Regency

High-Society

Affairs

A Reputable Rake Diane Gaston

The Heart’s Wager Gayle Wilson

The Venetian’s Mistress Ann Elizabeth Cree

The Gambler’s Heart Gayle Wilson

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A Reputable Rake

Diane Gaston

About the Author

As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary house-cats. You can find out about Diane’s books and more at her website: www.dianegaston.com

Chapter One

April 1817

‘Unhand her this instant!’

The woman’s shrill voice carried easily in the evening air, reaching Cyprian Sloane’s ears as he strolled down one of the paths through Hyde Park. He stopped in his tracks and groaned. Why had he not caught a hack on Bond Street instead of yielding to the temptation of a fine spring evening’s walk?

‘Release her.’ Cultured and emphatic, the voice reminded Sloane of a scolding governess. Whoever she was, she was a fool for being in the park at this late hour.

‘Go to the devil!’ a man responded fiercely.

Sloane blew out a breath and pressed his fingers to his temple. No choice but to investigate. Gripping his silver-tipped walking stick, he automatically adopted the cat-like stealth of his former clandestine life.

He edged over to the bushes that hid the speakers from view, using the leaves and branches to obscure his own presence, on the slim chance he could walk on and not become involved. He peered through a gap in the leaves.

A man in an ill-fitting brown coat held the arm of a young, pretty blonde-haired woman who wore the bright red dress of a doxy. Her other arm was clutched by another young woman, the owner of the governess’s voice. She was taller than the doxy, pleasantly slender, and respectably attired in a plain lavender dress. That her bonnet hung by its ribbons on her back and her brown hair had come partly loose of its pins attested to the intensity of her struggle with this ruffian. The man and the ‘governess’ played tug-of-war with the woman in the red dress, while another female—this one could be nothing but a maid, still in her apron and cap—bawled a few feet away.

‘Miss Hart, do not let him take her!’ the maid wailed.

It was like a scene in a bad play, and, God knew, Sloane had seen plenty of bad plays at Drury Lane Theatre this Season. At least this time he could do something to halt the melodrama.

He stepped into view. ‘What goes on here?’

The characters all looked at him in surprise.

The man spoke first. ‘This need not be your concern, sir. You may proceed on your way.’

Sloane’s brows rose. He disliked being told what to do by anyone, but more so by an obvious scoundrel.

The ‘governess’, who was apparently the Miss Hart to whom the maid referred, took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction and pulled hard, causing him to lose his grip on the doxy’s arm. She quickly tugged the red-dressed girl behind her, making a shield with her body. ‘Do not heed him,’ Miss Hart pleaded. ‘Help us. He would take this girl away!’

‘She’s my sister!’ wailed the maid.

‘Bugger you.’ The man lunged at Miss Hart and tried to push her out of the way. She stumbled, falling to her knees, while the red-dressed doxy ran to hide behind her sister.

‘Enough!’ shouted Sloane, moving quickly. He crossed the short distance and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, lifted him in the air and tossed him into the bushes.

Sloane extended his hand to help the woman rise. ‘Are you injured?’

She shook her head as he pulled her to her feet, but her eyes flashed with alarm. ‘Take heed!’

Sloane spun around, swinging his stick as he did so. The man rushed at him, but Sloane’s stick struck him across the abdomen, and he staggered backwards. Putting a hand in his coat, the ruffian pulled out a knife.

The maid screamed.

Crouching, the man waved the knife, its long blade catching the last rays of the sun. ‘You leave her to me, now,’ he growled. ‘I’ll take her and be on my way.’

‘No!’ cried Miss Hart.

Out of the corner of his eye Sloane saw her start forward and held her back with one hand. Not taking his eyes off the knife, he turned his head slightly towards the girl in the red dress. ‘Do you wish to go with him, miss?’

‘I… I…’ she stammered.

‘Oh, say you do not, Lucy,’ her sister cried.

Her words rushed out. ‘I do not wish to go with him.’

The man glared at Sloane, but he too addressed the girl. ‘You will come with me, missy. We had a bargain.’

Sloane let a cynical smile turn up one corner of his mouth. ‘It appears the young lady has changed her mind.’ He twirled his stick, then held it in two hands in front of him.

The man came closer, slashing the air with his knife, circling Sloane, who merely moved to evade him. The man scowled and spat out expletives. His performance was indeed worthy of Drury Lane. Sloane laughed at him.

Miss Hart still hovered too close. Sloane longed to shout at her to stay out of the way, but he did not want to alert the man to her close proximity. The last thing Sloane wanted was for the man to slash his knife at her.

But the ruffian’s attention was riveted on Sloane. The man inched in closer. Sloane twisted the handle of his walking stick, ready for him.

The man swiped his blade again. Coming up behind him, Miss Hart jumped on the man’s back. He flailed at her, trying to shake her off, the blade of his knife coming perilously close to her skin.

Foolish girl! Sloane quickly released the sword hidden inside his walking stick, its deceptively innocent wooden sheath falling to the ground. ‘Leave him to me, woman! Stay out of the way!’

She let go, falling backwards on to the ground and rolling out of range. The man charged Sloane in earnest, but Sloane checked the knife’s blade with the steel of his sword. His opponent was undaunted and his blade flashed to and fro as Sloane’s sword rang loud when it connected with the blade.

The maid screamed, but there was little to fear. This man might grunt and slash, but Sloane had been in fights much worse than this one. This one had even odds, at least.

Miss Hart jumped to her feet again and still she did not move out of range. Her presence merely distracted Sloane and this was not a time for distractions. Sloane parried the man’s blows. Becoming bored, he bided his time until the opportunity came to knock the weapon out of the man’s hand.

Their blades connected once again and the clash of steel rang out like an alarm, loud enough for someone to hear the commotion and to summon the watch. What ill luck that would be. Sloane had no desire to be detained, and even less desire to be discovered brawling in the park. No one would believe the disreputable son of the Earl of Dorton had happened upon this scene by chance. Rumours would fly, and before the rise of the next sun, the ton would have him cast back into the gaming hells and other sordid corners of London’s underworld from where he’d emerged.

He’d be damned if he’d let this ruffian spoil the progress he’d made. After all, he was becoming well nigh respectable. Astounding what a fortune could do.

The ruffian, dripping with sweat, did not seem to perceive the folly of continuing to attack Sloane in every way he could. Sloane had seen all the tricks before. If the man kept this up, it crossed Sloane’s mind that he would be late to dine with Lord and Lady Cowdlin and their very marriageable daughter, Lady Hannah, or that he might dishevel his perfectly tailored coat and snow-white neckcloth.

Sloane abandoned restraint. Snarling at the fellow, he kicked him in the stomach. Deuce. He’d been aiming lower.

‘Go to the devil!’ yelled the man, coming at him again.

Miss Hart charged up behind the man, the wooden sheath of her rescuer’s sword in her hands. The deuced idiot! She’d get herself hurt yet. She swept the stick hard at the ruffian’s feet, so hard it flew out of her hands.

The man tripped and fell forward. With a loud crack, his head struck a rock in the ground. He bounced once, then lay still, legs and arms splayed.

Well done, thought Sloane.

‘Oh, dear! Have I killed him?’ Staring at the prone figure, she picked up the wooden walking stick.

The girl in the red dress gaped open-mouthed and the maid, still hanging on the other girl’s arm, turned her head away.

Sloane strolled over. Pointing his sword at the man’s neck, he nudged the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. The man did not move. Sloane squatted down and felt the neck for a pulse. ‘He’s alive.’ He stood again. ‘But I’ll wager he’ll have the very devil of a headache when he wakes up.’

‘Good.’ She handed Sloane his walking stick and he sheathed the sword.

He raised his eyes from the unconscious figure to look directly into her face. A smudge of dirt on her cheek marred a fair complexion, flushed becomingly pink. Her dark brown hair draped her shoulders like a silken veil. She returned his stare. Her eyes were not blue, but, in the waning light of the evening, he could not tell for certain what colour they might be.

He raised one eyebrow. ‘Miss Hart?’

There was a maturity about her that did not fit her youthful clear eyes and smooth, unlined face. He could not even ascertain her station in life by her attire and certainly not by her manner. She was not much like any other woman he’d ever met.

‘Are you injured, ma’am?’ he asked.

She shook her head and the veil of hair moved like waves on the sea. ‘Nothing to signify.’ She extended her hand. ‘Thank you, sir, for coming to our assistance.’

He accepted the surprisingly firm handshake, giving her an ironic smile. ‘I fear it is I who must thank you. You vanquished the fellow.’ His gaze reluctantly left her to glance at the other two women. ‘May I know what goes on here?’

‘You have rescued this young woman from ruin.’ Miss Hart swept her arm towards where the other two were still clustered.

Back to the melodrama, Sloane thought.

She referred to the young woman in the red dress. ‘He would surely have snatched her away.’

‘He did not snatch me, miss,’ the girl protested. ‘I made a bargain with him.’

Miss Hart turned to her, her voice incredulous. ‘You could not have wished to go with such a horrible man.’

The girl rubbed her arms. ‘But I did.’

‘No, it is nonsensical,’ piped up the maid. ‘You have respectable work, Lucy.’

The girl simply lowered her head.

‘Did he give you that horrid dress, Lucy?’ the maid went on. ‘You look like a harlot!’

This, Sloane thought, was probably just what she was… or intended to be.

Lucy merely responded with a mutinous look.

With a glance at Sloane, Miss Hart broke in, ‘We will discuss this later.’ She turned to Lucy. ‘And we will find some other resolution than… than going with that creature. Promise you will have patience.’

The girl glowered at her, but finally nodded.

Sloane cleared his throat. ‘I am delighted that is settled. Now, may I suggest we leave the park before the creature in question rouses? I suspect he will be none too happy when he does.’ Sloane picked up the man’s knife and tossed it into the thick undergrowth. ‘I will escort you ladies safely to your destination, then I must be on my way.’

Miss Hart gave a dignified toss of her head. ‘We must not trouble you further, sir. We have not far to go.’

Sloane frowned. ‘I will escort you all the same. I have no wish to repeat this performance with some other fellow lurking in the bushes. The park is no place for women alone, you know.’

‘Very well.’ As efficient as a governess and clearly the leader of the incongruous group, she gathered the other two like wayward chicks.

Sloane followed the trio back to the path. They made their way quickly out of the park, returning to the quiet Mayfair neighbourhood where he’d been strolling a short time ago.

She turned back to him. ‘There is no need for you to see us further.’

She did not wish him to know her direction. Perhaps he did not look as respectable as he thought. No matter. Something told him he was better off having as little as possible to do with this motley group.

All the same, a faint measure of disappointment teased at him. This ladylike virago, who scrapped as readily as the toughest rookery orphan, intrigued him.

‘I do thank you again for your chivalry.’ She extended her hand once more, and as he grasped it he looked into her eyes, the colour escaping him still.

He hesitated before releasing her hand. ‘Goodnight, Miss Hart.’

‘Goodnight,’ she said softly then turned back to the other two and herded them quickly away.

Morgana Hart hurried her two charges past the sedate town houses on Culross Street, so close to the most fashionable residences of Grosvenor Square.

‘We will discuss what to do in the morning, Lucy,’ she said as they walked at a quick clip. ‘When we reach home you must take a rest.’ In Lucy’s present mood, it made no sense to try to reason with her.

‘You did not have to come after me.’ The girl’s voice was petulant, but she avoided looking at Morgana.

Morgana’s maid stepped in front of her and brought them all to a halt. She leaned right into her sister’s face. ‘What would have happened to you if Miss Hart had not come after you? You ought to be grateful to her. I cannot understand you.’

Lucy folded her arms across the low bodice of her gaudy dress.

Morgana gave them each a push. ‘Let us be on our way.’

She ushered them into the house through the servants’ door. Tears stained Lucy’s cheeks and Morgana wrapped her arm around the girl and brushed the hair from her eyes. ‘Why don’t you take some time to get cleaned up? Then, if you like, you can come to my room while your sister helps me dress.’

As Lucy ran up the back stairs, the door from the hall opened. Cripps, the butler, with nose lifted, gazed first at Lucy’s retreating figure, then at Morgana.

Morgana stared back, but spoke to her maid. ‘Amy, please go to my room and set out a dressing gown for me. I shall be there directly.’

Amy gaped at Cripps with frightened eyes. ‘Yes, miss.’ She bobbed a quick curtsy and fled up the stairs after her sister.

Morgana felt a sinking chagrin. When she had hired Cripps and his almost-as-taciturn wife as butler and housekeeper a month ago, she had hoped to thaw some of that chilly reserve of his, but all her friendly smiles and solicitous questions as to the Cripps’ health or their contentment with her employment had been to no avail. The butler kept himself so contained, she’d been unable to take the measure of the man.

He would likely resent her interference in his responsibilities, but she could not risk him playing the strict upper servant and admonishing Lucy. The girl might run again. ‘I have handled this situation, Cripps, entirely to my satisfaction,’ she said in an even voice. ‘You need not be involved.’

‘Very good, miss.’ He bowed.

She tried a smile, hoping it would ease his sombre expression. ‘I suppose I have delayed dinner, haven’t I? Were Grandmama and Miss Moore served?’ Morgana had ordered a light supper to be sent up to the dowager Lady Hart and her companion in Lady Hart’s room.

‘Yes, miss,’ Cripps responded, his tone bland but, Morgana suspected, disapproving. ‘I ordered Cook to keep your dinner warm.’

She made herself keep smiling. ‘That was good of you, Cripps. You may have it sent up to my bedchamber.’

He bowed again and retreated towards the kitchen. Morgana sighed. Perhaps if she’d known more of the man behind Cripps’s austere exterior, she might have sought him out to chase after Lucy instead of going herself.

But then she would not have encountered the magnificent man who came to their aid. She could just see him, dark brows and eyes peering from under the brim of his hat, so at ease with the violence, moving as gracefully as a dancer and as lethally as a charging lion.

Placing a bracing hand against her chest, she stepped into the hall and climbed the staircase to her bedchamber on the upper floor. Amy was there, smoothing out her dressing gown.

Morgana walked to the wash stand and caught sight of herself in the mirror above it. ‘Oh, I look a fright!’ Her hair was completely out of its pins, falling on her shoulders straight as a stick and her face was smudged with dirt. She stifled the urge to laugh. What must Cripps have thought of her?

Or, more significantly, what had the gentleman in the park thought?

She poured water into the basin and took a cloth to scrub her face, then Amy helped her out of her dress.

Why could the excitement of this evening not have occurred during one of the many excruciatingly dull days she’d endured this last month while awaiting her new wardrobe? Tonight was her first chance to experience London’s many entertainments. She was to attend the opera in the company of her aunt, uncle and cousin, having been included in the invitation of the gentleman her cousin planned to snare as a husband. Certainly opera would seem tame after witnessing a man wield a swordstick as if it were an extension of his arm.

Amy worked at the strings of her corset. ‘I do not know what got into Lucy’s head, miss. I am sorry for troubling you with our problems, but what would we have done without you?’

Morgana looked over her shoulder at the girl. ‘The thanks belong to the gentleman who helped us.’ She smiled to herself. ‘If he was a gentleman.’

In the mirror she saw a dreamy look came over the maid’s face. ‘He looked like a pirate to me, miss. A handsome one.’

‘A very handsome one!’ Morgana laughed. ‘What a treat to be rescued by such a man.’

She made light of the incident for Amy’s benefit, but in truth it had deeply affected her. She was appalled by the man trying to take Lucy away and stunned by Lucy’s willingness to follow him. She was also stirred into a cauldron of excitement by the gentleman who had rushed in to help them. He was tall and dark-haired, like any good pirate should be, but in an impeccably tailored coat and fine linen. Like the stick he carried, he looked sleek and expensive on the outside, but, on the inside, hid a violence ready to be unleashed. She could barely catch her breath just thinking about him.

But she was not the sort to waste time mooning over a man, especially one she might never see again. Although perhaps he would attend the opera this night? Her cousin said everyone would be there—

Morgana caught herself again. It was foolishness to get worked up about something that might not happen. Her father had always told her so.

She changed the subject. ‘Do you know anything of why Lucy would try to go off with that man? Did she confide in you?’

Amy shook her head. ‘She’s been a moody one for a long time, but she shares no confidences with me.’

Amy and Lucy Jenkins had come recommended to Morgana by her aunt’s housekeeper, a relative of some sort. Amy proved to be a treasure, aged twenty, a very young but talented lady’s maid. Lucy, on the other hand, two years younger, was another story. More than once Morgana had found her in a room, dust rag in hand, staring into space, looking… tormented.

She gave Amy a look of motherly reassurance she did not entirely feel. ‘We shall discover what troubles Lucy. And then we shall solve it.’

Amy returned a grateful smile, full of a complete confidence Morgana did not share. Although Morgana was a scant three years older than her maid, she’d seen a great deal of the world at her father’s side in his diplomatic posts on the Peninsula and lately in Paris. Affairs of a carnal nature between men and women, however, were still somewhat of a mystery. Could such desires lure Lucy to follow that disreputable man? Morgana had no doubt he would turn her into the sort of girl men purchase for an evening. The vivid memory of one such woman Morgana had spied in Portugal still haunted her, the hopelessness that had shown in her eyes.

Desperation and hunger might drive a woman to such ends, but Lucy had plenty of food and Morgana was a kind employer. Why would she choose to run off?

Morgana washed herself with rose-scented soap she’d brought from France, noting with some alarm bruises on her arms and legs. Luckily her clothes would cover them.

Amy helped her into a dressing gown and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She looked nothing like the person who had engaged in fisticuffs, but more like the baron’s daughter she was.

There was a knock on the door. Amy answered it, taking a tray from the footman and carrying it over to a table.

Morgana pulled at a chair. ‘See to your own dinner, Amy. And try to induce Lucy to eat something, too.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Amy curtsied. ‘I’ll be up directly to help you dress for the theatre.’

After taking just a few bites of her meal, Morgana pushed the tray aside. She was restless after the incident in the park, and thoughts of their rescuer all too easily filled her mind. She fancied she remembered each move he made, each expression on his face. It had been a strong face, long and lean, with piercing eyes, a Roman nose and what she could only think of as sensual lips.

She rose from her chair a bit too quickly, knocking against the table, clattering her dishes. She caught the wine glass just in time before it spilled. Releasing a relieved breath, she slipped out of her room and walked more carefully down the hall to visit her grandmother’s sitting room.

‘Hello, Grandmama,’ she said as she entered the room. Her grandmother Hart, a tiny woman who seemed not much more than paper-thin skin hung loosely over frail bones, sat smiling in her winged-back chair.

Her grandmother’s eyes lit up upon seeing her. ‘Why, hello, dear.’

Morgana was not fooled. The dowager Lady Hart greeted everyone who entered the room in the same manner, even the footman who came in to tend the fire. Morgana leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek.

Her grandmother’s companion, the faithful Miss Moore, well into her sixties, handed a cup of tea to Lady Hart. Lady Hart stared at it a moment before smiling up at Morgana again. ‘Would you like a cup, my dear?’

‘That would be very nice.’ Morgana sat in a nearby chair. The cup of tea trembled in Lady Hart’s hand, still poised in the air. Morgana held her breath, not daring to speak until her grandmother remembered to take a very slow, shaky sip and to put the cup on the table next to her.

‘Did you have a nice day, Grandmama?’ Morgana nodded her thanks to Miss Moore, who had handed her a cup of tea.

‘Oh, I had a lovely day, my dear.’

Morgana smiled. Her grandmother always had lovely days.

Morgana would not dream of telling her grandmother about the incident with Lucy, nor about the gentleman who came to their rescue. Not that it mattered. Her grandmother would not remember a word of the conversation the moment Morgana left the room. She did chat about attending the theatre that evening. Her grandmother smiled and said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘How lovely’ in all the right places.

It was good that Morgana’s father and his new wife had gone straight to his new post in Naples rather than travel with Morgana to England. Her father knew nothing of his mother’s failing memory, or of her increasing frailty. Morgana would withhold that information from him until he’d had more time to enjoy his newly wedded bliss, absent of family concerns.

In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad.

Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber.

Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’

Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’

She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head.

‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation.

Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head.

Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’

As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm.

Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’

With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt.

Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel.

This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’

Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes.

Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’

The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’

Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe.

With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went.

Cripps stood in the hall.

‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’

‘No sound of it yet, miss,’ he replied.

‘I am determined not to keep my uncle waiting.’ She again tried her friendly smile on him.

‘Very good, miss.’ He remained as stiff-backed as ever.

Morgana kept her smile in place, but it hid her disappointment. It would be so much easier if she knew she had Cripps’s loyalty as well as his excellent service. She did so want them all to rub well together. ‘I’ll wait in the drawing room.’

Expression as bland as ever, he preceded her across the hall and opened the drawing-room door.

She walked to the window with its view of the street. No sooner had she done so than her uncle’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. Suddenly nervous, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror above the mantel, fussing a bit with the neckline of her dress, but, remembering that her uncle had been suffering from gout, she hurried to the hall.

‘I will meet them at the carriage,’ she told Cripps, fancying he looked disapproving of a lady going out the door unescorted.

‘I am ready,’ she called, as Cripps closed the door behind her.

A tall gentleman stood next to the carriage in the process of assisting her uncle to disembark. Seeing her, her uncle paused. ‘Come then,’ he replied and disappeared back into his seat.

The tall gentleman turned towards her. Morgana stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Oh!’

Standing before her, next to her uncle’s carriage, dressed in elegant evening attire, was the gentleman from the park.

He, too, froze, but his look of surprise was replaced by a lazy smile that seemed to take for ever to settle on his face. Just as slowly he tipped his hat and came to her side.

‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Hart.’ His dark grey eyes kindled with amusement.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply, pulling her shawl snug around her shoulders and accepting his arm.

‘It is a fine night, is it not?’ His voice was as smooth and low as a viola. They were only a few steps from the carriage. ‘A fine night for a walk in the park.’

‘Oh, say nothing of that, sir. I beg you,’ Morgana countered in a fierce whisper.

‘My lips, dear Miss Hart—’ the lips he referred to turned up at the corners ‘—are sealed.’

Chapter Two

Sloane handed Miss Hart into the carriage, to the cheerful greetings of her aunt, uncle and cousin. He climbed in after her and sat between the two young ladies, catching a whiff of Miss Hart’s perfume, a faint scent but distinctly French and expensive.

She settled herself closer to the carriage window, which somehow caused his blood to race, more so than Lady Hannah’s nearly imperceptible move closer to him.

Lady Cowdlin spoke. ‘We must do the introductions, mustn’t we? Morgana, may I present Mr Cyprian Sloane to you? This is my niece, Miss Morgana Hart. Her father is Baron Hart, you know.’

Sloane did know of Baron Hart, though the covert circumstances by which he was acquainted did not bear mentioning. It would cause more questions than he cared to answer.

He turned to the young lady. ‘Miss Hart, is it?’

She did not miss his attempt at humour. ‘Mr Sloane.’ A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Lady Cowdlin went on, ‘Morgana is my dear sister’s child, God rest her soul.’

‘Ah.’ He hoped the sound was appropriately sympathetic.

The carriage lurched forward and they were on their way.

When Lady Cowdlin requested that her niece be included in the party, she’d not given the niece’s name. Neither had Lady Hannah, though she’d chattered on about her cousin that very afternoon when, during the fashionable hour, he’d driven her in his curricle through Hyde Park. Lady Hannah had explained this was her cousin’s second London Season. Hannah’s mother had sponsored her years before, but the cousin ‘didn’t take.’ Sloane had only half-listened to her account, attending more to how many of the beau monde saw fit to greet him. More each day. Two years ago none of them would have dared acknowledge him in public.

‘Mr Sloane has been so good as to invite us to the King’s Theatre, Morgana,’ Lady Hannah said in a somewhat smug tone and unnecessarily, for Sloane was certain her cousin must have been told their destination ahead of time.

‘Yes.’ Miss Hart turned to him again so that their faces were very close. ‘It was good of you to include me, Mr Sloane.’

‘My pleasure.’ He smiled.

The irony of his scrapping Hyde Park virago being none other than Lady Hannah’s cousin made him want to laugh out loud. He contained the impulse, but found he liked sharing the secret with Miss Hart. It felt… wickedly intimate.

When she’d emerged from her town house, he’d first only been aware of a swish of green silk, then he’d recognised her. But instead of the look of an efficient governess, she’d had a regal air, as if her intricate hairstyle were a crown upon her head.

When he had offered her his arm, the torch at the doorway illuminated her face, and he at last discovered the secret of her eyes. They were light brown—no, that was not descriptive nough—they were ginger-coloured, ginger flecked with chocolate. With the frame of her dark brows and lashes, the effect was remarkable. What’s more, her eyes shone with alertness and intelligence, as if they could not get their fill of all there was to see. For that very brief moment he’d felt caught in them, as if they also had the capacity to set a trap.

Miss Hart was a decided contrast to the classically beautiful Lady Hannah with her abundance of blonde curls, liquid blue eyes and blushing pink complexion. Lady Hannah, fashionably petite and curvaceous, was like a sweet confection, while her taller, slimmer cousin brought to mind something with more spice—ginger, perhaps.

‘Mr Sloane is seeking to buy a property in Mayfair,’ Hannah continued to her cousin. ‘Will that not be splendid?’

‘Very nice,’ Miss Hart agreed.

‘We shall be neighbours!’ Lady Hannah laughed, lightly placing her hand on his arm.

‘Mayfair is a big place,’ intoned Lord Cowdlin.

Sloane knew Cowdlin was not at all happy about any proximity between Sloane and his daughter.

Lady Cowdlin piped up, ‘Not so very big. He’d be hard pressed to be farther than a few streets from our fine residence.’ She gave a toadying smile. ‘Why, we may be certain to see him often as we are out and about.’

Lady Cowdlin undoubtedly favoured his suit, but then she was probably not privy to tales told about him in the gentlemen’s clubs and gaming hells. Still, Sloane was confident his money would wear down Cowdlin’s reservations, as would his efforts to behave in an impeccably respectable fashion.

Lady Hannah leaned into his side. ‘That will be so lovely,’ she purred.

Lady Hannah also made no secret of favouring his suit, though the increasingly proprietary flavour of her flirtation, so gratifying that very afternoon when she had sat by his side in his curricle, suddenly irked him. He’d not yet proposed to her, he wanted to protest in front of her cool, ginger-eyed cousin.

‘Do you have a property in mind, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. It was the sort of polite question anyone might ask, but her gaze had flicked back and forth between him and her cousin.

‘I have hired a secretary to search for me. A very bright young man—’

‘Who is that, Sloane?’ Lord Cowdlin interrupted. ‘Someone known to me?’

Cowdlin probably thought he’d hired a man out of the rookery to handle his affairs. Sloane certainly knew such men, but he would be a fool indeed to mix that part of his life with his newly respectable one.

‘His name is Elliot. I doubt he would be known to you, but he is extremely efficient.’ Cowdlin would probably scowl in disapproval if he knew Elliot’s background: the son of a man who had run London’s most sophisticated smuggling operations. Now retired, he’d managed to get his son respectably educated. Working for Sloane was an opportunity for Elliot to join the respectable world. In that, he and Sloane had much in common.

‘Ah,’ responded Cowdlin without true interest.

The carriage soon drew up to the entrance of the King’s Theatre. There was a long line of carriages behind them, signalling a large crowd. Sloane assisted the ladies from the carriage, Lady Cowdlin an awkward bulk, Lady Hannah all soft and melting in his grasp, and Miss Hart a mere formality, relying on herself, not his hand, to alight.

Sloane predicted Hannah would some day be a warm and responsive bed partner; it was one of the qualities that had fostered his interest in her. But he could not imagine what sharing a bed with Miss Hart would be like. His senses flared with a sudden curiosity to find out.

Sloane mentally shook himself. He was thinking like a rake, not a gentleman. In a very gentlemanly manner, he offered each of the young ladies an arm and allowed Lord and Lady Cowdlin to precede them into the theatre and on to the box he’d rented for the Season. It had cost a pretty penny, as had the boxes he’d rented in all the important theatres. These were investments, he told himself, the necessary expenditures of a wealthy gentleman of the ton.

His investment was already paying off. Lord Cowdlin had given up his own subscription to the opera this year, more evidence of his dismal financial situation. Lady Cowdlin and her daughter had been in raptures when Sloane offered his box to them. They insisted he must be part of their group or they could not possibly accept his generosity. Lord Cowdlin had been less enthusiastic about this invitation. No doubt that gentleman would prefer to find a wealthy son-in-law who did not come encumbered with a rakehell’s reputation.

Sloane ushered Lady Cowdlin into the box. ‘My lady, I would be pleased for you to take the front seats. The view should be excellent.’

Lord Cowdlin snapped to attention. ‘What? What? You would sit in the back with my daughter?’

Sloane refrained from rolling his eyes. Did Cowdlin think him so big a fool? In such a public place, to sit in the dark with a maiden would surely compromise his efforts to raise his reputation from the depths it had sunk in the years he’d been on his own. Sloane was no fool. ‘You misunderstand me, sir. I meant the front seats for all the ladies of our party.’ He kept his voice deliberately bland. ‘I fancy you and I will be less interested than the ladies in either the performance or the audience.’

‘Oh,’ mumbled his lordship. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I will sit in the back, Papa.’ Lady Hannah batted her eyes. ‘I do not mind in the least.’

Apparently Lady Hannah had fewer scruples than he. Either that or she was impossibly naïve.

Sloane noticed Miss Hart watching this exchange with those lively eyes. What was she thinking? If he sat in the back with her, he could ask. He fancied she was the sort who would tell him.

Lady Cowdlin seized her husband’s arm with a dramatic flourish. ‘I will sit with my husband, Mr Sloane. You young people must sit in the front seats. I insist upon it.’

And Lady Hannah insisted that she sit in the middle chair, Miss Hart on one side, Sloane on the other, to which arrangement Miss Hart acquiesced without complaint. She took her seat and immediately scanned the theatre, somewhat methodically, Sloane noticed. She slowly examined the house left to right, eyes lingering longer on certain boxes, watching certain people on the floor.

The theatre was filling rapidly, the expensively clad patrons taking their seats in the boxes, the less fashionable packing the floor below. The din of voices melded with the orchestra tuning their instruments, creating a buzz of general anticipation.

‘Oh, look, Mr Sloane,’ Hannah cried. ‘There is Lady Castlereagh and her husband as well.’

Lord Castlereagh caught sight of Sloane as he took his seat. The gentleman acknowledged Sloane’s nod. Castlereagh was one of the few who knew of Sloane’s service during the war, when the government had needed a man to crawl around the city’s underbelly, to sniff out traitors more interested in profit than patriotism. Sloane was compensated for his deeds by a portion of the spoils seized from those who betrayed England for French gold. The bounty had been the seeds of his fortune. Skill at cards had done the rest.

He was compelled to remain silent on those years, and to endure from those who recruited him the belief he had done it only for the money. Still, when he had asked Castlereagh to use his influence with his wife, one of the patronesses of Almack’s, to issue him a voucher, the man had done so. Sloane’s mere appearance in those hallowed halls had gone a long way to giving him entrée into the ton.

Sloane had forgone serious card play and other gaming, his quest for respectability being a more challenging game. Admittance to Almack’s, however, had been like breaking a faro bank.

‘Oh, I also see one of my dearest friends from school,’ Lady Hannah exclaimed, her attention darting to the other side of the room. ‘And my brother is with her! How nice. I have high hopes in that quarter.’

Sloane dutifully glanced in that direction.

Hannah turned to her cousin. ‘Morgana, look, there is my brother Varney, and he is with Athenia Poltrop, my best bosom friend…’

Sloane no longer heeded Lady Hannah’s chatter. He no longer thought of her cousin. His vision was riveted upon another box, where the erect, silver-haired figure of the Earl of Dorton entered, followed by his son, Viscount Rawley and his Viscountess. Last entering the box was a fine-looking young man Sloane could only guess was his brother’s son.

What a friendly family party. How cosy for them all to attend the theatre together. Only one family member had been excluded from the familial tableau.

Sloane. The black sheep. The disreputable son.

He had no wish to be included in any of their activities, but one day they would not dare ignore him. One day he would have so much power and influence that his father would be forced to pay him respect.

‘Who is that, sir?’ Miss Hart’s sharp eyes were upon him, obviously noticing the direction of his gaze.

Hannah answered for him. ‘That is Lord Dorton and his son, Lord Rawley, and Lady Rawley. The young man is her son.’

‘My father and brother,’ Sloane finished for her.

Miss Hart’s eyebrows rose a notch.

Hannah leaned over to whisper into her ear, but not quietly enough for Sloane to miss the words. ‘They are estranged from Mr Sloane.’

Miss Hart darted a quick glance at him, one that did not linger.

The orchestra struck its opening chord, but the cacophony of voices from the audience did not subside one bit. The audience was too busy watching the spectacle of each other to bother with the opening of the curtain and the entrance of the first performers on the stage.

Morgana smiled to herself, taking in the disorder in the seats below, the ogling going on from box to box, the beautiful music and powerful, stirring voices. But all seemed mere background to the man who sat so near to her, Mr Cyprian Sloane.

Cyprian was an odd name, one she’d rarely heard except as another term for harlot. What would it have been like to grow up with such a name?

She stole another glance at him, pleased that her cousin sat between them so she could do so without him being aware. He’d said very little to any of them and still less to her, but she thought she perceived a hint of the man who fought with such restrained violence in the park. In a way, fighting in the park seemed a more fitting occupation for him than sitting in an opera box.

He was not quite focused on the stage, but still on the box where his father sat. There was a story there, she was certain. If she had the opportunity, she might ask him why he was estranged from his family. It was the sort of direct question she often later regretted. Such directness from a lady was not at all the thing.

She suspected it was one of the reasons she did not take with young men. It had been four years since she’d last been in a London theatre. She’d been nineteen, like Hannah, and it had been her come-out. But she’d ended that Season without a husband. She’d since decided she was glad of it.

Sloane shifted in his seat, and she stole another glance at him, seizing a few seconds to study his strong profile. His looks were faintly Latin, with his dark hair, strong nose and wide mouth.

She never would have guessed those gentlemen in the other box were related to him. She’d have more readily believed them related to Hannah. Lord Dorton, his son and grandson all shared the fair hair and complexion she saw so often in England and so rarely in Spain.

Sloane turned his head in her direction and she quickly averted her gaze, pretending she’d been watching the stage. She fancied she could feel his grey eyes upon her, and her pulse quickened.

For the first time in her life Morgana wished she were her frivolous cousin Hannah. She wished she’d been brought up in an English country house, with an English governess, attended an English girls’ school, and learned to be thrilled with ladylike pastimes and housewifely pursuits.

But even so, would Cyprian Sloane be sitting next to her instead of her cousin?

She forced her gaze back to the stage.

The opera was Penelope, and Morgana thought herself fortunate to be present at the soprano’s début performance in the King’s Theatre. Violante Camporese’s voice proved rich and full, and Morgana set herself to focus her attention on the performance.

She managed tolerably well, and believed herself in complete mastery of her thoughts when the interval came. A servant arrived with refreshment, but soon nothing would do for Hannah but that she be taken to her bosom friend’s box, and, because she could not go with Sloane alone, they all must go. So Morgana pushed herself through the crush of people all bent on calling upon someone else. She noticed one box with several gentlemen hovering at the door and made a mental note to figure out who was seated there.

When they knocked on the door to Miss Poltrop’s box and the young lady saw who’d come to visit her, there were squeals of welcome and hugs between the two friends. The rest packed themselves in and, for a moment, Morgana had to squeeze by Mr Sloane, very aware of where every part of his body touched hers.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in his deep smooth voice, as if he, too, had noticed the contact.

Introductions were made. Lady Poltrop and Morgana’s aunt were quickly deep in whispered conversation, and her uncle and Lord Poltrop just as quickly exited the box. While Hannah and her friend Athenia were giggling together, Morgana was momentarily at eye level with the knot in Mr Sloane’s neckcloth. The man had to stand at least six feet tall.

‘Do you enjoy the performance, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

She had to tilt her head to look at him. ‘Oh, yes. The drama and intrigue. Who is seated with whom? Who is cut and who not? The conquest by man of woman.’

His eyes crinkled in puzzlement.

She smiled and deliberately fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You meant the performance on stage, perhaps? I was speaking of the entertainment in the boxes and on the floor.’

Then he did a marvellous thing that made her heart quite jump up and down in her throat. He laughed, a deep rumble of a laugh, complete with twinkling eyes and wide grin.

Hannah looked over. ‘Mr Sloane, come talk with me and Athenia. We have great need of your company.’

Morgana’s pulse still raced when he moved away without even a look back at her.

Her cousin Varney came to her side. ‘Glad to see you out, Morgana.’

She was grateful he’d come to distract her. ‘I am glad to be out at last.’

Varney glanced over to where Hannah stood clutching Sloane’s arm in a lively, giggling conversation with her friend. ‘What do you think of that?’ He bent his head in their direction.

Morgana raised her brows. ‘What am I to think? Are they to be engaged? Hannah has said she has hopes of it.’

Varney nodded. ‘Oh, she has hopes, all right. He’s flush enough, to be sure, but I still cannot like it.’

‘Why?’ Morgana could not help but ask.

Varney squirmed a little, glancing back at Sloane. ‘A lot of talk surrounds that fellow. Some people say he was a smuggler during the war, in it for his own profit. He has a reputation as a philanderer and a card player—and not always in gentlemen’s clubs.’

Morgana, too, directed her gaze at Sloane.

‘I cannot think he is the man for Hannah,’ Varney added in a gloomy tone.

Sloane looked every bit the part her cousin Varney described. She could more readily see Sloane at the helm of some smuggling vessel or seated at a green baize table staring at a hand of cards, than here chatting with two misses in their first Season. Morgana said what she was thinking. ‘Does your father know of this talk? Why would he allow Sloane to court her then?’

Varney grimaced. ‘Truth is, the family needs Hannah to make a good match. A wealthy one, that is. Sloane has been the best prospect thus far, and no one can complain of anything in his recent behaviour.’

‘He is reformed, do you say?’

‘I do not say it,’ he protested. ‘But others insist he is reformed. Castlereagh, for example. And the Marquess of Heronvale. Both are known to speak well of him.’

‘Indeed,’ she mused, more to herself than to him.

Lady Cowdlin roused herself from her conversation. ‘Mr Sloane, I believe the performance is due to start soon. We must return to the box before there is a mad rush.’

Sloane responded with great affability, ‘As you wish, my lady.’

Hannah clutched his arm, but spoke to her friend. ‘Athenia, do walk with us. You have not had a promenade yet this evening. You and your mother can walk with us and Varney can escort you back.’

Varney hurried to Athenia’s side, but Hannah insisted he escort the older ladies.

Sloane looked at Morgana. It appeared he was the only one who noticed she did not have a man’s arm to hang on to. In any event, she could certainly walk the short distance to the opera box without assistance.

The corridors were every bit as congested as they’d been at the start of the intermission. Morgana dived into the crowd, trying to keep up with Varney and Sloane and the ladies on their arms. Sloane looked back once to check on her. If he looked back again, she did not know it. She became separated from the group by several men who had left the box she’d been curious of before. One young man gave her a very appraising look, which Morgana returned with a cool repressive one, just before she spied her uncle and Athenia’s father coming out of the box as well.

Whose box was it who attracted her uncle and Lord Poltrop and all these other gentlemen? She pushed her way past, calculating that the box was five doors from Mr Sloane’s. She’d gone no more than a yard when he came towards her in the crowd.

He gave her his arm. ‘I ought not to have allowed you to proceed unescorted.’

She put her arm through his, thinking of how that arm so lethally had held a sword. ‘I assure you I only had one illicit encounter,’ she quipped. ‘However, I am well able to take care of myself.’

He again gave that devastating smile and leaned down to her ear. ‘I feared I would be compelled to break up another brawl.’

She could not help but laugh in return. ‘You might recall exactly who ended that first brawl.’

They reached the door to his box and halted, each smiling into the other’s eyes. ‘I recall it,’ he said, and for Morgana time seemed to stand still.

He opened the door, and the other ladies and Varney were crowded in the box saying their goodbyes. Sloane escorted Morgana to her chair and they were still standing next to each other when her uncle entered.

Morgana thought her uncle’s complexion in high colour. She turned to check the boxes, counting carefully to discover who it was he and half the gentlemen in the house visited.

In the fifth box over sat a brightly clad, auburn-haired woman holding court to several gentlemen who flocked around her. Her dress, while not scandalously low cut, none the less displayed to advantage her ample bosom. She looked the very paragon of fashion and gaiety. The woman caught Morgana’s eye and smiled.

‘Who is she?’ Morgana asked Sloane.

He frowned. ‘No one you should know, Miss Hart.’

Morgana glanced back at the woman. ‘Why not? Is she a demi-rep?’

He drew her from the edge of the box, making her turn away from the audience. ‘It would be best for you not to ask about such women.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I am not missish, Mr Sloane, as you well know. My uncle and Lord Poltrop visited that box. I saw them. I would like to know who she is.’

He shushed her again, something that always raised her hackles ever since she’d been a small child. She gave him a direct stare and waited.

He returned the stare, much too long for her to be comfortable. Finally, he spoke, ‘That is Harriette Wilson. She is a celebrated courtesan and not the sort of person a young lady of your station should know about.’

Morgana persisted, now more out of a desire to deflate his sudden prosiness than out of curiosity about the captivating Harriette Wilson. ‘Do you know her?’

He paused, their gazes still locked. ‘I am acquainted with her.’

She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by that, when Hannah hurried over. Her friend had left, and she’d undoubtedly noticed her gentleman-of-choice had engaged in a brief conversation with someone other than herself.

The orchestra sounded its first chords and they all took their seats, Morgana feeling more stimulated by the brief conversation with Mr Sloane than anything else of that evening. She consoled herself that, since Sloane was Hannah’s probable fiancé, she might have other opportunities to converse with him.

She peeked at him. He would make an interesting friend, and she could content herself with that. Her gaze wandered back to Harriette Wilson. No one in that box paid the least attention to the performance on stage. They were riveted on Miss Wilson, who exuded self-assurance and charm, as well as a frankly sensuous appearance.

Even Morgana could recognise her allure, though she could not explain it. Suffice to say the gentlemen flocked around her, even though she was not a young woman, perhaps even near her father’s age.

