The Greatest Lover in All England (8 page)

“Oh, Daddy.” Lady Blanche moaned in despair.

“If I were you, Lord Bothey,” Jean said, “I would repair to London at once and assure our blessed sovereign of your confidence in her. She will not be pleased when she hears of the resurrection of this rumor, and need I remind you, you are
not
her favorite courtier.”
And my brother is
, she added without words.

Tony looked around at the shocked noblefolk. “Come, let us eat and wish Lord Bothey and his family Godspeed. The rest of you, I assume, will be staying?”

Everyone nodded in unison, like dumb sheep who dared not oppose their shearer. He had squelched their flight with guile and fear, for none would dare risk Elizabeth's wrath by giving validity to the talk of the heir's return. But he couldn't keep them here forever, he knew. One by one they would invent excuses and slip off, wanting to see him fall yet anxious not to be involved.

This damnable rumor had blossomed fast. Too fast. Had it been making the rounds the last few days, or had it spread like wildfire from Sir Danny's single mention of it last night? Was Sir Danny repeating what he heard, or was he the instigator of the tale?

The house party might be coming to an end, but the acting company would have to stay. Stay until Tony reached the bottom of the matter, and that might mean a fortnight, a moon…he thought of Rosie lying upstairs in his bed, and smiled. A twelvemonth.

“Good morrow, all! Shall we feast while our appetite is keen?” Oblivious to the undercurrents, Ann stood in the doorway and beamed on the company.

“We shall indeed,” Tony agreed. “And my appetite, I find, is most keen.”

Although not for food. He thirsted after knowledge, and would not Rosie be the best way to obtain that knowledge? Wouldn't he, in his own best interests, have to interrogate the one he suspected of being the pivot of this whole plot? And if she proved impervious to subtle interrogation, might he not have to torture the truth from her?

Oh, not literally, of course. He didn't physically torture women. He persuaded them with the weapons he had on hand. And in this case, the best weapon he had on hand might be…his hands.

He looked down at his fingers, and again they were cupped in the memorable shape of Rosie's breast.

“
I don't understand
Ophelia. She's a pitiful woman.” Rosie crossed one arm over her belly and held it as if she eaten too many green apples. “I want to do Laertes.”

“Laertes is an important role in
Hamlet
, but Ophelia is a pivotal role. The troupe needs you to be Ophelia, just as you've been Beatrice and Hermia.” The warm sunshine caressed Sir Danny and his student as they sat on the terrace, but his explanation didn't ease Rosie's defensive posture, and Sir Danny corrected himself. “We need you to perform with more passion than you did with Beatrice and Hermia. 'Tis easy to convince an audience that you're a woman when you are a woman in truth. 'Tis even easy to elucidate correctly, to make the grand gestures and capture their
attention, but you say you want to make them laugh and cry.”

“So I do.”

“They'll cry for Ophelia. The prince she believed loves her rejects her most brutally, then kills her father.
Feel
her emotions—despair, anguish, uncertainty.”

She stared at him solemnly, listening, trying to absorb his knowledge of acting, yet resisting the very root of its lore. It frustrated him, like trying to pour his wisdom into a closed container.

Moving closer so their knees bumped, he cupped Rosie's face. “It's so easy, Rosie, for you of all people. Don't you remember when I rescued you from—”

“Nay!” Rosie jerked her head away from his hands.

“—from that pestilent carriage wherein—”

“Nay!” Rosie jumped and strode to the edge of the terrace. Her arm remained in a sling, but she clasped the rail with her free hand and stared out across the fields. Most of Rycliffe's guests had slipped away in the past three weeks, propelled by the rumors Danny himself had started, and the quiet was almost oppressive.

He could hear the rustle of each leaf as it dropped to the ground, and the birds as they mourned its downfall. Rosie mourned, too, he thought. Mourned a way of life that was now ending. She knew it, although she didn't admit it, and only Sir Danny, the great, the magnificent, understood how that change would take place.

He hated to hurt her. He'd always hated to hurt her, and that's why he'd let her slide along all these years, having nightmares while he pretended he didn't know what caused them. He'd thought they would get better as time went on, and they had, but they still existed for her, hovering on the edges of her memory, creating shadows in her eyes. Returning sometimes with such intensity she screamed out.

They'd been coming more often lately, ever since the troupe had arrived at Odyssey Manor. Her acting had worsened, too, as if she feared the demons in her mind might take over her life.

He'd come to think that maybe, just maybe, the demons she imprisoned also imprisoned her, and they would have to be released before she would be free.

There was more at stake here than just acting. Her life was at stake now.

“Rosie.” He went to her side and hugged her shoulder. “Let's talk about Ophelia, shall we?”

“I know the story.”

