by C. J. Archer
Alice had been told many times in her twenty-six years that her curiosity would be her downfall. As a child she would sneak around the house listening to the adult conversations, or explore the narrow lanes near her home—the ones she was strictly told not to venture down. Not even a whipping from her father and a near-escape from a brothel-keeper seeking fresh girls could keep her curiosity and thirst for knowledge in check. Although she kept away from the worst of the lanes after that instance.
Childish curiosity was one thing. Spying on Lord Hawkesbury, a peer of the realm, was entirely another.
"Why not ask one of the players?" she said.
He gave her a rueful smile, one that sparked a gleam in his green eyes. She'd never seen eyes quite like them, bright one moment and fathomless the next but never revealing too much of what the man was thinking. They reminded her of the emeralds she'd once seen in a grand lady's rings. With a start, she recalled they'd been worn on the hand of his mother.
"The players were not recommended by my brother," Lord Warhurst said. "You were."
It had been only days since she'd last seen his brother the pirate, Robert Blakewell, and Blake's bride-to-be, Minerva Peabody. They'd informed her that much had changed prior to their betrothal, including Blake ceasing his pursuit of Lord Hawkesbury over the relationship the earl had had with Lilly Blakewell.
It seemed Lord Warhurst was taking up the reins dropped by his brother to save their sister's honor.
Yet it didn't quite make sense. Why all this brotherly fuss over a simple affection? Why the forbidding presence of the brooding Baron Warhurst darkening her tiring house? And why did he need the help of a mere seamstress?
"My half-brother and I don't get along," Lord Warhurst said, crossing his arms over a broad chest. "But I trust him nevertheless, and I trust his judgment. If he thinks you would make a fair and discreet information gatherer, then I believe him. I also think you have the look about you of someone who would go unnoticed, something which will be of benefit in this endeavor."
The old, familiar pang stabbed her in the ribs. She'd once thought it was jealousy of prettier girls, the sort who turned heads just by walking down the street. But she'd learned, eventually, that that wasn't the case. Jealousy it might be, but not towards those endowed with beauty. It was the jealousy of a girl who simply wanted to be someone else, someone who would be noticed wherever she went.
If she knew how to become one of those women, she could perhaps make steps towards changing herself, but all she really knew for certain was that she didn't want to be Alice Croft, seamstress for Lord Hawkesbury's Men, day after day until her death.
She may be aware of the pang and all it implied but it still hurt to have her plainness in looks and occupation pointed out so baldly.
"That is hardly a convincing argument," she said, perhaps a little too caustically.
He arched one eyebrow in question.
"Telling me I'm too ordinary to be noticed."
"I didn't say ordinary, nor is that what I meant." He huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes heaven-ward. "I simply was stating the fact that people do not always see...those whose presence they take for granted." His words were measured, careful.
"Like servants," she said flatly.
"Like seamstresses." He shrugged, as if what he'd said was obvious and not open to questioning. That it was nothing of importance.
That she was nothing of importance.
It was a wonder he had even deigned to speak to someone like her at all let alone ask for her help. Her throat burned as she swallowed back a tide of emotions, ones she thought she'd buried.
"You must hate it," she said with a lightness she certainly didn't feel.
"What?"
"Asking me for help. A seamstress."
He opened his mouth but shut it again. His stare faltered and he looked away. It was all the answer she needed.
"Which means the task you require of me must be important," she went on. A little voice within her warned her not to test this man, not to push him into a corner because he would fight. He was a baron and an imposing figure, standing well above her and she was no sprite. Yet she couldn't help herself. She wanted to find out as much as she could before she said yes. About the task, and the gentleman.
That she would say yes was a certainty. She needed an intrigue to break up the endless tedium of her days.
"Why do you want Lord Hawkesbury to marry your sister? Does she really love him so much that she would have her brother force him into marriage against his wishes? Or is there another reason? One more...scandalous?"
He lifted his gaze to hers without lifting his head and glared at her beneath long black lashes. The effect was devilish and she almost crossed herself in the old Catholic way.
So much for backing him into a corner. She hadn't even budged him in the slightest. What she'd done was potentially far worse—awakening a beast with more anger boiling inside him than she could ever know.
"I think," he finally said through a clenched jaw, "that my brother was mistaken. You are of no use to me. Good day." He spun round and shoved the curtain all the way to the side.
"Wait! I can help you."
But he was already half-way across the stage and he didn't look like stopping to hear her. Not the reaction she'd expected. Hot outrage at her impertinence would have been better than this cool dismissal. But at least she now knew her assumption was correct—Lilly Blakewell was carrying Lord Hawkesbury's unborn child.
"I know where Lord Hawkesbury will be tonight," she called after him.
She might as well have flung her words at a wall. He either didn't hear them or didn't care. He simply jumped off the stage and strode towards the arch leading out to Gracechurch Street.
Well. Good riddance. The man was rude. It was a miracle he'd even lowered himself to ask for her assistance.
Nevertheless she watched him go with a sinking heart. He and his family's troubles had been a bump on her otherwise flat week. No, make that year. Now even that distraction was gone.