Miss Wilson looked in the direction of their box, but not at Morgana this time. At Sloane.

What precisely had Sloane meant by being ‘acquainted’ with the celebrated courtesan?

Chapter Three

By the next afternoon, Morgana had quite settled in her mind that these frequent thoughts of Cyprian Sloane were entirely due to a month of inactivity and near social isolation. With the delivery of several dresses and more to come, she would soon have additional things to think about.

This night she would attend Almack’s with Aunt Winnie and Hannah and was quite happy that her new peach muslin was finished and ready to wear.

Of course, Morgana wondered if Sloane would find it becoming on her. She squared her shoulders. She was thinking nonsense again. Besides, it was entirely possible he would not even attend Almack’s.

Morgana donned her bonnet and walked out to the small patch of garden behind the town house, where Lucy, on her knees, was pulling weeds.

‘Hello, Lucy.’

The girl gave her no more than a brief glance before turning back to tug at some raggedy green invader among a small patch of lavender. ‘Good afternoon, miss.’

Morgana sat on the stone bench near where Lucy worked. The afternoon was warm enough for the lightest wrap and the sky was overcast with milky white clouds. ‘I thought now might be a good time for us to chat.’

Lucy tugged at another weed. ‘If you say so, miss.’

Morgana sighed. She might be pulling teeth, not weeds, for how easy this would be. ‘I do wish you would tell me—explain if you can—why you went with that man yesterday.’

‘I met him when I was at the shops.’ Lucy patted the dirt where it had loosened around the violets, not answering the question at all.

‘Did he approach you? What did he say to you?’ Morgana could not believe any girl would be so foolish as to allow such a man to speak to her.

‘You have the wrong of it.’ Lucy sat back on her heels and looked up at Morgana. “Twas I spoke to him. I knew what he was. He’s been about before.’

‘You approached him?’

Lucy nodded. ‘You’ll want to know why, but I don’t think it proper to tell a lady, such as y’rself.’

Morgana tried not to frown. ‘I assure you, Lucy. I have lived in the world. You will not shock me.’

Lucy’s eyes flashed sceptically. ‘You’ll not tell my sister?’

Morgana shook her head. ‘I will not.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘I suppose it don’t matter if you do. You’ll be letting me go after you hear what I done and then I’ll be gone anyway and none of m’family will speak to me then.’

‘I’m not trying to discover a way to be rid of you, Lucy.’

The sceptical look returned, as well as another shrug. ‘Well, I’ll tell you and we’ll see.’ She changed positions, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the flower bed. ‘You were told us Jenkins girls was honest, clean girls and that’s true enough of Amy.’

‘But not of you?’ Morgana tried to sound accepting of whatever the story would be.

‘Nay, miss. I’m a bad girl.’ She stared directly in Morgana’s eyes. ‘I’ve done it with men, you know. You know. Fornicating.’

Morgana remained steady. ‘Go on.’

‘More than once, miss. A lot of times, since I became pretty, you know. This man, he said I was friendly-like. He said he could tell that about me.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t know how he meant that at first, but then he showed me.’

Oh, dear God. When had this happened? The girl was only eighteen.

‘He gave me money for it,’ Lucy added. ‘So I did it again.’

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

‘I won’t tell you who it was, miss, so don’t ask me,’ she blurted in unnecessary defiance. ‘Coming here didn’t seem right, you see, after all that. You thinkin’ I was a good girl and treating me and Amy so nice.’

Morgana reached out to the girl, touching her on the shoulder. ‘Of course I would treat you nicely.’

Lucy pulled away, fat tears filling her eyes. She rose to her feet. From under her wide-brimmed garden hat her smooth complexion turned a becoming shade of pink. A breeze blew her simple maid’s dress against her body, showing the lush shape of her figure. The bow of her mouth trembled and one tear slid slowly down her cheek.

Morgana could easily imagine what that man had seen in the girl. God help her, could Morgana witness another girl lost to such a life?

She could still see that young Portuguese girl who’d climbed over the wall into her father’s property. Morgana brought her food and spoke to her in her halting Portuguese. Morgana had been thirteen and the girl of a similar age. As two children in a garden would naturally do, they played together. The Portuguese girl carried a rag doll and Morgana ran to get her doll as well. They’d spent a pleasant hour, feeding and rocking their dolls. Morgana impulsively traded her fine china doll for the girl’s dirty rag doll, and she could still remember the light in the girl’s eyes as she looked upon the gift.

Morgana had made a friend, one her own age. It had been an event so rare she could scarcely recall any others.

Then the housekeeper had discovered them and chased the girl away. As she scrambled over the wall, the doll fell from her arms and shattered on the ground.

She’d seen the Portuguese girl a year later, leaning out of a window, her breasts almost bare, her eyes hard and empty, while another woman, dressed equally shockingly, called to the soldiers in the street to come to have a good time.

Morgana stood and again placed her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘Lucy, please do not do anything rash. Do not go back to that man.’

Through her tears, Lucy gave her a rebellious look. ‘I already gave a boy a penny to take the dress back, but I dunno how long I can stay.’

‘You may stay as long as you like, Lucy,’ Morgana said quietly.

The girl shook her head fiercely. ‘You don’t understand, miss. I liked what the man done to me. I liked the money. Men pay lots of money. Why would I want to be hauling water and mucking out fireplaces and scrubbing and dusting all day when men give me more money for a few minutes of frolicking?’

It was true a maid’s life was not an easy one, but what would be the cost of Lucy selling herself for a man’s pleasure? ‘There is no future for you with a man like the one in the park. That is no good, Lucy.’

‘I won’t go with that man, miss. Not after what he done, with that knife and all, but more I cannot say.’

Morgana had to content herself with that. Lucy whirled around and ran back into the house while Morgana turned, crossing her arms over her chest.

A man’s face appeared through the bushes where the brick wall should be. She gave a startled cry.

‘The mortar,’ he said.

‘Mortar?’ Through a gap in the wall separating her garden from the one next to it, she saw a young man dressed in a dark brown coat and fawn trousers.

‘The mortar must have been inferior. This part of the wall has crumbled.’

That fact was obvious now. She’d not spent enough time in the garden to notice before.

He smiled apologetically. ‘I beg your pardon, miss. I… I did not mean to eavesdrop.’

‘You heard everything?’

‘I heard enough,’ he admitted, blushing scarlet.

‘Then I must ask for your silence.’ She stared at him, attempting to assess his character.

He bowed. ‘Aaron Elliot at your service, miss. I was examining the property. It is for sale. I must note the wall.’

Elliot? That was the name of Sloane’s secretary. Her curiosity increased.

She extended her hand through the wall. ‘I am Miss Morgana Hart.’

He shook her hand self-consciously, letting go quickly. ‘Will your maidservant be all right?’

Morgana shrugged. ‘I do not know. For the moment, I hope.’

‘Poor creature,’ he whispered, instantly endearing himself to her and leaving her certain he would not spread tales about Miss Morgana Hart’s maid.

‘I may rely on your silence, then?’ She was already sure of his response.

‘Indeed. You have my word upon it.’

She nodded. ‘I thank you, sir.’ She gave him a faint smile. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’ Then she turned and went back inside the house, entirely approving of Mr Sloane’s selection of secretary.

She’d always believed that the quality of the servant reflected the quality of the employer, though what it said about her that she would wish to hang on to a maid who’d admitted such a moral lapse as Lucy had done, she could not guess.

Another thought crept in, one that put completely out of her mind the intention of informing Cripps about the wall. What if Mr Sloane purchased the property next door?

That evening Sloane surveyed the unremarkable décor and the predictable company, and lamented the sacrifices he must make in his quest for respectability.

Almack’s. Was there any place so tedious?

Still, he crossed the room to pay his respects to the patronesses. Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey were keeping watch over their domain this night.

He bowed before Lady Castlereagh, not missing Lady Jersey’s disapproving frown. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ He turned to Lady Jersey. ‘And to you, ma’am. It is an honour to be here this evening.’

He hoped his deference to the great Lady Jersey, who was known for her high opinion of herself and arbitrary opinion of others, would inch him towards her approval. Her frown eased just a bit.

‘Good evening, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Castlereagh offered her hand and he raised it lightly to his lips. ‘I am so pleased you have come. Tell us, what do you think of our young ladies? Is there anyone to whom I might present you?’

Sloane gave his most polite, agreeable expression. ‘I would be honoured to be introduced to any young lady you think suitable.’

Lady Castlereagh turned to her companion. ‘Who do you suggest, Sally?’

Lady Jersey puffed up in importance. ‘You, sir, are acquainted with Lady Hannah, Cowdlin’s girl. She is an unexceptionable choice for you, but we might also introduce you to Miss Simpson, Lord Kettleton’s youngest. There is a tolerable dowry there, I am sure, though the family has launched three other daughters. Lady Kettleton is an annoying person, a bit common in her manner, but you could do worse in her daughter.’

‘The girl is a shy little thing,’ Lady Castlereagh added. ‘But a nice well-mannered girl.’

He could not think of a young lady who suited him less than a shy, nice, well-mannered girl. ‘If you both desire it, I shall be happy to make her acquaintance.’

Lady Jersey herself led him over to where Miss Simpson sat with her mother. Sloane saw the mother’s flash of disfavour and the daughter’s eye-widening fear as that notorious rake, Cyprian Sloane, approached her. The poor child had little to fear from him. He was reasonably certain he would make formal his interest in Lady Hannah, but to be respectable he must not appear to show favour until ready to declare himself. He was not certain precisely why he was not yet ready.

He bowed politely to Lady Kettleton and her daughter, and just as politely asked the girl to join him in the set that was at that moment forming.

With a frightened glance to her mother and Lady Jersey, Miss Simpson nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

They took their places for the country dance near where the musicians played in the balcony. Sloane leaned towards his terrified partner. ‘I beg your assistance, Miss Simpson. Tell me if I make a misstep. I become a bit nervous in a crowd such as this.’

Her eyes widened even more. ‘You become nervous?’

No, truthfully, Sloane never became nervous. And he hardly ever turned the wrong way in a country dance or trod on a lady’s toes. He merely wished to put the girl at ease. If she saw him as less than an ogre—or less than a shocking rake—she might relax and at least enjoy the set.

‘Does not everyone become nervous around so many people?’ He tried to school his features into those of a self-conscious dancer.

Her eyes still mimicked saucers as the dance began, but she soon showed that she took his request very seriously. She quietly cued him on what step came next and complimented him when he made a correct figure. She was so absorbed in his performance, she appeared to have totally forgotten herself. As they moved down the line, the fear on her face had vanished, replaced by a rather sweet smile.

The set was long and boring, but Sloane congratulated himself on giving Miss Simpson a bit of confidence. When he finally returned her to her still-disapproving mother, she glanced around the room with more interest than fear. He bowed and bid her goodnight. As he turned from her, he saw Lady Hannah enter the room.

Rather he should say that he saw Miss Hart enter the room, accompanied by Lady Hannah and her mother, for it was Miss Hart who captured his gaze first. Because of her gown, he told himself. It was the colour of an evening sunset, the sort of soft orange that sometimes lights the horizon. Miss Hart’s gown caught the eye more readily than a white one festooned with pink ribbons, flounces and silk flowers.

It might cause talk if he immediately approached them, so he walked to a corner of the room and stood at the crowd’s edge. The two young ladies followed Lady Cowdlin to a bevy of dowagers and chaperons, obviously of Lady Cowdlin’s acquaintance. Miss Hart turned to survey the room. She caught sight of him, hesitating a moment as she did. Sloane experienced a spark of awareness, but he would not credit that. It would merely be due to the high drama of their first encounter, that was all. A memory of danger and excitement often was accompanied by the same surge of emotions the real incident created. Why, he could not go down to the docks without reliving the macabre thrill of battling the French spy he’d been tracking, of the viciousness of the fight, and ultimate victory when his sword plunged deeply into the man’s chest.

Blinking away that memory, Sloane nodded slightly to acknowledge Miss Hart. She smiled, and her gaze eventually travelled on.

A familiar young man he’d not noticed before walked over to him. ‘Good evening, sir.’

Sloane was momentarily without speech.

The young man smiled. ‘I am your nephew, David Sloane.’

Sloane shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I confess I am surprised…’

No member of his family had spoken to him or called on him or otherwise acknowledged his presence since he had arrived in town. He took a breath and extended his hand. ‘How do you do, David.’

The young man accepted the handshake warmly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Uncle.’

This nephew had been a mere lad, not even old enough for school, when Sloane, then a youth himself, had last seen him. It had been during a rare holiday from school that Sloane spent with the family. He recalled his father being in some towering rage, the reason escaping him. Perhaps he’d been caught downing ale with the field hands at the pub, or had it been the time he’d overturned his father’s new gig?

Did his nephew’s memories of Uncle Cyprian include hearing the Earl’s barrage of verbal abuse and his stinging lashes with a whip? If the young man were spared such memories, as Sloane was not, he was certain the Earl and David’s father would have supplied other evidence of Uncle Cyprian’s total moral collapse.

David smiled again. ‘I had wanted to make myself known to you before, but I’d not found the opportunity.’

Sloane gave him a grave look. ‘Your father and grandfather will not approve of your speaking to me.’

The young man laughed. ‘I dare say not, but I assure you, I am not in agreement with them. Frankly, I think it does our family discredit to cut you off without a word.’

Our family? Sloane was amused at his nephew’s words.

David’s father had been born to the Earl of Dorton’s first wife—the virtuous wife. Sloane’s mother was not virtuous. She’d had a fairly public liaison with a dashing but impoverished Italian count, and, though the Earl of Dorton had declared Sloane his son, it was widely bandied about that Sloane was the product of that rollicking affair.

Indeed, the Earl, the man he called father, had branded him with the name Cyprian lest anyone forget what his mother was.

What he was.

From the time Sloane was old enough to understand these matters, the Earl had made certain the boy knew how good the Earl had been to acknowledge him as his son, how hard the Earl had tried to keep Sloane’s mother on the country estate, how she ultimately left them both when Sloane was not yet three years old, running off to Paris with her count.

How she and the man who sired him got caught in the revolutionary upheaval there and, as titled persons, went to their deaths on the guillotine.

Sloane wrenched his thoughts back to this nephew. ‘Your grandfather will be angry, I dare say.’ And, like as not, would place the blame at Sloane’s feet.

His nephew’s eyes twinkled. ‘I shall plead an attack of Christian charity. Grandfather will not dare argue on that score.’

Sloane could not help but laugh. ‘I trust the Earl is in good health? And your father as well?’

The young man replied, ‘My father is quite robust. Grandfather fatigues easily, although he will never admit to any weakness. Otherwise he is much as he has always been.’

Trying to still the flood of painful memories that suddenly assaulted him, Sloane asked other polite questions about the health of other relations who would, like as not, cross a street to avoid having to greet him. David answered just as politely, with an open countenance that led Sloane to think his sentiments might be genuine. The young man’s looks were more poetic than manly, with features that in the father appeared weak, but in the son seemed kind. Sloane could not help but like him.

As they chatted, Sloane kept half an eye on Lady Hannah—and her cousin. The two ladies left the chaperons and were slowly promenading around the room, stopping to chat with Lady Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends.

They eventually came near enough for Lady Hannah to feign surprise at seeing him. ‘Why, Mr Sloane, how delightful to see you here tonight. You recall my cousin, Miss Hart.’

Sloane gave Miss Hart an amused glance. ‘Yes, Miss Hart. I am able to recall our first meeting quite well, I assure you.’

Miss Hart’s lips twitched.

Lady Hannah gave a tittering laugh, placing her hand briefly on Sloane’s arm. She turned to his nephew, waiting for the introduction.

Sloane obliged. ‘Lady Hannah and Miss Hart, may I present Mr David Sloane.’ He deliberately withheld their relationship, lest it put David in an awkward position.

His nephew bowed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart. Mr Sloane is my uncle, you know.’

‘Oh, is that not splendid!’ Lady Hannah cooed, more automatically than genuinely. ‘Tell me, are you gentlemen enjoying the assembly tonight?’

Enjoy would not be a word Sloane would attach to Almack’s. His nephew answered first. ‘I assure you, my lady. I begin to enjoy myself immensely.’

Lady Hannah blushed prettily and tittered again.

Not only poetical looks, Sloane thought in amusement, but a tongue to go with them. He glanced at Miss Hart, who returned a knowing smile.

‘Are you gentlemen not dancing?’ Lady Hannah piped up, with a flutter of eyelashes.

Undoubtedly this had been her objective all along. To work her way around the room to Sloane’s side, so he could be the first gentleman to ask her to dance.

‘The next set is a waltz,’ she added significantly.

Before Sloane could open his mouth, David spoke, ‘I would be honoured to be your partner, my lady. There is nothing I could desire more.’ He accompanied this speech with a suitably earnest look.

‘Oh.’ Hannah blushed again, clearly pleased. ‘Then I suppose we must dance, sir.’ She turned to Sloane. ‘Would you be so good as to ask my cousin to dance? I would not wish to leave her standing alone.’

Sloane disliked her ordering him around every bit as much as he had the ruffian in the park. He was not some besotted slave devoted to her every whim, but he gave an assenting nod.

David lost no time in whisking her on to the dance floor as the music started. Sloane turned to Miss Hart.

She gave him a level look. ‘My cousin presumes too much, Mr Sloane. You are under no obligation to ask me to dance if you do not wish it. I am well able to walk across the room and rejoin my aunt.’

He understood the irritation in her voice, so like his own, but if she walked away from him, someone was certain to spread the tale that the notorious Cyprian Sloane had been rejected by a mere baron’s daughter. That would cost him. Besides, should he allow Lady Hannah’s presumption to stop him from doing what he longed to do?

He raised his brows to Miss Hart and spoke with deliberate exaggeration. ‘And what if I have pined for just such an opportunity?’

She immediately caught his humour. ‘Flummery, sir.’

He extended his hand to her. ‘I would truly be greatly honoured, Miss Hart.’

Her ginger eyes were unreadable for a second. Then she accepted his hand with a very gracious smile. ‘I confess, I long to dance.’

Sloane liked the feeling of leading her on to the dance floor and taking their places in the waltz. He put his arm at her back and she placed hers on his shoulder. He waited a moment to capture the beat of the music, then led her into the dance, twirling her to the music. With her height, he had only to bend his head a trifle to look into her face. Her eyes, softening into pools of golden warmth, were even more entrancing at such an intimate distance.

She followed his steps as if they were one person. He stopped even thinking of the dance, and merely allowed the music to carry them along. ‘This is not so bad, is it, Miss Hart?’

She smiled, creating tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘It is better than a walk in the park.’

He laughed aloud and her smile widened.

He twirled her around twice more and she looked up into his face. ‘I thought you were estranged from your family.’

He almost missed a step. Most ladies talked of trifling matters during a dance. ‘That is one of the tales told of me. What others have you heard?’

She blinked rapidly and glanced away, but brought her gaze back to his. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ Two spots of pink touched her cheeks. ‘I often speak before thinking. It is one of my most vexing faults. I did not intend to be so rude.’

He’d not expected that response. They swirled round the room in silence.

Her expression took on a determined look when she spoke again. ‘The weather was lovely today, was it not?’

He laughed again. ‘I concede defeat, Miss Hart. Spare me talk of the weather. You may grill me to your heart’s content.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘May I?’

‘Only if I may ask questions in return, such as, why were you in a tug of war with a scoundrel in Hyde Park?’

‘Shh!’ Her eyes darted to and fro as if searching for eavesdroppers. She raised them to him again. ‘Now it is I who concede defeat. There is nothing left for us to speak of except the activities of other people, and I have no gossip at all to share, only being out in public these two days.’

He joined in her bantering. ‘And I am loathe to talk of others lest they talk of me, though I have never been successful at stopping them.’

She made her eyes big, but they were dancing with mischief. ‘Is there so much about you to be discussed?’

How unlike the frightened Miss Simpson, he thought, who needed protection from his disreputable self. Miss Hart was made of sterner stuff. But he’d known that from the first sight of her.

‘We are at a stand again.’ She laughed.

They went round and round with the music, in a companionable silence that did not entirely suit him.

His expression turned more serious. ‘I was surprised when my nephew approached me,’ he said. ‘He is the first of my family to have done so in years.’

She answered quietly, ‘I will not ask why, I promise you.’

Sloane’s smile was not mirthful. ‘Why he speaks to me? I cannot think why he should do so. Or did you mean why I am estranged? Why the respectable Earl of Dorton does not speak to his son? You will hear those stories soon enough, I am sure.’

She kept her gaze steady. ‘Shall I believe them?’

‘Some of them,’ he admitted.

She nodded gravely, but with something that almost smacked of understanding. He must be careful. She could be like some of the women he met during the war, who could be as understanding as necessary in order to worm out confidences and sell them to the highest bidder. He’d been that high bidder some of the time. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut and reveal only what he wished them to know.

This was not war, with the lives of thousands of soldiers at stake, but rather his own personal campaign to conquer the ton. No matter how intrigued he was by this woman, he dared show her only what he wished her to see.

‘You have not been in town long, Miss Hart?’ A change of subject was always a good tactic.

A fleeting smile crossed her face. ‘We are back to polite conversation, are we? Yes. Lately from Paris.’

‘And did you like Paris?’ he went on.

Faint lines creased her brow. ‘I confess, I could not like the gaiety, as if all the horror of the past twenty-five years had not emanated from that place.’

Another response to render him speechless. He’d had the same feeling when visiting the city, both during and after the war, but he’d thought his reaction personal. She did tempt him to let down his guard. That would be all he needed. To let slip one of the shocking events of his life, what he had sunk to in the name of King and country—and before—so that she might inform her uncle and ruin his well-laid plans.

By the time the set had ended they were a gloomy duo, but both plastered smiles on their faces when Lady Hannah, David Sloane in tow, rejoined them.

Morgana only half-listened to the conversation between her cousin and her two admirers.

What had happened? One minute during that glorious waltz with Sloane they had been bantering as friends. The next minute he had retreated from her entirely. She had only asked one impertinent question, but had withdrawn it almost as the words left her mouth.

Maybe it had been her frankness about Paris. Perhaps she ought to have gushed over the beauty of the city, the delicious food, the fashionable gowns and hats. That was what Hannah would have done, and it was Hannah who had captured his interest.

Hannah and Mr David Sloane took no notice when Morgana backed away, but she caught Sloane staring at her as she walked over to two young ladies Hannah had introduced her to before the ill-fated waltz. When the next set formed, one of the gentlemen in their group asked her to dance.

She thought Sloane’s eyes followed her as she stepped on to the floor.

Chapter Four

Two days later Sloane sat at his desk, gazing at the paper his secretary placed in his hand.

‘Culross Street?’ He glanced at the young man standing before him.

‘It is an ideal situation, sir.’ Mr Elliot spoke earnestly. ‘Completely furnished, and in a manner that is presentable—if not in the latest style. There are servants eager to retain employment, and the owner is done up and desperate for cash.’

Sloane read the paper again. ‘But Culross Street?’

Mr Elliot’s brow wrinkled. ‘I assure you, Mr Sloane, Culross Street is a very sought-after address. I took the liberty of making the agreement in your name—’

The young man stepped back as Sloane half-rose from his chair. ‘You made the agreement?’

‘As you gave me liberty to do, sir,’ Elliot reminded him, with an indignant lift of his chin. ‘If we had delayed, another buyer would have snapped it up, and I vow there were no other suitable properties in all of Mayfair. None that would allow you to move in directly.’

Sloane sat back down. Culross Street was a small one, to be sure, but there must be at least a dozen town houses on it. What were the odds of being too close to Miss Hart? He began to calculate the numbers, as if this were a game of cards, but caught himself and waved his hand in impatience.

Decidedly easier to ask. ‘Elliot, I am acquainted with a resident on that street. A Miss Hart. Can you tell me where this house of yours—I mean, mine—is situated in relation to hers?’

The young man beamed. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hart. She would be right next door.’

Sloane groaned.

‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Elliot blinked, clearly baffled.

Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’

Nothing amiss. He was merely moving next door to a single lady, the cousin of the woman he intended to marry. What could be amiss? Only that someone was certain to attribute some lascivious meaning to the event and spread gossip. Why could Elliot not have put him next to some widowed viscountess or some such?

‘You gave me authority to make this decision,’ Elliot added defensively.

‘Yes, yes.’ Sloane rubbed his face and straightened in his chair. ‘Well, it is settled and I am sure you have done well. We did not foresee this peculiar circumstance.’

‘I have met the lady, sir, and she is perfectly respectable, I assure you.’

‘You met her?’

‘Quite by chance. I could not see any difficulty there.’

No, but Sloane could. He ought to have been wise enough to warn Elliot not to place him in any close proximity to a single lady of any age. But the cousin of his intended? Miss Hart, of all ladies.

Nothing could be done. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. ‘When do I take possession?’

Elliot brightened. ‘Today, if you like. The papers will be here for you to sign this morning.’

The chair nearly slipped out from under him. ‘Give me a day or so. You may take possession today, however, and make sure all is in order for me.’ Sloane needed a few days, if for nothing else, to alert the Cowdlins of his move. Would Lady Hannah dislike him living nearly in the pocket of her cousin? He was certain her father would.

‘Come with me, Lucy.’ Morgana practically had to drag the maid out of doors into the fine spring weather. She’d invented the excuse of desiring a walk in the park and needing a companion. Though it was not the fashionable hour, the park would be busy with other townspeople this fine day. A lady walking with her maid would not be remarked upon.

In some ways Morgana felt more kinship with her servants than with the few family members she possessed. The Cowdlins, including Hannah and Varney, treated her more as an obligation than a beloved relation, and her grandmother, the dear lady, could not even remember who Morgana was. It had not been much different growing up with her father. Baron Hart was always much too busy with some diplomatic crisis or another to attend to a little girl. As a result, Morgana had always formed attachments to the others around her, servants and governesses, short-lived as they were with her father’s frequent moves. It seemed natural for Morgana to consider Lucy’s problems as her own. She hoped to brighten the girl’s mood and encourage her to stay.

But Lucy tied the ribbons of her bonnet with a desultory air. Determined to be cheerful, Morgana led the girl to the pavement. As they neared the corner of the street, a gentleman approached.

He tipped his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hart.’

It was Mr Sloane’s secretary. ‘How do you do, Mr Elliot. How nice to see you again.’

Mr Elliot’s eyes wandered to Lucy, and she, in turn, regarded him shyly from beneath her long lashes. Morgana did so like this young man. His expression towards the maid held nothing but kindness.

‘My maid and I are going for a walk in the park.’

He touched the brim of his hat again. ‘I will not detain you.’

Lucy lagged behind Morgana as they crossed the street and turned towards one of the park entrances. As Morgana had anticipated, there were plenty of people enjoying the fine day. Governesses letting their charges run about while they passed time flirting with young men. Shopgirls and workmen eyeing each other with interest. There was even the occasional curricle and cavalryman exercising his horse.

They walked in silence for a very long time. As they reached the Serpentine and stood gazing at the water, Lucy spoke. ‘I think I’ll be leaving your house, miss.’

Morgana turned to her. ‘Oh, no, Lucy!’

The girl kept her gaze on the water. ‘I cannot stay. I’ve been thinking about it all the time. I must go.’

‘You cannot.’ She felt like grabbing Lucy and shaking sense into her. ‘The life you seek is no life for any girl.’

Lucy lifted a hand to her brow. ‘Lots of girls is in it, miss. I heard of a madam who treats her girls fair well.’

A madam. Morgana cringed at the thought of Lucy in such an establishment, where men came to pay for favours. Neither love nor the creation of children would enter into the transaction. Why, Lucy might catch a disease, one that could kill her.

Morgana had learned about such things when she kept her father’s house in Spain. She’d overheard plenty from the men who called upon her father and from servants’ talk. And, of course, the memory of the Portuguese girl always hovered in the recesses of her mind.

She wanted to spare Lucy such a life, but what did she have to offer her in exchange? A life of hard work, no matter how kind she was as an employer?

‘Lucy, what if I could procure some other sort of work for you?’

‘Like what, miss?’ Lucy asked, with little interest.

Morgana thought for a moment. It would be difficult to convince anyone to hire a maid to do another sort of job, but she could at least try. ‘In a shop, perhaps.’

‘And stand on my feet all day? I could not do it.’ Lucy shook her head.

Morgana racked her brain to think of other jobs. For every one, Lucy gave an excuse.

A nurse? Lucy hated sick people.

A governess? Worse than a maid, Lucy vowed. Besides she was not good at learning.

A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes.

‘What if I set you up in a business, like a shop of some sort?’ Morgana was grasping at straws, but she could probably get her father to release enough money for a little shop.

‘I cannot do sums, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said. ‘Besides, m’mind’s made up on the matter. I’m going to go to the bawdy house.’

Morgana took Lucy’s hands in hers and made the girl face her. ‘I believe you are making a very bad mistake, Lucy.’ She spoke in a calm but firm voice. ‘It is not too late to live a virtuous life. I am happy to employ you and keep you as part of my household. I will not make you work too hard. In time you will meet a young man who will want to marry you—’

‘No!’ Lucy wrenched out of her grasp. ‘There is no marriage for a girl like me. I want to go to the madam. She pays her girls well, I heard. That is what I want, Miss Hart. I want money and pretty dresses.’

It was no use. Morgana stared at Lucy for a long time, but could think of nothing else to say. Finally, she turned back in the direction they had come. ‘Let us make our way home.’

They returned to the path. Walking silently a few steps in front of Lucy, Morgana waited while a carriage rumbled past.

Through the carriage window she spied the auburn-haired woman she’d seen at the opera. Harriette Wilson. The woman laughed gaily and happened to turn towards Morgana, giving her a smile of recognition and of something else—something rather smug and defiant, Morgana thought.

Next to Miss Wilson, Morgana spied a gentleman, but she could not see who it was. The carriage, however, was an expensive one, and the horses, matched bays, were very fine indeed.

After the carriage passed, Morgana could not make herself move. She was frozen by a thought flying through her head.

‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.

Morgana swung around and grabbed the girl by the upper arms. ‘Lucy, I have an idea. A much better idea than you running off to that bawdy house!’

Lucy tried to pull away. ‘I’m not staying, miss. My mind is made up.’

‘Oh, yes! You will stay! For a while at least.’ Morgana knew this idea was mad, but rather than consign Lucy to a life akin to slavery, she could set the girl free.

‘You do not have to be beholden to a madam or a procurer or any of those sordid persons. You can be like that woman who just drove by!’

Lucy gaped at her as if she were indeed bound for Bedlam. ‘I cannot be like her, miss! She was a lady.’

Morgana laughed. ‘No, Lucy, that’s the thing! She was not a lady. She was a courtesan!’

Lucy regarded her with a blank expression.

Morgana explained what a courtesan was. For the rest of the walk home, she talked about how handsomely gentlemen paid for the favours of such women. How courtesans could own property and fine clothes and jewels. She explained that a courtesan did not have to obey the dictates of a brothel madam. She did not have to take just any man into her bed. A courtesan could choose her gentlemen, and no one could tell her what to do. A courtesan could look gay and carefree like Harriette Wilson, not empty and hopeless like the Portuguese girl.

‘But I do not know how to be a courtesan!’ Lucy protested.

‘I shall teach you,’ Morgana said, her excitement building.

‘You, miss?’ Lucy cried in horrified tones.

‘Well, I cannot teach you all of it,’ Morgana admitted. ‘But I know how to teach you to walk and talk and dress. We shall find tutors for the rest.’ This was the right course, Morgana knew. How to precisely bring it all about was less certain, but she was determined to save Lucy from the bleak existence of a common whore. If she could not convince the girl to live a virtuous life, at least she could train her to be as gay and free and flush with funds as Harriette Wilson.

They had reached the house and Morgana stopped before the front door. ‘What say you, Lucy?’

Lucy stared down at the pavement. As Cripps opened the door for them, she looked up at Morgana. ‘I will do it, Miss Hart.’

Morgana grasped her hand and squeezed it, then she led the maid into the house past the butler, who, Morgana suspected, did not approve of her friendly manner towards a lower servant.

Sloane sounded the knocker to the Cowdlin town house. When he gained entrance, he handed his hat, gloves and stick to the butler.

‘Shall I announce you, sir? Lady Cowdlin is receiving callers in the drawing room,’ the butler said.

‘Is Lord Cowdlin at home? If so, I would request a few moments of his time.’

Sloane was engaged to drive Lady Hannah and her insipid friend, Miss Poltrop, in the park. He’d deliberately arrived early to see Lord Cowdlin.

The butler bowed and made his dignified way up the stairs. Sloane cooled his heels. While he waited, a footman answered another knock.

His nephew stepped into the hall and handed the footman his card. ‘Lady Cowdlin, if she is receiving callers.’

Sloane would have wagered his new home it was not the mother David had come to see.

The young man looked over and noticed him. ‘Oh, Uncle. Good to see you.’ He strode over and extended his hand.

Sloane accepted the handshake, but with an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘Calling upon Lady Cowdlin, I hear?’

David responded with an abashed expression. ‘I thought I might. And you?’

Sloane glanced towards the stairway. It was taking a devil of a long time for the butler to return with Lord Cowdlin’s response. ‘Lord Cowdlin first, I hope.’

David’s brows shot up. ‘Are you making an offer, Uncle Cyprian?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. That ought to be his errand, but Sloane, who usually acted with dispatch over important matters, continued to drag his feet on this one. He told himself he hesitated only to give Lord Cowdlin time to accommodate to the idea.

A sudden thought occurred to him. He peered at his nephew. ‘Are you making an offer?’

David shook his head. ‘I cannot make an offer to any woman. At the moment, I have nothing but an allowance and prospects. It will be another three years before my trust provides me the means to support a wife.’

How like the Earl to have control of the boy’s money for as long as he could. ‘I see,’ was all Sloane said.

The footman came for David long before the butler reappeared for Sloane. ‘His lordship will see you now.’

Sloane followed the butler to Lord Cowdlin’s library. He barely looked up from the papers at the desk in front of him. It was a rudeness Sloane would not let pass.

When the butler bowed himself out, Sloane approached the desk. ‘You make no secret of your dislike, sir.’ Sloane made certain he spoke these words in a casual manner.

Lord Cowdlin shot to attention. ‘What? What?’

Sloane gave him a knowing smile. ‘You do not rise to greet me. I assure you, sir, if you are so busy, you ought not to have received me.’

Cowdlin glared at him. ‘Well, what do you want?’

Sloane made the man wait, but he stared at him until Cowdlin squirmed in his leather chair.

Cowdlin was no match for him. Sloane had sat across a card table from many a man just like Cowdlin, men who fancied themselves gamesters but who only had the skill to drive themselves into dun territory. Sloane would play his hand with Cowdlin with cunning and resolve. He would comport himself as a gentleman. ‘I wish to do you the honour of informing you of my purchase of a property in Mayfair.’

‘That is it? You waste my precious time to tell me you bought a house?’ Cowdlin huffed with indignity.

‘I came to tell you, before someone else bandied the story about, that I have purchased the town house next door to your wife’s niece.’

Cowdlin stood. ‘What? What nefarious plans are you hatching, sir?’

Sloane gave him a level gaze. ‘My secretary was charged with securing a property for me. He did as I’d wished and found precisely the place I required at the right price. The bargain was secured before he knew I was acquainted with Miss Hart.’

‘You expect me to believe this?’ Cowdlin barked.

Sloane slid into an ironic smile. ‘No, I do not expect you to believe it. But it is the truth, and because of your connection to the young lady, I bring you the news first.’

‘If I hear of any of your mischief towards my niece—’

‘What sort of mischief, Cowdlin?’ Sloane broke in. ‘I am desirous to know.’

The short, round man stood and raised himself to his full height. ‘You know very well what your reputation is, sir.’

‘Ah…’ Sloane pretended to relax. He strolled over to the library window and back again to Cowdlin’s desk. ‘The thing is, I do not know. What is my reputation, sir?’

‘Why… why… why… that of a womaniser. And a bounder.’ A bit of spittle dripped from Cowdlin’s lip.

‘Precisely what have I done? I am not aware of ill using any female, though I confess to having a man’s needs. The ladies involved generally have not complained.’

‘Well, there is how you made your money during the war. Smuggling. Bah! Answer that, will you?’

Sloane had no intention of breaking his word of silence about his war activities, not for this foolish fellow. He leaned casually on the desk, bringing his face closer to Cowdlin’s. ‘And, you, sir, did you forgo your brandy during the conflict? Did Lady Cowdlin or Lady Hannah never wish for French silk? How did you come by such items?’

‘Well…!’ Cowdlin began, but he looked down at his desk and fussed with his papers.

‘Let me speak plainly, sir,’ Sloane said. ‘You are a man in need of money, with a daughter in need of a husband. I have the wealth you desire and am an eligible suitor. Can you afford to earn my dislike?’

To his credit, Lord Cowdlin met Sloane’s gaze. ‘Are you making an offer for my daughter?’

It was the perfect time to do so. Sloane had only to form the words.

He could not. ‘I will make a formal offer if and when I choose to do so. But if you intend to refuse me, it would suit me well enough to be told now.’

Cowdlin averted his eyes. ‘I do not refuse such an offer at this time.’

Sloane stepped back from the desk. ‘Very well. With your permission I will then keep my appointment with your daughter and her friend to drive through the park.’

Cowdlin nodded.

Sloane bowed and strode out of the room.

He was more quickly admitted into the drawing room where Lady Cowdlin and her daughter received callers. Lady Cowdlin sat with Lady Poltrop on a sofa, the two ladies engaged in a whispering conversation, most likely the latest gossip of which lady of their acquaintance was sleeping with which gentleman. Lady Hannah and Miss Poltrop also had their heads together, watching David play at cup-and-ball. When Sloane was announced, Hannah looked over and waved happily. He paid his respects to the mothers and walked over to the younger group.

David gave an embarrassed laugh and set the child’s toy on the table. Sloane felt suddenly very old.

‘Are you ladies ready for a turn in the park?’ he asked.

Hannah clutched at his arm excitedly. ‘Oh, yes. It is such a fine day.’ She batted her eyes coquettishly at David. ‘It is a pity there is not room for you, too, Mr Sloane.’

David smiled. ‘I would have been delighted for the company, but I must take my leave.’ He bowed to each of the young ladies and then to Sloane. ‘Good day to you, Uncle.’

After a long drive through the park, crowded with vehicles of all kinds, as well as riders and pedestrians, Sloane delivered Miss Poltrop to her door. As his tiger jumped on the back of the curricle and he and Lady Hannah started off again, the young lady exclaimed, ‘I cannot believe you will be living immediately next door to my cousin!’

Sloane had imparted this information to the young ladies during the ride, eliciting happy squeals and exclamations.

‘Do let us drive by your new house!’ Hannah begged.

It was only a small detour, so Sloane turned down Park Street and was again on Culross Street. Lights blazed in the house next to Morgana Hart’s; through the windows, Sloane spied servants hard at work dusting and polishing.

What would those servants think if they had seen some of the places he’d lived over the years? Would they be so fastidious? Sloane had slept in dingy rooms listening to mice scurrying and scratching within the walls. He’d even slept on the streets of Rome, when, as a young man, he had temporarily run out of funds during his wanderings.

‘I think it will be lovely!’ cried Hannah. ‘Why, we might run into each other when I call upon my cousin. Would that not be a treat?’

‘Indeed,’ he said, keeping up the conversation. ‘Do you call upon Miss Hart often?’

Lady Hannah gave a deep laugh and wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘I shall now,’ she murmured.

When she allowed such a peek at the woman she was bound to become, Sloane wondered what was keeping him from formally proposing marriage to her. Her girlish giggles would eventually disappear, and then this hint of a woman would truly flower.

He slowed the curricle in front of his new home. In the window of the house next door, a face appeared.

‘Oh, look! There is Morgana!’ Hannah waved energetically.

Miss Hart’s returning wave was less exuberant, and she peered at them with a puzzled expression.

Well, Sloane thought, she would know soon enough why his curricle had paused in front of her house.

Morgana stepped back from the window. No longer visible from the street, she still could see her cousin, blooming like a spring rose, seated next to the tall Cyprian Sloane, his fingers confidently holding the horse’s ribbons.

How could a person feel such a combination of thrill and dejection? She simply must get over this tendency to moon over Mr Sloane and to flame with jealousy every time her cousin put her arm through his.

He was a man spoken for, even if he was the most interesting man she’d ever met. It would be ill mannered in the extreme to place herself in competition with Hannah. Morgana had enough difficulty maintaining the docile, agreeable manners prized by society. She would not be judged a man-snatcher as well.

She gave an audible groan.

As if a man like Mr Sloane would want her to snatch him. Hannah was the sort men wished to marry, all delicate and biddable. Not a harridan who scrapped with men in the park. Or who all too often spoke her mind. Or one who must be asked to dance out of pity.

Morgana watched the curricle pull away, experiencing more conflicting emotions, this time relief and disappointment. For a few heart-pounding moments, she thought her cousin and Mr Sloane might call upon her.

‘Stop all this foolishness,’ she said aloud to herself.

She resolved again to tuck Cyprian Sloane away in her mind as merely a man with whom to engage in interesting conversation, a man she was bound to see often in her cousin’s company. When he made his offer to Hannah, as Hannah insisted he would, Morgana would wish them very happy.

That was settled. She gave a firm nod and turned her thoughts to her most pressing problem. How to find someone to tutor Lucy in the skills of a courtesan. It was not as if such a person would advertise in the Morning Post. Where were they to be found?

Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters.

That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.

She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.

With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.

A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.

‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’

True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.

‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’

‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.

‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’

Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’

Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park. Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present.

Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’

Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’

Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’

Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’

The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.

Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.

‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.

‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’

Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.

‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’

Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’

Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’

Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’

‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.

She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’

Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’

Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.

‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’

‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.

Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.

He was a damned fool.

It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.

He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.

The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.

This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.

He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door.

The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do.

Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’

He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him.

From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice.

‘Mr Sloane!’

Chapter Five

‘Miss Hart!’ Sloane’s stick slipped on the pavement, but the lady stood very composed while Lucy hid behind her and peeked about furtively. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

She lifted her chin. ‘We were on an errand.’

He could barely make out her features through the haze of net. ‘Are you mad? What errand would bring you to this street at this hour of the day? To this place?’ He pointed to the glove shop.

