Never had she dreamed she could look like this.

The evening gown flattered her with shades of creamy ivory and the softest shimmering green. Embroidery of darker green and a pale rose colour trimmed the round neckline and the low-cut bodice. The same colours were echoed in short slashed sleeves. A broad ribbon tied round the mid-level waist, and the ends trailed down behind her.

She stood there on the brink, transfixed by the beauty of it all. Mrs Dawson had truly outdone herself. Lush potted plants lined the dance floor and graced every flat surface, while garlands of fresh blooms draped the walls and twined gracefully up the pillars. Hundreds of glittering candles shone in three stunning crystal chandeliers. They cast their glow over a vast number of people—and they were all in motion. Even the air seemed to fl ow with the swell of the music and in time with the diaphanous drift of the ladies’ gowns.

It looked a faerie world, unreal, like a glimpse into a shining, shimmering bubble. Such a fragile and delicate thing, to hold all her hopes and dreams.

Author Note

For many years the Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital provided health and welfare services to ‘all distressed seamen’ and the peopltrulye who lived and worked in port communities. The hospital’s very first home was on board HMS Grampus, afloat on the River Thames. Here a small staff dedicated themselves to those who made their lives on the sea. They took in their first patients in 1821.

By 1830 the hospital had outgrown the Grampus. The Royal Navy generously donated the ex-warship HMS Dreadnought, from which the hospital thereafter took its name. In 1870 the Dreadnought moved ashore in Greenwich. It became an important part of the local community, and treated sailors from all nations and locals alike until it closed its doors in 1986.

I admit to fudging the dates a bit in HER CINDERELLA SEASON, when I had the staff of HMS Grampus taking J. Crump in several months earlier than the hospital officially opened its doors. Once I knew Crump, and realised he was dying, I longed for him to end his days in a place of caring and dignity. I hope you’ll forgive the poetic licence.

Deb Marlowe grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com

Recent novels by the same author:

SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS

AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT

HER CINDERELLA SEASON

Deb Marlowe

www.milsandboon.co.uk

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For my Grandpap—

a real-life hero for the ages

Chapter One

Jack’s hand held steady, his aim unwavering. His pistol was pointed straight at Hassan’s evil heart. This time he would kill the bastard. This time he would.

But something moved in the shadowy dreamscape. A soft rustle sounded, impossibly close—just as his sleeping mind had known it would. Not Aswan. Smaller. Jack caught the faint scent of gardenias just a moment before he felt the press of cold steel at his temple.

A flood of fury and frustration swamped him. God damn it, now the innocent girl below him would die. He would die all alone up here in the pitch blackness of the Egyptian Hall gallery and an ancient treasure would fall into the worst of hands.

As it always did, night after night, an indescribable flurry of movement erupted as Aswan intervened. A woman’s cry. A bright flash of light in the near darkness. And a searing pain that exploded in his arm and knocked him backwards.

Someone loomed over him. The sinister face swam in the darkness, but somehow he knew it was not the woman who’d shot him, nor was it the villain Hassan—it must be Batiste. Captain Batiste, the silent, invisible mastermind behind much of the plot to hurt his friends. The shadow began to laugh, and an old, cold rage burned deep in Jack’s gut.

‘So disappointing, Jack, inderella Season’ the figure whispered. ‘I expected more of you.’

He scrambled backwards. It was not a stranger’s voice reaching for him out of the darkness, but his father’s.

Gasping, Jack jerked awake.

That damned dream again. He shook off the remnants of the nightmare and glanced at the clock on the wall—early afternoon. Had he fallen asleep in his chair? A heavy tome rested painfully against his injured arm. He tossed it on to the floor and scrubbed his free hand against his scalp, trying to chase away the fuzziness in his head.

That night at the Egyptian Hall had not been his finest moment. Perhaps that was the reason he relived it repeatedly in his dreams. He heaved a massive sigh. He didn’t regret mixing himself up in Lord Treyford’s misadventures, and yet…

Trey and Chione had taken their family back to Devonshire. Soon they would be leaving for Egypt, embarking on an adventure that Jack couldn’t help but envy. He’d held his breath, hoping to be asked along, but Trey and Chione were occupied with each other, and caught up in the wonder of what awaited them.

Jack had been left behind and he’d found himself strangely unsettled. He pressed his good hand hard against his brow. His preoccupation with Batiste had grown, becoming something closer to obsession. The villain had slipped away on the tide, leaving Hassan and his other confederates to be caught up in Treyford’s net. The man’s escape nagged at Jack incessantly.

He stood. He was due to meet Pettigrew, to test those devilishly bad-mannered bays the baron was trying to sell. Jack cast a rueful glance down at his arm. This was not the most reasonable course of action, but, damn it, the man had baited him. At any other point in his life, Jack would have ignored the baron’s desperate manoeuvre. Not this time. Instead he had risen like a trout to a well-crafted lure. A stupid response. Immature. And yet another maddening symptom of his recent erratic temperament.

Jack struggled into his greatcoat and decided to stop by White’s and pick up his brother along the way. Charles was in town to further his reform causes before the Parliamentary session closed, and to conveniently avoid the domestic chaos brought on by a colicky baby. And since he had been the one to introduce him to Pettigrew, then riding along with a crippled driver and an unruly team was the least he could do.

As he set out, a chill wind began to gust. The cold blast of air made his arm throb like an aching tooth. Jack huddled a little deeper into his coat and rifled in his pocket for Pettigrew’s hastily scribbled address. He stopped short. The baron’s dire financial straits had led him to take rooms in Goodman’s Fields. An unsavoury neighbourhood it might be, but it was conveniently located near enough to the London docks—where the offices of Batiste’s defunct shipping company were located.

Jack quickened his step. This might not be a wasted day after all.

Lily Beecham glanced at her mother from the corner of her eye. Mrs Margaret Beecham had turned slightly away from her daughter, avoiding the brightest light as she concentrated on her needlework. Slowly, surreptitiously, Lily tilted her head back and directly into the path of the afternoon sunshine.

Though it wasn’t the least bit ladylike, Lily loved the warmth of the sun on her face. The burst of patterned radiance behind her closed eyelids, the brush of the breeze on her heated cheeks; it took her back, every single time. For a few seconds she was a girl again, in her father’s arms, giggling like mad while he spun her round and his rich, booming laugh washed over her. Sometimes she could hear its echo still, the liquid sound of pure love.

Not now, though. Now she heard only the unnecessarily loud clearing of her mother’s throat. ‘Lilith, this is a public thoroughfare, not the back pasture at home.’

‘Yes, of course, Mother.’ Lily straightened in her seat. She glanced down at her copy of Practical Piety, but she’d read Hannah More’s work many times over already and now was not the time to risk her mother discovering the thin volume she’d tucked inside. She got to her feet and began to pace behind the table they’d been asked to tend for Lady Ashford’s Fancy Fair and Charity Bazaar.

The majority of the booths and tables in the countess’s event had been strung along Rotten Row in Hyde Park, where they were sure to catch the attention of those with both the inclination and the wherewithal to purchase ribbons, bonnets and embroidered penwipes in the name of charity. The Book Table, however, along with the Second-Hand Clothing and the Basketry tables, had been pronounced more likely to appeal to the masses, and had thus been placed outside the Grosvenor Gate, right alongside Park Lane.

‘It is somewhat frustrating, isn’t it, Mother—that we’ve sat here all day, just outside the most famous park in London, and we’ve yet to set foot inside?’

‘Not in the least. Why should such a thing vex you? This park is full of grass and trees just like any other.’ Mrs Beecham’s needle did not pause as she glanced up at her daughter. ‘We should count ourselves fortunate to have been asked to help today. It is an honour to be of service to such a noble cause.’

‘Yes, of course you are right.’ Lily suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why she should be surprised at the dis-appointments of the day. The entire trip to town had been an exercise in frustration.

Long ago her father had talked to her of London. He had perched her on his knee, run his fingers through the tangle of her hair and spoken of great museums, elaborate theatrical productions and the noisy, chaotic workings of Parliament, where the fates of men and nations were decided. He had spun fanciful stories of her own future visits to the greatest city in the world, and she had eagerly absorbed every tale.

But her father had died before his stories could come true and Lily’s busy, happy life had been abandoned for sober duty and sombre good works. And so, it seemed, had her dream of London.

Her hopes had been so high when her mother had announced that they were to travel to town and spend the month of May. But over the last weeks, joy and anticipation had dwindled. She had trailed her mother from one Reformist committee to another Evangelical meeting and on to anAbolitionist group, and the dreadful truth had dawned on her. Her surroundings had changed, but her situation had not.

