by C. J. Archer
"Quite."
Croft grunted. "I'm not sure that's such a threat."
"Father," Alice said from beneath a swathe of crimson fabric, "can you help me with this?" She shot him a look which he either didn't see or ignored.
"What do you mean?" Style said.
"He's from one of London's most notable families," Croft went on, stroking the blade with his cleaning cloth. "Lady Warhurst is his mother and the current Lord Warhurst his brother."
Freddie, sitting on a stool with his legs apart showing more than a lady, even a fake one, ought to, whistled. "Bloody hell! He's royalty."
Edward clipped the back of the lad's head and Freddie swore at him. One of the hired players sniggered.
"Half-brother," Blake corrected as he'd been correcting people for years. He didn't want anyone to think the Warhursts and the Blakewells were one and the same. They were not. They shared a mother, that was all. Leo would be the first to correct the mistake if he was there right now.
"He also has a fortune in his own right," Croft said. "He doesn't need to keep our books. Or sell his plays."
"Not true," Blake said quickly. "My plays are important to me in ways other than financial."
"Then give me back my four pounds." Style held out his hand.
Blake picked up the discarded prompt book and placed it on the manager's palm. "It seems I won't be needing this any longer."
Style gave him a triumphant look, as if he'd called Blake's bluff and won. Blake was happy to let him think he needed the four pounds. It didn't matter. What mattered was the future of Min's plays. Style already owned Marius and Livia and could perform it or not as he liked. But any future ones needed a home.
They also needed someone to act as their author. With Blake setting sail soon now that the issue with Hawkesbury and Lilly was coming to a head, he could hardly remain as the author, even if Style was prepared to purchase them from him. Which, judging by his petulance, he was not.
"Are you going to buy his next play?" The question—the one that everyone probably wanted to ask but didn't dare—came from Shakespeare at the back of the tiring house. The entire room became still, breathless. Not a pin dropped nor a hair moved. Blake had to hand it to the hired man—he knew how to get himself noticed.
Style stared down at the prompt book in his hands and for the first time since Blake had met him, the manager seemed less than completely sure of himself. "I need to think about it. I cannot support someone who would do injury to our patron and jeopardize our very existence."
"You mean you can't be seen to support him," Alice said. All eyes turned to her. She simply shrugged and returned to her sewing.
"Same thing," Freddie said. That earned him another clip. "What? I don't get it. We have to buy another play from him. Apart from Marlowe and maybe Greene, he's the only decent writer around."
"Not true," Shakespeare mumbled.
"I said," Style ground out, "that I'll think about it. Now get out there, Edward, and announce the play. The crowd's growing restless."
Edward strode past them and through the curtain to a roar of approval. It was an odd contrast to the heavy silence of the tiring house. The players prepared for their roles in hushed tones, as if they were in the company of the dying. Or as if the company itself was dying.
Unease settled within Blake. Style avoided him by fussing over his costume, Wells stood by the curtain and waited for his cue while Freddie and some of the hired men practiced their parts at the back. Alice gave Blake an encouraging smile but stopped when her father scowled at her.
Only Shakespeare came near him. He arranged the toga over one shoulder and inclined his chin in greeting. "We should talk."
Blake nodded. "Aye. I think you can help me," he said quietly. Being a budding playwright himself, Shakespeare might know someone suitable to act as the author of Min's plays. Of course he'd have to let the man in on the secret, but he seemed to have already guessed the truth anyway and had kept it to himself. It was the only way to help Min.
Edward came off stage and Wells replaced him. Croft handed out swords to the hired players while Alice painted Freddie's cheeks a darker shade of rose. The atmosphere began to return to normal as the audience's reaction filtered through to them. The players seemed to thrive on the cheers and applause. Even Croft appeared more buoyant.
Then Lord Hawkesbury entered the tiring house via the back door and once more the room chilled. Blake stiffened and reached for his sword but didn't withdraw it. There wasn't enough room to fight. Too many props and people.
