To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players) (6 page)

Freddie barked out a laugh. “Like any of us could stop him.”

Edward elbowed Freddie and he yelped.

“I’m looking for a…friend who may have stopped by,” Rafe said. “Has anyone been here this morning? Any strangers?”

“No,” Edward said. “Why would your friend come here?”

“In search of me. If he learns my neighbor works at the Rose, he may want to ask her if she’s seen me. If he does come and I’m not here, send him on his way. Don’t let him inside the tiring house. My friend’s touched with madness, see, and—”

Lizzy gasped and whatever else Rafe had been going to say died on his lips.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Roger cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you can act, sir?”

“Depends.”

Freddie screwed up his nose and scratched his nether region. “On what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Roger came into the room slowly, hesitantly, as if he approached an untethered bull. “It’s just that you’d make a great Thor,” he said.

“
I
play Thor,” Freddie protested.

“You need to wear blocks of wood under your shoes to give you height,” Edward said.

“And padding,” the hireling said with a snicker.

“It’s not a great speaking part,” Roger went on. “Any fool can learn the lines.”

The hireling laughed and Freddie shoved him in the chest. Henry caught him before he toppled down the staircase. “I need a drink,” Freddie said and stomped down the steps. Nobody stopped him.

“You just stride about onstage,” Roger said to Rafe. “Look menacing and…big.” He poked Rafe’s upper arm where the jerkin stretched taut over his chest. “I think you can manage that.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Rafe said. “But I wouldn’t make a good player. I’ll stay back here and help Lizzy instead.”

Everyone turned to look at Lizzy. Antony winked at her. “Then let’s leave them to tidy up,” he said. With the wings in hand, he moved fast, not giving anyone a chance to get past him. With the limited space on the landing, they all had to file down the stairs or be swept off like the spools on the table.

Lizzy was left alone with Rafe.

Well. So be it. She would be all right. There was no need to be afraid anymore. He’d changed. She blew out a breath and picked up the stool.

“Let me help you.” He grabbed it and they performed a short tug-of-war until she let go. There was no way she could win. “Where do you want it?”

“Over there.”

He set the stool down where she indicated, and looked around at the stacked trunks, the crammed shelves, and the props hanging from the walls and beams. “You take care of all this?”

“Yes.”

He fingered a crown of dried leaves used for both Roman emperors and fairy royalty. “James would choose to be a tailor in a shop over this?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand that boy.” His pitch-black eyes searched her face. “Don’t understand him at all.”

She busied herself repacking one of the trunks but could still feel his gaze on her. She didn’t dare look up at him.

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“I don’t need help.”

“I know but I need to do something.”

She bit her lip. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Did he enjoy making her feel like an awkward fool?

He came up beside her, a looming tower of solidness. She edged away and he suddenly dropped to his haunches. “Is that better?”

“Is what better?”

“Me at this height.”

He thought she was afraid of him because he was tall? She pressed her lips together and lifted one shoulder.

He sighed and sat on the floor, leaning back against the table leg. “So tell me how it goes with that man Gripp?”

An intensity she’d never noticed before swam in those deep, dark eyes, like he was trying to see into her. Like he
could
see into her, right into her heart, her hopes and fears. Definitely her fears. It was unnerving, terrifying, and yet somehow thrilling. To be the focus of such a dangerous, mysterious man as Rafe was not something she was used to.

Why did he have to look at her like that? Why was he asking about Gripp? So he could kill him?

No. Of course not. That would be sheer foolishness. Whatever Rafe might be, he was not a fool. So what did the welfare of the company matter to him?

She opened the trunk and rummaged through the shirts inside, searching for something, anything, to keep herself busy so she didn’t have to look at him.

“Our future is still uncertain,” she said.

“Gripp has that much power over you?”

