by C. J. Archer
“That sounds much more interesting. I’m not sure I’d want to embroider all the time.”
“Don’t you sew all day now?”
“Not all day,” Alice said. “And when I am, it’s often at the tiring house and there’s always something happening there. It’s never dull when the actors are around and there’s always half a dozen prancing about. They’re quite amusing.”
Patience sighed. “You’re lucky. I can’t go anywhere or do anything without a chaperone, but you seem to come and go as you please. You lead such an interesting life.”
“Interesting!” Alice laughed but it quickly faded to a thoughtful silence. “I suppose it is,” she murmured.
Why had she not realized it before? Her life was certainly different. Roger Style could be tyrannical at times and her father tried to keep the conversations civilized, usually in vain, but on the whole the tiring house had been a fascinating place to grow up. Actors and playwrights came from all over the country and, being natural storytellers, they had a way of enthralling her. Indeed, it was their stories that had encouraged her to seek out her own adventures.
But they were only stories. The reality was probably entirely different from the embellished version. Just like being a lady wasn’t at all as interesting as she’d expected it to be.
Odd. She’d always thought she was bored with her life, but perhaps it wasn’t boredom. Perhaps she only needed to know what else was out there, outside her world. Now that she did, she wasn’t sure it was what she wanted after all.
She sighed heavily. “I envy you knowing what you want,” she said.
“You do?” Patience blinked at her then laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “And here I envied you for your freedom.”
“My freedom?”
Patience nodded. “To go where you want without a chaperone, for having something to do and meeting all those players and writers.” She looked down at her clasped hands and fiddled with her pearl ring. “And for marrying whom you want.”
Tears pricked Alice’s eyes. “That counts for nothing when the man I want doesn’t want to marry me.”
Patience looked up. Her eyes softened and she leaned forward to take Alice’s hand. “Doesn’t want to or can’t? There is a difference.”
“It amounts to the same thing.” She shook her head, hoping to dislodge the melancholy that had settled over her. She refused to dwell on what she couldn’t have. Not tonight. When this was all over and Warhurst had returned to his life in the north, she would wait and see how she felt. Hopefully time and distance would ease the pain and help her to think clearly. In the meantime, she would have her new shop and a new life to start.
Patience smothered a yawn with her hand and Alice rose, drawing the other woman up with her. “You need your rest. Nothing will happen for some time.”
Patience nodded. “Good night. And thank you.” The candlelight picked out the shine in her eyes. “I know my own happiness is not your intended aim, but I will nevertheless reap the rewards.”
“Do you think your father will let you marry Farley after we destroy his plans to wed you to Hawkesbury?”
Patience pressed a hand to her belly, still flat despite the baby. “I’ll do everything within my power to make sure he does.”
Watching her rise with such dignity, Alice was determined to do everything within her power too.
CHAPTER 20
Alice awoke with a start but didn’t know why. Her room was quiet, dark, and empty.
Or so she thought.
A shadow split from the others and crouched beside her bed. She wasn’t alarmed. She knew it was Warhurst even though she couldn’t make out his features. Had he been watching her?
“You’re awake.” He didn’t whisper but his voice was low and quiet. He was so close his breath warmed her cheek. It may have been dark but she knew he was regarding her with his usual fierce intensity—she could feel it. Perhaps he could see in the dark. It wouldn’t surprise her. She was beginning to suspect he was capable of almost anything.
“I told you not to climb up,” she said.
His white teeth formed a crescent in the darkness. She wished she had a candle to see him by—he smiled so rarely it seemed a shame to miss a single one of them.
“I managed not to break my neck,” he said.
She reached up and touched the warm flesh at his throat. A pulse throbbed against her fingertips. “Good.” She flattened her hand and cupped the side of his face. Her thumb swept across the arc of his cheek up to the corner of his eye. He turned his face a little, pressing his cheek into her hand.
“Why?” His voice was barely a whispered rasp.
“Because I want you here. With me.” Always.
And because I love you.
She placed her other hand against his other cheek, gently because it was the one sporting a bruise, and would have drawn him down to her but he was already there. His mouth closed over hers, cut lip and all. His fingers dug into her hair. His tongue explored and tasted and he groaned against her.
He smelled like horses and leather and she thought nothing smelled as sweet. She clutched his shoulders and wanted to feel his bare skin, wanted to sink her teeth into his muscles. But he was wearing too much clothing. The black leather jerkin had to go. She tugged on the laces and managed to dive inside his shirt and press her palm against smooth, hot skin.
But not for long. He broke the kiss and sprang back from the bed. “Christ,” he said, breathing heavily.
She wanted to ask him why he’d stopped, wanted to know what he felt, but didn’t trust her voice. Her entire body shook, so her voice probably would too. At least he couldn’t see the tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said after what felt like forever. “I shouldn’t have watched you sleeping.” His silhouette turned and walked toward the door leading to the adjoining room. “We should wake Patience. There’s only a few hours until dawn.”
She rose from the bed, still dressed in the crimson gown and his mother’s jewelry. She hadn’t wanted to take them off in case it made her less of a lady. It didn’t work. Her behavior just now had been anything but ladylike.
