by C. J. Archer
"He needed that," Croft said. His daughter Alice appeared at his side, a swathe of crimson fabric draped over her shoulder. She was tall for a woman, about Min's age or a little older with fair hair escaping from her loose cap and pins sticking out of the padding where sleeve joined bodice on her other shoulder.
"Style can't keep the lad in order," she said, nodding at the boy on stage.
"Hush, child." Her father held up his hand and glanced around. "You don't want him to hear you."
"He's not here," she said, pulling a pin out of her shoulder and sticking it into the fabric. "And you should tell him how you all feel about Freddie anyway. These mutterings behind his back aren't helping and they're growing tiresome."
"It'll be fine now we have a good play."
"I don't see how," she said, fixing an intent glare on her father. "The play has nothing to do with Freddie's behavior." She turned to Blake. "It is a very good play," she said. "If only I could sit in the audience and watch the whole thing, but I have to do this." She fingered the fabric. "It's been a while since we put on a Roman play and the general's costume needs mending."
"You're in the tiring house a lot then?" Blake asked.
"All the time." It was said with a sigh and a sideways glance at her father, but he was too busy watching Style, dressed as a god, appear from behind the painted material slung above the stage depicting the heavens.
"Then you might remember a woman coming back here about two months ago." Blake asked.
"Two months ago?" She shrugged. "We have a lot of people come backstage after the performance, many of them women. They like to meet the actors." She shook her head and stabbed another pin into the fabric. "Lord knows why, they're a pack of—."
"Alice," her father warned gently. "Enough. This company puts food on our table."
"Not much. Lord Admiral's Men pay—."
"Enough!" He glanced at Blake then back at her. "Not in front of our new bookkeeper."
"This woman's name was Lilly," Blake went on. "She's dark haired, young and..." He had an urge to say foolish but instead he said, "pretty."
"Lilly?" Alice's pale blue eyes narrowed. "Yes, I recall her. As I say we get a lot of women back here but she was different. Noble birth with a curious mind. She asked a lot of questions, about everyone and everything." She chuckled and the sharp planes of her face softened. She wasn't as pretty as Min but she was striking in her own way. "She certainly knew how to charm. She had every man eating out of her hand."
That sounded like Lilly. Or the way Lilly used to be. Ever since Blake's return, his sister hardly spoke. She wandered through the house like a mournful ghost, or stayed in her apartments, not letting anyone but her maid near her. Not even their mother. It was most unlike Lilly and if it hadn't been for that change in her, Blake wouldn't be so concerned.
He opened the curtain a fraction to see Wells and Freddie on stage. Could either of them have done that to her? Or was it the indomitable Lord Hawkesbury himself? The man certainly had presence enough to tempt Lilly, and to make Blake want to question him at knifepoint when he first saw him in the White Swan.
The hired actor came into view and Blake's heart skidded to a stop as a new prospect struck him. The culprit might not have been any of the regular company members at all, but someone they'd hired to fill a vacancy.
That meant the scoundrel could be long gone by now.
Blake swore under his breath. "Did she spend time with anyone in particular?" he asked Alice.
She shook her head. "I didn't take that much notice. Why?"
He shrugged. "It's not important."
"It sounds important."
He locked onto her gaze. "No. It's not."
Applause and whistles erupted from the audience and the actors rushed into the tiring house, sweaty and grinning. Wells and Freddie passed Blake without comment but the hired player stopped.
"Wonderful play," he said, pumping Blake's hand. "Simple and honest, yet fresh." He ran his fingers through the hair crowning his dome-shaped forehead. "Yes, that's it. Fresh. I've not seen anything like it. It gives me hope."
"Hope?" Blake asked, but the man simply shrugged and left.
Blake closed the prompt book and placed it in the chest. He shut the lid and locked it, pocketing the key.
Freddie was the first to emerge from the back of the tiring house a few minutes later in his non-acting attire. He gave Blake a wide berth and didn't make eye contact. Next came Edward.
