Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “Oh.” Blythe sat back. What Simon had told her was true, then, as far as it went. “It must have been a shock.”

  “That it was, and a scandal. Never seen St. Martin’s church so filled as it was for his funeral. Even the viscountess showed up, aye, as well she should, all the business she did with him, and some heathen-looking foreigners. If they hadn’t caught the actor, I’d say they did the deed, that I would. Nasty looking fellows.”

  “Oh?” Blythe said. Now who could this be? Someone else Miller had dealt with? “I wonder if—”

  “Are ye better, wife?” Simon’s voice boomed from the doorway. “We’d best be off. Seems we came this way for nowt.”

  “Oh.” Blythe let her hand drop from her heart; he had startled her. “Yes, I am well, Mr. Bowles.”

  “Good. Good. Come along, then. We’ve trespassed enough upon these good people.”

  “Mind you take care of her,” Mrs. West scolded. “Breeding is a difficult time for a woman. And if you take ill again, just you come to me.” She patted Blythe’s hand. “I’ve some herbs will set you up, right as rain.”

  “Thank you,” Blythe stammered. “I’ll do that.”

  “Come, wife,” Simon said, and led her out of the shop.

  In the lane, Blythe scrambled to keep up with Simon’s long strides. His shoulders were squared and his expression was, for the first time since she’d met him, hopeful. He’d learned something, and though she wondered what, she also wished he would acknowledge her own efforts. Just a little. “Do you intend to drag me all over Canterbury?” she demanded, digging in her heels. “If so, I may just as well stay at home.”

  Simon turned, frowning. “There’s no time! I have to find someone West told me about—”

  “And that is why you wouldn’t let me stay? Simon, I was just about to find out about some people Miller traded with. Someone from a foreign country—”

  “Dark, heathenish men?”

  “Yes.” She gripped his hand. “West told you. Are they here?”

  “Aye, at the King’s Head Inn, but not for much longer. They return to Persia tomorrow.”

  “Persia!”

  “Aye. Miller dealt with Oriental goods.”

  “Simon.” She ran a few steps, catching up with him again. “Do you really think they’re involved?”

  “I don’t know. All West could tell me was that the day before Miller died he and these men had a quarrel. A regular row, so I understand. And you heard West say that Miller was a hard man in business.”

  “With a young wife.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Who liked to flirt with other men, and who remarried in haste.”

  That made him stop at last. “And it was his wife’s knife—that’s bloody marvelous!” Swinging about, he caught her around the waist, lifted her into the air, and planted a sound kiss on her mouth. “Marvelous.” He dropped her to her feet and started off, apparently as oblivious to her bemusement as he was to the amusement or shock of people passing by. Blythe, whose lips still tingled, was not so lucky. She stood on the cobblestoned lane, hand to lips, realizing for the first time the enormity of what she had taken on. She loved him. Oh, she loved him, but his affection came in careless kisses and caresses. If she stayed with him things would never change. They had been together now for weeks, and even during their most intimate moments he’d held himself aloof from her. He didn’t need her, not the way she needed him, and that hurt. Oh, it hurt, and yet, how could she leave?

  Simon had finally stopped, a few paces ahead, and was looking back at her. “Are you coming?” he called impatiently.

  “Yes,” she said, and moved at last. Of course she would stay. She had no choice, not with her whole being urging her to go to him. And if she stayed, she would do her all to prove his innocence. The alternative was unthinkable.

  Honoria stood at the wide leaded window, gazing out at a dreary day. Though it was summer, all was gray, with fog that had rolled in from the coast last evening and had yet to burn off. The sounds of waves, from the Straits of Dover, hidden by the fog, were faint, distant, ominous. Honoria’s hands clenched, her nails digging into her palms. Home again, she thought ironically. Home to Moulton Hall.

