Chapter Sixteen

“Oh, no,” Blythe moaned, digging her fingers into Simon’s shoulders. All they’d gone through, and it wasn’t enough. They were caught. Did it matter now, whether or not she believed Simon to be innocent? She was going to prison, while he...She swallowed against a lump in her throat. He would be hanged.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” the voice said.

“Yes,” Simon said, and Blythe felt him inexplicably relaxing. “What took you so long?”

“We had the devil of a time getting out of Rochester.” The figure in the doorway stepped forward, tugging absently at one ear. “Seems there’s a dangerous killer escaped.”

“Simon,” Blythe whispered.

Without turning, he reached behind him, and his hand settled on her breast. Startled, Blythe jumped back, and this time he did look at her. Odd, but she could swear that there was embarrassment in his eyes. “Blythe.” His hand slipped down, settled on her arm. She could breathe again, yet the heat and power of that one touch seemed to seep into her very being. “He is a friend.”

“We’d heard you’d picked up a traveling companion,” the other man said, and let out a low whistle as Blythe stepped out at last from behind Simon. “And a fair sight she is. May I introduce myself, madam?” He swept into a deep bow. “I am Ian Montaigne, and may I tell you, you have been keeping low company.”

“Indeed?” Blythe stayed still as the man straightened. He was young, she could see now, and attractive in a smooth, civilized way, with his unpowdered hair carefully clubbed back, and his features regular. She much preferred Simon’s more rugged good looks. “And who are you, sir?”

“A member of the Woodley troupe, Blythe,” Simon said, stepping forward to clap Ian on the shoulder. “You’re a sight to gladden my heart. What happened in Rochester?”

Ian grimaced. “Trouble. The local magistrate—rather a foolish fellow, do you know him? No? He was roaring that he would not be so insulted, upon his soul, and demanding that every man jack of us be put into gaol until we told him where you were.”

The impersonation of an angry, bull-headed country gentleman was so apt that Blythe found herself smiling. “Was that Quentin Heywood?”

“No. Sir Hubert somebody-or-other, though Heywood was there. He was the one who said we should be let go.” His face was grim. “You know of him?”

“He has been dogging our footsteps,” Simon said, grimly. “He is determined to catch us.”

“You’re lucky he let you go,” Blythe put in.

“Unless he expected you to lead him to us.”

“Damnation! I’d not thought of that.” Ian snapped his fingers. “I’ll be off, then. You know where we’re to meet?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’d see you there, but in light of what you just said, mayhaps I should lay a false trail.” He stepped forward, embraced Simon quickly, and turned. “Good luck, my friend.”

“And to you, too. We have to get out of here,” Simon said. From outside they could hear Ian talking to his horse, and then riding away. “And quickly.”

“Oh, why not?” Blythe stooped, gathering up the blanket. “We may need this,” she said, at his inquiring look.

“Nay. Leave it, and come.” He caught her hand and led her to the door. There they paused, peering cautiously out, and seeing nothing more alarming than leafy trees swaying in the breeze. “I think we might be all right yet, soldiers usually make enough noise for us to hear. The worst will be getting across to the trees.”

“I’ll go,” she said, suddenly terrified, but not for herself.

“Don’t be silly.” He dropped a quick, hard kiss onto her forehead and then broke out into the open, running across what had once been a busy barnyard in a zigzag pattern. No one appeared in either the trees or the lane; no strange noises rose to disturb the peaceful morning. Simon signaled to her from the trees. She would have to trust him that it was safe.

A moment later she was across the clearing and dropping to the ground beneath the trees where Simon waited. He nodded at her and turned, starting off through the woods on a track roughly parallel to the road. “Wait,” Blythe gasped, trying to catch up. Fear and her dash to safety had made her breathless. “Are you going to tell me what’s about?”

“There’s no time, princess.” He didn’t look back at her, but merely continued on his way, stopping occasionally to hold back branches that otherwise would have caught her in the face. “If we’re to meet the others and be on our way, we must hurry.”

Blythe barely avoided tripping over a root in the ground. Since it was spring there was little undergrowth, but the footing was treacherous. “What others? And when did you plan this?”

