by C. J. Archer
“Don’t say it.”
“I have enough—”
“Don’t be a fool, Blake! You’ll soon have a wife and father-in-law to care for, as well as Mother and Lilly. When her baby and your own babes come into the world, even your copious funds will be strained.” Leo held out his hand. “The letter, if you don’t mind.”
Blake handed it to him but didn’t let go, so that they performed a kind of childish tug-of-war. “Let me pay the rent on Alice’s shop at least.”
“No. I’ll sell Father’s sword if I have to.”
Blake gasped. “But it’s a beautiful piece of workmanship! The queen herself gave it to him.”
“Too beautiful to be of any use to me. I prefer a blade to be functional, not covered in pearls and fancy engravings.”
Blake finally let go of the letter. “Very well. I can’t stop you selling the only thing of worth he ever gave you.”
For some reason, Leo found that funny. “You don’t think the Warhurst estate and title are worthy?”
Blake gave him a crooked grin. “Apart from those.” He sobered. “Are you sure I can’t give you the money?”
“No. Lilly’s burden is ours to share. I’ll not let you pay for everything.”
“I have enough—”
“Christ, let me do something for her at least.”
Blake shrugged. “Very well. But your pride will be your downfall, Leo, if you’re not careful.”
“Full of pithy wisdom today, aren’t we?”
Blake held up his hands and walked toward the door, Leo following close behind. “Let me know how you and Alice get on,” Blake said. “And be nice to her. She has a good soul. She deserves to be treated with respect.”
Leo opened the door for his half brother. “I’ll give her all the respect she’s due.”
Blake left, scowling and shaking his head. Leo found himself relieved to shut the door on his back.
CHAPTER 3
Alice’s father didn’t need any convincing to allow his daughter to accompany the troupe to Hawkesbury Hall for their evening performance. Afflicted with a sore throat, a dripping nose, and a fretting wife, he had been ordered to remain abed. Since Roger Style, the company’s manager, would not risk any last-minute costume faults destroying his opportunity to shine, he readily agreed to have Alice join them instead.
The sun sat low over London’s pitched rooftops as the troupe’s cart rumbled through Ludgate’s arch and over the Fleet River bridge. Edward Style, sitting with his back against one of the chests filled with Roman togas, sang a soft ballad, and soon the other actors, Henry Wells and Will Shakespeare, joined in. Freddie Putney accompanied them with a series of tuneless snores from the corner. Alice, who had no singing voice, tapped her finger on her knee and smiled at them. She would miss their cheerful companionship when she moved on.
Although if she was being honest, these contented moments were rare. Perhaps their good humor had something to do with the prospect of expanding their audience numbers with the imminent move to the Rose Theatre. Or more likely it had something to do with Roger Style sitting up front with the driver, out of the way. His scowling presence rarely inflicted a happy mood over the group.
For her part, Alice’s smile was due entirely to the agreement she’d struck with Lord Warhurst. Her future was suddenly looking interesting. Oh, to be the mistress of her own shop! To be commander of her own fortune! To meet people of the most esteemed sort, people like Lord Warhurst and his family. Her smile grew.
Lord Warhurst. A most intriguing man with his solid, unyielding countenance, his conservative appearance, and a wicked streak as wide as the Thames. The way he’d tucked the cloth down her bodice was proof of that. Yet he hid that well. He’d been rude and condescending and arrogant, but he’d cast aside his prejudices long enough to ask her for her help. He must have very strong reasons to do so—somehow she didn’t think his sister’s reputation was all that was at stake—and Alice wanted to know what those reasons were.
The cart halted at the stables in the extensive grounds of Hawkesbury Hall and she hopped down onto the gravel. The enormous house stretched before her. Built in brick in the shape of an E to honor the sovereign, it was a grand testimony to the wealth and position of its owner. The last rays of sunshine flooded the many glass windows of the three-story mansion in shimmering light and bathed the stone birds perched on the gables in golden splendor. Crenellated turrets reached into the sky and the two wings of the house embraced the terraced garden like a lover’s arms. It was a house fit for a princess.
