“I prefer a sharp dagger myself,” Cat drawled. “Your needles wouldn’t be of much use in a good scrap. Although I guess you could jab one in your enemy’s eye if you had to.”
Porter gasped, regarding Cat with huge eyes, and backed warily away from her. But Cat’s satisfaction in the woman’s retreat was marred as she saw Meg disappearing backstage. The girl glanced about her as though searching for someone and Cat had no doubt who it was.
All of the players had taken their bows and paid their respects to Lady Danvers. All save one…Alexander Naismith.
Chapter Fifteen
“SANDER?” MEG CALLED SOFTLY.
She crept behind the painted cloth hanging at the back of the tiring-house. There was no one backstage except for one of the hands sorting through some rusted armor that had been donated to the theater. The man respectfully doffed his cap and nodded to Meg in greeting.
Meg gave him a shy smile. She thought of asking him where she might find Sander, but was too embarrassed, fearing her blushes would betray her.
She wandered toward the stairs that led to the balcony above the tiring-house. Sander said he often crept up there to work on his music, the inn where he lodged being far too crowded and noisy.
Little light reached the spiral stairs that wound through the upper reaches of the theater. Gathering up the hem of her skirts, Meg picked her way carefully. As she rounded the curve, she blundered into a couple engaged in a tryst. A blond-haired woman held her fan coyly in front of her lips. A tall gentleman garbed in a fine silk doublet leaned close, appearing on the verge of trying to steal a kiss.
Their flirtation interrupted, both turned to stare at Meg in surprise.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” Meg stammered, her cheeks firing. Whirling about, she rushed down the stairs. She fled toward the prompter’s door that led back to the stage.
“Mistress Margaret, wait!” A familiar voice called after her.
Sander? Meg turned back hopefully, but the only one approaching her was the woman from the stairs.
“You appear to be lost, young mistress. Might I be of some assistance?” the blonde cooed in falsetto accents, peering down at Meg over the rim of her fan, a teasing glint in the blue eyes.
Sander’s eyes. But this garish creature, corseted in a faded blue gown, her cheeks painted with rouge, bore little resemblance to Meg’s friend and handsome young music master. Numb with shock, Meg gripped her hands tightly together.
“It is me, milady. Your humble servant and tutor,” Sander said in a more normal tone. His usually elegant bow was made clumsy by his skirts. “What! Don’t you recognize me?”
Meg nodded unhappily.
“I was trying on my costume for our new play. What do you think?” Sander twirled about in a circle.
Meg had never seen him garbed for one of his performances. She hated it. It did not fit at all with her heroic image of Sander. And that scene she had interrupted on the stairs…. Had Sander been rehearsing with another actor? It seemed an odd, dark sort of place to practice one’s lines.
“It—it is a very nice gown,” Meg muttered, staring down at the floorboards.
Sander must have sensed her discomfort because he stopped preening and stripped off his wig. Bending down, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “How have you been? How are you faring with your scrying ball?”
“Not well. I have stared into it for hours until my eyes are crossed. But I see nothing.”
“You keep at it. I am sure you will master it in time. You are such a clever girl, Meg.”
Meg? It was the first time Sander had ever spoken to her so intimately, called her by name.
“Are there any other mysterious objects you require me to purchase for you?” he asked. “I will do my best even if your father should have my hide for it.”
“No, I need nothing.” Meg risked a glance into his eyes. She did not mean to invade the privacy of his mind, but his thoughts were so close to the surface, shining there for her to read.
“What an angel she is. I’d do anything in the world for her. Anything.”
A tingle of warmth spread through Meg. Despite his woman’s garb and rouged cheeks, he seemed more like her Sander again. Meg smiled at him, but the expression froze on her lips as a shadow fell over them, Sander’s companion from the stairs.
“Ah, Sander. This is where you disappeared.”
“Milord.” Sander straightened away from her.
