A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

She gazed back at him, then raised her eyebrows in an interrogative manner. “Do you always damn people so vehemently upon such short acquaintance?”

He flushed and looked down, sheepishly. “Forgive me, milady. I… I thought you were someone else.”

“I see. And how, pray tell, did you happen to come to this conclusion?”

“I… well, ‘tis of no consequence, milady. Forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”

“You will offend me, sir, if you act as if my question were of no consequence. I would like an answer.”

“ ‘Twas the coach, milady,” said Shakespeare, from behind him. “This coach… or perhaps I should say, to be more precise, one very much like it… nearly ran us down the other day.”

“And so your friend is justifiably incensed,” she said. “I quite understand. But as this is not my coach, and I am only riding in it for the first time today at the invitation of Mr. Anthony Gresham, perhaps I could be spared your umbrage and assisted to step out?”

“Why, yes, of course, milady,” Smythe said. He reached out to her and she took his hand as he helped her step down out of the coach. She squeezed his hand and, for a moment, their eyes met. Smythe felt a sudden, intense pressure in his chest and his mouth went dry. Was there meaning in that glance? He could have sworn that something passed between them, something pregnant with tension and desire. But surely, he thought, that could not be possible. Could it?

“Miss Elizabeth Darcie?”

They turned to see a liveried servant standing behind them, and Smythe at once recognized the man from the inn at the crossroads, the one who had come galloping ahead to announce that they’d been robbed. The other man, however, seemed not to recognize him. Indeed, Smythe thought, why should he? A mere ostler was beneath even the notice of a servant.

“I am Drummond, milady. Mr. Gresham’s man. I am to escort you to his private box to join him for the performance.”

“Certainly,” she said. And then she paused and turned back to Smythe. “And thank you so much for you assistance, Mr…?”

“Smythe, milady. Symington Smythe.”

“He’s just an ostler, milady,” Drummond said, in a tone that clearly indicated she had no need to bother with anyone so insignificant.

“Aye, but a very handsome one,” she said, with a wink at Smythe.

Drummond looked scandalized and did his best to rush her off through the theatre entrance before there could be any further exchange between them. Smythe stared after them for several moments before he finally realized that the coachman was giving him instructions for what he wanted done. The horses were to be unhitched and given some hay in the paddock, then watered and brushed and hitched back up in their traces once again in time for Mr. Gresham and his guest to leave in a timely manner as soon as the production ended. Smythe knew what needed to be done and wasn’t really paying very close attention. He could not get his mind off Miss Elizabeth Darcie, and how she had winked at him and said that he was handsome.

“Do not even think about it,” Shakespeare said, as they were unhitching the team.

“Think about what?”

“Oh, please! Spare me the coy innocence. That Darcie woman, that’s what. And pray do not tell me that you were not thinking about her. I could feel the hea

t coming off you from six feet away.”

Smythe grinned, self-consciously. “She said that I was handsome. Did you hear? And did you see the way she winked at me?”

“Aye, and so did Drummond. And you can be sure that he will report it to his master.”

“Mr. Anthony Gresham,” Smythe said.

“I believe that was the name she mentioned,” said Shakespeare, wryly.

“You realize that she made a particular point of telling us whose coach it was?”

“I realize that she is trouble on the hoof,” said Shakespeare. “I have seen her sort before. She is the type that likes to stir things up. She has a rich gentleman sending a fancy coach to bring her to the theatre, where she will enjoy the production from the intimacy of a private box screened off from the remainder of the audience, and yet she takes the time to flirt with a mere ostler, and in so obvious a manner that the servant of the gentleman who squires her cannot help but notice. So, if you can stop being blinded by Miss Darcie’s admittedly radiant charms long enough to think clearly for a moment, then what conclusion can you draw from this?”

“You believe that she was flirting with me in front of the servant on purpose, only to make this Gresham jealous?”

“Well, far be it from me to pretend I know a woman’s motives for anything she does,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “As for her doing it in front of Drummond on purpose, there can be, I think, no doubt of that. ‘Twas clear to her you had a bone to pick with the owner of the coach that nearly ran you down. And so, as you observed, she made a point of telling you his name, when there was no need at all for her to do so. Especially after I had told her it could easily have been another coach that merely looked like this one. It seems clear to me she is intent on pointing you toward Gresham… and at the same time, giving Gresham ample reason to bear a grudge against you.”

“But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?” said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. “She does not even know me.”

“Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if ‘tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots.”