Outside was a different matter.
"My lord!" Style pushed aside costumes, props and Alice to greet Hawkesbury. "What an unexpected surprise. But a pleasant one of course. It's been quite some time since you've graced us with your presence in the tiring house, my lord."
"Two months," Hawkesbury said, his gaze settling on Blake. There was no animosity in it. Only curiosity and a kind of desperation that didn't sit comfortably on the earl. "Blakewell, will you join me in the taproom for an ale?"
Blake nodded. "Might as well since my services as bookkeeper are no longer needed."
Hawkesbury raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement glistening in his eyes. "Nothing to do with our bout of exercise yesterday, I hope."
"Exercise?" Style spluttered. "The man tried to kill you!"
Hawkesbury laughed. "If he wanted to kill me, he could have done it easily."
Blake shook his head. Hawkesbury knew how to wield a sword. He could have beaten Blake if he'd loosened up a little and used his imagination instead of following the rules of gentlemanly conduct.
"Never fear, Style," Hawkesbury went on, "you can't be rid of me that easily."
Style gasped and pressed a hand to his heart. "I can assure you, my lord, we do not wish to be rid of you."
"Not even in exchange for a patron who comes to your performances more often than I?"
"Your presence is all the more precious because of its rarity."
Hawkesbury smiled an unreadable smile. Alice rolled her eyes behind Style's back. Blake joined his lordship near the door when Wells poked his head through the curtain from the stage.
"Freddie!" he hissed. "Get out here now!"
"Shit." Freddie gathered up his skirts and scrambled to join Wells.
"Let's go," Blake said to Hawkesbury.
The taproom was empty except for the serving girl and an old man asleep at one of the tables. Everyone else was out in the yard watching the play. Blake felt a swell of pride that Min had achieved yet another full house. He was a little surprised she wasn't there to see it, unless she was buried somewhere within the audience. Or perhaps she was staying away to avoid seeing him.
If circumstances had been different between them he would go to her that night and tell her about it, tell her how much her play was loved. It was wrong that he should receive all the praise. She must surely want to hear it too.
But he could not see her again. Not after her rejection. Walking away from her afterwards, without looking back and without regrets, had been one of the hardest things he'd done. To do it again would be nigh impossible.
"Are you with me, Blakewell?" Hawkesbury's voice snapped Blake's attention back to his present dilemma. It was almost a relief to think of something else.
"Aye, you have my full attention." They sat at a table in the darkest corner where their conversation couldn't be overheard. "So explain to me why you want to ruin my sister."
Hawkesbury signaled the serving girl for two ales then carefully removed both his gloves. He placed them to one side before finally answering. "First of all, I wish to do nothing of the sort. Second, my...relationship with Mistress Blakewell is not your business."
"Not my business! You—."
"It is between her and I. And it is over."
Blake could have run the man through with his rapier right there in the taproom, witnesses be damned. But he was aware that it would solve nothing, and would probably only make Lilly's situation worse
. A corpse could not be made to marry.
And the future of Min's plays had not yet been resolved. Until then, Blake was still their apparent author and as such, he needed to refrain from killing or maiming the patron of Style's company.
"My sister is very much my business," he said, "and that of Lord Warhurst. If you and I do not come to a satisfactory resolution before my half-brother arrives in London, you'll have to deal with the both of us. And I can assure you, Leo's temper matches my own."
Hawkesbury accepted his ale from the serving girl. She placed the other in front of Blake then slipped away as quietly as she had arrived. "Let's not resort to threats just yet," the earl said.
"Then let's use reason."
"Gladly." Hawkesbury gripped his tankard between his hands and twisted it. "Blakewell, you need to understand that Lilly and I have already discussed the situation. As much as I want to marry her, she knows I cannot. I am already betrothed." He sipped his ale, went to lower the tankard then changed his mind and drained it.
Blake waited until the potential weapon had been returned to the table before he spoke. "Break it."
