Arden's Act Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Arden’s Act

  by

  Elizabeth Thomas

  First edition published by Keith Publications

  Copyright© 2015

  Second edition, Michigoose Press

  Copyright© 2020

  Cedar Park, Texas

  USA

  Second edition cover design: ebookorprint.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes, with proper credit given.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination, except for incidental references to historic figures and geographical locations, which are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  To the late Professor James A. Winn, who first introduced me to Charles II and his milieu; to Mark Wenning who told me I could write “crawling in the grass” books; to the late Deborah Varley Caldwell, whose affection for this story kept me writing it when I might have been distracted by other things; and to both my parents and my children for their unending emotional support.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Tammy Maté for her early critiques and suggestions, Jeanne Willgrubs for encouragement, and my mother and my aunts for loving the book. I will also never forget Mary Keith of Keith Publishing, who chose to make this available for the first time. Caleb Onstead, thanks in advance, and keep the faith. Thanks also to Saul Ravencraft for the personalized reading list and business advice.

  Chapter One

  February, 1661

  London

  Arden West rapped lightly at the dingy wooden door. The paint underneath the thick coat of grime might once have shone green, but no longer. She blessed the plain black gloves protecting her hands. After asking directions from a fruit seller, she had counted the building fronts on the block before braving the alleyway running behind them. This had to be the back door of the theater in which the Duke’s Company performed.

  Dogs barked at Arden from shuttered windows, fishwives shrieked their reeking goods, and horses’ hooves clopped on cobblestones. Even here in the alley, the bustle of London at noontime muffled her knocking in her own ears, so different from the stillness of her mother’s country home. She still refused to think of the house where she grew up as belonging to Mr. Treadwell, her stepfather.

  Arden also refused to return. She drew back her hand, doubly determined to knock loudly enough to summon a member of the Duke’s Company. Strong fingers grasped her gloved wrist before her knuckles made contact.

  “Come to close the theater, Mistress Puritan?”

  Arden whirled to face the man accosting her, only to discover he had two companions. “I am not a Puritan,” she said, trying to keep her voice cool. Her captors did not resemble common thieves, but they might prove far more dangerous. The one who gripped her wrist surely counted himself among the nobility. He sported a costly wig of blond curls, in the style of the King’s dark ones, and wore a frock coat of the finest lime-green silk.

  “Even in that drab gray sack, you can see she’s a juicy bit,” commented the other blond man of the trio. He looked as if he had tried to copy the couture of the first, but with less money or credit. “I say we should take turns with her right here in the alley. Teach the little Fanatick to snoop!”

  Arden drew a quick, fearful breath. Apparently Treadwell had not exaggerated his lurid tales of what gentlemen and lords did to unchaperoned girls in the wicked city. But nothing could be worse than lecherous old Treadwell himself, could it?

  “I don’t usually value your suggestions much, Tommy,” said the rich one, digging his fingers harder into Arden’s forearm at her slight attempt to twist away. “This one, though, is prime. Banging a Puritan up against the back wall of the theater! The irony alone is delicious.”

  A strange, high-pitched peal of laughter came from Tommy. “Ah, that’s a good one, Your Grace!”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong, though,” his friend said, as he pushed Arden against the wall. She could feel herself trembling now. Should she scream? Would anyone care if she did? Arden had come all the way to London unmolested and without incident, despite changing coaches a few times and staying in two roadside inns alone. Here, though, her luck had apparently run out. She heard people and horses striding past the front of the theater, but apparently none of the Londoners noticed her predicament as anything out of the ordinary. They walked or rode briskly by.

  “We won’t be punishing her, Tommy,” her captor continued. “Indeed, we may be giving her such a treat as to cause her immediate conversion from heresy.” He thrust his hips into Arden’s skirts for emphasis.

  “Come on, Bucky,” said the third, cutting into another hideous shriek of good humor from Tommy. “She said she wasn’t a Puritan. Maybe she’s an actress.” This man, Arden noticed, dressed almost as finely as “Bucky”―was this the Duke of Buckingham who had her pinned to the theater wall?―but he looked different. He had a darker complexion than was fashionable, as the King did, and instead of wearing a wig like his friends, he tied his straight black hair at the nape of his neck with a dark blue ribbon that matched his velvet frock coat. Like the others, he had probably reached his thirties. More importantly, he met her eyes with his own deep black ones―something neither of the others had found necessary. Her fear made her desperate, but Arden could swear he offered her help with his concentrated gaze.

  “Yes, I’m an actress!” she cried, as Buckingham reached for the bottom of he
r skirts. “Or at least I will be, if I live,” she whispered. She swallowed the sob in her throat. She dared not cry. She focused her attention on the dark one, the kind one, to keep terror at bay.

