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There were certain things that he and Elizabeth could not say or admit to one another, too. Of course, their situation was not really the same. Master Henry Darcie’s daughter could hardly be courted by a lowly player. Sometimes it seemed as if she might as well be one of the queen’s glories, for all the chance he had with her. Indeed, she often seemed as far above him as one of the queen’s ladies in waiting, though as a successful merchant guildsman’s daughter, Elizabeth was not quite as inaccessible. Pursuing one of the queen’s glories could get a gentleman at court accomodations in the Tower of London, for the queen preferred to keep her young ladies as virginal as herself. Paying court to Elizabeth Darcie was not going to land him in the Tower, but it could certainly bring him a great deal of trouble if her father’s permission were not secured. And the only thing that stood between Smythe and receiving that permission was his standing.
Smythe had no doubt that if he were a gentleman, then he would be welcomed as a suitor in Henry Darcie’s home. And if he had a tide, why then, the match would have been assured… provided that Elizabeth agreed. For though it was certainly not common practice for a father to seek his daughter’s approval before arranging a match for her, Henry Darcie had learned the hard way that disregarding his daughter’s wishes in that regard could only bring disaster. Nothing would have made him happier than to have his daughter married to a nobleman, and he had done his best to put her on display before them, but Elizabeth was a very forthright and willful young woman, for which reason she was still unmarried. However, there was a limit to how much willfulness Henry Darcie would put up with. He owed Smythe a debt of gratitude, and so did not object to him too strenuously, but then neither did he grant him his approval.
What Henry Darcie did not know, he could not object to, and so he was kept ignorant of their occasional meetings at the bookstalls in Paul’s Walk or at the Theatre while the players were rehearsing. Had he troubled to, Henry Darcie could have easily found out about their meetings. For a man of his means, having his daughter followed would have been a simple thing for Henry Darcie to arrange and after he had satisfied himself that she was having assignations with someone who was thoroughly unsuitable, it would have been equally as simple for him to have Smythe beaten senseless, whipped, or even killed. Smythe knew such things were known to happen to those who aspired to rise, so to speak, above their station. However, there was a curious sort of unspoken understanding between him and Henry Darcie.
Darcie understood that he was a well-intentioned and honorable young man who would never do anything to bring dishonor to Elizabeth, just as he had faith that, for all her stubborn willfulness, his daughter would never do anything to bring dishonor to herself or to her family. Thus, he tolerated their relationship, if not openly, then at least by pretending not to know about it. Henry Darcie still had hopes of making a good marriage for Elizabeth, one that would help advance him socially, and he firmly believed that in time, the right aristocratic suitor would come along and Elizabeth would come to her senses and forget all about her girlish infatuation with a lowly player. In the meantime, he chose to look the other way, because he knew that neither of them would go so far as to take their relationship past the point of impropriety. And in that, Smythe found both solace and frustration.
With Ben and Molly, on the other hand, there were no such impediments. There was nothing to prevent them from finding happiness with one another… if that was truly what they wanted. To Smythe, they seemed kindred spirits, an ideal couple, and he found it puzzling that they fenced the way they did. But if this dark stranger had replaced Dickens in Molly’s affections, then perhaps that would explain it.
Without really thinking about why, he followed them for several blocks, at a discreet distance. If Molly had a paramour, then it was certainly none of his concern, but now that he found his curiosity aroused, he felt reluctant to stand off and let them go, as he knew he probably should. Especially since Molly’s companion was carrying a sword and he had not troubled to bring his.
Smythe knew that sort of forgetfulness was bound to get him into trouble one of these days, but he still found it difficult to think about buckling on his sword each time he went out somewhere. It was second nature to him to carry his uncle’s dagger with him everywhere, for he had carried it since he was a boy. However, until he came London, there had never been any real need to go about armed with a sword. Most of the men in London wore swords, though often more as fashion accessories than as practical weapons. An elegant rapier was considered an essential item of apparel for a proper gentleman, even if he did not have much idea how to use one. But although Smythe was a competent fencer, he had yet to fall into the habit of wearing a sword on a daily basis and unlike the typical London fop, who had mastered the art of posturing rakishly with one hand on his hip and the other resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, when Smythe did wear one, he found that it was always getting in his way.
