Playing The Duke's Mistress. Eliza Redgold

park was full of people enjoying the weather. Riders clip-clopped past. Couples strolled together arm in arm or sat on the benches. There were children playing with hoops and balls, and feeding the ducks. Swans glided elegantly across the lake.

      With a much lighter picnic basket in hand, Calista was making her way to the Punch and Judy stand where Columbine was watching the puppet show when a man spoke from behind her. ‘Miss Fairmont.’

      She turned. ‘Yes?’

      The owner of the voice, a portly man wearing a red-spotted cravat, beamed at her. ‘I thought it must be. You are Miss Fairmont, are you not, who has charmed us all lately with your performance of Rosalind in Shakespeare’s masterpiece at the Prince’s Theatre?’

      Calista smiled. It was impossible not to smile at the man. ‘I am.’

      ‘My dear!’ he exclaimed. ‘You were quite marvellous.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’

      ‘It’s not kindness, Miss Fairmont,’ he protested. ‘You’re an ornament to the stage!’

      He bowed and gave a cheery wave. ‘Good luck to you, my dear!’

      Calista watched him disappear down the path. At least someone appreciated what she was trying to achieve. The man’s praise almost took the sting from the duke’s cruel words about actresses merely showing their wares.

      Almost, but not quite.

      * * *

      Darius strolled through Hyde Park, glancing idly at the assortment of groups dotted over the lawns. On the grass, children played under the supervision of nannies who were clustered together chatting. He spotted one or two courting couples. Others were families. All of whom appeared happy and smiling as they took their picnics in the park.

      Darius felt the familiar pang before he supressed it instantly. Surely the contented family tableaux he witnessed were a farce. They couldn’t all be as happy as they seemed: these mothers fussing over their offspring, fathers trying to hide their beams of pride behind their moustaches. Two boys were being instructed by their father how to fly a kite while a laughing mother rescued her toddler whose face was smeared with jam from almost falling into the lake. A small crowd of children were gathered by a Punch and Judy puppet-show booth.

      Darius stopped in his tracks.

      Standing at the back of the crowd was the actress, Miss Calista Fairmont.

      There could be no doubt it was her, although she didn’t look like an actress today. In the fresh afternoon air she wore no powder and paint, no garish or florid colours. Her plain grey bonnet was pushed back from her head, revealing her dark hair that shone almost blue-black, like the sky at midnight. In a grey cloak and simple frock with white lace at the collar she looked more like a governess than a star of the London stage. Yet to him it seemed as if she were lit up by footlights.

      She had a young girl beside her, who had hair the same colour as Miss Fairmont’s, worn in two long braids that hung over a shabby tweed coat. The two were clearly related. They were watching the show and the girl was laughing.

      Then Miss Fairmont laughed, too.

      She had barely smiled the night before at the supper party and so he hadn’t realised: Miss Calista Fairmont was beautiful.

      Her warm laughter lit up her face. She glowed. Like a candle in a darkened room. Like a light one was drawn to, as if it could make you warm inside.

      Darius stepped closer. Intent on the puppet show, she didn’t notice him.

      Her cheeks were pale today, though there was pinkness in her face, no doubt from the fresh air and her laughter. Her fresh complexion, presented in its natural state, made him realise she was younger than he’d first thought. She must not be much more than twenty years of age.

      She wasn’t much more than a girl. Yet her dignity made her seem of greater years.

      Now he saw that dignity was a permanent part of her posture, bred into her bearing. It hadn’t been put on the night before. And there was something else. In spite of her excellent deportment, for such a young woman she appeared to be burdened with care. It didn’t cause her shoulders to bow, or that long neck, but it was there in the set of her face and the way she anxiously watched over the child beside her. At her age surely she ought to have appeared light of heart, here at a puppet show in the park.

      But Calista Fairmont wasn’t light-hearted. Even as she smiled that glowing smile he sensed she was troubled. Beneath those sapphire eyes were dark shadows, too deep for a woman her age, and they told of sleepless nights.

      Darius frowned. Perhaps the shadows under her eyes told of a debauched lifestyle. But gazing at the young woman who hovered with such obvious concern over the child at her side, he suspected that wasn’t the case.

      Again that uncomfortable feeling came over him.

      Remorse.

      He slammed it away.

      No matter how young and unaffected she looked in the park, Miss Fairmont was still an actress.

      He turned away. What could he say to her? He had to protect Herbert and he had done what he needed to do, even if he regretted that this woman had suffered his scorn in the process.

      Darius pulled his coat tighter. The air had suddenly chilled. As he walked back to his club in St James’s he became even more determined. No actress was going to get her claws into a Carlyle again. He would convince Herbert to give up Miss Coop before he got in too deep. Darius knew more than any man that actresses were title-hunters. There was no doubt that Mabel Coop would destroy his cousin, his reputation and his happiness. Darius had to prove it.

      * * *

      The square was quiet as he approached the club. The doorman bowed as Darius entered. ‘Your Grace.’

      Darius dragged off his gloves and greatcoat. ‘Good afternoon. Is my cousin here?’

      ‘I believe so, Your Grace. In the drawing room.’

      The room was packed. Given the excitement in the air, there appeared to be some sort of high-stakes game happening. Occasionally Darius would join a green gaming table, but whilst he usually won at cards, right now he wasn’t in the mood.

      He nodded the curtest of greetings to one of the players seated at the felt-topped table.

      Francis, Lord Merrick. Darius curled his fists. He’d never liked him, not even at school. No, that was an understatement. Lord Merrick was the ringleader of the same group of young pups who had given his cousin Herbert so much trouble in his childhood. Frankly, men like Merrick had given both the school and the club a bad name.

      Merrick was the worst of the lot. The man lacked any sense of honour, of noblesse oblige. But at least he’d been prevented from making Herbert’s life a misery.

      Darius had seen to that.

      Now, Merrick leaned over the card table. He wore his sandy-coloured hair too long, an affectation Darius despised, and his pale blue eyes were set too close together as he studied his cards. Nothing was ever pinned on him, but Darius always suspected him of dishonest dealings. There had been a few grumblings of unscrupulous circumstances.

      Passing by the players, he spotted Herbert seated at a table by the window overlooking the garden square at the quieter end of the room. Some of the inhabitants were reading, some having tea or a taste of something stronger in the all-male environment, doubtless avoiding the female-dominated ritual at home. Many men used the club as a hiding place.

      Herbert stood up. ‘Darius. I’ve been waiting for you.’

      Darius raised an eyebrow. Herbert’s tone was surprisingly determined. His cousin was also drinking whisky before six o’clock.

      ‘Shall we sit?’ he enquired.

      ‘I’d prefer to stand,’ Herbert replied obstinately. ‘See here, Darius. I’ve