by Kruger, Mary
“Yes, and Polly, too.” His frown deepened. “What the devil’s happened with you, Blythe? We’ve heard all sorts of rumors.”
“I’ve had quite an adventure,” she said, and gave him a brief recitation of recent events, omitting the fact that she had actually gone on the stage. Even so, John was frowning when she finished.
“It sounds deuced bad, Blythe.” They were sitting on a bench before the Star Inn, and his face was somber. “Your reputation is entirely in shreds.”
That hurt. “What of my well-being, John? Shouldn’t that be a greater concern?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but you know our mother.”
Blythe nodded. Oh, yes, she did indeed know what her foster mother was like. “I almost came home, you know, when I realized how close I was.”
“Why didn’t you? We’d’ve welcomed you, Blythe, you know that.”
“Would you?” She gave him a long look, her lips tightening when he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I’m a wanted woman, John.”
“That doesn’t matter to me, Blythe, you should know that! Or to Father. It’s just that—”
“It matters to Mother,” Blythe said flatly.
“And Polly. She is with child.”
Blythe’s eyes lit up. “But that is wonderful news, John! I’m to be an aunt at last.”
“Yes. The trouble is, her health is not good.”
“Oh, dear.”
“We’ve been very careful not to upset her.”
“Oh.” Blythe gazed ahead. Were she to go home, the situation would be worse than she had realized. Neither her mother nor her sister-in-law would want to take her in, though for family’s sake, they probably would. They would also talk about her, and shun her, and she would have no life. A high price to pay for safety. “Then I’d best not come home.”
“But we’re your family,” John protested. “Of course you’ll come home.”
“No.” Gently Blythe freed her hands, and rose. Her life as she had known it was over. What would happen next she couldn’t even guess. Strange that she felt so light. “I’ll not put anyone in danger. No,” she went on, as John drew breath to protest, “I’ve quite made up my mind about this. ‘Tis best if I stay away.”
“I won’t have it.” John’s mouth was set in the stubborn line she remembered from childhood. “I am your older brother, and you should do what I say.”
Blythe couldn’t help it; she smiled. “Oh, John, I do love you,” she said, leaning forward to plant an impulsive kiss on his cheek, and then spinning away, before he could see the tears welling in her eyes. The last bridge was burned behind her. She had cast her destiny with Simon, no matter where it might lead her.
Behind her Blythe heard John call her. She stepped up her pace, pushing through the market day crowds and stumbling upon the cobblestones, until she reached the relative safety of a shopfront. A quick glance back showed her that she had lost John. Relieved, sorry, she turned to be on her way, and was blocked by a man stepping in front of her.
A small scream escaped her, even as she recognized him. “Be quiet,” Simon hissed, his hand clamping on her upper arm as he dragged her into the lane next to the shop. “You’ve attracted enough attention today.”
Blythe pried at his fingers. “Pray unhand me, sir. What I do with my time is no concern of yours.”
“It is when you might bring disaster upon us. ‘Tis a good thing I thought to look for you.”
“I caused no trouble.”
“No?” He stepped before her again, brows lowered in a tremendous frown. “Who was that man I saw you with?”
“No one you need fear, I assure you—”
“Who was he?” Simon’s hand shot out and caught her arm again. “You had best tell me, madam, or—”
“You’re hurting me,” she said, her voice very small.
Instantly he released her, his glower softening. “I am sorry, Blythe, but when I found you’d left the bakeshop I grew concerned.”
Blythe sighed, suddenly tired. Why did men feel they needed to be so overbearing? “There was no danger, Simon. Not to you.”
“And what of you? Bloody hell, Blythe! You could have been caught, and hurt.”
“Were you worried about me?”
Simon looked away. “No.”
Her spirits, a moment before so low, suddenly rose. “You were, weren’t you.”