She sighed and returned to the tiring house, letting the curtain fall back into place. There was no point dwelling on what might have happened if she hadn't opened her mouth. There was still much to be done to prepare for the troupe's transfer to The Rose. Henslowe, The Rose theater's owner, had given them permission to perform there on the days Lord Strange's Men weren't using it. The bigger crowds at the dedicated theater would ensure more money for Lord Hawkesbury's Players and for Alice's father, their tiring house manager. But as his assistant and daughter, she would see none of it. Moving to The Rose would simply be more of the same. Mending costumes, cleaning the tiring house, listening to the actors' complaints and gossip.
She looked down at the clothing bought from Lady Dalrymple. The ensemble of bodice, skirt and over-gown was several years out of fashion but it was the most exquisite thing Alice had ever worn. The softness of the velvet, the vibrancy of the colors and the workmanship that had gone into the embroidery were nothing like she'd seen before. She simply had to try them on. Just for a few minutes she wanted to pretend she was someone else, someone important. A duchess or an heiress or even a wealthy merchant in her own right. Anything would be better than this...nothingness. The clothes had beckoned to her like a lover and she couldn't resist. Besides, no one had seen.
No one except Lord Warhurst and she was not likely to see him again. She doubted he cared enough to tell her father or Roger Style, the company's manager. If Style had caught her wearing the costume that had cost him a week's profit, he'd have dismissed her without hearing her excuses and perhaps dismissed her father too. It had been a risk but a risk she'd been prepared to take.
With another sigh, she removed the hat. She was about to step behind the door used as a screen for privacy when she heard the swish of the curtain opening behind her. She knew without turning around that Lord Warhurst had returned. She couldn't say how she knew it, she just did. Perhaps it was his brooding presence, so powerful that it
surged ahead of him like a flood.
"Why do you want to help?" he said.
She turned and shrugged. The ill-fitting clothes slipped a little, revealing one bare shoulder. She adjusted the sleeve but not before she saw Warhurst's lips purse. In disapproval? Irritation? Or suppressed desire?
"I liked your sister," she said. "And your brother."
His eyebrow forked again. "That may be the case but I doubt it is your sole reason. There must be more for you to risk your livelihood. I'm sure you are aware that Lord Hawkesbury could have you removed from his company if he discovers your involvement in this scheme."
She nodded. "That's why I want something from you in return."
"Money?"
"Not quite." She chewed the inside of her lip, thinking fast. Should she ask him? Would he agree? If she didn't ask, she would never know his answer. And this opportunity would never arise again, of that she was certain. She had to ask.
She lifted her chin and stepped towards him, the better to gauge his reaction. But his only reaction was a lowering of his gaze to her breasts bursting over the top of the too-tight bodice. She cleared her throat but refused to cover herself. Let him look. She wasn't ashamed.
"I cannot take you on as my mistress." He looked up, face flushed, eyes hooded.
"Pardon?"
His flush deepened. "I, er, isn't that what you were asking of me?"
"No! Good Lord, what sort of woman do you think I am?"
"I, well, I'm not entirely sure. To be honest, I've never encountered a woman such as yourself before."
"That is quite obvious."
He bowed. "My humble apologies, Mistress Croft." He blinked rapidly and looked away, pretending to study a Roman shield leaning against the wall.
An awkward silence ensued until she could stand it no longer. "What I do want from you is your patronage, or sorts."
That got his attention. "So you do want money?" He said it without a hint of disapproval, as if he expected it, almost wanted it.
But what she wanted wasn't quite as simple as an exchange of coins. "I want you to establish me as a seamstress with a shop of my own in a respectable part of the City."
"You want what?"
"In essence, you will be my patron but only until such time that my earnings cover the rent. I have some money set aside to purchase the tools I need. You could also use your influence with certain merchants so that I can buy cloth and other materials at a good price. It would be to your benefit," she said quickly when his mouth dropped open. "The more money that remains in my coffers the faster I will be able to support myself and you can wash your hands of me. Oh, and there is one other thing."
"I don't doubt it," he muttered.
"If you could send some elegant ladies of your acquaintance to my shop, I would be most grateful. You would benefit—."
"Yes, yes, so I see." But he shook his head and she thought she heard a low chuckle but he didn't smile so she couldn't be sure. "First of all, Mistress Croft, you over-estimate my influence in elegant circles. As you can see," he stretched out his arms, "I am no gallant."
"This is true but your clothes are well made and suited to your...demeanor."
He frowned. "Meaning?"
"They are serious." She thought it wise not to mention she'd seen puritans wear less bleak clothing. There wasn't a hint of embellishment in his doublet, even the buttons were covered in the same black material. No slashing, no embroidery, no pinking, and yet the doublet was silk and from what she could see, the tailoring superb. It fit him to perfection, without needing any padding across shoulders or chest. What lay beneath the clothing must also be perfection. The thought made her heart skip erratically.
"I have seen your mother and sister," she forged on, "and they are both women with exceptional fashion sense. If I provide them with some gowns, free of charge of course, to prove my skill then perhaps they could send their friends to me. You could give them the gowns as a gift."
