by C. J. Archer
“Too much drink again?” Alice asked Henry Wells and Will Shakespeare when she got inside. They sat side by side on stools, blond head and dark bent over the only complete copy of the play.
“Aye,” said Wells.
“Care to read his part?” asked Shakespeare. “I dare say you’ll do an admirable job of acting the role of a woman.”
Alice smiled at the twinkle in his gentle brown eyes. “Alas, I have work to do,” she said.
“That she does,” Style said, striding past them to the stairs. “Get one of the hirelings to read.”
“I can spare her for a while,” her father said.
Style paused, his foot on the bottom stair. He raised an eyebrow and Alice thought he would argue with her father but he nodded instead. “Very well. She’s your assistant. But I’ll wager she does a poor Isadora. It requires a man’s skill to understand the nuances of a character like her.”
“A man?” Shakespeare muttered so that only his two companions heard. “It’s a wonder he thinks Freddie is capable then.”
Alice smothered her smile, but Wells wasn’t quite so discreet. He barked out a laugh and received a narrowed glare from Style before the manager disappeared up the stairs.
She spent the remainder of the morning practicing lines, mending costumes alongside her father, and setting up the tiring house for the afternoon’s performance. Just as the company prepared to dine at a nearby inn, Alice made her excuses and left.
It was time to pay Warhurst a visit and find out if he’d spoken to Charles Grayshaw. Having the name of her former lover said by her current one had been a shock at first but she was no longer surprised they were acquainted. It made sense that the two gentlemen knew each other—they both frequented court, after all.
It was odd that she’d been attracted to both, although Charles held no interest for her anymore. He was charming and funny, and Warhurst forbidding and serious, yet they were equally matched when it came to their treatment of her. Neither considered her a suitable marriage prospect. And both had hurt her deeply because of it.
CHAPTER 15
Lord Warhurst was not at home according to the maid who answered Alice’s knock. Alice thanked her and left but only got as far as the nearby lane. Safely hidden in the shadows, she could see everyone coming and going from Blakewell House. But after a few minutes she began to feel like a coward for spying and was about to go tell the maid she would wait after all when Warhurst rode past.
“My lord!” she called out.
He turned in the saddle, his beautiful green eyes wide. “Mistress Croft!” He dismounted faster than a blink and was at her side. “Are you unwell? Your arm…”
“My arm is unchanged.”
He rubbed the horse’s nose and turned his face away from her. “Then what are you doing here?”
She bristled at his bluntness. So it was to be like that between them now. He couldn’t even muster a polite tone let alone look at her.
“Two things,” she said crisply. “First, I wish to know when our business arrangement will be finalized.”
The sudden turn of his head made his horse take a jittery step. Warhurst steadied it, all the while looking at Alice. Glaring more like it, with his top lip curled. She’d never seen him look so…cruel. She swallowed then tossed her head.
“Well?” she prompted. She would not be intimidated nor would she apologize for their lovemaking. That was in the past and with a different man, a man who liked her for herself and didn’t see her as a baseborn seamstress hardly better than a whore from the Bankside stews.
“You will get your shop in due course. All is not yet in readiness.”
“And the fabrics.”
“I haven’t forgotten our agreement. The second thing?”
“How did you fare with Charles Grayshaw?”
He went back to patting his horse’s neck. “This is no longer your affair, Mistress Croft. Thank you for your—”
“No!”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
She thrust her hands on her hips and took a step toward him so she could speak low and not be overheard by passersby. What she had to say was not fit for strangers’ ears. “I said no. I will not be shut out from this. You’ve shut me out of the rest of your life very thoroughly. I may be only a seamstress, Lord Warhurst, but I have as much pride as you. You will not treat me like a whore and use me then discard me. Not in this.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His Adam’s apple jerked with his hard swallow. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think…” He shook his head and huffed out a breath. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to allow me to continue to help your sister. I like her and I can see how much she’s hurting. I want you to treat me like a partner, an equal partner, in this investigation.”
