The Heart Of Christmas. Mary Balogh
brother’s children, after all.”
“Pray do not vex yourself, Mama.” Verity kissed her mother’s cheek. “We are together, the three of us, and Chastity is recovering her health after seeing a reputable physician and being prescribed the right medicine. Really, those are the only things that matter. Good night.”
A minute later she had reached her own room and had entered it and closed the door. She stood for a moment against it, her eyes closed, her hands gripping the knob behind her back. But there was no sound apart from quiet, even breathing from her sister’s bed. Verity undressed quickly and quietly, shivering in the frigid cold. After she had climbed into bed, she lay on her side, her knees drawn up, and pulled the covers up over her ears. Her teeth were chattering, though not just with the cold.
It was a dangerous game she played.
Except that it was no game.
How soon would it be, she wondered, before Mama discovered that there was no Lady Coleman, that there was no genteel and easy employment? Fortunately they had moved to London from the country so recently and under such straitened circumstances that they had few friends and none at all who moved in fashionable circles. They had moved because Chastity’s chill, contracted last winter not long after their father’s death, had stubbornly refused to go away. It had become painfully clear to them that they might well lose her if they did not consult a physician more knowledgeable than the local doctor. They had feared she had consumption, but the London physician had said no, that she merely had a weak chest and might hope to recover her full health with the correct medicines and diet.
But his fees and the medicines had been exorbitantly expensive and the need for his services was not yet at an end. The rent of even so unfashionable a house as theirs was high. And the bills for coal, candles, food and other sundries seemed always to be piling in.
Verity had searched and searched for genteel employment, assuring her mother that it would be only temporary, until her uncle returned to England and was apprised of their plight. Verity placed little faith in the wealthy uncle who had had nothing to do with them during her father’s life. Her grandfather had held aloof from his youngest son after the latter had refused an advantageous match and had married instead Verity’s mother, the daughter of a gentleman of no particular fortune or consequence.
In Verity’s opinion, the care of her mother and sister fell squarely on her own shoulders and always would. And so when she had been unable to find employment as a governess or companion or even as a shop assistant or seamstress or housemaid, she had taken up the unlikely offer of an audition as an opera dancer. She was quite fit, after all, and she had always adored dancing, both in a ballroom and in the privacy of a shrubbery or empty room at the rectory. To her intense surprise she had been offered the job.
Performing on a public stage in any capacity—as an actress, singer or dancer—was not genteel employment for a lady. Indeed, Verity had been well aware even before accepting the employment that, in the popular mind, dancers and actresses were synonymous with whores.
But what choice had she?
And so had begun her double life, her secret life. By day, except when she was at rehearsals, she was Verity Ewing, impoverished daughter of a gently born clergyman, niece of the influential General Sir Hector Ewing. By night she was Blanche Heyward, opera dancer, someone who was ogled by half the fashionable gentlemen in town, many of whom attended the opera for no other purpose.
But it was a dangerous game. At any time she might be recognized by someone she knew, though no one from her neighborhood in the country was in the habit of staying in London and sampling its entertainments. More important, perhaps, she was making it impossible to mingle with polite society in the future if the general should ever decide to help them. But she did not anticipate that particular problem.
There were more immediate problems to deal with.
But what she earned as a dancer was just not enough.
Verity huddled deeper beneath the bedcovers and set her hands between her thighs for greater warmth.
“Verity?” a sleepy voice asked.
Verity pushed back the covers from her face again. “Yes, love,” she said softly, “I am home.”
“I must have fallen asleep,” Chastity said. “I always worry so until you are home. I wish you did not have to go out alone at night.”
“But if I did not,” Verity said, “I would not be able to tell you about all the splendid parties and theater performances I attend. I shall describe the opera to you in the morning or, more to the point, the people who were in the audience. Go back to sleep now.” She kept her voice warm and cheerful.
“Verity,” Chastity said, “you must not think that I am not grateful, that I do not know the sacrifice you are making for my sake. One day I will make it all up to you. I promise.”
Verity blinked back tears from her eyes. “Oh yes, you will, love,” she said. “In the springtime you are going to dance among the primroses and daffodils, unseasonable roses in your cheeks. Then you will have repaid me double—no, ten times over—for the little I am able to do now. Go to sleep, you goose.”
“Good night.” Chastity yawned hugely and only a minute or two later was breathing deeply and evenly again.
There was one way in which a dancer might augment her income. Indeed she was almost expected to do so. Verity hid her head beneath the covers once more and tried not to develop the thought. But it had been nagging at her for a week or more. And she had said those words to Mama earlier, almost as if she were preparing the way. Lady Coleman declared that she is pleased with me and is considering raising my salary quite substantially.
She had acquired quite a regular court of admirers in the greenroom following each performance. Two of the gentlemen had already made blatant offers to her. One had mentioned a sum that she had found quite dizzying. She had told herself repeatedly that she was not even tempted. Nor was she. But it was not a matter of temptation. It was a matter for cold decision.
The only possible reason she would do such a thing was her mother’s and Chastity’s security. A great deal more money was going to have to be found if Chass was to continue to have the treatment she needed. It was a matter of her virtue in exchange for Chastity’s life, then.
Phrased that way, there was really no decision to make.
And then she thought of the advent of temptation that had presented itself to her just that evening in the form of the gentleman who had stood in the doorway of the greenroom, looking at her insolently through his quizzing glass for a minute or so before joining the crowd of gentlemen gathered about Hannah Dove. His actions had suggested that he was not after all interested in her, Verity—or rather in Blanche—and yet she had been left with the strange notion that he had watched her all the time he was in the greenroom.
He was Viscount Folingsby, a notorious rake, another dancer had told her later. Verity would likely have guessed it anyway. Apart from being almost incredibly handsome—tall, well formed, very dark, with eyes that were both penetrating and slumberous—there was an air of self-assurance and arrogance about him that proclaimed him to be a man accustomed to having his own way. There was also something almost unbearably sensual about him. A rake, yes. Without a doubt.
Yet she had been horribly tempted for that minute. If he had approached her, if he had made her an offer…
Thank heaven he had not done either.
But soon, very soon, she was going to have to consider and accept someone’s offer. There! Finally she was calling a spade a spade. She was going to have to become someone’s mistress. No, that was calling a spade a utensil. She was going to have to become someone’s whore.
For a dizzying minute the room spun about her, closed eyes notwithstanding.
For Chastity, she told herself determinedly. For Chastity’s life.
Chapter Two
JULIAN