“Yes, I’m coming,” she said.
By the time she stopped outside to empty her pockets for the urchins, and she and Charity had found a coach, nearly an hour had passed. So the ordinary was already filled with guests when they arrived. Aphra bustled about, giving orders to the serving girls and urging the musicians to play. The din was nearly as loud as in the theater before a performance, but no one seemed to mind.
The second Annabelle walked in, she was surrounded by gallants complimenting her on her performance. Forcing a smile to her face, she parried the verbal sallies of one and tapped another with her fan. When the third snatched her hand up to kiss it, his damp lips leaving a trail along her knuckles, it took all her control not to yank her hand away and slap him with it.
Colin had been right about one thing. As long as she’d worn his ring, she’d been safe from men’s groping hands. They’d treated her with respect, and she’d liked it. For the first time, she’d been able to perform her roles without having her concentration broken by rude remarks. Offstage, she’d been left blessedly alone, and she’d reveled in the chance to put all her energy into performing, instead of being forced to deal with unwelcome advances.
But once she’d removed Colin’s ring, the men flocked around her again, sniffing at her heels like staghounds in heat. Worse yet, her biting humor and ability to play a role no longer fended them off. They weren’t pricked by her barbs or fooled by her role of haughty lady.
She soon figured out why. Sir Charles’s tale of Colin’s secretive journey had spread among them. Rumors buzzed about why she couldn’t keep a man faithful to her, since she’d given her affections to two noblemen in rapid succession and both had apparently discarded her.
Now the gallants all treated her with contempt. She found herself being trapped more and more of late by men wanting a lusty kiss and more. So far she’d held them at bay, but she didn’t know how long that would last.
The theater world that had once been her haven had become a treacherous bog where only by deft maneuvering and clever acting could she protect herself.
How she wished she hadn’t come to the supper. She’d been mad to think these fools could give her any relief. The rakes only reminded her of how different Colin had seemed, and how very like them he’d turned out to be.
She had a headache, and she wanted only to go home. But she’d promised Aphra to perform her dance again for the gallants as part of the festivities, and she did owe the woman a great deal for coming to her aid.
So here she stood, playing yet another role and longing for the day when all the roles would end. And the day when her heart would stop aching over Colin.
Chapter Fourteen
“Why, I hold fate
Clasped in my fist, and could command the course
Of time’s eternal motion, hadst thou been
One thought more steady than an ebbing sea.”
—John Ford, ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, Act 5, Sc. 4
Colin had been traveling hard by post horse since noon the previous day, determined to reach London in all due speed. Night had fallen, so it was well past time for the play at the Duke’s House to be over. It would do him no good to search for Annabelle there.
Finding Annabelle was his first aim. He spared only a few minutes to send a boy ahead to his house and let his servants know he’d arrived. Then he continued at his same frenzied pace, for if he didn’t see her soon and confront her with all he’d learned, he’d surely go mad.
Little had he dreamed how much she’d kept hidden. He’d still not entirely recovered from the shock of it. But at least now he knew why pain glimmered constantly in her eyes.
At least now he knew where she’d learned to be so fierce. “The girl is strong-willed,” Charity’s father had told Colin. “She had to be so to endure that wretched squire’s mistreatment.”
Grimly Colin turned his horse into Grub Street. Strong-willed wasn’t the word for it. She was a proud, defiant tigress with a capacity for deception he’d never imagined. According to Mr. Woodfield, she’d come to London in search of vengeance against her father, yet Colin had never even guessed it.
Had she known of his relationship to Walcester from the beginning?
He doubted that. She clearly hadn’t been sure who her father was. But Walcester had been right that she was trying to draw him out. The only question was how she meant to wreak her vengeance on the man once she found him. And Colin very much feared that he knew the answer.
