“I meant, have you ever worried that I would betray you by word or gesture?”
“Never.”
“Have I ever asked you to do anything for me before?”
Her reply came more slowly this time. “Nay.”
“Then trust me and do what I ask. Edward Bellot, Lord Sadler, and his heir disappeared years ago, and Rycliffe got the estate. He’s only the bastard son of a nobleman, and no more important than we are. He can afford to share some of the wealth.”
She shook her head. She’d never heard Sir Danny talk so recklessly. He had been the man who taught her charity by giving their dinner to starving children, then making light of their own hunger. He had taught her honesty by being honest himself, respect for others by praising their accomplishments. He had anchored her, and now she floundered, awash with confusion. “But to claim that I am the inheritor to this estate, and ask to be compensated for not claiming the property and his ownership in doubt.”
“A clever scheme, I thought. You’re exactly the right age to be the heir.”
“Sir Anthony doesn’t seem the type to pay us for such a flimsy claim. Besides, he knows I’m a woman, not the boy who disappeared.”
“Rycliffe will do as he’s told. I investigated him, and he’ll do anything to keep this estate. Anything.” Sir Danny’s dimples flashed, but she must have reflected her disappointment in him, for he broke out, “Oh, think of me for a change! This will provide for you if something happens to me, but more than that, it will be a nest egg for my old age. There’s nothing more pathetic than a shriveled old actor begging on the streets.”
“That’ll never happen to you,” she protested. “You’re Sir Danny Plympton, Esquire, the greatest actor of all time.”
He tossed his head, and his dark hair swept around his shoulders. “Aye, that I am, and this part will be my greatest.” He stood and dusted off his rear. “You’ll do as you’re told?”
Unhappy, yet obedient, she nodded.
“Good lass.”
He strode quickly away, and Rosie shivered in the cool sunlight. She’d thought Tony’s knowledge would free her from this tangle, but Sir Danny displayed a remarkable lack of concern. Was she really so flat?
She peeked down her bodice.
It didn’t look like any man’s chest she’d ever seen, but she hadn’t seen many. In the ramshackle world of the theater, Sir Danny had made sure she’d remained apart. She’d remained in their wagon, alone much of the time, while the others had gathered for evenings of drinking and wenching. She’d chafed at the restraint, but life with Sir Danny proved to be thrilling enough to fulfill any dreams of adventure.
Surely that was why she felt a prickle of apprehension when faced with the prospect of remaining in this place. She wanted to get away from Tony and that sweet, secret longing he inspired, but more than that, she wanted to get away from Odyssey Manor, away from the house that welcomed her.
Welcomed Rosie.
Welcomed her home.
Uncle Will wrote about people like her. People who hovered on the edge of madness, who fled their plebeian lives through the tortured mazes of their minds.
All her life, she’d wanted to live a role. She’d wanted to make Sir Danny proud. She’d imagined the roar of the crowd as she moved them to laughter and to tears, to a sense of their own mortality and a sense of their own immortality. It was her favorite dream, one that normally absorbed her.
But now it could not compete with the fevered nostalgia that assailed her like a fantasy come to wicked life.
As she remained at Odyssey Manor, her sense of recognition grew rather than diminished. It dominated her mind, and frightened her more than the stage fright that assailed her before a performance.
“Hey!” A man’s shout roused her. “What’re ye doin’ here? We don’t allow no good-for-naught actors so close t’ th’ house.”
She looked up to see a gray-haired man bearing down on her at a great rate. He wore the warm cloak of a trusted servant, and beneath it she caught glimpses of a leather jerkin. His arms swung in circles as if he longed to use his fists, and she warily tried to scramble to her feet.
“Forgive me, good man.” The French farthingale she wore under her skirt caught her heel, and she worked frantically to free it. “I’ll leave at once.”
“Do it!”
“I’m trying!”
Freeing her heel, she tried again to stand, but her heavy petticoats hindered her.
