‘How much does it cost for a kiss, Athena? And don’t try telling me again that you’re not for sale.’

He was drawing her closer. She could feel the heat of his body now. See the texture of his skin, his lightly stubbled jaw that her fingers ached to touch …

‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.

It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve-ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.

He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provo-cative. The worst of it was that she wanted more, and he knew it.

About the Author

LUCY ASHFORD, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favourite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period.

Lucy has written several historical novels, and this is her third for Mills & Boon. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com

Previous novels from Lucy Ashford:

THE MAJOR AND THE PICKPOCKET

THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE

AUTHOR NOTE

Those of you who have read THE RETURN OF LORD CONISTONE might remember Lucas Conistone’s best friend, Captain Alec Stewart—yes, the brave officer with a ready smile and an eye for rich and pretty heiresses!

Readers have asked me, ‘What happened to Captain Stewart? Did he find his heiress?’ I wondered too—especially as I knew that England’s soldiers often faced a harsh return to reality once Waterloo was fought and won.

Alec is the son of an earl, but life is still throwing problems at him—notably in the alluring shape of Miss Rosalie Rowland, who is no heiress, and who accuses Alec of ruining her beloved sister.

How does Alec face this new challenge? Here is his story.

The Captain’s Courtesan

Lucy Ashford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Spitalfields, London—February 1816, 8 p.m.

‘The Temple of Beauty?’ echoed Captain Alec Stewart, lifting his dark eyebrows as he eased his foil into the nearby sword rack. ‘How old are you, Harry—twenty? And still wet around the ears, my young pup. The Temple of Beauty is nothing but a den of harlots, take my word on it.’

For the last half an hour, this dusty old hall at the heart of the east London mansion known as Two Crows Castle had echoed to the click of gleaming blades, to the muttered curses of Lord Harry Nugent, and the curt admonitions of his tutor. Now the fencing lesson was over and Harry collapsed on a bench to mop the sweat from his brow and make his plea once more.

‘Oh, Alec, do please say you’ll come! It’s my birthday after all. And the girls are as sweet a bunch as you’ll find in London!’

Alec laughed aloud. ‘Trust me, they’re whores.’ Pouring out two brandies, he handed one to his pupil. ‘I’m not coming. But—happy birthday all the same.’

Harry Nugent, inordinately rich and a truly hopeless fencer, sighed and sipped just a little of his brandy, which was rough. He let his gaze rove with a certain amount of trepidation around this lofty hall, where the chill February wind rattling at cobwebbed windows sent shadows from the candles leaping across the smokestained rafters. Then he glanced at his fencing master, who, tall and loose-limbed, looked as though the exertions of the past half-hour had affected him not one jot.

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Alec!’

‘Hmmm?’

‘It’s really not right, you know, Alec, that you should live in a wreck like this and make your living by running a sword school. You’re a war hero, man!’

Alec shrugged. ‘War hero or not, I’ve scarcely sixpence to scratch with, Harry. Anyway, I quite like it here.’

Harry watched as his fencing tutor idly pulled another fine rapier from the rack and tested its balance. Alec was one of the best swordsmen in London and used to hold an enviable reputation as a captain in the Light Dragoons. Once, they said, he was light-hearted, never serious, even on the night before battle. London’s ladies used to adore him; he’d had his pick of the ton’s heiresses, and for a brief while was betrothed to one. But now … Now, he was a stranger to London’s social scene and his once-merry brown eyes were etched with cynicism.

‘Even so, to live like this!’ Harry couldn’t stop himself blurting it out. ‘You should take up the matter with your father, you really should! Everyone says so!’

Alec made a gentle feint with his rapier. ‘Do they indeed say that?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you have fun discussing me with your friends around London’s clubs and watering-holes, Harry?’

‘No!’ protested Harry Nugent, rather flustered. ‘Well, we say nothing we wouldn’t say to your face, Alec!’ He spread out his hands in entreaty. ‘You needn’t actually—you know, do anything with any of the girls tonight. Just join us at the Temple for a bit of fun! And perhaps,’ Harry went on innocently, ‘a night away from this place would do you good. Your brother said—’

Alec’s well-shaped, flexible fingers suddenly went very still around the hilt of his rapier. If Lord Harry Nugent had fought at his side at Waterloo, he’d have known to be wary of that look.

‘When, exactly,’ said Alec in a deceptively soft drawl, ‘did you see my esteemed brother?’

‘Why, it was mere chance, at Tellworth’s tables in St James’s last night!’

Still in London, then. ‘And what in particular did he say?’

‘He said …’ Harry hesitated ‘… he said you are a little too fond, like all former soldiers, of the brandy bottle—which we all know is a lie!—and that is why, he says, you tend to avoid decent company.’

‘Decent company, eh? And will my delightful brother be at Tellworth’s again tonight, do you think, my fresh-faced, intriguingly honest Harry?’

‘Not as far as I know …’ Suddenly Harry’s face brightened. ‘I say, Alec, are you thinking of making your peace with the fellow? That’s surely what your father wishes, ain’t it? Now, that really would be capital!’

Alec reached across and ruffled the younger man’s fair curls. ‘Make my peace?’ he echoed. ‘Harry, let me tell you something. If I come across my brother tonight, I shall take very great pleasure in slicing whichever expensive coat he’s wearing into precise, inch-wide strips.’ The rapier in his hand gleamed as he thoughtfully practised a coup de pointe. ‘I don’t much care for his taste in clothes, you see.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Harry. ‘Oh, Lord.’

‘No bloodshed, though. For which my brother should be profoundly grateful.’ Decisively, Alec put the weapon away and started to propel Harry gently towards the door. ‘Enjoy the Temple of Beauty, my young and innocent friend. And if you really consider there’ll be any girls there who aren’t whores, then you’re an even greater gudgeon than I thought. Now, here’s your …’ he blinked at the wide-brimmed creation ‘… I think it’s what you’d call a hat. And your coat.’

‘Very well.’ Harry nodded. ‘Same time next week, Alec? And Alec—do you think I’m making progress?’

Silence. Then, levelly, ‘Your technique, Harry, never ceases to amaze me.’

‘Oh. Oh, I say.’ Harry left, looking rather pleased. Alec shut the door on his departure a little too hard and brushed the ensuing shower of ceiling plaster from his shoulders.

The damn place was falling to pieces. Rather like his life.

Alec was the younger son of an earl, and had served in the army for seven years. He’d returned home with a reputation for gallantry, and his future should have been bright indeed.

But here in London, the very air was tainted. Tainted by his own brother.

‘Beg pardon, Captain!’ A small but tough-looking man with a black patch over one eye had entered the hall. ‘I’ve got three fellows here, wantin’ to speak to you.’ Hovering behind Garrett were some men who were plainly ex-soldiers, though their uniforms hung in rags from their half-starved bodies. And—they saluted Alec. That got him. In spite of their pitiful condition, they saluted him.

‘They’re old ‘uns from the Fourteenth, Captain,’ Garrett explained. ‘Want to know if we’ve got any room to spare.’

Two Crows Castle was full to bursting. Alec sucked in a deep breath. ‘Garrett, I really don’t see how we can—’

‘We could squeeze some extra pallets in the top attic, Captain!’

‘Right.’ Of course. How could they turn away these brave men, any one of whom might have fought at his side on the bloody battlefields of Spain? ‘Right,’ he repeated, ‘see to it, Garrett, will you?’

‘Straight away, Captain!’ Garrett saluted and turned smartly to escort the ex-soldiers to their new quarters upstairs. ‘Look sharp now, lads!’

‘God bless you, Captain!’ they were trying to say to Alec. ‘You’re one of the very best! A Waterloo hero and more!’

Alec waved them away. Then he sat down and raked his hand through his dark hair.

A hero and more? In his father’s opinion, far from it.

‘My own son.’ The Earl of Aldchester had looked stricken—no other word for it—as Alec had stood before him a year ago in the luxurious drawing room of his Mayfair mansion. ‘Alec, I cannot believe you have come here to try to destroy my new-found happiness with the woman I love!’

Alec had been in his uniform, the famous blue jacket and white breeches of the Light Dragoons. It was February 1815, and all the army’s senior officers had been quietly warned that the Emperor Napoleon was bent on escape from Elba, but Alec had other matters on his mind, for he’d just heard that his father was planning a June wedding.

‘Please believe me, sir.’ Alec had stood very straight, hating every minute of this interview. ‘It’s your happiness that I wish to preserve …’

The Earl had got slowly to his feet, suddenly looking every year of his age. Once, Alec knew, he’d dreamed of a military career for himself, and historic paintings of famous British victories a hundred years ago—Blenheim, Ramillies, Malplaquet—were hung around the walls of his beautiful house. He would await Alec’s brief periods of leave from the army with almost painful eagerness. ‘Ah, this fellow Wellington!’ he used to say. ‘At this rate, my son, he’ll be snatching the Duke of Marlborough’s title as the greatest British general ever!’ He used to listen to Alec’s accounts of Wellington’s campaigns with his eyes full of pride.

But he hadn’t been so proud though on that ominous encounter last February.

‘You surely realise,’ the Earl had said heavily, ‘that I used to live for the times you came home to me. For your news of the war. But—to come to me instead with scurrilous tattle …’

‘Father,’ Alec had said quietly. ‘Father, I only wanted to ask you if you have known her for long enough. If you are sure that she can be trusted, in every way.’

‘Trusted?’ The Earl looked wretched. ‘Trusted? Oh, Stephen warned me, so often, that you were jealous of my marriage and that you were afraid of losing my favour!’

‘Sir, that is not so, believe me!’

‘Enough.’ The Earl sat down again abruptly. ‘Enough. You must see that what you have just tried to say to me means that I can no longer receive you in this house as my son.’

Fateful words. Irretrievable words. And his father had sounded quite broken as he uttered them. Indeed Alec’s voice betrayed his own emotion as he replied, ‘Sir, I am sorry for it. And please believe me when I say I will always hold you in the deepest esteem. But I must beg you, one last time, to listen—really listen—to what I have to say! Sir, this marriage must not take place!’

His father had stared at him. Almost dazed. ‘I just don’t understand. Perhaps if you were to meet her. Meet her properly, I mean, and talk to her.’ He was on his feet again, pacing to and fro. ‘Yes, that’s it. And then you would realise for yourself how badly you have misjudged her.’

‘I will not change my mind, sir. I’m sorry.’

The Earl sagged with despair. Then his eyes grew hard. ‘Very well. So be it. One last thing, then. My future wife requires a London base for her mother. She once mentioned that the Bedford Street house I’ve let you use for the last few years would be suitable. And now I must ask you to vacate it, as soon as possible. Needless to say, your allowance will cease forthwith.’

Alec stood very straight, his face expressionless. ‘There’s the matter of the home for old soldiers in Spitalfields, sir. I trust, however sorely I’ve displeased you, that you’ll continue with your plans to fund it?’

‘Do you know,’ said the Earl, his voice breaking a little now, ‘I’m beginning to think that it’s associating with men of that kind that’s made you lose all sense of family duty!’ He gazed at his younger son in utter anguish. ‘I suggest that you run it yourself, since you obviously care more for your—your lowly battle comrades than you do for me!’

