To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players) (5 page)

With a sigh, Lizzy picked up the pair of wings she’d left on the table overnight and sat at the high stool. She threaded a needle and carefully pierced the delicate holland fabric near a tear. It was an activity that required her concentration so as not to ruin the wing altogether—a blessing since it meant she
thought less about Walter Gripp bringing the company to an end.

As the morning wore on, more players and stagehands arrived. Usually a crowded tiring house meant laughter and chatter in between preparing sets and learning lines. But not this time. They brought nothing but more gloom with them and a silence that crept into every corner and festered like an open wound.

It was almost a relief when Roger Style finally burst in and shouted, “We’re doomed!” He had a flair for making dramatic entries. As manager and actor for Lord Hawkesbury’s Players, he’d perfected the art of attention seeking in a trade full of attention seekers. But his explosive statement, complete with door slamming and a well-timed pause, was excessive even for him.

Ordinarily such histrionics would produce eye rolls from the others or a snigger, but this time Roger had everyone’s attention. Everyone except Freddie. He let out a loud, nasally snore. Roger cut a swath through the tiring house and kicked Freddie’s feet off the stool. The actor snorted and snuffled awake.

“Bloody hell! Who fu—?” He swallowed the rest of the sentence when he saw Roger standing over him, hands on hips. “Oh, it’s you.” Once upon a time Freddie would not have curtailed his language for anyone, including his employer.
Especially
him. Freddie had grown up with the company, first acting in the female roles then moving on to the male ones when his voice deepened.

He’d changed in the nine years since Lizzy had joined Lord Hawkesbury’s Players. So had she, but in an entirely different way. Freddie may have learned to temper his more outlandish behavior, whereas she had shed her inhibitions and stepped out from behind her father’s shadow. In the tiring house at least. These days she and Freddie alike valued their positions within the company and neither could afford to leave.

“We
are
doomed,” said Freddie to no one in particular.

“Well?” Edward asked Roger. “What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” said Freddie. “He’s not going to come in here and announce ‘we’re doomed’ if everything has been smoothed over.”

Edward shot him a glare. “Shut it, Putney.”

“He’s right for once,” Roger said.

“Gripp’s rejected the next play too?” Henry asked.

Roger had supplied the Revels office with another play the day before. Gripp had promised to have an answer for them that morning. “He said nothing about the play. All he did was tell me he thinks I’m a scourge.” He snatched the prompt book off Henry and held it up as if it were a bible blessed by the archbishop himself. The pages flipped back and forth as he waved it about above his head. “If the Master of Revels gets his way, this is the last new play we’ll be performing in London. Ever.”

The Master of Revels
would
get his way, of course. There was no one to stop him.

“How long before our audiences grow bored with our current stock?” Henry asked. “Another season?”

“A week or two is my guess,” Edward said.

“I wonder if Burbage is hiring,” Freddie muttered.

“I’ll not go to that pompous ass if he begs me,” Roger said.

“He doesn’t have any work,” Henry said. He shrugged. “I already asked.”

“We could travel,” Edward said. “Until Gripp forgets and becomes reasonable again.” But he didn’t sound convincing and no one agreed. Gripp’s feud with Style had gone on for nearly a decade, it was likely to last as long or longer and none of them wished to traipse across the country forever. Besides, though he might not have any authority outside of London, a man in his position would have powerful friends who did.

“Perhaps he’ll die,” Freddie said.

“Freddie!” Lizzy chided. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Not unreasonable though,” he said with a shrug. “He’s aged. Aged people die.”

“He’s not aged,” Roger said. “He’s younger than me.”

Freddie snorted. Roger stalked over to him and dropped the collection of bound pages that acted as the prompt book into his lap. Freddie yelped but picked up the only complete version of the play and began reading.

The tiring house settled once more into uneasy silence. “Lizzy?” Antony whispered, leaning closer. He flicked his curls over his shoulder, but not with the self-conscious flourish of earlier. He rarely bothered with the artifice around Lizzy. “Did you speak to your betrothed? Did he agree to an earlier wedding when you explained your predicament?”

She winced as the sharp reminder of her conversation with James came back to her. “No. He hasn’t agreed. Not to bring it forward and not to marry me.”

