Connie Mason & Mia Marlowe - [Royal Rakes 02]
Author: One NightWith a Rake
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Rights: Sourcebooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2013 by Novel Ideas, Inc.

Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Judy York

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Authors’ Note

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Back Cover

One

“Confound it! Can’t a man lose his shirt in peace?” Lord Nathaniel Colton, along with every other gentleman in White’s, looked up from his cards, distracted by the loud clatter followed by a dull thud. The door to the exclusive coffeehouse stood propped open to the elements because some poor blighter had collapsed at the threshold on his way in.

Or possibly out, Lord Nathaniel surmised, it being difficult to tell from the way the body was splayed under the lintel, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The wet breath of January washed through the open door and over the assembly of gentlemen who’d escaped their domestic entanglements for the company of their peers, morning papers, and steaming cups of Arabica bean bliss. No one else seemed to be stirring to go to the fellow’s aid, so Nathaniel rose from his seat at the poque table.

“A wager first,” Lord Gobberd said loudly. “Is the man alive or dead?”

No one in the coffeehouse so much as twitched. Even at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, there were several good chaps about who might eventually have gone to the gentleman’s assistance. Or at least closed the door behind him. However, the announcement of a wager over the matter froze them in place. Nothing took precedence over gambling.

“Alive,” Nathaniel said, not because he was naturally optimistic, but because it didn’t seem sporting to bet against the stranger at the door.

“Very well, I say dead. The stakes?”

All of Nate’s chips were committed to the current hand, so he had nothing more on the table to offer. He removed the leather shields protecting his cuffs from smut that accumulated on cards and gaming tables. Then he took off his gold wrist studs and added them to the pile. Lord Gobberd, who was likewise invested in their game, rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a much folded piece of yellowed paper.

“The deed to a house in Covent Garden.” Gobberd knuckled his eyes and squinted at his cards again. Then he tossed them down. “Shall we dispense with the game and let this side wager decide the entire matter? Winner takes all.”

They’d been playing since yesterday afternoon, pausing only to use the necessary and eat and drink enough to keep body and soul together. Between the two of them, Nathaniel and Gobberd had emptied the pockets of a dozen men and accepted IOUs from a dozen more. The gleaming pile of spoils in the center of the table constituted a small fortune. Certainly more than enough to meet Nate’s needs for the next ten years.

And pay off the debt to his tailor besides.

“Done,” Nathaniel said. Evidently Gobberd’s hand was a sorry one, but there was no point in haggling over the stakes if a man’s life might hang in the balance. He strode toward the door, knelt beside the fallen figure, and felt the man’s neck for signs of a pulse.

He’d done it often enough during his brief military career, so it took him only a moment to find the throbbing vein. Sluggish, but unmistakable.

“He’s alive.”

Nathaniel didn’t see an obvious wound, so he propped the young gentleman into a sitting position. The man’s head, which was topped by a disreputable-looking deerstalker, lolled back, revealing a round-cheeked face punctuated by a wispy attempt at a mustache. Nate knew the type—a country mouse fresh from a stint at Oxford who was now immersing himself in the more questionable delights of London. Nathaniel didn’t recognize him, but since he’d stumbled into White’s and the cut of his tweed jacket was impeccable, the gentleman must be a peer, or the son of one.

The fellow smacked his lips twice and his head wobbled from side to side. He didn’t open his eyes, but a string of mild obscenities streamed from his lips, confirming Nate’s assessment that he was indeed among the living.

“Mr. Worley, some smelling salts, if you please, to help him recover his wits.” Nate shook his head at the strong scent of gin wafting up from the groggy fellow. If a man was determined to get foxed, gin was a quick way to go, but Nate preferred whisky when the occasion called for self-inflicted oblivion. “And as much black coffee as he’ll take.”

Nathaniel took a couple chips from the poque table and flipped them toward the steward to pay for the inebriated gentleman’s care. Then he reattached his wrist studs, scooped the rest of his winnings into his top hat, and started toward the keeper of the wager book who held the actual funds represented by the chips.

“Hold there, Colton.” Lord Gobberd stopped Nate with a fleshy hand to his forearm. “You’ve got to give me a chance to break even.”

“Winner takes all. Your words, not mine, sir.” Nate shrugged him off and continued on his way. Gobberd’s half-whispered “Damned cheat” reached Nate’s ear.

Nathaniel turned and skewered the man with a steely gaze. “Am I given to understand you feel yourself ill-used, Lord Gobberd? If you have a complaint, I shall be only too happy to give you satisfaction.”

Gobberd’s Adam’s apple bobbed uncertainly. His mouth snapped shut. Even if Nathaniel had cheated, he was far too good a swordsman to insult with the accusation and every man in White’s knew it. Besides, he hadn’t cheated.

This time.

Lord Gobberd mumbled a hasty apology, jammed his hat on his head, and beat a path to the door. Nathaniel didn’t turn away till he was certain the man was gone. Gentleman or no, Lord Gobberd had always struck Nate as the weaselly sort, the type who might shank a fellow in a crowd when he wasn’t looking.

Nathaniel collected his winnings and started toward the door with a satisfying bulge of banknotes and IOUs in his pockets. The deed to Gobberd’s house was tucked into his waistcoat. Given the location of the place, Nate was fairly sure it wasn’t the man’s personal residence. A Covent Garden address was more likely to house Gobberd’s light-o-love, if the miserable old curmudgeon had one.

And if he does, it only proves some women are able to overlook a great deal to keep a roof over their heads.

“I say, Colton,” Sir Martin Daventry called out, making Nate pause at the doorway. “Mother is hosting a bit of a rout on Thursday next. Be a good chap and put in an appearance, would you?”

The invitation surprised Nate. It was the first he’d received from anyone respectable since he returned from France three years ago. After the disaster of Maubeuge, his disgrace kept him on the fringes, but not quite expelled, from Polite Society. He wondered what had prompted Daventry to forget that Nate clung to respectability by a thumbnail.

“And be sure to bring Lady Caroline,” Daventry added. “Mother’s had the Broadwood tuned for the occasion.”

As I thought. Nathaniel was being tolerated for the sake of his sister’s prodigious talent. Caro in attendance at a party was as good as engaging a concert pianist for the occasion. In addition, she was far too beautiful for Nathaniel’s comfort. When she made her official “come out” once the Season started, he and his father and brother would need rather large sticks with which to beat off prospective suitors. The Colton men were determined that only the worthiest would pass their gauntlet.

“Will your charming sisters be in attendance?” Nate asked. Debutants were sometimes classed as “coltish” for their lithe arms and long legs. The Daventry twins had earned the designation.

“They will indeed.”

Unfortunately, the Daventry twins were considered coltish not for the length of their limbs, but for the size of their teeth.

“Ah, then I shall make every effort.” Not to be there, Nate finished silently.

Still, for Caro’s sake he ought to go, he decided as he left the coffeehouse. It was some months before her formal debut, but it wouldn’t hurt for potential suitors to see her in an informal venue.

Wind whipped down the man-made canyons of four-story structures as Nathaniel trudged along. He turned up his collar and shoved his fists into his pockets. His eyes burned after the full night of gaming, but he knew sleep would flee from him, even if he found a bed.

It was January. Again. And the 25th. Again.

He wondered if he was doomed to relive this hopeless anniversary each winter or if his heart would ever feel anything. Again.

It was easy enough to pretend his life went on. To all appearances, his was a full plate. Since his return from the Continent, his polished Hessians had rested beneath the beds of numerous wayward wives and widows. Throughout the Upper Ten Thousand, tales of his bed skills were whispered behind countless lace fans. While Nathaniel was careful to leave each lady with a smile on her face and no regrets when he tugged on his boots again, he was equally careful never to form a close attachment to any of the women he bedded.

He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.

Without his conscious volition, his feet found a path to the gated churchyard. The outer walls and floors of the little stone structure were honeycombed with small cells that were occupied by the bones of the faithful departed. So a patch of hallowed ground sprouted gray headstones of varying heights for those who’d had the misfortune to depart this world after the church proper’s niches were already filled.

He stopped before a granite slab that had been there for only four years. Not long enough for rain and wind to turn the engraving into dark dimples in the stone.

“Hello, Anne.” His voice sounded unnaturally loud. He’d meant only to whisper. Anyone passing by would think him late for Bedlam. Nathaniel squared his shoulders and decided he didn’t care. “It’s been a while, I know. I’ve been meaning to come by. Truly. But there’s something I must do, you see, and it’s something you won’t…”

Hang it all, there was no way to explain this tangle to her. Not in a way she’d understand. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. Now that he was committed to it, he didn’t see any way out except going through with the blasted agreement. He hoped his father and older brother would appreciate the lengths to which he was prepared to go on the family’s behalf.

Of course, if he succeeded, chances were good that Mr. Alcock would never let his family know how near they’d come to losing everything. And if he failed…

“Thought I might find you here, Colton.”

“Speak of the devil,” Nathaniel said under his breath. Evidently merely thinking of the fiend was sufficient to call him forth. “What do you want, Alcock?”

“What we all want—a sound British pound, better drainage in the poorer quarters of London, and for the Duke of Cambridge not to marry the Marquis of Yorkingham’s daughter.” Fortescue Alcock’s tight-lipped expression made it clear he considered all three of equally vital importance. “As a Member of Parliament, I’m working diligently on the first two. Why, I wonder, has there been no progress on the last item?”

Nathaniel clenched his fists and wondered if Fortescue Alcock had any idea how close he was to being throttled to within an inch of his life. Nate had never bowed to the will of any man. It rankled his soul to give in to this one. “I’ll get to it in due time.”

“That’s just the trouble. Time is of the essence, milord. The royal duke’s emissary is paying court to Lady Georgette nearly every day. Once she accepts Cambridge’s suit, there’ll be no recourse. Trust me, it’s one thing to seduce an unattached virgin. Quite another to deflower one who’s formally betrothed to a royal duke.” Alcock sent him a sly sidelong glance. “Not that it would be impossible for you to achieve, given your past performance, but frankly, I doubt even you’d care to face the consequences of tweaking His Highness’s royal nose in that manner.”

Alcock was right. Once the lady was betrothed to a member of the royal family, seducing her would rise almost to the level of treason.

Frustration boiled in his gut. “Why did you choose me for this blasted assignment?”

Alcock stared at Anne’s gravestone. “You know the family well. You have a natural point of entry into this situation. Lord Rhys Warrington is making spectacular progress with his prospective duchess, so I can’t rightly reassign him to Lady Georgette, but if you’d prefer this particular lady be plucked by your friend Sir Jonah Sharp, I could—”

“No, I agreed to do it.”

Not that Nathaniel had much choice in the matter. Either he accepted Alcock’s Faustian deal or the bastard would dredge up the whole sordid mess at Maubeuge again.

Nathaniel and his friends, Lord Rhys Warrington and Sir Jonah Sharp, were implicated in the same stunning defeat at Maubeuge that occurred just before the English victory at Waterloo. There had never been enough evidence of treachery to do more than taint them all with the whiff of scandal. Now Alcock claimed to have proof that would see Nate brought before the House of Lords in chains for spying for the French and leading his men into a trap.

The scandal would ruin the Colton name and crush any hope of his sister making the brilliant match that was her due. Since their father, the marquis, had suffered several debilitating losses in the market in recent years, the family was counting on Caroline to raise their power and influence by snagging a wealthy, well-connected husband.

If Nathaniel suffered the disgrace Alcock threatened, Caro would be fortunate to land a position as governess with a family of the middling sort.

All Nate had to do to avoid this calamity was steal Lady Georgette’s chastity, making her ineligible for the Duke of Cambridge’s attention. It was a tangled web, with more than a few innocent flies about to blunder into Alcock’s sticky labyrinth. But when was anything political ever less than a spider’s lair of lies, broken promises, and arm-twisting deals?

“Haven’t you anything better to do than decide which virgin needs debauching?” Nate asked between clenched teeth. “You’re no better than a bawd in Covent Garden.”

“How dare you, sir.” Alcock puffed up like an enraged peacock. “I am trying to save the throne. There is no matter more important to the Crown. We absolutely cannot leave King George’s successor up to some mad race by his sons to find a bride.”

Nathaniel ignored Mr. Alcock and stared down at Anne’s headstone. He waited for the familiar hollow ache to begin, but even grief refused to surface. He was a dry husk.

Maybe it was better this way. If his heart shut down completely, it would be easier to do what he must.

“I said I’d do it and I will,” Nathaniel said testily. “Now leave me be.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.” Alcock turned to go. “Oh, my sources tell me the lady is paying a visit at a house in Covent Garden this morning. Unsavory place, what? But it seems Lady Georgette is a bit of a crusading prig. Out to save the world. Perhaps you’d do well to track her down before she gets into trouble on her own.”

Nathaniel grunted, leaving it to Mr. Alcock to decide if the sound constituted agreement. Actually it was simple surprise. The house he’d won from Gobberd that morning was in the same unsavory neighborhood.

Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

He waited till the man’s retreating footsteps vanished completely. Then Nate knelt next to Anne’s grave. He wished he’d thought to bring flowers. She’d always loved them.

For a moment he imagined her as he’d seen her for the last time, arms full of irises to arrange in a crystal vase. Fresh-cheeked, eyes bright, brimming with health and such innocence, Anne was sweet as the armful of blooms she carried.

The memory of his first love caused his chest to constrict painfully.

There it was finally. A genuine feeling. Like the fellow who’d stumbled into White’s that morning, Nathaniel was still alive.

At times, there was reason for doubt.

Merely forcing air in and out of one’s lungs didn’t constitute living. Even when Nate buried himself in hedonistic pleasures, he rarely felt that rush of guilty exhilaration sinning was supposed to deliver. A part of him watched from outside his body and wondered if his soul had already died and was merely waiting for the rest of him to cease to function.

Nothing would be gained by further stalling. He stood upright. “I won’t be back for a while, dearest. Maybe never. I doubt you’d want me here in any case,” he told Anne. “You see, I have to seduce your sister.”

Two

The Marquis of Yorkingham’s barouche rattled through Covent Garden. It was the only conveyance stirring except the night-soil wagon which was making its rounds and accepting pungent offerings. From her perch on the forward facing squab of the barouche, Lady Georgette peered through the opening in the velvet curtain at the slatternly houses. Their shuttered windows reminded her of half-closed eyes, as if they, like their occupants, were done in by the previous night’s debauchery and needed their beauty sleep.

No Covent Garden streetwalkers were about, so far as she could tell, but Georgette could picture them. Imagining things was something in which she’d always excelled, so it was no stretch for her to visualize the piteous creatures wandering in desperation as they plied their trade on these narrow streets.

Georgette shivered a bit but was careful not to let Mercy, her maid, see that the neighborhood distressed her. If she lost courage now, she’d be mortally ashamed of herself. She was the daughter of a marquis. It was her duty to help those less fortunate than she, no matter where they might live.

Her carriage clattered to a halt on the uneven cobbles. Like Georgette, it was as out of place in this spotty neighborhood as a diamond in a pig’s snout.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady, but are ye certain sure ye wish to be here?” Reuben Darling, her footman, handed Georgette down from the elegant equipage. A concerned frown marred his handsome face. Footmen were hired for their height and pleasing features, and Reuben didn’t disappoint on either score, but he’d never demonstrated an overabundance of good sense.

Until now.

“I don’t like the looks of the place,” he said. “Not by half, I don’t.”

“He’s right for once,” Mercy chimed in.

Georgette’s lady’s maid clambered down from the carriage without waiting for Reuben’s assistance. In fact, she often made a point of ignoring him completely, which only made poor Reuben even more anxious to capture Mercy’s notice.

“Let us take ye home, yer ladyship, and Mr. Darling and me’ll come back and see to things here,” Mercy said. “Perhaps he can make himself useful for once instead of being just what ye might call ornamental.”

“Too right.” Reuben beamed at being included in Mercy’s plans.

When Georgette first noticed the footman’s growing attachment to her lady’s maid, she was mildly amused, but now she often pitied Reuben’s bungling attempts to win Mercy’s favor.

Mercy was much less amused by them. She considered him “dumb as a bag o’ feathers” and didn’t mind saying so.

Often.

“If ye won’t listen to reason, ye’ll have to walk a bit then,” Mercy said. The barouche wouldn’t fit down the narrow lane where the house that was their ultimate destination was located. This sordid corner was the closest the driver could manage. “I fear for your slippers, milady.”

“Nonsense. Better to fear for the women trapped here.” Georgette straightened her spine. She wasn’t about to let a little dinginess scare her away. “We’re here to find your friend, Mercy. I won’t leave until I’ve seen her and given her an opportunity to come with us.”

“As ye wish. It’s powerful kind of ye too, but it may be for naught.” Mercy shrugged and started to lead the way down the constricted lane. “Vesta’s been known to change her mind on things. Don’t ye be surprised if she don’t want to go.”

“Why ever not? I thought you said she wanted a different life.” Georgette waved her footman back when he made to follow them. “Oh, no, Mr. Darling, we’ll be fine. Wait here with the carriage. I’ve a feeling the horses are in more danger than we.”

In a neighborhood like this, meat in the stewpot was an unheard of luxury.

“If you’re sure, milady.”

“I’m sure. The day this Englishwoman fears to walk down a London street in broad daylight hasn’t dawned,” Georgette said with more bravado than she felt. She skittered after Mercy down the twisty alley named Lackaday Lane.

“Sing out if there’s trouble, then,” Reuben called after them.

The way Georgette’s heart thumped against her ribs, she was certain she could trill out a high C if necessary. She doubted the sun ever showed its face in this cramped lane. Even a slender beam of light would have to fight its way in, given the way the structures teetered toward each other. Eternal cold slid its icy fingers down her collar, slipped indecently under her hem, and up her silk-stockinged legs.

“Mind your skirts,” Mercy called over her shoulder.

Georgette’s nose crinkled at the whiff of an acrid odor. A rivulet of yellowish slime, the source of the stench, trickled down the center of the lane. She held her skirts bunched in one hand to avoid brushing them through it. Mercy was right to fear for her slippers. There’d be no hope for her kid soles after this.

Mercy looked back and shot her an encouraging grin.

“The chit is actually enjoying this,” Georgette muttered, feeling both anxious and foolish at the same time. Of course, Mercy had haunted holes like this one every day of her precarious life before she came to work for Georgette.

Her lady’s maid was Georgette’s first success, the first girl she’d managed to lift from a life of squalor in the burgeoning sex trade. It had taken several months of training, but Mercy learned the duties required of a lady’s maid.

She still wasn’t an ideal domestic servant in many respects. Her tongue was rather sharper than Georgette would have liked, and her speech was often peppered with mild vulgarities. Mercy was still secretive and standoffish with the rest of the help, and her needle skills were abysmal. But she was living proof that Georgette’s plan to help the working girls of London might bear fruit.

Albeit saucy, opinionated fruit.

“I don’t understand,” Georgette said. Even though she saw no one at any of the windows that looked down on the alley, she felt the pressure of eyes on her and lowered her voice. “Why wouldn’t your friend want to leave this place?”

“It ain’t the place so much she’d hate to leave, though you’ll see for yourself that looks can be deceiving. Inside, the house is much grander than it seems on the outside.”

Georgette was certain Mercy’s idea of what constituted “grand” was far different from hers.

“And the life here is lively,” Mercy went on. “There’s always food and drink aplenty, at least that’s how it were at Madam Bouchard’s house when I was there. She always says as gentlemen likes a girl with meat on her bones. And lying abed till noon is a grand way to pass the day.”

“I gather it’s the nights this Vesta will be anxious to leave.”

Georgette knew a few things about what passed between a man and woman, mostly from one summer at her father’s country estate when the mares were in season. She’d happened to be reading in the haymow, hiding with her book, because her mother discouraged her from spending too much time with her nose in one. When the grooms led in the wild-eyed stallion to cover a mare, Georgette peered down from her straw-covered perch and received an exciting, earthy education. Sometimes the stallion actually bit the mare till blood ran down her glossy withers and there was much whinnying and stamping involved.

If men were as violent as stallions in the act of procreation, she couldn’t understand why young women would submit to it for mere money. It was bad enough to have to do it once one was lawfully married.

“The nights ain’t so bad,” Mercy confided. “If a girl has regulars, they’re generally pretty good to her. Even brings her little presents sometimes.” She sighed. “Sometimes I think lifting me skirts was ever so much less trouble than being an honest woman.”

“Mercy!”

“I’m just speakin’ my mind, milady, just like ye tells me I should with ye. I’m not sayin’ as I wants to go back. But ye should know it weren’t the gentlemen what made me want to leave. Besides, being so poisonously good all the time is hard on a body,” Mercy said with a grimace. “I swear sometimes I get such an aching in me nethers…even that idiot Reuben starts lookin’ good to me.”

“Aching?” The way Mercy said the word made it seem like a pleasurable thing. Georgette had had a toothache once and it wasn’t at all pleasant. Certainly not what one would want to feel in one’s “nethers.”

“Sorry, milady. I keep forgettin’ they likes to keep your sort on the ignorant side of useful about such things.”

Ignorant? Georgette spoke three languages. Fluently. She could do sums as well as her brother. She’d read Augustine’s Confessions in the original Latin. And he’d had quite a bit to confess!

How could Mercy believe her ignorant?

A window opened overhead and a woman leaned out to empty the contents of her chamber pot onto the street below. Mercy grabbed Georgette’s hand and yanked her along out of the way of the putrid spray.

“Sorry, duchess,” the woman called down. “Didn’t see ye there.” She hadn’t bothered to cinch her wrapper tight and her bare breasts flopped out for anyone to view.

Georgette had never seen anyone in such an appalling state of undress in public, not to mention someone so unconcerned about it. She put her head down and quickened her pace.

“Good heavens,” Georgette whispered once she was certain they were out of earshot. “She was all but naked.”

“Well, o’ course she was. Ye can’t expect the gentlemen to buy if they’ve no notion about the quality of the wares, can ye?” Mercy said cheerfully. “That was nothing but an accidental peep, her flashing her titties like she don’t know she did it. Some fellows likes that a lot. More than if the moll does it on purpose. Makes ’em feel like they’ve seen something they oughtn’t and it drives ’em fair wild.” Mercy tilted her head to one side. “Why is it, do ye suppose, that we like something even more if we’re not supposed to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

Mercy laughed. “I’m sure ye don’t either. That was what ye might call retor…retri…oh, hang it all, what was that four-guinea word ye tried to teach me the other day?”

“Rhetorical?”

“That’s the one. I was being rhetorical. When it comes to matters of the flesh, ye’re about as useful as teats on a boar, if ye don’t mind me saying so, milady.”

“Actually, I’m thinking I may have overdone it when I encouraged you to speak your mind, Mercy. If you say something like that around my father, he’ll have you sacked before you can whistle.”

“I take yer point.” Mercy laid a finger alongside her nose in the time-honored gesture of collusion. “I’ll be careful to keep me teeth together around the marquis then.”

They pushed deeper into the alley.

“This is it. Madam Bouchard’s House of Pleasures for Gentlemen of Quality,” Mercy said when they came to a stop before a three-story clapboard structure.

It was a sorry parody of the fine brick Georgians in Mayfair and St. James’s, square-built with windows of decreasing size depending on the story on which they were situated. It had been years since the house had seen a paintbrush, and the pint-sized garden in front showed no evidence of cultivation. But black smoke billowed from three of the chimneys, so Madam Bouchard evidently believed in investing in sufficient coal to keep the interior warm.

A prudent choice, if everyone runs about half-clothed in there.

Georgette knew well enough what a female body looked like in the altogether. She’d stood before the long looking glass in her room, pondering the changes her body had gone through over the years. But all her imagination had for fodder about nude men were the classical statues at the British Museum. Unfortunately, they had all either been vandalized in strategic places or were discretely covered with a marble fig leaf.

Oh, how she wondered what was so important it had to be hidden. Especially since the fig leaves weren’t all that big. She gave herself a mental shake. Her imagination was running rampant this morning.

“If it wasn’t the gentlemen who made you want to leave this life, what was it?” Georgette asked.

“It was the bully.” Mercy, who never showed any signs of trepidation, gave a little shiver.

“The bully? What’s that?”

“Not what. Who. In a whorehouse, the madam’s word is law, but she’s got to have somewhat to enforce it, don’t she?” Mercy clutched her cloak tighter around herself. “Otherwise, the gentlemen might get too frisky with the girls and whatever they wanted to do, there’d be no stoppin’ them.”

Mercy had led the way down the alley blithely enough, but now she made no move to advance through the wrought iron gate to the faded red door.

“That’s where the bully comes in. He makes sure one of the gentlemen don’t take a strap to a girl.” One of Mercy’s thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Unless he’s paid for the privilege, o’ course.”

“Paid for the—” There were some things even Georgette couldn’t imagine. She drew a deep breath and decided that she was indeed on the “ignorant side of useful.”

And happy to be there.

She cleared her throat. “It sounds as if this bully person is there for the girls’ protection.”

“That is how it sounds, don’t it?” Mercy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, like a sparrow on a windowsill so shallow it hadn’t room to settle. “Only there weren’t nobody to protect us from the protector.”

Georgette put a hand to her shoulder and the little maid stilled. “I’ll protect you, Mercy. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“And you’ll do the same for Vesta?”

Georgette nodded. Whoever this bully was, he dared not lift a hand to the daughter of a marquis or anyone she wished to shelter. If he did, her father would see the blackguard imprisoned or transported before he could spit.

“Now, let’s go see if your friend would like a new life.” Georgette pushed open the creaking gate and approached the red door. When she lifted her gloved hand to knock, Mercy stopped her.

“It ain’t locked,” she whispered as she turned the knob. “And best we goes quiet-like. That way we might be out again before Mr. Duggins knows we was in.”

Three

It didn’t take long for Nathaniel to find the Marquis of Yorkingham’s magnificent carriage in Covent Garden. It was drawing a sizable crowd of lookee-loos in the squalid neighborhood.

The solid-looking footman and the driver were doing their best to keep the riffraff from disturbing the matched pair of bays, but they couldn’t keep light-fingered wretches from breaking off pieces of the elegant gilt filigree on the back side of the coach. One enterprising crone had even reached into the windows with a pair of shears and liberated a section of the velvet curtains.

“I hear that the Marquis of Yorkingham’s daughter has wandered into these environs and I’m concerned for her welfare,” Nate said to the footman. “Can you tell me where Lady Georgette has gone?”

The fellow flicked him a quick assessing glance. Nate was glad he’d taken pains with his appearance before he went to White’s to fleece the willing yesterday. Even if his cuffs hadn’t glinted with gold, the cut of his clothing proclaimed him a gentleman. Relief sagged the footman’s shoulders.

“I’m fair concerned myself, milord. Her ladyship went down Lackaday Lane with her maid. Halfway down, red door, Mercy said. That’s where they’re bound. I’d have gone with milady,” the footman said, “but she left strict orders as I was to stay with the carriage.”

“Then you’d better do so, my good man. But be ready to go on the quick. I have a feeling the sooner Lady Georgette vacates this place, the better. Oh, and hang onto my hat and garrick until I return, would you?” Nate would have given the fellow his jacket as well since he fully expected fisticuffs at the least in the very near future, but it was far too cold to go without it.

The footman tugged his forelock in assent and Nate strode away down the fetid alley.

What on earth is the silly goose up to?

The lewd antics of the Prince Regent’s court had sparked a backlash in some quarters. Since returning to London, Nathaniel had encountered his share of moralists intent on improving everyone within earshot. Evidently, Georgette had become one of those insufferable bores.

Only a few “ladies of the night” were larks as well, but a handful had already positioned themselves by the windows in varying degrees of dishabille in order to entice new patrons. They blew kisses to Nate, and one of the bolder ones displayed her charms to him by dropping her filmy wrapper off one smooth shoulder.

He didn’t slow his pace.

Did Anne’s sister really believe she could bring an end to prostitution? Women fell into the life because it was easier than domestic service and the pay was buckets better. And men frequented light-heeled lasses because they were…well, men.

There was no stopping it.

Lady Georgette might as well try to make the sun go backward in the sky.

He lengthened his stride as he searched his memory for glimpses of her. Truth to tell, he found few of them. Maybe because it had been hard for him to have eyes for anyone else when his quicksilver Annie was about.

It seemed Georgette had always been there, on the fringes of social and family gatherings, taking part but certainly not taking the lead. A bookish sort, he recalled. Not that she was an ugly duckling. Georgette was pretty enough, in the manner of a small brown squirrel, he supposed. Simply unremarkable. He didn’t remember her ever expressing a strong opinion on anything.

When had Georgette turned into a fire-breathing crusader?

He heard a loud wail from up ahead and broke into a trot.

Must be the fire-breathing crusader herself.

What a colossal waste of time. He could have told her that no bawd would sit on her hands while some “holier-than-thou” made off with her meal tickets.

When he reached the red door, the unmistakable crash of broken crockery resounded behind it, along with another shriek. Nathaniel put his shoulder to the portal and gave it a shove.

The door swung open so quickly, he stumbled into the parlor, barely keeping his feet.

“Release me at once, you beast!” came a vaguely familiar voice.

The owner of it was slung over the shoulder of a monstrous big chap. He was carting the woman up the staircase. Judging from her fine clothing and ridiculously fashionable hat, she could only be Lady Georgette. A girl with a mobcap, who was likely Georgette’s maid, hopped up and down at the foot of the stairs, yelping like a demented pup. The giant ignored her pleas and, despite Georgette’s fists pummeling his back, he continued his ascent as if she were no more trouble to carry than a goodly sized sack of yams.

“I insist you unhand me this instant!” she demanded.

“I’ll unsomething ye, missy, and no mistake.” The fellow pronounced “I’ll” as if it were “oil.” “Madam always lets ol’ Duggins prick her new girls first. Break ye in good and proper, I will.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Nathaniel said in a calm, strong voice from his position at the threshold.

Georgette’s head jerked up and their gazes met. “Lord Nathaniel?”

“Lady Georgette.” Nathaniel gave her an elegant bow. The ridiculousness of the situation seemed to call for it. Even with her hazel eyes wide with indignation—she’d probably never admit it was fear as well—her oval face was far prettier than he remembered. “The years have been kind, my lady.”

The big chap on the staircase glanced over his shoulder and glowered at him. Georgette stared at Nate as if she still didn’t quite believe he was there.

A smile skittered across her features, accompanied by an appealing blush. Then the smile disappeared, though her high color remained, as she turned her attention back to her captor. She gave the man another thump between his shoulder blades to no avail. The bully turned around and shot Nate an evil, black-toothed grin, presenting the lady’s very shapely backside to him.

“What on earth…are you doing here…Nathaniel?” Georgette asked between repeated blows on the man’s ungiving back.

“Coming to your assistance, of course.” Nathaniel wondered if she had any idea how fetching her bum was waving in the air like that, her gown clenched tight across her hips. Even though she showed no skin beyond a fair bit of ankle and occasional calf when she struggled, Georgette was far more appealing than the lightskirts he’d seen on the way in to this den of Delilah’s.

The old Georgette would have been cringing in a corner. Now trapped in a situation that might daunt several men Nate knew, she was fighting back. And in a society where most debutants’ heads were filled with only lace and girlish dreams, Lady Georgette was at least trying to help someone else, no matter how misguided those efforts.

Somehow, Anne’s older sister had shed her unremarkable past to become…an interesting woman. Against Nathaniel’s expectations, an approving grin spread across his face.

Then she ruined his new assessment of her when she spoke with an acid tone. “If you intend to assist me, Lord Nathaniel, I suggest you do so. Quickly.”

Nate shoved past the maid, bounded up the steps, and planted his fist in the big fellow’s belly. When the man doubled over with a grunt, Nate pried Georgette from his arms and swung her around behind him. He expected her to bolt, but instead she remained on the staircase only a few steps below him, chattering something about someone named Vesta and how they couldn’t leave without her.

The big fellow recovered from Nate’s first blow to his midsection and began swinging. Nathaniel ducked and backed down the stairs, with Georgette crowding him from behind.

“Generally speaking, women who are being rescued are not so bossy,” he told her.

“And generally speaking, men who come to their rescue have a plan,” she snapped as she moved reluctantly down the stairs with him. “One would hope you had the presence of mind to bring a pistol.”

Nathaniel had had enough killing during his stint in the military. Carrying a firearm made resorting to deadly violence far too easy. “Afraid not.”

The man’s next swing barely missed Nate’s head and instead left a ham-sized dent in the crumbling plaster wall. The bully swore the air blue and shook his injured paw, but he kept advancing steadily.

“What about a sword?” Georgette asked.

“Left it in the parlor.” Nathaniel landed another punch to the bully’s chest. His chin was too high to reach since he was up a couple steps from Nate. Even if they’d been on equal footing, Nathaniel would have to move quickly to connect a solid blow to the big man’s jaw. His opponent had a serious advantage in length of arm. “Mother likes the way it looks over the mantel.”

“Surely you’ve a boot knife.”

“In my other boots.” He turned quickly to scoop Georgette up and carry her the rest of the way down the stairs since she didn’t seem to realize now would have been the right time for her to take to her heels. The bully lumbered after them. Nate was grateful that his opponent’s size also seemed to mean he was slow. “Lud, but you’ve become a bloodthirsty wench, my Lady Georgette.”

“You’ve no idea what I’ve become. We haven’t seen each other in years. And I’m certainly not your lady.” She pushed hard against his chest. “Put me down. Oof!”

He complied so quickly she barely had time to get her feet under her before he dropped her and turned back to face the madam’s henchman. Nate considered himself tall, but this fellow topped him by half a head and easily outweighed him by two or three stone.

“Here.” Georgette pulled an umbrella from the stand near the door and shoved the curved handle into his hand.

“What am I to do with this?”

“How should I know?” If she wouldn’t run away, at least she had sense enough to position herself behind him. “You’re the one who’s doing the rescuing.”

The bully put his head down and charged them. Nate sidestepped at the last moment, dragging Georgette with him, and the man barreled past them, roaring obscenities. Nate flipped the umbrella in his hand and used the curved handle to catch the bully’s ankle.

The big man fell headlong and slid across the bare hardwood, propelled by his own momentum, till his crown met the baseboard of the far wall with a loud thwack. He rose shakily on his elbows. Then he sank with a grunt and his forehead smacked the hardwood. The bully lay still as a corpse.

Georgette’s pink mouth formed a perfect O and her face went white as paper. “You’ve killed him.”

“Better him than me.” Nate bent to take a closer look at his downed foe. The man’s ribs expanded and contracted with deep breaths. “But no such luck. He’s just senseless. When he wakes, he’ll have a headache from Hades.”

Georgette folded her gloved hands before her primly. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“My lady, I’m exercising extreme discretion. You have no idea how badly this situation calls for me to be vulgar.” Nate grabbed her hand and led her out the faded red door. By the time they reached the wretched cobbles, squeals and shrieks erupted behind them as the madam and her girls discovered the inert body of their protector. The little maid Nate had noticed earlier followed hard after them as if her pantalets were on fire.

Georgette tugged against his grip, planting her feet. “No, we have to go back. We don’t have Vesta.”

“What you don’t have, milady, is sense.”

The maid outpaced them, knees and elbows pumping, and fled past, yelling for someone named Reuben.

“But you don’t understand—” Georgette began.

“No, you obviously don’t understand the peril you’re in.” Behind her, an older woman in a blue dressing gown a decade out of fashion appeared in the doorway and shook her fist at them. Nate figured she must be the proprietress. Then the madam and half a dozen of her girls came barreling after them.

“Now pick up your skirts and fly, Georgette,” Nate ordered. “Or I’ll carry you over my shoulder like a piglet on its way to market.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Four

I must have a sign on my forehead that reads “Please cart me away in the most undignified manner possible,” Georgette thought crossly.

The cobbles blurred as she bumped along. Twice in the last quarter hour, Georgette had found herself in this same ridiculous position, arms dangling, head down, bum to the sky. Only this time, she could scarcely draw a breath since her chest thumped Nathaniel’s back with each pounding stride.

Her bonnet ribbons came loose, and the cunning little capote flew free. She tried to catch it, but the long strips of satin slipped through her fingertips. The delicate lacy confection landed in the rivulet of yellowish slime, settling to float like a little boy’s paper boat on the Thames.

At least my slippers are safe this time.

Sounds of pursuit echoed through the narrow canyon of leaning structures, and intellectually, Georgette admitted Nathaniel was right about the need for haste.

But blast the man, he was not right about the way he manhandled her. And she’d tell him so.

As soon as she managed more than half a gulp of air.

“Quick, my lady,” Mercy shrieked from somewhere ahead of them.

As if I’m in control of how fast I go.

They burst out of dingy Lackaday Lane into the brighter sunlight of the wider street. Nathaniel shoved her through the open door of her carriage with no gentleness at all and clambered in after her.

“Close the door, Reuben!” Mercy ordered from the seat she’d taken next to the driver.

The coach door slammed so hard, its hinges rattled.

“Drive,” Mercy commanded in her best cockney screech, and the horses leaped into a jolting canter as the mob from Madam Bouchard’s spilled into the street after them. Georgette wondered if there had been enough time for Reuben Darling to leap onto his customary place at the back of the carriage or if he’d been engulfed by the sea of ragged silks.

Her heart hammered and she dragged in a sweet lungful of the lavender-scented air inside her father’s carriage. She had been in danger. Only now did Georgette allow herself to realize how much.

“That’s a very capable lady’s maid you’ve got there,” Nathaniel said as he sprawled on the opposite squab. By rights, he ought to have been as out of breath as Georgette, but instead the infuriating man merely spread his arms across the tufted back of his seat and cocked a brow at her. “You should listen to her more often.”

“And you should have listened to me. Do you realize that now I shall have to go back?”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“Because we didn’t even have a chance to speak to Mercy’s friend before we were set upon by the bully.”

“Who’s Mercy?”

“My maid. The one with whom you’re so impressed.” Georgette let her gaze flick around the small interior, not trusting herself to look directly at Nathaniel.

She’d often imagined what it would be like to be alone with a man in an enclosed coach. In her mind’s eye, the imaginary fellow would spout sonnets and gaze at her admiringly. At the end of the idyllic ride, perhaps he’d ask for one of her gloves as a memento.

Perfectly correct. Perfectly honorable.

She sighed. Like all her romantic fantasies, the one about being alone with a man in a coach always left her with a satisfying rosy glow in her chest.

Reality, by contrast, made her insides jitter. Nathaniel Colton was too big, too hawkishly handsome, too real to be so near in this confined space. And his fixed gaze, while definitely admiring, could not be counted either correct or honorable. Something about the way he looked at her, as if her clothing were suddenly transparent as wet muslin, made her skin flush with unaccustomed heat.

“What possessed you to stray down Lackaday Lane in the first place?” he asked.

This was safe ground. Georgette chattered nonstop through Leicester Square and Piccadilly about her goal of improving the lives of fallen women. By the time the carriage slowed in the wider, blessedly familiar streets of St. James’s Square, she was building to an impassioned finish that would have done credit to a country vicar with Methodist tendencies.

“My maid Mercy is a prime example. When offered the opportunity for change, she took it. So you see,” Georgette said, lacing her gloved fingers together, “I’m convinced that many of these young women want to leave their lives of shame for something better.”

“And that something better is learning to empty your chamber pot?”

Georgette drew her lips into a tight line. That was one of Mercy’s responsibilities, but certainly not the defining duty for a lady’s maid. Besides being indelicate for him to bring up such a thing in polite conversation, it was hardly fair to single out that demeaning little chore as an example of Mercy’s new life.

“Her domestic duties aside, my maid’s situation is much improved since she came to work for me instead of Madam Bouchard,” Georgette insisted. “Mercy is very clever. I’ve even been teaching her to read.”

“Careful. You may tread on some self-important toes,” Nathaniel warned. “There are those who deplore education for the lower classes.”

“More shame to them.”

“But you can see their point, can’t you? If a maid knows how to read as well as her mistress, it takes all the fun out of emptying her chamber pot.”

Georgette balled her handkerchief in her hand. The man was beyond exasperating.

“You’re missing my point entirely. Mercy didn’t have to become my maid. With the proper education she can become a shop girl, or a milliner if she has talent in that direction, or whatever she jolly well chooses. The point is, she has options.” Georgette leaned forward to lend weight to her argument. “Mercy was trapped in an existence filled with debauchery. She has exchanged it for a life of respectable work. What woman in her position wouldn’t make that choice?”

“Depending on the position”—he lifted a suggestive brow—“it’s been my experience that some women enjoy a little debauchery.”

Georgette gasped in surprise and that confounded flush started in again, heating her neck and creeping upward. “That’s the most deplorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Truly? Your conversations must be deadly dull, then. You really must get out more.”

“Of all the cheek!” What had her sister ever seen in this lout? Besides his wickedly handsome face and cobalt eyes, of course. “It’s that sort of debasing attitude that keeps women down, that keeps them from developing their God-given potential. The fault is not in our gender that our place in the world is smaller than a man’s. It is in lack of education. Women are kept in the most shameful state of ignorance and—”

Without warning, he reached across the small space, cupped her cheeks with both hands, and covered her mouth with his.

Her eyes flared in shock and she would have pulled back, but he was so much stronger than she. After all, he’d just carted her down the street in full flight without raising so much as a bead of perspiration on his brow. Any protest she might make over this kiss would be as fruitless as when she pounded on the bully’s back.

Besides, a secret part of her didn’t want to protest. That rebellious bit inside her wanted to revel in this exciting new sensation, devil take what was proper.

His eyes were closed as he slanted his mouth over hers, deepening their kiss, but Georgette kept hers wide open. Her heart hammered so hard, she felt each pounding beat in her ears. Nathaniel’s hands were firm, but his lips were surprisingly supple, conforming, melding to hers.

The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, and a wicked little thrill rippled over her. Her lips parted softly and he drew all the air from her lungs in a swoosh. Then he replaced it sweetly with his own and followed the warm breath with his tongue. He tasted of coffee, bracing and strong. When his tongue pulled back, she felt strangely bereft.

Mercy had complained of an ache in her “nethers” earlier. Now warmth pooled in Georgette’s. A soft, liquid sort of heat she’d never felt before.

Then Nathaniel’s eyes opened and he released her mouth. He was still close enough that his warm breath feathered across her lips. She suddenly realized that the carriage had come to a stop, but neither of them moved.

“Why…did you do that?” she whispered. Her stays were definitely too tight. She could scarcely breathe.

He gazed at her for several heartbeats, his expression questioning, as if he’d never seen her before. Then he leaned back in his seat and exhaled noisily.

“I honestly don’t know,” he admitted. “At the time, it seemed the best way to stop you from talking.”

She made a low growl in the back of her throat and demanded that Reuben open the carriage door. Then she turned back to glare at the man across from her.

He ought to be thankful that looks, indeed, cannot kill.

“Do not fret yourself, Lord Nathaniel. You will not be subjected to the sound of my voice for one moment longer.”

The carriage door opened and Reuben handed her down.

“It wasn’t the sound I objected to,” Nathaniel said as he climbed out after her. “It was the words. Have you considered that men wish to protect women from harm and that’s why you’re kept in ignorance about certain things? Your risky sojourn into Covent Garden is a case in point.”

If he was angling for a thank-you for carting her from Madam Bouchard’s, he was destined to drown that worm. He’d treated her as if she weren’t a thinking, rational being. As if she were a child.

Except for that blasted kiss…and even that was to keep me quiet!

“I may be safer here in St. James’s, but how can I remain willfully ignorant of the circumstances of my less fortunate sisters in other places?” She strode toward the door of Yorkingham House.

The irritating man matched her pace.

“If you want to do good, no one is stopping you,” Nathaniel said, “but there are other ways besides risking your pretty little…neck.”

She decided to let his unspoken indelicacy pass, but part of her wondered what he found pretty about her. Besides her neck. “How do you suggest I help those women while sitting on my hands here in St. James’s?”

“You might take on a partner.”

“Are you offering?” She laughed mirthlessly. “You forget that your reputation precedes you, Lord Nathaniel. I rather think you’d be more likely to invest in a brothel than try to shut one down.”

Reuben trotted ahead and opened the door to Yorkingham House for her. Nathaniel Colton followed her in as if she’d invited him. After closing the door behind them, she knew Reuben would nip back to the barouche. He and Mercy would ride it around the block and down the alley to the rear of the town house in order to use the servants’ entrance off the kitchen.

She’d heard some folk with democratic tendencies objected to that separation between the help and the family they served. If Nathaniel objected to Mercy emptying a chamber pot, he was probably a secret subversive when it came to maintaining distinctions between classes.

Oh, bother the man and what he may be! He had no right to make her feel defensive about what she was trying to accomplish with Mercy and any of her friends they could rescue.

Georgette’s soiled kid soles swished on the marble entry and she avoided her reflection in the grand mirror that hung above the Chippendale hall table. One gilded calling card glared up at her from the silver tray.

“Oh, blast!” she said as Humphrey, the house steward, helped her off with her pelisse and politely offered to take Nathaniel’s garrick and hat as well. Lord Nate’s coat was spotless while the hem of hers would never be the same. Her newest bonnet was now floating down a little stream of slime while his beaver hat was flawless. Even his dark hair rumpled in waves Byron would envy while she was sure her tumble-down coiffure more closely resembled a lady-of-the-night’s than a lady’s.

Truly, there is no justice in the world.

“You’re frowning at that card as if it were the embodiment of the Seven Deadlies,” Nathaniel said. “Something else vexes you more than my presence, my lady?”

She picked up the gilt card. “Lord Winthrop, the Duke of Cambridge’s emissary, has already been here today and obviously found me ‘not at home.’”

“Ah, yes, I believe I heard you’re in the running for the Hy—”

She shot him a warning glare and he very wisely brought his lips together. If he’d said “Hymen Race Terrific” in her hearing, she’d have been obliged to box his ears. The vulgar characterization of the royal duke’s attentions toward her was a sore spot. Obviously, journalists at the Times and its poorer cousins, the ubiquitous scandal sheets, had far too much time on their hands and too little serious news to report.

“If Winthrop came to see you this early in the morning, he ought not to be surprised to be turned away,” Nathaniel said, still standing in the foyer as if he expected to be asked to stay for tea.

Didn’t the man realize he was also far too early for a polite caller?

“While it’s true that ‘not at home’ could well mean that I’m simply not receiving at that hour”—or this one, for that matter!—“one is never ‘not at home’ to the royal duke’s representative.”

She tugged off her gloves in irritation. Even though she was rarely expected to speak at those little enclaves with His Highness’s minion, she was required to present herself with every appearance of meekness. The farce of her supposed mildness was her mother’s idea. Lady Yorkingham was so certain it would clinch the royal match, Georgette hadn’t the heart to dissuade her.

“I’m sure Lord Winthrop knew I was truly not in residence and will wonder where I was.”

“I take it His Royal Highness, the Duke of Cambridge, disapproves of your noble intentions toward the city’s lightskirts,” Nathaniel said.

“I highly doubt His Highness is aware of my intentions. Noble or otherwise. We’ve never even met face to face.”

“I believe that’s the done thing when it comes to royal courtships.” Nathaniel strolled across the marble foyer, hands clasped behind his back, to inspect the large Gainsborough landscape her mother had recently installed there, opposite an equally large mirror. Georgette caught herself admiring the breadth of Nate’s shoulders and quickly darted her gaze away from his reflection. “A royal marriage is always arranged by proxy and the parties finally come sashaying together at the altar. When it’s too late for either of them to bow out.”

Georgette’s belly wriggled like a bucketful of eels. She’d never asked for this to happen. Some debutants would be in raptures over the possibility of joining the royal family, but to Georgette, the thought of becoming part of the royal family was far more daunting a prospect than wandering down Lackaday Lane had been this morning.

But her father was one of King George’s staunchest allies in the House of Lords and a champion of the Prince Regent once it became clear His Majesty would never regain his wits well enough to truly reign. It was only natural that Georgette would be first to be considered for the honor of becoming a princess of the realm.

“Georgette Frances Barclay Yorkingham,” a voice bellowed from the first landing of the stairs.

Drat! When her father used all her names, she knew she was in deep trouble.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Don’t you ‘Yes, Papa’ me, young lady. What do you mean by gallivanting around, and in a dodgy part of the city, no less, before decent people are even out of bed?” The marquis stomped down the stairs.

Reuben peered over the banister at her for a blink, then disappeared.

Traitor! Perhaps Mercy was right to refuse him. The footman had obviously scurried directly to her father’s study to report on her activities.

“The duke’s man was here again and I was forced to send him on his way without you having a chance to make anything but a woefully sorry impression,” her father scolded. “What have I told you about—Oh! Lord Nathaniel, I didn’t realize you were still here. Well, of course you would be after pulling my girl from harm’s way this morning.”

Evidently Reuben’s account of her trip to Covent Garden was thorough as well as timely. Georgette had all but forgotten Nathaniel’s presence in the face of her father’s verbal blistering, but now she realized he’d taken station behind her, off her right shoulder.

Almost as if he was still guarding me.

“I’m gratified to have been of some small assistance, my lord,” Nathaniel said with a somber nod.

