Rogue's Charade Page 14

  “Hide in plain sight.” Giles grinned at him. “Go along now and take her with you. Help her find Mrs. Staples.”

  Blythe, standing at the back of the stage and tucking hair into her mobcap, looked up, eyes wide and startled. “I can manage, I’m sure.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Simon interrupted, and held his arm out. “Well, princess?”

  Blythe looked at his arm for a moment and then nodded curtly, turning away and walking offstage. Ah, well, what had he expected? Still, it was as much a treat to walk behind her down the corridor as at her side, to watch her skirts twitching back and forth with the sway of her hips. A quite seductive sway, though he doubted she realized it. “You did well, princess.”

  “Oh?” She quickened her step. “Then why did you laugh?”

  “Not at you, I assure you.”

  “No?” She stopped, turning. “Why, then?”

  “At myself,” he said, ruefully. “At wanting what I can’t have.”

  “Oh.” She glanced away. “Mr. Woodley, this morning I may have said some things—”

  “Blythe.” He held up his hand. “Don’t. If anyone should apologize, ‘tis I.”

  “You? Why?”

  “For presuming too much. I forgot that you are not a part of this world.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she spun around, skirts flouncing. “You needn’t talk to me as if I were a child.”

  “I wasn’t,” he protested, following behind her. Now what had he said?

  “I may not have had any choice but to come with you, but I am not some helpless miss.” She stopped, glaring at him with fists upon her hips. “I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  He nodded gravely, though the sight of her flushed cheeks and outthrust chest was vastly diverting. Oh, yes, she was very much a woman. “I doubt I’ll forget that, princess.”

  “And that’s another thing. Must you call me by that silly name?”

  He shrugged. “It suits you. Why are you snapping at me?”

  Her mouth opened, and then closed again. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I am sorry.”

  “‘Tis of no moment. Come.” He stepped forward, taking her elbow. “Let us find Mrs. Staples.”

  “Simon.” She didn’t move, and he looked down at her. “Did I—that is, do you think—should I be on stage?”

  “‘Tis an easy role, princess. You did well.”

  Her cheeks went pink. “Thank you, but that’s not what I meant. What if someone recognizes me?”

  “Not likely, after Mrs. Staples is done with you.” He opened a door set into the corridor. “The ladies’ dressing room,” he said, politely averting his eyes. “Mrs. Staples is in the back.”

  “Oh.” Blythe glanced into the room, a confusion of women in various stages of dress and undress, some speaking lines or applying makeup while looking at themselves in a small mirror, others tending to their babies. At the back of the room a stout matron bent to pin a hem on a gown, while on a table were scattered garments of various sizes and hues. “I—then I suppose we’ll talk later.”

  “I suppose we will.” He nodded, stepping away from the door. “Break a leg tonight,” he added, and walked away, leaving Blythe to stare after him in stunned surprise. Whyever would he want her to suffer such a thing? For the life of her, she would never understand him.

  By that evening, Blythe was wishing heartily that she had indeed broken her leg, or that some other dire disaster had befallen her, to keep her from having to go out onto the stage. She could not think why it had seemed so good an idea this morning, such a lark. But then, she had always longed for adventure, and look where that had got her.

  “A most fetching outfit,” a voice whispered in her ear, and she closed her eyes. Simon. Of course he would be here to taunt her.

  “Go away,” she hissed, looking out from the wings onto the stage. She was on next scene, McNally had told her, as if she didn’t know. She had been dreading this moment all evening.

  “I’m serious.” Simon’s hand rested on her shoulder, and she turned to see him grinning at her. “At least from behind.”

  The look she gave him would have frozen a lesser man; he only smiled. She knew quite well how she looked, dressed as she was as a soldier, in white breeches and red coat. The breeches were extremely immodest, disclosing the lower part of her body. The heavy coat fortunately afforded her some protection, while the powdered wig, though itchy, helped conceal her identity. Her reputation had already suffered a devastating blow. If it was learned she’d been on stage, she would never recover. And Simon seemed to find the whole thing amusing! “Would you please go away? You are bothering me.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “No.”