  Turning from the window, she gazed for a moment at the portrait of her husband’s grandfather, the third viscount, and then drifted to a chair. She hated Moulton, though it was her husband’s principal country estate and was considered quite fine. She hated the dampness, the ever present fog, the old-fashioned brick house. She hated the reminders of previous occupants that, unlike Stanton House in London, remained by express order of the viscount. She hated being away from town, away from the games of chance she loved so well, though even she knew it was for the best. Not only had the tradesmen become importunate of late with their bills—as if she cared!—but she needed to be here for the endeavor in which she was engaged. It was crucial that she behave as she always had, so that no blame, not the merest breath of suspicion would attach to her. Not that it would. Matters, however, had not gone as planned recently. It was best to be prepared.

  There was a knock on the drawing room door, and Goodfellow, their butler, entered, holding a silver tray. “Your pardon, my lady. This just arrived for you.”

  She nodded, taking the letter from the tray and recognizing at once the black, slanting handwriting. Quentin. Her lips tightened. In the past he had come to her with news. Now he sent letters, which could so easily fall into the wrong hands. And since he hadn’t the courage to face her, she suspected she would not like the letter’s contents.

  She didn’t. After letting out a tiny breath of relief that apparently no one had tampered with the wax seal, she unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. Quentin was writing, in haste, from Maidstone. He had good information that their merchandise had been shipped to Margate and might be exported. He would endeavor to learn the details. He remained, obediently hers, her servant, & C., Quentin Heywood.

  In spite of her annoyance, Honoria smiled. A nice touch, calling the actor merchandise, and thus transforming potentially dangerous news into something innocuous. Still, it would not do to leave this letter lying about, for anyone to see.

  Honoria dropped the paper into the fireplace, alight on this cold, damp day. The flames flared briefly and then lowered again, the letter transformed into ash. One less danger. The real danger remained, however. If the actor left the country, that would be just as well. Not so final, perhaps, but he would be unlikely ever to return. If he did not, if Quentin at last managed to catch him, then he would be arrested and would meet his fate, perhaps there in Margate. An odd place for him to go from Maidstone, through which she had passed on her journey from London. The Channel ports were closer. In fact...She frowned. Quentin had been wrong in the past. He might be wrong again.

  Whirling about, she strode across the room and tugged on the bellpull. Quentin had outlived his usefulness and was fast becoming a nuisance. Nor was he her only tool. Though this was her husband’s estate, there were those on the staff who were loyal to her.

  The door opened behind her. “Goodfellow, have Crenshaw sent to me,” she ordered crisply.

  “Crenshaw?” a bemused voice said, and she turned to see a man of middling height, with middling brown hair thinning on top, and bits of hay clinging to his undeniably rustic coat. Edward Vernon, the Viscount Stanton, and her husband, God help her. He looked like a farmer, which was, she thought dispassionately, exactly what he was. She wished she’d known that when she married him. “What do you want with Crenshaw?”

  “I’ve an errand for him in Canterbury,” she lied smoothly, as she had so many times before.

  “Extraordinary. Why not send one of the footmen, rather than outdoor staff? I’ll tell you, Honey, I can’t spare a man from the fields this time of year.”

  She smiled brightly, hating the silly little nickname her husband persisted on using. “Perhaps I’ll do so. I didn’t expect you.”

  “‘Tis time for nuncheon.” He held o
ut his arm. “Are you ready?”

  Honoria let her gaze go blank as she quickly reviewed her plans. If all went well, the actor would not set foot in Margate, the Continent, or anyplace else ever again. “Yes, I am ready,” she said, and allowed him to lead her to the dining room.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I still don’t understand why I can’t go,” Blythe said, watching as Simon bundled his clothing together.

  “I told you, princess.” He frowned as he placed the clothes in a battered leather bag. “‘Tis likely to be dangerous.”

  As if she hadn’t already encountered danger. “Two foreign tradesmen? What danger could they be?”

  “Two heathen foreign tradesmen, who might have borne some ill will against friend Miller.” He straightened. “Remember, the knife used on Miller was imported.”