‘Mr Cooperage will make a fine missionary, don’t you agree?’ her mother asked, this time without looking away from her work. Lily wondered if it was giving her trouble, so intent did she appear.

‘He will if the fancy work inside the park proves more profitable than the Book Table. Even with the Cheap Repository Tracts to sell, we haven’t raised enough to get him a hackney across town, let alone passage to India.’

Her mother frowned.

Lily sighed.' I don’t mean to be flippant.’ She stond on her toes to peet past the gate and into the park. ‘There does seem to be a bigger crowd gathered inside.’

Her mother’s scowl faded as a young woman strolling past on a gentleman’s arm broke away to approach their table. Lily returned her friendly smile and admired the white lute-string trim on her violet walking dress.

‘Good afternoon,’ the young woman said brightly. ‘But it seems as if you are out of A. Vaganti?’ She nodded towards Lily’s chair and the volume now peeking from the staid pages of Mrs More’s work. ‘I’ve already read The Emerald Temple. I was wondering if you might have the newest Nicolas adventure, The Pharaoh’s Forbidden City?’

Mrs Beecham darted a sharp glance in Lily’s direction. ‘No, but we have several more improving works. Bowdler’s Shakespeare, for instance, if fiction is what interests you.’

The young lady gave a soft, tinkling laugh. ‘Oh my, no! Surely it is a shame to allow that man to chop apart the works of our great bard? What harm is there in Shakespeare? It seems I’ve read or seen his works from the cradle!’

She tilted her head engagingly. ‘Forgive me for being bold, ma’am,’ she said with a smile. ‘How wonderful you are to give your day to helping Lady Ashford’s good cause.’ She dropped a curtsy. ‘I am Miss Dawson.’ She cast an encouraging glance at Lily.

Hurriedly, Lily returned the curtsy. ‘My mother, Mrs Margaret Beecham.’ She gestured and smiled back. ‘I am Miss Beecham.’ Something about the girl’s friendly countenance had her blurting out, ‘But please, you must call me Lily.’

‘Beecham?’ the girl asked with a frown of concentration. She eyed Lily curiously. ‘You test my recollection of our ponderous family tree, but I believe we have relatives of that name. Might you come from Dorset?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Lily replied. ‘We are in town for a few weeks only.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Lily.’ She looked over her shoulder as her companion called her name. ‘Oh dear, I must run.’ She leaned in close. ‘That is my betrothed, Lord Lindley. We both adore A. Vaganti, but he would never admit to it in public.’ She grinned and, reaching across the table, pressed Lily’s hand. ‘I feel sure we shall meet again.’

Lily watched the young lady take her gentleman’s arm and head into the park. A little sigh escaped her. She might have been friends with a girl like that, had her father not died. She let herself imagine what might have been, for just a moment: friends, novels, walks in the park. Perhaps even she might have had a beau? She flushed and glanced at her mother, who regarded her with a frown.

‘I hope you are not still mooning about participating in the social whirl?’

Lily took notice of the sharp note in her mother’s voice and then she took her seat. She picked up her book, and gazed down at it for several long seconds. ‘No, of course not,’ she answered. A soft breeze, warm and laden with the green scent of the park, brushed her cheek. With sudden resolution, Lily pulled the adventure novel from its hiding place and opened it.

The heavy weight of her mother’s gaze rested on her for several long seconds. Suddenly her mother let out a sigh that echoed her own. ‘I do hope that young lady will buy something inside. Mr Cooperage’s work is so important. Think of all those lost souls just waiting for him!’ She resumed her needlework, then paused to knot her thread. ‘We’ve had so little interest out here, I had begun to wonder if Lady Ashford might better have chosen the Hanover Square Rooms for her fair.’

‘I’m sure it will all turn out well,’ Lily soothed. ‘You know the countess—she will have it no other way.’ She smiled. ‘And the crickets were singing away when we arrived, Mother. That’s a definite sign of good fortune.’

Her mother’s needlework went down, but her brow lowered even further. ‘Lilith Beecham—you know how it upsets me to hear you spouting such nonsense!’ She took a fortifying breath, but Lily was saved from further harangue by a shrill cry.

‘Mrs Beecham!’

They turned to look.

‘Mrs Beecham—you must come!’

‘It’s Lady Ashford,’ Lily said in surprise. And indeed it was the countess, although clad as she was in various shades of blue and flapping a large white handkerchief as she sailed towards the gate, she resembled nothing so much as a heavily laden frigate storming a blockade.

‘My dear Mrs Beecham…’ the countess braced her hand on the table for support while she caught her breath ‘…it is Mr Wilberforce himself!’ she panted. ‘He has come to thank us and has brought Mr Cooperage along with him.’ She picked up one of the Repository Tracts and began to fan herself with it.

Lily looked askance at her mother’s stunned expression. William Wilberforce, the famous abolitionist and one of the leading members of the Evangelical movement, was Margaret Beecham’s particular idol.

Mrs Beecham found her tongue. ‘Oh, but, Lady Ashford—Wilberforce himself! What a coup!’ She stood and pressed the countess’s hand. ‘How wonderful for you, to be sure.’

‘And for you, too, Mrs Beecham,’ Lady Ashford said warmly, recovering her breath. ‘For I have told Mr Wilberforce how easily the charity school in Weymouth went up, and how thoroughly the community has embraced it. It was largely your doing, and so I told him. I informed him also of your tremendous success in recruiting volunteers. He wishes to meet you and thank you in person! His carriage is swamped right now with well wishers and so I have come to fetch you. He means to take us both up for a drive and he’ll drop you right here when we’ve been round the park.’

‘A drive?’ Lily saw all the colour drain from her mother’s face. ‘With Mr Wilberforce?’

‘Come now!’ Lady Ashford said in imperious tones. ‘We must not keep him waiting!’

‘Oh, but I—’ Mrs Beecham sat abruptly down again.

‘Come, Mother,’ Lily urged, pulling her back to her feet. ‘You’ve worked long and hard. You deserve a bit of accolade.’ She smiled at the odd mix of fear and longing on her mother’s face. ‘It is fine,’ she soothed. ‘He only wishes to acknowledge your efforts.’

‘We must go now, Mrs Beecham!’ Lady Ashford had done with the delay. She reached out and began to drag Lily’s mother along with her.

‘Oh, but Lilith—’ came the last weak protest from Mrs Beecham.

‘The girl will be fine. The ladies from the other tables are here and she’s not some chit barely out of the schoolroom. She’ll know how to handle herself.’

‘Goodbye, Mother!’ Lily called. ‘Do try to enjoy yourself!’ She watched until the ladies disappeared into the crowd, and then took her seat, knowing the futility of that last admonition.

Traffic in the street ahead of her began to pick up. Shining high-perch phaetons wheeled through the Grosvenor Gate into the park. Gorgeously groomed thoroughbreds and their equally handsome riders followed. Ladies dressed in rich, fluttering fabrics paused at the tables, or giggled as they passed them by. Lily watched them all a bit wistfully. Surely they were not all so empty-headed and frivolous as her mother believed? Lady Ashford certainly thrived with one foot firmly in the thick of the ton and the other in the Evangelical camp.

She fought back a shudder as she glanced down at her plain, brown, serviceable gown. What did those men and women of society think when they looked at her? They could not see inside, where her true self lay. Did they see the girl who loved a bruising ride, and a thrilling novel? Could they conceive of her secret dreams, the longings that she’d buried so deep, she’d forgotten them herself? No. They could not. Why would they?

Lily straightened, shocked by a sudden idea. She’d been so excited to come to town, sure this was the chance she’d awaited: the long-anticipated sign of change and good fortune. But what if the sign had been meant for her mother instead? This disturbing thought kept her occupied for several agonisingly conflicted minutes. Of course she wished her mother happy. Hadn’t she thrown herself into an attempt to please her for the last seven years? She’d done all she could to ease the blow of her father’s loss. She’d settled down, acted the lady, given up all the roughand-ready activities of her youth, all because she was eager to please a mother who had always seemed uncomfortable with and somewhat perplexed by her spirited daughter.

Only now did Lily realise how significant the prospect of change had become in her mind—now when the possibility appeared to be fading fast away.

‘My dear Miss Beecham, here you are at last!’

‘Mr Cooperage.’ Lily shook off her disturbing train of thought and tried to rally a smile for the missionary approaching from the park. ‘How nice to see you. I’m sure your presence is a boost to all of our volunteers.’

‘Naturally,’ he agreed. Lily tried not to wince. Everything about the missionary, from dress to manner, spoke of neatness and correctness. Yet Lily did not find him a comfortable man. His tendency to speak in pronouncements unnerved her.

‘Will you step away a little with me?’ he asked in his forceful tone. ‘I gave up my seat in my friend Wilberforce’s barouche for your mother. What better recompense, I asked myself, than to seek out her lovely daughter?’

