Chapter One

Lisbon Theater

London, England

December 1854

“Touch me and risk your death!” Lillian snarled, raising a carved blade above her head. “I loathe the day I attempted to heal your heart, for it is clear that you’ve none to heal. Only a black, cold lump of charcoal resides in your chest and I shall not–bloody hell. Line! ”

“I shall not risk smearing my own with soot,” a voice whispered urgently from behind the burgundy curtain at the edge of a long, oval shaped wooden stage.

Lillian cast her gaze toward the massive chandelier that hung directly over her head. Half of the candles were out, their wicks worn down to useless nubs. The other half were doing a pitiful job at illuminating the theater. Even as she watched, another sputtered and died with nary a whimper.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to refocus on the task at hand. There was no use worrying about adequate lighting if she couldn’t remember her lines. Then again, people weren’t going to pay for her to recite them in the dark. Her voice was good–a velvet, husky timbre that she could deepen on command–but it wasn’t that good. It was her face they really came to see. And if they couldn’t do that…

“I shall not risk sullying my own with soot,” she snapped.

“Smearing,” said the voice from the wings.

Lillian took a deep breath as her arm holding the blade–its edge dulled for safety–began to tremble. Memorization was not something she ordinarily struggled with. While the other actors in their small company spent hours poring over their scripts, her mind had a way of imprinting her lines so that they flowed from her tongue without her even having to think about them. But today was different. Today her tongue felt heavy and cumbersome.

“ Smearing . I shall not risk smearing my own with soot and…oh, bollocks.” Letting her arm drop on a sigh of defeat, she gave her fellow actress, a slim brunette with her hair chopped short to resemble the man she was pretending to be, an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, Emma. Can you rehearse your act three scene with Marjorie and we’ll pick this up later? There’s something I have to do in my office.”

Emma shrugged. “Not a problem. Oi, Marjorie! You’re up.”

A middle-aged woman, short and stout and perfectly suited to play a variety of wise matronly characters, hustled up the stage steps while Lillian leapt nimbly off the edge and strode through the audience seats, trying not to notice how threadbare they’d become. Or how too many of them had begun to collect dust from sitting empty.

The sad truth of it was, she reflected as she entered her office, a cramped closet tucked away beside the larger room they used for costumes and handmade props, the Lisbon Theater hadn’t turned a profit in nearly two years. Not since the larger, flashier, and far more popular Canterbury Music Hall had opened up just four blocks away.

Shiny and new, it offered a brand new experience for its devoted audience of hundreds. One where they could enjoy food, drink, and dancing along with the show. It also had the benefit of two wealthy, influential benefactors: the Earl of Yardley and his unmarried son, Lord Markham. When they were in attendance, the line stretched out the doors and all the way down the street to the front of the Lisbon Theater…rubbing Lillian’s nose in the fact while she was struggling to fill half her seats, the music hall was struggling to fit all of its patrons inside.

Slumping into her chair, she tipped forward and let her head hit her desk with a dull thud , the sound of her skull striking wood muffled by the stack of bills and unpaid notes that had been piling up since spring.

In less than a month, it would be Christmas. And when the New Year came to pass, she would either remain the owner of a miserably failing business, responsible for all of those who relied on it for their livelihood…or she’d be forced to sell the only thing of consequence that her father had left her when he’d died.

Sir Harold Snow had been a good man and a wonderful father that had made the great mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman. In his own words, always spoken with a certain gruffness, Lillian’s mother had dazzled him from the first moment he saw her on stage. An opera singer of some note, Esmerelda had sung her way straight into his heart. When their affair had resulted in a baby, she’d briefly auditioned for the part of a doting mother and wife. But her heart had belonged to the stage, and before Lillian was a year old she returned to it, never to be seen or heard from again.

Lillian did not miss her mother. You couldn’t miss what you had never known beside a portrait of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired woman with a coy smile that had hung in her father’s study until the day he died. During those rare moments when she thought of Esmeralda, it was always with a vague, distant sort of annoyance that she had been born from a woman who had been the careless cause of so much hurt.

“Come in,” she said when a light knock sounded at the door. Lifting her head, she managed a half-hearted smile for Marjorie when the older actress squeezed into the study. “Is rehearsal over already?”

“We’re getting dinner at Blue Pig,” said Marjorie, referring to the acting troupe’s favorite pub right around the corner. As ramshackle and run-down as the theater, it was the only establishment they could afford and was a regular haunt for any manner of local performers. “Then returning to run a few more lines. Ye should come with us, dear. Have ye eaten anything today?”

