Chapter 1
London – September, 1890
Niall hadn’t let the letter out of his sight since the moment he’d received it. Or rather, in the week since Lily Logan had handed the letter to him in the middle of a particularly chaotic rehearsal, it had lived tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket during the day and on the table next to his bed through the night, even when it was too dark to actually see it. He felt its presence at all times, in stillness or in chaos. And the rehearsal for his latest show was utter chaos just then, since the curtain was set to rise on Love’s Last Lesson in just over a fortnight. But all Niall could think about as he rushed from the hall to the dressing rooms—where he’d been approving a change to the lead actress’s Act Two costume to comply with the woman’s vanity—to the wings on stage left so that he could deal with yet another catastrophe, was the letter burning against his heart.
“But sir,” the harried director, Mr. Abrams, argued from a small platform set up over a few rows of seats in the house, “you are addressing this song to the chorus of royal courtiers. You cannot deliver it downstage with the chorus behind you.”
Niall skittered to a stop just past the wings on stage left, already rolling his eyes at the battle unfolding in front of him.
“The audience has come to see me, sir,” Everett Jewel, the star of the production and a legendary actor in his own mind, snapped back to the director. Even though they were merely rehearsing, Everett was in full costume and make-up—although he always seemed to dress in full costume and make-up, whether he was on the stage or strolling through Hyde Park. His back was straight and he looked as indignant as Niall had ever seen him.
“The audience has come to see Mr. Cristofori’s work,” Abrams shot back, narrowing his eyes at Everett.
“I can assure you, the crowds are already gathering outside the theater to see me,” Everett continued to argue. “Or did you not see the line outside the stage door after rehearsal yesterday.”
“I’m convinced you pay them to fawn over you,” Abrams grumbled.
Niall winced as Everett’s back shot even straighter and his kohl-rimmed eyes flared. Unsurprisingly, Everett’s partner, Patrick Wrexham, was only a few feet away, leaning against the proscenium, where he had been watching the rehearsal with a copy of the script and a pencil in his hands. Niall sent a look Patrick’s way, wondering if the former police officer would need to step in to break up yet another fight between Everett and Abrams. Patrick only answered Niall’s questioning look with a shrug and a half-grin as though it were just another day with Everett.
“Haven’t you read my reviews, man?” Everett strode a few feet to the right, as if delivering a stirring monologue. For all Niall knew, that was what Everett thought he was doing. “Have you not seen the likenesses of me printed in the papers? And you dare to suggest I have to pay my adoring public?”
“Is he serious or is he just winding Abrams up again?” Niall murmured to Patrick, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with the burly man as they watched the argument pick up steam.
Patrick shrugged. “A little of both. He didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Nightmares again?” Niall asked. He knew enough about Everett’s horrific past to know there were nightmares.
“At first,” Patrick replied with a self-satisfied grin.
Niall answered that grin with a knowing chuckle. He also knew enough about Everett and Patrick’s relationship to know Patrick Wrexham was the best thing that had ever happened to London’s hero of the stage and that Patrick knew exactly how to deal with the peacock.
“This is Mr. Cristofori’s show,” Abrams argued on, pointing to Niall and alerting Everett to his presence. Everett spared a cheeky smile and a nod for Niall, but Abrams went on with, “You, sir, are but an instrument used to convey his work—a tool, if you will.”
“I’ll show you a tool, you—” The rest of his insult was drowned as Everett began to unfasten his trousers and several of the stunned chorus girls standing behind him gasped, either in fright or in expectation.
“Everett,” Patrick barked, barely moving from where he leaned. When Everett glanced his way, shoulders dropping slightly, Patrick shook his head.
Everett cleared his throat, face going pink, and refastened his trousers before anything untoward could be revealed. Once that was done, he rolled his shoulders and tilted his chin up. “Perhaps we should ask Mr. Cristofori where he thinks I should deliver the outstanding solo he’s written expressly for me, which is custom tailored to satisfy the tastes of my adoring public?” He arched one eyebrow and glanced from Abrams to Niall.
Abrams crossed his arms and looked to Niall as well.
“How can you live with a man who believes the sun shines out of his arse?” Niall muttered to Patrick.
Patrick chuckled. “He knows that arse belongs to me.”
Niall laughed before he could stop himself. But at the same time, a pang of longing squeezed his chest. He’d had a love like that once. He’d been able to make ribald jokes and back them up with long, sleepless nights. He’d once had someone who looked at him the way Everett was looking at Patrick now, like nothing else mattered but him, and he’d been able to return those looks, those kisses, those touches.
All that was gone now. All he had left was the letter that practically screamed in his pocket, right over his aching heart.
He cleared his throat and pushed forward to the center of the stage. Once at Everett’s side, he turned to study the chorus, then pivoted forward to judge the distance to the audience. He walked down to the apron of the stage, glanced back at the chorus again, then gauged the distances to both of the wings. Finally, he strode back to where Everett stood, chin still tilted up, and motioned to three of the chorus girls.
“Cheat your way downstage,” he instructed them. “That way Everett can stand closer to the audience for the number without looking as though he’s ignoring the chorus entirely.”
The girls rushed to take up their new places. Everett preened as though he’d scored a victory. Abrams scowled from his platform in the house.
“Do you have a problem, Mr. Abrams?” Niall asked.
“Only that I thought you’d hired me to direct this production,” he answered.
Niall smiled reflexively. It was what he always did when faced with a confrontation where he knew he was right but didn’t want to offend anyone. “So I did, Mr. Abrams. Because you are the best there is. However, I do have directorial experience, and Everett is right, in part, when he says that the audience is coming to see him as well as my work.”
Everett crossed his arms and smirked at Abrams as if to say he’d told him so. At least, until Niall turned to him and murmured, “You’re not helping, and stop being such a pillock.”
Everett dropped his arms and sighed. Abrams shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking as though all he really wanted to do was get on with things.
“Can we finish the number?” Niall asked, glancing from Everett to Abrams and back. “We have to clear off the stage in a few minutes so that Gerald and the others can finish with the set anyhow.”
“Whatever you say, Niall,” Everett answered with a smile and a pointed look to Abrams. Niall suspected Everett had used his given name as proof that he was personal friends with Niall, whereas Abrams was hired help.