My Secret Life Read online

  "Not directly." Blake pulled at the cuff of his doublet and Min wondered if he still had a dagger hidden there.

  And if he would use it.

  "You look familiar," Hawkesbury said. "What did you say your name was again?"

  "Blake."

  "Full name?"

  The servants who had resumed their cleaning stopped once more. Even the traveler had halted again in his journey to the taproom. They, like Min, sensed that Hawkesbury was demanding, not asking. Where the earl had been entertained by the display only moments before, now he was rigid with tension.

  "Just Blake," Blake said evenly.

  "What is he doing?" Croft whispered. "He must answer his lordship! If he doesn't, he might cause trouble."

  "If he does answer him," Alice muttered, "then there'll definitely be trouble."

  Min swallowed and willed Blake to walk away, to get out before he said too much, did too much. But he wouldn't. She knew it like she knew her father could never give up his work. It wasn't in his nature. Blake wasn't about to abandon the confrontation now.

  Lord Hawkesbury approached the stage, his cool gaze never leaving Blake. "Anyone would think you are deliberately trying to avoid giving me your name."

  "Do you take wagers?" Blake said.

  Hawkesbury hesitated. "If the price is right."

  "Then I'll make you an offer. Join me up here and help me show these players how to fight. If you win, I'll tell you my name."

  The earl's shoulders seemed to loosen, and a smile played around his lips. "And if you win?"

  Blake shrugged. "I tell you nothing unless I want to. And I get the satisfaction of knowing I beat the great Lord Hawkesbury in a swordfight."

  Hawkesbury threw his head back and laughed, a deep throaty sound that filled the inn-yard. But it lacked humor. Style joined in but no one else appeared to think it funny. Not a single person moved. Min couldn't even breathe let alone walk away.

  Lord Hawkesbury climbed the stairs, his gaze on Blake. Always on Blake. They were of a height, Min realized when they both stood on the wooden platform, although Lord Hawkesbury was leaner but no less broad across chest and shoulder. Like Blake, he didn't wear the latest ridiculous fashions but his clothes had a simple yet elegant cut.

  "And how," he said, the smile turning grim, "do you propose we determine a winner?"

  "First blood," Blake said.

  Min heard Croft blow out a breath. She exchanged glances with Alice. First blood was better than a fight to the death but it could still prove fatal. A small scratch could fester and see the injured party die several days later.

  "This might get interesting," Shakespeare said in her ear. "Watch closely. There'll be a great deal a writer can learn from a fight between two beasts like we see standing before us."

  "Beasts?" Min said weakly.

  "Aye. And I suspect these two are not the sort to be tamed. Do you not agree?" He watched her with those dark, all-knowing eyes, not a hint of humor gleaming in them now.

  "Yes," Min said weakly. "I was beginning to suspect that myself."

  "You're an intuitive woman," he said. "I hope your friend knows what he's doing."

  "So do I. Do you know if Hawkesbury is a good swordsman?"

  Shakespeare shrugged one shoulder. Alice leaned towards them. "He's the best in London so I hear," she said.

  A small moan escaped Min's lips.

  "An interesting wager," Lord Hawkesbury said. "I accept." He stripped down to his shirt, tossing his outer clothing aside as if it had cost little, although Min suspect the beautiful black velvet doublet slit to reveal the gold silk lining beneath would have cost him more than she'd earned for her first play. Blake followed suit. "Sword!"

  Croft threw them both a gladius.

  They raised them and Min felt quite ill. Perhaps she'd sit the fight out in the tiring house. But when the first clang of steel on steel echoed around the inn-yard, she found her feet couldn't move.

  "This will be an afternoon of entertainment," Edward said, uneasily.

  "Let's hope he has the good sense to lose," Style said. No one had to ask who he was referring to.

  Henry blew on his hands then winced when Blake missed Lord Hawkesbury's arm by the width of a hair. "That was close," he said.

  "I hope your friend knows what he's doing, Min" Alice said. "If he injures our patron, his plays might never see the light of day again in this troupe."

  Min closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. She knew more than anyone that Blake knew what he was doing. Injuring the earl was precisely what he had in mind.

