Read the book: «Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart»

Regency

High-Society

Affairs

A Reputable Rake Diane Gaston

The Heart’s Wager Gayle Wilson

The Venetian’s Mistress Ann Elizabeth Cree

The Gambler’s Heart Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Reputable Rake

Diane Gaston

About the Author

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

Chapter One

April 1817

‘Unhand her this instant!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The characters all looked at him in surprise.

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

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

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

‘She’s my sister!’ wailed the maid.

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

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

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

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

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

The maid screamed.

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

‘No!’ cried Miss Hart.

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

‘I… I…’ she stammered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well done, thought Sloane.

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

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

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

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

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

He raised one eyebrow. ‘Miss Hart?’

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

‘Are you injured, ma’am?’ he asked.

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

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

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

Back to the melodrama, Sloane thought.

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

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

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

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

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

The girl simply lowered her head.

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

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

Lucy merely responded with a mutinous look.

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

The girl glowered at her, but finally nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Very good, miss.’ He bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, I had a lovely day, my dear.’

Morgana smiled. Her grandmother always had lovely days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cripps stood in the hall.

‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The carriage lurched forward and they were on their way.

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

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

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

‘My pleasure.’ He smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Very nice,’ Miss Hart agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Ah,’ responded Cowdlin without true interest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sloane dutifully glanced in that direction.

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

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

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

Sloane. The black sheep. The disreputable son.

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

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

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

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

Miss Hart’s eyebrows rose a notch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She forced her gaze back to the stage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes crinkled in puzzlement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why?’ Morgana could not help but ask.

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

Morgana, too, directed her gaze at Sloane.

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

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

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

‘He is reformed, do you say?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who is she?’ Morgana asked Sloane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

‘Hello, Lucy.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You approached him?’

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

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

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

Morgana shook her head. ‘I will not.’

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

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

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

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

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

Morgana remained steady. ‘Go on.’

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

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

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

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The mortar,’ he said.

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

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

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

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

‘You heard everything?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Indeed. You have my word upon it.’

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

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

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

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

Almack’s. Was there any place so tedious?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sloane was momentarily without speech.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Hart’s lips twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Hannah blushed prettily and tittered again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed aloud and her smile widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes sparkled. ‘May I?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Some of them,’ he admitted.

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

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

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

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

‘And did you like Paris?’ he went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sloane groaned.

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

Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’

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

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

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

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

‘You met her?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A nurse? Lucy hated sick people.

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

A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy regarded her with a blank expression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cowdlin nodded.

Sloane bowed and strode out of the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave an audible groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.

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

He was a damned fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mr Sloane!’

Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He faced Morgana, Lucy seated at her side.

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

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

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

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

‘I protected my identity,’ Morgana protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy gave a pained squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.

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

Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’

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

What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nobody is going back,’ Morgana said quietly.

Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember.

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

‘Mary Phipps, miss.’

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

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

Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dignified butler bowed and left the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even though she lived next door.

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

He must cease these rakish thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No longer, however.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the mouths of babes, thought Sloane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Earl of Dorton leaned forward again. ‘You do not belong here, Cyprian. You do not belong among the quality. Go back to whatever cellar or… or gaming hell you came from, and leave decent people alone.’

‘Grandfather!’ David whispered in a shocked tone.

Sloane felt his body flinch, just as it used to when he was a boy. ‘I do belong here, Father,’ he said coolly. ‘You gave me the right when you acknowledged me as your son. As your son, I am invited to all the society events. I have vouchers for Almack’s and a box at the opera. As your father’s grandson, I am a member of White’s. I have you to thank for all this, Father.’

For a moment his father looked like an old man, but the moment was fleeting.

When he stood, he looked as formidable as ever. ‘I will not have you here, boy, do you hear me?’ His voice was equally as strong. ‘I will not have you here.’

With another flick of his fingers, the Earl signalled his son and grandson to leave with him. Sloane stood as well, making sure his father felt his eyes boring into him. As all three walked away, the Earl in the lead, David turned back and gave Sloane a look of sympathy.

* * *

‘They are gone?’ Mrs Rice looked up from her desk in a room above her glove shop.