"They loved it," the younger Style said, smiling. "Good job. We're all heading to the taproom to celebrate. Coming?"
"Your hired man going?" Blake jerked his head to where the players were changing behind screens. The sooner he got to questioning everyone the better. Wells was still a suspect but for some reason, he wasn't quite right. Not for Lilly. He was a little too shallow for someone as deep as his sister. And Lord Hawkesbury wasn't present so that left Blake with few options to explore at that moment.
"Shakespeare?" Edward shrugged. "Don't know. Sometimes he drinks with his poet friends instead of us. See you there."
He left. The elder Style, Wells and Shakespeare came up to him then, talking over the top of each other like three crows on a branch.
"...more life," Shakespeare was saying. He paused when he saw Blake and nodded appreciatively. "Ah, the man himself."
"We were just discussing your play," Style said. "This lad likes to think himself a poet but he's not university trained like yourself." He beamed at Blake, seeming not to care that the man he disparaged could hear every word.
"I'm not sure a university education is a requirement for writing a good play," Blake said. Min might be educated but she was either self taught or had tutors. Females didn't go to school at any level.
"Thank you," Shakespeare said, his easy smile widening. "I was just noting how great the play was. But it could do with a little more...something."
"Life experience you said," Wells added. He looked to Blake then back at Shakespeare. "But I don't think he lacks that."
"No," Shakespeare said, studying Blake in a thoughtful and slightly disconcerting way. As if he could smell the lie the way a hound sniffed out a fox. "True."
"Are you going for a drink?" Blake said. "You can tell me more about the play and where it needs work."
"Nothing of great consequence," Shakespeare said, striding alongside Blake as they crossed the inn yard to the taproom. "Just a few tweaks here and there. In fact, I wouldn't bother. Perhaps for the next one, however..."
Blake watched him without really listening. The more the man talked, the lower he slipped down Blake's list of suspects. Lilly didn't like overly conversational men. It interrupted her own flow.
He almost smiled. That wasn't fair. A lifetime of teasing his sister was a hard habit to break, even now when she was at her lowest. The truth was, his sister did talk a lot but it was always interesting, never dull. Not to him anyway.
Besides, there was nothing about Shakespeare to tempt a woman like Lilly. Too high of forehead, too wiry of body, too—
"Blake!"
It was Min. Great. Just what he needed, another complication. Lucky for her she was a damn pretty one or he'd have caught her by the scruff of her neck as he'd done with Freddie and sent her on her way.
"Well?" she said. "What did you think of the play? Did you like it? How did it go backstage? Did you manage with the prompt book?"
Min and Lilly were getting more similar by the minute. "Which of those questions do you want me to answer first?"
Beside him, Shakespeare chuckled.
"Oh, hello," Min said, noticing Blake's companion. "You played Greco, didn't you?"
"And two other parts," Shakespeare said. He bowed. "Will Shakespeare, player and poet, at your service."
Min's face lifted in a bright smile, transforming her from pretty to extraordinary. Blake blinked, slowly, trying to work out what exactly had changed in that moment. A day earlier, he'd never have expected she could look so...amazing. And y
et, here she was. She laughed at something Shakespeare said, tilting her head back, exposing a slender white throat above her ruff. Her gray eyes sparkled, no mean feat in the darkening inn yard which only minutes ago had been filled with groundlings. She put a hand up, as if she was about to rest it on Shakespeare's arm, a sign that something akin to friendship had passed between them.
She never looked at Blake like that.
He blinked again and shook the thought out of his head.
"What say you, Blake?" she asked him. When he didn't answer, she added, "Shall I join you for a drink? Mr. Shakespeare here has invited me."
Shakespeare must have some mysterious quality obvious only to the female eye. That knocked Wells off the top of the list with a mighty blow.
"If you like," he said, lifting one shoulder.
She frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Something's wrong. I can sense it."
Shakespeare coughed discreetly then bid them farewell. He made a hasty retreat in the direction of the taproom, dodging the servants clearing away apple cores, nuts and empty cups scattered around the inn-yard.