‘I should not leave my table,’ she hedged. ‘I should not wish to miss a sale.’

He glanced significantly about. Not a soul appeared to rescue her.

‘We shall not stray far,’ he insisted. ‘We shall stay right here near the gates.’

Lily sighed, laid a hand on the gentleman’s arm and allowed him to lead her a few steps down the street.

‘You, my dear Miss Beecham, are a fortunate young lady,’ Mr Cooperage told her in the same tones he might use from the pulpit. ‘I confess myself to be a great admirer of your mother’s.’ He took care to steer her away from the busy traffic in the street. ‘Your mother, much like Wilberforce himself, has lived in the world. They each knew years full of frivolities and trivial pursuits. How much more we must honour them for having turned from superficiality to a life of worthiness.’

Lily stared. ‘I must thank you for the compliment to my mother, Mr Cooperage, but surely you state your case in terms too strong?’

‘Impossible!’ he scoffed. His voice rang so loud that several passers-by turned to look. ‘I could not rate my respect for the woman your mother is now any higher, nor my contempt for those who cling to a life of vanity and mindless amusement—’ he flicked a condemnatory wave towards the park and the stream of people now entering ‘—any lower.’

Had Lily been having this conversation yesterday, or last week, or at any given time in the last seven years, she would have swallowed her irritation and tactfully steered the missionary to a less volatile topic. But today—there was something different about today. Perhaps she’d had too much time to think, or perhaps she had for some time been moving towards an elemental shift, but today the rebel in her—the one with the taste for adventure novels—had got the bit in her teeth.

She sucked in a fortifying breath and straightened her spine. ‘Firstly, Mr Cooperage, I feel compelled to tell you that my mother has been worthy of your admiration, and anyone else’s, for her entire life. Secondly, I would ask that you not be so quick to disparage the pleasure seekers about us.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘For is that not what today is all about—the happy mix of amusement and altruism?’

Displeasure marred his pleasing features, but only for a moment. He chuckled and assumed an air of condescension. ‘Your innocence is refreshing, Miss Beecham.’ He sighed. ‘The sad truth is that if it would give them a moment’s pleasure, most of these people would as soon toss their coin in the gutter as donate it to our cause.’

‘But surely you don’t believe that merriment and worthiness are mutually exclusive?’ Her father’s image immediately rose up in her mind. His quick smile and ready laugh were two of her most cherished memories. ‘I’m certain you will agree that it is possible to work hard, to become a useful and praiseworthy soul and still partake of the joy in life?’

‘The joy in life?’ Mr Cooperage appeared startled by the concept. ‘My dear, we were not put on this earth to enjoy life—’ He cut himself abruptly off. Lily could see that it pained him greatly. She suspected he wanted badly to inform her exactly what he thought her purpose on this earth to be.

Instead, he forced a smile. ‘I will not waste our few moments of conversation.’ He paused and began again in a lower, almost normal conversational tone. ‘I do thank you for your efforts today. However they are gained, I mean to put today’s profits to good use. I hope to accomplish much of God’s work in my time abroad.’

‘How impatient you must be to begin,’ she said, grateful for a topic on which they could agree. ‘I can only imagine your excitement at the prospect of helping so many people, learning their customs and culture, seeing strange lands and exotic sights.’ She sighed. ‘I do envy you the experience!’

‘You should not,’ he objected. ‘I donot complain. I will endure the strange lodgings, heathen food and poor company because I have a duty, but I would not subject a woman to the hardships of travel.’

She should not have been surprised. ‘But what if a woman has a calling such as yours, sir? What then? Or do you not believe such a thing to be possible?’

He returned her serious expression. ‘I believe it to be rare, but possible.’ He glanced back towards the park gate. ‘Your mother, I believe, has been called. I do think she will answer.’

Her mother had been called? To do what?

‘My mission will keep me from the shores of England for a little more than a year, Miss Beecham, but your good mother assures me that there are no other suitors in the wings and that a year is not too long a wait.’ He roamed an earnest gaze over her face. ‘Was she wrong?’

Lily took a step back. Surprise? He had succeeded in shocking her. ‘You wish my mother to wait for you, sir? Do you mean to court her?’

He chuckled. ‘Your modesty reflects well on you, my dear. No—it is you who I wish to wait for me. You who I mean to court most assiduously when I return.’

His eyes left her face, and darted over the rest of her. ‘Your mother was agreeable to the notion. I hope you feel the same?’

Lily stood frozen—not shocked, but numb. Completely taken aback. Mr Cooperage wished to marry her? And her mother had consented? It must be a mistake. At first she could not even wrap her mind about such an idea, but then she had to struggle to breathe as the bleak image of such a life swept over her.

‘Miss Beecham?’ Mr Cooperage sounded anxious, and mildly annoyed. ‘A year is too long?’ he asked.

She couldn’t breathe. She willed her chest to expand, tried to gasp for the air that she desperately needed. She was going to die. She would collapse to the ground right here, buried and suffocated under the weight of a future she did not want.

Her life was never going to change. The truth hit her hard, at last knocking the breath back into her starving lungs. She gasped out loud and Mr Cooperage began to look truly alarmed. Seven years. So long she had laboured; she had tried her best and squashed the truest part of her nature, all in the attempt to get her mother to look at her with pride. Was this, then, what it would take? The sacrifice of her future?

Lily took a step back, and then another. Only vaguely did she realise how close she had come to the busy street behind her. She only thought to distance herself from the grim reality of the life unfolding in front of her.

‘Miss Beecham!’ called Mr Cooperage. ‘Watch your step. Watch behind you!’ he thundered. ‘Miss Beecham!’

A short, heavy snort sounded near her. Lily turned. A team of horses, heads tossing wildly, surged towards her.

Her gaze met one wild, rolling eye. A call of fright rang out. Had she made the sound, or had the horse?

‘Miss Beecham!’

Chapter Two

Jack Alden pulled as hard as he dared on the ribbons. Pain seared its way up his injured arm. Pettigrew’s ill-tempered bays responded at last, subsiding to a sweating, quivering stop.

‘I warned you that these nags were too much for that arm,’ his brother Charles said. His hand gripped the side of the borrowed crane-neck phaeton.

‘Stow it, Charles,’ Jack growled. He stared ahead. ‘Hell and damnation, it’s a woman in the street!’

‘Well, no wonder that park drag ground to a halt. I told you when it started into the other lane that this damned flighty team would bolt.’

‘She’s not moving,’ Jack complained. Was the woman mad? Oblivious to the fact that she’d nearly been trampled like a turnip off a farm cart, she stood stock still. She wasn’t even looking their way now; her attention appeared focused on something on the pavement. Jack could not see just what held her interest with near deadly result. Nor could he see her face, covered as it was by a singularly ugly brown bonnet.

‘You nearly ran her down. She’s likely frozen in fear,’ Charles suggested.

‘For God’s sake!’ Jack thrust the reins into his brother’s hands and swung down. Another jolt of pain ripped through his arm. ‘Hold them fast!’ he growled in exasperation.

‘Do you know, Jack, people have begun to comment on the loss of your legendary detachment,’ Charles said as he held the bays in tight.

‘I am not detached!’ Jack said, walking away. ‘You make me sound like a freehold listing in The Times.’

‘Auction on London Gentleman, Manner Detached,’ his brother yelled after him.

Jack ignored him. Legendary detachment be damned. He was anchored fully in this moment and surging forwards on a wave of anger. The fool woman had nearly been killed, and by his hand! Well, that might be an exaggeration, but without doubt the responsibility would have been his. He’d caught sight of her over the thrashing heads of the horses—standing where she clearly did not belong—and fear and anger and guilt had blasted him like lightning out of the sky. The realisation that his concern was more for himself than for her only fuelled his fury.

‘Madam!’ he called as he strode towards her. The entire incident had happened so fast that the park drag had still not manoeuvred completely past. People milled about on the pavement, and one florid gentleman glared at the woman, but made no move to approach her.

‘Madam!’ No response. ‘If you are bent on suicide, might I suggest another man’s phaeton? This one is borrowed and I am bound to deliver it in one piece.’

She did not answer or even look at him. ‘Ma’am, do you not realise that you were nearly killed?’ He took her arm. ‘Come now, you cannot stand in the street!’

At last, ever so slowly, the bonnet began to turn. The infuriating creature looked him full in the face.

Jack immediately wished she hadn’t. He had grown up surrounded by beauty. He’d lived in an elegant house and received an excellent education. From ancient statuary to modern landscapes, between the sweep of grand architecture and the graceful curve of the smallest Sèvres bowl, he’d been taught to recognise and appreciate the value of loveliness.

