Regency Seduction

The Captain’s Courtesan

The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

Lucy Ashford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LUCY ASHFORD studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story.

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

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

The Captain’s Courtesan

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

Back Cover Text

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Copyright

The Captain’s Courtesan

Lucy Ashford

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.

‘This new one, my lord,’ he told Stephen, ‘no one could say she’s the exact image. She’s older, for a start. But I could see something …’

Could she be family? God forbid. The other one had been gently born, a virgin, a mistake in other words, and Stephen wanted no past scandal rearing its ugly head. So he’d gone to look for himself. And the new girl was not at all what he’d expected. There was a physical similarity, yes. But this one was spirited. Defiant. His lip curled. My God, he’d have enjoyed breaking that spirit.

But if there was a connection, it could mean danger. And his questioning of the girl tonight had been wrecked by damned Alec, who even after Stephen had paid those footmen to give him a beating, had friends running to defend him from all corners of the building!

More than ever Stephen wanted his younger brother destroyed. Alec had been a torment to him since childhood—taking Stephen’s place in their father’s affections, parading himself in his army uniform all around town. Then last year Alec had fortuitously sealed his own fate and got himself disinherited.

But his brother could still be a threat. Best for now to do what he suggested and leave town for a while. Just in case Alec was tempted to do anything rash.

As he cursed his brother anew, Stephen’s eye fell on a cheap news sheet he had picked up earlier. The Scribbler, it was called. Idly, he flicked through it. And he froze.

Why Lady A. feels she has the right to so viciously punish a poor young maid for a minor accident—to inflict such suffering over a mere broken vase!—is, dear reader, beyond the average citizen’s comprehension …

Stephen’s blood boiled. He called Markin, who was dressed in black as usual, and thrust the news sheet at him. ‘Find out where this sordid scandal-sheet is published, will you? And check out the Temple of Beauty, for more about that fair-haired whore!’

There must be a way to find some weakness in his brother’s armour. And bring Alec to his damned knees—for good.

Rosalie got up purposefully the next morning. Last night she had been a scantily-clad Greek goddess, publicly on display. This morning—well, plump Biddy O’Brien, Helen’s cheerful housemaid, had put it best as she settled Katy in her chair and gave her warm milk and toast. ‘Oh, Miss Ros,’ Biddy cried, ‘you look ready to convert the heathen!’

And Helen added drily, ‘My dear. You appear not only dressed for church, but set to preach the sermon.’

Rosalie smiled and poured herself tea. ‘Hardly. Are any of your brothers at home this morning, Biddy?’

‘They are, Miss Rosalie. They’ve got a roofing job this afternoon, but they’ve got the morning free, so they’ll probably just lie around waiting for me to feed them, the great lummocks!’

Helen was looking puzzled. Rosalie quickly drew her aside and whispered, ‘You remember? This morning I’m going to investigate the place called Two Crows Castle.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Helen looked anxious. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it …’

‘Of course you should,’ soothed Rosalie. ‘You can see I’m dressed as a drab little widow …’ she pointed to the cheap ring she wore ‘… and I’m going to take Biddy’s brother Matt with me, just as you suggested. I’ll deliver your Scribblers to Bishopsgate, as well. Don’t look so worried, Helen. It’s broad daylight, and with big Matt O’Brien at my side no one will come near me!’

But Rosalie’s plans went awry almost immediately, because Matt and his older brother had been called at short notice to another job that morning, according to little Joe, the youngest of the family, who at only ten was not much use as a protector.

Rosalie hesitated for only a moment. Then, heaving up her canvas bag of news sheets, she walked down to Clerkenwell Green to hire a hackney cab.

At busy Bishopsgate, the driver softly grumbled as he lifted her heavy bag out of the cab for her. ‘You deliverin’ the Bible or some such round ‘ere, missy? Best make sure you’re well away before the alehouses get crowded at noon. And don’t say I didn’t warn yer!’

Rosalie took charge of her bagful of Scribblers. ‘Consider me warned,’ she said lightly.

A slight breeze lifted the concealing veil of her severe bonnet. The driver looked at her curiously, then his eyes fastened on the plain wedding band on her finger. ‘Why, yer only young. Quite a fetching little thing …’ She snatched her veil down again. ‘Well, well,’ he sighed. ‘You take care now, missy.’

Bishopsgate was busy. First she delivered the copies of The Scribbler to the news vendor, who took them eagerly. ‘These should go like hot cakes, miss!’ he said. ‘‘Specially if there’s a piece in by that fellow Ro Rowland—my gents are fond of them!’

Rosalie smiled. ‘I do believe there is.’ And, her bag now much lighter, she walked on towards Crispin Street.

Thank goodness Helen and Biddy didn’t know she’d ventured here, alone.

Immediately she found herself in a different world. The ancient buildings leaned in over the street, three, sometimes four storeys high; they were unkempt, with broken windows, and in the roughly paved lane dogs nosed amongst heaps of rubbish. Ragged children gathered by doorways, even their attempts at play half-hearted in this oppressive neighbourhood.

As she hesitated, an urchin came up boldly to stare at her and Rosalie asked the grubby child, ‘Can you tell me which house is Two Crows Castle?’

‘It’s the big ‘un, see.’ The child pointed. ‘Can’t miss it. All the soldiers live there.’

Rosalie swallowed and nodded. It was a huge old house set back from the road, with a bunch of men slouching outside, defying the freezing February drizzle that had just started to fall. It must once have been a grand mansion, but grand was no longer the word that applied to it. The broken crenellations resembled nothing more than gapped teeth; the stuccoed façade was cracked and stained. Clearly, as the district had sunk into poverty during the last fifty years, so had this place. And the man who charged the homeless ex-soldiers to live in such squalor was once an army officer. Shameful.

She became conscious of rough-looking people assessing her from open doors, of the smells of greasy cooking and ale from the various taverns. Her heart missed a beat. Time, most definitely, to go. She turned to head back to Bishopsgate, where the street would be busy with shoppers and the atmosphere less menacing. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. And a hand grabbed her arm.

‘Now, what may you be wantin’?’ a rough male voice demanded. ‘Some kind of charity lady, are yer?’

She spun round to see a small but fierce-looking individual in a tattered soldier’s uniform, his whole demeanour made even more sinister by the black eyepatch he wore. A big golden dog hovered close to him, growling softly. And soon there were more men looking her suspiciously up and down, men who’d been loitering outside the ominous building known as Two Crows Castle.

Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but gasp, ‘How many of you are there in that place?’

‘None of your damned business, pardon my French,’ Eyepatch said tersely. ‘I’ll let you off with a piece of advice—don’t go stickin’ yer ladylike little nose into other folks’ affairs. Now, be off with you!’ The dog barked in agreement.

In the circumstances, it seemed sensible to do precisely what he said, but at least a dozen ragged men had come to crowd round her in a distinctly menacing sort of manner. They were big. They were blocking her path. Rosalie’s heart was thumping hard. You idiot, coming here alone …

‘I’ll be on my way just as soon as you let me pass!’ she said, rather faintly.

She felt acute relief as the men slowly stepped aside.

Then Eyepatch said, ‘Wait. What’ve you got in that bag of yours?’

Rosalie swallowed. ‘It’s empty. I’ve just been delivering something, and now I really must go.’

‘Empty, eh? Let’s just have a little look-see.’

Eyepatch was drawing closer. Rosalie looked round desperately for help that clearly wasn’t going to arrive. She’d remembered that her bag wasn’t quite empty, after all. Grasping it tightly, she turned to run. But her long cloak hampered her and suddenly Crispin Street was alive with scowling ruffians, appearing from every doorway, every alley, from the walls themselves, it seemed. Could things get any worse?

They could, and they did. She dropped her bag and saw it fall open. Oh, fiddlesticks. Yet more men gathered, and Rosalie whirled round, her heart pounding painfully. The lethal piece of paper that had fluttered from her bag was drifting towards the gutter; one of the men snatched at it and gave it to Eyepatch.

Rosalie, feeling a little faint, saw Eyepatch scowling at it. Not The Scribbler, but a few notes she’d been jotting down in the cab—ideas for her next article. Something not intended for public scrutiny anywhere, let alone here. What a tumble, as Ro Rowland would say.

‘Please give that to me,’ she said rather weakly. She was fervently hoping the ruffian wouldn’t be able to read.

‘No, hold on,’ said Eyepatch, ‘this looks interesting.’ And slowly he began to decipher her scrawled notes, while his companions gathered round.

‘Your fellow about town wants today to draw your attention to the scandalous practice of rackrenting. Rackrenting?’ He lifted his head to glare at her. ‘Who wrote this?’

‘Just somebody—well, it’s me! I—I amuse myself, during carriage rides, by writing things down, silly things—’ She tried to grab the sheet back, to no avail.