“But…you said…”

She shook her head and looked down at the wings. They were so fine, so pretty, but terribly damaged. They were a central part of the play, worn by the fairy king, and she had to fix them or the performance would be ruined. “I know what I said.” She fingered the wings. “James and I were never
actually
betrothed. There was a general sort of agreement between us, a long-standing acknowledgment that we would one day wed. There still is,” she hastened to add. “He had to leave London for a few days, but we’ll discuss it upon his return.”

Antony kissed the top of her head. “Good. I’m glad you’ll be secure.”

Lizzy finished mending the wings and left them on the table. They were too big to take upstairs then bring down again when the performance was only a few hours away. “I’ll be in the storage room if anyone needs me,” she said, rising.

“Those wings repaired yet?” Roger called out when she was halfway up the stairs.

“Yes.”

“And the devil’s tail? We need it for today.”

“I’m going to do it now. Won’t take long.”

She worked steadily in the storage room alone for the rest of the morning, listening to the sounds of the actors rehearsing downstairs. The first one to come up and see her sometime later was Freddie, surprisingly.

“God’s balls, it’s like somebody died down there,” he said, throwing himself onto a stool and almost toppling off the other side. He belched and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You’ll need to visit the barber before you go onstage,” Lizzy said.

Freddie rubbed his chin where a reddish growth had sprung up. Ever since he’d stopped playing the female roles, he’d tried to grow a beard but the hair sprouted in clumpy, uneven patches and Roger usually made him shave it off. Sometimes Freddie even complied.

He belched again. “Care to do it for me, Liz?”

“There isn’t enough incentive in the world to induce me to touch you, Freddie.”

He managed to pull a face and, thankfully, left. She picked up a fan and waved it in the direction of the stool until the smell of him dispersed.

“Ugh,” said Antony, holding his nose as he came through the door. “That man is disgraceful. To think he used to perform the female roles.”

“He was good,” she said, “but not as good as you.”

He blew her a kiss and sat on the stool. “It’s awful down there. Everyone’s so worried.”

She handed him a mess of twine and directed him to untangle it while she finished sewing the tail back on the devil’s
costume. Henry Wells had stood on it during the previous performance and torn it off, leaving a large hole in the rear. The audience had erupted in laughter but Roger, playing the role of the devil, had been furious when he gotten off stage. He’d blamed Henry for his clumsiness and Lizzy for her poor workmanship. Henry had apologized later for making her look bad. She told him not to worry. Ever since she could recall, Roger had blown up over the slightest matter, especially when he was made to look the fool in front of an audience. When she’d been younger, his tantrums used to frighten her, but as she grew up she saw that he was all bluster and no one paid him much attention.

“Has there been any more talk about Gripp and his ill intentions?” she asked.

Antony’s long, nimble fingers worked deftly on the knotted twine. “They’re discussing how long before Lady Blakewell could get a new play to us and whether Gripp would dare ban it.”

Minerva Blakewell had been writing plays for the company for years, but not as many as she used to thanks to her growing brood of children. She and Blake—now Sir Robert Blakewell—had three at last count and another on the way. Unfortunately, the play currently being read by the Master of Revels wasn’t one of Min’s but Ben Jonson’s.

Jonson had been jailed the year before for cowriting a lewd and seditious comedy,
The Isle of Dogs
. Gripp’s predecessor had not only banned it but reported it to the Privy Council. The noblemen, usually favorable toward the players, had been outraged at the way the play treated the queen and ordered the writers to be jailed. Jonson had found himself in the Marshalsea for two months. Although the incident had blown over, Jonson’s name was a tainted one. It wouldn’t take much for the new Master of Revels to claim Jonson’s latest play unfit for an audience and everyone would believe him.

“So we wait,” she said.

“Aye. We wait.”

They conversed on less serious matters until it was almost time to take the costumes downstairs for the players to change into. “Try the fairy queen’s wings on,” she said to Antony. “I adjusted them a little so hopefully they’re more comfortable.”

The enormous pair of wings complete with long ribbons attached to the lower edge was as large as the door when turned sideways. She stood on the stool to assist him into the straps.