The man, solid and stocky, brushed off the sleeves of his brown coat. ‘We have searched all the rooms and they are nowhere to be found.’

‘I sent them to the shops. Did no one see them return?’ Mrs Rice laid down her quill pen, displeasure seeping into her voice.

‘No one, ma’am.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The other girls think they ran off. There’s some belongings missing.’

‘Things of mine?’ Her voice rose. ‘I will not tolerate it if they have stolen from me.’

‘Worthless trinkets, ma’am,’ he responded. ‘Their own trifles, the girls say.’

Mrs Rice stared vacantly. ‘It does sound like they have run away.’ She waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘Well, search for them, Trigg. Bring them back. I will not have my girls coming and going at a whim. It vexes me.’

‘As you wish, ma’am.’ He turned and left.

Mrs Rice slammed her palm down on the desk and rose from her seat. With two girls short, she might have to turn men away this night. That was not good for business. She could kick herself for not having moved faster to bring that maid into the house before her mistress came calling. The termagant. That one had enough tongue for two sets of teeth, with all her talk about needing a tutor. A tutor for what?

At first Mrs Rice thought the lady was asking for lessons on how to set up a molly shop of her own, but that was too ridiculous for words. She’d since decided that a long Meg like that one probably wanted to learn how to get a man for herself.

It was a good thing, because she would not have made a good madam or a good molly. She’d talk the gentlemen right off the bed to run screaming down the street.

Mrs Rice gave a little laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. Still, it would have been a lark indeed to see a lady of that one’s ilk making her living on her back.

Mrs Rice wiped her eyes as her laughter subsided. She’d have another stab at the maid, if she got the chance, if Trigg could discover where she was employed.

And when she got those other girls back, she’d give them such a flogging they would never dare leave, at least not until they were too worn out to be of any use.

Chapter Seven

When Morgana woke the next morning, it seemed the very air was charged, as if the house were inside a huge electrifying machine, but Morgana knew any sparks that flew would be due to her own decisions. The porcelain clock on her bureau chimed six times. Morgana threw off the covers and was halfway dressed when Amy crept in, expecting merely to tend the fire.

Did Amy know of their guests? She must, but the girl did not reveal it. She did not even remark upon Morgana rising so early. Morgana meant to breakfast with her grandmother and Miss Moore, who always rose at dawn.

After breakfast she begged Miss Moore to take a walk with her. Miss Moore settled her grandmother in her sitting room with her maid for company, and the two ladies walked the short distance to the park, one of the footmen providing a discreet escort.

‘Goodness, it is chilly this morning,’ said Miss Moore as they crossed the park. ‘It is fortunate Lady Hart did not come with us. It would be bad for her lungs.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Morgana, uncertain how to begin.

She’d tossed and turned all night, even rising once and wandering to the window at the exact moment Sloane returned to his house. Realising he would be undressing and climbing into a bed so close by had not helped her fall back asleep. But those wakeful hours did yield the semblance of a plan.

Morgana had decided that she needed to speak to Miss Moore before Mr and Mrs Cripps or any of the other servants. She had a reasonable expectation that generous salary increases would ensure the servants’ co-operation and silence. But if prim Miss Moore could not be persuaded to go along with this scheme, Morgana did not see how she could proceed.

Morgana could not force a respectable lady like Miss Moore to endure a situation abhorrent to her. And she could not send Miss Moore away. With Miss Moore went her grandmother. Without her grandmother, Morgana would be forced to go to her Aunt Winnie’s house, and the girls, Lucy too, would have nowhere to go except to Mrs Rice.

Morgana glanced back at the footman, who, enjoying the fine morning air, seemed uninterested in the conversation between the two ladies. Still, she spoke quietly so he could not overhear. ‘I must talk to you, Miss Moore.’

Miss Moore gave her a fond smile. ‘Is it about the three young ladies who are staying in the house?’

‘You know about them?’ Morgana glanced at her in dismay.

‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Moore nodded. ‘Dilly told us first thing that there were three new girls. How did she put it?’ Miss Moore paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The likes of which she’d never seen.’