He hung on to it grimly. Started again. ‘Scandalous practice of rackrenting. What is truly—truly—’ Eyepatch broke off. ‘Can’t read the rest of this flummery.’

Thank God for that.

But there was no reprieve. For someone else—a big, redheaded man—was announcing, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Awa’ with ye, Garrett, I can read the rest. It says, “What is truly shameful is that many of those who are thus exploited are former soldiers, forced to live in squalor at a place called Two Crows Castle …”’

The dog barked. They were all pressing around her again. Eyepatch looked at her with his one eye. ‘Exploited? By God, we ain’t exploited here at Two Crows Castle. We don’t like people who write filthy lies about our Captain, do you hear? As he’ll tell you himself—’cos he’s on his way right now!’

Her heart, she was sure, had stopped beating. The Captain?

Don’t be a fool, Rosalie. There must be dozens of ex-army Captains in town. Nevertheless she pulled down her veil as far as it would go, until she felt like a blinkered horse with a fly-gauze over its face.

Just in time.

For at that very moment, the crowd was parting to let someone through. A man who was saying, ‘What in the devil’s name is going on, Garrett? And—what’s that damned dog still doing here?’

At the sound of that husky male voice, her heart sank to the soles of her little laced boots. No. No. It can’t be …

Eyepatch had for some reason shoved the dog out of sight. ‘This woman, Captain,’ he was saying importantly, ‘she’s come ‘ere bold as brass, with a pack of filth about this place, and about you!’

The bruise on his cheek had darkened since last night. Otherwise he looked just the same, in that loose grey overcoat that hung carelessly open over his tight buckskin breeches and dusty riding boots. And, hands on his lean hips, he was just watching her, with those hard eyes in which, today, there was no hint of the humour or kindness that he had allowed her to glimpse last night. He took the sheet Eyepatch thrust at him, absorbing her brief but lethal jottings swiftly; then he said levelly to Rosalie, ‘Well, madam? Are you or are you not responsible for this pack of lies?’

She prayed fervently for the ground to open up and swallow her. He must be the rackrenter. The owner of Two Crows Castle. The man whom she’d allowed, to her eternal shame, to kiss her last night. All she could hope was that, in her spinsterly garb, he would continue not to recognise her. And it was too late, now, for denial; she just had to brazen this out.

‘Lies?’ She lifted her veiled face to boldly meet his dark gaze. ‘Perhaps you just cannot stomach the truth!’

Eyepatch gave a nasty leer. ‘Oh, you’re a brave ‘un, to challenge the honour of Alec Stewart, the best swordsman in town!’

Oh, my God. This time she really did feel the blood freeze in her veins. ‘Did you say—Alec Stewart?’

The Captain surveyed her, still clearly puzzled by her veiled visage. ‘That’s me all right,’ he said narrowly.

And horror—nausea—shook her.

For the name Linette had breathed as she lay dying was—Alec Stewart.

Chapter Seven

Alec had been up and about early, for he’d had appointments to keep. But he’d arrived back at Two Crows Castle to find the place in utter uproar, because of some sanctimonious lady do-gooder. Alec read those scribbled notes Garrett had handed him with dawning disbelief. ‘The scandalous practice of rackrenting … rapacious landlords … Two Crows Castle …’

Hell and damnation!

Well, the charity lady who’d penned this heap of lies had made one mighty bad mistake. She hadn’t run fast enough. Alec’s men were holding her tight; as he tried to scan her face, which was all but hidden by a truly hideous bonnet and veil, Alec began to feel sheer shock coursing through his veins.

‘Take off that bonnet,’ he grated at her.

‘No! I won’t!’ The slender captive was struggling again in Garrett and Ackroyd’s strong grip.

Alec walked up to her and pulled the repulsive thing off himself. Swathes of long, silver-blonde hair fell around her face. His men gasped. One or two of them whistled softly and clicked their tongues in lewd sounds of appreciation. ‘God’s blood, Captain, she’s a ripe little piece!’ ‘Take off her cloak, then we can all ‘ave a good look …’

‘Shut up,’ Alec told his men. And he grimly readjusted to this new reality.

Yesterday this do-gooder had been parading her delectable wares on stage at the Temple of Beauty. Last night the taste of her softly parted pink lips had disturbed his dreams. All through the hours of darkness he’d been haunted by images of her long fair hair cascading around her breasts, her naked limbs entwined with his between silken sheets … Yet this morning, she was dressed like a church mouse—a very defiant church mouse—and was in possession of some hideously insulting notes about himself and his men. Who the hell was she? What was she playing at?

He rapped out to her, ‘Who wrote this filth? And why is it in your possession?’

She tossed her lovely wild hair back from her face. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

He registered the swiftly concealed fear in those blue eyes, along with something else that was almost hatred. But then it was gone again, replaced by steadfast defiance. ‘Take her inside,’ he ordered Garrett. ‘We’ll keep her here until she changes her mind.’

‘No!’ She started struggling again. ‘You cannot do this!’

‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.

Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.

Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.

Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!

Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …

Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.

Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.

Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.

Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.

Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.

He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’

He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’

Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’

‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’

‘R-Rosalie.’

‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’

Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’

He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’

The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search … Helen, I’m so sorry.

She squared her slender shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I’ve written pieces for The Scribbler. But often I just make notes—like the ones your men stole from me!—for my own interest. And what I’m doing isn’t against the law!’

‘It is if you’re intending to print lies. Defame my reputation.’

‘Reputation! Oh, believe me, I could write so much more about you that you wouldn’t like, Captain Stewart!’

She saw the gleam in his steely eyes and dragged air into her tight lungs. Too far. Too dangerous, Rosalie. You cannot possibly tackle him right here in his stronghold.

He was still staring thoughtfully down at her. ‘Is that so? Might I suggest you can hardly afford to take the high moral ground, Mrs Rowland, since I could retaliate by asking—what the hell were you doing last night, parading on that stage half-naked?’

‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’

‘Unfortunately it is, since you’ve set yourself in judgement on my affairs. You were putting yourself up for sale at Dr Barnard’s—why? To dig up filth for your news rag? Is that why Dr Barnard was after you?’

Rather too close to the truth, that. ‘I was not for sale!’

‘All right, I correct myself.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘You were, in my case at least, offering it for free.’

She gasped and struck out at him. But he caught her hand in an iron-hard grip.

Blue eyes, turquoise-blue eyes, whose bed did you sleep in last night? Yesterday Alec Stewart had found himself rather hoping that there was some reason—and not the obvious one—for this girl to be appearing on stage at the Temple of Beauty.

Well, perhaps he’d found that reason and he didn’t like it one bit. She made money out of digging up prurient details of other people’s lives. Hence her appearance at Dr Barnard’s, hunting, he guessed, for lurid gossip about the visitors to that seedy place. Hence her temerity in coming here, to cast her blue eyes boldly over Two Crows Castle, while carrying in that bag of hers some nasty notes about the crimes of a so-called rackrenter. Yet—how stunned she’d looked when she realised he was the owner of Two Crows Castle! And why was it that everything she did, or said, challenged all his preconceptions of her?

He remembered the way she’d reacted to his kiss last night. Even now he caught his breath at the way her silvery-blonde hair tumbled like a silken waterfall around her shoulders, at the way her drab cloak had fallen apart to allow him a distracting glimpse of the small but ripe breasts that were prominent beneath her shabby gown.

Very pretty, and very professional. Get a grip, man. Not only is she a courtesan, but she writes for a news rag. She’s damned dangerous.

As if to confirm his every suspicion, she made a dart for the door. He grabbed her easily with one outstretched arm. Still she struggled, panting to get away. He pulled her closer and his physical desire reared inevitably at the sensation of her warm body agitating against his. ‘Little fool,’ he uttered. ‘Little fool, stop that. Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions, do you understand?’

That quietened her. Her turquoise eyes flew up to his in shock and she went very still. Then she tossed back her glorious hair. ‘You need not think, Captain Stewart,’ she shot up at him, ‘that I’m afraid of you and men like you!’

‘Then you damn well ought to be,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Though to be fair, you dealt with Dr Barnard’s customers—myself included—most professionally last night.’

She gasped. ‘Last night was a mistake! If I’d known everything about you …’

‘Known what, exactly?’ he drawled.

‘Do you deny that you pack this—this hideous old ruin with impoverished ex-soldiers?’

Frowning, he let her go. But now his broad shoulders and back were planted solidly against the door and he made a formidable barrier indeed to any thought of escape. ‘My friends know the truth.’ His eyes blazed danger. ‘Write what you like, Mrs Rowland, and be damned to you.’

‘I will, if I choose! And I could also write about the way you expect young women to just melt at your feet! How you promise them—promise them …’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Promise them what, exactly?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. Oh, Lord. She should not have said that.

He was drawing nearer. ‘Promise them what, Mrs Rowland? I want to know.’ Now a truly wicked smile was curving his lips. ‘Money? Pleasure? Perhaps you’re more tempted than you care to admit by what you think our encounter last night promised?’