Alice breathed deeply as if she could capture the moment, the feeling, of being that princess. “Magnificent.”
“Isn’t it.”
She spun around. “Lord Warhurst!” She knew it was him even though he wore the plain leather jerkin of a working man and a black cloak with the hood pulled low over his face. His clear, deep voice hummed across her skin the way it had done on their first meeting, and there was no mistaking the broad chest and shoulders. The hood wasn’t low enough to shield his lips either. She hadn’t noticed how curved they were, like a bow, but now she couldn’t stop staring.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered. She glanced around, but no one seemed to be taking any notice of them. Roger Style directed the players and servants in unloading the cart, and soon everyone, including the belligerent Freddie, was busy carrying chests and props up to the house.
“I wanted to warn you to be careful,” Lord Warhurst said.
“Perhaps I should give you the same warning,” she said. “It is unwise for you to be seen here, my lord.”
“I’m perfectly safe. The servants assume I’m part of the troupe.” He watched a groom unhitch the horses from the cart and lead them into the stables. “Be careful, Mistress Croft.”
“You already said that.”
His lips flattened. “If you feel you are in any danger of discovery, then forget our plan. I’ll find another way.”
“Trying to get out of our agreement already, my lord?”
“I don’t want any misfortune to befall you. I already have enough on my conscience.”
“Thank you,” she said wryly, “that was almost kind.” His gentlemanly sense of honor had come a little too late. If he’d been at all concerned for her safety, he shouldn’t have asked her in the first place. “Blake put you up to this, did he?”
He crossed his arms and regarded her. Or at least she assumed he did—it was difficult to tell beneath the hood. “I came here of my own will, if you must know. I wanted to assure you I would be nearby if you got into trouble.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you. That is reassuring.” She nodded in the direction from which they’d come. “But what about the gates? We’ve been given special dispensation to return after they close, but how will you get back into the city tonight?”
One side of his mouth twitched into something close to a smile. “Never mind that.” There it was again, that mischievous quality that she’d detected lurking beneath the surface on their first meeting. It only served to enhance the mystery of the gentleman. And heighten her interest.
“Lo! Alice!” Roger Style bellowed from the path leading up to the house. “Stop lazing about and get to work. Freddie’s hem has come down.”
“Coming!” she called back. To Lord Warhurst she said, “I must go. Be careful.”
Again the twitch of lips. “I think that’s my line.”
She nodded a farewell and joined Roger where he stood waiting for her, his foot tapping on the gravel. “You are here to do a job,” he said through gritted teeth, “not flirt.” He strode ahead, muttering about men being more reliable than women. “That’s why we don’t have girl actors,” she heard him say before he disappeared through the servants’ door.
Alice glanced toward the stables before entering the house. The hooded figure in black was gone.
Shortly after the second act started, Alice told Roger Style she’d left a spool of thread in the cart. Whether he heard her
or not she couldn’t say, but his nod was sufficient enough to dismiss her.
Instead of heading outside, she crept through the shadowy mansion, hugging the walls and holding her breath. She soon realized caution wasn’t necessary. The master of the house, his family, and his guests were all safely watching the performance of Marius and Livia in the great hall. The servants had retreated to the kitchen at the back to enjoy their supper while their betters were occupied. Alice was free to go where she liked.
She walked quickly through a prettily furnished parlor and another sitting area to a staircase. Grabbing a lit candle from the nearby table, she ascended to the first floor and located Hawkesbury’s study. Dark wood paneling surrounded the walls, a solid desk and chair faced the window, and three ornately carved coffers squatted on the rush-covered floor. Two slender candlesticks stood sentinel on either end of the massive oak mantelpiece and there wasn’t a tapestry or worked Turkey carpet to be seen.