‘It is an errand of a private nature, sir.’ Her tone of voice was excessively dignified. ‘If you truly wish to be of assistance, you might procure a hackney coach for us. I do not see one about.’

He gave her a very stern stare. ‘You would be lucky indeed to find one here. There will be an abundance of them on St James’s, however, but that would require walking down that street past White’s and Brooks’s.’

Any respectable lady put her reputation in jeopardy by walking in this part of town at this hour. What the devil had she been thinking of?

Sloane leaned closer to her and spoke in a smooth, ironic voice. ‘Miss Hart, are you merely buffleheaded or must I consider you a fast woman?’

To her credit, she did not flinch from this query. If she blushed, it was obscured in gauze.

‘Why I am here is, as I have explained, a private matter. If I must walk down St James’s unescorted and unprotected, I will.’ She pointedly shifted her gaze from him to her companion, ‘Come, Lucy. Let us find a hack.’

With head held high, she strode off towards St James’s Street. Sloane hesitated a moment. It was not his responsibility to extricate Morgana Hart from every foolhardy bramble she trod into. Let her suffer the catcalls and whistles of the young dandies lounging on the corners. Let her identity be exposed when one of those young bucks mistook her for a fancy piece and pulled off her hat. He started off in the other direction, but took no more than two steps before he turned around.

Even with his long legs, he nearly had to run to catch up with her. ‘Miss Hart!’

She stopped and whirled around as if to confront an annoying pest.

He reached her side and pulled her by the arm to a doorway of a shop whose curtains were drawn. ‘Wait here, speak to no one, and I will procure the hack.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sloane,’ she said with exaggerated politeness. ‘That is very gentlemanly of you, but I do wish you would not call out my name in the street.’

He winced and looked about, fearing he’d exposed her, the very circumstance he hoped to prevent. Good fortune was with them. There was no one in sight.

‘I will be but a moment.’ He hurried off to where Jermyn Street met St James’s.

Morgana leaned against the locked shop door and moaned as Lucy took a peek out of their hiding place.

Lucy tucked herself back in the doorway. ‘I have caused you more trouble, haven’t I, Miss Hart? You should not have come here.’

Lucy need not blame herself for Morgana’s foolishness. Morgana patted the girl’s arm reassuringly. ‘Mr Sloane has saved us from trouble, hasn’t he? He will find us transport and we shall be home directly.’

Morgana resisted the impulse to lean out of the doorway to watch him striding towards the corner. She ought to be mortified that he had discovered her in this part of town. What must he think of her now? First her skirmish in the park. Now this—this parading where no respectable woman would dare set foot in the afternoon. But frankly, she had been so relieved to see him.

The interview with the madam had not gone well. The woman had the gall to threaten Morgana with violence if she ever darkened her door again. Mrs Rice, as the abbess of the establishment was named, believed Morgana to be setting up a fancy house of her own. How appalling! Mrs Rice, furthermore, went into high dudgeon at the prospect of competition. She also accused Morgana of stealing her newest referral, Lucy. After such a disagreeable interview, Morgana had feared Mrs Rice would make good her threat and send some hulking footpad after them.

When Sloane appeared, her fears fled. She knew she could trust him to see to their safe return and to not speak a word to anyone of the incident.

‘He’s that man from the park, that’s who he is. Isn’t he, miss?’

‘Yes, are we not lucky he has rescued us a second time?’

Lucy nodded in agreement. If the maid wondered why Morgana knew his name, she did not let on.

Sloane did not keep them waiting long. A black hackney pulled up in front of them, and he hopped down to assist them inside.

When they were seated on the hack’s cracked leather seats, Sloane rapped on the roof and the coach lurched into motion.

He faced Morgana, Lucy seated at her side.

‘I thank you again for coming to our assistance,’ Morgana said, sounding more genuine in her gratitude this time.

He peered at her from beneath the rim of his beaver hat. ‘It is becoming a habit of mine.’

She could not help but smile, but quickly wiped it off her face when his expression remained grim.

He leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea what risk you took for your mysterious errand?’ His gaze shifted momentarily to Lucy, who shrank to the corner of the vehicle.

‘I protected my identity,’ Morgana protested.

He lifted the netting away from her face. ‘See how easy it is to expose you?’

She pulled it back in place and pretended to gaze out of the window at the passing parade of street hawkers and carriages.

She felt him shift position. ‘If you are into some havey-cavey business, Miss Hart, I wish to know of it.’ He gave a pause. ‘Since we are to be neighbours.’

Her gaze flew back to him. Even Lucy straightened in her seat. ‘Neighbours?’

He gave her the slow, lazy grin that made her heart do a flip. ‘I have purchased the property next to yours.’

Morgana stifled a gasp. So it was true. Seeing Sloane’s secretary two days in a row had raised her concerns—or was that her hopes?—that Sloane would move next door.

His eyes glittered with anger. ‘I will be taking residence within a day or two.’

So soon? Could he not wait for renovations or something equally time-consuming? No, he probably was in a rush to have a house to show off to a prospective young bride. Perhaps he would promise Hannah the pleasure of redecorating to her own tastes. Morgana closed her eyes and saw a horror of patterns, fringe and frills that no doubt her cousin would insist was all the rage.

She opened her eyes and gave a stiff smile. ‘How splendid for you.’

He laughed—not the pleasant, open laugh of the opera, but a mysterious one. He leaned forward so there was no more than an inch between their faces. His voice turned very low. ‘Does the prospect so displease you?’

Morgana’s heart accelerated. ‘I am certain you will make a tolerable neighbour.’ She meant it as a jest, but the words came out stiff and prim. Why could she not possess her cousin’s natural ability to bat eyes and to utter flirtatious nonsense?

His eyes became slits as he leaned back again. ‘I will refrain from orgies and other rakish activities—will that prove tolerable enough?’

She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’

Lucy gave a pained squeak.

‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’

One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’

Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting.

He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’

Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’

That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it.

She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles.

When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane.

He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so.

Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again.

She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’

He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach.

Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor.

He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home.

His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig.

He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish.

The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart.

He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street?

She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know.

He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones.

Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’

She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face.

He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’

She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’

The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian artefact as she came down the steps and hobbled towards him, and he quickly raced down his and ran over to her to save her the exertion.

As if they were in the Prince Regent’s drawing room, Miss Hart said, ‘Grandmama, may I present Mr Sloane, who is to be our neighbour soon.’

Miss Hart’s grandmother gave a toothy smile. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, my dear. Is it not fine weather today?’

Miss Hart continued. ‘The dowager Lady Hart, sir.’

‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.

‘Hmm?’ Lady Hart she smiled again. ‘It was so nice of you to call. You must do so again.’ She looked up at Morgana. ‘We are off to the shops.’

Miss Hart must have seen a look of bewilderment on his face because she responded with amusement. ‘Yes, Grandmama. Off to the shops.’ She leaned towards Sloane and whispered, ‘We shall not make it further than the corner, you know.’

His brow cleared. The old lady must be a bit senile, that was it.

‘Are you visiting your house, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. ‘You will be pleased, I think. I’ve never seen such a marshalling of mops and rags.’

He could not help but return her smile. ‘That is Mr Elliot’s doing, no doubt. I’m afraid he approaches all tasks with great efficiency.’ He gave her a careful look, so as not to miss her reaction. ‘But I do not merely look at the house. I am taking residence at this moment.’

Miss Hart gave a small sound in the back of her throat, but quickly recovered her manners. ‘How nice for you.’

He responded with a wink. ‘I hope I shall be a tolerable neighbour.’

Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, putting Sloane in mind of how she might look flushed with passion. Such thoughts were not going to make living next to her easier.

Her grandmother twisted to look at a curricle that had passed by in the street. When she turned back towards Sloane, her eyes lit up. ‘How delightful to have you call, dear. We are off to the shops.’

‘Yes.’ Miss Hart nodded shakily. ‘We must be off.’

She and Lady Hart made slow progress. They had barely reached the pavement in front of the next house when Sloane called back to her. ‘Miss Hart?’

Still holding her grandmother’s arm, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’

‘May I be so bold as to inquire who lives with you?’

Her eyebrows twitched and she paused a moment too long before speaking. ‘Lady Hart and her companion, Miss Moore.’

He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’

She maintained a perfectly bland expression. ‘Why, my grandmother, of course.’ Without waiting to see his response, she turned back and proceeded down the street with all the speed of a lame snail.

Sloane watched her with sinking dismay. Not only would he be living next to a single female about whom he harboured lecherous thoughts, he would be living next to an unchaperoned one.

There had been no invitations for that night, so Morgana was forced to remain at home. Ordinarily that posed no difficulty at all—she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself—but this night it was nearly impossible to refrain from gazing out of the front window in the hope that she might glimpse her new neighbour. Would he go out? Or would he relish an evening at home in his new house?

And how long would it take for her to give him as little mind as she did the Viscount and Viscountess on the other side?

She had not yet seen him leave the premises, but the thought of him walking around the rooms on the other side of her wall was nearly as distracting as the window.

Her grandmother and Miss Moore had retired early, as was their habit, so she was alone. She brought her mending to the drawing room, but her eyes were too tired to focus on the stitches in the flickering light. She picked up a book instead, but found it equally tiresome. She wandered to the window and looked out. When she caught herself there, she whirled about and determinedly marched away.

She settled at the pianoforte and played the music she knew by heart. Morgana loved to play, loved the feeling that the action of her fingers brought out the melodies. She did not mind that her skills at the keyboard were passable at best. She enjoyed the music anyway.

She played every piece of music she knew, from common ballads to snatches of Mozart. Then she played them all over again, but she remained restless. She rose and found herself back at the window.

This time her vigil was at an end. She saw Sloane leave his house and walk briskly down the street. Even though he was no more than a shadow, she could not mistake that tall frame, that gait so smooth and graceful, yet infused with masculine power. He soon disappeared into the darkness as if the darkness were welcoming back a missing piece of itself.

She sighed. They had almost regained their friendly banter. It had been such a relief to converse pleasantly with him after their other recent cool encounters. In some ways it was easier to have him avoid her. But now that their relationship had regained some of its ease, she longed to be in his company again.

Voices sounded outside the drawing-room door, several female voices. There was a knock and Morgana swung around. ‘Come in.’

The door opened only a crack, and Lucy poked her head in. ‘Might I have a word with you, miss? If I am not disturbing you, I mean.’

Lucy actually wished to speak with her? This was puzzling behaviour indeed. ‘Certainly, Lucy. Come in and sit down with me.’

Lucy lifted a plain mahogany chair from against the wall and moved it next to the sofa where Morgana had settled herself. Lucy perched primly on the edge of the seat.

The pretty maid finally spoke. ‘Miss Hart, you remember how you said you would teach me to be a courtesan? And I would have a house and money of my own and pretty clothes?’

‘I have not forgotten, Lucy. I have been trying to work out what to do next. Did you look through my Ladies Monthly Museum and read the article on comportment?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’

‘I promise I shall discover how we may learn the other lessons we need.’ Morgana held out a faint hope that she would have the opportunity to speak with Harriette Wilson. Miss Wilson could answer her prayers.

Lucy stood up suddenly. ‘Miss, I’ve something I must tell you.’

Morgana’s spirits plummeted, certain Lucy had decided to go to Mrs Rice after all. ‘What is it?’

Lucy held up one finger, gesturing for Morgana to wait. She hurried to the door and opened it. She leaned halfway out of the room for a moment, then stepped aside. Three young women entered.

They stood in a line in front of Morgana. All were strangers to her. Two wore brightly coloured dresses. One showed revealing décolletage, the other wrapped a shawl around her. Morgana could not decipher the expressions on their faces. Wary? Eager? Defiant?

‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.

Lucy joined the line. ‘Miss Hart, these girls heard you talkin’ to that Mrs Rice. The lady in the glove shop? They want to be courtesans. They want you to teach them.’

Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’

Lucy gave her an imploring look. ‘Please, miss. They said Mrs Rice is not a nice lady. They don’t want to work for her no more. They want to be on their own, like you told me.’

What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened?

One of the girls swiped a lock of red hair off her forehead. ‘The shop ain’t no good place to be, miss, begging your pardon for speaking. Mrs Rice, she makes us see as many customers as come. Sometimes we have to do as many as—’

Morgana’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Yes, I quite understand.’

The red-haired girl went on. ‘We could do better on our own. Me and Mary, we talked about it, and, if you teach us how to be high-fliers, we’ll be willin’ to give you a portion of our money.’

‘Oh!’ Morgana knew her cheeks were flaming now. She stood. ‘I think you misunderstood. I am not a… a procuress. I merely wanted something better for Lucy.’

‘We want something better, too, miss,’ the third girl said. She had raven black hair set off by skin so pale it was almost white, but her lips, perhaps tinted, were coloured rose. She gave a graceful toss of her neck. ‘And we want it enough to pay you for it.’

‘No.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘It is not possible—I cannot—It does not bear thinking of.’

‘Excuse me, miss.’ The girl covering herself with the shawl stepped forward. ‘We do understand your hesitation. This must seem like an outrageous request on our part, but you are our only hope.’

Morgana was stunned. The girl spoke in cultivated tones. ‘You sound… educated.’

She bowed her head. ‘I have fallen on difficult times, miss.’

‘Rose here and me may not be educated in books and all,’ the red-haired one broke in. ‘But we’ve had hard times, too, and the way I figure it, we’re as deserving as some of those others that gets to be a fine gentleman’s fancy-piece.’

The one with the shawl added, ‘We have determined that it will be better to be under a gentleman’s protection. If you are able to teach us how to achieve that, we would be grateful enough to pay you whatever you wish.’

‘Not whatever she wishes, Mary,’ her red-haired companion cried. ‘Don’t be daft. We have to save enough money to tell all the fellows they can go to the devil.’

‘Don’t use such language in front of Miss Hart!’ Lucy broke in. ‘I’m sorry I brought you here.’

Morgana held up a hand. ‘Never mind, Lucy.’ She gazed at all four of them. It was easy to see why the brothel wanted them. They were all pretty girls, with pretty figures, still in the bloom of youth. What might they look like a few years from now? Like… like the Portuguese girl, all used up and old before her time?

‘Well, I’m sorry we came,’ the girl shot back, ‘because this lady’s going to send us back, and I don’t much fancy the beating old Rice’s man is going to give us.’

A beating? Morgana turned away from them and walked over to the window where she’d so recently seen Sloane disappear into the night. She had not imagined beatings. She had merely pictured them climbing the stairs in the back of the glove shop and entering small bedchambers to await one man after another, night after night. Would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror if she sent them back to that life?

‘Nobody is going back,’ Morgana said quietly.

Chapter Six

Two of the girls squealed and jumped up and down. The third sank into a chair. Morgana gestured for them all to sit.

‘I cannot make any promises to you.’ Morgana looked at each of them in turn. ‘I have not been able to find a proper tutor’—an improper one, she meant—’but I can teach you to walk and talk and dress in a refined way. I can show you how to make economies and I can teach you the proper value of items.’

Their expressions were much more decipherable now. Desperation was gone from their faces.

Morgana went on. ‘But there are things about pleasing men I do not know—’

‘Oh, we know how to please men,’ laughed the bold girl.

‘Yes. Of course…’ Morgana blinked, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, then. Let me know who you are.’

The bold girl spoke first. ‘My name is Katy Green. I’m from Derbyshire, at least I was until I came to London.’

She pointed to the dark-haired beauty, ‘This is Rose O’Keefe. The new girl.’

‘I am not really one of Mrs Rice’s girls, miss.’ Rose spoke with a pleasing Irish lilt. ‘I overheard these two talking. To be sure, says I, t’would be grand to come along.’

Rose was an enchanting vision of dark and light. In the proper clothes, she would cause heads to turn wherever she went. Her success as a courtesan seemed already a fait accompli.

Morgana gave an inward sigh. What sort of life was she offering the girl?

Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Green and Miss O’Keefe.’ She turned to the third girl. ‘And you are?’

‘Mary Phipps, miss.’

Morgana had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue for this girl. What had happened to her? Why was she one of the girls in Mrs Rice’s glove shop? How could someone, so like Morgana herself, be reduced to harlotry? But poor Mary’s energy had been spent. Morgana would save her questions for later. There would be time enough. Mary and the others would be staying for a while.

‘I am happy to meet you as well, Miss Phipps.’

Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes.

Katy gave her a kind, almost motherly look, although Mary was clearly the elder of the two. ‘Mary is a bit quiet, miss. We’ll have to liven her up. Men like spirit, I say.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Morgana cleared her throat. It would be a monumental task to transform quiet, subdued Mary Phipps into the likes of Harriette Wilson.

The enormity of transforming any of them into scandalous women who earned their livelihood by men’s largesse descended upon Morgana like a sudden downpour. She mentally shook herself, thrusting away cowardice and determining to set herself to the tasks before her, one step at a time. That was how to battle self-doubt. Charge ahead. Perform the task. Save the deluge of emotions for later.

Was that how poor Mary survived? Did each of these girls set themselves to the task and suffer their emotions later?

Uncertainty came creeping back. Morgana curved her hand into a fist. Time to act. Worry could come after. She turned to Lucy. ‘We must find places for everyone to sleep, Lucy. Is there room abovestairs?’

‘We will manage, miss,’ Lucy assured her.

‘And tomorrow morning we must find other dresses. Plain ones. These will not do at all.’

‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned.

‘Yes, you must. In this neighbourhood, you must not attract any notice. I cannot tell you what trouble there would be if our… our courtesan school is discovered.’

‘School?’ laughed Katy. ‘Fancy me going to school!’

‘Please do not speak a word of it,’ Morgana begged. Not only was the enormity of the task ahead threatening to engulf her, but the risks as well.

Lucy led them out of the drawing room, and Morgana rang for Cripps, who immediately presented himself.

‘Cripps, we have three guests in the house.’ She spoke in crisp tones. She knew she must think of some way to explain the girls’ presence in the house, but that was a task she could put off for later.

His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. ‘Very good, miss. Do you require me to rouse Mrs Cripps to make rooms ready?’

Morgana was equally uncertain of the housekeeper’s opinion of their guests. ‘That will not be necessary. Lucy will see to their lodging.’

His brows rose another notch. Lucy would have been the last of the household staff Cripps or his wife would have chosen for such a task. ‘May I inform Mrs Cripps which rooms will be occupied?’

Morgana gave him what she hoped was a quelling look. ‘We shall address such matters tomorrow.’

He blinked twice. ‘As you desire, miss. How else may I serve you tonight?’

‘I will not require anything else. Thank you, Cripps.’

The dignified butler bowed and left the room.

Morgana sank back on to the sofa. How would she explain all this to Cripps and his wife? And the other staff? And Miss Moore? She dropped her head into her hands. How could she explain the presence of these girls to respectable Miss Moore?

She sat erect again and lifted her chin. She would simply manage it. She must, because she would not be responsible for sending any of those girls to Mrs Rice, that horrid creature.

Morgana stood and resolutely walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Sloane relaxed in the coffee room of White’s, nursing a brandy and vaguely watching the other gentlemen. He wondered how many of them resented his ease and welcome here. He was a member and there was not a thing any of them could do about it, not even the Earl who had acknowledged him as a son. A legacy from a grandfather, a man with whom Sloane shared no blood ties, made it possible.

Years before, when the Old Club and the New Club merged into White’s, the present Earl’s father had arranged to have all his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons guaranteed membership for the next hundred years. The old man died before knowing that a rotten apple had appeared in the barrel.

As a young man Sloane had refused to set foot in White’s. Anywhere his father was welcome, Sloane disdained, but now the wisdom of age prevailed.

If he was to take his place in society, he must appear where society gathered, and gentlemen of importance appeared at White’s. This night he’d played a few sedate games of whist, careful to fold his cards before winning too much lest he be accused of fleecing the true sons of the ton.

In Sloane’s darker days, his next meal had often depended on the turn of a card. The hungrier he became, the more skilfully he played, until he could count fairly well on living high as long as there was a nearby card game.

In fact, one marathon round of whist last autumn had deepened his pockets considerably. With such an abundance of riches, it dawned on him to change his game.

In these difficult economic times, wealth was gaining prominence over the elevation of one’s birth. Soon nabobs and cits would amass enough wealth to buy all the power and influence his father’s generation believed to be their birthright. Sloane, however, need not wait for such a day. Sloane had the status of birth, counterfeit though it was. He had more capital than his father. All he needed was a respectable reputation and nothing would stop how high he could rise.

He’d been scrupulous about his behaviour since making his appearance in the beau monde. All the ton knew of his past was mere rumour. If they had heard of some of the things he’d done to survive, or some he’d done in the service of his country, they would surely blackball him, but he’d given them nothing to remark upon these last months. What was more, he was in a fair way to contract a respectable marriage.

That thought did not conjure up an image of the delectable Lady Hannah. Rather, Morgana Hart flashed into his mind. Sloane frowned. Morgana Hart was unpredictable and much too apt to engage in ruinous escapades. Sloane could not afford to have her drag him down with her. He ought to avoid her.

Even though she lived next door.

Sloane took a sip, letting the brandy slide down his throat and warm his chest. Did her bedchamber share a wall with his? he wondered. Was she at this moment undressing for bed, perhaps sitting in a filmy shift, brushing her long silky hair? Sloane set his glass down on the table so sharply that some heads turned at the sound.

He must cease these rakish thoughts.

At that moment, three gentlemen entered the coffee room, one tall, but thin and slightly stoop-shouldered. Though this grey-haired man leaned on a cane, an aura of power still emanated from him. The two men with him were mere moons to this man’s planet. He turned and caught sight of Sloane.

Sloane, glass in hand, met the man’s eye and nodded.

His father, the Earl of Dorton, stood stock still.

Sloane knew what to expect, and the anticipation made him wish to laugh at the sheer predictability of it all. The Earl’s gaze would gradually move away and he would turn his back, acting as if he had not even seen this unnatural son. He would do as he had done all of Sloane’s life. Act as if Sloane did not exist.

Sloane was mistaken. The Earl marched directly towards him. Sloane’s brother, Viscount Rawley, and his nephew, David, must have been equally surprised. They’d gaped open-mouthed at the Earl’s destination.

Sloane stood, never straying from a direct gaze into his father’s eyes. ‘Good evening, sir.’

The Earl glared, but did not speak. Sloane’s brother and nephew scrambled up behind. Keeping his eye on his father, Sloane turned the corner of his mouth up in the same insolent smile that in his boyhood used to earn him a hard slap across the face. His father’s lips pursed in response.

‘Would you care to sit down?’ Sloane asked with an expansive gesture of his hand.

Without speaking, the Earl waved to his son and grandson to take seats. The Earl leaned heavily on his cane as he lowered himself into a chair. Sloane did not miss the effort. But the man who levelled a steely gaze directly at him was more like the one who used to strike terror in a young boy’s heart.

No longer, however.

Sloane, with studied casualness, took a sip of his brandy, then asked, ‘Shall I signal for more drinks?’

His father glared, his brother shifted uncomfortably and his nephew watched warily. Sloane took that as agreement and gestured for the server to bring more glasses. Sloane poured the brandy and handed each a glass.

He raised his drink in a toast. ‘To this cosy family party.’ None of them responded.

The Earl finally spoke. ‘I want to know what your business is, boy, and I want to know now.’

Sloane gave an inward smile at the term ‘boy.’ He’d not been a boy since the age of ten, when this man made certain his eyes were wide open as to the circumstances of his conception. ‘My business, sir?’

‘You know what I mean.’ He tapped his cane on the carpet. ‘What are you scheming? I tell you, I’ll not have you courting respectable young ladies and throwing your ill-gotten money around on respectable residences.’ The Earl leaned forward. ‘The word is out that you took Irwin for everything he’s got. The man’s all done up.’

‘Irwin?’ Sloane lifted a brow. Irwin had been the owner of the town house, the man who’d been desperate for cash. ‘Your information is sadly amiss. I do believe my funds came to the man’s rescue.’

David spoke up. ‘That is true, Grandfather. Irwin lost a fortune at Madame Bisou’s hazard table. Wasn’t Uncle Cyprian at all.’

The Earl of Dorton wheeled on his grandson. ‘And what do you know about that establishment?’ He raised his voice. ‘I’ll not have you frittering away your allowance on cards and women. I can cut your monies in half, you know.’

Sloane felt a tremble inside, as if he were still the child who had so often received such a rebuke. ‘Keep your voice down, sir.’ He spoke with a low, steady tone. ‘You make a spectacle of yourself.’

His father erupted. ‘I make a spectacle of myself?’ His voice grew louder.

Sloane leaned towards him across the table. ‘Cease this at once, or leave this table.’ Something in his eyes must have convinced the Earl, because the old man clamped his mouth shut.

Sloane leaned back and took a lazy sip of his brandy. ‘That is better.’

The Earl looked about to explode. ‘You are not welcome here, Cyprian,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Go back to whatever dung-heap you emerged from.’

Sloane’s every muscle tensed. He’d not realised his father’s barbs could still injure him. He’d be damned if he’d show it. ‘As you have so graphically informed me, I was conceived upon and reared upon Dorton land, and I have no desire to return to it.’

‘See here, Cyprian—’ Rawley began, but Sloane quelled him with one glance.

‘Good gracious,’ cried David. ‘Can we not converse in a civil manner? It would bring credit to us all if we presented the appearance of congenial relations.’

From the mouths of babes, thought Sloane.

David’s rebuke had effect. Both the Earl and his son leaned back and sipped their drinks.

His father began again, in quieter tones. ‘What are your intentions toward the Cowdlin chit? Cowdlin’s a friend of mine and I demand to know.’

Sloane bristled at his father demanding anything of him. He was about to retort in kind when he caught the pleading expression on his nephew’s face.

He answered as mildly as he could contrive. ‘I have made no offer for Lady Hannah at present, but Cowdlin will not oppose my suit. He approves of my fortune, if not of me.’

‘Hmmph,’ muttered the Earl. ‘Then he is a bigger fool than I thought.’

‘Oh, I am certain he is indeed,’ agreed Sloane with equanimity.

The Earl of Dorton leaned forward again. ‘You do not belong here, Cyprian. You do not belong among the quality. Go back to whatever cellar or… or gaming hell you came from, and leave decent people alone.’

‘Grandfather!’ David whispered in a shocked tone.

Sloane felt his body flinch, just as it used to when he was a boy. ‘I do belong here, Father,’ he said coolly. ‘You gave me the right when you acknowledged me as your son. As your son, I am invited to all the society events. I have vouchers for Almack’s and a box at the opera. As your father’s grandson, I am a member of White’s. I have you to thank for all this, Father.’

For a moment his father looked like an old man, but the moment was fleeting.

When he stood, he looked as formidable as ever. ‘I will not have you here, boy, do you hear me?’ His voice was equally as strong. ‘I will not have you here.’

With another flick of his fingers, the Earl signalled his son and grandson to leave with him. Sloane stood as well, making sure his father felt his eyes boring into him. As all three walked away, the Earl in the lead, David turned back and gave Sloane a look of sympathy.

* * *

‘They are gone?’ Mrs Rice looked up from her desk in a room above her glove shop.

The man, solid and stocky, brushed off the sleeves of his brown coat. ‘We have searched all the rooms and they are nowhere to be found.’

‘I sent them to the shops. Did no one see them return?’ Mrs Rice laid down her quill pen, displeasure seeping into her voice.

‘No one, ma’am.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The other girls think they ran off. There’s some belongings missing.’

‘Things of mine?’ Her voice rose. ‘I will not tolerate it if they have stolen from me.’

‘Worthless trinkets, ma’am,’ he responded. ‘Their own trifles, the girls say.’

Mrs Rice stared vacantly. ‘It does sound like they have run away.’ She waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘Well, search for them, Trigg. Bring them back. I will not have my girls coming and going at a whim. It vexes me.’

‘As you wish, ma’am.’ He turned and left.

Mrs Rice slammed her palm down on the desk and rose from her seat. With two girls short, she might have to turn men away this night. That was not good for business. She could kick herself for not having moved faster to bring that maid into the house before her mistress came calling. The termagant. That one had enough tongue for two sets of teeth, with all her talk about needing a tutor. A tutor for what?

At first Mrs Rice thought the lady was asking for lessons on how to set up a molly shop of her own, but that was too ridiculous for words. She’d since decided that a long Meg like that one probably wanted to learn how to get a man for herself.

It was a good thing, because she would not have made a good madam or a good molly. She’d talk the gentlemen right off the bed to run screaming down the street.

Mrs Rice gave a little laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. Still, it would have been a lark indeed to see a lady of that one’s ilk making her living on her back.

Mrs Rice wiped her eyes as her laughter subsided. She’d have another stab at the maid, if she got the chance, if Trigg could discover where she was employed.

And when she got those other girls back, she’d give them such a flogging they would never dare leave, at least not until they were too worn out to be of any use.

Chapter Seven

When Morgana woke the next morning, it seemed the very air was charged, as if the house were inside a huge electrifying machine, but Morgana knew any sparks that flew would be due to her own decisions. The porcelain clock on her bureau chimed six times. Morgana threw off the covers and was halfway dressed when Amy crept in, expecting merely to tend the fire.

Did Amy know of their guests? She must, but the girl did not reveal it. She did not even remark upon Morgana rising so early. Morgana meant to breakfast with her grandmother and Miss Moore, who always rose at dawn.

After breakfast she begged Miss Moore to take a walk with her. Miss Moore settled her grandmother in her sitting room with her maid for company, and the two ladies walked the short distance to the park, one of the footmen providing a discreet escort.

‘Goodness, it is chilly this morning,’ said Miss Moore as they crossed the park. ‘It is fortunate Lady Hart did not come with us. It would be bad for her lungs.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Morgana, uncertain how to begin.

She’d tossed and turned all night, even rising once and wandering to the window at the exact moment Sloane returned to his house. Realising he would be undressing and climbing into a bed so close by had not helped her fall back asleep. But those wakeful hours did yield the semblance of a plan.

Morgana had decided that she needed to speak to Miss Moore before Mr and Mrs Cripps or any of the other servants. She had a reasonable expectation that generous salary increases would ensure the servants’ co-operation and silence. But if prim Miss Moore could not be persuaded to go along with this scheme, Morgana did not see how she could proceed.

Morgana could not force a respectable lady like Miss Moore to endure a situation abhorrent to her. And she could not send Miss Moore away. With Miss Moore went her grandmother. Without her grandmother, Morgana would be forced to go to her Aunt Winnie’s house, and the girls, Lucy too, would have nowhere to go except to Mrs Rice.

Morgana glanced back at the footman, who, enjoying the fine morning air, seemed uninterested in the conversation between the two ladies. Still, she spoke quietly so he could not overhear. ‘I must talk to you, Miss Moore.’

Miss Moore gave her a fond smile. ‘Is it about the three young ladies who are staying in the house?’

‘You know about them?’ Morgana glanced at her in dismay.

‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Moore nodded. ‘Dilly told us first thing that there were three new girls. How did she put it?’ Miss Moore paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The likes of which she’d never seen.’

Morgana inwardly groaned. Dilly, her grandmother’s lady’s maid, was an old retainer, nearly as old as her grandmother.

‘Oh, I suppose everyone knows.’ Morgana gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I suspect they do not know the whole, and that is what I must tell you…’

Morgana explained to Miss Moore as well as she could. She withheld her plan to seek Harriette Wilson’s assistance as a bit too much information, emphasising instead that the girls, Lucy included, would be lost to a terrible life unless Morgana helped them.

Miss Moore listened with an unremitting frown on her face that caused Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water.

Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale.

Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’

Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’

‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading.

‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’

Lucy’s age, Morgana thought.

‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’

Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’

Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I… I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’

Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’

Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’

Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’

Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became… feeble.’

Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter.

With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty.

Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path.

For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him.

The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.

‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news.

Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’

She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’

She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’

He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’

Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly.

Fustian, he said to himself.

‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked.

It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject.

He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’

He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’

Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’

Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’

She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’

Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’

He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.

‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.

Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.

‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.

‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.

Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’

‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’

‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’

‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’

Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.

Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.

By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.

She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.

‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’

‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.

Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’

Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’

Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’

‘Why not?’

Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’

Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best.

She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls.

She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’

‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’

‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her.

Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’

Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them.

A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.

By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold.

She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies.

At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides.

Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’

It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’

‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair.

Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth.

‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said.

‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’

Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I… I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’

‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’

Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’

Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the red-haired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’

Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed.

Katy looked down at her lap, but with a hint of rebellion in her eye. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘It is Miss Moore, dear,’ she said gently.

‘Yes, miss,’ Katy corrected herself.

Lucy hung her head. ‘There’s nothin’ I can teach. I’ll just be a burden on everyone.’

Morgana walked over and put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You shall be in charge of supplies, Lucy. You managed to find everyone a proper dress and a bed to sleep in. In fact, I will prevail upon you to produce a trunk to be delivered, the nieces’ luggage. Do you think you can contrive such a thing?’

Lucy gave a surprised glance, then wrinkled her brow. It took several seconds, but she finally responded. ‘I could send to home for some of Amy’s and my old clothes. Would that do?’

‘That is an excellent idea.’ Morgana had forgotten about her lady’s maid. No matter what Miss Moore thought, Morgana simply must tell Amy the truth, though what the girl would say about it, she could only guess.

The day flew by with all of them talking and showing off their skills. When it was time for dinner Morgana led them to the main dining room. Lucy held back, insisting she ought not to eat there. Morgana acquiesced. There would be time enough to bring her abovestairs. To do so now would merely whip up the servants’ curiosity.

The dinner was the most pleasant Morgana had passed in the house to date. When Mr Cripps and the footmen left the room, Morgana and Miss Moore drew the girls into the conversation, learning more about their lives. Rose talked of growing up in Ireland and of recently coming to London. Mary spoke of being the daughter of a country vicar. When he died, she’d become a governess. She did not disclose how she wound up at Mrs Rice’s house. Katy, whose table manners needed the most improving, said she’d left Derbyshire to make her fortune in London and she’d go to the devil before she’d return there. Morgana’s grandmother cheerfully picked at her food and smiled at them all. At meal’s end, Morgana left the table in high spirits, confident that all would go well.

She retired to her room to dress for the musicale. As Amy worked on another braided style for her hair, Morgana told her the truth about the plan.

‘Do tell me what you think of this business, Amy. Tell me if you think I’ve done right by your sister.’

Amy frowned as she concentrated on sticking hairpins in securely. ‘It is not right, miss. I cannot say ‘tis right, because it is not, but Lucy was ready to run off again, I know she was.’ She gave Morgana a quick glance in the mirror. ‘You stopped her from doing that. Going with one of those procuring fellows, I mean.’

Amy’s point did not miss the mark. Morgana knew the better course was to convince Lucy and the others to lead moral lives, but, once fallen, could they rise again? Lucy had convinced her she could not.

Morgana watched Amy concentrate on her hair. She set her chin in determination. This was the only chance for Lucy. The only chance for all of the girls to change their lives.

Sloane surveyed the room where the guests to Lady Sed-ford’s musicale loitered in groups, waiting for the latecomers to be announced and the programme to begin. Across the room stood his brother, Lord Rawley, who, without cutting him directly, was at least pretending he had not seen him. David gave him a friendly nod. At least the Earl was not present, although Sloane would have experienced a smug satisfaction if his father had witnessed him mingling successfully with Lady Sedford’s set.

‘Lord and Lady Cowdlin. Lady Hannah. Miss Hart,’ the butler announced.

Sloane turned to watch them enter and greet the host and hostess. Lady Hannah looked as delectable as a dish of cream and strawberries in a white gauzy gown decorated with red ribbon. Her cousin wore a much plainer gown, one done up in gold fabric that nearly matched her eyes and glistened under the candlelight.

Averting his head so as not to be so obviously gaping, Sloane observed Lord and Lady Cowdlin stop to converse with friends. Lady Hannah seized her cousin’s arm and propelled them both forward. Hannah glanced in Sloane’s direction, pretended to glance away, whispered something to her cousin, and led her gracefully across the room, making it appear as if it were mere chance that they came to where he stood.

‘Good evening, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart.’ He bowed.

‘How nice to see you here, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Hannah smiled up at him, showing her white, even teeth. ‘You must sit with us. I insist upon it.’

Miss Hart also smiled, but her smile seemed distant, almost sad.

He turned his attention to Lady Hannah. ‘Nothing would delight me more, my lady, but it might hint at partiality. I would not wish to make you the topic of gossip.’ If Sloane were perceived to favour Lady Hannah to the exclusion of other eligible young ladies, he would be forced to make her an offer. He did not wish to be forced into anything.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Lady Hannah’s face. She quickly recovered. ‘I have it. You shall sit next to Morgana and that will seem quite unexceptionable.’

He opened his mouth to reply, but her attention had already flitted away.

‘Oh, look,’ she cried. ‘Here comes your nephew, Mr Sloane. Perhaps he will join us as well.’

When the programme was about to begin, Hannah hurried them all in, and arranged the seating to her satisfaction. At one end sat Lord and Lady Cowdlin, then David, Hannah, Morgana, and Sloane. David made polite conversation with Lady Cowdlin, while Hannah looked about the crowd, waving to friends. Miss Hart studied her programme.

‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Hart?’ Sloane asked her.

She gave him a serious expression. ‘You must not consider yourself obliged to make polite conversation, Mr Sloane.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Are we back to not speaking, Miss Hart?’

Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean that. Goodness! I must have sounded cross. I am vexed at my cousin, not you. She treats me as if I were a doll to be moved about at whim.’

His lips twitched. He leaned closer to her. ‘Confess, Miss Hart. You merely dislike being told what to do.’

She smiled. ‘You have the right of it, Mr Sloane. It is one of my abiding faults.’

‘Mine as well,’ he admitted. ‘Let us begin again. Do you like music, Miss Hart?’

Her ginger eyes came alive with expression. ‘I do like it excessively, sir.’

‘Do you play?’

She rolled her eyes, very unladylike, but charming none the less. ‘Badly, therefore, never in company, but I do love to bash away for hours on my pianoforte.’

‘Hmm.’ He pretended to study the programme. ‘I wonder how thick the walls are between our houses.’

She laughed softly. When he glanced at her again her eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Mr Sloane, do you play?’

He could not help himself. He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not music, Miss Hart, but I play at other things very well.’

He watched, fascinated, as her pupils grew larger. Her smile changed from mirthful to inscrutable. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Reverted to his rakish ways. But she did have that effect on him. He averted his gaze.

Morgana looked away as well, resisting the impulse to fan herself. Had he been flirting with her? If so, it felt delightful. Very stimulating. She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming red as they felt.

She was glad Sloane did not dislike sitting next to her, though she still had no doubt he would rather be next to Hannah. Hannah had her head together with the younger Mr Sloane, who was obviously as captivated by her as his uncle.

It did not matter, Morgana assured herself, that Hannah drew the attention of men so easily. She was glad someone distracted Hannah from her chief prey. Morgana needed this opportunity to speak to Sloane. She opened her mouth again, but there was a signal that the music was about to begin.

Lady Sedford had achieved the coup of engaging Camporese for the evening. When the soprano stepped out in front of the musicians, she looked much taller and more slender than she’d appeared on stage at the King’s Theatre, perhaps even as tall as Morgana herself.

Camporese reprised her solos from Penelope, to much applause. Morgana noticed that Hannah attended more to the guests than the music. Her uncle, quite the opposite, dozed, his chin drooping to his chest. Morgana smiled at that and glanced at Sloane, who caught her look and held it a moment before turning his eyes back to the soprano. The contact had been fleeting, but it somehow warmed Morgana all over. She did fan herself this time.

When Camporese finished her part of the programme, the room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘Bravo’ and the soprano gave a deep curtsy. Lady Sedford announced a brief interval and everyone left their seats to mingle. Morgana watched Sloane converse with Hannah and his nephew.

A gentleman and lady approached her. Morgana recognised them as Sloane’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Rawley. Her aunt presented her to them.

Lady Rawley gave her an inquisitive look. ‘I see you are acquainted with Cyprian, Miss Hart.’

Remembering that Sloane was estranged from his family, Morgana regarded the woman with some interest. ‘I am, ma’am.’

‘What do you know of him, my dear?’ Lady Rawley’s question was phrased in ominous tones.

Morgana immediately leapt to Sloane’s defence, though the notion he would need her protection was ludicrous. ‘He is often in the company of my aunt’s family. He is acceptable to them, and that is all I need know.’

Lady Rawley leaned in closer. ‘My husband says there is more to it, Miss Hart. Cyprian has the most shocking reputation. I implore you to beware of it and inform your cousin before she makes a terrible mistake.’

Morgana’s indignation caught fire. How dare this woman presume to spread tales of Sloane to someone she had met not one minute before? She would not stand for it!

She favoured Lady Rawley with her most innocent look. ‘I fear Lady Hannah will demand the details before giving any credence to my words. Would you please tell me exactly what Mr Sloane had done to earn his shocking reputation?’

‘Why… why he is a womaniser, for one thing,’ the lady responded.

‘Indeed?’ Morgana feigned interest. ‘With whom has he been linked? I am sure my cousin will wish to hear names.’

‘I do not precisely know,’ admitted Lady Rawley. ‘But I have it on good authority—’

‘Oh, Hannah will not credit that at all, I’m afraid.’ Morgana feigned being thoughtful. ‘But I suspect there are many gentlemen who claim success with the ladies. That would not be enough to concern Hannah. What else has Mr Sloane done?’

‘I do not know, but it was very bad,’ Lady Rawley said with spirit. ‘Something during the war, I think.’

Morgana pretended to consider this. ‘I believe I must inform my uncle of this shocking information. He is responsible for Hannah, you know.’

‘I am sure your uncle knows,’ admitted the lady. ‘Everyone knows.’

Morgana smiled. ‘Then it must be a mere hum, because Mr Sloane is invited everywhere. He even has vouchers for Almack’s.’ She acted as if she were just struck by a thought. ‘I suppose I could alert Lady Sefton or Lady Castlereagh. I shall tell them you have informed me.’

Lady Rawley paled. ‘No, no, do not do that. I would not trouble them. I am sure if Cyprian has vouchers, it must be quite all right.’

‘Yes.’ Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’

The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley.

When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’

He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’

She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’

Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone.

It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him.

‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’

He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’

‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’

‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper.

‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’

‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head.

‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate.

He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’

They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter.

Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.

Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.

* * *

When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.

Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.

What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.

The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.

When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.

When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’

Chapter Eight

Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.

He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.

He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’

She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’

He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’

‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.

He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’

She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.

‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’

‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’

But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.

But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.

His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.

Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.

She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.

But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.

Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.

‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.

Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.

What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?

Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.

Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.

She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.

He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.

Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.

He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.

Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.

He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.

Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.

St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.

The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.

Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.

She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.

Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.

His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.

Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.

The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.

A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.

The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’

‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’

‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’

Morgana, Sloane thought.

The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’

‘I will discover her.’

Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.

He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.

He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.

The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.

Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?

He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.

He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.

As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.

He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.

Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.

He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.

It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.

He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?

Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.

In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?

Perhaps Mr Elliot would have a notion how many people Miss Hart employed. Elliot had a way of knowing such things.

Sloane slipped through the gap in the wall and entered his house from the back, causing one of his maids to shriek in surprise when he suddenly appeared in the passageway. He told the girl to find Elliot and send him to the library, a room mirroring the location of Morgana’s busy back room.

When Elliot entered, Sloane was examining the books on the shelves.

‘I have meant to rearrange the shelves, sir,’ Elliot said. Sloane stepped back. ‘Are they out of order?’

‘Sadly out of order. Apparently no one has seen to their proper shelving in some time.’ Elliot picked up a stack of books and placed them on this shelf or that.

Sloane watched, wondering what made it worth the effort. Very little on the shelf interested him. One or two titles caught his eye, but that was because they related to the political issues of the day, and the Annual Registers sometimes yielded useful information. The rest he would not miss.

‘You wished to see me, sir?’ Elliot said, having found the books their homes.

Sloane picked up the Register for 1816 and handed it to his secretary. ‘How many servants do we employ?’

Elliot placed the Register right after that for 1815. ‘There is Sparrow, your butler. Mrs Wells, the housekeeper. Cook.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Cook’s assistant. A scullery maid. Two upstairs maids. Two footmen. And your valet, of course. That makes ten.’

‘Ten?’ Sloane almost laughed. There was a time when even one maid of all work would have been woefully out of reach.

‘Unless you wish me to include your coachman and groom, and Tommy.’

He held up his palm. ‘Ten,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me, do they employ so many next door?’

If Elliot thought this an odd question, he made no sign of it. He looked to be calculating in his head. ‘I believe they have the same number. One more lady’s maid, but no assistant to the cook.’

Sloane might marvel at how Elliot came by this information, but not much surprised him about the young man’s ability.

‘I see.’ Sloane’s brow furrowed. Either all the maids were gathered in the library at once, or there were more people in Morgana Hart’s house than Elliot knew of.

Sloane contemplated a return to his hiding place near the mews. If he watched long enough, he suspected he would be able to count the different faces, but he would be no closer to knowing why so many were there.

‘Did you wish to go through the invitations?’ Elliot asked.

An impressive stack of invitations had arrived. Sloane received more each day, a measure of the increase in members of the ton who accepted him. Though Sloane was impatient to find a way to speak to Morgana, he dutifully sat down and discussed with Elliot which to accept and which to reject.

Another delay came that afternoon when Sloane received his first caller. His nephew David came to congratulate him on his purchase of the town house. Sloane received him in the drawing room, sending for some port.

He poured them each a glass. ‘Your grandfather will not like you visiting me.’

David took a sip. ‘Grandfather will most probably not ask, but, if he does, I shall admit to calling upon you.’

Foolish boy. It would be wiser to lie.

Sloane peered in his glass. ‘You’d do better to cut me.’

David regarded him with a very serious expression. ‘I know the circumstances of your birth, Uncle, but I cannot see why you have been made to suffer for it.’

David knew? This made the young man’s friendliness even more remarkable.

But Sloane had no intention of discussing his place in the family—or lack of it. Instead, he asked David about his life. The boy’s course had been similar to his own. Sent to Eton at age nine, then on to Oxford. David continued at Oxford, reading law, whereas Sloane had escaped at eighteen, using his meagre inheritance from his mother to lose himself on the Continent. The similarities ended there.

After another glass of port, David said, ‘I thought it would be polite to call upon Miss Hart while I am in the neighbourhood, or at least leave my card if she is not receiving.’

Brilliant idea. Why had Sloane not thought of it?

Actually he had thought of it, but concluded it would cause talk if anyone saw him enter her house alone. With David it would not be remarked upon, however.

‘Perhaps I will join you,’ Sloane said.

‘Look what Mary found, Miss Hart.’ Rose handed her a small book. ‘She wanted to put it away again, but I said you would want to see it.’

Morgana opened the book to the title page. The Whoremonger’s Guide to London. ‘What is this?’ She turned the pages.

‘It has names and their direction as well.’ Mary pointed on the page. ‘I thought you might find your tutor in there.’

This was exciting indeed. Morgana glanced at the date of publication. 1803, the year she had been sent to school and her father had come to London. This must have been his book.

The idea that her father might have used this information gave Morgana a rather sick feeling. She firmly set aside that thought and made herself consider what use the book might be in her present endeavours. She quickly leafed through to see if Harriette Wilson was listed.

She was not.

‘Thank you, Rose,’ Morgana said.

Morgana had had the pianoforte moved to the library, and Rose sat down at it, playing softly. Mary sat with Katy, showing her a book, and Miss Moore put Lucy through an elocution exercise. Morgana’s grandmother sat in a rocking chair where she could see everyone. She smiled and rocked and said everything was lovely to anyone who asked.

Cripps knocked on the door. ‘Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Hart.’ Morgana strained to see if there was any change in his manner towards her since the ‘nieces’ had arrived. She was unable to tell. ‘Mr Cyprian Sloane and Mr David Sloane.’

Mr Sloane? Even though she had convinced herself he could never care for her, her heart leapt. ‘Did you put them in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Her glance darted around the room. ‘I suppose we should serve tea. Will you see to it, Mr Cripps.’

He bowed and left the room.

Morgana told herself she could see Sloane without him discovering her other guests. She walked over to her grandmother’s chair. ‘Grandmama, would you like to receive callers with me?’

Her grandmother smiled. ‘That would be lovely, my dear.’

Morgana shoved The Whoremonger’s Guide into the pocket of her dress and helped the frail old lady to her feet. They made their laborious way to the drawing room.

The two gentlemen turned at their entrance and waited to be presented. Morgana’s eyes flew naturally to Sloane’s.

‘Grandmama, you recall our neighbour, Mr Cyprian Sloane?’ Morgana said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said her grandmother agreeably. ‘So lovely to see you, my dear.’

Morgana tried to ignore the knowing look in his eye as he took her grandmother’s bony hand in his large one and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. ‘It is my pleasure, Lady Hart.’

She presented David Sloane, and her grandmother responded to him in the same vague manner. He did not seem to notice anything amiss. Morgana prayed her grandmother would not say anything to reveal her infirmity of mind.

‘Please sit, gentlemen,’ Morgana said. ‘Cripps is bringing tea.’

She felt Sloane’s gaze boring into her as they chatted. He continued to examine her as she poured him tea and handed him the cup, and when they stood to leave fifteen correct minutes later. She left her grandmother in the drawing room and walked the gentlemen out.

When they had stepped into the hall, Sloane turned to her with a glint in his eye. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Miss Hart, but I am desirous to know if your house has the same configuration of rooms as my own.’

To her alarm he headed for the door of the back parlour, where soft piano music could be heard.

‘Is this the library?’ He put his hand on the knob.

‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I mean, it is merely a small parlour my father used as a library.’

The voices of the girls inside the room were audible through the closed door. His brows rose.

‘Is it configured as my own?’ He turned the knob.

She put her hand on his, bare skin to bare skin. ‘I think this not a good time. The… the maids are cleaning.’

He seemed to peer all the way into her lying soul. ‘I see. They clean the pianoforte very melodiously. Perhaps some other time I shall beg a tour of your house.’

‘I will arrange it with Cripps.’ She turned sharply back towards the hall and the book fell from her pocket.

Sloane picked it up and read the spine. ‘Miss Hart—’ he whispered fiercely.

She merely extended her hand for the book.

‘Are we leaving, Uncle?’ called David from the hallway.

He was forced to give the book back to her, but his face looked like thunder. ‘Directly,’ he called to his nephew.

She led him back to the hall where Cripps waited with the gentlemen’s hats. David said his goodbye and headed out of the door. Sloane held back.

‘I will speak with you very soon.’ He gave her a meaningful look that filled her with trepidation.

Morgana closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She glanced at Cripps.

He hesitated a moment before asking, ‘Do you require anything further, miss?’

‘Nothing.’ She fled into the drawing room to collect her grandmother, knowing she’d not heard the last of this from Sloane.

David convinced Sloane they should also call upon Lady Hannah, and Lady Hannah begged the gentlemen to drive her through Hyde Park, where she waved happily to her friends, no doubt feeling triumphant at having two gentlemen to escort her. It was nearly two hours before Sloane could return to Culross Street. He drove the curricle to the stables himself and left the horses in the care of his tiger. Tommy would think it the most natural thing in the world for Sloane to cross the mews and enter from the back.

Once in his garden, Sloane crossed through the gap in the fence. Rain began to patter the stone of the garden with fat droplets, and he hurried to Morgana’s rear entrance. Finding the door unlocked, he slipped inside her house. He would bet his fortune she was in her back parlour, from where he’d heard the other female voices.

Sloane experienced the same surge of excitement that he used to feel whenever he risked discovery. He hurried up the servants’ stairs and stood in the shadows, but he was by no means hidden. Anyone who looked carefully would see him.

As he’d hoped, Morgana came out of the room.

He stepped out of the shadows. ‘Miss Hart.’

‘Oh!’ She jumped in surprise.

He grabbed her arm and drew her away from the parlour door. ‘Explain yourself,’ he demanded.

Her back was against the wall. ‘I, explain myself? You are the one invading my house!’

‘I needed to speak with you privately.’ He glared at her. ‘Unless you wish me to discuss The Whoremonger’s Guide with you at Almack’s.’

‘No.’ Red spots appeared on her cheeks.

The colour only brightened her countenance, but he must not allow himself to think of how lovely she was. ‘Now explain all. I will have no surprises.’

She expelled an angry breath. ‘I do not see why I must. This is none of your affair, Mr Sloane.’

He gave a throaty laugh, appreciating her spirit more than he ought. ‘Recall, Miss Hart, you manage to involve me at every turn.’

‘Mere chance, sir,’ she retorted. ‘I did not plan to involve you.’

‘Come now.’ He gave her a level stare. ‘You asked me about Harriette Wilson.’

‘Merely her direction,’ she said defensively.

‘You involved me.’ He gave her an emphatic shake. ‘Now tell me what is going on.’

She twisted out of his grasp. ‘Oh, very well! I shall tell you. Do not paw at me.’

He folded his arms across his chest. She looked everywhere but at his face. ‘Now,’ he demanded.

The words spilled from her mouth with hardly a breath in between. How her maid was bent on a life of prostitution, and how she was just as resolved to stop her. How she’d come upon her solution to the problem, and finally, the solution itself, complete with her reason for appearing in the glove shop and her desire to contact Harriette Wilson.

When she finally finished, he could only repeat in disbelief, ‘You are training your maid to be a courtesan?’

She nodded.

He swung his arms in the air. ‘What the devil has got into you? You cannot!’

‘Well, I must.’ She crossed her arms around her chest, a mimic of his previous gesture. ‘And there are three other girls from Mrs Rice’s shop. Well, two others. The third simply attached herself to them. I am going to train them as well.’

‘Three girls?’ His voice cracked.

‘Four, if you count Lucy,’ she corrected.

He swung away from her and whirled back to lean into her face. ‘Are you mad?’

She shrugged. ‘What else can I do? It is all I can think of to save these girls from that horrid Mrs Rice.’

‘So you will be their procuress instead of Mrs Rice?’ It was all he could do to keep from throttling her. ‘This improves matters?’

‘It is not like that!’ She looked wounded. ‘I am merely going to train them to be as agreeable as possible. To attract a better sort of man. If they attract many men, they shall have the freedom to select.’

He laughed again. ‘You think it is that simple? Do you think Miss Wilson is any less at the whim of her patrons than a girl in a bawdy house?’

She gave him an exasperated look. ‘Come now, Mr Sloane. You cannot convince me a girl in a bawdy house has an advantage over that woman I saw at the opera, in her fine clothes and jewels, all the men fawning over her?’ She drew in a long breath. ‘I have thought long about this. I cannot change what has happened to these girls. They are ruined. They have been tossed aside by everyone who once professed to love them. They cannot become housemaids or shopgirls or seamstresses. Once their past was revealed they would be turned out, and who then would hire them? I am merely giving them some advantage. If they behave wisely, they may create a secure life for themselves.’

‘Morgana—’ he gripped her arms again, unaware that he’d slipped into using her given name ‘—if even a whisper of this gets out, you will be as ruined as they.’

She averted her eyes. ‘I know. But I cannot send them back to Mrs Rice. I simply cannot.’

She raised her eyes to his, their ginger colour intense with emotion. He felt excited and faintly sick, as if he’d twirled round and round like he’d done as a child, making the world spin when he stopped. Her scheme was as daring as it was foolish.

He tried another tactic to dissuade her. ‘If you are discovered, the blame will fall on me.’

‘On you?’ She looked perplexed. ‘Why should it?’

He shook his head in impatience. ‘I am next door to you, Morgana. Someone is bound to think me the mastermind.’ He released her. ‘There are those in town who desire my ruin. They are eager to believe the worst of me. My family, for one. I can guarantee that if my father gets wind of this he will make sure I am banned from any respectable drawing room for the rest of my life.’

Her eyes softened. ‘Your father hates you so much?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted gruffly, taken aback at how easily her sympathy opened his old wounds.

She leaned against the door, a frustrated expression on her lovely face.

Clutching at straws, he added, ‘And you must think of your cousin as well. If you are ruined, the scandal will fall upon her too.’

Her eyes flashed at him. She did not speak for several seconds and then in a whisper. ‘How am I to choose between ruining you, or ruining Hannah, or ruining those poor girls? Tell me how I am to do that?’

He responded in a soft voice. ‘What of ruining yourself?’

She waved a dismissive hand.

He blew out a breath. He could not dispute the fact that those girls would be better off selling themselves for a high price than for a cheap one. They had all fallen from grace already; few who fell managed to climb up again. Some temptation always pulled at them, luring them back to the low life, as he well knew. He felt it. Felt it now. The lure of danger, excitement, relief from the crushing boredom of life as a gentleman.

He frowned. ‘What did you intend to do with The Whoremonger’s Guide?’

Her lip trembled. ‘I need someone to tutor the girls in… in what I do not know about being a courtesan. I thought Harriette Wilson might do it.’ She looked at him through her lashes. ‘Because I do not know how to contact her, I am forced to use the book to find a tutor.’

Quite right, he thought. ‘Harriette would not be a wise choice,’ he said pensively. ‘She has a loose tongue. Half the ton would know in no time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘You need someone with more discretion.’

‘I will find such a person, then.’ Her voice became adamant.

‘No, Morgana.’ If she used that infernal book, she entered a different world, a world where the rules were not civilised. ‘It will not do for you.’ He paused. He suddenly felt seized with life and energy. Plans formed in his head in spite of his better judgement. He cleared his throat, and bit back a smile of anticipation. ‘I will find your tutor.’

‘You will?’ she cried and flung her arms around him. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’

Giddy and exhilarated, he lifted her off the ground and spun her about. When her feet again landed on the floor, she gazed into his eyes like a kindred spirit. He wanted to press her against him, taste her lips, show her how man might plunder a willing woman, a woman as wild as he was.

He caught himself and pulled away.

It was so easy to act the rake. So damned easy.

Chapter Nine

Morgana’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She had flung herself at him like some sort of hoyden. But more mortifying, he had pushed her away—again.

She held her breath a moment and promised herself to forget this… this attraction to him. It was enough he’d agreed to help her, no matter that he’d done so for Hannah’s sake, for she was certain that that had been the deciding factor for him.

‘Would… would you like to meet them? The girls, I mean,’ she stammered.

He glanced away, then turned his warm eyes back on her and gave his lazy smile. ‘Why the devil not?’

Her heart danced, completely ignoring her vow not to let him affect her so. She led him from the stairway, enlivened by his company, relieved that she was no longer alone in her enterprise. ‘Come then.’

Morgana led him to the library, knocking before she slipped into the room alone. The girls looked up. Miss Moore smiled at her. Her grandmother chirped, ‘How lovely to see you, my dear.’

‘I have brought someone for you to meet. Someone who will help us.’ Morgana stepped aside for Sloane to enter.

‘Gracious,’ cried Katy, jumping to her feet.

Miss Moore looked shocked, but Lady Hart smiled. ‘How lovely of you to call, dear.’

‘This is Mr Sloane,’ Morgana announced. ‘He is our neighbour… and…’ she gave him a quick glance ‘… a man who can do many things. He has volunteered to find our tutor.’

Morgana made the introductions and, as if he’d met them in an elegant drawing room on Grosvenor Square, he greeted them with respect. She watched in wonder how his kind attentions to them made them sit up straighter and hold their heads higher, appearing more like ladies than otherwise.

‘Do you honestly know a tutor, sir?’ Rose asked, blinking her wide green eyes and speaking in her melodious brogue.

Sloane’s voice had a catch in it when he answered, ‘I have someone in mind.’ He gave the girl a long look.

Morgana stiffened. She tried to tell herself it was good that he showed his attraction to Rose. It would help remind her that he was not attracted to her, but to her cousin.

He turned to her. ‘I’d best take my leave.’

‘I will see you out,’ Morgana said, trying not to show her unexpected little surge of jealousy.

When he faced the assembly of women and bowed in a gentlemanly manner, Morgana felt like hugging him again for his kindness to them. She wished he would call upon them often so the girls could learn how a man ought to treat them.

Morgana gave herself a silent rebuke. It was she who wished his company for herself.

She led him out of the room and started for the front door.

He caught her arm. ‘Through the back. You have a gap through our garden wall that I passed through.’

Understanding dawned. ‘That is how you got in.’

He favoured her with a wicked wink in reply.

They descended the stairs and reached the door to the garden. Morgana did not wish him to leave.

‘What do you think of them, Mr Sloane?,’ she asked. Anything to detain him a moment longer.

He gave her a contemplative frown. ‘Do you truly wish my opinion?’

A frisson of anxiety crept up her back. Was he about to scold her again? ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Rose O’Keefe will rise to the top, I suspect.’ He spoke in a detached manner, and, in spite of herself, Morgana was pleased. He apparently had not been as captivated by Rose as she’d thought.

He went on. ‘Katy Green is trouble, and I would watch out for her.’

Morgana knew that as well.

He shook his head in dismay. ‘I confess, I cannot picture either Miss Phipps or your Lucy in the role at all.’

She sighed. ‘I cannot either, but there you have it.’

He looked directly in her eyes. ‘How have you explained the new girls’ presence to the servants?’

She averted her eyes. ‘We have told them they are Miss Moore’s nieces.’

His stern look returned. ‘They will not believe it. The girls have different accents and look nothing like each other.’

She cautiously faced him. ‘I fear you are right. Miss Moore believes she has settled the matter by saying they are not sisters but cousins, but it sounds far-fetched to me. I fear Mr Cripps, the butler, is not fooled at all.’

His worried expression contained no censure this time. ‘Let me think upon a solution. The servants must not talk or you will be discovered.’

She gazed at him in wonder. How good it felt not to be alone in managing this scheme.

‘Another matter.’ His grey eyes were intent. ‘You must not allow the girls to appear on Bond Street or St James’s or any other place where they might be recognised. And you must not be seen in their company.’

She had not thought at all on matters such as this. ‘Why not?’

‘Your Mrs Rice wants her girls back. That fellow from the park and others will be searching for them.’

‘The man from the park?’ He’d wanted Lucy. What did he have to do with Mrs Rice? ‘How do you know this?’

He leaned closer, his eyes taking on a hard edge. ‘I know. You will obey me in this, Morgana.’

The use of her given name made his demand seem even more sinister. ‘As you wish, Mr Sloane.’

His expression softened. He lifted his hand and for a brief moment she thought he would caress her face. A foolish thought, because he drew it away again.

He gave her a raffish grin instead. ‘Call me Sloane. If we are to be conspirators in your little venture, formality between us is hypocritical, is it not?’

Her own smile tickled the corner of her mouth. She presented her hand to shake. ‘Then I give you permission to address me as Morgana.’

He did not miss her quip. Laughing, he accepted her hand. The contact of his warm, rough hand in hers, bare skin to bare skin, only intensified this new intimacy between them.

Breathless, she murmured, ‘Thank you, Sloane.’

His laughter ceased and his expression turned serious again. He released her hand. ‘You may not thank me in the end, Morgana. This is a foolhardy and dangerous business we are engaged in. Who knows what will come of it?’

With that he opened the door and left, but for quite a while afterwards Morgana stood still as a statue, gazing after him.

* * *

That evening’s must-attend entertainment was a ball given to announce the latest ton engagement, a merger guaranteed to please the families, if not the young man and woman involved. Everyone was present, including Morgana.

Sloane spied her across the room, standing with her aunt. Her eyes caught his for a mere second, but he felt the exhilaration of intrigue. There were dangerous secrets between them and care must be taken that no one discover this change in their relationship. He held his breath that Morgana would do nothing to reveal it.

She did not fail him. After the brief contact with their eyes, she turned back to her aunt as if she’d not seen him at all.

Almost disappointed, he kept up his part of the pretence, but this secret between them, and the risk of discovery, heightened his enjoyment of the ball. It put his senses on alert.

He took care not to neglect Lady Hannah, engaging her in one early dance as she would expect of him. Suddenly his behaviour towards Hannah had become part of the subterfuge, making it easier to take part in the inconsequential chatter that passed as conversation between them. After the dance, he left her to her other suitors, whose number had increased of late. His nephew David joined the growing throng.

Sloane sauntered into the room where the refreshments were set out. Another gentleman joined him. The Marquess of Heronvale.

‘You are Mr Sloane, are you not?’ the tall, taciturn marquess asked.

‘I am, sir.’ He gave an inward groan.

A few months ago, because of a foolish wager, Sloane had threatened to expose the nefarious past of this powerful man’s sister-in-law. She’d been the Mysterious Miss M. in the days Sloane had known her, the prize in a gaming hell. The threat had been nothing but a drunken bluff on his part, but no one knew he had never meant to carry it out. Certainly not the marquess.

Sloane braced himself. Heronvale looked at him intently.

Here it comes, Sloane thought, envisioning all his efforts to restore his reputation sinking into a cesspool.

Heronvale gave a slight nod. ‘I hear you are a man of your word.’

Sloane released a relieved breath. He had given this man’s brother his word that he would not disclose the damaging information. Sloane gave Heronvale a frank stare. ‘I am many things, sir, among them a man of my word.’

The marquess smiled approvingly. ‘I admire that. Tell me, are you carrying refreshment to anyone?’

‘Merely seeing to my own thirst,’ Sloane admitted.

‘Excellent.’ Heronvale nodded again. ‘Sit with me for a moment and share a drink. I would value your company.’

Sloane sat with the Marquess of Heronvale, conversing over wine glasses, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The marquess told Sloane duty had brought him to London that season. He came for Parliament, reluctantly leaving his wife and newborn son in the country. By the end of their conversation, Heronvale had invited Sloane to dine with him at White’s the following evening, at which time they could discuss politics and what role Sloane might play in it.

After the men shook hands and parted, Sloane nearly danced a jig. The Marquess of Heronvale thought he might play a role in politics? By God, if Sloane had Heronvale’s endorsement, what man would dare question his reputation? He felt triumphant!

He returned to the ballroom where a set was forming. Scanning the room, he found Morgana unattached. She was the one person in the room he wanted to be with at the moment. As casually as he could manage, he crossed the room and asked her to dance with him.

‘You look happy,’ she said when the country dance brought them together.

It was a simple observation, without any teasing flirtation attached. ‘I am indeed.’

The figures separated them. When they came close again, she asked, ‘Why so?’

He halfway considered giving her some bantering, evasive answer. It is what any other partner would expect. But this was Morgana with whom he shared many secrets. Why not share his good fortune with her as well?

‘I have had a brief chat with Heronvale and I’m engaged to dine with him tomorrow.’

She looked perplexed. ‘This is the source of your happiness?’

They had to complete the figures again before he could explain.

‘Heronvale will make a powerful ally.’

‘I see.’ She glanced over to where Heronvale stood conversing with Castlereagh. She frowned. ‘Will he make a good friend, though?’

A friend? Such a notion was unfamiliar indeed. It took him aback. ‘Yes. I do believe I would like him for a friend.’

She smiled and the dance separated them once more.

At the end of the set, he was reluctant to leave her side, but he forced himself to circulate, even asking Hannah for a second set. Hannah’s conversation was as gay as usual, but the set seemed unusually long.

Sloane declined her invitation to share the Cowdlin carriage for the trip home. He left the ball early, another errand to perform. Walking out into the night air, he became himself again, watchful and alert as he set off on foot to his destination, an innocuouslooking town house off of St James’s Street.

He sounded the knocker and a huge bear of a man dressed in colourful livery opened the door.

‘Good evening, Cummings,’ Sloane greeted the man and handed him his hat.

Cummings made no sign of noticing that Sloane had not crossed this threshold for at least three months. ‘G’d evening, sir,’ Cummings responded in his deep monotone.

‘Is Madame Bisou available?’

‘In the card room.’ Cummings disappeared into the back room where he stowed the various cloaks, hats and canes.

Madame Bisou owned this establishment, a gaming hell and brothel, as honest and clean as any gentleman could expect. She was also indebted to Sloane, who, right before he made his decision to abandon this sort of gaming, had broken her faro bank with one mad night of reckless play. He’d not had the heart to call in the debt. She was, therefore, much beholden to him.

He climbed the stairs to the gaming room where he’d once played whist with a woman in disguise. The Wagering Widow, they’d called her, and it had been wagers over her that drove him to make his empty threats about Heronvale’s sister-in-law. Sloane had lost badly over the Widow. Twice. And he hadn’t fancied being known for it.

When he entered the room, several men looked up from their cards. One older fellow called to him, ‘Sloane! It has been an age! Come partner me.’

Sloane shook his head. ‘I’m not playing tonight, Sir Reginald.’

Madame Bisou caught sight of him and came bustling over. ‘Oh, Monsieur Sloane,’ she cried in her atrocious French accent. ‘How delightful to see you!’ Her flaming red curls bounced as energetically as the flesh the low neckline of her bright purple dress failed to conceal.

She gave him exuberant kisses on both cheeks, but regarded him with some wariness. ‘You have perhaps come to collect?’

He smiled. ‘No, but there is something I wish to discuss with you.’

‘You wish time with me?’ She spoke so loudly everyone in the room could hear.

He glanced around, but everyone was too busy with their cards or dice to heed her very public invitation.

‘To confer with you,’ he clarified. ‘But I will pay for your time.’

‘Oh, no,’ she protested as she led him out into the hall. ‘We shall deduct it from what I owe you.’

She took him to the supper room and they seated themselves at the same out-of-the-way table where he’d got bloody drunk over the loss of his first wager over Lady Widow.

Madame Bisou lowered herself into a chair with a noisy rustle of satin skirts. ‘What is it, mon cher, that you require of me?’ She fluttered her lashes seductively.

‘Ease off, Penny.’ Sloane took the seat across from her.

She frowned at his use of her given name. ‘Speak quietly, Cyprian, or I shall shout your name across the room.’ Her French accent fled and she talked like the Chelsea girl she’d once been.

He laughed. ‘As if everyone does not know it. My father has made certain of that.’ He signalled to one of the serving girls, who brought them a bottle of brandy and two crystal glasses.

He poured for her. ‘I am in need of a favour, Penny. An odd one, but I am persuaded you will be the perfect person for it.’

As methodically as he could, he described Morgana’s plan, trying to make it sound as if it were not completely irrational. After he finished he downed a whole glass of brandy in one gulp.

Penny leaned towards him. ‘Do you mean to say a baron’s daughter has taken in some of Fortuna Rice’s girls and she wants to train them to be high-flyers?’

Sloane poured himself more brandy. ‘You have grasped it, Penny.’

‘And you want me to teach them how to seduce men?’

He gave her a sly smile. ‘If you know such things.’

She slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘Of course I know such things! You know I do, darling. I am an expert!’ She straightened in her chair and fussed with the lace on her bodice. ‘I am to go to Mayfair, into this lady’s house?’

Sloane’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose I could bring them here—’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I want to be invited to Mayfair. Now tell me, Cyprian. How much is she willing to pay?’

He wagged his finger at her. ‘Do not rook her, Penny, or you will answer to me. If you tutor these girls, your debt to me is forgiven. That should be payment enough.’

She grinned and her eyes danced. She looked almost like the ambitious and beautiful young doxy he’d met ten years earlier. ‘I declare I might have taken this on at no charge at all. It sounds a splendid lark.’

‘But I warn you, you must speak of this to no one.’ He leaned forward for emphasis. ‘No one. Or you will, indeed, answer to me.’

Early the next morning Sloane sent a message to Morgana that he would bring her tutor to her at eleven o’clock.

Morgana and Miss Moore spent the morning drilling the girls in how to walk, sit, stand and curtsy as a lady might do, but all Morgana could think of was that Sloane would be calling—with the tutor, of course.

Soon the clock struck eleven. Ten more excruciatingly slow minutes passed before the knocker sounded and Cripps came in to announce that Mr Sloane and ‘a female person’ were in the front drawing room.

‘Very good, Cripps.’ Morgana rushed out of the room. She left her grandmother and Miss Moore with the girls. With Sloane, the pretence of a chaperon was unnecessary.

When she entered the drawing room, he turned to face her. He was resplendent in dove grey pantaloons, shiny black boots, and a coat in a blue so dark it was almost black. He quite took her breath—and her speech—away.

‘Miss Hart.’ He stepped aside to reveal the woman he had brought with him. ‘May I present Madame Bisou.’

The woman looked perfectly respectable in a plain brown walking dress and spencer. Only the flaming red hair peeking out from under her sedate matching bonnet gave hint to her profession.

‘Madame Bisou.’ Morgana offered her hand. ‘I am grateful you have come.’

The woman appraised Morgana as she accepted the handshake. She gave Sloane a significant look. ‘Cyprian, I begin to understand how you came to make this request.’

His face filled with colour, and Morgana rushed to speak. ‘Mr Sloane is acting as my friend only because I have given him little choice, Madame.’

‘Little choice indeed!’ Madame Bisou exclaimed. ‘As if Cyprian does anything he does not wish to do.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Now, what is it you require of me?’

Morgana begged them to sit while she explained.

When she finished Madame Bisou’s eyes danced. ‘I am well able to teach your girls how to be pleasing to men. I have some experience in such matters, do I not, Cyprian?’

Sloane returned her glance with an ironic gleam in his eye. ‘You do, indeed, Penny.’

Madame Bisou made a face at him, and Morgana realised with shock that the madam must have once been intimate with him. Was she still? Morgana felt the same sick feeling she experienced when realising her father must have used The Whoremonger’s Guide.

No. Not the same feeling. This felt worse somehow.

She regarded Madame Bisou, her eyes narrowing. Surely the woman was older than Sloane, who must be in his thirties. There were faint lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her skin had lost the tautness and clarity of youth. Still, she had an aura about her that made Morgana certain that if the two of them walked down the street, gentlemen would turn to look at Madame Bisou and not at her. But that was what she had desired in a tutor, was it not?

‘Shall I do, Miss Hart?’ Madame Bisou sounded amused.

Morgana shook herself. What business was it of hers with whom Sloane shared such… intimate behaviours? If anyone should be concerned it would be Hannah, but then Hannah would never know of this.

‘I suspect you will do very well, Madame,’ Morgana responded, avoiding a glance at Sloane. ‘Shall I take you to your students?’

Madame Bisou clapped her hands. ‘Oh, yes. The sooner, the better.’

Sloane stood. ‘I doubt you require my presence. When shall I collect you, Madame?’

Madame Bisou looked to Morgana.

‘In two hours, Sloane, if that would not be inconvenient?’ Morgana still did not look straight at him.

He bowed, but stepped to the open door of the library to say a brief hello to Morgana’s girls. Morgana hesitated a moment before ushering Madame Bisou into the room, pausing to watch Sloane head towards the hall.

Sloane walked out of Morgana’s house at the same moment his secretary approached his own door.

Mr Elliot looked greatly surprised, no doubt wondering why his employer called upon a single lady before noon, alone at that.

‘Good day, Elliot,’ Sloane said in a deliberate tone.

Mr Elliot blinked rapidly. ‘Good day, sir. I… I was just returning from town.’

‘Seeing to my business, I suppose?’ Sloane walked over to where Elliot stood.

Elliot still avoided his eye.

Sloane rather enjoyed the young man’s discomfort. It belied his usual efficiency. But Sloane also realised that Elliot was not a fool. Even if Elliot concluded he was making a conquest of Morgana, what Sloane suspected anyone would conclude, he believed he could count on the young man’s discretion. Still, it did not hurt to emphasise the point. ‘Is there something you want to ask me, Mr Elliot?’

‘Oh, no, sir.’ Elliot sputtered. ‘That is—it is none of my affair, I am sure.’

The two men walked together into Sloane’s house. ‘It is no affair of mine as well, but you will not speak of me visiting Miss Hart’s house.’

His secretary looked wounded. ‘Of course I will not, sir!’

Sloane nodded. ‘Very good.’

He headed to his library, thinking a small glass of port might pass the time while he waited to collect Penny.

To his dismay, Elliot followed him into the room. ‘There is something I ought to speak with you about.’

Sloane already had the bottle of port in hand. He gestured for the young man to sit and poured a glass for them both.

Elliot began, ‘Sparrow, your butler, sir, informed me that one of the footmen informed him that Miss Hart’s footman was talking of something havey-cavey next door. It seems there are some suspicious females present in the house.’

Sloane paused just as he was about to lift his glass to his lips. He tried to sound casual. ‘Havey-cavey?’

Elliot shrugged. ‘That is all I know. I shall discover more in time. I thought I ought to tell you of it, because you indicated reservations about moving next door to Miss Hart.’ He stopped and gave Sloane a considering look. ‘But perhaps you know of it…’

Because Elliot had seen him leave Morgana’s house. Sloane stared at his secretary a long time. It had taken only a day for news of Morgana’s strange guests to reach Elliot’s ears, something he must deal with post-haste.

Elliot regarded him with a steady look. ‘You do know of this,’ he said simply. ‘I beg you would instruct me how you wish me to proceed.’

Sloane appraised the young man. Elliot was alert and intelligent. Because the young man lived with him, it would be difficult to put much past him. Sloane was unaccustomed to trusting another person, but Elliot could be of great assistance. He could help keep an eye on Morgana when Sloane could not, an extra protection.

Elliot was beholden to Sloane, who, as a favour to a former smuggler, had taken on the man’s son as secretary, providing him with a chance at a respectable profession. Even if Elliot was disposed to be loyal in return, was it fair to ask him to share the risk of Morgana’s courtesan school being discovered?

Who was he fooling? If the courtesan school was discovered, Elliot would sink with the rest of them. Better for him to be warned.

‘Drink your port, Elliot,’ Sloane said. ‘And I will endeavour to explain.’

A quarter of an hour later, Sloane had told Elliot the whole story. When he finished, he refilled Elliot’s empty glass.

‘That young maid wishes to be a courtesan?’ Elliot asked incredulously.

Sloane sipped his own drink. ‘She is bent on some sort of harlotry, Miss Hart insists. That is how this whole courtesan school came about.’

Elliot stared into his port. ‘I wonder why she should wish to do such a thing.’

Sloane leaned back in his chair. ‘Living with her father, I expect. He was one of the King’s diplomats in Spain during the war. I suspect she pretty much did as she pleased in his house.’

Elliot looked baffled. It took several moments before comprehension dawned on his face. ‘Oh, you meant Miss Hart. I was speaking of the maid.’

‘The maid?’ It was Sloane’s turn to be bewildered. He took another sip. ‘In any event, if this business reaches the ears of the ton, it shall be the downfall of us all. I may find your assistance useful from time to time. May I depend upon you?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Elliot responded, but in a distracted manner.

Elliot proceeded to inform Sloane of the financial business he had transacted in town. The complexity of the investments Elliot had set up were a bore to Sloane, but the profits continued to be gratifying. He kept watch on the mantel clock.

He returned to Morgana’s house early to collect Penny.

Miss Hart’s butler admitted him. ‘I shall announce you directly, sir.’

‘In a moment.’ Sloane handed him his hat and gloves. ‘What is your name, man?’

‘Cripps, sir.’ The butler placed his hat and gloves on the marble-topped hall table and turned back to him.

Sloane gave the man a steely stare. ‘It has come to my attention, Cripps, that the servants under you are passing tales about this household to my servants.’

Cripps returned his look impassively.

Sloane continued, ‘This will not do. You have shirked your responsibility to protect this lady’s privacy.’

A muscle in Cripps’s cheek twitched, but he remained stiff and erect.

The man gave away little. Sloane decided to increase the stakes. ‘I am a wealthy man, Cripps, but I can also be a dangerous man to cross. Treat this lady and her guests well and you and your staff will be rewarded. Bonuses to them all from me.’ He leaned forward menacingly. ‘Harm her with loose tongues or otherwise and you will incur my wrath.’ He paused for Cripps’s reaction.

The butler did not change expression.

‘I assure you, you do not wish to displease me,’ he emphasised.

Cripps finally responded in a low voice. ‘I will do my duty, as I always do.’ His face remained bland. ‘Shall I announce you now, sir?’

Once with the students, Madame Bisou dropped her French accent and her flirtatious ways. Oddly, she reminded Morgana of one of the Spanish noblemen her father had entertained in Spain. The gentleman had been incredibly shrewd, extracting from her father exactly what he wanted, and exactly what her father had originally refused to give him. Morgana discovered later that the nobleman had manipulated the French just as effectively.

Madame Bisou had the same kind of cleverness and charm. She drew in the girls with a very friendly, motherly manner, and held them in her palm while she spoke of her origins.

‘I was not always Madame Bisou,’ she began in the spellbinding voice of a practised story-teller. ‘I was born Penny Jones, and my mother died giving birth to me. As a child I walked at my father’s side while he hawked dirty old clothes on Petticoat Lane. “Old clo,” he’d cry over and over. “Old clo.”’ She looked heavenward. ‘I can still remember it. Hearing the other street vendors’ songs all day as well as my father’s. I used to sing them myself and dance, and passers-by would throw me pennies. Pennies for Penny.’ Her smile left her face. ‘It was not long before men paid for more than my dancing.’ She gave them all a significant look. ‘By day I’d follow my father in the street and by night in the pubs, until one night he had no more coins for his gin.’ Her voice got very low and Morgana could see each of the girls and Miss Moore, too, straining to hear. ‘That night he sold me to a man in the pub for a few shillings. I never saw my father again.’

‘That’s dastardly,’ cried Katy. ‘What happened next?’

Madame Bisou gave a ghost of a smile. ‘The man sold me at a profit to a bawdy house. After he had his way with me, that is. He sold me to a mean old abbess who beat her girls if they gave her any trouble. She kept all the money.’

There was a collective exclamation of outrage, and the madam went on to tell how she fooled the procuress and wound up with enough money and power to take over the house and drive the woman away.

Katy and Rose cheered with enthusiasm at this triumph.

Madame Bisou looked each of the girls in the eye. ‘I know how to get gents willing to die for me,’ she said dramatically. ‘And that is what I will teach you. I’ll show you how to make them beg to do what you want them to do. I’ll teach you how to trick them into paying you much more than they thought they would. And how to have them stumble over each other to see who can buy you the biggest ring, the most expensive necklace or the most beautiful bracelet.’

Morgana was as mesmerised by the tale as the others, but she could not think of any gift she would want from a man, no dragon he could slay for her, no bauble he could purchase. Still, being such a temptress would be heady stuff indeed.

Cripps knocked on the door and announced Sloane, who entered the room to collect Madame Bisou. Katy and Rose begged her to stay longer. She laughed, saying she would return very soon. None the less, they detained her with more questions.

Sloane leaned over to Morgana. ‘How did she do?’

Morgana looked into his smoky grey eyes. ‘She told us the terrible story of how she came to be as she is today.’

‘The terrible story?’ The corners of his eyes crinkled. It so distracted her, she forgot what she’d just said to him.

‘Oh—yes.’ She swallowed. ‘You know, how her father sold her for a pint of gin.’

His eyes shone. ‘It is a hum, Morgana. Penny was an innkeeper’s daughter who found life too tame and struck out on her own. I suspect her father still owns his pub somewhere in Chelsea and makes a fine living.’

Morgana burst out laughing, holding her hand over her mouth so the others would not heed her. ‘Oh, she is splendid, Sloane. She had us all completely at her mercy. I think Mary had tears in her eyes. If she can fool us, then she must know how to fool men!’

His expression changed to a stern one. ‘Is that what you desire, Miss Hart? To fool men?’

She was too happy to allow him to scowl at her. She mimicked the madam’s low, attention-capturing cadence, as well as her accent. ‘Yes, it is, Sloane. We must fool some very rich men into giving all their money, n’est pas? And then toss them away, keeping all their money in our pockets.’

Not only was he not amused, he looked thunderous. ‘Do you wish to become a courtesan as well, Morgana?’

She responded to his grimace with a saucy smile.

Madame Bisou hurried to his side. ‘Are you ready, Cyprian?’ She batted her lashes at him. Morgana’s eyes narrowed.

Sloane took Morgana’s hand and leaned into her face. ‘Do not jest with me, Morgana. Are you planning to become a courtesan?’

The clasp of his hand felt angry, but the contact was every bit as affecting as the day before.

She raised her eyes to his, suddenly serious. ‘Do you jest, Sloane? What man would think me a courtesan?’

His eyes filled with heat and she felt his thumb caress her palm. He did not answer her. ‘Good day, Miss Hart,’ he said.

She did not immediately release his hand when he began to pull away. His expression turned quizzical.

She said, ‘I hope your dinner goes well tonight, Sloane.’

‘My dinner?’ He looked startled. ‘The dinner with Heronvale, do you mean?’

She nodded and opened her fingers so his hand slipped out of hers.

He lightly brushed her arm. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’

Madame Bisou, née Penny Jones, entwined her arm in his. ‘Come, Cyprian.’ She swept him out of the door.

