Chapter Three

Francis's eyes jerked open to the filtered light of an overcast day, with one thought on his mind—Miss Clarissa Bartlett. He had seen her leave the theatre with her aunt, the unsavory Earl of Marchmere, as well as Viscount Travener, whose reputation was unknown to him. Her smile had looked forced, rather than delighted to be in their company. In contrast, her aunt had clung to Marchmere's arm in a very familiar manner.

Since then, concern for the actress's welfare had niggled at the back of his mind. And disturbed his sleep. He must talk with her again and ensure she didn't feel pressured to associate with those men.

First, he would visit his older sister Jane and her husband, the Marquis of Dalton, who were back in town for the parliamentary session. They would be able to tell him more about these men and whether he should be concerned about Miss Clarissa Bartlett being in their company.

Hurriedly he dressed and breakfasted. Soon, he strode along the busy streets to Dalton House on Grosvenor Square.

Jane greeted him in her airy sitting room. She was a petite, confident, and articulate bluestocking, and social reformer. "Well, this is an early morning call for a man who was detained at The Regent Theatre until late last night! William was an oddly silent breakfast companion this morning, but he did reveal that you'd remained at the theatre after he left." Her face sported a wry smile.

Francis kissed her cheek in greeting, wondering about his brother. William had been quiet the night before too. He hadn't expressed much interest in the beautiful actresses. "All my attendances at the theatres are in the pursuit of my work, of course, dear sister," he answered in a quelling tone as he fought to suppress the smile that threatened in response to her teasing.

She laughed. "I don't believe you at all."

He clutched his chest with one hand, pretending to be wounded by her disbelief.

"So, how was the divine Miss Bartlett? As beautiful in the flesh as her admirers claim?" Jane asked, with a lift of one eyebrow.

"Very much so."

"Oh ho! Are you too smitten with her, like the rest of the male theatre-going population of London? You have the look of a lovesick young swain."

He sent her a frowning look. "Of course not. She's a member of my flock."

Jane laughed again. "And you, an almost engaged man!" she said, still teasing him.

Francis's stomach clenched at the reminder of his unofficial fiancée, Miss Fanny Hodges. She was the daughter of the rector of a country parish, not far from London. The rector, a friend of his late father, had employed Francis as an assistant curate soon after his ordination five years ago.

Francis had experienced a youthful attraction to Miss Hodges, with no hope of it culminating in marriage until he was appointed to a rectory or vicarage. Nevertheless, the clergyman's daughter had come to feature in his future plans as a suitable bride whenever he was finally appointed to a living, although that might be many years away. In his goal of obtaining a country parish, he was following his father's hoped-for path.

He had been determined not to compromise Fanny or have anything but the most chaste relationship with her, unlike his relationship with a recently widowed landlady in Oxford soon after his graduation. Nevertheless, he and Miss Hodges had become informally engaged—that is, she and their families believed they would marry. A proposal to her had never passed his lips.

That state of being continued today and he was in no hurry to change the status quo, hoping that with time, and given that he had yet to be appointed to a rectory or vicarage, she would lose interest in him and release him from their informal engagement.

One day, however, he would have a parish of his own. Soon after Jane's marriage about a year ago, Jonathan, Marquis of Dalton, had promised Francis the living in Hampshire that was his to bestow, upon the retirement of its incumbent, Reverend Ramsdown. That hoped-for event had not yet occurred.

With each passing year, Francis had felt his attraction to Miss Hodges, stimulated as it had been by proximity, fading away. Now, with this ridiculous fascination with Miss Bartlett occupying his mind and taking over his body, he felt more confused than ever about how his dilemma could be resolved.

As a gentleman, he was in a bind. He and Fanny were not engaged, but her family expected them to marry. Certainly, Fanny took it for granted that they would marry eventually. He could not break off such an understanding. Only Fanny could do that. And currently, that appeared as unlikely as flying to the moon.

He must have continued to frown at his sister, because Jane's face turned serious. "I expect you are calling on me for a reason?" she prompted.

Francis gave an abrupt nod. "I am. What do you know about Lord Marchmere?"

Jane's lips curled in distaste. "He's a scheming, conniving misogynist. Jonathan detests him and, politically, they disagree on just about everything. Why do you ask?"

"He and Viscount Travener escorted Miss Bartlett and her aunt to supper last night and the young lady looked none too happy about it. Should I warn her of either of them?"