She gazed up at him, speechless. It was impossible. It was incredible. Yet—desire, raw and primitive, flooded her veins. Her breasts ached traitorously for his knowing touch. Her eyes were locked with his as she wildly sought inspiration that didn’t come. And he was drawing nearer, a wicked light in his gaze. ‘Playing coy, are you, Mrs Rowland? Who knows—if you promise to be … generous, I might consider letting you go, with no more questions asked.’

‘Generous?’ Her heart shrivelled. ‘Exactly what—?’

‘You were only too happy,’ he silkily prompt ed, ‘to allow me a sample of your wares last night. Now, what’s the price of your freedom, I wonder?’ He’d reached out, to touch her cheek. This woman, thought Alec grimly, was testing his self-control with her dangerous games. Desire was licking hungrily at his loins; his manhood was thickening, and though he had no desire to lower himself to her level of trickery, he most certainly wanted to teach her a lesson.

The realisation of what he was suggesting hit Rosalie like a hammer blow. The brush of his hand across her delicate cheek scorched her. ‘You wouldn’t. You can’t …’

‘I really cannot think of a more enjoyable way of bargaining,’ he said softly. ‘Can you?’

Her world spun. All she could feel were his hands, splayed across her back, his fingertips firm and warm through her clothing. All she could see, when she jerked her head up, was his hard face, lit with an emotion she could not name as he drew her relentlessly into his arms.

His dark eyes raked her. ‘I think the price of your freedom, Athena,’ he breathed, ‘should be—this.’ He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She meant to resist. She had no intention of letting him do this. But as he clasped her close, heat uncoiled from deep within and flooded her veins, awakening each and every pleasure point in her body. This time there was no gentleness whatsoever in his touch, but his mouth was wildly sensual as he took hard possession, parting her lips with ruthlessness. His tongue was thrusting, at the same time caressing; she felt her legs giving way, felt herself longing to surrender to more, much more, as he hauled her against him and she felt the lean length of his muscular body, felt the hard intrusion of his arousal pressing against her abdomen.

Her breasts were peaking painfully, demanding his touch; between her thighs was liquid longing. His kiss was slow, erotic and powerful, tasting faintly of brandy and the very essence of male domination. She’d thought she hated men and their ways. Yet she was powerless to resist this one.

Linette. Her sister’s name tore through her. With all her strength she thrust him away. ‘You are—you are vile to treat me in this way!’

He stepped back, his hard face bleached of every emotion. ‘I thought it was maybe what you wanted. You are, it strikes me, a deceptive and muddle-headed young woman, Mrs Rowland. This gossip sheet you write for—if anything at all should appear in it about Two Crows Castle, then I warn you, I’ll take strong action. Because there are people who depend on me and I won’t let them suffer for the sake of your cheap scandal-raking, do you understand?’

Just then there was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal Eyepatch. Rosalie found herself shuddering at the scornful look he cast her way. He said, ‘A word, Captain?’

Alec joined him in the doorway, bending his dark head to the other’s in a brief exchange. Eyepatch left and Alec Stewart came back in, slowly.

Alec had to admit that this woman—Rosalie—confounded him at every turn. What was she? Who was she? A whore at the Temple of Beauty, who knew rather a lot about art? A pretty little widow and a digger-up of scandals, who had no idea of the effect she had on men?

And now Garrett brought still more news about his treacherous captive. Alec folded his arms and gazed down at her. ‘Well, Mrs Rowland, investigative reporter amongst other things, it seems you’ve got certain obligations that you’ve neglected in order to come on your little jaunt this morning.’ He pointed to the open door. ‘You’d better be on your way.’

Obligations? What …? She glared up at him. ‘You mean I’m free to go?’

‘We made a bargain, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘That kiss was payment for your freedom. I’ve no desire to hold you captive.’

‘You already have!’ she flared. ‘I’ve been here against my will for at least an hour! I could press charges on you.’

‘That’s a novel idea.’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘Though I would, of course, be forced to press charges in return. Of robbery, perhaps.’

‘I—impossible!’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Think about it, Mrs Rowland. It would be more than easy for me to say there are valuables missing from this place. After all …’ he looked at his pocket watch coolly ‘… you’ve been here for quite a while on your own.’

‘But I’ve been locked in a bare room!’

Again he shrugged those wide, powerful shoulders. ‘Your word against mine. And I could produce plenty of witnesses who’d remember you from the Temple of Beauty. Do you really think you’d be taken seriously at the magistrates’ court?’

She tilted her stubborn chin. ‘Would you be taken seriously, Captain Stewart?’

‘I’m a war hero,’ he responded tonelessly. ‘Though it means little in financial terms, my word would carry more weight than that of a courtesan who writes for a gossip rag.’

He saw the colour stinging her creamy cheeks. Saw her fighting to find words of resistance and failing.

He was almost disappointed. Almost felt his heart softening for the defiant little widow. But he clamped down hard on any errant feeling like pity. His face as stone, he went to open the door and pointed the way. ‘As I was saying, you’ve clearly been missed. There are three people outside, looking for you. Including—’ his eyes narrowed ‘—your daughter.’

Chapter Eight

Katy was outside, clinging to Biddy. As soon as she saw Rosalie, she reached out to her. ‘Mama? I want Mama …’

‘Oh, darling …’ Rosalie hurried to hold her tight in her arms. Alec Stewart was looking at them both, sharply, knowingly. Naturally, Rosalie thought with scorn, that devil of a man had assumed Katy was hers. Well, let him. She realised Matt was there, too, looking rather warily at Captain Stewart and his crew.

‘Biddy. Matt,’ she said quickly. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Miss Helen sent me after you, miss, and told me to bring Matt, too. She was really cross when she realised you’d not taken him, like you’d said.’ Biddy glanced wide-eyed at the formidable figure of Alec Stewart, who had gone to say something to one of his men. ‘She told me,’ went on Biddy, ‘to say you must come home, because you ought not to be on these streets alone! I brought little Katy, too, ‘cos she was missing you bad, weren’t you, chick?’

Katy, in Rosalie’s arms, seemed quite happy now, and in fact had wriggled round to stare at Alec, who was strolling back towards them. She was clearly intrigued by the gleaming gold curb-chain of his pocket watch and her little fingers reached out to it.

‘Katy, don’t!’ Rosalie backed away with her quickly. She feared that he would use this as an opportunity to castigate her still further. Accuse her of rearing a future child-thief, perhaps.

But Alec had forestalled her. He pulled out his gold watch so Katy could see it. ‘This is all it is, sweetheart,’ he told the infant softly. ‘Something to remind me that I’m a busy man and I should have been somewhere else half an hour ago at least.’

‘Tick-tock.’ Katy looked up at him with her wide, dark-lashed green eyes. ‘Tick-tock man.’ She reached out to touch it, then gurgled in merriment.

Rosalie saw Alec’s mouth curl into a brief but devastating smile as he patted Katy’s chubby fist and put his watch away. Her heart jumped. So handsome. So beguiling. So false. As if to prove her point, he turned to Rosalie and the smile was quite gone. ‘It appears to me that your duties lie elsewhere, Mrs Rowland. I warn you—and I assure you I mean it—that there’ll be no writing about me or Two Crows Castle. My men will escort you and your companions as far as the hackney stand on Bishopsgate.’

Matt O’Brien was still watching him almost with awe; much use he was in protecting her from Captain Stewart, Rosalie thought in despair. Her chin lifted an inch. ‘We will make our own way, thank you!’

‘You won’t,’ he broke in icily. ‘I want you well clear of this place.’ He swung round and raised his voice. ‘Sergeant McGrath!’ The villainous-looking Scotsman with red hair came up. ‘Find Mrs Rowland and her companions a hackney cab, will you? And make damned sure they get into it.’ Without a further glance at her, he turned and strode off while McGrath led the way along Crispin Street, with Matt O’Brien at his side, eagerly asking questions.

‘I hear your Captain fought like the very devil against the French at Waterloo,’ Matt was saying to McGrath.

You traitor, Matt. Rosalie, holding Katy tight, walked furiously behind, with Biddy chattering away beside her. And she herself was a fool. Today, as Ro Rowland, roving reporter, she’d blundered straight into that man’s stronghold. Twice now she had let him kiss her. She’d twice melted in his strong arms, and, even worse, had wanted more. She shivered at the memory of that powerful body, moulded hard against hers; dear Lord, she had not even tried to resist him!

Her cheeks burned at the recollection of her astonishing stupidity. If Alec Stewart truly was Linette’s seducer—how on earth was she going to tackle him now?

McGrath beckoned a hackney, spoke to the driver, then strolled off. Biddy’s brother said he’d walk, since his next job of work was close by in Fenchurch Street. So just Biddy, Rosalie and Katy got into the cab.

