With the war over, he supposed there might be some interest in military art. If someone wished him to paint a scene from a battle, he would do it, even if he must hide how it really was.
Jack glanced back at his painting and again at the allegory. Some emotion, indeed, had crept into his painting, emotion absent from the other.
He turned his gaze upon the woman. ‘I do see your point.’
She grinned in triumph. ‘Excellent.’
‘I cede to your expertise on the subject of art.’ He bowed.
‘Expertise? Nonsense. I know even less of art than of soldiering.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘But that does not prevent me from expressing my opinion, does it?’
Jack was suddenly eager to identify himself to her, to let her know he was the artist she so admired. ‘Allow me to make myself known to you—’
‘Ariana!’ At that moment an older woman, also quite beautiful, rushed up to her. ‘I have been searching the rooms for you. There is someone you must meet.’
The young woman gave Jack an apologetic look as her companion pulled on her arm. ‘We must hurry.’
Jack bowed and the young woman made a hurried curtsy before being pulled away.
Ariana. Jack repeated the name in his mind, a name as lovely and unusual as its bearer.
Ariana.
Ariana Blane glanced back at the tall gentleman with whom she had so boldly spoken. She left him with regret, certain she would prefer his company to whomever her mother was so determined she should meet.
She doubted she would ever forget him, so tall, well formed and muscular. He wore his clothes so very well one could forget his coat and trousers were not the most fashionable. His face was strong, chiselled, solid, the face of a man one could depend upon to do what needed to be done. His dark hair was slightly tousled and in need of a trim, and the shadow of a beard was already evident in mid-afternoon. It gave him a rakish air that was quite irresistible.
But it was that fleeting moment of emotion she’d seen in him that had made her so brazenly decide to speak to him. She doubted anyone else would have noticed, but something had shaken him and he’d fought to overcome it. All in an instant.
When she approached him his eyes held her captive. As light a brown as matured brandy, they were unlike any she had seen before. They gave the impression that he had seen more of the world than he found bearable.
And that he could see more of her than she might wish to show.
She sighed. Such an intriguing man.
He had almost introduced himself when her mother interrupted. Ariana wished she’d discovered who he was. She was not in the habit of showing an interest in a man, but he had piqued her curiosity. Now she might never see him again.
Unless she managed to appear on stage, as she was determined to do. Perhaps he would see her perform and seek her out in the Green Room afterwards.
Her mother brought her over to a dignified-looking gentleman of compact build and suppressed energy. Her brows rose. He did not appear to be one of the ageing men of wealth to whom her mother persisted in introducing her. You would think her mother wished her to place herself under a gentleman’s protection rather than seek a career on the London stage.
Of course, her mother had been successful doing both and very likely had the same future in mind for her daughter.
‘Allow me to make you known to my daughter, Mr Arnold.’ Her mother gave her a tight smile full of warning that this introduction was important. ‘My daughter, Miss Ariana Blane.’
She needn’t have worried. Ariana recognised the name. She bestowed on Mr Arnold her most glittery smile and made a graceful curtsy. ‘Sir.’
‘Why, she is lovely, Daphne.’ Mr Arnold beamed. ‘Very lovely indeed.’
Her mother pursed her lips, not quite as pleased with Mr Arnold’s enthusiastic assessment as Ariana was. ‘Mr Arnold manages the Drury Lane Theatre, dear.’
‘An explanation is unnecessary, Mama.’ Ariana took a step forwards. ‘Everyone in the theatre knows who Mr Arnold is. I am greatly honoured to meet you, sir.’ She extended her hand to him.
He clasped her fingers. ‘And I, you, Miss Blane.’
Ariana inclined her head towards him. ‘I believe you have breathed new life into the theatre with your remarkable Edmund Kean.’
Edmund Kean’s performance of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice had been a sensation, critically acclaimed far and wide.
The man smiled. ‘Did you see Kean’s performance?’
‘I did and was most impressed,’ Ariana responded.
‘You saw the performance?’ Her mother looked astonished. ‘I did not know you had been in London.’
Ariana turned to her. ‘A few of us came just to see Kean. There was no time to contact you. We returned almost immediately lest we miss our own performance.’
Arnold continued without heeding the interruption. ‘Your mother has informed me that you are an actress.’
Ariana smiled. ‘Of course I am! What else should the daughter of the famous Daphne Blane be but an actress? It is in my blood, sir. It is my passion.’
He nodded with approval. ‘You have been with a company?’
‘The Fisher Company.’
‘A very minor company,’ her mother said.
‘I am acquainted with Mr Fisher.’ Mr Arnold appeared impressed.
Four years ago, when Ariana had just turned eighteen, she’d accepted a position teaching poetry at the boarding school in Bury St Edmunds she’d attended since age nine. She’d thought she had no other means of making a life for herself. At the time her mother had a new gentleman under her roof, and would not have welcomed Ariana’s return. Fate intervened when the Fisher Company came to the town to perform Blood Will Have Blood at the Theatre Royal, and Ariana attended the performance.
The play could not have been more exciting, complete with storm, shipwreck, horses and battle. The next day Ariana packed up her belongings, left the school, and sought out Mr Fisher, begging for a chance to join the company. She knew he hired her only because she was the famous Daphne Blane’s daughter, but she did not care. Ariana had found the life she wanted to live.
‘What have you performed?’ Mr Arnold asked her.
‘My heavens, too many to count. I was with the company for four years.’
With the Fisher Company she’d performed in a series of hired barns and small theatres in places like Wells-next-the-Sea and Lowestoft, but she had won better parts as her experience grew.
She considered her answer. ‘Love’s Frailties, She Stoops to Conquer, The Rivals.’ She made certain to mention The Rivals,
