the fabric of her skirt. ‘I am certain Nancy has told you Lionel—Lord Tranville—called upon me.’ Her eyes flickered with a momentary pleasure.
‘He informed me of his intention to call.’ Jack tried to keep his voice even.
‘We had a lovely time,’ his mother went on.
‘Indeed.’ Jack fought sarcasm.
His mother took a breath. ‘Well, I suppose I should just say that Lionel told me he offered you a commission.’
‘He did.’
‘He did?’ Nancy sat forward in surprise. ‘You never said. How exciting.’
Jack turned to her. ‘I did not accept it, Nancy.’
His mother broke in. ‘The thing is, Jack, I want you to accept it.’
‘I will not.’ She must be mad.
‘Ja-ack.’ Nancy drew out his name, sounding disappointed.
Jack stared at his mother. ‘A woman, Mother.’
She shot a glance to Nancy and back to Jack with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Very well. He would not delve into why he presumed Tranville wished him to paint a woman, even though his mother was not deluded about it.
His mother answered calmly, ‘He is financing a production of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and wishes the portrait to be used in advertisements. It is precisely what you said you wanted last night.’
‘I did not say I would work for Tranville.’
‘But, Jack—’ Nancy inserted.
‘Do not be foolish, my son,’ his mother went on. ‘He offers you a good price—better, I dare say, than you have earned on your other paintings.’ She named the price Tranville had offered. It was a staggering amount.
Jack gritted his teeth. ‘I do not want his charity.’
Lines formed between her brows. ‘This animosity does you no credit.’
He shrugged.
He’d tried to explain before, telling her of Tranville’s harsh treatment of his men during the war while toadying to his superiors, of how Tranville turned a blind eye to his son avoiding combat, but sent better men to their deaths.
‘You know what sort of man he is.’
‘Say no more.’ She lifted both hands to halt further discussion. ‘I accepted the commission for you.’
He stood. ‘You did not!’
She regarded him with a steely glance. ‘You will paint this portrait for me, Jack, because I wish it. I ask little of you, but I ask this.’
He remained standing, looking down at her. She’d aged since he’d left for war. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and tiny lines had formed at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Still, he thought her as beautiful as when he’d been a boy and she’d been young and carefree. He wished he could paint that memory.
She continued, ‘And I insist you do not cross him. Treat Lord Tranville with civility for my sake, because it is important to me.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘It is important to me that you have this work, the money it will pay, and it is important to me that Lionel succeed in gaining his desires. He wishes to make this play a success and, therefore, I wish it for him.’
Tranville wished to make a conquest of this actress, if he was not bedding her already. Who was it? An actress as sought after by men as Daphne Blane? Jack would not put it past Tranville to try to buy his way into her bed by financing a play. He’d bought his way into his mother’s bed, after all, and now his mother wanted her son to paint this woman? It was absurd.
Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘Did he threaten you? Threaten to withhold your funds or some such thing?’
She looked surprised. ‘Threaten? Of course he did not. Lionel has always paid my quarterly allowance. I ask merely out of my gratitude for all he has done for us.’
Jack averted his gaze and stared into the carpet whose pile had worn thin in places.
‘Say you will do this for me, my son,’ his mother murmured.
He wanted to refuse, but his mother so rarely asked for anything, certainly nothing from him. Jack slowly nodded. ‘For you, Mother, I will do as you ask.’ He raised his chin. ‘But only for you.’
Only for his mother would he would paint her lover’s new conquest.
Chapter Three
Ariana descended the stairs at the boarding house on Henrietta Street where she and other actresses and actors lived. The rooms were comfortably furnished and the company, excellent. The landlady of the establishment was an accommodating woman, a stickler for propriety, if one desired, or equally willing to ignore propriety completely.
Today Ariana chose propriety. Betsy, the maid, had announced that Lord Tranville had called. Had he not been funding Drury Lane’s production of Antony and Cleopatra, selecting her to play Cleopatra, she would have refused to see him. She kept him waiting in the drawing room a full ten minutes to discourage any notion he might have about how far her gratitude might reach.
She had no doubt her mother had told him where she resided. Her mother believed in patronage above all things.
Ariana wrinkled her nose.
What was her mother thinking? The gentleman was old enough to be her father, at least fifty years old, ten years older than her mother, even.
She swept into the drawing room. ‘Lord Tranville. What a surprise.’ She extended her hand, thinking he would shake it.
Instead he grasped it and brought it to his lips, actually placing a wet kiss upon it. ‘My dear Miss Blane.’
She grimaced and pulled her hand away as soon as she could. Gone was any hope his interest was confined to her acting ability. She sighed. It would require skill to remain in his good graces while discouraging his advances. She’d managed it with other gentlemen; she could do it with him.
She made no effort to look at him directly. ‘I am astonished you are here. Have you come on theatre business?’
He smiled wide enough to show all his white teeth. At least he had teeth, one point in his favour. ‘I hoped my desire to gaze upon your loveliness would be reason enough to call upon you.’
With effort she kept her expression bland, staring blankly at him, as if waiting for him to stop spouting nonsense.
He fiddled with his watch fob. ‘My—my visit does involve the theatre. In a manner of speaking.’
‘Oh?’ Only then did she gesture for him to sit. He chose one of the sofas. She lowered herself on to a chair, making a show of brushing off an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve.
Finally she looked at him again. ‘Do tell me why you have called.’
He leaned towards her. ‘I have a notion to advertise your role in Antony and Cleopatra.’
She lifted a brow.
He went on. ‘If you are agreeable, an artist will paint you as Cleopatra. We shall have engravings made that can be printed for advertising. In magazines. On handbills. It will increase your success, I am certain.’
She looked at him with a wary eye. ‘Who will pay for all this?’ Surely not the theatre.
Mr Sheridan had run Drury Lane Theatre into terrible debt. Kean’s performances, so very popular, helped to ease the burden, but that did not mean the theatre would expend money on behalf of a new actress whose popularity had not yet been established. Her performance had been barely mentioned when the critics gave Romeo and Juliet a very unfavourable review, greatly criticising Kean’s performance.
‘I