“No need for false modesty, son,” the marquis said, laying a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “I know full well what you did. It’s good to see you again. Been too long. Come up to my study for a bit if you’ve time. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Georgette released the breath she’d been holding. If Nathaniel could divert her father’s attention long enough, perhaps he’d forget about dressing her down as thoroughly as she expected.

Georgette’s father turned to go back up the stairs, and then tossed her a glance over his shoulder. “And you, young lady. Take yourself straight to your room. I’ll deal with you later.”

Georgette lifted her skirts and hurried past him up the stairs.

No such luck. Looks like Father won’t forget I’m owed a tongue-lashing after all.

Five

Nate watched Georgette climb the stairs to her room, head deferentially bowed. Once she passed her father, she lifted her skirts to ankle height and hurried up the rest of the flight, disappearing at the first landing.

It seemed strange to see her so cowed after the way her hazel eyes spat fire at him in the carriage. But then, plenty of peers in the House of Lords could attest to the intimidating presence of the Marquis of Yorkingham.

Why shouldn’t the peer seem just as intimidating to his daughter?

Nate’s chest ached strangely. It had been a mistake to kiss her on a whim. He was here to seduce her, and that sort of thing required planning and precision. All he’d done was put her on her guard.

And made his chest ache. He rubbed a palm across it, but the throb didn’t abate. He hadn’t expected to enjoy kissing her quite so much. It upset the devil’s bargain he’d made with himself. If he didn’t enjoy debauching this virgin, perhaps the act wouldn’t be counted as quite so despicable.

Instead his whole body pulsed with awareness when he was near Georgette, and this blasted tightness across his ribs danced on his last nerve. Obviously, he was going to enjoy bedding her far too much to rationalize it as a sacrifice he was prepared to make for the good of his family.

“Are you coming, Colton?” the marquis asked without looking back at him.

“Of course.” Nathaniel bounded up the steps till he came almost even with Lord Yorkingham. They marched together in companionable silence toward the marquis’s study.

The richly masculine room was paneled in dark walnut and smelled faintly of tobacco and fine cognac. Nathaniel’s father was always careful to keep those masculine pleasures confined to the smoking room at Colton House.

Rather than settle behind his throne-like desk, the marquis sank into one of the burgundy leather wing chairs. A pair of them flanked the fireplace, where an aromatic cherrywood fire blazed in the grate. He motioned for Nathaniel to take the other.

“Sit,” the marquis said when Nate didn’t comply quickly enough to suit him.

Nathaniel settled into the opposite chair and immediately sank into the cushion. There was at least a couple inches difference in the heights of the two seats. He was taller than the marquis when they were both standing, but now his lower seat reversed the situation neatly. The effect was subtle, but anyone conversing with the marquis in these chairs would of necessity feel smaller.

“Thank you for receiving me, my lord.”

“Come, there’s no need to stand on ceremony between the two of us. Call me Yorkingham.”

“I’m honored.” Nathaniel nodded, surprised. The marquis was notorious for keeping people of lower rank at a distance. As a second son, Nate was almost beneath his notice. Except for their history together.

“After all, we were once almost family,” Yorkingham said, giving voice to Nate’s thoughts.

Anne. Her sprightly presence shimmered between them. The second daughter paired with a second son. At the time, their match was approved all around since the marquisate of Colton was a well-respected and ancient peerage and the families had been friendly for generations.

Of course, that was before the scandal of Maubeuge tainted Nathaniel’s reputation. And before scarlet fever had claimed his Anne.

“How have you been?” the marquis asked.

“I’m sure you know the answer to that question better than I do myself.”

A man of Yorkingham’s stature had a web of informants to keep him apprised of everything of note within the realm of England and beyond. The marquis would know all about the disaster at Maubeuge, France, and about the way Nate had squandered his time since returning from that military debacle. There was no point in trying to hide any of it.

“We all grieve in different ways,” the marquis said, steepling his fingers before him. “I do not reproach you. It’s natural for a young man to turn to pleasures in order to forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“I know.” Sadness made the corners of the marquis’s eyes droop. “None of us have. When my marchioness isn’t decorating the house to within an inch of its life, she’s become a gardening fanatic, trying to pick up where Annie left off, I suppose. I keep myself buried in the business of the House of Lords and the affairs of the estate, but there are days when…” He waved a hand toward his desk with its piles of papers and reports. “Well, it all seems rather pointless sometimes.”

Nate nodded in agreement. When Anne died, he almost hadn’t known how to keep breathing in a world where she did not. It was part of why he’d bought a commission and went blithely to war. Before the defeat at Maubeuge, his daring in the face of danger won him a long string of commendations.

Nathaniel didn’t consider himself brave. The truth was he hadn’t cared if he lived or died.

Why not accept the most risky assignments and hazard his life as often as possible? It had saved countless other men who had wives and sweethearts waiting for them.

“In some ways,” the marquis went on, “I believe Georgette has suffered most over her sister’s death.”

Nate’s brows shot up in surprise. “How so?”

“She survived the fever when Anne didn’t,” Yorkingham said, his gaze directed to the fireplace flames. “She feels guilty for living.”

Nate had heard that Georgette retired to the Yorkingham country estate to recuperate for a couple years afterward. It was just as well. She’d have been publicly shunned by Society at first in any case.

“So now my Georgie has launched this benighted campaign to do good for the downtrodden whores of Covent Garden.” The marquis shook his head. “Honestly, I fear for the girl’s mind sometimes.”

“I don’t,” Nate said. “Lady Georgette is perfectly sensible and whatever you might think of her methods, her goal is an admirable one. But I think she needs help directing her efforts so she doesn’t put herself at unnecessary risk.”

“Ah, now you’ve hit upon it. She needs protection, but if I hire a guard for her, she’ll rail against it and declare that I don’t trust her.”

“That sounds like her.” Nate smiled.

“You handle yourself well, Colton. The incident at Covent Garden this morning proves that.” The marquis leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “Could you see your way clear to acting as her protector, without her knowledge, of course?”

“Today I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” Nate’s conscience pricked at the lie, but it was going to have to bear far more later. “I rather doubt Lady Georgette would appreciate me spying on her.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I had in mind that you’d take up residence here at Yorkingham House. Join her in her public outings. Help her with her little crusade,” Lord Yorkingham suggested. “As a friend.”

“As a friend,” Nate repeated. Guilt reared its pointed little head again, but he tamped it down. This was just the opening Mr. Alcock would insist he exploit. “But what about the Duke of Cambridge? Might not His Highness frown upon your daughter spending so much time with another gentleman?”

“If it were anyone else but you, I’d say yes,” the marquis said. “However, but for ill chance, you would have been Georgette’s brother. I don’t think the duke’s emissary will complain when I explain matters to him.”

“I don’t know.” Nathaniel cast the marquis a doubtful glance. Royal dukes were nothing if not territorial. One seeking a virginal bride was bound to be extra vigilant about his intended’s activities. And it wouldn’t do for Nate to jump too quickly at this chance, lest he arouse the marquis’s suspicions.

“Let me handle His Highness. Besides, it’s not as if the Season were in full swing. Most of the ton is still in the country. Only those of us heavily involved in Parliament and this whole sorry business surrounding Princess Charlotte’s unfortunate death are out and about here in London,” Yorkingham said. “It’s not as if you’ll be seen together. If I know Georgette, she’ll drag you to places not fit for Polite Society.”

“You might simply put your foot down and demand she abandon her work.”

“If I thought it stood a ghost of a chance of success I would, but I know my daughter. If she’d been born a man, my Georgie would have been a general.” The marquis chuckled. “There’s no turning her once she’s set her sights on something. She’s like me in that regard.”

Yorkingham leaned back in his seat, his eyes shifting as if searching for the right words. “There’s another matter as well.”

“What is it?”

“It’s come to my attention that someone may be trying to sabotage Georgette’s chances with the Duke of Cambridge.”

The hair on the back of Nate’s neck rose. The marquis was very well informed indeed.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea who might dare that?”

“Not yet,” he acknowledged. “But I will keep digging. In the meantime, that is another danger from which Georgette needs protection. Can I count on you?”

Part of Nate wanted to confess all, then and there, to tell the man who would have been his father-in-law about Alcock’s plot. But if he did, his own family was sure to suffer. Alcock would make certain of it.

What a perfectly wicked little circle.

“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel stood and nodded correctly to the man he was deceiving. “I’ll protect Lady Georgette from whatever outside threats might assail her.”

Of course, no one will protect her from the inside threat—me.

Six

The second-floor ballroom wasn’t Georgette’s favorite place in Yorkingham House. She liked dancing well enough, but only if there wasn’t anyone there to see her do it. The music room, with its butterfly-style grand, held little charm for her since it could not be said that she played the piano. It was more as if she pounded the keys into submission.

No, Georgette’s favorite place in her family’s spacious home was the library on the ground floor. The walls, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, held more books than she could read in a lifetime.

Her secret haunt was a darling little windowed alcove fitted with a banquette of tufted cushions. She could slip into that lovely corner with an apple and a couple travel books and be off to Zanzibar or South America or the frozen land of the czars. Or she could lose herself in a Sir Walter Scott poem and weep into her lacy handkerchief for his unhappy lovers who must only adore each other from afar.

Her father seemed to have forgotten about coming to finish railing at her. So after taking a luncheon tray in her room, she slipped out. With any luck at all, Georgette would have the library to herself all afternoon. She pushed through the tall double doors with hope in her heart and an apple in her pocket.

But the library was not empty. Nathaniel Colton had spread out one of her father’s detailed maps of the city on one of the large tables. He was leaning over it, tracing the winding streets with his finger.

He must not have heard her, for he didn’t look up. Instead he frowned down at the map. The years since she’d seen him last had scraped all excess boyishness from his face, leaving him lean and hard.

He’d always been a bit of a peacock, even when he was betrothed to her sister, dressing in tasteful, elegant lines. The cut of his jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and if she were close enough, Georgette was certain she’d see her reflection in his tall, gleaming Hessians.

Not that I wish to be that close to Nathaniel Colton.

“Come in if you wish, Lady Georgette,” he said without a glance toward her.

She blinked in surprise. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your scent. Even if two ladies are wearing the same perfume, every woman creates her own distinctive fragrance. Something to do with the oils in her skin, I’m told.” He slanted his gaze at her. “You wear that violet water well. I find some perfumes a bit overpowering, but yours is just sweet enough to catch a man’s nose.”

A little tingle crept down her neck, wiggled along her spine, and stayed to torment the small of her back.

He could smell her. There was something a tad indecent about that. It seemed far too intimate a thing for a man to tell a woman in a library.

“I have no wish to catch anything about you,” she said with a sniff. “Least of all your nose.”

“Then perhaps you should confine your toilette to carbolic soap.”

The man had no sense of boundaries whatsoever. “My toilette is none of your concern, and you will keep your nose to yourself.”

“You forbid me to smell your perfume?” He laughed. “I’d have to be a bit of a wizard to do that. A man may avert his gaze or stop his ears, but short of holding my nose whenever you’re around, which would undoubtedly occasion much comment, I can’t help but smell you.”

A frisson of irritation replaced the tantalizing tingle at the small of her back.

“Why are you still here?” she demanded.

He smiled at her as though her tone was welcoming. She’d made sure it wasn’t, but Nathaniel seemed impervious to her snubs.

“Your father invited me to stay at Yorkingham House as his guest for a bit. Since my family is still in the country till the Season officially starts, I suppose he thought the Colton town house seems a bit large for one person to rattle around in.”

“That’s an exaggeration, isn’t it? Even if your family isn’t in residence, there are no doubt any number of servants who keep the place,” she said as she advanced to the far side of the table and squinted down at the map. “So it couldn’t be said that you were properly alone.”

“Or perhaps I’d be improperly not alone.” He arched a brow at her.

She glowered at him. What was her father thinking to invite Nathaniel Colton to stay with them? Didn’t he know what Nate had become? She’d overheard whispers about his many light dalliances. And amorous abilities most men wished they possessed.

She swept those thoughts away with a stiff mental broom. Nate’s reputed bed skills were the last thing she should contemplate.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “A man like you is never alone.”

“A man like me? Are you inferring that I’d have feminine company?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I seem to have feminine company now, don’t I?”

He actually had the effrontery to wink at her.

“You won’t have it long,” she said with a huff. “Good day, milord.” She started toward the door. Sir Walter Scott and Zanzibar would have to wait.

“No, stay, Georgette. I apologize. I shouldn’t tease you,” he said. “But you make it so deucedly easy, you know.”

She shot him a glare that made him raise his hands in mock surrender.

“All right. You win. I promise to behave.” He turned his attention back to the outspread map, but lifted his hand in a summoning gesture. “Come. I’ve discovered something that may interest you, actually.”

She hesitated. Nathaniel’s kiss that morning wasn’t the sort of thing she could easily dismiss. She ought not to spend time with him.

Of course, it wasn’t as if that had been her first kiss. Last Christmas, Lord Roger Fishwick had stolen a kiss from her under the mistletoe at her family’s house party. Even with copious amounts of rum punch thrown into the mix and the frivolous holiday atmosphere, the kiss wasn’t very remarkable. Roger’s lips were wet and slippery, like the underside of a lily pad. The memory of his kiss certainly didn’t make her toes curl inside her shoes.

Not like her toes curled now just looking at Nathaniel Colton. She didn’t dare lower her guard with him, but his absorption with the map piqued her curiosity.

“What is it you think will interest me?”

“I believe I am the proud owner of the property across the lane from that brothel you and I exited in a hurry this morning. Take a look at this.”

Against her better judgment, she drifted back toward the table and the outspread map. “How did you come by this property if you don’t know for certain where it is?”

“I won it in a poque game at White’s.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not surprised in the slightest.”

“Don’t be so gloomy, Georgette. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not gloomy.” She wished his hair didn’t curl behind his ears in a way that made her fingers itch to smooth it down. “I’m disapproving. There’s a difference.”

“Is that another way of saying you care that I waste my time gambling?”

“It matters not a bit to me how you waste your time.”

“Then if you don’t care, stop frowning. Your face will grow like that and it’d be a shame.” He shot her a quick grin before looking back down at the map again. “It’s such a pretty face, you know.”

Was he teasing her again or did he mean it? He’d seldom been serious as a boy. Now that he was a man, it was hard to tell when to take him at his word.

“Well, your frown over my gambling aside, this was one game of chance that wasn’t wasted. Here’s the legal description of the property.” He dropped a yellowing piece of parchment on top of the map. “If I’ve interpreted this correctly, its location is here.” He pointed to a parcel on Lackaday Lane, that same narrow alley in Covent Garden where Mercy’s friend was trapped at Madam Bouchard’s House of Pleasures for Gentlemen of Quality.

“You seem inordinately enthusiastic about a property that is likely in a sad state of repair,” Georgette said.

He shrugged. “A property can always be improved. I’m a second son, remember, which means I must make my own way in the world.”

He fisted his hands at his waist and for a moment, Georgette imagined him at the prow of a pirate ship, piloting his own future. He’d make a proper rogue with an eye patch, she decided with an inward sigh. Then she resolved to put her imagination in a drawer while she was with Nathaniel Colton. Could be dangerous.

“Collecting rents strikes me as a fine way to support my gambling habits,” he said, obviously trying to get another rise out of her.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly, refusing to take the bait. “You probably own a house of ill repute.”

“You may be right.”

“Which means the rents you receive will come at the cost of abject misery for those young women who are bound to that degrading life.”

“As I recall, you are enthusiastic about women making their own choices. If this property is a brothel, the women who work there made theirs.”

“No, not all of them. Many have no other way to survive,” she said.

Nathaniel looked up from his map again. A frown marred his brow. “You seem to know a great deal about this subject. How is that?”

“I’ve read accounts.”

He snorted. “Mostly in tabloids and scandal sheets, I’ll be bound.”

He was right, drat the man! Frustrated, she began to pace, knotting her fingers together as she went. “Usually I ignore those gossipy rags, but occasionally even a blind squirrel finds a nut of truth.”

He left the map and fell into step with her around the spacious room. It made her feel like a rabbit in a walled garden, cornered by a large dog.

“I suspect most of those stories have been highly romanticized in order to touch soft hearts like yours,” he said when she stopped by the bust of Cicero on a waist-high Doric column.

“Next I suppose you’ll claim I’m softheaded, too.”

“No, just too naïve to know better. People generally do what they want to do. If it eases their conscience to say they were pressured or tricked into bad behavior, I’ll let them say it.” A hard expression flicked across his features, a tightening of his mouth and a tick of the muscle in his cheek. Then it disappeared as quickly as it came. “But I won’t be fooled by it. We all make our own choices and must live by them.”

He advanced on her slowly, boxing her into a corner between her father’s collection of rare medieval codices and her mother’s copious gardening books.

“But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to help those girls out of that life,” Georgette said, trying to ignore the fact that it was hard to draw a deep breath. She really ought to have had Mercy loosen her stays.

He leaned a palm on the bookshelf near her shoulder and Georgette’s bum pressed against the book spines. He ran the knuckles of his other hand over the hollow of her cheek and then brushed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. The sensitive spot tingled in his wake.

“Georgette.”

She’d never much cared for her name. It had always seemed too harsh, too masculine. But when he caressed the syllables with his deep bass, he made it sound soft and feminine.

“You’re getting yourself in a tizzy over something you can’t change,” he said.

He was so close she could smell his scent—all spicy bergamot with an undernote of burnished leather. She inhaled him all the way to her curled toes.

“Saying I can’t change things isn’t a very effective way of trying to silence me. It only makes me more determined.” She met his gaze and her insides melted at the heat of it. “Or do you intend to kiss me again to keep me quiet?”

Seven

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Nathaniel whispered.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. Then she looked back up at him, indecision plain on her face.

It shouldn’t be this easy to seduce her. By rights, he ought to have to scale a castle wall or slay a dragon for her, even if it was an imaginary one as he had done back when they were children. Of course, then it had always been Anne’s gauzy kerchief he’d tried to win as a favor in their games, not a kiss.

Why had he never noticed the way Georgette’s eyes seemed to change color, going from a soft greenish-gray to the almost opalescent slate they were now? A trick of light? he wondered. Or was it just that her pupils had widened enough to darken the whole?

“No.” She dropped her gaze, dark lashes settling on her cheeks in sooty crescents. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

“Oh, my lady, you took far too long to answer.” He leaned closer, stopping only about an inch from her mouth. “You shall have to pay a penalty now.”

He wasn’t sure whether he closed the distance between their lips or if she moved toward him, but suddenly his mouth was on hers again.

Lud, she was so sweet. Soft and pliant.

Warm, wet, and tasting just slightly of plum tart the Yorkingham cook had served at luncheon, Georgette’s lips were a revelation. There was a tender give and take in their kiss, a bending he hadn’t expected from an upright miss like her. She tilted her head a bit and parted her lips in silent invitation. He slipped in his tongue for a leisurely exploration of her mouth.

The little minx sucked it.

Then she made a soft, needy noise that went straight to his groin. He ached to hear her make that sound again, to make her beg before he gave her ease.

When he pressed himself against her, she rocked against him a little.

Sweet Jezebel!

How could she rail against sin and then indulge in it with so little encouragement? This was one virgin who would take to his decadent bed games with enthusiasm.

She nipped his bottom lip and the shock of it made his rock-hard cock pulse once. He drew back in surprise.

“Where did you learn that?”

Her eyes flared wide. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, you did it very right.” He kissed his way along her jawline and she tipped up her chin to give him easier access to her neck. He narrowly resisted giving her a love bite on that tender skin. “But where did you learn how to do it?”

“I read about it.”

“Really. Where?”

“Well, I told you I was teaching Mercy to read and…” She seemed distracted by his mouth and stopped speaking long enough to kiss him again, long and deeply, as if she couldn’t help herself. When she came up for air, she continued as if her sentence had only suffered an elongated comma. “And she was bored by Mother’s books on horticulture and couldn’t concentrate, so I asked my friend, Lady Constance Shipley, for something that might be more to Mercy’s tastes.”

“What books would those be?”

Georgette’s cheeks pinked to the color of cherry blossoms. “Just one book, actually. It’s not a book so much as a journal, you see. It’s the memoirs of a courtesan. I thought Mme. Charpentier was exaggerating when she explained that a kiss serves the same function as an appetizer.”

Nate laughed. “In the feast of love, that’s exactly what it is.” Georgette’s kisses had certainly made him hungry for more. “What else does this Mme. Charpentier have to say?”

She swallowed hard. “I…I don’t want to talk about it.”

Suddenly Georgette ducked under his arm and escaped from the corner. She put a hand to her hair and smoothed back a light brown lock that had escaped the loose bun at her nape, studiously avoiding looking at him.

“So.” She cleared her throat noisily. “What do you intend to do with the brothel you’ve acquired?”

Just like that, she’d turned from a delightful wanton back into the crusading prig. Before he could answer, the library door swung open and the Yorkingham steward, Mr. Humphrey, stood framed in the opening. With his sagging jowls and perpetually sad eyes, Humphrey reminded Nate of a blooded hound who’d run his quarry to ground.

“Lady Georgette, Lord Winthrop has come calling again and is awaiting your pleasure in the parlor,” Mr. Humphrey said. “Your lady mother is there already and is expecting you forthwith. Shall I send for tea?”

“Yes, do,” Georgette said. Then she turned to Nate. “Forgive me, Lord Nathaniel, but I’m certain you understand. One doesn’t make the royal duke’s emissary wait.”

Without a pause for his reply, she scurried from the room, a becoming cherry pink flush on her cheeks and the scent of violets in her wake.

“Will you be wanting tea here in the library as well, my lord?” Humphrey said, a pointed reminder that Nate was not invited to take his refreshments in the parlor with Lord Winthrop, Lady Yorkingham, and the daughter of the house.

“No, Humphrey, no tea. But I wouldn’t say no to whatever sort of whisky you might have.”

The steward raised his brows but refrained from comment as he went to do Nate’s bidding.

Let Humphrey think what he will.

Georgette had just kissed him with all the flair and thoroughness of an accomplished courtesan. Then she skittered away like a green girl. It would take more than a couple fingers of spirits to untangle the puzzle of this unexpectedly complicated miss.

***

“Thank you, dear lady,” Lord Winthrop said to Georgette’s mother as she handed him a steaming cup of Earl Grey. The aging noble took a sip and then made short work of three finger sandwiches without pausing for a breath.

Small wonder he spills out of the Sheraton chair on both sides, Georgette thought uncharitably.

“Now to the business nature of this social call.” Lord Winthrop brushed a few sandwich crumbs from his lapel. “I am empowered to suggest that His Highness should like to see the Lady Georgette in a social setting. A musical evening, perhaps? Does the young lady play?”

Georgette cringed inwardly. Her attempt at the piano was a legendary disaster. After years of lessons, she was finally allowed to stop when Humphrey reluctantly asked, on behalf of the staff, that they be given time off during her practice period so they wouldn’t be subjected to her painful scales.

“My daughter only plays for intimate family gatherings,” her mother said smoothly.

Or whenever Father wishes to torture someone, Georgette added silently.

“Anything else has always struck Lord Yorkingham as unnecessarily pushing oneself forward,” Lady Yorkingham continued.

Oh, well done, Mother. Only, be careful. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

Georgette hid her smile behind a napkin. She honestly didn’t know why her presence was required at these little meetings with Lord Winthrop. She was hardly ever expected to speak on her own behalf.

“Then a ball, perhaps.” The aging lord lifted a wiry gray brow at Georgette. Then he blew on his tea to cool it. “You do dance, do you not?”

Since he’d addressed her directly, Georgette was allowed to answer, but she was saved from reply by her mother.

“Of course she does,” Lady Yorkingham said. “Her dance master assures me that our Georgette is quite a graceful dancer.”

Who’s always afraid she’s going to fall on her face. Her mother might not want her to speak more than necessary, lest she say something off-putting, but no one could stop her from thinking as loudly as she pleased.

“Dancing well is a mark in Lady Georgette’s favor,” Winthrop said. “The country loved Princess Charlotte for her gaiety and vivacity. His Royal Highness, the Duke of Cambridge, is anxious to present the populace with a princess who will win their hearts as his niece did. It would help matters considerably if his future consort did not possess two left feet.”

A virgin womb and a dowry that would sink a galleon is evidently insufficient inducement for the duke. Apparently, I’m also to perform like a trained monkey.

Georgette buried her nose in her teacup and prayed she’d be able to keep those rebellious thoughts from slipping out of her mouth.

“Then I think a ball will do nicely to present our dear daughter and the duke to Society as a couple.” Lady Yorkingham took a sip of her own brew and Georgette could practically see the wheels turning in her inventive brain.

Her mother was a splendid hostess who delighted in dreaming up themed entertainments. The ton still rhapsodized over the Venetian Carnival ball Lady Yorkingham had presided over the year before Anne died. Acrobats had descended from the ceiling on long golden cords. Blue silk “canals” flowed over the polished hardwood, leading guests from one room to the next. Refreshments were wheeled in on gondola-shaped tables, and the footmen were decked out as harlequins. Georgette didn’t know how her mother could top that, but undoubtedly, Lady Yorkingham would try.

“Excellent,” Lord Winthrop said. “His Highness could see his way clear to attend, providing the date was a fortnight hence.”

“Oh! So soon?” Shock registered on her mother’s face for a moment, but then she recovered. “I rather thought after Princess Charlotte’s untimely demise, the royal family would not wish to be seen engaging in public social pursuits until the Season begins in earnest.”

Neatly deflected. Georgette knew her mother was aghast at the thought of planning and giving a ball opulent enough to be attended by a royal in the space of two measly weeks.

Georgette was doing a little deflecting of her own, trying to keep her attention on the conversation at hand. Every other minute her mind wandered back to Nathaniel and his kisses. The liquid heat of those wicked moments made her “nethers” tingle afresh with remembered warmth.

She ought to feel chagrined about letting the kiss happen, but the feel of his mouth on hers was such an interesting experience. Much more like Mme. Charpentier’s memoirs than her mother’s cryptic advice. Since Mme. Charpentier had been so accurate in her description of a kiss and its effects, Georgette decided there were definitely some other journal entries that deserved a second reading. It would certainly be safer than allowing Nathaniel to show her more about the “pleasures of love” firsthand.

But much less fun.

“Of course, the royal family is still grieving Princess Charlotte, even though they’ve put off official mourning,” Lord Winthrop said. “I’m sure you’re aware that the succession is in question and until one of the royal dukes presents King George with a grandchild, niceties like full mourning must, of necessity, give way to practicalities.”

Like getting me with child as quickly as possible after the vows are spoken.

Lord Winthrop raised a lorgnette, a throwback to the previous generation, and gave Georgette an unhurried perusal through the lens. She resisted the urge to squirm under the man’s intense scrutiny.

I wonder that he doesn’t ask to check my teeth for soundness.

She also wondered about her wedding night. Would the royal duke bite her like the stallion bit the mare or kiss her into submission like Nathaniel could?

“The royal duke undoubtedly has many pressing matters clamoring for his time,” Lady Yorkingham said carefully. “Surely two weeks is too little notice for an event to be included in his schedule.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be correct, but I’m certain you understand the need for haste. The Duke of Cambridge has many demands upon him, but rest assured, His Highness will give the match with Lady Georgette his full consideration. May I tell the Duke of Cambridge that he should expect to attend a ball here in a fortnight?”

Lord Winthrop lowered the lorgnette, apparently satisfied with what he’d seen. “If he’s pleased with your daughter, who knows? The ball might serve as celebration of a betrothal to be followed shortly by a royal wedding.”

What if I’m not pleased with the Duke of Cambridge? The words danced on Georgette’s tongue, but she wisely kept them pirouetting there. She sometimes suspected if she thought things hard enough, the words might appear in bubbles over her head like the cartoons in the tabloids.

“I’m certain our Georgette will find favor in his eyes.” Lady Yorkingham smiled brightly at Winthrop. She’d been a celebrated beauty in her day and still retained the high-cheeked loveliness that didn’t fade. “My daughter is every inch a princess already.”

Georgette thought that was doing it a bit too brown. Evidently, Lord Winthrop did too, because he gave a noncommittal grunt.

“We shall leave that to His Highness to decide, but I am authorized to tell you that the duke is highly gratified with the reports he’s received concerning the Lady Georgette to date.”

Which probably means my dowry is sized to suit.

Lord Winthrop began to make leaving noises, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat in preparation for hauling his bulk into an upright position. Georgette rose when he did. She dipped in the correct curtsy and followed her mother as Lady Yorkingham swanned across the parlor to see Lord Winthrop out.

Then once he was gone, her mother’s calm, collected facade shattered. Lady Yorkingham shot back across the space to the bell pull, muttering decidedly unladylike things as she went. In Georgette’s imagination the swan had become a goose, squawking across the farmyard in an explosion of feathers.

“A fortnight!” Lady Yorkingham paced in a tight circle, waiting for the steward to appear. “The man has the audacity to demand a ball fit for royalty in only two weeks. Why, that’s not even enough time for new gowns. Let alone all the other myriad details to which I’ll have to attend. Honestly, does His Highness think all one needs to do is speak and the event will come to pass?”

“It’s called ruling by fiat, and yes,” Georgette said, “royalty does tend to think that’s how the world works.”

“Don’t be cheeky, Georgie,” her mother scolded. “Ah, Humphrey, there you are. We have an emergency. Bring my Domesday Book.”

That was her mother’s name for her collection of approved caterers, entertainers, and purveyors of assorted fripperies necessary for a grand fete. A vendor had to be a cut above his fellows in order to be accorded the honor of an entry in the Domesday Book.

“Call Cook, Mr. Rigsby, and Mrs. Thistle for a meeting here in”—Lady Yorkingham checked her pendant watch—“a quarter hour.”

Oh, dear. The cook, the butler, and the housekeeper all in one room.

“Don’t you know they’re feuding a bit at present?” Georgette said. Mercy was a fount of information when it came to below-stairs gossip. “It seems Mr. Rigsby claimed that Mrs. Thistle moved the bust of Purcell from the music room, and Cook took her part when she said she didn’t. Then Mrs. Thistle told Cook she could hold her own against the likes of Mr. Rigsby, thank you very much, and the two women haven’t spoken a civil word since.”

“Not now, Georgette, I’m trying to think.” Her mother gave her a swift head-to-toe perusal. “No matter what, you simply must have a new gown. Something in red, I think. Yes, that’s it. We’ll do a St. Valentine’s theme. Thank heavens, the feast day falls close to the date His Highness has decreed.”

“Indeed,” Georgette said wryly. “Just imagine if the ball had fallen on the Feast of St. Sebastian. Our footmen should have been obliged to carry bloody spears instead of little gilt bows and arrows.”

Her mother frowned at her. “Honestly, Georgette, I don’t know where you come up with these odd ideas. Well, at least you didn’t say anything like that while his lordship was here. Now, get you gone and quickly. Oh, no, wait.” She called her back with a frantic gesture. “I shall need the barouche this afternoon. There are ever so many details to attend. Oh, I know.” She clapped her hands together in relief that one thing, at least, seemed to be going right with her newest, most urgent project. “Find Lord Nathaniel.”

“Why?”

“Your father told me he’ll be staying with us for a bit and he may as well make himself useful. Have Nathaniel escort you to the modiste by hackney. Yes, it’ll do the lad good to have something constructive to do.”

Her mother nodded as she tapped her temple, her mind obviously scurrying on to the next item on her rapidly composed mental inventory.

“Tell Madam Reynard that she shall have two, no, three times her usual fee if she turns out your new gown in time. Now off you go!”

Her mother waved her away and flew to the escritoire to record the burgeoning list of items to be accomplished before the fateful ball. “Two weeks,” she muttered.

Two weeks. The finality of it draped over Georgette like a shroud. In only a fortnight, she might be betrothed to a member of the royal family, her future plotted out for her without room for a single turn to the left or the right.

Her father and mother had discussed the possibility of the match with her the day after Princess Charlotte died last November. The Duke of Cambridge’s operatives had moved swiftly when they realized a crown was at stake in the “Hymen Race Terrific.” Georgette was quickly identified as one of a handful of young ladies to be given prime consideration for the honor of bearing a future ruler of England.

It hadn’t seemed real until now.

Numbly, she walked out the parlor doors and down the stairs to the library. Her kid soles seemed to swish the same message on each pair of steps: “Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks.”

Eight

Georgette chattered nonstop through Grosvenor Square. She changed topics several times and barely paused for a breath. All that was required of Nate was an occasional grunt of agreement or merely a nod if she happened to glance his way. As the cab neared the Mayfair establishment of Madam Reynard, the exclusive modiste who clothed the Yorkingham women, along with a few select others from among the top tier of the ton, Georgette launched into a second rehashing of her mother’s recommendations for the color of her new gown. She didn’t seem to recognize that there was only so much one could say about red.

Nathaniel let her talk. She obviously needed to.

Besides, he enjoyed hearing her voice, even if the words were running together and one sentence spilled onto the next without a proper break. Obviously she was excited about the upcoming ball, but he sensed it wasn’t simply girlish anticipation. He detected a glint of terror in her eyes each time she mentioned the royal duke. Finally he stopped her by pressing two fingers to her lips.

“I collect that you’re wound up, Georgette. Women generally are when a ball and a new gown are in the offing,” he said. “But something tells me you’re vexed as well.”

Her brows tented in obvious consternation. “It’s that apparent?”

“Probably not to anyone but me. But then, I am attending to you rather closely.” Against his expectations, he liked paying attention to Georgette. The mercurial change of expressions that flitted across her features made her face a constant feast for his eyes. “Now what’s bothering you?”

She gnawed her lower lip for a bit, long enough for him to wish he could suckle it as well.

“I simply don’t know how I’ll manage it,” she finally admitted.

“Manage what?”

She looked out the window, but he suspected she wasn’t interested in the foot traffic on the street. She was avoiding his gaze.

“Well, if you must know, although my parents are all agog with the idea, I’m not particularly keen on the match with the Duke of Cambridge.”

He snorted. “Most women would be in raptures at the thought of becoming royalty.”

Part of him was very glad Georgette wasn’t “most women.”

“I suspect the entire business of being royal is a great deal of trouble most of the time, but I suppose I could get used to that,” she said as if becoming a princess were as fine a thing as developing a bunion.

She was so different from any other woman of his acquaintance. He shot an approving grin at her.

“Then if it’s not the bother of being addressed as ‘Your Royal Highness,’” he said, “what is it that troubles you about the match?”

“Other than the fact that I know next to nothing about the duke himself, you mean?”

“What is there to know? The Duke of Cambridge is King George’s sixth son. His Christian name is Augustus Frederick, but no one calls him that.”

Nate could have added that the duke had already tried to marry Lady Augusta Murray twice, but each time the secret liaison was set aside because King George refused to approve it. If Georgette didn’t know that the Duke of Cambridge had already sired a couple of recognized bastards, that was all to the good. It certainly wasn’t the sort of information that would calm her fears.

“The Duke of Cambridge may not ever wear the crown himself, but if all goes as he plans, he’ll put his progeny on the throne after Prinny,” Nathaniel said. “That’s all most women would care to know.”

He might have imagined it, but he thought she shivered a bit.

“That’s not nearly enough information. There’s an ocean of things for me to know about a man if I’m destined to marry him.” She proceeded to tick items off on her gloved fingers. “What books does he like? Does he prefer cricket or lawn bowling? Did he have a pony as a boy? What was its name? What’s his favorite color? Were his—”

“Since marriage lasts ‘till death do you part,’” Nate interrupted to save her from running out of breath, “I expect you’ll have time to discover the answers to all those burning questions.”

She swatted his forearm with irritation. “Oh, you don’t understand. It’s not the answers that are important.”

“Then what is?”

“It’s the asking of them and listening to the answers. It’s getting to know the man behind those answers. And I hope he’d want to get to know me as well,” she said, her tone decidedly wistful. “Do you know I’ve never even seen the duke up close?”

Nathaniel had. He was no judge of male attractiveness, but he thought she hadn’t missed much. The duke was pushing forty-five years old and a life of dissipation had taken its toll. Nate wasn’t about to say so, however. Georgette was upset enough already.

“And if I wed the royal duke, long before I know who he is, he’ll have to…well”—her cheeks bloomed with those patches of pink Nate was coming to love—“to know me.”

“In the biblical sense, you mean.”

She nodded and stared down at her fingers which were hopelessly knotted together on her lap.

“So you’re concerned about the wedding night,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on the seat beside her. A red haze descended on his vision when he thought about another man taking Georgette’s maidenhead, and it had nothing to do with Mr. Alcock’s directive. “Perhaps that’s something you ought to discuss with your mother.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t imagine why. I rather suspect she’s still waiting for someone to talk with her about her wedding night. She and Father had an arranged marriage, you know. They quite literally met at the altar.”

“There you are. You have a perfect example of how a made match can work.”

Her brows drew together in a frown. “That’s just the trouble. I don’t know that it did. Maybe before Anne died things were different.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “I scarcely remember, but now, they both seem to live their own lives and only meet across the supper table.”

Nate squeezed his eyes shut. Before Anne died, everything was different. He was different. Why should Lord and Lady Yorkingham not be changed forever by their loss as well?

Suddenly he felt Georgette’s hand on his, soft and slender and warm.

“I’m sorry for mentioning Anne, Nate,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “It’s not your fault. It simply is. Actually, it’s a relief to hear someone speak her name.”

Georgette made no move to extract her hand from his. “I know what you mean. It’s as if no one wants to even acknowledge she lived. As if we can pretend she didn’t leave a hole in all our hearts.”

“She wouldn’t want us to feel that way.” He was echoing his mother’s counsel. She insisted it was best to shove away the sadness. An act of the will, that was all it took. If Nathaniel were only made of sterner moral fiber, he could will away his grief.

“No, that’s not true,” Georgette said. “Anne would want us to feel the way we feel. She was very straightforward like that.”

He made a soft “hmph-ing” sound. “So she was. I’d forgotten.”

Georgette sighed. “I’m always afraid of that. Forgetting, I mean. Even now, sometimes I can’t see her face clearly in my mind.”

Nate’s chest constricted. So many things had happened since he lost Anne—his life of soldiering and subsequent disgrace along with his attempt to live down to his bad reputation. There’d been too many meaningless wagers, too many empty couplings with women who meant nothing to him or he to them, too many endless nights of drunken revelry that he couldn’t recall properly the next morning.

Some days Anne was a shadowy figure in his memory and he blamed himself for losing her afresh.

“I know what you mean,” he admitted, tapping his temple. “She’s a bit hazy around the edges.”

“Perhaps that’s the way things are meant to be,” Georgette whispered. “I think it’s time’s way of softening memories that are too hard to bear if they stay so crisply edged. That doesn’t mean we don’t still love her. It only means our hearts are protecting themselves.”

He studied her profile and wondered why he’d never noticed the sweet indentation beneath her lower lip that gave her chin its determined set. Winsome and willful, hers was a face full of contradictions.

What else had he missed about Georgette?

“When did you become so wise?” he asked.

She laughed again, but it was different this time. Not the wry laugh of the cynic, or the annoying twitter of most debutants, but a low musical sound that bespoke true amusement. “When one has been a wallflower as often as I, one has plenty of opportunity to think.”

“I can’t imagine why you’ve been on the sidelines.”

“Really? Do you think strong opinions endear a young lady to prospective suitors?”

“At least you have opinions. Most debutants don’t. Unless it’s about something to do with the latest French lace.” Of course, he’d avoided debutants as if they might give him hives. Underappreciated wives or jaded widows had been his bed partners of choice in recent years.

She sighed. “In truth, I’m hopeless in social settings.”

“Never say so.”

“It’s true. I dance like an angel for my dance master, but put me in a quadrille square with a real partner and I’m terrified of turning the wrong direction and ruining the set for everyone.”

“Perhaps we should practice together, then.” It would give him a chance to touch her and hold her close without arousing her suspicion. Though to his pleasant surprise, she was still allowing him to hold her hand. “I’m not your dancing master so it’ll be more like an actual ball.”

“That might help.” She tilted her chin, considering his offer. Then a smile broke over her face, luminous as a thousand candles. “Thank you, Nathaniel.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” He squeezed her hand and she suddenly withdrew it from his grasp as if she’d just realized he was still holding it.

“Oh!” She leaned toward the window and peered out. “How long has the cab been stopped?”

“A while.”

“We ought to be going in then. Madam Reynard will close soon.”

“In a moment. You asked some penetrating questions earlier,” Nathaniel said. “Even though I’m not the Duke of Cambridge, I’d like to answer them.”

He took her hand again and sandwiched it between his. She stiffened briefly, but then relaxed her fingers.

“Now let me see if I can remember them all,” he said. “The best book I ever read was Robinson Crusoe. I don’t like either cricket or lawn bowling. Fencing is my game. My first pony’s name was Thistle. The fat little beast was a demon on four hooves and wasn’t happy unless he ran me under a low-hanging branch at least once a day.”

“Oh, I remember him! What a good judge of character Thistle was.” She laughed again and this time her cheeks bloomed with that glorious pink as well.

“And my favorite color,” Nathaniel said, leaning toward her slightly, “is whatever color your eyes happen to be at the moment.”

“Oh.” Her mouth parted softly. “That may well be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Then the world is full of fools.” He reached up and cupped her cheek. “You really are extraordinary, you know.”

“Am I?”

“You are. And you should be told so often enough for you never to doubt it again.” He bent to kiss her again and brushed her lips lightly. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and yet I feel in some ways as if we’ve just met. I remember the girl you were. I’d like very much to know the young woman you’ve become.”

And not only in the biblical sense, he finished silently. He moved closer and would have followed up that light buss of her lips with a deeper kiss, but she put a splayed hand to his chest.

“Nate, do you think…I mean…is this wise?”

“Wise? Probably not. But didn’t I just tell you the world is full of fools?” He claimed her mouth again.

This time she didn’t stop him.

Nine

This is so wrong. I shouldn’t allow it.

But the wrongness of the kiss didn’t seem to matter at the moment. Nathaniel understood her as no one else did. When he looked at her, he saw only her.

Simply Georgette. Not an alliance with a powerful peer. Not a shadowy possible heir. Not the ephemeral crown of England.

Just her.

She grasped his lapels and drew him closer.

His mouth was a whole world. Warm, wet, and insistent. She dove in with abandon, lost in the mystery of a shared breath, a sigh that could have come from either or both of them.

Her hand slipped inside his jacket, smoothing over the superfine of his waistcoat and the fine lawn of his shirt. His hard-muscled chest radiated heat to her fingertips that shot up her arms and finally settled to swirl in her lower belly.

How wonderful a thing is a man’s body, all hard and strong and unyielding.

Yet his lips were soft on hers, beguiling, teasing. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, then dared her to chase it back into his. They played a game of tag that quickly lost its lightheartedness when Nate began to thrust into her mouth with more force.

She welcomed him, suckling and nipping.

The warm tingle in her “nethers” started again. Then it deepened into a dull ache that was far from unpleasant. She was hollow with nameless longing.

So this is what Mercy meant when she talked about aching.

She really needed to listen to her maid more often, she decided.

Georgette was so absorbed in Nate’s kiss and the bewildering clamor it started in her body, she almost wasn’t surprised when his hands began to roam over her as she’d done to him.

Turn and turn about.

It appealed to her notion of fairness, so she decided to allow it.

First, he ran his fingertips along the edge of her bodice, teasing the tops of her breasts. Her skin shivered with excitement.

Then he dipped a finger into the hollow between them. Her nipples pricked to taut awareness, the tight nubs throbbing with an ache of their own. His fingertip brushed one and a shock of sensation zinged from her breast to her nethers in a heart-stopping second.

Who knew such disparate parts of her were so intimately connected?

He flicked the sensitive tip of her breast again and she groaned into his mouth. Her nipples throbbed so, she nearly put a palm to her chest in an effort to still the ache. Before she could do that, Nathaniel slipped his whole hand down the front of her bodice and cupped her breast.

He held her bosom as if it were the most precious thing he could touch. Oh, the delectable sense of being cherished! Her insides turned molten, softening like warm beeswax, as his kisses and caresses continued.

His mouth traveled down her neck and followed the path his fingertips had traced along the lacy edge of her bodice. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts toward his lips. His mouth commanded her full attention.

Her stays were suddenly too tight again.

Oh! If she could only feel his mouth on her skin beneath the layers of her gown, stays, and chemise.

The courtesan’s memoirs she’d read with Mercy had made much of the delicious sensations to be savored with a skillful lover. It was possible, Madam Charpentier asserted, for a woman to reach “her pinnacle” merely on the strength of an adept man’s fondling of her breasts.

Georgette wasn’t sure what was meant by “her pinnacle,” but the way her nipples throbbed, she was certain a pinnacle was much to be desired. There was clearly more delight to be had in allowing Nate to explore her body.

But the world began to intrude. The cabby’s horse whickered his impatience and the hackney rocked a bit.

This was not the place to put Madam Charpentier’s theories to the test. Georgette pulled away from Nate’s kiss, her palms flat on his chest.

His blue eyes were dark with desire, and his breathing as ragged as hers.

“I don’t want to play the fool, Nate.”

But I do want to play, she finished silently.

Perhaps in addition to dance practice, he’d be willing to help her explore a few of the tantalizing ideas in the courtesan’s memoirs.

The ones that didn’t endanger her maidenhead, at least.

“You’re not foolish,” he assured her. “You’re quite wonderful, actually.”

“So are you,” she said. “But now is not the time and this is not the place.”

One of his brows ticked up slightly. “Have you a time and place in mind? Name it and I’ll be there.”

She almost asked him to sneak into her bedchamber at midnight but decided that sounded far too like a scene from a dreadful penny novel. She pulled her cloak close around her, trying to silence her body’s protests that a penny novel affair sounded utterly delicious and it was fully prepared to live out one of those sinful plots.

“I need to be in Mme. Reynard’s fitting rooms in less than a minute. If I don’t get this gown ordered, Mother will have a conniption.” She pulled her skirts close around her legs so he could slide past her to open the carriage door. “Kindly hand me down.”

A wall rose up behind his eyes at her rebuff. “As you wish, princess.”

“I’m no princess.”

Nathaniel climbed out the door, bowed with a flourish, and then offered her his hand.

“You will be,” he said ominously.

***

The trouble with women’s fashions, Nate decided, was that there were too many choices. A man’s suit of clothing was simplicity itself. And Nathaniel didn’t have to spend half a day in his tailor’s shop to order one. Instead of requiring him to visit a shop, the artisan came to him, bearing swatches of wool and superfine along with embellishment samples. It was a small matter of choosing the right fabric and a few elegantly understated buttons, and the ensemble was half-done.

For Georgette, there were myriad decisions to make. Long sleeves or short. Flounces or ruffles. How low to make the neckline in order to best display her décolletage. Which ribbons to lace at her empire waist. Should the hem trail a bit in the back or merely dust the ground?

“But we are getting ahead of ourselves,” the harried modiste said, her affectation of a French accent slipping in her frenzy. Nate was willing to lay odds she came from North Hampton, not Normandy. “First, the fabric. I wish we had time to order something special, considering that I have less than a fortnight to create a ball gown that will dazzle the royal duke. But c’est la vie! We shall have to be content with what I have in the shop.”

“Surely there’s a length of silk here that will suit,” Nathaniel said, eyeing the stacks of muslins and bombazines wearily. The modiste’s shop boasted enough bolts of cloth to sink a frigate.

“Mother said I needed to choose a red.” Georgette fingered a vermillion bolt that was shot with gold threads. “What about this one?”

“An excellent choice,” Mme. Reynard said, scooting around the shop collecting pins, shears, and looping her dressmakers’ measuring tape around her neck.

“It belongs in a harem,” Nate pronounced solemnly.

The modiste glared at him.

“I meant no insult. Merely an observation. I have nothing against harems, I assure you. Capital idea. It has the distinction of being both civilized and generous all around.” Georgette stuck out her tongue at him from behind Mme. Reynard. He gave both women a wry bow. “But I rather think Lady Georgette would not wish to be mistaken for an odalisque.”

Georgette stared down at the silk. She was still running it through her fingers as if she were contemplating what it might be like to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils.

The thought of Georgette decked out in filmy fabric, wearing bangles, and clinking finger cymbals made Nathaniel feel pleasantly male.

Then she took up a bit of muslin whose red shade leaned toward orange. “How about this?”

The modiste cast a hopeful smile. “A vibrant choice, my lady.”

“If you wish to impersonate a pumpkin,” Nate said under his breath.

It must have been loud enough for both women to hear him because Georgette released the offending cloth as if it were on fire. The modiste glowered at him as if she’d like to consign him to the flames.

Georgette wandered along the stacks, touching a few more bolts of scarlet, carnelian, and maroon. Exasperation rolled off her in irritated waves. “Which do you think I should choose, then?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think since I’m not the man you’re trying to impress,” Nate said. “But forget about red for a moment. What color do you like?”

Georgette cocked her head to one side. Nate would have bet good money she didn’t realize how appealing it made her look. Then she took a slow turn around the room. She finally came to a stop before a bolt of pale pink silk moiré, the color so faint it was a mere suggestion. When Georgette unrolled a yard or two of the fabric, the subtle pattern made it shimmer like a living being.

Nathaniel could imagine her in the finished gown. Light colors were difficult to keep clean and therefore were very dear. It subtly trumpeted her family’s wealth—an important consideration when trying to catch the eye of a heavily indebted royal duke.