  “Yes, and it belonged to his wife. Simon, I really think you should look at her—”

  “She’s likely to recognize me, princess.” He closed the bag. “If these tradesmen had still been at the King’s Head Inn I’d agree with you, but it sounds as if they’re making for London. I’d like to speak with them while I’ve the chance.”

  “Bad luck that they left this morning.”

  “Yes, but at least they didn’t head for the Continent.” He glanced up and smiled. “Don’t worry, Blythe. Nothing will happen to me.”

  Blythe, sitting on the one chair in the cramped bedroom, propped her chin on her hand as she watched him finish his preparations. Most probably he would come out of this particular adventure unscathed. He had, after all, managed quite well before abducting her. Yet, since then, they’d rarely been apart, and then she had been the one to leave. Waiting for his return would be difficult. “You will come back, won’t you?”

  Simon straightened. “Of course I will. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “If you find these men, and they did have something to do with Miller’s death, you’ll be free.”

  He frowned. “Not quite. There’s the small matter of proving they were involved.”

  “Yes. But after that, you’ll be free to do what you want.”

  He gazed at her a moment and then swiftly crossed the room to her, going down on one knee. “I’ll come back for you,” he said, hauling her into his arms. “I promise you that.”

  “Just you make sure you do.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “I’ve been through quite enough with you, Mr. Woodley.”

  “So you have.” He pulled back, studying her face. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you alone, Blythe. I’ll make sure your name is cleared, too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all you have to say? ‘Oh?’”

  She focused on his cravat in an effort to hold back the tears. “Yes.” Because she should know better by now, she really should. Her usefulness to Simon would end once he resolved his problems. She was a chance-met companion on his road, nothing more.

  “For the Lord’s sake, Blythe, isn’t that what you want?”

  “Yes,” she said again, still not looking at him.

  “The hell it is,” he growled, and brought his mouth down on hers. She jerked back, made a startled little noise, but quickly cooperated, opening her mouth to his ravaging tongue, clinging to his neck. And then, as quickly as he’d started it, Simon ended the kiss, breaking away and yet still holding her. “Ah, Blythe, if I could give you what you want...”

  “I know,” she gasped, and clutched at his shoulders, her whole being on fire from that kiss. Stay with me. Love me.

  “I can’t, Blythe. I don’t know what the future holds.”

  Her fingers touched his cheek as he pulled back again. “But you’ll come back?”

  “I promise. I must go.” He bent his head, and this time the kiss was quick and hard, leaving her shaken and exasperated. Oh, no, not this time. She grasped at his neck, holding him to her, and this time she was the one in control, she was the one whose lips moved and suckled and coaxed. With a growl Simon hauled her into his arms, and they toppled together to the floor, his hands roving over her body, her fingers grasping, greedy. She shifted so that he lay atop her, his desire for her pulsing against her stomach, and let herself melt. This was right. This was good.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Simon reared up, hair on end, breath coming in gasps. “We can’t do this, Blythe.”

  “Why not?”

  “On the floor? When I must leave? No.” He rose on shaky legs. She watched him for a moment, lips tight, and then sat up, smoothing down her skirts. He was right, curse him. “But when I come back....”

  “I’ll be here,” she whispered, and watched as he grabbed his valise and stalked from the room.

  Blythe closed her eyes, put her fingers to her lips, swollen and hot to the touch. His. With that kiss, he had made her his, and there was nothing she could to change it. For the rest of her life she would belong to a laughing-eyed rogue. It was not what she had expected.

  Frowning, she let her hand drop. No, it wasn’t what she’d planned, but it was what she had. Simon seemed to be a good man, except for his conviction. Rather a large exception, she thought, but that was of no importance, either. Whether or not he had committed the crime for which he nearly had hanged, she loved him. She always would. Perhaps she always had.

  That bit of self-knowledge made her squirm. She liked to think of herself as virtuous, and certainly no good woman would love a convict. But, there it was. She was his, heart, soul, and body, if only he would claim her. If only he loved her. And because she did love him, she could not sit idly by while he took the risks in this venture. Her future was at stake.

