Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “Pray do not take that tone with me, sir,” Blythe said, sinking into the chair, her back ramrod straight, her skirts arranged in precise folds and her face dour. “I will not tolerate it.”

  Simon grinned. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Leonora Higglesby,” she said in a more normal voice, and pulled at her bonnet ribbons. “An insufferable prig, if you must know. I thought if I posed as someone collecting for a charity I might see the viscountess.”

  “And do what, Blythe? Ask her what her grudge was against Miller?”

  “It sounds foolish, I know. But the answer is there, Simon.” Her face sobered. “I saw a portrait of a man who could have been your twin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon took a moment to answer. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I thought it was a portrait of you at first, the resemblance was so close. He was Geoffrey Vernon, and he would have been the fourth viscount.”

  Simon dropped onto the bed. “What are you telling me? That I resemble a lord?”

  “Simon, what do you know of your father?”

  “Good God.” He stared at her. “You don’t seriously think—”

  “I don’t know! But this painting could have been you, Simon. He could have been you.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said, blankly. “I don’t understand.” He paced to the window. “I don’t know who my father was. I told you that, I believe? Uncle Harry is no help. Apparently he never knew, either.”

  “Your mother never told him?”

  “No. But he told me in Maidstone that my parents met here. In Dover.”

  “Simon! Do you think—”

  “No.” He turned, frowning. “That I am the illegitimate son of a nobleman, deprived of my inheritance? That kind of thing happens only in plays, Blythe.”

  “Simon, if you were arrested and hanged for murder, who would benefit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve said you think someone made you look guilty. That someone had to have a reason. If the viscount is involved—”

  “But this becomes more fantastic, Blythe! Are you saying he killed Miller, just to get me out of the way?”

  “I don’t know! Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t think of another explanation that fits.”

  “It was the viscountess who had dealings with Miller.”

  “And who would she get to help her, if not her husband?”

  “Quentin Heywood,” Simon said, slowly. “By God! It fits.”

  “What?”

  “Ian confessed something to me today,” he said, and told her the tale of Ian’s betrayal and subsequent remorse. “Which is why I need to move to safer quarters,” he concluded.

  “Ian paid for what he did, Simon,” she said, softly. “He stood on the gallows with you. He saved your life.”

  “Aye, and I’ve forgiven him the earlier mistake. Why was Heywood interested in me, Blythe? Why me, and not someone else?”

  “He had something to do with Miller’s death,” she said, slowly. “Then, when you escaped, he tried to recapture you.”

  “Chasing us across half of England. And now you see him at Moulton Hall.”

  “Yes. Oh, Simon!” She rose. “You have to leave!”

  “I can’t,” he snapped, realizing at once that he’d known this all along. He had to stay and see it through, whether he cleared his name, or ended up on the gallows.

  “You have to! I don’t understand what is happening but Simon, don’t you see? They know you’re here in Dover. ‘Tis only a matter of time before they catch you—”

  “And you, too?”

  “Yes. No! That doesn’t matter, Simon.”

  “It matters to me. I’ve no desire to see you in prison.”

  “Simon Woodley, are you saying you’re doing this for me?”

  “Partly. I’m responsible for you being in this mess.”

  “Yes, you are, thank you very much, but may I remind you I stayed with you? And what that’s done to my life, traveling with an escaped convict, I don’t know.”

  “But I didn’t ask you, did I?” he said, very softly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t ask you to stay with me, did I?”

  “That’s what I just said, I—” She stared at him. “What are you saying, Simon?”

  He braced his hands on the back of the chair as the implications of her words sank in. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it, that I was accused of a crime. No matter that I’m innocent.”

  “I know you’re innocent. But others don’t.”

  “And you’ll never forgive me for that, will you?”

  “Don’t be silly, Simon. ‘Tis not your fault, and it wouldn’t keep me from staying with you.”

  “I’m not asking you to stay with me.”

  She stared at him. “Simon, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it’s over, princess. That ‘tis time you and I went our separate ways.”

  “Simon—”

  “We never did suit each other. You made that clear from the first.”

  “What are you asking me to do, Simon? To leave?”

  He gazed at her, his face a still mask, hiding, he hoped, all his turmoil and pain and despair. Dear God, what would he do without her? He’d come to rely on her common sense, her unexpected humor and resourcefulness during the weeks of their adventure. God help him, he’d come to love her. He stood still, absorbing that knowledge; realizing it was something he’d known for a long time, deep inside himself. He loved her, wanted to be with her, wanted to see her belly swell with his child, as he never had with any other woman. Losing her would be like wrenching out a piece of his very soul, and he would never be whole again. Yet he couldn’t stay with her. The issue of his innocence would always be there, a specter between them. It wouldn’t have mattered so, had he not loved her. But he did.

  “Yes, Blythe,” he said, finally. “I believe that is what I’m asking you. Leave, princess.” He made his voice harsh, the quicker to end matters. “Go back to your safe little world where nothing bad ever happens and you don’t have to live with the shame of being with a convicted murderer.”

  Blythe was utterly still, her face pale. “Why are you saying this, Simon?”

