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

by C. J. Archer

  “They miss you too. They’re very worried. The authorities have been crawling all over the Rose, asking questions, going through your things looking for clues to your whereabouts.” He tilted his chin at Rafe. “They’ve been to your place too, looking for James to ask him questions about you.”

  “He’s away,” Rafe said quickly. “He charged me with taking care of Lizzy in his absence.”

  “He’s conducting business for his master,” Lizzy added. She handed little Annie back to her father and promptly sat on the bench seat alongside the table.

  “Lizzy?” Rafe asked. “Are you tired?”

  “Cook, bring Lizzy something strong to drink,” Blake said. The cook scuttled out of the kitchen, wringing her hands in her apron.

  “I’m well enough,” Lizzy said, rubbing her forehead. “Just worried.” She looked up at Blake. “My parents…?”

  Blake sat beside her, straddling the seat to face her. “Don’t fret.” He clasped her hand in his own and gave her a reassuring smile. “Min and I are taking good care of them. They’re worried, of course, but you need not fear for their comfort in your absence.”

  She gave him a watery smile in return. “Thank you, Blake, you and Min are so good to me.”

  “We’re family.”

  “Not quite,” she said but kept smiling.

  “We are. The children call you Aunt Lizzy, that makes you family. Now, you just let Rafe protect you. If I’m not mistaken, he’s the sort of man who’d be good to have on your side in a situation like this.”

  Again she frowned and glanced quickly between Rafe and Blake.

  The cook returned with a tankard and handed it to Lizzy. “Drink up now,” she urged with a flap of her apron. “You’ll feel better with some of this in your belly.”

  Rafe shrank back and watched the scene like he was in the audience of a theatre and they were actors. They played their parts perfectly. The motherly servant, the sweet little girl, and a man and woman who clearly cared for one another.

  A dull ache pressed down on him and he sagged against the wall under its weight. It wasn’t that Lizzy and Blake looked at each other adoringly. There were no simpering, longing gazes. It was the trust in her eyes, and the faith. As if she knew without a doubt that Blake would take care of things if she let him, and that he would never let her down.

  She should be looking at Rafe like that.

  They were in this together after all. He was the one who always took care of things. He’d taken care of his brother and mother up until he’d left, then he’d taken care of whatever task he was paid to do. He was bloody good at it too. Efficient and fast, leaving behind no mess and no mistakes.

  Not until Barker.

  He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, emptying his mind of all except what was important—protecting Lizzy and stopping Barker. He opened his eyes again and the strange aching sensation was gone so that he could watch them objectively. Blake was talking to her, reassuring her again about her parents. She listened, thanked him over and over, and asked questions. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  Just like that, the ache returned heavier than before. Rafe couldn’t breathe from its oppressiveness. “Tell us what you know about the witness, Blakewell.” It came out rougher than he meant it and both Blake and Lizzy glanced at him with uncertainty. “Have you heard anything?”

  Blake stood. “As soon as I heard what had happened, I went to the sheriff’s office. The sheriff is a good, honest man, and a friend.” He shook his head. “But he couldn’t tell me who claims to have seen the murder. The name has been kept even from him. For the witness’s own protection, apparently.”

  “His own protection?” Lizzy frowned. “But who would…Oh.” Her gaze lowered to her lap but not before she glanced at Rafe beneath her lashes. Her fingers twined together, the knuckles white. She thought he would hurt the witness to get him to retract his statement. Perhaps even kill him.

  She was right. He would. Did that make him a monster?

  It seemed it did, in her eyes.

  Blake cleared his throat. “I’ll keep asking. Someone might know something.”

  “Thank you,” Rafe said. Blake appeared to be a good man, capable, someone you wanted on your side. Rafe would have to trust him.

  “I did learn one or two things that may help.” Blake glanced at his daughter, playing with a wooden spoon and pot the cook had given her, and beckoned Rafe out of earshot. “There was no weapon found in Gripp’s office, but he was killed cleanly with a blade to the throat.”

