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The Rake's Bargain
Lucy Ashford


THE STAGE IS SETDeborah O’Hara loves leading her troupe of actors. But when she becomes entangled in a web of secrets spun by the rakishly handsome Damian Beaumaris, Duke of Cirencester, she is forced to play the hardest role of her life. That of the stunning but disloyal Paulette, the Duke’s widowed sister-in-law.To regain the honour of his family Beau needs Deb’s help. But, despite his intention to let nothing distract him from his plan, he doesn’t bargain on the forbidden sparks that fly with his beautiful leading lady…









‘I want justice for my brother,’ Beau replied.


‘No, you don’t,’ Deb answered him coolly. ‘It’s your pride making you do this. It’s my belief that you just cannot bear anyone getting the better of you.’

Beau’s eyes were narrow slits. ‘My motives, Miss O’Hara, aren’t yours to question.’

‘But your strategy is, since I’m to play a major part in it! How can I seriously pretend to be Paulette?’

Her composure appeared to be cracking at last. She got to her feet and walked to and fro.

He too rose and came slowly towards her, and she was utterly shaken by the lithe movement of his lean body, by the sense of his power and strength. She’d never met anyone like him, and she knew she was in deep, deep trouble.

‘You will be Paulette,’ he said. ‘We shall make you Paulette in every way.’




AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_4f9be17b-7287-576d-8d85-d17c0109809f)


In Regency times troupes of actors roamed the English countryside from spring to autumn, presenting a variety of entertainments to the usually appreciative crowds who gathered to see them. Deb O’Hara, heroine of THE RAKE’S BARGAIN, leads one of these travelling troupes, and it’s her dream to find a permanent theatre for them some day, in London. But first she has to face a rather formidable opponent—Damian Beaumaris, known as Beau, who isn’t impressed in the slightest by her theatrical skills!

As ever, I’ve found writing about the Regency era an absolute delight, and I really hope you enjoy Deb and Beau’s story.


LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

Lucy lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, both of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

You can contact Lucy via her website:

www.lucyashford.com (http://www.lucyashford.com)


The Rake’s

Bargain

Lucy Ashford






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents

Cover (#ufdc9b5e1-20f2-5bd9-a415-9a98e426cd0e)

Introduction (#ub6f329cc-c591-557a-95b9-4ff759082240)

AUTHOR NOTE (#ud82f646e-5792-546b-8d7e-10e9a4363893)

About the Author (#uf799a63f-aeff-566c-ad98-92d22c7a1a68)

Title Page (#u35ecd8ad-9fee-5c0a-b0f0-fda7deaef741)

Chapter One (#u63c99a72-dda1-5a6d-8f18-16027097337c)

Chapter Two (#uc52a3dc2-3768-5685-9d5b-0554dea69fc5)

Chapter Three (#u2296cb14-e6b9-535f-a685-4bd1e5237e35)

Chapter Four (#u44059117-c09a-58f0-a656-69b8b9090f29)

Chapter Five (#u7352d7fb-0a96-5f95-8e74-670fd0db7f58)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_d6a7f436-7d96-5258-8ec1-6bb3c00fc002)

June 1803

Miss Deborah O’Hara pressed herself close to the ivy-covered mansion and tried not to flinch as the rain trickled off the brim of her cap and dripped steadily—coldly—down inside her jacket collar. She’d scrambled over the boundary wall and run here through the shrubbery, keeping her head low; but now she was able to look around. Now she was able to see that the acres of formal gardens stretching away on all sides were quite deserted—and as waterlogged as the overcast sky.

Hardgate Hall. The very name was enough to send shivers down her spine. Swiping fresh rain from her cheeks, she glanced up once more at the small window on the second floor that some servant must have carelessly left open. It was almost sixteen years since she’d last entered this house, a bewildered six-year-old clutching her mother’s hand; though a few minutes later they were being hustled out again and Deb’s mother was weeping.

‘You made your choices!’ Deb remembered Hugh Palfreyman declaring harshly. ‘You made your own bed, sister mine. And you can lie on it.’

Deb was twenty-two now and her mother had died long ago. But she’d never ever forgotten this place, and she always imagined it under grey skies, just as it was now.

She scanned the garden once more, trying to suppress her growing anxiety, and relaxed just a little when she saw two familiar figures hurrying towards her through the rain. ‘Luke. Francis. There you are. I was beginning to think...’

‘Think what, Miss Deb?’ Young Luke’s straggly blond hair was plastered to his face.

She was beginning to fear they might have been caught by Palfreyman’s men. Deb said instead, ‘You took your time. What news?’

‘We looked to see if there was anyone around. Just as you told us to, Deborah.’ This time it was the older one, Francis, who spoke. ‘Though we were careful to keep under cover, always. And we’ve good news—it looks as if all the groundsmen have been ordered to spend the afternoon tidying up Palfreyman’s glasshouses, on the far side of the south lawn.’

Deb nodded. ‘So they’ll not catch sight of us here. What about the guard dogs?’

Young Luke spoke up next. ‘We heard them barking in the distance and they sound big.’ He shivered. ‘But they’re kept in a yard close by the stables—though I’ve heard they’re let loose after nightfall, when they prowl around the grounds with teeth so sharp they’d take a great lump out of your thigh, and—’

‘Thank you, Luke,’ Deb interrupted. ‘That’s enough.’ More than enough, in fact. ‘So we’re safe for now?’

Francis tipped his black hat with the feather in it to gaze up at the vast house that loomed before them. ‘It depends,’ he said narrowly, ‘on what you mean by “safe”, Deborah.’

Deb sighed inwardly. Francis Calladine, almost twice Luke’s age, was a stalwart friend, but he’d been dubious about Deb’s plan from the start. Although it was Francis who’d spotted earlier, as they’d examined the house from the far side—the safe side—of the boundary wall, that the rooms to the north of the building looked dark and little used.

‘And if you’re really intent on breaking in,’ he’d added, ‘all that ivy growing up there is a burglar’s delight.’

Deb’s response had been instant. ‘I’m no burglar!’

‘You’re planning on getting inside,’ Francis had said quietly. ‘Though why you’re so intent on taking such a risk when the owner’s a Justice of the Peace and has already threatened us all with prison remains a mystery to me.’

If Francis had known that Hugh Palfreyman was her uncle, he’d have been quite speechless. But by Deb’s reckoning, desperate times called for desperate measures.

‘I’m not turning back now, Francis.’ Deb spoke with utter calmness, utter certainty. ‘I’m always grateful for your advice, believe me. But I hope you’ve not forgotten that you promised my stepfather you’d trust me.’

‘I also promised your stepfather that I’d keep you safe, Deborah,’ said Francis, who was distinguishable always by his wide-brimmed hat and his ancient, rust-red coat. ‘But I’ll do as you say. Young Luke and I will be here, waiting for you—’

‘No!’

‘What?’ This time Francis looked really outraged.

‘No.’ Deb shook her head decisively. ‘I’ve changed my mind about you waiting for me here. It’s just too risky.’ No one at all was around, but it was very possible their luck wouldn’t hold, especially if this rain eased off. And in that case—better for only her to be captured, rather than all three of them. ‘I’ve decided,’ she went on, ‘that it would be a good idea for you and Luke to return to the horses and wait for me there.’

They’d ridden from Oxford by cutting through the Ashendale Forest and taking a track which brought them almost to the edge of Palfreyman’s estate. There they’d left their three horses, carefully tethered, although the sturdy old creatures were most unlikely to gallop off.

Francis clearly didn’t think much of Deb’s instructions. ‘You want us to just leave you here? But what if you get caught? By the servants, or by Palfreyman himself?’

As if she hadn’t thought of that. ‘And how on earth could the two of you do anything if I did?’ she pointed out. ‘You can help me get started—but then you must go, do you understand?’

‘But...’

‘What would my stepfather, Gerald, have said, Francis? What did he say to you, when he called the Lambeth Players together and spoke to us all for the very last time?’ It was two years since Gerald O’Hara had died, but there was still a catch in her voice whenever she spoke his name.

Francis too looked affected. ‘Mr O’Hara said he was leaving the Lambeth Players in your charge.’

‘He also told you, I believe, that you were to all work with me and heed me in every way.’ Deb surveyed them both with her cool gaze. ‘So are you going to wait for me in the woods?’

Luke glanced anxiously at Francis, who still hesitated. ‘Very well,’ Francis said at last. ‘But—’

‘Thank you—both of you,’ Deb cut in quickly. ‘And if I don’t turn up in the woods by five, you’re to ride back to Oxford and the others. Do you understand me?’

Francis’s brow was growing dark again and he looked as if he were about to utter some fresh warning. Deb couldn’t blame him for having doubts, because she certainly did. ‘Remember, Francis! I only let you come with me on the condition that you obeyed me in everything. And what’s the motto of the Lambeth Players?’

‘Triumph over adversity!’ declared Luke.

‘Exactly. Now, the sooner I get up there—’ she pointed at the rambling ivy ‘—the sooner I’ll be back with you, safe and sound.’

To Deb’s relief, not another objection was uttered. She could sense Luke’s and Francis’s tension as she grasped the ivy and began to climb, but she turned round from her perch and gave them a cheerful nod. ‘Go, both of you. I’ll be fine.’

She saw them cross the lawns in the rain, then weave through the sodden shrubbery. Any minute, she feared she might hear the barking of Hugh Palfreyman’s guard dogs, or the shouts of his groundsmen, but, no; Luke and Francis made it to the wall and inwardly she cheered them on. Up and over. That’s the way.

Taking a deep breath, Deb pulled down her cap over her thick chestnut curls and pressed on with the scariest and most necessary climb of her life.

* * *

Triumph over adversity. That was an apt motto for the troupe of travelling actors who moved between fairs and country markets each year from March to December, with their old carts full of costumes and scenery. The Lambeth Players were Deb’s family and her life.

She’d initially resolved to complete her task today without telling a soul. But as ill luck would have it, sharp-eyed Francis, the senior actor, had spotted Deb saddling one of their horses outside the Angel Inn on the outskirts of Oxford where the Players were staying, and of course he wanted to know exactly where she was off to.

In the face of his determination—we swore to Gerald O’Hara that we’d take care of you and we will!—she’d been forced at last to tell him that she was riding to Hardgate Hall. That she was, to be precise, planning to enter Hardgate Hall in secret—though she refused to tell him precisely why. Glibly she’d dismissed the dangers—it would be an easy matter, Deb assured Francis, for her to get in and out of the house in no time at all.

But Francis’s face was a picture. In fact, he was horrified, and he made so much fuss that she at last consented to let Francis and Luke accompany her on the ride through the Ashendale Forest. And here she was; though she was beginning to have the sinking feeling that this whole idea of hers was a bad mistake.

