Possession (25 page)

Min almost bit
her tongue off to refrain from saying something that would completely destroy
her last chance. She might be desperate, but she liked to think she wasn’t a
complete fool.

"Now, if
you’ll be so good as to step aside." He lifted thick, woolly brows, expectant.

"Please,
Mr. Style, I shall be indebted to you. I’m not asking for money." She put
her right arm behind her back to hide the threadbare patch on the cloak sleeve.
"Not much anyway. I simply want—"

"No."
He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Would you like me to explain it to you
again?" He tossed his head and brushed the cheek of a passerby with the
long white plume decorating his hat. "Women cannot possibly write the sort
of plays my company performs. The nuances, the rhythms, are simply too intricate
for the poor female mind to comprehend."

"Many women
attend your plays, sir, and enjoy them." Used to enjoy them, she might
have added. After the most recent outbreak of the plague, Lord Hawkesbury’s
Players—Style’s company—could no longer be relied upon to entertain. With their
chief playwright succumbing to the disease that had emptied the city and
ravaged those who’d remained behind, the new plays had been awful. Not a single
one had lasted more than two performances. Most not even that many.

As a consequence,
audiences had dwindled. The one that attended this afternoon’s performance had
already turned into a trickle leaving the inn. That alone gave Min hope. A
theatre company with a diminishing audience equaled a desperate manager. And
desperate people took risks.

Style lifted a
hand. "Watching them is one thing," he said, "writing them
entirely another."

What remained of
Min’s heart sank into her stomach. It was hopeless. He wouldn’t look at her
play if his life depended upon it, or his livelihood as it were.

The crowd had
dispersed entirely, the gray clouds encouraging them to find shelter before the
rain broke and made the roads slippery and their ruffs droop. Style moved to
step around her.

"Wait!"
She caught his arm, jerking him to a halt.

"My
girl," he said with exaggerated effort, "I am very busy." He
glanced back at the inn. Looking for assistance from his players? It was
unlikely they would come to his aid—they were probably still drowning their
professional sorrows in the taproom. "Please remove yourself from my
presence or I shall have to—"

"There’s
been a misunderstanding." She had to do something, say something, to get
him to listen. "I didn’t write this play."

"Very
well." He pried one of her fingers off his arm, using only his thumb and
forefinger as if he might catch something from her.

As soon as he
let go of her finger, she clamped it down on his arm again. "What I mean
to say is, a woman didn’t write this play, a man did."

Style frowned.
"Then why didn’t you tell me so before?"

She shrugged.
She didn’t have an answer for that. Not yet.

"Well, if
you didn’t," he said, "who did?"

She quickly
scanned the faces of passersby, but therein lay the flaw in her plan—they
passed by. Style would not believe one of them had interest in their conversation.
There was only one man who lingered. He had his back to them and was a little
near for her liking. Well, he’d have to do; Style was growing restless.

"Him,"
she said.

"Him?"
Style’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man.

Min studied him
too. He leaned against the wall of a haberdasher’s shop, arms and ankles
crossed. He was tall and dark haired. Unlike the gentleman fops she was
familiar with, he wore simple black with no elaborate stitching and not a hint
of jewelry. Even his ruff was small. She couldn’t determine the material of his
doublet and hose, but they fit him well. Not a sag in sight. A talented tailor
had made them precisely for this man’s body. And what a body. Wide shoulders
and a fine leg with a muscled and shapely calf.

The figure in
question suddenly shifted, a barely noticeable stiffening of his back and
shoulders. Min noticed it, however. She felt strangely in tune with him—like
the fiddler off stage and dancer on it, they were separate and yet together.

"Then why
didn’t he approach me himself instead of sending you?" Style cocked his
head to the side without taking his gaze off the stranger. "Lo!" he
called out.

"Shhh!"
Min hissed. "He’s, er, shy." She cringed. She might have an
overactive imagination but it wasn’t a particularly quick one.

The man must
have heard because he turned around. Min swallowed a gasp. He was very handsome
with tanned skin that spoke of warmer climes or an intriguing parentage. But it
was his eyes that sent a shimmer of heat up her spine. They were bright blue,
the color of a summer sky. Amidst all that darkness, they were an oasis—vivid
and glorious.

And they were
staring straight at her.

"He doesn’t
look shy," Style said.

He most
certainly did not. Min had never seen a man quite like him. He exuded a self-contained
power, and despite his idle stance, she could see he was alert to his
surroundings—a cat lazing in the sun but with an eye on the mouse.

Or in this case,
Min.

"Well, he
is shy," she said. "Very."

"I want to
meet him."

"No!"
She leaped in front of Style.

He peered over
her head and frowned. "Oh. He’s gone."

Thank you, Lord.
Min breathed out and managed a smile. "As I said. Shy."

"He
shouldn’t be. Men who look like that don’t need to be shy. I wonder if he’s
ever thought of acting. He’d make quite a striking figure on stage."

"I’ll ask
him next time I see him." She held out her manuscript. "Will you read
his play?"

Style took it
and Min felt her heart rebuild itself in that instant. She didn’t squeal in
delight, but it was an effort not to.

"I’ll read
it tonight," he said.

"Wonderful.
I’ll meet you back here tomorrow, same time. You won’t be disappointed,
sir."

Style cast his
eye over the front page. "Bring the playwright."

"The…er,
yes, of course. He’ll be here." Her face heated at the lie, knowing she’d
need another to explain why she hadn’t brought him.

"Good day,
Mistress…What was your name?"

