My Secret Life Read online

  He looked up at her window again. "Min," he whispered loudly. "Min, come out, it's me."

  The window flew open and a man appeared on the balcony. A young man dressed in nothing more than his shirt. What the hell was he doing in Min's room? Blake was about to climb up and ask him face to face when a voice called him from the other side of the road.

  "Good eve, sir!" A woman holding a candle stood inside the doorway to the house opposite. "Are you after my mistress?"

  "Is your mistress Minerva Peabody?"

  "Are you Captain Blakewell?"

  Blake bent and picked his hat out of the mud. "At your service."

  The woman stalked across the road, grabbed Blake by the arm and pulled him back to her front porch. Ah, so this was Min's house. Now he remembered. He waved an apology to the other man opposite who returned inside the house that definitely wasn't Min's.

  "Is she home?" he asked Min's maid.

  "Shhh or you'll alert her."

  "Good. I want to speak to her."

  She shushed him again. "Not tonight you don't."

  "Yes. I can assure you I do."

  The maid held the candle up to his face. Its heat warmed his nose. Any closer and his eyelashes would be singed. "You're quite handsome."

  "Thank you."

  "For a drunk."

  "Ah. That. I don't usually get this drunk. But tonight was a special occasion." He winced. Perhaps he should stop talking until his mind was working properly again.

  "I don't care about the 'casion. You must leave now." She gave him a shove in the arm. He managed not to topple over despite the tilting of the earth.

  "Not until I've spoken to Min."

  "You can't. She's busy."

  "Doing what?"

  "Work for her father. Thanks to a few distractions of late," she pinned him with a sharp glare, "she's behind in her tasks."

  "I just want to see her. Only for a moment."

  "No. Anyway, I'm not sure that's a good idea. Look at you. You're drunk, filthy and..." she sniffed him, "you stink. Sir."

  "I do not!" He drew in a deep breath and his stomach heaved. It wasn't mud he'd landed in. "You're right, I reek. Is that any reason to ban me from your mistress's rooms?"

  She put a hand on her hip and her gaze grew sharper. "If you'd like me to pass on a message, I'd be happy to."

  "I can deliver the message myself." He stepped past her onto the road and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Min!"

  The maid jerked hard on his arm, dragging him back to the front door where Min couldn't see him if she peered out her window. "Shhhh! Sir, not tonight! She's too much to do. If you go to her, she'll be sure to—."

  Both looked up as they heard the window above open.

  "Jane?" came Min's voice. "Is that you?"

  Simply hearing her had a sobering affect on him. She was so close. All he had to do was step back onto the street and she'd see him.

  "You'll get her in awful trouble with her father," Jane whispered to Blake. "Please, sir. Don't."

  Blake closed his eyes and the world lurched. He had to lean against the house to steady himself. Christ, he was in no state to call on Min. She'd be appalled at his drunkenness and count herself lucky to have escaped marriage to him.

  "Jane?" Min called again.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes and nodded at the maid.

  "Aye, it's me, Mistress," Jane said. "Just checkin' everythin' is shut for the night. G'night."

  A heavy sigh floated down from the balcony. "Goodnight, Jane." The click of the closing window signaled her departure.

  Blake gave the maid a grim smile. "Don't tell her I was here."

  She frowned. "Why not? She'd want to know."

  He shook his head. "No, she wouldn't. It would just make things...very awkward for her. As you said, she's got enough on her mind. Promise me?"

  He thought she'd refuse his request but then she nodded. "Very well. 'Night, sir."

  He slapped his hat on his head then remembered what it had fallen in and wished he hadn't. "Goodnight."

  CHAPTER 19

  "Minerva! Minerva, is it ready?"

  The pounding on her door shook the cobwebs from Min's mind. She realized she'd been staring at the opening paragraph of her father's paper for quite some time, but had long ago given up trying to improve it. It was hopeless. There was no way to explain her father's theory to the satisfaction of the scientific world.