“I’m not sure it’s for the best.” He studied the daubed wall behind her. “Not after last night. Not after…” He took his horse’s bridle and began to move off. “It’s a bad idea.”
Alice blocked him. “Tell me what Charles Grayshaw said.”
“Nothing! He couldn’t help. Now move aside.”
“Couldn’t help or wouldn’t.”
“What does it matter? Grayshaw is in a delicate situation. If he’s caught helping me, he may lose his position. I can’t ask a friend to risk his livelihood over this.”
“Charles? Lose his livelihood?” She snorted. “I doubt it. That man could charm his way out of a situation ten times worse than what you’re asking him to do.”
Warhurst’s face went from white to gray to red and back to white again. “Grayshaw,” he said flatly. “You know him.”
“He was my previous lover, yes.” She shrugged. “What of it?”
He went very still. “You could have told me.”
“Why? Would it have mattered?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Oh lord.” She rolled her eyes. “I suppose there’s a gentleman’s code of honor about sleeping with the same lover even though two years has passed between you. Well, I hardly think honor has played a very big part in any of this, do you? And since it has been made pointedly clear that neither of you gentlemen plan on returning to my bed, I don’t care what either of you think.”
He had the decency to look sheepish at least, although his chest rose and fell with his hard, ragged breathing. It was only a hint of anger but it was better than the cool disinterest of earlier. At least it meant he was capable of feeling.
She was too angry to say good-bye so she simply turned and walked away. But Warhurst caught her arm, her uninjured one.
“Where are you going?” he snapped.
“To see Charles.”
His grip tightened. “Why?”
“I might be able to make him see reason where you could not.”
“How?” The word was more snarl than speech.
She squared up to him and tilted her chin. “How do you think?” She wasn’t sure why she said that. It only seemed to fuel his anger. But she was angry too! Furious. She’d vowed never to allow a man to undermine her again after Charles, but it was happening anyway. Twice discarded because she wasn’t good enough to be anything more than their plaything.
And being angry suppressed the hurt, just a little, and made her feel strong again. She would need that to get through the bleakness enveloping her.
His nostrils flared and his gloved fingers flexed, firming their grip. Alice refused to wince. “Unless you want to render this arm an injury as well,” she said, “then you’d better let me go, my lord.”
His hand dropped to his side. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But I forbid you to see Grayshaw.”
“You have no authority to bid me to do anything. Charles Grayshaw is—”
“Is a popular person right now.” It was Lord Hawkesbury, mounted on a gray. Alice had not seen him approach. She’d been much too intent on Warhurst. There could have been a brawl on Dowgate Street and s
he’d not have noticed it.
Hawkesbury dismounted. “Care to tell me what you and Grayshaw were discussing at court this morning?” he asked Warhurst.
“That was a private conversation,” Warhurst said. “As is this one.” Even as he said it he faced up to him. They were of a height, both dark and broad shouldered, but Warhurst rippled with fury.
“Then you should have conducted both in a more private place,” Hawkesbury said cheerfully. “I cannot help it if I happen to be wandering past and overhear you.” He bowed to Alice. “It’s Mistress Croft, isn’t it? My seamstress?”
“She’s not your anything, Hawkesbury. Go away.”
“Now that’s not a very nice way to speak to someone who only wishes to be your friend.”
“You and I will never be friends. Not after what you did to my sister.”
Hawkesbury’s good humor vanished so quickly Alice wondered if it had been there at all. “Have a care, Warhurst,” he said. “Anyone can hear you.”
“Then let’s proceed further into the lane.”
“Gladly.”
They tied their horses to a nearby post then sank farther back. The jutting upper levels of the houses on both sides of the narrow lane almost met overhead, casting the two men in deep shadow. Alice followed them.
“So, you and Charles Grayshaw…” Hawkesbury said. “Care to tell me why you were discussing me?”
