by C. J. Archer
“We’re going to the tiring house to congratulate the players,” Blake said once the customary final jig had ended and the applause died away. The groundlings quickly emptied out the arena, leaving behind apple cores, nutshells, and dark patches of spilled ale. Those seated in the galleries slowly made their way down the staircases around the theatre, but Leo and his party remained in their seats.
“Will you come?” Min asked him. “I’m sure there’ll be one or two people you might find interesting.”
Blake snorted. “My brother doesn’t find anyone interesting, my dear. That’s his problem.”
Leo ignored him. “No, thank you, Minerva. I have business to attend to.” He hadn’t seen Marlowe in the audience, but he did know the tavern where he drank. Perhaps he would find him there.
“Ah, here comes Lady Norwich and Elizabeth,” his mother said, stretching her neck above her enormous ruff to peer over the sea of heads. “She said she would seek us out once the performance was over.”
“Perhaps I should congratulate the players after all,” Leo said quickly, moving in the opposite direction to the Norwich woman and her daughter. He’d spent an hour in their company that morning and he didn’t particularly want to spend any more time with them that day. Or any other day. It wasn’t that they were unpleasant. Indeed, the girl spoke remarkably well on many pleasant subjects, such as embroidery, dolls, and her dancing instructor. By the time the hour of their visit was over, Leo had endured enough pleasantness to last him a lifetime and told his mother so after their guests left.
Apparently she had not understood him when he’d said, “I wouldn’t marry her if she looked like Helen of Troy and had the fortune and pedigree of the Queen of England. There must be someone else,” because she was trying to throw the girl into his path again.
Leo made his way through the crowd and down the stairs, where he waited for the others. They arrived a few moments later without a Norwich in sight.
“That was rude,” his mother said, smacking him on the arm with her fan so hard one of the bone spines snapped. “I had to tell Lady Norwich you were feeling unwell.” She strode ahead into what was left of the audience, leaving her sons and future daughter-in-law in her wake.
“Did you also tell her I don’t want to marry her vacuous daughter?” he said to her back.
“Elizabeth is not vacuous,” she said over her shoulder. “She’s young.” She deftly stepped around a half-eaten pie mashed into the compacted dirt floor, sweeping her skirts aside. “You could have molded her into anything you liked, but I doubt she’d have you now.”
“She’s not clay, Mother, and I’m not a sculptor. I like my women fully formed, thank you.”
She made a low growling sound that he took as acquiescence. Perhaps now Elizabeth Norwich could be forgotten.
They entered the tiring house through the back entrance behind the stage. It was bigger than the one at the White Swan and not as crammed with props. Two men stood chatting and laughing in the corner while another swept the wooden floor. Yet another man whom Leo recognized as one of the players came down the stairs and, on seeing the newcomers, approached, a broad smile on his oval face.
“Mistress Peabody, what a triumph!” The player kissed her hand then acknowledged Blake with a friendly nod. “You must be pleased.”
Blake introduced the player, William Shakespeare, to Leo and their mother then made more introductions when another two players joined them. They talked about the play and its fantastic reception—all except Leo, who couldn’t remove his gaze from the stairs. Everyone seemed to be coming from a room up there. Perhaps Alice would too.
When he realized what he was doing, he promptly turned his back to the staircase. The last time he’d spoken to her he’d been abrupt. He must be so again if they met. She needed to know that the kiss they’d shared had meant nothing. It was simply a kiss.
He closed his hands into fists and dug the nails into his palms. “I have to go,” he announced.
“No!” Min said, taking his arm and anchoring him in place. She was surprisingly strong for such a small thing. “Talk with us awhile longer.”
“I can’t.”
“Stay,” Blake snapped. Everyone looked at him, and he shrugged. “Please.”
Leo gently pried Min’s fingers off his arm. “I must go. Sorry,” he said with a curt bow. “Your play was marvelous, Minerva, and I thank you for inviting me. Enjoy this glory,” he said, indicating the players who’d come up to congratulate her. “It’s richly deserved.”
“Aye,” said Shakespeare.
One of the youths in the corner cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Who’s up for an ale or several at the Two Arrows?”
“Freddie!” said the square-jawed blond player who’d been chatting to Lady Warhurst. “Do you have to shout?”
Freddie. Wasn’t he the boy who was supposed to fit into the crimson gown? So this loud, spotty-faced lad had played the main female role? Leo shook his head. A real woman would make a better, well, woman on stage.
“How else will I be heard up there?” The youth stuck his thumb at the ceiling. “This place is bloody huge!”
That’s when Leo saw her. Alice. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling.
But not at him.
She smiled at Min and Blake. Not once did she look in Leo’s direction, even as she moved toward them. It was as if he wasn’t there.
“I knew it would be a success,” she said to Min, holding out her hand. “Right from the moment I read it.”
Min took the proffered hand and beamed. “Thank you. Your opinion means a lot to me. The opinions of all of you.”
“Who cares what we think,” Freddie said. “It’s them out there that matter.”
The big blond clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Finally you actually said something intelligent.”