  Clean meant the murderer knew what he was doing. “Anything else?”

  “I asked some of the people who worked for him if they saw anything. It seems many of them saw you and Lizzy with Gripp that morning but no others either arriving or leaving after you. Not much help, I’m afraid.”

  “Actually that’s very helpful.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow in question but Rafe told him nothing. No one in London knew about his job as an assassin working for Hughe. And no one must find out, not even James. If they thought he was little better than a thug when he was a mercenary, what would they think knowing he’d been an assassin? James would be ashamed of him, Lord Liddicoat would end his employment before it began, the Privy Council would want to either recruit him or behead him, and Lizzy…Lizzy would be even more afraid of him. No one must know. Besides, Hughe’s, Orlando’s, and Cole’s safety depended on their anonymity.

  He had to stop Barker.

  “Lizzy,” Rafe said, “we must go.”

  She nodded sadly.

  “Wait here,” Blake said and left the kitchen.

  Lizzy rose. “I need to speak with Blake,” she said and followed him out.

  “She’d make a good mother, that one,” the cook said, picking up the little girl.

  “Uh, yes. A very good one.” Rafe coughed and crossed his arms but that made one of his grain-breasts shift to the left. He dug a hand down his bodice and rearranged it.

  The cook erupted into a fit of snorting giggles.

  “Blake,” Lizzy said upon entering his study. “A word, if you please.”

  “Of course,” he said, unlocking a casket on the desk. When she didn’t respond, he glanced up. “What is it, Lizzy?”

  “You don’t seem too concerned that Rafe and I are forced to spend time alone with each other.”

  “Are you worried he’ll betray his brother’s trust and…” He cleared his throat and the skin above his ruff reddened.

  “No! Not that. But…do you know the story behind his departure from London years ago? You can’t possibly or you wouldn’t be so relieved that he is with me now.”

  Blake replaced the casket lid and came around the desk to hold both her hands. “I know what happened. As much as anyone does, that is.”

  “And you’re not afraid?”

  He smiled. “I’m not afraid. You were a child then and probably weren’t made aware of all the facts. Perhaps if you were, you’d feel safer around him.”

  “The fact is, he almost killed his own stepfather.”

  “True, but he never hurt anyone else, including James or any of the witnesses to his crime.”

  “What about the fights he was rumored to have started at the alehouses before that day?”

  “I thought we were dealing with facts, not rumor. Listen, Lizzy, Rafe Fletcher is a capable man and that’s what you need now—someone who can take care of you. Besides, if James didn’t trust him, he would hardly have asked Rafe to take care of you in his absence.”

  It was a point that had bothered her for some time, and still didn’t quite make sense. Of all people, James knew what his brother had done, knew about his tendency to violence. Being capable had nothing to do with the equation. Rafe was capable of a lot of things, killing being one of them.

  Blake returned to the desk and filled up a pouch with coins from the casket, then walked with Lizzy back to the kitchen. She was still deep in thought when they rejoined Rafe and the cook. He smil
ed at her. She didn’t smile back.

  “Your left breast is higher than your right,” Blake said to Rafe. He held out the pouch. “For supplies or bribes. Cook, make up a parcel.” The cook, still chuckling into her chins, disappeared into the adjoining storeroom. Blake jiggled the pouch again.

  Rafe shook his head. “I can provide—”

  “Thank you,” Lizzy said, taking the pouch. She arched a defiant eyebrow at Rafe. “We’ll pay you back when this is over.” She bobbed down and kissed Annie on the top of her head. “Say hello to your mama for me, little one.”

  Blake clasped Lizzy’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. His lips came away smudged with the black charcoal she’d used to define the creases around her mouth.

  “G’bye, Uncle.” Annie reached up with both arms, her pale little face watching Rafe intently. “I’m not your uncle,” he said, squatting in front of her.