Alice rifled through the books and papers scattered across his desk but found nothing useful. She didn’t know what she hoped to find but she was certain she’d recognize it if it presented itself.
Nothing did.
She was preparing to leave when the sound of light footsteps running up the stairs made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She sank behind the desk, shielding the candle’s flame with her body.
The scent of cloves from the rushes mixed with the stink of tallow from her candle, and the overpowering blend clung to the back of her throat. She gagged and the sound seemed louder than a thunderclap in the thick silence.
The footsteps stopped right outside the study door. Alice stilled. Her breath caught. For one agonizing moment she thought she was discovered, that the steward or Hawkesbury himself would flay her for trespassing. Or worse, tell Style.
But the footsteps started again and grew fainter until they finally disappeared altogether. She blew out a measured breath in an effort to calm her furiously beating heart then emerged from her hiding spot. At the door, she glanced left in the direction of the footsteps. Silence. The other person was gone.
She ventured toward the stairs and considered her next move, but the more she thought about it, the more hopeless her situation felt. How could she, a seamstress attached to a company of players, learn the secret behind Lord Hawkesbury’s marriage to Patience Enderby? It was a joke.
As if to emphasize the point, the audience’s laughter trickled up to her, followed by the jaunty sounds of the fiddle. It was the final jig. The play was about to end and she would soon be missed.
Beneath the audience’s applause she heard another sound, coming from a closed door nearby. The stomach-churning heave of someone retching. The person who’d run up the stairs moments before had headed in that direction. The retching stopped, replaced by sobbing.
Before she could think too much about what she was doing, Alice pushed open the door. In the middle of the bedchamber knelt a woman, her blue skirts spread about her like a pond, one hand flattening her ruff to her chest, the other gripping a chamber pot in her lap.
She looked up at Alice’s approach and gasped. “Who are you?”
“Alice Croft. I’m with the players. You’re Mistress Enderby aren’t you, Baron Enderby’s daughter?” She’d seen her in the audience at the White Swan once. The woman, younger than Alice by a few years, had been sitting in the gallery with Lord Hawkesbury that day but had barely acknowledged him. Hawkesbury had seemed unperturbed by his betrothed’s lack of interest. From that moment, Alice had been sure there was no affection between them.
Patience wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and rose. She placed the chamber pot in a livery cupboard and closed the door. “What are you doing up here?” she demanded, turning around. “This is a private room.” Although she’d been vomiting only moments earlier, she was now composed, albeit a little pale.
Alice could think of no good reason to explain her presence so she said nothing. She glanced around the chamber. It contained only a bed, the cupboard, and a stool near the hearth. The fireplace was swept clean and there were no rushes covering the floor. The bedchamber was perhaps a guest room but was not being used at the time.
So why was Patience Enderby there? To throw up in the chamber pot in the cupboard? Had it been set there specifically for her use?
Too many questions, and from the brisk way the girl swept past her, she wouldn’t get any answers. Not easily anyway.
“Can I find your mother for you?” Alice asked. “Or direct Lord Hawkesbury to send for his physician?” Patience shook her head. “But if you’re ill—”
“I’m not ill.” She pressed a gold filigree pomander hanging from the end of her girdle to her nose and breathed in.
Alice indicated the closed livery cupboard door. “I’m neither deaf nor blind.”
“I’m not ill.” Patience picked up the candelabra with its trio of candles from the mantelpiece where she must have placed them on her entry. The light cast deep shadows over her features—features that had been soft and flushed with the vigor of youth when Alice had seen her in the White Swan’s audience, but now seemed wan and pinched. “There’s no need for concern,” Patience said. “My condition means I can’t keep food down but I’ve been told that’ll pass.”
Condition? It’ll pass? Was she with child? Good lord, Hawkesbury had got both Lilly Blakewell and Patience Enderby pregnant! Alice must have looked shocked because the girl tensed then lowered her head, but not before Alice saw tears filling her eyes.
