The pub gradually filled with the oncoming darkness. Most of the faces this night were regulars, but from time to time a new person or two would wander into The Jolly Knights to escape the wench at home or the oppressive summer heat. He came to escape the theater, the mindless actors and all their pitiful doubts and ridiculous problems, whenever he possibly could.
Gilbert sat back in the little chair he had for himself in the far corner of the dimly lit, dank room. He’d been like that for nearly two hours, uncomfortable in a chair far too small for his large frame, wondering if he shouldn’t ask the little blond wench for another jaunt to the filthy bed upstairs to relieve his boredom. He allowed himself the luxury—if one could call it that—of coming in almost every Friday evening, as he had for the last two months, now that he wasn’t on stage in London and suddenly had plenty of money. He laughed again at his flawlessly brilliant planning.
“Thank you, Vivian Rael-Lamont,” he said aloud in a mock toast as he raised his glass to his lips, taking several long swallows of surprisingly decent ale. He was nearly drunk already, but feeling so fine, he wanted oblivion tonight. Besides, he wasn’t to perform again for two days. Who the hell would care if he slept on a bench?
His mood blackened at once as he lowered his almost empty glass to stare trouble right in the face. She stood there so casually, not two feet away, smiling down at him with complete intolerance in her pretty blue eyes. He nearly choked.
“Well, if it isn’t Gilbert Montague,” she purred.
“Dammit Elinor,” he choked out. “What the devil are you doing here? How did you find me?”
Her brows shot up. “How did I find you? It’s a pub. Besides, I’m not as frail and helpless as I look,” she added, her lips curled in a sarcastic smile.
“Someone is going to see you here, you idiot,” he spat, nervously looking around him. He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Sit down.”
With deliberate slowness, she pulled out the chair across from him, and after rather intricate adjustments to her full, silk gown, sat on the hardwood most gracefully. “Relax,” she breathed through an exaggerated sigh, “I’m covered from head to toe in these dreadful rags, as you can very well see, and nobody knows I’m here except Wayne.”
Rags. To the queen, maybe. Gilbert took another large swallow of his ale, noting how very much she looked the daughter of a nobleman, especially in a place like this. If she stayed long she’d be noticed, draw attention to them, which they both knew would be a very bad thing under the circumstances.
“Where did he park?” he asked with a grunt.
“How should I know?” she retorted, glancing around. “Get me a sherry.”
“Don’t be stupid, they don’t serve sherry in a place like this. Besides,” he added gravely, “you won’t be staying long enough to have a drink.”
“Quit being so nervous,” she threw back at him in whispered anger, “I just didn’t know where else to find you.”
“You could always find me at the theater.”
She stared at him, aghast. “That would never be appropriate.” She adjusted her sleeves for something to do with her hands. “Besides, you know I won’t dare travel that far south.”
Gilbert looked at her through furrowed brows. A flimsy excuse, but if nothing else, he would not allow Elinor to ruin everything now by being seen with him here. “What the devil do you want, and make it quick.”
She smiled and leaned forward across the table, careful to avoid touching it. “More money,” she mouthed in whisper.
He should have known. That’s all Elinor ever wanted from him or anyone. “How much?”
“How much can you, a lowly actor of the stage, give me without being forced into debtor’s prison, dear Gilbert?”
“How much do you think you need before being thrown out of your home and onto the street, dear Elinor?” he countered sarcastically, starting to tire of her game.
Her lips and eyes hardened simultaneously, but she avoided a retort. “Two thousand—”
“Go to bloody hell,” he said as he raised his glass to finish the contents.
Elinor flashed him a crooked smile as she raised her hand, her pinkie only inches from his nose. “Remember where I have you wrapped?” she asked in a suddenly icy voice.
Gilbert wanted to reach across the table and break her little neck. Instead he offered her a rather pleasant smile in return as his eyes bore into hers, the actor in him coming out at last. “Did you know Steven is coming home?”
Elinor’s entire demeanor swiftly changed, her youthful figure sagging into the chair as the meaning of that statement grabbed hold, and it took everything in him not to burst out laughing. He waited, adding nothing more, until she swallowed and took a deep breath, coming to terms with the significance of the news.
“When?” she whispered, her eyes wide with a new concern she couldn’t hide, even in the corner darkness of the pub.
He reveled in that. “Soon,” he said very quietly, and with intent. “From what I’ve heard, I think your brother misses you.”
Suddenly the air around them shifted as she composed herself, straightening her rigid back, lifting her chin defiantly as her cheeks flushed with a renewed swell of anger. “There’s no good in that. What sort of plan is the great Gilbert Montague concocting with the evil Steven Chester?”
Gilbert laughed again, ignoring her question. “Elinor, darling, how about five hundred now,” he said as he leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, “and two thousand when I get the rest, for a combined total of two thousand, five hundred?”
She eyed him for a moment, suspiciously, and he knew she only tried to decide if he were hiding something. Gilbert candidly held her gaze, his lips wryly twisted, daring her to defy him again.
She hesitated, a scathing rebuttal no doubt on the tip of her tongue. But ultimately she suppressed it and leaned back again casually in her chair, folding her arms in her lap. “When are you expecting to get the rest?”
He shrugged as he finally looked away himself, toward the blond wench who laughed when a burly man with enormous hands grabbed her behind and squeezed.
“I don’t know,” he replied, sounding bored. “I told her I’d give her a week or two.”
“What?” Elinor screeched as she stood, her chair scooting quickly back across the wooden floor, making enough noise to turn the heads of several bawdy gents.
“Sit down,” Gilbert ordered with a hiss through clenched teeth.
Elinor stood her ground, her eyes glaring into his, nostril’s flaring. “You said this would happen fast, that I’d have the manuscript back in my hands and that rotten son of a—”
“Careful, dear,” Gilbert cut in, grinning again as he raised his glass to the barmaid, signaling her to deliver another. “That’s no language for a lady.”
She slapped the glass from his hands. Startled, he looked back into her eyes, now heated and overflowing with loathing.
“Do you want to hang?” she spat, her tone low and challenging. “I’m the smart one in this charade.”
He ignored her question and slowly rose to tower over her, her physical beauty all but masked by a sordid personality. “Again, you’re wrong, darling Elinor. I’m the lowly actor. Nobody cares about me. You’re the one with everything to lose. Remember that.”
With that whispered threat, Elinor relented, as he knew she would. She straightened her figure and took a step back.
“Just keep me informed,” she warned, pulling gloves from her reticule and attempting to don them quickly. “I’ll be waiting in Fowey.” After a pause, she leaned toward him again, her eyes burning. “You just remember it’s my manuscript.”
He brushed over that, lowering his arms and planting his palms flat on the table.
“Don’t come to me anymore, do you understand?” he warned. “I’ll have the money sent to you in a few days. Now get the hell out of here before someone sees us together.”
Without reply, Elinor lifted her chin high, turned her back on him, and gracefully waltzed out into the night.