Midnight at Mallyncourt (2 page)

Leaving the promenade, I strolled up one of the side streets and soon found myself across the street from the Royal Pavilion. Standing beneath a leafy shade tree, I stared at it. With its turrets and domes and oriental windows, its ornate pillars and colorful gardens, it was like something out of an Arabian Nights adventure, a pleasure palace unlike any other in all of England. The interior, I had heard, was even more bizarre and exotic, all done in Chinese style with fabulous colored glass chandeliers and handpainted wallpaper. Queen Victoria's room, however, was more modest, as prim and decorous as the lady herself, done in shades of lavender, blue and white with none of the oriental gimcrackery she considered so vulgar. Many a scandal had exploded within those walls while Prinny and his fellow rakes drank and gambled and dallied till dawn. Perhaps because I was so worried about the present, I wondered what it would have been like to have lived in those not-so-distant days.

“Miss Randall?”

I turned, startled. The man I had noticed earlier on the promenade was standing beside me, the elegant beaver top hat in his hand. So he had followed me after all. I should have known it.

“Go away,” I said. My voice was sharp.

“I want to talk to you,” he replied, totally unruffled.

“Nothing you could say would possibly interest me.”

“You're wrong,” he drawled.

“Shall I summon a Bobby?”

He shook his head slowly, watching me with those vivid blue eyes. He was tall, over six feet, with a superb, muscular build. His brown leather knee boots were polished to a high sheen. His tightly fitting tan trousers and matching frock coat were obviously the work of a master tailor, and the white and brown striped satin waistcoat was the latest word in fashion, as was the black silk ascot. He was a gentleman, I could tell that from his beautifully modulated voice and superior manner, but to my eyes he was no better than the robust young students and flashy businessmen who thought any woman on the stage was easy prey. I stared at him haughtily, ready to demolish him with my tongue. He smiled, as though anticipating it. A lock of dark blond hair had tumbled over his forehead.

“I suppose you've admired me from afar,” I said peevishly.

He shook his head again. “I saw you last night for the first time. A most inferior performance, I thought. The second act—you threw away your best lines. You let Prince upstage you in every scene. Any actress worth her salt would have put him in his place.”

“You're a critic, I take it?”

“I rarely go to the theater,” he replied. “My name is Edward Baker, Miss Randall. I have an interesting proposition to make—”

“I've had a number of propositions, Mr. Baker, and none of them have been interesting. You're wasting your time.”

“I think not,” he said.

He continued to stare at me, completely at ease even though he could see me bristle. He was in his early thirties, I judged, and he was incredibly handsome. The wide, curling mouth was both sensual and cruel, and the dark brows were decidedly unusual, one almost straight, the other arching, giving him a roguish, inquisitive look. There was an arrogance about him, a certain aloof quality that made a striking contrast to the potent virility. Irresistible to women, I thought, and vastly experienced. Obviously wealthy, too. Any of the girls would have been immediately enthralled, delighted to have been accosted by him like this, yet I felt nothing but irritation. Still, there was something different about him. I couldn't decide what it was, but I sensed it immediately. He was interested in me, and the interest wasn't entirely physical.

“Did you get the roses?” he asked idly.

“So you're the one who sent them,” I said.

“A token of my esteem.”

“Even though I gave a wretched performance?”

“Even though you gave a wretched performance,” he agreed.

“You're terribly insolent, Mr. Baker.”

“It's one of my more attractive qualities.”

“I suppose you expect me to thank you for the roses.”

“Not especially.”

“One of the girls, Sally, also received a bouquet of roses last night. There was a diamond bracelet attached to hers.”

“You feel you should have received a bracelet, too?”

“Not at all,” I said icily, “I merely wanted to point out that sending me a dozen long-stemmed red roses gives you no right whatsoever to approach me in this—in this insufferable manner.”

“Most women enjoy being approached by me,” he said lazily.

“I don't doubt that. I'm not ‘most women,' though. I'm an actress, Mr. Baker. I'm not a prostitute. I perform on the stage—exclusively.”

