Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “You did well,” Phoebe said almost shyly, and Blythe started. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you. But you did do so well. I almost believed you were a soldier.”

  Blythe passed a hand over her eyes. As if her performance mattered. “All I did was stand there.”

  “But that is not easy! I must get back, I’ve another scene,” Phoebe said, and slipped away. Blythe barely noticed. All her attention was focused on that one man, chatting idly with Odette. He was here for her. She could only hope Simon had got safely away.

  As if he felt the intensity of her gaze, the man turned, and Blythe abruptly realized that she was as much a target here, in the green room, as she had been on stage. She had to move. Yet, if she did, he would know instantly who she was, wouldn’t he? Eyes narrowing, she glanced quickly at Thomas. No one would mistake her for a man, she was too short and slight, but perhaps she could mimic a boy. Angle her head, just so, a confident, almost swaggering tilt to her chin. Brace her shoulders; stand with legs apart. She was a young lad, immensely proud of his achievements on the stage. She had better be. Her life depended upon it.

  With a longer stride than usual, she swaggered through the room, winking at Odette, who looked startled, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the table to take a swig. It choked her going down, but she managed not to cough, not to betray that this was an act—and in any event, how likely was a boy to be an experienced drinker?

  The man’s gaze, hooded, apparently disinterested, was on Blythe as she made her progress through the room. She forced herself to keep her pose, made her shoulders swing a bit more, kept her hips as still as possible. Then Odette laughed, a trill of sound that rang artificial to Blythe, and he looked away, frowning. Blythe picked up her pace, aware that he was there, expecting at any moment to feel his hand on her shoulder—but then she was at the door, and through into the corridor, with no evidence of pursuit. She was safe. Safe! Twice she had faced the enemy, and twice he hadn’t realized. Giddy with the same exhilaration that had filled her earlier, she gave a little skip, turned—and, once again, walked full into Simon’s chest.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed, frantically grabbing at his shirt and not caring what he thought. “He’s in there! If he comes out and sees you—”

  “Hush!” Simon clamped his hand over her mouth. Blythe stared up at him, too startled to struggle. “We’ve no time for this. We must be away.”

  Blythe wrenched her face free. “But—”

  “No buts,” he said, and slammed his mouth down on hers. For a moment she forgot everything, who she was, what he had done, the peril in which they stood. All she was aware of were his lips against hers, hard, questing, not at all tentative, but, at the same time, not coercive. When at last he released her she stared up at him, open-mouthed, too stunned to speak or move or even talk.

  “Good.” Simon wrapped his arm around her, hustling her away from the door. “Now that you’re quiet, we may leave.”

  The outrageousness of that statement startled her into speech. “As if I’m the one keeping us here! Oh, Simon, you could have been safely on your way—”

  “Not without you, princess.” Simon swung the stage door open and pulled her outside into the cool, damp night. “Up with you.”

  “What—where—”

  “Into this cart.” He boosted her up. Now that her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, she could see that a farm cart of some kind stood in the alleyway just outside the theater, a strange sight at night, but at least a hiding place. Oh, why was he doing this? she wondered, scrambling forward in the hay-scattered cart, searching for a cover of some kind. Why was he endangering himself so?

  The cart rocked as Simon dropped down beside her. “My apologies, princess. All right, McNally, we’re ready.”

  “For what?” she asked, just as a load of hay fell on her face and arms. Struggling, sputtering, she came up for air in time to see something more hurtling down upon her. A blanket, she realized, feeling the wool rough against her cheek, and none too clean, by the smell of it. “If this blanket is verminous, Simon Woodley, I shall never forgive you.”

  Simon snorted with laughter. “Trust you to think of that, princess.”

  “Men never think of the practical things,” she grumbled, though her heart wasn’t in it. His arms were wrapped about her, strong, hard, protective, and under her ear she could hear the comforting, steady beat of his heart.

  “I thought of one thing, and it’s well for you I did.”

