Silver Deceptions Read online

  She was certainly going to a great deal of trouble to foster that nickname. Perhaps Walcester was right to be alarmed, though she did seem rather young to be engaged in the sort of intrigues that the earl had once been part of. Colin would judge her to be no more than twenty-three. “Yes, the one with the dark hair.”

  Sir John shrugged. “She’s only been with the duke’s players for . . . oh, six or seven months. She plays mostly smaller parts, but there’s talk that she’ll soon be moved to larger ones.”

  “Moll Davis had better look out, then.” Because Mrs. Maynard was clearly the better actress. “How well do you know the Silver Swan?”

  Sir John’s chuckle carried to him over the chatter in the surrounding boxes. “Well enough.” When Colin fixed Sir John with a speculative glance, the man added, “But not in that way, you understand, although there are some who have known her more . . . shall we say . . . intimately.”

  An inexplicable twinge of disappointment made Colin frown. “Typical actress, is she?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. Serene and aloof onstage, but a fiery wench in bed.” He laughed. “I imagine pearls and baubles will open the thighs of any pretty actress. And she’s no exception. So they say.”

  Colin flicked his gaze over the woman, searching for some sign of this wanton side. “Who exactly are ‘they’?”

  “Somerset, for one. Claims he’s practically put himself into debt buying her jewels, and you know the man can’t afford it. He says she repaid him . . . as only a woman could. He’s undoubtedly waiting in the wings for her this very moment.”

  Colin frowned. “That stunning beauty with a fop like Somerset? I can hardly credit it.”

  “He’s the sort of man she seems to find attractive. Or at least the only sort I’ve seen her with.”

  Hard to believe. She looked intelligent, and she obviously knew her trade. She even had the old matrons in the upper gallery eating out of her hand. So why dally with prancing coxcombs? It made no sense.

  Not that anything in this fool’s errand for Walcester made sense. “I want to meet her.”

  Sir John shifted in his seat, adjusting his bad leg. “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “All you need do is slip into the tiring-room and wait for her.”

  “With the other gallants? No. I want to meet with her alone, where we can speak.”

  “Speak?” Sir John laughed. “ ‘Is that what you’re calling it these days? I suppose her maid can set up an assignation, assuming her mistress is willing.” He stood, ignoring his pouting companion. “Wait here, and I’ll arrange it.”

  Colin returned his attention to the stage. Mrs. Maynard exited, prompting cries of “Swan, Swan!” from the raucous gallants in the pit. Clearly the woman had a score of men, both young and old, seeking her favors.

  Then he would do so as well. How better to learn what Walcester needed to know? Colin owed the earl much for having saved his life while they were both in exile in France. The earl had been instrumental in gaining Colin his position in the king’s service, which had led directly to His Majesty’s bestowing on Colin the title of Marquess of Hampden. Colin would be forever in Walcester’s debt. So dallying with a pretty actress to find out her secrets for the earl was the least Colin could do to repay the man.

  Not that it would be any great sacrifice. It had been a long time since he’d found a woman who stirred his interest, and this one intrigued him. He’d grown too jaded in his years at court and as a spy. Perhaps it was time to explore something different. Someone different from his usual fare.

  The play went on, tedious now that Mrs. Maynard had left the stage. Just as the act ended, however, Sir John returned with a full-figured, youngish blond female at his side.

  With his usual merry smile, Sir John said, “Lord Hampden, meet Charity Woodfield.”

  The chit bobbed a curtsy, and Colin noted that Sir John cupped her elbow to urge her to rise before resting his hand in the small of her back with obvious familiarity. No wonder the man knew so much about Mrs. Maynard. He had a clear interest in the woman’s servant. And judging from how she didn’t shy away from him, either, the interest was mutual. That could only help Colin’s case.

  “I wish to meet your mistress,” he said without preamble.

  “So do a great many men, milord, if you don’t mind my saying so. She’s a fine actress, and the gallants all find her fetching.”

