Drury Lane Darling (13 page)

“The neck is a little low. Lady Raleigh would have disliked it, but more importantly, Nigel would have approved.”

“If that is a hint of shopping trips to come, you must hold me excused. My aunts would be delighted to oblige you, however.”

“How can you say so without consulting them?”

“The voice of experience. They are always happy to oblige me, never more so than when they come uninvited. You see how malleable I am in ladies’ hands. It takes very little to turn me up sweet.” Breslau was hardly surprised that this leading comment proved unsuccessful in instituting any flirtation. He was coming to know Miss Comstock.

As the carriage turned left into Drury Lane, the setting changed. The street here was a peculiar mixture of the grand and the mean. The courts and blind alleys leading off the main road suggested unabated squalor, yet the street itself was lined with what looked like mansions. The corner buildings in particular were blazing walls of plate glass, bedizened with gilt cornices and bright doorways.

“Gin mills,” he explained. This brought a gleam to her eyes. “All the grandeur is on the outside. Our first stop will be the Drury Lane Restaurant on Russell Street, near the theater. Hardly elegant, but better than these dens. Fleur frequents the place. She likes to queen it over her inferiors.”

“Speak no ill of the dead, Breslau.”

“I hope you like bubble and squeak, and treacle tart for dessert.” This sounded entirely appetizing to Pamela.

The carriage soon stopped and Breslau led Miss Comstock into a cheerful cafe that was abuzz with the animation of actors at leisure. Men with curls hanging over their foreheads and ladies interestingly overdressed were in abundance. No formality whatsoever existed. The inhabitants roamed from table to table for a chat, often carrying a glass or plate with them, eating as they went. Breslau’s entrance caused a buzz of excitement. Pamela, too, came in for her share of jealous attention.

They were led to a choice table by the window. “Is Mrs. Siddons here?” she asked, looking around.

The Tragic Muse was not present, but there was plenty to keep Pamela occupied. Before their dinner arrived, a pretty young woman with straw-blond hair and a worried face approached their table.

“You’re not supposed to be back till tomorrow, Lord Breslau!” the woman charged.

“As you see, I’m here a day early.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to present the woman to Pamela. Having brought a lady to such a disreputable place, he could hardly assume a belated air of propriety. The question of why he had brought Pamela nagged at his mind. Was he trying to shock her? To nudge her out of her assumed indifference? Or was it a test of her eligibility to be his wife? A lady who was horrified at the doings of the theater was not the lady for him.

“This is Rose Flanders, Miss Comstock. I believe you’re familiar with the name. I’m taking Miss Comstock to see your performance this evening, Rose.”

“Oh, you’re the actress who is replacing the marquise during her—her holiday,” Pamela said, smiling to hide her near lapse.

“Are you an actress?” Rose asked jealously.

“Me?” Pamela exclaimed. “Oh, no.”

Rose looked relieved. Breslau cleared his throat and immediately began fishing for information. “Have you seen Fleur around, Rose?”

“Isn’t she with you? I hope she ain’t planning to take over my role tonight. You said I was to have two nights.”

“Fleur isn’t with me. You shall have your two nights, as promised. How did it go last night?”

“It was just grand. You could hear the clapping all the way to Covent Garden. But where’s Fleur? She said she was going to the country with you and that swell that’s writing her life story.”

“I had to return to London early. I thought Fleur might have cut the visit short as well. You haven’t seen her about then?”

“Not a hair or whisker. Oh, I bet she’ll come scrambling back early. Some nosy Parker wrote and warned her what a grand success I was.”

As the woman prattled on, Pamela observed her more closely. Rose didn’t look a day older than herself. Her gown was a lively red-and-green striped, cut very low in front, but with a shawl that received an occasional tug as a token to propriety. Despite her grammatical lapses and country expressions, Rose spoke with an elegant accent and had a fine, carrying voice.

“Rest assured, tonight is yours,” Breslau told her.

This appeared to satisfy Rose, and she joined them for a glass of wine before lunch arrived.

“I’m rather anxious to find Fleur, if she’s in town,” Breslau said. “She isn’t at her apartment.”

“She wouldn’t be, would she?” Rose said matter-of-factly. “With all her blunt, she’d be out shopping.”

