Rapturous Rakes Bundle

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Rapturous Rakes Bundle Diane Gaston Nicola Cornick Georgina Devon

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Contents A Reputable Rake The Rake’s Mistress The Rake Copyright About the Authors Coming Next Month

A Reputable Rake Diane Gaston

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Chapter One

April 1817

‘Unhand her this instant!’ The woman’s shrill voice carried easily in the evening air, reaching Cyprian Sloane’s ears as he strolled down one of the paths through Hyde Park. He stopped in his tracks and groaned. Why had he not caught a hack on Bond Street instead of yielding to the temptation of a fine spring evening’s walk? ‘Release her.’ Cultured and emphatic, the voice reminded Sloane of a scolding governess. Whoever she was, she was a fool for being in the park at this late hour. ‘Go to the devil!’ a man responded fiercely. Sloane blew out a breath and pressed his fingers to his temple. No choice but to investigate. Gripping his silver-tipped walking stick, he automatically adopted the cat-like stealth of his former clandestine life. He edged over to the bushes that hid the speakers from view, using the leaves and branches to obscure his own presence, on the slim chance he could walk on and not become involved. He peered through a gap in the leaves.

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A man in an ill-fitting brown coat held the arm of a young, pretty blonde-haired woman who wore the bright red dress of a doxy. Her other arm was clutched by another young woman, the owner of the governess’s voice. She was taller than the doxy, pleasantly slender, and respectably attired in a plain lavender dress. That her bonnet hung by its ribbons on her back and her brown hair had come partly loose of its pins attested to the intensity of her struggle with this ruffian. The man and the ‘governess’ played tug-of-war with the woman in the red dress, while another female—this one could be nothing but a maid, still in her apron and cap—bawled a few feet away. ‘Miss Hart, do not let him take her!’ the maid wailed. It was like a scene in a bad play, and, God knew, Sloane had seen plenty of bad plays at Drury Lane Theatre this Season. At least this time he could do something to halt the melodrama. He stepped into view. ‘What goes on here?’ The characters all looked at him in surprise. The man spoke first. ‘This need not be your concern, sir. You may proceed on your way.’ Sloane’s brows rose. He disliked being told what to do by anyone, but more so by an obvious scoundrel. The ‘governess’, who was apparently the Miss Hart to whom the maid referred, took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction and pulled hard, causing him to lose his grip on the doxy’s arm. She quickly tugged the red-dressed girl behind her, making a shield with her body. ‘Do not heed him,’ Miss Hart pleaded. ‘Help us. He would take this girl away!’ ‘She’s my sister!’ wailed the maid. ‘Bugger you.’ The man lunged at Miss Hart and tried to push her out of the way. She stumbled, falling to her knees, while the red-dressed doxy ran to hide behind her sister.

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‘Enough!’ shouted Sloane, moving quickly. He crossed the short distance and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, lifted him in the air and tossed him into the bushes. Sloane extended his hand to help the woman rise. ‘Are you injured?’ She shook her head as he pulled her to her feet, but her eyes flashed with alarm. ‘Take heed!’ Sloane spun around, swinging his stick as he did so. The man rushed at him, but Sloane’s stick struck him across the abdomen, and he staggered backwards. Putting a hand in his coat, the ruffian pulled out a knife. The maid screamed. Crouching, the man waved the knife, its long blade catching the last rays of the sun. ‘You leave her to me, now,’ he growled. ‘I’ll take her and be on my way.’ ‘No!’ cried Miss Hart. Out of the corner of his eye Sloane saw her start forward and held her back with one hand. Not taking his eyes off the knife, he turned his head slightly towards the girl in the red dress. ‘Do you wish to go with him, miss?’ ‘I…I…’ she stammered. ‘Oh, say you do not, Lucy,’ her sister cried. Her words rushed out. ‘I do not wish to go with him.’ The man glared at Sloane, but he too addressed the girl. ‘You will come with me, missy. We had a bargain.’ Sloane let a cynical smile turn up one corner of his mouth. ‘It appears the young lady has changed her mind.’ He twirled his stick, then held it in two hands in front of him. The man came closer, slashing the air with his knife, circling Sloane, who merely moved to evade him. The man scowled and spat out expletives. His performance was indeed worthy of Drury Lane. Sloane laughed at him. Miss Hart still hovered too close. Sloane longed to shout

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at her to stay out of the way, but he did not want to alert the man to her close proximity. The last thing Sloane wanted was for the man to slash his knife at her. But the ruffian’s attention was riveted on Sloane. The man inched in closer. Sloane twisted the handle of his walking stick, ready for him. The man swiped his blade again. Coming up behind him, Miss Hart jumped on the man’s back. He flailed at her, trying to shake her off, the blade of his knife coming perilously close to her skin. Foolish girl! Sloane quickly released the sword hidden inside his walking stick, its deceptively innocent wooden sheath falling to the ground. ‘Leave him to me, woman! Stay out of the way!’ She let go, falling backwards on to the ground and rolling out of range. The man charged Sloane in earnest, but Sloane checked the knife’s blade with the steel of his sword. His opponent was undaunted and his blade flashed to and fro as Sloane’s sword rang loud when it connected with the blade. The maid screamed, but there was little to fear. This man might grunt and slash, but Sloane had been in fights much worse than this one. This one had even odds, at least. Miss Hart jumped to her feet again and still she did not move out of range. Her presence merely distracted Sloane and this was not a time for distractions. Sloane parried the man’s blows. Becoming bored, he bided his time until the opportunity came to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand. Their blades connected once again and the clash of steel rang out like an alarm, loud enough for someone to hear the commotion and to summon the watch. What ill luck that would be. Sloane had no desire to be detained, and even less desire to be discovered brawling in the park. No one would believe the disreputable son of the Earl of Dorton had hap-

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pened upon this scene by chance. Rumours would fly, and before the rise of the next sun, the ton would have him cast back into the gaming hells and other sordid corners of London’s underworld from where he’d emerged. He’d be damned if he’d let this ruffian spoil the progress he’d made. After all, he was becoming well nigh respectable. Astounding what a fortune could do. The ruffian, dripping with sweat, did not seem to perceive the folly of continuing to attack Sloane in every way he could. Sloane had seen all the tricks before. If the man kept this up, it crossed Sloane’s mind that he would be late to dine with Lord and Lady Cowdlin and their very marriageable daughter, Lady Hannah, or that he might dishevel his perfectly tailored coat and snow-white neckcloth. Sloane abandoned restraint. Snarling at the fellow, he kicked him in the stomach. Deuce. He’d been aiming lower. ‘Go to the devil!’ yelled the man, coming at him again. Miss Hart charged up behind the man, the wooden sheath of her rescuer’s sword in her hands. The deuced idiot! She’d get herself hurt yet. She swept the stick hard at the ruffian’s feet, so hard it flew out of her hands. The man tripped and fell forward. With a loud crack, his head struck a rock in the ground. He bounced once, then lay still, legs and arms splayed. Well done, thought Sloane. ‘Oh, dear! Have I killed him?’ Staring at the prone figure, she picked up the wooden walking stick. The girl in the red dress gaped open-mouthed and the maid, still hanging on the other girl’s arm, turned her head away. Sloane strolled over. Pointing his sword at the man’s neck, he nudged the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. The man did not move. Sloane squatted down and felt the neck for a

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pulse. ‘He’s alive.’ He stood again. ‘But I’ll wager he’ll have the very devil of a headache when he wakes up.’ ‘Good.’ She handed Sloane his walking stick and he sheathed the sword. He raised his eyes from the unconscious figure to look directly into her face. A smudge of dirt on her cheek marred a fair complexion, flushed becomingly pink. Her dark brown hair draped her shoulders like a silken veil. She returned his stare. Her eyes were not blue, but, in the waning light of the evening, he could not tell for certain what colour they might be. He raised one eyebrow. ‘Miss Hart?’ There was a maturity about her that did not fit her youthful clear eyes and smooth, unlined face. He could not even ascertain her station in life by her attire and certainly not by her manner. She was not much like any other woman he’d ever met. ‘Are you injured, ma’am?’ he asked. She shook her head and the veil of hair moved like waves on the sea. ‘Nothing to signify.’ She extended her hand. ‘Thank you, sir, for coming to our assistance.’ He accepted the surprisingly firm handshake, giving her an ironic smile. ‘I fear it is I who must thank you. You vanquished the fellow.’ His gaze reluctantly left her to glance at the other two women. ‘May I know what goes on here?’ ‘You have rescued this young woman from ruin.’ Miss Hart swept her arm towards where the other two were still clustered. Back to the melodrama, Sloane thought. She referred to the young woman in the red dress. ‘He would surely have snatched her away.’ ‘He did not snatch me, miss,’ the girl protested. ‘I made a bargain with him.’

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Miss Hart turned to her, her voice incredulous. ‘You could not have wished to go with such a horrible man.’ The girl rubbed her arms. ‘But I did.’ ‘No, it is nonsensical,’ piped up the maid. ‘You have respectable work, Lucy.’ The girl simply lowered her head. ‘Did he give you that horrid dress, Lucy?’ the maid went on. ‘You look like a harlot!’ This, Sloane thought, was probably just what she was…or intended to be. Lucy merely responded with a mutinous look. With a glance at Sloane, Miss Hart broke in, ‘We will discuss this later.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘And we will find some other resolution than…than going with that creature. Promise you will have patience.’ The girl glowered at her, but finally nodded. Sloane cleared his throat. ‘I am delighted that is settled. Now, may I suggest we leave the park before the creature in question rouses? I suspect he will be none too happy when he does.’ Sloane picked up the man’s knife and tossed it into the thick undergrowth. ‘I will escort you ladies safely to your destination, then I must be on my way.’ Miss Hart gave a dignified toss of her head. ‘We must not trouble you further, sir. We have not far to go.’ Sloane frowned. ‘I will escort you all the same. I have no wish to repeat this performance with some other fellow lurking in the bushes. The park is no place for women alone, you know.’ ‘Very well.’ As efficient as a governess and clearly the leader of the incongruous group, she gathered the other two like wayward chicks. Sloane followed the trio back to the path. They made their way quickly out of the park, returning to the quiet Mayfair neighbourhood where he’d been strolling a short time ago.

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She turned back to him. ‘There is no need for you to see us further.’ She did not wish him to know her direction. Perhaps he did not look as respectable as he thought. No matter. Something told him he was better off having as little as possible to do with this motley group. All the same, a faint measure of disappointment teased at him. This ladylike virago, who scrapped as readily as the toughest rookery orphan, intrigued him. ‘I do thank you again for your chivalry.’ She extended her hand once more, and as he grasped it he looked into her eyes, the colour escaping him still. He hesitated before releasing her hand. ‘Goodnight, Miss Hart.’ ‘Goodnight,’ she said softly then turned back to the other two and herded them quickly away. Morgana Hart hurried her two charges past the sedate town houses on Culross Street, so close to the most fashionable residences of Grosvenor Square. ‘We will discuss what to do in the morning, Lucy,’ she said as they walked at a quick clip. ‘When we reach home you must take a rest.’ In Lucy’s present mood, it made no sense to try to reason with her. ‘You did not have to come after me.’ The girl’s voice was petulant, but she avoided looking at Morgana. Morgana’s maid stepped in front of her and brought them all to a halt. She leaned right into her sister’s face. ‘What would have happened to you if Miss Hart had not come after you? You ought to be grateful to her. I cannot understand you.’ Lucy folded her arms across the low bodice of her gaudy dress.

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Morgana gave them each a push. ‘Let us be on our way.’ She ushered them into the house through the servants’ door. Tears stained Lucy’s cheeks and Morgana wrapped her arm around the girl and brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Why don’t you take some time to get cleaned up? Then, if you like, you can come to my room while your sister helps me dress.’ As Lucy ran up the back stairs, the door from the hall opened. Cripps, the butler, with nose lifted, gazed first at Lucy’s retreating figure, then at Morgana. Morgana stared back, but spoke to her maid. ‘Amy, please go to my room and set out a dressing gown for me. I shall be there directly.’ Amy gaped at Cripps with frightened eyes. ‘Yes, miss.’ She bobbed a quick curtsy and fled up the stairs after her sister. Morgana felt a sinking chagrin. When she had hired Cripps and his almost-as-taciturn wife as butler and housekeeper a month ago, she had hoped to thaw some of that chilly reserve of his, but all her friendly smiles and solicitous questions as to the Cripps’ health or their contentment with her employment had been to no avail. The butler kept himself so contained, she’d been unable to take the measure of the man. He would likely resent her interference in his responsibilities, but she could not risk him playing the strict upper servant and admonishing Lucy. The girl might run again. ‘I have handled this situation, Cripps, entirely to my satisfaction,’ she said in an even voice. ‘You need not be involved.’ ‘Very good, miss.’ He bowed. She tried a smile, hoping it would ease his sombre expression. ‘I suppose I have delayed dinner, haven’t I? Were Grandmama and Miss Moore served?’ Morgana had ordered a light supper to be sent up to the dowager Lady Hart and her companion in Lady Hart’s room. ‘Yes, miss,’ Cripps responded, his tone bland but, Morgana

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suspected, disapproving. ‘I ordered Cook to keep your dinner warm.’ She made herself keep smiling. ‘That was good of you, Cripps. You may have it sent up to my bedchamber.’ He bowed again and retreated towards the kitchen. Morgana sighed. Perhaps if she’d known more of the man behind Cripps’s austere exterior, she might have sought him out to chase after Lucy instead of going herself. But then she would not have encountered the magnificent man who came to their aid. She could just see him, dark brows and eyes peering from under the brim of his hat, so at ease with the violence, moving as gracefully as a dancer and as lethally as a charging lion. Placing a bracing hand against her chest, she stepped into the hall and climbed the staircase to her bedchamber on the upper floor. Amy was there, smoothing out her dressing gown. Morgana walked to the wash stand and caught sight of herself in the mirror above it. ‘Oh, I look a fright!’ Her hair was completely out of its pins, falling on her shoulders straight as a stick and her face was smudged with dirt. She stifled the urge to laugh. What must Cripps have thought of her? Or, more significantly, what had the gentleman in the park thought? She poured water into the basin and took a cloth to scrub her face, then Amy helped her out of her dress. Why could the excitement of this evening not have occurred during one of the many excruciatingly dull days she’d endured this last month while awaiting her new wardrobe? Tonight was her first chance to experience London’s many entertainments. She was to attend the opera in the company of her aunt, uncle and cousin, having been included in the invitation of the gentleman her cousin planned to snare as a hus-

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band. Certainly opera would seem tame after witnessing a man wield a swordstick as if it were an extension of his arm. Amy worked at the strings of her corset. ‘I do not know what got into Lucy’s head, miss. I am sorry for troubling you with our problems, but what would we have done without you?’ Morgana looked over her shoulder at the girl. ‘The thanks belong to the gentleman who helped us.’ She smiled to herself. ‘If he was a gentleman.’ In the mirror she saw a dreamy look came over the maid’s face. ‘He looked like a pirate to me, miss. A handsome one.’ ‘A very handsome one!’ Morgana laughed. ‘What a treat to be rescued by such a man.’ She made light of the incident for Amy’s benefit, but in truth it had deeply affected her. She was appalled by the man trying to take Lucy away and stunned by Lucy’s willingness to follow him. She was also stirred into a cauldron of excitement by the gentleman who had rushed in to help them. He was tall and dark-haired, like any good pirate should be, but in an impeccably tailored coat and fine linen. Like the stick he carried, he looked sleek and expensive on the outside, but, on the inside, hid a violence ready to be unleashed. She could barely catch her breath just thinking about him. But she was not the sort to waste time mooning over a man, especially one she might never see again. Although perhaps he would attend the opera this night? Her cousin said everyone would be there— Morgana caught herself again. It was foolishness to get worked up about something that might not happen. Her father had always told her so. She changed the subject. ‘Do you know anything of why Lucy would try to go off with that man? Did she confide in you?’

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Amy shook her head. ‘She’s been a moody one for a long time, but she shares no confidences with me.’ Amy and Lucy Jenkins had come recommended to Morgana by her aunt’s housekeeper, a relative of some sort. Amy proved to be a treasure, aged twenty, a very young but talented lady’s maid. Lucy, on the other hand, two years younger, was another story. More than once Morgana had found her in a room, dust rag in hand, staring into space, looking…tormented. She gave Amy a look of motherly reassurance she did not entirely feel. ‘We shall discover what troubles Lucy. And then we shall solve it.’ Amy returned a grateful smile, full of a complete confidence Morgana did not share. Although Morgana was a scant three years older than her maid, she’d seen a great deal of the world at her father’s side in his diplomatic posts on the Peninsula and lately in Paris. Affairs of a carnal nature between men and women, however, were still somewhat of a mystery. Could such desires lure Lucy to follow that disreputable man? Morgana had no doubt he would turn her into the sort of girl men purchase for an evening. The vivid memory of one such woman Morgana had spied in Portugal still haunted her, the hopelessness that had shown in her eyes. Desperation and hunger might drive a woman to such ends, but Lucy had plenty of food and Morgana was a kind employer. Why would she choose to run off? Morgana washed herself with rose-scented soap she’d brought from France, noting with some alarm bruises on her arms and legs. Luckily her clothes would cover them. Amy helped her into a dressing gown and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She looked nothing like the person who had engaged in fisticuffs, but more like the baron’s daughter she was.

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There was a knock on the door. Amy answered it, taking a tray from the footman and carrying it over to a table. Morgana pulled at a chair. ‘See to your own dinner, Amy. And try to induce Lucy to eat something, too.’ ‘Yes, miss.’ Amy curtsied. ‘I’ll be up directly to help you dress for the theatre.’ After taking just a few bites of her meal, Morgana pushed the tray aside. She was restless after the incident in the park, and thoughts of their rescuer all too easily filled her mind. She fancied she remembered each move he made, each expression on his face. It had been a strong face, long and lean, with piercing eyes, a Roman nose and what she could only think of as sensual lips. She rose from her chair a bit too quickly, knocking against the table, clattering her dishes. She caught the wine glass just in time before it spilled. Releasing a relieved breath, she slipped out of her room and walked more carefully down the hall to visit her grandmother’s sitting room. ‘Hello, Grandmama,’ she said as she entered the room. Her grandmother Hart, a tiny woman who seemed not much more than paper-thin skin hung loosely over frail bones, sat smiling in her winged-back chair. Her grandmother’s eyes lit up upon seeing her. ‘Why, hello, dear.’ Morgana was not fooled. The dowager Lady Hart greeted everyone who entered the room in the same manner, even the footman who came in to tend the fire. Morgana leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. Her grandmother’s companion, the faithful Miss Moore, well into her sixties, handed a cup of tea to Lady Hart. Lady Hart stared at it a moment before smiling up at Morgana again. ‘Would you like a cup, my dear?’ ‘That would be very nice.’ Morgana sat in a nearby chair.

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The cup of tea trembled in Lady Hart’s hand, still poised in the air. Morgana held her breath, not daring to speak until her grandmother remembered to take a very slow, shaky sip and to put the cup on the table next to her. ‘Did you have a nice day, Grandmama?’ Morgana nodded her thanks to Miss Moore, who had handed her a cup of tea. ‘Oh, I had a lovely day, my dear.’ Morgana smiled. Her grandmother always had lovely days. Morgana would not dream of telling her grandmother about the incident with Lucy, nor about the gentleman who came to their rescue. Not that it mattered. Her grandmother would not remember a word of the conversation the moment Morgana left the room. She did chat about attending the theatre that evening. Her grandmother smiled and said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘How lovely’ in all the right places. It was good that Morgana’s father and his new wife had gone straight to his new post in Naples rather than travel with Morgana to England. Her father knew nothing of his mother’s failing memory, or of her increasing frailty. Morgana would withhold that information from him until he’d had more time to enjoy his newly wedded bliss, absent of family concerns. In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad. Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber. Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-

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green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’ Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’ She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head. ‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation. Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head. Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’ As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm. Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’ With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt. Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of

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flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel. This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’ Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes. Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’ The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’ Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe. With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went. Cripps stood in the hall. ‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’ ‘No sound of it yet, miss,’ he replied. ‘I am determined not to keep my uncle waiting.’ She again tried her friendly smile on him. ‘Very good, miss.’ He remained as stiff-backed as ever. Morgana kept her smile in place, but it hid her disappointment. It would be so much easier if she knew she had Cripps’s loyalty as well as his excellent service. She did so want them all to rub well together. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room.’ Expression as bland as ever, he preceded her across the hall and opened the drawing-room door. She walked to the window with its view of the street. No sooner had she done so than her uncle’s carriage pulled up in

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front of the house. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror above the mantel, fussing a bit with the neckline of her dress, but, remembering that her uncle had been suffering from gout, she hurried to the hall. ‘I will meet them at the carriage,’ she told Cripps, fancying he looked disapproving of a lady going out the door unescorted. ‘I am ready,’ she called, as Cripps closed the door behind her. A tall gentleman stood next to the carriage in the process of assisting her uncle to disembark. Seeing her, her uncle paused. ‘Come then,’ he replied and disappeared back into his seat. The tall gentleman turned towards her. Morgana stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh!’ Standing before her, next to her uncle’s carriage, dressed in elegant evening attire, was the gentleman from the park. He, too, froze, but his look of surprise was replaced by a lazy smile that seemed to take for ever to settle on his face. Just as slowly he tipped his hat and came to her side. ‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Hart.’ His dark grey eyes kindled with amusement. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply, pulling her shawl snug around her shoulders and accepting his arm. ‘It is a fine night, is it not?’ His voice was as smooth and low as a viola. They were only a few steps from the carriage. ‘A fine night for a walk in the park.’ ‘Oh, say nothing of that, sir. I beg you,’ Morgana countered in a fierce whisper. ‘My lips, dear Miss Hart—’ the lips he referred to turned up at the corners ‘—are sealed.’

Chapter Two

S

loane handed Miss Hart into the carriage, to the cheerful greetings of her aunt, uncle and cousin. He climbed in after her and sat between the two young ladies, catching a whiff of Miss Hart’s perfume, a faint scent but distinctly French and expensive. She settled herself closer to the carriage window, which somehow caused his blood to race, more so than Lady Hannah’s nearly imperceptible move closer to him. Lady Cowdlin spoke. ‘We must do the introductions, mustn’t we? Morgana, may I present Mr Cyprian Sloane to you? This is my niece, Miss Morgana Hart. Her father is Baron Hart, you know.’ Sloane did know of Baron Hart, though the covert circumstances by which he was acquainted did not bear mentioning. It would cause more questions than he cared to answer. He turned to the young lady. ‘Miss Hart, is it?’ She did not miss his attempt at humour. ‘Mr Sloane.’ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Lady Cowdlin went on, ‘Morgana is my dear sister’s child, God rest her soul.’

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‘Ah.’ He hoped the sound was appropriately sympathetic. The carriage lurched forward and they were on their way. When Lady Cowdlin requested that her niece be included in the party, she’d not given the niece’s name. Neither had Lady Hannah, though she’d chattered on about her cousin that very afternoon when, during the fashionable hour, he’d driven her in his curricle through Hyde Park. Lady Hannah had explained this was her cousin’s second London Season. Hannah’s mother had sponsored her years before, but the cousin ‘didn’t take.’ Sloane had only half-listened to her account, attending more to how many of the beau monde saw fit to greet him. More each day. Two years ago none of them would have dared acknowledge him in public. ‘Mr Sloane has been so good as to invite us to the King’s Theatre, Morgana,’ Lady Hannah said in a somewhat smug tone and unnecessarily, for Sloane was certain her cousin must have been told their destination ahead of time. ‘Yes.’ Miss Hart turned to him again so that their faces were very close. ‘It was good of you to include me, Mr Sloane.’ ‘My pleasure.’ He smiled. The irony of his scrapping Hyde Park virago being none other than Lady Hannah’s cousin made him want to laugh out loud. He contained the impulse, but found he liked sharing the secret with Miss Hart. It felt…wickedly intimate. When she’d emerged from her town house, he’d first only been aware of a swish of green silk, then he’d recognised her. But instead of the look of an efficient governess, she’d had a regal air, as if her intricate hairstyle were a crown upon her head. When he had offered her his arm, the torch at the doorway illuminated her face, and he at last discovered the secret of her eyes. They were light brown—no, that was not descrip-

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tive enough—they were ginger-coloured, ginger flecked with chocolate. With the frame of her dark brows and lashes, the effect was remarkable. What’s more, her eyes shone with alertness and intelligence, as if they could not get their fill of all there was to see. For that very brief moment he’d felt caught in them, as if they also had the capacity to set a trap. Miss Hart was a decided contrast to the classically beautiful Lady Hannah with her abundance of blonde curls, liquid blue eyes and blushing pink complexion. Lady Hannah, fashionably petite and curvaceous, was like a sweet confection, while her taller, slimmer cousin brought to mind something with more spice—ginger, perhaps. ‘Mr Sloane is seeking to buy a property in Mayfair,’ Hannah continued to her cousin. ‘Will that not be splendid?’ ‘Very nice,’ Miss Hart agreed. ‘We shall be neighbours!’ Lady Hannah laughed, lightly placing her hand on his arm. ‘Mayfair is a big place,’ intoned Lord Cowdlin. Sloane knew Cowdlin was not at all happy about any proximity between Sloane and his daughter. Lady Cowdlin piped up, ‘Not so very big. He’d be hard pressed to be farther than a few streets from our fine residence.’ She gave a toadying smile. ‘Why, we may be certain to see him often as we are out and about.’ Lady Cowdlin undoubtedly favoured his suit, but then she was probably not privy to tales told about him in the gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells. Still, Sloane was confident his money would wear down Cowdlin’s reservations, as would his efforts to behave in an impeccably respectable fashion. Lady Hannah leaned into his side. ‘That will be so lovely,’ she purred. Lady Hannah also made no secret of favouring his suit, though the increasingly proprietary flavour of her flirtation,

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so gratifying that very afternoon when she had sat by his side in his curricle, suddenly irked him. He’d not yet proposed to her, he wanted to protest in front of her cool, ginger-eyed cousin. ‘Do you have a property in mind, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. It was the sort of polite question anyone might ask, but her gaze had flicked back and forth between him and her cousin. ‘I have hired a secretary to search for me. A very bright young man—’ ‘Who is that, Sloane?’ Lord Cowdlin interrupted. ‘Someone known to me?’ Cowdlin probably thought he’d hired a man out of the rookery to handle his affairs. Sloane certainly knew such men, but he would be a fool indeed to mix that part of his life with his newly respectable one. ‘His name is Elliot. I doubt he would be known to you, but he is extremely efficient.’ Cowdlin would probably scowl in disapproval if he knew Elliot’s background: the son of a man who had run London’s most sophisticated smuggling operations. Now retired, he’d managed to get his son respectably educated. Working for Sloane was an opportunity for Elliot to join the respectable world. In that, he and Sloane had much in common. ‘Ah,’ responded Cowdlin without true interest. The carriage soon drew up to the entrance of the King’s Theatre. There was a long line of carriages behind them, signalling a large crowd. Sloane assisted the ladies from the carriage, Lady Cowdlin an awkward bulk, Lady Hannah all soft and melting in his grasp, and Miss Hart a mere formality, relying on herself, not his hand, to alight. Sloane predicted Hannah would some day be a warm and responsive bed partner; it was one of the qualities that had fos-

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tered his interest in her. But he could not imagine what sharing a bed with Miss Hart would be like. His senses flared with a sudden curiosity to find out. Sloane mentally shook himself. He was thinking like a rake, not a gentleman. In a very gentlemanly manner, he offered each of the young ladies an arm and allowed Lord and Lady Cowdlin to precede them into the theatre and on to the box he’d rented for the Season. It had cost a pretty penny, as had the boxes he’d rented in all the important theatres. These were investments, he told himself, the necessary expenditures of a wealthy gentleman of the ton. His investment was already paying off. Lord Cowdlin had given up his own subscription to the opera this year, more evidence of his dismal financial situation. Lady Cowdlin and her daughter had been in raptures when Sloane offered his box to them. They insisted he must be part of their group or they could not possibly accept his generosity. Lord Cowdlin had been less enthusiastic about this invitation. No doubt that gentleman would prefer to find a wealthy son-in-law who did not come encumbered with a rakehell’s reputation. Sloane ushered Lady Cowdlin into the box. ‘My lady, I would be pleased for you to take the front seats. The view should be excellent.’ Lord Cowdlin snapped to attention. ‘What? What? You would sit in the back with my daughter?’ Sloane refrained from rolling his eyes. Did Cowdlin think him so big a fool? In such a public place, to sit in the dark with a maiden would surely compromise his efforts to raise his reputation from the depths it had sunk in the years he’d been on his own. Sloane was no fool. ‘You misunderstand me, sir. I meant the front seats for all the ladies of our party.’ He kept his voice deliberately bland. ‘I fancy you and I will be less interested than the ladies in either the performance or the audience.’

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‘Oh,’ mumbled his lordship. ‘I beg your pardon.’ ‘I will sit in the back, Papa.’ Lady Hannah batted her eyes. ‘I do not mind in the least.’ Apparently Lady Hannah had fewer scruples than he. Either that or she was impossibly naïve. Sloane noticed Miss Hart watching this exchange with those lively eyes. What was she thinking? If he sat in the back with her, he could ask. He fancied she was the sort who would tell him. Lady Cowdlin seized her husband’s arm with a dramatic flourish. ‘I will sit with my husband, Mr Sloane. You young people must sit in the front seats. I insist upon it.’ And Lady Hannah insisted that she sit in the middle chair, Miss Hart on one side, Sloane on the other, to which arrangement Miss Hart acquiesced without complaint. She took her seat and immediately scanned the theatre, somewhat methodically, Sloane noticed. She slowly examined the house left to right, eyes lingering longer on certain boxes, watching certain people on the floor. The theatre was filling rapidly, the expensively clad patrons taking their seats in the boxes, the less fashionable packing the floor below. The din of voices melded with the orchestra tuning their instruments, creating a buzz of general anticipation. ‘Oh, look, Mr Sloane,’ Hannah cried. ‘There is Lady Castlereagh and her husband as well.’ Lord Castlereagh caught sight of Sloane as he took his seat. The gentleman acknowledged Sloane’s nod. Castlereagh was one of the few who knew of Sloane’s service during the war, when the government had needed a man to crawl around the city’s underbelly, to sniff out traitors more interested in profit than patriotism. Sloane was compensated for his deeds by a portion of the spoils seized from those who betrayed En-

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gland for French gold. The bounty had been the seeds of his fortune. Skill at cards had done the rest. He was compelled to remain silent on those years, and to endure from those who recruited him the belief he had done it only for the money. Still, when he had asked Castlereagh to use his influence with his wife, one of the patronesses of Almack’s, to issue him a voucher, the man had done so. Sloane’s mere appearance in those hallowed halls had gone a long way to giving him entrée into the ton. Sloane had forgone serious card play and other gaming, his quest for respectability being a more challenging game. Admittance to Almack’s, however, had been like breaking a faro bank. ‘Oh, I also see one of my dearest friends from school,’ Lady Hannah exclaimed, her attention darting to the other side of the room. ‘And my brother is with her! How nice. I have high hopes in that quarter.’ Sloane dutifully glanced in that direction. Hannah turned to her cousin. ‘Morgana, look, there is my brother Varney, and he is with Athenia Poltrop, my best bosom friend…’ Sloane no longer heeded Lady Hannah’s chatter. He no longer thought of her cousin. His vision was riveted upon another box, where the erect, silver-haired figure of the Earl of Dorton entered, followed by his son, Viscount Rawley and his Viscountess. Last entering the box was a fine-looking young man Sloane could only guess was his brother’s son. What a friendly family party. How cosy for them all to attend the theatre together. Only one family member had been excluded from the familial tableau. Sloane. The black sheep. The disreputable son. He had no wish to be included in any of their activities, but one day they would not dare ignore him. One day he

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would have so much power and influence that his father would be forced to pay him respect. ‘Who is that, sir?’ Miss Hart’s sharp eyes were upon him, obviously noticing the direction of his gaze. Hannah answered for him. ‘That is Lord Dorton and his son, Lord Rawley, and Lady Rawley. The young man is her son.’ ‘My father and brother,’ Sloane finished for her. Miss Hart’s eyebrows rose a notch. Hannah leaned over to whisper into her ear, but not quietly enough for Sloane to miss the words. ‘They are estranged from Mr Sloane.’ Miss Hart darted a quick glance at him, one that did not linger. The orchestra struck its opening chord, but the cacophony of voices from the audience did not subside one bit. The audience was too busy watching the spectacle of each other to bother with the opening of the curtain and the entrance of the first performers on the stage. Morgana smiled to herself, taking in the disorder in the seats below, the ogling going on from box to box, the beautiful music and powerful, stirring voices. But all seemed mere background to the man who sat so near to her, Mr Cyprian Sloane. Cyprian was an odd name, one she’d rarely heard except as another term for harlot. What would it have been like to grow up with such a name? She stole another glance at him, pleased that her cousin sat between them so she could do so without him being aware. He’d said very little to any of them and still less to her, but she thought she perceived a hint of the man who fought with such restrained violence in the park. In a way, fighting in the park seemed a more fitting occupation for him than sitting in an opera box.

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He was not quite focused on the stage, but still on the box where his father sat. There was a story there, she was certain. If she had the opportunity, she might ask him why he was estranged from his family. It was the sort of direct question she often later regretted. Such directness from a lady was not at all the thing. She suspected it was one of the reasons she did not take with young men. It had been four years since she’d last been in a London theatre. She’d been nineteen, like Hannah, and it had been her come-out. But she’d ended that Season without a husband. She’d since decided she was glad of it. Sloane shifted in his seat, and she stole another glance at him, seizing a few seconds to study his strong profile. His looks were faintly Latin, with his dark hair, strong nose and wide mouth. She never would have guessed those gentlemen in the other box were related to him. She’d have more readily believed them related to Hannah. Lord Dorton, his son and grandson all shared the fair hair and complexion she saw so often in England and so rarely in Spain. Sloane turned his head in her direction and she quickly averted her gaze, pretending she’d been watching the stage. She fancied she could feel his grey eyes upon her, and her pulse quickened. For the first time in her life Morgana wished she were her frivolous cousin Hannah. She wished she’d been brought up in an English country house, with an English governess, attended an English girls’ school, and learned to be thrilled with ladylike pastimes and housewifely pursuits. But even so, would Cyprian Sloane be sitting next to her instead of her cousin? She forced her gaze back to the stage. The opera was Penelope, and Morgana thought herself

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fortunate to be present at the soprano’s début performance in the King’s Theatre. Violante Camporese’s voice proved rich and full, and Morgana set herself to focus her attention on the performance. She managed tolerably well, and believed herself in complete mastery of her thoughts when the interval came. A servant arrived with refreshment, but soon nothing would do for Hannah but that she be taken to her bosom friend’s box, and, because she could not go with Sloane alone, they all must go. So Morgana pushed herself through the crush of people all bent on calling upon someone else. She noticed one box with several gentlemen hovering at the door and made a mental note to figure out who was seated there. When they knocked on the door to Miss Poltrop’s box and the young lady saw who’d come to visit her, there were squeals of welcome and hugs between the two friends. The rest packed themselves in and, for a moment, Morgana had to squeeze by Mr Sloane, very aware of where every part of his body touched hers. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in his deep smooth voice, as if he, too, had noticed the contact. Introductions were made. Lady Poltrop and Morgana’s aunt were quickly deep in whispered conversation, and her uncle and Lord Poltrop just as quickly exited the box. While Hannah and her friend Athenia were giggling together, Morgana was momentarily at eye level with the knot in Mr Sloane’s neckcloth. The man had to stand at least six feet tall. ‘Do you enjoy the performance, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely. She had to tilt her head to look at him. ‘Oh, yes. The drama and intrigue. Who is seated with whom? Who is cut and who not? The conquest by man of woman.’ His eyes crinkled in puzzlement.

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She smiled and deliberately fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You meant the performance on stage, perhaps? I was speaking of the entertainment in the boxes and on the floor.’ Then he did a marvellous thing that made her heart quite jump up and down in her throat. He laughed, a deep rumble of a laugh, complete with twinkling eyes and wide grin. Hannah looked over. ‘Mr Sloane, come talk with me and Athenia. We have great need of your company.’ Morgana’s pulse still raced when he moved away without even a look back at her. Her cousin Varney came to her side. ‘Glad to see you out, Morgana.’ She was grateful he’d come to distract her. ‘I am glad to be out at last.’ Varney glanced over to where Hannah stood clutching Sloane’s arm in a lively, giggling conversation with her friend. ‘What do you think of that?’ He bent his head in their direction. Morgana raised her brows. ‘What am I to think? Are they to be engaged? Hannah has said she has hopes of it.’ Varney nodded. ‘Oh, she has hopes, all right. He’s flush enough, to be sure, but I still cannot like it.’ ‘Why?’ Morgana could not help but ask. Varney squirmed a little, glancing back at Sloane. ‘A lot of talk surrounds that fellow. Some people say he was a smuggler during the war, in it for his own profit. He has a reputation as a philanderer and a card player—and not always in gentlemen’s clubs.’ Morgana, too, directed her gaze at Sloane. ‘I cannot think he is the man for Hannah,’ Varney added in a gloomy tone. Sloane looked every bit the part her cousin Varney described. She could more readily see Sloane at the helm of

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some smuggling vessel or seated at a green baize table staring at a hand of cards, than here chatting with two misses in their first Season. Morgana said what she was thinking. ‘Does your father know of this talk? Why would he allow Sloane to court her then?’ Varney grimaced. ‘Truth is, the family needs Hannah to make a good match. A wealthy one, that is. Sloane has been the best prospect thus far, and no one can complain of anything in his recent behaviour.’ ‘He is reformed, do you say?’ ‘I do not say it,’ he protested. ‘But others insist he is reformed. Castlereagh, for example. And the Marquess of Heronvale. Both are known to speak well of him.’ ‘Indeed,’ she mused, more to herself than to him. Lady Cowdlin roused herself from her conversation. ‘Mr Sloane, I believe the performance is due to start soon. We must return to the box before there is a mad rush.’ Sloane responded with great affability, ‘As you wish, my lady.’ Hannah clutched his arm, but spoke to her friend. ‘Athenia, do walk with us. You have not had a promenade yet this evening. You and your mother can walk with us and Varney can escort you back.’ Varney hurried to Athenia’s side, but Hannah insisted he escort the older ladies. Sloane looked at Morgana. It appeared he was the only one who noticed she did not have a man’s arm to hang on to. In any event, she could certainly walk the short distance to the opera box without assistance. The corridors were every bit as congested as they’d been at the start of the intermission. Morgana dived into the crowd, trying to keep up with Varney and Sloane and the ladies on their arms. Sloane looked back once to check on her. If he

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looked back again, she did not know it. She became separated from the group by several men who had left the box she’d been curious of before. One young man gave her a very appraising look, which Morgana returned with a cool repressive one, just before she spied her uncle and Athenia’s father coming out of the box as well. Whose box was it who attracted her uncle and Lord Poltrop and all these other gentlemen? She pushed her way past, calculating that the box was five doors from Mr Sloane’s. She’d gone no more than a yard when he came towards her in the crowd. He gave her his arm. ‘I ought not to have allowed you to proceed unescorted.’ She put her arm through his, thinking of how that arm so lethally had held a sword. ‘I assure you I only had one illicit encounter,’ she quipped. ‘However, I am well able to take care of myself.’ He again gave that devastating smile and leaned down to her ear. ‘I feared I would be compelled to break up another brawl.’ She could not help but laugh in return. ‘You might recall exactly who ended that first brawl.’ They reached the door to his box and halted, each smiling into the other’s eyes. ‘I recall it,’ he said, and for Morgana time seemed to stand still. He opened the door, and the other ladies and Varney were crowded in the box saying their goodbyes. Sloane escorted Morgana to her chair and they were still standing next to each other when her uncle entered. Morgana thought her uncle’s complexion in high colour. She turned to check the boxes, counting carefully to discover who it was he and half the gentlemen in the house visited. In the fifth box over sat a brightly clad, auburn-haired

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woman holding court to several gentlemen who flocked around her. Her dress, while not scandalously low cut, none the less displayed to advantage her ample bosom. She looked the very paragon of fashion and gaiety. The woman caught Morgana’s eye and smiled. ‘Who is she?’ Morgana asked Sloane. He frowned. ‘No one you should know, Miss Hart.’ Morgana glanced back at the woman. ‘Why not? Is she a demi-rep?’ He drew her from the edge of the box, making her turn away from the audience. ‘It would be best for you not to ask about such women.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I am not missish, Mr Sloane, as you well know. My uncle and Lord Poltrop visited that box. I saw them. I would like to know who she is.’ He shushed her again, something that always raised her hackles ever since she’d been a small child. She gave him a direct stare and waited. He returned the stare, much too long for her to be comfortable. Finally, he spoke, ‘That is Harriette Wilson. She is a celebrated courtesan and not the sort of person a young lady of your station should know about.’ Morgana persisted, now more out of a desire to deflate his sudden prosiness than out of curiosity about the captivating Harriette Wilson. ‘Do you know her?’ He paused, their gazes still locked. ‘I am acquainted with her.’ She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, when Hannah hurried over. Her friend had left, and she’d undoubtedly noticed her gentleman-of-choice had engaged in a brief conversation with someone other than herself. The orchestra sounded its first chords and they all took their seats, Morgana feeling more stimulated by the brief

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conversation with Mr Sloane than anything else of that evening. She consoled herself that, since Sloane was Hannah’s probable fiancé, she might have other opportunities to converse with him. She peeked at him. He would make an interesting friend, and she could content herself with that. Her gaze wandered back to Harriette Wilson. No one in that box paid the least attention to the performance on stage. They were riveted on Miss Wilson, who exuded self-assurance and charm, as well as a frankly sensuous appearance. Even Morgana could recognise her allure, though she could not explain it. Suffice to say the gentlemen flocked around her, even though she was not a young woman, perhaps even near her father’s age. Miss Wilson looked in the direction of their box, but not at Morgana this time. At Sloane. What precisely had Sloane meant by being ‘acquainted’ with the celebrated courtesan?

Chapter Three

B

y the next afternoon, Morgana had quite settled in her mind that these frequent thoughts of Cyprian Sloane were entirely due to a month of inactivity and near social isolation. With the delivery of several dresses and more to come, she would soon have additional things to think about. This night she would attend Almack’s with Aunt Winnie and Hannah and was quite happy that her new peach muslin was finished and ready to wear. Of course, Morgana wondered if Sloane would find it becoming on her. She squared her shoulders. She was thinking nonsense again. Besides, it was entirely possible he would not even attend Almack’s. Morgana donned her bonnet and walked out to the small patch of garden behind the town house, where Lucy, on her knees, was pulling weeds. ‘Hello, Lucy.’ The girl gave her no more than a brief glance before turning back to tug at some raggedy green invader among a small patch of lavender. ‘Good afternoon, miss.’ Morgana sat on the stone bench near where Lucy worked.

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The afternoon was warm enough for the lightest wrap and the sky was overcast with milky white clouds. ‘I thought now might be a good time for us to chat.’ Lucy tugged at another weed. ‘If you say so, miss.’ Morgana sighed. She might be pulling teeth, not weeds, for how easy this would be. ‘I do wish you would tell me— explain if you can—why you went with that man yesterday.’ ‘I met him when I was at the shops.’ Lucy patted the dirt where it had loosened around the violets, not answering the question at all. ‘Did he approach you? What did he say to you?’ Morgana could not believe any girl would be so foolish as to allow such a man to speak to her. ‘You have the wrong of it.’ Lucy sat back on her heels and looked up at Morgana. ‘’Twas I spoke to him. I knew what he was. He’s been about before.’ ‘You approached him?’ Lucy nodded. ‘You’ll want to know why, but I don’t think it proper to tell a lady, such as y’rself.’ Morgana tried not to frown. ‘I assure you, Lucy. I have lived in the world. You will not shock me.’ Lucy’s eyes flashed sceptically. ‘You’ll not tell my sister?’ Morgana shook her head. ‘I will not.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘I suppose it don’t matter if you do. You’ll be letting me go after you hear what I done and then I’ll be gone anyway and none of m’family will speak to me then.’ ‘I’m not trying to discover a way to be rid of you, Lucy.’ The sceptical look returned, as well as another shrug. ‘Well, I’ll tell you and we’ll see.’ She changed positions, sitting crosslegged at the edge of the flower bed. ‘You were told us Jenkins girls was honest, clean girls and that’s true enough of Amy.’ ‘But not of you?’ Morgana tried to sound accepting of whatever the story would be.

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‘Nay, miss. I’m a bad girl.’ She stared directly in Morgana’s eyes. ‘I’ve done it with men, you know. You know. Fornicating.’ Morgana remained steady. ‘Go on.’ ‘More than once, miss. A lot of times, since I became pretty, you know. This man, he said I was friendly-like. He said he could tell that about me.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t know how he meant that at first, but then he showed me.’ Oh, dear God. When had this happened? The girl was only eighteen. ‘He gave me money for it,’ Lucy added. ‘So I did it again.’ Morgana closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I won’t tell you who it was, miss, so don’t ask me,’ she blurted in unnecessary defiance. ‘Coming here didn’t seem right, you see, after all that. You thinkin’ I was a good girl and treating me and Amy so nice.’ Morgana reached out to the girl, touching her on the shoulder. ‘Of course I would treat you nicely.’ Lucy pulled away, fat tears filling her eyes. She rose to her feet. From under her wide-brimmed garden hat her smooth complexion turned a becoming shade of pink. A breeze blew her simple maid’s dress against her body, showing the lush shape of her figure. The bow of her mouth trembled and one tear slid slowly down her cheek. Morgana could easily imagine what that man had seen in the girl. God help her, could Morgana witness another girl lost to such a life? She could still see that young Portuguese girl who’d climbed over the wall into her father’s property. Morgana brought her food and spoke to her in her halting Portuguese. Morgana had been thirteen and the girl of a similar age. As two children in a garden would naturally do, they played together. The Portuguese girl carried a rag doll and Morgana

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ran to get her doll as well. They’d spent a pleasant hour, feeding and rocking their dolls. Morgana impulsively traded her fine china doll for the girl’s dirty rag doll, and she could still remember the light in the girl’s eyes as she looked upon the gift. Morgana had made a friend, one her own age. It had been an event so rare she could scarcely recall any others. Then the housekeeper had discovered them and chased the girl away. As she scrambled over the wall, the doll fell from her arms and shattered on the ground. She’d seen the Portuguese girl a year later, leaning out of a window, her breasts almost bare, her eyes hard and empty, while another woman, dressed equally shockingly, called to the soldiers in the street to come to have a good time. Morgana stood and again placed her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Lucy, please do not do anything rash. Do not go back to that man.’ Through her tears, Lucy gave her a rebellious look. ‘I already gave a boy a penny to take the dress back, but I dunno how long I can stay.’ ‘You may stay as long as you like, Lucy,’ Morgana said quietly. The girl shook her head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand, miss. I liked what the man done to me. I liked the money. Men pay lots of money. Why would I want to be hauling water and mucking out fireplaces and scrubbing and dusting all day when men give me more money for a few minutes of frolicking?’ It was true a maid’s life was not an easy one, but what would be the cost of Lucy selling herself for a man’s pleasure? ‘There is no future for you with a man like the one in the park. That is no good, Lucy.’ ‘I won’t go with that man, miss. Not after what he done, with that knife and all, but more I cannot say.’

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Morgana had to content herself with that. Lucy whirled around and ran back into the house while Morgana turned, crossing her arms over her chest. A man’s face appeared through the bushes where the brick wall should be. She gave a startled cry. ‘The mortar,’ he said. ‘Mortar?’ Through a gap in the wall separating her garden from the one next to it, she saw a young man dressed in a dark brown coat and fawn trousers. ‘The mortar must have been inferior. This part of the wall has crumbled.’ That fact was obvious now. She’d not spent enough time in the garden to notice before. He smiled apologetically. ‘I beg your pardon, miss. I…I did not mean to eavesdrop…’ ‘You heard everything?’ ‘I heard enough,’ he admitted, blushing scarlet. ‘Then I must ask for your silence.’ She stared at him, attempting to assess his character. He bowed. ‘Aaron Elliot at your service, miss. I was examining the property. It is for sale. I must note the wall.’ Elliot? That was the name of Sloane’s secretary. Her curiosity increased. She extended her hand through the wall. ‘I am Miss Morgana Hart.’ He shook her hand self-consciously, letting go quickly. ‘Will your maidservant be all right?’ Morgana shrugged. ‘I do not know. For the moment, I hope.’ ‘Poor creature,’ he whispered, instantly endearing himself to her and leaving her certain he would not spread tales about Miss Morgana Hart’s maid. ‘I may rely on your silence, then?’ She was already sure of his response.

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‘Indeed. You have my word upon it.’ She nodded. ‘I thank you, sir.’ She gave him a faint smile. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’ Then she turned and went back inside the house, entirely approving of Mr Sloane’s selection of secretary. She’d always believed that the quality of the servant reflected the quality of the employer, though what it said about her that she would wish to hang on to a maid who’d admitted such a moral lapse as Lucy had done, she could not guess. Another thought crept in, one that put completely out of her mind the intention of informing Cripps about the wall. What if Mr Sloane purchased the property next door? That evening Sloane surveyed the unremarkable décor and the predictable company, and lamented the sacrifices he must make in his quest for respectability. Almack’s. Was there any place so tedious? Still, he crossed the room to pay his respects to the patronesses. Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey were keeping watch over their domain this night. He bowed before Lady Castlereagh, not missing Lady Jersey’s disapproving frown. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ He turned to Lady Jersey. ‘And to you, ma’am. It is an honour to be here this evening.’ He hoped his deference to the great Lady Jersey, who was known for her high opinion of herself and arbitrary opinion of others, would inch him towards her approval. Her frown eased just a bit. ‘Good evening, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Castlereagh offered her hand and he raised it lightly to his lips. ‘I am so pleased you have come. Tell us, what do you think of our young ladies? Is there anyone to whom I might present you?’ Sloane gave his most polite, agreeable expression. ‘I would

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be honoured to be introduced to any young lady you think suitable.’ Lady Castlereagh turned to her companion. ‘Who do you suggest, Sally?’ Lady Jersey puffed up in importance. ‘You, sir, are acquainted with Lady Hannah, Cowdlin’s girl. She is an unexceptionable choice for you, but we might also introduce you to Miss Simpson, Lord Kettleton’s youngest. There is a tolerable dowry there, I am sure, though the family has launched three other daughters. Lady Kettleton is an annoying person, a bit common in her manner, but you could do worse in her daughter.’ ‘The girl is a shy little thing,’ Lady Castlereagh added. ‘But a nice well-mannered girl.’ He could not think of a young lady who suited him less than a shy, nice, well-mannered girl. ‘If you both desire it, I shall be happy to make her acquaintance.’ Lady Jersey herself led him over to where Miss Simpson sat with her mother. Sloane saw the mother’s flash of disfavour and the daughter’s eye-widening fear as that notorious rake, Cyprian Sloane, approached her. The poor child had little to fear from him. He was reasonably certain he would make formal his interest in Lady Hannah, but to be respectable he must not appear to show favour until ready to declare himself. He was not certain precisely why he was not yet ready. He bowed politely to Lady Kettleton and her daughter, and just as politely asked the girl to join him in the set that was at that moment forming. With a frightened glance to her mother and Lady Jersey, Miss Simpson nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. They took their places for the country dance near where

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the musicians played in the balcony. Sloane leaned towards his terrified partner. ‘I beg your assistance, Miss Simpson. Tell me if I make a misstep. I become a bit nervous in a crowd such as this.’ Her eyes widened even more. ‘You become nervous?’ No, truthfully, Sloane never became nervous. And he hardly ever turned the wrong way in a country dance or trod on a lady’s toes. He merely wished to put the girl at ease. If she saw him as less than an ogre—or less than a shocking rake—she might relax and at least enjoy the set. ‘Does not everyone become nervous around so many people?’ He tried to school his features into those of a self-conscious dancer. Her eyes still mimicked saucers as the dance began, but she soon showed that she took his request very seriously. She quietly cued him on what step came next and complimented him when he made a correct figure. She was so absorbed in his performance, she appeared to have totally forgotten herself. As they moved down the line, the fear on her face had vanished, replaced by a rather sweet smile. The set was long and boring, but Sloane congratulated himself on giving Miss Simpson a bit of confidence. When he finally returned her to her still-disapproving mother, she glanced around the room with more interest than fear. He bowed and bid her goodnight. As he turned from her, he saw Lady Hannah enter the room. Rather he should say that he saw Miss Hart enter the room, accompanied by Lady Hannah and her mother, for it was Miss Hart who captured his gaze first. Because of her gown, he told himself. It was the colour of an evening sunset, the sort of soft orange that sometimes lights the horizon. Miss Hart’s gown caught the eye more readily than a white one festooned with pink ribbons, flounces and silk flowers.

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It might cause talk if he immediately approached them, so he walked to a corner of the room and stood at the crowd’s edge. The two young ladies followed Lady Cowdlin to a bevy of dowagers and chaperons, obviously of Lady Cowdlin’s acquaintance. Miss Hart turned to survey the room. She caught sight of him, hesitating a moment as she did. Sloane experienced a spark of awareness, but he would not credit that. It would merely be due to the high drama of their first encounter, that was all. A memory of danger and excitement often was accompanied by the same surge of emotions the real incident created. Why, he could not go down to the docks without reliving the macabre thrill of battling the French spy he’d been tracking, of the viciousness of the fight, and ultimate victory when his sword plunged deeply into the man’s chest. Blinking away that memory, Sloane nodded slightly to acknowledge Miss Hart. She smiled, and her gaze eventually travelled on. A familiar young man he’d not noticed before walked over to him. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Sloane was momentarily without speech. The young man smiled. ‘I am your nephew, David Sloane.’ Sloane shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I confess I am surprised…’ No member of his family had spoken to him or called on him or otherwise acknowledged his presence since he had arrived in town. He took a breath and extended his hand. ‘How do you do, David.’ The young man accepted the handshake warmly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Uncle.’ This nephew had been a mere lad, not even old enough for school, when Sloane, then a youth himself, had last seen him. It had been during a rare holiday from school that Sloane spent with the family. He recalled his father being in some

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towering rage, the reason escaping him. Perhaps he’d been caught downing ale with the field hands at the pub, or had it been the time he’d overturned his father’s new gig? Did his nephew’s memories of Uncle Cyprian include hearing the Earl’s barrage of verbal abuse and his stinging lashes with a whip? If the young man were spared such memories, as Sloane was not, he was certain the Earl and David’s father would have supplied other evidence of Uncle Cyprian’s total moral collapse. David smiled again. ‘I had wanted to make myself known to you before, but I’d not found the opportunity.’ Sloane gave him a grave look. ‘Your father and grandfather will not approve of your speaking to me.’ The young man laughed. ‘I dare say not, but I assure you, I am not in agreement with them. Frankly, I think it does our family discredit to cut you off without a word.’ Our family? Sloane was amused at his nephew’s words. David’s father had been born to the Earl of Dorton’s first wife—the virtuous wife. Sloane’s mother was not virtuous. She’d had a fairly public liaison with a dashing but impoverished Italian count, and, though the Earl of Dorton had declared Sloane his son, it was widely bandied about that Sloane was the product of that rollicking affair. Indeed, the Earl, the man he called father, had branded him with the name Cyprian lest anyone forget what his mother was. What he was. From the time Sloane was old enough to understand these matters, the Earl had made certain the boy knew how good the Earl had been to acknowledge him as his son, how hard the Earl had tried to keep Sloane’s mother on the country estate, how she ultimately left them both when Sloane was not yet three years old, running off to Paris with her count.

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How she and the man who sired him got caught in the revolutionary upheaval there and, as titled persons, went to their deaths on the guillotine. Sloane wrenched his thoughts back to this nephew. ‘Your grandfather will be angry, I dare say.’ And, like as not, would place the blame at Sloane’s feet. His nephew’s eyes twinkled. ‘I shall plead an attack of Christian charity. Grandfather will not dare argue on that score.’ Sloane could not help but laugh. ‘I trust the Earl is in good health? And your father as well?’ The young man replied, ‘My father is quite robust. Grandfather fatigues easily, although he will never admit to any weakness. Otherwise he is much as he has always been.’ Trying to still the flood of painful memories that suddenly assaulted him, Sloane asked other polite questions about the health of other relations who would, like as not, cross a street to avoid having to greet him. David answered just as politely, with an open countenance that led Sloane to think his sentiments might be genuine. The young man’s looks were more poetic than manly, with features that in the father appeared weak, but in the son seemed kind. Sloane could not help but like him. As they chatted, Sloane kept half an eye on Lady Hannah— and her cousin. The two ladies left the chaperons and were slowly promenading around the room, stopping to chat with Lady Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends. They eventually came near enough for Lady Hannah to feign surprise at seeing him. ‘Why, Mr Sloane, how delightful to see you here tonight. You recall my cousin, Miss Hart.’ Sloane gave Miss Hart an amused glance. ‘Yes, Miss Hart. I am able to recall our first meeting quite well, I assure you.’ Miss Hart’s lips twitched. Lady Hannah gave a tittering laugh, placing her hand

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briefly on Sloane’s arm. She turned to his nephew, waiting for the introduction. Sloane obliged. ‘Lady Hannah and Miss Hart, may I present Mr David Sloane.’ He deliberately withheld their relationship, lest it put David in an awkward position. His nephew bowed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart. Mr Sloane is my uncle, you know.’ ‘Oh, is that not splendid!’ Lady Hannah cooed, more automatically than genuinely. ‘Tell me, are you gentlemen enjoying the assembly tonight?’ Enjoy would not be a word Sloane would attach to Almack’s. His nephew answered first. ‘I assure you, my lady. I begin to enjoy myself immensely.’ Lady Hannah blushed prettily and tittered again. Not only poetical looks, Sloane thought in amusement, but a tongue to go with them. He glanced at Miss Hart, who returned a knowing smile. ‘Are you gentlemen not dancing?’ Lady Hannah piped up, with a flutter of eyelashes. Undoubtedly this had been her objective all along. To work her way around the room to Sloane’s side, so he could be the first gentleman to ask her to dance. ‘The next set is a waltz,’ she added significantly. Before Sloane could open his mouth, David spoke, ‘I would be honoured to be your partner, my lady. There is nothing I could desire more.’ He accompanied this speech with a suitably earnest look. ‘Oh.’ Hannah blushed again, clearly pleased. ‘Then I suppose we must dance, sir.’ She turned to Sloane. ‘Would you be so good as to ask my cousin to dance? I would not wish to leave her standing alone.’ Sloane disliked her ordering him around every bit as much as he had the ruffian in the park. He was not some besotted

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slave devoted to her every whim, but he gave an assenting nod. David lost no time in whisking her on to the dance floor as the music started. Sloane turned to Miss Hart. She gave him a level look. ‘My cousin presumes too much, Mr Sloane. You are under no obligation to ask me to dance if you do not wish it. I am well able to walk across the room and rejoin my aunt.’ He understood the irritation in her voice, so like his own, but if she walked away from him, someone was certain to spread the tale that the notorious Cyprian Sloane had been rejected by a mere baron’s daughter. That would cost him. Besides, should he allow Lady Hannah’s presumption to stop him from doing what he longed to do? He raised his brows to Miss Hart and spoke with deliberate exaggeration. ‘And what if I have pined for just such an opportunity?’ She immediately caught his humour. ‘Flummery, sir.’ He extended his hand to her. ‘I would truly be greatly honoured, Miss Hart.’ Her ginger eyes were unreadable for a second. Then she accepted his hand with a very gracious smile. ‘I confess, I long to dance.’ Sloane liked the feeling of leading her on to the dance floor and taking their places in the waltz. He put his arm at her back and she placed hers on his shoulder. He waited a moment to capture the beat of the music, then led her into the dance, twirling her to the music. With her height, he had only to bend his head a trifle to look into her face. Her eyes, softening into pools of golden warmth, were even more entrancing at such an intimate distance. She followed his steps as if they were one person. He stopped even thinking of the dance, and merely allowed the

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music to carry them along. ‘This is not so bad, is it, Miss Hart?’ She smiled, creating tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘It is better than a walk in the park.’ He laughed aloud and her smile widened. He twirled her around twice more and she looked up into his face. ‘I thought you were estranged from your family.’ He almost missed a step. Most ladies talked of trifling matters during a dance. ‘That is one of the tales told of me. What others have you heard?’ She blinked rapidly and glanced away, but brought her gaze back to his. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ Two spots of pink touched her cheeks. ‘I often speak before thinking. It is one of my most vexing faults. I did not intend to be so rude.’ He’d not expected that response. They swirled round the room in silence. Her expression took on a determined look when she spoke again. ‘The weather was lovely today, was it not?’ He laughed again. ‘I concede defeat, Miss Hart. Spare me talk of the weather. You may grill me to your heart’s content.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘May I?’ ‘Only if I may ask questions in return, such as, why were you in a tug of war with a scoundrel in Hyde Park?’ ‘Shh!’ Her eyes darted to and fro as if searching for eavesdroppers. She raised them to him again. ‘Now it is I who concede defeat. There is nothing left for us to speak of except the activities of other people, and I have no gossip at all to share, only being out in public these two days.’ He joined in her bantering. ‘And I am loathe to talk of others lest they talk of me, though I have never been successful at stopping them.’ She made her eyes big, but they were dancing with mischief. ‘Is there so much about you to be discussed?’

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How unlike the frightened Miss Simpson, he thought, who needed protection from his disreputable self. Miss Hart was made of sterner stuff. But he’d known that from the first sight of her. ‘We are at a stand again.’ She laughed. They went round and round with the music, in a companionable silence that did not entirely suit him. His expression turned more serious. ‘I was surprised when my nephew approached me,’ he said. ‘He is the first of my family to have done so in years.’ She answered quietly, ‘I will not ask why, I promise you.’ Sloane’s smile was not mirthful. ‘Why he speaks to me? I cannot think why he should do so. Or did you mean why I am estranged? Why the respectable Earl of Dorton does not speak to his son? You will hear those stories soon enough, I am sure.’ She kept her gaze steady. ‘Shall I believe them?’ ‘Some of them,’ he admitted. She nodded gravely, but with something that almost smacked of understanding. He must be careful. She could be like some of the women he met during the war, who could be as understanding as necessary in order to worm out confidences and sell them to the highest bidder. He’d been that high bidder some of the time. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut and reveal only what he wished them to know. This was not war, with the lives of thousands of soldiers at stake, but rather his own personal campaign to conquer the ton. No matter how intrigued he was by this woman, he dared show her only what he wished her to see. ‘You have not been in town long, Miss Hart?’A change of subject was always a good tactic. A fleeting smile crossed her face. ‘We are back to polite conversation, are we? Yes. Lately from Paris.’

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‘And did you like Paris?’ he went on. Faint lines creased her brow. ‘I confess, I could not like the gaiety, as if all the horror of the past twenty-five years had not emanated from that place.’ Another response to render him speechless. He’d had the same feeling when visiting the city, both during and after the war, but he’d thought his reaction personal. She did tempt him to let down his guard. That would be all he needed. To let slip one of the shocking events of his life, what he had sunk to in the name of King and country—and before—so that she might inform her uncle and ruin his well-laid plans. By the time the set had ended they were a gloomy duo, but both plastered smiles on their faces when Lady Hannah, David Sloane in tow, rejoined them. Morgana only half-listened to the conversation between her cousin and her two admirers. What had happened? One minute during that glorious waltz with Sloane they had been bantering as friends. The next minute he had retreated from her entirely. She had only asked one impertinent question, but had withdrawn it almost as the words left her mouth. Maybe it had been her frankness about Paris. Perhaps she ought to have gushed over the beauty of the city, the delicious food, the fashionable gowns and hats. That was what Hannah would have done, and it was Hannah who had captured his interest. Hannah and Mr David Sloane took no notice when Morgana backed away, but she caught Sloane staring at her as she walked over to two young ladies Hannah had introduced her to before the ill-fated waltz. When the next set formed, one of the gentlemen in their group asked her to dance. She thought Sloane’s eyes followed her as she stepped on to the floor.

Chapter Four

Two days later Sloane sat at his desk, gazing at the paper his secretary placed in his hand. ‘Culross Street?’ He glanced at the young man standing before him. ‘It is an ideal situation, sir.’ Mr Elliot spoke earnestly. ‘Completely furnished, and in a manner that is presentable— if not in the latest style. There are servants eager to retain employment, and the owner is done up and desperate for cash.’ Sloane read the paper again. ‘But Culross Street?’ Mr Elliot’s brow wrinkled. ‘I assure you, Mr Sloane, Culross Street is a very sought-after address. I took the liberty of making the agreement in your name—’ The young man stepped back as Sloane half-rose from his chair. ‘You made the agreement?’ ‘As you gave me liberty to do, sir,’ Elliot reminded him, with an indignant lift of his chin. ‘If we had delayed, another buyer would have snapped it up, and I vow there were no other suitable properties in all of Mayfair. None that would allow you to move in directly.’ Sloane sat back down. Culross Street was a small one, to

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be sure, but there must be at least a dozen town houses on it. What were the odds of being too close to Miss Hart? He began to calculate the numbers, as if this were a game of cards, but caught himself and waved his hand in impatience. Decidedly easier to ask. ‘Elliot, I am acquainted with a resident on that street. A Miss Hart. Can you tell me where this house of yours—I mean, mine—is situated in relation to hers?’ The young man beamed. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hart. She would be right next door.’ Sloane groaned. ‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Elliot blinked, clearly baffled. Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’ Nothing amiss. He was merely moving next door to a single lady, the cousin of the woman he intended to marry. What could be amiss? Only that someone was certain to attribute some lascivious meaning to the event and spread gossip. Why could Elliot not have put him next to some widowed viscountess or some such? ‘You gave me authority to make this decision,’ Elliot added defensively. ‘Yes, yes.’ Sloane rubbed his face and straightened in his chair. ‘Well, it is settled and I am sure you have done well. We did not foresee this peculiar circumstance.’ ‘I have met the lady, sir, and she is perfectly respectable, I assure you.’ ‘You met her?’ ‘Quite by chance. I could not see any difficulty there.’ No, but Sloane could. He ought to have been wise enough to warn Elliot not to place him in any close proximity to a single lady of any age. But the cousin of his intended? Miss Hart, of all ladies. Nothing could be done. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. ‘When do I take possession?’

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Elliot brightened. ‘Today, if you like. The papers will be here for you to sign this morning.’ The chair nearly slipped out from under him. ‘Give me a day or so. You may take possession today, however, and make sure all is in order for me.’ Sloane needed a few days, if for nothing else, to alert the Cowdlins of his move. Would Lady Hannah dislike him living nearly in the pocket of her cousin? He was certain her father would. ‘Come with me, Lucy.’ Morgana practically had to drag the maid out of doors into the fine spring weather. She’d invented the excuse of desiring a walk in the park and needing a companion. Though it was not the fashionable hour, the park would be busy with other townspeople this fine day. A lady walking with her maid would not be remarked upon. In some ways Morgana felt more kinship with her servants than with the few family members she possessed. The Cowdlins, including Hannah and Varney, treated her more as an obligation than a beloved relation, and her grandmother, the dear lady, could not even remember who Morgana was. It had not been much different growing up with her father. Baron Hart was always much too busy with some diplomatic crisis or another to attend to a little girl. As a result, Morgana had always formed attachments to the others around her, servants and governesses, short-lived as they were with her father’s frequent moves. It seemed natural for Morgana to consider Lucy’s problems as her own. She hoped to brighten the girl’s mood and encourage her to stay. But Lucy tied the ribbons of her bonnet with a desultory air. Determined to be cheerful, Morgana led the girl to the pavement. As they neared the corner of the street, a gentleman approached. He tipped his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hart.’

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It was Mr Sloane’s secretary. ‘How do you do, Mr Elliot. How nice to see you again.’ Mr Elliot’s eyes wandered to Lucy, and she, in turn, regarded him shyly from beneath her long lashes. Morgana did so like this young man. His expression towards the maid held nothing but kindness. ‘My maid and I are going for a walk in the park.’ He touched the brim of his hat again. ‘I will not detain you.’ Lucy lagged behind Morgana as they crossed the street and turned towards one of the park entrances. As Morgana had anticipated, there were plenty of people enjoying the fine day. Governesses letting their charges run about while they passed time flirting with young men. Shopgirls and workmen eyeing each other with interest. There was even the occasional curricle and cavalryman exercising his horse. They walked in silence for a very long time. As they reached the Serpentine and stood gazing at the water, Lucy spoke. ‘I think I’ll be leaving your house, miss.’ Morgana turned to her. ‘Oh, no, Lucy!’ The girl kept her gaze on the water. ‘I cannot stay. I’ve been thinking about it all the time. I must go.’ ‘You cannot.’ She felt like grabbing Lucy and shaking sense into her. ‘The life you seek is no life for any girl.’ Lucy lifted a hand to her brow. ‘Lots of girls is in it, miss. I heard of a madam who treats her girls fair well.’ A madam. Morgana cringed at the thought of Lucy in such an establishment, where men came to pay for favours. Neither love nor the creation of children would enter into the transaction. Why, Lucy might catch a disease, one that could kill her. Morgana had learned about such things when she kept her father’s house in Spain. She’d overheard plenty from the men

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who called upon her father and from servants’ talk. And, of course, the memory of the Portuguese girl always hovered in the recesses of her mind. She wanted to spare Lucy such a life, but what did she have to offer her in exchange? A life of hard work, no matter how kind she was as an employer? ‘Lucy, what if I could procure some other sort of work for you?’ ‘Like what, miss?’ Lucy asked, with little interest. Morgana thought for a moment. It would be difficult to convince anyone to hire a maid to do another sort of job, but she could at least try. ‘In a shop, perhaps.’ ‘And stand on my feet all day? I could not do it.’ Lucy shook her head. Morgana racked her brain to think of other jobs. For every one, Lucy gave an excuse. A nurse? Lucy hated sick people. A governess? Worse than a maid, Lucy vowed. Besides she was not good at learning. A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes. ‘What if I set you up in a business, like a shop of some sort?’ Morgana was grasping at straws, but she could probably get her father to release enough money for a little shop. ‘I cannot do sums, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said. ‘Besides, m’mind’s made up on the matter. I’m going to go to the bawdy house.’ Morgana took Lucy’s hands in hers and made the girl face her. ‘I believe you are making a very bad mistake, Lucy.’ She spoke in a calm but firm voice. ‘It is not too late to live a virtuous life. I am happy to employ you and keep you as part of my household. I will not make you work too hard. In time you will meet a young man who will want to marry you—’ ‘No!’ Lucy wrenched out of her grasp. ‘There is no mar-

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riage for a girl like me. I want to go to the madam. She pays her girls well, I heard. That is what I want, Miss Hart. I want money and pretty dresses.’ It was no use. Morgana stared at Lucy for a long time, but could think of nothing else to say. Finally, she turned back in the direction they had come. ‘Let us make our way home.’ They returned to the path. Walking silently a few steps in front of Lucy, Morgana waited while a carriage rumbled past. Through the carriage window she spied the auburn-haired woman she’d seen at the opera. Harriette Wilson. The woman laughed gaily and happened to turn towards Morgana, giving her a smile of recognition and of something else—something rather smug and defiant, Morgana thought. Next to Miss Wilson, Morgana spied a gentleman, but she could not see who it was. The carriage, however, was an expensive one, and the horses, matched bays, were very fine indeed. After the carriage passed, Morgana could not make herself move. She was frozen by a thought flying through her head. ‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly. Morgana swung around and grabbed the girl by the upper arms. ‘Lucy, I have an idea. A much better idea than you running off to that bawdy house!’ Lucy tried to pull away. ‘I’m not staying, miss. My mind is made up.’ ‘Oh, yes! You will stay! For a while at least.’ Morgana knew this idea was mad, but rather than consign Lucy to a life akin to slavery, she could set the girl free. ‘You do not have to be beholden to a madam or a procurer or any of those sordid persons. You can be like that woman who just drove by!’ Lucy gaped at her as if she were indeed bound for Bedlam. ‘I cannot be like her, miss! She was a lady.’

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Morgana laughed. ‘No, Lucy, that’s the thing! She was not a lady. She was a courtesan!’ Lucy regarded her with a blank expression. Morgana explained what a courtesan was. For the rest of the walk home, she talked about how handsomely gentlemen paid for the favours of such women. How courtesans could own property and fine clothes and jewels. She explained that a courtesan did not have to obey the dictates of a brothel madam. She did not have to take just any man into her bed. A courtesan could choose her gentlemen, and no one could tell her what to do. A courtesan could look gay and carefree like Harriette Wilson, not empty and hopeless like the Portuguese girl. ‘But I do not know how to be a courtesan!’ Lucy protested. ‘I shall teach you,’ Morgana said, her excitement building. ‘You, miss?’ Lucy cried in horrified tones. ‘Well, I cannot teach you all of it,’ Morgana admitted. ‘But I know how to teach you to walk and talk and dress. We shall find tutors for the rest.’ This was the right course, Morgana knew. How to precisely bring it all about was less certain, but she was determined to save Lucy from the bleak existence of a common whore. If she could not convince the girl to live a virtuous life, at least she could train her to be as gay and free and flush with funds as Harriette Wilson. They had reached the house and Morgana stopped before the front door. ‘What say you, Lucy?’ Lucy stared down at the pavement. As Cripps opened the door for them, she looked up at Morgana. ‘I will do it, Miss Hart.’ Morgana grasped her hand and squeezed it, then she led the maid into the house past the butler, who, Morgana suspected, did not approve of her friendly manner towards a lower servant.

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*** Sloane sounded the knocker to the Cowdlin town house. When he gained entrance, he handed his hat, gloves and stick to the butler. ‘Shall I announce you, sir? Lady Cowdlin is receiving callers in the drawing room,’ the butler said. ‘Is Lord Cowdlin at home? If so, I would request a few moments of his time.’ Sloane was engaged to drive Lady Hannah and her insipid friend, Miss Poltrop, in the park. He’d deliberately arrived early to see Lord Cowdlin. The butler bowed and made his dignified way up the stairs. Sloane cooled his heels. While he waited, a footman answered another knock. His nephew stepped into the hall and handed the footman his card. ‘Lady Cowdlin, if she is receiving callers.’ Sloane would have wagered his new home it was not the mother David had come to see. The young man looked over and noticed him. ‘Oh, Uncle. Good to see you.’ He strode over and extended his hand. Sloane accepted the handshake, but with an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘Calling upon Lady Cowdlin, I hear?’ David responded with an abashed expression. ‘I thought I might. And you?’ Sloane glanced towards the stairway. It was taking a devil of a long time for the butler to return with Lord Cowdlin’s response. ‘Lord Cowdlin first, I hope.’ David’s brows shot up. ‘Are you making an offer, Uncle Cyprian?’ ‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. That ought to be his errand, but Sloane, who usually acted with dispatch over important matters, continued to drag his feet on this one. He told himself he hesitated only to give Lord Cowdlin time to accommodate to the idea.

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A sudden thought occurred to him. He peered at his nephew. ‘Are you making an offer?’ David shook his head. ‘I cannot make an offer to any woman. At the moment, I have nothing but an allowance and prospects. It will be another three years before my trust provides me the means to support a wife.’ How like the Earl to have control of the boy’s money for as long as he could. ‘I see,’ was all Sloane said. The footman came for David long before the butler reappeared for Sloane. ‘His lordship will see you now.’ Sloane followed the butler to Lord Cowdlin’s library. He barely looked up from the papers at the desk in front of him. It was a rudeness Sloane would not let pass. When the butler bowed himself out, Sloane approached the desk. ‘You make no secret of your dislike, sir.’ Sloane made certain he spoke these words in a casual manner. Lord Cowdlin shot to attention. ‘What? What?’ Sloane gave him a knowing smile. ‘You do not rise to greet me. I assure you, sir, if you are so busy, you ought not to have received me.’ Cowdlin glared at him. ‘Well, what do you want?’ Sloane made the man wait, but he stared at him until Cowdlin squirmed in his leather chair. Cowdlin was no match for him. Sloane had sat across a card table from many a man just like Cowdlin, men who fancied themselves gamesters but who only had the skill to drive themselves into dun territory. Sloane would play his hand with Cowdlin with cunning and resolve. He would comport himself as a gentleman. ‘I wish to do you the honour of informing you of my purchase of a property in Mayfair.’ ‘That is it? You waste my precious time to tell me you bought a house?’ Cowdlin huffed with indignity. ‘I came to tell you, before someone else bandied the story

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about, that I have purchased the town house next door to your wife’s niece.’ Cowdlin stood. ‘What? What nefarious plans are you hatching, sir?’ Sloane gave him a level gaze. ‘My secretary was charged with securing a property for me. He did as I’d wished and found precisely the place I required at the right price. The bargain was secured before he knew I was acquainted with Miss Hart.’ ‘You expect me to believe this?’ Cowdlin barked. Sloane slid into an ironic smile. ‘No, I do not expect you to believe it. But it is the truth, and because of your connection to the young lady, I bring you the news first.’ ‘If I hear of any of your mischief towards my niece—’ ‘What sort of mischief, Cowdlin?’ Sloane broke in. ‘I am desirous to know.’ The short, round man stood and raised himself to his full height. ‘You know very well what your reputation is, sir.’ ‘Ah…’ Sloane pretended to relax. He strolled over to the library window and back again to Cowdlin’s desk. ‘The thing is, I do not know. What is my reputation, sir?’ ‘Why…why…why…that of a womaniser. And a bounder.’ A bit of spittle dripped from Cowdlin’s lip. ‘Precisely what have I done? I am not aware of ill using any female, though I confess to having a man’s needs. The ladies involved generally have not complained.’ ‘Well, there is how you made your money during the war. Smuggling. Bah! Answer that, will you?’ Sloane had no intention of breaking his word of silence about his war activities, not for this foolish fellow. He leaned casually on the desk, bringing his face closer to Cowdlin’s. ‘And, you, sir, did you forgo your brandy during the conflict? Did Lady Cowdlin or Lady Hannah never wish for French silk? How did you come by such items?’

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‘Well…!’ Cowdlin began, but he looked down at his desk and fussed with his papers. ‘Let me speak plainly, sir,’ Sloane said. ‘You are a man in need of money, with a daughter in need of a husband. I have the wealth you desire and am an eligible suitor. Can you afford to earn my dislike?’ To his credit, Lord Cowdlin met Sloane’s gaze. ‘Are you making an offer for my daughter?’ It was the perfect time to do so. Sloane had only to form the words. He could not. ‘I will make a formal offer if and when I choose to do so. But if you intend to refuse me, it would suit me well enough to be told now.’ Cowdlin averted his eyes. ‘I do not refuse such an offer at this time.’ Sloane stepped back from the desk. ‘Very well. With your permission I will then keep my appointment with your daughter and her friend to drive through the park.’ Cowdlin nodded. Sloane bowed and strode out of the room. He was more quickly admitted into the drawing room where Lady Cowdlin and her daughter received callers. Lady Cowdlin sat with Lady Poltrop on a sofa, the two ladies engaged in a whispering conversation, most likely the latest gossip of which lady of their acquaintance was sleeping with which gentleman. Lady Hannah and Miss Poltrop also had their heads together, watching David play at cup-and-ball. When Sloane was announced, Hannah looked over and waved happily. He paid his respects to the mothers and walked over to the younger group. David gave an embarrassed laugh and set the child’s toy on the table. Sloane felt suddenly very old.

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‘Are you ladies ready for a turn in the park?’ he asked. Hannah clutched at his arm excitedly. ‘Oh, yes. It is such a fine day.’ She batted her eyes coquettishly at David. ‘It is a pity there is not room for you, too, Mr Sloane.’ David smiled. ‘I would have been delighted for the company, but I must take my leave.’ He bowed to each of the young ladies and then to Sloane. ‘Good day to you, Uncle.’ After a long drive through the park, crowded with vehicles of all kinds, as well as riders and pedestrians, Sloane delivered Miss Poltrop to her door. As his tiger jumped on the back of the curricle and he and Lady Hannah started off again, the young lady exclaimed, ‘I cannot believe you will be living immediately next door to my cousin!’ Sloane had imparted this information to the young ladies during the ride, eliciting happy squeals and exclamations. ‘Do let us drive by your new house!’ Hannah begged. It was only a small detour, so Sloane turned down Park Street and was again on Culross Street. Lights blazed in the house next to Morgana Hart’s; through the windows, Sloane spied servants hard at work dusting and polishing. What would those servants think if they had seen some of the places he’d lived over the years? Would they be so fastidious? Sloane had slept in dingy rooms listening to mice scurrying and scratching within the walls. He’d even slept on the streets of Rome, when, as a young man, he had temporarily run out of funds during his wanderings. ‘I think it will be lovely!’ cried Hannah. ‘Why, we might run into each other when I call upon my cousin. Would that not be a treat?’ ‘Indeed,’ he said, keeping up the conversation. ‘Do you call upon Miss Hart often?’

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Lady Hannah gave a deep laugh and wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘I shall now,’ she murmured. When she allowed such a peek at the woman she was bound to become, Sloane wondered what was keeping him from formally proposing marriage to her. Her girlish giggles would eventually disappear, and then this hint of a woman would truly flower. He slowed the curricle in front of his new home. In the window of the house next door, a face appeared. ‘Oh, look! There is Morgana!’ Hannah waved energetically. Miss Hart’s returning wave was less exuberant, and she peered at them with a puzzled expression. Well, Sloane thought, she would know soon enough why his curricle had paused in front of her house. Morgana stepped back from the window. No longer visible from the street, she still could see her cousin, blooming like a spring rose, seated next to the tall Cyprian Sloane, his fingers confidently holding the horse’s ribbons. How could a person feel such a combination of thrill and dejection? She simply must get over this tendency to moon over Mr Sloane and to flame with jealousy every time her cousin put her arm through his. He was a man spoken for, even if he was the most interesting man she’d ever met. It would be ill mannered in the extreme to place herself in competition with Hannah. Morgana had enough difficulty maintaining the docile, agreeable manners prized by society. She would not be judged a mansnatcher as well. She gave an audible groan. As if a man like Mr Sloane would want her to snatch him. Hannah was the sort men wished to marry, all delicate and biddable. Not a harridan who scrapped with men in the park.

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Or who all too often spoke her mind. Or one who must be asked to dance out of pity. Morgana watched the curricle pull away, experiencing more conflicting emotions, this time relief and disappointment. For a few heart-pounding moments, she thought her cousin and Mr Sloane might call upon her. ‘Stop all this foolishness,’ she said aloud to herself. She resolved again to tuck Cyprian Sloane away in her mind as merely a man with whom to engage in interesting conversation, a man she was bound to see often in her cousin’s company. When he made his offer to Hannah, as Hannah insisted he would, Morgana would wish them very happy. That was settled. She gave a firm nod and turned her thoughts to her most pressing problem. How to find someone to tutor Lucy in the skills of a courtesan. It was not as if such a person would advertise in the Morning Post. Where were they to be found? Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters. That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it. She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She

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needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off. With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy. A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure. ‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’ True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches. ‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’ ‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on. ‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’ Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’ Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park.

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Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present. Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’ Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this…unusual hour?’ Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’ The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them. Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations. ‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat. ‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’ Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform. ‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told

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Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’ Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’ Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’ Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’ ‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself. She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’ Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’ Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had

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been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads. ‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’ ‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied. Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles. He was a damned fool. It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief. He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets. The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by. This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared,

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though he still did not know why he bothered with the business. He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door. The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do. Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’ He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him. From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice. ‘Mr Sloane!’

Chapter Five

‘Miss Hart!’ Sloane’s stick slipped on the pavement, but the lady stood very composed while Lucy hid behind her and peeked about furtively. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ She lifted her chin. ‘We were on an errand.’ He could barely make out her features through the haze of net. ‘Are you mad? What errand would bring you to this street at this hour of the day? To this place?’ He pointed to the glove shop. ‘It is an errand of a private nature, sir.’ Her tone of voice was excessively dignified. ‘If you truly wish to be of assistance, you might procure a hackney coach for us. I do not see one about.’ He gave her a very stern stare. ‘You would be lucky indeed to find one here. There will be an abundance of them on St James’s, however, but that would require walking down that street past White’s and Brooks’s.’ Any respectable lady put her reputation in jeopardy by walking in this part of town at this hour. What the devil had she been thinking of? Sloane leaned closer to her and spoke in a smooth, ironic

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voice. ‘Miss Hart, are you merely buffleheaded or must I consider you a fast woman?’ To her credit, she did not flinch from this query. If she blushed, it was obscured in gauze. ‘Why I am here is, as I have explained, a private matter. If I must walk down St James’s unescorted and unprotected, I will.’ She pointedly shifted her gaze from him to her companion, ‘Come, Lucy. Let us find a hack.’ With head held high, she strode off towards St James’s Street. Sloane hesitated a moment. It was not his responsibility to extricate Morgana Hart from every foolhardy bramble she trod into. Let her suffer the catcalls and whistles of the young dandies lounging on the corners. Let her identity be exposed when one of those young bucks mistook her for a fancy piece and pulled off her hat. He started off in the other direction, but took no more than two steps before he turned around. Even with his long legs, he nearly had to run to catch up with her. ‘Miss Hart!’ She stopped and whirled around as if to confront an annoying pest. He reached her side and pulled her by the arm to a doorway of a shop whose curtains were drawn. ‘Wait here, speak to no one, and I will procure the hack.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Sloane,’ she said with exaggerated politeness. ‘That is very gentlemanly of you, but I do wish you would not call out my name in the street.’ He winced and looked about, fearing he’d exposed her, the very circumstance he hoped to prevent. Good fortune was with them. There was no one in sight. ‘I will be but a moment.’ He hurried off to where Jermyn Street met St James’s. Morgana leaned against the locked shop door and moaned as Lucy took a peek out of their hiding place.

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Lucy tucked herself back in the doorway. ‘I have caused you more trouble, haven’t I, Miss Hart? You should not have come here.’ Lucy need not blame herself for Morgana’s foolishness. Morgana patted the girl’s arm reassuringly. ‘Mr Sloane has saved us from trouble, hasn’t he? He will find us transport and we shall be home directly.’ Morgana resisted the impulse to lean out of the doorway to watch him striding towards the corner. She ought to be mortified that he had discovered her in this part of town. What must he think of her now? First her skirmish in the park. Now this—this parading where no respectable woman would dare set foot in the afternoon. But frankly, she had been so relieved to see him. The interview with the madam had not gone well. The woman had the gall to threaten Morgana with violence if she ever darkened her door again. Mrs Rice, as the abbess of the establishment was named, believed Morgana to be setting up a fancy house of her own. How appalling! Mrs Rice, furthermore, went into high dudgeon at the prospect of competition. She also accused Morgana of stealing her newest referral, Lucy. After such a disagreeable interview, Morgana had feared Mrs Rice would make good her threat and send some hulking footpad after them. When Sloane appeared, her fears fled. She knew she could trust him to see to their safe return and to not speak a word to anyone of the incident. ‘He’s that man from the park, that’s who he is. Isn’t he, miss?’ ‘Yes, are we not lucky he has rescued us a second time?’ Lucy nodded in agreement. If the maid wondered why Morgana knew his name, she did not let on. Sloane did not keep them waiting long. A black hackney

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pulled up in front of them, and he hopped down to assist them inside. When they were seated on the hack’s cracked leather seats, Sloane rapped on the roof and the coach lurched into motion. He faced Morgana, Lucy seated at her side. ‘I thank you again for coming to our assistance,’ Morgana said, sounding more genuine in her gratitude this time. He peered at her from beneath the rim of his beaver hat. ‘It is becoming a habit of mine.’ She could not help but smile, but quickly wiped it off her face when his expression remained grim. He leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea what risk you took for your mysterious errand?’ His gaze shifted momentarily to Lucy, who shrank to the corner of the vehicle. ‘I protected my identity,’ Morgana protested. He lifted the netting away from her face. ‘See how easy it is to expose you?’ She pulled it back in place and pretended to gaze out of the window at the passing parade of street hawkers and carriages. She felt him shift position. ‘If you are into some haveycavey business, Miss Hart, I wish to know of it.’ He gave a pause. ‘Since we are to be neighbours.’ Her gaze flew back to him. Even Lucy straightened in her seat. ‘Neighbours?’ He gave her the slow, lazy grin that made her heart do a flip. ‘I have purchased the property next to yours.’ Morgana stifled a gasp. So it was true. Seeing Sloane’s secretary two days in a row had raised her concerns—or was that her hopes?—that Sloane would move next door. His eyes glittered with anger. ‘I will be taking residence within a day or two.’ So soon? Could he not wait for renovations or something

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equally time-consuming? No, he probably was in a rush to have a house to show off to a prospective young bride. Perhaps he would promise Hannah the pleasure of redecorating to her own tastes. Morgana closed her eyes and saw a horror of patterns, fringe and frills that no doubt her cousin would insist was all the rage. She opened her eyes and gave a stiff smile. ‘How splendid for you.’ He laughed—not the pleasant, open laugh of the opera, but a mysterious one. He leaned forward so there was no more than an inch between their faces. His voice turned very low. ‘Does the prospect so displease you?’ Morgana’s heart accelerated. ‘I am certain you will make a tolerable neighbour.’ She meant it as a jest, but the words came out stiff and prim. Why could she not possess her cousin’s natural ability to bat eyes and to utter flirtatious nonsense? His eyes became slits as he leaned back again. ‘I will refrain from orgies and other rakish activities—will that prove tolerable enough?’ She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’ Lucy gave a pained squeak. ‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’ One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’ Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting. He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’

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Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’ That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it. She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles. When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane. He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so. Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again. She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’ He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach. Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the

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awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor. He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home. His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig. He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish. The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart. He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street? She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know. He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones. Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’

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She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face. He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’ She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’ The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian artefact as she came down the steps and hobbled towards him, and he quickly raced down his and ran over to her to save her the exertion. As if they were in the Prince Regent’s drawing room, Miss Hart said, ‘Grandmama, may I present Mr Sloane, who is to be our neighbour soon.’ Miss Hart’s grandmother gave a toothy smile. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, my dear. Is it not fine weather today?’ Miss Hart continued. ‘The dowager Lady Hart, sir.’ ‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed. ‘Hmm?’ Lady Hart she smiled again. ‘It was so nice of you to call. You must do so again.’ She looked up at Morgana. ‘We are off to the shops.’ Miss Hart must have seen a look of bewilderment on his face because she responded with amusement. ‘Yes, Grandmama. Off to the shops.’ She leaned towards Sloane and whispered, ‘We shall not make it further than the corner, you know.’ His brow cleared. The old lady must be a bit senile, that was it. ‘Are you visiting your house, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. ‘You will be pleased, I think. I’ve never seen such a marshalling of mops and rags.’ He could not help but return her smile. ‘That is Mr Elliot’s doing, no doubt. I’m afraid he approaches all tasks with great efficiency.’ He gave her a careful look, so as not to miss her reaction. ‘But I do not merely look at the house. I am taking residence at this moment.’

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Miss Hart gave a small sound in the back of her throat, but quickly recovered her manners. ‘How nice for you.’ He responded with a wink. ‘I hope I shall be a tolerable neighbour.’ Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, putting Sloane in mind of how she might look flushed with passion. Such thoughts were not going to make living next to her easier. Her grandmother twisted to look at a curricle that had passed by in the street. When she turned back towards Sloane, her eyes lit up. ‘How delightful to have you call, dear. We are off to the shops.’ ‘Yes.’ Miss Hart nodded shakily. ‘We must be off.’ She and Lady Hart made slow progress. They had barely reached the pavement in front of the next house when Sloane called back to her. ‘Miss Hart?’ Still holding her grandmother’s arm, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’ ‘May I be so bold as to inquire who lives with you?’ Her eyebrows twitched and she paused a moment too long before speaking. ‘Lady Hart and her companion, Miss Moore.’ He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’ She maintained a perfectly bland expression. ‘Why, my grandmother, of course.’ Without waiting to see his response, she turned back and proceeded down the street with all the speed of a lame snail. Sloane watched her with sinking dismay. Not only would he be living next to a single female about whom he harboured lecherous thoughts, he would be living next to an unchaperoned one. There had been no invitations for that night, so Morgana was forced to remain at home. Ordinarily that posed no dif-

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ficulty at all—she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself—but this night it was nearly impossible to refrain from gazing out of the front window in the hope that she might glimpse her new neighbour. Would he go out? Or would he relish an evening at home in his new house? And how long would it take for her to give him as little mind as she did the Viscount and Viscountess on the other side? She had not yet seen him leave the premises, but the thought of him walking around the rooms on the other side of her wall was nearly as distracting as the window. Her grandmother and Miss Moore had retired early, as was their habit, so she was alone. She brought her mending to the drawing room, but her eyes were too tired to focus on the stitches in the flickering light. She picked up a book instead, but found it equally tiresome. She wandered to the window and looked out. When she caught herself there, she whirled about and determinedly marched away. She settled at the pianoforte and played the music she knew by heart. Morgana loved to play, loved the feeling that the action of her fingers brought out the melodies. She did not mind that her skills at the keyboard were passable at best. She enjoyed the music anyway. She played every piece of music she knew, from common ballads to snatches of Mozart. Then she played them all over again, but she remained restless. She rose and found herself back at the window. This time her vigil was at an end. She saw Sloane leave his house and walk briskly down the street. Even though he was no more than a shadow, she could not mistake that tall frame, that gait so smooth and graceful, yet infused with masculine power. He soon disappeared into the darkness as if the darkness were welcoming back a missing piece of itself.

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She sighed. They had almost regained their friendly banter. It had been such a relief to converse pleasantly with him after their other recent cool encounters. In some ways it was easier to have him avoid her. But now that their relationship had regained some of its ease, she longed to be in his company again. Voices sounded outside the drawing-room door, several female voices. There was a knock and Morgana swung around. ‘Come in.’ The door opened only a crack, and Lucy poked her head in. ‘Might I have a word with you, miss? If I am not disturbing you, I mean.’ Lucy actually wished to speak with her? This was puzzling behaviour indeed. ‘Certainly, Lucy. Come in and sit down with me.’ Lucy lifted a plain mahogany chair from against the wall and moved it next to the sofa where Morgana had settled herself. Lucy perched primly on the edge of the seat. The pretty maid finally spoke. ‘Miss Hart, you remember how you said you would teach me to be a courtesan? And I would have a house and money of my own and pretty clothes?’ ‘I have not forgotten, Lucy. I have been trying to work out what to do next. Did you look through my Ladies Monthly Museum and read the article on comportment?’ Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’ ‘I promise I shall discover how we may learn the other lessons we need.’ Morgana held out a faint hope that she would have the opportunity to speak with Harriette Wilson. Miss Wilson could answer her prayers. Lucy stood up suddenly. ‘Miss, I’ve something I must tell you.’ Morgana’s spirits plummeted, certain Lucy had decided to go to Mrs Rice after all. ‘What is it?’

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Lucy held up one finger, gesturing for Morgana to wait. She hurried to the door and opened it. She leaned halfway out of the room for a moment, then stepped aside. Three young women entered. They stood in a line in front of Morgana. All were strangers to her. Two wore brightly coloured dresses. One showed revealing décolletage, the other wrapped a shawl around her. Morgana could not decipher the expressions on their faces. Wary? Eager? Defiant? ‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously. Lucy joined the line. ‘Miss Hart, these girls heard you talkin’ to that Mrs Rice. The lady in the glove shop? They want to be courtesans. They want you to teach them.’ Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’ Lucy gave her an imploring look. ‘Please, miss. They said Mrs Rice is not a nice lady. They don’t want to work for her no more. They want to be on their own, like you told me.’ What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened? One of the girls swiped a lock of red hair off her forehead. ‘The shop ain’t no good place to be, miss, begging your pardon for speaking. Mrs Rice, she makes us see as many customers as come. Sometimes we have to do as many as—’ Morgana’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Yes, I quite understand.’ The red-haired girl went on. ‘We could do better on our own. Me and Mary, we talked about it, and, if you teach us how to be high-fliers, we’ll be willin’ to give you a portion of our money.’ ‘Oh!’ Morgana knew her cheeks were flaming now. She stood. ‘I think you misunderstood. I am not a…a procuress. I merely wanted something better for Lucy.’ ‘We want something better, too, miss,’ the third girl said. She had raven black hair set off by skin so pale it was almost white, but her lips, perhaps tinted, were coloured rose. She

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gave a graceful toss of her neck. ‘And we want it enough to pay you for it.’ ‘No.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘It is not possible—I cannot— It does not bear thinking of.’ ‘Excuse me, miss.’ The girl covering herself with the shawl stepped forward. ‘We do understand your hesitation. This must seem like an outrageous request on our part, but you are our only hope.’ Morgana was stunned. The girl spoke in cultivated tones. ‘You sound…educated.’ She bowed her head. ‘I have fallen on difficult times, miss.’ ‘Rose here and me may not be educated in books and all,’ the red-haired one broke in. ‘But we’ve had hard times, too, and the way I figure it, we’re as deserving as some of those others that gets to be a fine gentleman’s fancy-piece.’ The one with the shawl added, ‘We have determined that it will be better to be under a gentleman’s protection. If you are able to teach us how to achieve that, we would be grateful enough to pay you whatever you wish.’ ‘Not whatever she wishes, Mary,’ her red-haired companion cried. ‘Don’t be daft. We have to save enough money to tell all the fellows they can go to the devil.’ ‘Don’t use such language in front of Miss Hart!’ Lucy broke in. ‘I’m sorry I brought you here.’ Morgana held up a hand. ‘Never mind, Lucy.’ She gazed at all four of them. It was easy to see why the brothel wanted them. They were all pretty girls, with pretty figures, still in the bloom of youth. What might they look like a few years from now? Like…like the Portuguese girl, all used up and old before her time? ‘Well, I’m sorry we came,’ the girl shot back, ‘because this lady’s going to send us back, and I don’t much fancy the beating old Rice’s man is going to give us.’

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A beating? Morgana turned away from them and walked over to the window where she’d so recently seen Sloane disappear into the night. She had not imagined beatings. She had merely pictured them climbing the stairs in the back of the glove shop and entering small bedchambers to await one man after another, night after night. Would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror if she sent them back to that life? ‘Nobody is going back,’ Morgana said quietly.

Chapter Six

Two of the girls squealed and jumped up and down. The third sank into a chair. Morgana gestured for them all to sit. ‘I cannot make any promises to you.’ Morgana looked at each of them in turn. ‘I have not been able to find a proper tutor’—an improper one, she meant—‘but I can teach you to walk and talk and dress in a refined way. I can show you how to make economies and I can teach you the proper value of items.’ Their expressions were much more decipherable now. Desperation was gone from their faces. Morgana went on. ‘But there are things about pleasing men I do not know—’ ‘Oh, we know how to please men,’ laughed the bold girl. ‘Yes. Of course…’ Morgana blinked, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, then… Let me know who you are.’ The bold girl spoke first. ‘My name is Katy Green. I’m from Derbyshire, at least I was until I came to London.’ She pointed to the dark-haired beauty, ‘This is Rose O’Keefe. The new girl.’ ‘I am not really one of Mrs Rice’s girls, miss.’ Rose spoke

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with a pleasing Irish lilt. ‘I overheard these two talking. To be sure, says I, t’would be grand to come along.’ Rose was an enchanting vision of dark and light. In the proper clothes, she would cause heads to turn wherever she went. Her success as a courtesan seemed already a fait accompli. Morgana gave an inward sigh. What sort of life was she offering the girl? Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Green and Miss O’Keefe.’ She turned to the third girl. ‘And you are?’ ‘Mary Phipps, miss.’ Morgana had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue for this girl. What had happened to her? Why was she one of the girls in Mrs Rice’s glove shop? How could someone, so like Morgana herself, be reduced to harlotry? But poor Mary’s energy had been spent. Morgana would save her questions for later. There would be time enough. Mary and the others would be staying for a while. ‘I am happy to meet you as well, Miss Phipps.’ Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes. Katy gave her a kind, almost motherly look, although Mary was clearly the elder of the two. ‘Mary is a bit quiet, miss. We’ll have to liven her up. Men like spirit, I say.’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Morgana cleared her throat. It would be a monumental task to transform quiet, subdued Mary Phipps into the likes of Harriette Wilson. The enormity of transforming any of them into scandalous women who earned their livelihood by men’s largesse descended upon Morgana like a sudden downpour. She mentally shook herself, thrusting away cowardice and determining to set herself to the tasks before her, one step at a time. That was how to battle self-doubt. Charge ahead. Perform the task. Save the deluge of emotions for later.

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Was that how poor Mary survived? Did each of these girls set themselves to the task and suffer their emotions later? Uncertainty came creeping back. Morgana curved her hand into a fist. Time to act. Worry could come after. She turned to Lucy. ‘We must find places for everyone to sleep, Lucy. Is there room abovestairs?’ ‘We will manage, miss,’ Lucy assured her. ‘And tomorrow morning we must find other dresses. Plain ones. These will not do at all.’ ‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned. ‘Yes, you must. In this neighbourhood, you must not attract any notice. I cannot tell you what trouble there would be if our…our courtesan school is discovered.’ ‘School?’ laughed Katy. ‘Fancy me going to school!’ ‘Please do not speak a word of it,’ Morgana begged. Not only was the enormity of the task ahead threatening to engulf her, but the risks as well. Lucy led them out of the drawing room, and Morgana rang for Cripps, who immediately presented himself. ‘Cripps, we have three guests in the house.’ She spoke in crisp tones. She knew she must think of some way to explain the girls’ presence in the house, but that was a task she could put off for later. His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. ‘Very good, miss. Do you require me to rouse Mrs Cripps to make rooms ready?’ Morgana was equally uncertain of the housekeeper’s opinion of their guests. ‘That will not be necessary. Lucy will see to their lodging.’ His brows rose another notch. Lucy would have been the last of the household staff Cripps or his wife would have chosen for such a task. ‘May I inform Mrs Cripps which rooms will be occupied?’

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Morgana gave him what she hoped was a quelling look. ‘We shall address such matters tomorrow.’ He blinked twice. ‘As you desire, miss. How else may I serve you tonight?’ ‘I will not require anything else. Thank you, Cripps.’ The dignified butler bowed and left the room. Morgana sank back on to the sofa. How would she explain all this to Cripps and his wife? And the other staff? And Miss Moore? She dropped her head into her hands. How could she explain the presence of these girls to respectable Miss Moore? She sat erect again and lifted her chin. She would simply manage it. She must, because she would not be responsible for sending any of those girls to Mrs Rice, that horrid creature. Morgana stood and resolutely walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber. Sloane relaxed in the coffee room of White’s, nursing a brandy and vaguely watching the other gentlemen. He wondered how many of them resented his ease and welcome here. He was a member and there was not a thing any of them could do about it, not even the Earl who had acknowledged him as a son. A legacy from a grandfather, a man with whom Sloane shared no blood ties, made it possible. Years before, when the Old Club and the New Club merged into White’s, the present Earl’s father had arranged to have all his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons guaranteed membership for the next hundred years. The old man died before knowing that a rotten apple had appeared in the barrel. As a young man Sloane had refused to set foot in White’s. Anywhere his father was welcome, Sloane disdained, but now the wisdom of age prevailed. If he was to take his place in society, he must appear where

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society gathered, and gentlemen of importance appeared at White’s. This night he’d played a few sedate games of whist, careful to fold his cards before winning too much lest he be accused of fleecing the true sons of the ton. In Sloane’s darker days, his next meal had often depended on the turn of a card. The hungrier he became, the more skilfully he played, until he could count fairly well on living high as long as there was a nearby card game. In fact, one marathon round of whist last autumn had deepened his pockets considerably. With such an abundance of riches, it dawned on him to change his game. In these difficult economic times, wealth was gaining prominence over the elevation of one’s birth. Soon nabobs and cits would amass enough wealth to buy all the power and influence his father’s generation believed to be their birthright. Sloane, however, need not wait for such a day. Sloane had the status of birth, counterfeit though it was. He had more capital than his father. All he needed was a respectable reputation and nothing would stop how high he could rise. He’d been scrupulous about his behaviour since making his appearance in the beau monde. All the ton knew of his past was mere rumour. If they had heard of some of the things he’d done to survive, or some he’d done in the service of his country, they would surely blackball him, but he’d given them nothing to remark upon these last months. What was more, he was in a fair way to contract a respectable marriage. That thought did not conjure up an image of the delectable Lady Hannah. Rather, Morgana Hart flashed into his mind. Sloane frowned. Morgana Hart was unpredictable and much too apt to engage in ruinous escapades. Sloane could not afford to have her drag him down with her. He ought to avoid her. Even though she lived next door.

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Sloane took a sip, letting the brandy slide down his throat and warm his chest. Did her bedchamber share a wall with his? he wondered. Was she at this moment undressing for bed, perhaps sitting in a filmy shift, brushing her long silky hair? Sloane set his glass down on the table so sharply that some heads turned at the sound. He must cease these rakish thoughts. At that moment, three gentlemen entered the coffee room, one tall, but thin and slightly stoop-shouldered. Though this grey-haired man leaned on a cane, an aura of power still emanated from him. The two men with him were mere moons to this man’s planet. He turned and caught sight of Sloane. Sloane, glass in hand, met the man’s eye and nodded. His father, the Earl of Dorton, stood stock still. Sloane knew what to expect, and the anticipation made him wish to laugh at the sheer predictability of it all. The Earl’s gaze would gradually move away and he would turn his back, acting as if he had not even seen this unnatural son. He would do as he had done all of Sloane’s life. Act as if Sloane did not exist. Sloane was mistaken. The Earl marched directly towards him. Sloane’s brother, Viscount Rawley, and his nephew, David, must have been equally surprised. They’d gaped openmouthed at the Earl’s destination. Sloane stood, never straying from a direct gaze into his father’s eyes. ‘Good evening, sir.’ The Earl glared, but did not speak. Sloane’s brother and nephew scrambled up behind. Keeping his eye on his father, Sloane turned the corner of his mouth up in the same insolent smile that in his boyhood used to earn him a hard slap across the face. His father’s lips pursed in response. ‘Would you care to sit down?’ Sloane asked with an expansive gesture of his hand.

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Without speaking, the Earl waved to his son and grandson to take seats. The Earl leaned heavily on his cane as he lowered himself into a chair. Sloane did not miss the effort. But the man who levelled a steely gaze directly at him was more like the one who used to strike terror in a young boy’s heart. No longer, however. Sloane, with studied casualness, took a sip of his brandy, then asked, ‘Shall I signal for more drinks?’ His father glared, his brother shifted uncomfortably and his nephew watched warily. Sloane took that as agreement and gestured for the server to bring more glasses. Sloane poured the brandy and handed each a glass. He raised his drink in a toast. ‘To this cosy family party.’ None of them responded. The Earl finally spoke. ‘I want to know what your business is, boy, and I want to know now.’ Sloane gave an inward smile at the term ‘boy.’ He’d not been a boy since the age of ten, when this man made certain his eyes were wide open as to the circumstances of his conception. ‘My business, sir?’ ‘You know what I mean.’ He tapped his cane on the carpet. ‘What are you scheming? I tell you, I’ll not have you courting respectable young ladies and throwing your ill-gotten money around on respectable residences.’ The Earl leaned forward. ‘The word is out that you took Irwin for everything he’s got. The man’s all done up.’ ‘Irwin?’ Sloane lifted a brow. Irwin had been the owner of the town house, the man who’d been desperate for cash. ‘Your information is sadly amiss. I do believe my funds came to the man’s rescue.’ David spoke up. ‘That is true, Grandfather. Irwin lost a fortune at Madame Bisou’s hazard table. Wasn’t Uncle Cyprian at all.’

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The Earl of Dorton wheeled on his grandson. ‘And what do you know about that establishment?’ He raised his voice. ‘I’ll not have you frittering away your allowance on cards and women. I can cut your monies in half, you know.’ Sloane felt a tremble inside, as if he were still the child who had so often received such a rebuke. ‘Keep your voice down, sir.’ He spoke with a low, steady tone. ‘You make a spectacle of yourself.’ His father erupted. ‘I make a spectacle of myself?’ His voice grew louder. Sloane leaned towards him across the table. ‘Cease this at once, or leave this table.’ Something in his eyes must have convinced the Earl, because the old man clamped his mouth shut. Sloane leaned back and took a lazy sip of his brandy. ‘That is better.’ The Earl looked about to explode. ‘You are not welcome here, Cyprian,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Go back to whatever dung-heap you emerged from.’ Sloane’s every muscle tensed. He’d not realised his father’s barbs could still injure him. He’d be damned if he’d show it. ‘As you have so graphically informed me, I was conceived upon and reared upon Dorton land, and I have no desire to return to it.’ ‘See here, Cyprian—’ Rawley began, but Sloane quelled him with one glance. ‘Good gracious,’ cried David. ‘Can we not converse in a civil manner? It would bring credit to us all if we presented the appearance of congenial relations.’ From the mouths of babes, thought Sloane. David’s rebuke had effect. Both the Earl and his son leaned back and sipped their drinks. His father began again, in quieter tones. ‘What are your

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intentions toward the Cowdlin chit? Cowdlin’s a friend of mine and I demand to know.’ Sloane bristled at his father demanding anything of him. He was about to retort in kind when he caught the pleading expression on his nephew’s face. He answered as mildly as he could contrive. ‘I have made no offer for Lady Hannah at present, but Cowdlin will not oppose my suit. He approves of my fortune, if not of me.’ ‘Hmmph,’ muttered the Earl. ‘Then he is a bigger fool than I thought.’ ‘Oh, I am certain he is indeed,’ agreed Sloane with equanimity. The Earl of Dorton leaned forward again. ‘You do not belong here, Cyprian. You do not belong among the quality. Go back to whatever cellar or…or gaming hell you came from, and leave decent people alone.’ ‘Grandfather!’ David whispered in a shocked tone. Sloane felt his body flinch, just as it used to when he was a boy. ‘I do belong here, Father,’ he said coolly. ‘You gave me the right when you acknowledged me as your son. As your son, I am invited to all the society events. I have vouchers for Almack’s and a box at the opera. As your father’s grandson, I am a member of White’s. I have you to thank for all this, Father.’ For a moment his father looked like an old man, but the moment was fleeting. When he stood, he looked as formidable as ever. ‘I will not have you here, boy, do you hear me?’ His voice was equally as strong. ‘I will not have you here.’ With another flick of his fingers, the Earl signalled his son and grandson to leave with him. Sloane stood as well, making sure his father felt his eyes boring into him. As all three walked away, the Earl in the lead, David turned back and gave Sloane a look of sympathy.

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*** ‘They are gone?’ Mrs Rice looked up from her desk in a room above her glove shop. The man, solid and stocky, brushed off the sleeves of his brown coat. ‘We have searched all the rooms and they are nowhere to be found.’ ‘I sent them to the shops. Did no one see them return?’ Mrs Rice laid down her quill pen, displeasure seeping into her voice. ‘No one, ma’am.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The other girls think they ran off. There’s some belongings missing.’ ‘Things of mine?’ Her voice rose. ‘I will not tolerate it if they have stolen from me.’ ‘Worthless trinkets, ma’am,’ he responded. ‘Their own trifles, the girls say.’ Mrs Rice stared vacantly. ‘It does sound like they have run away.’ She waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘Well, search for them, Trigg. Bring them back. I will not have my girls coming and going at a whim. It vexes me.’ ‘As you wish, ma’am.’ He turned and left. Mrs Rice slammed her palm down on the desk and rose from her seat. With two girls short, she might have to turn men away this night. That was not good for business. She could kick herself for not having moved faster to bring that maid into the house before her mistress came calling. The termagant. That one had enough tongue for two sets of teeth, with all her talk about needing a tutor. A tutor for what? At first Mrs Rice thought the lady was asking for lessons on how to set up a molly shop of her own, but that was too ridiculous for words. She’d since decided that a long Meg like that one probably wanted to learn how to get a man for herself.

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It was a good thing, because she would not have made a good madam or a good molly. She’d talk the gentlemen right off the bed to run screaming down the street. Mrs Rice gave a little laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. Still, it would have been a lark indeed to see a lady of that one’s ilk making her living on her back. Mrs Rice wiped her eyes as her laughter subsided. She’d have another stab at the maid, if she got the chance, if Trigg could discover where she was employed. And when she got those other girls back, she’d give them such a flogging they would never dare leave, at least not until they were too worn out to be of any use.

Chapter Seven

When Morgana woke the next morning, it seemed the very air was charged, as if the house were inside a huge electrifying machine, but Morgana knew any sparks that flew would be due to her own decisions. The porcelain clock on her bureau chimed six times. Morgana threw off the covers and was halfway dressed when Amy crept in, expecting merely to tend the fire. Did Amy know of their guests? She must, but the girl did not reveal it. She did not even remark upon Morgana rising so early. Morgana meant to breakfast with her grandmother and Miss Moore, who always rose at dawn. After breakfast she begged Miss Moore to take a walk with her. Miss Moore settled her grandmother in her sitting room with her maid for company, and the two ladies walked the short distance to the park, one of the footmen providing a discreet escort. ‘Goodness, it is chilly this morning,’ said Miss Moore as they crossed the park. ‘It is fortunate Lady Hart did not come with us. It would be bad for her lungs.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Morgana, uncertain how to begin.

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She’d tossed and turned all night, even rising once and wandering to the window at the exact moment Sloane returned to his house. Realising he would be undressing and climbing into a bed so close by had not helped her fall back asleep. But those wakeful hours did yield the semblance of a plan. Morgana had decided that she needed to speak to Miss Moore before Mr and Mrs Cripps or any of the other servants. She had a reasonable expectation that generous salary increases would ensure the servants’ co-operation and silence. But if prim Miss Moore could not be persuaded to go along with this scheme, Morgana did not see how she could proceed. Morgana could not force a respectable lady like Miss Moore to endure a situation abhorrent to her. And she could not send Miss Moore away. With Miss Moore went her grandmother. Without her grandmother, Morgana would be forced to go to her Aunt Winnie’s house, and the girls, Lucy too, would have nowhere to go except to Mrs Rice. Morgana glanced back at the footman, who, enjoying the fine morning air, seemed uninterested in the conversation between the two ladies. Still, she spoke quietly so he could not overhear. ‘I must talk to you, Miss Moore.’ Miss Moore gave her a fond smile. ‘Is it about the three young ladies who are staying in the house?’ ‘You know about them?’ Morgana glanced at her in dismay. ‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Moore nodded. ‘Dilly told us first thing that there were three new girls. How did she put it?’ Miss Moore paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The likes of which she’d never seen.’ Morgana inwardly groaned. Dilly, her grandmother’s lady’s maid, was an old retainer, nearly as old as her grandmother. ‘Oh, I suppose everyone knows.’ Morgana gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I suspect they do not know the whole, and that is what I must tell you…’

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Morgana explained to Miss Moore as well as she could. She withheld her plan to seek Harriette Wilson’s assistance as a bit too much information, emphasising instead that the girls, Lucy included, would be lost to a terrible life unless Morgana helped them. Miss Moore listened with an unremitting frown on her face that caused Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water. Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale. Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’ Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’ ‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading. ‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’ Lucy’s age, Morgana thought. ‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’ Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’ Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I…I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’

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Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’ Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’ Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’ Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became…feeble.’ Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter. With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty. Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path. For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him. The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.

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‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news. Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’ She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’ She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’ He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’ Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly. Fustian, he said to himself. ‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked. It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject. He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’ ‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’ He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’

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Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’ Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’ She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’ Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’ He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart. ‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back. Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed. ‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths. ‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart. Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’ ‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’ ‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’ ‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’

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Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her. Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry. By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical. She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending. ‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’ ‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room. Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’ Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’ Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’ ‘Why not?’ Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’

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Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best. She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls. She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’ ‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’ ‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her. Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’ Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them. A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.

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*** By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold. She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies. At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides. Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’ It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’ ‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair. Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth. ‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’ Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I…I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’ ‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’

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Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’ Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the redhaired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’ Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed. Katy looked down at her lap, but with a hint of rebellion in her eye. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘It is Miss Moore, dear,’ she said gently. ‘Yes, miss,’ Katy corrected herself. Lucy hung her head. ‘There’s nothin’ I can teach. I’ll just be a burden on everyone.’ Morgana walked over and put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You shall be in charge of supplies, Lucy. You managed to find everyone a proper dress and a bed to sleep in. In fact, I will prevail upon you to produce a trunk to be delivered, the nieces’ luggage. Do you think you can contrive such a thing?’ Lucy gave a surprised glance, then wrinkled her brow. It took several seconds, but she finally responded. ‘I could send to home for some of Amy’s and my old clothes. Would that do?’ ‘That is an excellent idea.’ Morgana had forgotten about her lady’s maid. No matter what Miss Moore thought, Morgana simply must tell Amy the truth, though what the girl would say about it, she could only guess. The day flew by with all of them talking and showing off their skills. When it was time for dinner Morgana led them

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to the main dining room. Lucy held back, insisting she ought not to eat there. Morgana acquiesced. There would be time enough to bring her abovestairs. To do so now would merely whip up the servants’ curiosity. The dinner was the most pleasant Morgana had passed in the house to date. When Mr Cripps and the footmen left the room, Morgana and Miss Moore drew the girls into the conversation, learning more about their lives. Rose talked of growing up in Ireland and of recently coming to London. Mary spoke of being the daughter of a country vicar. When he died, she’d become a governess. She did not disclose how she wound up at Mrs Rice’s house. Katy, whose table manners needed the most improving, said she’d left Derbyshire to make her fortune in London and she’d go to the devil before she’d return there. Morgana’s grandmother cheerfully picked at her food and smiled at them all. At meal’s end, Morgana left the table in high spirits, confident that all would go well. She retired to her room to dress for the musicale. As Amy worked on another braided style for her hair, Morgana told her the truth about the plan. ‘Do tell me what you think of this business, Amy. Tell me if you think I’ve done right by your sister.’ Amy frowned as she concentrated on sticking hairpins in securely. ‘It is not right, miss. I cannot say ’tis right, because it is not, but Lucy was ready to run off again, I know she was.’ She gave Morgana a quick glance in the mirror. ‘You stopped her from doing that. Going with one of those procuring fellows, I mean.’ Amy’s point did not miss the mark. Morgana knew the better course was to convince Lucy and the others to lead moral

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lives, but, once fallen, could they rise again? Lucy had convinced her she could not. Morgana watched Amy concentrate on her hair. She set her chin in determination. This was the only chance for Lucy. The only chance for all of the girls to change their lives. Sloane surveyed the room where the guests to Lady Sedford’s musicale loitered in groups, waiting for the latecomers to be announced and the programme to begin. Across the room stood his brother, Lord Rawley, who, without cutting him directly, was at least pretending he had not seen him. David gave him a friendly nod. At least the Earl was not present, although Sloane would have experienced a smug satisfaction if his father had witnessed him mingling successfully with Lady Sedford’s set. ‘Lord and Lady Cowdlin. Lady Hannah. Miss Hart,’ the butler announced. Sloane turned to watch them enter and greet the host and hostess. Lady Hannah looked as delectable as a dish of cream and strawberries in a white gauzy gown decorated with red ribbon. Her cousin wore a much plainer gown, one done up in gold fabric that nearly matched her eyes and glistened under the candlelight. Averting his head so as not to be so obviously gaping, Sloane observed Lord and Lady Cowdlin stop to converse with friends. Lady Hannah seized her cousin’s arm and propelled them both forward. Hannah glanced in Sloane’s direction, pretended to glance away, whispered something to her cousin, and led her gracefully across the room, making it appear as if it were mere chance that they came to where he stood. ‘Good evening, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart.’ He bowed. ‘How nice to see you here, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Hannah

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smiled up at him, showing her white, even teeth. ‘You must sit with us. I insist upon it.’ Miss Hart also smiled, but her smile seemed distant, almost sad. He turned his attention to Lady Hannah. ‘Nothing would delight me more, my lady, but it might hint at partiality. I would not wish to make you the topic of gossip.’ If Sloane were perceived to favour Lady Hannah to the exclusion of other eligible young ladies, he would be forced to make her an offer. He did not wish to be forced into anything. A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Lady Hannah’s face. She quickly recovered. ‘I have it. You shall sit next to Morgana and that will seem quite unexceptionable.’ He opened his mouth to reply, but her attention had already flitted away. ‘Oh, look,’ she cried. ‘Here comes your nephew, Mr Sloane. Perhaps he will join us as well.’ When the programme was about to begin, Hannah hurried them all in, and arranged the seating to her satisfaction. At one end sat Lord and Lady Cowdlin, then David, Hannah, Morgana, and Sloane. David made polite conversation with Lady Cowdlin, while Hannah looked about the crowd, waving to friends. Miss Hart studied her programme. ‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Hart?’ Sloane asked her. She gave him a serious expression. ‘You must not consider yourself obliged to make polite conversation, Mr Sloane.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Are we back to not speaking, Miss Hart?’ Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean that. Goodness! I must have sounded cross. I am vexed at my cousin, not you. She treats me as if I were a doll to be moved about at whim.’ His lips twitched. He leaned closer to her. ‘Confess, Miss Hart. You merely dislike being told what to do.’

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She smiled. ‘You have the right of it, Mr Sloane. It is one of my abiding faults.’ ‘Mine as well,’ he admitted. ‘Let us begin again. Do you like music, Miss Hart?’ Her ginger eyes came alive with expression. ‘I do like it excessively, sir.’ ‘Do you play?’ She rolled her eyes, very unladylike, but charming none the less. ‘Badly, therefore, never in company, but I do love to bash away for hours on my pianoforte.’ ‘Hmm.’ He pretended to study the programme. ‘I wonder how thick the walls are between our houses.’ She laughed softly. When he glanced at her again her eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Mr Sloane, do you play?’ He could not help himself. He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not music, Miss Hart, but I play at other things very well.’ He watched, fascinated, as her pupils grew larger. Her smile changed from mirthful to inscrutable. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Reverted to his rakish ways. But she did have that effect on him. He averted his gaze. Morgana looked away as well, resisting the impulse to fan herself. Had he been flirting with her? If so, it felt delightful. Very stimulating. She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming red as they felt. She was glad Sloane did not dislike sitting next to her, though she still had no doubt he would rather be next to Hannah. Hannah had her head together with the younger Mr Sloane, who was obviously as captivated by her as his uncle. It did not matter, Morgana assured herself, that Hannah drew the attention of men so easily. She was glad someone distracted Hannah from her chief prey. Morgana needed this opportunity to speak to Sloane. She opened her mouth again, but there was a signal that the music was about to begin.

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Lady Sedford had achieved the coup of engaging Camporese for the evening. When the soprano stepped out in front of the musicians, she looked much taller and more slender than she’d appeared on stage at the King’s Theatre, perhaps even as tall as Morgana herself. Camporese reprised her solos from Penelope, to much applause. Morgana noticed that Hannah attended more to the guests than the music. Her uncle, quite the opposite, dozed, his chin drooping to his chest. Morgana smiled at that and glanced at Sloane, who caught her look and held it a moment before turning his eyes back to the soprano. The contact had been fleeting, but it somehow warmed Morgana all over. She did fan herself this time. When Camporese finished her part of the programme, the room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘Bravo’ and the soprano gave a deep curtsy. Lady Sedford announced a brief interval and everyone left their seats to mingle. Morgana watched Sloane converse with Hannah and his nephew. A gentleman and lady approached her. Morgana recognised them as Sloane’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Rawley. Her aunt presented her to them. Lady Rawley gave her an inquisitive look. ‘I see you are acquainted with Cyprian, Miss Hart.’ Remembering that Sloane was estranged from his family, Morgana regarded the woman with some interest. ‘I am, ma’am.’ ‘What do you know of him, my dear?’ Lady Rawley’s question was phrased in ominous tones. Morgana immediately leapt to Sloane’s defence, though the notion he would need her protection was ludicrous. ‘He is often in the company of my aunt’s family. He is acceptable to them, and that is all I need know.’ Lady Rawley leaned in closer. ‘My husband says there is

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more to it, Miss Hart. Cyprian has the most shocking reputation. I implore you to beware of it and inform your cousin before she makes a terrible mistake.’ Morgana’s indignation caught fire. How dare this woman presume to spread tales of Sloane to someone she had met not one minute before? She would not stand for it! She favoured Lady Rawley with her most innocent look. ‘I fear Lady Hannah will demand the details before giving any credence to my words. Would you please tell me exactly what Mr Sloane had done to earn his shocking reputation?’ ‘Why…why he is a womaniser, for one thing,’ the lady responded. ‘Indeed?’ Morgana feigned interest. ‘With whom has he been linked? I am sure my cousin will wish to hear names.’ ‘I do not precisely know,’ admitted Lady Rawley. ‘But I have it on good authority—’ ‘Oh, Hannah will not credit that at all, I’m afraid.’ Morgana feigned being thoughtful. ‘But I suspect there are many gentlemen who claim success with the ladies. That would not be enough to concern Hannah. What else has Mr Sloane done?’ ‘I do not know, but it was very bad,’ Lady Rawley said with spirit. ‘Something during the war, I think.’ Morgana pretended to consider this. ‘I believe I must inform my uncle of this shocking information. He is responsible for Hannah, you know.’ ‘I am sure your uncle knows,’ admitted the lady. ‘Everyone knows.’ Morgana smiled. ‘Then it must be a mere hum, because Mr Sloane is invited everywhere. He even has vouchers for Almack’s.’ She acted as if she were just struck by a thought. ‘I suppose I could alert Lady Sefton or Lady Castlereagh. I shall tell them you have informed me.’