Freddie’s brows rose and the white makeup still edging his face cracked. “I did? Huh. That deserves a drink.” He plucked a hat off a hook, slapped it on his head, then strode out of the tiring house.
“Weren’t you also about to leave, Leo?” Lady Warhurst said.
“Yes.” Best get away. Now. Before he suddenly found himself alone with Alice. He wasn’t sure how that would happen but he was quite sure it would.
He almost got to the door when Alice brushed past him. She didn’t stop or acknowledge his presence but made her way to a pile of costumes dumped on a table. Leo left, and when he was finally clear of the tiring house, he opened his palm and flattened the piece of parchment she’d pressed into it.
I know how to find Marlowe. Wait for me.
He walked off. Then stopped with a sigh and looked to the gray skies. Damn.
He waited.
Alice easily recognized Lord Warhurst despite his back being turned to her. A back like his stood out in a crowd—broad across the shoulders, straight as a flagpole, and shaped like a perfect V. She took a moment to admire it, and the confident stance of the man, before sucking in a breath and crossing the street to meet him.
He turned before she reached him and inclined his head in a nod. “Where is he?” he asked without so much as a greeting.
“It’s a long walk,” she said. He forked a brow and waited for her to elaborate. “I’ll show you,” she said and headed off.
“Just tell me how to find him.”
She didn’t stop but kept walking along the narrow street leading to the Bankside and a set of waterstairs.
He fell into step beside her and caught her arm, abruptly swinging her to a halt. “Mistress Croft, this is not a debate. You are not coming. You told me yourself Marlowe has been in trouble with the authorities before. He sounds like a dangerous man and I don’t want you there when I question him.”
“You think he’ll try to harm you?”
“He may.”
“I’m sure he’s not the only one who’s ever had murderous thoughts toward you,” she snapped and continued walking. It was a silly thing to say but it had just
tumbled out. She was still angry with him. Furious. He’d taken advantage of her with that kiss and refused to acknowledge it. Warhurst was a coward and a blackguard. Hopefully Marlowe would draw his blade and give the baron’s pride the poke it deserved.
She didn’t want to miss that. Fortunately he didn’t try to stop her again and they made their way past bear-baiting pits and brothels, avoiding as much of the muck festering in the gutters as possible. Thanks to the location of the area known as Southwark—on the south side of the river and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the Puritan city authorities—entertainments of the baser kind, including the Rose playhouse, had made it their home. Whores plying their trade from beneath the jutting upper levels of the brothels lining the Bankside—the street that followed alongside the Thames—tried to catch their attention. No doubt they appreciated the extra trade generated by popular performances at the nearby theatre, as did the watermen. Alice ignored them. Warhurst didn’t appear to hear them at all.
They hired a wherry from the Bank End waterstairs with several others who must have come from the performance. Their excited chatter about the play provided a lively backdrop to Alice’s and Warhurt’s petulant silence. She did not attempt to speak to him, nor did he to her, and she managed to avoid looking at him until they alighted at the waterstairs on the other side of the river.
“Head north,” she said, moving off toward Dowgate Street.
“Not that way,” he said quickly. “It’s steep.”
She could easily cope with the steep incline, and he looked sturdy enough to not be particularly bothered by it, but she said nothing and followed him into the spider’s web of narrow lanes instead.
“Are you going to be in trouble for this from your parents or the manager?” he asked.
“Do you mean for leaving when there was still work to be done at the tiring house or leaving with a gentleman I hardly know?”
“Both.”
She shrugged. “Style wouldn’t care as long as the tiring house is clean and the costumes locked away. I left Father with only light work to do and told him I had an errand to run for Mistress Peabody. He knows I’m making her a wedding gown so he wasn’t suspicious.”
“And if he finds out you lied?”
“Why the sudden concern?” He’d not cared a whit about kissing her in view of everyone and yet he was concerned about her small lie to her father!
A muscle in his jaw pulsed. “It’s just that I don’t want him whipping you.”
She laughed. “Father hasn’t laid a finger on me since I was a child, and even then it was only because I was always wandering off without telling anyone. I used to get up to all sorts of mischief and Mother worried so.”
“She won’t worry now? If she found out?”
“If she finds out that I’m wandering about London with a baron?” She laughed again. “She would probably kiss me then run to tell our neighbors.”
The muscle in his jaw worked harder. She was beginning to think it was a sign that he was struggling not to say what was on his mind. She smiled to herself. There could be some fun to be had in shaking up his rigidity.
“If Mother found out, she would encourage me to use all my feminine charms on you,” Alice said, putting as much teasing into her tone as she dared. She didn’t want to completely exasperate him—she still needed him, after all.
“I doubt that,” he said flatly. “I’m sure your mother knows that is an impossibility.”
“What is?”
“You using feminine charms on someone. You have none.” He turned to her, a twinkle shining in his eyes although his face was as serious as ever. Was he laughing at her?
Well. He was right. No one had ever accused her of being charming or feminine. She certainly didn’t act demure like other girls, and she wasn’t very good at flirting. She grinned.
“You have me there,” she said.
