Rogue's Charade Read online

  “What? Yes.” He looked down at the paper, though he knew the part of the footman well. “‘My dear heart,’” he began, in a teasing, confidential tone, sidling a bit closer to her. “‘Do you not know there is no one for me, but you? For I fear I love you.’” If she could go into character, then so could he. It was acting, nothing more.

  “‘I would believe that if I could, sir. For I fear I love you, too,’” Blythe answered, laying her hand on his arm, lightly at first, and then with more assurance. The barn was warm. No wonder that her touch burned.

  “‘Then let us not talk of parting.’” He turned, catching her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. Her breath caught, her eyes widened, and suddenly what had been only acting, only stagecraft, was more. It was real, her hand in his, the softness of her skin under his lips, the taste and smell and feel of her. It was real.

  “Ah, my lady,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her hand again. This time she tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, keeping her captive. Soon he would go, and leaving her would be one of the hardest things he had ever done. But now, now she was near, and though it was sweet torture, he could not make himself move.

  “Simon,” she whispered.

  His lips had moved to her knuckles now, touching and tasting each one individually. “Yes, princess?”

  “This—isn’t part of the scene.”

  He brought her fingertips to his lips, parted, and her hand jerked. “No?”

  “No.”

  His grasp made her thumb move against his mouth, his teeth, his lips. “Shall I stop?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He looked up, the tip of his tongue still grazing her skin. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were heavy and bright. “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll make a fuss.”

  “Will you?” His arm slid about her waist. He had to be closer, had to feel her near to him. “Will you, indeed?”

  Her mouth was close to his, so close that he felt her breath as she spoke, felt it as his own. “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you, princess.” He lowered her hand, though he didn’t release it, and was gratified to feel her fingers cling to his.

  “Simon, this is acting.”

  “Not for me,” he said, and lowered his head. Her lips were near, lush, sweet, his for the taking. His lips parted, his eyes closed—and someone nearby, much too close, began clapping.

  “Brava. And bravo.” Giles stood over them, genial, smiling. “Not the usual bit of business for that scene, but affecting, my boy. Think I’ll instruct Thomas to do just that in the role.”

  “No.” Simon straightened, face set, as Blythe slipped from his embrace.

  “My company, my boy. I decide who plays what.”

  Simon rose, hands balled into fists at his side. No one was going to kiss his Blythe. No one. “No,” he said again, punctuating the warning by stepping forward.

  Giles peered thoughtfully up at him. “No? Eh, well, maybe not. Thomas wouldn’t play it as well as you.”

  “Simon,” Blythe said from behind him, and he turned to see her still sitting on the bench, hands folded in her lap, looking remarkably composed. “‘Tis only acting.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is it?”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

  “Like hell,” he snorted, and swung away. “Find someone else to rehearse with you, princess. I am leaving.”

  “Simon!” Blythe started up. “Don’t—”

  “Leave the boy go.” Giles caught her arm. “He needs to cool off.”

  “You don’t understand.” She stared past Giles to Simon, stalking out of the barn. “He’s leaving.”

  “Aye, lass.” Giles’s voice was unexpectedly kind. “I know.”

  That made her look at him. “You do?”

  “Aye. He can’t stay, lass. I’ve known that for a time.”

  “But...” She swallowed, hard. “I don’t belong here.”

  “More than you think, lass. Come.” He slung an arm about her shoulder, turning her away from the door. “Thomas will rehearse with you.”

  Blythe planted her feet firmly on the floor. “I’m not going on tonight,” she announced. Not if Simon was leaving. She could not go on stage and act a role, act as if nothing were amiss, when Simon was leaving.

  “But you are, miss.” Giles’s voice was firm. “Aye, and we’ll get you to your family, too. He made me promise that much.”

  She looked up, some of her resolve fading. “He did?”

  “Yes.” His face softened. “He’s a strolling player, lass. Leaving is what he does best.”

  Blythe stared at the opening to the barn, empty, bright. “Yes,” she said, finally admitting what she had always known. Simon was not for her. And why she should care, with all he’d done, was beyond her.

