Page 31 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Ah. That. Our head stagehand is Harry Drew. After the incident this morning, I saw him personally walk every catwalk and check the riggings. He was beside himself; aside from being our main reason for success, Persie is well-loved here. No one wants to see her injured.”
“Do ye reckon it could have been Claremont’s doing?”
The manager shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but he wasn’t much liked here. If anyone had seen him, we’d all know about it.”
That didn’t eliminate the possibility of the earl paying someone to cut a rope, but as that theory also made everyone who walked backstage a possible saboteur, Coll kept it to himself. It might have been an accident. But the idea that it wasn’t had troubled Persephone enough that she’d sought him out and suggested a business agreement, which was in itself enough to make him want to have a look at the all the rigging himself. Even if it was up in the dark rafters, and even if the spaces were tight and cramped.
“Ye dunnae mind if I have a look for myself, do ye?”
“Not at all. Just don’t knock anything else down whilethey’re rigging for tonight’s performance. I already have Gordon Humphreys refusing to say ‘Macbeth.’ I don’t need any more ill luck before we open.”
Coll backed out of the office and looked up. The stagehands had moved from making props to setting up the stage for that evening’s performance ofThe Rover, and the rafters were full of man-sized spiders calling out and tossing ropes up and down as they attached bits of scenery and checked curtains. He scowled. If anything had been done purposely, he’d never find a sign of it now.
In a way, it was a relief that he wouldn’t have to go up there, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be watching. Or asking some questions. He would uphold his end of this business agreement, if that was what she chose to call it.
“Let me guess,” one of the actresses playing a witch commented, coming around the edge of a curtain toward him. “Persie told you about the sandbags, and now she has you playing her white knight and casting about for dragons to slay.”
“Ye think she doesnae have reason to worry?” he countered.
The tall woman shrugged in her low-cut gown. “Claremont wasn’t her first beau. Admittedly, I don’t think any of the others were knocked to the floor, but men like you don’t take women like us as wives. We know we’re not permanent, and so do you.”
That made sense. Persephone had outright said that Claremont wasn’t her first protector. And her part of this agreement was to help him snare a wife. “So ye think she’s using it as an excuse to keep me about?”
“I certainly would, if I were her. I mean you’re gorgeous, my lord.” She gave an elaborate curtsy that showed off a good portion of her bosom. “Jenny Rogers, at your service.”
“Glendarril,” he returned, inclining his head.
“If you want to know the truth about Persie Jones, you just ask me,” she continued in a sultry purr. “She has drawers full of expensive trinkets, and she gets the lead in every play we stage. I’m not saying she’s mercenary, but she would make a fine puppeteer.” She mimed moving strings with her fingers.
He rather liked the idea of Persephone both knowing how to look after herself and possibly inventing a peril as an excuse to keep him near. He liked being near her, in spite of the fact that it seemed… dishonest to go looking for a wife while he was after a different woman entirely. “She said she lives with someone named Hades. Who might that be?”
“Her cat. He hates everyone, especially men. She thought she was being clever, I suppose, naming him Hades, since in Greek mythology Persephone was Hades’ wife. She’s oh-so-clever, don’t you know.”
A cat.Hmm. “And Flora and Gregory?”
Jenny waved her hand. “Oh, them. Flora Whitney used to be the head seamstress here. She’s Beth Frost’s mama. Beth is a miracle with a needle and thread. And Gregory Norman used to be a stagehand here, until a wall fell on him during our production ofHenry V, and he broke his shoulder. Persie’s so kind that she hired them both to work for her. And to keep her secrets, I’d wager.”
“Well. Thank ye for that. Ye’ve given me someaught to consider.”
Leaning forward, she put a hand on his sleeve. “She’s wearing a wig right now, you know. She always wears one. I think she may be bald.” Jenny stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and lifting up along his body. “I provide exceptional commiseration, my lord.”
Normally, he would have been tempted. Not that he particularly liked a lass—or anyone else—who wagged their tongue about their companions, but with her brownhair and buxom build, she was a lass a man could take hold of.
But this afternoon had altered his thinking. And his foremost thought was of how to be rid of her without turning her against him, or more importantly, against Persephone. “I—”
“Jenny,” Persephone’s smooth voice came from beyond him, “Beth needs to do a fitting for your handmaiden attire.”
“Oh, fiddle,” the actress murmured, straightening again and lowering her arms. “I’ll be about, my lord.”
She lifted her chin as she waltzed past Persephone and further into the depths of the theater. In return, Persephone merely lifted an eyebrow.
“That lass seems a wee bit jealous of ye,” Coll commented.
“She read for Lady Macbeth,” Persephone answered, walking closer. “As did I. Charlie and his investors thought she was too… How did they put it? ‘Hysterically desperate,’ I think it was. They said she would frighten away the audience.”
“She scared me just now.” He found himself looking at her all over again. She’d been with him, and yet looked as composed as any woman could be, back to jesting and ready to rehearse being a murderess. Lasses. Just when he thought he had one figured out, she surprised him again.
“If you’re worried over me,” she said, stopping in front of him, “I’ve arranged for my usual driver to take me home before dark. I will remain there until you come to retrieve me in the morning.”
