exhaling slowly as he watched Candover's tall figure disappear into the shadows. He'd gotten off lightly. There were men who would not be able to resist brandishing such an irresistible bit of gossip, but Candover was not one of them.

A stab of pain sliced through him. He pressed his hand to his stomach, giving a slow sigh of relief when he recognized that this would not degenerate into a full-scale attack. It would merely be a ratlike gnawing in his internal organs.

Wearily he settled onto the grass and leaned back against the wagon wheel. Pain had become a chronic presence, to be ignored unless it became especially bad. Then the opium pills provided some relief, though they dulled his wits more than he liked.

How long had it been since he'd felt really well? Three months or so, he calculated. A dish of bad fish had given him and several other members of the household food poisoning. Dr. Blackmer had been summoned and efficiently dispensed treatment. Everyone had recovered, but from then on, Stephen had suffered increasing gastric pains.

He smiled without humor. Was he dying because of a bad fish? When he saw Blackmer again, he'd mention it. Perhaps that bit of information would contribute to the advance of medical knowledge.

He rubbed his belly. The disease was progressing rapidly; he wouldn't last the six months Blackmer had tentatively predicted. Three would probably be more like it, and one of those was already gone. A good thing he was leaving the troupe in another week.

It would have been pleasant to take Candover up on his invitation, but Stephen would probably never see the duke or his wife again. He might never sit like this on the grass at night, entirely alone except for the stars. The sense of loss was piercing.

Everything he did, everyone he saw, was another good-bye. How could he bear to leave Rosalind? If he could have her with him for the last weeks of his life, he'd die happy—or at least happier. Not so alone.

The vision was so tempting that he seriously considered it for a moment. Though she didn't crave riches, she might appreciate the chance to give her family security. All it would cost would be a few weeks or months of her time.

A few very harrowing months while she watched him rot away. Better to say good-bye now, before it became obvious how much his health was failing.

Aloysius rolled over and laid his head on Stephen's lap. Stephen scratched the dog's ears. He'd miss the beast.

He'd miss everything about the Fitzgerald Theatrical Troupe.

 

When Rosalind realized that Stephen was not at the reception, she asked a servant for a basket and packed some food and drink. Then she made her way through the park to the amphitheater. The cool night was a welcome change after the heated gaiety of the reception. There was an ancient tradition of players and aristocrats mingling that went back to the medieval courts, and that tradition was alive and well at Bourne Castle. Still, it had been a tiring day, and she'd had enough of crowds. It would be much more pleasant to tempt her willpower by being alone with Stephen.

By the time she reached the troupe wagons, her eyes had adjusted to the moonlight, and she easily spotted the shadowed shape of a man sitting against a wagon wheel. “Hello,” she said cheerfully as she folded gracefully onto the grass beside him, Hippolyta's robes rippling in all directions. “I thought you might be hungry. Or thirsty. Care for some champagne?”

After a hesitation he said, “I'd like that.”

There was a dark note in his voice, perhaps a sense of letdown after the exciting performance. Well, champagne should brighten his mood. The bottle was already open, so she pulled the cork and poured them each a glassful. “To a very successful evening.” They clinked their glasses together and drank.

Rosalind felt the strain of the day ebb away. She gazed up at the dark bulk of the castle looming against the night sky. “Bourne Castle is probably drafty, but there's no denying that it's picturesque.”

“Would you like a castle?” he asked seriously. “Or perhaps an abbey?”

She pretended to consider. “An abbey would be very nice, but only if the cloisters were intact so I could walk there on rainy days and think deep thoughts.”

“Duly noted. Shall I give you an abbey with cloisters?”

“Never mind. I shouldn't know what to do with an abbey. I'm really not very good at deep thoughts.” Her humor faded as she remembered the news she'd just heard. “Papa said tonight that he just received a letter from Simon Kent. The fellow is very eager. He'll join us in four days.”

“So soon.” Stephen was silent for a minute. “I'll go the day after he arrives.”

She shivered, only partly because of the cool night. His arm came around her. She relaxed against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder. She fit there very nicely. “You won't have to leave because of Kent,” she said wistfully. “There will still be roles to play. Scenes to set. Wagons to drive.”