Take a Chance on You (The Chances #11)

Chapter One

Miss Rosemary Morgan, famous actress, fabulously wealthy patron of the arts, woman beloved by all, was not having a good day.

Fine. She was not famous, Rose acknowledged darkly as she pulled on another scarf around her shoulders, a meager attempt to keep out the bitter Brighton wind.

And fine. Perhaps, based on an absolutely accurate definition of the world ‘fabulously,’ she was not fabulously wealthy, Rose conceded as she stepped off the pavement to cross the busy street and discovered her boot had a hole in it. In the bottom of the sole.

As water soaked into her threadbare stockings and she cursed all rain, Rose tried not to think about how cold she was.

She really needed to purchase a proper winter coat, but her summer one had always been suitable in Italy and honestly, she had almost forgotten how freezing these English winters were.

Fine. Not fabulously wealthy. Perhaps not even wealthy at all.

Patron of the arts, then!

Rose shivered as she marched as swiftly as she could down the busy Brighton street, the scent of saltwater in the air. Well, not exactly patron.

If anything, she needed a patron.

As she thrust a hand into her coat pocket in search of a coin, any coin, Rose was not surprised but greatly disappointed to discover that there was a great dearth of gold guineas to be found.

In fact, as she pulled out her fist and looked into her palm with sinking spirits…she discovered there was very little silver. Very little of anything.

Well, there was nothing for it. She had to eat, didn’t she?

“Ah, Rosy.” The pie stall owner grinned, his teeth black thanks to all the sugar he clearly consumed. “The usual?”

Rose flinched.

The usual. It was a benign enough term for a horrible habit she had fallen into—but really, what other option had she?

Until the play opened, and it would be a huge success, everyone was saying so, she would have little coin at her disposal.

Truly, it was a small miracle that her landlady had been an actress herself and knew the ebb and flow of income for those in such a profession.

The stall owner was still grinning. “Come on. You know the bargain we struck.”

Rose tried to smile. She was an actress, for goodness’s sake. She could at least pretend this wasn’t mortifying and degrading.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Just gathering my thoughts.”

His leer was most pronounced, and so was the stench of him as she grew closer. But they had come to an arrangement, and she was not the sort of person to rescind an agreement that was so beneficial.

Even if it was most unpleasant, in the moment.

Rose leaned forward, ensured she displayed her most sultry expression—pouted lips and hooded eyes—and as she always did, moved to kiss the man on the cheek.

As he always did, the man turned his face so that their lips touched.

Rose tried not to breathe. Three, two, one—

“There,” she said, leaning back and forcing herself not to take a few actual steps back. “My pie, sir.”

That was demeaning. That was what it was, she thought darkly as the man wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and he bundled a slightly dirty pie into a brown paper bag.

“Only fell off the cart for a moment.” He slowly, disgustingly, ran a hand down his bulky thigh as he maintained prolonged eye contact.

Rose tried her best to keep her smile intact. And she did. She was an actress, after all—but more than that, she was a woman down on her luck with no family to speak of and no friends who would own her.

If a woman in her position couldn’t smile at a man despite his disgusting behavior, who could?

“Thank you,” she simpered, allowing a hint of warmth in her eyes but nothing more. Then she turned around and started down the street.

Rose waited until she had turned a corner before stopping, ripping open the paper bag, and stuffing the first piece of pie into her mouth.

Her eyes closed, just for a moment.

Food.

It wasn’t that good. After one had spent time living in Rome, with the delicious herbs they used in their lasagna and the way there was a red wine to perfectly complement every meal, one could not find palatable delight in a pie poorly baked and still dusted with street dirt.

But when it was the most recent thing one had eaten in two days… Well. It was ambrosia.

The pie disappeared far more quickly than Rose would have liked. The thing had been almost larger than her fist, but within four mouthfuls, the dry pastry and soggy meat filling was gone.

Rose looked down at the empty paper bag in her hands—well. Empty save for the crumbs.

She looked around surreptitiously. Would anyone judge her, perhaps, for licking out the paper bag? There was surely almost no sustenance within it, but her stomach was craving something, anything, and she had almost no coin until opening night, which was three days away.