Morgana lightly fingered her palm and her arm where the memory of his touch still lingered.

Chapter Ten

If Sloane had led a double life in the past, he now had tripled himself. He continued to play the gentleman for the ton, the possible suitor for Lady Hannah, the wealthy fellow who put in appearances at White’s and talked politics with the Marquess of Heronvale. At night, after the ton’s elegant routs and balls, he slipped into the shadows, returning often to Mrs Rice’s glove shop, keeping his eyes and ears open to possible danger from that quarter. To Mrs Rice’s mounting rage, her lackeys had made no progress in finding her missing girls or in discovering the ladylike woman who had snatched the pretty maid from her grasp. Sloane would remain watchful, however, just in case.

During these past three weeks it had also become his practice to often look in on the courtesan school. He kept an eye on Penny, lest she be tempted to go back on her word not to exploit Morgana. He imposed his intimidating presence on the taciturn Cripps, to ensure the butler kept the servants in line. Sloane watched Morgana as well, in case he need rein her in from some risky exploit that might expose the whole affair.

It had become his habit to breakfast with Morgana and her girls, the most pleasant part of his day. The courtesan school, scandalous as it might be, was a relief from the crushing boredom that permeated the rest of his time. Sometimes Elliot joined him at Morgana’s, as he did this day. Penny had requested they both assist the girls in her special dancing lessons. Both men slipped through the gap in the garden wall and entered Morgana’s house unseen.

The formality of being announced long abandoned, they made their way straight to the dining parlour and entered to a chorus of good mornings. Morgana’s grandmother’s eyes lit up. ‘How lovely of you to call.’

‘Men at last,’ exclaimed Katy, who nearly thrust her chest under Elliot’s nose before Miss Moore pulled her into a chair.

Katy complained loudly. ‘I’m tired of seeing only old Cripps. He’s given the footmen such a lecture they run and hide when they see us!’

Sloane was greatly heartened that Cripps had been so cruel to poor Katy.

‘You must remember, men are to throw themselves at you, not you at them,’ Miss Moore told her. ‘You are better than that, Miss Green.’

Sloane frowned as he and Elliot filled their plates. Morgana often said those words to the girls. You are better than that. For all Morgana’s wide-eyed plans, he knew too well the world would not treat them so.

Elliot chose a chair at the far end of the table where Lucy, who still considered herself of the servant class, always retreated. Sloane sat next to Morgana.

She poured him a cup of tea, fixing it just as he liked. ‘It is so good of you and Mr Elliot to volunteer to be dance partners.’

He smiled at her. ‘I would not exactly say Elliot volunteered, but he is excellent at following orders.’

Her brow wrinkled. ‘Is it against his scruples? I would not impose upon anyone who objected to it.’

He glanced at Elliot, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with Lucy. ‘He is shy around women, I believe.’

Her expressive eyes glanced in the same direction. ‘Katy must frighten the wits out of him, then. Lucy is shy, too, but they seem to get on together.’

‘They talk of plants, I believe.’

Morgana asked his opinion of Naldi’s performance as Figaro at the opera the previous evening. Lady Hannah had fished for an invitation and Sloane had obliged, including her parents and Morgana in the party.

He gave a dry laugh. ‘Surely you know I find every opera a dead bore.’

She rolled her eyes at his comment, but went on, ‘Well, I was not impressed. Naldi speaks as often as he sings, and often off key.’

Sloane had known without her saying so that she had not been impressed. While Lady Hannah spent the evening searching for her friends among the audience, he’d watched Morgana and had seen her opinion of the opera written on her face.

‘I do wish I could have talked with Harriette Wilson,’ she added. ‘She could have answered so many questions.’

What a silent argument they’d had over the infamous courtesan. Morgana had given Sloane a hopeful glance when Harriette appeared in her opera box, and he’d returned it with a censorious grimace. She’d replied with a thinning of her lips and he’d countered with a pointed shrug.

‘Do not act the fool, Morgana. You know you could not speak with her.’

She sighed. ‘I know. I know. My reputation would be ruined.’ She said this with exaggerated drama.

He put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘You have no notion what ruin would mean, but, I assure you, I do.’

Her ginger eyes turned warm with sympathy.

Damnation. Such moments between them only complicated matters. He did not need her sympathy, nor her interest in his well-being. It only pulled at his baser urges. He’d thus far avoided playing the rake with her, but who knew how long he could last? He looked away and attacked his slice of ham.

A few minutes later Miss Moore announced it was time for the girls’ lessons and helped Lady Hart to her feet. As Rose, Katy and Mary filed out of the room ahead of them, Miss Moore asked, ‘Are you coming, Morgana?’

Morgana looked up at her. ‘I shall be in shortly.’

Elliot left his half-eaten breakfast and followed Lucy, who paused uncertainly by Morgana.

‘What is it, Lucy?’ Morgana asked.

Lucy hesitated, and glanced shyly at Elliot. ‘Mr Elliot and I were talking of how the primrose is in bloom, miss. May I show him in the garden?’

‘Of course,’ Morgana said gently.

Sloane peered at Elliot. Was his secretary attempting to make a conquest of Lucy? Lucy could do much worse than a liaison with a fine young man such as Elliot, so why did he feel he ought to cuff Elliot’s ears?

Lucy curtsied more like a maid than a courtesan and she and Elliot hurried out.

Morgana turned to Sloane. ‘Is that not remarkable?’

‘What?’

‘Lucy and Mr Elliot. She seems to blossom around him, like one of her flowers.’ With a dreamy expression, she gazed at the door through which Elliot and Lucy had departed.

Sloane put down his fork. ‘Do not make this into some Minerva Press novel, Morgana.’

She raised an indignant eyebrow. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

He looked directly in her eyes. ‘Those are not two innocents. It is not a flower bed they are in search of, but the other kind of bed.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Do not be vulgar, Sloane.’

‘Then do not you be missish.’ He made sure she listened. ‘How much do you wish to wager on it? Elliot and Lucy are bound to engage in more than a waltz soon enough?’

‘I do not wish to wager at all,’ she said in a huff, but she glanced back at the door with a pensive expression. ‘It is precisely what I am training her for, is it not? I dislike thinking on it.’

He made no effort to relieve her tension. ‘You ought to think on it. You’d best realise what sort of life you are handing these young women.’

She gave him a withering look. ‘I suspect you are about to tell me.’

Her sarcasm set him off. ‘If they are lucky they will attract men of means. They will be selling themselves to the highest bidder. The man may be short or tall, fat or skinny. He may smell. He may be cruel. But one thing is for certain.’ He paused so that she would be sure to pay him heed. ‘To the man she will be a mere ornament and bed partner. That is all. And she will be at his mercy for the food she eats and the roof that shelters her.’

Her colour heightened. ‘Will it be so different when you choose a wife, Sloane?’ She took an angry breath, and Sloane did not miss the tantalising rise of her chest. ‘Do you not seek a wife other men will consider beautiful? Will you not wish for the pleasure of her bed? I assure you, she will be at your mercy for her food and her shelter. At least my girls will not be tied to one man for life, if they do not wish to be.’

He’d be damned if he’d allow her to know she’d struck a truthful chord. ‘Spare me this Wollstonecraft recitation. Next you will be penning A Vindication of the Rights of Doxies and Harlots.’

For a second he thought she would slap him across the face, which he surely deserved. Her eyes flamed and flashed with pain. She gripped the edge of the cloth on the table. But he suffered worse than the sting of her hand. He watched as she blinked, straightened her spine and erased all expression from her face.

How many times in front of his father had he done the very same thing?

He could barely make himself speak. ‘Do not do that, Morgana. Please God, do not do that.’

‘Do what?’ she responded, eyes bland.

‘Pretend I did not wound you.’ His voice was a mere whisper. ‘I wish to God I had not said that to you.’

She remained stiff and distant. ‘It is of no consequence. My unguarded tongue.’ She waved her hand dismissively.

He caught it in his. ‘I fear I spoke like—in a manner I regret.’ Like his father, he almost said.

She pulled her hand away, and he snatched it back again. ‘You were correct, Morgana, about my marital desires. I do wish a beautiful wife and… the rest. It is the way of the respectable world, is it not?’

She darted a glance at their clasped hands. ‘The way for you, perhaps.’

He rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. ‘And for you?’

She again pulled loose of his grasp. ‘If there exists a man who could consider me an ornament, with my outspoken nature, I am certain he would soon fail to find me decorative.’ She let slip a fleeting glimpse of pain. ‘So your assessment of me was not far off the mark.’

Did she not know her appeal partly lay in her outspokenness? No pretence, no coy flirtations. He put his fingers under her chin and turned her face towards him, forcing her to look at him.

Her eyes glittered like topaz, and their gazes held until he felt like walls were cracking inside him, walls that held back his own pain, the pain he’d fended off almost since birth.

He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, touching the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb. ‘Morgana—’ he murmured.

Katy’s voice sounded outside the door and they broke apart just in time before she burst in.

‘Make haste!’ Katy cried. ‘Madame Bisou has arrived and says you must come for the dance lessons.’ She did not wait to see if they would follow her. Heading back out the door, she laughed. ‘You ought to see the fribble she’s brought with her.’

‘Well.’ Morgana stood. ‘I suppose we ought to join them.’

Sloane’s brow knit in worry. Who had Penny brought with her? There were already too many people who might leak information about Morgana’s outrageous courtesan school.

He offered Morgana his arm and they walked to the library, where the lessons were to take place. When they neared the door, he stopped her. ‘Forgive me?’ He brushed her cheek lightly.

Her smile held a hint of sadness, but it heartened him that it was a smile none the less. ‘Why the devil not?’

He squeezed her cheek playfully. ‘Hoyden.’

She grinned this time. ‘Rake.’

Katy came to the doorway. ‘What keeps you? Come on. We are waiting.’

They obliged her, entering the room where all the furniture except the pianoforte and two chairs had been removed and the carpet rolled up. Miss Moore had settled Lady Hart in one of the chairs and she sat in the other that was placed at the keyboard of the pianoforte.

‘Oh, lovely to see you!’ exclaimed Lady Hart, catching sight of them.

Madame Bisou stood next to a young gentleman. ‘Miss Hart, I have brought my friend Robert. Allow me to present him to you.’ She used her French accent this morning. ‘We need more gentlemen. Cyprian, you were to have brought your secretary.’

‘I did bring him, Penny.’

Her eyes narrowed.

Katy gave a dramatic sigh. ‘Lucy is pulling weeds with him, no doubt. I shall go after them again.’

But there was no need to do so, because Elliot and Lucy appeared.

‘Excellent!’ cried the madam. ‘We shall have nearly enough gentlemen to go around.’

‘I… I could sit out,’ murmured Mary.

Madame Bisou poo-pooed the idea. ‘Nonsense, my dear. We will take turns. One may learn by observing as well as by doing.’

Sloane watched as Madame Bisou more formally introduced her friend, Robert Duprey, to Morgana. Why the devil had she brought that fellow? Duprey was not only a very foolish dandy, he was also brother to the woman over whom Sloane lost his wagers at Bisou’s gaming house. He had always been a favourite of Penny’s, though it foxed Sloane why.

Madame Bisou raised her voice. ‘Now, you will think you already know how to do the dances, but you will be wrong, ladies. I will teach you that the dance involves not only the feet, but also the eyes and the hands. I will teach you what to do with each.’

As she went on, Sloane sauntered up to Robert Duprey.

‘G’day, Sloane.’ Duprey’s voice cracked. ‘Didn’t know you’d be here. Been an age. Not at Bisou’s these days?’

Duprey not only wore the dandy’s tight pantaloons, high collar points and elaborately tied neckcloth, but he also affected their irritating style of speech.

‘I am not pleased to see you here, Duprey,’ Sloane said fiercely.

The young man shifted from foot to foot.

Sloane glared at him. ‘If I discover you have said one word about this lady’s house and what happens here, I will personally come after you. You’ve heard rumours of how dangerous I can be, have you not?’

‘Eep!’ Duprey cried. ‘Won’t say a thing. Mum’s the word. Swear it.’

‘You had better swear it.’ For good measure he gave the terrified fellow another menacing look before walking back to Morgana’s side.

Miss Moore began to play, and Sloane was first paired with Katy. He could handle her. He knew her type, trying to act so self-assured, pushing herself forward lest she be forgotten entirely. He’d done likewise many a time.

Katy enthusiastically embraced Madame Bisou’s lessons, fluttering her lashes at him, touching him wherever she could reach. She even added a few moves not in the lecture, such as making sure he could look straight down her dress. It was a relief to next be partnered with the beautiful Rose, who was more subtle and easier on the eye.

They completed the drill on country dancing. Sloane glanced at Elliot, who stood next to Lucy, talking quietly to her. Duprey had finished dancing with Mary, whose complexion was flushed rather prettily. Duprey pulled at his collar. Morgana stood near her grandmother, looking almost as if she were recovered from his hurtful words.

‘Now what you have been waiting for. The waltz,’ Madame Bisou announced.

‘Gracious, I don’t know that one,’ cried Katy.

Lucy said quietly, ‘I don’t either.’

‘Not know the waltz?’ Madame Bisou trilled with laughter. ‘We shall teach you then.’ She pointed to Sloane. ‘Cyprian, you must demonstrate with Miss Hart.’

He had waltzed with Morgana on several occasions at Almack’s and other balls, but not in such a relaxed, friendly, seductive atmosphere.

He took her hand and led her out to the middle of the bare floor. He put his other hand to her waist and she put hers on his arm. Miss Moore began to play.

Their steps were awkward at first, perhaps from being observed, but soon the music caught hold.

‘Look at each other!’ commanded Madame Bisou.

Morgana lifted her eyes, like amber jewels, to his.

‘Make him hold you closer!’ Madame Bisou said, and Morgana moved towards him. He bent down, his face inches from hers, and gathered her to him. As they twirled around the room, he held her so close their bodies touched and their legs moved as one.

Too soon the music stopped. He forced himself to let go.

‘That was excellent, Cyprian.’ Penny’s voice broke in. They started to move away from each other. ‘Stay there,’ Penny ordered. ‘We are not done. Put your arms around each other again.’ She made her voice louder. ‘Everyone! Pretend the music has just stopped.’

Miss Moore replayed the final chord.

‘Now, Miss Hart,’ Penny instructed. ‘What you must do now is stand on tiptoe and kiss him.’

‘That’s the thing!’ cried Katy.

Morgana gave Bisou a startled look, but turned back to face Sloane. With her golden eyes wide, she rose on her toes while he lowered his head.

When her lips touched his, he felt his whole body flare with arousal and, all reserve gone, he put his arm around her, deepening the kiss, tasting her sweet, unschooled mouth at long last. His body craved more. Much more.

‘That’s enough,’ called Penny as the room burst into applause and giggles. ‘You did very well.’

He released Morgana, who looked as dazed as he felt.

Katy was his partner for the next waltz. She soon mastered the steps. At the end, her lips were more enthusiastic, more practised, and more frankly sexual, but it was Morgana’s kiss that lingered.

Morgana rested her hand on the back of her grandmother’s chair, pretending to watch the dancing. Instead she relived Sloane’s kiss, the feel of his lips against hers. She resisted the urge to touch her mouth with her fingers.

When she’d been younger, before she realised no man would want to marry her, she used to dream of her first kiss. How glad she was that it had been with Sloane.

She shook herself, regretting what she had said about his intention to marry. She’d given in to her envy of her cousin, who would be Sloane’s ornament and bed partner. That was not well done of her.

She glanced up and saw him smoothly guide Rose around the room. It was not Sloane who was out of step, but she. He was deftly making his place in society, with the same ease as he moved through the steps of the waltz. She was the one who did not fit.

After the dancing, they all went to the front drawing room for refreshment so that the footmen could return the library to its former state. Hungry and thirsty from the morning’s exertion, they eagerly consumed the lemonade and biscuits Cripps served, the butler revealing nothing of his thoughts of the morning’s activities. There was much laughter. Even Lucy laughed aloud at something Mr Elliot said to her.

Madame Bisou’s carriage soon arrived and she had to drag her friend Robert away from the book he and Mary had their noses in. After they left, Morgana glanced over to where Katy and Rose practised flirting with Sloane. He looked up at the same time and caught her watching him.

It was almost as if she could feel his lips on hers once more.

Lucy appeared next to her, Mr Elliot standing behind. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Hart, may Mr Elliot and I return to the garden? I had not finished showing him some of the plants.’

Morgana could not help but give the girl a quizzical look, but she said, ‘Of course you may, Lucy.’ Were they really sneaking away to bed?

The idea did not shock her at this moment. She touched her lips where Sloane had kissed and wondered what other thrills existed between men and women, matters Madame Bisou implied in every lesson. Until the feel of Sloane’s arms around her and his achingly tender, then eager, kiss, Morgana had not quite grasped the madam’s meaning.

Another carriage rumbled to a stop out in the street. Morgana wandered over to the window to see who it was. The blood drained from her face as she watched her aunt and cousin assisted from the carriage. ‘It is Aunt Winnie and Hannah.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Miss Moore wrung her hands.

‘How lovely,’ her grandmother said.

Morgana heard the knock at the door and Cripps open it. ‘It is too late to hide in the library.’ They would be seen from the hall. She turned to the girls. ‘You are Miss Moore’s nieces, remember. You know precisely how to behave.’

Cripps came to announce the visitors. Miss Moore whispered, ‘Katy, remember to be quiet and ladylike.’

Katy nodded, clamping her mouth shut.

Her aunt and cousin were the last people Morgana would wish to call upon her, especially with Sloane present, but she stood ready to face them. All the others rose from their chairs as well, standing like a line of soldiers behind their captain. Only her grandmother remained seated. Morgana patted her hair quickly and tried to tuck up the strands that had come loose during the waltz.

Her aunt and Hannah entered. Morgana smiled. ‘Why, Aunt Winnie, Hannah, how lovely to see you.’

‘Lovely to see you,’ Lady Hart parroted.

Her aunt looked perplexed at the room full of women. Hannah’s eyes landed directly on Sloane, though they narrowed considerably when she saw him standing between one pretty girl and one beautiful one.

‘Come, meet Miss Moore’s nieces.’ Morgana kept her voice light. ‘Remember, I told you they were visiting, and look who else has come to call—Mr Sloane.’

She made the introductions, but was not surprised when her aunt and cousin showed little curiosity. The nieces of a lady’s companion would no doubt be almost beneath their notice.

Hannah looked daggers at Rose, but when Sloane sat in the chair next to her, she brightened a little.

‘We decided we must call upon Morgana,’ Hannah remarked to him, but for all to hear. ‘We have been sadly remiss for not doing so before, but there are so many calls one must make. Today I insisted we must put her first on our list.’

Hannah regarded Sloane with her usual proprietary air, and Morgana pushed away another wave of envy, felt more acutely so soon after experiencing his kiss. Hannah had recently confided that Sloane had not made an offer, but had asked Hannah’s father if he would object to one. Uncle Cowdlin had not objected. According to Hannah it would be only a matter of time before her parents would be giving an engagement ball.

Morgana pressed a hand to her stomach.

Sloane had turned all his attention to Hannah. Katy sat very stiffly, her lips compressed into a tight line. Rose examined a piece of music that had been left on the table. Morgana sat between her grandmother and her aunt, trying to deflect any conversation that might cause her aunt to discover Lady Hart’s infirmity of mind.

After about five minutes, Sloane stood. ‘I have quite overstayed my welcome. It is time for me to take my leave.’

Morgana turned to him with a polite smile. ‘Thank you so much for calling, Mr Sloane. It was kind of you.’ She turned back to her aunt.

He said goodbye to the others and Hannah walked him to the drawing-room door. Sloane did not look at Morgana again.

After he left, Hannah and her mother prattled on for a few minutes about how Sloane was bound to offer for Hannah soon, information that had Rose, Katy and Mary passing surprised glances to each other. Then Hannah announced that she and her mother ought to depart to make their numerous other calls. Morgana saw them to the door and Cripps stood by to assist them.

‘You do come to Almack’s with us tonight, do you not, Morgana?’ her aunt asked.

‘Yes. Thank you so much for including me, Aunt Winnie.’ In truth, Morgana had found the ton’s marriage mart a bit tedious of late.

Hannah gave Morgana a quick hug. ‘Do not worry, Morgana. I will find some beaux to dance with you.’

‘Thank you, Hannah,’ Morgana responded tightly. ‘You are too good.’

Sloane stepped out of White’s after a dinner with Heronvale, during which the marquess had impressed upon him the necessity of a good marriage to succeed in politics. If that were not enough, Sloane’s father had made an appearance, infuriated that Sloane shared Heronvale’s table. The noise of carriages clattering by and the other street sounds were infinitely preferable to the Earl’s grating voice. As was his habit, Sloane glanced around him.

His nephew stood a few steps from the bow window. ‘Do you attend Almack’s, Uncle?’

It was easy to read on David’s countenance that he had something on his mind. ‘I am headed there now.’

‘May I walk with you?’ David smiled tentatively.

‘Certainly.’

‘Does your grandfather know you waited for me?’ Sloane asked as they crossed the street.

‘Never,’ exclaimed David. He glanced at Sloane. ‘He has it in for you, you know.’

Sloane laughed. ‘He always has had.’

‘I think it irrational,’ David said firmly. ‘I disapprove heartily.’

‘But not loudly, I hope.’ The boy was still at the Earl’s mercy, at least financially. Unless he wanted to take the hard road Sloane had taken, he’d best keep his opinions to himself.

His nephew flashed a quick smile and then they walked for a while in silence.

Finally David said, ‘I have called again upon Lady Hannah. I thought you should know.’

‘I’ve made no claim, David,’ Sloane said. ‘She is free to spend time with whom she pleases.’

‘But I respect your interest in her. I—I just wanted you to know my reasons make no infringement on your interest. As I explained, I cannot even think of marrying, so my time spent calling on her and taking her for a turn in the park is mere friendship. If I called upon someone else, it might raise the girl’s hopes unrealistically, but Lady Hannah has no expectation of me. It makes it a good arrangement between us.’

Sloane was glad Hannah had David’s company. The busier she was, the less guilty he felt for avoiding any decision about her.

‘Sounds fair,’ he said.

They arrived at Almack’s and soon entered the assembly room. Lady Hannah was already there. Her eyes lit up when she saw them approaching her.

But it was not Hannah who was on Sloane’s mind. The band struck up a waltz, and he waited for David to engage Hannah for the set. He scanned the assembly room, finally spying Morgana sitting alone at the room’s edge, a place for spinsters and dowagers.

He made his way to her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’

She looked up at him, her eyes as warm and sultry and melancholic as when they had waltzed earlier that day. Without a word she accepted his hand and held his arm as they walked to the dance floor.

Sloane had all he could do to keep from holding her as close as he’d done in their more intimate waltz. That evening Heronvale had called Morgana unconventional. If he only knew how unconventional she could be, willing to dance seductively for the edification of her courtesan students.

Heronvale made it clear he thought Lady Hannah a good choice for Sloane to marry—in spite of her unconventional cousin. Sloane had wrapped himself up so completely in Morgana’s difficulties, he’d hardly given Hannah a thought. The Season was coming to an end. He must surely make his move soon.

How was Sloane to contemplate marriage to Lady Hannah when his senses were consumed with bedding her cousin?

He shook himself. He was thinking like a rake again. The direction of his thoughts needed turning. ‘Why were you seated alone, Morgana?’ he asked instead.

‘Oh,’ she responded vaguely, avoiding looking up at him. ‘I have the headache, I suppose.’

‘Fustian,’ he said.

She did not reply.

‘I insist you tell me.’ He sounded demanding even to his own ears. Like his father.

She gave him a quick but defiant glance.

His tone softened. ‘Forgive me again, Morgana. I am acting the brute. I meant to say, it is not your nature to sit in corners. You typically enjoy whatever tedious entertainment the ton offers.’

‘Do I?’ She met his eye. ‘Or perhaps, like you, I merely pretend to enjoy myself.’

He nodded. ‘Touché.’

She increased the pressure on his hand, very slightly, but he did not miss it. ‘I am quarrelling again,’ she murmured. She wrinkled her forehead as if deep in thought. ‘I confess I do not find Almack’s to be the seventh heaven of the fashionable world. True, the intrigue of who dances with whom, which gentleman favours which young lady, who will next receive an offer of marriage, is all very interesting. And it does provide me an opportunity to dance.’

He pulled her in an infinitesimal bit closer. ‘You sound as if you are trying to convince yourself to enjoy it.’

She gave him a frank expression. ‘I suppose I am.’

They twirled around the floor, brushing near Hannah and David who were smiling and laughing together.

Morgana inclined her head in their direction. ‘Hannah enjoys your nephew’s company, I believe.’

He glanced back at the young couple. ‘I believe she does.’

They circled half the floor, Sloane enjoying how she moved with him, the scent of her hair, the curve of her cheek. He wondered if he could get Hannah to invite him in the Cowdlin carriage again, if he could walk Morgana to the door and taste her lips again.

‘Does it bother you?’ Morgana broke his reverie.

‘Does what bother me?’

‘Hannah and your nephew.’

He had forgotten them. Besides, he disliked discussing Hannah with Morgana, especially when he was fantasising about seducing her. ‘Should it?’

Her brows rose in response.

Sloane frowned. Hannah and David swept into view again. He need not concern himself with David’s interest in Hannah. His nephew had explained how it was, but Sloane was reminded he must make his offer to Hannah soon. Lord Cowdlin might become desperate enough to select a suitor of smaller fortune, unlikely as that was.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

‘Will you offer for her?’ Morgana asked, as if reading his thoughts.

Her words were like a knife slicing into him. He wanted to offer for Lady Hannah, did he not? Why not simply tell Morgana he intended to do so?

He felt his face harden to stone. ‘A gentleman would first inform the lady in question, not her cousin.’

She flinched as if a blow had been struck, and again Sloane regretted his churlish words.

The music stopped. The set was over. Morgana stepped out of his arms. He reached out to gather her back, to apologise again, but Hannah and David rushed to their side.

‘Everyone is planning an evening at Vauxhall tomorrow,’ Hannah said breathlessly. ‘Does that not sound marvellous?’

He rose and his smile was all for Hannah. Morgana could not bear it.

‘Marvellous indeed,’ he said in an amused tone.

Hannah clutched his arm. ‘We shall include Athenia, my brother Varney… well, everyone! Say you will go to Vauxhall, Mr Sloane?’

‘I shall consider it,’ he said, prevaricating, and wishing he could speak to Morgana alone.

Hannah pursed her lips like a petulant child. ‘You must say yes.’ She tossed him a pert smile. ‘Athenia’s parents will come so Mama and Papa will have company. They will pay little mind to me!’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Say you will come with us, Mr Sloane.’

‘Very well.’ Anything to be rid of her.

‘Will you act the host, Mr Sloane?’ Hannah persisted.

This was an impertinence. If he had offered for her, she might have a right to ask. Sloane disliked being forced to be the gentleman.

‘If your father permits,’ he said tightly.

His tone went completely over Hannah’s head. She clasped her hands together happily. ‘That is splendid!’

Somewhat belatedly, she seemed to notice Morgana standing next to him. She touched Morgana’s arm. ‘You must come as well, Morgana. I insist upon it.’

Morgana gave her a pasty smile, which Hannah must have taken for assent. Hannah turned away from her cousin and back to Sloane, begging him to lead her out in the next dance. Again Hannah had trapped him.

He acquiesced politely, but when he turned to Morgana, she was walking away. She did not look back at him.

Chapter Eleven

Mrs Rice sat in the room behind her glove shop, sipping a glass of claret and mentally calculating the amount of money she could wring from her girls this night.

She frowned. She’d recruited one new girl, who was almost useless. Fit for nothing but streetwalking. Without Katy and Mary business had definitely slowed. Profits were down. At this rate, she might make more blunt with gloves than with harlots.

Trigg, the procurer who had let the maid slip through his hands, entered, wearing a smug look on his face.

‘I hope this means you have girls for me,’ Mrs Rice muttered.

‘I have information.’ He sauntered over to her table and leaned in close. She detested the odour of the man.

‘Well, what is it?’ She would love to get rid of Trigg, who was a bit too clever for her to control completely.

He grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘Word is out that a society lady has them.’

‘A society lady.’ She could guess which society lady. ‘Her name?’

Trigg took a step back. ‘I will discover the name soon.’

Mrs Rice drummed her fingers on the table. ‘It is that woman.’ She hissed. ‘The one who charged in here big-as-you-please.’

Trigg’s brows rose. ‘Describe her.’

Mrs Rice huffed. ‘I cannot. She obscured her face.’

‘A Long Meg?’

‘Why, yes, she was a bit tall.’

He frowned and rubbed his head. ‘I know the one.’

A few minutes later Trigg stepped out into the street, pausing to take a swig from the bottle of gin he carried in his pocket. He headed for a pub he knew of, the place where an acquaintance had heard from another man that some footman spoke of females more like harlots who were guests in his lady’s house. It was thin evidence, and the man said the next day the footman denied it all, but Trigg did not relish hearing Rice ring a peal over his head. Besides, he wanted to believe it was that lady in the park. He’d be pleased to consign her to the devil, quick.

He stepped into an alley, for another quick taste of gin. Suddenly hands grabbed him from behind, dragging him deeper into the dark and he felt a cold edge of steel against his throat.

A sinister voice said, ‘I hear you’ve been asking questions about some missing doxies.’

Trigg nearly casting up his accounts, knew better than to show fear. ‘What of it?’ he growled.

The blade’s edge pierced his skin and he felt his blood trickling warm down his neck. ‘Stay out of it,’ the voice—a familiar voice, he realised—snarled. ‘If you want to keep your head.’ The knife made another slice, not deep, but Trigg was afraid to move lest it sever more than his skin.

‘What’s it to you?’ He tried to sound fierce, but his voice rose like a girl’s.

The man laughed and it was enough to make Trigg taste his own vomit. ‘I have them. The maid and that other one, too. The one who knocked you out. They are mine and the man who takes them from me will not live.’

Trigg tried to laugh, too, but succeeded only in making a gasping sound. ‘Why should I listen to you? Who are you?’

The chilling laugh returned. ‘I am the devil. Touch what is mine and I’ll have my due.’

Trigg was pushed forward, and he fell to his knees into a puddle of filth. By the time he scrambled to his feet and turned around, the man—the man from the park—had disappeared.

Sloane watched Trigg from the depths of the alley, the man silhouetted against the lamplight coming from St James’s Street. As he’d anticipated, Trigg broke into a run. Sloane figured he’d run all the way to whatever dirty hovel he called home.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his knife. Tossing the handkerchief away, he put the knife back in its sheath in his coat pocket. He left the alley from the back and made his way to the street.

When he stepped on to the pavement of St James’s Street, he looked like any other gentleman pursuing his nightly interests.

It was fortunate Sloane had refused Hannah’s offer of a carriage ride home. The day’s episodes with Morgana had left him disordered, restless, on edge. Having made his way to his post at Mrs Rice’s window, what he’d overheard fuelled his already taut nerves with something more dangerous. The violence of the underworld had taken a step closer to Morgana, and Sloane needed to push it back hard. It was a good night for intimidation. He’d halfway wished for an all-out brawl.

His tactic was misdirection. Trigg would now abandon his search for the ‘lady’ and begin looking for a tougher customer. Sloane wagered the man would not guess it was a resident of proper Culross Street who, as easy as the roughest rookery thief, used a knife to draw blood.

Sloane would return to spy on Mrs Rice’s place again, to make sure his trickery worked.

After thinking about it half the night, Morgana quite sorted it out in her mind that Sloane’s familiarity towards her had been her own fault. He’d seen how unladylike she could be, and, therefore, felt less gentlemanly restraint in her presence. She could still enjoy his company, but she must never mistake it for something more, not when he was intent on marrying Hannah. Better Morgana throw her energies into her girls.

They were gathered in the library, Madame Bisou having just arrived. Morgana happened to mention her invitation to Vauxhall.

Katy flung herself down on the settee. ‘Can we not all go to Vauxhall with you? I am sure I shall die if I spend one more day in this house.’

Morgana regarded Katy with sympathy. Her charges had indeed been trapped within the confines of this house, able to go no further than the tiny garden or the privy. Only Lucy had ventured beyond, but that was merely to the patch of land next door to assist Mr Elliot with his plantings.

‘We cannot chance Mrs Rice seeing us, Katy.’ Mary was at her most earnest. ‘She would make us go back to her.’

Katy waved her hand dismissively. ‘It is not as if Mrs Rice would go to Vauxhall. Besides, we could wear masks. They wear masks at Vauxhall Gardens, do they not?’

‘They do indeed,’ answered Madame Bisou, who gave Morgana a thoughtful look. ‘As I think of it, our girls could do with a bit of practice. We ought not to launch them upon the world without a trial. Do you not agree, Miss Hart?’

How could Morgana agree when she really had no wish to launch her students at all? Sloane’s words echoed in her mind—they would sell themselves to the highest bidder and still be at the mercy of a man’s whims. What if they could not match the success Harriette Wilson had achieved? What happened to failed courtesans?

She feared they would wind up in shops like Mrs Rice’s. Would all her hopes for the girls come to naught?

She had come too far to lose hope now.

‘I do not know.’ Morgana finally answered, her voice trailing off as Katy’s mournful eyes bore into her.

She wished she’d never mentioned Vauxhall Gardens. She certainly did not want to go there and watch Hannah flirt with Sloane. Perhaps Hannah and Sloane might disappear down one of those dark walks that were so whispered about. She would sit in the box with Aunt Winnie and imagine what might take place between Sloane and Hannah.

She gave herself a mental shake and reminded herself again that Sloane had always been Hannah’s, not hers.

‘I have never been to Vauxhall Gardens,’ Miss Moore piped up in a dreamy tone, merely adding to the growing pressure.

Morgana grasped at straws. ‘We do not have clothes for you yet.’

She intended to ask Madame Emeraude to come to the house to measure the girls and make up some dresses for them, but had put this off. It was another task she must do before they could leave her.

Cripps knocked on the door. ‘A trunk has been delivered, miss.’ He announced this as formally as if the Regent had come to call.

‘A trunk?’ Any delivery was unexpected. Morgana certainly did not expect her father to send her anything. He’d barely written to her.

‘From Paris, miss,’ Cripps added.

‘Paris!’ Morgana laughed. Her lost trunk!

‘What is funny?’ Katy grumbled.

Morgana walked over and tweaked Katy’s chin. ‘Your new wardrobe has arrived.’

‘New wardrobe?’ Katy asked cautiously. The other girls looked up in interest, even Lucy, who was beginning to lose some of her maid-like demeanour.

Morgana nodded, still astonished that her missing apparel should have come at this very moment. ‘Unless I am mistaken, it is a trunk filled with the latest Paris fashions, and it has arrived exactly in time to dress you in style.’

‘Paris!’ shrieked Katy, reverting to less-than-ladylike behaviour. ‘Give us a look at it.’

Fate, apparently, had decided to shove Morgana forward. Her girls would go to Vauxhall, after all, and would practice for the coming day when they would leave her house and go to some gentleman’s bed.

Morgana told Cripps to have the trunk brought in to them. Barely had the two footmen set it down in the middle of the room than the girls begged to open it. They pulled out dress after dress of fine muslin and silk. Day dresses, evening gowns, walking dresses. Morgana had forgotten how many her new stepmother had insisted she purchase.

Katy squealed in delight as each one emerged from between layers of tissue paper. Rose took a deep wine-red gown and held it against herself. If such a thing were possible, her features shone even more beautifully with its rich colour. Mary fingered a pale blue muslin, a shade as soft as her voice. Lucy held back, but Morgana handed her a pink confection and made her slip it over her plain grey dress, transforming her into as fresh and innocent a miss as had ever had her come-out.

‘We have the dresses, Miss Hart. Do we go to Vauxhall or not?’ Katy stood hands on hips, ready for battle.

Morgana glanced at Madame Bisou. ‘Who would escort us? We cannot go unprotected.’

‘Robert will come with us,’ assured the madam.

Mary glanced up at the mention of his name.

‘Perhaps Mr Elliot would come as well,’ Lucy added. ‘We could depend on him.’

‘We can dance and have a high old time.’ Katy pulled a paisley shawl from the trunk and wrapped it around herself. She danced around the room as if already at the pleasure gardens. Rose joined her, holding the red dress as if she were wearing it.

‘Oh, very well!’ Morgana smiled, resigned to seeing her fledglings spread their wings. ‘But I will go with you, as will Miss Moore, and we shall all wear masks.’

‘Hurrah!’ cried Katy.

Rose ran to the pianoforte and began a rousing tune. Katy grabbed Morgana while Mary and Madame Bisou pulled Lucy and Miss Moore on to the floor as well. Even Morgana’s grandmother rose to her feet and clapped her hands to the music. Rose began to sing: ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove…’

The others joined in: ‘That hill and valley, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield…’

Sloane frowned as he stepped onto the pavement in front of his house. He could hear Morgana and her girls singing.

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing;

For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

Anyone passing by could hear it. In fact, people two streets away could hear it. Someone was bound to comment. Foolish Morgana. He’d told her to be more discreet.

Live with me and be my love echoed in his brain as he crossed the pavement and headed towards Bond Street. He had no particular errand, just a restlessness that he hoped to walk off. Perhaps he might look in at Lock’s for a new hat or drop in at White’s.

He gave a glance over his shoulder. Instead he might walk round to Morgana’s rear door and join in their gaiety.

He was not sure why he suddenly thought he ought to avoid them. He lengthened his stride.

It was due to Morgana. His rakish interest in her was growing at an alarming rate. He could barely be in her company without exceeding the bounds of civility. Like kissing her as though he meant it. He had meant it, that was the rub—damn Penny for that little stunt. He wanted to dance with her again, not as he had at Almack’s but as he’d danced with her in her parlour. He wanted to feel her body next to his.

This was hardly the way to think when he ought to be heading to Lady Hannah’s to ask for her hand in marriage. Hannah would make a creditable wife. He had faith she would develop into a successful hostess and a pleasing bed partner. As Heronvale said, she would be an asset to any man with political plans.

So why did the idea of even spending a whole evening in her presence at Vauxhall make him want to head back to a smuggling den?

Sloane might have begged off, sent a note around that urgent business prevented him from keeping the Vauxhall engagement. Only one reason prevented him. He longed to see what Morgana thought of the place.

He shook his head in dismay at this thought, and crossed the street. A carriage, his father’s crest on its side, rolled past him and came to a rather abrupt stop.

His father leaned out the window. ‘Cyprian! I desire to speak with you. Get in, if you please.’

Sloane did not please. ‘You may say what you will through the window, sir.’

The Earl of Dorton glared at him. ‘I will not mince words, boy. I have come from Heronvale. The man wants to put your name forward for the Commons. Unheard of, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.’

Sloane gave him an unconcerned shrug. ‘Then you need worry no further.’

His father sneered. ‘I told Heronvale where you came from, boy. He knows it all.’

A muscle twitched in Sloane’s cheek. His conception had always been a matter of conjecture in whispered conversations among the ton. Sloane always trusted his father’s inflated pride to prevent him from confirming such rumours. Apparently the Earl’s hatred of Sloane exceeded even that.

Sloane let his father’s dagger plunge into his gut and twist, and then he mentally pulled it away, telling himself it did not matter. Heronvale must spurn him now. There would be no seat in parliament. It did not matter. Sloane still had wealth and that alone would give him power enough to plague his father to the end of the man’s days.

Sloane leaned into the carriage. Giving his father a direct look, he lifted the corners of his mouth in the sardonic grin that always made the man hopping mad. ‘Dash it,’ he said with thick sarcasm. ‘My political career is ruined.’ He spun around and walked away.

‘Stay!’ the Earl ordered. ‘Stay. I command you!’

Sloane continued on his way, but to his dismay the carriage caught up to him. As he walked, his father shouted from the window, ‘And another thing! You’ll not marry that Cowdlin chit. I’ll see you do not.’ The Earl’s face turned an alarming shade of red. ‘I will ruin you first. I swear I will. I’ll send you back to the sewers or wherever you came by your ill-gotten wealth—’

Sloane stopped and the carriage continued on its way. He could hear his father pounding on the roof and shouting to the coachman to stop, but by the time the man did, Sloane had headed off in the other direction.

His destination was even more aimless than before. His cheeks flamed and he felt as sick to his stomach as if he’d again been nine years old. The streets had not been crowded and there was no indication that anyone had heeded the exchange, but Sloane felt as if he’d been laid bare in front of everyone.

By God, he’d thought he’d mastered this long ago, the humiliation of being pulled to pieces by the Earl in front of relatives, servants, schoolmasters—anyone. He’d perfected the appearance of not giving a deuce what his father said, or he once had. Why now? Why did his father’s words wound him now? Because the Earl had spoken to Heronvale about his mother?

A memory of her flashed though his mind. A fragment, all he had left of her. A pretty lady, smiling at him, laughing, bouncing him on her lap and kissing his cheeks. He had no idea if the memory was truly of his mother, but many a childhood night he’d forced himself to believe so.

* * *

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

Elliot, efficient as usual, had made the arrangements for Vauxhall, engaging a supper box for the Cowdlin party and ordering the refreshments.

Elliot also had Sloane’s dinner waiting for him. Afterwards his valet helped him dress for the evening, until all he need do was wait for the Cowdlin carriage.

He paced the Aubusson carpet of his drawing room, his footsteps so muffled by its nap he could hear the ticking of the mantel clock. His father’s voice kept ringing in his head. To mask it, he started to hum a tune.

Come live with me and be my love…

His butler announced that the carriage had arrived, and Sloane gathered his hat and gloves. The night was warm, a harbinger of summer nights to come.

He walked up to the carriage and greeted Lord and Lady Cowdlin and Hannah through its open window. ‘Would you like me to collect Miss Hart?’

‘She is not coming,’ said Lady Hannah.

Her mother added, ‘She sent a note today, begging off.’

Sloane frowned as he climbed in, suddenly dreading the long night ahead. ‘She is not ill, I hope?’

‘Not at all,’ Lady Cowdlin assured him.

He worried that something had happened with the courtesan school, while he was wandering the streets of Mayfair feeling sorry for himself. He frowned.

Hannah, who was in very high spirits, did not notice. She could barely sit still. ‘Poor Morgana!’ she said. ‘I hope she did not feel she would be out of place among my friends. Indeed, she has little to say to them. You have been kind to engage her, Mr Sloane.’

