Margaret Moore (2 page)

Yet when she looked at them closely, she saw the waterman’s leer.

“No, we do not require any assistance,” she replied, pulling Will closer.

“Oh, you cannot mean that,” the first man said, stepping uncomfortably close to her. His wine-soaked breath made her want to gag. “You must allow us to help you. Otherwise, who knows what might happen to such a beauty in this wicked place?”

His friends likewise staggered oppressively closer. Elissa looked around to see if anyone would come to her aid.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if everyone on the crowded thoroughfare suddenly found his own concerns of grave import.

“I thank you, but my son and I do not require any assistance,” she repeated defiantly.

The man in green chuckled, and it was a decidedly unpleasant sound. “Gad, every woman requires a man now and then,” he slurred, stepping closer.

“Go away!” Will commanded imperiously, but with a tremor in his voice.

This only elicited another chortle from the man and his cronies. They began to move en masse, forcing Elissa and Will back toward an alley.

What can I do? Elissa thought with something close to panic. She could shove her way past them, but they might give chase. How far and how fast could she run with Will? And which way should she go?

“To quote from the play I saw last week,”
the man in green murmured slyly, “‘a flower blooms unexpectedly among the refuse, and who shall pluck it out?’”

“Zounds, Sedley, if you must quote me, have the goodness to get it right,” a deep, sardonic, masculine voice declared nearby.

As if in answer to her silent prayer for help, the man wearing black from the other boat shoved his way past the fruit seller and his customers. He sauntered toward them, his sword drawn, yet held loosely in his hand as if he intended to do nothing more serious than clean his nails with it.

His round-faced colleague came bustling along behind him, smiling and nodding as if this were a meeting at a ball or something equally innocuous.

“‘A rose blooms in the rubbish’ is the proper line,” the stranger from the boat continued, speaking to the man he had addressed as Sedley, “and I never said anything so crude as ‘pluck it out.’”

He bowed toward Elissa, then turned toward Sedley’s besotted companions. “Good day, Lord Buckhurst.”

One of the other men grinned drunkenly and waved his
mouchoir.
The flimsy, perfumed square of linen fluttered about as if he were trying to wave away a pesky insect.

“And good day to you, too, Jermyn,” the black-clad man continued. “Is my Lady Castlemaine out of sorts with you again, that you
must accost women in the streets?”

“Odd’s fish, ‘tis the cavalier playwright himself,” Jermyn replied with a sneer.

Elissa’s eyes widened as she regarded her sardonic savior. Surely he couldn’t be …? Of all the men in London!

The cavalier playwright, who had not yet sheathed his sword, ignored the sarcastic remark. He reached out to take Elissa’s gloved hand, bending as if he would kiss it.

Instinctively, she snatched it away.

Although the expression in his eyes altered ever so slightly, the man said nothing. However, if he was who she suspected, she didn’t care what he thought of her.

“You write plays?” Will asked with all the disappointed scorn a six-year-old could muster. “I thought you were going to fight him.”

“There is no need for fighting in the street,” Elissa said, desperate to get away from all these men, and most especially the man who had been about to kiss her hand.

The cavalier playwright looked down at Will. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but there must not be a duel.” He raised his voice and spoke with apparent gravity. “These fine fellows are friends of the king, you see, and so must be treated with the utmost respect.”

Elissa thought it was a good thing these alleged friends of the king could not see the wry mockery in the playwright’s eyes.

“Oh,” Will mumbled, still disappointed.

The man dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They are so drunk, it would hardly be fair.”

The playwright’s round-faced friend grinned, his expression as delighted as if he, too, were six years old. “I assure you, my boy, this is quite the finest swordsman you’re ever likely to meet. Truly, for him to fight them in their present state of inebriation would be most unchivalrous.”

Wide-eyed with childish awe, Will nodded, looking at the cavalier, whose lips twisted up into a small—very small—smile.

“Yes, well, we must be on our way,” Elissa said, trying to sound firm and decisive even though her heart pounded and her legs felt weak.

