look up into his face. ‘Mr Hurst, have you considered that she may be in love with him?’
‘No.’ There was a flicker of surprise at the question, that was all. ‘There is no such thing as love, Maude. There is lust, there is sentimentality, there is neediness, there are the transactions people make for all kinds of reasons. But there is not love. It does not exist, it is merely a romantic fantasy.’
‘Of course love exists.’ She stared back, aghast. ‘Even if you do not believe in love between adult men and women, surely you acknowledge family love? Parents love their children, children love their parents—I know, I love my father and he loves me.’
‘Society and convention makes family units,’ he observed. ‘Nature influences mothers to tend to helpless infants. And some of them,’ he added with chilling flippancy, ‘even heed that influence. Familiarity, dependence, desire—you can call it love if you want to.’
‘Oh.’ Poor little boy. He had betrayed so much hurt in those cynical words. She stood there feeling the tears start at the back of her eyes. But this was not a damaged, abandoned child in front of her. Not any more. This was a grown man with scars to cover those wounds. Scars that so obviously hurt. ‘You poor man,’ she murmured. Then she turned and walked out, knowing that if she stayed she would take his face between her palms and try to kiss away all the years of neglect and loneliness those words betrayed. Would this man ever allow her to try to do that?
Eden stood looking at the door Maude had closed so gently behind her. She pitied him because he denied the existence of love? What sort of foolish feminine fancy was that? He had so much—his independence, work he lived for, wealth, achievement and the sense not to give up his heart and his soul to be toyed with and then discarded by some damn woman. He had made all this out of the stony soil of a mother who had left him for years until it suited her to find him again, an uncaring father who refused to acknowledge his son and fourteen years of neglect in the servants’ quarters of an Italian palazzo.
It was not even as though Prince Tancredi had maltreated him physically. He could have endured that, for at least that would have been a recognition of sorts. No, the magnificent father who dazzled him with the longing for a look, a word, had simply refused to acknowledge that he was anything but a liability, like a feeble old servant that duty did not allow you to cast out. If a man who had everything—wealth, title, position, looks—could not spare a kind word for his own son, then that son had to learn a hard lesson and open his eyes to the realities of the sentimental nonsense people spoke about love.
And Lady Maude Templeton had the effrontery to pity him? Not apparently for being outside the ton or for having no family he could acknowledge, but because he did not believe in the mind-sapping dependency of a foolish emotion. Dio! What had he tied himself to? This was as bad as fighting off Corwin’s daughters. Worse.
The tap on the door sent him back to his chair behind the desk. ‘Come! Ah, Mr Merrick.’
‘Sir.’ The young actor had tidied his clothing and brushed his hair and now stood bashfully, giving a very acceptable performance of troubled penitence. Yes, he was a good actor, even if Eden would never gratify him by saying so. All the more reason to keep him. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.’
‘No, it will not because Miss Golding will be leaving us. Is Miss Poole aware of what has been going on?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are lodging with her still?’
‘Sir.’
‘Then you had better think up an explanation for why you are not getting paid this week, Merrick.’ The young man looked up sharply, the boyish charm slipping. ‘I will add your wages to what I owe Miss Golding.’ That, at least, ought to please his sentimental new partner. If she ever came back.
‘Be very clear about this, Merrick. I am keeping you only because of Miss Poole. She’s a better actor than you’ll ever be and I doubt she’d have the lack of judgement to expose her spotty buttocks to my guests either.’ That produced a furious blush, but Merrick held his tongue.
‘Nothing to say? I need hardly add that if I find you involved with any other female in this company I will ensure that Miss Poole is fully aware of it. I’ll even hand her the blunt carving knife. Now get out of my sight.’
Methodically Eden opened his notebook, crossed out the line about the three actors and added a note about Merrick and Golding’s wages and the need to cast another ingénue, then went to open the door. ‘Millie!’
‘Yes, Guv’nor?’ She appeared round the corner, her face screwed up in her usual earnest scowl. ‘Post, Guv’nor.’ She thrust several envelopes into his hand.
‘Thank you. Go and make sure Mrs Furlow’s dressing room is in good order.’ The maid scurried off and Eden leaned back against the doorjamb, his eyes unseeing on the deserted passageway, wondering if he was coming down with something. He felt decidedly odd. After a minute he scrubbed his hair back with both hands, rubbing his eyes until he saw stars.
There was no time to be ill and no excuse for indulging himself by looking for symptoms either. Eden went back into his office and glanced at the clock. An hour to the afternoon rehearsal. Time to read his post, send Millie out for some food and decide what to do about finding a replacement for Harriet Golding.
There was, almost inevitably, an invitation from the Corwin household. This time it was for a soirée, two evenings hence. Having survived one of Mrs Corwin’s soirées before, he was not over-eager to repeat the experience. Did he still need Corwin’s money? He was reluctant, but the man had not asked for any involvement with the theatre, not like Lady Maude, and money, wherever it came from, was money.
The other invitation emerging from the pile was unexpected. Lady Standon requested the pleasure of his company, again for a soirée, again in two evenings’ time.
It had not been uncommon for him to receive invitations from members of society since his arrival in London, especially those of the faster set. His wealth, and the rapidly growing popularity of his theatre, accounted for it, he supposed, in the same way as prominent bankers or merchants would receive invitations if their manners were sufficiently refined. Such outsiders showed a hostess was daring and completely secure in her own position.
Occasionally he accepted when one of his particular friends pressed the point or when an evening’s entertainment included a celebrity singer or writer he was interested in. But he was wary, for he realised that, for some of the female guests—and on one occasion, not just the females—his person was the attraction. As a decorative exotic it seemed he was a desirable accessory on a lady’s arm and in her bed. He was not averse to a brief dalliance with charming ladies whose husbands were either tolerant or neglectful, but he liked to make his own choices. He was aware it had given him a certain reputation.
But Lady Standon did not appear to be the kind of lady who thought that slumming it with men from beyond her social circle would be amusing; in fact, he rather suspected she was unfashionably attached to her husband, a man who looked as though he would kill anyone who so much as laid a finger on his wife. Maude would doubtless say they were in love. So there was a strong possibility that, after meeting him in Maude’s box, she had simply included him on her guest list with no ulterior motives.
Eden pulled the notepaper towards him and began to write, one letter an acceptance, the other a regretful refusal due to a prior engagement. As he sealed them he smiled, amused at his own choices.
Millie poked