  “It’s better this way, lass.”

  “Yes,” she said again, and this time allowed herself to be turned away, to the safety of the barn and the theater company. Easier, yes, but better? No. Not with Simon gone. She didn’t imagine that life would ever be better again.

  The barn was empty. In the loft Simon finished rolling his few possessions together and looked about him, though he knew he’d left nothing behind. That was the way his life had always been. He moved onto the next play, the next theater. The other actors were his family, and so he didn’t mind not having a stable home. This time was different, though. This time he was leaving behind the hangman’s noose. And this time, he was leaving Blythe.

  Lips set grimly, he hefted the roll onto his shoulder. There was no real need for him to go, at least, not for his own safety. It had been over a week since anyone had seen the mysterious man who pursued him; nor had any officials harassed the troupe about him. He was safe enough. He might have stayed, were it not for Blythe. Sweet Jesus, what had passed between them this afternoon had held as much sweetness, and as much danger, as anything in his life. And not just to him. He would do Blythe no good if he stayed.

  For just a moment he let his thoughts stray to the theater, where Blythe would soon be making her debut. Likely she was nervous. Her first appearance, and she had a leading role. That wasn’t unusual; in such a way managers and actors alike quickly learned who could handle themselves, and who couldn’t. He suspected that Blythe would do well. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be there to see her.

  A sunbeam streamed through a chink in the wall, mellow, golden. ‘Twas getting late. If he was to be going, he would need to leave soon. Squaring his shoulders, he stalked across the loft. He was halfway down the ladder when the barn door, below, creaked open.

  Simon froze. No one but he was in the barn; the entire troupe was supposed to be at the theater. Hell, if someone had gotten curious and decided to investigate...“Woodley!” a voice hissed, and in spite of himself, Simon looked down.

  “McNally.” Relieved, annoyed, he scrambled down the ladder. “What the hell—”

  “No time, lad.” McNally grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the barn. “You’ve got to leave.”

  “Hell, I am, but why such a hurry—”

  “They’ve found you,” McNally blurted. “At least, they think they have.”

  Simon went very still, eyes alert, nostrils flared. “How do you know?”

  “Heard someone near the theater, some local person. They know you’re around.”

  “Bloody hell. Do they know about the barn?”

  “It’s not the barn they’re interested in just now. It’s not even you. Yet.”

  Simon, halfway out the door, turned. “You’d best explain that.”

  “They know you’re here, but not where. We hid you well. But they think they know who will lead them to you.”

  Simon’s bundle dropped to the ground with a thud. “Blythe.”

  “Aye.” McNally’s face was grim. “They plan to arrest Miss Blythe.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blythe stood in the wings, her hair powdered, her bodice tighter laced than usual, awaiting
her cue. Odd, she’d thought she’d be scared. Nervous, at least, as she had been when she’d gone on as a soldier. She wasn’t, though. She knew her lines; knew even what gestures she might use. What she chiefly felt was impatience to get it all over with. It was all playacting. Her life with Simon was, however, all too real.

  “Lass.” Giles grabbed her arm, pulling her back farther into the wings. “You can’t go on.”

  “What?” She glanced out at the stage, lowering her voice in deference to the action, though how anyone could hear the play over the constant applause and conversation in the audience was beyond her. “But my cue is in just a few lines—”

  “Odette is preparing now. If we have to, we’ll ring down the curtain until she’s ready.”

  “But I don’t understand. I’m prepared—”

  “We’ve word of a plot.” Giles’s voice was low, terse. “The local magistrate plans to arrest you.”

  Blythe drew in her breath, sharply. Oh, dear heaven, then she’d been discovered. She knew all too well what that meant. Disgrace, certainly, and possible—no, she would not think about the ultimate punishment. But why would they pursue her when it was Simon they wanted...

  “Bloody hell,” she swore, hardly aware she did so. It was clear to her now. “They don’t want me. They want Simon.”