‘That is not so, sir—’

‘Enough!’

Alec, his jaw clenched, had given a curt bow and left.

His brother had his wish at last. This was a breach between son and father that surely could not be healed.

Soon afterwards had come Alec’s recall to duty, for Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and under his leadership the swelling French army had swept northwards to meet the allies in the last and bloodiest battle of the long war: Waterloo.

Then Alec had come home. Only he had no home, of course. His father had married in the summer while Alec was away fighting, and Alec’s new stepmother’s relatives had delightedly appropriated the smart house that he had once occupied.

So Alec had made the decision to move into the home for old soldiers in Spitalfields himself. It had once been a grand mansion, built by a rich Huguenot silk weaver called Ducroix, but the house, like the district, Spitalfields, had fallen on hard times; the name the locals had given to Ducroix’s pretentious home—Two Crows Castle—seemed more than ever like an ironic jest.

Before their estrangement, it had been his father’s idea to buy it and refurbish it. ‘I cannot enjoy my wealth when I see injured and destitute soldiers begging at every street corner,’ he’d explained to Alec.

The Earl had bought the lease, but the refurbishments had never started. And now it was up to Alec to try to keep the crumbling mansion habitable by using the money from his army pension, together with a small inheritance from his mother and the income he earned from fencing lessons. Quite simply, he felt he owed it to these men. They had given their all for their country and were left with nothing, often not even their health.

Alec had not heard from his father since that day of their terrible argument and refused all invitations from the ton. He had built a new life for himself and in a way he was content.

Or would have been, had he not got his damned brother to deal with.

Garrett’s return broke abruptly into his abstracted thoughts.

‘That’s them sorted up there, Captain,’ Garrett said with satisfaction. ‘Makes six lads in the attic now, bit of a squash, but they was all in Spain, so they’ll have plenty to talk about.’ He eyed Alec warily. ‘And I’ve some more news for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Apparently,’ Garrett went on in a rush, ‘that brother of yours was seen in the Park this afternoon, large as life in his fancy curricle. And he had a lady with him.’ Garrett hesitated again. ‘A prime ‘un, Captain. Dark hair, blue eyes …’

Alec felt an ominous pulse throbbing in his temple. Steady, now. ‘Do you know,’ he said softly, ‘I feel a sudden urge to speak with my brother, Garrett.’

‘So I thought, Captain. That’s why I asked around about his lordship’s intentions for the rest of the day. And he’s decided, all of a sudden it seems, to visit some place in St James’s tonight. The Temple of—the Temple of …’

Alec went very still. ‘Not the Temple of Beauty?’

‘Aye, that was it. The Temple of Beauty, in Ryder Street. Now, I know he’s got that grand house of his barricaded against you like a fortress, but he’s likely to be heading to this Temple place alone …’

And he would not be expecting to meet his younger brother. Alec did not hesitate. ‘I’m going out, Garrett. Expect me when you see me.’ He was already pulling on his greatcoat.

‘Sure you don’t want company, Captain?’

‘Quite sure.’ Alec was flinging open the door when he came to an abrupt halt, for outside in the passageway a large, golden-haired dog was watching him expectantly.

Alec swung round, eyes ominously narrowed. ‘Garrett, do you know what this creature’s doing here?’

‘He’s been hangin’ about outside for days, Captain. No food, no ‘ome. Thought we might manage to fit him in.’

Alec raked his hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you realise how much dogs this size eat?’

Garrett remained imperturbable. ‘He’s nowhere else to go, Captain. His name’s Ajax.’

‘Ajax. Then, Garrett, you’ll oblige me greatly by finding Ajax somewhere else to go!’

‘Very well. Gently now with that door, Captain!’

Too late. As the door slammed shut after Alec’s rapidly departing figure, flakes of ancient plaster pattered down from the ceiling. Garrett, with a sigh, fetched a broom to sweep them up, then ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Blasted place is fallin’ to bits … Don’t worry, lad. Our Captain’s all heart. Most of the time.’

Ajax gazed up at his new friend and wagged his tail happily.

Chapter Two

The Temple of Beauty, Ryder Street, St James’s Later that evening

The first-floor dressing room was crowded and smelled of cheap perfume. Rosalie Rowland edged her way towards the nearest door and opened it a few inches, hoping for a breath of cooler, fresher air.

Oh, fiddlesticks. She shut it again quickly.

Men. Dozens of them, queuing from the ground floor all the way up the staircase. Men, tall and short, rich and poor, plump and thin, all filling the air with the smells of tobacco and strong drink. Men, queuing to see—amongst others—her. On stage tonight, in the upstairs hall of the notorious Temple of Beauty.

Rosalie fought down a renewed wave of panic. If she didn’t catch her death of cold in this— costume that was as flimsy as a bride’s veil, she’d catch something horrible from the dirt. Not that such a minor detail bothered the proud proprietor, Dr Perceval Barnard, or his wife. Or the other girls, who chattered and giggled as they clustered to paint their faces in front of the looking-glasses hung askew on the walls.

‘On stage in ten minutes, Greek goddesses!’ squawked Mrs Patty Barnard. ‘Make sure you’re all looking ravishing, now!’

‘Think she means—ready to be ravished,’ drily put in dark-haired Sal close by. Within minutes of Rosalie’s arrival here earlier today, kind Sal had promptly taken her under her wing. And people to watch out for, Sal told her, most definitely included Patty Barnard, a shrill, domineering forty-year-old, whose dyed red hair dazzled the eye.

Mrs Barnard didn’t hear Sal’s comment, but her sharp eyes shot to Rosalie. ‘You. New girl. Pull your gown lower. Our gents haven’t paid to see a bunch of Vestal Virgins!’

Rosalie kept her expression demure. ‘Certainly it’s the last place on earth they’d expect to find any, ma’am.’

The rest of the girls sniggered. Mrs Barnard looked at her, frowning, uncertain, then swung round to the others. ‘Girls, stop squabbling over those Grecian arm-bracelets. There should be sufficient for you all … Charlotte, my dear, what a truly exquisite Aphrodite you make!’

And the normal hubbub of chatter and preparation resumed.

The Temple of Beauty was, Dr Barnard liked to declare, a gentlemen’s club. But there were no rules for membership, merely an initial payment for the evening’s entry, after which the clients could indulge in the usual pursuits of dining, drinking and gaming. Many other clubs in London offered the same. But here, at the stroke of ten, all the patrons moved as one to join the queue for the upstairs hall, because the Temple of Beauty was known throughout London for its classical tableaux featuring scantily-clad girls in costumes who posed in what Dr Barnard called ‘attitudes’ for around ten minutes while the gentlemen in the audience, already mellow with food and wine, feasted their eyes.

‘I have an exclusive clientele, my dear, most of them highly educated in the Greek and Roman myths,’ Dr Barnard had earnestly assured Rosalie yesterday morning when she’d called about a post. ‘And I pride myself,’ he went on, ‘on my own knowledge of those ancient times of glory!’ He’d waved an expansive hand towards his crowded bookshelves, though his lecherous appraisal of her face and figure had rather spoiled the effect of his lofty words.

Rosalie had dragged her eyes from an oversized volume called The Myths of Apollodorus and gazed back at him brightly. Now she looked anew round the crowded dressing room. Greek goddesses? Well, the chief of his girls, Charlotte—’the star of our firmament!’ was how Dr Barnard had introduced her to Rosalie earlier—looked more like a Covent Garden streetwalker than a heavenly deity. Tonight, as Patty Barnard adjusted Charlotte’s dyed locks fondly, Sal hissed to Rosalie, ‘D’you think our Mrs B. would find Charlotte quite so exquisite if she caught her romping in bed with ‘er husband whenever Mrs B.’s back’s turned?’

Rosalie felt laughter bubbling up. But it faded, as she glanced at herself in the mirror and thought, just for a moment, that she saw another face—pale, wistful—gazing back at her.

Her sister. Oh, her sister might have stood here. Might have looked into this very mirror …

She jumped as Mrs Barnard’s harsh voice rasped in her ear, ‘You, girl. Take that ribbon off!’

Rosalie’s fingers flew up to the pale blue ribbon with which she’d tied back her silvery-blonde hair. ‘But I thought …’

‘Do you think,’ went on Mrs Barnard, ‘that the Ancient Greeks tied back their hair in that fashion, my girl?’

Rosalie rather suspected they did and was prepared to argue the point; Sal stood heavily on her toe.

As it happened, Rosalie was now quite happy to let her long hair hang free. It meant she could hide behind it. And heavens above, looking at this garment they’d given her to wear, she’d need to.

When she’d first seen her dress, laid across Mrs Barnard’s plump arm, it had looked perfectly respectable. She was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, after all, so a long white-muslin tunic girdled with a turquoise cord seemed appropriately demure. ‘The turquoise will match your eyes, my dear!’ had simpered Mrs B.

Up until now, Rosalie had never really considered that she had much of a figure to hide. She was twenty-one years old, of medium height, and rather too thin; her legs, she considered, were too long and her bosom decidedly undistinguished compared to the voluptuous figures that were on display around her. Besides, she’d always made a point of dressing to deter any roving male eye. She’d never in her life up till now worn her hair loose and tumbling to her shoulders, had never worn a gown remotely like this one. Demure? That was before she got it on. It was sheer, it was clinging … For heaven’s sake! How could she go out on stage like this?

She’d done her very best to adjust the ridiculously low neckline by quickly threading a turquoise ribbon through the scalloped lace that edged the yoke and pulling it together into a bow just above the curve of her breasts. But Sal, who was busy powdering her own extremely well-displayed plump bosom, turned to her, powder puff in hand. ‘Ma Barnard will never let you get away with that cover-up, darlin’. Not in a thousand years.’

Rosalie protested. ‘I’ve no intention of going out there half-naked!’

‘What did you expect, in Dr Barnard’s Temple of Beauty? Gawd, dearie, I wish I had your looks. Your face and figure, that gorgeous hair of yours—’

‘My figure? My hair?’ echoed Rosalie.

Sal sighed. ‘Own up, now. You ain’t done nothing like this before, ever, have you?’

‘Well, no. Not exactly …’

‘Not on the run, are you, from the law, or some cross husband?’

‘No! Not at all, Sal! And anyway, I don’t suppose that any of them will be paying much attention to me. Will they?’

‘New girl at Dr B.’s Temple of Beauty? Course they’ll be lookin’ at you!’ Sal drew closer. ‘And after the show—did Mrs B. explain? There’s a bit of music in what they call the Inner Temple on the next floor up, and it’s there that the gents pay to come to dance with us.’

‘Just dancing?’ Rosalie enquired rather faintly. She had already discovered that this place was like a rabbit warren, with five floors of rooms and various twisting staircases.

Sal winked. ‘Just dancin’ to start with. Then—who knows?—you might end up with a nice rich lord to milk for a while, if you just shut yer eyes through all the grunting and heaving. But watch out, gal. If they promise love, they’re lying through their teeth.’

