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  The object of her righteous indignation appeared in the doorway, his face aglow with excitement and anticipation. Chelsea always wondered what it was Cosmo was expecting—that tonight would be any different from the night before? “Chelsea, dear heart, are you almost ready?”

  “You know I’m not! Another half hour at least, Uncle. And do wipe that smile from your face, won’t you? You alone seem to take pleasure from this farce.”

  “Chelsea, dear,” he replied, his voice gentle and filled with tolerant understanding, “I will forgive you. Stage fright is the mark of a competent actress.”

  “It’s more afraid of the law bursting in here, I am. Choosing the constable’s wife for a mark; how could you be so stupid? I expect to be dragged off at any moment.”

  “Tut, tut, don’t worry that pretty head of yours. Molly, are you prepared in your lines? Jessica is a most demanding role. Get yourself pretty enough now.” He winked at the blushing girl. “They’re lined up like geese for the slaughter.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the box office receipts. “Chelsea, there are some grand gents out there tonight. You play your cards right and you can have them eating out of your hand. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t someone important and influential enough to further your career. Someone who might help all of us step up a rung or two on the ladder of success.”

  “The only ladder you’re going to move up on is attached to the gallows. I can feel it in the air tonight, Cosmo; it’s making my blood run cold. Can’t you call it off for once? Let’s just do our little performance and slip away into the night. I can feel a change coming, and I’m not so sure it’s a good one. If you want to find yourself at the wrong end of a rope, that’s your business. I’ve got my own neck to worry about.”

  Cosmo Perragutt was deeply offended and more than a little angry. Talk like this boded ill. It was almost as though Chelsea were wishing something bad upon him. “I don’t like your words or your tone, niece, and if you will, please remember to address me as ‘Uncle’; I am your own dear, departed mother’s brother, and I’ll remind you to be grateful that I came to your rescue when she died. I demand your respect.”

  “When you do something to earn it, you will receive it. Until then, you are merely the manager of this illustrious”—she made the word sound like a disease—“theater troupe.”

  Cosmo’s round, cherubic face creased into lines of displeasure. Lamplight glimmered from the top of his balding gray pate, and his blue eyes twinkled with assurance. Just the sight of his gentle expression inspired confidence and trust in the older, wealthy widows he courted. It was difficult to believe that this short, slightly paunchy, innocent-looking man had lived a life of petty crime, profiting from the hard-earned savings of others. Certainly Chelsea had never suspected it until placing herself into his care. If there was a way for Cosmo to exploit someone or something, it never took him long to discover it.

  “Don’t give me that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ Uncle Cosmo. I know exactly what you’re thinking—that I’ve been stepping out of place lately and there must be some way to bring me around.”

  “Chelsea, dear,” he soothed as he always did whenever her blood was up and staining her checks crimson. “We have the troupe to consider, whatever differences there may be between ourselves. The play must go on!” He postured dramatically.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle, there will be a performance tonight; we all need the coins from the admissions. I suppose the audience will at least be grateful to be out of the rain.”

  When Cosmo had taken his leave at last, Molly turned to Chelsea, wonder and admiration in her tawny eyes. “Oh, Miss Chelsea, where do you get the courage?”

  “It comes with age,” Chelsea said sourly. “Now let’s hurry and get your stage paint on. I’ve still a long way to go before I’m ready to meet my public.”

  When Molly was dressed in the drab, too-often mended costume of Jessica, Shylock’s daughter, she assisted Chelsea in donning the burgundy velvet with the indecently low-cut bodice. “I swear, each time I crawl into this thing I’m closer to popping out than I was the time before,” Chelsea complained. “I’m glad I decided to leave my hair down; at least it covers some of my shoulders. Quickly, Molly, some powder.” She dusted the tinted powder over the tops of her breasts and smoothed the puff over her shoulders. Her paint took no time to apply, she was so expert and efficient. A simple headdress of coronet and veil, a drawstring purse, an incongruous yellow feathered fan, and Chelsea was ready.

  “Miss Chelsea, Miss Chelsea, come see,” Molly whispered, peeking through the faded and patched stage curtain. “It’s a right good crowd Mr. Perragutt brought in tonight.”