Morgana inwardly groaned. Dilly, her grandmother’s lady’s maid, was an old retainer, nearly as old as her grandmother.

‘Oh, I suppose everyone knows.’ Morgana gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I suspect they do not know the whole, and that is what I must tell you…’

Morgana explained to Miss Moore as well as she could. She withheld her plan to seek Harriette Wilson’s assistance as a bit too much information, emphasising instead that the girls, Lucy included, would be lost to a terrible life unless Morgana helped them.

Miss Moore listened with an unremitting frown on her face that caused Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water.

Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale.

Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’

Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’

‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading.

‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’

Lucy’s age, Morgana thought.

‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’

Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’

Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I… I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’

Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’

Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’

Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’

Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became… feeble.’

Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter.

With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty.

Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path.

For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him.

The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.

‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news.

Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’

She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’

She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’

He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’

Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly.

Fustian, he said to himself.

‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked.

It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject.

He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’

He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’

Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’

Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’

She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’

Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’

He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.

‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.

Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.

‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.

‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.

Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’

‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’

‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’

‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’

Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.

Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.

By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.

She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.

‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’

‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.

Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’

Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’

Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’

‘Why not?’

Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’

Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best.

She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls.

She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’

‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’

‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her.

Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’

Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them.

A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.

By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold.

She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies.

At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides.

Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’

It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’

‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair.

Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth.

‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said.

‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’

Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I… I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’

‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’

Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’

Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the red-haired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’

Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed.

Katy looked down at her lap, but with a hint of rebellion in her eye. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘It is Miss Moore, dear,’ she said gently.

‘Yes, miss,’ Katy corrected herself.

Lucy hung her head. ‘There’s nothin’ I can teach. I’ll just be a burden on everyone.’

Morgana walked over and put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You shall be in charge of supplies, Lucy. You managed to find everyone a proper dress and a bed to sleep in. In fact, I will prevail upon you to produce a trunk to be delivered, the nieces’ luggage. Do you think you can contrive such a thing?’

Lucy gave a surprised glance, then wrinkled her brow. It took several seconds, but she finally responded. ‘I could send to home for some of Amy’s and my old clothes. Would that do?’

‘That is an excellent idea.’ Morgana had forgotten about her lady’s maid. No matter what Miss Moore thought, Morgana simply must tell Amy the truth, though what the girl would say about it, she could only guess.

The day flew by with all of them talking and showing off their skills. When it was time for dinner Morgana led them to the main dining room. Lucy held back, insisting she ought not to eat there. Morgana acquiesced. There would be time enough to bring her abovestairs. To do so now would merely whip up the servants’ curiosity.

The dinner was the most pleasant Morgana had passed in the house to date. When Mr Cripps and the footmen left the room, Morgana and Miss Moore drew the girls into the conversation, learning more about their lives. Rose talked of growing up in Ireland and of recently coming to London. Mary spoke of being the daughter of a country vicar. When he died, she’d become a governess. She did not disclose how she wound up at Mrs Rice’s house. Katy, whose table manners needed the most improving, said she’d left Derbyshire to make her fortune in London and she’d go to the devil before she’d return there. Morgana’s grandmother cheerfully picked at her food and smiled at them all. At meal’s end, Morgana left the table in high spirits, confident that all would go well.

She retired to her room to dress for the musicale. As Amy worked on another braided style for her hair, Morgana told her the truth about the plan.

‘Do tell me what you think of this business, Amy. Tell me if you think I’ve done right by your sister.’

Amy frowned as she concentrated on sticking hairpins in securely. ‘It is not right, miss. I cannot say ‘tis right, because it is not, but Lucy was ready to run off again, I know she was.’ She gave Morgana a quick glance in the mirror. ‘You stopped her from doing that. Going with one of those procuring fellows, I mean.’

Amy’s point did not miss the mark. Morgana knew the better course was to convince Lucy and the others to lead moral lives, but, once fallen, could they rise again? Lucy had convinced her she could not.

Morgana watched Amy concentrate on her hair. She set her chin in determination. This was the only chance for Lucy. The only chance for all of the girls to change their lives.