Rosalie nodded, her heart sinking. She knew that. But so many didn’t.

Rosalie, I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me. That was all that was in Linette’s pitiful letter last October. Nothing else—no address, no other clue—except that Rosalie knew Linette had always wanted to be an actress.

Now emotion squeezed at Rosalie’s throat like a necklet of iron when she thought what had become of that dream, and a touch of fear also; Linette had been only two years younger than Rosalie, and though Linette’s blonde locks were more luxuriant and her figure more shapely, the sisters did bear a resemblance. At the interview yesterday, Rosalie had worried that Dr Barnard might spot it.

But his gaze had been one of cursory approval. ‘Oh, they come and they go, our girls!’ he’d said airily, when she asked him why he had vacancies. ‘A world of opportunities awaits them, after all!’

Opportunities. Anger, as well as despair, surged through her. Then the door flew open and Danny, the lad who helped backstage, burst in. ‘Three minutes to go, lay-dees!’ He looked straight at Rosalie and winked.

‘Dirty little rascal,’ said Sal amiably. ‘Always hopes he’ll catch us with nothing on. Here—have some rouge.’

‘No thanks.’ Rosalie turned to face her. ‘Sal, how long have you worked here?’

‘Feels like a lifetime, but I’ve been here all of six months! What with Mrs B.’s sharp tongue and her hubby docking our pay at any excuse, no one sticks it more than a year.’ Sal was piling on more rouge. ‘Why are you workin’ here, gal? Standin’ about on stage in next to nothing isn’t what you was brought up to, anyone can see that! You’re clever, you speak like a lady. You could have bin a governess or something, surely!’

‘I have a child to care for,’ Rosalie answered simply. ‘Governesses with children don’t get hired.’

Sal looked at her quickly. ‘How old’s your little one?’

‘Two. She’s just two years old.’

‘Ah, bless! She’s lucky, then, havin’ you to watch over her,’ said Sal wistfully. ‘Me, I was put on the streets by my ma when I was ten. To think I’m playin’ Hebe, the virgin goddess—Lord knows I can hardly remember bein’ a virgin meself. But I’ve learnt lessons. I know the ways of the so-called gentry like the back of my hand. And remember, the best way to make life comfortable for yourself and your little ‘un is to open your legs to a rich man—but get his money first, you hear me?’

‘Ladies!’ shrieked the boy Danny, flinging the door wide open. ‘Ready to go on stage!’

‘Here we go.’ Sal grinned.

Here we go indeed, echoed Rosalie silently.

But not before Mrs Patty Barnard, inspecting every goddess as they filed through the door, ripped open the bow securing the neckline of Rosalie’s bodice and tugged it down to show the curve of her breasts. ‘Told you before, Athena. Think you’re in a damned nunnery?’

Rosalie pressed her lips firmly together, but a faint flush of defiance rose in her cheeks.

With the curtains still closed, all the girls hurried to take up position on stage. Charlotte was carefully seating herself on a damask-covered throne and preening her dyed golden locks, while the others clustered around. Now Rosalie could hear Dr Barnard standing in front of the stage and announcing to the gathered audience, ‘For your delectation, my honoured friends! A scene of exquisite and ennobling artistry—the Greek goddesses!’

Rosalie had kept as far to the back as she could. Oh, she wondered, the breath hitching in her throat, what had she let herself in for?

The heavy curtains were gliding back.

There must be nigh-on a hundred men out there.

She felt rather sick. For Linette, her beloved sister. She would see this through, for Linette—and for Linette’s child, Katy.

Chapter Three

‘Dear Rosalie, why on earth are you asking me about such a place?’ had been her friend Helen’s startled response when Rosalie mentioned the Temple of Beauty two days ago. They were in Helen’s printing shop, and all around them were heaps of freshly printed broadsheets. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Helen went on, ‘that Temple is nothing but a glorified brothel!’

‘Bwothel,’ little Katy had lisped. ‘Bwothel.’

Quickly Helen turned to the two children, who were drawing stick men on some scraps of paper. ‘Toby, darling, take Katy to the kitchen and get her a glass of milk, will you?’

‘And a treacle bun?’ Six-year-old Toby, always hungry, asked the question hopefully.

‘And a treacle bun each, yes, if Katy wants. Look after Katy, now!’

‘C’mon, Kate.’ Holding out his hand, Toby had valiantly led the toddling two-year-old past the for-once silent printing press towards the kitchen. Katy was still lisping, ‘Bwothel. Bwothel …’

Rosalie watched them go with a catch in her throat, then said quietly to Helen, ‘Toby’s wonderful with Katy. I’m so very grateful to you for letting us stay here with you, Helen. I wish you’d let me pay you for our food, at least!’

‘And I wish you’d take my advice and stop going round these dreadful places on your own.’ Helen had sighed. ‘Men who visit the Temple of Beauty have only one thing on their mind! Are you going because you’ve heard that Linette might have been there?’

‘Exactly. You know how Linette always talked of being an actress? Well, now I’ve found out she may have worked at this Temple of Beauty, three years ago.’

‘That place! Oh, poor, poor Linette!’

Helen had been a teacher at the little school in the village where Rosalie and Linette grew up, then she’d married and moved to London, where her husband ran a small publishing press in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. But a few years later he’d abandoned Helen and their little son, Toby, for a singer from Sadler’s Wells. Helen had always kept in touch with Rosalie by letter, and after her husband’s departure she wrote to her young friend that she’d resolved to make a success of the publishing business on her own. When Rosalie’s search for Linette brought her to London last autumn, it was to Helen that she turned.

‘I will pay you, Helen, for my accommodation,’ Rosalie had insisted when she arrived outside Helen’s door.

‘Nonsense.’ Helen had hugged her warmly. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you find your poor sister. As for payment—well, how about writing for The Scribbler?’

‘The Scribbler? Helen, what’s that?’

And Helen had gone on to explain.

The Scribbler was a weekly news sheet Helen produced, a round-up of London events and advertisements, which Helen also used from time to time to denounce the greed of the rich and the plight of the poor.

All this Helen had told Rosalie as she’d unpacked her bags last October. ‘What I really need,’ Helen had said, eyeing her former pupil thoughtfully, ‘is someone who’ll write a weekly diary of London life. Something light, about the theatre, for example, or an amusing commentary on the latest women’s fashions … How about it, Rosalie? You have talent—I realised it when you were my pupil.’

‘But I’ve never thought of writing for publication!’

‘Why not? I remember you write with such charm, such humour—just try it, please?’

Helen’s suggestion certainly paid off, because Rosalie’s weekly articles—published under the pen name of Ro Rowland, a fictional young man about town—had become resoundingly popular. In other circumstances, Rosalie would have revelled in her new life. She’d come to love this little Clerkenwell printer’s shop with its ancient hand press that rattled away merrily in the front parlour. But Helen could be stubborn, and every so often Rosalie had to make clear what she was after. What her purpose was.

‘All I want is to find out the truth about Linette,’ Rosalie had repeated steadily in the face of Helen’s objections. ‘I thought we’d discussed this. My sister might have met him at the Temple of Beauty and I cannot leave any stone unturned.’

‘Then …’ Helen had hesitated ‘… it might just help you to know that Dr Barnard keeps a secret register of clients. Names, addresses, the dates they visited, that sort of thing. I only heard about it because once I was offered the chance to publish some of it by a man who worked for Dr Barnard and showed me some pages he’d copied. I refused, of course—I’d have made too many enemies. But I learnt that Dr Barnard keeps this register—he calls it his green book—in his office, hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of a big old book called The Myths of Apollodorus. And since you know, roughly, the dates that Linette was there, it just might help you! It’s such a tragedy that you don’t know the name of her villainous seducer—’

Rosalie cut in, giving Helen’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thank you for the news about the register. You are such a good friend.’

Helen shook her head, sighing. Though over thirty now, she still looked just like the village schoolteacher she once was, with her brown hair pinned up tightly and her eyes behind her spectacles shining with intelligence. ‘Just look after yourself, my dear, won’t you? Get out of that “Temple place” just as soon as you can. Men.’

‘Men don’t worry me, since I’ve got a foolproof defence, Helen,’ Rosalie said lightly. ‘I’m simply not interested in them. Though we mustn’t forget that there are some good men in the world!’

‘Not that I’ve met lately!’ snapped Helen.

Rosalie put her head on one side mischievously. ‘What about your friend Mr Wheeldon?’

‘Francis! Oh, well, he’s different.’ Helen was busily putting the latest copies of The Scribbler into piles for distribution. ‘And you certainly wouldn’t find him at Dr Barnard’s Temple of Beauty!’

True. Rosalie had chuckled at the thought of the kind, middle-aged churchwarden Francis Wheeldon visiting such a place. She picked up a Scribbler. ‘Shall I take some copies of this to the news vendor in the Strand for you, Helen? You usually sell quite a few there, don’t you?’

Subject changed. But Rosalie hadn’t wavered in her resolve to visit the Temple of Beauty. If appearing on stage for a night was the only way to get further in her quest, then so be it. That register could be a breakthrough—because Rosalie had lied to Helen. She did know the name of the man who had ruined her sister. But she was keeping it to herself, for she had no doubt that he was not only hateful, but dangerous.

Now Rosalie was looking down from the stage at all these lecherous roués in fresh disbelief. How could her darling sister have fallen in love with someone who came to a place like this?

‘Athena!’ Mrs Barnard was hissing at her from the wings. ‘You, new girl, stop glaring down at our guests like that! And pull your bodice lower, or I’ll come out and do it myself!’

Rosalie muttered a retort under her breath and dragged down her bodice just the tiniest fraction. Sal winked at her. It was going to be a long ten minutes. Lifting her chin, deliberately staring at a fixed point at the very back of the hall, Rosalie mentally started composing a piece for The Scribbler. ‘Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed that a large number of the male spectators, being over fifty years old, were alas too short-sighted to fully enjoy the beauteous goddesses on display …’

Suddenly, the door at the back crashed open. A latecomer strode in and halted abruptly. He looked around, not up at the stage, but at the men in the audience, some of whom had turned in irritation at the slam of the door. Rosalie caught her breath.

He was not an old, fat lecher. He was tall and dark-haired, thirty at most. He was quite unmissable.

‘Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ Sal murmured appreciatively at her side.

Rosalie nodded mutely. Most of the men in here favoured the current fashion for fancy tailcoats in blue or bottle-green superfine, padded at the shoulders and adorned with ridiculously large silver-gilt buttons that would lend themselves to the cartoons of Cruikshank or Gillray. But he—her man—was dressed casually, almost roughly, in a long grey overcoat that hung open to reveal a rumpled linen shirt and a horseman’s tight buckskin breeches tucked into worn leather riding boots. Instead of a high starched cravat, he wore a simple white neckerchief knotted loosely at his throat.