  “You are.” He stepped back, appraising her. “You’re pale and sweating. You’re not going to cast up your accounts, are you?”

  She rounded on him. “I’m not such a poor honey that I’ll make myself ill over this! And if I have to go out there to prove it to you, I will.”

  His smile had broadened into a grin. “Break a leg,” he said again, and gave her a push. “You’re on.”

  Blythe stumbled onto the stage, her knees suddenly weak, feeling as if she was indeed about to be sick. Oh, mercy, what had she got herself into? She was no actress, and yet here she was, about to stand upon the stage for an entire scene. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go out there and face the audience she knew waited beyond the edge of the stage, rumbling, ravening. Waiting to devour her. She couldn’t.

  “Come on, lass.” Thomas, who was taking the part of the other soldier, caught her elbow. “We’re on.”

  She had no time to protest. Thomas dragged her a few feet before she recovered herself. Striding next to him, she was only slightly out of breath, and trembled only from head to toe. Walk forward, turn to the left five paces, face ahead with musket by her side, rather than a spear. Stand absolutely still, and let the actors, the real actors, play out their roles, while she and Thomas stood there, bits of human scenery. A soldier at his post would stand at attention, she thought, holding herself stiffly, her sweaty grip keeping the musket upright. He would not move, unless the people he guarded were threatened. And since that didn’t happen in this scene, all Blythe had to do was stand in one place.

  All at once she relaxed. Phoebe was well away, speaking her lines as if she truly believed them. No one, on the stage or in the audience, was paying Blythe the slightest heed. Her breath came easier; her knees unlocked, and the buzzing in her head faded. Why, this wasn’t so difficult after all. Whyever had she been so frightened?

  No longer tense, she could at last appreciate where she was. Above her, the vast chandelier, candles aglow, spread bright, if uneven, light onto the stage. Beyond the footlights the first rows of the pit were similarly illumined, and it was here that her fascinated gaze rested. The theater was crowded, with people of all ages and sizes and descriptions. Respectable matrons sat in tightly pressed rows, against prosperous merchants. A group of well-dressed young men lounging back as best they could and trying to look bored, mingled with shabbily-dressed, wide-eyed people, tradesmen or farmers, perhaps, in the theater for the first time. The gentry clustered in the boxes that ringed the auditorium, their finery of silks and satins stunning; their manners, as they conversed with each other throughout the play, leaving much to be desired. Row upon row the people stretched, those in the back lit by chandeliers similar to the one on the stage. They were all different, yet all the same. They all applauded certain speeches, or hissed when they were displeased. And Phoebe, no longer a timid, plain girl but instead, very much Lady Macbeth, was holding them all spellbound.

  Blythe’s gaze drifted back, stopped briefly onto the stage, and then settled again on the audience. Who were they, these people? What had brought them to the theater tonight? That scholarly looking old gentleman, there, was nodding his head in appreciation, while a matron of uncertain age couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Lester, resplendent in a doublet of midnight blue.
Beside her a man in a coat of brilliant emerald brocade and powdered periwig sat very still, arms crossed. He was the only one Blythe could see who looked remotely bored. Strange he’d be here, then, unless he had another reason. Mayhaps he was meeting someone, one of the actresses. He certainly seemed alert, his deep set, oddly light eyes peering at the stage as if trying to penetrate beyond the wings, beyond the words and the poses to the people within. Strange, for what would he find? Only some very ordinary actors, and one companion, masquerading as a soldier. Certainly not a fugitive from justice—