But even more importantly, the soft hue suited her delicate coloring. Her alabaster skin glowed next to the glistening silk. In the right light, the blush-colored fabric would be all but transparent, showing the shadow of her legs in an unwitting maidenly display. She’d be impossible to resist.

It was perfect.

“But, my lady, your mother wished for you to wear red,” the modiste reminded her. The woman was obviously aware of who ultimately paid her bill.

Georgette lifted a corner of the pink fabric, draped it over one shoulder, and turned to face him. “What do you think, Lord Nathaniel?”

For a blink, he visualized her in nothing but that shimmering mantle, draped like Diana the Huntress, bow arm and one breast bared. He couldn’t decide if her nipple would be cherry blossom pink or ripe plum. Either way, the vision had him crowding his trousers.

He was certain the Duke of Cambridge had seen a miniature of her. Even courtships of such expediency as this one wouldn’t proceed without a passing knowledge of the lady’s appearance. But His Highness would no doubt discount her appeal in a small portrait, allowing for artistic flattery in the hope of future commissions. As soon as Cambridge got a look at Georgette in that pale pink, he’d be hot for the match to proceed at breakneck pace.

She was the goddess personified.

Then his goddess blushed as Diana never did. Desire must have shown too plainly on his features. Nathaniel feigned a sudden interest in an eggplant-colored bolt of tweed.

For an unworthy moment, he was tempted to side with the modiste and push for one of the more ghastly reds. The color might be eye-catching, but it would also wash Georgette’s delicate beauty out and make her seem pale and sickly. She wouldn’t do for the duke at all in that case, since his primary interest was in seeing an heir as soon as possible.

In the “Hymen Race Terrific,” only the healthy and fertile need apply.

“Nathaniel?” Georgette’s voice called him back from his musings.

“I think you should make your own decisions,” he said, silently cursing his better angel. How was he going to ruin her if his conscience kept leading him down such disgustingly proper paths of righteousness? “Once a woman marries, I gather she has few enough opportunities to choose much of anything. Make the most of this one.”

She was silent for ten beats of his heart. Then, sounding for all the world like the royal she was destined to be, she announced, “I’ll take the pink.”

Ten

“I assume Mme. Reynard had suitable fabric for your gown in her shop. She always has such an exquisite selection,” her mother said between delicate spoonfuls of the white soup. “I imagine she agreed that red is the bold choice required. A royal choice.”

“We finally settled on something,” Georgette replied circumspectly. She hoped the final product would be fetching enough to mollify her mother once she discovered her express wishes had been ignored.

“Trust me, Lady Yorkingham, she’ll be resplendent,” Nathaniel said. “Though that’s little credit to Mme. Reynard. Your daughter would be the making of any gown.”

He tossed a quick wink to Georgette, but it was his smile that warmed her to her toes.

They were seated opposite each other near the middle of the long table, with her parents occupying the distant head and foot. There was such an expanse of tablecloth between them, she was amazed that Lord and Lady Yorkingham were able to carry on even this stilted attempt at conversation without resorting to speaking trumpets.

They’re like islands dotting a white linen sea, Georgette mused. Never touching, only catching glimpses of each other through the mist rising from the soup tureen.

Her mother was a stickler for formal suppers. Even if they hadn’t had a guest, the seating plan would have remained the same. Her parents seemed to be holed up in their own separate strongholds at opposing ends of the long table.

The only thing that would have been different if Nate hadn’t been dining with them was that there would have been no pretense at conversation.

Silence would have reigned.

There was such a thing as companionable silence. Georgette imagined that a couple seated by a cozy fire, each reading their own book, would enjoy a comfortable sort of quiet. The air above their heads might shimmer with imagination and adventure they could later share in animated conversation.

By contrast, the silence that filled her parents’ union was a hollow void, an emotional doldrums. Georgette had always promised herself she would not have a marriage of such deadly calm.

But what else could she expect to have with the Duke of Cambridge?

“How very gallant of you, Lord Nathaniel.” Her mother dabbed her lips with a linen napkin fringed with Belgian lace and motioned for the footman to remove the soup course.

Her father looked up when Mr. Darling, Georgette’s feckless footman, leaned over him to slide his soup bowl away. Her mother cleared her throat loudly and her father seemed to take the hint that he was expected to contribute something to the dinner conversation.

“I’m sure Georgette is grateful to have such a staunch friend as you, Lord Nathaniel. As we all are.”

Friend? Georgette did not feel friendly toward him exactly. She felt…jittery inside toward him.

How did one categorize that?

Nathaniel made an attempt to engage her father in conversation about whether the Prince of Wales could be kept from mucking up the foreign policy the prime minister espoused, and the ensuing discussion carried them through the next three courses. Georgette was beginning to feel her family was almost normal.

“Oh, Georgette, did I mention I’ve sent word to your dancing master? Mr. Gooch will be here tomorrow at ten,” her mother announced as the treacle arrived for dessert.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Georgette said. “I’ve been dancing for years.”

“Yes, but you’ll want to put your best foot forward for the royal duke,” her mother said. “We certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of the debacle last Season at Almack’s.”

“That was not my fault.”

Georgette’s ears burned with embarrassment. There was every chance that Nathaniel hadn’t heard about the incident. How like her mother to make sure he did.

“Then whose fault was it, dear?” Lady Yorkingham asked with deceptive sweetness.

“Lady Bracegirdle’s, of course,” Georgette said through clenched teeth. “If she hadn’t worn that ridiculous turban with the ostrich plume, none of it would have happened.”

Georgette had watched in horrified fascination as the offending headdress came near to annihilation each time Lady Bracegirdle passed one of the lit candles in the wall sconces.

“I’ll concede that Lady Bracegirdle provided a distraction, but no one forced you not to attend to your dance partner,” her mother reminded her.

“If I was distracted, it was with good reason.” Georgette pushed the treacle aside. She couldn’t bear another bite of its cloying sugariness. “What if Lady Bracegirdle’s turban had suddenly gone up in flames? We’d have had only seconds to save her, though I warrant her silly turban would have been a total loss.”

“But that never happened, dear. There was no fire.” Lady Yorkingham turned her attention to Nathaniel. “Here’s what really happened instead. Georgette took a disastrously wrong turn, stumbled into Sir Isaac Kiddick, who I’m sorry to say had imbibed a bit too much before arriving but had somehow made it past the guard. After Sir Isaac lost his footing, the entire line in the country dance went down like dominoes.” Her mother pressed her napkin to her forehead. “It was most embarrassing for me.”

For her? “Let me assure you, it was no lark in the woods for me either, Mother.”

“Georgette, show some respect,” came her father’s voice from the shadowy end of the table. “Your mother is only trying to help.”

“She’s trying to help me into Bedlam.” Georgette narrowly resisted the urge to bang her forehead on the snowy linen.

“My one consolation is that because Sir Isaac had a distinct whiff of spirits about him, he was blamed for the mishap,” her mother said. “But I saw what actually happened and so did half a dozen other matrons. You have no idea the interminable favors that have been called in to insure they keep that little secret.”

Georgette was quietly livid over the rehashing of the disaster. At the same time, her chest ached at her mother’s disappointment in her. If she became royal, would all the times she let her mother down be forgotten?

It might make the match with the Duke of Cambridge worth the effort.

“At any rate, we can’t allow a reprise,” Lady Yorkingham said. “I simply will not endure another humiliation like that. You’ll practice with Mr. Gooch until you can dance a cotillion in your sleep.”

Something wilted inside Georgette at her mother’s words. This match meant the world to Lady Yorkingham. She’d been throwing all her resources, all her hopes behind making Georgette a prime candidate for the royal duke.

Perhaps if Georgette wed Cambridge, her mother would finally forgive her for living when Anne did not.

Suddenly the dining room seemed to have run out of air.

“May I be excused?” Georgette murmured. Then she rose and fled from the room without waiting for an answer.

***

“Her ladyship’s on a proper tear and no mistake,” Reuben Darling announced to the staff who’d gathered in the servants’ common room below stairs in Yorkingham House.

The Family’s supper had all been cleared away and his time was finally his own till breakfast. He settled into a shabby Sheraton chair that at one time had graced the very proper parlor on the ground floor. The stuffing in the seat was a little lumpy, but it was positioned so he could look his fill at Mercy, who had claimed the rocker in the corner.

“What’s the marchioness done now?” Mercy barely looked up from the stocking she was darning by the light of a beef tallow candle.

“Her ladyship has called Mr. Gooch to come back. He’ll be here on the morrow.”

“No!” Cook said. “The man’s insufferable. Thinks he’s master of everything, not just dancing. Do you know he actually had the gall to suggest what he called ‘improvements’ to my mince pie receipt?”

There were gasps throughout the room. Not even Mr. Rigsby, the butler who was still quietly feuding with Cook over the bust of Purcell incident, could defend Mr. Gooch over that.

“Lady Georgette left the supper table in tears, I tell you,” Reuben reported.

“I didn’t see that,” Mr. Rigsby said.

“You was in the pantry seeing to the after-dinner coffee when it happened,” Reuben explained to the man who was nominally his superior.

Of course, they all bowed to Mr. Humphrey, the house steward. He ruled as lord in all but name of the below-stairs folk.

Mr. Humphrey laid aside his paper and leaned forward in his chair. “Where is Lady Georgette now? If she’s left the supper table, Miss Atwood, ought you not to check on her?”

“If she needs me, I expect she’ll ring,” Mercy said with a shrug. “My lady isn’t so much a dainty doily as ye might think. There’s a bit of toughness about her a body would never suspect.”

Reuben was sure there was a bit of softness about Mercy too, but she hid it exceedingly well. He still wanted the chance to find it.

He’d certainly enjoy the search.

“It’s terrible that Gooch is coming back and all,” Mr. Rigsby said. “But I can’t see that there’s anything we can do about it.”

Reuben settled back into the Sheraton chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m thinking we won’t have to. Lord Nathaniel will likely do something about it for us. You should have seen the way he hotfooted it out of the dining room after Lady Georgette.”

Mercy’s brows arched at that. “Did he now?”

“That he did, and once they was outside the door in the main hall, I happened to overhear—not that I was trying to, mind”—Reuben directed this aside to Mr. Humphrey, who was adamant that the help not eavesdrop on the Family they served—“that the pair of them was off to the ballroom so’s as Lady Georgette could practice with a partner a bit afore His Nibs Mr. Gooch returned on the morrow.”

Mr. Humphrey frowned at this news. “The two of them? Alone?”

“Likely,” Reuben said. “Lord and Lady Yorkingham both retired to their own chambers after that.”

The steward cleared his throat loudly. “Miss Atwood, take Mr. Darling and make for the ballroom to see that Lady Georgette is all right.”

“Why, Mr. Humphrey,” Mercy said, casting him a sly smile. She reminded Reuben of a tabby toying with a mouse she fully intended to have for dinner. “Are you suggesting we spy on a member of the Family?”

“No, of course not.” His jowls shook like an indignant bulldog. “I’m suggesting you protect a member of the Family. I don’t need to remind all of you how important the match between the daughter of the House and the Duke of Cambridge is to Lord Yorkingham. Indeed, to us all. Nothing may be allowed to jeopardize that.”

“But Lord Nathaniel don’t mean her no harm. Didn’t he drag her out of that Covent Garden mess? All Lord Nathaniel’s doing is helping her with her dancing,” Reuben objected. “Seems to me that’s to the good, ain’t it?”

A look of understanding passed between Mercy and the steward. Mercy gave an almost imperceptible nod, but Reuben was still in the dark. She quickly folded up her darning and stashed it in her sewing basket.

“Mr. Humphrey is right. Come with me, Mr. Darling.” She crooked her finger at him as she sashayed out of the common room and up the back staircase. “Time for you to make your pretty self useful.”

Eleven

“Beau-ti-ful-four! There-you-go-four,” Nate called out as he and Georgette moved through the intricate steps. Simple counting had become boring in short order, and after his particularly untuneful attempt at humming an appropriate melody in common time, he’d settled on rhythmic encouragement to keep their steps synchronized.

It had the added benefit of making Georgette laugh at intervals. Her nose was still a little red from her earlier tears, but her eyes were brighter now. Nathaniel had never been tempted to hit a woman before, but if he were Lord Yorkingham, he’d have taken his wife over his knee and paddled her bum before he let her crush his daughter’s spirit as Lady Yorkingham had crushed Georgette’s at the dining table.

“One-more-turn-four,” Georgette said, giving him a bit of a break as the set of figures came to a close and she settled into a deep curtsy. “Now-we’re-done-four.”

“Done for? Oh, I hope not.”

She laughed and the joyful sound broke over his heart like a sunrise. Then her expression turned serious.

“This helps tremendously. Now I’ll be able to face Mr. Gooch tomorrow. Thank you, Nathaniel.”

“My pleasure, milady.” He swept an old-fashioned bow. “Now, enough country dances. Do you know how to waltz?”

Her eyes went round. “Of course not. I’ve never even seen it danced, but I’ve heard it’s positively indecent.”

He silently conceded the point. The waltz made a man and a woman move in tandem, their bodies as close as the man dared and the woman allowed. There was no doubt about it. There was something undeniably sensual about dipping and turning together to a languid three-quarter-time melody.

“Indecent or not, the Prince Regent is mad about the waltz,” Nathaniel said. “He introduced it to his court over a year ago.”

“I read the notices at the time.” She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “‘Obscene’ was one of the nicer things the Times had to say about it.”

“The press will come around so long as the dance remains a favorite at court. They always do. In the end, the royals can do no wrong.”

As opposed to me, he thought wryly.

“Imagine how pleased your mother will be when you surprise her and the Duke of Cambridge with a waltz,” he said.

Her worried frown was back.

Nate despised himself for stooping to that level of extortion, but he wanted so desperately to hold her, it was beginning to border on a sickness. She’d been skittish around him since he took those liberties in the hackney. Teaching her the waltz was the only way he could be sure she’d allow him to touch her again.

Finally, she sighed. “Very well. Teach me.”

***

Reuben knew the rich were different. It was more than the cut of their clothes or their fancy educated talk. Everything they did seemed to shimmer with elegance. Like the way Lady Georgette and Lord Nathaniel were moving together around the room, for instance. Every step in time bespoke quality.

Even though the dance did look a bit like doin’ the unmentionable deed with their clothes on. Still, if the nobility did it, it must be all right.

“I never seen that dance before,” he whispered to Mercy. The pair of them had sneaked up to the little balcony usually reserved for the string quartet that played when Yorkingham House hosted a ball or soirée. The curtained balcony offered a perfect spot to watch the couple below with no danger of being caught hovering near the open doorways.

“It’s the waltz,” Mercy whispered. “But they’re doing it a good bit slower than usual.”

With each pass around the room, the space between Lady Georgette and the gentleman shrank until Reuben could see no daylight between them at all.

“Is he holding my lady a good bit closer than he ought as well?”

Mercy nodded, holding a slim finger over his lips to shush him.

“Thought so,” Reuben said, bending so he could whisper into Mercy’s little shell of an ear. He decided the need to keep quiet was a good thing if it meant she let him put his lips so close to her tender earlobe. “Should we stop them?”

She shrugged. “It’s just a dance. Her ladyship’s not complaining.”

Judging from the soft, doe-eyed expression on Lady Georgette’s face, she wasn’t likely to complain in the near future either.

Reuben and Mercy watched in silence for a few more minutes. The light scent of violets with a musky undertone teased Reuben’s nostrils.

“Have you been into milady’s perfume?”

Mercy’s gaze jerked toward him at that. If she’d been a cat, her back would have been fully arched. “She knows about it. She told me to help myself, so she did. Don’t ye be thinkin’ I’ve got sticky fingers.”

“I wouldn’t think that,” Reuben said. “I was only thinking how nice you smell.”

“Oh.” The cat’s back settled a bit. Mercy turned away to peer down at the dancers. “Thank you, Reuben,” she whispered. “Er, you smell nice too.”

“Me? I don’t wear no scent.”

Something inside him leaped up in joy. It was the first time she’d ever called him by his Christian name. He was usually “Mr. Darling” to her.

Unless it was “lummock” or “moron” or some other nickname that folks might consider an insult. He knew she was teasing when she did that.

He hoped she was teasing.

One of her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “Must just be you I’m smelling, then.”

As they stood there side by side, he was achingly aware that her hand was brushing against his. Not so close as to be considered actually touching, but near enough to tease the dusting of hair on the back of his hand. He bit the inside of his cheek to contain himself.

Then Mercy nearly surprised the breeches off him. She slipped her fingers into his hand.

“Ye know what they say about dancing, don’t ye?” she whispered without looking at him.

He shook his head, then realized she couldn’t have seen that gesture since she was still peering through the slit in the thick velvet curtains. “What do they say?”

She slanted a sly gaze at him. “That it’s all about using music as an excuse so folk can do upright what they’re thinking about doin’ lying down.”

Lying down? Reuben swallowed hard. All his muscles tensed up hard, too. Yes, indeed, hard described him just about everywhere.

Mercy looked up at him, her eyes enormous in the dimness. “I haven’t danced with a man in a while.” She ran her little tongue over her bottom lip. “A long while.”

Reuben’s groin ached as he slipped a hand along the curve of her waist. “I don’t see as how we could do a reel here in this little space, but I collect we might manage that waltz thing if we take really small steps.”

Mercy made a low growl in the back of her throat. Then she dragged him out of the curtained balcony and into the narrow hall used only by the help. She didn’t stop there, pulling him behind her toward the back stairs.

“What about milady?” he asked.

“Milady’s fine. She’s a big girl,” Mercy said. “She can certainly manage a gentleman like Lord Nathaniel or I’m much mistook.”

Instead of heading down to the common room below stairs, Mercy began climbing the steps.

“We’re not going back to join the others?” Reuben asked.

“No.”

“Then where are we going?”

She stopped on the step above him, turned around, and cupped his cheeks with both hands. Then she kissed him, right on the mouth.

It was hard and quick, a resounding bass drum bang of a kiss. It reverberated through him, clear to the soles of his feet.

“Ye’re a fine figure of a man, Reuben Darling, and we’re going to my room,” she said simply. “Now don’t ye say another word. Or I might just change my mind.”

Reuben clamped his lips shut and purposed in his heart not to utter another sound, if his hope of heaven depended upon it.

He suspected it truly did.

Twelve

The room swirled around Georgette in a soft blur. Nathaniel tried manfully to hum, but he was as poor at staying in the same key as she was at playing the pianoforte.

It didn’t matter. It seemed she could almost hear the tune he was attempting to hum played instead on shimmering strings.

The gentle swish of her skirts. The warm glide of muscles moving together. The heat of Nathaniel’s gaze as he looked down at her.

Georgette was no longer capable of coherent thought. All she could do was register impressions in disjointed images of the ballroom and their place in it. Her body was flush against Nathaniel’s as they turned and dipped in perfect concert.

She was born to waltz with this man.

And it didn’t feel at all lewd. It felt natural. Meant to be, somehow.

Wonderful.

Then the tempo slowed and Nathaniel raised her hand to signal a final underarm turn. She twirled slowly back into a close hold position as they came to a stop. Her skirts continued to turn for a moment, brushing against her pantalets in a silk-on-silk caress. Then the fabric swirled back into the stately column her modiste had meant for it to resemble.

Nathaniel didn’t move. He simply went on holding her with one arm around her waist and the other sheltering her hand against his chest. When he looked down at her, his gaze was strangely hungry. As if he’d like to start nibbling on her around the edges and not stop until he’d consumed her entirely.

I suspect I’d like that.

She ought to say something. Do something.

But that would mean breaking the spell, and who knew when a moment this perfect would ever come again? She couldn’t bear to leave the protected circle of Nathaniel’s arms.

“Georgette,” he said softly, his deep bass resonating through her. The way he said her name gave her the shivers. It was as if he were making love to the syllables. Rolling the bits of her name over his tongue, tasting them, caressing them.

What if he were to do that to the rest of her?

Her chest constricted. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she raised herself slightly, rocking up on her toes.

“Forgive me,” he said huskily.

She didn’t have time to wonder what he was asking forgiveness for. He closed the distance between their mouths and rational thought fled.

A kiss doesn’t require forgiveness.

It was exactly what she wanted. Needed.

Not that it made any sense, of course. If she were thinking clearly, she really ought to bolt from the room. After all, she was all but promised to the Duke of Cambridge.

But somehow, there was no other way to end her waltz with Nathaniel than this shared breath, this soft, moist joining of their mouths.

So she didn’t protest when he lifted her off her feet and walked her toward the nearest damask-covered wall without breaking off their kiss. Languid and sensual, it still felt like part of the dance. He set her down with her back pressed to the wall. His body moved against hers ever so slightly, his hardness against her softness.

The rhythm was hypnotic and somehow musical, as if the waltz were still going on in the way he rocked against her and she tilted into him. Their kiss deepened as she chased his tongue back into his blessed mouth.

Forgive him, he’d said. For what? He’d given her back her confidence in the ballroom. She’d be able to face Mr. Gooch tomorrow with her head high and her feet in the correct positions at all times.

Nathaniel had also taught her to kiss. At least she wouldn’t go to her wedding night completely ignorant. But if she lived to be one hundred, she’d never experience perfection to match his lips on hers.

He’d waltzed with her. She knew now what it was like to feel a man’s body all tangled up with hers. She wouldn’t be surprised by the hollow, strangely pleasant ache it caused. She’d recognize it for what it was and learn to welcome the low drumbeat in her belly, the warmth that pooled between her thighs.

It was as natural as breathing.

It was “the way of a man with a maid” conveyed with more clarity than if her mother had bungled through an attempt to explain matters to her. And it was even more exciting than Madam Charpentier’s flowery, salacious descriptions of sexual congress.

Not that what they were doing was anything remotely like actual sexual congress. If, as the courtesan’s memoirs declared, the kiss was an appetizer, this wicked bit of love play could properly be described as the first course.

Nathaniel kissed her cheeks, her neck, and all along her jawline, leaving flutters of bliss in his wake. Then the wicked man took her earlobe between his lips and sucked.

Oh, what a sinful zing of pleasure arced through her body. It was enough to make her forget she was a maiden. To forget she would eventually go to another man’s arms. To ignore the fact that he was bunching her skirts in his fist and her hem now hovered around her waist—

“Nathaniel,” she said, surprised her voice still worked.

“Mmmm?”

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved down along the edge of her bodice and let his lips hover over the peaks of her breasts. He took one into his mouth, though silk and muslin still separated them. Even so, that needy bit of her made her arch her back, the better to be suckled.

The pleasant ache turned demanding. Tyrannical. She’d never wanted for anything in all her life, but she wanted now. Even though she was still a bit fuzzy on what it was exactly that would sooth that terrible ache, Nathaniel surely knew, and he’d be more than willing to give her ease.

She’d thought herself worldly after mastering the kiss. Now she knew sensuality was an ocean. She’d barely dabbled her toes in the shallow end.

His mouth was a drugging elixir. She couldn’t be bothered to care that he was leaving a damp spot on her bodice, so long as he kept suckling her nipple through the fabric. Then his hand moved between their bodies and cupped her sex.

The effect was like heat lightning crackling over her skin, sparking with pleasure. Georgette sucked a quick breath over her teeth. Never in all her life had she imagined anyone would touch her there.

My “nethers,” for pity’s sake. She had never known what to call that part of herself and decided Mercy’s word was as good as anything.

And she’d never known that a touch there would be so shattering.

She felt achy and swollen. When one of his fingers slipped through the slit in the crotch of her pantalets, she realized she was wet too.

Slippery as moss in a well, if the way his fingers glided through her hidden valley was any indication.

He grazed an extra sensitive spot and pleasure radiated in waves from the slick folds between her legs. But the ache didn’t abate one whit. If anything, it throbbed all the harder.

Her knees started to buckle and she might have gone down if not for the way Nathaniel held her. She’d never felt so out of control, as if she were spiraling into a maelstrom with no way out.

This has to stop.

With supreme effort, she cupped his cheeks and pushed him away from her breast.

He lifted his head and met her gaze. His eyes had gone dark, the pupils enlarged so that his irises were simply rings of cobalt around black wells. His breathing was as ragged as hers. He still held her “nethers” in his hand.

She wasn’t thinking very clearly, but something niggled at her brain. He’d asked her forgiveness just before they kissed. It occurred to her that he’d known exactly what he was about to do to her.

Well, he would, wouldn’t he, him being an accomplished rake and all?

It was like the Eden story, only reversed. This time Adam opened Eve’s eyes.

“Nate.” She couldn’t manage more for another three breaths. She struggled with the ache and finally subdued it. “I…forgive…you.”

That made him straighten to his full height, his expression as stricken as if she’d slapped him. Clarity flooded back into her mind and with it fresh resolve. She needed to end this.

Quickly.

“Now I understand why those poor girls in Covent Garden fall into that life.” Georgette gently pushed his hand away and ruffled her skirts till the hem fell to the floor. She still felt exposed as she exhaled shakily. “Please don’t do that to me again.”

Georgette eased around him. Somehow, she walked across the wide open dance floor toward the door. Her insides clamored for her to look behind her at Nate, but she didn’t dare. If she did, she might run back to him and tell him she was a goose. She didn’t mean a word of it and if he’d be pleased to continue to diddle her silly, she’d count it as a personal favor.

She paused when her hand closed over the crystal doorknob. Without turning around, she said, “I know you are a guest in my parents’ house, but you are not my guest. Stay far away from me.”

Just because she forgave him for giving her a forbidden taste of carnal knowledge, it didn’t mean she had to hang around the tree waiting for him to tempt her with another bite of the apple.

***

Gasping, Reuben Darling rolled onto his back. Hundreds of times, he’d imagined what it would be like to take Mercy Atwood to bed. To strip off her clothes and make her his, finally and completely.

His wildest dreams hadn’t come within spitting distance of the real thing.

“Oooh, that was nice,” she cooed.

“Nice? It was bloody incredible!”

She propped herself up on one elbow and grinned down at him. “Ye have a ways to go before ye hit ‘bloody incredible,’ but ‘nice’ isn’t a bad place to start, Mr. Darling. I suspect ye’re going to learn quicker than I thought.”

Some of the golden glow of his heart-pounding release faded a bit and not only because she’d classed their coupling as merely “nice.” He was more upset because she was back to calling him “Mr. Darling.”

He’d liked it when she called him “Reuben.” In fact, she’d practically sang “Reuben” while her tight little insides fisted around him and her limbs bucked in release. He’d worked around the hard shell of disdain Mercy used to keep folk at arm’s length. He thought he was finally getting close to her. Hearing “Mr. Darling” drop from her lips now was like taking ten steps backward. “What was wrong with it?”

“Sure ye want to know?” She ran her tongue across her upper teeth and smiled like a cat who’d just licked away the incriminating evidence of stolen cream. The sheet drooped just enough to bare one of her lovely breasts, its rosy nipple still a tight bud.

He was grateful she insisted on leaving the candle burning. The other women he’d been with—and he could count them on the fingers of one hand—had been shy about being seen in the buff, so he’d had to use his imagination a lot. Mercy Atwood in the altogether was so much better to look upon than he could have ever imagined.

“I want to know,” Reuben said. If there was a chance he could bed this little minx again, he’d suffer through her criticisms willingly enough. After all, she criticized nearly everything he did outside the bed. Why should he expect this to be any different? He laced his fingers behind his head. “Tell me.”

“Let’s start with the good things first, shall we? Ye’re a tall, handsome man, but I was afeard ye mightn’t be what ye might call—oh, what was that word milady tried to teach me? Oh, yes, now I mind it. Proportional. That’s the word.” She slid a hand under the sheet and fondled his now flaccid member. “But fortunately for the both of us, ye’re blessed with a fine, big thing. You’re a very proportional fellow.”

“Saints and demons, woman.” He grasped her wrist. It hadn’t even been two minutes yet since he pumped himself dry into her. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No, just trying to see if ye’re still alive,” she said with a giggle.

To his very great relief, he began to stiffen again under her touch.

“There he is.” She lifted the sheet and blew a kiss to his swelling cock. Her smile was tinged with sweet wickedness. “As I hoped, quick on the ready as well.”

She wiggled down under the covers.

“What are you do—holy God!”

She licked the full length of him and took the head into her hot little mouth.

Reuben had heard of such things, but he never imagined he’d ever have a woman do it for him. Not without paying for her to, in any case. He’d have sworn there wasn’t another drop in him, but now he gritted his teeth to keep from spilling into her sweet mouth.

Then he remembered men used to pay Mercy for this. He didn’t want her thinking he expected it. He reached under the covers and pulled her up for air before the pressure in his shaft reached the point of no return.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Don’t you like it?”

Not like it? He’d never heard Mercy say anything so monumentally stupid but didn’t think she’d appreciate him pointing it out. After all, between the two of them, she was convinced she was the one with all the brains.

“I like it fine. It’s better than fine. It’s…it’s…” He searched in vain for a word that was big enough, grand enough to let her know she made him feel like a god when she took him in and swirled her tongue over him. Finally, he gave up and blurted out, “I love you.”

Mercy laughed. Not a chuckle. Not a musical giggle. It was a full-throated belly laugh. She clutched her pillow and buried her face in it, lest her laughter bring the whole house down on them.

“What’s so funny?” He sat up in bed and folded his arms across his chest.

“You, you big lummock.” She wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “First time a girl sucks yer thing and ye fancy yourself in love with her.”

“What makes you think you’re the first?”

“Aren’t I?”

She was, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of telling her so.

“Most girls don’t laugh at a fellow when he offers his heart,” he said testily.

“But I don’t want yer heart, Reuben. Keep it for someone who deserves it.” She draped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his neck. “I only want ye in my bed from time to time. Let’s just have fun together. I’ll teach ye everything I know. We’ll make it to ‘bloody incredible’ in no time.” She latched onto his earlobe and suckled it a bit. “Don’t ye think ye could like that fine?”

Part of him certainly could. His eyes threatened to roll back in his head.

But he really did love Mercy.

He loved her wit and sparkle. He even loved her sharp tongue. He had feelings, he did. For all of her.

And he wasn’t going to settle for less.

“No, Mercy.” With regret, he hauled himself out of bed and began yanking on his clothes. He didn’t dare look anywhere but at his discarded boots, lest his resolve crumble. He balanced on one leg while he tugged on first one, then the other. “Not until you allow that I can teach you something too.”

He heard the sheets rustle and couldn’t help but look up at her. She’d risen to her knees. The sheets were tucked up to her armpits so her nakedness was covered.

But not the nakedness in her face. Pointed chin atremble, eyes just this side of glittering with tears, she’d never looked so like a waif in the gutter.

“What can ye teach me, Mr. Darling?”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “That you deserve to be loved.”

Reuben closed the door quietly behind him, but before the latch snicked, he could’ve sworn he heard a soft sob.

Thirteen

Sadie O’Toole perched on a high stool in the larder of his lordship’s hoity-toity kitchen. It was bad enough she’d been shooed around to the back side of his town house to be offered only grudging admittance by his kitchen help. Now His Nibs was keeping her waiting beneath the strings of garlic and cured hams. He’d have given more immediate attention to her if she’d been a boil on his backside.

Well, boils could be a nasty surprise for a body what ignored ’em too long. She’d seen ’em turn septic, and if his lordship kept her waiting much longer, she was of a mind to do the same.

The footman’s eyes had bugged out when Sadie presented one of the monogrammed cuff links as her calling card. She hated parting with it, but she had the other one stashed away safe and sound, all ready to be sent to where it would do the most damage should something unfortunate happen to her.

She’d make sure His Nibs knew it before she left him this night, too.

Sadie shook her head. She’d always been too softhearted where gentlemen were concerned. She held the winning hand. It was time she made her position perfectly clear. No point in leaving that sort of thing to chance.

Finally, the footman reappeared in the kitchen and crooked a finger at her. “Come with me.”

She hopped down off the high stool, expecting to be led up the stairs into the private parts of the grand house. She snickered at that thought.

Private parts, indeed. The story of my life…

But instead, the footman headed for the back door.

“Wait a half a mo’, guv,” Sadie said. “I’m not leaving till I see his lordship. An’ ye doubt me, I’ll start caterwauling fit to bring down the house.”

“There’d be no point. My lord isn’t here,” the fellow in deep burgundy livery said. “So if you are earnest in your desire to see him, you’d best come along. And quietly.”

There was nothing else for it. She followed the footman out and climbed into the waiting hansom. Sadie was only mildly surprised when the footman came with her.

If this isn’t on the up-and-up, ’spect he means to see me out of this high-in-the-instep neighborhood for certain, Sadie thought grimly.

The cab rattled over the same cobbled streets she’d slogged along on foot to reach St. James’s Square. Sadie sighed. At least she was traveling back to Covent Garden in style, and if the footman wasn’t the most talkative of companions, he was at least one of the finest-looking fellows she’d seen in a very long time.

But His Nibs was going to regret trying to shuffle her to the side. It wasn’t in her nature to give up without a fight. She only needed someone with more money and power in her corner if she had any hope of getting her place back. Or something like her place.

The cab finally stopped before a dingy-looking pub called The Hare and Hound. Its shuttered windows sent tiny spokes of light through the cracks, mere hints of the warmth and candlelight within.

“His lordship is inside. Ask to be taken into the back room,” the footman said. “I’d advise you not to keep him waiting.”

“Hmph!” She climbed out of the cab without a speck of help, either from the footman or the cabby.

As if his lordship wasn’t the one who’d kept her waiting. Lord or lackey, all men were the same.

Especially once you shuck ’em out of their clothes.

Sadie should know. She’d been a whore for twenty years before his lordship finally came up with the chinks to help her open a house of pleasure. She’d been able to stop lifting her own tired skirts and live by skimming the income of those who still did.

Not that His Nibs did it out of the kindness of his exceedingly tiny heart. She had the goods on him and no mistake. He couldn’t avoid giving her a leg up.

And not the way he used to, either, she thought with a wry curl of her lip.

Why did men with the smallest winkies always insist on the most awkward positions? At least, thank God, that part of her life was over. She didn’t spread her legs for anyone now unless it was her idea.

But His Nibs had come through when she needed him to. Now he was going to help her again, if he knew what was good for him.

No one would put her out of her own place. Not even if the young gentleman did have what looked like official papers in hand.

His Nibs had better right the situation and damn quick, too. Or Sadie would see him swing. Hell, she’d dance on his coffin.

And she had the means to do it, too.

***

For the next two days, Nathaniel saw little of Georgette aside from the time he spent sitting across from her in the grand dining room each evening.

As far as she knows.

Nathaniel was aware of every place she went and had been able to shadow her effectively. To stay apprised of Georgette’s schedule, Nate had enlisted the help of Reuben Darling. Once he explained that his sole interest was in keeping Georgette safe, Nate found a willing partner in the footman.

Mercy had been more difficult. She wasn’t about to spy on her mistress, she claimed. But it only took the promise of sixpence a week and she was suddenly eager to provide him with eyes and ears inside the secret world of Georgette’s chambers.

He’d watched covertly from the little balcony as Mr. Gooch drilled Georgette on her dance steps. Nate could barely restrain a cheer when she sailed through the lesson without mishap. Mr. Gooch, on the other hand, was so flummoxed, his usually pasty complexion turned an unhealthy puce. The dance master had been forced to admit to Lady Yorkingham that there was no need for further instruction.

“Lady Georgette is now fully prepared to charm the royals,” Mr. Gooch had announced grandly, as if his time with her was responsible for the improvement in Georgette’s grace and carriage.

If he thought she did well with the line dances, the man should see her waltz, Nate thought with a wry grin.

Thanks to Reuben and Mercy, Nathaniel had tailed Georgette on her visits to the modiste for fittings. He’d followed at a discreet distance as Georgette and her mother paid social calls on prominent matrons.

In those cases, Nathaniel was thankful to be in semi-exile. Nothing was more tedious than balancing teacups and finger sandwiches on one’s knees while trying to remain awake through exhaustive conversations about the weather.

All in all, it was a satisfactory arrangement, except for the fact that he couldn’t really spend any time with Georgette. He was beginning to feel a bit like those courtly lovers she was so keen on. Like the lovesick medieval swain, he could only worship his lady from afar.

He’d much rather worship her up close. And not just to satisfy Mr. Alcock’s Machiavellian schemes, either.

Still, this hidden game of cat-and-mouse was the best he could manage at present. His minions in Yorkingham House had been scrupulously efficient in their reports to him.

So when he pushed aside the threadbare curtains on the upper story of his disreputable new acquisition in Covent Garden, he wasn’t surprised to see Georgette and Mercy making their way down Lackaday Lane.

He checked his pocket watch, then returned the gold timepiece to its place. “Right on time, Georgie.”

If he hadn’t spoken to Mercy after breaking his fast that morning, he’d have been furious with Georgette for daring this “rescue mission” without Mr. Darling at her side. But the maid had assured him that Tuesday mornings were the bully’s half day off at Madam Bouchard’s, so the physical danger to Georgette was minimal.

Just in case, he’d decided to drop in unannounced in a few moments, both to make sure Georgette was all right and to surprise her with how industrious he’d been in the last couple days. Somehow, he had to get back into her good graces and this was the only thing he could think of.

The only thing she might accept from him now.

***

Vesta was the virginal Roman goddess of fire, the embodiment of the hearth, purity, and all wifely virtues. The whore who went by the same unlikely name pulled her wrapper up over her shoulder, but not before Georgette caught sight of a purpling bruise.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, duchess,” Vesta said, “but if I was you, I’d make myself scarce before Madam wakes and catches you at it.”

“I’m no duchess.” At least not yet. Georgette moved further into the slightly shabby room. She imagined the velvet coverlet didn’t appear nearly so threadbare by candle glow. In the right light, the gilt paint on the headboard of the bed that occupied the central place in the chamber probably glinted like the real thing. “I’m a woman, just like you.”

Vesta’s lip curled as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. “You’re nothing like me.”

Georgette looked down at her lace-gloved hands. Before she renewed her acquaintance with Nathaniel Colton, she’d have agreed. Now she knew she had far more in common with Vesta than she’d suspected.

“Listen to her, Vesta,” Mercy said. “Changed my life, she did.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

Mercy went over and sat next to her friend. “I have my own room now. And no one comes into it, unless I gives ’em leave. I eat regular too, and even if I’ve spilled bootblack on the rug or ripped a bit of lace on milady’s unmentionables, no one docks my pay or makes me do without.”

So that’s what happened to the Brussels lace. Not surprised about the bootblack though, Georgette thought, but she was careful to keep her expression cautiously neutral.

Vesta narrowed her eyes at Georgette, still trying to decide whether or not to trust her.

“You don’t know me any more than I know you,” Vesta said. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

There was a time when a whole string of pious platitudes would have spilled from Georgette’s mouth. Now she weighed her words.

“How old are you, Vesta?”

“Nineteen.”

Georgette struggled to keep the surprise from her face. With the dark smudges under Vesta’s eyes and the lines that were beginning to gather around her mouth, Georgette would have put her nearer to thirty.

“I’m not so much older than you,” Georgette said. At twenty-three she would have been considered “on the shelf,” if not for the Duke of Cambridge’s interest in her. “I’m not trying to change you if you are content with your lot. But I know what it is to make choices one later regrets.”

She still wasn’t sure which she regretted more—the time she spent dallying with Nathaniel in the ballroom or the fact that she’d cut it short. But she did feel regret.

Every waking hour. And in a few of her dreaming ones as well.

“If you would like the chance to make different choices,” Georgette said, “I believe I can help.”

“How?”

Even though Georgette really didn’t need two maids, she’d intended on offering Vesta a position. She’d hoped the girl had a gift for styling hair, but Vesta’s own straggly tresses were no recommendation. “Well—”

“Whatever you have in mind, unless you can spare ten quid and sixpence, duchess, you’re no use to me.”

Georgette didn’t carry that kind of money with her. All the merchants her family traded with dealt on credit. Besides, that sum was more than Mercy earned in a year. Of course, her maid also received room, board, and her pick from Georgette’s cast off clothing. She could even sell what she didn’t want on the secondhand market, so Mercy’s true income was higher if one considered more than just her salary.

“I haven’t much money with me,” Georgette admitted, wondering how she’d finagle that sum in ready cash from her father.

When she roamed about London, she made sure Mercy had only enough to cover small incidental purchases and her maid doled out the needed coin. Georgette never actually handled money herself and wouldn’t dream of carrying any on her person.

Certainly not enough to exceed a year’s wages for a semi-trained, slightly insubordinate domestic servant.

“Is ten pounds six what you owe the madam?” Nathaniel’s rich bass came from the open doorway.

Georgette whirled to face him.

“What are you doing here?” He’d obviously followed her. She wasn’t sure whether to be incensed or relieved.

“Same as you. Trying to help.”

Vesta’s gaze turned immediately to Nate and she let her wrapper gape a bit to display more of her ample bosom. “Maybe you’d like a little help from me right back, eh, guv? I can be oh so helpful when a bloke’s as fine as you.”

“A charming offer, but not necessary, thank you.” He kept his gaze riveted on the whore’s face. “I repeat. Will ten quid and sixpence square you with the madam?”

Vesta nodded brusquely, cinching her wrapper closed.

“How did ye ever get so far into dun territory, Vesta?” Mercy placed a hand on her friend’s slim forearm. “I never owed more than two pounds in all my living life. And it was hard enough to scrape together that much to repay.”

“I can’t help it if I like fine things.” Vesta rose and paced around the room, positioning herself so the bed separated her from the rest of them. “Madam always said I’d get better clients if I had better dresses. Silk don’t come cheap, you know. Then there’s the interest. And my meals.”

“Madam Bouchard didn’t charge for food when I was here,” Mercy said.

“She does now,” Vesta said. “And if I want clean sheets once a week, I have to pay the laundress, don’t I? All told, I owe about two shillings more each week.”

It didn’t take an abacus to figure that Vesta was as good as a slave to her employer. She’d never work off the debt on her own. The burden would simply accumulate. Once she was too old for whoring, she’d be turned out or maybe turned over to the magistrate and sent to debtor’s prison.

“If your debt was paid, what would you do? Where would you go?” Nathaniel asked.

Vesta shrugged.

“Surely you have family,” Georgette suggested.

Vesta’s laugh was brittle. “None that’d be glad to see me.”

“Have you any marketable skills?” Georgette asked.

“Plenty of ’em.” Vesta’s smile turned lascivious and she flicked her gaze at Nathaniel. “I’d give him a sample, but Madam don’t allow no free tosses.”

For once, Georgette found herself in complete agreement with the madam.

“What did you have in mind, guv? Are you looking to set up a ladybird of your own? It’d be no hardship tending to the needs of the likes of you.” Vesta slinked across the room toward Nathaniel, earthy sensuality oozing from every pore. “Your friends, too, if you’re the generous sort.”

She lifted a perfectly arched brow at him. “We could have ourselves a time.”

“No doubt,” Nathaniel said. “But that’s not my intent. Sadie’s House of Sirens just across the lane recently came into my possession. The madam there has been evicted and the debts her girls owed have been repaid. I gave them the same choice I now offer you. I’ll square your debt. Go, if you wish. Stay, if you wish. But if you choose to stay at the House of Sirens, you must not sell yourself again. You must remain sober and you will apply yourself to learning a trade so that you will be self-supporting within six months.”

“You mean there’s a room for me at the Sirens?” Vesta cocked her head at him. “And I don’t have to lift my skirts to keep it?”

Nathaniel nodded. “A few of the girls were from the country and have decided to take their chances and go home. There are three open rooms. One is yours, if you want it. Under my terms, of course.”

Vesta narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What are you, some kind of saint?”

“Hardly.” The word slipped out Georgette’s mouth before she could stop it.

Nathaniel splayed his fingers across his chest as if she’d pierced him with an invisible arrow. “You cut me to the quick, Lady Georgette.”

“No one asked you to get involved,” she said, turning toward him tight-lipped.

Nathaniel Colton didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body. There was something else behind this sudden spurt of goodness. And she doubted that ulterior motive was good in the least.

Nate started toward her. “Contrary to what you might believe, you are not the only one in this room capable of compassion.”

“Yeah, yeah, the two of you can go at it hammer and tongs later.” Vesta placed herself firmly between them. “What about me? Don’t you think it likely Madam Bouchard will send Mr. Duggins after me once the pair of you do-gooders flit back to whatever cloud you dropped down from?”

“That’s why I hired Mr. Bagley to act as guard for the residents across the way,” Nathaniel said, casting Georgette a smug grin over Vesta’s shoulder. “He’s a former pugilist and is easily a match for Mr. Duggins in height and girth.”

“What about the fact that Vesta must learn a trade?” Georgette asked, wishing she could persuade this Mr. Bagley to smack that grin off Nate’s face. “I doubt your pugilist will be much use if Vesta wants to pursue the craft of millinery or flower arranging.”

“That’s why I’ve also engaged Mrs. Throckmorten.” Nathaniel waved Vesta out of his way with every courtesy so he could plant himself firmly in front of Georgette. “She’s a former headmistress at a ladies’ academy with ties to several merchants all along Bond Street. She’ll evaluate Vesta’s skills and set her up with an apprenticeship or find her a suitable position in domestic service.”

Georgette crossed her arms over her chest. “So it doesn’t bother you to think of Vesta emptying someone’s chamber pot so long as it’s your idea.”

“No.” He raised a finger in reproof. “Only so long as it’s her idea.”

“Seems you’ve thought of everything,” Georgette said grudgingly. An academy of sorts for soiled doves was nothing short of brilliant.

He gave her a mocking bow. “One does one’s best.”

“Oh, why don’t the pair of you just shag each other and get it over with?” Vesta said. “We’re supposed to be talking about me, you know.”

“So we were. My apologies, Vesta,” Nate said. “And I will take your shagging suggestion under advisement.”

Georgette’s cheeks heated, but there was nothing to be gained by protesting that she wouldn’t dream of letting Nathaniel “shag” her.

Besides, she was afraid she just might.

“What have you decided?” Nathaniel asked Vesta.

“If you square me with Madam, I’ll take that room.” Her expression softened. “Thank you.” Her gaze flicked to Georgette for a moment. “You too, milady.”

Mercy hugged her friend. “You won’t regret it, honest you won’t.”

“I regret it already.” Vesta fingered one of her silk gowns in the open wardrobe. “Don’t imagine a lady’s maid has any call to wear something as grand as this.”

“Sure I do. There’s a Ladies’ Maids’ Ball coming up and I plan to deck myself out like a duchess. No offence, milady, ye bein’ only a marquis’s daughter and all.” Mercy cast a lopsided grin at Georgette in apology and turned back to her friend. “Besides, ye might decide to do something different than me. Something ye haven’t even dreamed before. Trust me, Vesta. Life is ever so much sweeter when ye get to do the deciding for yerself.”

“We should leave you two to do some packing.” Nathaniel turned and offered Georgette his arm. “My lady, would you care to accompany me while I do business with Madam Bouchard?”

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Once they cleared the doorway, she hissed, “Where did you get so much money that you can run around Covent Garden clearing the debts of fallen women?”

“I won more than the deed to the House of Sirens in that poque game. If I didn’t spend it on this, I’d just waste it paying off my tailor.” He covered her hand with his. “Mercy’s right, you know.”

“In what way?”

“Life is sweeter when you do the deciding for yourself. When are you going to give that a try?”

Fourteen

Normally, Georgette slept well when it rained, pulling the bed linens up to her nose and reveling in the snug feeling of being warm and dry and safe.

This was not a normal night.

She squirmed and fidgeted under her sheets, but nothing could persuade her to stop reading. The first time she’d skimmed through this section of Madam Charpentier’s journal, it hadn’t meant much to her. The courtesan’s memoirs stirred up all the feelings Nate’s waltz had awakened in her and made her body pound afresh. She’d never dreamed mere ink on a page could rouse her so.

But then she’d never had any carnal experience to draw upon in order to breathe life into the words before. Now her imagination, always prodigious, danced about like a drunken nymph at a bacchanalia.

During the day, she kept busy with fittings for her new ball gown, social calls, and all manner of honorable pursuits. But at the most inopportune times, her mind would drift back to that night in the ballroom and the waltz that upturned her world.

Only yesterday at Lady Hepplewhite’s luncheon, Georgette mentally wandered off somewhere between the cucumber sandwiches and lemon cake. Sitting there surrounded by worthy matrons and tittering debutants, all she could think of was the feel of Nate’s mouth on her breast and the wicked sensation of his hand between her thighs. Lady Hepplewhite had to ask her twice about the upcoming ball. Her mother was quick to excuse Georgette’s wool-gathering as maidenly anticipation of a grand event.

If her mother had been able to read her mind, she’d have been shocked into apoplexy.

Now at night in her own chamber, there was nothing to call Georgette back from her shocking thoughts. She smoothed the coverlet over her breasts, tried to ignore the way the tips ached, and resumed reading the courtesan’s memoirs.

And if there is no gentleman available to give her ease, a lady can always take matters into her own hands, as it were, Madam Charpentier suggested.

Oh, bother! Georgette tossed the little gilt-edged book across the room. It smacked the wall with a satisfying thud and slid to land facedown, the spine cracked wide open.