  “Aye, lass.” Giles shook his head. “I fear they’re here for you. We’ll get you out.”

  “Did you send someone to warn Simon?”

  “Aye, McNally went.”

  “Then what do you think he’ll do?” she demanded, hands on hips. “I don’t care what anyone says about him, or about actors. He’s no coward. He won’t run.”

  Giles’s breath hissed out. “You think he’ll come here?”

  “Yes.” Blythe set her lips in a thin line. “They’ll use me to catch him.”

  “I’ll set someone to warn him off. But you,” he said, as Blythe glanced back toward the stage, “we’ll have to figure out what to do with you.”

  “I’m going on, of course.”

  “Don’t be foolish, lass! Do you want to be caught?”

  “Of course not.” The thought of prison, of what might ultimately happen to her, turned her knees weak with terror. “They won’t arrest me while I’m on stage.”

  “That won’t stop them.” Giles sounded thoroughly exasperated. “They’ll care not for stopping the show.”

  “Then you must keep them back. And you must get Simon away from here. There is my cue,” she said, coolly, and slipped away, onto the stage.

  There was no burst of applause when she entered, which was just as well and which she hadn’t expected; she was new on the stage and the audience wouldn’t know her. On another night, that might have meant something to her. On another night, as when she had played the role of soldier, she would probably have been very aware of herself, of her actions and her lines; aware of the audience, as well. Tonight, though, the mass of people in the auditorium barely registered. Oh, she knew the pit was crowded, that finely dressed people sat in the boxes to either side and above, but no one stood out, no one mattered. Nor did she, not just now. She was a lure to the hunter, no more, and as such she would have to be very, very careful.

  Later her memory of that night, her debut on stage, would be hazy at best. She would not remember how she spoke her lines, or how she moved. She would remember that occasionally the audience laughed or applauded, startling her out of her trance, but for the most part she remained concentrated upon one thing. While she was on stage, while the hunters knew where she was, they would not be on the watch for Simon.

  It was during the second act that activity in the theater began to penetrate through even Blythe’s absorption. The crowd, up until then appreciative, began hissing and booing, breaking her concentration. Faltering just a bit on her lines, Blythe glanced out at the audience, and froze. Soldiers, too many of them, making their way toward the stage, from the back, from the sides. More chilling still was the sight of a man half in the shadows, and yet recognizable: the man from Westminster Bridge, from the Tabard Inn, from the audience last week. The man who, for reasons unknown, was unflagging in his pursuit of Blythe and Simon.

  “Pay heed, princess!” a voice hissed beside her on the stage, and she whipped her head around. As she’d expected, she saw the character of the footman, her lover in the play, attired in rich brocade and powdered wig. It was not Thomas in the role, though. It was Simon.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, before she could stop herself. Oddly enough, that provoked the audience to laughter. “What are you doing?”

  “‘Such coils as you are in will only lead you to more trouble,’” Simon said, the next line of the play. “Go along with me!” he added in a fierce whisper.

  “‘I care not for what you think.’ But you’ll be caught.”

  “‘You care more than you care to admit.’ There’s a plan. Pay heed.”

  Mechanically Blythe spoke her next line, and in the audience someone booed. A day ago, this morning, such a reception would have devastated her. Now it seemed beneath her notice. They were trapped, she and Simon, here on this stage. If there were soldiers out front, then surely they were in the back of the theater as well. “Oh, Simon—”

  Something plopped onto the stage at her feet, spattering her with moisture. It took her a moment to realize that it was an overripe tomato. “We want Odette!” someone yelled in the audience, and others took up the call. From all corners of the auditorium shouting went up, some siding with the call for Odette, but many yelling for the play to proceed. Two men in the pit, apparently not content with verbal abuse, suddenly started swinging at each other, their arms flailing and pumping. “What do we do?” Blythe said, no longer trying to stay in character.

  “Wait.” Simon’s eyes were sharp as he gazed into the auditorium. Chaos had spread across the pit; now a good many of the audience were fighting, spilling into the aisles at either side and halting the progress of the soldiers. “We’ll have a chance.”