“Fer God’s sake!” Hostility bristling from every pore, he caught her hand and pulled her up. “Now, get ye gone afore—”
Her head came up, she looked him in the face for the first time, and—
Don’t leave me alone with him, Dada! Please, I’ll be good, don’t leave me alone.
With a cry, Rosie took to her heels, running for refuge, running away, running blind.
Her horror would have intensified if she’d looked back, for the grizzled man raced in the opposite direction, and the likeness of her cry echoed on his lips.
6
You a man! You lack a man’s heart.
—AS YOU LIKE IT, IV, iii, 118
What was the girl up to now?
Tony watched Rosencrantz sneak around the outside of Odyssey Manor, then followed her with a stealth of his own.
Not that he cared what she did. He ought to tell everyone of this nefarious masquerade she’d been perpetrating for the last five days, except she was so amusing as she strode around the grounds in a youth’s costume. The current fashion for padded doublets gave a man the desired peasecod-bellied profile, but they also hid a woman’s attributes. Rosencrantz took advantage of that, as she did the fad for large soft caps that slithered around the face, obscuring first her left eye, then her right, and always protecting her countenance from complete surveillance.
Not that he wanted to see her face.
But why was Rosencrantz jumping up, trying to peek in the windows? He’d inquired about her, subtly, of course, and she had never set foot in the manor. If she were so interested, why didn’t she just enter? Did she imagine someone would catch her and toss her out by the scruff of her neck?
After he’d had a firm discussion with Hal, his steward, he’d allowed the actors to commandeer the lower regions—specifically, the kitchen, where they ate constantly. Those cold years in his mother’s home had taught Tony openhanded hospitality, and Tony found it offensive that this Rosencrantz seemed to think his home contained a plague which affected only her.
He’d left no special instructions about her, although he should have. Any wanton who kissed a man of his experience and convinced him she was a virgin was a marvelous, even dangerous, actress. Who knew what mischief she could persuade others to do in the name of innocence?
That’s why he studied her. To protect his guests and his household. Otherwise, he wouldn’t ever even notice her.
Of course, it did amuse him when she spoke in deep tones, used wide gestures, and belched after every drink of beer. Yet her impersonation of a youth close to his majority fell short. She was, as Tony had observed in the play, a dreadful actress. No one should believe her to be a man, but no one paid her enough attention to doubt her. Even Jean, after casting him one amused and knowing glance, dismissed Rosie from her mind.
In fact, if Rosie wasn’t careful, she would catch one of the serving maids she’d been eyeing. That might prove amusing.
He glanced down at his cupped hand, the hand that had cupped her breast, and thanked God for his own inquisitive impatience. If he hadn’t been so bold with her, he’d still be in hell, believing he’d kissed a boy.
Why was Rosencrantz sneaking up on the stairs that led to the gallery?
He watched as she tiptoed up the stairs, taking such care no one could possibly hear a footfall, then stopped four risers short of the top. She hesitated, swaying back and forth. She wanted to go in, but she didn’t.
And why not? Why was this woman, this Rosencrantz, so afraid?
Tony mounted the
steps. He moved as he always did, with a firm tread, but Rosencrantz still stared up at the door. As he stepped close behind her, she shook her head and he heard her mutter, “A fool you are, and a mad fool, too. Begone before the gods strike you down.”
She wheeled so abruptly that he started. Taking one look at him, she missed the step. He reached out to catch her, but she swung her arms wildly, falling back.
She hit the step, and he heard a bone crack. She loosed one sharp scream, and the color slid from her face.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
But she grabbed her arm and curled up in agony.
“Let me.” He tried to take the affected limb, but she hugged it close to her body. He’d seen that reaction before on the Continent with the army. Soldiers in pain, yet fearing more pain.
And she feared for a reason, he knew. The arm would have to be set. He’d done it before, but it was a miserable procedure. Binding it after would ease her, but first he had to get her in the house. Taking her chin in a firm grip, he held her gaze with his. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
She whimpered.