“McNally planned it,” he said over his shoulder, and then stopped, appearing at last to take pity on her. His face a mask of patience, he waited for her to catch up. “I need—we need—a place to hide. McNally took care of everything.”

“And that man back in the barn?”

Simon stopped again, so abruptly that she walked into him, banging her nose on his shoulder. “My apologies, princess,” He smiled faintly. “I keep forgetting that you’re in this as much as I am.”

Blythe rubbed her nose. “Oh, by all means. Since I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Of course not.” His voice was cool again, making her feel as if she were indeed the one in the wrong. He had been convicted, she told herself. Surely that meant he was guilty. “My apologies, again. Ian is a member of the Woodley troupe of strolling players, my uncle’s troupe. We’re to meet with them upon the road.”

“But surely that’s dangerous! Won’t people suspect where you’re hiding?”

“‘Tis a risk, that’s true. However, you should know that my uncle publicly disowned me when I was convicted. An act, princess,” he said, his tone softening at the dismay she knew must show on her face. “‘Twas all an act.”

“I don’t understand—oh. So no one would think he’d have anything to do with you.”

“Precisely.” He turned and began walking again, still briskly, but somehow less remote. “I’m not sure what the plans are, but I know that there are plans.”

“They won’t expect me.”

“They will now, with Ian going back to tell them. Don’t worry, princess. They’ll find a way to hide you.” He stopped abruptly. Past his shoulder, Blythe could see that they’d reached the road. “Looks like we’ll have to wait a bit.”

Blythe sank gratefully upon a fallen log. “So they’ll shelter you until you have a chance to leave the country.”

He shot her a look. “Is that what you think I plan?”

“It seems the wisest course.”

“Mayhaps, but it’s not mine. I told you at the barn, princess. I intend to clear my name.” He crouched before her, hand held out. “Will you help me?”

“How can I?” she protested. “When I’m not even sure if—”

If I’m innocent.” He got to his feet, his mouth a grim slash. “So be it.”

“Simon, I’m sorry.” She followed him, placing a hand on his sleeve; he shrugged it off. “But I’d be of no help to you. I wouldn’t know how to begin, and if people realize who I am I’ll likely be arrested.”

“So be it,” he said again, and held up his hand. “Ah. I hear horses—ah, yes.” His face lightened just a bit as a ramshackle cart driven by an old man rounded a bend in the road. “There’s Old Gaffer. We’ve someplace to stay, for now.”

“Simon,” she said, urgently. “I want to believe you. I do. ‘Tis just—I can’t.”

He nodded. “You needn’t explain, princess. I understand well enough.” And with that he stepped out of the trees and hailed the cart. Blythe followed more cautiously. She did want to believe him. Everything would be so much easier if she did. Why, she wondered, at last approaching the cart, had no one ever told her that love could feel so perfectly wretched?

 

“‘Tis good to have you back,” Harry said yet again, raising his glass of port in a toast.

Simon, seated across the table from him, raised his glass as well. For once the Woodley troupe appeared to be doing well. Here in Maidstone, where they would play for a week, the manager and principal players had taken lodgings over a bakeshop. It was in the room shared by Harry Woodley, his wife Bess, and their daughter Henrietta, that Simon sat now, more ease as he had been since finding Miller’s body. For the time being, he was safe. “‘Tis good to be here,” he admitted. “For however long it lasts.”

Bess refilled his glass. “Oh, tush, we won’t think about that now.”

“But we have to.” Henrietta, commonly known as Young Harry, sat cross-legged on the bed. On first glance a stranger could be forgiven for taking her for a lad. Tall as she was, and thin, she was well-suited to the breeches parts she played so well. Even her hair, close-cropped curls, added to the effect. “I believe our disguises will deflect suspicion for a time, but as we are near Canterbury we will be watched more closely.”

Simon grinned at her, this cousin he’d always looked on as a younger sister. “Still a bookworm, brat? You sound like a schoolmaster, the way you speak.”

“I intend to improve myself. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not in any need of improvement. Though now that you mention it”—he cast his gaze over her—“I can see that you are.”

