by Kruger, Mary
“No.” Simon took her arm, ushering her into the theater. Instantly smells that were strange, yet familiar assailed her nostrils: dust, powder, paint, fresh wood. Her tense shoulders eased. She felt as if she’d come home. “But they’re keeping watch on the place. No telling when they’ll be back.”
A door opened before them in the corridor, and a figure stepped out. “In here,” Giles said, gesturing into the room. “Best if you’re not seen yet.”
Blythe stepped into a room containing a table and several straight chairs. Through the dusty window she could just see the alley beside the theater, and the farm cart. “I won’t stay if it’ll put you in danger.”
“Nonsense, lass.” Giles grasped her arms, turning her toward him. “A fine disguise,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It should serve you well. You look as if you are really in the straw.”
“Then she may stay?” Simon broke in.
Giles’s face sobered as he looked past Blythe. “Of course she may, and you, too, lad.”
“Thank you, but no.” Simon reached for his hat. “I’ve decided it’s best for everyone if I leave the country.”
“Rest a minute,” Giles commanded, and Simon, giving Blythe a glance, took the chair beside her. “The soldiers seemed to expect you’d be here, lad. How did they know?”
Simon shook his head. “I’ve no idea, but they’ve been close behind us all along.”
“And of course they’d expect him to go to a port town,” Blythe put in, disturbed by the look on Giles’s face. Something had happened.
“Mayhaps that’s it, though they acted as if they had some knowledge. Ian’s here, by the by.”
“What? Has he left the Woodley troupe?”
“No. He brought news. It’s not good.” Giles braced his hands on the table. “Your family is in Maidstone Gaol.”
“Bloody hell!” Simon jumped to his feet, hands balled into fists. “Who? Why?”
“Your uncle and your aunt, and I’m sorry, but Young Harry, too. Ian and the rest were in, but they were let go.”
“Damn.”
“But why?” Blythe said. “Because they took us in?” If that were so, then she wouldn’t stay; the Rowleys would not wish to risk a similar fate. She’d have to go with Simon, she thought, feeling oddly lightheaded at the prospect.
“No.” Simon paced a few feet away. “Or not just that. There’s another reason.” He glared at Giles. “They want me.”
Giles nodded. “About what I figured, too.”
“Damn,” Simon said again, and let out his breath. “There’s nothing for it, then. I’ll have to turn myself in.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Silence rang for a moment in the tiny room, and then Blythe got to her feet. “If that is so, then I am going with you,” she announced calmly, slipping her arm through Simon’s.
He looked down at her. “Why, princess? To tell them how I abducted you, so I’ll be punished?”
“No, silly, they’ll likely not believe me now, after all this time. And what more can they do to you than they already plan?”
“You’d like to see me hanged, then?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said, tersely. They may have jested on the topic before, but the time for that was past. “They want me, too, for helping you. If it means they’ll release your family—”
“They may not, you know,” Giles said almost gently, and they turned to look at him. “Why should they?”
Simon frowned. “Because it’s me they want,” he repeated. “Bloody hell, Giles, if I leave the country as if this hasn’t happened, what will happen to them? Harry and Bess aren’t young any longer, and Henrietta—”
“Think, lad,” Giles interrupted. “Do you really think the authorities will let your family go? They aided in your escape. You’ll have made a sacrifice for nothing, not to mention Miss Marden.”
“She’s not coming with me.”
“Yes, I am,” Blythe put in.
“And don’t forget their sacrifice, what they’ve been through to free you. Do you wish it to go for naught?”
“They shouldn’t have to make such a sacrifice.” Simon stared ahead, face bleak. “It didn’t work. They’ve risked their lives for me, and I’m no safer than I was before. I failed.” He looked down at Blythe. “I tried to clear my name, and I failed.”
“You did what you could,” she said.
“It wasn’t enough.” He straightened, and though he didn’t actually pull away from her, his arm was stiff. “I shall have to return to Maidstone.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t! I won’t take you with me, Blythe.”
“No?” She looked up at him and nodded, pulling her arm free. “But what is to stop me from going to the authorities here?”
“Blythe—”
“I’ll do it, Simon, I swear I will.”
“Bloody hell,” Simon said into the silence that followed. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
She put up her chin. “I would. You’d have me on your conscience then, too. And don’t tell me you don’t have a conscience.”
“The lass is right,” Giles said. “There’s naught you can do to help your family, and every chance you’ll harm them.”
Simon rounded on him. “Am I just to run away, then?”
“I wonder,” Phoebe said, so diffidently that she had to repeat herself. “I wonder if that won’t help?”
Giles’s face softened. “Why is that, wife?”
“I may be wrong.” She peered up through her lashes. “But if the authorities think Simon’s left the country, they’ll have no reason to hold Harry and Bess.”
“I think that may be so,” Blythe agreed slowly. “Simon, they could have taken your family any time. This is a trick.”
He stared at her. “Do you seriously think they’ll let my family go if I escape?”
“I think there’s a chance.” She paused. “But they’ll still have reason to hold me.”
“I think you’ve no choice,” Giles said, as Simon continued to stare at Blythe. “For the good of everyone concerned, you have to leave.”
