by C. J. Archer
So that's what it was about. Humiliation. Well, he should step out in her shoes some time and know what it was like to be called a wanton. And to be betrayed by someone she'd given her heart to.
Lord, it hurt so much.
"You have ruined this company," he spat. "Lord Hawkesbury will be sure to withdraw his patronage now."
"We don't know that," Shakespeare said.
"He would not want to become a laughing stock," the manager said with authority. Of all of them, Style knew Hawkesbury best—perhaps he was right.
"No," Shakespeare said. "But depending on how he handles this situation, he may not become a laughing stock."
"Quiet," Style snapped. "No one is speaking to you."
"Brother," Edward said, "perhaps we should talk in private with Mistress Peabody. We need to discuss our immediate and long term plans regarding her plays."
"I can tell you what our plans are. We cancel this afternoon's performance and all future performances."
"What!" everyone chorused. Even Freddie looked up from his ale.
"B, but we have to put on something," Edward said, eyes widening and voice pitching high. "No. Please no. We can't go back." He could have been speaking of returning to hell rather than putting on an older play.
"We have to. A Day and a Night in Venice," Style announced. A chorus of groans echoed around the taproom. "It's our most recent play and thus freshest in our minds. There'll be little preparation in the way of costumes. Someone take the message to the Crofts in the tiring house."
No one moved.
"I hate that play," Freddie muttered.
"But all the handbills are printed announcing Marius and Livia as today's performance," Edward said. "It's too late to change them now. We start in less than two hours."
"I don't care," Style said without taking his eyes off Min. "We will not be putting on her play. I'll not suffer any more humiliation than I already have."
Freddie rubbed his left eye with his fist. "Last time we did Venice I nearly lost an eye from an apple core one of the groundlings threw at me."
"Expect worse than apple cores if we put on something other than Marius and Livia," Edward mumbled. "Please, Brother, can't you allow this one performance? We can have different handbills drawn up for tomorrow. That way no one can complain we misled them."
"Marius and Livia might be an even bigger sensation now," Shakespeare said, hopefully. "Everyone will want to see the play a woman wrote and judge its quality for themselves."
"Everyone will laugh at the play a woman wrote," Style said, "and then they'll laugh at us for being duped by a witless female."
"Have you quite finished insulting me?" Min said. She took a step forward. Style wasn't so much taller than her that she felt threatened by him. However, she didn't want to get too close to him either. Not while his anger oozed from every orifice.
"Are you finished humiliating me?" Style shot back. Then he suddenly sat down again, causing the feathers in his hat to jiggle. "What am I going to say to Lord Hawkesbury?" He pressed his fingers to his temples and rubbed in a circular motion. Min could sympathize. Her own ache had gone from dull to sharp since she'd entered the White Swan.
"Tell him you were not aware of the sex of the author," Edward said with an apologetic shrug at Min. "He'll not blame you, Roger."
"Tell him it won't happen again," Wells suggested. He sat down on a stool and rested his chin in his hands.
"Why not tell him to judge the play on its merits and not by who penned it?" Shakespeare said.
Style glared at him. Freddie snorted. "Everyone knows a woman couldn't write this sort of thing," the lad said with all the assurance of a youth who thought he knew everything. "The devil's inside her. Must be."
Style nodded and Edward shifted in his seat, suddenly avoiding Min's gaze. Henry Wells and Shakespeare were the only ones who didn't look convinced although Henry seemed to at least consider the idea.
Min's jaw dropped. She stared at them all. Is that what they really thought? That she was some kind of witch and that's how she'd written the play? Good lord, how was she supposed to reason against such notions? It was impossible. Futile.
And rather frightening. If they believed she was the devil's agent, then who else might? The audience? Lord Hawkesbury? The authorities? She could be imprisoned on suspicion of witchcraft. Or worse. It explained Style's reluctance to put on her plays again. Perhaps it had nothing to do with humiliation at all and more to do with his own fears. He was afraid of being tainted by her play, of consorting with the devil's earthly incarnation. A shiver crept up her spine and she folded her arms against the sudden cold.