Henrietta leaned forward. “I’d forgotten how perfectly despicable you are—”

“Don’t worry. Blythe reminds me of that whenever she can.”

“Miss Marden? I’m not surprised.” Henrietta settled back onto the bed, her brief spate of temper fading. “How lucky for you you met her.”

“More than you know.”

“But what are you going to do about her, Simon?” Bess looked up from the sock she was knitting. “She is as much looked-for as you.”

“I know.”

“She can’t go back to London,” Bess went on, the needles clacking together. “And gracious, life in the theater isn’t for her.”

“You’d be surprised.” He turned to Henrietta, serious now. “You’re sure she is safe?”

“No one will suspect her, Simon,” Henrietta said serenely. “She’s safe enough.”

“Our Young Harry’s worked out a good plan,” Harry put in, setting down his glass. “Smart thinking, to get Old Gaffer and Dolly to leave for a time. Anyone watching us will see we still have the same number of people.” Harry grimaced. “Had to promise Dolly a benefit, but I don’t know what else we could do. We owe Miss Marden a powerful amount.”

Simon took a long swallow of wine. “I’m well aware of that,” he said, grimly. “So, Young Harry, what is your plan exactly?”

Henrietta looked up. “To keep you both in disguise until you may cross the Channel to the continent.”

Simon frowned. “That is it?”

“What else would you have us do? You’ve made yourself notorious, Simon, especially in this area.”

“And if I don’t want to leave England?”

Three faces turned to him in dismay and shock. “But what else can you do?” Harry asked. “If you stay here they’ll be sure to catch you. And us, too,” he added, gloomily.

“Unless I clear my name,” he said, and was met by silence. Setting the glass down, he scanned the faces that now were downcast, or turned away from him. They were the dearest people in the world to him, the only family he had ever known, and yet even they did not fully believe in his innocence. “I didn’t do it,” he said flatly, and rose.

“Oh, Simon, no one says you did,” Bess protested.

“No?”

“No.” Harry had risen, too, a stocky, burly figure, and placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “But it’ll be hard to disprove.”

“Even I can’t think how, Simon,” Henrietta chimed in. “And I have tried.”

Simon sat down again. “There’s a way.”

“If so, I can’t see it.”

“It’s right before your nose, brat,” he said, reaching out to tweak that appendage. She pulled back, scowling. “We find out who did kill Miller.”

His relatives exchanged looks. “‘Twill be dangerous,” Harry said, finally. “If you’re recognized—”

“I’ll trust Young Harry not to let that happen.”

Henrietta frowned. “You aren’t so easy to disguise, Simon, but I’ll do what I can.” She leaned forward. “How can we help?”

Simon sat back, lightheaded with relief. No doubts about his innocence here; only a profound distrust of England’s justice system. Why couldn’t more people trust him so? Why couldn’t Blythe? “We’ll need to learn if he had any enemies,” he began, when there was a sudden pounding at the door.

The occupants of the room froze. Bloody hell, Simon thought. Had he been discovered already? Gesturing wildly to the others to keep still, he dashed across to the small casement window and looked out with dismay. Thirty feet to the ground, and no way to climb down. Hell.

Henrietta was holding up the bed skirts and pointing beneath the bed when the pounding came again. “Harry? Bess? Are you there?”

“‘Tis Tom,” Harry said, crossing to the door, and Simon sagged in relief. Not capture, then. Not yet. “Yes, Tom, what is it?”

“Something’s happened.” Tom tumbled into the room as Harry opened the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I thought you should know.”

“Soldiers?” Simon said, tensing.

“No, not that I’ve seen. It’s that Marden woman.”

Simon had relaxed, but now he stiffened again. “What about her?”

“Susan went to the room they’re sharing a little while ago, and that’s when we realized.”

Simon sprang forward. “Is she hurt?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know.” Tom spread his hands, turning to Harry. “We looked everywhere, but we just can’t find her. It looks like she’s gone.”

 

“The morning post, my lady.” The footman bowed as he presented the silver salver to Honoria. Without sparing him a glance she reached for the missives and carelessly tossed them onto the polished mahogany surface of the breakfast room table. That quick glance had been enough to show her that one of the letters was from Quentin, an ominous sign indeed. Had he good news for her he would most certainly be here to share it. Instead, his absence made her suspicious.

