Free Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell Page A

spotted mare—she’s in costume already! Edgar, could you use that little mare in your dog act?”
    The players’ camp was set in a clearing in a grove of small, shady trees. Bright costumes strewn across the laps of a group of women, seated on a circle of rickety-looking chairs, made a splash of color to one side. The players’ wagons, wooden sided and canvas roofed, were bright with paint and gilding, appearing almost civilized against the darkness of the trees. Not as civilized as a cozy inn, mind, but better than the bedrolls that would be Michael’s and my lot for the duration.
    Rosamund clasped her hands. “ ’Tis charming! Oh, Rudy, this is so pretty!”
    “I hope she thinks so tomorrow morning, when she’s washing in cold stream water,” I murmured.
    “Really? I hope not,” Michael murmured back.
    The sewing women rose to their feet, the oldest catching a green velvet cape the youngest was working on before it fell to the grass. Their own skirts were drabber than the costumes they stitched, and the elder two wore white caps and aprons, as working women will. Another was bareheaded, but the youngest wore a broad-brimmed felt hat with pheasant feathers in the band.
    It was the oldest who folded her arms and scowled, and no one could mistake her authority or her displeasure.
    “Gwen, my dear.” Makejoye strode into the clearing with all the feigned confidence of a man trying to make something supremely foolish sound wise. “We have a new plan!”
    Judging by Gwendolyn Makejoye’s expression as she recognized Rosamund, she didn’t think much of the plan so far. She looked as thin and sour as her husband was thick and juicy, but I had a hunch that being practical for two, perhaps even for eight, might sour anyone. And Makejoye’s explanation, which was in full spate, didn’t appear to change her mind.
    It was easy to guess that the other capped and aproned woman was Edith Barker, for she started fussing over Trouble before she even glanced at the rest of us. “What’s the matter with your voice, poor fellow?”
    It was equally obvious, as she pushed back her hat to watch Rudy help Rosamund down from the saddle, which of the remaining women was Gloria Glorious. She looked like a woman who played heroines, pretty enough, with long blond hair and the slim grace of a tumbler and dancer. But her expression held none of a heroine’s insipid innocence; the fury of a woman scorned is pale compared to the fury of a woman who has suddenly gone from leading lady to heroine’s sister, best friend, and maid.
    “Oh, dear.” The voice was deep for a woman’s, almost furry. I turned to glance at the fourth actress, and my glance became a stare. Her hair was a soft shade between brown and amber, and she evidently went without a hat often, for her face, throat, and the rich swell of her breasts were tinted with gold.
    She was taller than I, Michael’s height perhaps, and plump in a way that was very pleasing indeed. My eyes traveled down the curves of her body and back up, almost of their own accord. Her arms and hands, emerging from the fall of lace at her elbows, were round, soft, and dainty.
    Her face, also round and soft, looked from Rudy and Rosamund to Gloria with a rueful amusement that spoke of intelligence as well as humor. Then she turned and met my eyes. Hers were the same golden brown as her hair, and I suddenly felt my face heat.
    She looked even more amused. “Callista Boniface, Master . . . Fisk? Then from what Hector’s saying, you must be Sir Michael. It sounds like you’ll be joining us, for a time at least, and you’re welcome. But for now”—her eyes turned to Gloria—“I’d better go and explain some facts of life to Glory before she demonstrates just what a bad actress she really is. If you’ll excuse me?” She glided off, like a plump cougar, and I swallowed and turned to meet Michael’s eyes.
    “My,” he murmured.
    “My, indeed,” I replied. “If she has that kind of impact