Silver Deceptions

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Faith, but the man was perceptive. “But you won’t know that for certain until you try, will you?”

  “Why try when I know what the outcome will be, when the only thing of real value you wish from me is information?”

  Her stomach clenched. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You want to know about your relatives, the Maynards.”

  Alarm gripped her. How much had he guessed of her true purpose in coming to London? Had he found some other source of information about her? Like from her real father, perhaps?

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, fighting to still the frantic fluttering of her heart.

  “Come now, don’t be evasive.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not good at it. I don’t know why you’re so interested in the Maynards of London, but I promise to tell you all you wish to know.”

  Charity hadn’t been successful in questioning the Earl of Walcester’s servants, who’d been suspicious of an actress’s maid. All she could find out was that he was a man with high connections and very well respected by the king. That told her little she could use. Yet here was Colin offering to tell her everything. Did that mean Walcester was indeed her father? Did Colin know her father better than he said? And why was he so certain that knowledge of the Maynards would interest her?

  The more she thought about it, the more panicked she grew. After all, Colin had once been a spy for the Crown. Who knew what other people he might spy for?

  He couldn’t be trusted, that was certain. No matter what his intentions, she doubted they were limited to making her his mistress. He might offer her information, but he would no doubt try to guess her secrets before he’d tell her anything of substance. If he did figure out what she was up to, he’d warn her father off. Then she’d never find out who the man was, never have the chance to wreak her vengeance.

  And Mother’s death would have been a hollow cry in the wind.

  That decided her. He’d gotten far too close, and she’d let him toy with her far too long. “Sir John!” she cried.

  The conversation in the next room stopped, and Colin froze, his face marked by surprise.

  Sir John appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you two coming in to supper?”

  There was only one way to rid oneself of a too-persistent gallant. It wasn’t a way she relished, but she saw no other choice. “This rude coxcomb is bothering me. He’s making indecent proposals and refusing to unhand me.”

  Colin dropped her hand as if he’d been burned and cast her a look of such contempt that she wished she could take back her words. But she dared not. It was the only way to stop his pursuit.

  The unspoken rule among actresses and rakes was that the rakes pursued and the actresses played coy. Never did they take it seriously or make their sparring publicly uncomfortable.

  Sir John’s embarrassment demonstrated that. Of course, Sir John didn’t give a farthing for her reputation or her feelings. After all, actresses were considered little more than whores. If a gentleman insulted one, who would care?

  Still, she was making a scene, and neither Colin nor Sir John would deal well with that. Good, she thought. The sooner she became unpopular with their circle, the better.

  “Will you throw this insolent brute out, Sir John?” she persisted, determined to play the role of injured lady.

  Sir John muttered a low curse. Those in the dining room had come to stand in the doorway and watch. With a glance at them, he said placatingly, “Now, Annabelle, I’m sure Hampden didn’t mean to—”

  “So you will allow me to be insulted by an unmannerly bastard in your home?” The word bastard made both men stiffen, but she went on relentlessly, “If you won’t throw him out, I shall leave.”

  Sir John flushed. He’d never throw Hampden out. That was what made the situation galling . . . and effective. It perpetuated the humiliation. Of course, Sir John might just call her a strumpet and tell her to leave if she couldn’t handle the rakes. But with Charity there, she didn’t think he would.

  In the end, he didn’t have to. “No need to evict me,” Colin ground out. “I find I have no stomach for supper all of a sudden. Good evening.”

  He stalked from the room without another word or glance her way.

  Her heart plummeted. She’d finally succeeded in driving him away. So why did she feel so wretched?

  “You’re a heartless wench,” Sir John muttered as the front door slammed. “Hampden doesn’t deserve your sharp words. He’d show you more care than any man I know. You had no cause to spurn him before his friends.”

  His other guests, deprived of a spectacle, drifted back into the dining room, leaving them alone.

  “He’ll recover,” she managed to say through the lump of guilt in her throat.