  Sometime later Blythe stood across from a rambling old house, its windows and walls covered by rose vines, on St. Peter’s Street, the main road into the city. It was where Miller’s widow, now Mrs. Selley, lived, and it was a distance, in more ways than one, from the narrow lane where Miller had once had his shop. Blythe was again subtly disguised, her hair neatly covered by a lace-trimmed cap under a huge bonnet. Beneath the padding at waist and arms that made her appear stout, she was sweating, for it was a warm day. She also had no idea what she would do next. The purpose that had driven her here was gone, leaving in its place uncertainty. All very well for her to decide to investigate Mrs. Selley, but just how was she going to do so? She could hardly knock on the door and proclaim her purpose. Nor did a suitable identity come to her mind. Simon could present himself as a tradesman, but who would believe a woman in the role? And she could hardly claim to be an old neighbor or acquaintance.

  She was still dithering when the door to the townhouse opened and two women stepped out. Mrs. Selley by her dress, Blythe thought, stepping back, and her maid. The former widow wore a richly embroidered shawl tossed over her gown of fine-looking green broadcloth, and blond curls peeked out from under the brim of her peacock blue bonnet. No mourning for her first husband, apparently. Glancing along the street to make sure she wasn’t noticed, Blythe fell into step behind the two women.

  They set a quick pace, never looking back, so that Blythe found it relatively easy to follow them. Since Mrs. Selley had her maid with her, Blythe doubted she was involved in anything clandestine, but anything she could learn would help. Traffic increased as the three of them, Blythe trailing, crossed the King’s Bridge over the Stour and entered the High Street. There were more vehicles in the road, more people along the walkway. Blythe dodged carts and people alike, glad of the camouflage they provided; glad as well that Mrs. Selley wore such a distinctive bonnet. Here the tall medieval buildings pressed even closer together, many housing a variety of shops. Mrs. Selley passed them all, with no signs of stopping. Where on earth were they going?

  Onto Guildhall Street now; to the right and ahead, the mismatched towers of the cathedral loomed ever larger against the pewter-dull sky. The flow of people was much greater here, and Blythe was hard-pressed to keep her quarry in sight. She would like to see the cathedral someday, she thought wistfully. It would make her pilgrimage complete.

  A ma
n unexpectedly bobbed up before her. Startled, she sidestepped, and he did, too. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping the other way, but the man had the same impulse, blocking her way yet again. “For mercy’s sake—”

  “Stay still, little lady.” His voice boomed out, genial and amused. “If one of us would just be still we can both make progress.”

  Blythe stood on tiptoe, trying in vain to see past the bulk of his shoulder. “If you would just please move...”

  The man swept her a low bow, still grinning. “My apologies,” he said, and stepped aside, just as Blythe decided to get past him yet again. “Now we can both be on our way.”

  She nodded, too concerned about her task to pay him much heed. The way ahead was clear. She could continue, except for one problem. The peacock blue bonnet was no longer in sight.

  Frantic, Blythe ran forward, searching, searching. A horn blared to her right; she jumped back just as a coach rattled by, the driver vigorously blowing the long tin horn and the people riding atop glancing down at her curiously. She’d lost her quarry. Mrs. Selley was gone—no, wait! Wasn’t that her bonnet? Blythe glanced in both directions and then dashed across the road, into a narrow street. Yes! There under that gateway, hemmed in by a crowd of people, bobbed a bonnet exactly like the one she had been following.

  Blythe went through the gate into the cathedral yard at a less than worshipful pace, afraid of losing her quarry. Reaching the west entrance, she took a deep breath and plunged into the cathedral, a pilgrim on a quest for she knew not what.

  Quentin glanced out the narrow barred window, seeing only a paved courtyard and the feet of passersby. Not a pleasant view, but then, Maidstone’s gaol was not a pleasant place, he reflected, turning and facing the room’s other occupant. The room was dark and drab and bare, save for a stool and one straight chair. The cells must be truly uncomfortable, if this visitor’s room were any indication.