Georgette regretted giving in to the fit of pique almost instantly. That thud might bring Mercy, or worse, her mother, to investigate. She held her breath, listening for sounds of anyone stirring in the great house.

Except for the constant patter of rain against the windows, silence continued to reign. She exhaled in relief.

The problem with the courtesan’s advice was that there was a gentleman available. And even though Nathaniel had been on his best behavior of late, she imagined he was still more than willing to “give her ease.”

What would he do if I turned up unannounced in his chamber? she wondered as she climbed out of bed and went to retrieve the little journal. She picked it up and closed it gently, feeling guilty about the cracked spine. Georgette secreted it back in the drawer that held her unmentionables where it belonged, but she didn’t return immediately to her bed where she belonged.

According to chimes of the long case clock in the parlor below, it was a quarter past one. No one could possibly be about. Georgette knew every creaking floorboard between her chamber and Nathaniel’s and could easily avoid detection.

There’d be no need to even light a candle. All her life, she’d divided her time between Yorkingham House and the family’s country estate. She could navigate the labyrinthine halls with her eyes closed.

Or even asleep.

If someone were to stumble upon her on her way to Nathaniel’s room, she could feign sleepwalking. A few months earlier, she’d read Edgar Huntley by Charles Brockden Brown. It was a rather ghastly American tale of a man who sleepwalked through an entire murder investigation. But the whole point was that a body might do any number of unlikely things while totally unaware of it.

Even let someone shag me.

No, no one would believe her so simple.

Then why are you thinking about it, ninny?

Georgette climbed back into bed. She blew out the candle and pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Under the linens, one of her hands wandered to her “nethers.” She was all achy and swollen and damp. That sensitive bit of her was so warm, she wondered if it were possible for only part of her to have a fever while the rest of her was perfectly healthy.

No, it’s no fever. It’s simply a case of wanting what I shouldn’t.

And there might be a way to relieve herself without going to Nathaniel. But even if she was willing to “take matters into her own hands,” she wasn’t sure what that entailed exactly. Madam Charpentier could probably give her a few hints, but if memory served, the next part of the journal was uncharacteristically coy and dripping with euphemisms.

Lightning illuminated her room for a heart-stopping second, followed almost immediately by a thunderous boom. Then the rain began to fall with more insistence, a steady tattoo of wet rhythm slapping the windowpanes. Like most winter showers, she expected it to ease up in a few minutes, but this storm raged and sulked and raged again. It reminded her of a spoiled two-year-old working itself into a frenzy.

Well, the weather isn’t the only thing that’s worked up.

The restless ache wouldn’t let her sleep, let alone sleepwalk. Finally, she tossed back the linens and sought her wrapper.

A different sort of book, that’s what she needed. Something about drains or ditches or the inherent difficulties in transporting silk from the Japans. She’d be satisfied with anything so long as it was dry as dust and had no mention of body parts and their delightful uses.

Well, not satisfied, she amended. She suspected only Nathaniel could do that. But if she could be bored to sleep by one of her father’s dusty tomes, it would do.

Georgette slipped out of her room, not even bothering to toe on her slippers, unconcerned about being caught wandering the halls now. After all, she was headed to the library, not a gentleman’s bedchamber. She purposefully stepped down on the third from the top step on the staircase.

Let someone hear that creak. She didn’t care. Her conscience was clear.

Her feet hesitated at the landing where she might turn down the long corridor that led to the guest wing.

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” she muttered. If she could sleepwalk, she could “sleeptalk” too, she reasoned in case anyone should hear her as she continued down the grand curving staircase. Not that she needed to hide behind that sort of subterfuge. She was going to the library, not a gentleman’s chamber.

Going to Nathaniel’s room in the dead of night would be monumentally stupid. And dangerous.

And wildly exciting, a dark part of her heart added.

She tamped down that wicked urge and continued padding toward the library. The marble underfoot was cool, but she needed that. It was bracing. Like a dash of cold water on her cheeks on a morning when she found it difficult to awaken completely.

When she reached the library, a knife-thin streak of light showed beneath the door.

Georgette pushed the door open slowly, taking care not to let the hinges creak.

Lit by a single candle, she found Nathaniel stretched across the banquette in her favorite alcove. He was wearing a black silk banyan and like Georgette, his feet were bare. Ankles crossed, enough of his long legs showed to convince Georgette that he wore nothing beneath the loose robe. One of his arms was tucked up, serving as a pillow for his head, and a book was propped on his chest. He turned a page.

“Come in, Georgette.”

He hadn’t glanced her way, but this time she realized he knew it was her because he’d caught a whiff of her fragrance again. For tuppence, she thought she ought to abandon violet water and take up something spicy and heavy to throw him off his game.

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” She advanced cautiously into the room.

“And I didn’t think you’d come looking for me.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” she said quickly. “Just so you know.”

He rose and walked toward her. “Then this is merely happy chance.”

“Fate,” she ventured.

His smile carved a dimple in one of his cheeks. It was the sort of smile Lady Yorkingham ought to have warned her about if her mother had been the sort who was in the habit of offering any worthwhile advice.

After she’d recovered from scarlet fever, her family physician had warned Georgette that she might suffer from lingering palpitations due to her illness.

She’d never felt any. Until now.

She glanced at the bookshelves but couldn’t force her feet to move toward them. “I’m only here to find a book.”

The banyan dipped to a low vee over his chest, and a dusting of ash brown hair peeped out. What would it feel like? Her fingers itched to touch it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

“I couldn’t either.”

His brows drew together in a quick frown. “Are you troubled by something?”

You, danced on her tongue. But if she admitted it, she’d have to explain that she couldn’t sleep because her body was craving him with ravenous intensity. She shook her head instead.

He continued to look at her as if he might somehow penetrate to the deepest wrinkle of her soul. It wouldn’t do for him to realize how she’d been longing for him.

She had to put some distance between them, so she swept past him and sat down in the center of the banquette. “Are you troubled by something?”

“Yes,” he said simply as he came to sit beside her, far too close for her comfort. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel the warmth of his thigh near hers. “Yes, I’m definitely troubled. Tell me, have you ever made a bargain with the devil, Georgette?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Good. Don’t. He’s a wily fellow.” Nathaniel leaned forward, knees on his elbows. “The black-hearted imp will dangle something you want to coerce you into agreeing with his plan. Then in the midst of things, you’ll discover that what you really want is actually something very different.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I hope you never do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not the companionable silence Georgette imagined would fill the evening of a contented couple. Not the prickly, accusing silence she sensed jabbing back and forth between her parents.

This silence simmered like a pot about to boil.

Nameless wanting hovered around them. It crackled in the air. Georgette breathed it in with shallow gulps. She didn’t dare draw a deep lungful lest the rampant neediness rush in and consume her.

Georgette laced her fingers together to keep from reaching over and smoothing his hair down where it curled behind his ear. She ached to plant a kiss there, just at his hairline, to taste him, all salty and male…

She gave herself an imaginary swat on the nose. Somehow, she had to fill that potent silence with something or she’d end up throwing herself into his arms.

Another low roll of thunder filled it for a moment but didn’t lessen the sense that someone was lacing her stays too tight and something was about to pop. Which was patently ridiculous because she wasn’t wearing any stays.

Oh, my word, I’m all but naked under my wrapper and night shift. She gave herself a mental shake. Well, of course I am. Everyone is always naked under their clothes. Georgette, you are turning into a complete goose.

“Mercy tells me that Vesta is doing well.” It was a weak salvo, but it broke the tension that was building by the smallest of degrees.

“Mrs. Throckmorten is placing her with a florist,” Nate said. “She has a talent for flower arrangement, I’m told, and a good head for figures.”

“That’s good.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“And I understand all your rooms at the former House of Sirens are filled now,” Georgette said, desperate not to let the silence creep back in to beguile her.

“They are,” Nate said. “Once word got around the neighborhood, two more women presented themselves to Mrs. Throckmorten and asked for help. One was a vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, yes, I can.” It wasn’t simply that Georgette understood the allure of sin now. A young woman without means was easy prey for the likes of the Covent Garden madams. Once they snared a girl with debt, they all but owned her. “I assume her family wouldn’t take her back.”

“Her family is gone, all taken in a cholera outbreak in their village. That’s why she came to London in the first place—to search for work.” Nathaniel dragged a hand over his face, as if he were weary to the bone. “Seems the girl is more educated than most. Mrs. Throckmorten thinks she might be able to place her as a governess eventually with a family of the middling sort.”

“That’s wonderful, Nate. You’ve done a very good thing. Why don’t you seem pleased?”

He studied his own long toes. “No matter what I do, the scales will never balance.”

“Because of that deal with the devil, you mean?”

He nodded.

Her curiosity burned like a lit taper. “So what is it you’ve discovered you really want?”

“You, Georgette.” He turned and put a hand to her cheek. “I want you.”

Fifteen

Her lips formed a soft “oh” and her eyes took on the hazy otherworldly quality of a Botticelli angel. Nate was willing to wager none of that artist’s models had smelled so intoxicating. Her unique scent wove itself around his insides and threatened to turn him into a kneeling supplicant. Anything to be near her, to breathe her in, to—

She leaned over and blew out the candle. “I want you too, Nate.”

With a low groan, Nathaniel gathered her into his arms. His mouth closed over hers. He’d been holding his breath, waiting for the answer to his unspoken question. This was too much to hope for. He didn’t deserve her.

And she certainly didn’t deserve what he was about to do to her. She was meant to be royalty. He was about to steal more than her maidenhead. He was stealing a crown.

He couldn’t let himself think about that. Especially not with the way she pressed her lips against his neck and then under his jaw. Gently, her mouth touched, featherlight, beneath his ear, and then softly in front of it where the knobby protrusion of cartilage met his cheek.

“Whatever trouble you’re in with that devil of yours, it’s not your fault,” she whispered, then continued to plant soft kisses on his temple, first on one eye, then the other.

He’d meant to ravish her, but instead he grew still beneath her tenderness.

Her face hovered before his for a moment. Her long hair, which she’d neglected to braid for the night, trailed down on either side of her face, a fair, slightly curling nimbus. She was as disheveled an angel as he could wish. An angel he was bound to ruin.

He closed his eyes.

“Look at me, Nathaniel Colton.” She put both hands on his cheeks, willing him to open his eyes. When he looked at her, he feared she saw his soul, shimmering black. In her clear-eyed gaze, he saw her soul as well, radiating healing and a benediction for his tortured conscience.

If she only knew.

She pressed her lips gently against his. It was a kiss sweet enough to make cherubs weep.

“It’s not your fault.” Georgette kissed him again, deeper this time, parting her lips slightly in invitation.

He was quick to answer her, slipping his tongue in to explore her delectable mouth.

Finally, she pulled away and to his utter surprise, she slipped off her wrapper and laid down on the banquette.

His heart threatened to batter its way out of his rib cage.

Nate lay down beside her, his body snugged next to hers. He kissed her slowly. If he was going to ruin her, the least he could do was make sure she enjoyed it.

Then he released her lips and traced his fingertips from the part in her hair, along the edge of her brows, and past her temples. He buried his hand in her hair, holding her immobile. Lightning flashed outside, and in the brief moment of illumination, he caught a glimpse of Georgette. Her eyes were shining and her lips softly parted.

It was a look of utter trust.

Thrusting his conscience aside, he bent to kiss her again. But she turned her head shyly, so his lips grazed the corner of her mouth. He left a trail of moist kisses over her jawline, and down her neck, lingering in the soft hollow at the base of her throat. His lips hovered lightly at the lacy edge of her night shift.

Her breathing hitched.

His hand traced the same path his mouth traveled, lightly skimming the surface of her silky skin. Teasing and circling, he occasionally dipped beneath her shift to stroke the upward curve of her breasts. One tug on the lace bow at the center of her neckline was all it took. The knot gave like a cowardly sentry, surrendering without a fight.

He found her mouth once more, as one by one he undid the tiny buttons that held her night shift closed. Slowly, his fingers grazed her breasts as he laid back each side of her shift, baring her upper body to the navel. Goose bumps rippled across her skin. Nate laid his head on her soft shoulder, sending his warm breath swirling over her exposed flesh.

Her breasts rose and fell in little hitching breaths.

He rose up and looked down at her. Her breasts were perfect, her nipples drawn up into hard knots. He planted a soft kiss on one. She quivered a little, as if in anticipation of where he’d touch, he’d kiss, he’d taste next.

She inhaled sharply when his hand settled on her flat belly, his long fingers splayed as though claiming her. Slowly and smoothly, his hand traveled upward, over her navel and rib cage, and came to rest in the sweet valley between her breasts, his thumb cradled under one of them.

Beneath his palm, Georgette’s heart hammered like a small, wild creature, freshly captured and terrified. He nuzzled one of her breasts, taking the nipple gently between his teeth. A tiny gasp escaped from her lips.

“Georgette,” he said huskily. He stroked the underside of her breast with his thumb in small, unhurried circles. His conscience was back and bearing a hooked barb this time. It poked at his soul. “This is your last chance. Do you want me to stop?”

Georgette bit her lip, but she didn’t make him wait long.

“No. Don’t stop.”

***

Nate kissed her again as his hand closed over her breast, softly kneading and flicking her nipple with his thumb. Tiny jolts coursed through her with each thrum.

His mouth left hers and began a trek downward, his teeth grazing her collarbone on their way to her breasts. His lips, wet and warm, traced a lazy figure eight around and between the taut mounds. Then his tongue brushed her nipples in a leisurely series of whorls and flicks.

Georgette squirmed beneath him, her breathing ragged. She liked his mouth on her, but it only seemed to compound her problem. She still wasn’t sure what it was she needed him to do, but the need was so strong if he didn’t do it soon, she’d be reduced to pleading.

“Please,” she heard herself gasp, as she instinctively arched her back to thrust her breasts upward to him. The pounding storm outside the house paled beside the one building inside her.

Nate took her tender, swollen nipple into his mouth and sucked. Georgette moaned softly.

“Oh, yes.”

But with the ache in her breasts momentarily appeased, the pounding drumbeat began to build elsewhere. She was so empty. Then the heat began. It was as if a set of signal fires had been lit, one after another, till she was ready to burst into flames.

Nate’s hardness pressed up against her thigh through the thin fabric of her night shift. His body rocked slowly, raking his full length against her. His arousal was fresh kindling for her fire. A throb from the small folds between her legs answered his slow knock.

On top of the fire, now her whole world was growing wet and languid.

Nate’s hand began to roam again, this time rucking up her shift and running his palm along her thigh, up over her abdomen, and down the other leg. Shivers of anticipation slid over her with each pass as his hand inched toward the inside of her thigh. Almost without her volition, her legs parted, but he avoided her triangle of soft brown curls. His long capable fingers danced ever closer, but never quite invaded her most sensitive, personal parts.

She ached so. Never in all her life could she have imagined wanting someone to touch her there, of all places. She couldn’t even feel shame over it. The raw need was so strong it drove out all those smaller, more virtuous urges like modesty and restraint.

She’d always wondered about the obscure wording in the marriage rite, the part about “with my body, I thee worship.”

This didn’t feel like worship. It was more like delicious torment.

A clambering riot of sensations raced through her, seething, demanding…what? If he touched her there, what then? Would she spontaneously combust this time?

She didn’t care. If he didn’t touch her nethers soon, she’d have to force his hand between her legs or die.

“Nathaniel.” She chanted his name over and over in a dazed whisper.

“Hmm?” His mouth left her breast long enough to make this vague inquiry before he transferred his attentions to the other stiff peak.

“I want—”

A shuddering moan slipped from her lips when he finally cupped her sex. She couldn’t have finished that sentence if her hope of heaven depended upon it. It was all she could do to force herself to keep breathing as he explored her slick wetness. He tenderly eased the swollen lips apart to slide three fingers down the length of her moist cleft.

She cried out when his fingertip grazed that sensitive spot again. When his fingers returned to stroke it, a coil seemed to tighten within, like a watch spring being wound beyond the breaking point.

She arched herself into his hand. She was standing too close to a precipice, drawn inexorably to the edge, unable, unwilling to pull back from the headlong fall. Her hips rose and fell to meet his hand, urging him to stroke her.

Harder. Faster. Dear God…

Against her expectations, she didn’t erupt into flames. Instead she unraveled. The coil snapped and her entire body bucked with the strength of her release.

Pleasure radiated outward. It spread the length of her from fingertips to toes, flooding her with an ethereal sense of lightness and well-being. If Nathaniel hadn’t anchored her to the banquette with a leg hooked over hers, she might have floated right up to the library’s high ceiling.

When her breathing returned to normal, Nate eased himself on top of her, resting the bulk of his weight on his elbows. A flash of lightning brightened the alcove, and Georgette looked up into his face.

A lazy, self-congratulatory half smile tugged at his lips. Then he met her gaze with an intense look.

A knowing look, Georgette realized. Suddenly, the oblique biblical reference to the marital act rose in her mind. “And Adam knew his wife, Eve.” She’d always assumed the King James translators were being coy. Now the wording took on fresh depth. Nate definitely knew her now.

I’m going to have to start paying better attention in church.

There was no doubt Nate knew her body better than she did herself. All the secret places, her earlobes, her neck, all the shivery spots on her skin. He knew how to drive her beyond rational thought, beyond her wildest imaginings, beyond caring whether it was right or wrong.

He caressed her mouth with his, lightly nibbling her lower lip. His banyan, which had only been closed with a sash at his waist, was open now. Skin on skin, she felt him. His chest on hers, their breathing in rhythm. His belly on hers all warm. Him, hard and smooth, between her legs.

Surprisingly, the ache that had so recently been banished returned with a vengeance, sharper edged and still hungry. The empty void inside her whimpered to be filled. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down to feel the full weight of his body on hers.

“Easy, now,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He edged forward slightly, filling her opening snugly. Even though he was goodly sized and she ought to have felt a bit of maidenly dismay, she was so wet, there was no pain as just the tip of him entered. Instead relief washed over her. Relief to have him.

To hold him.

He took a deep breath and stopped his forward progress before more than an inch of his considerable length was inside her. A muscle ticked in his cheek and his eyes were squeezed shut.

Frustration raked her. Georgette rocked her pelvis in an effort to draw him further in. The throbbing had returned in earnest. She was sure he must feel the drumbeat, the heat, the infernal ache.

Why was he waiting?

Oh. Something wilted inside her. Anne.

She worked both her arms between them and pushed against his chest.

He rose up on his elbows and looked down at her, but still didn’t push himself all the way into her.

“Nate, I have to know. Did you and Anne ever…” She couldn’t finish the question, but she didn’t need to.

His mouth gaped and he blinked hard.

“I just…I just want you to remember that I’m not Anne.”

Sixteen

Anne. She hadn’t entered his mind in days. He mentally flayed himself. You worthless shite.

Nothing else so aptly described a man who was supposed to love Anne forever, only to have her fade from his consciousness completely.

And even more importantly, he’d allowed her to be replaced by her sister in his imaginings, a sister he was within inches of deflowering.

He pulled out and sat up, not bothering to close his gaping banyan. His cock’s head was wet with Georgette’s sweetness, and the musky scent of her arousal made his groin throb. His body roared at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin her now, despite his deal with Mr. Alcock.

He’d been conflicted enough before, wracked with an unaccustomed attack of conscience. That was why he’d closed his eyes, not because he was imagining Anne. She never entered his mind. All he could think of was Georgette and what he was about to do to her. He couldn’t even look at her, though he ached to watch Georgette melt under him.

He couldn’t bear to watch himself take her when she trusted him so.

Now he really couldn’t. Not like this. Not with Anne’s shadowy specter hovering over them as well.

“I thought since your eyes were closed, you might be imagining you were with her instead,” Georgette said softly as she pulled her night shift down to cover her slender legs.

The suppressed pain in her tone squeezed his heart, but he forced himself to hurt her more.

“There’s nothing to imagine,” he spat out. “Anne died a virgin. And if you want to remain one, you will leave me immediately.”

She did up her shift, pushing each little mother-of-pearl button through the hole with shaking fingers. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she had missed one and was doing up the string of buttons in crooked fashion.

Twisted and out of balance. Rather like his soul.

“I didn’t mean—” she began.

“I didn’t mean it either,” he said roughly. “Not any of it. But if ever I take your maidenhead, I’ll damn well know who it is I’m rutting. Now get out of here.”

She gasped as if he’d slapped her. The sound rent his heart, but if she stayed much longer, he’d be on her again. And this time he wouldn’t stop.

“Be gone,” he growled.

He was relieved out of all knowing when she did. Georgette flew out of the library, not even stopping to scoop up her discarded wrapper.

After the last of her footfalls faded into silence, Nate picked up the bit of silk. He buried his nose in it, hoping to clear his head with her clean scent.

It didn’t help.

He was afraid nothing would. There was no way out of this tangle that didn’t involve deceit and unfair advantage and more than a little risk to all hearts involved.

His own included.

Nathaniel was a master of the sword. He’d never expected to lower his guard enough to allow a wicked thrust like love to slip into the situation.

When he fell in love with Anne, their whirlwind courtship was all sonnets and nosegays. She was the perfect match for him. Everyone said so.

With Georgette, it had been a whirlwind too, but of the more destructive sort—invading whorehouses and incessant argument. No wonder he hadn’t recognized love when it came in that jumbled-up guise.

It was so different with Georgette. Earthier. More honest and more convoluted at the same time.

He breathed in Georgette’s wrapper again and his ribs ached as if a blade had slipped past to pierce his heart.

Damn.

If that wasn’t love, what the hell was it?

***

Lady Caroline Colton’s slim fingers danced over the Broadwood grand’s ivories. Most of those in attendance were in raptures over the brilliant, sensitive performance, but Georgette wasn’t at all happy to be sitting in Sir Martin Daventry’s packed music room. Her parents had insisted she allow Nathaniel to escort her to this exclusive pre-Season event, but she didn’t have to like it.

“Royalty always champions the arts, you know,” her mother had argued when she protested that she had a tin ear. “You must be seen to enjoy the finer things.”

Even though Georgette had little ear for music, Lady Caroline’s playing certainly constituted a fine thing. But Lady Caroline’s brother, also known as the handsome lout in the chair next to Georgette, did not.

At least, thank heaven, she thought with a sniff, my eyes are no longer puffy.

She’d cried her last secret tear over Nathaniel Colton. Of course, it helped that she avoided him as much as she could. She didn’t meet his gaze when they sat across from each other at her parents’ dining table. When he approached, she found a reason to drift to another part of the room. If she couldn’t move without delivering a direct cut and occasioning comment, she simply ignored him and imagined that she shifted away from him inside her clothes.

She would not occupy the same space, breathe the same air as that insufferable man.

On several occasions, she considered going to her father and asking the marquis to send Nathaniel packing, especially since his family had returned to London. The excuse that he’d be rattling around in an empty town house was now moot.

But if her father asked her why she didn’t want Nathaniel around, she couldn’t very well admit he’d diddled her to within an inch of her life and she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him for more than two blinks.

And she certainly couldn’t tell her father that Nate had broken her heart.

Her heart was supposed to be spoken for. Negotiations with the duke’s factor were proceeding swimmingly. Her mother was all but certain the upcoming ball would turn into a celebration of a royal betrothal.

She didn’t want to disappoint her parents. She was already too disappointed in herself to bear more.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice bits and pieces of the man in the seat next to her. His long legs, which claimed her attention despite being at the edge of her peripheral vision, were crossed at the knee. She knew after seeing him in that open banyan that they were dusted with the same dark brown hair as his tousled head.

He was the restless sort and rarely let sixteen bars of music go by without shifting on his seat or uncrossing and then recrossing his legs. His hands were folded on his lap, his long fingers laced together—to keep them still during the concert, she suspected.

She was feeling a bit squirmish herself. Lady Caro’s slim fingers were exceedingly talented on the keys. But when she sneaked a glimpse at Nate’s long, square-nailed ones, it was hard not to relive how very talented they were as well.

It was a relief when the final Bach étude was over and the company rose to its feet in thunderous applause. Almost as one, the first row of the audience surged forward to congratulate Lady Caroline on her performance.

“I need to see to Caro for a bit.” Nathaniel leaned toward Georgette. “She becomes overwhelmed by this sort of thing. Will you be all right on your own for a little while?”

“Take your time.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I was perfectly all right before you barged back into my life, Nathaniel Colton. Rest assured, my heart will continue to beat if you leave me.”

But it also wouldn’t stop hurting.

He, however, did not need to know that. And he was probably right about his sister.

Even as a child, Caro had been high-strung and easily upset when she received too much attention, even of the positive sort. Dainty, shy, and strikingly beautiful, Lady Caroline brought out the best protective instincts in the men around her. She was like a gossamer veil that might tear at the slightest puff of wind.

Georgette was not cut from such fine cloth.

Sturdy, that’s me. Like stiff bombazine.

She turned on her heel and headed for the buffet table spread out in the adjoining room. Perhaps if her hands were occupied with holding a cup of punch, she’d feel less like using them to strangle Nate.

“There you are, Lady Georgette,” a voice with a nasal twang called out.

She turned to find Roger Fishwick tailing her.

He’s Lord Fishwick now, she reminded herself, since his father had died last spring and Roger had come into the barony that abutted her family’s country estate.

“My lord.” She dipped a slight curtsy and hoped he didn’t remember that rum punch-soaked kiss he’d plastered on her the Christmas before last.

“I was hoping I’d have a chance to speak to you without your guard dog.”

She raised a quizzical brow.

“Colton,” he said with a curl of his lip. “The man hovers around you like a wolfhound. But I suppose he’s puttering about you on the Duke of Cambridge’s business. Are felicitations in order for you and His Royal Highness yet?”

“The bride is always the last to know. You’d have to ask my father about that,” she said, looking around the room, hoping someone would join them so she could extricate herself from the conversation gracefully.

She’d known Roger almost as long as she’d known Nathaniel, but she wasn’t nearly as comfortable around him, even allowing for how frustrated she was with Nate. Roger was the sort who would never quite grow into his looks, his face still puffed with baby fat. Even though he was attempting to cultivate a mustache, Roger managed to look boyishly out of place in an adult gathering.

Unless one caught the occasional odd glint in his pale eyes.

His smooth-chinned face disguised a disturbing personality. As a boy, Roger used to skin frogs alive on the banks of the stream that formed the boundary between her family’s land and his. Once he’d tied a lit firebrand to a cat’s tail, but was stopped by his father before he could release the poor animal into a dry field. Georgette hoped he’d outgrown that cruel streak, but she couldn’t look at Roger Fishwick without a shiver of repugnance.

“Still, Colton is an odd choice as an escort for a lady who hopes to land a crown,” Roger said. “Lord knows, the man’s usually sniffing around a woman’s skirt rather than protecting it.”

“And yet Lord Nathaniel has only nice things to say about you.”

He’d done no such thing. Georgette had no idea if Nate even knew who Roger was, but it seemed the best way to forestall any more inappropriate comments.

“Well, I must say Lord Nathaniel seems to be trying to turn over a new leaf, what with his ‘good works’ among the downtrodden lightskirts of Covent Garden,” Roger said with a snicker.

Nathaniel had come up behind Roger in time to hear the last remark. “If anything good is coming of that,” he said, “it’s due to the determination of the women at the House of Sirens themselves, not because of me.”

Georgette was so relieved to see Nate, she could have kissed him right on the mouth. But since no good could come of that, she settled for introducing Roger to Nate, taking care to make it seem she was merely reminding him of Lord Fishwick since he supposedly had said nice things about him.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at Lord Fishwick while the two men shook hands. “You do look familiar, sir.”

“I should,” Roger said frostily. “I have no recollection of the matter myself, but it appears you rendered me assistance at White’s once when I was…indisposed.”

“Oh, yes.” Nate chuckled. “Now I remember.”

Roger fished in his pockets and came out with a fistful of coins. “I believe I owe you for my care, and rest assured, I’m a man who always settles his debts.”

“Nonsense. Without you, I wouldn’t be the proud owner of the former House of Sirens.”

Now it was Roger’s turn to look puzzled.

“Lord Gobberd and I wagered on you and the deed was part of the pot,” Nate explained. “He thought you had expired on the threshold, but luckily for me, you had to the goodness to still be alive.”

“You see.” Georgette smiled weakly at Lord Fishwick. “Only nice things.”

Seventeen

She turned to Nathaniel and latched onto his arm. “I fear I’ve developed a bit of a headache. I wonder if you might see me home early, if your sister is all right, of course.”

“My parents have her well in hand now, so Caro’s fine.” Nate nodded correctly to Lord Fishwick. “I wish you continued good health, my lord. You’re something of a luck piece for me now.”

Roger’s cheeks flushed a florid red. He was obviously not at all pleased about being relegated to the status of a rabbit’s foot.

“Don’t antagonize him,” Georgette murmured under her breath as Nathaniel led her away. “You don’t know what he’s like.”

Nate chuckled. “Sure I do. Spoiled. Sulky. Always expecting others to pick up after his mess. I believe I have Lord Fishwick’s measure.”

Georgette bade the Daventrys a good evening and thanked them for inviting her. Then she smiled across the room at Lord Winthrop, who’d been not-so-covertly watching her all evening, no doubt hoping to catch her in some unroyalty-like faux pas.

“Speaking of taking someone’s measure,” Nathaniel murmured as Lord Winthrop lowered his lorgnette and nodded at her gravely.

“He’s doing his job, I suppose, but it does grate on one to be under constant scrutiny.”

“I believe that about sums up the life of a royal. But cheer up, Georgie. Looks as if you passed muster,” Nate said as he draped her short cape over her shoulders. “You were serene, elegant, and as remote as the moon. Clearly regal material. His Highness’s lapdog seems satisfied with your performance.”

Georgette snorted. The idea of the corpulent Lord Winthrop on anyone’s lap was laughable.

“So Winthrop is a lapdog and, according to Roger, you’re a wolfhound,” she said. “It seems I’m besieged by canines at every turn.”

“I won’t argue the point. As a general rule, all gentlemen are dogs and—what do you mean, Roger?” He had been about to pop his top hat on his head, but he stopped with the hat halfway to its goal. “Just how well do you know that dandy?”

“Don’t make a fuss,” she said as she led the way out the Daventrys’ double doors and into the crisp, starry night. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Lord Fishwick and I crossed paths as children. I know him well enough to know he can be a very unpleasant person. Let’s leave it at that.”

He offered her his hand and helped her into the waiting carriage. “Was he troubling you?”

The only man in the world who truly troubled her climbed after her into the barouche and settled on the squab beside her. “If he was, it’s none of your affair.”

“I’ll make it my affair.”

“No, you won’t,” she said in clipped tones. “Because you don’t mean any of it.”

Georgette pressed her lips tightly together. She hadn’t meant to toss his words from that night in the library back at him. The fact that she did meant they’d wounded her. And she couldn’t bear him knowing that.

She drew the velvet curtains aside and looked out the window, feigning interest in the twisted spider-leg streets of London that sheared off the main thoroughfare. So many lives intersecting in those little crooked ways.

Nathaniel took her hand, but she still didn’t turn her gaze from the window. She also didn’t pull her hand free.

“Georgette, I’m sorry I hurt you. Contrary to Lord Fishwick’s opinion, I’m not a hound of any sort,” he said. “I’m a cur.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You weren’t supposed to agree so quickly.”

Against her better judgment, a smile tugged at her lips. “I can’t help it if I’m the agreeable sort.”

“Ha! You are many things, Georgette Yorkingham, but agreeable is not one of them. In fact, I think it irks you when you have to be.”

He knew her too well for her comfort. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, seeing as how he’d all but known her in the biblical sense.

“If I’m not agreeable, what am I?”

His thumb circled her gloved knuckles. She let the curtain drop back into place and wished the thin silk of her gloves didn’t separate her skin from his touch.

“You’re infuriating,” he said. “Mostly.”

She jerked her hand away at that. “Careful, sir. A lady can only stand so much charm,” she said, her tone sharp with sarcasm. “You’ll turn my head.”

“I meant it in a good way,” he amended.

“How, pray tell, can one be infuriating in a good way?”

“Infuriating probably isn’t the right word. What I really mean is that you irritate me.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Not an improvement. A word to the not-so-wise: when one finds oneself so deep in a hole, it’s generally advisable to stop digging.”

“Irritate isn’t quite right either. It’s like you’re…a burr under my saddle.”

“Well, what woman doesn’t live to hear that?”

He exhaled noisily. “You don’t understand. When you have a burr under your saddle, you have to stop and fix it.” He caught her with his intense gaze and for the life of her, she couldn’t look away this time. “Don’t you see? You make me…Georgette, you make me want to stop what I’m doing and fix things. You make me want to change.”

She blinked in surprise. That was possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. She swallowed hard.

“What are you doing that you ought to stop?”

He leaned toward her. “Trying to seduce you.”

“Oh.” She felt herself being drawn to him and found not a particle of will to stop it. “Perhaps we could begin with other things about you that need changing first.”

His smile lit up that dimple in his cheek again. “Perhaps we could.”

When his lips met hers, all the frustrations of the evening melted. She melted. The whole world slipped away in the liquid warmth of Nathaniel Colton’s kiss.

There was no pending match with the Duke of Cambridge to fret over. No residual discomfort from her conversation with that smarmy Lord Fishwick.

There was only this moment, this man, this mingling of souls.

Until she realized vaguely that the carriage had come to a stop and someone was pounding on the door.

“Oh, my lady!” Mercy cried.

Georgette leaned across Nathaniel and peered out through the slit in the curtains on his side of the carriage. By the light of the gas lamp near Yorkingham House’s front door, she could see that Mercy’s face was wet with tears and her nose was running.

“Thank God, ye’re home.” Mercy clung to the carriage handle but didn’t wrench the door open.

“Come away from there, girl.” Mr. Humphrey, usually the picture of decorum, came bolting out of the big double doors and bounding to the street with unaccustomed speed. “You know better than to be seen in front of the house. What are you troubling my lady about?”

“It’s all right, Mr. Humphrey,” Georgette said as Nathaniel handed her down from the carriage.

“This note…it came whilst ye were gone.” Mercy waved a bit of foolscap as if it were a white flag. “Oh, they’ve gone and done it. And there ain’t no comin’ back from this.”

“Please, Mercy, not on the street,” Georgette said. Who knew if the Duke of Cambridge had other watchers posted besides Lord Winthrop? “Besides, I can’t very well read it here. Come inside.”

Mr. Humphrey gave a surprised sniff when Georgette put her arm around Mercy’s shaking shoulders, but wisely refrained from comment. Georgette paused in the foyer long enough to allow the steward to divest her of her cape before shepherding Mercy into the parlor. Nathaniel lit the wall sconces and the room blazed with light.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Georgette said. “Here, Mercy, have a seat.”

Mr. Humphrey had turned their outer garments over to a waiting valet and followed them into the parlor. “Begging your pardon, milady, but it’s highly inappropriate for one of the staff to be seated in your presence.”

“Would it be more appropriate to allow Mercy to collapse on the floor? Sit,” she ordered. Mercy did. Georgette ignored the fact that her maid cast a sly smile toward the steward. It was merely Mercy’s way to tweak those in authority, and besides, her expression returned to one of abject misery quickly enough. “Please bring us some tea, if you would, Mr. Humphrey.”

Once he was gone, Georgette studied the note. “It’s for you, Lord Nathaniel. The seal is broken.”

Mercy swiped her nose on her sleeve and had the grace to look chagrined. “I could see it was from Mrs. Throckmorten, and I ain’t heard from Vesta for a couple days. I thought she mighta gotten herself into a spot of trouble, so I figured if I could sort it out without troublin’ the pair of ye, well…but I can’t sort this out.” She erupted into fresh sobs.

Georgette pulled the lace handkerchief from her own sleeve and handed it to her maid.

“What’s this about, Mercy?” Nate asked.

“They killed her.”

“Killed who?” Georgette tore open the much folded foolscap and ran her gaze over Mrs. Throckmorten’s neat script. Unfortunately, Mercy’s tears were making Georgette’s vision cloud up as well. No one ever wept alone in her presence, and she found she couldn’t read the note.

“I think that was meant for me,” Nate said as he removed it from her grasp with gentleness. “I am Mrs. Throckmorten’s employer, after all.”

He skimmed over the note. “It seems Vesta was late returning from the florist’s shop, so Mrs. Throckmorten sent the girls out to look for her. Her body was discovered only a few yards away from the house on Lackaday Lane.”

Georgette sank into one of the Sheraton chairs because her legs would no longer support her.

“They done for her,” Mercy muttered.

“Mrs. Throckmorten does suspect foul play.” Nathaniel refolded the note and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket.

How could the man be so maddeningly calm at a time like this? “We must summon the magistrate,” Georgette said.

Mercy’s laugh was like the tinkle of broken glass. “For a whore? Bless me if sometimes I don’t think ye’re a bit simple, milady.”

Georgette glowered at her maid. “Vesta is…was…no longer a prostitute. But even if she was, she still deserves justice.”

“You’re right,” Nathaniel said. “But Mercy’s right too. No magistrate is going to appreciate being rousted from his bed for the sake of a dead whore, reformed or not. And even if we could get a Bow Street runner to take the case, they’re more effective in the better part of town.”

“Then we’ll have to see to it ourselves.” Georgette stood, feeling less shaky for taking action. “You said, ‘they done for her,’ Mercy. Whom did you mean?”

“Ye don’t think I know, do ye?” Mercy blew her nose noisily. “I suppose Vesta might have gotten crosswise of someone she owed.”

“But I just paid off her debt,” Nate said.

“The debt she owed Madam Bouchard. That don’t signify that she didn’t go out and get herself into dun territory with someone else,” Mercy said. “Being a flower girl don’t pay near as much as kicking yer heels over yer head. And Vesta always did like nice things.”

“It doesn’t seem as if there’s been enough time for her to accumulate that much debt,” Georgette said.

“When a body don’t have any blunt, ye’d be surprised how fast the debt grows,” Mercy said dryly. “Oh!” She straightened and scooted to the edge of the seat. “A passel of people stand to lose when a girl stops liftin’ her skirt. Could’ve been any number of folk what don’t appreciate your new House of Sirens, my lord.”

“And you think killing Vesta might be a warning to the others?” Nate said.

Mercy shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Hearts is hard on Lackaday Lane. Always look to the main chance and feather yer own nest. Them’s the watchwords.”

Nathaniel started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Georgette asked.

“Mr. Bagley has quite a bit to answer for. I hired that old pugilist to protect those girls.” Nate’s jaw clenched in a determined line. “Mrs. Throckmorten may know more than she was willing to commit to paper. It’s not much, but it’s all we have to go on.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“Bloody hell,” he said with a snort. “You most certainly are not.”

“There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“Yes, there is. There’s every need. If ever there was call for vulgarity, murder is one of those times. And if a little foul language upsets you, you should take it as a sign that the rest of the evening is not likely to meet with your approval either.”

“Nevertheless,” she said, advancing to stand almost toe to toe with him, “I will accompany you to Lackaday Lane.”

“You forget yourself, princess,” he said. “I’m not your hired man and you’re not royalty yet. I do not take orders from you.”

“Fine.” She fisted her hands at her waist. “Go ahead, but once you’re gone, I’ll only send for a hackney and go by myself.”

He stared at her for a moment and she willed herself not to blink. Finally, he swore again. Georgette wasn’t sure what the unfamiliar words meant, but she suspected it was something a good deal more offensive than “bloody hell.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh.

“Mercy, stop blubbering and get your mistress changed into something a little less conspicuous than a gown fit for a princess.”

“You won’t leave without me?” Georgette said.

He glowered at her as if his dark frown would convince her to stay when his words hadn’t. “No. I have something else to do while you change your clothes.”

“What?”

“Load my pistol. Someone chided me once for wandering into that neighborhood without one.” He stomped away. “Sounds like prudent advice now.”

Eighteen

Nathaniel commandeered Reuben Darling and another footman to accompany them to Lackaday Lane. Darling would form their rear guard, and the other fellow could help the driver protect the carriage while they were gone from it. Georgette had pleaded that she needed her maid to come as well, but Nate put his foot down about bringing Mercy.

One out-of-place female to protect was already one too many.

Unlike the well-lit St. James’s neighborhood where Georgette lived, there were no streetlamps in Covent Garden. Lackaday Lane would be black as Satan’s heart. As they rumbled through Piccadilly, Nate managed to snag a linkboy. The lad scrambled up to sit next to the driver, his pitch-daubed torch waiting to be lit when they reached their destination.

Georgette had been uncharacteristically quiet on the journey. Some women became chatty when they were upset or nervous, but she seemed to fold in on herself. It was a calm quiet, a restful quiet. A quiet that said, “I trust you to have the matter well in hand.”

Nathaniel was relieved. Even though he didn’t deserve it, he wanted her trust very much indeed.

When the carriage stopped at the mouth of the narrow lane, Georgette finally broke the silence. “I’m proud of you for doing this, Nate. Not many men would have.”

“Let’s see if I actually accomplish anything before you hang a medal on my chest.” He climbed from the carriage and handed her out.

The linkboy had already swung down from his perch and was fumbling with a sulfur match. The torch caught and flared with a yellowish light as the lad started down Lackaday Lane.

“Stay close,” Nate said softly.

He didn’t have to tell Georgette twice. She latched onto his left arm so his pistol hand would be free. She was less than successful at matching his stride since her narrow skirt restricted her gait. Still she trotted gamely beside him, skittering along taking two steps to his one as they entered the lane.

Reuben Darling followed close on their heels, carrying the only weapon he’d had at hand: a cricket bat.

Nate hoped they’d present a formidable enough front to discourage anyone with nefarious intent.

Footpads were out, slinking from one shadow to the next, but they didn’t approach Nate’s little party. Music and laughter spilled out of several open doors onto the lane, but only occasional narrow shafts of light. Beyond the flickering circle of yellowish light thrown by the linkboy’s torch, the way was a veritable abyss.

Murder could be easily done in the blackness of Lackaday Lane with no one the wiser.

When they reached the House of Sirens, they found all the windows dark. Nate tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He rapped smartly on the thick oak.

“Open up!”

A curtain in the window next to the door fluttered briefly and they heard a scraping sound. Finally, the portal opened wide enough for Mrs. Throckmorten to peer through the crack.

“Oh, Lord Nathaniel, it’s you. Thank you for coming. One moment, if you please.” The door closed again and they heard more scraping and scrabbling. Finally, it reopened.

“We had no lock, so we had to make do,” the matron said, waving them in past the oversized chifforobe that had been wedged against the door. Reuben Darling shoved it back into position once they were all in. Then Mrs. Throckmorten led the way through the dark house to the kitchen in the rear, which was lit by several tallow candles.

Vesta was laid out on the long table, her hands folded serenely over her breasts. The rest of the residents of the House of Sirens were gathered round, weeping or merely staring in shock.

Probably reckoning it could have just as easily been them stretched out on the table, Nate thought.

“We did the best we could for her till morning comes,” Mrs. Throckmorten said.

After this night’s simple wake, Vesta would be stitched into a sheet. Then with the dawn, she’d be loaded onto the wagon that picked up the poor who had the misfortune to die without benefit of the Church. Her body would be taken to the Potter’s Field outside the city and dumped into the unmarked mass grave reserved for the penniless.

“Where’s Mr. Bagley?” Nate demanded.

“We don’t know.” Mrs. Throckmorten smoothed her iron gray hair back. “He left this afternoon to go to the market for me, but he never returned.”

Nate’s fingers balled into fists. Bagley had admitted to having a gin habit in the past, but he’d assured Nate that he was sober now and swore to remain so. It was the only reason Nate agreed to hire him. If that hulk had taken the money meant to feed the girls at the House of Sirens and drank it away when he was supposed to be protecting them, Nate would take it out of his miserable hide.

Especially since one of the young women had died on Bagley’s watch.

Georgette stepped a little closer to the table and peered down at the body. She worried her lower lip and looked so stricken, Nate wished he could wrap his arms around her and whisk her away from this squalid scene.

“Vesta was only nineteen,” she said softly. “She hadn’t taken sick, had she?”

“No. She was perfectly healthy,” Mrs. Throckmorten said. “So far as anyone could tell.”

As Georgette slowly circled the table, Nathaniel couldn’t take his eyes off her. Most ladies of quality would be useless in this situation, flapping their hands like broken wings and succumbing to an attack of the vapors, but Georgette merely became more quietly determined to uncover the truth of the matter.

“There doesn’t seem to be any visible wound,” she finally said. “Why do you suspect foul play?”

Mrs. Throckmorten opened Vesta’s high collar to reveal an angry red weal across her throat. “She was strangled.”

“Whoever did it didn’t break the skin.” Nate leaned over to take a closer look, edging Georgette out of the way. He picked up one of Vesta’s cold hands to examine it more closely. Rigor mortis had set in, so her fingers were stiff. She’d been dead a few hours. “She didn’t fight. No bruising on her knuckles.”

“True.” Mrs. Throckmorten nodded. “But her neck has been broken as well. Snapped like a dry twig.”

One of the girls whimpered, but Mrs. Throckmorten shushed her.

“If the break was done quickly,” Nathaniel said, “that explains why she didn’t fight or cry out.”

Given the skillful efficiency of the kill, Nate had to wonder if the murderer had military training.

But why strangle her too? It seemed unnecessarily vicious to do both.

“If it’s any consolation,” Mrs. Throckmorten said, “she probably didn’t suffer long.”

“No, it’s no consolation at all,” Georgette said, her tone flat.

Nate looked around the room at the huddled clumps of young women, two or three in each bunch of sniffling mourners. “Are all the other girls present and accounted for?”

Mrs. Throckmorten sighed. “They are, but Meg Pritchard wants to leave at first light.”

The girl in question rose to her feet and bobbed a shallow curtsy. With a smattering of freckles across her pert nose and a thick head of auburn hair, she was pretty in a speckled pup sort of way. “If it so pleases you, my lord.”

“It doesn’t so please me,” Nate said. “This world is a hard place for a young woman on her own. Where will you go, Miss Pritchard?”

“My family’s gone, but I’ll take my chances in the shire where I was born.”

“You’re the vicar’s daughter, aren’t you?” When she nodded, Nate fished a sovereign from his pocket. “Take a coach. If you find your welcome in your home shire is less warm than you hope, present yourself to the steward at Colton Hall in Wiltshire. Tell him I said he was to find a position for you there till we can sort you out with something more suitable.”

Meg Pritchard dropped to her knees and pressed a kiss on the back of his hand. “God bless you, my lord. You’ll be in my prayers every day for as long as I live.”

Privately, Nate thought the prayers of a reformed whore were more than he deserved, but he thanked her in any case. Then he asked the rest of the girls what they intended to do.

“Gorblimey, I h’ain’t never set foot outside o’ London town and, please God, I don’t rightly want to,” one of them declared, voicing the sentiments of the others. “All that empty sky and cows munchin’ and crickets chirpin’…it’d be the death of me. Better the devil ye know.”

“Very well,” Nate said. “You’ll all continue here with Mrs. Throckmorten, following your chosen fields of study. I’ll send a locksmith to fix the front door and find a replacement for Mr. Bagley first thing in the morning.”

He did a slow turn around the room, meeting each pair of eyes that were fastened on him. “It won’t be easy, but I mean to get to the bottom of this. Vesta will have justice, I promise you. But in the meantime, Lady Georgette, I wonder if you’d loan me your footman.”

“My footman?” She snapped out of her quiet brooding and finally looked away from Vesta’s body. “What do you want with Mr. Darling?”

“I can think o’ any number of things I’d want with ’im, ducks,” the little cockney whore said with a toothsome grin at the tall footman. “Mr. Darling, eh? ’E certainly is, h’ain’t he, girls?”

Reuben blushed deeper than a debutant who’d stumbled at her “come out.”

“Bedelia, mind your manners. I suspect Lord Nathaniel wants Mr. Darling to stay with us for your safety, not your entertainment,” Mrs. Throckmorten snapped, then turned to Georgette with a softer tone. “Provided my lady agrees, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Georgette seemed to emerge from the morbid spell Vesta’s death had cast over her and turned to her footman. “I’ll explain to Mr. Humphrey that you’ll be staying in Covent Garden for the night and can’t be expected to help serve at breakfast.”

“That’s fine, milady. I’m happy to help,” Reuben said, hooking a finger under his collar as if his cravat had been done up too tight. “Only, I’m thinking you’ll have to explain what I’m doing here at the House of Sirens to Mercy, too. And she might not be as understanding as Mr. Humphrey.”

Nineteen

“Since she didn’t fight back, do you think Vesta knew her attacker?” Georgette asked once they were safely shut into her father’s waiting carriage.

Nathaniel pushed the velvet curtains aside so he could sweep the dark streets with his gaze. “I doubt she even saw her attacker.”

Georgette scrunched the fabric of her skirt in her fingers. It would wrinkle abominably, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d never known anyone who was done to death before, and twisting the muslin helped keep the rising panic at bay. “That makes it worse somehow. She had no idea why she was being murdered.”

“Trust me, if someone is trying to snuff the life out of you, ‘why’ isn’t the first thing you think.”

She cast him a sidelong glance, but the coach was too dark to make out his expression. “I’ve never asked about your time in the military—”

“Don’t spoil your record now.”

