Scandal's Mistress (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players)

by C. J. Archer

  A NOVEL OF LORD HAWKESBURY’S PLAYERS

  C. J. ARCHER

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright ©2012 by C. J. Archer.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612183169

  ISBN-10: 1612183166

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About The Author

  Preview

  CHAPTER 1

  The White Swan Inn was the last place Leo, third Baron Warhurst, wanted to be on a Friday morning. He should have been at court, greasing the palms of the queen’s favorites, or better still, having a drink in the taproom. But no. Thanks to the mess created by his siblings, he had gone to the Gracechurch Street inn to speak to a seamstress. A bloody seamstress!

  He climbed the steps up to the wooden stage at the back of the cobbled innyard and lifted the curtain to peer into the tiring house beyond. Inside, several chests, some opened, occupied most of the floor space. A row of stools dotted one wall and a central bench almost disappeared beneath piles of neatly folded costumes. A massive pair of wings made of feathers hung between two hooks, and what looked like a cauldron was slotted beneath the bench. The room was crowded but not chaotic. Someone kept it orderly.

  Whoever it was, they weren’t there. Leo squeezed the bridge of his nose. God, he was tired. He’d traveled like the devil for a week to reach London and not been able to sleep since. And now the woman his brother had sent him to couldn’t be found.

  He was about to release the curtain when he heard the swish of lush fabric, velvet perhaps, coming from behind what appeared to be an unhinged door propped up in the middle of the tiring house.

  “Damnation!” The voice, a woman’s, came from behind the door screen. With language like that, she must be the one he sought.

  “Hail!” he called out. “Is someone here?”

  A pale, heart-shaped face topped with a tall hat popped out from behind the door. “Oh! I didn’t know I had company.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you,” he said.

  “You didn’t. I’m simply surprised.”

  He failed to see the difference and was about to say as much when she stepped out from behind the door and his words were sucked away along with his breath. She couldn’t be the seamstress. This lady wouldn’t have been out of place at court with her tall, slender frame, striking cheekbones, and imperial set to her shoulders.

  “Madam, I am Lord Warhurst.” He bowed.

  She stepped forward and the swish of her crimson gown was soon drowned out by the drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. Her simple movement had caused the exposed flesh above her too-tight bodice to wobble most…ah, delightfully.

  “Perhaps you could step a little closer,” he said when she hesitated. “I would like to have a better look at your…face.”

  She did, with hands firmly on her hips, and stopped directly in front of him. “My face is above my neck, my lord.”

  He glanced up and got an icy blast from a pair of pale blue eyes. He bowed again, partly to hide his embarrassment and partly because it afforded him another view of her bounteous flesh. If God gave her a pair of luscious breasts like that, surely He meant for man to gaze upon them. Otherwise why create such low-cut gowns?

  But on second glance, the gown seemed a little too low-cut for this lady. Although exquisitely made from what he could see, and certainly beautifully—and expensively—embroidered in gold thread, it was a poor fit.

  “If you are looking for the players then I’m afraid they’re not here,” she said. Although her glare was still cool, her mouth curved into an intriguing smile.

  “You are all alone here, my lady?” He could have bitten off his tongue after the words tumbled out. He sounded like a villain assessing the likelihood of having his wicked way with a defenseless woman.

  “Lady?” She blinked at him. Then looked down at her sleeves, the crimson velvet slashed to reveal the gold of the lining beneath. “Oh.”

  He frowned. She had not seemed to grasp the crude yet unintentional meaning of his question. Thankfully. But…why was such a woman alone in the tiring house? What gentleman would allow his wife, sister, or daughter to fend for herself at, of all places, an inn—and a theatre at that? Guilt twisted his stomach at the similarity to his own situation but he cast it off. It was too late for guilt. Besides, his sister’s pregnancy was not his fault although it was a weight that had landed on Leo’s shoulders like a canker. He needed to remove it before any chance of restoring the honor of the Warhurst title was lost forever. Since the perpetrator of the problem had not been at home that morning, or last night, or the day before, Leo had come here on his brother’s suggestion.

  “Madam, I am—”

  “Mistaken.” Her laughter seemed to rise up from deep within her and burst forth like a sudden gust of air.

  He tried not to notice how the laugh made the flesh above her bodice jiggle. “Mistaken?”

  “Quite, quite mistaken. I am not a gentlewoman. It must be this dress…” She caressed the velvet of her gown as if it were her lover’s skin. “It used to belong to Lady Dalrymple. She and I are of a height which will also suit Freddie, but the similarity does not extend to the chest area.” She smiled that smile again, the one that wasn’t quite a smile. This time it was accompanied by a wicked gleam in those clear eyes. “As you noticed.”

  Whatever was she talking about? “Freddie?”

  “Freddie Putney, the company’s boy actor. He plays the lead female roles.”