Thoughtfully, Honoria took a sip of tea. She liked this time of morning, free of visitors and other interruptions, when she could plan and plot and scheme as to how to spend her day. She liked having Stanton House to herself, though she wouldn’t be here much longer. Her husband, in a rare show of firmness, had ordered her to Moulton Hall, his country estate. If she had run up some gambling debts, what was that to a man as rich as Stanton? Debts of honor must be paid, surely even he knew that. And it wasn’t even as if she had been playing very deep. She’d lost only a trifle, several hundred pounds here, perhaps a thousand, there. Not enough for her to be banished from London. Unless Quentin’s letter held better news than she expected, however, she might very well have to return there, no matter what Stanton would think.

Tossing her napkin onto the table, she rose, snatching up the letters with apparent disregard. Behind her and before her footmen bowed; she swept past them in her open gown of lavender silk, the scent of lilacs hanging heavy about her. They bowed again as she chose a chair at random in the drawing room, and then closed the door, leaving her alone at last.

Only then did Honoria pick up Quentin’s letter, and then only after casting a quick glance about the room, to be certain she was completely unobserved. Her hands were steady as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter; her face inscrutable as she read it. Only when she set it back down did a little crease appear between her brows. Had anybody been in the room, the signs would have been clear. The viscountess was angry.

This was what happened when one trusted someone else to deal with one’s problems. This came from dealing with inferior tools. The pity was, Quentin had seemed acceptable, until recently. He was adequate in bed, quite good at looking out for himself, and almost as devious minded as she herself was. That was the pleasure of it, of course, the satisfaction of devising ways around other peoples’ humdrum lives, to accomplish whatever one desired. Look how masterfully Quentin had arranged for the actor to be charged with murder. When it came to more direct action, however, as was called for now, Quentin was lamentably laggard.

The actor had yet to be caught. Honoria frowned, and then relaxed her face, carefully smoothing her forehead with her fingertips. Few wrinkles dared mar her complexion, and those that did, she could disguise with a coating of powder and an application of rouge. It was vital that she remain young, attractive. Men were allowed to age gracefully, to grow bald and fat. A woman, however, lost her power when she lost her looks. It was not going to happen to her. There wouldn’t be even the threat of it just now were it not for the actor.

Another frown, quickly eased. Galling as it was that he still ran free, what made matters worse was Quentin’s inability to catch him. With each day the actor remained loose, the danger to Honoria increased. Oh, Quentin’s danger was the greater, no question about that; but if he were found out he would implicate her. There was no question about that, either. And though she knew that Quentin was doing what he could, it wasn’t enough. More action was needed.

Crossing the room, she stood before the huge mirror that hung over the mantel, studying her reflection, assessing the flesh beneath her jawline. Was there just the hint of softening there? No, ‘twas just a trick of the light. She was still, by any measure, a beautiful woman. Perhaps it was time for her to use that beauty. Past time.

Nodding decisively, she swept from the room, again ignoring the footmen. In her chamber she snapped her fingers at Clothilde, her maid, who came forward with the lavender satin overskirt that would go so well with the pale lilac petticoat she’d chosen for today. She watched her reflection in the mirror dispassionately as Clothilde clothed her. There was more than one way to catch a thief, or a killer. She would find that way. Soon, before the accursed Simon Woodley could do any further damage. She would do anything she had to, to protect the life she’d fought so hard for. Anything.

 

Blythe slipped from tree to tree along the side of the road, the lessons of travel learned in the past weeks coming in surprisingly handy. It was dark, but a crescent moon gave fitful life to the trees that surrounded her, shadow and shade and the occasional shine of light on silvery bark. There was danger in the night, and yet she felt far safer here than she ever had in London, among the trees and plants that had formed part of her childhood. Hartley, her village, was not so far distant, she’d realized when the Woodley troupe had reached Maidstone, the journey perhaps of a day. No matter what awaited her there, it would surely be better than life with a troupe of strolling players, or with a man who could offer her no future. Wouldn’t it?