"Peabody.
Minerva Peabody."

Style nodded and
left, hurrying the short distance to Gracechurch Street without looking back.

Min watched him
go with a growing sense of exhilaration. He was going to read it! The battle
was half won. She might finally, finally see her dream of two years come to
fruition, and just in time too. Money was running out and Ned Taylor was
hovering, preparing to swoop in and snatch her for his wife. She would rather
live in poverty than wed that swine of a man, but her father could not. He was
too old. And poverty meant they would lose their beloved maid, Jane.

Tears of joy
welled in her eyes. It was almost too much. She felt like she would burst if
she didn’t tell someone. But who? Her father would be angry that she’d wasted
so much time on her play instead of helping him, and her friends didn’t quite
understand how much it meant to her. The few who knew she harbored the dream of
being a playwright thought her mad.

Min sighed. Her
earlier enthusiasm faded. If only her mother were still alive…

She turned to
go. And bumped into something hard. Not something, someone. A tall man, with
strong hands that gripped her shoulders to steady her.

"I’m
sorry," she said, peering up at him. "I—Oh! It’s you."

The stranger
with the too-blue eyes glared down his nose at her.

"Why were
you watching me?" No preamble, no "Are you all right?" or
"Hello, my name is Percy Percival, what’s yours?"

Min swallowed.
Blinked. Remembered to breathe. The man was overwhelming up close. Taller,
broader across the shoulders with an air of danger that simmered around him.
From afar he’d been like an exotic delicacy—a delicious morsel that was, alas,
out of her reach—but now she received the full force of his presence. Power
rippled through his touch into her body, making the tiny hairs on the back of
her neck stand to attention. His blue glare bored into her as if he were trying
to extract the answer directly from her head. There was a jaded languor about
those eyes, as if they’d seen too much and cared too little.

"I wasn’t
watching you," she said, her voice small. She cleared her throat.
"Anyway, it was you who was watching me."

His gaze slid to
her shoulders. As if he’d just realized he was still holding her, he let them
go. "You are mistaken."

"I am not.
You were looking directly at me for quite some time."

"No."

"No?"

"As I said,
you’re mistaken. I was merely looking in your general direction."

"At what
precisely?"

A pulse throbbed
in his cheek. "You ask a lot of questions."

"I’m merely
curious. As a playwright, it helps to be curious about people. Besides, one
question does not ‘a lot’ make. So, what or whom were you looking at if not at
me?" She wasn’t sure why she persisted. Perhaps it was to learn more about
him. He might prove useful as the basis for one of her characters.

"That,"
he said in a tone that could have frozen the Thames, "is none of your
business."

She sighed. He
was harder to talk to than her father in the midst of his research.

"Are you
going to tell me why you were looking at me or will I have to force it out of
you?" he persisted.

She gasped.
"Force? What kind of force?" She glanced around and wondered if any
of the lingering youths or hawkers would come to her aid if she screamed. The
street had become oddly quiet now that the performance was long over, and the
sky had turned sinister. Everyone must have gone home or into one of the nearby
shops in anticipation of a downpour.

"You could
always not answer the question to find out," he said. "If you’re
curious enough, that is."

She crossed her
arms. She didn’t like to be teased.

"Who was
that man with you?" he asked.

She saw no
reason not to tell him. "Roger Style, manager and lead actor for Lord Hawkesbury’s
Players."

"The
theatre company?"

"Yes."

She thought she
saw him smile but she must have been mistaken. He didn’t look like a man who
knew how to smile.

He glanced back
at the White Swan Inn. "And that parcel you gave him was your play?"

"Yes."

"Ah. I
see." He bent down to her level and pinned her to the spot with an
unwavering glare. "So what, madam, does Roger Style and your play have to
do with me?" She opened her mouth to utter whatever excuse came out first,
but he stopped her by raising a finger. "No," he said. "I want a
direct answer this time."

Now she wished
she’d chosen someone else, someone with blander features and considerably
smaller in stature. Someone who didn’t turn her insides hot and cold with one
glance or look like he could squeeze answers out of her.

Someone with a
little less strength of character.

She reined in
her galloping attention. "Style wouldn’t read a play written by a woman,
so I told him a man wrote it." She took a cautious step away from him but
it didn’t weaken his effect on her. Only the distance of oceans would achieve
that—no, not even then. "In short, I told him you wrote it."

"Me?"

"Yes.
You."

"Why
me?"

Because you have
broad shoulders. She shrugged. "You were standing about, not doing
anything in particular and then you turned around and stared at me."

"I thought
we cleared that up. I wasn’t staring at you." Amusement flared in those
blue depths again. Min found it irritating, despite her attraction, but it
wouldn’t do to let him see. She needed him, after all. "However, if it
pleases your playwright’s fancy to think that I was, then go ahead and indulge
in that fantasy."

Heat flared from
her throat to her hairline. "Your eyes were pointed at me, sir," she
said, trying hard to sweeten her tone. "And since my eyes are in perfect
working order, I do not think I was mistaken."

He sighed and
looked briefly heavenward as if seeking a sign. "I wasn’t watching you, I
was watching your companion."

The sound of her
vanity bursting momentarily filled her ears. Her heart dipped. It really was
her own silly fault to have assumed he had been staring at her. She was hardly
the sort of woman to inspire a man like him to spend his afternoon looking at a
stranger.

She tucked a
stray lock of hair back into her hood. "Style? But why?"

He hesitated,
just a little, then said, "I want to join his company."

"Lord
Hawkesbury’s Players? As what?"