This girl—she was the image of classic English beauty come to life. Gorgeous slate-blue eyes stared at him, but Jack had the eerie certainty that she did not see him at all. Instead she was focused on something far away, or perhaps deep inside. Red-gold curls framed high curving cheeks, smooth, ivory skin gone pale with fright and a slender little nose covered with the faintest smattering of freckles.

And her mouth. His own went dry—because all the fluids in his body were rushing south. A siren’s mouth: wide and dusky pink and irresistible. He stared, saw the sudden trembling of that incredibly plump lower lip—and he realised just what it was he was looking at.

Immense sorrow. A portrait of profound loss. The sight of it set off an alarm inside of Jack and awoke a heretofore unsuspected part of his character. He’d never been the heroic, knight-in-shining-armour sort—but that quivering lower lip made him want to jump into the fray. He could not quell the sudden urge to fight this unknown girl’s battles, soothe her hurts, or, better yet, kiss her senseless until she forgot what upset her and realised that there were a thousand better uses for that voluptuous mouth.

He swallowed convulsively, tightened his grip on her arm…and thankfully, came back to his senses. They stood in the middle of a busy London street. Catcalls and shouts and several anatomically impossible suggestions echoed from the surrounding bustle of stopped traffic. A begrimed coal carter had stepped forwards to help his brother calm the bays. Several of society’s finest, dressed for the daily strut and starved for distraction, gawked from the pavement.

‘Come,’ Jack said gently. Her steps wooden, the girl followed. He led her out of the street, past the sputtering red-faced gentleman, towards the Grosvenor Gate. Surely someone would claim her. He darted a glance back at the man who had fallen into step behind them. Someone other than this man—who had apparently left her to be run down like a dog in the street.

Lily was lost in a swirling fog. It had roiled up and out of her in the moment when she had fully understood her predicament. Her life was never going to change. Just the echo of that thought brought the mist suffocatingly close. She abandoned herself to it. She’d rather suffocate than contemplate the stifling mess her life had become.

Only vaguely was she aware that the stampeding horses had stopped. Dimly she realised that a stranger led her out of the street. The prickle of her skin told her that people were staring. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

‘Lilith!’ Her mother’s strident voice pierced the fog. ‘Lilith! Are you unharmed? What were you thinking?’

Anger and resentment surged inside of her, exploded out of her and blew a hole in the circling fog. It was big enough for her to catch a glimpse of her mother’s worried scowl as she hurried down from Mr Wilberforce’s barouche, and to take in the crowd forming around them.

Her gaze fell on the man who had saved her from herself and she forgot to speak. She stilled. Just at that moment a bright ray of sunlight broke free from the clouds. It shone down directly on to the gentleman, chasing streaks through his hair and outlining the masculine lines of his face. With a whoosh the fog surrounding her disappeared, swept away by the brilliant light and the intensity of the stranger’s stare.

Lily swallowed. The superstitious corner of her soul sprang to attention. Her heart began to pound loudly in her ears.

The clouds shifted overhead and the sunbeam disappeared. Now Lily could see the man clearly. Still her pulse beat out a rapid tune. Tall and slender, he was handsome in a rumpled, poetic sort of way. A loose black sling cradled one arm and, though it was tucked inside the dark brown superfine of his coat, she noticed that he held it close as if it ached.

His expression held her in thrall. He’d spoken harshly to her just a moment ago, hadn’t he? Now, though his colour was high, his anger seemed to have disappeared as quickly as her hazy confusion. He stared at her with an odd sort of bated hunger. A smile lurked at the edge of his mouth, small and secretive, as if it were meant just for her. The eyes watching her so closely were hazel, a sorry term for such a fascinating mix of green and gold and brown. Curved at their corners were the faintest laugh lines.

So many details, captured in an instant. Together they spoke to her, sending the message that here was a man with experience. Someone who knew passion, and laughter and pain. Here was a man, they whispered, who knew that life was meant to be enjoyed. ‘Lilith—’ her mother’s voice sounded irritated ‘—have you been hurt?’

Lily forced herself to look away from the stranger. ‘No, Mother, I am fine.’

Her mother continued to stare expectantly, but Lily kept quiet. For once, it was not she who was going to explain herself.

Thwarted, Mrs Beecham turned to Mr Cooperage, who lurked behind the strange gentleman. ‘Mr Cooperage?’ was all that she asked.

The missionary flushed. ‘Your daughter does not favour…’ he paused and glanced at the stranger ‘…the matter we discussed last week.’

‘Does not favour—?’ Lilith’s mother’s lips compressed to a foreboding thin line.

Mr Cooperage glanced uneasily at the man again and then at the crowd still gathered loosely around them. ‘Perhaps you might step aside to have a quiet word with me?’ His next words looked particularly hard for him to get out. ‘I’m sure your daughter would like the chance to… thank…this gentleman?’

‘Mr…?’ Her mother raked the stranger with a glare, then waited with a raised brow.

The stranger bowed. Lily thought she caught a faint grimace of pain in his eyes. ‘Mr Alden, ma’am.’

‘Mr Alden.’ Her mother’s gaze narrowed. ‘I trust my daughter will be safe with you for a moment?’

‘Of course.’

The crowd, deprived of further drama, began to disperse. Lily’s mother stepped aside and bent to listen to an urgently whispering Mr Cooperage. Lily did not waste a moment considering them. She knew what they discussed. She remembered the haze that had almost engulfed her. It had swept away and left her with a blinding sense of clarity.

‘I admit to a ravening curiosity.’ MrAlden spoke low and his voice sounded slightly hoarse. It sent a shiver down Lily’s spine. ‘Do you wish to?’ He raised a questioning brow at her.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Do I wish to what?’

‘Wish to thank me for nearly running you down in the street while driving a team I clearly should not have been?’ He gestured to the sling. ‘I assure you, I had planned to most humbly beg your pardon, but if you’d rather thank me instead…’

Lily laughed. She did not have to consider the question. The answer, along with much else, was clear at last. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘even when you phrase it in such a way. I do wish to thank you.’

He looked a little taken aback, and more than a little interested. ‘Then you must be a very odd sort of female,’ he said. She felt the heat of the glance that roamed over her, even though he had assumed a clinical expression. ‘Don’t be afraid to admit it,’ he said. He leaned in close, as if confiding a secret. ‘Truly, the odd sorts of females are the only ones I can abide.’ He smiled at her.

She stared. His words were light and amusing, but that smile? It was wicked. ‘Ah, but can they abide you, sir?’

The smile vanished. ‘Perhaps the odd ones can,’ he said.

The words might have been cynical, or they might have been a joke. Lily watched his face closely, looking for a clue, but she could not decipher his expression. His eyes shone, intense as he spoke again.

‘So, tell me…’ He lowered his voice a bit. ‘What sort of female are you, then?’

No one had ever asked her such a thing. She did not know how to answer. The question stumped her—and made her unbearably sad. That clarity only extended so far, it would seem.

‘Miss?’ he prompted.

‘I don’t know,’ she said grimly. ‘But I think it is time I found out.’

The shadow had moved back in, Jack could see it lurking behind her eyes. And after he’d worked so hard to dispel it, too.

Work was an apt description. He was not naturally glib like his brother. He had no patience with meaningless societal rituals. A little disturbing, then, that it was no chore to speak with this woman.

She stirred his interest—an unusual occurrence with a lady of breeding. In Jack’s experience women came in two varieties: those who simulated emotion for the price of a night, and those who manufactured emotion for a tumultuous lifetime sentence.

Jack did not like emotion. It was the reason he despised the tense and edgy stranger he had lately become. He understood that emotion was an integral part of human life and relationships. He experienced it frequently himself. He held his family in affection. He respected his mentors and colleagues. Attraction, even lust, was a natural phenomenon he allowed himself to explore to the fullest. He just refused to be controlled by such sentiments.

Emotional excess invariably became complicated and messy and as far as he’d been able to determine, the benefits rarely outweighed the consequences. Scholarship, he’d discovered, was safe. Reason and logic were his allies, his companions, his shields. If one must deal with excessive emotions at all, it was best to view them through the lens of learning. It was far more comfortable, after all, to make a study of rage or longing than to experience it oneself. Such things were of interest in Greek tragedy, but dashed inconvenient in real life.

Logic dictated, therefore, that he should have been repelled by this young beauty. She reeked of emotion. She had appeared to be at the mercy of several very strong sensations in succession. Jack should have felt eager to escape her company.

But as had happened all too frequently in the last weeks, his reason deserted him. He was not wild to make his apologies and move on. He wanted to discover how she would look under the onslaught of the next feeling. Would those warm blue eyes ice over in anger? Could he make that gorgeous wide mouth quiver in desire?