“The Master of Revels can ban our new plays and stop us performing at court, but he also has other means of ruining us. He can put pressure on Henslowe to have us removed from this theatre, for example. I doubt any other managers or landlords would lease their playhouses to us if they knew Gripp is against us.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him nod thoughtfully. “That was quite a long speech you made.”

She smothered a laugh and tightened her grip on whatever object she held. It was her anchor while her head suddenly felt light and giddy.

“Lizzy…” he began, his voice melodious, thick, and without a hint of humor. He paused for several beats as if considering his
next words carefully. “Is there a reason you don’t like looking at me?”

She dared a glance. He half-smiled as if he was unsure what reaction his question would receive. It was almost laughable that
he
was unsure of
her
. She who was predictable and reliable to the point of being dull.

She returned to studying the trunk’s contents.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“No,” she blurted out without thinking. “I mean, I’ve hardly spoken to you so…no.”

“Not even years ago, before I left London?”

“We’ve rarely spoken, ever, especially before you left,” she said crisply. “You were a great deal older than me.”

“Not a
great
deal.”

“Almost eight years.”

He whistled. “I’m an old man.”

He was making fun of her. A pox on him. She didn’t need to listen to such rudeness in her tiring house.

Except how could she get rid of him? Well, she
could
ask.

She gripped the hard object in the bottom of the trunk tighter for courage and stood. His brows shot up, surprised. He raised his hands in surrender.

“You really don’t like me that much?” he asked, standing.

She looked down and saw that she gripped the handle of a Roman-style sword. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t going to use it,” she said with a wave of her hand.

“Whoa.” He dodged out of the way of the blade. “That’s not how it looks from here.”

She winced. It got worse and worse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
Keep your mouth shut, Liz, and nothing foolish will fall out of it
.

“Is it real?”

She hefted it up so he could see but almost sliced him through the chin as he leaned forward. “Sorry!”

His lips quirked up in amusement. “Stop apologizing. There’s little chance you’ll do any real damage holding it like that.”

She frowned at the sword hilt. “How am I holding it?”

“Like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

“Not anymore.”

Her insides flipped. He looked at her again with that intense stare, the one that made her scalp prickle and her heart swell to thrice its size.

“Here,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He moved behind her and gently placed his right hand over hers on the sword hilt. His skin was warm but callused. The long fingers wrapped around hers, trapping them. He was so close she imagined she could feel his heart beating at her back, but she must have been mistaken because there were many layers of clothing between them.

Her
heartbeat on the other hand was like a rampaging warrior, smashing against bone with violent blows. Surely he could feel its vibrations through her body. If not then perhaps he could feel the heat sweeping over her with just as much force. Her reaction to him coupled with the melody of his rumbling voice made it impossible to concentrate on his words. He was saying something about her grip…or was it hip?

His thumb stroked hers for no discernible reason she could determine but it felt…wonderful. Comforting. Her heart slowed to a steadier rate but each
thump
was just as violent, just as bone-jarring.

His other hand rested on her waist and she adjusted her stance to better fit against him. Or did he do the adjusting somehow? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except those hands, the solidness of him, the feeling of being cocooned by a powerful man.

“Good,” he murmured into her hair above her ear. “Very, very good.”

His words sent a jolt through her. What was she doing? Rafe was dangerous and almost a stranger to her.

He was also James’s brother.

She pulled away and dropped the sword onto the rushes. “I’m sorry,” she said although she had no idea what she was sorry for. What had happened was entirely his fault. Most definitely all his fault.

She bent to pick up the sword but he caught her wrist. “Lizzy.” His eyes were half-closed like he was just waking up.

Then all of a sudden he shook his head and let go of her. His chest rose and fell like he’d been laboring long and hard. “I should go,” he said gruffly, turning away.

Oh. Well. Good.

Except there were some tasks she could set him doing, tasks that required strength and an extra pair of hands. Big, capable hands…

Like showing her how to hold a broadsword.

She cleared her throat. “Rafe, would—”

“You!” shouted Roger Style from below. “Bloody pig’s pizzle! Get out of my theatre!”