“We’re all in danger if you stay,” Phoebe put in.
Simon briefly closed his eyes. He looked tired, defeated, as he had not in all the weeks of their adventure. “Then I’ll have to go.” He looked at Blythe. “Will you promise me not to turn yourself in, if I do?”
She nodded. “I’ll do as we planned. If you’ll let me stay?” she appealed to Giles.
“Aye, lass, that you can. You’ve a good disguise just now, too.”
Blythe made a face; she’d hoped to be rid of the cumbersome padding and pillow. “When will you go?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said. “I’ll have to find a boat to take me.”
“Let McNally do that,” Giles put in. “He might be able to find something without alerting anyone.”
“I hope so.” Simon glanced about at all of them, his gaze softening as it touched on Blythe. What courage she had, offering herself in his place. He didn’t deserve it, not any of it. But if she were safe, if she found some measure of contentment, then he was satisfied. He would have to be. “You look tired, princess.”
“I should, being eight months gone,” she said, managing a smile.
“Come.” Phoebe stepped forward. “We’ll find a place for you to rest,” she said, and led Blythe out, leaving the two men alone.
There was silence for a moment. “Well,” Simon said, finally.
“That woman loves you,” Giles said at the same time.
“Who? Phoebe?”
“Don’t be daft, lad. Blythe, of course.”
“She does not.”
“Of course she does. Why would she go through this, else?”
“Hell,” Simon began to protest, when the door from the corridor opened and McNally stepped in. He nodded at Simon, as if they’d only recently parted.
“I’ve been to the quay,” he said without preamble. “Thought I’d che
ck out the lay of the land, so to speak. There are soldiers there.”
“What do you think?” Giles asked.
“I think it may be possible.” McNally looked at Simon. “If you don’t mind some discomfort.”
“I’m well aware I’m not the usual traveler, Joseph,” Simon said, wryly.
“That you’re not. Dangerous cargo, but there’s them that’ll take you, for a price.”
Giles nodded. “When?”
“A few days, perhaps. Dark o’ the moon is coming up.”
“So?” Simon said.
“Smugglers,” McNally explained. “They won’t go out when ‘tis bright.”
“Then we’ll keep you hidden until ‘tis time,” Giles decided.
Simon nodded. “I’m sorry I’ve brought this upon you, Giles.”
“Just don’t let it be in vain. McNally, find someplace for him?”
‘O’ course. Come with me, Master Simon, and we’ll fix you up.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, and followed McNally into the corridor, tired, dispirited. His family was in gaol. He had not cleared his name, and now he would have to flee the country. And Blythe loved him. Bloody hell. What was he going to do now?
There was still a play to be performed that evening, no matter what dramatic events might be taking place backstage. Blythe, still well-padded, was pressed into service as a seamstress and a dresser, helping the actresses with their changes of costume. The troupe knew her, of course, but anyone from the town wouldn’t. Simon, whose face was better known from the posters that had circulated, was a different matter. For his safety and that of the troupe, he stayed hidden in the small room Giles used as an office, until it would be safe for him to leave.
Blythe, a cloak draped carefully over her arm, scuttled along the corridor from the dressing room as the interval ended and the cast prepared to take the stage again, giving the closed office door a wistful look. She missed Simon. He was still present, still accessible, but still, she missed him. And this was just a taste of what life would be like, once he was gone. When the time came, would she be able to let him go?
Lips set against the pain of that thought, she scurried into the green room, and immediately collided with something solid, yet yielding. “I say!” a voice exclaimed, and she stepped back, startled. As he flailed for balance, the man she had struck brushed against her augmented belly, and a puzzled frown passed over his face. “I say,” he said again, regaining some of his poise. “I am sorry.”
“No, ‘twas my fault.” Blythe smiled. A quick glance was enough to tell her that this man was of the gentry. His velvet coat was well-cut, and his powdered wig fitted well to his head. A sponsor, perhaps, and thus someone to placate. “I fear I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“You are a dresser here?” he asked, his eyes again flicking down to her stomach and looking confused. They were nice eyes, she thought, warm and dark, and his smile was friendly.
“I—yes, among other things. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course, of course.” The man stepped aside, inclining his head. The action triggered a sense of familiarity within Blythe. She’d seen this man before. Hadn’t she? But, no, she told herself as she hurried to the stage with the cloak. Where would she have had occasion to meet such a person? Not in the theater in Rochester, or at any place since. Yet there was something about him, about the shape of his face, that was familiar. Probably, she thought, fading back into the wings as the cast returned to the stage, she would never know.
The green room was relatively quiet, with the interval ended and the play proceeding again. Tired from the day’s events, Blythe looked longingly at the carved armchair, set against the wall like a throne. She knew better than to sit in it, though, not after that incident with Odette in Rochester. Instead, she began setting the room to rights, gathering a wine glass, here, replacing a cushion, there. At the next interval, and after the play, members of the audience would be coming backstage again.
“My dear, what are you doing?” a voice said, and Blythe looked up to see Katherine, offstage now until she was needed again.
