Chapter One

December 1819

The Regent Theatre in Covent Garden vibrated with excitement. The Reverend Francis Brody waited in stillness, a rock amidst the churning waters of the impatient crowd. He adjusted his wire reading glasses on his face and scanned the playbill again . Tonight's performance was a burletta featuring a newly popular leading lady whom he had not met.

Offering pastoral care to the cast of the current comic opera, was part and parcel of Francis's work as temporary curate of Saint Paul's Parish, Covent Garden, for his employer, Reverend Randolph. Attending the theatre to see their performances was not, but he found it a good way to better understand their lives by watching them work.

Around him seethed a restless crowd of fashionable young blades and less congenial men. Primed with alcohol and high spirits, the audience waited impatiently for the much-lauded performance of the latest star of the stage—the ‘delectable' Miss Clarissa Bartlett. The theatre pulsed with a thousand conversations, laughter, and music from its orchestra.

The air of the pit, thick with the smells of perfumes, colognes and sweat, combined with the alcohol-laced breathes of many, assaulted his nose. The heat of myriad candles burning in candelabras sent a trickle of perspiration slithering between his shoulder blades.

Above him, ascended tiers of decorated boxes on three sides of the theatre. They accommodated the more genteel and wealthy patrons, who found the crush of the excitable pit not to their taste. The upper galleries seated the less affluent and only filled halfway through the evening, after the admission price was lowered. High above the audience soared an ornate ceiling.

Francis's older brother, William, a former cavalry officer whose face had set into harsh lines during long years of war service, stood at his side. William leaned in and shouted something in his ear. The hubbub of more than a thousand voices drowned out his words. Francis shook his head to show he didn't understand. William shrugged his shoulders and tapped the face of the fob watch in his hand.

Moments later, the orchestra, hidden in its pit before the stage, commenced a rousing overture, demanding the crowd's attention for the start of the play. Slowly the audience took their seats and quietened in readiness. Francis folded his reading glasses into their case ready to gaze upon the proclaimed beauty.

Newfangled gas lights flared in the wings, illuminating the stage. The curtain rose to reveal a Grecian scene. Francis held his breath.

The narrator stepped forward and recited his spiel as a prelude to the performance. His voice faded away. With a sweep of his arm towards center stage he disappeared into the wing.

And there she was—Miss Clarissa Bartlett.

At the first sight of the young actress, the young bucks in the pit roared with delight and applauded.

Miss Bartlett didn't disappoint at all, dressed as she was in diaphanous Grecian robes that clung to her lithe limbs. A circlet of gold caught up her fair tresses. Her face was a vision of loveliness to rival the Greek goddess, Aphrodite.

Good lord! Francis's eyes widened at the sight of her, and his body reacted in a way that he, as a man of the cloth…an engaged gentlemen to boot, would prefer it didn't. He slipped a finger under his white muslin cravat and tugged it away from the heated skin of his neck. Miss Bartlett was a soul of his parish for whom he had a duty of care. His response was wholly unsuitable!

Francis glanced at William. Even his brother's grim face had relaxed into admiration. The pit vibrated with tense energy, excitement, and undoubted sexual arousal.

Why did women willingly expose themself to the eyes and appetites of such men as these? It wasn't the first time Francis has wondered this and he still didn't have a good answer.

The actresses whom he had asked had laughed in his face and advised him to go preach somewhere else and to leave them to earn their livings in the best way they knew. He despaired they did not seek a better, safer, way of life until it was almost too late and their path had turned to sorrow. Then he offered assistance if they wished it, not condemnation.

The leading lady's performance quickly met with the audience's approval. Francis laughed along with the rest of the audience at the comedy. Beside him, William's rich baritone peeled forth too.

However, as the comic opera progressed Francis became disturbed by the innuendos and ribald comments made by the young bucks around him about the actress on her every appearance on stage. It showed their admiration for her looks, but also a lack of respect for the woman herself.

At the play's conclusion, cat calls, whistles and hurrahs greeted Miss Bartlett's repeated curtain calls. What Francis had not expected was to be both entranced by Clarissa Bartlett and affronted on her behalf.

Concern for her safety crept its fingers through his innards. Could these men be trusted to separate the character from the woman in their minds? What she exposed on stage, they might well demand she reveal off stage.

His tightened his grip on the silver handle of his walking stick. He'd come here tonight to gain an understanding about her life—and he feared he now understood all too clearly. It wasn't enough to gaze upon the actress, he must meet her in person…speak with her.

Soon, before the evening was over, or he might lose his opportunity to offer her help. What if he was too late or she wouldn't listen?

