Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended. Shakespeare has been dead a long time, so I reckon he won't care if I embroil him in this mess.

Category:  Alternate Genre, if there is such a thing—in this case, Historical Romance.

Summary:  M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing?

Title:  Loveless in London

Author: gilenagile

Rating: R

Episode Reference: None, but written in the spirit of Season One.

Feedback:  Very much appreciated, but if you're calling to report a historical inaccuracy you'll probably have to take a number.

A/N: I've decided to try DA in the Historical Romance genre because I am a sick person and because I'll get to use the term "throbbing manhood" in a sentence (although it won't be in this chapter—you've got to work up to a phrase like that). Of course, that presupposes there will be more chapters and I'm not at all sure we'll survive this one.

Title:  Loveless in London

Chapter 1:  A Man's World

"O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!" Tears streamed down the maiden's ivory face, as she clenched and unclenched her hands, paroxysms of grief and fear shaking her fragile frame.

Max flung the rotten tomato and smiled as it made contact with the blonde wig, knocking it askew, and the fair Ophelia stumbled off blindly into the wings. What a wimp. What the hell was Will thinking?  She'd certainly let him know what she was thinking after the play ended.

*****

"Bloody rabble. If I ever discover that tomato-throwing thug who has been knocking my heroines senseless during performances loosing a pound of flesh will be the least of his troubles…" The young playwright stopped his tirade abruptly as Max caught his eye. She stood perfectly still, arms folded, face impassive, as if waiting for a child to finish a foolish tantrum.

"Get thee to a nunnery?" Her voice was low and even and, she noted with satisfaction, causing him to look suddenly defensive. "To a nunnery? What kind of woman would put up with that garbage?" Slowly, she circled him. "You're a disgrace to the common people, portraying a woman like she has the backbone of an eel and the intelligence of a sack of flour."

"But, my raven haired beauty, I portray only the characters I see. Anyway, you can hardly describe Queen Gertrude in that fashion."

"Well our options seem to be sweet and stupid or powerful and a witch. You're a real genius Shakespeare."

"That he is."

They both swung around to see the source of this admiration. A fair-haired nobleman towered over them both, dark blue intelligent eyes locking on Max's. She briefly took in the high cheekbones, well-defined jaw and perfect teeth revealed by a pleasant smile. She spent more time examining the expensive clothing: the loose silk shirt draped over a broad chest, form- fitting britches clinging to muscular thighs, well polished leather boots planted solidly apart in a confident stance. She smiled demurely, her bosom rising as she inhaled deeply. This stranger positively exuded—wealth.

She was momentarily distracted by Will glaring at her and shaking his head surreptitiously from side to side, his eyes full of warning. Max smiled sweetly and, she hoped, stupidly. "Introduce me to your friend master Shakespeare. It would be an honor for a lowly maiden such as I to learn the name of such a noble and handsome lord."

Will rolled his eyes as his wealthy patron turned to focus all his attention on the woman before him. Max engaged in some further breast-heaving, noting with satisfaction that the man's eyes were drawn downward. Men were so predicable and easy to manipulate. Still, Will had better hurry up with the niceties or she would pop out of her low cut bodice and the stranger's eyes out of his head.

"Logan, allow me to introduce Maxine. She is my…." Max coughed loudly. Will may be a dab hand with the written word, but his quick brain was frequently upstaged by an even quicker mouth. How was he about to describe her role in his life? Body guard? Accurate perhaps. Indeed, since they had met a few months ago he had had little trouble with the debt collectors who had previoulsy made his life a misery. She had managed to keep them off his back and without ending up on hers. She felt satisfaction at her ability to wind those boorish bullies around her little finger like the London fog around a lamppost. Of course, her ability to land a killer right hook didn't hurt either.

"She's a…." Another cough. He wouldn't say "thief," would he? Even Will, pumped up on the success of yet another play and with his obvious familiarity with this man, wouldn't be that thoughtless. However, he was a man—no point in taking chances. Not that her thievery really played a part in his life, although he didn't object to the occasional fruits of her illegal activities: a pitcher of good ale shared among friends, a nice meal at a pleasant tavern. She smiled indulgently at him, all in all he was good company, a friend even--something she had never before had in a man--and if the elevated circles in which he sometimes moved allowed her access to the rich and powerful she had always chosen her victims with care. So far, she had deemed only the most egotistical and ruthless of males worthy of her light fingered attentions, not the sort Will had ever counted as friend. She sighed. Maybe this stranger would escape a nighttime visit to his abode. She looked at him reappraising, taking in the costly and elegant cut of the jacket draping his wide shoulders—on the other hand, maybe not.

