by C. J. Archer
A Secret Life
Lord Hawkesbury's Players #1
By C.J. Archer
Copyright 2011 C.J. Archer
Visit C.J. at http://cjarcher.blogspot.com
Other books by C.J. Archer:
A Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players Book #2)
Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)
Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)
The Adventures of Miss Upton and the Sky Pirate
The Mercenary's Price
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CHAPTER 1
London: Autumn 1589
Min had become accustomed to rejection. She even expected it. After all, she'd been rejected by every theatre company manager in London, sometimes more than once. Every time her play was rejected it felt like a little piece of her heart was stripped off and cast to the City's rats.
Now she stood face to face with the man capable of cutting it out completely. It was enough to make her stomach heave.
"Not you again." Roger Style stopped mid-stride and thrust both hands on hips exaggerated by his fashionably short trunkhose. He glanced up and down the street and must have realized he had nowhere else to go except past Min. Disgruntled theatre-goers, leaving the White Swan Inn after suffering through his latest play, surged down the narrow thoroughfare, buffeting him like an island in the middle of a rapidly flowing stream. The irony was, they wouldn't have been aware that he was the man responsible for the farce they'd paid good money to see.
However, the crowd wasn't so large that the buffeting would last long. Min had to take her chance—her one final grasp at her dream—while Style could not escape.
Drawing in a solid dose of courage along with a deep breath, she planted her booted feet on the muddy ground and held up her manuscript. The pages flapped in the chilly afternoon breeze. "Mr. Style, I'm simply asking that you read it. Just one little, quick read—."
"No." Style took a step closer. He was short, only a little taller than Min herself, but he had presence borne from years of acting in leading roles. It was an advantage he knew how to use.
Min refused to be intimidated. Again. She'd backed down from Style once already. She'd been very close to throwing her manuscript in the fireplace afterwards but sense had thankfully returned in time to save it from oblivion. She'd decided to have one last attempt with Style, the only manager desperate enough to look at a play written by a woman. Or so she hoped. She felt sure if he just read it, he would fall in love with it. Folly? Perhaps. Vanity? Certainly. Blind faith? Most definitely.
But she wouldn't give up. Not until she was sure he was rejecting it for the right reasons. It didn't look promising.
"Women don't write plays," Style said. He linked his hands behind his back, squared his shoulders and thrust out his chin. Or he would have if he had one. "In fact, due to the smallness of their brains, they cannot write plays. Alas, it is not of my doing, but God's." He indeed seemed quite apologetic on the Lord's behalf. "It is His will that the gentler sex be given the gifts of beauty and..." He waved his gloved hands as if conjuring a word out of the air. He looked like the wise old wizard he'd played on stage the month before in a rather forgettable play. "...other things. I would be doing you an injustice, my dear, to read the play you thrust beneath my nose. It would simply encourage you to write more. In that endeavor, your poor brain would not be able to cope with so much activity and, in short, it might expire. Nay! It would expire. I cannot have that on my conscience." He smiled down at her the way a master smiles down at his favorite puppy after it has pissed on the rushes—with strained patience as he knows it's not the puppy's fault.
Min almost bit her tongue off to refrain from saying something that would completely destroy her last chance. She might be desperate but she liked to think she wasn't a complete fool.
"Now, if you'll be so good as to step aside." He lifted thick, woolly brows, expectant.
Min gave him her best smile. The one she used on her father after telling him she'd failed to finish copying his notes because she'd been writing her play instead. The one that always worked. Almost always.
"Please, Mr. Style, I shall be indebted to you. I'm not asking for money." She put her right arm behind her back to hide the threadbare patch on the cloak sleeve. "Not much anyway. I simply want—."
"No." He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Would you like me to explain it to you again?" He tossed his head and nearly poked the eye out of a passerby with the long white plume decorating his hat. "Women cannot possibly write the sort of plays my company performs. The nuances, the rhythms, are simply too intricate for the poor female mind to comprehend."
"Many women attend your plays, Sir, and enjoy them." Used to enjoy them, she might have added. After the most recent outbreak of the plague, Lord Hawkesbury's Men—Style's company—could no longer be relied upon to entertain. With their chief playwright succumbing to the vile disease that had emptied the City and ravaged those who'd remained behind, the new plays had been awful. Not a single one had lasted more than two performances. Most not even that many.
As a consequence, audiences had dwindled. The one that turned out for this afternoon's performance had already turned into a trickle leaving the inn. That alone gave Min hope. A theatre company with a diminishing audience equated to a desperate manager. And desperate people took risks.
Style lifted a hand and caressed the air. "Watching them is one thing," he said, "writing them entirely another."
What remained of Min's heart sank into her stomach. It was hopeless. He wouldn't look at her play if his life depended upon it, or his livelihood as it were. She wasn't surprised. He wasn't the only manager who'd turned her down. He was simply the last. The very last.