Meg’s brow puckered in a slight frown. The stranger seemed vaguely familiar to her, but he was not one of the players. Meg did not need Sander’s deferential greeting to tell her that. The stranger’s doublet and trunk hose appeared costly and new, not like the castoff clothing the players bought for their costumes.
His slender fingers glittered with rings. His patrician features were lean and arrogant, his dark blond hair slicked back from his brow.
“You have clearly been holding out on me,” the man complained, draping one arm about Sander’s shoulders in negligent fashion. “Who is this young beauty you have stolen off to meet?”
Meg did not care for his flattery. She knew she was no beauty. Nor did she like the possessive way he touched Sander. It made her skin prickle with uneasiness and made her hot with jealousy all at the same time.
“This is Master Wolfe’s daughter. Mistress Wolfe, may I present to you his lordship, Edward Lambert, the baron of Oxbridge.”
Meg dipped into a stiff curtsy. Lord Oxbridge, her papa’s patron and Lady Danvers’s brother. Now Meg remembered him from that terrible day when her papa had saved Lady Danvers from drowning. Meg had been so afraid of seeing her father swept away by the river’s current that she had taken little note of his lordship.
Lord Oxbridge smiled, his gaze raking over her with such keen interest it rendered Meg uncomfortable.
“So this is Margaret Wolfe, the remarkable girl I have heard so much about.”
“I am Margaret Wolfe,” Meg replied primly, “but I am not all that remarkable.”
“Oh, I believe that you are. Your father has been most remiss about allowing me to further our acquaintance. But happily Master Naismith here has been telling me much of your accomplishments.” His lordship exchanged a warm, intimate look with Sander.
Meg could not imagine why such a powerful nobleman as Lord Oxbridge would be interested in becoming better acquainted with an insignificant eleven-year-old girl. She should have been flattered that Sander spoke of her so highly. Why then did it feel more like a betrayal?
His lordship removed his arm from Sander’s shoulders. He tried to cup Meg’s chin, tilt her face upward to inspect her further as though she were some strange curiosity.
Meg shied away from him. She was tempted to try to read his lordship’s eyes, but they seemed so restive, half-veiled by his light blond lashes. Even if she succeeded in prying her way into his head, she had a queasy feeling she would not like what she found there.
“Meg?”
Much to her relief, Meg heard Cat shouting for her. She saw the woman emerge backstage from the door at the opposite side of the theater. Mumbling some excuse to Sander and his lordship, Meg all but fled toward her protector.
Cat greeted her, hands splayed on her hips, looking far from pleased that Meg had wandered out of her sight.
“Margaret Wolfe. How many times must I tell you—” Cat broke off with a grunt as Meg hurled herself at her, wrapping her arms about Cat’s waist.
Cat’s vexed tone immediately softened to one of concern. “Sweetling, what is it? What’s amiss?”
Meg burrowed her face against Cat. She hardly knew how to answer her, not fully understanding herself the turmoil that roiled through her. Even without reading eyes, Meg sensed something. The air in the theater was oppressive, thick with secrets swirling about her. The feeling emanated not just from Sander and his lordship, but Lady Danvers as well and even Meg’s own beloved papa.
The only one at the moment who felt completely forthright and true was her Cat, and
Meg clung to her tightly.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Meg whispered. “I am just tired and I want to go home.”
MARTIN FROWNED SLIGHTLY WHEN HE NOTICED HIS DAUGHTER disappear backstage. Meg was familiar with most of the acting company and the stagehands. She ought to be safe enough within the confines of the theater, but Martin was relieved all the same when he saw Cat heading after Meg.
He tried to keep his attention focused on Jane, but Martin could not keep his gaze from following wistfully after Cat.
Cat had been so sharp with him during the course of this outing. No doubt part of it was because of her disapproval of his interest in Lady Danvers, his plan to secure a proper English mother for Meg instead of surrendering his daughter to Ariane’s teaching on Faire Isle.
But he feared Cat’s prickly attitude owed more to that incident in his study. Never had the remembrance of stolen moments of passion been so sweet to Martin and never had he regretted anything more.
