Rogue's Charade Read online

  “A lady, are you?”

  She turned her head sharply. There was no trace of a smile on his face, though she’d heard the amusement in his voice. An actor. That meant he was capable of putting on any pose he desired. “And you, sir, are hardly a gentleman.”

  He clapped his hand to his heart. “Madam, you wound me.”

  “Oh, pish,” Blythe muttered, and began to scramble away.

  “No.” He caught her back, and this time she fell against him, her chest to his chest, their faces much too close, and, as for their lower limbs—well! It was a situation not to be borne. “It occurs to me that we have not been properly introduced,” he said, and this time the smile reached his face. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Simon Woodley, madam. At your service.”

  “If you are truly at my service, Mr. Woodley, then you will let me go,” she hissed.

  “No. I’m sorry.” He seemed genuinely regretful. “Not quite yet, miss—?”

  Blythe stared at him stonily. “What do you plan to do with me, sir?”

  “Nothing so very much.” Something sparked in his eyes. “But as I am a convicted murderer, I daresay I can think of something.”

  “I’ll scream!”

  His eyebrow arched. “After giving your word?”

  Blythe glanced away, biting her lip. They both knew she couldn’t fight him. “Please let me go.”

  “Not quite yet.” Gripping her arm, he set her aside and got stiffly to his feet, grimacing as he looked down at himself. “Well. This costume was none too clean before, so I suppose a little more dirt won’t hurt it. But as for you...”

  “What about me?” Blythe asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Much too clean.” And before she could protest, his large, hard hands were rubbing dirt on her cheeks. “Much too proper.” Pulling off her mobcap. “And much too neat.”

  “Stop it!” she cried, as he tugged at the ribbon that bound her hair. It fell in a heavy curtain about her shoulders, more nuisance than anything else, and she pushed it back. He pulled it forward again, tangling his fingers in it and disordering it further.

  “Oh, please—”

  “There.” He stepped back a pace, regarding her with satisfaction, his grip still tight on her arm. If he intended to rub dirt on her clothing, then she really would scream. The full skirt and laced bodice of dark green wool, worn over a linen shift, weren’t beautiful, but she had few clothes. And she didn’t want him touching her body. “I don’t suppose you’d lower your shift to your shoulders—”

  “Touch that, sir, and you’ll pay!”

  “Will I?” He stepped back, his eyebrow arched again. She wondered irrelevantly how he did that. “Some spirit at last? Good.”

  “Good?” she protested as he stepped cautiously out of the service entrance. “There is nothing good about the situation, sir.”

  “I don’t agree.” His teeth flashed in a smile. “We’re alive. What could be better? Do you know any drinking songs?”

  “What? I should say not.”

  “I was afraid of that. Very well, then, I’ll have to carry you. Metaphorically,” he explained at her startled look, as he pulled her out onto the street. “No soldiers, but I’ll not assume we’re safe yet. Now. You needn’t do anything. Just play along.” And with that he slung an arm around her shoulders, leaned heavily upon her, and began a slow, weaving, and apparently drunken progress down the street. “Pretend to be supporting me.”

  “I don’t have to pretend, you oaf!”

  “Heavy, am I? My apologies.” There wasn’t a trace of remorse in his voice. “Don’t worry, it won’t be for long,” he said, and launched into a loud, off-key song. “‘Oh, McKinley is dead and McKinley don’t know it.’”

  “Hush! People will look.”

  “That’s the idea, dearie. ‘McKinley is dead and McKinley don’t know it.’”

  “I am not your dearie.”

  Simon swayed toward her. “‘They’re both of them dead and they’re lyin’ in bed,’” he bellowed. “Then tell me your name.”

  “Oh, very well. Blythe Marden.”

  “There, Miss Marden, and was that so difficult?”

  “If I am found out to be with you my reputation will be ruined,” she hissed.

  He had the nerve to laugh at that. “My apologies, Miss Marden, but there’s more than reputation at stake here. Except for my acting abilities.”