  His breath stirred her hair. It sent little shivers down her spine, a rather pleasant sensation. “What is that?”

  “If our pursuer, whoever he is, recognized you, he would have arrested you.”

  She shuddered. “Yes, I know.

  “And you would have told where I was.”

  Blythe went still, and then, as best she could, raised her head, though she couldn’t see him. “Is that truly what you think?”

  “I fear so, Blythe.”

  “But I would not,” she said, her voice dull. Foolish of her to think he’d come back simply because he cared for her safety. Of course his own neck was paramount to him. And if that were so, what was she doing lying in his arms? She wrenched away from him, turning onto her side, pressing her lips together hard against unwanted tears. “But I don’t know why you’d believe me.”

  “You’d do it to save yourself, princess.” Simon made his voice matter of fact, though every part of him yearned to turn and take her into his arms again, to hold her, to—what? Earlier this evening he had known he could not escape if she were not safe, and so had insisted on going back for her. He could understand that. He was not a cad, after all, and it was his fault she was in this mess. But what he had felt just now, when she had nestled against him, soft and warm in her gratitude—oh, sweet Jesus. He wanted her. Were he someone else, he would turn and kiss her senseless, but he was who he was. She was not for him.

  The silence had lengthened, until it was as smothering as the air. “You’ll have to come to the barn,” he said.

  It took Blythe a moment to answer. “The barn?”

  “Aye. Where some of us are staying.”

  “But I’ve rooms in town—”

  “And if you return there in costume you’ll attract attention. ‘Tis best you not be seen just now.”

  “Oh.” Silence again. “Who are you, Simon?”

  That made him raise up on his elbow, as if he could see her. “What do you mean?”

  “I—no, I don’t know what I mean. Pray don’t regard it.”

  “I shan’t.” He consigned himself to the torture of lying beside her again, arm over his eyes. Had she but known, that question had haunted him all his life, and it was partly what kept him from turning to her. Who was he?

  “Who is he?” Quentin asked, as the green room door closed behind the young soldier who had swaggered so boldly across the room. Something familiar about him, something about the eyes, yet Quentin couldn’t place where he’d seen him.

  “You are interested in him instead of me, m’sieur?” the actress beside him purred, walking her fingers up his arm. Quentin shuddered with unwanted response, at the same time that he assessed her coolly. Young, passably pretty, with hair that had been hennaed and showed dark roots. Darkness in her eyes, too, eyes that were hard for one so young. He knew better than to get involved with such as her. He also knew that she was exactly what he needed. And her hair did go well with his emerald green coat. “You prefer boys, perhaps?”

  Quentin let his gaze drop lower, openly ogling her breasts, displayed in the low-cut gown of blue satin. “To you, Odette? Of course not. I merely wondered, he’s such an arrogant young cock.”

  Odette’s laugh was surprisingly merry. “Shows what you know. I mean, m’sieur,” she said, picking up her accent again, “that you are an amusing man.

  “Oh? And what did I say that was tres amusement?”

  Uncertainly flickered in her eyes for just a moment. “Do you really believ
e that was a boy, m’sieur?”

  “What?” He fixed his gaze on her, hard, probing. “Do you mean it wasn’t?”

  “No.” Odette’s smile broadened. “She is a jeune fille—actually, a not so young fille—who has just joined the company. I do not know why, we have enough women to play the roles. She cannot even act. And,” she chuckled, low, malicious, “if she can disguise herself as a boy, she is no beauty, no?”

  “Probably not.” He let himself smile, though his mind raced. “Who is she?”

  “Now you make me jealous.” Odette’s hand snaked about her arm. “Am I not enough for you, m’sieur?”

  “You’re enough for any man, Odette,” he said, keeping his smile in place. He knew why the soldier had seemed familiar. If she was who he thought, he’d seen her before, on Westminster Bridge, accompanying an apparently old and senile man. His deduction had been right. What better place for an actor to hide, as he had surmised, than among a theatrical troupe?