  He smiled at her shameless and entirely unnecessary attempt to raise his interest. “As do I. So what must I do to ensure I get a fair chance with her?”

  “Oh, but yer lordship wants a bit more than a fair chance,” she said tartly, “or y’d be down there right now, trying to get her attention.”

  “You’re a saucy wench,” Colin said. “Is your mistress as bold with her tongue as you?”

  The maid lifted a brow at his double entendre. “Bold enough to cut you to ribbons with it, and leave your pride hanging by a thread.”

  “Now that’s a feat I’d like to see.”

  “Then you’ll have to enter the fray behind the stage with the others.”

  “No reason for that.” He opened his hand to reveal several gold sovereigns. “I’m willing to buy my way into your mistress’s good graces. I’ll wager that’s more than those other fools would do.”

  A coldness spread over Charity’s face, and she curtsied stiffly. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my mistress for a whore, milord. I don’t think the two of you would suit.”

  Without another word, she pivoted on her heel, brushing off Sir John’s hand when he tried to halt her exit.

  “Wait!” Colin called out. At least now he knew that the Silver Swan wasn’t just looking for money. That argued against her being a spy for pay. When Charity kept on going, he added, “I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve heard tales, and sometimes rumors don’t distinguish between women who take lovers and women who are whores. But I do know the difference, so please accept my apologies.”

  The maid halted to cast Sir John an accusing glance, obviously having guessed who’d been at fault for the rumors. He shrugged, unrepentant as usual.

  Charity stared Colin down. “Very well, milord, I accept your apology.” But her tone was still cold. “What exactly is it you wish me to do?”

  “To arrange a meeting between your mistress and me. One where we’ll have complete privacy.”

  “Of course,” she said, her voice positively icy.

  “I simply want to talk to her.”

  “Of course,” she repeated, but when he refused to take the bait and offer more assurances, she added, “So it won’t bother you if the meeting takes place in the tiring-room, here at the theater?”

  “As long as I can speak with her alone, I don’t care if it takes place in the middle of London Bridge.”

  That seemed to bring her up short. And soften her a fraction. “Come to the tiring-room tomorrow an hour before the play begins. I’ll make sure you’ve got her to yerself.” She fixed him with a dark glance. “But I’ll be right outside in the hall. That’s as close to having her alone as you’ll get.”

  It was a start, anyway. “That’s good enough, thank you.” He smiled broadly. “I see that your name is fitting. You’re the very soul of charity, and I won’t forget it.”

  For the first time since she’d entered the box, she returned his smile. “Oh, don’t you worry, milord. I don’t intend to let you forget it.”

  Then she whisked out of the box to the sound of his chuckle.

  ANNABELLE EXITED THE stage at the end of act 3 and looked around for Charity. How odd. The maid was usually right here when she left the stage. Thinking to find her in the tiring-room, Annabelle entered it but found an orange vendor instead, resting her weary feet on a chair.

  “Something to whet your whistle for the next act?” asked the girl hopefully.

  “That bad today, is it?” Hitching up her skirt, Annabelle drew a few pence from the pocket in her smock and handed it over to the
orange girl, who couldn’t have been a day over thirteen.

  “Thankee kindly,” the vendor said as she handed Annabelle her fourth orange that day. “Even with the crowds, no one is clamoring for fruit. And Maggie’ll ’ave my ’ead if I don’t give ’er somethin’ to show for my efforts.”

  As the girl left, Annabelle hefted the fruit. The other three oranges would go to the urchins outside the theater as always, but today she was in the mood to actually eat one.

  Charity walked in just as she was peeling it.

  “Where have you been?” Annabelle asked.

  “Are you throwing your pence away on the orange girls again?” the maid countered as she began searching Annabelle’s costume for signs of disrepair. “ ’Tis no wonder you can’t afford that new gown you want. How many is it today? Two? Three?”

  “Four, if you must know,” Annabelle said testily.

  “You’re such a soft touch. That’s why they follow you about. You shouldn’t encourage them.”