She clamped her lips shut. He’d been so calm, so matter-of-fact in the face of a senseless death, she could only surmise it was due to the fact that he’d already seen his share of lifeless bodies. If he didn’t want to talk about it, she’d be doing him no favors to press the issue.

On the surface, Nate seemed the same as ever. She recognized the boy he’d been in the man before her. Yet surely such familiarity with death changed a person. She wondered how it had changed him.

When Anne died, there’d been no wake, no open coffin. Everyone was too concerned about the contagion spreading, so she had been quietly interred in the family crypt without much ceremony. Even now, it was hard for Georgette to imagine her lively sister dead, since she’d been recovering from the same fever at the time and she had never seen the body. Anne was simply there one day and gone the next.

One taken and one left.

She gave a quick inward shudder and decided to change the topic to something less morbid.

“I think I should ask my father to buy a secondhand carriage for me,” she announced. “For choice, something with peeling paint and a swaybacked nag to pull it.”

“In God’s name, why?”

“Don’t you see? That way when we go back to Covent Garden, we won’t stand out so much.”

“I’m thinking you shouldn’t go back there at all.”

“But you know I will.”

He sighed deeply. “Even if you have the meanest conveyance in all Christendom, you’ll still stand out on Lackaday Lane. You’d have to come here in rags and on foot in order to blend in.” He shifted on the seat beside her. “Why are you fretting about coaches right now?”

“Because it’s better than thinking about dead girls.” Morbid or not, she couldn’t order her mind to leave the image of Vesta laid out on the table.

“You have me there.”

“It seems such a waste,” she said. “Vesta had her whole life before her.”

“None of us are promised tomorrow.”

“I wonder what her hopes were,” Georgette said. “Being a shop girl for a florist doesn’t seem like much.”

“Not to the daughter of a marquis, I’m sure,” he said. “But if one has pride in what they do, it doesn’t have to seem like much to others.”

“You’re very philosophical all of a sudden.”

They were sitting side by side on the squab, close enough that she felt his shoulder lift in a shrug.

“No. Just practical. Vesta was playing the hand dealt her the best she could. It’s not her fault the cards weren’t very good to begin with.”

“It sounds as if you believe in fate.”

“No, we all make our choices and have to live by them,” he said, his tone sounding unspeakably weary. “Some just have better things to choose from than others.”

She wondered what sort of choices he faced but decided, like his military service, that was another topic he didn’t wish to pursue. They rode in silence for several blocks. The only sound was the creak of the carriage wheels and the steady clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles.

“What are your hopes, Georgette?”

The question caught her by surprise. Her parents were busy planning her life for her, and until her forays into Covent Garden, she’d always done what was expected of her. No one had ever asked her about her hopes for the future.

She knew the correct answer. All English misses ought to hope to be a dutiful daughter. She should hope to become a virtuous wife and loving mother. To please her parents, she must hope to give birth to the future sovereign of England.

But that wouldn’t be the true answer.

When she’d lain sick with scarlet fever, alternately drenched in her own sweat or burning so hot her skin blistered, she’d spent a good deal of time praying. It wasn’t so much bargaining with God as it was agreeing that if she was spared, her life wouldn’t belong just to her. She’d have to pull her nose out of her books and her imaginings and pay attention to those around her.

She’d have to care about them.

She’d have to do something. She’d finally screwed up her courage to try it when she found Mercy and convinced her to leave Lackaday Lane to become her maid.

“I hope,” Georgette said slowly, “to make a difference for others.”

“Then you have realized your dream.” She couldn’t see it but she heard the smile in his voice. “You’ve certainly made a difference for me.”

“Pray, do tell. Seems to me you’re still an incorrigible rake.”

His voice dropped to a sensual rasp, like worn silk sliding over her. “Yes, but now I’m an incorrigible rake with a conscience.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

He took her hand and began undoing the little seed pearl buttons on her gloves. Then he brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the exposed skin of her inner wrist. A thrill raced up her arm. She couldn’t bear the thought of pulling her hand away.

“For example,” he said, “there was a time when I’d never let a coach ride with a lovely young woman pass without trying to seduce her.”

“Yet now you will.” Disappointment fluttered under her ribs.

“No, I’ll still try to seduce her,” he said, “but now I’ll feel guilty about it.”

Georgette wasn’t sure if he kissed her or if she moved to kiss him, but suddenly their mouths found each other and for the life of her, she wouldn’t let him go.

It seemed so wrong. Hadn’t they just come from a house filled with death?

Vesta could feel no more. Her sister had been gone for years. Surely she and Nate ought to be soberly contemplating their own mortality.

But instead, life pounded in her veins, demanding she celebrate it, wallow in it. When Nathaniel’s hands swept over her breasts, pleasure sparked in their wake, vibrant and sharp-edged. She suddenly found herself crowding closer into his arms, climbing onto his lap, kissing him as if her next breath depended upon it. Greedy for him. Moving the soft places on her body against the hard place on his with urgency.

Oh, would that ache never stop?

He kissed as much of her bare skin as he could reach, all down her throat and along the edge of her bodice, but there was too much fabric, too many layers in the way. They would arrive at her parents’ door far too quickly to do anything besides frustrate themselves beyond bearing, but she still ran her hands over his chest, reveling in the hard muscles under his clothing, pretending she stroked his bare skin instead.

Georgette had never been tipsy before, but she imagined it must feel a little like this. Off balance. Out of control. Likely to do anything…

Her hand drifted lower and she rubbed his full length through his trousers.

That certainly qualifies as anything! She felt equal parts pride and wonder over herself—pride at behaving so outrageously and wonder that she was willing to throw aside her carefully crafted sense of “oughtness” in order to behave that way.

He fairly growled into her mouth and a thrill of feminine power coursed through her.

Not to be outdone, he reached under her skirt and slid his hand up to her throbbing core.

God bless the modiste who devised open-crotch pantalets, Georgette thought fervently.

She was already slick with wanting when he thumbed her sensitive spot.

“Come to me, Georgette,” he whispered into her ear. “Come to my chamber tonight.”

She tipped her chin to give him easier access to the column of her throat. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His fingers moved on her with unrelenting precision, driving her to that dark place where there was only heat and hollow longing. The sound of her own blood in her ears pounded like the surf at Dover. “We only have now, Georgette.”

Only now. Only this man. Only this wicked touch.

Then suddenly now was gone. The carriage lurched to a stop and he pulled his hand out from under her skirt. A shuddering sob escaped her lips. She’d been so close to that blessed state where she’d slip her bonds and go soaring. Her body all but wept with frustration, but sanity slammed back into her.

She wasn’t escaping the horror of Lackaday Lane any longer. She was safe. She was home. This was her life. She wasn’t meant for furtive trysts in moving carriages. She was meant to be a royal.

If only she didn’t still have that damnable ache between her legs…

Nathaniel smoothed down her skirts and did up the buttons at her wrist again. “I’ll wait for you tonight,” he said softly as he helped her alight from the carriage.

“Don’t.” Shakily, she forced one foot before the other toward the front door. Before she reached it, the portal swung open and her father stood framed by the wide opening.

He didn’t have to bellow “Georgette Frances Barclay Yorkingham” this time. Judging from his storm-cloud frown alone, she could tell the marquis was not at all pleased.

***

And neither was Lady Yorkingham. Georgette’s mother swooped into the foyer and shooed her up the staircase, like a hen gathering her wandering chick.

Which left Nathaniel to face Lord Yorkingham on his own.

The marquis said not a word. He merely jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and Nate fell into step with him. He marched alongside his lordship to his study. Evidently he was to receive his dressing down out of the hearing of the servants. All things being equal, Nathaniel decided he’d rather take his chances with the marquis instead of Georgette’s mother.

The female of the species is always the most deadly when her offspring is threatened.

But he was still obliged to step lively to explain why Georgette was gallivanting about Covent Garden at a time of night when all good Christian girls should be at home safe in their own beds.

“I understand that she’s become fixated with helping these unfortunates,” Lord Yorkingham said gruffly. “But I asked you to stay here in order to protect Georgette, not aid in this misbegotten crusade of hers.”

Still standing because he’d not been invited to sit, Nate clasped his hands behind his back. There was no pretense of equals seated near the fire together this time. Lord Yorkingham was ensconced in the throne-like chair behind his desk.

“Lady Georgette was set on going once we received word of the death of one of the girls there. If I hadn’t taken her with me,” he said, “she would have simply gone on her own.”

“Damn it all, you’re probably right. That willful, stubborn…” Lord Yorkingham raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Why must she muck about in that festering sewer? Why can’t she simply hold teas and raise funds for the care and reformation of these soiled doves from a safe distance in a conventional fashion?”

“Because, my lord, your daughter is not a conventional girl.”

“Bite your tongue, man. She is. She has to be.”

Lord Yorkingham stood and stomped over to glare out the window, looking down on his pleasant, well-lit street. It occurred to Nathaniel that even though the marquis had enough wealth, power, and prestige to dazzle the ton, he was not a very happy man. His misery showed in every tense line of his frame.

“The duke may want someone who flies in the face of orthodox behavior for his mistress,” Yorkingham said, “but for a royal consort and the mother of his heir, Cambridge wants a pattern sort of girl.”

“Have you considered that Georgette may not want to be a royal consort?”

Dark eyes snapping, the marquis turned back to face Nate like a man-o’-war with canvas flying, all guns ready to be brought to bear. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she does. No woman of sense would eschew such a high honor.” Then he leaned on the back of his desk chair as if all the wind had suddenly spilled from his sails. “Has she said as much to you?”

“Not in so many words,” Nathaniel admitted. “But I think she’s not as appreciative of the honor His Royal Highness pays her as you are.”

“Then you’ll have to convince her.” Georgette’s father finally motioned for Nate to pull up a chair and sit down. “Heaven knows, she won’t listen to me.”

“Perhaps it’s not words she needs from you,” Nathaniel said as he sat down, relieved the adversarial portion of the conversation seemed to be over. “Part of what concerns Georgette is that this arrangement with the royal duke is not a love match.”

“Rubbish! What difference should that make?”

“None. I know. It shouldn’t make a particle of difference, but women tend to see such things differently, I’m told.” Nate leaned forward slightly. “I understand your own marriage was a made one.”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps if Georgette were to see that you and the marchioness are happy together—”

“Who told you we weren’t?”

“No one.”

“I should say not. What passes between Lady Yorkingham and myself is no one’s business but our own.”

“Of course. I quite agree.” Nate leaned against the tufted back of his chair. “Then I take it you and her ladyship are happy in your arranged marriage.”

“Well, of course we are. We’re jubilant. Ecstatic, even,” the marquis declared. “If we were any happier, we’d be damned delirious.”

“Good. My congratulations. So many marriages that began as yours did are not,” Nathaniel said. “What I was thinking was that if Georgette could see for herself that a made marriage can grow into a love match, then—”

“Then she’d be more amenable to the royal duke’s suit,” the marquis finished.

“Exactly.”

“Very well. I’ll call her in to my study tomorrow and apprise her of the felicitous state of her parents’ marriage and—”

“I’m afraid that won’t do. Lady Georgette is the sort who likes to figure things out for herself,” Nate said. “I suggest you allow her to see you wooing your wife.”

“Wooing?”

“For lack of a better word, yes. Wooing.”

Lord Yorkingham frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

“Send the marchioness some hothouse flowers. Compliment her at the supper table. Escort her someplace she’s been wanting to go, especially if it happens to be a place you’re not too keen on.” Nate ticked off the suggestions on his fingers. “Women appreciate that sort of gesture out of all knowing.”

The marquis dragged a hand over his face. “Oh, Lud, not the opera.”

“Perfect. That’s the ticket. Capital idea, my lord.”

Lord Yorkingham exhaled noisily. “I suppose it would do. Anything for my Georgie.”

“You mean anything for your marchioness,” Nathaniel amended. “If Georgette sees that you and your wife are happy together, she won’t ask for more from you.”

“I should hope not. I absolutely draw the line at the infernal ballet.”

Twenty

Georgette breathed a sigh of relief once her mother finally stopped scolding her about her late-night escapades and left. She didn’t want to think about her duty to the family or the royal duke’s expectations. She didn’t want to think about the dead girl on Lackaday Lane. And she certainly didn’t want to think about a certain rake and his ideas on how to spend time in an enclosed carriage.

Or what Nate thought she ought to do later that night once moonlight shafted through her window and the whole house slept.

All she wanted was for Mercy to help her strip out of her clothes so she could collapse into bed and, please God, sink into a dreamless sleep.

Mercy, however, had other ideas.

“Oh, my lady, why did ye go and do that for?” Mercy complained once the door latch snicked behind Lady Yorkingham’s light step. When Georgette looked askance at her, Mercy went on. “Leavin’ that dolt Reuben in a whorehouse for the night! He’s what ye might call—oh, drat it, what was that word ye teached me? Oh, yes!—‘susceptible.’ He’s helpless in the face of a woman’s wiles. It’ll be lambs to the slaughter.”

Georgette began unbuttoning her own bodice. “The House of Sirens is no longer a whorehouse.”

“Call it what ye will. If a jar is filled with biscuits, it’s still a biscuit jar.”

“That’s not very charitable, coming from a former…biscuit.”

“I don’t fault the girls. They are what they are.” Mercy finally remembered her duties and began to help Georgette out of her ensemble. “But that fool Mr. Darling. He’s too gullible by half.”

“He’s only there for the residents’ protection until Lord Nathaniel can replace Mr. Bagley.” Georgette spared a few uncharitable thoughts for the former pugilist who couldn’t be bothered to do his job.

“They’ll have Reuben protectin’ them, all right. Right out of their pantalets.”

Georgette stepped out of hers and raised her arms so Mercy could slip her night shift on over her head. Her maid was none too delicate with the sheer linen and lace.

“Careful. You’ll rip the seams,” Georgette said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

Mercy made a rude snorting sound. “It makes no never mind to me where that oaf decides to dip his wick. If he thinks for one minute that it matters to me if he tups every slattern in Covent Garden, well…”

The rest of the sentiment descended into more profanity than Georgette could decipher, but she definitely understood what was behind her maid’s outburst. It did matter to Mercy if Reuben Darling took one of the Sirens to his bed. It mattered a great deal.

“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Darling was concerned about what you’d think of the plan,” Georgette said.

“He was?”

“He asked me to be sure to explain the situation to you. He was most particular about it.” Georgette crossed over to her bed and waited while Mercy turned down the bedclothes. “He most especially wanted you to know that his staying at the House of Sirens was not his idea.”

Mercy snorted again. “As if that great lummock ever had an idea.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” Georgette quoted under her breath. “Mr. Darling seems to care about you a great deal. And I suspect you care about him or you wouldn’t take on so over this. Why do you deny what you feel?”

Mercy’s tough expression softened a bit. “Milady, I been on my own since I was ten. I learned early on that the only one who really cared about me was me. And if I trusted someone besides myself, I was bound to be disappointed by ’em, and sooner rather than later.” Her mouth tightened into its usual determined set. “Reuben Darling may act like he’s wantin’ to look out for me, but when all’s said and done, he’s just a man. And men think with their little heads more often than their big ones.”

“That’s terribly cynical.” And terribly coarse, but Georgette had become accustomed to Mercy’s forays into the vulgar tongue. They were often amusing and always enlightening. This time, though, Georgette sensed Mercy’s pain simmering under the profanity.

“If cynical means I don’t let no one close enough to hurt me,” Mercy said, “then I guess that’s what I am.”

“Don’t you ever want to take a chance on trusting someone, to just follow your heart?”

“No. Best I keep me heart tucked away safe and sound.” Mercy frowned as she smoothed the covers around Georgette and dipped in the shallowest of curtsies. “If that’ll be all, milady.”

“Yes, Mercy, that’ll do,” Georgette said, feeling more than a little reprimanded by her own servant, but she supposed she had pried more than she ought. “Thank you.”

Her maid headed for the door, but stopped when her hand fell on the crystal knob. “Ye’ve always said I should speak my mind.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, ye may think this is too forward of me by half, but ye know, milady, ye’re a fine one to talk about followin’ yer heart and not denyin’ what ye feel.” Mercy fisted her hands at her waist. “I see the look on your face whenever Lord Nathaniel is around. Ye light up like a thousand candles. But I notice ye’re not about to take yer own advice.”

Georgette swallowed hard. The way she felt about Nate was writ plainly on her face. Who else had seen? “You’re right, Mercy.”

Her maid beamed.

“That is too forward. By more than half.” Georgette leaned over and blew out the bedside candle. “Good night.”

***

If Nathaniel Colton was a betting man—and he was—he’d lay odds that Georgette would not slip out of her chamber and come to him by night. There was far too much risk involved for too little reward. If she was caught in his room, she could kiss the royal match good-bye.

Which was why he’d decided to make it her choice.

The threat to his family from Mr. Alcock hadn’t abated one whit, yet Nate couldn’t bring himself to ruin Georgette.

Now if she chose ruin, that would be another matter entirely. What man wouldn’t help a lady into disaster if she was set on it?

A gentleman, his conscience answered.

Good thing there is none here, the devil on his other shoulder quipped.

He rose from bed and wandered over to the window to look down on the marchioness’s garden. The clumps of bushes and statuary were awash in shades of gray and ghostly white. The silent fountain was silver-edged where moonlight danced on the cold granite.

What’s the worst that could happen?

If Georgette did come to him and they were discovered together, they’d be forced to marry in haste.

Nate decided that might not be so bad. Of course, her parents would be furious with him till the Last Trump sounded for destroying their royal hopes. It would upset Georgette, but that animosity might be tempered once they were presented with grandchildren.

His family would likely cut him off if there was a scandal. He wouldn’t blame them. They’d have to in order to protect Caro’s interests. Besides, he hadn’t relied on his allowance for years, letting the quarterly stipend draw interest at the Bank of London. There was enough there to see that he and Georgette had a comfortable, if not fashionable, start.

There’d be no dowry, for certain. But that didn’t trouble him. He’d managed to keep body and soul together and do it in style through occasional evenings at cards. He couldn’t even rightly call it gambling. The fools at White’s were easier to read than the Times.

Of course, there’d be little left after all the philanthropy Georgette was so keen on. Perhaps she’d learn to moderate her giving nature.

And pigs will learn to fly.

He owned a little property in Kent with a storybook-sized cottage. It supported a thriving dairy herd, which was husbanded by a dependable fellow and his good wife who lived in the even smaller caretakers’ cottage. The couple kept bees and made their own cheese and sent scrupulously honest accounts to him each year.

Would Georgette enjoy rusticating in the country?

The idea held real appeal for him. He was tired of London society. Tired of politics. And unspeakably weary of whispers and jabs about his time in the military and the disaster of Maubeuge. Even if Alcock did come through with Nate’s promised exoneration, it wouldn’t change the fact that he and his friends had led their men into a stunning defeat. He was certain they’d been set up to fail, but even so, it didn’t change the failure. His men were still dead.

He shoved the French battle from his mind. To do otherwise was the path to madness. He turned his thoughts back to Georgette instead.

Surprisingly enough, even though he’d expected to live out his days in confirmed bachelorhood, the idea of marrying her did not curdle his gullet.

In fact, he was warming to it by the minute.

So if she came to him by night—which was such a remote possibility it was laughable, really—he couldn’t see much argument against taking her maidenhead in a joyous rut to end all rutting. No, it would definitely not be the worst thing that could happen.

Having her discover that he came to Yorkingham House with the goal of stealing her virtue in the first place won that dubious prize. That would be the worst.

That’s why when the door creaked behind him and the light scent of violets drifted under his nostrils, he was almost afraid to turn around.

She might read deceit on his features.

She cleared her throat and he was forced to admit he wasn’t imagining that she was there.

“Though you were keen on inviting me here, I confess I’m underwhelmed by my welcome,” she whispered.

She needn’t have bothered. No one else would hear her. Guests at Yorkingham House were accommodated in chambers located in a different wing and on a floor lower than the rooms used by the family. He turned to look at her.

Moonlight made it seem as if she stood in a pool of liquid silver. Her hair was unbound, her wrapper loosely cinched at her waist. Normally he would have let his gaze linger over her curves, but the expression on her face arrested him.

Her lips were softly parted, her eyes enormous. Gone was the staunch crusader for virtue. In its place was simply a woman, her vulnerability bare, her need for him plain.

Nathaniel walked toward her and reached for her hand. He ran his thumb over her knuckles and then traced along each of her fingers. Her skin was soft, the hand of a true lady.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

“I didn’t think so either.”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss between her second and third knuckle. “It will be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her eyes met his in a trusting look. This was really going to happen. He was going to bed Georgette.

Was it really possible that she’d only burst back into his life a few days ago? If someone had told him they’d reach this point so quickly, he’d never have credited it.

Was it only lust? Or was there something much deeper between them, something inexplicable? Something he’d never be able to quantify and lay odds on.

He kissed her cheek, not wanting to spook her. Slow and steady, that was the ticket.

“Don’t you want to know why I came?” she asked.

He tipped her chin up and gave her a warm, wet kiss. “I think we both know why you came.”

Her lips twitched in a slight smile. “But you don’t know why I’m willing to take the risk.” She drew a deep breath.

“Because none of us are promised tomorrow?”

“There is that.” She tilted her head in admission that Vesta’s death was weighing on her. “But if I am granted a future, I know what it will be. In a few days, the match with the duke will be settled and I’ll be married before the end of the month, like as not.”

“Not if you’re no longer a virgin,” he said. Should he propose now or after the deed was done? It was a measure of how certain he was that it was the right thing to do that the thought didn’t surprise him. “Am I your way of avoiding a royal marriage?”

She shook her head. “Who but we two will know that I’m not untouched?”

He couldn’t keep from touching her at that, letting his hands drift over her breasts and find her waist.

“And I don’t think it will truly matter once the knot is publicly tied. His Highness may have a private fit, but his dignity won’t allow him to admit he’s been cuckolded.” She shivered when he drew her close. “Whatever else a royal marriage is about, it certainly won’t be about me. There’ll be no caring, no love. I can’t bear for the first time I lie with a man to be with a stranger.”

“So I’m only a notch up from a stranger. I think you’re damning me with faint praise, but I’ll take it.”

“No, you’re several notches up,” she said, untying the sash at the waist of his banyan and pushing the fabric off his shoulders. The silk pooled at his ankles and he stood before her naked as Adam. Her gaze dipped to his groin, then back to his face. If there’d been enough light to see it, he was sure she’d have blushed that glorious cherry color again. “When a girl decides to rid herself of her maidenhead, she could do much worse than you, Nathaniel Colton. Very much worse.”

He kissed her again. He’d convince her to give up any notions of being royal later. “Whatever comes in the morning, this night is about you.”

Twenty-one

Georgette started to untie her wrapper.

“Not so fast,” he said. “There are some things a man likes to do for himself.”

“But I thought—”

“That I can’t wait to see you naked? You’re right, as always,” he said, taking over the job of unbelting and removing her wrapper. “But as much as I want you, I want even more for this to be good for you. So we must go slowly.”

“You’re sure?” She leaned against him and nearly ruined his resolve. “That doesn’t feel right. I think…fast would be good.”

“It is.” The urge to bend her over and show her just how good a hot, hard rut could be was almost irresistible. “But not the first time. Trust me.”

He struggled to hold her gaze and lost the battle. The swell of her breasts beneath her lacy night shift called to him. Under his scrutiny, her nipples drew into hard points beneath the thin fabric.

“You see, it’s not just a question of fitting the right parts together,” he said as he kissed along the top of her bodice. He let his fingers trail down her arms from her shoulders to twine with hers.

“Really?” she murmured. “I would have thought that’s the main point.”

His body cheered this line of thinking with a raging cockstand. But if he was going to talk her out of the royal duke’s suit, he needed to offer her more. “It’s meant to be a joining of spirits, as well.”

“A joining of spirits?” She laughed, then covered her mouth with her hand. Then all mirth fled from her face. “Is that what you told all the other women you’ve been with?”

“No.” It never would have occurred to him before. The mindless couplings of the past few years all blurred into a mass of tangled limbs in his memory. For the first time, he wished he didn’t have those images in his brain. He wished he stood before Georgette offering her as clean a slate as she brought to him. Then he’d be filled with only her.

Perhaps he could be in any case. If he loved her long enough, strong enough, Georgette would banish thoughts of any other.

He was a rake. A ruin. A cad who’d agreed to bring her shame in order to save his family from scandal.

But if she could somehow love him, it might be the saving of him.

He bent to show her how.

***

His kisses were absinthe. Poppy juice. Hashish. Not that Georgette had ever tried any of those highly addictive, mind-altering substances, but after reading lurid accounts of their use, she’d imagined their effects on numerous occasions. Her imagination hadn’t come close to the drugging effect of Nate’s mouth on hers. She was going all soft and liquid inside and couldn’t care a whit.

He encircled her waist with his big hands, snugging her close. The hard warmth of his body against hers made her feel cosseted and safe.

But she knew whatever else this madness with Nathaniel was, it was not safe. Not in the least. Her belly jittered as she waited for whatever came next.

Nate cupped her cheek, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. The sensitive skin tingled. Then he started to unbutton her night shift.

Her skin prickled with self-doubt. What if he was disappointed with her?

He showed no sign of it as he lowered his mouth to her neck. His warm breath feathered along her jaw and tickled her earlobe.

When he straightened and looked down at her, his gaze lingered over her bared breasts. A smile spread slowly over his face.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”

His words flowed over her like warm honey, heating every part.

The moonlight played a little trick of light, encasing him like an aura, glowing brightly for a moment. Then the glow faded along with his smile, and his deep eyes warmed to burnished cobalt. If she’d heard the rustle of leathery wings unfurling from his broad back, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

My dark angel.

He bent and claimed her mouth in rough possession.

She didn’t protest. Instead, she answered his kiss. Then he slanted his mouth across hers, tasting her, teasing her lips open. His tongue toyed with her and she made a little noise of impatience.

He drew back just a little. “We must learn control, Georgette.”

“It appears to me like you’re the only one who gets to be in control,” she said testily.

“Right now, I have to be,” he said with a catch in his voice. “But it’s myself I’m controlling. You can’t imagine how badly I want to throw you down and—”

“Why don’t you?”

A low growl escaped his throat and he bent to whip her night shift off in one smooth motion. Then he scooped her up and carried her to the waiting bed and lowered her into the feather tick. Nate lay down beside her, pulled her close, and plunged his hand between her legs to cup her sex.

Life roared inside her, shaking its fist at the retreating memory of the dead girl on Lackaday Lane.

He slid his fingers along her cleft, making her sensitive spot swell up to be stroked like a tabby arching her back. His mouth was at her breasts, suckling her hard. When he nipped her lightly, she cried out in aching joy.

She wondered briefly if this was only another of her vibrant fantasies. Perhaps she’d wake in a moment and find herself still in her own bed with her night shift rucked up to her waist and her body straining in helpless need.

But there was nothing imaginary about the way her nethers throbbed.

“What,” she gasped, “are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” he said, his voice passion-rough. But speaking seemed to have settled him a bit because he slowed his relentless pace. He continued to stroke her, but not in a heated rush. He drew out the torment.

Georgette closed her eyes as his fingertip invaded her. She spread her legs to give him room to delve in and find that she was already wet and slick and aching to be filled. Then his blessed fingers pulled out of that empty place and circled her sensitive spot again, teasing and petting, whipping her into a stiff little peak.

“Hot and wanting,” he whispered. “You’re a goddess, Georgette.”

His mouth tugged at her nipples.

She was spiraling into that hot dark place again. His lips on her bare skin were both torment and delight. She groaned with need.

He rose up to plant fevered kisses on her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her closed eyelids.

“Make that noise again,” he warned, “and I’ll spread your legs and take you right now.”

“Do you promise?”

They rolled together in a tangle of arms and legs, kissing, stroking, straining against each other, skin on glorious skin. She felt him hard against her thighs, pulsing strong.

“Wait, wait.” She shoved against his shoulders and came up for air. “We haven’t…I mean, how do we…”

“What is it, woman?” His chest heaved.

“What if…I mean, there could be a…” She sat up. Looking down the fine length of his body to his swollen member, she nearly forgot the rest of what she’d intended to say. She was surprised to find she was panting shallowly.

“Could be a what?”

“A child.”

He traced a circle around one of her taut nipples, watching it with absorption as it drew even tighter. “Georgette, you’re trusting me to take your maidenhead. Don’t you think you can trust me with this as well?”

He bent down for another kiss, not as frantic as the last, but more insistent. One of his knees wedged between her thighs, pushing them open.

She didn’t fight him.

“It’ll be all right,” he said as he positioned himself. Just the tip of him entered her.

She throbbed, a deep, low drumbeat between her legs, but she narrowly resisted the urge to squirm down and take him in. She felt so empty, but she was still self-possessed enough to want reassurance on this most important point.

“Nate, I don’t want to be found with child while I’m still unmarried. I don’t want it very much.”

“You won’t be,” he assured her, sliding slowly in, hot and hard. He stopped his forward progress when he met the barrier of her purity. “I’ll never see you shamed.”

That was all she needed to hear. She draped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed. “I trust you.”

“Good,” he said. “This may hurt a bit.”

He thrust forward and filled her in a single rush. She gasped at the shock of it, but she expanded to receive him, stretched to the limit, swollen and achy. He held himself motionless, willing them to maintain control, but in her heightened state of awareness she could feel the blood coursing through him, throbbing with heat.

He was as primed as she.

Nate cradled her cheeks with surprising tenderness after that sharp rending. The shock of it had made her gasp, but then the sting faded. The emptiness retreated.

Not so the ache.

There was no going back now. Perhaps there never had been. From the moment she’d first seen him again, coming to her rescue there at Madam Bouchard’s disreputable brothel, Nathaniel had become both her secret hero and her darkest villain. He filled her mind and heart as surely as he now filled her body.

He drew a ragged breath. “Are you all right?”

“I will be.”

“There shouldn’t be any more pain.” He raised himself on his elbows to look down at her, his face taut with need. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She pulled his head down and suckled his earlobe. He began moving inside her and it was nothing short of a revelation. She loved holding him like that, wrapping herself around him.

Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers and began a rhythm with his tongue to echo the thrust of his hips. She rose to meet him, desperation making her sob into his mouth.

The wanting was so keen, a knife’s edge from pain.

He smelled of leather and sandalwood and tasted of aged whisky, all smoke and peat. It might only have been minutes. It might have been hours. Time expanded and contracted around them as they moved together, skin on skin, with no way to tell where one left off and the other began.

Pleasure crackled like heat lightning along every nerve. Bliss swallowed her whole, filled her, pressed tight and overflowing into every crevice. She couldn’t hold another ounce of joy.

She didn’t know what the morning would bring. She didn’t care. Georgette decided she could die at this exquisite moment and count herself the happiest of women.

Then, all of a sudden, she sort of did.

Twenty-two

Nate was in dire straits. Her inner walls pounded around him while her limbs bucked with the force of her release. He had to pull out. After he promised she could trust him, he couldn’t risk spilling himself into her.

She whimpered when he withdrew, but he swallowed it with another kiss. Then he moved down her body, kissing, kneading, licking.

Nate nuzzled between her legs, drunk on her scent, desperate to draw this loving out, desperate to sink into her sweet flesh and find release.

She chanted his name, arching herself into his mouth. He devoured her for a moment, only pulling back when he thought he detected the slightest pulse of a contraction in the soft lips of her sex.

His balls tightened in response to her need.

Without even realizing he’d done it, he found himself poised to slide into her wet channel once again. His cock urged him on.

He couldn’t seem to help himself. He had to be inside her.

He rushed in with one long stroke and she molded around him in a warm, wet embrace. To his joy, she wrapped her legs around him and crossed her ankles at the small of his back. Who’d have guessed his little virgin would take to rutting with such abandon?

His balls drew up into a tense mound, coiled for release. He held himself motionless, willing the urgency to subside so he could revel in the joy that was Georgette a little longer.

Only a little.

His heart pounded in his cock.

But when he looked down at her, at the soft gape of her mouth, the way her brows tented in distress, he knew he couldn’t keep her suspended so near release any longer. He had to let her go.

She pulsed once, squeezing him at the base of his cock with her slick inner walls.

He covered her mouth with his and flicked his tongue in, loving her with his tongue and his cock in tandem. She moved beneath him, urging him in deeper with little noises of desperation that threatened to shred his control.

A little longer, please.

It was such a selfish thought, but she seemed to have heard him.

She turned her head away. “I can’t—”

He felt it start. Her insides contracted around him again, pulsing in waves. It was like being born, but instead of going out, he was trying to come in.

Pleasure, sharp as a blade, sliced through him, rending him soul and marrow.

Her whole body convulsed.

He bit his lip, trying to stop his body from emptying his seed into her. Pressure shot up his shaft and he jerked himself out before the first hot spurts began. Georgette glowed beneath him like a being aflame.

The world began pulsing. Dim. Bright. Dim. Bright. Slowly at first, then ever faster as his body strained against her and he poured himself out on her soft belly.

Georgette, oh my Georgie.

Her name wove through his brain like a half-remembered song. He wasn’t able to find the end of it, and it kept repeating in rhythm with his release. It got all tangled up in the joy of Georgette’s warm body under him.

“That was over too soon,” he murmured into her hair.

The last spurt escaped from him and his muscles went limp as a dead man.

“Well, you’re right about that,” she said as she stroked his head and neck. “It was over much too soon.”

Nate buried his nose in her hair and clutched her tight. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. She’d come to him. Now he only had to convince her to stay.

“That’s what you think,” he said, rising up to look down at her. “Give me a few minutes and we’ll start round two.”

Her laugh warmed him to his toes. Nate got up, wet a cloth at the small commode fitted with a ewer, and returned to wash her inner thighs gently. She’d given him more than her innocence. She’d given him her trust. He was determined to deserve it.

“Mmm, that feels nice,” she purred as he ran the cool cloth over her.

“I know lots of ways to make you feel nice.”

She grinned up at him. “Show me.”

He sank back down onto the bed, covering her with a hailstorm of kisses. There were so many variations on this randy theme. If he could only keep her here till dawn broke and the chambermaid came to clean the hearth for the start of a new day, she’d be his.

Permanently.

***

Georgette had dropped off to sleep at some point, sated and lethargic. She didn’t know what jerked her to full wakefulness, but suddenly her eyes were wide open and her ears pricked at any sound.

The moon that had brightened Nathaniel’s chamber earlier had set, throwing them into near total darkness. Only the soft glow from the banked fire allowed her to see the chest for his clothing along the far wall and the pair of chairs with a chess table arranged between them before the hearth.

Georgette turned to look at the man whose head rested on her pillow. Nathaniel’s face was in shadow, but she could imagine it in repose. The frown line between his brows would have relaxed. There’d be no tension in his jaw, and Nate would look far younger than his years.

She resisted the urge to stroke his cheek, to feel the stubble of his beard under her palm. The man had richly earned his rest. She wouldn’t disturb him now.

Instead she eased out from under the linens and went in search of her discarded night shift and wrapper. With an ear still cocked for sounds of others stirring in the great house, she dressed quickly.

Georgette supposed she ought to feel a bit saddened about losing her innocence, but instead a satisfied glow warmed her chest. She might still be facing a loveless match, but no matter what the future brought, she’d remember this night till she was dust. It was the night she’d come fully alive.

And she had Nathaniel to thank for it.

She padded toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

His voice seemed loud enough to wake the dead and she whirled to shush him, her warm feelings toward him dissipating in irritation.

“Do be quiet, Nate. What does it look like? I’m going back to my own room.”

He was out of bed and across the room to her in a couple heartbeats. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be found here, of course.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his warm nakedness. “Stay, Georgette. It’s hours till dawn.”

She doubted that. Her sleep had been so deep and restorative, she felt as if she’d slept the clock around. Surely the sky would begin to brighten to pearl between one breath and the next. “No, Nate. I need to leave now.”

The hardness of his groin against her belly was making it more difficult for her to keep her resolve by the moment. She’d thought that ache between her legs had been fully assuaged, but it flared to life again.

He brushed her lips with his. “Would it be so terrible if we were caught together?”

She blinked in surprise. “What happened to your promise not to see me shamed?”

“You wouldn’t be. I’d do the honorable thing and marry you.”

But only if he were cornered into it.

If he’d spoken a word of love, she might have given up, accepted the fact that her family was going to be bitterly disappointed in her, and followed him blithely back to his wicked bed.

But Nate hadn’t spoken of love.

In fact, all night long while he played his lover’s games on her willing flesh and did all those filthy, lovely things to her, things that made her cheeks heat and her body rouse afresh with remembered pleasure, he’d never uttered a single word of love.

Why had she not noticed that till now?

Now he spoke only of duty—and grudging duty at that. It would be “not so terrible” for them to be found together. If that wasn’t damning the idea of marrying her with faint praise, she didn’t know what was.

“I know better than to expect honor from a rake,” she said, trying to extricate herself from his arms, but he wouldn’t let her go. “I came into this room of my own free will. Do you intend to hold me prisoner?”

“We all choose our own prisons, my lady,” he said darkly. “Are you telling me you still want yours to be Windsor Castle?”

I’m telling you I don’t want to be your prison, Nate.

But she couldn’t say that. It would be tantamount to admitting that she wanted him when he clearly would only take her as his wife under duress.

“I’m telling you I want you to let me go. Now.”

He didn’t twitch so much as an eyelash, but she felt tension building in his muscles. She began to think he meant to cart her back to his bed and take her again whether she willed it or no.

A dark part of her was disappointed when he released her.

“Go,” he said raggedly. When she reached the door, his voice stopped her again. “Next time you have an itch, madam, kindly find some other willing cock to scratch it. But mind you do it quickly. I doubt you’ll have such freedom once you’ve become royal.”

His words were a punch to her gut. She didn’t mean anything to him. He was merely “scratching an itch.”

She fled from the room. She didn’t bother with stealth. She tore down the corridors and up the curving stairs, not stopping until she bolted the door to her own chamber behind her.

She wouldn’t even have cared if she’d been discovered at that point. All that mattered was putting as much distance as possible between herself and that hateful man.

Georgette leaned against her door because she was trembling too much to stand without support. She hugged herself to keep from coming apart.

During the delirious days when she battled with scarlet fever, death had drawn close. It hovered at the foot of her bed. It leered from the darkened corners of her room. But she hadn’t felt this hollowed-out emptiness, this sense that part of her had already died.

Until now.

She slid to the floor and wept.

Twenty-three

When Georgette finally woke in her own bed after a few more fitful hours of sleep, she considered taking a breakfast tray in her chamber. But then she stubbornly reasoned that this was her home and no one was going to make her fearful of venturing down to her own dining room.

Her body felt different this morning. Her joints were looser. She was sore in certain delicate places, but her flesh still glowed with remembered delight. The thought of Nathaniel’s mouth on her nethers was enough to make her shiver afresh.

She shoved the memory aside. It certainly wouldn’t help her gather the courage to face this day.

Fortunately, Mercy was capable of keeping up both sides of a conversation, so a few timely mmm-hmm’s were all that was required from Georgette. She was free to study her reflection in the vanity mirror as Mercy buzzed about her, busy as a bee around a drooping daffodil.

Does sensual experience leave a mark for all to see?

Her lips might be a bit kiss-swollen, she decided. And her color was a tad higher than normal. Otherwise, she thought she looked the same. It was only when she met her own gaze in the mirror that she realized she was wrong.

Her eyes were different. A new Georgette peered back at her from behind them.

This new Georgette knew things that the old Georgette had not. She’d felt things.

Her heart had been broken.

Now all she could do was try to salvage her spirit. After taking extra care with her toilette, she made her way downstairs, determined to face the day with her head held high. As soon as she entered the dining room, she wished she’d taken the tray instead.

“Oh,” she said when she saw Nathaniel at the sideboard heaping buttered eggs, deviled kidneys, and a rack of toast onto his plate.

“‘A’,” he replied. “I assume from your greeting that we are listing vowels this morning. A silly game and an unavoidably short one, but you do seem to have a talent for that sort of thing. Your turn.”

She narrowed her eyes and frowned with what she hoped was a forbidding glare.

“Don’t squinch your face so. It’ll stay that way if you aren’t careful. Let us begin afresh. Good morning, Georgette.” He swept a deep bow that only she would have recognized as mocking. “You’re looking particularly well…rested this fine day.”

Swine. She refused to rise to the bait. “Where are my parents?”

“You and I are the latecomers this morning. Imagine that. Lord and Lady Yorkingham have already broken their fast.” Nathaniel strode to the table with his heaping plate and sat, tucking a linen napkin at his neck. “I believe your illustrious parents have gone to the Piccadilly market to procure flowers for the upcoming ball.”

“My father has gone out to buy flowers?” Georgette made her way to the chair opposite him and sat cautiously. Having the width of the table between them seemed safe enough. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Does it not?” Nate took a sip of his tea, pulled a face, and added another lump of brown sugar. “One can only assume he is doing so in order to please Lady Yorkingham, then. I should think that would be a great comfort to you.”

“To me? Why?”

“Because if your father is doing something out of character solely in order to please your mother, it goes to prove that arranged marriages can be felicitous for the brides, after all.” His lips drew into a flat line across his face. “Isn’t that what you’re counting on?”

She’d been counting on Nathaniel being less of an ass, but she refrained from saying so because Mr. Rigsby arrived just then with her pot of chocolate.

“I’m terribly sorry for the delay, my lady. We seem to be shorthanded this morning,” the butler said. “Mr. Darling has gone missing. Shall I make up your plate for you?”

“No, I’ll do it,” she said, rising to pick over the selection of stewed fruit and scones, though nothing truly tempted her palate. Seeing Nate again had driven other appetites from her completely. “Mr. Darling isn’t missing. He’s doing a favor for me. I trust he’ll be returning to his duties later today.” Her tone trended up, turning the statement into a question directed to Nathaniel.

He nodded.

Since the man was still stuffing his face with overlarge bites of toast he’d sopped in his eggs, it was best that his answer remained mute.

“That’ll be all, Mr. Rigsby. Thank you.” Georgette settled back into her chair and waited until she and Nathaniel were alone before she dared speak again.

Whatever else she did, she had to act as though last night had been nothing more than a vivid dream in which they both happened to have participated.

With enthusiasm.

Repeatedly.

The inquiry into Vesta’s death seemed a topic sure to drive libidinous thoughts from her mind.

“I assume you’ll do what you can to replace Mr. Bagley as quickly as possible. What are you intentions regarding Vesta’s death?” she asked, holding her cup of chocolate before her as if it were a shield. “Will you be hiring an inquiry agent?”

“I would if I knew of one who could be trusted to be diligent about the death of a prostitute.” Nate wiped his mouth with his napkin and deposited the linen on his empty plate. “No, I plan to investigate this matter for myself.”

Against her will, her opinion of him ticked up by the smallest of measures. “Very well. I shall assist you in this endeavor.”

“No, my lady. You will not.”

“Of course I will,” she said. “After all, I’m the one who convinced Vesta to leave her former life and come to the House of Sirens.”

“We both had a hand in that.”

“And we should both have a hand in this as well.”

“Georgette, this inquiry is likely—”

“I think, under the circumstances, you should refrain from using my Christian name.”

He stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Then his complexion darkened. It didn’t take much whimsy to imagine that little wisps of steam were escaping from his ears. He stood and leaned toward her with his knuckles pressed against the pristine tablecloth.

“Under the circumstances?” The softer he spoke, the more menacing he sounded. “You mean the fact that we rutted each other’s brains out last night? Those circumstances?”

Whatever this was between them crackled in the air like heat lightning. It devastated her, hollowed her out like a rotten oak, still green on the outside, but weak and dying within. Since she didn’t trust her voice to make a reply, Georgette twisted the napkin on her lap and wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. She willed herself to feel nothing.

“Very well, my lady.” His tone managed to turn the title into a curse. “This inquiry is likely to involve persons of exceedingly low caliber, lower even than your estimation of me, so if you think I’m going to allow you to lark along endangering yourself and—”

He was treating her like a child. Anger flared in her belly. Yes. That she could let herself feel.

She rose and leaned across the table, glaring right back at him. “If you think you have anything to say about where I go or what I do, you are deluding yourself, Lord Nathaniel.”

He straightened to his full height, then reached into his pocket for a pair of dove gray gloves and tugged them on. An unpleasant grin stretched across his handsome face. “Regardless, you won’t be accompanying me this morning.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because first I’m off to O’Roary’s gymnasium to find a replacement for Bagley. Then I’ll nip down to White’s to question Lord Gobberd. He’s the gentleman from whom I won that misbegotten house of ill repute in the first place. And thank God, both O’Roary’s and White’s still do not allow members of the fair sex entrance to their fine establishments.”

He nodded curtly and strode from the dining room without a backward glance.

***

“Mr. Humphrey, a word in your ear.” Mrs. Thistle, the housekeeper, cornered the steward at the door to the below-stairs dining hall. Before the sun rose, members of the household snatched pieces of toasted bread or a bit of leftover tart to tide them over till the Family was dressed, fed, and set to embark on whatever sort of doings quality folk filled their idle days with. The staff was beginning to assemble for their late breakfast now during the lull between launching their employers’ day and serving the midday meal.

“What is it?” Humphrey asked the housekeeper with brusqueness. No one could be served till he took his place at the head of the table.

Mercy lingered near the pantry where he and the housekeeper were, tucking stray locks of her hair up under her frilly mob cap.

“Well, I’m not rightly certain, but I thought as you ought to know about this. When Hildie went to make up Lord Nathaniel’s bed this morning, she found she had to change the sheets.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “There was a bloodstain on them.”

“Has the gentleman been injured in some way?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “I’m afraid the blood likely wasn’t his.”

Mr. Humphrey’s brows rose. “Do you think the gentleman has meddled with some of the help?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Thistle said, tapping her front teeth with a neatly trimmed fingernail. “I shouldn’t like to think so, but Dora, that new scullery maid, seems a bit flighty and she was heard to remark over and over what a fine figure of a man that Lord Nathaniel is.”

Humphrey glanced over at the girl, who’d taken her place near the foot of the table across from the bootblack boy. “That’s not enough to accuse her. I’ll speak to the staff during breakfast on the importance of maintaining professional distance from the family we serve. And its guests. And—I say, Miss Atwood, where are you off to?”

The lady’s maid had snatched up a scone and headed for the back stairs.

“I thought I heard my lady ring,” Miss Atwood said, one foot on the lowest step.

“No bell has sounded.”

“No? I was certain I’d heard a little jingle. Well, I should check in any case, shouldn’t I? Just to make sure.” Without waiting for his answer, she bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

***

Lady Georgette’s nose was red when Mercy slipped into her chamber.

She’s been blubberin’ and no mistake.

But the lady wasn’t the sort to let anyone see her tears. Instead, when she noticed Mercy, she covered her nose with her hanky and blew it like a trumpet.

“Are ye quite well, milady?”

“I’m fine, though I suspect I may be catching a cold.”

Cold, my eye. Mercy studied her more closely. Could it have been Lady Georgette in Lord Nathaniel’s bed last night?

That might be cause for tears, especially if the gentleman was acting like most men did after a night of swiving. Of course, there were other reasons a gently bred lady might be weeping. They were a sensitive bunch. Mercy had even caught her mistress in gushing torrents of tears over one of her silly novels.

And last night had been a trying one for her mistress. After all, she’d seen a dead girl in Covent Garden.

The high and mighty didn’t generally get a taste of death what wasn’t done up with a bow and wrapped in a pretty service in a chapel somewheres. Seeing a dead body for what it was—a slab of cooling meat that used to be a laughing, breathing person—was enough to undo sterner folk than her mistress.

But then, Mercy had all but dared her to step out and act on the way she felt about Lord Nathaniel. Of course, she never dreamed Lady Georgette would actually do something so outlandish as to join the fellow in his bed.

Mercy itched to ask, but for once, she decided she’d ought to stick a gag in her curiosity. If milady wanted to tell her, she would.

But wouldn’t it be delicious if Lady Georgette kicked off her prim ways and had a good old game of hide-the-sausage like the rest of us?

It’d prove she and her mistress were more alike than either of them had suspected.

“I didn’t ring for you,” the lady said. “What are you doing here, Mercy?”

Mercy twined her fingers before her. “I was just wondering if you knew when Reuben would be coming home.”

One corner of Lady Georgette’s mouth turned up in a sly smile. “I’m sure Mr. Darling will be pleased to know that you missed him.”

“That great ox? I don’t miss him a bit,” she protested. “But with him gone, it only makes for more work for the rest of us here. Let me tell you, when Mr. Rigsby is on a tear because he’s missing a footman, it don’t make for pleasant scenes below stairs.”

“Mr. Darling will be home as soon as Lord Nathaniel sends a replacement for Mr. Bagley.” Then her mistress’s smile faded and she cocked her head as a new idea obviously took root in her mind. “But I think we might arrange for you to see him sooner.”

“Oh?”

“Fetch my pelisse, if you please.” Lady Georgette rose, tucking a fresh handkerchief into her sleeve. “You and I are going to pay a call on Madam Bouchard this morning.”