  “Which are atrocious.”

  “Now you wound me, Miss Marden.” He leaned a bit harder on her, and she staggered. “Are those soldiers up ahead?”

  Blythe glanced up. Just ahead was Oxford Street, with its throngs of people, offering a hope of safety. And, indeed, soldiers. “I believe so,” she said with grim satisfaction, “and when they see me with you—”

  “They will think you helped in my escape, and then what will happen?” His voice was almost gentle. “Don’t stare at me so. I know you’re innocent, but will they?”

  “I will tell them, sir!”

  “Looking as you do?” He clicked his teeth. “Not quite the thing, Miss Marden.”

  “Ooh! Because you—you—”

  “Precisely,” he said, and launched into song again. “‘And neither one knows that the other one’s dead.’”

  The soldiers, now only a few feet distant, glanced up, coming instantly to attention. With their muskets held across their chests, they were threatening, menacing. And not just toward the felon who held her captive. Toward her, as well. Blythe’s heart sank. Under other circumstances the soldiers would be a welcome sight. Now, though, she knew what they were seeing: two apparently inebriated people making an erratic progress along a quiet, peaceful street. If they recognized her companion as the escaped criminal, would they think her his accomplice?

  “What do we do?” she whispered.

  “Just play along. It will be fine. And a good day to ye, my foine sirs!” Simon’s voice boomed out. “And would ye be after havin’ a wee drop on ye?”

  One of the soldiers sniggered, until a look from the captain stopped him. “You, there,” he barked. “What is your name?”

  “Me name, sir? Sure, and it’s Seamus O’Reilly, late of Dublin. Ah me, is there not a drop to be found about here?”

  The soldier sniggered again. This time the captain ignored him. “What is your purpose here?”

  “Me purpose? Why, came to see the hangin’, ‘tis sure I did. Foine day for it.”

  “And a fine thing it is when you let the gallows bait escape,” Blythe said in a shrill, nasal voice she hardly recognized as her own. She was aware of the start of surprise that ran through Simon. “A fine thing when you’ve come for a bit of a lark, like, and it don’t ‘appen. I’ve got a mind to complain to someone, I do.”

  Several of the soldiers were openly smiling now, and the captain had relaxed his stance. “Believe me, madam, no one regrets today’s events more than I.”

  “Well, and such fine talk. Ye’re a true gent, sir, that ye are,” Blythe said, and lowered an eyelid in an exaggerated wink.

  The soldiers laughed, and Simon suddenly leaned more heavily upon her, making her stumble. “Oh, go along,” the captain said, the corners of his mouth twitching, as if he held back a smile. “Before we take you in for being a public nuisance.”

  “Thank’ee sirs, thank’ee kindly,” Simon said. “Sure, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “True gents, ye are,” Blythe added, tossing them another glance over her shoulder, and then they were past, plunging into the traffic of Oxford Street. Surely he would let her go now.

  He didn’t. Somehow they managed to avoid the carts and drays and hackneys that seemed to proceed at a mad dash; somehow he managed to keep her close to him, away from anyone who could lend aid. Blythe tugged away, turning toward a soberly dressed gentleman as they reached the other side of the street, and Simon leaned more heavily upon her, making her stumble. “Don’t even try,” he said in a low voice.

  “But you’re safe now.” The crowd w
as behind them now as they hurried along North Audley street, as quiet as Portman Square had been. “Surely you can let me go.”

  “Not yet. Where did you learn to act?”

  “I never did.” That sense of being two people overwhelmed her again. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You could have a career on the stage if you decided to stop being—what is it you are? Someone’s good wife?”

  “No. I am a companion to an elderly woman.”

  “You?” He looked down at her, and something sparked in his eyes, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time. “A waste, princess.”

  Blythe could feel herself flushing. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Just to Hyde Park Corner.”

  “Why?”

