Star Crossed Seduction

Jenny Brown

Dedication

To Peter

Best friend, muse, and so much more.

Chapter 1

London

November 1820

Captain Miles Trevelyan sank with relief into the worn armchair toward which his host had beckoned him. He’d never been gladder to see a brother officer. He’d known the older man most of his adult life. They were officers in the same cavalry regiment. But during the long journey back from India, they’d slowly gone from being acquaintances to friends, and, just now, he really needed a friend. The dreams had started up again, and there was no one else within two thousand miles who would understand.

“So what is it, Trev?” The major put down the newspaper he’d been reading.

No point beating around the bush. “I’ve been on leave for only a week, and already I wish I were home.”

“This is home.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

The older man’s eyes were thoughtful beneath his bushy brows. “You’ve been in India, what? A decade?”

Trev nodded. “I joined up at fifteen, just after my father died.”

“He was a fine man, your father. I was fortunate to serve under him. But that explains it. The first leave is always the hardest. England takes some getting used to. The customs of the natives—quite peculiar at times, even to a man who’s seen the Nizam’s court. But you’ll get used to it. There’s no place like London, once you get your bearings. You’re rich, my boy, and your pedigree is impeccable. You’ll soon be up to your eyeballs in champagne, delighting the fair maidens of Mayfair with tales of your adventures among the heathen, while their mamas contend to determine which one of their daughters will wed you.”

The thought did not charm. Trev’s mother’s not-so-subtle matchmaking was a large part of what had brought Trev back to his comrade’s door this evening. But as his eye caught the frayed edge of the lodging chamber’s carpet, he remembered that Major Stanley did not have a family fortune to rely on as he did and might long to participate in the rituals of the haut ton he was able to reject.

Hoping his friend didn’t think him a spoiled puppy, he explained, “I let my mother drag me to one such affair. But I hadn’t the stomach for it. It was easier to storm the Peshwa’s palace than it was to listen to lisping beauties exclaim, ‘Oh tell me all about the battle you fought. It sounds so exciting,’ as if I had just returned from a ride in St. James’s Park. I swear, one day I will tell them all about it, the killing and the looting—and be barred from polite society for life.”

His friend nodded. “They can’t help it, poor things. And it would do no good to try to enlighten them.”

“And the way they display themselves! Nipples peeking out of their low-cut gowns, acres of pale white flesh put on full display, but God help you if you respond like a healthy male. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

“There’s something to be said for veiling,” his friend agreed. “At least with the Nizam’s people, when they show you the goods, they expect you to sample them. But you were wise to come to your Uncle Stanley for help, and help you shall get.”

Major Stanley lifted his bumper of red wine by the stem. “You see, your problem is that you aren’t drunk enough. That’s the scientific explanation. Cold slows the activity of atoms of the body, and this infernal English chill has slowed the molecules of your brain to where they are incapable of proper functioning. Fortunately, there is a cure.”

He called for his servant and told him to fetch some of his best claret, adding, “Alas, my ‘best’ is merely the best that half-pay officers can afford. Wretched stuff, but it gets the job done.”

Trev took a sip from the brimming glass the major’s batman brought him. Stanley hadn’t lied about its quality or its efficacy. He drained it rapidly, encouraged by the warmth that began to radiate throughout his body. He would never get used to how devilishly cold it was in England. His blood, thinned by the years in India, couldn’t adjust to it. But as he drank, his mood began to lift. Perhaps there was something to his companion’s theory.

“Wine warms the molecules of the brain quite nicely,” the major said complacently. “But I fear that the rest of your corporeal molecules are still dangerously cool. To warm the entire man, we must, paradoxically, venture out into the cold once again.”

“Out?”

“On a brief journey to those delightful creatures who specialize in warming the hearts—and other organs—of chilly Englishmen.” He waggled one bushy eyebrow suggestively.

Trev hesitated. Strong as his passions were, he avoided indulging them. But his friend looked so happy at the thought of having his company on such an expedition that he didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. “I’m game,” he said. “Though I trust you have gathered intelligence about the terrain ahead of us.”

“Have no fear, I’ve scouted it out and determined the best point of attack. The girls at Mother Bristwick’s will get the atoms in every limb rushing about ’til you’re as warm as Calcutta the day before the monsoon. You’ll feel like a new man. ’Pon my honor. Shall we have another bumper before we go? They water the wine at Mother Bristwick’s, and a man must plan ahead.”

The major led Trev down the gaslit streets that formed the fringe of the fashionable part of town. Though the yellow flames glowed brightly within their fixtures, they barely pierced the thick fog that swirled around them, its smell a rich mixture of river mist and the reek of burning coal. At the crossings, coaches appeared suddenly out of the mist, their horses’ breaths turning into steam as they met the cold air, and more than once the officers had to jump aside to dodge the splashes of filth sent up from the gutters by the heavy wheels of the rough carts of humble tradesmen.

As they strode toward the poorer neighborhood where their quarry lay, Trev linked arms with his friend. What a fine show they must make, two tall officers, made taller still by the plumed shakos that crowned their heads, resplendent in their gold-laced uniforms, their tasseled Hussar boots shining. But there was more to them than just show. The scabbards that hung by their sides hid sabers sharp enough to slash through leather. It was impossible not to feel pride in what they represented: England’s strength. England’s defenders.

The streets they passed through were thronged with vendors. Wandering hucksters cried out their age-old chants as they peddled handkerchiefs and cat’s meat, used clothes and pies. Others hawked their wares from barrows and tables set up on the pavement. No bazaar could offer more. And everywhere were the beggars, as thick as in Calcutta. Some lay curled in doorways, half-asleep, while others, more desperate, held out their mutilated limbs in an appeal for alms.

“Chap tells me they have their own club,” the major said.

“Who?”

“The beggars. Quite exclusive. Up by Seven Dials. Gather there after hours, take off their disguises, fake wooden legs and all, and show off their wealth. Make a lot of money begging, he told me.”

Trev had heard the same tale told by the wealthy in Calcutta. It made it easy to ignore the misery of the poor who thronged around them. But it wasn’t true. The wizened baby who clutched at the breast of a ragged woman huddled in the shadows wasn’t a prop. As its bony hand tightened convulsively on her flat dug, Trev handed its mother a few shillings. She took them, but her dull eyes were devoid of gratitude.

What little joy he’d felt when they set off had drained away. He’d always imagined that England would be so much finer than the courts where he had spent his years in India. He’d pictured its people as being so much nobler, so worthy of the sacrifices demanded from those who gave up their lives to defend them.

He swerved to avoid a rat that scampered across the pavement.

“Mother B’s is just around the corner,” Major Stanley said, interrupting his gloomy train of thought. “Though the neighborhood is rougher than I remembered. A man does well to carry a sharp blade in such a place. And the bloody chill! Have to drink like a fish to keep alive in this climate.” He reached into the deep pocket hidden in the tail of his jacket and withdrew a silver flask. “Care for a nip?”

Trev took a pull. Brandy. Its welcome warmth briefly lit up his veins. But there wasn’t enough brandy in the world to keep him warm on this frigid island. The cold was already seeping back into his bones. As they neared the major’s favorite bordello, he began to think he might have done better to spend the night huddled over the fire at his mother’s house on Keppel Street. Mother Bristwick’s girls wouldn’t warm him any better than the brandy.

He took little pleasure in coupling with slaves—he’d had his fill of such encounters when Sir Charles had sent him on those missions to the Nizam’s court. And though her girls might not display hennaed hands or be draped in transparent muslin scented with patchouli, the poverty all around him ensured that any woman he would use at Mother Bristwick’s would be just as much a slave as any of the Nizam’s houris.

He took another swig from the major’s flask.

The corner ahead of them was guarded by a crossing boy, who materialized out of the fog as they approached, hunched over his battered broom. He looked no older than eight or nine though he was so stunted it was unlikely he’d live to see twelve. As Trev and the major neared him, the boy roused himself and began making a show of sweeping the raised cobbles to clear a path for them. Trev reached for another shilling but stopped when a tall woman emerged from the shadows.

She was dressed all in black, and her head was covered by a large straw hat of the same color, from which waved a single scarlet feather. Because of the way its brim obscured her features, he couldn’t guess her age though the grace with which she moved suggested youth. The woman—or was she a girl?—whispered a few words to the crossing boy and handed him a small sack. A bright smile lit up his thin face. She put her arm around his narrow shoulders and hugged him gently. When she released him, the boy headed for a recessed doorway, where he carefully laid his broom against the side of the door, seated himself on the stoop, and opened the sack.

After swallowing a bite he said, “Temmy, yer a rare one, to bring me bub and grubby. I was so hungry, me guts had began to think me throat was slit.”

“You’d have done it for me. And what are friends for but to help each other?”

The girl’s concern sent a burst of warmth through Trev’s midsection—the first this night that didn’t owe its existence to alcohol.

“Care for a bite?” The boy offered his friend what appeared to be a pasty.

“Don’t mind if I do.” But she broke off only a tiny corner, perhaps to preserve his pride and keep him from feeling like a beggar.

“Ta then,” she said. “I’ll be off.”

“Did you come up with the ready for new digs for you and your crew? I heard as how they’ll be tearing down the snug this very week.”

“Not yet.”

“Then it’s off to nim the plummie’s fogle, an’t it, Tem?”

What could that mean? Probably something illegal, or the boy wouldn’t have switched to what sounded like thieves’ cant.

The girl shrugged. “Whatever’s on offer. But you always bring me luck, Danny. You know that.”

“Aye, well I do, and I’m glad of it. If anyone deserves luck, it’s you.”

She pulled her black shawl closer, but not before Trev caught a glimpse of the sharply angled eyebrows that gave her almond-shaped eyes a wide-awake look. Then she hastened away with strong, decisive steps.

What could her business be, here on the darkening street? Was she one of the streetwalkers who plied their trade in the open? The streets teemed with them. But her black gown and shawl seemed too sober for such a calling, looking as they did suspiciously like full mourning. Still, some men had strange tastes, and perhaps there were those who found her funereal garb exciting. He picked up his pace to keep her within his line of sight.

“Saw something that took your fancy?” the major asked, poking him in the ribs with one elbow.

“Could be.”

“She’s a fine piece, but you have to watch yourself on the street, my boy. A man can’t be too careful. Remember what they say: ‘A night with Venus, six days with Mercury.’ ”

“I’ve been in the service for a decade, Major. No need to give me the health lecture. Besides, my mother tells me Mars is my ruling planet, not your Venus or Mercury, for I was born under the sign of Scorpio. I shouldn’t have survived that last battle had the God of War not made me his special favorite, so I must trust him to protect me now. Give me but another moment to satisfy my curiosity about the girl, then we’ll be off to your precious Mother Bristwick’s.”

“Fair enough,” the major said as he lengthened his long stride to match Trev’s. “Her house is just down that street. Perhaps your charmer’s destination is the same as ours.”

Trev’s pulse quickened. If only it were true. He’d seen enough to know the woman in black was no one’s slave, however she made her living on these unforgiving streets. If she were for Mother Bristwick’s, by God he’d have her. For the first time since they’d set out on their mission, his cock swelled.

Major Stanley pointed out the doorway of the bordello a few moments later, but the woman continued past it, striding down the street until she reached a small gathering a few hundred paces farther on. Trev fought back his disappointment and stepped up his pace so as not to lose sight of her. Beside him, Major Stanley chuckled at his haste but had the grace to say nothing.

At her destination, a couple of dubious-looking urchins were feeding broken barrel staves into a bonfire. Its flickering light revealed the high cheekbones, pert nose, and surprisingly even white teeth that confirmed what Trev had suspected. The woman in black was a beauty. She stopped to exchange words with a tiny girl who’d been warming her hands by its flames, then moved away into the crowd.

When she had passed out of sight, he noticed for the first time what had drawn it. An older man stood on a crude box amid the throng. His face was craggy, he was missing teeth, and his hair was long and unkempt. Though it wasn’t his appearance that had attracted the crush of onlookers but his harsh, piercing voice.

He was a ballad singer, one of the many who plied their trade on the city streets, though it would have been closer to the truth to call the man a ballad shouter, for like the rest of his kind, he bawled out the crude, rhyming lyrics that brought the latest news to people like these, too poor to afford newspapers or too unlettered to read them.

Trev wondered what the man could be shouting about to have attracted so many people. But he hadn’t put off his visit to Mother Bristwick’s to learn what the poor considered news. Though the woman whose small act of kindness had done so much to lighten his mood had melted into the crowd, he could still see her red feather waving above it. So he pushed his way through the assembled workmen, hoping to close the distance between them, and as he did, got close enough to the ballad singer to hear his words.

To his relief, they weren’t about the latest scandal on everyone’s tongue, the king’s failure to get Parliament to convict his wife of treason and keep her from being crowned. If they had been, he’d have had no choice but to leave. His regiment, the King’s Royal Irish Light Dragoons, was famed for its loyalty to the crown. But, to his relief, the man’s verses were about a battle—a glorious battle.

The stock phrases he bellowed praised the courageous English and damned their cowardly foes, bringing alive the clash of swords and the roar of the cannon—battle as it had always been presented to folk at home. But it was hard to tell which battle the man was romancing. He might have been describing any from the Crécy to Waterloo. The English were brave, the foe craven. And no ballad told of the screams of the dying or the stench of intestines slashed through and exposed to the sun.

“It appears you’re being honored,” Major Stanley said.

“Me?”

“Didn’t you hear him mention the Pindaris? He’s singing up your battle, Trev. Puff out your chest, man. You’re the hero of the day.”

Trev’s ears perked up. It was, indeed, his battle the man was offering up as entertainment to his audience with his garbled account of Baji Rao’s treachery and the rout of the Pindaris, though in the ballad singer’s version, those brave Maratha warriors were reduced to brigands no different from the highwaymen who infested Hounslow Heath.

The singer dwelled with relish on the numbers who had died on either side, and the crowd roared their approval upon hearing how the eight hundred Europeans and their native allies had held off eighteen thousand enemy horse with only eighty-six men killed or wounded on the English side.

It was glorious indeed. So very glorious. But as the man’s chanted flow of stanzas drew toward the end of the story, Trev braced himself, knowing as the crowd did not, what had come next: the rest of the deaths, the ones that had not been added into that paltry eighty-six: the deaths of the wives of their native allies, the sepoys, the innocent women who’d been raped and murdered by a troop of enemy raiders just as the armies had massed for the final battle.

He fought down the memory of the bloodied saris, the babies’ brains spattered against the rocks. It had been a necessary sacrifice. Had they ordered the women’s camp to be moved somewhere safer, it would have given away their battle plan. But still, his stomach clenched, and he tasted a sour taste that was not entirely due to the major’s cheap wine.

Sensing his thoughts, the major tugged on his arm and tried to draw him from the crowd. He knew the whole story. Trev had told him the gist of it, late one night on shipboard when, unable to sleep, he’d sat up on deck the whole night, watching the Southern Cross wheel across the sky.

But Trev wasn’t going to let the ballad singer’s chant drive him away. He would not give in to weakness. The thing had happened, and he could do nothing about it now. He’d be worthless as a commander if he let a memory unman him. War was glorious only in verses of the Fleet Street hacks whose words this ballad singer chanted. Every soldier knew that the reality was different, and that the bravest thing many a soldier would do was to keep on living after the battle was over, knowing his victory’s true cost.

As he must.

He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes for a moment, forcing his mind to concentrate on the workmen who were pressed up against him, making himself inhale their stench, and hoping the reek of onions and unwashed bodies would drag him back to the present. When at length he opened his eyes, he startled.

A woman was staring at him. The woman in black.

Her eyes, which had sparkled so when she’d brought the crossing boy his dinner, were hard now, and glowed with what looked like contempt. The kindness he’d seen in them was gone. Her reproachful glare was the look he saw in the eyes of the sepoys’ women when they came back to him in dreams to rail at him for his failure to protect them.

Her gaze pierced through him, relentless and unforgiving. She had caught him in a moment of naked suffering, judged him, and condemned him.

As he tore his eyes away from hers, she vanished. Her disappearance left him bereft.

Why should it matter? She was no one. A stranger he’d never see again. It had only been a whim that set him chasing after her. But, even so, he couldn’t stop himself from scanning the crowd, searching for her jaunty bobbing feather.

He grabbed the major’s arm. “Let’s go.”

They’d dawdled long enough chasing after some will-of-the-wisp—a stranger, dressed in black, glimpsed for just a moment on a foggy evening, who had, for that one instant, seemed like a beacon in the gloom. He’d let his fancy run away with him. Whatever she’d done for the crossing boy, she had nothing for him. If he were to find her again, it might only be to see her pressed up against the wall servicing some wretch for a couple of pennies. Up close, she might smell like the men who surrounded him. She might turn out to be pocked and gap-toothed, barely intelligible, speaking the harsh cant of the streets.

It was time to go on to Mother Bristwick’s. Her girls might look at him with hard eyes, but they’d do what they were paid to do—which obviously he needed. Lust did funny things to a man’s mind. When it was taken care of, perhaps he wouldn’t be so morbid.

But as Trev turned to make his way out of the crowd, the tiny girl he’d seen standing by the fire approached him. She held a sheaf of papers under one arm and was waving a printed broadside, which featured a crude woodcut of horses in battle and the verses the ballad singer had just sung, with her other.

“How much?” he asked.

“Only two pennies.”

He reached into his pocket. The broadsheet would entertain his mother, whose idea of military glory was not far from that of the ballad singer. The girl handed him the broadside and faded back into the crowd.

As he watched her go, someone jostled against his side. With instincts honed in the bazaar he whipped around, one hand flying to his pocket. He knew what that jostling meant: It was the oldest trick in the book—the bump and grab—practiced by teams of pickpockets from Land’s End to Calcutta. One would do something to get the victim to show where he kept his money, then the other would take advantage of his inattention to rob him.

But as he spun around to foil the scheme, he stopped, paralyzed, when he spotted his assailant: It was the woman in black.

When she realized he’d seen her, she froze with one hand thrust deep into an opening of her long black skirt. Then she hid her face in her shawl, whipped around, and flung herself into the crowd.

“Stop, thief!” howled the man standing beside Trev, launching himself after her. Others took up his cry.

Trev’s reached a hand into his pocket. His coins were gone, every last one of them. It hit him in the gut. Why did it have to be her?

But why should he care? He’d figured her for a whore. Why be surprised when she’d turned out to be a pickpocket instead? In the harsh hierarchy of the street, her calling might be a step up.

With studied casualness, he checked his other pockets, careful to avoid tipping off other criminals in the crowd as to where he kept his valuables. Fortunately, the pickpocket’s prying fingers hadn’t found anything else. But though his loss was trivial, her success made him uneasy. A man who followed his calling couldn’t afford to drop his guard. He wouldn’t last long without it.

If the woman in black had thought to find safety by hiding within the crowd, she’d been mistaken, for the men making up its outer circle had drawn together and linked their brawny arms to create a barrier. She’d not get out again. Not with the size of those brutes.

Trev stood on his toes to add a few more inches to the height that already gave him the advantage over the men who pressed in all around him, but he couldn’t find her. Then a cry rose from the other side of the crowd, which parted to reveal a thick man wearing the leather apron of a shoemaker. He had the girl by the wrists and was dragging her toward Trev.

“Steal from honest people, will you, missy?” he shouted. “Not while I’m about. Off to Newgate you’ll be, but not before I get my reward.”

The long feather swayed as she fought to escape the shoemaker’s grasp, then his meaty fist knocked off her hat. It fell onto the filthy cobbles, revealing curls the color of tarnished bronze. Even in the gloom, their beauty made Trev draw in breath.

“I ain’t done nothing,” she protested.

“Nothing but steal from honest folk as works hard for their money.”

“You can’t prove it!”

“Ah, but I can.” The man reached deep into the pocket in her black skirt, drawing forth a handful of something that glittered, but after he brought his fist up to his face to examine his takings, a look of disgust replaced his earlier look of triumph. His hand held only a few shillings worth of change.

“It’s mine, and you can’t prove otherwise,” she insisted.

“Canny little bitch, she is,” a man beside the shoemaker called out. “You’ll get no blood money for her. Too fly to steal a ticker or something else that could get her lagged.”

“That’s but one pocket,” the shoemaker said. “The drab may have a dozen more pockets hidden in her gown. I’ll find a watch on her, don’t you fear, and when I do, I’ll take her to the magistrate and claim me reward.”

The girl twisted in the man’s grasp and clawed at him as she tried to break free. Her ferocity did not argue well for her innocence. But as her eyes locked onto Trev’s, again, they stopped him in his tracks. He’d seen a look like that only once before, in battle, in the eyes of a man who’d exchanged blow after blow with him in a struggle that would only end with a death.

She wouldn’t give in, though she knew she could not prevail. She was magnificent, a woman warrior as bold as Boadicea. He’d never seen a woman show such courage. He hadn’t known one could.

But her courage wasn’t enough, for the shoemaker easily subdued her and bound her wrists.

Major Stanley tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. It’s getting nasty. We had best be off.”

“I can’t leave her to this mob. They’ll tear her apart.”

“She’s a pickpocket, Trev. She’s only getting her due.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t leave her to these brutes.” Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered why he’d said them. He was a soldier sworn to protect the state and uphold the laws. He should abandon her to her well-deserved fate. But he couldn’t. Her simple act of kindness had stood out so starkly against the apathy all around her, and her eyes had, for that one agonizing moment, brought back to life the ghosts of the sepoys’ women. They, too, had been brave, but no one had come to rescue them.

Still, he’d be a fool to intervene. She was, after all, a criminal. But when the shoemaker jerked on the cord with which he’d bound her wrists and gave her a hard slap across the face, Trev grasped the hilt of his saber, which was sharp enough to slice through a man’s wrist, and charged through the crowd toward her captor.

“Give her to me,” he commanded in the tone that had reduced more than one subaltern to tears on the parade ground. “She stole from me. I’ll punish her.”

A muttered oath beside him told him that, despite his wariness, Major Stanley had followed him into the crowd and stood now by his side. Trev’s confidence swelled in response to his friend’s show of loyalty.

The shoemaker puffed himself up—he was a large man obviously accustomed to having his way. But Trev was taller and fitter, and the major was no weakling, either. When Stanley reached for his own saber, some of the shoemaker’s bluster abated. Trev could almost hear the man calculating his chances in a fight and rating them poorly. Still, he must not count on the man’s behaving rationally. Some bullies just liked to fight, and if the shoemaker could get the crowd behind him, there still might be trouble. Best to use diplomacy rather than force to defuse the situation. That was always the best approach.

Taking his time, Trev made a great show of replacing his long, curved saber in its scabbard. Then he demanded of the shoemaker. “How big a reward do you expect to get for her?”

The man growled, “Reckon ten pound. More if she’s been in the jug before.”

“You deserve more for having apprehended her.” He reached into his belt and extracted a few notes. “Here’s twenty. Give her to me and take it for your trouble. I’ll see that she is punished.”

“So you say.” The man eyed him warily. “But how am I to know justice will be done?”

“Do you question the honor of an officer of the King’s Dragoons?”

The threat in his tone made the shoemaker hesitate, and when Major Stanley took a step toward him, his hand on his saber, the man standing beside the shoemaker intervened. “Come away, Tom. Sommat’s better than nowt. The girl might be clean, and you’d get nothing from the magistrate. I say take the captain’s money and to hell with her.”

The shoemaker briefly considered this. Then he reached for the notes Trev held out and pocketed them. Grabbing the girl by the leather lacing he’d used to bind her wrists, he dragged her toward Trev.

“She’s yours, Captain. And good riddance to the drab. Reckon you’ll find you paid too much for her.”

A stocky man in a porter’s garb called out, “What about the shilling she forked off me, eh?”

“I didn’t fork nothing off you, porter,” the girl shot back. “If I were to steal, it wouldn’t be from the likes of you, but from the rich. They steal more from the poor than I ever could. But you’ll never see them hang for it.”

“Aye, she’s got a point,” the porter said. “The rich bleed us dry, they do. Who pays for their diamonds and jewels but the workingman?”

The mood of the crowd shifted again, as a few men shouted the Radicals’ slogan, “Liberty for all!”

“Come on, then,” Trev said to the girl, brusquely. “Before they turn on both of us.”

He grasped her by the wrists and pulled her toward the edge of the crowd. She hung back for a moment, putting all her weight on her heels as she resisted him, but as the muttering around them grew louder, she saw reason at last and gave in though she kept her chin up and straightened her shoulders as he led her out of the crowd.

As they reached the edge, her eyes dropped to the cobbles, and he followed her gaze. When he saw what it was that had captured her attention, he gestured to Major Stanley to hold her for a moment and dove back into the mass of onlookers to get the bedraggled black straw hat that had fallen under their feet. He picked up it and brought it back to her.

“Yours, I believe?” he asked.

Warily, she nodded, as if unwilling to show anything that might be interpreted as gratitude. But even so, he could tell his small gesture of kindness had surprised her. Before restoring it to her, he examined the hat closely and brushed it with his sleeve, to rub off the streaks of dust it had acquired during its progress down the pavement. Then he did what he could to smooth out the crumpled feather and carefully set the hat on her head, giving it a slight tilt before he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

She pursed her lips as if she would repay him for his thoughtfulness by spitting at him, but at the last moment, she thought better of it. He took her bound wrists from the major and led her out of the crowd, drawing her toward the main street. When they had reached an empty stretch of pavement, Major Stanley asked, “Whatever will you do with her?”

“Damned if I know. But you’d best go on to Mother Bristwick’s without me.”

He glanced at the girl. Her expression was impenetrable. He would have given a lot to know her thoughts in the moment.

“Well, you’ve found plenty with which to warm your corpuscular molecules,” the major said. “By God she is a beauty, Trev. Can’t say I don’t envy you. Though you’d best keep a good eye on your wallet now that she knows where you keep your brass.”

Chapter 2

The bastard. The bloody stinking bastard of a dragoon. She’d been mad to try to rob him, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Not when she’d seen him standing there, every inch the proud officer, slumming, sneering at her and the crowd, not bothering to hide his contempt. The look of disgust she’d seen in his eyes as he’d listened to old Barrow’s ballad had pushed her over the edge. How dare he exhibit such scorn for her and her people!

When she’d seen that expression of loathing fill his eyes, she’d wanted to do more than steal his coins. She’d wanted to wipe that disgusted look off his face. She’d wanted to slash his dashing blue uniform and smear his close-cropped curls with filth ’til he was as ragged and soiled as the men he so disdained.

What did he have to be so proud about? He was a dragoon, a tool of the greedy rich, a heartless killer, just like the dragoons who’d ridden down the protesters at Peterloo—trampling down women and children while wearing, no doubt, that same insolent sneer.

A dragoon like the one who had murdered Randall.

The familiar pain lanced through her heart as it always did when she remembered her lost love. But she shouldn’t have let her anger make her careless. Randall had warned her there was no room for passion in a pickpocket’s heart—not when they plied their trade. He’d been so right, he who’d taught her all she knew of the knuckling lay.

But she’d ignored his advice and given in to the impulse of the moment. She was lucky she wasn’t on her way to the hulks. This cursed officer might have saved her from rotting in one of those floating prisons, but she owed him no thanks. It had been a dragoon just like him who’d killed Randall—murdered him and dumped his body in the Thames.

But this one would not harm her, not if she could keep her wits about her. Everything about him might radiate insolence, even the way his cloak snapped in the wind, but she wouldn’t let that bother her. Let him think he’d found himself a bit of fun. He’d soon learn his lesson, the proud bastard. If he thought he had her where he wanted her, he’d soon find out his mistake.

This wasn’t the first time she’d found herself at the mercy of some man who expected his superior strength to give him the advantage over her, but they never reckoned on the strength of her wits. She’d get herself out of this scrape, too. She must just forget about Randall, set aside her rage, and clear her mind. She must study this man, whose iron grip confined her wrists, charm him, and find his weakness. All men had one—usually greed or lust. For all his proud demeanor, this one would be no different. And when she’d found what made him tick, she’d use it to win back her freedom.

She let her shoulders slump. Let him think her defeated; it would keep him from being on his guard. He’d revel in his power, and, with luck, it would make him sloppy. But she must be careful, so very careful. She hadn’t liked what he’d said to the shoemaker about punishing her.

As the captain led her toward a darkened alley, striding ahead of her on those long legs of his, he fixed her now and then with a probing gaze. His eyes were set deep beneath the straight brows that slashed across his forehead and far too observant. He wasn’t stupid, despite being an officer, which was a shame. Stupid men were easier to deal with, and as she struggled to keep up with him, it became clear this man was no uniformed popinjay, either.

The long muscles in his legs rippled beneath the tightly-stretched buckskin breeches. They were strong muscles, which told her he spent his days doing more than just prancing around a ballroom. And that scar that slashed up from his lip and kept his face from having the beauty it might have otherwise possessed. How had he got that?

It might have been from dueling in the park over some imagined slight. The dragoons in London were an idle bunch, given to gambling and fighting amongst themselves. But somehow she thought not. It might just as easily have been earned in battle. There was something about this man that was different from those she’d seen before.

When he finally came to a halt, she asked him, “Where’d you do your fighting, soldier?” Men loved to talk about themselves and brag about their courage. Time to get to work on him if she were to get herself out of this situation safely.

His brows lifted, as if he were surprised to learn she could talk. “Poona,” he said.

“That same Poona, in India, where they had that battle Barrow was shouting about?”

He nodded.

“How long you been back?”

“A week.”

A gust of relief swept through her. At least he had not been at Peterloo. Or with the troop that had hunted down Randall after the Cato Street Conspiracy had failed.

“Seen a lot of action?”

“More than enough.” He said it in a way that shut down further conversation. She wouldn’t be able to get him to relax bragging about himself, so she changed the subject. “India! You have seen the world. How I should like to see it, with its caves full of jewels, and rich spices—and the beautiful women locked in harems—just like in The Arabian Nights.”

“You’ve read The Arabian Nights?” His voice betrayed surprise. Did he think that just because she was poor she was stupid?

“I’ve read it and a lot more.” Let him chew on that.

“You’re not a Cockney, are you?” he asked. “Your accent is that of the Midlands. How long have you been in London?”

“Long enough.” It was three years since she’d left home with Randall, just after her fifteenth birthday. Not that it was any of his business.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow alleyway. “There may still be men in the crowd who’d like to do you harm. We’ll be safer here.”

She didn’t believe for a minute he was leading her there to protect her, but the rope around her wrists gave her no choice but to follow him. When they had gone deeper into the shadows, he stopped and turned toward her. “Why did you steal, just now?” he demanded. “I know you did, so don’t bother lying. Just tell me the truth.” The set of his deeply cleft chin told her only the truth would do.

She struggled to think of how to phrase it. At last she said, “People depend on me. I couldn’t let them down.”

“They need you to find them money?”

“Yes. Two pounds by the morrow. They’re going to tear down the place we been dossing in, to put up some new mansion for the rich.”

“And if you don’t find those two pounds? What then.”

“Clary goes back to whoring. She’s only fourteen.”

“And you too?” His interest was unmistakable.

“I’m eighteen.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

“I’ve never sold myself.”

He said nothing, evaluating the truth of her statement. His deep-set eyes dropped to her bosom and drifted lower. The crotch of his breeches bulged. So that was the key to handling this man. Lust. Not greed or glory.

He repeated, “You’ve never sold yourself?”

She took a deep breath. “Never.” She paused. Then hazarding all on a lucky throw, she added, “ ’Til now.”

He grinned. It made the scar at the corner of his lip deepen, but strangely, though it should have made him fearsome, it had the opposite effect. The look it gave his stern face intrigued her. Despite herself, she enjoyed making this man smile.

“Would you be my Scheherazade, then?”

“Scheherazade told stories. Is that what you want from me?” Her tone let him know she doubted it.

“That’s what she does in the expurgated edition. But I’ve read the original Arabic. It tells a spicier tale.”

“The East is famous for its spices,” she parried. “But I know naught of ’em. I’m only a humble English girl.”

“English, yes. But hardly humble. You’re as proud as a queen. I doubt you’d disappoint me.” His eyes held a look of anticipation. Yes, lust would be the key to getting away from him.

“Surely you’ve had real houris in India, a handsome man like yourself.” A little flattery never hurt.

“Some. But I have had my fill of curry and yearn to taste good English cooking.”

“What’s curry?

“Food as hot as this cold November night is cold. Food that inflames the passions and fills the heart with courage.”

“You may yearn for English cooking,” she said, arranging her features in an arch expression. “But by the sound of it, I think I should like to taste this curry.” She batted her lashes to give him no doubt she was issuing an invitation.

His eyes lit up, softening the harsh planes of his cheeks. “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to it,” he said. “You are strong enough to endure it. Perhaps you might come to enjoy it. Some Englishwomen do. A few. Though most complain it pains them. I wonder—”

A look she could not entirely interpret swept over his features, as if he were considering something dangerous and weighing the cost. She shivered, hoping it was just a response to the icy breeze that blew rubbish down the deserted alleyway.

Then he reached for his sword and pulled it out of its scabbard. Even in the gloom of the alley, its sharp edge glinted. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. “Keep still.”

Her gut clenched. They were alone, unobserved. His last speech had made her uneasy, with its talk of pain and endurance. He was a dragoon, a man who took pleasure in killing. Perhaps he took pleasure in causing pain, too.

But she had no choice but to comply. Her wrists were tightly bound, she couldn’t break free. She must submit to whatever he had in mind and wait for her opportunity. Cautiously, she extended her arms toward him. She held her breath, hoping she had not made a terrible mistake.

After grasping her forearm with his free hand, with a single swift motion, he brought the tip of his blade to her wrists and sawed through the leather thong that bound them. Her hands sprang free. Then he smiled at her in a way that, had he been anyone but a dragoon, she would have thought was kindly.

“Rub them to get the circulation going. They’ll feel better soon.” He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. A moment later he asked, “Have your hands stopped tingling?”

She nodded with a shy smile, and once again his eyes lit up as if he cared. But though he had freed her of the bindings, he still maintained his grip on her arm.

“What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Scheherazade. It’s too much of a mouthful.”

“Temperance Smith.”

“Another mouthful.”

“Folk call me Tem.”

“Captain Miles Trevelyan, at your service. My friends call me Trev.”

“Am I to be your friend?” She lowered her lashes and looked up from under them in the way that men always found irresistible. She licked her lips.

“That is up to you,” he said, his scarred lip quirking up into a smile. Then, moving so quickly she had no way of protecting herself from him, he lowered his head and set his lips firmly on hers.

He couldn’t help himself. It was wrong, and he knew it, but the way she’d flirted with him had been like dangling raw meat before a starving wolf. It had not been lust alone that had made him save her, and when he had, he’d not meant to make her pay for her rescue with her body. But he was a normal male—with an abnormally strong animal nature. He’d not been able to resist the temptation of those fluttering lashes or the unmistakable invitation he’d heard in her voice. And now it was too late for regret.

He gave himself up to the pleasure he found as he pressed his lips against hers. They were so alive, so responsive. He could almost believe she wanted him. He told himself he would take nothing from her she didn’t wish to give, but he could not stop himself from trying to make her want to give him everything.

He teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, taking his time and resisting the temptation to invade her mouth too soon. He caressed her neck with one hand and stroked the delicate down behind her ear in the way he knew must increase her pleasure.

She’d been stiff with resistance when he’d given in to the urge to kiss her, but as he worked on her, she responded to his coaxing and relaxed. She opened her lips. Her breath was fresh, her taste intoxicating. Responding to this new invitation, his tongue explored the pulsing warmth of her mouth, and, as she flicked her own tongue against his, without warning, his whole body came alive.

A shock ran through him. It surged up his spine, filling his body with light and awakening every nerve. His heart pounded with joy until he thought it would burst. Life coursed through his veins. And yet, in the midst of this excitement, a strange peace flooded through him, as if he were home at last, at rest. He clung to her, comforted but stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening to them both, knowing only that he’d die if he let her go.

He must be drunker than he’d thought.

But he wasn’t drunk. Everything was brighter and clearer than usual, not dulled as it was with alcohol. Something new intoxicated him, and he had no ability to stop it. He inhaled deeply the faint scent of oranges that wafted from her hair and held on to her more tightly.

When, after centuries had passed, he released her, she staggered back. Would she flee him, now that he’d given her the chance? The confusion in her eyes matched his own. She was breathing quickly and looked dazed. Had she felt what he had, or something else? It was impossible to know, but it tormented him to think she might be feeling anything but the bliss that filled him now.

But when she’d caught her breath, she didn’t pull away. She drew closer and pressed the length of her long body against his, as if she were as unwilling to separate from him as he was to have her go. He welcomed her back into his arms and embraced her gently, struggling to keep his hold on her as tender as he could, so as not to frighten her. She nestled against him, as if she had always belonged there, stroking his muscled arm with one hand as he caressed her hair.

He wondered at its softness. He’d never before touched a woman’s hair that was not straight and black, but hers was the color of honey and springy, with long waves. He’d never before held a creature so fierce. Yet fierce as she was, she responded to his gentleness. He ran one finger against the softness of her cheek, barely touching it. He’d felt the same sense of wonder when his first falcon had returned to the jesses.

He luxuriated in the softness of her throat. The skin there was like velvet. Its smoothness was interrupted only by a tiny mole his searching fingers found where neck met shoulder. He drew her closer. He had never felt a body fit so perfectly against his.

A shy smile turned up the corners of her lips. Her eyes were glowing softly, with no trace of the contempt that had filled them before. Perhaps she could, after all, spare him some of the grace she had shared with the crossing boy. Perhaps he’d not been wrong in seeking her out. The energy that pulsed through the two of them was warm and healing.

He wondered who she was, how she could do this to him, and how he could keep himself from ruining it.

Temperance’s heart was beating as if it would explode. What was happening to her? What had this man awakened in her body? She’d only meant to rouse his lust, so she could make him careless. It was a maneuver she’d used more than once in the street. She wasn’t fast enough to run from a man like him, but there were other ways to temporarily take him out of action, once you got close enough. A swift blow of the knee to his groin would do the job.

But she was more than close enough—and still she was powerless to do what she had planned. When his stubble-fringed lips had brushed against hers, they’d ignited cravings his warm tongue had fanned into leaping flames. He’d tasted her, caressed her, and awakened a throbbing in every bit of her.

But it wasn’t just animal sensations his outrageous kiss evoked but something more—the wave of need that flooded her body and made her press up against him so close that the gold lace crossing his wide chest dug into her flesh, and the buttons that outlined his lapels pressed against her breasts, stimulating them even through the thick stuff of her black gown.

She should have taken her shot by now. But she could not. She wanted more. She couldn’t get enough of the way his firm muscles felt beneath her hand as he embraced her. The pulsing of his tongue echoed down the column of her own body, sending pangs of yearning to her core. She gave herself up to the sensation, unable to do anything else, dismayed at her weakness even as her desire grew. She couldn’t keep from pressing herself against him, all of him, even the swelling bulge at his crotch, until her own sex responded and swelled with need, wet with her wanting of him.

“Did you learn that in India?” she gasped.

“I learned it from you.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Will you teach me more?”

She made no answer, appalled by how much she wanted to say yes.

To this soldier—this killer.

She was about to betray Randall with a man who wore the same uniform as his murderer. She, who had scorned Mother Bristwick’s offers—and her threats—even when Randall’s death had left her penniless, stood here now, no different than any threepenny upright, giving herself to a stranger for nothing. A stranger she should hate.

Had she gone mad? Though the officer’s breath on her ear sent shivers down her spine, she must not give in to the pleasure of it. She must reclaim her rage and block out the wanting his kisses had inflamed. She must fight her weakness. She must not lose herself in him no matter what he could make her feel.

If only she could bring herself to jab her knee into his crotch as she’d planned. But she couldn’t do it. Her traitorous body was too grateful to his to hurt him that way. But there was another way to break free. His eyes were half-lowered, his breathing ragged. He was still in the grip of desire and he thought she still was, too. As if to give him what he expected from her, she began to undo the buttons that fastened the top of his leather breeches. As the top button came undone, his prick swelled against the thin hide.

She made her way to the next button. Her fingers trembled as she undid it. The moist head of his shaft jutted from the opening she had created, filling her with excitement despite her resolve to stay unmoved. She fumbled with the last button. Her breath caught in her throat as the flap fell open, revealing him: huge and tumescent.

He’d closed his eyes now and was giving himself up entirely to pleasure. She let her hand drift up to his waist and teasingly undid its fastening. His breeches came loose. She eased them down his sinewy thighs, ignoring the throbbing that filled her most secret parts. If she could draw them down only a little farther, they’d hobble him. Then she could break free. The buckskins wrapped around his lower thighs would slow him, and the moment it would take for him to pull them up was all she would need to get a head start.

But when, at last, she sprang away, he didn’t reach for his breeches but grabbed the neck of her gown. She jerked away, tugging against his grip, ignoring the pain as the cloth cut into her flesh, until the fabric gave way and slipped out of his grasp and she was free. She made the most of it, racing down the alleyway with her heart pounding, her every sense on the alert. She must not let him catch her, or he would draw her back into that fatal embrace. If he did, she knew she couldn’t resist him.

She listened for his footsteps as she ran, but a carriage clattered along the deserted street, and any footfalls behind her were drowned out by the sound of its wheels. Even as she strained to hear if he had pursued her, she cursed her ungovernable impulses. She was still in their grip, torn by a mix of terror that he would catch her—and regret that he would not.

But she kept on running, making for the bolt-hole. She need make it only around another turn, dodge into the alley, and she’d be safe. When she reached it at last, she pressed the secret lever that unlocked the hatchway door and slid down into the narrow space hidden behind it.

She was safe. Safe from the dragoon. But her body, still throbbing with the passion he’d made smolder with his kiss, made her wonder if she’d ever be really safe again.

Chapter 3

Never before had Trev sobered up as quickly as he did, standing with his throbbing cock exposed to the frigid London night, watching in disbelief as the woman who’d torn open his heart rounded the corner and disappeared. He felt like an absolute fool. He must be grateful his humiliation had gone unobserved. But even that solace was taken from him as a carriage made its way toward him on the deserted street and slowed to reveal the horrified eyes of a lady within.

He whirled around to face the wall, as if like any other drunk he had merely unfastened his breeches to relieve himself. His cheeks burned with shame.

He marveled now at the madness that had overtaken him when he’d found himself possessed by that overwhelming mixture of revelation and homecoming he’d found in the pickpocket’s arms. It tickled the edges of his consciousness even now, like the last fleeting memory of one of those dreams that seem real even after awakening. But it had been only a dream.

He’d used the power he’d gained over her to trap her, and she’d done exactly what he would have done had he found himself in her predicament. How could he have imagined for even a moment that she would feel anything but disgust at the crude coupling he’d offered her?

And yet, so powerful had been what swept over him as he had held her in his arms that he could have sworn she had shared with him, body and soul, that astonishing feeling of something miraculous about to happen. That she was the one who would give him what he’d longed for all his life.

He was mad, and he knew it. Unbidden, another woman’s voice echoed through his mind, I’ll be back tomorrow with a cake for you if you’re a good boy now and don’t cry. Well, he should have known better than to go haring after what he knew he’d never find—and he’d certainly sought it in a strange place this night.

He’d get over it. It shouldn’t be hard. She’d left him with no more dignity than a tomcat whose amorous cries had been quenched with a bucket of slops. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All he could do was to learn from it. Everyone made mistakes, but the men he looked up to never made the same mistake twice.

It was only after he’d fastened up his pants that he noticed the thin chain that dangled from the hand with which he had fruitlessly tried to detain her. It must have snapped when he’d grabbed her collar in that futile attempt to keep her from abandoning him. As he glanced down at the pavement, he saw what its burden had been: a round locket that lay glinting against the dull cobbles. He stooped to pick it up and flicked it open. His exploring fingers found a lock of hair secured in the hollow on one side. The other held a portrait, but it was too dark to make out any details.

She must have stolen it. A girl like that couldn’t afford to have a portrait painted. On the other hand, only a very stupid thief would hold on to a piece of jewelry with a portrait that could identify it as stolen—and his pickpocket hadn’t struck him as stupid. So the portrait must be of someone important to her. A brother perhaps or, more likely, a lover.

His lips curled up. If it was a lover, he’d come that close to making the man a cuckold—and not without considerable help from the girl.

He considered tossing it. Why hold on to something that could only remind him of tonight’s humiliation? But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. His nostrils sill retained the scent of oranges. His lips were still hungry for the taste of her.

He would keep it as a bittersweet reminder of the price to be paid for dropping his guard. So he slipped it into his pocket and made his way slowly back to his mother’s home on Keppel Street.

The bolt-hole was cold, dank, and smelled of old urine and mouse droppings, but it was safe. Randall had shown her this secret place when he’d finally trusted her enough to let her join the crew that stole the money that funded his fight against oppression.

But at the thought of Randall, Temperance’s heart sank. How close she had come to betraying him with the captain. No. She must be honest; she had betrayed him. She’d been as wanton as her father had claimed she was when he’d forced her to run away from home.

But wanton though she might be, she’d never before felt anything like what she’d felt tonight in that soldier’s embrace. Not even when she’d lain with Randall, whom she’d loved so much. Perhaps that was why Randall had never been able to stop looking at other women. Maybe he’d secretly wanted a woman who felt like that with him.

She squelched that thought. Randall had been faithful to her. She was the one who had betrayed their love, not him. She must face it and move on. It was just more evidence of how weak she was, like so much else that had happened over the past three years.

She fell into a fitful sleep bedded down on filthy straw at the back of the bolt-hole, but she couldn’t stay there forever. When morning broke, she made her way back to the rookery on Mercer Street, where she found Becky standing beside a pile of debris.

The wreckers had come, just as the landlord had said they would, and they were tearing down the abandoned building where the girls had made their home. They’d already torn off the oiled paper she and Becky had so carefully installed over the shattered casement window, and even now scavengers were picking through the pathetically small pile of what remained of their furniture, which the workmen had tossed carelessly onto the street. They’d find nothing of value. The girls had already pawned anything that could have been turned into brass.

Becky hobbled over. Never had Tem been gladder to see her friend’s small heart-shaped face with those pale eyebrows that were mere wisps above her knowing eyes. “Are you all right, Tem?” Becky asked. “Clary saw you go off with the officer. When you didn’t come back, we were worried. Did he hurt you?”

“Not a bit. I could handle him.”

Becky’s face lost some of its anxiety. “You didn’t manage to get a quid or two from him, did you? I know they took what you’d prigged when they bagged you, but Clary thought maybe the officer was sweet on you. He paid an awful lot to free you—more than he’d pay for a week at Mother Bristwick’s. We thought, when you didn’t come back, that maybe, you know—you’d come to an arrangement.”

“You know I won’t do that kind of thing for money.”

Becky’s shoulders sagged. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t betray your precious Randall.”

Temperance turned away to hide the shame that must be evident on her face. She’d come all too close to betraying him, and she didn’t even have the excuse that she’d done it for the money her friends needed so badly.

“Well, we can’t afford any more of your high principles,” Becky continued, relentlessly. “The Weaver’s man Snake came by. He says they’ve waited long enough for that money we owe for last month. The Weaver won’t protect us no more. That’s why none of his bruisers lifted a finger for you last night.”

“But how are we to pay him if we can’t steal?”

“Mother Bristwick’s,” Becky said through clenched teeth. “Like I said, you’d have done better to get the captain to take you under his protection.”

“Well, I didn’t. And it’s too late to change that now.”

“It’s too late to change a lot of things,” Becky said bitterly. “If only Randall hadn’t taken every penny we stole for him these past three years.”

“You know he needed it to pay for the conspiracy. Why do you have to bring that up as if he’d done something wrong? He died fighting for liberty.”