Hawkesbury didn't pick the tankard up and throw it. He merely sighed deeply. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I can't tell you why."
"But you will."
Hawkesbury's eyes narrowed. "No, I won't."
Blake leaned forward. "Let's not make a scene, my lord, the poor serving girl doesn't deserve it. Now, tell me why you cannot break your betrothal or I will slit your throat." It would be simple enough to whip out the dirk hidden up his sleeve and slice the cur's neck open.
"If you're going to kill me then get it over with. Otherwise, let's be gentlemen and discuss this civilly."
"I am being a gentleman," Blake said. "You're the one who refuses to marry the woman who is carrying your child."
Hawkesbury's face went white then a vivid shade of green. His jaw dropped. He stared at Blake. "You jest."
"Not the sort of joke I find funny, my lord."
Hawkesbury made a choking sound in the back of his throat then rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh, Lilly."
Blake frowned. "You didn't know? I thought she told you."
The earl shook his head. "She didn't." With a sudden, violent change, he slammed his fist down on the table. The slumbering drunk at the other end of the taproom sat up then slumped back down again, snoring loudly. "Why didn't she write?"
Bloody good question. "Now that you know, you can break your engagement to the Enderby girl and marry Lilly."
Hawkesbury studied his empty tankard, twisting it between his fingers again but more vigorously, as if it were a throat and he wanted to wring it. It was a long time before the earl shook his head. "I told you, I cannot."
"What! My sister is carrying your child, Hawkesbury. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Of course it does," he snapped. "I'll do everything I can for her and the babe. I'll take care of them. They'll want for nothing and the child will have the best education money can buy. Lilly would like my Hampshire house I think. They can live there and I'll pay her a generous annuity—."
"Pay her?" Blake spat. "She is not your whore, Hawkesbury. She is a lady. One of the best and—."
"Don't you think I know that?" Hawkesbury slammed his hands down on the table. "Christ, do you think this is what I want? Do you think I would willingly choose Patience over Lilly?" He scoffed and shook his head. "Your sister is...important to me. Very important. I would not wish this on her. But the fact is, it has happened and we must deal with it."
Blake closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Perhaps he should run the heartless scum through after all. If nothing else, it would make Blake feel better.
Hawkesbury's eyes narrowed. "Would you like to settle this with swords? It might make us both feel better."
Blake flexed his fingers and returned both hands to the table. "What I would like to do and what I must do are two entirely different things, my lord."
Hawkesbury acknowledged the sentiment with a sharp nod. "If there was any other way, you must believe me when I say I would gladly take it. No matter the personal cost to me."
A pretty sentiment. Or a guilty one. "Tell me why you can't break the engagement with the Enderby girl," Blake said. "Perhaps I can help you find a way out. Did you get her pregnant too?"
"No!"
"Is it money? I have enough—."
"It's not money." Hawkesbury pressed his thumb and finger into his eye sockets and sighed. "It is a secret. One I cannot tell and one with ramifications that affect people dear to me."
More bloody secrets. Blake was sick of them. They'd only got him into an ugly mess he was struggling to wade through.
"Your sister knows all of this which is perhaps why she didn't tell me of her predicament. She didn't want to make my decision any more difficult than it already is."
"It doesn't look too bloody difficult from where I'm sitting," Blake muttered. "You made it quite hastily."
"Believe me I'd rather walk through a burning building than hurt Lilly. She is—."
"Important to you. Yes, I heard you the first time." Another pretty sentiment. Blake was tired of them. He stood. "She's important to me too."
Hawkesbury nodded. "I know. You've gone to great lengths to ensure her reputation remains in tact."
Anger, hot and sharp, grated along Blake's skin and ripped his self-control to shreds. "And you can be assured I will go to even further lengths." It took every ounce of willpower not to draw his rapier on the cur right there in the White Swan's taproom. He wanted to. God, he ached with the need to do it.
But the thought of Min kept him from committing murder. If Blake destroyed Hawkesbury, he would destroy Min too, or at least her dreams. He couldn't do that to her.