Their savior stepped forward, blocking her way, and in his eyes was a commanding look that rooted her to the spot. “The king’s friends are leaving.”

“Gad, who do you think you are to command me, you:… you scribbler?” Sedley cried.

“You know who I am,” the cavalier replied quietly, and without taking his steadfast gaze from Elissa’s face. “Therefore you can surmise that it might be wiser to leave, for I am the king’s friend, too.”

This seemed to be a cue to the besotted man’s cronies to stagger forward and, ignoring his loud protests, half-drag him toward the nearby tavern.

Elissa was very glad to be rid of them. Regrettably, there was still the problem of the man standing before her, who continued to regard her with his dark, inscrutable eyes.

“Has no one ever told you it is impolite to stare?” she demanded at last.

“Has no one ever told you that you are beautiful?”

“I suggest, sir, that you save your flattery for women who will appreciate it.”

“Of which there are many,” the cavalier agreed evenly.

He swept his hat from his head and bowed elegantly. “You have not permitted me to introduce myself. I am Sir Richard Blythe. Your servant, madam.”

His friend likewise pulled his hat from his head and attempted a gallant bow, only to drag his pristine plume through the muck in the street.

“Lord Cheddersby, at your service,” he stammered as he straightened. Then he stared at his ruined headwear in dismay, his stunned expression eliciting a giggle from Will.

Elissa gave her son a severe look. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said, lifting her petticoat, overskirt, and cloak up out of the dirt, preparing to leave.

“Haven’t you heard of Sir Richard Blythe?” Lord Cheddersby demanded incredulously.

“Yes, I have.”

Indeed, she knew all about Sir Richard
Blythe. She had heard of his plays, with their sharp-tongued wives and supposedly clever mistresses, and their plots of adultery and deception. She had heard of the immoral verse he wrote.

Nor would it surprise her in the least if, despite his outwardly harmless appearance, Lord Cheddersby was Sir Richard’s companion in decadent pastimes. Her late husband had taught her that men were not always what they seemed.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she repeated as she resolutely marched away, clutching Will’s hand tightly.

Despite her inner turmoil, she noted that the crowd no longer seemed to find their own business so fascinating, for as she pushed her way forward, everyone stared at her with blatant curiosity.

She tried to ignore them all as she desperately scanned the street for a coach to hire. She had heard that the king had tried to limit the number in the city without much success. Why, then, could she not find one now?

She finally spotted a likely-looking conveyance and began to wave her hand, to no avail.

Then, with a start, she realized Sir Richard Blythe had come to stand beside her. Even more astounding, he suddenly put his fingers in his mouth and whistled as loudly as the waterman had.

Will stared at him admiringly when a hackney
coach rolled to a stop beside them.

Sir Richard smiled at him. “It’s not difficult, you know, with a little practice. I would be happy to teach you.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing you or your friend could teach my son that he needs to learn,” Elissa said, opening the door to the coach without waiting for assistance.

After she and her son had gotten inside, she yanked the door closed as if she were being chased by a band of brigands. Without so much as a glance at the man who had come to her aid, she ordered the coachman to drive to the Inns of Court.

Sheathing his sword, Richard watched the coach rattle out of sight.

A slightly breathless Fozbury Cheddersby came to stand beside him. He sighed rapturously. “Wasn’t she beautiful?”

“Beautiful enough to have captured your fancy, I see,” Richard replied coolly as he started to walk toward their original destination, Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre.

The shorter-legged Foz trotted to keep up with him. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

“I seek something beyond pleasing features to determine whether a woman is truly beautiful.”

And if this woman seemed to possess that something composed of spirit and intelligence and determination that made her worthy of
his admiration, Richard would never say so to Foz.

Indeed, if he did, the information would likely throw poor old Foz into a spasm of shock.

“She did look as if she were … well… smelling a bad odor,” Foz noted.

If it was only the stench of the city that brought that displeased look to her face and had nothing to do with him, that was a surprisingly welcome observation. “Perhaps she was.”

Foz lowered his head slightly and sniffed surreptitiously. “It couldn’t have been
me
—or you, either,” he hastened to add.