He looked angry, determined, and—absolutely gorgeous. His wide-set eyes smouldered with fiery challenge beneath jet-black brows. And his careless attire served only to emphasise the masculine perfection of his body—that broad chest, tapering downwards to lean hips and muscular thighs … I’m sorry to let you down, Helen, but perfect is the only word for it. Fascinated, she let her gaze rove back up to his face, noting how his untamed dark hair lent dramatic emphasis to those lean, sculpted features and that amazingly sensual mouth.

His firm jaw was shadowed with at least a day’s stubble. He looked as though he didn’t give a fig for the company he’d disturbed. An aura of danger emanated from him, together with the cynicism of a man who’d already seen rather more of life than he should.

Yet—you only had to look at him to imagine being in his arms. To imagine doing things a well-bred girl shouldn’t even be thinking of. What was he doing here? You know the answer to that, you fool. Yet somehow, he—her man—looked as if he hated all this just as much as she did.

Don’t be an idiot, Rosalie. She could just imagine Helen proclaiming with a snort of derision, ‘Of course, a man prefers to pay for a woman, because the act of purchase means he can discard her the minute he’s had enough of her!’

Just for one incredible moment, his gaze met hers so searingly that she felt as if he was undressing her with his eyes. The warm colour suffused her skin. Then he turned his back on the place with a shrug of scorn and walked out. She felt, ridiculously, a sense of loss. A few minutes later the curtains were gliding shut and the girls, chattering avidly, were being shepherded off the stage. Back in the dressing room Rosalie put her hands to her flushed cheeks. Sweet heaven, who was that man?

And then Sal came over, and was digging her in the ribs. ‘Isn’t he just about the most gorgeous creature you’ve ever seen? Don’t try to deny it. I saw you staring!’ She chuckled.

Rosalie’s heart plummeted. ‘Does he … come here regularly, then?’

‘Lord alive, never seen him in here before, more’s the pity. Shouldn’t think he has to pay for his pleasures, should you?’ Sal put more powder on her nose. ‘But I’ve just heard one of the girls saying he teaches sword fighting to the gentry and is known as the Captain, because he was in the army for years.’

Never seen him in here before. Rosalie was already scraping her long hair back into a tight coil. That was as well. Because she could just imagine Linette—anyone—going off with him at one beckoning glint from those wicked, slanting dark eyes.

Then she reached for the everyday clothes she’d arrived in and started towards the changing room. Sal jumped in front of her. ‘Now, just a minute. What are you doing, gal?’

‘Going home,’ answered Rosalie calmly. Just as soon as I’ve paid a quick visit to Dr Barnard’s office.

‘What? You’re not stayin’ on?’

‘I was only hired to do the stage show, I made that quite clear … Whatever’s the matter, Sal? You look worried!’ In fact, more than worried—Sal looked almost frightened.

‘Dr Barnard spoke to me about you earlier,’ Sal whispered, glancing round to make sure they weren’t overheard. ‘He said I had to make sure you stayed on for the dancin’, see, even if it’s just for a bit!’

‘But why? I told him I’d appear on stage and nothing further, at least for the first night!’ In fact, Rosalie didn’t have the slightest intention of coming back here at all if she could help it.

Sal bit her lip. ‘Dr B. was hopin’ that perhaps you’d change your mind. New girls are always a draw, see, especially ones as pretty as you. And—’ her fingers knotted together nervously ‘—if you don’t show upstairs, I get the push, Rosalie.’

‘Oh, Sal …’

‘But it’s all right,’ went on Sal bravely, ‘you go, it’s not your fault—it’s a lousy place, this!’

Rosalie was desperate to get at that secret register. If not tonight, then she’d come back tomorrow and endure the stage show yet again; there was nothing else for it. But to go upstairs, on offer to all those men …

‘Well, look at little Miss Prim and Proper!’ It was Charlotte, sneering at Rosalie’s drab cloak. ‘So you’re disappearin’ already, are you? Of course, you won’t want to face the fact that nobody out there is going to be in the slightest bit interested in paying out good money for you!’

‘That’s as well, isn’t it?’ answered Rosalie calmly. ‘Since I never wanted them to.’

Charlotte glared. ‘I told Perceval—Dr Barnard—you was too high in the instep for this place! He’s just doin’ his accounts, down in his office, but soon as he arrives up here, I’ll tell him you ain’t nothing but a stuck-up troublemaker!’

Down in his office. Botheration. Rosalie put down her clothes and shook her hair loose. ‘Actually, Charlotte,’ she said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I am staying.’

Charlotte’s mouth opened and closed. Sal swung back to Rosalie. ‘Oh, my Gawd, girl, don’t do this just for me! You said you were dead set against joining the dancing, and I understand, I really do …’

Rosalie set her chin stubbornly. ‘Sal, how long does Dr Barnard usually take to do his accounts?’

‘Oh, ten minutes or so, that’s all, then he’s eager to mingle with his gents upstairs!’

‘Well, I’ll go upstairs, too,’ declared Rosalie. ‘Just long enough to make sure he sees me there, then I’ll slip away. Will that do?’

‘Won’t it, just!’ breathed Sal. ‘Thanks, gal, for savin’ my job here. But …’ she patted Rosalie’s cheek ‘… put some rouge on, eh? You got to look as if you mean it!’

Sal hurried off upstairs. Slowly Rosalie dabbed on a little rouge, hating it. Once more, now that she was on her own, she remembered that terrible winter night two months ago, when she’d received the message from Helen. Rosalie, I’m so sorry, I’ve found your sister.

Memories of a spring morning came back to her unbidden. She had been a small but leggy ten-year-old and Linette just eight. There’d been a storm in the night, with the wind and rain howling around the oak woods that surrounded their village, and at first light she and Linette had raced down to the stream at the bottom of their garden to see how the moorhens’ nest they’d been watching for days had fared.

Linette had been entranced by the newly hatched chicks, huddled in their sprawling mound of twigs that was lodged precariously against a small island in the centre of the river. But the morning after the storm Rosalie saw that the high waters had loosened the nest and any minute it might be dragged away, chicks and all, by the muddy brown flow.

Hitching up her skirts and pulling off her shoes, Rosalie had waded in, while little Linette, so pretty even then, had watched from the bank, her hands pressed to her cheeks. Rosalie, up to her knees in water and challenged by the mother moorhen squawking its outrage, steadily placed stones and twigs around the unwieldy nest full of open-beaked chicks until it was firmly anchored again in a cleft of the leafy island.

‘Oh, Rosalie! You’ve saved the babies!’ Linette had been ecstatic.

From the top of their garden, Rosalie and Linette’s mother, not well even then, had been watching, too. As they ran back up to her, she’d hugged her girls tightly to her. ‘My brave darling Rosalie,’ she’d said in her broken English. ‘And Linette. You are both mes petits anges, my little angels!’

That was when Rosalie had noticed the bucket and brush by the wall of the house and realised that their mother had been crying. And then she had seen the words, painted on the side of their outhouse, that her mother must have been trying to scrub away when they came running up from the river. You don’t belong here, French whore.

Later that morning at the village school Rosalie had shown her new teacher the story she’d written about a bird in its floating nest travelling far downstream and finding a new life.

That young teacher was Helen Fazackerley and she had read Rosalie’s story with absorbed attention. ‘This is wonderful, Rosalie,’ she had said quietly. ‘Is this something you would like to do? Travel and discover new places?’

Rosalie had looked steadily up at her teacher. ‘If we went somewhere else, would they be kinder to my mother, Miss Fazackerley?’

* * *

On, on flew Rosalie’s memories, to the December of last year. A cold evening, a bitter evening, in damp, bleak London. Rosalie had by then been staying with Helen for two months, searching all the daylight hours and more for Linette; asking at the theatres, the opera houses, everywhere she could think of for her sister; following clues that too quickly went cold. Rosalie, I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me.

But it was Helen, who regularly went out at night with a group of her church friends to take soup and bread to the hungry in some of the worst districts of London, who found Linette at last.

Rosalie had been reading little Toby his bedtime story when she’d received Helen’s message. Biddy, their good young neighbour, had come in to look after Toby, while Rosalie, with one of Biddy’s brothers, hurried to meet Helen at the address she’d give her—a rubbish-strewn attic off the Ratcliffe Highway. There, on a dank mattress beneath a broken skylight, lay her nineteen-year-old sister, her once-lovely face pinched with grief and illness, while at her side a beautiful little girl with dark curls gazed up at the newcomers, clutching a battered rag doll and whispering, ‘Mama. Mama.’

Rosalie’s search for her sister was at an end.

Helen had immediately taken the crying infant to her house in Clerkenwell. In the meantime Rosalie had fought hard to conceal not just her grief, but her overwhelming rage as she’d held her sister in her arms and stroked back her hair from her forehead. ‘Take me to him,’ Linette had whispered as she clutched her sister’s hand.

‘Who, Linette?’ Rosalie had tried so hard to keep her voice steady, though the pain in her heart had threatened to choke her.

‘He has a castle. A wonderful castle. Take me to him, please …’ Linette had been struggling to speak by then. Faintly she’d breathed his name—then died, moments later, in Rosalie’s arms.

Since then, Rosalie had redoubled her efforts to find Linette’s destroyer, working her way round every London theatre, high and low. Not asking outright, for that brought danger; but pretending she was looking for a lost friend. And a few days ago, fast running out of hope, she’d visited a seedy little theatre off the Strand.

The greasy-haired manager, Alfred Marchmont, had said curiously, ‘I remember a girl called Linette. Linette Lavalle, that was it—pretty, she was, well spoken, with fair hair …’

For a moment she could hardly breathe. Emotion twisted her insides. At last she nodded. ‘When was she here?’

‘Well, she came for an audition—it would be, oh, spring three years ago; I’ve a good memory for faces and names.’ Marchmont looked at her curiously. ‘She was pretty, as I said, but she moved on after a couple of months to Dr Barnard’s.’

Three years ago. ‘Does this Dr Barnard run a theatre, then?’

Marchmont had hesitated. ‘He runs a stage show. Of sorts.’

So now, at Dr Barnard’s famous Temple of Beauty, Rosalie prepared herself to endure the company of the half-drunken roués upstairs. But as soon as Dr Barnard appeared and observed her there, she would slip down to his office to see if his secret book went back to the summer of 1813, when Linette might have worked here—and met Katy’s father.

Chapter Four

‘Look, lads, it’s Captain Stewart! He was one of Wellington’s officers at Waterloo!’

Alec Stewart was all set to leave the Temple of Beauty. There was no sign of his brother; Garrett must have been wrong. But now these friends of Lord Harry Nugent’s had clustered around him in the smoke-filled bar, blocking his exit.

Alec made a half-hearted effort to answer their eager questions, but he was tired of battle talk. He wanted to point out to these young blades that war was a damnable business, then get the hell out of here. But then Harry himself appeared and accosted Alec with delight.

‘So you decided to come after all, Alec! Weren’t the girls just wonderful?’

‘They were about as I expected, yes,’ said Alec steadily. This wasn’t the place or time to explain to Harry that actually he thought they looked greedy and desperate. Though not quite all. His eyes had been tugged reluctantly back to the stage by just one of the goddesses—Athena—the slender one who tossed her long fair hair and looked almost angry, as though she hated being there amongst those plump, painted courtesans …

For God’s sake, man. She has to be a courtesan, too!

