Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Oh, no,” Blythe moaned, digging her fingers into Simon’s shoulders. All they’d gone through, and it wasn’t enough. They were caught. Did it matter now, whether or not she believed Simon to be innocent? She was going to prison, while he...She swallowed against a lump in her throat. He would be hanged.

  “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” the voice said.

  “Yes,” Simon said, and Blythe felt him inexplicably relaxing. “What took you so long?”

  “We had the devil of a time getting out of Rochester.” The figure in the doorway stepped forward, tugging absently at one ear. “Seems there’s a dangerous killer escaped.”

  “Simon,” Blythe whispered.

  Without turning, he reached behind him, and his hand settled on her breast. Startled, Blythe jumped back, and this time he did look at her. Odd, but she could swear that there was embarrassment in his eyes. “Blythe.” His hand slipped down, settled on her arm. She could breathe again, yet the heat and power of that one touch seemed to seep into her very being. “He is a friend.”

  “We’d heard you’d picked up a traveling companion,” the other man said, and let out a low whistle as Blythe stepped out at last from behind Simon. “And a fair sight she is. May I introduce myself, madam?” He swept into a deep bow. “I am Ian Montaigne, and may I tell you, you have been keeping low company.”

  “Indeed?” Blythe stayed still as the man straightened. He was young, she could see now, and attractive in a smooth, civilized way, with his unpowdered hair carefully clubbed back, and his features regular. She much preferred Simon’s more rugged good looks. “And who are you, sir?”

  “A member of the Woodley troupe, Blythe,” Simon said, stepping forward to clap Ian on the shoulder. “You’re a sight to gladden my heart. What happened in Rochester?”

  Ian grimaced. “Trouble. The local magistrate—rather a foolish fellow, do you know him? No? He was roaring that he would not be so insulted, upon his soul, and demanding that every man jack of us be put into gaol until we told him where you were.”

  The impersonation of an angry, bull-headed country gentleman was so apt that Blythe found herself smiling. “Was that Quentin Heywood?”

  “No. Sir Hubert somebody-or-other, though Heywood was there. He was the one who said we should be let go.” His face was grim. “You know of him?”

  “He has been dogging our footsteps,” Simon said, grimly. “He is determined to catch us.”

  “You’re lucky he let you go,” Blythe put in.

  “Unless he expected you to lead him to us.”

  “Damnation! I’d not thought of that.” Ian snapped his fingers. “I’ll be off, then. You know where we’re to meet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’d see you there, but in light of what you just said, mayhaps I should lay a false trail.” He stepped forward, embraced Simon quickly, and turned. “Good luck, my friend.”

  “And to you, too. We have to get out of here,” Simon said. From outside they could hear Ian talking to his horse, and then riding away. “And quickly.”

  “Oh, why not?” Blythe stooped, gathering up the blanket. “We may need this,” she said, at his inquiring look.

  “Nay. Leave it, and come.” He caught her hand and led her to the door. There they paused, peering cautiously out, and seeing nothing more alarming than leafy trees swaying in the breeze. “I think we might be all right yet, soldiers usually make enough noise for us to hear. The worst will be getting across to the trees.”

  “I’ll go,” she said, suddenly terrified, but not for herself.

  “Don’t be silly.” He dropped a quick, hard kiss onto her forehead and then broke out into the open, running across what had once been a busy barnyard in a zigzag pattern. No one appeared in either the trees or the lane; no strange noises rose to disturb the peaceful morning. Simon signaled to her from the trees. She would have to trust him that it was safe.

  A moment later she was across the clearing and dropping to the ground beneath the trees where Simon waited. He nodded at her and turned, starting off through the woods on a track roughly parallel to the road. “Wait,” Blythe gasped, trying to catch up. Fear and her dash to safety had made her breathless. “Are you going to tell me what’s about?”

  “There’s no time, princess.” He didn’t look back at her, but merely continued on his way, stopping occasionally to hold back branches that otherwise would have caught her in the face. “If we’re to meet the others and be on our way, we must hurry.”

