To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players)

by C. J. Archer

  “Those wings repaired yet?” Roger called out when she was halfway up the stairs.

  “Yes.”

  “And the devil’s tail? We need it for today.”

  “I’m going to do it now. Won’t take long.”

  She worked steadily in the storage room alone for the rest of the morning, listening to the sounds of the actors rehearsing downstairs. The first one to come up and see her sometime later was Freddie, surprisingly.

  “God’s balls, it’s like somebody died down there,” he said, throwing himself onto a stool and almost toppling off the other side. He belched and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “You’ll need to visit the barber before you go onstage,” Lizzy said.

  Freddie rubbed his chin where a reddish growth had sprung up. Ever since he’d stopped playing the female roles, he’d tried to grow a beard but the hair sprouted in clumpy, uneven patches and Roger usually made him shave it off. Sometimes Freddie even complied.

  He belched again. “Care to do it for me, Liz?”

  “There isn’t enough incentive in the world to induce me to touch you, Freddie.”

  He managed to pull a face and, thankfully, left. She picked up a fan and waved it in the direction of the stool until the smell of him dispersed.

  “Ugh,” said Antony, holding his nose as he came through the door. “That man is disgraceful. To think he used to perform the female roles.”

  “He was good,” she said, “but not as good as you.”

  He blew her a kiss and sat on the stool. “It’s awful down there. Everyone’s so worried.”

  She handed him a mess of twine and directed him to untangle it while she finished sewing the tail back on the devil’s costume. Henry Wells had stood on it during the previous performance and torn it off, leaving a large hole in the rear. The audience had erupted in laughter but Roger, playing the role of the devil, had been furious when he gotten off stage. He’d blamed Henry for his clumsiness and Lizzy for her poor workmanship. Henry had apologized later for making her look bad. She told him not to worry. Ever since she could recall, Roger had blown up over the slightest matter, especially when he was made to look the fool in front of an audience. When she’d been younger, his tantrums used to frighten her, but as she grew up she saw that he was all bluster and no one paid him much attention.

  “Has there been any more talk about Gripp and his ill intentions?” she asked.

  Antony’s long, nimble fingers worked deftly on the knotted twine. “They’re discussing how long before Lady Blakewell could get a new play to us and whether Gripp would dare ban it.”

  Minerva Blakewell had been writing plays for the company for years, but not as many as she used to thanks to her growing brood of children. She and Blake—now Sir Robert Blakewell—had three at last count and another on the way. Unfortunately, the play currently being read by the Master of Revels wasn’t one of Min’s but Ben Jonson’s.

  Jonson had been jailed the year before for cowriting a lewd and seditious comedy, The Isle of Dogs. Gripp’s predecessor had not only banned it but reported it to the Privy Council. The noblemen, usually favorable toward the players, had been outraged at the way the play treated the queen and ordered the writers to be jailed. Jonson had found himself in the Marshalsea for two months. Although the incident had blown over, Jonson’s name was a tainted one. It wouldn’t take much for the new Master of Revels to claim Jonson’s latest play unfit for an audience and everyone would believe him.

  “So we wait,” she said.

  “Aye. We wait.”

  They conversed on less serious matters until it was almost time to take the costumes downstairs for the players to change into. “Try the fairy queen’s wings on,” she said to Antony. “I adjusted them a little so hopefully they’re more comfortable.”

  The enormous pair of wings complete with long ribbons attached to the lower edge was as large as the door when turned sideways. She stood on the stool to assist him into the straps.

  “Walk over there,” she said.

  He did but didn’t judge the distance to the table well and the wings skimmed across its surface, sweeping off the spools of thread. “Sorry.” He bent to pick them up and knocked three hats and a Roman centurion’s helmet off their wall hooks. Antony cursed and Lizzy giggled.

  “At least we know they’re not likely to break easily like the fairy king’s pair,” she said.

  “I was going to perform a spin but I think I’d better just take them downstairs.” He headed for the door.

  “Antony! Remove them first!”

  He winked. “I was only teasing you. Of course I was going to take them off.”

  She scowled. “Very amusing. No, stay there. I’ll come to you. Another step and you might completely wreck my storage room.” She jumped off the stool, picked it up, and carried it to where he stood near the open doorway. She climbed back up and gently untied the first strap. “Hold this side while I do the other,” she said.

  Antony didn’t move. “Good lord,” he said on a breath. “Who is that?” He leaned forward, pulling the wings with him.

  “Stay still,” she snapped. “Now hold this side please.”

  “He’s coming up here,” he whispered.

  “Antony!” she barked. “Concentrate or you’ll break them.”

  “Can I help?” She heard the deep, familiar voice before she saw him. Then the tall, broad-shouldered frame of Rafe Fletcher filled the doorway. He looked imposing with the stern set of his jaw and his fierce black eyes scanning the storeroom. There was no friendly twinkle in their depths today.

  Distracted, Lizzy almost toppled off the stool, but Rafe reached past Antony’s wingless side and steadied her with a hand to her elbow. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.