Because he had also discovered in Norwood exactly what Walcester feared. Not that Colin knew the entire story, but he knew enough. Unable to speak with Phoebe Taylor’s parents, who were dead, he’d tracked down her parents’ old housekeeper. Thanks to her, Colin had unraveled a tale that had sent him racing back to London.
Walcester had been hiding a great deal, too, and if it was what Colin suspected, then the earl and his daughter were headed for a deadly confrontation. Colin refused to let it come to that.
Still, he must find out exactly how much she knew before he could proceed. She had to know more about her father’s past activities than she was saying. She had that coded poem in her possession, after all.
He wanted to hate her for not trusting him with the truth, but how could he, when he’d seen the marks on her back and heard what she’d suffered? Only the coldest man alive would condemn her for wanting her vengeance.
And where she was concerned, he was anything but cold.
With a grunt of anger, he spurred the horse on. Two weeks away had only made his thirst for her more acute, his hunger more piercing. It so fevered his brain that he was torn between desire and wanting to throttle her for deceiving him.
Why did she have this effect on him? Why did it make him feel drawn and quartered whenever he thought of how much she’d kept from him? Women had held secrets from him before, and he’d never experienced this mind-numbing pain.
Nay, only Annabelle had the power to draw blood. His pulse raced as he approached Aphra’s lodgings. He couldn’t believe it—his body already anticipated seeing her again. What kind of spell had she cast over him?
He tethered his horse, then leapt from the saddle, but he’d scarcely made it inside when he met Sir John on the stairs. The man surveyed his mud-spattered clothing and his knotted hair and growled, “Annabelle isn’t here. Aphra’s neighbor tells me she and Aphra have gone to the Blue Bell to supper.”
That brought him up short. “Why are you looking for her?”
“I’m not. I’m looking for Charity,” Sir John bit out. “I returned from the country a week ago to discover that Charity would no longer see or even speak to me. Mind you, I was in the country in the first place to find a cottage for her. To return and find her cold and distant . . . well, I’m afraid I was too angry to do more than refuse to speak to her in turn.”
Colin fell into step beside him as they headed for the door.
“I guess that was childish,” Sir John murmured. “It didn’t achieve the desired effect either. Instead of making her regret her coolness, it apparently made her consider herself well rid of me. For the last week, she’s been blithely flirting with every man who pays her attentions.”
“I can hardly believe it. I’d have sworn the woman was in love with you.”
Sir John stiffened. “I think she was, until she learned of my betrothal to a viscount’s daughter. Despite Charity’s apparent free-thinking ideas, at heart she’s a country girl.” His voice softened. “I suppose she expected me to—oh, damn, I don’t know what she expected.”
“Ah,” Colin remarked.
“In any case, I’ve decided to convince her that this can work. By God, I miss the wench more sorely than I’d ever thought possible. She’s a sweet-tempered lass. I can’t just stand by and let her go.”
Oddly enough, it wasn’t Sir John that Colin sympathized with, but Charity. Being a bastard had made him much more sensitive to the ramifications of a man’s having both a mistress and a wife. Men like Sir John cou
ldn’t possibly imagine what it was like to have a succession of “uncles,” to have their mothers’ married lovers treat them like bothersome gnats.
Nor could they know what it was like for the women, who had to share the men’s affections. Colin knew. He’d watched his mother’s way of life turn her into a cruel, brittle woman.
Colin had later been exposed to it from the other end, having been forced to face the disapproval of his father’s dead wife’s relatives once he’d come to England. They’d regarded him as an affront to the memory of his father’s wife. He couldn’t exactly blame them.
That was why Colin had been careful with his mistresses. He’d done his best not to sire children on them, nor to promise what he couldn’t offer. He had sworn not to wed until he could find a suitable wife for a marquess as well as someone to whom he could remain faithful. He’d never found that woman. Until now.
Hell and furies, where had that come from? He couldn’t be thinking about Annabelle, whose capacity for deception would surely destroy any man’s hope of a peaceful life. Yet it was Annabelle he imagined as his hostess, sharing his days, warming his bed at night, bearing his children. . . .