  “Redcoats, by God!” someone shouted, a familiar voice, though Blythe couldn’t place it. In that instant the audience’s aggression switched from each other to the soldiers. Within moments the entire theater seemed to rise up as one, screaming, shouting, scrambling across the benches, scuttling into the aisles, a teeming, riotous mass of humanity. All but forgotten were the actors on stage.

  “This way!” a voice barked at Blythe’s side. She turned just as McNally grabbed her arm, dragging her from the stage. Now she knew who had incited the crowd to riot; it had been his voice she’d heard. “The soldiers have enough to do putting down the riot.”

  “In back?” Blythe gasped, letting Simon grasp her other hand, trusting McNally, trusting him.

  “Taken care of for now. The soldiers are busy out front.”

  “You’re a devious soul, McNally,” Simon said, pulling off the wig and tossing it aside as they pounded through the wings and into the corridor.

  “Aye, so I am. We’ve not much time. Put this on,” he added, thrusting a huge black bonnet at Blythe.

  Through the corridor, past milling people trying to find out what was causing such a commotion. “He’s out there,” Blythe gasped, less concerned about the soldiers than the man who pursued them. “The man I saw before—”

  “His name’s Heywood.” McNally stopped abruptly at the stage door. “Wait here and let me check outside—ah, good, the soldiers are busy here, too.”

  “Who?” Simon said, as McNally hustled them out into darkness and the sound of uproar in the distance.

  “Quentin Heywood. Know that much about the man, but little else. Mind your step, now, ‘tis dark on these stairs. There.” Down the stairs, out into the alley that ran alongside the theater. From the end of the alley at the front of the theater came ringing, discordant sounds, voices raised in anger, fists meeting flesh, booted feet running hard. “This way.” McNally caught Blythe’s arm again, pulling her toward the darkness in back of the theater. “There’s a lan
e here. Follow it and you’ll come to a—”

  “There they are!” A shout from the other end of the alley, suddenly illumined by torches. Blythe had time for only a quick look before Simon grabbed her other arm and began running. In that look she’d seen, not only soldiers with muskets at the ready, but the mysterious, menacing man McNally had just identified as Quentin Heywood. Why was he after them?

  “Go!” McNally gave her a push. “I’ll hold them off.”

  “I’ll repay you this someday,” Simon said, and took to his heels, Blythe’s hand firmly clasped in his.

  “Will he be all right?” Blythe gasped, pounding along beside him. She was a fugitive again, running from a world that had begun to feel familiar, safe. Yet somehow it didn’t bother her. Somehow she felt almost happy.

  “Save your breath,” Simon said, as she was contemplating that odd reaction. “But, yes, he can take care of himself.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Not really. McNally told me roughly where to go on the way to the theater, but that’s all.” The lane ran between neat rows of cottages, edged by hedges, and the back of shops, all in darkness. “We need to find a place to hide—bloody hell.”

  “What?” Blythe asked as Simon slammed them both back against an ivy covered wall, but then she saw them, too. Torches, at the other end of the lane. “Oh, no.”

  “We can’t go back.” From the direction of the theater came shouts. “If we hide—‘tis too dark for them to see us yet—”

  “But they’ll know we’re trapped here, and they’ll find us.”

  “This way,” he said, and to her immense astonishment put his hands to her backside, boosting her up. “Over the wall.”

  “Simon—”

  “Tis our only choice. Go!”

  “‘Tis a good thing I grew up with brothers,” Blythe grumbled, using the ivy that covered the wall to hold to, until she reached the top. Good heavens, it was at least a ten foot drop to the ground, and no ivy here to provide a grip. Nothing for it, then, but to jump. She took a deep breath, preparing herself, when Simon scrambled up beside her. With only a quick glance he jumped, landing lightly on the ground, and held his arms up to her. She didn’t wait; she only trusted. She jumped, and his arms, strong, hard, caught her.