Mercy’s mouth gaped for a moment. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You see, today ain’t the bully’s half day off and—”

“That’s why we’ll go to the House of Sirens and borrow Mr. Darling for a bit. He can surely be spared long enough to accompany us across the lane while I speak with Madam.”

“Well, I suppose Reuben could do that, but why would ye be wanting to?”

“I’m sure Madam Bouchard knows everything that goes on in Lackaday Lane. I need to discover what she knows about Vesta’s death.”

Mercy swallowed hard. “What if she’s the one who had it done?”

A steely resolve stole over her mistress’s features. “Then she needs to know that we won’t look the other way and are determined to see justice done. And if she threatens us, well, that’s why we’ll have Mr. Darling with us.”

Without waiting for any more argument, Lady Georgette strode from the room. Mercy stood there a moment shaking her head.

No, she and her mistress were not a bit alike.

Mercy had enough sense not to be poking her nose into places where it had no business being.

Places where it was like to get chopped off.

Twenty-four

Hiring a replacement for Mr. Bagley was more difficult and more costly than Nate expected. Once he reached O’Roary’s gymnasium, where he’d hired Bagley in the first place, he was informed that the former pugilist’s body had been dragged from the Thames only that morning.

“Poor devil was garroted afore he was fed to the fishes. Saw the gash across his neck myself. Seems guarding a bunch of reformed whores is a more dangerous enterprise than ye might expect,” O’Roary observed wryly. Then he called for those interested in filling the empty position to come forward.

Nate had to sweeten the guard’s salary considerably, but finally Manfred Hock, a great hulking fellow with a cauliflower ear, one eye, and a game leg, agreed to take the post on Lackaday Lane.

If nothing else, Mr. Hock’s face alone will scare away potential ne’er-do-wells, Nate decided as he counted out the fellow’s pay a month in advance. Hock was ordered to report to Mrs. Throckmorten at once.

At White’s, Nathaniel wasn’t a bit surprised to find Lord Gobberd at the same poque table where Nate had left him a few weeks earlier. The gentleman had assembled a new gaggle of willing victims, all of them emptying their pockets into the pot.

“Do you want in, Colton?” he asked with a calculated lift of a wiry brow.

“No, but I’d like a private word if you can spare it, my lord.”

Even if Gobberd couldn’t, Nate would have his word in any case, but it never hurt to act the gentleman. At least while in the hearing of others.

Gobberd squinted at his cards and tossed them down. “Deal me out for the next couple hands, but don’t give away my seat. I’ll be back.”

He waddled to a distant corner and settled his bulk into a booth with his broad back to the wall. Dissolute and just shy of disreputable, the earl was known for shady business dealings and, it was whispered, occasional cheating at cards, though no one had ever called him out on it. But Lord Gobberd still didn’t seem the type to stoop to murder.

Any man is capable of it, Nate reminded himself. Beneath the lace and superfine, man was still an animal, with a barely suppressed predator’s instinct for both self-preservation and aggression.

“Bring us a pot of that Jamaican stuff that just came off the boat,” Gobberd ordered the waiting servant. “Good beans, those.”

While they waited for the coffee to arrive, Nate studied his companion. Lord Gobberd was an accomplished poque player. Whether he held a winning hand or nothing at all, his heavily jowled face never revealed a thing.

It stood to reason the earl could just as easily cloak murderous intent behind his pale, vacant-seeming eyes.

“I know what this is about,” Gobberd finally said, obviously tired of the silence.

Nate didn’t answer. He just continued to meet his opponent’s steady gaze.

“I don’t care what you say.” Lord Gobberd leaned forward and cast Nate a gimlet stare. “You won it fair and square. I won’t take it back.”

Nathaniel frowned in confusion.

“Now look. Right now, over at that table, I’ve got a viscount, a newly elevated baron, and his American friend who seems to be the heir to a shipping magnate or some such thing on the string. I’ve been letting them win all night, but I know their tells and the tide is set to turn,” Gobberd confided. “If you want, you can use it to buy into the game now. Toss it into the pot and be done with it. Easy enough to lose a hand when a body means to, isn’t it? Between the pair of us, we’ll pick the others clean.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The deed to that whorehouse, of course,” Gobberd said. “Don’t tell them what it is, or even where it is, for God’s sake, and I’ll let you bluff your way into the game without a single pence from your pocket.”

Nate exhaled noisily. If Gobberd didn’t want the deed to the House of Sirens back, he was evaporating from the short list of suspects rather rapidly. “Did you lose the property to me on purpose?”

Gobberd shot him a frown of derision. “No, there was too much else in that pot for that, but I suspected I was about to take a tumble. I had an inkling you’d come out on top and, to be perfectly frank, I couldn’t bear not to give you a little grief for it.”

He smiled unpleasantly.

“Abominable place, isn’t it? Roof leaks like a sieve. Rotten to the rafters. And don’t get me started on the madam who’s the tenant,” Gobberd said. “Never met such a whiny, demanding bitch in all my life and I’ve been married three times!”

“I bought out her lease and sent her packing.”

Sadie O’Toole had screeched like a banshee, but in the end, she went because she knew she had no legal recourse. Nathaniel hadn’t seen or heard from the former madam since.

“Did you, now? Well, that’s one problem solved.” Gobberd gave him a nod of grudging respect. “But given the house’s location, I doubt you’ll attract any other tenants besides vagrant rats.”

“On the contrary, the House of Sirens’ rooms are all full,” Nate said.

Nearly full, he amended silently, remembering that Vesta’s chamber was now empty.

Then he went on to tell Gobberd how he’d become involved in Lady Georgette Yorkingham’s crusade to improve the lives of fallen women.

“Wouldn’t have figured you for a reformer, Colton. Don’t seem at all the type to go for that sort of meddling.” Gobberd gave him a slant-eyed squint. “What are you—some kind of secret Methodist?”

No, just a man who loves a meddlesome woman.

“Well, someone doesn’t seem pleased about the meddling,” Nathaniel admitted and told Gobberd about the murders of both Vesta and Mr. Bagley. “Who do you think stands to lose if the House of Sirens is closed down?”

“No one really. I expect Sadie O’Toole has already set up a seedy little shop in Whitechapel by now.”

The coffee came then and both men paused to drink.

“One thing to bear in mind,” Gobberd said, “is that the House of Sirens catered to…particular tastes.”

This was news. None of the girls who’d stayed on had been very forthcoming about their former life with Madam Sadie, except to express relief that it had ended. “Such as?”

“Multiple women at once. Flagellation. Boys, on occasion. Don’t know where she got ’em, the poor little blighters. Even…” Gobberd’s gaze flitted around the room, then settled back on Nate. “Well, I’d best not say, but you should know that rumor has it that it wasn’t unusual for whores to come up missing there.”

“Missing,” he repeated. “Did they run away?”

Gobberd shook his head. “Not likely. For the girls who landed at the House of Sirens, there was no place else to go that wouldn’t be worse.”

Was he hinting at more murders in the area that had gone unreported? “And nothing’s been done?”

“What’s to do? They’re just whores.” Gobberd shrugged. “Not that I know anything firsthand, you understand, but one hears rumors. It was another reason I was keen to unload the place. I keep a round little mistress in Cheapside, myself. She may not be the prettiest bint, but at least she’s reasonably clean. Limber, too. Do you know she can take her foot and put it—”

“Back to the subject at hand, if you please.” The last thing Nate wanted to hear about was Lord Gobberd’s odd exploits in the bedroom. “If the House of Sirens was a blight on a neighborhood that has pretty dim prospects to begin with, why would two murders come so quickly on the heels of it shutting down?”

“Men want what they want.” Gobberd spread his fleshy hands before him to accentuate his point. “But if Sadie’s is closed down, some of her clients with…unusual tastes might not be able to satisfy them in the usual way. Habits can be the very devil to break. And bad habits even worse.”

Nate’s gaze swept over the assembled gentlemen in the coffeehouse. Almost to a man, they were games-mad. If cards or dice weren’t available, they’d make up their own way to satisfy the urge to wager. They’d bet which raindrop would make it to the bottom of a windowpane first. They’d lay odds on whether a stray cat would head up or down the street. Anything to appease the need for that heady rush winning brings.

What would someone with even darker needs do if the place where they could be easily met was no longer available?

***

With every evidence of politeness, Georgette proffered her calling card to Mr. Duggins and asked that he deliver it to his mistress. Of course, the fresh loaf of quince bread she’d brought as a peace offering to the bully might have helped as well. And Reuben’s stalwart presence at her left shoulder undoubtedly improved the cordiality of her welcome.

The common room was cleaner than it had been last time Georgette was there. A girl with a pink ribbon holding back her long curls was playing a passable Mozart sonata on the upright pianoforte in the corner. The instrument was woefully out of tune, but the melody was still recognizable. A couple other girls, in various levels of dishabille but by no means indecently dressed for at-home wear, lounged on the red velvet couches.

Georgette was ushered into the madam’s private parlor on the second floor almost immediately. Gone was the blowsy harridan she remembered from their first encounter. Now the owner of the House of Pleasure was dressed in a dark tweed morning dress that was only a tad threadbare. Madam Bouchard poured tea from a silver service into a set of china cups that would have done credit to a Mayfair matron, but for a few chips here and there.

“I hope you’ll forgive the initial impression I made upon our first acquaintance. My only defense is that I had forgotten myself in the press of competition here on Lackaday Lane. I have remembered me now.”

Georgette blinked in surprise.

“I know your ladyship is not in the habit of calling on folk of my station,” Madam Bouchard said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“May I be frank?”

“Please.”

“I’m surprised by the change in your establishment,” Georgette said. And yourself, she thought but decided it would be impolite to admit.

The madam buried her nose in her teacup for a moment. “Well, for that I must credit you and Lord Nathaniel. You’ve made some real changes in the neighborhood.”

“And you’re not upset by those changes?”

“Heavens, no. Well, I will confess that I was upset about Vesta leaving at first, but if a woman’s heart isn’t in whoring, she’s not going to be much good at it in the long run, is she now?”

“That makes sense.” Georgette had expected to encounter a defensive, evasive woman instead of this polite one. If Madam Bouchard wasn’t angry about Vesta leaving her, she certainly wasn’t likely to have had her killed. “But you are still running a brothel, yes?”

“Oh, yes, but now that Sadie’s is gone, the clientele is much improved. We don’t have to sink to her level in order to compete now, you see.” Madam Bouchard gestured gracefully with her free hand and Georgette realized she must have been a real beauty in her day. “Better gentlemen. Better whores. Makes everyone happier.”

“And what if one of your girls wants to leave?”

“She’s free to walk right across the lane to the House of Sirens whenever she likes. I’ll help her pack.” Madam Bouchard offered a plate of mince biscuits, but Georgette declined with a shake of her head. “There are always more girls who’re willing to lift their skirts. Truth to tell, an establishment like mine benefits from a change in staff from time to time. Gentlemen do like variety.”

“But someone is unhappy about the changes around here,” Georgette said. “You’ve heard about Vesta’s death, I assume?”

The madam put her teacup down. “Aye, that’s bad business, is that.”

“You know everything that happens here on Lackaday Lane.” Georgette figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt, especially since it was likely the truth. “Who do you think did this terrible thing?”

The aging whore turned her lips inward for a moment. “Someone who couldn’t bear not to, I’d expect.”

Georgette blinked hard, not certain she’d heard her properly.

“I see I’ve shocked you. I’m about to do it a bit more, but I think it’s important that you understand,” Madam Bouchard said. “Sadie O’Toole had a few customers who needed to hurt people.”

Georgette’s belly roiled like a pan of jellied eels.

“Now since they don’t have a place where they can do so in peace, they may have decided to find ways to do it on the sly.” The madam cocked her head at Georgette, like a merlin eyeing the field mouse it intends for dinner. “I can see you still don’t understand. Well, you likely wouldn’t, being yet a maiden.”

So, the fact that she was no longer a virgin wasn’t as readily apparent as she feared.

“I understand Vesta was strangled,” the madam said.

Georgette nodded.

“It is a little known fact that for some people, pleasure during the act of love is enhanced if they are deprived of breath,” the madam said. “They call themselves ‘gaspers,’ and while I don’t quite understand the allure myself, I can’t deny the practice exists.”

Georgette shook her head in disbelief. Evidently, one night with a rake did not mean her education into sensual things was exhaustive.

“But this was brutal. Violent. Vesta’s neck was broken as well. Her clothing was undisturbed so no one was…I mean, she wasn’t…”

“No one sent her off with a good hard swive, you’re saying,” the madam said. “That puts this in a different category then. Most gaspers want to be choked and they trust the one who’s doing the choking.”

“That’s not true in this case. I’ve been told it was fast. This was an assault. And that Vesta likely didn’t even see her attacker. There was nothing…consensual about it.”

“Well, consensual or not, there’s ways of pleasing and ways of taking pleasure. It takes all sorts, they do say.”

“Not that sort,” Georgette said, wishing desperately for a bath. She’d never felt so dirty. “No one should be allowed to hurt someone in order to pleasure themselves.”

“The line between pleasure and pain is sometimes very thin.” The madam smiled enigmatically. “You’ve never been paddled, have you? Wait until after you’ve had a good bum-warming and we’ll talk again.”

Twenty-five

Nathaniel trudged doggedly down Lackaday Lane after deciding he’d check on the House of Sirens. He could still feel the sizzle of Georgette’s irritation with him. She’d undoubtedly be stewing after being left behind all morning, but he was in no hurry to return to her.

In fact, he was ready to tell Lord Yorkingham that he was done being Georgette’s public escort and private nursemaid. There were only days till the grand ball when she’d slip from him forever. This little melodrama could only end one way—with the infuriating woman he loved deciding to accept the suit of a royal duke twice her age.

Nathaniel decided he didn’t want to stick around and watch the final act. If he couldn’t convince her to abandon her royal aspirations with a night of loving, there was no hope he could change her mind with anything else.

There was only one consolation. At least with a royal husband, Georgette would be so hemmed about with courtiers and guards, she’d be unlikely to get herself into any more dangerous adventures.

Well, actually, there’s another small consolation, he admitted to himself as he stepped around the trickle of yellow slime that ran down the middle of the lane.

Nathaniel had been Georgette’s first. In the years to come, even if her marriage to the Duke of Cambridge did warm beyond the state of cordial strangers, she’d still remember Nathaniel.

A woman didn’t forget the man to whom she’d given her maidenhead.

And he’d never forget her.

Lackaday Lane was even more quiet than usual. It was early enough for the streetwalkers to be abed yet. No window sashes were thrown back to reveal any young women waiting to tempt a customer to come to her love couch. The entire block seemed subdued after one of their own was found murdered.

A black wreath hung on the door to the House of Sirens. Nathaniel was pleased to discover the locksmith had already been there and he was unable to simply push his way in. His knock was answered promptly by a girl whose hair was soberly plaited and her gown demurely cut.

“Oh, my lord, we’re that glad to see you, I’m sure.” The girl gestured him in with nervous, birdlike movements. In her somber black dress, she looked more like a starling with clipped wings than a former prostitute. “Mrs. Throckmorten is in the back, supervising the dyeing. She says we’re to mourn Vesta for six weeks, good and proper, so them what didn’t have a black dress is boiling up one now. Mrs. T. will be wanting to thank ye proper for sending Mr. Hock round to replace Mr. Bagley so quick-like.”

Nate started through the narrow house after her. “Since Mr. Darling’s replacement has come, I assume he has already left for Yorkingham House.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “The lady come by earlier and he left with her.”

“The lady? Lady Georgette, you mean?” he said through clenched teeth.

The girl dimpled prettily. “Yes, my lord. That’s the one.”

Even during the day, Lackaday Lane was not safe for one of Georgette’s station. Even setting aside the fact that two residents of this crooked little street had been murdered, it wasn’t unheard of for young women of good families to be abducted if they happened to wander into poorer quarters. Then they could be forcibly wed to fellows who merely wanted to get their hands on the lady’s wealth.

I will take her over my knee and paddle her bare arse, so help me God.

“Where did the lady and Mr. Darling go?” he asked.

“To Madam Bouchard’s.”

***

Once Georgette recovered from her initial shock over Madam Bouchard’s candor, she was fascinated by the woman’s considerable abilities as a storyteller. Apparently, she’d been a young courtesan in Paris during the days of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror.

“Of course, I couldn’t let my noble protector be taken,” Madam Bouchard continued with her story as she plied Georgette with a plate of light scones. “So I let le Comte de Ferre down the well in the garden. Poor man! He stood shivering in the bucket until I could talk the gendarmes back out the front door.”

“Weren’t you afraid?”

“Terrified,” the old woman admitted. “But fear only lets you know you are alive. And I was wondrously alive in those days.”

“However did you manage to distract them away from your lover’s hiding place?”

Madam Bouchard smiled slyly. “They were men, my lady. And men are very easily distracted if one knows what to use. I took them to my love couch, one after the other, and opened the liquor cabinet for those waiting their turn. Believe me, they all left with smiles on their faces.”

It was a scandalously wicked story, but against her expectations, Georgette found herself liking the madam very much for it. “What would have happened if le Comte had been found hiding in your well?”

“I expect we’d have gone to Madam Guillotine together,” she said blithely. “But I was young then. I thought I would live forever.” The aging whore’s expression turned sober. “And it seems sometimes that I have, but I certainly didn’t expect to grow so old while I was doing it.”

The conversation flagged then and Georgette rose from her seat. She put her bonnet back on. She hadn’t expected to stay quite so long at Madam Bouchard’s, especially since the proprietress of the House of Pleasure hadn’t been able to say with certainty who might have been responsible for Vesta’s death.

“I must be going now, but I thank you for your hospitality,” Georgette said, extending her hand to her hostess. “If you think of anything at all pertaining to Vesta’s death, please send me word.”

“Of course.” The madam took Georgette’s hand between hers. “Thank you for caring about what happened to Vesta, my lady. Not many would.”

“It is my duty to care.”

“No, it’s not,” Madam Bouchard said. “But I’m glad you feel it so.”

Georgette took her leave, making her way down the dim staircase without being too aware of her surroundings.

What an odd mix of light and dark we all are.

Madam Bouchard’s protector claimed noble blood, yet he hid like a craven coward while his low-born mistress faced down a death squad with nothing more than guile and a smile. She must have cared for the Comte deeply.

Georgette was born a lady, yet she’d lain down with a man and spread her legs like any lightskirt on Lackaday Lane, because she couldn’t bear not to know what it was like to give herself willingly to someone for whom she cared deeply.

Cared deeply. There’s an understatement.

She didn’t just care for Nathaniel. She was connected to him somehow. When he laughed, her heart was full to bursting. When he frowned, her own chest ached. Even when he irritated her beyond bearing, she knew she’d rather be frustrated with him than spend time in desperate, dead calm with anyone else.

She hurt when he hurt. If he suffered a cut, she wouldn’t be surprised to find herself bleeding. Something in him called to something in her and she couldn’t help but answer.

I love him, Georgette realized between one step and the next.

It was the only explanation for her insanity.

She and the madam had much more in common than she would have guessed. The knowledge distracted her so fully, she was unable to pay much attention to anything else.

Which explained why she didn’t see her attacker waiting in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. She wasn’t even aware of his presence until the burlap bag closed over her head.

***

“Now that there’s less competition on Lackaday Lane, we only see the gents we wants to,” one of Mercy’s friends told her while Mercy took tea with the girls in the little kitchen at the rear of the House of Pleasure.

“And don’t none of ’em bring out the paddles no more,” another said. “Unless it’s for us to paddle them.”

“Sounds like things have changed for the better here, then,” Mercy said as she sipped her tea and nibbled on a ginger biscuit.

“Want to come back, Mercy? There’s plenty o’ fellows who still ask about ye.”

“No, I’ve gotten used to having a bed to myself.” She was happy for the change in situation for her friends, but returning to the House of Pleasure would feel like going backward for her.

Besides, if she were no longer at Yorkingham House, it would make it difficult to ignore Reuben Darling so completely. And she was enjoying that far too much to consider other arrangements.

After they collected the footman at the House of Sirens, he’d followed her and Lady Georgette across the lane like a whipped pup. Of course, he’d straightened and scowled at the bully when they first arrived at Madam Bouchard’s door, but once milady was escorted upstairs with every courtesy, Reuben had started trying to explain to Mercy again how he’d come to spend a night with a whole houseful of lightskirts.

Even without his protestations, she knew he hadn’t intended to spend the night in a whorehouse. And she was certain sure that Mrs. Throckmorten wasn’t the type to allow any malarkey under her well-ordered, if not well-shingled, roof.

But it never hurt to keep a man begging.

And Reuben was ready to lick the sole of her boot if she’d only allow it.

She’d let him simmer a little longer. Then maybe he’d be willing to give up this silliness about love and just settle in to have a good time with her while a good time was to be had. Hadn’t Vesta’s death proved none of them could count on tomorrow?

The first time she heard a scuffle in the front of the house, she wasn’t a bit concerned. For all his faults, Reuben was a handy lad in a pinch. Whatever was afoot, she was satisfied he could handle it.

But then she thought she heard a woman cry out. There was a pounding of rushing feet and a door slammed hard enough to knock it off its hinges.

Mercy let her teacup clatter back into its chipped saucer and ran into the front room.

Mr. Duggins was slumped in the corner, his chin sagging to his chest. Judging from the way one of his eyes was swelling shut, someone had knocked him into next week.

Mercy felt a twinge of satisfaction over that. The bully had always terrified her more than a little.

But the sight that greeted her eyes near the door wiped away any smugness. Reuben Darling was face down on the scuffed hardwood.

She flew to his side, calling his name. A goose-egg-sized lump was forming on the back of his skull. With help from the other girls she managed to turn him over and cradled his head in her lap. His eyes were half-open, but he didn’t seem to see anything. Only the steady rise and fall of his broad chest confirmed that he was still alive.

“Oh, Reuben,” Mercy chanted, rocking him softly. “Who did this to you? Quick,” she ordered Ninian, the youngest of the House of Pleasure whores, “run up to Madam’s and tell Lady Georgette what’s happened. Someone go for a doctor.”

“Won’t no doctor come to Lackaday Lane.”

“They will when you tell them a lady of quality is here and she’ll pay,” Mercy spat out. “Christ Almighty, do I have to think of everything?”

The girl who’d run up to Madam’s parlor came pounding back down the stairs. “Your mistress is gone.”

If Lady Georgette had been there, she’d have probably swooned dead away at the way Mercy swore over that bit of news. But milady wasn’t there. And Mercy knew as surely as Reuben and the bully were out cold that Lady Georgette hadn’t left the House of Pleasure willingly.

Someone had abducted her mistress.

She’d ought to run screaming back down the lane to the hansom Lady Georgette had hired for the day. She ought to raise a hue and cry to search for the well-bred lady to whom she owed so much.

But she couldn’t leave Reuben’s side. Not till the big lummock opened his eyes so she could tell him how angry she was with him. How stupid he was to let someone whack him from behind like that.

How hopeless her life would be if he didn’t wake up so she could continue to bedevil him.

“Bring a blanket. We need to put him to bed,” Mercy said, taking charge of things, just like Lady Georgette would have done if she were there. The women rolled Reuben onto the heavy wool and, between five of them, managed to cart him up the stairs to one of the bedchambers.

No one lifted a finger to tend to the bully who was still slumped in the corner of the common room. Evidently Mr. Duggins hadn’t endeared himself to any of the girls he was supposedly there to protect.

Mercy still had her mistress’s coin purse. She could pay a doctor if one could be found and persuaded to come. In the meantime, she wet a cloth and cradled it under the lump on the back of Reuben’s head.

“Where’s that doctor?”

She fretted with the sheet, tucking it around him as if that would help somehow. She growled so at the others, the rest of the girls scurried out of the room, leaving her alone with the unconscious footman. Mercy picked up one of his limp hands and brought it to her lips.

“Oh, Reuben,” she whispered. “Don’t ye dare leave me like this. I’ll never forgive ye an’ ye do.”

Twenty-six

“This is monstrous!” Georgette protested as her assailant carried her bum first out of the House of Pleasure and down the cobbled street. She seemed destined to be transported from the crooked lane in this undignified manner with alarming frequency. If the situation weren’t so deadly serious, she’d have laughed.

Her captor had looped a stout length of rope around her waist after he covered her head with the burlap bag. Her arms were pinned to her sides, so she couldn’t pummel him as he deserved.

Georgette could, however, kick with all her might and she landed a few solid digs of her pointy toes into the man’s thighs. But when he delivered a stinging smack to her buttocks, she was shocked into holding still. That didn’t stop her from shrieking for help, however.

Where was Reuben? Where was Mercy? For pity’s sake, was there no one to come to the aid of a woman being abducted in broad daylight?

Not on Lackaday Lane, evidently.

She was rudely deposited into some kind of a conveyance. After she heard the door slam, the vehicle lurched forward.

Georgette couldn’t see him, but she knew her captor was there on the opposite squab. She could hear him breathing.

“I hope you know,” she said, trying mightily to keep her tone even, “that the law frowns on the abduction of the daughter of a marquis. You’ll be fortunate if you don’t hang.”

He didn’t answer. He hadn’t said a word to her, not even to order her to be quiet.

His silence was more unnerving than a threat.

The burlap bag allowed in a little light but was woven too thickly for her see anything but vague shadows through it. The strong fibrous hemp smell masked all other scents.

“If it’s a ransom you seek, no doubt my family will pay,” she said. “Though I warn you that you will likely be caught and be unable to spend any of the money.”

There was only silence.

The seat on which she’d been deposited was reasonably soft. When she clutched at the upholstery, short bristles of velvet rubbed her gloved palms. She was in a private carriage then instead of a hired cab. Her abductor had means.

Money was not his motive.

“This can only end badly for you,” she said. “However, there is still time to salvage matters. If you release me now, I promise not to breathe a word to anyone of this unfortunate incident.”

The man said nothing.

Her thoughts darted like a swarm of midges, too many crowding to the forefront for her to focus on one for very long. Finally, she settled on the fact that just because she was riding in a gentleman’s equipage, it did not signify that the man with her was the owner of the carriage. More likely he was a hired lackey, and therefore perhaps susceptible to a higher offer.

“Whatever you are being paid for this, I will double the amount if you release me now,” she said.

The man snorted.

At least it was better than stony silence. Either he doubted she had access to ready cash or he was being paid such an astronomical sum, he didn’t believe she could deliver on her promise.

Who would want to abduct her in the first place?

Perhaps the motive was political. Was there someone who didn’t want her match with the royal duke to proceed?

In that case, she was hopelessly out of her depth. She drew herself up to sit as tall as possible and decided to play the only card of that suit she had.

“My father is the Marquis of Yorkingham. He wields a great deal of influence in the House of Lords and is a confidant of the Crown.” Of course, King George III was hopelessly mad most of the time, but her father did still have His Majesty’s very unreliable ear. “Trust me. You do not want to make so formidable an enemy.”

In the silence that followed she heard only the clop of the horse’s hooves and the creak of the wheels. In the distance, St. Paul’s great bell tolled noon.

Her initial reaction had been outrage. Now panic was creeping up the scale to form a close second.

The carriage slowed and her heart rate sped up. If they were nearing their destination, she was losing her opportunity to win free. When the conveyance stopped, another possibility pushed its way into her mind, one she’d been trying to keep at bay.

There was every chance that her abductor and Vesta’s murderer were one and the same.

***

The doctor, if that’s what the quack actually was, took every last farthing in Mercy’s little coin purse. In exchange, he’d lanced the growing lump on Reuben’s head and let the accumulated blood flow into his little porcelain bowl. Then he bound up Reuben’s head with a length of clean muslin—at least, Ninian had claimed the chemise it was torn from was clean—and left orders that the patient be allowed to sleep until he woke naturally.

Well, what else would they do? Hire a brass band to wake him?

Once the doctor left, Madam Bouchard shooed the rest of the girls away. Before she slipped out of the room as well, she gave Mercy some parting advice.

“Sometimes,” Madam Bouchard said, “a patient with a head wound will rally if he hears a voice he recognizes. Talk to him.”

Mercy skewered her former employer with a frown. In what lifetime had the madam spent any time in a sick room? “But what if he can’t hear me?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to say the words. Now.”

While there is still reason for you to say them shimmered unspoken in the air. The door closed behind Madam Bouchard with a soft snick of the latch.

Mercy hitched a hip on the side of Reuben’s bed, sinking a bit into the feather tick. He didn’t stir.

“Most fellows give me a better welcome when I sit on their beds,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. Her brittle smile faded as he continued to lie still as stone.

Normally Reuben had so much color in his tanned face, Mr. Humphrey was after him to use rice powder to give himself a more fashionably pale complexion to go with the fancy livery the Yorkingham footmen wore.

Reuben would need no rice powder now. His skin held a chalky, gray undertone. He looked as if he were leaving her by inches, slipping farther away with each shallow rise and fall of his great chest.

Tears trembled on Mercy’s lashes and she began to speak. At first she chided him lightly for being careless enough to let someone get the drop on him like that, but then she decided he’d paid dearly enough for that lapse in judgment.

“Ye’re a good man, Reuben Darling. But not a very smart one. Ye were wrong when ye told me…” Her voice faltered. “When ye told me I deserved to be loved. Ye don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about, truly ye don’t.”

She told him how it had been for her, how men had used her since she was barely old enough to have sprouted breasts. “So I decided I’d use ’em right back.”

She confessed to stealing from her customers and making it seem as if they’d misplaced their valuables elsewhere. Then when she’d learned to twist men to her will, she conned them into buying her little baubles she could sell without the madam’s knowing. That way Mercy could collect the whole amount without letting her employer take her cut.

“I even cheated Lady Georgette countless times since I came to work for her. Does she really think her dresses wear out as quick as I tell her they do? I rip a seam here or lose a bit of lace there and sharp as ye can say Bob’s yer uncle, I’m nippin’ off to the secondhand shop to sell a lovely gown for every last shilling I can get.”

Tears spilled over her lower lids, but she brushed them away angrily.

“The only reason I haven’t lifted any of her jewelry yet is because I ain’t figured out how to have paste copies made first. And you, Reuben Darling.” She moved up and propped herself over him, letting her hair fall down to tickle his face. He didn’t twitch a muscle. “I call ye names and make fun of ye, but when I crook my little finger to ye, ye hop along to me bed, biddable as a lamb. And I think to myself, I’ll have me a bit o’ sport with this one before I toss him back.”

Her chin quivered.

“Only ye ruined it for me.” She laid her head on his chest and sobbed. “Ye told me ye loved me. Worse, ye said I deserve it. Ye stupid, stupid man.”

Mercy didn’t mean for it to happen, but the rest of the words poured out of her along with the tears. She’d never have said them if she’d thought he could actually hear her, but once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She told him how her chest pounded each time she happened to round the corner and see his handsome face. How she arranged her days so that their paths would cross more often than needed. She confessed that even though she knew he was wrong, she longed for him to be right, that somehow even if she didn’t deserve it, she might still be able to make-believe that he loved her in any case.

“Because if ever a man had a shining soul to match his fine face, it’s you, Reuben Darling.” She lifted her head and looked down at him again, willing him to open his big brown puppy dog eyes.

She pressed a kiss on his lips, but there was no response.

“I don’t know if I can love anybody. I’d probably be hopeless at it,” she admitted with a ragged sob. “But if ever I was to try to love someone, it would be you.”

One of his eyelids moved and she sucked her breath in over her teeth.

“If you’ll try to love me, that’ll do, Mercy Atwood,” Reuben said softly. “That’ll do.”

***

Once Georgette was dragged from the carriage, she was forced to walk. She heard a door opening before her and she was ushered inside, surrounded by the bustling noises of a busy kitchen.

“Oh, my! What are you—” a matronly-sounding voice started and then stopped abruptly, as if her words had been strung on a thread snipped off by an unseen seamstress.

“Help me, whoever you are. I promise you’ll be rewarded,” Georgette pleaded. “I’m Lady Georgette Yorkingham and I’ve been taken against my will.”

Well, of course you have, ninny. Anyone can see that. You’ve a burlap bag over your head and your arms are bound.

She silently cursed herself for her outburst. Naturally, whoever had spoken was in her captor’s employ. No help would be coming from that quarter.

So she not-so-silently cursed her assailant with a number of choice phrases she’d picked up from Mercy’s colorful vocabulary as he forced her up a set of stairs. She was done pleading. She wouldn’t take another step willingly.

Which was how she found herself being carried upward with no gentleness at all. The man kicked a door open and they passed into a room. He dropped her without ceremony but instead of the hardwood she expected to land on, she sank into a mattress.

She’d been outraged. She’d tried to reason with him. She’d pleaded for help.

Now for the first time, real fear snaked down her spine.

Twenty-seven

The burlap bag was snatched off her head. The room was dim because heavy drapes had been pulled over the windows. She blinked owlishly for a moment, trying to get her bearings. The room was spartanly furnished, but the coverlet on which she rested was damask and of good quality. If her eyes didn’t deceive her, the landscape painting overhanging the small fireplace seemed to be a Gainsborough. The room was too conventional, too well-appointed a place to house a kidnapped victim.

Then Georgette looked up into the face of her abductor.

And was tempted to swear so vehemently even Mercy would have blushed.

“Nathaniel Edward Colton,” she said, spitting his name through clenched teeth. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”

“No, but I suspect you have.”

“Because I dare to leave the house without you dogging my footsteps?”

“For a start, yes.”

She struggled against her bonds, but he didn’t seem disposed to untie her.

“If I were so minded,” Nathaniel said, “do you realize I could do anything I want with you?”

“It appears to me you already have.” Georgette wiggled into a sitting position. The process wasn’t terribly dignified, but once she was upright, she felt more in control than when she was lying down.

“Only because you’re intent on endangering yourself,” he said with vehemence. “Don’t you understand? Anything could happen to you on Lackaday Lane.”

“I fail to see how. There were two men guarding me at Madam Bouchard’s, the bully and Mr. Darling.” She glared at him. “What did you offer them to allow you to cart me off?”

“Only a couple solid clouts to the head. Something anyone of evil intent could have done.” He hitched a hip on the side of the bed. “For what it’s worth, I regret having laid out one of them.”

But he didn’t regret abducting her, evidently. “And the rope and burlap bag? You happened to have those stashed in your pocket?”

“No, the previous madam of the House of Sirens left a few of her toys behind and I decided to use them to scare some sense into you. Do you realize there have been two murders on Lackaday Lane now?”

Her belly roiled uncertainly. “Two?”

“It seems I maligned Mr. Bagley falsely. He was not derelict in his duties,” Nate said. “His body was dragged from the Thames this morning.”

“And you think the same person did both killings?”

“They were both strangled,” Nate said. “Though Mr. Bagley was dispatched with a piano wire instead of a leather strap, so his demise was bloodier than Vesta’s. And I expect the killer thought we wouldn’t discover his body until there wasn’t enough left to identify it. Vesta, on the other hand, was laid out like a present for us.”

Georgette suppressed a shiver. “Was his neck also broken?”

“No. With Vesta, that was a mercy of sorts. As if the killer didn’t want her to suffer, but he did want her to asphyxiate.” Nathaniel shook his head. “With Mr. Bagley, it seems as if the killer didn’t mind causing him pain.”

Trying to penetrate the mind of a murderer was an uncomfortable place. Unlike the room where Georgette now found herself. “Where are we?”

“I keep a little pied-à-terre in Cheapside. It suits my purposes when I want to be in London, but I’m not keen on staying at the family town house.” He stood and paced the room like a caged lynx, raking a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry. No one fashionable could possibly know you’re here.”

“I’m not concerned for fashion and you know it.”

“You should be.” He rounded on her and leaned down to face her, nose to nose. “A woman in your position should fill her days with trips to the milliner and taking tea with the patronesses of Almack’s instead of traipsing about Covent Garden fretting about the lives of whores.”

She leaned away from him so far she lost her balance and flopped back onto the feather tick. Didn’t he realize the life he was prescribing for her sounded empty as a pit? “Do not presume to tell me what to do.”

“Someone sure as hell needs to. Georgette, don’t you realize I could have been someone intent on doing you real harm?”

“Real harm?” Since when was seducing her out of her maidenhead not considered harm? “After last night, I find your concern for my welfare a tad misplaced.”

He lifted a cynical brow. “You’re not trying to blame me for that, are you? As I recall, you’re the one who came to my bedchamber.”

Drat the man, he was right, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him.

“I will allow that I seduced you,” Nathaniel said, easing down beside her and leaning on one elbow. He reached over with his other hand and traced the lacy edge of her bodice. A wicked little thrill trailed after his touch. “But you made the choice to come to me.”

He leaned down and kissed her.

She hated herself for not turning her face away, but she couldn’t bear not to feel his mouth on hers. Every time Nathaniel Colton kissed her, the world tilted a bit further on its axis and she imagined a future where she wasn’t destined to bear a royal heir or spend her years smiling woodenly at the collective nonsense that was life at court.

The only trouble was the life Nathaniel seemed to want for her sounded just as hollow. She was expected to be purely ornamental when she longed to be useful.

But if he were at the center of that conventional existence, might she be able to bear it? Better yet, might she be able to change things so she could have him and a higher purpose?

When he finally released her lips, she was halfway to believing her fantasy was possible. But that didn’t change the fact that he’d made off with her as if he were a common highwayman and she an ill-gotten bauble he’d exchange for coin later.

“I made the choice to come to your room last night, I’ll admit it. But I’m not here now by my own choice,” she reminded him.

“No, you’re not, but it’s for your own good. You want a bit of schooling on the ways of the world. Being a marquis’s daughter only matters to some. There are others who would do as I’ve done and worse.”

She snorted. “What more could they do to me?”

“Trust me, Georgie, you don’t want to know.”

A dark shadow passed behind his eyes and she wondered what malignant memory streaked by for him. Something from his days in the war? Remembrance of the nights of debauchery after he returned from the disaster at Maubeuge? Whatever it was, it clearly grieved him.

If he wished to speak of it, she’d listen, but she wouldn’t try to pry it out of him. Her favorite tutor had been fond of saying that every soul in the world bore a secret too deep for the telling. If you only knew it, the knowing would break your heart.

And it might break the heart of the one who shared it to know that you, too, were now burdened with the weight of it.

Some things were not meant to be spoken aloud. Like festering things in the earth, they were too terrible for sunlight. They were things each person must work out in fear and trembling for themselves until finally the demons were, if not cast out, at least stilled.

She’d never really understood that tutor till now.

“What will you do with me?” she asked in a small voice.

A crooked smiled lifted one corner of his mouth. “An interesting conundrum. A bound woman presents a number of fascinating possibilities.”

He began to undo the row of buttons that marched down the center of her bodice. Much as her nipples tingled at his fingers’ nearness, nothing had changed since last night.

He still hadn’t spoken a word of love to her. And however much her body wept for him, she couldn’t allow him to take her again if their joining was of no more import to him than if he’d been a stallion covering a mare.

“Please don’t,” she said.

She didn’t know whether to be glad or sad when his hand hovered between one button and the next. But in that slice of a moment, it occurred to her that she knew why Nate had not spoken of love.

“You’re sad that I’m not Anne,” she blurted out.

“No. I know full well who you are, Georgette.” He studied her face as if he were committing her to memory. “I’m the one I’m not sure of. All I know for certain is that I’m not the same man who loved Anne. He’s dead. I think he died in France. Or maybe he was dead before he went there and just hadn’t had the good sense to fall down yet.”

There it was again. That shadow. The specter of something unspeakable hung over them for a moment.

“I’m not a very good man, Georgette,” he said as he worked the knot that held her arms fast. “I’m sure that’s no news to you.”

She started to protest, but he covered her lips with two fingers.

“Let me get this out and then you can berate me all you like.” He finished untying her and rubbed her arms to make sure the circulation was restored. “You see, no matter how terrible a man is, sometimes he can’t help but lift his gaze above himself.”

The adoration in his dark blue eyes surprised her.

“I’m no angel,” she whispered.

“Thank God,” he said devoutly. “If you were, I’d never find the courage to tell you…that I have feelings for you.”

Her heart threatened to hammer its way out of her ribs. “How did you reach this astonishing conclusion?”

“With great difficulty.”

“Careful. You’ll turn my head with such flattery.”

He made a low growl of disgust in the back of his throat. “I’m doing this all wrong. What I mean is, you’re not like anyone else I’ve ever known. You don’t fit any of the rules.”

“I rather think you’re not overburdened with a need to follow them either. Else I wouldn’t find myself a prisoner in Cheapside.”

“I won’t keep you here if you want to leave.” Despite his words, he covered her body with his, careful to prop himself up on his elbows. She welcomed the weight of him.

“But I want you to stay,” Nathaniel said as he gazed down at her. “Always. I love you, Georgette.”

There were still questions, still gaps in the tenuous bridge he’d built between them, but she suddenly felt no need to ask him anything else. He was here. She was here. It was enough.

His mouth found hers and teased her lips till she opened to him. She answered him, groaning into his mouth, all her pent-up frustration melting into the wonder of his lips on hers.

His fingers tangled themselves in her hair. Then he pulled her head back so his mouth could trace the curve of her jaw and down her neck to the hollow at the base of her throat.

He loves me.

A weight lifted from her, leaving her feeling slightly giddy, as if she’d drunk too much sherry on an empty stomach. Her fingers plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat. She swept his jacket from his shoulders.

He raised up to divest himself of the garments, then paused to look back down at her.

“No, don’t stop now,” she said and sighed with pleasure when he returned so she could unbutton his shirt.

His blessed mouth danced over her collarbone to the tops of her breasts where the lace of her bodice strafed her tender skin. Only a few inches down and a thin couple layers of fabric separated her nipples from his lips. When he straightened to look down at her, she wanted to grasp him by the ears and pull him back to those aching tips, but something in his gaze stopped her.

“What? What is it, Nate?”

“I want to see you.” His eyes flashed feral in the dimness. “Let me look at you, love.”

With breathless tenderness, he rose from the bed and pulled her to her feet so he could undress her completely. She surrendered to his capable fingers. Pieces of her wardrobe fluttered to the hardwood around her like leaves in autumn, a glove here, her lacy stays there.

She bit her lip to keep from whimpering with need when he reached under her hem to ungarter her stockings and roll them down. When she finally stood before him in nothing but her chemise, he tugged at the silk ribbon tie between her breasts. The knot unraveled under his clever fingers.

Georgette unraveled too. He spread the opening of her chemise wider till both her breasts were exposed, tight-tipped and throbbing for his touch.

“My God, you’re beautiful, Georgie.” Nate ran a finger down the valley between her breasts. Then he traced lazy circles around each of them and cupped them as he kissed her again.

That now familiar downward pull in her belly throbbed in earnest. His thumb flicked over a nipple, sending a jolt of heat from her breast to her womb.

“I want to see you too,” she gasped as she tugged his shirt from his trousers. He bent to help her whip it over his head. She let the shirt fall from her grasp.

Georgette was no artist, but she recognized fine symmetry and elegance of line when she saw it. “I never thought it of a man before, but you’re beautiful too.”

Nathaniel stood before her, his muscles bunched and hard. Even in the dim light, Georgette saw half a dozen shiny scars marring his torso and arms, old wounds from his days as a soldier.

She lifted a tentative hand to the one that sliced across his chest, missing one of his brown nipples by a hair’s breadth.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

“Not now.”

She pressed her lips against the scars, one by one. She wished she could kiss away the horror behind them all. As she kissed his old hurts, her nipples brushed against him, sending the tight knots into an agony of wanting.

He trembled under her mouth.

When her kisses traveled down his ribs, his breath hissed in over his teeth. Still, he held himself in check and let her explore. She kissed his navel, darting her tongue into the small indentation.

He groaned aloud.

She brushed the bulge in the front of his trousers with her breasts and he pulled her upright to kiss her again.

Hard this time. His hands slid over her, this time bunching her chemise in his fist, rucking up the yards of material to bare her legs and buttocks. His fingers grasped her bum and pressed her against his feverish body.

His heat flowed into her, melting her insides.

Burned alive and not caring one whit.

Nate released her mouth long enough to pull the chemise over her head. She stood naked before him, but seeing the slack-lidded passion on his face, she felt no need to cover herself. It didn’t occur to Georgette to be ashamed.

Instead she worked furiously at the buttons over his hips. She ran her hands down the loosened sides of his trousers, tugging them down his thighs along with his smallclothes. She reveled in his warm, hard flesh and the tiny hairs tickling her palms.

For a moment they stood breathless, drinking in the sight of each other. Nathaniel cupped her cheeks and searched her face for a moment. He didn’t need to say anything.

She could see the love in his eyes.

They came together in a flurry of kisses. The world slipped away and Georgette was aware of nothing but the glory of his skin, warm and vibrant, against hers. They fell as one back into the soft nest of the feather bed.

He stroked her everywhere—the crease of an elbow, the hollow behind her knee, the skin of her inner thigh. Every touch was potent with meaning, charged with longing. She ached to hold him inside her.

“Come to me, Nate.” She raked her nails up his ribs when he entered her slowly, moving with him, urging him in.

He finally filled her, plunging in with hard thrusts.

She looked up at him in the shadows and saw only the feral glare of a male animal in extremis. He was passion-blind as he moved within her, mindless, unable to stop. She welcomed him, raising her hips to meet each thrust.

Oh, the feel of him. Hard and strong and hot.

Blood pounded in her ears, in her womb, throbbing with life. A coil within her constricted, wound tight, stretched thin till it finally burst in bone-deep spasms. Her body shuddered its release.

Then Nate came, arching his back, and driving as deeply into her as he could. Georgette felt the warmth of his seed pulsing into her.

So much for guarding against conceiving a child, she thought absently.

It didn’t matter. Georgette gathered him close, accepting him with greediness. She wanted all of this man she could possibly hold.

He collapsed on her, nuzzling at her neck. He was still beyond speech, but she knew exactly what he meant by the low groan that escaped his lips.

Beyond the shuttered window of Nate’s Cheapside flat, the world spun on, ever faster. But there in that capacious feather bed, it had stopped its dizzying pace for a bit, spooling down to a slow, slightly wobbly roll.

Georgette decided if she never rose from that fluffy bower it would be quite all right.

Until Nathaniel uttered one word.

“Damnation.”

Twenty-eight

Mercy covered Reuben’s face with kisses. “Oh, ye’re all right. Tell me ye are.”

Blinking slowly, Reuben opened his eyes and smiled. He sat up, drawing Mercy into his arms. “I’m better than all right. I’m…I’m…”

The world began to spin a bit and his eyes threatened to roll back in their sockets, so he let himself sink back onto the fluffed up pillows. His head pounded like a pickaxe, but if that was what it took for Mercy Atwood to admit to loving him, he’d willingly accept the blows.

“I guess I am a little done in, at that,” he admitted.

“Just lie still for a bit,” she said as she extricated herself from his arms and scurried over to the dresser to fetch him a small goblet of wine. “The doctor says as ye can have a bit to drink once ye wake. First the man said water, but where in London would we find a glass of the stuff that’s fit to drink, I ask ye? So he finally allowed wine would do. The only bit of good judgment I got from the man, but ye’re sensible now, as much as ever ye were at any rate, so it seems he may have known more than I credited him.”

“And I know more than you credited me too,” Reuben said, still nearly giddy with the knowledge that she loved him. “It was your voice that woke me.”

Mercy cocked her head and slanted him a questioning gaze. “How much did you hear?”

Would she take it back now that he was fully awake and facing her?

“How should I know? A fellow can’t be expected to know what he hasn’t heard, can he?” He tipped up the goblet and drained every drop of the sweet red stuff. The vintage served at the House of Pleasures wasn’t the first-rate fare the marquis kept for his table, but Reuben figured it was just as potent. “You could have been talking for days for all I know. And changed the subject a dozen times with no help at all from me.”

“There was only one subject,” Mercy said, her expression softening. “You.”

His chest swelled and he felt as if he could run all the way to Snowdon and back with a full barrel of water balanced on his shoulders. If only his head didn’t feel as if it was about to detach itself. “You were talking about me? Well, some folk might say that’s a mighty thin topic.”

“And yet I plan to make a study of it, and I’ll apply myself a damn sight better than I do with milady’s reading lessons.” She leaned down and gave him a smacking exclamation point of a kiss. Then she straightened suddenly. “My lady. Oh! Reuben, she’s gone missing and we have to—”

He reached up and stopped her by pressing his fingertips to her lips.

“Don’t fret. I don’t know where she’s gone, but I think I know who she’s with,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut against the drumbeat in his head.

Mercy settled on the side of the bed again, put her hands on his shoulders, and gave him a little shake. “You can’t go back to sleep now. What do you know about Lady Georgette?”

“Just that she’s likely with Lord Nathaniel.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I came into the front parlor and found Mr. Duggins had been knocked silly and then…” His eyelids were filled with lead. He couldn’t keep them open.

Someone shook him till he roused again and he looked up into Mercy’s little heart-shaped face. He smiled at her. She loved him.

“Then what, you big lummock?”

“You don’t mean that like it sounds, I know.” His own voice seemed as if it was coming from a long way away. “When you call me ‘lummock,’ it really sort of means the same as ‘dearest,’ or ‘dumpling,’ or ‘my sugary bugary bear.’”