  Slowly, he cautioned himself. Carefully. He’d lost his prey too many times already because of too-hasty preparations. He wouldn’t make that mistake again; he had time enough. Time to set a trap, time to make up to Odette, so that his presence among the troupe would be accepted. Time to put out bait, perhaps, in the form of that shapely little soldier. This time he would make no mistake. Woodley would not escape him again.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the fellow since that day at the theater,” McNally remarked as he sat beside Simon. The life of a traveling theatrical troupe was not easy. While the top players stayed in a reasonably comfortable inn, and the lower ranks in lodging, many were housed in an old barn just outside of Rochester. Cheek by jowl they lived together, in usually amiable closeness, male and female alike. Simon, sitting on a bale of hay and watching some of the players rehearse, had seen worse lodgings; barnstorming was common among the smaller theatrical troupes. At least there was a roof over his head.

  “Does anyone know who he is?” Simon asked, chewing on a piece of straw. He was deceptively relaxed, his back against the wall of the barn, one knee bent up with his arms dangling upon it. In reality his gaze flickered everywhere, from the loft above that provided sleeping quarters, to the hay-strewn floor, to the open door. Three days he had been in hiding, and he didn’t like it.

  “No, and likely no one will, unless he shows up again. Odette still insists she doesn’t remember him, no matter what Miss Marden says. If you ask me”—McNally hawked and spat—“our man likely didn’t make her a generous enough offer.”

  Simon nodded. He’d seen Odette’s type before, women who went on the stage not so much for love of the theater, but because they were in search of a man to keep them in luxury. Not like Blythe. His gaze sharpened as he looked across the barn, where she sat with Phoebe, helping her with lines. Blythe had an undeniable presence upon the stage, and she didn’t even know it. If someone told her, she would be horrified. She was a good woman, and good women did not tread the boards.

  Simon shifted, uncomfortable with that line of thought. Always, always it came back to what he had done to her, in taking her from her secure life in London. Though she had settled in easily enough with the troupe, this life wasn’t meant for her. She was meant to have a husband and home and babies. That thought made him shift again. Babies were the last thing he wanted to give to any woman.

  “She’s good,” McNally said quietly, following Simon’s gaze.

  “Phoebe? Of course she is.”

  “Aye. But I was thinking of Miss Marden.” He scratched his chin. “Giles is thinking of giving her a part.”

  That made Simon look at him. “He can’t. If she’s recognized—”

  “Aye, ‘tis a risk, but if she takes a breeches part, with just a few lines, she’ll be all right.”

  “No,” Simon said. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Oh, won’t you?” McNally’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t think it’s your decision, lad.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. “Hell, I’ve done enough to ruin her life.”

  “Then stay out of it, let the lass make her own choices.”

  “This choice could get us both arrested.”

  “Concerned for your own skin, are you?”

  “No.” He paused. “Not entirely.”

  “Huh.” Silence fell. “You fancy her.”

  “No.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen how you look at her,” McNally went on, ignoring Simon’s curtness. “You could do worse. She’s comely enough. Good hair”—he squinted assessingly—“face isn’t remarkable, but it’s sweet. And a good enough figure.” He grinned. “Saw that when she dressed as a soldier.”

  “McNally, if you keep on like this, I shall be forced to ram your teeth down your throat.”

  McNally grinned, not a whit abashed. “No offense meant, lad. I think she fancies you, too.”

  Simon reared back. “Bloody hell! I hope not.”

  “Now why would you say that? An attractive woman who has eyes for you—”

  “And whose life I’ve ruined.”

  McNally glanced back across the barn. Phoebe had risen and was acting out the gestures that went along with her lines, so immersed in her role that she was transformed. So, to a lesser extent, was Blythe, her face intent and serious. “Mayhaps not.” He hopped down from the bale. “Mayhaps you want to ask her before you decide that.”

