Carola Dunn (12 page)

 All the same, when the Yule log at last slithered forward he was glad to see that her actor companion had not soiled his hands at a man’s task.

 Prudence looked amused, but she joined in the applause of the watchers and even called out, “Bravo, my lord.”

 He gave her a rueful grin, self-consciously sure she had guessed at his motives. Nonetheless, a few minutes later he found himself quite unable to resist temptation.

 Once set in motion, the log slid along easily behind the horse. One of the grooms vaulted on top of it and balanced with windmilling arms as it bumped over the rough grass. Maids cheered; menservants jeered. Losing his balance he sprang clear. Another took his place.

 Rusholme was the fourth up. It was more difficult than he had thought. The log was slippery as well as in erratic motion. He had to keep shifting his feet to stay on and he knew he soon must jump or ignominiously topple.

 He timed his leap with care. As his boots hit the ground he stumbled forward, reached out for support, and grabbed Prudence’s arm.

 She steadied him, laughing up at him. Then she was in his arms.

 He held her close, distantly aware of the crowd now shouting for someone else. Gazing down at her tender mouth, he struggled against an overwhelming urge to kiss her—but while an embrace might pass as a continued effort to find his feet, a kiss would surely damn her.

 A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “I believe you have recovered your balance, my lord,” she said coolly, pulling away.

 “Yes,” he said with deep regret, which changed to relief as the boys dashed up. If they had caught him kissing her...!

 “You were simply splendid, Uncle Garth!”

 “A regular Trojan!”

 They dashed off again. Prudence hurried after them. In a few strides he overtook her and walked alongside, careful not to touch her.

 “I’m sorry. You’re so damnably tempting.”

 Giving him a speaking look, she increased her pace. They caught up with the slow-moving log. The man riding it now made it look easy. Lithe in his shirtsleeves, he stood there barely swaying, arms outstretched with a dancer’s grace instead of flailing as Rusholme’s had. His audience fell silent, scarce breathing.

 “Your friend, Miss...Savage?”

 “Yes, Ben Dandridge.”

 Rusholme looked up again just in time to see Dandridge perform a sudden handspring, returning to his feet without visible unsteadiness. A collective
“aah”
rose from the crowd, followed by a burst of cheers.

 “Ben used to be a horseback acrobat in Astley’s circus,” Prudence said.

 “A particular friend of yours?”

 She frowned at him. “A colleague and a friend.”

 “What part does he play in
She Stoops to Conquer
?”

 “Tony Lumpkin.”

 An uncouth bumpkin, not a romantic hero—good. Not that he feared competition from a tumbler, however nimble. “And you are Kate Hardcastle, among your other aliases.”

 “Gracious no!” She shook her head, smiling. “Aimée is Kate. I have nowhere near experience enough to tackle that rôle. I hope I shall do justice to Constance Neville, though I daresay I can manage the maid, Pimple, well enough.”

 “Pimple!” he exclaimed, revolted. “I wager you never had a pimple in your life.”

 Laughing, she retorted, “You cannot expect me to admit it if I did. Now here come your nephews, my lord. I must be off.”

 She slipped away into the crowd. As Rusholme responded to the boys’ thrilled comments on the acrobat, he watched for her green cloak.

 He had annoyed her, first with his embrace, and then by questioning her relationship with Dandridge. Though she had recovered her humour before she left, she had left. He could not flatter himself she desired his company.

 Besides, if she was interested in him as a lover, surely she’d not have drawn attention to the repulsive name of the maid in the play. Pimple, indeed!

 He was disappointed he would not see her as Kate Hardcastle. Still, at least he’d not have to watch her flirting on stage with whoever played Young Marlow. Reflecting upon the play, which he had seen more than once, he recalled the scenes between Constance Neville and her betrothed, Hastings, as few and sedate.

 Why he cared he wasn’t sure. He had often watched previous mistresses cavort on stage in breeches parts, or kick up their heels in the chorus line, with never a blink. In fact he had revelled in the envy of his acquaintances. Somehow Prudence was different.

 Different enough to be worth taking the trouble of wooing her to his bed.