“No.”
Alice held her breath. They were like two big bears in the baiting ring but without the chains tethering them.
“You’re going to deny you were talking about me?” Hawkesbury asked calmly.
“No.” Warhurst clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. “But I won’t tell you the nature of our conversation.”
Hawkesbury removed his riding cloak and threw it over a crate lying upturned on the dirt. One by one, he undid the buttons on his dark blue velvet doublet. His movements were slow, deliberate, and he didn’t take his eyes off Warhurst. “I’ll give you one more chance,” he said.
“Warhurst!” Alice cried. Both men turned to her as if they’d just remembered her presence. “He’s going to hit you! Just tell him, for God’s sake. What does it matter if he knows? It changes nothing.”
“Go home,” Warhurst ordered her. “This is men’s business.”
“Then men are dolts. This can be resolved without the use of fists.” She turned to Hawkesbury. “He was asking Charles Grayshaw if Sir Francis Walsingham’s office has a file on your father. We have reason to believe—”
“Mistress Croft!” Warhurst took a step toward her but Hawkesbury grabbed hold of his cloak to stop him. Warhurst snatched the cloak away, swung, and punched Hawkesbury on the chin. Hawkesbury’s head jerked to the side but he didn’t move otherwise.
“Go home, Mistress Croft,” Warhurst said. His tone was low, ominous, as he stared at the other man.
“Let me guess.” Hawkesbury didn’t rub his chin, didn’t back away from the tower of anger seething before him, but spoke levelly. “You’ve heard some nasty rumors about my father and you wanted to find out if they were true.”
“The truth doesn’t concern us as much as knowing whether Walsingham is aware of the rumor or not,” Alice said. She half expected Warhurst to punch her on the chin too to keep her quiet but he didn’t. He now had his back to her and it was as unyielding as an ancient oak. “Grayshaw was supposed to help us find out,” she went on. “But he refused.”
A flicker of something she couldn’t identify passed over Hawkesbury’s face. “Thank you, Mistress Croft.” He gave her a brief bow. “Now if you’ll kindly leave us, I have some business to discuss with Lord Warhurst in private.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m staying here.”
He bowed again. “As you wish, but kindly move back a few steps.” Frowning, she did as he suggested. His gaze shifted to Warhurst, and even in the poor light Alice could see his eyes gleam like cold metal. “Leave my family alone,” he said. “That includes those who’ve passed on.”
“My sister is sitting in our brother’s house on the other side of Dowgate Street carrying your child,” Warhurst said, pointing past Alice and down the lane toward the main road. “They are also your family whether you like it or not. You should be fighting for them, damn you, not letting someone like Enderby dictate—”
“You want me to fight for them?” Hawkesbury said, a vicious, mocking smile on his lips. “Good. Because I’ve wanted to do this ever since I met you.” He punched Warhurst on the cheek, sending him reeling backward into a doorway.
Alice gasped. She ran to Warhurst but halted when he reemerged, fist swinging. Hawkesbury ducked but Warhurst’s other fist smashed into the earl’s face.
Hawkesbury fell backward. Warhurst removed his cloak and doublet and threw them onto the crate. He then withdrew his sword and a scream caught in Alice’s throat. But instead of thrusting it through Hawkesbury’s heart, he set it aside too.
“Get up,” Warhurst growled.
Hawkesbury rose and removed his sword. He just finished leaning it against a wall when Warhurst landed another blow then another. Hawkesbury almost fell again but was saved by the wall. He pressed a sleeve to his lip. It came away bloody.
“Stop it!” Alice cried.
Neither man seemed to hear her.
“Stop it or I’ll fetch Lady Warhurst!” she shouted in exasperation. She couldn’t think of anyone else whom either man might respect enough to cease their ridiculous argument.