She'd never been so curt with him. It might be that her arm was paining her, but he didn't think so. More likely it was an acute apprehension brought on by her first brush with desire. He smothered a grin. God might yet see fit to punish Sir Danny for his sin of neglect, but it relieved Sir Danny to know God had not visited any great misfortune on Rosie.

Oh, she might think so when Tony watched her with smoldering intent. Feminine instinct, no doubt, told her the reason for her uneasiness. But Sir Danny had protected her from men and their designs as valiantly as—Sir Danny tossed his hair back and arched his neck—as valiantly as the great Zeus himself might protect his own daughter. So Rosie believed him when in desperation he'd said that Tony's gropings didn't necessarily mean Tony had realized then that she was a woman.

Tony knew. Tony wanted her. But for reasons of his own, Tony had not revealed her. Not to anyone. Which meant Tony played a game of his own.

Lesser men than Sir Danny might be concerned about Tony's intent, but to Sir Danny, the uncertainty only added to the pique. How enlightening to see how
Tony thought! How stimulating to gamble with a master competitor!

Of course the knowledge that he held the trump only added to his satisfaction.

“Ophelia is the daughter of Polonius, the king's minister,” Sir Danny said. “She loves her father, and she also loves Hamlet, the prince.”

“Loving has made a jest with her,” Rosie said.

“Verily, it has.” Sir Danny turned his back to the scene and slid onto the railing, sitting where he could watch her face. “Prince Hamlet turns on her when he discovers his mother has wed his father's brother and murderer.”

“Typical man,” she muttered. “Blaming one woman for another's perfidy.”

Sir Danny perked up. “Do you speak of anyone I know?”

“Nay.” She traced a vein in the marble. “Do all men smile with their mouths and not their eyes?”

“Why say you so?”

“It seems that Sir Tony and Ludovic do so when they are together—at least when I am with them.”

“Ah, Ludovic.” Ludovic had proved to be a complication. Sir Danny gambled with Tony, but Ludovic was wild, the unknown factor in the deck. He hadn't been invited to play, but he made his presence known, and he made his knowledge known, also.

He knew Rosie's secret, and he wanted her. That had been the suspicion that drove Sir Danny to do what he should have done so many years before. But the time had not yet come to reveal what he'd discovered, and Ludovic thought Rosie available to him.

She was not. She would never be available to Ludovic. She was fine and pure, so far above Ludovic he might as well have tried to snare a star. Ludovic
knew it, too, in his saner moments, but Sir Danny had begun to brood about Ludovic's sanity, or at least his single-mindedness. Ludovic's hostility to Tony might result in a battle.

Tony was a big, well-muscled man, bursting with health and in a position of power, but that didn't mean he would prevail against a ruthless warrior like Ludovic.

Ludovic, as Sir Danny knew, fought to win. So did Tony.

Picking his words carefully, Sir Danny said, “Ludovic wishes to protect you from any threat. Tony wishes to be your friend. Ludovic doesn't understand that it might be possible for you to be a friend of Tony's so he is wary of Tony's intentions.”

“Like Ophelia's brother?”

Her intuition startled him sometimes. “What?”

“Isn't Ludovic like Laertes? He cautions Ophelia not to believe Hamlet's protestations of love. Ludovic has told me that aristocrats like Tony only pretend to have a friendship with an actor.” She peered at him. “Isn't that true?”

“Not always.” Sir Danny brightened. “As you know, the earl of Southampton is a friend to Will Shakespeare.”

“He's his
patron
,” Rosie replied. “And he definitely patronizes Uncle Will.”

“Aye, well.” Sir Danny scrambled for some other example, but could think of none. “Do you think you should be wary of Tony? He seems to me to be the depository of all virtues.”

“That's what worries me.”

“Hmm?”

“He seems that way to me, too.”

He turned his head away to hide his hopeful face. “I
think mayhap Tony feels a responsibility to you after setting your arm. The time you spent in his room allowed his affection for you to take root and grow. He is an admirable gentleman. Don't you agree?” If all Sir Danny's brightest hopes for Rosie had been brought to life, they would have molded Sir Anthony Rycliffe in the flesh.

But Rosie shook her head. “I don't know. He's very refined, but beneath that facade I sense a different man. Tough as dried meat and twice as hard to swallow. He's nobody's fool, Sir Danny. He's like Hamlet, who knows of the murderous plot which killed his father, yet keeps his counsel to catch the perpetrator.”

“And are you like Ophelia,” Sir Danny probed, “torn between your love for Hamlet and your love for your father?”

“I do not love Tony—”

Sir Danny observed her befuddlement, and thought,
Trembling on the verge, my dear
.

“—but I do love you, and I tell you, if you insist on carrying out this blackmail scheme, Tony will be more like Hamlet than I would like.”