Three days on a pie-a-day from that man would not be enough. Besides, she could catch something from the revolting man, and then where would she be?

Rose inhaled deeply, looked once again at the paper bag, and slowly lifted it to her mouth.

Ignoring the passersby on the pavement and hoping to goodness none of them recognized her as the great Miss Rosemary Morgan, success and darling of the Italian stage newly arrived back in England, she licked the crumbly remnants of the pie.

She stopped within a heartbeat, her stomach revolting against the action.

No—no! She would not stoop that low. Dear Lord, she was not that desperate!

Crunching the paper bag and placing it in her pocket, Rose strode forward.

She would be a little early for rehearsal at the Grand Theatre, but there was no harm in that.

Besides, her costume for the leading role—one she had easily won through her acting prowess, Rose told herself firmly—should be finished by now.

She had not yet had the opportunity to try it on with the coronet, and there was a full-length looking glass in the wings, something Rose had not been able to use in… Well. Weeks? Months?

The icy wind got up, bringing with it its briny smell, but Rose was just a few steps away from the theater as she pulled her two scarves around her neck. This blessed winter! When the warm weather came, she would be relieved.

“Morning, Ted,” she said brightly as she stepped through the stage door and into the corridor that led to the rooms behind the stage.

The bushy-browed man stared. “Rose—Rose?”

“That’s my name,” Rose said with a smile, her spirits lifting as they always did whenever she was within a theater. “One day, you’ll see it in the Society pages, Ted, mark my words.”

“But—”

Rose did not wait to hear an argument. She would one day be in the Society pages, she was sure of it. Her talent was not something that could be hidden under a bushel, after all—she was going to be one of the most famous actresses in all of England.

Dukes would wish to see her. Earls would fawn over her.

There may even be a foreign prince or two who wished to dine with her, Rose daydreamed wistfully as she meandered through the maze of corridors, Ted following her chattering about some sort of nonsense.

Yes, within a few weeks, news of her talent would reach London, and she could go there and—

“Rose!” shrieked Annabelle as Rose entered the dressing room.

Rose halted. There were two things wrong here, and for a moment, her mind could only suggest one.

Annabelle. What was Annabelle doing here?

“Annabelle,” Rose said, confusion etching her tone. “But you—your rehearsal isn’t until this afternoon! Chorus isn’t needed for anything this morning, are they?”

Annabelle’s cheeks had flushed and yet despite that, she was still very pretty.

Of course she is, Rose tried not to think. The woman was a full seven years younger than her and still had that maidenly beauty that only a girl of just turned eighteen could possess.

True, but she does not have your acting ability, that resolute little voice at the back of her mind reminded her.

Rose’s shoulders relaxed, though she had not noticed when they had grown so fraught with tension. Perhaps when she had turned the corner and seen Annabelle in—

The gasp that left her lips was truly impressive. Honestly, Rose was a tad disappointed she had not performed it on the stage. It would certainly have reached the very back of the theater here in Brighton, and that was no small feat. One really needed excellent projection to do such a thing.

The cause of such a gasp, however, was not nearly so delightful.

“You—You’re wearing my costume,” Rose said, her heart racing. “Why are you wearing my costume, Annabelle?”

The younger woman looked like a rabbit being pinned down by a fox, all wide eyes and gaping mouth—but no words came from those pink lips.

Rose could do nothing but stare. It was a truly gorgeous costume; she was to be Titania, Queen of the Fairies, in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and so the most lavish materials had been used to construct a gown worthy of such a character.

Brocade and velvet and lace and gold thread…

Even some glass jewels had been found to embroider into the—

But why on earth was Annabelle wearing it?

Rose stared as the younger woman remained silent and Ted gabbled some nonsensical thing from behind her that she paid no attention to. It was inexplicable! There was absolutely no reason for it, no reason at all. Unless…

Her shoulders relaxed. “Ah, I suppose it needed adjusting, and as we are essentially the same size, they asked you to stand in for me? That was kind, Annabelle, with you having the morning off.”

Yes, that was it. Well, that was all to the good.

It is right and proper, Rose thought as she shrugged off her scarves and pelisse to place them over her chair, that the underlings are made useful when the true stars—such as myself—are busy.

After all, they had not expected her this early, had they?