“Her servant says she hasn’t been home.”

“Maybe she went straight to her gentleman friend.”

“The general?” Breslau asked.

“That’s nought but cream-pot love. She’d never go visiting him—nor would he let her in the door. No, Fleur has a colt’s tooth in her head. It’s that young Spiedel fellow she goes running to when she has a moment free.”

“Would you happen to know where he lives?”

“I saw them slipping into a flat on the corner of Drury Lane and Macklin Street once. I fancy that’s where he sleeps.”

“Have you seen him around recently?”

“That one is always around. He was loitering backstage last night. He was in the café this morning, but now I think of it, Fleur wouldn’t be with him. They had a falling out the last night she was here. I heard a terrific row in her room.”

Pamela and Breslau exchanged a meaningful look. “What seemed to be the trouble?” he asked.

“Likely she caught him carrying on with one of the young girls.”

While this was interesting, Spiedel had not been at Hatfield, and Breslau soon turned his questions in another direction. “It’s possible Spiedel caught Fleur with another man. She’s been seeing another young fellow, I think.”

“No, has she?” Rose asked eagerly.

“I’ve seen her speaking to a handsome young lad.”

“Henry Halton, you mean?” Rose asked at once.

“A tall, good-looking man. A gentleman, to judge by his appearance. Black hair, slender build.”

“That’s Henry, handsome as can stare, but the fight wasn’t about him. He’s seeing Meg Crispin steady now. I can tell you Fleur ain’t with him, for he’s gone to visit his aunt in the country. She must have sent him a walloping present. Meg says he was hiring a traveling carriage and four horses at Newman’s Stables yesterday afternoon.”

Pamela nearly choked on her wine. Breslau gave her a quelling look.

“God bless you,” Rose said, and gave Pamela a slap on the back. “He’s supposed to be back next week, but he won’t know nothing about Fleur. What makes you think she left the house party early? She’ll stay till the last dog’s hung if I know anything. How the gossoon that’s writing her story ever got hisself talked into taking her home to meet his ma is more than I know.”

“She left early,” Breslau insisted.

“Then the lady of the house hinted her away,” Rose announced with grim satisfaction.

The food arrived and Rose stood to leave. “Well, nice meeting you, your ladyship.” She curtsied to Pamela and left.

“Where did she get the idea I’m a lady? A noble lady, I mean,” Pamela added swiftly when a satirical grin tugged at Breslau’s lips.

“It must be your lack of conversation that convinced her. You will have noticed that actresses chat more freely.”

“Yes, and very much to the point. That argument between Spiedel and Fleur…”

“Interesting, but he’s been in London all along. Our mysterious stranger must be this Henry Halton—a carriage and team of four, a sudden trip to the country.”

“We should have asked where he lives, Wes!”

“I’ll have a word with Meg Crispin later. I don’t want to arouse too much curiosity in Fleur’s activities.”

Breslau looked around the room and spotted Meg Crispin at a table with a group of actors. He excused himself, and was soon back with the information, but not before two young fops had sidled up to Pamela’s table. Breslau’s return sent them packing.

“Halton lives on Wild Street. It’s a slum nearby,” he said. “Were those yahoos bothering you?”

“Not at all, they were very friendly. We might as well go to Wild Street first.”

“That’s not a place I can take you. I don’t relish the visit myself.” He came to a frowning halt. “Why would Halton want to harm Fleur?”

They were interrupted by a young playwright who shoved a bulky manuscript into Breslau’s hands with an assurance that he would never have read anything like it, and his address was enclosed.

When the opportunist left, Breslau looked at the dessert menu. “Treacle tart? The apple tart is also fairly edible.”

“I’ll try the treacle. The bubble and squeak was excellent, by the by.”

He smiled approvingly. “Cheap, too. That is the major criterion of the clients here.”

“That’s a universal criterion.”

While they were waiting for dessert, an actor and two actresses came begging for work. Breslau made an appointment to audition them in a week’s time.

“I shouldn’t think you come here very often, when people pester you so much,” she said.

Breslau’s ears perked up. Now it was coming! A few animadversions on his life-style. “On the contrary, I come frequently. The moth in me was always attracted to the flame of drama. Coming here feeds my vanity, as well as my stomach.”