  "Aye," she said, opening the door to him. "It's ready."

  He nodded once. His thin white hair, unadorned by hat or cap, floated about his head like reeds in a lake. He'd not had any sleep either if the circles shadowing his eyes were anything to go by.

  "It's too late to have it printed now," was all he said.

  She handed him the stack of pages. "You can promise the attendees that you'll have a copy made and sent to them. I'll see to it myself tomorrow."

  He took the pages and gave her a tentative, enquiring smile. "Well? What do you think?"

  "I..." Oh, lord. What a dilemma. Should she tell him the truth and suffer his temper—or worse, his disillusionment? Or let him make a fool of himself in front of his peers?

  It wasn't really a choice after all. She held his elbow and steered him to a chair. "Father, I think it needs a little more work before you present it today. Can you postpone—?"

  "Nonsense!" He'd no sooner sat down than he stood again, once more the domineering parent. The color rose in his cheeks and his eyebrows drew together to form a single angry line. "I've worked on it for months. I've been over and over every calculation and every variable several times." He pointed the papers at her. They shook uncontrollably. "If you'd been helping me these last few weeks instead of writing your plays I would have discussed my conclusions with you in more detail and you would have a deeper understanding."

  "But it's not a case of misunderstanding—."

  "You're wrong, Minerva. I wish I had time to explain it to you in detail but we've run out of that commodity." He stormed off to the door, huffing and puffing like a bull in the baiting ring. She ran after him. Perhaps she was just as mad as he was, but she couldn't let him destroy years of valuable work in a single day by presenting that lecture as it stood.

  "Father, wait! Please, don't dismiss my concerns so hastily." Thankfully he paused, although his tapping foot spelled out his impatience. "It is true I may not understand it, but if that is the case, then perhaps other members of the Academy won't either. Not from your lecture." She winced at her tactlessness. "Er, what I mean is, such a...unique theory needs more time than you can devote to it today."

  "You doubt me on this?"

  "No, I doubt them. As I doubt myself. If I fail to grasp all the complexities then perhaps some of them might too." She'd failed to completely grasp any of the theory's facets but it wasn't in his best interests to know that, or hers. Not now when his temper could snap at any moment. And his mind too.

  He shook his head and sighed deeply. The raging bull was gone and the tired old man returned in its place. "Science is an ever-changing beast, Minerva, and you've been too busy with your plays to keep abreast of new developments. I wish it were not true, but alas...you've changed too."

  It was true. He was right. She no longer read the pamphlets he brought home or listened with a scholar's ear to his accounts of the Academy meetings. She simply wasn't interested anymore in scientific things. She wasn't entirely sure if she ever had been.

  She'd been hungry for knowledge while being tutored in the sciences and mathematics, but in recent years those subjects had failed to hold her attention as much as plays and poetry.

  She didn't really know when her interests had changed. It must have been gradual—a new play that had her returning to the theatre, a discovery of the art of poetry, her first forays into writing plays—until it slowly overtook everything else in her life, including science. Especially science. Looking back, she wasn't even sure if science was her interest or whether it was her father impressing it upon her y
oung mind because he so desperately wanted...what? Someone to help him? No, that's not how it had begun. Involvement. Inclusion. Someone to share his joy and his passion because his wife had not.

  But it wasn't entirely his fault either. She had grasped his work with both hands because it was a way to get closer to him, her only surviving parent.

  It was difficult to say now, but she knew one thing for certain—she was a grown woman and her thoughts were her own. Even if her mind was capable of understanding a complex mathematical formula, she didn't have to be a scientist if she didn't want to.

  "Such a waste," he said with a shake of his head.

  "Father." She stopped him from walking off with a gentle hand on his arm. "There is something I should tell you." It was time he knew the full extent of her commitment to writing plays. If he knew about Style buying Marius and Livia it might help him to see that her new interest was not such an unfortunate one after all.