‘Where to, miss?’ asked the cab driver.

‘Clerkenwell. St John’s Church,’ she answered distractedly, fumbling for her purse.

‘No need for that,’ said the cabbie. ‘Your fare’s bin paid.’

‘No! I won’t allow it!’ she exploded with renewed fury. Captain Stewart must have given the necessary coins to McGrath. How dare he …?

‘Suit yerself,’ shrugged the cabbie. ‘Pay me twice over if you wants to throw your money away.’

Rosalie slumped inside the carriage. Biddy was excited by the novelty of the trip and pointed the sights out to Katy through the window. ‘There’s St Paul’s, Katy, see? And there’s the Smithfield market …’

But Rosalie could see nothing except Alec Stewart’s hard, mocking face. She remembered his mouth and how it had branded her with the kind of kiss she hadn’t even known existed.

* * *

Katy had become fretful by the time they reached Clerkenwell. As they climbed out, the clock of the nearby church was chiming one, and Katy, in Rosalie’s arms, was crooning softly to herself, ‘Tick-tock man. Tick-tock man.’

Thus Rosalie would always remember the exact time that she realised what her enemy was capable of. Would always remember, as she held little Katy tight, the moment when Biddy cried out, ‘Lord have mercy, what on earth’s happened here?’

Rosalie swung round to thrust Katy into Biddy’s arms. ‘Look after her,’ she breathed. She was already hurrying towards the house.

The door was wide open. Helen was standing on the steps surrounded by neighbours and little Toby was clinging tearfully to her.

‘Helen.’ Rosalie pushed her way through. ‘Helen, what’s happened?’

‘Oh, Rosalie … Come and see.’

A horrible sick feeling tore at Rosalie’s gut as she followed her friend inside. In the front room the little square-built printing press, Helen’s pride and joy, had been viciously attacked with what could only have been a strong hammer or a pick-axe. Leaden type and pieces of wooden frame were scattered all over the floor.

‘Someone broke in while I was out. They picked the lock. Then—my printing press …’ Helen’s voice broke. ‘Look at this.’

She handed Rosalie a note scrawled in ink. Gossip-raking bitch.

Rosalie felt quite faint. ‘Did no one see anything?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Mrs Lucas over the road went for the constables when she heard the noise, but whoever it was had run off by the time they arrived. Oh, Rosalie, I—I knew I had enemies, but—this? Who could have done something so malicious? How am I going to start, all over again?’

Rosalie was reeling, because she knew somebody who was capable of such a ruthless revenge. Someone who had, quite possibly, kept her locked in his basement to give his men time to do this. Would such a person feel any regret whatsoever for seducing and abandoning an innocent girl? The answer, surely, was no.

She felt physically sick. I’m afraid I’ve found him, Linette.

And, oh, Lord, he was going to be a powerful adversary.

Some hours later Alec was pacing the landing outside the main bedchamber of his father’s magnificent Belgrave Square house.

As soon as he’d seen his unwelcome visitor—Mrs Rowland—off his premises, he’d ridden to give a fencing lesson in Piccadilly, then he had an appointment down at the Limehouse docks with a warehouse owner who wanted to hire a dozen men. Alec always tried to find work for his ex-soldiers if they were fit for it.

He’d got back to Two Crows Castle to find a message for him, written by the Earl’s steward, Jarvis. Master Alec. I’m afraid that your father has been taken ill. The doctor is with him. Please come.

A thousand thoughts had raced through Alec’s brain as he’d urged his horse westwards through London’s busy streets to Mayfair. A thousand regrets. How serious was this? Had his father’s bout of illness been brought on, perhaps, by the shock of evil knowledge? Would his father even want to see the son he’d disowned a year ago?

Jarvis, a loyal old retainer, came out of the bedchamber now, bearing a tray laden with medicinal beakers. ‘Your father will see you now, Master Alec, sir.’

That was something. ‘Is the doctor still with him?’

‘He’s gone, but he’ll call back within the hour. He said there are no physical signs of illness, but your father needs to rest.’

Alec felt a great release of tension throughout his body. But—No wonder he needs to rest, with a young wife who pleads to be taken to every party of the Season. With a young wife who …

No. You must forget that, for now.

Alec went swiftly up to the lavishly furnished chamber. His father lay against the pillows of the four-poster in the half-light, for the curtains of the big room were already drawn against the early February dusk and only the coals in the fire lightened the gloom.

‘Alec.’ Slowly his father turned towards him. His gaunt hands twisted the bedcovers fretfully. ‘It’s been so long, Alec. So long since I’ve seen you …’

When you told me you’d no desire to see me ever again.

‘Sir. If there’s anything I can do, you have only to say the word. How are you?’

‘Oh, the doctor says I’ll live.’ His voice rasped. ‘Your brother—he was here the moment he heard I was ill.’

I’ll bet he was. Alec merely nodded. ‘Jarvis told me what the doctor said. That your affliction is thankfully nothing serious.’

‘Yes,’ muttered his father. ‘Damned quack poked and prodded everywhere. But he said it would do me good to get away from London.’

Away from London. Yes. But … ‘What does Lady Aldchester think of that, sir?’ Susanna adored London life. She’d once said that she would die in the country.

The Earl shuffled against his pillows and coughed. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know; she’s been out shopping with friends all afternoon, she won’t even be aware that I’ve had this damned turn. But she’ll come with me, she’s devoted, Alec, despite what you said! And so is Stephen. Would you believe it, he’s just told me he was setting off for Carrfields himself today, to see that everything was in good order!’

Alec’s fists tightened at that. So his brother had taken heed of him then, last night.

‘But now,’ went on his father, ‘he needn’t go, of course. Because I’ll travel there myself, with my dear Susanna.’

I would die in the country.

‘And,’ went on his father, ‘no doubt Stephen will escort us there and visit us regularly.’

Alec exploded. ‘The hell he will!’ He dragged his hand through his hair, said in a quieter voice, ‘I do beg your pardon, sir.’

His father was silent a moment, kneading the bedcover with his fingers. ‘Do you remember the times we used to have, when you were home on leave? We used to sit up till late into the night, didn’t we, and you’d tell me, oh, such tales, about the battles, and the sieges in Spain …’

‘I’ve never forgotten it, sir.’

‘But now …’ and his father’s voice was growing fretful ‘… now, all I hear about you is that you avoid civilised company, you avoid your brother, except to fight with him. And my wife has told me, reluctantly mind, that it’s you, always you, stirring things up …’

‘I suppose she would,’ said Alec bitterly.

‘What? What did you say? Do you take heed of me, Alec? Your mother died so long ago—am I never to be allowed happiness again? Will you make your peace with your brother and your stepmother?’

Alec stood ramrod straight. ‘You ask the impossible, sir.’

The Earl stared at him. Then he waved a tired hand. ‘Go back to your soldiers’ drinking dens. Go on, go. And once I’m at Carrfields, I want you to clear out everything of yours that’s left in this house. Your old army journals, your maps of Spain—all the paraphernalia that clutters up your room and my study. It hurts me to see them all, to remember … Take them away, do you hear?’

‘Everything will be removed. Though I hope you know that if you ever need me, I’m here for you—’

‘Leave. Just leave.’

And Alec turned, with a heavy heart, to go.

He found Stephen in the first-floor drawing room, gazing with narrowed eyes at the paintings on the walls—some of them inherited, some acquired from auction houses—and worth, like everything in this palatial house, a small fortune.

‘So, little brother.’ Stephen, on observing Alec’s entry, turned from staring at a French landscape to sink on to a sofa, where he tapped his fingers rather nervously on its satin upholstery. ‘Come in hopes of taking advantage of the family drama, have you? Planning, perhaps, to weasel your way back into our father’s affections?’

Alec gazed at him calmly. ‘You’ve had a respite, Stephen. Last night I suggested you leave London. Now there’s no need. Because our father’s going to Carrfields with his wife.’

‘No! Has he just told you that?’ Stephen was on his feet again, his face flushed. ‘Susanna will die of boredom there!’

‘Perhaps. But if you do anything other than tell her she must accompany our father, then your game is at an end.’

‘You wouldn’t …’

‘Oh, I would. Believe me, I would.’

‘She’s young, Alec! Younger than me, younger than you. And Carrfields—it’s like a prison for her!’

‘She should have thought of that before she married him,’ rapped back Alec. ‘Obviously his wealth distracted her from the practical realities of playing wife to a much older man.’

Stephen drew in a hissed breath. ‘Now, look. As far as London society is concerned, I’m merely being the dutiful stepson by escorting her to her various engagements …’

His voice faltered, because of the way Alec was gazing at him. ‘You won’t be escorting her anywhere in the foreseeable future—’ Alec pointed a finger at him, casually ‘—because she’s going to Hampshire with our father.’

Stephen opened his mouth, then shut it again.

