Plague by C.C. Humphreys Read Free Book Online

shining for him as his shone for her.
    The relief made his knees weak. He’d feared. Because even if he’d loved her utterly and completely from the moment he’d first seen her walk out upon the stage three weeks before, how could she come close to loving him the same way, when she did not know him? Now he realized he’d been foolish to doubt, even for a moment. She
had
known him, even in that same blinding instant and then, in the weeks since, had acknowledged him in every discreet way she could—in how she did
not
play for him in his box so near to the stage, in the way her eyes deliberately did
not
seek him out. Because—and here was the pure beauty of it—she’d been saving herself for this moment. This one, right now, when she could turn to him and, ever so discreetly, remove her elbow from his grasp. Speak, with all the matter of their love in it, one simple word.
    “Sir,” she’d said. Her gaze moved over him, while his discovered a pulse in her neck that seemed to him almost a living thing, pushing against flesh walls, trying to break free.
    He looked into her eyes again. He’d been silent too long. It was the problem of rarely being in company. Some things had to be spoken aloud, after all.
    “Madam.” He repeated his short half bow. “My name is Sir Roland, Lord Garnthorpe. Pledged to you.”
    He observed her closely. Sometimes his name affected people. However, she did not react, just said, “I am grateful for your approbation, my lord. It is always good to be admired for one’s craft.”
    No! He wanted to yell at her, “You do not need to play for me.” Yet she was probably simply being careful. Discretion was required in such a public setting. In private, though …
    He took a breath. “Are you a Jewess, madam?”
    It startled her, he could see. He was unused to the courtesies of conversation. He had been too blunt and had suddenly changed subjects, ever his faults. “It is only that the first time I saw you perform, lady, ’twas as a daughter of Zion.”
    “Oh, do you speak of the usurer’s daughter?”
    “I do. In Shakespeare’s play.
A Merchant in Venice
, was it not?”
    “Indeed I was her. But in play only. I am not Jewish.”
    She had embodied the role so utterly, her movements, her voice. Truly it would have been beyond wonderful if she had been a member of God’s tribe. Like all the Saved, he revered the Jews and their holy books. But it did not matter. Nothing did now. Nothing except her and him.
    He was surprised to discover he’d closed his eyes; opened them to apologize—and found that she was no longer looking at him. He followed her gaze, saw it settled on a young man gaudily dressed, laughing in a group of similarly clad fops and fools.
    What was in her eyes now? Was it lust? Did she desire this youth? This damned debaucher who would visit whores, sicken with their diseases, then visit her and pox her too, killing her with his fouled desire?
    “Madam,” he barked. “Madam,” he said again, more quietly when she’d turned to him again. “You are distracted.”
    “Momentarily, sir. I need to speak most urgently with the Earl of Rochester and I thought him about to leave.”
    So the dog had a name. He would remember it. “Let me caution you, Mrs. Chalker. Have nothing to do with such a sinner. He will seek only to corrupt you, to infect you.”
    “Sir, you misunderstand.”
    He did not wish to hear her excuses. He’d always known she was an actress. To raise her from her fallen state would require a little education. And she must be saved; he saw that even more clearly now. Saved from men like his own father, who’d brought his sin, his foulness, back to the marital bed. To his mother. A man like this Rochester.
    He need not linger. There was but one thing left to do. He pulled a little velvet bag from his cloak pocket. “I have a small tribute for you. It would gratify me if you would accept it.”
    She took the bag somewhat hesitantly, squeezed out its