‘Mister Alden.’

His musings died a quick death. That ringing voice was familiar.

‘Lady Ashford.’ He knew before he even turned around.

‘I am unsurprised to find you in the midst of this ruckus, Mr Alden.’ The countess skimmed over to them and pinned an eagle eye on the girl. ‘But you disappoint me, Miss Beecham.’

The name reverberated inside Jack’s head, sending a jolt down his spine. Beecham? The girl’s name was Beecham? It was a name that had weighed heavily on his mind of late.

They were joined again by the girl’s mother and the red-faced Mr Cooperage, but Lady Ashford had not finished with the young lady.

‘There are two, perhaps three, men in London who are worth throwing yourself under the wheels of a carriage, Miss Beecham. I regret to inform you that Mr Alden is not one of them.’

No one laughed. Jack was relieved, because he rather thought that the countess meant what she said.

Clearly distressed, the girl had no answer. Jack was certainly not fool enough to respond. Fortunately for them both, someone new pushed her way through the crowd. It was his mother, coming to the rescue.

Lady Dayle burst into their little group like a siege mortar hitting a French garrison. Passing Jack by, she scattered the others as she rushed to embrace the girl like a long-lost daughter. She clucked, she crooned, she examined her at arm’s length and then held her fast to her bosom.

‘Jack Alden,’ she scolded, ‘I could scarcely believe it when I heard that you were the one disrupting the fair and causing such a frenzy of gossip! People are saying you nearly ran this poor girl down in the street!’ Her gaze wandered over to the phaeton and fell on Charles. He gave a little wave of his hand, but did not leave the horses.

‘Charles! I should have known you would be mixed up in this. Shame on the pair of you!’ She stroked the girl’s arm. ‘Poor lamb! Are you sure you are unhurt?’

Had Jack been a boy, he might have been resentful that his mother’s attention was focused elsewhere. He was not. He was a man grown, and therefore only slightly put out that he could not show the girl the same sort of consideration.

Mrs Beecham looked outraged. Miss Beecham merely looked confused. Lady Ashford looked as if she’d had enough.

‘Elenor,’ the countess said, ‘you are causing another scene. I do not want these people to stand and watch you cluck like a hen with one chick. I want them to go inside and spend their money at my fair. Do take your son and have his arm seen to.’

‘Oh, Jack,’ his mother reproved, her arm still wrapped comfortingly about the girl. ‘Have you re-injured your arm?’

Lady Ashford let her gaze slide over the rest of the group. ‘Elenor dear, do let go of the girl and take him to find out. Mr Cooperage, you will come with me and greet the women who labour in your interest today. The rest of you may return to what you were doing.’

‘Lilith has had a fright, Lady Ashford,’ Mrs Beecham said firmly. ‘I’ll just take her back to our rooms.’

‘Nonsense, that will leave the Book Table unattended,’ the countess objected.

‘Nevertheless…’ Mrs Beecham’s lips were folded extremely thin.

‘I shall see to her,’ Lady Dayle declared. ‘Jack, can you take us in your… Oh, I see. Whose vehicle are you driving, dear? Never mind, I shall just get a hackney to take us home.’

Mrs Beecham started to protest, and a general babble of conversation broke out. It was put to rout by Lady Ashford. ‘Very well,’ she declared loudly and everyone else fell silent. ‘You can trust Lady Dayle to see to your daughter, Mrs Beecham. I will take you to fetch the girl myself once the day is done.’

She paused to point a finger. ‘Mr Wilberforce’s barouche is still here. I’m certain he will not mind dropping the pair of them off,’ she said, ‘especially since he has only just made you a much larger request. I shall arrange it.’ She beckoned to the missionary. ‘Mr Cooperage, if you would come with me?’

Everyone moved to follow the countess’s orders. Not for the first time, Jack thought that had Lady Ashford been a man, the Peninsular War might have been but a minor skirmish.

With a last, quick glance at the girl on his mother’s arm, he turned back to his brother and the cursed team of horses.

But Lady Ashford had not done with him. ‘Are those Pettigrew’s animals, Mr Alden?’ she called. She did not wait for an answer. ‘Take yourself on home and see to your arm—and do not let Pettigrew lure you into buying those bays. I hear they are vicious.’

‘Thank you for the advice, Lady Ashford,’ he said, and, oddly, he meant it. Charles stood, a knowing grin spreading rapidly across his face.

‘Not a word, Charles,’ Jack threatened.

‘I wasn’t going to say a thing.’

Wincing, Jack climbed up into the rig and took up the ribbons. Charles took his seat beside him and leaned back, silent, but with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

‘The girl’s surname is Beecham.’

Charles sat a little straighter. ‘Beecham?’ he repeated with studied nonchalance. ‘It’s a common enough name.’

‘It’s that shipbuilder’s name and you know it, Charles. The man who is supposedly mixed up with Batiste.’

His brother sighed. ‘It’s not your responsibility to bring that scoundrel of a sea captain to justice, Jack.’

Jack stilled. A wave of frustration and anger swept over him at his brother’s words. He fought to recover his equilibrium. This volatility was unacceptable. He must regain control.

‘I know that,’ he said tightly. ‘But I can’t focus on anything else. I keep thinking of Batiste skipping away without so much as a slap on the hand.’ Charles was the only person to whom Jack had confided the truth about his wound and the misadventures that had led to it. Even then, there were details he’d been honour-bound to hold back. ‘It’s bad enough that the man is a thief and a slaver as well. But by all accounts the man is mad—I worry that he might come after old Mervyn Latimer again, or even try to avenge himself on Trey and Chione.’

It wasn’t Charles’s fault that he couldn’t understand. Though he knew most of the story, he didn’t know about the aftermath. Jack didn’t want him—or anyone else—to know how intensely he’d been affected. Charles must never know about his nightmares. He didn’t understand himself how or why all this should have roused his latent resentment towards their cold and distant father, but one thing he did know—he would never burden Charles with the knowledge. His older brother had his own weighty issues to contend with in that direction.

‘Would you like me to make some inquiries?’ Charles asked.

‘Both Treyford and I already have. Batiste has disappeared. He could be anywhere. All the Foreign Office could give me was that name—Matthew Beecham. A young shipbuilder—an Englishman from Dorset who moved to America to pursue his craft. Somehow he became mixed up with Batiste, and found himself in trouble with the American government. He’s disappeared as well. The Americans have made a formal complaint against him. They want to question him and have asked that he be detained, should he show up back at home.’

‘So? Does the girl hail from Dorset? Did you ask her if she has a relative named Matthew?’

‘Not yet.’ Jack watched Charles from the corner of his eye. ‘I would dearly like to talk to the man. He’s the only link I’ve been able to find. I’m not going to be able to rest until Batiste is caught and made to pay for his crimes.’

Perched ramrod straight now, Charles looked earnest as he spoke. ‘You know, Jack, I’ve never known you to fall so quickly into something so…dangerous, as you did with Treyford.’

Jack bristled slightly.

‘Now, forget that it is your older brother speaking and calm yourself,’ Charles admonished. ‘There must have been a reason for it, something that drew you into the fray.’

There had been, of course, but he was not going to share it with his brother. Once Jack had heard Treyford’s story of a band of antiquity thieves menacing Chione Latimer and her family, he’d known he had to help. He and Charles were both all too aware of the difficulties of living with an unsettled sense of menace.

‘Whatever the reason, I, for one, am happy to see you out from behind your wall of books.’ Charles’s gaze slid over Jack’s sling. ‘I’m sorry that all you appeared to get from your adventure was a bullet hole, but I would neither see you slide back into your old hibernating ways nor allow yourself to become embroiled in something even more complicated and hazardous.’

‘What would you have me do, then?’ Jack asked with just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Embroidery? Tatting?’ He raked his brother with an exasperated glance. ‘I’ve already told you, I have neither the inclination nor the patience for politics.’

Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Why don’t you just relax,

Jack? It’s been an age since either Mother or I have been able to drag you out of your rooms. Have a break from your work. Not everyone is fascinated with your mouldy classics.’

‘They should be,’ Jack said, just to tweak his brother.

Charles ignored him. ‘Look about you for once,’ he continued. ‘Enjoy the Season, squire Mother to a society event or two.’ He grimaced. ‘Or if the thought of society is too distasteful, you can help Mother and Sophie with their charitable efforts. If you had paid attention, you would see that Mother is slowly becoming more and more involved with the work that the Evangelical branch of the Church is doing. This charity bazaar she is helping with is just a small example of their work. Their presence is only growing stronger as the years pass. Who knows? They might actually succeed in changing the face of society. And you might even find whatever it is you were looking for.’