‘Oh, and there’s one more thing,’ went on Alec. ‘Why were you talking last night to the blonde whore who played Athena?’

‘Why? The usual reasons.’ Stephen’s lip curled. ‘So you noticed her, too, did you? Are you going back there tonight to tup the wench? I’d be interested to know what bedroom tricks she employs—’

Stephen broke off, because his brother’s bunched fist was suddenly in front of his face. ‘Oh, Stephen,’ Alec said softly, ‘I’ve no intention of paying for anyone’s services. But I’ve another question. You paid those men to attack me last night at the Temple of Beauty, didn’t you? Why?’

‘I really don’t know what the hell you’re—’

‘Don’t waste your breath trying to deny it. Because I’m just longing for an excuse to give you the beating you deserve.’

Stephen cowered away. ‘Not here. Not in our father’s house!’

Then the door opened. And Susanna was there.

Lady Aldchester, the former Contessa di Ascoli, was exquisite, everyone was agreed on that. Her origins were obscure—she had been born in England to an Italian mother and had married a Milanese count, considerably older than she.

When he died in Italy two years ago his widow had decided to come to live in London, where she had made her entrance in considerable style. She had rented a fine house where she held glittering soirées with her mother, and soon half of London’s gentry were in love with her.

Including his father.

Now she looked from one to the other, lovely as ever, with her clouds of raven curls and her sultry dark-blue eyes. She was younger than both of them. Then she said, in her silken voice that bore the allure of her Italian heritage, ‘Stephen. Alec. I’ve just been told that your father is ill.’

‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Stephen. ‘Rest assured.’

‘I will go up, then, to see him …’

Stephen strode forwards. ‘I will come with you.’

‘No. Best if I see him by myself.’

Alec had already turned to go. But he became aware that she was following him out on to the palatial landing above the staircase, where they were, momentarily, alone. The faint scent of gardenias clung to her skin and hair.

‘Alec,’ she said, ‘my dear, please will you speak with me one moment before I go up to your father?’ Her delicate gloved fingers were touching his arm. ‘It’s been so long since we spoke. I’m sad, because you used to be at every society gathering. You are missed,’ she added softly.

‘Do you know,’ he said in a curt voice, ‘I find that London society doesn’t appeal to me very much at the moment. Susanna, my father wants to go to Carrfields.’

The colour left her cheeks. ‘Carrfields! But he promised me—’

‘I take it,’ Alec cut in, ‘that you’ll go with him? Stephen, by the way, is staying in London.’

She hesitated. Then, ‘Of course I will go.’

With a tight bow, he turned to leave, but she caught again at his arm. ‘My dear, I so wish we could be friends again! And I’m sorry about the Bedford Street house. I told your father that my mother wished for a residence in London. But I didn’t realise you would be made homeless!’

‘Didn’t you?’ This time he couldn’t help the bitterness showing through. ‘Believe me, that’s the least of my worries.’

Her eyes were clouded. ‘What can I do, to redeem myself?’ she murmured. ‘Alec, I am not happy, you must know that. I am not, if it’s of any consolation to you, in the slightest bit proud of myself.’

‘I think you know, Susanna, what you ought to do. Whether you do it or not is entirely up to you. You have a better side. Use it.’ Alec gave a curt bow and left.

She watched him go down the vast staircase that swept to the entrance hall below. Stephen had come out of the drawing room and was looking at her.

‘Carrfields,’ he said. ‘How will you bear it?’

‘It seems,’ she answered, ‘as if I must.’

And she went upstairs, to visit her husband.

Shortly afterwards, Lord Stephen Maybury went back to his house in Brook Street and spoke to the man with the scarred forehead. ‘Well, Markin? Did you do as I ordered?’

‘Hire a couple of ruffians to wreck the printing press that produced that foul stuff about Lady Aldchester? Aye, my lord. And there’s more. The fair-haired piece from the Temple of Beauty that you asked me to follow last night—turns out she lives there, as well! She’s some kind of writer!’

And Stephen’s narrow green eyes widened.

He had been absolutely enraged to see the way Susanna looked at Alec out there on the landing. The way she had agreed, in spite of all her earlier protestations about hating the country, to go with his father to Carrfields.

Was she tiring of her secret games with Stephen?

Now, though, the blonde girl from the Temple of Beauty drove everything from his mind. If there was a connection, with the other one from three years ago, he needed to shut the girl up. And fast.

Chapter Nine

The next two weeks were blighted by the blustery rain of late March and the leaden skies reflected Helen’s mood of despair. ‘I’ll never feel safe again. Oh, Rosalie, who could have done such a thing?’

‘The constables are hunting the culprits,’ Rosalie soothed her as she brought her a cup of tea. ‘Why not start writing again? You have a gift for it and for teaching. I’ll never forget how you inspired us in the village school, about art and history. You opened up a new world to me, Helen.’

Helen gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘You had a hunger for learning anyway. Every book I brought to you, you used to devour. When I took you all to that art gallery in Oxford, I could hardly tear you away!’

‘My father was an artist, remember?’ Rosalie sat down next to her on the little sofa. ‘I think I hoped there might be some paintings there by him. Of course, there weren’t. But I looked, and looked—so foolish of me!’

Helen gazed at her. ‘Oh, I’d no idea … Rosalie, you must have missed him so!’

‘Always,’ said Rosalie quietly. ‘I was so young when he died. But I never forgot him.’ She tried to smile again. ‘Do you remember how on the way back from Oxford, I wouldn’t stop asking you questions about everything we’d seen? How you put up with me, I can’t imagine. Seriously, Helen, I know you feel dreadful, but how about writing again? Stories, poetry, anything!’

Helen shook her head. ‘I worry far too much to write. I still feel as though I’m being watched.’

Rosalie shivered, because sometimes she felt the same. But aloud she said resolutely, ‘Nonsense! Biddy’s brothers are close by, remember—and you have such loyal friends. Do please try to stop worrying.’

‘Oh, Rosalie. You are being so good to me.’

‘Not as good as you’ve been to me, Helen,’ answered Rosalie quietly.

And she felt a liar and a hypocrite. All of this is my fault. I drew down the wrath of Alec Stewart upon you.

The constables, she privately thought, would be doing very little about Helen’s wrecked press; you needed money and influence to stir the forces of law into action. Who else but Alec Stewart would have set his men to do this vile deed? He had left that note to warn Rosalie to be quiet about his exploitation of those poor soldiers. What would he do if he knew that Linette had whispered his name as she lay dying?

It was up to her to confront him. But how could she, secure as he was in his castle of rogues?

At least Rosalie had been right to assure Helen that she did indeed have friends, because Francis Wheeldon, the kind churchwarden who lived in nearby St John’s Square, called round almost daily; one afternoon he asked Helen if she would write some articles about the history of Clerkenwell for the parish magazine.

Rosalie had seen Helen’s face brighten with interest, and tactfully she had left them alone, taking Katy and Toby to the Green to play in the spring sunshine. She liked Francis. Quite a few years older than Helen, he lived with his spinster sister and was a scholarly, gentle man.

Indeed, when Rosalie got back, Helen was looking almost happy and was already sitting at her writing desk.

‘So you managed to get rid of Mr Wheeldon at last?’ teased Rosalie gently.

Helen turned with a smile. ‘Oh, yes. It’s a little embarrassing really, the way he fusses over me.’

‘He’s sweet. And he thinks a lot of you, Helen.’ ‘Nonsense!’ Helen was brisk again. ‘But, well, writing these articles about Clerkenwell will be interesting. Francis is so knowledgeable. And that reminds me, Rosalie—I hadn’t realised before, but Francis knows such a great deal about French history. So I mentioned your mother’s family—they owned property south of Paris, didn’t they?’

Rosalie swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘They used to, but they lost everything in the Revolution and were scattered far and wide, my mother said.’

‘That’s what I told him. But Francis corresponds with a friend in Paris and he said he’d ask for any news. Isn’t that kind of him?’

‘Incredibly kind, yes.’ Rosalie was anxious not to dampen Helen’s enthusiasm. ‘And it’s so good to see you writing again!’

Helen clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, Rosalie, that reminds me—will you do me a very big favour? I was asked to a poetry reading above Hatchard’s bookshop in Piccadilly tonight—they wanted me to write a review. But now I’d much rather get on with this, for Mr Wheeldon. I wonder, will you go instead?’

Rosalie hesitated. Amateur poets did not always make for the jolliest of evenings.

‘Please,’ urged Helen. ‘I’d be so grateful!’

‘Of course I’ll go,’ Rosalie said swiftly. She owed Helen so very much.

* * *

But later, as she was upstairs preparing herself for a night of would-be versifiers communing effusively with nature, she was disturbed by a knock at the front door. She knew Biddy was in the kitchen giving the children their supper, and of Helen there was no sign; doubtless she was engrossed in her writing and deaf to the world. So Rosalie hurried downstairs to answer it—and found Sal, from the Temple of Beauty, wrapped in a hooded mantle against the cool March night. Rosalie flinched inwardly. The Temple of Beauty could only mean trouble. ‘Sal,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise. How did you find me?’

