A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(7)

Cloaking herself in her blanket, she rose and performed hasty ablutions, splashing her face with frigid water, drying with the coarse cloth. As quickly as possible, she dropped the blanket and yanked on an extra petticoat followed by a plain fustian gown and apron. She took a few extra pains to pin up her long braid before concealing it under a modest, lace cap. Checking her reflection in the tarnished bit of glass, she smoothed her skirts and descended to the kitchen for breakfast.

“There you are, duckie,” Mrs. Andrews greeted Phoebe as she joined her for tea and toast. The elder woman appraised her modest garb with a critical eye. “Now that won’t do at all, love,” she said, pouring a cup of tea. “It seems we have much work to do on your appearance.”

Phoebe felt herself flush. She had scrubbed her face clean and already wore her best day dress. “What do you mean?”

With a sly smile, the elder woman slid a small silver tray across the table. It was littered with various squares of paper, each embossed with elegant script. Phoebe’s cup arrested in midair. Her eyes widened. Tea sloshed. The cup returned to the saucer with a click.

“Didn’t I say the gents would call if ye played Kitty?”

With her few minutes on stage, Phoebe had, indeed, played the brazen Kitty to the hilt, smiling coyly, adding a seductive sway to her walk, jutting her shamefully displayed breasts. As predicted, a half-dozen gentlemen had visited her borrowed dressing room following the performance.

Helping her to undress behind the screen, Mrs. Andrews had schooled her. “Receive them all, duckie, but pay no special heed to any. The gents thrive on competition, ye ken.” Phoebe had gasped as the wardrobe mistress gave a solid yank on her corset laces, thrusting her breasts high and tight. “Encourage and flaunt your wares,” she advised. “Ignite their interest and then turn them away. All of them. And if ye pay least heed to the one you really want, he will try all the harder.”

Tamping down her nervous qualms, Phoebe had emerged from behind the screen in a filmy gown selected by the wardrobe mistress, a garment meant to tempt and to taunt. Maintaining Kitty’s pouty lips and bedroom eyes, Phoebe had received the compliments of her backstage visitors with an affected aplomb, while Mrs. Andrews played the part of her duenna, gauging each prospective protector with a mercenary eye. After an hour or so, she’d shooed them all away. “Accept no invitation this first time, duckie, for there will be better on the morrow.”

Mrs. Andrews had proven a veritable sage.

“Where did all of these come from?” Phoebe asked in bewilderment.

“Delivered from the theater. Some was left last night. Others sent this morning. The finer gents don’t wait in line, ye see. They watch, first, from a distance. They don’t wish to appear too interested. Neither do you.”

Phoebe regarded her, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s as I said, luv, a competition. You must be seen with many gentlemen, and you must string them all along. The harder you make it without spurning altogether, the more valuable you become. None covet easy game.”

“Game?” Phoebe snorted indelicately. “That’s all this really is, isn’t it? One big game.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Andrews nodded. “But one all the gents indulge in. With any luck, you could land an earl like our dear Elizabeth Ferren. Lord Derby has become all but her lapdog these days.”

With a sudden feeling of detachment, Phoebe sorted through the calling cards, selecting the most conspicuous. Heavy stock, cream-colored, gilt-edged. She read aloud, “Viscount Ludovic DeVere.”

“Lord DeVere, is it?” Mrs. Andrews chuckled. “Either his last light o’ love didn’t last long, or he’s soon to cut ‘er loose if he’s thrown his hat in the ring.”

“What do you know of him?”

“A wild one, is he. They call him ‘The Devil DeVere,’ but he’s generous as a prince with his women...until he tires of ‘em, of course.”

“I think princely generosity is a grossly exaggerated term.” Phoebe couldn’t quell her bitter cynicism.

Mrs. Andrews’ brows lifted. “Ye refer to the affair of our Prince of Wales and Mrs. Robinson?”

“Of course,” Phoebe replied softly. “What else could I possibly mean?”

“A sordid business, that,” the wardrobe mistress said. “And one you best take heed of lest you fall into the same trap. Poor Mary. Do you know the whole of it?” Her eyes glimmered with eagerness to recount the tale.

“Only whispers and gossip.” Phoebe’s own voice was little more than a whisper. She studied the contents of her teacup.

“’Twas a command performance of Florizel and Perdita. Must have been three...no…four years hence, the season before you joined the theater.”

It was precisely the season before. The ill-fated affair between the prince and his actress had indirectly served as the impetus for her own entry into the theater world. Young Prince George was charming, polished, and had a smile so sweet, he was predicted by his late tutor to become either the finest gentleman in Europe or the greatest blackguard. Phoebe’s own experience proved he was destined for the latter.

“We were staging Mr. Sheridan’s adaptation of A Winter’s Tale with Mary Robinson playing the lead,” Mrs. Andrews droned, oblivious to Phoebe’s abstraction. “The prince never took his eyes off her the entire night. The curtain had barely descended before he sent a lackey to her door with a billet doux. He addressed it to Perdita, signed your Florizel.” Mrs. Andrews chuckled.