  Or worse.

  The two swordsmen thrust and parried with apparent ease. It was like watching a dance—one would advance, the other retreat until they were courting each other around the stage. Sometimes one got the upper hand but then the other would change tactics and the dance shifted again. Min found she was as riveted to the fight as she had been to the first performance of her play.

  "They're quite beautiful to watch," Alice murmured. "So graceful in their movements."

  Min refrained from telling the seamstress she was mad. "I'm not sure those are the words I would use." Gut-wrenching, barbaric and heart-stopping sprang to mind.

  And then her heart did stop. Blake's back foot teetered on the edge of the stage and Hawkesbury took advantage of his opponent's momentary distraction. He lunged. Blake just managed to deflect the blow but not before the blade snagged his shirt, tearing it open down the front.

  Min buried her face in her hands. "I can't watch anymore."

  Alice put an arm around her shoulders. "It's all right. He's perfectly fine."

  "No blood," Shakespeare noted.

  "His shirt is ruined though," Alice said with a hint of professional irritation.

  The clash of metal proved impossible to ignore and Min looked up again. The fight had moved off the stage to the courtyard where ostlers and servants jumped back to make room. Blake appeared to have the upper hand with a series of quick jabs, sending Hawkesbury backwards out of reach.

  The door to the taproom opened and Freddie emerged, surrounded by at least a dozen youths, all holding tankards of ale. "Whoa, what's happening here?"

  The fighters didn't seem to notice him as they moved around the courtyard, using every inch of space, causing the crowd down there to flatten against the walls.

  "Two to one on Hawkesbury," Freddie announced. "Who'll take it?" Five of his friends immediately put up their hands.

  "That boy," Style muttered.

  A grunt from Blake drew everyone's attention back to the fight. Hawkesbury had Blake up against a pillar. His blade descended.

  Min felt faint.

  Blake ducked at the last moment and the gladius rammed into the plasterwork. If Blake hadn't moved, he would have been killed.

  "I thought this wasn't supposed to be to the death," Min said, more to herself than anyone in particular.

  "Hawkesbury knew Blake would move," Shakespeare assured her. "Don't worry. There seems to be an odd sort of rhythm to their fight. It's like the one knows exactly what the other is going to do."

  "Like our fight scenes," Style said.

  "No," Croft said darkly. "Nothing like our fight scenes."

  "If they're so evenly matched," Min said, "how will it ever end?"

  "One of them will tire," Alice assured her.

  Shakespeare nodded. "Or will do something unexpected."

  As he said it, Blake picked up a bucket of water one of the servants had been using to clean away the urine and other muck left by the groundlings. As he ducked out of the path of Hawkesbury's blade, he swung his arm around and smashed the bucket into the side of the earl's head. Hawkesbury sank to the ground and grunted as water drenched him.

  Freddie whooped from the sidelines. His friends applauded.

  "You can't do that!" Style said, standing on the edge of the stage, hands on hips. "It's against the rules."

  "I don't recall there being any rules," Alice said. She glanced at he
r father. His mouth was set into a grim line as he watched the fight.

  Hawkesbury shook his head and droplets of water sprayed in an arc around him. Then he had to leap to the side as Blake thrust his gladius at the earl's shoulder. He rolled, and as he did so, Blake lunged. Hawkesbury scrambled out of the way and jumped to his feet. As if he'd not just been about to have a blade pierce his body, he engaged Blake once more, glancing blow after blow and managing to get in a few thrusts of his own.

  With a roar of frustration, Blake kept up the attack, his momentum backing Hawkesbury into the stage. Everyone except Min drew closer to the edge to get a good view of the action. She couldn't look.

  Then suddenly Blake was on the stage. He'd hoisted himself up onto the shoulder-height platform and ran to the back of the stage where he pulled down the curtain hanging at the entrance to the tiring house. He was so close to Min she could see the beads of sweat on his top lip and the ice in his eyes. She shivered.

  Hawkesbury leapt onto the stage too and sprinted towards Blake.

  "Watch out!" she shouted. But her warning was unnecessary because Blake was already turning. He flung the curtain at Hawkesbury.