The sound of wood shattering sent Lizzy running for the stairs. Rafe was a step ahead of her.

“I
said, get out of my theatre!” Roger stood with hands on hips, feet apart, and chin thrust forward in the classic hero pose for which he was famous. An audience of mostly groundlings paying a penny for entry would have gasped or cheered, but an audience of players who knew him well simply shook their heads.

“He’s not the only pizzle in this room,” Freddie muttered.

Roger ignored him. The short, flat-faced man he confronted laughed so hard it became a snort. He must be Gripp. The only other man Roger would order to leave was the lead actor and cosharer of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, Richard Burbage, and the newcomer wasn’t he.

“It’s not
your
theatre,” Gripp said, smiling beneath a long, drooping moustache. “It’s Henslowe’s.”

It was true. Lord Hawkesbury’s Players leased the Rose off the Admiral’s Men and their manager, Philip Henslowe. Both companies performed there several times per week, often one after the other. It made for a crowded tiring house at times.

Roger took a step toward Gripp and kicked aside the pieces of a stool which had suffered most from his tirade. “If you don’t get out,” he snarled, “I’ll kill you.”

Lizzy exchanged a worried glance with Antony on the other side of the room until Rafe gently drew her behind him. If it had been anyone else she would have dug her elbow into his ribs and chastised him, but since it was Rafe she simply stepped out from his shadow.

“Steady, Roger,” Edward said to his brother. “We don’t want a scene here. The audience will be arriving soon.”

“I don’t give a toss about the audience,” Roger said without moving his jaw or lips. “I want this man gone from my presence. He’s poisoning the air of this hallowed theatre.”

“You’re an arse,” Gripp said. “And you couldn’t kill a bee if it stung you on that beak of a nose.” He rocked on his heels, looking pleased with himself. “Now, care to know why I’m here?”

“No,” Roger, Edward, and Henry said at once.

“I’m here to tell you
The Spoils of War
has been banned.”

“Banned!” Roger bellowed.

“Why?” asked Henry.

“It’s a vile piece of work,” Gripp said.

“Vile!” Roger huffed and snorted and wagged a finger at his nemesis. “How is it any different from any other play put on by this company or indeed Lord Chamberlain’s Men?”

“You speak of yourselves in the same breath as that illustrious troupe! You’re a fool as well as an arse, Style.”

Teeth bared, Roger took a step forward but was held back by Edward and Henry. Rafe made no move to assist them. He simply crossed his arms and watched the proceedings with interest.

“You…you vindictive
swine
!” Roger shouted. “Selfish, ox-brained…pizzle!”

Gripp laughed. “That’s all you can come up with? Maybe Jonson could pen better insults for you. He certainly has a knack for them if
The Spoils of War
is an indication.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that play,” Roger snapped. “It contains nothing of a treasonous nature.”

“I didn’t say it was treasonous.”

“Then what’s wrong with it?” Edward asked.

Gripp smoothed down his moustache with his finger and thumb, drawing out the dramatic pause as expertly as any master actor. “I don’t need to answer to any of you.”

Lizzy held her breath as Roger exploded with a series of curses that made even Freddie’s eyes pop.

“I think we get the idea,” Rafe said in that calm but commanding voice of his. It got everyone’s attention, even Roger’s midtirade.

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Gripp said, triumphant.

But Roger would not be silenced. “All this hatred because Margaret chose me over you,” he said with a sneer.

That seemed to put a prick into Gripp and deflate him.

“It’s no surprise to anyone that she did,” Roger went on. “Look at you with your sour face and your dreary clothes. You are a dull, small man with an inflated opinion of himself. Leaving you was the best thing she ever did.”