  "Can't it wait until later?" he grumbled. "I must go or I'll be late." He shuffled off without waiting for her answer, his shoulders stooped, his papers folded against his chest.

  Against every instinct, Min let him go. No amount of pleading or reasoning could have persuaded him against his mission. He might be losing his mind but he was certainly as driven as ever.

  She trudged back to her room and lay down on the bed. It was still unmade from the morning but she didn't care. She'd never felt so tired. It was like something had sucked out the life from her body and left her flat and empty. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for awhile, she would feel refreshed when she awoke and all her ills will have disappeared...

  ***

  "Mistress, wake up. Mistress."

  Min shot up out of bed and caught Jane by her shoulders. "Is Father all right?" She shook the maid and Jane's eyes widened in alarm. "Has something happened to him?"

  "No, I've not seen Sir George since this mornin'. It's naught to do with him." She wrung her hands in her apron and gave Min a forlorn look. Jane, always practical and steady, never looked forlorn. Something terrible had happened.

  Blake. No, don't let it be him.

  But Jane had never met him so that couldn't be it. "Oh, do get on with it," Min said, trying very hard not to appear any more anxious than necessary. "My nerves are frayed enough as it is. What has happened to send you in here like a skittish cat?"

  Jane lifted her chin and Min could almost see her maid concentrate as she gathered her words together.

  "I've just come from the market, Mistress. And people there were talkin' of yer play again. Now, that's not such a hardship to listen to, but it's what else they were sayin' that's got me worried. It had them all in such a twitter."

  "Well? What were they saying?" The suspense was almost painful.

  "They were talkin' about the play a woman wrote."

  Min blinked at her. It took a moment for the maid's words to sink in. Or really, one word. The air escaped from Min in a rush. "Who spoke of it?" she barely managed to whisper.

  "Everyone from the fishwife to the lady's maid. It had them all in a huddle. I asked how they knew but it was always someone else who'd said somethin' and no one really knew where the gossip started. I scoffed at 'em all but I don't think anyone heard me. They just wanted to spec, specula..."

  "Speculate."

  "Aye, speculate on who the woman may be."

  Min rubbed her temple where an ache was blooming. What ill timing! Why now when her life was coming apart at the seams? This disaster might as well rent it asunder.

  At least if they were speculating about the author, they didn't know it was her. She hoped. "Who were some of the suggestions?"

  "Everyone from Henrietta the half-wit flower seller to Her Majesty herself. I'm not sure which was sillier. To think of the queen botherin' with the lowly Lord Hawkesbury's Men. She'd use her own company for certain."

  "So my name wasn't mentioned?"

  Jane's fingers twisted her apron until it finally tore. The maid didn't appear to notice. "It was, several times by those who know you."

  Min gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Oh Lord! How could this be happening?

  "Oh, Mistress, what are we to do? Surely Mr. Style will hear."

  "Yes," Min whispered against her fingers, "I'm sure he will." If the entire market was alive with the talk it wouldn't be long before Style and the others found out.

  She put her head in her hands and tried to think through the ache chipping away at her skull. She could speak to Style before he heard it from someone else and pray he wouldn't mind now that the play was a success. Or she could find Blake and together form a story to blame some other nameless woman...

  Blake. Aside from Jane who was utterly loyal, no one else knew she'd written Marius and Livia. Not even her father. Blake must have told someone...

  She dug her fingers into her scalp but it was her heart that hurt like the devil now. She closed her eyes and willed the pain to go away but it remained, piercing and unrelenting.

  No. No, no, NO! She couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. She wasn't such a poor judge of character that she'd not seen how cruel he could be. Was she?

  He'd called himself a blackguard. He'd warned her more than once not to trust him. Perhaps he'd been alerting her to the blackness of his heart, the real Robert Blakewell. The pirate.

  Besides, who else knew her secret? Who else could it have been?

