A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(2)

“Miss Younge? Not here?” Phoebe repeated blankly.

“Aye. Whilst you know I hate to be the tale bearer, some says she wasn’t happy with her new contract and now claims to be bedridden with the ague.” The plump woman gave a conspiratorial wink. “And word is Mrs. Mattocks has a sprained ankle, though I hear she was seen driving in Hyde Park earlier today.”

Before she could elaborate, Mr. Thomas Hull burst through the door with a rubicund face and jowls aquiver, shaking a sheet of parchment and looking apoplectic. “The devil you say! Miss Younge and Mrs. Mattocks, both? No one is permitted the ague or ankle sprains on a command performance night! The bloody ungrateful wretches! We’ve now thirty minutes to curtain, and I’ve no Leticia and no Mrs. Racket!”

“No Leticia? No Mrs. Racket? You don’t mean to say—”

Hull cut Phoebe off. “Cancel the performance? Let Hell and a thousand furies seize me before I let pampered actresses run roughshod over me. I’ll show them no one in this company is indispensable. The show bloody well will go on!”

“But how are you to manage that when you want for two of your leading ladies?” the wardrobe mistress asked with a smirk.

“I must ask you to reprise your last role, Peg.”

“As Mrs. Racket?” She laughed outright. “Even if I did by some miracle remember all my lines, little good ‘twill do when ye also want for a Leticia.”

Phoebe’s heart slammed against her breastbone, her gaze flying with uncertainty from Mrs. Andrews to Mr. Hull. Yet desperate to grasp this once-in-a-lifetime chance, she stepped forward. “I—I know the parts, Mr. Hull—Leticia, Lady Touchwood, Miss Ogle, Kitty Willis. I can play any of them. I swear I won’t disappoint you. Please, will you give me a chance?”

“Hmph.” Hull regarded her with narrow-eyed scrutiny while Phoebe held her breath, feeling much like a horse at auction. Before Hull could say anything more, Phoebe spun around, grabbed an ornate fan from the dressing table, and transformed into the character of Leticia.

She sashayed across the room, pert nose raised above her fluttering fan. “Men are all dissemblers, flatterers, deceivers! Have I not heard a thousand times of my air, my eyes, my shape—all made for victory!” She lowered the fan and struck a pose. “And today, when I bent my whole heart on one poor conquest, I have proved that all those imputed charms amount to nothing.” She snapped her fan shut with a toss of her ringlets.

Turning eagerly to Mr. Hull, she bit into her lip as she studied the aging actor’s face with desperate hope and apprehension. He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“While there is an air of freshness about you that is sorely lacking in our other performers of late, and I daresay such a fair face and figure as yours would cover a multitude of sins with our male audience...” Her pulse sped with rising hopes only to be dashed back to earth. “However, I fear I can’t risk the disfavor I would incur by allowing you a starring role.”

“Disfavor? What do you mean?” Phoebe asked in bewilderment.

“The disfavor of our chief patrons, my dear. Surely, you can’t have lived amongst us for so long without understanding how it is.”

“How what is?”

“Patronage, my dear. The theater is but an imitation of that world around us and as such, thrives on patronage. Anyone who aspires to be anyone must have a benefactor. The more powerful the benefactor, the better one’s roles and the more profitable for us all.” He chucked her under the chin. “Surely you understand that by now?”

Phoebe nodded with dawning comprehension. Deep down she had known but had chosen not to acknowledge the stage manager’s frequent role as pimp to the noblemen who patronized the dressing rooms. Many times, she had witnessed actresses using their connections with noble lovers to further their careers and had seen the initial flames of passion burn out. The gentleman always moved on to fresher conquests, leaving the lady to seek another protector. It was a vicious cycle and not the kind of life she had envisioned in joining the theater.

“I’m sorry, my dear. While you do show some potential, and with work, I could very well picture you as the delectable ingénue, Leticia, I fear I must move Miss Stewart into the role.”

Phoebe’s heart contracted with a painful mix of disappointment and disillusionment. The lines she had just spoken echoed her thoughts —she had once more engaged her whole heart for nothing. Naively, she had believed hard work and perseverance would prevail, but now she wondered if she would ever have another chance. Yet she refused to give up completely.

“But surely, Mr. Hull, if you must switch the parts of the leading players, there is some small role I can play? Please,” she begged. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Indeed? But I question how badly you want it—”

“Desperately.”

“But what are you willing to sacrifice?” His gaze narrowed as it swept her top to toe. “If I grant your wish and put you on stage tonight, I wonder if you are prepared to make the best use of it?”

Phoebe knew what he was asking, and it was the last thing she wanted—to barter what little she had preserved of her self-respect. Having already experienced the faithlessness of one man’s heart, her greatest fear was to base her entire future on another’s fickle affections. Experience had taught her the folly of trusting pretty words and the emptiness of murmured promises. She had once given freely, and it had cost her dearly. Yet, she now found herself at an unavoidable, unenviable, and ultimately inevitable crossroad.