Gripp’s cheeks reddened above his magnificent whiskers. “You
stole
her,” he hissed. “You seduced her with your swaggering hips and your lewd ways.” His gaze swept around the room, taking in each of the onlookers. “You’re all vile creatures, acting in your crude plays for a barbaric audience. At least the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are a refined lot.” Someone—Henry?—snorted. “They’re the only company fit to perform in front of the queen. The only ones I’ll
allow
to perform for her. You and your
men
” —he jerked his head at Antony— “will never grace her audience chamber again with your filthy ways.”

“Filthy!” Antony cried. “I am certainly
not
filthy, unlike some others I could mention.” He gave Freddie a pointed glare. Freddie merely shrugged.

Lizzy edged closer to Antony and squeezed his hand. “Pay him no mind,” she whispered.

“I don’t care about court,” Roger said to Gripp. His lips stretched into a white, flat line. “This is where the money is, where the audience truly appreciates our art.”

He was lying. Roger cared more about performing at court than he did about his own children. He idolized the queen and adored staging plays for her. It appealed to his snobbish nature.

“I
will
ruin you,” Gripp went on. “I’ll make sure your audiences grow bored of you, and when they grow bored, they’ll maul you out there. They’ll make you wish you’d never become an actor, make you want to crawl back in here. I’ll ruin you, Roger Style, and your troupe.”

With a frenzied cry, Roger ran at him again. Once more Henry and Edward had to hold him back. Rafe shifted closer but didn’t interfere. He seemed more interested than a stranger should be.

“You destroy my company and I
will
kill you,” Roger spat.

Gripp laughed and teased his moustache. “Of course you will.”

“You might not think me capable.” Roger’s gaze switched to Rafe and lingered before focusing once more on Gripp. “But I know someone who is.”

Rafe straightened to his full, formidable height and his face became strangely blank, not empty but masked. A chill crept down Lizzy’s spine. He was once more the youth she remembered from her childhood—cold, detached, ruthless.

“I think it’s time for Mr. Gripp to leave,” he said.

Gripp cleared his throat and nodded as he backed through the tiring house curtain and out onto the stage beyond. “Ah, yes, well, good day to you, sir.” He doffed his hat without taking his eyes off Rafe.

“Good riddance,” Roger shouted after him.

No one else spoke. The rest of the troupe, including Lizzy, watched Rafe. She didn’t know what she expected him to do or say but she did expect some sort of reaction.

But there was no reaction of any kind in those deep, black eyes. Rafe simply stared at Roger, who took no notice of him.

“Where’s that devil’s costume?” he roared. “Elizabeth! I need it now!” He snapped his fingers at Lizzy.

In a move so fast it was a blur, Rafe caught Roger’s fingers, silencing the snaps. “Do not shout at her,” he said evenly.
“The costume is upstairs. Go and get it yourself.” There was no menace in his voice. It wasn’t necessary. He had a way of sounding threatening without so much as a change of tone.

Roger’s face drained and he made a squeaking noise. “I…I will. I mean I was. Just needed to check with her first.”

Rafe let go and Roger tucked his hand under his armpit. He scampered up the stairs without looking back.

The rest of the troupe exchanged glances then dispersed to prepare for the performance. More than one kept a wary eye on Rafe. Antony winked at Lizzy then went upstairs in search of his costume.

Lizzy picked up the prompt book and hugged the bound pages to her chest. She was all too aware of Rafe nearby, watching her. She didn’t need to see him to know; she could feel his gaze on her. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he leave?

Did she want him to leave?

“Lizzy—”

“You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’m sure you would rather be anywhere else but here after…”

“No.”

“I’m sorry about Roger.”

“Don’t be. It doesn’t concern me. I’m worried about you. This fight between Style and Gripp looks like it might turn nastier.”

“Don’t concern yourself. It’ll probably all blow over.” She bit her lip. She didn’t believe that at all. If Gripp had banned
The Spoils of War
for no apparent reason, what would he do next? She hazarded a glance at Rafe, just a brief one, and saw that he was indeed still watching her. “I’m sorry Roger implied what he did about you.”