“Oh, yes. Liberty,” Becky said scornfully. “It came dear, didn’t it? No matter how much we brought him, he took it all and wanted more. He’d have sent us all to Mother Bristwick if it would have brought in more than the prigging lay.”

He wouldn’t. Randall had had even higher principles than her own. That had been what first attracted her to him.

But her friend’s angry tone drained her last bit of energy. She hadn’t expected it. Of all the girls in his gang, Becky was the only one who had offered her real friendship. The others had never quite accepted her, especially after Randall made it clear she was to be his favorite. But when another girl had made fun of Becky’s twisted spine, Temperance had stood up for her, and, in return, Becky had explained to her the meaning of the cant words the crew used and helped her change the way she spoke until every word out of her mouth didn’t remind them that she came from the ranks of the oppressors.

It had been Becky, too, who had hung the bell on an old coat, suspended it from the doorway, and shown her how to remove a handkerchief from its pocket without causing the bell to make the slightest sound. Her friend had kept at her, making her practice until she could draw a fogle or nim a ticker as well as any of them, even the ones who’d learned their trade as children.

She’d paid her back, of course. When Randall had died, Temperance could have moved on—there were other crews who would have welcomed her for her nimble fingers. But she’d stuck with Becky and tiny Clary, whom Becky had found half-beaten to death, knowing the other crews were unlikely to want to take them on. So why did Becky always have to be so waspish about the man who had brought them together? Running away from home with Randall had been the best thing Temperance had ever done. Instinctively, her hand flew to the locket that held his portrait.

It was gone.

The officer must have snapped the chain. It served her right. It was as if Randall himself had reached down from wherever he was now and had judged her no longer worthy of wearing it.

She stumbled over to the pile of broken furniture and pawed mechanically through the broken remains of their possessions. The pile made visible the failure she’d been trying so hard to ignore. She’d tried to keep the girls going with her dream that they would go to America and start new lives. But without Randall to push them, they hadn’t been able to steal enough even to keep themselves in the rookeries.

Randall might have been stern with them—too stern, at times, she’d sometimes thought. But his severity had ensured they’d brought home the money they needed. She’d been too kind, so now they were destitute, and she was completely at a loss to know what they should do next.

“Imagine that,” Trev’s mother announced the next morning, putting down her paper as he folded his tall frame into one of her dainty breakfast chairs. “Lady Pemberton has recovered her emeralds—the ones everyone thought the maid stole. It turns out her husband lost them at cards and kept it secret from her, and it was an astrologer who found them for her—that odd little woman Lord Hartwood wed last year. I say, I should rather like to have her read my fortune. Perhaps she can tell me when you will wed.”

“Why stop at that. Why not have her find me a wife and be done with it?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but it would be an excellent idea. Scorpios are always so difficult to find a match for, and so demanding. Perhaps she might have some insight into the kind of woman who could make you happy.”

Trev took a savage bite out of his toast. The previous night’s adventure had given him all too much insight into the kind of woman who could make him happy—for about five minutes. After that, it had been pure hell.

“If only I hadn’t gone into labor so early with you,” his mother continued. “Another three weeks, and you’d have been Sagittarius, and I’d have got my grandchildren already.”

Odd how she put credence in such a silly superstition. But so had the munshi he’d hired to teach him Sanskrit. The man had spent thousands of rupees on expensive jewels he believed could counteract the power of evil stars. It had always surprised him that so intelligent a man could fall for such nonsense.

“Which reminds me,” his mother said. “The Stapletons are coming to join us for nuncheon on Friday, Lady Gertrude and her second daughter, Amelia.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “You could do a lot worse than to marry Amelia. Lady Gertrude’s brother is General Swinford, and her uncle has much influence in Whitehall.”

“So by marrying her, I should ensure my promotion?” His head was throbbing after the past night’s overindulgence. The faint rays of the November sun that shone through the dimity curtains of the breakfast room seared into his brain as if they were the noontime beams of Poona.

“Of course.” She smiled complacently. “Though influence is all the match would have to recommend it. The girl has almost no portion. Still, she is a biddable young woman, and I should get along well with her when you returned to India.”

He sighed. “You make an excellent argument in her favor. Perhaps I should leave the whole affair in your hands. Inform me when you have come to a decision about whom you will have me wed, and I will pay my addresses directly.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Miles.”

“Sorry,” he said, glaring into his tea.

His mother changed tack. “I have been very patient, dear. But you know you must marry someone, and you must do it before you return to your regiment. When you disappeared before that battle at Poona, and I heard nary a word from you for six long months, I was beside myself with worry.”

He felt abashed at the concern for him that filled her eyes. “I had no wish to torment you, but you know I couldn’t let anyone know of my whereabouts.”

“I know that now. But I spent those months in a frenzy, and why shouldn’t I? That cursed entail on your father’s estate ensures I get nothing if you die without an heir.”

The room, already uncomfortably cold, grew more chilly. It had been the loss of her income she dreaded, not his death. Something sour rose in his throat. Last night’s wine did not go well with this morning’s toast.

But he fought to get his body back under control. His mother’s feelings were entirely natural since she barely knew him. Duty had forced her to join her husband in India, where his regiment was posted, and she could hardly have taken a child as young as he had been with her into so insalubrious a clime. Not if she were to give his father a living heir. Then, by the time he’d been old enough to join his father’s regiment, she’d returned here.

He forced himself to smile politely. “I already promised you I would marry before my leave is over, and I will. But there is still plenty of time. My leave extends until after the king’s coronation in July. I ask only that you give me a few more weeks to enjoy my leave before I take on such a heavy responsibility.”

“Most men would consider it a pleasure to wed.”

“Most men would.”

But most men would not have to leave their wives behind as soon as they got them with child, as he would have to do, unless he sold his commission. His parents’ experience had taught him the folly of trying to raise English children in India. He would be prudent, but he would not give up the regiment so he could stay in England with a wife. The army was his real family. He couldn’t imagine life without it.

He stood up. “In any event, I can’t attend your hen party on Friday. I’m already engaged for noon that day at Leadenhall Street.” It was a useful excuse, but true. One of Sir Charles’s contacts at the department had summoned him to East India Company headquarters, no doubt to extract some of the many bits of information he carried in his head that couldn’t be committed to paper. But also, he hoped, for something more. With luck, the department would have a spot of work for him.

He hoped so. The devil made work for idle hands—and other organs. And after last night’s adventure, he knew he couldn’t get busy fast enough.

Temperance was relieved to learn that Becky and Clary had managed to rescue what they could carry from the snug before the wreckers barred them from the building. At least they’d have that. She was about to open the sack into which the girls had stuffed her clothing and other belongings when, to her surprise, a coach clattered down the street and came to a halt beside her.

“Temperance Smith!” a hearty voice addressed her. It took her a moment to recognize the man attired in a coachman’s livery who’d called out to her. He’d been one of the clank nappers who worked for the Weaver, breaking into empty houses and stealing the silver.

“Jemmy! It’s been a dog’s years since I last saw you. What’s all this?” She gestured at his livery.

“It’s James now, not Jemmy. I’ve come up in the world. I’ve hired on as Lady Hartwood’s coachie.”

“Gone straight, have you?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Bowing and scraping to them. How could you?”

“Her Ladyship’s not too bad, and it’s good work, it is, all aboveboard, and the pay’s regular. I was getting too old to work the Weaver’s lay.”

“Then why’d you come back here? To show off your finery? It’s right pretty, but I’ve no time to admire you with this on my plate.” She gestured at the heap of shattered furniture.

“That’s why I’m here. Word reached Her Ladyship of how the wreckers was going to be leaving you girls with no place to live. She has a proposition to make you.”

A proposition. So his mistress was that kind of ladyship, a bawd. No surprise there. It was hard enough to imagine a real lady hiring the likes of Jem and harder still to think she would venture into a slum as notorious as this one.

“How’d this ladyship of yours hear about us?”

He had the grace to look abashed. “From me. She sent me out a-lookin’ for some girls for her new refuge.”

Her refuge, eh. Was that what they were calling bawdy kens now? It was a new one to her.

“James, is this one of the girls?” a female voice warbled from within the richly appointed carriage. As she inspected it more closely, Temperance questioned her original assumptions about its occupant, a small birdlike woman with ginger hair. No abbess would dare paint a noble crest like that on her door; nor would she be so stupid as to bring such an elegant equipage into a neighborhood like this.

Maybe she was a real lady—some do-good, perhaps, who liked to play Lady Bountiful and stretch out the heavy hand of charity in return for fawning displays of gratitude.

Jemmy made his way back to his mistress, who had dropped the carriage glass so they could whisper together. Then he beckoned Temperance over. If only she could get close enough to the woman to relieve the interfering busybody of her watch, it might provide the money she’d need to find the girls a new home.

She was called back to herself by the sound of Clary’s voice.

“Who’s that?”

“Our fairy godmother—or so our Jemmy says.” A surprisingly pretty one, though her cheeks were covered with freckles.

“So none of you have a place to rest your heads tonight?” Lady Hartwood asked through the open window.

“Mother Bristwick’s,” Becky answered. “Although there’s precious little resting goes on there at nighttime. Won’t get to sleep until cockcrow, if she’ll have us. But I heard she’s got more girls than she can use. Allus happens when the cold weather sets in.”

Temperance sighed. Even if she had been willing to lower herself that way, Mother Bristwick would be unlikely to take Becky on, not with her twisted spine. Her friend would have to go back to begging—which was what she’d been doing before Randall had taken her in.

“Was that what you’d planned?” Her Ladyship asked Temperance.

“Never! Only a flat would fall for that rig when there’s plenty of others to choose from.”

“Such as?”

Temperance shrugged. Lady Bountiful was becoming annoying. She wished she could get closer, relieve her of something valuable, and scamper. If she could just get her girls a stake, they could start anew and find the money that would take them all to America. She let her eyes drift down the woman’s form, searching for anything she might snatch.

“Pickpockets get caught,” Lady Hartwood said in a stern tone.

“Whores get the clap.” She thrust her chin upward. “It’s a nasty old world, ain’t it, Yer Ladyship?”

“It can be,” Lady Hartwood agreed calmly. “But it doesn’t have to be. Call your other friend over, the little one guarding your things. I have a proposal to make the three of you.”

Here it comes, she thought. At least she’d finally know what the woman’s racket was.

When Clary had joined Becky at the side of the coach, Lady Hartwood tented her hands together, and said, “I know something of what young women face, alone and unprotected on the street. You are unprotected, I take it?”

“I told you we wasn’t selling our mutton,” Temperance said. “Don’t have no flashmen, neither.”

“We protect each other,” Becky explained. “And we’re going to go to America, all of us, when we come up with the brass. If we can find it . . .” Her voice drifted off.

“Then here’s my offer,” Her Ladyship explained. “It has long been a dream of mine to found a Refuge for Unfortunate Females, and at last I find myself in a position to do so. I should like to invite the three of you to become my very first guests. I can offer you room and board, and some help in improving your prospects.”

“Will we have to pray all the time?” asked Clary, who’d seen more than her fair share of the insides of various charitable enterprises.

“None unless you wish to. My refuge is different from anything ever before attempted. It’s run on strict astrological principles.”

“Is astrology your religion?” Temperance asked.

“Not at all. It’s merely a tool, a very helpful one. I hope to use it to help you.”

“Help us do what?”

“Determine what you want from life and attain it.”

Clary piped up, “I want to marry a duke and wear diamonds and jewels every day, even at breakfast.”

Becky said, “I want to live in the country and have a whole stable full of horses.”

“That’s what you think you want,” Lady Hartwood said primly. “But once I see your horoscope, I’ll be able to see what would truly make you happy.”

Temperance interrupted. “What if our horoscopes tell you we’re evil and can find happiness only in sin?”

Lady Hartwood’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve never yet seen such a horoscope.”

Temperance shrugged. “There’s always a first time.”

But she’d wasted enough time jabbering. She wanted no part of Her Ladyship’s refuge, whatever its principles. “We need no reforming. Come along girls. We don’t have time to stand here jawing any longer.”

“Come on where?” Clary protested. “Her Ladyship’s offering us a place. It’s got to be better than Mother Bristwick’s.”

“It couldn’t be worse,” Becky said. “Really, Tem, where’s the harm in it? Food and heat, and Her Ladyship will even read us our fortunes. I say we do it.”

So much for their dreams of finding liberty! It was disgusting to see how easily her gang could be bought off.

Lady Bountiful smiled and opened the door of the carriage. “Climb in then, girls. There’s room for all.”

The younger girls scrambled in, leaving Temperance with no choice but to follow. She’d have to stick with them to keep them safe from whatever it was Her Ladyship really intended. She clambered in after Clary, regretting for once the efforts she’d made to keep her clothing clean. It would have been so gratifying had her gown been dirty enough to soil Her Ladyship’s pristine upholstery.

Once they were settled in the carriage, the benefactor called out to Jemmy to fetch the sacks in which their few belongings had been collected, and when they were safely stowed in the boot, they set off. As they did, Her Ladyship smiled that annoying smile of hers again, and, speaking softly, as if to herself, she murmured, “I knew it would be a perfect morning for a carriage ride. It’s always so when the Moon opposes Mercury.”

Chapter 4

When his head had finally stopped pounding, Trev went to call on Major Stanley. As he lifted the knocker at the New Street lodging, he steeled himself for the ribbing he knew the older man would administer when he learned of the sorry outcome of his encounter with the beautiful pickpocket. But Stanley was his friend, and it was worth putting up with any amount of ribbing to keep so valuable a friendship.

In the event, when he had issued his report, the major was gentle with him. “That’s the nature of the hunt, my boy. It’s a fair fight, and the prey may get away. I must admit, I envied you.”

“Ah, but you had the solace of Mother Bristwick’s incomparables.”

His friend gave a happy half smile. “I did indeed. But at a cost, my boy. At a cost. Unless I get lucky at the tables, it will be a lonely bachelor existence for me until payday. Of course”—his friend’s voice rose—“there’s always the masquerade.”

“Surely you don’t incline toward fancy dress.”

“Ah, but it is not the dress that draws me there but the prospect of undress. The women you’ll find there, Trev.” Stanley sketched an hourglass figure in the air with his hands. “Trollops on the make rubbing elbows with young gentlewomen married to rich old men, all of them bent on finding illicit connections. If you can’t find a woman to suit you there, there’s no hope for you. It’s a Bartholomew fair wherein are displayed our fairest temptresses.”

“How can you judge if they’re fair or not when their faces are obscured by masks?”

“It isn’t their faces you go there for.” The major laughed. “Their bodies are displayed clear enough, and best of all, if you play your cards right, you won’t have to pay for your pleasure. Did I tell you about that Italian woman I met at that masquerade in Calcutta?” He launched into a long and scurrilous tale Trev had indeed heard—several times. But he allowed his friend to tell it again as it gave the major pleasure to do so. And because his words had given him an intoxicating idea.

The girls had meat for their dinner, tender lamb chops, fresh from the butcher, and meat for their breakfast, too. The fat dripped down their chins as they stuffed themselves to the point of bursting, eating as fast as they could lest the food be snatched from them. Temperance would have preferred not to give Her Ladyship this evidence of how welcome her succor had been, but she couldn’t stop herself. The pleasure of filling her belly was irresistible.

Besides, it was only prudent to take advantage of this windfall. She’d be back on the street as soon as she figured out Her Ladyship’s dodge, and after that it would be a long time until she’d see this kind of fare again. Regret shot through her at that thought, swiftly followed by shame.

The poor lived on weevily bread and rancid sausage all their lives. Only the rich ate fat, streaky bacon like this. Eating poor victuals was part of the price she’d been willing to pay for her freedom, and she’d pay it again. But for now, she had no choice but to abandon herself to decadence. She wolfed down her portion, and when a maid quietly refilled her plate, she gobbled that serving up, too.

After the servants had whisked away their dirty dishes, the girls were put into the custody of Matron, a middle-aged woman with a kindly, but far from stupid, face, who arrived with a retinue of footmen bearing steaming vats of hot water. She combed the nits out of their hair and made them scrub themselves until they were pink and burning. As she soaped herself with an extravagant cake of scented soap, Temperance fought against enjoying it too much. She’d be of no use to the poor if she fell back into the blind self-indulgence of the wealthy, from which Randall had rescued her.

Then Matron gave each of the girls not one, but two serviceable new gowns. Clary and Becky were barely able to control themselves as they modeled their new finery to each other, squealing like piglets fresh from nursing. But this gift left Temperance unmoved. She’d found little happiness when she’d been dressed like a doll in the rich gowns her father had given her, for he hadn’t been able to see who she really was beneath the costly fabrics.

But she accepted them anyway, knowing they would give her something to pawn that would pay for the Weaver’s protection, as soon as she managed to get the girls out of here. If she could do it. Their dedication to the cause of liberty had never been as strong as hers, and when Matron left the girls to their own devices in a pretty parlor furnished with the latest novels and beautifully bound folio albums of prints, it struck her that it might be more difficult than she had thought to set them back on the path she’d chosen for them.

Late that afternoon, their benefactress arrived to check on their progress. No sooner had she settled herself than Temperance cut through the pleasantries with which she greeted them, and demanded, as rudely as possible, “So, what are your rules?”

There were always rules. And whatever they were, she would break them.

“Rules?” Lady Hartwood repeated, cocking her head like a little bird and resting her chin on her hands, looking for all the world as if she had not hitherto considered such a topic. “Why, just the obvious. While you are under my protection, you must live within the law. There are those who would like to see the Refuge fail. If you behave like criminals, you’ll give them the pretext they need to shut it down.”

It was heartening to learn that the fledgling Refuge had its enemies.

“No stealing and no drunkenness,” Her Ladyship continued. “And I must ask you, also, not to entertain men within the walls of the Refuge. Such behavior is too easily misinterpreted. Beyond that, though, your private lives are your own affair.”

This was too easy. There had to be more. But at least Temperance knew now what she had to do to get herself kicked out.

After that, Lady Hartwood extracted from each of the girls the details of her birth, scribbling the information in a small notebook, and took her leave.

A few hours later, Lady Hartwood had called Becky into her office for a long confabulation. Temperance wondered if she’d pumped her friend for information about the rest of them. But whatever she’d said, it made Becky surprisingly reluctant to meet her eye, and as the day unfolded, a troubled look had flitted over the girl’s thin features more than once. She must keep a close eye on Becky to make sure Lady Hartwood’s meddling didn’t make her situation even worse than it already was.

The next day, Clary had been the recipient of Her Ladyship’s counsel. She, too, emerged from the chamber where Her Ladyship held court in a somber mood. Perhaps she really had expected to marry a duke. She wasn’t terribly bright. All Temperance could get out of her was that Her Ladyship had promised her instruction in playing upon the pianoforte, which seemed an odd way to prepare the girl for her future.

It was only on the third day of their residence at the Refuge that Lady Hartwood finally summoned Temperance into her office. By now, their benefactress had been given ample opportunity to learn all she needed to know about Temperance’s character, both from direct observation and from questioning the other girls when she’d got them alone to tell their fortunes. So, as she entered her benefactress’s office, Temperance prepared to enjoy an entertaining session. The birth date she had given Her Ladyship was accurate—it just wasn’t her own. She couldn’t wait to hear Her Ladyship reveal herself to be a fraud.

She found Lady Hartwood seated in front of a small desk heaped with papers, books, and a tall pile of leaflets that proved on closer inspection to be almanacs of the kind used by farmers to choose the best time for planting. Some of her papers contained large circle divided into sections filled with numbers and symbols. These must be her horoscopes. They looked quite convincing, but it must be a hum. How could anyone know about another person’s character from nothing more than the hour of their birth?

She settled down for an entertaining session. Her Ladyship would soon find she had met her match.

But no sooner had she taken a seat than Lady Hartwood said, “Yours is an interesting nativity, but it puzzles me. For according to everything I’ve learned of the astrologer’s art, the person it describes should have died when she was three, and you are most definitely alive.” She favored Temperance with a steadfast gaze.

Temperance gasped. Could this woman really have found that out from a birth date?

“I’m not a fool, Temperance.” Lady Hartwood’s usually mild look had been replaced by one of great sternness. “Whose birth information did you give me, here?”

“My older sister’s.”

“And is she dead?”

She nodded. She’d died at three, a stainless angel against whose perfections her father had always compared Temperance’s more sinful nature.

Lady Hartwood put down the horoscope she had been holding. “You were testing me, weren’t you?”

Temperance bit her lip but said nothing.

“The whole pattern of your behavior suggests you must have been born when the Sun was in Scorpio, for those born under Scorpio’s influence are the most secretive of all the signs. They see every human interaction in terms of exerting power and resist giving away anything that might give another person power over them. They can’t help it. That is their nature, and it is exactly the way they are supposed to be, but it does make it exceedingly difficult to help them.” She put down the chart. “Were you, in fact, born in late October or November?”

Temperance felt a chill as the small woman fixed her with a gaze of unexpected intensity.

She was a Scorpio, and it was true she had no desire to have people know any more about her than they had to. But if Lady Hartwood really could read a person’s character from her charts, after one glance at Temperance’s real one, she’d know that lying was the least of the sins she was capable of. She considered giving her more false information, but why bother? Besides, when it was possible, she much preferred to tell the truth.

“I was born on the six and twentieth day of October in the year ’02,” she said. “At two in the afternoon. So now you can use that to get power over me, good luck to you. ”

“I have no wish to do so. My Sagittarian nature delights in instructing others, not controlling them.”

“Well, you’ve certainly instructed my friends to where they barely give me the time of day.”

“I see,” Lady Hartwood said. “What you perceive as their disloyalty must disturb you, for loyalty is what Scorpios value most. But your friends can be loyal to you without giving up the power of deciding their own futures.”

“They would have been happy enough in America if I could only have found us the means to get there.”

“Then perhaps they might be happy there still. But it would be best, even in America, if they might learn how to maintain themselves without breaking the law. Could you offer them that?”

Temperance did not deign to respond.

“And it would help you to do the same.” Her Ladyship put down her pen. “You have a decision to make, Temperance. There’s no point in your staying here at the Refuge if you won’t take advantage of the help we offer. There are too many other girls who might benefit if they had your place. I will let you stay here a few more days while you make up your mind. But after that, unless you are willing to give me a chance to help you, as much as I might regret it, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Now that it was only a matter of days until Lady Hartwood turfed her out, Temperance had no alternative but to head back to the old neighborhood to find some way to maintain herself when she was back on her own. She’d forgotten how quickly the smells changed as you left behind the cool white mansions of the rich. Had there always been so many dead cats in the gutters? Had the stench of rotting cabbage always been so strong? She fought against the nausea that rose in response to the filth, thoroughly disgusted with herself.

She’d been away for only three short days, and already she was turning back into a spoiled miss. If she didn’t watch it, she’d end up as soft as she’d been when she’d first come to London. How Randall had laughed at her ladylike airs and her almost insurmountable horror of dirt. Well, she’d soon have a chance to toughen up. She’d be back on these streets soon enough.

She made a beeline for Danny the sweeper, whom she found at the corner he’d made his own. She’d saved him a big chunk of meat and some thick rolls from the rich meals served at the Refuge. Even when surrounded by so much indulgence, she hadn’t forgotten who her true friends were. After she handed him the food, she asked him what he’d heard. Was the watch looking for her? Had the shoemaker lodged a complaint?

“Not that I’ve heard,” he said, leaning on his broom. “Though I did hear tell Mother B was fuming when she heard you’d found another protector. She thought for sure that when they tore down the snug, you’d have to go in with her. But I knew all along, you were too fly for that.”

“Damn right.”

“But there is a gentleman as is looking for you, Tem.”

She froze. “What’s he look like?” Was he a tall man dressed in cavalryman’s blue, with a scar above his lip—that scar she kept seeing in her dreams?

“He was a short cove with ginger hair. Didn’t give no name or nuth’n. Might have been a gentleman’s servant. Hard to say.”

Not him. She cursed herself for the disappointment that swept over her.

“The cove said as how his master’s got something for you.”

Her locket? Again, that disturbing lift of the heart. But there were any number of other men who might want to see her again. Men were always after her. And as to what this one might have for her, it might just be a bob or two—if she would go back to his lodgings with him.

“Was it anyone you knew?”

“Never saw him before. But he gave me a shilling. That made me remember him, it did. Told me there’d be another if I told you something else.”

“What’s that?”

“The gentleman wot’s lookin’ for you—he’ll be at the masquerade at the Opera House, Thursday at midnight. Show up and he’ll give you wot you lost.”

Her heartbeat quickened. It was the officer, and he had found her locket. It would be so good to get it back, so she could look upon Randall’s face once more. But, of course, the man was using it as a lure. He wanted another go at her. Which wouldn’t have been a problem except that she couldn’t trust herself not to want the same thing, too.

Would it be safe to meet him at the masquerade? She’d been there many a time. Good pickings there for someone with well-trained fingers. The smell of lust in the air there was so strong, it made people careless. But it might make her careless, too. And she must not underestimate how she might respond if she met him there. She’d not been able to shake off the craving the captain had aroused to find out what else he could make her body do, and in the heady atmosphere of the masquerade, it would be all too easy to betray Randall again.

“There’s something else,” Danny added. “Snake’s looking for you.”

The hairs rose on her arm. She wanted nothing to do with the Weaver’s message boy.

“He put the word out he might have a job for you. But you won’t be needin’ him now that you’ve gone off to live with the nobs.”

“You heard about that?”

“Everyone did. Snaggletooth saw you go off in the big carriage with the girls. You getting reformed, Tem?”

“Not likely.”

“Din’t think so. But it would be nice to spend the winter indoors,” he said wistfully. “Do Her Ladyship want to reform anyone else?”

A stab of guilt shot through her. Danny’s old coat was so ragged even the used-clothes man couldn’t have sold it. Even now, she still had so much more than the people she’d dedicated herself to serve. But she could do no more for him now.

“She only takes girls, mate,” she said brusquely. “And I’m out of there in a few days, too.” Then she thanked him for the information and, with much to ponder, turned her steps back toward the Refuge.

By the time Trev presented himself at East India Company headquarters in Leadenhall Street the following day for his appointment with the under secretary, he had begun to regret that he had given in to the temptation Major Stanley had planted in his mind and taken steps to summon the pickpocket. But his man had already delivered his message to the crossing boy, and there was no way to undo it.

Though, of course, he need not continue on the dangerous course he had begun. He hoped the department would offer him some task that would provide him something better to do than engage in such unwise behavior. It was one thing to take risks in the service of his country, quite another to take them, as he had with the pickpocket, out of idleness or vice.

When they were alone, Mr. Fanshawe began, “How good it is to meet you at last, Captain. Sir Charles has often sung your praises in his dispatches.”

The under secretary was a jowly, bespectacled man about fifty years of age with thinning hair, whose voice had that unctuous tone that seemed to be universal among men who worked out of luxurious offices.

He continued, “We at John Company would be in sorry shape were it not for the work he does for us at the Secret and Political Department. I hope I’m not being too forward in calling upon you so early in your leave, but it was to discuss that work I summoned you here. Sir Charles intimated you would not be averse to taking on an errand or two for us while you were home. Is that, indeed, the case?”

“Very much so,” Trev assured him. “I am a man of action, and much as I value my leave, I find it hard to while away the time with so little to do.”

“Very good then. As it happens, I have here an invitation for you to visit Sir Humphrey Diggett next month at his estate in Surrey.”

“The Mad Nabob?”

“The very same. He’s acquired an obscure Vedic manuscript and requests we send him someone who has the skills needed to interpret it. Word of your mastery of Sanskrit has reached us even here, so you were the obvious man to send him. Does that interest you?”

“It does.” Who could resist a chance to visit the notorious estate, Srinagar Mahal, that Sir Humphrey had constructed on his acreage in Surrey with the millions he’d looted from the subcontinent. Even in the company mess, he’d heard tell of how the nabob had imported tigers and monkeys at ruinous expense, and—it was rumored—several beautiful nautch girls, too.

And Trev’s Sanskrit was indeed excellent. His munshi had taught him not only the modern languages, Hindustani and Maratha, but also the Sanskrit in which the ancient Hindu scriptures were written. But still, he felt a tinge of disappointment. When he’d received the letter hinting that the department had a job for him, he’d expected something more challenging than deciphering ancient scripture.

He was just preparing to leave when Fanshawe raised his hand in a gesture that bid him sit. “There’s one last thing, Captain Trevelyan. In the course of your visit, Sir Humphrey will be entrusting you with a valuable jewel.”

“A jewel?”

“Yes. The Jewel of Vadha. Sir Charles tells me I can rely entirely on your discretion.”

His disappointment had been premature. This would be, after all, exactly the kind of errand he’d learned to expect when working for Sir Charles.

Fanshawe went on. “Centuries ago, the jewel was stolen from an Indian prince, the Nawab of Bundilore. More recently, it made its way into the custody of our Sir Humphrey who, unfortunately, bragged of his acquisition in a way that brought it to the attention of the current Nawab, who now insists we return it to him. We’ve offered him other jewels far more valuable, but he wants the Jewel of Vadha and no other. Apparently, its value to him rests in some mystical property.”

The under secretary removed his spectacles and looked for the first time into Trev’s eyes. “He’s willing to go to war for it. A war that would prove costly not only for our troops but for those of our native allies who have already been called on to make extraordinary sacrifices. You of all people can understand why we cannot allow that to happen.”

He could. But he felt a qualm. Fanshawe was letting him know that he was aware of what had happened to the sepoys’ wives—and of the effect that catastrophe had had on Trev. Nor did he scruple to use that knowledge to ensure Trev would go along with his plans. How nasty would this “errand” turn out to be?

Choosing his words carefully, Trev asked, “Am I to extract this jewel from the possession of an unwilling owner?”

Fanshawe allowed himself to display a look of shock. “Certainly not. Sir Humphrey knows his duty. Your task will merely be to keep it safe after he hands it over.”

“That sounds straightforward enough.”

“It is. Though I must caution you, there is another party who would like to get his hands on it—and who wants it badly enough he would be willing to employ the most despicable methods to get it. It will be your responsibility to ensure that he does not.”

“I shall see to it.”

“Good.” Fanshawe stood to let him know the interview was over “You may expect to hear from me by the end of next week, when we will have made the arrangements for your visit. If you have any important business matters to attend to while on leave, I’d suggest you take care of them before then.”

“Will my duties in regard to this matter extend beyond the visit to Sir Humphrey’s?”

“Probably not, but it never hurts to take precautions. You know how these departmental matters can be.”

He did.

Mr. Fanshawe replaced his spectacles on his nose, rose, stuck out his hand, and exchanged a firm handshake with Trev. “Sir Charles spoke so well of you, I’m glad we shall have a chance to see you in action.”

“It will be good to be in harness once again.” He bowed politely and made his way to the door.

“Isn’t it summat how Lady Hartwood can see so much in those charts of hers?” Becky said, as Temperance, newly returned from her visit with the crossing boy, passed through the sunny parlor where the girls spent their afternoons. Lady Hartwood had already arranged for a music teacher to visit, and Clary was in the next room, working with him to learn her first scale.

“The underparlormaid tells me they call her Lady Lightning,” Becky continued, raising her wispy brows. “Rather fits her, don’t you think? Did she tell you aught when she read your fortune?”

“They may call her what they will. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

“No?” Becky looked disappointed. “I was so hoping she would. Did she tell you anything about Randall?”

“No. Why should she?”

Becky shrugged. “Just wondering. But that reminds me. When I was going through our things, right before the wreckers came, I found a paper I thought you might want to have a look at.”

“A paper? Where?” Her heart stopped. Was it the long-lost letter she knew Randall must have left her before he set out on his last, fatal quest?

“In that heavy box you had hidden in the corner.”

“That was Randall’s box. You knew no one was to touch it.”

“Well, I couldn’t carry that bugger of a box out of our crib on my own, and the wreckers were already there and giving us only a few minutes to collect our things. I thought there might be valuables left in it—it was Randall’s, after all, and we gave him every groat we knapped and never saw it again, did we? If he’d hidden some of our takings in the box, you wouldn’t have wanted me to leave that to the scavengers?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she agreed, backing off her sharp tone. “And I’m more than grateful to you for rescuing what you could. But I’d already been through that box, and if I’d found anything, I’d have long ago pawned it for the money we need. You know that was what Randall taught us—anything of value any of us had was to be shared for the use of all.”

“Yes. That was what he taught,” Becky said, with heavy irony. “But whether he followed his own teaching . . .” Her voice drifted off. “Well, let me show you what I found.” She made her lurching way slowly up the stairs and returned a few moments later holding a single sheet of paper.

Temperance snatched it from her. The sheet was creased in a way that suggested it had been folded very small. That must be why she hadn’t noticed it when she had gone through the trunk before. But though the note was written in Randall’s hand, it wasn’t the longed-for letter of farewell. It was nothing more than a list of names: Miss Susan Atwater. Lady Lucy. The Sea Nymph. Each was followed by a date, every one within a few weeks of Randall’s death in the conspiracy.

“What do you think it means?” Becky asked softly.

She couldn’t begin to guess. Were these the coded names of other conspirators? The nicknames of the fences who bought the things the girls stole to finance Randall’s work? Perhaps, but some evil demon whispered they were the nicknames of other women. The ones he had assured her he hadn’t had that night before he went off to his death. She thrust the paper into her pocket, fighting not to feel the all-too-familiar bite of jealousy.

“It’s nothing of importance. But thanks for showing it to me, anyway.”

Her hand flew to her locket, the pledge Randall had given her of his love, as it always did when she felt herself assailed by doubt. But, of course, it was gone. Bloody hell. If only she could have gazed upon Randall’s face once more. That would have driven off her doubts and reminded her of how much he had loved her. Without the locket, it was so hard to keep faith. Perhaps she would have to risk going to the masquerade to get it back, after all.

Chapter 5

After his interview with Mr. Fanshawe, Trev flirted again with the idea of giving up his scheme of attending the masquerade. Now that he was taking on another mission to serve King and Country with the talents that had made him so useful to Sir Charles, it would not be wise to give in to his attraction to a woman of the criminal classes. It had been boredom that had fed his passion for the pickpocket, boredom he need no longer fear now that the department had work for him.

But no sooner had he resolved to give up all thought of finding her again than it struck him that if the hint the under secretary had given him about tidying his affairs meant what he thought it did, his return to India might come sooner than expected. If that were so, he would have to turn all too soon to finding the gently raised bride he’d promised his mother. So while he was still free, why not attend the masquerade? If the pickpocket didn’t show up, he would find others there who could scratch the itch she’d roused in him.

Which was why he found himself at midnight Thursday at the edge of the large assembly room at the Opera House, searching for the pickpocket’s slim form among the costumed revelers who stepped their way through the figures of the quadrille.

He could no longer fool himself that he didn’t care whether she appeared or not. He cared too much. But even if she had responded to his summons, how would he find her among the hundreds who crowded the floor?

It was true, as Major Stanley had suggested, that nowhere else in England did the classes mix with such careless abandon as they did here. With their features hidden behind thin silk masks, the more reckless members of Society could mix freely with the more presentable denizens of the London underworld. But it was their anonymity that made such promiscuity possible. So if Temperance was here, her face, too, would also be hidden behind a mask or a figure-concealing domino. How, then, was he to find her among the hundreds of women who filled the ballroom?

He’d done what he could to signal his identity to her by wearing the garb of a sultan. It had been an easy costume to assemble from his belongings, and, of course, it alluded to that brief conversation they had shared before they had moved past words. But now, as he mingled with the crowd, he felt faintly ridiculous.

What costume had she chosen? As the dancers swept by, he eliminated the shepherdesses and milkmaids. Temperance wouldn’t choose so pedestrian a disguise. Nor was she likely to display her charms as flagrantly as those Bacchae, dressed in transparent muslin drapes, whose well-rouged lips suggested they were professionals.

Perhaps she was hanging back in the shadows, looking for him among the dancers. If so, he must make it easier for her to find him. He made his way toward two women dressed as nuns whose posture told him they were open to solicitation for a dance, and possibly more.

As he did, he brushed against a young man dressed as a highwayman who stood in earnest conversation with a tigress. When Trev jostled against him, the youth bristled, and his body language made Trev instinctively reach for the pommel of his sword, only to remember that since he was out of uniform, he’d left it behind.

Backing away, Trev muttered an apology and asked one of the nuns for a dance. She offered him the tips of her mittened fingers and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor, where he danced with energy, wanting to put on a good show in case his Scheherazade was watching. His partner matched him step for step, and when the figure brought them together, he exchanged polite trifles with her, hearing in her voice the tones that suggested breeding. When their hands met, her touch hinted subtly at an invitation that might have intrigued him had he not come determined to find another woman.

But he had, and with every measure of the dance, his desire to find her grew—along with his conviction that he wouldn’t. No woman in the crowd had her regal carriage or her graceful neck, nor did any of them betray the tiny mole at the junction of neck and shoulder he remembered from that moment of heightened perception in the alleyway. Perhaps it was hidden by veil. More likely, she hadn’t come.

As the all-too-familiar pang of disappointment radiated through him, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself. How like him to find himself surrounded by acquiescent women and yearn only for the one he couldn’t have.

When the dance was over, he led his nun back to where he had found her and took his leave with a faint bow calculated to make it clear he had no further interest in her. Then, feeling a need for refreshment, he turned toward the farther end of the ballroom, where a table of dainties had been set out for the dancers.

The youth dressed as a highwayman was headed that way, too, pushing through the crowd of men intent on filling their glasses with the cheap wine included in the price of admission. He moved with a sinuous grace that put Trev on the alert. This was how he felt when he was on reconnaissance, just a few moments before he became aware of an actual threat.

He wondered what had awakened his instincts, then he got his answer. The highwayman’s hand moved with an economy of motion that would have escaped Trev’s notice had he not been on high alert, but he was, so he saw how it darted toward the back pocket of a heavyset man dressed in a judge’s robes and extracted a lacy pocket handkerchief, which disappeared instantaneously into the youth’s own pocket.

Trev glided toward him, taking care to stay behind him and change direction now and then so that, to an onlooker, he would appear to be moving randomly. He was starting to enjoy himself. He’d missed the feeling that possessed him now as he used his mind and body to do what he did so well. And as he observed the youth employing his carefully honed skills, his excitement grew. His own skills were better.

The youth’s hand brushed against the coat of a man encumbered with the oversized lancet that proclaimed him a quack doctor. He’d tried to make it look like an accident. But he’d failed. Trev’s hand shot out and grasped the youth’s wrist. His quarry whipped around, vainly trying to hide the glittering object in his hand. Behind his mask, his eyes were wide with emotion.

“Put it back,” Trev said.

The youth’s lips clamped down hard. “Don’t know whatcher on about, Guv,” he rasped, in an unconvincing imitation of a Cockney accent.

“I saved you once. I won’t do it again.”

A deep flush rose along the swanlike neck. His instincts had been correct. And there was that mole, clearly visible at the opening of the highwayman’s ruffled shirt.

“I must thank you for making it easy to find you. I was at a loss as to how I’d do it in this crush. But now that we have met, you can put back the gentleman’s watch. And the other man’s handkerchief.”

Her eyes were the color of thunderheads just before a storm. They locked onto his, probing him, sending a jolt of desire through his loins. After a drawn-out pause, her hand went limp. She knew he wasn’t fooling.

In a low whisper, he said, “When you’ve restored your takings to their owners, meet me over there—by that alcove.”

“And if I won’t?”

“Then I keep your locket.”

She bit her lip. It reddened, further stimulating his desire. He could see the thoughts go through her mind as she calculated the possibilities open to her.

At length, she said, “Let me go, then. Can’t do nothing ’til you do.”

He released her wrist and stepped back though he kept her in view in case she intended to run away again. It would be harder for her to replace the stolen goods than it had been to extract them, but he’d seen enough to trust she had the skills.

To give her cover, he made a show of extracting a long pipe from one pocket and waved it around in what a Londoner might think was an oriental fashion. It would give anyone watching something to divert their attention. He didn’t like sending her to do something so dangerous, but he had no choice. He must show her who would be in command this time, and make it clear to her—and himself—that he wasn’t going to be making a habit of aiding her in crime.

After a decent interval, he headed to the alcove. After a longer wait, she followed him in. He wished he wasn’t so delighted at finding her again. The point of this interview was to rid himself of his obsession. But he couldn’t stop his heartbeat from quickening. He would have her to himself, even if for only the length of another dance.

“You’re losing your touch.”

Temperance flinched at the unmistakable tone of triumph in the officer’s voice.

Except he no longer was an officer. He wore the luxurious garb of a sultan. Folds of rich silk the color of lapis lazuli drifted over the rigid musculature of his chest, deepening even further the blue of his mocking eyes. The blood red jewel in his turban—could it be real?—sparkled with inner fire as the light from the candles overhead glanced off it, though not as brightly as did his eyes. They burned with a disturbing brilliance above his silken mask.

“You hold your life cheap,” he said.

“I don’t.”

“Then why keep doing something so risky?”

His question might have irked her except he asked from curiosity, not reproach. She shrugged. “Why do you ride into battle? But I put it all back.”

“Why?”

“Why d’you think? I want my locket.”

His gaze remained inscrutable. “Good.”

His eyes were the color of the sky of a moonlit midnight, and they stared into hers. She wondered what he’d make her do before he’d give it back. She hadn’t expected it to be easy. She’d have to give him something. She’d known that when she’d made up her mind to go to the masquerade.

But she’d forgotten how disturbing he was. She’d thought she’d be safe meeting him in a public place, trusting that the presence of the crowd would limit what he could do to her. The managers of the masquerade were tolerant of lust but not of rape. But it wasn’t rape she feared now but seduction, and no one would raise a hand to stop that here—it was the whole purpose of the masquerade.

Now that she found herself closeted with him again, the power that emanated from him seemed to fill the small space between them, stronger than the intoxicating scent of oriental spice that rose from his garments. It dwarfed the flutter of yearning in her belly, so like that of a moth drawn to a flame and just as likely to prove fatal.

“Take off that ridiculous mask,” he commanded, tearing off his own.

She’d forgotten how brutal his cheekbones were and how alluring his lips despite the white scar that slashed through his smile. If what he wanted in exchange for the locket was what he’d wanted in the alleyway, it would be no punishment to give it to him.

His soft silk shirt hung open at the neck, revealing a thick tuft of silky black hair. Making love with him would be like embracing an otter. He was so sleek and confident. Something within her wanted to swim up to meet him. She fought it.

She was nothing to him. A woman to be used and discarded. She was here only to retrieve her locket. Recalled to her task, she used a trick she knew men found so stimulating, letting her tongue slide over her upper lip, then slowly withdrawing it into the shelter of her mouth.

When she knew she had his attention, she raised one hand to her mask and slowly slipped it off. Very slowly, to make him think of other things being slipped off, other parts of her body being revealed. She tossed the mask at him when it was free. He caught it and let it dangle, not taking his eyes off her.

“I’m in your debt once more,” she said with a laugh. “You profit again from my crime.”

“You were in my debt already,” he said in a mocking tone. “But I’ve already learned how you pay your debts.”

She dropped her eyes as if admitting wrongdoing, then, with her head still bent, she looked up at him again. “You frightened me.”

“With the intensity of my passion?” His question held no tinge of irony. He was awaiting her answer, his whole body alert.

“Does it often frighten women?”

“Other women don’t matter. Only you. I want your answer.”

He stood stock-still, awaiting her reply, as stationary as a pointer scenting prey.

She gave in. “No. It wasn’t your passion that frightened me.”

“Then what did?”

“My own. My heart is given to another.”

His eyes betrayed no hint of how that struck him. “The man whose portrait is in the locket?”

“Yes.”

“Would he beat you if he found you with me?”

“No.”

“Shoot me?”

She shook her head.”

“He’s a fool then. Were you mine, I’d call out any man who kissed you as I did that night.”

“The man is dead. Only his ghost could be jealous. He doesn’t care now what I do with my body.”

He flinched. When he spoke again, his tone had lost its edge. He said, “I see.” And she had the sudden sense that he did see. Far too much. She had never before been stripped naked like this—not just her body but her innermost self, as if he sensed her feelings, all of them, even the most disturbing.

“I’d been with him for more than two years when he died,” she said, answering his unasked question. “And I’ll never give my heart to another. Never.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good?”

“I don’t want your heart.”

Something dropped out of the bottom of her stomach. “What do you want?” she whispered.

His indigo eyes met hers, frank and hiding nothing, though she had not the courage to explore them. She dropped her gaze.

“A woman whose passions are strong enough to meet mine,” he said. “A woman who doesn’t need me but who wants me. For a little while. A very little while.”

“A night?” What was she negotiating?

“Perhaps, or a week. At most a month. I can offer nothing more. I’m to be married this summer, and I won’t shame my wife by breaking my vows.”

She sneered. “How noble of you to offer me your body when you’ve already given your heart to your chosen bride.”

“I have chosen no bride,” he said. “Nor do I look forward to doing so. I marry to fulfill my obligations to my family, and have no more wish to give my heart to a bride than I do to you. But whoever she turns out to be, you may take comfort from knowing she is not likely to please me nearly as much as you could.”

She had never heard a man speak this way. They all promised her more—far more—though they were always lying.

This man wasn’t lying. Strange as his words were, he spoke the truth. His voice dropped, and he raised his forefinger to his ruined mouth, stroking the edge of the scar. His tongue flicked out, echoing her earlier seductive gesture.

“But it needn’t be you,” he said dismissively. “Indeed, it’s perhaps best if it isn’t you. Your lack of self-control doesn’t bode well.”

Her lack of self-control? She prided herself upon it. She opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself. Don’t let him see that he’d struck a nerve. He already had far too much power over her.

“The handkerchief,” he reminded her. “And the watch.”

“I chose to take them for a good reason. I could stop if I wanted.”

“I wonder if you could. It would make all the difference.”

In what? What did this man want from her? Why did he make her feel as if she’d been thrown into the sea and was struggling to keep her head above the water?

“It’s no concern of yours what I choose to do,” she said. “I came only to retrieve the locket. It’s the only thing I have to remind me of my beloved.”

“What would you give me for restoring it to you?”

How little would he settle for? “A kiss?”

“Now?” He drew closer, enveloping her in the spicy scent of his costume and the subtle musk of his body. Then he glanced down at her breeches, letting his glance linger just a bit too long on her crotch.

“You’re dressed as a boy,” he said.

“Does that disturb you?”

“Was it supposed to?” His eyebrows rose. “Would it excite you more if it did?”

His question startled her. She had dressed as a boy for safety, to keep from being recognized if the Watch was still hunting for her—and to make it harder for him to discover her. She had wanted to be in control of the situation when she revealed herself to him. But had that been all there was to it?

Had she also chosen the boy’s outfit to excite him with its hint of perversity? Her hand tightened into a fist, despite herself. She had known what he would want of her and that her choice of disguise would make it more exciting.

Mercifully, he did not press her for an answer but merely gave his own. “Transgression may add something to the strength of a man’s passion—a certain kind of man’s. But I need no pepper to stimulate me. And I know full well you are a woman.”

“These others don’t.” She gestured toward the crowd. “It’s a crime for a man to embrace a boy.”

“It’s a crime to pick pockets,” he said. “And it would be a crime, too, not to kiss you.”

In the bright glow of the candles she was even more beautiful than he remembered. His hope that confronting her again would free him of his desire for her had been a dangerous delusion. Her skin was flawless, her lips so red, her tongue so pink. But it was her eyes, so defiant and tempting, that made her irresistible. There were women all around him with stronger curves and larger breasts, but the complexity of her nature—her mix of perverseness, honesty, and alertness—that he would find nowhere else.

She was daring him now. She had taken a step closer, her lips parted. Her small, even teeth were sparkling white, and the moisture on her mouth’s inner surface was exceptionally alluring. She knew exactly how much he wanted her, aware, as only a beautiful woman could be, of the power of her beauty and, as only an experienced woman could be, of the tricks that might inflame him.