‘Must go, Harry,’ Alec said. But Harry was babbling in his ear, to make himself heard above the general din.

‘You’re not leaving yet, are you, Alec? You must stay for the dancing upstairs.’ Harry was pointing eagerly to one of the many winding staircases that threaded through this tall, ancient building. ‘You could have your pick, if they knew who you were!’

‘Really not my style.’ Alec clapped the curly-haired young man lightly on the shoulder. ‘I only came because I thought my brother might be here—and he’s not. Enjoy the rest of your birthday and don’t let yourself be fleeced too badly, will you?’ Alec started towards the exit.

‘But, Alec, your brother is here!’

Alec ground to a halt. ‘What?’

‘He was too late for the show, but he went straight upstairs to the Inner Temple to take a look at the girls on offer there … Alec? Alec, if you’re going up there, too, don’t forget you’ll have to get a ticket first!’

Alec, already making for the stairs, swung back. ‘I’m not going to be paying for my pleasure, believe me.’

‘But you need a ticket to get in! Look, you can buy one over there!’

Damn. Alec could see the queue snaking along one of the passageways. But—Stephen was here. And this was a matter—a family matter—that could not be put off any longer.

‘And so, you see, sir,’ Rosalie was saying earnestly, ‘that the education of young women is absolutely vital to the future of social enlightenment, wouldn’t you agree? By education, I mean, of course, not just needlework and a little French, but a full grounding in mathematics, the sciences …’

The young buck who’d waited so eagerly for a dance and possibly more with the extremely striking new blonde goddess was beginning to look distinctly alarmed. He muttered hastily, ‘Just remembered. There’s this fellow I’ve got to see …’

With narrowed eyes Rosalie watched the man hurry off across the crowded room towards the door. Five customers had so far bought tickets from the footman at the door to dance with her. Five customers had beaten a rapid retreat as soon as they decently could, thanks to her unexpected—and unwelcome—topics of conversation. Rosalie held up five fingers to Sal and mouthed, ‘Enough?’

Sal, busy coping with the attentions of a drunken admirer in a loud plum coat, nodded and whispered back, ‘Certainly is—thanks!’

Rosalie heaved a sigh of relief. She’d got Sal out of trouble and had managed to scare all her admirers to death within moments. Now all she had to do was wait for Dr Barnard to appear, then she could change out of this ridiculous outfit, slip down to his office, check his green book and get out of here. Mrs Barnard shouldn’t be a problem; the old harridan was still playing the pianoforte with clunking determination, while couples waltzed and groped their way around the floor. Though Rosalie decided to move out of her line of sight, into an alcove away from the light of the candles, just to be on the safe side.

But someone was blocking her way. ‘Oh!’ Her hand flew to her throat.

For a fleeting moment, some faint physical resemblance made her think of the Captain. But even as her pulse started to race, she realised this man was older and not as tall, with a fleshier face and just a hint of a weak chin. And his clothes were—expensive. His coat was of bottle-green kerseymere, his cuffs were edged with lace and a diamond-studded silver pin nestled in the folds of his cravat. The rather strong scent of citrus cologne clung to him.

‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘I do apologise if I startled you—that wasn’t my intention in the least. I wonder, would you do me the very great honour of dancing with me?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said quickly, ‘I was just about to leave.’

A shadow of something—was it anxiety?—crossed his face. ‘And I respect your wishes wholeheartedly, but might I mention that there could be a slight problem?’

‘A problem?’

‘Indeed. You see, I was talking to your Dr Barnard on the stairs only a moment ago. He’s just returned to his office for more tickets for his doormen. But he’ll be arriving here any minute; since I’ve paid him personally for a dance with you, he would be a little angry, I fear, to discover that you’d slipped away.’

Rosalie’s heart sank. So it still wasn’t safe to get into Dr Barnard’s office—bother. She swallowed. ‘Yes. I see …’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ offered the man. ‘Instead of dancing, I’ll fetch you a glass of wine, shall I?’

‘I would prefer lemonade,’ she interrupted quickly. ‘And I really cannot stay long.’

‘I am honoured to be given even a few minutes of your time,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t believe how eager I am for this chance to get to know you.’

Alec frowned as the footman took his ticket and waved him into the Inner Temple. The candle-lit room was filled with gaudy splashes of colour, thanks to the cheap gowns of the women and the scarlet and mauve wall-hangings. In one corner an older woman with red-dyed hair played the piano with more determination than skill and a dozen or more couples moved around the floor in a manner that clearly hinted at more intimate encounters. The odours of stale perfume and tobacco assailed his senses.

And there—Alec’s square jaw tightened—there was his brother, Stephen, dressed to the nines as usual and talking to someone Alec couldn’t quite see since Stephen’s back blocked his view.

Alec walked with deceptive nonchalance across the room. People moved out of his way, as they tended to.

‘Stephen,’ he said softly at his brother’s shoulder.

His brother swung round, the blood leaving his face. ‘You,’ he muttered. ‘Always you. What in hell are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to speak with you, Stephen.’ Alec gazed thoughtfully at his brother. ‘Since you’re too scared to let me into your house, I thought we could have a pleasant little chat right here.’

‘This is hardly the place or time to discuss private business!’

‘Believe me—’ and Alec’s voice was suddenly harsher ‘—I take no pleasure at all in having to step anywhere near the dungheap of your private business. But you give me little option.’

Stephen’s eyes darted round. Quite a few people were watching; some couples had actually stopped dancing to stare. Stephen turned to the person at his side. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I do apologise for this gross intrusion.’

And for the first time, Alec realised who Stephen had been talking to.

He cursed under his breath. He hadn’t wanted her to be here. Blue eyes, as he’d thought: turquoise blue. He absorbed the slender delicacy of her figure, the perfect outline of her profile, the way her silver-blonde hair trailed down the silken white column of her graceful neck …

Athena. He felt, for one wild moment, the overwhelming desire to haul her over his shoulder and carry her out of this tawdry place.

Then he realised she was wearing fresh face paint. Rouge, badly applied. Disillusion flooded him. She is a whore, you fool. Alec’s gaze locked again with his brother’s. ‘Pay her off,’ he said. ‘This is just between you and me.’

He saw the girl whiten beneath that rouge as if he’d struck her. But at that very moment Stephen touched her shoulder. ‘Listen, my dear,’ Alec heard him murmur. ‘If you will just wait for me over there, I’ll be free in a moment, I promise you …’

‘I said—pay her off,’ interrupted Alec. ‘Or I will.’

Stephen flushed and dipped into his pocket, then thrust some coins in the girl’s hand. ‘Here,’ Alec heard him mutter. ‘And there’ll be more, if you’ll wait for me …’ He bent to whisper something.

Alec expected Athena to give Stephen an enticing smile, perhaps, or a curtsy of promise as she left.

But her blue eyes flashed scorn. Two spots of colour burned in her cheeks; then the girl just let those damned coins clatter one by one to the floor as if they scorched her. The noise interrupted the pianist, who stopped playing. And the girl stalked off without a backward glance, blonde head held high. Stephen clenched his fists and looked after her. ‘Damn it, I needed to talk to her!’

‘Wrong, Stephen,’ Alec shot back. ‘You need to talk to me.’

‘Not here.’ Stephen sounded quite feverish. ‘For God’s sake, not here, in public!’

This time Alec’s voice was like a whiplash. ‘You make it impossible for me to hold a conversation with you anywhere else. Now, I think you were about to explain to me why you were seen today by the whole of society driving in the park—and you were with her again. Then you come whoring, here. You are—unbelievable.’

‘I had my reasons for coming here! A matter of unexpected business—’

‘Business? Listen, Stephen. Don’t you think it might be a good idea if you suddenly found some unexpected business to take you out of town, for a week, or two, or even longer?’

Stephen moistened dry lips. ‘Are you attempting to threaten me?’

‘If you think I’m merely attempting it, then I’m obviously not making myself clear enough. Let me put it this way. It would be as well for you, brother—it would be very much in your interests—if you disappeared from London for a while.’

‘Damn you! You will not interfere like this!’ Stephen looked round quickly at the avid onlookers who gathered closer. ‘You know, I hold some cards, too, Alec. Push me too far and I’ll play them, I swear!’

Alec gave a lethal half-smile. ‘Then play them, brother mine. Damn well play them. Unlike you, I have nothing whatsoever to lose.’

‘If you think—’

‘For our father’s sake, Stephen,’ broke in Alec warningly, ‘I’ll expect news of your departure in the next day or so.’ He looked around the room and its occupants with scorn. ‘Now, my God, I’m out of here.’

‘Back to your old soldiers,’ muttered Stephen.

Alec swung round on him. ‘My old soldiers smell sweeter than this sewer of a place.’ And he strode off, the crowd parting to make way for him, the door crashing shut after him as he left.

The murmuring rose to excited chatter. All eyes were now fastened on Stephen, who, still flushed with anger, walked quickly towards the ante-room where refreshments were being served, looking, looking all the time. That girl, Stephen swore under his breath. Thanks to his damned brother, that girl, who looked like the other one, had got clean away.

In fact, Rosalie was still there, pressed into a shadowed alcove. She saw that slowly the room was returning to normal. Dr Barnard had arrived and, suspecting there’d been trouble of some kind, he spoke curtly to his wife, who began to play the piano again extremely loudly. Dr Barnard called out that the wine was on the house and a cheer was raised; couples started returning to the dance floor.

But Rosalie’s pulse rate showed no sign of calming.

Something had happened to her when the Captain drew near. It wasn’t just that he was so handsome. It was because he was so different from all these other men. It was as if he was some kind of rebel, walking alone and unarmed into an enemy camp, quite heedless of any consequences. And close up, she’d been able to see even more clearly how his overlong dark hair, his ill-tied neckcloth, the shabby long coat that moulded itself to the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest, only added to the hint of danger that blazed in those emotion-packed eyes.

He was, quite simply, devastating. And he thought her a whore. Pay her off—or I will.

She shivered. She saw that the man Stephen was now talking in a low voice to some footmen at the door. She didn’t want to see any more of him either, and the sooner she was out of here the better …

‘Ros. Ros? Thank God I’ve found you, girl.’ It was Sal, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Now listen, you’ve done me a favour, so I’ll do you one, right? Dr Barnard, he’s after you. Someone’s said to him you’ve got some connection with a London gossip rag.’

Oh, no. Rosalie caught her breath and tried to laugh. ‘Ridiculous—what on earth makes him think that?’

‘No use trying flummery with this one, gal. Our Danny-boy’s told Dr B. he’s seen you out deliverin’ news sheets. And soon as he’s got everyone back and busy on the dance floor, Dr Barnard is going to be huntin’ for you, see?’

Oh, Lord. Rosalie was already on her way, hurrying through the crowd to the back staircase.

Down to the office first, for that all-important book of clients. Then—she’d be on her way.

Alec was walking steadily down the stairs. His brother would do as he’d said and clear out of town for a while, no doubt of that—Stephen’s knees had actually been shaking. Though whether Stephen’s departure was the solution to a stinking mess or merely a temporary reprieve was another matter altogether.