“You mean, he will kill your father as Hamlet killed Ophelia's father?”

“I fear for you.”

He couldn't doubt Rosie's sincerity, but divine destiny herself protected Sir Danny Plympton, Esquire. “And will you go mad because you cannot reconcile your love for your father and your love for your father's murderer?”

“I told you, I don't love—” She took a calming breath. “If we must perform this wicked blackmail, then why not do it at once and get it over with? Once we've been tossed off the estate by Tony's guards, we'll be able to patch ourselves up and return to a normal life.”

Why not do it at once? A movement caught Sir Danny's eye, and he watched, immobile, as three women, two dark and one blond, strolled across the lawn and entered the garden.

“Danny?” Rosie sounded a little breathless, a little confused.

He reassured her. “We'll do it soon.”

“How soon?”

“Soon.” He hopped off the rail and took her hand. “As soon as you can do more than
recite
Ophelia's part.”

She jerked her hand away. “I don't want to practice anymore now.”

Wheeling, fuming, Rosie ran down the steps, and, from the garden, Tony watched. Tony watched, and she seemed to be totally unaware.

Tony didn't like that. He wanted her to be aware of him all the time.

It seemed only fair, after all. His servants had instructions to report her every move, yet without being told, he knew her approximate location at all times. He had only to lay eyes on her, and he knew her mood, her thoughts, and he liked it all. Admired her character, respected her mind, lusted after her body, and liked
her
.

Except for his sisters, he didn't know another woman he liked.

Dangerous, to couple admiration, respect, and lust.

“Tony.”

He glanced back at the ladies seated in the garden. His two sisters and Lady Honora stared at him as if he were an interesting specimen of beast imported from the New World, and he stared back. “Aye?”

“You've been skulking through your own manor and across your own estate like an uninvited guest,” Lady Honora said.

“Do you fear the rumors of the heir's return?” Ann inquired.

Jean's swarthy brow darkened yet further. “For you've chosen a sure method of convincing all of your detractors of your dubiety.”

Separately, each one of them was a formidable woman. Together, they formed a fair representation of the Greek Furies, and he didn't want to hear their prophecies of doom. He began edging away, anxious to pursue Rosie.

“Why haven't you returned to London and the queen?” Lady Honora demanded.

“Because the queen forbade him to appear in her presence until she called for him.” Jean answered for him.

“When has Tony ever heeded the rules?” Ann asked. Then, “Where is he going?”

Faintly, he heard Jean say, “He must be trailing after that actor again. The acting troupe has been the catalyst for his odd behavior. They will have to go, don't you agree, Lady Honora?”

He strained his ears, but heard no reply.

“Lady Honora?” Ann sounded puzzled.

Curiosity urged Tony to linger, to discover what falsehoods Sir Danny had been spewing in those “chance” meetings with Lady Honora. Sir Danny, too, had been under observation.

But Rosie walked quickly. She seemed to know where she was going, although this was the first time she'd been far from the manor. He followed her up a rise, down a hill, and along a faint path. It wound over grass well cropped by sheep, across the stepping-stones of a brook, and into a wood bare of leaves. She lost the path; she found it without a qualm.

And he now knew her destination.

A waterfall. A pool. A place where magic happened.

The waterfall shivered in the chilly breeze, and broke the sunlight into individual rainbows. Rosie skipped forward as if she could catch the rainbows by extending her hand. She smiled as she dabbed her fingers in the pool, spoke to some unknown entity, and then listened.

Did she receive a reply?

None that Tony heard, but Rosie drooped. Then, subdued, she nestled against a sunlit boulder, absorbing the warmth.

He didn't like the tenderness she evoked in him. If she was to play the role of heir—and he almost hoped she would, so he could loose his revenge on her—he shouldn't be observing her vulnerabilities, and he positively shouldn't be touched by them. A lesser man might find himself in the throes of some inappropriate passion. But not him.

He stepped out of his shoes and placed them beneath an oak. Careful to be silent, he stripped off his doublet. Nay, not him. He was a bastard, and a ruthless one, but he never forgot his principles. He wouldn't use her as he wished and father another bastard who sold his soul for respectability.

Puffing above his head, the wind provided a humming accompaniment to the splatter of water on the flat rocks.

He would entice her instead. When her mind whirled with confusion and she'd revealed the plot which threatened his property, he would free her from the masquerade which shackled her.

He would be doing her a favor. He untied the string at the neck of his shirt. Her situation confused her. Sometimes a woman, too often a child, she provided Tony with endless entertainment as she struggled to
reconcile her feminine instincts with the role of young man, which had been assigned her. But he wanted to banish the youth and encourage the child to grow up. He wanted her to notice him. He wanted her to think of him as a man. He wanted her never to look at him without seeing a lover—because of the plot, of course.