‘I find Miss Hart’s company quite pleasant,’ he said, tersely, offended at her characterisation of Morgana.

Hannah responded with a knowing expression, as if she understood he was merely being civil. Sloane gave it up. To say anything else might arouse suspicions that more went on than the Cowdlins should ever know about Morgana.

Hannah’s giddiness wore very thin by the time the carriage rolled over the new Vauxhall bridge.

‘I do wish we were to arrive by boat. It would be vastly more romantic,’ sighed Hannah.

‘Not good for my gout,’ grumbled her father.

Hannah continued to prattle on about everything being ‘exciting’ or ‘marvellous’ and how she could not wait to tell Athenia Poltrop this or that. She barely took heed of the spectacle that greeted them when they crossed through the garden’s entrance.

Thousands of lamps were strung throughout the tall elms and bushes, like stars come down to earth. Arches and colonnades and porticos made it appear as if ancient Greece had come alive in the stars, though the music of the orchestra sounded modern in their ears.

Sloane had always liked the fantasy that was Vauxhall. Nothing was as it seemed here, illusion was its only reality. Here a man could wear a mask and even the glittering lamps could not reveal whether he be a duke or the duke’s coachman. Here rogues and pickpockets shared the walks with frolicking vicars and extravagant nabobs. Indeed, a lady might walk by her maid without knowing her. She might dance next to her footman or the man who delivered coal to her Mayfair townhouse. It was impossible to feel one did not belong in this place.

But Hannah hurried them down the Grand Walk, past the Prince’s Pavilion and the theatre, past the colonnade, heading for the circle of supper boxes near the fountain.

Sloane wondered if Morgana would have rushed down the Grand Walk so quickly. Or would she have become distracted by the sights and all the people? Would she have tried to guess who the people were and to what sort of life they would return when the night was over?

‘I declare, this place is filled with riff-raff,’ Lady Cowdlin sniffed, apparently as oblivious to the splendour as her daughter.

‘Pay them no mind, dear,’ Lord Cowdlin advised. His lordship, however, paid particular mind to a group of women as pretty as flowers, all masked and escorted by two gentlemen. Sloane suspected Cowdlin would search out this very group as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The supper box Elliot had arranged for them was in a spot with a view of the fountain, its water sparkling like tiny gold coins in the park’s illumination. The music from the orchestra rose and fell, carried in and out on the wind.

Lord and Lady Poltrop were already seated in the box, sipping some of the good vintage wine Sloane—or rather Elliot—had ordered for the occasion. Athenia jumped up when she saw Hannah, and the two young ladies embraced each other as if it had been an age since they’d been together when it had probably been as recent as that very afternoon.

‘No one else has arrived,’Athenia said to Hannah. ‘Indeed, I feared to be the only one here. Can you think how humiliating? Your brother will come, will he not?’

‘I wonder if he and the others were directed to the wrong box.’ Hannah looked about her with a worried expression. She reached out a hand towards Sloane. ‘Mr Sloane, do take us to search for the others! Perhaps they are on the other side. Oh, do take us.’

Lord Cowdlin was too busy whispering something to Poltrop to take heed of Hannah’s request, but Lady Cowdlin magnanimously gave her permission. ‘Do not venture into the Dark Walk, however,’ she warned in a jocular voice.

As if Sloane would be so foolish as to take two silly girls into an area of the park more suited to the sort of rakish behaviour he had forsworn. He’d rather they quickly discover the missing members of their party so he could get some relief from the chatter.

The two young ladies walked arm in arm, keeping up an intense conversation and paying Sloane little mind. He walked a step behind them, close enough to prevent any mischief befalling them. They circled the area where men and women danced beneath the musicians’balcony. Though both girls craned their necks to search the crowd, they spent as much time whispering to each other. Sloane, out of a desperate need for respite from their company, looked around for Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends, the ones who surrounded her at every society function.

He did not see them, but he spied the colourful group of ladies Lord Cowdlin had so admired. Not surprisingly, they had seated themselves in a box where they could be easily noticed.

He guided Hannah and Athenia past them, but one of the prettily dressed females cried, ‘Well, now. Aren’t you the handsome gent.’

Another giggled, but a third said a sharp, ‘Hush.’

Sloane whirled around, but other strollers obscured his view. Lady Hannah and her friend kept walking, and Sloane had to push his way through the crowd to catch up to them.

He looked over his shoulder again and a gap in the crowd afforded him a good look at the group.

One of the young ladies was raven-haired, another a redhead, the others golden-haired and mousy brown. But it was not these his eyes were riveted upon. It was the tall, dark-haired woman who stood in the midst of them.

Morgana.

Chapter Twelve

How could he have not instantly known them at first glance? Before the crowd closed the gap again, he’d even recognised Penny and Miss Moore. He’d bet one of the gentlemen with them was Penny’s favourite inamorato, that idiot Duprey. The identity of the other gentleman put a worried crease between his eyes. Few of Penny’s masculine acquaintances would be men Sloane thought fit for Morgana’s company.

He put his hand on Hannah’s elbow. ‘Ladies, let us go back to the supper box. Your friends may have arrived in our absence.’

‘Oh, let us do that,’ Hannah replied enthusiastically.

They all walked at a brisker pace: Hannah, to find her friends; Sloane, to find a way to get back to Morgana.

Several young people could be seen in the supper box. Hannah and Athenia broke away and hurried to greet them. Hannah’s brother Varney saw them, rushing forward to escort them into the box.

Sloane’s nephew appeared to be the only one to notice Sloane’s arrival. ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said. ‘Is this not a beautiful night for the Gardens?’

Sloane agreed that it was, but could say little more, because the supper arrived and soon everyone was piling plates full of paper-thin slices of ham and tiny chickens. A fruit girl filled dishes with fresh strawberries and cherries, and a sideboard offered a selection of wines and arrack, the heady punch always served at Vauxhall. His nephew dipped into the arrack more than once.

Soon a bell signalled the start of Madame Saqui’s daring rope dancing, and the young people poured out of the box in a hurry not to miss a moment of it. Lady Cowdlin and Lady Poltrop begged off, assuring Sloane they would be very comfortable in the supper box with each other for company and certain their husbands would return at any moment.

Sloane did not follow the young people to view Saqui’s performance, but rather strode across to the South Walk’s supper boxes to find Morgana.

Penny and Miss Moore were the only ones of the party seated in the box. Sloane’s eyes narrowed. Sir Reginald, one of Penny’s gaming-hell regulars, was there as well, not exactly the sort of company Morgana should keep.

She and the girls were likely watching Madame Saqui. Sloane threaded through the crowd exactly like the pickpockets were doing. He looked for Morgana, finally finding her, standing with Rose at the edge of the crowd, chatting with a grey-haired man. Just as he’d feared, they had attracted an admirer.

He pushed his way through.

‘Morgana!’ he cried, seizing her arm.

Morgana jumped, pulling away, before she realised the man who had accosted her was Sloane. She felt flushed with excitement to see him, even though she had not wished him to know they were there. Vexed at Katy for her impudent gibe as he passed them, Morgana saw the precise moment he’d recognised them. She should have realised he would come after her.

‘You have found us.’ She gave a defiant toss of her head. ‘I am going to box Katy’s ears.’

‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ he said in a fierce whisper as he squeezed her arm.

She pointedly stared at the hand grasping her. ‘I am watching Madame Saqui,’ she said in patient tones. ‘And I do wish you would not always come rushing up to me, screeching my name.’

He released her.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he muttered.

She turned back to the spectacle, but her heart beat wildly, not at Madame Saqui’s daring exploits, but that she could be in this magical place with Sloane even for a few minutes. Perhaps for the time being she could pretend he was her beau, pretend he was not about to scold her again.

Madame Saqui faltered on the rope and teetered for several seconds before regaining her balance. The crowd gasped a collective ‘Ohhh!’ Perhaps Madame experienced the same sensation Morgana felt, as if she could tumble through the air.

Morgana had forgotten Rose was by her side until the girl touched Sloane’s sleeve. ‘Mr Sloane, may I introduce my father to you?’

‘Of course.’ He sounded as surprised as Morgana had been.

‘Mr Brian O’Keefe, one of the musicians here.’

Morgana had nearly fallen to the ground when the man came up to Rose. She’d made the girls promise they would not engage in any liaisons this first outing. Morgana had been about to send the man packing when Rose told her who he was.

Sloane shook the man’s hand. ‘Indeed?’

Madame Saqui was joined by her husband and son and the crowd applauded with approval. Morgana was more interested in watching how easily Sloane conversed with the musician, as at ease as if he were talking with a gentleman at Almack’s. It was a quality she greatly admired in him.

Rose and her father stepped away to watch the rest of the performance, and Sloane leaned in to whisper in Morgana’s ear, ‘What possessed you to bring those girls here? Do you not know what happens in this place? You are noticed, believe me. You look like a group of harlots.’

She knew this scold was forthcoming. ‘We are a group of harlots,’ she replied, her voice unapologetic. He must reconcile himself to the life they were training these young women to lead. So must she. ‘Madame Bisou said some practice would be beneficial.’

The performance ended to another burst of applause and cheers and the crowd began to disperse.

Rose came up to her again. ‘May I spend some more time with my father, Miss Hart? He will bring me back to the box.’

‘I think that would be very nice for you.’ Morgana smiled. She watched Mr O’Brien escort his daughter to the two-storey gazebo, from where the orchestra played high above the crowd. ‘Rose’s father. Imagine that.’

‘Gainfully employed, as well,’ Sloane added. ‘What the devil is she doing in your courtesan school?’

His scold seemed to be over, and he seemed more her friend again. It made her want to dance the night away with him.

‘I was wondering the very same thing.’ She took a breath to steady herself. ‘I should go back to the supper box.’

He took her arm more cordially than before. ‘That puts me of a mind to tell you that the gentleman cosying up to Penny is no man you should know.’

That puffy man with the exaggerated manners? Morgana could see no harm in him. She gave Sloane a saucy glance. ‘Oh, is he scandalous? As scandalous as you?’

He dipped down to her ear. ‘You have no idea how scandalous I can be.’ His voice was low and his breath on her skin warm.

She swallowed.

They passed under the arch near the supper box. Mary rushed up to them, Robert Duprey at her side. ‘Miss Hart! Miss Hart!’

Morgana was about to beg her to stop calling out her name, when Mary cried, ‘Lucy has run off!’

‘What?’ Morgana stopped.

Mary saw Sloane and gave a quick curtsy. ‘Good evening, sir.’

Duprey nodded. ‘Oddest thing. Standing happy as you please. Calls out, “He’s here!”, then takes off.’

Mary added, ‘Mr Elliot ran after her, but we thought we should find you right away. Or at least that is the advice Mr Duprey gave, which I thought was excellent.’

‘Elliot?’ exclaimed Sloane. ‘What the devil is he doing here?’

Morgana held up her hand to silence him. ‘Where did she go?’

‘Ran down the Dark Walk. Worst place. Dangerous,’ Duprey responded.

Lucy had been doing so well. She’d even seemed happy sometimes, blossoming, like her garden. Morgana could not bear it if someone had frightened her.

She turned to Sloane. ‘Will you take me to look for them? I dare not go alone.’

Sloane hesitated only a moment. ‘Come along.’

The Dark Walk was not totally without light, but the lamps were fewer and dark alcoves and small private rooms were dotted along the path. Some sounds of revelry could be heard from the shadows, and Morgana was glad Sloane was at her side.

‘I wonder if she saw the man from Hyde Park,’ Morgana said. ‘I cannot think anyone else would frighten her so. She wore a mask, for goodness’ sake. He would not have known her.’

‘I recognised you,’ Sloane reminded her.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But only after Katy made her silly comment.’

He stopped her for a moment and made her face him. ‘Morgana, when will you realise that you cannot truly hide behind a mask or a hat with netting? If you are where you should not be, it is always possible for someone to discover it.’

She averted her eyes. She knew he spoke the truth. She had come to accept the likelihood of ruining herself over the courtesan school.

He took her chin in his fingers and turned her face back to his. ‘You greatly risk your reputation with activities such as this. Already your name has been called out.’

‘By you, as well,’ she protested.

He nodded, but it only brought his face closer. ‘I am sorry for it,’ he murmured, his voice as soft as the orchestra’s music drifting in from the distance. ‘Forgive me.’

She lifted her face to his, remembering how easy it had been to stretch just a little farther and taste his lips.

The sound of giggles reached them, and Sloane pulled her aside so that they were shuttered by the bushes. A young couple walked by laughing and kissing. Morgana was shocked to see the lady was Athenia Poltrop and her companion Morgana’s cousin Varney.

Sloane recognised them as well. ‘Well, at least now I know what she and Hannah were whispering about.’

Recalling Hannah always returned Morgana to her senses. ‘You must need to return to your party.’

He wrapped his arm around her back and squeezed her against his side. ‘Let us find Lucy first.’

They walked all the way to the hermitage before they found her. Lucy, racked with sobs, sat on a bench with Mr Elliot holding and rocking her.

‘Lucy.’ Morgana wanted to rush to her, but Mr Elliot shook his head. ‘What is it, Mr Elliot? What has happened to her? Has someone hurt her?’

She felt Sloane stiffen beside her, felt him as ready as she to fly to Lucy’s defence.

Elliot’s expression was pained. He turned to Lucy. ‘Shall I tell them?’

Lucy gave them a miserable glance and nodded to Elliot, who did not release her from the circle of his arms.

‘She’s been hurt, all right, but it was a long time ago…’

In his precise, methodical voice, Elliot explained what Lucy had shared with him a little at a time in their quiet talks together pulling weeds and planting seeds. Lucy had been seduced at the shocking age of fourteen. The man next door, a family friend, seduced her and gave her to think it was her fault, that she’d been the one to entice him. The man found time for her often, Elliot went on, and Lucy in her naïveté came to believe it meant he loved her. He gave her money and other presents.

‘But right before you hired her, Miss Hart, something else happened.’ Lucy buried her face against Elliot’s chest. ‘This man took her to a place with two other men. They all had their way with her, and the men paid her for it. A few days later, the man took her to be with other men. She protested this time and he laughed at her, telling her to simply enjoy herself. He told her she was nothing but a common harlot. So Lucy believed that was what she must be.’

‘Oh, Lucy!’ Morgana felt tears sting her eyes. She knelt beside the girl, who fell into her arms. ‘How very awful for you.’

‘I was startin’ to think maybe I wasn’t all bad.’ Lucy managed between shuddering sobs. ‘Your lessons—Madame Bisou’s and Miss Moore’s—you tell us all the time that we are worth somethin’ no matter what, that we deserve nice things. I was startin’ to believe it, but I saw him, and I remembered…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Who was it?’ Sloane’s voice cut through the night like sharpened steel.

Lucy looked up at him, and her sobbing stopped. ‘His name is Mr Castle. He has the button shop next to my father’s hosiery.’

‘Where?’ Sloane said in the same honed voice.

‘Cheapside,’ she answered. ‘Milk Street.’

He nodded, still thin-lipped.

Morgana rose to her feet, her eyes on Sloane, sensing the danger rising in him. It filled her with dread.

Elliot spoke up. ‘I’ll bring her back in a bit, when she’s a little calmer.’ He gave Morgana a direct gaze. ‘You can trust her to me.’

Morgana had no doubt she could. Lucy was in very good hands indeed. ‘Well, we shall go then. I’ll tell the others she was scared for a moment, but you talked her out of it, reminding her of the mask.’

He nodded agreement.

As soon as she and Sloane were out of earshot, Morgana asked, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do?’ He stared straight ahead, but his voice still held that timbre of violence.

‘About the man who molested Lucy.’

He did not answer.

‘Are you going to kill him?’

He met her eye. ‘You think me capable of such a thing?’

She did not look away. ‘Yes.’ She could easily imagine him able to kill a man.

His eyes narrowed. ‘It does not shock you?’

‘No.’ A wild part of her wanted to kill the man herself for the wrong he’d done to Lucy. She dared not examine that part too closely. ‘Will you do it?’ Her voice came out all breathless.

He stared at her a long time ‘No.’ He took her arm suddenly and said, ‘Come with me.’

Instead of returning her to the supper box, he led her to one of the small restaurants along the colonnade, selecting a small table in the corner where they were relatively private. He ordered them both a glass of wine. She felt unreasonably happy to be in his company.

‘I must speak with you, Morgana.’ Sloane’s tone of voice did not mirror Morgana’s gaiety, however. ‘Does this not prove to you the dangerousness of this escapade? Suppose that man had recognised Lucy? What might have happened then?’

She avoided his eyes. ‘But he did not see her, any more than Miss Poltrop or Varney saw us.’

He waved aside her comment. ‘What if I had not been with you? Would you have run down the Dark Walk yourself, searching for Lucy?’

The server brought the wine and Morgana waited until the man left. ‘I would have made Mary and Mr Duprey come with me.’

‘No, you would not. You would have gone by yourself. You are reckless, Morgana.’ He took a sip of wine before saying more. ‘You do not perceive how easily one’s reputation can be ruined. This business of yours already risks too much.’

She flashed her eyes. ‘It is too late to scold me for this! It is done and I will not fail those girls now.’ Morgana fought a wave of nausea. Was teaching Lucy, Katy, Rose and Mary to pander themselves so different than that man pandering Lucy?

‘Give it up,’ Sloane commanded.

She gazed at him, hoping he could not see the pain in her eyes. ‘How can I?’

He did not answer but looked away, drinking his wine. Morgana felt the bitter sting of failure, the loss of his friendship, the shattering of her secret dreams. The only thing worse would be for him to realise that she herself knew how thoroughly she’d mismanaged everything.

She placed her glass on the table and made herself look defiant. ‘Do you know that I envy them? I envy those girls. They will not be constrained by conventional behaviour. They will be able to do as they wish!’

She captured his attention, because his eyes flashed at her. ‘They will have constraints of a different kind.’

She secretly agreed, but could not stop herself from going on. ‘You are one to talk, Sloane. You have known the freedom of doing whatever you wish. My cousin Varney told me of it. It seems to me your choice to re-enter society is more mystifying than my desire to break its chains.’

A muscle in his cheek flexed. ‘Being on the outside is not necessarily being free, Morgana.’

She took another sip of her wine, her brief effort at defiance merely leading her to inadvertently wound him. Her misery returned.

He plucked another sensitive nerve. ‘Do you not wish to be married, Morgana?’

She gave him a pained expression. ‘Do you?’

He averted his gaze. ‘I do. It is a respectable thing to do.’

With effort, she refrained from rolling her eyes. Though he would not look at her, she stared at him, deciding to answer his question truthfully.

‘I have long accepted that no man would want a woman such as me. And I dare say I would chafe at the binds a husband would place on me.’ His eyes darted back to her. ‘But what I cannot understand is why anyone would give up their freedom so readily. I fail to see why respectability has such value to you.’

He reached over and took her hand, the tenderness in the gesture startling her. ‘It is because I have been on the other side. It is why I worry for you, Morgana.’

Nothing was resolved between them, not really, but the warmth in his expression was enough to push her misery aside. She smiled at him. ‘Oh, let us not quarrel, Sloane! Not in this place. The night is so fine.’

The music from the orchestra sounded in her ears, mixing with shouts of revelry. The lights twinkled and the scent of food, spirits, and people filled the air. The orchestra began a new tune and a high, crystalline voice carried in the crisp night air:

Stay not till I learn the way;

How to fib and how betray,

E’er I can my thoughts disguise.

‘Listen,’ Morgana cried.

The voice went on.

Force a blush or roll my eyes.

Take me, take me, some of you,

While I yet am young and true.

‘It is Rose!’ She jumped up from the chair, still holding his hand. ‘Hurry.’

They pushed their way through to where the orchestra played. Rose, without her mask, stood in front of the musicians, as if she had been their featured songstress. Her voice carried in the air distinct, sweet and sultry at turns.

Could I find a blooming youth,

Full of love and full of truth,

Of honest mind and noble mien.

‘Is she not lovely!’ Morgana felt a surge of pride, as if she had created this beautiful creature whose wonderful voice cast its spell over the now quiet crowd.

‘You did not know she would do this?’ Sloane did not sound as pleased as she.

‘No, indeed.’ She smiled.

Take me, take me, some of you,

While I yet am young and true.

Rose finished the last refrain, and the audience burst into applause and cheers.

Morgana clapped as enthusiastically as the rest. ‘Well done!’

Sloane muttered, ‘She selected the right song.’

Morgana’s smile faded at his grim expression. ‘Can you not enjoy it, Sloane? What a lovely moment for her!’

‘She places you in jeopardy, Morgana. If you are associated with her, questions will be asked.’

The orchestra started playing a waltz, and several couples in the crowd started to dance.

Morgana glanced around her, savouring the gaiety. ‘Oh, do not be cross any more, Sloane.’ She gazed up at him and her voice turned low. ‘Dance with me.’

His eyes held hers for a moment, then he suddenly gathered her to him and swung her into the dance. The lamps above them blurred as they whirled round and round, and Morgana felt as if she were indeed soaring in the stars, with Sloane’s arms around her. His chiselled features softened as he gazed down at her. He held her as close as he had when they’d danced in her parlour. Morgana thought she knew how heaven might feel.

The orchestra segued from the waltz into a more rousing, lively piece, and the dancing became more boisterous. Sloane guided Morgana away from the carousing. They were about to enter the path when they saw Katy walking with two gentlemen, one on each arm.

‘What is she up to?’ Morgana said with irritation.

Katy came closer, and Sloane pulled Morgana halfway into the bushes, hiding them both by putting his arms around her.

‘You see her companions?’ he whispered.

Katy was flanked by none other than Morgana’s uncle and Lord Poltrop. Like Rose, she had shed her mask. Even worse, she was gaily allowing the gentlemen to place their hands upon her, one of them squeezing her derrière.

Sloane held Morgana out of view as they passed…

‘She promised.’ she began, but, when she lifted her head, he was so close, she forgot what she was about to say.

He did not release her, and her arms had nowhere to go but around his neck. His eyes darkened, and he pressed her against him so firmly she could feel his arousal from beneath his clothing. From Madame Bisou’s lessons, she knew what it was—and what it meant. Sparks of pleasure glittered through her like the lamps strung through the trees. She laughed and pulled his head down to her eager lips.

His hand slid down to her hips and ground her against him. His tongue played in her mouth. She met his kiss eagerly, daring to let her tongue frolic with his, feeling her whole body come alive with need. His lips slid to her neck and she heard herself whimper at the ache of pleasure created as he tasted her tender skin. His hand moved to her breast and Morgana covered it with her own, urging him to not move it away, but to fondle her more.

‘Sloane,’ she moaned, her voice husky. It started to make sense to her, all of Madame Bisou’s lessons. She wanted more of him, could imagine the sensation of feeling his bare skin against hers, of feeling his hands upon her. This was desire, she realised, and it frightened as much as it thrilled her. How easy it would be to become carried away, to allow him to lead her down the Dark Walk with him.

Still, she did not wish him to stop. She found his lips and tasted him again. She pressed herself against him, unable to stop herself, unable to allow this moment to end.

He broke away. ‘This is madness.’ He held her at arm’s length, panting, every fibre of his being on fire for her. By damn, he wanted to make love to her, wanted to discover how that depth of emotion that swung her from weeping for Lucy to cheering for Rose, that passion would play out in bed. The same recklessness he chided her for, he’d been willing to exploit. And her enthusiastic response showed him she wanted him to be the rake, not the reputable gentleman.

‘That was not well done, Morgana,’ he said.

She looked at him with a puzzled and wounded expression.

He had to impress upon her, convince her that this path she was bent upon would only bring her pain and eventual loneliness. If she did not exercise some restraint, how could he? ‘Were you practising Bisou’s lessons, Morgana? Practising at being the harlot?’

Even in the dim light, he saw the shock in her eyes. She swung her hand back to strike him, but he caught her wrist before her palm connected to his face. ‘You are making a spectacle. Someone will see.’

Under her mask, her eyes blazed. ‘What will they see? They will see the very reputable Mr Sloane cavorting with a harlot. Take care, Sloane. Your hard-won respectability may be ruined by me.’

‘Indeed it may.’ He still gripped her wrist and held her so close he could feel the angry rise of her breast against his chest. ‘You are not acting the lady, Morgana.’

Her arm flexed again, but the movement only rammed her full against him. ‘You are not acting the gentleman.’

Her words struck the blow her hand had missed.

She hissed, ‘Perhaps you ought to return to your very silly, respectable Lady Hannah. A gentleman would not keep her waiting.’

Hannah? He had forgotten about her while he held Morgana in his arms. Even now, while they exchanged angry words, his body came alive with the feel of her. He wished more than anything to be the rake he once had been.

He pushed her away before he could kiss her again and act on that nearly irresistible impulse.

‘I will return to her.’ He spoke more to himself than to Morgana, trying to convince himself that he wished to return to the task of acting the host.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was so low he could almost not hear her. ‘Of course you will return to her.’

Before he could speak another word, she spun around and ran to her supper box, skirts flying. She did not look back.

Sloane followed, sickened by his own behaviour, but more by his words. He’d blamed her for that kiss, for his own arousal, for his own desire to risk her ruin in the gardens at Vauxhall.

He watched to see that she reached the box without mishap. Katy had returned and was now busily flirting with Sir Reginald. Lucy, Elliot, Mary and Duprey were there as well. He wanted to order Morgana to take them all home now, before something worse happened. But, damn him, even more, he ached to grab her hand and run with her down the Dark Walk.

Some gentleman he was. If anyone cared to examine him in the light of day, they could undoubtedly see he was as shabby as Vauxhall’s plaster columns and painted walls.

He quickly backed away before the others of Morgana’s party saw him. He made his way through the revellers to the other side of the park, and slipped into his own party’s supper box. After him came Hannah and David, the other young people good-naturedly teasing them about being together. Cowdlin and Poltrop now sat with their wives in domestic harmony, and behind their backs Athenia held hands with Varney. Hannah looked unusually subdued. David fetched her a glass of wine and returned to fill his own glass with some more of the arrack punch.

Sloane joined him.

‘Have you missed us, Uncle?’ David asked, slurring his words. The young man must have dipped into more than his share of the arrack.

‘I confess I wondered where everyone went off to,’ Sloane lied.

‘Just looking at the sights,’ said David, his eyes drifting over to Hannah.

Athenia whispered something in Hannah’s ear. Hannah whispered back. Sloane felt relieved of the obligation to join her.

His mind and senses were still filled with Morgana, not the thoughts of a man intent upon offering for a society miss. At the moment, any thought of marrying Hannah was unbearable.

The signal sounded for the illuminations to begin, and everyone in the party hurried out of the box to get a good view. Sloane looked through the crowd and found Morgana, standing with her girls, all looking like the high-flyers they would become. The sight of Morgana roused him all over again. Instead of the illuminations, he watched her, the flashes of light catching her mask. The sparkle and crackle and boom were nothing to the explosions ricocheting inside him.

He’d be damned if he did not find in Morgana a kindred spirit, but one who would cause him to lose the game he’d bid so high to win.

Later that night, after a very subdued Hannah and her dozing parents delivered him back to his town house, Sloane donned dark clothes, grabbed his swordstick and his knife, and slipped back out into the night, bound for Milk Street and the living quarters above the shop of a certain button seller.

As he blended with the night on his way to Cheapside, he formulated his plan, glad he had a target for the pent-up emotion inside him. Murder might be justified, but he would settle for frightening the fellow. He gripped his swordstick tighter as he hurried to avenge the man’s evil deeds.

Sloane knew exactly what would keep the man’s breeches buttoned when the next pretty girl came into view.

Chapter Thirteen

Over the last month of the Season, Morgana saw little of Sloane, though he was often at the same balls and routs she attended. He continued to show some attention to her cousin, but never to her. Worst of all, he no longer slipped through her garden wall to share breakfast or dinner or to assist with Madame Bisou’s lessons.

Mr Elliot, who, like Mr Duprey, visited more frequently than before, disclaimed any knowledge of why Sloane avoided Morgana’s company. He said Sloane spent a great deal of time secluded in his library, adding that Sloane seemed irritable at times, snapping at Elliot but apologising afterwards.

Morgana knew precisely why he avoided her. He thought her no more than a harlot, a threat to his desire to be accepted into the beau monde, to marry her cousin.

Still, she could not help gazing out of windows, hoping to catch sight of him leaving his house, to see his tall figure striding down the road. Her heart ached for missing him.

She realised the loss of his company had been her fault. He had scolded her for her wildness, but then she’d kissed him as wantonly as any harlot might do. He had lost respect for her, and that was painful indeed.

Why could she not have merely employed the pretty flirtations that gave Hannah such success? Hannah, though her manners were lively, never strayed too far from what was proper. Unlike Morgana.

Even Hannah’s spirits had altered lately, her gaiety forced. Morgana could only suppose that Hannah worried that Sloane would not make an offer after all, although she long had been convinced that Hannah loved the idea of marrying a rich man more than the man himself. Indeed, Hannah seemed to prefer David Sloane to his uncle.

Partly to keep her mind off Sloane, Morgana allowed her girls more outings, all of them wearing hats that obscured their faces. They shopped at the Soho bazaar with money Morgana had given them to buy trinkets. They attended a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Daring indeed, because five lovely young ladies together, even though chaperoned by Miss Moore and escorted by Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey, attracted nearly as much attention as the arena’s spectacular feats of horsemanship. Robert Duprey had also taken them each for rides in Hyde Park.

This morning’s breakfast conversation was all about Mr Duprey.

‘I shall never ride with him again,’ Katy said dramatically. ‘He near enough turned the curricle on its side—’

‘Nearly turned the curricle on its side,’ Miss Moore corrected.

Katy stared at her. ‘Nearly turned the curricle—’

‘Do stop!’ cried Mary. ‘I think Mr Duprey is quite good at handling the ribbons. I am sure I never worried for one minute about it.’

‘He is a menace!’ Katy shouted. ‘Rose, you must agree.’

Rose, who was chewing a piece of toasted bread, could not respond right away.

Katy did not pause. ‘He near enough—nearly—ran into some fellow in a phaeton—’

‘A gentleman, dear,’ said Miss Moore. ‘Not a fellow.’

‘I tell you, I nearly got my neck broke.’

Mary sprang to her feet. ‘I will not hear Mr Duprey so maligned. He has been nothing but kindness and generosity and all that is proper.’

‘How proper can he be spendin’ all his days with a pack of dolly mops!’ Katy demanded, a bit too loudly to be ladylike.

Morgana massaged her temples. The headache that roused her before dawn still pained her, and the discussion at hand was not helping. ‘Do not call yourself a dolly mop, Katy. You are better than that.’

Katy laughed. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart. We ain’t nothin’ more than fancy dolly mops.’

Morgana sighed. There was no use arguing with Katy. It would only egg her on and make the headache worse. Finishing her now tepid cup of tea, Morgana bade them good morning as an example of ladylike manners, and went in search of Lucy.

It did not take long to find her. She was in the garden pulling weeds. Mr Elliot stood nearby, chatting with her.

‘Good morning, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said, rising to her feet.

Mr Elliot nodded.

Lucy smiled at Morgana. Either the morning air or a blush had put colour in her cheeks. Or had she and Mr Elliot found a private place to be together?

‘I was just telling Mr Elliot the news my mum sent to Amy and me. Did she tell you of it?’

‘No.’ Amy had lately chattered more about her sister, how she feared for Lucy in her new life, how she wished Lucy would content herself with being a maid and forget this notion of being a courtesan.

Morgana sharedAmy’s sentiments. As the days went on, she dreaded more and more the moment she would have to release them into the life she had created for them. Two months ago Morgana had been convinced that she would be providing them with a better life. Now she feared she would only cause them more unhappiness, like the unhappiness she now felt.

‘What was the news, Lucy? No one is ill, I hope.’

‘Nothing like that, miss.’ Lucy glanced to Elliot, who nodded encouragingly. ‘It is the shop next door to my father’s. The button seller. Do you remember about him?’

Morgana was not likely to ever forget. ‘I remember.’

‘Well, my mum said he moved away. Just up and moved. He’s gone.’

Morgana could barely speak. ‘Indeed.’

‘And I was asking Mr Elliot if he thought it could be Mr Sloane’s doing. Do you think so? Mr Elliot says he does not know, but I think Mr Sloane made him go away. Mr Castle has run the shop for ever and his father before him and now it is empty and he’s gone.’

Morgana felt her senses, so dormant of late, come to life. Of course Sloane had been responsible. Like a secret champion, he’d avenged Lucy. Sloane had driven the man off.

‘It does seem odd,’ Morgana managed.

Lucy and Mr Elliot shared smiles, and Morgana felt a wave of envy. Lucy and Elliot had found a steadfast friendship, perhaps more than a friendship, though Morgana dared not ask. Morgana was happy for her even if, at this moment, it made her own loneliness seem more acute.

A voice sounded from the other side of the garden wall. ‘Elliot, where the devil are you?’

Sloane.

He stepped through the gap in the garden wall and caught sight of Morgana. ‘Oh.’

Elliot sprang to attention. ‘Did you have need of me, sir?’

Sloane looked as if he were about to retreat back to his own property. ‘No, just wondered where you were.’

Morgana remained riveted to the spot, but Lucy skipped over to Sloane.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with meaning in her voice.

He backed up a step. ‘What for?’

She gave him a worshipful look. ‘For whatever you did to Mr Castle, because he is gone and his shop is closed.’

Morgana watched a muscle in Sloane’s cheek flex. He paused before responding. ‘I am glad of it, Lucy. But do not assume I had anything to do with it.’

‘I know you did, sir,’ Lucy seized his hand and kissed it. ‘And I am grateful to you.’

Sloane glanced over to Morgana, but glanced away as quickly.

‘Perhaps Mr Sloane is busy, Lucy.’ Morgana knew Sloane wished to escape her company.

Cripps stepped out of the doorway. ‘Madame Bisou wishes me to inform you that she has brought you a visitor.’ He looked unusually stern. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson.’

‘Harriette?’ barked Sloane, with a searing glare at Morgana. ‘What the devil is she doing here?’

Morgana was every bit as shocked as he. ‘I have no idea.’

Elliot excused himself, saying he must return to his duties, but Sloane followed Morgana and Lucy into the house.

Miss Wilson sat in the front drawing room wearing a stylish white India muslin gown trimmed in blue satin, with embroidered flounces at the hem and neckline. Her cap, complete with blue and white feathers, matched perfectly. Looking at her, one could only conclude that the life of a courtesan was very lucrative indeed. Mary, Katy and Rose sat gaping at her.

Madame Bisou presented Miss Wilson to Morgana. Her introduction ended with, ‘… and you know Cyprian, I believe.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Miss Wilson responded, giving Sloane a frank look of admiration that made Morgana feel faintly ill. ‘But it has been much too long since you have called upon me, sir.’

Sloane’s expression remained stormy. ‘What are you doing here, Harriette?’

‘I insisted Penny bring me to see this courtesan school.’

Sloane shot Penny a scathing glance.

‘Do not look at me that way, Cyprian. I did not tell her of it.’

He turned his glare to Morgana. ‘If Harriette knows, your activities are no longer a secret.’

‘Not everyone knows, Cyprian, my love!’ Harriette chirped. ‘That odious Fortuna Rice offers a great deal of money to discover this place. But she believes some man runs the school.’ Harriette laughed as if such a notion was ridiculous.

Morgana’s breath caught to hear Mrs Rice’s name. She’d not imagined the girls were still in danger from the woman. It had been weeks since they’d left her.

‘Sir Reginald!’ cried Madame Bisou. ‘It must be he who told you, Harriette. He must have pieced the story together after meeting us at Vauxhall.’

Harriette did not deny this. Morgana glanced at Katy. The girl returned a defiant look, and Morgana could imagine Katy prattling on while she practised her wiles at Vauxhall.

Sloane glowered at Morgana, then marched over to her. ‘Morgana, I need a word with you. Excuse us.’ He gripped her arm so that she had little choice but to follow him.

He propelled her into the library and still kept hold of her, holding her so close she could feel the heat from his body. She could also see the fire in his eyes.

‘Let me speak plain, Morgana. If that woman knows of you, in minutes the rest of the world will know. You cannot trust her.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘You must end this now.’

She lifted her chin and stared directly into his face, even though it was only inches away. ‘How do I end it, Sloane? Toss them out? Will that make them safer? Or am I suddenly not to care if Mrs Rice punishes them for leaving her?’

He acted as if he’d not even heard her. ‘You have become too reckless. Taking them to Vauxhall. And even that wasn’t enough for you. You had to take them to Soho and Astley’s. Where were your wits? Have you gone totally mad? You have no notion what you risk.’

Who could have told him such things? She glared at him. ‘I thought Mr Elliot more discreet.’

He huffed. ‘Elliot is the model of discretion. Did you assume he was my only source of information about your doings?’

She had not imagined he cared a fig about her doings since the night at Vauxhall, when he held her much less painfully than he did now.

She addressed him in a haughty tone. ‘Do take your hands off me, Sloane. I do not fancy having bruised arms.’

He released her so quickly she almost fell against him. He caught her again and only stepped back after she regained her balance. She rubbed where his hands had gripped her.

It suddenly felt as if walls were falling in on her, but she could not allow him to realise that. ‘I should like to know your source of information, if it was not Mr Elliot.’

‘Take your pick,’ he shot back. ‘The circle of those who know of you is widening rapidly. The floodgates are open, Morgana. It is time to cut and run.’

‘I have no notion of what that means,’ she snapped.

He glowered at her. ‘It means that your activities are in imminent danger of being revealed—’

‘And my reputation ruined?’ she finished for him. ‘Did I not tell you, Sloane, that I do not care?’

This was a lie. Her ruin and banishment from a society that heretofore had only grudgingly accepted her truly terrified her. Her father would disown her. How could he do otherwise when her shame might reflect on his new wife? The part of her fortune her father did not control was modest. What would happen to her?

She almost laughed. She knew too well what happened to young women with no money and no friends.

‘I care,’ he shouted. ‘I told you from the beginning I would not allow you to bring me down with you. Not after I have worked so hard to earn my good name. I’ll be damned if I allow you to ruin it.’

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Then you must prevent my discovery, must you not?’

He swung away and paced in front of her. ‘It is not only that, Morgana. This is a dangerous business. Deadly dangerous… Your altercation in the park was nothing compared to what could happen. That glove-shop proprietor is nipping at your heels, and, believe me, she will not stop until she is revenged upon you.’

Morgana’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’

He stopped pacing but did not answer right away. He finally turned to her and the look on his face made her shiver. ‘I have my means.’

They stood no more than three feet from each other, staring like two cats daring the other to pounce. The pause merely reminded Morgana of the weight of the responsibility she carried on her shoulders. She ought to have figured out another way to help the girls. She ought to have protected them all instead of bringing danger and ruin.

But she must not weaken now. She straightened her spine and gave Sloane a steady look. ‘I will see this through to the end, Sloane. I have no other choice.’

His angry expression changed to one more vulnerable, until he covered that over with no expression at all. It was like a cleaver chopping her in two. To save the girls she risked ruining him. And he had wanted nothing more than a good name.

He gave her a curt nod and, without another word, turned away from her and walked out the door.

Morgana dropped her face into her hands, giving in to the grief of knowing how she had wounded him. She could no longer pretend she did not love him. Even if she did not count the physical desires he aroused in her, she loved the man. Loved his strength. Loved the rakish side of him that mocked the very world for which he pined. She could weep for the pain of his family’s rejection and for his longing for friends such as the Marquess of Heronvale. She knew that sort of loneliness.

The agony was, she had put all he desired at risk. His association with her, the mere fact of living next to her, would most probably be his ruin.

Laughter came from the drawing room. She raised her head and squared her shoulders. She must make certain her plans succeeded, no matter how abhorrent they had become to her. She must successfully launch her girls into the world of the demi-rep and hope that they found protectors and ultimate wealth. She would lose them, too, as she’d lost Sloane.

Morgana set her chin. She still must deal with Harriette Wilson.

She returned to the drawing room, where Miss Wilson had the group enthralled.

‘First, always value yourselves very highly—’

‘That is what Miss Hart says, as well,’ Katy broke in.

‘And you must always remember that you choose the gentleman; the gentleman does not choose you…’

Madame Bisou saw Morgana enter and hurried over to her. ‘Miss Hart, Harriette has thought of the very thing to launch the girls. It is a splendid opportunity!’

Harriette interrupted her lecture. ‘It is indeed. Tomorrow night there is to be a masquerade ball at the Argyle Rooms to mark the end of the Season. It promises to be very merry. Your girls will attend. It will be the perfect place to show them off and tantalise potential clientele.’

‘Is it not brilliant?’ cried Madame Bisou.

Katy looked at Morgana as if daring her to refuse. Mary glanced around with frightened eyes. Lucy sat thin-lipped with resignation, and Rose, who was silently fingering the keys of the pianoforte, gave no indication of having heard the discussion at all.

‘I am not certain—’ Morgana began.

Madame Bisou cut her off again. ‘It is time, Miss Hart.’

She sounded so much like Sloane, Morgana thought she would laugh—or weep. As much as Morgana wanted to clutch them all to her bosom and never let them go, this provided her the best chance of making matters right for Sloane. She had no better alternative.

Perhaps they could all move to the country in a little cottage or something of which her father would approve. If she withdrew from society before the scandal hit—

No. What sort of life would that offer them all? The sheer boredom of it would drive Morgana mad, if not the rest of them with her. Except perhaps for Mary. She could offer Mary a chance not to be a courtesan.

‘Well, Morgana?’ asked Miss Moore. She seemed to be as excited about the prospect as Katy.

A masquerade? It seemed a safe enough place to begin. Like at Vauxhall, they could hide behind masks. No one need know who they were, unless they desired it.

‘We will attend.’ Morgana would go with them, she resolved. She would look out for them one last time.

After leaving Morgana’s house in a towering rage, Sloane paused in his hall long enough to pick up his hat, gloves and swordstick before rushing out again. Elliot, who’d heard his noisy entry, had dared try to ask him a question. Sloane had bellowed, ‘I am going out!’

He knew precisely where he was bound.

If Morgana would not end this foolishness, he must do his best to keep the leaking information from engulfing her. He had not needed Harriette Wilson to tell him that Mrs Rice was becoming more and more obsessed about discovering the courtesan school. He knew it from his own surveillance.