Then she turned and ran through the taproom. People moved aside to let her past. She saw fear in their eyes, and awe too, a combination that assured her safe passage to the door.
Outside, she sucked in the cold air. It cleansed her throat and cooled her heated cheeks but not her temper, or the fear. She should have known this would happen. A woman's place was not in the theatre. Even Alice stepped a fine line by being backstage. But she was at least doing an acceptable woman's trade. Min was not.
To watch a play was one thing, but to write one was entirely another. It was corrupting to her gentle nature. To see her willingly subject herself to that corruption was quite a disturbance on the average man's conscience. No wonder the Style brothers and many others blamed her behavior on the devil. They could see no other explanation for it. For a gentlewoman would surely not choose to write a play any more than she could be capable of it.
A pox on them! It was all too vexing and...impossible!
"Wait! Min." It was Shakespeare. He trotted up to her, a hand holding his hat in place against the stinging wind, the other pressed to his chest. He breathed heavily. "Good lord, but you're a fast walker."
"Only when I'm angry."
"I understand your anger," he said. "I have experienced prejudices too, but mine are more to do with my station and my lack of a formal education rather than my sex."
Min cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, I can see that wouldn't be an issue." She spoke freely with more than a hint of irritation but she didn't care. Although it occurred to her that she wasn't being fair. She wasn't angry with Shakespeare. She was mad at Style. And she was furious with Blake.
"What is it you want?" she said. "I have someone I need to find."
"Ah, your friend, Blake," he said.
She strode off. "He is not my friend."
He fell into step alongside her. "I see. Well, may I suggest that when you do find him, that you be gentle with him. I believe he cares for you and wouldn't wish to hurt you."
It appeared Blake had duped more than just Min. He even had others thinking he had feelings. "If that were the case, he wouldn't have put me in this position."
"Perhaps it came about through a mistake, a slip of the tongue."
"I'll cut out his tongue if he tries to defend his actions to me."
"I see you are hurt," he said dryly. "So I shall get to the point. I simply wanted to wish you well."
She swallowed. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "That is kind."
He doffed his hat and bowed. "Now I must go and speak to Burbage and beg him to look at my newest play. I have a suspicion I'll not get anywhere with Lord Hawkesbury's Men." He said it with a laugh and Min almost smiled.
"Then I wish you well too, Master Shakespeare. And thank you for your defense of me in the White Swan."
"I consider it a privilege to assist a fellow playwright. Goodbye."
She didn't watch him go but spun on her heel and kept walking. She had a villain to confront.
CHAPTER 21
Blake lifted Lilly's cool hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. Her eyeballs rolled beneath closed alabaster lids but she made no other response. Her maid dabbed a damp cloth to Lilly's already moist forehead and murmured soothing words which fell on deaf ears—Lilly could hear no one and see nothing with the fever upon her. Blake, in perfect health, could feel no
thing. He was hollow inside, an empty vessel. He should feel angry. He wanted to be angry. Lilly was too young to die. Too beautiful. And he needed her, especially now. She would know what to do about Min.
He lowered her hand to the bed and rose.
"Ah, there you are." His mother came up behind him, her slim frame emanating a surprising amount of strength at his back. He found comfort in it, and was a little surprised by the fact that he wanted to be comforted.
"When did she fall ill?" he said without turning.
"She's been like this since you told her of your confrontation with Lord Hawkesbury."
Meaning it was his fault.
He'd awoken to hear the news of Lilly's illness only a short time ago. After Min's maid sent him away from her house he must have wandered London's streets until he eventually wound up at his own home near dawn. He'd slept most of the morning and arisen to find the servants looking mournful and his mother crying. She never cried.