But her plea had no effect. She might as well have been a thousand miles away. Like two stags locking horns, they lunged at each other, landing blow after blow on faces, shoulders, chests, wherever they could find an opening. Their hard breathing turned to barbaric grunts. Blood splattered their elegant white shirts and their handsome faces bore cuts and the beginnings of bruises.
Foolish, ox-brained men! Why did they always resort to violence? She could strip naked but she wasn’t sure either man would notice, they were so focused on hurting each other. Passersby had stopped to watch and a man leaned out of a window above to shout directions.
Alice tried another tactic. “Since you seem to have no need of me here, Warhurst,” she called over the grunts, “then I think I’ll go speak to our mutual friend.” She didn’t want Hawkesbury to know where she was going but she wasn’t sure Warhurst understood the veiled reference to Charles Grayshaw either.
But it eventually must have filtered through his punch-drunk haze because he half turned and said, “Don’t—!”
He never finished the sentence. The distraction gave Hawkesbury an opening and he landed a blow to Warhurst’s nose, sending him to the dusty ground.
She ran to him and crouched down. “Are you all right?” She tilted his chin and breathed a sigh of relief to see his nose only bled a little. Hawkesbury must have eased back before his fist connected.
Warhurst wiped the blood with his sleeve. “You distracted me,” he said. But there was no malice in it, just simple statement of fact.
“I had to stop you two somehow.” She cast a glare at Hawkesbury, standing to one side, breathing heavily and watching them with undisguised interest.
Alice stood and crossed her arms. “You are both fools,” she said to Hawkesbury. She no longer cared who he was. He might be an earl but he was behaving like a common tavern brawler. “Lilly will be horrified to learn you beat up her brother.”
“He did not beat me up,” Warhurst said, getting to his feet. “He landed a lucky blow because you distracted me.”
Hawkesbury pulled at his cuffs in a useless attempt to straighten his disheveled appearance. “Unless you tell her, she’ll never know. I doubt Warhurst will want to inform his sister of his humiliation.”
“I am not humiliated! It was a lucky blow! Next time you see me get into a fight,” he said to Alice, “please do me the courtesy of leaving the scene before you get me killed.”
“You seemed to be well on the way to achieving that without my help.”<
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Warhurst grunted. Hawkesbury, unexpectedly, chuckled. “You appear to have your hands full, Warhurst. And since I can’t seem to knock any sense into you without doing some real damage, I shall tell you only one more time—cease your investigation. It will achieve nothing except great heartache. Understand?” He picked up his sword, cloak, and hat, which had come off during the fight. He clamped the hat on his head but carried the other items. “Good afternoon, Mistress Croft. I’m sorry you had to witness that, but if you insist on associating with Lilly’s brother then you probably understand why such action was necessary.” He bowed to her then walked off down the lane, a slight limp hampering his usual grace. He untied his horse and walked it down Dowgate Street out of sight.
Warhurst strapped his sword belt to his hip and swung his cloak around his shoulders to hide the blood splatters on his shirt.
“You might want to go to the kitchen and have Cook clean you up before your mother sees you,” she said. “You’re quite a mess.”
“Thank you,” he said wryly. He headed down the lane to his horse, without limping she noticed, and untied it from the post.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“I’m not an invalid.”
She shrugged and moved past him. “Very well.” She walked off, determined not to glance back at him. If she did, she knew the sight of his battered face would melt her resolve. It was only a small step to go from there to kissing his wounds better.
“Wait!” he called after her. “Tell me you are not going to visit Grayshaw.”
“I am not going to visit Grayshaw,” she repeated dully.
“Mistress Croft!” he shouted. “I forbid you!”
She did turn around at that. As she suspected, her heart skipped at the sight of his emerging bruises but she managed to stay firm and not run back to him. “You cannot forbid me to do anything. Charles is an old friend. If I wish to see him then I shall.”
His expression was one of anger, dismay, or pain. It was difficult to tell beneath all the cuts and bruises. Perhaps it was all three. She sighed, spun on her heel, and left him. The heat of his gaze burned into her back.