  “So much the better,” said Buckingham. “These new actresses seem used to spreading their legs for all and sundry.” He managed to pull up both her skirts and the thin shift beneath them, and Arden felt the chill air on the skin above her stockings. She'd missed her chance to kick him while his balance had been precarious, thus also missing her chance to be beaten to death like a dog in the alley for assaulting a Duke. Still, maybe that would be preferable...

  “Now, Bucky,” the third interrupted again. “We all know you have the right of rank with her, but let's make a sport of it, shall we?”

  The hope he might save her died with a stifled cry in her throat. He wanted to make it a sport!

  “What did you have in mind, Courtenay?” Even in addressing his friend, Buckingham's grip on Arden remained tight.

  “Let's only one of us have her,” Courtenay replied. “And let it be the one she chooses herself. Then let the winner console the losers by paying their way with any mounts they choose at Mistress Winters' house.”

  Arden sighed with relief as Buckingham dropped her skirts and they hit the ankles of her sturdy black boots. One still scared her, still horrified her, but she'd surely survive it better than all three. Besides, the one called Courtenay still sought her attention with his dark but kindly gaze.

  Tommy cursed his disappointment, but Buckingham said, “Very well, then. Makes no difference to me.” Still holding her to the wall, he asked, “Which one of us do you prefer, girl?”

  “A moment, please, Your Grace.” Arden’s voice quavered in her instinctive attempt to gain time. The Duke surely thought his rank and finery would guide her choice. She looked again at his frizzy wig and the shiny silk, but shuddered inwardly. Besides, he held her close enough that she could smell his breath. She didn’t even need to look at Tommy―his laugh had repulsed her more than the other two together. As she swept her gaze upward from Courtenay's expertly-made black boots and the snowy-white boot hose overspilling their cuffs, Arden experienced an odd moment of clarity. His boots did little to hide his strong calves, and the rest of his person appeared equally well-formed. Handsome of face, too, with high cheekbones and a neatly trimmed mustache. If she must be raped ... well, surely, anyone would be better than Treadwell would have been. As she lowered her eyes back to Courtenay's ruddy lips, however, she saw them move, seemingly mouthing, “Pick me.”

  Would he help her, or did he merely wish to slake his urges on a virgin rather than chancing one of the diseased whores he had proposed as consolation prizes? Either way, she made her choice. “That one,” Arden said firmly, pointing to Courtenay.

  “Oh, what luck!” Tommy exclaimed giddily, advancing towards her.

  “Tommy, you're blind as a bloody bat,” said Buckingham, pushing him away. “The wench chose Courtenay. Her loss,” he added, speaking obviously of himself rather than Tommy. “Do you want me to hold her for you?”

  “Rather too Grecian, that, don't you think, Bucky? I should handle her easily alone,” replied Courtenay. He stepped up, and placed a surprisingly gentle hand upon Arden’s shoulder. He waited for Buckingham to release her and back off a few steps. When Arden reflexively shook the pain out of her wrist, he caught it in his free hand, brought it gently to his lips and kissed it through the glove. When he spoke, his voice sounded low and close to her ear. “Good girl,” he said soothingly. “Now, tell me, what are you really ―a Puritan or an actress?” The smile at the end of the question dazzled Arden with its warmth.

  “An actress. I'm going to try out for the Duke's Company.”

  He put a finger to her lips. “They're still listening,” he said softly, nodding in the direction of his companions. “Is that a costume, then?” Arden read amusement in his dark eyes.

  “Mmmm―yes,” she told him. As kind as he seemed―so far―she had no desire to explain that her stepfather was indeed a Puritan, her mother had become one, and she herself was supposed to be one as well. The drab gray dress and large, prim white collar Arden wore under her unadorned black cloak typified the only style Treadwell had allowed her.

  “Good luck to you, then.”

  “I won't need luck,” she replied quickly. “When Sir William Davenant sees the life I can breathe into a part, he will gladly hire me on the spot.”

  Courtenay released her suddenly, and laughed louder and longer than she had seen anyone laugh since―well, since her true father had lived and her family had been of the Cavalier party. She thought of taking the opportunity to run away, to dodge between this structure and the next, back to the street. But the other men still stood nearby.

  “Courtenay, what in the blue heavens could the wench have said to make you laugh like that?” called Buckingham, petulance still apparent in every syllable.

  “Never mind,” Courtenay replied over his shoulder. “I won't be a minute.”

  “Terrible thing to say about yourself, Lord Robert!” Tommy shrieked again at his own wit.