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Lady Rawley paled. ‘No, no, do not do that. I would not trouble them. I am sure if Cyprian has vouchers, it must be quite all right.’ ‘Yes.’ Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’ The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley. When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’ He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’ She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’ Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone. It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him. ‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely. ‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’ He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’ ‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’

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‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’ ‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’ ‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper. ‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’ ‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head. ‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate. He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’ They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter. Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah. Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.

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*** When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move. Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight. What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting. The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night. When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and goodnights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door. When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’

Chapter Eight

S

loane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both. He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place. He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’ She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’ He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’ ‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door. He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’ She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.

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‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’ ‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’ But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers. But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks. His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door. Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing…something. She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.

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But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which. Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress. ‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest. ‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips. Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms. What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her? Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same. Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him. She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over. He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah. Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.

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He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one. Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins. He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him. Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created. St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services. The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No mat-

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ter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first. Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him. She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came. Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way. His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure. Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer. The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside. A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.

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The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’ ‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’ ‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’ Morgana, Sloane thought. The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’ ‘I will discover her.’ Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground. He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine. He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world. The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off. Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into? He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back. He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her. As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s

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house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right. He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property. Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock. He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers. It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see. He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose? Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and

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country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused. In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room? Perhaps Mr Elliot would have a notion how many people Miss Hart employed. Elliot had a way of knowing such things. Sloane slipped through the gap in the wall and entered his house from the back, causing one of his maids to shriek in surprise when he suddenly appeared in the passageway. He told the girl to find Elliot and send him to the library, a room mirroring the location of Morgana’s busy back room. When Elliot entered, Sloane was examining the books on the shelves. ‘I have meant to rearrange the shelves, sir,’ Elliot said. Sloane stepped back. ‘Are they out of order?’ ‘Sadly out of order. Apparently no one has seen to their proper shelving in some time.’ Elliot picked up a stack of books and placed them on this shelf or that. Sloane watched, wondering what made it worth the effort. Very little on the shelf interested him. One or two titles caught his eye, but that was because they related to the political issues of the day, and the Annual Registers sometimes yielded useful information. The rest he would not miss. ‘You wished to see me, sir?’ Elliot said, having found the books their homes. Sloane picked up the Register for 1816 and handed it to his secretary. ‘How many servants do we employ?’ Elliot placed the Register right after that for 1815. ‘There is Sparrow, your butler. Mrs Wells, the housekeeper. Cook.’

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He counted on his fingers. ‘Cook’s assistant. A scullery maid. Two upstairs maids. Two footmen. And your valet, of course. That makes ten.’ ‘Ten?’ Sloane almost laughed. There was a time when even one maid of all work would have been woefully out of reach. ‘Unless you wish me to include your coachman and groom, and Tommy.’ He held up his palm. ‘Ten,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me, do they employ so many next door?’ If Elliot thought this an odd question, he made no sign of it. He looked to be calculating in his head. ‘I believe they have the same number. One more lady’s maid, but no assistant to the cook.’ Sloane might marvel at how Elliot came by this information, but not much surprised him about the young man’s ability. ‘I see.’ Sloane’s brow furrowed. Either all the maids were gathered in the library at once, or there were more people in Morgana Hart’s house than Elliot knew of. Sloane contemplated a return to his hiding place near the mews. If he watched long enough, he suspected he would be able to count the different faces, but he would be no closer to knowing why so many were there. ‘Did you wish to go through the invitations?’ Elliot asked. An impressive stack of invitations had arrived. Sloane received more each day, a measure of the increase in members of the ton who accepted him. Though Sloane was impatient to find a way to speak to Morgana, he dutifully sat down and discussed with Elliot which to accept and which to reject. Another delay came that afternoon when Sloane received his first caller. His nephew David came to congratulate him

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on his purchase of the town house. Sloane received him in the drawing room, sending for some port. He poured them each a glass. ‘Your grandfather will not like you visiting me.’ David took a sip. ‘Grandfather will most probably not ask, but, if he does, I shall admit to calling upon you.’ Foolish boy. It would be wiser to lie. Sloane peered in his glass. ‘You’d do better to cut me.’ David regarded him with a very serious expression. ‘I know the circumstances of your birth, Uncle, but I cannot see why you have been made to suffer for it.’ David knew? This made the young man’s friendliness even more remarkable. But Sloane had no intention of discussing his place in the family—or lack of it. Instead, he asked David about his life. The boy’s course had been similar to his own. Sent to Eton at age nine, then on to Oxford. David continued at Oxford, reading law, whereas Sloane had escaped at eighteen, using his meagre inheritance from his mother to lose himself on the Continent. The similarities ended there. After another glass of port, David said, ‘I thought it would be polite to call upon Miss Hart while I am in the neighbourhood, or at least leave my card if she is not receiving.’ Brilliant idea. Why had Sloane not thought of it? Actually he had thought of it, but concluded it would cause talk if anyone saw him enter her house alone. With David it would not be remarked upon, however. ‘Perhaps I will join you,’ Sloane said. ‘Look what Mary found, Miss Hart.’ Rose handed her a small book. ‘She wanted to put it away again, but I said you would want to see it.’ Morgana opened the book to the title page. The Whore-

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monger’s Guide to London. ‘What is this?’ She turned the pages. ‘It has names and their direction as well.’ Mary pointed on the page. ‘I thought you might find your tutor in there.’ This was exciting indeed. Morgana glanced at the date of publication. 1803, the year she had been sent to school and her father had come to London. This must have been his book. The idea that her father might have used this information gave Morgana a rather sick feeling. She firmly set aside that thought and made herself consider what use the book might be in her present endeavours. She quickly leafed through to see if Harriette Wilson was listed. She was not. ‘Thank you, Rose,’ Morgana said. Morgana had had the pianoforte moved to the library, and Rose sat down at it, playing softly. Mary sat with Katy, showing her a book, and Miss Moore put Lucy through an elocution exercise. Morgana’s grandmother sat in a rocking chair where she could see everyone. She smiled and rocked and said everything was lovely to anyone who asked. Cripps knocked on the door. ‘Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Hart.’ Morgana strained to see if there was any change in his manner towards her since the ‘nieces’ had arrived. She was unable to tell. ‘Mr Cyprian Sloane and Mr David Sloane.’ Mr Sloane? Even though she had convinced herself he could never care for her, her heart leapt. ‘Did you put them in the drawing room?’ ‘Yes, miss.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ Her glance darted around the room. ‘I suppose we should serve tea. Will you see to it, Mr Cripps.’ He bowed and left the room. Morgana told herself she could see Sloane without him dis-

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covering her other guests. She walked over to her grandmother’s chair. ‘Grandmama, would you like to receive callers with me?’ Her grandmother smiled. ‘That would be lovely, my dear.’ Morgana shoved The Whoremonger’s Guide into the pocket of her dress and helped the frail old lady to her feet. They made their laborious way to the drawing room. The two gentlemen turned at their entrance and waited to be presented. Morgana’s eyes flew naturally to Sloane’s. ‘Grandmama, you recall our neighbour, Mr Cyprian Sloane?’ Morgana said. ‘Oh, yes,’ said her grandmother agreeably. ‘So lovely to see you, my dear.’ Morgana tried to ignore the knowing look in his eye as he took her grandmother’s bony hand in his large one and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. ‘It is my pleasure, Lady Hart.’ She presented David Sloane, and her grandmother responded to him in the same vague manner. He did not seem to notice anything amiss. Morgana prayed her grandmother would not say anything to reveal her infirmity of mind. ‘Please sit, gentlemen,’Morgana said. ‘Cripps is bringing tea.’ She felt Sloane’s gaze boring into her as they chatted. He continued to examine her as she poured him tea and handed him the cup, and when they stood to leave fifteen correct minutes later. She left her grandmother in the drawing room and walked the gentlemen out. When they had stepped into the hall, Sloane turned to her with a glint in his eye. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Miss Hart, but I am desirous to know if your house has the same configuration of rooms as my own.’ To her alarm he headed for the door of the back parlour, where soft piano music could be heard.

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‘Is this the library?’ He put his hand on the knob. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I mean, it is merely a small parlour my father used as a library.’ The voices of the girls inside the room were audible through the closed door. His brows rose. ‘Is it configured as my own?’ He turned the knob. She put her hand on his, bare skin to bare skin. ‘I think this not a good time. The…the maids are cleaning.’ He seemed to peer all the way into her lying soul. ‘I see. They clean the pianoforte very melodiously. Perhaps some other time I shall beg a tour of your house.’ ‘I will arrange it with Cripps.’ She turned sharply back towards the hall and the book fell from her pocket. Sloane picked it up and read the spine. ‘Miss Hart—’ he whispered fiercely. She merely extended her hand for the book. ‘Are we leaving, Uncle?’ called David from the hallway. He was forced to give the book back to her, but his face looked like thunder. ‘Directly,’ he called to his nephew. She led him back to the hall where Cripps waited with the gentlemen’s hats. David said his goodbye and headed out of the door. Sloane held back. ‘I will speak with you very soon.’ He gave her a meaningful look that filled her with trepidation. Morgana closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She glanced at Cripps. He hesitated a moment before asking, ‘Do you require anything further, miss?’ ‘Nothing.’ She fled into the drawing room to collect her grandmother, knowing she’d not heard the last of this from Sloane. David convinced Sloane they should also call upon Lady Hannah, and Lady Hannah begged the gentlemen to drive her

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through Hyde Park, where she waved happily to her friends, no doubt feeling triumphant at having two gentlemen to escort her. It was nearly two hours before Sloane could return to Culross Street. He drove the curricle to the stables himself and left the horses in the care of his tiger. Tommy would think it the most natural thing in the world for Sloane to cross the mews and enter from the back. Once in his garden, Sloane crossed through the gap in the fence. Rain began to patter the stone of the garden with fat droplets, and he hurried to Morgana’s rear entrance. Finding the door unlocked, he slipped inside her house. He would bet his fortune she was in her back parlour, from where he’d heard the other female voices. Sloane experienced the same surge of excitement that he used to feel whenever he risked discovery. He hurried up the servants’ stairs and stood in the shadows, but he was by no means hidden. Anyone who looked carefully would see him. As he’d hoped, Morgana came out of the room. He stepped out of the shadows. ‘Miss Hart.’ ‘Oh!’ She jumped in surprise. He grabbed her arm and drew her away from the parlour door. ‘Explain yourself,’ he demanded. Her back was against the wall. ‘I, explain myself? You are the one invading my house!’ ‘I needed to speak with you privately.’ He glared at her. ‘Unless you wish me to discuss The Whoremonger’s Guide with you at Almack’s.’ ‘No.’ Red spots appeared on her cheeks. The colour only brightened her countenance, but he must not allow himself to think of how lovely she was. ‘Now explain all. I will have no surprises.’

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She expelled an angry breath. ‘I do not see why I must. This is none of your affair, Mr Sloane.’ He gave a throaty laugh, appreciating her spirit more than he ought. ‘Recall, Miss Hart, you manage to involve me at every turn.’ ‘Mere chance, sir,’ she retorted. ‘I did not plan to involve you.’ ‘Come now.’ He gave her a level stare. ‘You asked me about Harriette Wilson.’ ‘Merely her direction,’ she said defensively. ‘You involved me.’ He gave her an emphatic shake. ‘Now tell me what is going on.’ She twisted out of his grasp. ‘Oh, very well! I shall tell you. Do not paw at me.’ He folded his arms across his chest. She looked everywhere but at his face. ‘Now,’ he demanded. The words spilled from her mouth with hardly a breath in between. How her maid was bent on a life of prostitution, and how she was just as resolved to stop her. How she’d come upon her solution to the problem, and finally, the solution itself, complete with her reason for appearing in the glove shop and her desire to contact Harriette Wilson. When she finally finished, he could only repeat in disbelief, ‘You are training your maid to be a courtesan?’ She nodded. He swung his arms in the air. ‘What the devil has got into you? You cannot!’ ‘Well, I must.’ She crossed her arms around her chest, a mimic of his previous gesture. ‘And there are three other girls from Mrs Rice’s shop. Well, two others. The third simply attached herself to them. I am going to train them as well.’ ‘Three girls?’ His voice cracked. ‘Four, if you count Lucy,’ she corrected.

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He swung away from her and whirled back to lean into her face. ‘Are you mad?’ She shrugged. ‘What else can I do? It is all I can think of to save these girls from that horrid Mrs Rice.’ ‘So you will be their procuress instead of Mrs Rice?’ It was all he could do to keep from throttling her. ‘This improves matters?’ ‘It is not like that!’ She looked wounded. ‘I am merely going to train them to be as agreeable as possible. To attract a better sort of man. If they attract many men, they shall have the freedom to select.’ He laughed again. ‘You think it is that simple? Do you think Miss Wilson is any less at the whim of her patrons than a girl in a bawdy house?’ She gave him an exasperated look. ‘Come now, Mr Sloane. You cannot convince me a girl in a bawdy house has an advantage over that woman I saw at the opera, in her fine clothes and jewels, all the men fawning over her?’ She drew in a long breath. ‘I have thought long about this. I cannot change what has happened to these girls. They are ruined. They have been tossed aside by everyone who once professed to love them. They cannot become housemaids or shopgirls or seamstresses. Once their past was revealed they would be turned out, and who then would hire them? I am merely giving them some advantage. If they behave wisely, they may create a secure life for themselves.’ ‘Morgana—’ he gripped her arms again, unaware that he’d slipped into using her given name ‘—if even a whisper of this gets out, you will be as ruined as they.’ She averted her eyes. ‘I know. But I cannot send them back to Mrs Rice. I simply cannot.’ She raised her eyes to his, their ginger colour intense with emotion. He felt excited and faintly sick, as if he’d twirled

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round and round like he’d done as a child, making the world spin when he stopped. Her scheme was as daring as it was foolish. He tried another tactic to dissuade her. ‘If you are discovered, the blame will fall on me.’ ‘On you?’ She looked perplexed. ‘Why should it?’ He shook his head in impatience. ‘I am next door to you, Morgana. Someone is bound to think me the mastermind.’ He released her. ‘There are those in town who desire my ruin. They are eager to believe the worst of me. My family, for one. I can guarantee that if my father gets wind of this he will make sure I am banned from any respectable drawing room for the rest of my life.’ Her eyes softened. ‘Your father hates you so much?’ ‘Yes,’ he admitted gruffly, taken aback at how easily her sympathy opened his old wounds. She leaned against the door, a frustrated expression on her lovely face. Clutching at straws, he added, ‘And you must think of your cousin as well. If you are ruined, the scandal will fall upon her too.’ Her eyes flashed at him. She did not speak for several seconds and then in a whisper. ‘How am I to choose between ruining you, or ruining Hannah, or ruining those poor girls? Tell me how I am to do that?’ He responded in a soft voice. ‘What of ruining yourself?’ She waved a dismissive hand. He blew out a breath. He could not dispute the fact that those girls would be better off selling themselves for a high price than for a cheap one. They had all fallen from grace already; few who fell managed to climb up again. Some temptation always pulled at them, luring them back to the low life, as he well knew. He felt it. Felt it now. The lure of danger, ex-

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citement, relief from the crushing boredom of life as a gentleman. He frowned. ‘What did you intend to do with The Whoremonger’s Guide?’ Her lip trembled. ‘I need someone to tutor the girls in…in what I do not know about being a courtesan. I thought Harriette Wilson might do it.’ She looked at him through her lashes. ‘Because I do not know how to contact her, I am forced to use the book to find a tutor.’ Quite right, he thought. ‘Harriette would not be a wise choice,’ he said pensively. ‘She has a loose tongue. Half the ton would know in no time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘You need someone with more discretion.’ ‘I will find such a person, then.’ Her voice became adamant. ‘No, Morgana.’ If she used that infernal book, she entered a different world, a world where the rules were not civilised. ‘It will not do for you…’ He paused. He suddenly felt seized with life and energy. Plans formed in his head in spite of his better judgement. He cleared his throat, and bit back a smile of anticipation. ‘I will find your tutor.’ ‘You will?’ she cried and flung her arms around him. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’ Giddy and exhilarated, he lifted her off the ground and spun her about. When her feet again landed on the floor, she gazed into his eyes like a kindred spirit. He wanted to press her against him, taste her lips, show her how man might plunder a willing woman, a woman as wild as he was. He caught himself and pulled away. It was so easy to act the rake. So damned easy.

Chapter Nine

M

organa’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had flung herself at him like some sort of hoyden. But more mortifying, he had pushed her away—again. She held her breath a moment and promised herself to forget this…this attraction to him. It was enough he’d agreed to help her, no matter that he’d done so for Hannah’s sake, for she was certain that that had been the deciding factor for him. ‘Would…would you like to meet them? The girls, I mean,’ she stammered. He glanced away, then turned his warm eyes back on her and gave his lazy smile. ‘Why the devil not?’ Her heart danced, completely ignoring her vow not to let him affect her so. She led him from the stairway, enlivened by his company, relieved that she was no longer alone in her enterprise. ‘Come then.’ Morgana led him to the library, knocking before she slipped into the room alone. The girls looked up. Miss Moore smiled at her. Her grandmother chirped, ‘How lovely to see you, my dear.’ ‘I have brought someone for you to meet. Someone who will help us.’ Morgana stepped aside for Sloane to enter.

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‘Gracious,’ cried Katy, jumping to her feet. Miss Moore looked shocked, but Lady Hart smiled. ‘How lovely of you to call, dear.’ ‘This is Mr Sloane,’ Morgana announced. ‘He is our neighbour…and…’ she gave him a quick glance ‘…a man who can do many things. He has volunteered to find our tutor.’ Morgana made the introductions and, as if he’d met them in an elegant drawing room on Grosvenor Square, he greeted them with respect. She watched in wonder how his kind attentions to them made them sit up straighter and hold their heads higher, appearing more like ladies than otherwise. ‘Do you honestly know a tutor, sir?’ Rose asked, blinking her wide green eyes and speaking in her melodious brogue. Sloane’s voice had a catch in it when he answered, ‘I have someone in mind.’ He gave the girl a long look. Morgana stiffened. She tried to tell herself it was good that he showed his attraction to Rose. It would help remind her that he was not attracted to her, but to her cousin. He turned to her. ‘I’d best take my leave.’ ‘I will see you out,’ Morgana said, trying not to show her unexpected little surge of jealousy. When he faced the assembly of women and bowed in a gentlemanly manner, Morgana felt like hugging him again for his kindness to them. She wished he would call upon them often so the girls could learn how a man ought to treat them. Morgana gave herself a silent rebuke. It was she who wished his company for herself. She led him out of the room and started for the front door. He caught her arm. ‘Through the back. You have a gap through our garden wall that I passed through.’ Understanding dawned. ‘That is how you got in.’ He favoured her with a wicked wink in reply.

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They descended the stairs and reached the door to the garden. Morgana did not wish him to leave. ‘What do you think of them, Mr Sloane?,’ she asked. Anything to detain him a moment longer. He gave her a contemplative frown. ‘Do you truly wish my opinion?’ A frisson of anxiety crept up her back. Was he about to scold her again? ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘Rose O’Keefe will rise to the top, I suspect.’ He spoke in a detached manner, and, in spite of herself, Morgana was pleased. He apparently had not been as captivated by Rose as she’d thought. He went on. ‘Katy Green is trouble, and I would watch out for her.’ Morgana knew that as well. He shook his head in dismay. ‘I confess, I cannot picture either Miss Phipps or your Lucy in the role at all.’ She sighed. ‘I cannot either, but there you have it.’ He looked directly in her eyes. ‘How have you explained the new girls’ presence to the servants?’ She averted her eyes. ‘We have told them they are Miss Moore’s nieces.’ His stern look returned. ‘They will not believe it. The girls have different accents and look nothing like each other.’ She cautiously faced him. ‘I fear you are right. Miss Moore believes she has settled the matter by saying they are not sisters but cousins, but it sounds far-fetched to me. I fear Mr Cripps, the butler, is not fooled at all.’ His worried expression contained no censure this time. ‘Let me think upon a solution. The servants must not talk or you will be discovered.’ She gazed at him in wonder. How good it felt not to be alone in managing this scheme.

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‘Another matter.’ His grey eyes were intent. ‘You must not allow the girls to appear on Bond Street or St James’s or any other place where they might be recognised. And you must not be seen in their company.’ She had not thought at all on matters such as this. ‘Why not?’ ‘Your Mrs Rice wants her girls back. That fellow from the park and others will be searching for them.’ ‘The man from the park?’ He’d wanted Lucy. What did he have to do with Mrs Rice? ‘How do you know this?’ He leaned closer, his eyes taking on a hard edge. ‘I know. You will obey me in this, Morgana.’ The use of her given name made his demand seem even more sinister. ‘As you wish, Mr Sloane.’ His expression softened. He lifted his hand and for a brief moment she thought he would caress her face. A foolish thought, because he drew it away again. He gave her a raffish grin instead. ‘Call me Sloane. If we are to be conspirators in your little venture, formality between us is hypocritical, is it not?’ Her own smile tickled the corner of her mouth. She presented her hand to shake. ‘Then I give you permission to address me as Morgana.’ He did not miss her quip. Laughing, he accepted her hand. The contact of his warm, rough hand in hers, bare skin to bare skin, only intensified this new intimacy between them. Breathless, she murmured, ‘Thank you, Sloane.’ His laughter ceased and his expression turned serious again. He released her hand. ‘You may not thank me in the end, Morgana. This is a foolhardy and dangerous business we are engaged in. Who knows what will come of it?’ With that he opened the door and left, but for quite a while afterwards Morgana stood still as a statue, gazing after him.

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*** That evening’s must-attend entertainment was a ball given to announce the latest ton engagement, a merger guaranteed to please the families, if not the young man and woman involved. Everyone was present, including Morgana. Sloane spied her across the room, standing with her aunt. Her eyes caught his for a mere second, but he felt the exhilaration of intrigue. There were dangerous secrets between them and care must be taken that no one discover this change in their relationship. He held his breath that Morgana would do nothing to reveal it. She did not fail him. After the brief contact with their eyes, she turned back to her aunt as if she’d not seen him at all. Almost disappointed, he kept up his part of the pretence, but this secret between them, and the risk of discovery, heightened his enjoyment of the ball. It put his senses on alert. He took care not to neglect Lady Hannah, engaging her in one early dance as she would expect of him. Suddenly his behaviour towards Hannah had become part of the subterfuge, making it easier to take part in the inconsequential chatter that passed as conversation between them. After the dance, he left her to her other suitors, whose number had increased of late. His nephew David joined the growing throng. Sloane sauntered into the room where the refreshments were set out. Another gentleman joined him. The Marquess of Heronvale. ‘You are Mr Sloane, are you not?’ the tall, taciturn marquess asked. ‘I am, sir.’ He gave an inward groan. A few months ago, because of a foolish wager, Sloane had threatened to expose the nefarious past of this powerful man’s sister-in-law. She’d been the Mysterious Miss M. in the days Sloane had known her, the prize in a gaming hell. The threat

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had been nothing but a drunken bluff on his part, but no one knew he had never meant to carry it out. Certainly not the marquess. Sloane braced himself. Heronvale looked at him intently. Here it comes, Sloane thought, envisioning all his efforts to restore his reputation sinking into a cesspool. Heronvale gave a slight nod. ‘I hear you are a man of your word.’ Sloane released a relieved breath. He had given this man’s brother his word that he would not disclose the damaging information. Sloane gave Heronvale a frank stare. ‘I am many things, sir, among them a man of my word.’ The marquess smiled approvingly. ‘I admire that. Tell me, are you carrying refreshment to anyone?’ ‘Merely seeing to my own thirst,’ Sloane admitted. ‘Excellent.’ Heronvale nodded again. ‘Sit with me for a moment and share a drink. I would value your company.’ Sloane sat with the Marquess of Heronvale, conversing over wine glasses, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The marquess told Sloane duty had brought him to London that season. He came for Parliament, reluctantly leaving his wife and newborn son in the country. By the end of their conversation, Heronvale had invited Sloane to dine with him at White’s the following evening, at which time they could discuss politics and what role Sloane might play in it. After the men shook hands and parted, Sloane nearly danced a jig. The Marquess of Heronvale thought he might play a role in politics? By God, if Sloane had Heronvale’s endorsement, what man would dare question his reputation? He felt triumphant! He returned to the ballroom where a set was forming. Scanning the room, he found Morgana unattached. She was the one person in the room he wanted to be with at the mo-

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ment. As casually as he could manage, he crossed the room and asked her to dance with him. ‘You look happy,’ she said when the country dance brought them together. It was a simple observation, without any teasing flirtation attached. ‘I am indeed.’ The figures separated them. When they came close again, she asked, ‘Why so?’ He halfway considered giving her some bantering, evasive answer. It is what any other partner would expect. But this was Morgana with whom he shared many secrets. Why not share his good fortune with her as well? ‘I have had a brief chat with Heronvale and I’m engaged to dine with him tomorrow.’ She looked perplexed. ‘This is the source of your happiness?’ They had to complete the figures again before he could explain. ‘Heronvale will make a powerful ally.’ ‘I see.’ She glanced over to where Heronvale stood conversing with Castlereagh. She frowned. ‘Will he make a good friend, though?’ A friend? Such a notion was unfamiliar indeed. It took him aback. ‘Yes. I do believe I would like him for a friend.’ She smiled and the dance separated them once more. At the end of the set, he was reluctant to leave her side, but he forced himself to circulate, even asking Hannah for a second set. Hannah’s conversation was as gay as usual, but the set seemed unusually long. Sloane declined her invitation to share the Cowdlin carriage for the trip home. He left the ball early, another errand to perform. Walking out into the night air, he became himself again, watchful and alert as he set off on foot to his des-

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tination, an innocuouslooking town house off of St James’s Street. He sounded the knocker and a huge bear of a man dressed in colourful livery opened the door. ‘Good evening, Cummings,’ Sloane greeted the man and handed him his hat. Cummings made no sign of noticing that Sloane had not crossed this threshold for at least three months. ‘G’d evening, sir,’ Cummings responded in his deep monotone. ‘Is Madame Bisou available?’ ‘In the card room.’ Cummings disappeared into the back room where he stowed the various cloaks, hats and canes. Madame Bisou owned this establishment, a gaming hell and brothel, as honest and clean as any gentleman could expect. She was also indebted to Sloane, who, right before he made his decision to abandon this sort of gaming, had broken her faro bank with one mad night of reckless play. He’d not had the heart to call in the debt. She was, therefore, much beholden to him. He climbed the stairs to the gaming room where he’d once played whist with a woman in disguise. The Wagering Widow, they’d called her, and it had been wagers over her that drove him to make his empty threats about Heronvale’s sister-inlaw. Sloane had lost badly over the Widow. Twice. And he hadn’t fancied being known for it. When he entered the room, several men looked up from their cards. One older fellow called to him, ‘Sloane! It has been an age! Come partner me.’ Sloane shook his head. ‘I’m not playing tonight, Sir Reginald.’ Madame Bisou caught sight of him and came bustling over. ‘Oh, Monsieur Sloane,’ she cried in her atrocious French accent. ‘How delightful to see you!’ Her flaming red curls

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bounced as energetically as the flesh the low neckline of her bright purple dress failed to conceal. She gave him exuberant kisses on both cheeks, but regarded him with some wariness. ‘You have perhaps come to collect?’ He smiled. ‘No, but there is something I wish to discuss with you.’ ‘You wish time with me?’ She spoke so loudly everyone in the room could hear. He glanced around, but everyone was too busy with their cards or dice to heed her very public invitation. ‘To confer with you,’ he clarified. ‘But I will pay for your time.’ ‘Oh, no,’ she protested as she led him out into the hall. ‘We shall deduct it from what I owe you.’ She took him to the supper room and they seated themselves at the same out-of-the-way table where he’d got bloody drunk over the loss of his first wager over Lady Widow. Madame Bisou lowered herself into a chair with a noisy rustle of satin skirts. ‘What is it, mon cher, that you require of me?’ She fluttered her lashes seductively. ‘Ease off, Penny.’ Sloane took the seat across from her. She frowned at his use of her given name. ‘Speak quietly, Cyprian, or I shall shout your name across the room.’ Her French accent fled and she talked like the Chelsea girl she’d once been. He laughed. ‘As if everyone does not know it. My father has made certain of that.’ He signalled to one of the serving girls, who brought them a bottle of brandy and two crystal glasses. He poured for her. ‘I am in need of a favour, Penny. An odd one, but I am persuaded you will be the perfect person for it.’

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As methodically as he could, he described Morgana’s plan, trying to make it sound as if it were not completely irrational. After he finished he downed a whole glass of brandy in one gulp. Penny leaned towards him. ‘Do you mean to say a baron’s daughter has taken in some of Fortuna Rice’s girls and she wants to train them to be high-flyers?’ Sloane poured himself more brandy. ‘You have grasped it, Penny.’ ‘And you want me to teach them how to seduce men?’ He gave her a sly smile. ‘If you know such things.’ She slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘Of course I know such things! You know I do, darling. I am an expert!’ She straightened in her chair and fussed with the lace on her bodice. ‘I am to go to Mayfair, into this lady’s house?’ Sloane’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose I could bring them here—’ ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I want to be invited to Mayfair. Now tell me, Cyprian. How much is she willing to pay?’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘Do not rook her, Penny, or you will answer to me. If you tutor these girls, your debt to me is forgiven. That should be payment enough.’ She grinned and her eyes danced. She looked almost like the ambitious and beautiful young doxy he’d met ten years earlier. ‘I declare I might have taken this on at no charge at all. It sounds a splendid lark.’ ‘But I warn you, you must speak of this to no one.’ He leaned forward for emphasis. ‘No one. Or you will, indeed, answer to me.’ Early the next morning Sloane sent a message to Morgana that he would bring her tutor to her at eleven o’clock. Morgana and Miss Moore spent the morning drilling the

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girls in how to walk, sit, stand and curtsy as a lady might do, but all Morgana could think of was that Sloane would be calling—with the tutor, of course. Soon the clock struck eleven. Ten more excruciatingly slow minutes passed before the knocker sounded and Cripps came in to announce that Mr Sloane and ‘a female person’ were in the front drawing room. ‘Very good, Cripps.’ Morgana rushed out of the room. She left her grandmother and Miss Moore with the girls. With Sloane, the pretence of a chaperon was unnecessary. When she entered the drawing room, he turned to face her. He was resplendent in dove grey pantaloons, shiny black boots, and a coat in a blue so dark it was almost black. He quite took her breath—and her speech—away. ‘Miss Hart.’ He stepped aside to reveal the woman he had brought with him. ‘May I present Madame Bisou.’ The woman looked perfectly respectable in a plain brown walking dress and spencer. Only the flaming red hair peeking out from under her sedate matching bonnet gave hint to her profession. ‘Madame Bisou.’ Morgana offered her hand. ‘I am grateful you have come.’ The woman appraised Morgana as she accepted the handshake. She gave Sloane a significant look. ‘Cyprian, I begin to understand how you came to make this request.’ His face filled with colour, and Morgana rushed to speak. ‘Mr Sloane is acting as my friend only because I have given him little choice, Madame.’ ‘Little choice indeed!’ Madame Bisou exclaimed. ‘As if Cyprian does anything he does not wish to do.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Now, what is it you require of me?’ Morgana begged them to sit while she explained. When she finished Madame Bisou’s eyes danced. ‘I am

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well able to teach your girls how to be pleasing to men. I have some experience in such matters, do I not, Cyprian?’ Sloane returned her glance with an ironic gleam in his eye. ‘You do, indeed, Penny.’ Madame Bisou made a face at him, and Morgana realised with shock that the madam must have once been intimate with him. Was she still? Morgana felt the same sick feeling she experienced when realising her father must have used The Whoremonger’s Guide. No. Not the same feeling. This felt worse somehow. She regarded Madame Bisou, her eyes narrowing. Surely the woman was older than Sloane, who must be in his thirties. There were faint lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her skin had lost the tautness and clarity of youth. Still, she had an aura about her that made Morgana certain that if the two of them walked down the street, gentlemen would turn to look at Madame Bisou and not at her. But that was what she had desired in a tutor, was it not? ‘Shall I do, Miss Hart?’ Madame Bisou sounded amused. Morgana shook herself. What business was it of hers with whom Sloane shared such…intimate behaviours? If anyone should be concerned it would be Hannah, but then Hannah would never know of this. ‘I suspect you will do very well, Madame,’ Morgana responded, avoiding a glance at Sloane. ‘Shall I take you to your students?’ Madame Bisou clapped her hands. ‘Oh, yes. The sooner, the better.’ Sloane stood. ‘I doubt you require my presence. When shall I collect you, Madame?’ Madame Bisou looked to Morgana. ‘In two hours, Sloane, if that would not be inconvenient?’ Morgana still did not look straight at him.

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He bowed, but stepped to the open door of the library to say a brief hello to Morgana’s girls. Morgana hesitated a moment before ushering Madame Bisou into the room, pausing to watch Sloane head towards the hall. Sloane walked out of Morgana’s house at the same moment his secretary approached his own door. Mr Elliot looked greatly surprised, no doubt wondering why his employer called upon a single lady before noon, alone at that. ‘Good day, Elliot,’ Sloane said in a deliberate tone. Mr Elliot blinked rapidly. ‘Good day, sir. I…I was just returning from town.’ ‘Seeing to my business, I suppose?’ Sloane walked over to where Elliot stood. Elliot still avoided his eye. Sloane rather enjoyed the young man’s discomfort. It belied his usual efficiency. But Sloane also realised that Elliot was not a fool. Even if Elliot concluded he was making a conquest of Morgana, what Sloane suspected anyone would conclude, he believed he could count on the young man’s discretion. Still, it did not hurt to emphasise the point. ‘Is there something you want to ask me, Mr Elliot?’ ‘Oh, no, sir.’ Elliot sputtered. ‘That is—it is none of my affair, I am sure.’ The two men walked together into Sloane’s house. ‘It is no affair of mine as well, but you will not speak of me visiting Miss Hart’s house.’ His secretary looked wounded. ‘Of course I will not, sir!’ Sloane nodded. ‘Very good.’ He headed to his library, thinking a small glass of port might pass the time while he waited to collect Penny. To his dismay, Elliot followed him into the room. ‘There is something I ought to speak with you about.’

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Sloane already had the bottle of port in hand. He gestured for the young man to sit and poured a glass for them both. Elliot began, ‘Sparrow, your butler, sir, informed me that one of the footmen informed him that Miss Hart’s footman was talking of something havey-cavey next door. It seems there are some suspicious females present in the house.’ Sloane paused just as he was about to lift his glass to his lips. He tried to sound casual. ‘Havey-cavey?’ Elliot shrugged. ‘That is all I know. I shall discover more in time. I thought I ought to tell you of it, because you indicated reservations about moving next door to Miss Hart.’ He stopped and gave Sloane a considering look. ‘But perhaps you know of it…’ Because Elliot had seen him leave Morgana’s house. Sloane stared at his secretary a long time. It had taken only a day for news of Morgana’s strange guests to reach Elliot’s ears, something he must deal with post-haste. Elliot regarded him with a steady look. ‘You do know of this,’ he said simply. ‘I beg you would instruct me how you wish me to proceed.’ Sloane appraised the young man. Elliot was alert and intelligent. Because the young man lived with him, it would be difficult to put much past him. Sloane was unaccustomed to trusting another person, but Elliot could be of great assistance. He could help keep an eye on Morgana when Sloane could not, an extra protection. Elliot was beholden to Sloane, who, as a favour to a former smuggler, had taken on the man’s son as secretary, providing him with a chance at a respectable profession. Even if Elliot was disposed to be loyal in return, was it fair to ask him to share the risk of Morgana’s courtesan school being discovered? Who was he fooling? If the courtesan school was discov-

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ered, Elliot would sink with the rest of them. Better for him to be warned. ‘Drink your port, Elliot,’ Sloane said. ‘And I will endeavour to explain.’ A quarter of an hour later, Sloane had told Elliot the whole story. When he finished, he refilled Elliot’s empty glass. ‘That young maid wishes to be a courtesan?’ Elliot asked incredulously. Sloane sipped his own drink. ‘She is bent on some sort of harlotry, Miss Hart insists. That is how this whole courtesan school came about.’ Elliot stared into his port. ‘I wonder why she should wish to do such a thing.’ Sloane leaned back in his chair. ‘Living with her father, I expect. He was one of the King’s diplomats in Spain during the war. I suspect she pretty much did as she pleased in his house.’ Elliot looked baffled. It took several moments before comprehension dawned on his face. ‘Oh, you meant Miss Hart. I was speaking of the maid.’ ‘The maid?’ It was Sloane’s turn to be bewildered. He took another sip. ‘In any event, if this business reaches the ears of the ton, it shall be the downfall of us all. I may find your assistance useful from time to time. May I depend upon you?’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ Elliot responded, but in a distracted manner. Elliot proceeded to inform Sloane of the financial business he had transacted in town. The complexity of the investments Elliot had set up were a bore to Sloane, but the profits continued to be gratifying. He kept watch on the mantel clock. He returned to Morgana’s house early to collect Penny. Miss Hart’s butler admitted him. ‘I shall announce you directly, sir.’

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‘In a moment.’ Sloane handed him his hat and gloves. ‘What is your name, man?’ ‘Cripps, sir.’ The butler placed his hat and gloves on the marble-topped hall table and turned back to him. Sloane gave the man a steely stare. ‘It has come to my attention, Cripps, that the servants under you are passing tales about this household to my servants.’ Cripps returned his look impassively. Sloane continued, ‘This will not do. You have shirked your responsibility to protect this lady’s privacy.’ A muscle in Cripps’s cheek twitched, but he remained stiff and erect. The man gave away little. Sloane decided to increase the stakes. ‘I am a wealthy man, Cripps, but I can also be a dangerous man to cross. Treat this lady and her guests well and you and your staff will be rewarded. Bonuses to them all from me.’ He leaned forward menacingly. ‘Harm her with loose tongues or otherwise and you will incur my wrath.’ He paused for Cripps’s reaction. The butler did not change expression. ‘I assure you, you do not wish to displease me,’ he emphasised. Cripps finally responded in a low voice. ‘I will do my duty, as I always do.’ His face remained bland. ‘Shall I announce you now, sir?’ Once with the students, Madame Bisou dropped her French accent and her flirtatious ways. Oddly, she reminded Morgana of one of the Spanish noblemen her father had entertained in Spain. The gentleman had been incredibly shrewd, extracting from her father exactly what he wanted, and exactly what her father had originally refused to give him. Morgana discovered

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later that the nobleman had manipulated the French just as effectively. Madame Bisou had the same kind of cleverness and charm. She drew in the girls with a very friendly, motherly manner, and held them in her palm while she spoke of her origins. ‘I was not always Madame Bisou,’ she began in the spellbinding voice of a practised story-teller. ‘I was born Penny Jones, and my mother died giving birth to me. As a child I walked at my father’s side while he hawked dirty old clothes on Petticoat Lane. “Old clo,” he’d cry over and over. “Old clo.”’ She looked heavenward. ‘I can still remember it. Hearing the other street vendors’ songs all day as well as my father’s. I used to sing them myself and dance, and passers-by would throw me pennies. Pennies for Penny.’ Her smile left her face. ‘It was not long before men paid for more than my dancing.’ She gave them all a significant look. ‘By day I’d follow my father in the street and by night in the pubs, until one night he had no more coins for his gin.’ Her voice got very low and Morgana could see each of the girls and Miss Moore, too, straining to hear. ‘That night he sold me to a man in the pub for a few shillings. I never saw my father again.’ ‘That’s dastardly,’ cried Katy. ‘What happened next?’ Madame Bisou gave a ghost of a smile. ‘The man sold me at a profit to a bawdy house. After he had his way with me, that is. He sold me to a mean old abbess who beat her girls if they gave her any trouble. She kept all the money.’ There was a collective exclamation of outrage, and the madam went on to tell how she fooled the procuress and wound up with enough money and power to take over the house and drive the woman away. Katy and Rose cheered with enthusiasm at this triumph. Madame Bisou looked each of the girls in the eye. ‘I know how to get gents willing to die for me,’ she said dramatically.

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‘And that is what I will teach you. I’ll show you how to make them beg to do what you want them to do. I’ll teach you how to trick them into paying you much more than they thought they would. And how to have them stumble over each other to see who can buy you the biggest ring, the most expensive necklace or the most beautiful bracelet.’ Morgana was as mesmerised by the tale as the others, but she could not think of any gift she would want from a man, no dragon he could slay for her, no bauble he could purchase. Still, being such a temptress would be heady stuff indeed. Cripps knocked on the door and announced Sloane, who entered the room to collect Madame Bisou. Katy and Rose begged her to stay longer. She laughed, saying she would return very soon. None the less, they detained her with more questions. Sloane leaned over to Morgana. ‘How did she do?’ Morgana looked into his smoky grey eyes. ‘She told us the terrible story of how she came to be as she is today.’ ‘The terrible story?’ The corners of his eyes crinkled. It so distracted her, she forgot what she’d just said to him. ‘Oh—yes.’ She swallowed. ‘You know, how her father sold her for a pint of gin.’ His eyes shone. ‘It is a hum, Morgana. Penny was an innkeeper’s daughter who found life too tame and struck out on her own. I suspect her father still owns his pub somewhere in Chelsea and makes a fine living.’ Morgana burst out laughing, holding her hand over her mouth so the others would not heed her. ‘Oh, she is splendid, Sloane. She had us all completely at her mercy. I think Mary had tears in her eyes. If she can fool us, then she must know how to fool men!’ His expression changed to a stern one. ‘Is that what you desire, Miss Hart? To fool men?’ She was too happy to allow him to scowl at her. She mim-

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icked the madam’s low, attention-capturing cadence, as well as her accent. ‘Yes, it is, Sloane. We must fool some very rich men into giving all their money, n’est pas? And then toss them away, keeping all their money in our pockets.’ Not only was he not amused, he looked thunderous. ‘Do you wish to become a courtesan as well, Morgana?’ She responded to his grimace with a saucy smile. Madame Bisou hurried to his side. ‘Are you ready, Cyprian?’ She batted her lashes at him. Morgana’s eyes narrowed. Sloane took Morgana’s hand and leaned into her face. ‘Do not jest with me, Morgana. Are you planning to become a courtesan?’ The clasp of his hand felt angry, but the contact was every bit as affecting as the day before. She raised her eyes to his, suddenly serious. ‘Do you jest, Sloane? What man would think me a courtesan?’ His eyes filled with heat and she felt his thumb caress her palm. He did not answer her. ‘Good day, Miss Hart,’ he said. She did not immediately release his hand when he began to pull away. His expression turned quizzical. She said, ‘I hope your dinner goes well tonight, Sloane.’ ‘My dinner?’ He looked startled. ‘The dinner with Heronvale, do you mean?’ She nodded and opened her fingers so his hand slipped out of hers. He lightly brushed her arm. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’ Madame Bisou, née Penny Jones, entwined her arm in his. ‘Come, Cyprian.’ She swept him out of the door. Morgana lightly fingered her palm and her arm where the memory of his touch still lingered.

Chapter Ten

If Sloane had led a double life in the past, he now had tripled himself. He continued to play the gentleman for the ton, the possible suitor for Lady Hannah, the wealthy fellow who put in appearances at White’s and talked politics with the Marquess of Heronvale. At night, after the ton’s elegant routs and balls, he slipped into the shadows, returning often to Mrs Rice’s glove shop, keeping his eyes and ears open to possible danger from that quarter. To Mrs Rice’s mounting rage, her lackeys had made no progress in finding her missing girls or in discovering the ladylike woman who had snatched the pretty maid from her grasp. Sloane would remain watchful, however, just in case. During these past three weeks it had also become his practice to often look in on the courtesan school. He kept an eye on Penny, lest she be tempted to go back on her word not to exploit Morgana. He imposed his intimidating presence on the taciturn Cripps, to ensure the butler kept the servants in line. Sloane watched Morgana as well, in case he need rein her in from some risky exploit that might expose the whole affair.

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It had become his habit to breakfast with Morgana and her girls, the most pleasant part of his day. The courtesan school, scandalous as it might be, was a relief from the crushing boredom that permeated the rest of his time. Sometimes Elliot joined him at Morgana’s, as he did this day. Penny had requested they both assist the girls in her special dancing lessons. Both men slipped through the gap in the garden wall and entered Morgana’s house unseen. The formality of being announced long abandoned, they made their way straight to the dining parlour and entered to a chorus of good mornings. Morgana’s grandmother’s eyes lit up. ‘How lovely of you to call.’ ‘Men at last,’ exclaimed Katy, who nearly thrust her chest under Elliot’s nose before Miss Moore pulled her into a chair. Katy complained loudly. ‘I’m tired of seeing only old Cripps. He’s given the footmen such a lecture they run and hide when they see us!’ Sloane was greatly heartened that Cripps had been so cruel to poor Katy. ‘You must remember, men are to throw themselves at you, not you at them,’ Miss Moore told her. ‘You are better than that, Miss Green.’ Sloane frowned as he and Elliot filled their plates. Morgana often said those words to the girls. You are better than that. For all Morgana’s wide-eyed plans, he knew too well the world would not treat them so. Elliot chose a chair at the far end of the table where Lucy, who still considered herself of the servant class, always retreated. Sloane sat next to Morgana. She poured him a cup of tea, fixing it just as he liked. ‘It is so good of you and Mr Elliot to volunteer to be dance partners.’

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He smiled at her. ‘I would not exactly say Elliot volunteered, but he is excellent at following orders.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘Is it against his scruples? I would not impose upon anyone who objected to it.’ He glanced at Elliot, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Lucy. ‘He is shy around women, I believe.’ Her expressive eyes glanced in the same direction. ‘Katy must frighten the wits out of him, then. Lucy is shy, too, but they seem to get on together.’ ‘They talk of plants, I believe.’ Morgana asked his opinion of Naldi’s performance as Figaro at the opera the previous evening. Lady Hannah had fished for an invitation and Sloane had obliged, including her parents and Morgana in the party. He gave a dry laugh. ‘Surely you know I find every opera a dead bore.’ She rolled her eyes at his comment, but went on, ‘Well, I was not impressed. Naldi speaks as often as he sings, and often off key.’ Sloane had known without her saying so that she had not been impressed. While Lady Hannah spent the evening searching for her friends among the audience, he’d watched Morgana and had seen her opinion of the opera written on her face. ‘I do wish I could have talked with Harriette Wilson,’ she added. ‘She could have answered so many questions.’ What a silent argument they’d had over the infamous courtesan. Morgana had given Sloane a hopeful glance when Harriette appeared in her opera box, and he’d returned it with a censorious grimace. She’d replied with a thinning of her lips and he’d countered with a pointed shrug. ‘Do not act the fool, Morgana. You know you could not speak with her.’

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She sighed. ‘I know. I know. My reputation would be ruined.’ She said this with exaggerated drama. He put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘You have no notion what ruin would mean, but, I assure you, I do.’ Her ginger eyes turned warm with sympathy. Damnation. Such moments between them only complicated matters. He did not need her sympathy, nor her interest in his well-being. It only pulled at his baser urges. He’d thus far avoided playing the rake with her, but who knew how long he could last? He looked away and attacked his slice of ham. A few minutes later Miss Moore announced it was time for the girls’ lessons and helped Lady Hart to her feet. As Rose, Katy and Mary filed out of the room ahead of them, Miss Moore asked, ‘Are you coming, Morgana?’ Morgana looked up at her. ‘I shall be in shortly.’ Elliot left his half-eaten breakfast and followed Lucy, who paused uncertainly by Morgana. ‘What is it, Lucy?’ Morgana asked. Lucy hesitated, and glanced shyly at Elliot. ‘Mr Elliot and I were talking of how the primrose is in bloom, miss. May I show him in the garden?’ ‘Of course,’ Morgana said gently. Sloane peered at Elliot. Was his secretary attempting to make a conquest of Lucy? Lucy could do much worse than a liaison with a fine young man such as Elliot, so why did he feel he ought to cuff Elliot’s ears? Lucy curtsied more like a maid than a courtesan and she and Elliot hurried out. Morgana turned to Sloane. ‘Is that not remarkable?’ ‘What?’ ‘Lucy and Mr Elliot. She seems to blossom around him, like one of her flowers.’ With a dreamy expression, she gazed at the door through which Elliot and Lucy had departed.

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Sloane put down his fork. ‘Do not make this into some Minerva Press novel, Morgana.’ She raised an indignant eyebrow. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ He looked directly in her eyes. ‘Those are not two innocents. It is not a flower bed they are in search of, but the other kind of bed.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Do not be vulgar, Sloane.’ ‘Then do not you be missish.’ He made sure she listened. ‘How much do you wish to wager on it? Elliot and Lucy are bound to engage in more than a waltz soon enough?’ ‘I do not wish to wager at all,’ she said in a huff, but she glanced back at the door with a pensive expression. ‘It is precisely what I am training her for, is it not? I dislike thinking on it.’ He made no effort to relieve her tension. ‘You ought to think on it. You’d best realise what sort of life you are handing these young women.’ She gave him a withering look. ‘I suspect you are about to tell me.’ Her sarcasm set him off. ‘If they are lucky they will attract men of means. They will be selling themselves to the highest bidder. The man may be short or tall, fat or skinny. He may smell. He may be cruel. But one thing is for certain…’ He paused so that she would be sure to pay him heed. ‘To the man she will be a mere ornament and bed partner. That is all. And she will be at his mercy for the food she eats and the roof that shelters her.’ Her colour heightened. ‘Will it be so different when you choose a wife, Sloane?’ She took an angry breath, and Sloane did not miss the tantalising rise of her chest. ‘Do you not seek a wife other men will consider beautiful? Will you not wish for the pleasure of her bed? I assure you, she will be at your

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mercy for her food and her shelter. At least my girls will not be tied to one man for life, if they do not wish to be.’ He’d be damned if he’d allow her to know she’d struck a truthful chord. ‘Spare me this Wollstonecraft recitation. Next you will be penning A Vindication of the Rights of Doxies and Harlots.’ For a second he thought she would slap him across the face, which he surely deserved. Her eyes flamed and flashed with pain. She gripped the edge of the cloth on the table. But he suffered worse than the sting of her hand. He watched as she blinked, straightened her spine and erased all expression from her face. How many times in front of his father had he done the very same thing? He could barely make himself speak. ‘Do not do that, Morgana. Please God, do not do that.’ ‘Do what?’ she responded, eyes bland. ‘Pretend I did not wound you.’ His voice was a mere whisper. ‘I wish to God I had not said that to you.’ She remained stiff and distant. ‘It is of no consequence. My unguarded tongue…’ She waved her hand dismissively. He caught it in his. ‘I fear I spoke like—in a manner I regret.’ Like his father, he almost said. She pulled her hand away, and he snatched it back again. ‘You were correct, Morgana, about my marital desires. I do wish a beautiful wife and…the rest. It is the way of the respectable world, is it not?’ She darted a glance at their clasped hands. ‘The way for you, perhaps.’ He rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. ‘And for you?’ She again pulled loose of his grasp. ‘If there exists a man who could consider me an ornament, with my outspoken na-

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ture, I am certain he would soon fail to find me decorative.’ She let slip a fleeting glimpse of pain. ‘So your assessment of me was not far off the mark.’ Did she not know her appeal partly lay in her outspokenness? No pretence, no coy flirtations. He put his fingers under her chin and turned her face towards him, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes glittered like topaz, and their gazes held until he felt like walls were cracking inside him, walls that held back his own pain, the pain he’d fended off almost since birth. He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, touching the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb. ‘Morgana—’ he murmured. Katy’s voice sounded outside the door and they broke apart just in time before she burst in. ‘Make haste!’ Katy cried. ‘Madame Bisou has arrived and says you must come for the dance lessons.’ She did not wait to see if they would follow her. Heading back out the door, she laughed. ‘You ought to see the fribble she’s brought with her.’ ‘Well.’ Morgana stood. ‘I suppose we ought to join them.’ Sloane’s brow knit in worry. Who had Penny brought with her? There were already too many people who might leak information about Morgana’s outrageous courtesan school. He offered Morgana his arm and they walked to the library, where the lessons were to take place. When they neared the door, he stopped her. ‘Forgive me?’ He brushed her cheek lightly. Her smile held a hint of sadness, but it heartened him that it was a smile none the less. ‘Why the devil not?’ He squeezed her cheek playfully. ‘Hoyden.’ She grinned this time. ‘Rake.’ Katy came to the doorway. ‘What keeps you? Come on. We are waiting.’

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They obliged her, entering the room where all the furniture except the pianoforte and two chairs had been removed and the carpet rolled up. Miss Moore had settled Lady Hart in one of the chairs and she sat in the other that was placed at the keyboard of the pianoforte. ‘Oh, lovely to see you!’ exclaimed Lady Hart, catching sight of them. Madame Bisou stood next to a young gentleman. ‘Miss Hart, I have brought my friend Robert. Allow me to present him to you.’ She used her French accent this morning. ‘We need more gentlemen. Cyprian, you were to have brought your secretary.’ ‘I did bring him, Penny.’ Her eyes narrowed. Katy gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Lucy is pulling weeds with him, no doubt. I shall go after them again.’ But there was no need to do so, because Elliot and Lucy appeared. ‘Excellent!’ cried the madam. ‘We shall have nearly enough gentlemen to go around.’ ‘I…I could sit out,’ murmured Mary. Madame Bisou poo-pooed the idea. ‘Nonsense, my dear. We will take turns. One may learn by observing as well as by doing.’ Sloane watched as Madame Bisou more formally introduced her friend, Robert Duprey, to Morgana. Why the devil had she brought that fellow? Duprey was not only a very foolish dandy, he was also brother to the woman over whom Sloane lost his wagers at Bisou’s gaming house. He had always been a favourite of Penny’s, though it foxed Sloane why. Madame Bisou raised her voice. ‘Now, you will think you already know how to do the dances, but you will be wrong,

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ladies. I will teach you that the dance involves not only the feet, but also the eyes and the hands. I will teach you what to do with each.’ As she went on, Sloane sauntered up to Robert Duprey. ‘G’day, Sloane.’ Duprey’s voice cracked. ‘Didn’t know you’d be here. Been an age. Not at Bisou’s these days?’ Duprey not only wore the dandy’s tight pantaloons, high collar points and elaborately tied neckcloth, but he also affected their irritating style of speech. ‘I am not pleased to see you here, Duprey,’ Sloane said fiercely. The young man shifted from foot to foot. Sloane glared at him. ‘If I discover you have said one word about this lady’s house and what happens here, I will personally come after you. You’ve heard rumours of how dangerous I can be, have you not?’ ‘Eep!’ Duprey cried. ‘Won’t say a thing. Mum’s the word. Swear it.’ ‘You had better swear it.’ For good measure he gave the terrified fellow another menacing look before walking back to Morgana’s side. Miss Moore began to play, and Sloane was first paired with Katy. He could handle her. He knew her type, trying to act so self-assured, pushing herself forward lest she be forgotten entirely. He’d done likewise many a time. Katy enthusiastically embraced Madame Bisou’s lessons, fluttering her lashes at him, touching him wherever she could reach. She even added a few moves not in the lecture, such as making sure he could look straight down her dress. It was a relief to next be partnered with the beautiful Rose, who was more subtle and easier on the eye. They completed the drill on country dancing. Sloane glanced at Elliot, who stood next to Lucy, talking quietly to

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her. Duprey had finished dancing with Mary, whose complexion was flushed rather prettily. Duprey pulled at his collar. Morgana stood near her grandmother, looking almost as if she were recovered from his hurtful words. ‘Now what you have been waiting for. The waltz,’ Madame Bisou announced. ‘Gracious, I don’t know that one,’ cried Katy. Lucy said quietly, ‘I don’t either.’ ‘Not know the waltz?’ Madame Bisou trilled with laughter. ‘We shall teach you then.’ She pointed to Sloane. ‘Cyprian, you must demonstrate with Miss Hart.’ He had waltzed with Morgana on several occasions at Almack’s and other balls, but not in such a relaxed, friendly, seductive atmosphere. He took her hand and led her out to the middle of the bare floor. He put his other hand to her waist and she put hers on his arm. Miss Moore began to play. Their steps were awkward at first, perhaps from being observed, but soon the music caught hold. ‘Look at each other!’ commanded Madame Bisou. Morgana lifted her eyes, like amber jewels, to his. ‘Make him hold you closer!’ Madame Bisou said, and Morgana moved towards him. He bent down, his face inches from hers, and gathered her to him. As they twirled around the room, he held her so close their bodies touched and their legs moved as one. Too soon the music stopped. He forced himself to let go. ‘That was excellent, Cyprian.’ Penny’s voice broke in. They started to move away from each other. ‘Stay there,’ Penny ordered. ‘We are not done. Put your arms around each other again.’ She made her voice louder. ‘Everyone! Pretend the music has just stopped.’ Miss Moore replayed the final chord.

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‘Now, Miss Hart,’ Penny instructed. ‘What you must do now is stand on tiptoe and kiss him.’ ‘That’s the thing!’ cried Katy. Morgana gave Bisou a startled look, but turned back to face Sloane. With her golden eyes wide, she rose on her toes while he lowered his head. When her lips touched his, he felt his whole body flare with arousal and, all reserve gone, he put his arm around her, deepening the kiss, tasting her sweet, unschooled mouth at long last. His body craved more. Much more. ‘That’s enough,’ called Penny as the room burst into applause and giggles. ‘You did very well.’ He released Morgana, who looked as dazed as he felt. Katy was his partner for the next waltz. She soon mastered the steps. At the end, her lips were more enthusiastic, more practised, and more frankly sexual, but it was Morgana’s kiss that lingered. Morgana rested her hand on the back of her grandmother’s chair, pretending to watch the dancing. Instead she relived Sloane’s kiss, the feel of his lips against hers. She resisted the urge to touch her mouth with her fingers. When she’d been younger, before she realised no man would want to marry her, she used to dream of her first kiss. How glad she was that it had been with Sloane. She shook herself, regretting what she had said about his intention to marry. She’d given in to her envy of her cousin, who would be Sloane’s ornament and bed partner. That was not well done of her. She glanced up and saw him smoothly guide Rose around the room. It was not Sloane who was out of step, but she. He was deftly making his place in society, with the same ease as he moved through the steps of the waltz. She was the one who did not fit.

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After the dancing, they all went to the front drawing room for refreshment so that the footmen could return the library to its former state. Hungry and thirsty from the morning’s exertion, they eagerly consumed the lemonade and biscuits Cripps served, the butler revealing nothing of his thoughts of the morning’s activities. There was much laughter. Even Lucy laughed aloud at something Mr Elliot said to her. Madame Bisou’s carriage soon arrived and she had to drag her friend Robert away from the book he and Mary had their noses in. After they left, Morgana glanced over to where Katy and Rose practised flirting with Sloane. He looked up at the same time and caught her watching him. It was almost as if she could feel his lips on hers once more. Lucy appeared next to her, Mr Elliot standing behind. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Hart, may Mr Elliot and I return to the garden? I had not finished showing him some of the plants.’ Morgana could not help but give the girl a quizzical look, but she said, ‘Of course you may, Lucy.’ Were they really sneaking away to bed? The idea did not shock her at this moment. She touched her lips where Sloane had kissed and wondered what other thrills existed between men and women, matters Madame Bisou implied in every lesson. Until the feel of Sloane’s arms around her and his achingly tender, then eager, kiss, Morgana had not quite grasped the madam’s meaning. Another carriage rumbled to a stop out in the street. Morgana wandered over to the window to see who it was. The blood drained from her face as she watched her aunt and cousin assisted from the carriage. ‘It is Aunt Winnie and Hannah.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ Miss Moore wrung her hands. ‘How lovely,’ her grandmother said. Morgana heard the knock at the door and Cripps open it. ‘It is too late to hide in the library.’ They would be seen from

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the hall. She turned to the girls. ‘You are Miss Moore’s nieces, remember. You know precisely how to behave.’ Cripps came to announce the visitors. Miss Moore whispered, ‘Katy, remember to be quiet and ladylike.’ Katy nodded, clamping her mouth shut. Her aunt and cousin were the last people Morgana would wish to call upon her, especially with Sloane present, but she stood ready to face them. All the others rose from their chairs as well, standing like a line of soldiers behind their captain. Only her grandmother remained seated. Morgana patted her hair quickly and tried to tuck up the strands that had come loose during the waltz. Her aunt and Hannah entered. Morgana smiled. ‘Why, Aunt Winnie, Hannah, how lovely to see you.’ ‘Lovely to see you,’ Lady Hart parroted. Her aunt looked perplexed at the room full of women. Hannah’s eyes landed directly on Sloane, though they narrowed considerably when she saw him standing between one pretty girl and one beautiful one. ‘Come, meet Miss Moore’s nieces.’ Morgana kept her voice light. ‘Remember, I told you they were visiting, and look who else has come to call—Mr Sloane.’ She made the introductions, but was not surprised when her aunt and cousin showed little curiosity. The nieces of a lady’s companion would no doubt be almost beneath their notice. Hannah looked daggers at Rose, but when Sloane sat in the chair next to her, she brightened a little. ‘We decided we must call upon Morgana,’ Hannah remarked to him, but for all to hear. ‘We have been sadly remiss for not doing so before, but there are so many calls one must make. Today I insisted we must put her first on our list.’ Hannah regarded Sloane with her usual proprietary air, and

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Morgana pushed away another wave of envy, felt more acutely so soon after experiencing his kiss. Hannah had recently confided that Sloane had not made an offer, but had asked Hannah’s father if he would object to one. Uncle Cowdlin had not objected. According to Hannah it would be only a matter of time before her parents would be giving an engagement ball. Morgana pressed a hand to her stomach. Sloane had turned all his attention to Hannah. Katy sat very stiffly, her lips compressed into a tight line. Rose examined a piece of music that had been left on the table. Morgana sat between her grandmother and her aunt, trying to deflect any conversation that might cause her aunt to discover Lady Hart’s infirmity of mind. After about five minutes, Sloane stood. ‘I have quite overstayed my welcome. It is time for me to take my leave.’ Morgana turned to him with a polite smile. ‘Thank you so much for calling, Mr Sloane. It was kind of you.’ She turned back to her aunt. He said goodbye to the others and Hannah walked him to the drawing-room door. Sloane did not look at Morgana again. After he left, Hannah and her mother prattled on for a few minutes about how Sloane was bound to offer for Hannah soon, information that had Rose, Katy and Mary passing surprised glances to each other. Then Hannah announced that she and her mother ought to depart to make their numerous other calls. Morgana saw them to the door and Cripps stood by to assist them. ‘You do come to Almack’s with us tonight, do you not, Morgana?’ her aunt asked. ‘Yes. Thank you so much for including me, Aunt Winnie.’ In truth, Morgana had found the ton’s marriage mart a bit tedious of late.

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Hannah gave Morgana a quick hug. ‘Do not worry, Morgana. I will find some beaux to dance with you.’ ‘Thank you, Hannah,’ Morgana responded tightly. ‘You are too good.’ Sloane stepped out of White’s after a dinner with Heronvale, during which the marquess had impressed upon him the necessity of a good marriage to succeed in politics. If that were not enough, Sloane’s father had made an appearance, infuriated that Sloane shared Heronvale’s table. The noise of carriages clattering by and the other street sounds were infinitely preferable to the Earl’s grating voice. As was his habit, Sloane glanced around him. His nephew stood a few steps from the bow window. ‘Do you attend Almack’s, Uncle?’ It was easy to read on David’s countenance that he had something on his mind. ‘I am headed there now.’ ‘May I walk with you?’ David smiled tentatively. ‘Certainly.’ ‘Does your grandfather know you waited for me?’ Sloane asked as they crossed the street. ‘Never,’ exclaimed David. He glanced at Sloane. ‘He has it in for you, you know.’ Sloane laughed. ‘He always has had.’ ‘I think it irrational,’ David said firmly. ‘I disapprove heartily.’ ‘But not loudly, I hope.’ The boy was still at the Earl’s mercy, at least financially. Unless he wanted to take the hard road Sloane had taken, he’d best keep his opinions to himself. His nephew flashed a quick smile and then they walked for a while in silence. Finally David said, ‘I have called again upon Lady Hannah. I thought you should know.’

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‘I’ve made no claim, David,’ Sloane said. ‘She is free to spend time with whom she pleases.’ ‘But I respect your interest in her. I—I just wanted you to know my reasons make no infringement on your interest. As I explained, I cannot even think of marrying, so my time spent calling on her and taking her for a turn in the park is mere friendship. If I called upon someone else, it might raise the girl’s hopes unrealistically, but Lady Hannah has no expectation of me. It makes it a good arrangement between us.’ Sloane was glad Hannah had David’s company. The busier she was, the less guilty he felt for avoiding any decision about her. ‘Sounds fair,’ he said. They arrived at Almack’s and soon entered the assembly room. Lady Hannah was already there. Her eyes lit up when she saw them approaching her. But it was not Hannah who was on Sloane’s mind. The band struck up a waltz, and he waited for David to engage Hannah for the set. He scanned the assembly room, finally spying Morgana sitting alone at the room’s edge, a place for spinsters and dowagers. He made his way to her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’ She looked up at him, her eyes as warm and sultry and melancholic as when they had waltzed earlier that day. Without a word she accepted his hand and held his arm as they walked to the dance floor. Sloane had all he could do to keep from holding her as close as he’d done in their more intimate waltz. That evening Heronvale had called Morgana unconventional. If he only knew how unconventional she could be, willing to dance seductively for the edification of her courtesan students. Heronvale made it clear he thought Lady Hannah a good

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choice for Sloane to marry—in spite of her unconventional cousin. Sloane had wrapped himself up so completely in Morgana’s difficulties, he’d hardly given Hannah a thought. The Season was coming to an end. He must surely make his move soon. How was Sloane to contemplate marriage to Lady Hannah when his senses were consumed with bedding her cousin? He shook himself. He was thinking like a rake again. The direction of his thoughts needed turning. ‘Why were you seated alone, Morgana?’ he asked instead. ‘Oh,’ she responded vaguely, avoiding looking up at him. ‘I have the headache, I suppose.’ ‘Fustian,’ he said. She did not reply. ‘I insist you tell me.’ He sounded demanding even to his own ears. Like his father. She gave him a quick but defiant glance. His tone softened. ‘Forgive me again, Morgana. I am acting the brute. I meant to say, it is not your nature to sit in corners. You typically enjoy whatever tedious entertainment the ton offers.’ ‘Do I?’ She met his eye. ‘Or perhaps, like you, I merely pretend to enjoy myself.’ He nodded. ‘Touché.’ She increased the pressure on his hand, very slightly, but he did not miss it. ‘I am quarrelling again,’ she murmured. She wrinkled her forehead as if deep in thought. ‘I confess I do not find Almack’s to be the seventh heaven of the fashionable world. True, the intrigue of who dances with whom, which gentleman favours which young lady, who will next receive an offer of marriage, is all very interesting. And it does provide me an opportunity to dance.’

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He pulled her in an infinitesimal bit closer. ‘You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself to enjoy it.’ She gave him a frank expression. ‘I suppose I am.’ They twirled around the floor, brushing near Hannah and David who were smiling and laughing together. Morgana inclined her head in their direction. ‘Hannah enjoys your nephew’s company, I believe.’ He glanced back at the young couple. ‘I believe she does.’ They circled half the floor, Sloane enjoying how she moved with him, the scent of her hair, the curve of her cheek. He wondered if he could get Hannah to invite him in the Cowdlin carriage again, if he could walk Morgana to the door and taste her lips again… ‘Does it bother you?’ Morgana broke his reverie. ‘Does what bother me?’ ‘Hannah and your nephew.’ He had forgotten them. Besides, he disliked discussing Hannah with Morgana, especially when he was fantasising about seducing her. ‘Should it?’ Her brows rose in response. Sloane frowned. Hannah and David swept into view again. He need not concern himself with David’s interest in Hannah. His nephew had explained how it was, but Sloane was reminded he must make his offer to Hannah soon. Lord Cowdlin might become desperate enough to select a suitor of smaller fortune, unlikely as that was. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. ‘Will you offer for her?’ Morgana asked, as if reading his thoughts. Her words were like a knife slicing into him. He wanted to offer for Lady Hannah, did he not? Why not simply tell Morgana he intended to do so?

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He felt his face harden to stone. ‘A gentleman would first inform the lady in question, not her cousin.’ She flinched as if a blow had been struck, and again Sloane regretted his churlish words. The music stopped. The set was over. Morgana stepped out of his arms. He reached out to gather her back, to apologise again, but Hannah and David rushed to their side. ‘Everyone is planning an evening at Vauxhall tomorrow,’ Hannah said breathlessly. ‘Does that not sound marvellous?’ He rose and his smile was all for Hannah. Morgana could not bear it. ‘Marvellous indeed,’ he said in an amused tone. Hannah clutched his arm. ‘We shall include Athenia, my brother Varney…well, everyone! Say you will go to Vauxhall, Mr Sloane?’ ‘I shall consider it,’ he said, prevaricating, and wishing he could speak to Morgana alone. Hannah pursed her lips like a petulant child. ‘You must say yes.’ She tossed him a pert smile. ‘Athenia’s parents will come so Mama and Papa will have company. They will pay little mind to me!’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Say you will come with us, Mr Sloane.’ ‘Very well.’ Anything to be rid of her. ‘Will you act the host, Mr Sloane?’ Hannah persisted. This was an impertinence. If he had offered for her, she might have a right to ask. Sloane disliked being forced to be the gentleman. ‘If your father permits,’ he said tightly. His tone went completely over Hannah’s head. She clasped her hands together happily. ‘That is splendid!’ Somewhat belatedly, she seemed to notice Morgana standing next to him. She touched Morgana’s arm. ‘You must come as well, Morgana. I insist upon it.’

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Morgana gave her a pasty smile, which Hannah must have taken for assent. Hannah turned away from her cousin and back to Sloane, begging him to lead her out in the next dance. Again Hannah had trapped him. He acquiesced politely, but when he turned to Morgana, she was walking away. She did not look back at him.

Chapter Eleven

M

rs Rice sat in the room behind her glove shop, sipping a glass of claret and mentally calculating the amount of money she could wring from her girls this night. She frowned. She’d recruited one new girl, who was almost useless. Fit for nothing but streetwalking. Without Katy and Mary business had definitely slowed. Profits were down. At this rate, she might make more blunt with gloves than with harlots. Trigg, the procurer who had let the maid slip through his hands, entered, wearing a smug look on his face. ‘I hope this means you have girls for me,’ Mrs Rice muttered. ‘I have information.’ He sauntered over to her table and leaned in close. She detested the odour of the man. ‘Well, what is it?’ She would love to get rid of Trigg, who was a bit too clever for her to control completely. He grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘Word is out that a society lady has them.’ ‘A society lady.’ She could guess which society lady. ‘Her name?’

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Trigg took a step back. ‘I will discover the name soon.’ Mrs Rice drummed her fingers on the table. ‘It is that woman.’ She hissed. ‘The one who charged in here big-as-youplease.’ Trigg’s brows rose. ‘Describe her.’ Mrs Rice huffed. ‘I cannot. She obscured her face.’ ‘A Long Meg?’ ‘Why, yes, she was a bit tall.’ He frowned and rubbed his head. ‘I know the one.’ A few minutes later Trigg stepped out into the street, pausing to take a swig from the bottle of gin he carried in his pocket. He headed for a pub he knew of, the place where an acquaintance had heard from another man that some footman spoke of females more like harlots who were guests in his lady’s house. It was thin evidence, and the man said the next day the footman denied it all, but Trigg did not relish hearing Rice ring a peal over his head. Besides, he wanted to believe it was that lady in the park. He’d be pleased to consign her to the devil, quick. He stepped into an alley, for another quick taste of gin. Suddenly hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him deeper into the dark and he felt a cold edge of steel against his throat. A sinister voice said, ‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about some missing doxies.’ Trigg nearly casting up his accounts, knew better than to show fear. ‘What of it?’ he growled. The blade’s edge pierced his skin and he felt his blood trickling warm down his neck. ‘Stay out of it,’ the voice—a familiar voice, he realised—snarled. ‘If you want to keep your head.’ The knife made another slice, not deep, but Trigg was afraid to move lest it sever more than his skin.

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‘What’s it to you?’ He tried to sound fierce, but his voice rose like a girl’s. The man laughed and it was enough to make Trigg taste his own vomit. ‘I have them. The maid and that other one, too. The one who knocked you out. They are mine and the man who takes them from me will not live.’ Trigg tried to laugh, too, but succeeded only in making a gasping sound. ‘Why should I listen to you? Who are you?’ The chilling laugh returned. ‘I am the devil. Touch what is mine and I’ll have my due.’ Trigg was pushed forward, and he fell to his knees into a puddle of filth. By the time he scrambled to his feet and turned around, the man—the man from the park—had disappeared. Sloane watched Trigg from the depths of the alley, the man silhouetted against the lamplight coming from St James’s Street. As he’d anticipated, Trigg broke into a run. Sloane figured he’d run all the way to whatever dirty hovel he called home. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his knife. Tossing the handkerchief away, he put the knife back in its sheath in his coat pocket. He left the alley from the back and made his way to the street. When he stepped on to the pavement of St James’s Street, he looked like any other gentleman pursuing his nightly interests. It was fortunate Sloane had refused Hannah’s offer of a carriage ride home. The day’s episodes with Morgana had left him disordered, restless, on edge. Having made his way to his post at Mrs Rice’s window, what he’d overheard fuelled his already taut nerves with something more dangerous. The violence of the underworld had taken a step closer to Morgana,

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and Sloane needed to push it back hard. It was a good night for intimidation. He’d halfway wished for an all-out brawl. His tactic was misdirection. Trigg would now abandon his search for the ‘lady’ and begin looking for a tougher customer. Sloane wagered the man would not guess it was a resident of proper Culross Street who, as easy as the roughest rookery thief, used a knife to draw blood. Sloane would return to spy on Mrs Rice’s place again, to make sure his trickery worked. After thinking about it half the night, Morgana quite sorted it out in her mind that Sloane’s familiarity towards her had been her own fault. He’d seen how unladylike she could be, and, therefore, felt less gentlemanly restraint in her presence. She could still enjoy his company, but she must never mistake it for something more, not when he was intent on marrying Hannah. Better Morgana throw her energies into her girls. They were gathered in the library, Madame Bisou having just arrived. Morgana happened to mention her invitation to Vauxhall. Katy flung herself down on the settee. ‘Can we not all go to Vauxhall with you? I am sure I shall die if I spend one more day in this house.’ Morgana regarded Katy with sympathy. Her charges had indeed been trapped within the confines of this house, able to go no further than the tiny garden or the privy. Only Lucy had ventured beyond, but that was merely to the patch of land next door to assist Mr Elliot with his plantings. ‘We cannot chance Mrs Rice seeing us, Katy.’ Mary was at her most earnest. ‘She would make us go back to her.’ Katy waved her hand dismissively. ‘It is not as if Mrs Rice would go to Vauxhall. Besides, we could wear masks. They wear masks at Vauxhall Gardens, do they not?’

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‘They do indeed,’ answered Madame Bisou, who gave Morgana a thoughtful look. ‘As I think of it, our girls could do with a bit of practice. We ought not to launch them upon the world without a trial. Do you not agree, Miss Hart?’ How could Morgana agree when she really had no wish to launch her students at all? Sloane’s words echoed in her mind—they would sell themselves to the highest bidder and still be at the mercy of a man’s whims. What if they could not match the success Harriette Wilson had achieved? What happened to failed courtesans? She feared they would wind up in shops like Mrs Rice’s. Would all her hopes for the girls come to naught? She had come too far to lose hope now. ‘I do not know…’ Morgana finally answered, her voice trailing off as Katy’s mournful eyes bore into her. She wished she’d never mentioned Vauxhall Gardens. She certainly did not want to go there and watch Hannah flirt with Sloane. Perhaps Hannah and Sloane might disappear down one of those dark walks that were so whispered about. She would sit in the box with Aunt Winnie and imagine what might take place between Sloane and Hannah. She gave herself a mental shake and reminded herself again that Sloane had always been Hannah’s, not hers. ‘I have never been to Vauxhall Gardens,’ Miss Moore piped up in a dreamy tone, merely adding to the growing pressure. Morgana grasped at straws. ‘We do not have clothes for you yet.’ She intended to ask Madame Emeraude to come to the house to measure the girls and make up some dresses for them, but had put this off. It was another task she must do before they could leave her. Cripps knocked on the door. ‘A trunk has been delivered,

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miss.’ He announced this as formally as if the Regent had come to call. ‘A trunk?’ Any delivery was unexpected. Morgana certainly did not expect her father to send her anything. He’d barely written to her. ‘From Paris, miss,’ Cripps added. ‘Paris!’ Morgana laughed. Her lost trunk! ‘What is funny?’ Katy grumbled. Morgana walked over and tweaked Katy’s chin. ‘Your new wardrobe has arrived.’ ‘New wardrobe?’ Katy asked cautiously. The other girls looked up in interest, even Lucy, who was beginning to lose some of her maid-like demeanour. Morgana nodded, still astonished that her missing apparel should have come at this very moment. ‘Unless I am mistaken, it is a trunk filled with the latest Paris fashions, and it has arrived exactly in time to dress you in style.’ ‘Paris!’ shrieked Katy, reverting to less-than-ladylike behaviour. ‘Give us a look at it.’ Fate, apparently, had decided to shove Morgana forward. Her girls would go to Vauxhall, after all, and would practice for the coming day when they would leave her house and go to some gentleman’s bed. Morgana told Cripps to have the trunk brought in to them. Barely had the two footmen set it down in the middle of the room than the girls begged to open it. They pulled out dress after dress of fine muslin and silk. Day dresses, evening gowns, walking dresses. Morgana had forgotten how many her new stepmother had insisted she purchase. Katy squealed in delight as each one emerged from between layers of tissue paper. Rose took a deep wine-red gown and held it against herself. If such a thing were possible, her features shone even more beautifully with its rich colour.

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Mary fingered a pale blue muslin, a shade as soft as her voice. Lucy held back, but Morgana handed her a pink confection and made her slip it over her plain grey dress, transforming her into as fresh and innocent a miss as had ever had her come-out. ‘We have the dresses, Miss Hart. Do we go to Vauxhall or not?’ Katy stood hands on hips, ready for battle. Morgana glanced at Madame Bisou. ‘Who would escort us? We cannot go unprotected.’ ‘Robert will come with us,’ assured the madam. Mary glanced up at the mention of his name. ‘Perhaps Mr Elliot would come as well,’ Lucy added. ‘We could depend on him.’ ‘We can dance and have a high old time.’ Katy pulled a paisley shawl from the trunk and wrapped it around herself. She danced around the room as if already at the pleasure gardens. Rose joined her, holding the red dress as if she were wearing it. ‘Oh, very well!’ Morgana smiled, resigned to seeing her fledglings spread their wings. ‘But I will go with you, as will Miss Moore, and we shall all wear masks.’ ‘Hurrah!’ cried Katy. Rose ran to the pianoforte and began a rousing tune. Katy grabbed Morgana while Mary and Madame Bisou pulled Lucy and Miss Moore on to the floor as well. Even Morgana’s grandmother rose to her feet and clapped her hands to the music. Rose began to sing: ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove…’ The others joined in: ‘That hill and valley, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield…’ Sloane frowned as he stepped onto the pavement in front of his house. He could hear Morgana and her girls singing.

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The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing; For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. Anyone passing by could hear it. In fact, people two streets away could hear it. Someone was bound to comment. Foolish Morgana. He’d told her to be more discreet. Live with me and be my love echoed in his brain as he crossed the pavement and headed towards Bond Street. He had no particular errand, just a restlessness that he hoped to walk off. Perhaps he might look in at Lock’s for a new hat or drop in at White’s. He gave a glance over his shoulder. Instead he might walk round to Morgana’s rear door and join in their gaiety. He was not sure why he suddenly thought he ought to avoid them. He lengthened his stride. It was due to Morgana. His rakish interest in her was growing at an alarming rate. He could barely be in her company without exceeding the bounds of civility. Like kissing her as though he meant it. He had meant it, that was the rub—damn Penny for that little stunt. He wanted to dance with her again, not as he had at Almack’s but as he’d danced with her in her parlour. He wanted to feel her body next to his. This was hardly the way to think when he ought to be heading to Lady Hannah’s to ask for her hand in marriage. Hannah would make a creditable wife. He had faith she would develop into a successful hostess and a pleasing bed partner. As Heronvale said, she would be an asset to any man with political plans. So why did the idea of even spending a whole evening in her presence at Vauxhall make him want to head back to a smuggling den?

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Sloane might have begged off, sent a note around that urgent business prevented him from keeping the Vauxhall engagement. Only one reason prevented him. He longed to see what Morgana thought of the place. He shook his head in dismay at this thought, and crossed the street. A carriage, his father’s crest on its side, rolled past him and came to a rather abrupt stop. His father leaned out the window. ‘Cyprian! I desire to speak with you. Get in, if you please.’ Sloane did not please. ‘You may say what you will through the window, sir.’ The Earl of Dorton glared at him. ‘I will not mince words, boy. I have come from Heronvale. The man wants to put your name forward for the Commons. Unheard of, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.’ Sloane gave him an unconcerned shrug. ‘Then you need worry no further.’ His father sneered. ‘I told Heronvale where you came from, boy. He knows it all.’ A muscle twitched in Sloane’s cheek. His conception had always been a matter of conjecture in whispered conversations among the ton. Sloane always trusted his father’s inflated pride to prevent him from confirming such rumours. Apparently the Earl’s hatred of Sloane exceeded even that. Sloane let his father’s dagger plunge into his gut and twist, and then he mentally pulled it away, telling himself it did not matter. Heronvale must spurn him now. There would be no seat in parliament. It did not matter. Sloane still had wealth and that alone would give him power enough to plague his father to the end of the man’s days. Sloane leaned into the carriage. Giving his father a direct look, he lifted the corners of his mouth in the sardonic grin that always made the man hopping mad. ‘Dash it,’ he said with

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thick sarcasm. ‘My political career is ruined.’ He spun around and walked away. ‘Stay!’ the Earl ordered. ‘Stay. I command you!’ Sloane continued on his way, but to his dismay the carriage caught up to him. As he walked, his father shouted from the window, ‘And another thing! You’ll not marry that Cowdlin chit. I’ll see you do not.’ The Earl’s face turned an alarming shade of red. ‘I will ruin you first. I swear I will. I’ll send you back to the sewers or wherever you came by your ill-gotten wealth—’ Sloane stopped and the carriage continued on its way. He could hear his father pounding on the roof and shouting to the coachman to stop, but by the time the man did, Sloane had headed off in the other direction. His destination was even more aimless than before. His cheeks flamed and he felt as sick to his stomach as if he’d again been nine years old. The streets had not been crowded and there was no indication that anyone had heeded the exchange, but Sloane felt as if he’d been laid bare in front of everyone. By God, he’d thought he’d mastered this long ago, the humiliation of being pulled to pieces by the Earl in front of relatives, servants, schoolmasters—anyone. He’d perfected the appearance of not giving a deuce what his father said, or he once had. Why now? Why did his father’s words wound him now? Because the Earl had spoken to Heronvale about his mother? A memory of her flashed though his mind. A fragment, all he had left of her. A pretty lady, smiling at him, laughing, bouncing him on her lap and kissing his cheeks. He had no idea if the memory was truly of his mother, but many a childhood night he’d forced himself to believe so.

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*** Sloane walked until the dinner hour. He had an impulse to beg a meal from Morgana, but they were probably sitting down at this very moment. He would wait to see her at Vauxhall. He had the odd notion that seeing her would mend the wound his father created. Of course, that was nonsense.

Elliot, efficient as usual, had made the arrangements for Vauxhall, engaging a supper box for the Cowdlin party and ordering the refreshments. Elliot also had Sloane’s dinner waiting for him. Afterwards his valet helped him dress for the evening, until all he need do was wait for the Cowdlin carriage. He paced the Aubusson carpet of his drawing room, his footsteps so muffled by its nap he could hear the ticking of the mantel clock. His father’s voice kept ringing in his head. To mask it, he started to hum a tune. Come live with me and be my love… His butler announced that the carriage had arrived, and Sloane gathered his hat and gloves. The night was warm, a harbinger of summer nights to come. He walked up to the carriage and greeted Lord and Lady Cowdlin and Hannah through its open window. ‘Would you like me to collect Miss Hart?’ ‘She is not coming,’ said Lady Hannah. Her mother added, ‘She sent a note today, begging off.’ Sloane frowned as he climbed in, suddenly dreading the long night ahead. ‘She is not ill, I hope?’ ‘Not at all,’ Lady Cowdlin assured him. He worried that something had happened with the courtesan school, while he was wandering the streets of Mayfair feeling sorry for himself. He frowned. Hannah, who was in very high spirits, did not notice. She could barely sit still. ‘Poor Morgana!’ she said. ‘I hope she did not feel she would be out of place among my friends. In-

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deed, she has little to say to them. You have been kind to engage her, Mr Sloane.’ ‘I find Miss Hart’s company quite pleasant,’ he said, tersely, offended at her characterisation of Morgana. Hannah responded with a knowing expression, as if she understood he was merely being civil. Sloane gave it up. To say anything else might arouse suspicions that more went on than the Cowdlins should ever know about Morgana. Hannah’s giddiness wore very thin by the time the carriage rolled over the new Vauxhall bridge. ‘I do wish we were to arrive by boat. It would be vastly more romantic,’ sighed Hannah. ‘Not good for my gout,’ grumbled her father. Hannah continued to prattle on about everything being ‘exciting’ or ‘marvellous’ and how she could not wait to tell Athenia Poltrop this or that. She barely took heed of the spectacle that greeted them when they crossed through the garden’s entrance. Thousands of lamps were strung throughout the tall elms and bushes, like stars come down to earth. Arches and colonnades and porticos made it appear as if ancient Greece had come alive in the stars, though the music of the orchestra sounded modern in their ears. Sloane had always liked the fantasy that was Vauxhall. Nothing was as it seemed here, illusion was its only reality. Here a man could wear a mask and even the glittering lamps could not reveal whether he be a duke or the duke’s coachman. Here rogues and pickpockets shared the walks with frolicking vicars and extravagant nabobs. Indeed, a lady might walk by her maid without knowing her. She might dance next to her footman or the man who delivered coal to her Mayfair townhouse. It was impossible to feel one did not belong in this place.

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But Hannah hurried them down the Grand Walk, past the Prince’s Pavilion and the theatre, past the colonnade, heading for the circle of supper boxes near the fountain. Sloane wondered if Morgana would have rushed down the Grand Walk so quickly. Or would she have become distracted by the sights and all the people? Would she have tried to guess who the people were and to what sort of life they would return when the night was over? ‘I declare, this place is filled with riff-raff,’ Lady Cowdlin sniffed, apparently as oblivious to the splendour as her daughter. ‘Pay them no mind, dear,’ Lord Cowdlin advised. His lordship, however, paid particular mind to a group of women as pretty as flowers, all masked and escorted by two gentlemen. Sloane suspected Cowdlin would search out this very group as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The supper box Elliot had arranged for them was in a spot with a view of the fountain, its water sparkling like tiny gold coins in the park’s illumination. The music from the orchestra rose and fell, carried in and out on the wind. Lord and Lady Poltrop were already seated in the box, sipping some of the good vintage wine Sloane—or rather Elliot—had ordered for the occasion. Athenia jumped up when she saw Hannah, and the two young ladies embraced each other as if it had been an age since they’d been together when it had probably been as recent as that very afternoon. ‘No one else has arrived,’Athenia said to Hannah. ‘Indeed, I feared to be the only one here. Can you think how humiliating? Your brother will come, will he not?’ ‘I wonder if he and the others were directed to the wrong box.’ Hannah looked about her with a worried expression. She reached out a hand towards Sloane. ‘Mr Sloane, do take us to search for the others! Perhaps they are on the other side. Oh, do take us.’

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Lord Cowdlin was too busy whispering something to Poltrop to take heed of Hannah’s request, but Lady Cowdlin magnanimously gave her permission. ‘Do not venture into the Dark Walk, however,’ she warned in a jocular voice. As if Sloane would be so foolish as to take two silly girls into an area of the park more suited to the sort of rakish behaviour he had forsworn. He’d rather they quickly discover the missing members of their party so he could get some relief from the chatter. The two young ladies walked arm in arm, keeping up an intense conversation and paying Sloane little mind. He walked a step behind them, close enough to prevent any mischief befalling them. They circled the area where men and women danced beneath the musicians’ balcony. Though both girls craned their necks to search the crowd, they spent as much time whispering to each other. Sloane, out of a desperate need for respite from their company, looked around for Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends, the ones who surrounded her at every society function. He did not see them, but he spied the colourful group of ladies Lord Cowdlin had so admired. Not surprisingly, they had seated themselves in a box where they could be easily noticed. He guided Hannah and Athenia past them, but one of the prettily dressed females cried, ‘Well, now. Aren’t you the handsome gent.’ Another giggled, but a third said a sharp, ‘Hush.’ Sloane whirled around, but other strollers obscured his view. Lady Hannah and her friend kept walking, and Sloane had to push his way through the crowd to catch up to them. He looked over his shoulder again and a gap in the crowd afforded him a good look at the group. One of the young ladies was raven-haired, another a red-

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head, the others golden-haired and mousy brown. But it was not these his eyes were riveted upon. It was the tall, darkhaired woman who stood in the midst of them. Morgana.

Chapter Twelve

H

ow could he have not instantly known them at first glance? Before the crowd closed the gap again, he’d even recognised Penny and Miss Moore. He’d bet one of the gentlemen with them was Penny’s favourite inamorato, that idiot Duprey. The identity of the other gentleman put a worried crease between his eyes. Few of Penny’s masculine acquaintances would be men Sloane thought fit for Morgana’s company. He put his hand on Hannah’s elbow. ‘Ladies, let us go back to the supper box. Your friends may have arrived in our absence.’ ‘Oh, let us do that,’ Hannah replied enthusiastically. They all walked at a brisker pace: Hannah, to find her friends; Sloane, to find a way to get back to Morgana. Several young people could be seen in the supper box. Hannah and Athenia broke away and hurried to greet them. Hannah’s brother Varney saw them, rushing forward to escort them into the box. Sloane’s nephew appeared to be the only one to notice Sloane’s arrival. ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said. ‘Is this not a beautiful night for the Gardens?’

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Sloane agreed that it was, but could say little more, because the supper arrived and soon everyone was piling plates full of paper-thin slices of ham and tiny chickens. A fruit girl filled dishes with fresh strawberries and cherries, and a sideboard offered a selection of wines and arrack, the heady punch always served at Vauxhall. His nephew dipped into the arrack more than once. Soon a bell signalled the start of Madame Saqui’s daring rope dancing, and the young people poured out of the box in a hurry not to miss a moment of it. Lady Cowdlin and Lady Poltrop begged off, assuring Sloane they would be very comfortable in the supper box with each other for company and certain their husbands would return at any moment. Sloane did not follow the young people to view Saqui’s performance, but rather strode across to the South Walk’s supper boxes to find Morgana. Penny and Miss Moore were the only ones of the party seated in the box. Sloane’s eyes narrowed. Sir Reginald, one of Penny’s gaming-hell regulars, was there as well, not exactly the sort of company Morgana should keep. She and the girls were likely watching Madame Saqui. Sloane threaded through the crowd exactly like the pickpockets were doing. He looked for Morgana, finally finding her, standing with Rose at the edge of the crowd, chatting with a grey-haired man. Just as he’d feared, they had attracted an admirer. He pushed his way through. ‘Morgana!’ he cried, seizing her arm. Morgana jumped, pulling away, before she realised the man who had accosted her was Sloane. She felt flushed with excitement to see him, even though she had not wished him to know they were there. Vexed at Katy for her impudent gibe as he passed them, Morgana saw the precise moment he’d rec-

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ognised them. She should have realised he would come after her. ‘You have found us.’ She gave a defiant toss of her head. ‘I am going to box Katy’s ears.’ ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ he said in a fierce whisper as he squeezed her arm. She pointedly stared at the hand grasping her. ‘I am watching Madame Saqui,’ she said in patient tones. ‘And I do wish you would not always come rushing up to me, screeching my name.’ He released her. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he muttered. She turned back to the spectacle, but her heart beat wildly, not at Madame Saqui’s daring exploits, but that she could be in this magical place with Sloane even for a few minutes. Perhaps for the time being she could pretend he was her beau, pretend he was not about to scold her again. Madame Saqui faltered on the rope and teetered for several seconds before regaining her balance. The crowd gasped a collective ‘Ohhh!’ Perhaps Madame experienced the same sensation Morgana felt, as if she could tumble through the air. Morgana had forgotten Rose was by her side until the girl touched Sloane’s sleeve. ‘Mr Sloane, may I introduce my father to you?’ ‘Of course.’ He sounded as surprised as Morgana had been. ‘Mr Brian O’Keefe, one of the musicians here.’ Morgana had nearly fallen to the ground when the man came up to Rose. She’d made the girls promise they would not engage in any liaisons this first outing. Morgana had been about to send the man packing when Rose told her who he was. Sloane shook the man’s hand. ‘Indeed?’ Madame Saqui was joined by her husband and son and the

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crowd applauded with approval. Morgana was more interested in watching how easily Sloane conversed with the musician, as at ease as if he were talking with a gentleman at Almack’s. It was a quality she greatly admired in him. Rose and her father stepped away to watch the rest of the performance, and Sloane leaned in to whisper in Morgana’s ear, ‘What possessed you to bring those girls here? Do you not know what happens in this place? You are noticed, believe me. You look like a group of harlots.’ She knew this scold was forthcoming. ‘We are a group of harlots,’ she replied, her voice unapologetic. He must reconcile himself to the life they were training these young women to lead. So must she. ‘Madame Bisou said some practice would be beneficial.’ The performance ended to another burst of applause and cheers and the crowd began to disperse. Rose came up to her again. ‘May I spend some more time with my father, Miss Hart? He will bring me back to the box.’ ‘I think that would be very nice for you.’ Morgana smiled. She watched Mr O’Brien escort his daughter to the two-storey gazebo, from where the orchestra played high above the crowd. ‘Rose’s father. Imagine that.’ ‘Gainfully employed, as well,’ Sloane added. ‘What the devil is she doing in your courtesan school?’ His scold seemed to be over, and he seemed more her friend again. It made her want to dance the night away with him. ‘I was wondering the very same thing.’ She took a breath to steady herself. ‘I should go back to the supper box.’ He took her arm more cordially than before. ‘That puts me of a mind to tell you that the gentleman cosying up to Penny is no man you should know.’ That puffy man with the exaggerated manners? Morgana

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could see no harm in him. She gave Sloane a saucy glance. ‘Oh, is he scandalous? As scandalous as you?’ He dipped down to her ear. ‘You have no idea how scandalous I can be.’ His voice was low and his breath on her skin warm. She swallowed. They passed under the arch near the supper box. Mary rushed up to them, Robert Duprey at her side. ‘Miss Hart! Miss Hart!’ Morgana was about to beg her to stop calling out her name, when Mary cried, ‘Lucy has run off!’ ‘What?’ Morgana stopped. Mary saw Sloane and gave a quick curtsy. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Duprey nodded. ‘Oddest thing. Standing happy as you please. Calls out, “He’s here!”, then takes off.’ Mary added, ‘Mr Elliot ran after her, but we thought we should find you right away. Or at least that is the advice Mr Duprey gave, which I thought was excellent.’ ‘Elliot?’ exclaimed Sloane. ‘What the devil is he doing here?’ Morgana held up her hand to silence him. ‘Where did she go?’ ‘Ran down the Dark Walk. Worst place. Dangerous,’ Duprey responded. Lucy had been doing so well. She’d even seemed happy sometimes, blossoming, like her garden. Morgana could not bear it if someone had frightened her. She turned to Sloane. ‘Will you take me to look for them? I dare not go alone.’ Sloane hesitated only a moment. ‘Come along.’ The Dark Walk was not totally without light, but the lamps were fewer and dark alcoves and small private rooms were

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dotted along the path. Some sounds of revelry could be heard from the shadows, and Morgana was glad Sloane was at her side. ‘I wonder if she saw the man from Hyde Park,’ Morgana said. ‘I cannot think anyone else would frighten her so. She wore a mask, for goodness’ sake. He would not have known her.’ ‘I recognised you,’ Sloane reminded her. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But only after Katy made her silly comment.’ He stopped her for a moment and made her face him. ‘Morgana, when will you realise that you cannot truly hide behind a mask or a hat with netting? If you are where you should not be, it is always possible for someone to discover it.’ She averted her eyes. She knew he spoke the truth. She had come to accept the likelihood of ruining herself over the courtesan school. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her face back to his. ‘You greatly risk your reputation with activities such as this. Already your name has been called out.’ ‘By you, as well,’ she protested. He nodded, but it only brought his face closer. ‘I am sorry for it,’ he murmured, his voice as soft as the orchestra’s music drifting in from the distance. ‘Forgive me.’ She lifted her face to his, remembering how easy it had been to stretch just a little farther and taste his lips. The sound of giggles reached them, and Sloane pulled her aside so that they were shuttered by the bushes. A young couple walked by laughing and kissing. Morgana was shocked to see the lady was Athenia Poltrop and her companion Morgana’s cousin Varney. Sloane recognised them as well. ‘Well, at least now I know what she and Hannah were whispering about.’

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Recalling Hannah always returned Morgana to her senses. ‘You must need to return to your party.’ He wrapped his arm around her back and squeezed her against his side. ‘Let us find Lucy first.’ They walked all the way to the hermitage before they found her. Lucy, racked with sobs, sat on a bench with Mr Elliot holding and rocking her. ‘Lucy.’ Morgana wanted to rush to her, but Mr Elliot shook his head. ‘What is it, Mr Elliot? What has happened to her? Has someone hurt her?’ She felt Sloane stiffen beside her, felt him as ready as she to fly to Lucy’s defence. Elliot’s expression was pained. He turned to Lucy. ‘Shall I tell them?’ Lucy gave them a miserable glance and nodded to Elliot, who did not release her from the circle of his arms. ‘She’s been hurt, all right, but it was a long time ago…’ In his precise, methodical voice, Elliot explained what Lucy had shared with him a little at a time in their quiet talks together pulling weeds and planting seeds. Lucy had been seduced at the shocking age of fourteen. The man next door, a family friend, seduced her and gave her to think it was her fault, that she’d been the one to entice him. The man found time for her often, Elliot went on, and Lucy in her naïveté came to believe it meant he loved her. He gave her money and other presents. ‘But right before you hired her, Miss Hart, something else happened.’ Lucy buried her face against Elliot’s chest. ‘This man took her to a place with two other men. They all had their way with her, and the men paid her for it. A few days later, the man took her to be with other men. She protested this time and he laughed at her, telling her to simply enjoy herself. He told her she was nothing but a common harlot. So Lucy believed that was what she must be.’

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‘Oh, Lucy!’ Morgana felt tears sting her eyes. She knelt beside the girl, who fell into her arms. ‘How very awful for you.’ ‘I was startin’ to think maybe I wasn’t all bad.’ Lucy managed between shuddering sobs. ‘Your lessons—Madame Bisou’s and Miss Moore’s—you tell us all the time that we are worth somethin’ no matter what, that we deserve nice things. I was startin’ to believe it, but I saw him, and I remembered…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Who was it?’ Sloane’s voice cut through the night like sharpened steel. Lucy looked up at him, and her sobbing stopped. ‘His name is Mr Castle. He has the button shop next to my father’s hosiery.’ ‘Where?’ Sloane said in the same honed voice. ‘Cheapside,’ she answered. ‘Milk Street.’ He nodded, still thin-lipped. Morgana rose to her feet, her eyes on Sloane, sensing the danger rising in him. It filled her with dread. Elliot spoke up. ‘I’ll bring her back in a bit, when she’s a little calmer.’ He gave Morgana a direct gaze. ‘You can trust her to me.’ Morgana had no doubt she could. Lucy was in very good hands indeed. ‘Well, we shall go then. I’ll tell the others she was scared for a moment, but you talked her out of it, reminding her of the mask.’ He nodded agreement. As soon as she and Sloane were out of earshot, Morgana asked, ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘Do?’ He stared straight ahead, but his voice still held that timbre of violence. ‘About the man who molested Lucy.’ He did not answer.

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‘Are you going to kill him?’ He met her eye. ‘You think me capable of such a thing?’ She did not look away. ‘Yes.’ She could easily imagine him able to kill a man. His eyes narrowed. ‘It does not shock you?’ ‘No.’ A wild part of her wanted to kill the man herself for the wrong he’d done to Lucy. She dared not examine that part too closely. ‘Will you do it?’ Her voice came out all breathless. He stared at her a long time ‘No.’ He took her arm suddenly and said, ‘Come with me.’ Instead of returning her to the supper box, he led her to one of the small restaurants along the colonnade, selecting a small table in the corner where they were relatively private. He ordered them both a glass of wine. She felt unreasonably happy to be in his company. ‘I must speak with you, Morgana.’ Sloane’s tone of voice did not mirror Morgana’s gaiety, however. ‘Does this not prove to you the dangerousness of this escapade? Suppose that man had recognised Lucy? What might have happened then?’ She avoided his eyes. ‘But he did not see her, any more than Miss Poltrop or Varney saw us.’ He waved aside her comment. ‘What if I had not been with you? Would you have run down the Dark Walk yourself, searching for Lucy?’ The server brought the wine and Morgana waited until the man left. ‘I would have made Mary and Mr Duprey come with me.’ ‘No, you would not. You would have gone by yourself. You are reckless, Morgana.’ He took a sip of wine before saying more. ‘You do not perceive how easily one’s reputation can be ruined. This business of yours already risks too much.’

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She flashed her eyes. ‘It is too late to scold me for this! It is done and I will not fail those girls now.’ Morgana fought a wave of nausea. Was teaching Lucy, Katy, Rose and Mary to pander themselves so different than that man pandering Lucy? ‘Give it up,’ Sloane commanded. She gazed at him, hoping he could not see the pain in her eyes. ‘How can I?’ He did not answer but looked away, drinking his wine. Morgana felt the bitter sting of failure, the loss of his friendship, the shattering of her secret dreams. The only thing worse would be for him to realise that she herself knew how thoroughly she’d mismanaged everything. She placed her glass on the table and made herself look defiant. ‘Do you know that I envy them? I envy those girls. They will not be constrained by conventional behaviour. They will be able to do as they wish!’ She captured his attention, because his eyes flashed at her. ‘They will have constraints of a different kind.’ She secretly agreed, but could not stop herself from going on. ‘You are one to talk, Sloane. You have known the freedom of doing whatever you wish. My cousin Varney told me of it. It seems to me your choice to re-enter society is more mystifying than my desire to break its chains.’ A muscle in his cheek flexed. ‘Being on the outside is not necessarily being free, Morgana.’ She took another sip of her wine, her brief effort at defiance merely leading her to inadvertently wound him. Her misery returned. He plucked another sensitive nerve. ‘Do you not wish to be married, Morgana?’ She gave him a pained expression. ‘Do you?’ He averted his gaze. ‘I do. It is a respectable thing to do.’ With effort, she refrained from rolling her eyes. Though

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he would not look at her, she stared at him, deciding to answer his question truthfully. ‘I have long accepted that no man would want a woman such as me. And I dare say I would chafe at the binds a husband would place on me.’ His eyes darted back to her. ‘But what I cannot understand is why anyone would give up their freedom so readily. I fail to see why respectability has such value to you.’ He reached over and took her hand, the tenderness in the gesture startling her. ‘It is because I have been on the other side. It is why I worry for you, Morgana.’ Nothing was resolved between them, not really, but the warmth in his expression was enough to push her misery aside. She smiled at him. ‘Oh, let us not quarrel, Sloane! Not in this place. The night is so fine.’ The music from the orchestra sounded in her ears, mixing with shouts of revelry. The lights twinkled and the scent of food, spirits, and people filled the air. The orchestra began a new tune and a high, crystalline voice carried in the crisp night air: Stay not till I learn the way; How to fib and how betray, E’er I can my thoughts disguise… ‘Listen,’ Morgana cried. The voice went on. Force a blush or roll my eyes. Take me, take me, some of you, While I yet am young and true. ‘It is Rose!’ She jumped up from the chair, still holding his hand. ‘Hurry.’ They pushed their way through to where the orchestra

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played. Rose, without her mask, stood in front of the musicians, as if she had been their featured songstress. Her voice carried in the air distinct, sweet and sultry at turns. Could I find a blooming youth, Full of love and full of truth, Of honest mind and noble mien… ‘Is she not lovely!’ Morgana felt a surge of pride, as if she had created this beautiful creature whose wonderful voice cast its spell over the now quiet crowd. ‘You did not know she would do this?’ Sloane did not sound as pleased as she. ‘No, indeed.’ She smiled. Take me, take me, some of you, While I yet am young and true. Rose finished the last refrain, and the audience burst into applause and cheers. Morgana clapped as enthusiastically as the rest. ‘Well done!’ Sloane muttered, ‘She selected the right song.’ Morgana’s smile faded at his grim expression. ‘Can you not enjoy it, Sloane? What a lovely moment for her!’ ‘She places you in jeopardy, Morgana. If you are associated with her, questions will be asked.’ The orchestra started playing a waltz, and several couples in the crowd started to dance. Morgana glanced around her, savouring the gaiety. ‘Oh, do not be cross any more, Sloane.’ She gazed up at him and her voice turned low. ‘Dance with me.’

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His eyes held hers for a moment, then he suddenly gathered her to him and swung her into the dance. The lamps above them blurred as they whirled round and round, and Morgana felt as if she were indeed soaring in the stars, with Sloane’s arms around her. His chiselled features softened as he gazed down at her. He held her as close as he had when they’d danced in her parlour. Morgana thought she knew how heaven might feel. The orchestra segued from the waltz into a more rousing, lively piece, and the dancing became more boisterous. Sloane guided Morgana away from the carousing. They were about to enter the path when they saw Katy walking with two gentlemen, one on each arm. ‘What is she up to?’ Morgana said with irritation. Katy came closer, and Sloane pulled Morgana halfway into the bushes, hiding them both by putting his arms around her. ‘You see her companions?’ he whispered. Katy was flanked by none other than Morgana’s uncle and Lord Poltrop. Like Rose, she had shed her mask. Even worse, she was gaily allowing the gentlemen to place their hands upon her, one of them squeezing her derrière. Sloane held Morgana out of view as they passed. ‘She promised…’ she began, but, when she lifted her head, he was so close, she forgot what she was about to say. He did not release her, and her arms had nowhere to go but around his neck. His eyes darkened, and he pressed her against him so firmly she could feel his arousal from beneath his clothing. From Madame Bisou’s lessons, she knew what it was—and what it meant. Sparks of pleasure glittered through her like the lamps strung through the trees. She laughed and pulled his head down to her eager lips. His hand slid down to her hips and ground her against him.

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His tongue played in her mouth. She met his kiss eagerly, daring to let her tongue frolic with his, feeling her whole body come alive with need. His lips slid to her neck and she heard herself whimper at the ache of pleasure created as he tasted her tender skin. His hand moved to her breast and Morgana covered it with her own, urging him to not move it away, but to fondle her more. ‘Sloane,’ she moaned, her voice husky. It started to make sense to her, all of Madame Bisou’s lessons. She wanted more of him, could imagine the sensation of feeling his bare skin against hers, of feeling his hands upon her. This was desire, she realised, and it frightened as much as it thrilled her. How easy it would be to become carried away, to allow him to lead her down the Dark Walk with him. Still, she did not wish him to stop. She found his lips and tasted him again. She pressed herself against him, unable to stop herself, unable to allow this moment to end. He broke away. ‘This is madness.’ He held her at arm’s length, panting, every fibre of his being on fire for her. By damn, he wanted to make love to her, wanted to discover how that depth of emotion that swung her from weeping for Lucy to cheering for Rose, that passion would play out in bed. The same recklessness he chided her for, he’d been willing to exploit. And her enthusiastic response showed him she wanted him to be the rake, not the reputable gentleman. ‘That was not well done, Morgana,’ he said. She looked at him with a puzzled and wounded expression. He had to impress upon her, convince her that this path she was bent upon would only bring her pain and eventual loneliness. If she did not exercise some restraint, how could he? ‘Were you practising Bisou’s lessons, Morgana? Practising at being the harlot?’ Even in the dim light, he saw the shock in her eyes. She

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swung her hand back to strike him, but he caught her wrist before her palm connected to his face. ‘You are making a spectacle. Someone will see.’ Under her mask, her eyes blazed. ‘What will they see? They will see the very reputable Mr Sloane cavorting with a harlot. Take care, Sloane. Your hard-won respectability may be ruined by me.’ ‘Indeed it may.’ He still gripped her wrist and held her so close he could feel the angry rise of her breast against his chest. ‘You are not acting the lady, Morgana.’ Her arm flexed again, but the movement only rammed her full against him. ‘You are not acting the gentleman.’ Her words struck the blow her hand had missed. She hissed, ‘Perhaps you ought to return to your very silly, respectable Lady Hannah. A gentleman would not keep her waiting.’ Hannah? He had forgotten about her while he held Morgana in his arms. Even now, while they exchanged angry words, his body came alive with the feel of her. He wished more than anything to be the rake he once had been. He pushed her away before he could kiss her again and act on that nearly irresistible impulse. ‘I will return to her.’ He spoke more to himself than to Morgana, trying to convince himself that he wished to return to the task of acting the host. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was so low he could almost not hear her. ‘Of course you will return to her.’ Before he could speak another word, she spun around and ran to her supper box, skirts flying. She did not look back. Sloane followed, sickened by his own behaviour, but more by his words. He’d blamed her for that kiss, for his own arousal, for his own desire to risk her ruin in the gardens at Vauxhall.

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He watched to see that she reached the box without mishap. Katy had returned and was now busily flirting with Sir Reginald. Lucy, Elliot, Mary and Duprey were there as well. He wanted to order Morgana to take them all home now, before something worse happened. But, damn him, even more, he ached to grab her hand and run with her down the Dark Walk. Some gentleman he was. If anyone cared to examine him in the light of day, they could undoubtedly see he was as shabby as Vauxhall’s plaster columns and painted walls. He quickly backed away before the others of Morgana’s party saw him. He made his way through the revellers to the other side of the park, and slipped into his own party’s supper box. After him came Hannah and David, the other young people good-naturedly teasing them about being together. Cowdlin and Poltrop now sat with their wives in domestic harmony, and behind their backs Athenia held hands with Varney. Hannah looked unusually subdued. David fetched her a glass of wine and returned to fill his own glass with some more of the arrack punch. Sloane joined him. ‘Have you missed us, Uncle?’ David asked, slurring his words. The young man must have dipped into more than his share of the arrack. ‘I confess I wondered where everyone went off to,’ Sloane lied. ‘Just looking at the sights,’ said David, his eyes drifting over to Hannah. Athenia whispered something in Hannah’s ear. Hannah whispered back. Sloane felt relieved of the obligation to join her. His mind and senses were still filled with Morgana, not the thoughts of a man intent upon offering for a society miss. At

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the moment, any thought of marrying Hannah was unbearable. The signal sounded for the illuminations to begin, and everyone in the party hurried out of the box to get a good view. Sloane looked through the crowd and found Morgana, standing with her girls, all looking like the high-flyers they would become. The sight of Morgana roused him all over again. Instead of the illuminations, he watched her, the flashes of light catching her mask. The sparkle and crackle and boom were nothing to the explosions ricocheting inside him. He’d be damned if he did not find in Morgana a kindred spirit, but one who would cause him to lose the game he’d bid so high to win. Later that night, after a very subdued Hannah and her dozing parents delivered him back to his town house, Sloane donned dark clothes, grabbed his swordstick and his knife, and slipped back out into the night, bound for Milk Street and the living quarters above the shop of a certain button seller. As he blended with the night on his way to Cheapside, he formulated his plan, glad he had a target for the pent-up emotion inside him. Murder might be justified, but he would settle for frightening the fellow. He gripped his swordstick tighter as he hurried to avenge the man’s evil deeds. Sloane knew exactly what would keep the man’s breeches buttoned when the next pretty girl came into view.

Chapter Thirteen

O

ver the last month of the Season, Morgana saw little of Sloane, though he was often at the same balls and routs she attended. He continued to show some attention to her cousin, but never to her. Worst of all, he no longer slipped through her garden wall to share breakfast or dinner or to assist with Madame Bisou’s lessons. Mr Elliot, who, like Mr Duprey, visited more frequently than before, disclaimed any knowledge of why Sloane avoided Morgana’s company. He said Sloane spent a great deal of time secluded in his library, adding that Sloane seemed irritable at times, snapping at Elliot but apologising afterwards. Morgana knew precisely why he avoided her. He thought her no more than a harlot, a threat to his desire to be accepted into the beau monde, to marry her cousin. Still, she could not help gazing out of windows, hoping to catch sight of him leaving his house, to see his tall figure striding down the road. Her heart ached for missing him. She realised the loss of his company had been her fault. He had scolded her for her wildness, but then she’d kissed him

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as wantonly as any harlot might do. He had lost respect for her, and that was painful indeed. Why could she not have merely employed the pretty flirtations that gave Hannah such success? Hannah, though her manners were lively, never strayed too far from what was proper. Unlike Morgana. Even Hannah’s spirits had altered lately, her gaiety forced. Morgana could only suppose that Hannah worried that Sloane would not make an offer after all, although she long had been convinced that Hannah loved the idea of marrying a rich man more than the man himself. Indeed, Hannah seemed to prefer David Sloane to his uncle. Partly to keep her mind off Sloane, Morgana allowed her girls more outings, all of them wearing hats that obscured their faces. They shopped at the Soho bazaar with money Morgana had given them to buy trinkets. They attended a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Daring indeed, because five lovely young ladies together, even though chaperoned by Miss Moore and escorted by Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey, attracted nearly as much attention as the arena’s spectacular feats of horsemanship. Robert Duprey had also taken them each for rides in Hyde Park. This morning’s breakfast conversation was all about Mr Duprey. ‘I shall never ride with him again,’ Katy said dramatically. ‘He near enough turned the curricle on its side—’ ‘Nearly turned the curricle on its side,’ Miss Moore corrected. Katy stared at her. ‘Nearly turned the curricle—’ ‘Do stop!’ cried Mary. ‘I think Mr Duprey is quite good at handling the ribbons. I am sure I never worried for one minute about it.’ ‘He is a menace!’ Katy shouted. ‘Rose, you must agree.’

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Rose, who was chewing a piece of toasted bread, could not respond right away. Katy did not pause. ‘He near enough—nearly—ran into some fellow in a phaeton—’ ‘A gentleman, dear,’ said Miss Moore. ‘Not a fellow.’ ‘I tell you, I nearly got my neck broke.’ Mary sprang to her feet. ‘I will not hear Mr Duprey so maligned. He has been nothing but kindness and generosity and all that is proper.’ ‘How proper can he be spendin’ all his days with a pack of dolly mops!’ Katy demanded, a bit too loudly to be ladylike. Morgana massaged her temples. The headache that roused her before dawn still pained her, and the discussion at hand was not helping. ‘Do not call yourself a dolly mop, Katy. You are better than that.’ Katy laughed. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart. We ain’t nothin’ more than fancy dolly mops.’ Morgana sighed. There was no use arguing with Katy. It would only egg her on and make the headache worse. Finishing her now tepid cup of tea, Morgana bade them good morning as an example of ladylike manners, and went in search of Lucy. It did not take long to find her. She was in the garden pulling weeds. Mr Elliot stood nearby, chatting with her. ‘Good morning, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said, rising to her feet. Mr Elliot nodded. Lucy smiled at Morgana. Either the morning air or a blush had put colour in her cheeks. Or had she and Mr Elliot found a private place to be together? ‘I was just telling Mr Elliot the news my mum sent to Amy and me. Did she tell you of it?’ ‘No.’ Amy had lately chattered more about her sister, how

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she feared for Lucy in her new life, how she wished Lucy would content herself with being a maid and forget this notion of being a courtesan. Morgana shared Amy’s sentiments. As the days went on, she dreaded more and more the moment she would have to release them into the life she had created for them. Two months ago Morgana had been convinced that she would be providing them with a better life. Now she feared she would only cause them more unhappiness, like the unhappiness she now felt. ‘What was the news, Lucy? No one is ill, I hope.’ ‘Nothing like that, miss.’ Lucy glanced to Elliot, who nodded encouragingly. ‘It is the shop next door to my father’s. The button seller. Do you remember about him?’ Morgana was not likely to ever forget. ‘I remember.’ ‘Well, my mum said he moved away. Just up and moved. He’s gone.’ Morgana could barely speak. ‘Indeed.’ ‘And I was asking Mr Elliot if he thought it could be Mr Sloane’s doing. Do you think so? Mr Elliot says he does not know, but I think Mr Sloane made him go away. Mr Castle has run the shop for ever and his father before him and now it is empty and he’s gone.’ Morgana felt her senses, so dormant of late, come to life. Of course Sloane had been responsible. Like a secret champion, he’d avenged Lucy. Sloane had driven the man off. ‘It does seem odd,’ Morgana managed. Lucy and Mr Elliot shared smiles, and Morgana felt a wave of envy. Lucy and Elliot had found a steadfast friendship, perhaps more than a friendship, though Morgana dared not ask. Morgana was happy for her even if, at this moment, it made her own loneliness seem more acute. A voice sounded from the other side of the garden wall. ‘Elliot, where the devil are you?’

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Sloane. He stepped through the gap in the garden wall and caught sight of Morgana. ‘Oh.’ Elliot sprang to attention. ‘Did you have need of me, sir?’ Sloane looked as if he were about to retreat back to his own property. ‘No, just wondered where you were.’ Morgana remained riveted to the spot, but Lucy skipped over to Sloane. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with meaning in her voice. He backed up a step. ‘What for?’ She gave him a worshipful look. ‘For whatever you did to Mr Castle, because he is gone and his shop is closed.’ Morgana watched a muscle in Sloane’s cheek flex. He paused before responding. ‘I am glad of it, Lucy. But do not assume I had anything to do with it.’ ‘I know you did, sir,’ Lucy seized his hand and kissed it. ‘And I am grateful to you.’ Sloane glanced over to Morgana, but glanced away as quickly. ‘Perhaps Mr Sloane is busy, Lucy.’ Morgana knew Sloane wished to escape her company. Cripps stepped out of the doorway. ‘Madame Bisou wishes me to inform you that she has brought you a visitor.’ He looked unusually stern. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson.’ ‘Harriette?’ barked Sloane, with a searing glare at Morgana. ‘What the devil is she doing here?’ Morgana was every bit as shocked as he. ‘I have no idea.’ Elliot excused himself, saying he must return to his duties, but Sloane followed Morgana and Lucy into the house. Miss Wilson sat in the front drawing room wearing a stylish white India muslin gown trimmed in blue satin, with embroidered flounces at the hem and neckline. Her cap, complete with blue and white feathers, matched perfectly. Look-

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ing at her, one could only conclude that the life of a courtesan was very lucrative indeed. Mary, Katy and Rose sat gaping at her. Madame Bisou presented Miss Wilson to Morgana. Her introduction ended with, ‘…and you know Cyprian, I believe.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ Miss Wilson responded, giving Sloane a frank look of admiration that made Morgana feel faintly ill. ‘But it has been much too long since you have called upon me, sir.’ Sloane’s expression remained stormy. ‘What are you doing here, Harriette?’ ‘I insisted Penny bring me to see this courtesan school.’ Sloane shot Penny a scathing glance. ‘Do not look at me that way, Cyprian. I did not tell her of it.’ He turned his glare to Morgana. ‘If Harriette knows, your activities are no longer a secret.’ ‘Not everyone knows, Cyprian, my love!’ Harriette chirped. ‘That odious Fortuna Rice offers a great deal of money to discover this place. But she believes some man runs the school.’ Harriette laughed as if such a notion was ridiculous. Morgana’s breath caught to hear Mrs Rice’s name. She’d not imagined the girls were still in danger from the woman. It had been weeks since they’d left her. ‘Sir Reginald!’ cried Madame Bisou. ‘It must be he who told you, Harriette. He must have pieced the story together after meeting us at Vauxhall.’ Harriette did not deny this. Morgana glanced at Katy. The girl returned a defiant look, and Morgana could imagine Katy prattling on while she practised her wiles at Vauxhall. Sloane glowered at Morgana, then marched over to her. ‘Morgana, I need a word with you. Excuse us.’ He gripped her arm so that she had little choice but to follow him.

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He propelled her into the library and still kept hold of her, holding her so close she could feel the heat from his body. She could also see the fire in his eyes. ‘Let me speak plain, Morgana. If that woman knows of you, in minutes the rest of the world will know. You cannot trust her.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘You must end this now.’ She lifted her chin and stared directly into his face, even though it was only inches away. ‘How do I end it, Sloane? Toss them out? Will that make them safer? Or am I suddenly not to care if Mrs Rice punishes them for leaving her?’ He acted as if he’d not even heard her. ‘You have become too reckless. Taking them to Vauxhall. And even that wasn’t enough for you. You had to take them to Soho and Astley’s. Where were your wits? Have you gone totally mad? You have no notion what you risk.’ Who could have told him such things? She glared at him. ‘I thought Mr Elliot more discreet.’ He huffed. ‘Elliot is the model of discretion. Did you assume he was my only source of information about your doings?’ She had not imagined he cared a fig about her doings since the night at Vauxhall, when he held her much less painfully than he did now. She addressed him in a haughty tone. ‘Do take your hands off me, Sloane. I do not fancy having bruised arms.’ He released her so quickly she almost fell against him. He caught her again and only stepped back after she regained her balance. She rubbed where his hands had gripped her. It suddenly felt as if walls were falling in on her, but she could not allow him to realise that. ‘I should like to know your source of information, if it was not Mr Elliot.’ ‘Take your pick,’ he shot back. ‘The circle of those who know of you is widening rapidly. The floodgates are open, Morgana. It is time to cut and run.’

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‘I have no notion of what that means,’ she snapped. He glowered at her. ‘It means that your activities are in imminent danger of being revealed—’ ‘And my reputation ruined?’ she finished for him. ‘Did I not tell you, Sloane, that I do not care?’ This was a lie. Her ruin and banishment from a society that heretofore had only grudgingly accepted her truly terrified her. Her father would disown her. How could he do otherwise when her shame might reflect on his new wife? The part of her fortune her father did not control was modest. What would happen to her? She almost laughed. She knew too well what happened to young women with no money and no friends. ‘I care,’ he shouted. ‘I told you from the beginning I would not allow you to bring me down with you. Not after I have worked so hard to earn my good name. I’ll be damned if I allow you to ruin it.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Then you must prevent my discovery, must you not?’ He swung away and paced in front of her. ‘It is not only that, Morgana. This is a dangerous business. Deadly dangerous.Your altercation in the park was nothing compared to what could happen. That glove-shop proprietor is nipping at your heels, and, believe me, she will not stop until she is revenged upon you.’ Morgana’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’ He stopped pacing but did not answer right away. He finally turned to her and the look on his face made her shiver. ‘I have my means.’ They stood no more than three feet from each other, staring like two cats daring the other to pounce. The pause merely reminded Morgana of the weight of the responsibility she carried on her shoulders. She ought to have figured out another

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way to help the girls. She ought to have protected them all instead of bringing danger and ruin. But she must not weaken now. She straightened her spine and gave Sloane a steady look. ‘I will see this through to the end, Sloane. I have no other choice.’ His angry expression changed to one more vulnerable, until he covered that over with no expression at all. It was like a cleaver chopping her in two. To save the girls she risked ruining him. And he had wanted nothing more than a good name. He gave her a curt nod and, without another word, turned away from her and walked out the door. Morgana dropped her face into her hands, giving in to the grief of knowing how she had wounded him. She could no longer pretend she did not love him. Even if she did not count the physical desires he aroused in her, she loved the man. Loved his strength. Loved the rakish side of him that mocked the very world for which he pined. She could weep for the pain of his family’s rejection and for his longing for friends such as the Marquess of Heronvale. She knew that sort of loneliness. The agony was, she had put all he desired at risk. His association with her, the mere fact of living next to her, would most probably be his ruin. Laughter came from the drawing room. She raised her head and squared her shoulders. She must make certain her plans succeeded, no matter how abhorrent they had become to her. She must successfully launch her girls into the world of the demi-rep and hope that they found protectors and ultimate wealth. She would lose them, too, as she’d lost Sloane. Morgana set her chin. She still must deal with Harriette Wilson. She returned to the drawing room, where Miss Wilson had the group enthralled. ‘First, always value yourselves very highly—’

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‘That is what Miss Hart says, as well,’ Katy broke in. ‘And you must always remember that you choose the gentleman; the gentleman does not choose you…’ Madame Bisou saw Morgana enter and hurried over to her. ‘Miss Hart, Harriette has thought of the very thing to launch the girls. It is a splendid opportunity!’ Harriette interrupted her lecture. ‘It is indeed. Tomorrow night there is to be a masquerade ball at the Argyle Rooms to mark the end of the Season. It promises to be very merry. Your girls will attend. It will be the perfect place to show them off and tantalise potential clientele.’ ‘Is it not brilliant?’ cried Madame Bisou. Katy looked at Morgana as if daring her to refuse. Mary glanced around with frightened eyes. Lucy sat thin-lipped with resignation, and Rose, who was silently fingering the keys of the pianoforte, gave no indication of having heard the discussion at all. ‘I am not certain—’ Morgana began. Madame Bisou cut her off again. ‘It is time, Miss Hart.’ She sounded so much like Sloane, Morgana thought she would laugh—or weep. As much as Morgana wanted to clutch them all to her bosom and never let them go, this provided her the best chance of making matters right for Sloane. She had no better alternative. Perhaps they could all move to the country in a little cottage or something of which her father would approve. If she withdrew from society before the scandal hit— No. What sort of life would that offer them all? The sheer boredom of it would drive Morgana mad, if not the rest of them with her. Except perhaps for Mary. She could offer Mary a chance not to be a courtesan. ‘Well, Morgana?’ asked Miss Moore. She seemed to be as excited about the prospect as Katy.

