Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(55)

She hadn’t been terribly surprised when the Duke of Montgomery had introduced her to the other players and she’d found out she was performing in the play she’d only just finished. William Greaves was the duke’s friend who’d commissioned A Wastrel Reform’d, and she had the lead as Cecily Wastrel. A plum breeches role—and she should know.

All in all a lovely turn of events. Usually she’d be happy and looking forward to both the party and the work.

Instead she felt a persistent melancholy. Caliban—Lord Kilbourne—had to all appearances escaped the soldiers, but she had no idea where he was. Indio had spent the week she’d been frantically writing moping about the garden, bemoaning his loss and driving her half mad. Even Maude, who should’ve been glad all her dire warnings about the man had proven correct, was silent on the subject. The afternoon after the soldiers finally left the garden, Lily had crept into the musician’s gallery and found his meager nest. He’d left a few clothes, an end of bread, and his notebook. This last she’d pocketed as some pathetic token—of what, she wasn’t exactly sure.

So it was with false cheer that she entered the Greaves House hallway. It was an older manse with narrow, dark rooms. She glanced around, already worried about where they could put on the play.

“Ah, our players,” Mr. William Greaves said rather pompously. He was a man in his sixties who’d probably been handsome as a youth. Now, however, he had a uniform dreary grayness about him, with a lined, sagging jawline and a puffiness around the eyes that bespoke too much drink or rich food. “I collect you must be Miss Goodfellow?”

She curtsied. “Your discernment is quite amazing, sir.” She swept wide her arm to indicate the other players behind her. “May I introduce Mr. Stanford Hume.” An older, florid-faced actor bowed stiffly. Poor Stanford suffered from lumbago. “Miss Moll Bennet.” Moll curtsied low, drawing Mr. Greaves’s eye to her lush bosom. “And Mr. John Hampstead?” John grinned and swept a lavish bow. He was tall and thin and wasn’t particular as to the sex of his paramours.

They four were the principal players, though of course there were other actors to fill the remaining parts of the play.

“Welcome, welcome to Greaves House,” Mr. Greaves said expansively, and then rather ruined the effect by becoming practical. “I believe my butler has your rooms ready. I do hope you’ll be joining us for dinner. A most jolly company, I think. Ah, here’s my son and his wife arrived. You’ll excuse me?”

And they were left to the direction of the butler.

Who, naturally, looked faintly contemptuous. “Lake.” He snapped his fingers and one of the footmen came forward. “Show these persons to their rooms, please.”

“Ta, love,” John said cheekily to the butler.

And they tramped after Lake the footman.

“Well, at least they have us inside,” Moll said philosophically as they mounted the stairs. “Last house play I did would you believe they wanted us to bunk in the stables like gypsies? No, indeed, I said. Inside in a room at least as nice as the downstairs maids or back to London I go on the next stage. They grumbled, but I had my way in the end. That was Richard II in Cambridgeshire, d’you remember, Stanford?”

“I do indeed,” Stanford intoned in his plummy voice. “Most depressing production I’ve ever been in.”

“Don’t know what they were thinking,” agreed Moll. “A history play for a house party. Can you imagine?”

The footman, who, unlike the butler, seemed rather in awe of them, showed them to two rooms. After hearing Moll’s story about being housed in the stables, Lily was a bit afraid of what they’d be given. But other than being quite at the end of the hall, their rooms seemed to be nice.

“Better’n the stables anyway,” Moll said cheerfully as she poked her head in the wardrobe. “We’ll be sharing the bed, looks like”—she nodded at the canopied bed—“but I don’t snore, so it should be fine. Best tidy ourselves and go on downstairs. I’ve a feeling we’re the entertainment for the night.”

That was often the case, Lily reflected as they took turns at the washbasin and changed out of their dusty traveling clothes. The actors hired for a private performance were also considered professional guests by their host—there to enliven the party.

They were ready to appear in a little less than an hour. Moll was in dark brown and mauve, while Lily had on one of her favorite dresses, a scarlet affair with a deep, square neckline and white ruffles on the bodice and sleeves.

“Shall we?” Moll teased and they stepped out into the hall to find John and Stanford waiting.

“Ladies!” John swept them a ridiculously elaborate bow.

“Ass,” Stanford muttered, offering Moll his arm.

That left Lily to take John’s arm as they descended. She’d worked with both Moll and John before and was finding Stanford to be quietly witty beneath his role as the elder actor. In normal circumstances she’d be enjoying herself immensely: a country house, a party, genial colleagues, and the prospect of a week’s worth of good food.

Tonight, though, she simply saw the party as something to endure.

On the first floor was a large salon and Lily glanced around it, mentally trying it on for size for their play. The lighting wasn’t very good—it was an interior room with only two windows at the far end—but the play would be at night anyway and with several dozen candles, it might well do.