‘Caught sight of you earlier, gal, at the market in Cheapside!’ grinned Sal, hands on hips. ‘Then I simply asked around and tracked you down—a neighbourly visit, that’s all!’

Rosalie nodded. ‘How is the Temple of Beauty?’

‘Put it this way, it’s not been the same since the night you were there. Remember that fight? Dr B.’s still got a black eye from it and Mrs B.’s given Charlotte the push, ‘cos she realised that same night what the pair of them was up to between the sheets! So the place has had a right old turning-over, though that wretched piano’s busted to bits, so it’s not all bad news.’

Rosalie shivered slightly. ‘Dr Barnard’s not still after me, is he?’

‘For bein’ some sort of writer? Lord, no, he forgot that in all the trouble over Charlotte.’

‘And—you’ve not seen the Captain in there again?’

She tried to make her question casual, but Sal arched one painted eyebrow. ‘Still hankering after him, gal? No, no sign of him. Forget his handsome face, that’s my advice.’ She peered inside the hallway. ‘Nice-lookin’ place. Stayin’ with family, are you? I remember you mentioned a sister to me.’

Rosalie was puzzled. She didn’t think she’d mentioned Linette to anyone there. ‘I did have a sister, but she died.’

‘I’m sorry, gal, real sorry. Your only sister, was she?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well …’ Sal looked up and down the street and shrugged her shoulders ‘… just thought I’d call to see how you was and everything. You look mighty smart. All dressed up for something, or someone?’

Rosalie glanced down at her serviceable blue gown and managed a smile. ‘Oh, it’s a poetry reading in Piccadilly, though to be honest, I’d much prefer to be indoors on a night like this.’

Sal laughed. ‘Poetry. La-di-dah! Walkin’ there by yourself?’

‘I’ll take a hackney cab. But once I’m there I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe among the poets!’

‘Well, I’m one of the Three Graces tonight at Dr B.’s, so I’ll be dressing up, too, but I shan’t be wearin’ as much as you. Just thought I’d see how you are, you know?’

‘Yes. Of course. My thanks for calling.’

Rosalie watched Sal hurrying away as the cold wind whipped some rubbish down the street. With a catch in her throat, she remembered seeing Alec Stewart for the first time, lounging at the back of Dr Barnard’s hall. He’d quite simply taken her breath away. So stupid of her. She knew now that her judgement had been most terribly awry.

Alec Stewart would be unaware that Linette had whispered his name to Rosalie as she lay dying. But surely, surely he realised she would guess instantly that he was the one behind the destruction of Helen’s press?

No doubt he dismissed her as powerless, she thought bitterly. As he’d said, no magistrate would take seriously the word of a woman who’d appeared on stage at the Temple of Beauty. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t let him get away with his crimes!

Meanwhile—oh, Lord, she was going to be late for the poets.

Sal pulled up her hood and hurried round the corner to where the man waited for her. She looked up at him defiantly. ‘She did have a sister. But she’s dead. That’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it?’

‘Dead! Are you quite sure?’

‘Sure as I’m standin’ here—look, am I gettin’ paid, or what?’

‘When you’ve earned it, slut,’ snarled the man. ‘Did you find out if she has any plans for the next few days?’

Sal hesitated, then muttered, ‘She’ll be at some sort of poetry affair in Piccadilly tonight.’

‘Tonight …’

‘Remember, mister, you swore to me she’d come to no harm!’

The man with the scar on his forehead pushed some coins into her palm with contempt. ‘Take your money, slut. And get out of here.’

Sal gave a shudder of revulsion and ran off into the dark night. She could only pray that the girl would come to no harm …

Rosalie smothered a yawn as she listened to yet another soulful poet describing in verse, to a hushed audience, the joys and agonies of the sensitive heart.

Deciding that Lord Byron—whose Childe Harold she adored—would have given the fellow a crushing set-down, she edged her way to another part of the big reception room above the Piccadilly bookshop where food was being served. Heaping a plate with several small but delicious savoury patties, she found herself a chair in a quiet corner, pulled out her notebook and pencil and began to write.

Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to a literary reception. Who, dear reader, would have guessed that so many London citizens long to express their innermost thoughts in verse? Who would dare to tell these would-be poets that their innermost thoughts are better kept precisely where they are?

She chewed the end of her pencil, frowning as her mood darkened once more. Even if Helen were miraculously to get hold of another printing press, there would be no more Scribblers until Alec Stewart was dealt with …

‘I don’t believe it! My dear girl, what on earth are you doing here?’ The voice came from behind her and she jumped up, quickly slipping her book and pencil into her reticule.

It was Lord Stephen Maybury. Last time she’d seen him, at Dr Barnard’s, he’d had a heated argument with Alec Stewart. And of course Lord Maybury must still think she was one of Dr Barnard’s girls. Fiddlesticks. She swiftly composed herself. ‘Poetry happens to be an interest of mine, my lord!’ she answered lightly.

He drew a little closer. ‘You don’t write the stuff, do you?’

He was wearing a fine blue kerseymere tailcoat with a striped-silk waistcoat and a shirt with a high, starched collar. Rosalie stifled her instinctive dislike of fashionable men. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I have no such talent.’

‘Thank God for that. But—’ she saw Lord Maybury was taking in her plain gown with its long sleeves and high neck ‘—this is rather a different setting from the place where we last met.’ He raised one questioning eyebrow.

She ventured a smile. ‘I can see I must confess to you, my lord. In fact, I was only at Dr Barnard’s for one night …’

‘Ah.’ He was pulling up a chair and beckoned her to sit again. ‘Some kind of challenge?’

She seized on that. ‘Yes. Yes, a challenge! We ladies like to wager occasionally, you know! Although—’ she leaned a fraction closer ‘—some of my more timid friends would be just a little shocked were they to hear of it, so I do hope that it will remain our secret!’

His eyes had fastened on her wedding ring. ‘What about your husband? Would he be shocked, too?’

She’d got into the habit of wearing the ring. So many people assumed Katy was hers that her story of widowhood protected them both. She pretended to dab at her eyes. ‘My husband sadly died some time ago, my lord.’

‘My dear,’ he said sympathetically, ‘you look scarcely old enough to be married, let alone bereaved. Tragic. Well, my lips are sealed about your little adventure at Dr Barnard’s. Indeed, I would not normally visit such a place myself, but certain—circumstances demanded it.’ He looked around. ‘I was, to be honest, about to leave here. Can’t stand much more of this drivel. However— if you were to keep me company for a while, it might be just tolerable. Would you care for a drink? Lemonade is your preference, I believe?’

Before she could reply, he was snapping his fingers for a waiter and murmuring his order.

Then he shifted his chair closer. ‘Do you know,’ he confided, ‘I shall always think of you as Athena, goddess of wisdom. But I would be truly honoured to know your real name.’

‘It’s Rosalie,’ she said.

‘Charming. And here are our drinks.’ He was putting money on the waiter’s tray and passing her a chilled glass. ‘Now, I am so glad,’ he went on with fervour, ‘to learn that you were only at that place for one night! Indeed, my own visit was, as you no doubt noticed, sadly curtailed.’

In the background, the chatter of all the guests rose and fell; her pulse was racing because here, perhaps, was a heaven-sent chance. ‘I noticed you seemed dismayed, my lord, to meet Captain Stewart there. May I ask why you dislike him so very much?’

She saw a shadow cross his features. ‘Do we really have to talk about that dissipated wretch? Couldn’t I just advise you to keep as far away from him as possible? The man is a disgrace.’

Her pulse thudded. A disgrace … ‘I’m aware, of course,’ she said steadily, ‘that he extorts money from former soldiers.’

He’d been sipping his wine, but now he spluttered a little. ‘What?’

‘I know he’s a rackrenter,’ Rosalie explained. ‘Letting out squalid accommodation.’

‘Ah. You’ve heard all about that.’ He ordered fresh drinks from the same waiter, then leaned closer, bringing with him the strong scent of his citrus cologne. ‘You’ll realise, then,’ he went on, ‘that it’s no wonder I and other men of decency cannot tolerate the sight of him! There’s also—no, I really mustn’t talk of it.’

‘Please.’ Rosalie gulped too much lemonade in hope that it would ease the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Please tell me.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Very well, since I see you have no illusions about the scoundrel. I’m afraid that Alec Stewart is an utter reprobate. Ex-soldiers, ladies of the night—he keeps company with the lowest of the low.’

Ladies of the night. Oh, no. If she’d had any doubts, they were banished in that instant. She put her hand to her forehead, which throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Linette …

‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Lord Maybury with concern. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Rosalie, but you are a woman of intelligence and you saw him yourself, at the Temple of Beauty.’