Sloane surveyed the room where the guests to Lady Sed-ford’s musicale loitered in groups, waiting for the latecomers to be announced and the programme to begin. Across the room stood his brother, Lord Rawley, who, without cutting him directly, was at least pretending he had not seen him. David gave him a friendly nod. At least the Earl was not present, although Sloane would have experienced a smug satisfaction if his father had witnessed him mingling successfully with Lady Sedford’s set.

‘Lord and Lady Cowdlin. Lady Hannah. Miss Hart,’ the butler announced.

Sloane turned to watch them enter and greet the host and hostess. Lady Hannah looked as delectable as a dish of cream and strawberries in a white gauzy gown decorated with red ribbon. Her cousin wore a much plainer gown, one done up in gold fabric that nearly matched her eyes and glistened under the candlelight.

Averting his head so as not to be so obviously gaping, Sloane observed Lord and Lady Cowdlin stop to converse with friends. Lady Hannah seized her cousin’s arm and propelled them both forward. Hannah glanced in Sloane’s direction, pretended to glance away, whispered something to her cousin, and led her gracefully across the room, making it appear as if it were mere chance that they came to where he stood.

‘Good evening, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart.’ He bowed.

‘How nice to see you here, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Hannah smiled up at him, showing her white, even teeth. ‘You must sit with us. I insist upon it.’

Miss Hart also smiled, but her smile seemed distant, almost sad.

He turned his attention to Lady Hannah. ‘Nothing would delight me more, my lady, but it might hint at partiality. I would not wish to make you the topic of gossip.’ If Sloane were perceived to favour Lady Hannah to the exclusion of other eligible young ladies, he would be forced to make her an offer. He did not wish to be forced into anything.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Lady Hannah’s face. She quickly recovered. ‘I have it. You shall sit next to Morgana and that will seem quite unexceptionable.’

He opened his mouth to reply, but her attention had already flitted away.

‘Oh, look,’ she cried. ‘Here comes your nephew, Mr Sloane. Perhaps he will join us as well.’

When the programme was about to begin, Hannah hurried them all in, and arranged the seating to her satisfaction. At one end sat Lord and Lady Cowdlin, then David, Hannah, Morgana, and Sloane. David made polite conversation with Lady Cowdlin, while Hannah looked about the crowd, waving to friends. Miss Hart studied her programme.

‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Hart?’ Sloane asked her.

She gave him a serious expression. ‘You must not consider yourself obliged to make polite conversation, Mr Sloane.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Are we back to not speaking, Miss Hart?’

Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean that. Goodness! I must have sounded cross. I am vexed at my cousin, not you. She treats me as if I were a doll to be moved about at whim.’

His lips twitched. He leaned closer to her. ‘Confess, Miss Hart. You merely dislike being told what to do.’

She smiled. ‘You have the right of it, Mr Sloane. It is one of my abiding faults.’

‘Mine as well,’ he admitted. ‘Let us begin again. Do you like music, Miss Hart?’

Her ginger eyes came alive with expression. ‘I do like it excessively, sir.’

‘Do you play?’

She rolled her eyes, very unladylike, but charming none the less. ‘Badly, therefore, never in company, but I do love to bash away for hours on my pianoforte.’

‘Hmm.’ He pretended to study the programme. ‘I wonder how thick the walls are between our houses.’

She laughed softly. When he glanced at her again her eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Mr Sloane, do you play?’

He could not help himself. He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not music, Miss Hart, but I play at other things very well.’

He watched, fascinated, as her pupils grew larger. Her smile changed from mirthful to inscrutable. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Reverted to his rakish ways. But she did have that effect on him. He averted his gaze.

Morgana looked away as well, resisting the impulse to fan herself. Had he been flirting with her? If so, it felt delightful. Very stimulating. She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming red as they felt.

She was glad Sloane did not dislike sitting next to her, though she still had no doubt he would rather be next to Hannah. Hannah had her head together with the younger Mr Sloane, who was obviously as captivated by her as his uncle.

It did not matter, Morgana assured herself, that Hannah drew the attention of men so easily. She was glad someone distracted Hannah from her chief prey. Morgana needed this opportunity to speak to Sloane. She opened her mouth again, but there was a signal that the music was about to begin.