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A masquerade? It seemed a safe enough place to begin. Like at Vauxhall, they could hide behind masks. No one need know who they were, unless they desired it. ‘We will attend.’ Morgana would go with them, she resolved. She would look out for them one last time. After leaving Morgana’s house in a towering rage, Sloane paused in his hall long enough to pick up his hat, gloves and swordstick before rushing out again. Elliot, who’d heard his noisy entry, had dared try to ask him a question. Sloane had bellowed, ‘I am going out!’ He knew precisely where he was bound. If Morgana would not end this foolishness, he must do his best to keep the leaking information from engulfing her. He had not needed Harriette Wilson to tell him that Mrs Rice was becoming more and more obsessed about discovering the courtesan school. He knew it from his own surveillance. There was one leak he could plug and plug it he would. Sloane strode off to Fenton’s Hotel, where he asked to be announced to Sir Reginald. When Sloane was admitted into Sir Reginald’s rooms, the older man was still dressed in his dressing gown, although it was nearly noon. Sir Reginald put down the copy of the Morning Post that he’d held in his hand. ‘Good morning, Sloane.’ Sir Reginald gave a cordial smile and gestured for him to sit. ‘A bit early, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Sloane sat and a servant appeared to pour tea. He waited until the servant scurried away into another room. ‘I’ll not mince words.’ He leaned towards the older man, who was just about to take a swallow. ‘You told Harriette Wilson about the courtesan school, did you not?’ Sir Reginald gulped and went into a spasm of coughing

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before replying. ‘I—I suppose I did. Saw her the other day at Covent Garden—some play or some such. Don’t rightly recall…’ Sloane gave Sir Reginald a menacing look. ‘No one must know of this. No one, do you understand?’ Sir Reginald gave a snort. ‘Cannot see why not. Capital idea, training young women. Imagine a lady doing so!’ ‘What do you know of the lady?’ Sloane demanded. The man sputtered. ‘A Miss Hart—’ Sloane seized him by the front of the robe and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You are never to speak her name to anyone.’ Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’ ‘Your word on it,’ Sloane demanded, shaking him. Sir Reginald stuttered. ‘I…I…I give my word.’ Sloane released him and Sir Reginald landed back in his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d run the full length of Hyde Park. Sloane rose from his chair. Sir Reginald cowered as Sloane advanced on him one more time. ‘I shall take my leave. But, mind this, if you loose your tongue again, I will discover it. You will not wish to see what I will do to you.’ Sir Reginald nodded so vigorously the loose skin on his neck shook. Sloane strode out of the room. When the door shut behind him, Sir Reginald reached for his tea, the cup clattering in its saucer from his shaking hands. His manservant crept out from behind the bedchamber door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’ ‘No, of course I am not injured,’ Sir Reginald snapped. ‘What a terrifying man!’ His servant picked up Sloane’s tea cup. ‘He is indeed,’ agreed Sir Reginald.

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As his man tidied the room, Sir Reginald stared at the Morning Post without seeing a word. All he could hope was that Sloane never found out he had mentioned the courtesan school at the dolly shop where he tarried after leaving Covent Garden. Just in passing, mind. A harmless comment, no names mentioned. Except Madame Bisou’s. He rubbed his face and lowered his forehead on to the tabletop with a groan. That evening Madame Bisou walked through the game room of her establishment, checking that the tables were stocked with cards and other necessities. She sighed and flung herself into a chair. Toying with a stack of counters, she recalled the look upon Robert’s face when he came to call upon Miss Hart and her girls that afternoon after Harriette Wilson had finished her interminable lesson. Robert acted like a besotted suitor. Was she to lose him? He was such a dear…so…so predictable. She rued the day she brought him to Morgana Hart’s house so the girls could learn how to be with a man, if one could call Robert a man—a boy-man perhaps, a sweet, harmless thing. She supposed he would take his business to that Mary Phipps as soon as she was established. Some thanks that would be. Cummings entered the room. ‘You have a caller, Madame.’ He always made everything sound like doom. ‘You know we are not open, Cummings.’ She had no wish to see anyone, even if they were open. ‘It is Mrs Rice,’ he intoned. ‘And she insists upon seeing you.’ ‘Oh, that odious Fortuna Rice.’ Madame Bisou waved her hand. ‘Have her meet me in the supper room.’

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She followed him out of the door and crossed the hall to the supper room, stepping into the back to bring out a bottle of Madeira wine. If she had to endure Fortuna Rice, it would be with liquid spirits. She sat and downed one glass before the woman entered the room. ‘Come join me, Fortuna,’ she said, pouring two more glasses. ‘Have some wine.’ ‘A choice bottle, I hope. You would not be serving me your cheap wine, would you, Penny?’ Mrs Rice sat across from her. Madame Bisou bristled, but decided to let the catty comment pass. ‘Only the best for us, Fortuna. We have earned it.’ ‘Which is why I am here.’ Leave it to Fortuna Rice to waste no time on niceties. ‘I have heard you are involved in a courtesan school. Is that so?’ Madame Bisou delayed answering, covering up the time it took to contrive an answer by taking a long sip of her wine. She decided the best tactic was avoidance. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’ Mrs Rice frowned. ‘I have had two girls stolen from me and a third I was about to bring into the house. I want them back.’ Madame Bisou lifted her brows. ‘Careless of you to lose them, Fortuna. I treat my girls well and they stay of their own accord.’ ‘I treat mine well, too,’ snapped Mrs Rice. ‘But I have been ill used and I want them back.’ ‘I am certain you do.’ Madame Bisou took another sip. ‘Well, what do you know of it?’ Fortuna Rice was an unpleasant woman, the madam decided, and not too smart to have shown all her cards at once. Penny lounged in her chair. ‘I know nothing of it. I am sure I do not know why you supposed I would.’

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‘Sir Reginald let something slip about it. Said you were showing off the girls at Vauxhall last night.’ Madame Bisou made herself laugh with great heartiness. ‘Oh, that is famous! What a buffoon!’ She pretended to wrest control of herself again and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she pulled from between her ample bosoms. ‘I was at Vauxhall with some of my girls, all masked! We told him a story and he believed it.’ Mrs Rice put both her palms flat on the table and glared at her. ‘This is not the first I’ve heard of a courtesan school. It was talked of in one of the pubs as well. It is said a man and a lady run it and they teach the girls to think themselves better than they ought.’ It was fortunate that Madame Bisou had nearly a lifetime of telling whatever she wished others to hear, gentlemen especially. She prided herself on sounding earnest and believable, whatever she said. ‘Why, I have heard the rumours myself, Fortuna. Now Sir Reginald thinks the courtesan school is mine. Is that not fun?’ Mrs Rice swallowed the contents of her glass and stood. ‘I do not believe you, Penny, but I make you a promise. I will find where my girls are and I will take them back and no one—I repeat, no one—will stop me.’ She flounced out of the room. Madame Bisou poured another glass of wine and again downed it in one long, nervous swallow.

Chapter Fourteen

Morgana stared at the note once again. Dear Niece, At my particular request, your neighbour, Mr Sloane, has agreed to escort you to our dinner party tonight. Mr Sloane has been gracious enough to offer the use of his own carriage. Do not neglect to bring your maid with you for propriety’s sake. Yours, etc. W.C. She let her hand fall into her lap, wondering if there was still time to pretend a headache and beg off. In truth, her head had been pounding all day, especially after she and Sloane had crossed swords. Amy entered the drawing room. ‘I have your shawl, Miss Hart. We are quite prepared now.’ Morgana set the note aside on the table and picked up her gloves. ‘I hope this will not be too tedious for you, Amy, since you are obliged to accompany me.’ ‘I expect to have a jolly time, miss. My mother’s cousin is

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housekeeper there, you know, and it will be a treat to visit her.’ Amy carefully draped the shawl, the same deep green silk as Morgana’s evening dress, over her arm. Morgana pushed her fingers one by one into her glove before smoothing the rest of the white kid up to her elbow. ‘Remember, not a word about the courtesan school, and do not let slip that you have been helping fashion costumes for the masquerade.’ ‘I will be very careful, miss. There is enough news from home to keep us talking.’ Amy then looked critically at Morgana, as one would a vase of flowers to arrange. She fussed with the long curled feather that she’d fashioned to frame Morgana’s face, another clever means she employed to disguise her lady’s stick-straight hair. This night, Amy had twisted strands of Morgana’s hair into loops artfully cascading from the crown of her head. ‘It is good of Mr Sloane to drive you, is it not, Miss Hart? What a gentleman. We have seen so little of him of late.’ It had not been so long ago that Amy described him as a pirate. Indeed, much had happened since their first encounter, not the least of which was Morgana falling quite despairingly in love with him. With Harriette Wilson’s unexpected arrival and then a flurry to plan costumes for the masquerade, Morgana barely had time to think of Sloane and how he’d stalked out after they quarrelled. Then the note had come from her aunt, unnecessarily managing the transportation. Cripps could have procured a hack for her easily enough. Now she and Sloane would be trapped together. The knocker sounded and Morgana jumped, her heart pounding against her chest. Sloane had arrived and she would sit with him in the confines of the carriage for perhaps ten full minutes.

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‘Mr Sloane, miss,’ Cripps announced. Morgana clasped her hand to her throat. ‘We are ready.’ She and Amy followed Cripps to the hall, where Sloane waited, his hat in his hand, his white breeches gleaming against the deep blue of his coat. He did not smile, but bowed formally. ‘Good evening, Miss Hart.’ ‘Mr Sloane.’ She dropped into a graceful curtsy. Amy hurried to hand her the shawl, but Sloane took it from her and draped it over Morgana’s shoulders. But even though his strong hands brushed against her, he paid more attention to her maid. ‘I hope you are well, Miss Jenkins,’ he said. Amy also bobbed into a curtsy. ‘Very well, indeed, thank you, sir.’ At the carriage, Amy allowed Sloane only a mere touch of her hand as she scrambled inside. For Morgana, however, he held her elbow and guided her with a hand to her back. After she sat down, she still felt his touch upon her, though he sat as far from her as possible. The silence in the carriage made it difficult for Morgana to breathe. She resisted taking big gulps of air. Instead, she forced herself to converse with him. ‘It is kind of you to transport me, Mr Sloane. I expect you would have simply walked the distance otherwise.’ He turned his eyes on her. ‘That is so.’ She glanced out of the carriage window. It was still light out. ‘It is a fine evening.’ He did not respond, but when she turned back to him, he still watched her. She felt the impulse to squirm under his scrutiny. Morgana lifted her eyes and stared directly into Sloane’s. He did not look away. It was as if each of them were loathe

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to be first to break the contact. As a little girl, she’d played a similar game with her cat. This seemed so different. They arrived at her aunt’s house just a few minutes later. Sloane put his hand to her waist to assist her from the carriage. She held his arm while they walked the few steps to the front door. Once inside she supposed he would avoid her. Amy hurried off in search of the housekeeper, and Morgana and Sloane entered the hall. The Cowdlin town house was a bit grander than Morgana’s and furnished in the very latest bright colours and varied designs. From the Prussian blue hall where they were announced, to the primrose yellow drawing room with its stencilled wallpaper and Brusselsweave carpet. Her aunt bustled up to them. ‘Dear Mr Sloane, how good of you to escort my niece. Do come in. Cowdlin will see you have some nice claret before dinner.’ She spared Morgana a quick glance. ‘Morgana, dear, so good of you to come.’ While Lady Cowdlin took charge of Sloane, Morgana greeted some of the other guests, whom she had met many times during the Season. She made her way to the corner of the room where David Sloane and Hannah were looking into a small tube aimed directly at the nearby lamp. ‘Is it some sort of telescope?’ Morgana asked. David Sloane leapt to his feet and Hannah looked up at her. ‘Oh, Morgana! It is the most wonderful contraption. Come, look in it!’ Morgana sat and peered into the glass optic. Sparkles of colour appeared in symmetrical shapes on the inside. ‘Oh, it is lovely!’ ‘Here, turn it,’ David instructed, and the colours changed shape before her very eyes. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope.’ ‘It is quite new,’ said Hannah. ‘Mr Sloane—Mr David Sloane—brought it to me.’

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Morgana marvelled as the colours formed a new pattern. ‘What is this?’ a familiar voice said. Morgana did not stop looking into the device, but suddenly the changing shapes and colours garnered less of her attention. ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said. ‘Hello, David.’ Sloane added, ‘Lady Hannah, I hope you are well.’ ‘Very well, sir,’ Hannah replied. Morgana moved away from the kaleidoscope and rose from the chair. ‘You must look, Mr Sloane,’ insisted Hannah. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope and your nephew has brought it to show me.’ Sloane took the chair Morgana had vacated and Morgana backed away, nodding politely to other guests and exchanging a few words with them. She was not certain what she said to them, however. All her senses were attuned to one man, his voice, his scent, every move he made. She strolled to the other side of the room, hoping more distance from him would help, making herself look anywhere but at him. She watched Athenia Poltrop and her parents greet her aunt and uncle. Athenia’s gaze riveted upon her cousin Varney and his upon her. Morgana settled in a chair at the corner farthest away from where Sloane had ceded his place at the kaleidoscope. Hannah called to Athenia to come and look at her new curiosity. Lord Cowdlin signalled Sloane over and handed him a glass of claret. Morgana forced herself to watch Hannah and Athenia. Athenia glanced towards Varney and quickly looked away. She glanced at him again and twirled a lock of her hair in her finger. Varney excused himself from the gentleman with whom he had been conversing and quickly came to Athenia’s side.

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That morning, Harriette Wilson had taught those exact techniques—how to manipulate a man’s interest by mere glances and the simplest of gestures. Athenia performed the exact steps just as if she’d been present at the lesson, summoning Varney to her side as effectively as if she’d shouted his name. Morgana stifled a laugh. Harriette’s tactics had worked! Where had Athenia learned them? Was snaring a man’s attention really so easily achieved? Could even Morgana make a gentleman approach her side merely by employing a few coquettish tricks? Morgana glanced at Sloane, the only man she wished to draw to her side. If she could make Sloane come to her, Sloane, who wanted nothing to do with her, it would indeed prove the power of Harriette’s techniques. She strained to remember them. Sloane happened to glance in her direction. Morgana gazed at him pointedly, then quickly averted her gaze. She glanced back. He was looking at her! Her heart skipped a beat. She felt for the lock of hair that escaped Amy’s efforts and now tickled the nape of her neck. She twisted it in her fingers and quickly averted her gaze. A second later she dared peek through her lowered lashes. Sloane found his gaze naturally wandering to where Morgana sat, even though he’d resolved to avoid her. She was tinder to his senses. One little spark and they’d both go up in flames. Still, catching sight of her was vastly preferable to enduring the sudden hospitality of Lord Cowdlin. There was not enough the toadying hypocrite could do to see to his comfort. A glance at Morgana had become like a rope tossed to a drowning man. Finally another guest arrived to snare Cowdlin’s attention, and Sloane scanned the room for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on Morgana. She sat alone in a corner of the room,

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her lively ginger eyes taking in everything, even taking in him. Her eyes were particularly captivating this evening, set off by the dark green of her dress and the feather in her hair. Damn him. He craved her company. They were two of a kind, he and Morgana. Both too ready to cross the bounds of correct behaviour, just the reason he should stay away. He forced his gaze elsewhere and Lady Cowdlin caught his eye, giving him a meaningful smile and inclining her head ever so deliberately towards her daughter. Sloane inwardly groaned. He let his gaze travel past the woman, as if he had not noticed her blatant signal to dance attendance on Hannah. Coming to this dinner party only put him in deeper with the Cowdlins—as well as bringing him back in close company with Morgana. He looked over to her again. Her eyes met his, looked away again, and very slowly glanced back. She again fingered that lock of loose hair that had been driving him to madness with how it caressed the soft ivory skin of her neck. He might as well go mad in her company as by staring at her across the room. He walked over to her and sat in the chair next to hers. ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Morgana?’ Enjoying your torture of me, he meant. She turned her magical eyes upon him. ‘Shall I be honest, Sloane, or do you wish me to say what is proper?’ The thought of how improper Morgana Hart could be put his senses on high alert, the very sort of reaction he needed to avoid. ‘I do not expect what is proper from you.’ Her smile froze on her face and he kicked himself for his illchosen words. ‘I will be proper, then, to spite you. I am having a delightful time. And you?’ Her eyes glittered with anger, which merely caused the blood to race faster through his veins.

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He met her gaze. ‘I think it is a dead bore.’ She laughed, an unaffected sound that caused one or two of the company to look over at them. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered. More guests were announced. ‘Lord and Lady Rawley.’ ‘Deuce,’ muttered Sloane, as his brother and sister-in-law entered the room. He glanced at Morgana, ready to apologise for his profanity, but was taken aback by the sympathy in her eyes. ‘Tell me, Sloane,’ she said quickly. ‘What did you think of the kaleidoscope? Was it not remarkable?’ He peered at her, then realised she was trying to distract him and give him a reason to avoid his brother’s pointed glare of dislike. Such kindness surprised him in light of their hot words that morning. ‘Very remarkable, Miss Hart. I’ve rarely seen such beauty.’ But he spoke of her beauty, not the bits of coloured glass. She fingered that stray lock of hair, and he longed to feel its silky texture between his own fingers. Putting her hands in her lap, she gave him an intent look. ‘Some day, Sloane, if you should ever need a friend’s ear, I would listen.’ There was no curiosity lurking in her offer. He examined her face and found only concern. When had anyone last been concerned about him, especially someone he’d so pointedly hurt with his sharp words? ‘Good evening, Sloane.’ His brother stood before him. Sloane stood. ‘Rawley.’ He turned to Morgana. ‘Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rawley.’ Morgana offered her hand with a gracious expression. ‘We met at the musicale. Lord Rawley.’ Rawley shook her hand, barely grasping her fingers. He gave her a knowing leer. ‘You live next door to Cyprian.’ Sloane’s hand curled into a fist at the use of his given name and the insinuation towards Morgana in Rawley’s expression.

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‘Yes.’ She managed to sound admirably ingenuous. ‘I do indeed. And where do you live, sir?’ Well done, Morgana, Sloane thought. Dinner was announced and protocol separated them. Sloane wound up seated next to Lady Hannah, his nephew on Hannah’s other side. Rawley and his wife were above them, and Morgana was on the other side of the table, not quite across from him. Sometimes when he glanced at her, she quickly looked away. Sometimes she engaged in conversation with the gentlemen on either side of her, both husbands of Lady Cowdlin’s friends and not the best dinner companions for an eligible young lady. Lady Cowdlin ought to stand in place of Morgana’s mother, see her well situated, instead of neglecting her. But the idea of Morgana with a serious suitor did not quite please Sloane. He stabbed at a piece of meat and glanced around the table at the two dozen guests as he chewed. His nephew and Morgana were the only two whose presence he could tolerate for more than half an hour. He ought to admit to himself that he found society a dead bore. Why the devil had he made that infernal bet with himself? He caught his brother watching him. Rawley quickly averted his eyes, but Sloane had not missed the contemptuous expression on his face. It must rankle with Rawley indeed that this bastard brother was seated at the same table. And rankle with his father as well. By God, that was reason enough to persist in his plans to make a place for himself among these tedious people. ‘Do you like the potatoes?’ Lady Hannah asked, bringing him back to the present. ‘Delicious,’ he muttered. Hannah smiled. ‘My mother shall be so pleased.’ She turned back to her plate. Hannah was a sweet girl. The

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perfect bride, he thought, as he studied her profile for a moment. But not for him. He’d been bored with her after a fortnight, he realised. Think what would happen after years together. All her promise of becoming a warm and responsive woman would wither like a rosebud in early frost. She deserved better. Heronvale might advocate the connection between them, but ruining Hannah’s life was too high a price to pay for a career in politics. Sloane would be better off marrying a woman like Morgana. He dropped his fork and it clattered against his plate as it fell, causing a few heads to turn. He stared at Morgana. By God, why had he not realised it before? He did not have to act the rake towards her; he could be her husband. He could marry wild, unpredictable Morgana. Who cared if she leaped over the bounds of propriety? He’d jump with her and have a vastly better time than he’d had these past few months. He wanted her. She looked over at him as well, her eyes lingering as she again fingered her hair. He wanted to tuck that lock up where it belonged before it drove him to complete distraction. She looked back down at her glass of wine and slowly brought it to her lips. Taking a sip, she glanced at him again, her pink tongue peeking out to lick a droplet of wine from her full, kissable lips. He would go mad indeed. The footmen came to remove the dishes and the cloth. Sloane forced himself to chat with Hannah until the cakes, fruit and ices were served. He joined Lady Hannah in taking a glass of champagne, all the while on fire for the moment he could be alone with Morgana. Soon dessert was over, and the ladies left the room. As Morgana passed his chair, he felt her hand graze his shoul-

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der, a touch so light it was almost indiscernible. It acted upon him as if she’d raked her fingernails along his naked flesh. He endured the dull conversation of the men while the Madeira, port and claret were circulated around the table. Lord Cowdlin pointedly included Sloane in the discussion. It was definitely time to make it clear he would not offer for Hannah. Whatever might happen to Cowdlin’s debts was none of his concern. There were other, more eligible young men for Hannah; one of them ought to be rich enough to suit her father. Cowdlin announced it was time to rejoin the ladies, and Sloane lagged behind, hoping to contrive some time with Morgana. As the other gentlemen entered the drawing room, Lady Hannah appeared in the doorway of the room next to it. ‘Psst!’ She waved her hand for him to come to her. Damn. He had no wish to be with Hannah, especially not alone. He walked over to her. ‘Mr Sloane, may I speak with you for a moment?’ She looked upset. ‘Alone, Hannah? I do not think so.’ He certainly did not want to be trapped in a compromising situation with her. ‘For a moment, please,’ she persisted. ‘We may leave the door open a crack.’ He stepped just inside the doorway of the Cowdlin library, leaving the door open wide enough for his back to be visible to anyone passing by. He hoped that would prevent any accusation that he was engaged in a private meeting. ‘What is it, Lady Hannah?’ The room was dimly lit by only one branch of candles, but the distress on her face was easily visible. ‘My mother has had words with me…a moment ago, but my father earlier today…’ She broke off.

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‘And?’ He crossed his arms over his chest. She picked at her fingers like a distressed child. ‘Will you offer for me, Mr Sloane? My father is in desperate need of money and he has so counted on you offering for me. I…I know you like me and we…we got along famously at first. So, will you?’ He gazed down at her, so sorry he had led her and her family to count on his suit. He’d selected Hannah primarily because her father was friends with his father, he now realised. Merely to vex his father, he had toyed with this young lady’s hopes and expectations. It had been very wrong of him. He tried to make his voice sound as gentle as he could. ‘No, Lady Hannah. I will not offer for you.’ Her face crumbled and she grabbed at his arm. ‘But you must, Mr Sloane! My father—’ He put his hand over hers and slowly removed it. ‘Your father is wrong to solve his problems by saddling you with a man such as me.’ ‘I am certain we will suit,’ she cried. ‘And I am certain we will not.’ He tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Then what am I to do?’ She began to shake and take quick breaths. ‘What am I to do?’ He steadied her with a hand on her arm. ‘You are to marry a man who would give you the regard you deserve, Hannah.’ She collapsed against him, sobbing. ‘If only I could! It is impossible, though. He thinks of you, for one thing. And his fortune, it is not his to offer.’ She sniffled loudly. He set her away from him, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Of whom do you speak?’ She gave him a miserable look. ‘Of your nephew, sir!’ He nearly laughed. David and Hannah in the tortures of young love, impeded only by the wealthy uncle who was ex-

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pected to marry her? It was a villain role he’d never expected to play. He controlled his smile. ‘Do you wish to marry David?’ She straightened, suddenly in control of all the passion of youth. ‘What I wish is of no consequence. I must do my duty.’ He did laugh then. ‘Rubbish!’ She glared at him. ‘It is not a joke, sir! My father requires money and David, thanks to his grandfather—your father— has none until he is twenty-five.’ ‘I repeat, Lady Hannah, your father’s problems are not yours to solve. Does David return your affection?’ ‘He will not declare himself out of loyalty to you,’ she said, her face dreamy and, oh, so young. He smiled again, feeling like Methuselah. But perhaps a new hand had been dealt him, one he might win by losing. ‘My dear Lady Hannah, you may tell David that I am no longer a suitor, and he has my full permission to court you. You may also tell him not to worry over his lack of funds, for I shall attend that as well.’ She gazed up at him, with hope dawning on her face. ‘You can do this for him?’ He smiled. It would give him great pleasure to manipulate his father into giving David his fortune early. ‘I will be delighted to accommodate you both.’ ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’ She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Wait until I tell David!’ ‘Only David,’ he cautioned, extricating himself from her grasp. ‘Do not tell anyone else or I might not be able to manage the affair.’ She nodded, smiling brightly, and ran past him out of the room. Sloane wandered into the library. He walked over to the

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globe and spun it absently, waiting a few discreet minutes so it would not be so apparent that he had been with Hannah. He spun the globe again, feeling as if he were Atlas relieved of its weight. Lord Cowdlin would be almost as delighted as Hannah that her marriage—and the rescue of his finances— would be with David Sloane rather than Cyprian. Sloane turned his thoughts more happily to the goldeneyed woman who would share his carriage on the ride home. How might he contrive some time alone with Morgana? He had much to discuss with her. He smiled in anticipation of holding her in his arms again. Morgana happened to be standing by the drawing room door when Hannah walked in, her colour high and eyes bright. ‘Oh, Morgana!’ She gave her cousin’s hand a squeeze. ‘I am so happy. I cannot tell you, for it is a secret, but you shall know soon enough!’ Morgana smiled dutifully, but she could guess what had brought such excitement to her cousin’s face. It had not escaped her that Sloane and Hannah had been absent from the room at the same time. Sloane had caught Hannah alone, undoubtedly, and had finally made his offer. Hannah skipped over to where Athenia stood with David Sloane sipping tea, but the others did not seem to notice that her usual liveliness was heightened. In contrast, Morgana’s spirits plummeted, though it was nonsensical for them to do so. She had always known he would offer for Hannah. Still, it seemed as if a door had slammed in her face. All hope was gone that she and Sloane could recapture that intimacy they’d so briefly shared, the one that had led to her coming alive to her passion for him. How was she to bear it? By the time Sloane walked in the room, Morgana had taken over the pouring of tea from her aunt. It helped for her

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to have a task to perform. When he walked over to her and she poured for him, knowing precisely how he desired his tea, she sensed the same pent-up excitement in him so evident in Hannah. She dared glance at his face as she handed him his cup. His grey eyes were as warm and soft as smoke. Would that they could be that warm for her.

Chapter Fifteen

B

y the time she entered Sloane’s carriage, Morgana felt quite in control of herself. Tears no longer threatened to embarrass her, nor did his lighthearted mood make her heart ache—very much. Amy had already seated herself in the backward-facing seat, and Sloane took his place beside Morgana, tapping on the roof for the coachman to be off. He sat too close, it seemed, taking away all of Morgana’s air. ‘Did you have a nice visit, Amy?’ she asked. Better to converse with her maid than endure Sloane’s cheerful silence. ‘Oh, yes, miss, a lovely visit,’ Amy responded. ‘And I did not say one word about the masquerade.’ ‘The what?’ Sloane’s voice boomed in the small confines of the carriage. Amy’s hand flew to her mouth and she glanced in alarm at Morgana, who was not in any mood to hear Sloane upbraid her one more time. She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘The masquerade at the Argyle Rooms tomorrow night. We are to attend. It is to be how we launch the girls.’

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She could feel his eyes burn into her, though she could not clearly see them in the dim light of the carriage lamp. ‘Surely you are not seriously considering this?’ She could not explain to him that she agreed to this plan in part for his sake, to extricate him from the courtesan school. If it no longer existed, it could not threaten his happiness— or Hannah’s. ‘They must be set on their way sometime.’ She sounded exactly like Madame Bisou, but she did not care. ‘This masquerade is the perfect opportunity. Harriette Wilson says so.’ ‘Harriette Wilson,’ spat Sloane. ‘Damn her for coming to your door.’ Amy gaped at them both. ‘I thought her very charming.’ Morgana’s voice was impudent. ‘In a way, she started the whole idea of the courtesan school. She was the inspiration, you might say. To me, it is fitting we use her idea of attending the masquerade.’ He snatched her hand. ‘Morgana, do not tell me you will attend this masquerade. I forbid it.’ She pulled it out of his grasp. Forbid it? He had no right to tell her what she should and should not do. She was nothing to him. Nothing. Merely the cousin of his fiancée. ‘Of course I will attend. I am quite looking forward to it.’ He leaned towards her in the darkness, so close she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Morgana, it is bad enough that you allow those young women to become courtesans, but you must not attend this masquerade. You have no idea what happens at such events.’ She shrank back from him, but it was his proximity that disturbed her more than his warning. She knew enough of the world to realise the masquerade would be a raucous affair. She intended to be there to make sure her girls remained safe, that

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was all. He ought to understand her need to do so. But he could not understand the other emotions swirling inside her, the arousal of her senses caused by just sitting next to him. ‘This is not well done of you at all,’ he went on. No, it was not well done to fall in love with the man affianced to her cousin. Nor was it well done of her to wish she could do with him all the things that Harriette Wilson and Madame Bisou hinted a woman might do to please a gentlemen. ‘I think it is very well done of me, sir.’ She faced him, anger rising inside her, piling on top of emotions that were no more than a jumble of pain twisting inside her. Loss, desire, loneliness—emotions that drove her to shock him further. ‘In fact, I think you are wrong about my girls becoming courtesans. I am quite convinced that this is exactly the life a woman should lead. Think of the independence. The excitement.’ He shook his head, looking contemptuous. ‘Be sensible, Morgana.’ Sensible? That was the last thing she could be right now. She could taste tears in the back of her throat. ‘Do you wish to hear more, Sloane? I have decided to join my girls. I will set up a business for myself. I am quite convinced it is the sort of life I would desire.’ Amy gasped. Sloane grabbed Morgana’s arm. ‘You are not serious!’ Of course she was not serious. She was merely brokenhearted and trying so desperately not to reveal it. ‘I assure you, I am quite serious.’ This time his grasp was so firm she could not pull away. The carriage came to a stop and Sloane turned to Amy. ‘Go on, Miss Jenkins. Miss Hart will be along directly.’ Amy scurried out of the carriage. He turned back to Morgana and shook her. ‘I do not believe you, Morgana.’

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‘I do not care what you believe, Sloane.’ Morgana was near hysteria now. ‘Do you think I wish to lead a life as dull as my cousin Hannah’s?’ She made herself laugh. ‘Oh, no. I desire excitement. I want to attract as many men as Harriette Wilson. I can do it, too.’ ‘Do not be foolish.’ He was so close that her nostrils filled with the scent of him. She could almost taste his lips upon hers. ‘Do you not think I am able?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I think you are being absurd.’ His face was inches away. ‘Harriette taught us well. I made you come to me, even though you have barely spoken to me for a month.’ Her breath quickened. ‘You did not.’ ‘I can make you kiss me, too,’ she added. He gaped at her. She lifted her eyes to his and slowly circled her mouth with her tongue. Then she parted her lips and closed her eyes. She felt him crush her against him and press his lips to hers, tasting her as hungrily as if he were a man starved of food. She returned the kiss, every bit as ravenous, ignoring Harriette’s admonition about withholding her tongue. She wanted to fully savour him. One final time. He abruptly drew her away from him. ‘Leave me, Morgana. Leave me now, before I do something we both will regret.’ ‘I won’t regret it,’ she murmured, lost in the sensation of him. She kissed him again. His hand rubbed up and down her back and circled around to her breast. She sighed, relishing the touch, wanting him to reach inside her dress, wanting to feel his hand upon her bare skin. Instead, he pulled away. ‘No, Morgana.’ He opened the car-

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riage door. He climbed out and extended his hand to her. She quickly straightened her dress and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She took his hand, but only for as long as it took to climb out of the vehicle. Without waiting to see what he would do next, she ran to her door and took refuge inside her house. Sloane signalled the coachman to stable the horses, then slowly walked to his own door. How could something he wanted so desperately go so far awry? He barely refrained from jerking the door open and slamming it behind him. His footman jumped to his feet at his abrupt entrance. With only a nod to the man, Sloane tore up the stairs, still on fire for Morgana and furious at her for playing the coquette. If she acted like that with another man—a thought that made him see red—she’d indeed ruin herself. Did she not know that, once lost, she would never get her reputation back? A man might be forgiven his passionate indulgences, but never a woman. His valet shot out of his chair nearly as high as had the footman. ‘Go!’ shouted Sloane. As the man nearly tripped in his hurry to get out the door, Sloane scoured the drawers and cabinets, finally finding where his man had put his brandy. Not bothering with a glass, he drank directly from the bottle. The next day proved that Morgana, Amy and Miss Moore were excellent costumers. With fabric hurriedly purchased at the linen drapers, the older woman and the young maid had fashioned each girl an alluring outfit according to Morgana’s design, complete with identity-disguising masks. The costumes were simple, draped gowns, all in classical white and fashioned with fabric attached to their arms so as to resemble wings. Their masks were created from white silk trimmed

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with feathers. The girls were garbed as the Sirens of Greek myth, winged creatures whose singing lured sailors to their doom. For their début into the world of courtesans, Harriette Wilson had arranged for them to enter the Argyle ballroom as a group, singing a song, with Rose as the soloist. It would be a grand entrance. Morgana planned a quieter entrance for herself in the Argyle Rooms. She would dress in a voluminous gold domino she had found in an attic trunk. It came with a matching gold mask to further disguise her identity. No matter what she had declared to Sloane, she meant to attend the ball merely as a spectator, to watch her fledglings take their first flight. After this night she would see them set up in rooms of their own. She would pay the expenses, of course, until enough money came in from gentlemen. But whenever she thought that far in advance, a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. It was time to leave for the masquerade. She joined the girls in the hall, where a thin-lipped Cripps stood to assist them. Katy’s spirits were so high, it was a surprise that her feet touched the floor. Miss Moore, who never in her life expected to be dressed in a grey domino bound for a masquerade, was nearly as excited as Katy. Mary, Rose, and Lucy were more subdued. They waited for Robert Duprey and Madame Bisou to collect them in one hackney coach and Mr Elliot in another. ‘Remember,’ Morgana whispered to the girls out of Cripps’s hearing. ‘You are not to give yourselves to any gentleman this night. You are a far more valuable commodity than to sell yourself to the first bidder. Recall what Miss Wilson said. Let the gentlemen pine for you.’ Her words turned sour in her mouth. Her girls were not objects to be sold at auction, but young women as dear to her

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as sisters would be. But everything had gone too far to turn back now. Mary, Rose and Lucy gave solemn nods. Katy laughed. Morgana tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Katy, did you hear what I said?’ The girl made a valiant attempt to look sober. ‘Yes, Miss Hart. I am too valuable to be sold this first night!’ Morgana winced. ‘The coaches are outside!’ Amy called from the drawingroom window. She rushed over to give her sister a tearful goodbye. Lucy clung to her, looking anything but gay at the parting. Mr Duprey and Mr Elliot soon were admitted into the hall and the girls sorted themselves into some order. As they left the house, Morgana refused to consider what the neighbours might think if they spied them all leaving at this hour of the night. By plan none of them had donned their masks yet, but anyone might guess they were off to a masquerade, the masquerade everyone knew about. Morgana only truly cared what Sloane thought, if he gave it any thought at all. She’d seen him go out earlier in the day and had not seen him return. He must have gone to the musicale where Hannah and her parents would be. Morgana had refused her aunt’s obligatory invitation to go with them. It was late, though, and the musicale might already be breaking up. Morgana rode in the hackney with Lucy, Mr Elliot and Rose. Mr Elliot would know what Sloane’s plans were for the evening, but she would not dare to ask him. They arrived at the Argyle Rooms with all speed and were admitted without delay. By the time they had tied their masks into place, Harriette Wilson herself came out to greet them. ‘You look splendid, ladies.’ She gave them all a charming

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smile. ‘Everything is arranged. We need only wait for the music.’ She led them to the ballroom door, cautioning them to be very quiet. When the music began, the doors opened and Harriette led them in as they sang: Sweet is the budding spring of love, Next blooming hopes all fears remove… Morgana, Miss Moore, Elliot and Duprey slipped in behind them as Rose’s crystalline voice dominated their chorus. A hum of excitement spread through the crowd. When the song came to an end and the shouts of ‘bravo’ had ceased, Harriette announced, ‘Gentlemen and ladies, these are the Sirens. Beware of their delights!’ The Sirens, clearly a sensation, were surrounded as the orchestra again started to play and a quadrille was formed. Each of the girls had several gentlemen begging for the dance. Katy looked as if she were a cat dropped in a vat of cream. Rose backed away, and Mary seemed to have a smile frozen on her face. Lucy, on a happy gentleman’s arm, walked with a determined step to take her place in the set. Several rather gaily and daringly dressed women glared at these newcomers who had captured the men’s attention so thoroughly. Morgana, uneasy as well about the gentlemen’s enthusiastic response, glanced towards Miss Moore, who beamed with pride. Madame Bisou strode proudly through the crowd, assuring all the gentlemen that the Sirens were every bit as entrancing as those of the Greek legends. Both Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey melted into the crowd, to enjoy themselves, Morgana supposed. More people entered the ballroom, and Morgana became separated from Miss Moore. Through the sea of carousers she

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glimpsed the older lady heading towards chairs at the side of the room. The walls of the ballroom were adorned with a collection of classical statues in various poses, set high above the crowd. On the dance floor, the Sirens, in their white dresses, looked like the statues come magically to life, a perfect complement to the décor. The women dressed as medieval maidens, voluptuous milkmaids or lithe pages looked sadly out of place. Morgana circled the edge of the crowd to find a good vantage point to keep watch over her girls. Suddenly an arm circled her waist and a man with brandy on his breath squeezed the flesh of her buttocks. ‘Well, well, and who might you be, m’dear?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink. ‘Have we met, by any chance? If not, I’d fancy knowing you.’ Morgana tried to pull away, but, though the gentleman was shorter than herself and much older, his hold on her was firm. The hood of his black domino fell away from his face as he tried to kiss her, and she realised with alarm that this was her uncle. Lord Cowdlin wore a mask, but there was no mistaking him. ‘Release me this instant,’ she cried, pushing at his chest. He laughed. ‘Playing it coy, eh? Come. Come. I can make it worth your while.’ ‘No!’ She brought her heel down hard on his foot. With a cry of pain, his grip loosened and she wrenched herself from his grasp. She pushed her way through the throng of people to get as far away from him as she could. He had not recognised her, thank goodness. Her arm was caught by another gentleman in a black domino. Without a thought, she swung a fisted hand towards the man’s face. He blocked it easily, grabbing her wrist. ‘Easy, Morgana,’ he said, leaning to her ear. She glanced up and recognised her captor even through his mask. Relief mixed with exhilaration. ‘Sloane!’

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He guided her to where the wine was flowing, and handed her a glass. ‘I told you this was no place for a lady.’ A lecture was not what she wished from him. ‘I thought I told you, I have no intention of being a lady.’ To prove it, she downed the glass of wine. His brows rose. He took the glass from her hand. ‘Another?’ She shook her head, glancing around the room. How many of these black dominoes concealed the very same gentlemen who graced the dance floors of a society ball? Men like her uncle who were married, who led respectable lives? How many of these men kept mistresses in some fine little house off St James’s Street? Would Sloane tire of marriage to Hannah and seek a mistress instead? Of course he would. He might desire marriage to Hannah, but it was her respectability that attracted him, just as his money attracted her. How long before they both looked elsewhere for something more? If Morgana did become a courtesan some day, as she’d threatened him she would, perhaps she would meet him again at a ball like this. Perhaps he would dance with her. Perhaps he would even take her to bed and she would discover the delights his kisses promised. She would never be a courtesan or a mistress. Or a wife, for that matter. And soon she would even be without Lucy, Katy, Rose and Mary. She would be without Sloane. A man and a woman, arm in arm, nearly careened into her. Sloane grabbed her and pulled her out of the way. The man and woman smiled at each other beneath their masks, happy and unapologetic in their enjoyment. She envied them. Sloane continued to hold her even as they passed. Morgana faced him and tilted her head to him. He gazed down at her with his smoky grey eyes.

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Why could she not be the courtesan for one night? What harm would it do? She would be doing nothing with Sloane that he would not do with another after his marriage. It was not so very bad, was it, to want one single night? The orchestra began a waltz. She lifted her arms to circle his neck. ‘Dance with me, Sloane.’ Sloane gazed down into her face, still lovely even under a mask. He felt like a man suddenly seized by a fit of insanity. He pressed her to him, ignoring for the moment the crowds of people around them. She led him on to the dance floor, and he took her into his arms again. Here in the Argyle Rooms there was no need to maintain the decorum of Almack’s. He held her flush against him, and they moved to the music as one, spinning and turning. His senses filled with her. He reached inside the gold domino that matched her eyes, and she reached inside his. The folds of their garments hid the play of their hands on each other, the intimacy of their bodies. How had he ever considered being with any other woman but Morgana? No other possessed the same wild, untamed nature as he himself possessed, that sense of searching for something just beyond reach. She was what he searched for, and she was in his arms now. He was not about to release her. At the end of the dance, he forgot the crowd, leaning down to taste her lips, lips she generously offered him. She tasted, not like the forbidden fruit a rake might grab for his own, but like a homecoming. The sounds around him faded as he deepened the kiss. She entwined her fingers in his hair, and he gave himself to the moment. But there was a shout and a scuffle not far from where they stood. Sloane reluctantly released Morgana and pushed her behind him. Through the crowd he saw Elliot, of all people, swinging punches at a burly gentleman who tumbled on

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to the floor. Lucy looked on in alarm as the man rose and charged at Elliot. Sloane dived into the fray, Morgana at his heels. He grabbed the man by the collar of his coat and used the man’s own momentum to send him crashing into the crowd. He caught Elliot by the front of his domino. ‘Get Lucy,’ he yelled to Morgana. ‘Find the others and be out of here.’ ‘He put his hands on her!’ Elliot cried as Sloane dragged him to the door. ‘What the devil did you expect?’ Sloane muttered. An alarmed Robert Duprey caught up to them, with Mary dragging a protesting Katy. ‘Do we have to leave now?’ Katy cried, looking back at two disappointed gentlemen. Rose hurriedly took a card from a grey-haired gentleman and followed them. Madame Bisou and Miss Moore pushed through the crowd. When they were all outside the door, Sloane removed his mask. ‘It is time to leave,’ he said. They could hear angry shouts from inside the ballroom. ‘I’m going after her!’ a man shouted. ‘Leave now!’ ordered Sloane. He seized Morgana’s arm and led them to the street. Elliot and Duprey quickly helped the other women into the waiting hackneys. Sloane closed the door of one, saying, ‘Miss Hart will come with me.’ The burly gentleman, two of his friends trying to hold him back, ran into the street as the cabs pulled away. He spied Sloane. ‘You interfering—’ He barrelled straight for him. Sloane pushed Morgana out of the way and swung his fist hard, hitting the man in the stomach. The punch barely slowed the man. He knocked Sloane to the ground and fell on top of him. The man had his fingers around Sloane’s throat before Sloane could get his own grip on the fellow. Just as he was about to knee the fellow hard in the groin,

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a flurry of gold silk covered them and the man cried out in pain. Morgana’s fingers gouged at the man’s eyes. He released Sloane and turned on her, but Sloane knocked him off and sent him rolling into the side of the building. Morgana scrambled to her feet. ‘Hurry!’ Sloane urged as he led her to his carriage. The coachman jumped on to his perch. ‘Be off,’ Sloane shouted, nearly tossing Morgana inside. When he fell in after her, the carriage was already moving. She laughed, pulling off her mask. ‘You are a prime scrapper, Morgana,’ Sloane said as he brought his mouth to hers. He untied the ribbons of her domino and removed the pins from her hair, which was already half-tumbling around her shoulders. He let his fingers slip through the silky dark locks. She smiled at him. ‘Make love to me, Sloane. Please. Just this once?’ He looked into her eyes, but did not answer. She grabbed at the front of his domino and pulled him closer to her. ‘I want to be with you,’ she insisted. ‘Just once. Please. Just this once.’ He had no intention of being satisfied with just once, but he need not tell her that. She’d discover soon enough. He captured her lips once more and let his actions speak for him.

Chapter Sixteen

M

rs Rice hurried to the door of the Argyle Rooms as the burly man staggered in from the street. ‘Who was that?’she demanded. ‘Cyprian Sloane,’ the man’s friend said. ‘But you do not wish an altercation with him. He’s a dangerous man.’ ‘Heard he’s gone respectable,’ another man said. Mrs Rice cared nothing about that. ‘What does he have to do with those girls?’ ‘The Sirens?’ the same man asked. ‘I would not wish to find out.’ Cyprian Sloane, Mrs Rice thought. Finally a clue as to who had stolen her girls. She’d send Trigg to discover his location. Signalling for her cloak, she hurried out of the building and made her way back to her glove shop, smiling at this lucky break. She’d get her girls back now, for certain. And she’d make certain they would be punished for daring to leave. When the coach stopped in front of Sloane’s house, Morgana feared he would send her home. She did not want to leave his arms, not even for an instant.

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‘Come in with me,’ he said. She smiled in delight. He wrapped her domino around her and led her to the door. ‘I told the servants not to stay up for me.’ Sloane fumbled for the door key. He opened the door and brought her inside, gathering her into his arms for a long, breathtaking kiss. She’d shed her gloves in the carriage and now pressed her bare palms to his cheeks, gazing into his eyes in the dim light of the candles left burning in the hall. ‘Are you certain about this, Morgana? I will take you home at once if you are not.’ His voice rasped with need, but also with restraint. She looked directly into his eyes. ‘I am entirely certain, Sloane. I want this more than anything I have ever desired.’ His smile flashed white in the near darkness, but it just as quickly disappeared again into a frown. ‘You could conceive a child.’ Secretly she thought that would be the most marvellous thing in the world. To have Sloane’s child growing inside her. To feel his baby suckling at her breast. ‘It is unlikely,’ she said instead. ‘Besides, Madame Bisou taught us how to prevent it.’ But she would take no steps to avoid pregnancy. She might even pray for it to happen. He stared at her a long time, then whisked her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, as if she were some petite miss weighing no more than half a dozen stone. She nestled her face against his neck and tasted the skin, now rough with a growth of beard. He carried her into his bedchamber and kicked the door shut behind him. A lamp burned in the room, and a small fire in the fireplace warded off the chill of the night. He marched directly to the bed and placed her upon it.

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As she flung her domino on to the floor, he tore his off and shrugged out of his coat. She kneeled on the bed and reached up to unbutton his waistcoat. He went very still as she did so. She wanted nothing more than to laugh with joy. Amazing herself with her boldness, yet proud at the same time, she pulled his shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches and reached underneath it to pull it over his head. His bare chest glistened in the lamplight, and Morgana paused, her breath momentarily forced from her lungs at the definition of his muscles, the peppering of dark hair on his chest. Just when she thought her eyes could take in no more, he unbuttoned and removed his breeches and drawers, and for the first time in her life her eyes feasted upon the body of a naked man. What a glorious, exciting sight. She let her gaze drop to that most private male part of him and her pulse raced so fast she thought she would explode. He was large and erect, exactly the way the courtesan instructors intimated would bring delight. She lifted her eyes to his, her mouth open. His gaze burned down on her. ‘Your turn,’ he said, climbing on to the bed and reaching around her to the buttons on the back of her dress. He handled the unfastening of her dress with surprisingly gentle hands, but having him so close and so bare was enough to drive her into a frenzy she did not understand. Once her buttons were free, he lifted the dress over her head and tossed it aside. She felt her breasts suddenly straining against her corset. ‘Turn around,’ he said and he untied her laces quickly so she was soon free of its constraint. Nothing was left between them except her shift. His hands were hot against her skin as he reached under the thin fabric and slid it off, inch by tantalising inch. She gasped as he threw her shift aside and it fluttered to the floor. It was his turn for his eyes to feast upon her, and she felt his gaze as acutely as she’d just felt his hands.

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‘Oh, Sloane,’ she breathed, her voice as thin as air. She trembled in need for him, a need she did not entirely understand, but one she was both frightened of and eager to slake. He gently eased her down on the bed, kneeling over her. His fingers skimmed her flesh, causing her to feel she might come apart when he touched her breasts ever so lightly. His eyes were reverent when he cupped her face and stared at her. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. She rose up and placed her lips on his, winding her arms around his neck and burying her fingers in his thick, dark hair. Finally she felt his naked chest press against her, but still the need was not satisfied. Her heart pounded faster. Nothing had ever felt as right as this. She’d never felt before as if she were in the right place at the right time and belonged there. Tears stung her eyes. How could finally feeling she was no longer alone make her realise the ache of loneliness she’d lived with her whole life? And would return to again? While his lips continued to feast on hers, his hand cupped her breast and squeezed, sending a shaft of pleasure through her. She writhed beneath him and his male organ pressed against her, increasing the thrill. This was lovely, but not enough. She wanted more of him. She wanted all of him. He broke off the kiss and stared down at her again, from her face to her breasts to her abdomen to the thatch of hair between her legs. He filled his hands with her breasts, rubbing her nipples against his palms. A strangled cry escaped her lips. His hands travelled lower and lower, until one hand slipped between her legs. Common sense told her to clamp them closed, but other senses had taken over. She opened herself to him. ‘I need to touch you,’ he whispered. ‘It will lessen the pain for you.’

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‘You will not hurt me, Sloane.’ She gasped as he fingered the most private part of her, feeling joyous that it was Sloane’s fingers entering her, feeling eager for his body to join hers. The sensations became more and more intense, stronger than she could have ever conceived. ‘Sloane!’ she cried. ‘Am I hurting you?’ He withdrew his hand, but she grabbed it, placing it back to where she ached with a new sort of need. ‘No,’ he said, rising over her instead. Her legs parted and she felt him pressing against her, felt him enter her and begin to fill her. ‘Morgana,’ he rasped as he thrust into her. The pain was sharp, but she rode it out without uttering a sound. She did not want anything to make him stop, not now, when she was so close to…to something she did not yet understand. ‘Please, do not stop, Sloane,’ she murmured. ‘Morgana,’ he repeated. Slowly he moved inside her, in and out. It felt like heaven, like nothing she would have imagined. She rejoiced that Sloane created these sensations in her. She would never desire another man to do so. Only Sloane, even if for only this one night. Her body responded to him, moving with him, the rhythm as intoxicating as the sensations it created. Inside, her need increased. She’d not known it was possible to desire something with such intensity and she still did not know what it was she desired. His thrusts increased, harder and faster, and she matched him stroke for stroke. Harder. Faster as both the need and the pleasure grew. Suddenly she felt as if she’d come apart in shining sparks, as bright and jubilant as the illuminations at Vauxhall. She cried out in joy and clung to him and he convulsed inside her, his gasps filling her ears. She held on to him tighter while wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

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Finally they collapsed in one heap against the bed linens. He was heavy upon her, but it felt glorious. He began to kiss her again. Her forehead, her temple, her nose, lips, neck. He rolled off of her, but continued to hold her in his arms. Morgana seemed to have liquid where her bones ought to be, and he tasted of her with such relish as to have her suspect she’d perhaps turned to syrup. He, in contrast, was as firm to the touch as if he’d been sculpted, except there was nothing of cold stone about him. His skin was warm and smooth with a sheen of perspiration that bespoke of the energy of their lovemaking. He was planting light kisses on the ticklish skin of her stomach. She played with his hair. ‘Can it happen again?’ she asked, her voice coming out light and breathy. He peered at her, dark sultry eyes gazing from between her naked breasts. His slow grin grew, and suddenly she provided her own answer to the question. Her body told her it would happen again. He answered her. ‘I am counting on it.’ A gasp escaped her lips and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. He rose above her, the wicked smile still on his face, ‘Do you want me, Morgana?’ ‘You know I want you, Sloane.’ She tried to return the smile, but he mounted her once more and gently pushed inside her. Their initial joining had been at an eager pace, but this time he moved with a languorous leisure. ‘Are you teasing me, Sloane?’ she whispered when his ear came near her lips. He moved back and forth before he answered, grabbing a taste of her ear as he did so. ‘I’m loving you, Morgana.’ If his body created sensations so deep inside her she could not even imagine them, then his words touched something even deeper. She was joined to him. She was not alone.

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Tears briefly stung her eyes before she allowed herself to feel the elation of it. His lovemaking was a glorious gift she would never, ever forget. Morgana let herself be carried along thrill by repeated thrill. This culmination was different than the first, reached in unison with him, a quieter, stronger pleasure that rolled through her, making her unsure where she ended and he began. He eased himself off of her and nestled her against him. ‘Can it happen again?’ she murmured. She felt his voice rumble in his chest. ‘Not without making you sore. Sleep now, Morgana.’ She was determined to stay awake and savour every second of being with him. To hear the rhythm of his breathing. To feel his warm skin against her cheek. To inhale his scent, a mix of manliness and spice. But soon enough she did what he commanded. She fell deeply into a satisfying, restful sleep. Sloane barely heard the scratching at his door. He opened one eye. Morning had come much too soon but, now reluctantly awake, the soft, sensual woman nestled against him roused his senses as well. The scratching continued. Had Elliot not seen fit to train these servants when to give their employer privacy? Sloane gazed at Morgana so peacefully asleep and carefully eased away from her. She sighed and he froze, fearing he’d awoken her, but she rolled to her other side and curled up, looking like an innocent child. He slipped out of bed and searched for something to wrap around himself. He grabbed his shirt, tying it on his hips like a loincloth as he padded to the door in his bare feet. He opened the door a crack and peeked at who dared interrupt him at this time.

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‘Elliot!’ He almost forgot to whisper. The young man was fully dressed and looking very upset. Sloane stepped out into the hall, closing the bedchamber door behind him. ‘What the devil are you doing, Elliot?’ he said. Elliot held a paper in his hand and a worried frown on his face. ‘I beg your pardon, Sloane, but there is an urgent message for you.’ ‘An urgent message?’ Sloane reached for the paper. ‘From whom?’ ‘Your nephew, sir. The man who delivered the missive was instructed to see that it was placed in your hands immediately.’ Sloane broke the seal with his thumb. The letter read, Dear Uncle, It is imperative you come immediately. I have learned that Grandfather and my father are planning to ruin your marriage plans to Lady Hannah by spreading a rumour of an affair between you and Miss Hart. They are composing an item for the newspapers at this very moment. Needless to say I am appalled at their behaviour. Come quickly. They will not listen to me. Your nephew, D.S. Morgana. By God, what irony. It would not be her courtesan school that would ruin her, but the incredible bad luck of having him move next door to her. Did his father know she had spent the night in his bed? Did he stoop to sending spies to watch the house? Elliot gazed at him intently. ‘Is there anything I might do to assist?’

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Sloane glanced up at him. ‘No—yes. Have my horse saddled immediately. I must get dressed.’ Elliot nodded and hurried off without once questioning what news the letter contained. An estimable young man. A man to count upon. Sloane hurried back in the bedchamber and began rummaging around for clothes. The difficulty with having a valet was that he did not have any notion where things were put. He gave up on clothes and decided to shave instead. If he showed up at the Earl’s residence unshaven, it would merely make an unnecessary distraction. He intended to go looking like a gentleman. There was a pitcher of water, some soap and his razor on the chest with the mirror, and he made quick work of the job. As he returned to rummaging for clothes, he closed the door of the wardrobe with a bang. The rustle of bed linens made him twist around. Morgana sat up, holding the blanket across her lovely naked breasts. ‘Sloane?’ ‘I am here, Morgana.’ She smiled when she located him in the room, a smile soft with sleep and gratification. ‘Good morning.’ He took three long steps to reach her side, put one knee on the bed and took her face in his hands, giving her a kiss with the sort of promise he had no time to fulfil. She flung her arms around his neck and tried to pull him down on top of her. His arousal came swiftly, hard and insistent. What would a few minutes hurt? He obliged her, covering her with kisses, rubbing his hands over her smooth creamy skin. He felt like laughing out loud, an odd impulse in the midst of this crisis, but he did not care. She made him feel joyous. As if he deserved all the passion she had so innocently and wholeheartedly bestowed upon him.

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He took her quickly, entering her with a force that made her gasp, but not with pain this time. His Morgana never did anything by halves. She joined his fierce pace, making intoxicating mewing sounds as her need escalated. When coupled with her like this, Sloane felt nothing like a gentleman, but everything like a man. So fast they reached the pinnacle. Together they plunged into an ecstasy of pleasure. Sloane’s landing brought him collapsing on her now damp skin. ‘Ah, Morgana, I was too rough. I am sorry.’ Surely he must have hurt her. She reached up and caressed his cheek. ‘Not too rough,’ she murmured, making him want to take her again, right here, right now. But he remembered his nephew’s letter. ‘I must go.’ He climbed off the bed and started to dress. ‘Do you wish me to see you home? Or you may stay in my bed as long as you like.’ She glanced towards the daylight streaming through the window. ‘I suppose I ought to go home. I cannot imagine what they will think.’ He came back to her and swiped his hand through the disarray of her hair. ‘They will think you spent the night in my bed.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘Yes, I suppose that is so.’ He stared at her, wanting her all over again, wanting to hold her spirit, so untamed and unafraid, inside him. She was the woman created for him. He had no doubt of that now. As he pulled on a pair of trousers, he watched her climb off the bed and search the floor for her clothes. She donned her shift and positioned her corset. He walked over to tie it. When he finished he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned her against him. He wanted more mornings like this, with lovemaking and

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easy talk between them, casual touching, ordinary life. She turned and smiled at him, picking up the neckcloth that he’d found folded in a drawer. She put it around his neck and tied it. ‘Morgana, I have been summoned to my father’s house.’ She looked up into his eyes. ‘He sent for you?’ ‘No,’ he admitted, the despicable plan of his father filling him with anger and pain. ‘My nephew warned me.’ Her expression turned questioning. He slid his hands down her arms, clasping her fingers. ‘Morgana, my father intends to ruin me by sending out a tale that you and I are lovers.’ Her fingers flexed tightly in his. ‘They have seen me come here?’ ‘I do not know. It would not be beneath my father’s scruples to hire someone to do such a thing.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘I will convince him to remain quiet, but he is bent on seeing me disgraced. It will all come to naught, however, if you marry me.’ She went very still, the pupils of her eyes growing large. ‘What about Hannah?’ ‘I have not offered for Hannah—’ he began. She interrupted him. ‘She was to be your means of gaining respectability.’ ‘Hang respectability. You and I will do very well together.’ Morgana slowly pulled her fingers from his grasp and took a step back. She looked at him long and hard, loving him enough to give him whatever he desired. What he desired was respectability. He’d worked diligently to earn it, and now his father was about to snatch it away again. Through her. If the Earl was so bent on ruining Sloane he would have the house watched, how long before her secrets were known to the man? Even marriage could

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not erase the scandal of a wife who trained women to be courtesans. She took a deep breath, like a dying person gasping for one last breath. ‘But I do not wish to marry you, Sloane.’ He flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but she caught it. ‘You…do not wish to marry me?’ Morgana made herself smile, trying to remember how Harriette Wilson looked when she turned on her charm. ‘Oh, no. I thought I told you I did not.’ His brows dropped and his voice became very low. ‘After last night, do you expect me to believe you would not desire the marriage bed?’ It was Morgana’s turn to flinch. She only hoped she hid it as effectively as he. To belong to Sloane, to make love to him, until death parted them was everything she desired. It was why she’d begged him for this past night. He must not pay by giving up everything he desired, merely because he had obliged her. Morgana’s mind whirled with ways to convince him that she did not want him, though her soul ached for him even now. ‘Oh, I desire the lovemaking.’ She aped the light flirtatious voice of Miss Wilson. ‘Thank you so much for showing me that I would enjoy it. It quite informs me that I should like that part of a courtesan’s life.’ ‘Morgana,’ he cried in a fierce groan. She fluttered her eyelashes and went about collecting her dress. ‘Now do not lecture me, please do not.’ She put the dress on over her head and placed her back to him so he could fasten the buttons. ‘My mind is quite made up.’ ‘You will not marry me?’ Another man might make this sound like a plea, but in Sloane’s voice it sounded like a pirate about to attack. He fastened her buttons with lightning speed.

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She made her voice light. ‘Do not be absurd. You’ve no wish to marry me! Goodness! To think you would propose out of some obligation. You need not play the gentleman with me, Sloane.’ Her words wounded him. She saw it in his eyes. For a moment she wished he would strike her. The pain might distract from the wrenching ache inside her. But she knew he was too much a true gentleman to do so. She picked up her stockings and balled them in her hands, putting her bare feet into her dancing slippers. He shrugged into his coat and ran a brush through his hair. Morgana put hers in a quick plait. ‘I will see you to the back entrance of your house. If we are careful, no one outside will notice you.’ It was a gentlemanly thing to do. He could have just opened the door and pushed her out. ‘Thank you,’ she said, failing to maintain her bright-sounding speech. He did not appear to notice. He opened the bedchamber door and walked her down the stairs. She managed to put one foot in front of the other, although all she truly wanted to do was sink into a puddle of despair. On a table in the hall was her gold domino, folded neatly. He put it around her shoulders and pulled the hood up over her head. His touch was like a smithy’s tongs hot from the forge. When they walked out of the door and through the gap in the garden wall, they did not speak. The silence spread through her like some wasting disease. She had given him the means of retaining his hard-won respectability. She had given him a clear path to offer for a respectable wife—her cousin. But she’d hurt him. Not with her refusal of marriage. A man soon got over such a blow to pride. No, she’d treated him as if he were not a gentleman.

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That made her no better than his father. And it made her feel sick inside. The door to her house was unlocked. He opened it for her and she stepped inside. She turned quickly to bid him goodbye, but he had already withdrawn. He did not look back. The man wore a vendor’s apparel and carried a sack of brushes on his shoulder. He’d wandered around Culross Street since dawn, finally discovering a way to slip through the mews to a shrouded place where he could spy on Cyprian Sloane’s townhouse. Instinct told him to watch the back of the house. Instinct, and lack of success witnessing anything of consequence from the front. It was too bad he could not watch the house next to Sloane’s where he’d briefly spied the pretty girls through the window. Sloane’s place was as quiet as a church cemetery. Just as he was about to leave, Sloane’s door opened. There was the man himself, a woman with him. He walked her over to the other house and she entered it. What an arrangement, thought the man with envy. Some men have all the luck. Morgana paused when reaching the door to the library. It was open a crack, and she could hear the girls’ voices and the reedy laughter of her grandmother, who undoubtedly found everything to be very lovely. Oh, to have her grandmother’s forgetfulness, to live in a present that was perpetually lovely. How much easier life would be. How much less painful. The voices were not sounding happy, however. Katy’s shrill tones rose above the others. ‘We need Miss Hart! She will know what to do.’ Morgana glanced down at her hand, still holding her stock-

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ings. She stuffed them into a pocket inside her domino and stuffed her numbing despair along with them. She opened the door. ‘I am here.’ Katy leapt up from her chair. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart!’ She looked her up and down. ‘Did you have a nice night?’ Lucy and Rose stared at her, and Miss Moore, seated near her grandmother, gave her a kind, knowing smile. It felt as if someone had ripped off all her clothes in a public square, but she realised it was not making love to Sloane that made her feel exposed. It was the ache in her heart. She tried for a vague smile. ‘A lady does not speak of such matters, Katy.’ Katy laughed. ‘Harriette Wilson had no trouble speaking about it.’ Morgana gave her a candid look. ‘But Miss Wilson is not a lady.’ Was it too late to convince them that they could be ladies? Oh, not ladies of the ton, perhaps, but respectable women who deserved men who loved them and who would never walk away? Lucy stood up. Her face looked drawn. ‘Miss Hart, we must tell you about Mary.’ If something had happened to Mary while she was making love to Sloane… ‘What of Mary?’ ‘It is nothing bad,’ assured Rose. Lucy gave an imploring glance to Miss Moore. Miss Moore beamed at Morgana. ‘It seems our Mary has run off to Gretna Green with Mr Duprey.’ ‘That cowhanded sapskull…’ Katy shook her head ‘…how could she?’ Tears sprang to Morgana’s eyes. She walked over to Miss Moore. ‘Is it really so?’ Miss Moore handed her a letter. Mary wrote that she was

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sorry to disappoint Morgana, but Mr Duprey had proposed to her at the masquerade, promising to save her from such unpleasantness and give her a good home. He did not have a big fortune, she added, but Mary looked forward to making little economies to make his life pleasant. The letter then went on for a whole page, heaping praises upon Mr Duprey. When Morgana finished she clasped the letter to her chest. ‘That slow-top could have purchased a special license here in London.’ Katy shook her head in disgust. ‘Gretna Green is romantic, is it not, Miss Hart?’ Rose directed her beautiful green eyes on Morgana. ‘It is good that she marries, is it not?’ Morgana smiled through her tears. ‘It is wonderful for her!’ She would miss the shy, gentle girl. Her loss was Mr Duprey’s gain—and Mary’s salvation. Morgana thought of Sloane. ‘It is wonderful for her,’ she repeated. ‘Well done, Mary.’

Chapter Seventeen

S

loane’s horse was waiting for him when he tore back into the house. Elliot stood in the hall and the butler hovered in a doorway. It was Elliot who handed him his hat and gloves. The look of compassion on the young man’s face nearly jolted him out of the towering rage that consumed him. Morgana. He grabbed his hat and gloves and thundered out the door, snatching the reins of his horse from the groom, and mounting in one easy motion. He fleetingly considered detouring into Hyde Park to ride off the storm inside him, but even a hell-for-leather gallop down Rotten Row would not suffice. He must simply wrest control back, push down the pain that kept shooting up through the anger. Morgana. He could not think straight. He felt as if she’d pushed him off a very high cliff. Hitting the ground, he had met with pain too intense to bear. She had refused him. Said she’d toyed with him. Accused him of being no gentleman. His head told him not to believe a word of it. Morgana, a courtesan? Nonsense.

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Did she concoct that story as an excuse to refuse his offer of marriage? She had wanted their lovemaking as much as he, but only when he’d mentioned marriage did she repeat her outrageous story. Sloane’s insides felt as if a dozen sabres had slashed him to ribbons and his head whirled with the suspicion that she wanted him to be the rake, not the gentleman. She craved the excitement, not the man. Sloane had gone through plenty of women like that, who’d made love to him so they could say they’d been seduced by the dark and dangerous Cyprian Sloane. Sloane thought Morgana different. He could not have so thoroughly misjudged her when his skill at judging character had always been razor-sharp. He turned a corner and, nearly colliding with a slow-moving coal wagon, reined in his steed and tried to pull himself together. He had one thing clear is his head. If she carried his child, she would marry him, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it. No child of his would ever be burdened by questions of paternity. Sloane kept his horse apace with the curricles, carriages and wagons in the streets while he tried to push Morgana out of his mind. The immediate task was to confront his father. Ironic that the job at hand was defending the good name of the woman who merely craved his bad one. He finally turned down the Mayfair street where his father resided, not precisely calm but at least resolved. Sloane pulled his horse to a halt in front of his father’s townhouse. Calling for a footman to see to the horse, he waited in the hall while another servant fetched David. His nephew did not keep him waiting and quickly drew him aside. ‘I am glad you are here.’ David wrung his hands. ‘They have not yet sent the message to the papers. There is still time

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to change their minds, though I am not sure what you can do to convince them.’ Sloane frowned. ‘Do you know when the Earl and your father conceived this plan?’ ‘I do not know when the idea first occurred to them.’ David gave him an earnest glance. ‘I think it was right after Lady Cowdlin’s dinner party—’ Where Rawley had seen them both, Sloane thought. ‘—but they discussed it last night after our evening meal. I looked for you at the musicale, but you were not there. So I sent the message first thing this morning.’ Last night? Before the masquerade. No spy saw Morgana enter his house. Sloane expelled a relieved breath. David’s expression suddenly changed into one of ill-disguised pain. ‘My father heard your offer for Lady Hannah’s hand would be imminent. Grandfather had words with Lord Cowdlin yesterday. You must know the Cowdlin family and our own have been close for many years—years you were absent. Grandfather does not wish you to marry into the family—’ A muscle contracted in Sloane’s cheek. Sloane had been ready to ruin Hannah’s life, just as his father now aspired to ruin Morgana’s. The similarity between himself and the Earl of Dorton sickened him. David paced back and forth. ‘Grandfather ought not stand in the way of your happiness. I…I cannot fathom it.’ Sloane gazed at his nephew, who suddenly looked as young as the much-beloved toddler he’d envied so many years ago. He had nearly forgotten David and Hannah’s tragic love affair. ‘David, I am not making Lady Hannah an offer. I will not marry her.’ Instead of looking joyous, David’s face flashed with panic.

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‘You cannot mean…’ His face turned white. ‘But what will happen to her? I confess, I could at least rest easy knowing she would be under your protection. Who will Cowdlin try to sell her to next?’ Sloane put a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder to still these dramatics. ‘To you, nephew.’ David’s mouth dropped open. Sloane almost smiled. ‘But you and I must play a careful game, if we are to win this hand. We have little time to plan…’ A few minutes later Sloane and David were admitted to his father’s library, where both the Earl and Rawley gloated. ‘What brings you to this house, Cyprian?’ the Earl asked with a smirk. Sloane advanced upon him as if a man possessed. ‘I will brook no interference from you in my plans, sir. You have no control over me or who I marry.’ The Earl tossed Rawley, the real son, a smug expression. ‘You, Cyprian, are nothing to me; therefore, you have no say in what I do.’ The barb, so predictable, did not even sting. Sloane shot back at him. ‘Come now. You have some lunatic plan to send lies to the newspapers, to spread gossip about me throughout the ton. I will stop you. I will not be deterred from marrying Lady Hannah. You have met your match in me, sir. I have money enough to destroy you, and the skill to succeed. Think what a public suit for defamation would cost you, both in reputation and in fortune.’ ‘But I would ruin you first,’ cried his father, rising to his feet. ‘A clandestine affair will do the trick, I think. Rawley’s brilliant idea! Cowdlin would refuse you his daughter in a minute, if he thought you were rooting with his wife’s niece.’ Sloane’s fingers curled into fists at this coarse reference to Morgana.

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David interceded. ‘Grandfather, you must think of Miss Hart. This would ruin her, too. And I think it unlikely that Cowdlin can refuse Uncle Cyprian, no matter what gossip prevails. He needs the money. He needs a rich husband for his daughter.’ The Earl swung around to his grandson. ‘Are you speaking to me, boy? Do you dare?’ He pointed his cane at David. ‘You brought this—this person here? You informed him of my plans? You betray your own flesh and blood. Do not think I will forget it.’ Rawley jumped to his feet. ‘Father, I beg you. David is my son—’ But David, Sloane noticed with pride, did not waver. He remained steadfast in the face of his grandfather’s anger. He addressed his grandfather in a low, calm tone. ‘Did you expect me to stand by and watch a lady’s reputation ruined? Honour prevents me from allowing you to use her so shabbily. It is very poorly done, Grandfather. You make me ashamed.’ ‘Oh, bravo, nephew.’ Sloane made his voice drip with sarcasm, but in his heart he meant every word. ‘Gentlemanly sentiments, I am sure. Too bad you have no fortune or you might wed the Lady Hannah yourself. What chivalry that would be.’ David, still making Sloane proud, twisted around to him in admirable fury. ‘I would marry her, too, sir, if I could save her from being sold to you. Do not mistake me, I sent for you only to preserve Miss Hart’s reputation, to convince my father and grandfather that there is no affair between you and the lady.’ ‘Ha!’ Sloane laughed. ‘The only sin she is guilty of is living in the house next to mine, but that is none of my concern. Oh, I could have her if I wanted, I am sure. Remember, I have enough wealth to get whatever I want.’ He turned back to his

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father. ‘What I most desire is to rub your nose in my success, dear Father. At every ton event, I will be there. When you stand in the House of Lords, I will be in the Commons. When you meet your cronies at White’s, I will be in the midst of them. You cannot ignore me, sir. I intend to be wherever you turn.’ The Earl’s face flushed with rage. The hand clutching the knob of his cane turned white and the man trembled all over. ‘Father?’ Rawley said worriedly. David stood his ground bravely, still looking defiantly righteous. Sloane took it all in and suddenly realised how little what his father did mattered to him. At the gaming table, Sloane often threw in his cards when there was no other way to come out ahead. Now he mentally tossed in his cards. The wager he made with himself, to gain back respectability and throw it in his father’s face, no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but Morgana. He dealt himself a new hand, one he would win at all costs. He would see Morgana safe—safe as his wife. He turned his gaze on David, so young and valiant. David also wagered his future on a chance to win the woman he loved. In a moment they both would win. The Earl slowly eased his grip on his cane. His complexion returned to its normal sallow colour. A malevolent grin creased his wrinkled cheeks. He used his cane to point to Sloane. ‘You will not win this one, Cyprian. No respectable wife for you.’ He leaned on his stick again and turned to his grandson. ‘I will release your fortune, boy. I can do with it as I choose. Do you want your money?’ David inclined his head, as if reluctant to admit it.

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The Earl grinned. ‘You may have it on one condition. Marry the Cowdlin chit and your fortune is yours.’ David levelled his grandfather a steely look. ‘No, sir. Another condition must prevail. Agree not to defame Miss Hart’s name, and I will do as you request.’ Well done, David. Sloane applauded inside. The Earl gave a trifling wave of the hand. ‘As you wish. There is no need as long as Cyprian is cut out.’ Rawley finally caught up. ‘You’ll give David his fortune?’ He broke into a happy grin. ‘I cannot complain of that.’ Sloane could barely keep from laughing, but, instead, he pretended to protest. ‘See here, you cannot do this,’ His father bared his teeth. ‘I can and I will!’ Sloane swore at his father and made other protests and threats just to convince his father he’d been severely injured. For his exit, he picked up a decanter of brandy from one of the tables and sent it crashing into the cold fireplace, then he stalked out of the room. When he reached the outside and was about to remount his horse, David caught up to him. ‘How can I thank you, Uncle?’ The young man extended his hand. Fearing his father or brother might be watching from a window, Sloane did not accept the handshake. ‘It is I who must thank you, David. You prevented the dishonour of a lady I admire very much. I am proud to know you.’ ‘And I you, sir,’ David said. They stared at each other a long time before Sloane swung himself into the saddle and rode away. Sloane felt as if he’d been navigating a ship in stormy seas. Rising high on the wave, only to plummet, only to rise again. He felt buoyant now, as if nothing could ever sink him again.

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He planned to grab Morgana and drag her to some room with him—his bedchamber, preferably—and keep her there until he finally convinced her to marry him. Re-experiencing his father’s hatred gave an ironic contrast to his feelings towards Morgana. He loved her. He returned his horse directly to the stables and crossed the mews into his garden, now a fairly respectable showcase of flowers and plants, thanks to Elliot and Lucy. But when he entered Morgana’s garden, flowerbeds were trampled and torn up. Her back door was wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he edged his way to the door. As stealthily as a cat, Sloane slipped into Morgana’s house. He heard a woman crying in the library. He hurried to the doorway and peered through the crack of the door. Elliot sat on a chair, Morgana’s butler holding a cloth against his head. Blood stained his face. Sloane nearly leapt into the room. ‘Good God. What happened?’ On the sofa, Morgana’s maid shrieked. Miss Moore held the weeping girl in her arms. Other servants were scattered around the room. Cripps looked up. ‘We have been attacked, sir.’ Elliot waved the butler away and held the cloth against his own head. ‘Ruffians broke into the house and abducted the women. I—I tried to stop them, but there were too many—’ He took a ragged breath. Sloane advanced on him. ‘Who was taken?’ No one answered him at first. ‘Who was taken?’ he demanded, his voice rising. Cripps responded. ‘Miss Hart, and Misses Jenkins, O’Keefe and Green.’ ‘Lucy,’ her sister cried. ‘Lucy and Rose and Katy and Miss Hart.’

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Morgana. ‘Who took them?’ Good God, he must find her. ‘Who was it?’ Elliot shook his head. ‘Some ruffians. No one I know.’ Sloane ran a ragged hand through his hair. He swung around to the footmen. ‘Where the devil were you when this happened? Are you not supposed to protect them?’ One of the footmen met his challenge. ‘We were doin’ the work of the house, sir. None of us were around the drawing room. I chased after them, but they were too far ahead. I saw the carriage, but I could not catch up to it.’ Sloane said, ‘Would you recognise the vehicle?’ ‘The type at least, sir. It were a landaulet I saw, sir. Shabby it was. Might have been a second one as well. I cannot say.’ ‘Would you recognise the one you saw?’ Sloane asked. The footman nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed I would, sir.’ ‘Excellent,’ Sloane said. ‘I need you to change out of your livery into clothes that will not get you noticed. We are going to search for that landaulet.’ ‘Yes, sir!’ The man hurried out. Putting his hands on his hips, Sloane looked at the others in the room. ‘Who else knows anything?’ Miss Moore released the maid. ‘I was in the room. Five men rushed in and just grabbed them. They were looking for four girls. “Four, she said”, I heard one of them say.’ ‘She?’ Sloane repeated. ‘Yes, I am sure he said “she”.’ Miss Moore gave a vague shake of her head. ‘I wonder if it was Mary they wanted. Not Morgana.’ ‘Where is Mary?’ Sloane looked around the room. ‘Mary eloped with Mr Duprey,’ Miss Moore explained, a hint of a smile flashing across her worried face. With Duprey? Sloane thought. Bravo for her, but who would have guessed Robert Duprey capable of such a thing?

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Sloane pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘It must be the glove maker.’ ‘Oh, yes, new gloves. Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ said Morgana’s grandmother, rocking in her chair and smiling. Sloane frowned. ‘We must plan carefully.’ It was a cellar room, a room to store Mrs Rice’s wine— cool, dark, and with walls so thick no one above them could hear a thing. It also had a door with a very big lock on the outside. They had been imprisoned there for hours. Rose rubbed her arms against the chill. ‘Where are Lucy and Katy, do you suppose?’ Morgana paced the small area back and forth. ‘In the upper rooms, I imagine. I suspect Mrs Rice will be putting them to work tonight. If she put enough fear into both of them, that is.’ Rose wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It sounded like they got a beating.’ Before they’d been locked in the cellar, they’d heard Lucy’s cries and Katy’s string of obscenities. Morgana’s stomach clenched with the memory and with hunger. She and Rose had not been given any food since being dragged through a nearly hidden door underneath the glove shop. ‘Why did they not make us do the work, too?’ asked Rose. ‘I do not understand it.’ ‘I convinced them you are a virgin.’ Morgana kept pacing. ‘They knew better of Lucy and Katy.’ Rose looked over at her. ‘But why should that matter? They don’t want me to stay a virgin, not if I am to be made to do what Lucy and Katy are going to do.’ ‘There are gentlemen who would pay much to bed a virgin, especially one as pretty as you. I suspect Mrs Rice will be taking bids for you.’

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‘Bids?’ Rose shivered. ‘It is too awful.’ Morgana ignored the pain from the bruises on her legs and arms. She touched her cheek. One of the men had hit her hard before Mrs Rice yelled at him for spoiling the merchandise. The spot still stung when she touched it. The pain would not prevent her from putting up another fight. She would not quietly do Mrs Rice’s bidding. ‘I am, you know,’ Rose said. ‘You are what?’ Morgana continued pacing. ‘A virgin.’ She stopped. ‘You are?’ Morgana had always thought Rose came to the courtesan school already ruined, like the others. Rose nodded. Morgana was mystified. ‘But why desire to be a courtesan unless you…?’ ‘I didn’t,’ Rose said. ‘I never desired to be one of those types of ladies.’ Morgana gaped at her. ‘Why did you come to me, then?’ Rose gave a wan smile. ‘I overheard Katy and Mary talking in the street. I knew they were talking about lessons from a lady, as you are a lady, to be sure. So I thought you would teach me some pretty behaviour, like ladies have, and that is what you have done.’ Morgana still stared. ‘But pretty behaviour for what? Why did you want to learn such things?’ ‘Some of the things I did not wish t’learn.’ Rose shook her head. Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘More than anything, I want to be a songstress. The kind who has posters all over town to advertise her singing. The kind Vauxhall or Covent Garden or some such place will pay a lot of money and the newspapers will write pretty things about.’ ‘A songstress?’ A tear trickled down her flawlessly perfect cheek. ‘I—I

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would have had employment, too. I met Mr Hook at Vauxhall and again at the masquerade. He wanted to hire me.’ Morgana was too taken aback to address the girl’s tears. ‘Who is Mr Hook?’ Rose gave a loud sniffle. ‘He is the composer of songs and organist at Vauxhall. Surely everyone knows of Mr Hook.’ Morgana almost smiled. Everyone who had a musician for a father and an aspiration to sing, perhaps. ‘Was he the balding man who attended you at the masquerade?’ Rose nodded again and swiped at her eyes with her fingers. ‘You did not wish to become a courtesan,’ Morgana said it again. ‘No.’ She looked at Morgana with her huge, glistening green eyes. ‘Miss Hart, what will happen to me now?’ Nothing, Morgana thought. ‘We must escape this place.’ ‘I—I hoped Mr Sloane or Mr Elliot would come save us,’ Rose said with a shuddering breath. Sloane. Would he even discover they were taken until it was too late—too late for Rose, and until Lucy and Katy were forced to degrade themselves? And Mr Elliot had been hit so hard. Was he even alive? Sloane would come for them when he could, she believed with all her heart. He would charge in like a one-man avenging army and wipe out all these horrible people, but Morgana could not wait for him. They needed to escape now. Morgana began pacing again. She grabbed one of the wine bottles and sat next to Rose on the barrel that lay on its side. ‘I have an idea…’ A few minutes later the sound of crashing glass reached the ears of the man sitting outside the locked door, and screams of ‘Oh, help! Help! Stop her. You must stop her!’ When the locked door opened, Rose was huddled in the

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corner surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine. She scraped at her wrist with a jagged piece and blood covered her arms. ‘You must stop her!’ Morgana begged the man. ‘Hurry.’ He rushed over to the beautiful girl, squatting down to both reach her and try to pull her up. Morgana followed him. Rose struggled and moaned that she would rather be dead. Such a lovely creature in so much distress would be difficult for any man to resist. He was no different. While he was distracted by Rose, Morgana came up behind him and hit him hard on the head with one of the bottles of wine. He fumbled, but did not fall. Instead, he came at her. She swung the bottle as hard as she could and hit him in the stomach, as Sloane had done to the man in the park so long ago. This man doubled over and staggered backwards. ‘I have the key,’ shouted Rose, holding it up in the air. Morgana grabbed her and pulled her towards the door. She slammed the door shut and leaned on it while Rose turned the key in the lock. A roar of outrage came from the inside of their cellar prison. Their captor banged loudly on the door, but would not be heard any better than they had been.

‘Are you all right, Morgana?’ Rose asked. She caught Morgana’s hand and looked at the cut Morgana had made to smear blood on Rose’s arms. Morgana’s hand throbbed, but she said, ‘It is nothing. We must hurry.’ They made their way down the cellar corridor until they came to a staircase. Creeping up each step as softly as they could, they heard the sounds of voices above them. ‘Let us try the other way.’ Morgana led Rose past the wine cellar door where their

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captor still pounded and swore at the top of his lungs. At the other end they discovered the wooden door leading to the outside. It had a heavy metal bolt. Morgana’s cut hand shot with pain as she forced the bolt sideways and pushed on the door. They were met by a crisp breeze and freedom. It was night, but the new gas lamps on nearby St James’s Street gave a faint illumination. Rose turned to her. ‘Go,’ Morgana said. ‘Return home. Find Sloane. Tell him to come.’ ‘What about you?’ Rose asked. ‘I must go after Lucy and Katy. Please, Rose. Hurry. Bring Sloane.’ Rose gave her a quick hug and, after a look to see if anyone was watching, slipped out of the door into the night. Morgana hurried back through the cellar to the stairway they’d found before. She heard voices, but she crept up the stairs and into a dark room. A sliver of light shone from under its door. Morgana groped around the room, making her way to the door. She felt something soft on a shelf against the wall. Gloves. She picked one up and put it on the hand she had cut with the piece of glass. It helped relieve the sting and the soft kid kept her hand supple. Shrugging, Morgana put on the glove’s mate. Morgana inched her way to the door. She hoped to find a way to the upper floors where she supposed Lucy and Katy were kept. She opened the door a crack and peered through it. It led to a hallway at the end of which was the stairway to the upper floors. To the left was another room separated by a curtain. Morgana took a deep breath and started to cross towards the stairs. She heard Mrs Rice’s voice coming from behind the curtain.

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‘I do not care how you do it. Dispose of her. She is trouble. Have her put on a ship or something—that would serve her right—or toss her in the Thames. It is of no consequence to me as long as I am rid of her.’

Chapter Eighteen

M

organa stifled a gasp. Mrs Rice was speaking of her! Morgana had fought her captivity, and Mrs Rice had not been pleased. Morgana shuddered. The woman wanted her killed. Even if it came to her death, she could not leave Lucy and Katy. She would see them safe or die trying. The voices faded and Morgana rushed to the stairway, taking the stairs as quickly as she could. When she reached the top she again heard Mrs Rice’s voice, but sounding suddenly very congenial. Morgana carefully peeked around the corner. She could just catch a glimpse of Mrs Rice talking to a welldressed gentleman. Mr Cripps! Her emotions flashed from elation to anxiety. What was her butler doing in such a place? ‘I should like a young lady,’ he said, sounding exactly as he did when announcing dinner. ‘Fair or red-haired would be my preference and I also like them young.’ He pulled a book from his pocket and tapped on its cover with his finger. ‘It says in this book that you provide clean, pretty girls.’

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The Whoremonger’s Guide. Morgana bit her lip. And all along she had worried about his disapproval. She shook her head. It defied logic that he would visit such a place like this the day his employer and guests were kidnapped. And Cripps was too old a man to be a rescuer. He would get himself killed. Mrs Rice gave him a sideways glance. ‘I am certain we can accommodate you, sir. Show me some coin.’ Morgana heard the clink of coins. Lots of them. ‘I’ve not seen you here before.’ Mrs Rice spoke conversationally. Morgana held her breath. Did Mrs Rice suspect he was not a genuine customer? ‘Indeed. This is my first time.’ He pointed to the book. ‘But it says here—’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs Rice broke in. ‘We shall accommodate you very well.’ Morgana dared to peek out again, but ducked back quickly when Mrs Rice turned to escort Cripps up the stairs. Wildly looking for a place to hide, all she saw were closed doors. She didn’t dare enter them. Mrs Rice and Cripps came closer. Morgana ducked into a dark corner and hoped the woman would not look too carefully into the shadows. Mrs Rice led Cripps to one of the doors at the other end of the hall. ‘This one is a very lively girl. If she gives you trouble you tell me. I’ll teach her to behave.’ ‘I enjoy a spirited young lady.’ Cripps said this very convincingly. He followed Mrs Rice into the room. A moment later Mrs Rice came out again, saying, ‘I shall return when your time is up.’ When Morgana was certain Mrs Rice had reached the bot-

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tom of the stairs, she crept from her hiding place and tiptoed towards the room into which Cripps had disappeared. She had just passed the stairway when a door behind her opened. ‘You there!’ a man yelled. She swerved around and came face to face with one of the men who had abducted them. She made a mad dash for the stairs, but he caught up to her. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, missy.’ She could smell his foul breath as his hands grabbed for her. She caught hold of the banister and tried to pull herself from his grasp, but he held on. From behind her, she heard Lucy cry, ‘Let her go!’ But other footsteps sounded and Lucy’s cries were muffled. The man dragged Morgana down the stairs, the fingers of her gloves tearing from her efforts to hang on to the wrought-iron spindles of the banister. ‘What is this?’ Mrs Rice rushed out of the curtained room. She spied Morgana. ‘Not you! Get her out of the hallway.’ ‘She’s a devil, she is,’ the man said, dragging Morgana through the curtained door into a room decorated like a fine drawing room, but with a desk at one end. Morgana could not free herself so she opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. The man clamped his dirty hand over her lips. She bit it. ‘Ow!’ Letting go with one hand, he hit her so hard in the face she saw stars. ‘Take her out of this house!’ cried Mrs Rice. ‘I want rid of her!’ Out in the darkness, Sloane heard the scream and could wait no longer. He turned to where Elliot and Morgana’s footman stood with a still-trembling Rose. ‘I must go in. Be ready to follow me at the signal.’ He glanced at Rose. ‘If we do not come out, you get yourself home.’

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Rose nodded. Sloane slipped through the shadows, nearly invisible in his dark clothing. He headed for the wooden door where they had seen Rose emerge. He opened it carefully and went inside, climbing down the stone steps into the cellar where sounds of pounding could be heard. A man yelled, ‘Let me out!’ from behind a locked door. Sloane did not oblige him. He smiled, guessing it had been Morgana’s work that put the man there. He ran down the cellar’s corridor and up the stairs. Crossing the dark room to the door on the other side, he opened it a crack and heard the voices. ‘You cannot get rid of me.’ It was Morgana, speaking with bravado. ‘I will escape again. This fool cannot hold me!’ ‘Shut your clapper!’ a man shouted, and Sloane heard the sound of a fist connecting with skin. ‘Kill her now, Trigg!’ Mrs Rice commanded. Sloane rushed towards the voices, charging through a curtain into a room and straight towards a man who held Morgana by the throat. Shocked at the surprise attack, Trigg released Morgana. ‘Sloane!’ she rasped. Sloane knocked Trigg against a table, which shattered, spilling them both to the floor. Trigg grabbed a candlestick that had fallen to the floor. He swung it towards Sloane’s head. Morgana grasped the candlestick in both hands and held on, while Sloane regained his footing. ‘Come! Come! We need help,’ Mrs Rice screeched. Footsteps pounded from above them. Trigg pulled out a knife and charged at Sloane, who whipped out a long dagger from his boot. The two men slashed at each other and their knives connected like swords. From behind him Sloane heard the loud report of a pistol. Instinctively he ducked and

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swerved to see Morgana holding Rice’s wrist, the pistol smoking in her hand. Screeching like a banshee, Trigg came at Sloane again, so close he slashed the fabric of Sloane’s coat. Another man ran into the room and grabbed Sloane’s arms. Trigg started to jab with his knife. ‘No!’ Morgana pulled at Trigg’s arm. ‘Run, Morgana,’ Sloane commanded. ‘Get out of here!’ She flashed him a determined look. ‘No.’ From above came a loud boom, freezing everyone in their places. ‘Fire!’ someone yelled, and the scent of smoke hit Sloane’s nostrils. People could be heard coughing and running down the stairs. Mrs Rice quickly went to her desk and unlocked a drawer. She removed a metal box. Clutching it in her arms, she cried, ‘Make way!’ As she ran out of the room, Trigg and the other man looked at each other and pelted after her. Morgana scrambled over to Sloane. He threw his arms around her, holding her tight. ‘Morgana.’ Though the air was becoming thick with smoke, he kissed her. ‘Morgana, my love.’ She took his face in her hands. ‘I knew you would come.’ Above the din of fleeing bodies, Elliot’s voice could be heard. ‘Lucy! Lucy!’ ‘Oh, my goodness! The fire! We must find them!’ Morgana pulled away. ‘They were abovestairs. Cripps, too!’ Sloane held on to her. ‘You do not have to save them, Morgana. Cripps created the diversion. Elliot and your footman will save them.’ She looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Come.’ He kept one arm around her and led her to the door.

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When they made it to the outside, a crowd had gathered and the bell of a fire brigade could be heard. ‘Oh, I hope no one is hurt!’ Morgana looked up at smoke pouring from the high windows. ‘Lucy! Katy!’ ‘Make haste, Morgana. You do not want to be seen here.’ Through the nearby alley, he took her to the back of the house. ‘No one will be hurt, love. It is smoke, not fire. Cripps set it off.’ ‘Cripps?’ She gaped at him and suddenly laughed. ‘You are very clever, are you not?’ He gave her a very hard, very relieved kiss. ‘Damned clever!’ He grabbed her arm and the two of them hurried away. ‘Gracious, look what we got!’ Katy ran up to them, the footman at her side, carrying Mrs Rice’s metal box. ‘I saw her coming and tripped her. She let go of the box and I grabbed it!’ ‘Oh, Katy!’ Morgana enfolded the girl in her arms. ‘Well done, Katy,’ Sloane said. They walked to the area behind a storage shed where Rose anxiously waited. ‘Miss Hart, oh, are you all right?’ Morgana, Rose and Katy hugged each other. Cripps stood nearby, looking very smug. ‘Had the devil of a time finding a way to set a candle under the bag, but Miss Katy and I worked it out.’ ‘You did very well.’ Sloane shook the man’s hand. ‘Where is Elliot? Did he find Lucy?’ Morgana broke away. ‘Lucy?’ Cripps gestured to the side of the shed where Elliot and Lucy clung to each other. Elliot held her face in his hands and was raining kisses on it. ‘Oh, my!’ Morgana said. ‘Looks pleasant enough.’ Sloane grabbed Morgana and

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gave her a kiss that heated her from top to toe. She was breathless when he released her. ‘We have to leave.’ He called to Elliot. ‘Come on! This way.’ Their homecoming in Morgana’s drawing room was full of joyful tears. Miss Moore clasped Morgana against her bosom, tears streaming down her cheeks. Morgana’s grandmother smiled and said, ‘Lovely to see you, my dear.’ Amy had an equally tearful reunion with her sister and then insisted Morgana come with her to be tidied up. Morgana had no wish to be separated from Sloane for even a flick of an eye, but knew she must look a fright. Besides, she quite longed to feel clean again. As Amy helped her wash and chattered on about how surprising it was that Lucy and Mr Elliot had fallen in love and how grateful she was to Sloane for saving her sister, all Morgana could think of was wanting to return to Sloane’s side. He came to save them all. As much as she’d hurt him that morning, he still came to rescue them. Morgana’s hands went to her throat, remembering the moment she’d thought she’d taken her last breath. Sloane had saved her. ‘You are bruised all over, Miss Hart,’ Amy said, though it was no news to Morgana, who felt each and every one. She glanced in the mirror. Even by candlelight, she could see the ugly black circle around her eye. She shook her head. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except that everyone was safe. Sloane had seen to it. ‘Oh, do hurry, Amy,’ Morgana said. When they finally walked into the library, Sloane’s eyes followed her. Morgana went directly to him, seating herself next to him. He took her hand in his, then lifted it and looked at the bandage Amy had wrapped around it.

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‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘A trifle,’ she replied. ‘A mere nothing.’ Rose piped up. ‘A nothing, she says. She cut herself so it would look like I was bleedin’ and then she hit the man over the head so we could escape.’ Sloane glanced at her hand again, then slowly lifted it to his lips. Morgana felt the kiss flash through her, surprised that even in this room full of people and after all they’d been through, a simple kiss from Sloane could inflame such desire. She wished they would all go away—all but Sloane. The other servants were also gathered in the room, everyone enjoying the second or third retelling of the tale. Mrs Cripps listened adoringly to her husband’s share of the tale, blushing and laughing when one of the footmen teased her about him knowing just how to act in a brothel. The other footman poured wine for everyone. It was like being in the bosom of a close, warm family. Morgana watched Lucy slip out of the room with Mr Elliot. Her brow wrinkled. Lucy could do worse for a protector, but the life of a mistress was still not a respectable life. Sloane handed her a glass of wine. Katy’s laughter filled the room. Sloane stood. ‘I would like to propose a toast!’ he said. ‘Hear, hear,’ someone responded. Sloane lifted his glass towards Morgana. ‘To Morgana Hart,’ he said in loud clear tones. ‘Who saved everyone.’ ‘To Miss Hart!’ one of the footmen piped up. ‘To Miss Hart!’ The others joined in. Sloane clinked his glass with Morgana’s and gazed into her eyes. Her heart felt about twice the size of her chest. She did love him so. Rose sat down at the pianoforte and began to play and sing

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a lively tune. The others gaily joined in. Sloane took Morgana’s hand in his again and turned it over, lightly kissing her bandage. ‘I must take my leave,’ he said. ‘Walk out with me?’ Morgana stood and took his arm. When they were outside the room, he gathered her in his arms and pressed his lips against hers. ‘Oh, Sloane.’ Her bruises were nothing to the ache he created inside her. ‘Goodnight, my fearless girl.’ He smiled down at her, the force of his eyes almost as potent as his lips. ‘Let me go with you,’ she pleaded. ‘For tonight. Let me share your bed again, Sloane. Even for the last time.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The last time?’ Her words tumbled out in as much disarray as her emotions. ‘I know it is wrong of me, but I want to love you, Sloane. I want to!’ She pulled him towards the door leading out to the garden. ‘I know we cannot repeat this, not with you betrothed to Hannah, but—’ He stopped her. ‘I am not betrothed to Hannah.’ Her heart pounded. ‘Oh, I know you may not have settled the whole matter, but I saw her, how happy she was. At the dinner.’ His brow remained wrinkled for a moment. Then it cleared and he gave a deep laugh. He grabbed her by the shoulders and put his face to within an inch of hers. ‘You are mistaken, love. I made no offer to Hannah. By now she is betrothed to someone else.’ ‘Who?’ Morgana asked, stunned. ‘To my nephew David. They are in love.’ Her mouth flew open. ‘I do not believe it.’ He laughed. ‘It is true. My word on it.’ She stared into his eyes and took a breath. ‘Then take me

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to your bed, Sloane. There is no impediment.’ She pulled his arm, but he did not budge. ‘No, love.’ She could not read his expression. ‘I will not bed you tonight.’ Morgana felt like he’d punched her as hard as that wretched Trigg. ‘Why not?’ He returned her gaze. ‘You must marry me.’ ‘Marry you?’ Morgana cried. Shaking her head in disbelief, she carefully examined his face. It finally registered with her what he meant. ‘I told you this morning that you were under no obligation to marry me, Sloane. I quite know what I am doing. All I ask is for one more night, then I promise I will do nothing to keep you from a respectable marriage to some other lady. There will be no courtesan school. It is over.’ He took his finger and let it outline her bruised eye. His gaze bore into her, so intensely, it made even her toes go warm. ‘The only lady I want is you, Morgana. If we are not respectable enough for the ton, they can all go to the devil.’ She gasped. He went on, ‘My behaviour has been worse than rakish. I nearly destroyed the lives of others, merely to get back at a man who can no longer hurt me. It makes me ashamed.’ ‘No,’ she cried. ‘I will not allow you to speak of yourself in that manner. You are the best of gentlemen. That is the truth. I did not mean what I said this morning—’ He put his fingers on her lips. ‘I know that, Morgana.’ He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, the smile of a practised rake. ‘If I am the best of gentlemen, you have no reason to refuse my offer of marriage, you know.’ She countered with a sober look. ‘Except that I cannot promise to always be right and proper. I am not a proper lady, Sloane.’

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His eyes twinkled as he leaned forward. ‘Did you not know that a rake craves a bit of danger?’ She lifted her face to his. ‘Then the rake will certainly agree to take me to bed.’ He grinned. ‘He will. After we are wed.’ ‘How long?’ ‘A week or two, no more. After I procure a special license.’ His expression turned pensive. ‘As a matter of fact, if I know my secretary at all, it may be two special licenses.’ ‘Mr Elliot—?’ ‘And Lucy,’ he finished for her. Elliot would marry Lucy? Morgana blinked in wonder of it all. Would that not be a happy ending for the girl? ‘So, you see, you cannot refuse me.’ His tone was still bantering. She gave him a serious look. ‘Are you certain of this, Sloane?’ He laughed and gathered her into his arms. ‘Very certain. I love you, Morgana.’ Morgana wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. ‘I love you, too, Sloane. I love you.’ Joy burst inside her. ‘Let us go to bed—’ He unwrapped himself from her embrace. ‘After we wed. I am determined on this.’ She pursed her lips in disappointment. ‘I think I preferred the rakish Sloane to this stuffy, reputable one.’ He took her in his arms again. ‘Just a few more days, Morgana, and I will show you just how rakish I can be.’ Morgana could not reply because his lips crushed hers in one more toe-melting, passion enflaming, happiness-promising kiss.

Epilogue

T

he June breeze was warm and caressing as Sloane escorted his wife through the entrance of Vauxhall Gardens. She paused as he’d known she would, gazing at the lamps strung through the trees, at the arches and porticos. ‘It is more beautiful than I remembered!’ she exclaimed. He smiled. It had not been even two months since their last excursion to the pleasure garden, so very different from this night. Now the magic of his life outshone the garden’s spell. He’d been married only three weeks. Three glorious weeks. The rest of their party crowded behind them, and he urged Morgana to move. ‘We are blocking the way.’ She laughed, glancing back at the others, a motley mix of the people Morgana cared most about. The other newly wedded couples gathered around them. Elliot and Lucy, married the same day in the same church as he and Morgana. Robert and Mary Duprey, returned from Gretna Green, just in time for this outing. Miss Moore attended, as did Mr and Mrs Cripps, the maid Amy and the footman who had so bravely assisted in Morgana’s rescue. Mr Cripps had insisted the servants remain in their place, so they hung back a little, though

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Sloane and Morgana knew they were as much a part of this celebration as the others. Morgana took his arm and walked close. Her eyes were busy taking in the sights. ‘I can see so much better without the mask,’ she said. ‘Me, too,’ he said. She did not much heed him, but it did not matter. The mask he spoke of was the one he’d worn since embarking on his foolhardy quest for respectability. There was still much of his past to conceal, but presently he felt more himself than any other time in his life. They made their way to the supper box Elliot had arranged, the same one with the view of the fountain that he’d taken before. This group did not look askance at the less reputable Vauxhall visitors this night. They were too full of high spirits and anticipation. They were all present to witness the début of Vauxhall’s newest songstress, Rose O’Keefe. Mary said, ‘It is so fortunate Robert and I returned when we did. I would have been greatly disappointed if I’d missed this.’ ‘Imagine. Our little Rose.’ Miss Moore sighed with all the pride of a mother whose child had just taken its first steps. ‘I wish Katy were with us.’ Mary sighed. Sloane glanced at Morgana and caught the fleeting sadness on her face, though her smile remained fixed. ‘So do I,’ she said. Katy had left two days after he and Morgana married. With the moneybox she’d pilfered from Mrs Rice, she slipped away during the night. When Morgana read the note, in Katy’s primitive hand, her face paled. Morgana blamed herself for a fate Katy had always embraced as her own choice. It had taken Sloane no time at all to discover that Penny had taken Katy under her wing and was acting the procuress for her, but he merely told Morgana that Madame Bisou was looking out for the girl.

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‘When does Rose sing?’ Lucy asked. ‘Not for an hour or more,’ Sloane answered. Elliot attended to the last-minute details of the refreshments, which were brought to them almost immediately. Before Mr Cripps and the footman began serving the food, Sloane had them pour champagne for everyone, servants alike. He raised his glass. ‘To Rose’s success!’ ‘Hear, hear,’ they chorused. As they clinked glasses, a familiar party walked by and caught sight of them. Lady Hannah skipped over, dragging her fiancé with her. ‘Morgana! Mr Sloane! We did not know you would be here, did we, David?’ She rushed over to her cousin, nearly jumping up and down. Sloane said a silent prayer of thanks that it was David squiring Hannah and not himself. David Sloane leaned over to shake Sloane’s hand. ‘I am glad to see you, Uncle.’ The young man gave Sloane’s hand an extra squeeze. ‘Is all well?’ Sloane asked him. David smiled and glanced over at Hannah. ‘Very well.’ He looked back at Sloane. ‘Grandfather is gloating about how he got the better of you. I never know whether to laugh or to be sick.’ Hannah’s voice reached Sloane’s ears. ‘Who would have thought you would marry before me!’ Lord and Lady Cowdlin, clearly wishing they could pass by, reluctantly joined Hannah. Lord Cowdlin gave Sloane a curt nod. Lady Cowdlin cast a disapproving eye over Morgana and Sloane’s guests. ‘Morgana, how do you do.’ Morgana darted an amused glance towards Sloane. ‘I assure you, Aunt Winnie, I do splendidly.’

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Her aunt leaned forward and whispered something to her. Morgana shook her head. After they had walked on, Sloane asked, ‘What did your aunt whisper to you?’ She gave a grin. ‘She asked me if I were increasing.’ His brows shot up. ‘Are you?’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘It is too soon to know such things. My aunt thought it the reason for our hasty marriage.’ He glared at Lady Cowdlin’s receding back. ‘The devil she did!’ Morgana squeezed his arm. ‘It is a lark, is it not? I’m quite flattered she thought me worthy of seduction by a rake.’ He laughed and planted a light kiss. ‘She did not know the half. Last time we were here I almost dragged you down the Dark Walk.’ Her eyes widened. ‘But you scolded me. You thought me a harlot!’ ‘I did not,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘I thought myself a rake.’ They all sat down to the light meal, and Sloane thought it the most enjoyable dinner party he’d attended since the Season began. It was a fitting end to the Season. Within the next few weeks, the ton would flee London for the pleasures of Brighton or the quiet of their country houses. He and Morgana were to travel to Italy to call upon her father, a very different sort of Italian trip from the one he’d made as a much younger man. But all was different since Morgana had come into his life. The bell rang to announce the performance, and they excitedly rushed to stand below the orchestra’s balcony. Sloane wrapped his arm around Morgana as the crowd around them grew thicker. He saw Hannah and David walk through the

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crowd, hand in hand. Elliot had his arm around Lucy, as did Duprey around Mary. ‘I am so happy, Sloane,’ Morgana said excitedly. ‘About Rose?’ he asked. She gave him a quick hug. ‘About everything.’ The orchestra played a brief piece of music and Rose walked to the front of the balcony. Morgana burst into applause, as did the others. Rose looked down and saw them and gave them all a special smile. She began to sing: Abroad as I was walking Down by the river side, I gazed all around me, An Irish girl I spied… Sloane held Morgana tighter and she gazed up at him. When he thought how easily he might have let her slip though his fingers, he re-experienced the emptiness he used to carry around inside him. But now, for the first time in his life, he was not alone. He lowered his head and touched his lips to Morgana’s, a light kiss of gratitude for being in his life. Rose’s remarkable voice continued: …I wish I was a butterfly, I’d fly to my love’s breast; I wish I was a linnet, I’d sing my love to rest; I wish I was a nightingale, I’d sing till morning clear, I’d sit and sing to you, Pollie, The girl I love so dear.

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The audience burst into applause and Morgana laughed, tears in her eyes. Shouts of ‘Bravo’ rang through the crowd. A woman called out, ‘Rose! Rose!’ The flame-haired woman wore an expensive-looking green gown that showed plenty of skin. She waved enthusiastically, still crying, ‘Rose!’ ‘It is Katy!’ Morgana gasped, and started towards her, but stopped abruptly. ‘She…she has men around her.’ Indeed, Katy was surrounded by a flock of men, whose eyes were on her, not the songstress. Morgana’s face fell. ‘Oh, Sloane, she has done it. She has become a courtesan.’ ‘It appears so, my love.’ He kept his arm firmly around her waist. ‘I had hoped she would not. She had Mrs Rice’s money, enough to live on if she were careful.’ She whispered, ‘What have I done?’ Sloane took her face in his hands and made her look at him. ‘It was her choice, Morgana. It was what Katy wanted.’ She shook her head. ‘Still, I ought—’ ‘You gave her the opportunity to choose. You are not responsible for her choice.’ She leaned against him. ‘I wish she had not chosen that life. Sloane, by the end, I was sick at what I had done—’ His arms encircled her. ‘By the end, love, you gave each of those girls what they otherwise would never have dreamed to have. Even though you disagree with her choice, Katy looks happy. We all are happy, Morgana, because of you.’ She nuzzled against his chest for a long satisfying moment. ‘Sloane?’ He enjoyed the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body. ‘Hmm?’ ‘Take me down the Dark Walk.’

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He looked down at her in surprise. She entwined her arm in his and gave him a smile so seductive it would have made any courtesan proud. But she was more, much more. She was his wife, his love, the piece that completed him and made him whole. He grinned back at her with the knowing smile of a rake. They pushed themselves through the crowd, under the archway, heading towards the path. Rose’s voice followed them, clear as a mountain stream after winter’s thaw: Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves, Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey Over rocks which are the steepest, Love will find out the way…

The Rake’s Mistress Nicola Cornick

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Chapter One

October 1803

T

he young man who climbed into Miss Rebecca Raleigh’s carriage that night looked as though he had escaped from a bawdy house. It was not an encounter that Rebecca had been expecting. The carriage had paused briefly to avoid two drunken gentlemen who were weaving their way across Bond Street in the thin autumn rain. Rebecca, twitching the curtain back into place with a sigh, wished that she had not left it quite so late to return home from the Archangel Club. This was the time of night when the young bucks were out on the streets in search of an evening’s entertainment, and the fact that she was travelling in a coach with the crest of the Archangel on the door would be protection from some, and provocation to others, for it was known to be the most exclusive gentleman’s club in the whole of London. The carriage was just picking up speed again when

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the door slammed open without warning and a young man tumbled inside in a welter of tangled limbs. On closer inspection—and Rebecca was able to make a very close inspection indeed—he looked to be about nineteen years of age. He had the sort of boyish good looks that would melt the heart of the sternest dowager: dark hair, hazel eyes and a sweetness of expression that was well nigh irresistible. He was also missing quite a quantity of clothing, he smelled pungently of a mixture of stale wine, cheap perfume and strong tobacco, and his face was covered in red carmine patches as though he had received a quantity of overardent kisses. Rebecca was hard-pressed not to laugh. As soon as he saw that there was a lady in the carriage, the youth made a sound like a strangled cat and flapped his hands about in a vain attempt to cover those parts of his anatomy he evidently thought would cause her offence. He was still wearing his shirt, if little else, and had he kept still it would have successfully covered the one thing he most wished to hide. Unfortunately in his confusion he gave Rebecca a very clear view of precisely that which he was trying to conceal. In her professional work, if not her private life, Rebecca had seen far worse sights than a semi-naked youth and, as he collapsed on to the seat, his hands in his lap, she calmly removed her cloak and passed it to him with a kindly smile. ‘Take this,’ she advised. ‘It will preserve your modesty and keep you warm. Indeed you look chilled to the bone. It is a cold night to be out without the proper attire.’

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The young man grasped the cloak to him gratefully, though his gaze was still wary, as though he were waiting for her to swoon—or call out the Constable. Rebecca pushed the hot brick across the floor towards his bare feet and nodded encouragingly at him. After a moment’s frozen surprise, the youth had wrapped the cloak about his person and now rested his feet on the brick with a little sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for this intrusion. Indeed, you must think it quite odd in me.’ He was well spoken, with the ingrained charm and confidence of the aristocrat. Rebecca placed him unerringly as a young sprig of fashion who had been caught out in a prank. ‘I do think it odd,’ she agreed, ‘but I am sure that there is a perfectly sensible explanation.’ The young man did not look so certain. He gave her a timid look from beneath his ridiculously long black eyelashes. ‘Well, of course...’ He was trying to sound like a man of the world, but his tone was a little too lame to convince and the chattering of his teeth did nothing to add to an impression of sophistication. ‘May I introduce myself, ma’am?’ he said. ‘Lord Stephen Kestrel, at your service.’ He leaned forward and held out a hand to shake hers. The cloak slipped a little and he withdrew hastily, curling up as though he had been scalded. ‘Pray do not stand on formality with me, Lord Stephen,’ Rebecca said, smiling. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Miss Rebecca Raleigh.’ There was a short silence in the carriage. Rebecca

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knew that Lord Stephen was trying to work out, on the basis of this meager information, just who Miss Rebecca Raleigh might be. She could read his thoughts, for his expression was transparently puzzled. Here was an unmarried woman travelling alone at night. She was soberly and inexpensively dressed, if the dim light thrown by the carriage lanterns was any guide. She was past the first flush of youth, but not old by a long chalk. She spoke like a lady but could hardly be one of the gentry... Rebecca smiled inwardly and decided not to enlighten him. If he had seen the Archangel crest on the door of the coach as he had leapt in, then he would also be leaping to some rather more interesting conclusions about her identity. The Archangel Club catered to gentlemen of the ton who had exotic tastes and the financial means to indulge them. Rebecca had known all about the Archangel’s reputation for debauchery, but she had accepted the commission anyway. Business was business, and she had to earn a living. But evidently Lord Stephen had not noticed the Archangel crest; when he spoke again, he had clearly decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and to treat her as the lady she appeared to be. ‘Once again, I must apologise, Miss Raleigh,’ he said. ‘I had been at my club—’ there was a hint of pride here, as though membership of White’s or Boodle’s was still a novelty to him ‘—and some of the other fellows decided to pull a hoax on me.’ A frown furrowed his forehead. ‘I suppose we had all had rather too much brandy, but it seemed amusing at the

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time. They placed a bet that if they gave me two minutes’ start I could evade the pack and find my way home before the hunt caught up with me. Fifty guineas said that I could do it.’ Rebecca looked at him, her lips twitching slightly at the forlorn figure he cut. ‘I take it that you lost?’ she said sympathetically. ‘I got lost,’ Lord Stephen said gloomily. ‘Thought I knew my way about London, but it’s dashed difficult to find one’s way in the dark on foot, without a servant to give directions. Before I knew it I was up Norton Street and the other chaps were closing in on me, so I headed into the nearest building and it was a...’ He paused, looking awkward. ‘A bordello?’ Rebecca guessed. Lord Stephen blushed. In the dark it was almost possible to feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating from his face. ‘Well, yes, I suppose one would call it so.’ He shifted uncomfortably on the seat. ‘I dashed inside and they fell on me with a great degree of enthusiasm and I only just managed to escape with my life.’ Rebecca doubted that it was his life that the lightskirts had been after, but she managed not to smile. ‘That is very unfortunate,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll say!’ Lord Stephen’s eyes rounded at the memory. Rebecca realised that, for all his semisophistication, he had been quite out of his depth. ‘I was stripped practically naked within a second and then they started to tie my wrists to a bedpost and—’ Lord Stephen broke off. ‘But perhaps you do not wish to hear about that, Miss Raleigh.’

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‘Perhaps not,’ Rebecca agreed. ‘No.’ Lord Stephen looked crestfallen. ‘It is no tale for a lady’s ears. Fortunately I managed to break free, but then the Watch came, so I ran away—’ ‘And jumped into the first carriage you saw,’ Rebecca finished. Lord Stephen shifted with embarrassment. ‘Well, yes. I do apologise, Miss Raleigh, but you were my only chance. Lucas will be absolutely furious with me,’ he added, with gloomy relish. ‘Lucas?’ Rebecca said. ‘My brother, Lucas Kestrel.’ Stephen’s face had lit with a hero-worshipping smile. ‘He is an all round outand-out bang-up fellow, Miss Raleigh, quite the Corinthian. When he hears what has happened he will give me a roasting. A well-deserved one,’ he added, with a sigh. ‘Perhaps you need not tell him,’ Rebecca suggested. ‘If you are able to creep into the house unseen, why should your brother know?’ Stephen looked at her with a spark of hope gleaming in his eyes. ‘You mean you will not give me away? I say, Miss Raleigh...’ his voice warmed ‘...you are a capital girl!’ Rebecca laughed. There was something about Lord Stephen Kestrel that made her feel quite maternal, for all that she could only be five years or so his senior. He had an endearing air of innocence about him. ‘I do not see why I should carry tales to your brother,’ she said. ‘I am not your nursemaid.’ The carriage had been proceeding towards Rebecca’s home in Clerkenwell, but she doubted that this

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was the correct direction for Lord Stephen, who would surely be more likely to be found in Grosvenor or Berkeley Square. ‘I do not suppose,’ she said ‘that my coachman will have the same difficulty in finding your home that you did, Lord Stephen. If you will give me your direction I will ask him to take us there.’ This was soon accomplished. Lord Stephen did indeed live in Mayfair, as Rebecca had suspected, and the coach was turned around and headed back towards the West End. On the way Lord Stephen confided a great deal more about himself and his family; that he was down from Cambridge at present, that he was the youngest brother of the Duke of Kestrel and had no less than two other brothers and two sisters, and that his favourite brother was Lucas, who was an Army man and a great gun. By the time they turned into Grosvenor Street, Rebecca’s ears were heartily tired with the repetition of Lord Lucas Kestrel’s name. He sounded to be precisely the sort of gentleman of fashion that she instinctively disliked and she could only be grateful that she would have no requirement to meet him. The coach drew up outside an elegant townhouse and Lord Stephen peered out of the window, drawing back with a curse. ‘Devil take it!’ He recollected himself. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh, but I do believe Lucas is at home. What cursed luck! I was hoping he would still be at his club for several hours and I could hurry inside undetected.’ ‘Could you not go around the back and go in at the

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servants’ entrance?’ Rebecca suggested. It was the route that was most familiar to her, but the idea had evidently not occurred to Lord Stephen before, for his face lit up. ‘What a splendid idea! I say, you are up to all the rigs, Miss Raleigh! I am most indebted to you—’ He broke off. There was an ominous click as the door of the coach unlatched from the outside. An icy gust of air blew in, bringing with it a spattering of rain. In the aperture stood a man with a lantern in one hand. He looked like an avenging angel with the light illuminating his dark auburn hair and casting shadows across the hard planes of his face. A cool hazel gaze swept over Rebecca in challenging appraisal. This man was older than Stephen Kestrel—ten years older at a guess—but he had enough of Stephen’s spectacular good looks to make him instantly recognisable. Here there was a harder edge, something altogether more intimidating than Stephen’s boyish charm. This, Rebecca thought, must be the infamous Lucas Kestrel himself. It was clear that Lord Lucas had returned home for the night, for he was dressed with an informality that only befitted his drawing room. His jacket was unbuttoned and his neck cloth loosened. The casualness of his attire did little to soften the impression of uncompromising maleness. Rebecca shivered. This was the sort of man about whom the chaperons would issue dire warnings. Every instinct that she possessed told her to tread very carefully. She had no difficulty at all in identifying him as an out-and-out rake.

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Rebecca drew back into her corner as the icy wind whipped inside the carriage. Lord Stephen made a vain grasp at the cloak, but it blew aside to leave him once more half-naked and caught in the lantern light in all his glory. ‘Stephen?’ Lucas Kestrel said incredulously. The dark frown on his brow deepened. His gaze shifted back to Rebecca and seemed to pin her to her seat. She felt a strange, swirling sensation in her stomach, a wariness with an edge of excitement. It set her heart racing. She turned hot despite the icy draught. ‘Stephen,’ Lucas Kestrel said again, without taking his eyes from Rebecca, ‘what the devil is going on?’ ‘Hello, Lucas.’ Stephen Kestrel was stuttering. ‘I...I do apologise. This must look quite bad...I... This is Miss Raleigh...’ ‘How do you do, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas Kestrel said. His voice was lazy and smooth and it sent a ripple of awareness down Rebecca’s spine. A smile that was not in the least friendly lifted the corner of his mouth as he looked at her. ‘I do not believe we have met before.’ ‘How do you do, Lord Lucas,’ Rebecca said. She inclined her head politely. ‘I am sure that we have not met. I would most certainly have remembered. Your family do seem to make quite an impression.’ That earned her another look, hard and unsmiling. ‘Pray excuse me a moment,’ Lord Lucas said, with exemplary courtesy. He took his eyes from her at last and Rebecca managed to breathe again. She made a small business of smoothing her skirt and adjusting her gloves. It was unnecessary, but it helped to settle

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her nerves. She had been unprepared for the impact of Lucas Kestrel’s presence and it had disturbed her far more deeply than any man had done before. ‘Out of the coach, please, Stephen,’ Lord Lucas said. ‘I shall see you in the library in half an hour. Fully dressed, if you would.’ Rebecca watched as Stephen drew the cloak about him with the forlorn dignity of a dethroned emperor and descended the carriage as decently as he could. Once he was standing on the pavement he turned back to her and sketched a rather comical bow, hampered as he was by keeping the cloak tightly wound about him. ‘I am indebted to you, Miss Raleigh,’ he said. ‘If you would give me your direction I shall call to convey my sense of obligation. And to return your cloak, of course—’ ‘Enough, Stephen,’ Lucas interrupted. ‘I will deal with Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca did not like the sound of that. She arched her brows haughtily. Ignoring Lucas, she turned to his brother, who was now shivering in the chill autumn breeze. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stephen,’ she said. ‘I am glad that I was able to be of service.’ That brought Lucas’s eyebrows snapping down in an intimidating stare. Stephen gave her a tentative nod and sped away up the steps into the house, where a blank-faced butler held the door open for him. Stephen disappeared. Lucas did not. Despite the fact that her insides were quaking, Rebecca turned a disdainful gaze upon him.

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‘I assure you that I do not require dealing with, Lord Lucas,’ she said. ‘If you would be so good as to close the carriage door, I will make my way home at once. I have already been delayed far too long.’ In response, Lucas held the door open a little wider. ‘If you would be so good as to come inside, Miss Raleigh,’ he said, with unimpeachable politeness, ‘then we might continue this conversation in the warmth.’ ‘No, thank you,’ Rebecca said. Lucas’s lips almost twitched into a smile. Rebecca felt herself warm to him slightly. She did not seem able to resist. The man evidently had a sense of humour, deep though it might be buried. ‘It was not an invitation,’ Lucas said gently. Rebecca smiled. ‘It was not an acceptance,’ she said. Lucas’s eyes narrowed on her face. ‘Step down, Miss Raleigh,’ he repeated, his tone harder this time. ‘No, thank you,’ Rebecca said again. ‘A lady would need to be quite mad to agree to enter the home of gentlemen she had only just met.’ Lucas’s lips set in a thin line. He said a few words to the coachman and then swung himself up into the coach and slammed the door behind him. Immediately the space in the carriage seemed to shrink and become nerve-rackingly small. Rebecca had not found Stephen Kestrel daunting even when he was half-naked. Lucas was another matter. He was just plain intimidating, fully dressed or not. Rebecca tried to calm the erratic tripping of her heartbeat. The coach set off with a small jerk, the horses’

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hooves striking loud on the cobbles. Rebecca felt panic rise in her throat and once again tried to quieten her nervousness. She could not pretend that the situation looked promising. The servants of the Archangel Club were accustomed—and well paid—to take orders from gentlemen without any argument. For all she knew, Lucas Kestrel could be a member of the Club himself. So if she were to call out, or demand that the carriage be turned around, the coachman would very likely ignore her. She could be dead in the Thames before anyone lifted a hand to help her. Despite her attempts to keep such thoughts from showing on her face, something of how she was feeling must have penetrated the mask, for Lucas Kestrel put a hand out to her and said silkily, ‘Have no fear, ma’am. Since you would not join me I thought it easier to join you. I have merely instructed the coachman to drive around for a while to prevent the horses from becoming chilled. This will all be over quickly if you choose to oblige me.’ His tone was even, but Rebecca could not miss the threat implicit beneath the words. She raised her chin, an angry spark in her blue eyes, her own voice cutting. ‘And in what way may I assist your lordship?’ Lucas’s gaze slid over her lazily, from the thick chestnut hair beneath her plain round bonnet to her feet encased in nankin half-boots. He considered her with insulting thoroughness and Rebecca felt her temper catch beneath the scrutiny. She was not accustomed to tolerating the impertinent inspection of a rake. ‘I can think of many ways you might assist me,’ he

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murmured, ‘but for the moment I am concerned only for my brother. For the moment.’ The angry colour had come into Rebecca’s face at his words and now she subjected him to a scrutiny of her own. It proved a mistake, for once she had started looking, she found it difficult to tear her gaze away. Lord Lucas Kestrel had a striking face, thin and sunburnt, with high cheekbones, dark auburn hair that was almost brown and very dark hazel eyes beneath strongly marked brows. He was not conventionally handsome, but the sum of all the elements was so unusual that it had a potent impact. Rebecca found that she wanted to go on looking at him and not just because he was shockingly attractive. She made her living as an engraver, and as such she had an eye for a striking image. Lucas Kestrel had a face an engraver could lose herself in, all hard lines and angles. As for his body, he had a compact elegance that would translate well into a sculpture or picture. That powerful body would be quite magnificent without its clothes... Rebecca felt herself blush all over, as though someone had locked her in a hothouse. This sort of instant reaction to a man never happened to her normally. An artist of any discipline, be they painter, sculptor or engraver, was accustomed to viewing the human body as an art form. They were accustomed to being completely detached. Alas, detached was not the word to describe her response to Lucas Kestrel. He was watching her with one of those dark brows raised quizzically and a smile lingering on his lips, as though he knew what she was thinking. It turned Re-

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becca hot with annoyance, rather than awareness, to have been caught staring. ‘So you should be concerned for your brother,’ she snapped, to cover her embarrassment. ‘A youth who gets drunk at his club and indulges in foolish pranks with other young men running riot in the streets—’ ‘And ends up in the arms of a Cyprian from the Archangel Club, having sexual congress in a carriage,’ Lucas finished softly for her. ‘Yes, Miss Raleigh—if that is indeed your name—I do so agree with you. Stephen’s exploits are a matter for alarm. Boys will be boys, but I wish Stephen had chosen another place to indulge himself than in the dangerous hands of the Angels. They will ruin him.’ Rebecca felt a violent flash of outrage that almost got the better of her. She calmed herself with a deep breath and when she was able to speak she was pleased that her voice was almost steady. ‘I fear that you are labouring under a series of misapprehensions, my lord,’ she said. ‘I first made your brother’s acquaintance when he climbed into the carriage in Bond Street only a half-hour ago. On learning of his plight at the hands of his friends, who had abandoned him in a bordello, I agreed to convey him home. That is the sum total of our acquaintance.’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘On the basis of that short meeting, however, I can assure you that his company is far preferable to yours!’ Lucas laughed. ‘I imagine so,’ he agreed. ‘I expect that Stephen was most charming to you, whereas I, having knocked about the world a good deal more than he has, am not as gullible as a youth in his salad days.’