’Sdeath, you truly are bewitched. He and Sir John mounted their horses and rode toward the Blue Bell. The woman has unhinged you.
They reached the ordinary quickly. Music and laughter spilled out into the silent evening. The moment they entered it was apparent that a party was going on, filling the room with loud conversation, wild music, and gay colors.
At first, he was disoriented, for the front room appeared to be crowded with men, though he kept hearing feminine voices. Then he realized why. Although everyone in the room wore male clothing, nearly half of them were women.
He glanced around. Except for the scandalous male attire, the supper was no different than a hundred he’d attended. In one corner he saw a rake deep in conversation with a pretty blond woman whose hand rested on his thigh with familiarity. Another buxom lady was flanked by two gallants making a game of trying to remove her mask as she tittered and slapped their hands away.
Oh yes, a typical gathering among the wits and beauties and actresses. Yet it left him with a sour taste in his mouth to think that somewhere in the rooms Annabelle was playing these teasing, erotic games.
Hearing music floating in from an adjoining room, he followed the sound. As he passed the table, Sir John at his side, he spotted Charity sitting beside Henry Harris, who was known for his wild, romantic exploits. Harris had his arm about her shoulders and she was laughing as she fed him a sweetmeat. Apparently, Sir John saw her at the same moment as Colin, for he muttered a low curse and left Colin’s side.
Colin hurried into the next room alone. He didn’t at first see Annabelle. He did see Aphra with her back to him, dressed like the rest of the women, her hand propped on one hip as she argued with Sir William Davenant.
Then he noticed a cluster of people at one end of the room. He pushed forward through the crowd, but stopped short when he caught sight of his quarry in the middle of the knot of revelers.
Annabelle was dancing, and not with the measured steps so common to English dances. She was whirling . . . and kicking her heels high . . . and tossing her hair with lively grace.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. What he saw was so completely at odds with the foolish vision of his arrival that he’d nursed through his entire journey. Fool that he was, he’d thought to find her meekly awaiting him at Aphra’s chambers, desperately miserable at his absence and ready to tell him anything simply to have him promise to stay with her.
Yet here she was, performing for a crowd of gallants who cheered her every step. For a moment, he could only watch, astonished into silence.
Her face was flushed, lending her skin a rosy, seductive glow, and she laughed with every quick turn. What was more, she wore the costume she’d worn when he saw her dance in the play—snug-fitting breeches and very sheer hose. She’d abandoned her coat, if she’d ever worn one, and she’d unbuttoned the shepherd’s smock beneath that, so all she wore over her breasts was a man’s thin holland shirt, which clung to her like a second skin.
A terrible anger ate at him as he glanced to her hand to see if she wore his ring. She did not.
He stood there stunned, feeling gutted.
Then the music ended, and before Colin could react, Rochester, who appeared to be quite drunk, pulled a protesting Annabelle into the adjoining room. Sick with jealous fury, Colin followed them, ignoring the murmurs around him as the crowd realized who he was and parted to let him pass.
He didn’t even acknowledge Aphra’s presence when she pushed through the crowd toward him, words of greeting on her lips that died when she saw his expression. He had only one aim: to get to Annabelle and remind her of all her promises, her damnable broken promises.
He passed into the next room in time to see Rochester thrust Annabelle against a wall and force his knee between her legs as he covered her mouth with his. She struggled beneath him, but his mouth muffled her protest.
Colin grasped the hilt of his sword, so blinded by rage that he could scarcely think, but as he stepped forward, Rochester let out a hoarse cry and jumped back from Annabelle.
“You bith my tongue!” Rochester cried, wiping away the blood trickling from his mouth. “Damn wenth! You bith me!”
“Aye, and drunk or no, I’ll bite your fingers off if you ever touch me like that again!”