He laughed softly. “Worse things have been implied about me. Some of them were even true.”

Like what Roger said—Rafe was capable of killing.

“Lizzy? What’s wrong?” He frowned and stepped toward her.

She moved quickly away. Her skirts brushed against a stool, pushing it over, and she bent to pick it up. It gave her an excuse to not look at him, to not see the confusion in those endlessly dark eyes.

“I better go,” he muttered. “Do you remember why I came—about my friend who’s a little mad?” She nodded. “He’s tall, like me, with longish brown hair. Don’t let him in.”

By the time she’d digested that order and looked up, he was gone.

The Marshalsea prison was crowded, damp, and stank worse than a pair of old boots. Hughe’s money had bought James a clean cell with only three others and a sackful of food. There was no more coin left.

James sat in the corner on a pallet, his forehead resting on his drawn-up knees. He looked up long enough to see the warden let Rafe in, then lowered his head with a groan.

“Unless you’ve paid off my debts you can go away,” he said.

“That’s no way to greet your only kin.” Rafe dropped the sack at his brother’s feet and sat down. “I brought bread, cheese, and apples. Don’t eat them all at once.” He eyed James’s cell mates, who all watched him back, one openly and two surreptitiously. None looked to be starving but the big one, the one who didn’t hide his interest, had a cockiness about him that could be dangerous if he decided to prove his superior strength. “There’ll be enough to share around if need be.”

James peered inside the sack. “Did you steal all this?”

“No, little brother. I sold an old sword I don’t use anymore.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily enough and James accepted it with a shrug and bit into an apple.

“Everything well here?” Rafe asked, keeping one eye on the big prisoner. Their gazes met and the other man’s held steady. That alone set him apart. Usually the cocky sort saw the warning and backed down. Even the big ones. Either this oaf was too stupid or he was throwing out a challenge.

“Everything’s perfect here,” James said with obvious sarcasm. “I only got bitten two hundred times last night by whatever is living in this pallet and I’m fortunate to be able to see the feet of passersby through that window. Sometimes they even throw us little presents through the bars, like mud or rotten fruit.”

He was lucky that’s all they threw in.

“Has anyone been to visit you?” He considered telling James about Barker but decided against it. James had enough troubles of his own.

“No. Nobody but you knows I’m in here.”

“Good. And don’t worry. I’ll get you out.”

James sighed and rubbed a hand through hair not yet as dirty as that of his fellow inmates. In another few days it would become greasy and itch like the devil. “Thank you, Rafe, you’re a good brother. Always have been.” He offered up a weak smile then looked quickly away, but not before Rafe saw the tears in his eyes. There was no need to ask what they were for. They both knew.

“I could have been better.”
Should
have been better. “I could have been here more.”

“You think I wouldn’t be in prison if you were around?” All trace of sentimentality was gone. Defiance flashed in James’s eyes where before they’d swum with despair. “I am not a child, Rafe.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. I know what you meant. You think I’m not capable of taking care of my own affairs.”

It was no use arguing with him. James was a young man, angry at himself and the world. More than anyone, he knew that a few days in prison wouldn’t be long enough to knock that out of him. It would take time and perhaps a few life-threatening events. Or a woman. Lizzy could do it. She’d be good for James. A sensible, leveling influence.

He rested his head back against the wall with his eyes closed—a bad idea because it brought memories of the way Lizzy had felt against him when he’d shown her how to hold the sword. She’d been soft, her skin smooth, and she smelled of honey. Even now, amid all the filth of the prison, he could conjure up the scent of her.

“Rafe? Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes to see James frowning at him and guilt swamped Rafe. For God’s sake, she was his brother’s intended! “Yes.”

“You seem a little unwell.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Rafe tried to force every last thought of Lizzy away but his efforts failed. He worried about her. The situation between Gripp and Style looked volatile and the company’s ruin at the hands of Gripp seemed inevitable.