  “No doubt he will. He’s used to treachery from actresses.” He said the word actresses with such contempt that she cringed. “His mother was one, and the cruel creature gave him up to his father without so much as a protest.”

  She blinked. “But Lord Hampden . . . I mean . . . I thought he was—”

  “A nobleman? He is now. He’s a bastard, but Charles saw fit to give him a title for his service to the Crown. He’s become powerful enough that most ignore his true origins. Unless someone reminds them of it, that is.”

  Guilt ripped through her, cold as a knife blade. “I didn’t know . . . I never heard . . .” Oh, how she wished she could take the words back. She, of all people, was well aware what it was like to be mistreated for one’s bastardy.

  “You’ll never snare a man as fine as that again.” Sir John’s condemning gaze sliced through her. “Though perhaps you truly prefer strutting cocks like Somerset. If so, Hampden’s better off without you. And you’re a woman to be pitied.”

  In more ways than one.

  She’d stopped Hampden before he could unveil her secrets—but she hadn’t thought it would hurt so much to do it.

  Chapter Seven

  “Whilst we strive

  To live most free, we’re caught in our own toils.”

  —John Ford, The Lover’s Melancholy, Act 1, Sc. 3

  Three days had passed since she’d called Colin a bastard, and Annabelle still felt wretched. Sir John refused to talk to her, and though Charity, as always¸ stood by her mistress, Annabelle could detect a coolness in her.

  Still, it wasn’t their behavior that disturbed her; it was the thought of what she’d said. Couldn’t she have found a better way to be rid of him, one that wouldn’t have left her feeling like a shrew?

  Now she stood in the tiring-room alone, cursing as she struggled to remove her gown. Where in heaven was Charity? Act 3 was to begin at any moment, and Annabelle had to change her costume.

  This week, Sir William Davenant had given Annabelle her first major role, the one of Selina in The School of Compliments. She still hadn’t gotten over her nervousness, even though it was her third night of playing the part. She glanced ruefully at the shepherd’s disguise she was to wear for the remainder of the play. At this rate, she’d never get it on.

  “Somebody help me!” she shouted as she strained to reach her laces.

  “I’ve got it!” Charity called and rushed in. As she pulled Annabelle’s laces loose, she said, “You’ll never guess who’s in the audience tonight!”

  “Colin?”

  “That’s not who I meant, but aye, he’s here, though I’m surprised to see him. He told Sir John that you’d driven him to the King’s Theater, where he could watch a more congenial woman flaunt her charms.”

  They both knew whom he meant—Nell Gwyn, who captivated all the gallants these days. “Yet he came back.”

  “Not for you, I’ll wager.” Charity yanked the gown over Annabelle’s head. “He’s sitting with a lady of quality.”

  “Good,” she lied, swallowing her jealousy with some difficulty.

  “Anyway, ’tis not Lord Hampden I came to tell you of,” Charity said. “ ’ Tis His Majesty, Old Rowley h
imself.”

  Annabelle pulled on the breeches of her shepherd’s costume. “What? The king is here? Tonight? But the royal box was empty.”

  Charity gave her a secretive smile. “Aye, it was. He’s what Moll Davis calls ‘incognito.’ She says he does that sometimes—puts on common clothing and goes about town. She’s seen him before, when he’s come to watch her on the stage. Tonight she spotted him sitting with the Duke of York.”

  “Is she sure it’s His Majesty?”

  “As many times as she’s graced his bed, she ought to be familiar with his countenance.” With certain malicious glee, Charity added, “So she’s none too happy y’re to dance tonight, especially in those tight breeches. Mrs. ‘Put-on-Airs’ tried to cozy up to Sir William to convince him she would do better in the part, but of course, he’s used to Moll’s petty jealousies and he ignored her.”

  Annabelle groaned. “I wish you hadn’t told me.” She stood still while Charity put the shepherd’s smock on her and buttoned it. “Now I shall be nervous and make a laughingstock of myself before the king himself.” And Colin, too, curse it.

  “Stop talking such nonsense. You’ll dance and kick up yer pretty heels, and they’ll all be mightily impressed.”