The crowd had dispersed entirely, the gray clouds encouraging them to find shelter before the rain broke and made the roads slippery and their ruffs droop. Style moved to step around her.
That's when Min saw Him. Her Savior.
He leaned against the wall of a haberdasher's shop, arms and ankles crossed lazily. He was tall with dark hair and skin that spoke of warmer climes or an intriguing parentage. Unlike the gentlemanly fops she was familiar with, he wore simple black with no outrageously large buttons or elaborate embroidery and not a hint of jewelry, not even an earring. Even his ruff was small. She couldn't determine the material of his doublet and hose, but they fit him well. Not a sag in sight. A talented tailor had made them precisely for this man's body.
And what a body. Wide shoulders and a fine leg. Even from where she stood on the other side of Gracechurch S treet she could see his calf was muscled and shapely.
All of these things made him stand out from the people around him, but it was his eyes that sent a shimmer of heat up her spine. Even at a distance she could see they were bright blue, the color of a summer sky. Amidst all that darkness, they were an oasis—vivid and glorious.
And they were staring straight at her.
"Wait!" She caught Style's arm, jerking him to a halt.
"My girl," he said with exaggerated effort, "I am very busy." He glanced back at the inn. Looking for assistance from his players? It was unlikely they would come to his aid—they were probably still downing their professional sorrows in the taproom. "Please remove yourself from my presence or I shall have to—."
"There's been a misunderstanding. I didn't write this play."
"Very well." He pri
ed one of her fingers off his arm, using only his thumb and forefinger as if he might catch something from her.
"No, listen." As soon as he let go of her finger, she clamped it down on his arm again. "What I mean to say is, a woman didn't write this play, a man did."
Style frowned. "Then why didn't you tell me so before?"
She shrugged. She didn't have an answer for that. Not yet.
"Well, if you didn't," he said, "who did?"
"Him." The man's eyes had bewitched her. It was the only explanation as to why she was doing something so impulsive and foolish. That and an over-active imagination, as her father called it.
"Him?" Style's eyes narrowed as he studied the man.
The figure in question shifted, a barely noticeable stiffening of his back and shoulders. Min noticed it, however. She felt strangely in tune with him—like the fiddler off stage and dancer on it, they were separate and yet together. That must be how it is when one met one's Savior.
"Then why didn't he approach me himself instead of sending you?" Style cocked his head to the side without taking his gaze off the stranger.
"He's, er, shy." Min cringed. She might have an over-active imagination but it wasn't a particularly quick one.
"He doesn't look shy. He looks...interesting."
He most certainly did. Min had never seen a man quite like him. He exuded a self-contained power, and despite his lazy stance, she could see he was alert to his surroundings—a cat lazing in the sun but with a hungry eye on the mouse.
Or in this case, Min.
"Well, he is shy," she said. "Very."
"Let's meet him, shall we?"
"No!" She leaped in front of Style.
He peered over her head and frowned. "Oh. He's gone."
Thank you Lord. Min breathed out and managed a smile. "As I said. Shy."
"He shouldn't be. Men who look like that don't need to be shy. I wonder if he's ever thought of acting. He'd make quite a striking figure on stage."
"I'll ask him next time I see him." She held out her manuscript. "Will you read his play?"
Style took it and Min felt her heart rebuild itself in that instant. She didn't squeal in delight, but it was an effort not to.
"I'll read it tonight," he said.
"Wonderful. I'll meet you back here tomorrow, same time. You won't be disappointed, Sir."
Style cast his eye over the front page. "Bring the playwright."
"The...er, yes, of course. He'll be here." Her face heated at the lie.
"Good day, Mistress... What was your name?"
"Peabody. Minerva Peabody."
Style nodded and left, glancing left and right as he hurried the short distance to Gracechurch Street.
Min watched him go with a growing sense of exhilaration. He was going to read it! The battle was half won. She might finally, finally see her dream come to fruition. Her heart was whole again and tears welled in her eyes. It was almost too much. Two years of writing in moments snatched out of her day only to have her hopes ground under both feet of every theatre manager in London, and now she'd won this victory. It was minor really—he still had to read it and like it—but the victory felt like a giant leap forward. And it was all hers to savor and cherish.
She felt like she would burst if she didn't tell someone. But who? Her father would be angry that she'd wasted so much time on her play instead of helping him, and her friends didn't quite understand how much it meant to her. Those that knew she harbored the dream of being a playwright thought her mad, and they were few. Not even Ned would appreciate this moment. Especially Ned. He might be courting her but he understood her most precious dream least of all.
Min sighed. Her earlier enthusiasm faded like the setting sun. If only her mother was alive...
She turned to go. And bumped into a brick of a man. A big man, with strong hands that gripped her shoulders to steady her.
"I'm sorry," she said, peering up at him. "I—. Oh! It's you."
"Why were you watching me?" No preamble, no 'Are you all right?' or 'Hello, my name is Percy Percival, what's yours?'
