“Leave all the rest to me.”
LADY MACBETH, MACBETH ACT I, SCENE V
Caroline Rilence wasn’t home. According to the butler and her stiff-necked parents, the lass had suddenly taken ill and left for the family’s seat in Leeds, though why they would allow an ill woman to take such a long coach trip with but a maid for company, they couldn’t say.
It seemed far more likely that she’d made up some tale about troublesome Highlanders and gone to stay with a friend. The trouble was, Coll realized, that none of them knew enough about her to be certain who her damned friends were.
“I need more names,” he said, resisting the urge to pound on the breakfast table. He’d already broken two pencils, and that had done nothing but cause Eloise to chastise him for being an “angry mountain,” as she’d put it.
“I’m sorry, Coll,” Miranda said, twiddling her teacup in her hands. “Caroline is five years ahead of me, and even more than that for Amy and Eloise. I simply don’t know her well enough.”
“She would have been considered on the shelf, to be unmarried at twenty-seven or twenty-eight,” Amy put in. “More likely to attend recitals and book readings than soirees.”
“She’s had less than a day to vanish,” Coll insisted. “Nae a man or woman can do so that quickly and nae leave some sign behind them for a hunter to track.”
“I did it that quickly,” Temperance countered, her own cup of tea untouched. “It all depends on what she’s willing to leave behind.”
“She tried to kill ye for money. She’s nae trying to leave anything behind. She’s only hiding until we stop looking for her.”
In the meantime, the woman could be more desperate than before. The easiest solution would have been to inform Lord and Lady Bayton that their daughter was alive and well, but Temperance didn’t want to go anywhere near them—and he couldn’t blame her for that.
“Now that you’re suspicious of her, perhaps she’ll realize it’s too risky to attempt anything else.” Eloise reached across the table to put her hand over Temperance’s. “I wouldn’t want us after me.”
“The problem is, we dunnae ken where she’s gotten to. Temperance, I dunnae want ye going out this door until we find her.”
Immediately, she lifted her head, pinning him with her blue gaze. “I have a performance tonight, and every night for the next four weeks.”
“But ye—”
“I am not missing that play,” she said, her voice clipped. “Everyone at the Saint Genesius is relying on me. I don’t even have an understudy.”
Swearing, he slammed his fist against the tabletop. “I dunnae know how to protect ye, then!” he snapped.
“Just be there. I doubt she would dare make an attempt with all those eyes watching, anyway. Thus far, she—or whoever she’s hired—has struck while I was more or less alone.”
He didn’t know if she was trying to convince him or herself, but he did understand it. Wherever she went, she would be in danger. Even at home, they couldn’t guarantee someone wouldn’t attempt to burn down Oswell House. Onstage, she would have hundreds of witnesses, at least, and relatively few entrances and exits to watch.
Logically, it was safer than anywhere but in his arms. That didn’t mean he liked it. At all. As his father had said, though, the trouble with loving a strong, opinionated woman was that she had strong opinions, and wasn’t timid about expressing them. “Fine. Ye perform. I’ll be backstage, watching every bloody minute.”
“And we’ll be in the audience, keeping watch from there,” his mother commented, strolling into the room. “This is your life, Temperance, and heaven knows you’ve earned the right to approach it as you choose. But please keep in mind that whether you decide to be known as Persephone or as Temperance, your last name will be MacTaggert.”
“And her title will be Lady Glendarril,” Coll put in. “Dunnae try yer guilt on her, my lady. Her parents did wrong by her. But she’s nae the only one who can make such a statement.”
Her lips thinned a little, but Francesca nodded. “That is true enough.”
“A bit harsh, wasnae?” Niall asked, as their mother left the room.
“I’m done with agreements that serve someone else’s purpose,” Coll shot back. “And now I reckon we’re off to the theater. I’ll see ye there tonight, aye?”
“Aye,” Aden said. “I’ll bring ye someaught proper to wear.”
“And in the meantime, we’ll be making a few more inquiries about who might call Caroline Rilence a friend,” Niall put in.
He would have to rely on them; he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and he needed to be by Temperance’s side. Whether they thought she would be safer onstage or not, he wasn’t only thinking about tonight. His mind was on all the other nights, for the rest of their lives. And he damned well wanted her in them.
The next few hours didn’t leave him any less worried, though he was impressed that Charlie had taken pains to stage men at every exit who would ask for tickets or for audience members to confirm they were who they claimed to be. Even so, on a performance night, the theater was full of people back and front, actors and their friends or family, stagehands looking to impress a lass or two with an introduction to Gordon Humphreys or Thomas Baywich or Persephone Jones or Clive Montrose, who was far too pretty for Coll’s liking.
They ran through the play once more, and for the first time, Humphreys even said the word “Macbeth” before he had to sit down and fan himself with his well-marked folio. It was a good performance—likely the best he’d seen, and he’d attended several throughout the Highlands. If he said so himself, Temperance’s Lady Macbeth had never and likely would never be equaled—and that was the damned rehearsal.