  She let out a low, primal groan. She'd given him everything, from her maidenhead to her trust and he'd thrown it all to the wind as if it were merely dust. Nothing. That's what she meant to him. He'd used her to get into the troupe and he'd taken advantage of her desire and used her in bed too. And when he'd finished with her, he'd given away her precious secret.

  She wanted to throw up.

  Jane's strong arm came around her shoulders and pulled Min to her bosom. But Min wasn't ready for comfort. A sudden wave of anger swept her up. She wanted to fight.

  She stood and straightened her skirts. "Fetch my cloak, hat and gloves, Jane. I'm going out."

  CHAPTER 20

  Min decided it would be easier, and safer, to learn where Blake lived by asking at the cloth trading center on Basinghall Street than venturing down to the docks. By questioning a kindly servant at the hall that served as a depot for London's merchant adventurers, she discovered Blake's father had been the pre-eminent merchant adventurer of his time, a good man and fortunate in his choice of wife, the widow of a baron. She also learned the family lived in the largest house on Dowgate Street.

  The largest house on Dowgate Street turned out to be a grand mansion. And the blackguard was "indisposed" according to his steward. All that walking and worrying about what she would say for nothing.

  She was about to ask his steward if she could wait but she changed her mind. The house had a hushed, grim feel to it, as if it were in mourning.

  She spared a prayer for his sister and her unborn babe then headed back toward Gracechurch Street. But she couldn't go home. She was too restless. She needed to do something to cut off the looming disaster before the rumor spread to Lord Hawkesbury's Men. And she needed to do it now.

  She headed to the White Swan inn only to find the players in the taproom nursing tankards and their misery as if they too were in mourning. Blake wasn't among them, nor were the Crofts.

  Min cleared her throat. They glanced up as one.

  "You," Style snarled. He rose and Min backed away from the sheer force of his hatred. "You...you vile creature, you witch, you...wanton!"

  "Easy there," said Henry Wells. He stood and edged his bulkier frame between Min and Style. She silently thanked him for it. "We don't know for sure she wrote it." He shot a glance at Edward. "We don't, do we?"

  "You thick-headed dolt," Style growled. He no longer came towards her but he still looked like he had murder on his mind. Hers. "Of course she did it. If you used that pea-brain of yours, you'd realize it couldn't be anyone else." Instead of appearing injured by the insult, Henry simply sh
rugged at Min. "She ruined us," Style said. "Her and that Blake fellow she has under her spell."

  Min drew in a deep breath to steady her sizzling nerves. It wouldn't serve her purpose to show anger. Style wouldn't respond to counter-insults. Although she wasn't sure he'd respond to reason either, but she had to try. "I see you've heard. Please, it's not what it appears."

  Style snorted and folded his arms. The rest waited for an answer but with slightly more forgiving expressions. Only Freddie seemed not to care as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "It's not?" said Style, cynicism dripping from his words. "You didn't write it? Oh, pray tell us, who did?" He ended with a flourish to encompass not only the other players but the entire taproom. Everyone was listening. Even the drunk in the corner.

  "I, uh..." Min wanted to turn and run. She probably should have. Instead, she dug in her heels and crossed her arms and turned on Style. Perhaps this was a time for anger, a little anyway.

  "Yes, I wrote it. So? What's wrong with that?" Style made a choking sound but she kept talking to ensure he couldn't get a word in. "I proved I could write as well as any playwright. You thought I was a scholar, that my education rivaled Marlowe's. Well," she said, triumphant, "it does. I have a mind as good as any man's. Londoners have been flocking to the performances of Marius and Livia. You should be thanking me, Mr. Style. Without my play your company might not exist."

  His face went a rather violent shade of crimson. "Thanking you! You vile creature—."

  "Yes, I heard the insults before," she said, raising her hands palms out. "They do not concern me. What does concern me is who told you?"

  "Who told me?" he spluttered. "Who told me? Why, everybody! My wife's maid, my neighbor, the cripple who delivers my water! I've never been so humiliated in my life."