by C. J. Archer
"I think what Style is really concerned about," said a dark-haired newcomer Blake hadn't seen arrive, "is your reputation, my lady." The low-pitched voice didn't need to be louder for the group of players to come to full attention. The man—a gentleman, if the black cloak embroidered with silver detail was anything to go by—was obviously used to commanding. And getting his own way.
"M, my lord!" Style spluttered, rising. "What a surprise!"
Min swallowed. Lord? Not Lord Hawkesbury, surely? Just when her courage had completely returned too. The sense of triumph she'd felt once she actually entered the inn had replaced the trepidation gnawing at her insides while she waited outside. But now it too was slowly seeping away thanks to the presence of a very powerful man. Another one.
The gentleman acknowledged each of the five players with a nod. When he got to Min, he bowed low. "The reputation of a lady," he said, clarifying his earlier point, "is very precious indeed." His eyes, as black as two ponds at midnight, gleamed and the faint lines at the corner of his mouth deepened with a smile.
Min felt Blake shift beside her. His fingers toyed with the cuff of his sleeve, a seemingly idle movement if there hadn't been a knife handle poking out of it. She swallowed again. Hard. What could he possibly be going to do with the blade? Surely not... No. Oh no. Not a peer of the realm!
Why oh why hadn't she questioned Blake more before taking this ruse further? She knew nothing about him, not even his name. Foolish, foolish girl. If Blake was to stab Lord Hawkesbury here in the White Swan in front of witnesses what would it mean for her, an apparent accomplice?
The gallows, that's what.
She chewed her lip and considered how to stop the horrible event. But then Blake covered the knife again and both his hands returned to his tankard. Her long-held breath came out in a whoosh and she felt a little weak. Blake seemed the same, passively moody but not like a man who wanted to assassinate Lord Hawkesbury.
"Yes," Style said. "Ladies reputations are very precious. That is what I meant. Wouldn't want her menfolk descending on us with rapiers now would we?" He coughed when no one laughed.
Min, with one eye on Blake's cuff, decided to put him out of his misery. "I come from a family that's neither important enough nor rich enough for anyone to think my reputation is worth something. And my menfolk aren't the rapier-wielding type." Picturing her father storming into the inn brandishing a sword made her laugh.
But then she stopped. Sir George would use words not a sword. Words to make her feel like the worst daughter to a poor father in need of her help. And he'd save them for Min's ears only.
An awkward silence shrouded the little group. No doubt everyone had noticed her threadbare clothes and wondered about her family circumstances. Her speech about the lack of concern over her reputation would only make them wonder more. Well, her circumstances were nobody's business but her own. Let them wonder.
She lowered her gaze to her hands folded in her lap and bit the inside of her lip. She had made it their business by her simple statement of fact. She needed to learn to think more before she spoke or suffer the consequences and heavy silences.
"Lord Hawkesbury," Blake said, nodding a greeting. Min felt her breath return in a rush. He was acting the part of her savior once again by filling the void. She could hug him. And kiss him. And if it wasn't for her renewed fear of him, she'd—.
"Ah yes," said Style, breaking into her thoughts, "let me introduce you to our new poet, Blake. He wrote a wonderful play for us. It'll improve our fortunes, I'm sure."
Wonderful? Min suddenly felt giddy.
"It only requires a few changes," Style went on.
The giddiness stopped as abruptly as a child's spinning top kicked mid-spin. Changes? What kind of changes? But before she could ask, Lord Hawkesbury said, "A pleasure, Blake, and a hearty welcome. Style, a word if you please."
"Yes, yes of course." Style scurried after his lordship to a dim corner on the other side of the inn.
The throng of patrons in the taproom made it difficult to see them clearly but that didn't stop Blake from staring after them. His finger tapped the cuff concealing his hidden dagger before his hand dropped to his side. His gaze, however, remained on the two men in the corner.
