“Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again.”

“I say, Smythe,” said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, “is that not your lady from last night?”

They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.

“Good God! Gresham !”

“What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye!”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Aye, we both saw him at the inn the night we met, remember?”

“In truth, I remember very little of that night,” said Shakespeare. “I do seem to recall a gentleman arriving, but I do not believe I’d know him if I laid eyes on him again. And you are saying this is he?”

Smythe nodded, dumbstruck.

“How curious,” said Shakespeare, turning back to look at the group. “I have heard it said that ghosts walk at the witching hour, but I have never heard of one who went abroad in daylight.”

Smythe jumped down off the stage to the ground. “I do not understand this. Elizabeth said she saw him killed last night!”

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, he seems to have recovered nicely.”

Elizabeth spotted them and glanced in their direction. She did not say anything, nor did she gesture, but Smythe saw a look of desperate panic on her face. Gresham appeared hale and hearty, but she was the one who looked white as a ghost.

“I shall soon get to the bottom of this!” Smythe said.

Shakespeare grabbed him by the arm. “Hold off a moment,” he said, in a level tone, “before you go making a complete fool of yourself.”

At the same time, Dick Burbage saw them and quickly detached himself from the group and hurried toward them, gesturing to Smythe to stay where he was.

“What the hell is going on here?” Smythe muttered.

“1 suspect we are about to find that out,” Shakespeare replied.

“YOU ARE, ‘TWOULD SEEM, AS surprised by this turn of events as I was,” Burbage said, as he approached them. He shook his head and beckoned to one of the hired men, who came running up to the edge of the stage. “Miles, tell the others that we are sticking to our story about last night. And to betray no surprise, whatever they may hear. I shall explain all in due course.”

As Miles ran to pass the word, Smythe turned to Burbage and said, in a low voice, “Dick, what the devil is going on? That man with Elizabeth is Anthony Gresham, is he not?”

“Indeed, he is,” said Burbage, with a wry expression. “And you may well imagine my surprise when my father introduced me to him. Fortunately, my training as a player stood me in good stead. I think I managed to conceal my astonishment, for the most part. I clearly saw yours written on your face when we came in.”

“But… how does he come to be alive?” Smythe asked, utterly perplexed.

“By the simple expedient of not having died yet,” Shakespeare said, dryly. He put his hand on Smythe’s shoulder. “ ‘Tis painfully self-evident, my friend. The wench has lied to you.”

Smythe shook his head. “No. No, I cannot believe it. She was in earnest. You were there, you heard!”

“The proof stands yonder,” Burbage said. “Together with her father, who has brought Mr. Gresham here to meet with my own father about investing in the playhouse. Mr. Gresham, ‘twould seem, is most interested in the arts. In plays, especially.”

“But… but I simply cannot believe she lied to me!” said Smythe, shaking his head as he stared at the group talking by the entrance to the playhouse. He saw Elizabeth looking toward him, desperately trying to catch his eye without seeming too obvious about it. Their gazes met and she shook her head, very slightly, but emphatically.

“Tuck, my friend, you would not be the first man lied to by a woman,” Shakespeare said, gently.

“You do her an injustice, Will,” said Smythe. “Look at her. She looks absolutely terrified.”

“Aye, she had much the same look when she saw me,” said Burbage. “The look of a surprised deer. She is afraid, all right. Afraid that we shall give her game away.”

“What game?” asked Smythe, frowning.

“Her lie about the supposed murder of her intended, who now stands before us. Aye, she played us for a bunch of fools. She had her fun sporting with you and then we kindly provided her with the perfect alibi to avoid any suspicion of wrongdoing or impropriety.” He snorted with derision. “All she had to do was ask our help and we would have done it anyway. Lord, the last thing Henry Darcie needs to know is that one of our players bedded his daughter. His very much betrothed daughter.”

“But I did not…” Smythe broke off in exasperation and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The other players would never believe he had not bedded the girl and all his protestations would only serve to make them more convinced. “Look, how was I to have any way of knowing who her father was?” he asked. “I had never even heard of Henry Darcie.”

“Nevertheless, you still should have known well enough to realize that she was well beyond your station,” Burbage said, in a tone of reproof. “And therefore, liable to be trouble. If Gresham ever found out about you, he could easily have you killed, you know. The whole thing is a bad business all around. If you ask me, the woman’s touched, and I do not envy Gresham if he marries her. But then again, Henry Darcie has a lot of money, and money can buy no small amount of solace. Do yourself and all the rest of us a favor, Tuck, and keep well away from her. She will only bring you trouble. And that may bring us trouble, and I would prefer to avoid trouble, if at all possible. Now, Will, would you do me the courtesy of coming to see Sir Anthony? He would very much like to meet you.”

Shakespeare frowned. “Why on earth would he want to meet me?”

“As I said, he is interested in plays,” Burbage replied. “And I have told him that we have found a bright young poet who is just about to make his mark as one of England ’s greatest playwrights. A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps, but when dealing with investors, it never hurts to oversell.”

“I’d like to make my mark, all right,” said Shakespeare, in a surly tone. “Right on his damned jaw. I still remember all those thorns in my bum from when his coach ran us off the road that day!”

“Now don’t you be giving me any trouble,” Burbage said, sharply. “The man has come with money to invest. And we could all benefit from that. Aside from that, if you play your cards right, you never know, you might even get yourself a wealthy patron. ‘Twould be well worth taking a few stickers up the arse, I should think. Now come on, put on your best fawning, servile manner and make a decent leg. This is business, my friend, business.”

Smythe stood there and watched them head off toward the others. Dick waved to them and his father gave a jaunty wave back. Henry Darcie stood there with his arms folded, looking pompous, as if he owned the place-which, to some degree, he did-and Sir Anthony had his hands upon his hips and stood looking about like the cock of the walk. Elizabeth, however, looked on the verge of tears. She looked at Smythe and once again shook her head slightly, in jerky little motions, back and forth, like a tremor going through her.

No, thought Smythe, something here was decidedly not right. All the evidence of his senses pointed toward the explanation that Dick Burbage gave as being the only logical answer, but in his gut, Smythe could not accept it.