Francis nudged William's hard shoulder, urging him from the pit. He had work to do.

***

Backstage, instead of fighting through the crush of gentlemen making their way towards the green room, Francis forged his way towards the theatre manager's office.

William hung back and came to a halt in the doorway leading there from the backstage area. "I'll leave you now. Good luck with your introduction to the delectable Miss Bartlett," he said, merriment lighting his eyes. "You seem as enamored as all the other men."

"Just performing my role, William," he answered, annoyed that his brother had read him so well.

"Of course." William clapped him on the shoulder, his mouth working to stop the corners of his mouth curving upward.

Francis eyed his brother, ignoring William's disbelief of his motive. "Don't you wish to be introduced to her?"

"Not in the least. I'm happy to continue to admire her from afar."

His response surprised Francis a little—his brother was an unattached and red-blooded male. At times like this, Francis wondered whether perhaps there was someone in William's past who had left a lasting impression, whom he was unwilling to reveal.

Francis dismissed the thought from his mind as William waved him onward down the corridor. He turned towards his goal. He had long ago formed a friendship with the manager, a well-dressed balding man of middling years, to facilitate his entry to the theatre in order to speak with the actresses. "George, a marvelous performance this evening," he said, extending his hand to shake.

The man gave a brief smile of welcome and shook hands. "Reverend Francis, I wondered when you would turn up to see my latest sensation."

Francis smiled in response the manager's welcome of sorts. "She's remarkable. You'll have no trouble filling your theatre for this production."

"I'm hoping her popularity lasts beyond this season." His brow lowered, sending Francis a stern look. "You had better not be here to talk her into becoming a nun or some such," he grumbled.

Francis held up his hands in defense. "Not at all. My only function here is to make sure she and the other actresses know there is somewhere to find support should they find themselves in difficult circumstances due to one or more of these gentlemen." He waved his walking stick towards the noisy, milling crowd of men backstage.

"As long as that's all you do," George answered gruffly.

He grinned at the man. "On my honor. And in order for me to do that, would you introduce me to Miss Bartlett?" He was eager to discover whether she was as attractive in-person as she appeared on the stage and whether her personality matched her beauty.

The theatre manager cast an assessing look over Francis. "Aye, come on then." He led the way into and through the green room. They passed into the actresses' dressing room—a communal cluster of small dressing tables that served all the female cast except the leading lady. They strode onward to her room at the rear.

Francis knew its location from his past visits here. From every side came the chatter and high-pitched laughter of the actresses and the low hum of gentlemen's voices as they flirted with the ladies and invited them to supper.

George reached the closed door of Miss Bartlett's dressing room and rapped loudly. A flurry of excited anticipation reverberated within his stomach.

The door opened to reveal a glamorously dressed woman approaching middle-age, with still-dark hair, good looks, and a welcoming smile.

"Mrs. Jenkins, good evening," the manager said, with a brief bow.

She inclined her head in response. "Mr. Prentice, you've come to congratulate my niece on her spectacular performance?"

He raised his arms wide. "Indeed I have, and to introduce someone to her."

The woman's eyes glittered and her gaze swept over his shoulder. As soon as her eyes took in Francis's somber black evening clothes and modest white cravat, all her interest in him evaporated. She gave a weak smile of welcome and stepped back into the room. "Any friend of yours…"

From behind them, came the sounds of the crowd of jostling gentlemen, eager to meet the leading lady. Francis followed the manager into the room and closed the door, dimming the noise from the pack outside.

His gaze swept the room. To one side, richly colored costumes hung on an open rack. Against another wall stood a dressing table full of glass jars of potions and make-up, hairbrush and comb, with a candle-lit mirror above.

Miss Bartlett emerged from behind a lacquered black screen. She still wore the costume from her last appearance on stage—a gown of low-cut, flowing silk that clung to her curves. His mouth went dry at the sight of her creamy decolletage. Rich strawberry blonde hair cascaded in corkscrew curls from a Grecian knot atop her crown, while a few wisps floated around her perfect oval face. He longed to reach out a hand and test the springiness of those curls.

Clearly caught while undressing her hair, she held an ornate hair comb in her hand, while its partner remained in place. Her gaze met his over George's shoulder, a half-smile on her face and a look of interest in her eyes.

Francis's heart pounded out a greeting.

"A wonderful performance, Miss Bartlett," the manager said in his brisk manner. He sent her a hearty smile, then his face sobered. "We will discuss a slight change of timing in your first line of the second act tomorrow afternoon at rehearsal." He dipped his chin ending that part of his message and half-turned to Francis beside him. "And now, may I present Reverend Francis Brody, curate of St Paul's Parish, Covent Garden. He periodically visits the theatre to provide any spiritual guidance that the cast and crew might want. Reverend Brody, meet Miss Clarissa Bartlett, my most recent discovery."