“Walk over there,” she said.

He did but didn’t judge the distance to the table well and the wings skimmed across its surface, sweeping off the spools of thread. “Sorry.” He bent to pick them up and knocked three hats and a Roman centurion’s helmet off their wall hooks. Antony cursed and Lizzy giggled.

“At least we know they’re not likely to break easily like the fairy king’s pair,” she said.

“I was going to perform a spin but I think I’d better just take them downstairs.” He headed for the door.

“Antony! Remove them first!”

He winked. “I was only teasing you. Of course I was going to take them off.”

She scowled. “Very amusing. No, stay there. I’ll come to you. Another step and you might completely wreck my storage room.” She jumped off the stool, picked it up, and carried it to where he stood near the open doorway. She climbed back up and gently untied the first strap. “Hold this side while I do the other,” she said.

Antony didn’t move. “Good lord,” he said on a breath. “Who is
that
?” He leaned forward, pulling the wings with him.

“Stay still,” she snapped. “Now hold this side please.”

“He’s coming up here,” he whispered.

“Antony!” she barked. “Concentrate or you’ll break them.”

“Can I help?” She heard the deep, familiar voice before she saw him. Then the tall, broad-shouldered frame of Rafe Fletcher filled the doorway. He looked imposing with the stern set of his jaw and his fierce black eyes scanning the storeroom. There was no friendly twinkle in their depths today.

Distracted, Lizzy almost toppled off the stool, but Rafe reached past Antony’s wingless side and steadied her with a hand to her elbow. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.

“You can help in any way you want,” Antony said, his face all but buried in Rafe’s chest.

Rafe let Lizzy go and held the wings while she undid the other strap and slipped them off Antony’s shoulders. The player didn’t move out of the way.

She pinched his arm. He yelped and stepped aside to allow Rafe in. With the wings in one hand, held high so they didn’t scrape on the floor, he helped her down from the stool. His gloveless fingers were surprisingly warm. And big. Very big.

She gulped and turned away, cursing her pale complexion that had grown hot upon his arrival and hotter still when he touched her.

“Where do you want these?” he asked.

“I’ll take them,” Antony said.

She turned back when she could hear no movement. Rafe held out the wings to Antony but Antony hadn’t moved. He simply stared at Rafe, a delicate blush infusing his cheeks too. Rafe frowned and shook the wings. Antony smiled.

“I’m Antony,” he said. “And you are?”

“Getting tired of holding these for you.”

Antony giggled and took the wings.

“My name’s Rafe Fletcher. I live next door to Lizzy.”

Antony’s eyes widened. “James’s brother?”

“You’ve met him?”

“Of course. He’s Lizzy’s…” He glanced at her. “…friend.”

“He’s gone away for a while. I’m looking after her in his absence.”

I’m right here
, she wanted to say but couldn’t. Her tongue had tied itself into a knot.

Antony glanced at her, frowned, no doubt waiting for her to speak and wondering why she didn’t. He turned back to Rafe. “She’s very good at looking after herself.”

Rafe smiled and Antony loudly sucked in a breath. Lizzy had to admit the effect of the large, imposing man with perfect teeth in a perfect smile was quite a sight to behold. It was entirely unexpected too. She thought he’d frown and stomp about and perhaps curse like he used to when he was younger. She didn’t know he had a sense of humor.

She smiled too. Rafe glanced at her and it shriveled up.

“Then it seems I’m in for an easy time ahead,” he said and clapped Antony on the shoulder.

Antony stumbled to the side and would have dropped the wings if Rafe hadn’t steadied him in the same manner he’d steadied Lizzy, by catching his elbow.

“Will you be able to take those downstairs on your own?” he asked Antony.

“I’m sure one of them will help me.”

Rafe and Lizzy followed Antony’s gaze to the doorway. Henry, Roger, Edward, Freddie, and one of the hirelings stood in a huddle like naughty children.

Henry was the first to speak. “Everything all right?” he asked Lizzy with a glance at Rafe.

She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

The tall, blond actor tilted his square chin at Rafe. “This fellow came in and asked after you. Freddie told him you were upstairs before any of us could find out what he wanted.”