  “I can’t help it.” Annabelle sighed. “They remind me of myself at that age. I know Maggie beats them when they come up short. And what’s a new gown compared to that?”

  Charity sniffed.

  “Besides,” Annabelle continued, biting into one juicy section, “I like oranges. You can’t be a true member of the theater and not eat them.”

  Softening, Charity smiled enigmatically and knelt to study Annabelle’s loose hem. “The theater does suit you, dear heart.” She drew out the needle and thread she always held ready and began to sew.

  “I do believe it does.” Annabelle liked the smell of hot wax from the hundreds of candles, the intensity of the audience in the pit when a scene went well, the sound of lutes wafting down from the musicians’ box. She even liked flirting with the gallants, though most of them were foolish pups. Yes, the theater had been good to her.

  What’s more, she actually excelled at acting. She should probably thank Ogden Taylor for that. If not for his beatings, she would never have learned to lose herself in imaginary characters.

  The thought of her stepfather’s cruelties sobered her, reminding her of the one dark thread through her bright tapestry. Seven months in London and she still hadn’t found her real father.

  She’d set the trap for him well enough. She’d taken his name as a surname. And since he’d signed The Silver Swan to that poem he’d left behind with Mother, she and Charity had worked hard to get the entire theatergoing court to call her by that.

  Nonetheless, no one by the name of Maynard had approached her, and certainly no one pretending to be the Silver Swan had shown up.

  Charity finished the hem and rose to plump Annabelle’s drooping coiffure. “All that heat and damp air is taking the curl out of yer hair and ribbons.”

  Annabelle tore herself from her obsessive thoughts and ate another section of orange. “Never mind that. Act four will start any moment, and I’ve forgotten the line I enter on.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to remember it. If I could memorize lines, we’d both be on the stage.” Charity frowned. “Nobody warned me I’d have to learn such long speeches. I’d rather sell pork pies in the market, I would, than spend my time wracking my brain for some poor bit of verse.”

  “Fortunately, I don’t have to wrack my brain. Just look in that copy of the play over there and tell me what it is, will you?”

  As Annabelle finished off the orange and licked her fingers, Charity read aloud, “Mr. Young says, ‘Good luck, and five hundred pound attend thee,’ and then you and Moll come in.”

  “Oh, right. It follows that absurd scene where Warner and Lord Dartmouth plot to find a husband for his pregnant mistress.” Annabelle scowled. “Mr. Dryden has obviously never known what it’s like to be a bastard or he wouldn’t write so blithely about illegitimacy and men who don’t do their duty by the women they seduce.”

  “Don’t start thinking on such dark things in the middle of the play. It’ll mar your performance.” Putting aside the script, Charity came back to work on one of Annabelle’s silver ribbons, curling it around her finger in a useless attempt to revive it. “And make you brood on the past.”

  “I don’t mind brooding on the past,” Annabelle said. “It strengthens my resolve to set things right, so Mother can rest easy in her grave.”

  “She’s gone where you can’t help her anymore. You have to think of yourself now.”

  “I do think of myself.”

  Annabelle caught Charity’s hand and moved it to trace the crescent-shaped scar on her temple where her stepfather had once lost his temper and cuffed her so hard that his ring had gashed her. She’d been six years old.

  “I think of how it felt to have my own blood dripping down my face,” Annabelle went on fiercely. “I think of the mother I’ll never see again. Ogden Taylor may have wielded the lash that led to her death, but it wouldn’t have happened if my real father hadn’t abandoned Mother. ’Tis only fair that I punish the man who started it all.”

  Charity caressed the spot. “I understand how you feel, but don’t let your thirst for revenge sour yer heart.”

  “Too late for that.” Pushing away Charity’s hand, Annabelle turned to pace the room. “I only wish that ‘Maynard,’ whoever he is, would simply take the bait. I thought certain when he saw me using the names Maynard and Silver Swan together, he’d have some reaction. I paid a pretty penny to have this brooch specially fashioned, and it has brought me naught so far.”