The young lady held out her ungloved hand to him with a challenging look in her eye. The scent of lilacs wafted to him. His nostrils flared.

Large aquamarine blue eyes, outlined with kohl emphasizing their size, looked up at him in a coquettish way from beneath long darkened eyelashes. A sprinkle of freckles smattered her nose and cheeks giving her an appearance of fresh wholesomeness. This was totally at odds with the come hither look she seemed to give him now…and to which he was sorely tempted to respond.

Francis took her slim hand in his. "Miss Bartlett, I'm delighted to meet you. May I congratulate you on a wonderful performance. You delighted the whole audience."

"You may, Reverend Francis," she answered, a pert look on her face and her eyes sparkling at the compliment.

"I'll leave you now. Work to do," the theatre manager interrupted and wrenched open the door before striding out and closing the door with a sharp click.

Francis returned his attention to the vision of loveliness in front of him. "I try to attend the theatre periodically to meet the cast and ensure they are aware of the support available to them should they need it at any time in the future."

"What sort of support would that be?" she asked. A look—part questioning, part challenging—occupied her face.

"Spiritual support of course, through St Paul's Church. And should any of the young ladies find themselves in need of support following er…a matter of the heart, I am a director of the London Welfare League Home at Wapping, which can assist." It was his job to care for the souls of these women and assist them to a better life. His attraction to Miss Bartlett, made him want to succeed more than usual.

"Following a liaison, you mean?" she queried, her mouth quirking up on one side.

"Ah…yes, I do."

"What circumstances? And what support would be needed?" Her eyes were lit with merriment.

He coughed discretely. "Any unforeseen consequences of that liaison. The home is for unwed women and provides long-term support."

Behind his shoulder, her aunt tittered.

Miss Bartlett's eyes fixed on his, but not in a friendly way. "Reverend Frank…May I call you that?" Raising her hands to her hips, she didn't wait for him to answer. "Let me be blunt. I have no intention of seeking out your support or your mission. I do not believe I will require the services of either." She dropped her arms and began to turn away.

Francis straightened. Clearly this conversation was not being received with any enthusiasm. "I'm not suggesting that you will." He smiled warmly at her despite the frosty look on her face. "However, it is my duty to advise all women in this theatre that there is support for them, should they choose to seek it."

She turned her gaze to his and raised a sleek eyebrow. "I intend never to need your services, sir."

He was delighted to hear the determination in her voice, if it meant that she would not engage in the affaires de Coeur into which actresses fell so frequently, for either monetary or emotional reasons. Acting was not a well-paid profession for most. "Good. It will please me to never have to assist you in such a matter."

Although she was not receptive to his message, he was determined she would hold the key to receiving help. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card. "Contact me if you ever change your mind. I would be honored to assist you. In the event you might ever need my help in any way, please take my card. You may trust me completely." He pressed his calling card into her limp hand and bowed over it. "I remain your devoted admirer and wish you great success in your career on the stage. Good night."

He looked up into her crystal-clear eyes, losing himself in their blue depths for a moment. A frown line appeared between her brows before she tugged her hand free.

A sharp rap on the door sounded. Probably one of Miss Bartlett's devotees eager to praise her. He opened the door to find Lord Marchmere standing there, impatient for entry. Viscount Travener, whom he recognized, although he had no acquaintance, stood at his shoulder.

From behind Francis came Mrs. Jenkins's warm welcome. "Lord Marchmere," she purred.

Surely, Miss Bartlett could do better than Marchmere or Travener, if she must form a liaison with a wealthy admirer . Marchmere was an uninspiring choice. Travener, at least was young and good-looking.

Outside, Francis sighed and scanned the room of gentlemen admirers. He didn't expect to see Clarissa again except on the stage. Especially after her mocking rejection of his assistance.

How foolish he was to allow her attitude towards him to drive a small dagger of hurt under his ribcage. It shouldn't disturb. He had received similar responses in the past from actresses.

What would his father, the first Reverend Brody, have said about such foolishness, were he alive?

After all, Miss Bartlett was an up-and-coming actress receiving acclaim from all fashionable London and he was an almost-engaged clergyman. Never the twain would meet and nor should they. Their careers and lives were diametrically opposed.

He had no just reason to be drawn to her. And his attraction could not lead anywhere. But Miss Clarissa Bartlett was temptation personified.