 He watched her as she watched Dandridge dismount from the Yule log with a double somersault ending in a flourishing bow. The actor took his coat and hat from the maid who had carried them for him. To the applause of her fellow-servants he bussed her heartily, while Prudence looked on with a smile. Clearly she had no interest in him.

 No one tried to match his feat on the log. As they approached the house, the indoor servants began to hurry ahead to return to their duties.

 Gathering the boys and the nursemaid with the two little ones, Rusholme followed. In front of him, Prudence and Dandridge strolled together, chatting but a good yard apart, friends and colleagues, as she said.

 So what did it matter that—as he suddenly recalled—Constance Neville and Tony Lumpkin spent a good deal of the play pretending to be in love?

* * * *

 Prudence dared not set foot outside the house for fear of meeting Lord Rusholme.

 Not that she disliked his company. The trouble was she enjoyed talking to him; she did not remember ever feeling so comfortable with anyone, male or female—until the gleam of passion entered his eye.

 If only he would stop his pursuit so they could be friends, at least as much friends as was possible between an actress and the heir to a marquisate.

 Inside the house their paths had not crossed so far. She was busy with rehearsals. He was busy dodging the three eligible young ladies invited by the marchioness to entice him into marriage, according to a gossipy footman. The footman said none of the three was worthy of his lordship, surely the only possible reason for Prudence to find herself hoping he’d not be caught.

 She certainly had no intention of being caught. She even missed church on Christmas morning because she learned all the family would attend, though many guests did not bother. Rusholme could hardly get up to much mischief in church under the eye of his parents and sisters, but Prudence thought it best to see as little of him as possible.

 Yet her eyes sought him out immediately that evening when she entered the gold drawing room. Sought him out and found him in the vast room, almost as big as the ballroom, crowded with ladies clad in every hue of the rainbow and gentlemen all in stark black and white.

 Evening dress suited Rusholme. Orange did not suit the lady at his side, but judging by descriptions circulating below stairs she was a duke’s daughter, Lady Estella something. He didn’t appear to be enjoying himself, not until he looked up at the sound of pipe and tabor and saw her.

 He obviously recognized her, though the tall, conical hat and veil hid her hair. The white, vaguely medieval gown she wore was skimpy but decent, at least so she had thought until his eyes widened. She wished she had insisted on another two inches of muslin around the neckline.

 A space had been cleared for the mummers in the centre of the floor. Thither the piper proceeded, followed by a splendid two-man dragon in green with gold spangles. The children, allowed to stay up late and come down for the treat, squealed and clapped. It was not for their benefit that the first of the captive princesses, led in chains by the dragon, swayed her hips and clasped her hands to her ample bosom in an excess of terror.

 The gentlemen certainly appreciated Aimée’s act, thought Prudence, walking behind with more dignified alarm and considerably less exposed bosom.

 Spouting bad verse to explain that the princesses were tomorrow’s lunch, the dragon arranged a row of Windsor chairs and imprisoned his captives behind them. In worse verse they bemoaned their fate. Then he emptied a heap of gaudy baubles from a sack he carried, crouched down and went to sleep beside his treasure.

 Seated on the thick, soft carpet, Prudence peeked between the chairs at the audience. A dazzlingly beautiful young lady with golden curls, elegantly dressed in celestial blue, had joined Lord Rusholme. She must be Lady Anne Winkworth, another of the earl’s prospective brides, Prudence guessed. Why on earth should Rusholme look twice at Prudence when he had a diamond of the first water at hand? She must have imagined his interest. Even if she had the bluest blood in the realm, she could not compete with Lady Anne.

 The rumour that he was leading her a merry chase must be false, Prudence decided. Then Lady Anne threw a spiteful glance at the plain Lady Estella, gestured dismissively at the performers with a supercilious expression, laid a possessive hand on Rusholme’s arm. No doubt he had seen through the lovely face to the less lovely character within.

 Unlike Lady Anne, Lady Estella seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the show, with childlike enthusiasm. “St. George!” she bellowed. “Bring on St. George!”

 Rusholme smiled at her, the same sort of indulgent smile he had bestowed upon his excited nephews.

 St. George duly appeared. Ben Dandridge, in a papier-mâché helmet and tinfoil armour, came in backwards on a hobby-horse berating the two sheepish varlets who skulked after him. Scurvy knaves they were, afraid to face the dragon with him, he announced, waving his sword.