"Is it the play?" Min went on. "Because I was in the audience, and although they seemed to enjoy it, there was something missing. Something..." She sighed. "I don't know. I can't put my finger on it."
"Maybe you should ask Shakespeare," Blake said, hearing the sour note in his voice.
She raised one brow and amusement tugged at her lips. "Why?"
He humphed and crossed his arms. She thought he was jealous of the hired player. Just like a woman, she'd read too much into that kiss.
That hot, delicious, take-me-now kiss.
"Because he seems to have some ideas about how to fix the play," he said. "God knows it bored me witless listening to him."
The look on Min's face told him he'd made a direct hit. He cringed and wished, not for the first time, that he'd tempered his words. She didn't deserve his bitterness. None of this was her fault.
"I didn't mean the play was boring. It was good," he said, trying to undo some of the damage. "Very good. I liked it. A lot. I don't think it needs fixing."
Her lower lip wobbled. Christ. She was going to cry. He hated tears. Give him a horde of pirates over a crying woman any day.
"It still needs more..." She lowered her head, the rest of her sentence lost in her ruff.
"Here now." He lifted her chin so he could see her properly. Despite the tension in her face as she tried hard not to cry, a single tear slid down her cheek. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and found himself caressing the freckle at the corner of her mouth, the one he couldn't stop kissing last night. "It's a great play." His voice sounded far away to his own ears. "Everyone said so backstage. They keep congratulating me. My head's swelling just thinking about it."
She gave him a wobbly smile and he tried to capture it by cupping her cheek in his hand. She leaned ever so slightly into his palm and heaved a sigh. More than anything he wanted to kiss her again. But this time he drew on his self-control and found enough to stop himself doing something foolish.
He dropped his hand to his side and balled it into a fist. He looked away, anywhere but at the hurt he'd caused to swell in her eyes again.
But instead of crying, she straightened and tossed her head. "You were right before. I can write better. I think I'll go to the taproom and find Shakespeare."
He could tell by the way she spun away from him that she was angry. He blew out a breath and watched her cross the now clean inn-yard. The only sign that a play had been performed there was the stage, still erected at one end of the square courtyard.
"Women troubles?" said one of the ostlers leading a saddled horse. The traveler who'd ridden it held the door of the taproom open for Min and she disappeared inside.
"Aye," Blake muttered. "You have no idea."
CHAPTER 8
"Passion," Shakespeare said, triumphant. "That's it! That's what it needs."
Not that word again. Min had thought she'd infused the play with as much passion as she could squeeze out of herself, but here was someone else telling her the play didn't have enough.
The door to the inn-yard opened and Blake's bulk filled the space. He surveyed the taproom but the pause allowed everyone to regard him too. Their heads turned as one, like puppets controlled by an invisible hand. Remarkably, he seemed unaware of the attention, or perhaps he was but didn't care. Most men would puff out their chests or prance about—Ned certainly would—but Blake merely took in every face in the taproom before finally settling on Min's.
Under his inscrutable gaze, she was the one who swelled. She did, however, refrain from puffing out her chest.
"You'd think he would know a thing or two about passion," Shakespeare murmured in her ear.
Oh, he certainly did know about passion. It had poured out of him during that kiss they shared, as if he contained an excess of it. "Yes, you'd think so." She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant when her heart was clanging like a blacksmith's hammer. She was still angry with Blake, but in truth, she wasn't sure why. He'd only been honest when he'd said her play still lacked something.
"Perhaps he needs help in...channeling that passion into his plays." Shakespeare watched her intently, his eyes hooded, his mouth curved in a mischievous smile. She liked the hired player. He was friendly. He was also proving to have more insight into the human spirit than anyone she'd ever met.
"Perhaps," she echoed, studying her ale and pretending she wasn't aware of Blake's every move as he sat on the other side of the table from her.
"Love," Shakespeare said.
"Pardon?"