  “I expect to meet friends there. And once I’m away, you may tell everyone how I held you captive. If”—he grinned—“they’ll believe you after that performance.”

  Blythe’s lips thinned. “None of this was by my choice, sir.”

  “But a fine companion in crime you’ve been, madam.”

  She cast a look at him as they continued along the street, passing more neat townhouses of yellow and red brick, and the occasional fine home of the gentry. “Are you never serious?”

  “Life is too short to be serious, princess.”

  “Life is too short not to be. Haven’t you any goals, any ambitions—”

  “Lord help me, don’t, princess. Don’t lecture me.”

  “But how can you live like this, outside the law—heaven knows what you do to survive—and how can you live with yourself, knowing what you’ve done?”

  Simon’s mouth tightened in a grim line. “I didn’t do what they said I did.”

  “No? And I suppose they hang innocent men?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, and his voice and eyes were so sincere that her breath caught. Why, he might very well be innocent, at that—but he was an actor, she reminded herself. ‘Twould be foolish to believe him. “We turn here for Tyburn Lane, and then Hyde Park Corner. Just a few more feet, princess, and you’ll be free.”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  “What?”

  “Princess.”

  He considered her for a moment, and she saw for the first time that his eyes were not merely brown, but had golden flecks in their depths. “It suits you.”

  “Ha.” It wasn’t quite a laugh. “No one in my life has ever thought so.”

  “Then that is a shame, princess, and someone should do something about it. Have you a sweetheart?”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your concern. Who is it you’re looking for?”

  “Ah, then you haven’t. Another shame. And I’m looking for a farm cart, with an old man driving.”

  “Where?”

  They turned onto Tyburn Lane, the double row of walnut trees that lined Hyde Park at its eastern boundary shading them with leaves just turning the rich emerald of summer. “At the corner, they said, but—damnation.” He stopped abruptly, jolting her off her feet for a moment, so that she swayed against him. “Where in hell is Gaffer?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. The less you know, the better.”

  “There’s no cart here,” she pointed out. There were other conveyances along the road, of course: fine phaetons and town coaches; the mail coach from Reading, rattling by with the horn blowing; there were people on foot and on horseback. What was not there was a farm cart with an old man driving it.

  “Damn. He probably had to move on.” Simon straightened, releasing her at last, and she rolled her shoulders in relief. “I’ll have to go on my own.”

  “Thank heavens for that!”

  “And you’ll have to come with me.”

  Blythe, edging away, was stopped by his grip on her arm. “No!”

  “Yes,” he said, and began walking east, away from the park, dragging her behind him. “You’re my best chance of escape.”

  “I won’t go!” she protested, scurrying to catch up with his long-limbed strides. “They’ll remember me, you said that yourself—”

  “Can’t be helped.”

  “I won’t go.” Blythe set her feet, resisting the tug of his hand. “I just won’t.”

  “Won’t you?” He turned, and his voice was deadly silent; his eyes, alight with an emotion she couldn’t recognize. “Have you forgotten who I am, then, madam? A foul murderer.”

  Blythe swallowed around a lump in her throat. “No. But I’ll not go, all the same.” She straightened, and where she found her courage, she never knew. “Even if you do kill me.”

  “Kill you?” he said, and surprisingly, laughed. “Ah, but then, sweeting, I lose my safe conduct, do I not? No, you’re safe for now, but for all that, you’re coming with me.” And with that he turned and began walking again, dragging her along Constitution Hill.

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Tch. After giving your word?”

  “Everyone knows women have no sense of honor,” she said, and dug in her heels again. “Help! This man, he’s—”

  “Damnation!” Simon exclaimed, catching her to him, though she struggled. And, before she could protest, his mouth slammed down on hers.

