by Carla Kelly
Malcolm snorted. “I divided among them the receipts from the performances at Wickfield, so we truly are penniless.” He sighed heavily. “I wonder if our landlord will be so generous when he realizes I cannot even pay this night’s bill?”
“I can pay it,” said Hal quietly. “Would to God I thought I dared contact Abner Sheffield for more, but as things stand with my nephew Algernon, I dare not. But I’ll pay your shot here. I have enough for that.”
They were all silent then. Gerald Broussard came closer and sat on the end of the bed. Kate watched him. “You remained,” she said. “Why?”
Gerald only smiled and looked down at the floor. “These people are not so easy to leave, as you may discover. Besides, Kate, I have nowhere else to go.”
Kate could think of nothing to say. She looked down, too, embarrassed to meet Broussard’s frank gaze, or run the risk of seeing the sorrow in Malcolm’s eyes. I know there is still one more mail coach this evening, she thought, and despised herself for thinking it. She glanced at the canvas bag of money on the bureau, hoping that no one would call attention to it and ask her what she had. That’s my future, she thought. She said nothing.
In another moment Ivy got off her husband’s lap. She held out her arms to Phoebe and Maria and walked with them to the door. “Come girls. Perhaps things will seem better after a good night’s sleep.”
Gerald touched Phoebe’s arm as she passed him, and blew her a kiss. The young woman managed a smile that reached no farther than her lips before it trembled and vanished. The other Bladesworths followed Ivy from the room, shutting the door quietly behind them. Hal propped a second pillow behind him and motioned Gerald into the chair.
“What will they do?” he asked, his voice still low, as though they were listening outside.
Gerald shook his head. “We’ve been through tough times. It is the way of actors. But this time ...” His voice trailed off. “I wish I knew.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Suddenly the door swung open. With an oath Gerald leaped to his feet. Kate looked up in surprise as Malcolm bounded into the room, his finger to his lips. Ivy followed at his heels, her eyes wide with fear. She ran to Kate and pressed one of Malcolm’s handkerchiefs into Kate’s hands.
“Quick! Wind this around the marquess’s head to hide the bullet track!”
Kate grabbed the handkerchief and wound it around Hal’s head, neatly covering his ear. “What on earth?” he began and then stopped.
In the door stood the young man Kate had noticed in the taproom earlier that afternoon. He was neatly dressed in plain, serviceable clothes, but something about him, perhaps the nicety of his neckcloth or the rakish tilt to his hat, proclaimed London. Maybe it was the confident, almost arrogant way he walked across the room to Malcolm, who was standing in front of Kate as she tucked the end of the handkerchief into itself, shielding her actions.
“I am so glad you have arrived,” the man said, holding out his card. When no one took it, but only stood watching him, he announced himself. “My name is Will Muggeridge. I am a runner, and I come to you from Bow Street.” His tone was apologetic, regretful even. “I hate to disturb you at this late hour, but the landlord tells me you were near Wickfield last night.”
He came closer. Kate rested her hand on Hal’s shoulder, and he reached up and covered her fingers with his own. In a moment she felt him slide his signet ring onto her finger and turn the crest around. She slid her hand behind his neck and under the edge of his nightshirt, praying that the runner’s attention was on Malcolm.
Muggeridge addressed Malcolm, who sat in the chair Broussard had vacated. He appeared at ease, affable, as he patted his lap and Ivy sat down again. He stretched out his legs as though he sat in his own sitting room. “Ah, yes, we performed Taming of the Shrew last night in that village. The natives are receptive to Shakespeare, my good man.”
Muggeridge stretched his thin lips across his teeth in the appearance of a smile. “I am relieved to know that, sir,” he said. “I have a matter of some gravity to discuss with you.”
Malcolm waved his hand in a broad gesture. “Say on, sir.” Muggeridge pocketed his card again. “I am interested in the whereabouts of one Lord Grayson, of Grayson, Kent, whose riderless horse was found near Wickfield last night. The saddle, I might add, had blood upon it.”
Ivy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Malcolm clucked his tongue. “Dear, dear, sir. It sounds like dirty work to me. How does this concern us?”