“Tell me,” he insisted. “Does your back hurt? Your neck?” Carefully he rolled her head. “Your ribs?”
He tried to probe them, but she flinched, then moaned.
“Do—your—ribs—hurt?” He spaced each word so she could understand, and she shook her head.
“Hold your arm.” Positioning himself beside her unharmed side, he slowly worked her into his grasp. She shook in a palsy of pain, and when he picked her up, she yelled again.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
She choked back another scream, and he ached for her. Maneuvering through the door, he strode into the manor and down the gallery, bellowing, “Hal!”
A serving maid raced to get the steward, and Tony shouted after her, “Have Hal bring bandages and splints.”
Another servant ran in front of Tony, opening doors. Out of the gallery, up the grand staircase to the bedrooms. There Tony hesitated. All twenty-seven bedrooms were occupied, both the large standing beds and the low truckle beds that slid beneath them. None of his guests would thank him for lodging an actor in their midst. More than that, Rosencrantz would need privacy for her personal functions—more privacy than other young men would require.
Little cheat.
The only place he could put her would be in his antechamber, and he had no desire to have the harlot underfoot. He’d take her to the kitchen and set the bone. From there Sir Danny could fetch her.
Then he noticed a wetness soaking his velvet collar. Rosencrantz had turned her face into his doublet, hiding her pain-racked countenance and shedding her tears like an embarrassed child.
Tony found himself laying her on the mattress of his own bed. “Hal!” he yelled again.
“I’m here, Master. What’s yer pleasure?”
Tony never even glanced up as he disengaged the fingers of her good arm from their grip on his ruff. “One of the actors broke his arm, and I need you to hold him down while I set it.”
A silence followed, a silence so long Tony turned to the doorway where Hal stood. “Come on, man, he’s suffering.”
“An actor?” Rosencrantz had pulled the blankets over her face, but Hal stared at the bed and snarled, “Don’t dirty yer hands wi’ him. I’ll put him in th’ kitchen an’ th’ other servants’ll take care o’ it there.”
Tony dismissed the suggestion as if he’d not thought it himself a few moments ago. “I’ll do it here.”
“I’ll get th’ barber-surgeon t’ do it.” If Tony didn’t know better, he would have said Hal was frightened.
Arranging a pillow to support her arm, Tony answered, “I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll get th’ barber-surgeon t’ help ye, then.” Hal extended his hands, splints and bandages spilling from them. “I’m only a clumsy ol’ ostler, an’ I’ll—”
“Then you’ve seen plenty of broken bones, and I want you.” Amazement made Tony sharper than he should have been, but he’d never seen Hal dither. Strict, surly, yet devoted, Hal did what he was told when he was told, never avoiding work and never questioning orders. His tenure predated Tony’s arrival at Odyssey Manor, but fanatical devotion to the estate and to Tony had earned Hal the highest position any common man ever obtained on the estate. Tony knew he could depend on Hal for anything, even to keep a secret. And Hal could very easily discover Rosencrantz’s secret when they set the bone.
“Is it that actor they call Rosencrantz?” Hal’s usual gravelly voice sounded almost breathless.
“For God’s sake, Hal!” The crying from the bed had become whimpers, and those whimpers wrung the last drop of patience from Tony. “Bring those splints over here and let’s begin.”
Shuffling forward, Hal laid the supplies on the table beside the bed and muttered, “’Tis God’s vengeance on me fer me sins.”
“I’ll give you vengeance to fear if you don’t—” Tony took a breath. “I’ll care for the broken limb, and you restrain the rest.”
Hal stood and looked at Rosencrantz helplessly, as if he didn’t know how to start.
“Get on the bed and sit on him,” Tony instructed.
With first one knee on the mattress, then the other, Hal inched onto the bed. None of Tony’s admonitions could hurry him. His hands hovered over her legs for long moments, moving up and down their length like birds unsure where to light.
“Here!” Tony took Hal’s wrists and placed them on her knees.