  The earl caught it, but in doing so became tangled in the material. Blake seized the opportunity and swiped his blade horizontally at Hawkesbury's arm.

  Both men grunted. The earl tried to free himself from the material. Blake raised his sword high over his head and changed his grip. His lips curled, his blade descended, aiming straight for Hawkesbury's throat.

  Min gasped. "Blood! I see blood!"

  Blake dropped his arm. His chest heaved, dragging in air, and sweat dripped from his brow, spotting the wooden stage. He stared at Hawkesbury with an intensity that terrified Min. She recognized it. She'd seen that look on Blake's face before but in its opposite guise.

  Passion. The passion to kill.

  "Who's bleeding?" It was Style, taking the curtain Hawkesbury shoved at him.

  "I am." Hawkesbury indicated his forearm where blood trickled from a gash. Damp, dark hair covered his forehead and he peered at Blake from beneath its clumped strands. "You win," he said with a brief nod and a quirk of his lips.

  "Let me see to the wound," said Croft. The earl allowed him to study his arm. "It's not deep. But you need to keep it clean."

  Hawkesbury nodded, his gaze not leaving Blake's. Blake glared back at the earl. His animosity towards him hadn't faded. He still looked like he wanted to run him through.

  "You fight well," Hawkesbury said. "Blake."

  Blake's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened around his sword hilt.

  "Ah, perhaps you should hand those over to me now for safe keeping," Croft said. Hawkesbury gave his sword up and so did Blake, eventually.

  The earl flicked his hair off his face with a toss of his head. Droplets of sweat sprayed over those nearest him but mostly over Blake. "It would appear you'll keep your mysterious identity a little longer," he said. "But give me time and I'll place you. You look familiar and I'm very good with faces."

  Blake ignored him and turned to Henry. "Escort Min home for me, if you will. I have urgent business in another direction."

  "Of course," Henry said, just as Min said, "It's not yet dark. An escort is unnecessary."

  "Do it!" He blinked, as if surprised by his own vehemence. Then without looking at her, he gathered up his discarded clothing and jumped off the stage. She watched him walk through the arch leading out to the street beyond. He didn't look back.

  The little group on the stage stared after him in silence. Freddie and his cronies on the ground were busy exchanging money and reliving the fight, blow by blow.

  "Freddie!" Style shouted. "Fresh water and bandages for his lordship's wound. Now lad!"

  Grumbling, Freddie returned to the taproom, unhurried.

  "You would have won if he'd fought fair," Style said to Lord Hawkesbury. He retrieved the earl's doublet and brushed it down with the back of his hand.

  Hawkesbury shook his head. "He was the better swordsman."

  "No," Shakespeare said, "you were. But he was more creative."

  "Well, he is a playwright," Henry said. "He's creative by nature."

  Min glanced at Shakespeare then up at Lord Hawkesbury and caught him watching her. He seemed to be trying to read her, to get some answers about Blake from her. Hopefully her face gave nothing away.

  "My lord," Style said, holding up the doublet for Hawkesbury to step into.

  "He's a friend of yours," the earl said to Min.

  "I barely know him."

  "Who is he?"

  She swallowed. The way he looked at her, with those near-black eyes and a presence almost as powerful as Blake's, he was hard to resist. She wanted to tell him. Perhaps he could speak to Blake and sort out their problem, whatever it was.

  But, using a line of Blake's, the secret wasn't hers to tell. If he didn't want to tell Hawkesbury, then she wouldn't do it. That her loyalty was a little misguided hit her like a rock to the head. He was a pirate, a scoundrel, and a violent man.

  But despite all that, despite logic, she cared for him. Perhaps she was a little mad.

  "His name is Blakewell," Croft said. "I overheard them speaking in the tiring house."

  "Father!" Alice growled. "How could you!"

  "I owe him nothing," Croft said. "My loyalty is to this troupe and its patron."

  "He is part of this troupe. A very large part. Without his plays, Lord Hawkesbury's Men would have soon become nothing."

  "Enough, Alice! Go inside and tidy up."