And the rain didn’t help. What if she slipped, or the ivy gave way? It was a long way to fall. Or what if someone came round this side of the house? A gardener, or even a gamekeeper with a gun... Stop it. Stop it. Carefully finding footholds with the toes of her lace-up boots—don’t look down, whatever you do—she could only be grateful she was as wiry and nimble as a boy.

‘Why, there’s nothin’ to you, lass. You’re all skin and bone,’ the innkeeper’s wife had declared last night, slamming down a bowl of rather greasy stew before her in the shabby public room of the inn. ‘You need to put on a bit of flesh if you’re to catch yourself a man!’

Just at that moment, her own spouse—a surly creature who was over-fond of his homebrewed ale—had come in, and Deb thought, Catch myself a man like yours? No, thank you.

Deb didn’t want a husband. Her dream was to establish a theatre for the Players—a proper theatre, in London—instead of them having to tramp round the country every season. And after today, she would be able to concentrate on her dream once more. Hugh Palfreyman, you might be a Justice of the Peace. But you are nothing to me, she breathed as she clambered on up the ivy. And I will teach you that you interfere with the Lambeth Players at your peril!

At last, the small window was within her reach. Heaving it open, she hauled herself in, knowing that at last she was in the forbidden domain of her uncle—and not a sound pierced the silence, except for the thudding of her own heart.

* * *

Her mother had wept after that visit to Hardgate Hall sixteen years ago and Deb had crept into her arms ‘Mama? Mama?’

‘My darling girl.’ Her mother had hugged her tightly. ‘I shouldn’t have taken you there. But I’d thought—I’d hoped...’

Deb couldn’t understand how anyone could want to make her sweet mother cry. ‘Is he a bad man, that man in the big house?’

‘That man is my brother,’ her mother said quietly. ‘He is many years older than me and became master of Hardgate Hall when I was still a child. I thought he might have changed. I was wrong.’

‘But why was he so cruel to you, Mama?’

‘I think he is very unhappy. I think he always was. He was a solitary creature and used to go out for long rides alone, or lock himself away in a room upstairs for hours on end. I think he had secrets.’ She’d added, half to herself, ‘And what those secrets were, I never wished to find out.’

Deb heard her mother recounting the same tale to Gerald O’Hara months later. I used to wonder why he allowed no one but himself in that room up in the north wing. None of the servants ever entered it. The room was on the second floor; the door was locked and only he had the key...

Deb progressed steadily along the passageway, trying door after door; only to find that not one was locked, and each room she peered into contained nothing but old furniture shrouded with dust sheets.

And then—just as she was beginning to fear that she’d got everything wrong—she came to a door that wouldn’t open. Swiftly she pulled out her small, sharp-pointed knife, used it to slip the lock and stepped inside, alert and aware. In the centre of the room stood a big old mahogany desk, behind it a leather armchair. Heavy red-velvet curtains half-shrouded the windows and every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with books.

This was a private library, a secret library. But it wasn’t because her uncle Hugh Palfreyman was a scholar of the classics or some other clever subject. Far from it.

* * *

A little over a week ago Deb had visited the stall of a travelling bookseller at the Oxford market, for she was constantly on the lookout for any half-forgotten plays for her company to use. Comedies, tragedies, it didn’t matter which, as long as they kept the crowds entertained.

‘Aren’t you the young lady from the Lambeth Players?’ the bookseller had enquired. ‘I saw your lot doing that fight scene from Tamburlaine on the village green the other night. By heaven, it was a treat.’

‘I’m so glad you enjoyed our performance,’ said Deb politely. She glanced through a few more books laid out on his stall—no, nothing much of interest there—then went to investigate a box at the back. But the bookseller dived across to stop her.

‘Oh, no, missy. Those books in there ain’t for the likes of you. They’re—’ he coughed ‘—they’re some serious works of literature. For my private customers only.’

Deb had already glimpsed two of the titles. Serious works of literature? That was a joke. Artistic Treasures of Venus. Classical Collections for Gentlemen of Discernment... She would stake her life that every single one of them was packed with erotic prints and libidinous tales.

‘I’m sure you’ll get a very good price for them,’ she told the bookseller demurely and moved on.

But a little later, when she happened to be passing back that way, she saw the bookseller deep in conversation with someone else, and her heart began hammering against her chest. She’d been only six years old when she last saw him; but Hugh Palfreyman had changed very little, in Deb’s opinion, except that perhaps his beaked nose was more protuberant and his little pursed-up mouth even tighter. As Deb watched, she saw the glint of coins being passed. Saw the bookseller reach furtively into that box at the back for several slim volumes, which he proceeded to wrap in brown paper, then give to Hugh Palfreyman.

Palfreyman hurried away, while Deb stood absorbing the full impact of what she’d just witnessed.

Her mother’s brother—a Justice of the Peace—was a connoisseur of the kind of literature that was described in polite circles as ‘stimulating’. Well, button my boots, as her stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would say.

* * *

Deb found herself thinking rather a lot of other things about her Uncle Palfreyman as she stood in the confines of his secret library while the rain pounded against the window. Hypocrite was the most polite of them. Still listening hard for the sound of anyone approaching, she tiptoed over to the bookshelves and eased out some volumes to lay on the desk.

Not all the books were English—some were in French and some in Italian, but—oh, my. It didn’t really matter in the slightest what language they were in, because there wasn’t much writing anyway, and the pictures were just—well. Deb’s eyes widened, but at the same time triumph swelled within her heart. For she’d realised that—incredibly enough—each volume had a gilt-edged bookplate just inside the front cover on which was carefully inscribed the owner’s name—Hugh Palfreyman.

What a fool, Deb marvelled. To keep all this so secret, then provide such glaring evidence of possession. What a gift, for her.

She’d hoped never to have to come into contact with her uncle again, since he’d banished her and her mother from his house. But all that had changed; for one Saturday, almost two weeks ago, a sweet old lady had sought Deb out at the inn and told her that Shakespeare was her husband’s passion, but he was too frail to visit any of the Players’ outdoor performances. Would one or two of the actors be kind enough to visit him, she asked, and perhaps read out some of his favourite lines?

Deb and three others had gone to him the very next afternoon and had performed the last, lovely scene of The Tempest. The old gentleman’s faded eyes had lit up with pleasure, and afterwards his grateful wife had tried to press money on the actors, but they’d refused. Apart from knowing anyway that it was illegal for them to perform on a Sunday, they wouldn’t have dreamt of taking the coins, because that sort of performance and the pleasure it brought was beyond price.

But somehow, Hugh Palfreyman had got to hear about it. And he was chairman of the local magistrates.

‘Acting, on the Sabbath Day,’ he’d apparently stormed—Deb had heard talk of his rage all around Oxford. ‘It’s a direct contravention of the law!’ And he’d threatened the Lambeth Players with a crippling fine, or even gaol.

Thank goodness Palfreyman didn’t know that the leader of the Lambeth Players was his own niece. Swiftly Deb selected three small but explicit volumes, then she sat at Palfreyman’s desk and, after pulling a clean sheet of notepaper and a pencil from her inner pocket, she carefully wrote a letter.



To Mr Hugh Palfreyman

This is to inform you that it is very much in your interest to take back the accusations that you recently made against the Lambeth Players. I enclose something to explain why. Please confirm in a letter that the threats you made will be completely withdrawn, and leave the same letter beneath the stone horse trough beside the wall of St Mary’s churchyard, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the latest.



Then Deb drew out her pocket knife and leafed through the pages of the books she’d selected. Oh, my goodness—the Italian one was the worst, she decided. It was illustrated by someone called Aretino, and her eyes widened again as she looked at picture after picture. Was that really anatomically possible? Carefully she detached one page—I’m not going to look at it, they’re all just too dreadful—then she folded the sheet inside her letter, sealed it with a wafer she’d brought, and wrote Palfreyman’s name on the outside. The books and the letter fitted—just—into her inside pocket.

After that, climbing back out through the window and down the ivy-clad wall was easy. Running stealthily to the front door—keeping to the wall and ducking below windows—wasn’t so easy, and she heaved a sigh of relief as she pushed her sealed message into the letter box there. Then she ran as fast as she could for the shrubbery, weaving through the tangle of lilacs and rose bushes as the rain poured down, and giving a flash of a smile as she climbed nimbly over the boundary wall.

Job done, she silently congratulated herself.

* * *

As Damian Beaumaris rode steadily along the track through the woods, the rain streamed off his multi-caped greatcoat and down the flanks of his big bay gelding as if someone was hurling buckets of water over both of them.

A lesser man might have been put off—but not Beaumaris, who was known as Beau to his friends. When he’d first written to Palfreyman two weeks ago, to demand an immediate meeting in London, Palfreyman had tried to wriggle out of it by pleading that ill health prevented him from leaving his Oxfordshire mansion. So Beau had promptly ordered his business secretary, the ever-efficient Nathaniel Armitage, to write back and explain that since Palfreyman found himself indisposed, Beau would travel to Oxfordshire.

My employer trusts, wrote Armitage in his careful script, that it will be convenient if he arrives at Hardgate Hall on the thirteenth of June, at four o’clock precisely.

Armitage had pointed out to Beau that the thirteenth of June just happened to be a Friday. Beau had swiftly responded that as his long-standing secretary, Armitage ought to know that superstition played no part whatsoever in his meticulously ordered life. Though after Armitage had gone, Beau reflected that the day and date certainly boded ill for Hugh Palfreyman, who Beau had concluded was as cowardly and conniving a wretch as he had ever come across.

On the morning of the twelfth of June, Beau had set off on the journey to Oxfordshire in his brand-new and speedy travelling carriage, driven with great pride by his faithful coachman, William Barry. After spending the first night at the Greyhound Hotel in Reading, Beau and William departed early with fresh horses, Beau’s plan being to lunch at noon in Oxford, then proceed to Hardgate Hall. But as the spires of Oxford came within sight, the rear axle of the coach began to make ominous grinding noises.

William Barry took any such event as an insult to his own skill and, after pulling the horses to a halt, jumped down to investigate. Beau quickly followed.

‘It’s not good,’ William pronounced, shaking his head. ‘Not good at all.’

He proceeded to nurse the vehicle as far as a blacksmith’s on the outskirts of Oxford, where the proprietor, Joe Hucksby, also examined the curricle with a deepening frown.

‘I’d say this axle needs a new cross-pinion, sir,’ he said to Beau, after scrambling up from beneath the vehicle. ‘And three hours is about the fastest time that my lads can do it. You see, with a top-notch vehicle such as this, everything has to be right and tight as can be, so maybe, sir, you’d like to go on into town and take a nice meal at one of the inns there? Especially since it’s starting to rain.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t wait. I have an appointment at Hardgate Hall this afternoon.’