But to give in to her blatant seduction would be to lose her. He must make her want him as much as he wanted her before he could take what she was pretending to offer. He must hold back and fan the faint spark of need he had aroused in her until it flared into a flame. He must not let himself be seduced but tease and tempt her. He must play the same game she played with him better than she played it—though she played it so very skillfully.

He bent over her lips to deliver his answer to their invitation, allowing himself to take a single kiss. As their tongues met, he inhaled the scent of oranges. He clasped her in his arms. Her small firm breasts flattened as he crushed them against the thin silk of his Mughal shirt. With his other arm, he reached down to grasp her rump, so scandalously clothed in a man’s breeches. She thrust her hips against him to excite him further. And yet, for all that she was employing seductive wiles, she was not unmoved herself. She had meant to stay in control, but the hunger he was arousing in her confused her.

Good.

Brutally, he terminated the kiss and pushed her away. She gasped, her breathing coming harsh and fast.

“We are in character, are we not?” he taunted her. “The love of the potentates of the East for beautiful boys is well known. But I tire of the masquerade.”

At the coldness in his voice, she flinched. She’d thought it would be easy to master him again, but it was dawning on her that he wasn’t as gullible as she’d hoped. This time, he wouldn’t let her play on his lust as she had in their first meeting. He gave her a moment to contemplate her failure.

She rebounded quickly. “Give me the locket,” she said. “You know what it means to me. A man of honor would return it to me out of respect for that.”

“Why should I defend my honor to you, a thief, and a woman who kisses strange men—though most deliciously?”

Her shoulders sagged. He’d won this round. Relenting, he added, “But I will give you your locket back.”

She held out her hand, in a gesture surprisingly childlike, as if she were waiting for a sweet. She looked so obscenely young in that instant, he couldn’t help but ask, “Were you telling the truth when you said you were just eighteen?”

“Of course. I always tell the truth—when I can.”

So very young. Her air of sophistication had made him think she was lying about her age that first night. But he believed her now and felt a twinge at having played so roughly with her. Perhaps she was not up to his weight, after all, despite her willingness to engage with him in combat.

In a gentler voice, he said, “I would gladly give you back your locket, but, alas, I feared that once you had it, you would flee as you did before. I didn’t want to lose you that quickly, so I didn’t bring it. I regret my stratagem. Now that I know why you value it, I should like to restore it to you.”

A calculating look came into her eyes. “Bring it to me tonight, then. Where I live. You’ll be well rewarded.” She stroked his stubbled cheek, her message as unmistakable as was her duplicity.

“Alas, it must be tomorrow,” he countered. “At noon.” He would not risk becoming the victim of some bully in a dark alley. She calculated her next move, swiftly, and said, “Noon, then.”

“And your direction?”

She gave him an address in a neighborhood he recognized as being made up mostly of the ancient homes of nobility. What was she doing there? She was clearly not a servant, and there was only one other reason why a woman of her sort might dwell in such a neighborhood—an association with one of the more discreet bagnios, mixed in among the noble homes, that catered to the needs of wealthy men. He had not taken her for that kind of woman, but he had made more than one mistake so far in his evaluation of her.

“How did you come to dwell in such a neighborhood?” he asked. “Are you under the protection of an abbess?”

A furtive look crossed her face. “I removed there since we first met.”

Was his new supposition right? “Whose house is it?”

“A woman as goes by the name Lady Lightning.”

What a name for a bawd! The girl must have fled to her for protection after he had almost taken her there on the street. Perhaps she hoped that, with such backing, she might wrest more profit from her next encounter with him.

If so, she had made a clever move, for whatever she was, he could not resist her.

“I shall be there at noon,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me. If I don’t find you then, that will be an end to the matter, and you won’t get your locket back.”

“Don’t disappoint me, cully,” she countered. “I’ll be waiting for you. And when you bring me my locket, you won’t be disappointed. You’ll get your reward.”

“I’ll be a good boy until then,” he said. Adding to himself, And then I shall have cake.

The crafty look she gave him in response made him glad he had remembered why he must not trust.

She took a step closer to him, confident now that she had achieved her objective, hoping to seal her victory with the kiss that would draw him deeper into her toils. For a moment, he contemplated giving in to her and drawing her into another intoxicating embrace. Why wait until tomorrow if he could have her now, tonight?

But he remembered why as her long, strong fingers, so skilled at removing valuables from the pockets of the unwary, reached toward the thin silk of his shirtfront and touched him lightly, making gooseflesh rise. Best to find out first what this adventure was likely to cost him before he allowed her to enchant him further. If she were under the protection of a high-class madam, it could be a lot.

He pulled away. “Tomorrow then,” he said, turning on his heel and striding off, leaving her behind in the alcove, openmouthed.

The evening had gone well. This time, she was the one left all a-tingle. Let her wonder how much desire she had roused in him and spend her morning worrying if he’d show up. He’d held his own with her and kept things manageable. Tomorrow, he would have her and be done with her. It would be a relief when it was over.

But it wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot.

Chapter 6

He was a cheeky bastard, and too clever by half. Temperance’s body was still tingling with the craving he’d aroused in her. But he’d bested her this time, turning on his heel that way and dashing for the exit. He was a quick study, just like her. She had to admire how he’d got back at her for the way she’d left him standing at attention there in the alley. A fine sight she must have been when he took off just now, leaving her puckered up, as hot for him as a bitch in heat.

It would have been funny if it weren’t so disturbing. Once again he’d made her forget everything but the magic of his kiss. Made her betray Randall. Made her want to throw herself at him and cling to him and let him carry her away, just as he’d done when he’d dragged her away from the brutal shoemaker. He was so strong. So resolute. So impossible to dominate.

But he wouldn’t be carrying her away anytime soon. She’d made sure of that. She might be weak and lustful, but she would be damned if she’d turn herself into the whore he took her for. At the last moment, she’d seen how she could keep herself from giving in to him, and in a way, too, that didn’t depend on the strength of her own resolution.

When he came after her tomorrow at the Refuge, all cock-swollen, thinking he’d be meeting her in a fine bawdy ken, Matron would send him packing. With luck, there’d be some way to get her locket back, first. She hoped so. But even if she couldn’t, her latest trick should ensure he’d leave her alone in the future, and she’d no longer have to fight the shameful urges he aroused in her. That couldn’t happen too soon.

It was only then that she noticed the ring of bystanders who had gathered at a polite distance, their smirks making it clear how much they’d enjoyed watching a lusty boy embrace a man in public. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. But, of course, that had been the point, to make folk watch. She’d thought their scrutiny would keep her safe from the captain if he had plans to harm her. But all that had gone out of her head when she’d found herself once again confronted with his sheer animal magnetism.

She let out a slow breath, recovering her poise. She must never underestimate him. He hadn’t repeated the mistakes he’d made that first time, tonight. He was as fly as she was. And the way he had crept up on her and stopped her with her hand half out of the flat’s pocket, just after she’d nimmed his ticker—he was good. Too good. He’d been alert to her tricks, too, here in the alcove. It would be tough to put one over on him again. She’d have to keep on her toes.

But why was she thinking like that? He’d come tomorrow. Matron would send him packing, and that would be the last she’d ever see of him. Good riddance to him. He was a magnificent male animal, to be sure, but she must never forget he was an enemy who served their tyrant king. And she didn’t like the way his mind penetrated through the clouds of confusion she wrapped around herself and pierced them like a beacon shining through the London fog.

She tied on her mask again, so she could rejoin the revelers. She was tempted to have another go at a pocket or two but thought better of it. The captain might have lingered, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d been speaking the truth about turning her in if he were to catch her at it again.

As she squared her shoulders and launched out from the shelter of the alcove, more than one man sent a speculative glance her way, wanting a piece of what they’d seen the pretty boy offer the sultan. Tough luck for them. Some women showed interest in her, too. She ignored them all. How pathetic it was how people let themselves be led about by that.

She’d almost reached the other side of the assembly room when she felt a hand grasp her shoulder. She wheeled around, expecting it to be some twiddlepoop hoping to get his yard stroked, but stopped dead when she saw who it was.

Snake. Though he was masked and wore the same monk’s costume as twenty other revelers, it could be no one else but him. No one else would have pinched her shoulder that hard. And it was just like Snake to choose the dullest costume. He’d have worn a cloak of invisibility had it been possible to buy one off the old-clothes man. He was a master at keeping himself hidden until he wanted to reveal himself, and when he did, he was like smoke, or a bad smell, arising suddenly without warning and so hard to get rid of.

She took a deep breath, hoping he hadn’t come to collect the payment she still owed his master, the Weaver. She had a few shillings left from what Lady Hartwood had given her, but that wouldn’t be enough.

As if reading her thoughts, Snake said, “A bit late with the grease, moll.” He spoke with a lisp, having had his tongue nicked in punishment for something long ago. “The Weaver’s not happy about that.” He gave her a moment to let his words sink in. “But you could still make the Weaver happy now that you’ve stumbled into a bit of luck.”

So Danny wasn’t the only one who had heard of her good fortune. Time to set Snake right about that. “If it’s Her Ladyship you refer to, she won’t be putting up with the likes of me much longer.”

“That ain’t the luck I was referrin’ to, moll. It’s the prancer.” The dragoon. “Looks like he’d be happy to put up with the likes of you for as long as you let him.”

“Which is no time at all. You know I’m not on the game.”

“So you’re putting it out for free, then. Shortsighted, but no business of mine. But the Weaver has his eye on the prancer, and being as the cove’s fond of you, we could use you. We’ll forget about the grease if you take on a little job.”

“I want no part of any of the Weaver’s jobs. Everyone knows he does the king’s dirty work.”

“Keep yer clapper shut!” Snake brought a finger to his lips. “ ’Tain’t safe to mention such things. But ’tain’t safe neither to refuse the Weaver when there’s work to be done. You know that, Tem.”

“I know more than I want to know about the Weaver. And I’m not doing no job for him.”

“Your Randall weren’t too fine to put his hand to the task from time to time.”

“How can you dirty his name with such an accusation when he’s dead and can’t defend himself?”

Snake’s brows shot up. “Died, did he? I’m that sorry to hear it.” His features arranged themselves in a somber expression. “He were a good ’un, Randall. How’d he go? I hadn’t heard Lady Lucy’d gone down. Or did it happen after he got to America?”

America? Her heart stopped. “What are you talking about? Randall was murdered in London after the Cato Street Conspirators were betrayed. A cursed dragoon shot him and threw his body into the river.”

“Don’t know who told you that, but I drove him down to Portsmouth meself the day after they nobbled the conspirators. I saw him board Lady Lucy. He got off safely.”

Ice ran in her veins. “Lady Lucy?” she demanded. “Who’s she?” she said, keeping her voice unnaturally steady.

Snake looked surprised. “Not who, but what. She’s a tea clipper out of Boston.”

The room spun. She struggled to breathe and fought the lump rising in her throat. No tears. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not with people watching. And not in front of Snake.

But it couldn’t be true. Snake was lying to get her to do his master’s bidding. He must be. But Lady Lucy had been one of the names written on the list Becky had shown her. Those names etched into her brain as if by acid. Could Randall really be alive and safe in America?

She advanced on Snake. “Why would Randall have turned to you for help when the conspiracy failed? Everyone knows you’re the Weaver’s man.”

“Who else would he turn to, moll? The Weaver looks after his own, and after the bang-up job Randall did for him that night, he’d have trusted his safety to no one but me.”

“Randall wasn’t working for the Weaver. The Weaver serves the king. He was fighting for liberty against the king and his government. ”

Snake looked at her as if she were an imbecile child. “You’ll spin a hempen necklace for yerself if you keep clacking on ’bout things no one should gab about. ’Twas your Randall betrayed the conspirators—and he was well paid to do it. But enough jawing. Be at the usual place tomorrow, and you’ll learn what the Weaver has in mind for you.”

“I won’t do it,” she managed to choke out. “There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”

“If that’s your decision, I wouldn’t want to change it. There’s plenty of others who would be happy to have a chance to serve the Weaver. I was doing you a favor, I was, in asking you, though it looks like I wasted my breath But I’d watch my step now if I was you, moll. It don’t pay to displease the Weaver, not when he’s already at the end of his patience with you. Turn down this job, and you’d better say good-bye to the prancer right quick. Stick with him, and I don’t give it a month till they drag you out of the river.”

It was late when she got back to the Refuge. The household was sound asleep, but she pounded loudly on the door, throwing her whole weight behind each blow and finding release in the pain that shot up her arms. She didn’t care if she woke the whole neighborhood. When the groggy porter let her in, she rushed up the stairs to Becky’s room. The gibbous moon showed the girl’s thin form curled up on her bed. Temperance flung herself toward her, grabbed a hank of her hair, and tugged it to force her awake.

“Cor blimey, Tem, what’s up?” Becky cried in a harsh whisper. “ ’Tis the middle of the night!”

“I don’t care if it’s the middle of your funeral. Get up and tell me. Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he was alive.”

“Who?” Becky said, but the look that flitted over her features as she said it told her she had known. Temperance felt sick.

“You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Well, what if I did?” Becky had sat up and was shaking her head as if to clear it. “No one could tell you anything, not where he was involved. He had you right where he wanted you from the day he first brought you into the gang, fresh from your papa’s mansion, your lips still wet with country cream. I tried to warn you, more than once, ’cause I knew what was coming, but you were too wrapped up in being his flash girl. Well, I’m glad you finally found out—and I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to tell you.” Becky’s voice dropped. “Who was it who did?”

“Snake.”

“Good. He won’t get into trouble for spilling the beans. He’s in good with the Weaver, he is.”

“Did everyone know but me?”

Becky shook her head. “No, just me. I found out when I caught Sukey Cowly trying to steal our last farthings when she was packing her stuff so she could sneak off and join that slubberdegullion the day after he disappeared. I shook the truth out of her and kicked her out.”

“That bitch went with him?”

Becky turned away, unwilling to say any more.

Temperance had thought she couldn’t possibly feel worse, but she’d been wrong. “You could have said something, Beck, instead of letting me go round wearing the willow for the bastard, thinking he’d died a hero’s death. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. How long do you think you would have lasted if it weren’t for me? You weren’t born on these streets, and though you learned how to patter flash, there’s a lot you’ll never know. Your cradle was too soft. I did what I could to keep you safe. I may be a small, crooked thing; but I know a bit of this and a bit of that, and there’s those who know it’s worth it to keep me sweet. I kept your precious Randall from forcing you onto the game by teaching you how to steal. Otherwise, it would have been Mother Bristwick’s for you as soon as he’d tired of you.”

“He wouldn’t have done that. Whatever he did later, I know he loved me—at least for a while.”

Becky’s eyes were full of pity. “Mother Bristwick offered him twenty pound for you, after you’d been with us that first year. He was tempted until I convinced him you’d earn him more on the prigging lay.”

It took her several moments to get her breath back after that. Could she have really been that blind? The pain that seared her heart gave her the answer. She had wanted so much to believe in him. She’d given up so much to join him. It had been impossible to face the truth.

“He was a charmer,” Becky said, relenting. “You weren’t the only blowen that fell for his rig. And I would ha’ told you he wasn’t dead if I could ha’. But I had no choice about it. You wouldn’t have been safe if you’d known. The Weaver was glad to have you carry on like he was dead as last week’s cod. Your weeping and wailing kept them off the scent—the conspirators he betrayed. The Weaver would have silenced anyone who let you know the truth.”

“So Randall really was working for the Weaver—not for the cause of freedom.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“There was no blunt to be had, fighting for freedom.”

Temperance threw herself down on the bed, unable to summon the strength to hold herself upright a moment longer. Her friend tried to draw her into a comforting embrace, but she pushed her away. “Does Clary know?”

“No.”

“It better stay that way. Because I’ll tell you this. If you let a word out to anyone else, I’ll go to the beak, I swear it, and tell him about every single thing you ever stole.”

“You’d end up in the jug yourself, if you did that.”

“Do you think I care?”

“No, not now. But you’ll get over it. The bastard isn’t worth killing yourself for. We all learned that about him, every one of us girls in the gang. He was a flash man like the rest of ’em. He just had a better line of patter. He had us all thinking we were special to him—at first. That’s how they work. But you, being gently raised, you wouldn’t have known that.”

Her expression softened. “Chin up, duck. You’ll get over it. You’re a game one, and you’re well shot of him. And don’t worry about the others knowing. I’ll keep my trap shut. You can trust me for that.”

“I’ll never trust anyone again.”

She stamped out of the room, slamming the door when she reached her own chamber. But as she tore off the fatal boy’s costume, she knew it was worse than that. It wasn’t others she would never trust again. It was herself.

Chapter 7

When Temperance awoke the morning after the masquerade, the sight of the mourning gown that had absorbed so many of her tears, lying where she had folded it before donning her costume, brought back the whole humiliating business. She considered ripping it up and stuffing it into the fire, but to do so would only excite comment.

She must give no hint that anything had changed. It would be too mortifying for anyone to know how badly she’d been taken in. She’d feed it to a bonfire when she left for America, which she would do, as soon as she could figure out how. Liberty beckoned her there, as it always had, but now there was something else. Once she got herself to those promised shores, she’d hunt that bastard down and show him he hadn’t got away with it.

But, of course, he had. He’d played on her desire to believe in him and given her just enough encouragement to keep her from looking at what was right under her eyes. Becky had been trying to protect her when she pretended the others didn’t know how he’d taken her in. But they must have—just like they knew that Monty, the one-legged beggar, had a sound leg tucked inside his enormous breeches.

Now she knew what lay behind the odd looks the other girls in the crew had given her over the years. She’d dismissed them as being due to envy because she was Randall’s favorite. But it wasn’t just the other girls’ looks she’d made herself ignore, but all the other things that didn’t add up. The pressure he put on the girls to bring in money. The way that money always disappeared. The way everyone accepted that Randall must have better food than they did because the “work” he did was so important. She’d turned a blind eye to it all because the alternative would have been to admit she’d been a fool to run off with him to London, no matter what her father had said or done. She hadn’t had the guts to face the truth.

The humiliation choked her. How could she ever again walk the London streets where everyone had known her as Randall’s flash mort—and his gull. She had no choice now but to go to America. It wasn’t a distant dream any longer but one she would have to make real in a hurry. It would cost a lot to buy passage—but she’d find the money somehow. She’d have to. If she stayed in London much longer, she would end up in the river, and not at the hands of the Weaver’s henchmen, but from sheer mortification.

Trev spent the morning after the masquerade debating what to do about the assignation he had set up with the bewitching pickpocket. Now that Fanshawe had given him something else to occupy his energies, there was no need to continue with the game of cat and mouse he’d let Temperance draw him into. In the cold light of morning, his obsession with her seemed hard to justify.

Still, he owed it to her to return her precious keepsake. And if he couldn’t resist the bait she’d dangled before him, well, he’d taken no vow of chastity. If she were working for a madam, where was the harm in taking what she offered? If he didn’t, someone else would.

He would give her more pleasure than she’d find in a brothel for the little time left before he must marry. And when he must leave her behind, he’d do something for her. She’d end up better off than she’d been before he met her though the mercenary nature of the transaction took much of the pleasure out of the idea of consorting with her.

Where to keep her for the few weeks he might spend with her posed a problem since he was living under his mother’s roof. His knowledge of London was not thorough enough to give him an answer. So, after breakfast, he strolled over to visit the major and ask his advice.

“You can keep her here, Trev. Nothing easier,” the major replied, raising one bushy eyebrow.

“With you? Not on your life! One look at your handsome mug, and she’d have no more time for me.”

The major chuckled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I didn’t mean in my chambers, my boy. I didn’t think your tastes would run to a threesome. But there are other rooms to let in this lodging house. The price is quite reasonable, and it might not be such a bad idea to have a friend at hand should you find yourself in need of one.”

“You still don’t trust her, do you?” Trev observed.

“Do you?” the major shot back.

“Not a bit.” Trev grinned and headed downstairs to see what he could work out with the landlord.

Temperance was choking down breakfast when a maid informed her that Lady Hartwood awaited her in her office. Her benefactor must have cast her real chart. Now she would have to listen to a lecture on her many character flaws. That was all she needed. But she had no choice except to get through it.

Lady Hartwood greeted her with an annoying smile that lit up her frank and open countenance in a way that made Temperance yearn to slap her. No one had a right to be that cheerful, especially not when she herself felt so bad.

Her Ladyship set aside her cup of tea, and said, “I’ve been thinking over our discussion a few days ago and feeling that perhaps I let my own nature make me too harsh. You can’t help being what you are. And since you are a Scorpio, I shouldn’t have expected you to be frank. Especially not when the ruler of your Scorpio planets is placed in Cancer. That would make you even more self-protective than the average Scorpio. But with so many strong Scorpio influences on your nativity, your self-protection may all too easily turn into self-destruction.”

She stopped to take a sip. “So I was wrong to threaten you with expulsion the way I did. It was just what an untutored Scorpio nature would have wished me to do, for it allows you to blame me for the self-destructive step you would be taking if you left the Refuge. I apologize. Your situation is difficult, and I fear I may have made it worse with my thoughtlessness.”

That was big of her, but the last thing Temperance needed now was to dwell on her many imperfections. “I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

“Perhaps. But the scorpion may sting itself to death with the poison it uses to defend itself. That’s why I worry about you, even though there is little I can do to help you. The ferocity with which you defend yourself makes you too difficult to counsel.”

“Then you have no advice for me?”

“You wouldn’t take advice from me. Would you?”

“Probably not.” Temperance shrugged. “Still, if you’ve put all that work into casting my chart, it seems a waste not to hear you out. Does your chart tell you anything about me that isn’t bad?”

“Of course. I cast charts to look for people’s strengths, not their weaknesses. And you are very strong.”

“Oh, I’m strong all right,” she said bitterly. “Tough as nails our Temmy is.”

“That isn’t real strength. That’s just your Aquarius Ascendant’s way of keeping people at a distance. But that aloofness prevents you from finding your true strength. Jupiter, the planet that shows where you will find good fortune, is placed in your Seventh House of Marriage. You won’t unlock your real power until you join yourself with a worthy partner.”

“So you would marry me off? I think I should prefer Clary’s piano lessons.”

Lady Hartwood laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to find you a match. Your Aquarius Ascendant makes you far too independent to tolerate such interference. You’ll have to find your partner yourself.”

Her benefactor’s expression again became serious. “Your Jupiter is not only in the House of Marriage but it is placed in Virgo—the sign of discrimination. You will experience good fortune only after you use your powers of discrimination to choose a partner who brings out the best in you. For with your Sun and Moon conjoined in Scorpio in the Eighth House, you cannot help but merge with those you love and take on their characteristics, good or bad.”

Temperance let her gaze drop to the nimble fingers she had trained to serve Randall. Perhaps this astrology wasn’t entirely a hum.

Her Ladyship continued, “You must take care to choose a partner who is worthy of your loyalty. You must fight against your impulsivity and carefully examine who you let into your life. For the planets in your Seventh House makes it very clear: Your partner may become the lover who brings out the best in you—or he may be the enemy who destroys you. The choice is up to you.”

Temperance should have kept her trap shut. Though Her Ladyship had raised her hopes by seeming to see what others didn’t, her advice wasn’t any better than her father’s had been. Be good. Avoid sin. Don’t let the evil in her take over. She’d tried all that already, and much good it had done her. She couldn’t be good enough. It was better not to try than to try again and fail.

Her verdict delivered, Lady Hartwood regarded her with a look that suggested she was awaiting Temperance’s promise that from this moment forth she would strain every nerve to put Her Ladyship’s advice into practice and become a better person. But she couldn’t. She was as good a person as she could be, already, and, as usual, it wasn’t good enough.

In a moment, Her Ladyship would ask her if she was willing to do what she’d must to remain at the Refuge. Temperance had already worked her answer out in advance, but even so, she foresaw a battle. Lady Hartwood wasn’t likely to take no for an answer. A week or two more in the Refuge was probably all she could count on. After that, it would be back to the streets again.

“Eliza,” a rich male voice called out. “A slight complexity has arisen involving one of your charges. I fear I must interrupt you.”

The door opened, and a tall, handsome man strode in, his face haloed by a cloud of curling golden hair that contrasted sharply with his startlingly dark brown eyes.

“Edward, do come in.” said Lady Hartwood. “This is Miss Temperance Smith, one of the guests at my Refuge.”

This must be her husband, the man who had once been the notorious rake they’d nicknamed Lord Lightning. Temperance had heard whispers about him from the servants, but this was the first time she’d met him. How unfair it was that a flat like Lady Hartwood should have drawn such a prize. He was a stunner, and the love that filled his gaze as he looked upon his wife was indecent.

“Whatever is the matter?” Lady Hartwood asked him.

“I wouldn’t have interrupted you, but a gentleman just arrived who appears to believe you’re running a brothel. You aren’t, my dear, are you?”

“Most definitely not! Whatever gave him that idea?”

“Apparently, one of your charges, who invited him here for a tryst. I played along with his belief I was a whoremaster long enough to elicit the information that he hoped to take her into keeping. He was willing to pay generously for her services.”

“Oh dear,” Lady Hartwood said, turning to Temperance. “I don’t suppose you have any idea why the gentleman was laboring under this misapprehension?”

Her husband answered, “I would very much suppose that she does, as the gentleman said it was Temperance who had directed him here.” Lord Hartwood’s lip quirked up in an ironic smile. “But with a name like Temperance, the poor child probably had no choice but to behave badly. Why will parents give children such names? They guarantee rebellion. If we have a daughter, we must name her Impropriety in the hope that she will rebel her way into acceptable behavior.”

“Edward, this is no joking matter. Did you disabuse her caller of his confusion?”

“I did, though I’ve brought him with me to offer you his apologies. He turned toward the doorway and motioned to someone to come in. “May I introduce Captain Trevelyan of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons.”

Temperance took a deep breath. It looked like she’d be leaving the Refuge even sooner than she’d expected.

Her officer entered the room. His tall form filled the doorway. He wore the impassive mask of a man on duty, his chiseled features giving no hint of emotion, neither the dark humor she’d seen animate them the night before nor the anger he must feel toward her now that he knew she’d played another trick on him.

His sleek blue tunic betrayed not a wrinkle. His trousers, with the paired red stripes running down their outside seams, emphasized the muscularity of his long, lithe legs. He gleamed as the light struck the heavy epaulets on his shoulders. A pang of sheer physical lust shot through her, and she cursed herself again for desiring this man dressed in the hated uniform of the men who had killed Randall.

Except that no one had killed Randall.

Would she ever get used to this painful new knowledge? She could love all the dragoons she wanted. There was nothing to stop her now.

“Captain Trevelyan,” Lady Hartwood said. “Am I right that you are the son of Mrs. Catherine Trevelyan?”

“I am, Your Ladyship.” The officer’s face reddened under his tan. “Though under the circumstances, I must regret that you are acquainted with my mother.”

“I have met her only in a professional capacity,” she said stiffly.

Lord Hartwood continued, “Whatever brings him here, Captain Trevelyan’s mother can take pride in her son. Though I’ve only just met him, I’ve long known of his reputation. He’s been mentioned several times in dispatches, and most recently distinguished himself in a battle near Poona by risking his life to save some of his men, who’d got cut off behind enemy lines.”

So her lustful captain was a real hero. How ironic, when Randall, so long her hero, had turned out—but she must not let herself keep thinking of him. Not when her officer was standing here, looking at her with those piercing eyes the color of the sky at twilight. Given how furious he must be with her for the way she’d tricked him into such a shameful situation, she must display no weakness he could use against her.

“I ask your indulgence for a moment, Captain Trevelyan,” Lady Hartwood said. “Will you tell me exactly what it was that led you to mistake my Refuge for a bordello? It’s a mistake I should not like to see repeated.”

The captain caught Temperance’s eye. The snap as their gazes connected was as intense as a collision. Then he turned to address Lady Hartwood, “You have my abject apologies. I won’t even try to defend my inexcusable behavior. It matters not why I made a wholly inaccurate assumption about one of your charges.”

“It matters greatly to me. If Temperance really did suggest to you that the Refuge was a brothel, I have no choice but to ask her to leave. Our rules here are few, but the girls know they must do nothing to give the enemies of the Refuge an excuse to destroy it.”

Captain Trevelyan favored Temperance with a long, considering look before turning back to her benefactor. “I don’t wish to be the cause of her losing your patronage. It wouldn’t be fair. It was my own damnable confusion that led to this contretemps. I beg you to accept my apologies.”

He reached into a pocket and withdrew something from it—the accursed locket. “I came into possession of an object of value to her and used it to gain an unfair advantage over her. It wasn’t the act of a gentleman, and I’m ashamed now that I acted in so unworthy a manner.” He walked over to Temperance and handed her the locket, which he had furnished with a new chain that was considerably thicker than the cheap one Randall had put on it.

“Accept my apologies. I’m sorry to have caused you such distress.”

She jammed the trinket into her pocket. He turned back to Lady Hartwood and said, “Let me assure you, only the four of us in this room know about my confounded mistake. I’ve said nothing to anyone that would cause the slightest breath of scandal to be associated with your Refuge.”

Then he turned to face Temperance. His face showed the satisfaction he felt at having done the right thing—and hinted, too, at what doing it had cost him. Pride radiated out of every inch of him. It couldn’t have been easy for him to accuse himself of ungentlemanly behavior before strangers, and noble strangers at that. Yet he had done exactly that and taken the blame for his embarrassing mistake even though he knew full well she’d led him into making it on purpose.

What could have made him defend her? She hated to think it was what it looked like, simple decency, but if there was some ignoble explanation for his gallantry, she couldn’t find it. Once again, he’d stepped in to save her from suffering the consequences of her own ill-considered action, and this time he’d paid a steeper price than the notes he’d casually thrown the shoemaker, for to save her this time, he’d been forced to admit in public to having the character of a scoundrel.

Why? He was acting as if he cared about her. A trickle of healing warmth leaked into her heart, bruised and sore as it was from the previous evening’s revelation. He’d sacrificed his pride for her. Despite the fact she’d done nothing to deserve it but steal, and flirt, and mislead him.

Having spoken his piece, the captain turned toward the door. The curlicues of braid that decorated the back of his tunic uniform outlined the narrow waist that made such a contrast to his broad shoulders. In another moment, he’d be out of her life for good.

She couldn’t bear it.

Forced by some power beyond her control, the words rushed out. “Don’t leave!” she cried.

She twisted to face Lady Hartwood. “What he said isn’t true. He’s trying to spare me punishment. But he’s blameless. It was all my fault. I made him think this was a bawdy ken and invited him here to meet me, to embarrass him.”

Lady Hartwood fixed Temperance with a hard look. “How well do you know this Captain Trevelyan?”

“Hardly at all,” the captain protested.

“Well enough,” Temperance said.

“How did you come to know him?”

“I seduced him.”

His lips tightened. “No. I assaulted her.”

Lady Hartwood swiveled about to face Temperance. “Is he a lover or an enemy?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You must decide”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

Lady Hartwood turned to the captain. “What did you really want from Temperance? Tell me the truth.”

“Nothing I should be comfortable mentioning in the presence of a lady.”

“Nothing I didn’t offer him.”

“I’m baffled by your behavior, Temperance,” Lady Hartwood said. “You know I must expel anyone who acts in a way that damages the reputation of the Refuge. Yet you persist in asserting that you did just that, despite the captain’s gallant attempts to save you. Why?”

Sheer perversity? What else could it be?

But then it struck her. The captain’s gallantry gave her a way out of this quagmire. He had offered to pay well for her services. Why not take him up on it? There was no reason not to. His offer would let her escape from Becky’s pity and Lady Hartwood’s determination to change her. The money he’d give her would buy her passage to America, and it wouldn’t be a sacrifice to earn it. Far from it.

There was no reason left for her to fight against the attraction that had possessed her since the first time he had embraced her out on the street. Randall was alive in Boston with that bitch Sally, not dead at the hands of a dragoon. She need feel no guilt in satisfying the urges the captain had aroused in her. Perhaps if she gave herself to him, she could drive out the rotting stench of Randall, which poisoned her memories.

She stood and took a step toward him. “Do you still wish to take me into keeping?”

As her whispered words dissolved into the air, his indigo eyes widened in surprise. “Of course not.”

“You do. But you won’t admit it. If it’s because you want them to think well of me”—she gestured at Lady Hartwood—“it’s no use. I’ve no wish to be reformed, and besides, she’s made it clear my astrological nature isn’t one that could profit from her system.”

She turned toward Lord Hartwood, who had been lounging against the wall taking in the unfolding scene with a look that suggested he found it mildly amusing. “Your Lordship, how much did Captain Trevelyan offer for my services?”

“Edward!” Lady Hartwood’s voice held a tone of warning. Responding with nothing more than a slight lift of one brow, her husband took it in and wisely said nothing.

Temperance addressed him again, more forcefully. “If you don’t tell me what his offer was, Your Lordship, he may fleece me. Would you wish me to be gulled? How much was he willing to pay?”

Lady Hartwood’s lips were set in a firm line, but an odd look passed between her and her spouse before the impulse to give in to mirth swept over them both. It took a moment for them to repress it. When he had got control of his features again, Lord Hartwood said, “Put that way, I must answer you. He offered me fifty pounds for a week of your companionship.”

She turned once again to Captain Trevelyan. “I’ll take your offer on those terms.” Fifty pounds would be more than enough to pay for passage to America and leave her something to live on when she got there.

A bloom of color rushed into the dragoon’s sunburnt face, making the white line of his scar stand out more sharply. She’d embarrassed him further with her outrageous offer. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make it here, in front of the nobleman who was his superior. But she had felt, oddly, the need to do it in the presence of her would-be benefactors.

It was the only way to ensure she wouldn’t become cowardly at the last moment and retreat to the deceptive security of the Refuge. Now they would have no choice but to expel her. But, of course, the captain did have an alternative. He could stride out of her life immediately, and if he were a prudent man, he would do so. Why should he stay, when she’d tricked and abused him?

She wished she had treated him better. She would be sad to see the last of him. He had been a worthy opponent in their ongoing battle of wills. But she’d given him no reason but lust to want her, and after what she’d just subjected him to, lust would not be enough to make him put himself into her power again. She steeled herself to accept what she could not change, but to her surprise, as the moments ticked by, the captain did not stride away. He did not dismiss her outrageous offer with words of curt dismissal. He didn’t do anything but stand there like a statue, pondering what to do next.

To distract herself from the tension, which was growing intolerable, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the locket. She opened it and glanced for the last time at the portrait of the unworthy man she’d made the center of her world. Then she tossed it on Lady Hartwood’s desk. “This is all I have with which to repay you for your hospitality and astrological counsel.”

Captain Trevelyan protested, “But your locket—you value it so highly—”

She silenced him. “If I didn’t, it would be a poor way to repay my debt.” She shook herself and smoothed her skirt. “I’m going now to pack up my gear. With or without you, I’m leaving. If you wish to take me up on my offer, I’ll meet you outside in half an hour.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked, favoring her again with that look that told her he needed to understand her answer.

She let her eyes meet his. The shock as they connected made her gasp.

He would be there to meet her. She could not doubt it. But she let him supply his own answer to the question and swept regally out of the room.

Chapter 8

Her exit had been worthy of a duchess. Who was this girl and how had she come to have such strength of character? Trev had never seen the like of it. She possessed no resource except her will, yet that alone gave her the ability to stand up to her superiors and leave them marveling, openmouthed, at her behavior.

After she’d left, Lord Hartwood had been the first to break the silence. “I can’t stop her. She’s above the age of consent, and I have no grounds upon which to exercise authority over her. But if you mistreat her, Captain, you’ll have to answer to me.”

The man was known to be a fearsome duelist, but Trev was no mean shot himself, and it was not fear that made him protest, “Surely you don’t think I would take advantage of her now?”

“You don’t fancy the wench?” Lord Hartwood asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I fancy her all too much, but it would be a mistake to give in to that fancy.”

“I doubt you have much choice about it,” Hartwood said succinctly. “I don’t believe it was the fifty pounds that motivated her to make you her offer—not entirely. And once a woman makes up her mind to have one of us, we males have little say in the matter.” He exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife, whose lips tightened into a stern expression even as the corners of her eyes turned up in mirth.

“I don’t know what has taken place already between the two of you,” Lord Hartwood continued, “but I don’t imagine a girl as bright as Temperance would have put herself in your power if you hadn’t given her reason to trust you.”

Trev sighed. He was not up to the challenge of describing what it was he’d given Temperance. He’d already embarrassed himself enough.

Lady Hartwood broke in, and said, “Captain, your mother consulted me in a professional capacity, I hope it isn’t an imposition to reveal that the information she gave me about your birth suggests that, like Temperance, you, too, were born when the Sun was in Scorpio.”

“I was,” he admitted. “Though even without my mother’s intelligence, you could have guessed it. You’ve seen enough to know that I embody the chief failing of my sign.”

“You refer, of course, to a lascivious nature,” Lady Hartwood replied in a schoolmistress’s tone. “But it is only the vulgar who attribute that failing to Scorpio alone. Each sign has its share of libertines, though each sign lusts for something different.”

She paused, observing how he reacted to what she’d already revealed. Then, with a professorial air strangely at odds with her personal charm, she explained, “Scorpio is a watery sign. The water signs live to experience emotion, so their lusts are emotional rather than carnal. Scorpios use physical urges to stir their partners to the depths of their being. They revel in the intensity of the feelings they arouse—and not only those conducive to happiness.”

He nodded. He could not deny she had that right. At this, she smiled, and added, “As you can imagine, their intensity can be disconcerting for others who don’t share their Scorpionic natures. But since Temperance was also born with planets placed in Scorpio, the two of you should do well together. You share the same tastes. My Aunt Celestina always advised that Scorpios do best when paired with others of their sign.”

“Surely, you aren’t going to allow Temperance to go off with me?” Trev didn’t try to hide his surprise.

“As my husband says, I don’t think either of us could stop her. And if we did, she would merely find another unsuitable connection with which to spite us. I should have liked to help her, but she won’t take counsel from me. She’s much too headstrong—which is exactly how she should be, given her Aquarius Ascendant. So I must hope she made a wise choice when she cast her lot with you. It’s possible. You’re older than she is, and the military has taught you discipline—something she badly needs. You may be strong enough to stand up to her and help her make the most of what she is.”

Trev cut her off. “I can’t pretend my interest in Temperance is as disinterested as your words suggest.”

“I shouldn’t believe you if you said it was. The Scorpio’s path to wisdom must involve the kinds of experiences we ladies are not supposed to discuss in mixed company. But Temperance’s nativity suggests to me that it is just that sort of encounter that will force her to live from the better parts of her nature. As for you, based on what I saw in yours, I believe you are an honorable man and will act honorably.”

To which Lord Hartwood added softly, “Or else.”

It was with mixed feelings that Trev made his way to the street to take possession of the mistress he had set out to claim with far more enthusiasm only an hour before. Once again, he’d fallen into the delusion that he would be her rescuer—and once again she’d tricked him. She hadn’t been living in a brothel, and all he appeared to have rescued her from was a chance for a new and better life at Her Ladyship’s Refuge.

Cat and mouse didn’t begin to describe the game he’d been drawn into. Tiger and rat was more like it—with him cast once more in the role of rat. And that wasn’t the worst of it, for he’d be damned if he knew what he’d bound himself to do in that final interview with Lord Hartwood and his lady. But he’d definitely bound himself to something. Flight, as tempting as it might have been, was out of the question.

A moment later, Temperance appeared in the alley behind Lord Hartwood’s home. She wore a pale gown under a thick pelisse—not the thick mourning gown she’d worn at their first meeting. She’d hidden her curls under a ladylike bonnet. The black, feathered hat was gone. And she was carrying a small sack.

“Are you leaving the rest of your things with Lady Hartwood?”

“I have no more things.”

He looked more closely at her sack, shocked at what it told him about her situation. Did she really mean to go out into the world, leaving behind the comfort of the noblewoman’s Refuge, with nothing more than that?

The knowledge made him feel the burden of what he’d taken on. But as the cold wind brought the color to her smooth white cheeks and made her stormy eyes sparkle, he couldn’t deny how eager he was to take it up, whatever the cost might be. As Hartwood had said, she did want him. And he was more than willing to give her what she wanted.

But it took only another moment for his usual caution to return and bring him back to earth. For his instincts warned him to take care. The girl he’d rescued from the shoemaker had not wished to join herself to him, no matter how much her body might have responded to his touch. The girl he’d met at the masquerade had come to get her locket, the keepsake that was all she had left to remind her of her dead beloved—a man so dear to her she’d been willing to kiss a hostile stranger if that was what it took to get his portrait back.

Her invitation to meet at a bordello had been a trick. She’d had no intention of giving herself to him last night. She’d only dangled that prospect before him to impel him to bring her the locket—but having got it at last, she’d merely tossed it onto Lady Hartwood’s desk with an expression that looked suspiciously like contempt. And offered herself to him as a mistress.

Go carefully, an inner voice warned. Things here are not what they seem.

What had happened to her devotion to her dead lover? Had it been a ruse? He couldn’t but wonder if she’d been sent to entangle him in some complex conspiracy. Such a thought came all too easily to a man who had spent as many years as he had in Sir Charles’s service.

But a quick review of the facts made him dismiss that idea. She’d had no way of knowing he’d snag her locket when she fled from him on the street. She’d had no way of knowing he would send a message to the crossing boy to set up another assignation. So it was unlikely she’d been sent out to draw him into some plot.

There must be a simpler explanation for her behavior. But what? He could come up with nothing that would explain it, but he was wise enough to know that something would, and he had better nose it out before he let their connection go any further.

Though he’d originally planned to take her back to the chamber he’d rented at the lodgings above the Phoenix Coffeehouse, he hesitated, despite the surge of blood that rushed to his nether part at the thought of what might transpire if he were to lead her to that small, anonymous chamber. When John Thomas took over, reason flew out the door. He must not allow himself to be alone with her until he had a better idea of what he’d got himself into. Once again, he must delay taking his pleasure with her.

Though he had to admit he took perverse pleasure in trying to work out what it was she was up to. The truth was, her deviousness was a big part of what attracted him to her, for engaging with her in these subtle games let him employ his own strength and cunning. But before he could go on with her, he must make sure it really was a game she was playing with him now and nothing more.

He was a stranger here in London, and Fanshawe had told him almost nothing about the errand on which he was sending him. Best to take care. So with a stern command to John Thomas to stand down and await further orders, he offered her his hand. They would have a little talk before he took things further. Before he had her, he must force the truth out of her.

Temperance had expected the captain to take her somewhere where he could do what he’d been trying to do since he’d had her at his mercy in the alley. She’d hoped he would. Once they got that over with, she would stop responding to him so strongly. He’d lose the power he wielded over her now and she’d be safe again. But it was not over yet, and she was far from safe—not when just the sight of the graceful swell at his crotch, displayed to such advantage by the dress uniform he’d donned for evening wear, made her grow wet in her most secret part.

There no longer was any reason to fight the craving he aroused in her. No reason not to tease him and use what she’d been taught to make him lose control. Once again, she’d given in to another of those fatal urges Her Ladyship had warned her about. But it was too late for regret, so she must make the most of it. She’d satisfy the captain, rid herself of her desire for him, and when it was gone, she’d find that ship to take her to America.

Her plan should succeed. Giving herself to Randall had rid her of whatever girlish desire her body had felt for him. But had she felt this kind of hunger for Randall when she’d waited for him that night behind her father’s stables? She could barely remember, but she doubted it. She’d been a naïve virgin, unable to separate the confusing sensations he’d awakened in her body from the fantasy she’d had that he was a hero, risking all to fight against tyranny. She had wanted to absorb his courage, to make herself what he was.

What I thought he was, she reminded herself brutally.

But whatever she had longed for, he’d taught her that first night that a woman was meant to give pleasure, not to take it. So she must not expect anything more from Captain Trevelyan than the power she would wield over him while she had him under her spell. She prepared herself to make the most of it.

But she was not given the opportunity, for, to her surprise, once they found themselves alone, Captain Trevelyan didn’t treat her to one of those kisses of his that lit up her entire being; nor did he press himself hungrily against her body. Instead, he strode down the street ahead of her, bowling along at a pace that was hard to match even with her long legs, until they reached a coffeehouse on New Street—where he conducted her not to one of the rooms upstairs where affairs like theirs could be consummated, but to the public room, where he seated her at an isolated table and ordered some potted eels for the two of them.

Only after he’d sampled a few bites did he put down his fork and ask, “Why, Temperance? Why this sudden change of heart? You eluded me so cleverly until now.”

The determination in his voice was unmistakable. He wouldn’t tolerate any more of her tricks, and without his saying it, she knew if she gave him anything but an honest answer, this would be the last she saw of him.

But how could she tell him what lay behind her change of heart? It would be too humiliating to reveal how cruelly she’d been betrayed. It was her strength and cleverness he admired. If he knew the truth, she’d lose her appeal. Until now, he’d respected her as the worthy adversary who’d held her own with him when they matched wits. All that would be over if he learned she was really only another stupid Jill. His respect would turn into contempt.

She didn’t dare let him know how stupid she’d been. Better to let him think she was playing a deep game still rather than risk losing whatever power she might have over him. Though even as she misled him, as she must, she would try to be as truthful with him as she could. She would have to. He was too canny to fall for an outright lie.

She toyed with an errant tendril of hair that had come loose, working out what to say. At length she replied, “The money you offer is enough to buy my passage to America. I’ve had enough of England.”

“Lady Hartwood would have given you that, wouldn’t she, if passage to America was really what you wanted? She seemed sincere.”

“She is sincere, but she wanted too much in return. As I told you, I’ve no wish to be reformed. I prefer what you offer. It’s simpler, and it will be no sacrifice for me to give you what you want.”

“I don’t believe you. Until now, you’ve been so proud of not selling yourself. You didn’t give that up just to get my fifty pounds. Tell me the truth. Why did you change your mind?”

She met his fierce gaze. “Because I want you. You’re a handsome devil, and you kiss like a cove who knows what he’s doing.”

“My kisses aren’t enough to explain it, either. We kissed in the alleyway, but you bolted. We kissed at the masquerade, and you sent me on a fool’s errand. If you want me, it’s not just for my kisses—as pleasant as they may have been. You want something else—but what?”

“Your kindness.” she said softly. “You kept me out of the jug. And then again, today, you tried to keep Her Ladyship from casting me out of the Refuge. I’ve met with little kindness from men until now.”

“I was foxed when I saved you from the jug and came close to ravishing you afterward. So much for my kindness.”

“If you came near to ravishing me, it was not against my will. I could barely tear myself away.”

“But you did.” His mouth tightened, making his scar go white. “And when I tempted you to meet me at the masquerade, was it kind of me to use the memento of your dead lover to gain what I wanted? Come on. Don’t try to play me for a fool. You heard Lord Hartwood. I tried to buy you from him. I was willing to make a whore of you. Was that a kindness, too?”

She recoiled, sinking back into her chair. He wouldn’t accept any of the easy answers she gave him. She would have to be even more honest. She took a forkful of eel and chewed it before replying. “Whatever your intention might have been, you didn’t force me into whoring. I offered myself to you because I wanted to.”

“But why? It wasn’t for that fifty pounds.”

“No. It wasn’t. Though I shall be glad to have them when you are gone.”

“Would you give yourself to me without them? Would you become my lover for the mere joy of it?” He was serious.

A quiver ran through her secret parts. “Yes.”

His deep-set eyes glowed from beneath the dark slash of his brow. “I confess myself baffled. Why?”

“Because I need you.”

“Needs can be complex. Is it my kindness or my cruelty you respond to?” His eyes drilled into hers.