  Blythe’s grip on the musket slipped, and the stock clattered onto the stage. Several of the cast sent her sharp looks, but the audience appeared unaware. Thank heavens. Oh, thank heavens. For, unless she was wrong, the man in the green brocade coat, the watcher who seemed bored yet was alert, was someone she knew. She knew his face from her nightmares, where he chased her continually, over a bridge, through a stream. But she knew him from more than dreams. He was the man who had hunted her and Simon from the first, and he was here. Oh, mercy. They’d been found out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blythe’s first impulse was to run. What held her there she never afterward knew; it might have been the trembling in her legs, or Phoebe’s stern glance. Certainly she did realize, if belatedly, that running from the stage would only draw attention to herself. And so she stood very still, gripping the stage musket as if her very life depended upon it, as if it were a real weapon and not a cobbled-together bit of wood and iron and paint. She did not break her role. She had never been on the stage before and likely never would be again, but somehow she was very proud of herself for that. She stayed in character.

  The scene came at last to an end, and with it, the act. The curtain fell, shielding her from the audience. Phoebe was suddenly herself again; Giles very much the manager, directing the changing of scenery and the placement of people on the stage. Blythe’s part was done. She was no longer a soldier, but a frightened and bewildered young woman. Where was Simon? Oh, she had to warn him. Into the wings, past the actors who would go on next; through the narrow corridor, bustling with people; into the green room, smiling briefly as someone complimented her on her debut. She scanned the room. If she didn’t find him soon, he was likely to walk into danger.

  “You all right, miss?” McNally said by her side, and she started. “You’re all pale, like.”

  “Am I?” She glanced around again. “Shouldn’t you be on the stage, if you’re the prompter?”

  “I had Robbie take over. What’s amiss, lass?”

  She turned to him. If anyone could help, McNally could. “I have to find Simon,” she said in a low voice. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Around and about, I’d imagine. Nervous at being on stage, eh?”

  “No,” she said, remembering her earlier fear with distant surprise. The threat of going on stage was as nothing to the threat she faced now. “Can you find him?”

  McNally frowned. “Probably. Is summat wrong?”

  “More than summat.” With that same sense of distance she heard herself mimicking his accent precisely, and saw his mouth purse in surprise. “Someone who has been chasing us is in the audience, and—”

  “Where?” he interrupted.

  “Does it matter? Simon needs to be warned, and he’ll need a safe way to leave the theater.”

  “Aye, it matters, lass. At the interval he might come back here,” McNally, said, waving his hand about.

  Blythe followed his gesture, frowning, and realized for the first time that she didn’t know many of the people in the green room. “Why? Who are all these people?”

  “Civilians. People not in the theater,” he said at her look of confusion. “Men lookin’ for a lady love.”

  She felt her face growing warm. “Oh.”

  “Our man might come here. If I know who he is I can post someone to keep him away.”

  Blythe nodded, wondering again at the loyalty that ran so strong among the troupe. “Front row, center. He has pale eyes and full lips and he’s wearing a coat of green brocade. You might see him from the wings.”

  “I’ll look,” McNally said tersely, and slipped off toward the stage.

  Blythe bit her lips. McNally was competent, and she’d no doubt he’d keep the pursuer away, but in the meantime Simon was in danger. Not that she should care, she thought crossly, threading her way through the crowd to the green room door. The sooner he was caught, the sooner she could go on with her life.

  The door to the corridor opened just as Blythe reached it. She stepped back, but not in time; of a sudden her view was filled by a broad, and familiar, masculine chest. Her hands came up as of their own volition to steady herself, settled on warm, crumpled homespun covering firm muscles, and couldn’t seem to pull away. His hands caught her arms. “Easy there,” he said, grinning. “You’re in a tizzy.”

  “Please unhand me,” she said, as haughty as could be, her worry lost in rising annoyance. Must he stand so close to her, so that she could feel his warmth against her skin, hear the quick rasp of his breathing?

  “Gladly, princess.” He stepped back, grinning. “Wouldn’t want people to think I prefer boys.”

  “What?” she said, blankly, and followed his gaze, long, meaningful, over her body. With a jolt she remembered she was still in costume.

  “Not that you don’t look fetching,” he went on, smile widening. “What is it, princess? Do I scare you so much?”