His mouth twitched but she didn’t get to see if it became a full smile because he strode on ahead. She had to run to keep up with him. By the time she caught up, they were at the point where he’d fared her well after their long ride to see Richard Farley.
“You live there?” he said, nodding at the narrow street down which she lived. It stretched away from Gracechurch Street between the White Swan Inn and a leather-seller’s shop. Her house was situated about halfway down in a long line of identical two-story timber buildings. Her mother would be inside preparing dinner with Alice’s two younger sisters.
“Aye,” she said, hurrying on. She didn’t want him dwelling on the meagerness of the houses on her street, the way they all leaned against each other as if propping one another up. Perhaps they did, they were so old and poorly built. But he couldn’t have failed to notice the children playing in the shadows of the overhangs, their clothing well-worn and their toys fashioned out of whatever they could find. Two boys kicked around a ball made from something soft, perhaps feathers, stuffed inside a small hempen sack, and a little girl sat in the dirt with a rag doll.
“Will you move now that Lord Hawkesbury’s Players will be performing at the Rose on a permanent basis?” If he’d been comparing her home to his own then he made no sign of it. She was thankful for his gentlemanly upbringing in that regard at least.
“Father thinks so, although Mother is not keen. She remembers when we lived close by the Theatre and the Curtain, not far from where we’re heading now. She doesn’t want my little sisters to do what I did.”
“Be kidnapped by a brothel keeper?” he said. “I hardly blame her for that. Southwark is little better than Norton Folgate.”
“I’m surprised you remember that conversation, even though you remember it incorrectly. It was an unsuccessful attempt to kidnap me.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m not completely self-absorbed. I do listen to you. I mean everyone. I listen to everyone.”
“You refused to listen to me yesterday when we parted.” It was perhaps foolish and fruitless but she had to try one more time. She had to know if that kiss affected him the way it affected her. Did it keep him up all night? Did it make him hot just thinking about it? Did he think about it?
She certainly did. Constantly.
“Don’t,” he said, an ominous note beneath the word. “I already apologized for what occurred in the stables. Please be kind to both of us and do not mention it again.”
Not a chance. “I liked it.” If she wanted answers, or at least a response, then she would have to unsettle him. He was far too settled within himself anyway, to the point of arrogance. “Did you?”
The very tips of his ears went red. Nothing else about him changed, however. He continued to put one foot in front of the other, his strides long and steady. His face remained hard and expressionless; he didn’t blink or glance away from the road ahead. Even when a dog darted past his feet he didn’t flinch. It was as if he were a walking, breathing statue. Although she wasn’t so sure about the breathing part—his chest neither rose nor fell beneath his black doublet. Perhaps he wasn’t human.
She smothered a giggle at the ludicrous thought. “Well,” she said, “since you are not going to speak then I will. I must warn you, Warhurst, that although I liked the kiss, and I suspect you did too, I do not like you. So it cannot happen again.”
He stopped suddenly and she had to double back. He stared at her with those sea-green eyes and blinked slowly. “You can rest assured it will not.”
Well. Good. As she’d suspected, that exercise had accomplished little. Except that she had declared her own intention to forget the kiss had ever happened.
She could not forget. Not if she lived to be a hundred. Kisses like that only happened once in a lifetime. She should know. She’d been kissed before, but it did not compare to the one she’d shared with Warhurst. Not in the least.
She spared a thought for Charles Grayshaw and the fun they’d had in the White Swan’s stables two summers ago. With the memories came the painful stab, never far from her heart. Not for Charles—she didn’t
miss him at all—but for the way in which he’d let her believe he truly cared for her, only to dismiss her when he’d had his fill. He needed to marry well and move up in the world, he said. A seamstress was only good for mending clothes and tupping in the hay.
Her confidence and been shattered and took a long time to recover, and only then because she’d decided to better herself on her own. She practiced her reading, writing, and speech to the point of exasperating her parents and the players who’d helped her. To them she must have appeared healed, whole, but she wasn’t. Not quite. The hurt lingered.
At least Warhurst had more honor. If his declaration and dour demeanor were any indication, he had no intention of taking the sort of liberties Charles had, nor did he care for her. Her heart would be safe.
CHAPTER 9
Leo and Alice waited in the entrance hall for the landlady to produce Marlowe from the upstairs rooms of her small two-story house. Leo was having second thoughts about bringing Alice along. Not because Marlowe sounded like a disagreeable character—he’d seen her ably deal with men like him—but because she was a distraction. He couldn’t concentrate. Especially since she’d made her bold declaration about their kiss right in the middle of one of the busiest streets in London. He’d only just managed to school his reaction.
Hell. That’s what it had felt like listening to her tell him she liked the kiss. Then to have her declare she knew he’d liked it too. She was the devil’s maiden. She must be to have known that.
He had liked it, but he wasn’t going to admit it out loud.
The landlady came down the stairs alone. “Master Marlowe says he’s too busy writing and you’re to come back later.”
“Go back up there and tell him I insist.” Leo patted the hilt of his rapier, hanging at his hip.
The landlady’s eyes grew wide and she nodded quickly. “I don’t want no trouble,” she muttered, turning to climb up the stairs again.