  He straightened. “‘Tis best for us both.” Because she didn’t love him. If she did, she would believe in him utterly, and he needed that, needed her faith. All his life he’d been on the outside, the stigma first of his birth, and then his conviction, setting him apart. He would not let that happen with her. “You know it as well as I. And you knew this wasn’t forever.”

  “Yes.” She was still pale. Something had come into her face, though, a hardness he’d never seen there before, and her chin was raised. “You’re quite right, Simon. The time has come for us to part.” She reached for the old bonnet, tying it in place with fingers that trembled just a bit, and turned to the door. “But you are the biggest fool God ever made,” she said, and stalked out, pushing her way past Giles in the doorway.

  Giles turned to look at her. “What is amiss?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Simon said, voice clipped. She was gone. He had asked her to go, but that didn’t lessen the pain.

  “Nothing?” Giles’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to her?”

  “It’s not your concern, Giles.”

  “It is my concern. You have both come to me for help. I believe I’ve the right to know if you are endangering yourself, and us.

  Simon didn’t answer right away. “No danger,” he said, finally. “We had a disagreement.”

  “Hm.” Giles’s glance was suspicious. “Whatever happened, I imagine you’re to blame.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Everyone knows that girl is head over heels about you. Pack up your things, lad. We’ve found you a safe place.”

  Simon stood very still. “What is that you said?”

  “We’ve found another place for you—”

  “No, before
that. About Blythe.”

  “Don’t be daft, lad. Surely you already knew?”

  “No.” Simon stayed still, fingertips resting lightly on the chair. No, he hadn’t known. That Blythe had become fond of him, that she had stayed with him when she didn’t have to, those, yes, he had known. That she felt anything stronger than affection, no. “Are you sure?”

  “Ask anyone. Come, gather your things. We’ve not much time, if Heywood knows where you are.”

  Nodding, Simon turned away, to gather his belongings. His mind was a whirl. Blythe loved him? Impossible. She had pointed out too often how he had ruined her life, implied too often that his past made him unacceptable and that she wanted nothing to do with a strolling player. Hadn’t she? Yes, but she had stayed to take care of his wounded leg when she could have returned to London. She had faced danger both in Canterbury and today, and not for herself. For him. Good God. The implication was clear. She loved him. And he, being the fool she called him, had sent her away.

  He straightened, his mouth grim. No, he’d been right to do that, no matter her feelings. Mayhaps he’d been too harsh, but he’d been right. If he couldn’t live with her doubting his innocence when he thought she didn’t care, how much worse would it be if she did? Whatever grew between them, if anything grew between them, had to come out of mutual respect, as well as love. He had to try again to clear his name. No matter what the outcome might be, if he were ever to have hopes of getting Blythe back, he had to try.

  He turned, his few belongings tucked into a small parcel, his mind clear at last. “I’m ready,” he said, and let Giles lead him out.

  Dover was quiet during the night. The local authorities didn’t seem any more interested than usual in the Rowley troupe, nor had Heywood been seen. Still, Simon knew he was risking great danger as he turned his horse onto the coast road, heading away from Dover. McNally had told him that the village near Moulton Hall, where Simon hoped to find answers to some of his questions, was named Barstow. That McNally disapproved showed only in his eyes. There had been a lot of that today, from the other members of the troupe staying in the barn just outside of town, where he had spent the night. They had all evidently heard of his argument with Blythe. They also apparently were on her side. She had become quite popular with the troupe in a short time, which was just as well. If he failed at his task, she’d need a place to stay.

  A signpost at a fork in the road pointed toward Barstow, and away from the coast. Simon rode on, leaving behind him the scenery of gray-blue sea, roiled by a wind that again made crossing the Channel impossible. He had time enough to seek out information, though he wondered if he’d learn what he wanted. Every place he’d gone seeking answers, he’d encountered more questions, instead.

  It wasn’t inconceivable that his mother had taken up with a nobleman. Oddly enough, that was the only fact in the whole tangled story that didn’t bother him. He knew well how the gentry would come to plays, to seduce the actresses. He might be related to the Stantons, and the thought of it made his heart pound, his head spin. Family. But if that were so, what was their connection with Miller’s death?

  Ahead, above the green fields and hedgerows, rose a square Norman church steeple. Simon rode around a bend, and there it was: a tiny village, sleepy and quiet, with only a few people about on its narrow lanes. The church was surprisingly fine, larger than he would have expected, but otherwise the village was indistinguishable from any other in England. Near the church was an ivy-covered stone house he took to be the vicarage; a row of weather-boarded shops lined the High Street, facing houses white-washed clean under their shingled roofs. Some sheep grazed on the green, which contained a duck pond, and a stream ran across the road. Simon splashed through it, stopping in front of the church. If he were going to find any answers, he would have to begin here.

  Tethering his horse, he opened the lych-gate and went into the churchyard. Modest slate stones were fringed by daisies and buttercups, while towards the rear of the yard rose a mausoleum, reminiscent of the crypt where he had masqueraded as a ghost. The memory made him smile as he walked across the grass, but the smile faded as he read the name on the mausoleum. It was the Stanton family crypt.