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Once again, his gaze assessed her, studying the curve of her breast beneath the thick, unfashionable worsted of her dress and returning to linger with disturbing concentration on her mouth. ‘How much did you take him for, Miss Raleigh?’ he asked softly. ‘One hundred guineas? More? What is your price?’ Rebecca shrugged, feeling inordinately angry. ‘Your judgement is not as sound as you pretend, my lord,’ she forced out. It was an effort to speak politely, but years of dealing with her uncle’s customers had schooled her temper. ‘A gentleman who cannot tell the difference between a Cyprian and an artisan has little discernment indeed.’ Lucas looked incredulous. He lay back on the seat, crossing his long legs at the ankle. Rebecca moved her skirts aside to avoid touching him. He watched her manoeuvre with amusement. ‘My dear Miss Raleigh,’ he said, ‘surely the facts speak for themselves?’ He gestured about them. ‘This is a carriage owned by the Archangel Club for the exclusive use of their customers. I find you inside it, with my brother. He is half-naked, smelling of drink and perfume, and covered in painted kisses. You are—’ ‘I am what?’ Rebecca retorted. ‘Fully dressed? Your imagination runs away with you, Lord Lucas. Matters fell out precisely as I told you, as you will find when you interrogate your brother. In fact, I suggest that you go and do so now. I find your company grates on me!’ Lucas was laughing. ‘What a charming manner you have, Miss Raleigh. Do you practise it on your cli-

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ents—in whatever trade it is that you profess to perform?’ Rebecca bit her lip. Hard. She found that she wanted to do him some sort of injury, preferably a painful and nasty one. ‘My customers deserve civility, my lord,’ she said. ‘You forfeited that right by your own discourtesy.’ Lucas gave her an ironic half-bow. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Raleigh. Would you care to explain the manner in which I have insulted you?’ Rebecca glared at him. ‘Surely that is quite obvious, my lord? You are a gentleman who has a positive talent for offending a lady. I deeply regret the act of kindness that led me to offer my help to your brother. If I had known that it would require me to spend any amount of time with you, then I would have thought not once but twice!’ She saw the gleam of Lucas’s teeth as he smiled. ‘A neat insult of your own, Miss Raleigh. You defend yourself with spirit. Alas, you are doing it too brown.’ His tone changed, became cynical. ‘No one associated with the Angels ever acts out of kindness. Why not come clean and tell me the truth? You may be sure that Stephen will not hold out for long when I speak to him.’ Rebecca closed her eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. Her voice was measured. ‘I assure you, my lord, that my meeting with your brother fell out exactly as I have related it. As for myself, I would say that that is none of your business. I am not a Cyprian, I am not out to fleece your brother or drag him down into the moral depravity you evi-

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dently fear. In fact, I am not in the employ of the Archangel Club at all...’ She hesitated for a fraction of a second, for that was not entirely correct, and Lucas pounced. ‘Why the hesitation, Miss Raleigh? You had almost convinced me there...’ Rebecca shrugged angrily. ‘Very well. The reason that I am in this carriage is that I have undertaken a piece of engraving work for the Archangel Club. I have a commission from them—’ She broke off as she saw Lucas’s expression of sardonic amusement. ‘A commission,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose one might call it that.’ ‘I do not see why I have to protest my virtue to you, my lord!’ Rebecca said hotly. ‘It is none of your business.’ ‘Indeed, you have no need to protest at all, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas agreed smoothly. ‘Not when there are easier ways to prove your innocence.’ Before she could guess his intentions, he took her hand in his and with studied deliberation stripped off her glove. His gesture was so sudden and so sensually provocative that Rebecca gasped. She tried to withdraw her hand, but Lucas held it firmly between both of his, running his fingers over her skin with the lightest of strokes. His touch was cool and she felt the effect of it jolt right through her body. The colour flooded her face; her nerves prickled. She was unable to repress a shiver. ‘You will see that they are not the hands of a lady,’ she said, ‘but an artisan.’ Her voice came out a little huskily and she hoped

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that Lucas had not noticed. He was insufferably arrogant as it was, without giving him the advantage. He looked up and met her gaze, and Rebecca realised that it was a vain hope. Lord Lucas Kestrel was quite experienced enough with women to know when he had an effect upon them. She could see it in his eyes. His thumb was stroking her palm gently now, sending flickers of feeling along her skin. ‘I agree that they are the hands of someone who works for a living,’ he agreed softly. ‘That does not make you any less of a lady, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘I do not wish to discuss semantics with you, my lord,’ Rebecca said. ‘In fact, I do not wish to discuss anything at all. However, I will accept an apology.’ Lucas gave her a very straight look. There was the very faintest hint of a smile in the depths of his eyes and Rebecca’s insides trembled. She was aware of an insidious feeling of attraction growing between them and fought against it wholeheartedly. Lord Lucas Kestrel was clearly a dangerous man. ‘You have it, Miss Raleigh,’ he said softly. ‘My most humble apologies.’ Rebecca drew her hand from his grasp and cleared her throat. ‘I think that it is time for you to go now, my lord.’ She rapped on the roof of the carriage. ‘Stop, please! Lord Lucas will be leaving us here.’ She half-expected the Archangel’s coachman to ignore her command, but the carriage slowed obediently to a halt. Lord Lucas was not so biddable. He sat

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watching her, a challenge in his gaze as though he were defying her to throw him out bodily. ‘What, are you to abandon me here?’ ‘I am certain that you will be able to navigate the streets of London better than your brother,’ Rebecca said sweetly, ‘and since I have no desire to remove your clothes you will not be in need of begging a cloak from a kindly traveller.’ Lucas grinned. ‘You put ideas into my head, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca blushed. The ideas were in her head as well, erotic and disturbing, no matter that she tried to ignore them. ‘Disabuse yourself of them, my lord. I will bid you good night.’ Lucas held her gaze for a long moment. There was something lazy but watchful about his scrutiny. ‘I am not entirely sure that I wish to go, Miss Raleigh,’ he murmured. Rebecca slipped her free hand into her reticule. Her fingers closed around the cold, reassuring shape of her engraving scribe. She whipped it out and levelled it at his throat. ‘Allow me to encourage your departure, my lord.’ ‘The devil!’ Lucas’s eyes lit with unholy amusement. He kept his gaze on the wickedly sharp diamond point. ‘What is that?’ ‘A diamond-pin scribe for cutting glass. I use it for the very profession you derided a short while ago.’ Rebecca touched the point of the pin with one gloved finger. ‘Diamonds are the hardest substance known to man, my lord.’

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Lucas rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Then it seems that you have something in common with them, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘I do not think that you should be in any doubt of my profession now, nor of my sincerity in wishing you gone,’ Rebecca said. ‘No, indeed.’ Lucas’s gaze came up to her face and he smiled again, a real smile, wholly disarming, seriously dangerous. Rebecca felt her pulse skip. He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘Very well, Miss Raleigh, I shall leave you, but I shall see that your property is returned to you, all the same.’ ‘Please do not trouble yourself,’ Rebecca said. ‘It is no trouble. Cloaks are expensive commodities, particularly for a lady obliged to earn her own living. I shall return it in person.’ Rebecca felt her temper flicker again. ‘Pray save yourself a tiresome task, my lord, and send a servant with it. That would surely be more appropriate.’ She saw Lucas’s amusement that he had got under her skin. ‘That would be too shabby. Will you furnish me with your direction, Miss Raleigh?’ ‘Certainly not,’ Rebecca said. Lucas sighed. ‘I shall find it out anyway.’ ‘But not from me.’ Lucas sighed again. ‘Then I shall leave you, Miss Raleigh, with the promise to see you again soon.’ He opened the door of the carriage and sprang down without bothering to lower the steps. Rebecca’s last view of him was a tall figure standing beneath the street lamp, a dusting of raindrops already on his hair. She sat back as the carriage moved off again and

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gave a huge sigh. She did not regret helping Stephen Kestrel for he seemed a pleasant enough young man. His elder brother was another matter. Forceful, confident, with a face like a fallen angel and a touch that threatened to overset all good sense... Rebecca shook her head. She had a rule about staying away from gentlemen like Lucas Kestrel, men who were rakish and dangerous and who could spell disaster for a woman who had her own way to make in the world. She hoped that he would not seek her out again. She knew he would. Lucas Kestrel stood on the wet pavement and looked about himself in some perplexity. He realised that he had no notion where he was. He had spent the entire journey with his attention focussed on Miss Rebecca Raleigh to the exclusion of all else. They could have been halfway down the London to Brighton road for all he knew. He could not remember the last time that had happened to him when he had been in conversation with a woman. He started walking. He knew that he would soon see a familiar landmark. Having navigated his regiment across half of Egypt, he had no concern that he would get lost in the outskirts of London. The only thing that he regretted was failing to put a coat on. That showed lack of foresight. He had not thought that Miss Raleigh would occupy him for long and certainly had not foreseen that she would throw him out of her coach and leave him to walk home. A rueful smile tugged at his mouth. He found Miss Rebecca Raleigh a fascinating combination of confi-

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dence and vulnerability, strength and innocence. When he had first set eyes on her he had felt her gaze like a physical blow to the heart. He had never known anything quite like it. He had had ample proof that night that Miss Raleigh was no Cyprian. Despite the misleading circumstance of finding her in the Archangel’s carriage, her appearance and demeanour were as far removed from that of a courtesan as was possible to find. The Angels would not be seen dead in the shabby gentility that had characterised Miss Raleigh’s clothing. Not that she was in any way an antidote. Lucas suspected that, if suitably attired, Miss Raleigh might outshine some of the accredited beauties of the season. Her hair had been a lustrous dark russet beneath that ugly bonnet, her figure was extremely neat and her blue eyes were magnificent. He had noticed. Of course he had. He would defy any red-blooded male to look at Miss Rebecca Raleigh and not feel a flicker of interest, to study her mouth and not want to kiss her... Lucas shifted his shoulders beneath the damp material of his jacket. If Miss Raleigh defended herself so effectively against all comers, then such thoughts were quite pointless. Lucas had been on the wrong end of plenty of weapons in his time in the army, but this had been the first on which he had been menaced by an engraver’s scribe. He accepted wryly that it was no more than he deserved for trying his luck. It had been a deliberate challenge he had thrown down to her— and she had responded with a coolness and a courage that had won his admiration. Lucas smiled to himself. Miss Raleigh had not liked him, but all the same, she

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had not been indifferent to him as a man. She had been unable to hide that from him. He had seen it in her eyes when he had touched her. There had been a vulnerability about her then that she could not conceal. He finally turned into Grosvenor Square and ran up the steps into the house. Byrne, the butler, noted his rain-soaked jacket but made no comment beyond the very faintest of raised eyebrows. The servants were accustomed to Stephen arriving back in all manner of disarray. To see Lucas in a like state was very unusual. Stephen was awaiting him in the library, faultlessly attired in buckskins and a jacket of blue superfine. Lucas shrugged off his own jacket and handed it to the footman before making his way across to the table and pouring himself a brandy. He waved the glass at Stephen. ‘One for you, little brother?’ Stephen nodded. There was a wary look in his eyes as he watched Lucas pour for him. He took the proffered drink with a word of thanks and waited until Lucas had taken his seat by the roaring fire before he did the same. Lucas sat back with a sigh, removed his neckcloth and stretched his legs out towards the blaze. His eyes were fixed on the flames. By now he was fairly convinced that Miss Raleigh had been telling the truth and he certainly did not believe Stephen capable of carrying off a deception. Without turning his head, he said, ‘So tell me, Stephen, how comes it that I find you conveyed home in a carriage belonging to the Archangel Club?’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stephen jump

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and spill his brandy on his jacket sleeve. Stephen cursed under his breath. He had paled and now fixed Lucas with a pleading look. ‘The Archangel? But I had no notion... I mean... Oh, Lord!’ ‘Oh, Lord, indeed,’ Lucas said, very drily. He smiled. ‘Are you telling me, Stephen, that you have had no dealings with the Angels before tonight?’ ‘I haven’t had any dealings with them at all!’ His brother protested. ‘I only jumped in the curst coach because it was passing and I did not know what to do!’ Lucas looked at him. His younger brother had never been the brightest apple in the barrel, and when Lucas had discovered that he would be nursemaiding Stephen around London for a few weeks he had roundly cursed his elder brothers who had assigned him the task. It could not be helped—Justin, the Duke of Kestrel and head of the family, was at his estate in Suffolk and Richard was on his honeymoon, and not even Lucas could blame him for prioritising his married bliss above keeping an eye on a wayward youth. Besides, Lucas had business to attend to in London, and had therefore been the obvious choice to rein in Stephen’s wilder excesses. It seemed, however, that this particular incident was not as serious as it had originally appeared. Both Stephen and Miss Rebecca Raleigh were telling the same tale and Lucas was inclined to believe that it was a true one. ‘You did not know that you had appropriated a carriage belonging to one of the most notorious clubs in town?’ he repeated, just to be sure.

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‘No!’ Stephen was looking most unhappy. ‘Lucas, I swear I had no idea—’ ‘Very well,’ Lucas said. He eyed Stephen closely, aware that his brother was trying to utilise seldomused mental machinery. A deep frown marred Stephen’s brow. Lucas waited patiently. ‘But if Miss Raleigh was in the carriage,’ Stephen said slowly, ‘and the carriage belongs to the Archangel Club, then that would make Miss Raleigh—’ He broke off, a look of horror crossing his face. ‘Oh, no! That must make Miss Raleigh a Cyprian! I say, Lucas, that cannot be right!’ Lucas laughed. He was interested to see the loyalty that Miss Raleigh had inspired in Stephen, even on so short an acquaintance. Stephen’s face had set in a stubbornly disbelieving expression. ‘That cannot be so,’ he said again. Lucas raised his brows. ‘Why not?’ he asked, curious to know Stephen’s reasoning. ‘Because it was clear to see that she is a lady,’ Stephen said. His face lightened. ‘In fact, she is a capital girl! Do you know, Lucas, she did not scream or have the vapours when she saw me? She offered me her cloak in case I caught a chill. I thought that most practical of her.’ ‘It was indeed,’ Lucas murmured. For a moment he wondered. Miss Raleigh might not be a courtesan, but such coolness when confronted by masculine nakedness did argue some prior experience. ‘And,’ Stephen added, warming to his theme, ‘she even suggested I might creep inside the house by way of the servants’ door to prevent you from seeing me.

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I thought that very clever of her. So you see, there is not the least possible likelihood of her being a courtesan. She is far too—’ ‘Too?’ ‘Too special,’ Stephen muttered, turning scarlet. Lucas viewed his young brother with some pity. It was clear to him that Stephen was suffering the first, unavoidable pangs of calf love. It had been bound to happen sooner or later, and rather Miss Raleigh than some genuine Cyprian who would take all Stephen’s allowance, turn his untried emotions inside out and probably sue him for breach of promise into the bargain. Remembering an episode from his own youth that had involved an older woman, an unguarded marriage proposal and a large sum of money from his father to buy the harpy off, Lucas repressed a shudder. It was fortunate that Stephen’s admiration for Miss Raleigh seemed of so innocent a nature. In point of fact, he was the one who had entertained decidedly less than innocent notions of Miss Raleigh, and attempted to act on them. He was the one who had thought of Rebecca’s thick, russet hair released from its confining pins and spread across his bare chest, had imagined her mouth crushed ruthlessly beneath his own, had dreamed of freeing those voluptuous curves from the restraint of that disfiguring worsted dress. Miss Rebecca Raleigh had been very tightly buttoned up and he had wanted to unbutton her. He would have given a great deal for the privilege. He shifted in his chair as his thoughts had their inevitable physical reaction.

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‘I say, Lucas,’ Stephen said, looking at him closely, ‘are you feeling quite the thing?’ Lucas shook his head slightly to banish the images of Rebecca, naked and wanton in his arms. Damnation! The more he tried to dismiss the thoughts, the more they crowded in on him. And he was no callow boy. He had suffered his own youthful infatuation years ago and these days preferred to keep such matters on a far more businesslike footing. Not for him the pitfalls of love, nor the placidity of marriage either. He would leave that to his elder brother, Richard. ‘I was thinking of Miss Raleigh,’ he said truthfully. ‘Pray do not concern yourself, Stephen. As you so perceptively noted, she is no courtesan. In point of fact, she is a glass engraver. She tells me that she is undertaking a commission for the Archangel Club. That is all.’ Stephen looked slightly puzzled, as though he had not previously realised that the profession of glass engraving existed. ‘Oh well, then...’ he said, his brow clearing. ‘As I said, she is a capital girl.’ ‘She is indeed,’ Lucas agreed, ‘and I shall be calling on her to convey our gratitude for the service she rendered you. I do not think that we need say any more on the subject.’ Stephen looked slightly shocked, as though he could not quite believe that he was getting away with matters so lightly. He got to his feet, his gaze going to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I say, Lucas, do you think that I might be able to go back to White’s—’

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‘No,’ Lucas said. Stephen deflated. ‘Oh, very well then. Good night.’ ‘Good night,’ Lucas said, with a smile. ‘I wonder in which part of London Miss Raleigh has her engraving workshop?’ he added, half to himself. ‘I have not the slightest idea,’ Stephen said, sounding startled that his brother had even asked him. ‘I have not given the matter any thought.’ ‘Of course not,’ Lucas said. ‘I am surprised that I even thought you would.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘Sleep well, little brother. I thought that we might go to Tattersall’s tomorrow afternoon if you would like.’ Stephen flushed with pleasure. The heroworshipping look was back in his eyes again. ‘Oh, may we? I should like that above all things!’ He went out and left Lucas shaking his head ruefully. Outside in the hall, he could hear Stephen regaling Byrne, the butler, with a highly coloured version of his adventures. ‘How very exciting for you, my lord,’ he heard the butler say expressionlessly. Stephen’s voice faded away and there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and the click as Lucas replaced his brandy glass on the table. His thoughts had returned to Miss Rebecca Raleigh, but there was a more professional interest in them now. It was a curious twist of fate that had delivered to him Miss Raleigh, engraver, when he had spent the past three weeks checking every single glass engraver’s workshop in London, from the showrooms of the great practitioners to the garrets of the artisans.

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Lucas went over to the desk, took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the top drawer. There was a list within, marked with small ticks, crosses and additional notations. Lucas scanned it quickly. Miss Rebecca Raleigh’s name was not on the list, but perhaps she worked for someone else. She had not made that clear. Or perhaps, as he had originally thought, there was more to her story than she had disclosed to him. Lucas took out the most recent letter from his brother Justin in Midwinter. For the past six months, the Kestrels and their friend Cory Newlyn had been involved in the delicate task of finding and catching a French spy, a criminal so cunning that he—or rather, she—had so far evaded all their attempts at a trap. Gradually they had drawn nearer to their target. They had eliminated all those who must be innocent and had identified a core of people who must be guilty. As yet they had not caught them red-handed and the spy and her allies grew ever more brazen, operating under their noses. In the course of the investigation both Cory Newlyn and Richard Kestrel had found themselves brides from amongst the ladies of the Midwinter villages. It was a fate that Lucas was determined would not befall him. In his most recent letter, Justin wrote that the hunt for the Midwinter spy was entering its final phase. They had identified that the culprit was still passing treasonable information to the French on such crucial matters as harbour defences and troop movements. They knew that the spy ring communicated by a pictorial code rather than a written one. And they now knew that the original cipher, the key to the entire

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code, was engraved on glass. They had some examples of the code in their possession, and Cory, who was a specialist in code breaking, was working on it even now. All they had to do was catch the spies in the act— and find the engraver. The latter task had been allocated to Lucas and was the reason why he was currently in London. Lucas put the letter down slowly. Finding the engraver had been like looking for a needle in a haystack. It was not that there were hundreds of glass engravers in the city, for it was a highly specialised trade. The difficulty lay in the fact that he was trying to identify a certain style of engraving. He had questioned each man, examined their work and inspected their premises in minute detail on the pretext that he was about to place a very large order with them. During the course of his enquiries he had found nothing to match the patterns he was looking for. The mystery engraver had proved tiresomely elusive. But now perhaps she had found him rather than the other way round... Life was hard, Lucas thought. It must be a damnable business for a young and unprotected woman to be obliged to survive by making her own living. If Miss Raleigh was tempted by work that was not quite legal, who could blame her? If she accepted a commission from the Archangel Club, one could not be surprised. There might even be a connection between the Midwinter spy and the Club. The Archangel Club was a shadowy organisation with some downright dubious members. One heard rumours...

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Lucas pulled the inkpot towards him, selected a sheet of paper from the drawer, and started to pen a letter to Justin. If there was a link between the Midwinter spy and the Archangel Club, then only Justin had the necessary authority to penetrate the club’s mysteries. He would have to concentrate on Miss Raleigh herself and see what he could persuade her to divulge. Lucas paused. Under the circumstances it was imperative that he should rid himself of any designs on Miss Rebecca Raleigh. There was nothing that confused rational thought so much as unbridled passion. He liked to keep the two matters entirely separate and had determined after the disastrous affaire in his youth that he would never make the mistake of letting his feelings cloud his judgement ever again. It was a vow that had been surprisingly easy to keep. Until now. Lucas’s quill scratched as he outlined the situation to his brother. Of course, he could be getting ahead of himself and the girl might prove to be quite innocent. He paused. Innocent was, in fact, a word that would fit Miss Rebecca Raleigh. For all that she was not a schoolroom miss, for all that there was a certain robustness about her as a result, no doubt, of earning her own living, regardless of all those factors there was also a vulnerability and an inexperience to her. It was a curious mix and an intriguing one. A woman who was not overset at the sight of a naked man, yet retained a certain demureness... Lucas twitched the pen between his fingers. He did not delude himself that he was going to find the situation easy to manage. In some ways it would be his

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pleasure to pursue the acquaintance with Miss Raleigh and in other ways it would be the very devil to keep his mind on his work. But first, he needed to find her. He reached out and pulled the bell. When Byrne trod softly into the room he looked up from his letter. ‘Byrne, would you be so good as to send for Tom Bradshaw first thing in the morning?’ he said. ‘There is someone I need him to find.’ ‘Very good, my lord,’ Byrne said impassively. Bradshaw, who had originally been employed by Cory Newlyn on some of his more dubious adventures, was a frequent caller in Grosvenor Square. All of the servants knew not to question why. The butler went out. Lucas sat back in his chair and picked up his list again. He could be jumping to conclusions, of course. Miss Rebecca Raleigh might be precisely what she said she was and his quarry was somewhere else on the list. A prickling instinct, a certain excitement, told him otherwise. Lucas had always had a finely developed sense of danger. It had kept him safe and gained him a legendary reputation amongst his men for having more lives than a cat. Now it was telling him that the end game had begun. His quarry was within his grasp.

Chapter Two

It was the sound of carriage wheels on the cobbles outside, followed by a peremptory rapping at the door, that roused Rebecca from sleep the following morning. She turned her head and squinted at the clock on the chest of drawers opposite her bed. It was ten o’clock. The light from behind the thin curtains was bright and the street was alive with noise. Rebecca went across to the window and threw the casement wide. Down in the street was the familiar green and gold coach with the angel crest on the door, and hanging from the coach window was a buxom beauty with tumbling golden curls and a plunging red silk dress. When she saw Rebecca peering out she let out a shriek. ‘Becca! Come down and let me in!’ Dragging a shawl about her shoulders, Rebecca ran down the wooden stairs and threw back the bolts on the workshop door, then went to unfasten the shutters. The light flooded in. It showed the room to be narrow, neat and plain, with a workbench beneath the window and shelves displaying engraved glassware on the op-

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posite wall. Despite its austere emptiness, the studio had touches of elegance. There was a polished rosewood desk where Rebecca took orders and a brocaded chaise-longue on which the customers might sit whilst they discussed their requirements or waited for their commissions to be packed. Rebecca’s uncle, who had run the business until his death some four months previously, had impressed upon her the need to present an efficient and prosperous face to the world, no matter the underlying truth. Prosperity begat further business, George Provost had told her, so the workshop was always swept clean and tidy, a fire always burned in winter and the shelves displaying the glass engraving were illuminated by candlelight to show the work to advantage. This morning, however, there was no fire since Rebecca had overslept and she had had no maid to help her since the death of her aunt and uncle. She lived and worked alone, doggedly enduring with a business that was failing as surely as the icy rain fell on the London streets. First it was the apprentices and the journeymen who had left, shuffling their feet and avoiding her eye as they made excuses of better paid work elsewhere. She had known that they did not wish to work for a woman; had known that the vintner whose premises abutted hers on the left and the goldsmith who penned her in on the right were making a wager over who would get her workshop when she was forced out. The commissions had fallen off with the news of her uncle’s death and she had had to let the maid go after only a month, unable to pay her wages any longer. She felt nervous living on her own,

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for although Clerkenwell was a far more salubrious neighbourhood than many, it was no place for a woman alone. Nan had told her this before and here she was to tell her again. Nan Astley swept into the workshop in the manner of a duchess visiting a hovel. She held her red silk skirts up in one dainty hand for all that she knew the floor was clean enough to eat her dinner off. Once upon a time little Nan Lowell had grown up with Rebecca on these streets, and these days, widowed and embarked on a very different life, she never lost an opportunity to make a fuss over her newfound position as the mistress of a wealthy lord. To those who looked askance and told her she was no better than she ought to be, Nan turned up her nose and swept past in a cloud of jasmine perfume. It was Nan who had gained Rebecca the precious commission from the Archangel Club, for she had once been one of the famous Angels herself before Lord Bosham had taken her under his sole protection. Now she viewed Rebecca as something of a prote´ge´e and was determined to help her gain a rich protector and escape her penury. In vain did Rebecca argue that she would rather die then sell her body. Nan ignored her protests, being something akin to a force of nature. ‘Darling!’ Nan approximated a kiss an inch from Rebecca’s cheek. ‘You look so peaky. And here was I thinking I would find you already hard at work on the vase and rose bowl for the Archangel. Whatever can have happened to you that you are still in bed at this time?’ Her big blue eyes darted around the room as though expecting to find a gentleman effacing him-

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self against the panelling. ‘My darling Boshie positively forced me out of the house to call on you, Becca darling. Boshie, I said, nobody but nobody calls at ten, or at least only if they are most ill bred. But Boshie was very insistent.’ Nan arched a plucked eyebrow. ‘It is very cold in here, my dear. I shall get Sam to light a fire whilst you dress. Ten minutes, mind you! Do not keep me waiting!’ Rebecca trailed meekly back upstairs to dress. There was no point in resisting Nan on the small things when it took all her strength to oppose her on the large ones. It took her a mere five minutes to dress in the plain brown gown she wore when working, and to bundle up her thick, dark hair under the old-fashioned lace cap. Pausing to inspect her reflection in the speckled mirror, she thought that she did indeed look pallid compared to Nan’s glowing and painted beauty. But such beauty came at a price and it was a cost that Rebecca had never been prepared to pay. Even now, as she faced ruin head on, she shuddered to think of it. When she descended she found the workshop candles lit, a fire burning in the hearth and Sam the coachman fetching a tray of tea in from the scullery. Nan was reclining on the chaise-longue, her feet up on Rebecca’s workbench, her head tilted as she admired the red shoes that peeped from below her petticoats. She looked abandoned and beautiful, all tumbled fair curls and creamy flesh. She looked up as Rebecca came in and gave a little shudder. ‘Brown, darling? So disfiguring!’

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‘I do not dress to impress in my profession,’ Rebecca said, without rancour. Her friend’s blue eyes mocked her. ‘And how it shows!’ In reply, Rebecca pushed Nan’s feet gently off the workbench and sat down opposite her. Sam the coachman put the tea tray down on the rosewood desk and gave Rebecca a huge wink. She found herself smiling back. Sam had the bearing of an old soldier and a granite-hewn face to match, and he might work for the Archangel, but then so did she after a fashion. He also made an excellent strong cup of tea, and that went a long way towards gaining Rebecca’s appreciation. ‘Call back for me in a half-hour if you please, Samuel,’ Nan said sweetly, kicking off the red shoes and tucking her feet up under her on the chaise-longue. ‘I have matters of business to discuss with Miss Raleigh.’ The coachman bowed, gave Rebecca another smile, and went out into the street. ‘Your business must be urgent indeed if it brings you out so early,’ Rebecca said. She remembered Nan once saying that one of the benefits of being a kept woman was that one worked all night and could sleep all day. Rebecca privately thought that it was not worth it, even to be the mistress of an amiable buffoon like Lord Bosham. For better or worse, she had inherited a large amount of pride and a streak of independence from her family, and that pride revolted at the thought of being any man’s mistress. Nan did not answer immediately. She allowed her gaze to travel around the workshop, pausing as her

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eye fell on a slender vase on the windowsill. It was engraved with a picture of a sailing ship, a privateer with elegant lines and furled sails. She smiled slightly. ‘How is your brother these days, Rebecca? Have you heard from him lately?’ ‘Not in a long time,’ Rebecca said. Her chest tightened and she took a deep breath to steady herself. No matter how much time went past, it always hurt to be cut off from Daniel; now that her aunt and uncle were dead, the isolation was much more acute. ‘A pity,’ Nan said, her blue eyes sharp. ‘Now there is a man who could persuade me into marriage...’ ‘I do not believe that Daniel is a marrying man,’ Rebecca said with a small smile. ‘He is wedded to his ship.’ ‘Show me a man who is the marrying kind, darling,’ Nan said, a little bitterly. ‘They are all out for what they can get, which is why we have to fleece them first.’ Rebecca pulled a face. She had heard Nan speak like this before and seen her friend’s pretty face crease with cynicism and bitterness. Rebecca herself had never had a great deal of time for love. As a child, she had been a voracious reader and had devoured everything that came within her grasp, be it romances or treatises on engraving. Once she had started to work, the time for reading and any other pursuit had become very limited indeed and Rebecca had come to the conclusion that romance belonged only between the pages of a book. As far as she could see, marriage was a matter of comfort, convenience and sometimes of financial benefit, and yet she had never seen fit to

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enter the married state for any of those reasons. Not even when her aunt and uncle had died and, lonely and almost destitute, she had received three offers of marriage and had been tempted to take them simply for security... She had held out because a stubborn instinct had told her that, despite her cynicism, there had to be something better. She hoped it was true, yet in her heart she did not really believe it. Rebecca drew a piece of paper towards her and extracted a pencil from the drawer of her desk. She started to sketch idly—little cherubs, larger angels with grave faces, wings folded, hands held piously in prayer. The angel motif was the perfect engraving for her commission. But perhaps a saintly face was not the correct image for the Archangel Club. Angels with wicked faces would be more appropriate, angels that looked like Lord Lucas Kestrel... Rebecca bit the end of her pencil and tried to concentrate. ‘Lord Fremantle was asking for you,’ Nan said. ‘He was most impressed when he met you last night.’ The pencil broke between Rebecca’s fingers but she did not look up. ‘By my engraving, I hope,’ she said colourlessly. Nan drummed her fingers on the brocaded edge of the sofa. ‘You understand precisely what I mean, Becca.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘I hope that you told him that I was not interested,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘Rebecca,’ Nan said, ‘will you not at least consider it? Fremantle is rich and generous—’

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And depraved and revolting, Rebecca added, though she did not voice her thoughts aloud. Nan waved a hand to encompass the workshop. ‘What are you trying to prove here? You know that you cannot continue. This week, next week, it will all be the same in the end.’ Rebecca looked up and met the steely blue of her friend’s eyes. She felt angry and upset. So this was why Nan had called so early. Lord Fremantle, Bosham’s crony and one of the gentlemen of the Archangel Club, had made no secret of his admiration for her when they had met the previous night. Rebecca had ignored his veiled hints and had concentrated on business, but now the inevitable had happened. Fremantle wanted her to be his mistress and he had sent Nan as a go-between, to negotiate the arrangement. Perhaps there was even a financial reward in it for Nan herself, when Rebecca complied. The thought made her skin crawl. Nan was still looking disparagingly around the empty workshop. Rebecca knew there was no point in pretending. Her friend had seen the desperate state to which she had descended. Nan had even checked that Daniel, Rebecca’s brother, was not inconveniently on hand to defend his sister’s honour, and then she had passed on Lord Fremantle’s proposition. And the worst of it was that Nan was right. Sooner or later Rebecca would lose the roof over her head and would need to find alternative employment, although she was utterly determined that it would not be in a house of ill repute, even one so exclusive as the Archangel Club.

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Rebecca thought about Lord Fremantle and felt her skin shudder. He had been everything that was courteous the previous night, but his dead fish eyes and his waxy hands had repelled her. Even had she been starving she could never have accepted his offer. The thought of those hands on her body was so repellent that she felt sick. ‘His lordship is very kind,’ she said, trying to swallow the lump of nausea in her throat, ‘but I fear I must decline his proposal. Even if I cannot continue with my own workshop I am certain I shall find employment elsewhere.’ ‘As a drudge in someone else’s workshop?’ Nan asked, the derision clear in her voice. ‘You are too good for that, Becca.’ Rebecca almost said, ‘Better a drudge than a whore’, but managed to hold back, both out of friendship and also because she was not at all certain that it was true. Was her own parlous situation so much more enviable than her friend’s pampered life? Most people would think not. ‘I cannot do as you suggest,’ she said. She knew that her voice was nowhere near as steady as she would have wished, but she also knew that Nan was canny and would not push too far. She had planted an idea and she would watch it grow as Rebecca’s plight became more acute. Sure enough, Nan shrugged lightly now. ‘No matter. It was merely a thought. Your decision will not affect your commission, of course. Lord Fremantle was most impressed by your work.’ ‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said. She looked at her friend,

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her shoulders slumping. ‘You know how grateful I am that you got me the work, Nan, but I cannot do as Lord Fremantle wishes.’ Nan’s hard little face softened slightly. She put a hand out to Rebecca. ‘I know you think that you could not do it, Becca, but it is not so difficult in the end...’ ‘I understand that,’ Rebecca said, shuddering. ‘That is what frightens me.’ She picked up her pencil again and sketched a few more angels. Lord Fremantle had been entranced by her suggestion that she should take the Archangel image and transfer it to the medium of glass. He had placed an immediate commission for a large shallow rose bowl and a matching vase to grace the dining table of the Club, and he had offered her a huge amount of money as payment for her work. Rebecca felt cold inside. She had an unpleasant feeling that she might be obliged to offer Lord Fremantle various other services before she ever saw her money, whatever Nan said. The difficulty was that she was trapped. If she undertook the work and the Archangel Club refused to pay then she was ruined, with no recourse. If she refused the commission because she suspected Lord Fremantle’s motives, then she would starve all the sooner, for she had only one other customer at present and no prospect of that situation changing. She had no choice. ‘I hear,’ Nan said, holding her teacup delicately between painted fingernails, ‘that you had a most exciting encounter with Lord Lucas Kestrel last night, Rebecca.’

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Rebecca pushed her sketches away with an impatient hand. ‘I suppose that Samuel told you?’ ‘Of course. He was most concerned for your safety, my love. He would have stepped in at any moment, you know, had his assistance been required.’ ‘Handsome of him,’ Rebecca murmured, remembering the alacrity with which the coachman had taken orders from Lucas Kestrel. ‘Fortunately I was in no real danger.’ ‘Tell me all about it,’ Nan invited, leaning forward. ‘You are flying high there, Becca. The Kestrels are monstrously high in the instep.’ ‘I am scarcely pursuing their acquaintance,’ Rebecca said drily. ‘Indeed, I should be happy if I never set eyes on a member of that family again. One meeting was quite enough for me.’ ‘It sounds as though you set eyes on quite a lot of Stephen Kestrel,’ Nan said, arching her plucked eyebrows knowingly. ‘Almost all of him, in fact. Sam was concerned that he might catch his death of cold when he hopped into the carriage half-naked.’ Rebecca stifled a laugh. ‘Happily for Lord Stephen, I lent him my cloak. And I averted my gaze as best I could.’ Nan opened her reticule and popped a sugared almond into her mouth, crunching with fervour. ‘I hear that he is a sweet boy.’ ‘Very,’ Rebecca said wryly. ‘I felt very sisterly toward him.’ ‘I wonder if he has a penchant for bawdy houses and low company?’ Nan mused. ‘Perhaps I could make his acquaintance?’

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Rebecca gave her a very sharp look. ‘He has no money of his own,’ she said. ‘I think he is beneath your notice, Nan.’ ‘Oh, well...’ Nan put her reticule aside with a pettish gesture. ‘I doubt the game would be worth the candle. Young boys...’ She shrugged. ‘They are usually grateful and eager, but it is seldom worth it in the end.’ ‘Besides which, you would incur the wrath of Lord Lucas Kestrel,’ Rebecca said feelingly, ‘which is not a fate I would wish on anyone.’ Nan’s blue eyes lit with laughter. ‘What did you think of him, Becca? I doubt that he aroused any sisterly feelings in you. That is not the sentiment he generally produces in the ladies.’ ‘No,’ Rebecca said. ‘I imagine that it is not.’ She thought of all the feelings that Lucas Kestrel had aroused in her: the anger and the edgy excitement and the longing. She fidgeted with her teacup, impatient with herself, wishing that it was possible to dismiss Lucas from her thoughts. ‘Have you met him?’ she asked. ‘Only in passing,’ Nan said with every evidence of regret. ‘He is not one of Bosham’s set.’ ‘Nor a member of the Archangel Club?’ Nan put her head back and gave a peal of laughter. ‘I should think not! Lord Lucas Kestrel is far too straight for the Angels!’ Rebecca raised her brows. She did not like the sense of relief the news brought her. ‘I thought him a rake.’ ‘Oh, he is, but...’ Nan wrinkled up her nose ‘...his

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tastes do not run to the exotic.’ She shot Rebecca a curious look. ‘Did you like him, Becca?’ Rebecca reached for her pieces of paper and idly sketched a few kestrels. She was good at drawing hawks. Their grace and fearless pride had always attracted her. She felt tired. It had been Lucas Kestrel who was responsible for the fact that she had overslept that morning, for even after the carriage had finally delivered her home the night before she had found that she could not sleep immediately. Lord Lucas’s face was before her when she closed her eyes. She imagined that she could still feel his touch against her skin. She could hear his voice and see the way his eyes had darkened with disturbing intentness when he had focussed on her. No man had ever stirred her in such a way before. After two hours of tossing and turning in her cold bed, she had risen to warm some milk and make herself a soothing drink with nutmeg and honey. And finally she had slept, only to be troubled by a tumble of broken and erotic dreams that left her wide awake, flushed and aroused, and distressed to find herself so. ‘Lord Lucas is like many of his type,’ she said now. ‘He is arrogant, overbearing and damnably sure of himself. I always avoid men of that stamp.’ There was a great deal more feeling in her voice than she had intended and Nan opened her eyes very wide. ‘So there is a man who can wring a passionate response from you, Rebecca! How very interesting.’ Rebecca made an exasperated noise and folded her

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arms tightly. ‘Nan, the only feeling I have for Lord Lucas Kestrel is one of extreme dislike!’ ‘What better welcome could a man have?’ an amused masculine voice said from the doorway. ‘Good morning, Miss Raleigh. It is such a pleasure to see you again!’ Lord Lucas Kestrel was standing with his hand on the latch and now he swung the door closed behind him and stepped into the workshop. He was immaculately dressed in a dark-green morning coat and buff pantaloons, and his black hussar boots gleamed almost blue in the patches of sunshine that speckled the floor. Under his arm was a brown paper package tied up with string, which he brought across to the table and presented to Rebecca with a small, ironic bow. Rebecca, conscious that her face was bright pink and that she was extremely flustered, muttered an incoherent word of thanks and wished that she might be anywhere other than right there under Lucas’s laughing hazel gaze. She felt at an extreme disadvantage. Nan was not so reticent. She slid from the chaiselongue with a certain feline grace and held out a hand to the newcomer. ‘I fear that my friend’s powers of speech have deserted her, my lord, so that I am obliged to introduce myself. Anne Ast-ley, delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Lucas took her hand and bowed over it with an oldfashioned style that clearly charmed her. ‘Miss Astley. Lord Lucas Kestrel, at your service.’ ‘We were speaking of you only a moment ago,’ Nan

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said artlessly, making Rebecca glare at her. ‘Rebecca was telling me of her experience last night.’ Lucas’s mouth quirked into a grin. He shot Rebecca a wicked sideways look. ‘I hope that Miss Raleigh found it as bracing an incident as I did myself,’ he said. ‘I am happy to say that I do not require my life to be braced by such events,’ Rebecca said. She gestured to the parcel. ‘I thank you for your kindness in returning the cloak, my lord, but as I said last night, it was quite unnecessary for you to call in person.’ Lucas smiled into her eyes and she felt his gaze like a physical touch. ‘Wild horses would not have kept me away from you, Miss Raleigh,’ he said gently. ‘Well,’ Rebecca said, feeling her temper start to simmer at the mocking light in his hazel eyes, ‘I wish that I could offer you some refreshment as reward for your persistence, Lord Lucas, but I fear that Miss Astley and I have just taken tea. Besides, I am persuaded that you must be quite extraordinarily busy, so I shall not delay you a moment longer.’ Lucas laughed. ‘You quite mistake the case, Miss Raleigh, for I have set aside the entire morning in order to come and see you.’ ‘Then I am desolated to disappoint you, my lord,’ Rebecca said, ‘but I must continue with my work.’ She turned away, intending it as a dismissal, but was very conscious that Lucas had not left. In fact, he was politely holding the door for Nan with the words, ‘Miss Astley, I do believe that your carriage is waiting. It was a pleasure to meet you...’ Rebecca hurried across the workshop. To be left

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alone with Lucas Kestrel was not in the least what she wanted. She felt quite breathless at the thought. She caught Nan’s sleeve between urgent fingers. ‘Nan, wait! There is no need for you to hurry away.’ ‘I fear that I must be at the Club within the hour,’ Nan said, smiling at Lucas with a complicity that Rebecca found both frustrating and irritating. ‘I shall be back soon to see how you fare, Becca. In the meanwhile, think about Lord Fremantle’s offer. It is a good one.’ She glanced at Lucas again. ‘You will receive none better.’ Rebecca could feel Lucas’s quizzical gaze on her face and coloured up again. Nan leaned over and kissed the air by Rebecca’s cheek, then gave Lucas a flirtatious look over her shoulder. ‘I shall hope to see you again soon, my lord.’ ‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ Lucas said, with an expressive lift of his brows. Rebecca watched him give Nan his hand up into the carriage. She was sorely tempted to bolt the door against him whilst he was outside, except that he struck her as the sort of man who would probably climb in at the window. So she waited, her jaw set, a stormy look in her eyes. ‘You look quite put out, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas said, as the coach rolled away down the street. He closed the workshop door quietly and came across to her. ‘Whatever can have happened to put you in so poor a temper?’ Rebecca pressed her lips together hard. ‘I apologise if I appear unwelcoming, my lord. The fact of the matter is that I have an important commission to fulfill

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and have already lost time today through Miss Astley’s visit. You must excuse me—’ ‘Must I?’ Lucas murmured. He took a step closer, his eyes on her face. ‘But I have gone to an inordinate amount of trouble just to find you, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘Then you would have done better to save yourself the effort, my lord,’ Rebecca said, above the swift beating of her heart, ‘for I have no time to spare.’ Lucas’s gaze searched her face. ‘You are mighty quick to dismiss me, Miss Raleigh. What if I too had an offer to make you?’ Rebecca’s heart raced. She turned away, retreating behind her desk. ‘I am not interested in the type of offer a gentleman might make to me,’ she said. ‘They usually involve the sort of work that is...not my forte...’ Lucas was following her, his footsteps slow, soft and inevitable. He was smiling. ‘And what sort of offers might those be, Miss Raleigh?’ ‘You know full well,’ Rebecca said, her mouth dry. ‘Yes, I think that I do.’ Lucas came to stand in front of her. His voice hardened. ‘They are the kind of propositions made by the likes of Lord Fremantle, are they not?’ His gaze drifted over her thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever accepted such a commission, Miss Raleigh?’ The angry sparks lit Rebecca’s blue eyes. ‘You should mind your own damned business, my lord.’ Lucas’s smile deepened. ‘You could become my business, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘You mistake, my lord. That could not happen.’ ‘No?’ Lucas tilted his head thoughtfully. There was

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a challenge in his eyes. Rebecca saw it and her heart stuttered. ‘No.’ She did not sound even a quarter as certain as she would have liked. Lucas watched her for a few seconds, his expression very still, then he drove his hands into his pockets. ‘We shall see. As it happens, you quite mistake me, Miss Raleigh. The offer I intended to make was a commission for a piece of work.’ Rebecca was startled. ‘A commission?’ ‘Of course.’ Lucas’s dark hazel gaze mocked her. ‘I am quite offended that you think me callow enough to offer you carte blanche when what I really wanted was a set of engraved glasses as a wedding present for my brother.’ Rebecca was neatly trapped and she knew it. She had not the slightest belief that Lord Lucas had even thought of commissioning a piece of engraved glass before the previous night. Very likely the matter of glass engraving had not been one on which he had had any opinions at all. Yet she could scarcely accuse him of lying... The words broke from her. ‘I cannot believe, my lord, that you have had a long-cherished intention of ordering a piece of engraved glass for your brother’s wedding!’ Lucas laughed. ‘Of course I have not, Miss Raleigh, but there is a perfectly simple explanation. I have been cudgelling my brains this fortnight past to think of what I might give Richard and Deborah as a wedding present. When I met you—’ he gestured airily ‘—the problem was solved.’

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Rebecca sighed heavily. It was a plausible enough explanation and, goodness knew, she should be grateful for the commission. A piece of work done for an eminent family like the Kestrels might lead to other orders and before long her business would be flourishing again. And beggars could not be choosers, no matter how much she wished to avoid Lord Lucas Kestrel. ‘I take it,’ Lucas said lightly, ‘that you will not be declining my offer?’ ‘No,’ Rebecca said guardedly. The words seemed to stick in her throat. ‘I should be happy to accept.’ ‘Capital!’ Lucas smiled at her. ‘You must tell me how we proceed, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca waved at the display shelves. ‘If you would care to take a look at the work I have on display, my lord, you may choose the type of glass you want and the design that you would like me to engrave on it.’ Lucas nodded. He moved across to look at the shelves. ‘I may take a little while, Miss Raleigh, so pray do not let me distract you from your work. I shall come over when I have decided.’ Rebecca felt a little put out. It was true that time was precious and she should be starting to sketch out the angel patterns on the glass bowl, but she was not at all sure that she could concentrate on her work whilst Lucas was there. She went into the storeroom that led off her studio. The room was cold and dark, and the ranks of glasses, bowls and vases that were normally stacked there to await engraving had dwindled until there were only a few items left. This was the last of her uncle’s stock and Rebecca knew that she would have to order more glass in soon, but she

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did not have the means to pay for it yet. When the commission for the Archangel Club was completed, perhaps... But that was assuming that she would gain more orders. It would be dangerous to buy more glass when her business was so precarious. With a sigh, Rebecca reached for the large glass rose bowl at the back of the shelf and took it back out into the workshop. Lucas was studying one of the engraved glass panels that Rebecca had hung from the ceiling. His head was tilted and Rebecca watched the fall of dark auburn hair across his forehead and the hard, shadowed line of his cheek in the candlelight, and something strange happened to her insides. Her heart gave an erratic thump. She went over to her workbench and placed the bowl carefully on the top. She had a small pot of paint in a drawer, which she always used to make a delicate outline on the glass before she started the engraving. She took out her brush and edged the top off the pot, sketching with delicate strokes. An angel with a wicked face... She could see it in her mind’s eye, head bent in prayer, the line of its cheek and jaw a straight slash in the glass, giving the impression of strength and grace. Rebecca stuck her tongue out slightly and concentrated hard, trying to block out Lucas’s presence. She did not succeed. She was too aware of him. He took his time, examining all the pieces on the display shelves with close attention. She could see his shadow crossing the deeper barred shade on the floor, coming closer. Despite the fact that her back was turned to

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him, his presence disturbed her, stirring the air, creating currents. ‘Is this all your own work?’ Lucas questioned. Rebecca pushed a stray strand of hair away from her flushed face. ‘The majority of the display pieces are my uncle’s work. This was his studio up until his death four months ago. I engraved the glass panels and some of the other items plus the vase.’ She gestured to the windowsill. ‘Your work is very good.’ Lucas’s voice was quiet. ‘There is so much passion in the pieces...’ Rebecca dropped her brush and bent down to retrieve it. Passion—and Lucas Kestrel. It was a combination that made her stomach drop. Her mind filled with images that were nothing to do with engraving at all, images of his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin... ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was muffled. Lucas was standing by the window, looking at the slender vase with the ship engraved on it. He traced the curve of the engraving with one finger. Rebecca repressed a shiver and bent back over her work. She had never experienced such a strong physical reaction to anybody in her life and it frightened her. She wanted him gone. He came back to the workbench and Rebecca put the paintbrush down, eyeing him warily. ‘Have you made your choice, my lord?’ Lucas nodded. ‘I think so. I would like a set of the slender glasses like the one that you have on the shelf engraved with an anchor. A set of six would be per-

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fect. They are quite beautiful. I believe you must be extremely talented, Miss Raleigh.’ There was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone, and after a moment Rebecca gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. She did a quick mental inventory of the contents of her storeroom. She thought that she had just enough stock to cover the order. ‘You have made a good choice,’ she said. ‘And the design?’ Lucas frowned slightly. ‘I am not certain...’ ‘I usually advise clients to choose a design that has a significance to the recipient,’ Rebecca said hesitantly. ‘Flowers for a gardener, or a ship for a sailor, for example.’ She looked at him. ‘A kestrel for the Kestrels, perhaps?’ The lines about Lucas’s eyes deepened as he smiled. ‘What a splendid idea, Miss Raleigh. A kestrel it is, then.’ Rebecca put her head on one side and did a rough drawing of a bird of prey in flight, proud and predatory. ‘How appropriate,’ she said softly. She looked up to find Lucas’s eyes upon her, bright and hard. For a moment their gazes locked and held. Then Lucas said, ‘So, how much are you going to charge me, Miss Raleigh?’ Rebecca tore her gaze away from his. For a brief moment, trapped in the compelling power of his eyes, she had forgotten everything else. She plucked a figure at random. ‘I...erm...twenty guineas, my lord.’

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Lucas looked astounded. He straightened up. ‘Twenty guineas? That is ridiculous, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca was shocked. She had not anticipated that he would argue over cost. Plenty of people did, but she had not imagined Lucas Kestrel to be a miser. She supposed that twenty guineas was a little expensive, but she was not backing down now. She raised her chin in a determined fashion. ‘Twenty guineas it is, my lord.’ ‘I will not give you a penny less than sixty.’ Rebecca recoiled. ‘Sixty guineas for six glasses? Do not be so foolish, my lord!’ ‘It is sixty guineas or nothing, Miss Raleigh. Not a penny more and not a penny less. If you do not wish the commission...’ Rebecca had also got to her feet by now. She faced him across the desk. ‘This is idiotic, my lord! Most people negotiate downwards, not upwards!’ Lucas looked down his nose. ‘I am not most people, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca glared at him. ‘You do not understand. I have given you a fair price for the work.’ ‘Must you sell yourself short? You will never make enough money to survive if you do not value your own work.’ Rebecca shook her head with frustration. ‘It is the market price, my lord. Allow me to know more about that than you do. Only Adams or Woolf could command such prices!’ Lucas shrugged. ‘Do you accept the commission, Miss Raleigh?’ ‘Of course, but—’

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‘Then you must accept the sum I offer.’ Lucas came around the desk and stood in front of her. His dark gaze scanned her face, softening slightly as it lingered on the indignant colour in her cheeks. He shook his head slightly. ‘Pride, Miss Raleigh, is one of the seven deadly sins. But then—’ he took a step closer and his fingers brushed her cheeks with a featherlight touch ‘—so is lust...’ Rebecca went hot all over, then cold. Lucas’s gaze dropped to her lips and she knew with a certainty and a tingling anticipation that he was about to kiss her. She backed away until she came up the hard edge of the desk and put out a hand to ward him off. ‘My lord—’ ‘I am still not sure about you, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas said slowly, ‘despite your claim last night that your association with the Archangel is entirely innocent.’ His fingers drifted down the line of her throat and rested momentarily where the pulse beat hectically in the hollow at its base. ‘I am not at all sure whether you are as virtuous as you claim to be...’ His hand was sliding to the nape of her neck now, tangling in the curls there, stroking softly. His tone was hypnotic and so was the intent look in his eyes. Rebecca felt her knees tremble. The desk creaked as she unconsciously leaned against it for support. She put up a hand and tried to push his aside. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort and so did her words. ‘Whereas I am in absolutely no doubt about you, my lord.’ It came out as a whisper. Laughter lightened Lucas’s eyes. Somehow he had

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captured her hand in his, diverting it from its purpose. His touch was warm and intimate against her skin. ‘Are you not?’ he said. ‘And what do you think of me?’ ‘That you are a rake, my lord,’ Rebecca said. ‘And I suppose that you do not have any time for rakes, Miss Raleigh?’ His thumb was rubbing the back of her hand now, sending tiny quivers of feeling along her nerves. Rebecca frowned, trying to concentrate. ‘You suppose correctly, my lord.’ He was drawing her closer. There was something inevitable, something inescapable about the way his arms went about her. She did not struggle. She found that she wanted to know what it would be like. His lips were cool and light and for a second hers clung to his before he released her. The way that she trembled in his arms was out of all proportion to the kiss and yet she felt shaken to her very soul. ‘Why not?’ he said, very softly. ‘Why not what?’ Rebecca was so confused she could barely stand. ‘Why not give rakes—or at least this one—some of your time?’ For a moment, Rebecca could not think of any reason why not. Then she shook her head sharply to dispel the seductive spell he was weaving. ‘Because I have my own way to make, my lord, and I doubt that you are likely to make that any easier for me.’ ‘You mistake,’ Lucas said. ‘I could make life much smoother for you.’ Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment against the

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temptation. She barely knew this man and yet she knew with an instinct as old as time itself that he was dangerous to her. There was a predatory intensity about him that forced a reaction from deep within her. ‘I am sure that you could make my life smoother, my lord,’ she said, taking a deep breath to steady herself, ‘if your patronage gains me more work.’ Lucas laughed and released her. ‘Very well, Miss Raleigh.’ His tone sobered. ‘How long will it take you to complete the work on the glasses?’ ‘About a week, I imagine.’ Lucas bowed. ‘Then I shall return in a week’s time. Good day, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca sank down on to the chaise-longue as he went out, closing the door quietly behind him. She felt physically exhausted, as though she had been working ceaselessly for hours. She was not at all sure what had happened between the two of them. It was not something that had ever happened to her before. But Lucas had had a word for it. Lust. Nothing could have spelled out more clearly the role Lord Lucas Kestrel foresaw for her in his life. He might have held back from an offer of carte blanche now, but it was only a matter of time. And in truth, there was something a great deal more appealing about accepting an offer from such a man than from the likes of Lord Fremantle. Rebecca felt herself tremble at the thought. What had Nan said? It is not so difficult in the end... Rebecca could see just how easy it could be. She picked up the rose bowl and peered at her re-

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flection in the polished glass. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. She felt wide awake, stirred up. Once again, she remembered the blissful feeling of Lucas’s arms around her. It had felt absolutely right to be there, exciting, pleasurable and at the same time deeply comforting, like coming home. Rebecca put her face in her hands for a brief moment, then bent to scoop up the pencils and the sheets of paper that were still lying scattered on the floor. She reminded herself that bliss was a very short-lived and deceptive feeling, for when it had gone, as it surely would, one was left counting the cost. She must be practical. She had a living to earn and she wanted matters neat, tidy and simple. There was no room in her private life for passion when it all went into her work. Nothing must induce her to accept carte blanche. Not Lucas’s persuasions, nor her own desires. She owed it to herself to keep that pledge. All the same, she was tempted.

Chapter Three

L

ord Lucas Kestrel was feeling guilty. It was not a sensation that was familiar to him and he did not care for it. It was a guilt that had crept over him during the previous few days and had finally driven him out of the house at nearly midnight to take refuge at White’s, where his friends had greeted him with great pleasure and had promptly set out to relieve him of a large part of his army pay. Since Lucas could not concentrate he lost very quickly, and had just thrown his cards in for a final time when someone touched his shoulder and Cory Newlyn’s voice said in his ear, ‘Would you care to join me for a drink, Lucas, before you lose your shirt?’ Lucas looked up, his dark scowl lightening into a reluctant smile. Cory had been a friend of the Kestrels for many years and the two of them had met only the previous week when he had called on Lord Newlyn at the British Museum to discuss the pictorial code being used by the Midwinter spies. Lucas stretched. ‘I’ll gladly join you,’ he said, moving to sit with Cory at a quiet corner table where a

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bottle of port already resided on the table between them. Cory sat down, crossed his long legs at the ankle and viewed Lucas with a meditative air. ‘The only time I have seen a man lose like that was when your brother Richard was suffering the pangs of unrequited love for Deborah Stratton,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There must be something weighing heavy on your mind. What is going on, Luc?’ Lucas scowled. ‘Damn it, Cory,’ he said feelingly, ‘must you be so shrewd?’ Cory laughed. ‘Forgive me. If you do not wish to talk...’ Lucas shrugged, trying to shake off his irritation. ‘I feel guilty because I am behaving like a cad,’ he said bluntly. Briefly he told Cory the tale of his dealings with Rebecca Raleigh. ‘Tom Bradshaw discovered that she worked out of a studio in Clerkenwell,’ he finished. ‘Until four months ago it belonged to her uncle, George Provost. He was a well-respected engraver, if not a particularly eminent one, and he would have been the perfect choice to make the Midwinter engravings, for he would welcome the business but not be famous enough for anyone to recognise his work.’ Cory grimaced. ‘You are sure?’ ‘Certain.’ Lucas toyed with his glass of port, watching the deep red liquid glow in the light. ‘I have been to the studio. There were some pieces there that matched the patterns on the Midwinter glass precisely, and Miss Raleigh confirmed that they were her uncle’s work.’ Lucas sighed and sat back. ‘There can be no doubt.’ ‘So we have found our engraver.’

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‘It would appear so. But as he has so inconveniently died, his niece is our only contact to the Midwinter spy ring and I need more information from her.’ Cory pulled a face. ‘I see your dilemma.’ Lucas nodded. ‘I am taking advantage of Miss Raleigh’s vulnerability because I want her to confide in me,’ he said. He pulled a disgusted face. ‘Good God, it sounds even worse when I express it like that! I can scarce believe what I am doing.’ Cory did not reply immediately. He lifted the bottle and poured another glass of port slowly, watching Lucas’s face as he did so. ‘It sounds to me,’ he said perceptively, ‘that you are suffering an excess of remorse over this, Luc. We all know that espionage can be an unpleasant business, requiring the sort of actions one might not normally contemplate.’ He looked closely at his friend. ‘Are you sure that your feelings are not involved?’ Lucas drew rings on the highly polished surface of the side table with his wine glass. He tried to block out the memory of kissing Rebecca and the promise of passion with which she had responded to him. That had not been part of his original plan. He had intended to draw her out and gain her confidence, nothing more, but the mutual attraction between them had made a mockery of his good intentions. And then it had taken little to change good intentions to bad ones... He had been reading the poetry of Ben Jonson the previous night. God only knew why—he was a man of action, not a scholar. He suspected that it was a book his brother Richard had left lying around and he had picked it up because he was bored and restless

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and thinking too much on Miss Rebecca Raleigh. He should have known better. Poetry never helped a man to think straight, and when he had stumbled across a line from the ‘Queen of Love’ he had paused and thought of her even more, for he seemed powerless to resist. ‘You will turn all hearts to tinder...’ He told himself that he had kissed Rebecca because he had been testing her, suspicious of the innocence that cloaked her like a shield. He had wondered if that purity could possibly be genuine. Yet there had been nothing calculated about their embrace. Lucas himself was experienced enough to know the difference between real and counterfeit emotion, the type that men could buy from courtesans. There was nothing counterfeit about Rebecca Raleigh. He had acted on impulse and her response had shaken him. And when he had seen the confusion of desire in her face as he released her, he had been overtaken by such a wave of tenderness... He shook his head. That was no way for a rake to think. More to the point, it was no way for him to be thinking when he was conducting an investigation. Cory cleared his throat gently and Lucas glanced up. ‘I confess that I find it difficult to be detached about this,’ he said morosely, answering the question in his friend’s eyes. ‘I cannot conceive how it happened.’ Cory’s lips twitched. ‘How many times have you met Miss Raleigh?’ he asked. ‘Twice.’ ‘And what do you know of her?’

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‘Very little, as yet.’ Lucas realised that in terms of fact this was probably true, but that in terms of instinct, on a deeper level, he felt that he already knew Rebecca intimately. It was a disquieting feeling. The little that he did know prompted him to trust her, to take her into his confidence. He was sure that she could not be guilty of involvement in the Midwinter spy ring. Perhaps even her uncle had not known the nature of the business he was involved in. When Lucas had studied the pieces on display in Rebecca’s studio, his heart had sunk like a stone at the likenesses between the engraving on the glasses there and the ones in his possession. It was the first time he had visited an engraver’s studio not wanting to find the patterns he sought. But the style was unmistakable. ‘Ask her to tell you the truth.’ Cory was watching him, his face grave. ‘Either that, or disengage until Justin returns from Midwinter and can question her himself.’ He grimaced. ‘When do you expect him back?’ ‘In a week or so.’ Lucas rubbed his brow. ‘I cannot disengage, Cory. We cannot take the risk that Miss Raleigh is involved with the Midwinter spies. If she were to suspect anything and disappear, we would have lost the lead. Worse, she would warn the others what had happened and then all our work would be destroyed.’ ‘And if she is innocent?’ Cory questioned. ‘How will she feel to discover that you have approached her under false pretences?’ Lucas’s lips thinned. It was the one question that he

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had not permitted himself to consider. ‘I cannot allow that to influence me.’ There was a silence between them. ‘I appreciate your difficulty, Lucas,’ Cory said slowly. ‘Sometimes, however, a man must follow his instinct.’ ‘Following one’s instinct can get one killed,’ Lucas said bleakly. ‘And ignoring it can lose a man the one thing he most desires,’ Cory pointed out gently. Lucas shifted irritably. ‘Marriage is making you soft, Cory Newlyn. Why tie yourself to one woman when there is an entire legion of them out there?’ ‘Perhaps,’ Cory said, ‘because one particular woman is all you need?’ Lucas gave him a cynical smile. ‘Definitely soft, Cory.’ ‘All rakes reform in the end,’ Cory said, ‘unless they want to end as sad old roue´s leaning on their canes and leering at the de´butantes.’ Lucas shuddered. ‘You paint such an attractive picture.’ ‘Think about it,’ Cory said, smiling. ‘Look at Richard.’ Lucas shook his head. ‘Richard was ready to reform,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in love. I...’ he hesitated, ‘...I am not.’ Cory sighed. ‘Nor ever shall be? I thought that you had recovered well enough from your youthful disappointment to realise that not all women are designing harpies.’ Lucas laughed. ‘Oh, I have. My antipathy does not stem from that.’ His face stilled. ‘It is more that I have

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never met a woman to whom I wished to be faithful. Ever after is a long time.’ ‘You are thinking of your father,’ Cory said acutely. Lucas shrugged. ‘I am thinking of my mother,’ he said. ‘She detested Papa’s philandering, but she never said a word against him.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair for, even now, the memories were hard to recall. ‘She never said a word, but she lost the happiness that once lit her eyes. I could not ask for such stoicism from my wife.’ He fixed Cory with a sardonic look. ‘If you start to tell me, in that exasperating manner of happily married people, that I shall feel differently when I meet the right woman, then—’ Cory held up a hand peaceably. ‘I should not dream of it, Luc.’ He got to his feet and slapped Lucas goodnaturedly on the shoulder. ‘I wish you good fortune. I am away, home to my wife.’ Lucas watched Cory’s tall figure thread its way through the milling crowd about the card tables. He saw Cory pause to greet an acquaintance here and there, but there was a barely repressed impatience about him that soon had him on the move again. Lucas noticed that he turned down at least two offers of a round of piquet and several invitations to join some cronies for a drink. He shook his head thoughtfully. He had the greatest admiration for Rachel Newlyn, but he could not see why Cory should be in such a hurry to return to her side. Petticoat government... He had done very well without it these twenty-eight years past and he was not about to succumb to its lure now. This business with Rebecca Raleigh was a different matter entirely. The only reason he felt badly about deceiving

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her was because she was young and alone. She had struck him as gallant. Yes, that was the word to describe Miss Raleigh. She was gallant in the face of all the odds and he admired her courage whilst being in danger of trampling that very gallantry underfoot. ‘Devil take it!’ Lucas said bad-temperedly, slapping his glass down so hard that the table shook. He had come out to drown his sorrows and yet it seemed there was nowhere to hide. He felt the greatest scoundrel in the whole world. With two commissions to complete, Rebecca rose each day when the bleary London dawn spread across the sky and worked late into the night. During daylight she would throw the shutters wide to draw as much natural light into the workshop as possible. When night came she would light the candles and continue until her head ached and her eyes itched. There was no sound in the studio but for the diamond scribe scratching the glass as she meticulously picked out the pattern of the wicked angel. Beneath its point the figure came to life, wings folded neatly, the line of cheek and jaw giving the impression of strength and grace, head bent, as if in devout contemplation of sin. On the evening of the fourth day she laid her scribe aside and considered the engraving. She knew at once that there was something wrong with it. The problem was not in the execution, but in the finished picture. She had given the wicked angel Lucas Kestrel’s face. It was undeniable. The detail was perfect: the high cheekbones, the hard line of the jaw, the watchful eyes, the mouth... Rebecca put her head in her hands

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in despair. All this time she had been shutting Lucas out of her thoughts by concentrating on her work. She had refused to think of him, refused to dream of him. Yet he had come to haunt her nevertheless, taking life beneath the point of the scribe and showing her just how foolish she was to think that she could dismiss him. Rebecca pushed the bowl away dispiritedly. She knew she should have spent longer practising on old glass before she started work on the crystal, but she had been desperate to finish the commission, desperate for the money, if she were truthful. And there was no real need to despair, for Lord Fremantle was likely to be very pleased with the work. She would deliver it to the Club in the morning. It was undoubtedly amongst her best work. Technically it was beautiful and perfectly executed. It was what it told her that was worrying. Rebecca stood up, wiped the palms of her hands on her apron and walked restlessly across to the window. Night had fallen long since and the lights of the Jerusalem Tavern twinkled faintly in the dusk. A distant murmur of voices drifted on the night air. Rebecca turned away. She knew that she should put in some time on her accounts, which consistently refused to add up. The mere thought of it made her head ache. She wished with fierce longing that her uncle, George Provost, was here with her now. She had never felt so alone as she did these days, not even when she had been a child and her parents had died and she and Daniel were obliged to go their separate ways. George

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and his kindly wife, Ruth, had taken her in and over the years she had become much attached to them, but now she had no one. She knew that she had tried to bury her grief in her work, but every so often it would bubble up as it did now, making her eyes sting and her heart ache. Rebecca had never minded working on her own before. Engraving was a solitary profession, but she was beginning to realise that there was a difference between working on her own commissions with the buzz of the workshop going on around her, and working in silence because she had lost all her colleagues. With a little sigh, she went into the storeroom and took out an old wineglass that she used for practice. Now that the angel was completed, she needed to start practising birds of prey. She went back to her desk, sat down and picked up her diamond-point scribe and the little hammer. Stipple work engraving was slow and expensive, for each dot was placed individually on the glass with utter precision. For Lord Lucas Kestrel’s commission, however, nothing but the best would do. Her professional pride demanded it. She picked up her engraving scribe and the little hammer that she used for stipple work. She placed the scribe against the glass and tapped it gently. An agonising pain shot through her left wrist, so sharp that it felt as though she were hammering into her own bones. Rebecca cried out, dropping the hammer so that it spun away across the bench. The glass fractured all the way around the top and broke off cleanly in a band half an inch wide. Rebecca felt sickness rise in her throat. She grabbed the edge of the

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desk to steady herself, then sat down and clutched her wrist with her other hand. The pain was receding a little now, a whisper of agony along her nerves. Eventually the faintness caused by the pain receded sufficiently for her to stumble across to the sofa and sit down. She sat there for a very long time. It had happened before, and she had dismissed it as an unlucky vibration from the hammer. Now, however, she knew she could not deceive herself any longer. She had seen it happen to other engravers, seen them work until the pain shadowed their every movement and they were obliged to give up their livelihood. The doctors shook their heads and said that nothing could be done and charged a guinea for the privilege of breaking the bad news. Rebecca had worked at her craft since she was fourteen years old, and now, a decade on, the pain had come to take her too. She looked around the dim workshop, at the light glancing off the crystal on the shelves and the tools of her trade lying discarded on the bench. She loved her work so much that she could never bear to let it go. The loneliness welled up more powerfully than before. She went across to the shelf and lightly touched the glass with the engraved anchor, as though it was a talisman. Beneath the elegant chase work was a motto. Celer et Audax—Swift and bold. Rebecca wrapped both arms about her, as though to keep out the cold. If only Daniel was here. But Daniel had his own way to make. They had a made a pact when they were children and found they were to be

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apart. If ever the one needed the other, they had only to send a token... For a moment, Rebecca was tempted. Then she sighed and moved back to the workbench. She would need to be in a great deal worse situation than this before she contacted her brother and drew him into danger. She blew out the candles and made her way up to bed. Early the next morning, on the basis that the longer she put it off the worse it would be, Rebecca picked up her engraving scribe and set to work. She was tentative at first, but when no pain troubled her, she soon fell into a rhythm again as she chipped delicately at the fragile glass. The work was absorbing and when a shadow fell across her workbench she realised that she had not even heard the knock at the workshop door. She looked up to see Lucas Kestrel there and her heart skipped a tiny beat. The strong morning sunlight from the window made his hair gleam conker brown rather than auburn. ‘Miss Raleigh. How are you?’ He smiled at her and Rebecca’s heart did another quick flip. ‘I am very well, thank you, my lord. How are you?’ ‘I am tired, I thank you,’ Lucas said. He looked straight at her. ‘I do not appreciate sleepless nights.’ Rebecca blushed. ‘I suppose that you have something preying on your mind?’ ‘You suppose correctly, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca bent her head over the glass and polished

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the surface with unnecessary vigour. Her hand was not quite steady. She tried to calm her singing nerves. ‘I did not expect you to call again so soon, my lord,’ she said. ‘I fear that your commission is barely begun. We did agree a week and it is only five days.’ ‘I know it.’ Lucas drove his hands into the pockets of his great coat. ‘I did not wish to wait that long to see you again, Miss Raleigh, and as I may not meet you socially, this seemed the only way.’ Rebecca picked up the scribe and the hammer again. ‘You are, of course, quite welcome to look around my studio, my lord. If you choose to spend more money here, then I shall not attempt to stop you, but not all the items are for sale.’ Lucas laughed. ‘My dear Miss Raleigh, I believe we have established that already.’ Rebecca relaxed slightly. ‘Very well, then...’ Lucas glanced towards the fireplace. ‘You do not have a fire today?’ ‘I had not got around to building one,’ Rebecca said evasively. She did not wish to tell him that she had run out of firewood and that her accounts had shown her it was something she could not afford to buy. ‘If you show me where the wood is stored then I am happy to build one for you,’ Lucas said. ‘It is too cold today to be without a fire.’ Rebecca stared at him in the liveliest astonishment. ‘You will make a fire? You cannot!’ Lucas looked amused. ‘I assure you that I am quite capable of it, Miss Raleigh. I have been in the army for years and have taken on far more challenging tasks than the building of a fire.’

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Rebecca frowned. ‘That was hardly what I meant, my lord. You would spoil the set of your jacket for a start and might even get soot on your pantaloons.’ Lucas’s face lightened into a smile. ‘Oh I see! You feel that I should not make the fire rather than that I could not. You relieve me, Miss Raleigh. I thought for a moment that you considered me the sort of frippery fellow who could not remove his boots without the aid of a valet.’ ‘You cannot make the fire because I have no wood!’ Rebecca snapped. She put the wineglass down on the desk with a slap. ‘Are you happy now that I have confessed it? I have no wood and I cannot afford to buy any more at present and whilst you distract me from my work I have no prospect of making any money that will enable me to buy firewood. Now will you go away?’ ‘I shall certainly go and purchase you some logs to build a fire,’ Lucas said, ‘and then when I return we may talk.’ Rebecca spread her arms wide with frustration. ‘About what, my lord? There are plenty of penniless craftsmen working in London who cannot afford a fire. Why do you have to interest yourself in my case?’ Lucas shrugged. ‘It is your misfortune that I am more interested in you than in the others, Miss Raleigh. I shall see you shortly.’ ‘Pray do not trouble to return!’ Rebecca called, as he reached the door. ‘And do not spend any money on me for I cannot repay you—’ ‘Please save your breath,’ Lucas said, with scrupu-

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lous politeness. ‘There is an entire crowd of people out here hanging on your every word.’ Rebecca ran to the window. She was distraught to see that it was true. Housewives with marketing baskets had gathered outside the door, their faces sharp and eager for entertainment. A group of shabby urchins was trailing Lucas along the pavement and apparently begging for money. The vintner was standing outside his shop in the sunshine, wiping his hands on a rag as he exchanged information with the silversmith. Rebecca gave a cry of aggravation and threw herself down on the chaise-longue, her face in her hands. Over the last six months her life had been growing progressively more difficult, but this new situation was both unexpected and utterly confusing. She did not wish to feel beholden to Lucas Kestrel and she was very afraid of where his charity might take her. When Lucas returned a surprisingly short time later, Rebecca was still sitting on the sofa. She got up quickly when he came in and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, hoping that he had not seen her tears. The wood merchant’s assistant followed him into the workshop, hefting a very heavy sack of logs. The man took the sack through to the store, as he had done in Rebecca’s uncle’s time, and received a coin for his trouble from Lucas before he went out. It was then that Rebecca also spotted the parcel that Lucas had laid on the table containing a fresh loaf of bread, a pat of rich yellow butter, some cheese, a ham and half a spit-roasted chicken. Her stomach, treacherously, gave a loud rumble at the sight of food.

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She seized a few logs and threw them higgledypiggledly into the fireplace, venting her frustration on the inanimate blocks of wood until Lucas put out a hand to stop her. ‘Wait! It will never light if you build it like that.’ ‘I know!’ To her horror, Rebecca could feel the tears closing her throat. ‘I know how to make a fire! I am also quite capable of feeding myself. I have managed perfectly well on my own for the past six months and I do not require some high-handed, arrogant lord—’ ‘That is tautology,’ Lucas said. Rebecca stared, jolted out of her train of thought. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Tautology. Gilding the lily. If I am high-handed, then the arrogance goes without saying...’ Rebecca gave an exasperated squeak. ‘Arrogant, high-handed, conceited, self-important—’ Lucas raised a hand. ‘Please, Miss Raleigh. I have taken your point. I am going to make some tea. Oh...’ he paused ‘...and the food is for me to take home for supper...’ ‘I do not believe you!’ Rebecca said sulkily. Lucas shrugged. He disappeared into the scullery and Rebecca did not even trouble to try to stop him. Instead she took the logs out of the fire again, swept it clear and built it painstakingly from scratch. By the time the flames were taking hold, Lucas had returned with the tea and some Bath Oliver biscuits that Rebecca suspected might be stale. He placed the tea on Rebecca’s desk much as Sam had done the previous day, and came to sit beside her.

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The tea, Rebecca was surprised to discover, was almost as good as Sam’s brew had been. ‘Now,’ Lucas said, ‘I would like you to tell me something about yourself, Miss Raleigh, and how you have ended in this situation. You said that you had managed very well on your own for the last six months. What happened before that?’ Rebecca looked at him. She was tempted to tell him everything, not just about the hardship following her uncle’s death, but about her family and how her brother Daniel was the only one left, and he was a hunted man in as much trouble as she. She teetered on the brink of disclosure and then drew back a little. Lucas did not prompt her. He watched her steadily, but with so much gentleness in his eyes that she caught her breath to see it. It was grief and tiredness, she warned herself, that had weakened her. She needed to tell someone. She took a deep, refreshing gulp of the tea, set down her cup, and started to talk. Lucas had not been entirely sure that Rebecca would answer his question. He recognised that she was living within her work at the moment; that it was the thing she used to blot out the grief. There were no signs of her personality at all in her studio, although it was the place where she lived as well as worked. He concluded that she had withdrawn into herself so much that nothing else could reach her. He wanted to be the one to break through that shell and touch her. He wanted it so much that it frightened him. For his own sake he had to draw back. He had never felt like this before and it was the very devil. Even as

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he was questioning her and trying to gain her confidence, he felt the veriest traitor, the greatest betrayer in the whole world. He had never met a woman like Rebecca Raleigh before. Affairs of the heart—he did not like to think in terms of love—had never been difficult for him in the past. Yet his current feelings prompted him to take Rebecca away from this hovel of a place where she tried so desperately to scrape a living. He wanted to cherish her, care for her and protect her. He pushed aside all the complex and unfamiliar emotions that pressed in on him and tried to concentrate. He watched her face as she took a scalding mouthful of tea, watched the pure line of her throat as she swallowed and set down her mug. There was a slump to her shoulders, but she would never admit defeat. His heart swelled with an emotion he tried to dismiss as pity. He sat quietly drinking his tea—a beverage that had never been his favourite drawing-room tipple—and listened whilst Rebecca talked. Her face was drawn and her blue eyes were full of pain, and it took every ounce of Lucas’s self-control not to touch her. ‘My uncle and aunt died of the sweating sickness four months ago,’ Rebecca said, fiddling with the handle of her mug. Lucas noted that it had been broken and affixed again, slightly off centre. Presumably she could not afford to throw things away. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘So recent a grief must be very painful for you.’ Rebecca nodded. ‘They had brought me up from the time I was a child. It was my uncle who taught me

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my profession.’ She glanced quickly across at the workbench. ‘He was a master engraver, one of the most talented men in the profession, though he never truly gained the recognition he deserved. I think...’ for a moment she smiled ‘...I think that he taught me well.’ ‘I am sure that he did,’ Lucas said, ‘judging by the work on display here.’ Rebecca shot him a glance that had a tiny sparkle in it. Lucas noticed with a jolt how she came alive when she spoke of her work. ‘And you are suddenly an expert, my lord?’ she teased. ‘You, who did not even know that the profession existed a week ago?’ Lucas gave a self-deprecating shrug. He felt guilty. ‘I am a quick learner.’ The sparkle died from Rebecca’s eyes. ‘Whether or not I am good at my work is irrelevant now. When my uncle died, the business died with him. It was na¨ve ı of me to think that I could keep it running singlehanded. One of the journeymen and the two apprentices took work elsewhere, for they did not wish to be employed by a woman. The other journeyman...’ she hesitated ‘...he thought to persuade me into marriage as a way for me to continue the business.’ Lucas clamped down on his instinctive violence at the thought of some buffoon forcing himself on Rebecca and kept his voice level. ‘You did not care for the idea?’ ‘No, I did not,’ Rebecca said. ‘I cared even less for the way that he tried to persuade me, and he disliked the means I took to dissuade him from his amorous advances.’

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Lucas bit his lip on a laugh. He remembered her threatening him with the diamond scribe. ‘What did you do?’ ‘I used the fire irons,’ Rebecca said. ‘They have a slight dent in them now.’ Lucas shook his head. ‘So you used the fire irons on him and your engraving scribe to defend yourself against me... You are a dangerous woman, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca did not look at him. ‘You were different,’ she said softly. Lucas felt his body tighten. He did not feel different. He wanted exactly what her journeyman and no doubt many another man had wanted from Rebecca Raleigh, and it was the devil’s own job not to demand it from her. ‘Not so different,’ he said, wryly truthful. ‘I wanted the same thing.’ Their eyes met and the tension seemed to spin out between them for an eternity. Rebecca broke the contact with an effort. ‘You were quicker to understand,’ she said drily, ‘for with you I did not have to resort to physical violence.’ She shifted a little. ‘So once Malet had left, muttering of retribution, I was on my own but for Emma, the servant girl. I soon realised that when the men went they took all the work with them. So then I had to let Emma go too, since I could not pay her.’ Lucas’s gaze narrowed with incredulity. ‘You have been living here alone for four months?’ ‘Three months.’ Rebecca’s gaze flicked to his face and then away. ‘Emma was with me for a few weeks

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after my uncle’s death. I have managed well enough on my own. I have some work in hand...’ She smiled. ‘Quite a lot, thanks to you, my lord. And to the Archangel Club.’ She had given Lucas the opening he needed. He was astounded to feel himself hesitating to take it. At each step he became more deeply mired in deception. He was trying to obtain information from her under false pretences and his honour revolted at the thought. He ignored the squirming of his conscience and forced himself to press on. ‘Do you have any other clients currently?’ he questioned, allowing his gaze to range about the workshop as though the answer did not really matter to him. Rebecca’s gaze flickered. She rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘No, I have none,’ she said. ‘And no business outstanding from your uncle’s time?’ Rebecca rubbed her eyes. It made her look like a child and it smote Lucas’s heart. ‘There are a few pieces still to be collected,’ she said. ‘My uncle completed some work for a gentleman who is a prodigious collector, but he has yet to send for it. I have it in the storeroom.’ Lucas’s nerves prickled. If this mysterious collector was part of the Midwinter spy circle and he had yet to collect his order, then they might be about to catch him red-handed. ‘What sort of engraving interests your collector?’ he asked, as casually as he could. Rebecca raised her brows. ‘Why, all sorts of designs, my lord. Ships and birds and anchors... My

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uncle did an entire set for him with an astronomical motif—the phases of the moon, and the sun and stars. He has a wide interest.’ Lucas’s attention was riveted. He had one of the Midwinter glasses in the pocket of his coat at that very moment and it was a match for a design he could see on the display shelves. He could feel the hard edge of the glass pressing against his thigh, reminding of the exact reason why he was in this studio, questioning Miss Rebecca Raleigh, glass engraver. ‘What manner of man is he, this collector?’ he asked, hoping he was not pressing too hard and raising her suspicions. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking. She gave him a direct look from her very blue eyes, but he could not read her expression. ‘I have no notion, my lord. I never meet him. He sends his servant to place the orders and collect the finished engraving.’ Lucas shrugged, as though the matter was of no further interest to him. He would instruct Tom Bradshaw to keep the shop under observation until such time as the servant came to collect his order, and then he would have the man followed and see where that led them. He did not want to ask Rebecca any more questions on the topic now, both because he knew that she would become suspicious and also because he felt a traitor to be asking at all. He changed the subject to something more personal. ‘Your friend, Miss Astley,’ he said. ‘Was she responsible for your commission from the Archangel?’ ‘No.’ Rebecca smiled again, turning her empty beaker between her hands. ‘My uncle did some work

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for the Club in the past, but Nan reminded Lord Fremantle of it when he was looking for an engraver to produce the rose bowl. She and I have been friends since we were children, for all that our way of life is quite divergent these days.’ ‘And does she seek to persuade you that her way is preferable to yours?’ ‘Of course,’ Rebecca said. She looked around the studio, a rueful smile on her lips. ‘Who is to say that she is not correct, my lord? There are easier ways than this to earn a living.’ ‘Yet you do not believe it?’ Rebecca looked him straight in the eye. ‘Maybe it is a fault in me that the one commodity I am not prepared to sell is myself.’ A little frown creased her brow. ‘And that reminds me, my lord, that I must ask you not to give me any further charity. I cannot afford to pay you back.’ ‘I am not asking you to do so,’ Lucas pointed out. He gestured to the fire. ‘I could dismantle that, I suppose, and take it with me, but I am loath to deprive you of its warmth.’ He stood up, smiling at her. ‘I fear, my dear Miss Raleigh, that you will just have to bear with my quixotic gifts—and bear with me.’ Rebecca got up too. ‘It would be better if you were not to call here again,’ she said. Lucas could see the reluctance in her face. ‘Better for whom?’ he queried gently. ‘Better for me.’ Rebecca fidgeted with the pencils on her work desk. ‘Already people are starting to comment.’ Lucas raised his brows with arrogant disregard. He

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had never cared for the opinions of others. To him the most important thing was that Rebecca should not starve. ‘People are talking? Then tell them to go hang.’ Rebecca frowned slightly. He sensed that she was genuinely distressed. ‘Then you will not promise to leave me alone?’ ‘I will not.’ Lucas sighed. ‘I cannot, Miss Raleigh.’ He waited, watching her try to work this out. There was a fugitive shyness in her blue eyes. These were the times when he sensed her vulnerability most acutely and it made him feel an utter scoundrel. He was torn in half. He genuinely wished to protect Rebecca and yet he knew he was taking advantage. This was caddish behaviour, abusing her growing trust in him in the hope that she might inadvertently pass on some useful information. Justin’s return could not happen any too soon, so that he might hand over the entire investigation to him and withdraw before he hurt Rebecca Raleigh—and before his own feelings made a fool of him as well. Already he was in far too deep. And yet he had no real wish to withdraw. He saw Rebecca’s brow creased into a deeper frown. ‘Why will you not promise to leave me be?’ she whispered. ‘Because I cannot keep my word.’ It was the absolute truth. Lucas took her hand and kissed her fingers. He felt her try to draw away but did not let her go. He looked directly into her eyes. ‘You see, Miss Raleigh, I have no desire to leave you alone. On the contrary, I wish to spend as much time as possible with you. So you see it would be quite foolish for me to make a promise that I have no intention of keeping.’

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He watched the emotions flicker across Rebecca’s face. ‘You cannot spend time with me,’ she protested. ‘You distract me from my work too much. Besides...’ she gave a little shrug ‘...it is quite pointless.’ Lucas smiled. ‘Perhaps you will become accustomed to my presence?’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I doubt that I shall become indifferent to it.’ Lucas drew her a little closer. ‘I am grateful for that. The last thing that I should wish for is that you be indifferent to me.’ Rebecca held him off with a hand against his chest. ‘And what would be the first thing that you would wish for, my lord? For whatever it is, I cannot give it to you. I cannot see any purpose to your visits at all.’ Lucas turned her hand over and kissed the palm, feeling the shiver that went through her body as an echo deep within his own. ‘All I desire is to see you,’ he said. But already he was making a liar of himself, drawing her into his arms. ‘My lord,’ she said quietly, ‘I thought that I explained—’ ‘It is only a kiss,’ Lucas said lightly, ‘and you can always decline.’ He smiled into her eyes. ‘You have already argued with me over countless other matters, Miss Raleigh. It should not be difficult for you to refuse me this...’ And as he spoke he drew her closer, allowing himself to forget the real reason that he was there, the purpose of his enquiries, the dual nature of his interest. Her softness and strength fascinated him. In that mo-

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ment he wanted only her and everything else faded into complete insignificance as he bent his head to kiss her. Rebecca was not sure why she had told Lucas so much, nor why she felt relieved to have done so. She had not confided in anyone since her uncle and aunt had died, but had kept her feelings locked tightly in her chest, repressed beneath the work that had kept her mind and body occupied from dawn to dusk. Now, though, she felt lighter in spirit than she had done in a long while. It was this she blamed later for her poor judgement in allowing Lucas to kiss her. ‘It should not be difficult for you to refuse me this...’ he said. Somehow his broad shoulders seemed to have blocked out the rest of the studio, the rest of the world. Rebecca could see only him. ‘May I?’ Lucas said softly. Now that he was so close to her Rebecca found she seemed incapable of doing anything other than look at him. She knew the answer to his question was most definitely ‘No’, but she was having some difficulty with the word. Eventually what came out was ‘Yes’. She would probably have added a ‘please’, for good measure, but Lucas was already kissing her by then, a slow, lazy, languorous kiss that should have been light and easy to dismiss, but somehow was not. His mouth was warm and firm on hers, promising the sorts of things that Rebecca was not even aware that she wanted. As his arms went around her she felt her whole body soften against his, pliant and suffused with

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heat. Her legs trembled and the ground seemed to tumble away beneath her, which did not matter since Lucas was holding her hard now. She leaned against him and felt the world start to spin. Now she knew why she had never allowed a gentleman to kiss her properly before. Now she knew for sure that it was perilous and exciting and enough to make one forget everything— modesty and sense and propriety. Or, to be exact, that was what kissing Lucas did to her. She doubted that it would be the same with anyone else. She was not sure how much time had passed before Lucas let her go, very gently, keeping a protective arm about her. Rebecca could not focus for a moment; all she was aware of was an intolerably strong ache to be in his arms again. She looked up into his face, saw the blaze of heat in his eyes, saw that he was about to pull her to him again, and stepped back in sudden panic. ‘No! I... Oh, no!’ Lucas moved away at once. His face was a little pale and he was breathing hard. He ran a hand over his hair. ‘Miss Raleigh—Rebecca—’ ‘Do not,’ Rebecca said. There was a wrench in her voice. She could not believe that she had just invited Lucas Kestrel to kiss her. It seemed absurd, extraordinary. Yet she had ached to be in his arms and, once there, she had wanted him to hold her forever. And now that he had let her go she felt dreadfully lonely. She was evidently far more vulnerable than she had realised, to be drawn to the strength and assurance of a man she hardly knew. She pressed a hand to her lips, moving to put some

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distance between them. ‘I do not know why I said yes,’ she murmured. ‘I never do such things—’ She cut the words off before she gave herself away further and moved behind the rosewood desk. It made her feel better to put something solid between them. She hoped that Lucas was going to leave soon. Her legs still felt shaky and her head felt light, and she was not at all sure what was wrong with her. Lucas was watching her. It made her feel hot and nervous. ‘I think I have made a mistake,’ she said. ‘I am sorry that you should view my kiss in such a light,’ Lucas said. He started to move around the desk towards her. A quick, heated excitement gripped Rebecca and held her still. ‘Allowing for the fact that it was a mistake, how did you view the experience?’ Lucas continued. Rebecca drew a short breath. ‘It was tolerable, my lord,’ she lied. Lucas raised his dark brows. A spark of devilment came into his eyes. ‘Only tolerable? That is not how I would wish you to remember it, Miss Raleigh. You had better give me another chance.’ Rebecca backed away swiftly from her second error. ‘There is no need whatsoever. It was passable, my lord—perfectly acceptable...’ Lucas was laughing now. ‘I shall have to do better,’ he murmured, reaching to pull her closer again. His voice roughened. ‘Acceptable is simply not... acceptable.’ Rebecca wriggled, but Lucas had an arm about her and held her ruthlessly still. She felt his breath feather

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across her skin. She could see the shadow of his eyelashes, spiky against the hard line of his cheek. His lips brushed her jaw, then his mouth was suddenly on hers, his hand tangled in her hair, tilting her face up to his. Sensation flared within her. The rosewood desk was smooth, the back of it hard against her thighs. She felt herself tremble. Lucas’s hand brushed the cotton of her gown, his palm against her breast. He was kissing her with such urgency that her head reeled. His slightest touch could ignite her fiercest longings. She felt heavy, languid and tingly all over. Rebecca had never, ever imagined it could be like that. The world shook. She felt herself lean back against the desk, scattering the pencil sketches all over the floor. The sound disturbed her and she tried instinctively to pull away, but Lucas did not break the kiss, prolonging it mercilessly until Rebecca had almost forgotten where she was and was held helpless and bewitched. This time when his lips left hers she gave a small gasp of disappointment that she could not repress, and she saw the masculine satisfaction in his expression as he scanned her face. Useless to try to deny his effect on her, for it was evident in her shaking hands and her flushed, aroused face. ‘Acceptable?’ he drawled. Rebecca moved away, surreptitiously holding on to the desk for support. ‘There is nothing acceptable about this behaviour, my lord. I desire no more from my clients than that they pay promptly, and you are no different from the rest.’ ‘No different?’ Lucas’s insistent tone made her blush. She knew that she was not telling the truth.

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‘I cannot allow you to be any different from the rest, my lord.’ Rebecca knew she was weakening. If he touched her again... But he did not. She saw the shadow of something come into his eyes, almost as though he had recalled some barrier that stood between them. He touched her cheek lightly in a gentle caress that she felt shiver through her body. ‘Be careful, Rebecca Raleigh,’ he said. And it was odd, but later she wondered why his words had sounded like a farewell.

Chapter Four

‘Rebecca, it is decided. You are coming with me to a ball this evening.’ Nan Astley marched triumphantly into Rebecca’s studio the following evening and surveyed her friend with amused disapproval. ‘Look at you! It is past nine and you are still working. You will become the dullest creature imaginable if you carry on in this way!’ Rebecca laughed and reluctantly laid down her diamond scribe. She rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty from tiredness. ‘I have to work. I need the money.’ Nan made a tutting sound. ‘Not tonight. You are wan as a bowl of whey. Tonight you are coming out with me. It will cheer you up.’ ‘Not tonight, Nan,’ Rebecca besought. ‘Please! I am tired—’ Nan made a derisive noise. ‘Then a change of scene is what you need to help raise your spirits.’ Her face puckered. ‘I worry about you, Becca, sitting here and working your fingers to the bone.’ ‘I hope it is not the Cyprians’ Ball.’ Rebecca could

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feel herself weakening. ‘I have not forgotten that you tried to persuade me to attend last year.’ ‘Of course it is not!’ Nan looked virtuous. ‘Would I take you to such an event? No, this is only a small, private affair. Besides, it is a masked ball, so no one will recognise you. It is taking place at Carlisle House. What could be more respectable?’ ‘Almost anything,’ Rebecca murmured. She pushed her chair back from the workbench and got stiffly to her feet. The idea of going out was curiously appealing. She was tired of staring at the same four walls and enduring little but her own company. To go out amidst the bright lights and a crowd of people, to lose herself for one evening in noise and company and colour and life... Suddenly the idea seemed powerfully attractive. She had been living solitary for so long that she felt starved of fun. Yet a worry nagged at the back of her mind. There was something tense about Nan, as though she would brook no refusal; although her friend caught her glance and gave her a brilliant smile that seemed to contradict Rebecca’s thoughts, still she felt vaguely wary. ‘I have no suitable gown—’ she began, looking for excuses, but Nan waved the objection aside. ‘I have brought one with me.’ She gestured to the fall of cherry-red silken stuff in her arms. ‘It will become you exceedingly. I will do your hair. Now come along! We only have an hour. I do not wish to leave Bosham unattended for long or one of those dreadful Wilson sisters will snap him up. They have been waiting to pounce on him for months!’ Rebecca had no more chance to demur, for Nan was

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already steering her towards the rickety wooden staircase and up to her narrow chamber. The room was sparse but it had a dressing-table and a mirror, and Nan appeared to have brought all the other items that she required to transform Rebecca from ugly duckling into, if not an elegant swan, precisely, then a seductive siren. It was so contrary to Rebecca’s normal style of dress that, when she saw her finished reflection, she almost choked. After three-quarters of an hour, they were ready to leave. Whenever Rebecca thought Nan wasn’t looking she would try to hoist up the front of the red silk dress, which had a scandalously low de´colletage and some artfully cut lace that seemed to accentuate rather than conceal the curves of Rebecca’s breasts. ‘Do leave the gown alone, Rebecca,’ Nan scolded, when she saw her. ‘I do not know why you are fussing. It is demure enough for a nun!’ ‘Only the sort of abbess who runs a Covent Garden bawdy house,’ Rebecca muttered. She wrapped her black cloak about her, trying to cover the exposed bits. Thank goodness for the black velvet mask with the matching cherry ribbons. If anyone was going to recognise any part of her, it certainly would not be her face. It was only when they reached Carlisle House that Rebecca began to suspect that she had underestimated the nature of the party. Either that, or Nan had deliberately misled her by understating the case. It was a masked ball, but in the style of a Venetian masque, which had been popular in the previous century. A

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crush of guests thronged the huge ballroom, which was lit by at least five hundred candles. The light reflected off the long, gold-framed mirrors, and it seemed that an endless parade of dazzlingly attired strangers circled in the dance. They were dressed in every costume imaginable, from pirates and highwaymen to shepherdesses and Roman goddesses, and some were rather more undressed than others. The scene was decadent, rich and glittering with vivid life. Rebecca felt as though she had stepped into another world, and one she was not sure she could deal with. Nan squeezed her arm. ‘I told you it would be fun, Becca,’ she said smugly. Rebecca had stopped on the threshold and now she almost choked at what was before her eyes. ‘A small party?’ she said faintly. ‘Nan—’ Her mouth fell open even farther as she saw a young woman who was disporting herself with a couple of bucks. Her dress appeared to have lost its bodice and the rest of it was nothing more than a gauzy net about her legs. Not that the gentlemen were complaining as they chased her about the room with loud hunting cries. Nan laughed. ‘That is Miss Chudleigh making a fool of herself as usual. I declare her gowns get younger as she grows older! No wonder Lord Fremantle looks to find himself a new mistress.’ Rebecca gave her a sharp look, for Nan’s words had penetrated her awed reaction to the spectacle of the masque. ‘Lord Fremantle? Is he here tonight?’ Nan shrugged airily. ‘Lud, who knows? We are all incognito. Is it not the most delicious fun?’

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Rebecca was beginning to wonder. Nan, with her flimsy blue silk and lace dress, her outrageous peacock feathers in her hair, and her blue peacock mask, was already attracting plenty of male attention. No matter what she had said earlier, she did not seem at all inclined to find Lord Bosham in the throng and was giving her hand to a gentleman in harlequin’s costume, who seemed intent on carrying her off. Rebecca felt a flutter of panic. She had not expected this and suddenly it seemed an alien world, dangerous and raffish, and she an innocent thrown to the lions. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, madam?’ A gentleman was bowing before her and, although he was costumed and masked, Rebecca had an absolute conviction that it was Lord Fremantle. He took her hand and her skin crawled. Behind the mask his eyes were a dead fish stare and his face a pasty white. Rebecca swallowed the repulsion in her throat. ‘Thank you, sir, but I do not dance.’ The gentleman pressed a little closer. She could feel his hot breath on her neck. ‘Indeed?’ His flat, marble gaze appraised her from behind the mask, dropping to the neckline of her dress in insulting perusal. ‘If you do not dance, what do you do?’ ‘What the lady means is that she is not at liberty to dance with you, sir, because she is promised to me,’ a smooth voice interposed from behind them. Both Rebecca and Fremantle spun around. Rebecca’s heart contracted. There was a gentleman standing directly before her. He was wearing a black domino and a plain black mask behind which his eyes glittered as he watched her. There was something both

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relaxed and dangerous in his stance, as though he was quite prepared for Fremantle to oppose him and knew precisely what to do if he did. Despite the disguise, Rebecca knew for certain that it was Lord Lucas Kestrel. He stepped a little closer and she could tell from his eyes that he was smiling behind the mask. Had he recognised her? Rebecca felt a moment’s alarm. He was offering her his arm. ‘Come, my sweeting. I am sorry to have left you alone for so long.’ Rebecca was torn. She wanted to escape Fremantle but she did not want to step into Lucas Kestrel’s arms. In the heated atmosphere of the masque, that would be very perilous. Fremantle, sensing her reluctance, placed one fleshy hand on her arm. ‘I cannot see that the lady is promised to you, sir, when there is no formality at such an event as this.’ ‘If there is no formality,’ the black domino said, gently mocking, ‘then you cannot object to me spiriting the lady away, sir.’ Fremantle bridled. ‘I think the lady should choose for herself.’ ‘By all means,’ the black domino agreed smoothly. Rebecca made her choice. In truth, there was no real alternative, for she would accept Lucas Kestrel over Alexander Fremantle any day. The difficulty would be in preserving her disguise against Lucas and in getting away from him as swiftly as possible before he unmasked her. She felt quite hot and faint at the thought. She dropped Lord Fremantle a slight curtsy. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Fremantle stiffened, then bowed abruptly. ‘Very

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well.’ He turned back to Rebecca. ‘A dance is a paltry matter, but I demand to be first in all else.’ He walked away. Rebecca released her breath sharply and turned to the black domino, who was still waiting, his head tilted quizzically. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said. He took a step closer to her. ‘My lord?’ he questioned softly. Rebecca smiled slightly. ‘If I am a lady, sir, then surely you must be a lord.’ The black domino laughed. ‘Do you imply that you are playing a part, madam?’ ‘We are all doing that tonight, sir.’ ‘So we are,’ the black domino murmured. His breath stirred the ribbons that held her mask in place and Rebecca shivered. She yielded slightly as he placed his arm about her waist and drew her towards the ballroom. It was an intimacy, but one that did not seem out of place at a masque where the behaviour was already approaching, or even exceeding, the licentious. In fact, it felt more protective than dangerous, as though he had staked a claim and no other would be permitted to approach her. ‘So which part do you play tonight, madam?’ he asked. He looked across at Nan Astley, laughing behind her peacock mask as a gentleman whispered secrets in her ear. ‘You are not the peacock or the shepherdess or the pirate queen...’ The pirate queen. Rebecca almost laughed aloud. The decadence of the masque was having a curious effect on her, as though she felt freed from the normal

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constraints she laid on her own behaviour. She felt reckless, lighter than air. She met the shadowed gaze behind the mask. ‘As I said, I am the lady tonight, sir.’ ‘Ah, I see. The lady. Respectable, virtuous and, oh, so untouchable...’ His lips brushed her bare shoulder and the heat ripped through her with shocking intensity. It was all that she could do not to jerk away. ‘And what is your role tonight, sir?’ she asked, her voice a little breathless. Once again she had the impression that the black domino was smiling. ‘Can you not tell, madam?’ he asked gently. Rebecca shivered. ‘The rake? The seducer?’ ‘You injure me,’ the black domino said, and this time the laughter was clear in his voice. ‘After rescuing you from Fremantle, do you not cast me as the protector of innocence, my lady?’ Rebecca shot a look at him from behind her mask. It was impossible to tell whether he had recognised her, for the mask hid everything but his eyes and their expression were unreadable. She felt her nerves tighten with a mixture of excitement and vivid apprehension. As though sensing the pulsing exhil-aration within her, his arm hardened about her waist and he drew her close against his body. She could feel the desire and the latent power in him and almost stumbled and fell. It seemed that dancing was not his aim after all. He drew her into an alcove that was tucked away from the ballroom. It was draped with golden hangings and furnished with a gold brocade love-seat. The black

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domino seized two glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed one to her, guiding her to the seat. Rebecca looked at her wine dubiously. ‘I do not think this a very good idea, sir.’ ‘Why so?’ ‘The wine is remarkably strong and I am...’ Rebecca hesitated ‘...I am tired.’ ‘I will take care of you,’ the black domino said. That was precisely what Rebecca was afraid of. He was sitting very close to her, his thigh pressing intimately against hers within the narrow confines of the seat. Suddenly the rub of the slippery silk against her skin seemed almost unbearably sensual. She shifted uncomfortably, aware that it had been her intention to escape him as soon as she could, yet even now she was contradicting her own good sense by lingering too long. Already she had no urge to break free. ‘Tell me who you are,’ the black domino said softly, persuasively, in her ear. ‘Certainly not.’ Rebecca turned her face away. ‘There are no names at a masquerade, sir.’ He put a gloved hand lightly beneath her chin and turned her face to his. His touch was light, but it set her feelings blazing. That shadowed gaze scrutinised her with unnerving closeness. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘Peerless blue eyes and a mouth made for kissing... I could almost swear that we had met before, perhaps even kissed before, my lady.’ Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. ‘You seem very certain, sir.’

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‘Not so certain that I would not like to put my theory to the test. For then I would know...’ He was leaning forward to suit actions to words, but Rebecca eased herself from his grip and placed a hand against his chest to hold him off. ‘Not so fast, my lord!’ ‘Such modesty at a midnight masque,’ the black domino said, with a sardonic look at the couples that whirled past them in debauched abandon. He ran one finger thoughtfully down her bare arm above her glove. Rebecca could feel her skin responding to his touch, tingling beneath the caress. ‘So who are you, madam, if not a lady of the night?’ ‘Did I say that I was no courtesan?’ Rebecca said, a little huskily. ‘You did not need to tell me, sweetheart.’ ‘Once again, you sound very confident, sir. You must have a great deal of experience of such matters.’ ‘I have enough,’ the black domino agreed, ‘and were I to kiss you, your innocence would be something else I could prove.’ ‘Then the matter must remain unproven,’ Rebecca said. The black domino smiled. ‘So what is Lord Fremantle to you, madam?’ Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. The more they spoke the more likely it seemed that he knew her identity. She definitely should not have lingered so long, nor engaged in this fascinating but ultimately dangerous conversation. She made to rise, but his hand on her wrist held her still and his imperative touch demanded an answer.

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‘He is nothing to me,’ Rebecca said. ‘He would like to be something.’ ‘His wishes are no concern of mine.’ ‘And my wishes?’ the black domino mused. ‘Do I have a chance of success where Fremantle has failed?’ ‘No more than any other man,’ Rebecca said, although the desire that started to burn within her told a different story. The black domino laughed. ‘But no less?’ ‘It makes no odds.’ Rebecca knew she sounded a little breathless. ‘None of you has any chance.’ The black domino’s gaze was inscrutable. ‘So when Fremantle demanded to be first, what did he mean?’ Rebecca blushed behind her mask. ‘I have no notion what he meant,’ she said, ‘but none of his wishes are likely to be granted.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘I thought that you wanted to dance, my lord, rather than—’ ‘Rather than make love?’ The words hung in the air between them. Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. She felt the sensual languor sweep her blood. This was so out of character for her, and so perilous. Yet now she was embarked upon it, there was something compelling about the masquerade, about playing her part. It felt like an escape, almost as though she had stepped into another world, just for one night. And there was also something about this man, who even now was shifting a little closer along the gold brocade sofa and raising his hand to stroke the soft skin on the nape of her neck. His glittering gaze held hers; his touch set her on fire. He leaned closer and

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his lips brushed hers. Rebecca sat as frozen as a statue whilst the warmth unfurled within her. He was watching her face and now he laughed, a soft sound of triumph. ‘You are nowhere near as cold as you pretend to be, my lady.’ He leaned forward again and the tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth lightly but deliberately. Rebecca’s lips parted of their own volition. She could not help herself. A second later he had taken advantage, deepening the kiss, sending the ballroom and its dazzling, shrieking crowds spinning from her mind as she became consumed by the warm intimacy of his mouth moving over hers. It was sweet, intoxicating pleasure and she wanted to drown in it. His lips left hers reluctantly. ‘Have I persuaded you yet?’ he whispered. Rebecca tried to focus. ‘I...no. I do not believe you have.’ He smiled. She could see it in his eyes. ‘Still resisting me...’ But her resistance was weakening. In desperation, Rebecca got to her feet and held out a hand to him. ‘Come, my lord. We have yet to dance.’ He got to his feet with languid grace and took her hand in his. Warm and strong, his fingers interlocked with hers. If Rebecca had thought that to dance with him would provide some respite from the sensuality that flickered between them, then she swiftly realised her mistake. Their bodies seemed to burn at every point of contact. Together and apart, hands touching, his thigh brushing her skirt, his arm grazing hers as they

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moved through the slow steps of the quadrille... They were trapped in a sensual haze and each time Rebecca turned away from him she felt a frightening compulsion to turn back. She felt dizzy and helpless, weakened by feelings she did not understand, and she did not need to see behind his mask to know that he understood exactly what was going through her mind. The dance ended and she felt almost limp with exhaustion, breathing as though she had been running rather than dancing. The black domino tucked her hand through his arm and she had no thought to refuse. ‘As a means of escaping what is between us, I have to say that that was remarkably unsuccessful, my lady,’ he drawled. Rebecca shivered. ‘Escape...’ she whispered. He shook his head. ‘It cannot be done, sweetheart. Whatever it is that burns between us cannot be denied and it will be there until we accept it and—’ ‘And?’ ‘And act on it.’ Rebecca stared at him. There was something about his stance and the predatory way that the dark eyes behind the mask swept over her with a gleam of desire that turned her throat to sawdust. She knew that he spoke the truth and she did not know what she was going to do. And as she hesitated, he took a very purposeful step towards her as though he were about to carry her from the ballroom and make love to her here and now. ‘Here you are!’ Nan’s voice exclaimed. She did not sound pleased. ‘I have been looking everywhere for you!’

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Rebecca wrenched her gaze away from that of the black domino. She felt dizzy and disorientated. ‘I beg your pardon, Nan. Were you wishing to leave?’ ‘Not at all,’ Nan said. Her calculating gaze went from Rebecca to the black domino, who was watching them in quizzical fashion. ‘I did not expect that you would throw yourself so wholeheartedly into the evening, however.’ She grabbed Rebecca’s arm and dragged her away. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’ she hissed. ‘I did not mean to become entangled with him,’ Rebecca said miserably. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘He... I do not know what happened.’ ‘I did not mean that!’ Nan was dismissive. ‘You may flirt with whomever you choose with my blessing. The only problem is that Fremantle is in a foul mood. He claims that you snubbed him for your black domino.’ Her gaze sharpened on Rebecca’s face. ‘I do not blame you, my dear, for he looks a well set-up sort of a fellow, but is he rich, that is the question?’ ‘I do not know,’ Rebecca lied, glad for once that the mask hid her reddening face. ‘I did not ask...’ Nan tutted crossly. ‘You have fallen for pretty compliments. It is a beginner’s mistake, Becca. You must discover if a gentleman is well breeched before you promise him anything.’ ‘I am not beginning anything, nor promising anything,’ Rebecca said rebelliously, ignoring the small voice in her head that told her she had both promised and given a great deal to the black domino and would have given much, much more had Nan not intervened.

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Nan shook her head, frankly disbelieving. ‘Another half-hour and you would have been in that gentleman’s bed,’ she said shrewdly. ‘I saw the way he was looking at you.’ ‘Nan!’ Rebecca felt aghast. Was the flagrant attraction she felt for Lucas Kestrel so evident for all to see? It appeared so. Nan shrugged. ‘And a good thing too, were it not—’ She broke off whatever she had been about to say. ‘Anyway, I need your help, Becca. My last partner was clumsy enough to step on a flounce of my skirt and I wondered if you would be able to pin it up for me?’ ‘Of course,’ Rebecca said automatically. She flicked a glance over her shoulder as they started to climb the stairs. Lord Fremantle was watching them, but she barely spared him a glance. The black domino was still standing where she had left him and there was a quality of stillness about him as he stared at her that made Rebecca bite her lip. No escape. The thick carpet was soft beneath her slippers as they ascended. Nan hustled her into a small bedroom on the first floor, furnished opulently with a big fourposter bed and many gilt mirrors. ‘This will do. There are pins in my reticule.’ Rebecca obediently knelt on the thick carpet and pinned up the torn hem of Nan’s peacock dress. The rent was only small and took barely any time at all to mend. When she had done, Nan twirled in front of the mirror in self-satisfied admiration.

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‘Divine,’ she said. ‘Wait a moment for me here, Becca. I shall be back directly.’ She slipped out of the room and Rebecca hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed. It was draped in red damask that was slightly rough to the touch. Everything in the house was rich and fine, but Rebecca thought that there was nothing personal about it. Her artist’s eye appreciated the colours and textures, but there was no stamp of personality. A faint but unmistakable click from the door attracted her attention. She waited, expecting Nan to be coming back, but nothing happened. Puzzled, she got up and walked slowly over to the door, turning the knob. The door remained obstinately closed. Rebecca tugged on the handle, then pushed. Neither result elicited any response. The door was shut and she was locked within. Rebecca was quick to understand then. There had been Nan’s anxiety that she attend the ball, her deliberate dismissal of it as a small, private function, Lord Fremantle’s anger when she had turned him down out of preference for Lucas, Nan’s intervention and Fremantle watching them climb the stairs with his cold, zealous eyes. Rebecca stood still with one hand resting on the panels and the doorknob cold against her palm. So Nan had betrayed her. She would never have expected it. She had thought that some loyalty bound her friend. She rattled the lock. It looked flimsy, but it was too strong for her to break without some kind of weapon, and there was none. There was nothing at all in the room that could be used to aid her escape. She would

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have given a great deal to have brought her diamond engraving scribe with her. She stood there, shivering in the red silk dress despite the heat of the room. And then there was the sound of the key turning and Alexander Fremantle, stripped of mask and gown, stepped inside. He stood and looked at her, his greedy gaze drinking in every inch of her trembling body. ‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘at last I have you where I want you.’ ‘My lord,’ Rebecca said, attempting to eradicate the tremor from her voice, ‘I do suggest that you reconsider—’ Fremantle was turning to close the door. He paused, looked over his shoulder at her with a gesture of disdain. ‘And why should I wish to do that, Miss Raleigh?’ ‘Because once again, I fear that the lady is waiting for me and you are damnably de trop, old fellow.’ Lucas Kestrel pushed the door open from the outside and strolled into the room. He had discarded the mask, but still wore the black domino. His lazy, incisive tones held just enough hint of amusement to make Fremantle flush angrily. He looked from Lucas’s sardonic face to Rebecca’s blank one and his mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘That is impossible! I arranged—’ ‘You arranged for Miss Astley to entrap her friend on your behalf?’ Lucas questioned, all amusement suddenly fled from his expression. ‘I know. I saw you. Shame on you, Fremantle, that you cannot find a will-

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ing woman to take to your bed and have to resort to tricking a reluctant one.’ The bright red indignation mottled Alexander Fremantle’s throat. ‘It seems you have some need to play the knight errant, my lord. I assure you this lady has no need of your services.’ Lucas moved with predatory precision to stand behind Rebecca. Even before he touched her she could feel his presence, feel the tiny hairs stand up on the back of her neck, feel the goose pimples that tiptoed down her spine. His hands came to rest on her bare arms above the elbow and he drew her back against his body until they were touching. She could feel his chest against her back and the curve of his hip against her buttocks. He held her hard. She felt weak with relief and faint with anticipation. ‘My apologies, Miss Raleigh,’ he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Once again it appears that you must convince his lordship that you prefer my company to his.’ Rebecca made an incoherent noise that, fortunately, sounded like assent. She could not have spoken had she tried. Lucas had bent his head and was feathering tiny kisses down the side of her neck. His lips drifted across her collarbone, igniting a fierce heat within her. But Fremantle was still watching. Lucas raised his head and his eyes were cold and inimical. ‘Need I remind you to go?’ he asked coldly. Fremantle was leaving, scarlet with repressed fury, muttering under his breath, but definitely leaving. The door closed behind him. Lucas stepped away from Rebecca with exaggerated

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care, as though he needed to make it clear that there was no price for his assistance. For a long moment they simply stared at each other whilst Rebecca felt a tumult of emotion batter her. She knew that if he had carried on making love to her she would not have resisted. Even here, even now, she wanted him. She could not deny it. But there was no desire in the look that Lucas had turned on her now. She felt her own passion die beneath his scathing contempt and felt as though she was withering inside. ‘You fool! What the hell are you doing here?’ He snatched off her mask, the red ribbons coming loose and tangling in her hair, wrenching a small gasp of pain from her. The strength of his fury shocked her. His eyes glittered with rage. He looked murderous and, though he stopped short of touching her again, his fists were clenched as though he wanted to shake the life out of her. ‘I cannot work out,’ he said, ‘whether you are wanton, stupid, or just plain mad.’ Rebecca’s fury and misery balled in her chest. ‘I was going to thank you, my lord,’ she said coldly, ‘but that was before I realised I had to endure your insults as well as your attentions.’ Lucas made a derisive noise. ‘Make no complaints, Miss Raleigh. You have no idea what I want to inflict on you.’ His gaze narrowed on her. ‘Or perhaps you do, if you are the wanton you appear to be!’ Rebecca took a step back and he followed her, stalking her across the floor. His furious gaze held hers, and behind the anger she could see the unslaked desire

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and it scalded her hot and cold. She raised her chin proudly. ‘You know that is not true,’ she said, ‘or you would not have stepped in to rescue me.’ Lucas made a repudiating gesture. ‘I do not know why I did.’ The truth hung in the air between them. Rebecca did not need him to put it into words: You did it because you were jealous... You did it because you wanted me for yourself... She swallowed hard. ‘I should go home,’ she said. Lucas was looking at her moodily. ‘I will take you back.’ Rebecca’s heart jumped. ‘No.’ This time he did grab her. His hands bit into her shoulders and she flinched. ‘You still do not understand, do you?’ He ground out savagely. ‘They are out there—Fremantle and your so-called friend Miss Astley. If you simply walk away, they will know for sure that this was a sham and then how much chance do you think you will have of reaching Clerkenwell unprotected?’ Rebecca’s humiliation made her cheeks burn. ‘I had not thought—’ ‘Of course not. I do not believe you have done any thinking tonight.’ Rebecca gave him a look of intense dislike. ‘You mistake, my lord. I thought enough about turning you down!’ For a moment she thought she had gone too far. She had wanted to explain to Lucas that the only reason she was at the masquerade at all was because she had

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been lonely. She had had a craving for light and company. She wanted to forget, for one evening only, that her life was so constrained and full of struggle. The desire to escape had overcome her common sense and she had ignored the warnings that her tired mind was trying to send her. Now she was richly rewarded, for she had lost Nan’s friendship, if friendship it had been, and she had lost Lucas Kestrel’s good opinion. She stared at him for a moment of frozen apprehension, wondering what on earth he was going to do, and then he laughed. ‘So you did, Miss Raleigh. Upon which note we should end this charade.’ Rebecca scarcely saw the opulent gold-and-scarlet staircase as he swept her down to the front door. Lucas’s arm was tight about her waist and he did not stop to speak to anyone. The music still played and the guests still danced, their behaviour even more unbridled than before. In the hackney carriage she shrank within her cloak and curled up in the corner as far away from Lucas as she could. They did not speak. Rebecca watched the light flicker past the windows and listened to the reassuring beat of the horse’s hooves on the road and wondered how matters could possibly get worse. For a few brief hours she had imagined herself as Cinderella, only to find herself banished back to the garret, her dreams in shreds. She could feel Lucas’s gaze resting on her unfathomably. She could still sense his anger and frustration and beneath that something deep and elemental that made her shiver. She turned away and looked out into the dark, but she knew that his

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scrutiny had not wavered from her face. She could feel it and it stirred emotions that were barely beneath the surface. Lucas had recognised Rebecca as soon as she stepped into the room. He had only attended the masque on a whim, for he was bored with the prospect of another night teaching Stephen to play snooker, or a gambling session at White’s. Even worse was the thought of another dinner with Cory and Rachel Newlyn, glowing with happiness, making him feel like a frustrated outcast from a very exclusive club. So he had gone to the masque and had felt the boredom and dissatisfaction grip him afresh at the sight of all that exotic and erotic excess, and then Rebecca Raleigh had walked into the room in her sinfully tight red silk dress and his heart had almost stalled. For a split second he had thought her to be the wanton she had always denied, and the hot disillusion and anger threatened to swamp all other feelings. Yet as he watched her he realised that there was something shocked and innocent in her demeanour as she stared at the licentious throng. And when he had seen her trying to refuse Fremantle’s attentions, he had been sure of it. He had not intended to see Rebecca again, for both their sakes. He had resolved that Justin should take over the investigation into the engraving. Yet the minute he laid eyes on her it had made mockery of his good intentions. He had forgotten his honourable resolve, his determination to disengage before matters spiralled out of control. Instead he had flirted with her

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and pushed her hard with a desire that was entirely unfeigned. She had played her part well, but with enough hesitation and innate modesty for Lucas to know that she was part afraid, part intrigued. He could tell that she felt the same irresistible passion that he did and that it confused her. The knowledge was the only thing that held him in check and prevented him from sweeping her into his arms and his bed. The strong protective urge that he felt for her had not diminished. When he had seen Fremantle about to lay his disgusting hands on her, he had almost given way to violence. Now he looked at Rebecca curled up in a corner of the hackney carriage and his heart twisted with pity and the need to comfort her. She looked so small and forlorn. He wanted to chase those shadows from her eyes. The surge of feeling she stirred within him threatened to overwhelm him. On impulse he put out a hand and touched her shoulder. She did not move. ‘Rebecca...’ his voice was gentle this time ‘...what were you doing at the masque?’ He caught the sheen of tears on her cheeks as she turned her head towards him and he pulled her into his arms. She came easily to him, curving against him. ‘I wanted everything to be different,’ she said softly, ‘just for one night.’ Lucas pressed his lips to her hair. ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘but did it have to be a masque?’ He felt her smile against his chest. ‘There was nowhere else to go.’ Lucas’s mind filled with images of all the places

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that he would like to take her. She would enjoy the theatre, or an evening stroll through Vauxhall Gardens in the summer, when the sun was setting indigo and red and the lanterns were lit. Or a ball at Carlton House, or to visit the Royal Academy... There were so many places, so many treats that he wanted to shower upon her. Such matters were easy for him to arrange and he took them for granted. It was not the same for Rebecca, tied to earning a living, relentlessly working in order to survive. It made him feel oddly humble. Rebecca shifted slightly in his arms and Lucas became instantly aware of the press of her body against his. Her cloak had slipped to reveal the bodice of the scandalously low red silk dress and the pale swell of her breasts above it. His body tightened in instinctive response to her luscious beauty and he bit back a curse. ‘And the dress?’ His voice sounded harsher than he had intended. Rebecca snuggled closer to him, causing his body further agonies of self-denial. ‘It belongs to Nan Astley.’ She sounded a little sleepy. ‘Of course it does.’ Lucas, compensating for the tightness in his breeches that the dress caused, sounded pompous. ‘And the flirting?’ ‘You flirted with me,’ Rebecca said. ‘And did you know it was me?’ There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ Rebecca sounded cautious. ‘I...I thought it was you.’ ‘You thought it was me?’ Lucas felt outraged. ‘You

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mean that you flirted like that with a masked stranger without knowing his identity for sure?’ Rebecca tried to sit up, but he held her tightly in arms that were suddenly as hard as steel. ‘I was certain it was you,’ she said. She sighed. ‘Besides, I doubt you meant a word you said.’ ‘Every word,’ Lucas said. ‘I meant every word.’ Suddenly the silence between them was vivid with unspoken emotion. Rebecca struggled to free herself from him and even in the dark he could see the hectic colour in her face and the glitter of her eyes. ‘Lucas—’ she said. ‘Hush.’ He pressed his fingers to her lips. ‘Rebecca.’ The hackney turned into the street and drew to a halt outside the silent workshop. Lucas helped Rebecca down and turned to pay the jarvey. She heard the chink of coins and a mumbled word of thanks from the driver as he raised his whip and the carriage moved off. The night was cold and damp. Light no longer shone from the tavern and the street was silent. Lucas waited whilst Rebecca unlocked the door. Her hands were shaking and it seemed to take her a long time, but it was not the cold that was making her tremble. The air between them was thick with sensual awareness. She felt as though she could touch it, taste it. She felt as though it was smothering her. She stopped and turned to him. Behind her was the darkness of the workshop, the fitful moonlight lying in scattered beams across the floor. It was waiting for her—all the loneliness and the misery and the empti-

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ness that had trapped her since her uncle’s death had left her almost alone in the world. Yet before her was a man who could block out all that sadness and solitude, if only for a short while. He could hold her, give her comfort, turn the darkness to light for her. Lucas did not move. She could not see his expression. She did not need to. She put out a hand and her fingertips came up against the smooth material of his coat. Her fingers drifted across his chest and his own hand came up to imprison hers. ‘What is it that you want, Rebecca?’ he said. His voice was husky. ‘You.’ Rebecca spoke barely above a whisper. She knew nothing other than that the desire for him burned hotter than all else. Almost all... The words I love you were blazed across her mind, so vivid she almost spoke them aloud. ‘I need you,’ she said. She tugged on his hand very gently and he followed her across the threshold. The door closed behind them with a gentle click and they stood in total darkness. Time spun out between them. She could feel the tension emanating from Lucas’s body. It felt almost as though he was about to turn and leave her. She could not bear for him to go now. She wanted to blot out the pain and the anguish and the unhappiness, just for one night. ‘Lucas,’ she said beseechingly, ‘please...’ Then he closed the distance between them and took her mouth with his, and as he drew her into his arms, his kiss turned the darkness to light.

