Regency Disguise. Gail Whitiker
the stage.
That, at least, was what her uncle had told her and, given his vast experience in the theatre, Victoria knew better than to doubt him.
Finally, the carriage rounded the last corner and the Gryphon came into view, a glorious, towering edifice that shone white against the darkening sky. Victoria caught her breath just looking at it. And what a crowd! Judging by the line up of barouches and landaus slowly making their way along the street, a goodly portion of society had come out for the opening.
‘Almost there, Tory,’ Laurence said as the carriage turned down the lane that ran alongside the theatre.
Victoria pressed a gloved hand to her chest and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t go in, Laurie.’
‘Of course you can. Aunt Tandy and I will be waiting for you in the box and the play will be a smashing success. Uncle Theo said as much after the last rehearsal and you know he wouldn’t lie.’
No, he wouldn’t, because her uncle knew better than to offer false assurances when so much was at stake. Opening night was the first time eyes other than those of the cast and crew would be seeing the play and how the audience responded tonight would be a strong indicator of how long the play would run, how much money it would make, and what kind of effect it would have on the playwright’s future.
A bad opening night could herald more than just an early end to a play’s run. It could sound the death knell on a playwright’s career.
‘Give my regards to the cast,’ Laurence said as the carriage drew to a halt. ‘Tell Victor I expect a standing ovation, and Miss Chermonde that her performance had better warrant at least three curtain calls.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ Victoria said as the door opened and James let down the stairs. ‘Whether they heed you or not is another matter all together.’
And then she was alone. Standing in the street as the carriage pulled away, she took a few deep breaths to compose herself. No doubt the actors inside were doing the same. Stage fright was all part and parcel of opening-night madness, but hopefully by the time the curtain rose, the butterflies would have flown and the cast would have settled into giving the best performances of their lives. The audience would accept no less.
Neither, Victoria thought as she knocked lightly upon the unmarked door, would her uncle.
‘Ah, good evening, Miss Bretton,’ said the elderly gentleman who opened it. ‘I wondered if I’d be seeing you tonight.’
‘Good evening, Tommy. I thought to have a word with my uncle before the performance began. Is everything ready?’
‘Aye, miss, as ready as it will ever be.’ Thomas Belkins stepped back to let her enter. ‘Had some trouble with the backdrop for the second act, but we got that straightened away, and Mrs Beckett was able to mend the tear in Mr Trumphani’s costume neat as ninepence.’
‘What about Mrs Roberts?’ Victoria asked. ‘Is she feeling better than she was at rehearsal?’
‘Haven’t heard her complain, but between you and me, she’s a tough old bird who nothing short of death would keep from being on stage on opening night.’
The old man’s cheerfulness did much to settle Victoria’s nerves. Tommy Belkins had been in the theatre all of his life. Once an actor with a travelling Shakespearean troupe, he now worked behind the scenes at the Gryphon, overseeing the elaborate systems of lights, ropes, pulleys and reflectors that created the magic on stage. Both Drury Lane and Covent Garden had tried to lure him away, but Tommy had refused their offers, saying he’d rather work for pennies at the Gryphon than for a grand salary anywhere else.
Not that he did, of course. Her uncle paid a generous wage to all of the people who worked for him. It was one of the reasons the productions staged at the Gryphon were so good. He encouraged a spirit of co-operation and conviviality unusual in the theatrical world, and because Theodore Templeton was known for giving promising young actors a chance, he never found himself short of talent.
Still, in the end, it all came down to the quality of the play, and, knowing it was too late to do anything about that now, Victoria closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to St Gen-esius. It might just be superstition on her part, but she never ventured into a theatre without asking the patron saint of actors for his blessing.
Then, with both her brother’s and Tommy Belkins’s good wishes ringing in her ears, Victoria Bretton—alias Valentine Lawe—walked into the theatre and prepared to face whatever the Fates held in store for her.
The Honourable Alistair Devlin did not make a habit of going to the theatre. It was all right if no other more amusing pastime could be found, but given the choice between watching amateurish productions staged by men and women who suffered from the misguided notion that they could act, or spending the evening in the comfortably masculine ambiance of his club, he would always choose the latter. The only reason he had come tonight was to appease his good friend, Lord Collins, whose repeated requests that he come and see the nubile young actress he was intent on making his newest mistress had finally worn Alistair down.
‘And I dare you to say she is not exquisite,’ Collins said as they settled into their gilt-edged seats at the front of the box.
‘I’m sure she will be all you have promised and more,’ Alistair said, gazing with interest at his surroundings. ‘You have always been an arbiter of female loveliness.’ It was the first time Alistair had ventured inside the Gryphon, but not the first time he had heard about the celebrated theatre. Rumour had it that upwards of eighty thousand pounds had been lavished on the building’s restoration and that a special company had been assembled to grace its stage.
According to Collins—who had already enjoyed an intimate liaison with another young actress from the company—it was not enough that an actor be able to recite his lines without stumbling. He must also be able to portray that character’s feelings in such a way that the audience was moved to laughter or tears, without resorting to the facial contortions and physical gestures so often employed by under-talented performers.
Frankly, Alistair was sceptical. While he knew that some actors were talented enough to pull off such masterful performances, experience had shown him that most tended to fall back on the melodramatic posturings that left him entirely unmoved and prompted audiences to hurl both insults and orange peelings at the stage.
‘By the by, did I mention that Signy has a friend?’ Collins asked. ‘Another actress in the company. You might do well to look her up, given that you’re in the market for that sort of thing.’
‘Thank you, Bertie, but I have absolutely no intention of looking for a new mistress,’ Alistair replied, gazing at the magnificent frescoes overhead. ‘The one with whom I just parted gave a new meaning to the word vindictive.’
Collins had the cheek to laugh. ‘Yes, I did hear something about the glorious Celeste managing to knock over two rather expensive vases on her way out of your house.’
‘Expensive? She wilfully destroyed a priceless Tang horse and a Sèvres vase that have been in my family for generations,’ Alistair murmured. ‘Grandmother Wilson still hasn’t forgiven me for that lapse in judgement.’
Unfortunately, it wasn’t only Celeste Fontaine’s wanton destruction of family heirlooms that had prompted Alistair to end his relationship with her. It was the fact she had lied to him. She had told him to his face that he was the only man with whom she was keeping company, when in fact she had been spending as much time in Lord Lansing’s bed as she had in his.
When Alistair had brought this trifling detail to her attention, Celeste had treated him to a performance that would have done the great Sarah Siddons proud. She had stormed out of the house, somehow managing to consign the two pieces of porcelain to their doom on the way, and the next day, had sent him a scathing letter in which she had told him exactly what she thought of his behaviour, adding that while he was an adequate lover, she believed his skills in bed to be highly overrated.
It was the contents