And Alec was still puzzled as to why Stephen was here. He’d said he had business here—unexpected business. But … with a sweet-faced whore who refused his money almost in disgust?

Alec paused at a branching of the stairs, his brow dark with thought. When, exactly, had Stephen started hating him? Probably the day Alec was born, unfortunately.

‘You. Always you,’ Stephen had hissed just now.

Long ago, on his fifth birthday, Alec had been tearing round the estate on a lively pony—his birthday gift—when it stumbled over a fallen branch on a woodland path. Alec had been thrown, breaking his leg.

He’d imagined he saw Stephen, a little ahead of him between the trees, watching him. And days later, lying bed-bound and drowsy with medicines for the pain, he’d heard their father say to their mother, in Alec’s bedroom, ‘To think that Stephen was capable of such mischief. God help me, but, young though they are, I find myself wishing more and more that Alec were the heir …’

His parents had not seen, as Alec had, his brother lurking outside the half-open door, his eyes venomous with the beginnings of the hatred Alec had noticed just now.

Yes, it was Stephen who’d laid that branch across Alec’s path and their father knew it. So did the groom, who warned Alec, grim-faced, when he was getting used to riding again after his leg healed, You watch out for that brother of yours, Master Alec, sir.

As he grew up, Alec had never cared that Stephen was the heir rather than himself. But he knew that Stephen would never forgive him for what their father had said—ever.

He’d barely reached the first-floor landing of the Temple of Beauty when he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs above him. He glanced around. Two of Dr Barnard’s footmen, burly brutes both, were heading downwards also and he stepped aside to let them pass.

They didn’t.

They came directly towards him. Their faces were twisted with an emotion Alec recognised all too easily. The hunger for a fight. Damn it.

The bigger one, a beefy wretch with some missing teeth, went for Alec with his fist, clearly intending a blow straight to the gut. But Alec caught the man a swinging punch to the jaw that made his victim stagger and fall with his hand to his mouth. More of his teeth gone, hopefully. In virtually the same moment Alec whipped back his elbow into the stomach of the other brute, driving the wind from his lungs so that he bent double and had to gasp for air.

If they wanted a mill, they’d got it. But Alec knew this would be Stephen’s doing. And now—hell, now was going to be difficult, because three more of Dr Barnard’s henchmen were coming from the other direction, speeding up as they saw their two felled comrades struggling to their feet …

Not playing fair, Stephen. But then, you never did. With a bit of luck Alec knew he could fling a couple of his opponents down the nearby staircase. But even so, the odds were not good. They were coming for him purposefully, with evil leers on their faces.

‘Oh, my brave, brave boys,’ said Alec Stewart gently, ‘five against one—but even so I’d bet money on me. Do you know why? Because you’re a bunch of thick-skulled bastards who would just turn and run at the prospect of any real fighting …’

They charged him like enraged bulls, which was Alec’s intention. Anger slowed both brains and fists, especially when Alec, moving with light ease, tripped two of them up as they blundered forwards, then sliced another across the throat with the edge of his hand and brought his fist up beneath the fourth one’s jaw so the ruffian bit on his own tongue and let out a bloody cry of pain. But Alec knew the odds were against him; it was only a matter of time before he went down.

Suddenly he glimpsed someone else sidling down those damned stairs. A girl looking as if she didn’t want to be seen, glancing behind her all the time as if fearing pursuit. But on hearing the noise of the fight, she turned to look down and Alec saw her gasp with shock.

Hell. He flung another punch as one of the brutes ventured too close. It was Athena, in her diaphanous gown. Another enemy. Would the blonde-haired whore stand and gloat at his plight? Or actually join in? The latter at present seemed most likely, because as more of the brutes closed in on him she hurried down the last few steps to the landing where the action was and picked up a small pedestal table that stood in a corner.

Dear God, thought Alec a little faintly, I’m in for it now. There was an expression on her face of utter and relentless determination. Alec mentally prepared himself for a final, nasty blow from that small but heavy table.

Shifting her grip to hold it by its base, she swung the table hard against the thighs of his biggest opponent. The man let out a howl of outrage and toppled to his knees. Another man reached out to grab her with an oath—’Come here, you blasted—’—but she dropped the table, slipped neatly from his grasp and kneed him in the groin.

Alec blinked. Ouch. Dirty tactics. But he could hear more footsteps, running up the stairs this time; then a familiar voice accosted his ears.

‘Captain! What ho, Captain Stewart, is that you?’

Not more of Dr Barnard’s men, but curly-haired Lord Harry Nugent. Swiftly Harry took in the scene, then gestured his friends forwards with a whoop of delight. ‘Come on, lads!’ Harry cried. ‘Don’t like the odds here, against a hero of Waterloo! Let’s show ‘em a bit of the homebrewed!’ Instantly the crowd of young men launched themselves at the footmen, cheering.

The footmen, aghast, tried to flee up the stairs, to the room where the dancing was. But Harry’s friends followed and within seconds, Dr Barnard’s Inner Temple was more like a rowdy backstreet tavern than a gentlemen’s club. As more footmen joined the battle, Harry fought at Alec’s side; Alec watched with widening eyes as each of Harry’s vigorous punches found its mark—perhaps Harry should take up boxing rather than the foil.

But then Alec began to realise that the girl had disappeared.

Harry caught his eye as the number of assailants dwindled. ‘A more exciting night than you thought, Captain!’ he called. ‘Did you see me draw the stout one’s cork?’

Alec shrugged his wide shoulders, laughing. ‘Indeed. I underestimated the Temple of Beauty. But do you know what happened to the girl who was here a few moments ago, Harry? The blonde girl who played Athena?’

‘She ran past us, on her way down the stairs.’ Harry paused to enthusiastically thump a footman who was trying to sneak away. ‘Apparently she’s in trouble with Dr Barnard’s men, too.’

‘Is she, by God?’ breathed Alec Stewart. ‘Is she, now? Look out behind you, Harry!’

Wham. Harry planted a first-class facer. Alec grinned, then turned his back on the battle. He was off, to find Athena.

Chapter Five

Rosalie’s heart was sinking fast. Where was she in this labyrinth of passages and stairs? How on earth was she going to find her way to Dr Barnard’s office? She needed to see his precious private register, now. Because after tonight, returning to the Temple of Beauty just wasn’t an option.

Coming to the aid of the Captain had been so stupid! She should have just quietly slipped past all those brawling men while she had the chance! But seeing him there, fighting all those ruffians by himself, had struck her as so unfair …

You fool. He believes you to be a whore. And you’re out of your mind to waste precious moments even thinking about him, when Dr Barnard knows you write for The Scribbler, and has sent his men to scour the place for you!

She stole along yet another dimly lit corridor. The sounds of fighting reverberated round the entire building. What an evening. What a place. And she wasn’t out of it yet, because someone else was coming towards her. Someone who reached her before she’d even had a chance to run.

‘So here you are, Athena,’ said the Captain softly. ‘I’ve a few questions for you.’

Damn. She whipped round and went tearing back the way she’d come, but she heard him striding after her. Swinging past a corner, she pushed at a half-open door into a shadowy room where only a single candle spluttered in a sconce. Charging inside, she flattened herself against the wall, closed her eyes and uttered a fervent prayer that he’d go straight past.

He didn’t. He came in. Rosalie dived past him for the still-open door, but he caught her easily by the wrist; when she opened her mouth to utter a scream, she found his other hand clamped firmly across it. She struggled. Yet at the touch of his palm, strong and warm against her lips, a strange tingling sensation started up in all her nerve endings.

‘Keep still,’ he hissed, kicking the door shut with one booted foot.

She tried to bite his hand. He cursed. Then she froze. More heavy footsteps were coming down the corridor outside. Her chest was so tight she could scarcely breathe. Were they after the Captain? Or—her?

The footsteps went past. She sagged, tension leaving her weak.

The Captain was no longer holding her. But there was no chance of escape, because his broad-shouldered figure completely barred the way.

Something else was just starting to dawn on her. This room was one of those rooms that gentlemen paid for. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows and a rather large and obvious velvet couch draped with a shabby silk counterpane filled one corner. The mingled odours of patchouli and tobacco filled the air, and the paintings on the walls—oh, Lord, those paintings …

‘I understand, Athena,’ he said softly, ‘that you’re in trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ Rosalie tried to laugh. ‘What nonsense. I simply work here, as you’ve seen …’

He was watching her with inscrutable eyes. ‘Then why were you running? Why has Dr Barnard set his men at the main exits to stop you escaping?’

As Sal had said. She sagged again.

‘Exactly,’ he went on tersely. ‘And just for the moment, you’re better off—believe it or not—in here. With me.’ He tilted his head to indicate the riotous noise of brawling on every floor of this tall house.

The candles flickered, warningly. And oh, how their shadows highlighted the hard slant of his cheekbones, the wicked curl of his sensual mouth. Rosalie swallowed on the dryness in her throat. His dark eyes—she saw now they were velvet-brown, almost black—glowed with golden flecks as he gazed down at her. For a reason she couldn’t explain, a sudden lick of heat uncoiled from deep within and suffused every part of her body.

In trouble. Oh, yes.

Suddenly, like an eel—my God, thought Alec, this one’s used to fighting her own corner—she twisted from his grasp and ran for another door she’d spied at the far end of this whore’s boudoir. He lunged after her and caught her easily, this time trapping her by planting his hands firmly against the wall on either side of her shoulders. Her small breasts rose and fell in agitation; her amazing turquoise-blue eyes were wide with defiance.

‘Steady. Steady, Athena,’ warned Alec. ‘You know, I’d really like you to explain why you came to my aid in that brawl back there.’

She hadn’t the faintest idea. She jerked her head up. ‘How about you explaining why you’re reduced to paying for your pleasure in a place like this?’

And her lips spouted insults. Surprisingly eloquent insults, registered Alec. And the scent of her gleaming blonde hair was quite bewitching. She tried again to wriggle away, knocking a small painting off its hook on the wall so that it crashed to the floor. He stepped back, involuntarily; she swooped to the ground and picked it up.

‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Look what you made me do, you fool! Luckily it’s not damaged …’

Alec looked on, incredulous as she turned her back on him and very carefully replaced the painting on the wall. He said at last, ‘You know, you’re in all sorts of trouble, Athena. And you’re worried about—a painting?’

She looked at him furiously. ‘It’s not just a painting, like the other cheap nonsense in here!’ The colour tinged her cheeks as she glanced round at the other works of art, whose content, Alec had noted, was decidedly bawdy. ‘Any fool can see that this painting is by Boucher and he’s famous for his watercolours! His paintings are masterpieces, though what one of them is doing in this dreadful place I cannot imagine!’

Dreadful place. Alec noted that. ‘How, Athena, do you know about art?’

Her hands were on her hips again; she tossed back her hair defiantly. ‘Why shouldn’t I know about art? Anyway, I’m not the only one in trouble—what did you do, to make those men attack you?’