  Her big blue eyes swept across to Lizzy then back to Rafe. Did she think them married? “G’bye, Aunt?”

  Blake and the cook erupted into laughter. Lizzy grinned behind her hand.

  “I told you it was a good disguise,” Rafe said, taking the parcel of supplies from the cook.

  They said their good-byes and left through the servants’ door. Rafe checked the street for signs of anyone watching then hooked his arm through Lizzy’s and walked her back the way they’d come.

  “He’s a good man,” she said wistfully.

  “Yes,” Rafe said.

  “Rafe.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you not squeeze my arm so hard? I can’t feel my fingers.”

  He let go. “Apologies.”

  They walked until they reached the river, the silence long but not uncomfortable. It was easy and uncomplicated and made the stroll pleasant. They could have been promenading around manicured gardens instead of down hilly Dowgate Street to the grimy warehouses and shipyards along the Thames.

  “What shall we do now?” Lizzy asked him when they reached the junction with Thames Street.

  “Now we get supplies on the other side of the river. This parcel won’t be enough.”

  “We’re not going to investigate further?”

  “No. There’s nothing further to learn. Blake told me everything I need to know.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it? The man who wants his revenge on you. You’re sure now.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Then you can go to the authorities! Tell Treece. Tell Blake to speak to his friends in the sheriff’s office and give them the man’s name.”

  He caught her cheeks and caressed his thumbs along her mouth to calm her. Her eyes remained wild inside her disguise, but with urgency and frustration, not fear. “Not here.” He took her hand and they walked through a muddy alley that stunk of dead fish until they reached the water’s edge.

  A waterman spotted them and rowed his wherry to the nearby waterstairs. “Eastward ho! Westward ho!” he shouted.

  Rafe held up his hand for him to wait. “I can’t tell them anything,” he said to Lizzy.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need to take care of this on my own. Quietly.”

  She snatched her hand out of his. “And how do you propose to do that? Or are you a witch beneath that disguise too?”

  He deserved that barb. He deserved all the anger she could muster toward him. She was afraid for herself and her parents and perhaps feeling helpless, all thanks to Rafe. If only he’d done his duty properly in Cambridge, none of this would have happened and Barker would be dead.

  “It’s something I must do alone. For now, we buy supplies then return to the house.”

  They caught the wherry across to the other side and alighted at the bankside waterstairs near the theatres and bearbaiting pits. Rafe paid the waterman with Blake’s money then helped Lizzy out of the boat. When he let her go, she stumbled on a slippery stone and he reached out to catch her. She pushed his hand away, steadied herself, then walked off.

  He deserved that too.

  He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed the unnaturally nimble elderly woman. Most people appeared to be heading toward the Rose or the inns, but lingering in the yard of a nearby church he saw a man on his own. He was short and thickset with a fat, crooked nose. He lounged against a tree trunk, picking his teeth with his thumbnail. An idle man waiting for a friend. Then Rafe saw his eyes. They were fixed firmly on Lizzy.

  Rafe gave him a wide berth and directed her toward Borough High Street. It was market day and apart from the usual shops and industry, there were carts and temporary structures set up to sell everything a busy Londoner might need. They purchased bread, pies and tarts, sliced pork and beef, fish because it was a fish-eating day, eggs, spices, and fresh vegetables. Lizzy stopped at a lopsided cart filled with rags and old clothing, gloves, hats, and shoes.

  “Good for disguises,” she said. She paid the saleswoman who looked more aged than Lizzy pretended to be, and set off alongside Rafe.

  “We should buy some ale,” he said when he spotted a tavern.

  “Wait until we’re closer to the house. Bottles will weigh you down and you’re already as laden as a packhorse.”

