Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,60

the thought of him making love to those other girls.

Except he wasn’t making love to them. He was sprawled in the chair as they petted and pawed him, while he looked thoroughly bored. His weary gaze swept the room as if he half hoped to find something better, someone more interesting.

Her mouth dried. He couldn’t be looking for her. She touched the straggling beard on her chin, the bit of moustache on her upper lip. Not even her sisters would recognise her, especially in the short blond wig.

Freddy rushed past, stopped and glared at her feet. ‘Shoes, missy.’ He held out his wicker basket.

While they allowed her to take her costume home every night, shoes were expensive and players were not permitted to wear them home. In case they sold them for gin, Bess said, or the price of a night’s lodging.

Rosa unlaced the soft-soled boots and held them towards the waiting basket. ‘I’ll give you the shoes, if you’ll let me audition to sing when we get to Birmingham.’

His yellow curls seemed to spring higher off his head. ‘No. Shoes. Now.’

Rosa sighed and tossed them in. One of these days he was going to say yes. She rubbed at the sore spot on her foot from the ill-fitting footwear.

The back of her neck prickled oddly. She looked up to find Stanford staring at her feet. He’d paid attention to her feet before, but surely he wouldn’t recognise her by her toes.

He stood up, the two girls on his lap sliding off his knee. Startled, as if he’d forgotten their presence, he grabbed them before they hit the floor, soothing their ruffled feathers with a quick stroke.

Sure he was coming her way, Rosa slipped her feet in her slippers. ‘I’ll see you there, Bess.’ She ignored the sounds of a commotion behind her and fled. She’d meet the players at the chop house where they always went for a meal after the performance. Tonight would be a farewell to those who were remaining in London, a celebration of their success and a toast to the future.

Best of all would be the payment of her wages. Money she could send to her sisters.

The last letter from Meg had been terrifying. Yes, the moneylender would wait, but the money they owed was growing by leaps and bounds. There was nothing left over to pay more school fees. The girls were already looking for work, so she did not have to bear the burden alone. Sam was coughing and Meg feared she might have to call for the doctor again.

It didn’t seem to matter what Rosa did, things just kept getting worse.

She ran down the alley.

Garth gazed over the heads of the girls hanging around his neck. They’d denied any knowledge of a girl called Rose. He stared into the dark corner beside the exit. Only one girl there now. A redhead. There had been two people there a moment ago, the redheaded girl tying her shoe and a…a blond-haired boy. It was a pair of feet he’d noticed. The redhead wriggled the toes of her bare foot. Hers were definitely not the feet that had caught his attention. Or perhaps he’d imagined them.

He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Why would he imagine Rose’s feet on a boy? Lady Keswick’s assertion of Rose’s ambition to join an opera company had made him wonder if the old girl was losing her faculties. On the other hand, she had no reason to lie. Rosa hadn’t been singing here tonight, or at any of the other places he had visited this past week. He would know her voice anywhere.

Why wasn’t he just letting this go? She clearly didn’t fancy him. He would have, he assured himself, if there wasn’t a chance of her carrying his bastard. But for that he’d have abandoned the quest days ago.

The twisting in his gut was simply concern about an unwanted child. He would act the same with any woman. Wouldn’t he?

Of course he would. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want a child. But he’d be damned if he’d let any child of his bear such a stigma. The thought of it made him feel ill.

All these years, he’d been so damned careful, so sure he could present his brother with what was rightfully his. The title. It would atone for the guilt he’d felt when he’d realised he wasn’t Evernden’s son.

It would make it all up to the man who’d given him a name and