The wide mouth lifted at one corner in a sardonic grin, and the vivid blue eyes were amused. There was a cold, steely quality about the man that was strangely attractive. His serene composure, his quiet, silken voice merely emphasized it. Edward Baker, elegantly, almost foppishly dressed, calm, confident, seemed, because of this, far more masculine than the more aggressive, robust types who swaggered and flaunted their virility. I was attracted to him, in spite of myself, and he was perfectly aware of it. That irritated me all the more.

“I had a reason for approaching you, Miss Randall.”

“I'm certain of
that
,” I snapped.

“You're intrigued. Admit it.”

“Mr. Baker, I—”

He scowled, his features suddenly hard, the blue eyes cold.

“Enough!” he said sharply. “I intend to talk to you. I'm wearied by all this banter.”

“If you think—”

“I think you'll listen to me!”

“You're mistaken about that!” I retorted.

I started to move away. He seized my wrist. His fingers wrapped around it like tight steel bands, and when I tried to pull away they tightened even more. I winced. He was hurting me. He knew it. He was a man used to having his own way, a man who would brook no opposition. There was cruelty in that handsome face, and I sensed that Edward Baker was totally without scruples. Sapphire blue eyes icy cold, features impassive, he gave my wrist a savage twist. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

“There's no reason for you to be so skittish,” he said, and again the voice was calm, silken. “I have no intentions of raping you here in broad daylight. I have no designs on you whatsoever, Miss Randall. I want to discuss a business proposition, and, by God, I shall, whether you like it or not. Come—”

He moved briskly toward the small park at the end of the street, still holding on to my wrist, and I could do nothing but stumble along after him, tottering on my high heels. My skirts billowed in the breeze. The ostrich plumes waved. I had never been so humiliated in my life, my anger mounting with each second that passed. Reaching the park, he pulled me over to a small gray wooden bench in front of a clump of rhododendron bushes abloom with brilliant purple and purple-red blossoms. He shoved me unceremoniously onto the bench, and, seeing the expression on his face as he stood in front of me, I didn't dare attempt to get back up. No man had ever intimidated me before. This one did.

“Now,” he said, “we'll talk.”

“You must be very pleased with yourself,” I told him. “Terrorizing helpless women—”

“Certain cases call for stronger measures than others,” he replied in that smooth voice. “You're a very stubborn young woman, Miss Randall. I'm not accustomed to meeting such determined opposition.”

“You're accustomed to having your own way.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“If I were a man, Mr. Baker—”

“If you were a man, Miss Randall, I'd probably have murdered you for the insolence you've shown. As is, I've had to curb a terribly powerful urge to throttle you with my bare hands. I might yet, if you don't stop babbling on like the hysterical schoolgirl you most assuredly are not. Are you going to behave, or shall we fight some more?”

I didn't deign to answer. I was on the verge of tears, and the mere thought of displaying such weakness in front of him was appalling. My chin held high, I gazed across the street at the pavilion, fighting back the tears. Ordinarily I was strong and self-reliant, hard, even, because I'd had to be for the past four years, but this man made me feel weak and vulnerable. He made me terribly conscious of being a woman. He stood two or three feet away from the bench, legs spread wide, arms folded across his chest. The black silk ascot rustled against his throat. Locks of dark blond hair fell across his brow.

“You make five pounds a month,” he said.

“How did you know that?”

“I know everything I need to know about you, Miss Randall. You're a competent actress, well worth that salary, but you're worried about your job. You hope to open a dress shop in London. You're saving toward that goal. Recently there's been a certain amount of tension. It seems Gerald Prince has suddenly developed an interest in you, and Prince is another man accustomed to having his own way. If foiled, he's been known to take severe measures. If you continue to reject his suit, you might well find yourself out of work.”

“You—you've been talking to members of the company.”

“Never mind that. Am I correct?”