  Blythe barely avoided tripping over a root in the ground. Since it was spring there was little undergrowth, but the footing was treacherous. “What others? And when did you plan this?”

  “McNally planned it,” he said over his shoulder, and then stopped, appearing at last to take pity on her. His face a mask of patience, he waited for her to catch up. “I need—we need—a place to hide. McNally took care of everything.”

  “And that man back in the barn?”

  Simon stopped again, so abruptly that she walked into him, banging her nose on his shoulder. “My apologies, princess,” He smiled faintly. “I keep forgetting that you’re in this as much as I am.”

  Blythe rubbed her nose. “Oh, by all means. Since I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Of course not.” His voice was cool again, making her feel as if she were indeed the one in the wrong. He had been convicted, she told herself. Surely that meant he was guilty. “My apologies, again. Ian is a member of the Woodley troupe of strolling players, my uncle’s troupe. We’re to meet with them upon the road.”

  “But surely that’s dangerous! Won’t people suspect where you’re hiding?”

  “‘Tis a risk, that’s true. However, you should know that my uncle publicly disowned me when I was convicted. An act, princess,” he said, his tone softening at the dismay she knew must show on her face. “‘Twas all an act.”

  “I don’t understand—oh. So no one would think he’d have anything to do with you.”

  “Precisely.” He turned and began walking again, still briskly, but somehow less remote. “I’m not sure what the plans are, but I know that there are plans.”

  “They won’t expect me.”

  “They will now, with Ian going back to tell them. Don’t worry, princess. They’ll find a way to hide you.” He stopped abruptly. Past his shoulder, Blythe could see that they’d reached the road. “Looks like we’ll have to wait a bit.”

  Blythe sank gratefully upon a fallen log. “So they’ll shelter you until you have a chance to leave the country.”

  He shot her a look. “Is that what you think I plan?”

  “It seems the wisest course.”

  “Mayhaps, but it’s not mine. I told you at the barn, princess. I intend to clear my name.” He crouched before her, hand held out. “Will you help me?”

  “How can I?” she protested. “When I’m not even sure if—”

  If I’m innocent.” He got to his feet, his mouth a grim slash. “So be it.”

  “Simon, I’m sorry.” She followed him, placing a hand on his sleeve; he shrugged it off. “But I’d be of no help to you. I wouldn’t know how to begin, and if people realize who I am I’ll likely be arrested.”

  “So be it,” he said again, and held up his hand. “Ah. I hear horses—ah, yes.” His face lightened just a bit as a ramshackle cart driven by an old man rounded a bend in the road. “There’s Old Gaffer. We’ve someplace to stay, for now.”

  “Simon,” she said, urgently. “I want to believe you. I do. ‘Tis just—I can’t.”

  He nodded. “You needn’t explain, princess. I understand well enough.” And with that he stepped out of the trees and hailed the cart. Blythe followed more cautiously. She did want to believe him. Everything would be so much easier if she did. Why, she wondered, at last approaching the cart, had no one ever told her that love could feel so perfectly wretched?

  “‘Tis good to have you back,” Harry said yet again, raising his
glass of port in a toast.

  Simon, seated across the table from him, raised his glass as well. For once the Woodley troupe appeared to be doing well. Here in Maidstone, where they would play for a week, the manager and principal players had taken lodgings over a bakeshop. It was in the room shared by Harry Woodley, his wife Bess, and their daughter Henrietta, that Simon sat now, more ease as he had been since finding Miller’s body. For the time being, he was safe. “‘Tis good to be here,” he admitted. “For however long it lasts.”

  Bess refilled his glass. “Oh, tush, we won’t think about that now.”

  “But we have to.” Henrietta, commonly known as Young Harry, sat cross-legged on the bed. On first glance a stranger could be forgiven for taking her for a lad. Tall as she was, and thin, she was well-suited to the breeches parts she played so well. Even her hair, close-cropped curls, added to the effect. “I believe our disguises will deflect suspicion for a time, but as we are near Canterbury we will be watched more closely.”