“Straightening up. Someone has to do it.” Blythe smiled. “I’ve missed this.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, and in such an interesting condition.” Katherine cast a glance down at Blythe’s distended stomach. “A good disguise, but you need to work on your walk.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you move much too lightly for someone so far along. And you would never be able to bend to pick things up.”
“Oh. Well, as it looks as if I might never be like this in real life—”
“Tut, tut, don’t say such things! Your life’s hardly begun.”
Her life would be over, once Simon left. She glanced toward the door, as if he were there, and the memory of her earlier encounter returned. “Katherine, there was a man in here during the interval.”
“Yes, so?”
“He was familiar, but I don’t know when I’ve seen him before. He’s gentry, that much I could tell, and he has very nice eyes. Rather a weak chin, though.” She frowned. “And he was wearing a coat of brown velvet. Well-cut, but it made him look sallow.”
“Sallow skin and a weak chin. Quite an attractive specimen.”
“No, really, he was quite nice.”
“And I thought ‘twas Simon who interested you.”
Blythe drew herself up. That was a subject not to be discussed, not even in jest. “Do you know the man I’m speaking of?”
“Yes, I believe I do. It sounds rather like Stanton.”
“Stanton?” Blythe went still. “Stanton?”
“Yes, the Viscount Stanton. What is it, Blythe? You’ve gone all pale.”
“Something I’d forgotten. Who is he? Please, I can’t explain just now, but if you could tell me—”
“Very well, but you must promise to explain to me later. He has an estate near here, Moulton Hall. He’s quite a dear, really. Usually we don’t see him because he’s in London—he’s quite active in Parliament, you know—but he always stops in to see us when we’re in Dover.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes. Really, you are making me most curious—”
“I know.” Blythe quickly grasped her hand. “But you’ve helped me enormously. Thank you,” she said, and all but ran from the green room.
She had to find Simon. No matter that everyone had agreed to ignore his presence. She had to see him. Without stopping to knock she threw open the office door. Simon, who had been sitting at the table, jumped to his feet. “What’s amiss?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing. ‘Tis just—”
“Then why did you burst in that way?” He picked up the chair he’d knocked over in his haste, and closed the door. “For a moment I thought ‘twas soldiers.”
“I’m sorry. Simon, do you know a Viscount Stanton?”
“Who?”
“Or the viscountess?”
“Blythe, what in the world—”
“Do you?”
He leaned against the table, arms crossed on his chest and a small smile on his face. “Stanton. Let’s see. In my travels I’ve met a Thornton, a Stanley—”
“Simon—”
“—but I cannot remember a Stanton.” He grinned at her. “Why?”
“Because I think he might know something about Miller’s death.”
Simon straightened. “What!”
“I’m not sure, of course, but Nancy—Mrs. Miller’s maid, remember—said something about the viscountess having business with Miller. Oh, if I could only remember what it was!”
“Blythe,” he said, maddeningly slowly, as she danced from foot to foot, “what could a viscountess have to do with a common tradesman?”
It came to her in a flash. “Money,” she said, bracing her hands on the back of a chair. “Miller was a moneylender. Is it possible he lent money to the viscountess?”
“Blythe, for God’s sake, are you blaming a peer for Miller’s death?�
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“No, not him. His wife.” Her hand flew to her lips. “No! Of course I’m not saying such a thing, but she was there, Simon. There’s a connection.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“Neither can I,” she admitted, leaning against the table next to him. “But I’d like to know.”
“Blythe, it doesn’t matter.”
“No? Have you really given up on clearing your name?”
“Do you think it can be cleared?” he retorted.
“Yes,” she said, and looked up at him, lips parted. When she had changed her mind, she didn’t know, but of one thing she was certain. Simon had not committed the crime of which he stood convicted. “Yes.”
He stared at her. “You believe that.”
“Yes.”
“You think me innocent.”
“With all my heart. Oh, Simon!” She threw herself into his arms. “You couldn’t have killed him. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
“Mayhaps because I abducted you,” he said, dryly, though his arms had gone about her.
“Oh, that.” She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Understandable, really. But, Simon, do you know what this means?”
He pulled back to see her face, though his hands were warm, solid, at her back. It seemed like forever since he’d held her. “No. What?”
“You can’t leave. You have to clear your name.”
He looked at her a moment longer, and then pulled back. “It’s too late, Blythe,” he said quietly, pacing away.
“I don’t believe that.”
“But it is.” He took her hands in his, brought them to his lips. “This means a great deal to me, Blythe, more than you could ever know. But the best thing I can do now for everyone is to leave.”
Her hands tingled. She wished he’d hold her, but he’d crossed his arms, and she didn’t want to throw herself at him again. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I stay here.” He forced a smile. “‘Tis for the best, Blythe.”
“Mm.” He had to stay within, hidden; his face was too well-known. But hers wasn’t, she thought with sudden excitement. Here in Dover no one knew who she was. “I suppose it is,” she agreed. If he were suspicious of her meek answer, Simon didn’t show it, and that was just as well. He could not go out and discover what the Stantons had to do with Miller’s death. However, she, Blythe, could. And since she would have to do so very soon, she began to make plans.