"His lordship doesn't look happy," said the young boy, slouching over the table and coddling his tankard. "No doubt he saw the muck we put on today and wants to withdraw his patronage. We're fucked."
"Freddie," warned another man who looked a lot like Style. "There's a lady present." He turned to Min. "I'm so very sorry. He's a little drunk."
"How remiss of us," said one of the others, handsome of face and fair of hair with a gentle smile and open countenance. "We haven't introduced ourselves."
By the time he'd finished telling her who was who and did what within the company, Style rejoined them. Lord Hawkesbury was nowhere to be seen.
"Well?" said Edward to his older brother.
Four people drew in breath at the same time Style let one out. He sat heavily on the stool and picked up his tankard but didn't drink. "His lordship's patience is wearing thin." He paused to let that piece of information sink in then said, "It's all up to Marius and Livia now. And how well Blake's changes turn out."
Everyone looked at Blake. He saluted them with his tankard. "Everything will be fine."
"You sound very sure of yourself," Croft grumbled.
"Do you think you can fix it by tomorrow?" Style asked. "We can put on our first performance in the afternoon."
"Tomorrow?" Min said as Blake said, "Of course."
She shot him a warning look but he didn't seem to notice. Good Lord, she couldn't do the changes overnight! It required careful thought, writing and rewriting to make every word perfect. And besides, she didn't know what they wanted yet. The changes could be too numerous, too difficult, too—.
"We're depending on you," Edward said. Croft and Henry Wells nodded. Style looked like he wanted to get down on his knees and kiss Blake's boots while Freddie appeared more interested in his ale.
Min felt like she was floating above the gathering, not quite present and yet seeing everything with startling clarity. They depended on her, on her play and her writing. It was the most thrilling thing.
She'd give them whatever changes they wanted.
"Like I said," Blake said, "it'll be ready. I'll make the changes on my own copy and bring the revisions around first thing in the morning."
Min said nothing. She couldn't have formed a coherent sentence if she'd tried. Fortunately she'd kept a copy of the play at home. Style had the only other one.
"Good man," Style said, clapping him on the shoulder but quickly removing his hand when Blake glared at him.
"We'll need to get the Master of the Revels' approval tonight," Edward said. "Have you still got your contact in his office, Brother?"
"Aye and he owes me a favor. He'll rush it through, never fear."
"It seems like I'll be here for the performances after all," Blake said. "So I can be your bookkeeper."
Min glared at him. What was he up to now? More importantly, why?
"I have to go," said Croft, rising. "The wife's expecting me."
"Me too," said Henry Wells. Then he shook his head and laughed. "Not the wife part, I'm not married. Not that I don't want to be, I've just not finished being a single man yet." He laughed again and shrugged.
"Come on, Freddie," said Style to the boy. "You've got lines to learn and some sobering up to do." When the boy answered with a grunt, Style clipped his ear. "Up! Now! Or I'll find another apprentice to eat me out of house and home."
Freddie rose with effort and a lot of grumbling about cruel masters.
"I'd best go too," Blake said, turning to Min. "Since I've got some writing to do."
But before the writing, they needed to do some talking. She hoped he knew exactly what changes were needed. Perchance they were only minor otherwise she was in for a long night.
Especially if her father wanted his notes
written up too.
CHAPTER 5
"So what do they want changed?" Min asked before she'd even sat down. Blake had led her to another inn nearby, a quieter one where most of the patrons were gentlemen and even a few ladies sat amongst them. They could have been travelers or simply dining out with their husbands at the popular establishment.
Min felt conspicuous sitting with someone she knew nothing about. Someone who made her heart thump wildly in an odd combination of excitement, fear and something baser, something she assumed must be desire for it made her feel hot and achy all over. Did anyone notice? Did they all look at her and just know the path her thoughts had taken?
Did Blake?
Oh dear. She shouldn't be here with him. And yet she wasn't going anywhere. Didn't want to be anywhere else, with anyone else.