“Both,” she whispered. “You are kind, but you are not too kind.”

That was the truth. She responded to his ruthlessness as much as to his kindness. Was Lady Hartwood right, that she would sting herself to death out of sheer perversity?

His face took on a wary look. “You’ve taken pleasure in humiliating me. You did it when you left me in the alley with my pants down around my knees and when you forced me to embrace you dressed as a boy before a crowd of spectators. Is that what gives you pleasure? Or did you treat me that way to let me know that it would please you if I retaliated in kind?”

His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you wish us to retire into a private room so I could chastise you. Do you crave the rod, Temperance? Restraint? The lash? Is that what you want from me?”

Her gut clenched. “Oh no, not that!”

“I see,” he said, but he did not sound convinced.

“You made me stop stealing.” Her words came rushing out. “You’re as strong as I am. Few men are, and those that are—well, they aren’t kind. Not even the way you are. You know what I am, but you don’t despise me. My strength doesn’t frighten you, for you’re fierce, too. But fierce as you are, you have discipline. You stay in control. I like that. Though I can’t make you believe a word I’ve said, I’ve told you the truth, Captain.”

Though, of course, not all of it.

“My friends call me Trev,” he said, not smiling, just as he’d said it that first night in the alley. “I’d like you to do so, too. But though I might like to be kind, I have little to offer you. My time is not at my disposal. In truth, I have little to offer you. Affairs of business call me away, and I can afford you only a few weeks of pleasure before I must leave you behind.”

“That would suit me. I don’t wish to fall in love with you.”

“Because of your beloved ghost?”

She dropped her gaze, unwilling to let him see the pain his words invoked. Carefully, she said, “My love for him has made me wish to avoid ever falling in love again.”

It was not quite a lie, but his honesty made her regret that she had to twist her words. Most men lied with every breath they took. But this man did not. He didn’t pretend to be a saint. He could be as ruthless as she was, and, like herself, he had strong urges. His kisses left no question about that. But, still, he aspired to be an honorable man.

He reached toward her with one sunburnt hand and gently stroked her cheek, sending waves of sensation through her entire body. “So be it,” he said. “I’m not a saint. You’ve worked your magic on me. If you don’t stop me now, I’ll take what you offer. But I must do so in an honorable way.”

He had heard her unspoken thoughts. What else had he heard?

He reached into his breast pocket and carefully extracted something from its depths. Banknotes. He brought them out and looked at them with an expression verging on amusement.

“Here is your fifty pounds. It is yours. It isn’t charity, for I regret that I put you into an untenable situation at the Refuge, and it will soothe my conscience to have you take them.” He pushed away from the table. “But I’ve decided not to buy your services as my mistress.”

Her heart sank. She could no longer pretend she’d offered herself to him to earn her passage to America and escape.

“You don’t want me?”

“I want you too much. But I’m not comfortable with the rash way you left the safety of the Refuge. It would take all the joy out of our connection if I thought you came to me because you had no choice.”

He stood. “I’ve reserved a chamber for you upstairs. I’ll escort you there now and leave you alone. It’s yours. The rent is paid through the end of the week. That should be enough time for you to arrange passage to America if that’s what you really want. It’s not such a bad idea. You could start over there. With your energy and intelligence, you might craft a better life than is possible for you here.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a key, which he handed to her.

As she took it, he peered at her face with the same intensity with which she suspected he would scan the horizon for enemy horsemen. He was listening again as if trying to hear her thoughts. Could he sense the bleakness that swept over her at the thought of leaving him, even for America? Could he sense her dismay at having him strip away all her excuses? He must. Just as he must know that, by offering her this freedom, he’d made it impossible for her to leave him.

He pulled out his watch and consulted it. “It’s two o’ clock now. I’ll be back tonight when the clock strikes seven. If you still want me, leave your door unlocked, and I’ll do my best to give you what pleasure I can in the time that is available to us.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged. “If I find your door locked, I won’t trouble you again.”

Chapter 9

As the church bell struck the last peal of seven, Trev told himself to expect nothing. She wouldn’t be there, or if she was, her door would be locked. Why should she give herself to him now that he’d made it possible for her to be independent? He cursed himself for the strange fit of chivalry that had kept him from taking what she’d finally offered him—this girl whose tall, shapely body had tormented him every night in those dreams where he embraced her only to have her melt away and leave him bereft.

But perhaps that was why he’d done it. He’d had enough of her slipping away from him. He’d had no choice but to call her bluff. At least he’d made certain that if by some miracle she was still here, and her door was open, it would be because she really wanted him.

When he saw the light shining through the crack at the bottom of her door, his heartbeat quickened. But he must not assume she was waiting within. She might have neglected to extinguish her candle before leaving. And even if she was here, it didn’t mean she’d let him in. She might take perverse pleasure in observing his frustration as he fruitlessly tried the lock. He felt a lump swell in his throat as he reached toward the knob. But when he twisted it and gave a slight push, the door swung open, and he stepped over the threshold.

She was still there.

She was sitting where he’d left her, in one of the rough wooden chairs that furnished the small chamber, which also contained a washstand table, a small corner cupboard, and the narrow bed placed against one distempered wall, on which he’d planned to take his pleasure with her. As he entered, she put down her book, met his eyes, and smiled.

She had let down her honey gold hair. It fell in glossy waves at both sides of her parting. The blush that crimsoned both of her cheeks betrayed her excitement. Her eyes were the color of the sea off Portugal after a storm, their gray fading into green in the warm light of the single candle that illuminated the room.

She rose to greet him, opening her arms wide to invite him into her embrace. He flung himself into them and hungrily sought her lips. As their bodies pressed close, her hips lifted against his as he sucked her tongue into his mouth. He couldn’t get enough of her. She was his at last, pliant and yielding. His cock strained against the leather of his breeches. And yet even as his thoughts dissolved into wordless, animal hunger, something warned him to slow down.

His instincts again.

He broke from their embrace, feeling her shock when he pulled away. She tried to draw him back, enfolding him in her arms more tightly and lifting her plump lips, swollen now with her need for him, toward his. There was something frantic about the way she did it, as if she felt she must rush to the final consummation, unable to savor the journey. She seemed desperate to bring their passion to a conclusion.

This was too easy after what had come before.

“There will be plenty of time for pleasure later on,” he said, pulling down his tunic and straightening his tall shako, which her embrace had knocked askew. “First, I have planned a treat for you.”

“A treat?”

“A taste of oriental pleasures. Do you recall how you asked me about curry, that first night we met?”

Her eyes shifted, their color deepening to stormy gray. “You warned me it might cause pain—”

“There can be pain with—curry” he said, giving the word an emphasis intended to make her question exactly what it was he was actually referring to. “Especially the first time. ’Til you get used to it.”

Her eyes widened, revealing her anxiety. She wasn’t sure what he meant—as he’d intended. He relaxed. It was a deplorable way of reestablishing control, but it had worked, and he felt less at her mercy. She’d used misdirection at the masquerade when she’d made him think she dwelled in a bordello. Now the shoe was on the other foot.

“I long for curry,” he said. “And to share it with you.” He paused for a beat, skewering her with his gaze. “Do you think you can bear it?”

The color fled her cheeks. “I—I don’t know.”

“Then indulge me,” he said. “If you would be my Scheherazade, you must be willing to explore the secrets of the East with me. You can trust me, can you not?” He lifted one brow. “As I can trust you?”

Her eyes shifted. She was definitely hiding something.

As Temperance turned to get the pelisse that hung on a hook by the door, her emotions were in turmoil. Why hadn’t she taken his fifty pounds and fled when he’d given her the chance? She must have been mad. What had possessed her to give in to the treacherous yearning for a man? Hadn’t Randall’s betrayal taught her anything? And if she must yearn for a man, why must it be this man, whom she’d riled up with her lies and trickery?

He was toying with her now, parrying each move she made to get control of him with one of his own. Her kiss had not swept away his control. He was still wary of her. It was she who was in danger of being swept away. Her body still throbbed with the need he’d fanned into a blaze with his kiss, and she was wet and hungry for him, even knowing now, where it might lead her.

And he knew it, too. He had warned her in the coffeehouse that he was cruel. He’d reminded her of the humiliation she’d dished out when she had held the upper hand. He’d offered her freedom and told her to think out her choice with care. Had she missed the message he’d tried to convey? Had she agreed to something she hadn’t understood?

She steeled herself to endure what lay ahead. Perhaps she would prove to be that scorpion stinging herself to death out of sheer spite. But she wouldn’t give in to her fear. She’d endured what had followed after she’d given herself to Randall. Let Trev do with her what he would. She would survive that, too.

Perhaps there would be pleasure in the torment he had planned for her. She’d heard of such things from the girls at Mother Bristwick’s. But it wasn’t likely. Her short life had already been filled with too much pain, and it had never turned to pleasure, just into more pain, no matter how much she forced herself to ignore it. Sometimes, theft made it better for a while, but then it would come back, more strongly than before.

“I’m ready to taste your curry,” she said, facing her tormentor.

“Good,” he said, keeping his eyes from meeting hers. He put on the gloves a gentleman always wore, taking her hand in his only after his warm flesh had been sheathed in cool leather. Did he hope it might protect him from any power she might posses in her touch? Then he led her down the stairs and down the street, to the stand where they found a hansom cab.

The cab let them off at a plain building in a nondescript street. Trev took her hand again and led her toward a doorway that revealed no hint of what lay inside. Its anonymity was disturbing. He knocked, and moments later, the door swung open. A short, dark-complected man wearing a turban greeted them in a voice that bore a thick accent she did not recognize. He bowed rapidly and exchanged a few words with her companion in an outlandish tongue. Trev replied in the same language though his accent was subtly different from that of the turbaned man, who ignored her completely, carefully averting his eyes from her. Was it because he knew what would come next?

A strong scent of exotic spices wafted through the reception room in which they stood. As her nostrils quivered at the pleasing odor, she closed her eyes for a moment. Truly, it would be a relief to find out what Trev wanted and to give it to him. Far better than imagining it.

Trev extended one hand and led her to a doorway draped in thick woven hangings patterned with paisley, like a costly shawl her stepmother had owned, worn only for show and that rarely. He parted the curtain with his hands, lifting the heavy brocade to make an opening for her to pass through. It did not escape her that the thick drapes would muffle sound.

The room inside was draped from floor to ceiling with more hangings, giving it the feel of a tent. Small oil lamps placed in the corners cast a pale glow over the ruby red silk laced with golden thread that surrounded them. Tiny bits of mirrors were set into the ceiling, scattering the rays of the lamps. A low table no higher than her knees was surrounded by huge cushions backed by piles of pillows. The cushions looked deep and soft. Perfect for love play. A long, thin stick smoldered in a brass holder, giving off an intoxicating vanilla-like scent.

“Incense,” he explained, “to stimulate the senses.”

She peered into the shadows, but to her relief saw no objects there to cause alarm, just brass jars and small paintings in frames.

He motioned for her to sit on one of the cushions. Uneasily, she did so, but as she neared him, the closest of the paintings came into focus. It depicted a man and woman in oriental garb whose limbs were wrapped around each other in an unlikely posture as they indulged in the sexual act. The man’s penis was improbably long. Trev smiled as he caught her observing the painting. She blushed and looked away, and then wished she hadn’t when she heard him laugh.

He settled himself on the cushion beside her. Very close beside her. Her body tingled as her desire rose in response to the lascivious painting. The vanilla-scented smoke seemed to penetrate her body, intensifying her hunger. He caught her eye, and his scarred lip quirked up in a half smile. She forced herself to smile back, fighting for control, and feeling as she did so the way each breath she took enhanced the curve of her bosom, so visible in the low-cut gown. His eyes dropped to her cleavage appreciatively. Then his eyes met hers again, and he asked, “Are you ready to taste curry?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

His tongue flicked out and brushed his upper lip, unspeakably suggestive. She heard the air rushing into his lungs as he breathed in deeply, inhaling the scented air. But he made no move toward her. Was he expecting her to make the first move? Boldly, she leaned toward him and cupped his cheek with one hand, surprised at how smooth it felt. He must have shaved right before he came to get her. At her touch, his eyes dropped shut for a moment. He was liking this. As her fingertips brushed over the sensitive skin just in front of his ear, he gave a delighted shiver. Then he grasped her hand in his and restored it to her lap.

“There will be time for that later. Now it is time for—curry. Rajiv is a master of that art. It is time to surrender ourselves to his skill.”

“Rajiv?” Surely he wasn’t going to include the turbaned man in their love play. But how could she make any such assumption? She had no way of knowing what she’d got herself into. This was no longer the London she knew. And this man? She’d been mad to think she understood him.

“If that is what you wish,” she whispered.

“On then, to savor his cooking.” He clapped his hands loudly, twice.

“Cooking?” she repeated, idiotically, her voice shaking with the fear she’d been repressing.

“Of course. Curry must be cooked.” A mischievous look swept over his face. “We are going to dine together, aren’t we? What did you expect?”

Ravishment. Torment. Terrifying sexual practices unknown even to the girls at Mother Bristwick’s.

As he had meant her to. His eyes twinkled now, their twilight blue deepening to slate, and he was with difficulty repressing a smile. The bastard! He had been playing with her, paying her back in her own coin for the trick she’d played on him when she’d lured him to the Refuge.

But as her heartbeat slowed, she couldn’t but admire the elegance of the trick he’d played on her. She felt a broad smile twist her features as she fought back laughter. He might be a bastard, but he was a bastard who spoke her language—and spoke it as fluently as he spoke the lingo of their exotic host.

A small boy parted the curtains, and Rajiv entered, bearing a large brass tray loaded with covered dishes from which steam still issued. He set it down on the low table, bowed like a genie from The Arabian Nights, and withdrew to leave them to their feast.

“Curry!” Trev sighed happily. “It has been months since I’ve had a decent curry. Rajiv is famous for his. He came to England years ago as a general’s servant, and on his death used the legacy his master left him to open this private restaurant. He serves only those who are referred to him by others. My friend, Major Stanley, was kind enough to put a word in for me.

He lifted the lid on one dish, sniffed appreciatively, and placed the lid to the side. Next he unwrapped what turned out to be a pile of flat breads wrapped in an embroidered cloth and took one, broke off a piece, and dipped its corner in the greenish mixture.

“Take only a small bite,” he warned. “I asked Rajiv to make this mild enough for an Englishwoman, but like all Hindus, his definition of mild can be surprising.”

She took the bread and lifted it to her mouth, sniffing it before venturing to take a bite. The scent was complex and unfamiliar, but enticing, nonetheless. She licked at the dollop of curry on the bread. The flavors exploded on her tongue, spicy, sweet, and pungent all at once. And hot. Extremely hot. She swallowed, feeling the heat make its way down her throat.

“Oh my!” she said when at last she could speak.

“This may help.” He handed her a glass of watery juice. She took a sip. It had an odd fruity taste, unlike anything she’d ever tried before. “This curry is wonderful,” she said. “If I close my eyes, I can imagine myself in India.”

“This is but the faintest echo of the magic of the East.” He broke off another piece, dipped it, and gave himself up to savoring the flavor. “Were we really in India, you’d not be hearing the feeble chirps of London starlings but the sharp warble of the bulbul and perhaps the distant growl of tigers.”

“Tigers. How beautiful they must be!”

“And deadly, don’t forget that. They eat unwary women when they come down to the river to do their wash. But they are beautiful, as is so much in India. Beautiful and deadly. An Indian fever can turn a hearty man into a corpse within a day. You’re so much safer here. Englishwomen do not take well to India. They waste away and long for the cold potatoes and boiled sausages of home.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps. You are courageous.” His unexpected praise warmed her like the curry.

He reached for the cover on another of the dishes. “This one might be stronger. Take only a tiny taste.”

She did. It was almost too much for her, but he relished the bite he took of it though after he savored another spoonful he, too, reached for his glass of the fruity drink and swirled it around in his mouth. His tongue and lips must be on fire.

“Is it too hot even for you?” she asked.

“It’s never too hot for me.” He grinned, and the lamplight made the copper highlights surrounding his pupils twinkle. She wondered what it would be like to kiss his lips while they still burned with the bite of the curry. Would it burn her or make her burn for him?

“Rajiv has baked you a pheasant in the Indian fashion. It is a mild dish. Here, let me serve you.”

He put the small plate before her, where small pieces of fowl, skinned, disjointed, and tinted an unusual shade of red, lay on top of a bed of saffron-colored rice. As he gave her the food, he leaned toward her, his lips so near she could have leaned over and kissed them. With difficulty, she suppressed the impulse to do so. He helped himself to another dish, spooning some of it onto her plate, too, and motioned her to dig in.

As they ate their way through the delicious meal, he didn’t gobble his food, as so many men did, but gave his attention to each bite, enjoyed it, and moved on. She wondered if he would bring the same attention to his lovemaking. When he had eaten enough, he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half-closed. A satisfied smile flitted across his lips.

He looked as if he had already had sex. As if he didn’t need it. As if he didn’t need her. He wallowed in his satisfaction for a few moments, then he asked her if she was done, and when she said she was, he clapped his hands loudly, three times, to summon Rajiv.

In heavily accented English, the man asked, ”Did Bichchu enjoy his repast?” At Trev’s reply, he bowed, loaded the dishes onto the tray, and removed them. The boy who had followed him into the dining chamber pulled the table away from the divan on which they reclined. Then the two foreigners withdrew.

“He will leave us undisturbed until I summon him again,” Trev informed her.

“Why did he call you Bichchu? Does that mean ‘master’ in his language?”

“No. It’s the nickname they gave me in India. It means, The Scorpion.”

The Scorpion, which Lady Hartwood had called the symbol of her self-destruction. “Why?”

His indigo eyes widened under the deep hollows beneath his brow, “The scorpion has six eyes. He sees everything.” He paused, and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, added, “Soldiers call each other by such names. It started out as a joke.”

But it was not a joke now, and they both knew it. And she knew just how much he saw with those eyes of his, whose color deepened in the light of the oil lamps like cloth left too long in the vat. He’d stripped her soul naked, and he knew the impact he was having on her. Her lips still burned slightly from the last of the curry. He was so close, she could breathe its spicy aura on his lips. He reached toward her and ran one strong finger along the delicate skin by her ear, where she had stroked him before, back when she’d been so afraid of what it might be that he wanted from her. Her skin prickled at his featherlight touch.

“Do your lips still burn?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Perhaps I can soothe them.”

He leaned toward her, and his lips met hers, parting them with the tip of his tongue. It was hot—hot with spice, and hot with the warmth of rising blood. She sucked hungrily at him and felt his tongue swell in her mouth, pulsing and sending waves of desire throughout her body. His hands cupped her breasts, kneading them through the thin fabric. Her nipples hardened as his thumbs pressed against the stiff peaks, which rose to meet his touch. He was responding to her unspoken desire, and once again, she was losing control.

She struggled to regain it. Much as she wanted him, she feared to give herself entirely into his power. She pulled away slightly, and when she did, he didn’t attempt to draw her back but waited patiently until she got up the courage to rejoin him. Then he savored her kiss the way he had each mouthful of their feast, with the same unhurried calm.

He would enjoy her, but he wouldn’t let himself need her. He wouldn’t let himself lose control any more than she would if she had a choice.

But he gave her no choice. He kissed her until she thought she must tear off her clothes and fling herself on him, so strong was the hunger he’d aroused in her. But he still made no move to remove her garments or his own. She reached for the swelling bulge barely contained by his buckskins, brushing her fingers across it, provocatively. He grasped her wrist and gently lifted her hand away. As he had when he’d stopped her from stealing at the masquerade.

“Not yet,” he said, smiling that tormenting half smile of his. “Curry must be savored in small bites. Let us linger over every step as we get to know each other better.”

He was holding her off. Charmingly, gracefully, but effectively. He had found a way to control her, and he was using it. He was playing her game, better than she played it. The sense that they understood each other deepened. Then he drew away, pausing like a cat poised above a rat hole. He wanted something from her, and it wasn’t her body. He had that already, and he knew it. He wanted something more.

“I will take you, Temperance, and then I will leave you for my chosen bride. By this time next year, I will be ten thousand miles away. I pledge you nothing. And yet you want me. You are beautiful. You are clever. You could do better than me—far better. Why do you need to be punished?” he demanded. “What is it that you’ve done?”

Trev saw her shrink back at his question. It had touched her to the core as no sexual move of his could have done. She’d been willing to strip herself naked and let him possess her body even if it meant suffering pain. But she hadn’t expected this. She was retreating now, hiding her soul in the same tattered covering she’d already pulled so tightly around her heart, unwilling to show him that kind of nakedness.

But he must make her do it. His body burned for her, but he had disciplined his body to suffer hunger and thirst, for without discipline, a soldier died young. He could ignore the throbbing in his loins. He could endure pain that dwarfed this insistent craving. A soldier must learn to ignore pain if he was to survive amid the agonies of battle.

But she’d penetrated too deeply within his own defenses for him to be satisfied with just possessing her body. He must understand how she’d done what no other woman had ever done—how she’d made him drop his guard. What was it about her he was reacting to? Why had he been so close to tears when he’d twisted the knob of her door, convinced he’d find her gone? He must learn why, so he could keep it from ever happening again.

“What have you done,” he repeated, “that you would let me become an instrument of punishment? That’s not what I want to be. Yet you would have let me hurt you. And even when I try to be gentle, you hurry me and urge me to take you before we have a chance to know each other. Why? Is it because you can’t pardon yourself for being unfaithful to your dead lover?”

She flinched.

“Were you faithful to him while he lived?”

She nodded. But as she did, her gray eyes grew more luminous as the tear she was trying to suppress escaped and hung for a moment on the edge of her lashes.

“And he. Was he faithful to you?”

The tear rolled down her cheek.

Bastard. “He must have been a brave man to betray you. I should think twice before offering you such an insult. How did he dare do such a thing knowing your strength?”

Her answer was spoken in a voice that was barely a whisper. “I trusted him too much. But he didn’t believe in marriage. He said we must live in freedom, not like slaves, and that fidelity was just a form of slavery.”

How convenient for the man. “Was he the first?”

Again, she nodded.

“How old were you?

“Almost sixteen.”

So very young. Too young. “Where did you meet him?”

“At the fair in our village. He’d brought his crew with him—it was as close to a holiday as he’d allow them. He said it was good to travel around and learn the people’s mind. While the girls went out a-knuckling, he’d get people talking to him, pretending to tell their fortunes.”

“Did he tell you yours?”

“He said I would marry a wealthy man just like my father and give birth to more parasites to prey upon the workers.” She blinked back another tear.

“An odd way to make love to a woman.”

“He wasn’t making love to me. He was making revolution. He said I was just an empty-headed rich girl. I said that was a lie. I told him I would prove it. He laughed and said I couldn’t give myself to a poor man.”

“Did you prove that was a lie, too?”

She bit her upper lip and looked down.

Clever bastard, but he said only, “And where was your mother in all this? Too busy oppressing the workers to notice?”

“She died at my birth. I was raised by the woman my father married later. She spent her time praying for God to soften my hard heart, so I might not sin and fall into the fiery pit.”

“But you did sin, didn’t you. You sinned when you gave yourself to this man without marriage. Why?”

She bit her lip and said nothing for a long time. Then she took a deep breath. “At the fair, Randall had told me there was a book I must read, The Rights of Man. He said he’d bring it to me that night if I’d meet him behind the stables. So I did. But my father found us together and went after Randall with a horsewhip.” She shook her head as if trying to get rid of the memory. “Then he used it on me. He went mad, he did, and called me filthy names not even the stableboys would use.”

She stopped. Only the way her chest was heaving betrayed the emotion she had kept out of her voice.

Gently, he prodded her. “What happened next?”

Her eyes had taken on a pleading look. “I was so innocent, I didn’t even know what it was my father thought I’d done. I’d only let Randall kiss me—nothing more, and I didn’t know, back then, what came after kissing. But when he was done whipping me, my father dragged me home and locked me in my room. So I showed him. I smashed out the window and escaped. I found Randall at the fair and begged him to take me back with him to London.” A faraway look had come over her face. She hesitated. “He didn’t want to, not at first, but I convinced him.”

“Was it then that you found out what it was your father thought you’d done?”

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, I gave Randall my maidenhead that night.”

“Did he love you?”

“I thought he did.”

When she opened them again, her eyes had lost their sparkle. Her words had been oddly chosen. He’d lay a pony on it—there was a secret buried here—but he gave up his probing for the moment. He’d disturbed her enough—and himself, too.

This lover of hers had been a scoundrel and her great love a tawdry affair. He was glad the bastard was dead. He’d taken her innocence from her, not just her virginity. He ached for girl she had once been, vibrant with ideals, whose courage had not been equal to a scoundrel’s cunning. He wished he could soothe her even though it was his own merciless probing that caused her pain. He yearned to enfold her in his arms, tenderly, and offer her comfort.

But he resisted the impulse. The curve of her breast was too enticing. He didn’t trust himself to offer her only comfort. If he were to touch the downy softness of her skin, he might not be able to stop himself, and he must—else he would be no better than this Randall of hers had been.

But that wasn’t the only reason he must leave her untouched. For when he’d stripped away her defenses and forced her to reveal the bleeding wound that was her heart, he’d torn open his own wounds, too. Her pain echoed with his own, as different as its cause might be. She wasn’t the only one whose heart was raw and naked. If they were to make love while both were so exposed, far more than just their bodies might merge—and, after a few brief weeks, he would have to leave her. It would deepen her wound.

It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t do it.

She reclined against the sensuous cushions on which he had planned to take his pleasure with her, her head thrown back, her swanlike neck curving down to the delicate collarbone, beneath which rose the mounds of her perfect breasts. She arched her back, making those breasts more prominent, with a motion that was intended to distract him.

She’d had more than enough of the pain he’d evoked in her. Now she was doing what she’d done before when he’d made her feel too much—offering him her beautiful body in that cold, flirtatious way, to arouse him to where he could think of nothing but taking his own pleasure, to make him stop asking her more questions.

He wouldn’t respond to that temptation. He wouldn’t take her now. He pulled away from her.

“You don’t want me, now that you’ve heard my story?” Her voice sounded so young, like that of a hurt child.

“I don’t know what I want. But you deserve more than what I can give you. You need more.”

His cock disagreed—it would take a lot more than a pang of conscience to cool the lust awakened by her perfect body. But he was more than a cock, more than the mindless need that drove him to plunge himself into a woman until he was satisfied. He wished he weren’t. He wished he could take what she offered him and be done with it. It was what any other man would do. But he wasn’t another man.

A scoundrel had taken her with no care for what he’d done, playing on her youth and her idealism and teaching her she was wrong to ask for love or faithfulness. He wouldn’t worsen the damage that man had done.

“You need love,” he said. “You need fidelity.” But he did not say the rest of it, that she needed to join the glory of what she was with a man bold enough to join with her not only with his body but with his soul. That for him to give her less than that would be to make her in truth what she pretended to be—a hardened woman of the world, resigned to using her magnificent gifts to tempt and manipulate. If he took what she was offering, he’d be no better than that man who had taken her childhood from her.

She stretched one hand toward him, desperately—not to flirt with him, but as if she would sink if he didn’t grasp it. He left it alone. He’d already fallen twice for the illusion he might rescue her, and neither attempt at rescue had done more than draw them both into deeper danger.

He stood. “It’s getting late, and Rajiv must be wanting to shut up shop.” He smoothed out his tunic. “Let me take you back to your lodging.”

Chapter 10

He had expected the ride back to her lodgings to be awkward, but once he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t accept anything from her that night but her company, she’d relaxed and dropped some of the flirtatiousness with which she’d been trying to control him. Once or twice, he’d got a glimpse of the woman she might become if she could only leave off playing the games that so consumed her. But even so, his new resolve hadn’t dampened the desire he felt in her presence, and it had been a relief to bid her good night.

His mother was still up when he returned to Keppel Street.

“So there you are at last!” she greeted him. “There’s been such a to-do. A messenger brought this letter for you and demanded I tell him where you were, but I’m sure I couldn’t, for I certainly didn’t know. It was quite vexing how the man carried on—as if I were hiding something. Some people don’t trust anyone!”

One glance at the seal told him it was from Fanshawe. He hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon. What could he want?

A meeting, it turned out. This very night. No delay was possible, the under secretary wrote. He’d be at his office until way past midnight and must ask Captain Trevelyan to attend him there as soon as possible. A matter had come up he must discuss with him immediately—and only in person.

He sighed. The style was one he’d encountered before when working for Sir Charles. These men who directed secret missions had an unquenchable thirst for midnight meetings and assignations in improbable places, almost always unnecessary. He must count himself fortunate the letter had not been written in invisible ink. It was unlikely the matter about which Fanshawe had summoned him would require so dramatic a treatment. But perhaps the man was testing him, to ensure he was more than a dabbler.

Whatever the explanation, it made him feel better about having let his compunctions get in the way of taking his affair with Temperance to its logical conclusion. If he had spent the night with her, he’d have missed the appointment and left Fanshawe with a poor impression of his commitment. It had been a lucky impulse that had brought him home early, after all.

He was about to take his leave of his mother, when she said, “I went to see that astrologer woman, the other day.”

“Lady Hartwood?”

“Yes, the one who found Lady Pemberton’s emeralds. Everyone goes to see her now—she’s become all the rage. Though she’s a bit eccentric, she’s definitely one of us, so one can tell her things one simply couldn’t tell a Gypsy. And she can answer any question with just the horoscopes she casts.”

His hand tightened on Fanshawe’s letter as he asked, “And what did she tell you?”

His mother made a moue. “That’s the provoking part. I gave her your birth information, and she erected a chart, but she refused to find you a match. She said it wouldn’t be right to attempt it unless you came and asked her yourself. She did condescend to look at my nativity and promised I would live to see my grandchildren. But how I am to get them when you will not lift a finger to find a bride, I do not know.”

“You must ask the stars,” he said with a wry grin, and went upstairs to prepare for his meeting with Fanshawe.

When Trev arrived at the East India Company building on Leadenhall Street, he found Mr. Fanshawe awaiting him in his office. The half-eaten sandwich lying on his desk amid the carefully piled pouches of dispatches signaled he had been working throughout the evening and would keep on working throughout the night, were that to be required. After welcoming Trev, he got right to the point. “We’ve had a change in plan.”

“Are you calling off my visit to the nabob?” The unworthy thought crossed his mind that this would give him more time to spend with Temperance.

But the under secretary quickly dashed his hopes. “Just the opposite. We’ve moved up its date. You must set forth for Sir Humphrey’s estate at the end of this week.”

Again he found himself grateful that he had followed his instincts and left Temperance alone. It would have been too painful for them both had he started something with her, then had to abandon her immediately.

“There’s something else.” Fanshawe cleared his throat. “I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you, but we have no other choice. Once you’ve taken possession of the jewel, we must ask you to deliver it to its owner in person.”

“But he is in India.”

Fanshawe nodded. “Exactly. But those who would foil our plans have stepped up their activity. We can’t afford to risk having the jewel fall into their hands, so we need this affair to be handled by a man of your experience.”

“But my leave—”

“—is over.” The under secretary tented his hands on the desk. “It’s regrettable that you must cut it short when it has only just started, but if we fail to deliver the jewel to the Nawab of Bundilore, it will mean war. You are the only man we have on hand who has the right combination of skills to get the job done, so we must ask you to make this sacrifice.”

Trev swallowed hard. Had this been the plan all along? It might explain why Sir Charles had been so helpful in arranging his leave. But he couldn’t suppress a flash of anger. He’d earned this leave. He wasn’t ready to embark on another grueling six-month voyage when he was only just recovering from the first.

Not only that, but to return immediately would make a liar out of him, for he’d have no chance to find the wife he’d promised his mother he’d wed. But he fought these selfish thoughts. A soldier might be asked at any moment to give up his life in service to King and Country. How could he complain when all he’d been asked to sacrifice was his leave?

He forced himself to attend as Fanshawe sketched out the details he would need to know to carry out the mission, and nodded as he committed them to memory one by one.

“Good then,” Fanshawe said. “We’ve deposited a generous amount to an account in your name at Threadneedle Street. That should be sufficient for any needs that might arise, and, may also, we hope, compensate you for the sacrifice you are being asked to make.”

He made a show of shuffling through the pile of papers before him to signal their interview was coming to an end.

Trev had been right. The matter was one that could have waited until morning, but he didn’t begrudge the man his bit of drama. He was a paper wallah, and this was perhaps the most excitement his job afforded him. It was the men like himself who carried out their missions who had all the adventures. He straightened his tunic, preparing to rise, but as he did, the under secretary held out one beautifully manicured hand to stop him.

“One more thing, Captain. Word has reached us from our forces on the street that you’ve formed a connection with a person of some concern.”

It took him a moment to figure out who the man was referring to. “You refer, of course, to Miss Smith?”

“Temperance Smith, yes. The details aren’t clear, but we believe her to be an agent of a shadowy character who calls himself ‘the Weaver.’ ”

“A Radical?” The name would suggest it, and Temperance had made no secret of her political sympathies. “Are the Radicals trying to get their hands on the jewel?”

“No. The Weaver isn’t driven by idealism, no matter how misguided. He serves only the highest bidder. In the past, it has been us, but this time we are fairly certain he is in the pay of the party who is trying to keep us from returning the jewel to its rightful owner.”

Trev’s guts roiled as the implications of this struck home. “Then am I to conclude that Temperance, too, is in the pay of our adversary?”

The man nodded. “That would appear to be the case. She was observed to meet with the Weaver’s henchman, Snake, shortly after improving her acquaintance with you.”

It took a moment to recover the ability to breathe as the blade twisting in his chest slashed through the strong but invisible cords he learned only now bound him to the wily pickpocket. He felt like an utter fool. How cock-smitten had he let himself become that he could have been so taken in? All along, his instincts had told him she was hiding something. Yet he’d found excuse after excuse to ignore them.

He kept his tone level so as to betray none of the emotion he was feeling. “I shall cut off her acquaintance at once.”

“That would be a mistake. It could signal that we are aware of the Weaver’s involvement in the affair, which is the last thing we want to do. Our enemy must believe she has duped you. That will preserve the safety of our agents working the street, and more importantly, it will keep the Weaver from sending out another agent whose identity we don’t know.”

“So you are ordering me to keep up my association with the woman?”

“Absolutely. You must keep her as close to you as possible until you are ready to embark for India with the jewel—and you must give her no sign that you have learned of her intentions. Now that you know what she plans, you should have no difficulty in keeping her from stealing it even though she’s a highly skilled pickpocket—you knew that, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, allowing no hint of emotion to seep into his voice even as he cursed himself for a looby. Though he’d known of her vocation, he’d ignored its implications. Shame washed over him at this evidence of how easily he’d been manipulated—he who had thought himself so skilled at political intrigue. She’d made him look like an amateur.

A wave of nausea swept through him as he remembered how innocent she’d looked tonight as she’d turned up those tear-stained eyes to him and told that pathetic tale of hers. It had probably been a fiction from start to finish, meant to achieve exactly what it had accomplished—to prevent him from forcing his unwanted attentions on her. She must be gloating now over how she’d spared herself yet again from having to submit to his embraces—loathsome to her, no doubt.

Though if the time came when she had to give herself to him in order to serve this Weaver person, he imagined she’d do it. How ironic that loyalty to her master was yet another quality she shared in common with himself.

It horrified him how skillfully she’d identified his vulnerabilities and how she’d used them not merely to make him crave that enticing body of hers, but to want so much more. That was what was so unforgivable—the way she’d made him yearn to meet her soul to soul.

He did what he could to shake off his dismay. At least he hadn’t betrayed any secrets to her. His training had been good enough to prevent that.

“I must warn you,” the under secretary added, “that though we have good reason to think she is the one they’re sending to steal the jewel, there is a small possibility we’re wrong. So you must stay alert to other threats. Anyone you meet might be working for our opponent. Trust no one.”

“You need have no fears about that, sir.” He had no intention of ever trusting anyone again. But it was a good thing he would be returning to India so soon. He would never have dropped his guard like this there. It was the unfamiliarity of London that had lulled him into making such a basic error—that and all those months spent on the voyage without a woman.

By God, he’d learned his lesson. Once he was back with his regiment, he’d find himself a complaisant bibi, and praise God each morning for her inert stupidity. He’d had enough of strong and independent Englishwomen.

But that made him think of an issue Fanshawe hadn’t addressed. “If I’m to keep an eye on her, I must take her with me when I go to visit Sir Humphrey. But won’t it be an unforgivable insult to introduce my mistress into his society?”

“It might be, to a normal man, perhaps. But there’s a reason they call him the Mad Nabob. The man keeps a harem. Hint that you’ve brought the girl along as a gift in the Eastern manner, and he will more than welcome her.”

Fanshawe rose, signaling that this time the interview really was over. “Our people on the street do an excellent job, don’t they, Captain? We had word of who she was within an hour of her meeting with the Weaver’s man.”

“Yes, sir. Very excellent indeed.”

As he made his way out to the street, he told himself he should be grateful. No harm had been done, and the department’s agents had, indeed, saved him from making a mistake that would have cost him his career.

But just now, he found it difficult to rejoice.

Chapter 11

She must have dozed off, for the candle he’d left her with had burnt down to a flickering stub in its brass holder when the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside her chamber brought her fully awake. Temperance dismissed them as belonging to another lodger returning from a late-night ramble, until a rap on the door made her sit bolt upright in the bed.

“Let me in.” His voice.

So he had changed his mind, after all, and returned to complete what he’d begun. It didn’t surprise her, considering how she’d spent the hours since he’d left her alone so unexpectedly. For she’d tossed and turned, burning with the unsatisfied longing he’d aroused in her at Rajiv’s, telling herself it was all for the best that he’d not taken what she’d offered but unable to believe it. And now he was back.

At least she had recovered herself in his absence, here in this simple room away from the intoxicating scents and luxuriant furnishings of that Indian bower. It would be easier for her to keep from being swept away as she had been when he’d shown such unexpected curiosity about who she was and why she was giving herself to him.

His compassion had tempted her to open her heart to him, which would have been a grave mistake. She was glad he’d ended things before that could happen. Now she must take care to give him only what she could afford to give and nothing else.

She bade him enter, realizing as she did so how she must look to him, lying in bed, dressed only in her shift, in the room that he had paid for. Her tresses, unbound for sleep, tumbled down her shoulders, still clean and shining from the Refuge’s luxurious baths. Earlier, she had dabbed on her favorite orange scent, but now she wished she hadn’t. Whores wore scent. He might be leaving in a matter of weeks, but for those few weeks she wanted to be more than that to him.

As he entered, she reached instinctively for the counterpane, feeling defenseless in her nakedness. He closed the door and paused, taking in her dishabille. He looked strained.

Perhaps he was tired. It had been a long day, but whatever the explanation, like herself, he seemed to have recovered something he’d lost in the perfumed cloud of sensuality that had enveloped them at Rajiv’s. His guard was back up.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. His deep voice was harsher than she remembered it.

For a moment, she thought he might turn on his heel and leave. There was no trace now of the anticipation that had brought such fire to his eye when they had dined together. He looked stern and disciplined. Whatever had happened during the time they had spent apart tonight had brought out the soldier in him. This was not the man who had charmed her but a few hours before, whose curry-tinged kisses had been so enticing.

He hesitated at the doorway, looking as if he was going to turn on his heel and leave her again. The gust of disappointment that swept through her as he did told her how much she had been deluding herself that she had regained her self-possession.

But he did not leave. Instead, he took a step toward the bed. She tensed, but the bed was not his destination. Instead, he stopped and grasped a battered chair that stood against the wall and dragged it to the middle of the room. Seating himself on it, he pointed to his boot saying, “I’ll need your assistance.”

She clambered out of the bed, knelt before him, and grasped the heavy boot—carefully, to avoid the sharp spurs. As he towered over her, she tugged at it. It resisted. The posture made her feel small and vulnerable, and very much like a servant. But it was also strangely exciting. He was her master. Things would go as he wished.

There was something indomitable about him now that was new to her. Something that terrified her and attracted her at the same time.

All at once, his boot slipped off. The recoil sent her rocking backward, and her shift flew up. She was naked beneath it and she felt herself redden as he took in the view. But his face remained impassive, and he made no response but to present her with his other booted leg. She tucked her shift beneath her knees to secure it before she grasped it, overcome by a burst of modesty. When his second boot was off, he set them both to the side, stood, and replaced the chair by the wall, still silent.

She retreated to the bed and seated herself on the edge. He didn’t follow her. He lifted one hand to the white leather belt that crossed his tunic from shoulder to waist before stopping with his hand poised in the air, as if once again he was fighting against taking the next step. Then, again, he took it. Slowly—very slowly—he undid the fastenings of the belt, removed it, and hung it carefully over the back of the chair, keeping his eye on her the whole time. His fingers moved next to the front of his officer’s tunic, drifting past the gleaming bars of gold braid that spanned his broad chest until they settled on the topmost button.

Languidly, he pushed it through its hole, pausing before he advanced to the next. As each successive button was undone, the tunic dropped away, revealing the waistcoat beneath. When he had finished with the last button, he shrugged his way out of the garment and hung it neatly on the back of the chair.

As he removed these outward symbols of his profession, every gesture made his discipline more apparent. He was a soldier through and through. Not even passion could make him hurry. It was as if he knew, even now, that what was about to happen would eventually be over and that, when it was, he would need to don once again this coat and waistcoat and that, when he did, they must be flawless.

He did not undress like a man overcome with lust, yet the relentless control he displayed as he slowly revealed his body excited her. She had never sensed such animal strength in a man. Her breathing quickened as she sniffed the faint hint of male musk he gave off.

His waistcoat joined the tunic on the chair. He wore only a thin linen shirt beneath it. As he unwound the black neckcloth wrapped around his collar, its color echoed the darkness of his indigo eyes. The neckcloth had hidden the thick tuft of curling black fur at the base of the deep slit V at his shirt’s neck. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

He stopped, and she realized he was watching her watching him. His lips tightened, and the scar above them grew whiter. Employing the same exaggerated slowness with which he had removed his tunic, he reached for the hem of his shirt and stripped it off, revealing knotted arm muscles that gleamed in the candlelight as if oiled, each one distinct and corded with thick veins.

She had seen arms like that on the men who worked in the blacksmith’s shop attached to her father’s factory and on men who labored in his fields at harvesttime. His arms rippled as he flung the shirt on the chair.

How had she dared to flirt with such a man? How had she managed to elude him so long when all along this steel had been hidden at his core? Now he would take from her what he wanted. She no longer had any choice about it. But though this should have terrified her, the sheer power of his body still drew her to him. She longed to feel those arms crush her against his chest, longed to feel herself at his mercy, longed for him to possess her.

What was wrong with her?

This was not the charming man whose eyes had sparkled as he had flirted with her before. This was not the man she had felt safe with, whom she could control with the tools that had always worked for her before: her beauty and her willingness to take risks.

She didn’t feel safe with him. She didn’t understand what he was doing now, or why it was having such a strong effect on her. There was no need for him to tease her like this. Had he not already learned he could reduce her to a quivering mass of longing with just a single kiss? She had nearly given herself to him at Rajiv’s. He didn’t need to draw this out so slowly.

And yet he did. Something was making him move at this determined pace. What was he about to do to her that required him to find such strength within himself?

His hand dropped to the button that fastened one corner of his buckskin britches. With thumb and two fingers, he grasped it, the thick muscle of his forearm tightening as he pressed against it, and it gave way. Again he paused, watching her once more. She took a deep breath. The glint in his eye told her he was fully aware of the effect he was having on her. He knew how his infuriating slowness was tempting her—and the knowledge only spurred him to torment her further.

As his fingers lazily undid another button, his straining prick bulged against the leather of his breeches. A gush of warmth flowed into the place between her thighs. Despite the coldness coming from him now. Despite the sense of wrongness that grew greater with every passing moment. Could he pick up the faint scent of her arousal as she did the animal vapor that rose from him?

If he could, he gave no sign of it as he continued on, revealing himself to her so slowly, it was almost as if he were fighting against taking her with the same ferocity with which she should have been resisting him had she not been so paralyzed by the desire she couldn’t stop herself from feeling.

Why? Why was he delaying the inevitable? It couldn’t be due to fear of not performing. The firm bulge that strained against his pale breeches showed that his body was more than ready for her. Was he trying to make her a liar for having told him it was his kindness that had attracted her?

He was no longer kind.

The warmth and concern she had felt emanating from him just a few hours ago at Rajiv’s must have been a trick of the Indian spice. It had kept him from taking what she had offered him, then. But it was gone. He’d sheathed his soul in steel and ice, and she knew without question that this time he would finally take her, using every bit of his animal strength to make her do his will.

What a fool she’d been to think that coupling with this man would be any better than coupling with Randall. At least Randall hadn’t played with her this way or stolen her dignity by bringing her to such a shameful pitch of desire, as this man did now, using not charm but his raw power to call out from her a response so strong it terrified her.

Trev’s fingers undid that last button of his breeches, and the front panel dropped down, letting his penis spring free. It jutted out of the slit in his drawers, as huge as she remembered its being that night in the alleyway when she’d used how caught up he’d been in his passion to trick him and escape. But he was not caught up in his passion now. He was firmly in control. She would not escape him. Not this time.

The candlelight picked out the copper glints of his eyes, narrowed now—by desire, or something else—as he favored her with a look that seemed to dare her to take him on, as if he, too, was remembering what had happened in the alleyway and letting her know that this time it would be different.

It would be. Her body shook now with the pounding of her heart. The hot blood throbbed in her privates. She was in far more danger than she had been in the alley, but she couldn’t stop herself from welcoming it. All she could do was drink in the graceful way he worked the clinging leather off each well-muscled leg, peeling it off one leg at a time, as if he were stimulating himself as he did so.

When his breeches had fallen to the floor, he picked them up, folded them carefully, and placed them neatly on the seat of the chair, as if readying them for inspection. Only then did he untie the string that held up his drawers and allow them to fall to the floor, where he kicked them to one side.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he took a step toward where she sat at the edge of the bed, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pushed her back onto the bed, making her legs splay out wide as her feet reached for the floor. He grasped the hem of her shift and pulled it up, revealing her hungry notch.

He gazed at it for a moment—his eyes opened wider and his nostrils quivered. His penis tightened and stood even taller than before. He reached down and stroked the moist and swollen flesh he found there, his fingers sliding on the slippery evidence of the arousal she couldn’t prevent.

She knew what came next. It would be just like it had been with Randall. Fast and painful, then over, leaving her so humiliatingly empty and needy. And with this man, she would not even have the satisfaction of knowing that by rousing his lust, she had strengthened her hold over him.

She had wanted so much more, misled by those searing kisses of his, by the sparkle in his eye, and the way he had engaged her in talk. He’d drawn her out and given her the illusion that he saw into her and knew who she was, that they were akin.

She wouldn’t get more. His fingers found her swollen nub, which he pinched once, brutally, between his fingers. He raised those fingers to his face and sniffed deeply, taking in the evidence of her body’s traitorous response to him. Then he reached over and snuffed out the candle.

She was hot for him, brazen. Trev marveled at the extent of her duplicity. To simulate such desire must take something he had never met before. Even the Nizam’s slave girls had needed to be stroked and teased before they were ready to welcome him. They oiled themselves to hide their lack of desire; but because he knew the feel of a truly hungry woman, he hadn’t been taken in by their harem tricks. He’d taken what they’d been forced to offer him, but only after using what he knew, the subtle arts of fingers, tongue, and cock, to change the desire they feigned into the real thing.

But this woman was not a slave. She was not oiled. And he had done nothing to excite her. Yet still she could barely contain herself. Even after he’d extinguished the light, he couldn’t get the image of her swollen rosy slit out of his mind. She was so ready for him. Her lust was as strong as his. Was her desire to serve her masters so strong it could bring her to that kind of frenzy?