‘The only thing I’m looking for is Batiste.’

Charles sighed. ‘Well, look again, little brother.’ He leaned back again, his grip on the side tightening as the bay on the left shied from a calling-card vendor.

Jack was forced to watch the pair closely once more. His mind was awhirl. Perhaps he should consider something different from his usual classical studies—and if his new path also brought him closer to finding information on Batiste, then so much the better. If this Beecham girl and his mother were both involved with the Evangelicals, then perhaps he could look into them as well. Charles could believe what he liked about Jack’s need to find something he was missing. He knew the truth of the matter and it involved nothing so mawkish or sentimental.

And neither, he told himself firmly, did it have anything to do with the shine of red-gold hair or the taste of soft, plump lips.

Chapter Three

A stranger inhabited Lily’s skin. Or perhaps it had only been so long since determination had pumped so fiercely through her veins, it felt as if it were so. But this was the old Lily—her father’s daughter, sure and strong, confident that whatever she wished for lay within her reach. Almost as if it were happening to someone else, she watched herself talk, smile and climb into Mr Wilberforce’s barouche. He and Lady Dayle were soon engaged in a spirited debate over reform. Fortunate, since this left Lily free to turn her rediscovered resolve to answering Mr Alden’s troubling question: What sort of female are you?

She barely knew where to start, but she did discover that some aspects of the new Lily—her mother’s daughter—were not so easily discarded. And all of them were firmly fixated on the sudden burst of light that had shone down on Mr Alden for one dazzling moment. Surely it had been nothing more than a stray sunbeam?

Perhaps not. Her nurse’s superstitious Cornish wisdom had been a constant in her life and it had taken firm root in Lily’s mind while she was still young. In recent years it had flourished into a guilt-ridden tangle.

So often she’d worried that she’d missed some forewarning of her father’s tragic death. The storm that ultimately killed him had been immense. Nurse had moaned that his loss had been punishment for their failure to heed several unmistakable portents of doom.

Lily had vowed never to make another such mistake. But surely a bright beam of light was no portent of doom. Then what could it possibly mean?

With every fibre of her being, Lily wanted it to mean the change she longed for. It had touched on Mr Alden. Could it be that he would be an instrument of change? She flushed. Or was it possible that he might be something more?

‘Lady Dayle,’ she spoke up into a pause in the conversation, ‘I fear that your son has re-injured his arm because of my inattention. I wish you would convey my apologies.’

The viscountess patted her arm. ‘Do not fret yourself, my dear. Jack should not have been driving those cantankerous animals in the first place. I dare say his brother told him so. But Charles should have remembered that the instant he counselled against it, it would become the single thing in the world that must be done.’

Lily smiled. She’d grown up with her cousin Matthew and he had acted in just the same way. ‘How did Mr Alden first injure his arm?’

Lady Dayle frowned. ‘Oh, he got caught up in that trouble at the Egyptian Hall, at Mr Belzoni’s exhibition. I haven’t the faintest idea how or why—I had no inkling that Jack even knew Belzoni or Lord Treyford. It was just a few weeks ago—perhaps you heard of it?’

Lily shook her head.

‘Yes, I heard of it,’ Mr Wilberforce intervened. ‘A ring of international art thieves, or something similar, was it not?’

‘Something like,’ Lady Dayle agreed. ‘Jack will barely speak of it—even to me. And believe me, when her son is shot, a mother wants to know why.’

‘Good heavens,’ Lily said. She stirred in her seat. ‘Shot? Mr Alden must lead quite an exciting life.’

‘But that is just it! The entire thing was so patently unlike him. Jack is a scholar, Miss Beecham, and a brilliant one at that. At times he is all but a recluse. He spends more time closeted with his ancient civilisations than with anyone flesh and blood.’ She shot Mr Wilberforce a significant look. ‘He is my inscrutable son, sir, and too reserved and detached from society to cause me much concern—especially compared to the rigmarole his brothers subjected me to.’

Mr Wilberforce laughed, but Lily fought back an undeniable surge of disappointment. A scholar? Inscrutable and reserved? It didn’t fit the image she’d already built around that wicked smile.

But what did she know of men? An image of her father flashed in her mind. He dwelled heavily in her mind today—a natural reaction on a day when her past and her future appeared destined to collide. On the rare occasion she allowed herself to dream, the portrait she drew of a husband always shared important traits with George Beecham: twinkling eyes, a ready smile and a never-ending thirst for the next new experience. Never would she have conjured up a dry, dusty scholar who hid from life behind his books.

Lily had been hiding for seven long years. She’d done with it. She wasn’t her father’s little girl any more, but neither would she continue as her mother’s quiet handmaiden. She fought back a surge of guilt. She didn’t mean to abandon her mother, nor did she wish to give up the good works she had done along with her. She only wanted the chance to live her own life, while she worked to help others better theirs. Superstition would not make that chance happen. Neither, it seemed, would Mr Alden. She clenched her fists. She would find a way, and do it herself.

It was time she melded the two halves of her soul and finally answered that pesky question. It was time she discovered who Lily Beecham was.

Jack kept his senses alert, his eye sharp for movement in the roadway ahead. This was likely not the best time to be skulking about the East End, especially not on his own. But his eagerness for his brother’s company had waned after listening to his admonitions and advice this afternoon. Charles would only have tried to talk him out of coming down here at all.

So Jack had dropped off his brother and then returned Pettigrew’s nasty bays, and now he found his feet taking him towards the river, towards the reputedly abandoned shipping offices of Gustavo Batiste.

Little Bure Street was not exactly a hotbed of activity in the late evening. A pair of prostitutes propositioned him from a doorway, but he shook his head and continued on. No doubt anyone with legitimate business in these dockside buildings had long since gone home, but the full swing of the illicit enterprises of the night had not yet begun. It didn’t matter; the alleyway he sought lay just ahead. Jack slipped in and stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the deeper blackness before he moved forwards cautiously. He flexed his sore arm as he went. The narrow space was more a passage than a street, but it opened on to a small walled courtyard at the end. Opposite him a rickety set of wooden stairs led to an office. Across the doorway sagged a crooked sign: G. Batiste & Co.

Mervyn Latimer and Treyford had both warned him this would be a waste of time. The offices had been deserted for months. But Jack had a need to see for himself. He eased up the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps quiet.

The door was not locked. Jack pushed it open with his free hand and was forced to stop again and adjust his eyesight. It was pitch black in the small anteroom. It took several long moments for his eyes to adapt, but there was nothing to see once they had. A listing table, a couple of small chairs and dust lying thick on every surface. He shook his head. What had he expected? He was grasping at straws. His obsession with Batiste was not logical, his involuntary association of the villain with his dead father utterly without a rational basis.

From the back of the building came a thump and a muffled curse. Jack froze. His pulse began to race. Slowly he reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. He’d taken to keeping it there, since his misadventures with Treyford. It felt awkward and unbalanced in his left hand, but it was better than nothing.

A closed door lay to the right of the broken table. He eased it open and found another narrow hallway. Several more doors were closed on either side, but the last one on the right stood cracked open, a faint light shining from within.

Who could it be? Silently he made his way there. He flattened himself against the wall and eased his arm from the sling. From inside the room came the sound of rustling papers and opening drawers. Grimacing at the strain, he placed his right hand on the doorway and gripped his knife tight with the other.

Thwang. Jack stared in shock and fascination as a wickedly vibrating blade abruptly sprouted from the opposite doorframe.

‘I got another o’ those,’ a voice rasped from within. ‘But this building’s cheap and that wall is paper thin. I’m thinkin’ it might just be easier to shoot you through it.’

The tension unexpectedly drained out of Jack, replaced by a rising flood of relief. He knew that voice.

‘Eli!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s me, Jack Alden.’

The door flew open. The erstwhile sea captain turned groom stared at him in surprise. ‘Jack Alden! What in blazes are ye doing here?’

‘I might ask the same of you, old man!’ Jack pocketed his own blade and thumped the grizzled old sailor on the shoulder. Eli grunted and crossed back to the desk he’d been rifling through. The rap of his peg-leg on the wooden floor sounded loud in the small office. Jack pulled the blade from the doorframe.

‘How’s the arm?’ Eli asked. ‘Ye look a sight better’n the last time I saw ye.’

‘It’s healing. But why aren’t you in Devonshire with Mervyn and Trey and Chione and all the rest of them? They’ve all got to be busy, what with a wedding to plan and one hell of trip coming up.’

‘Aye,’ tis a madhouse at times.’ He held out a hand and Jack gave back his knife. With a sigh he slammed a drawer shut and sat in the seat behind the desk. ‘Mervyn and Trey sent me up. Something’s astir.’

‘Batiste?’ Jack asked, with a sweep of his hand.

