“But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we’ll not fail.”
LADY MACBETH, MACBETH ACT I, SCENE VII
“Ye shouldnae have let him ride off alone, Niall.”
At the sound of Aden’s hard voice, Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert gripped her morning newspaper more firmly and kept her gaze trained on whatever it was that someone had written about. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize that she had a much better chance of figuring out what was going on if she occupied herself with overhearing bits and pieces, rather than asking direct questions.
Her sons weren’t accustomed to being second-guessed or explaining their actions. Their father had allowed them to run wild from the moment she’d left Aldriss Park. And while under calmer circumstances she could admit that they’d become confident, competent, resourceful young men, there hadn’t been much calm since they’d arrived in London.
“I sent Gavin off with him,” her youngest son protested.
“And Gavin would jump off a roof for him, if Coll asked. Ye should’ve joined them. Ye do recall what happened last time Coll stomped off on his own.”
“Aye, I recall. I found a wife.”
“And he spent a day drunk in a fighting pit while I rode all over London looking for him. Sweet Saint Andrew, Niall. At least tell me ye ken where he went. I’m getting married in four days. I cannae be chasing Coll through the Midlands.”
“I recall. And nae, he didnae stop long enough to tell me. I reckon Gavin knows, but that doesnae help us.”
“Damn it all. I’ll give him another hour to get his arse back here. If he doesnae, I reckon we begin looking at the Saint Genesius. If the lass is there, Coll will be as well.”
Their voices faded as they headed toward the kitchen and the stable beyond. Francesca sat back and lowered her newspaper. After her initial panic, she’d figured her oldest son had been lying about making plans to wed Mrs. Persephone Jones. It had been too close to the very opposite of her expectations for it to be a coincidence. If someone had asked her to name the very last person in London she wanted for one of her sons, the least respectable name she knew was that of the actress.
Of course, there were lightskirts about, and beggars and thieves, but he’d chosen a name that every Londoner knew. It made sense that he’d done it with the express purpose of hurting her—she’d been the one who demanded he marry, after all.
But she’d been looking at his face last night, when Niall and the groom had interrupted her attempt at reasoning with him. All the blood had fled his face when Gavin had told him about the carriage overturning. Yes, the MacTaggerts looked after their own, and if he’d involved the actress in something dangerous, he would have felt some responsibility toward her safety. But even if he had made some sort of agreement with Mrs. Jones to induce her to go along with the marriage nonsense, Francesca didn’t think his reaction would have been so extreme.
His brothers expected to find them together. That meant he’d either lied to them about his intentions and completely fooled them, or none of it had been fake. She put a hand to her chest. Her oldest son, Viscount Glendarril, after an actress. But not just in pursuit.
He cared about her. And that changed several things.
Picking up the newspaper again, she turned to the Society page. Currently, the Saint Genesius was hosting a traveling troupe for one of those bawdy plays that actors loved to perform. In just a few days, though, the renowned actors of the Saint Genesius Theatre would be performing … Ah, there it was. Macbeth. With Mrs. Persephone Jones playing the part of Lady Macbeth.
Hmm. She’d always been partial to the Scottish play. “Smythe,” she said, turning her head to the butler.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I’ll be in my rooms. The moment Lord Glendarril returns, have my coach readied and inform me. Discreetly.”
He nodded. “I’ll see to it, my lady. More trouble?”
“I imagine so.” She picked up her cup of tea, but before she could lift it to her mouth, a rustle of voices sounded from the direction of the kitchen. “Go,” she said, and Smythe left the room. Another footman took his place.
Several hurried sets of footsteps thudded up and down the hallway for a moment. She wanted to rise and demand that she be informed of what was causing the chaos beneath her roof. But as forceful as she knew she could be, and as wild and willful as her sons were, demands would only be met with sarcasm and evasion. So she remained seated, trying not to grip her tea cup tightly enough to break the delicate handle.
The door opened again. Jane Bansil, Amy’s cousin and former companion, gave a polite nod before heading for the sideboard and the generous selections waiting there for anyone in the growing household wanting breakfast.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, picking out a slice of toast and a fresh orange and seating herself at the foot of the table.
“Jane, you’re a guest here. You may sit wherever you wish.”
The rail-straight young lady cringed. “Yes, I know, and I thank you again for your generosity. The—”
“Nonsense. Come up here and sit beside me. I require a distraction.”
