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.’
‘Oh?’ Her mother placed fists on her hips. ‘Eighteen years old and you are such an expert on men?’
Ariana inhaled a weary breath. ‘I am twenty-two, older than you were when you gave birth to me.’
Her mother’s eyes scalded. ‘Well, one can be very foolish at twenty-two. If I’d had more sense I never would have given birth to you.’
Ariana flinched.
She covered the sting of her mother’s words with a tight smile. ‘I learn by your mistakes.’
Her mother glanced away, gazing at a tree that seemed to cross in front of the door. Scenery for Act II. ‘Well, Tranville attends the performance tonight. Be nice to him in the Green Room.’
Ariana turned back to the mirror and dipped a huge feather puff into the face powder. ‘I am always nice to gentlemen.’ She merely did not bed them.
Mr Arnold appeared at the dressing room door. ‘Ah, there you are, Daphne, my dear. You look lovely as usual.’
Ariana’s mother beamed. ‘Such flattery. I am dressed as a matron.’
‘Nothing could diminish your beauty.’ He squeezed her hand and glanced to Ariana. ‘Your daughter has inherited every bit of your loveliness. She makes a fine Juliet. Beauty and an acting skill that rivals your own. You must be proud.’
Ariana’s mother still smiled, but Ariana caught the hard glint in her eye. ‘Yes, I must be proud, mustn’t I?’
Early the following morning, Jack woke to a messenger bringing him Tranville’s first, quite generous, payment of the commission. At least Tranville’s money enabled Jack to replenish his supplies. He walked the mile to Ludgate Hill where Thomas Clay’s establishment offered the finest pigments and purchased enough for several paintings. He returned in time to set up the studio for Ariana’s arrival.
As he waited for her, he looked over the several images of Ariana he’d sketched from memory, including the ones he’d drawn after that first fleeting contact with her. The night before he’d filled page after page with her profile, her eyes, her smile; when the light had faded to dusk, he read Antony and Cleopatra by lamplight.
She knocked upon his door promptly at two. Jack rose from his drawing table, hastily stacking the sketches. When he opened the door, her face was flushed pink from the winter air.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Vernon.’ She smiled and her eyes shone with pleasure.
Their impact forced him to avert his gaze. ‘Miss Blane, I trust you are well.’
‘I am always well,’ she responded cheerfully.
He had the presence of mind to assist her in removing her cloak, too aware of the elegant curve of her neck and, beneath her bonnet, the peek of auburn hair at its nape.
‘Were you able to read the play?’ she asked, pulling off her gloves and untying the ribbons of her bonnet.
He hung her cloak on a peg. ‘I read it all last night.’
She