‘You know Mervyn’s ways. He’s got ears everywhere and hears every bird fart and every whisper o’ trouble. He’s got word that some of Batiste’s men are on the move. Here. In England.’

Anger surged in Jack’s gut. ‘God, it eats at me, knowing he got away,’ he said. The low and harsh tone of his voice surprised even him. He struggled again to rein in his emotion. ‘I hate the thought of it—him sitting back, silent and scornful, manipulating us like so many puppets.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘After all he’s done to Mervyn, he needs to be brought to justice.’

‘What he’s done to Mervyn’s bad enough. But he’s done others far worse. What worrit’s me is the idea of him having time to stew. Revenge is his favourite dish and he’ll be spittin’ mad at how we foiled him.’

‘So what do you hope to find here?’

Eli glanced at him. ‘The same thing you were, I s’pose. Some hint o’ where he might be hiding out. With the Americans after him as well as the Royal Navy, he’s got to lie low for a while.’

‘The bastard’s got a ship and the whole world to hide in.’ Jack sighed.

‘Trey thinks he won’t go too far. He didn’t get what he wanted, and he thinks he’ll try again. Like any man, he’ll have a spot or two he goes to when his back is against the wall. Trouble is findin’ it.’

Jack stood a little straighter. ‘I might have a lead on that shipbuilder, Beecham. Perhaps he knows where Batiste would go to hide his head.’

‘Dowhatyecan, man.’ Elisighed. ‘I know Trey hates to ask ye—especially after ye got hurt the first time. But won’t none of us be truly safe until that man is caught and hung.’

‘I will. Tell Trey I will handle it.’ He stared at the old man with resolution. ‘In fact, I think it should be possible for me to begin right now.’

‘Mr Wilberforce asked you to do what?’ Lily’s dish of tea hovered, halfway up. The evening had grown late. Lady Ashford and her mother had arrived to fetch her, and Lady Dayle had pressed them to stay for a cold supper.

‘To make a tour through Surrey and Kent, speaking with local groups of Evangelicals along the way,’ her mother repeated.

‘Your mother has accomplished wonders in Weymouth, Miss Beecham.’ Lady Ashworth accepted a slice of cheese from the platter Lady Dayle offered. ‘She can share her methods and be an inspiration to many others.’

‘Of course.’ Lily’s mind raced. This was just exactly what she’d wished for; a chance to travel, to see new places and meet new people. Her breathing quickened and her pulse began to beat a little faster. ‘Mother, I’m so proud of you.’

‘Congratulations, Mrs Beecham,’ said Lady Dayle. ‘You shall be one of the leading ladies of a very great movement. And to have the request come from Mr Wilberforce himself is quite an honour, is it not?’

‘Thank you, it is indeed an honour.’ Her mother looked exhausted. Lily felt a twinge of guilt. She’d spent a perfectly lovely afternoon with the viscountess and her mother had not even had a chance to celebrate her accomplishment.

‘Will we be returning home first, Mother? Or shall we leave straight from town?’ she asked. ‘Either way, we must be sure that you rest beforehand. I can see you are quite worn out.’

An uncomfortable look passed across her mother’s face. ‘I’ll be leaving from London in a few days, dear. Lady Ashford has graciously agreed to accompany me.’ She met Lily’s eye with resolve. ‘You will be returning home.’

‘What?’ This time she was forced to set her cup down with shaking hands. ‘You cannot mean that!’

‘We’ve been away from home too long as it is. Someone needs to oversee the Parish Poor Relief Committee. The planning needs to begin now for the Michaelmas festival. We cannot abandon our duty to those less fortunate.’

‘There are plenty of ladies at home willing and able to take care of those things,’ Lily argued. ‘Mother, please!’ Resentment and disbelief churned in her belly. It was true that her mother had found less and less joy in life over the years. Her father’s death had been a blow to them both. Grief and guilt were heavy burdens to bear, but Lily had been forced to cope alone. Sometimes she felt she had grieved twice over, for her quiet, reserved mother had sunk into a decline and a militant stranger had climbed out the other side.

Restrictive, distant, hard to please—yes. But Lily had never suspected her mother of deliberate cruelty before today. First Mr Cooperage and now—

She stopped, aghast. ‘Does Mr Cooperage factor into this decision, Mother? Because I tell you now that I am not interested in his views on any subject!’

‘Lilith!’ her mother gasped. ‘We will not discuss it further. This is entirely inappropriate!’

‘Well then, it appears I have arrived at the perfect time,’ an amused masculine voice interrupted.

Lily turned to find Mr Alden framed handsomely in the doorway. An instant flush began to spread up and over her.

Was she doomed to always encounter this man at a serious disadvantage?

He advanced into the room and she tried to collect herself. Not an easy task. Poetic—that was the word that had sprung to mind earlier. Brooding was the one that popped up now. Darkly handsome and brooding. Though he had a sardonic smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, the effect was ruined by the rest of him. She just could not be entirely intimidated by anyone in that rumpled state. He looked as if his valet had dressed him in the height of fashion, in only the best silk and superfine, and then laid him down and rolled him repeatedly about on the bed. She tightened her mouth at the image evoked and her flush grew stronger yet. A great many women, she strongly suspected, would enjoy rolling Mr Alden about on the bed.

‘Jack, darling.’ Lady Dayle rose to welcome her son. ‘Do come in and join us. The ladies have only just finished with the fair and we are taking a cold supper.’

He kissed his mother on the cheek and made an elegant bow to the rest of the ladies. Lily shifted slightly away as he took the chair directly next to hers.

‘I should thank you right away, Miss Beecham,’ he said with a quirk of a smile in her direction. ‘Usually I am the one for ever introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation. My brother informs me that virtually no one else cares for my mouldy ancients.’ He leaned back. The seating was so close that Lily could feel the heat emanating from him. ‘But you have saved me the trouble.’ He raised a brow at her. ‘Which distasteful subject have you brought to the table?’

‘Never mind that, Jack,’ scolded his mother. ‘Mrs Beecham has been granted a singular honour. We are celebrating.’

Lady Ashford explained while Lily fumed.

‘My heartfelt congratulations,’ Mr Alden said to her mother when the countess had finished. He turned again to Lily. ‘I’m sure you will enjoy the journey, Miss Beecham. There are some amazingly picturesque vistas in that part of the country.’

‘I am not to go, Mr Alden.’ Lily could not keep the anger completely from her tone. ‘I am instead sent home like a wayward child.’

She noticed that he grew very still. ‘Where is home, if I might ask?’

‘In Dorset, near Weymouth,’ she answered, though she did not see the relevance of the question.

‘Ah.’ He steepled his fingers and thought a moment. ‘I suppose I can understand your mother’s point of view.’

Irritation nearly choked Lily. She glared at him.

‘You can?’ asked her mother in surprise.

‘Yes, well, it is only fair to consider both sides of the argument, and you must admit that travelling with an innocent young girl must always be complicated.’

‘Innocent young girl?’ Lily objected. ‘I am nearly three and twenty and I have seen and done many things in the course of my volunteer work.’

‘I do not doubt you, but the fact remains that you are a young, unmarried lady. As such you will most likely require frequent stops to rest, and special arrangements for private parlours to shield you from the coarser elements. If you stay at private homes, there will have to be thought given as to whether or not any single gentlemen are in residence. Not to mention that you will have to have a chaperon for every minute of every day. Without a doubt, two older, more mature ladies will travel easier alone.’

Lily gaped at him.

‘You can see the logic of the situation.’ He nodded towards her.

‘There are so many things wrong with that litany of statements that I must give serious consideration on where to begin,’ she responded.

‘Do tell,’ he invited. That lurking grin spread a little wider.

‘I could refute your errors one by one, but instead I will merely ask you if you have any sisters, Mr Alden?’

‘Nary a one.’

‘Then I fail to see where you might have come by any experience travelling with innocent young ladies,’ she said hotly. ‘And if you are in the habit of consorting with other types, then I would only beg you not to equate me with them!’

‘Lilith!’ Her mother was clearly scandalised.

Lady Dayle, however, laughed. ‘Bravo, Miss Beecham! You have routed him in one fell swoop. But now you are both guilty of introducing inappropriate topics to the conversation, so let us talk of something else.’ She frowned at her son. ‘Do not tease the dear girl, Jack. I believe it is a real disappointment for her.’

Mr Alden nodded at his mother, then spared a glance for Lily. Mortified, she avoided his eye.

Lady Ashford offered him the tray of biscuits. He took one and Lily saw him blink thoughtfully at the countess. 'Will the two of you exceptional ladies be travelling alone?’ he asked in an innocent tone.