  “And that gown once belonged to Lady Dalrymple?”

  “As I said.” She looked at him as if he were a half-wit.

  His limbs tensed. He had a bad feeling about this. “And you are wearing the gown because…”

  “Because I’m adjusting it of course.” She shrugged and the gown slipped off one shoulder. He stared at the smooth, white skin and wondered if it felt like silk, because it certainly looked silken.

  She fixed the gown and he tried to focus on the conversation again. What had she been saying? Adjusting it…adjusting…the gown!

  The bad feeling slammed into his gut with the force of a hammer blow. “You’re Alice Croft,” he said heavily. “The seamstress for Lord Hawkesbury’s Players.”

  She nodded. “And you’re Lord Warhurst, brother to Robert Blakewell.”

  “Half brother,” he said without thinking.

  “What can I do for you, Lord Warhurst? I assume you’re looking for me since you know my name. Did Blake send you?”

  She didn’t seem in the least surprised or in an
y way alarmed by his presence or by the prospect of being sought. Women of her station usually lowered their eyes and spoke only when he asked a direct question of them. Unless they were whores or drunk. This woman certainly wasn’t a whore—readjusting the gown to cover her bare shoulder was proof of that—and she didn’t seem drunk.

  Most unlike another seamstress he’d had the misfortune to meet. The slack-faced woman reeking of cheap wine had accosted him in the street years ago demanding Leo pay for the gown his late father had commissioned her to make for his mistress. The seamstress had threatened to tell Lady Warhurst about the other woman if Leo didn’t pay the debt. He’d told her she was welcome to speak to his mother since she already knew, as did the better half of London. The seamstress had scampered like a rat back to the gutter out of which she’d crawled.

  At least Alice Croft had all her teeth. And other…assets, besides.

  “Blake did send me,” he said in an attempt to keep his thoughts on the task at hand. “He said I should seek you out and that I’d find you here.”

  “As indeed you have.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll have you know this goes against my better judgment.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t told me what ‘this’ is yet.”

  “If there was anyone else, I’d ask them first. I’d rather not involve someone else in our family dilemma but Blake assures me you’ll be discreet.”

  “Discreet?” She shook her head. A frown furrowed her pretty brow. “My lord, is this about making a gown for your mistress? Because if it is—”

  “No!” He shouldn’t have come. Whatever was Blake thinking to send him to such a woman? How did he even know she could be trusted? He was wasting his time. Leo pulled back the curtain leading out to the stage.

  “My lord, wait!” The seamstress placed a hand on his arm. There was no pressure, no attempt to halt his progress, yet he stopped anyway. There was something compelling in her touch, something far more forceful than mere strength. “If Blake sent you then it must have something to do with Lord Hawkesbury. And,” she cleared her throat, “and your sister.”

  He half turned to see her and was struck once more by those eyes. Of the palest blue, they were almost colorless, and yet they seemed to see right into him. He recoiled. The bad feeling returned like a vengeful warrior.

  “You’re right,” he heard himself say. “I’ve come to ask you for help.”

  “Help?”

  He focused on the tiny crease between her brows because he had the disturbing sensation that if he looked into her eyes anymore she might see too much. “Yes. Help with the business between Lord Hawkesbury and my sister, as you said.”

  “But how can I possibly be of service?”

  “I have need of someone who is capable of finding out information. Blake suggested you because you are associated with Lord Hawkesbury’s Players, and they have a tendency to hear and see a great many things when in their patron’s presence. Well? What say you?”

  Alice had been told many times in her twenty-six years that her curiosity would be her downfall. As a child she would sneak around the house listening to the adult conversations, or explore the narrow lanes near her home—the ones she was strictly told not to venture down. Not even a whipping from her father and a near escape from a brothel keeper seeking fresh girls could keep in check her curiosity and thirst for knowledge. Although she kept away from the worst of the lanes after that instance.

  Childish curiosity was one thing. Spying on Lord Hawkesbury, a peer of the realm, was entirely another.

  “Why not ask one of the players?” she said.

  Lord Warhurst gave her a rueful smile, one that sparked a gleam in his green eyes. She’d never seen eyes quite like them, bright one moment and fathomless the next, but never revealing too much of what the man was thinking. They reminded her of the emeralds she’d once seen in a grand lady’s rings.

  “The players were not recommended by my brother,” Lord Warhurst said. “You were.”

  It had been only days since she’d last seen his brother the pirate, Robert Blakewell, and Blake’s bride-to-be, Minerva Peabody, who’d become Alice’s friend. Min had informed her that much had changed, including Blake ceasing his pursuit of Lord Hawkesbury over the relationship the earl had had with Lilly Blakewell.

  It seemed Lord Warhurst was taking up the reins dropped by his brother to save their sister’s honor.