Chapter Five

Rebecca’s head was spinning, her heart racing at the shattering sensations that were coursing through her. Lucas’s mouth claimed hers again with a hungry demand and she responded with all the pent-up longing and loneliness and need in her soul. Her breasts felt full and heavy against the slippery silk of the ballgown and his hand slid up to cup her there. Rebecca shivered and pressed closer. It felt as though she had always known it would come to this. It had been inevitable from the moment that they had first met and now she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in him. Her cloak fell to the floor in a pool of darkness, and then Lucas had swept her up off her feet and into his arms. ‘Where is your room?’ ‘Up the staircase in the corner.’ They wasted no further breath on words. The wooden stair was a narrow spiral, but it posed no difficulties for Lucas, who carried her as though she weighed nothing at all. Halfway up the stairs he stopped, and in the pulsing darkness, looked down into

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her face. Rebecca’s lips parted as she stared up at him and he gave a ragged groan and swooped down to take her lips with his, his tongue darting wickedly to part them farther and invade the moist sensitivity of her mouth. Rebecca’s senses reeled. She had no memory of how she came to be on her bed in the tiny garret under the eaves. Lucas was leaning over her and she raised a hand to touch his lean cheek with a shy possessiveness, entranced to feel the roughness of his stubble beneath her questing fingers. There was a tender wonderment in her touch. Nothing had ever felt so good, or so right. She wanted to see him, but there was very little light in the room. Her other senses were heightened, drinking him in like water in the desert, the feel and the taste and the scent of him. ‘Lucas,’ she said. His only reply was to slide his hands into her hair and find her mouth with his again. Rebecca was drowning in acute longing, waiting breathlessly in fevered, urgent desperation. He shed his clothes and hers too, their hands bumping impatiently as Rebecca sought to help and to rid herself of the constraining layers that came between them. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, but when they were naked together and she felt his hands on her body, she thought she would burn up with sheer, agonising need. He bent his head and nipped at her breasts, torturing her with his tongue and his teeth while Rebecca writhed beneath him and gave a low, wanton cry of total abandonment. She was driven to near madness by every sure, know-

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ing stroke of his hands and his mouth on her. This was beyond anything that she had imagined. She slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He felt warm and strong, and she revelled in that strength. Her hands brushed the tousled hair from his forehead and slid over the hard, muscular perfection of his shoulders and down his chest, until he captured them and spread her arms wide apart on the mattress so that her body was open to him. Rebecca shivered convulsively. Her mind was cloudy with heated desire. When he teased her thighs apart she shuddered, jerking and gasping as he found and traced the hot, intense centre of her. The exquisite sensations built and crashed about her, and wrenched a tormented gasp from her. ‘Lucas, please...’ She was dimly aware of the urgency in his hands as he slid over her, then he plunged into her and the passionate invasion wrenched a sharp gasp of pain from her lips. He stilled in an instant. ‘No! You can’t be!’ He sounded breathless and ragged. Rebecca shifted slightly, utterly distracted by the tiny movements that were easing him all the way inside of her. It was impossible to concentrate and talking was the last thing that she wanted to do. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘Yes, but I thought...’ Lucas sounded dazed. Rebecca rubbed his arm in a gentle caress. ‘Do you really wish to speak about it now, Lucas?’ His eyes came back to hers and she saw him register their situation, his expression darkening as he took in

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the tension and heat of her body wrapped about his in intimate conjoining. He gave a groan. ‘No.’ ‘Then do not.’ Rebecca wriggled a little and Lucas groaned again, bending to kiss her, ravishing her mouth with the same thoroughness with which he was now taking her body. He took his time now, building up the new and devastating sensations that had fled briefly from her when he had stopped. Raw desire possessed her again, whirled her up, mingled with the pounding surge of his body within hers. She was spinning, tense and tight and out of control, until the mindless pleasure burst like stars and tumbled her over the edge of a shattering release. For a long time there was no sound but their breathing as it slowed and calmed, and then Lucas pulled Rebecca close to him and wrapped his arms about her. His mouth was against her hair. ‘I am going to light a candle.’ Rebecca stiffened. It seemed too soon. Suddenly she needed the anonymity of the darkness. ‘Please do not.’ ‘I want to look at you.’ He sounded adamant. Rebecca sighed with acquiescence. She heard him grope for the tinderbox and strike a light. The small flame flared, bringing the shabby garret into warm focus. Lucas lit the candle, set it down and turned to her. ‘Now...’ he said. Despite the severity of his tone, there was gentleness in the way that he pulled her close to him once again, his arms going about her, drawing her against the hard, warm length of his body. Rebecca relaxed into his embrace. He smoothed a tender hand over her hair.

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‘You should have told me that I would be the first.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘I told you several times.’ ‘You said that you were no courtesan.’ Lucas hesitated. ‘I thought you inexperienced, but I did not realise...’ He sighed. ‘I should have known.’ Rebecca gave a tiny shrug. ‘I told you that I was virtuous.’ ‘Then why this—now?’ Rebecca turned her face against his shoulder. ‘I told you that too. You said that you understood. I wanted to escape—forget everything—for a single night.’ Lucas took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. His eyes were golden in the candlelight. ‘Oh, Rebecca...’ He sounded rueful and tender. Rebecca kissed his shoulder, touching her tongue to his skin, inhaling his scent and tasting the faint tang of salt and sweat. She did not want to talk. She wanted to live in the moment. She ran her hands down his body, exploring, learning as she went. His muscles felt tense and coiled and she wondered whether he was going to repudiate her, but after a moment he gave a soft sigh and she felt him surrender to her touch. Her mouth followed the path her fingers had taken. His skin felt hot and damp and as her hands drifted lower he rolled over and trapped her beneath him. ‘That’s enough...’ His tone was rough and when she looked at him wonderingly he touched her cheek, his voice softening. ‘I do not want to hurt you any more than I already have done, sweetheart.’ ‘You have not hurt me,’ Rebecca said, ignoring the

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slight ache of her body, ‘and the morning is not yet here—’ Her words broke off as his fingers found the damp warmth that he had left only minutes before, and gently caressed and teased her into a state of shameless pleasure. Fierce heat flowered in her and she pulled him close, arching against him, crying out as his mouth closed over her breast. He nudged her legs apart and entered her again. This time was slow and gentle, a matter of small, exquisite movements and drugging sweetness that cast them adrift in sensuality until they finally and, oh, so slowly, slipped into pure ecstasy and from there to oblivion. Rebecca woke to find that they were still intimately entwined. He was still inside her. She had slept with him like that. The shock ripped through her, followed almost immediately by a quivering leap of raw excitement at the shattering intimacy of it. She made a small sound, half-astonishment, half-pleasure, and as Lucas started to move she felt her body tighten once again into a slow, shimmering climax that went on and on. His hand slid up possessively from her stomach to her breast with a gentle, sleepy touch that made her want to press herself against him in sheer contentment. She was dazed and weak with the hot, endless pleasure, her mind as cloudy as her body was limp. Lucas kept her spread beneath him, shifting more firmly over her, lowering his head to take her nipple in his mouth so that the rasp of his tongue over her skin made her arch

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with desperation. He did not move within her but kept himself anchored deep, and she tautened like a plucked bow beneath his hands, his lips and his tongue, frantic for release whilst he played with her breasts. Finally she grabbed him to her, kissing him, lifting her hips in hopeless frustration until he could resist the temptation no longer and drove himself into her and the dizzying heat overtook them in endless waves. When Rebecca woke again it was late. The damp grey skies of the previous day had given way to a fresh autumn day of blue promise. The pale sun dappled the floor of Rebecca’s bedroom and lit up the dust motes that danced in its beams. Rebecca felt warm and dreamy and heavy with contentment. She knew that there was no likelihood of her working today, though when she did finally drag herself from her languor she wanted to continue engraving the kestrel glasses for Lucas. Lucas, who had taken all the passion she usually reserved for her work and transformed it into the most wicked, sensual and perfect night that she could ever have imagined. She turned her head. The space in the bed beside her was empty, but the tangle of sheets and the dent in the pillow showed where Lucas had lain. She remembered waking at one point to find herself clasped tightly in his arms. She had lain quiescent and still, revelling in the close contact of his skin against hers and the warmth and intimacy of the embrace. She knew she loved him. Rebecca rolled on to her back and stared at the cob-

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webby ceiling. She did not feel guilty at what she had done. She did not feel embarrassed or ashamed or any of the other conventional responses that she might have expected to feel having given herself to a man with such passion and wild abandonment all through the night. It had been exquisite bliss. She wriggled slightly. So there was one thing that Nan Astley had been right about, after all. It had not been difficult in the end. It had been magical and far from the mercenary arrangement that Nan had advocated. Rebecca got up very slowly and dressed with absent-minded movements, somehow managing to get herself down the stairs and into the workshop, where she threw open the windows and let the fresh air flood in. She could hear the scrawny stray cat mewing at the back door. She ignored it whilst she built up the fire—the wood that Lucas had purchased for her would last a good while longer—and set a light to the tinder. The flame caught and the studio immediately looked brighter, the light winking off the rows of engraved glass on the shelves. Rebecca’s spirits were soaring and she hummed as she swept the floor. A servant had called to collect the last of her uncle’s commissions the previous day, so at least she had been paid. She could eat. And she would see Lucas again. Of that she was certain. The mewing of the cat had become more insistent now, accompanied by a repetitive scratching that threatened to wear away the back door. Rebecca went through to the scullery. When she opened the door the cat shot in, accompanied by a blast of cold air that

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Rebecca knew would make the chimney smoke. She was about to slam the door shut again when she saw the bag. Her heart started to race. She bent down and picked it up. It had been wedged in a gap between the wall of the house and the drainpipe that ran down from the roof, which was even now emitting a sluggish stream of rainwater from the night before. The bag was made of oiled canvas and was slightly damp, but Rebecca could feel the shape of a small, folded piece of parchment inside—and the outline of golden sovereigns. She took the bag into the scullery. When she pulled the drawstring, the sovereigns spilled out on to the table, dull in the darkness of the room. She ignored them and took the note across to the window, her fingers shaking slightly as she unfolded the thick parchment. Dearest Rebecca, I am sorry I have been away so long. Tovey will carry this message to you, but it is no recompense for not seeing you in person. I pray it shall not be long before we may meet again. In the meantime, I hope that these may make some small reparation for my absence. Daniel Rebecca sighed, refolded the note and stuffed it back in the canvas bag. Pleasant as it was to have fifty gold sovereigns, it was no compensation for her brother’s absence. Nor had he indicated when she would see him again. Very likely he did not know. He

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was away at sea for months at a time and seldom knew in advance when he would make landfall again. He came to London even more rarely since it was too dangerous for him. It was close to a year since they had last met. She scooped up the sovereigns, put them in the bag and placed it beneath the stale biscuits in the china crock, along with the money she had received for her uncle’s commission. She had seldom had so much cash in the house. She should find a better hiding place. Her heart ached with a sudden, fierce pain. She would give almost everything she possessed to have Daniel home. But she knew it could not be—not yet— and in the meantime she must make shift as best she could. She tried to feel better by telling herself that she would see Lucas again soon, but the feeling of warm intimacy had drained away and something colder had taken its place. It nagged at her—where was Lucas and why had he not left her any message? The day seemed suddenly pale and the sunlight dim. Rebecca poured herself a mug of milk and cut a piece of bread and cheese for her breakfast, then went back into the studio, sat down at her workbench and picked up her diamond scribe. If she could not see Lucas, then she could try to lose herself in her work, but somehow she could not quite shake off the creeping chill that told her everything was not well. When Lucas awoke in his own bed, it was with a blinding headache. It was not alcohol induced, but the result of an over-active conscience, a conscience that

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had singularly failed to do its job and protect Miss Rebecca Raleigh from him the previous night. He lay still and stared at the ceiling. Last night he had behaved in the most dishonourable, disgraceful and discreditable way imaginable. It was the first time in his adult life that he had tried and failed to keep a measure of control. He had tried to do the decent thing. His mind recalled with perfect accuracy all the indecent things that he had done with Rebecca and the fact that he wanted to repeat them all again—and again. His body hardened into arousal instantly at the same time as he sat up and clutched his head in his hands with a groan. The fact that the night had been the most satisfying, exquisitely pleasurable and ultimately perfect experience he had ever encountered was beside the point. He was a scoundrel. He had awoken again just before dawn. Rebecca had been asleep, fragrantly, peacefully. He had seen her lying beside him and had felt the soft, tempting warmth of her body and had been overwhelmed by an emotion he had never previously experienced. He had felt awestruck and exalted and terrifyingly happy. And then he had felt afraid. He had eased himself out of the bed, dressed with speed and crept away, like a thief in the night. With each step away from Rebecca his heart had dropped like a stone into the depths. Fear and guilt had warred within him, smothering the contentment that had come to him when he was lying in Rebecca’s arms. He had wanted her from the moment he had first seen her and now that hunger was not appeased, but raged within

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him with a dangerous intensity. Yet somehow that intimate lovemaking had unleashed far more than physical desire. He felt angry and protective and responsible. He had never wanted to feel responsible for another person, preferring the independence that had been his way of life until the previous night. He had not wanted a woman to look on him with love. To see the same selfless devotion reflected in Rebecca’s eyes that he had seen in his mother... It made him feel sick. His father had taken his mother’s love and had twisted it out of all recognition through his endless infidelities. It had been a salutary lesson to all his sons, but it was Lucas who had felt it most keenly. Yet now it was too late. He had seduced Rebecca Raleigh, had taken her body with a rapture that he would not previously have dreamed existed, and in the process had been given her love, her soul. A part of him wanted it most desperately, but the other part shrank away. Lucas got slowly to his feet and stumbled across to the ewer on the chest of drawers. He bent over the bowl and poured the water directly over his head. The cold was refreshing, but the headache remained. He rubbed a hand across his hair, smoothing it down, scattering water droplets on his bare shoulders. He leaned both hands on the top on the chest of drawers and stared at his reflection in the glass. There was only one solution—he would have to marry Miss Rebecca Raleigh. No matter that he had sworn not to marry, no matter that he did not want the love of a good woman, no

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matter that he did not feel in the least worthy, he could not make a bad situation worse by behaving like a heartless seducer, taking her virginity and abandoning her after. Oddly the decision to marry, so long avoided, soothed him. He felt immeasurably better, not only because it was the honourable solution, but also because it felt like the right one in some deeply satisfying way he did not care to analyse. He told himself cynically that this was because he had acted like a cad and was taking the only respectable course of action, albeit late in the day. He told himself even more cynically that once he was married to Rebecca he could experience that exquisite bliss every night. That was a decided benefit, one almost worth throwing away his freedom on. His conscience, still tiresomely alert, told him that he was prevaricating and there was far more to his emotions than the satisfaction of honour and rampant desire. He told his conscience to be quiet. He called his valet, dressed and made his way downstairs, stopping dead as he entered the breakfast room and found his elder brother already settled at the table, his meal complete, a cup of coffee before him and the Morning Post in his hand. Lucas started forward. ‘Justin! We were not expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.’ Justin laughed, put the paper aside, got up and shook Lucas’s hand. ‘I received your letter, Lucas, and made what haste I could. I arrived late last night.’ He shifted his broad shoulders against the chair back in

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an effort to get comfortable. ‘I swear the roads get worse by the day. I feel as stiff as an old man.’ ‘What do you expect, at your age?’ Lucas said, with an unsympathetic grin. ‘Dukes approaching their dotage must anticipate such troubles.’ ‘Devil a bit,’ Justin said cheerfully, raising his coffee and taking an appreciate mouthful. ‘I have a few years left to me yet.’ He gestured to the coffee pot. ‘Are you having some, Luc?’ He was studying his brother closely. ‘You’re looking a little rough, if you will forgive me. Heavy night?’ Lucas hesitated. He looked with distaste at the litter of breakfast on the table. He had no appetite. ‘It was a somewhat unexpected evening,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘Justin, there is something I feel I should tell you—’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Tom Bradshaw is here, your Grace,’ Byrne announced. ‘Shall I show him in?’ Justin glanced at Lucas. ‘Can it wait, Luc? I saw Bradshaw briefly last night and he had some information I wanted to discuss with you at the earliest opportunity.’ ‘Of course.’ Lucas felt strangely on edge. It was he who had set Tom Bradshaw on to investigate and watch Rebecca Raleigh only a week before. It felt like a lifetime; a lifetime in which he had briefly forgotten the reason why he and Rebecca had met in the first place, so wrapped up had he become in all that had happened between them. ‘Bradshaw tells me,’ Justin said, folding his news-

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paper precisely, ‘that Miss Raleigh has provided the engraved glass that the Midwinter spies have been using for their cipher—’ ‘It was her uncle who did the work,’ Lucas said, without letting his brother finish. ‘I do not believe that Miss Raleigh herself knows anything about it, other than that her uncle was fulfilling a commission for a client.’ There was a small silence. Lucas was very aware of Justin’s gaze resting thoughtfully on him. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. He knew Justin to be very shrewd. It would be well nigh impossible for him not to give his feelings away. ‘I see,’ Justin said, in measured tone. ‘And the uncle himself?’ Lucas hesitated. He was aware of a very strong urge to say absolutely nothing at all. He wanted to protect Rebecca, not draw her into danger. And yet that was the precise reason that Justin was here. He got up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and paced across to the fireplace. ‘Her uncle was George Provost. He died recently. Miss Raleigh has carried on the work of the studio.’ Justin nodded. ‘I imagine that she is in some financial difficulty?’ Lucas could feel the screws turning. Justin’s line of reasoning was not difficult to follow. ‘Why do you imagine that?’ he asked expressionlessly. ‘It cannot be easy for a young lady to carve out such a living if she is alone in the world. I take it,’ Justin added, gently persistent, ‘that she is alone?’ ‘I... Yes.’ Lucas shot him a look. He was remem-

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bering the bare bedroom, pristinely neat, unmistakably poor, where he’d left Rebecca this very morning. ‘She lives in some hardship, certainly.’ Justin gave him a long look. ‘So it would be entirely possible that she might succumb to the lure of a job that paid very well, even if it were...illegal?’ Lucas met his eyes. ‘It is possible in principle, but not in practice.’ ‘How so?’ ‘Because Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas said, struggling with a temper that suddenly seemed incendiary, ‘is no traitor, Justin. Besides, I have ascertained that no work has been commissioned for the Midwinter spies since the death of her uncle.’ Justin let that pass for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But you do not deny that this mysterious client who places his orders with the studio might have instructed Miss Raleigh to keep the details of the commission secret?’ ‘She gave no such impression to me,’ Lucas said, turning so sharply to look at his brother that he almost drilled a hole in the carpet. ‘Indeed, she was very open about the type of work the studio had engraved for him.’ ‘So you believe her innocent of all this,’ Justin said thoughtfully. There was a spark of humour in his gaze. ‘In fact, you might just call me out if I imply otherwise?’ Lucas shifted uncomfortably under his elder brother’s observant gaze. ‘I believe she is entirely innocent, yes.’ ‘And her connection to the Archangel Club?’

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Lucas could feel the tension stiff across his shoulders. ‘Another commission, that is all.’ ‘Miss Raleigh,’ Justin observed, ‘has commissions from dubious sources.’ Lucas drew a sharp breath. He could hear the note of impatience in his own voice, the tell-tale edginess that gave his feelings away more clearly than any words. ‘That is a co-incidence only.’ ‘You are hot in her defence.’ ‘I am.’ Their glances met and clashed like a sword thrust. Justin laughed. ‘I see. So you see yourself as some sort of knight errant who wishes to protect Miss Raleigh from danger.’ ‘Hardly,’ Lucas snapped. His conscience flailed him again. Of all the people who had placed Rebecca in jeopardy, he was the most culpable. ‘Then,’ Justin said shrewdly, ‘your ill temper stems from a guilty conscience. You feel a scoundrel because you have deceived her as to your true interest.’ ‘I have and I do,’ Lucas said, through shut teeth. He was within an ace of losing his coolness altogether. ‘I have deceived Miss Raleigh in more ways than I wish to count and the damnable thing is that I am convinced she is innocent.’ Rebecca had been innocent in many ways until he had laid a hand on her. Lucas thought of her trust and her generosity of spirit and closed his eyes briefly. ‘Would you prefer it if I were to go to Clerkenwell to interview her?’ Justin asked mildly. ‘No!’ Lucas almost shouted. The thought of Re-

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becca learning of his perfidy through a third party was even more unendurable than the idea of telling her himself. Justin raised his brows. Lucas took a deep breath and smoothed his hair down. ‘I apologise, but Miss Raleigh must hear the truth from me, Justin. There is a particular reason for this. I wish to marry her.’ Lucas had not intended to announce his matrimonial plans in quite such a stark manner, but once the words were out he felt inexpressibly relieved. Justin, who had the reputation of being the coolest head in London, looked slightly winded. He opened his mouth to frame a response, but before the words were out there came a tentative knock at the door and Tom Bradshaw entered. From his apprehensive expression it was clear that he had heard the raised voices from behind the closed door. ‘Your Grace, my lord...’ He bowed. ‘Would you prefer me to return later?’ Justin glanced at Lucas, who shook his head abruptly. Whatever Bradshaw had to report, it was better to learn it now. ‘Take a seat, Bradshaw,’ Justin said, nodding to the chair opposite. ‘Lord Lucas and I may continue this...fascinating...conversation at a later time.’ Lucas went across to lean against the mantel. He had a disquieting feeling that the information Bradshaw was about to impart would not be to his liking. The servant was no fool either; his gaze went from one Kestrel brother to the other and his brows rose a little. Lucas could feel his tension balling in his chest.

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He saw Justin’s amused gaze on him, realised that he was almost dancing with impatience, and forced himself to calm. Tom Bradshaw looked at Lucas. ‘I have had Miss Raleigh’s workshop under surveillance for the past week, as you are aware, my lord,’ he began. He took a scruffy notebook from his back pocket and flicked the pages over. ‘The lady has few visitors and seldom goes out, but yesterday she delivered a package to the Archangel Club.’ Lucas was aware of Justin’s stillness and put his own construction on it. ‘It was a commission for Lord Fremantle,’ he said, ‘on behalf of the Club.’ Justin nodded noncommittally. ‘So I understand,’ he said. ‘Pray continue, Bradshaw.’ Bradshaw ruffled the pages of the book. ‘Yes, your Grace. A servant called yesterday afternoon to collect the other commission that Miss Raleigh had waiting, the one for the collector.’ Lucas stiffened. ‘Are you certain, Bradshaw?’ ‘Yes, my lord.’ Lucas felt his stomach knot. ‘Did you overhear their conversation?’ ‘A little, my lord. He was not there for long. He paid Miss Raleigh two hundred guineas and left with a package—’ ‘Two hundred guineas!’ Lucas could not stop himself. He was remembering Rebecca telling him that the market rate for six glasses was twenty guineas. Either she had provided a great many items for the mysterious collector or... The logic was obvious. Or he was paying her for more than the commission. For her si-

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lence, perhaps... Lucas shook his head sharply. He could not believe it. He simply did not believe it of Rebecca. ‘Are you sure?’ he said harshly. ‘Yes, my lord.’ Bradshaw looked nervous. ‘I heard him say so himself.’ ‘It is a great deal of money,’ Justin said mildly. Lucas thrust his hand through his hair. ‘Is there anything else, Bradshaw?’ ‘Yes, my lord,’ the servant said. He swallowed. ‘I followed the man when he took the package away.’ There was a silence. ‘Where did he go?’ Lucas asked. Bradshaw looked up. ‘To the Archangel Club, my lord,’ he said. Lucas and Justin exchanged a look. Lucas could see sympathy in his brother’s eyes and it made him angry. The implication was obvious. Justin thought that he had been taken for a fool by Miss Rebecca Raleigh. He thought that he had lost his head and his judgement, and, to be fair, the evidence against Rebecca was strong. Yet instinct, deeper than any logic, told him that she was honest. ‘Do you wish me to bring the servant in, your Grace?’ Bradshaw was asking, cautiously. ‘He rents a room in the Feathers in Cheapside.’ Justin shook his head. ‘Nobody in the pay of the Archangel is going to talk to us. All it will do is raise the alarm. I shall go to the club and make the most discreet of enquiries, though I imagine I shall find precisely nothing. Lucas—’

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‘Yes,’ Lucas said. ‘I shall go to Clerkenwell and speak with Miss Raleigh.’ ‘She is all we have,’ Justin said. Lucas could hear the pity that tinged his brother’s voice. ‘We need you to bring her here for questioning, Luc. Innocent or guilty, she has to help us.’ There was a sharp silence. ‘If you do not care for the idea, then I shall go myself,’ Justin added. Lucas could feel Justin watching him, weighing him up, deciding if he could be relied on or not. He squared his shoulders. ‘I should prefer to go,’ he said quietly. Justin nodded. He turned to Tom Bradshaw. ‘Thank you, Bradshaw. You have done very well.’ ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ Bradshaw said politely. He nodded to Lucas. ‘My lord...’ He backed hastily from the room when he saw the look on Lucas’s face. Lucas stared at the door panels after Bradshaw had left and silence had descended on the room. The connections that he had been too tired, too preoccupied to make, were clicking into place in his head. ‘You knew where I was last night,’ he said slowly. ‘Bradshaw has already told you that I was with Miss Raleigh.’ Justin gave the ghost of a grin and waved the coffee pot at him. ‘May I offer you some more? I am sorry there is nothing stronger.’ Lucas shook his head impatiently. ‘Well?’ Justin shrugged. There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘You put the poor fellow in the devil of a position, Lucas. After all, you had set him on to watch Miss Raleigh’s premises in the first place, and then he finds

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himself spying on his employer’s amorous entanglements! He left directly to preserve discretion.’ Lucas sighed. ‘I did not even think of it.’ ‘It seems that there were a number of matters that you did not give consideration to last night.’ Lucas flung himself down onto one of the hard dining chairs. ‘Miss Raleigh is no courtesan,’ he said. Justin paused in the act of pouring himself another cup of coffee. ‘I never imagined for a moment that she was,’ he said mildly. ‘Indeed, your crisis of conscience this morning rather suggests that the reverse is true. I take it that you still wish to marry her?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ Lucas waited in explosive silence for the Duke to suggest that an engraver’s niece was not a seemly match for one of the Kestrels. Instead Justin merely said, ‘You still believe her to be innocent.’ ‘Certainly.’ Lucas shifted on the seat. ‘Nothing that I have heard from Bradshaw this morning changes my opinion.’ He saw a flicker of expression cross Justin’s face and felt his temper tighten at the thought that it might be pity. His brother thought he had gone soft and lost his judgement. ‘I may be suffering the pangs of guilt,’ he said angrily, ‘but I assure you that my reasoning is still sound.’ Justin made a pacifying gesture. ‘I agree. My only concern is that you should not offer for Miss Raleigh out of a misplaced sense of chivalry. Something may be arranged.’ ‘You mean you will pay her off, as though she was

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a harlot?’ Lucas was on his feet before he even knew he had moved. ‘I told you she was no courtesan—’ ‘Hold your peace,’ Justin said, undisturbed. ‘I meant no such thing. I merely do not wish you to tie yourself to a loveless marriage through a sense of honour. It is not fair for a man to spend his life paying for one mistake.’ Lucas understood what he meant. ‘That is not why I am offering for Rebecca.’ Justin arched a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Then name your reasons.’ Lucas stared at his brother. It felt like a challenge to combat. In his mind were all of his own conflicting emotions; before him, Justin’s implacability. ‘I want her,’ he said. ‘I want to marry her.’ He saw Justin’s expression shift as though his brother had read something in his face that he had not intended to be there. Justin nodded. ‘Then I wish you good fortune, Luc,’ he said quietly. It was only when Lucas had gone out that Justin raised his cup in mocking tribute to the oil painting of the previous Duke, whose portrait hung above the fire. ‘So my little brother is in love at last, though he does not realise it,’ he mused. ‘Thank God you did not ruin everything for him, Father, with your endless infidelities.’ His face sobered as he put the cup down. ‘But of course Miss Raleigh may refuse him when she knows the truth. If she is half the woman I suspect her to be, I rather think she will.’

Chapter Six

Rebecca had been engraving for two hours when the sharp ache in her wrist reminded her that if she did not rest she would be unable to continue. With a sigh she laid down her engraving scribe and went into the scullery to make herself a pot of tea. Whilst the kettle sang on the hearth she leaned against the sink and thought about Lucas and the night before; of his hands on her body and his mouth on hers and the searing intimacy of sleeping with her body entwined in his. The room had filled with steam before she recalled herself to the present. Back in the studio, the fire was already burning low, subdued by the wind that was drawing down the chimney. The sun had gone in and the room looked dark and cheerless. Rebecca went to fetch more candles. She had just lit two of them when the door banged and another blast of autumnal air swept into the workshop, blowing them out in a puff of smoke. Rebecca swung round. Lucas was standing just inside the doorway, shaking the droplets of rain off his magnificent caped driving coat. Rebecca could not

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help herself. Her heart gave a huge leap of gladness and a smile burst from her that she had neither the means nor the will to control. ‘Good morning, Lucas—’ She broke off. Lucas had not returned her smile and now he bowed very slightly. In the dim light his face looked tense and unyielding. ‘Good morning, Rebecca.’ He sounded strained. Rebecca’s smile wavered slightly. Lucas closed the door behind them with quiet deliberation. A chill touched the top of Rebecca’s spine and crawled down her back. She frowned slightly, looking at him. There was something dreadfully wrong. She could read it in his face. The fear began to crystallize about her heart. ‘My lord?’ she said warily. She jumped as Lucas shot the bolt home and reached behind her, groping on the desk for her diamond engraving scribe. Her hand grasped open air. Lucas, seeing the gesture, put out a hand to stop her. ‘Do not be afraid. We need to talk, you and I, and I would prefer it to be uninterrupted.’ Rebecca searched his face, instinctively seeking reassurance, but there was none. His expression was as closed as a shuttered house. Rebecca felt fear and sheer disbelief swamping her like a tidal wave. Last night this man had held her in his arms and made love to her with single-minded passion. Now he wore the face of a stranger. The change from that man to this was almost too great to comprehend. ‘I thought—’ She broke off. ‘Last night...’

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She saw a bleakness come into Lucas’s face, colder than the snow on the winter streets. ‘Rebecca,’ he said again, taking her arm and guiding her towards the chaise-longue, ‘I need to speak with you.’ He spared neither of them. Rebecca listened in mounting disbelief and disillusion as he told the whole tale—that he was involved in a quest to discover and unmask a spy ring and the engraver who had been working for them, that he had set a man to watch her premises, that he had deliberately sought her out and set out to gain her confidence. She started to tremble. Her hands were so cold she could barely feel them. She wrapped her arms about herself, but it could not quell the shaking. The fearful discovery that Lucas had betrayed her from the very start cut to the very heart of her. ‘Last night...’ she said again. She stopped and cleared her throat, wanting to hide the worst of her pain from him. ‘You need not have taken your masquerade so far, my lord.’ Lucas put out a hand and she flinched away from him. She saw the hurt in his face and it lacerated her own pain. So he had some feelings for her after all, just not enough to have told her the truth from the start. ‘That was no pretence,’ he said, in a hard voice. ‘Rebecca, I care for you. I want to marry you.’ Rebecca stood up violently. Rage, fierce and primeval, stormed through her. ‘Marry? You wish to marry a woman you do not even trust?’ Lucas rubbed his brow with exasperation. ‘Rebecca,

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it is not that I do not trust you. I never believed you to be a part of the espionage.’ Rebecca made a sound of disgust. ‘Of course not! You merely chose to keep from me the fact that you were here with a secret purpose!’ Her voice broke and she swallowed hard. ‘Oh! You are detestable, Lord Lucas! I despise you!’ Lucas’s face was white and tense. ‘I understand that you are upset to know the truth, Rebecca—’ ‘You have no notion how I feel!’ Rebecca said, as white as he. ‘How could you imagine that I would ever accept your proposal? I do believe that one of us is run mad here, and it is certainly not me!’ Lucas got to his feet. ‘What else could I do?’ he said. ‘If I had asked you to marry me first and then told you the truth, would I have stood a better chance?’ Rebecca gave him a look of contempt. ‘No. My response would be exactly the same as it is now. I will never marry you.’ Lucas drove his hands into his pockets. ‘You have no choice, Rebecca.’ Rebecca stared at him in outrage. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘You have to marry me,’ Lucas enunciated, with great care. ‘I seduced you last night.’ ‘Oh, do not be so ridiculous!’ Rebecca said, her temper soaring again. ‘I seduced you! I needed you last night.’ She squashed down the misery that threatened to swamp her as she remembered the way that she had turned to Lucas with unquestioning love and trust. ‘I wanted what happened,’ she finished starkly. Lucas’s face was set hard. ‘Nevertheless, I took

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your virginity and you may be carrying my child. Under the circumstances I must insist that you marry me.’ ‘I would as lief take poison!’ The words were out before Rebecca could prevent them. It felt as though some huge, destructive power was rampaging through her blood, turning all the pain to anger and cruelty. She took a deep shuddering breath and tried to regain her self-control. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said with constraint. ‘That was unnecessary. But I cannot marry you, Lord Lucas. I will not let your belated sense of honour place me in a situation I do not want.’ Lucas came to her and took both her hands in his. ‘Rebecca, you responded to me last night,’ he said softly. ‘Would it really be so bad?’ Rebecca could not bear his touch, nor the treacherous part of her that whispered that in another life, another time, to marry Lucas would have been the height of her most tender dreams. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and make all well again. Except that it was too late; it had always been too late. She moved a little away, determined to take refuge in practicality and block out the pain. ‘Since it is information that you want from me, my lord,’ she said, ‘you may as well ask me now.’ She seated herself on the sofa and looked at him with cold expectancy. ‘Well?’ Lucas looked slightly bemused. ‘Rebecca—’ ‘The questions, my lord,’ Rebecca repeated tonelessly. ‘You say that you are investigating a spy ring. In what way may I help you with your enquiries?’ She saw Lucas hesitate and for a moment her per-

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fidious heart hoped that he would override her coldness and take her in his arms, murmur the words of love that surely should accompany a proposal of marriage, the words she had secretly longed to hear... Instead he sat down slowly. ‘Are we not to speak of our marriage any more?’ he enquired, with studied politeness. Rebecca shook her head. For a second the tears obscured her vision and she blinked them away fiercely. ‘I think it better not. You will ask whatever it is that you wish to know and then you will leave.’ Lucas paused on the edge of saying something, then appeared to change his mind. Rebecca’s heart shrivelled. So there was to be no declaration of love, no putting right of the wrong. Instead, Lucas put a hand inside his jacket and extracted a folded piece of parchment. He held it out to her. ‘I am here on the authority of the Foreign Secretary,’ he said. ‘Read it—please.’ Rebecca unfolded the paper, trying to keep her hands from shaking. It was short and to the point. The warrant gave the bearer permission to question any person appropriate about certain treasonable activities that were focussed on the villages of Midwinter in the County of Suffolk. She was to give full cooperation to the enquiry. Rebecca read the name of Suffolk and almost fainted. The paper fell from her hand to the floor. She could hear a buzzing in her ears and put a hand to her forehead to try to ward off the dizziness that was washing over her. She heard Lucas move and felt his fingers cool against her cheek.

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‘I will fetch you a glass of water,’ he said. She wanted to tell him not to do so. She hated the thought that he had been in the studio before and knew where to find all the simple things—the pots and pans in the scullery, a beaker of water... It felt like the greatest intrusion now that she knew he had had another purpose for seeking her out. The fact that he knew so much about her and her life was almost as distressing as the fact that she had had the poor judgement to give herself body and soul to a man whom, it seemed, had betrayed her. She started to think about all the things she had confided in him, all the words she had spoken, all the intimate moments they had shared. It had seemed so precious. Now she felt sickened. Lucas had returned within moments and pressed a cold beaker into her hand. She wanted to dash the contents in his face. She wanted to smash every item of glass she could lay her hands upon. Instead, she took a deep, steadying breath and accepted the water with a brief word of thanks, whilst she locked the anger and the hurt and the violation deep inside. She took a sip of the cool liquid and gave Lucas a look of defiance. ‘I know nothing about this, my lord.’ ‘I did not believe that you did,’ Lucas said easily. ‘However, you will not object to answering a few questions?’ Rebecca shrugged ungraciously. ‘If you wish.’ ‘Thank you.’ Lucas resumed his seat. He picked up the small package that he had brought with him and unwrapped it quickly. Rebecca’s eyes widened as she

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saw the contents. It was a small sherry glass, engraved with a picture of a half-moon. Lucas was watching her closely. ‘You recognise it?’ ‘Of course. It is a piece of my uncle’s work.’ Lucas leaned forward. ‘You are certain of that?’ Rebecca met his eyes. ‘Yes. His style is very distinctive.’ She could not read anything from his expression. ‘Do you know for whom the order was made?’ ‘Not without checking the order books,’ Rebecca said. Lucas nodded. ‘You have a client who is a major collector?’ he asked. ‘You know that I do.’ She did not have to make it easy for him. She saw his look of resigned amusement as he realised that fact. ‘What is his name?’ Rebecca frowned. ‘I believe he is called...Mr Johnson.’ Lucas raised his brows in patent disbelief. ‘Is that his real name?’ ‘How should I know? I have never questioned otherwise.’ Rebecca gave him a faintly contemptuous look. ‘I have never queried that you are, in fact, Lord Lucas Kestrel, although there are a great many other things that I could call you.’ Lucas inclined his head. ‘Touche´.’ He shifted. ‘So yesterday Mr Johnson’s manservant collected a commission from you?’ ‘He did.’ ‘And paid you two hundred guineas for your uncle’s work.’

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Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know that, my lord?’ ‘That is nothing to the purpose. Is it correct?’ ‘It is.’ ‘Why so much? Had you completed a very large piece of work for him?’ Rebecca set her jaw. ‘If you know how much he paid, then I would wager that you also know the package was of modest size.’ Lucas laughed and took a leaf from her book in the brevity of his response. ‘I did know that.’ ‘Then why try to trick me?’ Rebecca asked sharply. ‘You know that the parcel was small, you know that I told you a set of six engraved glasses cost twenty guineas.’ ‘And I know he paid you two hundred.’ Lucas was watching her with the intentness of a hawk. ‘Why should he give you so much money, Rebecca?’ ‘Because he owed payment for three consignments of work,’ Rebecca said. There was a silence, then Lucas nodded slowly. ‘I see.’ ‘So simple an explanation.’ ‘So it would seem.’ The lines around Lucas’s mouth deepened as he smiled and Rebecca’s wayward heart missed a beat. She was furious with herself. How was it possible to hate a man so much and yet long for his touch with a yearning that owed nothing to hatred? In the heat of the night she had loved this man. Now it was daylight and it was raining and she was still in love with this cold stranger who had misused her trust. She despised her own weakness.

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‘Is that all, my lord?’ she said starchily. ‘No, it is barely the beginning.’ Lucas looked at her. ‘I should like to see details of all orders placed by Mr Johnson and all transactions bought and paid for.’ Rebecca stared. ‘That will take hours!’ ‘You do have the information?’ ‘Of course. It is in the account books, but—’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I am sorry, but I must ask why you require to see it.’ Lucas waved the document under her nose. ‘Johnson is known to consort with spies, Rebecca. They are using your uncle’s engravings as the cipher on which they base their coded letters to the enemy.’ Rebecca drew in a sharp breath. Her first reaction was one of relief. This was nothing to do with Daniel at all. She felt a little colour come into her cheeks. Lucas was watching her closely. ‘You do not seem surprised.’ Rebecca suddenly realised her danger. In her relief for Daniel she had probably greeted the news with a calmness that made her appear guilty. ‘On the contrary,’ she snapped, ‘I am astounded.’ Lucas gave a short laugh. ‘A cunning plan, is it not?’ ‘Very clever. But not original.’ ‘How so?’ ‘The Jacobites used engraved glasses to communicate their coded messages last century,’ Rebecca said. ‘The most famous case was that of the Bolingbroke crystal, which was engraved with symbols relating to a plan to overthrow the government. The glasses were

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passed between the members of the conspiracy as a means of making contact.’ ‘And you did not know that the Midwinter spies were using the same trick?’ ‘Certainly not. I have already told you that I know nothing of the Midwinter spies and I am certain that my uncle knew nothing either. He took the commissions and did the work in all innocence.’ Lucas’s scrutiny dwelled on her face and Rebecca felt herself blush beneath it. ‘You are very cool,’ he murmured. ‘One might almost say professional.’ ‘Professional at what?’ Rebecca asked sharply. ‘The only thing I am, Lord Lucas, is a professional engraver. You should know that now—after last night.’ Their eyes met and held, Rebecca’s hard with dislike, Lucas’s expression more equivocal. Rebecca saw a hint of colour come into his face. His jaw set hard. ‘Rebecca, if we could leave that aside for a while—’ ‘How like you,’ Rebecca said with contempt, ‘to wish to leave aside any matter that would trouble the conscience of any decent man.’ She saw Lucas’s hands clench and the expression flare in his eyes, and she felt a savage satisfaction that she could vent her anger on him and provoke a response. Yet even now he was in control of his feelings, smoothly pushing aside her fury as though it was of no account. Perhaps it was not, to him. Rebecca’s nails dug into her palms as she thought of the extent to which she had given of herself; generously, freely, openly, as though modesty and convention and reserve were of no concern. She had been lost in passion

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whilst he...he had been playing a part. Or perhaps that was too harsh. He had said that he cared for her. He had offered her marriage in a declaration that half the de´butantes in London would no doubt kill for. It was her misfortune that he was offering for all the wrong reasons and she was refusing for all the right ones. Lucas was watching her expressionlessly. ‘Did you know that Johnson’s servant delivered your commission to the Archangel Club?’ Rebecca was startled at that. ‘No, I did not.’ ‘You did not know Mr Johnson’s direction?’ ‘He has always sent his servant to place orders and collect the work. I do not believe we know his direction.’ Lucas grimaced. ‘But what if he had not paid his bills?’ Rebecca’s gaze mocked him. ‘Then I should have starved—as I almost did.’ Their gazes held for a long moment. ‘You must concede that it is a coincidence,’ Lucas said. ‘What is?’ ‘That both your recent commission and Mr Johnson’s direction should be connected to the Archangel Club.’ ‘It is,’ Rebecca allowed, ‘but if it is more than chance, I am not aware of it.’ Lucas stood up. ‘If you could fetch me the account books, please?’ ‘Of course,’ Rebecca said, with scrupulous courtesy. She was very conscious of him as he followed her into the tiny office that led off the engraving studio. His

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presence seemed to fill the room. She felt overwhelmed and suddenly dangerously vulnerable. The anger that had kept her hurt at bay was ebbing now, leaving her with a feeling of emptiness and disillusion greater than she had ever imagined. To have loved so briefly and been so swiftly betrayed was difficult to comprehend. Yet there was already a formality between them as though the man who had held her and loved her was quite different, and this cold stranger someone else entirely... She tried to concentrate. She needed this year’s book of accounts and the last one. She would give them to him and then he would go and she need not see him again. She grabbed the dusty, leather-bound tome in which her uncle had recorded the previous year’s transactions. Her hands were unsteady and the corner caught the china biscuit jar in which she had placed the money. For a second it teetered on the edge of the shelf and then, with a terrifying finality, it tumbled to the stone floor and smashed into shards. The money spun across the floor in a tumble of dull gold. And Daniel’s note... Rebecca pounced on the paper, but Lucas was a second too quick for her. He plucked it from her fingers and she was left grasping nothing. ‘Just a moment,’ he murmured. Rebecca made a grab for the paper. ‘That is private! Give it to me!’ Lucas held the paper infuriatingly out of reach and grabbed her with his other hand. ‘So frightened, Rebecca?’ he drawled. ‘Whatever can it be?’

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‘Beast!’ Rebecca said. ‘It is no concern of yours! It is nothing to do with this!’ ‘Then you will not mind my reading it,’ Lucas said smoothly. He unfolded the paper and scanned it quickly. She saw him pale slightly. ‘Who is Daniel?’ Rebecca thought quickly. ‘He is my brother. That is a personal letter. Give it back!’ Lucas ignored her, reading the letter again. ‘You did not tell me that you had a brother,’ he said slowly, without taking his eyes from the text. Rebecca wrenched her arm from his grip. ‘There are plenty of things that I did not tell you, and a good thing too, since this is how you have repaid me!’ she stormed, thoroughly angry now. ‘I trusted you, Lucas Kestrel! I trusted you! You are a heartless scoundrel and I hate and detest you for the villain you are.’ Lucas gave no indication that he had even heard this diatribe. He dropped the letter onto the table and pulled her around to face him. ‘Why did you not wish me to read this?’ he asked. ‘Why should you?’ Rebecca demanded, her face flushed with fury. Her temper was soaring and it felt good to give in to the fury at last and be damned to self-control. ‘It is private and you have intruded in my business quite enough under false pretences.’ ‘What does your brother do? What is his profession?’ Rebecca’s heart raced. This was becoming very dangerous. She could feel her pulse pounding beneath Lucas’s fingers and she knew he could feel it too. He could tell she was nervous and it was making him curious. She tried to breathe more deeply and calm

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herself. ‘He is at sea,’ she said. ‘That is why I do not see him often.’ ‘What ship does he serve on?’ He had assumed that Daniel was in the Royal Navy. Rebecca did not correct him. She shrugged. ‘I do not know. I never paid much attention.’ Lucas’s eyes narrowed. ‘I find that difficult to believe. What happens if you need to contact him?’ ‘I don’t,’ Rebecca said shortly. ‘He comes to see me when he is ashore.’ ‘Or sends a messenger.’ Lucas looked from the note to the scatter of sovereigns on the floor. ‘And rather a lot of gold.’ Rebecca shrugged again. ‘He gives me money when he can.’ ‘I see. From his Navy pay, I suppose?’ ‘I imagine so. I do not ask.’ Lucas smiled mirthlessly. ‘You seem very incurious all of a sudden, Rebecca. I do believe that I should try to trace this brother of yours...’ Rebecca felt a fugitive rush of amusement. She had given so much of herself away, but at least there was one secret she had kept. You can try... She almost spoke the words aloud. Lucas was still watching her closely. ‘If, of course, he is your brother. You might well have been spinning me tales from the very beginning.’ Rebecca’s palm itched to slap him. ‘Oh, no, my lord,’ she said with acid sweetness. ‘You are the one who has been spinning the tales, commissioning pieces of glass that you do not want, professing an interest that you do not feel, seducing me to order. What were

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you hoping for—that I would give away secrets in my sleep?’ Lucas’s attention snapped back to her and she almost flinched to see the anger in his eyes. ‘Are you implying that I made love to you simply to further the course of this investigation?’ ‘Of course!’ Rebecca felt reckless with fury. ‘You took your duty very seriously, did you not, Lord Lucas, and I, poor fool that I was, was quite misled by your attentions! I thought—’ She cut off the words before she betrayed her innermost anguish. ‘I loathe you,’ she said precisely. ‘You are the worst sort of deceitful devil and I never want to see you again.’ She saw Lucas recoil and tried to crush down the soaring pleasure it gave her to inflict pain on him. It was so difficult to keep it bottled up; she wanted to vent all her torment on him and hurt him as much as he had hurt her. ‘It was not like that,’ Lucas said. His voice was rough. He ran an impatient hand through his hair. ‘Devil take it, I never intended this to happen in this way.’ ‘And yet you must have had me under suspicion from the moment you met me.’ Rebecca held her breath, hoping that he would contradict her, tell her that he had not known until that morning, that he had never intended to deceive her. Then she saw the conflict in his face and her hopes tumbled. ‘You knew all along,’ she repeated tonelessly. ‘Not precisely.’ Lucas looked hunted. ‘Rebecca, I never believed you guilty! I thought all along that you

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must have been in ignorance of the work your uncle had done.’ Rebecca shook her head blindly. ‘Yet you hid your true purpose from me and then you come here asking questions...’ She looked at him. ‘I do not believe that there is any way you can make amends for the way that you have behaved, Lord Lucas.’ She thrust the account books at him. ‘Here you are. Take them and begone, and this time do not even think to return them yourself. Send a servant, or the door will be barred to you!’ Lucas took the books and put them under his arm. ‘Thank you. There is one other matter remaining, however.’ Rebecca did not bother to try to conceal her impatience. All she desired now was to see him gone. ‘Which is?’ ‘You,’ Lucas said. ‘You are coming with me.’

Chapter Seven

‘Come

with you?’ Rebecca repeated, appalled. ‘Surely you jest? I would not go to the end of the street with you, let alone anywhere else!’ Once again she saw the flash of vivid emotion in Lucas’s face before it was wiped blank. ‘I regret that I must insist,’ he said. ‘Why on earth would I accompany you?’ Rebecca said, hands on hips. She started to laugh. ‘You ask far too much, my lord.’ ‘You are the only person who can recognise your uncle’s work,’ Lucas said. ‘We need you to come to Midwinter to help trap the spy.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘You have a fine way of trying to persuade me, Lord Lucas. I will not come!’ Lucas took a step towards her. ‘I must ask you to reconsider.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘You would have to abduct me first!’ Lucas smiled mirthlessly. ‘I will if I must.’ Rebecca spread her arms wide in defiance. ‘Then pray do so, for it is the only way I will help you.’

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She was utterly unprepared for what happened next. She had not believed he would do it, but then, she had consistently misjudged Lucas Kestrel. He moved so quickly that she had no time to think. He swept her off her feet and up into his arms with insulting ease. He reached the door of the studio in three strides and kicked it shut behind them, freeing one hand briefly to turn the key in the lock. It was bright again out in the street, with a fresh breeze. Rebecca had a blurred impression of cold sunlight and the astounded expressions on the faces of the vintner and the silversmith before she was bundled unceremoniously into the waiting carriage. Lucas threw the account books onto the seat beside them and slammed the door, and the vehicle immediately moved off. Rebecca struggled upright, but Lucas already had an arm about her, clamping her close to his side. ‘Let me go!’ she gasped, but he merely shook his head. ‘If I do, you will cry for help or throw yourself bodily from the coach. I do not trust you.’ ‘That is all too apparent,’ Rebecca said. She knew it was pointless to struggle. He was far stronger than she was. The hard muscles of his arms beneath her fingers argued a man in prime physical condition, which she knew already anyway. She relaxed and immediately felt Lucas’s cruel grip ease. ‘That’s better,’ Lucas said. Pressed against him as she was, she could feel the pistol in his belt. It shocked her to think that he had come to her studio armed, as though she were a dan-

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gerous criminal. Logic told her that it had been the sensible thing for him to do. He had suspected her to be a traitor and had to deal with her accordingly. She was too hurt to be interested in logic. Quick as a flash she stole her hand inside his jacket and wrenched the pistol from its holster, pulling away from him at the same time. ‘Stop the coach!’ She saw Lucas tense; saw the rapid calculation going on behind his eyes as he decided what tactic to take. She did not wish to hurt him—she shut her mind to the noise and the blood and unpleasant mess that firing a pistol in an enclosed space would provoke. She was so angry that all she wanted was to get out of the carriage and be free to walk home and forget everything that had happened. She was furious and humiliated and distraught, and to escape from Lucas was the only thing that mattered now. ‘Do you know how to use that thing?’ Lucas asked, his eyes on the barrel. ‘Hold it steady or you will never hit your target. Which you will not anyway, since the pistol is not loaded.’ Rebecca hesitated for a split second and in that moment Lucas caught her wrist in a vicelike grip and she cried aloud. The pistol fell to the floor, skittered away and went off with a loud report, burying a bullet in the cushions of the seat. Lucas pulled her beneath him, sheltering her body with his as the interior of the coach filled with smoke and pieces of velvet and stuffing rained down on them. Rebecca sneezed. ‘It was loaded,’ she said. ‘Of course it was,’ Lucas said. ‘What use is an empty pistol?’

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Rebecca felt another pang of misery. ‘I wonder how long it will be,’ she said bitterly, ‘before I learn not to trust a word you say.’ She tried to sit up, but Lucas held her still, ruthlessly trapped beneath him. ‘I should be obliged if you would allow me up,’ she said. ‘I will only let you up if you promise not to pull any more tricks like that one,’ he said. ‘You could have killed both of us. What did you think you were doing?’ ‘I wanted to go home,’ Rebecca said. Her lip trembled and she bit it viciously, turning her head aside so that Lucas could not see the tears in her eyes. She felt him brush the tumbled hair away from her face very gently and shuddered at his touch. It undermined every single barrier she was determined to erect against him. ‘Stop fighting me, Rebecca,’ he said. Rebecca looked at him. ‘I did not believe you would abduct me.’ Lucas gave her a faint smile. ‘I gave you fair warning.’ Rebecca turned her face away. She had underestimated him. She would have to be a great deal more careful in the future. How had she made such a serious error of judgement with Lucas Kestrel? The selfloathing threatened to swamp her. No one had ever hurt her so much. She struggled to sit up and this time he allowed her. She turned a shoulder to him and stared out of the

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window of the carriage, determined not to show any weakness. ‘I cannot simply leave my workshop,’ she said. ‘This whole matter is preposterous!’ Lucas sounded unconcerned. ‘I will have someone keep an eye on the place for you,’ he said. ‘But my commissions—’ ‘You told me that you had no work at present.’ Rebecca cursed herself. How many more unguarded remarks had she made to him that he had stored away and would use against her when the time was fit? ‘That is true,’ she said bitterly. ‘I do have a halffinished set of glasses that you ordered, but as you never actually wanted them—’ ‘That is not correct.’ For the first time, Lucas sounded angry. ‘I should be delighted to have some of your work.’ ‘As a souvenir, perhaps,’ Rebecca said. Once again, Lucas did not rise to the provocation, and after a moment Rebecca sighed. ‘I cannot afford to close my business,’ she said. ‘We will pay you for each day you are away from your work,’ Lucas said. ‘Ten guineas a day.’ Ten guineas a day. It was a fortune to Rebecca. She set her jaw. ‘I will not accept it. I will not work for you for money, my lord.’ She remembered him touching her hand when he offered words of comfort over her uncle’s death. She remembered him taking her in his arms and the blissful pleasure of his kiss. She remembered thinking that if one was obliged to take a lover, there would be no one preferable to Lord Lucas Kestrel, and discovering

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that those wanton thoughts had indeed been perfectly true. The shame and anger swept through her again at the way he had betrayed her and she had betrayed herself. ‘In fact, I do not want to help you at all,’ she said, driven by bitterness. She felt Lucas shift slightly. ‘Rebecca,’ he said, with weary patience, ‘I appreciate what you must think of me—’ ‘I doubt it!’ Rebecca snapped. ‘But I must ask you to put aside personal animosity for a moment to consider the greater good.’ Lucas continued. ‘The Midwinter spies are putting thousands of lives at risk with their treasonable work. They have already killed a man and are quite ruthless enough to kill again if they see the necessity.’ He took a deep breath. ‘They have to be stopped and you are the only one who can help us get to them.’ Rebecca was silent. ‘Please,’ Lucas said again. ‘If you would not help us because I ask it of you, Rebecca, then do it for your country.’ Rebecca turned away. If only he knew her complicated pedigree then he would think twice about putting such an argument to her. She wondered what Lucas would say if she told him the truth: My lord, my ancestors travelled to the New World before they returned to settle here in England. There is very little English blood in me. Yet she had lived in England all her life and was fiercely attached to this country, and she knew she

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owed it her loyalty. So she had no real choice. If only it was not Midwinter... She sighed. ‘Very well. I do not think I have a choice.’ Lucas gave her a searching look as though he was not entirely sure he trusted her, then she saw him relax. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘You are a very good person, Rebecca.’ Startled, Rebecca whipped her hand away. It tingled from the touch of his lips. ‘I am doing this for loyalty and not for liking,’ she warned. ‘I trust you will keep your distance in future, my lord.’ Lucas grinned at her as though he sensed her weakness. ‘I regret that I cannot oblige you, Rebecca. If you are to help us, then I am sworn to protect you. These are dangerous men—and women—and I must keep you safe.’ They stared at one another. ‘Does it have to be you?’ Rebecca said wearily. ‘Why not another?’ Lucas’s smile deepened. ‘It has to be me because I want it to be.’ ‘And I do not want it,’ Rebecca argued. ‘I detest you, Lord Lucas. You have behaved as no gentleman would. To be obliged to spend more time in your company merely adds insult to the injury of your behaviour.’ Lucas shrugged. ‘I regret that you see matters in that way. You should know that I still mean to marry you.’ Rebecca raised her chin haughtily. ‘I do not believe

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that we need to discuss this, my lord. It is all academic now.’ ‘You mistake, Rebecca,’ Lucas said softly, and though he did not touch her his tone felt like a brush against her skin. ‘I intend to persuade you to accept me.’ Rebecca drew in a short breath. ‘You are clearly deluded, my lord. You have as little chance of persuading me as I have of swimming the English Channel.’ ‘You have consented to spend some time in my company,’ Lucas pointed out. ‘I intend to use it well.’ Rebecca was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It is impossible, my lord. I shall not change my mind.’ ‘We shall see.’ Lucas smiled slightly. ‘I do not expect you to make it easy for me, Rebecca.’ His implacable confidence shook Rebecca to the core. ‘But why?’ she wailed. ‘Just because of what happened?’ Lucas was shaking his head. ‘Not just because of that. I want you, Rebecca. I find I want you very badly. And the only way I may have you with honour is through marriage. So...’ Rebecca swallowed hard. She could not trust him. How could she, after the way in which he had deceived her? And yet there was a part of her that longed for him, longed for his touch and the comfort of his arms. It had felt absolutely right to give herself to Lucas and that fundamental rightness had not changed, overlaid as it was by disillusion and disappointment. If she fought his will, she would be fighting a part of herself as well, and she was not sure that she was

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strong enough to do so. She looked at Lucas’s unyielding face and shivered slightly. He had said no words of love to her; even in the heat of the night when he had uttered words of sweet tenderness he had not spoken of love. Must she compromise on that too? She could not believe that she had entertained the idea for even a minute. She was angry at her own weakness. She raised her chin. ‘I still do not accept your proposal,’ she said. Lucas smiled. ‘I did not for one moment expect that you would,’ he said, ‘but I have every intention of making you change your mind.’ ‘You have no notion how stubborn I can be,’ Rebecca said. ‘I have some idea,’ Lucas contradicted, ‘and I can be very determined.’ ‘I am aware,’ Rebecca said. She smiled bitterly. ‘We shall see, my lord. You have limited time and a difficult task.’ Lucas took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. Her skin heated beneath his touch. ‘And you are fighting on two fronts,’ he said softly, ‘against me but against yourself as well. So you are weakened before you start.’ Rebecca jerked her head away, but not before she had felt the tell-tale quiver of desire through her whole body. ‘Damn you!’ she said bitterly. ‘For telling the truth?’ ‘For being insufferably conceited!’ Rebecca said. And for making me want you, she added to herself, for despite her furious resistance and the ache in her

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heart, there was no denying that she still loved Lucas Kestrel and she was afraid that she always would. When they reached the house in Grosvenor Street, Lucas took no chances on Rebecca refusing to cooperate and practically carried her out of the coach with one arm tight about her waist. He bundled her through the front door as though she were an awkwardly shaped parcel and finally let go of her when they were standing in the entrance hall. Smoothing down her cloak, Rebecca glared at him. ‘If this is your persuasion, my lord, I have to tell you that you waste your time!’ She fell silent as the butler glided out to greet them, determined, despite the misery inside, that she should not show how shaken she was. ‘Good morning, Byrne,’ Lucas said, as though it were a common occurrence for him to be manhandling a young woman through the front door of the house, ‘has the Duke returned yet?’ ‘Yes, my lord,’ the butler said expressionlessly. ‘He is waiting for you in the small salon, with Lord and Lady Newlyn.’ ‘Thank you,’ Lucas said. He turned to Rebecca. ‘May I ask you to wait in the drawing room, Miss Raleigh? We will not be above a moment.’ ‘Very well,’ Rebecca said. She waited pointedly whilst Byrne opened the drawing-room door and Lucas ushered her inside. He looked at her. ‘Pray do not climb out of the window and run away or I shall have to go to the trouble of bringing you back.’

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Rebecca gave him a disdainful look. ‘You would not find me.’ ‘Don’t try me. Do I have your word?’ Rebecca sighed. ‘Would you accept it if you did?’ ‘Of course. Well?’ ‘Then you have it.’ ‘Thank you,’ Lucas said. There was a smile deep in his eyes. Rebecca saw it and blushed. She hated that she was still so susceptible to him. The thought that he would be close to her, guarding her life, was wellnigh intolerable. She deliberately turned her back and walked over to the window, staring out over the neat, green garden. Suddenly she felt very tired. The door opened again and a girl of Rebecca’s age entered the room. She had wide brown eyes and a friendly expression. She came forward, smiling. ‘Miss Raleigh? I thought that I would come and keep you company. My name is Rachel Newlyn.’ Rebecca came away from the window with a sigh and sat down on the sofa. ‘Did Lord Lucas not trust me sufficiently to leave me on my own, Lady Newlyn?’ Rachel’s eyes widened at Rebecca’s tone, but she answered levelly enough, ‘I have no notion. It was my own idea to join you, but if you prefer to be alone I can leave.’ Rebecca immediately felt churlish. ‘I am sorry to be so rude,’ she said. ‘I do not know what is wrong with me today.’ ‘I do.’ Rachel came and sat beside her and, to Rebecca’s surprise, smiled warmly. ‘You have been deceived by someone you trusted and snatched from

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your home and delivered to a bunch of strangers. It is quite enough to spoil one’s whole day!’ Rebecca was forced into a reluctant laugh. ‘When you express it like that...’ Rachel made a slight gesture. ‘That is how it is. So if there is anything I can do to make amends, Miss Raleigh, then you must tell me.’ ‘I do not believe that you are the one who should be doing that, Lady Newlyn,’ Rebecca said bleakly. Rachel sighed. ‘You mean Lucas, I suppose. I assure you, Miss Raleigh, that he feels his betrayal very keenly.’ She hesitated. ‘I have never seen Lucas quite so irritable before. Usually he is the most eventempered of men. I think his conscience is giving him trouble. He told my husband Cory a full week ago that he knew he was behaving like a scoundrel.’ Rebecca felt slightly surprised. ‘Did he truly? I thought he believed me a traitor!’ Rachel laughed. ‘I cannot believe that such a thought would endure more than a minute in your company, Miss Raleigh. It is manifestly absurd. I am persuaded that Lucas knew you could not be directly involved.’ Rebecca could feel a dangerous inclination to ask more questions about Lucas but forced herself not to do so. ‘He has acted very badly,’ she said coldly. Rachel sighed again. ‘And yet he is the one arguing for the others to trust you,’ she said, ‘which proves that he has faith in you.’ Rebecca looked at her sharply. ‘Lord Lucas is defending me?’ ‘Certainly,’ Rachel said. ‘His brother the Duke is

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taking a little convincing that we should trust you enough to take you with us to Midwinter, given the damage done to his best carriage!’ Rebecca grimaced. ‘That was foolish,’ she admitted. ‘But understandable, given the provocation,’ Rachel said. Once again, Rebecca resisted the urge to confide. It was easy to warm to Rachel Newlyn and her uncomplicated friendship, but it was too soon. ‘I cannot be surprised at the Duke’s reluctance,’ she said. ‘There is no reason for him to believe that neither I nor, I am convinced, my uncle knew that the work he was doing was treasonable.’ ‘No reason other than Lucas’s belief in you,’ Rachel said smiling. She touched Rebecca’s hand lightly. ‘I heard that your uncle and aunt died recently, Miss Raleigh. I am sorry.’ Rebecca looked at her and realised that she meant it. There was genuine sympathy in Rachel’s eyes. Rebecca rubbed her forehead dispiritedly. ‘I have tried to keep the workshop going. I am persuaded that it is what my uncle would have wanted. But it is very difficult and I am very tired.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Excuse me. I do not normally complain like this.’ ‘Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘You sound most dauntless, Miss Raleigh.’ She squeezed Rebecca’s hand. ‘Do you know, I have travelled all around the world and gone to places and done things that others would never dream, and yet I have never been alone? I think that is the more difficult part.’ Rebecca looked at her. ‘All around the world?’

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‘My parents are antiquarians—’ Rachel sighed ‘—and I travelled with them before I married.’ ‘How wonderful,’ Rebecca said. ‘And now you are married to Lord Newlyn, who is a most notable explorer.’ Rachel laughed. ‘Fortunately, Cory has shown no inclination to travel farther than Cornwall of late,’ she said. ‘Which suits me. Do not worry about going to Midwinter, Miss Raleigh. We shall take care of you.’ ‘You are going as well?’ Rebecca asked. Rachel nodded. ‘My parents live in Midwinter Royal. I have not seen them for several months. This is a good opportunity for a visit.’ She smiled. ‘My good friend Lady Marney also lives nearby. Her sister is married to Lord Lucas’s brother Richard, but they are on their honeymoon at present. Nevertheless you will find a warm welcome in Midwinter, Miss Raleigh. We shall strive to make you feel at home.’ Rebecca bit her lip. This kindly welcome was so far removed from the cold isolation that gripped her heart. It threatened to undermine her already, when she had promised herself that she would go to Midwinter and return as quickly as possible and let nothing, least of all Lucas’s presence, touch her. ‘I wish,’ she burst out with sudden fierceness, ‘that matters had not fallen out this way! I would have helped—of course I would—but now I feel deceived and coerced against my will. When Lord Lucas came to the studio today—’ She broke off. It was impossible to tell Rachel what had happened the previous night and how the pain of Lucas’s duplicity had been magnified by what had happened between them.

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Rachel touched her hand. ‘I do not suppose that Lucas dealt with the situation very well,’ she said dolefully. ‘Men seldom do. He would not have thought to apologise first and try to explain properly.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘No, indeed he did not.’ Rachel shook her head sadly. ‘I suppose that was because he could not think about more than one thing at once.’ ‘I have observed that before in men,’ Rebecca agreed. ‘It is very vexing.’ ‘Lucas told us that it is his most ardent wish to marry you,’ Rachel said, ‘but that you were not inclined to accept his suit. One cannot wonder at it.’ She saw the look on Rebecca’s face and added quickly: ‘Have no fear—he told us none of the particulars, but he wanted us to understand how matters stood.’ She touched Rebecca’s hand. ‘I am sorry that everything has fallen out so badly, Miss Raleigh. Is there any chance that you might forgive Lucas in time?’ Rebecca was silent for a moment. ‘I do not believe so, Lady Newlyn,’ she said reluctantly. Rachel sighed. ‘I see. Well, you may count me your friend if ever you need one, Miss Raleigh. And you must call me Rachel since we are to be friends.’ She smiled. ‘If I may call you Rebecca?’ ‘Of course,’ Rebecca said, and she felt a little warmer. It would be very easy to accept Rachel’s friendship and to sink into this half-remembered opulence of aristocratic living. Once, long ago, she had taken such things for granted. If she were not careful she would start to feel that she belonged, but then what

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happened when it was all over? The empty studio in Clerkenwell would feel all the more lonely... The door opened and a fair-haired man stuck his head into the room in a somewhat informal manner. ‘Rachel? Miss Raleigh—’ he gave Rebecca a warm smile ‘—how do you do? I am Cory Newlyn. We are ready now, if you would be so good as to come through to the salon.’ Rebecca looked at Rachel, who stood up and held out a hand. ‘Come along. As I said, we shall look after you.’ Rebecca stood up and smoothed her skirts in a nervous gesture. Her heart was suddenly racing so much that it was difficult to breathe; it was not the prospect of meeting the Duke of Kestrel that disturbed her, but more the thought of facing Lucas again. For how was she to resist him when she clutched at every small suggestion that he was an honourable man? Yet in her heart of hearts she knew that honourable or not, she could not marry Lucas without an offer of love, and that was the one thing he had not given her. Lucas was standing by the window when they entered the room. He turned to look at her, an indecipherable look, then came forward to draw her into the room. ‘Miss Raleigh, may I introduce my brother Justin, Duke of Kestrel. Justin, Miss Rebecca Raleigh. I see that you have already met Lord and Lady Newlyn.’ Justin Kestrel had got to his feet as Rebecca entered the room and now she found herself subjected to a searching scrutiny from his very dark eyes. He was a formidable man, in every way. An inch or two taller

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than Lucas, he was also broader and a good few years older. His face was thin and bronzed, almost hawklike in its predatory good looks, and the expression in his eyes was very shrewd. Rebecca felt a frisson of apprehension. ‘Good morning, Miss Raleigh,’ the Duke said. ‘I understand from my brother that you are responsible for a bullet hole in the upholstery of my best carriage.’ Rebecca raised her chin and held his gaze. ‘That is correct, your Grace. I was aiming at your brother, but unfortunately I missed.’ She heard Cory Newlyn stifle a laugh and saw Justin Kestrel’s lips twitch. ‘Despite that,’ he murmured, ‘Lucas assures me that you have agreed to help us.’ Rebecca glanced at Lucas. His face was quite impassive. ‘I have, your Grace.’ Justin nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss Raleigh.’ He gestured Rebecca to a seat. ‘We have been most remiss. May I offer you some refreshment?’ Lucas passed her a cup of tea and the plate of biscuits. Rebecca, for whom breakfast seemed a long time ago, was surprised to discover she was ravenous. ‘Lucas will have told you the reason we are all here, Miss Raleigh,’ Justin Kestrel said, smiling as he watched her demolish five biscuits in succession. ‘I will leave it up to him to brief you further on the situation in Midwinter. We thought that for the purposes of the visit to Suffolk, you should pose as Lucas’s fiance´e.’ Rebecca put the plate down with a clatter. She knew that this had to be Lucas’s idea and she needed to spike his guns immediately.

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‘No!’ She flushed, and glanced at Lucas, who was looking studiously blank. ‘I beg your pardon, your Grace,’ she amended, ‘but I cannot agree to acting the part of Lord Lucas’s betrothed. I should never be able to convince anyone.’ Justin Kestrel raised his brows. ‘It would not be for very long, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘No,’ Rebecca said again. She felt panic rising in her throat at the thought of acting out the role of Lucas’s fiance´e. That would bring him far too close. It was too intimate. She had to keep him at arm’s length now, at all costs, or she would never be able to resist him. Lucas came across to her chair. ‘We could make it a marriage of convenience,’ he said. His tone was bland, but there was amusement lurking at the back of his eyes. ‘Then you would not be required to show me the slightest degree of affection.’ Rebecca blushed again and looked away. ‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘It would be too difficult. Why do we need to pretend anything of the sort?’ ‘We need a reason, Miss Raleigh,’ Lucas said persuasively. ‘I am sworn to protect you and therefore we need a reason to explain why I shall stay as close to you as a lover.’ The air in the salon seemed suddenly highly charged. Rebecca was trapped by the look in his eyes, which conjured up the heated images of the previous night. ‘No,’ she said for a third time, but this time it came out as a whisper. ‘I think,’ Rachel Newlyn said, breaking the fraught

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silence with a tactful clearing of the throat and throwing a look at her husband for support, ‘that we might consider some other solution, Justin. How would it be if Miss Raleigh was to be a cousin of yours—a distant one?’ ‘Good idea,’ Cory Newlyn said at once. ‘You have so many cousins, Justin, that no one would remark on it.’ Justin nodded slowly. ‘It might serve. What do you say, Miss Raleigh? You are a distant cousin whom Lucas has met again for the first time in years and he is quite e´pris.’ A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. ‘You, alas, are not in the least smitten by him.’ Rebecca felt swamped with relief. Once again, she caught Lucas’s quizzical look and glanced hastily away. He made her feel as though her defences were as fragile as glass. ‘I am content to agree to that,’ she said cautiously, ‘as long as I do not have to pretend to any degree of fondness for Lord Lucas.’ ‘Capital!’ Justin Kestrel said, smiling broadly. ‘I shall leave the two of you to work out the details of our family connection and tell the rest of us how it stands. Keep it as simple as possible. You will wish to spend some time with Miss Raleigh after luncheon, Lucas?’ ‘I shall,’ Lucas said, with disconcerting promptness. ‘Then we shall travel to Midwinter tomorrow morning,’ Justin Kestrel concluded. ‘I shall send a message ahead to Kestrel Court. Is there anything else?’ Rachel Newlyn raised a point of her own. ‘We are

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going to need some time to arrange suitable attire for Miss Raleigh,’ she said. Everyone looked at her, including Rebecca. She had not given any thought to clothes. She seldom did. ‘I can go back to Clerkenwell to fetch my belongings,’ she began, but Lucas shook his head. ‘In the first instance, it is too dangerous for you to return there until this matter is settled,’ he said, ‘and in the second, I doubt you have anything suitable for this masquerade.’ Rebecca glared at him. She knew that she was being trivial, but it was good to have an excuse to argue. ‘I assure you, Lord Lucas, that I have some very attractive gowns. It is simply that I do not wear them.’ ‘Lucas is in the right of it, Miss Raleigh,’ Justin interposed smoothly, ‘although he could have expressed himself much more diplomatically. No one will believe that you are our cousin unless you are suitably attired.’ Rebecca looked around the rose salon at the simple but expensive furnishings and the understated elegance of her hosts. She deflated slightly. ‘Oh, very well! But I require the minimum of items. I cannot believe my stay will be a long one and there is no point in wasting the money.’ She saw the brothers exchange a look and wondered just what Lucas had told his brother about her. ‘Just so, Miss Raleigh,’ Justin Kestrel said. ‘We shall be most frugal.’ Even so, it soon transpired that the Duke’s idea of frugality and Rebecca’s own did not accord particularly well.

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‘This cannot be right,’ Rebecca said hopelessly, gazing at the mountains of clothing and accessories that were piled up in all corners of the blue bedroom by the middle of the afternoon. ‘I cannot possibly need all of this! I have not ordered the half of it!’ ‘No, I did,’ Rachel Newlyn said calmly. She gestured to the piles in turn. ‘You have gloves over there, Rebecca, stockings there, various undergarments there—I shall not put you to the blush by itemising them!—nightgowns and robes, handkerchiefs and scarves, hats to choose from there—oh, and shoes, of course.’ Rebecca pressed both hands to her hot cheeks. Never had she imagined setting eyes upon such a selection of fashionable and expensive clothes, much less being able to purchase them. Yet there was no possibility of refusal on her part. Rachel had accompanied Rebecca to Bond Street, for a bewildering array of items Rebecca had not even realised she needed. In addition to all her clothes there was a selection of glass cosmetic bottles and a very beautiful set of silverbacked brushes. Her head ached with the opulence of it all. The day dress she was wearing became her well. It was rose pink and suited her complexion perfectly. On the bed was a huge selection of gowns—walking dresses, riding habits, ballgowns, spencers, pelisses... She had no notion when she would have the opportunity to wear them all. When she had first tried on the rose-pink gown she had stared at herself in the mirror for quite five minutes, for it had utterly transformed her appearance. Her thick chestnut hair, which

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normally she wore tied back or pushed hastily under a lace cap, was loose about her face in a dark cloud. Her eyes were a vivid blue. It felt odd to be a dressed as a lady of fashion, but she knew she looked pretty. She hesitated to use the word for it had not had much currency in her world, but it was true. ‘You look lovely, Rebecca,’ Rachel said warmly, watching her with amusement. ‘It is a shame that we have had to buy your gowns off the peg, but you are fortunate to have found things that fit you well.’ ‘I had no idea what I was choosing,’ Rebecca admitted, still turning surreptitiously to view the gown from all angles in the mirror. ‘I was looking at colour and cut.’ ‘You have a flair for it,’ Rachel agreed. ‘It must be the artist in you.’ ‘It feels strange,’ Rebecca admitted. ‘I never wear clothes like this.’ ‘Do you like them?’ Rachel asked, her eyes twinkling at Rebecca’s poor attempts to conceal her pleasure. ‘Oh, yes,’ Rebecca admitted with a little sigh. ‘Rather too much! It will be a pang for me to give them up when the masquerade is at an end.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ Rachel called, before Rebecca could say anything. Lucas Kestrel walked in. ‘I am come to see how much longer the security of the nation must wait on the demands of fashion—’ he began, then his eyes fell on Rebecca and he stopped. She stood somewhat self-consciously before him

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whilst his astounded gaze travelled over her. There was a long moment of silence. ‘Good God, Rebecca...’ Lucas said. He sounded stunned. ‘Try for something more coherent, Lucas,’ Rachel said, a spark of amusement in her eyes. ‘Does Rebecca not look fine?’ Lucas seemed to recollect himself. ‘It is extraordinary what one can achieve with good grooming,’ he said. ‘I am come to ask Miss Raleigh when she will be free to discuss our plans.’ ‘We shall not be much longer,’ Rachel said. ‘Rebecca may join you in the garden shortly, as it is a fine day.’ Lucas went, with one long, backward look at Rebecca, who had gathered the nearest piece of material to her—a riding habit—and was holding it defensively at her breast, despite the fact that the pink gown was all that was demure. ‘How rude he is,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Good grooming, indeed!’ Rachel laughed. ‘He was only rude because he was shaken,’ she said shrewdly, ‘and if you can do that to Lucas, who is accounted a man of experience, I’ll warrant you will have the whole of Midwinter falling at your feet, Rebecca!’

Chapter Eight

When

Rebecca joined Lucas in the garden some twenty minutes later, she was wearing a warm pelisse over the pink day dress and therefore felt a great deal more prepared to face him. Her confidence lasted precisely thirty seconds—until he took her hand in his to guide her to the wooden seat that overlooked a pretty little ornamental fishpond. ‘Are you sufficiently warm out here?’ he asked. ‘We may talk inside if you prefer.’ Rebecca shook her head. At least out here in the open air she felt free. The thought of being shut away privately with Lucas was enough to make her breathing constrict. ‘It is a pleasant day and I have not been outside much of late,’ she said. ‘I am content to stay here.’ ‘Very well.’ Lucas sat down beside her, crossing his long, elegant legs and giving her a sideways appraising look. ‘So we are to be cousins, Miss Raleigh,’ he said softly. ‘I rather like that, although I could ask for a closer relationship.’

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‘Even this is too close,’ Rebecca said. ‘We are not kissing cousins, my lord. If you recall, you have succumbed to a tendre for me but I, alas, wish for none of it.’ ‘Kissing cousins...’ Lucas said. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. ‘I rather like that idea.’ ‘Pray disregard it,’ Rebecca said sharply. ‘You are supposed to be acting as though you suffer unrequited love, rather than planning a conquest.’ Lucas’s smile deepened as it rested on her face. ‘It would not be in character for me to ignore a challenge, Miss Raleigh.’ Rebecca’s pulse fluttered and was ignored. He had already told her that he would do all in his power to convince her to accept his suit. This, then, was the confirmation. ‘I believe we are intended to be discussing my aristocratic antecedents,’ she said, ‘rather than wasting our time. To which branch of your illustrious family do I belong?’ Lucas laughed. ‘You are to be a very distant cousin on the distaff side. We have so many cousins that no one will think anything of it.’ ‘And the reason that I have come to visit you?’ ‘We thought to stick as closely to the truth as possible,’ Lucas said. ‘The relatives with whom you lived were recently carried off by fever and so you are on a protracted visit to us whilst Justin, as head of the family, decides what is to become of you.’ ‘How very convenient,’ Rebecca said, her lips thinning. ‘Not only does it have the ring of authenticity

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but it would be a cruel person indeed to question me when I have been in mourning.’ ‘Indeed so,’ Lucas said. ‘It also explains why you have not been in society.’ ‘But not why I never had a season or made an advantageous match,’ Rebecca said. ‘I am scarcely a de´butante, my lord, so what is the explanation for that? Were we too poor?’ ‘No,’ Lucas said. ‘That would make Justin look ungenerous for failing to sponsor you.’ He put his head on one side. ‘I think, Miss Raleigh, that you must have been disappointed in love.’ Rebecca raised her brows. ‘That will not require a great leap of imagination, my lord,’ she said bitterly. Their gazes clashed. ‘And I am pledged to make you forget,’ Lucas said softly, ‘which is why I dog your footsteps like a suitor.’ ‘I prefer to think of you as a faithful hound,’ Rebecca said, shifting away from him along the seat. ‘Mutely devoted. Then I need not have to tolerate your conversation.’ Lucas’s smile was genuinely amused. ‘You certainly have the wit to carry this off, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘Thank you. I am not entirely sure that you have the charm to do so.’ ‘We shall see. I can play your devoted lover with a great deal of conviction, I assure you.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘There is one other thing, of course.’ Rebecca looked enquiring. ‘You will have to call me Lucas, and I will call you Rebecca. A greater formality would cause suspicion.

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Now I need you to tell me a little of your family history, Rebecca.’ Rebecca looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’ Lucas sighed. ‘Why do I always have the feeling that you are withholding something from me? Because we need to stick to the truth as closely as possible and keep matters simple. And as your cousin, I will necessarily know your history.’ Rebecca nodded reluctantly. She did not want to tell Lucas anything but she could see the point of what he was saying. ‘I was born in Somerset and lived in that county for the first eight years of my life,’ she said. ‘My father was in the army and he was killed in India. My mother went into a decline and died later the same year. Daniel—my brother—joined the navy and I was sent to live with my mother’s cousins, the Provosts. The rest you know.’ It was true, as far as it went. ‘A succinct history,’ Lucas commented. His hazel eyes were keen. ‘It must hide a multitude of experience for you, however. It is a difficult thing to lose both parents so young and be uprooted from your home.’ Rebecca felt a treacherous rush of affinity for him and crushed it down. It was not fair that Lucas understood her so well and that his sincerity could undermine her already shaky defences. ‘It was,’ she said, unconsciously twisting her hands together in her lap, ‘but I was very happy in Clerkenwell.’ There was a strained silence, then Lucas dropped

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his hand over her clenched ones and for a moment she did not free herself. ‘I can see no reason why we need to change your past history to suit our purposes,’ he said, ‘other than to suggest that you have been living quietly in the country until the death of your aunt. In Somerset, say, to add authenticity.’ Rebecca nodded. ‘Very well. And perhaps I could have been betrothed to a curate who felt it his mission to travel to the Indies and subsequently died of fever, leaving me inconsolable.’ Lucas’s smile deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes. It would be difficult to imagine anyone who looked less like a sickly curate, Rebecca thought. ‘Is that the sort of man who would attract your enduring love?’ he asked. Rebecca looked at him. She felt unseasonably hot as he kept his eyes on her face. ‘I have enduring love for nothing other than my engraving,’ she said. ‘I thought so.’ Lucas nodded. ‘One cannot imagine a fever-stricken curate inspiring the sort of passion that features in your work, or indeed that we experienced last night.’ Rebecca’s eyes kindled. She had been afraid that he would raise the subject once more, and that her reactions would betray her. She snatched her hands away from his. ‘Pray make no mention of that, Lord Lucas. You are no gentleman even to think of it.’ Lucas stretched, reminding her all too vividly of the lithe body beneath the elegant clothes. ‘I fear that you cannot prevent me from doing that, Rebecca,’ he mur-

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mured. ‘Or, more accurately, you cannot prevent me from remembering every last moment of it.’ ‘Then if you cannot control your own unruly thoughts, pray do not seek to provoke mine,’ Rebecca snapped. ‘I have no wish to remember.’ ‘And I am pledged to remind you,’ Lucas said. ‘Such affinity as we achieved, Rebecca, happens rarely. It was the single most sweet and passionate experience of my entire life—’ ‘Stop it!’ Rebecca said, the pleading note audible even to her own ears. ‘It was false pretences.’ ‘It was no such thing.’ Lucas leaned forward. ‘I wanted you, Rebecca, and you wanted me, and if we are to marry—when we marry—I suspect that it will become even more pleasurable.’ Rebecca put her hands over her ears. She was scarlet, mortified to feel herself aroused by his words and by the heated memories of the previous night that flashed across her mind in a series of shockingly explicit pictures. How was it possible to dislike someone—to be so angry with them and feel so disillusioned—and yet long for their touch? Would she ever cure herself of the love she held for Lucas Kestrel? In the cold light of day, with the truth and its betrayals clear between them, she still loved him and it was hopeless to deny it. She could feel her body warming, melting, the excitement growing in the pit of her stomach, and when Lucas gently touched a finger to her bottom lip she almost gasped aloud. ‘You see...’ his eyes were bright with desire ‘...you feel it too. Why deny it?’

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He was leaning forward to kiss her and every instinct in Rebecca’s body urged her to meet his embrace and lose herself in that blissful, sensuous pleasure. When his lips were a bare inch from hers she finally found the strength to draw away. ‘I think not.’ She saw the admiration in Lucas’s eyes and knew also that he saw her resistance as a challenge. It seemed that to deny his advances only served to increase his determination and she could see no way past that. He smiled at her and she felt the warmth of it tingle through her entire body. ‘You are a very strong-willed woman, Rebecca Raleigh,’ he said. ‘It is one of the many things that I like about you.’ ‘Whereas I sadly cannot compile a long list of things I like about you, my lord,’ Rebecca said untruthfully. ‘Not even my kisses?’ ‘I can live without them.’ ‘We shall have to change that,’ Lucas said, with a look that made her tremble. Rebecca caught sight of Rachel and Cory Newlyn lurking in the window of the drawing room and studiously pretending that they were not watching them. She sighed. ‘What we have to change, my lord, is my ignorance of the Kestrel family and this business of espionage. I have much to learn and little time. Please enlighten me.’ But as Lucas complied and started to lay out the complex history of the Midwinter spies, Rebecca

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found that her most difficult task lay not in learning but in concentrating on the information he was imparting rather than on Lucas himself. When Lucas came down for dinner that evening he found Rebecca already ensconced in the drawing room, dressed in a scandalously attractive gown of aquamarine crepe that seemed to hint at every curve of her figure without doing anything so vulgar as making them obvious. Making a mental note that Rachel Newlyn had done her job rather too well for his peace of mind, Lucas took a glass of wine and, rather than joining Rebecca, went across to the window alcove, the better to observe her. She was sitting with Stephen on one side of her and Rachel on the other and, for the first time since she had arrived in Grosvenor Square, she looked happy and at ease. Stephen, for his part, was clearly smitten. There was an eager light in his eyes and his ears were bright pink with excitement as he exerted himself to entertain Rebecca. Lucas was obliged to admit that Rebecca looked flatteringly pleased with his company, encouraging his conversation with exactly the right degree of friendliness without flirtation. It was very different from the wary dislike in which she held him. Lucas felt a violent surge of envy towards his younger brother, which both amazed and disconcerted him. It was not so much the fact that he had never been possessive of a woman before, for he had already established that Rebecca Raleigh could do things to him that no one else was capable of doing. What shocked him more was that Stephen, whose innocuous admiration of Rebecca was

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so very innocent, should be the victim of his own indiscriminate jealousy. ‘Rachel has played Pygmalion very successfully, has she not?’ Cory Newlyn said in his ear. ‘Miss Raleigh looks every inch the ducal cousin. Not,’ Cory added thoughtfully, ‘that a great deal of work was required in the transformation. Miss Raleigh has a certain natural assurance.’ ‘Yes,’ Lucas said. He had been giving some thought to Rebecca’s antecedents, based on the meagre information that she had given him and the poise she had unexpectedly shown. ‘Her father was in the army. I wonder... If he was a commissioned officer and the son of a gentleman, then there may once have been family money.’ ‘She has not told you?’ Cory asked. ‘Miss Raleigh would not willingly tell me anything now,’ Lucas said, with an expressive lift of his brows. Cory smiled broadly. ‘Ah. You have your work cut out, then.’ Lucas watched as Stephen offered Rebecca his arm into dinner and she laughingly accepted. She glanced across at him and their eyes met, the brimming laughter in hers dying away and being replaced by a chill edge. Had it only been that morning that he had arrogantly thought he did not wish for the responsibility of seeing love for him reflected in Rebecca’s eyes? He would have given a great deal already to see that cold disdain replaced by something warmer. He thought he had not wanted her love. Now that he had her anger instead, he realised how empty it made him feel.

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* * * Dinner felt like a huge test. Rebecca had not experienced such a long and formal meal for years and was obliged to dredge up every memory of etiquette that she had ever possessed to get her through the meal without mishap. She knew that everyone was watching her; Justin and the Newlyns were assessing how well she could carry off the role of the duke’s cousin, whilst Lucas’s eyes were upon her frequently and he attended to her every need with disquieting promptitude. It put Rebecca on her mettle and she carried off the evening with the gracious authority of a duchess. Only Stephen’s shy admiration and Rachel’s friendship helped to ease the situation, and by the time that the ladies had withdrawn and tea had been taken, she was utterly exhausted. When she went up to bed she had no time to dwell on the extraordinary developments of the day, but, rather to her surprise, succumbed immediately to a deep and dreamless sleep. Downstairs in the Duke of Kestrel’s study, Justin and Lucas were sharing a nightcap and a desultory game of chess. ‘I have not yet had chance to ask how you fared at the Archangel Club this morning,’ Lucas commented. ‘Any progress?’ Justin grimaced. ‘Very little. I had a glass of very fine port with that unpleasant fellow, Fremantle. He offered me membership of the Club, but declined to tell me the names of any other members. So we have no notion for whom Miss Raleigh’s parcel was destined.’ He frowned. ‘Miss Raleigh puzzles me, Lucas. She shows remarkable confidence for one not raised

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in this style of environment. And I have never yet met a woman who insisted on frugality in her dress! She is a rare enigma.’ Lucas smiled ruefully. He had already observed how much detail of her childhood and upbringing Rebecca had chosen not to tell him. ‘I was watching her at dinner,’ he said. ‘Such assurance comes only with a privileged background.’ ‘I doubt that your scrutiny was as objective as mine,’ Justin said drily, ‘but I agree with your conclusions. What did she tell you of her family?’ ‘Very little,’ Lucas said. ‘Apparently she grew up in Somerset. Her father was an army man who died in India and after that her mother fell into a decline. There was no money, so Rebecca went to live with relatives who had a trade.’ Justin was frowning. ‘It is a curious story.’ He broke off, deep in thought, then turned his head sharply to look at his brother. ‘What do you think, Luc?’ Lucas sighed. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘that everything that Rebecca has told me is true but that for reasons of her own she has omitted some of the facts.’ ‘And the reason for that omission?’ ‘The same reason that prompted her nervousness this morning,’ Lucas said. ‘She is protecting her brother.’ ‘The mysterious Daniel Raleigh,’ Justin said, as there was a quiet knock at the door. ‘When you told me about him this morning, I instructed Bradshaw to make a few enquiries. Unless I miss my guess, that will be him now.’ Sure enough, it was Tom Bradshaw who slipped

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into the room. Both Justin and Lucas looked at him expectantly. ‘There is no Daniel Raleigh on the Navy List, your Grace,’ Bradshaw said. Justin looked expressively at Lucas. Lucas sighed. ‘Somehow I did not expect that there would be.’ ‘He could be a merchant sailor,’ Justin pointed out, toying with his brandy glass. ‘Which ship did Miss Raleigh say that her brother sailed on?’ ‘She claimed not to know,’ Lucas said. ‘And you do not believe her.’ Lucas shifted. He disliked speaking of Rebecca like this when all his instincts told him that she was fundamentally honest. Her silence spoke of family loyalty rather than treachery, but even so it frustrated him that she would not tell him the truth. He drained his brandy glass, acknowledging to himself that it was in fact a miracle that Rebecca told him anything at all when he had treated her so badly. ‘I trust everything that Rebecca has told us, with the exception of the information about her brother,’ he said tentatively. ‘I do not believe her to have been in the confidence of the Midwinter spies, I do not think her uncle was aware of the nature of the work he was undertaking and I trust Rebecca to do everything in her power to assist us. But in this...’ He shook his head. ‘She is keeping secrets. She knows which ship her brother sails on, but she is trying to safeguard him.’ Justin tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘Why would she do that?’

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‘I have no notion. Or rather,’ Lucas corrected himself, ‘I have an idea but no proof.’ Justin looked at him. ‘Construe.’ ‘I think,’ Lucas said slowly, ‘that Daniel Raleigh is involved in something illegal. His sister knows it and wishes to keep the truth from us.’ ‘Something to do with the engravings and the spy?’ ‘I doubt it. On that score I think Rebecca is all she seems.’ Lucas stared into the fire. ‘When I was questioning her this morning, she was very cool and composed, because she knew she was innocent and was telling the entire truth. But when I found the letter from her brother she became very agitated. It was the only time during the interview that she appeared shaken. She also pretended to know nothing of his whereabouts.’ Lucas smiled with betraying tenderness. ‘She is a poor liar, for she is not practised at it. She gave herself away many times over.’ ‘Perhaps he is a petty criminal and Miss Raleigh is simply worried that we will find him,’ Justin suggested. Lucas shook his head. ‘He is definitely at sea. That much is true. The sea features prominently in many of Rebecca’s engravings—anchors, seagulls, sailing ships... There is a most beautiful vase on the windowsill of her studio with a picture of a privateer ship. It is exquisite—’ He broke off as Tom Bradshaw gave an exclamation. ‘What is it, Bradshaw?’ ‘A privateer, my lord,’ Bradshaw said excitedly. He grabbed his pencil and scribbled a few names. ‘Raleigh, Drake, Hawkins...’

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‘Is this some kind of guessing game?’ Justin enquired drily. ‘No, your Grace.’ Bradshaw pointed his pencil at Lucas. ‘Lord Lucas mentioned privateers and I thought of Raleigh and Drake.’ ‘A little harsh,’ Lucas said. ‘I am sure our brother Richard would defend them as great, patriotic sailors rather than pirates.’ ‘Indeed, my lord,’ Bradshaw said. ‘The point that I was trying to make was that Daniel Raleigh does not exist amongst the ranks of his Majesty’s Navy, but he may well exist as a different sort of sailor—a privateer—and one who may not even be called Raleigh...’ There was a silence. ‘That is very ingenious, Bradshaw,’ Justin admitted. ‘I can see why Lord Newlyn values your codebreaking skills so highly. You think outside the normal span of things.’ Bradshaw shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘It is merely a thought, my lord, and one that could be quite mistaken, but I can explore the possibility. I will start with Miss Raleigh’s uncle, George Provost, and see if I may discover more about the family.’ ‘How long will it take you to find out?’ Lucas asked. Bradshaw scratched his head. ‘Two days, three maybe, my lord, if the information is hard to find.’ ‘Then you had best bring your results to us at Midwinter,’ Justin said, ‘for we travel there tomorrow.’ ‘There is one more thing that you might like to look into, Bradshaw,’ Lucas said slowly. ‘On the windowsill in Miss Raleigh’s workshop is a magnificent vase

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with a family motto engraved on it. Celer et Audax. Swift and bold.’ He sighed. ‘It may well be that if you find the family to whom the motto belongs, you have found Miss Raleigh’s rightful ancestry and the identity of her brother. I leave it to you.’ Bradshaw bowed and went out and Justin Kestrel turned his thoughtful, dark gaze upon his brother. ‘A useful piece of information,’ he commented. ‘Tell me, Luc, how stands your current relationship with Miss Raleigh?’ ‘Poorly.’ Lucas was betrayed into a rueful smile. ‘She will have none of my suit.’ ‘Hmm.’ Justin moved a chess piece with precision on its marbled board. ‘And how do you think that our enquiries into Miss Raleigh’s identity will affect that?’ ‘I imagine it will make an already parlous situation ten times worse,’ Lucas said crisply. ‘However, I would rather know the whole truth than be left with any uncertainty. Besides, I shall persuade Rebecca to accept me in the end.’ ‘You sound very certain,’ Justin said, with a twitch of the lips. ‘I am,’ Lucas agreed. He looked at his brother. ‘She is my match in every way and now, having found her, I shall never let her go.’ The journey to Midwinter, in the Duke of Kestrel’s second-best carriage, the first being out of commission for repairs to the upholstery, seemed long and arduous to Rebecca. The weather had turned colder, with a clinging fog that made progress slow. Justin Kestrel had elected to

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ride, but Lucas had chosen to accompany her in the carriage, much to Rebecca’s annoyance. She wished that he would not persist in speaking to her when she had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. Throughout the journey he had been quick and unobtrusive in attending to her comfort. There had been rugs and hot bricks to warm her feet, food and drink at the hostelries. Every so often he would point out something of interest on the road—a stately home behind high gates, or a model village, or a curious inn sign swinging in the breeze. Lucas was knowledgeable and interesting and, little by little, Rebecca found herself unbending towards him and chatting with animation, only to fall silent when she remembered once again that she did not like him and was determined not to fall for his charm a second time. Instead she fell asleep, waking a little stiff and totally mortified to find herself with her head on Lucas’s shoulder and his arm gently holding her to him. Despite her reticence, when she saw the sea for the first time in sixteen years, Rebecca could not help but give a little exclamation of excitement. It was late in the afternoon by now and the dusk was starting to fall. The mist that had dogged their journey had lifted and, beyond the high hedges and lofty pines, she saw the glimmer of silver on the horizon. The carriage had slowed now and was trundling down a sandy track. Rebecca found herself sitting forward and searching for glimpses of the sea that ran like a pale-blue ribbon beyond the trees. ‘Oh! It is so beautiful, my lord.’ She turned spon-

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taneously to Lucas. ‘I had no notion that Suffolk was so pretty a county. I thought it flat and empty...’ ‘It is both of those things,’ Lucas said, smiling at her enthusiasm, ‘but in a very beautiful way. When you stand on the seashore the sky seems huge, like a great dome above one’s head. But you must have seen the sea before,’ he added, ‘for so much of your engraving contains the imagery of ships and seabirds.’ Rebecca felt surprised that he had noticed. ‘I... Yes, we lived near the sea when I was a child,’ she said. ‘In Somerset?’ ‘Yes. At Watchet, on the north Somerset coast. But it is many years now since I have been to the seaside.’ She remembered that it had been part of Lucas’s job to observe her and to notice things like the images on her engraving, and her spirits dulled a little. She had to remember that this was no holiday, but a business trip with a serious purpose. When she had fulfilled her part of the bargain she would be away back to Clerkenwell. In the meantime she would do well to give Lucas as little information as possible, not for her own sake, but for Daniel’s. Never had she been in a position to do him more harm than she was at this moment. ‘That road takes you to Midwinter Royal,’ Lucas said, pointing to a track that peeled away through the woods. ‘Rachel and Cory will be staying there with Rachel’s parents. And this...’ The carriage swung through resplendent wroughtiron gates. ‘This is Kestrel Court,’ Lucas said. ‘Welcome to Midwinter, Miss Raleigh.’ The drive was a long one between stands of tall limes interspersed with the dark green of oak. The

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parkland beyond looked verdant in the dusk. Beyond the high wall to the east, Rebecca could see the roof of a smaller building, a miniature manor house. ‘Saltires,’ Lucas said, following her gaze. ‘That is the dower house to the Court and currently home of Lady Sally Saltire.’ Rebecca remembered the brief summary that he had given her of the Midwinter villages and their occupants. ‘Lady Sally, whose husband was a great friend to your brother the Duke?’ ‘That is correct.’ Lucas’s gaze rested on the quaint beamed exterior of the manor. ‘Justin gave the lease on the house to Stephen Saltire after he and Lady Sally were married. She was widowed eight years ago and Justin has held a candle for her ever since.’ Rebecca was startled. The Duke of Kestrel seemed too self-contained a man to suffer the pangs of unrequited love. She felt a certain curiosity to meet the woman who could have so profound an effect on such a formidable man. Kestrel Court came into view now at the end of the lime avenue. It was a beautifully proportioned building, tall, classical and elegant. ‘It is one of Justin’s smaller properties,’ Lucas said, and Rebecca laughed. If anything was going to remind her of how far she had stepped out of her class in undertaking this venture, it was this opulent world. Once she had lived on the edges of it, but that had been a very long time ago. She felt as though a whole lifetime had passed between then and now. The carriage stopped at the edge of a flight of shal-

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low steps and Lucas helped her down himself, escorting her up to the door and into the entrance hall. A glass cupola scattered light across the stone floor. A wide iron staircase climbed to the first floor. It was very beautiful and really rather frightening. Rebecca’s hand tightened unconsciously on Lucas’s arm and he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You will find it easy to take your place in Midwinter society, Rebecca. You have already shown great self-assurance.’ A maid showed her up the broad flight of stairs to a well-appointed room on the second floor. Rebecca stood by the window, one hand resting on the thick pale-blue velvet curtains, and looked out across the formal gardens, over the roof of the dower house of Saltires, which looked positively diminutive beside its grander neighbour, and out to the sweep of Kestrel Bay. The sun was a great red orb sinking fast into the ocean, and opposite it a tiny sliver of moon climbed into the darkening sky. Rebecca stood still and watched as a pale smudge on the horizon seemed to draw closer and take shape before her eyes; a schooner, its tall masts dark against the inky horizon, its white sails furled. It glided across Kestrel Bay, the sea carved into ripples by its wake, and then it slipped stealthily from her sight beyond the curve of the shore. Rebecca sighed. Never had she felt closer to Daniel and never had she felt more alone. A part of her cried out to Lucas. She wanted the comfort and the protection of his arms. She wanted to tell him the whole truth, but she could not. She stepped back and drew the curtain against the approaching night.

Chapter Nine

‘Welcome to Midwinter, Miss Raleigh,’ Lady Sally Saltire said, her green eyes sparkling as she shook Rebecca warmly by the hand. ‘Curious, but I had thought I knew every relative that Justin possessed!’ Her speculative gaze moved from Rebecca to the tall figure of the Duke of Kestrel, who was chatting to Lady Benedict across the other side of the ballroom. ‘Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ Lady Sally continued. ‘We are always delighted to have new company in the Midwinter villages.’ ‘Thank you, Lady Sally.’ Rebecca was quite dazzled by their hostess, who had drawn her away from Lucas’s protective presence with a skill that argued great social aplomb. Lucas was currently standing some twenty feet away and looking as though he did not quite dare step in to rescue her. Rebecca found it rather amusing that Lady Sally Saltire appeared to have all the Kestrel brothers neatly under control. Lady Sally had followed the direction of her gaze

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and was now eyeing Lucas’s impatient figure with interest. ‘It seems to me, Miss Raleigh, that Lord Lucas Kestrel is another who has been delighted to be reacquainted with his cousin,’ she observed. ‘He looks as though he would much prefer a closer relationship with you, however. He has scarce strayed from your side since you all arrived. His interest is most conspicuous.’ Rebecca found herself blushing and was surprised and vexed. She knew she would never be able to carry off her role if she was so conscious of Lucas’s presence. Yet it was difficult not to be aware of him. Over the last few days they had driven out together several times, attended the assembly in Woodbridge, joined a picnic of Lady Benedict’s devising and generally drawn as much attention to themselves as possible. It had been part of the plan to involve Rebecca in Midwinter society as quickly as possible, but it had also thrown her into Lucas’s company almost all the time, and he had been quick to take advantage of their proximity. Rebecca had found herself enjoying his company far too much for her own comfort, taking pleasure from his conversation and easy companionship. Yet beneath Lucas’s measured courtship ran other feelings that could not be ignored. Dangerously, she felt as though she was starting to like as well as to love him. Slowly but surely, she was being drawn into an intimacy she could not avoid, did not want to avoid. The protectiveness that Lucas showed towards her was both tender and terrifying. It made her want him all

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the more. Worse, he never touched her other than to hand her into the carriage, or accompany her in the dance, and conversely, Rebecca found herself desperately wanting him to take her in his arms. She ached with the memory of his lovemaking. It broke her sleep and left her trembling to remember the feelings he had evoked. And she knew that Lucas could sense how she felt, for often she caught him watching her and saw the flash of desire in his eyes, desire held under supremely tight control, that left her shaken and longing for his touch. Lady Sally eyed her high colour shrewdly. ‘I beg your pardon for mentioning it, but perhaps you are not indifferent to his admiration, Miss Raleigh? One must congratulate you, for I always thought Lord Lucas the most dangerous of the Kestrel brothers because he appeared never to have a heart to lose...’ ‘Well, he need not lose his heart to me,’ Rebecca said, giving herself a mental shake and assuming the role of the indifferent object of Lucas’s affections. ‘I have no desire to be the subject of Lord Lucas’s rakish attentions.’ ‘You disapprove of rakes, Miss Raleigh?’ Lady Sally said, smiling. ‘Many ladies deplore them— whilst secretly hoping, of course, to be seduced by one!’ Rebecca stifled a laugh. ‘If Lord Lucas wishes to behave like a rake then that is, of course, his own concern,’ she said, ‘as long as he does not seek to practise on me. I am not susceptible to his charm since I was betrothed to another.’ ‘I heard that you buried your heart along with your

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fiance´,’ Lady Sally said sympathetically. She touched Rebecca’s hand. ‘I feel for you, my dear Miss Raleigh. However, you may find that Lord Lucas’s regard is the very balm that you need for your wounded feelings.’ ‘I suppose that he is considered quite a catch,’ Rebecca said, watching as Miss Chloe Ducheyne from Woodbridge artlessly drew Lucas’s attention and inveigled him into private conversation. ‘I assure you, Miss Raleigh, that ladies would wade across the Winter Race for a chance to engage Lord Lucas’s interest,’ Lady Sally said, and they laughed together. ‘I hope that you will join my reading group whilst you are staying with us?’ she added. ‘It is rather fun, although you may find it another opportunity for the Midwinter quizzes like myself to question you shamelessly about your cousin.’ Rachel Newlyn had already told Rebecca all about Lady Sally’s reading circle and Lucas had encouraged her to take part if invited, pointing out that it was the ideal way to mingle with the ladies of Midwinter. Rebecca was not averse, for she had taken a liking to Lady Sally and thought that the chance to read and discuss books would be rather a novel and exciting luxury for her. ‘You are no quiz, Lady Sally,’ she said, laughing, ‘but, yes, I should be delighted to attend the meeting of the reading group.’ ‘Capital!’ Lady Sally said, smiling broadly. ‘We are currently studying The History of Miss Harriot Montague. Are you acquainted with it, Miss Raleigh?’

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‘I fear not,’ Rebecca said. ‘Is it a morality tale?’ ‘Of a kind.’ Lady Sally flicked her fan. Her eyes were amused. ‘Truth to tell, it is an improbable story of a prosy girl who suffers endless hardships and conquers them all through her virtue. I find it dull, but the more impressionable ladies in the group enjoy the drama. I will lend you my spare copy and you may tell us what you make of it, Miss Raleigh. A fresh opinion is always welcome.’ The Duke of Kestrel was approaching and Lady Sally turned to him with a swish of green silk. ‘Justin, my dear! I was telling your charming cousin that we will look forward to her attending the next meeting of the reading group.’ ‘Splendid,’ Justin Kestrel said. He smiled at Rebecca, but she noticed that his gaze warmed still further as it returned to Lady Sally’s piquant face. ‘May I claim your hand for the quadrille, Sally?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Certainly you may,’ Lady Sally said, throwing him a sparkling glance. ‘I think I half-promised it to Mr Lang, but will gladly allow you to pull rank, Justin!’ ‘I do believe that my brother is intending to ask you for this dance, Rebecca,’ Justin Kestrel said, offering Lady Sally his arm. ‘Do you think that you could try to be kind to him just this once?’ ‘I fear not, your Grace,’ Rebecca said sweetly. ‘I should not like to give him false hope.’ ‘So cruel,’ Justin said, shaking his head ruefully. ‘And so wonderful to see Lucas hoist by his own petard,’ Lady Sally said cheerfully. ‘Bravo, Miss Raleigh!’

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Left on her own, Rebecca took the opportunity to study the rest of Lady Sally’s guests and see if her own impressions matched the descriptions that she had been given by Lucas. Miss Lang and Miss Ducheyne were both young, flighty and utterly over-excited by the fashionable company in which they found themselves. Rebecca thought it likely that Miss Ducheyne might spontaneously combust if she smouldered any harder in Lucas’s direction. The sight of the girl hanging on Lucas’s arm should have amused her but it did not, so she turned away and studiously considered the other guests. Miss Lang’s brother Caspar, whom Lady Sally had just snubbed in order to stand up with the Duke, was a young man with a very good opinion of himself. Sir John Norton likewise, although he was not such a young man and rather florid, running to fat. He was paying a great deal of attention to Lily, Lady Benedict, whom Lucas had said was an old school friend of Lady Sally. Despite Sir John’s fulsome interest it seemed that Lady Benedict would have preferred the compliments of Cory Newlyn, who was so wrapped up in his wife that he scarcely noticed her... Rebecca sighed, wondering why it was that the unobtainable was so attractive. Lucas, meanwhile, seemed quite content to stay by Miss Ducheyne’s side rather than claim his supposed cousin for a dance. Rebecca found herself trying to look at him objectively. By anyone’s standards he was a good-looking man, and within Lady Sally’s glittering and sophisticated social circle he appeared carelessly confident and at ease. Rebecca had never been shy herself, but she had found stepping into this rank of

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society to be quite a difficult task. Lucas’s casual assurance made her feel unsophisticated and out of her depth. ‘Miss Raleigh?’ Sir John Norton was at her elbow, claiming her attention. He smiled at her with an unpleasantly speculative twinkle in his eye. ‘If you are not engaged for the next, I should be honoured were you to promise it to me.’ Rebecca smiled, though her heart was not in it. ‘Thank you, Sir John, I should be delighted—’ ‘Have you forgotten that that honour has already been granted to me, Rebecca?’ Lucas drawled, materializing at her side. ‘I should be desolated if you preferred Sir John’s company over mine!’ ‘On the contrary,’ Rebecca said coolly, ‘I thought you very well consoled by Miss Ducheyne, Lucas. Besides, surely cousins do not need to stand on ceremony with each other if there is an offer more attractive?’ Sir John Norton smirked. ‘You heard the lady, Kestrel!’ There was a spark of devilment in Lucas’s gaze as his eyes rested on Rebecca’s face. She felt a shiver of anticipation along her nerves as he smoothly took up her challenge. ‘I did indeed,’ he murmured. ‘However, you and I know, Sir John, that a lady will often say quite the reverse of what she is thinking in order to make her erstwhile suitor all the more devoted.’ ‘You delude yourself, Lucas,’ Rebecca said sweetly. ‘Or perhaps it is your conceit that deceives you. You certainly have enough of it. Enough for two men, in fact!’

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Lucas’s smile held a wicked glint. ‘My dear Rebecca, why pretend? You know you are not indifferent to me!’ ‘I believe that we were discussing Sir John’s invitation to dance, rather than my feelings or lack of them,’ Rebecca said sharply. She turned to Norton. ‘I fear that we have already missed this opportunity, Sir John, but I should be delighted to dance with you later in the evening. The country dance after supper, perhaps?’ Sir John shot Lucas an unsubtle look of triumph. ‘Enchanted, Miss Raleigh,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps you would also like to drive with me one day next week? I could show you my yacht—’ ‘That would be splendid,’ Rebecca said hastily, as Lucas looked as though he were about to make an abrasive remark. ‘Thank you, Sir John.’ Sir John took her hand and kissed it gallantly, allowing his lips to dwell rather too long. Rebecca was sincerely glad that she was wearing gloves. ‘Your cousin will soon tire of your attentions if you are so pressing, Kestrel,’ Sir John said with a sneer as he released her. ‘Not your usual style, eh?’ Lucas took Rebecca’s hand and tucked it through his arm in a gesture of possession. ‘Where my cousin is concerned I do not conform to my usual mode of behaviour,’ he said smoothly. ‘Nor, indeed, to any style at all,’ Rebecca added. Sir John gave a crack of laughter and strolled away, pleased with himself, and Lucas held on to Rebecca a little tighter. ‘Rebecca, my sweet,’ he said in an undertone, ‘if

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you wish to cross swords with me I suggest that you do so in private in future, or you may find yourself in the most compromising position of being kissed in a ballroom full of people!’ Rebecca tried to draw her hand away, but he held her firmly. ‘I was merely trying to add a little colour to our supposed relationship,’ she said coolly. ‘I am sorry you did not care for it.’ Lucas was looking dangerous. ‘Two can play at that game,’ he said. He put an arm about her waist in a hard grip and drew her towards the window embrasure. The alcove afforded some privacy from the curious gaze of Lady Sally’s guests, but Lucas’s highhanded behaviour did not go unnoticed. A little ripple of scandalous excitement fluttered through the ranks of the assembled ladies as they watched him. ‘If you wish to lend colour to the deception, I am at your service,’ Lucas said. He had not released Rebecca, but stood with his back blocking the ballroom from view. Rebecca felt breathless and slightly nervous, a reaction that was only heightened by the unrelenting grip of his fingers about her wrist. He moved closer, until his body just brushed against hers. ‘I shall match you step for step and the money will be on me to overcome your scruples and make you my bride.’ Rebecca caught her breath. Although he was referring to the show they were putting on for society, his words echoed precisely their own, secret situation. Lucas had sworn that she would accept his declaration and she had rejected him out of hand. Yet with each

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day that passed her will to oppose him grew weaker, and now, with the insistent pressure of his body against hers, she felt utterly incapable of resistance. ‘You are mine, Rebecca,’ Lucas said. ‘Do you think that if I cannot have you I would permit anyone else to even touch you?’ Rebecca gave a gasp at the undisguised intimacy in his voice. ‘Permit?’ she said. ‘You presume too much, Lord Lucas. It is scarcely your place to permit or forbid.’ ‘By all means believe that if you wish.’ Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do not have the right to dictate my behaviour!’ ‘Whilst you are in Midwinter you are my responsibility.’ ‘I can take care of myself; once this is all over, we shall not meet again.’ They were standing stiffly now, like combatants. Lucas caught her wrist and jerked her close to him, so close that she could feel the staccato beat of his heart against the bodice of her gown. ‘I will not let you go,’ he said softly. Rebecca was trapped by the look in his eyes. It spoke of possession and demand, and it heated her blood with sparks of fire. The ballroom, the guests, the curious glances cast their way...all were as nothing compared to the raw claim that Lucas was staking to her. ‘Lucas,’ Justin Kestrel said from beside them, and his voice cracked like a whip, ‘I am persuaded that you would not wish to draw any further attention to Miss Raleigh in such a public place.’

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They both jumped and Lucas released Rebecca’s wrist. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. His gaze still smouldered. He backed away and sketched a bow. ‘You will excuse me. I shall be better off in the card room.’ Justin Kestrel offered Rebecca his arm. ‘I believe,’ he said smoothly, ‘that Lucas is finding the experience of unrequited love more trying than he had imagined, Miss Raleigh.’ ‘I am also finding it rather difficult, your Grace,’ Rebecca retorted, trying to quell her shaking. Justin laughed. ‘Lucas can be very determined when he wants something sufficiently.’ ‘As can I,’ Rebecca said. ‘I have not forgotten that once my stay here is complete I shall be returning home.’ She had not forgotten, but she was finding it increasingly difficult. The more time that passed the easier it seemed to believe that she belonged here and, worse, that she belonged with Lucas. She had to hold on to the truth at all costs, and the truth did not include a future with Lord Lucas Kestrel. It was as simple as that. ‘So, Miss Raleigh,’ Lady Sally said, ‘what do you think of The History of Miss Harriot Montague?’ The eyes of the reading group were fixed on Rebecca. It made her a little nervous. Although Rachel Newlyn and Olivia Marney had both been extremely friendly to her, Chloe Ducheyne and Helena Lang were, as far as Rebecca could tell, gossiping quizzes in the making, and Lily Benedict was without a doubt

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the most spiteful creature that Rebecca had ever had the misfortune to meet. She clutched the handsome brown morocco edition in her hand and tried not to feel as though she were back in the schoolroom. ‘I find it improbable,’ she said. ‘So many abductions and kidnappings, and adventures and pirates! I doubt that anyone could survive so much excitement.’ ‘I fear you are of distressingly practical disposition, Miss Raleigh,’ Lily Benedict said, smiling her feline smile and regarding Rebecca through half-closed eyes. ‘I suppose you do not believe that such brigands truly exist?’ ‘I am sure that they do,’ Rebecca said crisply, ‘but that they are nowhere near as romantic as the heroes of literature.’ Lily Benedict gave a tinkle of laughter. ‘I am certain that no dyed-in-the-wool villains could withstand your sternness, Miss Raleigh. They would wither beneath your pitiless regard!’ ‘Surely Miss Raleigh’s point is correct,’ Rachel Newlyn interposed. ‘In literature one may allow one’s imagination full reign, whereas in life—’ ‘In life one never gets swept off one’s feet by a handsome hero!’ Lily Benedict said. She tittered. ‘Oh, but of course that was exactly what happened to you, Lady Newlyn! I forgot! And to Miss Raleigh herself, if Lord Lucas Kestrel has his way! Will he have his way with you, Miss Raleigh?’ There was a sharp intake of breath around the circle. Some, such as Rachel and Olivia Marney, were looking disapproving of Lily Benedict’s blatant malice. Others were looking intrigued.

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‘I have a very cousinly regard for Lord Lucas, Lady Benedict,’ Rebecca said. ‘However, I assure you that it is no more than that.’ ‘You looked extremely close, if not cousinly, at Lady Sally’s ball,’ Lily Benedict said. ‘And I must confess that it is difficult to see Lord Lucas as anything other than a very attractive man.’ ‘Even attractive men have mothers, sisters—and cousins,’ Rebecca said drily. ‘Lily,’ Lady Sally interrupted, ‘much as I enjoy a good gossip, I do believe we are here to discuss Miss Harriot Mon-tague’s romantic trials and tribulations rather than those of anyone else.’ Lily Benedict waved one white hand dismissively. ‘I merely ask what everyone else wishes to know, Sally—is Lord Lucas Kestrel caught in a parson’s mousetrap? If so, it would be a good joke for the man who has broken half the hearts in London!’ ‘You exaggerate, Lily,’ Lady Sally said calmly. ‘I beg your pardon. A quarter of the hearts in London, then.’ ‘That woman is as unpleasant a creature as one could ever find,’ Rebecca fumed as she and Rachel walked back to Kestrel Court after the meeting of the reading group. ‘I cannot believe that we are engaged to dine at Midwinter Bere this evening! Justin and Lucas seemed anxious to fulfill the obligation, whereas I fear every morsel of food will stick in my throat!’ Rachel nodded sympathetically. ‘It is only because they hope for the opportunity to search Midwinter Bere house,’ she pointed out. ‘Lady Benedict rarely entertains because her husband is an invalid, and since

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Sir John Norton does not appear to have the engravings in his possession, suspicion inevitably falls on her.’ ‘The idea is foolish,’ Rebecca said shortly. ‘What, is Lady Benedict to entertain us to dinner with her engraved crystal sitting on the table? Surely even she would not be so arrogant as to parade it when she must know she is under suspicion?’ Rachel grimaced. ‘She is intolerably proud and it may well be that arrogance that brings her down.’ Rebecca kicked in vicious and unladylike fashion at a pile of autumn leaves drifting down from the bank. ‘It cannot be too soon for me!’ Rachel smiled and tied the ribbons of her bonnet more securely beneath her chin. ‘You seem most put out by Lady Benedict’s spite, Rebecca,’ she observed. ‘I know that she is a wicked scandalmonger, but I wonder whether her barbs have upset you because they have so much truth in them?’ Rebecca cast her a sideways glance. There was nothing but concern in Rachel’s face; none of the curiosity that she had encountered from the ladies of Midwinter, none of the envious speculation. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘You have been the kindest of friends to me, Rachel, and I know that I am very bad at confiding.’ Rachel gave a little elegant wave of the hand. ‘You need confide nothing if you do not wish, Rebecca. Once before I said that I would stand your friend if you needed me; I merely wanted you to know that the offer still stands.’ Rebecca nodded. ‘Thank you, Rachel. You are most

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kind.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I am a little liverish because I am finding it difficult to remember that I dislike Lucas Kestrel. He is very good at making me forget it.’ Rachel laughed. ‘Oh, dear—must you keep reminding yourself?’ ‘I think so,’ Rebecca said. ‘He did deceive me.’ ‘And has been most sincerely repentant on the subject.’ ‘And I am supposed to be spurning his advances.’ ‘As part of a pretence, perhaps, but in real life?’ Rachel frowned. ‘If you like Lucas, Rebecca—if you can forgive him—I would suggest that you give him a chance to redeem himself. It is a melancholy thing to punish both of you when you might be happier together.’ Rebecca clasped her gloved fingers together tightly. ‘It is not so simple, Rachel. I love Lucas. I loved him even when I was angry with him. In fact...’ Rebecca hesitated ‘...I was probably so angry because I loved him so much, if that makes sense.’ ‘Perfect sense,’ Rachel said sagely. ‘I see. You love Lucas, but you are not certain if he loves you too.’ Rebecca shrugged dispiritedly. ‘I know that there are those who hold that love is not essential for marriage, but I am not amongst them.’ ‘Nor I,’ Rachel said. ‘It is a melancholy thing to settle for second best.’ ‘So I believe,’ Rebecca said. ‘Which is why it is easier for me to keep Lucas at arm’s length.’ Rachel looked unconvinced. ‘I do believe that Lucas

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cares for you a great deal, Rebecca. One only requires to watch him with you to realise that.’ Rebecca blushed. ‘Liking and wanting someone are different from loving them, Rachel.’ ‘I understand that. What I am unsure of is whether Lucas does.’ Rachel glanced quickly at Rebecca. ‘Please do not misunderstand me. Lucas has not confided in either Cory or myself. Having known him for a little, however, I would say that he has been caught off guard by his feelings for you, Rebecca, and may not yet have realised quite how important they are. Men,’ Rachel said, with a little sigh, ‘can be rather slow in recognising these matters.’ They had reached the place where the path to Midwinter Royal split from that to Kestrel Court. ‘I will not come back for a cup of tea,’ Rachel said, ‘for Mama is expecting me back to help catalogue some artifacts she has found in the burial field. We shall see you tonight at Lady Benedict’s dinner, Rachel.’ Dinner at Midwinter Bere was every bit as bad as Rebecca had anticipated it would be. Lily Benedict had elected to place Justin Kestrel on her right and Lucas on her left, putting Rebecca at the very bottom of the table between her husband and John Norton. It was extremely unusual for Sir Edgar Benedict to be present at any social occasion and he sat in his Bath chair, a huddled figure smelling strongly of old, musty clothes and cloying illness, and said not a single word. Occasionally his hooded gaze would sweep the assembled throng like a malignant crow until he would bend

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his head over his food once again, speaking only to the assiduous servant who was by his side throughout. That left Rebecca to the tender mercies of Sir John Norton, who seemed delighted to be squiring her for the evening and told her many, protracted tales of his Arctic exploration and his sailing prowess. Rebecca listened and smiled in all the right places and noted that the crystal on the table was very fine, seventeenthcentury Dutch workmanship, but that it certainly was not the glass engraved by her uncle for the Midwinter spies. It was later, when the ladies withdrew after dinner, that she saw something that made her heart leap into her throat and made her wonder whether there was, after all, someone in the Benedict household with a closer connection to her uncle than she had supposed. On a pedestal in the shadowed alcove by the library door was a tall glass vase with an exquisite engraving of a sailing ship on it. It was certainly the work of George Provost’s workshop. Rebecca’s heart started to race. She could not see the detail of the vase clearly in the dim light, but it roused her curiosity and made her wonder whether there were any other pieces in the house. She allowed the other ladies to stroll on ahead of her, then slipped unseen into the library. It seemed as good a place as any to start. It was a gloomy chamber that seemed to fit all too well Sir Edgar’s melancholy personality, and whilst there were various pieces of sculpture on plinths about the room, there were no other pieces of engraved glass. Rebecca, aware that

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she could not be missing for too long, heaved a sigh and retraced her steps into the hall. She looked again at the engraved vase. It was most definitely her uncle’s work, which meant that someone in the household must have placed a commission for work with George Provost at some time. She had no recollection of it having been made, but that was not extraordinary. In her uncle’s heyday the engraving workshop had been inundated with orders. Deep in thought, Rebecca rounded the corner of the corridor and walked straight into Lucas. He grabbed her above the elbows and held her hard. He looked absolutely furious. ‘I have been searching for you everywhere. What the devil do you think you are doing, Rebecca?’ Rebecca was stung by his tone. ‘What do you think I was doing? I was trying to find the engraved glass. I thought that to be the purpose of our visit!’ ‘You do not go off wandering about on your own!’ Lucas shook her slightly. ‘Good God, Rebecca, have you understood nothing? This is dangerous work!’ Rebecca was shaken by the savage undertone in his voice. ‘I am perfectly aware of that, Lucas,’ she said, with dignity, ‘and I do not think it adds anything to the secrecy of our situation for you to stand upbraiding me in the corridor. Anyone might hear you!’ They stood glaring at one another. There was the sound of a door closing, footsteps, raised voices. Rebecca tried to move away but, quick as a flash, Lucas’s arms went around her hard and his mouth came down on hers in a ruthless kiss. Rebecca could not move, could not break free, and

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did not want to. The moment Lucas had touched her she was lost, knowing this was what she had wanted through the long, lonely nights when she had lain alone in her bed, tormented to know that Lucas was so close to her and yet so far away. Her body trembled and went soft with acquiescence and the kiss eased at once. Lucas bit down gently on her full lower lip then rubbed it with the tip of his tongue, teasing, dipping inside her mouth and then retreating. It melted her and made her reach blindly for him. In return he moved his mouth over hers with a thoroughness that had her sighing. She had forgotten about their audience until there was the sound of gentle laughter close at hand and Lady Sally Saltire spoke from out of the shadows. ‘I do believe,’ she said, and the amusement was clear in her voice, ‘that your cousin has overcome her indifference to Lord Lucas, Justin!’ Rebecca jumped as though scalded, but even then Lucas was slow to let her go, releasing her with every sign of reluctance. Justin Kestrel and Lady Sally were standing a mere ten feet away, Lady Sally looking speculative and Justin looking quite blank. Rebecca could not tell whether he approved or not. Lucas drew her close to his side. It was difficult to resist the reassuring protectiveness of his gesture. ‘I wondered,’ Justin said in measured tone, ‘whether you were ready to depart, Miss Raleigh? It is a shame to cut the evening short, but I think it wise not to tax Sir Edgar’s strength too much.’ The journey back to Kestrel Court was conducted in simmering silence. As soon as they were through the door, Lucas murmured an apology to his brother,

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caught Rebecca’s arm and bundled her though the door of the drawing room. ‘I do not believe that we had finished our conversation,’ he said pleasantly. ‘No!’ Rebecca spun around. She was feeling edgy and vulnerable. ‘You will not use kissing me as...as an excuse for loitering in corridors, Lord Lucas!’ ‘You were the one who was loitering,’ Lucas said, a gleam in his eyes. ‘I could not be certain who was about to come across us and needed to provide a good reason as to why we should be standing in the shadows outside Lady Benedict’s library.’ ‘You are inexcusable!’ ‘I am sorry that you should think that.’ Lucas strolled over to the mantelpiece. ‘I confess I forgot my original motive within a few seconds. Kissing you was long overdue, Rebecca.’ The tension between them spun out and thickened until it was almost tangible, then Rebecca shook her head impatiently. ‘You make me forget... What I really needed to tell you was that Lady Benedict has a glass vase that was engraved by my uncle.’ Lucas’s gaze had sharpened. ‘You are positive?’ ‘Certain. There can be no mistake. The style is slightly different from the glasses the spies have been using, but I recognise his work. Someone at Midwinter Bere had commissioned the piece from my uncle.’ Lucas let out a long sigh. ‘Yet Bradshaw has searched both Midwinter Bere and Sir John Norton’s house and neither has yielded a sign of the glasses.’ ‘Which leads one to the only conclusion—that the glasses are kept elsewhere.’

