Touch of Rogue by Mia Marlowe

unescorted female patrons.
    “You made the London Crier ,” Lily said, shoving the tabloid across the small table. “You and that fancy fellow you’ve been keepin’ company with.”
    “Really?” Julianne scanned the short article.

    We note, with unconcealed pleasure, the return of Lady C. to London society. This one time actress-turned-countess has always been entertaining, both on and off the stage, and one wonders what new scandals the merry widow has in store for our fair city.
    She’s been seen in close company with a certain gentleman, the notorious Mr. P., a fellow with high connections and low sensibilities. Our gentle readers will recall his many amatory exploits and the warnings we have issued about the cad in previous columns. Well-bred young ladies would do well to take warning should Mr. P. decide to desert his current paramour, Lady C., and roam the haunts of the ton once again.
    But in light of the Earl of C’s untidy demise, one feels one should sound a note of warning to Mr. P. as well. Let the lessons of the animal world guide you, Sir.
    A black widow feeds on her unwary mates.
     

    Julianne flipped the damning paper over with so much force, her china cup rattled in its saucer. No wonder Society’s doors remained closed to her.
    “Good review, what?” Lily said between sips of her chocolate.
    “It’s absolutely scurrilous. I should sue for defamation of character.”
    “Nonsense. They’re talkin’ about you, ain’t they? That’s all a review is good for,” Lily said with a dismissive wave of her heavily veined hand. “Didn’t you always say it don’t matter a fig what they say so long as they talk about you?”
    “But this isn’t the theatre, Lily,” she said with a frown. “This is my life.”
    “Same thing, dearie. Only difference is when you’re off stage, you can play more fast and loose with the script.” Lily popped a petit four into her mouth, wrapped up three more in her napkin, and secreted them in her disreputable bag, along with one of the silver teaspoons.
    Julianne sighed. She should have met Lily in a less posh establishment where the temptation wasn’t so great for one with light-fingered inclinations. Then she wondered if Lily feared for her place in the theatre. Once Julianne sold the daggers and set up her own pension, she promised herself she’d look into providing for Lily and those like her on Drury Lane who didn’t have much laid by for their advanced years.
    “And speaking o’ the theatre, when you coming back to us?” Lily asked.
    “I’m not coming back.”
    “Sure you are. Once a body gets greasepaint in the blood, there’s no way to get it out.” Lily leaned forward confidingly. “I heard rumblings that Mr. Farthingale is hankering to do Othello and word is, he knows you’re in town and thinks as you’d be the perfect Desdemona.”
    Wonderful. She could look forward to being strangled by a jealous husband nightly.
    “What d’you say?” Lily urged. “Mr. Farthingale says you’d pack the house.”
    Undoubtedly, she would. It wasn’t every day a dowager countess trod the boards. The ton would come from morbid curiosity, and leave satisfied that Julianne had finally learned her true place.
    “You already know the role, I’d wager.” Lily’s wheedling tone was starting to dance on her last nerve.
    Julianne knew Desdemona. Every word. During her days in the theatre, when she wasn’t in rehearsal for one role, she was studying others she intended to take up one day. Once, her life onstage had been the only source of truth and beauty, the only real thing in a world of fakes, and she dove headlong into it.
    But that was before she met Jacob Preston, she realized with a jolt. Before she started to ... need him.
    She groaned inwardly. No. She couldn’t allow it. Her dependence on Jacob was a temporary thing. Once she had the daggers and made the sale, she’d cut him loose with a substantial payment for his time and trouble. She