‘You were there also,’ said Rosalie.

Something—some alertness—flickered across his smooth face. ‘I had certain enquiries to make. That was all. I was not there to watch the show—you might have noticed. But I believe Captain Stewart was.’

Yes. Yes, he was. She was going to say so, but her throat was still horribly dry and now her head was starting to swim. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so stupid of me, but I really am beginning to feel rather unwell.’

Lord Maybury leaned over her, concerned. ‘Indeed, you look quite pale. I hope I haven’t upset you by speaking of that unpleasant man, Captain Stewart. You were most spirited to fulfil your wager by appearing there and now we will say no more of it. Finish that drink and I’ll take you home.’

She got to her feet and was horrified at how unsteady she felt. ‘I really will be quite all right, I assure you …’

‘Do you have someone here who can take you home?’

‘No, I will find a cab …’

She’d dropped her reticule under the table; he bent to retrieve it for her. ‘Correction—I will fetch you a cab. No arguments, please, Rosalie.’

He escorted her down to the entrance hall, where he brought her cloak to her and left her while he went outside to find her a hackney. She saw a seat and rested there with her hands to her throbbing temples.

How could she even for one minute have been taken in that night at Dr Barnard’s by Alec Stewart’s façade of integrity? How ever was she going to deal with him? Why did she feel so ill? This is ridiculous. I will be all right soon. I must simply be tired.

Chapter Ten

Lord Maybury came frowning back into the hall. ‘No sign of any hackneys at all and it’s started to rain, so it could be some time before we find one. Now, I will brook no argument, my dear Rosalie; my own driver will take you home.’

‘No, really.’ Everything seemed to be getting worse and worse. She shook her head, but he was already adjusting her cloak around her shoulders as he led her outside.

‘I absolutely insist,’ he said firmly. It had begun to rain hard and Piccadilly was crowded with pedestrians and vehicles. ‘My carriage should be just down the road. Stay here, will you, while I tell the driver to bring it round?’

She watched him stride off. Then she blinked. Of all people, there was Biddy, hurrying towards her along the wet, crowded street, with her brother Matt at her heels. What on earth …? And Biddy was holding Katy in her arms.

‘Biddy! Matt! Oh, Katy darling!’

The small child, wrapped up in a cloak against the rain and clutching her rag doll, looked fretful. ‘Want Mama. Want Mama.’

Quickly Rosalie gathered Katy close. ‘Poor lamb, hush now … Biddy, what are you doing here with Katy, at this hour?’

Biddy looked breathless and terrified. ‘There’s been a fire! At Miss Helen’s house!’

‘A fire!’

‘Yes,’ said Matt grimly. ‘Started deliberately, the constables reckon!’

Oh, no. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘Miss Helen and the children got out in time,’ Biddy went on in a trembling voice. ‘My brothers Matt and Dickon and little Joe did everything they could to put it out, but by the time the fire engine arrived, the place was a ruin! Mr Francis, he came straight away, and she and little Toby have gone to stay with him and his sister. But little Katy was crying so hard for you, Miss Rosalie, that Helen said to take her to you and to tell you to join her at Mr Francis’s house in St John’s Square, see.’

No. Rosalie’s stomach clenched in anguish. Not possible—for this fire must be the work of Alec Stewart, continuing to wreak revenge for her allegations about his rackrenting. And if he started to guess that she knew about him and Linette, he would be even more dangerous. Rosalie could not abuse Helen’s friendship still further by endangering her in her new-found place of safety with Mr Wheeldon.

Then Biddy was curtsying wide-eyed, because Lord Maybury was back, his gaze immediately fastening on Katy in Rosalie’s arms. He didn’t look pleased. ‘What’s this?’ he said rather abruptly.

‘Some bad news,’ breathed Rosalie. ‘There’s been a fire at the house where I live.’

He stepped back in shock. ‘I’m so sorry. How terrible.’

Rosalie said quickly to Biddy, ‘Please tell Helen I’ll be all right. Tell her to look after herself and Toby; I’ll send word to her in the morning.’

Matt was stepping forwards, squaring his broad shoulders. ‘Now, Miss Helen said we was to see you safe to Mr Francis’s house, isn’t that so, Biddy? Or you could stay with us.’

Rosalie summoned the last of her strength. ‘Thank you, but my mind’s quite made up. I’ll find lodgings close by.’ There were several small, respectable hotels round here and she and Katy would be safe enough, for one night at least. But what next? Her head was reeling.

‘I’ll be off, then, and tell Miss Helen you’re fine.’ But Biddy still looked worried. ‘Oh …’ and she reached inside her cloak ‘… Miss Helen sent this for you.’ She handed over a folded note, which Rosalie pushed in her pocket; then, darting one last shy glance at Stephen, Biddy hurried away with Matt.

‘Rosalie,’ Stephen was saying, ‘what dreadful news about this fire! For the sake of your child, you must allow me to take you straight to my house in Brook Street, where my staff will see that you have everything you need, both of you.’ He reached out to touch Katy’s hand, but Katy started crying.

Rosalie was shaking her head. ‘No. I cannot accept. My intention is to find lodgings.’ She was already reaching in her reticule for her purse. But cold fingers of dread, as well as nausea, were stealing down her spine. It had gone. Her purse, with all her money, had gone.

Just then, a fast-moving hackney cab splashed through a puddle close to the kerb and sent water flying up to soak Rosalie’s cloak and boots. Katy was crying bitterly in her arms.

Stephen put his hand on Rosalie’s shoulder. ‘This is no time to go looking for lodgings with the child. Surely you realise she could catch a dangerous chill if she’s out in this rain for much longer. Look, there’s my coach.’ He was already guiding her towards an elegant vehicle with a coat of arms emblazoned on its doors.

What he said was all too true; Katy was shivering and sobbing, ‘Mama, Mama.’ Rosalie was feeling dizzy now, as well as sick.

Stephen was calling curtly to his driver. ‘Take us to Brook Street.’

And he climbed in after her, watching her from the corner of his eye as the carriage rolled away.

This was his chance. His chance to investigate this girl who looked like the other one. This girl who, even in her drab, damp-stained clothes, was a tempting little beauty. The gin he’d paid the waiter to slip in her drink had achieved its purpose swiftly in fuddling her wits. His man Markin had done well, too, in getting information from the slut Sal that the girl had a sister who was dead. Markin had also got the fire started at exactly the right time.

There was just one problem. No one, unfortunately, had made any mention of this woman Rosalie having a child—Stephen detested children. But that was a minor issue. He had her in his power, and now was his chance to find out exactly what mischief she might be about to stir up.

Alec Stewart had spent the afternoon at his father’s house, gathering up the possessions the Earl had ordered him to remove.

The Earl had gone to Carrfields with his young wife and the big house was quiet as Alec sorted through his various maps and campaign diaries, his bound volumes of war sketches done by talented comrades and some books about eighteenth-century art that he’d inherited from his mother. She’d died in a hunting accident when Alec was ten and the whole house, for Alec, still bore the stamp of her loving devotion to her family. Many of the paintings around the house had been hers.

Jarvis, his father’s loyal steward, had helped him to pack up some biographies of the commanders Alec had idolised in his youth. ‘A pity we see you here so rarely nowadays, sir,’ Jarvis had said gravely.

‘My father’s got a new wife, Jarvis. Things were bound to change.’

Jarvis’s silence was telling.

‘Have you heard from Carrfields yet?’ Alec asked.

‘Indeed, sir, they arrived safely. And the longer they stay there, the better.’

Another enigmatic remark. ‘The country air will certainly do my father’s health good,’ agreed Alec. But he reckoned that wasn’t what loyal old Jarvis meant.

He’d filled up three packing crates and Jarvis had promised to have them sent over to Two Crows Castle the next morning. ‘My thanks.’ Alec nodded. ‘I’ll be back for more in a day or so.’ He was already on his way to the door, when something in the entrance hall caught his eye. He halted. ‘Do you see that painting, Jarvis?’

‘Which one, sir?’

‘The oil, of the British troops at Blenheim.’ Alec stepped closer. ‘It looks different. Brighter. Or has it always been like that?’

‘Lord Stephen’s been telling your father he ought to get some of those old paintings cleaned, sir. In fact, Lord Stephen’s been seeing to it himself over the last few months, taking them off to be restored. That one’s just come back.’

Alec frowned. Restored? But his father had always declared that he liked the patina of the old oils …

‘You’ll realise, Master Alec, that I had no choice but to agree,’ Jarvis was saying anxiously.

That evening Alec had had a fencing lesson and was tidying away his equipment when Garrett came in. ‘One of the lads has got some news of a poetry reading in Piccadilly, Captain.’

Alec almost laughed. ‘Poetry! God’s teeth, why should that be any concern of mine? And confound it, Garrett, didn’t I tell you to get rid of that dog weeks ago?’ The big golden mongrel bounded happily up to Alec, wagging its tail.