Did that make her a wanton?
Aunt Maud had once called her that after Min had run through the orchard at the aunt's country estate wearing nothing but her shift. She'd only been nine and was pretending to be Boadicea the warrior queen, who Min was sure wore far less than an ankle-length linen shift. But Aunt Maud didn't think that was a reasonable explanation for her niece's unconventional behavior and immediately informed Sir George. Min's father told Aunt Maud his daughter tended to flights of fancy which he was attempting to expel with an intensive education program. It was the only time the word wanton had been linked with her name as far as Min knew.
"A few lines here and there," Blake said, signaling the serving girl for two cups of wine. "Nothing more than that."
"Can you be more specific? Which lines?"
"They want new ones."
"Where? What do they want to achieve?"
He crossed his arms and leaned them on the table so that his bulk filled the space between them. The force of his presence pulled her in so that she too leaned forward. Their noses were only inches apart. She could feel the warmth of him and smell subtle scents of maleness. If she leaned over just a little more she would be able to taste him.
She licked her top lip, remembering how he'd caressed it the day before. As if he'd had the same thought, his gaze slipped to her mouth. His eyes became hooded, his face closed, and the room grew hotter. Much, much hotter. He was going to touch her lip again. She knew it, sensed it. Or perhaps he might even...kiss her.
A gasp caught in her throat.
But the serving woman arrived with the wine and the tension suddenly dissolved. She handed one cup to Min and toyed with the other without putting it in front of Blake.
Turning her back on Min, she said to him, "Staying in the country long this time, Handsome?" She leaned one hand on the table and perched her rear on the edge.
Blake sat back and regarded her. "Not if I can help it."
"We've missed you."
Min couldn't see the woman's face but she could hear the smile in her voice. The sort of smile a woman gave to a man she wanted to kiss. Min had caught herself smiling at Blake that way earlier when she arrived at the White Swan. He'd taken her by surprise with his own genuinely welcoming smile that she couldn't help but return it.
"I didn't realize my charms were so appreciated here, Beth," he said with a lop-sided grin. A grin. An actual grin. He'd never cast one of those in Min's direction.
"We most certainly appreciate your...charms," Beth purred. "Every inch of them."
Blake shot Min a glance. She took a sip of wine to hide her blush behind the cup. She might not have experience with carnal relations but she knew what Beth was really referring to because as far as she had seen, Blake was not a charming sort of man. Too embarrassed to reveal her flushed face, Min slowly drained the entire cup.
"If you don't mind," he said to Beth, "I'm in the middle of conducting some business."
Beth looked at Min over her shoulder. "Business?" She studied Min with one raised eyebrow. "I'd never have known. She doesn't look the type."
"Not that kind of business." Blake chuckled low in his throat. "Now go, wench, before I call your father over."
Beth hopped off the table with a humph. She finally handed Blake his cup then left but not before giving him a wink.
"A friend of yours?" Min asked. "Or do you just come here often?"
"Often enough," he said, expression blank.
"When you're in London?" she probed. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to get to know him better. After all, if they were to continue with this ruse, she needed to at least know his full name.
He lifted one shoulder.
Min decided to take a more direct approach. "Are you a merchant adventurer?"
"Something like that."
She rolled her eyes. "You're being very evasive. Care to tell me your real name since you know mine? If we're to be business partners of sorts, it would help."
"So you can find me if I run off with your four pounds?"
"I trust you."
"You shouldn't."
"Why? Are you going to leave the country with my money?"
"I don't need your money, Min." The corners of his mouth lifted with the hint of a smile. Not a grin. Not even close. "But you still shouldn't trust me. You know nothing about me."
She threw up her hands. "That's because you won't tell me anything!"
He stared long and hard at her then eventually said, "Robert Blakewell. I travel a lot but my home is here in London."
"Oh." She hadn't expected him to tell her anything let alone give her a name. But, in essence, he'd still managed to tell her nothing about himself.