He nodded thoughtfully. "A reasonable plan. And my brother's new bride would require something to wear for her wedding feast. Could you do it?"
"How soon?"
"In a month or two I would imagine."
If she started as soon as possible she should be able to make Min an outfit to rival the queen's. "I should like to make her something special anyway. We have become friends of sorts," she said with a smile.
He nodded. "But I'm afraid you mistake my position in this City. I am rarely here and I do not know any merchants. As to renting a shop..." He drew in a breath. "I shall see what I can do."
"I'm sure your brother knows many merchants from his privateering jaunts. Perhaps you could ask him since Mistress Blakewell is his sister too."
He acknowledged this with a curt nod. "You have a solid understanding of business, I see."
"Then we have an agreement?"
"We do, on one condition. That you do not mention this to anyone. We shall rent the shop in your name and in no way will any transactions between us be known. I cannot afford for our connection to be discovered."
"Because you don't wish Lord Hawkesbury to know?"
He hesitated before saying, "Quite."
She chewed her lip again. He wasn't telling the entire truth. Not that it mattered. The anonymity of her new patron suited her needs too. Her father knew she had some money set aside, she would simply inflate the amount when he asked how she could afford to set out on her own.
"Only my brother knows," he said, "but if pressed, he will say he does not."
She was about to ask why when she realized she already knew the answer. "He wishes to keep Min happy and to do that he needs to ensure her plays are performed. Upsetting the patron of the company performing them would be a poor move. At least until she is able to sell them to another company."
The green eyes briefly flared and she thought she saw a flicker of surprise in them. Surprise that she could think for herself?
The man grew more pompous by the minute.
"Furthermore," he went on as if she had not spoken, "I think it best that you do not give up your position here with Lord Hawkesbury's Men until our task is complete."
"Agreed. Shall we shake on it?" She held out her hand.
He didn't take it, didn't even acknowledge it with so much as a glance. "You do not wish to know how I want you to gather the relevant information before agreeing?"
"My lord, unless you are asking me to whore for you then I will do whatever is required."
"What makes you think I am not asking you to whore for me?"
She shrugged and lowered her hand. "You seem far too prudish to ask that of any woman. Even a seamstress."
He tilted his head back as if struck. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. Just a slight lifting of the corners of his mouth at first, then a few twitches until finally a wide grin broke out, as if it had escaped despite his attempts to smother it.
"I can assure you, Mistress Croft," he said, capturing the grin once more and hiding it away, "that I am no prude." He picked up a fine lawn partlet from the top of a pile of clothes stacked on a closed chest. "Nor am I immune to your...charms." His gaze dipped once more to her breasts and this time it was her turn to blush as heat prickled her throat, her face. He closed the space between them until he was so near she could smell him, a pleasing mix of fresh air and man. "So I would appreciate it if you kept those charms covered when next we meet." He tucked the edge of the partlet down the front of her bodice. His long finger grazed her skin, just above the nipple.
She let out a breath and dared not draw in another as it would cause her chest to rise, bringing his finger closer. Closer. Even though that was exactly what she suddenly, desperately wanted. For this man to touch her. Everywhere. The need throbbed within her like an ache.
But some very deep part of her kept her from drawing the breath that could start something. Or stop it.
Then his finger was gone, leaving the partlet covering the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she sucked in breath
upon breath. Their gazes locked and heat flooded her, sliding through her like warm sunshine.
She thought she understood this man from the moment he'd walked in with his conservative clothing and crisp aloofness. Now she knew she did not.
"You said you knew where Lord Hawkesbury would be tonight," he said, voice low and rough.
"I..." She nodded and stepped away, out of reach of his powerful presence. "He's commissioned a performance from the troupe to entertain his betrothed and her family at Hawkesbury Hall."
His brows rose. "The Enderbys?"
She nodded. "I don't usually attend private performances but I can devise a reason for my presence there. I might be able to learn something. If you tell me what it is I need to look for."
He blinked slowly. Then he straightened and put his hands behind his back. "Our task is to find out why Lord Hawkesbury is marrying Patience Enderby when neither he nor the girl wants the marriage."
"He doesn't love her?"
"He says not."
"Nobles marry for reasons other than love all the time."
He gave her a tight smile. "I am well aware of that."
Alice knew Lord Warhurst wasn't married, but was he betrothed to some influential heiress he didn't love? Would he care if his potential wife didn't love him? What about his own heart's desire? Did he even have one? A desire, not a heart—although she couldn't be sure he possessed either.
"From what my half-brother tells me," Lord Warhurst said, "Hawkesbury is being forced into the union by the girl's father, Lord Enderby." He put a sneer into the name that was so slight she almost missed it. "From the little I know of Hawkesbury, it would take a shifting of the earth for him to agree to something he didn't want to do. He lacks neither money nor power so it must be something else."
"A secret. A very grave one."
"Precisely." He gave a nod, as if impressed that she had grasped the situation. "It is my understanding that the secret Lord Enderby possesses could harm Hawke's loved ones if discovered."
"Who are his loved ones?"
"He has a sister and mother still living."