It must be, yet it confused him. For it had not been triumph he’d sensed in her as he had prepared himself to do what he must do with her, but vulnerability and fear, and even a hint of sadness. He fought to remember these weren’t her real emotions. He knew what her motive was. This coupling was only the cynical act of a hardened schemer who would do anything to serve his enemy.

And yet, he couldn’t stop feeling that subtle connection with her. Was there no end to the tricks this woman would play upon him?

He must ignore it. He was no longer her dupe. She might sigh and pant for him as much as she would, and flaunt herself at him, slick with simulated hunger. He wouldn’t be fooled. And that soul connection she still made him feel? He would stamp it out. He would take her like the lying whore she was and pound the passion out of her. He would use her ’til he got what she’d made him want, heedless of her needs. He’d unleash on her the full force of the sexuality he’d always been so careful to keep in check, knowing it was more than any woman could tolerate. She would learn what she had meddled with when she’d sought to use his passions for her own ends. Let it be a lesson to them both.

But it was good that it was dark, and that he need no longer gaze into those lying eyes of hers, which even now, when he knew the truth of what she was, still looked so clear, so filled with innocence despite her worldly pose.

How did she do that? When this was over, he must study her technique, so he could master it. It would come in handy to a man in his line of work.

But not now.

He groped toward her body. She hadn’t moved since he’d pushed her shoulders against the bed. She lay there still, with her thighs open wide and her feet still on the floor. He moved between her legs and groped for the seat of her desire. When he found it, he thrust two fingers deep inside her, feeling her strong muscles tense around him, so warm and responsive. He imagined those same muscles tensing around his swollen organ and gave himself up to the bestial urges that arose in him in response.

Then he grasped his throbbing penis with his other hand and lunged toward her, letting his fingers guide him deep into her as he impaled her with one swift thrust. He wouldn’t delay his pleasure to give her hers. If she wanted pain, she’d get it.

But she was slick and ready for him, and he slid in easily, each nerve alive to the silken feel of her as she took him in, sheathing him in her slippery warmth, her cunny firm and yielding at the same time. He thrust his hips as he drove as deep within her as he could go, heedless of how large he was and sparing her nothing.

When she gasped, he reached beneath her buttocks, lifted her hips, and forced them against his, overcome with the need to pierce through to her lying heart. But there was no need for force. She eagerly thrust her hips to meet his, rocking against the edge of the bed with her lithe and powerful thighs, meeting each pounding thrust of his with an echoing motion of her own.

Driven mad at this new evidence of her shamelessness, he quickened his thrusts, furious that she could feign even this, that she could ride these waves of passion even though he took her with no care for her pleasure, consumed by his towering selfishness. And not just meet him, but urge him onward. She dragged his chest down on top of hers, digging her nails into his shoulders and raking the sensitive spots that made him want her even more.

It was wrong. All wrong. But he couldn’t stop himself. Still lodged within her, he lifted her torso from the edge of the bed and shifted her until she was lying fully supported on the mattress. Then he knelt between her legs and pinned her to the bed with his strong arms. Thrusting in time with the unstoppable rhythm that beat in both of them, he sank into the exquisite silken slickness with which she had thought to deceive him.

He slowed the tempo as his pleasure mounted, desperately wanting to prolong the exquisite torment. Slick sweat slid between them as he pulled away just far enough to grasp one swollen breast with one hand. Her nipple was so hard it gouged his palm.

As the intensity of his strokes increased, her gasps came faster and louder, turning into little cries that echoed the deeper ones that tore out of his own throat. Her quiver tightened around him and squeezed him in long, slow waves of rhythmic pulsing that thrummed with his desire as he tumbled over the edge, lost in pleasure, lost and desperate, the blood red light of his anger mixing with wonder as he met her even now, in the timeless space of ecstasy, no longer alone and heedless of anything but the way he had merged all that he was with her.

As she convulsed around him, he exploded within her. His dammed-up hunger poured out with his life force and surged through the intensity they had created together, until nothing was left of his desire but the streamers of shock that ran through him.

She’d been open to it all—the lover in him, the killer, and the beast.

He fell forward, drained. Her breasts flattened under him as she took his full weight. He gasped for air and felt his heart pound as it hadn’t since he’d galloped away with Baji Rao’s men in hot pursuit. The moment stretched out, infinitely long.

Only gradually was he dragged back to earth by the sound of her rough breathing. Mixed with it were the faint night sounds of the street outside. He tried to cling to the memory of the pleasure that had filled the universe only moments before, but it was gone, no more real than the memory of the hoofbeats that had pursued him.

He pulled out of her, feeling the sticky wet seed gush out. He rolled away. The darkness oppressed him. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t hear her. He couldn’t bear to face what he had done to her and how much he had enjoyed it.

He was no better than the men who raped the sepoys’ wives, raped them because they were the enemy’s women. He could no longer feel superior to those men, monsters though they’d been, or tell himself he was different from them.

He wasn’t different. He’d found pleasure beyond description in conquering this enemy’s woman. He had forced himself on her, driven by rage, not love. He had turned his manhood into a weapon and found at last the ecstasy that had hitherto eluded him.

Was there no end to the harsh lessons this woman had to teach him?

He would have given everything he had to be able to abandon her now in the darkness so he might never have to see her face again. But he could not. His duty hadn’t changed. He must keep her under surveillance to make sure she didn’t steal the Nawab’s jewel and provoke another costly war. British lives depended on it.

Her breathing had calmed, too, and in the darkness, he heard her sit up. Was she proud of the performance she had put on? Did she know she’d made him feel that she had taken as much pleasure in their brutal coupling as he had? Did she suspect that, for a moment there, right before the end, she’d made him feel she was the only woman he could ever want, the only woman who could ever satisfy him, the only woman whose strength could match his own?

He hoped not. He couldn’t bear to have her know it. It was bad enough that he must live on with the knowledge of what he really was. He must not let her know the power she might exert over him.

But just as he tried to armor himself against the desolation that threatened to overwhelm him, he heard it—a tiny sound. The merest hint of a sob. It was followed by a sniffle that was too loud to be real. If she’d meant it to hide her sob, she’d failed, for it hadn’t fooled him. He groped in the dark toward where her face must be. His fingers met her cheek, as smooth as marble, though warm as marble could never be. And as they did, a warm tear coursed over his finger.

Surely she hadn’t feigned that.

A wave of despair welled up in the shared, invisible space where they had met soul to soul, and something broke within him. He felt once again that sense they were connected, but the link, this time, was infused with agony.

Futilely, he stroked her cheek, fighting down the urge to mutter the soothing words that rose within him unbidden. He was confused beyond all understanding, undone by the concern he felt for her, his enemy, his lover, this woman whose strength and cunning was equal to his own.

Chapter 12

Temperance looked away when Trev got out of the bed and relit the candle. She didn’t want to see the contempt its treacherous light would reveal in his glittering eyes. But when his task was done, he didn’t look at her but merely sat down on the chair and began the process of sliding his legs into his buckskins.

He worked quickly, with none of the slowness with which he had disrobed. He was done, having taken from her what he’d wanted from the start. She need only control herself for a few moments longer, then he’d be gone. The first words he spoke confirmed it.

“A few days hence, I leave for Surrey.”

So that was the end of it. She should feel relief. Whatever she had expected from making love with him, it hadn’t been the powerful mix of rage and ecstasy that had swept over her. It should have made her hate him, for he had made good on his claim that he was cruel. Yet how could she, for she had responded to him as she had never responded to Randall. As she hadn’t known she could respond.

She could barely stand to remember that slowly building swell of pleasure that increased inexorably until she had moved into a state, impossible to recall, where she’d felt one with him, as if his soul poured into hers, mingling its waters with hers as they both found their release.

The shame of it sickened her. Why had she experienced that, for the first time, with this man who did not love her? Who seemed to hate her, so cold had he been as he had prepared himself to take her so ruthlessly.

Her heart congealed at this new evidence of the depths to which she could sink. At least she’d been able to make herself believe Randall loved her. He’d said just enough to allow her to cling to that tattered dream even after he’d set her to stealing for him. Even after she’d seen his eyes hungrily following all those other women. He’d left her with her illusions.

Not like Trev. Trev, who had warned her he was cruel and proved it. Who had used her body so brutally and brought her to ecstasy by doing so. Ecstasy like nothing else she’d ever experienced, not even when she’d thought that Randall loved her.

“In a few days I must leave for Surrey,” he repeated.

“I wish you Godspeed, then, on your journey, sir.”

“Sir?” he repeated in an exaggerated tone. “I should think that after that”—he gestured toward the sheets—“you would address me as a friend.”

“Oh yes. And your friends call you, ‘Trev,’ ” she mimicked. “What does it matter what I call you since you’re leaving?”

“I’m not leaving you. I’d like you to accompany me.”

Her heart sank. “After that?” She, too, gestured toward the bed.

“Yes, precisely, after that.”

His eyes hardened. He was with difficulty suppressing more anger. “Wouldn’t it please you to explore further what we’ve begun? I know you didn’t find it intolerable. I’m not easily fooled by women.”

His confidence infuriated her. “Perhaps this time you were.”

“Oh yes. Perhaps you have fooled me. It’s not inconceivable.” His words were tinged with heavy irony. “But I enjoyed our encounter too much to dwell on such a suspicion. I’d regret having to go to Surrey without you. Would you not regret it, too?”

The chill in his voice was at odds with the flirting tone he pretended. It held no trace of even the pretense of affection. Even Randall had pretended to feel love for her after they had coupled.

She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t help what she’d already done. She must live with the knowledge of how low she could sink. But she didn’t have to continue on this path to self-destruction.

“I won’t go,” she said.

His eyes widened with surprise. Then he recovered his poise. “There’s no more need to flirt with me. No need to feint and parry. You’ve made me your slave with that.” He gestured once again at the stained sheets. “Surely you know it. Let’s make the most of the time we have left.”

He let his voice soften, as if trying to give it some of that kindness he had simulated before, but his words came out icy cold. “Wouldn’t you like to come with me to Surrey, to the estate of the Mad Nabob, Sir Humphrey Diggett? I know you’ll find his collection of Indian curiosities irresistible. He has peacocks and monkeys and jewels—” He paused to let the word sink in, then repeated it, “—jewels that are the envy of the world. Surely you must wish to accompany me there.”

“I do not.”

Real surprise filled his features now. “Why?”

“Surely you don’t need me to tell you.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“But I do, Temperance, I do.”

He looked, unaccountably, confused.

Best to leave him that way. Let him think she left him because she’d been disgusted by his rude assault, as she should have been. Let him not guess the truth that he’d taught her the pleasure she took in savagery. Let him not know the power he might wield over her with what he could do to her body—and her soul.

As he pondered her reply, something flashed in his eyes. They were the blue now of tempered steel, fixed on her in an eagle’s gaze, regal and compelling—and heartbreakingly beautiful. It reminded her why she had given herself to him. Of what she had found with him. Of how dangerous it would be to spend another moment with him.

She wouldn’t do it. She would fight the forces within her that pulled her toward self-destruction. She wouldn’t love a man who hated her, a man who could make her take pleasure in her own humiliation. He wasn’t worthy of her love, no matter what he had made her feel.

“It was you,” she whispered, “who told me I deserved more. You, who said I deserved love—and fidelity. You were right. I was wrong. You taught me my lesson. With that”—she pointed one last time at the bed—“I can’t take any more. We must part.”

His face twisted with something that looked like anguish. He turned away.

It made no sense at all.

Her words reverberated like the shock of a grenade. Had he misjudged her?

He’d expected her to greet his invitation with relief. If she was the Weaver’s tool, she should be rejoicing that her cool act of prostitution had paid off and won her the invitation she needed to put herself into a position where she could steal the jewel.

But she’d refused his offer. And though his first thought had been that her refusal was just another move in their infernal game of cat and mouse, he couldn’t believe that now. The firm set of her lips, pale as she bit them to hide an emotion that was not triumph or even relief, told him how serious she was. She wanted no more of him. Not after the brutal way he’d treated her—despite the powerful orgasm his brutality had evoked.

Or was it because if it? Had she been as appalled as he was by what they had discovered together? The shiver that pierced him gave him his answer as clearly as if she had spoken the words aloud. Again, he had connected with her in that dimension beyond words even more strongly than before.

For the first time since he had stumbled from the under secretary’s office, he remembered the words he’d ignored in his shock at Fanshawe’s revelation. We are not certain she is working for them. Though we have reason to believe it likely.

Likely, but not certain.

Had he misjudged her?

And if he had, if she were innocent—the pain knifed though his vitals. For if she were, he would have paid at last for the way he had gone along with the heartless plan that had won their glorious victory at the cost of the sepoys’ women’s honor and their lives—paid for it by raping the one woman he might have taught to love him—the only woman strong enough to meet him where he’d always been alone.

Perhaps there was something to the Hindu belief in karma. He deserved just such a punishment. But he didn’t know if he had the strength to endure it.

He busied himself with the buttons on his breeches, struggling to calm his emotions, reminding himself of the importance of his mission. When he looked up, Temperance was doing up the fastenings of her gown, Her fingers fumbled with the buttons that ran along the opening at the back, and, without thinking, he took a step toward her to assist her. But at his approach, she spun around, and cried out. “Don’t touch me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I meant only to help you.”

“You’re the last person on earth who could help me.”

He didn’t know words could hurt like that. He turned away, so she couldn’t see his pain, and pulled on his shirt, blinking back his emotion. When he had calmed himself enough to face her again, she was kneeling to put on her shoes. She had knelt like that when he’d commanded her to remove his boots, when he’d been so intent on humiliating her. He’d been so filled with rage back then, but now he could find no trace of it. He wished he could. For with his rage gone, all he could feel was shame.

Then she made her way to the cupboard in the corner of the rented chamber and took out the pitifully small bundle that contained her things. She rummaged through it until she found the notes he’d given her in the coffeehouse. Holding them in her teeth, she retied the bundle. Then rising to her full height, with that warrior’s pride shining out of her burning eyes, she brandished the notes at him like a weapon.

“Take them back. I’m not what you think I am. I won’t let myself become it.”

When he made no move to take them, she flung them at him. Then she turned on her heel and made for the doorway. He prayed she would stop, that this threat of hers to leave him would turn out to be just another of her tricks, a stratagem to make him want her more so she could do the bidding of her masters. But she did not pause. She did not look back. She pulled open the door and flung herself down the hallway.

He galloped after her, rushing down the stairs and out into the street, where he nearly collided with Major Stanley, whose unsteady gait suggested he was far gone in his cups.

“A lover’s spat so soon?” Stanley quipped. “Well, no surprise. She’s a spitfire! When I popped my head in to bid her good evening earlier, she looked as if she’d have gladly torn off my ballocks. Probably for the best you’re quit of her. I trust she didn’t take anything of value when she fled.”

Only my heart, he thought. Nothing more.

Temperance slowed her steps. There was no more need for haste. He hadn’t followed her. He could have, but he’d chosen not to. He was done with her now. She could go as slowly as she chose; he wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t turn his glinting eagle’s eye on her or deprive her of her will with a command uttered in that harsh growl of his that cut through to her heart.

Why couldn’t she rejoice that she had regained her freedom? Why did she feel as if she had been abandoned? It was she who’d fled from him. And yet, with every step she took away from him, she grew weaker, as if her very life force was dependent on his presence. How could this be when he hated her, when what she felt for him could lead her only to her destruction?

The fog that curled around her smelled of the river, damp and dank. Its cold tendrils seemed almost alive, like malevolent fingers drawing her toward the banks. She looked ahead and saw the glint of the water far off at the end of the street. Its depths hid relentless currents as strong as the invisible undertow that pulled her back, even now, toward the man she must not let herself desire.

She couldn’t resist its pull any more than she had resisted him.

She let herself drift toward it, down the pavement, which led to a stone pier. It was one of the ancient stairs where boatmen had been landing their passengers for centuries. As she neared it, she smelled fish and refuse. The water shimmered ahead, its dark depths illuminated by the fitful beams of lanterns hung on the vessels that plied the channel not far from shore.

The night was still, and there was no breeze to ruffle the surface. But that smoothness was deceptive. Like herself, the river hid strong forces that once roused could sweep a palace off its foundations, sink an unwary ship, and drown the sailor who underestimated its power.

She walked out onto the stone pier and picked up a piece of broken cobblestone. She held it for a moment, feeling its weight in her hand. Then she tossed it as far over the river as she could. When it hit the water, it made a splash and vanished, leaving behind only a few circles that rippled out from the empty center before fading away, leaving no hint that anything had pierced the icy calm.

Snake had warned her she’d end up in the river. Would she sink like that, make only a few ripples as she slipped beneath the surface, and vanish forever when the ripples had faded out?

She took a deep breath of the cold moist air and shivered. The river called to her. Its calm was soothing. The tiny wavelets that murmured against the base of the stone stair didn’t pound like the angry breakers that crashed unseen on the shore hidden deep within her soul. She’d underestimated the power of the forces she carried within her. She’d thought she could control them, but she’d been wrong.

As Trev had shown her.

Another wave surged up and crashed against her heart as she recalled how he’d given her that key, taunting her, and daring her to take the freedom she’d always pretended was what she really wanted.

He’d known it wasn’t. He’d rubbed her nose in it.

It hadn’t been a hunger for freedom that made her give herself to him, any more than her yearning for liberty had driven her to smash her father’s window and seek out Randall. It had been fury at her father that had driven her into Randall’s arms, and when she’d been forced to face the truth about him, that selfsame fury had made her throw herself at yet another man who didn’t want her.

Rage washed through her, rage against herself. She couldn’t stop herself. She’d do it again. Revulsion choked her.

She was covered with filth, sticky with the seed Trev had left behind. She must get rid of it. The river must wash it away. She stripped off her shoes and stockings and started down the stair. When her foot slipped on the damp mossy stone, she caught her balance and continued down.

The frigid water splashed against her foot, so cold, it made her startle. But she didn’t care. She must wash away the traces of what she’d let him do. She scooped up handfuls of water and splashed them against her thighs, but the water dripped through her fingers before it could do any good.

It was no use. A handful of dirty water couldn’t wash away her shame. An ocean couldn’t drown out the voices that murmured she would go back to him, or someone else just as heartless. She’d keep on doing it, as long as the hot blood pulsed throughout her body, because she could not stop herself. She couldn’t fight it. Her nature was just too flawed.

But there was a way to drown out the voices. She drew back as the revelation hit her, fighting it, even as it whispered its seductive message in her ear.

She need not give herself to him again. She need not fight her craving. She need no longer fear the uncontrollable anger that made her take so many unforgivable steps.

She need only take one more step, then another, down into the icy water. The river would numb her pain. Only a few more steps, and the current would take her. She need only make one more flawed decision, act on it, and it would be too late. She would no longer have to fight against herself, for the current would sweep her away, and she would find peace at last.

It would be so easy to give in, to give up, to give herself over to the flow.

She took a step into the water, searching for the courage to commit one more rash act. After so many, it should be easy. She cursed the cowardice that made her waver. She need take only a few more steps, make one more bad decision—and it would be her last.

Chapter 13

“Temperance, stop!” His voice. And the thud of his boots pounding against stone. Had he come to save her or to gloat?

His tall figure loomed over the head of the stair. He was bareheaded, his close-cropped raven curls haloed by wisps of river mist. In the gloom, his eyes were hidden by the shadow of his brow, but even so, she saw the shock that twisted his features.

He seized her in his strong arms and pulled her up the stair. She couldn’t have resisted him even if she’d wanted to. Whatever he was, she couldn’t stop herself from clinging to him as he dragged her away from the water, in whose icy depths she had come so close to losing her life.

He held her in a strong grip, as if taking no chances that she would break away and run back to the treacherous stair. But she had no wish to break out of his grasp. She nestled deeper into the comfort of his arms though it made no sense that it was he who offered her comfort, when it was he who had made it so necessary for her to find it. But she was beyond making sense. She clung to him as she would have to a floating spar had she cast herself into the river.

“Thank God, I was in time,” he said.

“You were too late. For if I can’t stop myself from wanting you, I had far better sink beneath the waves and have done with it.”

“Do you hate me that much?”

She stared at him. “Hate you?” Tears sprang to her eyes. “If I did, it would be so much easier. I would be safe and could live on happily without you, instead of yearning for what it is impossible to have. If I hated you, I wouldn’t care that you have contempt for me—or that I am so degraded, that even though you hate me, I found such pleasure with you.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said stroking her hair gently. “Though it might be better for me if I did. We are two of a kind. You know I speak the truth.”

She did. But it was a terrifying truth. He’d shown her all too clearly what she was and what she wanted for her to take any comfort from the knowledge that they were made of the same essence.

“If we are two of a kind, that is all the more reason to fear you, for it ensures that the rage that drove our coupling will destroy us both.”

“There is more to us than our rage,” he whispered. “You didn’t deserve what I did to you though it’s too late to undo it.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you did. I took such pleasure in it. How can I go on, knowing I cannot stop myself from giving myself to men who care naught for me?”

“I care for you. But I have given you no reason to believe me. I won’t waste my breath on making pretty speeches. I’ve lost the right to ask you to listen to me.”

What he’d said was true. She should stop her ears and shut out his words. She shouldn’t let him fool her with his soft tone or the way his eyes seemed to hint that he was as wracked by agony as she was. If she let him keep talking, she knew where it would lead. He’d use his power to wrest from her whatever it would be he wanted next.

Then, as if again he heard her thoughts, he said, “I am as frightened as you are. And in as much pain.”

It was a shocking admission, but the torment in his deep-set eyes left her no doubt he meant it. “We are both warriors,” he whispered, “and we have been drawn into a battle we can neither of us win. But I don’t know how to end it.”

“But it must end,” she said. “Or we’ll end up like the scorpion that stings itself to death. The rage that rose within me to meet yours was too strong. I won’t survive it if I give myself up to it again. I must find something besides my rage to keep me alive. I must leave off battling you. But how? I can’t surrender. Not to you, when you have such power over me.”

“We can neither of us surrender.”

A light flared in a window high above them, outlining the long harsh plane of his face and the high cheekbones, above which his restless eyes glistened. He turned and paced along the pavement, his hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, he spoke. “When a battle has raged for many hours, with neither side able to claim the victory, the parties may choose to meet under a flag of truce. Hostilities cease. A soldier’s sacred honor forbids that he take advantage of his adversary while the truce prevails. Will you accept such a truce from me, Temperance? Will you trust me that far?”

“How could your sacred honor extend to dealing with a creature like me.” Her voice was heavy with irony.

“What kind of creature do you refer to? A strong, courageous woman unlike any I’ve ever known before? I should have no honor left if I couldn’t offer it to you.”

She considered this. “If I took you up on it, what would happen during our truce?”

“Negotiations. It is the custom for each of the adversaries to tell the other what they must receive in return for ending combat. Each may demand only what the other side can give up without losing so much that battle would offer them more.”

She considered his words, turning the idea around in her mind, looking for flaws. But she could find none. They had reached a stalemate. The choice he offered was fair.

“What, then,” she said,” would you demand of me to end our war?”

He balanced on the edge of her question, knowing nothing but total honesty would do. “You must tell me the truth about why you came with me,” he said. “I know you’re hiding something. I thought I had found out what it was—that was what drove me to take you with such cruelty. But I fear I was wrong. And if I was—” A look of agony swept over his features. “For God’s sake, Temperance, tell me what you’ve been hiding. Whatever it is. Only that can give me peace.”

The set of her jaw told him she didn’t want to give him what he’d asked for. Despair washed over him. Perhaps Fanshawe had been right about her. Perhaps she was exactly what he had thought.

But he could not make himself believe it. Her act of desperation argued against Fanshawe’s theory. And even if she were completely innocent, why should she trust him with her truth after what had taken place on the narrow mattress in her lodging chamber?

He forced her to meet his eyes, and when she tore them away a moment later, he let his sixth sense probe for what lay behind them. Fear, yes. And distrust. But if that was what kept her from responding, he was on familiar ground. Battling armies always distrusted each other, and he’d been well instructed in how to negotiate with a suspicious foe.

“It is not a one-way exchange,” he said. “I will give you something, too.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you need in return for the honesty I demand of you.”

“If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. So what’s the use? When it has mattered most, no one has believed me.”

“Perhaps I will be the first.” His expression softened. “You aren’t a liar, Temperance, though you have taken delight in telling the truth in a way that led me to jump to false conclusions.”

He stared down at his hands before continuing. “That is your pattern, isn’t it? You did it when you hinted at how you would reward me for saving you from the shoemaker. You did the same thing when you let me convince myself your Lady Lightning was a bawd. You tell the truth, expecting it to be misunderstood, and when you are, you make the most of it.”

He paused, struck by a sudden insight. “What did you tell your father when he found you with Randall?”

“That he had kissed me against my will.”

“Did he believe you?”

The misery in her eyes before she dropped her gaze confirmed his suspicion.

“He failed you badly. He should have protected his child from a seducer.”

“He had his reasons. I had lied to him only days before— a stupid lie, the kind children tell to avoid a beating. I said the dog broke a valuable vase, when I’d knocked it off the chimneypiece with my own clumsiness. My stepmother had seen me do it, and told him. So he knew I was a liar, and when I told him what had happened with Randall, he wouldn’t believe me.”

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

She did not answer immediately but twisted her hands together and took a few steps away from him down the pavement. He followed her.

Finally, she said, “When I invited Randall to meet me behind the stables, I expected no more from him than the kind of love talk I’d read in novels. He was a hero to me, a Man of the People. But when he got me alone, it wasn’t talk he wanted. He ripped my gown, grabbing for my breast, and thrust his tongue down my throat. I fought him, for I knew better than to give in.”

She bit her lip. “I was so glad when my father came upon us. I thought he’d come to save me. But all he’d say was ‘once a liar, always a liar.’ He said I must have wanted it or I wouldn’t have met a man behind the stables. He called me a dirty slut.” Her face was bleak. “All the effort I’d made to try to be good meant nothing to him. He wouldn’t believe me.”

“So you struck back at him by making his words come true,” Trev said. “You let Randall have his way with you despite how much it hurt you.”

She nodded imperceptibly. “I did it to strike back at my father. I couldn’t stop myself.” She was shaking now, and in her eyes he saw the pursuing furies. “I cannot bear it, that this is how I am.”

“You’d been betrayed by the person you trusted most, the one who should have listened to you and taken your part. He should have seen who you were, and protected you. Of course you were filled with rage. What else could you have felt?”

She shrugged, unwilling to answer.

He pressed on. “Did you feel better when you made his accusation true?” He paused, struck by a sudden insight. “Is that why you steal, too? Because it hurts less to be accused of a crime you’ve committed than to be accused of a sin when you are innocent?”

Her angled brow rose sharply over her almond-shaped eyes, heightening her look of surprise “I—I don’t know. It’s possible.” Her voice trailed off.

He came to a decision.

“I will believe you, Temperance,” he said. “I will, upon my sacred honor. I will hear you out and not judge you. I will listen until I understand what you have to tell me. And I will keep my opinion of it to myself. That is what I can give you in return for the honesty I am asking from you.”

He waited for her reply, but before she could give it, a large figure carrying a lantern loomed out of the darkness. It was one of the private watchmen the rich hired to keep women of the town and homeless beggars from their doors.

“Move along, there,” he called, waving a heavy staff.

“Come on,” Trev said, reaching for her hand. “We’ll continue our conversation elsewhere.”

She snatched her hand away. “I won’t go back to that room with you.”

He had no more desire to return there than she did. “I wouldn’t ask that of you. Not now. But I don’t know where else we can go this time of night.”

“I do,” she said. “The Rat and Castle stays open all night long. ’Tis where all the cracksmen meet, and those on the prigging lay, and the beggars who’ve had a good night of it.” There was no disguising the challenge in her look. “Are you brave enough to join me there?”

“Try me,” he said.

She’d feel safe on familiar territory. But would she use that safety to slip away from him again? She might. He could not dismiss that possibility. But she had the right to. He had given her no reason to want to stay with him and done all too much to make her wish to flee.

“The Rat and Castle it is,” he said, and let her lead him through the darkened streets to her den of thieves.

From the outside, the building they’d approached didn’t look any different from the other boarded-up shops that lined the dingy street, their walls defaced by bills advertising theatrical performances and patent medicines, but she knew better. She rapped out a tattoo on the plank doorway and waited while someone within inspected her through the peephole. The door opened a crack, then swung open as the big man called Swagger gestured them in.

As always this time of night, clusters of roughly dressed watermen sat nursing tankards of steaming coffee in preparation for the long day ahead of them, while those who had concluded their night’s labor sipped porter. Some tossed dice, while others sat back, their legs splayed out, giving ear to the blowsy blonde who called herself the Cheapside Songbird, who would sing anything they asked for in return for a pint or two.

From her station before the huge fireplace where the coffee kettles boiled, Old Peg called out, “Shall I toast a muffin for you and your friend there?”

Temperance took her up on her offer, and after the barman had pulled them some pints, she led Trev to one of the secluded tables toward the rear of the low-ceilinged room, where they could speak privately.

“No one will bother us here,” she said. “Now we can talk.”

Trev felt the eyes of the watermen on him. If they wondered what brought a man like him here, they didn’t show it beyond directing the occasional stare in his direction. He was willing to cede the ground to Temperance. Too many of their encounters had taken place somewhere he’d chosen. But if they were to conclude their truce she must feel safe.

The large woman in the coffee-stained apron brought them their muffins. He took a bite. It was surprisingly good. Temperance nibbled hers nervously, while he sipped from the foaming pint pot, waiting.

When he’d given her enough time, he forced his voice to be as gentle as he could make it, and once again he asked, “What is it you hid from me, Tem? The truth cannot be worse than my suspicions.”

She looked around the room, as if drawing strength from the rough men who filled it. Then she stared straight at him, and whispered, “Randall isn’t dead.”

Not dead? No wild dog defending its territory could have felt more jealous.

“Then why aren’t you with him?” His voice had turned back into a growl.

“I’ll never be with him again. I hate the very thought of him.”

“But you told me you loved him. Now you say you hate him. Which is true? How can I believe you?”

“So much for all your fine talk of truces.” Her voice was bitter.

She was right. He would have to try harder. “I want to. But I don’t understand you. If Randall is alive, why did you keep that secret from me? Did you give yourself to me to spite him? To make him jealous? Will you go back to him now and taunt him with what you did with me?”

“Never!” The look of alarm in her eyes warned him to back off if he wished to extract the whole story from her.

In a gentler tone, he begged,“Help me make sense of this, Tem. If Randall is alive, why did you make such a pretense of being his grieving widow? Why did you tell me he was dead? Did you think it would be more of a challenge to me to seduce you if I thought you had given your heart elsewhere?”

“No!” Her voice rose. “When I met you, I believed he was dead—murdered for his role in the Cato Street Conspiracy. I’d believed that for nine long months, mourning him, sanctifying his memory. I only learned he was alive the night of the masquerade, right after you had left. Someone told me then.”

“Snake?”

Her angled eyebrows shot up. ”How do you know about Snake?”

“You probably thought I’d left,” he said, evasively.

She drew in breath between set teeth. “Yes, it was Snake who told me.”

His heart sank. So she had met with Snake, just as Fanshawe said she had. He picked his next words carefully. “When you learned that Randall was alive, after grieving for him so long, why did it make you throw yourself at me? You told me you loved him.”

“Because,” she said, biting her lip, “when Snake told me Randall was alive, he also told me he had been working for the Weaver.”

The Weaver. Trev’s heart sank. Her beloved Randall was working for the enemy. Had Fanshawe been right all along?

It took all his control to keep his voice even as he asked, “Was that why you wished to do away with yourself, because your beloved Randall showed up again, and forced you to give yourself to me in service to his master?”

He couldn’t tell what was worse, the thought that she had been working for the Weaver all along, or that she’d done it at the command of that bastard who’d never deserved her. But he struggled to keep his anger under control. He had sworn he would listen to her and believe what she told him. He couldn’t fail her as soon as she had trusted him with a single truth.

“He’s not my Randall, anymore,” she snarled. “And he’ll never make me do another thing for him. He’s in America now with that drab Sukey. He deceived me all along. The Weaver paid him to betray the Cato Street conspirators, then sent him off to safety in America as part of the deal. My beloved Randall was only in it for what he could get, and the Weaver paid better than what he’d got skimming off our earnings.”

“You learned all this from Snake, after the masquerade?”

The pain in her storm-wracked eyes answered his question.

He was starting to believe her, strange as her story sounded. “Is that why you threw away the locket when I finally gave it to you, that next day?”

She nodded, and when her eyes met his, there was no hint in them of the guile he’d come to expect of her.

“I hated you,” she said, “because I thought you were like the dragoons I believed had murdered him, and I hated myself, too, because despite my hatred, you’d made me want you with those kisses of yours. I couldn’t resist you. But once I learned how Randall had bubbled me, there was no reason to fight my attraction any longer. Why shouldn’t I take my pleasure with you? And besides”—she gave him a meaningful look—“Snake told me to stay away from you when I refused to take his dirty job. I don’t take well to being told what not to do.”

“You could have told me all that when I asked you why you came with me. Why didn’t you?”

“I have my pride. I didn’t want you to know how they’d gulled me. I could barely stand to think of it myself. I wanted you to think I was wise and canny. Not just another stupid girl from the provinces seduced by a cad and abandoned.” She compressed her lips until their rosy hue went pale. “That’s the truth, Trev. The whole of it. Now, do you believe me?”

She watched as he cradled his chin in one hand, thinking through his answer, while in the background the Cheapside Songbird sang about the captain bold from Halifax and the unfortunate Miss Bailey. Her fingers, which had been resting on the scarred wooden tabletop, tightened into a fist. Even to herself, her story sounded a bit too much like something from one of the Songbird’s ballads. How could she expect him to believe it?

He might pretend to, to keep her from leaving him until he was done with her, but that he could really trust her seemed impossible. As she awaited his response, she hardened her heart. Whatever he made of it, she’d done what he asked of her. He couldn’t accuse her of being the one to break their truce.

He took a sip from his tankard and savored it for longer than necessary. Only after he’d swallowed did he speak. “I believe you. You are telling the truth. I feel it here.” He pointed to his heart. “It makes sense that you would deceive me about something so painful. Why should you have trusted me with it? I was a stranger to you, and, besides, if you’d told me about it, the very act of describing it would have brought back all the pain. Of course you feared I’d pity you. A woman as brave as you would despise being pitied. Far better to keep me in the dark and wall away your memories where no one but you need ever know the price you paid for hiding them.”

He took another sip. “I know all too well what that feels like.”

His words enraged her. “How could you possibly know, a man like you. You could never have been betrayed like that by someone you’d given your whole heart.”

“I do know,” he said softly. “I’ve known since I was six.”

Six? What could he mean?

His eyes narrowed under their overhanging brows and took on a faraway look. “I may be a man,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “But once I was a child. A child without a father—he was far off in India, a hero, my ideal. But it was my mother who was my family and the center of my life.

“We lived in the country with her parents, the General and his wife. They were old—she’d been born late in her father’s life—and their manners were those of an earlier day, stiff and formal. They frightened me, but my mother was always there to defend me from the old man when my noise was too much for him and to deflect my grandmother’s scolding when I dirtied my clothes or dragged in whatever treasure I’d found out in the stables.” He paused and took another stiff pull from the tankard.

“One day, my mother took me aside and told me she must go away for the night and leave me alone with my grandparents. She asked me to kiss her and held me tightly. Something about the way she clung to me and wouldn’t let me go frightened me. I started to weep.”

He stopped, and the corner of his mouth twisted up in that way it did when he was trying to suppress strong emotion. “She told me to be a good boy and not cry. She said if I was good, when she returned the next day, she’d bring me a cake. I was six. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a cake, so I quieted, and she left. I went to sleep alone, without tears, a good little boy, awaiting my cake.” His voice trailed off.

“But she didn’t bring it when she came back?” she asked, uncertain what he was getting at.

“She didn’t come back. She’d gone to join my father in India. I waited patiently for six days, a good little boy, never crying, waiting for her to come back and bring me that cake. Then my grandfather took me aside and told me where she’d gone and that it would be many years until I’d see her next. He praised me for my bravery and told me my courage meant I’d grow up to be a fine soldier like my father.” He sat up straighter. “And I did.”

“Didn’t you ever cry?” she asked, appalled.

“Never. I was a brave boy.”

“But you must have been furious at her for leaving you that way.”

“I didn’t let myself feel it. I did my duty. I do it still.” He lifted his eyes to hers, before lowering his long lashes over their indigo depths. “You must believe me, Temperance. I didn’t know how much anger lay hid inside me—until tonight.”

“But couldn’t your mother have taken you with her?”

“My parents had already lost five children to Indian fevers. She couldn’t risk losing another. Not only out of love for her children, but because my father’s estate was entailed. If he died without an heir, she’d be left with nothing—as she will be if I should die before her, too. That’s why I must wed though it goes against my inclination.”

He paused and took a sip of the porter, before continuing. “My mother did her duty and stayed with me in England for those six years until it was clear I would live. Then she returned to my father. When she left, she didn’t want the memory of me she carried away from our parting to be defiled by tears. She didn’t think I’d want that either. The men of her family were heroes, and I was to be one, too. She only did what was best for all of us.”

“Is that why you don’t want to love the woman you marry?”

He looked down into his lap. “I don’t want my wife to have to choose between me and the child who needs her love.”

But, of course, there was more to it than that. Carefully, she said, “You thought I, too, had betrayed you, tonight, didn’t you?”

He clenched his jaw. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not? You demanded full honesty from me.”

He sighed. “There are secrets I must keep because they are not mine to give away. My loyalty to those I serve forces me to keep silent.”

He reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it gently. “Forgive me.”

For what? For the secrets he must keep, or something else—for what he’d done to her under the influence of the rage connected with those secrets?

“Do you still think I betrayed you?” she asked.

“No. I don’t. I can tell you that. I jumped to a false conclusion and will never forgive myself for doing it.”

“Then I will forgive you,” she said. “I know all too well how strong that anger is that we feel when we believe ourselves betrayed.”

He reached for her hand, and this time she let him take it. With her other hand she stroked the backs of his strong, square fingers, while she thought out what she would say next.

At length, she said, “I know what it is that you need, besides my honesty, to be able to give up doing battle.”

“What?” The way his eyes widened told her she’d taken him by surprise.

“I will make you a solemn promise, and keep it as long as you keep the vow you made me, that you will believe I speak the truth.”

“And what is it that you’ll promise?”

“That I won’t disappear on you without warning.”

She took a deep breath. “I know our time together must be brief, and that when it’s over, you’ll go off to India with your bride, and I’ll go to America. But this is what I can give you, the promise that, before we must part, we’ll say farewell. We’ll cry the tears we must cry, together, so we don’t have to carry them around with us for life. There will be no more cruel surprises. Is that a fair trade for the trust you’ve given me?”

“It is. It is more than fair. It takes my breath away.”

“Then our truce will hold,” she said.

“It must. Let us pray it will lead us to a lasting peace.”

Chapter 14

The sun was rising behind thick clouds as they left the Rat and Castle behind. As Trev led Temperance out to the street, he took her hand, as much for his own comfort as to give her support. She didn’t flinch or withdraw it from his grasp.

He felt a wave of relief wash over him as her fingers twined around his. It would be all right—though what exactly it might be, he couldn’t say.

When they reached a spot not far from where he had first seen her in the crowd that had gathered around the ballad singer, Temperance’s grip tightened. A richly appointed coach had drawn up beside them. Its tall wheels were painted red, and it was so covered with gilding that even in the pale light of dawn, it almost blinded him. Within it rode a woman of uncertain age whose expression still bore traces of what must at one time have been a startling beauty. She lowered the glass.

Temperance ignored her and hastened her pace, pulling Trev along with her. But he stopped, his free hand on the hilt of his sword. Close up, the woman’s expression was downright malevolent.

“The prancer’s using you, moll,” the woman sneered. “You should have thrown in your lot with us when you had the chance.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Temperance shot back.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. As you’ll find out soon enough. Don’t come crawling to me when he’s done with you. I gave you your chance, but you were too proud to take it.” She pushed up the glass, and the coachman flicked his whip over the lead horse and set them going again.

“Who’s that?” he asked in a low voice.

“Mother Bristwick.”

The woman who ran the major’s favorite bordello.

“How do you know her?” he asked, afraid he might already know the answer.

“Everyone who dwells in the rookeries knows her.”

“Because she’s a buttock broker?” His voice came out harsher than he had meant it to.

“That, yes, but she does a brisk business in stolen goods, too. Whoever you are, Mother Bristwick can always find a way to help you come up with the ready.”

“And did she help you?”

She turned to face him. “I’ve sold her a ticker or two in my day. Who hasn’t? But that’s all. I told you the truth when I said I’d never sold myself—before you.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “You didn’t sell yourself to me. You came to me of your own free will.”

Her hand tightened on his in what he hoped was a gesture of affection, though it was hard to tell. He was on untrod territory with her now. His interactions with women in the past had never gone beyond simple couplings, gift giving, and parting—always parting.

But he did know one thing. “I didn’t like the way she spoke to you,” he said. “Has she threatened you like that before?”

“She threatens everyone. It makes the stupider girls afraid of her. But I’ve always ignored her threats, and I’m still here.”

He was touched by her bravado, but it worried him. She wasn’t as strong as she pretended.

“If she tries anything with you, she’ll have to answer to me,” he said sternly, putting his arm around her shoulder. But could he keep her safe? He would be departing within the week. The thought of leaving her unprotected disturbed him. For that matter, so did the thought of leaving her at all.

In the distance, he saw the slight form of a sweeper, already at his station at this early hour. He remarked on it.

“He sleeps in the doorway there,” Temperance explained. “All the crossing boys sleep rough, to keep someone else from taking their place.” She plunged her hand into her pocket and cursed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I let my pride get the better of me when I threw those banknotes back at you. Now I have nothing to give him.” A worried look swept over her face. “When I go off to America, there will be no one to look after him. And that will be so soon.”

How soon? Would that farewell she’d promised him come even sooner than he expected? Somehow, he’d interpreted the careful truce they’d arrived at as meaning she’d be staying with him until he had to end it.

He reached into his pocket. “Would you allow me to give you something for him?”

“Oh yes. My pride would be a poor thing if it let Danny freeze to death.”

He extracted a handful of coins from his pocket and gave them to her. She made her way over to the boy and led him to the shadows, where she could give him the money unobserved.

Perhaps it would be better for them both if she did leave for America now and pursued her dream of freedom in a land where no one would know what she’d been or what mistakes she’d made, for he was becoming far too attached to her. Just the thought of losing her had sent pain stabbing through his gut.

But as she concluded her business with the crossing boy and glided back toward him, he gave up pretending he could be that selfless. Wrong as it was, he couldn’t stop himself from giving in to the selfish desire to hold on to her as long as he could even though barely a week remained before he must set off for the nabob’s, retrieve the jewel, and board the merchantman that would take him back to India.

But he must not let his selfish wishes get in the way of her doing what was right for her. He’d already been selfish enough. So when she returned after waving farewell to the crossing boy, he said in as casual a tone as he could manage, “Those notes I gave you at the coffeehouse are yours still. You could use them to buy your passage to America right now.”

“Is that what you wish me to do?”

“No.” He couldn’t keep the vehemence out of his voice. “But perhaps it would be best.”

“Because you don’t want me anymore?”

“Because I want you too much. But I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough.”

She sighed. “I will indeed be glad to set off for America, and breathe, at last, the air of liberty.”

He bit down hard, trying to give her no sign of how much it hurt that she could imagine herself happy without him.

“But I won’t go yet—I will stay with you until you have to leave me.” She gently stroked his cheek, rough with early-morning stubble. “Or until you no longer want me.”

“That time will never come,” he said quietly. “But I must thank you for giving me another chance. I couldn’t have borne it if you’d left me now, when I’ve shown you only my worst side. There is more to me than my anger.”

She smiled up at him through thick lashes, but her voice held no trace of flirtatiousness as she replied, “There is more to me than my impulsiveness. You aren’t the only one who’s shown off the worst parts of his character.”

He nodded. “We must start out fresh and live up to the vows we made to each other when we made our truce.”

“I will tell the truth, and you will believe me,” she said with a hopeful smile.

“Yes. And you will not abandon me without warning.”

They walked on in silence for a few paces. Then he said, “Because we are so alike—and not only in our anger—perhaps we can heal each other.”

“Perhaps we can. You are the only one who has ever pledged me even this much loyalty.”

He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it gently, filled once again with the intoxicating sense that they were two halves of one whole and bound to each other by more than just the casual vows of a single evening.

After he had returned her to her lodgings, Trev stayed only as long as it took to make sure she got into the room safely before he took his leave of her. Temperance was relieved he had made no attempt to renew the physical attentions that had been so treacherous for them both. Despite the revolution in her feelings for him, she would need time to mull over what had passed between them and prepare herself for what must happen next.

For it would be very different, the next time they joined their bodies. Until now, in all her dealings with him, she had acted out of fear, convinced she was the weaker one and that he had the advantage over her. But she’d been wrong. What she’d learned about him tonight had changed everything. She knew now why he had pursued her so relentlessly after she had left him so suddenly that first night in the alley—and it wasn’t what she’d thought.

He wasn’t a callous man seeking revenge for the tricks she’d played on him, a man she must defend herself against, using every weapon that she had, but something else entirely: a lonely man, convinced he must not feel anything but lust. A man whose deepest wound, inflicted by abandonment, had never healed.

She had torn that wound open when she’d lured him in, and then deceived him. She’d danced a dance of betrayal, not knowing what it meant to him, until it had all come out in that brutal act of union that had frightened them both and made them face the price they paid for hiding from their pain.

It must be different now. She could no longer toy with him, knowing what she knew. And he, too, knew how close she was to the edge, for he’d taken the measure of her desperation when he’d drawn her away from the river. If they were to meet again, naked in body and soul, they must leave off wounding. They must find some path to joy besides their rage. She longed to attempt it, yet she feared the price she might pay should it succeed. For no matter what happiness they might find together, he must leave her, impossibly soon. How would she go on alone if she let him take her heart along with him?

The deep sleep that eventually claimed her was terminated by a sharp rap on her door.

“Message for you, Miss,” a rough voice called out.

A message? It must be from Trev. She hoped he wrote to say he would be back to see her soon. Sleep had restored much of her confidence and even more of her desire for him. But when she tore open the note, it wasn’t from Trev. And it wasn’t good news.

Scrawled in a spindly hand, the note said, “Meet me at five tonight at Mother B’s and the crossing boy will stay safe.” It was signed with an S terminated at the top by a forked tongue. Snake.

Her stomach lurched. She should have known better than to think she could ignore him. She hadn’t kept her concern for the boy a secret, so of course they’d used it against her. The Weaver knew everything about everyone. That was what gave him so much power. And she didn’t doubt for a moment that they’d carry out their threat against Danny if she didn’t obey. They’d given her no choice but to do their bidding. She couldn’t let the child pay the price for her rebellion. She’d have to find out what Snake wanted from her.

When she arrived at the bawdy ken to which Snake had summoned her, he took her into one of the lavishly furnished rooms the girls used to entertain their customers and lounged back against the scarlet satin quilt that covered the bed, his gray clothing and angular form contrasting strangely with the lush furnishings.

“The prancer’s using you, moll,” he said.

The way his words echoed those of Mother Bristwick chilled her. “For what?”

“The usual—and for something else I ain’t gonna tell you ’bout. But ’taint love that’s driving him, I promise you that, and it will go better for you if you choose to go in with our lot. We got your Randall to safety, and we could do the same for you.”