  Colin wouldn’t be. And she hated to admit it, but he was the only one whose opinion she cared about.

  Not that it mattered. She couldn’t take back the words she’d spoken at Sir John’s, and shouldn’t take them back in any case. It was better to leave matters as they were.

  Yet even after she took the stage, she found herself speaking every line differently, conscious of his presence. Performing for the king was nothing compared to performing for Colin. He would appreciate the nuances of her role more than anyone else, and she couldn’t help but want it to be perfect.

  When it came time for her dance in the fifth act, she pirouetted and swirled for Colin, the man she could never have, whom she both feared and desired.

  She scarcely noticed that the gallants were cheering when the dance ended. Nor did she do more than drift through the end of the play. All she could think of was what Colin would say about it . . . if he were speaking to her, that is.

  As she left the stage at the end of the last act, Charity came up to point out where the king sat, but she didn’t care. Nor was she swayed by everyone’s compliments over her performance. And when they returned to the stage to take their bows and the king himself smiled at her before slipping out the doors with the duke, she did little more than nod in return. She was too busy scanning the theater for Colin.

  She only spotted him as they filed offstage. He sat in a box with a beautiful blond woman at his side. He wasn’t even looking at the stage, but was instead whispering something in the woman’s ear, to which she responded with a laugh.

  Annabelle fought down the ache in her belly. This was what she’d wanted. This was how it had to be. But her steps dragged as she approached the tiring-room.

  A young man waited there, an envelope in his hand. She recognized him at once—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, one of the most notorious blades in London, even at the age of twenty-one. She’d seen the handsome rake often backstage, lounging among the actresses.

  She started to pass him, assuming he was waiting to see Moll Davis, whom he’d reputedly bedded. But then he thrust the envelope at her with his typically mocking smile.

  Curious about who could have written her a note to be carried by so important a personage as Rochester, she opened the envelope and drew out the paper. The seal at the top stopped her cold.

  With her throat tightening, she read: I enjoyed your dance tremendously. Would you give me the honor of supping with me at Whitehall this evening? I’ll send Rochester for you at nine. I do hope you’ll come. It was signed Charles.

  She’d forgotten about Rochester observing her with his heavy-lidded gaze until he asked, with faint sarcasm, “What is your reply, madam?”

  Charity had come out of the tiring-room. Stunned, Annabelle handed her the note. Charity read it, then exclaimed under her breath.

  “I suppose I should give you time to compose yourself,” Rochester said snidely, “but I must return a reply, although I’m sure I know what it will be.”

  “She’ll be ready at nine,” Charity answered as Annabelle stood frozen. “You tell His Majesty she’ll be waiting.”

  Rochester made a sketchy bow, then vanished into the theater.

  “Odsfish, His Majesty!” Charity exclaimed. “You know what this means, don’t you? When His Majesty asks a woman to sup—”

  “He wants to bed her,” Annabelle finished. “I can’t go! You know I can’t!”

  “Whyever not? Here’s your chance to be His Majesty’s latest mistress. Barbara Palmer isn’t much in favor with him these days, and we both know you’d be more apt to keep his attention than that snooty Moll Davis.”

  Annabelle yanked Charity into an alcove. “I didn’t come to London to become the king’s whore!”

  Charity squeezed her hands. “There, there, I know the thought of lying with the king might frighten you a bit. Rumor has it that Old Rowley is . . . well . . . rather large in his privates. But for pity’s sake, do you know how many women wish to lie with him?”

  “And how many have already,” Annabelle said in a tense whisper. “I can’t do it, I tell you.” She could hardly explain that after being touched intimately by Colin she could never let another man touch her so. “Besides, the king is as fertile as a rabbit. It’s all well and good for a married lady like Barbara Palmer to bear his children, but any child I bore would be a bastard. I won’t do it!”

  “You have a point.” Charity glanced worriedly about them and lowered her voice. “But it isn’t politic to refuse His Majesty. Sir William would turn you out if you incurred his displeasure. And ’tis not as if you can drug the king with yer tea.”

