The Notorious Mr Hurst. Louise Allen

can he resist?’ teased Jessica, relaxing somewhat.

      ‘Well, your darling Gareth could, very easily,’ Maude pointed out.

      ‘It was mutual, was it not? And I won’t lecture you, I promise. How can I, given what I got up to disentangling you and Gareth?’

      ‘You made a perfectly captivating loose woman,’ Maude said, deciding she could, after all her adventures, manage a third ginger biscuit. ‘Whereas I have no intention of doing anything more forward than making sure I am very much in Mr Hurst’s life from now on. Sooner or later he will come to realise he cannot exist without me.’

      ‘It did not strike him like a thunderbolt at your first encounter,’ Jessica pointed out. ‘I might have been heavily veiled at the time, but I could see quite clearly and I have never observed a less struck man in my life. I described him to Gareth as an icicle, but an iceberg would have been more accurate. And he appears to have survived kissing you without falling at your feet either,’ she added cruelly.

      ‘He is probably racked with desire, the more he thinks about it,’ Maude asserted. ‘Another cup of tea?’

      They drank in silence, the plate of biscuits mysteriously diminishing until Jessica said, ‘You are sure, aren’t you, that it isn’t just his looks? I know I described him as an icicle, but he is also the most exotically beautiful man I have ever seen. It would not be at all surprising if you fell for that.’

      ‘You mean, am I being extremely superficial?’ Unoffended by the question, Maude brushed crumbs off her skirt and got up to place some more coals on the fire. ‘You forget, I have grown up surrounded by men of character. Dearest Papa, Gareth, to name but two. I could not possibly love or marry a man without intelligence, drive, fine qualities. Yes, I was attracted to Eden Hurst because of his looks. But it was also his presence, his strength.

      ‘And then the more I found out about him, the more I admired him. He has revived the Unicorn’s fortunes in mere months in the face of the Patent theatres’ opposition, created a vehicle in England for Madame Marguerite when she was known only by reputation. And everyone says he managed one of the most successful theatre companies on the Continent—and that cannot have been easy under the circumstances of the past years.’

      ‘How old is he?’ Jessica asked. ‘Thirty, at least, I would have thought.’

      ‘I do not know.’ Maude frowned into the hot centre of the fire. ‘I can’t find out anything like that about him, who his parents are, where he was born, when.’ She was not going to mention the rumour about his father. Time enough to cross that bridge when she had to.

      ‘You don’t think he and Madame are, er, involved…?’ Jessica asked tentatively.

      ‘Surely not?’ Maude stared back, aghast. That had never occurred to her. ‘She’s years older than he is, surely?’

      ‘Well, I have no doubt she’s a creature of unrestrained passions, if her acting is anything to go by, and he is a very handsome man. Tell me…’ Jessica leaned forward ‘…what was it like?’

      Maude felt herself colouring up. ‘Amazing,’ she said finally. ‘I have been kissed before, but this was quite unlike anything else. Is it supposed to make you feel odd all over?’

      ‘The odder the better,’ her friend said with a grin, uncurling from the depths of the chair. ‘Time for bed, although I doubt you are going to get a wink of sleep after that.’

      ‘Don’t you think so?’ Maude took the proffered candle. ‘I was rather hoping I was going to dream.’

      Eden waved the tired dresser out of the door and closed it behind him. ‘I have called your carriage, Madame.’

      ‘Call me Marguerite, darling. How many times do I have to ask you?’ The actress fluffed at her hair petulantly.

      ‘It does not feel right. Here, let me help you with your cloak.’ He settled it around her shoulders as she stood, enveloping them both in a cloud of Attar of Roses, drowning the faint remembered fragrance of gardenias in his nostrils.

      ‘Foolish boy.’ She twisted round, her head on one side, and smiled. Always the coquette, always practising her charms. ‘Are they all gone?’

      She meant the swarm of admirers who had infested the Green Room and queued, petulant if they were not given instant admission, at the stage door. ‘All gone. I got rid of them at last.’

      ‘They adore me.’ It was a statement, but underneath he heard the need for reassurance. Always the need for reassurance.

      ‘They worship you,’ Eden agreed with a smile, his watchful dark eyes cataloguing the faint betraying lines beside her eyes, the slackening of the skin over the exquisite jaw line, the harshness of the dark hair tint. He knew he must begin to edge her towards the more mature roles. And how was that to be achieved without her throwing a tantrum to rival Mount Etna? He had witnessed the eruption in 1810, and the fiery image came to mind with increasing frequency whenever Madame was thwarted.

      There had been a time, when she had first taken him from the palazzo, before he had learned to harness his emotions and not to entertain foolish fantasies about love, when he had hated her. Now, he thought he understood her, had come to accept her total lack of empathy for anyone else and to admire her talent, her sheer determination. But when he was tired it was still an act of conscious will to humour her.

      ‘You must be exhausted after that performance,’ he suggested, edging her towards the door. ‘So much emotion.’

      She lifted a daintily manicured hand and patted his cheek. ‘Darling, you are cold.’

      ‘I have been out, a small matter of business to take care of.’ And if Lady Maude had not been there he would still have been dealing with it. The consequences of Corwin discovering that two of his daughters had been found, unchaperoned, in his office late at night would be the most almighty row and the loss of his most promising investor.

      Eden smiled grimly, then caught sight of his saturnine expression in the big glass. Why the devil would a woman want to marry him in any case? Used to scrutinising the faces of actors at close quarters, all he could read in his own features was cold, hard ruthlessness wedded to the theatrical tricks of a mountebank—the earring, the hair. His profession and his birth made him ineligible to all but the merchant classes and below, and his character was surely something a woman would take on only in return for his money.

      Which brought him back neatly to Corwin. ‘What are you scowling about, darling?’ Marguerite allowed herself to be guided out and towards the Green Room. The square chamber with its green velvet curtains, Turkey rug and motley collection of chairs, sofas and side tables was both the common room for the company and the reception salon after a performance.

      Now, in the wake of Marguerite’s admirers’ departure, the room resembled the aftermath of a drunken party. Bottles were upended into ice buckets, flowers were strewn everywhere, empty glasses stood around and most of the company were sitting or reclining in various combinations of stage costume, street clothes and undress.

      They struggled to their feet, or, in the case of George Peterson, the heavy who was already well in his cups, vaguely upright, as their leading lady swept through. ‘Good night, darlings,’ she trilled, blowing a kiss to the three walking gentlemen, the bit-part players, who swept her bows as she went.

      Eden noted in passing that Miss Harriet Golding, the ingénue, was sitting almost on the lap of Will Merrick, the juvenile lead. That could spell trouble—Merrick was living with Miss Susan Poole, the lively soubrette who had apparently already left. He could well do without a love triangle in the middle of the cast, especially with a visiting leading lady next week. Madame would sail blithely through any amount of emotional turmoil provided it was not her own emotions at stake. Mrs Furlow could well find it most disagreeable. He dug out the notebook and added Merrick/Golding/Poole below the note on oil lamps. If this was serious, then Miss Golding would have to go; ingénues were two a penny.

      ‘I am utterly