There was one leak he could plug and plug it he would.

Sloane strode off to Fenton’s Hotel, where he asked to be announced to Sir Reginald.

When Sloane was admitted into Sir Reginald’s rooms, the older man was still dressed in his dressing gown, although it was nearly noon. Sir Reginald put down the copy of the Morning Post that he’d held in his hand.

‘Good morning, Sloane.’ Sir Reginald gave a cordial smile and gestured for him to sit. ‘A bit early, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Sloane sat and a servant appeared to pour tea. He waited until the servant scurried away into another room. ‘I’ll not mince words.’ He leaned towards the older man, who was just about to take a swallow. ‘You told Harriette Wilson about the courtesan school, did you not?’

Sir Reginald gulped and went into a spasm of coughing before replying. ‘I—I suppose I did. Saw her the other day at Covent Garden—some play or some such. Don’t rightly recall…’

Sloane gave Sir Reginald a menacing look. ‘No one must know of this. No one, do you understand?’

Sir Reginald gave a snort. ‘Cannot see why not. Capital idea, training young women. Imagine a lady doing so!’

‘What do you know of the lady?’ Sloane demanded.

The man sputtered. ‘A Miss Hart—’

Sloane seized him by the front of the robe and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You are never to speak her name to anyone.’

Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’

‘Your word on it,’ Sloane demanded, shaking him.

Sir Reginald stuttered. ‘I… I… I give my word.’

Sloane released him and Sir Reginald landed back in his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d run the full length of Hyde Park.

Sloane rose from his chair.

Sir Reginald cowered as Sloane advanced on him one more time. ‘I shall take my leave. But, mind this, if you loose your tongue again, I will discover it. You will not wish to see what I will do to you.’

Sir Reginald nodded so vigorously the loose skin on his neck shook.

Sloane strode out of the room.

When the door shut behind him, Sir Reginald reached for his tea, the cup clattering in its saucer from his shaking hands.

His manservant crept out from behind the bedchamber door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’

‘No, of course I am not injured,’ Sir Reginald snapped.

‘What a terrifying man!’ His servant picked up Sloane’s tea cup.

‘He is indeed,’ agreed Sir Reginald.

As his man tidied the room, Sir Reginald stared at the Morning Post without seeing a word.

All he could hope was that Sloane never found out he had mentioned the courtesan school at the dolly shop where he tarried after leaving Covent Garden. Just in passing, mind. A harmless comment, no names mentioned. Except Madame Bisou’s.

He rubbed his face and lowered his forehead on to the tabletop with a groan.

That evening Madame Bisou walked through the game room of her establishment, checking that the tables were stocked with cards and other necessities.

She sighed and flung herself into a chair. Toying with a stack of counters, she recalled the look upon Robert’s face when he came to call upon Miss Hart and her girls that afternoon after Harriette Wilson had finished her interminable lesson. Robert acted like a besotted suitor. Was she to lose him? He was such a dear… so… so predictable.

She rued the day she brought him to Morgana Hart’s house so the girls could learn how to be with a man, if one could call Robert a man—a boy-man perhaps, a sweet, harmless thing. She supposed he would take his business to that Mary Phipps as soon as she was established. Some thanks that would be.

Cummings entered the room. ‘You have a caller, Madame.’

He always made everything sound like doom. ‘You know we are not open, Cummings.’ She had no wish to see anyone, even if they were open.

‘It is Mrs Rice,’ he intoned. ‘And she insists upon seeing you.’

‘Oh, that odious Fortuna Rice.’ Madame Bisou waved her hand. ‘Have her meet me in the supper room.’

She followed him out of the door and crossed the hall to the supper room, stepping into the back to bring out a bottle of Madeira wine. If she had to endure Fortuna Rice, it would be with liquid spirits.

She sat and downed one glass before the woman entered the room.

‘Come join me, Fortuna,’ she said, pouring two more glasses. ‘Have some wine.’

‘A choice bottle, I hope. You would not be serving me your cheap wine, would you, Penny?’ Mrs Rice sat across from her.

Madame Bisou bristled, but decided to let the catty comment pass. ‘Only the best for us, Fortuna. We have earned it.’

‘Which is why I am here.’

Leave it to Fortuna Rice to waste no time on niceties. ‘I have heard you are involved in a courtesan school. Is that so?’

Madame Bisou delayed answering, covering up the time it took to contrive an answer by taking a long sip of her wine. She decided the best tactic was avoidance. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’

Mrs Rice frowned. ‘I have had two girls stolen from me and a third I was about to bring into the house. I want them back.’

Madame Bisou lifted her brows. ‘Careless of you to lose them, Fortuna. I treat my girls well and they stay of their own accord.’

‘I treat mine well, too,’ snapped Mrs Rice. ‘But I have been ill used and I want them back.’

‘I am certain you do.’ Madame Bisou took another sip.

‘Well, what do you know of it?’

Fortuna Rice was an unpleasant woman, the madam decided, and not too smart to have shown all her cards at once. Penny lounged in her chair. ‘I know nothing of it. I am sure I do not know why you supposed I would.’

‘Sir Reginald let something slip about it. Said you were showing off the girls at Vauxhall last night.’

Madame Bisou made herself laugh with great heartiness. ‘Oh, that is famous! What a buffoon!’ She pretended to wrest control of herself again and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she pulled from between her ample bosoms. ‘I was at Vauxhall with some of my girls, all masked! We told him a story and he believed it.’

Mrs Rice put both her palms flat on the table and glared at her. ‘This is not the first I’ve heard of a courtesan school. It was talked of in one of the pubs as well. It is said a man and a lady run it and they teach the girls to think themselves better than they ought.’

It was fortunate that Madame Bisou had nearly a lifetime of telling whatever she wished others to hear, gentlemen especially. She prided herself on sounding earnest and believable, whatever she said. ‘Why, I have heard the rumours myself, Fortuna. Now Sir Reginald thinks the courtesan school is mine. Is that not fun?’

Mrs Rice swallowed the contents of her glass and stood. ‘I do not believe you, Penny, but I make you a promise. I will find where my girls are and I will take them back and no one—I repeat, no one—will stop me.’

She flounced out of the room.

Madame Bisou poured another glass of wine and again downed it in one long, nervous swallow.

Chapter Fourteen

Morgana stared at the note once again.

Dear Niece,

At my particular request, your neighbour, Mr Sloane, has agreed to escort you to our dinner party tonight. Mr Sloane has been gracious enough to offer the use of his own carriage. Do not neglect to bring your maid with you for propriety’s sake.

Yours, etc. W.C.

She let her hand fall into her lap, wondering if there was still time to pretend a headache and beg off. In truth, her head had been pounding all day, especially after she and Sloane had crossed swords.

Amy entered the drawing room. ‘I have your shawl, Miss Hart. We are quite prepared now.’

Morgana set the note aside on the table and picked up her gloves. ‘I hope this will not be too tedious for you, Amy, since you are obliged to accompany me.’

‘I expect to have a jolly time, miss. My mother’s cousin is housekeeper there, you know, and it will be a treat to visit her.’ Amy carefully draped the shawl, the same deep green silk as Morgana’s evening dress, over her arm.

Morgana pushed her fingers one by one into her glove before smoothing the rest of the white kid up to her elbow. ‘Remember, not a word about the courtesan school, and do not let slip that you have been helping fashion costumes for the masquerade.’

‘I will be very careful, miss. There is enough news from home to keep us talking.’ Amy then looked critically at Morgana, as one would a vase of flowers to arrange. She fussed with the long curled feather that she’d fashioned to frame Morgana’s face, another clever means she employed to disguise her lady’s stick-straight hair. This night, Amy had twisted strands of Morgana’s hair into loops artfully cascading from the crown of her head. ‘It is good of Mr Sloane to drive you, is it not, Miss Hart? What a gentleman. We have seen so little of him of late.’

It had not been so long ago that Amy described him as a pirate. Indeed, much had happened since their first encounter, not the least of which was Morgana falling quite despairingly in love with him.

With Harriette Wilson’s unexpected arrival and then a flurry to plan costumes for the masquerade, Morgana barely had time to think of Sloane and how he’d stalked out after they quarrelled. Then the note had come from her aunt, unnecessarily managing the transportation. Cripps could have procured a hack for her easily enough. Now she and Sloane would be trapped together.

The knocker sounded and Morgana jumped, her heart pounding against her chest. Sloane had arrived and she would sit with him in the confines of the carriage for perhaps ten full minutes.

‘Mr Sloane, miss,’ Cripps announced.

Morgana clasped her hand to her throat. ‘We are ready.’

She and Amy followed Cripps to the hall, where Sloane waited, his hat in his hand, his white breeches gleaming against the deep blue of his coat.

He did not smile, but bowed formally. ‘Good evening, Miss Hart.’

‘Mr Sloane.’ She dropped into a graceful curtsy.

Amy hurried to hand her the shawl, but Sloane took it from her and draped it over Morgana’s shoulders. But even though his strong hands brushed against her, he paid more attention to her maid.

‘I hope you are well, Miss Jenkins,’ he said.

Amy also bobbed into a curtsy. ‘Very well, indeed, thank you, sir.’

At the carriage, Amy allowed Sloane only a mere touch of her hand as she scrambled inside. For Morgana, however, he held her elbow and guided her with a hand to her back. After she sat down, she still felt his touch upon her, though he sat as far from her as possible.

The silence in the carriage made it difficult for Morgana to breathe. She resisted taking big gulps of air. Instead, she forced herself to converse with him.

‘It is kind of you to transport me, Mr Sloane. I expect you would have simply walked the distance otherwise.’

He turned his eyes on her. ‘That is so.’

She glanced out of the carriage window. It was still light out. ‘It is a fine evening.’

He did not respond, but when she turned back to him, he still watched her. She felt the impulse to squirm under his scrutiny.

Morgana lifted her eyes and stared directly into Sloane’s. He did not look away. It was as if each of them were loathe to be first to break the contact. As a little girl, she’d played a similar game with her cat. This seemed so different.

They arrived at her aunt’s house just a few minutes later. Sloane put his hand to her waist to assist her from the carriage. She held his arm while they walked the few steps to the front door. Once inside she supposed he would avoid her.

Amy hurried off in search of the housekeeper, and Morgana and Sloane entered the hall. The Cowdlin town house was a bit grander than Morgana’s and furnished in the very latest bright colours and varied designs. From the Prussian blue hall where they were announced, to the primrose yellow drawing room with its stencilled wallpaper and Brussels-weave carpet.

Her aunt bustled up to them. ‘Dear Mr Sloane, how good of you to escort my niece. Do come in. Cowdlin will see you have some nice claret before dinner.’ She spared Morgana a quick glance. ‘Morgana, dear, so good of you to come.’

While Lady Cowdlin took charge of Sloane, Morgana greeted some of the other guests, whom she had met many times during the Season. She made her way to the corner of the room where David Sloane and Hannah were looking into a small tube aimed directly at the nearby lamp.

‘Is it some sort of telescope?’ Morgana asked.

David Sloane leapt to his feet and Hannah looked up at her. ‘Oh, Morgana! It is the most wonderful contraption. Come, look in it!’

Morgana sat and peered into the glass optic. Sparkles of colour appeared in symmetrical shapes on the inside. ‘Oh, it is lovely!’

‘Here, turn it,’ David instructed, and the colours changed shape before her very eyes. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope.’

‘It is quite new,’ said Hannah. ‘Mr Sloane—Mr David Sloane—brought it to me.’

Morgana marvelled as the colours formed a new pattern.

‘What is this?’ a familiar voice said.

Morgana did not stop looking into the device, but suddenly the changing shapes and colours garnered less of her attention.

‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said.

‘Hello, David.’ Sloane added, ‘Lady Hannah, I hope you are well.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Hannah replied.

Morgana moved away from the kaleidoscope and rose from the chair.

‘You must look, Mr Sloane,’ insisted Hannah. ‘It is called a kaleidoscope and your nephew has brought it to show me.’

Sloane took the chair Morgana had vacated and Morgana backed away, nodding politely to other guests and exchanging a few words with them. She was not certain what she said to them, however. All her senses were attuned to one man, his voice, his scent, every move he made. She strolled to the other side of the room, hoping more distance from him would help, making herself look anywhere but at him. She watched Athenia Poltrop and her parents greet her aunt and uncle. Athenia’s gaze riveted upon her cousin Varney and his upon her.

Morgana settled in a chair at the corner farthest away from where Sloane had ceded his place at the kaleidoscope. Hannah called to Athenia to come and look at her new curiosity. Lord Cowdlin signalled Sloane over and handed him a glass of claret.

Morgana forced herself to watch Hannah and Athenia. Athenia glanced towards Varney and quickly looked away. She glanced at him again and twirled a lock of her hair in her finger. Varney excused himself from the gentleman with whom he had been conversing and quickly came to Athenia’s side.

That morning, Harriette Wilson had taught those exact techniques—how to manipulate a man’s interest by mere glances and the simplest of gestures. Athenia performed the exact steps just as if she’d been present at the lesson, summoning Varney to her side as effectively as if she’d shouted his name. Morgana stifled a laugh. Harriette’s tactics had worked! Where had Athenia learned them? Was snaring a man’s attention really so easily achieved? Could even Morgana make a gentleman approach her side merely by employing a few coquettish tricks?

Morgana glanced at Sloane, the only man she wished to draw to her side. If she could make Sloane come to her, Sloane, who wanted nothing to do with her, it would indeed prove the power of Harriette’s techniques. She strained to remember them.

Sloane happened to glance in her direction. Morgana gazed at him pointedly, then quickly averted her gaze. She glanced back. He was looking at her! Her heart skipped a beat. She felt for the lock of hair that escaped Amy’s efforts and now tickled the nape of her neck. She twisted it in her fingers and quickly averted her gaze. A second later she dared peek through her lowered lashes.

Sloane found his gaze naturally wandering to where Morgana sat, even though he’d resolved to avoid her. She was tinder to his senses. One little spark and they’d both go up in flames.

Still, catching sight of her was vastly preferable to enduring the sudden hospitality of Lord Cowdlin. There was not enough the toadying hypocrite could do to see to his comfort. A glance at Morgana had become like a rope tossed to a drowning man.

Finally another guest arrived to snare Cowdlin’s attention, and Sloane scanned the room for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on Morgana. She sat alone in a corner of the room, her lively ginger eyes taking in everything, even taking in him. Her eyes were particularly captivating this evening, set off by the dark green of her dress and the feather in her hair.

Damn him. He craved her company. They were two of a kind, he and Morgana. Both too ready to cross the bounds of correct behaviour, just the reason he should stay away.

He forced his gaze elsewhere and Lady Cowdlin caught his eye, giving him a meaningful smile and inclining her head ever so deliberately towards her daughter.

Sloane inwardly groaned. He let his gaze travel past the woman, as if he had not noticed her blatant signal to dance attendance on Hannah. Coming to this dinner party only put him in deeper with the Cowdlins—as well as bringing him back in close company with Morgana.

He looked over to her again. Her eyes met his, looked away again, and very slowly glanced back. She again fingered that lock of loose hair that had been driving him to madness with how it caressed the soft ivory skin of her neck.

He might as well go mad in her company as by staring at her across the room. He walked over to her and sat in the chair next to hers.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, Morgana?’ Enjoying your torture of me, he meant.

She turned her magical eyes upon him. ‘Shall I be honest, Sloane, or do you wish me to say what is proper?’

The thought of how improper Morgana Hart could be put his senses on high alert, the very sort of reaction he needed to avoid. ‘I do not expect what is proper from you.’

Her smile froze on her face and he kicked himself for his illchosen words.

‘I will be proper, then, to spite you. I am having a delightful time. And you?’ Her eyes glittered with anger, which merely caused the blood to race faster through his veins.

He met her gaze. ‘I think it is a dead bore.’

She laughed, an unaffected sound that caused one or two of the company to look over at them. ‘Me, too,’ she whispered.

More guests were announced. ‘Lord and Lady Rawley.’

‘Deuce,’ muttered Sloane, as his brother and sister-in-law entered the room. He glanced at Morgana, ready to apologise for his profanity, but was taken aback by the sympathy in her eyes.

‘Tell me, Sloane,’ she said quickly. ‘What did you think of the kaleidoscope? Was it not remarkable?’

He peered at her, then realised she was trying to distract him and give him a reason to avoid his brother’s pointed glare of dislike. Such kindness surprised him in light of their hot words that morning.

‘Very remarkable, Miss Hart. I’ve rarely seen such beauty.’ But he spoke of her beauty, not the bits of coloured glass.

She fingered that stray lock of hair, and he longed to feel its silky texture between his own fingers. Putting her hands in her lap, she gave him an intent look. ‘Some day, Sloane, if you should ever need a friend’s ear, I would listen.’

There was no curiosity lurking in her offer. He examined her face and found only concern. When had anyone last been concerned about him, especially someone he’d so pointedly hurt with his sharp words?

‘Good evening, Sloane.’ His brother stood before him.

Sloane stood. ‘Rawley.’ He turned to Morgana. ‘Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rawley.’

Morgana offered her hand with a gracious expression. ‘We met at the musicale. Lord Rawley.’

Rawley shook her hand, barely grasping her fingers. He gave her a knowing leer. ‘You live next door to Cyprian.’

Sloane’s hand curled into a fist at the use of his given name and the insinuation towards Morgana in Rawley’s expression.

‘Yes.’ She managed to sound admirably ingenuous. ‘I do indeed. And where do you live, sir?’

Well done, Morgana, Sloane thought.

Dinner was announced and protocol separated them. Sloane wound up seated next to Lady Hannah, his nephew on Hannah’s other side. Rawley and his wife were above them, and Morgana was on the other side of the table, not quite across from him. Sometimes when he glanced at her, she quickly looked away. Sometimes she engaged in conversation with the gentlemen on either side of her, both husbands of Lady Cowdlin’s friends and not the best dinner companions for an eligible young lady. Lady Cowdlin ought to stand in place of Morgana’s mother, see her well situated, instead of neglecting her.

But the idea of Morgana with a serious suitor did not quite please Sloane. He stabbed at a piece of meat and glanced around the table at the two dozen guests as he chewed. His nephew and Morgana were the only two whose presence he could tolerate for more than half an hour. He ought to admit to himself that he found society a dead bore. Why the devil had he made that infernal bet with himself?

He caught his brother watching him. Rawley quickly averted his eyes, but Sloane had not missed the contemptuous expression on his face. It must rankle with Rawley indeed that this bastard brother was seated at the same table. And rankle with his father as well.

By God, that was reason enough to persist in his plans to make a place for himself among these tedious people.

‘Do you like the potatoes?’ Lady Hannah asked, bringing him back to the present.

‘Delicious,’ he muttered.

Hannah smiled. ‘My mother shall be so pleased.’

She turned back to her plate. Hannah was a sweet girl. The perfect bride, he thought, as he studied her profile for a moment.

But not for him.

He’d been bored with her after a fortnight, he realised. Think what would happen after years together. All her promise of becoming a warm and responsive woman would wither like a rosebud in early frost. She deserved better.

Heronvale might advocate the connection between them, but ruining Hannah’s life was too high a price to pay for a career in politics. Sloane would be better off marrying a woman like Morgana.

He dropped his fork and it clattered against his plate as it fell, causing a few heads to turn. He stared at Morgana. By God, why had he not realised it before? He did not have to act the rake towards her; he could be her husband. He could marry wild, unpredictable Morgana. Who cared if she leaped over the bounds of propriety? He’d jump with her and have a vastly better time than he’d had these past few months. He wanted her.

She looked over at him as well, her eyes lingering as she again fingered her hair. He wanted to tuck that lock up where it belonged before it drove him to complete distraction. She looked back down at her glass of wine and slowly brought it to her lips. Taking a sip, she glanced at him again, her pink tongue peeking out to lick a droplet of wine from her full, kissable lips. He would go mad indeed.

The footmen came to remove the dishes and the cloth. Sloane forced himself to chat with Hannah until the cakes, fruit and ices were served. He joined Lady Hannah in taking a glass of champagne, all the while on fire for the moment he could be alone with Morgana.

Soon dessert was over, and the ladies left the room. As Morgana passed his chair, he felt her hand graze his shoulder, a touch so light it was almost indiscernible. It acted upon him as if she’d raked her fingernails along his naked flesh.

He endured the dull conversation of the men while the Madeira, port and claret were circulated around the table. Lord Cowdlin pointedly included Sloane in the discussion. It was definitely time to make it clear he would not offer for Hannah. Whatever might happen to Cowdlin’s debts was none of his concern. There were other, more eligible young men for Hannah; one of them ought to be rich enough to suit her father.

Cowdlin announced it was time to rejoin the ladies, and Sloane lagged behind, hoping to contrive some time with Morgana. As the other gentlemen entered the drawing room, Lady Hannah appeared in the doorway of the room next to it.

‘Psst!’ She waved her hand for him to come to her.

Damn. He had no wish to be with Hannah, especially not alone. He walked over to her.

‘Mr Sloane, may I speak with you for a moment?’ She looked upset.

‘Alone, Hannah? I do not think so.’ He certainly did not want to be trapped in a compromising situation with her.

‘For a moment, please,’ she persisted. ‘We may leave the door open a crack.’

He stepped just inside the doorway of the Cowdlin library, leaving the door open wide enough for his back to be visible to anyone passing by. He hoped that would prevent any accusation that he was engaged in a private meeting. ‘What is it, Lady Hannah?’

The room was dimly lit by only one branch of candles, but the distress on her face was easily visible. ‘My mother has had words with me… a moment ago, but my father earlier today.’ She broke off.

‘And?’ He crossed his arms over his chest.

She picked at her fingers like a distressed child. ‘Will you offer for me, Mr Sloane? My father is in desperate need of money and he has so counted on you offering for me. I… I know you like me and we… we got along famously at first. So, will you?’

He gazed down at her, so sorry he had led her and her family to count on his suit. He’d selected Hannah primarily because her father was friends with his father, he now realised. Merely to vex his father, he had toyed with this young lady’s hopes and expectations. It had been very wrong of him.

He tried to make his voice sound as gentle as he could. ‘No, Lady Hannah. I will not offer for you.’

Her face crumbled and she grabbed at his arm. ‘But you must, Mr Sloane! My father—’

He put his hand over hers and slowly removed it. ‘Your father is wrong to solve his problems by saddling you with a man such as me.’

‘I am certain we will suit,’ she cried.

‘And I am certain we will not.’ He tried to sound sympathetic.

‘Then what am I to do?’ She began to shake and take quick breaths. ‘What am I to do?’

He steadied her with a hand on her arm. ‘You are to marry a man who would give you the regard you deserve, Hannah.’

She collapsed against him, sobbing. ‘If only I could! It is impossible, though. He thinks of you, for one thing. And his fortune, it is not his to offer.’ She sniffled loudly.

He set her away from him, holding her at arm’s length. ‘Of whom do you speak?’

She gave him a miserable look. ‘Of your nephew, sir!’

He nearly laughed. David and Hannah in the tortures of young love, impeded only by the wealthy uncle who was expected to marry her? It was a villain role he’d never expected to play.

He controlled his smile. ‘Do you wish to marry David?’

She straightened, suddenly in control of all the passion of youth. ‘What I wish is of no consequence. I must do my duty.’

He did laugh then. ‘Rubbish!’

She glared at him. ‘It is not a joke, sir! My father requires money and David, thanks to his grandfather—your father—has none until he is twenty-five.’

‘I repeat, Lady Hannah, your father’s problems are not yours to solve. Does David return your affection?’

‘He will not declare himself out of loyalty to you,’ she said, her face dreamy and, oh, so young.

He smiled again, feeling like Methuselah. But perhaps a new hand had been dealt him, one he might win by losing. ‘My dear Lady Hannah, you may tell David that I am no longer a suitor, and he has my full permission to court you. You may also tell him not to worry over his lack of funds, for I shall attend that as well.’

She gazed up at him, with hope dawning on her face. ‘You can do this for him?’

He smiled. It would give him great pleasure to manipulate his father into giving David his fortune early. ‘I will be delighted to accommodate you both.’

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’ She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Wait until I tell David!’

‘Only David,’ he cautioned, extricating himself from her grasp. ‘Do not tell anyone else or I might not be able to manage the affair.’

She nodded, smiling brightly, and ran past him out of the room.

Sloane wandered into the library. He walked over to the globe and spun it absently, waiting a few discreet minutes so it would not be so apparent that he had been with Hannah. He spun the globe again, feeling as if he were Atlas relieved of its weight. Lord Cowdlin would be almost as delighted as Hannah that her marriage—and the rescue of his finances—would be with David Sloane rather than Cyprian.

Sloane turned his thoughts more happily to the golden-eyed woman who would share his carriage on the ride home. How might he contrive some time alone with Morgana? He had much to discuss with her.

He smiled in anticipation of holding her in his arms again.

Morgana happened to be standing by the drawing room door when Hannah walked in, her colour high and eyes bright.

‘Oh, Morgana!’ She gave her cousin’s hand a squeeze. ‘I am so happy. I cannot tell you, for it is a secret, but you shall know soon enough!’

Morgana smiled dutifully, but she could guess what had brought such excitement to her cousin’s face. It had not escaped her that Sloane and Hannah had been absent from the room at the same time. Sloane had caught Hannah alone, undoubtedly, and had finally made his offer.

Hannah skipped over to where Athenia stood with David Sloane sipping tea, but the others did not seem to notice that her usual liveliness was heightened. In contrast, Morgana’s spirits plummeted, though it was nonsensical for them to do so. She had always known he would offer for Hannah.

Still, it seemed as if a door had slammed in her face. All hope was gone that she and Sloane could recapture that intimacy they’d so briefly shared, the one that had led to her coming alive to her passion for him. How was she to bear it?

By the time Sloane walked in the room, Morgana had taken over the pouring of tea from her aunt. It helped for her to have a task to perform. When he walked over to her and she poured for him, knowing precisely how he desired his tea, she sensed the same pent-up excitement in him so evident in Hannah. She dared glance at his face as she handed him his cup. His grey eyes were as warm and soft as smoke.

Would that they could be that warm for her.

Chapter Fifteen

By the time she entered Sloane’s carriage, Morgana felt quite in control of herself. Tears no longer threatened to embarrass her, nor did his lighthearted mood make her heart ache—very much.

Amy had already seated herself in the backward-facing seat, and Sloane took his place beside Morgana, tapping on the roof for the coachman to be off. He sat too close, it seemed, taking away all of Morgana’s air.

‘Did you have a nice visit, Amy?’ she asked. Better to converse with her maid than endure Sloane’s cheerful silence.

‘Oh, yes, miss, a lovely visit,’ Amy responded. ‘And I did not say one word about the masquerade.’

‘The what?’ Sloane’s voice boomed in the small confines of the carriage.

Amy’s hand flew to her mouth and she glanced in alarm at Morgana, who was not in any mood to hear Sloane upbraid her one more time.

She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘The masquerade at the Argyle Rooms tomorrow night. We are to attend. It is to be how we launch the girls.’

She could feel his eyes burn into her, though she could not clearly see them in the dim light of the carriage lamp. ‘Surely you are not seriously considering this?’

She could not explain to him that she agreed to this plan in part for his sake, to extricate him from the courtesan school. If it no longer existed, it could not threaten his happiness—or Hannah’s.

‘They must be set on their way sometime.’ She sounded exactly like Madame Bisou, but she did not care. ‘This masquerade is the perfect opportunity. Harriette Wilson says so.’

‘Harriette Wilson,’ spat Sloane. ‘Damn her for coming to your door.’

Amy gaped at them both.

‘I thought her very charming.’ Morgana’s voice was impudent. ‘In a way, she started the whole idea of the courtesan school. She was the inspiration, you might say. To me, it is fitting we use her idea of attending the masquerade.’

He snatched her hand. ‘Morgana, do not tell me you will attend this masquerade. I forbid it.’

She pulled it out of his grasp.

Forbid it? He had no right to tell her what she should and should not do. She was nothing to him. Nothing. Merely the cousin of his fiancée. ‘Of course I will attend. I am quite looking forward to it.’

He leaned towards her in the darkness, so close she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Morgana, it is bad enough that you allow those young women to become courtesans, but you must not attend this masquerade. You have no idea what happens at such events.’

She shrank back from him, but it was his proximity that disturbed her more than his warning. She knew enough of the world to realise the masquerade would be a raucous affair. She intended to be there to make sure her girls remained safe, that was all. He ought to understand her need to do so. But he could not understand the other emotions swirling inside her, the arousal of her senses caused by just sitting next to him.

‘This is not well done of you at all,’ he went on.

No, it was not well done to fall in love with the man affianced to her cousin. Nor was it well done of her to wish she could do with him all the things that Harriette Wilson and Madame Bisou hinted a woman might do to please a gentlemen.

‘I think it is very well done of me, sir.’ She faced him, anger rising inside her, piling on top of emotions that were no more than a jumble of pain twisting inside her. Loss, desire, loneliness—emotions that drove her to shock him further. ‘In fact, I think you are wrong about my girls becoming courtesans. I am quite convinced that this is exactly the life a woman should lead. Think of the independence. The excitement.’

He shook his head, looking contemptuous. ‘Be sensible, Morgana.’

Sensible? That was the last thing she could be right now. She could taste tears in the back of her throat. ‘Do you wish to hear more, Sloane? I have decided to join my girls. I will set up a business for myself. I am quite convinced it is the sort of life I would desire.’

Amy gasped.

Sloane grabbed Morgana’s arm. ‘You are not serious!’

Of course she was not serious. She was merely brokenhearted and trying so desperately not to reveal it.

‘I assure you, I am quite serious.’ This time his grasp was so firm she could not pull away.

The carriage came to a stop and Sloane turned to Amy. ‘Go on, Miss Jenkins. Miss Hart will be along directly.’

Amy scurried out of the carriage.

He turned back to Morgana and shook her. ‘I do not believe you, Morgana.’

‘I do not care what you believe, Sloane.’ Morgana was near hysteria now. ‘Do you think I wish to lead a life as dull as my cousin Hannah’s?’ She made herself laugh. ‘Oh, no. I desire excitement. I want to attract as many men as Harriette Wilson. I can do it, too.’

‘Do not be foolish.’ He was so close that her nostrils filled with the scent of him. She could almost taste his lips upon hers.

‘Do you not think I am able?’ Her voice wobbled.

‘I think you are being absurd.’ His face was inches away.

‘Harriette taught us well. I made you come to me, even though you have barely spoken to me for a month.’ Her breath quickened.

‘You did not.’

‘I can make you kiss me, too,’ she added.

He gaped at her. She lifted her eyes to his and slowly circled her mouth with her tongue. Then she parted her lips and closed her eyes.

She felt him crush her against him and press his lips to hers, tasting her as hungrily as if he were a man starved of food. She returned the kiss, every bit as ravenous, ignoring Harriette’s admonition about withholding her tongue. She wanted to fully savour him. One final time.

He abruptly drew her away from him. ‘Leave me, Morgana. Leave me now, before I do something we both will regret.’

‘I won’t regret it,’ she murmured, lost in the sensation of him. She kissed him again.

His hand rubbed up and down her back and circled around to her breast. She sighed, relishing the touch, wanting him to reach inside her dress, wanting to feel his hand upon her bare skin.

Instead, he pulled away. ‘No, Morgana.’ He opened the carriage door. He climbed out and extended his hand to her. She quickly straightened her dress and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She took his hand, but only for as long as it took to climb out of the vehicle. Without waiting to see what he would do next, she ran to her door and took refuge inside her house.

Sloane signalled the coachman to stable the horses, then slowly walked to his own door. How could something he wanted so desperately go so far awry? He barely refrained from jerking the door open and slamming it behind him. His footman jumped to his feet at his abrupt entrance. With only a nod to the man, Sloane tore up the stairs, still on fire for Morgana and furious at her for playing the coquette. If she acted like that with another man—a thought that made him see red—she’d indeed ruin herself. Did she not know that, once lost, she would never get her reputation back? A man might be forgiven his passionate indulgences, but never a woman.

His valet shot out of his chair nearly as high as had the footman. ‘Go!’ shouted Sloane.

As the man nearly tripped in his hurry to get out the door, Sloane scoured the drawers and cabinets, finally finding where his man had put his brandy. Not bothering with a glass, he drank directly from the bottle.

The next day proved that Morgana, Amy and Miss Moore were excellent costumers. With fabric hurriedly purchased at the linen drapers, the older woman and the young maid had fashioned each girl an alluring outfit according to Morgana’s design, complete with identity-disguising masks. The costumes were simple, draped gowns, all in classical white and fashioned with fabric attached to their arms so as to resemble wings. Their masks were created from white silk trimmed with feathers. The girls were garbed as the Sirens of Greek myth, winged creatures whose singing lured sailors to their doom. For their début into the world of courtesans, Harriette Wilson had arranged for them to enter the Argyle ballroom as a group, singing a song, with Rose as the soloist. It would be a grand entrance.

Morgana planned a quieter entrance for herself in the Argyle Rooms. She would dress in a voluminous gold domino she had found in an attic trunk. It came with a matching gold mask to further disguise her identity. No matter what she had declared to Sloane, she meant to attend the ball merely as a spectator, to watch her fledglings take their first flight. After this night she would see them set up in rooms of their own. She would pay the expenses, of course, until enough money came in from gentlemen. But whenever she thought that far in advance, a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

It was time to leave for the masquerade. She joined the girls in the hall, where a thin-lipped Cripps stood to assist them.

Katy’s spirits were so high, it was a surprise that her feet touched the floor. Miss Moore, who never in her life expected to be dressed in a grey domino bound for a masquerade, was nearly as excited as Katy. Mary, Rose, and Lucy were more subdued. They waited for Robert Duprey and Madame Bisou to collect them in one hackney coach and Mr Elliot in another.

‘Remember,’ Morgana whispered to the girls out of Cripps’s hearing. ‘You are not to give yourselves to any gentleman this night. You are a far more valuable commodity than to sell yourself to the first bidder. Recall what Miss Wilson said. Let the gentlemen pine for you.’

Her words turned sour in her mouth. Her girls were not objects to be sold at auction, but young women as dear to her as sisters would be. But everything had gone too far to turn back now.

Mary, Rose and Lucy gave solemn nods. Katy laughed.

Morgana tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Katy, did you hear what I said?’

The girl made a valiant attempt to look sober. ‘Yes, Miss Hart. I am too valuable to be sold this first night!’

Morgana winced.

‘The coaches are outside!’Amy called from the drawing-room window. She rushed over to give her sister a tearful goodbye. Lucy clung to her, looking anything but gay at the parting.

Mr Duprey and Mr Elliot soon were admitted into the hall and the girls sorted themselves into some order. As they left the house, Morgana refused to consider what the neighbours might think if they spied them all leaving at this hour of the night. By plan none of them had donned their masks yet, but anyone might guess they were off to a masquerade, the masquerade everyone knew about.

Morgana only truly cared what Sloane thought, if he gave it any thought at all. She’d seen him go out earlier in the day and had not seen him return. He must have gone to the musicale where Hannah and her parents would be. Morgana had refused her aunt’s obligatory invitation to go with them. It was late, though, and the musicale might already be breaking up.

Morgana rode in the hackney with Lucy, Mr Elliot and Rose. Mr Elliot would know what Sloane’s plans were for the evening, but she would not dare to ask him.

They arrived at the Argyle Rooms with all speed and were admitted without delay. By the time they had tied their masks into place, Harriette Wilson herself came out to greet them.

‘You look splendid, ladies.’ She gave them all a charming smile. ‘Everything is arranged. We need only wait for the music.’

She led them to the ballroom door, cautioning them to be very quiet. When the music began, the doors opened and Harriette led them in as they sang:

Sweet is the budding spring of love,

Next blooming hopes all fears remove…

Morgana, Miss Moore, Elliot and Duprey slipped in behind them as Rose’s crystalline voice dominated their chorus. A hum of excitement spread through the crowd.

When the song came to an end and the shouts of ‘bravo’ had ceased, Harriette announced, ‘Gentlemen and ladies, these are the Sirens. Beware of their delights!’

The Sirens, clearly a sensation, were surrounded as the orchestra again started to play and a quadrille was formed. Each of the girls had several gentlemen begging for the dance. Katy looked as if she were a cat dropped in a vat of cream. Rose backed away, and Mary seemed to have a smile frozen on her face. Lucy, on a happy gentleman’s arm, walked with a determined step to take her place in the set.

Several rather gaily and daringly dressed women glared at these newcomers who had captured the men’s attention so thoroughly. Morgana, uneasy as well about the gentlemen’s enthusiastic response, glanced towards Miss Moore, who beamed with pride. Madame Bisou strode proudly through the crowd, assuring all the gentlemen that the Sirens were every bit as entrancing as those of the Greek legends. Both Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey melted into the crowd, to enjoy themselves, Morgana supposed.

More people entered the ballroom, and Morgana became separated from Miss Moore. Through the sea of carousers she glimpsed the older lady heading towards chairs at the side of the room. The walls of the ballroom were adorned with a collection of classical statues in various poses, set high above the crowd. On the dance floor, the Sirens, in their white dresses, looked like the statues come magically to life, a perfect complement to the décor. The women dressed as medieval maidens, voluptuous milkmaids or lithe pages looked sadly out of place. Morgana circled the edge of the crowd to find a good vantage point to keep watch over her girls.

Suddenly an arm circled her waist and a man with brandy on his breath squeezed the flesh of her buttocks. ‘Well, well, and who might you be, m’dear?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink. ‘Have we met, by any chance? If not, I’d fancy knowing you.’

Morgana tried to pull away, but, though the gentleman was shorter than herself and much older, his hold on her was firm. The hood of his black domino fell away from his face as he tried to kiss her, and she realised with alarm that this was her uncle. Lord Cowdlin wore a mask, but there was no mistaking him.

‘Release me this instant,’ she cried, pushing at his chest.

He laughed. ‘Playing it coy, eh? Come. Come. I can make it worth your while.’

‘No!’ She brought her heel down hard on his foot.

With a cry of pain, his grip loosened and she wrenched herself from his grasp. She pushed her way through the throng of people to get as far away from him as she could. He had not recognised her, thank goodness.

Her arm was caught by another gentleman in a black domino. Without a thought, she swung a fisted hand towards the man’s face. He blocked it easily, grabbing her wrist.

‘Easy, Morgana,’ he said, leaning to her ear.

She glanced up and recognised her captor even through his mask. Relief mixed with exhilaration. ‘Sloane!’

He guided her to where the wine was flowing, and handed her a glass. ‘I told you this was no place for a lady.’

A lecture was not what she wished from him. ‘I thought I told you, I have no intention of being a lady.’ To prove it, she downed the glass of wine.

His brows rose. He took the glass from her hand. ‘Another?’

She shook her head, glancing around the room.

How many of these black dominoes concealed the very same gentlemen who graced the dance floors of a society ball? Men like her uncle who were married, who led respectable lives? How many of these men kept mistresses in some fine little house off St James’s Street? Would Sloane tire of marriage to Hannah and seek a mistress instead?

Of course he would. He might desire marriage to Hannah, but it was her respectability that attracted him, just as his money attracted her. How long before they both looked elsewhere for something more?

If Morgana did become a courtesan some day, as she’d threatened him she would, perhaps she would meet him again at a ball like this. Perhaps he would dance with her. Perhaps he would even take her to bed and she would discover the delights his kisses promised.

She would never be a courtesan or a mistress. Or a wife, for that matter. And soon she would even be without Lucy, Katy, Rose and Mary. She would be without Sloane.

A man and a woman, arm in arm, nearly careened into her. Sloane grabbed her and pulled her out of the way. The man and woman smiled at each other beneath their masks, happy and unapologetic in their enjoyment. She envied them.

Sloane continued to hold her even as they passed. Morgana faced him and tilted her head to him. He gazed down at her with his smoky grey eyes.

Why could she not be the courtesan for one night? What harm would it do? She would be doing nothing with Sloane that he would not do with another after his marriage. It was not so very bad, was it, to want one single night?

The orchestra began a waltz. She lifted her arms to circle his neck. ‘Dance with me, Sloane.’

Sloane gazed down into her face, still lovely even under a mask. He felt like a man suddenly seized by a fit of insanity. He pressed her to him, ignoring for the moment the crowds of people around them.

She led him on to the dance floor, and he took her into his arms again. Here in the Argyle Rooms there was no need to maintain the decorum of Almack’s. He held her flush against him, and they moved to the music as one, spinning and turning. His senses filled with her. He reached inside the gold domino that matched her eyes, and she reached inside his. The folds of their garments hid the play of their hands on each other, the intimacy of their bodies.

How had he ever considered being with any other woman but Morgana? No other possessed the same wild, untamed nature as he himself possessed, that sense of searching for something just beyond reach. She was what he searched for, and she was in his arms now. He was not about to release her.

At the end of the dance, he forgot the crowd, leaning down to taste her lips, lips she generously offered him. She tasted, not like the forbidden fruit a rake might grab for his own, but like a homecoming.

The sounds around him faded as he deepened the kiss. She entwined her fingers in his hair, and he gave himself to the moment. But there was a shout and a scuffle not far from where they stood. Sloane reluctantly released Morgana and pushed her behind him. Through the crowd he saw Elliot, of all people, swinging punches at a burly gentleman who tumbled on to the floor. Lucy looked on in alarm as the man rose and charged at Elliot. Sloane dived into the fray, Morgana at his heels. He grabbed the man by the collar of his coat and used the man’s own momentum to send him crashing into the crowd.

He caught Elliot by the front of his domino. ‘Get Lucy,’ he yelled to Morgana. ‘Find the others and be out of here.’

‘He put his hands on her!’ Elliot cried as Sloane dragged him to the door.

‘What the devil did you expect?’ Sloane muttered.

An alarmed Robert Duprey caught up to them, with Mary dragging a protesting Katy.

‘Do we have to leave now?’ Katy cried, looking back at two disappointed gentlemen. Rose hurriedly took a card from a grey-haired gentleman and followed them. Madame Bisou and Miss Moore pushed through the crowd.

When they were all outside the door, Sloane removed his mask. ‘It is time to leave,’ he said.

They could hear angry shouts from inside the ballroom. ‘I’m going after her!’ a man shouted.

‘Leave now!’ ordered Sloane. He seized Morgana’s arm and led them to the street. Elliot and Duprey quickly helped the other women into the waiting hackneys. Sloane closed the door of one, saying, ‘Miss Hart will come with me.’