“I’m not hungry,” Lillian replied automatically, although her stomach would have begged to differ. The truth was she didn’t have time to eat. This morning she’d met with her father’s solicitor, a weasel-faced man that had made her head spin with fancy tallies of figures and numbers that had revealed what she already knew: she hadn’t any money. Then it was off to the dressmaker where she’d begged and bartered her way into three more gowns for their upcoming production, the wigmaker, and finally meetings with not one, not two, but three potential benefactors for the theater that had all immediately declined except for the last.

“I would love to show my support for your cause,” Lady Wimple had proclaimed, stroking the glowering head of the enormous white cat perched on the middle of her lap.

“You–you would?” Lillian had been so caught off guard she’d nearly dropped her teacup.

“But of course. I have long been an advocate of the arts. And a woman-owned company? What a delight. Things aren’t like they used to be, are they? No, no they’re not. Just tell me what you need, and I shall endeavor to provide it.”

“I’d say our most pressing need is better lighting,” she’d said eagerly. “This production in particular–”

“When would I have the opportunity to introduce my granddaughter to Lord Markham?” Lady Wimple had interrupted. “We’re free tomorrow at noon.”

And with that, Lillian’s empty stomach had dropped like a stone. “I am here on behalf of the Lisbon Theater. Not the Canterbury Music Hall. I believe you may have the two confused.”

“Lisbon Theater?” Lady Wimple had replied, looking mystified as her cat had released a disdainful hiss. “Never heard of it. Is Lord Markham involved?”

“No,” Lillian had sighed. “No, he’s not.”

“Oh, well, in that case…”

Disappointment.

It was an emotion she’d become quite acquainted with over the past year and a half. Eighteen months of Lady Wimples. Eighteen months of watching what she loved slowly die, as she’d had to watch her father die. And not being able to do anything to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure whether she was talking to Marjorie… or herself. “There’s too much to do before opening night, and everyone saw that I should work on my lines.”

“What ye should do,” said Marjorie, the painted corners of her eyes wrinkling with matronly concern, “is get some food and some rest, Lillian. When was the last time ye did either?”

“There’ll be plenty of time to eat and sleep after the play.” A pile of unpaid notes slid off the side of her desk and fluttered to the floor as Lillian pushed her chair back and stood. She didn’t bother to pick them up. “We have one more chance tomorrow night. I managed to secure myself an invitation to the Yuletide Ball at Foxhaven House.”

Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “That fancy manor up on the hill? Blimey. I’ve never even been close enough to see what color the shutters are.”

Neither had Lillian. Renowned for its elaborate themed parties and the elite crowd such gatherings attracted, Foxhaven House stood alone atop a rolling knoll overlooking the River Thames. As the daughter of a baron, she’d attended a handful of balls during her debut Season before her attention had been captured by the stage and she’d veered off in the complete opposite direction of her peers.

While other young women her age had been curling their hair and gossiping about London’s list of most eligible bachelors, she’d been wearing wigs and reciting Shakespeare. Rubbing elbows with the ton’s elite had never held much appeal and finding a wealthy husband–finding any husband, for that matter–wasn’t high on her list of priorities. But if the Lisbon Theater was to survive beyond Christmas, then she did require a wealthy benefactor. Someone whose name would fill seats and whose deep pockets would fill the chandeliers with candles that weren’t worn down to little nubs of wax.

Having exhausted all of her father’s acquaintances, she had one last chance to land a stag. And if there was any place to do it, it was the infamous Yuletide Ball.

Held once every three years, it was considered the crème de la crème of social affairs. The gold embossed invitations were as valuable as the Crown Jewels and possessing one was a reflection of your power and influence…unless you happened to win it in a lucky roll of hazard.

“The shutters are blue, I think.” Lillian shrugged. “I’ll let you know. The ball is tomorrow night.”

Marjorie clasped her hands together under her chin. “What are ye going to wear?”

“Do you remember the dark red gown I wore for last year’s production of ‘Ye Merry Gentlemen’?” When Marjorie nodded, she continued, “I had the sleeves shortened and an overlay of lace added with a jeweled sash. Unless someone looks closely, no one should notice that the gemstones are made of glass or that the satin is secondhand.”

“I’m sure you’ll be the prettiest lady there,” Marjorie said loyally.

“The poorest, at least.” But the most determined, she added silently.

It was said that if a duke feared anything, it was a debutante’s mother desperate to make a match. Lillian may not have been a mother, and she hadn’t been a debutante for more than decade, but she was desperate. And desperate women were dangerous women. If Shakespeare had taught her anything, it was that.

Failure was not an option. She was either going to find a rich benefactor…or her dream of owning the Lisbon Theater would end in a nightmare.