‘I rather think,’ he said, ‘that I offended someone here tonight.’

‘If you go around speaking to people as you did to that man you called Stephen, then I’m not in the least surprised!’ she said tartly. ‘Why were you so rude to him?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t like him very much,’ he said. ‘And judging by the way you threw his money back in his face, you didn’t take to him either.’

Rosalie caught her breath. Something she’d never experienced before surged warmly through her. She, normally so resistant to men and their various wiles, could not even look this one in the eyes—those dark, glinting eyes—without her stomach turning peculiarly upside down.

Alone in a whore’s boudoir. With him.

Outside beyond this room the mayhem continued, with the sounds of men brawling and furniture breaking, followed by the crashing jangle of Mrs Barnard’s piano as it went over on its side. Rosalie forced herself to meet his dark eyes. ‘Do you have this effect wherever you go?’

‘Not my fault. I told you, someone paid those louts to attack me. Though it’s true that I attract attention,’ he said. His sleepy eyes gazed, unblinking, into hers. ‘Yours, for example, Athena. Earlier I saw you watching me. From the stage.’

Her heart juddered. ‘Watching you! Ridiculous! I’m short-sighted, I couldn’t possibly see that far!’

‘Strange, I gained the distinct impression you were watching me quite carefully.’

His hand, unbelievably, was curling round her slender waist. Drawing her close. Even more unbelievably, she was letting him do it. His fingertips were warm and firm through the filmy fabric of this stupid gown … She jerked herself away, the blood racing through her veins. ‘Oh, no! You can stop this, right now!’

‘Stop? But isn’t this why you’re here?’ His expression was innocent, but there was a hint of dark irony in his voice. ‘To—make yourself available?’

Damn the man. ‘Yes,’ she lied, her heart racing, ‘yes, of course, but at a time like this—it’s absurd—it’s like …’

‘Fiddling while Rome burns?’ he murmured, eyes glinting. ‘Deuce—I forgot—we’re supposed to be in Grecian mythology tonight, aren’t we? Athena, I appeal to your sense of justice. My God, I’ve had to pay a lot for tonight’s entertainment!’

She let her eyes rove scornfully over his shabby coat, which had certainly seen better days. ‘Too expensive for you?’ she said sweetly.

‘It’s a matter of principle.’ He smiled pleasantly back. ‘You see, I normally never have to pay for female company.’

Unbelievable arrogance! She gasped and tried to slap him; a mistake, because he caught hold of her raised wrist, and of course once more she was in his power. She fought hard to free herself. ‘Let me go. You know that I’m in danger here and need to get out!’

Just then a couple of men tangled in drunken combat blundered through the doorway, grunting and swearing. Releasing her, he moved swiftly to push them back into the hall and kicked the door shut again, hard, before locking it.

And he came slowly back towards her. Dear Lord, this man was dangerous. Hadn’t she registered it from the moment she saw him? That velvet couch seemed to fill the blasted room. Even the single candle flickered as if in warning. A coil of something dark, something forbidden, snaked down to her stomach even as she clamped down desperately on the effect this man was having on her pulse rate. Her breathing. Her existence.

‘A bargain, Athena,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll get you safely out of here, if you’ll tell me why that man Stephen claimed to have business with you.’

She shrugged and moistened her dry lips. ‘How should I know? He just said—he was eager to get to know me better. As they all do,’ she supposed.

His dark eyes flashed with incredulity. ‘Yet you threw away his money?’

Rosalie glanced towards the locked door. ‘Let me go now. Please.’

Still his lithe figure blocked her way. His strong hands were warm on her shoulders again. ‘Not before you promise me that you won’t throw yourself away, in a place like this. To a brute like Lord Stephen Maybury.’

She breathed in sharply. The touch of his fingers was nothing less than a caress. Gathering her wits to protest, she couldn’t help but notice that on one of his hard cheekbones a livid bruise was appearing. And there must be other injuries, all over that lithe and supple body …

‘Perhaps you should stay away from here yourself,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘Those men were trying very hard to kill you.’

He arched one eyebrow. ‘And that’s why you launched yourself into the fray—on my side? Surely you’re not telling me that you actually care?’

‘No! I mean, you’re just another client of Dr Barnard’s, your private affairs are no business of mine whatsoever!’

‘A true professional,’ he was murmuring, in that husky voice that made her blood pound. ‘How much does it cost for a kiss, Athena? And don’t try telling me again that you’re not for sale.’

He was drawing her closer. She could feel the heat of his body now. See the texture of his skin, his lightly stubbled jaw that her fingers ached to touch …

‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.

It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.

He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provocative. The worst of it was that she wanted more and he knew it. She felt one of his strong hands slide up to cup the back of her head so his tongue could continue its rhythmic thrust, the slight roughness of his stubbled jaw providing a sensuous counterpoint to the silken sweetness of his mouth. His other hand slid tighter round her waist, pulling her closer against the hardness of his powerful body, his chest, his thighs. The urge to succumb to this dark magic and open herself to his potent masculinity was irresistible. Her hands crept upwards of their own volition to cling to his shoulders, feeling and savouring the vital force of his body.

This should not be happening. She’d sworn to let no man touch her again, yet her body was melting to his every caress.

He let out some sort of sigh and pulled her still closer. Now his right hand was sliding over the thin muslin that covered her breasts and, as her nipples peaked beneath his touch, she shuddered. The liquid warmth in her lower abdomen was like a burning ache of need; her mouth opened wider to his relentless plundering, and for Rosalie, for that space of time, nothing else existed. The fighting, the clattering of furniture up above, the bursts of raucous shouting, all receded into a meaningless background noise. There was no one else in the whole wide world but her and him.

Until he let her go. She felt bereft. Her legs were so weak that she could almost have sunk on to that blasted sofa in the corner.

Alec stepped back. Damn. He knew he’d come to his senses a little too late. It was a long time since he’d been so tempted by a woman. Too long, if he was feeling like this about one of Dr Barnard’s wenches. And he certainly wasn’t prepared for what this one’s melting pink lips did to him.

Shy. Delicate. God, it was almost as if she’d never experienced a man’s kiss! Yet at the same time she was so sweetly, wonderingly responsive that sheer lust had for a moment gripped his loins …

Damn it. She was a bewitching little hoyden, feigning innocence when the rouge was still fresh on her face—hoping, perhaps, to lure him into making some sort of offer for her, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to be working here again. Gazing down at her, he held up his five-shilling ticket for the dancing that he’d drawn from his pocket and, tearing it into tiny pieces, let it flutter to the floor.

‘Well worth it, for that kiss,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re surprisingly good at what you do.’

Rosalie felt, suddenly, as if her heated blood had turned to ice in her veins. Of course. He thought her a whore.

‘Do you know,’ she said steadily, ‘I was a fool to come to your rescue earlier. Doubtless you thoroughly deserved the beating you were about to get. Will you let me past, please?’

‘Feel free to go.’ He shrugged. ‘And I hope you find a new job soon. You’ll certainly need to. Remember what I told you. They’re watching for you down at the main exits.’

He saw the colour leave her face beneath that rouge. ‘The main exits …’

He jerked a finger towards the far door, the one she’d already tried to make a run for. ‘One of the first rules of warfare, blue-eyed Athena: always plan your escape before the battle begins. If this house runs true to form, through there is a flight of stairs that leads down to the back of the house, where you should find an unguarded door.’

‘And—and you?’ Curse the man, thought Rosalie. Why did she ask that?

He lifted his eyebrows as if the same thought had struck him. ‘You still care? I’ll go and check that Harry and his friends aren’t doing too much damage. Then I’ll leave, too.’

He held the door open to show her the stairwell. Head high, she marched past him.

‘Remember,’ he called out softly, ‘watch out for Maybury.’

She made no acknowledgement. But halfway down, where the staircase turned so he could see her no more, she leaned her back against the wall. Oh—fiddlesticks. The man called Lord Stephen Maybury posed no threat whatsoever as far as she was concerned. But dear God, the Captain was another matter altogether.

She felt dazed. She’d been out of her mind, to let him caress her like that. She had been pressed so close to his body that the potent force of his manhood had been all too evident in the heat of their embrace—and he had been the one to move away first!

She felt shattered. She felt bereft.

And his kiss had been the most magical moment of her life.

She hurried on down the stairs, ashamed because her legs were shaking. If those brutes caught her … But he was right. None of Dr Barnard’s men were to be seen in the back room she emerged into.

The dressing room first. No time to get changed, so she thrust the clothes she’d arrived in into a bag, rammed on her cloak and bonnet, and stole into Dr Barnard’s silent office. Back to business, you fool. Reaching up, she heaved down that heavy tome—The Myths of Apollodorus—then laid it on the desk and opened it.

As Helen had said, the pages had been carved away to form a cavity. Inside was a book bound in green morocco, where the names of Dr Barnard’s many customers were listed by the dates of their visits, together with their addresses.

But the name her dying sister had whispered was not here. She flicked to and fro, her agitation increasing. She checked all through the spring and early summer of 1813, but there was no sign of it at all. All this effort, all this risk, and she was no nearer in her search. For a few moments the disappointment crushed her.

But towards the back of the book, she found a list of the girls who’d been employed here. June 1813. Linette Lavalle. She caught her breath. That was the name Linette had used at Marchmont’s theatre. Their mother’s maiden name. She read on hurriedly. From the country … The girl has fancy ideas above her station. Refused to do anything except the stage show—then one day just didn’t turn up. Found herself a rich protector, I suspect …

Her throat aching with sadness, Rosalie carefully replaced the book in its hiding place, then stole from the house, using the door the Captain had told her was unguarded. Outside it was starting to rain, heavily. Rosalie hailed a hackney cab—her one concession to Helen’s concern for her safety—and the driver gave her a look indicating what he thought of young women out on their own at this time of night. She tossed her head defiantly as she gave him directions.

But all the way back to Clerkenwell the usual questions tormented her. When had Linette realised that she was pregnant? Was that when her—protector discarded her? Had her poor sister lived for a while in the agonised hope that her seducer might marry her?

Oh, Linette.

Alec Stewart rode back to Two Crows Castle as the rain poured down on London’s dark streets. Those damned footmen would have been paid to attack him by his brother, as Stephen’s cowardly revenge for Alec’s ultimatum tonight.

As revenge on Alec for existing.

When Stephen went away to boarding school, distance had temporarily eased their relationship. But Alec’s arrival at the same school two years later had sparked off the old jealousy, especially since Alec, as ever, had excelled at sports and had a light-hearted manner that made him friends far more easily than Stephen did.

A crisis came when Stephen, aged fifteen, had set up a secret gambling clique and, when discovery threatened, had slipped the evidence—cards, dice and money—under Alec’s dormitory bed.

Alec had silently taken the blame and the beating for it. But since then Alec had not troubled to show his contempt for Stephen on the rare occasions on which they met. A year ago Alec had been utterly disowned by their father—told he was no longer part of the family, in effect—and Alec had thought Stephen would be satisfied. No danger now of Alec supplanting Stephen in the Earl’s affections.

Yet still his brother diced with fate.