  “Hell,” Simon muttered again, restless, wanting to be up and about. Still, he stayed sitting, quiet, except for his fingertips drumming on his knee. McNally was right. He did fancy Blythe. But with his life in such a shambles, how could he possibly act on his feelings?

  With a sudden excess of energy, he pushed himself off the bale of hay, intent only on escape. He was bored with confinement. Under the circumstances it was no wonder Blythe attracted him so. Any woman would just now.

  A hand caught at his arm. “No, my boy, that’s not the place for you,” Giles said amiably, pulling Simon back just as he reached the barn door. “Not unless you want your neck stretched.”

  “Hell.” Simon rounded on him, all the frustrations of the past days bubbling up. “I’m tired of people telling me what to do. I’ll go where I damn well please.”

  Giles regarded him for a moment. “So be it,” he said, and turned. “By the by. I need someone to help me work out a fencing scene.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Care to try?”

  Simon glanced at the door. Outside was glorious spring, the sun amazingly bright, the grass vivid emerald dotted with daisies and dandelions. He hated being caged like this. “All right,” he growled, and turned on his heel, following Giles.

  In a corner of the barn away from the other players, the two men picked up painted wooden swords and stood facing each other. Dueling scenes had to be planned out carefully. Each feint, each thrust and parry, had to be performed just so, to make the duel look realistic without anyone getting hurt. Simon had played one or two such scenes, though he’d never handled a real sword in a real fight; Giles, many more. “What play is this for?” Simon asked, holding his prop sword up, as if in salute.

  “Innocence Avenged. A melodrama of the worst sort, but I think audiences will enjoy it. We play it tomorrow night. I’ll start, here. A lunge you don’t expect.”

  “And I’ll parry,” Simon said, holding his sword at an angle. There was a crack of wood as the two swords came together. “What part are you?”

  “The villain. Neat footwork there, boy. If there wasn’t a price on your head you could go on with this.”

  “You learn to be quick in prison.” This time Simon lunged, catching the other man on the arm.

  Giles held up his hand, stopping the fight. “No.” He stepped back, frowning. “I expect you to pink me, boy, but not yet. The villain is menacing and powerful.”

  “And I?”

  “You are the young hero, fighting against all odds to save the heroine.”

  “The villain sounds more fun.”

  “Oh
, doubtless. There, that’s better.” Giles’s sword weaved through the air in a flurry of thrusts. “Step back, no, like you’re almost falling. I want you to appear overmatched.”

  “I’m taller than you are,” Simon scoffed.

  “That doesn’t matter,” a voice said behind them. Startled, Simon turned, to see Blythe, sitting cross-legged on the floor, chin propped on her hand. “‘Tis more important to be nimble and agile.”

  Simon passed his arm across his forehead. It was hot in the barn for such exertion. “How would you know?”

  “You’re doing it wrong, you know,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, looking at Giles. “With that grip an opponent could knock your sword away, and then where would you be?”

  “How should I hold it, then?” Giles asked, smiling.

  “Like this.” Blythe rose gracefully and took the prop sword from Giles’s hand. “Your fingers here, along the side, your thumb there, on top. Do you feel the difference?”

  “Yes, it feels more secure.” Giles frowned down at her as he wiped his own forehead. “And are you an expert at swordplay, missy?”

  “Yes, as it happens, I am.”

  Both men stared at her. “That’s a whisker if ever I heard one,” Simon snorted.

  “Oh, but ‘tis true. Mr. Rowley?” She held her hand out. Giles grinned at Simon, bowed, and gave her the sword, hilt first. Her other hand held her skirts in a bunch, displaying a pair of ankles that, clad even as they were in heavy cotton stockings, were enticing. “Six years of working with a fencing master must have taught me something. En garde,” she said, and launched herself at Simon with such a flurry of movement that, within a moment, his sword clattered to the floor.

  Giles’s laugh broke the stunned silence that followed. “Never before saw you bested in swordplay, boy.”