‘He is the only person unaccounted for, Anne. When I got back to the others, Sylvester had left.’
‘When you were celebrating a triumph?’ she said in astonishment. ‘His place was surely with his fellows. What could possibly have lured him away at such a time?’
‘The latest Rose Marwood, perhaps?’
‘No, Nick. I refuse to believe it.’
‘Sylvester is the most handsome man in the company,’ he argued, ‘and well-used to reaping the fruits of his good looks. Rose would not have been his first conquest.’
‘I still think him an unlikely culprit.’
‘Why?’
‘Sylvester Pryde has moved in high circles, Nick. He has consorted with lords and ladies. My guess is that it is among those same ladies that his conquests have been made, not in the taverns of London.’ She pursed her lips as she pondered. ‘I mean no disrespect to Rose Marwood. She is a comely enough girl but could she really attract such a worldly individual as Sylvester Pryde?’
‘It is not impossible.’
‘But is it likely?’
‘I fear that it is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Almost as soon as Sylvester joined the company, Rose was smitten with him. I lost count of the number of times I caught her watching us at rehearsal when Sylvester was on the stage. When she was in the taproom, he was always the first to be served.’
‘That does not make them lovers, Nick.’
‘No. But it singles the name of Sylvester Pryde out.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Tax him with the charge,’ he said. ‘That is why I rose so early this morning. So that I could reach his lodging before he left. It is a conversation I would rather have in private. If Sylvester is the father of this child, there will be severe consequences. It would be unseemly to let him rehearse with us at the Queen’s Head as if nothing had happened.’
‘At least, you can rehearse there again.’
‘Yes, Anne. I wrenched that concession from our landlord.’
‘You have a contractual right to play at the inn.’
‘The only contract which Alexander Marwood can talk about is a contract of marriage. Lacking that, his daughter has been locked away and treated as if she were a criminal.’
‘My heart goes out to her.’
‘And mine.’
They finished their breakfast in thoughtful silence. He put his plate aside and rested his arms on the table, reaching out to take her hands between his.
‘Thank you, Anne.’
‘It was a simple enough meal.’
‘I am grateful for the breakfast as well,’ he said, ‘but I was really thanking you for hearing me out. I am sorry to burden you with the problems of Westfield’s Men when you have plenty of your own.’
‘That is certainly true, Nick!’
‘Share them with me.’
‘Another time,’ she said. ‘I will not hold you up.’
‘But you have not told me what you did yesterday.’
‘I am not sure that I should.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it might provoke jealousy.’
‘Jealousy?’
‘I went on impulse,’ she said, defensively. ‘It was not planned at all. But I was delivering a hat to Mistress Payne and she suggested that we go together. She would not dare to go on her own and was so pleased with the hat that she was eager to wear it. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.’
‘To what?’
‘An afternoon at The Rose.’
‘Anne!’ he said with mock outrage.
‘It was a disappointing play but well-acted for all that and Mistress Payne was delighted that we went. My hat won her several compliments.’
‘You went to The Rose theatre?’ he teased.
‘Only to oblige an important customer.’
‘Supporting the work of a rival company?’
‘They pale in comparison with Westfield’s Men,’ she said, loyally. ‘There is only one player among them who is fit to have his name mentioned alongside that of Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Rupert Kitely.’
‘Yes, Nick. He towered above the others.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ he said. ‘Rupert Kitely is the mainstay of Havelock’s Men. They have a number of talented actors — including one or two deserters from our company — but it is Kitely who is their principal asset. Such a man would be most welcome in our own ranks.’
‘What hope is there of his joining you?’
‘None whatsoever. He is a sharer with Havelock’s Men and tied by contract to the Viscount’s service. Besides,’ said Nicholas, rising from the table. ‘I am not sure that there is a stage big enough to accommodate both Lawrence Firethorn and Rupert Kitely. Each needs his own arena.’
‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked.
‘For what?’
‘Spending time and money on your rivals?’
‘You are entitled to go to The Rose theatre,’ he said, helping her up from her seat. ‘It is almost on your doorstep. And it is good to have a pair of eyes on Havelock’s Men so that we keep our rivals under surveillance. When I return this evening, I would like to hear more about the performance.’
‘Not if you come back at the same hour as yesternight.’
‘My apologies for that, Anne. You were already abed.’
‘Fast asleep.’
‘I know. I peeped into your bedchamber.’
‘Then why did you not join me?’ she scolded softly.
‘I was afraid that I might wake you.’
Anne stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.
‘I was afraid that you would not.’
A night of passion which would have exhausted most men only served to invigorate Sylvester Pryde. When he dressed next morning, he felt a fresh energy pulsing through him and giving his whole body an agreeable tingle. His lover had fared less well. Hair tousled and limbs pleasantly fatigued, she lay amid the scattered bed linen and fought to open her eyes.
‘Must you leave so soon?’ she said drowsily.
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Stay another hour.’
‘Nothing would delight me more,’ said Pryde, crossing to bestow a kiss on her forehead. ‘But I am expected elsewhere.’
‘By whom, sir?’
‘A very special lady.’
‘You swore last night that I was a very special lady,’ she complained, sitting up and pouting. ‘Was that a wicked lie?’
‘No, my sweet.’
‘Then why will you not linger?’
‘Truly, I may not. I have another assignation.’
She bristled. ‘You cast me aside for another?’
‘Only during the day. I will return again tonight.’
‘Not if you have been cavorting with a rival,’ she said tartly. ‘My door will be closed to you, Sylvester. I will not share you with anyone.’
‘Not even with the Queen of England?’
‘Her Majesty?’ she said, blinking in wonderment.
‘Yes,’ he explained with a grin. ‘I will pay homage to her Grace when I pass beneath her portrait on the inn sign. There is my assignation. At the Queen’s Head with the other players. Be ruled by me,’ he said, giving her another peck. ‘You have no flesh and blood rival. Only a painted monarch who swings to and fro in the wind in Gracechurch Street.’
‘I wronged you,’ she admitted.
‘Only because I misled you. But I must away.’
Pryde took a last, long, searching kiss before slipping out through the door. To avoid the prying eyes of neighbours, he left discreetly by the rear exit and came out into a narrow lane. Striding purposefully along into a stiff breeze, he reflected on his nocturnal pleasures and wondered how long he would sustain this particular romance. The lady was a willing but very inexperienced lover and he was not sure whether her husband’s occasional departures from London would give him enough time to teach her all the refinements she needed to master in order to hold his interest.
When he swung into Gracechurch Street, he dismissed her from his mind and turned his attention to Westfield’s Men, recalling their embarrassing departure from the Queen’s Head and speculating on the possibility that they might henceforth be banished from their place of work. This eventuality was far more worrying than the fumbling caresses and lunging urgency of his latest conquest. Being a privileged member of such an illustrious troupe as Westfield’s Men gave Sylvester Pryde immense satisfaction. On the stage in the inn yard, he enjoyed a sense of fulfilment such as he had never known before and the notion that it might be taken away from him by a volatile landlord produced a severe jolt.