"I know," Hawkesbury said heavily. "But I cannot stress enough that there are other people who will be hurt if I break my engagement to marry Lilly."
"Patience Enderby?"
Hawkesbury huffed out a breath. "She would be the least injured party."
"Then who?" He pressed his hands onto the table. "Tell me so that I can help."
For one fleeting second Hawkesbury seemed to consider the offer. But then he shook his head and stood too. "It's not possible. But please, Blakewell, for Lilly's sake and for the others I speak of, do not pursue this matter further."
Blake said nothing. What more could he say against such a plea? He had to get out, get away from Hawkesbury, Style, everyone, and seek some comfort elsewhere. With Min. She would at least distract him with her warm eyes and soft heart.
He turned and made for the door, feeling strangely empty, as if a hole had been carved into his gut and a piece of him had fallen out.
"Wait," Hawkesbury called after him. "Lilly...is she well?"
He regarded the earl through lowered lashes. Hawkesbury truly seemed to have feelings for Lilly. He certainly appeared interested in Blake's answer, straining almost.
"She is pale, thin and tired," Blake said, not wanting to shield the earl from the truth. Nor did he want to feel empty anymore. He wanted the anger to return to fill the void, and this reminder of Lilly's health would perhaps rally his own hatred of Hawkesbury again. "She keeps to her room, speaks only to her maid, our mother or myself if I force my way into her presence. I haven't heard her laugh since my return to London, nor have I been able to distract her with stories of my adventures abroad. She is miserable."
Hawkesbury turned away so Blake couldn't see his face. His shoulders hunched and his head lowered. And then he went very still, as if moving would shatter him. Blake knew what that was like.
Applause erupted from the yard beyond the taproom door. The drunk lifted his head again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He looked around then promptly put his head back down on the table and fell back to sleep.
"Thank you for telling me about her predicament," Hawkesbury said without turning around.
"You should never thank the man
who wants to kill you."
CHAPTER 18
Blake didn't want to go home and face his sister. Not yet. If he went home he'd have to tell her about his conversation with Hawkesbury and then she would berate him. It would end in an argument which would make her feel weaker and him guiltier. So he avoided going home altogether and went to the Mermaid's Tail where he was sure of a drinking partner and lively conversation.
What he really wanted to do was see Min but it was not yet dark and he could not risk a daylight visit. Nor could he be sure of the reception he'd receive, and he wasn't a man who wagered on long odds.
His quartermaster and two of his sailors did their best to distract him with tankard after tankard of the inn's strongest ale, and regaling him with dockside gossip. After two hours he knew which ship was carrying what cargo to where. If he really was a pirate the information would have been useful, but it was only the Spanish ships that interested him now and none of those dared go near London.
He informed his quartermaster to be prepared to sail within a few days then left his crewmen to seek Min's company. He'd had enough of masculine conversation for the night.
It took him nearly an hour to find her Knightridge Street house after trudging across half of London. It seemed to have moved. Since that wasn't possible, he must be drunk. Good. Drunk was definitely an improvement. It meant he didn't have to think. Thinking was bad.
When he finally stumbled across Knightridge Street and Min's house, he peered up at her window. The balcony was a lot higher than he remembered. But he'd climbed masts that were higher still.
So he jumped, grabbed an overhanging beam and hoisted himself up. But the beam was slippery and he slid off, landing on his arse on the ground. The muddy ground.
He swore. Loudly. A man from a nearby building came out and swore back at him. Blake gave him one of his most formidable glares but the effect was probably wasted in the dark. The man left and Blake picked himself up, brushing as much loose muck off his clothes as possible. One thing was for sure, Min lived in a less than desirable neighborhood. She should be in a grand house in a good part of London. Or better yet, a castle. Yes, she definitely deserved a castle, complete with turrets and a moat and possibly a dragon to eat any undesirable knights who wanted to ravage—er, rescue—her.
