That one last memory of Pearl. The one that could never fade.
Her brother’s booted foot pressed down on the frame, trapping it beneath his weight. More glass crunched beneath his sole.
“No,” she cried out, the denial torn from the depths of her. “Remove your foot. This is the only image of her I have. My sole remembrance.”
“At last the mask slips,” he drawled from above her, his tone unconcerned. “You are not as immovable as you pretend. If only everyone could see the famed Rose of New York thus, on her knees, crying over some broken glass and an old photograph.”
“I am not crying,” she denied. But her eyes were welling and desperation was setting in. She wanted his foot removed before he did further damage. She wanted Pearl’s picture back. “Take your boot off, Drummond.”
He chuckled, but there was no levity in his tone. “Yes, you are, sister. And no, I will not. Not until you give me something in return.”
Everything inside her froze. “What do you want?”
She would give him anything in that moment, in return for the photograph trapped beneath his merciless boot. She would accept lashes. Torture. Any punishment for the way she had fled the McKenna family.
“Good of you to ask, sister dearest.” Though his tone was cheerful, she had no doubt the intent behind his words was decidedly the opposite.
“What is it?” she demanded, her patience snapping.
How had she imagined she was free of this? She had feared, as her name had become well-known and as her likeness was spread so prolifically, that she would be recognized. But the years had gone on, and no one had ever come for her. The silence had lulled her into the foolish belief she was finally free.
But she was a McKenna, was she not?
She would never truly be free of the shackles of misery which had been hers since birth.
“How do you think your adoring public would see you if they knew you were a liar?” he asked, giving the picture another grind beneath his boot. “Do you think they would be understanding of the manner in which you have deceived them, pretending to be a Frenchémigrée? Changing your name. Changing everything about yourself. Why, it is almost as if you have been playing a role, Jojo.”
Most actresses took stage names; it was commonplace. Not all, however, assumed nationalities as she had. Most did not affect an accent. But she had been young at the time she had begun her career, so very young. And she had not contemplated the ramifications of her decisions.
She tilted her head back to study her brother, aware her hands were in shards of broken glass, as were her knees. She did not care. “Are you threatening me, Drummond?”
“Threateningis such a painful word,” he said slowly. “Hardly apt in this instance. I am your brother, delighted to have found you after so many unnecessary years spent apart. Naturally, I require your assistance in a few small matters. If you cannot aid me, I will, regretfully, be compelled to share your real name and true heritage with the public who adores you.”
Her patience was gone. Her hands were on his boot now, cut and bloodied from the broken glass she had found her way through. Blood smeared over the leather, but she did not care. Desperation clawed at her.
She had to have Pearl’s photograph, just as she had to protect the persona she had created in Rose Beaumont. She had worked all her life, fought and fumbled, played hundreds of roles, memorized thousands of lines, studied great actors and actresses. She had done everything she could to find success. To make something of herself. To become Rose.
She could not risk having the truth revealed. Could not bear for the public to realize Rose Beaumont was a fiction, that she was not French at all but rather an Irish immigrant who had run away from home at the age of fifteen and found her way to a traveling company. If she did not have the stage, she had nothing left at all. No means of supporting herself, no hope for the future. Death would be a preferable option, for at least then she could join Pearl.
But though she tried with all her might, her brother was taller and stronger than she was. Hands slippery with blood and made painful by glass splinters proved unsuccessful at removing his boot-shod foot.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked desperately, resigned to her fate.
She could only run from the past for so long until it caught her.
Chapter One
London, 1883
From the momenthe first saw Rose Beaumont grace the stage that evening, Felix had known why she was the most celebrated actress in New York City. He also knew why Drummond McKenna, the Fenian mastermind behind the explosions on the London railway, would want her in his bed. And he knew he was going to do his damnedest to use the beauty to lure McKenna to the justice awaiting him.
But for now, he would settle for champagne.
He took a sip, watching his quarry from across Theo Saville’s sumptuous ballroom where the company ofThe Tempestand the city’s most elite patrons of the arts had gathered to fête the Rose of New York. Trust Theo to throw a party lavish enough for an emperor. The servants were aplenty, the food was French, the champagne likely cost a small fortune, and the company was elegantly dissolute.
As a duke from a line that descended practically to the days of William the Conqueror, wealth and ostentation did not impress Felix. As a man who had lost the only woman he had ever loved, women did not ordinarily impress him either.
Rose Beaumont, however, did.