Her black hair in its ever-present and excruciatingly tight bun, Jane jumped to her feet again, picked up her plate, and hurried up the table. When she sat again, the plate clanked onto the smooth, polished mahogany, and she flinched again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. If this house is one thing, it’s not quiet.”
“It is very … lively,” Miss Bansil offered.
“What do you see ahead for yourself, my dear?” Francesca pursued. “I haven’t had time to ask.”
“Oh, I’m—I—certainly I won’t impose on you much longer. I’ve put out several inquiries, and I believe I may find a position by the end of the month.”
“Is that what you want?” The woman had been let go from her previous employment—her own aunt—for allowing Amy to elope to Scotland with Niall. “I don’t recall you or Amy enjoying the Baxter household overly much.”
“I’m a woman without means, my lady. I must find employment, or I shall starve. Somewhere that provides me a roof over my head and meals would be … a relief, I suppose.”
“Even if you could stay here as long as you wish?”
“I’m not cursed with ambition, I know, and I’m … well, I bumble a great deal looking for the correct words, but I would like to have some task before me. A reason for getting up in the morning, as it were.”
Francesca sipped her tea. “Ah. You don’t wish to be a woman of leisure like myself, then.”
Jane’s cheeks turned bright red. “Oh, dear. No! Not … That’s not what I meant. You are a mother and you have charities, and you are rarely at leisure, from what I can see.”
“Well, thank you for that. If you wish to find a position, then do so. It does occur to me that my daughter will be married shortly, and I have no doubt my sons will be returning to Scotland as soon as they can manage it. What would you think of remaining here with me? Officially? As my companion, or my secretary, or whatever we decide to term the position?”
“Oh, my goodness. I hadn’t—oh, my.”
The door opened again. Smythe glided into the breakfast room with a note between his fingers. “Consider it, Jane. I imagine I’ll want your answer after Eloise’s wedding.” She motioned, and the butler walked to the table and handed over the paper.
Francesca opened it. Coll’s surprisingly elegant scrawl took only two lines, giving an address and a request to Niall or Aden to send four trustworthy lads there immediately. By trustworthy, she assumed he meant Scottish.
“Niall and Aden have seen it?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady. Master Niall and four of their fellows rode off just a moment ago.”
She folded the missive and put it in her pocket. “Who delivered it?”
“That groom.”
Ah, that would be Gavin. Rising, she went to the hallway door. “Have him sent to me in my study. Now. I don’t want to give him time to think up a story.”
She knew Mrs. Jones’s address now, and her place of employment. What she didn’t know—and what she needed to know—was who this woman was, other than an exceptional actress. If Persephone Jones was simply playing the part of a damsel in distress and had thereby caught Coll’s attention, this nonsense needed to end. If there was something more to it all, Francesca meant to discover that too.
Lady Macbeth frequently had a flock of female attendants about her. She had been the queen of Scotland after all, if only for a very short time. Temperance stepped down from the Oswell-MacTaggert coach, Coll on her heels, and looked up to see a pair of broad backs in Clan Ross kilts in front of her, and another two walking up to take the rear guard. With Coll’s brother, Niall, exiting the coach as well, that made six. Six very large, very capable-looking Highlanders, all there for one purpose: to keep her safe.
She wanted to tell Coll all this might be a bit much, but for the moment, she was glad to have them there. If Coll hadn’t been in London, if they hadn’t met, she would likely be dead from that brick-filled bucket, or she would have had to hire someone to protect her. She had no idea how one even went about finding that sort of person.
If perhaps all this had been simply a coincidental string of bad luck, and no one had deliberately run her off the road yesterday, then all of this and the list she’d written out for Coll would be for nothing. A very small part of her clung to that idea, because the idea that someone out in the world wanted to see her dead chilled her to her bones.
“Persephone,” Charlie said, walking up from the depths of the theater as she entered the Saint Genesius with her entourage. “You’re late for your fitting with Beth. Don’t … What’s all this? We’re not taking outside auditions for Scotsmen.”
“We’re nae playing Scotsmen,” Niall commented, narrowing one eye. “We are Scotsmen.”
“Why are there a half dozen Scotsmen backstage, then?” The manager went on, eyeing the lot of them as if they’d risen from the witches’ cauldron to torment him.
“I need to speak to you about that, Charlie,” Persephone returned, releasing her hold on Coll’s arm and putting a hand around Mr. Huddle’s. “In your office, perhaps?”