  Yet it didn’t quite make sense. Why all this brotherly fuss over a simple affection? Why the forbidding presence of the brooding Baron Warhurst darkening her tiring house? And why did he need the help of a seamstress?

  “My half brother and I don’t get along,” Lord Warhurst said, crossing his arms over a broad chest. “But I trust his judgment. If he thinks you would make a fair and discreet information gatherer, then I believe him. I also think you have the look about you of someone who would go unnoticed, something which will be of benefit in this endeavor.”

  The old, familiar pang stabbed her in the ribs. She’d once thought it was jealousy of prettier girls, the sort who turned heads just by walking down the street. But she’d learned after Charles broke her heart that that wasn’t the case. Jealousy it might be, but it was the jealousy of a girl who simply wanted to be someone else, someone who would be noticed, not for her beauty but for…what?

  If she knew the answer she could perhaps make steps toward changing herself, but all she really knew for certain was that she didn’t want to be seamstress for Lord Hawkesbury’s Players day after day until her death.

  She might have been aware of the pang and all it implied, but it still hurt to have her plainness in looks and occupation pointed out so baldly.

  “That is hardly a convincing argument,” she said, perhaps a little too caustically.

  He arched one eyebrow in question.

  “Telling me I’m too ordinary to be noticed.”

  “I didn’t say ordinary, nor is that what I meant.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “I simply was stating the fact that people do not always see those whose presence they take for granted.” His words were measured, careful.

  “Like servants,” she said flatly.

  “Like seamstresses.” He shrugged, as if what he’d said was nothing of importance.

  That she was nothing of importance.

  It was a wonder he had even deigned to speak to someone like her at all, let alone ask for help. Her throat burned as she swallowed back a tide of emotions, ones she thought she’d conquered.

  “You must hate it,” she said with a lightness she certainly didn’t feel.

  “What?”

  “Asking me for help. A seamstress.”

  He opened his mouth but shut it again. His stare faltered and he looked away. It was all the answer she needed.

  “Which means the task you require me to perform must be important,” she went on. A little voice within her warned her not to test this man, not to push him into a corner because he would fight. He was a baron and an imposing figure, standing well above her—and she was no sprite. Yet she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to find out as much as she could before she said yes. About the task, and the gentleman.

  That she would say yes was a certainty. She needed an intrigue to break up the endless tedium of her days.

  “Why do you want Lord Hawkesbury to marry your sister? Does she really love him so much that she would have her brother force him into marriage against his wishes? Or is there another reason? One more…scandalous?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers without lifting his head and glared at her beneath long black lashes. The effect was devilish.

  So much for backing him into a corner. She hadn’t even budged him in the slightest. What she’d done was potentially far worse—awakened a beast with more anger boiling inside him than she could ever know.

  “I think,” he finally said through a clenched jaw, “that my brother was mistaken. You are of no use to me. Good day.” He spun round and shoved the curtain all
the way to the side.

  “Wait! I can help you.”

  But he was already halfway across the stage and he didn’t look to be stopping. Not the reaction she’d expected. Hot outrage at her impertinence would have been better than this cool dismissal. But at least she now knew her assumption was correct—Lilly Blakewell was carrying Lord Hawkesbury’s unborn child.

  “I know where Lord Hawkesbury will be tonight,” she called after him.

  She might as well have flung her words at a wall. He either didn’t hear them or didn’t care. He simply jumped off the stage and strode toward the arch leading out to Gracechurch Street.

  Well. Good riddance. The man was rude. It was a miracle he’d even lowered himself to speak to her.

  Nevertheless she watched him go with a sinking heart. He and his family’s troubles had been a bump on her otherwise flat week. Now even that distraction was gone.

  She sighed and returned to the tiring house, letting the curtain fall back into place. There was no point dwelling on what might have happened if she hadn’t opened her mouth. There was still much to be done to prepare for the troupe’s transfer to the Rose. Henslowe, the Rose Theatre’s owner, had given them permission to perform there on the days Lord Strange’s Men, the theatre’s premier company, wasn’t using it. The bigger crowds at the dedicated theatre would ensure more money for Lord Hawkesbury’s Players and for John Croft, Alice’s father and their tiring house manager. But as his assistant and daughter, she would see none of it. Moving to the Rose would simply be more of the same. Mending costumes, cleaning the tiring house, listening to the actors’ complaints and gossip.

  She looked down at the clothing bought from Lady Dalrymple. The ensemble of bodice, skirt, and overgown was several years out of fashion, but it was the most exquisite thing Alice had ever worn. The softness of the velvet, the vibrancy of the colors, and the workmanship that had gone into the embroidery were like nothing she’d seen before. She simply had to try it on. Just for a few minutes she wanted to pretend she was someone else, someone important. A duchess or an heiress or even a wealthy merchant in her own right. Anything would be better than this…nothingness. The clothes had beckoned to her like a lover and she couldn’t resist. Besides, no one had seen.