"I'm milord Shakespeare's maid. It is my fault he is babbling like a newborn. I fear lack of food has made him stup… er, lightheaded. Why do I not run to his abode and prepare a late repast for you fine gentlemen to share."

Will gulped, his panicked look communicating the hope she just intended to assault Logan in a dark alley on the way home and not actually cook for him. She smiled reassuringly at him, admiring his loyalty to his friends.

"A meal prepared by one as fair as you would be a pleasure to consume."      

Max smirked, stupidly she hoped. Filthy rich and a womanizer, this stranger was rapidly heading to the top of her list of potential marks.

"No, no. Logan and I have things to discuss—like his use of the English language for instance." Glaring at his friend, Will took the young man by the shoulder, attempting to usher him out of the now emptying theatre and out of Max's sight.

"Milord Cale is a poet?" Will sighed and made a scatting motion behind his back to Max who was nonchalantly following them into the damp night streets of Southwark.

"No. I…I used to dabble…not even dabble…just scribble…." Logan had stopped and turned to her again, his manly stance shifting somewhat uncomfortably at this revelation.

Will grabbed his arm, propelling him toward a nearby tavern of ill repute. An establishment in which any respectable maiden would be ashamed to be seen. Max followed them in.

"Tell me of your dabbles, pardon me sir, your scribbles." Max sat on a vacant bench at a wooden table, having dispatched a lingering drunk to the straw covered floor with a ladylike swish of her hips.

The rich lord looked uncomfortable, whether at the subject of the conversation or at the approach of Count Drimsdale--the most obnoxious, but unfortunately most poverty stricken, member of the upper crust of London society—she was not sure.

"Look it's Will Shakespeare fresh from another triumph at the Globe. Entertaining the uneducated masses in fine style, I hear."

"You're drunk, Dimsdale." Will placed two mugs of ale on the table. Max chose to ignore the not so subtle hint, focusing instead on the wobbling nobleman in front of her.

"Maybe drunk enough to appreciate that drivel you call writing." The unabashed leer Max was being subjected to suggested that wasn't all he was appreciating.

"Drivel the queen of England herself has come to see." Logan's voice was harsh with outrage.

"Well, if it isn't Lord Cale himself. Still hanging out with the literary set, I see. Although I use that term in the loosest sense."

"Yes, but can you spell it?" Max squelched a grin at Cale's retort; it was never a good idea to warm up to a prospective victim.

"Your uncle did the English speaking world a favor when he put an end to your literary aspirations and sent you off to Paris to study that new-fangled foolishness they call 'science'. Except now maybe you'll entertain us not with tales of love and such silliness, but with tales of the world being round." Drimsdale voice was lost amid the raucous laughter this prospect evoked in the drunken crowd.

"Face it Cale, you and your dead-beat pal here write like women." A collective intake of breath replaced the howls of merriment. In the dead silence Logan stood and walked up to the red faced Count. Drimsdale leaned toward him whispering something Max strained unsuccessfully to hear. She relaxed as whatever message he was attempting to relay to Cale was abruptly cut off, along with his air supply and the lecherous look he had continued to direct at her, as Logan hauled him by his collar out of the inn.

Max sighed and added to the list of attributes applicable to her new acquaintance. Rich, powerful, womanizing and ready to engage in a brawl at the least assault on his pride. Definitely a male worthy of her professional attentions.

"You've got that look in your eyes, Max." Will sipped his ale and looked uneasy. "Look, Logan is a good man. Maybe too passionate about what he believes in, but that is a fault I would glad be guilty of."

"I take it you never criticized his writing."

"Dimsdale's a bore and a philistine and Logan had potential as a writer until he burned all his work and went to Europe to study science."

"Remind me not criticize his mathematical equations either."

Will appeared not to hear her, his eyes looking off into the distance. "What a waste of talent. He could be the perfect Renaissance man—a true blend of art and science." Max couldn't restrain a snort at the concept of a perfect man. Will was too lost in his thoughts to notice. "The heart of a romantic and the mind of a man of science. Yet, alas, in matters of love, a disaster."

Max sat back and sipped Lord Logan Cale's mug of ale. He certainly was perfect—the perfect mark. She closed her eyes and started to plan her course action, one more step toward her goal of being a lady of independent means in a world where men called all the shots. She felt her heart harden along with her resolve. Years surviving alone on the streets of London had taught her that women of her class were considered good only for serving or whoring and she had to take what she was denied the right to earn. The likes of Logan Cale would be the means to that end.

She frowned as she weighed her options. Clearly, Cale was a man of intelligence, and she should proceed with caution. "In matters of love a disaster." Will's words echoed in her ears as she took another swig of ale and resolved to use this weakness to her advantage.