“I am wondering if you may have seen anything suspicious in Wickfield that night. We have reason to suspect that the marquess has been abducted by his valet and is being held captive for a ransom.”
“That would be the most productive thing my valet ever did, then,” Hal whispered to Kate, his lips barely moving.
Malcolm looked at Gerald, who shrugged. “I saw nothing, monsieur,” Broussard said.
“And you, sir?” The runner was looking at Hal now. He came closer to the bed. “Have you been injured?”
Hal put his hand to the back of his neck and winced. “This comes from stumbling around backstage in the dark, my dear Mr. Muggeridge.”
“He is such a clumsy dolt,” Malcolm added, his voice filled with exasperation. “I do not know why we keep him in the company, except that he is a relative.” He clapped his hands together. “We do not wish to waste your time. Perhaps you wish to question my daughters, Mr. Midden?”
“Muggeridge,” said the runner patiently, his eyes on Hal. “Your daughters will keep, sir. I am looking for a tall man, with thinning hair. He is plump and inclined to be lazy.”
Hal gave a start, and Kate pinched his shoulder.
Malcolm struck his palm on his hand. “I’d never have such a slow fellow in my troupe, sir!”
The runner only smiled, his eyes still on Hal, who sighed and removed a pillow, lowering himself back to the bed. Kate sat beside him.
The man looked at his fingernails. “I hear around Leeds that your little scheme to buy a certain theatre has fallen through. You sound like a man in need of money, sir, if I may be so crass.” He looked at Hal again. “Comfortable, sir?” he asked, his tone so unctuous that Kate itched to slap him.
“I’m tired,” Hal complained. “Do wish you would go bother someone else.”
“In good time, sir. Your name?”
“Hal Hampton.”
“Hampton. Hampton. That seems to be one of the names of the gentry mort I am looking for, Henry Tewksbury-Hampton.”
“Small world,” Hal said, his eyes closing. “However, mine is Harold, not Henry.”
“Oh, is it?” After another long minute the runner turned his attention back to Malcolm. “The man who engaged Bow Street’s services is offering a tidy reward for any news of Lord Grayson’s whereabouts.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“Five hundred pounds, sir. It wouldn’t buy you a theatre, but it would see you on your way again.”
Under her hand Kate felt Hal stiffen. Malcolm whistled softly. “Five hundred pounds?” he asked, his voice reverential. “Just for news of some fubsy layabout?”
Kate looked at Malcolm, her heart in her throat. Good God, she thought, I believe he is considering it. He will surrender Hal to the runner and claim the reward. And how do any of us know that the runner has been sent by Sheffield? It could be Algernon, trying to locate him so he could kill him. She moved involuntarily, but Hal gripped her fingers again and forced her to stay where she was. She couldn’t look at Malcolm.
Malcolm ushered Ivy to her feet again and stood up. He clapped his arm around the runner, gave him a quick shake that almost lifted the smaller man off the ground, and released him. “My good man, I would love to help you, I really would, but I haven’t the slightest information that could be of any possible benefit.”
Kate let out her breath slowly. She put her free hand to her cheek, feeling the color there, ashamed that she ever considered for even a moment that Malcolm Bladesworth would b
etray a man for money, no matter how badly he needed it.
The runner nodded and showed all his teeth in what only the truly charitable would call a smile. He turned his attention back to Hal. “You, then, sir.” He brought the lamp closer to Hal’s face, standing over him and looking down for such a lengthy time that the marquess opened his eyes.
The runner set the lamp back on the bedside table. “Sir, you certainly fit the description of the man I am looking for. And you have the same name, or one of them. How odd.”
Hal raised himself up on one elbow. “If I were the marquess, you don’t really think I would be so slow as to use the same name, do you?”
“That might be just the thing you would do,” the runner replied. “Sir, I wonder if I could observe the extent of your injuries. Pardon me, madam, but would you move?” he asked Kate.
It would have been an easy matter for her to step aside. The runner could unwind the handkerchief and discover the bullet wound. He would have his marquess, and she could be on her way back to London. Instead she clutched Lord Grayson’s hand to her breast, ignored his appreciative sigh, and took a deep breath. She caught Malcolm’s approving glance and found her strength.