  “That didn’t always work anyway.” Annabelle sighed. “Colin saw right through that ploy. A pity I’m not as wily as Colin. If he were here, he’d come up with some great stratagem to fool the king.”

  Her mind began to race, remembering how expertly he’d rid himself of Lord Somerset whenever he wished. Colin excelled at such maneuverings. If anyone could help her out of this mess, he could.

  Of course, asking him for help would be galling . . . if he didn’t ignore her pleas outright. But if she didn’t ask, she’d be deflowered by the king before morning. Or else turned off from the theater entirely.

  “Do you think Colin has left yet?” Annabelle asked.

  Charity frowned. “I know what you’re considering, madam, but it’s madness. Y’ve spurned his gifts and spurned the man himself publicly. Not likely he’ll do yer bidding now.”

  “I have to try, don’t you see? I—I can’t lie with the king. ’Twould make me a wanton in more than just name.”

  The maid’s expression softened. “Aye, dear heart, I know. But if you go running after his lordship, he’ll take one look at you and run t’other way. Let me talk to him. I’ll see if I can’t convince him to help you.”

  As relief flooded Annabelle, she hugged Charity tightly. “Thank you, thank you! Please, Charity, do catch him and bring him back here.”

  “Go wait in the tiring-room for me. If I’m not back in a few minutes, go on home and I’ll meet you there, for I may have to track him down.”

  “We’ve got a few hours yet.” With the play over, it was only about five o’clock. “But please hurry.” She paused, then added in a quavering voice, “Tell his lordship I’ll do anything . . . not to ‘sup’ with the king.”

  Charity raised an eyebrow. “I’ll not be making promises you don’t intend to keep. But I’ll get his lordship back here, come what may.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Annabelle alone to realize she would indeed do anything to keep from supping with the king. Because, in truth, the only man she wanted to “sup” with was Colin.

  “ ’SDEATH, MINA, WHERE is that damnable coach?” Colin scanned the road but saw noth
ing but a sea of other carriages. “Falkham ought to boot your coachman out the door the first chance he gets.”

  “Why? Because he doesn’t drive fast enough to suit you and doesn’t appear in the twinkling of an eye when you want him?”

  He forced a smile. “Because he keeps you waiting in the bad weather.”

  She slapped at his arm with her closed fan. “You’ve spent all night frowning and complaining and now you mean to redeem yourself with one chivalrous statement? You should be ashamed of yourself. I’ll tell Falkham you’ve lost all your wit.”

  Falkham would laugh to hear that, for he was generally the one accused of that. But in truth, Colin had been a bear all evening, and all because of Annabelle, damn the woman. He’d vowed to avoid the Duke’s Theater, no matter what Walcester asked of him. Then he’d foolishly allowed Mina to talk him into accompanying her to the play. Now he regretted it.

  He could still remember the Silver Swan dancing gracefully in that alluring shepherd’s costume, the tight breeches accentuating her fine hips and thighs. It had made him ache all over to watch it. It did no good to remind himself of what a sharp-tongued witch she was. The soulful expression was of the other Annabelle, the wary one with skin of silk, who gave oranges to urchins. That Annabelle tugged at his sympathies with each lowered glance and sad smile.

  Hell and furies, but he’d sunk far. He’d always said he’d never let a woman under his skin, and here he was brooding over the heartless Annabelle Maynard.

  “She was very beautiful,” Mina said beside him.

  Colin eyed Mina with suspicion. “Who?”

  “That actress. The one who danced.”

  He groaned. “I suppose Falkham’s been telling you of my exploits again.”

  “Of course. He tells me everything. So when one of the gallants pointed out the Silver Swan, I had to take notice.” She grinned. “After all, ’tisn’t often I see you so enamored of a woman.”

  “I’m not enamored of her,” he ground out, then realized he sounded churlish. “Trust me, the chit is even more tart-tongued than you, and hates me besides.”