‘You’re visiting Mr Palfreyman?’ Joe Hucksby looked surprised. ‘Well, if that isn’t the oddest thing! We just happen to have a fine riding horse of his stabled here. Mr Palfreyman left it yesterday to have it shoed, and—’

‘You’ve got Palfreyman’s horse here? Is it fit to ride?’

‘Why, yes, sir! In fact, Mr Palfreyman asked me to send one of my lads over to the Hall with it this very afternoon, as it happens.’

‘Then there’s no need to send one of your lads. I’ll ride his horse to Hardgate Hall myself.’

Joe Hucksby looked startled. ‘It’s a spirited beast, sir. Took two of my lads to hold it while I did the shoeing—’

‘I’ll take it,’ Beau repeated decisively. He was clad anyway in buckskins and riding boots and was impatient to get on with his journey. But he could see that William was fretting.

‘Should I see if there’s another horse, so I can come with you—sir?’ his coachman suggested quietly.

Beau shook his head. ‘Better if you stay around here, William, and check that the job’s being done properly. Oh, and you could take the opportunity to find a decent inn nearby. Book us two rooms for the night and get yourself a meal while you’re at it.’

‘But you, sir? You haven’t eaten since breakfast!’

‘Hugh Palfreyman’s bound to offer me refreshment of one kind or another. And, William—don’t tell them any more than you have to about me or my business at Hardgate Hall, you understand?’ He’d already instructed William to address him by nothing but sir for the whole of this journey.

As William nodded, Beau turned back to the blacksmith. ‘I’ll return for my coach later this evening, Hucksby. Here’s some payment in advance.’ He’d thrust his hand in his coat pocket and drew out some coins to put in the man’s big fist.

‘Well, that’s mighty obliging of you, Mr...’

‘My name’s Beaumaris.’

The blacksmith nodded, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t a lord at the very least. ‘Thank you kindly, Mr Beaumaris, sir. And I’ve no doubt that Mr Palfreyman would himself suggest that you take his horse if he were here, yes, indeed.’

Beau privately doubted it very much. But within ten minutes, the horse in question—a handsome bay gelding with a white blaze down its forehead—was saddled up and ready, though just as Beau was about to mount, the blacksmith darted away and returned with a sturdy whip.

‘You might be needing this, sir,’ Joe Hucksby pronounced. ‘Mr Palfreyman warned us this bay can be a stubborn brute and don’t like being told what to do.’

Already realising that the horse was trying to back away in pure terror at the sight of the whip—and that the blacksmith’s lads had gathered to watch the entertainment—Beau pushed the implement back into Joe Hucksby’s hands. ‘A man who needs to use a whip like that,’ he said flatly, ‘doesn’t deserve to be entrusted with any animal.’

William nodded his approval and Beau mounted, aware that the horse, on feeling his weight in the saddle, was already sidling and snorting with fear. Beau soothed the beast and thought, Damn. What has Palfreyman done to this animal?

He had a pretty good idea, for if he looked back at the horse’s flanks, he could see the marks where the whip had been used to lash the beast only recently. Palfreyman, he thought grimly, if my opinion of you wasn’t already at rock bottom, it certainly would be by now. He tensed his muscular thighs to let the gelding know that he was in control, while at the same time he stroked its neck. ‘There. There,’ he murmured. ‘Easy does it, now.’

The horse at last moved forward, showing obedience, even willingness. Beau was rather pleased to see the blacksmith and his boys gazing after him, open-mouthed. ‘Which is the best way to reach Hardgate Hall?’ Beau called to them over his shoulder.

‘The track through the Ashendale Forest is quickest, sir,’ one of the lads piped up. ‘You’d best take the road for Reading—you’ll see it just past the church. At the first crossroads you turn left, and then you want to head over the bridge and follow the path into the woods—’

At that point the blacksmith interrupted him. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t advise that way at all, Mr Beaumaris, I really wouldn’t. It’s easy to get lost and there are sometimes footpads.’

‘Is this track through the forest quicker than the turnpike road?’

‘Much quicker, sir.’ The lad was still eager. ‘It takes—oh, at least a mile off your journey!’

Then that’s the path I’ll take. And Beau was on his way.

* * *

The lad’s instructions were easy to follow and Beau was pleased to discover that the big bay, once he had its trust, was an energetic and speedy mount. He was even more pleased when he looped the reins over one hand and with the other delved for his pocket watch, to find that it was not yet half past three—there was still time to arrive punctually at Hardgate Hall. The one factor he hadn’t bargained on was the rain, which drove straight into his face and was becoming heavier by the minute, slowing his pace; but he never once thought of turning round, because this meeting with Palfreyman was long overdue. Palfreyman had questions to answer and consequences to face.

Beau’s frown deepened as he remembered the day of Simon’s funeral just two months ago, when the rain had fallen as relentlessly as it did today on the cortège of black funeral carriages and his brother’s oak coffin.

Enough of that wretch Palfreyman’s feeble excuses. It’s time to meet the coward face to face. Beau urged the bay gelding on through ancient oaks, aware that the trees were growing thicker all around him; but the path was clear enough and so he was taking little heed of the dank undergrowth on either side, which was foolish of him.

Because in his haste he had completely failed to see the two shadowy figures who had watched him earlier from behind a thicket of birch when he’d stopped to check the time. Failed now to see the twine tautly stretched between two saplings on either side of the path ahead of him—until it was too late.

One moment he was making good speed along the forest track. The next—disaster. The big bay stumbled badly and, though Beau wrestled to keep the beast upright, within moments he’d gone crashing to the ground.


Chapter Two (#ulink_338c7ceb-8202-5550-840a-6cd9c6e8b608)

Loping steadily through the woods, Deb paused to brush down her kersey jacket and corduroy breeches, which had picked up a fine coating of pine needles when she’d landed on the other side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall just now.

On the safe side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall. She crammed her cap more securely over her curls and set off again towards the clearing where their horses were, weaving her way between the oak trees and the birch saplings, and even allowing herself a quick smile as she imagined Hugh Palfreyman’s face when he read that letter. When he saw the page she’d cut out.

She grinned, but she felt revulsion too. Ever since she’d got clear of that place, she’d been vigorously inhaling the fresh air to rid her lungs of the musty odours that lurked in Palfreyman’s secret room. And she found herself wondering again—why would her mother have even wanted to be reconciled with a brother whose cruelty had driven her from her home in the first place?

It wasn’t as if her mother had been unhappy with her new life. In fact, Deb remembered her as being full of love both for her daughter and for her husband, Gerald O’Hara, actor and manager of the Lambeth Players. Deb too had loved her caring and intelligent stepfather dearly; but two years ago had come a fresh blow, for Gerald had fallen prey to a debilitating lung sickness and had left the responsibility of the Players to her.

‘No. You can’t leave me in charge, Gerald. I’m too young!’ she’d pleaded as she’d crouched by his sickbed, feeling frightened and alone. Don’t die, she’d murmured under her breath to the man who’d truly been a father to her. Please. Don’t you leave me as well.

‘You can do it, my brave lass.’ Even though Gerald was desperately weak by then, he’d reached to clasp her hand tightly. ‘You’ve been holding the company together ever since my damned sickness started—don’t think I haven’t noticed how everybody comes to ask for your opinion. Ask Miss Deb, they say. She’ll know.’

‘But Francis Calladine—shouldn’t he be in charge? He’s the senior actor, and he used to perform at Drury Lane...’

‘And he never tires of telling everyone so.’ A wry smile lifted Gerald’s wan face. ‘No—Francis is a fine man for tragedy, but what the people want is entertainment, and you have an instinct for providing it. In addition, you can act every bit as well as any of those fancy ladies at Drury Lane.’

‘But to be in charge, Gerald. I couldn’t—’

‘One day,’ Gerald interrupted, ‘you’ll take London by storm, my lass. One day...’ He’d begun coughing again and Deb, distraught, had held a glass of water to his lips.

The Lambeth Players were no more than a humble travelling company. But Deb and Gerald dreamed of establishing themselves in London and a rich backer was the answer, Gerald had often told her; a rich and generous backer who would buy them a lease for one of the numerous small theatres on the edge of the city. ‘It needn’t be a fancy affair,’ Gerald said. ‘But think, Deb, of the plays we could put on, in our very own place!’

The rest of the actors were content with touring the usual theatrical circuits every year, setting up their stage at fairs and race meetings to entertain the crowds with their varied miscellany of comedies, songs and drama. Shakespeare was always a favourite of Gerald’s, but an ancient statute forbade minor theatrical companies like theirs to perform any Shakespeare play in full, so Gerald O’Hara had taught his players to pick out prime scenes only: Macbeth and the three witches, Henry V’s speech before the battle of Agincourt, and the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. By starting their shows with brief acts of comedy and acrobatics, Gerald was able to describe their performances as ‘entertainments’ and the crowds came in droves.

‘It’s like offering an all-too-brief taste of a banquet,’ Gerald had once said to Deb. ‘But some day, when we get that theatre of our own, we’ll perform the whole play—and we’ll have all of London society at our feet!’

But then Gerald died. Losing her mother at such a young age had been heartbreaking, but now Deb had to face life without her beloved stepfather, who had been her guide and her inspiration for as long as she could remember. Kneeling by his graveside the day after the funeral, she’d whispered aloud, ‘I can’t take charge of the Players, Gerald. I know it was your wish—but I’m only twenty and I’m too young. I can’t follow you. I simply cannot do it.’

She’d tried to explain as much to the others later that evening, when the Players had gathered in a tavern to solemnly discuss their plans now that Gerald was gone. It was Francis, loyal Francis, who’d raised a cheer for her and called out, ‘Who else but an O’Hara should be in charge of us all?’

And they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Lambeth Players had given her their trust and in return she was prepared to risk everything for them—it was as simple as that. She’d been truly touched by the loyalty of Francis and Luke in coming with her today to Hardgate Hall, obeying her orders even though Francis clearly had grave doubts.

I’ve succeeded, she looked forward to telling him. I’ve succeeded.

She quickened her pace as she realised that the trees were beginning to thin out a little. There they were, Luke and Francis, standing in the clearing with their backs to her, engrossed in conversation, while a little distance away the old mare and the two ponies gently grazed...

Deb froze.

Beside them was a horse she’d never seen before. A fine big bay, with a white blaze down his forehead. A horse of quality. She felt her heart-rate falter; then she caught sight of something that really made her blood freeze in her veins. In the centre of the clearing lay the prone figure of a man. His wrists and booted legs were bound with cord, and a white silk neckerchief—his own?—had been used to blindfold him. He wasn’t moving.

Dear God, was he even breathing?

Deb turned slowly to her two companions, who had seen her now and were hurrying towards her. ‘Luke, Francis. What on earth...?’

‘We got him, Miss Deb!’ cried Luke jubilantly. And Francis was nodding towards their captive. ‘We had to act quickly. You see, he was galloping along the track, making straight for Hardgate Hall. And we knew we had to do something, Deborah, or you would have run into him.’