A few more blocks and Molly had arrived safely at her door, escorted by the dark-cloaked stranger. Smythe watched from a distance as they lingered, speaking for a few moments in the street, then they embraced and exchanged chaste losses on the cheek before Molly went inside and the stranger went off down the street alone. Well, whoever the fellow was, Smythe thought, he at least appeared to be behaving properly. But it did seem as if Ben Dickens may have lost his charm for Molly Beatrice O’Flannery.
He debated for a moment whether or not to follow the stranger and perhaps find out who he was, but then decided against it. It was truly none of his concern whom Molly chose to see. So long as she was not in any sort of trouble and the man was not a villain or a bounder who was trying to take advantage of her. For all he knew, perhaps the stranger was her brother or an uncle or some other relative. She had reached home safely and that was really all that mattered. He decided that he might as well head back toward the inn. Whatever vague apprehension had been troubling him before seemed to have gone now, which suggested that it must not have been of any true concern.
He had gone about a block or so when two men stepped out in front of him from a dark side street, blocking his way. There was no mistaking their confrontational demeanor. Both men carried clubs. Remembering what he had read in Greene’s pamphlets about how alleymen waylaid their victims, Smythe stopped and backed up slightly, then quickly spun around, drawing his knife as he turned… only to find the tip of a sword point pressed lightly up against his Adam’s apple.
“Quick, laddie, very quick. But not quite quick enough, eh?”
The voice was husky, raspy, and low, and not in the least bit apprehensive. The tone was soft, relaxed, and confident. And the sword point held at his throat bespoke an excellent control. It could easily have pierced him through, but as it was, it
exerted just the right amount of pressure to make him lift his chin. In the darkness, he could not quite make out his assailant’s features, but by the clothes, he recognized the stranger who had escorted Molly home. He was also uncomfortably aware of the two men standing very close behind him.
“You’ve been following my friend and me ever since we left the Toad and Badger,” said the stranger. “Now be a good lad, drop the dirk, and tell us why, eh?”
Moving quickly, Smythe used his knife to bat away the sword point from his throat, then in almost the same motion, struck out behind him with his leg, lacking back as hard as he could. He heard one of the men behind him cry out. Without pausing, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the stranger in front of him, seized him, and then swung him around to use him as a shield, holding the knife to his throat.
“Bloody hell!” the second alleyman swore, standing there and holding his club, uncertain what to do. In an instant, the tables had been turned, and the cony had turned out to be not quite such a helpless rabbit after all.
“Now you drop your blade, my friend,” said Smythe. And as he spoke, he suddenly became aware that the dark-garbed stranger was not a man at all, but unmistakably female. Her hat had fallen off and long, raven tresses tumbled to her shoulders. However, it was soft fullness in his grasp that gave the game away.
“Gently, laddie,” she said, in her husky, raspy voice. “ ‘Tis not a cow’s udder that you’re milking, you know.” Her sword dropped to the cobbles.
“My apologies,” said Smythe, relaxing his grip a bit, but still maintaining it. “I did not expect a woman.” He saw the other man make a move toward the sword lying on the ground. “And you stay right where you are, ruffler,” he said to him. “Unless you want your friend to have her throat cut.”
“You would cut a lady’s throat?” the woman asked him.
“Not a lady’s throat,” said Smythe. “But I would have no compunctions about cutting yours.”
“Aargh, God’s bollock?” the first alleyman swore, still doubled over and clutching at his shin with both hands. “The bastard damn near broke me leg!”
“I wish he had broken it, you simple-minded oaf,” the woman said. “As for you, laddie, I take it back. You were more than quick enough.”
“What do we do now, Moll?” asked the second alleyman, in a confused and frightened tone.
“Whatever he tells you to, you fool,” she replied. “And keep your bloody mouth shut.”
“Moll?” said Smythe. He recalled the name from one of the pamphlets he had purchased. A woman who went about dressed as a man, who fought with a sword as well as one, ran a school for pickpockets and lifts, dealt in stolen goods, and carried a great deal of influence in the thieves’ guilds of London. “Moll Cut-purse?”
“You know me?”
“I have read about you, it seems.”
“Ah. Greene and his damn fool pamphlets. Sure an’ I should have drowned him in the river like a sack of cats long since. He’ll get me hanged yet. So… now that you have me, what will you do with me? If you kill me, my boys will break your head, you know.”
“Well, I suppose they can try,” said Smythe, trying to mask his uncertainty. “But I could always call out for the watch.”