She wasn't sure how much more she wanted to know. When Pandora opened the box, she'd unleashed all sorts of trouble. But curiosity ate at Min's insides. There was so much she suddenly felt desperate to know. Who were his family? Why did he travel? Was he married or betrothed? Too many questions, so she decided to start with the most important.
"Does your reason for agreeing so easily to help me have anything to do with your wanting to harm Lord Hawkesbury?"
He sat very still. Not even his chest rose or fell with his breathing. After a long, agonizing moment in which she thought he would produce his hidden blade and use it on her, he finally said, "Rest assured, I do not wish Lord Hawkesbury ill. If I did, I wouldn't have bothered to join his company, I would have simply accosted him in the street."
That made a certain amount of sense. But it still didn't explain why he so readily agreed to help her. "Why are you so eager to be a part of the company? What's in it for you?"
His hand flattened on the table, his fingers spread apart. Long, strong fingers. "The secret is not mine to tell," he said.
That was it? How was she supposed to get an answer out of him when he showed such loyalty to an unknown person or persons?
"Now that you know my name," he said before she could find an appropriate response or formulate another question, "tell me about yours. It's unusual."
"Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom, medicine and science among other things. According to ancient myth, she invented numbers and musical instruments." She shrugged. "It was my father's choice. He's a scientist."
His head inclined sharply. "Interesting."
She shrugged again. "Not really."
"You don't find science interesting? But we live in a fascinating time with so many discoveries being made and theories developed. And you're the daughter of a scientist..." He leaned forward again and Min's breath momentarily lodged in her throat. Was he trying to get closer to her?
"Perhaps that's why I don't find it interesting," she said. "It's like hearing a piece of music played on a harpsichord. It sounds beautiful and yet if you take the instrument apart, you're left with nothing but pieces of wood and string. I can appreciate the harpsichord as a whole but I don't really care to see how it works."
"You prefer poetry and plays to science."
"There is passion in poetry. A skilled poet can take an audience to new places, heighten their emotions and make them wonder. Poetry is powerful, especially in the form of a play that everyone from a
laborer to a nobleman can enjoy."
"Passion," he repeated flatly. There was nothing flat in his eyes however. They grew deeper and darker as they watched her. "I see what you mean. But you are suggesting your father has no passion for his work."
That wasn't fair. He didn't know her father. He didn't know that passion was all Sir George had and that it had become an all-consuming monster since his failure. It was even blinding him to the errors in his own work lately. "There is such a thing as too much passion."
He arched an eyebrow. "But not in poetry?"
She didn't understand him. Not at all. Was he teasing her? "We were supposed to be talking about the changes to my play. You seem to be avoiding telling me what they are." She picked up her cup to take a sip but found it empty. She put it down again without calling that serving woman. There were worse things than empty wine cups.
"I don't avoid," he said.
"Well then?"
He smiled that smile again, the one that barely lifted the corner of his mouth and certainly didn't reach his eyes. Slow, lazy. Wicked. "Style wants more carnality."
Min choked on air. "Carnality?" she managed to squeak out.
"Kissing. Ribald jests. Innuendo. That sort of thing."
Innuendo. Ribaldry. Kissing. "But it's not that kind of play! It's a love story, not a...a bawdy house show."
"I thought you might have trouble with it."
That took her by surprise more than the mention of kissing, and for some reason it rankled. "You did? But...how?"
He tipped his head to the side. "From your trusting nature for one thing, and your view of the world." His gaze searched hers with something akin to...wonder? No, that couldn't possibly be right. Blake didn't seem like the sort of man who wondered about things, he simply knew. "You see it through fresh eyes brimming with possibility," he said, soft and distant.
She blinked. Was this his way of charming her?
Or was he trying to tell her he thought her an innocent? Someone who'd not experienced real life but had been sheltered and coddled and kept far away from the world's ills.