  Simon grinned at her, this cousin he’d always looked on as a younger sister. “Still a bookworm, brat? You sound like a schoolmaster, the way you speak.”

  “I intend to improve myself. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m not in any need of improvement. Though now that you mention it”—he cast his gaze over her—“I can see that you are.”

  Henrietta leaned forward. “I’d forgotten how perfectly despicable you are—”

  “Don’t worry. Blythe reminds me of that whenever she can.”

  “Miss Marden? I’m not surprised.” Henrietta settled back onto the bed, her brief spate of temper fading. “How lucky for you you met her.”

  “More than you know.”

  “But what are you going to do about her, Simon?” Bess looked up from the sock she was knitting. “She is as much looked-for as you.”

  “I know.”

  “She can’t go back to London,” Bess went on, the needles clacking together. “And gracious, life in the theater isn’t for her.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He turned to Henrietta, serious now. “You’re sure she is safe?”

  “No one will suspect her, Simon,” Henrietta said serenely. “She’s safe enough.”

  “Our Young Harry’s worked out a good plan,” Harry put in, setting down his glass. “Smart thinking, to get Old Gaffer and Dolly to leave for a time. Anyone watching us will see we still have the same number of people.” Harry grimaced. “Had to promise Dolly a benefit, but I don’t know what else we could do. We owe Miss Marden a powerful amount.”

  Simon took a long swallow of wine. “I’m well aware of that,” he said, grimly. “So, Young Harry, what is your plan exactly?”

  Henrietta looked up. “To keep you both in disguise until you may cross the Channel to the continent.”

  Simon frowned. “That is it?”

  “What else would you have us do? You’ve made yourself notorious, Simon, especially in this area.”

  “And if I don’t want to leave England?”

  Three faces turned to him in dismay and shock. “But what else can you do?” Harry asked. “If you stay here they’ll be sure to catch you. And us, too,” he added, gloomily.

  “Unless I clear my name,” he said, and was met by silence. Setting the glass down, he scanned the faces that now were downcast, or turned away from him. They were the dearest people in the world to him, the only family he had ever known, and yet even they did not fully believe in his innocence. “I didn’t do it,” he said flatly, and rose.

  “Oh, Simon, no one says you did,” Bess protested.

  “No?”

  “No.” Harry had risen, too, a stocky, burly figure, and placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “But it’ll be hard to disprove.”

  “Even I can’t think how, Simon,” Henrietta chimed in. “And I have tried.”

  Simon sat down again. “There’s a way.”

  “If so, I can’t see it.”

  “It’s right before your nose, brat,” he said, reaching out to tweak that appendage. She pulled back, scowling. “We find out who did kill Miller.”

  His relatives exchanged looks. “‘Twill be dangerous,” Harry said, finally. “If you’re recognized—”

  “I’ll trust Young Harry not to let that happen.”

  Henrietta frowned. “You aren’t so easy to disguise, Simon, but I’ll do what I can.” She leaned forward. “How can we help?”

  Simon sat back, lightheaded with relief. No doubts about his innocence here; only a profound distrust of England’s justice system. Why couldn’t more people trust him so? Why couldn’t Blythe? “We’ll need to learn if he had any enemies,” he began, when there was a sudden pounding at the door.

  The occupants of the room froze. Bloody hell, Simon thought. Had he been discovered already? Gesturing wildly to the others to keep still, he dashed across to the small casement window and looked out with dismay. Thirty feet to the ground, and no way to climb down. Hell.

  Henrietta was holding up the bed skirts and pointing beneath the bed when the pounding came again. “Harry? Bess? Are you there?”

  “‘Tis Tom,” Harry said, crossing to the door, and Simon sagged in relief. Not capture, then. Not yet. “Yes, Tom, what is it?”

  “Something’s happened.” Tom tumbled into the room as Harry opened the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I thought you should know.”

  “Soldiers?” Simon said, tensing.

  “No, not that I’ve seen. It’s that Marden woman.”

  Simon had relaxed, but now he stiffened again. “What about her?”