  “You can help in any way you want,” Antony said, his face all but buried in Rafe’s chest.

  Rafe let Lizzy go and held the wings while she undid the other strap and slipped them off Antony’s shoulders. The player didn’t move out of the way.

  She pinched his arm. He yelped and stepped aside to allow Rafe in. With the wings in one hand, held high so they didn’t scrape on the floor, he helped her down from the stool. His gloveless fingers were surprisingly warm. And big. Very big.

  She gulped and turned away, cursing her pale complexion that had grown hot upon his arrival and hotter still when he touched her.

  “Where do you want these?” he asked.

  “I’ll take them,” Antony said.

  She turned back when she could hear no movement. Rafe held out the wings to Antony but Antony hadn’t moved. He simply stared at Rafe, a delicate blush infusing his cheeks too. Rafe frowned and shook the wings. Antony smiled.

  “I’m Antony,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Getting tired of holding these for you.”

  Antony giggled and took the wings.

  “My name’s Rafe Fletcher. I live next door to Lizzy.”

  Antony’s eyes widened. “James’s brother?”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Of course. He’s Lizzy’s…” He glanced at her. “…friend.”

  “He’s gone away for a while. I’m looking after her in his absence.”

  I’m right here, she wanted to say but couldn’t. Her tongue had tied itself into a knot.

  Antony glanced at her, frowned, no doubt waiting for her to speak and wondering why she didn’t. He turned back to Rafe. “She’s very good at looking after herself.”

  Rafe smiled and Antony loudly sucked in a breath. Lizzy had to admit the effect of the large, imposing man with perfect teeth in a perfect smile was quite a sight to behold. It was entirely unexpected too. She thought he’d frown and stomp about and perhaps curse like he used to when he was younger. She didn’t know he had a sense of humor.

  She smiled too. Rafe glanced at her and it shriveled up.

  “Then it seems I’m in for an easy time ahead,” he said and clapped Antony on the shoulder.

  Antony
stumbled to the side and would have dropped the wings if Rafe hadn’t steadied him in the same manner he’d steadied Lizzy, by catching his elbow.

  “Will you be able to take those downstairs on your own?” he asked Antony.

  “I’m sure one of them will help me.”

  Rafe and Lizzy followed Antony’s gaze to the doorway. Henry, Roger, Edward, Freddie, and one of the hirelings stood in a huddle like naughty children.

  Henry was the first to speak. “Everything all right?” he asked Lizzy with a glance at Rafe.

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  The tall, blond actor tilted his square chin at Rafe. “This fellow came in and asked after you. Freddie told him you were upstairs before any of us could find out what he wanted.”

  Freddie barked out a laugh. “Like any of us could stop him.”

  Edward elbowed Freddie and he yelped.

  “I’m looking for a…friend who may have stopped by,” Rafe said. “Has anyone been here this morning? Any strangers?”

  “No,” Edward said. “Why would your friend come here?”

  “In search of me. If he learns my neighbor works at the Rose, he may want to ask her if she’s seen me. If he does come and I’m not here, send him on his way. Don’t let him inside the tiring house. My friend’s touched with madness, see, and—”

  Lizzy gasped and whatever else Rafe had been going to say died on his lips.

  He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Roger cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you can act, sir?”

  “Depends.”

  Freddie screwed up his nose and scratched his nether region. “On what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Roger came into the room slowly, hesitantly, as if he approached an untethered bull. “It’s just that you’d make a great Thor,” he said.

  “I play Thor,” Freddie protested.

  “You need to wear blocks of wood under your shoes to give you height,” Edward said.

  “And padding,” the hireling said with a snicker.

  “It’s not a great speaking part,” Roger went on. “Any fool can learn the lines.”

  The hireling laughed and Freddie shoved him in the chest. Henry caught him before he toppled down the staircase. “I need a drink,” Freddie said and stomped down the steps. Nobody stopped him.

  “You just stride about onstage,” Roger said to Rafe. “Look menacing and…big.” He poked Rafe’s upper arm where the jerkin stretched taut over his chest. “I think you can manage that.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Rafe said. “But I wouldn’t make a good player. I’ll stay back here and help Lizzy instead.”

  Everyone turned to look at Lizzy. Antony winked at her. “Then let’s leave them to tidy up,” he said. With the wings in hand, he moved fast, not giving anyone a chance to get past him. With the limited space on the landing, they all had to file down the stairs or be swept off like the spools on the table.

  Lizzy was left alone with Rafe.

  Well. So be it. She would be all right. There was no need to be afraid anymore. He’d changed. She blew out a breath and picked up the stool.

  “Let me help you.” He grabbed it and they performed a short tug-of-war until she let go. There was no way she could win. “Where do you want it?”

  “Over there.”

  He set the stool down where she indicated, and looked around at the stacked trunks, the crammed shelves, and the props hanging from the walls and beams. “You take care of all this?”

  “Yes.”