Deb looked at the bound, blindfolded man with a growing sense of—no other word for it—panic. ‘Who exactly do you think that man is?’ she breathed.

‘Why, he’s Hugh Palfreyman, of course!’ Luke delivered this news with an air of triumph.

Deb gazed down at their captive and found herself speechless again. The man was around thirty, she guessed: lean, fit and long-limbed. Even though he lay sprawled and unconscious in the mud she could see for herself that he was dressed like a gentleman, a rich gentleman, in a heavy cambric greatcoat, handcrafted leather boots and a lawn shirt with lace ruffles at his wrists. His hat had fallen off and he had black hair, gleaming and thick. As for his face...

She couldn’t see his eyes because of course he was blindfolded. But the rest of his features—his uncompromising jaw, his long nose, his firm mouth—were so downright arrogant that she felt her stomach lurch with renewed fear.

‘That man,’ she pronounced to Luke and Francis, ‘is not Hugh Palfreyman.’ Her every word was etched with a sincere and furious despair.

Luke’s jaw dropped in youthful dismay. ‘But he must be, Miss Deb.’

‘Why?’ she asked with deceptive calm.

‘Because he was on Palfreyman’s horse!’ explained Luke. ‘Do you see it?’ He pointed. ‘Francis and I were admiring it only this morning in Oxford. A blacksmith was shoeing it and it took two lads to hold the beast steady. One of them told us afterwards whose it was...’

His voice trailed away when he saw Deb’s expression. ‘And do you really, truly think, Luke, that there’s only one bay horse with a white blaze in all of Oxfordshire?’ Both of them stood silent; Deb pointed at the man wearily. ‘He is not Hugh Palfreyman. He’s nothing like Hugh Palfreyman. And anyway, what if he was? Since when have we been highway robbers? Why did you have to knock him out cold?’

Francis looked affronted. ‘We only wanted to stop his horse and perhaps delay him a little in case he met you. But he was going at such a pace, and so—and so...’

‘He fell off with an almighty crash, Miss Deb,’ supplied Luke.

Deb shuddered. ‘And then?’

Francis took over the tale. ‘And then we thought we’d better blindfold him and tie him up, of course. Because we couldn’t let him see us when he came round, could we?’

‘If he comes round,’ said Deb. How could they? How could they have done something so foolhardy?

Luke looked nervous now. ‘He’s still breathing and everything. We checked!’

Deb sank to her knees beside the prone man and ran her hands swiftly over his arms and shoulders.

As far as she could tell, he didn’t appear to be badly hurt. None of his limbs looked twisted or broken. There was no blood anywhere, and when she put her fingers to his wrist, his pulse was strong and even. But—oh, God, what would happen when he regained his senses and found himself trussed up tight as a turkey? And—who on earth was he?

Feeling even more flustered after touching him—goodness, he was big, he was powerful—she reached gingerly into his coat pocket, where she found a gold fob watch on a chain. She turned it carefully in her fingers. It looked old and very valuable, and on the back was a faded inscription. She held it up to catch the murky daylight and read the name aloud: Damian Beaumaris.

Whoever Damian Beaumaris might be, Deb knew with absolute certainty that they’d just made themselves a new and extremely dangerous enemy.

* * *

Beau was aware of aches and pains in every limb. His head hurt as if someone had swung a hammer at it. The last thing he remembered was riding through Ashendale Forest on Palfreyman’s horse, making good speed, until he’d spotted, too late, a length of cord stretched right across his path. And now he found that he was blindfolded, he was well and truly tied up, and he was lying on the cold, muddy ground.

Muttered voices drifted across the clearing, and the owners of those voices sounded mighty worried. So they should be. Beau’s jaw was tightly set. Then he frowned again, because some other faint memory lingered in his mind: a memory of the lightest of hands fluttering over his clothing, a finger touching his wrist. He thought he’d inhaled the delicate scent of lemons, and remembered a woman’s soft hair brush his cheek...

And he needed to pull his thoroughly scattered wits together this minute—because the voices were moving closer. He lay very still, assessing his predicament—bound, blindfolded and half-stunned—not good. His borrowed horse had been deliberately tripped up, and Beau had been thrown; but seconds before he fell, he’d glimpsed two men peering at him from the undergrowth—a middle-aged man in a scruffy red coat and black hat, and a callow fair-haired youth. It must be one of that pair of scoundrels—he guessed the older one—whom he heard now, muttering anxiously, ‘But that bay horse. We really thought it was Palfreyman’s, you see.’

That was interesting enough; but the next voice Beau heard set his senses into full alert. Because it belonged to a girl, and she sounded very, very anxious—with good reason, Beau reflected grimly. ‘Francis Calladine,’ she declared, ‘if I hear your excuses repeated once more, I swear I’ll tie you up with your own ropes. This man is not Palfreyman. His name is Damian Beaumaris. And what, in heaven’s name, are we to do with him?’

A case of mistaken identity, then—they’d thought he was Palfreyman, who it appeared was no friend of theirs. One thing was for certain—he was, at the moment, completely in their power. But Beau did not intend that particular circumstance to last for much longer.

He heard the voice of the older man again—he sounded just as worried as the girl. ‘Perhaps we should untie him and leave quickly, Deborah. When he comes round, he’ll just imagine he was thrown by accident. He won’t even know he was our prisoner.’

‘But what if he doesn’t come round?’ The girl again—Deborah. Beau envisaged his trio of captors scratching their heads. ‘What if he’s truly hurt, Francis?’ she went on. ‘What if we leave him here and—he doesn’t recover?’

In the silence that ensued, Beau found himself occupied by a thought that had been forming in his mind since the moment he heard the girl’s voice.

Most of the females who travelled with bands of highway robbers were as rough as their menfolk. But something wasn’t quite right about this one. She spoke well. She had an educated voice... He stirred as far as his bonds would allow, and let out a slight groan. Almost immediately, as he’d hoped, he heard the girl gasping, ‘Oh, no. Did you hear that? He is in pain!’ There was a rustle of clothes close to his ear, and once more he inhaled the faint lemon scent of soap and freshly washed hair as the girl bent down and placed her hand on his forehead; a cool, tender hand...

She’ll be ugly as sin, he warned himself. She was bound to be a painted, snaggle-toothed whore who had been bedded by the lot of them. Yet she spoke in a way that would be more at home in the drawing rooms of London than amongst a nest of vagabonds. He chided himself mentally. Whatever she was up to, no female was going to get the better of him. He lay very still, feigning unconsciousness once more.

‘We really should be off.’ The older man’s voice was taut with anxiety. ‘We could perhaps ride back to the nearest inn and mention that we glimpsed a stray horse in the forest. Then they would send someone out to investigate...’

‘We cannot leave him while he’s unconscious!’ The girl’s voice was authoritative. ‘This is my plan, Francis. I’m going to loosen our prisoner’s ropes and wait for him to regain his senses. As soon as he starts to do so, and we can be sure that he’s going to be all right, we’ll ride off as quickly as we can.’

‘But what if he gets on his horse and gallops after us?’ This was the younger lad speaking. ‘That bay of his could catch ours in no time!’

The girl had an answer for that as well. ‘We’ll lead his horse with us—just for a half a mile or so. Francis, can you go and see to the horses now? And, Luke, it’s really important that you remove every trace of our stay here—for example, the remains of that campfire you and Francis lit over there.’

Luke said suddenly, ‘I left some of my markers in case you had trouble finding us, Miss Deb.’

Deb frowned. ‘Markers?’

‘The sign for the Lambeth Players,’ explained Luke. ‘You know—the initials L and P, made with twigs. I made a trail, from the track to this clearing. I was only trying to help!’

‘You idiot, Luke,’ said Francis.

‘You’d better go and remove them,’ said Deb in exasperation. Luke and his games. ‘Every single one. And as soon as you’ve checked round everywhere, we’ll leave—but only when I’m sure this man is going to be all right, do you understand?’

* * *

They left, and Deb walked slowly towards their prisoner. Only now that Luke and Francis were out of sight did she feel that she could allow herself to give way to true, sick anxiety.

She dropped to her knees at the man’s side, noting that he lay as still as ever in his bonds apart from the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest—thank God he was still breathingsteadily. She rapidly tried to summarise what she knew about him, which wasn’t a great deal, except that his name was Damian Beaumaris, and he was rich—she could tell that just at a glance, not only because of his fine attire and gold pocket watch, but because of that indefinable air of arrogance the rich had, yes, even when they were tied up on the ground and unconscious.

Luke and Francis had only been trying to help her, she reminded herself rather desperately. And they’d been right, in that if he had been Palfreyman, and had met her climbing back over his boundary wall, he would have seized her on the spot, found the books on her, and her plan would have been ruined. She could have been in dire trouble indeed...

And wasn’t she now?

Deb tried her best to control her panicking thoughts. At least Mr Beaumaris was alive, and had no idea who they were. And thank goodness there was no sign of blood. But she could see quite a lot else about him—a bit too much, unfortunately, for his expensive riding coat had fallen right back, and beneath his white shirt and buckskin breeches she couldn’t help but note that he displayed a formidably muscled body. Her eyes were reluctantly dragged again and again to that strong, square jaw already dark with stubble, and she found herself thinking that Peggy Daniels, the pretty actress who played most of the heroines for the Lambeth Players, would have been in raptures over him. ‘Now, there’s a fine figure of a man,’ she would have exclaimed.

Deb sighed, and prepared to put his gold watch back in his pocket; but just at that moment Mr Beaumaris groaned, and she almost shot into the air.

‘My God,’ he rasped. ‘My God, whoever you are, I’ll see the lot of you in Newgate for this.’

Quickly Deb shoved his watch in her own pocket and moistened her dry lips. Thank goodness he was still blindfolded. ‘My friends made a mistake, Mr Beaumaris.’ She found herself defiantly tilting her chin, as if he could see her. ‘You see, they thought you were someone else. Someone who’s done us a great deal of harm. That was why they tied you up, but it was all an accident, I do assure you, sir—’

‘Accident! Now, there’s a Banbury tale,’ he exploded. ‘Your friends tied a cord across the path.’

He heard her catch her breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘Truly sorry you were hurt. And please stay still, Mr Beaumaris, there’s really no point in trying to fight your bonds. I’ll set you free in good time, you have my word on it.’

‘Your word? You expect me to believe your promises?’

‘It would be as well for you,’ she said in her sweet clear voice, ‘if you did.’

Who the deuce was she? Beau wondered anew. She sounded well educated—and yet she was clearly in charge of the men who’d landed him in this mess. He’d heard them calling themselves the Lambeth Players, but what kind of vagabonds could they be? Two rogues and a girl... Cursing his blindfold, he wished he could cure himself of the delusion that this little witch actually sounded rather exquisite.