“It matters not.” He pulled at his ear and then, gently this time, reached for her arm. “‘Tis not wise for us to be seen, Blythe. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
“You don’t, and you’re right. I was taking a chance. But it felt—”
“As if you hadn’t taken a free breath in years.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it! I’m sorry, Simon.” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “I’ll be more careful in future.”
“Good.” They walked on. “Who was he?”
Blythe bit her lips. Simon’s family cared about him, had come to his aid in time of trouble, even if his innocence was in doubt. “My brother,” she said, throat tight. “My foster brother.”
“Your brother! Good God, if anyone else knows—”
“John wouldn’t give me away,” she protested. “He wants me to be safe.”
“Ah, but did he ask you to come home?”
“Of course he did.”
“Then why didn’t you?” He went on as she hesitated in answering. “Because he really didn’t want you to, did he?”
“No! He said—well.” She looked away. “He wants me to. ‘Tis the rest of my family that is the problem.”
He slung his arm about her shoulders. She had to force herself not to nestle against his sheltering, enticing warmth. “It appears I’ve made you an outcast. I’m sorry, Blythe. ‘Twas never my intention.”
“I’m not,” Blythe said, startling them both. “No, truly, I’m not. And I’m just now realizing it.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“It matters not.” For the first time since leaving John, she felt like smiling. That part of her life was over, and she was glad. Until she’d had the chance to return to it, though, she hadn’t realized it. “Come, we should return. We don’t want to take the chance of your being seen.”
Simon was still frowning. “Sometimes I don’t understand you,” he complained.
“Good,” she said, and, slipping her arm through his, walked on, to seek whatever the road ahead brought her.
John Temple stopped at the entrance to the lane, squinting into the shadows. That was a demmed large man who had accosted Blythe just now, though she didn’t seem alarmed. They walked together ahead of John, so intent on their discussion that they appeared unaware of him. Deuce take it, but could that be the actor whose accomplice Blythe had become? If so, he, John, should do something about it. He was her brother, and concerned for her safety. He was also, he thought, something of a coward. Morosely he regarded his hands, calloused, but pale. Surgeon’s hands. It had always been assumed that he’d follow his father into practice, and so he had, though he sometimes found it difficult. He’d always been careful of his hands. Not even for Blythe did he wish to get into a brawl, and risk damaging them.
And what his wife would say to that, he could well imagine. She considered life with a country doctor difficult enough, and nagged him continually to go to London, where his talents would be appreciated. It did no good telling her that the country was where he was needed, and that it was where he wished to be. She resented his seeming lack of ambition, and his closeness to his family. If he returned home with Blythe in tow, there would be the deuce to pay.
He shuddered, glad enough to have forestalled that fate for now. Not that he should leave Blythe to her own devices. He frowned as the man with her put his arm about her shoulders. Blythe was his sister in name only, and yet from the time she’d arrived in his home, a tiny, bewildered orphan, he’d been enchanted with her. Together they had shared his lessons and assisted his father, with Blythe often more intrepid than he.
Yet he was the trained surgeon. That was as it should be, of course, women weren’t meant to be doctors, and yet sometimes John wondered why one person had such a talent, and not another. He wondered what was in Blythe that had made her take up with a convicted felon.
Blythe and her companion had disappeared around a corner. John hesitated, and then stepped forward. His wife and mother would be at the market awaiting him, and both would scold if they knew what he was doing. Blythe had made her bed, his mother had said; let her lie in it, as undoubtedly she was doing. But he couldn’t let it go. Blythe was his sister. Should anything befall her, he would never forgive himself. For once in his life he had to forget others’ opinions and his own doubts, and take action.
The least he could to was to discover where Blythe was staying. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped from the shadows and moved at a quick pace to follow the couple.
The farm cart rumbled along the lane, turned, and was out of sight. Harry lowered his hand, raised in farewell, and gazed at the dust that was the only sign of the recent departure. Simon was gone again, facing who knew what danger now. As a man, Harry could understand Simon’s need to clear his name. As a father, though, or as good as, the idea terrified him. It had taken all his strength not to try to convince the boy to make for the coast instead, and safety. For the boy was not a boy any longer, but a man grown, and with an apparently intrepid companion. Of all the things that had happened to Simon in the past weeks, meeting Miss Marden had likely been the luckiest.