"Love will feed his passion and that in turn will strengthen his plays."
"Oh. I see. Love." She rubbed the ink stains on her fingers even though she knew it wouldn't remove them. "I don't know anything about that."
"You will. And when you do fall in love, it'll fill your heart and soul to bursting. For a poet, that means having quill, ink and parchment ready to catch whatever falls. Not being a poet, you wouldn't have to worry about that." He nodded at her fingers. "It's a devil to remove. I use a paste of sorrel and water."
She folded her hands in her lap under the table. "I write up a lot of my father's notes."
"So I see." His smile gave nothing away.
"What about the next play?" Style's question to Blake cut through the other conversations going on around the table.
Next play? Min tried to catch Blake's attention but he wasn't looking her way.
"You'll get it soon," Blake said.
"Another romantic comedy?" Edward asked.
Blake nodded.
"As good as this one?" Style said, leaning forward.
"Better."
"Better?" Wells also leaned forward. "So it's got more of this passion everyone's talking about?"
"You mean rutting." Freddie snorted into his tankard.
Blake removed it from the lad's hands and put it down on the table with a thud, sending ale sloshing over the sides. Freddie frowned, a protest on his lips, but swallowed it when he caught Blake's loaded gaze.
"Do you want another lesson in keeping your mouth shut?" Blake said.
"No. Thanks." Freddie's nervous laughter filled the taproom. "I think I get it now."
"His next play does have more passion," Min said. Everyone turned to her, but their expressions ranged from annoyed at the interruption (Style) to intrigued (Shakespeare) to amused (Blake). "I've read it," she said.
Blake, the cur, sat back and folded his arms over his chest, a quirk of a smile on his lips. "Somewhere between writing the first one and the second, I got over my shyness," he said. "The next one contains more life experience than a ship full of sailors possess between them."
Min glared at him. "Yes," she said through a tight jaw, "you've certainly overcome your shyness."
"Practice," Shakespeare said. "I find it does wonders for my plays." He grinned at Blake. "And shyness."
"Pract
ice what?" Min asked. "Writing?"
As one, the group stared down at the table, all except Blake who was glaring at Shakespeare, none of his earlier humor showing on his shadowed face.
The hired player's grin didn't falter as he lifted his tankard in salute. "Enjoy the practice," he said. "I'm sure your poet's soul will rejoice in it."
Blake rose, a hand on his sword hilt. Shakespeare put up his spare hand in surrender. "Simply an observation, good sir."
"Practice what?" Min asked. What were they talking about? And why did everyone else understand except her? It was as if she was reading a different book to them. It was most infuriating.
The door leading out to the inn-yard opened and Croft and his daughter entered the taproom. Min could just make out the bulky shapes of the galleried buildings surrounding the square yard in the late afternoon shadows beyond.
"It grows late," she said, rising. "I must go." Her father and Jane would be growing worried, or at least Jane would be. Hopefully Sir George hadn't noticed his daughter's long absence.
Min also had to get home to fix her next play. Even though Marius and Livia had been a success in its first performance, Style would want her next one soon to keep the audience coming back. She had another already written but it lacked the passion everyone was so eager to see. She probably only had a day or two to improve it. To do that she needed to practice—.
Oh, now she understood. Shakespeare was referring to practicing rutting, as Freddie called it, to pour more emotion and real-life into her plays. Except not a single soul in that room would think Blake needed more experience at that. Especially not the observant Shakespeare.
The hired player looked up at her, an impish gleam in his eyes. He knew. Somehow he'd guessed she was writing the plays and not Blake. She swallowed and willed him not to shatter the fragile illusion she had Blake had established.
He winked. "You'd best have an escort," Shakespeare said without rising. "It grows late."
Blake stood and said nothing, as if it were accepted by everyone, including her, that he should be the one to escort her through the darkening streets to her house. She tilted her chin, about to say something to defy him, but stopped. It was their best chance to discuss the next play. He would need to know about it if he was to pretend he wrote it.