"Well, as you probably know, Marchmere is a married man, but the other gentleman is not. Travener is the nephew of my old friend, Mrs. Courtice. When I received her substantial bequest, he was not pleased. It reduced his inheritance, although he received all her real estate."

"Ah!" Immediately after their father's passing two years ago, his sisters had established their school for young ladies in a desperate attempt to survive financially.

At that time, neither he nor any of their other brothers were in a position to assist them financially. William had recently left the army and held only a temporary position as a private secretary. Francis himself had earned a pittance as a curate, and still did; while their two other adult brothers were naval officers serving overseas. The money from Mrs. Courtice's estate had saved his sisters and allowed them to re-open their school.

Jane continued. "I have heard that Travener has fallen into dissolute ways—wine and women, rather than gambling—in the last year, with the aid of his aunt's bequest. If he keeps a mistress, I have no idea. Why are you so concerned about this particular actress?"

"As curate, I'm concerned about all the actresses in the Parish of St Paul's. If Travener is such a man, Miss Bartlett may soon need assistance."

"I'll make further enquiries about Travener, if that will assist your mission." Her eyes showed concern for the unknown young woman.

"Thank you. Now I must go if I'm to meet Dalton and William for our usual session at Gentleman Jackson's Salon and to catch Miss Bartlett when her rehearsal ends." I probably do sound like a lovesick swain.

He pulled Jane into a brief hug and kissed her cheek before striding from the room. The situation for Miss Bartlett was every bit as perilous as he had feared.

***

Rehearsal was underway at The Regent Theatre when Francis arrived in the early afternoon. He took a seat at the back of the foremost box at the side of the theatre. From here he had an unsurpassed view of the stage. One he couldn't afford for any performance in his current employment.

Miss Bartlett ran through her lines and amended the timing of one in particular. Francis smiled afresh at the punch line. The revised delivery made all the difference to its impact.

Francis left his seat to wait in the green room for the cast to return. The scent of theatre make-up and eau de toilette filled the air. Miss Bartlett's aunt was absent today. He wondered whether that was usual.

Francis leaned against the wall beside the door to the actresses' dressing room and didn't have to wait for long.

The leading lady advanced towards him, an arched eyebrow raised in question. "Reverend Frank, here you are again." Her tone sounded perplexed.

Francis pushed himself upright from the wall and spoke quietly, so only she could hear. "I would like a private conversation with you, if I may?" Cast members streamed past into their communal dressing room.

"Really? I cannot think why," she responded in surprise. Clearly she hadn't expected to see him again, especially as she had assured him she had no need of his assistance.

He needed to get his message across without annoying her. "I'm not going to tell you how to live your life…but I noticed you looked uncomfortable when leaving with the gentlemen last night."

Her gaze roamed his face. "It seems to me that you are doing just that, Reverend Frank. Or at least, you're drawing conclusions about my life and looking down on me from a high altar of righteousness."

Francis straightened his shoulders. "I assure you, I am not. I speak only from concern for your welfare." Good Lord! He sounded like a prig of the first order. He noted a few inquisitive gazes upon them from the other cast members. "As I see your aunt is not here today to chaperone you in your dressing room. Let me take you to Guy's Inn around the corner where we can talk without half the cast's eyes upon us. There we may have a degree of privacy without being alone."

Clarissa scanned her surroundings then gave a nod of agreement. "Aunt Dora is indisposed. Let me get my coat and bonnet."

Within minutes they were outside in the drizzling rain. Today Francis carried an umbrella instead of his walking stick. He unfurled it over their heads and they set off towards the inn.

Around them, pedestrians huddled under umbrellas or, if they lacked one, hurried onward, sopping wet. The mingled smells of mud and muck rose to meet them from the slippery pavement and cobblestones.

Inside the noisy warmth of the public dining room of Guy's Inn, Francis closed his umbrella and offered Miss Bartlett his arm. The rain-damp of her kid-gloved hand seeped into his warmth. He led her towards an unoccupied table in a further corner of the room and pulled out a chair for her.

The mixture of patrons in the inn—merchants and clerks primarily—were all too busy with their conversations or reading the latest broadsheet to notice the new belle of The Regent Theatre. The chatter of patrons, the clunk of mugs toasting a deal, the clank of cutlery on plates and bowls, and the bangs of tankards on wooden tables filled the air. Although in a public place, Francis and Clarissa, sitting together in the corner, seemed cut off from the rest of the patrons, in their own little bubble.