“And if I don’t?”

Snake shrugged. “You’ll regret it. And so will the little crossing boy.”

She felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. “What do I have to do if I go in with you?”

“Stay with the prancer and await orders. We ain’t asking you to do nothing you ain’t doing already.”

“Will I have to harm him?” She couldn’t face that. Would they force her to?

“No,” Snake replied. “Just keep him busy for a while. Distracted, if you know what I mean. And do what we tell you when the time comes.”

They probably would want her to harm him. And when the time came, they’d make it so she had to unless she could think of some way out in the meantime. But she must give Snake no hint she didn’t believe his reassurances.

Carefully, she asked, “If I do what you ask, will you swear Danny stays safe?”

“Of course, moll. The Weaver keeps his word. Go along with us, and the crossing boy will be fine.”

She bit her lip, calculating the chances, and came to a decision. “I’ll stay with the prancer.”

Snake raised an eyebrow. “And take our orders?”

“If it will keep Danny safe.” It was a good thing she hadn’t promised Trev she’d tell the truth to everyone.

Snake did that thing with his lips that was supposed to be a smile. “I knew you’d see reason. Now go back to your lodgings and keep him sweet. You’ll hear from us next when it’s time.”

When Trev awoke the next morning, he turned his attention reluctantly to the myriad of practical details he must take care of before he could embark for India. His task was complicated by the need to keep his mother from knowing the truth, for she couldn’t be depended upon to keep a secret, and the safety of the jewel required that no one know his plans.

But even with the weight of affairs pressing in on him, he couldn’t stop thinking about the disturbing way Mother Bristwick had looked at Temperance. For all of her bravado, the girl was so vulnerable. It shamed him to realize that, little as she had, Temperance had given more thought to what would happen to the crossing boy she’d taken under her wing, after she was gone, than he’d given to what she would face when he departed. It was a horrifying omission. She might even now be carrying his child.

His mother greeted him at breakfast with the news that her astrologer had relented and agreed to help her with her matchmaking, having, apparently, found someone who might be the perfect match for him. He was too distracted to pay much attention to her babbling though he wondered that Her Ladyship should have made such an offer after what had transpired during his visit to the Refuge. Perhaps she hoped marriage would put an end to his wild ways.

But whatever her thinking, he knew, as his mother and Her Ladyship did not, that his impending departure would put an end to all their scheming. So after he’d spent the polite quarter of an hour with his mother that etiquette demanded, he excused himself, bathed and dressed, and set off to visit the major. He would appeal to him for help to ensure that when he must leave her behind, Temperance would be well taken care of.

Though it was already noon when Trev rapped on his door, Major Stanley was just getting out of bed.

“My lad,” he boomed out in greeting. “I envy you your robust constitution. Behold in my sorry frame the price to be paid for a life of dissipation. I am but a shadow of a man, and my head pounds like a bloody foundry.”

“Perhaps this will help,” Trev said, pulling out the bottle of brandy he’d brought as a gift.

“Brandy, by gad. And French, too, I warrant. That’s as fine a cure as ever a doctor prescribed. I say. I may live to see another summer yet.”

The major uncorked the brandy, fetched two glasses, and after a sip, pronounced it “capital.” Only then did he remark, “There’s a glow about you today, and it’s no wonder. She’s a stunner, that woman of yours, despite her nimble fingers. No wonder you went haring after her last night. Your air of satisfaction tells me you charmed her back into your nest.”

He flung himself into a chair and held up his glass. “Oh fortunate youth, to have such joys before you. Truth be told, I envy you more than your robust constitution. My advancing decrepitude makes it unlikely I shall ever attract such a splendid example of femininity, no matter what I could pay her.”

“You’re not as far gone as all that,” Trev assured him. “In a dim light, you might still pass for forty if you keep on your helmet to hide your bald spot.”

“Insolent whelp!” His friend slapped him on the back. “I’m only thirty-seven, and my barber tells me I have the hair of a man of thirty.”

“Then there is hope for you yet, though your envy of me is misplaced. My orders have changed. I shall have to leave Temperance behind before the end of the week and return to my posting in India.”

A look of real concern swept over his friend’s face. “Rotten luck that, but why?”

“You know the military. No reason given, to be executed with all dispatch and kept secret at the highest level of confidentiality.”

“Ah.” The major momentarily assumed a more serious look. “My lips are sealed. But that is hard luck. You’ve barely disembarked.”

“I’m not looking forward to the voyage, but you know the regiment is my real home, not this soggy island. In truth, I should rejoice to be returning so soon were it not that I must leave Temperance behind.”

“Then take her along with you, my boy. It will cost you next to nothing to keep her in India. You can give her a fine little bungalow and so many servants she need never again lift a hand. She’ll think herself in paradise.”

“Not possible. I’ve promised my mother to wed as soon as I can, and I wouldn’t insult my wife by keeping a mistress. I can’t take Temperance halfway across the world only to abandon her when I marry.”

“No. I suppose you couldn’t. Though I shouldn’t imagine she would have trouble finding another protector when you moved on. She is a spectacular piece of womanflesh. I’d take her in a moment if she’d have me.”

It was with difficulty that Trev kept his clenched fist by his side. Temperance was his.

“No insult intended,” the major added hastily. “You really do care about her, don’t you?”

“Too much for my own good. I’ve never before met anyone like her.”

“I had a girl like that in Bombay, back in ’11,” the major said wistfully. “A taking little thing, a quartermaster’s daughter. Had disgraced herself with some cornet and been cast off by her family. We spent a month together, and I should have been happy to spend my life with her, but my mother wouldn’t countenance such a match. Mother died not long after that, but by then Kitty had taken the money she’d saved and sailed off. I’ve never found anyone else to match her.”

The major contemplated his brandy for a moment, then took another sip. “It’s a damned shame, isn’t it, that the ones we love to bed aren’t the ones we can wed.”

“A damned shame, indeed. But would you truly have wed her had your mother not been so opposed?”

“Oh yes. We were so happy together, and she was used to a soldier’s life, having been bred to it. I should have been a different man had I married her. She might have been the making of me.”

Trev almost quipped that rather than being the making of him, a wife might have kept him from making his many pleasurable conquests, but a certain softness in his friend’s eye warned him away from the topic.

It had never occurred to him that the major might have wished for any other life than that of a hedonistic bachelor. Indeed, Trev had envied him for not being, as he was, obliged to wed. This new insight into his friend’s character startled him. But neither of them was comfortable with unnecessary displays of emotion, so Trev moved swiftly to bring the conversation to a conclusion.

“Will you keep an eye on Temperance after I’m gone?” he asked. “I can think of no one else to whom I would feel confident entrusting her safety.”

“I’d be honored to.” A sheepish look swept over Stanley’s bluff features. “You know I was only jesting about taking her on myself.”

“Of course. You’ve always been a loyal friend.”

An uneasy look passed over the major’s features, and he looked away. Why? The major was his best friend. Why had he reacted so strangely to hearing Trev praise him for his loyalty? Then it flashed across his mind that perhaps his friend was embarrassed because he still harbored a less-than-loyal yearning for Temperance. If that was the explanation, it was understandable. Temperance would tempt any red-blooded male.

But now that the matter had been brought out into the open, Trev knew he could trust the major not to violate the bonds of friendship. He explained the financial arrangements he intended to make for Temperance and extracted from the major the promise that he would personally see that she got on the ship for America safely and in possession of sufficient funds to keep her—and any possible outcome of their dalliance—in comfort, once she arrived. The major made a few more helpful suggestions and promised to treat Temperance with the consideration he would have given his own daughter.

His conscience relieved, Trev left his friend nursing his brandy with a wistful look that made him wonder if the older man’s thoughts were still lingering on those long-ago days in Bombay and the woman who had slipped away.

It was only later, when he was on his way to meet with his solicitor to wrap up some important matters regarding his estate, that Trev had the sudden, overwhelming, vision of himself a few decades hence, guzzling brandy at noon and booming with false heartiness as he told some other young man of the woman who might have changed his life if he’d only had the courage to wed her.

He didn’t want to be that man.

And, as the words that had started the major off on his reminiscence came bounding back into his memory, Trev knew, with a certainty that stopped him in his tracks, that he didn’t have to be that man.

Why hadn’t he seen it before?

He could wed Temperance. There was no reason he must marry one of the girls his mother had been pressing on him. He must wed to secure his mother’s fortune in case he didn’t survive her, but any son born to him in lawful matrimony would do that, including any son born to him and Temperance.

He need only tell his mother that he had wed the daughter of a wealthy man from the North. If he waited until he returned to India to do it, she’d assume he’d chosen one of the notorious “fishing fleet” of women who come out husband hunting to India. He need never reveal the real circumstances under which he’d done his wooing.

The idea, once formed, obsessed him. But he must not get ahead of himself. What made him think Temperance would wish to marry him? It had taken all his persuasive powers to keep her from abandoning him last night. With what he’d shown her of his darker side, she had no reason to believe he could be a loving husband.

And besides, he knew how much she wanted to go to America. Why should she give up her dream of living in the land of liberty in exchange for the dubious pleasure of becoming an officer’s wife? Especially when that officer served in a regiment that was famed for its loyalty to the king she thought of as a tyrant?

And yet, his heart whispered that the pursuit of an ideal, no matter how lofty, couldn’t offer her the happiness he longed to give her. If he could awaken in her even a shadow of the feelings that filled him, might she not be willing to give up her devotion to an abstraction and share his life?

For she would make the perfect wife for him. She had survived years in the filthy warrens of the poor. The miasmas of India could not be any more dangerous than what she’d already been exposed to in the rookeries. That toughness was what made her so ideal a partner for him. If he married her, he need not send her to England at the first sign of pregnancy as he would have been forced to do had he married one of the sheltered girls his mother favored. He could have a real wife, not some distant creature on which to breed the heir his mother needed.

It was even possible, though he could hardly allow himself to entertain the possibility, that if he wed her, he could have what he’d never let himself admit he wanted: a real family—the kind other people took for granted, something he had never known.

And all he need do to achieve it was, somehow, in the brief time allotted to him before he must embark for India, make Temperance want him with the same fervor with which he wanted her now. Just that.

It seemed impossible. But he would do it. He did his best work when failure wasn’t an option.

Chapter 15

The meeting with Snake had destroyed any hope Temperance might have had that she and Trev might find happiness in the brief time they could spend together. He had demanded honesty from her, and she had promised to give it to him, but how could she be honest with him about Snake’s threat? Trev was too much a man of action to ignore it.

She’d seen how he’d reacted to Mother Bristwick when they’d met her on the street, and all the old bawd had done then was hurl a veiled insult or two. She could only imagine what he’d do if she told him how Snake had threatened her. He’d take things into his own hands and go charging in after him, and that would lead to certain disaster. He had no idea what the Weaver and his minions were capable of, but she did. She’d seen what they’d done to their enemies. She cared for Trev too much to allow them to do that to him.

But knowing she couldn’t be honest with Trev made her dread their next encounter. With that way he had of seeing into the deepest parts of her nature, he would know she was violating her pledge, and that would be that for him. She couldn’t doubt it. So as much as she longed to see him, she feared their next meeting, knowing how it must end.

It was evening when she finally heard his knock at the door of her lodging chamber. When she opened it, it she found him clutching a huge bouquet of hothouse roses. The lushness of the deep red blossoms contrasted strongly with the determined masculinity of his uniform. Knowing what she was keeping from him, she kept herself from flinging herself into his arms but merely took the bouquet from him and busied herself with arranging it in a pitcher, hoping he couldn’t detect her uneasiness.

But he, too, seemed oddly restrained, and even a bit uncomfortable—though this new mood of his was nothing like the hostile coldness that had radiated from him when he’d come to her chamber the previous night. It was something new she couldn’t interpret.

When she’d arranged the roses to her satisfaction, she breathed in their lush scent. “No one ever brought me flowers before,” she said.

“There’s a lot else no one ever did for you, Tem. I shall try to make up for it.”

She started to protest, but stopped when she saw how much pleasure he was taking from the thought.

“These roses are but a small token of what I should like to give you,” he added. “But I feared to choose a more significant gift without consulting you. I’d love to give you something truly special, but I didn’t think you’d take pleasure in the usual kinds of gifts men give women—bracelets and all.”

He’d got that right. A gift of jewelry, no matter how lovely, would have made her feel all too much like a light-of-love. She was touched that he hadn’t bought her something that might have made her feel the disadvantages of her position.

She was about to assure him that she wanted nothing from him but his company, but as she opened her mouth to say it, she stopped, struck by the realization that there was something he could give her that would be more precious than rubies, for it would restore her ability to be frank with him. But could she ask for so great a gift?

Observing her pause, he said, “You hesitate to ask me for what you really want. Please, don’t be shy about telling me, whatever it is.”

“It may be too much to ask of you. I don’t wish to seem greedy.”

“Ah, but I am already greedy for the pleasure I will take in giving what you really want.” His ruined lip quirked up at the humor of his logic.

She glanced at the roses. Maybe he really meant it. If he did, perhaps their connection could survive for the few more weeks that were left.

She spoke hurriedly, to keep from losing her courage. “Could you do something for Danny, the crossing boy? His lungs are so weak, he’ll die if he has to spend another winter on the street. If you could but find him a place somewhere, far away from London, he might have a chance. Is that too much to ask?”

He blinked with surprise. “No. Not at all. It’s an odd request to be sure, but it does you credit.” He stopped to think for a moment. “How would it be if I sent him to the estate in the country where my mother lives when she is not in Town? He could serve her as a page. It’s light work, and I’ll leave instructions that, when the boy grows stronger, he be apprenticed in a useful trade.”

Her knees almost buckled as a wave of relief swept over her. “That would please me beyond measure.” With a single stroke, he had removed Snake’s ability to compel her service. And she’d done it without being forced to lie. “But do it soon. There’s no time to waste.”

“I will do it as soon as I leave you. But I can’t leave you now, not when you smile at me like that. I’ve never seen you look so beautiful, and I would go to great lengths to make you smile like that again.”

She wished she could tell him why she was so grateful to him, to increase his pleasure in the gift he had given her, which was so much greater than he knew. But she could not, so she said only, “How can I not smile? Your offer proves I wasn’t pitching gamon when I said you were kind.”

“You have made it possible for me to be kind,” he said softly. “You set me an example of kindness with your concern for the boy. And I am glad to have the chance to show you there is more to me than my anger.” He stopped abruptly.

His indigo eyes had lost that eagle’s gaze they held so often, and a look of tenderness had replaced it. She knew he wanted her, badly. But she knew, too, that he was restraining himself from demanding that she respond to his desire. He would not overpower her this time, as much as he might want to. He would let her set the pace.

She turned her lips up to his and parted them in invitation. He met them with a gentle kiss that sent a thrill throughout her entire body. It felt so right to be in his arms. She gave herself up to the pleasure of it, pulling him closer. As his tall, strong body pressed against hers, she felt her hunger awaken and respond to the passion that radiated out from him in waves, as hard as he struggled to contain it.

She must merge with him again; her entire being craved it—in kindness this time, yes, if it were possible—but shameful though it might be, she hungered, too, for the wild intensity they had shared the night before. She would take whatever he would give her. Her need for him possessed her.

But he had more discipline than she did, and when she began to pull him toward the bed, he released her. She felt a shock as their bodies separated.

“Damn it, Tem, but there’s something I must say before this goes any further though I have barely the courage to spit it out. I was tempted to keep it secret, and to make love to you first before broaching what might be a painful subject for us both. But to take you under false pretenses would be wrong.”

She drew back, cold fear gnawing at her belly. Had he already found the bride he must marry? What else could explain his sudden need to shower her with gifts?

Unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice, she asked, “Must you leave me even sooner than you expected?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?”

He gulped, then stood up straighter. The gold braid on his tunic glittered in the light of the single candle, defining his broad chest, which seemed to pulse with the intensity of his heartbeat. He was in the grip of something now that had him reaching into the very depths of his being for strength.

He thrust out his chin. Under the wide slashes of his brow, his eyes burned. He stepped back and took a deep breath, like a boy about to jump off a ledge. Then he dropped to his knee, bringing his close-cropped curls on the same level with her waist. She resisted the urge to tousle them as he turned up to her the eyes of that child he’d once been, whose childhood had ended so abruptly.

Then he spoke. “It’s usual, I know, here in England, when wooing a woman, to take one’s time, but I don’t have the luxury of time. I must leave for India soon, and I don’t wish to return there without you—I couldn’t bear it. Is it possible—would you consider—” He stopped, flustered, then the words tumbled out. “It is the deepest wish of my heart that you return with me to India.”

“As your paramour?”

“As my wife.”

He reached into one pocket and brought forth a small jeweler’s box, padded with velvet. Buried in its folds was a thick gold ring of antique design.

“My future happiness is entirely at your disposal,” he said awkwardly. “As unworthy as I might be, may I beg you to become my partner in marriage?”

She couldn’t believe she’d heard what she thought he’d said.

“Marry you? But why?”

His lip tightened involuntarily. “I must wed, and the time we have spent together convinces me you would make me an excellent wife. You are strong and could support the rigors of the Indian climate. You are adventurous and would take joy in a life of travel in foreign lands. You are brave. A soldier’s wife must be brave—”

“Just that?”

He shifted uneasy. “What else would you have me say?”

“That you love me.” The appalling words tumbled out before she could stop them.

His eyes met hers, their pupils so wide that the circle of copper that edged them was engulfed by their blackness. “I could love you,” he whispered. “If you could love me. Can you?”

Now it was her turn to look away.

Could she love him? Before he had made her this astonishing offer of marriage, she might have thought so, for she would have called the yearning she felt for him love. But was it really love—the kind that could last through the decades they would spend together?

Or was what she’d been calling love merely the feeling that had welled up within her in response to her certainty he would eventually abandon her?

She couldn’t trust herself to answer. She had never allowed herself to dream that, flawed as she was, someone would ever ask her such a question. And the gold ring that sparkled in Trev’s hand posed such a strong temptation. She had only to accept it, and she would start a new life with this man, whose strength and discipline attracted her as no one else ever had. The warmth in his glowing eyes as he awaited her answer tormented her. She wanted to drown herself in them, now, and forever, as she could, if she were to become his wife.

Yet there were so many reasons why it would be impossible.

His face fell. “It was too much to ask of you. I’m sorry. It was too sudden. I should have known our truce was still too new for me to ask for such a thing. You have no reason to trust me enough to agree to it.

“It isn’t that. But you ask so much of me—that we spend a lifetime together. Are we capable of loving each other when the clash of battle is over? We have known each other for so short a time, how could we dare attempt such a thing? And if we fail—”

She stopped for a moment, her mind unable to put words around what she needed to say. Then it came to her, and she said, “When Lady Hartwood read my chart, she told me my husband would be my greatest friend or my worst enemy. If we were to bind ourselves together, and one of us was to betray the other, we would end up destroying each other.”

“There is all too much truth in what you say. And yet, the very fact that you have the courage to say it gives me hope. We are both realists, Tem. We would go into this with our eyes wide open. And though I know full well it won’t be easy, I’m willing to risk it, for if anyone could be the wife of my heart, it would be you.”

“But why? Why me?”

He thought deeply before answering. “There are so many reasons. Because one stands before all the rest. You are capable of loyalty. Intense loyalty. You were faithful to Randall even though he did little to deserve it, even when you thought he was dead. ”

“I was,” she admitted, uneasy.

“And I would be faithful to you. Unlike him. I wouldn’t ask of you what I wouldn’t give you in return.”

“Were you faithful to your other mistresses?”

“I’ve had no other mistress. The few women I had in India were not mine to keep; nor did they wish to be mine. I’ve always been alone, devoting myself to sacrifice and duty.”

“Am I to become another duty?”

“No,” he said simply. “You would be my reward for all that sacrifice, the only pleasure I have ever been selfish enough to demand for myself.”

Pleasure. The word made her flinch. For that was the biggest stumbling block. Could they make love without the clash of battle? Could they find pleasure together that wasn’t tinged with fear and anger?

Softly, he answered her unspoken question. “I’ve never made love with a woman who was loyal to me. I’ve never made love with a woman to whom I could be true. I don’t know what it’s like. I should like to find out. I’m willing to risk it. Will you?”

She nodded, her heart so full she was unable to speak.

He reached for the box that held the ring and said, “Would you take this ring and place it on your fourth finger, where the vein runs up to your heart?”

He held it out. It glowed in the candlelight, a circle of fire.

“But what if we can’t find love together?”

“It’s only a ring,” he growled. “If we fail, you can do with it what you wish. It won’t bind you unless you wish it to. I will hold you only to the vows we made when we made our truce—that you tell me the truth and not leave me without warning.”

“And that you will believe me when I tell you my truth.”

“Yes. Only that.”

His desperate need for her showed in his eyes. His body pulsed with his effort to restrain it. But could she be the wife he needed? Could she give up her dreams to become the wife of an officer pledged to their despot king?

Her heart sank. The choice was so difficult. She knew she should refuse him, but she could not. She wanted him too much. He was her other half.

She took his ring and slipped the golden circlet over her finger. “I will try,” she said. “I will give it all I’ve got.”

He had thought it a foolish myth that a ring might stimulate the action of the heart, yet as she slipped onto her finger the ring that symbolized his hopes, a burst of love spread upward from his own hand to where his heart swelled with an emotion completely new to him.

Pure joy.

Her face shone with something he’d never seen in her before, an innocence that belied the veneer of sophistication she had hidden behind. But he saw something else there, too. Her fear. And he knew what she feared, for he shared that fear with her.

They had been drawn together by the pain they shared, born of the betrayals they had suffered at others’ hands. They’d battled each other, using their cleverness and insight to seize control. He’d taken her in anger while their conflict raged, and she’d met him in combat, as fierce as he was, and as wounded. They had gloried in warfare. Was he wrong to think they could become companions? Could he trust the certainty that possessed him and told him that they could?

The fear he felt was no phantasm born of weakness but very real. To brush it aside would only give it more power. He must do what he’d learned to do with worthy fears—honor it but push past it and not give in. He had learned courage in the midst of battle, and he would battle now against the darkness of his nature.

He would make love to her now as she deserved to be loved, with his heart, not just his loins. He would meet her where passion would lead them and prove to her that there was more to him than the bestial warrior who had conquered her. He would turn his skill to healing. He would find love with her and make her truly his.

He took her by the hand that bore his ring, and said, “Come with me, Priya.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is Hindustani for beloved.”

“It is a beautiful word.”

“Not half so beautiful as you. Would you take off your gown, so I might see you in all of your beauty? That’s all I ask. I won’t force myself upon you again.”

“You never forced yourself on me. I always wanted you. I want you now.”

Her long-lashed eyelids fluttered shut, and, like a child who believes herself hidden when she cannot see others, she began to unbutton her gown.

She was so beautiful. She let her gown fall away and unlaced the fastenings of her stays, discarded them, and slowly removed her shift. She paused before shyly revealing her body to him by the light of the candle. Had he really crushed those superb half-rounded breasts last night without noticing their perfection? Had he really taken her in her shift, not even bothering to see what it concealed, intent only on expressing the rage he had let consume him?

It was not rage that consumed him now but wonder.

She paused. “I watched you last time. Now you are watching me. Is it arousing?”

“It is. Your body is so beautiful it takes my breath away. But I won’t let my arousal overwhelm me. This time is for you. For your pleasure.”

“I want you to feel pleasure, too,” she said. “Your pleasure excites me. I can’t help it. It must be the devil within me, but it does.”

Before he could reply, she sat up and reached for the fastenings of his breeches, unbuttoning them quickly. He couldn’t help but quiver with excitement as her hands began their work. She needn’t worry about giving him pleasure. She dropped to her knees before him, placing herself between his legs, so he was looking down at the firm small mounds of her breasts and the hard dark nipples that stood out in sharp points against her pale white skin.

Before he realized what she intended, she opened her lips and guided his swelling cock toward her mouth. In another moment, she would engulf him, and he would be unable to stop her, but this was not what he wanted, as exquisite as the sensation might be.

This time must be for her.

With great care, he stopped her, removing her hand from his cock. “Not yet,” he said. He lifted her up from where she knelt, until she stood once again face-to-face with him. He enfolded her in his embrace, enjoying the way her height matched his, her long, slim form so perfect for his. He wouldn’t use her like a slave girl. There had been enough of that already. He motioned her toward the bed. “Lie down,” he commanded.

She winced, and he cursed himself for how brusque his voice had sounded. He couldn’t give up the habit of command, even at a moment like this. He tried again. “I only wanted to make you more comfortable.”

She obeyed him, stretching herself out on the bed. She was willing to do what he wanted, but her gaze was still wary. He settled himself beside her on the coverlet, reached toward her face, and stroked the feather-soft skin of her forehead with the kindness he would have offered a little child.

“I never allowed myself to hope I might find a wife I could love,” he said, letting his fingers glide so lightly he barely disturbed the waves of her honey gold curls. Her eyes had turned the color of damask steel or smoke. He leaned over her and fluttered kisses on her cheek, as soft as the petals of the roses whose color it had stolen. “By God, your skin is soft. I could be happy doing nothing more than letting my fingers touch you.”

“But I wouldn’t be. You’ve made me too greedy.” She let her eyes drift closed as he trailed his fingers along her cheek, savoring the feel of the down he found there.

“Have no fear,” he said. “I won’t stop until you beg me to.”

“Then I must remain silent.”

He bent over her and traced the long line of her neck with the lightest of kisses. When he got to the delicious hollow at the base, he sucked in the flesh he found there and flicked his tongue against it. She arched her neck backward, opening herself to more. He teased with his tongue.

“What are you doing?” But this time it was not fear in her voice but wonder.

“Loving you as you should be loved, Tem. As you should have always been loved.”

She allowed herself to sink into the dreamlike state his words led her into, feeling like a child hearing a bedtime story and at the same time, not like a child—not with the life that flowed through her woman’s body at his masculine touch. And he was so very much a man. Even as he spoke the words he intended to soothe her, his voice couldn’t entirely lose its roughness. He was a soldier tested in battle, accustomed to command. But that knowledge made his clumsy gentleness all the more precious. She treasured the discipline he imposed upon himself, rough warrior though he was, in order to give her this peace and to calm her. She gave herself up to it.

His strong hands made their way down the muscles of her upper arms, kneading them with a sinuous motion that removed tension she hadn’t known lay trapped within them. He took his time, working his way down, pressing against secret points that sent waves of pleasure through her entire frame. He massaged her palms and each finger, one by one. This was for her. He had told the truth. She breathed in deeply, savoring the peacefulness created by his masterful touch.

“If a genie could offer you three wishes, Priya, what would they be?” he asked.

She made herself swim up from the luxurious place his gentle touch had sent her. “When you touch me like this, I have no wishes at all, except that you never stop.”

“You are a flatterer.” He laughed.

“It is only the truth. I can’t lie to you, Trev. Not anymore, and you swore you would believe me.”

His hand stopped abruptly. “I must believe you. Our love depends on it.”

“And I must tell you the truth, as hard as it might be.”

“Is it so hard?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?” His tone was suddenly harsh.

“Because I fear I will lose you if you know the whole truth about me.”

His hand stopped moving, “Are you my lover, Temperance—or my enemy.” His eyes were hard again.

“I’ve never been your enemy. Only my own.”

He drew a deep breath, as if in relief, and knelt beside her again. He leaned over her, bringing his lips down on hers and sucking hungrily at them, as if he could suck the truth from her. She shivered with the yearning his kiss awoke, feeling not only his body calling out to her, but his soul.

She threw her arms around him and clasped him more tightly to her. He stretched out on the cushions beside her, his organ of pleasure jutting between them, and drew her to him, pressing it against the softness of her abdomen. But he made no move to enter her. Instead, they lay, skin to skin, thigh to thigh, belly to belly as he drew her deeper and deeper into the kiss.

Time seemed to stop as the two of them spun into one. Waves of desire rose from the base of her spine and surged upward, through her belly to her heart. She gave herself up to them, exulting as his arms tightened around her. Their breathing quickened as their hearts pounded with the same fervid rhythm.

When at last he released her lips, she felt a sense of loss, but she had no time to give in to it, for he rose and positioned himself so that he knelt between her legs. His strong hands kneaded her thighs deeply, digging into the muscles and freeing them of all but the hunger for his touch. He took his time. He was all hers now. He had nowhere to be but here, nothing to do but to bring out the joy that had lain hidden in these muscles, these nerves, this pounding blood.

Then, before she realized what he was doing, he plunged his face into the cleft between her legs and ran his probing tongue over the swollen center of her yearning, gliding against the place where all sensation blossomed. She’d never experienced such a thing. Had barely heard it whispered about.

For a moment, the shock of it forced her back into herself, and she looked down at his dark curls, wondering that he could want to do it. Wasn’t she dirty there? She tensed.

He paused and looked up. His azure eyes met hers, peering from beneath the black curls that had fallen forward over his brow, filled with a look of mischievous delight. He was taking pleasure in this, too. She lay back and gave in to the wonder of it, and it was a wonder.

For his tongue had its own magic, subtle and exquisite. It flicked against her most intimate part, slick and hot, making her want even more, no matter how much he gave her. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in his throat, and as it did, she was filled with multicolored light that flowed out from the tip of her nub into every fiber of her body. She opened herself to him, wanting she knew not what.

But he knew.

He slid one strong finger deep into her hungry passage, massaging her there, too, pressing against a spot deep within her that drove her wild, even as the flickering smoothness of his tongue continued on, dancing her desire into flame.

He became her yearning. He became her hunger. He was no longer a separate being but knew better than she did what her body needed, teasing her with the promise of it, driving her wild as her need for him mounted higher and higher, until she was close to madness.

And still he would not stop. His tongue pressed harder against the center of her desire, stroking and flickering, hard as the prick he made her long for, but more delicate, more relentless, and more skilled, until she cried out, gasping and moaning, calling his name out as the searing colored chords of release rolled through her body, until she was empty, hollow with it, and could bear no more delight. She went limp as she let herself drift, swept away, on the last waves of the miracle he had made within her.

When at last she came back to herself, he was resting on his calves, gazing down at her with a look of pure delight. She’d never seen such a look on a man’s face before, and she couldn’t understand it. Everything he’d done had been for her and her alone. He hadn’t taken his own pleasure of her. He hadn’t even taken off his clothes.

“How can you be so happy when I gave you nothing?” she whispered.

“You gave me everything.”

“Not everything,” she said. “You gave me your kindness, but I need your fierceness, too.” She took his hand and guided it to her quim, still slick with the juices of her desire that he had so utterly fulfilled. “I can’t help my sinful nature, but I must have all of what you are capable of, not just your gentleness, but your fierceness, too. All. Don’t hold back. I need more, I can’t help it, I need all of what you are.”

A look of amazement filled his face. He drew off his clothing, quickly this time, not at all like that long painful disrobing of the night before, and flung them on the floor. She drank in the sight of him. The dark circles around the nipples, the luxuriant fur. The hardness of a body that had seen hard use. And that other hardness. He wanted her.

She lay back, ready at last for the assault that must come, but even now he surprised her. For he did not thrust into her. Not this time. Instead, he sat himself beside her, his erect manhood proudly displayed, and let his thumb drift against her awakening nub, rubbing it gently at first, then harder. Desire stirred again—desire she hadn’t thought she could ever feel after such blissful fulfillment. She lifted herself on one elbow and grasped his rod, feeling the thickness of it, sliding her hand up its shaft, while with her other hand she cupped his ballocks and kneaded them, savoring the feeling of power it gave her to hear him gasp as she intensified his hunger for her.

She pulled his prick to her lips and let her tongue inscribe a circle around it, finding the slit at its tip and lingering there, tasting his seed, so salty and primeval. But he pulled it away from her searching lips. That was not what he wanted, not now; he needed too much to join himself with her.

He reared over her and knelt once again between her legs, so that she bore none of his weight, and eased himself into her, his eyelids half-lowered and fluttering with pleasure as he buried himself in her and began to thrust.

As his hips moved, his thick shaft stretched her and filled her with him, moving against her, inside, in a way that made her want him even more. She opened herself wider to him, marveling at how much of him there was to welcome. His manhood rose and fell within her, drawing from her a desire that echoed with his.

His tempo quickened as he pounded into her. His eyes were filled with a look she had never seen before, exultant and joyful. She thrust with her own hips, inciting him to thrust harder and harder. They pulsed together, their bodies pounding as their souls danced. Time disappeared as she lost herself in him, until they found release together, and he sagged against her, spent and emptied of everything but relief. From the crack that opened in her heart, her tears poured out.

“Why do you weep?” His voice was rough. “Did I hurt you?”

“Oh no, not that.” It was difficult to speak. She could say nothing more for a moment, then she whispered. “I weep because you made me know you love me.”

“I do,” he said. “Forever.”

He stretched out beside her, so close he could still feel her chest pounding. He, too, felt like weeping. He had found her again in that place where he was filled with power, knowing himself for who he was.

And again she had met him there. She’d taken all he had to give her. She was strong enough to meet him. To withstand all that he was. To welcome it.

Without anger. Without savagery. She had wanted to take what he needed to give. They were two halves of one whole. His heart swelled with joy he had never dreamed it could know. His long years of loneliness were over.

Only one thing troubled him, and at length after they’d lain in companionable silence he asked, “Why did you call yourself evil,” he asked, “when your desire rose to match mine? Who taught you you were evil?”

“I have always known it, for I bear the mark.”

“What mark?”

She sat up and pointed to the crease where her upper thigh met her torso. “This mark. See. It’s a cloven hoof. The mark of Satan. I was born with it.”

He leaned over to inspect it. It was a small dark birthmark that stood out against her pale skin, and to the superstitious mind, perhaps its shape could have been interpreted that way.

“That was why my stepmother said I would grow up to be sinful. For I was branded with it at birth.”

“Your stepmother was a very stupid woman.”

“But my father believed her. And Randall said it was the mark of the devil inside me, the one that made me insatiable.”

“The bastard was wrong. You’re not insatiable. I can speak on that with authority.”

She blushed. “But I wanted so much.”

“You want only what it gives me pleasure to give to you. No woman before has ever been strong enough to take from me all I have to give. It’s not a sin, Tem, that your passion is as strong as mine, it’s a miracle. It’s the sign we were born to love each other. ”

Chapter 16

It was only after he had dressed himself the next morning that Trev had the courage to address the one practical matter that barred him from completing their happiness.

“As you are only eighteen,” he said, “I must get your father’s consent before we can be wed. So I must ask you to furnish me with his direction.”

Her face clouded. “He may refuse you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He might think you were after my fortune.”

“You have one?”

“I would have had I not left home. But I wanted no part of the money he earned from exploiting the workers at his mills.”

“Who exactly is your father?”

“Jedidiah Smith.”

“The Cotton King?” Everyone had heard of the man whose mills ran half a mile along the riverbank in Manchester.

“Yes. That was why I was such a prize for Randall. He enjoyed reproaching me about my birth long after he’d lost all other interest in me.”

“It is incomprehensible to me how any man could lose interest in you. But that does put a different complexion on the matter.”

He pondered for a minute. “I shall tell your father that I will happily take you in your shift. Perhaps that will assure him I’m not a fortune hunter. It’s true. I want nothing from him but his permission to make you my wife.”

“But even so, what if he won’t give it to you?”

“Then I will take you to India with me anyway and do battle with him from there. Do you think I would give you up now?”

Her eyes brightened, and a delicate flush warmed the cool smoothness of her pale cheek. Without further argument, she gave him her father’s direction. Later that day, he wrote to him to ask for his daughter’s hand, referring him to Fanshawe should he require confirmation as to his character.

When the letter was posted, he said a silent prayer that her father wouldn’t add to the obstacles that already lay in their path. He would have Temperance as his wife, one way or another. Nothing in this world could part them now. But he didn’t underestimate the challenges that lay before them. He hoped that her father wouldn’t make things even more difficult than they were already likely to be.

Over the next few days, Temperance abandoned herself to the joy of her newfound love and refused to listen to the doubts that whispered it couldn’t last. Trev fulfilled at once his promise to send Danny to his country estate, then he continued on with his campaign to show her his kinder side.

He gave her a richly patterned shawl he’d brought with him from India, whose exotic scent hinted at the splendors that awaited her in the East. He brought her a book that recounted a lady’s experiences in India, to teach her more about the land that would become her adopted home. He even began to teach her the rudiments of the Hindustani language, beginning with the words she would have to employ with their servants and moving on to the vocabulary that described the dozens of positions in which it was possible to make love.

These they explored together in the hours they whiled away at her lodgings entwined in each other’s arms. Some of them heightened their pleasure; others proved so ridiculous they found themselves reduced to helpless laughter when they tried them. But with every new encounter, Temperance grew more closely bonded to this man who, beneath his stern and controlled exterior, had hidden a need for affection greater than that of anyone she had known—except herself.

In the aftermath of their lovemaking, he would bring to life the characters of his commander and the other officers who shared his mess—capital fellows who, he assured her, would welcome her with an enthusiasm only slightly less than his own. But despite his assurances, there were moments when she wondered if what they indulged in now was a fantasy no more real than her dream of triumphing over tyranny with her crew here in London.

How could she transform herself into the kind of woman who would fit in with the wives of his fellow officers who must form her circle once they arrived in India? To be accepted in their society, she would have to school herself to show none of the revolutionary fervor that had been such a part of her character even before she’d left home.

In India, too, she would have to set aside her dream of working for a better world and replace it with that of building the loving family Trev so obviously needed. The joy she found in his arms was so great, she could at times delude herself that it would compensate her for what she would have to give up to become his wife. But when he left her to take care of the many arrangements that must be completed before their departure, her fears set in again.

Close as they were becoming, she resisted the temptation to tell him of her anxieties, and if he suspected her of entertaining doubts, he didn’t bring them up. The air of reserve he maintained, even now, told her there were things he preferred to keep from her. He must be struggling with his own doubts, and, like herself, he must have concluded that to discuss them might only make them stronger. They were too happy together to take such a risk. Best to suck every bit of pleasure out of the present moment and leave the future to unfold as it must.

It was with mixed feelings that Trev said farewell to his mother on the day appointed for the journey into Surrey, where he would visit with the Mad Nabob and claim the Jewel of Vadha. He embraced his parent and wished her well, just as if he would be coming back in a few days, but he did so knowing it would be many years until he saw her again. How ironic it was to find himself playing what had once been her role.

Loving Temperance as he did, he could better appreciate the sacrifice his mother had made in spending six years apart from her beloved husband. She’d done it for Trev, to ensure he would survive. He found himself wishing he’d had a chance to get to know her better during this visit home. But once again, duty had exacted a harsh price from him and his family. He could do nothing about it but pray that same duty would not come between him and Temperance so cruelly.

But it probably would. He must not delude himself about that. He was sworn to serve his king, his regiment, and the department. All had claims as strong as hers upon his loyalty.

When he went to fetch her from her lodgings, so they could begin their journey to the Mad Nabob’s estate, Trev encountered a young woman coming out of Temperance’s chamber, dressed in a gaudy, dirty gown. He figured she must be an old friend, come to say her farewells, before recalling that he had not told Temperance, any more than he had his mother, that they’d be leaving for India as soon as he had completed his business at Sir Humphrey’s.

He hoped Temperance could forgive him for robbing her of the chance to take her leave of the friends she would not see again for many years, as she might have done had he been able to be more frank with her. But it had not been possible. Not if he were to preserve the confidentiality his mission required.

Perhaps after they married, it would be time to give up these errands he did for the department. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was beginning to seem a bit adolescent. He couldn’t in good conscience continue on with pursuits that forced him to keep so many secrets from his wife. His love for her and the family they would build together should be more than enough to compensate him for the loss of the adventures with which he had filled his youth.

He found Temperance by the grate, stirring the fire with a stick. At his entrance, she jumped up and crossed the room to greet him. After they’d embraced, he asked, “Was that an old friend of yours I saw leaving?”

Her body stiffened. “Aye,” she said, too hastily. “She’s on the game now, poor thing. But she was kind enough to come by to see how I was faring.”

Tipped off by something furtive in her gaze, he followed her eyes to the grate, where something had just flared up and begun to burn. He took a few steps toward the fire, but by the time he reached it, the sheet had been consumed, all except for one corner where he spotted a letter S, inked by a clumsy hand, which terminated in what looked like a snake’s tongue. Just as he began to make out what it was, it blackened.

He rounded on her. “Who sent you that note?”

For a moment she hesitated. Then she said, “Snake.”

His heart missed a beat.

“Why?”

“It’s the same thing as before. He wishes to make me his cat’s-paw and draw me into one of his schemes. But I won’t do it. He can’t force me to obey him. Snake can kiss the devil’s arse for all I care.”

“Is that the truth, Tem. All of it?”

Her eyes blazed. “Have I given you any reason to doubt me since we made our vows?”

She hadn’t. He must trust that she was being honest with him.

“Forgive me,” he said. “You have given me nothing but your love. It isn’t easy to overcome the habits of a suspicious nature.”

His words seemed to calm her. If only they could do the same for him. He would have given a lot not to have seen that note or felt the jolt of fear it had sent coursing through him. It had brought back all the doubts Fanshawe had planted in his mind. He would trust her. He must. Her love was becoming essential to his very existence. But he would be glad when this whole business was over, the jewel stowed securely in the ship’s safe, and his fears about Temperance’s role in the matter finally stilled. Until then, he must live with those fears. They could only be dispelled after he’d successfully completed his mission.

They arrived at the Mad Nabob’s estate as the shadows were drawing down into evening. Despite his foreknowledge of their host’s eccentricities, Trev was surprised at the spectacle that greeted them within. Though the building on the outside resembled any modern gentleman’s residence with a deceptively bland portico, the inside reflected its owner’s obsession with the subcontinent where he’d made his fortune—and his determination to pretend he still dwelled there.

The colors were warm, as was the atmosphere, for huge fires blazed in every room despite its only being November, attesting both to their host’s wealth and his determination to behave as unlike an Englishman as possible. Tiger heads were mounted on the walls, and a small monkey shivered in one corner of the reception room.

The servants who greeted them were garbed in tunics and leggings edged in costly trim. Their heads were swathed in turbans. Trev addressed one with a brief burst of Hindustani, but his words were met with a look of surprised incomprehension. It was only then he noted the blue eyes and ruddy complexion that betrayed the man’s true nationality. Sir Humphrey must pay his servants well for them to put up with his bizarre requirements.

His own manservant, a bluff Yorkshireman, who had come back with him from India and would be accompanying them on their return, was ushered away to the servants’ quarters. Then one of the nabob’s men led them into a reception room that was even grander than the entryway. There they were introduced to their host, whom they found seated cross-legged on a low throne. He was dressed in the form-revealing silk shirt of an Indian prince, though the awkward fit of his garments suggested they had been designed for a prince whose build was far slimmer than that of the portly nabob. On his head he wore a flame red turban, over which were draped cascades of pearls. He also sported five or six heavy gold necklaces of a type Trev had seen worn by Rajput princes, each of them studded with large gems. Whatever the value of the Jewel of Vadha, the Mad Nabob would have many more with which to console himself.

At their entrance, Sir Humphrey sprang up, and called out, “Ah, Captain Trevelyan, Namaste, Namaste! Welcome to Srinagar Mahal,” and placed his hands palm to palm as he inclined his head slightly. Trev replied to the traditional greeting in polite Hindustani to which his host responded enthusiastically in the same language. The nabob’s accent was abysmal, and he had a very poor grasp of how to use the postpositions characteristic of the language. Trev switched back to English. “May I introduce my companion, Miss Smith?”

Sir Humphrey’s smile broadened as he inspected every inch of her, from her hair, which she had arranged in a thick plait made into a coil at the back, to her high, rounded bosom, where his gaze lingered far longer than was polite in any society, Indian or English.

When he had completed his inspection, he strode toward her and, with a speed unexpected in a man so large, cupped her chin in his hand, turning it this way and that, as if looking for flaws. A burst of purely animal possessiveness coursed through Trev, but before he could act on it, Sir Humphrey switched back into his execrable Hindustani, and said, “Your gift pleases me. She will indeed be a remarkable addition to my harem. Mr. Fanshawe did not lie about her beauty.” Then his hand drifted down to her breast.

Temperance swatted it away, causing Sir Humphrey to draw back with an expression of surprise. At that, Trev seized her hand in a possessive gesture that could not be misinterpreted. Then, speaking slowly in Hindustani and taking care to choose words the most elementary student of the language could understand, he said, “My apologies, noble host, if my clumsy attempts have given you a false impression, but Miss Smith is not a gift. I must demand that you treat her with respect.”

Sir Humphrey’s fat features took on a peevish look. Still speaking in Hindustani, he said, “Mr. Fanshawe said you were bringing me the girl as a present.”

“Most definitely not. I am attached to Miss Smith and would not stand for it.”

“What a pity,” Sir Humphrey replied, still mangling the grammar of his adopted language. “Though I can understand why you would be reluctant to give her up. But you needn’t fear I would deprive you of such a gem without making restitution. You could take your choice of my harem, and let me assure you, you will not suffer in the exchange. My women are skilled as no English girl could be.” He made a suggestive gesture. Temperance’s eyes widened with shock.

Trev resisted the urge to plant the man a facer. He must not jeopardize the mission. But there were limits as to how far he would go to humor the nabob’s mad delusions, and he must make those limits clear. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and said, still in Hindustani, “Honor requires me to ask you to forget you ever made such an offer.”

Sir Humphrey’s beady eyes narrowed. Isolated here in his domain, he was probably not used to being thwarted. But he quickly recovered himself. “Apologies, Captain. I sometimes forget I am no longer in Hyderabad.” He touched his brow with two fingers, as if trying to rub out the mental error he’d just made. But the look in his eyes was not that of a man apologizing. Trev began to understand why it had been necessary to send a man with his skills on what had been made to sound like an innocuous errand. Nothing that involved the Mad Nabob could be simple.

Sir Humphrey turned again toward Temperance, and, switching to English, said, “Allow me, my fair one, to welcome you to my little corner of India. Whatever I can do to give you pleasure, just ask and it shall be done.” His insolent gaze lingered for one last moment on the soft curve of her breast. Then he turned back to Trev. “It is late, and you must be fatigued with your journey. We will postpone the work that brought you here until the morrow. I will have my servants show you to your quarters. Until we meet again—” He clapped his hands twice, and they were whisked out of his presence.

A servant led Temperance and her companion to a luxurious chamber, which, like the rest of the Mad Nabob’s domain, was furnished in a style of oriental splendor far more fervid than the room they had dined in at Rajiv’s. The walls were hung with intricate tapestries, richly embroidered with golden threads that sparkled in the light of the oil lamps that stood on tall iron stands placed around the room. A low table held plates of saffron-colored rice, flat breads, and dishes of what she supposed were curries. One corner was taken up by a huge pile of cushions, which she assumed must be a bed in the oriental style, but in the wake of the scene that had just concluded, she could only view it with distaste.

“Is that how Englishmen treat women in India?” she demanded.

“Most certainly not,” Trev assured her. “I begin to see now why they call him the Mad Nabob. But don’t let his odd behavior worry you. Despite his eccentricities, I’ve been assured he’s harmless.”

“By whom?”

Trev’s eyes shifted. “It is generally known.” He hadn’t answered her question.

“Harmless or not, he appears to expect you to share me with him.”

His raised eyebrows betrayed his surprise. “Surely you don’t speak Hindustani?”

“I didn’t need to know Hindustani to understand his meaning. His crude gesture said it all, and, besides, the word ‘harem’ is good English.”

“You can’t think I meant to give you to him?”

“His actions made it clear he thought so.”

“You have nothing to fear from him. I would make him pay the ultimate price should he show you anything but total respect. He may be mad, Tem, but I’m not.”