 Before he could turn to face the dragon himself, a stout woman bustled in. The varlets, looking terrified, turned tail and ran.

 “Did you remember to sharpen your sword, George?” she demanded.

 “Yes, Mother.”

 “And polish your armour?”

 “Yes, Mother.”

 “And feed your horse?” Hands on hips, she frowned at the hobby-horse. “He looks a bit thin to me.”

 The audience loved that part. When St. George’s mother made him wait while she went off to fetch his muffler, the gentlemen roared with laughter and even the most refined ladies tittered. Ben Dandridge’s resigned patience made Prudence hide a smile though she had watched him practise the attitude a dozen times.

 Lord Rusholme had deserted his ladies and moved forward to join the children at the front, sitting on the floor. Lady Estella, intent on the show, did not appear to have noticed his defection. Lady Anne glared after him with an angry pout, which quickly changed to a flirtatious smile as his place was taken by a good-looking, fair-haired gentleman. He whispered something in her ear which made her rap his hand with her fan, then spread it before her face as if to conceal a blush.

 Watching, fascinated, Prudence almost missed her cue. As St. George, swathed in a red and white muffler, approached, she and Aimée reached out towards him through the bars of the chairs.

 “Save us, Sir Knight,” they pleaded.

 The dragon did not stir. St. George poked it with his sword.

 “Go away,” it grumbled sleepily. “It’s not time to get up yet.”

 “Rise and fight, O baleful beast,” cried St. George.

 Roused in the end by a threat to steal its treasure, the dragon, roaring horridly, chased the knight around among the audience. Lord Rusholme’s older nephews cheered it on, while two of the smaller children turned to him in fright. Prudence saw him put an arm around each and speak to them comfortingly. Perhaps he really was fond of them, she thought, not just using them as an excuse to avoid his own pursuers.

 At last the dragon was slain, the maidens released from durance vile. St. George’s mother reappeared.

 “Well done, my boy,” she said, picking through the treasure, “but you needn’t think you’re bringing any hussies home with you.”

 “In that case, Mother,” cried the hero, “by George, I shall simply have to marry ‘em both!”

 Amid laughter and applause, the players took their bows, the dragon splitting in the middle for the purpose. Then pipe and tabor struck up again. They gathered in a group facing outward and started to sing “Here we come a-wassailing.” When they reached the verse, “We have got a little purse...,” the two scurvy knaves passed among the guests collecting tips.

 They went on to “Past Three O’Clock,” Bob Dandridge nudging Prudence in the ribs at the words “Seraph choir singeth.” Next the audience was encouraged to join in “The First Nowell,” before the troupe ended with “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”

 “Now bring us some figgy pudding...,” they carolled. “For we all like figgy pudding!”

 Prudence met Lord Rusholme’s eyes. He grinned and winked. Bother the man! What on earth had possessed her to tell him her real name? She might have guessed he’d consider it a hint of a desire for intimacy.

 She was glad to slip out with the others as footmen brought in platters of hot mince pies and steaming wassail bowls of mulled ale and cider. Supper was laid on for the players below-stairs, where they belonged.

Chapter 4

 The panelled gallery rang with raised voices as the first reading of She Stoops to Conquer, on Boxing Day, degenerated into an argument.

 “Well, I shall bloody well go,” said Kate Hardcastle in Aimée’s obstinate tones.

 “But a Servants’ Ball,” Mrs. Hardcastle protested. “We’re not servants.”

 “We haven’t been invited to the nobs’ ball,” pointed out Young Marlow, the juvenile lead.

 “Nor we won’t be,” Hastings seconded him.

 “It’s just a bit of fun and gig,” said Tony Lumpkin, “and one or two of the maids are devilish pretty.” Bob Dandridge had kissed the girl who carried his coat while he showed off atop the Yule log, Prudence recalled. She herself had had to give him a stiff set-down when she first joined the troupe. Fortunately he was not one to hold a grudge.

 “No wenching with the maids,” commanded Mr. Hardcastle, owner, manager, and director of the company. “We don’t want to go looking for trouble. But I don’t see why them that chooses shouldn’t go to the ball. Now let’s get some work done, if you please, ladies and gentlemen.”