“I’ll sugary bugary you if you don’t hurry up and get to the point,” she said, her tone sharp-edged. “Now tell me, Reuben. What happened to my lady?”

“Oh.” Her command drew him back from the soft swirl of colors behind his eyelids. “I saw Lord Nathaniel.”

“When?”

“Before he hit me. I meant to follow him up the stairs, but he must not have wanted me to.” Reuben fingered the swollen spot on the back of his head. “I don’t think he hit me here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I caught up to him at that little alcove on the first landing and that’s where he gave me a wallop to the jaw.” His tongue found a loose tooth. He smiled broadly at Mercy. “Didn’t knock a tooth out, did he?”

“No. You’re as pretty as you ever were. We found you at the foot of the stairs.”

“Well, then, milord didn’t do me that much damage, then. Likely it was the tumble down the stairs. Good. That makes me glad. He might not even have known it was me before he took that swing. Mighta thought I was some blackguard up to no good. Best I give him the benefit of the doubt.” He sighed deeply. “I always liked Lord Nathaniel.”

“Reuben, stick to the main point—Lady Georgette. If milady is gone, it does stand to reason that she’s with him. Though why did he have to steal her away like that?”

“Maybe he thought she wouldn’t go willingly.” Reuben tried to focus on Mercy’s face, but the pull of the dark kept edging his vision with shadows. “But why wouldn’t she? Anyone can see she fancies him.”

“Probably because some people don’t know what they’ve got unless they almost lose it.” She leaned down and kissed his temple. “Well, lucky for you when you fell down the stairs, you landed on your head. No harm done.”

That sounded a bit meaner than she meant it to be too, he figured, but he wasn’t disposed to argue with her. Especially since she stayed close and kept pressing her lips to his forehead, his mouth, his closed eyes every other word or so. She was saying something about wondering how they were to proceed, since if they went back to Yorkingham House without Lady Georgette, there’d likely be trouble.

Reuben let her rattle on.

So long as he feigned sleep he didn’t have to stir from this delightful spot. If he never opened his eyes again, he’d die a happy man.

***

“Language, Nathaniel.” Georgette made tsking sounds over his unexpected profanity. Then she ran her fingertips down the indentation of his spine and stayed to dally at the small of his back. “After that perfectly lovely interlude, I can’t imagine why you feel the need to swear. What’s troubling you?”

Nathaniel’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “I lost control.”

“That seems to be going around. I wonder if passion is catching, like the measles,” she said with a chuckle.

“It’s no laughing matter. I should have withdrawn.” He did so now. “I promised not to cause you shame.”

“And you haven’t.” At least, Georgette hoped one slip wasn’t enough to result in an unexpected child. She knew it was possible, but she shoved the thought aside. Her insides were still sufficiently fizzy for her not to care about the consequences of their actions, especially not the sort that might take months to arrive. “I’m not a bit ashamed of what we have between us, Nate.”

“You would be if it became public knowledge.”

“I don’t expect to tell anyone.” She looked up at him sharply. “Do you?”

He hesitated for a couple heartbeats. “No.” Nathaniel rose and began tugging on his smallclothes and trousers. “What is it you think we have?”

“Love,” she said simply. “That is what you professed to me in your awkward yet charming way a while ago, isn’t it?”

“Love. Is that all?”

“Isn’t that everything there is?” Feeling unaccountably shy since he’d moved away from her, she sat up, tucking the sheets under her armpits. “There’s no need for us to complicate matters.”

“As in do anything that might upset your match with the royal duke?”

More specifically, do anything that might upset her parents. “The match with the Duke of Cambridge is not set in stone.”

He eyed her with the watchfulness of a lion near a watering hole. “Do you want it to be?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap. “No.”

“Then why don’t you simply refuse him?”

“And send my father into apoplexy and turn my mother into a social pariah?”

“I don’t believe that’s it for a moment,” he said testily. “You’re the most stubborn woman I know. You have no trouble risking your parents’ ire when it means you’re traipsing about the armpit of London doing your good works. Why do you hesitate when your own happiness is involved?”

It seemed to have escaped his notice that he hadn’t offered her a viable alternative. While Georgette wasn’t sanguine about life married to a royal, she was even more certain she wasn’t made for spinsterhood. The way her sensual nature had bloomed under Nate’s attentions proved that. The fact that he hadn’t offered her marriage stung, but perhaps he was working up to it, as clumsily as he’d finally managed his mangled declaration of love.

The real reason she wouldn’t refuse the royal duke was a darker one, however. She swallowed hard.

“Everything was so easy for Anne. She was the golden one, the apple of my parents’ eyes. I was an awkward girl, and I don’t know that I’ve outgrown it as a woman.” The small keening hurt inside that was never quite stilled throbbed afresh. “When Anne died, I always had the suspicion that my parents wished it had been she who survived the fever instead of me.”

“Surely they—”

“Oh, nothing was ever said outright,” Georgette assured him, trying to keep her voice bright. “But there are some things one knows without knowing how.”

Nate didn’t say anything and she was grateful for his silence. She blessed him even more when he took her wordlessly into his arms and rocked her slowly. It gave her the courage to finish what she feared putting into words.

“People make all sorts of bargains with God when eternity yawns before them. I know. I went several rounds with the Almighty during the worst of the fever,” she said. “I promised then to try to be the daughter my parents wanted, to make them proud.”

Nathaniel tightened his embrace. Georgette leaned into him, wishing she could keep her head resting on his shoulder forever.

“When I came to the attention of the royal duke, it was as if I’d finally made good on that promise,” she said. “Suddenly they did love me. They did want the best for me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And they didn’t wish I was Anne.”

He kissed her neck once, a sweet brush of his lips. “I don’t wish you were Anne. I wouldn’t change you a bit.”

Her heart ached sweetly at the completeness of his acceptance of her.

“Except maybe to make you more cautious for your own safety,” he added.

She smiled at him. “That’s why I have you.”

“But if you marry Cambridge, how can you have me?”

Her face crumpled. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. Please, Nate. Let’s not spoil now.”

He pressed a kiss on the crown of her head. “If we don’t want to spoil now, we need to think about returning you to Yorkingham House with as little fuss and fanfare as possible. Come. I’ll be your lady’s maid.”

Nathaniel pulled back the sheet and helped her dress, pausing to caress her in small ways before he covered her decently. Once he fastened the last button, she was more of a mind to let him start undoing them again, but he was right. They couldn’t afford to dally in Cheapside any longer.

“You haven’t told me what you learned at White’s this morning,” she said as she retrieved her scattered pins and began to do up her hair. The small shaving mirror mounted over a washstand wasn’t as conducive to the task as her large vanity mirror at home, but it was all she had to work with. “What about your Lord Gobberd?”

“I’m satisfied he had nothing to do with the murder of either Vesta or Mr. Bagley.” Nathaniel shrugged on his shirt and went in search of the wrist studs. He bent to retrieve one near the foot of the bed. “He seemed genuinely relieved to have lost the House of Sirens to me.”

In the mirror, Georgette caught him watching her as she fiddled with her long locks but made no move to help her dress her hair. Evidently his skills as a lady’s maid were limited to robing and disrobing the female form.

“He did mention my former tenant as one who would be furious enough at the changes on Lackaday Lane to do something about it, though.” Nathaniel found the other stud and affixed it to his wrist. Then he pulled on his waistcoat.

“You mean Sadie O’Toole?”

“How do you know that name?”

“I wasn’t taking tea with the madam at the House of Pleasures for the sake of her crumpets, you know.” Georgette sighed at her reflection. Her coiffure was beyond help. She could only hope she didn’t encounter anyone she knew as they made their way back to St. James’s Park. “Madam Bouchard spoke of her. She wasn’t the type to suffer a slight, she said. Perhaps we should pay Mrs. O’Toole a visit.”

“I would if I knew where to find her.”

“I know,” Georgette said, delighted to bring some new bit of intelligence Nathaniel had not gleaned. “According to Madam Bouchard, she’s set up shop in Whitechapel.”

His brows shot up. “Very well. As soon as I take you home, I’ll—”

Georgette had studied her father’s maps of London often enough to know Whitechapel was in the East End of the city. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we simply went there from here? You’ll be backtracking quite a bit to take me to the West End and then—”

“Georgette, you must understand. You think you’ve seen the worst of London because you braved Lackaday Lane. Let me assure you, you haven’t. If Covent Garden is the armpit of London, then Whitechapel is its hairy unwiped backside.”

“That’s rather indelicate.”

“But it’s also rather accurate,” he said with a frown. “I would spare you.”

“You should know by now, Nate, I would not spare myself. Where has my bonnet got off to? Oh, there it is.” She picked up what had been a cunning little confection of lace and velvet. Now the brim was hopelessly bent. “Well, it’ll never be quite the same again, will it?”

“I’ve a feeling I never will either.” He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “What am I to do with you, woman?”

“Love me,” she suggested as she tied a jaunty bow beneath her chin. “You know I have to go with you. If there is a chance I can help someone, I do not fear to go where they are. Not as long as you are with me.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck, then crossed the room to the highboy. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pistol which he stashed in his jacket pocket.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised as he came back to her side. “You’ll have to drive me away.”

He tugged her close and kissed her with thoroughness for several minutes. When he finally released her mouth and pulled back, his eyes were hooded.

“But you know, I’ve heard it said that love is like a garden. It needs tending and light and fresh air to thrive. It can’t stay hidden forever,” he said. “Love that keeps to the shadows isn’t love.”

“You’re right. Too much shade is a receipt for fungus.” She laughed, but he didn’t join her in it. “Come then, my toadstool prince. Let us see if there is any sunshine in Whitechapel.”

Twenty-nine

Georgette had thought herself prepared for Whitechapel.

She was not.

Lackaday Lane was dreary, but it seemed the sun had never shown here in Whitechapel. It would have had to fight its way into the twisting streets where the houses sagged against each other like drunkards, their facades tired and crumbling.

A brawl broke out before one of the taverns they passed, and a crowd gathered to shout encouragement to the combatants and lay wagers on the outcome. Even when one of the men lay battered on the cobbles, the other fellow continued to kick him with the viciousness of a mad horse and no one moved to interfere.

A woman huddled in the doorway of a shuttered-up storefront, tipping back a flask and wiping her mouth on her raggedy sleeve. She seemed to have no plans beyond her next drink. As their hackney moved along at a foot pace in the clogged streets, Georgette wondered at the hundreds of people wandering aimlessly.

“Haven’t they homes to go to?”

“No,” Nathaniel said. “Most of them live in common lodging. By night they’ll share a room with six or seven strangers, but by law, they must vacate it during the day. Thank God the last of winter is leaving us. Whitechapel on a gray January day is a special sort of hell.”

She glanced at him sharply. “How do you happen to know so much about it?”

“When I first returned from France, I didn’t want to tar my family with my disgrace,” he began.

“As I recall, you were not discharged from service with any sort of discommendation.”

“No, but only because the victory at Waterloo overshadowed the defeat of Maubeuge enough for some well-placed lords, my father among them, to hush it up.” He continued to stare at the foot traffic, but Georgette had the distinct impression he was seeing something else entirely. “Even so, I couldn’t go home. A little leaven makes the whole loaf rise. The whiff of scandal for one member is enough to taint an entire family. So I made Whitechapel my home. It was all I deserved.”

Georgette prided herself on her vivid imagination, but even she couldn’t imagine Nathaniel as one of the residents of Whitechapel. He was a man of fastidious habits. She’d never seen him less than splendidly turned out. Even a dash into dirty Lackaday Lane had never left so much as a smudge on his cuffs. How had he borne living in the squalor of Whitechapel for even a day, let alone months?

“What made you finally leave here?”

“Caroline,” he said. “My sister wouldn’t give up on me. She fretted my father into hiring an inquiry agent to find me and bring me, by force if necessary, back to the family country seat.”

“What makes me think force was necessary?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in a rueful grin. “If I hadn’t been the worse for drink he’d have never gotten the drop on me.”

Their carriage rumbled past a waif on the corner selling matches, her cloak whipping around her slight form. The fabric seemed far too thin to keep out the wind whistling down the narrow streets. Georgette hoped matches were all she was selling.

“I haven’t any money with me,” she said woodenly, wishing she could help the child.

“Even if you did, you’d dare not give her any but the smallest coin.”

“Anything more would make her a target for thieves?” Georgette guessed.

“Or her employer,” Nathaniel said. “The children in this neighborhood are little better than slaves to the ones who provide them with goods to sell.”

Georgette’s chest constricted. “I had no idea. Why is nothing done about this?”

“What would you do? Take the children from their families? Each penny they earn helps put bread on the table.”

“Surely the government could—”

“No doubt there are reforms that might help the lot of these poor, but with the Crown racking up debt to build follies at the royals’ country estates, it’s not likely anything more can be spared for Whitechapel.”

The needs were overwhelming, but surely if she were a royal duchess, she might—

“And lest you think once you’re married to Cambridge you can divert some funds in this direction, let me remind you that control of your considerable dowry will lie in your royal husband’s hands,” he said with bitterness. “You’ll be lucky if he gives you pin money.”

“How will we find Mrs. O’Toole?” Georgette asked, mostly because it irritated her that Nate knew the direction her thoughts traveled so well and she didn’t want the conversation to wander back to the duke.

“We ask. Or rather, I ask.” Nathaniel rapped on the ceiling of the carriage and it halted. “Stay here.”

He climbed out of the equipage and stopped the first man who trudged past. After a few moments’ conversation, Nathaniel returned, gave the driver new instructions, and rejoined Georgette.

“Sadie O’Toole has opened a new brothel in the next block over,” he explained as the carriage moved forward. “She’s brought in a fresh stable of girls and is busy refurbishing a former common lodging house. The place has a red door, the fellow said.”

“Would you have said Sadie O’Toole had the means to do all that?” Georgette asked.

“No. When I repaid her for the rest of her lease, it was only a couple pounds. Even her girls’ debts didn’t amount to enough to open a new place. Not even here.” Nate eyed the foot traffic as if he were looking for someone in particular. “Clearly, she has a benefactor of some sort who is supporting her business.”

Someone who can’t satisfy their needs elsewhere. Someone who likes “gasping,” Georgette thought, remembering Madam Bouchard’s ghastly explanation of some of the House of Sirens’s more exotic specialties. Or someone who likes making other people gasp.

Vesta’s death by strangulation was enough like that aberrant behavior to make Georgette wonder if Sadie O’Toole’s mysterious investor and the person responsible for the murders on Lackaday Lane were one and the same.

The carriage stopped halfway down the block from a crumbling brick structure with a red door. The dentils beneath the cornice hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Several of them were black and decayed as a diseased mouth. Vibrant cerise curtains hung at the windows on either side of the red door, their bright pink all the more garish in contrast with their shabby surroundings.

Nathaniel made no move to climb out of the carriage.

“Aren’t we going in?” Georgette asked.

“No. We are reconnoitering. Sh!” He pulled the curtains on the carriage closed so no one could see in, but was careful to leave enough of a slit in the velvet for him to see the door clearly.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just go in?” Georgette asked. A gentleman in a theatrical black cape rapped on the red door and was admitted. “Other people are.”

“No, it wouldn’t be simpler. For one thing, I don’t know what’s on the other side of the door. I have no idea if I can protect you in there.”

“You have a pistol,” she pointed out.

“In France I had a whole company of men armed to the teeth, but that didn’t stop most of them from being killed at Maubeuge, did it?” he said through clenched teeth. “We trusted the report of others when we should have done our own scouting.”

His frown deepened. “I should have done it,” he amended.

“There’s no way you could have known you were being given false reports. I understand you feel responsible, but clearly someone sabotaged your company of soldiers. Isn’t there some way to prove that you were not at fault?”

“There is.” The muscle in his cheek ticked. “A certain well-placed gentleman has assured me he holds the proof that would exonerate me, as well as Warrington and Sharp, who were the other commanders that day.” Tension knotted his brow. His whole face seemed at war with itself. “But the price he’s demanding for the information is too high.”

“If it’s a question of funds—”

“No, damn it, I don’t want your bleeding money.”

Georgette flinched as though he’d slapped her. She bit her lower lip, wishing she hadn’t made him think of the disaster in France again. He suffered so over it, but he didn’t need to lash out at her about it.

She never knew what might trigger a memory of Maubeuge. It seemed as if anything she said might lead his thoughts there.

She leaned toward him so she could peer out the narrow opening too. Concentrating on the current search seemed safer than wandering through Nathaniel’s past. “What are we looking for?”

“A familiar face.”

Almost to a man, the passersby had their hats tugged so far forward, their features were obscured.

Minutes ticked by, but Georgette didn’t see anything of import. She fidgeted with her reticule, wishing again that it held her coin purse for the sake of that little match girl. She would happily empty the contents into that child’s lap, no matter what Nathaniel had to say about it.

“Honestly, why don’t we simply go up to the door and ask to speak to Mrs. O’Toole directly? We wouldn’t have to go in. She could come out,” she finally said. “It certainly worked for me at the House of Pleasures. Once I gave Madam Bouchard a chance, she was very forthcoming about a number of things.”

“I’ll bet,” Nate said wryly, but didn’t look away from the slit in the curtains. “It’s a safe wager someone not involved with the Lackaday Lane killings would be forthcoming.”

“How did you know Madam Bouchard wasn’t involved?”

“Murder is bad for business. Makes the customers nervous,” Nate said. “She may have been upset with Vesta for leaving her, but she didn’t stand to gain anything by her death.”

“Then why would Sadie O’Toole kill Vesta? She was gone from Lackaday Lane by the time the murder happened.”

“I didn’t say she did it, but I think she may well know who did,” Nathaniel said. “However, if our killer is one of her regulars, or more to the point, her investor, she’s not likely to tell us for the asking.”

“From your description of her, Sadie O’Toole strikes me as a businesswoman first,” Georgette said. “She might tell what she knows for the right price.”

One of Nate’s brows arched. “That’s a thought. But information that can be bought is always suspect. She might only tell us what she thinks we want to hear.”

Something must have caught his eye because he sat forward suddenly and followed the progress of a man in a dark tweed greatcoat till he disappeared into the red door.

Georgette couldn’t make out the man’s face since he wore a black-and-white-checked deerstalker with the flaps tied down. But she didn’t think the fellow more remarkable than any other gentleman who ducked into Sadie O’Toole’s new establishment. Nate, however, smiled grimly and reached up to rap on the carriage ceiling, signaling that they were ready to move on.

“This whole exercise is a complete waste of time,” she said.

Nate didn’t correct her, but it was obvious he’d seen the familiar face he was looking for. Georgette didn’t dare ask him who the man in the tweed coat was. She was still smarting over accidently reminding him of Maubeuge and didn’t want to chance that the connection Nathaniel had made with the fellow was somehow related to his time in the military.

As the neighborhood outside the carriage windows improved, Georgette found she could stop worrying the ties on her reticule. Whitechapel had bothered her more than she would admit.

“Now where are we bound?”

“Back to Madam Bouchard’s,” he said. “It seems I may owe your footman an apology.”

“Mr. Darling? Even if you did, he and Mercy are probably not still there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have returned to Yorkingham House and raised a hue and cry over the way you carried me off.”

“No, I imagine they are still at the House of Pleasures,” Nathaniel said a trifle sheepishly. “It was not intentional, you understand, but during your abduction, Mr. Darling was knocked unconscious.”

Her mouth gaped for a moment. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“I’d just laid out the house bully and thought one of his friends was coming up the stairs after me,” Nate said. “It was only after I struck him that I realized it was your Mr. Darling.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He’s probably fine.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I expect the tumble down the stairs didn’t do him any favors, but when I stepped over him as I carried you out, he was still breathing.”

Georgette shook her head. “He deserves a rise in his pay for this.”

“I’ll be happy to contribute to it,” Nate said. “Provided he hasn’t sounded the alarm. Surely he wouldn’t. He knows I’d never do you harm.”

Maybe not physically, but her reputation would be in tatters if anyone knew they’d spent a stolen couple hours in bed at his Cheapside flat.

Her parents would be devastated by the scandal. The royal match would be off and it would mean a hasty marriage with Nate. Her mother would find exchanging a royal duke for a second son to be lowering in the extreme. Her father would never call her “Georgie” again.

Worst of all, Nathaniel might profess to love her now, but would his affection withstand being forced into a union he hadn’t offered?

She cringed inwardly. They simply couldn’t be caught in a compromising position.

Which meant she had to make sure they didn’t get into one ever again.

Thirty

Fortunately, both Mercy and Mr. Darling were still at the House of Pleasure when Georgette and Nathaniel arrived. By that time, the footman was sufficiently recovered to make his way down the stairs unassisted and even declared himself fit to ride on the rear of the carriage, clutching the baggage rail as usual.

Georgette wouldn’t hear of it. However, nothing would induce Mr. Darling to ride inside the carriage with his employer and Lord Nathaniel.

“Not that I’m worried about being close enough to you for you to take another swing at me, your lordship, but I’m sure you’ll agree it wouldn’t be fitting for me to ride inside,” Mr. Darling said with a deferential duck of his bandaged head.

Nate took the footman’s side and the driver found himself wedged between Mercy and Mr. Darling all the way back to Yorkingham House. For all the conversation Georgette and Nathaniel indulged in on the trip, the maid and the footman might as well have been in the carriage with them.

Even though they’d made furious love that afternoon, the distance between Georgette and Nate seemed to widen with each turn of the carriage wheels. His profane outburst when she’d offered to pay for the information that would clear him of wrongdoing in France still stung. Nate’s revelation about his time in Whitechapel made her realize she really didn’t know much about the man on the squab next to her.

Getting to know him was as hazardous to her heart as pruning her mother’s runaway roses was to her hands. She never knew when his thorns would prick her. He’d professed to love her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that since that astounding declaration, he’d done everything he could to push her away.

When they came to a stop before Yorkingham House, she couldn’t fault his manners as he handed her down from the carriage. His smoothly correct gait as he matched her narrower stride and the hand resting gently on the small of her back were beyond reproach. But the extreme politeness rang false.

He hunkered behind the social conventions as if they were shields.

As soon as Georgette was inside the massive front door, her mother came swooping down the grand staircase. Her billowing sleeves trailed like bat wings.

“Where on earth have you been, child? Oh, never mind. You’re here and that’s enough for now. Mme. Reynard is waiting in your suite for the final fitting. How could you have forgotten something so absolutely vital?” Lady Yorkingham hurried on, not waiting for a reply. “Really, it is too bad of you, Georgette. She has moved heaven and earth to prepare your gown in record time and—what in the world have you done to that poor bonnet?” Her mother quickly untied the bedraggled ribbons and handed it to the waiting steward. “Humphrey, dispose of this at once. Come along, daughter.”

When Georgette reached the first landing she turned her head to see if Nathaniel was behind her. He’d been such help when she’d decided to defy her mother and order the pale pink gown instead of the red Lady Yorkingham wanted. Of course, he wouldn’t be allowed in her suite while the pins were being plied, but he could certainly soothe her mother’s ruffled feathers in the corridor. He’d helped foment this fashion mutiny. The least he owed her was his support now, when her rebellion was sure to be found out.

All she saw of him was the tail of his greatcoat disappearing through Yorkingham House’s door.

***

“Ah, Lord Nathaniel, welcome.”

Mr. Fortescue Alcock’s butler had been quick to show Nate into his master’s study. The room was cluttered with ledgers and stacks of paper. A globe occupied a place of honor near a tall window, the better for the Member of Parliament to keep track of Britain’s interests around the world. Along with leather-bound books, the shelves were filled with oddments, an engraved plaque from the Duke of Somerville commemorating some service Alcock had rendered His Grace, a brass kaleidoscope on an ornate stand, and on the topmost shelf what appeared to be a stuffed badger. Mr. Alcock rose from his throne-like chair and came around the burled oak desk, hand extended.

Nate did not move to take it.

After an awkward moment, the Member of Parliament lowered his hand, his smile hardening. “I take it this is not a social call. No matter. Among men of good conscience, disagreements sometimes arise. However, there is no reason we cannot conduct ourselves in a civil manner. Please have a seat.”

Nathaniel didn’t know how Alcock could describe himself as a “man of good conscience” without risking lightning strikes from the Almighty. Lord knew, Nate didn’t consider himself one. “I’ll stand.”

“Very well.” Mr. Alcock returned to his chair and steepled his long fingers before him. “I suppose you want what’s been promised to you.”

Nate frowned at him in puzzlement. Of course, he wanted the proof that would clear him, but he knew Alcock wouldn’t give it up for the asking.

“I’ve been informed that congratulations are in order,” Alcock said. When Nate continued in silence, he went on. “My operative tells me you have succeeded in deflowering Lady Georgette.”

Anger burned a hot trail through his insides. “He lies.”

Alcock picked up a piece of foolscap and read the spidery script aloud.

“The subject carried a hooded, bound woman into a Cheapside flat, whereupon the two of them remained there for the better part of two hours by St. Paul’s bells. I begged for a bite at the kitchen of the house in question and was accommodated. Cook was voluble about her employer, Lord Nathaniel Colton. Thinks the sun rises and sets on his noble arse.”

Mr. Alcock peered at him over the top of the paper. “Forgive my agent’s editorializing. He sometimes brings more to the report than strictly necessary. But I digress.” He returned to reading aloud.

“Cook blushed when I mentioned seeing a woman carried in against her will, but she assured me his lordship was engaged in a bit of tomfoolery with his ‘light-o-love.’ When Lord Nathaniel and the woman emerged, the lady was no longer hooded and no longer struggling to get away from his lordship. I recognized her as Lady Georgette Yorkingham.”

Alcock let the report drop to his desk to find a place among the reams of other papers and ledgers. “If you didn’t manage to bed her in two hours, I have serious doubts about your manhood.”

The backs of Nate’s eyes burned. “You will not use this information.”

“Of course I will,” Alcock said with a smarmy grin. “This is exactly what’s wanted to keep Cambridge from taking her as his bride. The old bugger will have to start fresh with a new virgin now and I needn’t remind you, time is the ultimate enemy of the royal dukes.”

Nathaniel reached across the desk and snatched Alcock by his snowy-white neckcloth. He pulled him forward to glare at him, nose to nose.

“I am your ultimate enemy,” Nathaniel said through clenched teeth. “If so much as a breath of scandal touches Lady Georgette, I will call you out.”

“A duel? Surely you don’t mean…” The whites showed all the way around Alcock’s eyes. And well they should. Whether Alcock chose pistols or swords, it wouldn’t make a particle of difference. Nathaniel was an acknowledged master of both. “How very…”

“Murderous? That’s the word you’re looking for. Because it’s apt. It would be murder and you and I know it. Socially sanctioned murder, but murder all the same. If we meet on a field of honor, I promise I will kill you.”

Alcock’s complexion paled to the color of week-old porridge. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow.

“I scarcely think you’re one to talk of honor,” the man said. “Have you forgotten that if I decide not to clear you, I can just as easily lay the full weight of failure for Maubeuge at your feet?”

“I don’t care what you do about that. My sins are my own and I’ll answer for them.” He gave the man a rough shake before releasing him with enough force to send him sprawling back into his chair. “But you will not harm Lady Georgette. Is that understood?”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I regret many things, sir. But I’ll never regret this.” Nate glared at him. If Alcock had discovered information that cleared him and his friends, it stood to reason that Nathaniel could uncover it too. “Do your worst to me. I don’t care. Do the slightest discourtesy to Lady Georgette and you’ll answer for it.”

Mr. Alcock adjusted his neckcloth and jutted his chin forward, obviously feeling a little braver now that Nate had released him. “I believe you’ll see things in a different light shortly. The tinge of scandal you’ve suffered up to this point was merely living under a cloud. If you insist on thwarting me in this, Colton, I will rain down the full storm of public censure on you, including criminal charges.” Alcock smoothed down his waistcoat. “Consider, sir, what your complete disgrace will mean to your family.”

“My family knows what I am,” Nate said woodenly. Even when he was languishing in an opium den in Whitechapel, his family hadn’t abandoned him. Somehow, he’d find another way to protect them from Alcock’s venom besides ruining Georgette. “Lady Georgette does not. If you besmirch her reputation in any way, you may expect me to demand immediate satisfaction. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes.” Mr. Alcock narrowed his eyes to glittering slits. “I believe I do. But trust me when I say you will wish I did not by the time I am finished with you.”

***

“Come, daughter,” Lady Yorkingham said as she made her umpteenth circuit of Georgette’s chambers. “I haven’t all day.”

Georgette drew a deep breath, straightened to her full height, and stepped from behind the chinoiserie dressing screen in the pink gown, leaving Mercy to tidy up her discarded clothing.

No matter what her mother said, the pale silk was divine. The clean lines were undisturbed by a single ruffle or furbelow. A deep magenta sash snugged under her breasts, delineating the high waist and allowing the slender skirt to fall in a foamy column to the floor. The fit was perfect.

Lady Yorkingham stared at her for a good half minute. “What is this? Did I or did I not specify red?”

“Have no fear, my lady,” Mme. Reynard said, flying to the trunk in which she’d packed the pink gown. She tore through its contents. “I have also a red gown for Lady Georgette as well. No need to thank me. I value your custom much, you see, so if the pink will not suit, we shall use this one.”

She pulled out a vibrant red gown, festooned with flounces and sleeves so puffy, Georgette suspected they’d touch her earlobes.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Lady Yorkingham enthused as she crossed to run the silk through her fingers. “The color is so eye-catching, and the style! This ruching reminds me of a gown I used to wear. It’s exactly what I envisioned.”

Obviously, Mme. Reynard knew who paid her bill.

“I know your mind, my lady,” the modiste said with a grateful curtsy. “I’m happy to have pleased you.”

Georgette screwed her courage to the sticking point. She had no choice but to attend the ball. She didn’t have to appear in that garish red monstrosity. “No, Mother, I won’t wear that gown.”

“What?” Her mother rounded on her like a man-o’-war with all guns loaded for a broadside. “I cannot believe my ears. How can you prefer this”—she waved a bejeweled hand toward Georgette—“this simple thing. Honestly, do you think it fitting for the daughter of a marquis?”

“Is someone taking my name in vain?” her father called from the other side of the closed chamber door.

“Come in, Papa,” Georgette said, grateful for the interruption. “We’d appreciate a masculine opinion.”

The marquis opened the door a bit and peered around it, evidently skittish about invading Georgette’s room when such a delicate operation as a gown fitting was in progress. A smile lit up his face as he swept his gaze over her.

“That’s lovely, my dear,” he said with approval.

“But it’s so plain,” her mother complained.

“The better to complement her beauty,” her father countered. “Georgette doesn’t need anything more.”

Lady Yorkingham took the red gown from the modiste’s hands and held it up before herself. “But I want Georgette to wear this one.”

“Very nice,” her father said diplomatically. Then he cocked his head. “Seems to me I remember another young lady in that very shade of red. Someone who could carry off that bright hue because her own coloring was—and still is—so very striking.”

Georgette’s mother blushed to the tips of her ears. “You remember.”

“Of course I do. I’ll never forget it. You were beautiful in your wedding gown, but when you donned that red traveling ensemble, all I could think was what a very lucky fellow I was.” He checked the time on his filigreed watch and then returned it to his pocket. “I also remembered that you love the opera, my dear. We have a box reserved for tonight, so if you don’t wish to miss the overture, I suggest you leave Georgette to her fitting and prepare yourself for an evening with me.”

Lady Yorkingham’s mouth gaped in surprise for the space of several heartbeats.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, collecting herself swiftly. “Georgette, I’ll trust you to work with Mme. Reynard on the red gown as well.”

“Yes, Mother.” Slightly bewildered, she cast her father a look of pure gratitude as he escorted her mother out.

What on earth had possessed the marquis? Her father never surprised her mother like that. And she knew full well he loathed the opera. Why was the marquis suddenly behaving like an anxious-to-please suitor instead of a man who’d been married for nearly thirty years?

Georgette disappeared behind the dressing screen and let Mercy help her out of the delectable pink confection. In the interests of peace, she’d let the modiste fit her for the red gown as well.

But if her mother insisted she wear it for the ball, Georgette fully intended to spill a cup of chocolate on it while the string quartet was tuning up.

Thirty-one

It was well after midnight before Lord and Lady Yorkingham returned home. The performance of Don Giovanni was acclaimed a triumph and the applause at the last curtain call had lasted a full quarter of an hour.

Nathaniel knew this because he overheard Lord Yorkingham grumbling about the way his hands went numb over all that clapping as he escorted his wife to their door. Lady Yorkingham nagged him for lack of appreciation of the arts. The marquis finally pulled her close and kissed her soundly to hush her scolding. After that, they hurried in, giggling like a pair of newlyweds.

Nate snorted and settled back in between the bare bushes in the Yorkingham’s small front garden. Anyone trying to enter the town house from the rear would encounter the footmen and bootblack boy who made out their pallets in the kitchen. Nathaniel had made a nest for himself with his garrick so he could keep an eye on things in the front. Since the lord and lady of the house hadn’t noticed him there in the darkness, he felt certain his hiding place was secure.

No one with evil intent would spy him there either.

He’d been expected to return to Yorkingham House hours ago, but he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the threshold. If he slept under the same roof as Georgette, he didn’t trust himself not to slip into her chamber and shag her silly.

If he was willing to cheerfully murder Mr. Alcock in a duel for trying to ruin her with his agent’s smarmy report of their afternoon tryst, the least Nate could do was keep from being caught actually accomplishing the deed.

The time since he left Georgette that afternoon had been spent productively. First, he went back to his Cheapside flat to collect his mail and order the payment of several bills, including his long-suffering tailor. He’d neglected the business end of his life of late. It was soothing to do something which required only logic with no troubling compressions of his gut.

His friend Lord Rhys Warrington had sent him a letter and Nathaniel pulled it from his waistcoat pocket to reread it by the yellow light of the gas lamp on the street outside Yorkingham House. After Rhys explained that he’d married Lady Olivia Symon rather suddenly—almost by accident, really—he penned the most interesting part of the missive.

Since I married Lady Olivia, Mr. Alcock tossed me a crumb of information that could lead to our full vindication. According to Alcock, Nathaniel’s friend wrote, there is a witness who can attest to the plot to deliver fraudulent intelligence to us prior to the battle at Maubeuge. The man’s name is Sergeant Leatherby, but he took ship for Portsmouth before I could locate him.

He is willing to testify, but is justifiably concerned for his safety should he do so. If you have the ability to travel to Portsmouth to apprehend him, I urge you to do it. I am still on my honeymoon and my bride would not appreciate me playing enquiry agent at this stage in our marriage.

If I can aid you in any other matter, call on me.

Nate refolded the letter. Rhys could do nothing to help him now. But at least the information in the letter was a start toward protecting his family from Alcock’s spite.

He looked up at Georgette’s dark window.

He needed to protect her from other things. From her fearless meddling in sordid places. From the man in the tweed coat and deerstalker he’d noticed entering Sadie O’Toole’s new brothel. The gentleman moved in Georgette’s circles. Nate had seen him about town in fashionable haunts and remembered his name.

But he needed confirmation before he made an accusation.

That evening, Nathaniel had retraced his steps and revisited O’Toole’s red door, going in this time. He hired the girl with the freshest bruising on her neck for an hour. But instead of bedding her, he spent the time in her squalid chamber convincing her to tell him all she knew about the man in the deerstalker and tweed jacket.

“’Is name? Ye don’t think the gentlemen gives us their real names, do ye, guv?” the whore had asked him, casting him a jaundiced gaze. “The other girls and me, we just calls him Mr. Handy.”

“Because he’s useful?”

“No, Gawd love ye. It’s because he likes to use his hands on us, and not in a good way neither, if ye catch me meaning.” She pulled back the hair she’d let tumble around her shoulders in hopes of covering the mottled purple at her neck. “He likes to choke us.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “He watches, like a snake, while me eyes go dark. Then when I comes to myself, he’s got his thing inside me, pumpin’ away like there’s no tomorrow.”

Nate poured her another shot of the whisky he’d brought with him, but didn’t interrupt her tale.

“The trick is to lie still as the dead and take shallow breaths whilst he does his business, ye see,” the girl said. “It goes a lot faster that way. If ye move, he starts over by putting yer lights out again.”

The girl went on to say that the rumor around the whorehouse was that Mr. Handy had killed a girl in Sadie O’Toole’s last brothel. Maybe more than one. The whores thought Sadie must have the goods on him because he was free with the blunt every time he came to visit. Which was far too often for the working girls’ comfort. In any case, Mr. Handy was the one putting up the coin for Sadie’s renovations, so he pretty much got to do anything he wanted with anyone he wanted.

And in his own private room too.

When his hour was up, Nate told the girl about his House of Sirens on Lackaday Lane and offered her a place there if she wanted out of her current life.

The girl covered his hand with kisses and promised to present herself to Mrs. Throckmorten as soon as she could steal away the next morning.

Nate still didn’t have enough proof to go to a magistrate with his suspicions, but he’d be on the watch since “Mr. Handy” was accepted by the ton. He’d protect Georgette from him with his heart’s blood if necessary.

But most of all, Nathaniel needed to protect Georgette from himself. He would bring her only grief, only disgrace, and he couldn’t bear to taint her life with it.

Nate realized with an ache in his gut that he wanted the best for her. Georgette deserved to wear a crown. She deserved every happiness.

Even if it wasn’t with him.

That meant he had to step aside and let her match with the Duke of Cambridge proceed. When she wed the royal duke, he’d probably slip into the nave of Westminster to stand and listen to her vows echo in the soaring arches overhead. It would make him go dead inside, but making certain of her future with the royals would be the last good thing he could do for her.

Then he’d go in search of Sergeant Leatherby in Portsmouth for the sake of his friends and their happiness.

There could be none for him.

So this is what love really is.

He thought he’d known when he was betrothed to Anne. When he lost her, he’d wallowed in grief and self-pity. He’d mourned for the future he’d imagined with her, for his solitary march through the years after she’d gone.

But he realized now that it had always been about him.

Nothing in his experience prepared him for setting himself aside like this. He was desperate to see everything made right for Georgette, damn the consequences to himself.

He was losing the woman he loved again. But this time, there was nothing left of him to worry over.

Nate pulled his garrick around his shoulders and turned his back to the wind.

***

“Rise and shine, my lady,” Mercy sang out, cheerful as a cricket.

Georgette pried her eyelids open and then, when Mercy threw back the draperies, squinched them tight again against the glare of light. The sun was a disgustingly low yellow ball on the eastern horizon.

“What are you doing up so early?” she mumbled, covering her face with one of her pillows.

“None o’ that now.” Mercy lifted a corner of the pillow, peeping under the down-filled case at her. “Have ye forgotten what day it is today?”

Georgette had been trying to. She’d pushed the future away with both hands, but it rushed toward her now like a runaway coach and six.

“The ball for the royal duke,” she said flatly.

“Oh, right. I suppose it is, at that,” Mercy said. “But it’s also the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball, remember? I asked ye last week could I have the evening off so Mr. Darling can take me. Do ye mind it now?”

Georgette nodded sleepily.

“So we needs to get ye ready a tad earlier today so’s I can see to meself later. Oh, would ye look at those eyes?” Mercy made tsking noises as she threw the covers back and took Georgette’s hands to urge her up. “A body would never guess ye’ve been abed.”

She very nearly hadn’t been. After tossing about under her coverlet, sometime during the dark hours, Georgette had slipped from her chamber and padded to the guest wing.

Nathaniel’s bed was undisturbed.

She’d settled into the wing chair by his banked fire, waiting for him to return. At some point, she fell into an exhausted light slumber and jerked herself awake when dawn turned the sky a sickly pearl. She managed to return to her own room without discovery, but she nearly bumped into a pair of maids as they slipped into some unused chambers to scrub the hearths. Every room in Yorkingham House must be beyond reproach when a royal duke came calling, whether he’d ever enter the chamber or not.

“Well, I’ve buckets of things to finish afore we’re both ready for this evening’s doings,” Mercy said, “but let’s see what a little witch hazel and a bit of paint will do for that puffiness.”

Mercy poked and prodded and fussed at Georgette, repairing the damage of a sleepless night. After half an hour of Mercy’s ministrations, Georgette looked amazingly bright-eyed, but nothing repaired the confusion in her heart.

Where was Nathaniel? And why did he leave her to face what was coming by herself on this day of all days?

Alone in the dining room, Georgette pushed the buttered eggs and sausages around her plate without bringing the fork to her lips. The room was so empty, the scrape of her fork on china was loud enough to make her cringe.

“Where are my parents?” she asked Mr. Rigsby when he tried to present her with a rack of toast.

Mr. Rigsby’s ears flushed a deep scarlet. “My lord and lady have elected to take a breakfast tray together in my lord’s bedchamber.”

That was unusual enough for even the unflappable Mr. Humphrey, who stood watch over the dining room from the corner, to involuntarily arch a surprised brow.

Evidently her father’s evening at the opera had turned into something much more. Georgette covered a small smile with her napkin. It was about time her parents stopped being strangers with each other.

She was happy for them, but she really could have used their company to divert her thoughts from the coming ball. Though on further reflection, she realized if her mother were there, all she’d be chattering about would be the evening’s festivities.

What she really needed was Nate.

“Has Lord Nathaniel had breakfast?” she asked, hoping he’d returned after she’d given up and made her way back to her chamber.

“No, my lady.” Mr. Humphrey stepped up to refresh her tea. “To my knowledge, Lord Nathaniel did not return to Yorkingham House last night.”

Her belly twisted itself in knots.

He loves me, Georgette reminded herself. He’d practically sung it as they came together in his string bed. But he’d been so distant after that idyllic interlude, and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her good-bye.

What had happened?

She wondered if he was pursuing Vesta and Mr. Bagley’s killer without her. If so, he might be in danger. Or would her presence only hamper his investigation? Usually, the idea that Nathaniel might be better off without her in tow never entered her mind.

She pondered it now.

He does seem to have to spend an inordinate amount of time carting me off over his shoulder.

She frowned down at her plate and decided to abandon the cause of breakfast.

Georgette wandered through Yorkingham House with no idea how to fill the time till she had to dress for the ball. Mercy had wheedled her into promising to go in search of a new bonnet to complement the cast-off gown Mercy would be wearing to the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball that evening, but they couldn’t even set out till Mercy finished a few chores.

If Georgette was at loose ends, the rest of the household bristled with activity. In the ballroom, her mother’s army of workers was busy festooning the grand space with reams of red silk, lace-trimmed hearts, and papier-mâché flowers. Cook was in upheaval in the kitchen preparing the dainty dishes destined for the sideboards set up in an anteroom off the ballroom. Mrs. Thistle had marshaled every maid in Yorkingham House to polish the brass and scrub the floors till she could see her reflection in the gleaming marble and hardwood.

The daughter of the house was about to become a future royal duchess. His Highness might make his formal declaration that night in Yorkingham House. The very air vibrated with expectancy.

Yet if a certain second son would only say the word, Georgette would blithely run off to Gretna Green with him without a backward glance.

Thirty-two

Lord Roger Fishwick strolled into White’s at half-past nine in the morning with only a slight wobble in his walk. True, he wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as usual after an all-night carouse either.

A few gentlemen were engaged in a card game, but for once, Lord Gobberd wasn’t among them. Instead, that overblown windbag had commandeered one of the stuffed chairs by the large window, the better to see and be seen as he read his freshly ironed newspaper and slurped down his morning coffee.

At least he’s a useful overblown windbag, Roger thought. Anything the teeniest bit scandalous about anyone was sure to have caught Gobberd’s notice, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his knowledge.

Roger slid into the chair opposite him and signaled to the waiting footman to bring him a steaming cup.

“The Jamaican brew, and step lively,” he ordered. Tea simply wouldn’t do. A pot of chocolate was for women or men with no hair on their chests. To keep Roger awake and upright, it had to be Arabica beans so stout they could lift the cup and carry it across the table on their own.

Gobberd peered over the top of his paper, his slanting gaze taking in the bedraggled state of Roger’s neckcloth and the grubbiness of his cuffs.

“Haven’t found your bed yet, I see, Fishwick.”

“No matter,” Roger said with a cheerful snort. “I found someone else’s.”

Gobberd laughed heartily at that. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You remind me of me.”

A much younger and fitter version of you, Roger thought as the footman brought his coffee. Unfortunately, the servant jostled the cup in the saucer as he set it down and spilled some of the precious brew. Roger gave him a blistering tongue-lashing and the fellow backed away, apologizing profusely and promising to bring a fresh pot, not just a fresh cup.

“And a plate of biscuits too, while you’re about it,” Roger said with an imperious glare. Once the fellow hotfooted it back to the kitchen, Roger turned back to Lord Gobberd. “What’s wrong with the help this morning?”

“That poor fellow isn’t one of the regulars,” Gobberd said. “The usual wait staff has the day off to prepare for that blasted Ladies’ Maids’ Ball this evening. The whole city’s in a boiling stew over it.” Gobberd cleared his throat loudly and, to Roger’s stomach’s discomfort, snorted wetly. “A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. Does a real disservice to the lower classes. Gives ’em airs above their station.”

The substitute footman came back, walking with such care it looked as if he scarcely drew breath. Roger took a sip of the coffee.

“It’s cold,” he complained. When the footman started to remove the tray, Roger stopped him with a glare. “Leave it. I’ve no hope you’d get it right even if you did try again.”

“Not to mention that he’ll probably spit in your cup next time,” Gobberd muttered behind his paper. “It’s only coffee. Why so particular?”

Roger swallowed back his reply. “Only” coffee.

Gobberd’s use of “only” whisked him back to his childhood when it seemed all he heard was “only.” It had been only his marks in school…only his seat on a horse…only the way he spoke with his mouth full…

Only. Only. Only.

His parents tried to control everything about him, all the while trying to make it seem as if it was for his own good.

As if they cared.

He knew better.

They treated him as though he were merely an appendage of themselves, as if his accomplishments were theirs. And as if his failures somehow redounded to them as well. Oh, how they made him pay when that happened.

But as Roger moved through his awkward boyhood, he found his own ways of taking control. He found that he liked it.

Craved it, even.

Of course, when his parents found his little experiments with power, the skinned frogs and singed cats, they’d tried to threaten him into stopping. Once his father had even beaten him, but when Roger gutted his favorite hunting dog the next day in a way that made it seem as if the hound had run afoul of a wild boar, the threats and beatings stopped.

His parents walked warily around him after that.

They should have known better than to try to deny him, so he’d simply wrestled it from them.

Control.

And now that his parents were dead, he was the one who held all the power in his life.

Finally.

Roger studied Lord Gobberd over his cold coffee. If he didn’t understand how vitally important it was to have absolute control over every aspect of one’s life, Roger couldn’t explain it to him. Gobberd was content to bobble along through life like so much bloated flotsam.

Not Roger. He’d do one better than control his own life. He’d make certain of the fate of those around him as well. It was the “only” thing to do.

“Not much doing here this morning. I don’t see any of the regulars,” Roger said.

He’d hoped to run into Lord Nathaniel Colton again, without Lady Georgette at his side this time. Though the man had technically done him what others saw as a “good turn” when he paid for his care that day Roger had stumbled into White’s, it grated on Roger’s nerves that others thought he was beholden to Colton in some way. He’d never surrender that sort of power to another. Colton needed to learn that.

“Why is this place so dead this morning?” Roger asked.

Gobberd glared at him over his paper, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Probably because there’s also a ball for the Duke of Cambridge at Lord Yorkingham’s this evening.” Lord Gobberd flipped to the next page and scanned the headlines. “Didn’t you receive an invitation?”

“Of course,” Roger said quickly. He hadn’t, but Gobberd didn’t need to know that. “Yorkingham’s country seat abuts my own property. Our families have been friendly for years.”

Less friendly since his parents died rather unexpectedly and Roger came into the barony in his own right. But again, that was information Lord Gobberd didn’t need.

“I find it odd that it requires an entire day to prepare for an evening’s entertainment,” Roger said.

Lord Gobberd gave up and laid his paper aside. “According to all reports, this will be no ordinary evening. Odds highly favor that the Duke of Cambridge will make an official proposal to Lady Georgette at the ball. Check the book, if you doubt me. I’ve put fifty pounds on the lady’s nose myself. She’ll be the first filly out of the gate in the ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ if the betrothal and marriage come to fruition.”

White’s ledger of wagers was full of any number of items on which its members might hazard a bet. Whether or not Lady Georgette Yorkingham would become a royal was high on the current list, just under whether or not a horse named Blanchington’s Fancy would throw a shoe during its race on Saturday next.

“Hmm, I would have said the lady was taken with Lord Nathaniel Colton, not the royal duke,” Roger mused. He’d noticed the way Georgette and Colton sneaked glances at each other at the Daventrys’ musical evening and drew his own conclusions. “They’ve been seen together in public quite a bit.”

“Doesn’t signify. He’s only serving as an escort because of his past relationship with the family.” Gobberd shook his head, setting his jowls swaying, and resumed reading his paper. “But if Colton has feelings for the lady, he’s in for a rough evening.”

Wonder if there’s a way I can make it rougher, Roger mused as he bit down on one of the biscuits. The shortbread was stale and he pushed aside the rest in disgust.

“Speak of the devil,” Gobberd said, lowering his paper. “Or should I say ‘devil-ette.’”