  “Yes. No. It doesn’t matter.” Oh, yes, he scared her, but not in the way he meant. “Oh, will you please stop talking nonsense?” she exclaimed, and stepped out into the hall, catching his hand and dragging him behind her. The corridor was nearly deserted, giving them a measure of privacy, and yet at any moment they might find themselves confronting their pursuer. “You’re in danger.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “I’m serious! We’ve trouble,” she said, and quickly told him all that had occurred in the past moments. Simon’s face grew still, but his hands gripping her arms betrayed his emotion.

  “Hell,” he said when she finished. “Then he saw you—”

  “You needn’t worry I’ll betray you,” she retorted, stung. “Else why would I warn you?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, princess. Well?” This to McNally, as he approached them from the stage.

  “He’s there.” McNally’s voice was terse. “I marked him, and I’ll know him if he comes back here.”

  “Never mind that. We must get Miss Marden away.”

  “Aye, and you too, lad, or have you forgotten ‘tis your neck they want to stretch?”

  “‘Tis why he wants me gone,” Blythe said, bitterly. “Well, sir, I cannot go. I have another scene yet.”

  Simon swore, briefly, colorfully. “To hell with the scene. To hell with the play. You’re getting out of here—”

  “If it were you, wouldn’t you go on?” she challenged, hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “You’re not me, princess. And don’t you think our friend will recognize you?”

  “If he had, he’d be back here already. Please, make him go,” she said, turning to McNally. “I’ve the scene, and even if I didn’t, there’s no time for me to change out of costume.”

  “Aye, you’ve the right of it, lass.” McNally nodded. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders.”

  Simon swore again. “What she’s suggesting is suicide.”

  Blythe put up her chin. “Hide in plain sight,” she said.

  Simon blinked, and in that moment she knew she’d won. The performance she’d just given far surpassed what she had earlier done on the stage, but she took little satisfaction from it. She didn’t want to go out there again, didn’t want to stand stiff and still, a waiting target, but she would. Simon needed time to escape, and she would give it to him. The thought of his being caught was somehow more than she could bear. “Hell, princess—”

  Blythe started. Mercy, what was she thinking? “I should b
e on stage,” she said, and turning, fled from him.

  Exhilaration buoyed her as she fidgeted in the wings, grabbing the prop musket from where she’d left it. This was adventure of the highest order, and for the first time she was excited. All she had to do was play her part, and then slip back to the room she shared with Katherine. Dressed as she was, she doubted the pursuer would recognize her, and Simon would be able to escape. All in all, a good night’s work.

  She was still feeling buoyant when her cue came. She stepped onto the stage, marching stiffly, musket propped against her shoulder. Why had this scared her so earlier? All she need do was stand still. Not so terribly hard, or frightening. Not like saying lines. In place at last, she set her musket down and stood to attention, her eyes, now accustomed to the glare of the chandelier, automatically scanning the audience and settling on the front row. It took a moment for her brain to register what she saw. Their pursuer was gone.

  She gasped, earning a quick, irate frown from Giles, who was well into a speech. Dear God. While she and Simon had argued, their pursuer had disappeared. He could simply have left the theater, but she doubted it. Even now he could be on his way to summon soldiers, or to come backstage and make the arrest himself. And here she was, on stage, a perfect target.

  The scene seemed to drag on forever. Terror kept her in place, while at the same time her jangled nerves urged her to flee, to hide. If she was not found, then she could not tell where Simon was. But, again, she knew that if she bolted she would only draw unwanted attention to herself. She was well and truly stuck.

  The scene came to an end at last. Mechanically she turned along with Thomas, shouldered her musket, and marched offstage, aware as never before of peoples’ gazes on her. Of his gaze on her, though he had left. Only when she had reached the relative safety of the wings did she let herself so much as breath. This particular nightmare was over. Shoulders sagging, she stepped into the green room, and stiffened. Across the room stood a man, clad in green brocade. Though his back was to her she recognized the arrogant tilt of his head. He was, unmistakably, the man who had been pursuing her and Simon.