  Joining Molly behind the dust-encrusted curtain, Chelsea peered out, her dark eyes widening in surprise. Cosmo had been telling the truth! This was quite the largest turnout in months. Her practiced eye sought out Cosmo’s chosen marks for the evening, coming to rest on several respectably, if not fashionably, dressed gentlemen. Cosmo’s pickings would be worthwhile from the look of things.

  A movement from the back caught her attention. Swift Billy was snuffing out several house lights so that the foot-lamps would better illuminate the stage. She saw him glance at a particularly well-dressed woman wearing a becoming hat, replete with violet ribbons and face veil. The hat’s crown sat low on the woman’s head, its ribbons and laces cascading down the back from the narrow-brimmed front. Chelsea thought of her own sorely outdated wardrobe and wondered how much a hat like that cost. Far too much, she’d wager.

  “Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen.” Cosmo Perragutt’s stage voice boomed articulately. “This evening you are about to enjoy selections from that notable playwright, Mr. William Shakespeare. Sonnets, poetry, selected readings, all performed for your enjoyment. In addition, you will be presented with highlights from the play The Merchant of Venice. Now, if I may, I will introduce the players.”

  At a given signal from Cosmo, Chelsea and Molly stepped out onto the stage. Next came Geoffrey McGowan, their leading man, whose nose was suspiciously red. Already Chelsea could smell the whiskey on his breath, and she sighed inwardly at the thought of the love scenes she had to play with him tonight. Finally Prudence Helmsley, the company soubrette, stepped onstage next to Geoffrey.

  “Introducing the cast!” Cosmo announced. “To my left, Mr. Geoffrey McGowan, directly here from a command performance for Queen Victoria herself at the St. James Theatre.”

  What a lie, Chelsea thought disdainfully as tall, slick-haired McGowan stepped center stage. The nearest Geoffrey had ever been to the St. James was the corner pub.

  “And Miss Prudence Helmsley, songstress and actress. Perhaps after the performance Miss Helmsley can be encouraged to reward us with her artistry. Miss Helmsley has performed in palaces and theaters from the Vatican to the Russian court.”

  Prudence stepped forward and made a deep bowing curtsy, allowing the audience a view of her glandular endowments, which were quite impressive.

  “And last but not least, the star of our productions, an actress of unusual ability. And loveliness,” Cosmo hastened to add. “The illustrious, the stunningly lovely, Miss Chelsea Myles.”

  Chelsea stepped forward, dipping into a graceful curtsy. She held her heavy skirts up just a tad, enough to give the men in the front row a quick glimpse of her pointed toe and sweetly arched ankle. Her left hand demurely covered her décolletage, the feather tips of her yellow fan just brushing her smoothly rounded chin. As expected, she was greeted with warm applause, and only one rogue had the ill manners to whistle.

  In the audience, Quaid Tanner grinned at Chelsea’s introduction. Who would have thought the only escape he could find from the rain would be this firetrap of a theater, featuring a second-rate acting troupe? At first content to see the stage from the back row benches, he’d pushed his way through the crowd for a better view when the actress introduced in such lavish terms as Chelsea Myles had made a particularly alluring curtsy.

&nbs
p; Quaid was the kind of man who stood out easily in any crowd. Tall and lean, he moved with an inbred self-assurance, and there was an authority about his suntanned face and square jaw, the full upper lip emphasized by a wide, well-trimmed mustache. Lesser men naturally made way for him, and the ladies usually smiled at him with interest, delivering come-hither glances with their eyes.

  Chelsea Myles. The name rolled through his brain, and he wondered if it were really hers. Quaid made a point of remembering the names of women who interested him. Chelsea Myles. Her given name was probably Bertha or Mathilda, nothing as unique or fitting as Chelsea. Still, the roly-poly actor who introduced her was correct about her beauty—she was stunning. But could she act? he wondered, then shook his head, smiling. What did it really matter what her talents were? She had the face of an angel and the dark, flashing eyes of a devil—enough to capture any man’s imagination without talent. Quaid, who considered himself an expert on women, had missed neither the sudden flash of ankle nor the way she’d demurely covered her bosom as she dipped for her curtsy. Now he took a seat at one of the benches and prepared to watch the show. This evening’s escape from the rain just might bring other, more pleasurable escapes—already he was contemplating arranging an introduction after the performance.

