Prologue

Apollo Rothschild sat in his box at the theater, his gaze fixed on the vision crossing the stage. It was the fifth time he’d seen Charlotte Halfpenny as Antigone, and she improved every night. Her conviction tempered with despair, she was the very picture of strength against the odds, a heroine sacrificing her own life to honor her brothers. More than once, he caught real tears sparkling in her eyes, brighter than any stars he’d had the good fortune to see.

He clung to every word she said, his heart breaking with her even as he admired her bravery. He had seen her in dozens of plays over the years, but this one was more moving, more acutely personal than the others.

After all, he knew a thing or two about honoring a dead brother.

“Last of all shall I pass thither, and far most miserably of all, before the term of my life is spent. But I cherish good hope that my coming will be welcome to my father, and pleasant to thee, my mother, and welcome, brother, to thee; for, when you died, with mine own hands I washed and dressed you, and poured drink-offerings at your graves.”

He felt the prickle of tears at the bridge of his nose and blinked them away. Though he had shed many tears for his family in the years they had been gone, it would not do for an earl to shed them in public, no matter how stirring the speech.

An ill-bred snicker distracted him from Charlotte’s final monologue. Irritated, he focused on the stage, entranced by the play of light and shadow on her remarkably expressive face. As she passed before a torch, the light illuminated her glorious red hair from behind like a stained glass Madonna.

“And now he leads me thus, a captive in his hands; no bridal bed, no bridal song hath been mine, no joy of marriage, no portion in the nurture of children; but thus, forlorn of friends, unhappy one, I go living to the vaults of death. And what law of Heaven have I transgressed?

“Why, hapless one, should I look to the gods any more—what ally should I invoke–-when by piety I have earned the name of impious? Nay, then, if these things are pleasing to the gods, when I have suffered my doom, I shall come to know my sin; but if the sin is with my judges, I could wish them no fuller measure of evil than they, on their part, mete wrongfully to me.”

“Amen,” he whispered under his breath, drawing a gloved hand to dab a single tear.

A stirring behind him in the shared box interrupted his reverie, and he was horrified on Charlotte’s behalf when his neighbors guffawed. He shot them his look of reproach that had been rumored to freeze running water.

Unperturbed, the chaps continued their conversation in lowered voices. “Out on her ear. Marksby gave her a week, to hear some tell it. The future Lady Marksby’s none the wiser. He ought to put this one on a ship before she catches on and cries off.”

Apollo’s spine stiffened at the mention of the profligate Baron Marksby. It was common knowledge that Charlotte Halfpenny had been his mistress for some time. How the man had held her attention for so long was anyone’s guess. If all that was needed to engage a mistress was ready funds, Apollo would have tried to make off with Charlotte the first time he laid eyes on her in King Lear.

“She won’t be here for long, unless she loses it. Talk is all well and good as long as it draws crowds, but they’ll send her on her way before she damages their reputation.”

Apollo smirked to himself. The company was no stranger to scandal. Charlotte couldn’t do them any real damage short of attending Court in the buff.

He sighed to himself as he pictured just that.

“She’ll have to catch a new one, if she can. Won’t be long before everyone knows, one way or another.”

Apollo frowned at the ominous tone to this statement, and the disturbance clung to him through the end of the play. As they stood to leave, he nodded to the gentlemen who had been gossiping. He lowered his voice. “I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help but hear your conversation. Has something happened to Miss Halfpenny?”

They laughed good-naturedly, and Apollo fought the urge to slap them. The younger of the two responded, “She’s enceinte.” He gave his eyebrows a lurid wiggle. “Watch yourself, sir.”

“Indeed.” Apollo cast a longing glance toward the empty stage. Seized with what was almost certainly a terrible idea, he collected his hat and went in search of his driver.