Lady Sedford had achieved the coup of engaging Camporese for the evening. When the soprano stepped out in front of the musicians, she looked much taller and more slender than she’d appeared on stage at the King’s Theatre, perhaps even as tall as Morgana herself.

Camporese reprised her solos from Penelope, to much applause. Morgana noticed that Hannah attended more to the guests than the music. Her uncle, quite the opposite, dozed, his chin drooping to his chest. Morgana smiled at that and glanced at Sloane, who caught her look and held it a moment before turning his eyes back to the soprano. The contact had been fleeting, but it somehow warmed Morgana all over. She did fan herself this time.

When Camporese finished her part of the programme, the room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘Bravo’ and the soprano gave a deep curtsy. Lady Sedford announced a brief interval and everyone left their seats to mingle. Morgana watched Sloane converse with Hannah and his nephew.

A gentleman and lady approached her. Morgana recognised them as Sloane’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Rawley. Her aunt presented her to them.

Lady Rawley gave her an inquisitive look. ‘I see you are acquainted with Cyprian, Miss Hart.’

Remembering that Sloane was estranged from his family, Morgana regarded the woman with some interest. ‘I am, ma’am.’

‘What do you know of him, my dear?’ Lady Rawley’s question was phrased in ominous tones.

Morgana immediately leapt to Sloane’s defence, though the notion he would need her protection was ludicrous. ‘He is often in the company of my aunt’s family. He is acceptable to them, and that is all I need know.’

Lady Rawley leaned in closer. ‘My husband says there is more to it, Miss Hart. Cyprian has the most shocking reputation. I implore you to beware of it and inform your cousin before she makes a terrible mistake.’

Morgana’s indignation caught fire. How dare this woman presume to spread tales of Sloane to someone she had met not one minute before? She would not stand for it!

She favoured Lady Rawley with her most innocent look. ‘I fear Lady Hannah will demand the details before giving any credence to my words. Would you please tell me exactly what Mr Sloane had done to earn his shocking reputation?’

‘Why… why he is a womaniser, for one thing,’ the lady responded.

‘Indeed?’ Morgana feigned interest. ‘With whom has he been linked? I am sure my cousin will wish to hear names.’

‘I do not precisely know,’ admitted Lady Rawley. ‘But I have it on good authority—’

‘Oh, Hannah will not credit that at all, I’m afraid.’ Morgana feigned being thoughtful. ‘But I suspect there are many gentlemen who claim success with the ladies. That would not be enough to concern Hannah. What else has Mr Sloane done?’

‘I do not know, but it was very bad,’ Lady Rawley said with spirit. ‘Something during the war, I think.’

Morgana pretended to consider this. ‘I believe I must inform my uncle of this shocking information. He is responsible for Hannah, you know.’

‘I am sure your uncle knows,’ admitted the lady. ‘Everyone knows.’

Morgana smiled. ‘Then it must be a mere hum, because Mr Sloane is invited everywhere. He even has vouchers for Almack’s.’ She acted as if she were just struck by a thought. ‘I suppose I could alert Lady Sefton or Lady Castlereagh. I shall tell them you have informed me.’

Lady Rawley paled. ‘No, no, do not do that. I would not trouble them. I am sure if Cyprian has vouchers, it must be quite all right.’

‘Yes.’ Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’

The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley.

When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’

He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’

She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’

Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone.

It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him.

‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’

He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’

‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’

‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper.

‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’

‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head.

‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate.

He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’

They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter.

Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.

Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.

* * *

When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.

Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.

What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.

The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.

When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.

When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’

Chapter Eight

Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.

He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.

He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’

She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’

He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’

‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.

He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’

She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.

‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’

‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’

But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.

But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.

His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.

Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.

She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.

But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.

Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.

‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.

Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.

What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?

Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.

Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.

She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.

He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.

Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.

He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.

Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.

He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.

Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.

St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.

The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.

Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.

She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.

Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.

His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.

Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.

The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.

A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.

The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’

‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’

‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’

Morgana, Sloane thought.

The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’

‘I will discover her.’

Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.

He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.

He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.

The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.

Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?

He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.

He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.

As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.

He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.

Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.

He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.

It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.

He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?

Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.

In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?