He cursed silently. Although he didn't blame himself for Lilly's illness—the blame for that lay firmly at Hawkesbury's feet—he did feel guilty. He should have been at her bedside, watching over her. Just as he should have been in London all these years instead of only when it appealed to him. Obviously Leo could not be trusted with the task of protecting their womenfolk.
"What did the doctor say?" he asked. The maidservant had already informed him of Dr. Seymour's earlier visit but she'd not known the diagnosis.
"That there is nothing we can do." Lady Warhurst sat on the chair Blake had vacated and touched her daughter's glistening, creamy cheek with her fingertips. "He said we must wait."
Wait. He let out a long, measured breath. Waiting was not something he was good at. The things he was good at included sailing, ordering men and killing. Not necessarily in that order. "If she dies," he said, flatly, "I am going to kill him."
"He didn't give her the fever." It seemed she didn't need to ask who he was speaking about.
"No, but she wouldn't have caught it if she wasn't already weakened by the babe inside her."
"Excuse me, sir," said Greeves the steward from the doorway. "There is a Mistress Peabody here. Do you wish to see her?"
Min? Here? Had Jane told her of Blake's late night visit after all? Or had Min changed her mind and wished to accept his proposal now that she'd had time to think it through? His chest swelled and he realized with a jolt that the idea made him happy. He shouldn't be happy. Not with Lilly lying lifeless in her bed. He should be angry and vengeful and afraid for her. And he was, but the happiness towered above all those emotions, a triumphant conqueror waving a flag in victory.
"Show her to the Rose Room."
Greeves left and Blake made to follow him, but his mother called him back into Lilly's room. "Who is Mistress Peabody?"
"A friend."
She arched one brow. "I've not heard you mention her name before."
He sighed. Not even Lilly's illness could keep his mother from attempting a match. And here he thought she'd given up and turned her powers on Leo. It almost explained his brother's permanently bad mood these days. "That's because I've not spoken of her before."
"Is she young? Eligible? Are her connections—?"
"Mother. Enough. Not now. If Min has come here it must be important. Please allow me to speak to her without interference."
She held up her hands in surrender. "I shall be here if you wish to introduce us."
If Min had changed her mind about marrying him, meeting his mother might change it back again. But he nodded and cast another look at Lilly's limp form before he left.
Outside the Rose Room, he gave Greeves orders to bring sweetmeats and wine. Then he entered. Min sat stiffly on a chair by the fire, staring at the grate. She looked up when he entered. He was shocked by how her face had changed since he'd last seen her. Her eyes, usually so bright, had dulled and hardened like a well-worn pebble. Her body tensed but there was a stoop where before there'd been none, and that alone made her seem older, her tender years behind her. And her hands moved constantly. The long, elegant fingers twisted over and over until they abruptly stopped, as if she'd suddenly become aware of her fidgeting.
So. She had experienced life after all, and not just the side of it that he'd wanted to show her, but the grim reality. Poor, tender Min, no longer the innocent. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, press her cheek to his chest and kiss away her ills. He wanted to protect her from whatever had upset her.
He wanted to put back the light in her eyes.
But he had the crushing feeling that it was a task beyond his capabilities.
And that his attempts would not be welcome.
Nevertheless, he knelt before her and felt the full force of her anger. As always, he reacted to her in the most basic manner. She affected him the way no woman had ever affected him. She made something inside him lift, tighten.
"What is it?" he said, taking her hand. She recoiled. "What has happened?" he pressed.
She nodded at the door. "I should ask you that. There's a feeling of...unease here." She looked uneasy herself, wary. "Has something happened to your sister?"
She was perceptive. He was about to tell her Lilly was ill but changed his mind. Min seemed to be carrying a heavy enough burden. She didn't need another one, one that might affect what she was about to tell him. She might be inclined to be sympathetic towards him and he didn't want her sympathy, he wanted her honesty. He wanted to know what was wrong so he could help her, even if the only way to help her was to let her be angry with him.