A dull muttering that began on the far side of the curtains slowly grew in volume until he couldn’t even hear himself think. “Is it always so loud?” he asked Temperance, watching Charlotte, a petite lass, finish pinning up the pitch-black hair Lady Macbeth would be sporting.
“On opening night, yes. Generally, no,” she answered, eyeing herself in the dressing mirror before adding a touch more rouge to her cheeks. “Healthy at the beginning, pale at the end,” she said aloud, sending him a quick smile.
A gong sounded from nearby. “Five minutes till curtain,” rang out. Persephone stood. “Time for a prayer to the theater gods,” she quipped, her humor at odds with the severe gray and burgundy gown she wore.
He straightened from where he leaned against the wall. “I’d like to kiss ye,” he murmured, catching her hand to place it over his arm, “but I’ll nae be blamed for ruining yer healthy bloom.”
“You, my dear, are the reason for my healthy bloom. I hardly need the face paint.” She twisted, leaning up along his chest, and slid one hand up to cup the nape of his neck. Her ruby-red lips met his, her kiss tasting of tea and desire.
Coll wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off her feet, deepening the kiss. Whoever the devil she dressed as and whatever name she went by, all that mattered was that she belonged to him, and he to her. “I love ye, lass,” he murmured.
“I love you, Coll,” she returned. “Now put me down.”
He did so, though he would much rather have locked her dressing room door and peeled her out of those somber, dark clothes and replaced them with his mouth. She pulled a kerchief from a drawer and carefully wiped his mouth, then fixed her own.
“Good—”
Swiftly, she slapped a hand over his mouth. “Do not wish me good luck,” she whispered. “That’s the worst luck imaginable.”
“Ye lot are all mad, ye ken,” he whispered back, kissing her palm and transferring her hand to his forearm. “I’ll nae wish ye ill.”
“Say something in Gaelic that would make me swoon in English,” she suggested, her gaze on his mouth.
“Tha mi airson a bhith còmhla riut an-dràsta.”
“That makes me want to swoon just hearing it,” she said softly. “Tell me what it means after.”
“Aye. That’s a promise.”
Coll left her on the stage with her fellows, while he hung back in the shadows, watching, as Charlie Huddle led them in a combination of prayer and witch’s spell for success. That done, the actors went to their opening positions, and he found a place to stand where he could see both Temperance’s dressing room and the stage.
The curtains parted to a resounding roar, and the three witches began their lines amid sounds of thunder generated by Harry Drew and his stagehands. As many times as he’d seen it rehearsed, his desire to watch the spectacle anew pulled at him. He sternly resisted. She might well be safer there onstage than anywhere else, but that didn’t mean he would stop looking for trouble.
As each of the actors made a first appearance, the audience reacted with applause and cheers, though none so loud as the round awarded to Temperance. He had no idea what the blue bloods would think if they ever discovered they were clapping for one of their own, a lass who dared defy them and their proper ways, and did so with skill and flair.
The play was short for Shakespeare, and they’d decided to forego an intermission—at least for opening night. The three murderers killed Banquo in rather spectacular fashion, causing at least one lass out in the audience to shriek, and then someone apparently fainted when Banquo’s ghost arrived at Macbeth’s banquet, all dressed in gray strips of muslin and clanking a chain for effect.
“You don’t think someone would attempt to do her harm here, do you?” a hushed voice came from beside him.
He turned to look. The pretty lad who Temperance said had been stolen from one of the other theaters, Clive Montrose—which sounded like another made-up name to him. “I’m nae willing to risk it,” he said.
“You’re a good man, my lord.”
“I’m a cautious one.”
“Speaking of which,” Montrose went on, “I happened to notice someone carrying a heavy-looking sack a moment ago. I don’t recall a sack that heavy being needed for anything, especially up in the scaffolding.”
“Where?” Coll hissed, straightening. The damned riggings remained dark, though he could see men moving up in them, as they would be for the remainder of the play.
“Here,” Montrose whispered, and something heavy came down on the back of Coll’s head.
A sharp ringing sounded in his ears, as though someone was clanging a pot incessantly with a spoon. Coll opened his eyes to see … nothing. Frowning, he put his hands behind him and pushed—and smacked his head on something before he could sit upright.
Trying to twist, he hit another wall, and another. Christ. All around him, walls and blackness. His breath came in gasps, and he struck out over and over, unable to get enough force behind the blows to budge anything.
A small space in the dark—his worst damned nightmare. And he … He was supposed to be doing something. Something important.
Forcing his eyes shut, he stopped moving. The theater. Macbeth. Temperance. God, he was supposed to be watching over Temperance. Holding his breath, he listened. Faintly, he could hear Malcolm delivering the news to Macduff that his wife and children had been slain. It had only been a moment, then, that he’d been in here.
Lady Macbeth’s final scene, the one she’d performed at the masked ball last night, would be next. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he reached out again. Wood. Planks. A crate, then—probably one of the ones they used to house the wooden swords, which would all be in the actors’ hands now, because those boxes latched shut.
Turning over, he put his hands beneath him and pushed himself up. Before his arms entirely straightened, his back hit the top of the crate. He gathered his legs beneath him, crouched on all fours, and then shoved upward with all his strength. The wood cracked, but the crate remained closed.