‘You claim I was captured by mistake,’ he said flatly. ‘Perhaps you don’t mind telling me how you know my name?’

She said in a very small voice, ‘I found your watch.’

‘You rifled my pockets.’

‘Only to find out who you were!’ She’d rallied now.

‘And now you know,’ Beau said. ‘But I’ll give you a warning. If you’re planning on demanding a ransom, don’t waste your time. Because if anything happens to me, you’ll not be able to find a safe hiding place in the entire realm.’

There was a brief silence, then he heard her say quietly, ‘I suppose that’s what happens, when you’re rich and important. You matter. You go through life issuing threats and never listening to what other people are wanting to tell you. Not even trying to understand.’

Beau found himself frowning at the intensity of her words. Then he froze again—because he felt small cool fingers fluttering around his shirt and his greatcoat, and he swore under his breath because his body was disconcertingly aware that this young, sweet-scented female was far too close for comfort. Deborah, they’d called her. Or Miss Deb. She’ll be a pock-marked Jezebel, he reminded himself. She couldn’t be anything else, living the life she must lead.

‘There,’ she announced crisply. ‘Your watch is back in your coat pocket, Mr Beaumaris. Let me repeat that we are not thieves. And no one regrets this incident more than I do, believe me.’

He could almost have been amused. ‘So that’s it, is it? You offer your sincerest apologies on behalf of your two henchmen, and you expect me to forget this whole business?’

‘That’s more or less it. But I have to ask you a question first, Mr Beaumaris. Are you a man who can be trusted to keep his word?’

What sheer, incredible insolence! He clenched his teeth. ‘Most would say so, yes. But let me give you a warning. I assume you’re going to ask me to promise some kind of clemency—but I don’t take kindly to highway robbery. And I’m not going to enter into any kind of negotiation until you unfasten these damned ropes.’

‘Then I’m afraid we’re at stalemate, Mr Beaumaris,’ she answered calmly. ‘You may as well know that I have a knife—a very sharp knife—in my hand, and I can free you in moments. But before I do so, I want you to swear not to set the law on my friends.’

Beau really didn’t know if she was pretending to be innocent, or stupid, or both. Aloud he drawled, ‘You’re joking, I hope.’

‘I’m hoping you are willing to accept that my men made a genuine mistake. Otherwise...’

Again she paused, and he tried to picture her face.

‘I really am going to have to leave you tied up here in the woods,’ she went on, ‘until someone finds you. And I cannot imagine that a gentleman accustomed to life’s comforts as you must be would relish the prospect of being out here as darkness falls. The woods can get extremely cold and damp at night, even in June. Well? Do you want me to loosen your bonds or not?’

She sounded almost cheerful.

Beau was usually calm in the face of danger, but this was an altogether different kind of peril; indeed, he was hard put not to flinch as she leaned close and ran her hands over the ropes at his wrists. Damn it, could he feel a few soft strands of her hair brushing against his forehead? What colour was it—black, brown, or a brassy blonde? What colour were her eyes? Was she tall and slender, or short and plump—and why in God’s name was he even bothering to think of such absurd trivialities?

‘I’ve probably caught a cold already,’ said Beau. ‘And if I die of pneumonia, I hope you realise it will be the gallows for you and your partners in crime.’

She’d moved back a little, he sensed, but not because she was afraid, oh, no; in fact, he even heard her emit a husky chuckle. ‘Pneumonia? An exaggeration, surely, Mr Beaumaris. As a matter of fact...’

He could just imagine her gazing down at him thoughtfully.

‘I don’t think,’ she concluded, ‘that I’ve ever seen anyone who looked as healthy a specimen as you. Now, if you want me to cut these ropes, you really must swear not to set the law on my friends.’

The silence that followed was deafening. ‘Mr Beaumaris? It really could be very uncomfortable for you out here in the forest. And I have a dreadful feeling that it’s going to start raining again, any minute—’

‘I swear!’

‘You swear what, Mr Beaumaris?’

‘I swear,’ Beau pronounced through gritted teeth, ‘that I’ll not set the law on your friends.’

He thought he heard her emit a satisfied little sigh. ‘And you’ll promise not to pursue them?’

‘I’ll not—’ he clenched his bound fists ‘—pursue them. Where are they, by the way? I haven’t heard their dulcet tones for a while.’

‘And you won’t hear them again,’ she said airily, ‘for they’ve gone, but where to is no concern of yours. Now that you’ve promised not to pursue us, you’ll soon see that everything will be quite all right.’

Moments later she was sawing at the ropes at his wrists—carefully, he hoped—with a small, ebony-handled knife. He knew, because the blindfold that they’d used on him—his own silk neckerchief, for God’s sake!—had worked loose, so that if he turned his head at a certain angle, he could see her. And as it happened, Beau’s first view of her gave rise to a rather unsettling kick of interest.

She was young, as he’d expected. But she wasn’t dressed as most miscreant wenches would be, in a flouncy cheap gown with colourful petticoats and a bodice designed to display her feminine charms. Instead she wore close-cut breeches and a loose linen shirt, on top of which was a raggedy short jacket with leather patches over the elbows. A red-spotted neckerchief was tied around her neck, and all in all, any outfit less likely to emphasise her femininity, he couldn’t imagine. Yet somehow—somehow...

It was her face that really astonished him. It was heart-shaped, dominated by huge eyes that were almost golden, and was given added piquancy by a pert nose, a determined little chin and a cloud of curly chestnut hair.

She was surprisingly, unusually attractive. She spoke well. She’d sounded almost apologetic about his ordeal. Then his thoughts stopped, because all of a sudden, the rope round his wrists parted and the girl sat back on her heels, pushing her vibrant curls from her face. Now what? Beau flexed his hands and adjusted his position in order to keep her within his narrow field of vision. She was a little scoundrel, with her rebellious rain-damp curls and smears of dirt on her cheeks. She and her companions were highway thieves, no doubt about it.

So how could Beau possibly imagine that he’d seen the same girl in the not so distant past, adorned with jewels and wearing the finest of ballgowns? How could he think for one minute that he had actually met her, in the salons of London’s elite?

That fall from his horse must have shaken his brains more than he’d realised. Keep your wits about you, you fool. He realised that she’d positioned herself to kneel by his feet now, and was starting to hack through the ropes that bound his booted legs. Slowly he reached for his blindfold.

She turned to him calmly. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Remove it if you must.’

She went back to her sawing, while Beau eased the silk neckcloth from his eyes. He was astonished that she was going to let him see her in full. Surely the wench was afraid that he would be able to describe her to the constables? But then he realised that she’d already anticipated his inspection by pulling up her own spotted neckerchief to cover the lower part of her face, though she couldn’t hide her eyes—and what eyes, he marvelled again. Lambent gold and dark-lashed, they almost matched the colour of her gleaming gold and copper curls.

‘That’s it,’ she announced. She rose to her feet, at the same time slipping the knife into a sheath on her belt. ‘You’re free now, Mr Beaumaris, but I most sincerely hope you’re fully aware that my men have your horse, and that your situation is still precarious in the extreme...’

Her voice trailed away, as Beau drew himself to his full height while at the same time delving into an inner pocket of his coat—in order to pull out a small but lethal pistol, which he cocked and pointed straight at her heart.

‘I rather think,’ said Beau softly, ‘that you’re the one who needs to understand that your situation is precarious—Miss Deb. Give me that knife of yours. Now.’


Chapter Three (#ulink_7bb28da0-8faa-5af5-96a3-aa0a39659054)

Oh, no. He was formidable, Deb realised, and not just because of his pistol. Everything about him—his pride, his height and his muscle power—shouted danger, as he stood looking down at her with the clearest, most captivating male blue eyes she had ever seen. And those eyes were full of pure scorn, as he pointed that lethal-looking pistol at her heart.

Deb’s pulse bumped sickeningly. Why, oh, why hadn’t Luke and Francis searched him? But they weren’t the only ones to blame. She should have noticed the pistol’s bulk when she pulled out his watch; she should have gone through everything he carried, except that it felt like a gross insult to his privacy...

More of an insult to him than taking him prisoner, you mean? ‘Well,’ Deb said, tilting her chin so she could meet his hard gaze. ‘So much for your oath to let us go.’

A slow smile curved his arrogant mouth. ‘Your memory is failing you somewhat. I did indeed swear not to set the law on your friends, but you forgot something rather important. You see, you didn’t include yourself in the bargain.’

Deb stood very, very still. She concentrated on meeting his gaze without flinching. Don’t let him see you’re afraid. You must never let an enemy see you’re afraid...

‘Trickery with words,’ she scoffed. ‘Usually the last resort of a man who knows he’s in the wrong.’

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about who’s in the wrong here. Empty your pockets.’

‘I don’t see why I need to—’

‘I said, empty your pockets—Deborah.’

Deb breathed hard and deep. ‘Why? Unlike you, I don’t carry a gun. If I did, I assure you you’d have seen it by now.’

‘No doubt,’ he retorted calmly. ‘Nevertheless, I want you to empty your pockets. You see, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d been off on a thieving jaunt of your own while your friends were busy setting their trap for me.’ Mr Beaumaris nodded curtly at her little jacket. ‘What have you got in your pockets? I can see something. Stolen trinkets? Silver?’

Deb fought sheer panic. ‘I’ve just got some old books, that’s all. And I can’t imagine you’ll be in the least bit interested in them...’

‘Let me see them.’

‘What? No, they’re nothing of value, really...’

Her voice trailed away as he took two steps towards her—my, he was tall, he was big—and jerked that wretched pistol towards her head.

With his free hand, Mr Beaumaris began to explore her pockets. His cool blue eyes never once left her face, and she couldn’t help but marvel at the man. He’d been subjected to a dangerous fall from a speedy mount. He’d lain stunned and trussed up on the cold ground—and yet he could still have walked into a Whitehall club and not looked an inch out of place.

He could also, she thought rather wildly, have walked into a crowded ballroom and had every woman there falling at his feet. Handsome wasn’t an adequate word for him. She’d spent a large part of her life in the theatrical world of fantasy, and Mr Damian Beaumaris, if he weren’t so unpleasant, surely resembled every woman’s dream of a hero. But at that exact moment, her rambling thoughts stilled into an awful realisation of doom as he pulled out the first of Hugh Palfreyman’s books.

‘Take it.’ He shoved the book towards her.

She took the little volume without a word. He drew out the next one, and the next, handing them to her until she was holding all three.

‘Old books,’ he said softly, echoing her very words. ‘Now, you’ve already assured me that you’re not a thief. So what precisely is your occupation—Deborah?’

She stared up at him defiantly. ‘My friends and I put on—entertainments.’

‘Entertainments.’ He repeated the word almost with relish. ‘Well, I can only assume that these books are part of them, since you carry them with you all the time. Show them to me, will you?’