  Chapter Three

  The kiss fell on Blythe’s mouth, opened in readiness for another scream. She found herself locked in his arms, held tight against his chest, and though she struggled, tried to turn her head, it was to no avail. His lips sucked hungrily at hers, his tongue—good heavens, what was he doing with his tongue? She recoiled at the touch of it against hers, and yet something jolted to life within her. Warmth uncurled in a slow stream, low in her belly, and her arms, as if with a will of their own, wrapped themselves about his waist. God help her, she was kissing him back, and she couldn’t seem to stop.

  It was Simon who broke the kiss, pulling back and regarding her with eyes dark and unreadable. “Well, princess,” he said, finally. “Someone’s taught you how to kiss.”

  “What! I never—”

  “Too late now, princess.” He grinned. “But I’ll keep your secret.”

  “There’s no secret to keep—”

  “No? Who will believe you did not willingly kiss me? Not with,” he gestured toward the street, “all these witnesses.”

  She glared at him. “It was a trick. So I’d have no choice but to go along with you.”

  “Of course it was.” He dragged her along. “I do not usually accost women in the street. Even when”—he glanced at her, his eyes glinting—“they kiss as you do, princess.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Mm. Yes. This charade’s wearing thin.” He stopped abruptly, and she stumbled. “You’re right, they’ll be looking for both of us as we look now. You look like a harridan.”

  “Ooh! And whose fault is that?”

  “If I restore you to propriety, madam, will you accompany me?”

  “Being rid of you will restore me to propriety.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “I don’t think so, sweeting. But we can do something about how you look. Have you a kerchief?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Wipe off your face,” he commanded. “And put your hair back up in this.” From inside his shirt he produced her mobcap, the linen wrinkled and crumpled. Blythe snatched at it, glad to have some semblance of normality returned to her on a day when all was topsy-turvy, though the cap carried with it his scent. Not much, just a hint, but enough to disconcert her. “Useful to have props.”

  She looked up at him as she finished stuffing her hair, as neatly as possible under the circumstances, into her cap. “Props?”

  “Your cap.” He nodded toward her hair. “My cane—but I had to discard that. Ah, well.” He caught her arm again, pulling her closer against him. “I shall just have to lean on you, daughter.”

  “Daughter!” Blythe stared at him in disbelief as, hunching over, he seemed to age thirty years before her eyes. He leaned upon her quite convincingly, too, making her almos
t stagger as she walked, reluctantly, beside him. “You are a thorough rogue. Why is it you haven’t been hanged before now?”

  “Luck,” he said, and though his face was set in the querulous lines of infirm old age, laughter lilted in his voice. “How is it you are not married?”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your affair.”

  “Come, princess.” He turned his head, allowing, for just a moment, a youthful grin to penetrate his disguise. “I think we know each other well enough by now to converse politely. After all, we are partners in crime.”

  Blythe stared stonily ahead. The bulk of Buckingham House, in its fresh green garden, rose to her side. With each step she was farther from her home, and safety. “Where are you taking me?”

  She thought she heard him sigh. “Just across the river,” he said, his voice thin and reedy again as they encountered passersby. “You are my safe conduct pass. I am an aged man, in the seventh stage of life. Who would suspect me and my daughter?”

  “Your hostage, you mean.” She paused. “You won’t let me go,” she blurted out.

  “Of course I will, princess.” He looked at her slantwise. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you know I’ll tell everyone where you went.”

  “Ah, but princess, d’you think they’d believe you? For it’s willingly you come with me. Or so it appears.”

  “But, I’m not—”

  “Likely they’ll take you in, too, for helping me. I’ve made a mull of it,” he mused. “Well, I’ll make it right, somehow.”

  “I doubt it. Please.” She hated the pleading in her voice, hated the weakness. “I’ll not tell anyone about you if you’ll just let me go.”

  “I’m sorry, princess,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “I need you to help me out of London. But I’ll make a bargain with you.”

  “What good will that do me?”

  “If you’ll help me escape London, I’ll let you go. And,” he went on, as she opened her mouth, “in such a way no one will suspect you.”

  The look she gave him was suspicious. “How will you do that?”