“Oh, God, you’re not with child, are you?” he asked, putting his free hand over his face. “We have our roster of plays made up for the next year. I coordinated them with Covent Garden and Drury Lane. If you—”
“I’m not with child,” she cut in, her jaw clenching. For heaven’s sake, she was careful about such things. And yes, she and Coll had been intimate several times now, but she could read a calendar. If they remained together, which she hoped they would, in the next week or so he would have to begin wearing a French condom. Her lips quirked. How would he react to that, she wondered?
“Ye want me in there, lass?” Coll asked on the tail of that thought.
Pushing away her abrupt amusement, she shook her head. It felt so odd to racket between terror and fond amusement all in the same few beats of her heart. If not for him—if he hadn’t arrived last night with a healthy dose of logic and caring and arousal—she might well have been on her way to Dover by now, seeking passage to the Continent. She would have surrendered without ever knowing who or why someone was after her.
As she and Charlie headed for his office, Coll barked out orders to his men behind her, stationing them about the theater. All around her, actors and stage crew exchanged curious looks, loudly speculating about why the Highlanders might be in attendance and what it had to do with the play.
“Out with it, then,” Charlie said, freeing his arm to cram himself behind his tiny desk.
“Someone ran my coach off the road last evening.” She pulled her left sleeve up to her elbow, revealing scratches and a bruise.
His face lost its ruddy coloring. “What? On purpose?”
“They rammed us three times, so I’d have to say it was on purpose.” She sank into the flimsy chair opposite him. “Coll is convinced that someone is trying to murder me.”
“It bloody well sounds like it,” Charlie exploded. “Good God.” He pounded his fist on the desk, taking several deep breaths. “I’m actually a little relieved. When I saw you walk in here with those giants, I thought you meant to demand an increase in pay. This is worse, of course, but if I had to offer you more salary, Thomas and Jenny and Gordon would have been right on your heels.”
“I’m glad this is only your second worst nightmare, then,” she said dryly. “But I have to ask you—do you want me to remain here? Honestly, if you please. The next time someone flings a bucket of bricks at me, it might hit someone else.”
The stout theater manager looked at her for a long moment. “Before you came along, Persie, the Saint Genesius did a fair business. But since you’ve been here, there hasn’t been a seat to spare in the entire house. I have the luxury of bringing in traveling troupes while we design sets and costumes the like of which have never been seen before, because I know the seats will be filled when we perform the next play.” He sat back, waving a pencil at her. “That, my sweet, is because of you.”
The chill in her bones began to recede again. “I don’t want to put anyone else in danger, Charlie.”
“Do you know who’s doing this? Did you hop into bed with someone’s husband?”
“No, and no. I have no idea.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s not entirely true. It might have something to do with my time before I came to London.”
“Before you became Persephone Jones, you mean?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He offered her a slight smile. “My dear, I’ve been here for twenty years. I know the name of every actor in every theater and troupe across England. Someone as skilled as Persephone Jones doesn’t just appear—unless she literally sprang out of thin air, fully formed.”
This day was turning out to be full of surprises, and she definitely didn’t appreciate some as much as others. “All this time you suspected, and you never said anything?”
“I don’t know who you were, and frankly, I don’t care. Yes, I want you to stay, even if it means two dozen Highlanders prowling about the theater. Hell, perhaps we can use them as decoration.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said feelingly. “Not just for this, but for the past six years. The Saint Genesius has done at least as much for me as you say I’ve done for it.”
She’d brought trouble to his doorstep, and yet he’d invited her to stay, anyway. If she’d known she would meet and befriend people who valued her for herself and her contributions without caring about the importance of her birth or how much money she stood to inherit, running away from Bayton Hall wouldn’t have been nearly as terrifying as it had been eight years ago.
“Your Highlander doesn’t seem the type to wait about for someone else to try to hurt you,” Charlie commented. “Does he have a plan?”
Her Highlander. Was he? Or was he simply the next man, the one who would keep her bed warm until they grew tired of each other? When he looked at her, when he touched her, it didn’t feel that way. But he needed to marry, and clearly, she needed to remain hidden. Better hidden, even. Those two things simply didn’t go together.
“I gave him a few names to look into,” she said when Charlie lifted an eyebrow at her. “I’m frankly hoping, however, that it’s some rabid Rosalind admirer who disliked my portrayal.”
“We could do something with that,” he mused. “‘Performances so fantastical, they drive men mad.’ Hmm.” Swiftly pulling out a piece of paper, he wrote a note to himself.