  Forty minutes later Chelsea Myles had taken center stage, pleading Antonio’s case with the crafty Jew, Shylock. As she launched into her crowning piece, Quaid had to put his hand to his mouth to hide his amusement.

  “The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed….”

  A sterling performance this was not. She tried, he had to give her that; and an admirable try it was as she clasped one hand to her breast and extended the other in pleading toward Shylock. Antonio seemed decidedly drunk from the way he swayed, unable to gain his balance on both feet.

  Glancing around the audience, Quaid noticed that no one else seemed to notice the faulty acting, cheap costumes, and less-than-sober actors. In fact, everyone seemed to be enjoying the show immensely. The décolletage revealed by Chelsea Myles’s burgundy gown and the way the lady flipped her hems as she walked had to have something to do with it, Quaid decided. Near the end of the fourth act, he applauded as loudly as the other fools in the audience. And by the time Chelsea made her curtain calls to rousing applause, he had decided it was one of the best performances he had ever attended and that Miss Chelsea Myles was the best actress ever to set foot on a London stage. He had to meet her in person. A late dinner, perhaps, at his motel, in his room.

  Quaid was considering which side of the stage he should wait by in order to make her acquaintance after the performance when he heard a woman cry, “My purse! It’s gone!”

  Backstage, Chelsea winced. Damn that Swift Billy, she thought miserably. Couldn’t he have waited until the people were on their way out of the theater instead of relieving them of their pocketbooks while they sat in the house! Wait until she got her hands on him—and Cosmo, too, for that matter.

  “We’d better get out of here, Miss Chelsea.” Molly was tugging on her sleeve. “There’s gonna be trouble, I can smell it.”

  Chelsea silently agreed and slipped behind the curtain with Molly. “What shall we do, miss?” asked the frightened girl. “We can’t just leave our costumes along with everything else we own.”

  “For once, Molly, you’re right. Hurry up, get everything you can.” Quickly, in the dying light of the oil lamp, they attempted to stuff the split trunk with their belongings. “Damn Uncle Cosmo,” Chelsea muttered. “Nothing works, neither the lamp nor the hinge on the trunk.” Overturning it, she instructed Molly to take the opposite end, and together they dragged it back out into the alley. “You start for the rooming house, Molly. I’m going back in there to see what’s happened.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Chelsea, you can’t! What if the coppers are in there now?”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, I’ve got to see what’s become of Uncle Cosmo. At the very least, the crowd is probably tearing him apart. Get going, Molly, do as I say.” Without another word, she bounded back through the stage door, bumping full force into Prudence Helmsley, who looked terrified.

  “They’ve got him!” she cried. “They’ve got the old man and Swift Billy! Get away from here if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Who’s got him?” Chelsea demanded. But Prudence was already halfway up the alley, lifting her skirts above the muddy puddles as she ran.

  Chelsea’s heart pounded with dread. She had to know what had happened; she had to know if Cosmo was going to implicate the entire troupe. If so, she mustn’t return to the rooming house until the furor had died down. Perhaps the woman would be content with having her purse returned to her. Perhaps.

  From the wings, stage left, Chelsea peeked through the curtain. The audience was in an uproar, men and woman alike complaining that their wallets or purses were missing. Police whistles blew shrilly, and one of the uniformed men had already collared Uncle Cosmo. He was being dragged away, protesting his innocence above the angry babble of the crowd.

  Quaid was watching from the aisle when a flash of burgundy caught his eye. First an impertinent little chin and then a sweetly upturned nose peeked through the dingy stage curtain. A slender hand gripped the base of a long, white throat. He watched Chelsea as she tripped lightly across the stage and approached the plump, protesting actor being held by the police. Tears of denial glistening in her eyes, her throaty voice filled with concern, she bent over him, deliberately displaying her cleavage to the appreciative, burly officer brandishing a nightstick. The yellow feathered fan she’d carried lay discarded near her feet. A pity, Quaid thought in amusement. She might have been able to tickle the old man’s way out of his predicament. He grinned, watching. This had to be Miss Chelsea Myles’s most impressive performance.