  Courtenay ignored him. “Actors make the audiences believe,” he explained to Arden in a low voice. “Actresses merely serve as ornaments. No matter,” he said, stifling her protest. “I'm sure you'll do all right. Now, I really must kiss you.”

  The fear that had begun to ebb from Arden’s heart rushed back. “Oh!”

  “No, no―just a kiss, and then you can go. They'll rib me unmercifully as it is,” Courtenay said ruefully. “If I don't even kiss you…. Besides, Tommy usually demonstrates only enough intelligence to move his lips, but he's right about one thing. Even in that drab stuff, you are quite beautiful. Eyes like emeralds.”

  Before Arden could register the compliment, he had pulled her close to his hard, lean body and covered her mouth with his own. She stood amazed at the warmth of his lips, the warmth that spread in a pathway straight through the core of her body. So much better than.... Arden shuddered beneath his kiss, whether at remembered revulsion or new pleasure she did not know.

  “There, now, not so bad, was it?” Courtenay said, separating from her. “Goodbye, sweet actress. I hope to see you on the stage here soon.” He bowed and walked away to join his fellows, who quickly began guffawing and poking him in the ribs with several rude exclamations. They left the alleyway as a group. Arden stood, breathing slowly and steadily for a moment. When she felt sure she would not faint, she began hammering the theater’s back door with her fists. She pounded until the door opened to her.

  Another man stood staring at her, holding the door. Arden pushed past him, panting. “Please shut it again, before they can follow me!”

  “Before who can follow you, Mistress? I didn’t see a soul out there but you,” replied her new savior, obeying her.

  Arden looked behind her, seeing no more sign of the other men. “Thank God,” she sighed, still shaking.

  *****

  Half an hour later, Robert Courtenay sat in the garish parlor of Mistress Winters. He supposed she thought her customers wouldn't know themselves in a bawdy house if she hadn't hung the walls in cheap scarlet taffeta. No matter. Considering the pair he'd brought, he wouldn't have to wait here long.

  “I know you've already paid for His Grace and that other, but Susie says she'll take you on for half price if you'd like, Lord Robert,” said Winters herself, interrupting his thoughts. The Madame, he'd heard, had been a great beauty in the days of the old King. He found the unnatural red of her hair unnerving, however, especially in this room.

  “Tell her I thank her for the offer, but not today,” he replied. Susie gave fine sport, but she did not have eyes like emeralds, nor thick tresses of mahogany. Nor a brave heart and wit under pressure. He wondered if the girl from the alley had found the courage to try out for Davenant, wondered if she'd even been allowed to see the manager of the Duke's Company. Perhaps he should check on her progress.

  He rose and bowed sl
ightly to Mistress Winters. “Tell my friends I shall see them tomorrow,” he said, leaving the establishment.

  Chapter Two

  “You’ve had quite a fright, haven’t you, Mistress? Come, I’ll find you a chair and bring you a cup of chocolate.” His voice sounded kind, almost motherly, though he looked to Arden only a year or two older than herself, and distinctly male. Perhaps not as male as the man who had just kissed her….

  “Oh, I forget my manners,” he said, shouting over the backstage din. “Allow me to introduce myself. Brian Malley at your service.” He gave Arden a short, small bow, showing her more of his thick, wavy brown hair.

  “Arden West at yours, sir,” she returned, equally loud. She dropped a quick curtsy. When she rose and looked at him, she found him staring at her with wide hazel eyes under brows so bushy they almost grew together. His sparse facial hair was an oddly lighter shade than the rest. The mustache wiggled when he spoke again, after he’d swept her clothing with his gaze: “Begging your pardon, your being distressed and all, but you haven’t come to make trouble, have you?”

  “Don’t judge me by my clothing, Mr. Malley,” Arden replied, starting to regain her breath. “I won’t cause you or anyone else harm, especially if you get me that chocolate you mentioned.”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it. His height did not quite match her own. “I hope you won’t mind sitting with me, Mistress West? No one will think anything of it here, you know. And I won’t bother you.” He began guiding her down a long, low hallway.

  “So I’ve heard.” They walked closer to what Arden assumed to be actors, actresses, musicians, and costumers. The noise kept rising, so she had to shout almost into his ear. “About no one minding, I mean. I’m told actresses don’t have to take as much care of their reputations as other ladies.

  “You’re an actress?” Malley asked, apparently startled. “Well, I hope you won’t want me to bother you. A lot of them do, you know. Some of them even try to bother me, but I don’t believe in it.”

  Somewhat taken aback by his frankness, Arden found it hard not to laugh. He seemed so kind, though, and she did appreciate knowing at least one man at this establishment wouldn’t try to “bother” her. She smiled at him. “Are you an actor then, or a clergyman, Mr. Malley?”