She came up behind him, her body still humming from the desire coursing through it. Surely he must be able to feel it vibrating off her. But it was impossible to tell much in the dark except that he was big and formidable and she wanted him with every piece of her.
“This way,” he said. His hand touched hers and she swallowed her gasp. Their fingers linked and she felt instantly more comfortable as his strength seeped into her.
They made their way through the withdrawing room, moving around dark blobs of furniture to the next door, which led to Patience’s room. She was awake and wore a housecoat over her nightshift. A lantern on the mantelpiece cast a miserly glow through her room from its single wick.
“You made it.” She took in Alice and Warhurst’s linked hands. “In the dark?”
“Light is too dangerous,” he said. “But we’ll need one for the study. Are you ready?”
Patience nodded and picked up the lantern. “We’ll have to be quiet. There’s only a small sitting room between his study and bedchamber.” She led the way through empty guest rooms, across a landing, and stopped at a door. She opened it, peered around, and signaled the others to follow her. “I’ll listen at the inner door,” she said.
Warhurst went straight for the desk, while Alice turned to the nearest coffer. It was locked. The second one wasn’t, but it only contained ledgers. If Warhurst didn’t uncover a key in the desk then it must be elsewhere. She could only hope it would be somewhere in the study and not on Enderby’s person or in his private rooms. She looked to Warhurst, but he only shook his head. He was having no luck either.
He ran his hand beneath the desk, so she followed suit and checked the undersides of all the chairs and lifted all the small statues lining the mantelpiece. No key. Warhurst got down on his hands and knees and searched through the rushes covering the
floor. Alice knelt too then had a better idea. If she hid a key she would find something to sew it into. There were no tapestries lining the walls but the main chair situated at the desk had a cushion tied to its seat. She undid it and squeezed. Through the stuffing and stiff embroidery she could just make out something small and hard.
She joined Patience and held the cushion up to the lantern. Sewn into the taffeta was a small pocket of matching material with one side left unstitched as an opening. She slid two fingers in and pulled out the key. Triumphant, she held it up to Warhurst.
He wasn’t watching her. He cocked his head to the side, listening. Then Alice heard it too. Footsteps. Fighting panic, she looked around for somewhere to hide.
But the heavy footsteps were already on the other side of the door.
It was too late to hide.
Patience hurried to the desk and Warhurst slipped his arm around Alice’s waist. He pulled her back against the wall as the door opened. The heavy oak shielded them from the newcomer.
“It’s you,” said Lord Enderby. He sounded gruff, as if he’d just awoken. “Thought I heard a noise. What are you doing in here?”
“Just getting some more ink,” Patience said casually. Alice marveled at the other woman’s steady nerves—there wasn’t a hint of fear or guilt in her voice.
“You should be sleeping.”
“I can’t. I thought writing some poetry might make me sleepy.”
“Poetry.” He yawned. “Ever since that bloody playwright turned out to be a woman, every silly creature thinks she can write.”
Warhurst’s arm tightened around Alice’s waist and she leaned into his solidness. His face was just above hers, his lips level with her forehead. She could stand on her toes, tilt her head, and kiss him. She remained still.
“Go back to bed, Father,” Patience said gently.
“Did you find some ink?”
“Not yet, but I know where it is. Good night.”
He grunted and the door closed. Alice breathed again but Warhurst didn’t ease his grip. For several minutes they all stood where they were, waiting and listening. The footsteps didn’t return. They were safe for now.
Warhurst let Alice go and they knelt side by side at the chest while Patience listened at the door. Without speaking, Alice slipped the key into the lock and Warhurst lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of papers, some tied with ribbons, some loose. They rifled through each one until Warhurst signaled that he’d found it. He showed a thin page to Alice. Lord Hawkesbury’s name was clearly written in the text.
They silently stacked the other letters back in the chest, closed the lid, and locked it. Alice slipped the key back into its pocket and retied the cushion to the chair. All three of them crept out of the study.
When they reached Patience’s bedchamber, Alice drew a deep breath, her first proper one since they’d entered Enderby’s study. That had been close. Too close. If Enderby had moved farther into the room, or if someone had made a noise…she shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about.
It might have been fun to pretend to be a lady and dress in fine clothes, but if she were discovered, she would be in a great deal of trouble. Enough trouble that Warhurst probably couldn’t save her from a thrashing if Enderby called for assistance from his servants. As a child, having adventures had been exciting, but as an adult, some adventures were much too exciting for comfort.
“What does it say?” Patience asked Warhurst.
He shook his head and showed them the page. “I’ll need time to decipher the code.”
Patience groaned and sat heavily on her bed. She looked exhausted.
“Get some sleep,” Alice said. “And thank you for all you’ve done. I’d leave now except it would only alert the household and arouse suspicions.”
Patience took the hand Alice offered and squeezed. “Good luck. I’ll be thinking of you both.”
Warhurst guided Alice back through the adjoining rooms to her own bedchamber, where he lit a candle and placed it on the table beside the bed. “Are you all right?” he asked, studying her face in the dim light.