“I never thought it was.”

“She didn’t tell us her name.”

“Nor did she give us any thanks. We would have done better to leave her to fend for herself.”

“Richard!”

The playwright deftly sidestepped a particularly malodorous pile of dung. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it. Still,” he went on thoughtfully, “I think we can assume the fair unknown would have triumphed over Sedley and his friends in the end.”

“Do you suppose she’s married?”

“Since she has a child with her who resembles her and a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, we can assume she is.”

“How do you know she had a ring?”

“I felt it through her glove.”

Indeed, it was almost as if he could still feel her supple fingers in his.

“If she’s married, it is no wonder you are not very intrigued by her.”

Richard remained silent. This once, however, he was very tempted to break his own rule and ignore the sanctity of the married state, like most noblemen he knew.

“She could be a widow,” Foz offered hopefully.

Richard halted. “Foz, if you are fascinated by that ungrateful female, I suggest you refrain from pointing out such possibilities to potential rivals. Fortunately, I have other, more important things with which to occupy my time. My new play is starting in less than an hour, and I have an audience with the king after that.”

“Oh, yes, yes, to be sure.”

“If you want her, you’ll have to find her again, you know,” Richard continued in a conciliatory tone as he began to walk again. “If you are truly that desperate, I shall assist you in any way I can.”

Foz smiled delightedly. “I shall gladly accept your assistance—whenever you are not otherwise engaged, of course.”

Richard bowed and waved his hand regally. “I shall be yours to command, whenever I can spare the time from my important literary pursuits,”
he said with a subtle self-mockery that was quite lost on Foz.

Foz beamed. “I shall be most appreciative, Richard! The lad was a fine little fellow, wasn’t he?”

“Was he?”

“Almost enough to make a man want a son of his own, eh?”

“No.”

Richard’s tone of finality obviously suggested a change of subject. “Are you worried about what the king wants with you?”

Unfortunately, this subject was not one Richard particularly cared to discuss, either.

“No,” Richard lied. “I daresay he merely wishes me to compose an ode praising the latest woman to catch his fancy.”

“It could be about your estate.”

“If I thought that every time His Majesty summoned me to Whitehall, I would be prostrate with despair by now. He has had plenty of time to restore my property to me, and has not.”

“You know why he cannot,” Foz said, starting to pant. “It was sold by your uncle—quite legally, at the time. If Charles returns your estate to you as a reward for your faithful service in exile, he will have to compensate the new owner, and then other dispossessed noblemen will demand the same. The king cannot afford it.”

“I want only what is rightfully mine. Blythe
Hall and the land around it has been in my family for six hundred years. My uncle was able to sell it only because I was serving the king. Otherwise, I would have been able to prevent him from doing so.”

“Perhaps Charles has persuaded the new owners to sell it to you,” Foz suggested.

“Charles is not the only one with financial difficulties.”

“I know that, and you have but to ask—”

“I cannot afford to pay even a fraction of what it’s worth.”

“You could if you would let me—”

“No, Foz.”

“A mortgage—”

“I don’t make that much from my writing.”

“There would be the income from the estate.”

Richard sniffed. “I imagine it’s down to a pittance. The man who bought it died a few years ago, I heard, and left it to his widow. An old woman can’t run an estate properly.”

“No, no, of course not,” Foz agreed. He cocked his head to one side, reminding Richard of an inquisitive chicken. “Are you going to change before you go to Whitehall?”

“Into what? A fashionable courtier?”

In truth, Richard knew where this conversation was heading and was secretly amused.

As he expected, Foz protested immediately. “You cannot wear that to meet with the king!”

“I see nothing wrong with my attire. Black suits me.”

“But your breeches—”

“I will not wear those petticoat things,” Richard answered, glancing at Foz’s own fulsome breeches which were made of enough fabric to drape every window on the street.

They were also slung so low on his hips, they looked in imminent danger of slipping off, and his shirt bloused over the waist so fully he could have hidden an entire loaf of bread in it with no one the wiser.