The burly gentleman, two of his friends trying to hold him back, ran into the street as the cabs pulled away. He spied Sloane. ‘You interfering—’ He barrelled straight for him.

Sloane pushed Morgana out of the way and swung his fist hard, hitting the man in the stomach. The punch barely slowed the man. He knocked Sloane to the ground and fell on top of him. The man had his fingers around Sloane’s throat before Sloane could get his own grip on the fellow.

Just as he was about to knee the fellow hard in the groin, a flurry of gold silk covered them and the man cried out in pain. Morgana’s fingers gouged at the man’s eyes. He released Sloane and turned on her, but Sloane knocked him off and sent him rolling into the side of the building.

Morgana scrambled to her feet.

‘Hurry!’ Sloane urged as he led her to his carriage.

The coachman jumped on to his perch. ‘Be off,’ Sloane shouted, nearly tossing Morgana inside. When he fell in after her, the carriage was already moving.

She laughed, pulling off her mask. ‘You are a prime scrapper, Morgana,’ Sloane said as he brought his mouth to hers.

He untied the ribbons of her domino and removed the pins from her hair, which was already half-tumbling around her shoulders. He let his fingers slip through the silky dark locks.

She smiled at him. ‘Make love to me, Sloane. Please. Just this once?’

He looked into her eyes, but did not answer.

She grabbed at the front of his domino and pulled him closer to her. ‘I want to be with you,’ she insisted. ‘Just once. Please. Just this once.’

He had no intention of being satisfied with just once, but he need not tell her that. She’d discover soon enough. He captured her lips once more and let his actions speak for him.

Chapter Sixteen

Mrs Rice hurried to the door of theArgyle Rooms as the burly man staggered in from the street. ‘Who was that?’ she demanded.

‘Cyprian Sloane,’ the man’s friend said. ‘But you do not wish an altercation with him. He’s a dangerous man.’

‘Heard he’s gone respectable,’ another man said.

Mrs Rice cared nothing about that. ‘What does he have to do with those girls?’

‘The Sirens?’ the same man asked. ‘I would not wish to find out.’

Cyprian Sloane, Mrs Rice thought. Finally a clue as to who had stolen her girls. She’d send Trigg to discover his location. Signalling for her cloak, she hurried out of the building and made her way back to her glove shop, smiling at this lucky break. She’d get her girls back now, for certain.

And she’d make certain they would be punished for daring to leave.

When the coach stopped in front of Sloane’s house, Morgana feared he would send her home. She did not want to leave his arms, not even for an instant.

‘Come in with me,’ he said.

She smiled in delight. He wrapped her domino around her and led her to the door.

‘I told the servants not to stay up for me.’ Sloane fumbled for the door key.

He opened the door and brought her inside, gathering her into his arms for a long, breathtaking kiss. She’d shed her gloves in the carriage and now pressed her bare palms to his cheeks, gazing into his eyes in the dim light of the candles left burning in the hall.

‘Are you certain about this, Morgana? I will take you home at once if you are not.’ His voice rasped with need, but also with restraint.

She looked directly into his eyes. ‘I am entirely certain, Sloane. I want this more than anything I have ever desired.’

His smile flashed white in the near darkness, but it just as quickly disappeared again into a frown. ‘You could conceive a child.’

Secretly she thought that would be the most marvellous thing in the world. To have Sloane’s child growing inside her. To feel his baby suckling at her breast. ‘It is unlikely,’ she said instead. ‘Besides, Madame Bisou taught us how to prevent it.’

But she would take no steps to avoid pregnancy. She might even pray for it to happen.

He stared at her a long time, then whisked her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, as if she were some petite miss weighing no more than half a dozen stone. She nestled her face against his neck and tasted the skin, now rough with a growth of beard. He carried her into his bedchamber and kicked the door shut behind him. A lamp burned in the room, and a small fire in the fireplace warded off the chill of the night. He marched directly to the bed and placed her upon it. As she flung her domino on to the floor, he tore his off and shrugged out of his coat. She kneeled on the bed and reached up to unbutton his waistcoat. He went very still as she did so. She wanted nothing more than to laugh with joy.

Amazing herself with her boldness, yet proud at the same time, she pulled his shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches and reached underneath it to pull it over his head. His bare chest glistened in the lamplight, and Morgana paused, her breath momentarily forced from her lungs at the definition of his muscles, the peppering of dark hair on his chest. Just when she thought her eyes could take in no more, he unbuttoned and removed his breeches and drawers, and for the first time in her life her eyes feasted upon the body of a naked man.

What a glorious, exciting sight. She let her gaze drop to that most private male part of him and her pulse raced so fast she thought she would explode. He was large and erect, exactly the way the courtesan instructors intimated would bring delight. She lifted her eyes to his, her mouth open.

His gaze burned down on her. ‘Your turn,’ he said, climbing on to the bed and reaching around her to the buttons on the back of her dress. He handled the unfastening of her dress with surprisingly gentle hands, but having him so close and so bare was enough to drive her into a frenzy she did not understand. Once her buttons were free, he lifted the dress over her head and tossed it aside. She felt her breasts suddenly straining against her corset. ‘Turn around,’ he said and he untied her laces quickly so she was soon free of its constraint. Nothing was left between them except her shift. His hands were hot against her skin as he reached under the thin fabric and slid it off, inch by tantalising inch.

She gasped as he threw her shift aside and it fluttered to the floor. It was his turn for his eyes to feast upon her, and she felt his gaze as acutely as she’d just felt his hands.

‘Oh, Sloane,’ she breathed, her voice as thin as air. She trembled in need for him, a need she did not entirely understand, but one she was both frightened of and eager to slake.

He gently eased her down on the bed, kneeling over her. His fingers skimmed her flesh, causing her to feel she might come apart when he touched her breasts ever so lightly.

His eyes were reverent when he cupped her face and stared at her. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

She rose up and placed her lips on his, winding her arms around his neck and burying her fingers in his thick, dark hair. Finally she felt his naked chest press against her, but still the need was not satisfied. Her heart pounded faster.

Nothing had ever felt as right as this. She’d never felt before as if she were in the right place at the right time and belonged there. Tears stung her eyes. How could finally feeling she was no longer alone make her realise the ache of loneliness she’d lived with her whole life? And would return to again?

While his lips continued to feast on hers, his hand cupped her breast and squeezed, sending a shaft of pleasure through her. She writhed beneath him and his male organ pressed against her, increasing the thrill. This was lovely, but not enough. She wanted more of him. She wanted all of him.

He broke off the kiss and stared down at her again, from her face to her breasts to her abdomen to the thatch of hair between her legs. He filled his hands with her breasts, rubbing her nipples against his palms. A strangled cry escaped her lips. His hands travelled lower and lower, until one hand slipped between her legs. Common sense told her to clamp them closed, but other senses had taken over. She opened herself to him.

‘I need to touch you,’ he whispered. ‘It will lessen the pain for you.’

‘You will not hurt me, Sloane.’ She gasped as he fingered the most private part of her, feeling joyous that it was Sloane’s fingers entering her, feeling eager for his body to join hers.

The sensations became more and more intense, stronger than she could have ever conceived. ‘Sloane!’ she cried.

‘Am I hurting you?’ He withdrew his hand, but she grabbed it, placing it back to where she ached with a new sort of need.

‘No,’ he said, rising over her instead.

Her legs parted and she felt him pressing against her, felt him enter her and begin to fill her. ‘Morgana,’ he rasped as he thrust into her.

The pain was sharp, but she rode it out without uttering a sound. She did not want anything to make him stop, not now, when she was so close to… to something she did not yet understand. ‘Please, do not stop, Sloane,’ she murmured.

‘Morgana,’ he repeated.

Slowly he moved inside her, in and out. It felt like heaven, like nothing she would have imagined. She rejoiced that Sloane created these sensations in her. She would never desire another man to do so. Only Sloane, even if for only this one night.

Her body responded to him, moving with him, the rhythm as intoxicating as the sensations it created. Inside, her need increased. She’d not known it was possible to desire something with such intensity and she still did not know what it was she desired.

His thrusts increased, harder and faster, and she matched him stroke for stroke. Harder. Faster as both the need and the pleasure grew.

Suddenly she felt as if she’d come apart in shining sparks, as bright and jubilant as the illuminations at Vauxhall. She cried out in joy and clung to him and he convulsed inside her, his gasps filling her ears. She held on to him tighter while wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Finally they collapsed in one heap against the bed linens. He was heavy upon her, but it felt glorious. He began to kiss her again. Her forehead, her temple, her nose, lips, neck. He rolled off of her, but continued to hold her in his arms.

Morgana seemed to have liquid where her bones ought to be, and he tasted of her with such relish as to have her suspect she’d perhaps turned to syrup. He, in contrast, was as firm to the touch as if he’d been sculpted, except there was nothing of cold stone about him. His skin was warm and smooth with a sheen of perspiration that bespoke of the energy of their lovemaking.

He was planting light kisses on the ticklish skin of her stomach. She played with his hair.

‘Can it happen again?’ she asked, her voice coming out light and breathy.

He peered at her, dark sultry eyes gazing from between her naked breasts. His slow grin grew, and suddenly she provided her own answer to the question. Her body told her it would happen again.

He answered her. ‘I am counting on it.’

A gasp escaped her lips and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. He rose above her, the wicked smile still on his face, ‘Do you want me, Morgana?’

‘You know I want you, Sloane.’ She tried to return the smile, but he mounted her once more and gently pushed inside her. Their initial joining had been at an eager pace, but this time he moved with a languorous leisure.

‘Are you teasing me, Sloane?’ she whispered when his ear came near her lips.

He moved back and forth before he answered, grabbing a taste of her ear as he did so. ‘I’m loving you, Morgana.’

If his body created sensations so deep inside her she could not even imagine them, then his words touched something even deeper. She was joined to him. She was not alone.

Tears briefly stung her eyes before she allowed herself to feel the elation of it. His lovemaking was a glorious gift she would never, ever forget.

Morgana let herself be carried along thrill by repeated thrill. This culmination was different than the first, reached in unison with him, a quieter, stronger pleasure that rolled through her, making her unsure where she ended and he began.

He eased himself off of her and nestled her against him.

‘Can it happen again?’ she murmured.

She felt his voice rumble in his chest. ‘Not without making you sore. Sleep now, Morgana.’

She was determined to stay awake and savour every second of being with him. To hear the rhythm of his breathing. To feel his warm skin against her cheek. To inhale his scent, a mix of manliness and spice.

But soon enough she did what he commanded. She fell deeply into a satisfying, restful sleep.

Sloane barely heard the scratching at his door. He opened one eye. Morning had come much too soon but, now reluctantly awake, the soft, sensual woman nestled against him roused his senses as well.

The scratching continued.

Had Elliot not seen fit to train these servants when to give their employer privacy? Sloane gazed at Morgana so peacefully asleep and carefully eased away from her. She sighed and he froze, fearing he’d awoken her, but she rolled to her other side and curled up, looking like an innocent child.

He slipped out of bed and searched for something to wrap around himself. He grabbed his shirt, tying it on his hips like a loincloth as he padded to the door in his bare feet. He opened the door a crack and peeked at who dared interrupt him at this time.

‘Elliot!’ He almost forgot to whisper. The young man was fully dressed and looking very upset. Sloane stepped out into the hall, closing the bedchamber door behind him.

‘What the devil are you doing, Elliot?’ he said. Elliot held a paper in his hand and a worried frown on his face. ‘I beg your pardon, Sloane, but there is an urgent message for you.’

‘An urgent message?’ Sloane reached for the paper. ‘From whom?’

‘Your nephew, sir. The man who delivered the missive was instructed to see that it was placed in your hands immediately.’

Sloane broke the seal with his thumb.

The letter read,

Dear Uncle,

It is imperative you come immediately. I have learned that Grandfather and my father are planning to ruin your marriage plans to Lady Hannah by spreading a rumour of an affair between you and Miss Hart. They are composing an item for the newspapers at this very moment. Needless to say I am appalled at their behaviour. Come quickly. They will not listen to me.

Your nephew, D.S.

Morgana. By God, what irony. It would not be her courtesan school that would ruin her, but the incredible bad luck of having him move next door to her. Did his father know she had spent the night in his bed? Did he stoop to sending spies to watch the house?

Elliot gazed at him intently. ‘Is there anything I might do to assist?’

Sloane glanced up at him. ‘No—yes. Have my horse saddled immediately. I must get dressed.’

Elliot nodded and hurried off without once questioning what news the letter contained. An estimable young man. A man to count upon.

Sloane hurried back in the bedchamber and began rummaging around for clothes. The difficulty with having a valet was that he did not have any notion where things were put. He gave up on clothes and decided to shave instead. If he showed up at the Earl’s residence unshaven, it would merely make an unnecessary distraction. He intended to go looking like a gentleman.

There was a pitcher of water, some soap and his razor on the chest with the mirror, and he made quick work of the job. As he returned to rummaging for clothes, he closed the door of the wardrobe with a bang. The rustle of bed linens made him twist around.

Morgana sat up, holding the blanket across her lovely naked breasts. ‘Sloane?’

‘I am here, Morgana.’

She smiled when she located him in the room, a smile soft with sleep and gratification. ‘Good morning.’

He took three long steps to reach her side, put one knee on the bed and took her face in his hands, giving her a kiss with the sort of promise he had no time to fulfil. She flung her arms around his neck and tried to pull him down on top of her. His arousal came swiftly, hard and insistent. What would a few minutes hurt?

He obliged her, covering her with kisses, rubbing his hands over her smooth creamy skin. He felt like laughing out loud, an odd impulse in the midst of this crisis, but he did not care. She made him feel joyous. As if he deserved all the passion she had so innocently and wholeheartedly bestowed upon him.

He took her quickly, entering her with a force that made her gasp, but not with pain this time. His Morgana never did anything by halves. She joined his fierce pace, making intoxicating mewing sounds as her need escalated. When coupled with her like this, Sloane felt nothing like a gentleman, but everything like a man. So fast they reached the pinnacle. Together they plunged into an ecstasy of pleasure. Sloane’s landing brought him collapsing on her now damp skin.

‘Ah, Morgana, I was too rough. I am sorry.’ Surely he must have hurt her.

She reached up and caressed his cheek. ‘Not too rough,’ she murmured, making him want to take her again, right here, right now.

But he remembered his nephew’s letter. ‘I must go.’ He climbed off the bed and started to dress. ‘Do you wish me to see you home? Or you may stay in my bed as long as you like.’

She glanced towards the daylight streaming through the window. ‘I suppose I ought to go home. I cannot imagine what they will think.’

He came back to her and swiped his hand through the disarray of her hair. ‘They will think you spent the night in my bed.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘Yes, I suppose that is so.’

He stared at her, wanting her all over again, wanting to hold her spirit, so untamed and unafraid, inside him. She was the woman created for him. He had no doubt of that now.

As he pulled on a pair of trousers, he watched her climb off the bed and search the floor for her clothes. She donned her shift and positioned her corset. He walked over to tie it. When he finished he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned her against him.

He wanted more mornings like this, with lovemaking and easy talk between them, casual touching, ordinary life. She turned and smiled at him, picking up the neckcloth that he’d found folded in a drawer. She put it around his neck and tied it.

‘Morgana, I have been summoned to my father’s house.’

She looked up into his eyes. ‘He sent for you?’

‘No,’ he admitted, the despicable plan of his father filling him with anger and pain. ‘My nephew warned me.’

Her expression turned questioning.

He slid his hands down her arms, clasping her fingers. ‘Morgana, my father intends to ruin me by sending out a tale that you and I are lovers.’

Her fingers flexed tightly in his. ‘They have seen me come here?’

‘I do not know. It would not be beneath my father’s scruples to hire someone to do such a thing.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘I will convince him to remain quiet, but he is bent on seeing me disgraced. It will all come to naught, however, if you marry me.’

She went very still, the pupils of her eyes growing large. ‘What about Hannah?’

‘I have not offered for Hannah—’ he began.

She interrupted him. ‘She was to be your means of gaining respectability.’

‘Hang respectability. You and I will do very well together.’

Morgana slowly pulled her fingers from his grasp and took a step back. She looked at him long and hard, loving him enough to give him whatever he desired.

What he desired was respectability. He’d worked diligently to earn it, and now his father was about to snatch it away again. Through her. If the Earl was so bent on ruining Sloane he would have the house watched, how long before her secrets were known to the man? Even marriage could not erase the scandal of a wife who trained women to be courtesans.

She took a deep breath, like a dying person gasping for one last breath. ‘But I do not wish to marry you, Sloane.’

He flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but she caught it. ‘You… do not wish to marry me?’

Morgana made herself smile, trying to remember how Harriette Wilson looked when she turned on her charm. ‘Oh, no. I thought I told you I did not.’

His brows dropped and his voice became very low. ‘After last night, do you expect me to believe you would not desire the marriage bed?’

It was Morgana’s turn to flinch. She only hoped she hid it as effectively as he. To belong to Sloane, to make love to him, until death parted them was everything she desired. It was why she’d begged him for this past night. He must not pay by giving up everything he desired, merely because he had obliged her.

Morgana’s mind whirled with ways to convince him that she did not want him, though her soul ached for him even now. ‘Oh, I desire the lovemaking.’ She aped the light flirtatious voice of Miss Wilson. ‘Thank you so much for showing me that I would enjoy it. It quite informs me that I should like that part of a courtesan’s life.’

‘Morgana,’ he cried in a fierce groan.

She fluttered her eyelashes and went about collecting her dress. ‘Now do not lecture me, please do not.’ She put the dress on over her head and placed her back to him so he could fasten the buttons. ‘My mind is quite made up.’

‘You will not marry me?’ Another man might make this sound like a plea, but in Sloane’s voice it sounded like a pirate about to attack. He fastened her buttons with lightning speed.

She made her voice light. ‘Do not be absurd. You’ve no wish to marry me! Goodness! To think you would propose out of some obligation. You need not play the gentleman with me, Sloane.’

Her words wounded him. She saw it in his eyes. For a moment she wished he would strike her. The pain might distract from the wrenching ache inside her. But she knew he was too much a true gentleman to do so.

She picked up her stockings and balled them in her hands, putting her bare feet into her dancing slippers. He shrugged into his coat and ran a brush through his hair. Morgana put hers in a quick plait.

‘I will see you to the back entrance of your house. If we are careful, no one outside will notice you.’

It was a gentlemanly thing to do. He could have just opened the door and pushed her out.

‘Thank you,’ she said, failing to maintain her bright-sounding speech.

He did not appear to notice. He opened the bedchamber door and walked her down the stairs. She managed to put one foot in front of the other, although all she truly wanted to do was sink into a puddle of despair. On a table in the hall was her gold domino, folded neatly. He put it around her shoulders and pulled the hood up over her head. His touch was like a smithy’s tongs hot from the forge.

When they walked out of the door and through the gap in the garden wall, they did not speak. The silence spread through her like some wasting disease.

She had given him the means of retaining his hard-won respectability. She had given him a clear path to offer for a respectable wife—her cousin. But she’d hurt him. Not with her refusal of marriage. A man soon got over such a blow to pride. No, she’d treated him as if he were not a gentleman. That made her no better than his father. And it made her feel sick inside.

The door to her house was unlocked. He opened it for her and she stepped inside. She turned quickly to bid him goodbye, but he had already withdrawn. He did not look back.

The man wore a vendor’s apparel and carried a sack of brushes on his shoulder. He’d wandered around Culross Street since dawn, finally discovering a way to slip through the mews to a shrouded place where he could spy on Cyprian Sloane’s townhouse. Instinct told him to watch the back of the house. Instinct, and lack of success witnessing anything of consequence from the front.

It was too bad he could not watch the house next to Sloane’s where he’d briefly spied the pretty girls through the window. Sloane’s place was as quiet as a church cemetery.

Just as he was about to leave, Sloane’s door opened. There was the man himself, a woman with him. He walked her over to the other house and she entered it.

What an arrangement, thought the man with envy. Some men have all the luck.

Morgana paused when reaching the door to the library. It was open a crack, and she could hear the girls’ voices and the reedy laughter of her grandmother, who undoubtedly found everything to be very lovely. Oh, to have her grandmother’s forgetfulness, to live in a present that was perpetually lovely. How much easier life would be. How much less painful.

The voices were not sounding happy, however. Katy’s shrill tones rose above the others. ‘We need Miss Hart! She will know what to do.’

Morgana glanced down at her hand, still holding her stockings. She stuffed them into a pocket inside her domino and stuffed her numbing despair along with them.

She opened the door. ‘I am here.’

Katy leapt up from her chair. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart!’ She looked her up and down. ‘Did you have a nice night?’

Lucy and Rose stared at her, and Miss Moore, seated near her grandmother, gave her a kind, knowing smile.

It felt as if someone had ripped off all her clothes in a public square, but she realised it was not making love to Sloane that made her feel exposed. It was the ache in her heart.

She tried for a vague smile. ‘A lady does not speak of such matters, Katy.’

Katy laughed. ‘Harriette Wilson had no trouble speaking about it.’

Morgana gave her a candid look. ‘But Miss Wilson is not a lady.’

Was it too late to convince them that they could be ladies? Oh, not ladies of the ton, perhaps, but respectable women who deserved men who loved them and who would never walk away?

Lucy stood up. Her face looked drawn. ‘Miss Hart, we must tell you about Mary.’

If something had happened to Mary while she was making love to Sloane. ‘What of Mary?’

‘It is nothing bad,’ assured Rose.

Lucy gave an imploring glance to Miss Moore.

Miss Moore beamed at Morgana. ‘It seems our Mary has run off to Gretna Green with Mr Duprey.’

‘That cowhanded sapskull…’ Katy shook her head ‘… how could she?’

Tears sprang to Morgana’s eyes. She walked over to Miss Moore. ‘Is it really so?’

Miss Moore handed her a letter. Mary wrote that she was sorry to disappoint Morgana, but Mr Duprey had proposed to her at the masquerade, promising to save her from such unpleasantness and give her a good home. He did not have a big fortune, she added, but Mary looked forward to making little economies to make his life pleasant. The letter then went on for a whole page, heaping praises upon Mr Duprey.

When Morgana finished she clasped the letter to her chest.

‘That slow-top could have purchased a special license here in London.’ Katy shook her head in disgust.

‘Gretna Green is romantic, is it not, Miss Hart?’ Rose directed her beautiful green eyes on Morgana. ‘It is good that she marries, is it not?’

Morgana smiled through her tears. ‘It is wonderful for her!’ She would miss the shy, gentle girl. Her loss was Mr Duprey’s gain—and Mary’s salvation.

Morgana thought of Sloane. ‘It is wonderful for her,’ she repeated. ‘Well done, Mary.’

Chapter Seventeen

Sloane’s horse was waiting for him when he tore back into the house. Elliot stood in the hall and the butler hovered in a doorway.

It was Elliot who handed him his hat and gloves. The look of compassion on the young man’s face nearly jolted him out of the towering rage that consumed him.

Morgana.

He grabbed his hat and gloves and thundered out the door, snatching the reins of his horse from the groom, and mounting in one easy motion. He fleetingly considered detouring into Hyde Park to ride off the storm inside him, but even a hell-for-leather gallop down Rotten Row would not suffice. He must simply wrest control back, push down the pain that kept shooting up through the anger.

Morgana.

He could not think straight. He felt as if she’d pushed him off a very high cliff. Hitting the ground, he had met with pain too intense to bear. She had refused him. Said she’d toyed with him. Accused him of being no gentleman.

His head told him not to believe a word of it. Morgana, a courtesan? Nonsense.

Did she concoct that story as an excuse to refuse his offer of marriage? She had wanted their lovemaking as much as he, but only when he’d mentioned marriage did she repeat her outrageous story. Sloane’s insides felt as if a dozen sabres had slashed him to ribbons and his head whirled with the suspicion that she wanted him to be the rake, not the gentleman. She craved the excitement, not the man. Sloane had gone through plenty of women like that, who’d made love to him so they could say they’d been seduced by the dark and dangerous Cyprian Sloane.

Sloane thought Morgana different. He could not have so thoroughly misjudged her when his skill at judging character had always been razor-sharp.

He turned a corner and, nearly colliding with a slow-moving coal wagon, reined in his steed and tried to pull himself together.

He had one thing clear is his head. If she carried his child, she would marry him, even if he had to drag her to the altar to do it. No child of his would ever be burdened by questions of paternity.

Sloane kept his horse apace with the curricles, carriages and wagons in the streets while he tried to push Morgana out of his mind. The immediate task was to confront his father. Ironic that the job at hand was defending the good name of the woman who merely craved his bad one.

He finally turned down the Mayfair street where his father resided, not precisely calm but at least resolved. Sloane pulled his horse to a halt in front of his father’s townhouse. Calling for a footman to see to the horse, he waited in the hall while another servant fetched David. His nephew did not keep him waiting and quickly drew him aside.

‘I am glad you are here.’ David wrung his hands. ‘They have not yet sent the message to the papers. There is still time to change their minds, though I am not sure what you can do to convince them.’

Sloane frowned. ‘Do you know when the Earl and your father conceived this plan?’

‘I do not know when the idea first occurred to them.’ David gave him an earnest glance. ‘I think it was right after Lady Cowdlin’s dinner party—’

Where Rawley had seen them both, Sloane thought.

‘—but they discussed it last night after our evening meal. I looked for you at the musicale, but you were not there. So I sent the message first thing this morning.’

Last night? Before the masquerade. No spy saw Morgana enter his house. Sloane expelled a relieved breath.

David’s expression suddenly changed into one of ill-disguised pain. ‘My father heard your offer for Lady Hannah’s hand would be imminent. Grandfather had words with Lord Cowdlin yesterday. You must know the Cowdlin family and our own have been close for many years—years you were absent. Grandfather does not wish you to marry into the family—’

A muscle contracted in Sloane’s cheek. Sloane had been ready to ruin Hannah’s life, just as his father now aspired to ruin Morgana’s. The similarity between himself and the Earl of Dorton sickened him.

David paced back and forth. ‘Grandfather ought not stand in the way of your happiness. I… I cannot fathom it.’

Sloane gazed at his nephew, who suddenly looked as young as the much-beloved toddler he’d envied so many years ago. He had nearly forgotten David and Hannah’s tragic love affair.

‘David, I am not making Lady Hannah an offer. I will not marry her.’

Instead of looking joyous, David’s face flashed with panic. ‘You cannot mean.’ His face turned white. ‘But what will happen to her? I confess, I could at least rest easy knowing she would be under your protection. Who will Cowdlin try to sell her to next?’

Sloane put a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder to still these dramatics. ‘To you, nephew.’

David’s mouth dropped open.

Sloane almost smiled. ‘But you and I must play a careful game, if we are to win this hand. We have little time to plan…’

A few minutes later Sloane and David were admitted to his father’s library, where both the Earl and Rawley gloated.

‘What brings you to this house, Cyprian?’ the Earl asked with a smirk.

Sloane advanced upon him as if a man possessed. ‘I will brook no interference from you in my plans, sir. You have no control over me or who I marry.’

The Earl tossed Rawley, the real son, a smug expression. ‘You, Cyprian, are nothing to me; therefore, you have no say in what I do.’

The barb, so predictable, did not even sting. Sloane shot back at him. ‘Come now. You have some lunatic plan to send lies to the newspapers, to spread gossip about me throughout the ton. I will stop you. I will not be deterred from marrying Lady Hannah. You have met your match in me, sir. I have money enough to destroy you, and the skill to succeed. Think what a public suit for defamation would cost you, both in reputation and in fortune.’

‘But I would ruin you first,’ cried his father, rising to his feet. ‘A clandestine affair will do the trick, I think. Rawley’s brilliant idea! Cowdlin would refuse you his daughter in a minute, if he thought you were rooting with his wife’s niece.’

Sloane’s fingers curled into fists at this coarse reference to Morgana.

David interceded. ‘Grandfather, you must think of Miss Hart. This would ruin her, too. And I think it unlikely that Cowdlin can refuse Uncle Cyprian, no matter what gossip prevails. He needs the money. He needs a rich husband for his daughter.’

The Earl swung around to his grandson. ‘Are you speaking to me, boy? Do you dare?’ He pointed his cane at David. ‘You brought this—this person here? You informed him of my plans? You betray your own flesh and blood. Do not think I will forget it.’

Rawley jumped to his feet. ‘Father, I beg you. David is my son—’

But David, Sloane noticed with pride, did not waver. He remained steadfast in the face of his grandfather’s anger. He addressed his grandfather in a low, calm tone. ‘Did you expect me to stand by and watch a lady’s reputation ruined? Honour prevents me from allowing you to use her so shabbily. It is very poorly done, Grandfather. You make me ashamed.’

‘Oh, bravo, nephew.’ Sloane made his voice drip with sarcasm, but in his heart he meant every word. ‘Gentlemanly sentiments, I am sure. Too bad you have no fortune or you might wed the Lady Hannah yourself. What chivalry that would be.’

David, still making Sloane proud, twisted around to him in admirable fury. ‘I would marry her, too, sir, if I could save her from being sold to you. Do not mistake me, I sent for you only to preserve Miss Hart’s reputation, to convince my father and grandfather that there is no affair between you and the lady.’

‘Ha!’ Sloane laughed. ‘The only sin she is guilty of is living in the house next to mine, but that is none of my concern. Oh, I could have her if I wanted, I am sure. Remember, I have enough wealth to get whatever I want.’ He turned back to his father. ‘What I most desire is to rub your nose in my success, dear Father. At every ton event, I will be there. When you stand in the House of Lords, I will be in the Commons. When you meet your cronies at White’s, I will be in the midst of them. You cannot ignore me, sir. I intend to be wherever you turn.’

The Earl’s face flushed with rage. The hand clutching the knob of his cane turned white and the man trembled all over.

‘Father?’ Rawley said worriedly.

David stood his ground bravely, still looking defiantly righteous.

Sloane took it all in and suddenly realised how little what his father did mattered to him.

At the gaming table, Sloane often threw in his cards when there was no other way to come out ahead. Now he mentally tossed in his cards. The wager he made with himself, to gain back respectability and throw it in his father’s face, no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but Morgana.

He dealt himself a new hand, one he would win at all costs. He would see Morgana safe—safe as his wife.

He turned his gaze on David, so young and valiant. David also wagered his future on a chance to win the woman he loved.

In a moment they both would win.

The Earl slowly eased his grip on his cane. His complexion returned to its normal sallow colour. A malevolent grin creased his wrinkled cheeks. He used his cane to point to Sloane.

‘You will not win this one, Cyprian. No respectable wife for you.’ He leaned on his stick again and turned to his grandson. ‘I will release your fortune, boy. I can do with it as I choose. Do you want your money?’

David inclined his head, as if reluctant to admit it.

The Earl grinned. ‘You may have it on one condition. Marry the Cowdlin chit and your fortune is yours.’

David levelled his grandfather a steely look. ‘No, sir. Another condition must prevail. Agree not to defame Miss Hart’s name, and I will do as you request.’

Well done, David. Sloane applauded inside.

The Earl gave a trifling wave of the hand. ‘As you wish. There is no need as long as Cyprian is cut out.’

Rawley finally caught up. ‘You’ll give David his fortune?’ He broke into a happy grin. ‘I cannot complain of that.’

Sloane could barely keep from laughing, but, instead, he pretended to protest. ‘See here, you cannot do this,’

His father bared his teeth. ‘I can and I will!’

Sloane swore at his father and made other protests and threats just to convince his father he’d been severely injured. For his exit, he picked up a decanter of brandy from one of the tables and sent it crashing into the cold fireplace, then he stalked out of the room.

When he reached the outside and was about to remount his horse, David caught up to him.

‘How can I thank you, Uncle?’ The young man extended his hand.

Fearing his father or brother might be watching from a window, Sloane did not accept the handshake. ‘It is I who must thank you, David. You prevented the dishonour of a lady I admire very much. I am proud to know you.’

‘And I you, sir,’ David said.

They stared at each other a long time before Sloane swung himself into the saddle and rode away.

Sloane felt as if he’d been navigating a ship in stormy seas. Rising high on the wave, only to plummet, only to rise again. He felt buoyant now, as if nothing could ever sink him again.

He planned to grab Morgana and drag her to some room with him—his bedchamber, preferably—and keep her there until he finally convinced her to marry him. Re-experiencing his father’s hatred gave an ironic contrast to his feelings towards Morgana. He loved her.

He returned his horse directly to the stables and crossed the mews into his garden, now a fairly respectable showcase of flowers and plants, thanks to Elliot and Lucy. But when he entered Morgana’s garden, flowerbeds were trampled and torn up. Her back door was wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he edged his way to the door.

As stealthily as a cat, Sloane slipped into Morgana’s house. He heard a woman crying in the library. He hurried to the doorway and peered through the crack of the door.

Elliot sat on a chair, Morgana’s butler holding a cloth against his head. Blood stained his face.

Sloane nearly leapt into the room. ‘Good God. What happened?’

On the sofa, Morgana’s maid shrieked. Miss Moore held the weeping girl in her arms. Other servants were scattered around the room.

Cripps looked up. ‘We have been attacked, sir.’

Elliot waved the butler away and held the cloth against his own head. ‘Ruffians broke into the house and abducted the women. I—I tried to stop them, but there were too many—’ He took a ragged breath.

Sloane advanced on him. ‘Who was taken?’ No one answered him at first. ‘Who was taken?’he demanded, his voice rising.

Cripps responded. ‘Miss Hart, and Misses Jenkins, O’Keefe and Green.’

‘Lucy,’ her sister cried. ‘Lucy and Rose and Katy and Miss Hart.’

Morgana. ‘Who took them?’ Good God, he must find her. ‘Who was it?’

Elliot shook his head. ‘Some ruffians. No one I know.’

Sloane ran a ragged hand through his hair. He swung around to the footmen. ‘Where the devil were you when this happened? Are you not supposed to protect them?’

One of the footmen met his challenge. ‘We were doin’ the work of the house, sir. None of us were around the drawing room. I chased after them, but they were too far ahead. I saw the carriage, but I could not catch up to it.’

Sloane said, ‘Would you recognise the vehicle?’

‘The type at least, sir. It were a landaulet I saw, sir. Shabby it was. Might have been a second one as well. I cannot say.’

‘Would you recognise the one you saw?’ Sloane asked.

The footman nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed I would, sir.’

‘Excellent,’ Sloane said. ‘I need you to change out of your livery into clothes that will not get you noticed. We are going to search for that landaulet.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The man hurried out.

Putting his hands on his hips, Sloane looked at the others in the room. ‘Who else knows anything?’

Miss Moore released the maid. ‘I was in the room. Five men rushed in and just grabbed them. They were looking for four girls. “Four, she said”, I heard one of them say.’

‘She?’ Sloane repeated.

‘Yes, I am sure he said “she”.’ Miss Moore gave a vague shake of her head. ‘I wonder if it was Mary they wanted. Not Morgana.’

‘Where is Mary?’ Sloane looked around the room.

‘Mary eloped with Mr Duprey,’ Miss Moore explained, a hint of a smile flashing across her worried face.

With Duprey? Sloane thought. Bravo for her, but who would have guessed Robert Duprey capable of such a thing?

Sloane pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘It must be the glove maker.’

‘Oh, yes, new gloves. Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ said Morgana’s grandmother, rocking in her chair and smiling.

Sloane frowned. ‘We must plan carefully.’

It was a cellar room, a room to store Mrs Rice’s wine—cool, dark, and with walls so thick no one above them could hear a thing. It also had a door with a very big lock on the outside. They had been imprisoned there for hours.

Rose rubbed her arms against the chill. ‘Where are Lucy and Katy, do you suppose?’

Morgana paced the small area back and forth. ‘In the upper rooms, I imagine. I suspect Mrs Rice will be putting them to work tonight. If she put enough fear into both of them, that is.’

Rose wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It sounded like they got a beating.’

Before they’d been locked in the cellar, they’d heard Lucy’s cries and Katy’s string of obscenities. Morgana’s stomach clenched with the memory and with hunger. She and Rose had not been given any food since being dragged through a nearly hidden door underneath the glove shop.

‘Why did they not make us do the work, too?’ asked Rose. ‘I do not understand it.’

‘I convinced them you are a virgin.’ Morgana kept pacing. ‘They knew better of Lucy and Katy.’

Rose looked over at her. ‘But why should that matter? They don’t want me to stay a virgin, not if I am to be made to do what Lucy and Katy are going to do.’

‘There are gentlemen who would pay much to bed a virgin, especially one as pretty as you. I suspect Mrs Rice will be taking bids for you.’

‘Bids?’ Rose shivered. ‘It is too awful.’

Morgana ignored the pain from the bruises on her legs and arms. She touched her cheek. One of the men had hit her hard before Mrs Rice yelled at him for spoiling the merchandise. The spot still stung when she touched it. The pain would not prevent her from putting up another fight. She would not quietly do Mrs Rice’s bidding.

‘I am, you know,’ Rose said.

‘You are what?’ Morgana continued pacing.

‘A virgin.’

She stopped. ‘You are?’ Morgana had always thought Rose came to the courtesan school already ruined, like the others.

Rose nodded.

Morgana was mystified. ‘But why desire to be a courtesan unless you…?’

‘I didn’t,’ Rose said. ‘I never desired to be one of those types of ladies.’

Morgana gaped at her. ‘Why did you come to me, then?’

Rose gave a wan smile. ‘I overheard Katy and Mary talking in the street. I knew they were talking about lessons from a lady, as you are a lady, to be sure. So I thought you would teach me some pretty behaviour, like ladies have, and that is what you have done.’

Morgana still stared. ‘But pretty behaviour for what? Why did you want to learn such things?’

‘Some of the things I did not wish t’learn.’ Rose shook her head. Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘More than anything, I want to be a songstress. The kind who has posters all over town to advertise her singing. The kind Vauxhall or Covent Garden or some such place will pay a lot of money and the newspapers will write pretty things about.’

‘A songstress?’

A tear trickled down her flawlessly perfect cheek. ‘I—I would have had employment, too. I met Mr Hook at Vauxhall and again at the masquerade. He wanted to hire me.’

Morgana was too taken aback to address the girl’s tears. ‘Who is Mr Hook?’

Rose gave a loud sniffle. ‘He is the composer of songs and organist at Vauxhall. Surely everyone knows of Mr Hook.’

Morgana almost smiled. Everyone who had a musician for a father and an aspiration to sing, perhaps. ‘Was he the balding man who attended you at the masquerade?’

Rose nodded again and swiped at her eyes with her fingers.

‘You did not wish to become a courtesan,’ Morgana said it again.

‘No.’ She looked at Morgana with her huge, glistening green eyes. ‘Miss Hart, what will happen to me now?’

Nothing, Morgana thought. ‘We must escape this place.’

‘I—I hoped Mr Sloane or Mr Elliot would come save us,’ Rose said with a shuddering breath.

Sloane. Would he even discover they were taken until it was too late—too late for Rose, and until Lucy and Katy were forced to degrade themselves? And Mr Elliot had been hit so hard. Was he even alive? Sloane would come for them when he could, she believed with all her heart. He would charge in like a one-man avenging army and wipe out all these horrible people, but Morgana could not wait for him. They needed to escape now.

Morgana began pacing again.

She grabbed one of the wine bottles and sat next to Rose on the barrel that lay on its side. ‘I have an idea…’

A few minutes later the sound of crashing glass reached the ears of the man sitting outside the locked door, and screams of ‘Oh, help! Help! Stop her. You must stop her!’

When the locked door opened, Rose was huddled in the corner surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine. She scraped at her wrist with a jagged piece and blood covered her arms.

‘You must stop her!’ Morgana begged the man. ‘Hurry.’

He rushed over to the beautiful girl, squatting down to both reach her and try to pull her up. Morgana followed him. Rose struggled and moaned that she would rather be dead. Such a lovely creature in so much distress would be difficult for any man to resist.

He was no different. While he was distracted by Rose, Morgana came up behind him and hit him hard on the head with one of the bottles of wine.

He fumbled, but did not fall. Instead, he came at her. She swung the bottle as hard as she could and hit him in the stomach, as Sloane had done to the man in the park so long ago. This man doubled over and staggered backwards.

‘I have the key,’ shouted Rose, holding it up in the air.

Morgana grabbed her and pulled her towards the door. She slammed the door shut and leaned on it while Rose turned the key in the lock.

A roar of outrage came from the inside of their cellar prison. Their captor banged loudly on the door, but would not be heard any better than they had been.

‘Are you all right, Morgana?’ Rose asked. She caught Morgana’s hand and looked at the cut Morgana had made to smear blood on Rose’s arms.

Morgana’s hand throbbed, but she said, ‘It is nothing. We must hurry.’

They made their way down the cellar corridor until they came to a staircase. Creeping up each step as softly as they could, they heard the sounds of voices above them.

‘Let us try the other way.’

Morgana led Rose past the wine cellar door where their captor still pounded and swore at the top of his lungs. At the other end they discovered the wooden door leading to the outside. It had a heavy metal bolt. Morgana’s cut hand shot with pain as she forced the bolt sideways and pushed on the door.

They were met by a crisp breeze and freedom. It was night, but the new gas lamps on nearby St James’s Street gave a faint illumination. Rose turned to her.

‘Go,’ Morgana said. ‘Return home. Find Sloane. Tell him to come.’

‘What about you?’ Rose asked.

‘I must go after Lucy and Katy. Please, Rose. Hurry. Bring Sloane.’

Rose gave her a quick hug and, after a look to see if anyone was watching, slipped out of the door into the night.

Morgana hurried back through the cellar to the stairway they’d found before. She heard voices, but she crept up the stairs and into a dark room. A sliver of light shone from under its door. Morgana groped around the room, making her way to the door. She felt something soft on a shelf against the wall.

Gloves.

She picked one up and put it on the hand she had cut with the piece of glass. It helped relieve the sting and the soft kid kept her hand supple. Shrugging, Morgana put on the glove’s mate.

Morgana inched her way to the door. She hoped to find a way to the upper floors where she supposed Lucy and Katy were kept. She opened the door a crack and peered through it. It led to a hallway at the end of which was the stairway to the upper floors. To the left was another room separated by a curtain. Morgana took a deep breath and started to cross towards the stairs.

She heard Mrs Rice’s voice coming from behind the curtain.

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

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