Beside him, Bess sighed. He laid a solid, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Time we got to the theater,” he said, briskly. Talking about Simon would do no one any good. The lad was gone, and that was that. “Come, woman, we’ve work to do.”
“I suppose we do,” Bess said, not the teasing rejoinder he had expected, but delivered with a hint of the smile that had first drawn him to her. “I’d best be seeing to your costume—gracious, who is that?”
Harry was already turning, at the sound of feet tramping along the lane, accompanied by hoofbeats. Soldiers! A battalion of them, it looked like to Harry’s untrained eyes, led by an officer on a brown horse and followed by another man, this one apparently a citizen, clad in sky blue. Harry’s heart pounded, with the little catch that reminded him all too often lately that he was growing old. Simon. Dear God, they had discovered Simon had been here.
Bess shrank toward him. “Harry—”
“Let me do the talking,” he said, voice low, and stepped forward. “Soldiers.” Hands on his hips, he surveyed them, frowning. “I assume you’ve come about my scapegrace nephew.”
The officer in charge of the group looked briefly startled; the other man merely sat back in his saddle, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Are you Henry Woodley?” the officer barked.
“Yes, sir, that I am.” Harry slumped his shoulders just a bit, and lowered his chin; had he been wearing a cap, he would have twisted it between his hands, the very picture of submission. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing, sir?”
“I shall ask the questions! I have here”—from a pouch at his belt he produced a folded sheet of foolscap—“a warrant for the arrest of one Simon Woodley—”
“May I see that?” Harry said, still meek.
“The likes of you wouldn’t understand it. Be assured it has been properly executed by a magistrate, and that I have the authority to enforce it.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Harry scratched his chin. “Not that it’ll do you any good, mind. Simon’s not here.”
“We have information that he is.”
“Nay. I was hoping you could tell me aught of him, sir? A fine old time of it we’ve had, going about our business,” he whined. “We’ve been bedeviled by soldiers—”
“And the local watchmen,” Bess put in.
“—in every village in England. I swear, sir, if I knew where Simon was, I’d hand him over, so we could be about our business. ‘Tis no way to run a theater company.”
“That is no concern of mine.” The officer swung off his horse, its reins being held by a soldier. “I intend to find this man, with or without your help.”
Harry gestured toward the bakeshop. “Oh, search all you want.”
“Harry,” Bess hissed.
“Be quiet, woman. This is man’s work.” And he’d hear about that later, he thought briefly, even though he was acting a role as never he had before. “We’ve nothing to hide.”
“Henrietta.”
“What?” He frowned, not having to feign looking puzzled. “What of her?”
“She is still abed.”
“That lazy jade,” he roared, picking up his cue with relish. “When she knows what’s to be done today? I’ll—”
“Mr. Woodley. Mr. Woodley!” The officer was standing before him, mouth twisted. “I haven’t all day to stand here listening to you. Step aside, sir, or I shall have to use force.”
“But I told you. Simon’s not here.”
“Indeed?” The officer’s frown deepened, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Where, pray tell, is he?”
“Do not bother with this one.” It was the other man on horseback, the one all in sky blue satin and white lace. Harmless, Harry would have thought, except for the jut of his chin and his strange, pale eyes. “Remember that they are actors and are used to lying.”
“I say!” Harry blustered.
“And my information is good,” the man went on.
The officer stepped forward; Harry blocked his way, though a moment before he had been quite willing to allow the soldiers access. He didn’t like the man in sky blue, the man with the soulless eyes. “And who are you, and what do you want with Simon?” he demanded.
The man smiled, a mere grimace with his lips. “Who I am is of no moment. But as it is better to be civilized, you may call me Mr. Heywood.”