  “Susan went to the room they’re sharing a little while ago, and that’s when we realized.”

  Simon sprang forward. “Is she hurt?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know.” Tom spread his hands, turning to Harry. “We looked everywhere, but we just can’t find her. It looks like she’s gone.”

  “The morning post, my lady.” The footman bowed as he presented the silver salver to Honoria. Without sparing him a glance she reached for the missives and carelessly tossed them onto the polished mahogany surface of the breakfast room table. That quick glance had been enough to show her that one of the letters was from Quentin, an ominous sign indeed. Had he good news for her he would most certainly be here to share it. Instead, his absence made her suspicious.

  Thoughtfully, Honoria took a sip of tea. She liked this time of morning, free of visitors and other interruptions, when she could plan and plot and scheme as to how to spend her day. She liked having Stanton House to herself, though she wouldn’t be here much longer. Her husband, in a rare show of firmness, had ordered her to Moulton Hall, his country estate. If she had run up some gambling debts, what was that to a man as rich as Stanton? Debts of honor must be paid, surely even he knew that. And it wasn’t even as if she had been playing very deep. She’d lost only a trifle, several hundred pounds here, perhaps a thousand, there. Not enough for her to be banished from London. Unless Quentin’s letter held better news than she expected, however, she might very well have to return there, no matter what Stanton would think.

  Tossing her napkin onto the table, she rose, snatching up the letters with apparent disregard. Behind her and before her footmen bowed; she swept past them in her open gown of lavender silk, the scent of lilacs hanging heavy about her. They bowed again as she chose a chair at random in the drawing room, and then closed the door, leaving her alone at last.

  Only then did Honoria pick up Quentin’s letter, and then only after casting a quick glance about the room, to be certain she was completely unobserved. Her hands were steady as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter; her face inscrutable as she read it. Only when she set it back down did a little crease appear between her brows. Had anybody been in the room, the signs would have been clear. The viscountess was angry.

  This was what happened when one trusted someone else to deal with one’s problems. This came from dealing with inferior tools. The pity was, Q
uentin had seemed acceptable, until recently. He was adequate in bed, quite good at looking out for himself, and almost as devious minded as she herself was. That was the pleasure of it, of course, the satisfaction of devising ways around other peoples’ humdrum lives, to accomplish whatever one desired. Look how masterfully Quentin had arranged for the actor to be charged with murder. When it came to more direct action, however, as was called for now, Quentin was lamentably laggard.

  The actor had yet to be caught. Honoria frowned, and then relaxed her face, carefully smoothing her forehead with her fingertips. Few wrinkles dared mar her complexion, and those that did, she could disguise with a coating of powder and an application of rouge. It was vital that she remain young, attractive. Men were allowed to age gracefully, to grow bald and fat. A woman, however, lost her power when she lost her looks. It was not going to happen to her. There wouldn’t be even the threat of it just now were it not for the actor.

  Another frown, quickly eased. Galling as it was that he still ran free, what made matters worse was Quentin’s inability to catch him. With each day the actor remained loose, the danger to Honoria increased. Oh, Quentin’s danger was the greater, no question about that; but if he were found out he would implicate her. There was no question about that, either. And though she knew that Quentin was doing what he could, it wasn’t enough. More action was needed.

  Crossing the room, she stood before the huge mirror that hung over the mantel, studying her reflection, assessing the flesh beneath her jawline. Was there just the hint of softening there? No, ‘twas just a trick of the light. She was still, by any measure, a beautiful woman. Perhaps it was time for her to use that beauty. Past time.

  Nodding decisively, she swept from the room, again ignoring the footmen. In her chamber she snapped her fingers at Clothilde, her maid, who came forward with the lavender satin overskirt that would go so well with the pale lilac petticoat she’d chosen for today. She watched her reflection in the mirror dispassionately as Clothilde clothed her. There was more than one way to catch a thief, or a killer. She would find that way. Soon, before the accursed Simon Woodley could do any further damage. She would do anything she had to, to protect the life she’d fought so hard for. Anything.