And there was Charlie Huddle, trying to turn every mishap into an opportunity. “If you do that, you’ll have every ladies’ group carrying signs to protect their husbands.”
“Eh. You do make a point.” Scowling, he crossed the line of writing out again. “As for you, Persie, I want to know when you’re to be here every morning, and when you’re leaving every evening. I’ll escort you home myself, if need be.”
“It won’t be,” she returned. “Coll has declared that I’m not to venture anywhere without at least two of his men accompanying me.” That had actually been a compromise, after she’d refused to allow him to be the one at her side. He had a stupid wife to find, and three weeks in which to do it. If that venture failed, she did not want to be the one responsible for it even if she preferred that he remain just as he was.
Charlie glanced toward the open doorway. “This Lord Glendarril. You’re generally more cautious, Persie. Are you certain he’s not the one making you look vulnerable, so he can … do as he’s done?”
“I’m not worth that much trouble,” she countered. If there was one thing about which she could be certain, it was that Coll MacTaggert wouldn’t spend his time trying to frighten or harm a woman. Or anyone else, for that matter. If someone angered him, he told them so. If he wanted someone, he told them so. “Even if I was, he’s very likely the most honorable man I’ve ever met.”
“Well. That’s a statement I’ve never heard you make before.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She sighed. “Someone is going to end up with a broken heart, and I have more than a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to be me.” With that, she rose again. “I’m off to see Beth for my fitting. I’ll leave it to you to tell the rest of the troupe whatever you choose. Gordon will likely blame it all on the Scottish play, regardless.”
“I can hear it now. ‘The ghosts of Banquo’s descendants come to curse him for daring to play King the Scottish Play.’”
Temperance snorted. “You’ve known us for too long.”
“Definitely.”
When she left the office, the first person she spied was Coll, head bent over her list with his youngest brother, Niall. The gossip pages had spent weeks drooling over the MacTaggert brothers’ handsome appearance, and for once those chin-wags hadn’t been exaggerating. If the third brother, Aden, measured up to the other two, then the MacTaggert parents had managed to produce the three most attractive males she’d ever seen.
The two men spoke quietly, the words a mix of English and Scots Gaelic, Coll’s lower-pitched voice mesmerizing in its ebb and flow. She could tell herself she found the sound so attractive because voice and speech in general always caught her attention, but she could admit that it had more to do with the fact that she found the man himself fascinating. Unexpected. Delectable. Addictive.
So addictive that for the next two days he managed to keep her completely distracted from everything but the play and his hard, lean body. Whatever plans of his own he’d had to cancel to stay with her overnight, she had no idea, because he refused to tell her. He missed at least one additional soiree, she knew, but she didn’t argue against it, because she wanted him there with her.
Whether that made her selfish or simply frightened of the outside world, she didn’t know, but then lately she’d almost felt as if she’d begun to split into two separate people: the daring Persephone Jones, who enjoyed her skilled lover every night, and the terrified Temperance Hartwood, who jumped at every shadow and couldn’t sleep without Coll’s strong arms around her.
With him as an added distraction, the usual speed with which the Saint Genesius racketed between plays seemed even more ridiculously swift this time. The sets were nearly finished, lines had been memorized almost to perfection, and all but one of her costumes waited for her already in her dressing room. She sighed, setting aside her folio to see Gordon Humphreys strutting by in his Macbeth finery, gesticulating wildly to be certain the seams would hold.
In truth she’d always been both women, Temperance and Persephone. The only difference now was that someone else knew it. Oh, from the moment she’d seen Coll standing in the wings she’d known that he would be trouble to her equilibrium, and now to her heart. No, not … troublesome, precisely. Disruptive, perhaps. He had definitely upended her thoughts. She couldn’t blame him for the attempts on her life, though they’d begun shortly after she met him.
Or had they? Now that she thought about it, there had been a few other odd things recently—a horse pulling a carriage, spooked by a bottle thrown as she left the theater late one night. That horrible garlic-smelling brandy someone had left on her dressing table ten or so days ago.
Those things might have been coincidences. One of the stagehands might have drunk the brandy and replaced it with a cheaper liquor. Drunks did fling bottles from time to time, especially in the small hours of the morning. Oh, it was enough to drive her mad.
“That’s quite a frown ye’re wearing, lass,” Coll said, and she looked up to find him just a few feet away, gazing at her.
“It just occurred to me that the sandbags might not have been my first near miss,” she said. “Unless … How am I to know if something was an accident, a coincidence, or something malevolent?”