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Lucas nodded. Unexpectedly he caught her hand. ‘Thank you, Rebecca.’ Rebecca was startled. ‘For what?’ ‘For helping us. I understand that there are many reasons why you might not.’ Rebecca tugged gently to free her hand, but he held her tight. He gestured to the sofa. ‘Rebecca...I need to speak with you. Will you hear me out?’ After a moment Rebecca sat down. Her heart was hammering and her legs trembling so much she had no choice. ‘I know that I deceived you badly over my original motive in coming to your workshop,’ Lucas said. ‘I hurt you. It was very wrong of me and I regret the way that I behaved.’ ‘You were doing a job,’ Rebecca said. Her throat ached. Lucas did not take the excuse. He came to sit beside her. ‘That is true, but it is no justification. My instinct told me to trust you and I ignored it. That was my mistake.’ Rebecca did not argue the point. She was achingly aware of his presence beside her although he had made no attempt to touch her. He was making it very difficult to resist him. He had made no excuses; made no attempt to deny that he had hurt her very badly. Silence fell and lingered. Lucas put one hand over her clenched ones. ‘I would never injure you again, Rebecca. I swear it. I want you to marry me. I want it very much.’ Rebecca shivered. He was watching her intently and

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she was almost unbearably aware of his touch on her hand. His softly spoken words were so persuasive. ‘I cannot.’ The words were wrenched from her. ‘You are still angry with me,’ Lucas said, watching her. ‘I understand that. What happened between us—’ Rebecca made a sharp movement. ‘I cannot blame you for that. I asked you to stay. It was my choice.’ Lucas ran one finger in a silken caress along the line of her jaw and tilted her chin to look down into her eyes. His own were smiling. ‘I admire your candour, Rebecca, but I cannot let you take that responsibility. I could have refused. Knowing what I did, I should have refused.’ His hand lingered against her cheek. ‘But I wanted you too. I needed you...’ Admire. Need. Want... Rebecca closed her eyes for a second. She had asked Lucas to stay with her that night because she had been seeking escape, but she had chosen him because she already loved him. Yet he had never pretended that love was what he was offering her. She met his dark, hungry gaze. ‘I love you,’ she said with deliberation. ‘That is why I cannot marry you. Because I have made enough mistakes and I cannot accept second best.’ She saw the stupefaction in his eyes as he took her words in and for a few endless, fragile seconds she waited, knowing that she was hoping for the words she wanted to hear. They did not come. Lucas got to his feet and took several steps away from her. ‘It is not second best.’ His voice was rough. ‘I need you, Rebecca.’

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Rebecca shook her head. The disappointment and despair threatened to swamp her. She got to her feet and made blindly for the door. ‘No, Lucas...’ He was there in two strides, easily blocking her way. ‘Do not fight me, Rebecca. You want me as much as I want you.’ It was true, but Rebecca’s mind stubbornly told her that it was not enough. ‘You mistake,’ she said. ‘I want none of this.’ Lucas’s face was white with strain. ‘Let us see, shall we?’ He kissed her with hunger, need, and a blistering passion that shook her to her soul. She did not know if she was strong enough to withstand this onslaught. ‘How much more proof do you need?’ he demanded when he released her. ‘It proves nothing!’ Rebecca said. For a long moment she stared into his eyes. And then she wrenched herself out of his arms and ran away.

Chapter Ten

L

ucas stayed quite still for several minutes after the slam of the door had died away. He felt tense and heated and strangely disoriented. ‘I want none of this,’ Rebecca had said and, although he had proved otherwise in a physical sense, she had still remained obstinately aloof from him. It was as though there was a part of her that he could not reach, a part that stubbornly refused to accept what was between them no matter how he tried to convince her. Lucas thrust one hand through his hair in a gesture of extreme frustration. He wanted to reach that corner of Rebecca’s mind that she withheld from him. He wanted all of her. She was meant to be his. They both knew it. He loved her... He stopped dead. It was not a conclusion that he had reached logically, by rational thought. It had burst into his head with the sudden explosion of a shower of fireworks and yet he knew without a doubt that it was true. He loved Rebecca Raleigh. He had done so

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for a long time. He had been monstrously slow to recognise his own feelings. He was a fool. There was a knock at the door and Justin stuck his head around. ‘Tom Bradshaw is here, Lucas. Do you wish to join us in the study?’ For a moment Lucas could not even remember who Bradshaw was, let alone why he was there. Then he recollected that they had asked the man to look into Rebecca’s antecedents and in particular to investigate the motto he had seen on the engraved glasses. At the time he had felt uncomfortable at this latest, small betrayal. Now he felt it was even more distasteful. He did not want to know. And yet he had to know. He had to know everything. He followed Justin slowly out of the drawing room. ‘Well, Bradshaw?’ Justin said expectantly, when they were settled in the study. ‘Do you have information for us?’ ‘Yes, your Grace,’ Bradshaw said. He ran a hand over his hair, looking slightly nervous. ‘I apologise for the delay. It took me longer than I had expected to find the information you required.’ ‘Cut the courtesies, Bradshaw,’ Lucas said. His nerves were strung as tight as a bow. ‘What is your news?’ Bradshaw looked at him and Lucas felt a lurch of fear as he saw the expression in the man’s eyes. Justin was silent. ‘My lord—’ ‘Spit it out.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Bradshaw cleared his throat. ‘The motto, my lord—’

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‘Celer et Audax?’ ‘Yes, my lord. Swift and bold. It is the family motto of the Pearce family. The current head of the family is a Sir Gideon Pearce, a country gentleman whose seat is at Bowness in Westmorland.’ Justin looked as blank as Lucas felt. ‘Never heard of him.’ ‘No, your Grace.’ Bradshaw shuffled his feet. ‘There is no real reason why you should. Sir Gideon lives quietly and, as far as I am aware, there is nothing notable about him at all.’ ‘And Miss Raleigh is related to this paragon?’ Lucas questioned. ‘Distantly, my lord. Very distantly.’ Bradshaw took a deep breath. ‘Bear with me, gentlemen. The Pearces are an old gentry family. During the English Civil War they were split, like many at the time. The father and elder son were for Parliament, but the younger son, Richard Pearce, fought for the King. He went into exile with Charles II after Worcester.’ Bradshaw ran a hand over his hair. ‘He met and married a French Huguenot girl whilst he was in exile and changed his name to hers as a sign that he repudiated his father’s allegiance and all it stood for. He wrote to his father that the only thing that he was keeping was the family motto because he was the only one who deserved it. His father disinherited him as a result.’ ‘A man after my own heart,’ Lucas said, with a grin. ‘Indeed, my lord,’ Bradshaw said. His face was still strained. ‘Richard Pearce did not return to England after the restoration of King Charles II. Instead he and

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his wife went to America and became very wealthy and prominent in New York society.’ Bradshaw consulted his notes. ‘The family supported the British during the Revolutionary Wars, lost all their money and were obliged to flee the country as a result, returning to England nearly thirty years ago. Miss Raleigh’s father, James, became a soldier. For a few years his family lived at Poyntz Manor in Somerset.’ ‘Miss Raleigh told me this. She said that her father was killed in India.’ Despite the fact that Bradshaw’s tale bore out Rebecca’s meagre information about her childhood, Lucas still felt uneasy. There was something that Bradshaw had not yet told them, something bad. He could feel its approach with an inevitability that chilled him. ‘He was indeed, my lord. His son Daniel, then fourteen, joined the Navy and his daughter went to London to live with a distant cousin of her mother’s.’ ‘George Provost,’ Lucas said thoughtfully. ‘That is so. Glass engraving,’ Bradshaw added, ‘was one of the professions of Miss Raleigh’s Huguenot ancestors.’ ‘It all seems perfectly straightforward and blameless,’ Justin said, his eyes narrowed shrewdly, ‘so what is it that you have not told us, Bradshaw?’ Bradshaw took a deep breath. ‘When Richard Pearce changed the family name in 1652 it was not to Raleigh, your Grace. That is a much more recent fiction. Since the seventeenth century that family name has been De Lancey. Miss Rebecca Raleigh was born Miss Rebecca De Lancey. Her brother is Daniel De Lancey, smuggler, pirate and suspected French spy.’

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There was a silence in the Duke of Kestrel’s study. ‘Good God,’ Lucas said softly. He was remembering all the little details that came together to create the damning whole: the way that Rebecca had told him the truth of her childhood whilst leaving out the most important aspect—her name and identity. He thought of all the images of the sea that lived in her engravings and decorated her studio, he remembered her panic when he had found the note and the money from her brother, and the way she had pretended to know nothing of Daniel De Lancey’s ship or current whereabouts. He let his breath go in a long sigh. He was not sure if he was angry or disappointed or merely disillusioned, but he knew now that Rebecca had never completely trusted him and that his hopes that matters might change between them were based on sand. ‘What is Daniel De Lancey’s history?’ Justin asked quietly. ‘He left the Navy at the age of nineteen, your Grace, and for a while there was no word of him,’ Bradshaw said quietly. ‘He first came to the government’s notice as a privateer some five years ago when he captured a French ship off Calais. These days he sails the east coast between Kent and Suffolk. There have been countless attempts to catch him. All have failed. It is rumoured he deals in smuggled goods and piracy, and also that he is a French spy.’ ‘Is there any foundation to that rumour?’ Lucas questioned sharply. He could not help himself. ‘Given his family’s previous loyalties to the Crown, it seems unlikely.’ Bradshaw shrugged. Lucas could tell that he thought

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he was clutching at straws. A privateer sold himself and his services indiscriminate of loyalty. ‘With De Lancey there is never anything firmer than rumour, my lord,’ he said. ‘There is also a tale that he passes information to the Admiralty when it suits his purposes and for that reason they have not tried too hard to catch him of late.’ ‘That, at least, may be corroborated,’ Justin said, reaching for pen and ink. ‘I shall send to the Admiralty immediately.’ Lucas rubbed his eyes. The facts were stacking up in his mind like dominoes, one leading inexorably to the next. ‘This fits rather too well to be coincidence, does it not?’ he said bitterly. ‘We have French spies smuggling information abroad. We have a privateer lying off the coast, we have a glass engraver who has provided the cipher and...’ he sighed ‘...now I have brought Daniel De Lancey’s sister to Suffolk!’ Justin raised his brows. ‘I do not believe you should jump to any conclusions, Luc—’ he started, but Lucas cut him off. ‘It is not a question of jumping,’ he said bitterly, ‘more a matter of stumbling blindly over the truth. Miss De Lancey has played me royally for a fool. She and I will have settlement over this. Now.’ He ignored Justin’s measured suggestion that he should wait a little as though he had not heard it, and took the stairs to Rebecca’s room two at a time. He could hear the low murmur of voices from behind the closed door and when he flung it open without ceremony or even the courtesy of knocking, Rebecca’s maid scuttered away like a terrified mouse.

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‘Lucas?’ Rebecca was sitting at her dressing-table. She had already undressed for the night and was in a silky peignoir of a deep plum colour that made her hair look rich and coppery. Lucas looked at her. She looked puzzled and innocent and very, very desirable. His insides twisted. ‘Tell me about your brother,’ he said. He saw a flicker of bewilderment cross her face—and saw the tiny flicker of fear grow. ‘I have told you before—’ she began. ‘No, you have not,’ Lucas said. ‘Tell me about Daniel De Lancey.’ Rebecca did not deny anything. She put down her silver-backed hairbrush very slowly and met his eyes in the mirror. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked. ‘Tom Bradshaw has a way of discovering these things.’ Lucas had thought his feelings in turmoil, but now he found that he was furiously angry. He gripped her by the shoulder, forcing her to her feet. She yielded with a little gasp. ‘Lucas—’ ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’ Lucas demanded. Her eyelashes flickered down. ‘I thought about it.’ ‘And?’ ‘And decided probably not. It was not my secret to tell.’ Lucas’s hands tightened. ‘Do not give me that! This has all been a huge conspiracy from the start, has it not?’ Rebecca’s eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine shock. ‘I do not know what you mean.’ ‘Come now! Your uncle did the engraving for the

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Midwinter spies,’ Lucas spat out. ‘Your brother is a privateer, no doubt in the pay of the French. And you—’ ‘Yes?’ Her gaze defied him. ‘What about me?’ Lucas let her go with a gesture of repudiation. She stumbled back and almost tripped over the stool. Her vulnerability just made him all the more angry. ‘You knew all along, and played me like a fool,’ he said. ‘Did I?’ Rebecca swept away with an angry swish. ‘How strange. I thought that it was you who deceived me in order to gain information from me rather than the other way around.’ ‘And, in fact, all along it was you who has deceived me to keep information from me,’ Lucas countered. ‘So we are equal, sweetheart.’ Rebecca looked disdainful. ‘Oh, no, we are not, my lord! The only reason I omitted to tell you about this was to protect Daniel.’ Lucas strode across to the window, moving with a repressed fury. She seemed so honest and yet he could not be taken in by any more of her lies. Was it only a half-hour before that he had realised he loved her? It felt like a whole century. ‘Next you will be telling me that it is mere coincidence that brings you here to Midwinter!’ he said bitterly. ‘No!’ Rebecca’s eyes flashed. She drew the peignoir close about her throat and Lucas could see that her hands were shaking. ‘It was you who brought me here to Midwinter, Lord Lucas. I did everything in my power to avoid it.’

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‘Because you did not wish to draw danger to De Lancey?’ ‘Exactly.’ Rebecca stood braced as a bow. ‘I am no traitor who schemed with my brother in order to come to Midwinter as part of our treasonable plan, my lord! I told you from the start that I knew nothing of the spies!’ Lucas spun around. ‘You told me some things and neglected to tell me many others. Why should I believe you now?’ He saw Rebecca whiten though the look in her eyes was still defiant. ‘So you do not trust me,’ she said. ‘You have not answered my question.’ In reply she came very close to him, so close that he could smell the scent of jasmine on her skin and see the pale violet shadows beneath her eyes. ‘You should believe me because I have done everything I could to help you since I have been here,’ she said. It was not enough. Lucas held her gaze, his eyes hard. ‘Have you been in contact with your brother since you came to Midwinter?’ ‘No!’ Rebecca’s expression was as clear and honest as it always had been, but there was a spark of anger burning in the depths of her eyes as she searched his face. Lucas broke away. He felt a white-hot anger for her, but in some odd way he felt even more angry with himself and out of the depths of his despair and his misery he dragged the words. ‘I am wondering,’ he said, ‘just what you would have been ready to do to keep me from the truth. You

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invited me to bed with you. You even told me you loved me. There were not many things that you were not prepared to do, were there, Miss De Lancey?’ Rebecca turned so pale that he thought she would faint and he instinctively put out a hand to steady her, but she knocked it aside. ‘You disgust me, Lord Lucas,’ she said between shut teeth. ‘Get out of my room. I never wish to see or speak with you again.’ He went. It took Rebecca ten minutes to dress again. She did not call the maid. She had never needed one. Her first inclination—to walk straight out of Kestrel Court, never to return—had not withstood the obvious conclusion that the Kestrels would never let her go. There was only one thing to do and that was to take the fight to the enemy. Even so, it took every ounce of her courage to go down the stairs and knock on the door of the study. There was the low murmur of voices from within but, to Rebecca’s inexpressible relief, when the door opened it was to reveal Justin Kestrel talking to a man she had never seen before. Of Lucas there was no sign. Rebecca felt almost faint to be granted such a respite. She had only managed to get this far by blocking all thoughts of Lucas and his final words from her mind, and she knew that once she started to think of him she would be completely lost. ‘Miss Raleigh.’ Justin Kestrel did not seem particularly surprised to see her. He turned to the man at

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his side. ‘Thank you, Bradshaw. We shall speak again.’ ‘Your Grace.’ The man gave Rebecca an unmistakably curious glance as he went out. Justin gestured Rebecca to a seat. ‘Were you looking for Lucas, Miss Raleigh?’ ‘No!’ Rebecca said. She gulped a steadying breath. ‘I wished to speak to you, your Grace.’ Justin gave her a flicker of a smile. ‘Then may I offer you a glass of brandy? You are looking somewhat shaken.’ Rebecca accepted and sat down a little abruptly in the chair that Bradshaw had vacated. Justin did not speak whilst he poured for her and topped up his own glass. When she took it from him she was surprised to see that she was trembling. She took a grateful sip and felt the brandy warm through her limbs, strengthening her. She gave a little sigh. ‘That is good.’ ‘It should be,’ Justin said. ‘Your brother runs it.’ Rebecca almost choked. She put the glass down. ‘Your Grace—’ ‘Miss Raleigh?’ Justin was not making it easy for her but then, Rebecca acknowledged wryly, why should he? She was the one who had some explaining to do. She sat up a little straighter. ‘I came to tell you that it is true that I am Rebecca De Lancey,’ she said. ‘I know that there must be a connection between the Midwinter spies and my uncle’s work, but I swear to you that I am not that link. Everything that I have told you is true. I am no traitor and—’ her voice warmed ‘—I cannot believe that Daniel is in the pay of the French either.’

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Justin Kestrel let that one go. His face was grave. ‘I cannot offer an opinion on your brother, of course, but I must tell you, Miss Raleigh, that I never imagined that you were playing us false. Anyone who knows you at all well should surely realise that you are no spy.’ Rebecca stared. ‘But I thought... Lord Lucas assumed...’ ‘Ah, Lucas,’ Justin said. He smiled at her. ‘Lucas always was impulsive and I am afraid...’ he sighed ‘...that he is also labouring under strong emotion, which is never conducive to making a man see clearly.’ Rebecca bit her lip. Honesty prompted her to admit that Lucas’s reaction was scarcely surprising, although the intensity of his anger had stunned her and the cruelty of his words hurt her deeply. ‘I concede that the facts looked damning against me,’ she said with a little shiver. ‘I cannot explain the connection between the Midwinter spies and my uncle, other than to repeat that it is nothing to do with me.’ ‘The facts do indeed look damning,’ Justin agreed, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Lucas was angry and disillusioned to learn the truth, Miss Raleigh, but he may realise his mistake if you grant him a little time.’ ‘There is no more time for us,’ Rebecca said bleakly. ‘Lord Lucas and I never could quite trust one another sufficiently to make matters work and now we never shall. I wish to go back to London immediately, your Grace.’ Justin nodded slowly. ‘A pity, but I understand your sentiments. If that is what you desire then it shall be

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so. However, I must ask you to wait a couple of days more, Miss Raleigh.’ He saw her instinctive gesture of denial and went on, ‘We move against Norton and Lady Benedict the day after tomorrow. We cannot risk any change of plan before then or it may alert suspicion. After that, you are free to return home whenever you wish.’ Rebecca stood up. She knew that it was the best she could hope for and that under the circumstances Justin was being more than generous. It was only the inevitability of seeing Lucas again that made her heart ache so fiercely she was not sure she could bear it. Between them they had destroyed all the fragile trust that had grown up against the odds, and they had hurt each other beyond measure. She bore the responsibility for that as much as Lucas, for although he had deceived her first, she had never trusted him sufficiently to tell him the truth about Daniel, and now it would never be possible to gain his love.

Chapter Eleven

It was odd to behave as though everything were as normal and yet to know that everything had in fact changed. Rebecca had been tempted to remain in her room for the whole of the following day, but she hated to be confined; she had also agreed to go shopping in Woodbridge with Rachel Newlyn. Lucas and Cory were to accompany them, but Lucas elected to ride and did not acknowledge Rebecca’s presence with more than a nod when they met in the hall. There was not another look or a word or a touch that passed between them. Rebecca knew that Rachel had noted this new coldness, but fortunately she asked no questions, and when the carriage rolled into Woodbridge and the gentlemen went off to the gunsmith’s, Rachel headed towards the bookseller’s and Rebecca pleaded a headache and told her friend she would await her on the quay, where she hoped that the fresh sea air might help quell the blue devils. It was a misty morning and the sea fret hung about the boats, muffling sound and casting a grey pall across the water. The quay seemed quiet but for the

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scrape and hammer coming from the shipwright’s yard. An old man was sitting in a wildfowling boat, sorting methodically through nets and floats and whistling soundlessly through his teeth as he did so. He raised his head and greeted Rebecca as she walked slowly by, touching his cap to her before he went back to his work. Beside his tiny boat gleamed Sir John Norton’s yacht, Breath of Scandal, and Rebecca was halfway past it before she realised with a sinking heart that Sir John was actually on board and had seen her. It seemed unfortunate. Her spirits were lower than the tide, her heart and her thoughts were full of Lucas and the last thing she wished for was to fend off Sir John’s bluff gallantry. Remembering Justin Kestrel’s words the previous night, she felt a frisson of fear. This was dangerous company in which to linger. However, it was too late. Sir John had seen her and now jumped down on to the quay with every expression of delight. ‘Miss Raleigh! Well met, ma’am! I was wondering when I would have the pleasure of showing you my craft.’ ‘It is a trim yacht,’ Rebecca agreed, dredging up a smile and giving the boat’s shining lines a look of approval. ‘Do you go out today, Sir John? It seems an inclement day for a sail.’ Sir John looked over his shoulder at the sea mist pressing on the shore. ‘This will lift shortly,’ he said dismissively. ‘The sun is already breaking through. Perhaps you would care to come for a cruise with me later?’ Rebecca smiled. ‘Thank you for your kind offer, but

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I fear I shall not have the opportunity today. Some other time, perhaps?’ Sir John did not appear particularly cast down. There was a flicker of calculation in his blue eyes as he watched her. ‘At the very least, permit me to show you the trophy I won in this year’s Deben Yacht Race,’ he suggested. ‘I am sure that you will appreciate the workmanship, Miss Raleigh. It is a marvellous piece of engraved glass.’ ‘Engraved glass?’ Rebecca said unwarily. Her gaze shot up to meet his, but Sir John was looking bland. She cleared her throat. ‘That is...I know little of such matters, Sir John, but I should be delighted to see the trophy, of course.’ ‘Splendid!’ To her shock, Norton put one arm about her waist and practically carried her over the side of the yacht, guiding her down the companionway and into the cabin below before she could even protest. Gasping, ruffled and confused, she put out a hand to steady herself on the table—and heard the stealthy click of the cabin door behind her. Rebecca jumped, trying to sound no more put out than any young lady who had been manhandled aboard a yacht and was now in danger of having the vapours. At all costs she had to seem no more than Justin Kestrel’s slightly feather-headed cousin. ‘Good gracious, Sir John, you are importunate!’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth can you be doing—’ ‘A moment,’ Norton murmured. ‘I have it here.’ The neat wooden cupboard under the bulkhead was slightly ajar, and through it Rebecca could see the gleam of light on glass. There was indeed a magnifi-

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cent engraved rose bowl, but next to it on the shelf was a set of smaller glasses and they looked suddenly and shockingly familiar. There was the one with the engraved sun, the seagull, the anchor, the half-moon... Rebecca stared as the ideas slowly slotted into place. Of course. How foolish of them to have thought that either Lily Benedict or John Norton would keep an incriminating set of engraved glasses on display in their homes for all the world to see. The Midwinter spies were arrogant, but they were not stupid. Here on the boat was the perfect repository for their master code, the boat that Norton used for his illicit meetings with his French spymaster... ‘Superb, is it not?’ John Norton’s voice sounded loud in her ear. ‘Allow me to show you the detail, Miss Raleigh. I am sure that a connoisseur such as yourself will appreciate the magnificent craftsmanship involved.’ Rebecca shook herself out of her reverie. Her nerves were jumping and she was suddenly aware of the extreme danger of her situation. She looked at Sir John, but his face betrayed nothing but its usual goodhumoured bonhomie. ‘I am scarce an expert,’ she said lightly, ‘but I should be delighted to see the trophy, Sir John.’ Norton bent to extract the rose bowl from the cupboard. His voice was muffled. ‘You should not be so deprecating, my dear Miss Raleigh. Who could be more qualified than you to judge the merit of a piece of engraving?’ Rebecca’s throat dried. She started to edge back-

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wards towards the doorway but Sir John Norton straightened quickly, empty-handed. ‘Not so keen now, eh, Miss Raleigh?’ His bluff red face had flushed to an even redder hue. ‘What a pity that your faithful protector is unaccountably absent on the one occasion when you require his aid—’ He broke off and stiffened as the boat shifted slightly under the weight of someone coming aboard. There was a thud, the sound of voices and then Lily Benedict burst down the steps and into the cabin. Her bonnet was askew and she looked flustered and distraught. ‘John, what is happening?’ she demanded. ‘Edgar said that the girl, Miss Raleigh, had come this way.’ She broke off as her gaze fell on Rebecca. Her eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘Oh! Then you already have her.’ ‘Tell Edgar to cast off,’ Norton said without taking his eyes from Rebecca’s face. ‘Quickly, Lily! We must get away before the Kestrels come looking for her.’ Lily Benedict looked from the half-open cupboard to Rebecca and back again. ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Edgar!’ She turned on her heel. ‘Cast off! We must make sail at once.’ In a desperate, unthinking effort to escape, Rebecca made a dash for the doorway, but Norton reached her within two strides and caught her about the waist, pulling her brutally backwards. Her hip caught the edge of the table; all the breath was knocked from her and she bit back a gasp of pain. ‘Do nothing foolish, my dear.’ Norton murmured, his breath hot against her ear. ‘There is so little point.

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We had always planned to leave for France today and all is prepared. Your presence merely complicates the matter slightly, but I do not suppose that you shall be with us for long.’ There was a threat beneath the words that was impossible to ignore. Rebecca struggled and was held hard. ‘I do not know what you are talking about—or what you think you are doing!’ There was no need now to pretend to fear. It was clear in her voice. She could hear the sound of the ropes being released and the anchor chain clinking. It would take only a matter of moments to get the boat ready to sail. Norton, as he had said, had had it all prepared. Rebecca’s mind raced as like a trapped rat. She could not get off the boat and Norton knew her identity. There could be no pretence any longer. He laughed now and tightened his grip. ‘Silly chit, thinking you could come here and ruin all for us. A little engraver’s girl with delusions of grandeur.’ He pushed her in front of him up the steps onto the deck. ‘Edgar recognised you straight away. He was a member of the Archangel Club and he commissioned the glass from your uncle and no one ever knew. No one guessed the truth.’ Edgar, Rebecca thought. For a moment her mind was blank, and then she remembered the huddled figure of Sir Edgar Benedict, skin papery yellow, sitting in his Bath chair at the dinner, a sinister figure racked with pain... Sitting in his chair and watching her to see if she really was George Provost’s niece come to expose the truth. They had never even considered him as one of the conspirators. He had fooled them all.

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As Norton dragged her up the companionway, the cold sea air hit Rebecca’s face and helped to clear her head a little. She could see Edgar Benedict now, working the sails, as hale and hearty as the vigorous man he had evidently been all along. Already the yacht was halfway out into the middle of the estuary, but it was not that which concerned Rebecca so much as the shifting banks of mist that she could see curtaining the entrance to the harbour. She stared in horror. ‘Surely you are not intending to take her out in this?’ Norton gave a snort of derision. ‘What would you know of sailing, engraver’s girl? Best stay below if you are going to have a fit of the vapours!’ He pushed her back down the companionway and Rebecca fell in a sprawling heap on the floor below and heard the cabin door slam shut and the key turn in the lock. Lucas had completely failed to find anything he required in the gunsmith’s, which was no surprise since he could not even see what was in front of his eyes. All he could see was Rebecca’s white face as she pleaded her innocence, an innocence he had not been prepared even to consider. Burning with anger, he had gone out into the night and walked around until his head had cleared a little. Then he had lain awake for the entire night whilst he sifted the facts in his mind, weighing and discarding the evidence. All the indications were that Miss Rebecca De Lancey was as guilty as sin, yet all the evidence of his own intuition told him once again that she was true. He was not

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accustomed to acting on intuition and he did not like it. Yet now he was obliged to admit, at last, that where Rebecca was concerned his instinct had never let him down. He had loved her before he even knew it. He loved her still. And now he wanted her back, and no secrets or misunderstandings would ever part them again. ‘Lucas?’ Cory’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘It is clear to me that you are never going to make your choice, so why do we not rejoin the ladies—’ The door of the shop swung open violently and Rachel Newlyn ran inside. Cory broke off and grabbed his wife by the arm, but it was Lucas whom she addressed through panting breaths. ‘Lucas! Hurry! Rebecca is on Breath of Scandal.’ ‘What?’ Lucas focussed abruptly. ‘She has gone with Norton on his yacht? What in the name of thunder was she doing—?’ ‘No time for that,’ Rachel said, gulping air and dragging them both out on to the pavement. ‘They have just this moment set sail. I saw her on deck and then Norton pushed her below. Quickly!’ She did not need to tell him twice. Lucas had already abandoned Rachel in Cory’s arms with more haste than chivalry as he raced towards the harbour. The air tore in his lungs, clammy and thick. Norton had taken his yacht out in this? It seemed suicidal. He reached the edge of the jetty to see the yacht in the middle of the channel, already drifting into the sea mist. Beside him on the quay Benbow, the wildfowler, calmly sorted through his nets, humming beneath his

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breath as though he had not a care in the world. Lucas turned to him. ‘Benbow, Sir John Norton’s yacht...’ ‘Aye, m’lord?’ The man’s eyes were an incurious pale blue. ‘Has he been preparing it for long?’ ‘Aye, m’lord. Said they were to sail today.’ ‘They?’ ‘Him and the Benedicts. Took the girl as well, of course,’ Benbow added, shaking his head. ‘Poor little missy.’ ‘You mean he kidnapped her?’ Lucas’s stomach churned. A small, doubting part of his mind had wondered whether Rebecca had gone of her own free will. Now he doubted no longer. ‘Aye,’ Benbow said, shaking his head. ‘Kidnap, right enough. Saw her struggling with him in the cabin.’ Lucas resisted the urge to shake him into urgency. ‘We must go after them.’ ‘Aye, m’lord.’ Benbow sounded unmoved. He gazed across the misty harbour. ‘Powerful bad day to take a boat out.’ ‘That can’t be helped,’ Lucas snapped. He was already starting to untie the wildfowling punt. ‘Come on, man! I need your help.’ ‘Never catch them up,’ Benbow opined gloomily. ‘Not in a punt.’ Lucas stared in frustration. ‘There is no wind. They are practically becalmed! We will catch them.’ ‘Aye, m’lord.’ The fisherman scratched his head. ‘No harm in trying, I suppose.’

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Lucas was already reaching for the punt pole when the first rustle of breeze across the water caught the sails of Breath of Scandal and the yacht turned and headed towards the harbour mouth. ‘Quickly, man,’ he urged Benbow, who was reaching ponderously for the other punt pole. ‘Damn it, we need oars.’ ‘Need more than that,’ Benbow muttered under his breath, but he took the second pole with a will and started to steer them out in the direction the yacht had gone whilst Lucas found himself praying hard and fervently for the sort of miracle he was desperately afraid could never occur. The yacht was making good headway, picking up the ripples of breeze that were guiding it gently but surely out of harbour. Rebecca could hear the footsteps of her captors on deck overhead. She knew that she had to work quickly for it could only be a matter of minutes before they came below to check on her. To check on her or to dispose of her. Her hands shook as she rummaged in her reticule. Where was it...? She always carried it with her... Her hand closed reassuringly around her diamond engraving scribe and she scrambled across to the porthole. There were three screws that held it closed and each was twisted tight, but with a few deft turns of the scribe she was able to loosen then sufficiently to push out the little pane of glass. She knew she was a good swimmer and that with the mist she might just be able to get away from them, but the mist was also her enemy as well as her ally for she would not necessarily be able to tell the

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harbour from the open sea. Crushing down her fears, she put out a hand and was about to push the porthole open when the boat juddered to a sickening halt. There was a scrape along the keel like claws on wood. Rebecca froze. The boat lurched and stuck again with a grating roar this time. Overhead the footsteps and voices became frenzied and urgent as the little yacht started to cant at a crazy angle. Rebecca’s porthole rose high out of the water whilst on the other side she could see the boat settling lower on its side and the glassy grey of the sea lapping at the window. Her breath caught in her throat. There was no time to waste. With one sharp move she punched the porthole open and dragged herself through the gap. The mist pressed all around her like a shroud and the sea was pale and almost unnaturally calm. The fear pawed at her, but she took a deep breath and jumped, and in the same moment there was a shout from the decks and a scream and then the entire boat tipped over in one swift and frightful movement so that its painted hull pointed to the sky like a tomb. Rebecca cast one hasty glance over her shoulder, then struck out strongly away from the terrible wreck that was even now settling down on its grave of shingle. And then the mist was ripped aside in the strengthening breeze and she looked up in astonishment and saw the ship coming for her. Lucas had never been so afraid in his entire life. As Breath of Scandal disappeared into the mist it felt as though it was taking every last vestige of his hope with it. They were out in the harbour mouth now and the

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wind was fresher here and the mist hung like ragged curtains. Every so often a gust would blow the fret briefly aside, giving a tantalising glimpse of Breath of Scandal fleeing before them. The punt was quick, but the yacht was picking up speed now as the wind started to fill her sails. Benbow leaned on the pole and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The mist pressed in around them, smothering all sound. ‘It’s no good, my lord,’ the wildfowler said. ‘We won’t catch up and the water’s getting too deep. We’re near the mouth of the river and it’s powerful dangerous out here now—’ He broke off as there was a grating rumble a way to their right, like the roll of distant thunder out to sea. Benbow’s eyes darted nervously and he wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Lucas gripped the side of the boat, his knuckles turning white. ‘What was that?’ He could hear the tension in his own voice, an echo for the fear he saw in Benbow’s eyes. ‘Shingle, my lord.’ The wildfowler would not meet his gaze. ‘Shingle banks at the mouth of the river. Happen yon yacht must have run aground.’ The pictures flashed through Lucas’s mind like a nightmare. Shingle was dangerous, far more dangerous than a sand bank, for it was unstable and could shift at any moment. The place where the river met the sea had always been treacherous. One winter the entire shingle bank had shifted from one side of the river to the other in a storm, lying submerged barely beneath the surface like an iceberg, waiting to trap the unwary sailor.

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Lucas could hear splashing through the mist, unintelligible shouts and something that sounded ominously like a scream broken off. The wind stirred again and the mist twitched aside for a brief second, showing Breath of Scandal lying only some hundred yards distant, canted crazily on its port bow at the mouth of the estuary, the waves already breaking on its hull. ‘Damn it, Benbow!’ Lucas exploded. ‘If we don’t get the punt over there, I shall swim.’ He was already ripping his jacket off as he spoke. The mist swirled back and unsighted him, and immediately Lucas felt hopelessly disorientated. The anger and the frustration and the fear rushed through him in a tidal wave, but there was no time. Even as he stood poised to dive off the punt there was another growling roar, far louder than the first, that seemed to fill his ears and bounce deafeningly off the wall of mist that pressed around them. The sea swelled and boiled about them, rocking the punt so that Lucas was tipped off balance and fell over the side into the water. He went down, choking, and the cold, salty shock of the sea filled his lungs and wrapped him in its murderous embrace. It felt like hours before he surfaced and Benbow grabbed his arm and dragged him, coughing and spluttering, into the bottom of the punt. The wind gathered strength, ripping aside the shreds of the mist once and for all, and the pale sun fell as the full horror of Breath of Scandal’s plight was revealed to them. Through streaming eyes Lucas saw the yacht’s sails fill with the breeze and then the boat flipped over as easily as though it had been a toy.

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There was the crash of falling timbers and it lay, stern upturned, capsized in a second, too quick for Lucas even to understand what he had seen. Benbow gave a gusty sigh. ‘Seen it happen before to a lugger out of Harwich,’ he said. ‘Too quick.’ He shook his head. ‘What with the shingle shifting and the breeze filling the sails, they stood no chance.’ ‘Rebecca,’ Lucas said. His lips felt stiff and his throat was sore with salt water, but it was nothing to the pain in his chest that seemed to expand and break until he felt his lungs would burst. He wanted to shout but could not get the air in. ‘Rebecca...’ Benbow was still shaking his head, one brawny hand on Lucas’s shoulder. ‘I’m rightly sorry, my lord... There was nothing we could have done.’ He gave another sigh. ‘Tragic. Nasty as they come, these accidents—’ His tone changed and Lucas felt his hand stiffen and fall away. ‘Holy saints alive,’ the wildfowler whispered. Lucas looked up, pushing the streaming hair out of his eyes. ‘Great God and all his saints preserve us,’ Benbow said, with true reverence. ‘I never thought to see the day...’ The grey water was still breaking over the capsized hull of the yacht, but beyond it the mist was receding out to sea like a drawn curtain. It shimmered in the pale sun, floating like a cloud. It was going to be a beautiful day. For a moment Lucas stared, uncertain what it was that Benbow had seen, and then his own gaze caught the movement. Beyond the ruined yacht

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a small figure bobbed in the gentle swell of the waves. She was swimming strongly, but she was swimming away from the wreck towards... Lucas’s lips formed a soundless whistle. He looked up sharply at Benbow and saw the old sailor’s eyes alight with an almost religious fervour. Out of the mist slipped the ghost ship, so slow, so gentle it seemed to move soundlessly over the water. First the prow, the snarling dragon figurehead insolent in crimson and gold. Then the clean, clear-cut lines, the two raking masts, the white topsails catching the breeze and the sun striking on the black lettering of the name...The Defiance. A rope snaked down from the side of the ship and Lucas saw Rebecca reach up, catch it, and swing like a monkey up into the arms of the man who stood on the deck, the water running from her streaming skirts. The privateer ship turned gently into the receding mist and the sun caught its edge in a gleam of gold, and then it was gone as stealthily as it had come. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Benbow said, leaning on the punt pole. He looked extremely shaken. ‘My lord...’ Lucas was silenced. He was not sure whether he wanted to laugh or perhaps to cry for the first time in his entire life. For Rebecca was surely safe, but he had no notion whether he would ever see her again. Rebecca, with her determination and her tenacity. He might have known that she would not do anything as lame as give in to kidnap and drowning. He wrung the water from his shirt and stared in the direction that the ship had gone. Rebecca had not wanted to come to Midwinter and he had obliged her

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to do it and now she had escaped him, and taken all his hopes with her. He wished that they had had more time to put matters to rights between them. He wished that he had told her he loved her. His clothes were starting to dry as the sun strengthened and turned the salt sticky on his back. He could see a yacht coming out of harbour now and tacking towards them on the freshening breeze—the Ariel, with Cory Newlyn in the prow. He turned away from the open sea and set his face towards the shore. The punt rocked gently on the swell. ‘Reckon we won’t see the likes of that again,’ Benbow said. ‘Reckon we won’t,’ Lucas agreed, but he was not thinking of the ship. ‘What do we do now, m’lord?’ The wildfowler asked. Lucas smiled ruefully. ‘We go home, Benbow. What other choice do we have?’

Chapter Twelve

‘Thank God I taught you to swim, Beck.’ Rebecca opened her eyes. The light was pale golden and was flooding in through a porthole in the stern, making water patterns on the pale panelled walls. For a moment she thought that she was asleep and dreaming, and then she remembered. She sat up with a groan. When Daniel had scooped her up onto the deck of The Defiance she had felt well and strong and exultant to be alive. She had hugged him tightly, asked a barrage of questions and laughed in delight as his grinning crew pressed around to shake her hand. It was mortifying that her strength had then withered swiftly and she had fainted—actually fainted—for the first time in her life. Daniel sat down on the end of the bed and placed a tray in front of her. He looked just as she remembered him: the strong, tanned face, dark, curly hair and slashing white smile that warmed his eyes and lessened slightly but not entirely the dangerous image that he cut. ‘You have slept for hours, Beck,’ he said, appraising

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her thoroughly. ‘It is good to see there is colour in your face again. Would you like some soup?’ Rebecca’s stomach gave a long rumble. Daniel laughed and pushed the wooden tray towards her. There were rolls and delicious-smelling vegetable broth. Rebecca took a few spoonfuls and gave an approving nod. ‘You do not stint yourself, Daniel.’ ‘Did you think I lived in squalor, with cutlasses hanging from the ceiling?’ her brother asked plaintively. ‘I assure you we are far more civilised than that.’ ‘I suppose so.’ Rebecca looked around the wellappointed cabin. There was a desk of cherrywood and two matching chairs and paintings of seascapes on the white walls. And on a low shelf the afternoon sun sparkled on a slender vase of engraved glass with the picture of an anchor and the motto Celer et Audax. It was a match for the one in her studio. Suddenly his words penetrated Rebecca’s wandering thoughts and she put the spoon down with a clatter. ‘You say that I have slept for hours? Then they will think me dead—’ ‘I sent a message telling them that you were safe,’ Daniel said calmly, holding on to the tilting tray. ‘Besides, Lucas Kestrel saw you come aboard the ship. He knows you are here.’ ‘Lucas?’ Rebecca’s heart jumped. ‘How could he know? Did he come after me?’ ‘He did,’ Daniel said. ‘In a fowling boat. Madness

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under such dangerous conditions, but most impressive.’ Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat. There was a fierce ache inside her. Lucas had come after her, no matter the odds, no matter the danger. Evidently he had cared enough to try to save her. And now, no doubt, he would think her guilt proven beyond doubt when she had clambered aboard The Defiance. She sighed sharply, turning her face away. ‘Damn it, why do matters never turn out right?’ Daniel got up and strolled across to the porthole. ‘They may yet do so,’ he pointed out reasonably. Rebecca applied herself to the rest of the soup with gusto. ‘I must go back,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘I cannot leave them all wondering what has become of me.’ Her brother turned to look at her. ‘I thought you would say that.’ There was something odd in his tone. ‘We need to talk first, Beck.’ Rebecca nodded and looked around. ‘My clothes...?’ ‘Ruined.’ Daniel went across to the chest beneath the window. ‘There may be something here that will fit you.’ Rebecca gave him a look. ‘I shall not ask where they have come from.’ ‘Best not.’ Daniel flashed her a grin. ‘I will see you on deck shortly.’ He left Rebecca to rummage through the chest and come out with a curious selection of clothes that made her feel like a refugee from a Drury Lane theatre. There was a full green skirt with voluminous petti-

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coats, a tight black jacket and a huge lace shawl. Grimacing, Rebecca scrambled into the outfit, cast one quick glance at the mirror on the bulkhead, pulled a face and went out. The fresh air hit her as she went up the companionway and out on to the deck. The Defiance was not a small ship as schooners went, but it was exceptionally trim. The paintwork was fresh and the decks scrubbed like a warship. Daniel was in the bow, chatting to one of his crew. He turned when the man touched his arm and nodded towards Rebecca, and gave her another flashing grin, coming down the steps to meet her and draw her into the shelter of the wheelhouse. The sun was starting to set now, laying a trail of gold across the pale sea. From somewhere about the ship came the smell of roasting chicken. ‘You look better than I had expected,’ Daniel said, holding her at arm’s length and nodding approvingly. ‘It is good to know that Molly’s clothes, if not Molly herself, have come in useful in the end.’ ‘What happened to Molly?’ Rebecca asked lightly. Her brother shrugged. ‘She left me. She said that she had thought life on ship would be exciting but it was no more than one bout of seasickness after another. She asked to be put ashore in Ireland. I hear that she runs a waterside tavern there now.’ ‘I see,’ Rebecca said, fascinated by this insight into her brother’s personal life. ‘Well, I am grateful for the loan of her wardrobe.’ ‘We are prevaricating,’ Daniel said, with a slight smile. ‘So, where do we start?’ Rebecca asked.

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Daniel laughed. ‘At the beginning?’ They talked as the sun went down in a trail of red and gold and the coastline of Suffolk shifted in the haze on the horizon. They spoke of old times and home and family, of Rebecca’s life in London, the engraving studio and her work. At some point the lantern in the wheelhouse was lit and someone came to bring them ale and fried chicken, but no one interrupted their conversation. Rebecca told Daniel, as she had told no one before, of her fears of not being able to work again, and the loneliness that had stalked her through the long months following the deaths of their aunt and uncle. Daniel nodded, his face grave and still in the falling twilight. ‘So how comes it that you are here in Suffolk?’ he asked, ‘and guest of the Duke of Kestrel, no less?’ Rebecca hesitated, but she knew that there could be no further concealment. She told him of Lucas coming to Clerkenwell to look for the Midwinter engraver and how he had persuaded her to accompany him back to Midwinter so that she could help unmask the spy once and for all. ‘Did you know that I was here?’ she asked. Daniel smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I hear—and see—many things, Beck. Everyone was talking of the Duke of Kestrel’s supposed cousin, Miss Rebecca Raleigh, and the fact that Lord Lucas Kestrel was mad in love with her.’ Rebecca blushed. ‘That was merely part of the plan to hide my true reason for being here.’ ‘Was it?’ Daniel’s dark blue gaze was searching.

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He tossed aside a chicken wing and reached for another. ‘Perhaps we may return to that, Beck.’ Rebecca was not certain she wanted to talk about Lucas. She wrapped the voluminous shawl more closely about her for the evening breeze was strengthening. ‘How did you know that I was on Norton’s yacht?’ she asked, trying to turn the subject. Daniel laughed. ‘I did not. I did not come to rescue you, Beck, much as I would like to take credit. I knew that Norton intended to take Breath of Scandal out today and I was waiting for him.’ Rebecca stared. ‘You knew... Did you know he was the spy?’ ‘I knew that he and Lily Benedict between them had been involved in a conspiracy. I even heard rumours of a third who was their ally, but I never knew his name.’ ‘Sir Edgar Benedict,’ Rebecca said. ‘We were all misled by the tale of the housebound invalid.’ Daniel whistled. ‘Cunning. A man who could come and go as he pleased behind the cover of his illness.’ ‘Then you were not...’ Rebecca hesitated ‘...you were not their contact?’ ‘Certainly not.’ Daniel sounded amused, to her relief. ‘I may be a smuggler, Beck, but I am no traitor. Norton worked with a French privateer. I almost caught the Frenchman once,’ Daniel added wistfully. ‘That would have put an end to their games much sooner, but unfortunately his Majesty’s Navy intervened and I had to run for my life. And then they merely took the privateer’s cargo and allowed him to escape, the incompetent idiots.’

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‘It seems a shame,’ Rebecca said softly, ‘that you are outside the law when you do so much that is good...’ Daniel gave her a sharp look. ‘What do you mean by that?’ Rebecca shifted a little. ‘Why, merely that there are stories about you too, Daniel. Many and many a story, of how you harry the French and save those who wish to escape Bonaparte’s tyranny.’ Daniel drained his tankard. ‘Steady, Rebecca.’ His tone was dry. ‘Next you will be telling me that I take from the rich to give to the poor.’ ‘Don’t you?’ ‘Not at all.’ Daniel’s smile was twisted. ‘I discovered early on that I have an aptitude for this way of life and I make a good living from it. If in the course of my work I discover certain information that might be useful to the British government I might pass it on to them by my own means. If I can help anyone fleeing Bonaparte, then I shall try to do so. It is as simple as that.’ Rebecca let it go. She knew that her brother had his own code of honour and one of his principles was that he would never tell her more than she needed to know, in the same way that she would never contact him and draw him into danger. It was an unspoken agreement between them and she would not contravene it now. ‘Which brings us rather neatly back to you, Beck,’ Daniel added. ‘Tell me about Lord Lucas Kestrel.’ ‘You mean the pretence of a love affair?’ Rebecca said. ‘No, I mean the genuine article.’ Daniel got to his

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feet and took a few paces away, leaning on the deck rail. ‘When Tovey brought you the money that night in London he saw more than he expected,’ he said, over his shoulder. His voice was moody. ‘Lucas Kestrel stayed with you all night, Beck, yet you say there is nothing between you. I hope you are lying.’ Rebecca stared at him. So this was what Daniel had meant when he said that they had to talk. She felt a shot of anger. ‘You choose a fine time to play the protective elder brother, Daniel! What is it to you?’ Daniel turned back for the rail, repressed violence in the lines of his body. ‘What do you think it is to me? I am only too aware that I have failed utterly in my responsibility to protect you, Rebecca. Oh, whilst Uncle Provost was alive I could square my conscience and think that you were safe. A letter here, a little money there—’ He broke off and turned away. ‘It was never enough, I knew that, but it had to do. And then you were left all alone and I did not even hear of it for months, and then Tovey came and said there was some nobleman prowling around and that you had become his mistress! It was what I had always feared for you.’ Rebecca got up and came across the rail. She put a hand on his arm. The wind was cold, carrying spindrift in its wake. ‘It was never like that with Lucas,’ she said, knowing she had to tell the truth to sooth her brother’s conscience. ‘I love him.’ Daniel did not seem soothed. She could feel the tension in his body. His face was set. ‘That is even worse, if he is only playing games with you.’ ‘He is not. He wished to marry me.’

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There was a moment of silence and then Daniel gave a short laugh. ‘Now I’ll admit you have surprised me. So he wished to marry you before, but he no longer does? What happened?’ ‘He found out about you,’ Rebecca said. ‘I see.’ Daniel was silent for a moment. ‘You had not told him.’ ‘No.’ ‘Because you were protecting me.’ ‘Yes. It is a habit of mine.’ Daniel gave an angry sigh. ‘And now he does not want to marry an outlaw’s sister?’ ‘It is not that.’ Rebecca hesitated. ‘Lucas and I have both kept many secrets from the other. We did what we thought was best, but in the end we hurt each other too much. There is no going back.’ Daniel leant his chin on his hand. ‘Could you not resolve these matters once and for all?’ ‘I do not know,’ Rebecca said honestly. ‘There are many reasons why I should not marry Lucas Kestrel.’ ‘You say you love him,’ Daniel pointed out, ‘so give me one good reason.’ Rebecca made a slight gesture. ‘My whole life has been wrapped up in my engraving, Daniel. I do not wish to give it up and I certainly could not continue to work were I to become Lady Rebecca Kestrel.’ Daniel shifted slightly. ‘You told me that your work would decline anyway, because of this damage to your wrist,’ he pointed out. ‘That is something you are going to have to come to terms with, Beck, sooner or later. You are fortunate in that you now have another alternative in life.’

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‘I do not wish to think of Lucas as an alternative to starvation!’ Rebecca protested. ‘Then think of him as a man who loves you.’ ‘That is precisely the point!’ Rebecca leant on the rail and took a deep breath of sea-scented night air. ‘Lucas does not love me. He wishes to marry because he wants me and because he and I...we—’ Rebecca broke off. ‘We’ll take that as read,’ Daniel said, a smile lightening the grimness of his tone. ‘It sounds as though he has at least acted as a gentleman should.’ ‘Oh, do not be so stuffy!’ Rebecca said spiritedly. ‘I refuse to marry because of Lucas’s misplaced chivalry and sense of honour.’ ‘Then you are a fool,’ Daniel said bluntly. ‘You are in love with the man. You said so yourself. He wishes to marry you. He may to all intents and purposes be desperately in love with you, Beck, and simply not very adept at showing it.’ Daniel shrugged selfdeprecatingly. ‘Not all men are adroit with such feelings. Certainly—’ a hint of dryness entered his tone ‘—Lucas Kestrel has been doing a good enough job of playing a man deeply in love, if all I hear is true.’ Rebecca was silent. With all her heart she wanted to believe Daniel’s words. She wanted to think that it would not be a compromise match, born out of gallantry and need. That was a great deal, but it was not enough for her. She loved Lucas and she wanted him to love her too. Abandoning her engraving was a different matter and one that she would have to learn to accept. She realised that now. Her whole world was

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changing, but she should not hide behind her loss and use it as an excuse to refuse Lucas. ‘I cannot imagine myself as a lady,’ she said, a little forlornly. ‘Why not?’ Daniel was bracing. ‘You were born one.’ ‘I am accustomed to working for my living.’ ‘So?’ Daniel sounded severe. ‘You need not become idle just because you marry a rich man, Rebecca. Your life is there for the taking. You can do what you wish with it. I never thought to see you refuse a challenge because you were afraid.’ Rebecca stared out across the darkened sea. Daniel’s words were hard, but she knew they were true. She had been reluctant to give up the past, to trust Lucas and to go into a different future. But now her heart felt lighter and she went across and flung her arms about Daniel and held him close, wordlessly. He rested his cheek against her hair and said, ‘Does that mean I can stop worrying about you again?’ ‘I suppose so.’ Rebecca freed herself from his grip and stood at arm’s length. ‘I must go back now.’ ‘Thank the lord for that,’ her brother said. ‘We have been hovering offshore these two hours past. It is damnably dangerous.’ Despite that, it was Daniel himself who came with her in the long boat to Kestrel Cove and escorted her up the sandy path through the woods, leaving her only when she was on the threshold of Kestrel Court. Rebecca gave him another brief, fierce hug but they did not speak, and, though she turned to watch as his tall figure was swallowed up by the trees, he did not look

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back. She turned away then. The lights of Kestrel Court glowed bright through the autumn night and she gathered up the green skirts in one hand and strode forward boldly, belying the nervousness in her stomach. It was time to meet her future and make of it what she could. ‘A shocking accident.’ Owen Chance, the Riding Officer, had been closeted with the Duke and Lord Lucas Kestrel for over an hour, and Lucas was heartily wishing him gone. He had nothing against Mr Chance personally, for the fellow was a good man for a government employee and close as the grave. He and Justin had agreed that they had to take Chance into their confidence in order to hush up the matter of the Midwinter spies and the further complication of Rebecca’s disappearance. Chance was the only one outside the family who knew she had been taken by The Defiance. Benbow was more discreet than a clam and everyone else had been told that Rebecca had been rescued by a fishing boat and was currently resting after her ordeal. The Midwinter tabbies were in a flutter about it, of course, but it was nowhere near as bad as the huge scandal that would ensue if the tale got out that Miss Rebecca Raleigh, erstwhile cousin to the Duke of Kestrel, had been taken aboard a pirate ship and one, moreover, which was the property of her brother, Daniel De Lancey... It was that that preoccupied Lucas now. He seemed to notice every tick of the clock, and the agonising slowness with which the hands moved around towards midnight. Despite the message that De Lancey had

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sent, Lucas had been desperately uncertain that Rebecca would come back at all, and with every hour his doubts had solidified into an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. He wanted her back. He needed her. Damn it, he loved her and he would tell her as soon as she stepped through the door. If she stepped through the door ever again... ‘I agree,’ Owen Chance was continuing, ‘that it is best to present the matter in the light of a disaster. Sir John Norton and Lady Benedict, wishing to give the invalid Sir Edgar a healthful sea outing, arranged the trip on the yacht, only to fall foul of a most terrible accident.’ Justin nodded. ‘Quite so. That is the story that we have put about in the town.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps Norton should have realised that the sea mist made it an unsuitable day for a sail, but...’ ‘But it is too late now,’ Owen Chance concluded. He smiled a little grimly as he finished his brandy. ‘A most satisfactory conclusion, your Grace, sparing us all the unavoidable scandal of a treason trial.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way.’ He shook Justin’s hand, then Lucas’s. ‘They are searching for The Defiance,’ he said, and Lucas swallowed his irritation because he understood Chance’s sincerity. ‘HMS Plockton is out of Harwich—’ ‘I feel certain that Miss Raleigh will be very well and will be returned to us soon,’ Justin said, a shade too heartily. He drew Owen Chance towards the door. ‘This way, old fellow. I cannot emphasise how much we appreciate your help in this matter...’

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Their voices faded away down the hall and Lucas got up, unable to keep still any longer. He strode over to the window and peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing at all. He thought that he had heard a sound. It was his imagination, of course. Or wishful thinking. He dropped down into an armchair by the fire and ran a hand through his disordered tawny hair. He had never experienced such a mixture of hope and fear. If this was love then he was not certain that he had not been better off before. Except that it was far too late now. There was the softest click as the latch of the long window lifted. Lucas looked up. Even though it was the one thing that he had wanted to happen all day, he found he could not actually move, or even speak. He simply stared. Rebecca was standing just inside the long windows. It was Rebecca, although she was wearing a full green skirt that looked as though it had come from a dressing-up box. Her hair was loose down her back and shadowed her face with a nimbus of dark curls. He could see the doubt and hesitation in her eyes as she looked at him. It exactly mirrored everything that he felt inside. Then she smiled tentatively and held out a hand. ‘Lucas?’ Lucas was across the room so quickly that he barely had time to think. His arms went about her and he held her close. ‘I was afraid you would not come back.’ He scarcely recognised his own voice. He felt her tremble on the edge of laughter and

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tears. ‘I was afraid that you would think it proved my guilt. I am sorry I never told you...’ Lucas pressed a kiss on her hair and tightened his grip about her. Then he remembered that he had something to tell her. It was easy in the end. ‘I love you with all my heart,’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’ She tilted her chin up so that she could meet his eyes. Her own were brilliant with tears of happiness. ‘I will,’ she said, a second before he kissed her. Neither of them was aware of how long it was before the door opened and the Duke of Kestrel entered. They broke apart, tousled and incandescent with happiness. ‘Ah,’ Justin said, sounding as unruffled as though he had stepped into the Prince of Wales’s drawing room, ‘I am glad to see you returned, Rebecca. We were becoming quite concerned for you. I kept Chance talking a while for I did not wish him to meet your brother on the way out.’ He looked from one to the other and started to smile. ‘I take it that the wedding will be going forward after all? I am very glad. But you will be wishing me gone, I dare say. I shall bid you good night.’ ‘Such discretion,’ Lucas said, as the door closed behind his brother. He sat down in the armchair and pulled Rebecca onto his lap. She snuggled close, pressing her cheek to his. ‘Would you like me to tell you what happened, Lucas?’ she asked, muffled. ‘Just for once,’ Lucas said, ‘I would not.’ There was a huge warmth and happiness in his heart and it needed no words. He put a hand beneath her chin and

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turned her face up to his. ‘For now,’ he said, ‘there are better ways to pass the time.’ ‘It was Edgar Benedict whom we overlooked all along,’ Justin said heavily the following evening, as they all sat around the fire in the study. ‘We were told that he was a bedridden invalid and we accepted it without challenge.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘I could kick myself for falling for that trick. It might have been Lily Benedict who was the French spy reported first in Dorset last year, but it was Edgar who had the freedom to come and go as he pleased whilst we were all assuming him helpless and of no account.’ ‘So now it all falls into place,’ Cory Newlyn said thoughtfully. ‘Edgar Benedict killed Jeffrey Maskelyne right at the start, and then Lily took a pot shot at me later, when they realised that I was trying to discover any information Maskelyne might have left behind.’ ‘She was not the only one,’ Rachel Newlyn said drily. ‘I almost killed you myself, Cory, when I found you wandering around the stables in the middle of the night in that suspicious manner!’ Cory laughed. ‘A good job you did not, my love! I feel sure you would have been deeply upset to have been the unwitting cause of my demise!’ ‘Desolated,’ Rachel agreed, a small smile playing about her lips. ‘And then Papa almost shot both of us with his blunderbuss! It is a miracle we are all here to tell the tale at all.’ ‘I imagine that it was Lily Benedict who accidentally picked up the wrong book at the reading group,’

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Justin continued, ‘leaving Deb with the book that contained the code—’ ‘And leaving her also to fall foul of Richard’s suspicions,’ Lucas said. He drew Rebecca closer to his side. ‘I am not certain where we should all be had it not been for this business.’ ‘Wifeless,’ Cory said drily. ‘A situation not to be tolerated.’ Lucas smiled at Rebecca. ‘I never thought to find myself saying this,’ he said softly, ‘but I completely agree, Cory.’ ‘If you could keep your mind on business a little longer,’ Justin complained. ‘There are a number of matters that still require clarification.’ ‘Such as?’ Lucas was finding it difficult to drag his attention from Rebecca. ‘Such as why one set of engraved glasses turned up at the Woodbridge auction house when they should have been in Norton’s possession.’ ‘I think I can help you there,’ Rebecca said, a little shyly, remembering what Daniel had told her. She caught Lucas’s look of surprise and gave him a smile. ‘I believe there were two sets of engraved glasses, one held by the Benedicts and John Norton, and the other by their French spymasters. When they needed to change the code, they both required a new set of engraved glass. My uncle’s records bear this out.’ Lucas nodded. ‘And they lost one set?’ ‘I understand,’ Rebecca said, careful not to mention Daniel’s name, ‘that Sir John had passed one set to his French accomplice, but that the French ship was stopped by HMS Plockton, who took the contraband

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cargo, including the glasses. The cargo was sold off at the Customs House and Sir John was put to the trouble of buying back his own set of glasses.’ ‘Or trying to,’ Lucas said. He laughed. ‘Then Ross Marney accidentally outbid him and the spies were put to even greater trouble to try to steal the glasses back!’ ‘It is some consolation to know that we caused them some difficulties,’ Cory said, ‘for it seemed that they ran rings around us for months.’ ‘I suppose that it was Edgar Benedict who tied Richard and Deb to the easel at the unveiling of Lady Sally’s watercolour calendar,’ Lucas said, chuckling. He squeezed Rebecca’s hand. ‘You missed a rare sight there, my love. I doubt there has ever been such a sensation in Midwinter!’ Justin was looking speculatively at Rebecca. ‘Your brother is an excellent gatherer of intelligence,’ he remarked. ‘Do you think he might be interested in working for the government?’ Rebecca laughed. ‘I believe he already does, your Grace, but only on his own terms.’ Justin nodded thoughtfully. ‘And so we come to the final mystery that puzzled me, which was why the spies chose George Provost to be their unwitting accomplice.’ Rebecca shivered and Lucas drew her protectively closer. ‘In the end it was quite simple,’ Justin continued. ‘Edgar Benedict was a member of the Archangel Club and a friend of Alexander Fremantle. Fremantle had already commissioned some work from George Provost and when Edgar Benedict saw it...’ he shrugged

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‘...he thought Provost ideal to provide the spies with their pictorial code.’ ‘So simple,’ Rebecca agreed. She looked at Lucas. ‘And so dangerous in making you suspect me.’ Lucas smiled and leaned closer, oblivious of their audience. ‘Do you forgive me?’ he asked softly. ‘Well...’ Rebecca said. She raised a hand to his cheek. ‘I suppose so...’ Their lips touched and in the same moment the door to the study burst open. ‘Good evening, everyone! We are back!’ Lord Richard Kestrel steered his wife Deborah into the room with a proprietorial arm about her waist. ‘Have we missed anything of note?’ His gaze fell upon Lucas, who was by now kissing Rebecca with considerable fervour. He stopped dead. ‘Good God, Lucas,’ he said, ‘we were only away for six weeks!’

Chapter Thirteen

T

he engraving studio looked very much as Rebecca had left it. Whoever Lucas had set to keep an eye on the place had done the job well. The glass on the display shelves was a little dusty and the floor needed to be swept, but the place felt the same. It smelled the same, of cold mustiness and quiet. Rebecca shivered as it seeped into her bones. She had told Lucas the truth about having to give up her engraving because she had not wanted there to be any more secrets between them. She had been afraid that he would think she had agreed to marry him as a second choice, and he had received the news without comment, which had made her a little nervous. It was going to take time to learn how to read Lucas, but then she had all the time in the world. For now, though, she had a personal farewell to take. Discarding her cloak, Rebecca sat down at once at her engraving table, then hesitated. In the drawer were the tools of her trade—the drills, the scribes, the cutters... She was afraid to touch them, knowing that this was goodbye. Very slowly, she picked up the wine

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glass with the half-finished engraving of the kestrel, reached for her diamond scribe, and began. When there was a knock on the workshop door, she was not sure how much time had passed, engrossed as she had been in her work. She imagined that Lucas had come to collect her, for he had said that he would give her some time and now that time was up. She was ready for him. She flung open the door and was taken aback to see a complete stranger on the step. Rebecca blinked and looked again. ‘Miss Raleigh?’ The stranger was muscular and had piercing blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair with matching Viking beard. ‘How do you do? My name is Marcus Woolf.’ Rebecca closed her mouth, which she realised had been hanging open for at least ten seconds. ‘My goodness! That is...Mr Woolf! It is such a privilege to meet so famous an engraver.’ Marcus Woolf smiled. He was immaculately dressed in beige buckskins and a dark green jacket and he did not seem at all surprised by her stupefaction. ‘I am very pleased to meet you too, Miss Raleigh, and to see your studio.’ He swung round towards the display stands. ‘May I?’ ‘Please...I should be honoured...’ Rebecca followed him over to the engraved panes that she had hung from the ceiling and watched in a daze as he examined them, nodding his head slowly. ‘Great artistry, Miss Raleigh, and an excellent technique. I am impressed.’ The piercing blue eyes came

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back to rest on Rebecca’s face. ‘As soon as I saw the vase with the ship on it, I felt I had to come to meet you. Lord Lucas Kestrel mentioned that you were an exceedingly talented engraver.’ Rebecca felt somewhat at sea. She had not even noticed that the vase had disappeared from the studio window, but now that she looked she could see the pale space where it had stood until recently, and the dusty shape of the base on the sill. Someone had removed the vase, and recently. But why? And why had Lucas spoken of her to Marcus Woolf? They had only been back in town a matter of days. He must have acted as soon as they had returned. She frowned slightly. ‘Forgive me, Mr Woolf, but I do not perfectly comprehend how you came to see my work, nor why Lord Lucas should have mentioned me to you. Perhaps he also told you—’ she felt a lump wedge itself in her throat ‘—that I am no longer intending to work as an engraver? I cannot.’ Rebecca felt a hopeless urge to cry. Marcus Woolf did not move. ‘That is a great shame, Miss Raleigh.’ His voice sounded clipped, impersonal. ‘But you said that you cannot do any more engraving. Why is that?’ Rebecca knew now that she was definitely going to cry. Her throat was made of sandpaper. Even she could hear how her voice was shaking, and despised herself for the weakness. ‘I have damaged my wrist, Mr Woolf, so I cannot use the drills any more. It is only a matter of time before I have to stop completely.’ She realised that she was crying. Great fat tears

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were bouncing off her cheeks on to the stone floor where they shone like miniature puddles in the candles’ glare. She felt a complete fool, but she could not stop. She did not really want to stop. It was just inconvenient that Marcus Woolf happened to be there. His presence made the end of her own career seem all the more poignant. ‘Excuse me.’ She groped for her handkerchief. Unfortunately it was not up her sleeve. She gave a huge, self-pitying sniff. ‘Allow me.’ Marcus Woolf’s handkerchief was made of silk and smelled of expensive cologne. Rebecca rubbed her eyes vigorously and blew her nose for good measure, appalled when her eyes filled with tears again, as though to make up the loss. ‘Oh!’ It was a mixture of exasperation and self-pity. She saw Marcus Woolf smile. ‘Pray continue, Miss Raleigh. Do not feel ashamed. If I lost my ability to engrave, I would cry for a week without stopping.’ His jacket smelled of the same cologne as the handkerchief and it was a crime to cry all over it. On the other hand, his shoulder was surprisingly broad and comforting and after a moment Rebecca could have sworn that he was patting her on the head. She was just remembering his somewhat dubious reputation with women, when he said, over her shoulder, ‘Lord Lucas, I think we should get Miss Raleigh something restorative to drink. She is suffering from shock.’ Rebecca raised her head from Marcus Woolf’s shoulder and met Lucas’s gaze. He was standing in the doorway, watching the scene with considerable in-

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terest. She felt puzzled and ruffled. She smoothed down her dress and made hopeless attempts to tidy her hair. ‘Come along, Miss Raleigh.’ Marcus Woolf had an arm about her now and was drawing her towards the chaise-longue. Lucas had disappeared into the scullery and she could hear the clink of the kettle on the hob. Rebecca sat down and closed her eyes briefly. None of this made the slightest sense and if someone did not enlighten her soon she was sure she might explode with frustration. ‘Excuse me,’ she said politely to Marcus Woolf, ‘but I should appreciate an explanation, Mr Woolf.’ Marcus Woolf’s blue eyes were very amused beneath the shaggy salt-and-pepper brows. He sat forward on the sofa. ‘Certainly, Miss Raleigh. This work of yours—’ his nod encompassed the workshop ‘—is exquisite. The execution and the ideas...’ He shrugged. ‘Believe me, I see many, many pieces of work from aspiring engravers, Miss Raleigh, and I would give anything for even one of them to be as good as yours.’ He gave her a shadow of a smile. ‘So I wished to tell you that should you desire it, I would be delighted for you to come and work with me.’ Rebecca gulped. Woolf smiled again. ‘I appreciate that you cannot engrave any longer, but you can still draw, and your designs are superb. So, how would you like to design for me? I know it is not orthodox for a lady to work, but to waste your talent would be a greater sin. What do you say?’ This time Rebecca almost choked. Through her

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streaming eyes, she could see Marcus Woolf laughing at her. He got up. ‘No doubt you will wish to discuss this with Lord Lucas. I will leave you my card. Come to see me if you wish to discuss the offer. For now I had better be getting back to my studio.’ He turned to Lucas. ‘Good day, my lord.’ He touched his hat and went out. Rebecca turned to Lucas. ‘I do not understand,’ she whispered. ‘You showed Marcus Woolf my work. Why?’ Lucas came forward into the studio. He was looking very pale. ‘I wanted you to have a choice, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘When you explained that you were obliged to give up your engraving I wanted—’ He stopped, swallowed hard. ‘I wanted you to choose to marry me of your own free will, not because one way of life was closed to you. So I thought to find you an alternative. I wanted to prove that I loved you enough to let you go. With all that had happened between us, I wanted you to be sure—’ Rebecca crossed the distance between them and put a hand up to his lips to stop the words. ‘Oh, Lucas.’ She smiled mistily at him. ‘There was no need, but you have made me very happy.’ ‘You said that you always loved your engraving more than anything else in life,’ Lucas said. Rebecca laughed a little shakily. ‘So I did. But that was before I realised how much I loved you, Lucas.’ There was a fierce light in Lucas’s eyes now. ‘Do you?’ ‘So very much.’ Rebecca gestured around the workshop. ‘I needed to take my farewell of all this because

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it was so much a part of my past life. But I am willing to step into the future with you.’ She held out a hand to him. ‘And I think you must love me very much too. You had asked me to marry you, but you were willing to give me an alternative—working for Marcus Woolf.’ Lucas came close to her and took both her hands in his. ‘I did not wish for an unhappy bride,’ he said, and Rebecca could hear the rough undertone of emotion in his voice. ‘I love you more than I ever thought possible, Rebecca, but I wanted you to want me.’ The laughter bubbled up within Rebecca. ‘So you persuaded Mr Woolf to offer me work.’ ‘Not so. All I did was show him your engraving. He recognised your talent for himself.’ ‘And now I shall have to disappoint him.’ ‘Why should you do that?’ Lucas was drawing her closer, but now he paused and looked down into her eyes. ‘He has offered you the chance to design for him. Surely you cannot turn him down?’ Rebecca was puzzled. ‘But if I am to be Lady Rebecca Kestrel I cannot work!’ Lucas laughed. ‘You are more conventional than I had thought, my love. Why not accept his offer?’ Rebecca frowned. ‘Do you not wish to marry me, then?’ ‘Of course. But I have realised that the two need not be mutually exclusive. I should be very proud to have a wife who designed commissions for the best glass engraver in town.’ Rebecca stared at him in stupefaction. ‘But, Lu-

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cas—ladies do not do such things! Ladies do not work!’ Lucas was shaking his head in mock disapproval. ‘I am disappointed in you, my love! Since when did you conform to what is expected?’ Rebecca looked at him in dawning hope. ‘You do not tease me?’ ‘No, indeed. I have no independent fortune,’ Lucas continued, ‘and need a wife to support me.’ Rebecca caught the flash of amusement in his eyes. ‘Oh! You are so—’ He stopped her words with his lips and they clung together as though they would never part. The kiss turned swiftly from tenderness to passion. Rebecca felt the four walls of the studio contract to the space immediately about them as they held each other with desperate need. She could feel Lucas trembling as he held her and the knowledge of it brought a mixture of terror and elation. He let her go for a moment and she knew what he would see in her eyes: the excitement and the wanting, the hours she had spent thinking about him as she now knew he had been thinking of her, the memory of how it had been between them. Sharp desire twisted deep inside her and she almost gasped aloud. Lucas pulled the gown off her shoulder and bent to kiss her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, her throat. There was a look of intense concentration on his face. If Rebecca had not heard the quickness of his breathing, seen his fingers shake, she would have thought him unmoved. Her mind reeled. Surely this could not be happening to her in the studio, in the

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middle of the afternoon? Yet she had waited for him for what seemed like forever. She felt unbearably impatient. She reached for him. Lucas’s hands circled her waist, then moved up to push the bodice of her dress farther down, leaving her in her shift. He unlaced the ribbons and slid his hand inside. Rebecca gasped against his mouth as the warmth of his hand cupped her breast. He lifted her slightly so that she was sitting on the edge of the workbench. He pulled her skirts up her thighs. She felt the cold hard edge of the table against her bare skin. Lucas was fumbling with the fastening of his breeches. His mouth took hers again at the same time as his fingers parted her, stroking with a sly seduction. Rebecca climaxed at once, in shock and fierce delight, and a second time, helplessly yielding, when he entered her. Her fingers were digging into his back and the bench creaked in protest at each thrust. It was shocking and erotic and everything that she had dreamed of. ‘Oh, Rebecca...’ Lucas’s face was turned into the hollow of her neck. Her legs were trembling when she slid to the floor and she had to grip his arm to steady herself. Lucas scooped her up into his arms. Rebecca squeaked. ‘Lucas, no! You will hurt yourself.’ ‘I have done it before, if you remember,’ Lucas said. At the top of the stairs he put her down and she turned, wrapped her arms about him, and kissed him fiercely. They tumbled onto the bed. Lucas propped himself up on one elbow and allowed his gaze to travel

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all the way down her body, from the bow unravelling in her hair, to her breasts peaking with desperate arousal beneath the thin cotton shift, to her tumbled petticoats, down her legs to her toes. Rebecca’s whole body ached for his touch. He smiled slowly. ‘I do believe that you are overdressed,’ he said. Lucas stripped their clothes off with ruthless efficiency and turned Rebecca gently so that she was lying on her stomach next to him on the bed. Lucas allowed his hand to drift down the silken length of her back and over the curve of her buttocks. There was so much passion in her. He had suspected as much when he had seen the eloquence and the beauty and the raw longing that was locked into those engravings. He had wanted to unlock it in reality and make her his, no matter that he knew he should not. And now he had done it, this time forever. ‘Rebecca...’ He leaned over so that his chest brushed the soft skin of her back, and spoke gently in her ear. ‘I am going to take you again. I cannot help myself...’ Rebecca made a faint sound of assent and gave a tiny, voluptuous wriggle. Smiling a little, Lucas reached for the bolster, slid his arm beneath her, lifted her hips and pushed it under her stomach. Finding that she was almost on her knees, Rebecca stirred abruptly. ‘Lucas, what—’ ‘Hush.’ He soothed her at the same time as holding her still with one hand spread on the small of her back. She looked so provocative and open to him without

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any pretence of modesty that he felt his body tighten almost unbearably. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he whispered. He held her hips and slid inside her, feeling her shudder with pleasure. Her back arched, her hair fell about her shoulders in glorious chestnut waves and she gave a moan of sheer, unbelieving excitement as she felt the relentless possession take her. Lucas revelled in Rebecca’s uninhibited response, which drew an equally unrestrained passion from him. Dimly he knew that he should treat her more gently, but he was powerless to resist, powerless to control his thoughts, his desires and his need for her. He had never felt like this before. Never felt this sense of exquisite completeness. He held her still and took her with a sure, hard control. Yet this perfect pleasure, this flagrant possession, was not sufficient. He needed to see her face, to hold her, to kiss her. He drew back and tumbled her over and into his arms. Her face was flushed pink with arousal and there was a dazed, abandoned darkness in her eyes. He swooped down on her. ‘Not enough...’ He had spoken the words aloud and now he saw her eyes open wider and a smile creep into the slumberous blue depths. Her hand came up to stroke his jaw. ‘There’s more?’ ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ He looked at her. ‘I need to look at you.’ Her eyes smiled. He bent to kiss her. His hands were on her thighs, spreading them wide. He surged into her softness and heard her gasp, and cut the sound

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off with his plundering mouth on hers once more. One of his hands trapped her wrists above her head, holding her still. The other came up to caress her breast and slide over her heated skin in triumphant possession. He could not get enough of her. As he started to move inside her the conflagration took them. She gave a wild cry and Lucas felt the flames rise and consume him, destroying his self-control and his self-sufficiency and all the barriers that had kept him alone. Mindless urgency overtook him and drove him to its final, shattering climax and he gathered Rebecca closer still, as, body and soul, they were fused as one. The sensations died slowly to leave them still and peaceful. Rebecca was boneless and soft in his arms and he drew her closer into their shelter, filled with wondrous contentment and a searing peace. He felt her body soften further and slide into sleep, and rested his chin in the cloud of her hair, inhaling her scent and relaxing as sated pleasure and deep satisfaction beckoned him irresistibly to join her asleep. And this time when she awoke, he was still there.

Chapter Fourteen

T

he third of the recent Midwinter weddings took place on a bright, cold day, two weeks before Christmas. A wedding breakfast was held at Kestrel Court and the entire Kestrel family assembled to drink to the health of the bride and groom. It was late by the time that the bride managed to escape from her guests and find a little solitude. She slipped open the terrace doors and went outside, making sure that she latched the door softly behind her and that no one had seen her leave. The gardens were filled with shadows. Rebecca went slowly down the mossy steps that led from the terrace to the lawn. The air was crisp and cold and the grass was frosty beneath her feet. Behind her the light from the ballroom spilled across the darkness and the rise and fall of the music floated on the winter air. ‘All secrets known...’ The full moon was as bright as it had been on the night she had seen The Defiance sail into Kestrel Cove. ‘All villains caught save one...’

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Daniel was safe, and that was what counted, and perhaps one day they would meet again. The winter jasmine smelled sweet and wistful. There was the crunch of frost; a footfall close by. Rebecca swung round. ‘Who is there?’ There was no sound but the breeze in the pines and the distant slap of the waves on the shore, but the silence was heavy with waiting. Rebecca shivered, her breath clouding the night air. ‘Come out, whoever you are!’ A shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows under the frozen branches of the firs and started to walk towards her in the bright moonlight. Rebecca stared and caught her breath on a gasp. ‘Daniel? Daniel!’ He reached her at a run and his arms went about her, hard and strong, scooping her up off the ground and spinning her around in an exultant pirouette. Rebecca hugged him close. He smelled of woodsmoke and tobacco. He was warm and solid and real. He was here... ‘You should not have come,’ she said, torn between laughter and tears. Daniel De Lancey laughed. ‘Did you think that I would miss my sister’s wedding day?’ he said. Rebecca stood back a little so that she could scan his face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for being here.’ For a moment they looked at each other, then Daniel gave her another convulsive hug before loosening his grip a little. He scanned her face in the moonlight. ‘Are you happy, Beck?’

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Rebecca did not misunderstand him. ‘With Lucas? Yes, I am. I am very happy.’ ‘You are sure you love him?’ The wind stirred in the treetops again. Rebecca shivered. ‘Yes. I love him more than anything. I never thought...never imagined it could be so...’ She saw the flash of Daniel’s teeth as he smiled. ‘That is all I wanted to know. He is a good man, Beck.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘I know.’ Urgency stirred in her. ‘You must go, Daniel. I thought that you were safely away. They have been looking for you.’ ‘I know they have,’ Daniel said, ‘but I needed to be sure, Beck.’ Rebecca reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘And now you may be. Good luck and godspeed.’ ‘And to you, little sister. Be happy.’ Daniel returned the clasp of her hand for a brief second and then he was drawing away with one final backward glance, one last promise: ‘I will see you again before too long, I swear it...’ The tears misted Rebecca’s eyes and chilled on her wet cheeks and she turned, unable to watch him walk away. Perhaps it would always be as difficult as this to say goodbye to Daniel. She would never know if they would meet again. But Daniel had come to her wedding day and now she had to go back to her husband. Lucas would be wondering what had happened to her. She retraced her steps around the side of the shuttered summerhouse and started along the topiary avenue towards the terrace, but before she had taken

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more than three steps, Lucas came out from the shadow of the firs and fell into step beside her, and she knew without a word being spoken between them that he had seen exactly what had happened. She stopped and looked at him. The moonlight fell on his face but she could not read his expression. ‘You saw him,’ she whispered. Lucas smiled then. ‘I did,’ he said. Rebecca started to smile as well. She felt so full of love she was afraid she might burst. ‘And you let him go.’ ‘I would let him go time and time again to make you happy, my love,’ Lucas said, then laughed. ‘Besides, I do not wish to be remembered as the man who shot his brother-in-law on his wedding day!’ They stood and looked at each other for a long moment and then Rebecca raised her hand to his cheek. ‘I love you, Lucas Kestrel.’ ‘I love you too.’ ‘You have shown that many times,’ Rebecca said. ‘And I am not sure that I deserve you—’ Lucas stopped her words with his lips. It was cold; they felt fused together, sealed one to the other for all time. ‘I have one more secret to tell you,’ Rebecca said hesitantly. Lucas gave a little heartfelt groan, but Rebecca smiled. ‘No, I believe...I hope...you may like this one. I am expecting a child.’ Lucas stared at her for a long, long moment, then he bent forward and kissed her lips very softly. ‘When? After the masque?’ he whispered.

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Rebecca shook her head. ‘No. Last time—in the studio.’ She paused a little nervously. ‘You are pleased?’ Lucas drew her into his arms so that she was held gently but securely. ‘Nothing could make me happier, Rebecca.’ They stood clasped together and then Lucas laughed. ‘Justin had better hurry. Who would have thought that he would be shown up by his younger brothers?’ ‘I wondered if Deb—’ Rebecca said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I do believe she may be enceinte. Certainly Richard is looking extremely pleased with himself!’ Rebecca laughed. ‘Poor Justin. Will Lady Sally accept him?’ ‘Who knows?’ Lucas said. ‘She is a law unto herself.’ He let Rebecca go and she glanced towards the lighted windows of the house. ‘It is ungrateful in me, but this wedding party seems interminable. Do you think we might respectably retire now?’ ‘Not respectably,’ Lucas said. ‘However, you must be chilled to the bone and it is my duty as your new husband to help you become warm again...’ Rebecca nestled close to him. ‘Could you?’ ‘I can try. I know several methods.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘Then let us go inside and, without further ado, try them.’ And together, entwined, they made their way towards the light.

Epilogue

L

ady Sally Saltire awoke suddenly in her bedroom at Saltires. The moonlight was very bright, flooding her bedchamber and bathing the room in a curious, cold white light. She lay still for a moment, staring at the canopy of the bed. She had woken alone on so many nights. For most of her widowhood she had enjoyed the freedom her solitary state had granted her. It was only recently that the loneliness had crept in, invading the corners of her mind, so that she woke sometimes hoping to find that she was not alone, always to be disappointed. She sat up with a sigh. She was wide awake now and a little sad. That was the trouble with weddings, Lady Sally thought with a flash of annoyance. It was all very well for Rachel and Cory, and Deborah and Richard and Olivia and Ross and Rebecca and Lucas, of course. They had each other. Worse, they were all quite ridiculously, unfashionably in love. Even that encroaching chit Helena Lang was likely to finally catch a husband before long. Which just left her wearing the willow, since Justin had made his feelings for her quite

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plain. She still felt shocked as she remembered his words to her at the wedding breakfast, words spoken low, for her ears only. ‘Your lease has expired, Sally. Time has run out. I want you out of that Dower House as soon as possible...’ She gave a little, irritable sigh. Damn him! Recently she had thought... But it was too late for thoughts and regrets now. She had had her chance to marry Justin Kestrel fifteen years before and one could not turn back the clock. She vowed that she would be out of his house before her officious landlord even woke in the morning. Her pride demanded it. He had even told her to make sure that she did not take a single thing that did not belong to her when she left. ‘I shall take nothing from you unless you take something of mine,’ he had said. Perhaps he was tight-fisted and she had never before realised. She felt that she needed a drink. There was water in the ewer on the washstand, but that was no good. Port, brandy, even sherry would be acceptable, but they were all downstairs. Lady Sally climbed out of the bed and reached for the saucy ne´glige´ that barely covered the equally sheer nightdress she had fallen for on a recent visit to London. The sight and the slippery, sensuous feel of it gave her an obscure feeling of anger. It was more suitable for a trousseau than for a middle-aged widow on her own in the depths of the country. The house was as silent as the grave. Lady Sally tiptoed down the staircase, flitting between patches of moonlight and finding her way to the study without

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difficulty in the bright light. She did not bother to light a candle. She could see the sideboard illuminated clearly because the curtains were not drawn. They billowed in the breeze. Some careless maid had left a window open. Lady Sally shivered in the draught. She reached for the port decanter, then hesitated, her hand hovering over the bottle of brandy that Justin Kestrel had left behind on his last visit. She felt a sharp pain inside as she remembered that she had teased him about the dubious morality of the Duke of Kestrel patronising the smuggling trade. They had laughed together. It seemed a very long time ago now. She had been intending to return the bottle to him, but now it seemed a pleasing if small act of revenge to drink his best French brandy instead. She opened the seal and reached for one of the crystal glasses. The neck of the bottle had not even touched the edge of the glass when a hand closed about her wrist and gripped it hard. Lady Sally did not cry out. Some sixth sense had warned her that she was not alone; besides, she recognised his touch. She could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. ‘At last. I thought that you would never give me my chance, Sally.’ He let go of her. There was a scrape as he struck a light. The candles flared. Lady Sally looked at Justin, Duke of Kestrel, in the mix of candlelight and moonlight. ‘Your chance?’ She was annoyed to hear that her voice was not quite steady. ‘To win the third wager.’

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‘I was not aware that there was one.’ She saw the flash of his smile. ‘Your mistake. I told you at the wedding breakfast.’ He quoted drily: ‘I shall take nothing from you unless you take something of mine.’ Lady Sally’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at the incriminating bottle of brandy. ‘I assumed that you meant I should take nothing of yours when I left your house.’ ‘Assumptions are dangerous things.’ ‘Then—’ He took hold of her wrist again, this time in a featherlight touch. ‘I want you out of this house,’ he said, drawing her inexorably towards him. ‘Out of this house and into mine—and into my bed.’ Lady Sally put out her free hand and caught his arm, pulling him against her hard. ‘In mine first.’ ‘If you insist.’ Their kiss was explosive, unleashing the passion of years. When they broke apart, Lady Sally said a little hesitantly, ‘It is a very long time since I did this.’ ‘For me too. It will be fine. In fact, it will be very good...’ His arms were hard about her. His touch on her skin left no doubt of where this would end, and soon. There would be no escape. They kissed again, demanding, hungry, desperate for fulfillment. ‘Justin,’ Lady Sally said, taking his hand and drawing him towards the staircase, ‘do you think we could elope?’ ‘Of course,’ Justin said. His arm was about her

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waist now and the anticipation ran scalding hot between them. ‘If that is what you would like to do.’ ‘I do not think I could bear to confess to everyone that I had made a mistake and should have married you years ago, so...I would rather they knew after the event.’ Justin laughed. ‘So you would like to marry me?’ ‘Please.’ ‘Excellent. We shall elope immediately.’ They kissed for a third time, sweet and longing. ‘Almost immediately,’ Lady Sally corrected. ‘For now there is a more pressing matter on hand.’ Justin scooped her up in his arms and took the stairs two at a time, kicking the bedroom door closed behind them and dropping her into the middle of the big double bed, where he joined her a second later. The lost fifteen years fled away then as she looked at him. He was the Justin Kestrel she had known when she had been a laughing de´butante of eighteen, too fearful and flighty to accept the fate that was hers. And then he drew her to him very gently and there was nothing but warmth and light—and the promise of the future. *

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The Rake Georgina Devon

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Chapter One

The morning sun barely peeked through the thick overhang of tree limbs. Green Park was still deserted at this time of morning. Not even the servants were about. ‘Miss Juliet, you can no’ be doing this,’ Ferguson Coachman said sternly, his voice breaking the morning quiet. Juliet Smythe-Clyde looked up between her thick cinnamon eyelashes while wiggling her toes in the too-large Hessians she had commandeered from her younger brother’s wardrobe. She stamped her foot to try and better settle the heel. ‘Rather this than for Papa to fight the Satanic Duke.’ The tall, spare coachman, his grey whiskers bristling about a narrow face, frowned. ‘The master is a grown man. You are a slip of a girl and should no’ be fighting his battles.’

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‘Enough,’ Juliet said, slipping off the coat that fitted her brother like a second skin and herself like a too-large nightrobe. ‘Take this and fold it carefully. You know Harry will have an apoplexy if it gets wrinkled.’ Ferguson snorted, but carefully laid the coat on the seat of the dilapidated coach. Hobson, the butler, who was as round as he was majestic, presented the box holding two duelling pistols to his young mistress. Juliet reached for the one on the bottom. That one is primed and ready to go, miss,’ Hobson said. ‘I saw to it myself.’ Out of perversity, Juliet took the top one. ‘That too is ready,’ Hobson said, allowing himself a knowing smile which quickly disappeared. ‘Stop this now, Miss Ju, while there is still time.’ Ferguson came to stand beside his crony, the two having become fast comrades despite the disparity in their stations. ‘Have I no’ been telling her the same since this began? She will no’ listen to either of us.’ ‘I have to do this,’ Juliet said, her voice cracking as the fear she had been holding at bay threatened to spill out of control. ‘Someone must protect Papa from this latest folly.’ ‘Someone should no’ be you, lass,’ Ferguson retorted, his brogue thickening with anger and anxiety. ‘You did no’ tell the master to marry that doxy.’

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‘I promised Mama to care for Papa,’ she whispered, the memory of her mother’s dying request tightening her stomach. Mama was dead barely a year, yet Juliet remembered as if it had happened yesterday. Mama had lain on the daybed in the morning room, the pale sunlight giving false colour to her shrunken cheeks. The illness that had eaten at her and kept her in constant pain had shrivelled her body and made Juliet secretly glad the end was near. She could not bear to see her beloved mama suffer so. When Mama had beckoned her closer and begged her to care for Papa—flighty, irresponsible Papa— Juliet had promised. There had been nothing else she could do. She would have done anything to ease Mama’s suffering. Anything. And someone had to watch over Papa once Mama was gone. Everyone knew that. She sighed. She had not been able to keep Papa from marrying Mrs Winters, but she could keep him from throwing his life away for the woman. Surely not even the Duke of Brabourne would shoot to kill a young man who was only taking the place of the original dueller—would he? Besides which, the Duke was at fault. Not she or Papa. The Duke was the one who had seduced an-

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other man’s wife. As the one in error, he should delope. It was the honourable thing to do. Juliet straightened her shoulders and sighted down the barrel of the pistol. At least growing up in the country had taught her something. She could shoot with the best of them, although Brabourne was said to be as deadly with a gun as he was with a sword and just as cold-hearted with either. The sound of horses’ hooves drew her attention. Three men stopped under a large oak some distance from Juliet’s little group. All were dressed in greatcoats and shiny Hessians with beaver hats perched rakishly atop their heads. She knew all by reputation and one by sight. Dressed in man’s garb, she had paid a very latenight visit to Lord Ravensford, one of Brabourne’ seconds, four days before to tell him there was a change in plans. The duel needed to be moved forward. His lordship, too surprised by a puppy visiting him uninvited, had agreed to the change without argument, although his bronze brows had been raised in sardonic amusement during the entire conversation. The other two men she had never seen. Lord Perth was said to be a rogue who went his own way, regardless of Society’s rules. She guessed him to be the one who stood beside the bronze-haired Lord Ravensford. They were much of a height. She

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spared them little interest for they were not the person she was here to fight. The third man jumped to the ground with a wiry grace that spoke of strength. She had heard the Duke was not only a rake but a Corinthian of the first stare. He was tall and lean, and when he shrugged out of his greatcoat and navy jacket, she noted his shoulders were broad in their stark white shirt, and his hips were narrow in their close-fitting breeches. His hair was as black as some said his heart was. His nose was a commanding jut of authority. She had heard his eyes were a deep blue, inherited from an Irish ancestor. A frisson of something akin to fear, yet much more delicious, skittered down her spine. She turned away. She gulped a deep breath of the cold air and wiped her damp palms along the sides of her breeches. For seconds she stared sightlessly at nothing and wondered if she would survive this encounter. It was a weakness she had not allowed herself before. She did not allow it for long now, either. Lord Ravensford headed their way. The rising sun glinted on his hair, making it look bright as a new-minted penny. There was a twinkle in his hazel eyes and a dimple in his square chin. He was a very fine-looking man.

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‘Well, puppy, where is Smythe-Clyde? You said he is the one who wanted this earlier meeting.’ Juliet felt a dull flush spread up her face only to recede. ‘He...’ she forced strength into her voice ‘...he is sick. Too sick to leave his bed. But honour demands that he meet Brabourne. So, as his second, I am taking his place.’ She looked defiantly at Ravensford. Ravensford glanced from her to the servants. A hint of disapproval tinged his words. ‘Where is the other second? And where is the surgeon?’ ‘There is no other second, and Ferguson—’ she gestured to the coachman ‘—is as good as any surgeon.’ ‘Havey-cavey.’ Ravensford’s gaze bored into Juliet. ‘You are only a boy. There is not a chance that Brabourne will meet you. If Smythe-Clyde is too scared to follow through with this, then let him accept the dishonour.’ Juliet’s hands clenched. ‘I assure you, my lord, that my...that Smythe-Clyde is not afraid to meet the Duke. He is ill. Rather than draw this affair out, I am empowered to meet the Duke in SmytheClyde’s place.’ Ravensford shook his head. ‘I will pass on your words, but I doubt they will change anything.’ Without further discussion, the Earl turned away. Juliet sagged.

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‘Just as it should be,’ Hobson said with smug satisfaction. ‘Not even the greatest rakehell in all England would meet a mere boy on the field of honour. Especially when the quarrel is with another.’ Juliet had known from the beginning that the entire thing was far-fetched and likely to fail, but she’d had to try. Even now, as she saw Ravensford talk to the Duke, who looked her way, she knew she had to do something. Papa still intended to meet the Duke at the original time, two days hence. Keeping Papa from coming here then was the next hurdle Juliet intended to face—after today’s duel. One thing at a time, she always told herself. Anything could be accomplished if you did it one step at a time. Even from this distance, Juliet could see a scowl mar the Duke’s dark looks. The light breeze seemed to carry his words. ‘Smythe-Clyde is a coward and I refuse to meet his stand-in.’ Panic shot through Juliet as the Duke turned from Ravensford and reached for the coat he had just discarded. She grabbed up one of the duelling pistols, aimed and fired. The noise was loud in the still morning. Splinters of wood exploded from the side of the oak nearest Brabourne. Her adversary spun around to face her. Her bravado and the closeness of the shot froze

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her to the ground. Not even the Duke’s advance towards her released her paralysed muscles. With the only part of her mind that still seemed to function, Juliet noted the liquid power of his body as he neared her. He stopped a scant foot from her shaking body and razed her with the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen. ‘You are either an excellent shot or very lucky. I don’t know who you are, or why you feel compelled to stand in for Smythe-Clyde, but the meeting between you and I is now personal. Whatever happens between us will have no bearing on the other. Do you understand me?’ His voice was as hard as his look, and yet the deep timbre did something to her insides that could only be described as exciting. Surely she was not going to fall under the legendary charms of one of England’s greatest rakes? She had to wound him severely enough to keep him from meeting Papa, not swoon at his feet. Juliet raised her chin up higher. ‘I understand perfectly.’ ‘Good. Perth is going after a surgeon. We will wait upon their return to continue.’ Panic shot through Juliet. A surgeon would be fine if the Duke were the one injured. If she were, a surgeon would be a disaster. ‘We do not need a sawbones, your Grace.’

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His full bottom lip curved into a smile that was anything but friendly, yet did unnameable things to Juliet’s breathing. ‘You will need one, be sure of that.’ She blanched. ‘Th...then Ferguson will do. He is better than anyone to be found in London.’ Brabourne’s gaze flicked to the servant and back to Juliet. ‘Your coachman.’ She nodded. ‘Then it is on your head.’ He strode away before Juliet could respond. She stared after him. He walked with a loose-limbed grace that flowed from his shoulders down to his narrow hips. She began to understand how her stepmother had succumbed to him. Even she, an innocent in spite of her three-and-twenty years, would be hard pressed to resist him if he pursued her. Not that he would. Not in a millenium. Not before today and especially not after today. Still, there was something incredibly attractive about him. ‘Miss Juliet,’ Hobson said, breaking into her ridiculous thoughts, ‘best you use the gun I first recommended. It is bad luck to use the one already shot.’ ‘And I need all the luck I can get,’ she murmured. Ferguson stepped forward. ‘Now, you remember what I said?’

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She nodded. ‘We meet, turn our backs to one another and walk twenty paces. Pivot and fire.’ She nodded again, worry gnawing at her nerves. Her jaw wanted to clench and her legs wanted to run away. Her stomach twisted into a knot and, if she had eaten anything before coming here she would be vomiting. Did men feel this way? She knew Brabourne did not. ‘Now, Miss Juliet,’ Hobson said softly. Glancing at him, she saw the anxiety he felt for her. It made her hands shake more. She did not look at the coachman, knowing she would see the same fear in his eyes. Better to walk boldly forward and meet whatever fate held for her. The pistol at her side, Juliet moved towards the approaching Duke. His black hair was tied back in a queue a style that was no longer in fashion, but then he was a rule unto himself. One strand had broken free. He ignored it, his attention on her. Earlier she had seen and felt only the overwhelming sense of power he exuded...now she saw details. His brows winged over eyes the shade of indigo from which tiny lines radiated out, speaking of dissipation and long nights. The late-night growth of whiskers was black against his pale skin. His jaw was a firm line that belied the relaxed set of his shoulders. He gave her a curt nod, and she knew it was time

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to turn and begin pacing. One, two...nineteen, twenty. Juliet spun around, bringing her arm up as she moved. The pistol felt heavy and awkward. In spite of all her practice and determination, she wavered. It was one thing to plan on shooting a man. It was an entirely different thing to do so. Brabourne had no such reservations. A shot rang out in the still, quiet air. Juliet experienced a moment of surprise, followed by excruciating pain in her right shoulder. She crumbled to the ground, her pistol falling from unresponsive fingers. He had shot her. She brought her left hand up to the wound. Her fingers came away sticky. The metallic tang of blood pinched her nose. She felt herself losing consciousness and wondered if she would die. ‘Here, here.’ Ferguson fell to his knees beside her and waved smelling salts under her nose. ‘This is no’ the time to be passing out.’ Juliet nodded feebly. ‘No. I have never fainted in my life. I shan’t do so now.’ ‘That’s my lass,’ Ferguson said, probing gently at the wound. A jolt like lightning twisted through Juliet. ‘Ahh—that hurts,’ she gasped. Ferguson grunted. ‘It will hurt much more before

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it gets better. The ball is lodged between muscle and bone. It must come out. You will be a while getting well.’ She gazed at him, knowing what he said and what it meant, but not wanting to believe him. ‘How will I keep this from Papa? I cannot stay in my room unattended even for a day. He will need me. The staff will need me.’ Hobson was on her other side. ‘You should have thought of those things before starting this harebrained escapade, miss.’ ‘I thought he would delope,’ she said softly, wincing as Ferguson probed deeper. ‘He...’ She gasped as fresh pain seared her. ‘He is the one at fault, not Papa. Not me.’ Dark spots danced in her vision. ‘The smelling salts,’ she whispered. The two servants exchanged glances. Better to let her faint. She would not feel the pain. ‘Is something vital severed?’ the Duke of Brabourne said from where he had stopped to watch the situation. ‘If the puppy had maintained a side profile instead of squaring completely around, the ball would have grazed the flesh of his upper arm. I did not shoot to kill him.’ ‘Thank you for that, your Grace,’ Hobson said, never taking his attention off Juliet. ‘Don’t thank me for something I did for myself.

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If the boy dies, I must flee to the Continent,’ Brabourne said. ‘That does not suit my plans at the moment.’ Ferguson snorted in disgust. ‘You understand perfectly,’ Brabourne said. ‘Now, what is the prognosis?’ ‘He’s lost a fair amount of blood, and I do no’ ken if I can get the ball out here. I can stop most of the bleeding.’ Ravensford, who had come up, looked down. ‘You had better get the lad home, then. We will send the surgeon to your direction.’ Juliet listened to the men talking, their words seeming to come through a long tunnel, but at the mention of going home she forced her eyes open. ‘Ca...cannot go home. No surgeon. No one know.’ The effort to talk made her feel even more lightheaded. She tried to sit up, but found she could not. ‘Do no’ fash yerself, lad,’ Ferguson said. He pressed a makeshift bandage to the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ‘What did he mean, not go home?’ Ravensford asked. Hobson, who had gone to the carriage for the laudanum he had packed just in case, returned and said, ‘Just that, my lord. The lad cannot go home.’ Brabourne eyed the butler. ‘Surely you jest. What

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type of family does the boy have that he cannot go home?’ Hobson stoically met the Duke’s gaze. ‘The young master cannot go to the London house in this condition. We will convey him to the country estate.’ Juliet tightened her grip on the butler’s hand. ‘I must be bandaged so none will know. I cannot stay from home long. You know that.’ Ferguson, tried beyond his patience, said, ‘You will do as we tell you.’ Juliet frowned. ‘I will do as I must.’ ‘How far away is the estate?’ Brabourne asked. ‘Half a day, your Grace,’ Hobson said. ‘That is much too far, Brabourne,’ Ravensford said quietly. ‘The wound does not look fatal now, but the continued loss of blood could make it so.’ He met his friend’s gaze. ‘You cannot afford that. Only six months ago you nearly did away with Williams in a sword fight. Prinny will not be so lenient with you if this boy dies.’ Brabourne smoothed one winged brow. ‘You must take the puppy to his London house. There is nothing else to be done.’ Ferguson paused in his ministrations to look up at the Duke. ‘I will no’ do that, your Grace. The lad is right in saying that no one must know what has happened.’

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Brabourne looked hard at the servant and spoke softly. ‘Are you telling me no?’ Ferguson swallowed hard. ‘Yes, your Grace, that be what I’m telling you.’ ‘And you?’ Brabourne pinned Hobson with his gaze. The butler’s ruddy complexion blanched. ‘I must stand by Ferguson, your Grace.’ Brabourne looked at Ravensford. The Earl shrugged. ‘What is the boy’s secret?’ Brabourne demanded. The two servants looked long at one another. Hobson made the Duke a bow. ‘The young master met you today without anyone knowing, except us. Lord Smythe-Clyde still plans on meeting you in two days. Master Ju was hoping that by duelling with you today you would consider it finished and not be here when his lordship comes.’ ‘Stupid.’ Brabourne shook his head. ‘Misguided,’ Ravensford murmured. Juliet groaned as much from having her plan revealed and hearing how inadequate it sounded when spoken as from pain. Everyone’s attention snapped back to her. ‘Enough,’ Ferguson said. ‘Hobson, help me carry the young master to the carriage. We must be on our way if we hope to get him to Richmond before he has lost too much blood.’

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‘Ravensford?’ Brabourne looked at his friend. Ravensford put one well-manicured hand up as though to ward off a blow. ‘Not me, Brabourne. Nowhere does it say a second’s duty is to house a wounded opponent.’ Brabourne’s lips thinned before forming a small smile. ‘As usual, Ravensford, you are correct. I suppose if I don’t want the boy to die on me I shall have to make arrangements for his shelter. It is apparent his servants are misguided in their loyalty.’ He turned to the men who were in the process of depositing the youth in the coach. ‘Take the boy to my town house.’ He cast a wicked glance at his friend. ‘Ravensford will direct the surgeon to my address.’ Ravensford made a mocking bow. The two servants exchanged horrified looks. Their charge lay limply on the cushions, having passed out when lifted. ‘Is something amiss?’ Brabourne enquired at his haughtiest. Ferguson climbed out of the coach and made the Duke a bow. ‘Nothing, your Grace. If you will give me directions, we will go there immediately. But we have no need of a surgeon. A clean knife, hot water and plenty of bandages will be enough.’ ‘Be sure you do not need help before turning it

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away,’ Brabourne said quietly. ‘I do not intend to have the boy die.’ ‘Neither do I, your Grace.’ Ferguson stood his ground in spite of the discomfort that had him twisting his hands. ‘Then follow me,’ Brabourne ordered. Minutes later, he, Ravensford and Perth cantered from the shelter of the trees, the lumbering coach close behind. ‘I hope you do not live to regret this day’s work,’ Ravensford said. ‘So do I, my friend.’ Brabourne cast one last look over his shoulder. ‘So do I.’

Chapter Two

Sebastian FitzPatrick, Duke of Brabourne, frowned down at his unwanted guest. The boy’s milk-white skin was covered in cinnamon freckles. Hair the colour of a sunset tangled around the sweep of cheekbone and curve of brow. There was a tight look around the eyes, as though the youth were in pain even though he slept. He probably was. It had taken time and considerable digging to extract the ball. He had lost a fair amount of blood during the ordeal and would be weak for some time. A chair scraped behind Sebastian. ‘Can I be helpin’, your Grace?’ Sebastian glanced back at the coachman whose head had been nodding seconds before. Ferguson was the man’s name. ‘Has your master regained consciousness?’ ‘No, your Grace.’

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‘Have you eaten or had any sleep?’ ‘No, your Grace.’ ‘Then do so.’ ‘Beggin’ your pardon, your Grace, but I must stay with the master.’ ‘One of my servants will do as well. Now go.’ Sebastian returned his scrutiny to the boy. He was as frail as a willow and with a hint of lavender about him, a strange scent for a man. Full lips the colour of pomegranates gave him an effeminate air. And yet the youth had fought him in a duel. He had put his life at stake for another person. Sebastian would not do so, and was sure he did not know anyone who would, with a few exceptions— Ravensford and Perth. Perhaps that was the fascination this boy had over him, the reason he found himself in this room gazing down at a person he did not even know. He reached out to touch the boy’s brow. The servant cleared his throat. Sebastian’s hand dropped to his side. ‘Haven’t you gone yet?’ he asked without turning around. ‘I can no’ be leavin’ my charge...your Grace.’ Irritation chewed at Sebastian. ‘I told you that one of my servants will stand watch.’ The servant made a sound very much like choking. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, your Grace, but I canna trust the young master to someone unknown.’

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Sebastian lowered his voice to a silky thread. ‘You are stubborn and forthright for a servant.’ The coachman stood his ground even though his gaze lowered deferentially. ‘Then I shall stay with your charge. Surely that will meet your requirement.’ In the silence that followed, Sebastian heard the man gulp. ‘I must no’ leave his side.’ ‘Are you afraid I will do something to your precious charge? I have plenty of vices, but I assure you that molesting boys is not one of them.’ Ferguson whitened, but spoke around his obvious discomfort. ‘I am well aware of your Grace’s pastimes.’ His patience suddenly gone, Sebastian spun around. ’Get out now.’ Still the servant hesitated. Sebastian wondered what kind of master the boy must be to engender such loyalty in his people. ‘If you do not leave, I shall have you thrown bodily from the room. When your master awakens, I wish to speak privately with him. In the meantime, I will watch him and have my housekeeper provide anything needed. I don’t want him dead any more than you do.’ Still the servant stayed. Sebastian strode to the fireplace and reached for the velvet cord above the mantel.

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‘Ferguson...’ a weak voice came from the bed ‘...do as his Grace says. I will be all right.’ ‘I’ll no’ be leavin’ you with the likes of his Grace.’ This loyalty was vastly interesting, but Sebastian was not known for his patience. ‘Get out now, before I finish what I started and have my footmen throw you out.’ The boy struggled to sit and the servant rushed to his side. ‘No, you should no’ be doing this.’ The coachman fussed like a mother hen. ‘Go,’ the boy said. ‘If the Duke wanted to hurt me, he would have...’ He took laboured breaths, his cheeks flushing and then paling. ‘He would have aimed to kill.’ ‘You ken why I can no’ leave,’ Ferguson muttered under his breath. Sebastian had excellent hearing, but said nothing. There was something amiss here, and he was beginning to see what it might be. There was a delicacy to the youth’s wrist when he lifted it to pat the servant’s gnarled hand. Sebastian’s mouth twisted. He was a fool not to have seen it earlier, but the puppy’s bravery had blinded him. The boy whispered, ‘You will only make him more suspicious by insisting.’ Raising his voice, the youth said, ‘Now go. You may come back as soon as his Grace is done questioning me. Please.’

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Ferguson gave the Duke a threatening look, but did as ordered. The door closed behind the servant with a defiant snap. Sebastian noted the dark circles under the girl’s gold-flecked hazel eyes, for girl she was. Now that he knew, it was obvious. He was a connoisseur of women and knew that her lashes, the colour of honey sable and just as thick as that fine fur, would be the envy of any courtesan. As would the lush, burnt red curls that lay like flames on the pillow. For a moment he wondered if her temper matched her hair and if her passion matched her determination. It would be interesting to find out—but not now. ‘Why are you impersonating a boy?’ he asked without preamble. She paled even more, but her voice was defiant. ‘You are addled from too much dissipation, your Grace.’ He smiled slowly, his gaze running boldly over her, enjoying her bravado. ‘Not at the moment. Now that I look beyond your dress...and actions, it is obvious you are a woman.’ He ignored her snort. ‘Probably with your breasts bound and the borrowed finery of a male family member. Since I have never had your acquaintance foisted on me, you haven’t been presented to Society, although you speak and carry yourself like Quality. I would imagine you

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have lived your life in the country and have only recently come to town.’ She stared baldly at him. For a long moment, Sebastian thought she would continue to deny her true gender. With a sigh of weariness, she sank back into the pillow. ‘But, how...? You did not suspect before...?’ Sebastian smiled, a rare one of enjoyment that softened the hard angles of his face. He reached for the hand nearest him, realised it was on her wounded side before touching her and stretched across her instead. He caught her fingers even as she started to slide them under the covers. Leaning over her, he brought her captured hand towards him, but not so near as to force her on to her wounded shoulder. He turned the palm up. ‘Your skin is soft as velvet and unblemished. Your nails are short but well cared for. No sun has touched you to toughen or darken your complexion.’ One by one, he examined her fingers. ‘Long and elegant. A lady’s hands. Certainly not those of a man.’ With that inherent need to charm and seduce that made him the successful rake he was, he brought her hand to his lips. She yanked back as though bitten. He let her go. ‘Why did you meet me?’ She met his eyes openly even as her body sagged

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visibly with exhaustion. ‘I had to. Someone had to stand up to you.’ Her voice was weak, but a thread of determination ran through it. Sebastian found himself taken aback by her vehemence. ‘Stand up to me?’ The hand of her wounded arm lay flaccid. Her other hand clenched the fine linen sheet. ‘You are a libertine and a dangerous, amoral man in a position of power that has allowed you to do as you pleased.’ A glint of admiration for her courage lit his eyes, only to be doused by an emotion Sebastian had long ago decided would not rule him. She spoke only the truth. ‘And what of it? I am not the only one of my ilk.’ ‘I know,’ she muttered. ‘But you are the only one of your kind to impact on my family.’ ‘Ah,’ he said mildly, his reactions once more under control. ‘Your family. What is Smythe-Clyde to you? An uncle, cousin, father?’ Her skin, which he had thought pale as milk, took on the translucent clarity of the moon. With the right clothing she would be a beauty; a very unusual one, but a beauty none the less. Beautiful women intrigued him—for a while. She turned away from him. Her chest laboured. ‘It is none of your business.’ ‘A lover, perhaps?’ Her head whipped back and there was such anger

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in her that he found his interest increasing. When one could have anything one wanted, a challenge was not to be ignored. Particularly one with such possibilities. ‘You are perverted,’ she breathed. He pulled the nearest chair to the edge of the bed and lounged back into it. ‘No, merely curious.’ He found himself fascinated by the way colour played across her cheeks, only to flee and return again later. Her lips compressed into a thin line, then opened like a fine rose when heated by the sun. She sighed. ‘It is none of your business, and I am too tired to continue arguing with you.’ He could see by the deepening of lines around her eyes and mouth that she spoke the truth. ‘This is a delicious game we play, my sweet, but you are right, you have not the strength for it.’ Her face tightened. The angle of cheek and jaw sharpened. But she said nothing. He studied her a while longer. ‘I can always make enquiries about Smythe-Clyde’s family. I assure you it will not take my secretary long to find out more.’ Her body stiffened. ‘Why are you doing this?’ ‘Because you are a mystery, and mysteries beg to be solved.’ ‘A mystery. Something to entertain you, not a person.’

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He nodded his head in curt acceptance of her hit. ‘Exactly. What is Smythe-Clyde to you?’ Her chin lifted. ‘My father. Now will you leave me alone?’ The answer was not what he had expected. ‘For now.’ Not only was the girl foolhardy, she was reckless. As the daughter of a baron, she would be completely ruined if word of her escapade got out. Wellbrought-up young ladies did not even know about duelling, let alone participate in one. Worse, if rumour reached the ton that she was in his house, in one of his beds, Society would try to force him to marry her. The girl had to go. Long minutes went by as they met each other’s gaze. The clock on the mantel chimed eight. A knock on the door signalled interruption. He rose with languid grace and crossed to the closed curtains of the window before saying, ‘Enter.’ Juliet sagged in relief when Ferguson entered carrying a tray. Exhaustion, pain and fear ate at her. What would Brabourne do now that he knew she was a woman? Would he denounce her to the world? She glanced over to see him watching her with a brooding intensity that did nothing to calm her frayed nerves. He was dressed for evening. Perhaps

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Almack’s, although she doubted that he frequented that very respectable Marriage Mart. More likely he was headed out to one of his clubs, to be followed by dalliance with one of his many female companions. At least this time it would not be with her stepmother. Still, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. The perfect cut of his black coat showed broad shoulders to advantage. Black pantaloons hugged narrow hips, and white stockings revealed impeccable calves. His cravat was tied in what she assumed was the Brabourne Soire´e, an arrangement her younger brother had yet to be successful duplicating, although Harry tried repeatedly. But all Brabourne’s sartorial elegance was nothing compared to the man himself. He took her breath away. Or, more probably, she told herself, it was her wound making her think air was in short supply. His unfashionably long hair waved over his collar like a raven’s wing, moving with every step he took. His eyes were brilliantly blue and penetrating. Too penetrating, she thought, as a blush heated her flesh. And his mouth. She had only seen lips like his on the marble face of a Greek god. His male beauty—for there was really no other word to describe how he looked—was marred only by a look of bored dissipation that hovered around his eyes and mouth.

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She was more than thankful he had no interest in her, for she did not think she could resist him if he wanted her. Better for all of them if she left immediately. Ferguson would see to it. He should have taken her to her father’s country house in the first place. ‘Here, young master,’ Ferguson said, setting the tray down on the table near the bed. The scent of chicken broth made Juliet’s mouth water. She tried to sit up, but after a feeble attempt fell back. The exertion made her voice a thin reed. ‘There is no need for the pretence, Ferguson. His Grace knows I am a woman.’ Ferguson’s hand, with a spoon of broth, paused halfway between bowl and patient. He cast the Duke a fulminating look. ‘Don’t worry,’ the Duke drawled, ‘I will resist the urge to ravish her. But you had best see to it that no one else realises her deception.’ His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘I cannot control everyone who works for me.’ ‘Yes, your Grace,’ Ferguson said, frowning down at Juliet. ‘I will have the lass out of here before anyone is the wiser.’ ‘That would be best,’ her reluctant host said, going to the door. He looked back at her once, then left. The door closed softly behind him. Tension Juliet hadn’t felt rushed out, and she sank

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further into the softness of the feather bed. ‘As soon as I’ve eaten we must leave.’ Ferguson nodded. ‘Hobson will be back shortly to see how you do, lass. I will fetch the coach while he is here.’ Tenderly, he propped her up on the full pillows and helped her eat the broth. Juliet was glad of his help since her hand refused to be steady. When she finished her head fell back. ‘I am so tired, Ferguson. I think I will sleep. Waken me when Hobson arrives.’ ‘Yes, lass.’ He poured a generous portion of laudanum into a glass and added water to blunt the bitter taste of the medicine. ‘Take this. It will help ye sleep and ease the discomfort.’ Ju smiled weakly. ‘I do not need it to sleep, but it would be nice to have less pain.’ She swallowed the concoction with a grimace. Ferguson settled her comfortably, noting that she fell asleep before he reached his chair. She was a good, brave lass. Headstrong and not much accomplished in feminine things, but a good girl. Sebastian lifted his hand and a waiter rushed over. ‘Another bottle of port.’ ‘Immediately, your Grace.’ The servant hurried away. ‘This is our sixth bottle,’ Ravensford said. He

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tunnelled long, white fingers through his thick red hair. He had a smile and a way about him that could charm the chemise off a doxy without a penny changing hands. ‘Then we are four behind,’ Jason Beaumair, Earl of Perth, said. He was wickedly handsome, with the blackest eyes set in a narrow face, which was framed in equally black hair frosted at the temples and forehead. A scar ran from his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. It was said he had received it in a duel over another man’s wife. Sebastian gazed at his friends. If Jonathan, Marquis of Langston, were here, they would be complete. But Langston had married the famous actress, Samantha Davidson, and was an infrequent visitor to White’s now. ‘We need one more for whist,’ Sebastian said, pouring from the newly arrived bottle of port. A flurry of words, followed by the thud of a table hitting the floor, drew Sebastian’s attention. A boy—or young man—was wrestling his way into the room. The youth had a narrow face and carrotred hair. His hazel eyes were wild and angry. Freckles marched across his prominent nose, looking as though a cook had sprinkled nutmeg on his skin. His gaze came to rest on Sebastian. Fierce satisfaction curled the boy’s lips into a snarl. ‘Release

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me!’ he demanded, twisting out of a servant’s grasp. He strode to Sebastian’s table. Sebastian took in the look of the cub and knew instantly who he was related to. In a bored tone, he said, ‘A Smythe-Clyde.’ ‘Harold Jacob Smythe-Clyde.’ The boy stood defiantly, hands on hips. Sebastian groaned inwardly. First the chit and now this. And all because of Emily Winters. The former Mrs Winters was getting the cut direct the next time he had the misfortune to meet her, and the girl was leaving as soon as he returned home. He propped one well-shod foot on the table and lounged back to look up at Harold Jacob SmytheClyde. ‘You are not invited to join us,’ he drawled. The boy drew himself up. ‘I did not come to game with scum such as yourself...your Grace.’ Sebastian raised one dark brow. He sensed both Ravensford and Perth tensing. To ease them he waved one languid white hand. ‘Then begone. You are a bore.’ ‘And you, sir, are a libertine, a rake and a seducer of innocent women.’ The furious words fell into a dearth of sound. Red rose up the boy’s cheeks and spread to his ears. But he held his ground. The tic at Sebastian’s right eye started. He focused on the cut of his shoe. ‘You tread dangerous ground,’ he said softly.

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‘I challenge you to a duel. Weapons of your choosing.’ If the boy’s voice trembled, it was barely noticeable. ‘I do not stoop to duel with halfwits.’ Sebastian reached for his glass and took a long drink of the strong wine. This family was becoming unacceptable. ‘You, your Grace, are a bastard. I know how you—’ In one smooth movement, Sebastian rose to his feet. He planted a facer on the boy that knocked the cub to the floor. ‘No one calls me a bastard,’ he said quietly, dangerously. ‘Now get out of here before I run you through where you stand.’ He poured out the remainder of the bottle and downed it in one long swallow. ‘It is time we left,’ he said, his gaze sweeping over his friends. ‘White’s has lost its exclusivity.’ Before the boy could get to his feet, Sebastian and his friends left. The hour was early yet, and St James’s was crowded with people. ‘Another puppy after your blood,’ Perth said in his dark, deep voice. ‘Smythe-Clyde must have been busy in his youth.’ ‘My understanding,’ Ravensford said, swinging his gold-tipped cane nonchalantly, ‘is that the baron has only one son.’ He smiled at Sebastian. ‘And you

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just laid him out with an upper cut that Jackson himself would have admired.’ Sebastian settled his beaver hat at a devilish angle. ‘That is high praise coming from someone Jackson cannot defeat in the ring.’ He glanced around. ‘But enough. Shall we head for Annabell’s? There is more to life than wine and gaming.’ ‘So true,’ Perth drawled, falling into step. ‘There is wine, gaming and women.’ ‘Particularly women,’ Ravensford said with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Chapter Three

In

the small hours of the morning, Sebastian strolled into the room where his unwelcome guest stayed. The two servants hovered around the bed, muttering direly. The Duke did not like the tension he sensed. ‘What is the matter?’ Sebastian asked, striding to the group. Hobson looked up, his round face creased with worry. ‘Miss Juliet is worse.’ Sebastian looked at the patient. Her face was flushed. The nightshirt he had loaned her lay damply against her neck and shoulder. Her hands fluttered like trapped butterflies. Irritation mingled with concern, making his brows dip inward. ‘Is her wound inflamed?’ Ferguson looked up from where he was gently taking the bandage off. ‘I believe so, your Grace.’

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The skin where the ball had entered was swollen and red, with streaks of crimson starting to form. Her eyes opened and their sparkling gaze alighted on Sebastian. ‘Brabourne,’ she muttered, the words slurred but recognisable. ‘A man’s nemesis and a woman’s heart’s desire.’ She giggled, only to end in a gasp of pain as Ferguson tried to clean the seeping wound. ‘Blast! Must you be so clumsy?’ she gasped. They were the last coherent words she said as Hobson tipped a glass of water and laudanum down her throat. ‘I need to make a poultice,’ Ferguson said, laying aside the cloth he had used to sponge her shoulder. He looked at the Duke. Sebastian almost sighed as he felt the noose of involvement tightening around his neck. It was obvious the chit could not be moved. ‘And what do you expect from me?’ ‘You are supposed to have one of the best stables in the country, your Grace. I am sure your head groom has what I need.’ ‘You mean to put the same poultice on your mistress that you would use for a horse?’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘It works for four-legged creatures. Why not two-legged ones?’ Sebastian had no better suggestion since they would not allow a doctor, which he thoroughly

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agreed with now that he knew the circumstances. ‘Go and tell Jenkins that you have my permission to use whatever you need.’ The one servant left and, with a resignation that tightened his gut, Sebastian turned to the other. ‘And what do you need?’ Hobson glanced up. ‘More cool water would help, your Grace. Miss Juliet is raging hot; no matter how much I sponge her, she only seems to burn the more.’ Sebastian moved to the bellpull over the mantel only to stop before summoning a servant. His brooding glance settled on the girl. With her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, no one could mistake her for anything but what she was. If someone were still so unobservant as to think she was male, the swell of her breasts under the shirt and single sheet would be enough to enlighten them. One of the first things she had done after he had pierced her disguise had been to remove the binding from her breasts so she could breathe better and lie more comfortably. This situation was becoming more and more complicated. The very last thing he needed was for word of his unwanted guest’s real identity to leak out. At three and thirty, Sebastian had no intentions of marrying someone not of his choosing. Not even if some foolish chit’s reputation depended upon him wedding her.