Lady Georgette strolled past the large window at White’s, accompanied by her maid. The girl was chattering happily and Lady Georgette seemed to actually be listening.

As if a servant might possibly have something worthwhile to say.

“That maid seems an insolent bit of baggage,” Roger said. “I require mine to be seen only when absolutely necessary and heard not at all.”

“An old-fashioned view, I fear. Nowadays, women confide a good deal in their maids. Almost make companions of them,” Gobberd said with a derisive snort. “Were I a betting man—and I am—I’d lay odds that Lady Georgette takes that young chit to the palace with her when she marries.”

“Surely not. The royals undoubtedly have plenty of servants already.” Roger squinted at the maid and recognized her. “Besides, I have it on good authority that the young woman used to sell herself in Covent Garden.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lord Gobberd said. “Word is Lady Georgette is spearheading a misguided effort to save soiled doves, you know. Stands to reason her maid is one of her ‘successes.’ See how she seems to dote upon her.”

Roger followed the women’s progress down the street. They did seem more like friends than employer and employee, heads together conspiratorially as they ducked into a milliner’s shop. Perhaps that unnatural attachment between them was something he could use.

A plan began to take shape in his gin-soaked brain. It was brilliant in its audacity. He’d exercise control over a woman who’d snubbed him and a man who thought he was beholden to him. Roger would even tweak the nose of the royal duke by denying him a bride in the process.

Now that was power.

Roger rose so hastily, his chair toppled over behind him.

“Where are you haring off to, Fishwick?”

“I just remembered some…some matters of my estate to which I must attend.” He dashed out of White’s. There was so much to do.

Of course, if he managed to pull it off, no one could ever know it was his work.

But he’d know.

And that would be enough.

***

“Oh, milady, it’s the finest thing I ever had in all me livin’ life.” Mercy clutched the hatbox to her chest as they walked back to the waiting Yorkingham carriage. “And no one’s ever worn it before me. Meanin’ no disrespect, I’m sure. I’m tickled to pieces to be wearing that old gown o’ yours this evening. But to think I’d ever have a brand new bonnet to go with it…”

She teared up and couldn’t finish her thought.

“It’s all right, Mercy. You don’t have to take on so. I know it pleases you,” Lady Georgette said.

Suddenly serious, Mercy cut a glance at her employer. “I wish ye knew what pleases yerself.”

“How do you mean?”

Mercy sighed. She’d broached this subject with milady any number of times with no success whatsoever.

Well, in for a penny…

“This Duke of Cambridge fellow—”

“I believe you’d ought to refer to him as ‘His Royal Highness,’” Lady Georgette corrected.

“Yes, o’ course, ah…him. Ye know next to nothing about His Royal Highness yet ye’re set to become ’is bride. It don’t seem right, do it? Ye’re as smart a noble lady as ever I’ve met.” Mercy thought that might be damning Lady Georgette with faint praise since she’d observed no real sense in any of the wellborn women she’d crossed paths with, but she couldn’t very well say that. “This turn of events can’t be pleasing to ye. Not really.”

Lady Georgette’s lips compressed in a crooked line. “I know I’ve encouraged you to speak your mind, but this time you’re out of line, Mercy.”

“Maybe. But ye’re about out of time. I know ye fancy Lord Nathaniel. I dares ye to tell me different.”

Milady looked away. “You can’t possibly know what’s in another person’s heart.”

“Sure ye can. People are far easier to read than books. Everything they think or feel or think about feelin’ shows on their faces. Some more than others, to be sure, but it shows all the same,” Mercy said. “If ye’re not far gone on Lord Nate and have been for some time now, why…I’ll eat this cunning little bonnet you just bought me!”

Lady Georgette laughed. “Since it goes so well with your gown, you’d better not.” Then all traces of mirth left her features and she lifted her chin. “Whatever I may or may not feel for Lord Nathaniel makes no difference. Sometimes, we aren’t able to please ourselves, however much we may wish it.”

“But—”

“There is no but. Trust me when I say this is the way things are and the way they’ll stay.” Lady Georgette’s lips tightened in a hard line, and the chin she’d just jutted upward quivered for a moment. “In any case, the question is moot. Lord Nathaniel has left Yorkingham House.” Her voice trailed away to a wisp of sound. “He has left…me.”

Mercy could have kicked herself. In her excitement over her own ball and the special evening she was planning with Reuben, she’d completely missed the fact that she hadn’t seen Lord Nathaniel at the house that morning.

“Well, then, the man’s a bigger fool than Mr. Darling ever thought about being, and that’s saying something.” Mercy linked arms with her employer and put her head down into the stiff wind. “Come, milady. Let’s forget about men for a bit. Lord knows they forget about us often enough. We needs to get ye home and into a nice hot tub for a long soak. And I don’t want ye out of the water till ye’re good and pruney!”

***

The way the maid clutched that hatbox told Roger it didn’t contain something for her mistress. Lady Georgette had been as foolishly indulgent as he suspected she was and had bought something brand new for her servant.

Gobberd was right on that score. Such unnecessary generosity did nothing but create a soft underclass that would soon begin to feel itself ill-used if it wasn’t coddled and pandered to.

But Lady Georgette’s largesse played right into Roger’s hand, so he couldn’t find too much fault.

As soon as Lady Georgette and her maid disappeared around the corner, Roger ducked into the milliner’s shop they’d just exited. Festooned with lace and feathers and a rainbow of ribbons, the place positively reeked of femininity. Scents of linen and talc, with an undernote of glue and the faint metallic tang of mercury, tickled his nostrils.

“My lord,” the shopkeeper said with a deferential curtsy.

She was a fine-boned, swan-necked woman, and ordinarily he’d be very much interested in her. However, just now he had another woman in his sights. He could always return to this shop on a later date to further his acquaintance with the milliner.

“How may I assist you this day?” she said.

“I require a bonnet,” he said, looking at those he thought might fit in the hatbox he’d seen Georgette’s abigail carrying. “A special one. One very like the bonnet you just sold. Do you by chance make duplicates of your designs?”

“Oh, no, milord,” the shopkeeper said, her wing-shaped brows arched in scandalized surprise. “All my creations are originals. Think how horrified a lady would be to discover another woman had the same bonnet as she.”

Not to mention that the lady would never buy so much as a fichu from that particular milliner’s shop again.

He picked up a simple bonnet. “Yes, quite. But I have in mind a harmless little joke between friends. What if I offered you a ridiculous sum?” He named a price that was easily five times the going rate for ladies’ headgear. “Could you fashion an exact duplicate of the one you just sold? And it must be exactly the same, mind.”

The milliner nibbled her bottom lip, clearly tempted.

“I promise that your customer will never know you did it,” Roger said, holding a handful of coins before him in an open palm.

“How can you promise that, milord?”

“Because by the time Lady Georgette sees the bonnet, it will be flat as a flitter. This is part of a jest, you see,” he said. “A harmless prank. But the bonnets must start out identical or the joke will fall”—he gave her his most winning smile and a self-deprecating shrug—“flat. Come. Take my blunt.”

Her eyes flared with longing as she gazed at the handful of gleaming coins. Most shops traded on credit. They were constantly cash-strapped, even if they served the most exclusive clientele, because they had to wait for their wellborn customers to deign to pay their bills.

The milliner snatched the money from him. “Return in three hours,” she said as she escorted him to the door and flipped over the sign, indicating that her shop was closed. “I’ll have it ready by then.”

Thirty-three

By eight o’clock that evening, Georgette was fretting like a colt on a lunge line. She fidgeted in the upstairs parlor while the guests were being announced one by one in the ballroom below. Her mother had decided it would create a grander moment if Georgette descended the curving staircase and processed into the ballroom accompanied by a fanfare of strings and brass. She was even supposed to make her entrance after the Duke of Cambridge arrived.

“That will probably upset all sorts of precedence,” Georgette had argued. What she really wanted to do was find a quiet alcove in the ballroom and hide till the whole thing was over. The way her mother was arranging matters, every eye would be upon them when she and the royal duke met for the first time.

“That’s as may be, dearest, and I’ll admit it’s a calculated risk, but we want the duke to see you at your regal best,” her mother had insisted. “What’s more imperious than being the last to arrive?”

Since Lady Yorkingham had given in on the matter of the red gown and reluctantly admitted the shimmering pale pink was the better choice, Georgette decided to allow her mother this small victory. Besides, the fact that she was about to upstage the duke might just irk him enough that he’d cast his royal eyes elsewhere.

She wished for that with all her heart.

As much as she wanted to please her parents, she was beginning to realize she could never accept the royal duke’s suit. Court life would suffocate her. She wasn’t cut out to be a princess, but she’d be powdered and pressed and squeezed into the mold of one.

If she said “yes” to His Royal Highness, she’d be forever saying “no” to her real self.

Her parents would be devastated, but however much she loved them, she couldn’t live for them. The ton would consider her addlepated. She didn’t care. Even if she lived out her years as an eccentric spinster, at least she’d still be Georgette.

She might not have Nathaniel, but she’d still be herself.

Georgette parted the curtain and gazed down on the street where carriages lined up past the corner. The queue of equipages curved around the bend in the street beyond. Bejeweled women swathed in fur-trimmed capes and men with starched neckcloths and silver-headed walking sticks disembarked and made their stately way into burgeoning Yorkingham House.

If she were ever going to make a break for it, now was the time. But where would she go?

One needed a prospective bridegroom in order to steal away to Scotland. Where did a lady go when she wanted to steal herself?

Maybe Paris…

Her imagination whirred like a windmill in a gale.

She’d go to Paris. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a start.

To travel in safety, Georgette would need some portable wealth. She was wearing a strand of pearls with a ruby clasp. The locked jewelry chest in her chamber held a diamond brooch and a pair of emerald earbobs that were so heavy it hurt to wear them for an entire evening. The matching choker was fashioned of goodly sized gems. All told, the contents of her jewel box were enough to keep her comfortably for years.

“Maybe I can start a ‘House of Sirens’ type rehabilitation school for the demimonde of France,” she whispered to herself. Then because she couldn’t bear to give up completely on the dream of personal happiness, she added, “And maybe Nathaniel will come find me there.”

She dropped the curtain and turned away from the window, only to almost run headlong into Roger Fishwick.

“My lord, what are you doing here?” Georgette stumbled back a pace in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footfalls behind her and she was sure she’d not seen his name on the guest list.

“My apologies.” He executed a perfectly correct bow, but the bead of perspiration trickling from his temple marred the image of gentility he was trying to project. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy, and truth to tell, I had the devil’s own time getting past your staff, but I had no choice. I had to see you.”

A pompous blast of Purcell wafted up to the second-story parlor. The duke must have arrived. At any moment, the Handel tune that was her cue to appear would sound with a squeal of trumpets and full-throated strings.

“Now is not the most opportune—” she began.

“Oh, I know,” Roger interrupted and started pacing, wringing his hands as he went. “Do you think I don’t? This evening is supposed to be your great triumph, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is interfere.”

Then why was he, devil take the man? Roger had no way to know he was interfering with her determined flight away from her supposed “great triumph,” but he was still keeping her from her hastily assembled plans.

“I suppose they figured since you and I were childhood friends, I was the natural choice,” he mumbled.

The natural choice for what? The Purcell ended with a flourish and the silence from below was pregnant with anticipation. Once the Handel began, if Georgette didn’t appear, her mother would send a legion of servants to collect her. If she was going to make good her escape, she still needed to steal up to her chamber for the rest of her jewelry.

“They who?” she asked with undisguised impatience. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” He pulled out a bedraggled object that was tucked inside his waistcoat. The confection of lace was misshapen, as if it had been smashed by a carriage wheel, but Georgette recognized the cheerful scarlet tulle and tiny chain of embroidered daisies on the netting.

It was Mercy’s new bonnet.

She took it from his hands. “Where did you get this?”

“The hat was delivered to my house this evening along with a note.” He fished in his pockets, his expression more panicked each time he turned out one and it came up empty. “Don’t tell me I’ve lost it. Oh, no.”

He put both hands to his temples, clearly distressed. “I was certain I had it when I left the house, honestly. Oh, milady, please forgive me.”

“What did the note say?” Georgette demanded. A hollow sickness spread through her belly. Something horrible had happened to Mercy. She wouldn’t have parted with her beloved bonnet otherwise. “Has there been an accident?”

“An accident? No.” Roger rubbed his forehead as if he’d massage the information from his brain. “More like an abduction. The note said something on the order of how if you want your maid back, you must deliver a certain sum to a certain place by the stroke of midnight or…I’m sorry, milady. I can’t remember more.”

Georgette wanted to shake Roger Fishwick till his teeth rattled, but she forced herself to an outward show of calm. “What about Mr. Darling? The footman she was with is quite a formidable fellow.”

“They didn’t mention a footman.”

Some evil must have befallen Reuben Darling too. He’d never have let anything happen to Mercy otherwise. “Do you think you might have left the note at your home?”

His expression brightened at that, his pale eyes going round. “You know, I may have. I was in that much of a hurry to reach you with this news.”

A trio of brass trumpeted in the parlor below. Georgette bid her scheme of running away to France adieu and screwed up her courage to do what was necessary for Mercy.

“Will you take me to your town house so we can look for the note?” Georgette asked.

“Oh, most assuredly,” Roger said.

“Now,” she said when he stood there stupidly. Georgette strode to the door and checked the hallway for servants. The Handel fanfare was still parading along at a sprightly pace.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He hurried to her side. “But oughtn’t we tell the marquis where you’ve gone?”

“If we only have until midnight, there’s no time to dawdle,” Georgette said. Besides, if she didn’t quit Yorkingham House in the next few minutes, there’d be no way to leave later. After they located the missing note, she’d have Roger drive her to Nathaniel’s town house in Cheapside. He’d know what to do. “Have you an equipage?”

“My gig is in the alley.”

“Good.” Georgette stole down the hallway in the opposite direction of the grand staircase with Roger at her heels. Once she reached the end of the corridor, she led him down the servants’ narrow stairs. It opened finally into the kitchen. She stopped in the shadows, wondering how to proceed.

Cook was still in high feather. Flour whitening her arms to the elbows, she shrieked orders left and right. Even the indomitable Mr. Humphrey gave her a wide berth and quit the kitchen as quickly as he could, making his getaway through the servants’ parlor and up another set of stairs that led to the public areas of the house. The stairs Georgette and Roger had just come down serviced the rooms used primarily by the family.

Mr. Rigsby and his footmen hopped to, fetching and carrying as each new dish was pronounced fit to serve. Some carted their trays only as far as the dumbwaiter that would hoist the food to the butler’s pantry, while others followed Mr. Humphrey’s example and scurried away to other levels of the house.

Only the bootblack boy seemed unconcerned, yawning hugely through the uproar as he hunkered by the big fireplace, turning a rack of chickens on the spit.

“It’s cold out, milady,” Roger whispered in her ear. “If I may?” He removed his garrick and draped it over her shoulders.

Georgette was surprised by his thoughtfulness and knew she’d appreciate the warmth if they managed to make it past the gauntlet of servants. But the garment smelled of Roger Fishwick, a heavy-handed lavender scent spiced with the tang of male sweat.

“I suggest we duck through the scullery,” Roger said. The doorway to the small cell that held a soapstone sink was directly next to the back stairway door. “That’s how I managed to get in before.”

“There’s a girl in there washing up, I’ll be bound,” Georgette whispered back. “Cook has surely dirtied every pot and pan in the place.”

Roger shook his head. “There was a scullery maid in there, but she was dozing in the corner when I came through. With a little luck, perhaps she still is.”

Georgette took a deep breath and waited for another outburst from Cook that would draw every eye away from her hiding place. She didn’t have long to wait.

“Bertha, you imbecile!” Cook screeched. “The petit fours should be dusted with powdered sugar, not cinnamon!”

“Go.” Roger gave Georgette a small push on the shoulder and she slipped around the corner into the dim scullery. The sink was piled high with a leaning tower of pots and pans and crockery. But the maid Roger had mentioned was still slumped in the corner on her high stool, her head lolling forward, her shoulder propped against the wall. How on earth she could sleep while pandemonium erupted in the kitchen next door, Georgette had no clue.

She must be simply exhausted, Georgette reasoned and resolved to look into the hours and duties assigned to the poor girl.

“Hurry,” Roger hissed as he ushered her out so quickly the tail of the garrick she had draped about her caught in the door. Georgette gave it a yank and rushed to the waiting gig. Roger steadied her with a hand to her elbow because light snow had begun to fall, making the going slick underfoot.

Neither of them noticed when Roger’s black-and-white-checked deerstalker fell out of the garrick’s shallow pocket.

Thirty-four

Nathaniel trudged up the snow-rimed steps to the red silk-draped doors of Yorkingham House. He’d thought he could stay away from this cursed ball, thought seeing Georgette acclaimed as the royal duke’s future consort would be too painful to bear.

Staying away proved to be worse.

One way or another, he had to make sure she was happy and settled.

He rapped the knocker, but Humphrey didn’t come immediately to open the door. The blasts of a Handel fanfare pierced the crisp, cold air, then stopped abruptly mid-phrase. Frantic shouts punctuated the music’s end.

Nate didn’t wait any longer. He tried to turn the knob and when it wouldn’t give, he rammed his shoulder into the door and forced it open.

He strode into the marble foyer, but was promptly ignored by Lady Yorkingham and the gaggle of frantic servants at her heels.

“Fan out,” her ladyship ordered. “She must be here someplace. Oh, where on earth can that girl have gotten off to?”

She could only be talking about Georgette. Nathaniel’s lips twitched in a smile. He might have told Lady Yorkingham there was a certain curtained alcove in the library of which Georgette was particularly fond, but if she was exerting a little independence over the matter of wedding the duke, far be it from him to interfere. He allowed himself the tiniest scrap of hope that she’d changed her mind and would choose him instead.

“And for heaven’s sake, Humphrey, tell the musicians to play something.” She took a step, then jerked to a stop to add, “Anything but Handel.”

Lady Yorkingham plowed toward the adjoining parlor, heels clacking, hands gesticulating in the air. The rest of the servants scattered like beetles before a lit candle. They were clearly desperate to find Lady Georgette before His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge realized the lady whom he’d condescended to court in a public fashion couldn’t be bothered to make an appearance at her own ball.

But Mr. Humphrey didn’t make for the musicians as his mistress had ordered. Instead he crossed the marble foyer to Nathaniel. He didn’t offer to take his hat and coat.

“Lord Nathaniel, I’m most relieved to see you,” Humphrey began. “If you’d be so good as to come with me, there’s a matter of some urgency with which I feel certain you can lend assistance.”

May as well help Georgie with a little misdirection.

“If you want my opinion, I suggest you check the garret. It would be an unlikely place for Lady Georgette to hide, and that makes it all the more likely she’d hide there,” he said as he followed Humphrey down the servants’ staircase to the below-stairs portion of the great house.

“No, milord. It’s not about that,” Humphrey said. “I’m sure Lady Georgette will be found when she wishes to be. When she was a child, it wasn’t unheard of for her to hide for hours if there was a lesson she wished to avoid—oh! Not that she wishes to avoid His Highness, I’m sure.”

“I’m not,” Nathaniel muttered, then he raised his voice. “What is it that requires my assistance?”

“On this night of all nights, I didn’t wish to trouble the quality folk with—oh, I beg your pardon, milord, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken, Humphrey,” Nathaniel said. Even servants recognized that his title was a mere courtesy. “So tell me. What will trouble the ‘quality folk’?”

“This.” Mr. Humphrey led him through the kitchen where Cook was screaming herself hoarse giving orders to the underlings who couldn’t move fast enough to suit her. From there, Nate was ushered into the cold larder off the kitchen. The stone-walled room was crammed with shelves that held wheels of cheese, burlap sacks of potatoes, and baskets of winter apples. A brace of pheasants hung in the corner.

A dead girl was stretched out on the rough plank table that ran down the center of the space.

“Who is it?” Nathaniel asked.

“Dora Underhill, the scullery maid. The bootblack boy found her.”

“Where?”

“In the scullery, still propped up on her stool. We laid her out here till we could discover what should be done. Oh, and I’d appreciate your discretion, milord,” Humphrey said. “If Cook learns there’s a dead body in her larder, well, in the state she’s in already, I fear for anyone within arms’ reach if she has a cleaver in her hands.”

Nate walked around the body, looking for the cause of death. There didn’t seem to be any obvious wound.

“She wasn’t ill?”

“No.”

A pinprick of dread stabbed between his shoulder blades as he undid the button at her collar and peeled back the fabric. A red weal circled the girl’s slender throat.

“When was she discovered?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes ago.”

The prickle of dread spread to Nathaniel’s spine. He fervently hoped someone would bolt down the servants’ stairs to announce that Georgette had been found and was now being presented to His Royal Highness. Even that was preferable to the awful alternative beginning to form in his mind.

“Did you find the body before or after Lady Georgette went missing?”

“After.”

“Show me where Dora was found.”

Humphrey led him to the nearby scullery and tried to direct his attention to the high stool in the corner, but Nate seized upon the fact that the scullery had a door that led directly out to the alley.

“The killer likely came in this way,” Nathaniel said.

Humphrey breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Then you don’t think this horrible thing was done by someone in Yorkingham’s employ.”

“No.” With all the uproar in the kitchen, it would be a simple matter for someone to slip into the scullery, dispatch the maid, and then when there was another outburst from Cook, make their way up the back staircase.

Nate stepped through the door to the alley. Two sets of footprints, one heavy and masculine, the other slim and shallow, dimpled the snow leading away from the door. Wheel tracks from a light gig pulled by a single horse marked the snow, running down the alley and out into the street.

“Oh, God.” His gaze fell on a black-and-white-checked deerstalker that was partially covered by the falling snow. Lord Fishwick. Nathaniel’s gut had led him to suspect the man. Now the evidence confirmed it.

Fishwick had killed Dora Underhill and somehow spirited Georgette out of Yorkingham House without attracting anyone’s notice. Fury and fear battled in Nate’s chest.

“Lady Georgette is not hiding in the house someplace,” he said woodenly. “She’s been abducted. Notify Lord Yorkingham and send for the magistrate immediately. Order as many Bow Street runners as you can find to converge on the town house of Lord Roger Fishwick.”

Nate struck off toward the small stable behind Yorkingham House.

“Where are you going, milord?”

To the only other place that I know of where Fishwick might take her, he thought furiously but only said, “I’m going to steal the marquis’s horse.”

***

“Why are we going this way?” Georgette said when Roger turned the gig in the opposite direction from the more fashionable neighborhoods. “I thought your town house was in Mayfair.”

“It is.” He chirruped to the roan gelding and it broke into a mile-eating trot. “Like many gentlemen, I keep a pied-de-terre elsewhere in London as well.”

“And that’s where you think you left the note about Mercy?”

He nodded and urged the roan into more speed. Since there was little traffic, the gig rattled over the cobbled streets at a bone-jarring pace.

She supposed his story made sense. Nate kept that little place in Cheapside when he didn’t wish to stay at his family’s home. And she’d heard married men often kept mistresses in out-of-the-way love nests around the city. She pulled Roger’s garrick tighter around her shoulders against the cold and settled back into the tufted seat.

But Roger had no family living with whom he had to share his Mayfair residence. And as a single gentleman, he’d have no need to hide a mistress.

So why did he keep another home in London?

The chimes of St. Paul sounded a quarter to midnight.

She fingered the pearls at her throat. What if the jewels she wore weren’t enough to satisfy Mercy’s captors? And given the time, she doubted they’d be able to find Nate.

She stole a glance at Roger as the gig passed through a pool of yellow light thrown by a streetlamp. The night was chilly and the wind bit her cheeks, but a sheen of sweat glistened on Roger’s brow.

He was afraid.

Definitely not the sort of fellow Georgette wanted at her back if she had to venture into a spotty neighborhood.

They drove into a part of the city where no streetlamps glowed. Ordinances provided that householders must light their doorways, but only one in three of the slatternly houses seemed to be following that edict.

“This is Whitechapel,” Georgette said when she saw a placard hanging over one of the pubs she remembered from the night she and Nathaniel ventured into the area. “Never say you keep rooms here.”

“As a matter–of-fact, I do.”

They turned down the twisty way she recognized as the one on which Sadie O’Toole had set up her new establishment. Even though it was nearly midnight, there were plenty of people milling on the street, but none of them looked the least friendly.

Roger reined the horse to a stop, tossed the reins to a waiting street urchin, and climbed down from the gig. He leered up at Georgette and she was reminded of the sort of boy he’d been.

The sort who pulled wings from flies and drowned kittens in potato sacks.

“Whitechapel has much to commend it if one is not overly fastidious,” he said, offering a hand to help her down. She made no move to take it. “The rent is low. The entertainments I enjoy are close at hand. And people hereabouts generally mind their own business and allow me to go about mine.”

Georgette swallowed hard. “You didn’t really receive a note about Mercy this evening, did you?”

A smarmy, unpleasant smile stretched his cheeks and made her long for a bath. She realized he wasn’t sweating because he was afraid. He was…excited.

She feared she might be sick.

“Clever girl. You and I are going to have a good time together. I can tell.”

She lurched forward, hoping to grasp the reins that draped over the horse’s rump, but the street urchin snatched them to one side. The gelding shied and sidestepped, but didn’t bolt as she’d hoped. Even a runaway conveyance was preferable to remaining with Lord Fishwick.

“Good lad, Billy,” Roger told the boy as he fished in his pockets and came up with tuppence for the urchin. “There’s an extra bob waiting for you if you take my equipage to the hostlers on the next street and give old Jack a good rubdown.”

“Right-o, guv. Only I carn’t do it till the lady gets down, carn I?” The urchin pronounced Georgette’s title as if it were “li-dee.”

Roger looked back up at Georgette and any hint of geniality faded. “Now you have only one choice to make, my lady. Are you going to allow me to hand you down and walk willingly with me, or are you going to make me drag you?”

He clamped a hand on her wrist and squeezed.

“Before you decide, let me assure you that no one will come to your aid should you cry out for help. It will only give the denizens of this little pisspot of a place something to laugh about.” A muscle ticked under his left eye. “And if you force me to drag you, they may be laughing at me, which will upset me something fierce. Trust me when I tell you, milady, you do not wish to upset me.”

No one ever moved to intervene when Nathaniel carried her through Covent Garden against her will. Whitechapel folk seemed even more preoccupied with their own misery than the whores on Lackaday Lane had been.

Georgette gathered her courage and slid across the seat so he could help her down. If she could keep him calm, surely there’d be another chance to win free of him.

“I knew you’d see reason,” he said, the unpleasant smile returning. Once she was down from the gig, the street boy leaped up onto the seat and brought the reins across the gelding’s back with a wicked snap. The gig lurched away.

Roger tugged Georgette close, one arm around her waist, the other hand gripping her wrist, and led her to the red door of Sadie O’Toole’s house of ill repute. As they passed under the lintel, he put his lips close to her ear.

“Don’t be thinking anyone will come to your rescue, Georgette,” he whispered. “No one saw me enter or leave Yorkingham House. No one knows where you are or whom you are with. No one of importance even knows I lease a room here. I can keep you all to myself for days. Longer if you’re my good girl.”

“I have no intention of being your good girl.”

“Oh, I do hope you’ll reconsider,” Roger told her. “Bad girls end up dead.”

Thirty-five

Nathaniel laid the crop to the black gelding’s haunches, spurring it to more speed. The high-strung animal had been used for stately trots around Hyde Park or ceremonial occasions when the marquis was required to appear mounted. It had never been driven to its limits before, but Nate wasn’t about to spare the horse now. Every second Georgette spent with the man who’d been murdering whores and scullery maids was a second too long.

He flew through the dark streets of London. Only a blur of movement, a flash of light reflecting from the gelding’s metal bit, a spark from iron horseshoes on the cobbles, betrayed his presence. If not for the clattering sound of the horse’s hooves, anyone who saw him might mistake him for a vengeful wraith on ghostly horseback.

Nate rode as one possessed. He rode as he’d never ridden in the most furious cavalry charge, head down, leaning over the horse’s neck chanting, “Fly, damn you, fly!”

He’d failed in so many areas of his life—the way he’d dealt so poorly with Anne’s death, the miserable end to his military career, the time frittered away after that as a rake and a wastrel.

But he couldn’t fail now.

Nate would have borne losing Georgette to the royal duke, because she’d at least be safe, but he couldn’t bear losing her to Fishwick.

He loosed a terrifying war cry. The gelding laid its ears back and stretched into a careening gallop that would have left the fastest racehorse in its wake.

***

The interior of Sadie O’Toole’s place was a good deal warmer than the streets of Whitechapel, but Georgette still couldn’t stop shivering. The common room stank of cigar smoke and a stale fug of alcohol. A poque game was being played in one corner, and near the center of the room, a roulette wheel whirred, its silver spike at the center a mesmerizing blur as patrons cried out for their number and color.

Georgette tamped down her fear, looking for a way out if she could wiggle out of Roger’s iron grip. There might be an alley behind the house, but she’d have to make it through the sea of men between her and the door at the rear. Her shiver grew more pronounced and she knew it had nothing to do with cold.

A staircase on the right wall led up to a narrow balcony with doors leading off from it at intervals. Whores in various levels of dishabille, some with nipples boldly bared, leaned over the wooden banister and called out to the men to join them upstairs. Some came down and wandered among the patrons, asking the men to buy them a drink.

“Lookin’s free, guv,” one hussy said to a patron who’d fondled her. “But if ye wants to handle the merchandise, ye needs to come with me upstairs.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” Roger hissed into Georgette’s ear as he scuffled her toward the staircase.

Panic rose in the back of Georgette’s throat, a big unswallowable wad of terror. She scanned the faces of the men in the common room, hoping she might see someone she knew. Someone who might be shamed into helping her.

There was no one.

Her courage broke then. The thin veneer of self-control she’d wrapped around herself shattered. She began to scream and found she could not stop.

***

When Nate reached Sadie O’Toole’s place, he pulled back so violently on the reins, the gelding nearly sat down. Panting and snorting, the horse’s sides heaved, but he was still upright. Nate’s conscience pricked him.

“Sorry, old man,” he whispered to the animal. “Get us through this and I promise you a bucket of oats.”

He couldn’t just leave the gelding on the street unattended. Since he expected to make a speedy retreat once he found Georgette, he couldn’t afford to be caught afoot.

“You there, boy.” He pointed to a gangly lad with a link torch in his hand. He flipped the boy a shiny florin. “Mind this animal for me. Have him ready to go right here and there’ll be half a crown more for you. Can you do it?”

“Right-o, guv. If ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’re a dang sight freer with the coin than my usual employer. I’d a done it for a shilling.”

An honest urchin. Nate took note of the boy’s face so he could offer him a position at his Cheapside flat. If the lad worked out well there, Nathaniel would see if he’d like to move to the little country place Nate owned in Wiltshire.

“Your usual employer wouldn’t happen to be Lord Fishwick, would it?”

“The very same.”

“Have you seen him this evening?”

The lad nodded. “Him and a lady come by about half an hour ago. They went in there.” He pointed to Sadie O’Toole’s red door. “It’s not my place to say, but the lady din’t look a bit happy ’bout being here.”

Nate squared his shoulders and strode to the door. Every ounce of his being urged him to charge, but there were too many unknowns. He didn’t know where Georgette was or how many bodies he’d have to go through to reach her. The defeat at Maubeuge was the result of not doing his own reconnoitering before he led his men into enemy territory.

He couldn’t face a defeat this time.

To make matters worse, he was once again trying to rescue Georgette with only a handful of fingers. No pistol. No walking stick with a cunningly hidden blade. No boot knife.

“With my luck, there won’t even be an umbrella stand inside the door,” he muttered as he pushed into the whorehouse-cum-gaming-hell.

Nate scoured the main room with his gaze, but didn’t see any evidence of Georgette anywhere. He didn’t dare ask if anyone had seen her. Since by all accounts Roger was backing this establishment with his coin, chances were good these ruffians were what passed for his friends.

The bully who guarded the door was a square-jawed, barrel-chested chap, as formidable as Mr. Bagley had been. He sent Nate a warning glare.

“Ah, Lord Nathaniel, I didn’t think we’d see you again.” Sadie O’Toole sashayed toward him. Decked out in a poisonous green gown, she looked plumper and more prosperous than she had the last time he’d visited. “I’ll admit you had me fooled when you set up my old place as a sanctuary for reformed whores. Took you for one o’ those prickless do-gooders. Then when you came here a few days back, I realized your blood runs just as hot as the rest of ’em. Now what kept you away so long?”

“I’ve been busy,” he said, checking the line of whores leaning over the balustrade for the timid girl whom he’d hired for an hour which was spent only in conversation. He’d expected her to turn up at the House of Sirens any day, but she never did come. “I don’t suppose the girl I had last time is still here and available.”

“Lily?” Her brows arched in surprise. “She’s here, and I’ll be bound she’s not busy. Truth to tell, we get nothin’ but complaints over her lack of enthusiasm. Why don’t you let me fix you up with May?”

Sadie motioned to a buxom brunette up on the balcony who was flashing her breasts at the patrons below and waggling her fingers enticingly.

“Thank you, no,” Nathaniel said. “I have specific…tastes. Is Lily still in the last room off the balcony?”

“No,” Sadie said with vehemence. “That room is let to a private party now. Lily’s been moved to next door if ye want her. Same rate as before.” She glanced at her pendant watch. “Clock’s tickin’, milord.”

A private party. At least he knew where Georgette probably was now. Nate bounded up the stairs and worked his way through the gauntlet of whores who hadn’t yet secured a john for the evening. When he reached the one named May, he pulled her off the line.

“Evenin’, guv,” she said, draping herself over him. “Ye’re a big strappin’ thing, ain’t ya? Look at the arms on ye. Makes a girl wonder what else ye got worth seein’. Now what can May do for you?”

He pressed a sufficiently impressive number of coins into her hand. “I want you to start a fight with someone and then get the bully drunk.”

Her lip poked out in a pout. “Is that all?”

Nate smiled. “For now.”

She tossed her head and shrugged. “Suits me. Once I get Mr. Philpot frog-eyed, I’ll see ye after.”

May flounced off toward the stairs, pulling the hair of several of the other girls as she went. The last girl didn’t take it with much grace and promptly pounced on her, nails flashing.

The brawling women drew every eye in the place, especially when they tumbled together down the staircase. Nate pushed toward the last door through the rest of the whores who crowded to get a better view. With a little luck, he’d be able to invade Roger Fishwick’s lair with no one the wiser.

***

Georgette’s throat burned like fire. She could only draw a shallow breath, but even that hurt so badly she hardly dared do it. She didn’t open her eyes. It would make everything real if she opened her eyes.

She couldn’t feel her right hand. It took her a moment to remember it was bound to the iron bedstead. Her left one rested on her abdomen, but she didn’t allow herself to twitch a fingertip. She took a mental inventory of herself and discovered she was fully dressed with her silky gown covering her legs.

Footsteps, measured and heavy, pounded in her ears. Roger was still there, pacing the small room.

She was lying in a damp spot. Shame washed over her as she realized she’d wet herself before her vision had tunneled for the final time and everything went black.

“Too quick,” he muttered. “It was too damn quick.”

She felt his brooding presence standing over her so she held her breath.

“Why couldn’t you quit screaming? Why couldn’t you just relax and let yourself go quiet? You should have trusted me. I wouldn’t have taken you down all the way the first time.”

He settled on the bed beside her. “It’s a beautiful thing, you know. The way a woman’s eyes go all fuzzy and out of focus. The way her muscles go limp, soft, and surrendered. It’s restful. For both of us.”

She shivered inside, terrified he’d realize she wasn’t gone. She was still there, still listening to his macabre confessional. Why on earth had she gone with him? Even if Mercy had been in trouble, why had she thought she could handle it on her own? Nate had always warned her that it wasn’t safe to go haring off. Why hadn’t she heeded him?

“All you had to do was let me do what was needful,” Roger said softly. Then his voice turned hard. “But not you. Not high-and-mighty Lady Georgette.”

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles and she couldn’t suppress the way her muscles jerked beneath his touch.

“So, you’re playing possum,” he said with a chuckle. “Come back then, my little possum. We have another chance to get it right, you and me. Now be quiet and we’ll go slow this time.”

Georgette opened her eyes and tried to cry out, but no sound came out of her throat. Roger stood and began to unbutton his shirt. She rolled and began to claw at the knot holding her hand fast to the headboard.

Oh, Nate!

Then the door flew open and, big as life, Nathaniel Colton rushed in. She’d wished to see him so violently, Georgette feared she was hallucinating. But if the fierce man with the heaving chest and murder in his eyes was her imagination, it was more vivid than her wildest dream.

Head down, Nate charged Roger and plowed into his midsection. The pair of them boiled across the room in a flurry of punches and kicks. The snarls and grunts coming from the two men sounded more like a bear-baiting than a fight between humans.

Georgette redoubled her efforts on the knot that held her captive.

Nathaniel sent a blow to Roger’s jaw that snapped his head around. Roger gave himself a shake, then picked up a chair and brought it crashing down on Nate’s head and shoulder. Nate staggered and Roger roared toward him.

Momentum propelled them through the door and they slammed into the rickety railing. The old wood splintered under the force of their weight and, twisting and turning, the two men plummeted off the balcony and down to the common room below.

The shouts and screams were deafening. Then everyone went deathly quiet, which was far worse.

“Oh, please, God. Help us, God,” Georgette chanted softly as she wiggled her hand free. She skittered to the edge of the ruined balcony and knelt to peer down.

Roger stared sightlessly back up at her. His body was splayed across the roulette table, the sharp spike at its center protruding obscenely through his neck.

Nathaniel was face down on the scuffed hardwood. A pool of red was spreading beneath his head.

Thirty-six

Pain dragged him up from oblivion. When Nathaniel opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself lying in a bed beneath cool, clean sheets. He had no recollection of how he’d come to be there.

He tried to sit up, but the throbbing at his temple arched into a wicked spike of agony. He lifted a hand to his head and found a thick bandage wrapped around it. Nate eased back onto the down pillow and let his gaze wander the room.

A woman dozed in a chair beside his bed. Her soft brown hair was tumbled around her shoulders and faint gray smudges beneath her eyes told of a sleepless night. Nate had the niggling feeling he ought to know her, but no name sprang to his lips.

A cheerful maid entered the room with an armful of fresh linens. To his very great relief, Nate recognized her.

“Mercy,” he said.

“Well, look who’s come back to us.” She dropped her load on the foot of the bed and hurried to the sleeping woman’s side. “Milady, Lord Nathaniel’s awake.”

The woman roused and came to stand over him, placing a cool palm on his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

Her voice was all wrong, damaged somehow. It crackled like an autumn leaf under foot.

“Like I’ve been trampled by a coach-and-six.” He knew exactly what this woman looked like naked. Why couldn’t he remember her name?

“Not quite a coach-and-six, milord,” said a boy who brought in a breakfast tray and set it down on the commode next to the porcelain pitcher and ewer. “But I expect that ride here in Lord Fishwick’s gig din’t do ye no favors.”

“Fishwick lent us his conveyance?” Nate asked. A kaleidoscope of images flashed in his brain, none of them suggesting that Lord Fishwick shared anything with others but misery.

The boy slanted his gaze to the woman. When she nodded, he answered. “Well, Lord Fishwick weren’t like to use it again, were he? Ye kilt him dead, and no one to grieve overmuch for him, neither.”

“Father convinced the magistrate that the death was an accident,” the woman said softly. “And in many ways, it was.”

Mercy and the woman plumped pillows behind Nathaniel’s back and helped him sit up whether he wanted to or not. In the face of such feminine insistence, it was easier not to protest.

“I remember you, boy.”

“I should hope you would,” the woman rasped softly. “Young Caleb helped me get you out of Whitechapel and back to Yorkingham House last night. He even went back for my father’s horse.” She leaned down and whispered, “I promised him a position for his assistance.”

Nate nodded. Yorkingham. She was a Yorkingham. The name Anne bubbled to his consciousness, but somehow it didn’t seem right. He couldn’t associate Anne with the straining ache he felt for this woman.

“What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked.

She put a hand to her throat and he noticed purple mottling on her tender skin. “You don’t remember? The doctor said you might not. What do you recall?”

“Lord Nathaniel don’t want to hash over all that,” Mercy said. “Better he should learn something new. Whilst ye and milady were gallivanting hither and yon, Mr. Darling and me went and got ourselves betrothed at the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball!”

Nate smiled weakly. “Good for you.”

“Good for him, ye mean.” She gave Nate a saucy wink. “And good for you too, milord. Milady didn’t get herself engaged to marry the royal duke last night.”

“No?” He looked askance at the woman he could only call “milady,” even though his chest tightened in a hard lump each time her delicate violet fragrance reached his nostrils.

“No,” she said. “I won’t be a duchess in this lifetime. Apparently, being abducted by a murderer and bringing home the unconscious man who saved me is not at all the done thing. His Highness deems me too flighty to become a member of the royal family.”

He caught one of her hands and brought it to his lips. “Are you sad about it?”

She shook her head. “How can you ask that?”

“Come, Caleb,” Mercy said suddenly. “Ye aren’t being paid to stand around all day gawkin’ at the quality folk. Don’t ye be fretting about Lord Nathaniel. He only took a bad fall. Say, have I told you how a good clout to the head was the making of Mr. Darling?”

The little maid shepherded the boy out of the room and down the hallway, spouting copious advice about his new duties as she went.

“I see a question in your eyes.” The woman settled a hip on the side of his bed. “You don’t know me, do you, Nate?”

“I do. I know you. Your heart is so big there’s room for everyone in it, even those who don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do for them.” He squeezed her hand and closed his eyes, willing himself to remember her name. “I know you’re afraid to dance in public and you can’t play the piano worth shooting. I know you want to please everyone around you so badly, you forget to please yourself.”

“That last part is not true. I’m entirely too willful. Everyone says so and—”

He silenced her by reaching up to cup the back of her head and pull her down for a kiss. Memories of a vigorous tussle with this luscious woman careened through his mind, sending his blood singing. A name echoed through his brain, all right and true.

“Georgette,” he whispered. “You’re my Georgette. The bane of my existence and the love of my life. I don’t deserve it, but if you could love me a little in return—”

“Oh, Nate, do shut up. I wouldn’t know how to love you a little. I can only love you with all I am.”

The world went all wet and warm and smelled deliciously of violets as they kissed each other to a new sort of oblivion. When he started to reach under her hem, she pushed away from him.

“No, Nathaniel, we can’t. The doctor says you’re to keep quiet and not overexert yourself.”

“Bollocks! Can’t a man shag his future wife without some doctor nattering about it?” he demanded.

“Your future wife?”

“Yes.” He palmed her cheeks and felt himself tumble into her wide hazel eyes. “I don’t deserve you, but you’ll make me the happiest man alive if you say you’ll marry me.”

She threw her arms around him and peppered his face with kisses.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said when she finally let him come up for air. “Now, why don’t you practice a little wifely obedience and bolt the door so I can love you to exhaustion in peace?”

She tilted her head at him. “What if the doctor is right?”

“He’s not,” Nate said as she went to throw the bolt. “But if he is, I’ll die a happy man.”

Authors’ Note

In 1817, the royal succession was in an uproar when Princess Charlotte died along with her newborn son. The Prince Regent would never father another legitimate heir, since he and his wife were not only estranged, she was past bearing. So the three unmarried sons of King George III embarked on the “Hymen Race Terrific,” as the London tabloids called it, in an effort to marry and then beget a child who might one day wear the crown.

Three royal dukes were in contention. Adolphus Frederick, the Duke of Cambridge, is the one featured in One Night with a Rake. He was the tenth child of King George III, and the youngest surviving son. As a spare heir, the Duke of Cambridge pursued a military career and was wounded and captured during the Flanders Campaign in 1793.

When the opportunity to perhaps put his own issue on the throne came up, even Cambridge didn’t like his chances since his older brothers would likely succeed him. He devoted a good bit of time trying to arrange a bride for William (the Duke of Clarence from Waking Up with a Rake). After he settled matters for William, Cambridge married his second cousin, Augusta, in June 1818. They were blessed with three children, but none of them ascended to the throne because one of his royal brothers beat him to fatherhood.

But that is a tale for another duke…

Acknowledgments

No book is the work of a single mind. Connie and Mia would like to thank a few people who were instrumental in bringing this story to life. First, their editor, Leah Hultenschmidt. She always knows what questions to ask to make a manuscript better. Next, their tireless agent, Natasha Kern. Because she works so hard on the business end of things, Connie and Mia are free to revel in the joy of making things up! Thanks to Ashlyn Chase, critique partner extraordinaire, and Marcy Weinbeck, their beloved beta-reader whose taste and sharp eyes Mia and Connie depend upon. There are myriad talented folk at Sourcebooks who deserve hearty thanks: Skye Agnew, Danielle Jackson, Kim Manley, cover artist Judy York, and many others. Connie and Mia couldn’t do it without you!

And they also can’t do without their wonderful readers. Thank you for taking their stories to heart and bringing your imaginations along for the ride. If you’d like to visit with either of them, please contact them through www.conniemason.com or www.mia marlowe.com. They’d love to hear from YOU!

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Sins of the Highlander
by Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe

ABDUCTION

Never had Elspeth Stewart imagined her wedding would be interrupted by a dark-haired stranger charging in on a black stallion, scooping her into his arms, and carrying her off across the wild Scottish highlands. Pressed against his hard chest and nestled between his strong thighs, she ought to have feared for her life. But her captor silenced all protests with a soul-searing kiss, giving Elspeth a glimpse of the pain behind his passion—a pain only she could ease.

OBSESSION

“Mad Rob” MacLaren thought stealing his rival’s bride-to-be was the perfect revenge. But Rob never reckoned that this beautiful, innocent lass would awaken the part of him he thought dead and buried with his wife. Against all reason, he longed to introduce the luscious Elspeth to the pleasures of the flesh, to make her his, and only his, forever.

“Ms. Mason always provides a hot romance.”—RT Book Reviews
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Lord of Fire and Ice
by Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe

His duty is to fulfill her every desire…

Brandr the Far-Traveled has seen the world and a good many of the beautiful women in it. His bed skills are the stuff of steamy legend, his sword sings death, and he can call up fire from thin air. No one in a hundred years ever thought he could be enslaved through trickery and forced to wear the iron collar of a thrall—least of all him.

Until all she desires is him…

Katla the Black isn’t just called so for her dark, silky hair. His new mistress has a temper as fierce as a warrior’s and a heart as icy as the frozen North. But inch by delicious inch, Brandr means to make her melt…

“Intriguing and absorbing… There are several surprising twists and lots of passion and fighting to keep the reader hanging on every word.”—Long and Short Reviews

“Compelling with a rich narrative, strong characters, and nonstop action.”—RT Book Reviews

For more Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe, visit:

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Waking Up with a Rake
by Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe

The fate of England’s monarchy is in the hands of three notorious rakes.

To prevent three royal dukes from marrying their way onto the throne, heroic, selfless agents for the crown will be dispatched…to seduce the dukes’ intended brides. These wickedly debauched rakes will rumple sheets and cause a scandal. But they just might fall into their own trap…

After he’s blamed for a botched assignment during the war, former cavalry officer Rhys Warrick turns his back on “honor.” He spends his nights in brothels doing his best to live down to the expectations of his disapproving family. But one last mission could restore the reputation he’s so thoroughly sullied. All he has to do is seduce and ruin Miss Olivia Symon and his military record will be cleared. For a man with Rhys’ reputation, ravishing the delectably innocent miss should be easy. But Olivia’s honesty and bold curiosity stir more than Rhys’ desire. Suddenly the heart he thought he left on the battlefield is about to surrender…

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Between a Rake and a Hard Place
by Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe

Look for the third installment in Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe’s saucy, sexy Regency Rakes series, coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca.

Wealthy heiress Serena Osborne feels like a pawn in a political chess match with her father determined to sacrifice her on the marriage altar. The Duke of Kent is negotiating for a bride, and the wickedly appealing Sir Jonah Sharp is sent to woo Lady Serena on the duke’s behalf. It only muddies the waters when she succumbs to Jonah’s charm. Repeatedly. But Jonah has a secret agenda—to prevent the marriage at any cost. When Serena is kidnapped in a desperate attempt to force the royal betrothal, Jonah realizes his new agenda is to secure a bride—for himself.

For more Connie Mason and Mia Marlowe, visit:

www.sourcebooks.com

About the Authors

Connie Mason, who started her romance-writing career after she became a grandmother, once told 48 Hours that she does her best work in bed. That work being writing, of course! For her newest releases, Connie has teamed up with Mia Marlowe, a rising star of steamy historical romance. Mia learned about storytelling while singing professional opera. A classically trained soprano, she knows what it’s like to wear a corset and has had to sing high C’s in one, so she empathizes with the trials of her historical heroines.

Connie lives near Tampa, Florida, and Mia lives in Boston, Massachusetts. Credit for putting these two authors together goes to their editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, and their agent, Natasha Kern, who saw the creative potential in this pairing. Both Connie and Mia write sexy, adventurous stories with alpha heroes to love. They hope you’ll enjoy the melding of their styles as much as they enjoyed collaborating to bring their new stories to life.