Rochester lunged for her. That’s when Colin drew his sword. The clang of metal made the earl whirl around. His bleary eyes showed his astonishment.
“You lay a hand on her,” Colin growled, “and I’ll do more than bite you, Rochester. I’ll spit you like a joint of mutton and roast you over yon fire.”
He heard Annabelle suck in her breath, but he dared not take his eyes off the wiry young man. When Rochester was drunk, he was wild and dangerous. The earl’s hand went to his own sword, and Colin tensed.
Then Rochester seemed to catch himself. Slowly, he dropped his hand, although he didn’t move away. The flow of blood from his mouth had slowed. He licked his lips with his tongue as if to test whether it still worked.
Although he swayed a bit, he had enough presence of mind to sneer, “So the marquess has returned from his secret trip at last.” Apparently his tongue was functioning normally again.
Before Colin could even wonder how Rochester knew about his trip, the young man continued, “Come to claim your woman, have you?”
Colin’s gaze flicked to Annabelle. She stared at him wide-eyed, her hand at her throat.
“You could say that,” Colin ground out. “Now step aside.”
“She doesn’t want you anymore, you know,” Rochester said, slurring his words. “She’s got other men to keep her company while you’re out running about.”
Colin didn’t even bother to answer that. “Annabelle, come here.”
He couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was pleased or not to see him, and for a second he even wondered if she’d actually wanted Rochester’s attentions. Then she slid from behind Rochester and came to his side. Only then did Colin lower his sword.
Rochester slumped against the wall. “She’s a damn fine dancer, you know.” He gave an insolent grin as he spread his legs wide and thrust with his hips in a provocative movement that couldn’t be misinterpreted. “I’ll wager she’s even better in bed.”
In a flash, Colin had thrust forward between Rochester’s spread thighs to catch the man’s full breeches and pin them to the wall.
Rochester went white as he stared down at the sword. “Gadsbud, you nearly unmanned me! Are you mad?”
“Nay,” Colin hissed. “If I’d been mad, there’d have been no ‘almost.’ And if I ever see you with your hands on Annabelle again, you lecherous sot, I won’t miss. Is that understood?”
Rochester straightened against the wall and his eyes grew amazingly alert. But then, nothing sobers a man faster than the possibility of having his privates skewere
d. “I understand,” Rochester muttered.
“Good.” Colin sheathed his sword. “Because I won’t mind repeating the lesson if you ever forget it.”
As Rochester began checking himself to make sure Colin hadn’t done any damage, Colin clasped Annabelle’s arm and urged her toward the door. “Time to fly, my pretty bird. You and I have a great deal to talk about.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?”
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 2, Sc. 2
Annabelle tried to match Colin’s furious pace as he strode through the back room of the Blue Bell. Although his fingers laced through hers gave the appearance that they were in easy accord, there was steel in his grip.
Neither of them spoke, too aware of the audience eager for something to feed the gossip. Murmurs followed in their wake as people parted to let them pass, but she was still reeling from Rochester’s disgusting advances and Colin’s surprising rescue of her. Grateful as she was for the latter, she wondered if she hadn’t leapt from the frying pan into the fire.
She stole a glance at Colin. His eyes held a feral gleam, and the hard edge to his mouth alarmed her. She couldn’t believe how jealous he’d been of Rochester. It just went to prove that men were two-faced rogues. After disappearing for two weeks, he’d stormed in and claimed her as if she were a horse he’d left at a stable?
Sweet Mary, she was the one who ought to be furious, not him! It wasn’t her fault that Rochester had made an arse of himself.
As they approached the entrance doors, she halted. “Where are we going?”
His eyes glittered down at her. “To my house, where I can be sure there will be no interruptions while we talk.”
His house. Dear heaven. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you when you’re this angry.”
Dropping his hand to the small of her back, he pushed her through the door. “Would you rather return to Rochester and his roving hands?”
Silver Deceptions Page 18