‘Oh, I assure you, you’ll find them very dull—’

‘Will I? Let’s see,’ he interrupted. ‘Open the top one—yes, that’s right—and let me judge for myself.’

He’d lifted his pistol so close to her face that she could almost smell the cold, deadly metal. Slowly she opened the first book. Please, let it be all writing. Please don’t let it be one of those dreadful pictures...

She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d opened it, as luck would have it, at the most lurid illustration she had yet seen.

‘Turn the pages,’ he ordered.

She did, one by one, feeling his contemptuous blue eyes burning into her.

‘Part of the equipment of your trade, I assume?’ he said at last. ‘Intended, no doubt, to arouse the interest of any prospective client who might find your feminine charms rather less than—overwhelming, should I put it?’

‘No! I—’

He gestured with his pistol. ‘Show me the next book. Now.’

Deb felt her cheeks burn. Bastard. Bastard, to do this to me. She turned the pages of the second slim volume, hoping it might be marginally less shocking than the first—but it wasn’t. Oh, heavens. What on earth were those two in the picture doing? Yes. She saw exactly what they were doing. And so did Mr Beaumaris.

He regarded her with cool appraisal. ‘You don’t look like a whore,’ he said.

Oh, what would she give to insult him in equal measure? Her skin tingled with fury. But right at this minute, it was her absolute priority to keep this abominable man unaware of the fact that she had just robbed Hugh Palfreyman’s abode, so she gazed up at her captor and smiled sweetly. ‘Such things are a matter of taste, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware. And some men prefer to—vary their choice from time to time.’

His eyes glittered—blue, dangerous eyes—and they were so transfixing that she couldn’t tell whether he was amused or madly angry at her gibe. ‘Men might vary their choice of women, yes. But you look more like a boy,’ he said, quite calmly.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard that’s what some gentlemen prefer.’

‘You think so? Not me.’ He briefly took his eyes from her as he checked his pistol and eased it back into his pocket. ‘I can, of course, have the gun out again no time at all if you try to run. But now—tell me your favourite.’

‘What?’ Deb’s heart hammered.

‘Tell me which illustration is your favourite.’ His brows tilted wickedly. ‘Since you must know the contents of these books rather well.’

Oh, heavens. ‘Well, of course,’ she said, ‘it all depends on what mood I’m in.’

‘And what kind of mood are you in?’ he asked in an interested way.

I just wish I had that damned pistol of yours in my hand, she muttered under her breath. ‘Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own,’ she responded sweetly. ‘But my time costs money, Mr Beaumaris.’

‘And I’m not usually in the habit of paying,’ he replied smoothly, ‘least of all for a travelling slut—’

He broke off when she flung out her hand to slap his cheek. Which was more than foolish of her, because before she’d time to reach her target, Beau had knocked aside her raised hand, cupped her chin and tipped her face up to his, while his hard blue eyes scoured her. He felt her go very still as he let his fingertips slowly caress the warm silken skin of her cheek. She was so like—so very like—the other one...

He was aware of the books dropping from her hand, one by one. And the idea—the idea that had been lurking at the back of his mind since he first set eyes on her—took firmer shape.

He said softly, ‘Well, Deborah. How do you fancy a trip to Hardgate Hall—with me?’

He thought he saw a flicker almost of horror cross her face. But then she smiled up at him. She reached to touch his cheek with her fingertip. And gently, almost mischievously, she murmured, ‘So you’ve a notion to take our acquaintance further, have you, sir? But first—why not try me here, for yourself?’

Beau gripped her tight and let his mouth come down on hers. Hard, relentless and demanding.

He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to show her that her charms left him cold. He planned to kiss her briefly, than thrust her away with some icy insult.

But instead it was he who was being taught a lesson—that her kiss was sweet, sweeter than he could have believed possible. He found himself holding her closer, prising her lips apart, forcing his tongue inside her mouth to take sure possession, and he was mystified, because there was something totally unexpected about her. In spite of those outrageous books, she somehow carried the allure of innocence, and at the first touch of her lips desire had hit him like a punch in the stomach, momentarily winding him.

And now her arms were tightly around his waist; her lovely face was lifted expectantly to his and he was unable to resist caressing her lips with his again, feeling arousal thud through his loins as he drew her closer, thinking in wonder, Her kiss is soft and sweet. She’s not like the other one, even though she’s the exact image. Not like her at all...

In almost the very same instant, he heard two sets of footsteps pounding up behind him.

Before he could do a thing, the girl was already plunging her hand into his pocket to snatch out his pistol, and both his arms had been seized from behind.

Her two colleagues had returned.

You fool, he told himself bitterly. You stupid fool. To fall for her tricks...

The girl had retreated a few yards, but was pointing the gun at him steadily. ‘Best not to struggle, Mr Beaumaris,’ she called out. ‘I’m not altogether sure that I won’t fire this fine pistol of yours by mistake, you see.’

Beau stood there raging as Deb’s friends searched every single one of his pockets. ‘There’s no other weapon,’ they called out to her. Then they started swiftly binding his hands behind his back.

Damn it. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Beau breathed.

Those were his last words, before he found himself blindfolded—again—and wrestled to the ground. One of them—he guessed it was the younger one, Luke—practically sat on his legs in order to lash some twine around his ankles, and Beau began on a catalogue of prime insults, until the girl said thoughtfully to her colleagues, ‘Oh, dear. You’d better gag him as well.’

So his insults were at an end, more was the pity. But most of all Beau regretted being blindfolded; because if she’d been able to see his eyes, she would have realised that the expression in them was one of pure and utter contempt.

* * *

First round to the Lambeth Players, Deb’s stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would have said. But Deb didn’t feel the slightest sense of triumph. That kiss. Oh, that kiss. It was with only the greatest difficulty that she managed to keep her voice calm as she guided Luke and Francis away from their captive. ‘Well done, both of you,’ she said, ‘for timing your rescue to perfection.’

Francis looked stunned. ‘He had a gun. And he was molesting you. Kissing you. As far as I’m concerned that decides it. We’ll leave him here.’ Francis picked up his hat, which had fallen off during the struggle. ‘Luke and I spotted some woodcutters at work further along the track. They’re bound to come this way once they’ve finished for the day, and find our fancy gentleman—so let him fume in his bonds for a while. He deserves no pity from us.’

‘And he won’t get it,’ said Deb swiftly. ‘But I’m afraid we have to keep him under guard for a little while longer.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a friend of Palfreyman’s.’

Francis stared; Luke let out a small yelp of horror.

‘That’s right.’ And that’s not the least of it. Our prisoner has seen those awful, awful books, and once he’s set free, he might recount the whole incident to Palfreyman. My plan to save the Players could be wrecked...

‘Mr Beaumaris was actually on his way to Hardgate Hall,’ she went on. ‘And you were right—that is Palfreyman’s bay that he was riding. So you have to keep him a prisoner, I’m afraid, until I receive Palfreyman’s written promise to drop all charges against the Players.’

‘But that’s not till...’

‘I know. Not until tomorrow.’

‘But he’ll need feeding.’ This was Luke speaking. ‘He’ll need somewhere to sleep, Miss Deb. He’ll need—’

‘We can do it if we have to,’ interrupted Francis. ‘But what about you, Deborah?’

‘I’ve got to go back to Oxford, to the Angel, Francis.’ Somehow she managed to sound calm. ‘I’m booked to entertain the inn’s customers for an hour, tomorrow at noon. Don’t you remember?’

Francis looked gloomy. ‘But the rest of the Players have gone on to Gloucester. Can’t we just leave, now, and join them?’

‘No! We’ve put posters up all around town for my show, and you know as well as I do that if we let our customers down, they won’t turn up the next time we’re here! Also, I have to stay in Oxford to get Palfreyman’s reply tomorrow morning!’

‘Do you really believe he’ll write to say he’s going to lift those charges against us?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Deb replied confidently. Francis would be confident, too, if he knew what she’d stolen from Palfreyman’s house. ‘I’ve told him that I’ll expect his reply by ten tomorrow.’ From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed their prisoner stirring slightly; her spirits plummeted again. ‘I don’t think Palfreyman will dare to be late. But it does mean that you and Luke are going to have to keep our prisoner here until I get back to you, early in the afternoon.’

Both men looked appalled. Clearly she wasn’t the only one to realise that they had a truly formidable opponent in Mr Beaumaris. ‘If there was an alternative I’d use it, believe me,’ she continued earnestly. ‘But I’m afraid we’ve really no choice.’

Francis still looked deeply unhappy. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘I noticed there’s a charcoal-burner’s hut off the track back there, and it doesn’t look like it’s been used for years. If we get him inside it, he wouldn’t have to lie out in the cold and wet all night.’

Deb remembered the insults that Mr Beaumaris had paid her and replied thoughtfully, ‘Francis, do you know, I don’t think I care very much if our prisoner does have to lie out in the cold and wet all night. But you’re right, I suppose. Luke, you must ride over to Hardgate village and pick up a few provisions—it will all work out, you’ll see. As an extra precaution, Francis, I’ll give you Mr Beaumaris’s gun.’ She spoke with forced cheerfulness as she handed him the pistol. ‘As soon as Luke rejoins you, you can take our prisoner to the charcoal-burner’s hut for the night. By the time I’ve done my performance at the Angel, I’ll have received Palfreyman’s written promise not to prosecute us—then I can ride back here and we’ll let Mr Beaumaris go free.’

‘But then Mr Beaumaris will ride on to Palfreyman’s, and he’ll tell Palfreyman all about us!’

‘By which time we’ll be well out of the way, believe me.’

Francis glanced at their furious prisoner. ‘I’d say that the more miles we put between ourselves and Mr Beaumaris, the better.’

Deb couldn’t have agreed more. As she mounted her old pony, Ned, she tried to keep up her optimism, but she felt more and more afraid of the consequences of this ill-fated encounter. And yet it was hard to describe the almost crushing disappointment she’d felt when she realised that Mr Beaumaris was a friend of Palfreyman’s.

Something about Mr Beaumaris disturbed her in a quite alarming manner. There was no denying that he was absolutely, compellingly male, with his brilliant blue eyes and his unruly dark hair and hard, lean jaw. Gorgeous, Peggy Daniels would say. Mouthwateringly gorgeous. But shouldn’t Deb have been immune to that?

Instead, what his kiss had done to her just terrified her. Yes, she’d lured him into the kiss because she knew that Luke and Francis would arrive any minute, and it had been the obvious way to distract him. She’d been prepared to feel revulsion and fresh fear. Instead, she’d been completely stunned by her own reaction to the touch of his lips on hers.

Damian Beaumaris was the kind of man she absolutely detested. He was arrogant. He was hatefully insulting. But as soon as his mouth came down on hers she’d felt shock flooding every nerve and her world had slowed. She’d wanted—no, she needed to be closer to him; she even heard her own little moan of longing. She still felt as though her world had turned upside down.