Blythe looked back, but the road was an empty ribbon stretching away into darkness. He wouldn’t come after her. She didn’t know why she thought he would. Since they’d met she’d been a necessary encumbrance to him, to be discarded when she was no longer convenient. Not that he’d said so, though he’d made it clear to her that morning, in the barn. She would have given herself to him, and he would have none of her.

Blythe’s cheeks burned. Bad enough that she’d been so wanton, so lacking in proper behavior; worse that he hadn’t been. It was her own fault, of course, for being so impulsive, a trait her foster mother had warned against time and again. Her fault, for forgetting that he was an actor, able to simulate emotions when it suited him. Reality was not in his smiling face, nor in his passionate kisses. Reality was that he was a cool, desperate criminal on the run from the authorities, and she had been useful to him. For a time.

And so she had decided to go home, no matter what awaited her there. There was no place for her in Simon’s life. Sooner or later he would either be retaken by the authorities, or he would flee the country. The thought of never seeing him again hurt. She loved Simon, fool that she was. She’d liked his family, what little she’d seen of them, and she had even enjoyed her time in the theater. It wasn’t real, though, any of it. Blythe knew about pain. She knew from helping her father doctor people that a clean break, though painful, healed quickly. One day Simon would no longer be in her life. It was far better that she make the break now. But, oh, if that were so, why did it hurt so badly?

Not so far behind her she heard hoofbeats, forcing her deeper into the woods. Since Simon no longer traveled by her side she was probably safe from arrest, but who knew what other dangers were abroad? A woman alone had always to be careful. That was a lesson she’d learned all too well.

The rider came closer. Blythe’s heartbeat speeded up in time with the hoofbeats, faster and faster, louder and louder. Rationally she knew that, standing in shadow as she was, she wasn’t likely to be discovered. Still, she pressed herself against a tree trunk, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, her fingers clutching the rough bark. She was alone. Should she be seen, and should that person have evil intentions, she would have no one to help her. Alone, as she had been all her life. And now, when it was too late, she wished she had never left the security, dubious though it was, of the Woodley troupe. She wished she’d never left Simon.

The horse was very near, now. Blythe bit her lips, barely breathing; the rider seemed to have slowed, or was that her imagination? But, no, the horse was at a walk, coming nearer, nearer. She hugged the tree, praying that she wouldn’t be detected, and in that instant the rider stepped into a patch of moonlight that illuminated the road. It was Simon.

She gasped, startled, dismayed, overjoyed. The horse gave a quick nicker, tossing its head, and Simon pulled on the reins. “What is it, boy, eh?” he said, softly, looking into the trees. Looking right at her. “What do you hear?”

“Me,” Blythe said, stepping away from the tree, and the horse nickered again. “How did you know I was here?”

“What the devil? Blythe?” Simon tossed the reins over the horse’s head and jumped down to the ground. “What are you doing hiding in the trees?”

“I didn’t know who was on the road.” She stepped out at last from the trees’ shadow, leaving their protection behind and not regretting it. “Though I’m not sure I’m any safer with you than I was.”

He was shaking his head. “If you’d not spoken, I wouldn’t have seen you.”

“Oh.” She looked away. She could have avoided this meeting, had she only stayed still. She should be annoyed with herself. Instead, her heart felt lighter than it had for hours. “Where do you go?”

He took her hand. “I was looking for you, princess. Come, I’m as leery of discovery as you—”

“Looking for me?” Blythe stopped. “Why?”

He shook his head. “Not here,” he said, and pulled her back under the trees, leading the horse behind him. “We need a place to talk in private.”

“Simon, I’ll not tell anyone about you—”

“I know that. Here. Sit down.” His hand, now on her shoulder, pushed her down onto a fallen log she hadn’t noticed before. “Let me just tie up old Hazel here.”

“I didn’t even know you could ride,” she said, blankly.

“There’s much you don’t know about me, princess.” He settled beside her, and she shifted away. They were alone. He could do what he would with her, and no one would know. Odd that she wasn’t scared. “Why did you go?”

