No. She refused to think about it.
She put her hand to her chest and tried to breathe. This choking grasping of air must be what Columbine experienced when she had one of her terrifying attacks. Perhaps it would be good to be with company tonight and she could go part of the way home with Mabel after the supper party.
It might be safer to walk a different way.
There was no reason to hurry home. It was best to let her sister sleep peacefully, even if she could not do the same any more, and she was hungry, too. She might be the leading lady of the Prince’s Theatre and earn wages that were higher than those she had got for playing bit parts, only speaking a line or two, but the pounds weren’t stretching nearly far enough. The cost of warm lodgings, food, the doctor’s bills...all now had to be covered by her income alone. She often pretended to have eaten supper before going home, in order to save the price of a meal. No wonder that beneath the rouge her cheeks were hollowed and fitting her slim body into a boyish costume was easier than ever.
Another long walk alone followed by a restless night full of worry suddenly seemed more than she could bear. Doing Mabel a good turn might take her mind off her cares.
Calista laid down her hairbrush. ‘All right.’
Her friend, who had slumped miserably on the chaise longue, stopped twirling a long golden ringlet in her hand and sat up eagerly. ‘What?’
‘I’ll come and have supper with the Duke of Albury, but I can’t promise to entertain him.’
‘You’ll come?’ A waft of rose enveloped Calista as Mabel leapt up and hugged her. ‘Oh, I’m so grateful, Cally, and my Herbie will be, too. You won’t regret it!’
Calista sighed as she put the lid back on the unused cold cream. Already she suspected she would.
* * *
Darius Carlyle, the Duke of Albury, stretched out his long legs and waited for the actresses to enter the private dining room of the Coach and Horses Inn. The small wood-panelled room, where the oak was scratched and rubbed worn in some places, was safely upstairs, away from the crowd at the tables and bar, yet noise drifted up through an open, lead-paned window from the street below. The fog had crept in earlier in the evening, but it barely muffled the sounds of raucous voices and laughter that rang out all night in this part of London.
Inwardly he groaned. He could be in his comfortable club right now, or at home in his bed in his Mayfair town house, the thick curtains drawn. Why had he allowed himself to get caught up in his younger cousin’s affairs yet again? It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to rescue Herbert from some kind of scrape. Darius had been rescuing him ever since their childhood, when they had attended the same boarding school, and it seemed he was still forced to do so. Herbert was a fool, but he was a Carlyle. As head of the Carlyle family it was up to Darius to sort things out, as usual. No Carlyle would get into this particular mess ever again.
Actresses. His cousin could always pick them. They were like showy birds, fine feathered, their cheap clothes brightly coloured, with too much paint on their faces.
And they always had claws.
Now one of them had got her talons into Herbert and it didn’t sound as if she was going to let go.
She would be made to let go, if he had anything to do with it.
He picked up his whisky glass and tossed back the remnants. He’d use the supper party as an opportunity to assess how far the situation had gone. It would be better to be cruel than to be kind and nip the affair in the bud. He was fonder of his cousin than he cared to admit, always had been. But it was his duty to ensure the Carlyle name wasn’t dragged once more through the mud of scandal. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it had to be done, and Darius never shirked his duty.
Herbert fancied himself in love, but he hadn’t yet made the mistake of proposing to the girl—not that it would make any difference if he had. Proposing marriage to an actress could always be hushed up as long as there was enough money thrown about to muffle the gossip. Actresses could always be bought off. He knew that much.
Darius drummed his fingers on the table. The only question was how much money it would take. Tonight he would find out how greedy and ambitious the actress who’d hooked Herbert was.
Tonight he would put an end to Herbert’s infatuation.
The Carlyle curse must be broken.
The door of the private dining room opened. In came the actresses, two of them, followed by Herbert.
Darius’s lip curled.
The woman with whom Herbert was currently besotted entered the wood-panelled room first. He’d caught a glimpse of her with his cousin before. She wore a purple feather in her improbably golden hair and a low-cut dress that displayed her ample bosom to full effect.
Beaming with pride, Herbert stepped forward. Beneath his sandy hair he’d never lost the plump round face of his childhood. He looked like an excited schoolboy holding an iced bun. ‘Darius, may I introduce Miss Mabel Coop.’
‘Your Grace,’ she said in an accent that made him wince. She swept low into a curtsy, displaying even more of her deep cleavage.
Herbert’s eyes popped.
‘Charmed.’ For a moment Darius wondered if his cousin had gone mad. Could any man willingly contemplate a lifetime of listening to that voice?
He turned to the other, taller woman who had entered the room.
Darius frowned. The young woman’s face was simply covered in paint. Her cheeks were a bright red and she wore thick powder over what appeared to be a fresh complexion. Why did actresses get themselves up in such a fashion? He loathed such artifice.
However, her garments were less showy than her friend’s. She wore a grey woollen cape and beneath it a dress of dark blue that only revealed the upper part of her décolletage. She was thin, too thin for his taste, although her collarbones, he noted, were particularly delicate.
His eyes returned to her face. To his surprise she met his gaze with deep-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her expression held a hint of humour, as though she was aware of his rapid assessment.
Unexpectedly he experienced a flare of physical attraction. He suppressed it instantly.
‘I’m Miss Fairmont,’ she said after a moment, when it appeared Herbert was unable to wrest his attention from the charms of Miss Coop for long enough to perform introductions. Her voice was low and husky, with no discernible accent.
‘Eh, what?’ Herbert stammered. ‘So sorry, allow me to introduce you properly, Miss Fairmont, to my cousin, the Duke of Albury.’
Darius inclined his head. ‘Delighted.’
In reply she made a sketch of a curtsy.
He frowned again. The young woman appeared to be well schooled in manners. Her curtsy held unexpected dignity. There was no flash of cleavage from her, but a dip with a straight back that would present well even at court. Yet the gesture held a challenge. It was not insolent, but showed a certain self-possession that spoke of independence.
He watched as she removed her cloak and laid it on a chest by the door. Yes, much too thin, he thought, as she moved towards the table in the middle of the room, but her walk was elegant, almost mesmerising. She was nowhere near as obviously pretty as Miss Coop, yet it was she who held his attention.
‘Do sit,’ Herbert urged. ‘Supper will be brought momentarily.’
Like a butler, he pulled out a chair for Miss Coop, who rewarded him with another flash of cleavage.
Darius returned to his place at the head of the table, already set with a white cloth, plates and cutlery. Miss Fairmont sat at his right, Miss Coop at his left. From the left he smelled a floral fragrance, so strong it could spoil the bouquet of a good wine. From the right, to his relief, it was clear that Miss Fairmont seemed not to have doused herself