Her pulse slowed a bit, but she couldn’t help asking, “If he’s that mad, why are you here?”

“To help him interpret a valuable manuscript. He pays me exceedingly well. Enough to tempt even a man of my estate. And, truth be told, I had heard so much about his hoard of Indian treasures that I wished to see them myself.”

He was lying. She could see it in the way his eyes avoided hers, and it infuriated her. Why couldn’t he give her the same honesty he demanded from her? Rounding on him, she demanded, “Who is this Mr. Fanshawe he kept mentioning?”

He waited a second too long before delivering his answer. “No one important. Just a man familiar with such matters who suggested I might be able to help him. I’m known for my ability in parsing Sanskrit.”

Another lie.

He turned away from her and busied himself preparing a plate of food. When it was ready, he brought it to her, and said in a more tender tone, “Have patience, Priya. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way to Chatham tomorrow evening to board the ship that will take us to India.”

“So soon?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. “I had thought we weren’t going to embark until after the Coronation.”

“That had been the original plan, but my orders have changed. We must leave tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? And he’d said nothing about it until now? A horrifying thought invaded her mind. Was he telling the truth when he said they would embark? Did he really mean to take her along? He must have known about this change in plan for some time, for he would have had to make his own arrangements before he could depart. But if he’d known, why had he kept it secret from her? He’d given her no time to prepare, to pack her things, or to say good-bye to the people she would be leaving behind. Could this omission be a sign that he’d never really intended to bring her with him?

She took the plate of food he offered and settled herself on the cushions to eat it, but she couldn’t take a single bite. Her stomach was churning.

“If you find you hate the real India when we arrive there,” he said quietly, “I won’t force you to remain with me. I will never ask you to sacrifice your happiness to ensure mine.”

The kindness in his voice told her he was trying to reach her through the cloud of distrust that had just enveloped them. But she found it difficult to connect. He seemed to have shut himself off from her ever since he’d come to get her at her lodging when they began their journey.

He was no longer the man who had shown her his soul in those hours they’d spent wrapped in joy in her humble chamber at the lodging house. He seemed distracted, as if he had put his love for her to one side and moved on to something else. Had their love been nothing more than the dalliance he had originally offered her? Had he pretended all that love, to squeeze the most pleasure out of their time together?

She must be overreacting. She couldn’t have felt what she had when they had joined their souls together if he were deceiving her. And she hadn’t missed the emotion underlying the rigid calm with which he had told her she might leave him if she found the real India intolerable.

Perhaps Trev was worried that the nabob’s crudity would make her change her mind about accompanying him. Perhaps the barrier she felt rising between them was due to his fear that he would lose her. Even with what they had shared, she should not expect him to get over his fear of abandonment any more quickly than she could get over her fear of being used and betrayed.

She must not let her doubts sweep her away. Gathering up her courage, she said, “It will take far more than the sick fantasies of one deluded old man to make me leave you, Trev.”

His eyes glowed, and he blinked a couple of times. “You are more than I deserve, Priya,” he said in a whisper. “I am asking so much of you, in demanding that you trust yourself to me in a new and alien land. I can’t help but worry that it may be too much. If you must leave me, remember, you have promised to tell me before you go.”

The emotion in his voice seemed so real. How could she imagine he had been simulating his love for her? “I will keep my promise,” she answered. “I have given you no reason to doubt me.”

“Enough talk,” he said gruffly. “It’s late, and we both are tired.”

He drew her to the divan, and they curled up together, seeking the comfort they usually found in each other’s arms. But he did not make love to her. She didn’t know whether to feel gratitude or despair. She felt too disturbed by all the things she sensed he was keeping from her, to be able to meet him in the honest place they soared to in their lovemaking, as much as she longed for the reassurance she had always found in his arms. But without that reassurance, she felt bereft. How could she trust that she wasn’t deluded again?

She must be patient. She must have more faith in their love. But it would take enormous effort. Trev wasn’t the only one contending against the lifelong habits of a suspicious nature.

Chapter 17

The next morning, the servants brought them a luxurious breakfast of slices of mangoes grown in Sir Humphrey’s hothouse and smooth, tangy raita made by his dairywomen. As they ate, Trev struggled to recapture his certainty that he wasn’t asking too much of his intended. Though Srinagar Mahal bore little resemblance to the real India, Temperance would find much on the subcontinent that would be unsettling. Had he made a fatal mistake in asking this woman whose soul thrilled with the spirit of liberty to come with him to a land where she would have to play a role so different from what she was used to?

It was possible. The way she’d withdrawn from him the previous night after being subjected to Sir Humphrey’s crudity had been profoundly disquieting, and as much as he’d longed to make love with her afterward, he had not been able to do it. The painful silence that had stretched out after he’d told her he would not demand she remain with him if she found India intolerable had chilled his heart.

But too much was at stake at the moment for him to wallow in personal emotion. He must turn his attention to the vital matter that had brought him here. The Weaver’s real agent must be hiding somewhere in the Mad Nabob’s domain, eager to get his hands on the jewel, and ready to pounce if Trev dropped his guard. But so far, he had been unable to find a clue as to his identity.

He’d charged his man with the task of determining whether any new servants had been introduced into Sir Humphrey’s household within the past few weeks, but he must not assume the Weaver’s agent would appear in the guise of a servant. The thief might be anybody. Trev must make no assumptions as to who the Weaver had sent to steal the jewel.

This uncertainty strengthened his resolve to conclude his business with the nabob as fast as possible. Once he had taken possession of the jewel, they would leave immediately. The less time they spent here, the less chance there was of the Weaver’s agent making mischief.

But as they must make a speedy exit, he must ensure that Temperance didn’t wander off somewhere. He couldn’t afford to waste precious time tracking her down when it was time to leave. So when he was done dressing, he said, “I must ask that you remain in this chamber while I conduct my business with Sir Humphrey this morning.”

“Why?” Her surly expression left no doubt how she felt about his attempt to limit her freedom. “I had hoped to explore on my own some of the wonders that you told me were what tempted you here.”

He sighed. Once again, he could not be frank with her. As much as he might wish he could be, as long as there was an iota of doubt about her real connection with the Weaver, he must keep her from knowing his plans. He had already erred badly in mentioning that they would be leaving for India so soon. It had just slipped out. He would not make a similar mistake again.

So he said merely, “It’s for your own safety. I don’t wish to expose you to any more unpleasantness.”

“I can take care of myself,” she replied. “You don’t need to wrap me in cotton wool.”

“I know you can,” he said soothingly. “But humor me now. Stay in the room until I come back for you.”

The set of her lip told him she didn’t entirely believe his explanation, but he didn’t have the time to stand here arguing. It wouldn’t be long until he would be able to explain everything to her, once the jewel was safely locked in the heavily guarded casket the under secretary had provided for it aboard their ship.

He gave her a perfunctory kiss and set forth for his meeting. As he closed the chamber door behind him, he felt an irrational urge to lock it and take the key away with him but dismissed it. He could just imagine the fury with which Temperance would react to such a gesture. And she would have every right to be furious. As it was, in subjecting her to Sir Humphrey’s rudeness, he had already exposed her to more than she should have had to endure.

He found Sir Humphrey in his study, where he sat cross-legged on the floor puffing contentedly on a large silver hookah decorated with arabesques. It gave off the sweet scent of ganja. Trev wondered if that, too, grew in Sir Humphrey’s hothouse.

“I trust you slept well,” the nabob began. “Though with such a houri to delight you, I should wonder if you wasted much time on sleeping.”

“I slept very well, thank you. But I would caution you against making any further comments about my connection with Miss Smith. I would find them offensive.”

“Have no fear, my brave Captain. I shan’t poach your game. I have plenty of women of my own and have no need to steal yours.”

“You don’t understand. I intend to make Miss Smith my bride.”

Sir Humphrey fixed him with a hard stare and arranged his features into a formal smile. “Then I must offer you my congratulations and my hopes that the two of you may be happy.” He was clearly struggling to be polite, but his next words revealed he had lost the battle. “I wonder that any man would wish to yoke himself in marriage now, knowing that even a king cannot rid himself of an unfaithful wife. Look at how Princess Caroline gave our new king a cuckold’s horns with that Italian fellow, Pergami, and there’s not a thing he can do about it. Henry VIII could lop off a wife’s head for disporting herself with a lover, but those days are long gone—” He paused. “You know, of course, of his connection with the Jewel of Vadha?

“Who?”

“King Henry. It was his jewel. You can see it in those portraits of him by Holbein. It’s the large brownish stone you see in his ring, an oriental topaz.”

“All I know about this jewel is that if you don’t hand it over, and quickly, so I can return it to its rightful owner, it will propel us into a costly war with the Nawab of Bundilore.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Sir Humphrey nodded, with an expression a little too much like that of the crafty Mughal prince he pretended to be. “But it is because of the jewel’s connection with Henry VIII that the Nawab is so determined upon recovering it.”

“I was told he wanted it because it was a family heirloom.”

“That may be what you were told, but his real motivation is that he believes it has magical properties. Ones Henry found most useful.”

Trev stood up. “Fascinating as it might be to speculate about such matters, our time runs short. I must take possession of this gem at once. The faster I get it to India, the safer our forces will be.”

Sir Humphrey reached for his hookah and took another long draught. Then he slowly released the smoke in a narrow stream directed toward Trev’s face. The insult was obvious, but Trev ignored it.

“You will have your jewel this afternoon,” the nabob said at length. “I have no desire to stand in the way of the progress of our glorious Empire. But before I hand it over, I will demand something from you, in return.” Responding to Trev’s expression, he added, “Not that. I know you begrudge me the gift Mr. Fanshawe promised me, but he also told me you are an excellent judge of horseflesh. So before I give you the jewel, I should like you to have a look at the new Arabian stallion I’ve just added to my stable. I paid a fortune for him. Take him out for a gallop and tell me if he’s as good as I thought he was, or if the fellow who sold him to me rooked me.”

Temperance considered ignoring Trev’s command that she stay in the room while he attended to his business with the nabob but decided against it. If she were to make herself into a good wife, she must obey at least some of her husband’s commands, as much as it rubbed her the wrong way to do so. So to divert herself during his absence, she leafed through the book he had brought her, the Journal of a Residence in India, Written by an English Lady, looking for confirmation that she was not making a disastrous error in thinking she could be happy as an Indian officer’s wife.

The authoress, Mrs. Graham, described with enthusiasm the rides she had taken on the backs of elephants, as well as tiger hunts, visits to ancient temples, and the warm hospitality of the English who had settled in India. Temperance must hope she would find them as satisfying.

Her reading was interrupted by a knock on the door. She put down her book and called out, “Come in,” expecting it to be servant.

But her caller was not a servant but the nabob himself, clad in a long, silken robe of a brilliant saffron hue. It was belted at the waist with a gold girdle from which dangled a huge, deep red ruby. He shut the door behind him with a decisive click.

Instantly, all her senses went on the alert. Sir Humphrey was eying her with a look that reminded her of the way he’d let his insolent eyes caress her during his conversation with Trev the previous evening.

“You fascinate me,” he said. “You have such beauty and such cunning. Why do you throw yourself away on a nonentity like the captain? I have so much more to offer you.”

Temperance glared at him. “It is a strange form of hospitality to try to win away your guest’s intended bride. Or is this some Indian custom I’m not familiar with.”

“He promised to make you his bride, did he?” Sir Humphrey laughed. It was an ugly sound. “Surely you didn’t fall for such a transparent lie as that. No officer of his rank could marry a woman like you without destroying his career. I confess myself surprised you should have let yourself be so taken in.”

“I was not taken in. He loves me.” She spoke quickly, fighting off her dismay at hearing her deepest fear put into words.

“Nonsense.” The nabob sneered. “He brought you here as he was ordered to do by his superior. Whatever he told you, he said it only to convince you to come here with him. I have something his commander wishes very much to obtain. As part of the price I asked for it, I demanded they give me a woman to add to my harem. Fanshawe and I have been negotiating terms for the past several weeks. Your captain was detailed to bring you to me.”

“You lie,” she spat. “It isn’t possible.”

“Pish,” Sir Humphrey said. “Of course it’s possible. But let me hasten to assure you, though he brought you to fulfill his superior’s command, you won’t lose out by the arrangement. The woman who pleases me can expect to profit considerably from our connection.” His chubby hand seized the huge ruby that hung from his belt, and he held it up to her. “Take this, for example. It is a very valuable jewel. It could be yours, my dear, were you to agree to dally with me.”

“Get out!” she shouted. “When Trev learns of the insult you offered me, he will kill you.”

She must believe it. She could not allow herself to think the nabob’s poisonous claim could be true. But a treacherous voice within her whispered that if it wasn’t, why had Trev been so evasive about his reasons for visiting the nabob, why hadn’t he given her a chance to prepare for the journey to India, and why, this very morning, had he been so insistent she stay in the room?

“Your faith in your lover is touching, but misplaced,” Sir Humphrey continued. “It was only this morning he described to me the pleasure I could look forward to in your arms. He says you’re a devilish good lover. Is it true, as he told me, that you bear the mark of Satan on your thigh?”

She struggled against the sickness that welled up within her. “He told you that?”

“Why yes. It’s the shape of a cloven hoof, isn’t it. As he had intended, it stimulated my desire to enjoy you.”

“You lie,” she repeated, but this time she could barely get out the words. How else could the nabob have known of her cursed mark unless Trev had told him?

“Believe what you like.” Sir Humphrey smirked. “But I was promised you as part of the bargain I negotiated with Mr. Fanshawe, and I will have you, whether you wish it or not. You can come to me willingly, in return for a substantial reward, or you can fight me. But depend upon it, your captain will not protect you. Now that he’s delivered you to me, he will claim the reward he was promised, his choice of the women of my harem. Even without the mark of the devil on their hinder parts, they will make him forget whatever delights you shared with him. My girls are exceedingly well trained.”

He clapped loudly, twice, and two large turbaned men glided into the room.

“You need not use force,” she said, grasping the ring her betrayer had given her and wrenching it off her hand. She threw it on the floor and stomped on it. Then, head held high, she turned to the nabob and let him lead her silently out of the chamber.

It was good to be astride a horse again and feel the powerful muscles of such a fine animal propelling him along. As he rode the nabob’s magnificent stallion, Trev realized that the necessity of leaving his own mounts behind in India was yet another factor that had kept him from enjoying his leave. At least he’d be able to tell Sir Humphrey he had got good value for his money, whatever he had paid, though it was a damned shame such a prime bit of horseflesh should be wasted on such a man.

He’d be glad to see the last of him, especially after their interview this morning, though the other man’s undisguised jealousy had taught him he’d have to get used to other men lusting after his wife—she was too beautiful not to attract attention. But he’d lost all patience with the way the Mad Nabob used his eccentricity to get away with outrageous behavior. The sooner he got Temperance away from him, the happier he’d be.

He rode the stallion back to the stables, taking care to slow his pace to a comfortable walk before turning him over to the stableboy. Then he turned his steps toward Sir Humphrey’s office to make his report.

But when he presented himself at Sir Humphrey’s door, it was not his host who greeted him but his majordomo, who sprang between him and the doorway, crying, “You mustn’t enter. He couldn’t tolerate the sight of you, not now. Not after what has happened.”

“What has happened?”

“Surely someone has told you.”

“I’ve just come in from taking horse exercise and have spoken with no one. What are you talking about?”

The man shook his head sadly. “The Jewel of Vadha. It’s gone.”

“Gone? How could that be?”

“It’s been stolen by that woman you introduced into his household.”

“Temperance?”

The man’s look said it all.

Trev rocked back on his heels. This must be a nightmare. Like an automaton, he heard himself saying, “He must be mistaken. Tell me exactly happened.”

“It’s not a pretty story,” the man said, hedging. “And it doesn’t reflect well on my master.”

“To hell with your master. I must know everything. Leave nothing out.”

The man took a step backward, frightened by his vehemence. “There is little to tell. Sir Humphrey had just taken the jewel out of his safe so he could give it to you when you returned from your ride, when that woman of yours made her way into his private quarters. She drew him into an intimate situation and did not leave until she’d reduced him to a condition of total exhaustion. Then she pinched the jewel.”

“Temperance wouldn’t have done such a thing. It’s impossible.”

But, of course, it was all too possible. It was just what Fanshawe had warned him she’d been hired by the Weaver to do.

It was he who had talked himself out of believing she wasn’t in the Weaver’s employ. How he’d clung to that belief, even yesterday, when he’d seen the note from Snake with his very own eyes. He’d been so eager to accept her explanation, so greedy for the love she’d offered him. But now he remembered the furtive look in her eyes as he had walked over to the grate and the jolt that had run through him when he’d seen the damning paper going up in smoke.

The majordomo interrupted his harsh thoughts. “By the time Sir Humphrey realized the jewel was gone, she had disappeared. He sent men out to search, but they found no trace of her. He assumes she must have had an accomplice waiting to speed her away.”

She had left him without warning. He struggled to get a grip on himself. “I must speak to Sir Humphrey immediately.”

“It would be best if you didn’t. He is extremely perturbed. I cannot guarantee your safety should you confront him.”

“I cannot guarantee your safety if I don’t.” He drew himself up to his full height and, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, advanced. The man stepped away from the door and let him in.

“You!” The Mad Nabob snarled. “I wonder that you have the effrontery to show your face after your whore has made off with our precious Jewel of Vadha.”

Trev forced himself to stay calm. Face-to-face with the nabob, he couldn’t bring himself to believe Temperance could have given herself to such a man. “Show me proof,” he demanded. “I won’t believe she stole it, simply on your say-so.”

“Why not? Did you believe your woman is different from all others of her kind? I told her she would be very well rewarded for letting me sample her charms.”

“Temperance would never give herself to any man in return for a reward.”

“Believe what you will, but she did. Face facts, Captain. You let her lull you into a state of willful blindness with her confounded sexual allure. She is one in a thousand, I grant you. Never have I had a woman who sent me to such heights.” He squeezed his piggy eyes shut as if remembering. Trev barely restrained himself from blackening them with his fist.

There was an alternative explanation for the nabob’s outrageous claim. Keeping his voice level, Trev said, “You made up this despicable story so you could avoid giving me the jewel. You’re just pretending she stole it, so you can hold on to it.”

“You may believe that, if it salves your wounded pride. But you’re wrong. The jewel is gone, and your woman stole it. I’ve sent for runners to apprehend her and offered a heavy reward. When they find her, you’ll have your proof, but until then, you’d be a fool to doubt me no matter how thoroughly your Circe enchanted you.”

The nabob paused. “She is an enchantress, I’ll grant you that. I took my pleasure with her thrice, and each time that woman of yours played me like a flute, nipping me with those little white teeth of hers and driving me wild. I will never forget that mark high on her thigh, the cloven hoof. Surely you’ve seen it when she’s opened her thighs to you. How fitting she should be marked like that, for by God, she is the devil’s tool.”

Trev’s vision clouded as the blood rushed to his head. For a moment he thought he might faint. But he didn’t, even though he had received a death blow.

The nabob favored him with a look of contempt. “Do not doubt it, Captain. Your strumpet stole the jewel. She’s made fools of both of us. I just hope Mr. Fanshawe won’t blame me too harshly. But most likely he will, and then his men will go through my accounts just as he threatened and make my life a misery.”

The nabob stood up. “That’s all I’ll say. Now get out. I have no more wish to ever set eyes on you. If I find you on my property an hour hence, I’ll set my dogs on you.”

Trev sped to the room where he’d left Temperance, his mind racing. One by one, he went through the arguments he’d used to convince himself of her innocence and one by one they failed him.

What evidence had she given him to convince him that Snake’s note wasn’t exactly what it looked like. Nothing. She’d merely reminded him of her vow to tell the truth. Had that vow just been part of an ingenious strategy to make him trust her? It was all too possible. For if the note had been so innocuous, why had she been so quick to burn it?

And why was he so sure she wouldn’t give herself to Sir Humphrey if it served her purposes to do so? It wouldn’t have been for the reward he’d promised but to get her hands on the jewel. She had given him her body that first night, in spite of his barbarous cruelty. Had that brazen act of hers been, after all, what he’d originally thought it was?

After that first tryst, he’d convinced himself she couldn’t be working for the Weaver because she had turned down his invitation to go to the nabob’s with him. But did that argument hold water? She might have been playing an even deeper game than he had thought. For the course she’d taken after refusing his invitation had resulted in her accompanying him to the nabob’s—with his suspicions disarmed.

Had that been her intent all along? If so, she had succeeded brilliantly, for his trust in her had made him so careless he’d even revealed to her when he really would be embarking for India. Had it been that discovery that had forced her to make her move this morning? He remembered her coldness the previous night and the abyss that had opened between them after he’d revealed his true plans.

It was all too possible. And he had nothing to set against these arguments except his feelings, which were too treacherous to be trusted. And added to this was that last, excruciatingly painful bit of evidence. When he had demanded the nabob give him proof, he had given it. Sir Humphrey had seen her mark.

Trev called his man to him and sent him out to arrange for their transportation back to London. Then he turned his attention to gathering up their things. She’d left the book he’d given her lying facedown on a small table, open to a page that described a nautch girl’s performance. Seeing it, he thought for a moment that she might have chosen that particular page to send him a coded message, but he rejected the idea immediately as the product of an overheated imagination. It was only as he was preparing to leave, that he saw the object she had left behind to deliver her message. It lay on the floor, glittering on the cold hard tile.

The ring. The ring he’d given her as a pledge of their love.

He bent to pick it up. It was scratched and dented. The image leapt into his mind of her tearing it off her finger and stamping on it with her foot. So much for what he had thought it had meant to her.

He’d been her dupe. She’d been just what Fanshawe said she was. She’d wormed her way into his heart and used the weaknesses he’d revealed to her to do what she’d set out to do from the start. It was only his desperate need to believe that she loved him that made him refuse to admit it. That and the pain that overwhelmed him as he faced the fact that she had gone off, whatever her reasons, without leaving him a single word of farewell.

Chapter 18

The nabob confined Temperance in a small room in the back of his harem, leaving her in the custody of a turbaned guard, who regarded her balefully through dull blue eyes and refused to answer a single question. Then, just as night was falling, when she could no longer stand to spend a single moment more in the company of her own tormented thoughts, he went off, just like that, leaving the door open behind him.

She waited, counting slowly to a hundred lest this prove to be a trick. But when she finally found the courage to crack open the door and peer into the passage, she saw no one. As she stepped out into the passageway, the hairs on her arms rose. Surely she would hear the sounds of pursuit behind her. But all remained silent, and when she reached the back door, it opened easily at her touch.

She wasted no time questioning why but raced out into the cold night, speeding down the long avenue that led from Srinagar Mahal as if pursued by all of its inhabitants. At length she came to a road, and, after a mercifully brief wait, a passing drover pulled over and offered her a lift.

“Nasty bit of work, Sir ’Umphrey,” the carter said.

She couldn’t agree more. But he was an amateur compared to the lying seducer who had torn open her heart and made her love him merely to fulfill his superior’s command.

The drover was headed for London. When he said she was welcome to ride there with him, she almost refused his offer. London meant Snake. He’d know by now that she’d defied him, for she hadn’t sent the response he’d demanded in his last note. He’d already given her more chances than she’d expected, so she knew what would happen if he got his hands on her now. She would not last long if she returned to the streets of London.

But what alternative did she have? She had no money, and she wouldn’t be safe anywhere near the nabob’s domain, either. If only Becky hadn’t abandoned her for the luxuries of Lady Hartwood’s Refuge. Her erstwhile friend had a good head on her shoulders, and perhaps the two of them could have come up with a scheme that might have got her to safety.

But just as Temperance began to feel the wave of the resentment that usually gripped her at the thought of how the noblewoman had stolen away her friends, it occurred to her that as annoying as the lady astrologer might be, she was not in the Weaver’s pay. And her husband was a lord, a powerful man—powerful enough, perhaps, to keep her safe until she could find a way to earn the money that would take her at last to America.

She could think of no better alternative than to apply to the lady astrologer for help, so she climbed into the cart and made herself a comfortable nest amid the bags of onions that filled it. When, hours later, the drover set her down in London’s West End, she turned her steps toward the Refuge, hoping her faith in its eccentric patroness was not misplaced.

As Trev endured his mother’s cheery greeting, he thought how mistaken he’d been when he’d seen her last, to think he was bidding her adieu. If only that had been all he’d been mistaken about. He struggled to be civil, but his demeanor was such that within a few moments, she stopped in the middle of recounting a tasty piece of gossip about the king’s latest attack on his wife to ask him if he was suffering from an attack of jungle fever. He assured her he was fine but took the first opportunity to flee to his room, uncertain how much longer he would be able to maintain that fiction.

He knew he should report to Fanshawe at once, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Perhaps he was being cowardly, but he needed a few hours to recover. He would need to find some last reserve of strength before he went to face the man’s contempt, even though he knew how richly he deserved it.

He picked at the plate of sandwiches his mother had sent up for him, and when he was done, he summoned his man, telling himself that perhaps if he cross-examined him more closely, he might learn something useful to bring to Fanshawe—something, perhaps, that would help them recover the jewel. He could not keep from hoping his man would mention some detail that had slipped his mind before—one that would point to some stranger being the thief rather than Temperance.

But his man had already told him all he knew. He had encountered no one suspicious among the servants, and there had been no one else visiting except themselves.

Trev was just dressing for his visit to Leadenhall Street when a footman brought him a note sealed with an impressive crest. It informed him that Lord Hartwood demanded his presence at once, and concluded with the statement that, unless Captain Trevelyan could give a satisfactory account of what had happened between himself and Temperance, he must prepare to meet His Lordship on the field of honor.

He could not ignore a challenge phrased in such a way. His report to Fanshawe would have to wait until he had answered Lord Hartwood’s summons. He had no fear that His Lordship would carry out his threat since once Trev had informed him of the facts pertaining to the matter, he could hardly demand a meeting. But when he arrived at the Hartwood’s residence and was led into the presence of His Lordship and his wife, it took all his control not to turn around and head for the door.

For it wasn’t only the nobleman and his wife he found awaiting him there, but Temperance. She was seated demurely in the Hartwoods’ sitting room, dressed in a pale pastel gown of the sort favored by innocent virgins.

He marveled again at her ability to appear to be what she was not. Her eyes were hollow, as if she hadn’t slept any better than he had the past night, and when she recognized him, the faintest hint of tears welled up in them. He fought not to let himself be taken in again. She had stolen the jewel as she had always intended. He had incontrovertible proof of her betrayal. But even so, such was her power over him, even after all that had happened, that a pang of yearning filled him at the sight of her, and he had to struggle not to fling himself at her feet and beg her for the explanation that might allow him to love her still.

The hold she had on him sickened him. She’d made him unfit to pursue his livelihood. He didn’t have her ability to bend every emotion to serve her masters. Had she been working for the department rather than the other side, he had no doubt but that the jewel would now be on its way to India.

“Sit down, Captain Trevelyan,” Lord Hartwood said. It was a command. “Now, tell me what all this is about. I entrusted this woman to your care, only to have her return with a tale of nearly being raped.”

Trev froze. How much had she told Lord Hartwood? Had she shared with him the most intimate details of their relationship but subtly twisted them to put him in the wrong? Probably. Sir Charles had taught him long ago that the secret to spinning a believable falsehood was to stick as close to the truth as possible. But whatever she had told her noble protectors, she was lying, and she wasn’t going to get away with it.

He wheeled on her and demanded, “Where is the jewel, Temperance?”

“What jewel?” Even now she played the innocent so brilliantly.

But he was no longer taken in. “The Jewel of Vadha, which you stole from Sir Humphrey to give to the Weaver.”

He turned toward Lord Hartwood. “Are you aware that she has stolen a jewel of great value to His Majesty’s government, and that there is a price on her head? Or did she fail to mention it to you?”

“I didn’t know that.” Lord Hartwood fixed his gaze on Temperance. “This would seem to be a surprising omission. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Her look of confusion was a masterpiece. “I haven’t stolen anything,” she whispered. “And, Trev, I told you, I refused to go in with the Weaver’s scheme.”

How could she simulate such innocence? He choked back his rage. “You told me that when I caught you burning Snake’s note. But you ask too much when you ask me to believe you really told the truth about it.”

He turned back to Lord Hartwood. “I must explain the circumstances, Your Lordship. I’d been sent by the Political and Secret Department to retrieve a jewel that, if it is not returned immediately to its owner in India, will provoke a costly war. I’d been warned that a man they call the Weaver had sent out an agent to steal it. I had even been told that Temperance was that agent. But, to my eternal discredit, I gave in to my passion for her and allowed my emotions to overcome my good sense. Even when I found clear evidence that she was working for the Weaver, I turned a blind eye to it and chose to believe the lies with which she explained it away.”

“It was you who lied,” Temperance shot back. ”Don’t deny it. You told me we went to visit the nabob so you could interpret an ancient text for him, but that wasn’t true. You told me Mr. Fanshawe was the man who’d suggested you help him with his manuscript, but he wasn’t, was he? He was the man who sent you on this secret mission of yours, just as Sir Humphrey told me. You lied to me about when you were returning to India. You’ve pitched me too much gamon for me to believe another word out of your lying mouth.”

How cleverly she tried to turn the tables on him. And how effectively she could still work on his treacherous emotions. The way she looked now, so close to tears, still made him yearn to comfort her. But he must not. Whatever he’d been forced to keep secret, due to his loyalty to the department, it paled into insignificance besides the fact that she had stolen the jewel. He must not lose sight of that.

Lord Hartwood interrupted, “Captain, was it because you discovered she was working for your enemy that you offered her to Sir Humphrey?”

His hand went to his sword. ”I offer her to Sir Humphrey? I would never have done such a thing. By God, Hartwood. I would have given my life to protect her. I’d offered her marriage. Or did she forget to tell you that, too?”

Lord Hartwood’s expression was growing more perplexed. “Marriage? No, she hadn’t mentioned that, either.”

“It was a ruse,” Temperance protested. “His offer of marriage was just a way to keep me from leaving him, so he could bring me along to Sir Humphrey’s. The nabob told me he’d made a bargain with this Fanshawe: They would offer me to him as a gift in return for his handing over this cursed jewel. Captain Trevelyan had no intention of ever really marrying me.”

“I beg to differ,” Trev snarled through clenched teeth. “Your Lordship may judge of the seriousness of my intentions from this.” He reached one hand inside his tunic and pulled out the letter he had thrust there after finding it at his mother’s. “It’s a letter from Temperance’s father, responding to my request for his daughter’s hand. I had to secure his approval before we could wed, as she’s still underage. Would I have applied to him if my offer had been a mere stratagem?”

The look of pain that swept over Temperance’s face as he drew out the letter took him aback. It was so raw, he might well have believed his offer had meant something to her. He fought against believing it. Look where he’d got himself, falling for her displays of intense emotion in the past. Besides, she’d tossed away his ring.

He handed the letter to Lord Hartwood for his inspection. When the tall lord saw who had sent it, his pale eyebrows rose. He examined it and handed it back without comment.

Trev stood. “Your Lordship, I have conducted myself in an honorable fashion in this affair. If you choose not to believe me, I have no choice but to defend myself as befits an officer and a gentleman. Major Stanley will act for me. You can find him at the Phoenix Coffeehouse in New Street.”

“I am at a loss to know what to believe,” Lord Hartwood admitted. “Your argument is compelling but wholly inconsistent with the story the girl has told us, and yet, if she had stolen this jewel as you claim, and did it while working at some master’s command, I’m baffled as to why she would have turned to us for protection rather than those she serves.”

The same thought had crossed Trev’s mind as soon as he had seen her sitting in the Hartwood’s sitting room. Why hadn’t she fled back to the Weaver and his accomplices? But why waste time on attempting to untangle her reasoning? The jewel was gone, and all the rest of the evidence pointed to her having taken it. She had met with Snake at least twice. She was an accomplished thief. She had burnt that telling note, and—he could still barely bring himself to remember the most crushing piece of evidence against her—the nabob had seen the mark on her thigh that he could only have seen had she granted him her favors. Trev knew better than to look for complex explanations when a simple one would do.

Lady Hartwood’s voice broke through his reverie. “Would it help if I could tell you who stole this jewel?” she asked.

His heart stopped. “Did she confess her crime to you?”

“Of course not. But my Aunt Celestina taught me how to use an astrological chart to determine the identity of a thief. Since we have no other way of finding the truth, perhaps the stars will shed light on it.”

Her Ladyship paused to consult the watch whose chain was pinned to her gown and, having ascertained the time, seized a piece of paper from her desk and jotted it down.

Trev had had enough. “I don’t have time to waste on medieval superstition. The fate of an army rests on the recovery of this jewel.”

Lord Hartwood stretched out a long, well-manicured hand to restrain him. “I also used to be a skeptic, but my wife has made a convert of me. Her charts are surprisingly informative. Give her a chance.”

“Why should I?”

“Why?” Temperance interrupted. “Because you swore you loved me. If that wasn’t just another of your lies, you’d welcome anything that might prove my innocence. Lady Hartwood’s skill is real. I tested her when first she took me in, and even though I misled her, her charts told her the truth. So I beg you. If you ever loved me, as you claim, give her a chance to find the real thief.”

He knew he should stop his ears to her entreaty the way Odysseus had stopped his to the siren’s song, but he was helpless against her plea. He had loved her, and he yearned to love her still. He would grasp at any straw that would let him believe she hadn’t betrayed him. Even this.

Lady Hartwood held out one small hand. “Do give me a chance, Captain Trevelyan. Only last month I found Lady Pemberton’s emeralds, which she thought her maid had stolen. The poor girl would have hanged for it had the chart not told us that Lord Pemberton had secretly gambled them away—and so it proved. Let me see if I can find your jewel for you. You have nothing to lose by letting me try.”

Temperance’s eyes were fixed on him, their gray now the color of tarnished silver. As he met them, her soul reached out from their depths and touched him once more in that inner place where he had always been alone—until he’d found her.

He turned toward Lady Hartwood. “How long will it take you to cast your chart?”

“No more than half an hour.”

“I will grant you that. But in return, I must ask to have a few words in private with Temperance.”

Her Ladyship turned to her. “Will you grant him a private interview?”

Temperance nodded.

“Good,” said Lady Hartwood. “With any luck, we shall get to the bottom of this yet.”

Chapter 19

A servant led Temperance and the man she was trying so hard not to love down the corridor and ushered them into a small salon charmingly furnished in pale yellow silk, whose windows gave onto the small garden, now stripped of its blooms by the cold December winds. A fire burned in the grate.

It was taking all her control to keep herself from running to the man she had expected to call husband and throwing herself into his arms. In spite of what he had done, her heart still whispered that he was her beloved. It made her desperate.

He had never appeared so handsome as he did at present. The sharp lines of his uniform emphasized the width of his chest, the narrowness of his waist, and the strength of his personality. Discipline kept his features impassive. Only the darkness of the eyes glaring up from beneath the shadow of his thick brows hinted that he, too, was stirred by emotions as powerful as those that held her in their grip.

She longed to hear him speak. She feared what he might say.

Though the room was furnished with a comfortable sofa, he refused to take a seat but paced restlessly before the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. He waited for a moment, as if expecting her to seat herself, but she had no choice but to remain standing, to give herself strength, perhaps—or to make it easier to flee.

When he finally spoke, his voice was harsh. “Was it me you referred to when you complained to Lord Hartwood of an attempted rape?”

“Of course not, why would I?”

“Because of how I treated you that first night.”

“I told him nothing about that.”

“Then were you referring to Sir Humphrey?”

She made no reply.

“By God, answer me! Did the man rape you?”

“No!”

“Damn it! If only he had.”

Why hadn’t he just impaled her with the saber that hung at his waist? It would have been kinder. When she could speak again, she said, “You don’t even pretend to love me, do you, now that we are in private. But what have I ever done to you, that you could wish such a thing on me? How could you sink so low?”

“Because,” he grit his teeth, “if Sir Humphrey didn’t rape you, the only other explanation for what he told me is that you gave yourself to him of your own free will. Do you wonder that I should prefer the former? You knew exactly what your betrayal would mean to me.” His eyes drilled into hers. “Did it add to your pleasure to know that you had struck at me where I was most vulnerable?”

“I never gave myself to him. How could you believe such a thing?”

His face twisted in agony. “You tossed away the ring I gave you just before you went to him. I found it when I returned to the room.”

“I couldn’t stand the feel of it against my flesh, not after what Sir Humphrey told me. So yes, I tore it off and ground it into the floor with my heel for good measure. But I didn’t give myself to him. He seized me and locked me in his harem, and would have had his way with me against my will had I not escaped.”

“And how exactly did you escape?” His look was savage.

“When his guard left me all alone, I found my way out.”

“I suppose you found all the doors unlocked, too,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I did.” As the words left her mouth, she realized how lame they sounded.

“How can you expect me to believe such a tale? It’s not up to your usual standard. Sir Humphrey gave me proof he had lain with you—a proof I cannot doubt.”

“How could he prove a thing that never happened?”

It took him a moment to gain enough command over himself to respond. Then he spat out each word. “He described that mark on your thigh. If he didn’t rape you, the only other explanation for how he would have seen it was that you gave yourself to him, willingly. To distract him. So you could steal the jewel.”

“He told you he had seen the devil’s mark?”

“He described it exactly.”

“But that mark is the same proof he gave that you had betrayed me. He said you’d told him I was marked with Satan’s brand on my thigh and described the cloven hoof.”

He wheeled around to face her. “Someone is lying,” he said slowly.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I told you the truth,” she said. “Just as I vowed I would. It was you who lied to me—you don’t even bother to deny it. You lied about why we went to the nabob’s and about Fanshawe. How can I believe you aren’t lying to me now?”

“I’m not, but I can’t prove it. Any more than you can prove you didn’t steal the jewel.”

Trev strode to the fireplace, where a small fire burned, and held out his hands toward its heat. After a long pause, he turned back to face her. “It’s a devilish thing, isn’t it, how we each find ourselves betrayed, in the way that would be most painful to us. It is almost too neat. I could almost bring myself to believe that someone was attempting to drive us apart and using that infernal mark to do it.”

He paused, sunk in thought, the steep planes of his face emphasizing his glowing eyes. Then a change came over his face, and she saw once again that look he got when they were making love, that open look as he opened his soul to her and called to her to join him.

“I meant you to be my bride,” he said. “I wanted nothing more but to love you for the rest of my life.”

The strong muscles of his arms knotted under the tight cloth of his tunic. He was clenching his fists. He was awaiting her answer.

She reached deep within herself to find it. “I wanted to be your bride. I love you even now. Even as you accuse me of these crimes, I ache with the echo of the pain you feel, because you believe yourself betrayed.”

He spun around, and his eyes locked with hers. “We face a choice, now, don’t we. To believe in each other despite the evidence—or to despair.”

She gave herself up to the longing in his eyes that matched her own. How could she have doubted him? But how could she dare to trust him?

A discreet scratching on the door interrupted them. Trev opened it. The maid curtsied, and said, “Lady Hartwood is ready to receive you, sir.”

They found the lady astrologer in her office, where she sat dwarfed by the pile of thick books, bound in the antique fashion, that rose from the heap of papers covering her desk.

Could she really determine the identity of the thief with her mystical talents? The fervor with which Trev found himself hoping she could betrayed his desperation.

When they had seated themselves in the chairs to which she motioned them, she said, “I’ve cast the chart for the question, ‘Who is the thief?’ But I must confess the answer I come up with makes little sense. I will share it with you, still, for it’s possible it will have meaning to you though I don’t understand it. That’s often that way it goes when I give this kind of reading.”

“What does it say?” Temperance asked.

“The only thing I can state with certainty is that neither of you are lying when you claim you don’t know the identity of the thief. If either of you already knew the answer to the question, the chart would tell me that. But it doesn’t.”

“So it proves I am innocent?”

“Absolutely.”

As he heard Temperance’s slow release of breath, Trev felt his heart leap, as ridiculous as it was to trust such a source to exonerate her. “Does it say who the thief is?” he demanded.

“That is where things get confusing. Whenever I cast a chart to answer a question concerning a theft, I begin by asking if a theft has actually occurred. That was how I knew Lady Pemberton’s emeralds hadn’t been stolen. But when I ask if this theft occurred, the answer I get is neither a yes nor a no.”

She picked up one of her papers and pointed to the hieroglyphs that adorned it. “The planet ruling the Seventh House describes the thief, and as Cancer is on the cusp of the Seventh, that planet is the Moon. So the thing that was stolen should be described by the ruler of the Terms the Moon is in. But this chart tells me the thing was only intended to be stolen.”

She reached for one of the volumes open upon on her desk and pointed to a paragraph with one dainty finger. “You can see that stated clearly, right here, in my ancestor, Lilly’s book.”

Trev’s heart sank. This was sounding more medieval by the minute. He’d given in to false hope, so fiercely did he want to believe their love had been real.

Lady Hartwood pressed on. “And here is what confuses me. Though the thing was only intended to be stolen, the Lord of the Ascendant is in the Second House, which means the object’s owner is the thief. I find myself at a loss to understand how an object could be intended to be stolen at the same time that the owner of the jewel is the putative thief.”

“Could it mean the nabob intended to steal his own jewel?” Temperance asked.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Lady Hartwood replied. “But why would he do a thing like that?”

So he could keep his greedy paws on it, despite his promise to give it up—which was exactly what Trev’s instincts had suggested when he’d been face-to-face with the man—before the Mad Nabob had floored him with that infernal proof of his.

But Lady Hartwood gave Trev no time to answer her question, for she plunged on, saying, “No. It wouldn’t fit this chart for the nabob to steal his own jewel. For the Lord of the Seventh House, which describes the thief in a chart like this, is placed in the Tenth House, and my ancestor Lilly states quite clearly that this means the thief is ‘a lord, or a master, or of the king’s house. Some person that lives handsomely and is not necessitated to this course of life.’ ”

“That could still describe Sir Humphrey,” Temperance said.

“Unfortunately, not. For the chart is full of indications that the thief is a woman. The Ascendant of the chart is in a feminine sign. The angles of the chart are, too, and the Moon is in a fruitful sign.”

“But you just said I didn’t steal the jewel,” Temperance protested.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest you were the thief,” Lady Hartwood assured her. “You couldn’t be. For the Moon is late in her sign, which makes the thief an older woman. No, the testimony of the chart is that the thief—if there is one—and it’s not clear to me that the theft ever went beyond the planning stage—must be a wealthy older woman, someone directly connected with the king.”

Any hope Trev had been nourishing that Lady Hartwood could clear up the mystery had died. Much as he wished to believe in Temperance’s innocence, he wouldn’t find it here. He must make his report to Fanshawe and hope that the man didn’t have more damning evidence that would destroy the fragile bit of hope their conversation had given him. He stood and thanked Lady Hartwood for her efforts.

“I hope my reading helped you,” she said.

“I wish it had,” he replied. “But I’m a practical man, and I would be lying if I pretended I found it useful. I must go now and make my report to my superior. He will be interested only in hearing facts. I can hardly inform him that, based on the testimony of the stars, despite all the evidence that points to Temperance, the thief is an older woman who serves His Majesty—or that Mad Nabob may have stolen his own jewel, or that there has been no theft at all.”

“Why not? That is what the chart tells us,” Lady Hartwood said. “But you must make your own decision about what to do with that information I have given you. It is always difficult for people to take my astrological readings seriously until they prove themselves. Lady Pemberton swore up and down her husband couldn’t have got his hands on her emeralds. But once she sent someone to make inquiries among his cronies, the truth soon came out. ”

“Then we must hope this reading proves itself, too,” Trev said, modulating his voice in a belated attempt at politeness. But couldn’t imagine how it could. He must set aside his dreams, as tempting as they had been for that brief moment when he had spoken with Temperance in the yellow salon. Much as he wished to love her still, he must prepare himself to withstand the impact of the cold hard facts that would come out in an hour, when he met with Fanshawe.

He asked for a private word with Lord Hartwood, and when they were alone, he told him of the arrangements he’d made with Major Stanley for Temperance’s maintenance. Wrong though it might be to help her find safety if she turned out to be the thief after all, he could not bring himself to abandon her.

Then he took his leave without returning to the office where he’d left her. Much as he longed to see her one last time, it would be too painful to awaken further hope. It would only hurt more when it was blasted away once and for all.

He was halfway down the hall, waiting for the maid to bring him his cloak and shako, when Temperance came up behind him and put out a hand to stop him. “Before you go, there’s one last thing I must tell you. Lady Hartwood’s reading may have been truer than she knew.”

“If you mean her idea that Sir Humphrey blamed you for a theft so he could keep the jewel, I’ve already thought about that and I will insist my superiors investigate the possibility. I hope with all my heart it is the explanation and that with it we may still recover the jewel.” He took a deep breath and let his tone soften. “I want to believe you, Temperance. I’m doing my best to do so.”

“I know,” she said in a tone that almost broke his heart. “And I know what it costs you, too. But Trev, if what Lady Hartwood’s chart said was true, the nabob won’t have the Jewel. You won’t get it back.”

“What?” She was taking away the one hope he had left to cling to. It shocked him.

“I couldn’t say anything about this in front of them”—she gestured toward Lady Hartwood’s office—“but her reading makes it sound as if it is the Weaver who is behind this theft.”

“Why? The only person her chart implicated besides Sir Humphrey was some imaginary woman associated with the king. It was there that she lost me. ”

“But not me,” Temperance whispered. “For her words described the Weaver better than she knew.”

“How so? I was told the Weaver is a man—a shadowy character whose power extends through the world of the rookeries. That’s a far cry from the personage Lady Hartwood described.”

“The Weaver’s power does extend through the rookeries. But no one has ever known for certain who the Weaver really is. No one ever meets with the Weaver, only with the Weaver’s minion, Snake. There’s a rumor that the reason for this secrecy is that the Weaver is really a woman—an older woman—and that she keeps her identity hidden because people would not fear a woman the way they do a man.”

“If that were true, it would give credence to Lady Hartwood’s reading. But she also said this older woman was working for the king.”

“The Weaver does work for the king. She does the king’s dirty work. And that’s not a rumor. Everyone knew it on the street. It is because the Weaver has the king’s backing that no one can stand up to her.”

He shook his head. “The Weaver can’t be working for the king. I’m working for the king. And my superiors made it very clear the Weaver was our adversary, not an ally.”

“Then your superiors must be working against the king.”

Trev hastily took a step away from her. “You go too far! As much as I would wish to be able to believe that you are guiltless of this theft, I can’t entertain so preposterous a theory based only on Her Ladyship’s astrological fancies.

He took a moment to calm himself, before continuing, “My superiors are loyal to King and Country, just as I am. And even if they weren’t, I’m the last man they’d send on such a mission. I’m an officer of the King’s Royal Irish Light Dragoons. My regiment is so famed for its loyalty to the crown that George III granted us the privilege of remaining seated when the Loyal Toast is proposed. They’d be mad to send me on a mission where I’d be working against my king. It’s impossible.”

“So you prefer to think I stole it?” Temperance’s face fell.

He shook his head, his expression grim. “Never. I have vowed to believe you, and I will live up to my pledge until it becomes impossible. But my money is on the nabob. He must have lodged a false accusation against you so he could keep the jewel. He did his best to anger me, so I would storm off and let him keep it. I am coming to think he learned of your birthmark through some channel unknown to both of us and used it to put us at odds, so he could get away with accusing you of the theft without having to face me. But now that I’ve seen through this ruse of his, I’ll settle his hash. I’ll trust my own powers of deduction here. They are all I can rely on.”

“No they aren’t,” she corrected him. “You can also rely on my love.”

He gave up the fight to stay rational. Her words touched him too deeply. “Yes, there is that, too, Priya. And I shall not forget it. I will come back to you if I can convince Fanshawe of your innocence.”

“And if you can’t?”