“Sir! I beg you! This is my husband, and I wish you would leave him alone! His head aches.”
The runner blinked. “This is your husband?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.
“Yes,” she snapped. “Didn’t the landlord tell you downstairs that this room was taken by Mr. and Mrs. Hal Hampton? We are part of the Bladesworth troupe.” Tears came to her eyes. “Though I suppose we will have to leave the troupe, too, now that Mr. Bladesworth cannot buy the theatre. Was there ever such a dilemma?” She threw herself down on the marquess’s chest, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into the cavernous folds of Malcolm Bladesworth’s nightshirt.
Hal’s hand came up and caressed the back of her neck as she lay sprawled across his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “There, there, my dearest Kate. I’ll be all right soon.” He sighed, and his voice caught in a little moan. “Mr. Muggeridge, could you hand me that glass of headache powders?”
The runner put his hands on his hips. He stared down at the marquess, his lips tight together in a thin line. After Kate slipped the signet ring off her finger and left it under Lord Grayson’s back, she ran her hand over his face as he kissed her fingers, and nestled her hand by his neck. The marquess put his arms around her, holding her tight.
“Muggeridge, we wish to be left alone now.” He kissed Kate again. “Kindly oblige us, and take the Bladesworths with you as you close the door. Quietly, please. My head is pounding.”
“Very well,” said the runner, biting off his words and looking around him. “You won’t have any objections if I remain in the vicinity?”
Malcolm clapped him on the shoulder again. “It’s a free country, laddie. I wish we could help you, truly I do.”
Without another word, the runner stalked from the room. Malcolm rolled his eyes after him and motioned for Ivy and Gerald to follow. Kate looked up from the marquess’s ample chest. Bladesworth put his finger to his lips and winked. “Good night, my dears,” he boomed as he closed the door behind him.
Hal groaned. “That voice!”
Kate sat up quickly, straightening her clothes. “You didn’t need to kiss me so many times,” she protested.
The marquess reached under his back, pulled out his signet ring and dropped it in her lap. “It seemed what the situation called for, especially when you draped yourself all over me like that. Hide that thing somewhere, will you?”
She placed it in the canvas bag, then pushed the bag under the bed. She was relieved to have the money out of her sight. Its presence was becoming almost a reproach. With a sigh of her own Kate sat down in the chair.
The marquess put his hands under his head. “So Sheffield says I am plump and inclined to be lazy? Well, he is right.”
Kate rested her chin in her hand and looked at him thoughtfully. “Sir, you are assuming that Abner Sheffield sent the runner. Could it have been your nephew, trying to find you so he can finish the deed?”
Hal considered. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but who knows?”
“Your relatives are distressing,” Kate said with a shudder. “I rejoice that I know none of them, sir. They seem a plaguey lot.”
“Oh, they are,” he agreed. “I shall happily hole up with the Bladesworth Traveling Company and not see them for a summer. I can scarcely imagine anything more agreeable.”
Kate sat in silence, thinking of Malcolm and his refusal to betray the marquess. Her eyelids began to droop and her whole body sagged, heavy with sleep. As her chin slipped forward on her hand, she jerked upright. The marquess cleared his throat.
“You know, Kate, this is a delicate situation,” he began, picking his way among the words. “Under other circumstances, I would advise you to find Phoebe and Maria’s room, but as things stand, I fear that nosy runner is camped within easy sight of this door. If you leave, his suspicions will be answered.”
“I am well aware of the impropriety of this situation,” she said crisply, putting her knees close together and her hands in her lap. “My father is probably somersaulting in his grave! My reputation is in tatters, but it is of no account. We don’t run in the same circles, my lord, and unless you decide to announce this frolic to your friends, it will never come to anyone’s attention. I, for one, do not intend to say a word about it.”
“You mean you wouldn’t even be tempted to tell your grandchildren about this evening’s work someday?”
“Never! I will make myself as comfortable as I can in this chair, sir, and bid you good night.” Kate shut her eyes resolutely.