  He fingered a crown of dried leaves used for both Roman emperors and fairy royalty. “James would choose to be a tailor in a shop over this?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand that boy.” His pitch-black eyes searched her face. “Don’t understand him at all.”

  She busied herself repacking one of the trunks but could still feel his gaze on her. She didn’t dare look up at him.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked.

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I know but I need to do something.”

  She bit her lip. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Did he enjoy making her feel like an awkward fool?

  He came up beside her, a looming tower of solidness. She edged away and he suddenly dropped to his haunches. “Is that better?”

  “Is what better?”

  “Me at this height.”

  He thought she was afraid of him because he was tall? She pressed her lips together and lifted one shoulder.

  He sighed and sat on the floor, leaning back against the table leg. “So tell me how it goes with that man Gripp?”

  An intensity she’d never noticed before swam in those deep, dark eyes, like he was trying to see into her. Like he could see into her, right into her heart, her hopes and fears. Definitely her fears. It was unnerving, terrifying, and yet somehow thrilling. To be the focus of such a dangerous, mysterious man as Rafe was not something she was used to.

  Why did he have to look at her like that? Why was he asking about Gripp? So he could kill him?

  No. Of course not. That would be sheer foolishness. Whatever Rafe might be, he was not a fool. So what did the welfare of the company matter to him?

  She opened the trunk and rummaged through the shirts inside, searching for something, anything, to keep herself busy so she didn’t have to look at him.

  “Our future is still uncertain,” she said.

  “Gripp has that much power over you?”

  “The Master of Revels can ban our new plays and stop us performing at court, but he also has other means of ruining us. He can put pressure on Henslowe to have us removed from this theatre, for example. I doubt any other managers or landlords would lease their playhouses to us if they knew Gripp is against us.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see him nod thoughtfully. “That was quite a long speech you made.”

  She smothered a laugh and tightened her grip on whatever object she held. It was her anchor while her head suddenly felt light and giddy.

  “Lizzy…” he began, his voice melodious, thick, and without a hint of humor. He paused for several beats as if considering his next words carefully. “Is there a reason you don’t like looking at me?”

  She dared a glance. He half-smiled as if he was unsure what reaction his question would receive. It was almost laughable that he was unsure of her. She who was predictable and reliable to the point of being dull.

  She returned to studying the trunk’s contents.

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “No,” she blurted out without thinking. “I mean, I’ve hardly spoken to you so…no.”

  “Not even years ago, before I left London?”

  “We’ve rarely spoken, ever, especially before you left,” she said crisply. “You were a great deal older than me.”

  “Not a great deal.”

  “Almost eight years.”

  He whistled. “I’m an old man.”

  He was making fun of her. A pox on him. She didn’t need to listen to such rudeness in her tiring house.

  Except how could she get rid of him? Well, she could ask.

  She gripped the hard object in the bottom of the trunk tighter for courage and stood. His brows shot up, surprised. He raised his hands in surrender.

  “You really don’t like me that much?” he asked, standing.

  She looked down and saw that she gripped the handle of a Roman-style sword. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t going to use it,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  “Whoa.” He dodged out of the way of the blade. “That’s not how it looks from here.”

  She winced. It got worse and worse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Keep your mouth shut, Liz, and nothing foolish will fall out of it.

  “Is it real?”

  She hefted it up so he could see but almost sliced him through the chin as he leaned forward. “Sorry!”

  His lips quirked up in amusement. �
�Stop apologizing. There’s little chance you’ll do any real damage holding it like that.”

  She frowned at the sword hilt. “How am I holding it?”

  “Like a girl.”

  “I am a girl.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Her insides flipped. He looked at her again with that intense stare, the one that made her scalp prickle and her heart swell to thrice its size.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He moved behind her and gently placed his right hand over hers on the sword hilt. His skin was warm but callused. The long fingers wrapped around hers, trapping them. He was so close she imagined she could feel his heart beating at her back, but she must have been mistaken because there were many layers of clothing between them.

  Her heartbeat on the other hand was like a rampaging warrior, smashing against bone with violent blows. Surely he could feel its vibrations through her body. If not then perhaps he could feel the heat sweeping over her with just as much force. Her reaction to him coupled with the melody of his rumbling voice made it impossible to concentrate on his words. He was saying something about her grip…or was it hip?

  His thumb stroked hers for no discernible reason she could determine but it felt…wonderful. Comforting. Her heart slowed to a steadier rate but each thump was just as violent, just as bone-jarring.

  His other hand rested on her waist and she adjusted her stance to better fit against him. Or did he do the adjusting somehow? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except those hands, the solidness of him, the feeling of being cocooned by a powerful man.

  “Good,” he murmured into her hair above her ear. “Very, very good.”

  His words sent a jolt through her. What was she doing? Rafe was dangerous and almost a stranger to her.

  He was also James’s brother.

  She pulled away and dropped the sword onto the rushes. “I’m sorry,” she said although she had no idea what she was sorry for. What had happened was entirely his fault. Most definitely all his fault.