Why had Stephen come here, to idle away his time in a place like the Temple of Beauty, picking up girls like blonde Athena?

Alec felt his insides clenching again. That girl. The girl who knew about French watercolours, with her exquisite face and her clouds of silver-gold hair and that meltingly slender body … He remembered how, as he drew her close, her warm breath had feathered his cheek and the delicate scent of lavender had risen sweetly from her skin. Remembered how her fingers had almost shyly stolen up to his shoulders, how her lips had parted for his kiss.

But then had come the moment of pure shock. For as he took the kiss deeper, as he prised her lips further apart, she’d registered almost utter innocence. Her exquisite, thick-lashed blue eyes had flown wide open in surprise as he tasted the soft flesh of her mouth and, when he’d cupped her tender breast and felt it peak, he would swear she’d shuddered in his arms and clung to him as if she’d never experienced a man’s caress before.

He’d only pursued her because he wanted to know what Stephen’s business was with her. That kiss had been part of his strategy to wrongfoot her. Yet he, Alec, had been the one to leave that place with all his convictions shaken.

Be sensible, you fool. The rouge was still fresh on her face. Innocent? Impossible. Yet his body still raged for her.

His mouth set in a hard line. Just a clever act on her part, down to the detail of denying any interest in his rich brother’s attentions. And she was in trouble with Dr Barnard—probably for arranging appointments with clients on the side and keeping all the profits for herself, a common trick.

His mind flew on in conjecture. Yes, she had an air of innocence that would draw men to her like moths to a candle flame. But she worked at the Temple of Beauty where she was attracting the likes of Stephen, damned Stephen, who, having spent years of debauchery with professionals like her, was now, whenever he could, secretly pleasuring the woman who just happened to be their father the Earl’s beautiful young wife.

Chapter Six

By the time that Rosalie let herself into Helen’s house in Clerkenwell, it was almost midnight. Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, she made a pot of tea quietly so as not to wake anyone. Then she sat down by the embers of the fire, still huddled in her cloak. Tonight had been a disaster—not least her encounter with the Captain, who’d managed to disturb her peace of mind in a manner that she guessed would cause her more than one sleepless night.

Why was he there?

Be honest with yourself, Rosalie. Why did any men go there? They went, of course, be they lords or tradesmen, to ogle the girls and pick out one for an hour of lechery upstairs. And at a place like that, her sister’s seducer would have found it easy to spot Linette, with her head full of fanciful dreams.

She drew some blank paper from a nearby table towards her and by the light of the lamp started writing, assuming the easy-going tones of her alter ego, Ro Rowland. Since childhood, she’d found that it helped to write. Her earliest stories had been fantasies, a way of escaping into a place where happy endings existed. Later she’d found that wit was an even more effective weapon against the cruelty of strangers and this was now Ro Rowland’s world—a world not one of heartbreak, but of wry, almost cynical humour.

Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed … The Captain. Damn him, damn him. She stared into the distance, her thoughts unravelling once more. A fencing master, Sal had said.

It had been a long time since Rosalie allowed herself to think of any man with anything other than suspicion. Yet the thought of an hour alone with that dark-haired rogue, using the private room in Dr Barnard’s house for the purpose it was intended, set off a disturbing wobble somewhere at the pit of her stomach. She could not forget the rough silk of his lips and tongue; the warm, muscle-packed strength of his body—his aroused body—moving against hers … Oh, Lord. You stupid fool.

Suddenly she heard footsteps out in the hallway and Helen padded in, her long nightshirt covered by a large India shawl. Rosalie jumped to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, Helen. I didn’t mean to wake you!’

‘I was awake anyway. I heard the hackney and I’m just so glad you’re back safely … Rosalie, why are you still wearing your cloak?’

Because I’m wearing next to nothing underneath it! Airily Rosalie replied, ‘Oh, I’m a little cold, that’s all. Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ Helen pushed her loose brown hair back from her face, adjusted her spectacles and flopped down in a chair. ‘How did you get on at the Temple of Beauty? Was it full of fat old roués?’

‘They weren’t all old!’

‘But they’re all despicable, the men who patronise such entertainments! Oh, I knew that you shouldn’t go.’

Rosalie decided there and then that it just wasn’t safe to tell her friend any more. ‘I was perfectly all right.’ What a terrible lie. ‘It was actually quite boring.’ An even worse lie. Rosalie quickly poured Helen’s tea and curled up on the small settee opposite her. ‘Helen, did you manage to get The Scribbler out everywhere today?’

Helen immediately looked happier. ‘I did. That piece you wrote about the swells in Hyde Park is going down an absolute treat.’

‘Good! Though I hope none of the men I described recognises himself; I’d really hate to get you into trouble. Did you take Toby with you to deliver them?’

Helen sipped her tea. ‘Yes, but I left Katy with Biddy; she’s happy with her.’

Biddy O’Brien was a warm-hearted young Irish neighbour who kept house for her brothers, all in the building trade. She came in every day to clean Helen’s home and the children adored her.

‘Thank goodness for Biddy,’ said Rosalie fervently. ‘But, Helen, you really should allow me to pay you for letting Katy and me stay here.’ She had offered before, but had always been refused.

Helen chuckled. ‘Your Ro Rowland articles are payment enough, believe me. I’ve never sold so many copies of The Scribbler, and people are always asking me who the real Ro Rowland is!’ Her face suddenly became more serious. ‘We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. You expose the wealthy by making fun of them, whereas I hope to shame them by pointing out the truth. Just as in my report the other day about that haughty woman—the wife of an earl, no less!—who had a young maidservant whipped and dismissed, simply because she accidentally dropped a vase. A paltry vase, Rosalie!’

‘I know. The poor, poor girl …’ Rosalie hesitated. ‘Helen, I did just wonder. If this earl or his wife should hear of your article …’

‘I mentioned no names. And even if they guess, they’ll not dare to take action. That would be as good as admitting their own guilt!’ replied Helen crisply. ‘You know, it’s as if the so-called lower classes aren’t human to these people! Though it’s one thing for me to be as outspoken as I am, but quite another for you, you’re so much younger. Sometimes I even wonder if you should be writing your articles for me.’

‘What, me stop being Ro Rowland? Dear Helen, I adore writing; if you didn’t print my pieces in The Scribbler, I’d find someone else to publish them, I assure you! I am twenty-one, after all! I love exploring London, and all the fascinating people I meet on its streets …’ Her smile faded. ‘Well, nearly all of them.’

‘Be careful. That’s all,’ said Helen crisply. ‘And, Rosalie dear—’ Helen was already delving into a pile of notes on the table ‘—if you’re determined to keep writing as Ro Rowland—’

‘Try to stop me!’

‘In that case, I thought that this might be just up your street, because I know that you were, only the other day, starting to write an article about the rapacious landlords of London who let out hovels for high rents to desperate people!’

Rosalie nodded. The practice known as rackrenting was a subject close to her heart, not least because of that dreadful room off the Ratcliffe Highway where her sister had died.

Helen was adjusting her spectacles and running her finger down a sheet of her own notes. ‘As chance would have it, I heard today about a place in—yes, Spitalfields—that takes disgraceful advantage of poor soldiers. It’s called Two Crows Castle, and it’s not a real castle at all, but a rundown barracks of a place, owned by some ne’er-do-well—I haven’t got his name—who lets out rooms at exorbitant rents to unemployed soldiers. I thought you might investigate.’

‘Of course! Spitalfields, you said? Where, exactly?’

‘The house is in Crispin Street. It’s an unsavoury area even by daylight, so I trust you’re not even thinking of actually going there, my dear! But what I did hope was that tomorrow you might deliver a bundle of Scribblers to the news vendor in Bishopsgate, which is close by. You could take one of Biddy’s brothers with you and just ask some of the shopkeepers there—carefully, mind!—about this Two Crows place.’

Building work was slack this time of year and Rosalie knew that one or other of Biddy’s burly brothers could usually be relied upon to take on extra jobs for Helen—repair work to Helen’s house, errands, or in this case, thought Rosalie wryly, a spot of personal protection.

Rosalie patted Helen’s hand. ‘It sounds just my sort of story. I’ll get your Scribblers delivered, and I’ll make sure I’ve got an O’Brien brother with me before I start asking any questions about crooked rackrenters.’ She was just getting up to tidy away the tea things when the door opened and two sleepy little figures stood there hand in hand.

‘Toby!’ cried Helen. ‘Katy! What are you doing, out of your beds?’

Toby clung to Katy’s hand protectively. ‘She was crying,’ he explained. ‘I thought one of you would hear her, but you didn’t. She’s upset.’

‘Oh, Katy darling.’ Rosalie picked up and hugged the tear-stained infant, who was clutching her battered rag doll. ‘Poor Katy, what’s the matter?’

‘Mama,’ whispered the child. ‘I want Mama.’

Rosalie kissed her, at the same time fighting down the sudden ache in her throat. Taking Katy upstairs to the cot in the corner of the bedroom they shared, she gently sang her to sleep. Tenderness and love she could give in abundance; she would also fight, with all her strength, to make sure Katy was not pointed at, whispered at, as she and her sister used to be as children.

Taking off her cloak at last, she smoothed down her filmy muslin gown and stared into the darkness beyond the candlelight as another memory wrenched her: of her mother dressing both her children carefully for the Christmas service at the nearby church. It had been their second winter in England and snow lay thickly. ‘Mama,’ Rosalie had said, ‘do we have to go? I don’t think they like us there …’

‘Christmas is different, ma chère,’ had said her mother, wrapping Rosalie’s scarf tightly against the winter chill. ‘It is the season of goodwill to all.’

But not to the Frenchwoman and her family. The vicar had turned them away. And her mother’s stricken face, as they trudged home through the snow, would stay with Rosalie for ever.

That same night Rosalie had written a story for Linette, about a party at a magical castle. Linette’s face had lit up as she read it. ‘Will I ever go inside a real castle?’

‘Some day, why not? There’ll be food, and dancing, and—oh, we shall wear such pretty dresses, Linette!’

‘There might be a prince!’ Linette’s eyes shone. ‘And he will dance with me, and I will be a princess … Won’t I, Rosalie? Won’t I?’

Now Linette was dead, along with all her dreams. As Helen bustled around downstairs putting out the lamps, and Katy slept, Rosalie vowed anew that she would never rest, until she’d found the man who’d destroyed her sister’s life.

Lord Stephen Maybury was sitting alone in the candlelit library of his fine house in Brook Street. And the more he pondered on the events of the evening, the darker grew his thoughts. The girl. The girl with impossibly fair hair and turquoise eyes, at the Temple of Beauty tonight … Who in hell was she?

When Markin, his serving man, had informed him earlier about the new one who’d joined Dr Barnard’s troupe of so-called actresses, and how she resembled the other, Stephen had put it down to Markin’s imagination.

But Markin, whose visage was made sinister by a pale scar, had been, in his way, adamant. Markin had spies everywhere; that was what Stephen paid him for. Markin had seen her himself, he’d told his master, entering the building early this evening to get ready for her first night on stage with the other women. Looking nervous.

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