pull off such masterful performances, experience had shown him that most tended to fall back on the melodramatic posturings that left him entirely unmoved and prompted audiences to hurl both insults and orange peelings at the stage.
‘By the by, did I mention that Signy has a friend?’ Collins asked. ‘Another actress in the company. You might do well to look her up, given that you’re in the market for that sort of thing.’
‘Thank you, Bertie, but I have absolutely no intention of looking for a new mistress,’ Alistair replied, gazing at the magnificent frescoes overhead. ‘The one with whom I just parted gave a new meaning to the word vindictive.’
Collins had the cheek to laugh. ‘Yes, I did hear something about the glorious Celeste managing to knock over two rather expensive vases on her way out of your house.’
‘Expensive? She wilfully destroyed a priceless Tang horse and a Sèvres vase that have been in my family for generations,’ Alistair murmured. ‘Grandmother Wilson still hasn’t forgiven me for that lapse in judgement.’
Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Celeste Fontaine’s wanton destruction of family heirlooms that had prompted Alistair to end his relationship with her. It was the fact she had lied to him. She had told him to his face that he was the only man with whom she was keeping company, when in fact she had been spending as much time in Lord Lansing’s bed as she had in his.
When Alistair had brought this trifling detail to her attention, Celeste had treated him to a performance that would have done the great Sarah Siddons proud. She had stormed out of the house, somehow managing to consign the two pieces of porcelain to their doom on the way, and the next day, had sent him a scathing letter in which she had told him exactly what she thought of his behaviour, adding that while he was an adequate lover, she believed his skills in bed to be highly overrated.
It was the contents of the letter that had hammered the last nail into her coffin. While not an arrogant man, Alistair took pride in his ability to please the opposite sex. As a callow youth, he had discovered that the sexual experience was heightened if both parties were able to enjoy it, and he had striven to learn the secrets of giving pleasure as well as taking it. So to have his skills in bed mocked by a woman who had never once left him in any doubt as to how much she enjoyed them seemed to him the height of hypocrisy.
Still, he’d managed to have the last word. Only last week, the celebrated courtesan had appeared at his door, saying with every appearance of contrition that she was genuinely sorry for the way she had behaved and that it was only in a moment of weakness she had succumbed to Lord Lansing’s advances. At that point, she had batted her eyelashes and, with tears falling from her famous pansy-blue eyes, had begged him to take her back.
Alistair had not been moved. Giving her a handkerchief to dry her eyes, he had advised her to take herself back to Lord Lansing or whichever gentleman was keeping her and not to trouble him again. The one thing he would not tolerate from those closest to him was deceit. A woman who lied to him once would have no compunction about lying to him again and he had no reason to believe Celeste would not end up back in the arms of the man with whom she had already betrayed him.
Women like that always landed on their feet. Or on their backs, as the case might be.
It was then, as Alistair turned to ask Collins about the evening’s performance, that his attention was caught by a movement in one of the boxes opposite. A young woman had stepped through the curtain and into view, emerging like a radiant butterfly into the sunlight. She was garbed in cream-coloured silk that shimmered with every movement and long, smooth-fitting gloves that covered slender arms from fingers to elbow. Her hair, a soft mist of golden curls, was arranged attractively around her head and, in the flickering light, Alistair saw flashes of crimson at her throat. She paused for a moment to watch the antics of the dandies and young bloods in the pit below, then turned to bestow a smile on the older woman and younger gentleman already seated in the box.
It was the smile that stopped him. As innocent as a child’s, it tugged at something deep within Alistair’s subconscious, reminding him of a time when life was simpler and pleasures more easily found. She looked as though there was nowhere she would rather be and nothing she would rather be doing than sitting in her box watching the performance taking place below.
Was that what drew him to her so strongly? he wondered. The pleasure she took in an activity he and the rest of society took so entirely for granted? Or was it the fact that she was, even to his experienced eye, an incredibly beautiful woman? Draped in silk and chiffon, she had the face of an angel, but a lush, sensual figure that made him think of hot nights between soft sheets and the sweet rush of intimacy as scented limbs wrapped around him and drew him close.
Unfortunately, given that the first thing the lady did was reach for the hand of the gentleman who rose to greet her, Alistair doubted it would be his body she ever wrapped them around. The two soon had their heads close together in conversation, and while it was clear the gentleman was no match for her in appearance or style, there was no denying the strength of the connection between them.
Lucky devil, whoever he was.
Then a ripple of anticipation as a tall and distinguished-looking gentleman walked out on to centre stage. He was dressed all in black, his long cape over breeches and boots giving him a decidedly swashbuckling appearance. Not a young man—his dark hair and beard were liberally threaded with silver and his lined face reflected the experiences of a lifetime. But he had a presence that could not be denied and when he held up one gloved hand, silence descended.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Gryphon. My name is Theodore Templeton and tonight we present for your enjoyment two productions making their début on the London stage. Mi Scuzi, an operetta in Italian by Giuseppe Fratolini, and A Lady’s Choice, a new work by the renowned playwright Valentine Lawe. The inimitable Signy Chermonde will play the role of Elizabeth Turcott opposite Mr Victor Trumphani in the part of Elliot Black. And now I invite you to sit back and prepare to be entertained.’
A polite round of applause greeted his words, as well as the expected whistles and jeers from the dandies in the pit. No sooner had he left the stage than the orchestra began to play and the curtain swept majestically upwards to reveal a setting reminiscent of a Mayfair drawing room, with a single actress, an elderly woman, seated in a wingback chair.
Alistair, who knew all too well that the build up to such productions was often the highlight of the performance, settled back and prepared to be bored.
He was not bored. He was mesmerized, the opening scenes of the play capturing his attention in a way no other stage performance ever had. The plot was intriguing, the dialogue witty and the cast gave such outstanding performances that, as the evening wore on, Alistair found himself growing more and more surprised.
This was not the type of performance he had come expecting to see. Knowing the play to be new and the company young, he had expected the production to reflect those shortcomings. But try as he might, he could find nothing to fault in either the play or in the actors’ portrayals of their characters. Even the rowdies in the pit were silenced.
If this was an example of Valentine Lawe’s talent, Alistair could well understand why the man was so popular. He was actually disappointed when the actors left the stage at the end of the first act.
‘Well, what did you think?’ Collins asked over the sound of enthusiastic applause.
‘That it was far, far better than I expected,’ Alistair said generously.
‘Not the play! Signy! Is she not the most glorious creature you’ve ever seen?’