She nodded. “I am now that it’s all over.”
“It’s not over yet. I won’t be happy until you’re away from here.”
“Me? Don’t you mean us?”
“I, er, yes, of course I do.” He looked to the window. “I must go.” But he didn’t move. He took a step closer to her. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re not afraid?”
“No,” she lied.
“You’re shivering.” He removed a blanket from the foot of the bed and placed it around her shoulders. His fingers curled into the edges as he clasped it tightly at her chest. The delicious scent of him filled her nostrils.
“You should go,” she said, leaning into him.
“Yes.” He regarded her through half-lowered lids.
“Yes,” she repeated dully. The spicy scent of him muddled her wits, thickened her throat. “Yes.” Take me.
Their heavy breaths sounded loud in the silent room. Warhurst’s chest rose and fell like a bellows. He inched closer. Closer. His nose brushed hers, his breath was hot on her lips. His intense gaze stripped her of all remaining sense.
“I want you,” he whispered. “God help me because I can’t help myself. I want you, Alice Croft.”
Still he didn’t move. What was he waiting for? A sign from God? From her?
Piddle to that. She pressed her hands to either side of his face and pulled him to her. His lips opened without hesitation and he kissed her thoroughly. It would seem he’d got the sign he’d been waiting for.
She should resist, should grasp for any common sense still remaining, but she was hopelessly, desperately lost and she didn’t care a whit. Warhurst was kissing her as if his life depended upon it and she adored every moment, relished the rush his kisses produced through her body.
His hands fluttered at her shoulders, caressed the flesh beneath her gown. His lips soon followed, leaving a trail of delicious destruction in their wake. She tipped her head back to expose her throat. More. More. There…
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured against her raw, sensitive skin. “You are always in my thoughts…driving me mad with desire…my love.”
Love?
She gasped. He withdrew suddenly, as if the madness had been slapped out of him. In the darkness she could just make out the roundness of his eyes, his parted lips.
“I have to go.” Before she could protest, he was out the window.
She closed her eyes and dared not check to see if he’d made it down in one piece. She couldn’t move anyway with her bones as weak as water and her heart pounding so hard it was difficult to breathe.
All she could do was lie on the bed and let the tears seep into the pillow. Warhurst would never allow himself to love her, not the way she wanted. He was much too proud to lower himself, and in too much control to abandon reason entirely.
She remained that way until dawn when the maidservant brought her breakfast and stoked up the fire.
The journey to Charles Grayshaw’s house was mercifully short. Leo had suggested they travel there immediately to see if he could decode the letter. It would also provide a place for them to change back into their own clothing without attracting notice. Thankfully Alice agreed, although with a slight nod only. She said nothing else as she sat on her horse. She didn’t even look at him.
Perhaps that was just as well. He deserved nothing less than her cold shoulder, but an argument would have been preferable. He liked arguing with her. It made him feel alive.
They dismounted outside Grayshaw’s house and he tied up the horses and carried their bag to the door. Being early, Grayshaw was home. He seemed surprised to see them although his first words were not a greeting.
“Remarkable gown, Alice,” he said, eyeing her crimson dress when she removed her cloak.
Leo glared at him but the fool didn’t seem
to notice. He continued to give Alice a sickly smile. She shrugged back at Grayshaw in return but said nothing. She’d been quiet all morning. Not even the doffed hats and “good mornings” from the passersby had amused her as they had the day before. Leo didn’t like this change in her. He much preferred the old Alice, the one with more fire in her belly than a forge.
He only had himself to blame. Stupid, idiot fool. Why couldn’t he think with his head instead of his—
“Is there somewhere I can change?” Alice asked Grayshaw.
“Certainly,” he said, directing her to a small sitting room adjoining his study. “Sorry there’s no fire burning.”
She picked up the bag with her clothing inside and disappeared into the room, closing the door with a bang behind her.
Leo winced. Grayshaw raised an amused eyebrow at him. Leo clenched his fists. Hitting his old school friend would be quite satisfying but probably wouldn’t do him any good. He needed Grayshaw to have his wits about him.
“I found it,” Leo said.
Grayshaw’s features instantly flattened into seriousness. “The Hawkesbury letter? Where was it? How did you get it?”
“It was at Enderby’s.” He didn’t answer the last question and from the way Grayshaw glanced at the sitting room door, he suspected he didn’t need to. “I want you to decode it.” Leo produced the missive from the pocket of his jerkin and handed it over.
“I was beginning to think it didn’t exist.”
“Can you decipher it?”
Grayshaw opened the letter and scanned the page. There wasn’t much writing, just a few jumbled letters and numbers. “I think so. It’s an old code, not used anymore, but I recall the sequence.” He sat at his desk and rubbed the stubble on his chin as he studied the missive. Leo hadn’t taken much note of his friend’s face but now he frowned at the unkempt beginnings of a beard. Grayshaw was usually so fastidious about his appearance.
After only a few short minutes, Grayshaw sat back and looked up at Leo. “Lord Hawkesbury is in a lot of trouble.”