"No. All is well. My mother just likes to keep a quiet household." He smiled what he hoped was an optimistic smile and sat on a chair opposite. The room felt suddenly too small even though his mother liked to boast that the Rose Room was as grand as any parlor at Warhurst Hall, his brother's Northumberland seat. All those damned pink flowers painted on the walls and the ceiling plaster. It felt as if they would reach out and twine around his neck.
"Now," he said, struggling for breath, "I don't suppose you are here to accept my proposal."
She glanced at the door again and her entire body shrugged, as if she'd chosen to accept his explanation about his mother. "You're right. I'm here to tell you that you are a fiend. A scoundrel. A heartless wretch with no more feelings than a puddle of muddy water." With every accusation her eyes narrowed a little more and she edged forward until she was perched on the edge of the chair.
Every accusation sent him further back until he was sitting as rigid as a pole. He felt completely witless—he hadn't any notion what had brought on her anger. Nor was he sure how to handle it. Min wasn't the fierce type. She was gentle and sweet and kind.
Not anymore. His kitten had turned into a tiger.
"I'm not sure I understand what I've done to deserve such vehemence," he said carefully. Living with two volatile women, he'd learned early in life to approach these sorts of conversations with the utmost caution. That's if he couldn't flee. He looked to the solid oak door. It was open. In Min's present state of tension, he wouldn't be surprised if she sprang up and reached it first.
"You betrayed me," she said without moving her jaw. Her fingers went white as each hand pressed against the other. "You. Be. Trayed. Me."
Betrayed her? The only way he could ever betray her was to tell Style that she was really the author of her play, but he'd not breathed a word of it to anyone. Not even Shakespeare, although he'd intended to before he got side-tracked by Lord Hawkesbury at the White Swan.
"Min," he said with all the care of a man about to put his arm into the tiger's mouth, "you must believe me when I say I have not. I would never—."
"Liar!" Half the house must have heard her raised voice. "No one else could have done it. Not a single soul except for Jane knew. And do not accuse my maid," she said, stabbing her finger at him. "She is the most loyal of servants. A better friend to me than you."
"Min," he said, his voice also rising, despite every attempt to remain calm, "I did not do it. I wouldn
't do that to you. I—." He stopped himself before he said something foolish and inappropriate. Something he couldn't take back. Something that would upset the delicate balance of his world.
"Don't lie to me." She got up and stalked to the window then swung round to pin him with a freezing glare. "You wanted to bring down Lord Hawkesbury to seek your sister's revenge." This she said more quietly. "Well? Deny that!"
Christ, what a mess. He seemed to be good at making messes for the people he cared about. He stood and got as close to her as he thought she'd allow, and as close as he could get without being affected by her to the point of becoming foolish. He needed to keep his mind focused so as not turn into a blathering half-wit who'd say anything to see her smile again.
He drew in a deep breath and wished he hadn't. Even from where he stood he could smell her intoxicating scent. "I admit I want to get my revenge on him for his behavior towards my sister. But I would confront him directly to make him pay for his sin, not use you."
She crossed her arms and tilted her adorable and very stubborn chin. She didn't look convinced.
And that hurt. He took a step closer and almost lost all his sense of propriety right there in the Rose Room parlor. He wanted to kiss those pursed lips. Hell, he wanted to kiss her everywhere from her rosy nipples to her knees and everywhere in between. Make her squirm with desire. Make her—.
Damnation! He took a step back, out of her sphere. Focus. But not on her lips. Or her chin and definitely not on the freckle at the corner of her mouth. It didn't leave too many places because her eyes were equally as distracting.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "Do you think I would care so little for you after taking your maidenhead that I would use your secret for my own revenge?" He paced the room. The continuous movement hopefully meant there was less chance of pulling her to him and kissing some sense into her. "Is that the value you place on our love-making?"
"I..." She looked at his ear, his shoulder, his chest, everywhere but his eyes. "I don't know." He began to protest when she cut him off. "You said it yourself. You're a blackguard. You can't be trusted."