“Thanks, but I’m looking for Beatrice,” Kendra said.
The raven-haired woman who’d opened the door now cocked her head, eyeing her curiously. “Yer a Yank. Thought Mr. Myott was gonna interview a chit from Cornwall.”
“I’m not here to be interviewed.”I’m the interviewer. “I’m Kendra—Lady Sutcliffe.”
“Gor!LadySutcliffe, you say?”
“Oy! You’re the lady that was here the other day about the gentry mort that cocked up her toes,” said Strawberry Blonde. “Prue told me that Mr. Myott was in a pet ’cause you interrupted rehearsal.”
“Yes.” Kendra eyed the women. “Who are you?” The question opened the floodgates, with everyone giving their name at the same time. Leeza. Anne. Selena. Alberta. Penelope.
“Did you know Clarice?” Kendra asked.
“Course we did,” said Penelope, the raven-haired woman. “She was an understudy, like us, but Mr. Myott was gonna let her play Portia inThe Merchant of Venice.Even though the bitch didn’t deserve it—”
“Catty!”
Penelope whirled to glare at Leeza, a languid stunner with titian hair. “I’m speakin’ the truth, and ye know it! Then she took off, didn’t she? Threw it all away ’cause she thought she was one of our betters, la-tee-dahing it over us.”
“She’s dead,” Kendra said bluntly. The women gaped at her with varying degrees of surprise and horror. “She was pulled from the Thames about a week ago.”
“Lawks!” Leeza exclaimed. “Drowned?”
“Not exactly. But she was ill. Did she talk about being in treatment for syphilis? Or someone offering to cure her?”
“Aye,” Leeza admitted, dislodging her silky robe with a shrug and revealing that she wore nothing underneath. “She had the pox. I thought that’s why she left.”
Penelope frowned. “Ye’re certain? I never saw her fretting about a thing.”
“Oh, she was worried,” said Leeza, adjusting her silk robe to cover her breasts again as she looked at Kendra. “But she said Isabella found a cure—”
Kendra said sharply, “Isabella Russo?”
“Aye, she used ter work here. She and Clarice were friends. Isabella had the pox for years.”
“And she said that she found a cure?”
“Aye, but that was a Banbury tale. There’s no cure.”
Kendra eyed the actress. “Why would she lie to Clarice?”
“Not sure that she did. I think she believed shewasbeing cured.” Leeza’s gaze dropped to her tin cup. “There is no bigger fool than the dying,” she said softly, her lush mouth twisting into a bitter knot. “They’re ripe for the plucking for every wisewoman and trickster that offers tinctures and cordials to save them.”
“Did Isabella tell you who she was going to for this cure?” Kendra asked.
“Nay.” Leeza took a gulp of gin.
Kendra tried a different tack. “Did any of you see Isabella or Clarice talking to a gentleman—or gentlemen—before they left? Maybe after a performance?”
“We always have blokes coming backstage to talk to us.” Penelope lifted her tin cup in a mocking salute. She laughed and gave Kendra a wink. “Course, they don’t want totalk.”
The women tittered, clearly happy to move away from such serious topics of conversation.
“But no one in particular?” Kendra pressed, and was disappointed when they shook their heads. “Where can I find Beatrice?”
“Down the hall. I’ll show you.” Penelope opened the door and shrieked at a bulky figure looming in the hallway. Kendra whipped out her muff pistol, and Penelope’s eyes went wide.
“Bloody hell,” she breathed. “Don’t shoot the wanker! Caleb’s a letch, but he ain’t worth the bullet.”