  A sudden chill made him rub his arms, though the day was warm. Was his father buried here, or did he live yet, unaware he had a son? If so, Simon would be as big a shock to him as he would be to Simon, probably an unwelcome one. And there was one way to dispose of this particular unwanted son, Simon thought, face grim. Turn him over to the authorities.

  “Have you come to see my church?” a voice said behind him, and Simon turned to see a very old man, his cheeks rosy and his white hair sparse. His clerical collar proclaimed his identity: the vicar, the person who might be able to give him answers. “Not many people do so anymore—ah!”

  “Are you well, sir?” Simon asked, as the man’s hand flew to his heart.

  “Yes, yes. Now where did I put those spectacles? Dratted things are never where I need them. Ah.” From an inner pocket he withdrew a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles and placed them, somewhat askew, on his nose. “Ah.” He peered at Simon. “You are younger than I thought.”

  Simon smiled, though he had no intention of explaining his disguise as an old man. “Are you the vicar here, Father?”

  “Yes, son, I am the Reverend Tulley, and I have been vicar here these thirty years. I was wondering if I’d ever have the chance to see you again.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, yes.” Reverend Tulley ambled closer, his pale eyes, though rheumy, surprisingly sharp. “I baptized you, you know.”

  Simon reached out to grip an outcropping on the mausoleum, feeling suddenly dizzy. “You did?”

  “Of course. I—you didn’t know? No, you probably wouldn’t,” he went on to himself. “Not after what happened.”

  Simon took a deep breath, almost afraid to ask the next question; almost afraid of the answer. “Who am I?” he asked, voice thin.

  “You truly do not know? Tch, tch.” The old man shook his head. “Such a shame. But I am pleased to welcome you back, my lord.”

  Simon’s grasp on the mausoleum tightened. “What did you call me?”

  “Your title. You are Christopher Simon Edward Vernon, and by rights you are the fourth Viscount Stanton.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Blythe could see by taking one look at McNally that he didn’t approve of her plans at all. He sat hunched over the reins as he drove along the coast road, with Moulton Hall coming up to the right. Bad enough, he’d said, that she’d gone to the Hall the first time, but this was folly. Blythe had nodded at his protest, but held firm. The answers were there. She had to seek them.

  And why, she didn’t know. She’d get no thanks for it. Drat the man. Why had he turned on her as he had? At first she had been numb from his verbal assault, until the tears came. Now she was simply coldly furious. All that she’d done to help him, and he’d thrown it back in her face. He knew she believed him to be innocent. But, didn’t he realize? If the questions surrounding him weren’t answered, then the remainder of his life, whether short or long, would be clouded.

  McNally twisted on the bench, and then turned back. “Hmph.”

  “What?” Blythe asked, momentarily distracted from her thoughts.

  “Thought I heard someone behind us.”

  Blythe turned, but the rises and dips in the road defeated her vision. “Simon, do you think?”

  “Him?” McNally made a face. “Not likely.”

  “You don’t seem to think well of him,” she said, absurdly annoyed. After all, it was because of Simon that she’d spent the night sleepless, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Because of him, she knew a new kind of pain that caught her under her heart, and seemed like it would never relent. Because of him, she was on this road.

  McNally glanced at her and then returned his attention to the road, snorting. “You don’t have to tell me he’s hurt you.”

  Blythe wrapped her arms
about herself, shielding her heart, shielding the pain. “It’s not really your concern, Joseph.”

  “Huh. So say you, when I’ve been running about all England for the both of you. And when you’re putting yourself out for him like this.” He looked over at her. “He doesn’t know, does he? What you’re doing.”

  She sighed. “No,” she admitted, reaching up to tuck back a strand of hair that had come loose from her cap. “I haven’t seen him today.” She leaned forward, elbows to knees, fists to chin. “He sent me away.”

  McNally snorted again. “More fool he, when you’re in love with him. Don’t look at me like that, girl, all surprised. Everyone knows.”

  Everyone? Oh, dear heavens. “Does it show that much?” she asked in a very small voice.

  His face softened. “Aye, to everyone but him, most like. No, I mean it, lass. He’s too close to you to see it.”

  She turned. “Then why did he send me away?”

  “For your own good, most like. Because of what he feels for you. Now there you go, staring at me again.”

  She gripped his arm. “Joseph, what are you saying?”

  “Now I’ve put my foot in it,” he muttered. “Only that he loves you, too. And proper mad he’ll be, when he finds out where I’ve brought you.”

  “He—if he—but it doesn’t make any sense! If he loves me, why tell me to leave?”

  “For your own safety, lass.” He glanced at her. “So you won’t spend your life tied to a convicted murderer.”

  “But he didn’t do it.”

  “Aye. But he has to prove it, doesn’t he? Here we are.” McNally turned the cart from the road onto the drive. “And he doesn’t think he can.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I know, but it does to him.” He clucked softly as the horse shied at rustling in the undergrowth nearby. “‘Tis the only reason I let you come here today.”

  “Let me! This was my idea.”

  “Mayhap. But ‘tis folly, all the same, with what you know about the viscount.”

  “Maybe he’s not here,” she said, unconvincingly.