He had paid a heavy price for letting his desire get the better of him, measured in the distance that stretched between him and Cat. Mon Dieu, how he hated it, the tension, the awkward silences that had sprung up between them this past week.
He keenly missed her companionship, their easy banter, even the fierceness of their quarrels. Cat’s friendship had become a refuge for him, and the Lord knew he needed one, with all his worries pressing down upon him, all this intrigue nipping at his heels.
When he saw Robert Poley come strolling into the Crown, Martin bit back an oath, realizing that he could have no peace from all the infernal conspiracy and plotting, not even here in his own theater.
Murmuring his excuses to Lady Danvers, Martin leapt from the stage and hastened forward to intercept Poley.
“I am sorry, sir. But the theater is closed. There is no performance scheduled today,” Martin announced in hearty tones for the benefit of anyone who might be heeding the conversation. Leaning a little closer to Poley, he hissed, “What the devil are you doing here?”
Poley bowed and smiled with his usual amiability. “No performance? That is certainly a great disappointment.”
He added under his breath, “There are developments, Master Wolfe. Our mutual employer waxes impatient.”
Martin tensed at the reference to Walsingham. After learning who Poley was, Martin had abandoned all pretense with the man. Walsingham might like to play his deep games, keeping his agents unaware of one another. Martin felt it might be more to their mutual benefit if Poley knew that he and Martin were working for the same cause.
Not that Martin harbored any illusions about his fellow spy or entirely trusted the man. If this dangerous affair went awry and blew up in their faces, Poley would look to his own skin and Martin would do the same.
While pretending to admire the theater, Poley continued, “Babington has yet to rise to the bait and reply to the Scottish queen’s letter. We still have no idea who all six of the assassins are. Sir Francis feels we cannot risk waiting any longer. He means to issue arrest warrants soon for all of those under suspicion.”
“Including Lord Oxbridge?” Martin asked anxiously.
“I don’t know. But certainly for Father Ballard, John Savage, and Sir Anthony Babington. Have you remarked how edgy Babington has been of late? I think he is losing his nerve, preparing to bolt. He has been avoiding his own lodging and staying with me. I haven’t had a chance to go through his things yet, but I notice there is one canvas bag he guards rather jealously.”
“What do you think is in it? Letters from the Queen of Scots or some of his fellow conspirators? Surely even Babington would not be fool enough to keep such damning evidence.”
Poley shrugged. “I think the young ass is fool enough for anything. Anyway, arrests are imminent. I just thought you should be on the alert.”
“Thank you.”
Poley nodded and announced in a louder tone, “Please do keep me informed, Master Wolfe, of when the new play is to be performed.”
“I will indeed, sir.”
Biding a cheery farewell, Poley took his leave, allowing Martin to return to Lady Danvers. She was still on stage with Arthur Lehay. The old actor and one of the other players were demonstrating to her ladyship how the trapdoor worked.
Martin struggled to mask his inner turmoil as he joined her upon the stage. Jane turned to him with a shy smile and mock shudder.
“Master Lehay has been showing me your secrets, sir. How the devil might be summoned from the depths of hell to terrify the audience.”
Or angels dragged under, Martin thought with a sharp pang as he gazed down at Jane’s innocent face. He forced a smile to his lips.
“I hope you feel that your investment has been well spent. The design of the Crown is far superior to the theater in Shoreditch.”
“I would have no way of judging. I have never attended any performance there. Ned is the one who is so fond of such public diversions.”
“What pastimes do amuse you, my lady?”
“I prefer a quiet afternoon spent alone with a good book or my stitching.” Jane gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I am sure you must find me rather a dull creature.”
“Not at all. I have been craving a little quiet myself,” Martin said, although he did not share Jane’s love of solitude. His gaze shifted involuntarily toward the door where Cat had vanished backstage.
“Is something wrong, Marcus?” Jane asked. “You seem rather…tense.”
Martin wrenched his attention back to her. “No, I am fine,” he lied.