‘In fact, we will not,’ the countess answered. ‘Mr Cooperage will accompany us. We thought it possible to also raise money for his mission as we travel.’

‘I knew it!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘Only today he informed me that he did not approve of ladies travelling from home.’

She cast a disparaging glance at Mr Alden. ‘I just did not expect to find other gentlemen in agreement with such an antiquated notion.’

‘I said no such thing,’ he protested. ‘I said it was complicated, not that it should not be done. Is Mr Cooperage the gentleman from Park Lane, the one who was with you when you had your…near accident?’

‘He is.’

‘And he is an Evangelical, is he not?’

‘He is. Why do you ask?’

Mr Alden drew a deep breath. He sat a little straighter. For the first time Lily noticed true animation in his face and a light begin to shine in his eye.

‘I ask because I admit to some curiosity about the Evangelicals. For instance, I find their attitudes towards women to be conflicting and confusing.’

‘How so, Mr Alden?’ Lady Ashford bristled a little.

‘Hannah More argues that women are cheated out of an education and are thus made unfit to be mothers and moral guides. She advocates educating women, but only to a degree. Evangelicals encourage women to confine themselves to domestic concerns, but when their important issues take the stage—abolition of the slave trade, or changing the East India Company’s charter to allow missionaries into India—they urge them to boycott, to petition, to persuade.’

‘Women are perfectly able to understand and embrace such issues, Mr Alden.’ Now Lily bristled at the thought of this dangerously intelligent and handsome man negating the causes she had worked for.

‘I agree, Miss Beecham. In fact, in encouraging such participation, I would say that the Evangelicals have opened the political process to a far wider public.’

Understanding dawned. She cast a bright smile on him. ‘Yes, of course you are correct,’ Lily said, turning to her mother. ‘You see, Mother, I have petitioned for change, educated people about the work that needs done and laboured myself for the common good. What is a little trip through Kent when compared to all of that?’

‘That was not my point,’ Mr Alden interrupted. ‘On the contrary, I counsel you ladies to proceed with caution. People are noticing the good that you have accomplished. But if they begin to suspect that Evangelicals encourage women to rise beyond their station—not my words, by the way—then you could have a public uprising on your hands.’

‘Like the Blagdon Controversy,’ breathed Mrs Beecham, referring to the extensive public outcry against Hannah More’s Sunday Schools as dangerous and ‘Methodist’.

‘It could be far worse,’ Mr Alden said. ‘Women do not rate any higher on the Church of England’s scale than Methodists.'.’

‘Thank you, Mr Alden,’ Lady Ashford intoned. ‘You have given us a great deal to consider. We shall proceed with care.’ She fixed a stern gaze on Lily. ‘You can see that it would indeed be best for you to stay home, Miss Beecham. Old warhorses like your mother and I are one thing. We would not wish to be accused of corrupting young ladies.’

Lily lowered her gaze. Hurt and dismay congealed in her throat, choking off any protest. She barely knew MrAlden; it was ridiculous to feel this bone-deep sense of betrayal. But she could not stem it, any more than she could hold back the rising tide of anger in her breast. She raised her head and met Mr Alden’s gaze with a steely one of her own.

‘I cannot see where sending Miss Beecham home on the mail coach is any kinder or gentler than carting her around Surrey.’ Mr Alden’s eyes never left hers as he spoke. ‘Clearly, the best thing for her to do is to remain here.’

Lily forgave the irritating man everything on the spot. ‘Oh, yes! What a marvellous idea!’

Lily’s mother sniffed. ‘Well, I cannot see that a residence with a single gentleman in London is any less dangerous than one in Faversham.'.’

‘But the Bartleighs, Mother!’ Lily exclaimed.

Lady Ashford sent her an enquiring look and she hastened to explain. ‘Very dear friends of ours, from home,’ she said. ‘They are due to arrive in London soon, for a short stay. Mother, you know they would not mind if I stayed with them.’

‘Lilith Beecham,’ her mother scolded, ‘the Bartleighs are travelling to town to consult with the doctors here, not to chaperon you. I wouldn’t ask it of them, even if they were due to arrive before we are gone, which they are not.’

But Lady Dayle was nearly jumping out of her seat. ‘Oh, but Lily must stay with me! You need not worry, Mrs Beecham, for Jack has his own bachelor’s rooms. I scarcely see him at the best of times, and now he talks of urying himself in his books for his next research project.’

Lily watched her mother and began to hope.

‘It will be just Miss Beecham and I,’ the viscountess continued. ‘How perfect! She can help to introduce me to some of the worthy causes you ladies support, and I can introduce her a little to society.’

Lily’s heart sank. That had been the absolute wrong thing to suggest.

‘We are honoured by your invitation, my lady, but I do not wish for Lilith to go into society.’ Her mother’s mouth had pressed so tight that her lips had disappeared.

‘Come now, dear Margaret.’ The unexpected, coaxing tone came from Lady Ashford. ‘It will not do the girl any harm to gain a little polish. She’ll likely need it in the future.’

Her mother hesitated. Lily’s heart was pounding, but she kept her eyes demurely down. The moment of silence stretched out, until she thought her nerves would shatter.

‘I shall ask my dear daughter Corinne to help with the girl,’ Lady Ashford said. ‘You know that she and her husband are familiar with the right people. Although she is too far along in her confinement to take the girl herself, they will know just the events that a girl like Lilith will do well at.’

‘Yes, of course, nothing fast or too tonnish,’ said Lady Dayle in reassuring tones. ‘Perhaps a literary or musical evening.’

Her mother heaved a great sigh. ‘Very well,’ she said ungraciously.

‘Oh,’ breathed Lily. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

Lady Dayle was positively gleeful. ‘Oh, we shall have a grand time getting to know one another, my dear.’

Lady Ashford knew when to call a retreat. She stood. ‘Well, it has been a long and tiring day and I must still see to the tally of the day’s profits. I’m sure that Mrs Beecham and her daughter will both do better for a good night’s rest.’ She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Elenor, for the tea and for your interest.’

The farewells were made. Lily returned the viscountess’s embrace and agreed to meet to make plans on the morrow. She approached her son with a cautious step and a wary glance. ‘Mr Alden, I scarcely know what to say to you.’

She flinched a little at the disapproval she glimpsed in his expression. But then she squared her shoulders. She had faced disapprobation nearly every day for years. Why should his stab any deeper?

‘Thank you for everything that you have done for me today,’ she said with a smile, ‘Even though I’m sure some of it was quite unintentional.’

He bowed. ‘I am very happy to have met you, Miss Beecham. It has been an…interesting experience.’

Once again he had donned that impenetrable mask. It saddened her, this barrier that she could not breach. Earlier today he had handled a difficult situation with humour and ease. But now he only looked worldly and cynical. How disappointing. He obviously possessed a great mind. She suspected he also possessed a sense of justice, perhaps even a thoughtful nature, but how could she know for sure?

This was her chance. Lily knew there would still be restrictions, but she could not suppress this glorious feeling of freedom. For a few weeks she would be able to relax, to give her true nature free rein. Perhaps if she was very lucky she might even find a position, or, she blushed, a suitor. Anything to supplant her mother’s idea for her future.

Lily knew she owed Mr Alden for this chance, and, indeed, she was grateful. But staring into his closed countenance, she knew she had no time to waste on him.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. She turned wistfully away and followed her mother out the door.

Lady Dayle chattered happily for a few minutes after her guests had left. Jack listened to her, content to see her so excited about the coming weeks. When the servants came in to clear, he rose, kissed her goodbye and let the butler show him out. The door clicked closed behind him. Jack stood for a long moment on the step, breathing deep in the cold evening air.

The girl was from Dorset. He was going to do it—he was going to find Matthew Beecham, who would lead him to Batiste. He no longer knew if it was truly justice he sought, or some twisted sort of redemption. He no longer cared. He was going to quiet the roiling furore that had turned his existence upside down.

It would take some delicate manoeuvring, he was sure. He was going to have to proceed very carefully. He was more than a little disturbed by his own actions. Right now he stood, evaluating his options with reason and purpose. That had not been the case in there.

He’d done what he could to manipulate the situation in his favour. And he’d succeeded. But one minute he’d been speaking like a man of sense and the next Lily Beecham had been glaring at him with accusation in her lovely face.

It had done something to him. His brain had shut down with a nearly audible click. He had spoken up to fix the situation with her goal in mind as much as his, and with an overwhelming desire to remove the wealth of hurt in her eyes.

It was a very dangerous precedent. It had been an unthinking response, an action dictated by emotion. Clearly this was a very dangerous girl.

Yet having recognised his weakness, he was armed against it. He would proceed, as he always did, with logic and reason as his weapons. And a healthy dose of caution as his shield.

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