“Why do you think?” She turned toward him. “What life would I have, Simon, constantly running? I’m tired of it. I want a home, my own home. Surely you can understand that?”

He shrugged. “I suppose, though ‘tis not something I’ve ever missed. Home has always been with my family.” For a moment he stared ahead, brow creased in a frown. “Why didn’t you tell me you wished to go?”

“You would have stopped me.”

“No, princess. I wouldn’t have.”

Blythe’s breath caught. Foolish of her to feel hurt at his words, when she’d known all along that someday he would let her go. Wasn’t that why she had left? “Oh.”

“Though I’d have made sure you weren’t alone. Hell, Blythe, ‘tis not safe for you to travel like this. Who knows who you might meet?”

“Such as escaped murderers?”

“Yes.” His tone was grim. “Trust me, princess, there are many more desperate characters in the world than I.”

“Really.”

“Have I hurt you at all?”

“For heaven’s sake, Simon, you abducted me—”

“But have I hurt you?”

She bit her lip. Oh, yes, he’d hurt her, if not in the way he meant. “No.”

“You didn’t even say good-bye.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”

“Not notice! Bloody hell. I owe you my life.”

“And I shall keep my word—”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.” He grasped her shoulders. “Where are you going? Have you any idea?”

“I told you, Simon.” His grip was hard, punishing, and yet in a way she welcomed it. Before this moment she’d thought he’d never touch her again. “I’m going home.”

“Home?”

“Yes. My village is not above a day from here.”

Slowly his fingers relaxed, though he didn’t pull away. “I didn’t realize that.”

“I have to go somewhere,” she went on, explaining as much to herself as to him. “Mrs. Wicket won’t have me back, that much is certain, nor will she give me a reference. I won’t be able to find another position in London.”

“My family would have taken you in.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t belong there, either. I wasn’t trained to be an actress. Surely you realize that? ‘Tis not the life I was raised for.”

His hands at last dropped away. “What do you want in life, Blythe?”

“What I want and what I’m likely to get are two very different things,” she said, lightly. “In London at least I was earning my way. Now I’ll need to go back with my family, for a time, at least. I’m quite on the shelf, you know. It’s not likely I’ll marry.”

“Then the men in your village are fools.”

“‘Tis sweet of you to say so.”

“I’m not sweet,” he growled.

“I will be the village spinster, I imagine. A maiden aunt to my nieces and nephews. I shall perform good works, and arrange flowers upon the church altar. I may even assist my father in his surgery.” She shifted on the log, hugging herself. “And people will wonder all my life just what happened when I met up with an escaped criminal.”

Simon’s lips pursed. “It sounds deadly dull, Blythe.”

“‘Tis what I’ve expected.”

“That may be, but things can change.” He turned to her again. “You’ve changed, Blythe. Don’t you realize that?”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “But with circumstances as they are, I really have little choice.”

“Hell.” Simon slung his arm about her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Blythe. If I hadn’t grabbed you on the street—”

“‘Tis past. And to be honest with you, I’m not sorry to leave London behind.”

“But, hell, Blythe, for you to wither away a spinster—”

“With a reputation.”

“Hang your reputation. It sounds damned lonely.”

She looked away. Of course it would be lonely. Any life without him would be. “I shall just have to manage.”

“I cannot change your mind?”

Only if he said he loved her. “No.”

“Hell,” he said again, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m going to miss you, Blythe.”

“You’ll forget me soon enough,” she said, lightly. “When you meet a pretty woman.”

“No.” He pulled back, and in the dim light his eyes were dark, liquid. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Blythe.”

Her gaze locked with his. For the life of her, she could not look away. “Nor I, you.” She traced his lips with her fingertip. “Shall we kiss goodbye and part as friends?”

He regarded her for a moment. “A kiss is a fine idea.”

Merciful heavens, did that mean he was going to do it? She stiffened, but then his arms urged her closer, his mouth lowered, just a fraction. Just enough for her to realize how much she wanted him to kiss her. Oh, she wanted it. Never in her life would she feel this way again. Why not, just this once, take what life offered her? “A wonderful idea,” she said, and surging up against him, placed her mouth full on his.