“That flea-bitten swine.” She hadn’t been aware she’d spoken aloud until Patience glanced up, blinking back her tears.
“Who?” she said.
“Hawkesbury.” Alice nodded at Patience’s flat middle. “It all makes sense now.”
“What does?” But then Patience clicked her tongue in irritation. “You theatre people are all the same. So dramatic.”
“I’m a seamstress.”
Patience made for the door. “Whoever you are, you shouldn’t be up here.”
“Wait!” Alice wasn’t prepared to see her potential source of information leave. There was too much at stake to let her simply walk away. She caught Patience by the elbow and stopped her. “Is that why Lord Hawkesbury is marrying you? Because you carry his child?”
Patience looked horrified. She snatched her arm away. “What do you know of this? Get away from me.”
“No, don’t go. Please.” Alice had only one chance to find some answers, any answers. She couldn’t afford to destroy this opportunity. She thought fast. If Patience didn’t love Hawkesbury and he didn’t love her…then perhaps the child wasn’t his at all. And perhaps she was in love with the father of the unborn babe.
“On behalf of the woman who does love Lord Hawkesbury,” Alice said, seeing an opening and heading directly for it, “I need to know why he’s marrying you and not her.”
Patience stared at Alice. Slowly, slowly, her jaw went slack and her mouth fell open. “He loves someone else.” She didn’t say it with any hint of anger, or even surprise. She probably already knew. Her eyes filled with tears again. “Tell her…tell her I’m so sorry…but I can’t…my father…” She bent her head and the tears flowed freely.
Alice put an arm around her shoulders and held her close. She let the girl cry then drew her away when her tears subsided. “But why is he marrying you if your child is not even his?”
The girl’s face crumpled but she didn’t start crying again. “I don’t know. I truly don’t. I never asked.” She bit her lower lip and shook her head. “My father must be forcing him somehow. He made me accept Lord Hawkesbury’s proposal…” She broke off with a sob.
“But your babe’s father?” Alice prompted. “Why couldn’t you marry him instead?”
Patience wiped away her tears with the back of her thumb. “He was the land steward on our country estate, and when Father learned who I’d been with…” She pressed her hand to her stomach again and drew in a steadying breath. “He removed R
ichard from his position and forced him to work as a simple farm hand. But he shouldn’t be! He’s too good for that.” Her voice became a shrill wail, but still she didn’t cry. “Richard is educated and clever and I thought Father could sponsor him for Cambridge or Oxford and he could become a lawyer. But Father refused.”
Alice shushed her lest someone hear. “Tell me his name and where he’s working and I’ll get a message to him if you like.”
Patience’s face lit up. “Will you? For me? But…why?”
“I told you. I want to help the woman who loves Hawkesbury. That means finding out why he’s been forced to marry you.” She had to trust the girl if she wanted to know more. She had no choice. “I won’t lie to you. Our plan is for him to break his engagement to you and marry her.”
The girl nodded and gave Alice a watery smile. “I understand. Without Lord Hawkesbury’s betrothal, my father will be forced to marry me to another before I begin increasing. I can only hope he’ll choose Richard out of desperation if nothing else.” She squeezed Alice’s hand but broke off at the sound of her name being called by someone downstairs.
“My mother,” Patience said. “I must go.” She gave Alice another smile. “His name is Richard Farley and he’s working on my father’s estate at Crouch End. When you see him, tell him…tell him to not give up hope.”
Alice nodded. “Now go. I’ll follow in a few moments.”
Patience left and Alice counted slowly to a hundred before descending the stairs. She returned the candle to the table at the base of the staircase then peered into the great hall. The performance was nearing its end.
“Off exploring?”
Alice jumped. “Good lord, Will,” she said upon suddenly seeing Shakespeare still dressed in his Roman costume. “You shouldn’t creep about like that. You scared me.”
“I wasn’t the one creeping about,” he said with a gleam in his dark brown eyes. “So what were you and the young lady doing upstairs all this time?”