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Nor did he want the world to know he had shot a woman. It was bad enough that he knew. Damn her for putting him in this dishonourable position. He pulled the bell and moved quickly into the hall. A footman appeared instantly, impeccably dressed in the Duke’s black and green colours. ‘Fetch Mrs Burroughs,’ Sebastian instructed. The young man’s eyes widened, but he bowed and left. Sebastian had a rule that servants who worked during the day would not be expected to work at night. That went particularly for his housekeeper and butler, whom he knew laboured fourteen and sixteen hours a day. Never before had he summoned Mrs Burroughs from her bed. He did not intend ever to do so again. He stepped back into the sickroom. Mrs Burroughs would knock, and he did not intend for anyone else to hear their discussion. Juliet Smythe-Clyde looked no better. Hobson’s worried frown was deeper. ‘Ferguson knows what he’s about,’ the butler mumbled, as though to reassure himself. ‘If he does not, then we are going to have problems,’ Sebastian stated. ‘I have no intentions of fleeing to the Continent. Nor do I intend for anyone to discover your mistress’s whereabouts.’ A discreet knock stopped the butler from saying

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whatever was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he turned back to his charge. Sebastian crossed to the door and asked, ‘Mrs Burroughs?’ ‘Yes, m’lord.’ He let her in, quickly closing the door behind her. ‘We have a problem.’ She looked from him to the bed. Her ironcoloured brows shot up, wrinkling her forehead into a dozen creases. Her mouth puckered in dismay and then disapproval. ‘’Twould seem we do, your Grace.’ Her emphasis on his title told him more clearly than words that she was shocked and unhappy with the situation. He looked at the old woman who had started service with his father over thirty-two years ago. She had been his nanny. When he’d inherited the title, he had retired his parents’ housekeeper and appointed Mrs Burroughs. She was not a woman who would have taken well to retirement. ‘You are the only person I can trust with this information. We must nurse her until she is able to be moved. And no one must find out.’ She snorted. ‘I would hope my husband can be trusted with this, your Grace. ‘Twill take more than the three of us here to give the girl round-the-clock care. I have a house to run, I’m sure this gentleman

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here has duties, and you have all of London to carouse through.’ The disapproval in her voice when she described his activities was softened by the affection in her brown eyes. She did not like the life he led, but she cared for him. Hobson, realising that Mrs Burroughs had a sensible head on her shoulders, moved closer. ‘I am the butler to Miss Juliet’s father and I cannot be gone much.’ Her knowing gaze went from Hobson to the girl. ‘A secret. Well, his Grace was always one for getting into scrapes.’ Ferguson’s return from the stables saved Sebastian from needing to comment. There were times he regretted making his nanny his housekeeper. Ferguson set about applying the poultice. Late the next afternoon, Sebastian sat at table breaking his fast. Soon he would have to take up his post with the patient. Ferguson had returned to Smythe-Clyde’s house after rebandaging the shoulder. Hobson had stayed until Mrs Burroughs could find time in the late morning hours. Burroughs had been in and out. From the surreptitious glances the footman was sending his way, Sebastian knew the servants wondered what was going on. ‘Your Grace.’ One of the footmen bowed and

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presented a silver tray on which lay a white calling card with the corner bent. Sebastian picked it up and read the name Harold Jacob Smythe-Clyde, his unwelcome charge’s brother. ‘I am not at home.’ ‘Yes, my lord.’ Minutes later, the sound of a raised voice reached Sebastian. It was followed by the closing of the front door. This family was nothing but trouble. With a sigh, Sebastian rose. How had he let himself get into this predicament? He was a man who had always considered his own comforts first. First it had been to keep the girl’s servants from taking her into the country and possibly threatening her life. Then it had been because she was too sick to be moved. In an unconscious gesture, he smoothed his left eyebrow with one finger. Now he allowed the chit to stay here because she needed to regain some strength before returning home. In her present condition it would not be long before someone realised she was hurt. Then the duel would come out, and her stay here. That would ruin her. Her courage intrigued him and he did not want to see her pay for it. Too few people of his acquaintance had her strength. In spite of all that, respectable young women of the ton did not spend nights under any man’s roof,

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let alone his. His reputation as a rake did not bear scrutiny. Even he, as immune as he was to Society’s dictates, would be hard pressed to refuse marriage if it were ever discovered that the girl had spent several nights under his roof. She had to leave. Soon. In the meantime, he would amuse himself at Tattersall’s. There was a fine filly that had caught his eye last week. Spirited and headstrong, the horse reminded him of his unwanted guest. At least with the animal he could determine whether he wanted her in his stable. Juliet roused from a nightmare where Papa duelled with Brabourne and was hit. Moisture beaded her brow and her night shirt clung to her skin. Why was she so hot? Where was she? The sound of someone lightly snoring caught her attention. A long, lithe man sprawled in one of two chairs, his legs spread out and seeming to go on for ever. A wave of dark hair shadowed his sallow cheeks and gave him a demonic cast. Memory returned. She rolled to one side and pushed up with her good arm. Pain shot through her bad shoulder. She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut against unwanted tears.

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‘What the deuce are you about?’ She turned her head and stared straight up at him. Without her hearing him he had come to the bed. His black brows were drawn and his blue eyes shot sparks. ‘I am trying to sit up,’ she said peevishly, wishing she did not hurt so much. ‘Why else would I be twisting around?’ ‘Whining does not become you,’ he stated baldly, the lines between his brows easing. ‘Let me help you or you will undo all the good work your coachman has done.’ Without waiting for her reply, he reached down and hooked a hand under each of her arms and hauled her up on to the pillows. Another gasp of pain escaped her and once more tears welled in her eyes. She told herself that her blurred vision gave her the impression his face held contrition. There was no doubt in her mind that he found her a nuisance rather than someone he might be concerned over. Long moments passed and his hands stayed on her. His warmth flowed into her, increasing her fever and making her pulse jump. No man had ever touched her so intimately. Juliet looked up at him and felt herself blushing. He finally released her. ‘Is that better?’ he asked, his voice hoarse as though he had a cold.

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She nodded. Strange sensations coursed through her body, and for a weak moment she wished he would touch her again. She was a fool. ‘Would you like some water?’ ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘Please. I am so hot. It is like a furnace in here.’ He poured the liquid and held it to her lips. ‘You are feverish. The wound is inflamed and Ferguson has been treating it with horse poultices.’ Juliet chuckled. ‘That is very like him. Has it helped?’ He set the empty glass on a stand. ‘It seems so. This is the first time since last night that you have been awake and coherent at the same time.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you jest?’ ‘Not about this.’ He turned away and fetched the chair he had been sprawled in. He set it near the bed and sank into its thick leather cushions. ‘I suppose not,’ she said, looking away from his intense perusal. ‘I cannot suppose I am the kind of woman you would choose to be in one of your beds.’ As soon as the words were out, she realised how provocative they were. ‘I...I did not mean that the way it sounded.’ He raised one brow. ‘You did not? How disappointing.’ She had thought herself warm before, but now she flamed.

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A slow smile cut a line into his cheek. It was seductive in the intensity it gave to his face, as though he were truly interested in her as a woman. Part of her wanted to melt. A larger part wanted to run. He was a dangerous man for a woman to be around. ‘I am sure there are many women eager to share one of your beds and that none of them would be here from wounds.’ The words came out like an accusation instead of the reasonable statement of fact she had intended. He was a disturbing man. ‘True, but then they would be boring. You, I’d wager, are never boring.’ She had a sense that he was flirting with her. She looked away from his unsettling scrutiny and her fingers plucked at the sheet without her being aware of what she did. ‘Anyone can be boring,’ she finally whispered. ‘So I have generally found,’ he replied drily. ‘But then no other woman has ever fought me in a duel. Nor has any other woman told me she could not go home and then convinced me to let her stay in mine. Why wouldn’t your family help hide your condition?’ The abrupt change of subject surprised her. It was as though he had been trying to trick her into answering him, but there was no secret. ‘Harry would have. Poor Papa would have run to his new wife

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and expected her to handle everything. I don’t trust my stepmother. Everything she does is designed to further her own ends. She would be furious.’ ‘Because you fought a duel or because you tried to take your father’s place?’ ‘Both.’ ‘Would she have hit you?’ His eyes darkened as he waited for her answer. ‘Would your father?’ ‘No,’ she squeaked, shocked that he could even think such a thing. ‘Papa has never hit us. Mama was always the one to discipline us. She or our nurse, and later our governess and tutor. My stepmother would not dare.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Did you see much of your mother?’ A soft smile of memory lit Juliet’s face. ‘Yes. Always. Mama was a curate’s daughter, and she believed children were a gift to be treasured.’ ‘A nice fancy,’ he said, bitterness making the words hard and brittle. No emotion showed on his face. It was as though he had shut his real self behind a mask. The urge to ask him why was great, but Juliet hesitated. He was not a man who invited closeness or questions about himself. He stood so sharply that his chair tottered on its back legs before settling down. He paced to the fire-

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place, grabbed the poker and jabbed viciously at the already roaring fire. Juliet saw pain in the tense set of his shoulders. The longing to comfort him was great, but she sensed that to say something would only make him draw further into himself. Instead, she waited quietly for him to make the next overture. She did not wait long. He put the poker back and strode to the bed, where he grabbed the chair and repositioned it in its original place. ‘I will send Mrs Burroughs to help you change into a fresh shirt. But first tell me why your father’s anger kept you from going home when you knew he would not punish you.’ She smiled ruefully. He would not give confidences, but he expected them of others. Still, it would do no harm. ‘I could not have kept my condition hidden from Papa. When he found out, he would have been angry with me because he would have been hurt that I felt he needed to be protected. That I did not trust him to take care of himself. Although everyone will tell you that he cannot.’ ‘A grown man cannot take care of himself?’ the Duke asked in disbelief. ‘I think you exaggerate.’ ‘Not about Papa. He can find his way anywhere in the country, but he is forever becoming lost here in London. Just as he will misplace every one of the twelve pairs of glasses I have got for him. Or

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reach his hand into a lion’s cage because he is curious about what the creature will do.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh. The Duke chuckled. ‘A handful.’ ‘Always. At first I was thrilled that he was remarrying, even though it was not yet a year after Mama’s death. But then...’ She clamped her mouth shut on the words. In a falsely brisk voice, she stated, ‘But that is neither here nor there. You are right, your Grace. A clean nightshirt would be most welcome.’ He made her a mocking bow before leaving. She had no doubt he knew exactly what she had stopped herself from saying. After all, he was the man her stepmother was having an affair with. He would know the woman. Just the thought made her chest tighten, and the wound she had nearly forgotten started to ache anew. How long would it take her to learn to protect herself against his charm? Probably for ever, said a tiny voice she wanted to ignore. Sebastian sprawled across the large leather wingback, his right leg indecorously thrown over the chair’s arm. He swung his foot, the evening pump catching the firelight. He twirled the half-full glass of whisky before taking a long swallow. The liquor burned down his throat. He smiled grimly. The sav-

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ageness of the liquid matched the emotions running through him. ‘Damned uncivilised drink,’ he muttered, taking another gulp. He would probably consume the entire decanter. He had got a taste for it from his friend Jonathan, Marquis of Langston, who had learned about it from his younger brother, Lord Alastair St Simon. The chit had to go. The only thing worse than having her continued presence in his home would be to have her die while occupying one of his beds. She had already been here two days and was on her second night. But she was out of danger, or nearly so. And she was a distraction. He emptied his glass. A knock caught his attention as he rose to pour more whisky. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded, moving to his desk and emptying the contents of the decanter into his glass. ‘Your Grace,’ Burroughs, the butler, intoned, entering the room and closing the door behind himself. His long, rather bulbous nose rose several inches, a pose Sebastian knew the man assumed when his sensibilities were affronted. ‘There is a person to see you.’ Sebastian raised one black brow. ‘A person?’ Burroughs puffed up his ample girth. ‘A woman...as your Grace very well knows.’

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Which one of his lady-friends would be so lost to propriety as to visit him here? Sebastian neither cared nor knew. He drank the whisky in one gulp. ‘Tell her I am not at home.’ Burroughs bowed, a smile of approval making his round face glow. ‘My pleasure, your Grace.’ Sebastian set the empty glass on the corner of his desk and decided it was time for bed. Most of London was asleep, and only his irritation at having his home pose a threat to his peace of mind had kept him up this late. Sounds of a scuffle barely preceded the library door bursting open. A woman dressed in black strode into the room followed by a harassed Burroughs. ‘Your Grace,’ she murmured breathlessly, ‘I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you.’ Sebastian was good at remembering faces and voices. He recognised his intruder and frowned. She was the reason he was in this bramblebath. He waved away Burroughs, who hovered behind her. The only way he could evict Mrs Winters—now Lady Smythe-Clyde—would be to have her bodily carried from the room. The hair rising on the nape of his neck told him to listen to her first. Not until Burroughs closed the door behind himself did Sebastian offer her a seat. He propped one

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hip on the edge of his desk and looked down at her. ‘It is very late to be making a social call, Lady Smythe-Clyde.’ She pushed back the hood of her cape and untied the strings at the throat. The heavy taffeta slipped from her shoulders to billow around her lap and spill down the back of her chair. Her pale blonde curls framed a heart-shaped face with eyes the colour of a fine spring sky. Many poems had been written about the beauty of her cupid’s bow mouth. Her evening dress was daringly low, even for a married woman, and showed an almost childlike figure. Sebastian knew the heart of a courtesan beat under the small bosom. But why was she here? He had already refused her overtures. She smiled endearingly up at him. ‘Please, your Grace, do call me Emily. We shall soon be well acquainted.’ ‘Shall we?’ he murmured, wondering what her game was and knowing it boded no good for him or the girl upstairs. He knew the former Mrs Winters from old. She had been as shocking in her flaunting of conventions as she was as Lady Smythe-Clyde. The rest of their conversation would likely be just as vulgar. She threw back her head and laughed, a tinkling sound that was her signature. Slowly, her eyes only slightly narrowed, she lowered her head and smiled

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at him. ‘Very well indeed. Do you know where my stepdaughter is?’ Sebastian kept his gaze on her even as the warmth provided by the whisky evaporated. ‘Your stepdaughter? Do you have one?’ Her lips parted in a languid smile. ‘Really, your Grace, there is no need for games between us.’ Sebastian put both palms on the desk and leaned backward. ‘Isn’t there? There is nothing between you and I, yet you are the reason your new husband challenged me to a duel.’ She leaned forward, showing the dark valley between her breasts. ‘But there could be...’ Sebastian studied her, wondering how far she would go in her pursuit of him. Women flocked to him for his wealth and power. Usually, however, they took ‘no’ as just that. This woman had been pursuing him for the past month. In a mildly curious voice, he asked, ‘Why are you so persistent? You have an older husband who is titled and reasonably wealthy. Isn’t that enough, considering where you started life?’ An angry scowl marred her childish beauty before she smoothed her brow with an index finger. ‘My husband is not the Duke of Brabourne, one of the most influential men in the realm.’ She paused for effect and flicked her small pink tongue along her bottom lip. ‘Nor is he renowned as the best lover in

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England, a man all women find irresistible—in and out of bed.’ Sebastian’s gut tightened. He dipped his head to her in mocking acknowledgement of her statement. His father had never thought of him as more than a means to pass on the title. His mother had never thought of him at all, her own lovers being legendary and all-consuming. In an attempt to be more than a title and money, he had taught himself to be a lover. He had made himself into a man women remembered, and if it was by giving them more pleasure than any thought possible, then so be it. They would remember him as more than a wealthy Duke, an object of advancement. They would remember him as a man. But not this woman. He had not even kissed her, and she had already caused him more problems than any of his numerous mistresses put together. He smiled, a cold stretching of his sensual lips. ‘Lady Smythe-Clyde, I would never presume to enter a dalliance with a married woman.’ Her own smile was equally frigid. ‘You would do whatever you damn well pleased, and we both know it.’ ‘Ah, the gloves are off,’ he murmured. ‘As will be more than that,’ she countered, ‘if you know what is good for your future.’

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‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked, his voice silky. She smoothed the satin of her skirt, the action drawing attention to the fine lines of her thighs, her gaze never leaving his face. ‘Nothing so dramatic. Merely offering not to divulge some information my lady’s maid was so obliging as to find out for me.’ He did not need an explanation. Somehow, even with all his efforts to keep Juliet Smythe-Clyde’s presence in his house secret, one of the servants had found out and spread the information. Eventually the news would spread to other homes of the ton. And quickly. Whether he agreed to the dalliance being proposed or refused, the result would be the same. Juliet Smythe-Clyde was ruined. ‘Just why exactly are you pursuing me?’ he wondered. ‘There are plenty of other men who would be eager to accept what you offer. And,’ he added in an aside, ‘I have it on good authority that some of them are very good in bed.’ She rose and sauntered to him. Running her index finger down his shirt, she watched him through thick blonde lashes. ‘But none of them are you. You are rich and powerful...and appealing. You can raise me in the eyes of the ton. My husband cannot. He is a mere baron, and an old, fat one at that. He has

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no fire.’ Her eyes took on a sultry gleam. ‘And I desire you.’ Sebastian’s lip curled. ‘If you are so quick to cheat on him, then perhaps you should not have married him.’ Her tinkling laugh rang out as she stood on tiptoe and lightly kissed him. ‘Do not come the naı¨ve with me. You, of all people, know about women marrying men and then having cicisbeos.’ Sebastian stiffened, her words like ice sliding down his spine. Anger immediately followed—an anger so intense it would have melted any amount of ice. ‘Out.’ He spoke softly, but the menace of his posture clearly conveyed itself. ‘Out before I wring your very lovely neck.’ The former Mrs Winters rose abruptly. Her fingers shook as she tied her cape around her shoulders. Still, she met his unyielding gaze without flinching. ‘Do not take long to make up your mind, Brabourne. I am not a patient woman.’ He watched her sweep from the room, the heavy scent of jasmine lingering. Yes, he knew about women who cheated on their husbands. No matter what the repercussions, he would not be the one to help her cuckold Smythe-Clyde. Dallying with married women was one vice he did not have.

Chapter Four

Juliet woke from a laudanum-induced slumber. Her shoulder throbbed and her eyes felt gummed over. Her mouth was filled with cotton, or so it seemed. A brace of candles flickered on the mantel, their golden light illuminating a chair and table. The Duke lounged in what she thought of as his favourite piece of furniture, one hand holding a wine glass. She must have made a noise because he turned to look at her. ‘I see you are finally awake. Ferguson must have overdone the laudanum last time.’ He rose and moved to the bed. She watched him in fascination. Perhaps it was her illness, but it seemed that he became more intriguing each time she woke. No wonder women flocked to him. He put a cool hand on her forehead, and she jerked. He gazed quizzically down at her, a small

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smile curving his sensual lips. He was very aware of his effect on her. ‘You are not as warm as earlier. Ferguson’s poultice works. A good thing. You are going home tonight.’ ‘Going home?’ she echoed, feeling stupid, but still reacting to his touch. He nodded. ‘There has been a new development and it is best that you leave. I am sending Mrs Burroughs with you. She will keep people from bothering you and provide the perfect alibi.’ ‘Alibi?’ It was the remnants of the drug making her sound so dull. The cold hauteur she associated with him returned, making his eyes resemble ice. ‘Yes, alibi. Ferguson will drive you up to your home this evening and you will alight from your own carriage with Mrs Burroughs. Everyone will be told you had to make an emergency trip to visit your old nanny. Ferguson says she lives close enough that the excuse is plausible. Juliet nodded, beginning to understand. ‘But I cannot return in your nightshirt or Harry’s clothes.’ ‘Do you think we are such poor conspirators?’ ‘Why don’t I have my own maid, then?’ she asked archly. He stared at her for a moment. ‘Why indeed? Let me think.’ After a pause, he added, ‘She was out

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running an errand for you when word of your old nanny’s plight reached you. You did not have time to wait for the servant’s return, you were so fearful of what might happen if you delayed.’ ‘And I paid Mrs Burroughs out of my pin money?’ ‘What else?’ he countered, a devastating smile playing over his lips. ‘Don’t tell me your Papa keeps you on a short lead, for I shan’t believe it. If he did so, you would never have been able to sneak off and meet me for the duel without someone finding out.’ ‘True,’ she muttered. ‘Neither Papa nor Emily care much what I do. Harry does, but he is too intrigued by his first visit to London to pay much attention to me. And since I run the household, it is easy to do as I please.’ ‘Exactly,’ he stated. She shook her head, amazed at his ingenuity and correct reading of her situation, and instantly regretted it. Her ears rang and dizziness made her close her eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, a tinge of anxiety in his voice. She managed a tight smile. ‘Yes. I have no intention of staying here longer and causing you further trouble.’ She took several deep, slow breaths

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before opening her eyes. ‘Did Hobson manage to get some of my clothes?’ ‘Yes. Your servants are loyal to foolhardiness,’ he said curtly, disapproval obvious in the stiffness of his shoulders. Her smile came again, softer. ‘They have always been there to help. Mama used to say she would not accomplish half of what she did if not for them. They came with her when she married Papa. Hobson was a footman then, and Ferguson a stable boy.’ ‘Old family retainers. That explains a lot.’ A soft knock was followed by Mrs Burroughs’ appearance. ‘Your Grace. Miss.’ She billowed into the room, her arms full of clothing. ‘Now, you must leave,’ she said to Brabourne, ‘while I help Miss Juliet dress. I will let you know when to return.’ The Duke made a sardonic bow and left. Mrs Burroughs helped Juliet sit up with pillows propping her back. From then on everything was agony, and it was only stubbornness that kept Juliet from fainting. She was going home. No longer would she be beholden to the man she had tried to shoot. Juliet woke to the scents of lavender and lilac. She had to be in her own room because she always kept bowls of the dry flowers and fresh when they

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were in season. She stretched and winced. Her shoulder hurt. Everything came back in a rush. The duel, the wound, the Duke. The last thing she remembered was him kissing her hand as he helped her into the carriage. The arrival home and her getting to her room were a blur. She forced herself to a sitting position and stopped. Her head spun, and it was all she could do not to collapse back on to the pillows. She would have to move more slowly. After what seemed an eternity the room stopped twirling. She swallowed, her tongue feeling swollen and dry. A little water would be nice. A glance at the bedside table showed a pitcher and glass. Careful not to set off another dizzy spell, she poured the liquid and drank it down. It tasted like ambrosia. Only now did she notice that she was dressed in her favourite nightrail. She looked around, noting the shades of lilac and lavender in drapes, carpet and bed-covering. Being in her own room provided a sense of comfort and security that she had not realised she was missing until now. It was wonderful. A knock alerted her instants before the door opened. A short, robust lady with a grey bun and iron-straight eyebrows slipped in, quickly closing the door behind herself. Mrs Burroughs. She held a

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silver tray from which came the smell of hot chocolate and toast. Juliet stared as the woman set the tray on a table by the fire. ‘Thank you, Mrs Burroughs. I feel as weak as a newborn pup.’ ‘I’ve just the thing, then, Miss Juliet,’ the housekeeper said, a twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘I see you are much better, just as Ferguson said you would be. ‘Tis a good thing you hired me as your lady’s maid for the last several days while you went to visit your old nanny. Bless the lady’s heart, being so sick and all that she needed you immediately and left you no time to notify your father. Unfortunately, your note did not arrive till today.’ The Duke had thought of everything. She crossed to the bed and put a sturdy arm around Juliet’s waist and helped her to a chair. Juliet sank like a rock on to the lavender silk cushion of her favourite chair. She was so tired. ‘How long will you be staying? It seems that I am not up to snuff yet.’ Mrs Burroughs smiled gently. ‘As long as needed. I have already had the devil of a time keeping your own maid out. The only thing that has saved us is the fact that you hired the girl here in London and she has no loyalty to you. Now, take some hot chocolate and toast. You need plenty of nourishment to regain your strength.’ She frowned

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as Juliet sipped the drink. ‘I would give you some laudanum, for I know your shoulder pains you a great deal, but you will need all your wits about you today.’ Juliet sighed. ‘So true. Emily will very likely be here at any moment, demanding to know why I took off like I did.’ ‘Tut, tut, child. We will get through this.’ Juliet nibbled a triangle of toast, her dry mouth making it difficult to swallow. ‘How long exactly was I at Lord Brabourne’s? I seem to remember him saying two or three days.’ ‘Two nights and three days.’ Two nights and three days. Papa. The duel. She turned an anxious gaze to the other woman. ‘What about Papa? Did he meet the Duke? Did Brabourne shoot him?’ ‘They met,’ Mrs Burroughs said softly. ‘Why was I not told?’ Juliet demanded, trying to push herself up and failing. ‘There, there. The Duke felt it was better that you not know. He did not want the worry causing a relapse.’ ‘It must have been while I was drugged with laudanum.’ Mrs Burroughs rearranged the pillow behind Juliet’s back. ‘It was, but everything is fine now. The

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Duke’s bullet went wide and your Papa shot into the ground. No one was hurt.’ Juliet sagged in relief and a shiver of aftershock shook her. ‘Then my foolishness accomplished something.’ ‘More than you know, child,’ Mrs Burroughs murmured, a strange look on her face. ‘But you are trembling. Where do you keep your robe?’ Mrs Burroughs fetched it and put it around Juliet’s shoulders. Juliet huddled into the warmth of her lilac robe as another thought erupted. ‘He could have shot Papa, but did not. Why? Is he admitting that he dallied with my stepmother?’ Fierceness toughened Mrs Burroughs’s features. ‘His Grace saved your Papa a nasty wound. That is not admitting anything. The Duke would never become involved with a married woman. Never.’ Juliet glanced at the older woman, surprised by her vehemence. It seemed that Brabourne also commanded loyalty. Juliet took a gulp of too-hot chocolate and choked. ‘Ahh!’ Mrs Burroughs was instantly solicitous, her ire of seconds before forgotten. ‘Are you all right?’ Juliet nodded and wiped the tears of pain away with one hand. ‘Are you always so impetuous? If so, the two of you will make quite a pair.’ Juliet put the china cup down on to the saucer

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with such force the chocolate sloshed over the edges. She stared at the woman and wondered if her hearing had been impaired by her injury. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ ‘You are stubborn like him, too.’ ‘Are we still discussing Brabourne?’ Juliet asked with an underlying chill in her voice. Mrs Burroughs sighed. ‘You do not like him. Well, that is understandable. He does not have a good reputation, and he goes his own way and the devil take the hindmost. And he is arrogant.’ She moved to the bed and straightened the cover but, even with her back to Juliet her words were clear. ‘He came into his title young. Much too young. And he had a disappointment that made him bitter and hard. But he’s good and honourable at heart.’ She sighed again, her ample bosom rising and falling like a tidal wave. ‘He just needs a situation to make him act good and honourable.’ She turned to face Juliet and pinned her with intense brown eyes. ‘You are that situation.’ Juliet’s eyes widened, and her head jerked back at the force of the other woman’s look and words. ‘Me? are you mad?’ ‘No.’ She leaned down to Juliet, her face serious and her voice lowered so that Juliet had to strain to hear. ‘We tried to keep your presence in his Grace’s home secret. We did everything we could think of,

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but somehow it leaked out. We made up the story of your whereabouts for your family and we will stick to it, but the rumours of where you really were will be circulating about the ton before long.’ Juliet shrank into her robe, thankful for its warmth as a chill of foreboding moved through her body. ‘I am ruined.’ Mrs Burroughs nodded, sympathy softening the tightness around her mouth. ‘His Grace must marry you, as he will soon realise.’ Juliet stared at nothing, not paying attention to Mrs Burroughs. ‘Ruined—and I have not even been presented to the ton. I shall never dance at Almack’s or have a coming-out ball. All the things I have missed because Papa was busy in the country and then Mama was ill.’ ‘His Grace will see that you have all those things.’ ‘Well,’ Juliet said, still in her own world, ‘I do not need those things.’ Her chin notched up and she squared her shoulders. ‘They are all fripperies that mean nothing and accomplish nothing. I shall tour the cultural sights here and then return home to Wood Hall where I belong.’ ‘We shall see. We shall see,’ Mrs Burroughs muttered. ‘Now, be a good girl and eat up your toast and drink every drop of that hot chocolate. You

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need everything we can get into you so that you regain your strength.’ Juliet obediently finished her repast. Daintily wiping her mouth, she canted her head to better see the other woman. ‘But you can forget this harebrained idea of yours concerning Brabourne. I shall never marry a man of his ilk.’ Mrs Burroughs’s lips parted but, before she could speak her mind the door to the room slammed open. The former Mrs Winters, now Lady Smythe-Clyde, stormed inside. Her fair hair curled around her dainty face, and a light white muslin Empire dress flowed around her colt-like limbs. Juliet could understand why her papa had married the woman. Lady Smythe-Clyde thrust out a clenched fist, a sheet of paper crumpled in her fingers. ‘See this? This is a note to your father. Me. You. From the Duchess of Richmond, saying she is truly sorry, but she rescinds our invitation to her ball.’ Her fair face was mottled in anger. ‘Because of you. You. Do you hear me?’ Her voice rose into a shrill demand. ‘I imagine the entire household can hear you, Emily,’ Juliet said drily, using the other woman’s Christian name. ‘You may go,’ she added to Mrs Burroughs. ‘And thank you.’ The housekeeper hustled out. ‘All my work. All my careful planning and it is

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all coming to naught,’ Emily fumed as she paced the floor. ‘I know this is a great disappointment to you, after all your plans and hard work to present me to Society.’ Juliet managed to keep a tone of sympathy in her voice, even though she knew the other woman had merely used her as a reason for her pursuit of the ton. Emily stopped in her tracks and a curl of contempt marred her otherwise perfect mouth. ‘Let us lay off this game-playing, Juliet, for I am prodigiously tired of it. Bringing you out was to be my introduction to Polite Society; now, through your illjudged stay in the Duke of Brabourne’s house, you have put paid to everything I have worked so hard to achieve.’ Juliet suppressed a jolt of shock. How did Emily know? Surely the rumours had not reached here yet? ‘How can you say that? I have been with my old nurse.’ Emily’s lips curled. ‘Save that twaddle for others. I know the truth.’ Juliet eyed the other woman but said nothing, waiting to see what would happen. There were times when she managed not to react. Few, but occasionally. ‘Oh, yes.’ Emily moved to the fireplace and threw

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the paper into the flames. ‘In fact, it was I who let slip the secret of your whereabouts.’ Juliet gasped, all her careful control slipping. ‘You? Why? If I am ruined, then everything you have done to enter Society is in vain.’ A cruel light hardened the other woman’s eyes. ‘I made the best of a bad situation. Sooner or later someone would have found out. I just speeded up the revelation.’ The words did not make sense, and Juliet wondered if she was still suffering from too much laudanum, as she had at the Duke’s house. Or perhaps it was exhaustion. ‘I don’t understand.’ Emily gave Juliet a contemptuous once-over. ‘No, you would not. Miss Prim and Proper. Always doing what is best for Papa, without a care about anything else.’ Juliet was taken aback. She knew the other woman did not like her, and she did not like her stepmother, but the venom was more pronounced than she had expected. Still, the insults fired her already edgy nerves and she spoke hastily. ‘Someone has to care for Papa, for it is obvious that you do not.’ A tinkling laugh filled the room. ‘I did not marry him to care for him. I married him for position and to be cared for by him.’ Juliet saw red. This woman had married Papa

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with no regard for anyone else. Not that she had ever doubted it, but...but there had always been a kernel of hope that she was wrong. ‘If you wanted position and care, why did you not marry a man like Brabourne instead of merely dallying with one? At least then the rest of us would not be in this mess.’ Emily gave a bark of laughter, as different from her famous trill as black was from white. ‘Do you think I did not try?’ Juliet looked in horror at Emily. ‘So Papa is nothing to you. Only a means to an end.’ The other woman sniffed. ‘All marriages of our class are arrangements. At least your papa does not need an heir. So I am free to go my own way.’ ‘Which you did with Brabourne,’ Juliet said, her anger simmering. The small twinge of discomfort she felt at the thought of Emily in the Duke’s arms was squashed. Emily shrugged. ‘For a while.’ ‘You are selfish. If you had been more discreet, Papa would not have needed to challenge Brabourne to a duel, and none of this would have happened.’ Juliet made her hands unclench. It was past. There was nothing she could do to change the current situation. ‘So, the ever-so-dutiful and solicitous daughter has claws. Well, I never doubted it.’ She turned her

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back to Juliet. ‘If you had been less impetuous, we would not be in this situation. No one said you had to take your father’s place.’ Juliet struggled to her feet, no longer willing to look up at the other woman. Dizziness made her grab the back of the chair, but she remained standing. ‘Someone had to protect Papa from your folly.’ Emily sneered. ‘And who will protect him from this unpleasant mess your reckless action has caused?’ ‘My reckless action? You are the one who let the information out, for which reason you still have not told me.’ Her fingers clenched the chair until her knuckles turned white. She was so tired, but she could not let Emily leave without finding out what was going on. Emily took in Juliet’s discomfort. ‘It would seem you have returned too soon. You will need to stay in bed for some time to come.’ Juliet’s chest tightened in anger. ‘I will do as I see fit.’ Emily arched two perfectly cared-for blonde brows. ‘Will you? We shall see what your papa has to say about your...exhaustion.’ Juliet nearly toppled over. For the first time since this argument began she realised that if Emily knew what had really happened then Papa could find out. That would hurt Papa. Something she did not want.

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In a tired voice, all the fight drained from her, Juliet asked, ‘Why are you doing this?’ Emily glared at her. ‘Because if I cannot have Brabourne, and all that he represents in Society, I will see to it that you have him and I benefit directly from your connection to him. When the Duke decides he has to save your reputation and asks you to marry him, I expect you to accept.’ Juliet stiffened her spine, knowing she was nearly ready to collapse. ‘You are crazy. He will never ask and I would never accept.’ Emily moved to the door and gave Juliet a last penetrating look. ‘Do not be too sure about what either of you will do.’ Juliet stared at the door long after the other woman had left. Insanity. This was the stuff farces were made of. Brabourne would never propose. Never. And if he did? a tiny voice asked. Juliet sank back into the chair and covered her eyes with a shaking hand. She would resist him, no matter how hard or how much it hurt. There was no other answer when a rake came calling. Mrs Burroughs gave him the minimum curtsy required, and Sebastian could tell by the look on her face that she longed to box his ears. If anyone else

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looked at him the way she did, they would soon regret it. With her he merely sighed. ‘Yes, Mrs Burroughs?’ ‘It has started, your Grace.’ He raised one eyebrow. Exasperation lowered hers. ‘The ostracism of the young lady. Just as I knew it would. Just as you knew it would—if you had let yourself consider it. You must stop it.’ This woman was one of the few people in his life he cared for, and the only woman. But, right now, irritation at her persistence in pushing him about something he did not want to do hardened his jaw. For the first time since becoming an adult he was curt with her. ‘I am busy now, Mrs Burroughs, and have no time to discuss this matter. Nor will I ever.’ He stood so that he towered above her rotund figure. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ She inflated her chest and lifted her ample chin. ‘Quite...your Grace.’ Without asking permission to leave, she sailed out. Sebastian watched her until she was gone, then turned to look out through the large window that let the meagre afternoon sunlight into the library. The roses were in full bloom and a few tulips lingered. The girl was becoming an even bigger problem. Much as he did not want to become involved, he

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wanted to see her ostracised even less. She had spirit. And she cared about others. He remembered her reason for dressing as a boy and fighting him. It had all been for her father. Never once had she mentioned or seemed even to consider the repercussions to herself. He admired that trait in anyone, since it was so unusual, but in the girl he found himself more than admiring. Making a decision, he turned and strode to the door. He went into the hall and beckoned to a nearby footman. ‘Fetch Mr Wilson for me. Now.’ ‘Yes, your Grace.’ The young man bowed and hurried off. Sebastian returned to the library and sprawled out in the leather wingchair that was his favourite. He did not wait long for the knock. Jeremy Wilson entered the room, his fair blond hair glinting in the light. He was a slight man. The kind that mothers wanted to nurture and women wanted to protect. Men liked him too. Sebastian trusted and depended on him. ‘Jeremy, my long-suffering secretary,’ Sebastian said, waving him to a seat. ‘I have yet another job for you that has nothing to do with my business affairs. And hopefully, after a short while, will have nothing to do with my social life either.’ Jeremy grinned. ‘Another woman, your Grace? Most men would be more than happy to be pursued

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at all hours and all days. You seek to get rid of them.’ Sebastian returned the smile from habit, not amusement. ‘Ah, but then I am not most men. Besides, all women become bores sooner or later.’ A flash of pity filled Jeremy’s green eyes, but only for a second. ‘What can I do this time, your Grace?’ Sebastian straightened in the chair. ‘I want you to find out the engagements of Lord Smythe-Clyde and his family.’ The secretary’s eyes widened. The Duke had asked many unusual things of him, but never something like this. ‘Yes,’ Sebastian said drily, ‘the same man who challenged me to a duel over his wife. And you may as well know, since I know you can be trusted and since the entire ton will shortly be a-buzz about it, the sick guest we housed for three days was SmytheClyde’s daughter. She is the one who initially fought me. The later duel with her father was a sham.’ After a pause, Jeremy said, ‘Interesting. I would warrant she would not be boring.’ The comment was too close for comfort. Sebastian ignored it. ‘Let me know as soon as possible. If I do not receive invitations for the same events, see that I get them.’

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Recognising dismissal, Jeremy rose. ‘I should have some information by this afternoon. Oh, yes, you are invited to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. It is tonight. I understand that everyone has been asked.’ ‘Including the Smythe-Clydes?’ ‘I would assume so,’ Jeremy said from the door. Sebastian rubbed his right eyebrow. ‘Her events are always overcrowded and uninteresting, but I suppose I must attend if I intend to put my plan into action.’ Jeremy waited to see if his employer would elaborate. When the Duke rose and turned to look out of the window, Jeremy understood he would learn nothing more. Sebastian heard the door close. He wondered one last time why he was concerning himself. It had been a long time since he had done something for someone else who was not one of his cronies. It was a strange sensation. Sebastian put the final crease in his cravat, his valet looking on proudly. ‘A perfect Brabourne Soire´e,’ the servant said reverentially. Ravensford lounged nearby on the bed, a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘All the ladies will be in awe of your sartorial elegance.’

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Sebastian cut him a fulminating glance as his valet helped him into a sleekly tailored blue jacket. A thumb-sized sapphire secured in the cravat was the final touch. ‘Where is Perth?’ Sebastian asked. ‘Carousing in some den of iniquity. He did not tell me which one, so I’m afraid we cannot plan on joining him later.’ ‘More’s the pity,’ Sebastian said, attaching a silver fob to his waistcoat. ‘he will have more fun than we.’ ‘Without a doubt,’ Ravensford said, rising from the bed and straightening his coat. ‘But we are on a mission.’ ‘Here, my lord,’ the valet said, hurrying over to Ravensford. ‘Let me brush out the wrinkles and straighten your collar and cravat.’ ‘No need, Roberts,’ Ravensford said, fending of the servant’s eager help. ‘I don’t mind a little mussing. I am a Corinthian, not a dandy.’ Roberts backed away, but could not keep from sighing. ‘You could cut such a dashing figure, my lord, if I may be so bold as to say.’ ‘He already does,’ Sebastian said with a mocking grin. ‘He is the epitome of raffishness. All the women will swoon at his feet.’ ‘There is only one kind of woman I want swoon-

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ing,’ Ravensford said, ‘and we will not find that kind at this gathering.’ ‘No,’ Sebastian said, opening the door. ‘And more’s the pity.’ An hour later, they finally entered the foyer of the Duchess of Richmond’s town house. Their hostess beamed at them. ‘Brabourne. Ravensford. I am so glad you could tear yourself away from your other amusements.’ Each man in turn took her offered hand. ‘How could we resist?’ Sebastian murmured, kissing her palm. ‘Such devilish charm,’ she said, smiling as he released her fingers. ‘Enjoy yourselves. There are more than enough eligible women, even for the likes of you two.’ ‘Yes, but are they entertaining?’ Sebastian said sotto voce as they walked away. ‘Probably not,’ Ravensford replied, before turning to greet the matchmaking mama of a girl just out of the schoolroom. ‘See you later,’ Sebastian said with a nod to the woman and a wink to his friend. He thought he heard Ravensford groan, but knew the Earl was too well-mannered to be so rude. With practised ease and a cool smile, Sebastian circulated through the room. He ignored the spec-

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ulative glances sent his way. People had been discussing him since he was old enough to realise what they were doing, and probably long before that. There was no sign of his quarry. Guests milled around the enormous room, spilling out on to the balconies and into the gardens. An orchestra played a waltz and couples swirled and dipped to the music. Dowagers sat in huddles, discussing anyone and everything. Several men wandered into another room where cards were being played. Everyone was here, including many he did not know. Except the Smythe-Clydes. Irritation knitted Sebastian’s brows together. He stepped out on to the balcony for some cool air and privacy. This was the opening ball of the Season. Surely Smythe-Clyde and his family would be here if they had been invited. Emily would be. A schoolgirl giggle wafted up from the walkway below him, and Sebastian took a step back towards the ballroom. ‘Have you seen the Duke?’ a girl asked. ‘Oh, yes,’ another girl answered. ‘He looks so romantic. And dangerous.’ The first girl giggled again and lowered her voice. ‘He is. Have you heard that he had Juliet SmytheClyde in his house for three days and three nights? Although they are saying she went to visit her old nanny.’ Another giggle.

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Her words stopped Sebastian. His fists clenched and he had to resist the urge to jump over the railing and put the chit in her place. The second girl lowered her voice too. ‘Oh, yes. Wouldn’t you just love to be his captive?’ The first girl spoke soberly. ‘Not if it ruined me as it has her. Mama said she and her family had been invited tonight, but when word of her disgrace got out the Duchess sent a note telling them they were no longer welcome.’ Sebastian had heard enough. If chits barely out of the schoolroom knew of the disaster, then it was all over town. Nor would he stay here and gratify the Duchess of Richmond by dancing with any of her eligible girls. Never before had he been made so aware of the double standards of his world. Juliet Smythe-Clyde was not welcome while he was courted, even though she was innocent and he was anything but. He entered the ballroom and scanned it for Ravensford. Catching the Earl’s attention, he flicked his eyes towards the door. Ravensford nodded and began making his excuses. Sebastian located the Duchess of Richmond and made his way to her. As furious as he was with the woman, he would not be so crass as to leave without saying goodbye. He was many things, but no one

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had ever accused him of neglecting the social niceties. That was for Perth to do. He gave the Duchess a cool smile. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but Ravensford and I must be on our way.’ She tutted at him. ‘Surely it is too early for the gaming hells, Brabourne. Stay awhile and dance with some of the chits who have been fluttering around you.’ He froze her with a look. ‘I think not, your Grace. My morals are not up to your exacting standards.’ She blinked while his words sank in. Taking a step back, she returned his glare with one of her own. ‘They certainly are not, but you are a Duke, and an eligible one at that. You can be forgiven many faults.’ ‘As others cannot,’ he said softly, a hard edge underlying the words. Ravensford arrived just then and took in the situation. He put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and squeezed hard. Smiling at the Duchess, he said, ‘We must be on our way. Thank you for your hospitality.’ She smiled warmly at him and gave him her hand to kiss. Ravensford performed his duty with grace and the two men made their escape. Outside the evening air was like a cool caress after the stifling heat of the ballroom. Instead of

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entering the coach when it drove up, they opted to walk with the vehicle following behind. ‘What was that about?’ Ravensford asked, swinging his gold-tipped cane. Sebastian took a deep breath and wondered why he had lost his temper. Usually there was only one thing that made him see red. A slight to a girl he barely knew was not in the same league. He told Ravensford what had happened. The Earl whistled low. ‘So, it has already begun. But not surprising.’ ‘Everyone will follow the Duchess’s lead.’ ‘And there is nothing you can do about it. Why should you?’ Sebastian stopped. ‘I don’t know. But for some benighted reason I feel like helping this girl.’ ‘Oh-ho,’ Ravensford said with a knowing look. ‘So that’s the way it is.’ ‘Hardly,’ Sebastian said drily. ‘I admire the chit; I don’t love her. Or even care that much about her. I just don’t want her punished for trying to protect her father. Few enough of our acquaintances would do what she did.’ ‘True. But what can you do about it?’ Ravensford started walking again and Sebastian kept pace. ‘I can bring her into fashion.’ This time Ravensford stopped. ‘I hardly think so. That will only confirm in the old tabbies’ minds that

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the rumour is correct.’ He gave Sebastian a piercing look. ‘The only way you can make her respectable is to marry her.’ ‘A little drastic, don’t you think?’ ‘Depends on how badly you want to make her respectable.’ ‘Not that badly,’ Sebastian said, signalling to the coach. ‘Take us to Pall Mall.’ Ravensford followed Sebastian into the vehicle. ‘I told you we would not be able to locate Perth.’ ‘But we shall enjoy ourselves trying.’ Sebastian lounged back into the leather squabs, determined to put the chit from his mind for the night.

Chapter Five

Juliet

scratched absently at her shoulder before catching herself. The wound was healing nicely; she just tired easily. Right now, she had to plan the next week’s menus. Papa’s new wife had no interest in running the house and had done nothing while Juliet had been gone. Nor had anything been done during the past two weeks while Juliet had claimed illness and kept to her rooms, giving her wound more time to heal. No matter that the rumour was everywhere, she stuck to the story that she had been to visit her nurse. Much as she hated it, she owed Emily a thankyou. The other woman had not told Papa the truth, and Papa was so wrapped up in his experiments that he did not know of the rumours. Her brother Harry strode into the room and

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slammed the door behind himself, focusing her attention on him. She watched him with a fond, if puzzled look. He paced the morning room of their rented house, his red hair standing up in spikes on his head. A grin tugged at her mouth. Whenever he was agitated he ran his fingers through his hair until it resembled a hedgehog’s back. He stopped abruptly and leaned on the desk so his face was close to hers. ‘Is it true?’ Her fingers tightened on the pen she held until her knuckles turned white. The urge to look away from him was strong, but she was made of sterner stuff. Carefully, she laid the pen down and forced her fingers into a relaxed clasp. Until now he had not asked her, and she could not lie to him. ‘As far as it goes. Yes.’ He groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Why, Ju?’ She told him about everything: the duel, her reason for going, and what had really happened during her stay. The only thing she left out was Emily’s part in the mess. No one else needed to know that. Brabourne would never propose and she would never accept. She ended with, ‘I suppose I should feel shame for being in his house unchaperoned, but I don’t. Nothing happened.’ Or nothing of consequence, her always truthful conscience added. ‘No one was sup-

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posed to find out, but somehow a servant suspected and from there it spread.’ He stood up and his mouth twisted. ‘Why didn’t you come to me? I would have helped.’ She saw the anguish in his eyes and knew he would be a long time forgiving her. She swallowed. ‘Because I am the oldest. I am the one Mama entrusted Papa’s care to. I had to do it for her.’ ‘I could have done it and there would have been no scandal.’ She nodded, her hands once more clenched. ‘True. But I could not stand to ask you to put your life in jeopardy.’ ‘But you could risk yours.’ Anger spotted his cheeks, making his freckles stand out like patches. There was no way she could make him understand. She rose and went around the desk and embraced him. He remained stiff in her arms. ‘I am sorry, Harry. I am so sorry. But I could not. I just could not ask you to face a man who would have had no qualms about killing you. You mean too much to me.’ He moved away from her. ‘Why didn’t you let Papa face Brabourne? Papa is the one who made the challenge.’ She sighed and stepped away from him. He was still too upset to want closeness. ‘I told you. I had

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to protect Papa. To take care of him. I promised Mama on her deathbed.’ Harry shook his head, some of the colour leaving his face. ‘You cannot always be taking care of him—or everyone else, for that matter. Some day you won’t be here, and then what will happen?’ At her stricken look, he hurried on. ‘Don’t look like that, Ju. Some day you will marry and leave. That’s only natural. All women do it. Then Papa will have to care for himself.’ A choked laugh escaped her tight throat. ‘I will never marry now. Papa’s new wife may throw me out, but no man will take me in.’ His face flamed anew as he remembered the original reason he had come to see her. ‘Dash it all, Ju. That ain’t true. There is George at home. He loves you and will marry you no matter what.’ A sad smile tugged at her lips, and she turned away so he would not see the emotion. ‘Dear George. I would never disgrace him by accepting his proposal. Not now.’ ‘Don’t be a goose,’ he said roundly. ‘This is not the end of the world. All the ton may go to Hades. We don’t need them.’ His voice picked up. ‘I have it. Let’s go to Vauxhall tonight. We will forget all of this and enjoy ourselves. Just the two of us. There will be fireworks,’ he cajoled. She looked back at him. He had the mischievious,

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let’s-have-fun look that had always lured her into trouble. Gone was the hangdog expression he had entered the room wearing. This was her younger brother, the boy she had also promised to look after and protect. Mama had known Papa was incapable of anything but his hunting and experimenting. She caught his hand and squeezed it. ‘What time should we leave?’ A grin split his face. ‘Half past eight.’ On a much happier note, he left to prepare for their night of revelry. Juliet stayed behind and tried to finish the week’s menu, but it was hard. George’s face kept coming between her and the paper. Good, kind George, who wanted to marry her. She had turned him down just before coming to London, and he had told her he would wait. She cared a great deal for him, liked him immensely, and had considered accepting him when she returned home. He would care for her and any children they might have for the rest of his life. That was a gift any woman should be glad to have. Another visage forced its way to her attention. Hard angles and unyielding eyes made her pulse jump. Brabourne. She gave up. The menus could wait. She rose and headed outside. The house had a small garden with a white iron bench sitting under a large elm tree. It was her favourite spot here in

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London. Perhaps some time spent there would ease the turmoil that threatened to tear her chest apart. Life had been so simple before. It should be as uncomplicated now. Somehow it was not. Juliet waited for Harry in the hall, dressed in a simple white muslin gown with green ribbons, her hair piled on her head and more green ribbon threaded through its curls. When she heard his tread on the marble floor she turned to him with a smile— and had to suppress a gasp. He was in the same coat she had worn to meet Brabourne. Visions of that horrible night threatened to close her throat. ‘You look very fetching,’ her brother said. His unexpected compliment erased her tension. As her younger brother, she did not expect him even to notice her clothes. ‘What is the matter, Harry? Do you have a fever?’ He grinned. ‘Thought I’d start us out on the right note. Tommy says all girls like to be told they look nice.’ She chuckled. ‘Coming the pretty with me? And where is the redoubtable Tommy? I am surprised he is not coming with us.’ He gave her a sheepish grin. ‘He is to meet us there. He knows his way around,’ he finished in a rush. ‘That is why I asked him.’ ‘I should have known Tommy would not be far

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from us tonight.’ She felt a twinge of disappointment that she and Harry would not be enjoying their adventure alone, but she put it aside. Young men did not like being saddled with sisters. She was fortunate to have been asked at all. He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, it was his suggestion. Thought it would show everyone that we can’t be cowed.’ ‘I should have known. He has been on the Town longer than you,’ she murmured, leading the way to the carriage. The ride was long and boring, but when they pulled up and Juliet stepped out, a look of awestruck wonder radiated from her face. ‘It is like a fairyland. There must be hundreds and hundreds of lamps.’ ‘Actually,’ a deep voice drawled, ‘there are thousands.’ She whirled around. The Duke of Brabourne, in impeccable evening wear, lounged against one of the entry pillars. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, before realising it was none of her business. He pushed away from the pillar and moved towards her. The delight of seconds before was supplanted by an edginess that increased with each step closer he took. He made her feel so vulnerable. She angled back and bumped into Harry.

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Harry glared at the Duke. ‘He is here to cause trouble, no doubt. Why else would one of his reputation frequent a pleasure garden?’ Brabourne raked the youth with a frigid stare. ‘We meet again, puppy, and your manners are no better.’ Harry’s chest puffed up and his eyes narrowed. Juliet recognised the danger signs and stepped between the two males. ‘Enough,’ she said, putting a hand on Harry to stay his forward momentum. ‘Surely Vauxhall is big enough for all of us.’ ‘London isn’t big—’ ‘Stop it. Now, Harry,’ Juliet whispered, ‘if you create a scene, then everyone will think the rumour confirmed. What then? Have you thought of that? Will you challenge Brabourne to a duel to defend my smirched honour? That would only make a bad situation worse.’ ‘She is right, puppy,’ the Duke said. She rounded on him. ‘And what are you trying to do? Make matters worse. I am trying to reason with him and you put your oar into the waters.’ Brabourne smiled, the emotion reaching his eyes. ‘A firebrand to go with the hair.’ For long seconds Juliet stood, transfixed by the change in the Duke’s countenance. No longer was he the cold, sardonic man who had duelled her and

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then kept her in his home. This was the man who had comforted her as she lay racked by fever, the man she had thought only a figment of her imagination. The realisation was unsettling. ‘I’m warning you,’ Harry said through gritted teeth. ‘Miss Smythe-Clyde. Harry.’ Tommy’s light tenor cut through the animosity. ‘Thought I saw you arrive.’ Tommy Montmart rushed over, his gaze darting to the Duke and back to the brother and sister. He stopped between them and Brabourne. Tommy was a slight youth with sandy hair and hazel eyes. His chin was more prominent than necessary and his nose was not large enough to balance it. While he was not good-looking, he was friendly and helpful. You could not keep from liking him. ‘We must be going, your Grace,’ Juliet said breathlessly, taking each youth by the arm and propelling them down the first lane they came to. They had not gone ten steps before Harry shook himself free. ‘I can walk by myself.’ She eyed him. ‘Then do so. Away from the Duke.’ ‘She is right, you know, old chum,’ Tommy said. ‘Won’t do to start a fight with Brabourne. He’s a prime one with his fists. Cause another scandal too. The only chance you have of weathering this one is to act as though it is all a farce.’

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Harry answered with a grunt. Juliet listened to them, but her focus was on the Duke. Why had he come up to them? Was he trying to ruin her completely? Even now, the back of her neck tingled as though someone were watching her. Only one person had ever had that effect on her. She wrapped her paisley shawl tighter around her shoulders and forced herself to look at the sights. Vauxhall was indeed a marvel. An orchestra played while people danced. Snatched pieces of passing conversations mentioned singing to come. Tommy and Harry talked about going to the Cascade first, a spectacle that even she, cloistered in the country, had heard of. ‘Miss Smythe-Clyde.’ Tommy halted and motioned Juliet to look to the right. ‘It is Prinny himself.’ The Prince Regent stood in the middle of a gathering comprising both men and women. Laughter came from the group like music from a flock of gaily feathered birds. They were the e´lite of English society. Sudden quiet came over them as Brabourne raised his glass to the prince. Everyone toasted and the laughter began anew. Juliet turned away. ‘He comes here all the time,’ Tommy said. ‘Brabourne?’ Juliet said before thinking.

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Both Tommy and Harry frowned at her. ‘No,’ Tommy said. ‘The Prince.’ Juliet turned quickly from their probing looks. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. A bell chimed and Tommy said, ‘We must hurry. They are about to unveil the Cascade.’ Catching their excitement, Juliet hurried after the two young men. All about them others did the same. They arrived in time to get a good position. The curtain was drawn aside to show a landscape scene illuminated by lights. A miller’s house and waterfall were near the front. The ‘water’, or so it seemed to be to Juliet, flowed into a mill and turned the wheel. ‘Papa would love to see this,’ she said to Harry. ‘I wonder how it is done?’ When he did not answer, she turned and realised he was not beside her. The crowd had separated them. A man, his complexion florid and his waist ample, grinned at her. She looked away, searching for her brother. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jolted. It was the man. ‘Here by yourself?’ He leered down at her. Shivers of apprehension coursed her spine. She yanked away. ‘No. My brother is near.’ He moved closer, his gaze taking in her figure. She edged back, bumping into someone else. In-

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stead of being thrilled by the exhibition, she was fast becoming scared. There were so many people, many of whom were becoming rowdy, and she doubted any would provide help. And Harry had disappeared. The man reached for her again, but Juliet slipped between a group of people and headed back the way she had come. She glanced behind and saw the man trying to follow. Unlike before, when the lights had delighted her and made her think of magic, they now seemed glaring. She turned left down a small lane with no lights. With luck she would be able to hide. She twisted around another corner and skidded to a halt. A group of young bucks strolled towards her, singing a ribald song. She looked back to see the man. The singing stopped. ‘Ah, what have we here?’ one of the new arrivals said, moving in front of her. A second one edged to one side of her. ‘A pretty little maid out for a walk.’ The third flanked her. ‘An adventurous little maid. And we can provide her with any thrill she seeks in the Lovers’ Walk. Can’t we, boys?’ ‘Yes,’ they chorused, closing the circle. Juliet’s chest pounded and the roaring in her ears almost drowned out the voices. This was worse than anything. Worse than meeting the Duke. At least

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that had been honourable. What these men intended to do to her was anything but. She swallowed hard past the tightness in her throat. ‘Let me pass. I am not what you think.’ She was thankful her voice did not shake. It was not as strong as she would have liked, but surely it would do. They laughed. ‘I think not,’ the first one said, moving close enough to run a finger down her cheek. She knocked his hand away. ‘Do not touch me.’ The other two smirked. ‘I don’t think she is interested in you, Peter,’ the one on her left said. He reached for her. Juliet jumped away, only to be caught from behind. Two strong arms held her immobile as the others advanced on her. Fear ate at her. She had forgotten the man who had originally followed her. She twisted her head to look for him, only to see him gone. He must have left when these three arrived. Her jaw was caught in a vice-like grip that forced her to look back. ‘Be nice to us,’ the one gripping her chin said, ‘and we might even pay you.’ He released her and she slapped him. The blow landed full on his cheek. He growled and swung his arm back. Juliet was incensed beyond reason now. It no

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longer mattered that her knees shook so badly she was not sure she could stand up on her own. Nor would it do her any good to talk to these louts. She would fight them tooth and nail. As his arm came forward, she stared defiantly at him. His fist was a foot away from her face when she kicked him hard on the shin. His arm dropped and he howled. The one holding her from behind snickered. Using the surprise her action had gained her, she swung the same leg back and raked her heel down her captor’s instep. He gasped and his hold on her relaxed. She twisted away from him and lunged forward, flinching as her injured shoulder made itself known. The third buck caught her around the waist in a breath-snatching grip. So close. She almost moaned aloud. The looks on the faces of the other two told her louder than words that she would not get another chance to escape. Nor would they treat her lightly now. Instead of drunkards looking for fun, they now looked for revenge. She gulped. ‘I believe you have the wrong lady,’ a bored voice drawled. Brabourne. Juliet sagged in relief. In the heat of the meˆle´e none of them had noticed his approach. He came closer and, by the light of the stars and the full moon she could just make out his features.

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No emotion showed on his face, but there was a tension in the lithe grace of his movements that boded no good for her assailants. By his side he held a stylish black ebony cane, chased with silver that glinted like fire. The one named Peter said, ‘Go on with you. She was walking in here unchaperoned. We know the type of doxy who does that, and we intend to give her exactly what she is searching for.’ Brabourne moved closer. ‘I advise you to let her go.’ ‘You don’t scare us,’ the one still holding Juliet said. ‘We’re three to your one. Those are the kind of odds we like.’ ‘I imagine you do,’ Brabourne said with a sneer on his well-formed lips. ‘Too bad you don’t have intelligence to go with your brawn.’ Juliet had remained quiet because she was astounded at the Duke’s appearance. Also, the cowardly part of her hoped he could rescue her or that they would let her go because he demanded it. Everyone else jumped to his bidding. In one smooth, swift motion, the Duke pulled on his cane, revealing a rapier-thin blade that had been hidden in the outside case of fine black wood. Juliet felt her captor’s sharp intake of breath. The three scoundrels had not expected this. Brabourne’s cold smile widened. ‘I never go into

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dark lanes unprepared—no matter where they are. Particularly not here. It’s a pity, but Vauxhall has a reputation for riff-raff such as yourselves.’ He took a step closer. ‘Release her.’ Still they held their ground. A gleam of anticipation entered the Duke’s intense blue eyes. ‘It has been a very dreary day. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to spit you. And I would advise you not to make the mistake of thinking I won’t.’ Juliet began to tremble anew. The sense of nerves drawn taut was great enough to make her reckless. ‘Oh, please, Brabourne, spit them and be done with it.’ His gaze flicked to her and he saluted her with his blade, an admiring gesture even as his eyes filled with mirth. ‘You are as bloodthirsty tonight, my dear, as ever. Does the trait run in your family?’ ‘Brabourne,’ one of the three said. ‘The Duke?’ ‘Yes,’ Juliet said. ‘And he would as soon kill you as look at you. He has already killed in a duel. He could take care of you and never be penalised.’ Brabourne laughed aloud. ‘She is right. The Prince will not even blink an eyelid at my dispatching filth who prey on innocent women.’ With a flick of his wrist, he marked the hand of the man holding Juliet. She was released with a push that sent her towards the Duke. He sidestepped just

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in time to keep her from being impaled on the point of his sword. ‘That was not well done,’ Sebastian growled. Before anyone knew what he was about, he moved in and flicked the cheek of the man who had held and then pushed Juliet. ‘You will wear that mark for life to remind you of this night and your cowardly folly.’ The man just stood and stared while his fellows fled into the dark. ‘I won’t forget this.’ Brabourne looked him up and down, contempt clear in his eyes. ‘I don’t intend you to.’ Juliet held her breath, expecting the man to rush Brabourne. Instead he turned and seemed to melt into the darkness. Juliet, all the strength gone from her body, sank on to the pebble path. Her body shook everywhere and her shoulder throbbed from all the handling she had received. Brabourne squatted down, still holding his sword at the ready. ‘Are you able to walk? We had best get back to the lights.’ She giggled, unable to stop the release of fear. ‘I...yes, just a minute.’ She took a deep breath. He stood and reached a hand down for her. She took it and he pulled her up. She stumbled and fell against his chest, fortunate that it was the side where the sword was not. He caught her round the waist and held her up.

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‘Steady. I cannot hold you and be prepared should they return.’ She nodded, biting her lower lip. ‘I am not usually this giddy.’ ‘I know.’ He released her and she managed to remain standing. ‘Stay on my left, away from the sword, and start walking. Quickly.’ She did as he directed. Within minutes they were in the lit area again. People mingled around them, a few glancing at the sword. Brabourne quickly sheathed it. ‘Come. Something to drink and eat will help restore your spirits.’ He took her gently by the elbow and steered her back to the private supper boxes. Juliet went without thinking of her reputation and how his escort must look to anyone who saw them. She was just grateful to be safe. ‘Thank you. You saved me from...’ she giggled again ‘...A fate worse than death.’ She could not stop giggling. He shook his head. ‘You did not act like this when I shot you.’ She gasped for breath. ‘I know. But then I anticipated the fact that I might be hurt. It never occurred to me that anyone here would accost me and...and threaten my...’ ‘I understand,’ he murmured, his tone almost sympathetic. ‘Obviously your brother and his friend

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failed to prepare you. Vauxhall can be entertaining, perhaps even magical, your first time here, but it is also frequented by scoundrels and thieves. You should not have been left alone,’ he ended on a harder note. She bristled at his implied criticism of Harry. ‘It was an accident. We were at the Cascade and there were so many people. The next thing I knew, Harry was gone. It was my fault for not paying better attention.’ ‘As you wish. But next time hold on to your escort.’ ‘Brabourne.’ A female voice intruded on their argument. ‘Brabourne, I have been looking all over for you. Where have you been, you naughty boy?’ She was a voluptuous woman with hair so dark it blended in with the night. A disgusted look passed over his face, quickly replaced by cool dispassion. ‘Ah, Lady Castlerock. What a pleasant surprise. I thought you were still with Prinny.’ ‘Of course I am. He sent me to find you, saying it is always entertaining when you are around.’ She dimpled at him. He gave her a thin smile. ‘May I introduce you to Miss Smythe-Clyde? She has done me the honour of walking the promenade with me.’ Juliet smiled at the other woman.

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Shocked recognition widened the other woman’s eyes and pinched her mouth. ‘I will see you later, Brabourne.’ Then, without a word, she turned her back to Juliet and walked away. The cut was direct. Mortification held Juliet motionless. Fury kept her from crying. ‘Mary Castlerock has been rude from the first day I met her, and that was while she was still in the schoolroom,’ Brabourne observed. ‘She is no better today.’ His words gave Juliet time to pull herself together. The other woman’s action was not unexpected. The ton had declared Juliet unacceptable and Lady Castlerock was definitely ton. It was Juliet’s fault for forgetting that she should never have been seen in public—or private—with Brabourne. Still, the woman’s reaction had been extreme, and Juliet was determined that she would not succumb like a whipped puppy. But it would do her no good to stay longer in the Duke’s company. She jutted her chin and squared her shoulders, ignoring the ache that radiated from her wound. She dropped the Duke a curtsy, saying, ‘Thank you so much for your help. Without you, I would have been sorely hurt. But I am able to find my brother on my own.’ One eyebrow raised, he said, ‘Are you going to

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let her treatment of you change what you intend to do? I never thought it of you.’ Goaded beyond polite manners, she said, ‘That is easy for you to say. You are no better than you should be, yet no one snubs you. No one ostracises your family for your actions. Well, your Grace, I have neither your rank nor your fortune to protect me and mine from people like Lady Castlerock.’ A lone tear of suppressed hurt slid down her cheek. The tic at his right eye started. ‘Here, take this.’ He thrust his hand at her and she recognised a handkerchief. ‘I don’t need that.’ ‘Take it anyway.’ He grabbed her hand, pried open her fingers and stuffed the fine linen in her palm. In a very unladylike way, she blew her nose. The ghost of a smile curved his mouth. She saw it and blushed. ‘I am not very good at being dainty.’ ‘You are very good just the way you are.’ Her blush deepened. ‘I shall have this laundered and returned to you.’ ‘Discreetly, I hope.’ She searched his face to see if he joked. There was a hint of something in his eyes that made her think he might. ‘Most discreetly.’ She tucked the material into her reticule which, by some miracle, still hung around her wrist. Her

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paisley shawl was somewhere back on the dark Lovers’ Lane, and she had no intention of searching for it. Once again he took her arm. ‘Shall we try this again?’ She sighed wearily. ‘I am not as good at flaunting convention as you. I think it for the best if I try to find Harry on my own.’ ‘So, this is where you are hiding out, Brabourne.’ A booming male voice made Juliet jump. ‘Lady Castlerock said she had found you, but that you were occupied.’ A florid, yet handsome man who carried too much weight headed their way. She wondered if the Duke was chased everywhere he went. It certainly seemed that way. ‘Sir,’ Brabourne said. Juliet closed her eyes. This was too much. First Lady Castlerock had cut her, and now the Prince Regent would do so. She sank into a hurried and graceless curtsy, head bowed as much to hide her dismay as to pay respect. ‘And who is this lovely young morsel?’ the Prince asked. ‘May I present Miss Smythe-Clyde, sir.’ Juliet stayed down, waiting, hoping the Prince would not snub her. ‘Ahh,’ he said in a knowing voice. His tone

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turned devilish. ‘I am delighted to meet Miss Smythe-Clyde. Please rise, my dear. I won’t bite— at least, not yet.’ Juliet could not believe her ears. The Prince was talking to her—flirting with her? But she had heard he had a weakness for women, preferably ones old enough to be his mother. She rose. ‘Your Highness.’ ‘I see why your name is linked with hers, my friend. A very rare prettiness and not at all your normal prey.’ Brabourne’s face betrayed nothing, but Juliet was finding it easier to read him. The straightness in his shoulders and the grip on his cane told her he was not pleased with the Prince’s words. Fireworks started going off, momentarily catching the Prince’s attention. ‘I must be leaving you two. You must come to Carlton House next week, Miss Smythe-Clyde. I am having a small dinner party.’ Without waiting for a response, the Prince left to rejoin his group. Juliet gaped at his back. ‘I cannot go to Carlton House alone. What would people say?’ ‘Nothing they aren’t already saying,’ he said sardonically. ‘But you are right. You will need an escort.’ She nervously twisted a curl that had come loose

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from the knot on her head, very aware of his attention bent on her. He took her hand in his and pulled it from the hair. He gently tucked the strand behind her ear. ‘That will have to do,’ he murmured, his voice husky. ‘I am not a lady’s maid.’ She could not make herself break the rapport between them. There was something magical about the way he watched her. She felt light-headed. Giddy. Ready to twirl around. ‘Ju! Where in blazes have you been?’ Harry said, rushing up to her and grabbing her arm. The moment was broken and Juliet felt as though a bubble of delight had been punctured. Everything was mundane once more. Sighing silently, she angled away from Brabourne. ‘I have been looking for you, Harry. Somehow we became separated at the Cascade.’ ‘I know that. You need to be more careful in a place like this. It may be frequented by all the swells, but there is riff-raff, too. Ain’t safe for a girl alone.’ He puffed like a gamecock protecting a solitary hen. ‘I am well acquainted with the hazards here,’ she said drily. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Brabourne. He looked at her, and she knew he caught her understatement. ‘You are.’ Harry let her go and for the first time

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noticed the Duke. He glared at Brabourne. ‘Has he been bothering you? For I won’t have it.’ Juliet cut off an exasperated retort. ‘No. He was merely keeping me company until you arrived.’ Brabourne made an abbreviated leg. ‘I think, Miss Smythe-Clyde, that we have found your escort to Carlton House.’ She started, for it had never occurred to her that her brother might come. ‘But what will the Prince say?’ ‘I will explain to him.’ Tommy rushed up just as the Duke moved away. ‘Thank you again,’ Juliet said softly, hoping Brabourne heard her. He looked over his shoulder and she knew he had. ‘What is this all about?’ Harry demanded. ‘Been cosying up to Brabourne?’ Tommy said. ‘Not good. Not good at all, Miss Smythe-Clyde, if I may be so bold as to say.’ Juliet shook her head, finding that she was shorter on patience than usual. Normally she could let Harry and Tommy ramble on and rant and rave without any bother. Tonight she was suddenly tired. As calmly as possible, she told both young men about the meeting with Prinny and the invitation. Tommy’s eyes popped. ‘Invited to dinner with the Prince Regent? That is an honour. You must go. No doubt about it. Can’t refuse. Isn’t done.’

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‘Exactly,’ Juliet stated firmly. She took Harry’s arm and steered him towards the entrance. ‘I am tired and would like to go home. I am still not totally recovered.’ ‘But we have not eaten yet,’ Harry complained. ‘The ham is famous throughout England.’ ‘Thin enough to read through,’ Tommy added. Juliet managed to smile at them. ‘I know— Harry, you get the coach to take me home. I shall send it back for both of you.’ The two youths gave each other long-suffering looks. Harry said, ‘I shall go with you, Ju. Ain’t proper for a young lady to go alone.’ She suppressed a tiny smile. They were so like schoolboys. ‘No, you shan’t, Harry. I am old enough to take care of myself. Why, I am a spinster. No one will think twice about my going by myself— and no one need even know.’ The two boys exchanged another look, relief replacing the former resignation. ‘Capital idea,’ Harry said. They chatted on, while Juliet stood silent waiting for the carriage. The last thing she had expected tonight was to meet Brabourne. And to have him rescue her and then introduce her to the Prince— that was the stuff of any young woman’s dreams. But it left her uncomfortable. One dinner at Carlton House would not restore her good name. It would

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only give more people more opportunities to snub her. Also, it would put her near Brabourne, something else she did not need. She was already too susceptible to him for her own good. She would have to feign illness the night of the dinner. The tightness in her stomach eased as she thought of this excuse. She absolutely could not go.

Chapter Six

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Emily demanded, storming into Juliet’s bedchamber. Juliet looked up from her lending-library novel to see a cream vellum sheet clenched in her stepmother’s fingers. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ ‘This!’ Emily thrust the sheet up to Juliet’s face. Juliet drew back to be able to focus. The Prince of Wales’s crest jumped out at her. Reading quickly, she realised this was the invitation to Carlton House. Only Harry and she were invited. Juliet opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There was nothing she could say. ‘How do you know his Royal Highness?’ Emily hovered over Juliet. ‘Um...’ Juliet rose and twisted around the other woman. ‘Now that I can breathe again.’ ‘Don’t be smart with me. Answer my question.’

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Juliet moved to the fireplace to give herself some time. Carefully she laid the book on the mantel and arranged it so that the spine met and ran along the marble edge. She turned to face Emily. ‘I met him at Vauxhall. A mutual acquaintance introduced us.’ She waved her hand as though to dismiss the acquaintance. ‘The Prince seemed to like me and asked me to dinner at Carlton House. I needed a chaperon so he added Harry.’ Emily glared, her blue eyes flashing. ‘A mutual acquaintance? I don’t believe it. Nor can Harry chaperon you. I am the person to do that. I will go in Harry’s place.’ Juliet clamped her mouth shut on words better left unsaid. Harry would like going to Carlton House for all of five minutes. Then the social posturing would make him restless, while the rich foods she had heard the Prince served would not be to her brother’s liking—Harry was a beefsteak eater. ‘You are right, Stepmama. You will make a much better chaperon. I am sure Harry won’t mind.’ The other woman flounced to the door. One hand on the knob, she said, ‘It does not matter what Harry minds. I am going. If you wish to argue this, you may do so with your father.’ Juliet flinched. Emily had Papa obedient to her

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slightest wish. Everyone in the household knew that, and no one crossed her because of it. Thinking of Papa made her want to see him. She glanced at the small silver mantel clock. It was two in the afternoon. He was probably in the cellar, which he had made into a temporary laboratory for his experiments. Only his new wife’s importuning had brought him to London in the first place. She grabbed a shawl to ward off the damp cold that was always present in the underground room. She did not know how Papa could stay there all day and not catch an inflammation of the lungs, but he did. Minutes later, she pushed open the heavy oak door and peeked around the corner. ‘Papa?’ ‘Come in, come in,’ his distracted voice said. She slid quietly into the room. Papa was in the middle of something, and he hated to be disturbed when he was concentrating. His work table was littered with papers and scientific instruments. He fiddled with something that looked like a stack of metal plates. An arc of light that Papa said was electricity shot out. He jumped back, a huge grin on his face. ‘That is more like it,’ he said proudly. Dusting his hands off on a leather apron he wore tied around his ample waist, he looked over at Juliet. ‘What

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brings you here, miss? Come to see my latest work?’ She always found his hobby fascinating, but never understood what he told her. ‘Yes, please.’ ‘Come over here, then.’ His square spectacles perched precariously on the end of his bulbous nose. ‘This is a Voltaic pile, the first electrical battery. I am trying to make a smaller and more powerful one.’ She nodded, understanding that much. But when he launched into the scientific jargon and started pulling out all sorts of machines and pieces of metal, she was lost. Still, she continued to nod and say, ‘oh, yes.’ After a while, he ran down. Peering at her over his spectacles, he asked, ‘What is the real reason you came down?’ ‘To see you,’ she said, meaning every word. ‘It has been days since you have come to dinner or been at breakfast.’ He puttered with his instruments in a futile attempt to clean his table. ‘I am so close. I hate to take time away even to eat. But, bless her heart, Emily has food sent down to me. I don’t know what I ever did without her.’ A besotted look eased the line between his grey brows. Juliet nearly groaned. She was the one who ordered the trays prepared. Emily took advantage of

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the opportunity and came down with the servant when the food was delivered, thus making it appear to be her idea. Still, seeing Papa’s happiness, she did not tell him the truth. It would hurt him to think his new bride did not take care of his comforts. ‘Shall I send one of the maids to dust and pick things up?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Absolutely not. She would misplace everything and break my most important equipment.’ That was his standard answer. Later, when he was out for his daily ride, Juliet would come back and straighten everything. She had done so since she was a small child, and he had never realised. She was very careful to put everything back where he had it, but she managed to dust and pick up any broken pieces. ‘While you are here, what’s this I hear about your being invited to Carlton House? The Prince runs with a rakish lot and I am not sure I want you moving in that crowd. Brabourne is one of his special cronies.’ He took her by surprise. Normally he did not involve himself in her whereabouts. It was obvious from his question that he was unaware she was already ostracised by most of their peers. ‘Everything will be fine, Papa. Stepmama has agreed to chaperon me. Surely you cannot think

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anything improper will happen with her there to guide me?’ ‘Ah, yes.’ He patted her hand, his thoughts already drifting back to his experiments as his gaze shifted back to the Voltaic pile. ‘That will be perfect. I shall have more time to myself for my work.’ Juliet slipped away, Papa having forgotten she was in the room. Sadness at his lack of interest in her flitted through her mind, to be pushed aside. Papa had always been like this and always would be. She had to accept that he was the one who needed care. Still, a little voice insisted, it would be nice if once in a while he would talk to her about what she was doing. The night of the Carlton House dinner was upon Juliet before she realised it. She wore a simple pink gown caught under the bust by silver ribbons. A matching cluster of roses and ribbon nestled in her hair. Pearls gleamed around her slender throat and dropped like tears from her earlobes. Long white gloves completed her toilette. Her maid—Mrs Burroughs having returned to the Duke’s house—handed her a silver gauze shawl. It would be no protection from the weather, but it was a charming addition. Juliet smiled her thanks and left to meet Emily in the hall. Her stepmother was more than half an hour late,

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time Juliet occupied by fetching a book from the library and reading. The other woman was ravishing, her child-like figure shown to advantage by a daringly risque´ dress of royal blue silk. There was no ornamentation. She needed none because of the multi-strand diamond and sapphire necklace draping her neck. It was worth a sultan’s ransom. Matching earrings dripped from her ears. Her wrists were coated in bracelets, each one enough for many families to live on comfortably their entire lives. Even with the lavish jewels, there was an innocence about her that Juliet knew to be false. ‘Here you are, Juliet,’ Emily said, as though Juliet were the one who had been late. ‘We must hurry. I am sure this will be a sad crush.’ Juliet nearly rolled her eyes. The woman was desperate to go, yet acting as though it were a hardship. They entered the carriage and travelled in silence. Upon arriving, they were ushered into one of the most ornate and cluttered residences in the world. Everywhere were candles and chandeliers. Nooks and crannies held priceless art. Gilt covered anything that did not move. The brilliance was mesmerising. Juliet had heard many descriptions of Carlton House, but they had not prepared her for the reality. She stopped and blinked.

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The footman paused as well, as though he was used to guests being overwhelmed. Emily continued on through the entry and into the drawing room, not bothering to see if Juliet followed. People continued to arrive, some glancing at Juliet as they walked by. Many ignored her in their haste to reach the activities. ‘You must be blase´,’ a too familiar voice said softly. Although Prinny will be thrilled with your reaction. He likes nothing more than to know he has impressed someone.’ She turned to him, noting the elegance which did nothing to blunt his masculinity. ‘Were you impressed your first time?’ She knew he had not been, but it was conversation, and her tongue was otherwise tied and her mind blank of anything but his presence. Reacting to him on an instinctual level was the worst thing she could do for her own emotional safety. She knew that. It did not matter. He made her pulse jump. ‘Ah, but I watched him redesign everything. I knew beforehand what it would look like finished. Familiarity breeds...shall we say, less excitement?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘May I escort you in?’ He extended his arm. Her fingers twitched with the need to touch him.

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She resisted, ignoring her thumping heart. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think that would be wise.’ ‘Usually the best way to combat rumour is to flaunt it.’ She shook her head. ‘I am not so brave as you.’ His arm dropped, but his gaze stayed on her as though he were searching for something he could not quite find. ‘I know better than that.’ ‘You flatter me,’ she managed to utter around the breathlessness his scrutiny created. ‘Where is your brother? Since you will not have me, you should stay with him until you have been presented to the Prince and introduced to several people.’ A wry smile curled her lips. ‘My stepmother is my chaperon tonight, and she was in too much of a hurry to wait while I gaped.’ His face lost all expression. ‘I see. Wait here and I will send someone back for you.’ She bristled. ‘I am perfectly able to fend for myself.’ ‘Yes, you are. But trust me in this. It will be better if someone takes you in. More proper. Less flaunting of convention.’ She frowned and he added, ‘Or you can reconsider and accept me.’ She accepted defeat as graciously as her competitive nature would allow. ‘I will wait here.’

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‘A pity, but not surprising.’ With a slight dip of his head, he sauntered off. Juliet occupied herself studying each piece of art individually, the footman still hovering nearby. ‘There you are, Miss Smythe-Clyde,’ a booming voice said. She turned and instantly sank into a deep curtsy. ‘Your Royal Highness.’ ‘No, no,’ he said, reaching a hand down for her. ‘I don’t stand on such formality. Ask anyone.’ ‘Such as the Duke of Brabourne?’ she asked, accepting his help up. The Prince Regent beamed at her. ‘He did mention that your chaperon had gone on without you because you took too long admiring my handiwork.’ Trust Brabourne to take the truth and twist it into something infinitely palatable. ‘I have never seen anything nearly as impressive, Your Highness.’ He tucked her hand into his arm. ‘You should see my pavilion in Brighton. In fact, I insist that you visit me there.’ Things were going much too fast. Juliet felt caught in an undertow of dangerous currents. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. You are far too generous.’ ‘Nothing of the kind.’ He patted her hand and led her back the way he had come. The strains of music reached them long before

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they entered the room where the orchestra played. The wittiest, most glamourous and hard-living of London Society filled the vast area. Lord Holland, Lord Alvanley, and Lady Jersey to name only a few. Everyone looked their way. Juliet wanted to sink into the floor. Brabourne sauntered up to them and, in a move unsurpassed for audacity, asked, ‘Sir, please be so kind as to introduce me to your companion.’ It took everything Juliet had not to laugh out loud at his boldness. Some of her tension drained away. ‘And if I do,’ the Prince said, a gleam of mirth in his eyes, ‘you must promise not to steal a march on me, Brabourne. For I know your reputation with the fairer sex.’ Brabourne put a hand over his heart and looked pained. ‘Sir, you misjudge me.’ ‘Not you, but you plead so nicely that I find myself weakening.’ The prince took Juliet’s hand from the crook of his elbow and extended it to the Duke. ‘Miss Smythe-Clyde, may I recommend the Duke of Brabourne to you?’ Juliet made a short curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’ He bowed over her hand, raising it for his kiss. His eyes held hers as his lips touched her skin. Chills, followed by heat, followed by shivers raced up Juliet’s arm. ‘Your servant.’

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He released her and she snatched her hand back to safety. Her face felt hot with embarrassment at the marked attentions the men paid her. Never had she been the centre of any group of males, and never had she thought in her wildest dreams to be the focus of two of the most sought-after men in England. Some women would have found the experience heady. Juliet found it nerve-racking and wished it over. But she could not leave the Prince’s presence without first being dismissed by him, and he and Brabourne were having too much fun bantering for Prinny to remember to release her. For the first time since she had met Brabourne, he looked as though he were enjoying himself. Despite all the Prince’s faults—and Juliet thought they were many—Brabourne seemed to like the man. The bon mots flew between them. Some referred to people and places Juliet could not place, but the men knew exactly what each was saying. The music stopped, and one of the women who had been dancing left her partner. ‘Your Highness,’ she said, interrupting the talk, ‘we have a bet. Maria Sefton says there are one hundred candles in your chandelier. I say there are three. We need you to tell us who has won.’ He laughed in pleasure. ‘Lady Jersey, you are always entertaining. But before I come with you I

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want to present you to my latest guest. Lady Jersey, may I introduce Miss Smythe-Clyde?’ Sally Jersey smiled, albeit a small one. ‘How do you do? I have heard much of you.’ The Prince frowned. ‘I think the young lady should come to Almack’s. Don’t you, Lady Jersey?’ She looked at her Prince, then at Brabourne. In a flat tone she said, ‘I shall send the vouchers round tomorrow.’ Prinny broke into a smile. ‘Very good of you, Sally.’ She ignored Juliet. ‘Now, will you come and tell us who wins the bet, Your Highness?’ He caught her hand. ‘I am yours to command. Until later, Miss Smythe-Clyde. Brabourne.’ ‘Your Highness,’ Juliet said. At the same time Brabourne said, ‘Sir.’ Juliet started to sink into another curtsy, but the Duke’s hand under her elbow stopped her. ‘Not now,’ he said softly. ‘He is very informal at these gatherings. You would look gauche. Not at all the thing, and after he has tried so hard to bring you into fashion.’ ‘Is that what he was doing?’ He angled a questioning look at her. ‘What did you think he was doing?’ She shook her head. ‘I did not know. I am not used to this kind of attention.’

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‘We shall have to fill that void,’ he said, propelling her towards a mixed group. Ravensford and Perth were the only two she recognised. Brabourne introduced her to them as though she had never met them. Ravensford welcomed her with a teasing smile. Perth gave her an ironic nod. Everyone else in the circle was coolly civil, their gazes going from her to the Duke. She knew they would talk about this later. Much as Brabourne had tried to maneouvre, it was not working. One lady asked, ‘Are you here alone, Miss Smythe-Clyde?’ The barely disguised disapproval made Juliet raise her head defiantly. ‘No, my stepmother is here.’ ‘Really?’ another woman said. Juliet was beginning to feel like a mouse being toyed with—not a pleasant feeling. ‘Here you are, you naughty child,’ Lady SmytheClyde said, gliding into the group and stopping between Juliet and Brabourne. ‘I saw you with the Prince, but then lost you.’ She gave the assemblage a brilliant smile. The two women who had been quizzing Juliet made their excuses. None of the men did. Juliet watched as her stepmother proceeded to charm the males. Much to her dismay, Brabourne made his adieux shortly. She felt bereft, not a good

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emotion to have because the Duke had left. Without any trouble, she faded away herself, finding a secluded area and being thankful for it. She did not belong here. Even if her name was on the tongue of every rumourmonger in London, she was still not up to snuff enough for this collection of the ton’s most rakish and wild habitue´s. Several women, lavishly clothed and jewelled, strolled by. Their eyes met Juliet’s and then slid past. Words drifted behind them. ‘Brabourne is a devil. The nerve of him to bring his unmarried mistress here. It is just not done.’ The second woman sniffed. ‘Flaunting, more like. And she nothing out of the ordinary, with that carrot-red hair and all those ugly freckles.’ They were quickly past, but Juliet imagined that their conversation continued. She bit her lip on the pain that flared to anger. The hypocrites. She might be naı¨ve, but she had heard the envy in the women’s voices. It was not done for an honourable man to take an unmarried woman as his mistress, but either of them could have filled the position as long as both parties were discreet. And she was not even the Duke’s che`re amie. Her stomach churned at the unfairness of it. Her feelings felt raw. She would find the Prince and beg his leave to depart before dinner. Food was the last

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thing she needed if she was to keep from being sick with overwrought emotion. Sebastian watched Juliet from an alcove. She looked distraught. When she started walking purposefully in the direction where Prinny held court, he began to worry. ‘No sense in following her,’ Perth’s pragmatic voice said. Sebastian glanced at his friend. The candlelight flickered on the other man’s face, shading the side with no scar and highlighting the one with the imperfection. The slash gave Perth a hard edge that was echoed in the man himself. ‘Don’t be a hypocrite,’ Sebastian said. ‘If the roles were reversed, you would pursue.’ A slow grin eased some of the tightness from Perth’s mouth. ‘I would never have got into this mess to begin with. And never with a virgin.’ ’Touche´,’ Sebastian muttered. ‘I must have been out of my head ever to let her into my house.’ ‘You were unwilling to take the chance that she would die and make it necessary for you to flee to the Continent.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ Sebastian muttered ironically. ‘Now I remember the story of it. Remind me in future to have all my duelling opponents checked for their sex before I fight them.’ Perth chuckled.

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Juliet reached the Prince, who took one of her hands and drew her into the group surrounding him. She flushed, then paled, but stood her ground bravely. ‘She’s a game one,’ Perth said. ‘But if I were you I’d leave her alone for the rest of the night. It does neither of you any good for you to seem to pursue her.’ ‘You are right, as usual,’ Sebastian said, his attention not wavering. ‘You had best marry her,’ Perth said quietly. ‘It will solve a lot of problems. You need an heir, and she needs respectability.’ The Duke jerked as though he had been shot. Perth was the third person, after Mrs Burroughs and Ravensford, to say that to him. As with Mrs Burroughs, he could not be cutting. Instead, he drawled, ‘Are you ready for Bedlam? I am not in the marriage mart.’ ‘No, my friend, but there are times when one stumbles into it against one’s better judgement. I believe, for you, that this is one of those times.’ Sebastian picked up his quizzing glass and surveyed the room with a bored expression. ‘I think not.’ Before Perth could say more, the Duke sauntered off in the direction of a group preparing to go into dinner. Even though he no longer watched Juliet, he

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was aware of her still standing beside Prinny. There was something about the chit that tugged at him, but nothing that he could not ignore. The Prince Regent continued to hold Juliet’s fingers even though he had tucked them into the bend of his arm. She was flustered and embarrassed by his continuing attention. Surreptitious and not-sosurreptitious glances followed them as they walked the perimeter of the room. The others who had been with him when she had arrived were gone, seeing that he had no interest except in her. ‘Your Highness,’ she said, her fingers clutching spasmodically at his elaborate coat, ‘if it is possible, I should like to be excused. I...I am not feeling my best.’ ‘My dear Miss Smythe-Clyde, I am so sorry. Let me have my own physician attend you.’ She gulped, and would have bolted if his hold on her had not been so tight, or so she told herself. ‘It is nothing much, Your Highness. Just an irritation of the stomach.’ He tutted and they continued their walk as she tried to persuade him to let her leave. Finally, when they had circled the room once and were back at the door where she had originally entered, he released her enough to bring her fingers to his lips.

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’If you are truly sick, I could not be such a beast as to keep you here. But you must promise me to come another time.’ Juliet had never stammered in her life, but she did now. ‘I—I...th-thank you, Your H-highness. I should be d-delighted.’ He released her and she sank into a grateful curtsy, forgetting Brabourne’s admonition not to. ‘Now, none of that,’ the Prince said. ‘You are not at court.’ She rose, her face blushing fierily. All she wanted was to escape this awful situation. Others might pray to receive this type of attention, but she was severely uncomfortable. The Prince signalled to a footman while she tried to think of something to say—anything that would ease the discomfort she felt. Nothing came. The footman bowed to her and indicated she was to precede him. She made her farewells to the Prince, and left with alacrity. It was some time before her coach arrived at the door. When it did, she rushed down the steps and clambered into its safety. Even Ferguson’s raised brow failed to elicit any response that might slow down their departure. If she never went to Carlton House again in her life, it would be too soon.

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* * * Sebastian watched Juliet’s hasty departure. She would not even blend well into his world. She was a country bumpkin. A small hand crept between his arm and his side. ‘Introduce me to the Prince.’ He looked dispassionately down at Lady SmytheClyde. Her jasmine scent engulfed him. He always sneezed around the jasmine plant and it was all he could do to keep from doing so now. ‘Importuning, as usual?’ Her eyes narrowed and her nails scratched along his arm before he removed them. ‘I saw what you did for Juliet. Do the same for me and I will do what I can to scotch the rumour about the two of you.’ ‘You should be doing so already. She is your stepdaughter.’ ‘And I am already tarred by the same brush that blackens her. No one was home today when I went calling. Previous invitations have been rescinded.’ ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘You have stated all the reasons you should be trying to protect her reputation. Whether I introduce you to Prinny should have nothing to do with your course of action.’ ‘Ah, but it does.’ She looked up at him through thick blonde lashes, her head barely reaching his shoulder. ‘If he is seen to enjoy my company, then all those old biddies who have snubbed me will have to cosy up to me. It is the way of our world.’

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He looked down at her, noting the angelic curve of her brow and the sweet fullness of her lips. Her looks belied the calculating coldness of her heart. His mother had been much like this woman. A darkness entered his eyes, and Emily edged away from the barely controlled danger that seemed to lurk around him like a shadow. But nothing could still her tongue. ‘Otherwise you would not have gone to all the trouble to introduce Juliet to the Prince.’ ‘Brabourne.’ Prinny’s voice broke between them. ‘Come speak with me.’ His attention moved to Emily. ‘After you have introduced me to this lovely lady.’ Sebastian did the honours, a sardonic curl to his mouth as he watched Lady Smythe-Clyde simper and the Prince puff up like a peacock. They made a very unusual pair. If one were not the heir apparent, they would be said to be an amusing pair, so different in size. He easily made six of her. It took long minutes of flirtatious badinage before the Prince remembered his original intent. ‘Come, Brabourne, we must talk and have a chat.’ Sebastian bowed his head in acknowledgement. Both took their leave of Lady Smythe-Clyde. They had barely reached a position of relative privacy when Prinny said, ‘You will have to marry the chit. I have done my best to bring her into fash-

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ion, and Sally’s vouchers for Almack’s will help prodigiously, but neither will be enough. We are becoming a prudish lot.’ His gaze swept over the gathering. Sebastian controlled his retort. ‘I don’t think marriage would be good for either of us, sir.’ Prinny looked at his companion. ‘’Fraid it will clip your wings? Don’t worry. Women don’t expect fidelity from a husband, just financial support and social position. She won’t care what you do as long as you keep it quiet.’ Sebastian snorted. There was no other acceptable answer other than yes, and he was not going to say that. Accepting that Sebastian’s answer would be yes, Prinny sauntered off. Sebastian turned away. He would not be forced into a situation not of his choosing. No matter how sorry he felt for the chit.

Chapter Seven

The vouchers for Almack’s came the next afternoon. There was no note or anything to indicate who had sent them. If Juliet had not known Lady Jersey was supposed to do so, she would have never found out. The woman had done as her Prince told her, but in a way that made it unmistakable that she did not want to do so. Juliet had heard that Almack’s patronesses would not bow to anyone. Perhaps Lady Jersey was currying favour for some private reason. Juliet shook her head. She was not normally this suspicious. She usually took everyone and everything at face value. Well, she did not have to go to Almack’s. She tossed the vouchers into the wastepaper basket in the morning room. She had household accounts to go over and no time to worry about Almack’s or the Prince or Brabourne. Particularly Brabourne.

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* * * Later that evening, as she read in her room, Harry burst in upon her. ‘What brings you here this late? I thought you and Tommy were going to Drury Lane to ogle the actresses,’ she teased. ‘Isn’t that just like a sister?’ he said, hands on hips, indignation making his hair seem to stand on end. ‘I’ve come to warn you that the fat is in the fire and you act flippantly.’ With a sigh of resignation, Juliet folded and set down her book. Perhaps she would get to read it later. Perhaps not. Harry could be as impulsive as she, and something had aroused him. ‘Emily found those Almack’s vouchers in the morning room, and she’s fit to string you up by the neck until dead and leave your body to rot.’ Juliet snorted in an effort to cover her laugh. This was no laughing matter and Harry would not appreciate her levity. ‘You are too colourful, although I am sure it is an apt description.’ ‘She is in Papa’s laboratory right now, screaming and crying like a spoilt child.’ ‘Which is exactly what she is.’ But Juliet knew there would be trouble. She should have burned the vouchers. The door to Juliet’s room crashed open. She was getting very tired of this. With dry resignation, she

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asked, ‘Don’t you ever knock? It is quite rude to enter without permission.’ Emily stormed into the room, dragging Papa behind her. His face was crimson and his glasses sat at a precarious angle on his nose. The leather apron he wore while experimenting still rode his ample girth. He looked flustered. Emily was scarlet from anger, her eyes ice chips. ‘What do you mean by throwing these away?’ Her voice rose an octave as she waved the vouchers at Juliet. ‘These are like gold, you stupid girl.’ Juliet bristled and said the first words that came to her tongue. ‘Only to a social toady.’ Shocked silence filled the room. Papa stepped forward and puffed his chest, a trait he had just before giving an ultimatum. ‘Ahem... Juliet, that is no way to talk to your stepmama. She only has your best interests in mind. You will listen to her.’ ‘You are such a pillar of strength, dearest Oliver,’ Emily said, her complexion easing back to its normal English rose. ‘I knew you would support me in this.’ Juliet averted her face so Papa would not see her grimace. She saw Harry turn away in disgust. But no matter how sickened she was, she was trapped. She never defied Papa. Never. Mama had raised both her and Harry to do exactly as Papa wished.

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Things had gone much more smoothly that way. It was a habit Juliet was not sure she could break. She took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as possible. ‘But I do not wish to go to Almack’s. If I had known Stepmama wanted to attend then I would have been glad to give her the vouchers.’ Emily glared at her. ‘They are for you and your chaperon. I shall take you next Wednesday.’ Juliet clamped her mouth shut on the defiant words bubbling up inside her. She looked imploringly at Papa, but he stood beside Emily with a complacent smile. In his mind everything was settled. She looked at Harry. He shrugged and mouthed, What can it hurt? He was right. She should not have made such a big issue of this. ‘Perhaps Harry can go with us, Stepmama.’ His eyes popped, but he stood manfully. ‘I shall escort both of you. Unless Papa wants to do the pretty.’ ‘No, no. I don’t wish to take away your fun,’ Papa said. Before anyone could pursue that topic, he left the room, muttering that he had been away from his batteries too long as it was. With him safely gone, Juliet said, ‘Are you satisfied now?’

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‘Immensely,’ Emily said. ‘This should be a good lesson for both of you on respect—to me.’ Juliet was so furious she could think of nothing scathing to say. With a satisfied smirk, Emily left. Harry and Juliet looked at each other. Neither one wanted the signal honour of Almack’s, but both were going. It did no good knowing that dozens of young ladies would give their fortunes for the opportunity to drink lemonade and dance to country tunes and, if they were lucky, be allowed to waltz. Juliet did not want to go. It was just another opportunity for the ton to snub her. But she was backed into a corner. At least she did not have to worry about seeing Brabourne there. Rakes of his ilk never went to such dry and boring gatherings. Wednesday came much too soon, and once more Juliet found herself in the hall, waiting for her stepmother to make an appearance. Harry, never patient, paced along the black and white tiles like a caged animal. ‘That will not help,’ Juliet said with a smile. He grimaced. ‘It helps me.’ She was tempted to grab his arm and make him stop. ‘You are getting on my nerves. At least stop for five minutes.’

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He groaned, but complied. ‘You look bang up to the nines in that brown stuff.’ She made him a shallow, playful curtsy. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ He flushed. ‘I was just trying to practise.’ She grinned. ‘Yes. For your information, this gown is made of bronze silk. My hair is threaded with gold ribbon.’ ‘I am sure I will need that at some time,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You never can tell.’ ‘Is the carriage ready?’ Emily’s demand stopped their banter. ‘We don’t want to be too late.’ They looked at each other and rolled their eyes. ‘Ferguson has been waiting for the last twenty minutes,’ Juliet said. ‘And you know how he dislikes keeping the horses still. It is not good for them.’ Emily flitted by. ‘It is not Ferguson’s place to fret. He will do as he is told.’ Juliet’s lips tightened, but she told herself not to let Emily ruin the night. Too many hours lay before them for her to let anger fester. Hobson put a brown velvet cape trimmed in bronze satin around Juliet’s shoulders. She smiled at him. He put an ice-blue satin cape around Lady Smythe-Clyde. She ignored him. Tonight Emily wore a silver gown trimmed in

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pale blue ribbons. Around her neck hung a single large sapphire. Matching earrings dangled below her jaw, drawing the eye to her slender neck and elegant shoulders. Juliet looked away, a pang twisting her stomach. The last time she had seen those jewels her mama had been wearing them on the way to a ball at the Squire’s. She had thought mama looked beautiful in the magnificent sapphires. It hurt to see that the jewels looked better on Emily. Deliberately she blanked her mind. No one said a thing as they made their way through the London streets. Fog was drifting in from the Thames and the few street lamps were golden hazes that illuminated nothing. The clop-clop of hooves on cobbles echoed eerily. Juliet was glad when they reached their destination. They entered Almack’s with another group, affording them some anonymity. Juliet paused to look around. Nothing was as she had expected. It was just a plain large room with no embellishments, yet this was the most famous room in London. Some of the most advantageous marriages owed their start to the weekly assemblies here. Disappointment was something Juliet had not expected. As soon as they were in, Emily left them.

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‘So much for a chaperon,’ Harry said. ‘Good thing I am with you.’ ‘She did it at Carlton House, too. But I am glad of it.’ Across the room, the Earl of Perth approached the Countess Lieven. ‘Madam,’ he said, making her a perfect leg and giving her a wicked smile, ‘would it be too much to request that you introduce me to Miss Smythe-Clyde as a waltz partner?’ She turned sharply to him. ‘You are always in the thick of trouble, Perth. Will you start first off tonight?’ ‘I fear I must, dear lady. The redhead has caught my interest and I would like to know her better.’ His black eyes snapped with life. She sighed. ‘You always were an irresistible rogue. Come along.’ They met Juliet and Harry coming off the floor after a country dance. ‘Miss Smythe-Clyde?’ Countess Lieven asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘I am Countess Lieven, and I would like to introduce the Earl of Perth and recommend him as a waltzing partner.’ Juliet blinked, then quickly dropped a curtsy. ‘I would be delighted.’ ‘I thought so,’ Countess Lieven said drily, and left.

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‘She does not approve of me,’ Perth said. ‘You are too kind, sir. I am sure my reputation is the cause of her curtness.’ ‘That too,’ he said, surprising her by his bluntness. Harry interrupted to say, ‘I shall wait here, Juliet.’ She nodded and followed the Earl to the floor. He put one arm around her waist and took her left hand with his right. It felt strange to be this close to a man she did not know. He held her lightly and guided her with sureness. ‘I am glad Harry and I spent time learning this. Otherwise I should be tripping all over your feet right now.’ Instead of flirting with her, as he had Countess Lieven, he looked down at her solemnly. The flickering candles cast his face into shadow and then in the next twirl shone directly on his scar. Juliet found him disconcerting. ‘I wanted to speak with you,’ he finally said. ‘I believe you are the only female to ever fight a duel in England.’ Her hands went clammy, and she looked away from his intense stare. ‘Why are you discussing that here?’ she managed to whisper, fearful that someone might hear. That was the last thing she needed for people to find out. ‘I never see you at my regular haunts, and since

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the incident I’ve been curious about what kind of female would do such a thing.’ He spoke as softly as she. Anyone watching them would think they were flirting and did not want to be overheard. ‘An impulsive one,’ she muttered. ‘A troublesome trait,’ he said. ‘Sometimes,’ she answered with a rueful grin. The dance ended quickly, and before Juliet quite realised it they were taking their leave of one another. She turned to speak with Harry, to tell him how exhilarating the waltz was with someone you did not know, and came face to face with Brabourne. The breath caught in her throat and her hand went involuntarily to her throat. ‘Oh, you startled me.’ ‘Would you care to dance?’ It was the last thing she expected from him. Shyness overwhelmed her. She would rather dance with anyone but him. No, that was not true. But it should be true. He was trouble. He was dangerous. To her. To all women. He was temptation, and she was unable to resist. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, dimly aware of Harry fiercely frowning at her. She gave her brother a vacuous smile and allowed Brabourne to lead her to the floor. He did not hold her any closer than Perth had, yet it seemed as if she was pressed to the length of

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him. She would swear she could feel the heat of his body and the curve of his chest against hers. She tried to ease away but he held her firmly, his arm burning a swathe across the small of her back. She shuddered. ‘Bronze silk is very becoming on you,’ he said quietly. ‘Few women wear it successfully.’ His voice glided along her nerves, making them tingle. She was so immersed in the physical reaction he evoked that she nearly missed the meaning of his words. When they sank in, they broke his spell on her and she choked back a chuckle. ‘You are so accomplished. Poor Harry told me this ‘‘brown stuff’’ looked well on me.’ ‘I am a rake,’ he drawled. ‘Harry is but a youth fresh to life’s adventures.’ ‘That is one way of putting it,’ she muttered. ‘A truthful one.’ She cocked her head to one side and studied him. He was as handsome as ever. His black hair was still longer than fashionable, his eyes bluer than blue, his mouth a sensual slash. Yet...his former cool disdain seemed muted. Almost as though he were letting her closer? ‘Am I a an object of curiosity, or is there another reason you are looking so intently at me?’ She dropped her gaze and focused on the sapphire in his cravat. It was the exact colour of his eyes. He

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must have purposely chosen it. ‘It is a bad habit of mine. Staring, that is.’ ‘But endearing, and not nearly so hazardous as your impetuosity.’ She could not believe this was the cynical, cold Brabourne with whom she had duelled. He was flirting with her, exuding all the charm that made him such a successful libertine. He must realised how dazed she was. ‘I am not being fair. For me, our dalliance is just another incident in a string of such incidents. It is my attempt to make you smile and look less as if you have been stunned by a knock to the head.’ Cold water could not have distanced her more quickly. ‘Of course. I knew that.’ ‘I am sure you did,’ he murmured smoothly, turning her into a dipping swirl. The dance ended then and he deposited her next to Harry with a perfunctory bow. She watched his broad back disappear into the throng, feeling as though she had lost her bearings. Harry snapped his fingers under her nose. ‘Are you in a trance?’ She blinked and focused on him. ‘Brabourne has a powerful presence,’ she said, wondering why her hand still throbbed and her back still felt as though he held her. She was not a schoolgirl experiencing her first dance. She definitely belonged in Bedlam.

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‘No doubt,’ Harry said, disgust dripping from his words. ‘I can see the effect he has on you, and you had best get hold of yourself. He will only break your heart if you allow him. For that matter, why is he dallying after you? You ain’t in his normal style, to say nothing of how you met and the rumours flying about the two of you.’ Juliet chewed her lip. ‘I think he is trying to bring me into fashion, against all the efforts of the rest of the ton who are trying to ostracise me. I just don’t know why he should care.’ The next thing she knew, Ravensford begged her company for a country dance. Her following partner was introduced by an unsmiling Lady Jersey, who had obviously been coerced into it. ‘Miss Smythe-Clyde, may I introduce Lord Alastair St Simon?’ Juliet recognised St Simon as the family name for the powerful Duke of Rundell as she curtsied. She had not risen before Lady Jersey sailed away. She murmured her acceptance and wondered why all these men, who were high in the levels of Society, were asking her to dance. Lord St Simon smiled down at her. He was a tall man with black hair silvered at the temples and warm grey eyes. ‘Would you care to dance or stroll around and talk? My wife would like to meet you.’

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‘Your wife? I don’t understand.’ Although she had a sneaking suspicion, it was one she found hard to believe. Brabourne had said he never went out of his way for anyone. Surely he was not responsible for all these introductions? Yet she did not know anyone else who could accomplish this. He took her hand and tucked it into his arm. ‘Brabourne has said nothing to you. That is typical. He has asked the help of all his friends to bring you into respectable fashion.’ ‘Very kind of him, I am sure.’ ‘But not what you want.’ She looked up at him. The friendliness in his eyes eased some of her discomfort. ‘This is very trying. I know he is doing what he considers best, but all I want is to go home to Wood Hall and leave London and all its disapproval behind.’ ‘It is hard to weather the ostracism of our peers, but it can be done. My brother Langston’s wife was an actress before they married. She has never been totally accepted by the highest sticklers, but she has enough friends and interests that it does not bother her. You can do the same with time.’ ‘Thank you for the information and concern. I shall keep it in mind.’ ‘But not use it.’ They stopped near a woman nearly as tall as he.

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Her hair was the colour of a roaring flame, and her eyes were like slanted marquise-cut turquoises in the oval of her face. She was stunning. ‘Liza, this is the lady Brabourne has asked us to befriend. Miss Smythe-Clyde, my wife Lizabeth, Lady Worth in her own right.’ He looked with such pride and love at the woman that for the first time in her life Juliet found herself envious of another female. The two were very much involved in one another. Most marriages among her kind were for convenience. Watching them, she wished she could marry for love. It was something she had thought about upon occasion, but never particularly longed for. They were amusing and witty. Harry soon joined them and they treated him with a casual acceptance that won Juliet over. A sudden hush filled the room so that one of Liza’s laughs sounded like a shout. Juliet looked around to see what was happening. Her heart skipped a beat. Brabourne was talking to her stepmother. Emily’s hand was on his arm, and her smiling face was turned up to his impassive one. How dared Emily? Hadn’t she fought Brabourne in a duel because of this behaviour? She took a step towards them. A hand clamped over her arm and held her like a vice. Frowning, she looked to see who held her.

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St Simon said softly, ‘Don’t. It will only make the situation worse if you intrude.’ She glared at him. ‘Worse? How could it be worse?’ Lady St Simon flanked her other side. ‘Things such as this are better ignored. If you make it into a large scene, it will become tomorrow’s tea-time entertainment. If you do nothing, it might fade away.’ She smiled gently. ‘Give Brabourne a chance. He was never interested or involved with your stepmother. She is the one doing the chasing.’ Juliet digested this information. They were experienced in the ways of their world. She would do better for all involved to give way. With a sigh she accepted their advice. Harry grumbled but, when Juliet shook her head at him he half-turned half away from the couple. Even so, she knew that, like her, he was keeping them in sight. Sebastian watched Lady Smythe-Clyde with a jaundiced eye. The woman was a bore, not to mention a troublemaker. He removed his arm from her grip. ‘What is it you want this time?’ he asked coldly. Her smile widened, showing white, sharp little teeth. She looked like a hungry cat. ‘The next waltz.’ ‘No,’ he said bluntly, taking a step away.

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Her hand gripped his sleeve again. This time her nails dug in deeply. ‘You danced with Juliet; you can dance with me.’ His gut tightened. He did not like having any woman clutch at him as she was doing. He set out to put an end to her machinations. ‘Not only are you vulgar, but you are stupid. After your husband challenged me to a duel, the last thing we need to do is dance together. Furthermore, you complain that no one invites you anywhere because of Juliet. Do not anger me, for I am the only reason you are here tonight. I can see that you do not attend again—or anywhere else, for that matter.’ Her eyes glinted maliciously, but she managed to keep her lips in a rictus of a smile. ‘How dare you? I shall see that the little hussy suffers for your treatment of me.’ She dropped her hand and walked gracefully away, a sway to her hips that he knew was intentional. It added fuel to the fury she had fanned. He’d be damned if he would allow her to make things worse for Juliet. He had not gone to all this trouble to have that witch ruin it. He caught himself immediately. What was he thinking? He had done everything he could and more than could be expected. Irritated with himself, he glanced coolly at the object of his thoughts. Juliet and her brother moved towards the door,

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obviously planning on leaving. As they approached a group of dowagers the older women looked them up and down with haughty disdain and then turned their backs on the couple. Cold fury filled Sebastian. ‘Easy,’ Ravensford said, having come up to Brabourne without the Duke being aware. ‘Anything you do now will only make matters worse than they already are.’ ‘As usual, you speak sense.’ ‘But it does not make it easier when you feel responsible for the treatment the chit is receiving.’ ‘I am not responsible for that silly girl’s predicament,’ he said, more harshly than he had intended. ‘I am merely sorry for her. Nothing more.’ ‘Of course,’ Ravensford murmured. Sebastian looked at him. ‘Sarcasm does not enhance your reputation for easy charm.’ ‘Nor does anger over the treatment of a mere female strengthen your reputation for cool indifference towards that sex.’ ’Touche´.’ ‘Let’s get out of here before anything else happens,’ Ravensford said. ‘White’s will probably have something interesting going on. If nothing else, we can get something decent to eat and drink.’ ‘Agreed,’ Sebastian said, leading the way. But he did not feel any less furious over the night’s hap-

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penings; he just hid his emotions as he always had. His father had taught him that lesson. Sebastian sauntered into White’s, his demeanour at odds with the anger coursing through him. He looked around the heavily panelled room, taking in the regulars: Alvanley, Holland, and others. Slowly the relaxed atmosphere sank into him. ‘That is much better,’ Ravensford said. ‘For a while I thought you were going to explode like one of Vauxhall’s fireworks.’ ‘Those old crows and their simpering daughters are more than I can take at times.’ ‘Stifling,’ Ravensford agreed. The two men moved to a table where whist was being played and port consumed with a determination that was hard to match. One of the players glanced up. A worried look came over his face when he saw Sebastian. ‘What’s bothering you, Durkin, losing again?’ Ravensford asked with a grin. Durkin shook his head and gulped down the ruby wine in his glass, poured another and gulped that too. ‘Nothing so harmless.’ Sebastian gazed down at the man whose sandy hair and blue eyes seemed to glint in the candlelight. The two of them had gone to school together and, while they were not the best of cronies, they still

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liked each other. Durkin’s edginess meant something was not right. ‘What do you know that we don’t, Durk?’ he asked, using their old school name for the other man. Durkin ran long fingers through his already mussed hair and glanced warily at his partner, who nodded back at him. ‘Best tell him now,’ Salter said, his brown eyes looking as worried as Durkin’s. ‘The devil will be in the fat no matter what.’ Sebastian stiffened. There was only one topic that had ever made him lose his temper to the degree that his friends were indicating would happen here. His mother and her infidelities. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, his voice harsh. ‘The betting book. Best look at it.’ Sebastian looked from one to the other and nodded curtly. In two strides he had the infamous book. He flipped it to the last page with writing and read the content. When will a particular Duke tire of the lovely Miss S-C so that someone else may have a go with her? He slammed the book shut. His eyes narrowed to slits of blue fire as he looked slowly around the room. Most of the occupants met his gaze, a few looked away. Without a word he left, Ravensford rushing to keep up with him.

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Enraged, Sebastian was glad he had sent his coach home. He needed to walk. The cool summer night air felt good. ‘Bad business, that,’ Ravensford said, keeping pace. ‘It will be a deadly business if I learn who wrote it,’ Sebastian vowed. Ravensford glanced curiously at his friend. ‘The chit is nothing to you that you need fight a duel over her honour.’ Sebastian blew out a breath and stopped. He turned to look at the other man. ‘Not right now.’ Ravensford quirked one bronze brow but said nothing, waiting patiently. ‘I have resisted the inevitable. Prinny ordered me to marry the girl. You even said I should do the honourable, even though it was none of my doing that brought her into my home. I resisted both of you because I don’t wish to be leg-shackled. Nor do I care about flaunting Society’s petty prejudices.’ He started walking again, his long legs covering distance like a thoroughbred horse racing to the finish line. Ravensford, a smile starting in his eyes, followed. ‘But you can’t let them vilify her, can you?’ ‘No.’ The curt word, with all its implications, cut through the night.

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‘I knew you would do the honourable thing,’ Ravensford said. Sebastian gave his friend a sardonic look. ‘You did. Even I did not know I would go against my better interests because of someone else.’ Ravensford shook his head. ‘You are too hard on yourself. I know plenty of people you would help at your own cost.’ ‘But none of them a chit from the country whom I barely know.’ Self-derision dripped from each word. ‘You know the old saying,’ Ravensford said. ‘There’s a first time for everything. If there weren’t we would not have the saying.’ Sebastian snorted and kept walking. What kind of hold did the chit have over him? Yes, he admired her guts and determination. He liked the way she cared for others before herself. He was even attracted to her physically, something he would not have thought. She was not the seasoned widow or courtesan he normally kept. But none of those reasons were enough to marry her. It must be something else, but he was damned if he knew what.

Chapter Eight

‘I don’t want to marry Brabourne.’ Juliet jumped up from her seat. The dainty yellow-striped silk chair tottered on its back legs before settling back down. ‘You don’t have a choice,’ Lady Smythe-Clyde said, venom dripping from every word. Juliet paced the room. ‘Why isn’t Papa here to tell me?’ The other woman’s tinkling laugh filled the air. ‘Don’t be absurd. You know he is immersed in his experiments. Count yourself lucky he even bothered to see Brabourne. Particularly after their past.’ Juliet scowled. ‘I am surprised Papa did so.’ ‘Ah, well, you have me to thank for that.’ Emily patted her yellow curls and a complacent smile curled her lips. But only momentarily. ‘Considering the state your reputation is in, you should be thrilled by this offer.’

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‘Well, I am not.’ Juliet ground to a halt in front of the window. Outside carriages passed and people walked. A nanny and her charges trundled by like a loaded mail coach. ‘If you had behaved yourself in the first place, none of this would have happened.’ Emily surged to her feet. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that.’ Juliet swung around. She was well and truly angry. Her reputation had been ruined because of this woman, and now she was to be handed off to the Duke like a piece of furniture. She was beyond calmness. ‘I will talk to you any way I please. We were all fine until you came along with your London airs and little-girl looks.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Besides, Papa needs me.’ Emily stalked up to Juliet, her head reaching Juliet’s nose. ‘Don’t delude yourself. Your papa is happy now, and that is all that matters. As long as he has me he has no need of you.’ Juliet frowned down at her, all the fight gone like a balloon that had been pricked. Every word the other spoke was true. Papa was besotted with her. She could do no wrong. Everything good in his life he attributed to this woman. A pang of hurt tightened Juliet’s chest. Papa had seen Brabourne because this woman insisted, but he

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could not be bothered to tell Juliet about the proposal of marriage. Her fists clenched and she pushed back the pain. That was just Papa. He was always like this and it had never mattered before. Except that before Mama had always been there to act as a buffer against Papa’s indifference. Mama. She had promised Mama to care for Papa. She could not do that married to the Duke. She looked at Emily. This woman would not care for her father. A little part of her hurt seeped out. ‘You don’t even love Papa. You no more consider his needs than you do mine.’ Emily stepped away, having won the battle. ‘In my own way I am quite fond of him. And we are married, a very permanent arrangement while both of us live.’ The supercilious tone told Juliet everything. If she left, Papa would be on his own, or very nearly so. Hobson would try, but it would not be the same. Nor did she want to marry Brabourne. He was arrogant and cold and...and a rake. A rake of the worst sort. He would marry her, bed her and put his child in her, but he would see other women. His kind always did. ‘Faithful’ was not a word in his vocabulary. He would treat her worse than Papa, only it would hurt more because he was not absentminded and

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focused on experiments. Brabourne’s indifference would be true indifference, a cold void without emotion. ‘I would rather marry a slug than the Duke.’ She stalked past Emily and slammed the door behind herself. Emily’s laughter tagged behind Juliet. A good long walk in the park was what she needed. Since coming to London she did not get enough exercise. Sometimes her emotions built up to exploding point and she wanted to destroy something, anything. This had seldom happened to her in the country. She called for her pelisse and set off towards Hyde Park. What if she was without a maid or chaperon? People already thought the worst of her; that was why Brabourne had offered. He was allowed every indiscretion imaginable. She was allowed none. Her blood boiled at the unfairness of it and what it had done to her. When Ferguson pulled the carriage around to the front, she ignored him and continued marching down the walk. He fell in some distance behind and patiently followed. Sebastian guided his big black gelding around a group of walkers. Ravensford rode beside him on a spirited chestnut mare. They were making the daily

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pilgrimage around Hyde Park, the Serpentine glinting dully in the summer sunshine. ‘So you did it,’ Ravensford said when they were safely past listening ears. Sebastian grunted. ‘I could not very well not after last night.’ Ravensford shook his head. ‘Bad business, that. Sally Jersey gave her the vouchers, we all danced with her, and still some of the pinch-faced prudes cut her. And the bet.’ ‘When she is the Duchess of Brabourne they will all grovel at her feet. They grovelled at my mother’s no matter what she did.’ Ravensford looked over at his friend’s tight face. The bitterness in Sebastian’s tone was unsettling. ‘That was a while ago, and things have changed in the last fifteen to twenty years. If those old biddies defied Prinny, they won’t think twice about doing so to you.’ ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He turned ice-hard blue eyes to his friend. ‘I protect what is mine.’ Ravensford looked away, uncertain whether to groan or laugh. ‘It is time for me to return home. I have a meeting with Gentleman Jackson that I don’t want to miss. Last time I was late he took someone else and made me rebook my appointment.’ Sebastian calmed down somewhat and nearly

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smiled. ‘He is an impudent man for all that he was born a nobody.’ ‘He is a talented man who knows his own worth.’ Ravensford slanted Brabourne a sardonic glance. ‘Much like someone else I know.’ Sebastian laughed. ‘Yes, but some of us deserve our sense of importance.’ Chuckling lightly, they exited the gate and headed for home. Minutes later, Sebastian saw Juliet storming down the street—alone. No maid or chaperon tailed her, as was proper. She was the most irritating and independent woman it had ever been his misfortune to meet. And he was going to marry her. He shook his head, stopped his horse, and dismounted. ‘What are you doing here alone?’ he demanded. She jerked to a halt and stared defiantly at him. ‘That is none of your concern. Besides, Ferguson is with me.’ He glanced at the man who had stopped the carriage and stayed put, his attention focused on the two of them. ‘He is not a chaperon. Not here,’ he added for good measure. She flushed, and he knew she was remembering her time in his home, in one of his beds. ‘He is sufficient. Besides, my reputation is already beyond repair—what is a little more to gossip about?’ ‘You are the most infuriating woman,’ he said

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coldly. ‘I am doing everything I can, and you are undoing it as fast as I try.’ She tossed her head, her magnificent red hair flaring out in an arch of curls under the brim of her chip-straw hat. ‘You have gone too far this time, Brabourne. I will not marry you. That is why I am out like this, trying to burn off some of my anger at your audacity in approaching my father. After everything that has happened, I would have thought you would be too embarrassed to even talk to him, let alone ask for my hand.’ Sebastian’s lip curled, but he was not amused. ‘I am never embarrassed. That is something you will learn with time. As to approaching your father, I had no choice. Something has to be done. Marrying me is the only way to restore your good name. No one, and I mean no one, would dare snub the Duchess of Brabourne.’ ‘Really?’ she said. ‘You think you are that influential and powerful?’ ‘I know I am,’ he said quietly. ‘I watched my mother flaunt every convention and still be accepted by all.’ He knew from the surprise on her face that some of his bitterness must have slipped out. He did not care. Sooner or later she would hear all the sordid details. Someone would make sure of that. ‘Well, that is interesting, but I don’t intend to

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follow in your mother’s footsteps.’ She swept the skirt of her periwinkle gown aside. ‘If you will excuse me, I find I am tired of walking.’ Sebastian watched her stalk regally to her carriage, head up, shoulders straight. He did not mount his horse until she was safely ensconced. And then he waited with Ravensford until her vehicle drove off. ‘She will be a handful,’ Ravensford said, a glint of appreciation in his hazel eyes. Sebastian watched him speculatively. ‘Perhaps you should marry her.’ Ravensford laughed. ‘Not me. My name ain’t enough to protect her. Remember? Only you can do that.’ Sebastian snorted, but took the teasing easily. What bothered him was the tiny twist in his gut when he’d suggested that Ravensford marry her. He must be getting ill or be hungry. ‘Let’s go back to my house. I am sure Mrs Burroughs can find us a beefsteak and ale.’ ‘You set such an elegant table,’ Ravensford said as they set off. ‘My French chef is still at Brabourne Abbey. He will be up here in time for my wedding.’ Together they set off, Sebastian putting from his mind any pang of loss connected with Juliet Smythe-Clyde. They would be married in four weeks. Time enough to ponder what to do with her.

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* * * Juliet slammed down The Gazette. Brabourne had posted the announcement of their marriage. How dared he? She had told him she would not marry him and she meant it. This was one instance when she would defy Papa. This was her future happiness at stake. And Papa’s, although he did not realise it. She surged to her feet and stomped to the wardrobe. She was not going to sit idly by while everything went from bad to worse. She dragged out a black cape, swung it around her shoulders and pulled the hood up to completely cover her hair. Brabourne needed a come-uppance and she was going to give it to him. Minutes later she was in the stable, ordering a boy to wake Ferguson. When she and the coachman were alone, she said, ‘I need to go to Brabourne’s house.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Lass, have ye got maggots in yer head? We are still reelin’ from yer last visit.’ She tapped her foot. ‘This is of vital importance. Either you can drive me in the carriage and put down a street away so no one will see the crest, or I will hire a hackney. But I am going.’ He groaned, took off his hat and wiped his brow. ‘’Twould be best if we both took the hackney. I will wait in the kitchen, or wherever Mrs Burroughs can hide me.’ ‘You are making this complicated.’

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‘I am trying to protect ye from yerself, lass. You’re overly rash at times.’ ‘This is the only way. I have to stop this preposterous marriage now. I cannot wait until I happen to stumble on Brabourne at some function. It would never happen. I am not invited anywhere.’ ‘Aye, he will no’ be makin’ ye a good husband. He is too high in the instep for the likes of you.’ ‘Exactly. Among other things.’ At last he was beginning to understand her desperation. ‘A gently reared lass like yerself should no’ be matched to a rake.’ ‘That is what I think.’ Even though her voice was firm and brisk, a small part of her—a very small part of her—sighed. There was something about Brabourne that drew her; it had started the instant she had seen him dismount from his horse at the duelling field. Whatever it was had grown stronger each time she saw him. If she were honest, it had peaked at Almack’s, when she’d realised all the trouble he was going to in order to give her back her good name. His not dancing with Emily had solidified it. She turned away from Ferguson’s penetrating gaze so he would not see the distress she knew showed on her face. Over her shoulder she said, ‘If you are coming, let us go now.’

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* * * Almost an hour later Ferguson was hidden in Mrs Burroughs’s private sitting room and Juliet had been smuggled into the library. She hoped no one had seen them. If word got out about this visit not even marriage to Brabourne would make her respectable in the eyes of the ton. Her teeth chattered in the cold room, and she wondered irritably if the Duke was even coming home. It was nearly midnight. She was rarely out this late, even though she understood that in London it was fashionable to be out much later. Impatience ate at her. She started prowling the room, taking out a book here, another there. Brabourne had a very well-stocked library. Her irritation peaked and she decided, in a fit of uncharitable spite, that he did not spend time reading. He was not at all the type she would consider bookish. She found a copy of Byron’s The Bride of Abydos, and a smile of pure delight lit her face. She had always wanted to read this book, but first Mama and then later Papa, when he accidentally caught her with it in one of his rare appearances in the sitting room, had forbade her. It was not as famous as Childe Harold, but she did not care. She moved a branch of candles to a small pie table set beside a large, comfortable-looking leather chair. With a sigh of satisfaction, she sank into the

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cushions and tucked her feet up under her. In minutes she was lost. The mantel clock chimed four. Juliet set the book on her lap and yawned. She was so tired. She would close her eyes for a few minutes. She hoped Ferguson was doing the same. He had to be up early. Sebastian arrived home close to five in the morning, his mood better than when he’d left. He had won at whist, drunk three bottles of excellent port, and enjoyed the company. He could not remember when he had last spent a more enjoyable evening. It had to be some time before that chithad come to town. He let himself in with the key he always kept on his watch chain. There was nothing he disliked more than coming home half-foxed and having servants fuss about him. Even his valet should be in bed. He turned around from securing the door and nearly walked into Burroughs. ‘What the...?’ ‘Begging your pardon, your Grace, but there is a young lady in the library.’ The always-impeccable butler looked flustered. His gaze darted to and fro, as though he was afraid of being overheard. ‘Tell her to go home. Or, better yet, kick her out.’ Sebastian was in no mood for games and frolic. Burroughs stepped closer and said in an under-

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tone, ‘It is Miss Smythe-Clyde, your Grace. I told her she should not be here, and definitely could not wait for you to return.’ He sniffed and looked affronted. ‘But she said she would march boldly in if I did not help her sneak in. I could not let her do that. Not when she will soon be your Duchess.’ He pulled himself up. ‘And her coachman is in Mrs Burroughs’s sitting room.’ Sebastian’s mouth thinned. ‘Thank you, Burroughs.’ He handed over his beaver hat and cane. ‘You have gone far beyond the call of your duties.’ His greatcoat came off. ‘I shall handle this now. See that Ferguson is prepared to leave.’ ‘Yes, your Grace,’ Burroughs said, relief the predominant emotion in his voice. ‘Gladly.’ With a militant click of his heels on the polished parquet floor, Sebastian went to the library. He would make short shrift of this idiotic situation. The tic by his eye started. No woman should be in a single man’s house unchaperoned, and a coachman did not count. She knew that, and yet here she was. He did not see her immediately. The room was cold and the only light came from a brace of candles near the fireplace. Closer inspection showed a figure in his favourite chair. He moved closer. A book lay on the carpeted floor. He picked it up and a slight smile eased the harshness of his face.