  Chelsea worked her magic with the law, using every feminine wile she knew. In the end, Cosmo Perragutt got to his feet and straightened his collar. His voice was eloquent and patient. The police were only doing their duty; mistakes could be made, and he was a forgiving man.

  Once the police had released him, Perragutt collapsed against Chelsea, twitching like a puppet on a string. Obviously, he had never come quite this close to being carted off to jail. Quaid choked back his laughter as he listened to the actress rail at the troupe leader.

  “No more tricks, Uncle Cosmo. Stand on your own two feet. You nearly did it this time. A hair, Cosmo, a hair from being carted away. No more! I’m sick of this, all of it, the run-down rooming houses and living out of rotting trunks. Do you understand me, you little weasel? No more. Either you make this troupe respectable or I’m quitting!”

  “Where would you go?” Cosmo whined, clearly devastated by his near miss with the law. “I told your mother I’d look after you, lass. I promised.”

  Without answering, Chelsea turned on her heel and stalked across the stage, oblivious to the blowing whistles and the cries of policemen clearing the theater. Cosmo Perragutt followed after her like a sick puppy.

  Quaid’s interest was fully aroused now. It was clear that Miss Myles was fully aware of her uncle’s guilt. He spied the gaudy yellow fan she’d left behind, retrieved it, and followed the pair behind the curtain to return it to her. The door leading out to the alley was wide open, and no one seemed to be behind the curtain. Standing in the doorway, Quaid heard her voice and listened.

  “I hope tonight’s escapade was well worth your while, Uncle Cosmo. I’d like to pay what’s due on my rent instead of skipping out in the middle of the night. How much did you get?”

  “I’m not certain, my dear.” It sounded as if Cosmo’s confidence and arrogance had returned. “More likely there’s enough to pay everyone’s salary for two weeks. Perhaps even enough to buy you one new costume.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. A new costume is beyond the boundaries of your generosity. Where’s the money, Cosmo?”

  “Prudence has it. I to
ld her to meet me at the boarding-house.”

  “You fool!” Chelsea cried, disgusted. “By now your protégée is on the far side of the Thames, and you’ll never see her again.” As she spoke, something in Cosmo’s face communicated itself to Chelsea. In a flash, her hand whipped out and reached inside his voluminous costume. He struggled, but she held firm and with effort withdrew a woman’s drawstring reticule from the folds of fabric. “You’re more of a fool than I thought,” she told him angrily. “If the police had found this on your person, you’d have incriminated yourself.”

  “Chelsea, dear niece, those are my life savings ….”

  “Contained in a woman’s purse? Spare me, Cosmo.”

  “You’re so distrusting, child, just like your mother was. Now hand it back like a good girl,” he cajoled.

  She hefted the purse in her hand, weighing it. “I’d wager there’s enough in here to pay my back rent and see me to several good meals. I’d also say you owe me this, Cosmo, for saving your dirty neck tonight. If I were you, I wouldn’t hang about the theater; one never knows when the police will change their minds.”

  “Chelsea,” Cosmo whined as she walked away, lifting the hem of her skirts to avoid the muddy puddles, “you can’t do this. Where’s your sense of justice? There are others to consider beside yourself.”

  “As you always say, Uncle, heaven helps those who help themselves.”

  Quaid stood in the doorway, his tall, broad-shouldered frame almost filling it entirely, the tip of the gaudy yellow feathered fan brushing the underside of his chin as he considered the conviction with which she had spoken those parting words. She’d obviously gotten to where she was now by the hard road and was determined not to give any ground. There had been a note of determination in the way she’d spoken the simple, well-worn phrase, and not a little ambition. If Chelsea Myles had anything to say about the path her life would take, she would see to it she got ahead, regardless of the method. For this, Quaid could hardly blame her. Whenever he’d found himself on the short end of the stick, he had invariably used whatever means available to turn the tables and improve his lot—far too often, in fact, to find fault with someone else in the same position.