“I see no reason why I should confirm or deny anything you might—”

“I'm correct,” he continued. “You're in a rather ticklish situation. After observing your conduct this afternoon, I believe I'm safe in assuming that you
will
continue to reject his suit. That means dismissal—tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever Prince finally sees the futility of his pursuit.”

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Baker.”

“I disagree, Miss Randall. You are, alas, a woman, and a damnably attractive one at that. Your reputation went up in flames the moment you left York with the company. No respectable man would marry you after you've been on the stage—sad but true in this age of ours. Nor could you find employment as a governess. You've saved enough to keep you for a while, but as soon as that money is gone—” He shook his head, making a slight gesture that somehow managed to describe imminent doom.

“How could that possibly concern
you
?”

“Under other circumstances, it wouldn't concern me at all. I'm not a bleeding heart. I couldn't care less about the suffering masses. The plight of the poor, the slum dwellers, the downtrodden and exploited factory workers—let Mr. Dickens and his ilk bleed for them. I haven't the slightest interest. Quite frankly, I find the victims of society a tedious bore. I'm interested in your own plight because I can make use of it. If that weren't the case, you could go to hell in a carriage and I wouldn't lift a hand to help you.”

“Your frankness is overwhelming.”

“It's another of my more attractive qualities.”

“I've never met a man so—so—”

“Dastardly?” he suggested.

“Totally ruthless!” I snapped. “You seem to take pride in it.”

“Alas, you're right,” he said, apparently downcast. “I have very few of the redeeming virtues, but one must accept oneself as one is, and I, it seems, am a thorough cad. You agree with me. I can see it in your eyes. Cad I am, but at least I don't pretend to be a saint. Hypocrisy is one of the few bad traits I don't possess.”

He spoke with gentle mockery, painting himself as a blackhearted villain, unfeeling, unscrupulous, but I wondered if that was entirely the case. He was cold and selfish and insufferably arrogant, but I was sure there was more to the man than met the eye. Even though I loathed him, even though I longed to fly at his face with nails unsheathed, I couldn't help but be fascinated, and I was extremely eager to hear about the ‘business proposition' he had in mind. However, I would have gone to the stake before letting him suspect it. Chin still haughtily tilted, I tried to maintain a frigid dignity.

Edward Baker gazed at me thoughtfully.

“You make five pounds a month, Miss Randall,” he said. “I'm willing to pay you five hundred pounds for one brief engagement.”

“I can't be bought, Mr. Baker.”

“I don't wish to buy
you
. I wish to buy your skills as an actress.”

“You want me to—to perform?”

He nodded slowly, studying my reactions. Those peculiar eyebrows, one so straight, the other arching wickedly, gave his countenance a decidedly satanic cast, and Satan himself could hardly have been more devastatingly handsome. Edward Baker was unlike any man I had ever met. I was frightened, and intrigued. I felt emotions I had never felt before, and I wasn't at all sure what they signified.

“In a theater?” I asked.

“No. I want you to pretend to be my wife for a month or so—six weeks at the most.”

“Your—your wife?”

Again he nodded. “It would be simple enough. I would introduce you as Mrs. Baker, and you would maintain the role only as long as necessary. It would be a role—nothing more. You would dress the part and act the part, displaying a modest, subservient affection toward me whenever anyone happened to be around. In private, you could hate me all you liked. I would make no physical demands on you, I assure you of that.”

“This is—incredible,” I said, dignity vanishing. “I've never heard anything so preposterous in my life!”

“There's nothing preposterous about it,” he continued smoothly. “Let me explain further. I have an uncle, you see, and he is very rich. Very ill, too. He has only two male heirs, myself and a certain cousin of mine. He intends to leave his estate to one or the other of us. My cousin is a sullen brute, moody, temperamental, thoroughly unworthy, but, oddly enough, my uncle feels I am even more unworthy of the inheritance. Fortunately, he hasn't yet drawn up his will. Time and again he's told me that I need the influence of a good woman, that a suitable marriage would be the making of me. As you may have surmised, I'm not at all inclined to marry just to please him, so—”