Nothing was wrong. Nothing except that Jane’s worst dread might be about to come true. Her brother could well be lodged in the Tower by this time tomorrow. Would it be a kindness or pure folly to attempt to warn Jane? What if Ned truly was guilty?
Although Martin felt wracked with guilt himself, he said, “What were we speaking of before? Oh, yes, your brother’s diversions. I understand he is a planning an excursion to France.”
“You sound as though you disapprove.” Jane cast him a wry look. “I hope you are not one of those insular Englishmen who despise the French.”
Martin was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. “No, the French have their uses. They are at least tolerable wine-makers. Er—has Ned many acquaintances in France?”
“Ned makes fast friends wherever he travels.” Jane lowered her gaze, her expression downcast. “I think it would be a good thing if he went. He’d be safer there.”
“Safer?”
“France is a far healthier climate for those of our faith. There are many exiled English Catholics living in Paris. These are such perilous and uncertain times. One never knows what might happen.”
From the tense expression on her face, Martin feared that Jane did know. Or at least she suspected that Ned might be involved in something dangerous.
Martin pressed her hand. “I would never wish harm to befall either Ned or you. If there is anything I can do, if you could bring yourself to—”
He almost asked her to trust him, but he had no right to do that. Walsingham had engaged Martin to help expose the conspiracy and in particular find evidence against Ned Lambert. Martin knew the rewards if he succeeded, the risks he ran if he failed, especially if he sought to deceive Walsingham.
But it didn’t matter. He could not secure his future or Meg’s at the expense of this lady’s gentle heart. Carrying Jane’s hand lightly to his lips, Martin formed his resolve.
If any damning proof of treason existed against Ned Lambert, it must be tucked away in Babington’s mysterious canvas sack. Poley was bound to discover it and the other agent would have no qualms about handing it over to Walsingham. Ned Lambert and his sister had only one chance. If Martin got to that evidence first….
THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN SPREAD A GOLDEN GLOW OVER THE dark waters of the Thames as the boatman conveyed Cat, Martin, and Meg across to the city.
Meg was wedged in close to her father, his arm draped protectively around the girl’s shoulders. Meg snuggled against Martin,
her forlorn expression a marked contrast to the excitement with which she had begun the day.
The girl had been so hopeful of obtaining a glimpse of the queen. But Cat believed that Meg’s low spirits had less to do with what she hadn’t seen and more to do with what she had—her young hero cavorting about in his gown with Lord Oxbridge.
Cat had observed enough of the two men to form suspicions about the relationship between his lordship and the young actor. It was not an unusual practice amongst the nobility to enjoy the favors of a comely lad and Sander Naismith seemed like an ambitious boy with few scruples about what he’d do to advance himself.
Cat was unsure how much of the interplay between the two men Meg had understood. Certainly enough to trouble the girl. Her dark expression was a cloudy mirror of her father’s.
There was something greatly amiss with Martin as well. From the shadows backstage, Cat had observed his brief conversation with the amiable-looking stranger who had wandered into the theater. For all the apparent congeniality of the encounter, Martin had returned to the stage looking like he had swallowed a pistol ball.
As he cradled Meg close to him, Martin’s thoughts were clearly far away. He drummed his fingers against his knee with a restiveness Cat recognized all too well. The man would be stealing off tonight on one of his mysterious errands. Cat was dead certain of it.
As the shore receded in the distance, Cat thought back to the day she’d first come to Southwark, shadowing Martin in her search for Meg. It felt like a lifetime ago, her only loyalty then to the Lady of Faire Isle, Cat’s sole purpose to carry out Ariane’s commands to retrieve the girl.
When had that all begun to shift and change? Perhaps from that very first night when she had watched Martin bend so tenderly over his daughter while Meg slept, tucking her in. Cat only knew that it no longer required any orders from her chieftain.
Cat would willingly sacrifice her life for either Martin or Meg. She loved both of them so much her heart ached with it.
The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen) Page 27