Deb drew a deep breath, and urged her ambling steed onwards.


Chapter Four (#ulink_d4c6250a-7f73-5fc1-9659-0ec1758fe90d)

In less than an hour Deb had returned to the inn to find that the rest of the Lambeth Players had travelled on earlier as arranged, taking their carts of belongings and their other two horses. She was glad everything here at least had gone according to plan, but she missed their lively banter. After stabling Ned, she went to buy herself a hot meal to take back to the stables where she would spend the night, but she wasn’t able to escape the sharp tongue of the innkeeper’s wife.

‘I’m hoping, young lady,’ the woman said as she ladled out some dubious-looking stew, ‘that a few people turn up for this speechifying of yours tomorrow. It’s going to put us to a deal of trouble, you know, clearing our yard and setting up a stage for you.’

Deb took her plate and looked at her steadily. ‘Your courtyard is always packed every year when I appear. You know that. And they pay.’

‘Sixpence apiece, but you take half of that!’

‘Ah, but the people who come to see me also drink your ale and buy your hot pies by the dozen.’ Which I’d guess you fill with the local butcher’s sweepings, Deb added to herself. She’d tried one of them once—it was horrible. She turned to go, but the innkeeper’s wife hadn’t finished with her.

‘The rest of your friends,’ she said suddenly, making Deb almost drop her plate. ‘They paid their bill and cleared out this morning. Now, where were they bound?’

‘They’ve gone on to the fair at Stow on the Wold,’ Deb lied glibly. ‘A little muddying of their trail might be a good thing, all in all.’ Mr Beaumaris. Palfreyman. Oh, heavens.

Still the woman hadn’t finished, but came closer, her eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity. ‘It must be a strange life,’ she said, ‘for a young woman, traipsing around with a bunch of travelling players. And I heard tell that you’re all in trouble with the local magistrates—’

‘You must excuse me,’ Deb broke in, ‘I really wanted to eat this delicious stew while it’s hot—’

‘In trouble with the local magistrates,’ repeated the woman with emphasis, ‘for putting on a play on a Sunday. They say the lot of you have been threatened with prison. There, now. What do you say to that?’

‘It was all a mistake. And I assure you that the matter will very soon be sorted.’ Deb gave the woman a dazzling smile, then marched out towards the stables. Once inside she kicked the door shut with her foot, sat on a hay bale and put her plate down.

She wasn’t hungry any more.

Did everyone in the whole of Oxford know the predicament that they were in? Damn Palfreyman! She would come through this. They would all come through this. But now there was an added complication—their prisoner.

She had a feeling that Mr Beaumaris wasn’t a man to either forgive or forget. But he’s no idea who I am, she told herself. He has no idea of my connection with the Players or with Palfreyman. He thinks my friends are highway robbers, and that I’m a whore. Hardly surprising, since he’d found those books on her...

Oh, to blazes with Mr Beaumaris, Deb thought irritably. It was his fault that he was in such a pickle. But with both him and Palfreyman as enemies now, the sooner she, Francis and Luke were on their way to Gloucester to join the others, the better. And then she could push today’s rather alarming events from her mind.

But she wouldn’t be able to forget Mr Beaumaris’s kiss quite so quickly. Or his wicked blue eyes and devilish good looks. She thought that she would quite possibly never forget the way her heart had jolted and almost stopped as his lips crushed hers and his hands had drawn her closer...

Enough. Enough. She picked up her plate and tried to convince herself that the greasy mess looked appetising. She hoped that Mr Beaumaris was vastly cold and miserable in the charcoal-burner’s hut, and that Luke and Francis were making his captivity as uncomfortable as possible.

She forced herself to eat the stew, aware that she really needed to keep her strength up—because just at the moment, it rather looked as if her company would be lucky to survive the next few days without the lot of them being hurled straight into Oxford County Gaol, by either Hugh Palfreyman, or the even more formidable Mr Beaumaris.

* * *

As the sun began to sink in a haze of mist over the Ashendale Forest, Beau turned restlessly in his bonds and decided that he could not remember having been more furious in all his life.

Oh, he’d been angry before now. But there had always been something he could do—some counter-attack he could plan, some legal strategy he could devise. He’d been known in the past to use his fists if the circumstances were appropriate.

But now his impotence made him wild. He’d heard the girl riding off on her pony, leaving her two companions to guard him—and there hadn’t been a thing Beau could do, since he was once more roped up and blindfolded.

His hearing, though, was acute, and shortly afterwards he realised that the younger fellow was riding off also. But Beau heard him return within half an hour, and then they both came over to offer him some food that the lad must have purchased. After some muttering between themselves, they removed his gag, so he was able to point out, in no uncertain terms, that they’d have to untie his hands as well if he was to eat.

They muttered to each other again, then unfastened the cord round his wrists to allow him to feed himself with the bread and cheese they offered. But when he reached for his blindfold the older one tutted and said, ‘I hope you’re not going to try and get your blindfold off, are you, Mr Beaumaris? That wouldn’t be a good idea at all. It really wouldn’t.’ And—though Beau doubted if the fellow could use it—he heard the ominous click of his own pistol and decided it was, for the moment, more prudent to obey.

Of course, they didn’t want him to see their rascally faces—but he guessed they were watching him all the time as he ate. Then they tied his hands again but loosened the rope at his ankles and led him about a hundred yards or so to what he guessed was some kind of rough shelter. And that was where, he gathered, they expected him to spend the whole of the long, miserable night.

It was apparent that their leader—Miss Deb, or Deborah—had had no intention of returning that evening, quite possibly because she had her own trade to ply in the streets of Oxford. And that troubled Beau.

She was a slut and a highway robber, by her own admission. But most dangerously of all, she was attractive in the kind of way that he just could not erase from his mind. Yes, she was a little on the skinny side, to be sure—but he’d quickly forgotten that when he’d held her close and realised that some very feminine curves were hidden by her boy’s attire. Yes, she was scruffy, and her long hair could have done with a good brush, but what did that matter, when she possessed such ravishing chestnut curls and such enchanting, dark-lashed golden eyes?

And as for the kiss... Beau shifted uncomfortably on the beaten-earth floor of the charcoal-burner’s hut, remembering her against his will.

He might be blindfolded again, but her image was etched on his memory. He couldn’t help but remember how she’d let out a little gasp of surprise as he kissed her, how she’d clasped her hands tightly around his waist as if to steady herself.

He couldn’t forget the feel of her pert and slender figure pressed so close to his, or the scent of her skin; nor could he fail to remember how her hair was a tumbled cloud of radiant hues that perfectly framed her flushed face. She’d looked exquisite—and innocent.

But it was all a sham. She’d deliberately pretended to be stunned by his caresses while secretly enabling her two henchmen to spring their trap.

He gritted his teeth as he remembered how she’d earlier flicked through the quite scandalous illustrations in those little books of hers and told him sweetly, Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own.

She was so like Paulette—who never dressed in anything other than silks and satins, but even so the similarity between the two of them had hit him like a body-blow. When darkness fell he lay there thinking, Who is she? And when he slept at last, he dreamed of her.

He dreamed that he had her in his arms, and her smile was enticing as he bent his head to kiss her. Then she squirmed with wanton relish in his arms, and fluttered her lashes with the skill of a practised coquette, breathing, ‘Well, Damian Beaumaris. It seems that I have you at last.’

* * *

Beau woke at dawn to a chorus of birdsong, and found that his muscles were cramped and stiff. The younger of his guards came to check that his blindfold and bonds were still in place. There was no sign of any imminent improvement in his situation.

He dozed again briefly, but woke to hear his two guards having a muttered argument. They tried at first to keep their voices to whispers, but as their tempers rose, so did their voices. He let out an almighty bellow. Moments later he heard hurried footsteps and the door creaked open. The older one said, ‘Was there something you wanted, Mr Beaumaris?’

‘I’m hungry,’ Beau pronounced in a dangerous voice. ‘I’m cold and cramped in here. Above all I want you to know that I’ll have you all clapped in bloody Newgate for this.’

‘We’re sorry, Mr Beaumaris.’ It was the younger one who spoke this time—he must have come to join his friend. ‘But you have to stay our prisoner, see? For just a little longer, that’s all.’

Beau could almost hear the lad shaking in fright. The girl was made of sterner stuff than the rest of them put together. He gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t recall your...Miss Deb telling you to let me starve. And there’s something else. I’ve been shut up in here all night, and I need to relieve myself.’

‘Now, let’s see,’ the older one was muttering. ‘We have to keep his blindfold on, but we’ll need to untie the ropes at his feet. Though it’s best perhaps if we keep the long rope tied to one of his ankles, so he can’t run... This way, Mr Beaumaris, sir!’

And Beau found himself being led a few yards away, still blindfolded and with his wrists tied behind his back, while the rope that connected him to the doorpost uncoiled behind him. He told himself, calmly, Someone is going to pay dearly for this.

‘We’ll leave you in privacy, sir.’

‘My hands will need freeing,’ Beau pointed out.

His guardian was clearly unhappy. ‘I suppose so.’ He untied the knot with nervous fingers. ‘I’ll be back in a few moments—sir.’

Beau almost had to laugh, it was all so ridiculous. What would his friends—Prinny and the Duke of Devonshire and the rest of high society—have to say if they could see him like this? Swiftly he eased off his blindfold and stared around. His captors were busy over their fire again, but they were still near enough to spot instantly if he were to try to undo the knotted rope around his right leg. And the older one no doubt still had Beau’s pistol in his belt.

He assessed the two men swiftly. The older one, a lanky fellow, wore a long coat in a peculiar shade of red, and a black hat with a feather in it. The younger was—well, the younger was just a fair-haired lad, pleasant-looking enough, wearing breeches and a leather tunic.

He spotted their horses—a pony and an old grey mare—over on the far side of the clearing, and tethered beside them was Palfreyman’s bay horse. After a few moments Beau called out to his captors and allowed them to lead him back to the charcoal-burner’s hut.

They were clearly upset that he’d removed his blindfold, but after conferring together decided there was little point now in replacing it. They tied his wrists again, but his legs were left free. Preferring to remain standing, Beau leaned against the doorway and watched the two men bend over their small fire—he could smell bacon cooking. He wondered how Palfreyman had felt yesterday when Beau failed to turn up for his four o’clock appointment. Most likely he’d opened a bottle of his best wine to celebrate.

‘You take the food over to him, Luke,’ he heard the older one say. As the younger one approached, Beau stared down at him fiercely.

The lad cleared his throat. ‘Here’s some bread and bacon for you, sir. Is there anything else you need?’

‘Yes,’ said Beau curtly as he took the hunk of hot bacon wrapped in two slabs of bread. ‘I need to be set free. I want my pistol back and that bay horse, so I can ride to Oxford and report the pair of you for kidnap and violence.’