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The Bride of Abydos. Interesting reading. He laid it on the table. She lay curled into the embracing cushions of the chair, her legs tucked under her so that the toes of her half-boots peeked out from the folds of her dress. Crimson lashes swept like fire across her cheeks. She looked young and innocent. And foolish, he thought, his anger at her actions resurfacing in a rush. He gripped her shoulders and shook her more gently than he wanted. Her eyes popped open and she stared at him. He watched confusion play in their green depths, followed by memory and then by an emotion he had seen in many women’s eyes. Desire. Her reaction took him aback. It also excited him. Still holding her, he hauled her to her feet. ‘What in blazes are you still doing here?’ Her face coloured, then paled, accentuating the freckles marching across the bridge of her nose. She pushed against his chest. ‘Let me go and I will tell you.’ ‘Tell me and then maybe I will let you go.’ It was a provoking statement, but he was in the mood to nettle her and more. Her palms flattened against him, their shape penetrating the several layers of his coat and shirt. The

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urge to teach her a lesson she would not soon forget entangled with the need to feel her lips on his. ‘I came to tell you I will not marry you.’ The words left her in a rush. Her bosom moved up and down in feathery motions as she watched for his reaction. A hardness entered him. ‘Of course you will marry me. The statement was in yesterday’s Gazette. Not to mention that as far as the sticklers of Society are concerned you are ruined—by me. I don’t usually sacrifice myself for others, but unfortunately for me I still have enough honour left to know I must marry you.’ Her eyes widened at his cruel words. ‘Don’t do me any favours, your Grace,’ she said, her voice dripping loathing. ‘I am more than capable of living without your powerful name.’ ‘Are you? We shall see,’ he muttered, fed up with this game of words they played. He wanted to play another game with her. His eyes holding hers, he pulled her tight. Her fingers flexed against his coat as she tried to keep distance between their bodies. Desire coiled in him, waiting to escape in a rush of pleasure and satisfaction. Not since his first time with a woman had he felt a reaction this intense. She licked her lips and he groaned in anticipation. But she was inexperienced, so he needed to go

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gently with her. Taking a deep breath, to ease some of the tension holding him tight, he lowered his head. Softly he touched his lips to hers. She clenched her mouth and stiffened like an iron poker. Her forearms pressed against his ribs as she tried to get loose. He wanted them around his waist, pressing him close, as close as two people could be. He shuddered from the control needed to keep from lowering her to the floor and throwing caution and propriety out of the window. ‘I am only going to kiss you,’ he whispered against her mouth, meaning every word. ‘It is acceptable for an engaged couple.’ She gasped and drew her head back. ‘We are not engaged.’ His smile was feral. He traced a string of kisses from her earlobe to the top of her shoulder. She jerked against him. He pulled far enough away to see the shock on her face. Her mouth was a round O. He cradled the back of her head with one hand and, with an alacrity he refused to analyse, kissed her. His lips moved against hers and his tongue teased her into letting it in. Tentatively she opened for him and he slipped inside her waiting warmth. Her entire body responded. He had to deepen their joining. He

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had to give her the unsettling pleasure she was giving him. ‘Relax,’ he murmured. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ She renewed her efforts to escape. He sighed and released her. She skittered away. He was too experienced with women to press her further. She wanted him, but was scared. He watched her through narrowed eyes. She was flushed, her lips plump and red, her chest pounding. Her hands fluttered to her neck. ‘You are drunk,’ she finally said after her breathing slowed. ‘I could...’ She edged further away from him. ‘I could taste it.’ His dangerous smile returned as he narrowed the distance between them. ‘No, merely enjoying myself.’ Disbelief radiated from her. She moved until the back of her knees hit the chair. ‘I must go. I have accomplished what I set out to do. I will send a retraction to the paper.’ Fury hit him. He grabbed her arm and dragged her near. ‘You are the most stubborn woman. What must I do to make you understand that we are marrying? Seduce you here and now?’ Fright followed immediately by innocent speculation deepened her eyes, only to end with determination. She twisted. ‘I won’t send anything to the paper if you release me.’

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He did and stepped away. ‘Bargaining already? I will meet you halfway this time. But don’t try my good intentions too far.’ She nodded and warily skirted around him towards the door. ‘I must get Ferguson and be gone.’ He picked up the book and held it out to her. ‘Don’t forget this.’ She looked longingly at it. ‘I cannot take it. Papa says it is too risque´ for me to read.’ He laughed. ‘Then you shall finish it after we are wed.’ Instead of arguing with him, she fled. Sebastian stood for long moments after she left. Her nearness and her reaction to him had left him too aroused for sleep. He might not want this marriage emotionally, but his body wanted it. Badly. The hackney coach ride home was much too long with Ferguson sitting across from her frowning. If possible, he was even more disapproving than when he had agreed to accompany her. ‘Don’t say a word,’ she ordered him. ‘Your attitude says it all.’ He grunted and folded his arms across his chest. She looked away, watching the London streets drift by. Soon it would be light. They had to reach home before then. So far no one had seen her—she needed to keep it that way.

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Strange sensations flooded her body, making her feel heavy and lethargic. Her mouth tingled and she reached up to touch it lightly with a finger. It did not feel any different. Her neck felt branded by his kisses. She wondered if a scarlet line trailed from her earlobe to the base of her neck. She would not be surprised. She dropped her hand. She was lucky he had stopped. She should be glad. Somehow she felt empty, not fortunate. He had opened a whole new experience to her, and for a fleeting moment, as his lips had touched her, she had wanted to explore what he offered. She had wanted it so badly that it frightened her, this power he had over her senses. She could never marry him. He would seduce her body and then her mind. Before long she would love him—and it would break her heart, for he would never love her.

Chapter Nine

Juliet stepped into the hall, her wet cape dripping on the black and white tiles. Her arms overflowed with roses she had just cut from the garden behind the house. Their smell filled the room. ‘Miss Juliet,’ Hobson said, ‘you have a visitor in the morning room.’ There was an edge of excitement in his normally non-committal voice. What was going on? ‘It isn’t Brabourne, is it? she demanded. ‘For I will not see him.’ ‘No,’ Hobson said, taking the mass of flowers, ‘you have always liked this visitor.’ Curious, she started off without removing her cape. Hobson made it sound as though someone from home was there. She hurried into the room. A man with a familiar stocky figure and brown hair stood looking out of the window.

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‘George,’ she said, breaking into a run. ‘What are you doing here? It does not matter,’ she said before he could answer, ‘I am so glad to see you.’ He had turned at the first sound of her voice and held his hands out to her. She took them and he squeezed. ‘I came as soon as I heard, Ju.’ She saw the anxiety and hurt in his brown eyes and knew immediately what he referred to. ‘It is not my choice. I have told both Papa and the Duke that I will not marry.’ Confusion knit his sandy brows. ‘Then why was the announcement in the paper?’ She made a very unladylike snort and pulled her fingers from his still-tight hold. ‘Because Brabourne is stubborn and arrogant and high in the instep and anything else you can think of that is derogatory.’ George’s eyes widened. ‘That bad, and your father is still making you marry him? That does not sound like Lord Smythe-Clyde. He is usually too engrossed in his experiments to force you to do anything, let alone something you so definitely dislike.’ ‘I know,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘It is his new bride. She wants to be related to Brabourne to further her standing in Society. She is forcing Papa to force me.’ ‘What about Brabourne?’ George asked, obviously confused.

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‘Him?’ For some reason he feels he must marry me and protect me from the ton’s disapproval.’ She shrugged. ‘Silly, but there it is. Once the announcement was in the paper, his pride came into play. No one refuses the great and powerful Duke of Brabourne, whether he really wants to marry one or not.’ ‘I am more in the dark than ever,’ George said. ‘Perhaps we could sit down and have a bit to eat and drink?’ ‘Oh, dear, I am so sorry. Of course. I was so excited to see a familiar and friendly face that I have forgotten my manners.’ She moved to the pull near the fireplace and had just gripped it when the door opened and the butler entered, bearing a loaded tray. ‘Hobson, you have the manners I lack. What would I do without you?’ The butler said nothing, but he straightened up at the praise. Setting the tray down, he asked, ‘Will there be anything else, miss?’ ‘No, thank you. You have provided generous proportions of everything we may need.’ He bowed. ‘I know from the past how Mr Thomas likes his food and drink.’ George beamed as he took in all the refreshment. ‘That you do, Hobson.’ The butler left the room with a very satisfied air about him. Juliet sat in a gold embroidered chair

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across from George and began serving. She asked no questions about his preferences because she knew them all. They had practically grown up together. He was like a brother to her, which was why she had been unable to accept his marriage proposal. Unlike Brabourne, George had been sad, but had also accepted her decision. ‘I owe Hobson more than I can ever say,’ Juliet murmured. ‘How’s that?’ George said around a mouthful of ham. She told her old friend everything, omitting nothing that had happened since she arrived in London except Brabourne’s mind-numbing and bodyelectrifying kiss. That was still too fresh and too raw and much too personal. George chewed a mouthful of biscuit and washed it down with well-sugared tea. ‘You have been busy. No wonder the Duke offered for you. It is the only honourable thing he could do.’ She nearly choked on her tea and ended up coughing until tears ran from her eyes. ‘How can you say such a thing?’ He took another portion of ham and mixed it with potato. ‘Because it is the truth.’ She set her cup down and crossed her arms. ‘I don’t wish to marry him. I won’t.’ He looked up from his plate, hope sparking in his

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eyes. ‘Then marry me. I have asked before and I still mean it.’ She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, George. You are the best friend a person could have.’ He patted her and sighed. ‘I suppose that means no.’ ‘I love you like a brother, not a husband. It would not be fair to you.’ For the first time since his father had refused to buy him an exorbitantly expensive mare Juliet saw anger in his eyes, his most expressive feature. He was normally quite placid. ‘How do you think I feel, knowing that another man will be your husband? I would rather you wed me and love me like a brother than that you go to another man. I will wait for you to learn to love me as a wife should love her husband. Will Brabourne? From what I have heard of him, I doubt it.’ His bold talk made her blush. ‘Would you really rather wed me, knowing you would not be a husband in truth for some time?’ ‘Yes.’ His simple answer moved her more than any protestation ever could. She began to think it might be the best solution. ‘What...?’ She paused and took a calming breath. ‘What if I never love you that way?’

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Some of the hope left his eyes. ‘It would still be better than having you marry someone else.’ ‘Oh, George, I don’t want to take the chance of hurting you.’ He sat straighter. ‘Then respect me enough to let me be the judge of what will hurt me. I’ve always known you don’t love me as I love you, but I have never met another woman I am as comfortable with as I am with you. That means a great deal to me.’ He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘You know how I don’t like to stir myself.’ ‘All too well,’ she answered, grinning back at him. ‘I won’t mind how much time you spend with your father.’ The look on his face told her he knew exactly what he was offering. ‘And you won’t have to marry Brabourne. Even he won’t dare make you a widow or a bigamist.’ Uncertainty flickered through her mind and she turned away so George would not see her expression. Much as she rebelled against marrying the Duke, much as she told herself she did not want to wed him, there was still that tiny part of her that found him exciting and dangerous. That same part acknowledged that there were times when he could be kind. Chagrin at her weakness tightened her hands into fists.

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Without further thought, without allowing herself to feel, she said, ‘I will.’ ‘What?’ George dropped the biscuit he was eating. It hit the carpet and spilt. Juliet nearly smiled. ‘I will marry you. The sooner the better.’ Stunned was the only way to describe George. For a second, Juliet wondered if he really wanted to marry her. Perhaps he had proposed because he felt safe doing it, knowing she would not accept. Only she had. ‘Ah. Good,’ he said, bending over to pick up the crumbs. When he sat back up, his round face was red. ‘I will make all the arrangements,’ she said. Relief flooded his countenance. ‘Very good of you. We can take my carriage.’ ‘I will see to food and clothing. We must start immediately, before anyone knows you are here.’ ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he said, gulping down the remains of his tea. ‘Where are we going?’ She stopped in mid-stride and turned back to him. He looked genuinely puzzled. She shook her head. Brabourne would know exactly where they were going and he would take care of all the arrangements too. No, she scolded herself. George is not the Duke. That is why I am marrying him.

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‘We are going to Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border.’ ‘I know where it is,’ he said defensively. ‘I just thought that you meant to procure a special licence so we could be married here in England.’ ‘George,’ she said patiently, wondering if she was really doing the right thing and immediately telling herself she had no other choice, ‘I am a woman. I cannot get a special licence. If we were going to do that, you would have to do it. Besides, it would take too long.’ Hastily, he said, ‘I will have my carriage brought round.’ She headed back to the door. ‘I will be down shortly.’ ‘Not too long, Ju. It don’t do the horses good to be kept waiting.’ ‘I know, George. You have told me repeatedly.’ Sebastian brought his greys to a halt in front of Lord Smythe-Clyde’s townhouse. He had never been here before, but thought it best if he was seen around London with Juliet. It would make their engagement more believable. The note he had sent her this morning asking her to go driving had elicited no answer. Never patient, he was here to bodily lift her into his phaeton if needed. The chit would not snub him.

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He leapt down and strode to the door. Imperiously he banged the knocker. The door opened just as he pulled his hand away. Hobson stood in the doorway, looking down his nose. Sebastian smothered a smile. The butler would not appreciate being found amusing. ‘I am here to take Miss Smythe-Clyde driving.’ Hobson did not usher the Duke inside. ‘Does Miss Juliet know you are coming?’ Sebastian frowned. ‘She should. I sent round a note this morning.’ The butler looked flustered, but he maintained his ground. ‘She is not available.’ He moved to close the door. Anger spurred Sebastian. He put his palm against the heavy oak and pushed. ‘I will not be turned away. Show me to a place to wait and tell her I am here.’ By strength alone, Sebastian made his way inside. This was the last time the chit would treat him so cavalierly. Not waiting for Hobson to escort him, Sebastian strode across the hall and opened the first door he came to. It was the drawing room. He went in and sat down in the only comfortable-looking chair. Minutes passed and no one came. He rose, determination hardening his jaw. No one had ever treated

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him this poorly. He would find where she was and drag her out. She needed to be taught a lesson. His hand was on the doorknob when the door moved inward. He backed away. Harry stood in the archway, looking apprehensive. ‘So she sent you,’ Sebastian drawled, keeping his anger in check. ‘I had not thought her a coward.’ Harry slid inside, keeping his face turned towards the Duke. ‘Umm...she don’t want to see you.’ ‘Do you always state the obvious?’ Sebastian asked, wanting to draw blood. Harry turned beet-red. Even his ears glowed. ‘Ripping up at me won’t do any good. I cannot make her do what she don’t want. Nor can you,’ he added for good measure. ‘Your tongue is as sharp as hers.’ Tired of the verbal battle that was getting him nowhere, Sebastian went to the door and opened it. He walked into the entry and headed for the stairs. ‘Hey,’ Harry yelped, rushing after the Duke. ‘What are you doing?’ Sebastian started up the steps. ‘Use your brain. I am going after her.’ ‘You can’t!’ Harry pounded up the stairs and grabbed the Duke’s arm. Sebastian stopped and looked down at the youth. ‘Take your hand off me,’ he said, his voice deadly.

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Harry blanched. His hand fell away. ‘She ain’t here,’ he said, his voice barely audible. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He did not like the way this was going. ‘Where is she?’ Harry looked around. Several servants were moving around in the hall. ‘If you come back to the drawing room, I will tell you.’ Cold premonition stiffened Sebastian’s spine. The chit had done something truly reprehensible this time. He just knew it. Back in the privacy of the drawing room, he stared at Harry. ‘Out with it.’ Harry paced the room, his fingers raking through his hair in time to his feet. He would not meet the Duke’s fierce look. ‘She’s left.’ ’I know that,’ Sebastian said, his patience at an end. ‘She went with George.’ ‘Who is George? And make it quick and thorough. I am done putting up with your delaying tactics. Your sister has gone too far this time.’ ‘Don’t I just know that,’ Harry mumbled, his feet still moving. He took a deep breath and let it all out at once. ‘She eloped.’ ‘She did what?’ Sebastian said, his voice low. Harry was not fooled. He knew the Duke was ready to throttle him, and heaven only knew what he would do to Ju if he got hold of her. ‘Eloped. Gretna Green.’

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‘Bloody...’ Sebastian ground his teeth together. ‘And you did nothing?’ Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively. ‘George will not hurt her. He left a message to be delivered to me. Seems he did not want anyone to get worried.’ Disgust flared Sebastian’s nostrils. ‘And that makes it all right?’ ‘Yes. I mean, no. That is, George is an old friend. We grew up with him. He is like a brother.’ Sebastian could not believe the naı¨vete´. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that after what is being said about your sister now an elopement will be the coup de graˆce. She will never be accepted anywhere, country or town. I imagine she will even be shunned by your neighbours.’ Harry’s eyes widened. ‘Surely not.’ Sebastian shrugged. ‘Perhaps. However, I do not intend to let your sister succeed in this harebrained scheme. She is too impetuous for her own good.’ ‘You are going to chase her?’ ‘Someone has to,’ Sebastian said, wondering why he continued to put himself through this hell. If he had an ounce of self-preservation, he would send a retraction to the papers. He might be called a cad, but he had been called worse. ‘Can I go with you? I won’t be any trouble and I’m her brother. I should be there to protect her.’

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Harry’s excitement made his hair seem to stand on end. ‘Not from you... That is...’ Sebastian looked the youth up and down. He would be a complication, but he did have a point. There was enough impropriety in this mess which his inclusion might help blunt. ‘We are riding horses. Quicker. I shall leave in half an hour. If you are not at my house, I will go without you. Is that clear?’ ‘Yes, sir...your Grace.’ Sebastian wasted no time getting home and to his chamber. ‘A change of shirt and linen,’ he told Roberts. ‘I am leaving in fifteen minutes.’ ‘Shall I pack a portmanteau, your Grace?’ the valet said, already pulling out the luggage. ‘No, thank you. I shall be on horseback.’ ‘What?’ A horrified expression filled the servant’s face. ‘Surely you jest. What will people say? You have a reputation to maintain. You are one of the best-dressed men in all of England.’ ‘Calm yourself, Roberts. No one of importance is going to see me. I am going into the country.’ ‘Yes, your Grace,’ the valet said in a despondent tone. ‘I shall have my own bag packed in a trice.’ ‘You are not coming.’ ‘What?’

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‘Close your mouth, Roberts, you look like a beached fish. I am travelling alone.’ The valet clamped his teeth so hard they clicked and he winced. Not a further word escaped him as he watched the Duke leave. But his head drooped. Juliet sat across from George, the inn’s best cherrywood table between them, and watched him eat and eat and eat. At the speed he was going they would be here until it was too dark to travel and the inn’s larder was empty. She had finished long ago. She muffled an irritated sigh with her napkin. He looked up from his mutton. ‘Are you all right? We can stop the night here if you would like.’ She felt as if they were barely out of London and all its environs. The last thing she wanted was to stay here. ‘No, I think it best that we continue on. You could have them pack that up for you,’ she ended on a hopeful note. ‘Capital idea. Should have thought of that myself.’ He rang the little brass bell the innkeeper had left with them. Soon they were on the road again. Juliet took a breath of the cool evening air and wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere except eloping. But there was no help for it. George sat on the opposite side of the carriage, snoring. He had finished everything the innkeeper

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had wrapped and then promptly fallen asleep. At least she did not have to worry about poor dear George trying to seduce her or in any way embarrassing her with his overtures. She was not sure he had an amorous bone in his body, for which she was heartily glad. How different it would be if Brabourne sat across from her. First, he would not be on the other seat, he would be beside her. She had no doubt that his sensuality would overwhelm any protests she might have. He was...he was... She sighed and looked away from her companion. The Duke was everything George was not. That, she told herself harshly, is why you will do better with good stolid George. He will let you run things the way you wish and not bother you. Brabourne would devour you and then bed other women. Infidelity is in his nature. This was better by far. It had to be—this was her future. Energy coursed through Sebastian as he urged his mount onwards. ‘We are not far behind,’ he said, the passing wind catching his words and flinging them back to Harry. Harry lagged behind. Even the best horse-flesh Lord Smythe-Clyde had was no match for the Duke’s.

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Sebastian thought he saw a glimmer of light in the distance. It flickered and disappeared, only to reappear again. He was sure it belonged to a carriage. Wait until he got his hands on the minx. He would teach her a lesson she would never forget. He would curb her impetuosity. No woman was going to leave him after the banns had been posted and the announcement put in the paper. He had declared his intentions to the world, and his pride and heritage demanded that she wed no one else. Especially not some country bumpkin. They closed quickly on the vehicle. In the twilight, Sebastian could see the back of the coachman’s head. There were no outriders. Stupid. They would pass through stretches where robberies occurred on a daily basis, sometimes multiple ones within twenty-four hours. ‘By Jove,’ Harry’s voice rang out, ‘that looks like George’s old coach.’ Sebastian drew even with the first carriage horse and shouted to the coachman to stop. The servant slowed down, but before he could bring the vehicle to a complete stop Juliet popped her head out of the window. She gasped. ‘Brabourne! Coachman, don’t stop. Speed up. This is the man we are running from.’ The servant only faltered for seconds. He knew

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whom he took his orders from. With a flick of the whip, he urged the four horses on. The carriage, old and large, lumbered behind the panting animals like an overfed cow. Sebastian cursed under his breath. He was not afraid of losing them. He just wanted to put an end to this charade. The carriage took a wide turn. One of its wheels hit a large rock. The coach tottered. Sebastian heard a loud snap and the wheel that had hit the rock cracked. The vehicle skidded on the remaining three wheels until coming to an abrupt stop toppled to one side. ‘Harry,’ Sebastian yelled, jumping from his horse, ‘go to their heads. They are panicking.’ To Sebastian’s relief, the youth did as he was told without comment. While Harry tried to calm the horses Sebastian rushed to the carriage door and yanked it open. Pandemonium reigned. Juliet scrambled to regain her feet, only to fall down on to the lopsided cushion. Her companion looked dazed, as though he had hit his head. Several blankets littered the floor, which was now the other side of the coach. A wicker basket, with the lid open, lay at the door. The smell of baked chicken and fresh bread filled the interior. Chicken bones

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were sprinkled throughout as though a giant hand had deposited them. Sebastian’s gaze locked on to Juliet. ‘Give me your hand and I will help you out.’ She shook her head. ‘Now,’ he said, his volume low, but with an underlining of iron. She glanced at George, who merely looked confused. Seeing there was no help there, she grabbed the strap above the door and used it to pull herself to the opening. Sebastian caught her around the waist and swung her down before she could protest. ‘I could have done it myself,’ she said irritably, smoothing down the brown wool of her skirt. ‘I am not helpless.’ She was stubborn and belligerent. Sebastian would have smiled under different circumstances, but the anger that had driven him to pursue her still held him. ‘You,’ he said coldly to the coachman, ‘had best help your master. He looks as if he took a hit to the head.’ ‘Oh, dear,’ Juliet said, edging past Sebastian and leaning her upper body inside the carriage. ‘Are you all right, George? You were sleeping when the wheel broke.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘Just a bit confused.’ ‘Where is my reticule?’ she said, starting to climb

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back into the vehicle. ‘I have smelling slats. They will help.’ She had just put her left knee on the top of the carriage when Sebastian wrapped her arm around her and hauled her out. ‘He will be fine without your ministrations. You are not going back in there. No telling what will happen next. This is a relic and should never have been on the road, let alone racing.’ Together with the coachman, Sebastian helped George out. The country squire sank to the ground. One glance at the poor man told Sebastian this was no love match. Juliet grabbed a blanket from the vehicle and wrapped it around George. ‘Is that better?’ He nodded. Harry had the horses calmed and unharnessed. They were munching on grass by the side of the road. He came up to them and said, ‘I think he needs a doctor.’ Sebastian ignored him and spoke to George. ‘This is going to hurt, old man, but I want to feel around your head and find out where you bumped yourself.’ George groaned, then gasped sharply. ‘Damme, that hurts.’ ‘Shine the carriage lamp on this,’ Sebastian ordered. The coachman found an extra candle and lit it, then put it close enough for Sebastian to see.

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‘You’ve got a nasty bruise forming, but it is not bleeding much. You will have a knot the size of Prinny’s waist by tomorrow.’ ‘I...I think I’m...going...’ George did not finish. Sebastian stepped away just in time. Juliet stared and managed to suppress her own sympathetic gag. Harry turned green. ‘A wet cloth will do wonders,’ Sebastian said laconically. Juliet hastened to wet one of her handkerchiefs from the jug of water. She knelt by George and gingerly wiped his forehead. ‘Not there,’ Sebastian said. ‘On his bump.’ She glared at him, but did as he directed. Harry sidled up to Sebastian. ‘How do you know so much?’ ‘Had my share of over-indulgence. Head wounds too.’ Sebastian motioned to the coachman. ‘I want you and Mr Smythe-Clyde to stay here with your master. Miss Smythe-Clyde and I are returning to the last inn to find a doctor and send help.’ Juliet jumped up, dropping the damp cloth. ‘I will not go with you. I will stay here. George needs me.’ Sebastian looked from her face to the now dirty cloth. ‘I doubt that.’ ‘You do, don’t you, George?’ she asked. ‘I do,’ George mumbled obediently. Sebastian took hold of her arm and steered her

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towards his horse. ‘You are coming with me, either in front of me on my horse or on Harry’s mount. Which will it be?’ She stared stubbornly at him. ‘As you wish.’ He gripped her around the waist and tossed her up. She landed with a bone-jarring thud in his saddle. ‘You will have to ride astride so you don’t fall off,’ he said. ‘Unless you promise to co-operate and let me balance you against my chest without fighting; then you may ride side-saddle.’ ‘You know I cannot ride astride,’ she hissed. He eyed her narrow skirt. ‘I can remedy that. Coachman, do you have a knife?’ She gasped. ‘You would not dare.’ He met her angry gaze with his cool one. This was almost worth the chase, he thought. She might be a hazard, and too impulsive for her or anyone else’s own good, but she had spirit. ‘Try me,’ he said calmly, taking the knife from the servant. ‘Harry,’ she said, ‘are you going to let him bully me like this?’ For the first time in his life, her brother did nothing to help. ‘Deuced stupid thing you did, eloping and all. Even if I don’t think his Grace is the hus-

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band for you, I don’t think a flight to Gretna Green just days before your wedding is the thing either.’ She frowned at him. ‘Should I have stood Brabourne up at the chapel? For I would have.’ Harry shook his head. ‘I still think you could have talked Papa around.’ She looked away from him, and Sebastian would have sworn he saw a tear slide down her cheek in the dim glow of the lantern. He almost felt sorry for her. But she had gone too far this time. ‘You win,’ she said softly. He handed the knife back to the coachman and mounted behind her. Taking the reins in one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her waist. ‘It should not be above an hour,’ he told the three men. Juliet shivered as Brabourne set the horse in motion. The evening was cool and her pelisse was more fashionable than practical. Brabourne held her pinned to his chest as though he expected her to try and get away. Not much chance of that. She recognised defeat when it sat behind her. The heat from his body penetrated the clothing separating them. It felt good. Too good. She stiffened and tried to put distance between them. He hauled her back. ‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Staying close will help.’

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‘I don’t want your help,’ she said. ‘Just as you don’t want my name and title,’ he said harshly. ‘Exactly.’ His grip tightened painfully, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Then he loosened his hold. She sensed that his reaction had been automatic. She did not think he would intentionally hurt her, not physically. ‘You will have both,’ he said. ‘The banns have been read, the announcement is in the paper, the church is reserved, your dress is made and the invitations are out. There is no turning back. Nor are you going to botch it all by running off with some squire’s stolid son.’ Anger and the urge to hurt him as she knew he would eventually hurt her drove her. ‘He is twice the man you are. Ten times. A hundred times,’ she said defiantly, her voice rising. ‘You are nothing but a rake and a libertine who has wealth and position. I despise you for what you are.’ He reined the horse to an abrupt halt that would have sent her tumbling to the ground if not for his hold on her. He slid down and pulled her with him so that their bodies bonded. She felt everything about him. The silver buttons on his coat scraped against her belly and then her breast, sending sensations skittering down her spine. His arms banded her waist and back like iron, and

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his chest crushed hers. He held her body immobile against the length of his. It was wickedly thrilling and frighteningly comfortable, as though she were meant to be this close to him. She was going crazy. ‘Let me go.’ ‘Not yet,’ he replied, gripping the back of her head with one hand. She stared up at him, anxiety twisting her stomach. It had to be anxiety, she told herself as his face lowered to hers. She did not want him to kiss her. Never again. ‘You are an infuriating minx,’ he said, just before his lips met hers. The kiss was hard and punishing, not gentle and coaxing like the first. This one seared. His mouth slanted across hers, and when she would not grant his tongue entry he nipped her bottom lip so that she gasped. He took instant advantage. He plundered her, swamping her senses with his sensual onslaught. She reeled, and would have collapsed if not for his support. ‘When I am done,’ he vowed, ‘you won’t want that man you say is worth a hundred of me.’ His kiss gentled just before he broke away to nuzzle the hollow at the base of her throat. His tongue flicked against her skin. The hand that had held her

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head slid down and pushed the collar of her pelisse aside to give him better access. She gasped when his hand cupped her breast through her clothing. Even with the barrier, she felt as though he touched her bare skin. Her mind reeled. ‘Stop,’ she gasped. He looked down at her, the light from the moon and stars more than enough for her to see him clearly. His eyes were a brilliant blue, seemingly lit from within. His mouth was sensual in its hardness. She gazed at him and saw hunger in every line of his face. She exulted in her power to arouse him like that, even as she feared what he would do to her. He would make her want him. His lips found hers again. His hand caressed her breast, making her nipple peak. His arm pressed her tightly against his hips so that she felt every hard angle of him. She was doomed. She felt his fingers on the button running down the back of her dress and a traitorous disappointment filled her. He would never be able to undo them. Not now. Not like this. One. Two. Three... They opened under his fingers. The only thing keeping the garment from sliding down her shoulders was the pelisse she still wore. Soon she felt the heat of his palms moving

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inside the shoulders of her pelisse and edging it down her arms. All the while he held her captive with the power of his kiss. The pelisse fell to the ground and the cool night air moved across her exposed back. Then the bodice slipped from her shoulders and Brabourne took his mouth from hers and placed it at the swell just above her bosom. She shuddered at the moist warmth of his lips. One of his hands cupped her breast, easing it out of her chemise. His thumb flicked the aroused nipple as he raised his head and watched her reaction. She licked her lips and heard him groan. Her head dropped back to be supported by his arm around her shoulders. He bent his head until his tongue replaced his thumb. She moaned, shock and pleasure twinning into a knot centred in her abdomen. She arched against him. He was destroying all her resistance as though it was nothing. Her bodice hung around her hips, followed by the top of her chemise. She was bare to his perusal, allowing him to plunder from her head to her waist. He cupped her breasts with his hands and took turns nuzzling and sucking them with his mouth until she no longer knew where she ended and he began. The world swirled around her. It was a cold shock when he once more raised up

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to look at her. ‘You are more beautiful than I imagined,’ he said, his voice raspy, as though too long unused. She gazed up at him, no longer caring what else he did to her. It would all be mind-and bodyexploding. She sucked in air, more aware of him than she had ever been of anything in her life. She clung to him, her fingers tangled in the folds of his coat. ‘You are more skilful than I ever imagined,’ she managed to say between lips swollen from his kisses. ‘I never thought seduction would feel this way. No wonder Emily wants you.’ He released her so quickly she stumbled and fell to the hard ground. He turned from her and walked away to stand head resting on the trunk of a nearby tree. Stunned, she sat still for long moments. ‘What did I do?’ she finally managed to say, her voice coming out small and unsure. Belatedly, she realised she sounded like a timid little mouse. He kept his back to her. ‘Do not ever again mention your stepmother to me. I did not seduce her.’ He turned back and strode to her, towering above. ‘Do you understand?’ His anger was like a slap in the face. She scrambled to her feet, reality returning with a vengeance. What a weak fool she had been. She stuffed her arms back into the chemise and

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yanked it up over her breasts, trying to make it reach her chin. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her bodice and contorted like an acrobat in a futile attempt to button the back. Tears of frustration and shame blurred her vision. She angled away so he would not see her weakness. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had been a complete fool. He had done nothing to her that he had not done to a million other women, and she had let him. No, she had revelled in his ardour. He touched her shoulder and she jumped away. ‘Don’t come near me,’ she ordered. She heard him sigh, but when he spoke his voice was stripped of emotion. ‘You will never be able to do up your bodice by yourself.’ ‘I shall do the best I can, for you shan’t touch me again. I promise you that.’ His voice hardened. ‘Don’t make promises you cannot keep.’ ‘Where is my pelisse?’ she muttered, looking around. The brown wool made the garment hard to see against the dirt. ‘Ah.’ She pounced on it and yanked it on, hoping it was long enough to cover most of the exposed skin of her back. ‘You look unkempt,’ his hateful voice said. ‘As though you have been ravished and enjoyed every minute of it.’ She scowled, her resentment of her weakness and

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his skill rising to uncontrollable heights. She rounded on him. ‘And you are a philanderer. A seducer of innocent women. A rakehell.’ He sneered. ‘I have heard ‘‘rake’’ from your lips more than I like. Is your vocabulary so limited that you can think of nothing else?’ She lunged for him, her open palm connecting with his cheek. The instant her flesh met his, she knew he had let her hit him. The knowledge was in his bitter eyes. The fury left her. ‘I am sorry. I lost control, something I never do.’ His laugh was cynical. ‘You do it all the time. Whenever you act impulsively you are losing control.’ Much to her dismay, he was right. It was her greatest weakness. Mama had told her so often enough. And now it had landed her in this bumblebroth from which she finally acknowledged to herself there was no escape. ‘You are right,’ she said in a tiny voice. ‘I should never have fought you in that duel. Look where it has taken us, what it has done to us. I should have found another way to protect Papa.’ ‘You should have let him fight his own battle.’ ‘Oh, no, I could never do that. I promised Mama that I would care for him. And I shall.’ ‘What nonsense,’ he said.

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‘It is a promise. I keep my promises.’ He studied her. ‘And will you keep your promises on our wedding day?’ She blanched. ‘You are a cunning devil, turning my words against me.’ He shrugged. ‘Enough, minx. I am tired, and I venture so are you. We still have to reach that inn and send someone back for the others. She had forgotten all else in the wonder of his lovemaking. Disgust at herself gave her energy. Briskly, she said. ‘You are right.’ This time she co-operated with him when he mounted and pulled her up in front of him. She felt the tension in him when her shoulder touched his chest, but she told herself to ignore it. Just as she had to ignore her reaction to him. She was, beyond question, a fool. Soon to be a hurt one.

Chapter Ten

For the second time since coming to London, Juliet returned home from Brabourne’s protection. This time, however, Harry accompanied her and they arrived in George’s carriage, which had been repaired speedily because of the Duke’s intervention. She was glad Brabourne had not come with them. After what had happened between them she never wanted to see him again. A forlorn wish. He had made it plain that he intended their wedding to take place and would brook no further evasions on her part. Nor would she get the chance for another. Her papa would have her watched, or rather Emily would. Papa never stayed focused on anything for long except his experiments. George left them at the door and went on to his rented lodgings. No words were said between any of them.

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She and Harry were met inside by Emily and Papa and marched into the library. Anger at the other woman’s obvious influence mixed with Juliet’s sense of guilt over having been the cause of discomfort for Papa. Her job was to care for him, not upset him. Harry looked at her and rolled his eyes. She nearly smiled at him, but remembered she was still angry. It was his fault Brabourne had caught her. She turned away, prepared to face the consequences without his help. ‘How dare you, you ungrateful brat?’ Emily started. Papa put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm which she shook off. ‘No, Oliver, I won’t be denied my say. She has completely undone everything I have accomplished. She was about to marry Brabourne. Brabourne, the most sought-after man in all the realm. And she runs away. Not only is she ungrateful, she is stupid.’ Juliet stood stoically, but her stomach churned. The only thing that kept her standing was the knowledge that she had tried to do what was right for her. Brabourne was not the man for her, no matter how much her body responded to his and her weak emotions desired his nearness. Emily continued her tirade. Papa just shook his head, as though the entire

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situation bewildered him. It probably did. Finally he asked, ‘Why, Juliet?’ ‘I don’t want to marry him, Papa. He will make me miserable.’ ‘Then why didn’t you say something instead of running away with poor George? It is not done. His father will be furious with him.’ She blinked rapidly, hoping no one saw the moisture in her eyes. This was so hard. Not even knowing she had been wrong eased the ache. ‘I tried, Papa. You would not listen to me.’ ‘Of course I did, but you were wrong. Emily is right when she says this is for the best. You are ruined otherwise. No man will marry you.’ Juliet’s stomach twisted again. ‘George would have. Still will.’ She longed to tell Papa everything, particularly Emily’s part, but for once controlled her tongue. It would do no good and only hurt Papa. ‘You are too young and inexperienced,’ Emily said in a condescending voice. Juliet glared at her. ‘I am three and twenty, nearly as old as you. And I may be inexperienced in the ways of the ton, but I am not ignorant of people.’ Emily raised on elegant blonde brow. ‘Is that so? You have an odd way of showing it.’ Juliet sighed and looked away. There was nothing else to say. But it hurt just the same. If Mama were

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alive, none of this would be happening. But she was not. ‘Go to your room,’ Emily ordered. ‘And be assured that you will not get a second opportunity to so disgrace us. Fortunately for you no one realises what really happened.’ Juliet cast one last imploring glance at Papa, who looked bewildered as he shook his head. She turned and left the room. Harry followed, the tread of his boots loud in the stilled house. He stayed behind her. Reaching her door, she turned to him. ‘Please go away. I know all you want to do is agree with her.’ He ran his fingers through his red hair. ‘I’m sorry, Ju. I didn’t mean for it to be this bad. Just...you just cannot run away with someone to avoid someone else. It isn’t done.’ ‘Some of the most high-ranking people in the aristocracy have eloped,’ she hissed. ‘And I don’t care. George and I would never even have come to London.’ He sighed. ‘Those runaway marriages were mostly in our grandparents’ time, Ju. People don’t do it so much now. At least, not respectable ones.’ His words piled more pain on. ‘But you forget,’ she said sarcastically, ‘I am no longer respectable.’ Her neck ached from stiffness and tension. Soon

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she would have a raging headache. She rubbed the stiff muscles. ‘Please, Harry, just go away. I need time to myself.’ She could see his uncertainty, but he did as she asked. With feet that dragged, she entered her room and crossed to the bed. She crawled on to the large mattress and curled up, staring at nothing. She was trapped now. No other chance to escape Brabourne would present itself. Emily would gain admittance to the select of Society. She would see some doors open and others remain closed. She might even become an intimate of Prinny. She did not care. She rolled on to her back. Then there was Brabourne. She did not want to marry him. Not really. Or so she told herself. He would break her heart. Perhaps he already had, if the pain in her chest was any indication. She rolled to her other side and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears she had managed to hold in until now. They soaked her pillow. When had it happened? How could it have happened? There had been times when he had been kind to her. He had not shot Papa in the duel, even though he could have. That alone had endeared him to her against her better judgement. Then he had rescued

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her from the thugs in Vauxhall. But those events should not have captured her heart. Yes, he made her body throb with pleasure and sensations she had never known existed. But that should not have been enough either. Mama had once said that love was never logical and never comfortable. Perhaps she had been right. Look what it had done to Papa. To her. A week later, Juliet stepped down from the travelling carriage Brabourne had sent for her family. Brabourne Abbey, the seat of the Dukes of Brabourne, was stupendous. A large, rambling abbey in the Gothic style, acquired when Henry VIII had dissolved the monasteries, it had been in the family ever since. The grey rock blended in with the cliff on which it perched, the English Channel visible from all the south-and east-facing rooms. To Juliet’s mind it suited Brabourne perfectly. Dark and arrogant. She had not taken three steps from the carriage before footmen in the Duke’s green and black livery were there to assist. Brabourne was right behind them. ‘Welcome to my home, Juliet,’ he said, taking the hand she had not offered. Watching her the entire time, he kissed her fingers.

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Even though she wore gloves, the feel of his lips was distinct and unsettling. Memories flooded back of their minutes in the dark night. Her pulse raced and her heart pounded. She could not look away from his knowing eyes. ‘I believe Prinny was right. You will set a new fashion for freckles, my dear,’ he said sotto voce. The spell broke and she snatched her hand back. ‘I seriously doubt that. No one likes freckles. They are too much like blemishes.’ Before he could further discompose her, she turned away. Emily and Papa exited the coach with Harry close behind. The carriage that carried their luggage drew up and more servants converged on it. It was organised mayhem. Brabourne welcomed her papa. ‘Come this way, Smythe-Clyde. My butler and housekeeper will show you to your accommodations.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Papa said, his gaze darting all around. ‘Nice place you have here, Brabourne. If it were mine, I should never go to the city.’ Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Oliver, don’t be ridiculous.’ The small group headed to the marble steps that led to the front door. Juliet lagged behind, marvelling that Papa was acting as though he had never challenged the Duke to a duel. Men were so strange. Or Papa was.

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She was not surprised to see Burroughs waiting for them. Not even with the blink of an eye did he reveal that he knew her. He assigned a footman to show Harry to his room and took Papa and Emily to theirs himself. Juliet was left standing in the entry with Brabourne. Old muskets adorned the walls in circles like radiating suns. Many-antlered deer gazed down at them with sightless eyes. The Brabourne crest and motto, a jousting knight and the words Never Fear, were emblazoned above the entryway. Soon they would be hers too. ‘Not nearly so ornate as Carlton House,’ the Duke said drily. ‘Not enough gilt,’ she managed to remark with a slight smile. ‘I will take you to your chamber,’ he said abruptly. ‘Come with me.’ He held out his arm. The ease that had started to slow her pulse ended. She glanced apprehensively up at him. He stood implacably, waiting. Juliet knew when she was up against a wall. With ill grace, she accepted his escort. The muscles of his lower arm were sinewy and strong beneath her fingers. She knew their power from his rescue and his lovemaking, thoughts she did not want to have at this moment. They progressed up a flight of stairs wide enough

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for three ladies to walk three abreast while wearing the wide skirts of a generation ago. Gleaming marble overlaid with a fine red carpet stretched ahead. Periodically they passed a footman, who bowed until they were past. It was overdone and overwhelming. ‘You are like a potentate here,’ Juliet said, hard pressed to keep the distaste from her voice. ‘Do I detect displeasure? You will have to get used to this. Anything less would not be fitting for my station.’ Was there bitterness in his last words? She looked at him as they walked. His face, as usual, was unrevealing. They stopped in front of two double doors with the Brabourne crest and motto carved across them. She got a strange feeling in her stomach. With his free hand, Brabourne opened the doors. Juliet gazed into a room big enough to be a ballroom in many houses. He ushered her in, leaving the doors open. ‘This is your sitting room. Beyond is the sleeping chamber and a room for your maid.’ Done in shades of pale green and black, the Brabourne colours, it was enough to take her breath away. A settee and several chairs grouped around a table where tea had been laid out. A large secretary and several bookcases took up part of one wall. The

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wood floor was covered in carpet. Many-paned windows, with green brocade curtains with black trim pulled back, presented the view of a stormy English Channel. She imagined that during a storm she would hear the waves pound the shore. ‘Magnificent,’ she breathed. ‘It is the suite of rooms traditionally occupied by the Duchess. My rooms are connected through a door in your sleeping chamber.’ She was not surprised. Even a house as grand as this could not have many rooms this fantastic. Still, he was bucking respectability by putting her here before their marriage. He must have known her thoughts. ‘By tomorrow it will no longer matter. I am tired of being dictated to by narrow minds.’ There was nothing she could say. She was not yet mistress here. Besides, a large part of her agreed with him. She was heartily tired of having her life tossed about because of what others expected. ‘I will leave you now,’ he said, releasing her. ‘We keep country hours here, in spite of Prinny’s presence, but we do dress. The dinner bell will ring at five.’ ‘Prinny is here?’ She had known he was close to Brabourne, and that he intended to attend the wedding, but she had thought he would arrive tomorrow. ‘He came several days ago. He likes the hunting.’

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The Duke’s voice was non-committal and Juliet wondered what else the Prince liked. But it was none of her business. ‘We will be twenty for dinner,’ he added as he left. Juliet stood looking at the closed doors long after he had gone. Twenty might be small for him, but to her it was too many. The day had been long and the preceding weeks even longer. Tomorrow was her wedding day, the ceremony to be held in the estate chapel. She really did not want to spend the evening trying to appear excited and eager. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her trunks. More would follow over the next week or so. Striding into her sleeping chamber and seeing the massive wardrobe and tallboy, and a separate room specially designed for her gowns, Juliet began to wonder if she had enough clothing for the life she was entering into. She would worry about that later. Right now she needed to direct the unpacking and find a gown suitable for tonight’s activities. Pleading sick on the eve of her wedding was not the thing to do. Several hours later, she studied herself in the large bevelled mirror. She wore the same bronze silk gown she had worn to Almack’s, with the same single strand of pearls. Gold ribbon threaded through

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the curls her maid had let fall like autumn leaves on to her shoulders from a gold clasp on top of her head. Something was missing. She looked like a schoolgirl. The last thing she wanted. It had not bothered her before, but now she felt gauche in these magnificent surroundings. Out of her depth. And, a small part of her acknowledged, she wanted to stand out so that Brabourne would notice her and admire her. As much as she told herself she did not want to marry him, she still wanted him to be proud of her. For what reason, she could not, would not admit to herself. The need was just there, nestled in her chest and demanding satisfaction. She sighed and stood. This was silly. The smooth sound of wood sliding on wood alerted her. The door to Brabourne’s room opened. He stood in the entryway, watching her, a velvet box in one hand. He was magnificent, everything she had ever dreamed a man should be. There was a powerful grace about him when he moved, showing his lean body to advantage. His longish hair brushed his shoulders, its darkness nearly lost in the midnight colour of his coat. Black breeches moulded to him. She gulped and looked away. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, stopping too close for her comfort.

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He flicked open the box and held it out to her. On a bed of black velvet lay a necklace that caught the candlelight and split it into many shades of yellow, orange and red. It was a choker made up of three strands with a large, canary-yellow oval stone in the centre. Around it was a circle of red stones with an orange tinge. More yellow stones made up the three strands. It was stunning. Matching earrings and bracelets lay beside it. ‘I have never seen anything so...so striking,’ she said. ‘They are the Brabourne diamonds. The centre stone is one of the largest yellow diamonds in existence. They will look good on you.’ She looked from the jewels to him. ‘I cannot wear them. What if I lost them?’ ‘You are impossible. I had them cleaned and the catch strengthened. The settings are also good.’ He took the necklace out and set the box on a table. ‘You will not lose them unless you get into a skirmish with someone, which I don’t expect tonight.’ A slight smile curved his lips. ‘To my knowledge, there are no thugs present.’ She returned his smile with a grimace. ‘One never knows.’ ‘True. You are prone to finding trouble. Now, turn around so I can hook this.’ She looked at him, noting the implacable gaze he

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bent on her. No argument would sway him. That much she had learned about him. With a reluctant sigh, she did as he ordered. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck just seconds before her pearls slid down so that one end came to rest where the fabric of her bodice ended. The smooth feel of pearl slid along her skin as he pulled them free. The breath she had not realised she held slipped through her parted lips. She had barely regained her composure when his fingers once more touched her. A frisson shot down her spine. The cool kiss of diamonds and gold rested against the heated flush of her reaction to him. For a fleeting instant she thought she felt his lips against her neck and across her exposed shoulder. Shivers joined the frisson that continued to move through her. Then he stepped away. ‘Turn around so that I may see you,’ he said, his voice a harsh sound in the utter silence. She did as she was told, unable to do otherwise. His voice held the same sound it had the night he had nearly ravished her. When she saw him, the hunger in his gaze took her aback. He reached out and with one finger traced the line of the necklace. Where his flesh met hers fire erupted. He bent forward and kissed the base of her throat, just below the centre diamond. She moaned in shocked surprise and delight, her fingers reaching

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out to grasp something so she would not fall. Her nails dug into the fabric covering of the chair behind her. He raised his head and stared down at her. Her chest rose and fell in small panting gasps. ‘They become you,’ he murmured. ‘I knew they would.’ She stared at him, her eyes wide with reaction while his were slumberous. If he crooked his finger, she would fall willingly into his arms. It was a shameful admission, but she knew it for the truth. She was his—body and soul. Instead, he stepped further away. ‘We must go down. Our guests are waiting.’ Disappointment made its insidious way through her emotions. She caught herself up short with a shake of the head. Would she never learn? ‘You are right,’ she said, her voice remarkably level for the turmoil her thoughts were in. Holding her head high, she preceded him through the door. After his bestowal of the jewels, anything else would be anti-climactic. She was right. The next morning, Juliet stood across the altar from her groom in the small chapel situated on the Brabourne estate. This was not her choice of place, but Brabourne had thought it best after her at-

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tempted elopement. Behind them stood her family, Prinny and Perth. Ravenswood stood as groomsman to Brabourne. She had no bridesmaid. George had not been invited. In half an hour all the rich and powerful who were not already here would be arriving for the wedding breakfast. Right now, she had to turn to the Duke and allow him to kiss her. Her hands shook, so she hid them in the folds of her white silk and silver lace gown. Please let it be chaste. She did not want to succumb to him in front of these people. She never wanted to melt against him again. He touched his lips to her cheek before holding his arm out for her hand. Relief flooded her. She laid her fingers lightly on him and hoped he did not feel her shivers. He graciously accepted congratulations, even smiling at his friends and the Prince. She managed to keep her lips parted in what she hoped looked like a smile. It was the best she could do. ‘Beautiful bride, you lucky devil,’ Prinny said with a wink. Before Juliet realised what the prince intended, he planted his mouth full on hers. She gasped, but managed to keep from jumping back. She could not stop the blush.

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‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ she said, grateful her voice did not tremble. ‘Oh, Your Highness,’ Emily cooed, having come up beside him, ‘you are such a charming rogue.’ He took her hand and beamed down at her. Together they left the chapel. Juliet glanced at her papa, who stood to one side watching. ‘Why don’t you ask him to go in with us?’ Brabourne said quietly. Juliet gave her new husband a speaking look, torn equally between gratitude for his kindness and irritation that he was so thoughtful, which weakened her resolve to dislike him. She could not control her heart, but she was determined to control her mind. She rushed to Papa, only to have Harry get there first. ‘Come with us,’ she said to both of them. Harry grinned and shook his head. ‘We will follow. This is your moment—and your husband’s.’ She frowned at him, but knew from the stubborn light in his eyes that he would not change his mind. With ill grace, she returned to the Duke, who once more held out his arm. ‘You can do better than that,’ he chided, his face once more masked by his cool reserve. ‘After all the trouble we have gone to, there is no sense in defeating our purpose by having the tongues wagging that our marriage is a sham.’ ‘Why should they think anything else?’ she

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hissed. ‘Everyone knows you only married me to save my reputation.’ He shrugged. ‘That does not mean you have to confirm their suspicions. They can just as easily believe it is a love match. After all, I compromised you. Let them guess.’ She gave an unladylike snort. They entered the large ballroom that Brabourne had had made into a bower of flowers. Through the many french windows she saw white silk tents set up on the acres of lawn. Beneath them were more tables laden with food. Her husband had spared no expense. People were everywhere, dressed in the height of fashionable morning dress. She had to endure the next couple hours and into the evening. Many of the important guests had arrived last night and stayed over. Brabourne led her to the largest table, where a many-layered bride’s cake reposed. His French chef had been working on it for days. Crystal, china and silver sparkled like constellations around it. With luck, she could spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon cutting the cake. Then there was the night.

Chapter Eleven

Juliet could stand the waiting no longer. With a huff of ire, she jumped out of the massive fourposter bed and marched to the mantel. She grabbed a brass poker from the stand and attacked the coals. Heat jumped out at her from the reinvigorated fire. It was small satisfaction. This was her wedding night and she had come to bed hours ago, or so it seemed to her heightened nerves. Many of the guests had left that afternoon. The only ones remaining were her family, Prinny, Perth and Ravensford. She had left Brabourne drinking with his cronies, thinking he would soon follow. She was a fool. She returned the poker to its stand and went to the large window. Pulling the curtains back, she peered out at the night. Clouds scuttled across the sky, obscuring the stars. The moon was only a

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sliver. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the waves hitting the rocky shores. This was a primitive, vital land, like its owner. She let the curtain close. Some hot chocolate would be nice, and might help her to sleep, but she did not want to let anyone know of her shame. Her husband was not interested enough in her to come and do his duty. She must have been mistaken when she’d thought she saw hunger on his face after he had fastened the diamonds around her throat. Her temples began to throb. Everyone had gasped the night before when they had entered the salon. Emily had turned green. The large gilt mirror over the mantel had shown her the necklace sparkling like a miniature sun around her neck. She had been beautiful, if only because of the jewels. She had even felt beautiful for the first time in her life. Now, the diamonds were back in their case on her dressing stand. She was back to her normal self. She returned to the bed, crawled in and burrowed under the covers. It might be summer, but being so close to water kept the abbey too cool for comfort. She turned into the embrace of the fluffy pillows and told herself she was better off without Brabourne in her bed. He was too expert at what he did to leave her unscathed.

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* * * Sebastian paused at the door separating his room from Juliet’s. He had drunk everyone under the table and now felt a cool detachment about his new wife. The desire that had driven him lurked beneath the haze caused by good French wine. Yet he knew that if he crossed the wooden barrier separating them, all his good intentions would be for naught. He would have her to wife and be damned to anything else. The cynical part of him said do it. He would ensure her first child was his. The side of himself he showed only to those few people close to him said wait. For her first time with a man she deserved to have someone who was sober enough to give her pleasure and to care about how she felt. Right now he was not that person. He should not have drunk so much, trying to exorcise the spectre of his mother and her infidelity to the man the world had known as his father. His marriage had opened wide the already-weeping wound of his bastardy. Telling himself Juliet was not his mother did no good. Juliet was a woman, and he did not trust women. Hands clenched, shoulders tight, he turned and went to his bed. He snuffed the single candle he carried and set it on the side table, then undid the

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sash of his navy robe and let the silk slither to the floor. Naked, he got under the cold covers. It was going to be a long night. The next morning Juliet rose before the maid came to her room and made her bed. Raised in the country, she knew the first servant in to tidy the room would realise she and Brabourne had not consummated their marriage. She had never thought herself prideful, but having people know her husband could not bring himself to make love to her on their wedding night was more than she could bear. She pulled the bell; when a footman came, she told him she wanted Mrs Burroughs. It was not so strange a request for a new bride. Brabourne had introduced her to the staff yesterday after their marriage. It was plausible that she intended to speak to the housekeeper about the running of the abbey...what if it was a little too early? She was eccentric. Mrs Burroughs arrived promptly, making a curtsy to Juliet. ‘Your Grace?’ ‘Please, Mrs Burroughs, don’t treat me that way. I am not used to it.’ The housekeeper smiled warmly. ‘Used to it or not, you are a Duchess now and must learn to accept what comes with it.’ Juliet wrung her hands and paced the floor of her

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chamber. How did one go about asking for help to hide this sort of thing? If only Ferguson or Hobson were here. Reaching the sticking point, she stopped short and blurted, ‘Mrs Burroughs, I need your help. The Duke did not visit me last night.’ Embarrassment was like a flame that burned her face. The old woman’s round cheeks turned ruddy even as sympathy softened the lines around her eyes. ‘Oh, dear. I knew he would have problems, but I was so sure he was attracted to you enough that he would... Well, anyway. We must get you dressed, and you need to go to the Long Gallery to see the pictures. That will tell you. Meanwhile, I will tidy your room. No one must know what did not happen last night. Least of all your stepmother.’ Relief eased the constriction in Juliet’s chest. She had found an ally. She dressed in a pale lavender morning dress, with a white paisley shawl around her shoulders to ward off the morning chill. Mrs Burroughs gave her directions to the Long Gallery and she set off, wondering what she was supposed to learn that Mrs Burroughs did not want to tell her. She got lost twice, and finally asked a footman to show her the way. The young man made her a very impressive bow, which made her more uncomfortable. She was going to have trouble getting used to her new rank. At her destination he bowed again.

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‘Please,’ she said, then stopped herself. She could not tell him to stop bowing. ‘Thank you.’ He raised one eyebrow, but otherwise managed to keep an impassive face as he took his leave. Her impetuosity had nearly got her into trouble again. Being a Duchess was going to be hard work. Drawing the shawl close, she started slowly walking the length of the room and studying the portraits as she went. The style of clothing changed with each painting, as did the women. Each Duchess differed from the one before or after her. Blonde, brown or black hair, and blue, brown or grey eyes, graced the women randomly. Some were plump and others thin. Some were tall and others short. The men never seemed to change. Their clothes reflected the time period, but their features and bearing never altered. All the Dukes had blond hair and heavily lidded pale blue eyes. Their noses were arrogant hooks that turned down at the tip. Their lips were thin. Even the last Duke, Brabourne’s father, looked like all those who had gone before him. She stopped at the end of the gallery and studied the portraits of the last Duke and Duchess. The Duchess looked like Brabourne, the same ravenblack hair and piercing blue eyes. Her lips were full and sensual like her son’s. Her nose was straight and well defined and, like her son’s, had no hook.

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She was willowy and he was lean. Brabourne had a squarer jaw, but that was the only major difference. Juliet felt a presence and turned to see her husband. He stopped beside her and looked up at the picture of his mother. ‘We are much alike.’ There was a harshness to his voice and an intensity to his body that told Juliet he was disturbed. He glanced down at her and his eyes were hard. ‘I don’t look anything like the last Duke.’ ‘Your father,’ she said, before realisation hit her. She had been so stupid. He stiffened. ‘The man the world calls my father.’ Instinctively she reached for him. He moved as though to look somewhere else and managed to avoid her touch. She drew back, hurt. ‘I have his name and title, but I am really a bastard,’ he said softly. She did not know what to say, but had to do something. The gulf between them was widening. ‘You cannot know that for sure.’ ‘He told me.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘I was ten. It was my birthday. He never forgave my mother for doing it to him, and he never forgave me for living. I never forgave her either.’ His voice was void of emotion, as though he spoke of someone else.

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Juliet was appalled by the pain the last Duchess had wrought. She longed to comfort Brabourne, but did not think he would let her. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered, knowing the words were inadequate. He turned back to her. ‘Don’t be. It is in the past.’ ‘But not forgotten or overcome.’ Even as she said the words she knew she spoke the truth. When he said he had never forgiven his mother, he also meant he did not trust women. ‘I will not do that to you, to our children.’ He looked at her for long minutes, then walked away without saying a word. Her heart ached for him as she watched his proud back disappear around a corner. Her heart ached for herself. She had known her marriage was far from perfect, but she had never imagined there was so much past pain that had to be put to rest before they could start to make the best of their life together. One step at a time, she told herself. He would never love her, but she would make him trust her. She could live with that. She would have to. For dinner that night she wore the palest of lavender. Brabourne sent her a magnificent set of amethyst and diamond jewellery. Her maid fastened the necklace. Juliet missed the electrifying sensuality of her husband’s touch even as she wondered

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what maggot had taken up residence in her brain. She should be glad he was keeping his distance. It was what she had wanted from the beginning. The Prince was still with them. During the meat course, he announced, ‘I will be returning to London tomorrow, Brabourne. I hope to see you there after your wedding trip.’ ‘Within the week,’ Brabourne answered without looking at Juliet. No one said a word about there not being a trip. ‘Really?’ Emily said, ‘Oliver and I were just talking about when we were returning to town. We have decided to go tomorrow as well.’ Juliet watched her papa, noting the look of confusion on his face. Harry said, ‘That is news to me. The hunting here is excellent, and Papa likes hunting above everything except his experiments.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Emily said quickly. ‘Oliver wants to get back to his experiments, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, yes. Quite, m’dear.’ He returned his attention to his meal. Juliet watched her stepmother and wondered just what the other woman was up to. She had used Juliet’s connections to Brabourne to better her position in Society. Was she now going to use her budding acquaintance with the Prince to further boost her position? Was Prinny aware?

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Prinny smiled warmly at Emily. ‘Delightful to have you coming back so soon, Lady SmytheClyde. The two of you must come to Carlton House.’ Juliet glanced at her husband. Brabourne was watching the exchange with a jaundiced air. He obviously knew something was going on between the Prince and Emily and did not approve. Papa seemed oblivious, his food holding all his attention. What a mess, Juliet decided, grateful dinner was essentially over. She signalled for herself and Emily to leave the men with their port. Her relief at escaping the quickly deteriorating dinner was short-lived. With an insinuating tone, Emily asked, ‘Was last night everything you thought it would be? Brabourne is reputed to be the best lover in England.’ Juliet’s hated blush came in full force. Pulling herself together, she gave Emily a supercilious stare. ‘How unladylike a question.’ Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘High in the instep, now that you are a Duchess.’ She moved nearer and said in a venomous whisper, ‘But don’t expect him every night. He has a reputation. No woman has ever held him exclusively.’ Her tinkling laugh filled the room as she went to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of sherry. Juliet left while the other woman’s back was

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turned. She would not stay and hear Emily’s bold words and hurtful insinuations. The truth in them was something she did not want to face tonight. In her own rooms, she quickly dressed for bed. Her last request to her maid was for a cup of hot chocolate. She intended to sleep. An hour later she sighed and threw the covers off. She got out of bed and lit the candle left near. By its golden glow she found her lavender wool robe and donned it, tying the sash tightly. She should have known oblivion would evade her. A chill hung in the room. She crossed to the fireplace and stirred the banked coals. Sparks jumped up and rode the air currents like fairies. She smiled, remembering the tales of little people her nanny used to regale her and Harry with before bed. A click and the smooth slide of a door across carpet froze her, poker in right hand. Very careful not to appear startled, she put the tool back, then pivoted around. She swallowed hard. Brabourne was a dark figure in the entry, the glow of the fire barely reaching him. He stood there, watching her for long moments before stepping into the room. The door slid shut behind him. Juliet’s heart pounded. In one hand he held a bottle of wine, in the other a velvet box. He set them down on the table nearest

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the bed, then continued towards her, not stopping until he was close enough so that she could see every nuance of his face and feel the warmth from his body. Much too close. Her stomach knotted and butterflies seemed to fly up her throat. This was the moment she had been dreading as much as she had been longing for it. He was finally going to consummate their marriage. ‘Juliet,’ he said softly, taking her hands in his, ‘it is time.’ She nodded, allowing him to lead her back to the bed. He released her and poured them each a glass of golden wine. She took hers and sipped. It was champagne. The bubbles floated up her throat. A surprised smile eased some of her discomfort. He watched her with an intensity that brought back her sense of impending disaster. Intuitively she knew that when he was finished with her nothing would ever be the same. She swallowed down the wine in one long gulp. He shook his head. ‘Fine wine is for sipping, not quenching your thirst.’ Still, he poured her more. This time she sipped, allowing the effervescence to cascade down her throat as she wondered what he was going to do next. Anticipation was a delicious tingle in her toes. None the less, it was a shock when he undid the belt on his robe and allowed the silk to fall to the floor.

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He stood naked before her, his magnificent body glowing in the light from the fire. She gaped, taking in his splendour before squeezing her eyes shut. Her cheeks flamed. The empty glass would have fallen from her nerveless fingers if he had not rescued it. ‘Get into bed,’ he murmured. Without opening her eyes, she backed away until her knees hit the mattress. His hands gripped her waist and lifted. He held her against him so she could feel his arousal pressing into her. She gasped and put her hands on his shoulders and pressed, trying to put some distance between them. ‘Don’t,’ he ordered. ‘This is only the beginning.’ The beginning of the end, she told herself. He would take her and make her his. She licked her dry lips. He laid her on the bed. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her another glass of champagne. ‘It will help relax you.’ She opened one eye and took the wine. She needed a lot of relaxing. He grinned indulgently at her as she gulped down the contents. ‘Remind me not to waste good wine on you again,’ he said, taking the empty glass and setting it on the table. She began to feel a little giddy and drowsy. It would be so nice to sink into the comfort of the feather bed and sleep.

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‘You cannot go to sleep yet,’ he said, untying the sash of her robe. ‘I have things to show you.’ It was an effort to open her eyes, but she managed. He loomed over her, his face golden on one side where the firelight hit it. Overwhelming curiosity drew her gaze downward. Dark hairs scattered across his chest, swirling around his nipples. The temptation to touch was great. ‘Go ahead,’ he murmured, his voice husky. ‘Feel me.’ ‘How did you know?’ she asked, her words only slightly slurred. ‘Your face. Every thought you have shows on it.’ When she did nothing, he caught one of her hands and placed it on his chest. The invitation was irresistible. With wonder, she explored the textures of his upper body. His skin was firm, not as soft as hers, but not coarse either. The dark hairs that had beckoned her twined around her fingers, their wiry toughness so much like him. Firm muscles twitched. When she finally found his nipple, it hardened with an alacrity that enthralled her. She swirled her thumb over the nub until he groaned. ‘For a beginner you do very well.’ She smiled, hearing the need in his voice. ‘I am a fast learner.’ But she knew it was bravado. She had no idea

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where they were going or how to get there. He was the one who would control their joining. With infinite skill, he eased the robe off her shoulders. She shivered as the cool air caressed her exposed skin. ‘How can you stand being naked?’ she asked. ‘Anticipation.’ ‘Ah,’ she murmured, memories of his caresses returning. ‘I can understand that.’ ‘Can you? Then help me get your nightrail off.’ That stopped her. ‘Can you not do it with me dressed?’ ‘I could,’ he said, leaning down and catching her nipple in his mouth through the fine linen. He sucked and nibbled until she shivered with delight. He raised his head to watch the wonder moving over her face. ‘But it is not nearly so nice.’ ‘If it were any more so, I would not be able to stand it,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, you will,’ he promised, easing the material over her head. He dropped the clothing on the floor with his robe, the two garments entwining as he imagined their bodies soon would. His heart hammered with desire. It was all he could do not to enter her now. She flinched, but did nothing to stop his hand from cupping her breast. His warmth felt good, adding another layer to the sensations he gave her. This

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time when he took her into his mouth his tongue slid smoothly over her flesh. ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I see what you meant. This is much better.’ He chuckled. For an innocent she was certainly hedonistic. All the better. Her arousal would intensify his reaction. He reached across her for his half-full glass of champagne. With a tilt of his wrist, he poured some on to her flat abdomen. She flinched, pushing her breasts up against his chest. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, raising her head so she could see. ‘Patience,’ he said, lowering his head to her belly. With flicks of his tongue he licked up the wine. Her muscles spasmed at each touch. Juliet had never known such pleasure. She caught his hair in her fingers and held him to her. He chuckled and his warm breath on her skin was like torture. Divine torture that she knew was only the beginning. Some of the champagne slipped down to the secret place between her legs. He followed it. Juliet stiffened and tried to pull his head up. ‘Please, no.’ He looked up at her, his face implacable. ‘Yes.’ She shook her head.

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He smiled and slipped his hand where his mouth wanted to go. She gasped, her eyes wide. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Making love to you,’ he murmured, watching carefully as his fingers slid along the moist warmth of her skin. When he slid one into her, she tightened, and a groan of anticipation escaped him. Juliet licked dry lips and stared up at the ceiling. She could not watch what he was doing. It was too intimate, too depraved. But it felt so good. She moaned. ‘Relax,’ he crooned. ‘This night is for pleasure.’ Still unable to look at him, she murmured, ‘This is so...so unladylike. I never imagined it would be so—’ ‘Delightful?’ ‘That too.’ She gasped as he found a particularly sensitive spot. He chuckled, and in her moment of weakness moved her legs apart and touched her with his tongue. Juliet cringed, only to have shivers rack her body with each caress he gave her. Her stomach clenched. ‘What is happening?’ she gasped. He raised up on his elbows to better see her face. ‘You are becoming aroused.’ She gulped as his fingers replaced his mouth. ‘Oh.’

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It was a small sound and all she could make. Her world was spiralling down to the way he made her feel. Nothing else mattered any more. Not the indignity of her position or the crudity of what he was doing. Only the way he made her feel. Sebastian watched her, his own need mounting. She responded with such sweet intensity he did not know how much longer he could put off entering her completely. He felt her muscles contract and knew she was close. Never taking his fingers from her, he slid up until he lay in the valley between her legs. Her whimpers drew him on. In one smooth motion, he pulled out his fingers and inserted himself. He slid in with only a slight hitch. ‘Ohh! That hurt.’ Her eyes opened and she stared up at him where he lay above her. He clenched his teeth. ‘I...I took your maidenhood.’ She said nothing. Driven nearly beyond his celebrated control, Sebastian kissed her. He kissed her as if there was no stopping them. Only when she started to kiss him back did he start slowly moving. She gasped. He grinned, not knowing it was nearly a grimace. ‘Move with me,’ he murmured. ‘Match my rhythm.’

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‘I cannot,’ she whispered, eyes wide in shock at the knowledge he was inside her. Yet it felt good. Terribly good. ‘Yes, you can,’ he said, catching her face between his hand and taking her mouth again. His tongue slipped into her mouth and teased hers. His body slid over hers, his belly meeting hers in shivering pleasure. He moved faster. Juliet gave in to the demands of his desire. Her hips met his and withdrew in response to his. Her back arched and her breasts pressed tightly against his chest. Sensations drenched her nerves. Her nails raked down his back until her hands clutched his buttocks and urged him on. Her gasps matched his. ‘Now, now,’ he moaned. She thrust up and exploded. Spasms of pleasure tore her apart. She could hardly breathe. His mouth still covered hers when he lost control. His shout filled her lungs as he bucked into her. It was a long time before either could move. She lay beneath him her legs still wrapped around his hips, her eyes slumberous jewels that watched him with satisfaction. ‘You are very, very good,’ she murmured, running her fingers along his spine. ‘I never imagined it could be like that.’

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He grinned, enjoying her feather touch on his back. ‘Not a fate worse than death after all?’ She smiled and tightened her legs, making him wonder if he would soon be able to repeat what had brought the glow to her body. He certainly wanted to. Soon he was moving in her again as she moaned and thrashed beneath him. He began to wonder if he would survive the night. If not, he could not think of a better way to end.

Chapter Twelve

Juliet woke up the next day with a sense of wellbeing. She sighed and tried to roll over. A heavy arm held her pinned to the bed. Soft snores gently blew the curls from her face. Brabourne had stayed the night with her. She smiled, remembering all they had done to and with each other. Never in her wildest imagination would she have created the things he had done to her. Not even The Bride of Abydos had prepared her for the bliss of making love. She flushed as desire quickened her blood. His eyes opened and she wondered if she had spoken aloud. He gave her a slow, sensual smile, and before she knew it she had straddled him. She lowered herself until he filled her. ‘Do your duty, wife,’ he said, his voice a hoarse growl.

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Feeling her power over him in this position, she took her time, drawing it out until he begged. When she felt him jerk and his eyes close, she knew he had taken his pleasure. After his breathing returned to normal, he opened his eyes and said, ‘Now it is your turn.’ She squealed as he flipped her over and began doing things to her that she remembered only too well. They had not slept much the night before. He teased her with mouth, tongue and hands until she was hot and ready. Then he slipped into her. She watched him with eyes glazed by passion, waiting for him to start the rhythm that ended in such delight. He began slowly so that her tension mounted. ‘Brabourne,’ she pleaded, her hands on his hips urging him to greater speed. ‘Sebastian,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes,’ she muttered. ‘Faster, please, I am so—’ ‘Sebastian.’ She gazed up at him, not knowing what he wanted. She wiggled her hips, hoping to entice him into doing what she needed so desperately. ‘Call me Sebastian,’ he said, holding back so his face was a grimace caused by the effort it took not to ram into her and take them both to the top.

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‘Brabourne. Sebastian,’ she said, wriggling beneath him. ‘They are both your names.’ ‘Sebastian,’ he gritted. ‘That is my Christian name.’ He panted as he held back. ‘Call me Sebastian and I will end this torture.’ ‘What’s in a name?’ she muttered. ‘Sebastian.’ He released a pent-up sigh and thrust deep. She arched up to meet him, their bodies straining. Some time later she woke to find him gone. The bed seemed too large and very cold without him. She rose and wrapped her robe tight before going to the window. Pulling the curtains back, she saw it was dusk. She had spent the entire day in bed. She never did that. But, then, she had never made love to a man all night and day either. When she finally went downstairs, Burroughs met her in the foyer. ‘His Grace is waiting in the library, your Grace.’ She glanced at him to see if he had kept a straight face while sprinkling all those ‘Graces’ in one sentence. He was the perfect butler, his countenance betraying nothing, not even the ridiculousness of the situation. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and headed off in the direction he indicated. She knocked and waited for permission to enter.

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Once it was given, she opened the door and walked through. Bra—Sebastian stood by the window looking out, his back to her. He was casually dressed, like a country squire, only on him the simplicity was actually striking. Juliet sighed. He was a magnificent man. He turned and smiled, the emotion actually reaching his eyes. ‘Come here. I want to show you something before it is completely dark.’ She moved to him until they stood side by side. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Look out there,’ he directed. An expanse of grass stretched to the horizon. Every imaginable tree dotted the earth. Manicured gardens of roses, nasturtiums, honeysuckle and much more tempted the beholder to walk through them. A lake in the distance reflected the red rays of the dying sun. Further still were cultivated fields and the smoke from tenants’ cottages. ‘It is impressive,’ she said, not knowing what his point was. ‘Yes. And it is mine.’ His voice firmed. ‘And it will pass to the first male child you bear.’ She stiffened. He turned her to face him, but she refused to look at him. He caught her chin and made her eyes meet his.

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‘I know you were a virgin last night, so I know you are not carrying another man’s child. Don’t betray me as my mother did my father.’ She gazed at the flat blue of his eyes. She now understood that his feelings on this subject were so strong he hid them behind a blank surface. Still, his assumption that she might be unfaithful hurt. She took a deep breath before speaking. ‘I am not your mother. I have already told you I will honour my vows. Obviously you did not believe me.’ He stared down at her, his countenance still inscrutable. ‘Ours was not a love match—I don’t expect fidelity. Just wait until after I have an heir.’ She slapped him, her reaction instinctual. ‘How dare you accuse me of your sins? When I said I honour my vows, I meant I honour them for my lifetime.’ She wrenched from his loosened embrace and stormed to the door and through it. Sebastian watched her go before turning back to the view. He was sorry to have hurt her, but she had to understand. He would not brook raising another man’s bastard as his heir. He would divorce her and disown the child first. Still, he wished it could have been different. A part of him wished he could have trusted her. But trust was something he had never learned to have for women.

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* * * That night he came to her and she let him make love to her, knowing he would visit her every night until she conceived his heir. It was bitter-sweet knowledge as she dissolved under his caresses. The next morning Juliet woke to an empty bed, the warmth and intimacy of their first night together gone. The loss brought tears she could not stem. For a while she had allowed herself to enjoy her husband’s attentions without feeling the future press down on her. The door between hers and Sebastian’s rooms opened. He entered, dressed for riding. ‘I am touring the estate today. Would you like to come along?’ ‘Why?’ she asked without thinking, concerned only with concealing the fact that she had been crying. She swiped at her cheeks. He flinched before his cool hauteur returned. ‘I deserved that. I would like to show you around and introduce you to some of the people. This is your home now, and will be so for the children you bear.’ Her stomach churned. The children she bore, not their children. ‘Any children I have will belong here.’ He nodded. ‘Are you coming?’ He was implacable. She was tempted to throw his invitation back in his face, but she was also curious.

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As he had pointed out, she would spend a large part of her life here. ‘Give me a few minutes to dress.’ ‘I will be in the library.’ She made a fast toilet and descended the stairs in her leaf-green riding habit. A jaunty black hat with a lone peacock feather tilted rakishly on her auburn curls. She looked her best and knew it. Somehow she did not think it would make any difference. Sebastian had his pick of beautiful women and trusted none of them. Beauty would not win him, but it gave her courage to know he would not be embarrassed to introduce her as his Duchess. They wasted no time. Juliet rode a placid gelding while Sebastian rode a spirited mare. He led the way down a dirt road. Rich fields spread out around them. She could see people working the earth. Up ahead was a cottage with a woman and child standing outside. Sebastian reined in. ‘How are you, Mrs Smith?’ The woman bobbed a curtsy. ‘Well, your Grace. The harvest will be large this year.’ ‘We can use it,’ Sebastian said. ‘I have brought my bride. You will be seeing a lot of her.’ The woman made another curtsy. ‘Your Grace.’ Juliet smiled. ‘How old is your child and what is his name?’ ‘He be eight. We call him Tom after his pa.’

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Juliet smiled at the boy who stood bravely beside his mother, taking in the novelty of the lord and lady speaking with them. He raised his hand to a lock of hair and tugged it. ‘We must be going,’ Sebastian said. ‘Let my steward know if there is anything you need.’ At the next house a young girl met them. She bobbed respectfully. ‘Your Grace.’ Sebastian nodded and introduced Juliet. After the acknowledgments, he asked, ‘Where are your parents?’ ‘In the village getting provisions.’ ‘Tell them someone will be out within the week with materials to repair your roof.’ And they were off again. By the end of the afternoon Juliet felt as though she had met more people in the past few hours than in the last year. All of them were well fed and seemed contented. Sebastian was a good landlord. She was not surprised. That night she fell into bed, tired and aching. It had been a while since she had spent so much time in the saddle. Not even a hot bath had helped. Her eyes were drowsily shutting when the door opened. She suppressed a groan of pure exhaustion. Without asking permission, Sebastian got under the covers of her bed and snuffed the candle he carried and set it on the table. He reached for her.

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Juliet scooted back. ‘Please, not tonight. I ache in all the wrong places.’ ‘Ah. Too long on horseback.’ She rolled over on her back. ‘Yes. I have not ridden like that since before Mama died. Coupled with the soreness from our activities, I feel I am splitting apart.’ He chuckled. ‘Poor Juliet. Come here and let me rub your back and legs.’ She snorted. ‘I know where that will lead.’ ‘I promise.’ She knew he would keep a promise. And it did sound divine. ‘Just for a little bit.’ ‘Of course,’ he murmured. She rolled onto her stomach and let him do as he would. His fingers dug into the sore muscles of her lower back and thighs. At first it hurt, but soon she loosened as his massage continued. Shortly she purred contentment. ‘Glad now?’ he asked, his voice husky as his fingers moved down from the small of her back. Little jolts of pleasure shot through her as he rubbed. ‘You are very good,’ she murmured. Instead of answering, he turned her on her side and cuddled her close. ‘I will leave you alone tonight,’ he said, wrapping his arm around her waist so that his hand cupped her breast.

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‘You have a very unusual way of doing that,’ she muttered, wiggling into him. ‘And you have a very tempting way of getting comfortable.’ She stopped all movement. As much as she enjoyed his lovemaking, she was truly sore and tired. With a sigh she closed her eyes and tried not to let hope flare in her heart. He was staying only because he was determined she would have his child. Sadness filled her instead as she drifted to sleep. The next morning Juliet drifted awake, feeling warm and cosy. She snuggled into the source of her delight. ‘Time to wake up,’ Sebastian murmured, his lips skimming along her face. She opened her eyes and looked straight into his. Their blue depths were filled with desire and she knew there would be no denying him this time. Nor did she want to. Two days later, she sat in the Duke of Brabourne’s travelling carriage, the Brabourne crest emblazoned on the glossy black paint outside. The thick gold velvet seats were the most comfortable she had ever ridden in. Sebastian rode his favourite horse. Brabourne Abbey disappeared from sight and Ju-

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liet leaned back into the cushions. They were going to London. She had not wanted to leave, thinking that with time and no other distractions she might win her husband’s trust, if not his love. He had not given her that time. She sighed and forced herself to read the book she had brought along. The journey would be too short. Juliet could have done without dinner at Carlton House, but Brabourne—no, Sebastian—was still one of Prinny’s intimates regardless of being married now. She supposed she should consider herself lucky she had also been invited. Resigned, she took another bite of salmon and smiled at her dinner partner, Lord Appleby. He was tall and slim, an elegant man with blond hair and a dimple when he smiled. He was also a witty talker and a wicked flirt. Innuendoes fell from his lips like water from an icicle. Sebastian was further up the table near Prinny. So was her stepmother, but that did not bother her much. What ate at her was the woman beside her husband. She was beautiful and endowed in ways Juliet never would be. She also constantly touched Sebastian, and he enjoyed it if his sultry smile was anything to go by. Watching them was like twisting

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a knife in her heart. If she could, she would leave. She could not. She took another bite and looked away. There was nothing she could do, no matter how much it hurt. She would worry about something else, such as the way Papa was watching Emily flirt with the Prince. He had the same gleam in his eye that had been there the night she had overheard him tell Hobson about challenging Sebastian. He absolutely could not challenge the Prince. That was treason. ‘Lady Brabourne,’ Lord Appleby said, breaking into her thoughts, ‘you have not heard a word I have been saying and now dinner is over. You owe me the pleasure of your company for a walk.’ She turned and blinked at him. She owed him? She pulled herself together and glanced at her husband, only to see him still flirting with the same woman. Perhaps she did owe Appleby after all. He rose and she allowed him to take her hand. Sebastian watched his bride walk off with one of the most notorious womanisers in London. Michael Appleby had been chasing skirts since their days at Eton. Appleby left his own wife in the country while he pursued his pleasures in town. A spurt of anger caught Sebastian unawares. He did not want Juliet consorting with the likes of Appleby, not after all he had done to improve her rep-

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utation. With a murmured excuse, he extricated himself from his companion’s clutches. The couple sauntered ahead. Sebastian knew exactly where their roundabout walk was taking them. He had entertained his share of women there, too. Juliet allowed Appleby to guide her down ornately decorated halls where footmen stood around doing nothing. All the while he kept up a witty monologue. He stopped at a door that was indistinguishable from the others, but he seemed to know where they were. Smiling down at her, he said, ‘There is an Italian picture in here that I would like your opinion on.’ She studied him in the light provided by wall sconces. His hazel eyes dared her, and his dimple teased her. She wondered how many women he had charmed with those two assets. ‘An Italian picture?’ She grinned at him. She was married to Brabourne and knew what a rake looked like when he was bent on conquest. ‘That sounds perilously close to a walk in a darkened garden.’ His smile widened. ‘You are too astute for me. Brabourne must have taught you well.’ She shrugged. The last thing she intended to discuss was her husband. With a mock sigh, he extended his arm once more. ‘Let me escort you back to the salon.’ ‘That will not be necessary,’ Sebastian said, com-

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ing round the corner where he had stopped to see what Juliet would do. Appleby frowned before stepping away graciously. ‘Over-protective, ain’t you?’ Sebastian gave him a feral parting of lips. ‘I know you too well, my friend.’ Appleby’s gaze went from Sebastian to Juliet and back. ‘I once thought the same of you. But things seem to have changed.’ ‘Precisely.’ Juliet watched the two men and wondered what they were really saying to each other. With a mock bow, Appleby sauntered off. Sebastian turned his attention to her. ‘What was that all about?’ she asked. When he did not answer, she narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I did not do anything wrong.’ ‘I know,’ he said solemnly. ‘But you need to know I am not my father, my dear. I will not share.’ She clenched her teeth and glared at him. ‘Neither will I. So you had better remember that!’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘What is good for the goose is good for the gander?’ ‘Absolutely,’ she huffed. Head high, she skirted past him, resisting the urge to stay close. It was a battle she fought every time he was near. But this time she was not going to weaken. How dared he tell her to be faithful when

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he was not? And then to be amused when she told him he had to be equally true to her. More amazing than anything was that she had told him anything. He was not a man one gave ultimatums to, and she had told herself she would never do so. She would do her best to accept his infidelities. She shook her head at her bravado. A giggle of nervous reaction bubbled to her lips which she smothered with a hand. She rounded a corner well ahead of Sebastian and came to a dead halt. Down the long hall, in plain sight for anyone to see, the Prince stood kissing and embracing her stepmother. All thought of her bold words to Sebastian evaporated in the anger that gripped her. Her hands fisted. More than anything she wanted to hurt Emily. How dared she do this to Papa? ‘I would be careful about what I do. Attacking the Prince could be construed as treason,’ Sebastian said in a sardonic whisper. Juliet shot him a fulminating glance. Keeping her voice as low as his, she hissed, ‘It is Emily I wish to kill.’ Sebastian took her arm and steered her back around the corner and out of sight, shaking his head the entire time. ‘I shall be careful not to anger you for I am looking forward to a long life.’ He was teasing her, and at a time like this. She

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rounded on him, hands on hips. ‘This is awful. What will Papa say if he finds out? It will break his heart.’ Sebastian moved his hands to her shoulders and scowled. ‘You cannot protect him from everything. You certainly cannot fight a duel with Prinny. It isn’t done.’ ‘Then what am I supposed to do? Stand by and let that...that woman hurt Papa? I do not think so.’ He shook her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your father is a grown man. He can and should take care of his own problems.’ Her face scrunched up and it was all she could do not to shout in her frustration. ‘I promised Mama. I have to take care of him.’ ‘No, you don’t, Juliet. What she made you promise was unfair. You were hurting and under duress. You must let it go.’ She twisted in his hold, but he tightened his grip. Part of her knew he was right, but a larger part could not release her from her promise. Not yet. ‘Remove your hands, please,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I need to find Papa and make sure he does not come this way.’ Sebastian did as she asked, but stayed close, blocking her from an easy exit. ‘You are the most stubborn woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet. Your father is a grown man. Let him solve his own problems, especially since he seems to

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make all of them. No other man in his right mind would have married Emily Winters. Forget the past.’ She lashed out at him. ‘Then what about you? Instead of carrying your hatred of your mother around like a mountain on your shoulder, why don’t you forget? Do as you order me to do.’ He stepped away and all emotion fled from his face. ‘You hit below the belt, madam.’ ‘So do you,’ she muttered. Not meeting his burning gaze, she started edging around him. Fortunately, the walls were as wide as they were opulently decorated. The Prince Regent skimped on nothing. She looked up just in time to see Papa rounding the nearest corner. She groaned. Sebastian heard her and pivoted to find out what was the matter. He put a hand on Juliet’s arm. ‘Don’t interfere.’ Ignoring him, she stepped in front of her parent. ‘Papa, are you lost? Let me show you the way back to the drawing room.’ He did not even glance at her, only swerved to miss her and continued down the hallway. She shook off Sebastian’s hand and ran after him. Papa turned the corner and halted so quickly the tails of his coat were still visible to her. She reached him and wrapped both hands around his right arm. ‘I am sure there is a reason for this,’ she spouted, without thinking how inane her words sounded.

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He stared at his Prince and his wife. As though sensing they were no longer alone, the couple slowly separated and looked towards where Juliet and her father stood. The Prince had the grace to flush, the colour heightened by his ruddy complexion. Emily gasped and moved further away from her royal conquest. Juliet dug her nails deeper into Papa’s arm. He seemed impervious to anything she did or said, his focus completely on the couple. ‘You cannot challenge him to a duel,’ a dry voice said. ‘It’s considered treason.’ Juliet breathed a sigh of relief. Even though she knew Sebastian would not interfere, having him close gave her a sense of strength. If nothing else, he might keep Papa from doing something rash. ‘Just showing Lady Smythe-Clyde around,’ the Prince said, moving away from Emily as he walked towards the trio. Emily loosed her tinkling laugh. For the first time since Juliet had met the woman, the noise sounded strained. ‘Oliver, darling, Prinny has been so kind as to point out his works of art to me and tell me where they are from.’ She stopped by her husband and linked her arm in his. Juliet watched everything, eyes wide, ready to jump between everyone if that seemed necessary.

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Sebastian’s light touch at her waist would not stop her. Lord Smythe-Clyde stared down at his wife for a long time. His jaw worked and the hand of his free arm clenched and unclenched. Juliet held her breath. With no warning, her father gave the Prince a curt bow. ‘Your Highness, we must leave.’ Nor did he wait for permission. He moved off so quickly that Emily stumbled and would have fallen if SmytheClyde had not had a death grip on her arm. Juliet released her pent-up breath, nearly sagging in the process. Sebastian’s arm slid completely around her waist and held her. His solid strength and warmth felt good. Sebastian shook his head. ‘That was not well done, my liege. You know Smythe-Clyde’s propensity for violent retribution.’ Prinny shuddered. ‘Yes, but he could not challenge me.’ He watched until the other couple were gone from sight. ‘I almost feel sorry for her.’ ‘I don’t,’ Juliet retorted. ‘She needs a comeuppance.’ She gave the Prince a jaundiced look that said she thought he did as well. Once more he flushed. ‘Well, I must be getting back to my other guests,’ he blustered. After sufficient time had passed, Sebastian turned Juliet in the circle of his arms so that she faced him. ‘That was not so hard, was it?’

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After a second’s resistance, she allowed herself to sink into the comfort of his strength. Now that the crisis was past, she began to shake. He held her closer. When the short reaction had run its course, she pushed away from him. He let her move several inches so they could see each other’s face. ‘It was certainly not easy. I thought for a moment Papa would either challenge him or hit him.’ She closed her eyes on the picture of mayhem that would have ensued. Sebastian’s lips on her forehead brought her back. ‘He handled it on his own. I doubt Emily will be quite so free with her favours in the future.’ ‘Papa has never done that before,’ she said in wonder. He raised one brow. ‘I doubt you or your mother ever let him before.’ He had a point, and rather than argue she said, ‘We must return or people will begin to wonder.’ The slow, sensual smile that made her stomach flutter parted his lips. She gulped, but could not look away from the deep blue of his eyes. ‘Let them. We are married. Remember?’ His voice was deep and caught on the last word. She knew what that meant. ‘We cannot,’ she said, panic rising. ‘We are not at home.’ His smile turned sardonic. ‘There are plenty of places here, believe me.’

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Pain flared, squeezing her chest, at this reminder of how experienced he was. She twisted in his arms. ‘Thank you, but I don’t wish to have that experience.’ His grip tightened. One hand caught her jaw and forced her to meet his gaze. ‘Juliet, I have been a rake. You knew that when we wed. Nothing can ever change that.’ ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That is why I did not want to marry you.’ His eyes darkened as though she had hurt him. ‘But because of that I am skilled and you enjoy my lovemaking.’ Memory lit fires in his body. ‘You like it a lot.’ She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the hunger in his, not wanting to be drawn into the passion he did nothing to control. ‘Yes, but not here. Please.’ It was an eternity before he released her. She had begun to despair that he would listen to her plea. With cold formality, he offered his arm. With the best face she could summon, she laid her fingers on his coat, barely touching him. That night he came to her bed and made fierce love to her as though demons drove him. She lost herself in his passion and was glad for it. Nothing else mattered.

Chapter Thirteen

Juliet laughed from sheer pleasure. The veil of her riding hat billowed out behind her as her mare flew along the bridle path in Green Park. She heard the pounding hooves of Sebastian’s gelding gaining on her. She urged her mount on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sebastian’s horse edge closer until it was even with her. Sebastian reached out and grabbed her mare’s bridle. Juliet grinned at him. Rather than risk either of them or their horses being hurt when it was not necessary, she pulled in on the reins. Her mare slowed until she walked. Sebastian did the same. They continued to walk their horses while the animals cooled down. After a time, they meandered to the earlymorning shade provided by a huge oak tree. Sebastian dismounted, then went to Juliet and grabbed her

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waist. She put her hands on his shoulders and slid down the length of him. Excitement curled in her stomach. He held her a long time. ‘Why are you staring?’ she asked, her brows furrowed. ‘You have seen me look a mess before.’ He tucked several tendrils of hair behind her ear, a gesture she had come to expect from him when she was dishevelled. Then he righted her riding hat so that it sat at an angle on her head and the ostrich feathers tickled her cheek. ‘You are so vibrant,’ he said. ‘I have never met a woman before with your enthusiasm for life, and not just in bed.’ This was so unlike him that she became embarrassed. ‘I am sure you exaggerate.’ ‘No.’ He abruptly released her and turned away. She reached for him, wanting the security of feeling his body. Something was very wrong this morning. He did not draw away from her touch, but neither did he cup his hand over hers as he usually did. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Nothing,’ he said curtly. Before she could remonstrate with him, he asked, ‘Do you recognise this tree?’ Nonplussed, she stepped back and looked at the tree. It was obvious Sebastian was not going to tell

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her what troubled him. Absent-mindedly she studied the oak. Then it came to her. ‘This is where we duelled. It seems like an eternity ago.’ He nodded, his mouth curling sardonically. ‘It certainly seems that. So many things in our lives were changed by that one act.’ Dismay swamped her. She knew he would not have married her without being forced, but she had fooled herself into thinking he was at least contented with their union. He definitely seemed that way in bed. But then he was a man and a rake. Lovemaking was his forte. All the pleasure of the morning and the ride evaporated. She wanted to go home. ‘We should be leaving. There are so many things to do today. I have to return Maria Sefton’s visit, and I must write to Papa.’ Sebastian raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘I know he very likely does not read my letters, but it gives me comfort to tell him how things are going in London. Since he forced Emily to return to the country, I find I miss them. Silly, but Papa has always been a large part of my life.’ She stopped. She was rambling on in an attempt to cover the hurt his mood had brought on. Better to be quiet. ‘Thank goodness they are gone, and good riddance. Heaven only knows what you would have

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done next in your misguided efforts to protect him from the world. I don’t like to think of it.’ She hoped he was trying to be amusing, but there was no glint of humour in his eyes. He was deadly serious. The knowledge added to her discomfort. Just a week ago she would have argued with him, but not now. Not here. ‘Please help me to mount. If we don’t get home soon, I shall not have time to change for my visit.’ He did so and they cantered home, neither saying anything. At the townhouse a groom helped Juliet dismount. She thanked him and went inside. She smiled at Burroughs and a nearby footman. Burroughs gave her a disapproving look while the footman smiled shyly. ‘Your Grace,’ the butler said, taking her riding crop. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself.’ ‘Oh, yes. Since we returned to London I have missed riding more than anything.’ ‘You ride,’ Sebastian said, entering behind her and handing Burroughs his hat and crop. ‘In Rotten Row,’ she said derisively. ‘That is meandering.’ He flicked her cheek. ‘I must finish some work. I will see you later.’ She watched him go, wondering how long she would be able to stand the sham of their marriage.

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She knew everyone married for convenience, as had they, but her feelings had gone beyond that. She loved him. Sebastian went up the stairs and she watched him avidly. She wanted so much for him to love her as well as desire her. It was an ache in her heart. ‘Ahem.’ Burroughs interrupted her thoughts. ‘Mrs Burroughs has the week’s menus ready when you have time, your Grace.’ ‘Thank you. I will meet with her later.’ Burroughs bowed and left to perform his other duties. Juliet turned to see if any notes, invitations or messages were on the silver tray by the door. Only one envelope lay on the salver. There was no visible writing so she picked it up and turned it over. An overly ornate feminine hand had written ‘Sebastian’. That was all, except for the heavy scent of tuberose. Juliet licked suddenly dry lips. Her hand began to shake so that it was a supreme effort to return the note to the tray without dropping it. She stared at nothing, wondering why having the truth staring her in the face was so much worse than just thinking about it. Sebastian had never promised to be faithful. ‘Your Grace?’ Burroughs asked, louder than normal.

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‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a croak. ‘Are you all right? Should I send a footman for the doctor?’ He must have returned while she stood numbly. She turned to him, still dazed from the heartache eating away at her chest. ‘A doctor?’ Could a doctor mend a broken heart? She was ready to cry. ‘No, thank you.’ Before he could ask something else, she walked past him towards the back of the house and went out into the garden. She needed to be alone. She had Sebastian’s name and as much of his lovemaking as any woman could want. They were not enough. She wanted his love. She wandered down the path leading to a white gazebo where roses climbed towards the sun. The peace and scent of fresh roses always made her feel better. Perhaps they would help. She sank on to her favourite bench and cupped a blossom in her palm, inhaled the wonderful fragrance. It was lovely, but, as she had known, it was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough to dull the pain of her husband’s infidelities. Nothing. Hands clasped in her lap, she closed her eyes and let the tears fall. Sebastian found her half an hour later, his forehead creased in worry. Burroughs had come to his

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rooms and told him her Grace was not feeling well. From the butler’s tone, Sebastian knew he wondered if Juliet was pregnant. Sebastian wondered himself. Part of him hoped so. She looked pale and tired. He should not have talked to her this morning the way he had, but he had not known exactly what was happening to him. He still did not know. The oak tree had brought back the memory of their duel and for an instant he had been glad she had fought it. Which was preposterous. She had entered his life and nothing was the same. He did not even visit his former ladyfriends. He sat beside her and took her hand. ‘Are you sick? Is your shoulder still paining you?’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. Their green depths sparkled with unshed tears. ‘No, I am fine. He traced the path of one tear with his finger. ‘Then why have you been crying?’ She turned away and her voice came out barely audible. ‘I am tired, that is all.’ ‘Are you in the family way?’ He caught her chin and gently drew her face back so he could watch for her reaction. She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ ‘Ah.’ Disappointment he had not thought he would experience shafted through him. There is

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plenty of time for that, he told himself. ‘Then it must be too many late nights and too much of your husband’s attentions,’ he added with a lecherous smile. She gazed dully at him. ‘Perhaps. I think I should lie down.’ She stood and looked down at him. ‘Alone.’ He rose and took one of her hands in his. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes.’ He released her and stepped away. He had seen people look as she did, usually when they had lost everything. It made no sense for her to feel that way. He had given her their world. Maybe questioning Burroughs more thoroughly would bring something to light. That night at dinner she looked no better for her rest. Sebastian watched her pick at her food, moving it around on her plate and cutting it into small pieces she did not eat. Nor did she drink any wine. She looked up from her activity and caught him watching her. The circles under her eyes accentuated her high cheekbones. ‘Will you be staying in tonight?’ She had never asked him that before. He pondered her question before answering. Did she know

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about his summons and who it was from? He did not think so. ‘No. I am to meet Ravensford and Perth at White’s,’ he lied with smooth proficiency. ‘I see,’ she mumbled. ‘If you will excuse me?’ She pushed back her chair before the footman could help and left the room without glancing back. Sebastian rose, his only thought to follow and comfort her. He got three steps and stopped. This was not the time. Something was upsetting her and he could not spare the time to find out what. His mother waited. Juliet pulled the hood of her black cape more securely around her face. Her fingers clenched the heavy wool so tightly her nails went through, and she had to blink rapidly to rid her eyes of the moisture blurring her vision. Ahead of her, Sebastian moved quickly through the early evening shadows. He was going to another woman. Thankful it was dusk and the shadows were settling, she edged into the doorway of a closed shop. A few people still milled around, some with purpose, others aimlessly. They helped keep her hidden as well. Not that Sebastian would look. He thought she was safely at home reading a book while he cavorted. She knew she was making a mistake. A wife did

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not follow her husband to his mistress’s abode. It was very improper. It also hurt as nothing else she had ever experienced—except, perhaps, finding out about the infidelity. He was heading towards Piccadilly. She hastened to keep up, his height the only thing that allowed her to keep him in sight. Without once looking back or around, so she knew that he did not know she was following him, he entered the Pulteney. It was where the Tsar and his sister had stayed when they’d visited London in 1814. She was surprised. She had thought his mistress would be set up in a house somewhere. Still, if she was a member of Society, she might meet him here. However blase´ her husband might be, he would not want his wife meeting another man in their own home. Even Juliet understood that much about dalliances. She could not follow him into the hotel without drawing attention she did not want. No one must know what she was doing. With a sigh, she settled into a shadowed alcove across the street to wait, thankful she had remembered to bring the little oneshot pistol Harry had given her a number of years before. No matter how decent an area might be, a woman alone was at risk. She had learned that lesson well in Vauxhall.

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* * * Sebastian strode through the lobby of the Pulteney towards the stairs and the room the note had indicated. This was the last place he wanted to be. His jaw twitched and the tic at his right eye was a constant irritant. But he had no choice. Reaching the door, he stood and did nothing. Many years had passed since he had last seen his mother. He did not want to see her now, but neither did he want her setting up house in England. He had given her plenty of money to move to Italy. He still gave her a very generous quarterly allowance. Girding himself for the encounter, he knocked sharply. Her imperious ‘Come in’ filtered through the door, making her voice soft like a young girl’s. Sebastian grimaced and entered. She sat straight-backed in a chair pulled close to the fire. Her once-black hair was streaked with silver. It was the most obvious change in her. ‘Have a seat,’ she said, motioning with her hand to another chair. ‘I have much to say to you and would prefer not to look up. It puts a crick in my neck that later gives me a headache.’ That was just like her, Sebastian thought, doing as she said. Even knowing it was crazy, he acknowledged that his mother had a hold over him. First it had been the love of a child for the parent. Later it had been disgust at her stream of lovers, and later than that it had been hatred when he had learned he

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was not the son of the Duke of Brabourne. Her hold on him now was curiosity. He needed to learn why she had returned and speed her removal back to Italy, preferably without her meeting Juliet. ‘Would you care for some wine?’ she asked. ‘No, thank you.’ He crossed one booted leg over the opposite thigh and studied her. In spite of the greying hair, she had aged well. There were lines around her blue eyes and crinkles near her mouth but her skin was still a creamy white with no age spots. Her bearing was regal and her figure slim. She wore a very stylish gown, its simplicity drawing attention to her magnificent bosom and small waist. A multiple strand choker of pearls circled her neck; he assumed it was to hide the wrinkles that were inevitable on that part of the body. Her vanity would make that a necessity. ‘Why have you come back?’ he asked, determined to finish this quickly. ‘You always were brash and disrespectful.’ ‘Not always,’ he murmured. She cocked her head to one side. ‘No, I suppose not. When you were young you were loving and eager to do anything asked of you. You changed.’ He was surprised to hear regret in her words. He had not thought her capable of anything but selfinterest. ‘I changed because of what you did.’ She sighed and her gaze dropped to her folded

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hands. Her black lashes hid any emotion that might show in her eyes. ‘I did what was necessary. I am sorry if it hurt you.’ A sharp bark of laughter escaped the tightness in his throat. ‘Sorry? You should have thought of that while you were busy sleeping with every man in England.’ Her laugh was bitter. ‘I was not talking about that. I meant marrying Brabourne, even though he was not your father.’ ‘You married him while you were carrying me? Did he know it?’ ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘I told him you were early. At first he believed me, but the nurses talked and he heard them. They said you were too big for a premature baby.’ ‘Why did you do it?’ He could barely believe what she was saying. Not only was the man he had considered his father for years not, but he had been tricked into marrying a woman he did not know was pregnant. She twisted a large pearl and diamond ring she wore on her wedding finger. As soon as the late Duke had passed on, she had returned the heirloom engagement ring Juliet now wore. Sebastian had not had to ask for it back. ‘It was the only way. I would have been ostracised. You would have been a bastard. I could not

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let any of that happen.’ For the first time since they had started talking she sounded anxious. He stared at her. ‘You tricked him. The least you could have done was tell him and let him make the choice.’ She shook her head. ‘No. He would not have married me. He was a proud man. Much as you are. I could not have had you out of wedlock. I could not do that to you or myself.’ She was right. He would never marry a woman who carried another man’s child, no matter what the circumstances. Except...perhaps Juliet. No, he quickly told himself. Not even Juliet. ‘What about my real father? Why didn’t he marry you?’ She looked back up at him and he thought he saw moisture in her eyes. He had to be mistaken. Never in his entire time with her had he seen her display this much emotion. He did not expect it now. ‘He was already married. He said he would leave her and we would go to the Continent. I loved him. I believed him.’ She sighed sadly. ‘I was a fool.’ Appalled, Sebastian sat like a statue. ‘But the other men?’ ‘You have never been in a loveless relationship. I did not love Brabourne and he never loved me. Ours was a marriage of convenience. Once he realised you were not his, he did not even maintain a

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semblance of civility to me. He insulted me in front of everyone—our friends and family and the servants. He made my life a living hell.’ Anger sparked from her eyes, making her resemble her old self for the first time since her confession had started. ‘I hated him, and openly sleeping with other men was the only way I could hurt him. His pride and arrogance could not withstand the public humiliation.’ Sebastian felt the first glimmer of sympathy for her, this woman he had hated all of his adult life. As a child he had not been in his parents’ company much, which was normal for the nobility. He had known there was something uncomfortable between them, but he had never understood exactly what it was. Then he had learned of his own background and of his mother’s infidelities. After that, nothing had been able to penetrate the wall he put around himself for protection from emotional pain. ‘Is this why you came back, to tell me these things?’ She nodded. ‘When I heard you were married I felt you needed to know the truth behind my actions. I have always known you hated me. I did not want you to take that hate out on your wife, who is innocent of anything I did.’ Nobility of character in a woman he had always considered to have none—it tugged at the part of him that worried about honour.

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It was hard, but he finally managed to say, ‘Thank you. I know this could not have been easy.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘No, but I had to do it. I owed you that much. If you hold your wife at arm’s length because of what I did, you will forge yourself a miserable life. Even if you did not marry for love, marriage can give you children to love and raise together and bring companionship for your older years.’ For the first time he realised how lonely she must be, exiled to Italy and away from her family. He had not thought of it before, and if he had, he would not have cared. Now it mattered. He stood and paced the floor, unsure of what he was going to say and how to say it. But he felt impelled to do something. Juliet would certainly expect it of him if she knew about this. He found he expected it of himself. He stopped and made a conscious effort to ease the knotting of his shoulder muscles. ‘I think my wife would like to meet you. If you have the time.’ She looked up at him and the tears he had imagined before became real. ‘I would like that very much.’ Sebastian had never felt so awkward in his life. It was not a pleasant experience. ‘Then I will send my carriage round for you tomorrow,’ he said

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gruffly. ‘Now I must take my leave and let Juliet know to expect you.’ ‘Of course,’ she said, some of her earlier strength returning. ‘Until tomorrow.’ She held out her hand, which he took. He raised it to his lips and brushed her knuckles with his mouth. With her, kissing her fingers was an oldfashioned, courtly action, a gesture from her youth. He took his leave, wondering where all this would end. The things she had told him eased some of the old hatred, but anger still lingered in the back of his mind. There was too much hurt and not enough time to resolve it. Not yet. As to how it related to his marriage, he just did not know. Trusting was not easy for him. Trusting a woman was the hardest of all. Juliet saw him exit the Pulteney. He had been there barely thirty minutes. She knew from their own lovemaking that half an hour was not nearly enough for Sebastian. At least not with her. Hope rose. Perhaps she had been mistaken. But who could have sent the note and when would he meet with her? He headed back the way he had come. It was starting to rain. She huddled into her cape and glanced around, looking for a way to watch him and still keep out of the wet. With a sigh of regret

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she realised there was no way to avoid the moisture. She would be as soaked as he by the time they got home. One more look around and she started out. Something moved in her peripheral vision. A man dressed in black moved along the side of the buildings. If she did not know better, she would think he followed Sebastian. Still, she watched the dark figure for a while. There was something elusively familiar about the way he walked and the tilt of his head. She did not know what exactly, but it was there, teasing at her memory. A hint of something wrong made her follow behind him as he kept some distance from Sebastian. She edged closer to the man. ‘Brabourne,’ the man said, his voice carrying in the damp night. Sebastian turned to see a pistol aimed at his heart. His pulse speeded up and his senses sharpened. This was not the time for him to die. He had too much to do and all of it centred around Juliet. ‘Ah, it is you,’ he drawled, hoping to keep the man off guard. ‘I see your cheek has healed nicely. The scar becomes you.’ The thug from Vauxhall stepped closer, his face a furious mask. ‘You will not be so smug when I have finished with you.’ Under the guise of a bored yawn, Sebastian

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looked around for some means of distraction. All he needed was to divert the man’s attention for a moment. The figure sneaking up on them would do. He was sorry to draw the other person in, but he did not think the thug had the skills to kill both of them. With luck, no one would even be hurt except the would-be killer. ‘Don’t look now,’ Sebastian said drily, ‘but there is someone behind you.’ ‘I don’t believe you,’ the other growled. Sebastian shrugged. ‘It is your party.’ Doubt flitted across the other man’s face, which was a pale oval in the light from a street flambeau. Though not many people were around, this part of Piccadilly was well lit. Soon, however, the light would be gutted by the water coming down. The rain had soaked Sebastian’s hair and made his greatcoat heavy. The man holding him up looked worse, as though he had been waiting in the wet for some time. Sebastian hoped the thug would slip on the cobbles. The man edged around, keeping the pistol aimed at Sebastian but looking over his shoulder to see if Sebastian spoke the truth. The figure that had been following them stopped. For the first time Sebastian saw that the innocent he had dragged into this wore a cape. A woman.

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‘Blast,’ he cursed, lunging forward. He could not put a female in danger. No matter what. He heard a bang and saw a flash of light from the barrel pointed his way. He jerked his torso around so that the ball entered his shoulder instead of the centre of his chest. Pain raked through him. Another shot rang out. The figure in front of Sebastian bucked just as Sebastian tackled him. Ignoring the fire radiating out from his shoulder, Sebastian straddled the thug and punched his jaw. The man’s head jerked. ‘Sebastian. Sebastian, is that you? Are you all right?’ Sebastian could not believe his ears. His head came up just as he landed the thug another facer. ‘Juliet? What in blazes are you doing here?’ She fell to her knees beside him. ‘I...oh, I cannot tell you. But I am so glad I did. This villain has been following you.’ ‘Ah, yes.’ Sebastian looked down at the man he still straddled. Blood flowed freely from a wound on the thug’s right side, soaking through his coat. ‘I think he is completely incapacitated.’ ‘Will he die?’ Juliet asked. ‘He deserves to, for that is what he intended to happen to you.’ ‘You are the most bloodthirsty woman I have ever met,’ he said, catching the back of her head with one hand and pulling her to him for a long,

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hungry kiss. ‘But I am glad to see you. I think he might have killed me otherwise, instead of just injuring me.’ She blinked water from her eyes. ‘Injured! Where? We must get you home. You will catch an inflammation out here.’ He smiled at her, feeling his energy of minutes before seeping out. ‘First we must take care of this fellow.’ ‘Leave him for the night watch, Sebastian. You are more important.’ He staggered to his feet and offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her up. ‘Remind me not to anger you.’ She glared at him. ‘Your levity is out of place.’ Ignoring her, he pulled out his handkerchief from inside his coat and wadded it into a ball. With a grimace, he pushed it inside his clothing and pressed it hard to his wound. It was not much, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. His teeth started chattering and he noticed her lips were blue. Both of them needed a warm fire and a hot drink, but first he had to take care of this villain. For good this time. ‘Juliet, go to the Pulteney and tell them to send out several servants to help us. I do not intend for this scum to get away.’ She clamped her mouth shut on what he was sure

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was another reprimand. With a sweep of her soaked cape, she stalked off. His wife had more spirit and courage than ten men. But why had she been following him, for that was the only explanation for her presence? He would find out soon enough.

Chapter Fourteen

Sebastian relaxed into the chair, grateful for the warmth of the nearby fire. A tumbler of whisky and a full decanter sat on the table beside him. The doctor had just left. He had a flesh wound, more painful than serious. They had taken care of the scoundrel who had shot him and come straight home. Juliet fussed around him, plumping the pillows on the bed and getting his robe. ‘You must be cold with just your breeches on,’ she said, bringing the fine woollen garment to him. He leaned forward and allowed her to wrap it around his shoulders. She was careful not to touch his bandage. ‘Thank you.’ He took a big swallow of whisky, enjoying the warm sensation all the way down his throat. ‘Why did you follow me?’

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‘Why did you go there when you were supposed to be with Perth and Ravensford?’ she countered, meeting his gaze without any hint of remorse. He swirled the burnt brown liquid and sniffed the woodsy aroma. ‘I had to meet someone.’ ‘Your mistress?’ She moved away from him. He could tell by the tightness around her mouth and eyes what the question had cost her. She had not taken the time to change out of her wet clothing and she looked exhausted, worse than this afternoon. ‘No. Before we discuss this, and we need to, will you please get out of that wet dress and into something dry? I don’t want you getting an inflammation of the lungs when I need you to nurse me.’ Her face turned mutinous. ‘I am tired of you telling me what to do all the time. I will change when I am good and ready. As for getting sick, it would serve you right if I did and Burroughs had to take care of you—or Roberts.’ He sighed. ‘You are the most stubborn woman. At least come over here, where I can see you better and the warmth from the fire can reach you.’ She edged closer. He finished the whisky and poured another glass. Dutch courage. What he had to say to her was not going to be easy. He had never said this sort of thing to a woman. He hoped it was not too late.

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‘I went to see my mother.’ He waited for her reaction, dreading that she might feel disgust for the woman who had birthed him. ‘Your mother? I thought you hated her.’ ‘I thought I did. I don’t know any more.’ He stood and went to her. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he asked, ‘Are you happy with me?’ ‘What kind of question is that?’ She looked wary, as though she expected him to say something that would hurt her. He knew he had made her feel that way by his actions. He had kept her at a distance. ‘This is not easy.’ He released one of her shoulders and held his hand out. ‘See, I am shaking.’ ‘That is very likely from your wound and all the whisky you have consumed,’ she said drily. His mouth twisted. ‘You are not being very helpful.’ ‘I did not know I was supposed to be.’ ‘It would help.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘I don’t think I want to help you. Remember, you did not help me when Papa caught Emily and Prinny.’ ‘That was between your father and stepmother. This is between us. And you are not happy with me anyway,’ he finished for her. ‘You thought I was unfaithful.’ Juliet nodded. A sense of dread weighted her

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down and her stomach was a tight knot. Was he going to tell he had a mistress, as she suspected? How cruel. ‘Don’t say anything else,’ she said hastily. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’ He caught her chin and made her look at him. ‘I have never been unfaithful to you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I have not been with another woman since you burst into my life on the duelling field.’ Juliet stared at him, not sure she had heard correctly. She swallowed the lump that had lodged in her throat. ‘I...I—’ ‘Don’t believe me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I never thought I would regret my past, but you are fast making me do so.’ He abruptly released her and went to the window, his back to her. She staggered before catching her balance. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Neither do I,’ he said, sounding as though the words were dragged out of him. ‘I thought I had everything under control. You are a woman, and women cannot be trusted. I was going to stay faithful until I got you with child, then I was going to go my own way and let you do the same.’ He turned to face her, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘But I can’t.

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The thought of you with another man tears me to pieces.’ Her mouth dropped. He gave her a wry smile. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ ‘What are you saying?’ She held her breath, hoping against hope. ‘My mother told me everything tonight. About her being pregnant with me when she married the Duke. How he hated her for it and treated her badly. Everything. It gave me a lot to think about. Especially about us.’ She took a step towards him, but stopped. She did not know what he was really saying. His smile disappeared. ‘Come here.’ ‘Why?’ She knew that if she went to him and made everything easy he would never finish what he had started. Or so she told herself when she held back. She wanted him more than anything. But she would not be hurt by him again. She could not go through that. ‘You don’t trust me,’ he said. ‘You are the one without trust,’ she said sadly. ‘You made that clear from the beginning. You told me that you have no mistress. I find that hard to believe, but I am willing to do so because you tell me it is so.’ In her heart she added that she was

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willing to believe because she wanted so badly for him to belong only to her. ‘I know. And I am still not sure. Not completely.’ She bit her lip to keep from saying something she would regret later. ‘Then perhaps it would be better if I left for a while.’ Leaving him would be the hardest thing she had ever done but if it would give him a chance to decide what he wanted she would do it. More than anything she wanted their marriage to work. Having him love and trust her would be heaven, but if he could not do that she would settle for his companionship. She loved him that much. He came to her and wrapped her in his arms. ‘No. I want you to stay with me. I am just not sure that I can give you everything you deserve.’ She kept her head lowered, not wanting him to see the need in her. His words, that said so much but not enough, left a bone-deep ache in her chest. He stroked her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. ‘I have not trusted a woman in a long time...since I was ten and learned what my mother had done. Yet she came back to explain everything to me, things I had not been willing to listen to before. She told me not to take my bitterness and distrust out on you. She made me think.’ Juliet began to shake.

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‘Don’t,’ he said, stroking her back. ‘I don’t want to cause you pain.’ She nodded, her head rubbing up and down on his chest. She still refused to look at him. ‘I wanted you from the beginning. At first it was physical and...curiosity. I had never met a woman like you. Then it was more. I could not stand the thought of you being hurt.’ He took a deep breath. ‘After we were married, it was more. I wanted to make love to you all the time, and when we were apart I wanted you by me, just to be near.’ Tears started to seep from Juliet’s closed eyes. She was so anxious about what he was saying, what he was going to decide. ‘I want you to stay with me, Juliet. I don’t know for sure if I love you, but I want you. I am not sure that the two are not the same.’ She slowly slipped her arms around his waist. It felt as if she had longed to hear those words from him all her life. ‘I love you so much, Sebastian, it is a constant ache.’ ‘Then look at me,’ he said. ‘Tell me to my face.’ Taking her courage and determination in both hands, she angled her head back. ‘I love you. I think I always have.’ ‘Ah, Juliet,’ he murmured, bending down and kissing her. It was a sweet melding of flesh. Desire was there,

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but it was like a banked fire waiting to flare to life later. They could wait. Right now they were committing themselves to one another. When the kiss was over, she gave him a tremulous smile. Tears still seeped occasionally from her eyes. Only one thing remained. As much as she did not want to ask, she had to know about trust. Without it their love would not last. That much she knew. ‘What about trust, Sebastian? Do you trust me? Can you?’ He groaned. ‘You cannot leave well enough alone, can you?’ She shook her head. ‘No. If you don’t trust me, then what will happen to us? You will forever torture yourself, and consequently me, with your doubts about me and about our children.’ His arms tightened around her. ‘I know. That is what I have wrestled with all night, and I cannot answer you for sure. Trust is too new. I want to trust you, but I fear there will be times when I slip. When I hurt you with my lack of faith.’ ‘Oh, Sebastian,’ she whispered. ‘But I want to try. If you will give me the chance.’ She heard the doubt and longing in his voice. ‘I don’t think I can live without you. I am willing to try with you to make this work. I know it will not be easy, but I want to be with you.’ ‘Juliet, my love,’ he vowed.

Epilogue

Twelve months later... ‘Sebastian,’ Juliet called, ‘what are you and Timmy doing? Your mother will be here any minute, and you know how she dislikes not seeing Timmy.’ The Duke and a baby with a head of peach down came out from the dining room, where they had been for the last hour. Sebastian handed the boy over. ‘I think he needs changing.’ ‘Oh, no,’ Juliet said, crossing her arms. ‘You can take him to Nurse as easily as I can. And you had better hurry.’ ‘I will call Mrs Burroughs,’ Sebastian said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘No, you will not,’ Juliet said, humour tipping up her mouth. Sebastian gathered a gurgling Timothy close with

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one arm and pulled his wife in with the other. ‘You are a stubborn woman, my love.’ She grinned up at him. ‘And you are a scoundrel, always trying to foist the unpleasant aspects of parenthood off on me.’ He returned her grin. ‘The boy is the spitting image of you, therefore you should be the one to do the nasty things.’ The smile left her face and she paled. ‘He is your son, too.’ Sebastian’s eyes darkened and Timmy squirmed. ‘I am sorry. I told you it would not be easy, but that was a year ago. I know these past months have not always been the bliss we could have wished, but I don’t doubt Timothy’s parentage. He is mine and yours. No one else had a part in his creation, and I believe no one else will have a part in the begetting of our next children.’ ‘I would not trade them for the world. But are you sure?’ she asked, doubt still a tiny kernel lodged in her heart. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now and for ever.’ Joy replaced the disquiet. She clung to her family with an intensity that she knew would increase with time. ‘I love you, Sebastian.’ ‘And I you, my love.’ Timothy, caught in the middle of his hugging parents, laughed in sheer delight. *

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ISBN: 978-1-55254-831-8 Copyright © 2007 Harlequin Books S.A. The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows: The Rake Copyright © 2000 by Alison J. Hentges The Rake’s Mistress Copyright © 2004 by Nicola Cornick A Reputable Rake Copyright © 2005 by Diane Perkins All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.eHarlequin.com

About the Authors Diane Gaston When Diane Gaston was a little girl, she’d learn all the words to popular love songs. When she played, her dolls acted out tragic love affairs with the current heartthrob on TV or in the movies. She thought everyone in the world made up romantic stories in their heads to get to sleep at night. The third daughter of an army colonel, Diane moved often as a child, once even to Japan. But mostly she lived in the Washington, D.C., area, where she now resides. The life of an army brat bred strong values of duty and honor and discipline, and until new friends could be made, Diane relied on books to pass time. It was always the romance in books that kept Diane reading. She read Nancy Drew more to see what Nancy and Ned were up to than for solving the mystery. And she will never forgive Louisa May Alcott for not letting Jo wind up with Laurie. It wasn’t until college years that Diane discovered romance fiction, but although she majored in English literature, her course work never included the kinds of books she most loved to read.

For a career, however, Diane decided to help others craft their own happy endings. She earned master’s degrees in both psychology and social work and became a county mental health therapist. She also married and raised a daughter and son, now grown and on their own. At work sometimes Diane and her colleagues would fantasize about their dream job. Diane always said hers would be writing romance novels. When her life settled down enough, that’s exactly what Diane set out to do. It took years, but finally her dream came true with a call from England. The Harlequin Mills & Boon editor who judged her first Regency Historical (it won!) in the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart contest also made an offer to publish it. Diane was on her way. Shortly after that sale, she put her mental health career behind her and became a full-time writer. Before ever selling a book, Diane reaped a world of friendships through her romance writing, a wonderful bonus to living her dream. When not writing, Diane enjoys emailing with her friends and traveling to England for research. And she’s lived in the same house for over 20 years now, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Email her at [email protected].

Nicola Cornick For the first 18 years of her life Nicola lived in Yorkshire, within a stone’s throw of the moors that had inspired the Brontë sisters to write Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. One of her grandfathers was a poet, and her family contained teachers and avid readers who filled the house with books. With such a background it was impossible for Nicola not to become a bookworm. Nicola went to school in a historic building that had originally been the dower house of a stately home. It was the sort of school that taught girls how to find a rich husband and how to get in and out of a RollsRoyce gracefully. Unfortunately Nicola did not pay enough attention to the bit about the rich husband and has therefore never had the chance to practice the bit with the RollsRoyce. She was too busy reading. It was also at school that Nicola developed her love of history, English literature, and French, due to some truly inspirational teachers. Meanwhile, Nicola spent her evenings reading piles of romances and historical novels and watching costume dramas with her grandmother. Her grandparents were very influential to her and also taught her canasta, ballroom dancing, and how to grow rhubarb, all of

which she is determined to incorporate in a historical romance one day. At 18 Nicola went south to study history at London University and during her holidays did a variety of jobs, from sticking price tags on shoes in a factory to serving refreshments on a steam railway. When she left college she had to settle for something far less interesting in order to earn a living and worked as an administrator in a number of different universities. She moved to Somerset and lived for seven years in a cottage haunted by the ghost of a cavalier. Nicola met her future husband while she was at university, although it took her four years to realize that he was special and more than just a friend. Her husband, being so much more perceptive, had worked this out much sooner but eventually an understanding was reached. This lack of perception also meant that Nicola did not realize for years that she was meant to be a writer. She wrote bits and pieces of novels in her spare time but never finished any of them. Eventually, she sent in the first three chapters of a Regency romance to Mills and Boon and, although they were rejected, she found she had become so addicted to writing that she could not stop. Happily, her third attempt was accepted and she has never looked back.

Nicola loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted by email at [email protected] or via her web site, http://members.madasafish.com/~ncornick/.

Coming Next Month If you enjoyed the eBook you just read, then you’ll love what we have for you next month! ON SALE IN FEBRUARY 2007 Two new series – first time in eBooks! Introducing Harlequin Everlasting – Every great love has a story to tell. 2 books every month Launching Harlequin Romance 6 books every month