Her smile was condescending, but it struck her as odd to hear a man speak the unflattering truth about himself so unequivocally. “They seem a very convivial lot,” she admitted.

“They’re a breed apart; they live for the performance.” Breslau’s expression assumed an attractive liveliness. “There’s an enticing sense of urgency in the life of theater people, and along the way they manage to make all life exciting. Real life lacks that—thrill. I was dozing my life away in the House before I joined the Drury Lane Commission. Now the days aren’t long enough to encompass all I must do. Culture is vital to a nation, as vital as politics or wars, or so I have convinced myself. Do you feel no attraction to such a life, even in your more pagan moments?”

“My life has no pagan moments,” she said with a definite air of deprivation. Breslau was right. Her life had soared to previously unimagined heights of excitement since meeting Fleur and him. Chatham would be intolerable after this brush with drama. Pamela didn’t observe the tense air of expectancy in her companion. Secure that it wouldn’t degrade her in his eyes, she told the simple truth. “I adore all this. I wish I could be an actress. Rose Flanders mistook me for one.” A pensive smile played over her features.

Breslau was at pains to hide the gloating smile that wanted to come out. Miss Comstock would do. Now he had only to convince her that he would do for her. “Ladies are allowed to play in amateur productions. I plan to try out a new comedy I’ve written myself. I’ll be putting it on at my country estate in the summer. Would you be interested to try your hand in a part?” he asked casually.

She felt a rush of delight, alloyed only by surprise. “Where is your country estate?”

“In Derbyshire.”

“That’s very far away.”

“My carriage will be going, so you needn’t worry about your horses being put to the exertion—and the tolls,” he added mischievously. A sense of humor was also important in the future Marchioness of Breslau.

She gave him a bantering smile. “That eases my mind considerably, sir. You plutocrats aren’t always awake to the inconvenience of not having your pockets full of silver.”

“Before you point out the ineligibility of the scheme, let me say my aunts would be delighted to play propriety.”

“I’d have to discuss it with my parents,” she said. Her quivering lips and shining eyes spoke clearly of her desire to participate.

“If all else fails,” Breslau suggested, “I could invite Nigel along.” Her smile faded. He reached for her fingers in an avuncular fashion. “Isn’t there always a fly in the ointment?”

“More like a serpent in the Garden of Eden. It sounds heavenly, Breslau.”

The treacle tarts arrived and were soon dispatched. Breslau led Pamela to the door amidst a shower of farewells.

“First stop, the corner of Drury Lane and Macklin Street,” he called to his driver, and they were off.

The residence was a rambling rooming house, no longer elegant, but not quite sunk below respectability. They read the apartment numbers and climbed up two stories. Breslau tapped on the door and a manservant answered.

“I’d like to see Mr. Spiedel,” Breslau said.

“The master’s out, sir. Could I tell him who was calling?”

If Spiedel was involved, Breslau didn’t want to leave his name. “It’s not important. When do you expect him?”

“He comes and goes as he likes.”

“Does he dine at home in the evening?”

The man gave him a surly look. “Who’s to cook for him? I have enough to do with keeping his boots polished and his clothes in order and the dust and dirt out of the rooms, without turning cook. Mind you I can fry a sausage or a bit of gammon and eggs in a pinch.”

“He won’t be dining at home, I take it?”

“No, sir, he’ll not. Leave a note, if you like.”

“I’ll come back later. Has Mr. Halton been to call?”

“Who?”

Breslau repeated the name. The servant didn’t appear to recognize it, so the guests left, not much wiser than when they arrived. “If Spiedel’s in town, he’ll turn up at the theater tonight,” Pamela said. “In any case, he looks innocent. He doesn’t even know Halton. Yet it was Spiedel who argued with Fleur, and Halton who hired the carriage.”

“They must have met, at least, as they both hang about the theater. They could be working together.”

The marquise’s apartment was the next stop. It was situated on the second floor in a respectable brick building on the corner of Upper Grosvenor Square.

“My groom says her maid was at home when he called,” Breslau mentioned as they mounted the stairs. “If you could find an excuse into her bedroom, I’ll divert Maria while you look for clues. See if she keeps a diary, or has any letters lying around. That sort of thing.”

“How can I possibly ask to enter her bedroom?”