Min swallowed and blinked up at the stranger with the too-blue eyes. He was quite overwhelming up close. From afar he'd been like an exotic delicacy—a delicious morsel that was, alas, out of her reach—but now she received the full force of his presence. Power rippled through his touch into her body, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. His blue glare bored into her as if he were trying to extract the answer directly from her head. There was a jaded languor about those eyes, as if they'd seen too much but no longer cared.
She swallowed again. She really hoped his name wasn't Percy. That would be such a disappointment to her writer's sensibilities. Lucifer would be far more appropriate.
"I wasn't watching you," she said, her voice small. She cleared her throat. "Anyway, it was you who was watching me."
His gaze slid to her shoulders. As if he'd just realized he was still holding her, he let them go. "You are mistaken."
"I am not. You were looking directly at me for quite some time."
"No."
"No?"
"As I said, you're mistaken. I was merely looking in your general direction."
"At what precisely?"
A pulse throbbed in his cheek. "You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm merely curious. As a playwright, it helps to be curious about people. Besides, one question does not 'a lot' make. So, what or whom were you looking at if not at me?" She wasn't sure why she persisted. Perhaps it was to learn more about him. He might prove useful as the basis for one of her characters.
But, more truthfully, it was because she'd never met someone so formidable and yet so utterly compelling after such a brief encounter. She was a moth and he was much too bright a flame for her own good. It was futile to even resist. She had to know everything about him.
"That," he said in a tone that could have frozen the Thames, "is none of your business."
She sighed. Flame or no, he was harder to talk to than her father in the midst of his research.
"Are you going to tell me why you were looking at me or will I have to force it out of you?" he persisted.
She gasped. "Force? What kind of force?" She glanced around and wondered if any of the lingering youths or hawkers would come to her aid if she screamed. The street had become oddly quiet now that the performance was long over and the sky had turned sinister. Everyone must have gone home or into one of the nearby shops in anticipation of a downpour.
"You could always not answer the question to find out," he said. "If you're curious enough, that is."
He was toying with her. She was almost certain of it. He wasn't smiling and his eyes didn't sparkle, and yet there was a hint of mischief in his tone.
She crossed her arms. She didn't like to be teased. "My reason is not important."
"I'll be the judge of that." He crossed his arms too and suddenly he seemed even taller and far more intimidating than before. How did he do that with only a few small movements of muscle? "Who was that man with you?"
She saw no reason not to tell him. "Roger Style, manager and lead actor for Lord Hawkesbury's Men."
"The players?"
"Yes."
She thought she saw him smile but she must have been mistaken. He didn't look like a man who knew how to smile.
He glanced back at the White Swan Inn. "And that parcel you gave him was your play?"
"Yes."
"Ah. I see." He bent down to her level and pinned her to the spot with an unwavering glare. She tried to appear unfazed when all the while she was shivering on the inside. "So what, madam, does Roger Style and your play have to do with me?" She opened her mouth to utter whatever excuse came out first but he stopped her by pressing a finger to her lips. "No," he said. "I want a direct answer this time."
She let out a small breath that would have warmed his finger. Unlike Style this stranger was not afraid of catching anything from her. She tried to see the finger
but only managed to hurt her eyeballs. She looked left, right, then finally into the eyes of the man she'd thought of as her savior only minutes before. Now she wished she'd chosen someone else, someone with blander features and considerably smaller in stature. Someone who didn't turn her insides hot and cold with one glance or look like he could squeeze answers out of her.
Someone with a little less strength of character.
"Are you going to tell me the truth now?" he asked, voice rolling through the small space between them like ominous thunder.
She expected him to remove his finger so she could speak but he didn't. Instead, he traced her top lip in a movement so exquisitely gentle it made everything inside Min stop. Her heart, her breath, her thoughts. Every part of her focused on that finger and the way it caressed her lip. It tickled but there was no way she would pull back, no way she would break the touch. She couldn't. She was in his thrall.
A strange hush surrounded them. She could hear nothing except his light breathing, see nothing except his face, so intent on his task, on her lip. It was as if they were floating inside a bubble; the outside world became irrelevant. It was quite simply magical.
Then the stranger did something quite unexpected. He smiled. Not a full, beaming smile but more a twitch of one corner of his mouth. It was accompanied by a derisive curl of his lip and a soft grunt. He was sneering. He removed his hand and the bubble burst.
She swallowed. "I, I... What was the question?" She pressed her fingertips to her mouth but it didn't feel the same. Didn't have nearly the same effect.
He cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow. She let her hand fall and tried to concentrate on not looking like a silly female who'd never been touched in quite the way he'd just touched her. Even though she hadn't. Not even by Ned. Nor would she again, a small insidious voice inside her said.
She reigned in her galloping attention. "Oh, yes. I remember. Style wouldn't read a play written by a woman. So I told him a man wrote it." She took a precautious step away from him but it didn't weaken his effect on her. It would require the distance of oceans to achieve that—no, not even then. "In short, I told him you wrote it."