‘His name’s Ajax, Captain. And I keep tellin’ him to go, but he won’t.’

‘He’ll eat us out of house and home!’

‘I’m payin’ for his food myself, Captain.’

‘Anyone ever told you you’re a fool, Garrett?’

‘I know that, Captain.’

Sighing, Alec continued putting away his foils. ‘This poetry reading you mentioned. I can only assume there was some purpose in your raising that unlikely subject?’

‘Well, yes, Captain. The girl’s there, you see—the one that was writin’ those lies about you and this place, the other week.’

Alec went still. ‘Mrs Rowland?’

‘Aye, Mrs Rowland. You ordered us to keep an eye on her, since we told you about that printing press of her friend’s bein’ all busted.’

‘Indeed,’ muttered Alec. ‘Busted, as you put it, by some enemy Mrs Rowland’s made with her scurrilous writing, no doubt.’

For God’s sake, she looked for trouble! She’d been blatantly on stage at the Temple of Beauty, half-clad, then she’d written some vile stuff directed at him and confronted him with a whole pack of lies in his own home. Yet she was so young, so vulnerable, despite her bold defiance … The dog came up to him, wagging its tail, and Alec absently stroked its head. ‘So you’ve discovered she’s at a poetry reading. Is that the sum of your information, Garrett?’

‘Not quite, Captain. We’ve got an informer there—a cousin of McGrath’s—who was hired as a waiter, ‘cos there was refreshments, see. And he’s told us that someone else you know is at this lit’rary faradiddle. Your brother. He and the girl seem pretty friendly.’

Alec’s hand went very still on the rapier he held. Despite her defiant words to him, the little widow knew Stephen!

‘What do you expect me to do, Garrett? My opinion of her is already pretty low,’ he answered, sliding the rapier back into the wall rack. ‘Finding out that she’s a friend of Stephen’s does nothing to alter that.’

Red-haired Sergeant McGrath had come in also. ‘There was somethin’ odd, Captain, if they’re friends,’ McGrath offered. ‘My cousin told me your brother ordered some gin to be put in the girl’s lemonade. And she was startin’ to look a bit sick, apparently.’

Damn it. Alec gave up hope of a quiet evening. ‘Saddle up my horse, Garrett. This place is in Piccadilly, you say?’

‘You will remember she ain’t no friend of yours, won’t you, Captain?’ Garrett warned. ‘Remember that nasty stuff she wrote about you …’

‘I’ll not forget it, never fear,’ Alec gritted, heading for the door. ‘That’s why I’m going to see what they’re both up to. Oh, and saddle a horse for yourself, too.’

‘Why’s that, Captain?’

‘You’re coming with me.’

Pulling on his greatcoat, Alec left. And Garrett muttered to McGrath, ‘I hope, I do hope, that our Captain’s not laying himself open to the tricks of another sweet-faced whore.’

‘Now you know and I know, my lad,’ replied McGrath, ‘that our Captain’s no fool in dealing with the muslin company … unless you’re talkin’ about that society lassie with all the money who ditched him just before Waterloo?’

Garrett snorted. ‘Her? The bird-witted little Lady Emilia? He was well rid of her and he knew it. No. It was someone else I was thinkin’ of. Someone who’s a real bundle of wickedness and is out to make more, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

‘Who—?’

But Garrett had hurried on after Alec, leaving Sergeant McGrath scratching his head in bewilderment.

‘Wait,’ Rosalie said urgently to Stephen as his carriage turned into Holborn. She clutched Katy tighter. ‘Can we stop? Please? I—I don’t feel well.’ Thanks to the lurching of this heavy coach, she was actually feeling desperately sick.

‘You’re just cold, my dear,’ Stephen said soothingly to Rosalie. Solicitously he placed a plaid rug across her knees. ‘We’ll soon be at my house, you and your little daughter.’

Katy hid her face from him. Rosalie tried to say, ‘She’s not my daughter.’ But something choked in her throat and her head was swimming. ‘I need fresh air now. I must get out …’

Suddenly she realised that the carriage had indeed come to a juddering halt, but not at Stephen’s bidding. As Stephen exclaimed, ‘What in God’s name—?’ Rosalie was already on her feet and heading unsteadily for the door with Katy in her arms. It was opened before she could reach it by a tall, rain-soaked man who looked blazingly angry.

Alec Stewart was here. Alec Stewart, from Two Crows Castle, had stopped the coach. She saw suddenly that his horse was close by, held by none other than Eyepatch, who looked at her balefully. Stephen’s driver up on his box was swearing, but Alec rapped out a few choice words that silenced him utterly.

Rosalie’s stomach was roiling. With Katy still in her arms, she stumbled down, swaying. Alec grabbed the child and held her very tight as Rosalie leaned her hand against the side of the carriage and vomited into the gutter.

The gin, thought Alec. He cursed under his breath. Garrett had warned him that Stephen had doctored her drink. But no one had warned Alec that she had the child with her. At a poetry reading? What the hell was going on? He held the infant close, protecting her from the distressing sight of her mother being sick. She reacted by reaching up her chubby fists to his cheek, instantly smiling through her fretful tears. ‘Tick-tock man,’ she said.

And now his damned brother was climbing out of the carriage, his face livid with rage and, yes, fear as he growled out, ‘Alec. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

‘I’ve come to see what you’re up to, Stephen.’ Alec’s voice was harsh. ‘It’s not your usual style to be conveying a sick woman and her infant in your carriage.’

‘Do you know,’ breathed Stephen, ‘it’s absolutely none of your business. Now, I know you fancied this little blonde slut that night at the Temple of Beauty …’ he glanced swiftly at Rosalie, who, still leaning against the carriage with her head bowed, was beyond hearing anything ‘… but if you’ve come to try to blacken my name with her, don’t expect her to believe a word you say!’

Alec didn’t, especially as last time they had met, he’d locked Rosalie in the basement of Two Crows Castle. She was an interferer. A troublemaker. But she didn’t deserve this.

She was turning towards him, white but resolute. ‘Give me the child, Captain Stewart!’ she declared rather desperately.

Dark rings shadowed her eyes. Dear God, she was scarcely fit to stand, but still defiant! ‘No!’ he snapped back. ‘Not until you can show you’re fit to be in charge of her.’

She wasn’t. She knew that and he knew it. Alec Stewart, her enemy. He looked vitally, frighteningly male, in his greatcoat and boots, his white shirt all crumpled, his neckcloth loose. His over-long hair, almost black in the rain, was all askew. His lean jaw was already dark with stubble, and his eyes were narrowed to angry slits.

The man Linette denounced on her death bed, thought Rosalie with a shudder. The man who was most likely responsible for the destruction of Helen’s house. Why was he here, with Eyepatch? Somehow she summoned up the last of her strength and lifted her head to blaze resistance. ‘How dare you interfere like this? Give me the child!’

Stephen smirked. ‘Well, well, Alec. Think you’ve really overstepped the mark this time.’

Alec, ignoring him, said curtly to Rosalie, ‘Did you let this man buy you a drink?’

‘Yes! But it was only lemonade!’

‘Only lemonade. You surely don’t intend, considering the state you’re in, to let him take you and your child to his house?’ Alec knew Stephen’s acquaintances. Their ways of passing the night-time hours made the Temple of Beauty look like a haven of respectability.

She was gazing fiercely up at him, but her face was white as a sheet. ‘I—I had no alternative.’

‘You could have made him take you to your home!’

‘I couldn’t!’ She clenched her hands. ‘The house where I stay has been burned to the ground!’

He was stunned. ‘Burned to the ground … Deliberately?’

But she’d bent over to be sick again. Alec held Katy tight—’Mama?’ the child was saying uncertainly. Dear God, this woman’s home had just been burned down. And now she was going to Stephen’s house, with her child—when Stephen had as good as poisoned her!

He couldn’t stand seeing her there, so wretched. So damned foolish as to trust his brother. Alec swung round, Katy still in his arms, to fix Stephen with a steady, burning gaze of contempt. ‘That’s it, Stephen. Take your fancy carriage and leave—now.’

Stephen glanced angrily at Rosalie. ‘You forget. Rosalie and her child are under my protection. Give me the infant—’ He reached for Katy, who began to scream and clung to Alec even tighter.

‘Your protection! That’s a joke,’ breathed Alec. ‘Do you value your inheritance, Stephen? Do you value your life? If so, then you’d best get the devil out of here!’

Stephen paled. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to a trembling Rosalie, murmuring, ‘My dear, you’ll observe that the matter is out of my hands. But I suggest you think carefully about believing anything this man says, especially if it relates to me. I’ll see you again soon, I hope. And as for you, Alec—I hope to see you in hell.’

With that Stephen barked orders to his driver, climbed back into his carriage and it rattled away down the street.

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