“And I will not hear of that,” said the marquess. “Kate, go ask the landlady for some more blankets. I will make a pallet for myself on the floor and you can have the bed.”
Kate gasped and leaped to her feet. “But, my lord, it will still be warm!”
The marquess laughed, even as he held both hands to his head. “Kate, you are the most difficult of bedfellows! We are roughing it tonight. Surely the runner will be gone tomorrow, and—”
“—and so will I,” Kate exclaimed. She went to the door and opened it a crack. “Your wife is going to find a more pressing engagement calling her to the south tomorrow. I leave it to your fertile imagination to think of something to tell the landlady.”
She stepped onto the landing and saw the runner seated at the foot of the stairs, his chair tipped back and his eyes wide open. He nodded to her and tipped the chair down as she descended the stairs, her heart thumping in her chest.
“Is something the matter, Mrs. Hampton?” he asked, his voice oily with solicitude.
Again resisting the urge to scrape her fingernails across his face, she smiled at the runner. “No, sir, nothing at all. I merely want some more blankets from the innkeep.”
“Cold, Mrs. Hampton?” he asked.
Don’t call me that, you dolt, she wanted to shout, but she kept her hands clutched tightly in front of her and swept past him with all the dignity she could muster. The innkeep, his expression bemused, supplied her with two more blankets, and she stalked past the runner, eyes ahead, and up the stairs. She forced herself to move slowly, even though she felt his eyes boring into her back as she climbed the stairs.
She closed the door of the room with relief. The marquess was sitting in the chair, a blanket around his bare legs. “I wish you would take the bed,” he said.
“Well, I will not,” she replied and made herself a pallet as far away from the bed as possible.
“Stubborn woman,” the marquess said. He blew out the lamp, and she heard him climb back into bed. It another moment the extra pillow whistled past her and landed on the floor by the pallet. “It’s not warm,” he said.
Kate put her hand on her mouth so he would not hear her chuckle. “Now face the wall and close your eyes,” she commanded in her best governess voice.
“Ye
s, ma’am,” he said.
In a rush of skirts she hurried out of her dress, lay down, and covered herself with the blanket. The floor was hard, but it was such a relief to stretch out. She patted the pillow into a shape of her liking and sank her head into it. The pillow was not warm, but it did smell of the shaving soap that she had lathered on the marquess’s face that afternoon. “When in Rome,” she murmured.
“Excellent, my good wife,” came Hal’s voice from the bed. “You are becoming flexible.”
He was silent then, and she thought he slept. Her eyes were closing when he spoke again.
“Kate, I was sure Malcolm would betray me. I mean, I would have done it for five hundred pounds, if I had a family to feed. Churlish, wasn’t I?” His voice was sleepy.
“No more than I, my lord,” was her quiet reply. “I think we do not know these people very well.”
There was no answer, but only the faintly reassuring sound of the marquess’s even breathing. Kate turned onto her side, trying to find a soft spot on the boards. What a dreadful brew I have stirred for myself, she thought. What a relief it will be to put this behind me tomorrow.
If she thought she would sleep, she was sadly mistaken. Even though her body cried out for rest, she remained acutely aware of the marquess’s presence. As eccentric as her upbringing was, with Papa dragging her from England to Rome and then to Florence to follow the trail of art, she had managed to avoid all hints of compromise. And here she was now, sleeping in the same room with a man who was not even a relative. Surely I cannot sink any lower, she thought.
The hours dragged by. Somewhere from a nearby church, she heard a clock toll the time. At three o’clock, unable to lie on the floor any longer, Kate rose quietly, wrapped a blanket around her, and tiptoed to the marquess’s bed. He lay on his back, his hands resting on his chest in a shaft of moonlight. She sat in the chair, admiring the length of his fingers, and the capable look to them. I wonder if he plays the piano, she thought. He should. Or, at least, he should make sure that his children do someday, if they have hands like his. I wonder why Sheffield called him plump and lazy? He may be a little overstuffed, but he is tall. And lazy? Time will tell, she thought and then reminded herself. But I will not be here to find out just how lazy he is.