Mr. Heywood, indeed! So this was the villain Simon had spoken of. What his part was in Simon’s troubles, Harry couldn’t fathom. All he knew was that he had to keep Heywood away. Far away. “Yes, sir, Mr. Heywood.” He reached up his hand as if to tug at a forelock, hesitated as if just realizing that the hair was no longer there, and ran a hand over his balding head instead. “Go in if you must, and if my daughter is still abed, tell her to get her lazy—to rise. After you’ve left, of course,” he went on quickly, seeing one or two of the soldiers grin.
“Thank you for your permission,” the officer said with sardonic, perfect politeness, and stepped past him. Harry moved back, slipping a protective arm about his wife’s waist. Where was Young Harry, anyway? She’d been down earlier, to see Simon off.
Heywood’s horse now stood beside the fence; the man stared at the bakeshop, as the soldiers went in and the baker’s wife began to protest their intrusion. “He’s not here, is he,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
Harry lowered his eyes. “I told you, sir. We’ve not seen hide nor hair of him.”
“Hm. Well. Whether you tell the truth or lie, it matters not. He’s not here.” Heywood pursed his lips. “I hardly expected him to be. But you.” He fixed his gaze on Harry, like a spear. “You know where he is.”
“I, sir?” Harry’s tremor wasn’t completely feigned. “How would I know that?”
“Because he was here.” Heywood crossed his arms on the pommel, gazing meditatively down at Harry. “And because you are going to tell us where he is, or suffer the consequences.”
“He’s not here, sir!” a soldier called from the door, before Harry could answer. Heywood nodded, seeming unsurprised. The man’s calmness was eerie. Did he know more than he was letting on?
A scream from behind him made Harry swing around, startled, to see his daughter struggling with one of the soldiers, who was dragging her outside. Harry took a quick step forward, to be stopped by another soldier, blocking the way. “Your daughter is spirited,” Heywood said dryly.
Yes, that she was, but she usually didn’t become hysterical—ah. It was an act. Harry relaxed slightly.
Henrietta’s eyes were rolling; her screeches were almost mechanical. An appalling bit of overacting. He’d speak to her about it later. But what was she up to now?
“Papa!” Henrietta cast herself onto his chest, draping limply against him. “Please make these horrible men go away!”
“There, daughter, you’re safe. What have you done to her?” he demanded, now very much the outraged parent.
“Your daughter is unharmed, sir,” the officer drawled. “Which is more than I can say for the soldier she assaulted.”
Harry noticed for the first time that one of the soldiers bore long scratches along his cheek, and bent his head to hide a smile. “Oh.”
“We merely asked her a question.”
“Papa, I don’t know anything!” Henrietta clutched at his arms and rocked back, eyes wild. “Please tell them that.”
“Sir,” the officer said, before Harry could answer. “Be advised that we will find your nephew. It will go better for you if you tell us his whereabouts.”
“But we don’t know!” Henrietta cried, turning to him. “Oh, please, can’t you see we don’t know anything?”
“You’re lying,” Heywood said pleasantly, and, just like that, Henrietta subsided. “Ah. Didn’t think I’d catch on, did you? You protest too much, I think.”
“I don’t know anything,” she repeated, but her voice quivered.
“Don’t you? I think you do. You had best tell us.” His voice hardened; his face sharpened, like a hawk after prey. “Or it will go very ill with you and your parents.”
“I don’t know—”
“You will end up in gaol, Miss Woodley. Not a pleasant place. Shall I tell you what happens to young ladies in gaol?”
“For God’s sake, man,” Harry protested.
“All right!” Henrietta cried at the same time, and suddenly dropped onto the stone stair, shoulders slumped. “All right.”
“For the love of God, Henrietta—”
“Very wise of you,” Heywood broke in. “So you do know where Woodley is.”
“Of course I know.” Her voice was flat, and all the more convincing for it. “We all do.”