Cursing but keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see how very small the space was, he lowered himself and then pushed again. The third time, the crate lid flew open and then came down again, nearly striking him in the back of the head. Catching it with one arm, he vaulted out of the box.
Montrose had left him in a tangle of unused sets and furniture. By the time he found his feet again, Temperance was onstage, wringing her hands. Thank God. He moved forward, wiping the blood dripping from his scalp.
Temperance paused in her speech, and the doctor and then the female attendant began their conversation—except the female attendant didn’t sound like Jenny Rogers. Nor did she know her lines. Coll’s blood froze.
Abruptly, the doctor stepped aside, and the attendant ran at Temperance. With a roar, Coll charged onto the stage, shoving the doctor—damned Clive Montrose—aside to get to her before she reached Temperance.
“Stop him!” he bellowed, jabbing a finger at Clive Montrose as he reached the black-clothed attendant and bodily lifted her off her feet.
Dimly, he thought he heard Aden answer him, and then blinked as the woman kicked him in the gut, swearing. When she swung a dagger at his face, he dropped her. “Get back, lass!” he ordered Temperance, ducking another swing.
He’d been raised not to strike a woman ever, and while he could have tackled her to the floor, he hesitated. When she turned back with a scream to face Temperance again, though, he grabbed her around the legs, tripping her.
Abruptly, the woman froze, and he looked up to see Temperance. Her severe black and purple skirts hiked on one side, she stood like a goddess of vengeance, the dagger he’d given her clutched in one hand and but an inch away from Caroline Rilence’s face.
“You will stop,” she commanded. “I am not some petty thing for you to toss aside like refuse in order to suit your own ambitions. I have dreams and desires of my own, and they do not include putting up with your jealousy.”
“I’ll tell them!” Caroline shrieked. “I’ll tell them all!”
Temperance didn’t budge. “No, I will tell them,” she said coolly. “I am Persephone Jones. I am also Lady Temperance Hartwood, and you are on my stage. Get off. Now.”
For an instant, everything became so silent that Coll could swear he heard his own pocket watch ticking. Then—the theater erupted.
In the chaos, Niall appeared beside him, grabbing hold of a squirming Caroline while Coll climbed to his feet.
The stage swarmed with people, some from backstage and still others from the audience. Wincing, Coll strode forward, flinging people aside until he reached Temperance. “Did she hurt ye?” he demanded.
Slowly, she lowered the dagger and handed it to him. “No. She hurt you, though.” Reaching up, she touched his head, and her fingers came away bloody. “That’s it. I’m killing her.” Temperance reached for the dagger again.
He held it away from her. “Ye willnae. It was Clive Montrose who clubbed me over the head. I thought I’d nae get to ye in time. The—”
“Got him!” Aden and their father dragged Montrose onto the stage, his wardrobe torn and his face dirty and bruised.
“What is going on here?” Charlie Huddle demanded, his face white. “Persephone, I—who—what—”
“Get us some Bow Street Runners,” Coll broke in, “and we’ll tell the lot of ye. But away from this.” He gestured toward the crowd behind them, a good third of the audience trying to reach the stage and a second third fleeing, while the last third simply stood and stared. “And one of ye find Jenny Rogers. She’s likely in a crate somewhere backstage.”
“Yes. Boys, clear the theater!” Huddle yelled, and the stagehands and actors hopped off the stage to begin herding people toward the doors at the theater’s front. “Gordon—Lawrence—find Jenny.”
“Very effective,” Niall noted, eyeing the flood of people leaving the audience.
“We practice this in case of a fire,” Huddle muttered, color beginning to return to his face. “I never … She tried to kill you, Persie.”
“So did Clive,” Coll added with a growl.
Huddle turned to look at where the actor stood between Aden and Angus with a defiant look on his face. Walking forward, the theater’s manager faced him. “I wondered why you asked to join the Saint Genesius and then declined any part other than the most minor one in the play,” he said, hands on his hips. Then, abruptly, he jabbed out with his fist, catching Montrose in the jaw. “Traitor.”
Once a trio of Runners arrived, Coll and Temperance told her story, with a great deal of dramatic help from the scattering of actors remaining. They had to do it again when a judge walked onto the stage in the company of Lady Aldriss, and by then it had practically taken on a life of its own.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, Coll took Temperance’s hand in his. “Let’s get ye home, my lass.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “If my parents weren’t here, they’ll certainly have heard the tale by morning,” she said, her voice thin.
“They were here,” Eloise said, taking Temperance’s other hand as they walked toward the rear of the stage. “I saw them. I think they were swept out with the rest of the audience.”
“Sleep first. Then we’ll settle with them,” he said. He disliked seeing her look so fragile.
“Yes. Sleep first.”
She fell asleep in the coach before they’d even started moving. Coll carried her upstairs to her bedchamber, locked the door on all offers of assistance, undressed her himself, and covered her in soft blankets before he stripped out of his clothes and joined her. After tonight, he didn’t much care who knew what. All that mattered was that he wasn’t going to bed or waking up without her by his side ever again.