The Taming of the Rogue. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
were extraordinary, no matter how maddening the man was. They were wondrous tales of the powers and dangers of kingship, of betrayal and love and revenge, and deep, stirring emotions. They were written with beautiful, poetic words rarely heard on the stage, and the audience was always in floods of tears by the end.
Even Anna, who saw plays every week, was always moved by Robert Alden’s words, and the new, wondrous worlds they created. They were worth the trouble he caused.
Usually.
She sat down in the chair across from her father’s. ‘His last play had delays being passed by the Master of the Revels. It was weeks before we had a licence to stage it. He grows careless with his plots.’
Tom waved this away with an airy gesture, and almost toppled out of his chair. ‘Audiences love a bit of controversy. Making them wait only makes them even more excited to see it.’
‘Not if you’ve already paid good coin for a play we can’t use!’
‘All will be well, Anna, I am sure. You’re working too hard of late. It makes you worry too much.’
‘I like the work.’ It kept her busy—and kept her hidden at the same time.
Tom narrowed his eyes as he gave her a sharp look, the wine haze lifted for an instant. ‘You are too young and comely to bury yourself in account books all the time. You should think about suitors again.’
Anna laughed bitterly. ‘One husband was enough, Father.’
‘Charles Barrett was a stupid brute, and I was a fool to let you marry him,’ Thomas said. ‘But not all men are like him.’
Nay—some were like Robert Alden. Too handsome and witty for their own good, or for any woman’s good at all. ‘I am content as I am. Don’t we have a comfortable life here?’
‘My life has certainly been more comfortable since you came back. This house is wonderfully kept, and my profits from the businesses have doubled.’
‘Because I make you invest them instead of spending them all on wine and ale.’
‘Exactly so, my dearest. But I should not be selfish and keep you here.’
‘I told you, I am quite well where I am, Father. I promise. Now, what about some supper? I can send Madge to the tavern for some venison stew, and there is fresh bread …’
‘Oh, I almost forgot!’ Tom cried. ‘I did invite some people to dine with us. They will surely be here at any moment.’
Anna sighed. Of course they would. Her father was always inviting guests for a meal, or a game of cards which usually went on until morning. It was seldom they had a quiet evening alone.
‘Then I will have Madge fetch some extra stew, and perhaps a few pies,’ she said, and went to ring the bell for the maid. At least her father’s guests seldom expected grand fare. ‘Who is coming this evening?’
‘Some of the actors, of course. Spencer and Cartley and Camp, and perhaps one or two of their friends. We need to discuss the new play and the casting.’ Tom paused, never a good sign. ‘And Robert. I may have asked him, as well, when I saw him at the Three Bells earlier.’
‘Robert was at the Three Bells?’ Anna asked in surprise. She would have thought after his adventures of last night he would have eschewed taverns and gone back to his lodgings to collapse.
She should know better. No matter what occurred, he always kept moving. It was almost as if he was one of his own heroic creations.
But she had touched him today, been near to him—looked into his eyes for that one fleeting, vulnerable instant. She knew how warmly human he truly was.
‘I heard there was a bit of a disturbance this morning,’ her father said. ‘But he was writing in his usual corner of the tavern, so all must be well. We can press him about the new play when he arrives.’
Anna braced her palm on the carved fireplace mantel, staring down into the crackling flames. Robert Alden was coming here tonight. She didn’t want to see him again so soon after mending his wound. How could she look at him across her table and keep that secret?
How could she stop herself from reaching out to touch him?
‘Father—’ she began, only to be interrupted by a pounding at the door.
‘I will go,’ Tom said as he tried to push himself out of his chair.
Anna shook her head. ‘Nay, I will go. It seems Madge is otherwise occupied.’
She took a deep breath as she made her way slowly to the door, steeling herself to see Rob again and to remain expressionless. Yet it was not Rob who waited there on the threshold, it was Henry Ennis, another of the actors in Lord Henshaw’s Men.
As he smiled at her and bowed, Anna pushed away that unwanted and unaccountable pang of disappointment and said, ‘Master Ennis. We haven’t seen you at the White Heron in a few days.’
Henry’s smile widened and he reached for her hand to bestow upon her fingers an elaborate salute that made her laugh. Next to Robert, Henry Ennis was the most handsome of the company, slim and angelically blond where Rob was dark as the devil. Henry always seemed to be laughing and cheerful, as open and easy as a fine summer’s day, with no hidden depths or concealed secrets.
Anna always enjoyed being around him. He made her laugh along with him, and forget her duties and worries. He never made her feel flustered or confused, as Rob always did.
Against her own will, she glanced past Henry’s shoulder to the shadowed garden behind him. But no one was there.
‘My beauteous Anna,’ Henry said as she took his arm to lead him into the corridor. ‘It has pained me greatly to be away from you, but as I had no role in the last production I thought it best I travel to the country to visit my family. They have been neglected of late.’
‘Family?’ Anna said in surprise. In their strange, vagabond London life she often forgot the actors might have real families tucked away somewhere. They formed their own bonds among others of their kind, with her father’s house as their temporary hearth.
Did Rob have a family, too? A wife and blue-eyed children, in a cosy village somewhere?
‘My mother and sister in Kent,’ Henry said. ‘I have not seen them in many months.’
‘Then I hope you found them well?’
‘Very well. A bit bored, mayhap—they always long for tales of London.’
Anna gave him a teasing smile. ‘I’m sure they especially long for tales of your London courtships. Does your mother not wish for handsome grandchildren to dandle on her knee?’
Henry laughed ruefully, his handsome face turning faintly pink. ‘Perhaps she does. I should so like …’ His words trailed away and he shook his head, turning away from her.
‘Should so like what, Henry? Come, we are friends! Surely you can talk to me?’
‘I should so like for her to meet you, Anna. She would like you very much, I think,’ he said shyly.
Anna was so shocked by his quiet, serious words that she stopped abruptly in the dining-chamber doorway. Henry wished for her to meet his mother? But surely their friendship was only that—a friendship? Though he was kind and sweet-natured, and so handsome …
She studied him in speculation in the flickering half-light of the smoky candles. Aye, he was handsome, and so earnest as he watched her. Perhaps friends was a fine place to start. Friends was safe and pleasant—not a threat to her calm serenity, the quiet life she had worked so hard to earn and build.
But as she looked at Henry Ennis she saw not his pale grey eyes, glowing with wary hope as he watched her, waiting for—something. She didn’t feel his arm under her hand. She saw Robert’s bright blue eyes mocking her as she bandaged his