‘It’s not kidnap!’ The lad sounded terrified. ‘And we’re only to keep you here until Miss Deb gets back, she said so. Then we can let you go, I swear...’

‘You take orders from a girl?’ said Beau with contempt.

The lad flushed to the roots of his fair hair and hurried off. Beau ate the bacon and bread, then settled himself on the floor and pretended to be asleep again. They came over to check him, then stood outside, talking. They talked for quite a while; then the older one said, ‘Best get going with our jobs, lad. The horses need feeding and watering for a start—I’ll see to that, and lead them down to the river. You go and explore the track—in both directions, mind. Make sure there aren’t any search parties out looking for our prisoner, do you understand?’

‘But shouldn’t one of us stay to keep an eye on—him?’

‘With his wrists tied, and that rope round his leg? Our Mr Beaumaris is going nowhere in a hurry. Besides, he looks to be sleeping again...’

Their voices faded. Lying by the open door of the hut, Beau opened one eye and watched the younger one set off anxiously towards the track, while the other made for the horses.

They’d left the fire burning low.

As soon as they were out of sight, Beau began to get to his feet, smiling grimly to himself.


Chapter Five (#ulink_58b1b715-df05-5b62-ae5a-c398de17ea3e)

Deb O’Hara was sitting on a bale of hay in the Angel’s stable, dressed in a white shirt and black velvet breeches, with her long chestnut hair pinned up tightly. She was doing her breathing exercises, which consisted of swinging her arms from side to side, taking a deep breath, then expelling the air from her lungs in a steady hum—Gerald had taught her to do this, to warm her vocal cords. At the same time she was trying hard to concentrate on the words she would be reciting out there in about—oh, no—in about twenty minutes.

Miss Deb O’Hara’s ‘entertainments’ always gathered a crowd. It had been her idea years ago to present selections of their repertoire by herself, keeping the content short and lively. After considerable practice she’d mastered the art of playing two parts at once—in this case, the clown from Twelfth Night and the lovelorn heroine, Viola. By the time she’d skipped from one side of the stage to the other, changed her hat and her voice as necessary and sung a few comical songs as well, she usually had her audience captivated.

But at this precise moment, she couldn’t even remember her lines.

‘I will build me a willow cabin...’

She stopped. She wasn’t getting a headache, was she? She’d slept badly last night in the stable loft, but there was a good reason for that—Mr Beaumaris. And his kiss. He’s safe in the woods, she kept assuring herself. Francis and Luke have him tied up... After taking a deep swallow from the flask of water she’d put on a nearby hay bale, she began again.

‘Build me a willow cabin—’

She broke off once more as her old pony, watching from its stall, stretched to nip playfully at her shirt sleeve. ‘I’ve no apples for you, Ned! Now leave me be—you’re having a nice long rest, but I’ve got all these words to remember!’

And an awful lot on my mind, if truth be told, she muttered to herself before starting her breathing exercises again. ‘Hmmm...’

A crowd was already gathering out in the yard. They sounded to be a noisy, ale-swilling lot, but that was only to be expected, and besides, she’d been used to stepping out in front of lively audiences since she was little. Her very first role had been as one of the young, doomed princes in Richard III, and some raucous onlookers had started jeering the moment she appeared. But they’d gone absolutely silent when she’d made her poignant little speech—God keep me from false friends!—and the sense of sheer power over people’s emotions had enthralled her.

‘You’re born to it, Deb,’ Gerald O’Hara had said proudly afterwards. ‘Some day they’ll be calling out your name in Drury Lane or Covent Garden.’

Perhaps. But meanwhile here she was, struggling to remember her lines for a performance in an inn yard, and the surly innkeeper was banging on the stable door. ‘You nearly ready? All this lot out here are making an almighty nuisance of themselves.’

Deb thought of all the sixpences he would have been busy collecting from them and bit back a sharp retort. ‘I said I’d appear at midday.’ She kept her voice pleasant. ‘And that’s what I’ll do.’

‘Well, see that you keep to it, missy.’

He left before she had chance to reply.

Don’t waste your time and effort arguing with the wretch. Don’t. A feeling of deep dread lurked in Deb’s heart—but it wasn’t the crowd she was afraid of.

Her business with Palfreyman was more or less resolved. At ten this morning she’d hurried to St Mary’s churchyard, watching out for any trap that might have been laid—after all, she wouldn’t put anything past Palfreyman. But everything was quiet there, and relief swept through her when she spotted the letter under the horse trough by the church wall.

Deb sat in the sun on the village green, and carefully opened the letter, which promised that Palfreyman would lift the charges he’d laid against the Lambeth Players. The wording was brief and gave away little, though she thought she could detect Palfreyman’s fury in the jagged penstrokes of his signature.

After buying herself a fresh currant bun from the nearby baker’s by way of celebration, she enjoyed it in the sunshine before wandering thoughtfully back to the inn. What could go wrong now?

Nothing—as long as they could set Mr Beaumaris free and get away before he could catch up with them.

To have been forced to keep him a prisoner overnight was an appalling turn of events—especially as he was a friend of Palfreyman’s. His kiss—and her reaction to it—had disturbed her badly. And there was something else. She could not forget how when he’d first seen her, his incredible blue eyes had opened wide with something that almost shouted aloud: I know you. I know you from somewhere.

Deb continued to pace the stables carefully, swinging her arms and trying to calm her racing thoughts. Palfreyman had a daughter, an only daughter called Paulette, who was the same age as her. And Deb knew for a fact that between the grown-up Paulette and herself there was an uncanny resemblance, because she’d seen her, last year.

Deb and Francis had gone to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens on a hot July afternoon. There was a display of Moorish acrobats and the London crowds had thronged to see them, but Deb and Francis had been there for a different reason—they’d come to ask the manager of Vauxhall if they could put on one of their plays for a week in the autumn.

Deb’s mind had been wholly on the negotiations. But when she saw the young woman wandering by with a group of female friends, she’d quite forgotten what she was about to say, because it had been like gazing into a looking glass—a magical looking glass, that turned your clothes from cheap cotton to silks and satins, and your leather boots to dainty kid shoes. The lady Deb was staring at was clad in a lovely pale green pelisse and a neat bonnet that set off her chestnut curls exquisitely. She carried a matching parasol, and everything about her declared that she was rich and proud and privileged.

The manager had gone off to fetch his appointments book. The young woman in green had disappeared among the summer crowds. But despite the blazing sunshine, Deb had felt as cold as if a ghost had walked over her grave, especially when Francis said with wonder, ‘That young lady who went by just then, with all her friends. She bore a remarkable resemblance to you, Deborah!’

‘No,’ Deb had said, shivering. ‘No, you’re mistaken, Francis.’

But afterwards, when the business with the manager was successfully completed and Francis had strolled off to admire the acrobats, Deb spotted the woman and her friends in the crowds again, and found herself unwillingly drawn closer to them.

‘Paulette,’ one of them was calling out. ‘Paulette, do come over here, they’re selling ices, and we must have one!’

The years had rolled back. Once more she was a six-year-old child clinging to her mother’s hand as they were driven by an angry Hugh Palfreyman from his house—but before the great front door was finally slammed on them, she’d caught sight of a small girl about her age, who happened to be crossing the vast, marble-tiled hall with her nurse.

The girl had tugged at her nurse’s hand when she saw Deb and her mother. ‘Nurse,’ she’d said in a clear, piercing voice, ‘Nurse, who is that dirty girl who’s staring at me so?’

Then the door was closed, with Deb on one side, and the little girl on the other. Even at such a young age, Paulette had been dressed in expensive and elaborate finery—a complete contrast to Deb, in her cotton frock. But Paulette was the same age as Deb, her curls were the same shade of chestnut—and such was the similarity that Deb had heard her mother utter a low cry on seeing her.

What different paths the two girls had taken, thought Deb. It was inevitable, really, since one of them was the privileged daughter of a rich country gentleman and the other was a travelling player. Yet even so, to see her cousin at Vauxhall looking so very like her in feature and figure had shaken Deb badly.

She had wandered away into the crowds that day reminding herself that Paulette Palfreyman had no relevance whatsoever to her own life. Palfreyman had disowned his sister and her child completely, all those years ago; he hadn’t even come to his sister’s funeral. Deb had heard occasional news of Paulette; she’d married well last autumn, and was presumably content. No one was ever likely to link the two girls, were they? And did it matter if they did?

It might matter now. As she prepared to go out on the crude little stage, Deb was thinking—Mr Beaumaris may very well have met Paulette Palfreyman, since he is a friend of her father. What if he had spotted the likeness in the woods yesterday?

Mr Beaumaris would, she knew, be more than angry with his captors. In fact, he would be furious. But she’d comforted herself up till this moment with the knowledge that he would be unable to identify them.

Now, she had to think again.

The bells of the nearby church were beginning to strike midday. Picking up her two hats—the clown’s black-and-white pointed one and Viola’s jaunty green cap—she drew a deep breath, then stepped outside to a chorus of cheers and the occasional jeer. The inn yard was packed, she realised. Giving them a jaunty bow, she climbed lightly up to the makeshift wooden platform set in the inn’s courtyard, and several of the men whistled appreciatively at the way her breeches and hose displayed her legs. She grinned, gave them another extravagant bow, put on the clown’s hat and skipped lightly across the stage to begin one of the lively songs.



When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain...

They fell silent. They listened. After that they roared with applause, but silence descended anew as she went to put on the green cap, sat on a bale of hay placed at the corner of the stage and began Viola’s speech, recounting her sadness in finding herself stranded in a foreign country. The magic of the words took over, and her troubles were—for the moment—forgotten.

Deb was as amazed as ever to see how these country folk—rough and uneducated, most of them—completely melted on hearing Viola’s lovelorn words. After dextrously entwining the two parts and feasting her audience with some of Shakespeare’s loveliest verse, she rounded her performance with the clown’s last song.



A great while ago, the world began,

With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

They roared their approval. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called above the din. ‘Thank you, so much!’ She bowed again and again as they applauded, blowing them kisses. One day, she vowed, I’ll have a theatre of my own in London. I will. It didn’t have to be big, or in an expensive part of the city. She wouldn’t be able to charge a fortune and seat hundreds, as the three big London theatres did—Drury Lane and Covent Garden and the Haymarket. But she would find the Lambeth Players a permanent home; one that her stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would have been truly proud of.

Almost skipping back to the stable, she found Ned the pony poking his head over the stall and she fed him a handful of hay. ‘It went well, Ned,’ she whispered. ‘Really well.’ Taking off her jester’s hat, she smiled with reflective pleasure—oh, it was the best of lives, to be an actor! Then she froze.

Because she’d just realised that she and Ned weren’t the only ones in here.




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