Now they were here, Francis swallowed, too tongue-tied to raise the topic that had led him to initiate this meeting. Miss Bartlett radiated an air of bright confidence as her gaze moved curiously over his face and momentarily came to rest on his mouth. He liked it when she looked at him—liked it far too much.

A flustered waitress arrived at their table. "Potato and leek soup or roast beef?" she asked distractedly, giving the limited menu options for the day.

"Miss Bartlett?" Francis enquired.

"The soup, please," she answered.

"He ordered their meals and the waitress hurried away for their meal.

Clarissa fixed her extraordinary eyes on him. "Now, Reverend Frank, you wanted to talk with me privately."

He cleared his throat. "I feel concerned for your welfare. As I do with all the theatre people of my parish. First, I want to know that you suffered no harm last night from the two gentlemen."

She ran a long, assessing look over his face. "My aunt and I had supper with the gentlemen. Nothing—" she hesitated for a momen t "untoward happened. Afterwards, my aunt and I went home together in a hackney carriage."

He smiled in relief. "I'm pleased to hear that. Will you go out with them again?"

Her mouth flattened. "I don't see that is any business of yours." Her chilly tone let him know he was being far too intrusive with his questioning.

His stomach sank. I've offended her. "You're right, of course. So, I will reiterate that you may find assistance at my sister's mission in Wapping, should you ever need a place of refuge. I gave you a card with the address last night."

She looked away. "Yes, I have it still."

He relaxed a little with the knowledge that she had kept the card. "Good."

She turned back to him and pinned him with a look. "However, I will never go there. After spending sixteen years at the Duke Street Orphanage, where my creativity was repressed and almost crushed, I will never seek refuge at an institution again. Luckily, my aunt found me and removed me before I was forced to become a governess or servant."

What? He blinked, taking in this new information. He had imagined her raised in the theatre community by her aunt and possibly other family members for her whole life. How else had she become so proficient and successful a performer?

The harried waitress arrived with their meals. Francis paid for them. Clunking the bowls, a plate of bread and their spoons onto the wooden table, she scurried away with the coins for the meal in her apron pocket.

Francis tore a thick slice of fresh bread into his bowl and took up his spoon. What else could he suggest? "My sisters run a school for young ladies in Harley Street." The comforting warmth of the potato and leek soup filled his mouth. "Perhaps if you are ever in need of refuge, that would be a preferable alternative."

Again she shook her head. "I can't imagine myself at a school for young ladies. I don't belong there and they wouldn't want an actress amongst them and putting off parents." Miss Bartlett began to eat, using her spoon as daintily as any high-born lady.

"You don't know my sisters. Their views are very liberal. My whole family is the same." Which is why men like Marchmere despise us—and we, his opinions.

One side of her mouth crooked up, showing her disbelief. "I think not, despite their views about actresses." Her tone was decisive.

They finished their meal and Miss Bartlett poured each of them a cup of tea from the earthenware pot before her.

Concern for her twisted in Francis's stomach. Why was he going to so much effort for this woman, more than for others? Was his inappropriate attraction to her heightening his protective instincts?

He needed to keep a professional distance in order to assist her, but that was difficult when he was so drawn to her. He didn't want to see the destruction of this beautiful young woman's innocence or the ruination of her career through becoming an unmarried mother. "That is, of course, your choice," he said, and lowered his voice. "I try to refrain from speaking ill of anyone, but Lord Marchmere is a married man. I couldn't help but notice that his interest in your aunt seemed contradictory to that. And Travener…well, the company we keep is a reflection of our true selves, is it not?"

She sipped her tea. His words put a wariness in her gaze.

"If the school is closed for the upcoming Christmas holiday, which is likely as my sisters generally visit Hampshire then, I will give you the address of another place of sanctuary." Francis pulled out a card from the card tin he kept in his pocket and handed it to her. "May we both hope you never have the need to use it."

She glanced at the printed words and tucked the card into her reticule. "Thank you, Reverend Brody, but I doubt I will ever need such assistance as your address." A raised eyebrow added a challenge to her words.

They finished their meal in silence and Francis hailed a hackney carriage for her then assisted her into it. Stepping back from the curb, he dipped his chin in farewell before striding back to St Paul's Church.

Have I done the right thing giving her my address? Have I lost my mind? Should she ever turn up there, her presence would lead to the ruination of both his career and her reputation. If the broadsheets ever got hold of such a tidbit of scandal—an actress and a clergyman living together. Think of the lampooning cartoons that would be drawn!

And yet, he knew he needed to offer her his assistance in any way he could.