  She hissed then stomped into the tiring house, now without its curtain. No doubt her father would hear more of her ire later, but she had enough respect for him to do it in private, Min was sure.

  "Blakewell?" Hawkesbury said. He looked a little green beneath his tanned skin. The self-assured, slightly amused manner was nowhere to be seen. "As in Robert Blakewell?"

  "Aye," Croft said.

  Min held her breath but Croft didn't mention Blake's pirating. Thankfully. She couldn't imagine how Style would have reacted to that news.

  "Who is Robert Blakewell?" Style said. "Is he important?"

  Hawkesbury stared at the archway through which Blake had just left. "Yes. He is."

  CHAPTER 14

  Blake stopped at the Gracechurch Street conduit and splashed water on his face. Combined with the brisk afternoon breeze, it dampened his temper and soothed his aches, allowing him to think rationally for the first time since the sword fight with Hawkesbury had started. The thoughts that crept into his mind were cold. And violent.

  The earl might not have won, but he'd put up a good fight. A bloody good fight. If he'd been less concerned about fairness, the outcome could have been different. If the fight achieved nothing else, it showed Blake the measure of the gentleman he was up against. A capable, clever man who could match swords with any pirate Blake had encountered.

  He'd met quite a few over the years. Some he'd fought alongside, others against. So many... It was why violence had become second nature to him.

  It hadn't always been that way. He'd been sick the first time he'd killed a man. He could still see the Spaniard's bloodshot eyes in his nightmares, and hear the prayer and the blood gurgling from the pirate's mouth. That death, like the others since, had been necessary.

  Just like Lord Hawkesbury's may be necessary—if the devil didn't accept responsibility for his actions and marry Lilly. But first, Blake needed confirmation from her. Even with anger sizzling through his veins, he had enough sense to know he couldn't go about killing peers of the realm based on gut instinct alone.

  But with her confirmation, he'd do whatever was necessary. He already looked forward to another confrontation with Hawkesbury—more proof that violence was never far from his mind. Up until today, he'd thought it limited to his seafaring adventures. Now it seemed it had spilled over into the rest of his life. He'd even snapped at Min and she was the last person in the world who deserved it.

  Viol
ence and Min were like thunderstorms and sunshine. They didn't go together. He regretted that she'd witnessed the swordfight, but at the time he'd been so consumed by hatred that he'd been blinded to her fear and abhorrence. It wasn't until the fight had ended that he saw on her shocked face what any man of sense would have seen earlier—that Min needed protecting from such violence.

  And from men like himself. Men who no longer knew how to live without it.

  That bothered him. More than he liked to admit.

  He quickened his pace and reached home as the sun sank behind the rooftops of the livery halls opposite his Dowgate Street house. He handed his hat to Greeves and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.

  "Lil, it's me," he said, banging on Lilly's door.

  She bade him enter and he pushed it open. "It is Hawkesbury, isn't it?" He tried very hard to keep his voice steady but failed miserably. If Lilly hadn't guessed he was angry from his knock, she would have guessed it from his words.

  "I think we've already had this conversation, Brother." She reclined on the daybed, her feet tucked beneath her skirts. She looked like a piece of fine glassware, colorless and fragile. Her eyes were cloudy with sleep. He must have woken her.

  His anger drained away. "Are you all right? You look even worse than usual."

  "So tactful," she said faintly. "No wonder the women vie for your attentions."

  "Don't jest." He knelt at her side and took her hand. It was cool and damp. "Can I get you something? Wine? Sweetmeats? Mother?"

  "No! Please don't. She only just left. Ever since I told her of my condition, she's been unbearably attentive."

  "More than usual?"

  Lilly gave him a small, tired smile. "Much more than usual. You don't know how lucky you are to be able to escape every day."

  "She's worried about you, Lil. She's only trying to do what's best for you."

  "As are you?" Her teasing tone had vanished.

  "Of course. You're my little sister. It's my responsibility to look after you."

  "That's quite a task you've set yourself from the opposite side of the ocean."

  He sighed. "Don't start that old argument again. I want to travel and see the world but that doesn't mean I care less for you or Mother."