“Ye cannae. What did ye recall?”
She told him about the brandy and spooked horse, watching his generally level expression darken as she spoke. That told her what he thought about them, whether she was convinced or not. “What did ye do with the brandy?” he asked when she’d finished.
“I threw it away. The moment I opened the bottle, it smelled so pungent I nearly cast up my accounts.”
“Would ye recognize the smell again?”
“I think so. But—”
“This evening, we’ll go by an apothecary’s shop.”
“I’m hosting a dinner tonight. I’m not about to disappoint Flora.”
He frowned. “Lass, it’s nae a good idea to have people about yer house—about ye—right now.”
“I’ve known these people much longer than I’ve known you, Coll, and you’ve been…” She glanced around them at the busy backstage. “You’ve been sharing my bed. You’re welcome to join us, and I’m not trying to be stubborn, but you and I both have lives. I will not stop mine and save someone else the trouble of doing so.”
“Stubborn,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll join ye, then. We’ll go by the apothecary in the morning.”
“You have a wedding to attend in the morning. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a final fitting.”
“Aye. I’ve a few things to see to today. My men will be about. If ye need anything, feel a cool breeze ye dunnae like, ye tell one of ’em.”
“I will.” She wanted to ask where he might be headed, if he meant to look further into Dunhurst’s finances, or if this place he needed to go was to a young lady’s house to speak with her parents about a marriage. She didn’t want him to do either, but she couldn’t argue against the first one, and she’d actually encouraged the second one.
He put his forefinger beneath her chin, tilted her head up, and kissed her. “I dunnae like leaving yer side, lass,” he murmured, then bent and pulled the knife from his boot. “Ye keep this with ye.”
“Macbeth is the one who sees the floating dagger,” she said, attempting to find some humor again.
“Promise me,” Coll pushed, his expression unchanged.
Blowing out her breath, she took the dagger. “I don’t know what I’m to do with it while I’m being fitted for Lady Macbeth’s gown.”
“Ye’ve a seamstress here. Find some cloth and strap it to yer leg.” Squatting, he ran his palm from her hip down one thigh, to just below her knee. “Hereabouts, so ye can reach it beneath yer skirts.”
Now he’d stirred up all kinds of naughty thoughts, and she was going to have a devil of a time remembering her lines. “I would still prefer to discover that no one is after me at all, you know.”
Straightening again, he took her hand. “Sorry to tell ye, lass, but ye’ve got one man after ye, regardless.”
With a final swift kiss, he released her hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the gloomy backstage. Temperance sat on the nearest stool. He thought knowing her background changed everything. He’d been tasked with finding a proper wife, and while Persephone Jones certainly wasn’t that, Lady Temperance Hartwood fulfilled all of his and his family’s requirements—in his mind, anyway.
Men. She loved her life—she loved acting and being onstage and hearing the roars of applause. When she’d run initially, it had been only with the thought of escaping a marriage to the Duke of Dunhurst. It had been weeks later, when her pocket money had begun to run out, that she’d made a choice between working in a shop for a man whose leer gave her the shakes, offering her personal wares on some street corner, and answering an advertisement looking for a young lady to assume the role of Maria, Olivia’s maid in Twelfth Night for a small theater troupe in Cornwall.
It had been a very fortuitous moment; Twelfth Night was her favorite play, one she’d nearly memorized while growing up, and it was a chance to don a disguise and become someone else entirely. No one would look for Temperance Hartwood on the stage. That had been the day Temperance had ceased to exist altogether, and she’d become Persephone Jones.
“Persie,” said Flora’s daughter, Beth, “Mr. Huddle finally agreed that three costume changes for you are enough for us all to manage. Let me get you in the last one again so I can have them ready in time for dress rehearsal.”
“Of course. I’m sorry; I was lost in thought.” Temperance stood, falling in behind the seamstress as they hurried over to the table overflowing with cloth, thread, beading, lace, and leather.
“I don’t blame you. That Lord Glendarril is rather spectacular.”
“Yes, he is,” she said. Truer words were never spoken. “He may join us for dinner tonight.”
Beth grinned. “A grand lord, condescending to dine with stagehands and seamstresses? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Neither had Temperance. Once they’d finished with this mess of possible killers running about, she needed to part ways with him. He didn’t fit her life, and she certainly didn’t fit his. This just happened to be a perfect little moment in which they could be together. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. No matter how much she’d begun to wish that she hadn’t caused Lady Temperance to disappear so thoroughly.