  She was right. They weren’t out of danger yet and he needed to be swift if necessary. The fat-nosed constable wasn’t in sight but that didn’t mean he wasn’t near. The theatres were still very close, which meant Lizzy’s friends were too. If Treece had any sense—and Rafe suspected he was not a stupid man—he would be watching Lord Hawkesbury’s Players and the Rose day and night. Lizzy and Rafe were probably safest staying on the busiest stretch of road.

  “Shall we ask one of these carters for a ride up to the house?” Lizzy asked. “You cannot carry everything on your own the whole way.” The carters were mostly farmers leaving the market and heading south to their farms, their goods sold and their carts empty.

  He hefted the two sacks, one filled with food, the other with clothes. “You doubt my strength?”

  “I doubt your reasons for purchasing so much. We’ll never eat all that food before it turns rancid.”

  He didn’t plan on only the two of them eating it, but he couldn’t tell her that. “I’m hungry.”

  They set off down Borough High Street but he paused outside the gate to St. Thomas’s Hospital and looked back to check if they were being followed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  At first he didn’t see anyone suspicious but then he spotted Fat Nose inspecting the wares at the rag and clothing cart. He was speaking to the old woman and she shot them a curious glance, a sure sign that Fat Nose was asking her questions about them. Rafe had underestimated him. He must have seen Lizzy stumble at the waterstairs after all, then pick herself up the way a young woman would.

  “Rafe,” Lizzy whispered. She’d spotted him too. “Rafe, what shall we do?”

  “Be calm. If we quicken our pace then we look guilty and ruin our disguises completely. There’s still a chance he thinks we’re simply a pair of aged women. Walk like your back aches then turn into the first lane we come to.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay on the high street?”

  “Not now that he’s seen us. If he raises a hue and cry out here we won’t be able to get away. Our disguises won’t matter.”

  “Through here then,” she said, nudging him toward the stone arch of the hospital gate. “It opens onto a courtyard, but there’s another gate on the other side that leads to a lane. I’ve been there before.”

  Rafe glanced around once more before following her through the arch. He counted another four men watching them from across the road. One was the tall, lanky frame of Treece himself.

  Bloody hell.

  He followed Lizzy through the gate, then urged her to hurry. God knows how women ran with so many layers of underskirts, but he managed it with only a few curses and Lizzy did so with none. They bypassed the hospital buildings and headed to the far wall and the second gate. Once through to the alley, Rafe felt happier. Shadowy, na
rrow spaces suited him better than open ones with witnesses.

  But the alley was a dead end in one direction. The other led back to the high street. It was the only exit.

  Footsteps thundered across the hospital cobblestones. It sounded like an army. Rafe and Lizzy could risk running to the high street but Treece would probably have set someone there to stop them. Perhaps Rafe could use his favorite trick of catching the beam of the overhanging story and lift Lizzy up. No, there was no time and he’d have to drop their supplies, leaving a clue as to where they’d gone.

  They were trapped. He would have to fight his way out of this one with only the dagger strapped to his forearm and his fists. Why the hell didn’t women carry swords?

  The footsteps became louder, dangerously close.

  “Back against the wall,” he growled to Lizzy. “And whatever you do, stay there.” When she didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder.

  She was gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  “In here.” Lizzy pulled Rafe through the door, closed it, and slid the bolt across. She listened. For several moments all she could hear was the pounding of the blood between her ears and her own breathing. Rafe didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Then came the sound of running footsteps on the other side of the door.

  “Which way?” someone shouted.

  “Where did they go?” asked another.

  The door handle twisted, rattled. The thump thump of a fist on wood made her jump. How long would the bolt hold?

  She signaled to Rafe. They left the small room, which appeared to be used as a closet for storing coats and boots, and made their way into the adjoining kitchen. It was empty and the ashes in the fireplace were an old, cool gray.

  “Whose house is this?” Rafe asked from behind her.

  “Shhh.” She led him past the winter parlor and through to the main parlor at the front of the house. It was also empty but the embers in the fireplace glowed orange. “Lo!” she called out softly. “Anyone home?”