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waste!” he cried with merry urgency before adding in the low tones of intimacy, “I do hope you’re not trying out for the role of the Captain’s Daughter. Miss Markham is herself a ‘plump and pleasing person,’ but she’ll die before giving up the lead to play Buttercup.” His face displayed a kindly expression combining equal parts tolerant amusement and reassuring tenderness. “So, if not Dick Deadeye, then . . . ? ”
    â€œOh. Um, Tommy Tucker. The Cabin Boy.”
    â€œVery wise!” the actor declared with twinkling eyes that hinted of shared mischief. “Randolph Murray,” he said, offering his hand, kissing hers.
    Smiling at her flustered pleasure, he bestowed the complete and practiced attention of his intense brown eyes upon the child before him. Dressed like a schoolgirl in a plaid worsted skirt, a navy jacket buttoned over a crisp white blouse. Tightly plaited hair, wrapped round her head in the Dutch fashion. Seventeen, he judged. And a virgin.
    I’ll have her , he thought with Richard III’s serene confidence, but I will not keep her long.
    Placing a cool finger under her chin, he lifted the girl’s face and turned it from side to side, studying her nose. “A daughter of Abraham, I presume.” He could see her wondering if that would help or hurt herchances. She straightened her back and nodded. A Bernhardt devotee, no doubt. “And your name?”
    â€œSarah Marcus, sir.”
    He quickly moved his finger to her lips. “The Glorious Pauline despises the Divine Sarah. Professional jealousies are rife in our profession,” he confided, knowing she’d be thrilled by that our. “Have you a stage name?”
    â€œWell, sir, my first name is really Josephine, but nobody calls me that, and my father always—”
    â€œOh, but it’s perfect! Jo Marcus! Ambiguous! Androgynous! Just the name for a dancer playing Tommy Tucker! Pauline, darling,” he called, pivoting on a heel. “We have an ambitious little girl here! Come and tell me what you think of her.”
    Minimally concealed by a silk wrapper that drifted open to reveal impressive amplitude above and below a loosened corset of sturdy linen, the Glorious Pauline Markham was everything the Divine Sarah Bernhardt was not: tall and blond and soft, with a glowing pink complexion that bordered on the florid.
    â€œThis is Jo Marcus, darling,” Randolph Murray said smoothly. “She would like to replace Miss McConnell.”
    â€œAh, yes. The unfortunate Miss McConnell.” The Glorious Pauline gazed meaningfully at the Serene Mr. Murray before turning toward the new girl with an expression that was, apparently, quite friendly. “What an interesting little girl! Can you dance, interesting little girl?”
    â€œYes, Miss Markham. I know the hornpipe by heart already.”
    â€œWell? Go ahead,” the actress urged.
    â€œNow? Without music?”
    â€œThe show must go on, regardless of circumstance. We play some very primitive venues.”
    Hesitantly, she began the dance, but before she’d completed more than the first few steps, Randolph Murray stopped her.
    â€œJo, dear, we cannot see your legs. Lift your skirt, if you please.”
    â€œLook, Randolph!” Miss Markham cried delightedly. “She’s blushing! Isn’t that adorable? Rosy little Josie!”
    â€œTheater life requires a certain blithe indifference to bourgeois convention,” Mr. Murray said. “No place for decorum here!”
    Miss Markham aimed a downward smile at her own dishabille. “Costume changes in the wings, you know.”
    Their unblinking eyes rested upon her. Curious, expectant, skeptical. A good girl would have been frightened, nervous, embarrassed. Then again, a good girl wouldn’t have been there at all. And that was how Josephine Sarah Marcus discovered that she wasn’t a good girl—that she had