Midnight at Mallyncourt Read Online Free Page B

with the exception of those rare few like Mansfield who became the playthings of society, people on the stage were considered little better than charlatans and harlots. It would be impossible for me to find a decent job, and the only men who would have anything to do with me would be rogues like Sally’s current admirer, middle-aged, married, eager to toy with me for a few months before thrusting me aside for a newer amusement. The money I was saving toward that dress shop wouldn’t last long. I frowned, hating Edward Baker for making it so vivid, bringing it so close.
    What if Gerry dismissed me? He was bound to do so if I refused to submit. I was on the verge of tears again, and that alarmed me. I hated any sign of weakness in myself. Tears were for those without stamina, without spirit. I wouldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t! I’d get through tonight, one more day behind me. Tomorrow would come, and I’d get through it, too. I had given up self-pity a long time ago, and I bloody well wouldn’t start pitying myself now. Damn Edward Baker!
    Peering into the dressing mirror, I studied my face. There were faint shadows about my green eyes, eyes that seemed even darker because of those thick, black lashes, and the skin seemed to be stretched tautly over my high cheekbones. My features were too classic, too cold to be considered beautiful in this age when plump, pink and white prettiness was the mode, and my waving auburn hair gleaming with copper-red highlights was not the favored shade of blond, but I was arresting, if not beautiful, unusual, if not the standard ideal. Tall and slender, my figure elegant instead of full-blown, I lacked the immediate allure of girls like Sally, but men turned to look a second time nevertheless. Edward Baker had looked, and he had liked what he had seen.
    What a strange, enigmatic man, I thought, applying a light coral pink salve on my lips. Was he really as cruel, as ruthless as he seemed, or was that merely a façade? I smoothed soft mauve-gray shadow over my lids, then thickened my lashes with mascara. He was smooth, poised, thoroughly composed, but one sensed a cold, savage quality just beneath the surface. I remembered the way he had twisted my wrist, his blue eyes frosty, features impassive. A dangerous man, I told myself, and yet he had something that seemed to draw one to him, made one long for just that sort of danger. I supposed there were many men like that, but I had never encountered one before. It was just as well that I’d never see him again. Any kind of affiliation with a man like Edward Baker would only bring disaster.
    I looked up as Laverne stepped into the room, resplendent in the dark green velvet dress embroidered with gold that she wore as Vanozza dei Catanei, Pope Alexander’s mistress. Artificial rubies at throat and wrists clattered as she moved, and I noticed that her long golden wig was slightly askew. There was an unmistakable odor of gin, and her fleshy cheeks were much too pink. Laverne was a plump, cozy soul, forty-five years old, with only the pathetic remnants of what had once been great beauty. Generous, ever ready to open her heart or her pocketbook, she was sentimental, bawdy, garrulous and cheerful, my closest friend in the company. She loved gossip almost as much as gin, and her attitude toward me was that of a clucking mother hen who loved to fuss over her chick.
    â€œTen minutes to curtain and you’re not even in costume,” she scolded, plopping down onto the sofa. “You’d better get a move on, ducky.”
    â€œYou sound like Gerry.”
    â€œLord, is he in a state tonight! Raising hell right and left. Thinks them gents from London come to see him, he does. La! What a fool! Gerald Prince might still stir the hearts of middle-aged matrons, but they’d laugh ’im off the stage in London! You look a bit peaked tonight, luv.”
    â€œI have a headache.”
    â€œWorried about