  Charity shrugged. “Perhaps he don’t live in London no more. Who knows? The man might be dead.”

  “He’d best not be. I want my vengeance!”

  Mother had said her father was a wounded Roundhead captain named Maynard, whom her family had taken in until he could rejoin his regiment. Since even the officers in Cromwell’s army had been of good birth—and the man had left a signet ring behind—she knew her father had to be someone of consequence. So the last thing he would want, especially if he was as sober-living as most of the Roundheads, was to have his wild behavior unveiled.

  Which was why she planned to confront him with her bastardy, then rub her stage experience and scandalous adventuring in his face. Her unveiling would be public, a supper perhaps, to which she would invite all the gallants and nobles. There she’d announce her real parentage.

  Then he would become the laughingstock of London for the bastard daughter he couldn’t control, who mocked his good name before everyone. To tread the boards was a shame no family could bear. And she would make sure that the association was an embarrassment beyond endurance. She would send her creditors to him, she would joke of him to her friends, and she would take a string of supposed lovers. His name would ever be on her lips. London would know that he was her father, and he would cringe that they knew.

  “I will make sure that the barbarous arse squirms for what he did, abandoning my mother to the squire,” she hissed.

  “Madam!” Charity cried. “I swear yer letting those gallants turn all yer proper words into obscenity. How will you ever find a decent husband like that?”

  “I don’t want a husband, and certainly not a ‘decent’ one, who will tether my tongue. I like being able to mock the world and be praised as witty for it. That only happens in the theater.” And as long as she couched her words in dry humor, no one could guess at the pain beneath them.

  Least of all the gallants who courted her. “Besides, if these so-called wits who surround me are any indication of the sort of man I would have to choose from, I’m better off alone. They’re a lot of conceited popinjays.”

  “And they’re not that witty either,” Charity pointed out. “Lord Somerset is so enamored of his own face, he don’t have time to sharpen his brain.”

  Annabelle smiled. “Nor the inclination. The viscount seems entirely concentrated on preening and bragging about his supposed bedding of me to his lackwit friends.”

  “Ah, but he was a sight the morning after.” Charity giggled. “Waking up groggy after swigging my tea, an
d not even knowing he’d merely been sleeping beside you the whole night. You should have seen his face when I entered to announce you were wanted straightaway at the theater. The simpering fool didn’t know whether to admit he didn’t remember his evening with you or boast about his success.”

  Annabelle snorted. “Of course he chose to boast.”

  “ ’Tis a good thing for you that he did. If y’d had a real man in that bed, he wouldn’t have let you go till he’d taken another tumble, no matter what I told him about where you was to be.”

  “That’s why I chose Somerset. He’ll believe whatever I say about his prowess and leave when I tell him to.” Her smile faded. “It wouldn’t do for me to find myself in Mother’s position . . . my belly full and no man near to claim the babe.”

  Letting the world think her a whore might be necessary to her vengeance, but she refused to do more than play the role. If her stepfather hadn’t cowed her, she certainly wouldn’t let some foppish gallant do it.

  Besides, one day she hoped to have a real life somewhere in the country where she could just be herself. Where she could find a man to marry who would love her as she loved him. And when that day came, she meant to be chaste. She of all people knew how men could be if they discovered that their loves were not.

  “Still,” Charity said, “if y’d gone one more month without letting them think someone had bedded you, one of those so-called wits would have had his way with you, willing or no.”

  And Annabelle was never going to let that happen. So far, every man she’d met in London was either a fop or a brute, and she had no use for either.

  A knock at the door and a warning that her entrance was coming up made her start. When Charity gave Annabelle’s gown a quick once-over and bent to straighten a ribbon on her slipper, a lump filled Annabelle’s throat. The youthful widow could have left her long ago for one of the many gallants attracted to her lush figure and sharp wit. Yet she stayed at Annabelle’s side.

  “Have I thanked you for keeping me sane these past few months?” Annabelle asked softly.

  Charity glanced up in surprise. “You thank me, dear heart, every time you smile.”