As if it were a signal, Rosencrantz threw back the covers. Her blotchy cheeks were swollen from crying. She took one look at Hal’s face and shrieked. Chills ran up Tony’s spine when she cried, “He won’t stay, Dada. Don’t leave me alone.”
A fit? Tony stared at her. What madness was this?
Transfixed by her fury, Hal didn’t move, and she struck at him with her uninjured arm. “Get away from me, bad man. Bad man, go away!”
Hal sprang at her. Tony roared and jumped forward, but Hal didn’t accost her. Instead he placed his palms across her mouth and said, “I’m goin’ t’ help ye now. Understand? I’ll harm ye not.” Her wide eyes watched Hal with suspicion, and he repeated, “I vow I’m goin’ t’ help ye.”
Slowly, he lowered his hands, waiting for an outburst. The print of his hands shone white on her reddened skin, and she took deep breaths, like someone deprived of air. Yet she tilted her head regally and considered him for a long moment, and consented. “You may help me, and then never come near me again.”
“Psst. Rosie! Are you awake?”
She tried to ignore Sir Danny, tried to cling to slumber, but Sir Danny was known for his persistence.
“Rosie, how do you feel?”
Without opening her eyes, she asked, “How should I feel?”
“Well, with the broken arm and all, you might be too sick to tread the boards.” He peered at her. “But not sick enough to mourn it, eh?”
A broken arm? Rosie opened her eyes, looked around at the luxurious bedchamber, and groaned.
Well, she’d done it. She’d tried to sneak into the manor house, and got just what she deserved. A broken arm and a shredded pride. The last thing she remembered was vomiting into a basin, her head held by the honorable Sir Anthony Rycliffe. Now she lay on a bed, the most comfortable bed she’d ever inhabited. There were so many pillows piled at the head of the bed, she’d slid down and now lay crooked on the mattress. The fireplace glowed, gorged with flames that heated the room. Everywhere stood branches of candles. Not cheap, smelly tallow candles, either, but wax candles that gave off such a pure light it distressed her to think of the expense.
Beside the bed stood Sir Danny, looking as anxious as when she’d had the sweat as a child. “Does it hurt?”
Hurt? Everything hurt. Her shoulder hurt where Ludovic had smashed it, her back hurt from the impact on the stairs. Her legs ached, and her throat hurt from crying. There’d been some screaming, too, although surely it hadn’t been her. And her arm
—Od’s bodkin, her arm throbbed.
Hurt? Aye, she hurt, but that only made a falsehood more necessary. “Not much.”
“Can I get you anything? Wine, ale, water?”
“Nay, I just want to go home. With you,” she added hastily, when he seemed about to object.
Rocking back on his heels, he tucked his fingers into the braids on his doublet. “What home?”
“The wagon,” she answered eagerly. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “We could pack up and go to London. I’d hide out and you could perform Hamlet for Uncle Will. You’d make almost as much money as if we blackmailed—”
“They’ll take better care of you here.”
“No! I can’t stay here.”
“If Sir Tony says you can, you can.” Sir Danny smiled and patted her gently, treating her like an invalid for the first time in her life and frightening her into the next fortnight. “It’s not every day you get to sleep in the master’s chamber.”
“This isn’t the master’s chamber.” Ignoring the muscles that almost creaked when she moved, she pointed with her good hand. “It’s next door.”
“Nay, that’s the antechamber.”
“Nay, that’s where the master sleeps,” she insisted. “Don’t you remember? When…”
When what? What made her think that was the master’s chamber? She’d never even been up here before. Her conviction must be part of the madness—or was it premonition—that seized her? “Nothing,” she said. “Worry not. I’ve been dreaming.” Dreaming that I have explored every inch of the manor. “So can we go now? He set my arm and tied it all up, and it scarcely aches.”
“I can make any pain go away,” Sir Danny said in his soothing voice. “Would you like me to do that?”
She would. Aye, she would, but she was suspicious. “Would you take me back to the wagon afterward?”
The Greatest Lover in All England Page 6