It was the question he had not let himself ask. “If you don’t hear from me by midnight, it is best we not meet again.”

“Because you will join with those who would hunt me down?”

“Never. I love you too deeply to ever harm you. But if I can’t clear you, you will have to flee. There is a price on your head, and if Fanshawe persists in believing you are the thief, I won’t be able to protect you. If that happens, you must go to America at once.”

He paused, struck by the terrible truth he’d just spoken. This might be adieu.

“I meant every word of love I ever spoke to you, Priya,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, don’t ever doubt it. And I will do what I can to clear you of the nabob’s infamous charge, but if I don’t return, Lord Hartwood will help you flee.”

Chapter 20

As Trev was ushered in, the under secretary rose to greet him. His desk was covered, as usual, with boxes of dispatches. Trev detected no hint of contempt in the hearty tones with which Fanshawe greeted him, but the man wouldn’t have risen to such a high rank in the department if he hadn’t mastered the ability to hide all emotion.

He steeled himself for what was coming. He would do his best to convince the under secretary that the nabob had fabricated the theft so he could hold on to the jewel. But despite his determination to believe that Temperance told the truth, he must face facts. The department’s agents were too good for anyone to pull the wool over their eyes for long. By now, they would have learned the truth about the theft and passed on what they knew to Fanshawe. The evidence against her might be compelling. He braced himself to endure what must come next.

“Sit down, Captain, sit down!” Fanshawe said, taking his own seat. “I was beginning to wonder if we should ever see you again.”

“I apologize, sir. I delayed in the hope that I might be able to uncover information that would help us determine the jewel’s whereabouts.”

“There was no need for you to do that. We have everything well in hand. And you needn’t fear the damage to your reputation. The mistake was ours. We should have chosen an older man to take custody of the jewel, not someone so young and hot-blooded. You may be assured no one here will blame you for letting yourself be seduced by the thief. The Weaver chose his agent well. The woman was skilled not only at picking pockets, but at stealing hearts.” Fanshawe chuckled at his own jest.

“You are certain, then, that Temperance stole the jewel?”

“Absolutely. There can be no question of it,” Fanshawe said with a pleasant smile. Then, with studied nonchalance he took a paper from the pile on his desk as if to signal the interview was drawing to an end.

The man’s air of complacency was odd. It was one thing to hide emotion, another entirely to display one so completely inappropriate to the situation. Trev had been expecting to be grilled on every detail of what had transpired at the nabob’s estate. Not to be pardoned with the explanation he was wet behind the ears, then patted on the head and dismissed.

There was only one explanation for Fanshawe’s behavior. “You will pardon me, sir, for demanding more of your time,” Trev said, “but since you appear to have retrieved the jewel, I would appreciate it if you would explain to me a bit more about the circumstances.”

The man put down his pen. “What makes you think we recovered it?”

“If you hadn’t recovered it, you’d be doing your best to extract every bit of information from me you could.”

“Sir Charles did not mislead us about your abilities. I will be frank with you. We have recovered the jewel. It’s on its way to India even as we speak.”

“Who had it?”

“That I’m not at liberty to tell you,” Fanshawe said smugly.

“Then how can I be sure Temperance stole it?”

“Didn’t Sir Humphrey tell you how she went about seducing him? I should have thought the proof he gave you would have been evidence enough.”

“What proof?”

“The birthmark.”

“Of course,” Trev said stiffly, feeling the color flow to his cheek. It was humiliating that Fanshawe should know about something so intimate—but also very odd. There was no reason for the nabob to mention the mark to him. Something wasn’t right here.

He cleared his throat. “I’m almost certain the nabob was lying about her stealing it. He was angry at both of us because she refused his most unwelcome advances.”

The under secretary’s face had lost all traces of the calm it had held earlier.

Trev pressed on. “So if you please, what other evidence do you have that Temperance stole it? If it is only the nabob’s word, I fear you have been taken in.”

Fanshawe drew himself up to his full height. “You’re a proud man, Captain, and it’s understandable that your pride would make you unwilling to accept that your partiality for the woman allowed her to steal the jewel right from under your nose. But there is no doubt she stole it while in the pay of the Weaver. There must be no doubt. Do you understand me?”

He didn’t. Not at all. Fanshawe hadn’t offered him a scintilla of proof. But the man’s mention of the Weaver gave him a sudden inspiration. He’d test Temperance’s theory, as far-fetched as it had sounded. “You refer to the Weaver as a man. My sources tell me she is an older woman.”

Fanshawe’s pupils constricted in the span of a single blink. “Is that what your woman told you?”

It was true. The man’s reaction confirmed it. But the under secretary recovered quickly, and added, “If she did, she was lying.”

“She was not my only source,” Trev replied, though he could imagine what the man would think if he knew his other source was Lady Hartwood’s astrological chart. “Given the importance of the matter, you should be able to furnish me more proof of Temperance’s guilt than just the nabob’s assertion. I can’t rid myself of the suspicion that she is innocent.”

“Get this straight.” Fanshawe brought his fist down on the pile of papers. “The woman cannot be innocent. It is essential to the success of our mission that our enemies believe her guilty. British lives depend on it.”

It took Trev a moment to work that out. Then very slowly, he said. “So she is innocent. But you’ll blame her for it anyway.”

The under secretary did not contradict him but simply repeated, “The success of our missions depends on it.”

Trev’s hands grew clammy as the implications of the man’s words sank in.

Fanshawe sighed. “You of all men should know that, in our line of work, it becomes necessary from time to time that someone be sacrificed for the good of all. You can’t expect us to sacrifice the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers, to save a single woman.”

“So you will let her be tried and hanged for this theft?”

“We will, and if necessary, we will provide the evidence that ensures it happens.”

Trev leapt from his seat, “My honor does not permit me to stand by and let you use her this way.”

“Sit down, Captain. Honor hardly enters into it. You knew the woman was a pickpocket. You gave up any claim to acting honorably when you saved her from arrest. Take care, lest you find yourself treated as an accessory to the crime.”

Trev sat, paralyzed, unable to reply.

Fanshawe paused a moment, before adding, “I should not wish to have to go that far, of course. Sir Charles values you too highly for me to take so extreme a measure unless it becomes completely unavoidable. I trust your loyalty to the department will ensure it does not. But should you persist in your misguided attempts to exonerate the pickpocket, it will be your word against ours, and we have agents in the Weaver’s operation who will swear she was in the Weaver’s pay if need be.”

“Even though it isn’t true?”

Fanshawe nodded.

“But why must you pin this theft on her? You have the jewel. Why persist in the fiction that it was stolen?”

“Because of the power of our opponent.”

“The Weaver?”

“No. The Weaver’s master.”

The Weaver’s master. Could Lady Hartwood’s reading have been right about that, too? Everything else Trev had discovered so far had confirmed the truth of her reading. Girding himself to risk all, he said, “If the Weaver’s master is who I think he is—”

Fanshawe interrupted him. “If your source was so misguided as to pass on unfounded rumors about the Weaver’s master, you must forget them. Immediately.”

“Because in some quarters our mission might be deemed traitorous?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last statement.”

“And I’m going to pretend you aren’t asking me to stand by and allow a woman to die because she gave me her heart.”

He jabbed his finger at Fanshawe. “The Weaver’s master is the king. Don’t deny it. What exactly have you drawn me into? I won’t stand for any more prevarication. You know the reputation of my regiment and of its loyalty to the crown, and yet you sit here demanding that I betray not only the woman I would wed but my sovereign. You better have a damn good reason for what you’ve done—”

“I have a very good reason,” Fanshawe said with a weary wave of his hand. “And since you’ve figured out so much on your own, I’d best explain it to you. It is indeed the king who has been trying to wrest the jewel away from us. He gave us no choice but to oppose him. When he began to plan his coronation this past summer, he became obsessed with giving it a Tudor theme and with modeling his costume on that of King Henry VIII. When he learned that the Jewel of Vadha had been Henry’s, he would not rest until he could obtain it so he could wear it at his coronation.

“In vain that we explained what would happen to our troops if he insulted the Nawab by making a public display of Bundilore’s ancestral jewel. Our monarch didn’t care. He wanted the jewel, and when he realized he couldn’t have it for the asking, he paid the Weaver to secure it for him. That was why the Weaver’s man approached your woman.”

“But she refused to work with him.”

“We knew that, but the king doesn’t. He believes the Weaver hired Temperance to steal the jewel—for him.”

The smug look had returned to Fanshawe’s features. “He must continue to believe it. While he is waiting patiently for the Weaver to give him the jewel that he thinks Temperance stole for him, the jewel is speeding on its way to India.”

“But what happens when he learns the Weaver can’t give the jewel to him?”

“We will try to persuade him the Weaver is holding it back to cadge more money from him.”

“But if that fails?”

“You’re sharp enough to work that out.”

“You’ll convince him Temperance kept it for herself?”

“Of course. It’s the best way to delay his finding out that the jewel is on its way to India. We need only delay him for another week or so. After that, the jewel will have traveled far enough that the king won’t be able to send out a vessel to retrieve it, and we’ll be able to return it to its owner unimpeded.”

“A very neat scheme,” Trev said, his lips tight.

“It was.” Fanshawe couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. “It also had the advantage of preserving Sir Humphrey from our monarch’s ire. We allowed him to tell the king at the very last moment that he’d changed his mind and would be glad to sell him the jewel, so the blame for its loss rests squarely on the shoulders of the Weaver.”

“And on Temperance.”

“Well, yes, of course.” Only the way the man’s pinkie moved betrayed his discomfort. “I say, it’s most unfortunate that things had to work out this way. We’d assumed you thought the pickpocket expendable though I see now that we may have underestimated your feelings for her. Most regrettable. But I trust now that you understand why we had no choice but to do what we did. And that your loyalty to the regiment and the department will ensure that you do what it takes to keep the king believing she stole the jewel, to prevent a costly war.”

“We must avoid a war,” Trev said between clenched teeth. “I know my duty.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You are too good a soldier to let any personal consideration get in the way of following your orders. We’ll let the pickpocket remain with the Hartwoods a while longer. We instructed Sir Humphrey to let her escape to make it harder for the king to put his hands on her. But if she attempts to flee, we’ll have to arrest her immediately. I count on you not to do anything that might cause things to go awry at this very delicate moment of the operation.”

As the truth of the situation sank in, the horror of it almost paralyzed him. Temperance was, as she’d claimed, completely innocent. She had kept her vow to him. It was he who had sinned against her, by keeping his secrets and luring her to the nabob’s, where men he had trusted with his life had casually disposed of hers.

He fought against the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He could not give in to it. His only hope of saving the woman whose love he no longer deserved was to convince Fanshawe that he was still the same loyal fool he’d always been, the one who would follow his orders faithfully no matter who they harmed.

“You may count on me to do the right thing,” he said, fixing the under secretary with his eye. It was ironic how the woman he’d betrayed so catastrophically had taught him a thing or two about telling the truth in a way that would deceive.

Fanshawe stood. “I will expect you to embark next week as planned, before the king decides to interrogate you. He would not be happy to learn of your role in this escapade.”

Trev did not miss the thinly veiled threat. “I shall do so. You can count on me to live up to the loyalty I have pledged.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Fanshawe. “If you do, you need not fear any lasting stain upon your reputation. The department rewards men who do their duty, whatever it might cost them. Give my regards to Sir Charles when you see him again in India. And bon voyage then, Captain.”

She was innocent, and he had delivered her to her destruction, but he’d told Fanshawe the truth. He would do the right thing. He would live up to the pledge he’d made to Temperance when he’d given her his heart. Though he could never again expect her to love him, knowing now the damage he’d done to her by keeping his secrets from her and luring her into fatal danger, he would find a way to save her or die trying.

But how could he save her from the catastrophe into which he’d drawn her? The brilliance of the department’s schemes, which had delighted him so much in the past, stood as an insurmountable barrier to her rescue.

He didn’t even dare return to Temperance at Lady Hartwood’s to warn her of the extent of her peril, for Fanshawe had undoubtedly sent men to follow him, to ensure he toed the line. If they saw him make a beeline for her, they’d assume he had told her what he’d just learned in that fatal interview. That knowledge would put her in even more danger. Fanshawe’s men were leaving her untouched at the moment, to stretch out the time before the king found out he’d been tricked, but if Fanshawe thought she knew too much, he would move swiftly to eliminate her.

But he’d told Temperance that if he didn’t return to her tonight, she should take it as the signal to flee. And that made it essential he get some message to her, for Fanshawe had made it clear his men would arrest her if she tried to buy a passage for America.

So he must get word to her somehow and warn her. But how?

Perhaps Major Stanley could help him out. He could think of no one else he could trust with a matter of so much importance. There was a good brain hidden beneath the major’s bluff exterior. Perhaps if they put their heads together, they could come up with some solution.

But when he arrived at Major Stanley’s lodgings after taking a circuitous route designed to befuddle anyone who was following him, he found his friend plunged into the deepest despair.

“Nothing is sacred,” the major said. “A man begins to find happiness only to have it snatched from his grasp.”

“I could not agree with you more,” he replied. “But what made you draw that conclusion?”

“Have you not heard? Mother Bristwick’s is no more. Her establishment was raided last night, the girls hustled off, and Mother B herself taken before the magistrate and charged with a capital crime. It’s all here in the papers.”

“That is hardly the usual charge for running a bawdy house, unless she murdered one of her clients.”

“It turns out our Mother B was more than she appeared—some underworld Machiavelli they called the Weaver. A powerful man had been protecting her, but she offended him, and he withdrew his protection. She’s been charged with a string of murders and robberies, and she’ll hang for them—double quick, I’d warrant. There are more than a few powerful men who used to visit with her girls, and they’ll want her mouth stopped before she can tell any tales about them.”

So Fanshawe’s plot had been even more clever than what he’d revealed during their interview. He’d used the simulated theft of the jewel to get rid of the Weaver, once it had become clear that she would no longer work to serve the department’s interests. The king must have put pressure on her to give him the jewel, and when she’d insisted she didn’t have it, he must have assumed she was holding back on him, and this was the result.

But this tightened the vise closing in on Temperance even further. For now that the king knew he wasn’t going to get his jewel, the department would direct his attention to her unless Trev could somehow come up with the way to save her that had eluded him so far.

He was about to appeal to the major for help when his friend said, “You’re embarking next week, aren’t you. It’s probably all for the best. A little birdie told me how that beautiful pickpocket made such a fool of you. Though I’m afraid I must take some of the blame for that, my boy.”

“Why?”

“I wished only the best for you when I played Cupid at every step of your romance. But I was mistaken,” Major Stanley said. “Forgive me.”

For what? Trev’s blood ran cold. Was the major a part of the scheme, too? It had been the major who had brought him to that crossroads where he had first seen Temperance. Who had urged him to find her again at the masquerade. Who had suggested he marry her. His bluff hearty pose and his fondness for drink made him seem so harmless, so easy to trust. Had Trev been even blinder than he’d thought?

He stood frozen in place. Had Fanshawe’s scheme cost him everything he’d ever valued, including his one real friendship? But there was no way of knowing if the major had been part of it, for to come right out and ask him would reveal too much.

He had no choice but to assume that the major was in on it—and that whatever he told him would be reported back to Fanshawe. So, forcing himself to give no sign of any emotion, he clapped a friendly arm around the major’s back, and said, “No hard feelings, my friend. I’ll find plenty of others to take her place. It was just a dalliance. I’d have left her behind when my leave was over anyway. You knew that.”

“Of course. And now that you know what she really is, you’ll be spared any lingering dreams about what might have been.”

“Absolutely. Men in our line of work are far better off without such dreams.”

In the end, it was the magnitude of the betrayal that made him realize, at last, how he could save Temperance. It would not have been possible to do it had he still been the man he had been this morning, loyal to the regiment, to his superiors, and to the crown. But they had lost any claim to his loyalty, and that freed him to do what needed to be done.

There was only one person in England with the power to keep Temperance safe—the king. So he must go to him and reveal exactly what had happened. Once the king knew the facts, he would pardon Temperance, for the blame for his loss of the jewel would rest where it belonged, on the department.

He went to his room and found his writing things. Sir Charles’s name could open many doors, even those of Carlton House. He addressed a letter to the king’s private secretary, wording it to suggest he wrote it in an official capacity, as an agent of the department. He included just enough detail to hint, in a way that would be understandable only to someone in the know, that he had information about the theft that would be of great interest to the king.

He secured the letter with the seal that bore his regimental motto: Pristinae virtutis memores. The memory of former valor. The memory would likely be all he had left of his valor when his visit to the king was done. He had no doubt of what the department would do, once they learned of how he had betrayed them. His life would be measured in days. But if he could save Temperance, it would be worth it.

After all, he was a soldier. He’d always expected to die young.

Chapter 21

The hours had dragged by on leaden feet. Trev wasn’t coming back. Why couldn’t she accept it and get on with what she knew she must do? He’d wanted to believe her. He’d tried to remain true to his vows, but who was to say what his superior might have told him? Men who could learn of something as secret as the mark she bore on her thigh and use it to drive two lovers apart were capable of anything.

Perhaps they’d shown him more clever fabricated proofs. She couldn’t fault him for believing them when she herself had believed the nabob’s lies and stamped on the ring Trev had given her to seal their pledge of love. She couldn’t expect him to be stronger than she’d been.

But she would have to mourn the death of their shared dreams later. For Trev was gone, and there was a price on her head. He had told her that if he didn’t come back, she must flee. So it was time, at last, to set off for America. There was nothing left for her, here on England’s soil, and every hour she delayed, swayed by the vain hope Trev might return, was an hour that made it less likely she would escape.

She made her way down the stairs and asked a servant to take a message to Lord Hartwood. Trev had told her to apply to him should it come to this.

Then she seated herself on the bench of the pianoforte in the drawing room. It had been a long time since she had played an instrument, but she had practiced too steadily in the years before she’d left home for her fingers to have forgotten all they once knew even though she’d put their agility to such a different use in the years between.

She picked out the themes of her favorite pieces, playing with increasing confidence as the sun sank and plunged the room into darkness. She didn’t need to see the keyboard to play, and the intimacy of the dusk made it easier for her to lose herself in the lyrical melodies, whose beauty gave her the strength to bear her sadness.

It was only much later, when she had run through the pieces she knew well, that her fingers faltered. She missed one note, then the next, and finally stopped. It was in the pause that followed that she heard the tiny rustle that told her she wasn’t alone. Her hands froze. She whirled around to see who had come in on her unobserved.

It was Trev. Her heart lifted. He’d come back!

When he realized she’d become aware of his presence, he detached himself from the shadows and approached her. He paused, drinking her in with his gaze, as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight of her.

“You play so beautifully,” he whispered. “I should have known you would.” He took another step toward her, and, for a moment, she could have sworn his lip quivered. Then, with a wistfulness in his tone that chilled her blood, he said, “How happy we should have been had things worked out differently.”

The blood stopped flowing in her veins. “Why can’t we be happy? You’ve come back. You said you wouldn’t return unless you could prove me innocent.”

“You are innocent. I forced the truth out of Fanshawe. But it won’t help. He wants you arrested and condemned though he knows you’re blameless.”

“But why?”

Quickly, Trev sketched out the details of the scheme his superiors had involved them in. When he was done, she understood the fear she saw in his eyes. Things were far worse than she had dreamed they could be.

“My loyalty has been fatally misplaced,” he said. “But it’s too late to undo the damage I have done. Fanshawe will not back down. He insists you must be sacrificed to save the lives of our soldiers.”

“So you have no choice but to go along with him?” She could barely breathe.

“Are you mad, Temperance? I would die before I did that. I’ll use what is left of my life to keep you safe from them.” He dropped on his knees before her. “Forgive me, Priya, for putting you into the power of such men.”

“Why can’t I just take ship for America? They can’t hurt me there.”

“Fanshawe has men watching you. They’ll arrest you if you try to slip away.”

The resignation in his voice frightened her. She remembered the pride he had taken in his loyalty to the department. To his regiment. In his service to the king. The knowledge that he’d been deceived by those to whom he’d pledged his life and his loyalty must be intolerable.

He stood. “I got you into this,” he said. “I’ll get you out.”

“How?”

“There’s only one way. I’ll go to the king and tell him what really happened. I’ll prove to him that you are innocent and demand that he issue you a pardon. Hopefully, that will be enough to keep you safe long enough to get out of the country. I’ve already sent a letter to the king’s private secretary asking for an interview.”

“But if the king finds out that you’ve been part of a plot to keep the jewel from him, won’t he think of you as a traitor?”

“Perhaps. And even if he doesn’t, the department won’t forgive me for betraying their scheme. But none of it will matter as long as the king pardons you.”

He let his hands rest on her shoulders, clinging to her in the deepening darkness as if drawing strength from her. Then, in an abstracted voice, he said, “You alone were loyal, you, who I least trusted. I don’t know how you can forgive me.”

He gulped, then continued, “You told me nothing but the truth. I will never forgive myself for not believing you. Fanshawe admitted that the nabob let you escape just as you told me. And Fanshawe knew about your mark, too. He made it clear he thought the mention of it would be enough to make me believe you’d betrayed me. So it must have been he who told Sir Humphrey about it.”

“But how could Fanshawe have known of it?”

“He has spies everywhere. He bragged he had them even in the Weaver’s operation. I cannot ever forgive myself that I let myself be taken in by him. I should have trusted you.”

His voice took on a faraway sound as he added, “It was Lady Hartwood’s reading that gave me the facts that forced him to reveal the truth to me. It was uncannily accurate. She was right about the Weaver working for the king and being a wealthy woman—if you hadn’t trusted me with that information, all would have been lost.” He paused. “The Weaver turned out to be Mother Bristwick.”

So that was why Snake’s words had echoed the old bawd’s sneer. But Trev’s revelation made something else fall into place. “Does that mean some of the girls in Mother Bristwick’s bagnio were Fanshawe’s agents?”

“Yes.”

“Then it must have been one of them who told Fanshawe about my birthmark.”

Trev’s face fell. He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “If you were forced to be one of her girls, you don’t have to be afraid to tell me. It won’t change my love for you. Nothing ever will.”

“Though it does you credit, you need not be so forbearing.” She smiled at him in a way she hoped might give him reassurance. “My nimble fingers kept me from having to sell myself to her. But I did befriend one of her girls—the one who brought me that note from Snake. She used to take me to Mother Bristwick’s to bathe. They had a real bath in their bagnio, and I couldn’t resist the chance to get clean. One time when we bathed there, she saw my mark and said I was a fool not to go to work for Mother B, for the mark ensured I’d please the culls. Someone who overheard us must have passed the information on to your Mr. Fanshawe.”

Trev nodded. “How clever he must have thought he was being, using that mark to divide us. And how close he came to success. But even though we understand his scheme, he has still ensured we can never be happy together.”

“Nonsense!” We will be happy together, Trev. I won’t stand for anything else.”

“You shame me with your courage. But courage alone won’t save you. I must go to the king and lay the facts before him. I’ll make him pardon you. After that, the department may do to me what they will. If you are safe, it won’t matter.”

“It will matter to me! I won’t let you throw away your life. It isn’t necessary.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Let me be the judge of that. I must order you to let me handle this.”

“I won’t obey. I’m not some trooper under your command, who must follow orders without argument. Do you have so little trust in our love that you would sacrifice your life without giving me a chance to find a better way?”

“There is no better way.”

“Not one you can come up with, perhaps, but you haven’t given me a chance to help. Why now, when it matters most, do you push me away?”

He bit his lip. “Because the only way I can save you is to make that final sacrifice.”

“You’ve made too many sacrifices already. You’ve been trained to always give up everything that matters to you. But that’s not how I was raised. I’m far more selfish than you are, and since my brain hasn’t been hobbled like yours by misplaced loyalty, I’ll find a way to save the two of us that doesn’t require so one-sided a sacrifice.”

She took his hand. The tremor she felt as his fingers clenched hers told her how hard he was striving to give up the habits of a lifetime. She squeezed it, drawing strength from the love that flowed beneath his torment.

Then she spoke again. “You’ll have to trust me if we’re to find the way out. You can’t do it alone. You’ve said we are two halves of one whole. Now you must trust in what we become when we join ourselves together. That, and that alone, will be what saves us now.”

Though he was drawing deep breaths, he couldn’t get enough air. He’d felt like this only once before, after climbing a difficult peak in the mountains of Hindu Kush. Could it be true what she had said?

Since the moment when he’d come upon her playing the instrument so beautifully in the fading light, he’d dreaded the moment when he must leave her behind and meet the fate he deserved. He’d told himself it was his karma, that by sacrificing himself to save her, he might atone for all his sins.

But her words made him face the truth. It was easier for him to welcome death alone than to do what she demanded of him and join himself with her when it really mattered. Could he trust her that much? Could he believe their love was more than a transient pleasure to be put aside when danger threatened?

If he couldn’t, all their talk of love had been meaningless.

Deep inside, in the place where he had been alone since that day when his grandfather had told him the painful truth, fear screamed he must trust no one but himself. He was alone, and it was best he should remain that way.

But then she reached for his hand, and her gentle touch told him he was not alone. He didn’t have to be alone. He’d gone as far as he could on his own, but his old ways had failed him, and now he must try something new.

He must blend his strength and discipline with her guile and willingness to fight. She had retained the independence they’d trained out of him. She was free to act as he was not. So he must look to her to save them. He must give her that much trust.

“Captain Trevelyan!” Lady Hartwood had entered the music room. “I hope your meeting went well.” She turned to Temperance. “My husband asked me to act for him regarding your note. I gather it is a matter of some urgency.”

Temperance explained the situation. When she had finished, Trev said, “Lady Hartwood, I owe you a profound apology. Your chart was right about everything—the nature of the theft, who was behind it, and so much more. Can you cast another chart to help us find a way out of our predicament?”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. It would be a mistake to turn to a chart for guidance in so grave a crisis. If I were to make an error in reading it—as I often do—it might cause untold harm. A chart must never substitute for our common sense—and you both have plenty of that. You are Scorpios,” she reminded him, “so you must let your instincts guide you.”

She turned toward Temperance. “Tell me quickly. What is the key to solving this problem? Don’t think about your answer, just give me your first impression.”

“The king is the key,” Temperance answered. “Trev is right about that, but he’s wrong in thinking he must approach him as a dutiful inferior. The king is too used to people bowing and scraping before him. To approach him that way would only bring out his contempt. So we must do the unexpected. We must approach him from a position of power.”

“But the king holds all the power,” Trev protested. “We have nothing to bargain with.”

“Who said anything about bargaining? For all his rank, the king is a man, and I can manipulate any man once I know what motivates him. I couldn’t have survived on the street as long as I did if I couldn’t.”

“I learned that firsthand,” he said with a rueful grin.

She turned to Lady Hartwood. “Do you have the king’s chart?”

“Yes. My Aunt Celestina was an avid student of history.”

“If you would fetch it, perhaps we can find something in it that will tell us why the king is so set on getting this particular jewel. My instincts tell me that is also a key.”

Trev broke in. “Do you also have Henry VIII’s chart?”

“I believe I do,” Lady Hartwood said.

“Then I beg you, bring it, too. I have a sudden inspiration.”

After Lady Hartwood went off to get the charts of their sovereigns, Temperance asked, “Why did you want to look at Henry’s chart?

He fought against his desire to embrace her in this brief moment when they found themselves alone. But he forced himself to keep his mind on the matter at hand.

“It was something Sir Humphrey told me. He said the Jewel of Vadha had once been Henry’s. What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the name, Henry VIII?”

“His six wives, of course—and how he chopped off a couple of their heads.”

He stabbed the air. “Exactly. Henry was good at ridding himself of troublesome wives—unlike our current monarch, who has failed so signally with his. I wonder if that is why he chose a Tudor theme for his coronation. Can you see the point I’m getting at?”

She furrowed her brow. “I can see why he might wish he had some of Henry’s skill in ridding himself of a wife, but why would he go to such lengths to secure this one jewel, just because it was Henry’s? Henry must have had hundreds of jewels.”

“Sir Humphrey told me the jewel had magical properties. I’d paid it no heed, thinking that was just more of his foolishness. But the Jewel of Vadha was a Hindu jewel before it was Henry’s, and Hindus do believe jewels have magical properties—ones that derive from their astrological powers.”

Lady Hartwood had returned, clutching a sheaf of papers and several large books. As she seated herself again at her desk, he appealed to her. “Does your astrology assign special powers to gems?”

She thought for a moment. “My ancestor Lilly does associate specific gems with each planet, though I have never paid much attention to them.”

Perhaps he was on the right track. “The Jewel of Vadha is an oriental topaz. What does your ancestor say about its astrological properties?”

Lady Hartwood leafed through her book. “It is one of Mercury’s gems. So it would be useful to those whose Ascendants were ruled by Mercury—people born with Gemini or Virgo rising.”

“Does that describe Henry VIII?”

Her Ladyship consulted his chart. “It does. Virgo was rising at his birth. So the topaz would have been his stone.” So perhaps this mystical connection was behind the king’s fascination with this particular gem. But that wasn’t going to help them.

Temperance broke in. “What of our current monarch? What stone would rule his birth?”

Lady Hartwood consulted her other chart. “He was born with Aquarius rising, ruled by Saturn, so his stone would be the sapphire.”

“Good,” Temperance said. “And what does our king’s chart tells us are his chief weaknesses?”

“What a Scorpionic question,” Lady Hartwood observed. “But, of course, your situation is also Scorpionic, being, as it is, a matter of life and death.” She studied the king’s chart. “He has many planets in the Second House, which explains why he expresses himself mainly through the acquisition of objects.”

“The whole world knows of his passion for collecting,” Temperance said. “I was hoping you could uncover his secrets with his chart.”

“Perhaps the secret lies in why he is driven to collect things. His ruling planet, Saturn—the planet of fear—is poorly placed and weak. Despite his power, it is fear that drives him to acquire so many things. Pisces is intercepted in his First House, too. So while his collecting is driven by his love of beauty, he can get lost in that beauty, just as a drunkard gets lost in his cups, and he may easily be deceived. I would imagine he has bought many fakes.”

Temperance nodded. “So the key to controlling him is fear and deception. Nothing out of the usual there.”

Alarm swept over Lady Hartwood’s features. “You must be careful. Our king’s Mars is in Scorpio; you must not underestimate his ruthlessness or the lengths he will go to satisfy his desires.”

“I thank you for your counsel,” Temperance said, rising. “You have been very helpful, indeed.”

Lady Hartwood’s face clouded. “I fear I’ve been overly rash in entrusting you with such sensitive information. I will never forgive myself if it leads you into greater danger. Do take care.”

“We shall. Our lives depend on it. ” Temperance stood. “But now, Your Ladyship, if you please, I must ask you to give us a moment alone.”

As the door clicked shut behind Lady Hartwood, Temperance turned to Trev and whispered, “I have it now. It’s a gamble, but it has a chance of working though it will take the two of us working together very closely to pull it off. You will need to do exactly what I tell you without asking why. Will you do that?”

He nodded. The beauty of the smile she gave him in return was worth enduring whatever might happen if he followed her plan.

“Good,” she said. “Here, then, is what we must do.”

Chapter 22

“The king has set aside five minutes for you, Captain. It is a great honor. Don’t abuse it.”

They stood before the king’s private secretary, Sir Benjamin Bloomfield. He was clad in a major general’s full-dress uniform, whose luxurious gold embroidery was outshone only by the many medals on his chest. Trev had never seen the like on any officer in the field. But despite his foppish display, the man radiated authority. No military man could doubt his power—or how slim the chances were that Trev and his beloved would be able to bend him and his master to their will.

“Who is this person?” Sir Benjamin demanded, fixing Temperance with a disapproving stare.

“She is someone materially involved in the matter that brings me here,” Trev explained. “It’s essential she accompany me when I meet with our sovereign.”

“Essential? One wonders. But it is certainly irregular. Highly irregular.” Sir Benjamin sniffed. “Though she is beautiful, I’ll grant you that, and the king has always been a connoisseur of female beauty. But even so, who is she?”

Temperance spoke up. “I’m Jedidiah Smith’s daughter.”

“The man they call the Cotton King?” Sir Benjamin asked.

“None other.”

“Is this true, Captain?”

“It is.”

“Well, the man’s rich enough. I suppose we must trust she’s not some Radical come to assassinate His Majesty.”

“We must,” Trev said, with a meaningful look at his beloved.

Sir Benjamin consulted his watch, and after reminding them of the protocol they must follow when in the king’s presence, led them down richly furnished corridors decorated with gold-framed paintings, each one more magnificent than the one before it. Crystal sparkled from the lighting fixtures above them, and ornate plasterwork completed the effect. That a man who commanded such wealth should be willing to sacrifice human lives to add a single topaz to his collection seemed even more shocking now that Trev began to grasp the magnitude of the king’s fortune.

But, paradoxically, this evidence of the king’s wealth also gave him hope. It made it more likely that it was some magical power associated with the jewel that made it so valuable to the king. And if that was the case, Temperance’s plan might work.

Footmen opened the wide double doors at the end of the hall at their approach, revealing the king, who awaited them within. George IV was a large man—one who would have been described as portly, if one was being polite, though in the mess hall they would have called him a blubberguts.

Sir Benjamin motioned them to stop at the doorway, and when they had, he took a few steps into the king’s chamber, bowed deeply, and whispered something to his sovereign. The king turned a languid gaze toward the doorway until he noticed Temperance. Then a smile lit his heavy features. Sir Benjamin motioned them in and took his place behind the king.

Temperance sank into a curtsy that would have done a countess proud, but Trev noted the saucy way she caught the king’s eye when she came up from it. She had it right there. The king was a man, and Temperance knew how to draw a man’s attention. Under her scrutiny, the king stood up straighter and sucked in the enormous belly that was barely controlled by his corsets. She rewarded him with a look that mixed appreciation with something Trev would have called challenge. Not even the king could intimidate his beloved.

At length, the king tore his eyes from her and turned to examine Trev, giving him the kind of head-to-toe scrutiny he associated with his old commander, General Pearce—a man whose life might have ended more happily had he given to strategy the attention he put into ensuring his men’s buttons showed the highest polish.

“I’ve been told of the bravery of your regiment at Poona,” the king began. “But surely so brave a regiment could do better than to wear so lackluster a uniform. That style went out after Waterloo. And that shako—” The king wrinkled his nose as he gestured at Trev’s headgear, tucked respectfully under his arm. “I shall have to do something about it.”

The king stepped backward to get a better view. “A fur-lined pelisse over the shoulder, I should think—it’s so very manly. Silver instead of gold braid. And, of course, a Busby bag instead of that dated shako.”

Trev stifled a sigh. The king’s obsession with fashion was well-known. He’d long had the habit, hated and feared by Trev’s fellow officers, of periodically ordering sweeping changes in their uniforms, which forced them to run up expensive tailor’s bills. The last thing his regiment needed was to have to drag around a pelisse or wear a fur Busby in the heat of the Indian climate. But, if that was what it took to free Temperance, it was a small price to pay.

“So what brings you here, Captain?” the king demanded. “I’m told it is a matter of the gravest importance.”

“It is, Your Majesty. It concerns the topaz.”

The king’s erstwhile good nature fled. “The topaz, you say? Have you found that cursed Jewel of Vadha?” His avidity was frightening.

“I have. And that’s why I’m here. I came to thank you on the behalf of all your loyal troops in India for the heroic way in which you foiled the schemes of those who would have dragged Your Majesty’s valiant troops into a costly and unnecessary war.”

The king’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what Trev was getting at. Helpfully, Trev added, “The dispatch is already on its way to Sir Charles that explains how brilliantly Your Majesty employed sleight of hand to achieve a diplomatic coup. The Mad Nabob might have got away with his scheme had he not come up against you.”

“Yes, yes. The scheme was brilliant as you say,” the king said with annoyance. “But where is the jewel?”

“On its way to India, as you had intended it to be,” Trev said mildly. “Where it can wreak its havoc on the unfortunate Nawab of Bundilore, who, unlike Your Majesty, failed to understand its dangers.” Sir Benjamin’s brows shot up.

“Dangers? What dangers,” the king demanded. “I’ve heard nothing of any dangers associated with this jewel. Only of its power. It was Henry VIII’s jewel, you know, and served him well.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Temperance interrupted. “But it served him so well only because it is the jewel of Mercury, and Mercury presided over Henry’s birth. For someone born under the influence of another planet, it would be dangerous. The poor Nawab will learn that soon enough. How brilliant you were to come up with a stratagem that preserved our troops at the same time that you ensured the destruction of our nation’s enemy.”

By now the king’s confusion was obvious. They’d taken a great risk by putting him in a situation where he would be forced to pretend he had done the right thing even as he learned that his scheme had been foiled. It had been Temperance’s idea, and if it failed, Trev would never forgive himself for giving in to her. But so far, it had not failed, so he must stay silent and allow her to fan the king’s fears, on the theory that a man who could believe that a jewel would help him do away with his hated wife would be capable of believing a whole lot more.

“How could this cursed jewel harm its owner?” the king demanded.

Temperance looked down and fluttered her lashes in a manner Trev remembered all too well from the night when he had saved her from the shoemaker. He’d never imagined he’d feel this grateful when a woman he loved flirted so successfully with another man, but she was doing it for him, and it was working: The king was becoming more interested in her with every word.

“Why ’tis simple,” she said. “If its owner was born under another star, the power of the jewel might weaken him rather than give him strength. Indeed, in the worst case, it could put that owner at the mercy of his enemies.”

“That wasn’t what I was told about its powers,” the king protested. “I was told it would strengthen a king.”

“It might strengthen a king who was born under the influence of Mercury, Your Majesty. But only such a king.”

“My mother has some small knowledge of the stars,” the king said. “I was born when the Sun was in Leo. So my ruling planet must be the Sun. Would such a jewel be dangerous to me?”

“It isn’t the sign of your Sun that would determine that, Your Majesty, but the sign that was rising at your birth.”

The king thought for a moment. “The rising sign, is it? What was mine, now?” He muttered to himself. “What did she say? ’Twas my Sun in Leo makes me a king, my Moon in Taurus an artist, and—what was the third thing, damme—oh, yes—my Aquarius Ascendant that makes me such an original. If I have Aquarius rising, would that make the jewel dangerous to me?”

Temperance’s angled eyebrows shot upward. “Dangerous? Worse than that—catastrophic. Aquarius is ruled by Saturn. Its gem is the sapphire. To wear a topaz when under Saturn’s sway would be to unleash its other propensity.”

“Which is?” The king’s face had become flushed, and his hand trembled. Perhaps there was something to the rumors that he had inherited more than a tinge of his father’s madness.

Temperance’s voice had dropped to a seductive whisper. “The topaz is also the gem of Scorpio, and everyone knows the nature of that sign: Its natives are consumed with lust and willing to go to any lengths to satisfy it. They have no appreciation for beauty, no sense of refinement. They are crude and vicious. Your Majesty, a powerful topaz would strengthen anyone who fit that description no matter who owned it—unless its owner was born under the influence of Mercury, as Henry was. But for someone born under Saturn’s sway, as you were, to possess the Jewel of Vadha would put you completely in the power of your worst enemy.”

The king’s face had turned deep purple, and he was breathing so quickly it seemed likely he might have a seizure at any moment. “My worst enemy,” he shrilled. “That bitch, Caroline! The man who told me of the jewel’s powers must have been one of her agents. He showed me the old manuscript from the royal archives, where old Dr. Dee had praised the power of the gem. He sounded so convincing. And all along he must have been working for her. This scheme—it has all the marks of her handiwork, for the bitch will stop at nothing to thwart me!”

“But you foiled her,” Temperance reminded him, “for the jewel is on its way to India, where the foolish Nawab will learn too late of its powers. You weren’t taken in; though anyone else would have been. How clever you were to send the jewel to the Nawab.”

“Of course,” the king said, recalling the role they’d decided he would play. “Tell me though. What gem would give power to a man whose chart was ruled by Saturn?”

“The sapphire, Your Majesty.”

“No wonder I prefer sapphires to all other stones.” He slapped one massive thigh. “Always have. And I shall give orders to ensure no one prevents that pestilent topaz from reaching the Nawab of Bundilore.”

The king turned to Sir Benjamin. “Make a note of this. I want you to seek out the finest sapphire to add to my coronation jewels. Spare no expense—and buy it—none of your cheapjack loans for this jewel. It must be mine.” He paused. “A sapphire will suit me so much better, and the color will go well with the robes I’m having designed. Topaz is such a dark and lifeless stone, but a sapphire has sparkle.”

“Just like Your Majesty,” Temperance said.

The king’s preening reminded Trev of nothing so much as that of an old turkey cock. It was time to step in. It would be a pyrrhic victory if Temperance won her freedom at the cost of having to yield to His Majesty’s all-too-well-known lust.

He spoke up. “Your loyal troops will thank you, sir, for years to come. It was an inspiration to send such a fatal jewel to this pestilent Nawab.”

“Of course, of course.” The king, was calming down. “But I thank you for informing me of how narrowly I escaped disaster. Could it have been the influence of the topaz that helped that dreadful woman get off scot-free in Parliament?”

Temperance considered this for a moment. “It might have, if Caroline was in cahoots with its previous owner, Sir Humphrey Diggett.”

“That must have been it. There’s no other explanation!”

Trev’s appreciation of his beloved’s powers went up another notch. She had figured out how to make the Mad Nabob pay for the outrageous way he’d treated them. Fanshawe had nothing on her when it came to making one plot serve several purposes.

Coming to her aid, he added, “Sir Humphrey would be all too likely to back Caroline since he must fear what would happen if Your Majesty’s attention was drawn to the irregular way he earned his wealth.”

The king turned to Sir Benjamin. “Order an immediate audit of the man’s finances. If he’s diverted money that should have gone to the royal treasury, I want every penny of it back—with penalties.”

Sir Humphrey’s goose was cooked. A government audit would be worse for a man like the nabob than mere physical torture. It took all Trev’s discipline to keep from smiling.

Sir Benjamin gave his watch a meaningful glance and muttered quietly to his master, “Time’s about up, Your Majesty. Lady Conyngham will be here any moment.”

The king waved him off. “I owe you my thanks, Captain, for the intelligence you brought me. I’ll send word to Sir Charles commending you for your helpfulness. I’ll also have a word with the commander of your regiment about that uniform. Not right that men so brave should make such a sad appearance.”

Now it was time for Trev to make his final move. “Your Majesty is too good, but if you would, there is a service you could perform that would cost you nothing and be of infinite value to Miss Smith.”

“It would be my pleasure,” the king said with a smug smile. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“Your Majesty,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I am the woman your enemies blamed for the theft of the Jewel of Vadha, though, as you know, it never was stolen. Your enemies have put a price on my head.”

“By gad, Sir Benjamin, I thought you told me this was the Cotton King’s daughter.”

“I did, sir.”

“But I was told the jewel was taken by a pickpocket.”

“A terrible misunderstanding,” Trev interjected. “You see, my intended refused Sir Humphrey’s advances. That’s why he accused her of theft, to get back at her.”

“Cad,” the king said. “But that’s just the sort of behavior I’d expect from the kind of man who would put his influence behind that bitch who pretends to be my queen. If he’s behind this accusation, I shall take even more pleasure in pardoning Miss Smith. See to it, Sir Benjamin. Though, in return for my clemency, I must ask you one indulgence, my dear.” He turned back to Temperance.

Trev braced himself.

“I am a collector, my dear,” the king said, with a sparkle in the eye that, in his youth had been charming enough to win him the sobriquet, Prince Florizel. “As the world knows. I collect fine paintings, statuary, and the exquisite palaces that will remain as a testament of my taste for generations to come. But I have a secret collection from which I take far more delight.” His voice dropped. “My dear, may I ask you to give me a single lock of your lovely hair to add to that collection? I have garnered tresses from every beauty in the kingdom. My collection would be a sorry one if it did not include yours.”

Trev let out his breath. It could have been a lot worse.

Sir Benjamin discreetly withdrew a pair of shears from the royal desk and handed it to the king. With a look at Trev, Temperance unpinned the back of her coiffure. When one long tress came free she held it out toward the king, who snipped it off.

“Beautiful,” their monarch said, stroking it with one pudgy finger before handing it to his private secretary. “I shall treasure it. See to her pardon, Sir Benjamin. We can’t have the hangman’s rope defile such a swanlike neck. Then, thank God I can put the whole pestilent business of that jewel behind me.” He paused, and added, “Sapphire is so much more fitting for a king, don’t you think, Sir Benjamin? And it goes so much better with my eyes.”

And with that, Sir Benjamin motioned to them that their audience was over.

It had been too easy. As grateful as he was that the king had pardoned Temperance, Trev knew what must come next. The king might be a fool—but his private secretary was not, and the man’s expressions as they had played out the farce they’d just concluded showed it was only a matter of time until he paid the price for their effrontery.

The department would learn he’d betrayed their plot to His Majesty, and what would follow would be only what he’d expected. But it mattered not. He’d achieved the end for which he’d intended to sacrifice his life. The king had ordered that Temperance be pardoned. Sir Benjamin must honor that command. Whatever happened next, she would be safe.

When they had regained the hallway Sir Benjamin whispered, “I should like one last word with you, Captain, if you would follow me to my office.” He turned toward Temperance, “You, remain here.”

Trev had been right. Sir Benjamin had taken a dim view of their maneuvering. He was glad she wouldn’t have to witness what came next—nor be given a chance to employ some even-more-daring scheme to keep him from suffering the punishment he knew must be his due. From here on in, the blame must fall entirely on himself.

The king’s private secretary ushered him into his office and closed the door behind him. Only then did he fix Trev with an eye accustomed to command, and say, “A clever maneuver, Captain. I must confess I found it entertaining. Never in a thousand years should I have thought of such an original method of ridding the king of his obsession with the jewel.”

Sir Benjamin was playing with him. Now that he’d let him know that he’d seen through his ridiculous ploy, he was delaying the moment when Trev would learn exactly how he’d make him pay for it. But he had expected nothing less, and he would accept his punishment without demure, for he had achieved his objective.

“His Majesty commanded you to give Temperance her pardon,” Trev said. “Once you have done that, I will be content to bear whatever you have in store for me.”

“Have no fear, she’ll get her pardon,” Sir Benjamin replied. “And as far as what I have in store for you, you may be sure I will let Mr. Fanshawe know how deftly you handled the situation.”

He wished Sir Benjamin wouldn’t toy with him like this. There was no need for such heavy irony. He knew what he’d done, and he knew what price he would be made to pay for it. When the king took his vengeance on the department, Fanshawe would learn who had betrayed their secrets to him. Even if Sir Benjamin didn’t punish him for his effrontery in pretending the king had sent the jewel to the Nawab, the department would ensure he paid the ultimate price for his betrayal. But Temperance would go free. She could depart at last, for America, as she had always longed to do, and live out her life there safe from the conniving of these men to whom he’d so mistakenly given his loyalty.

“I had no choice, sir, but to do what I did,” he said stiffly, even though he knew no defense could mitigate his punishment. “My honor required that I save Temperance from what was an unjust accusation. It was my partiality for her that drew her into the department’s plot. She was blameless, and it wasn’t right that she should pay such a heavy price for giving me her heart.”

Still playing his infuriating game, Sir Benjamin nodded. “Quite so, Captain. And after meeting your intended, I can fully understand your dismay. I must apologize for having contributed to it. We didn’t know she was the Cotton King’s daughter, or we should not have involved her in our scheme.”

Our scheme? Surely the king’s own man couldn’t have been involved in the department’s plotting to keep the jewel from the king.

As if hearing his unasked question, Sir Benjamin added, “It is my task to serve His Majesty’s interests to the best of my ability—even at those times when he may not clearly perceive them. No military man could mistake where they lay in this particular circumstance.

“The nation could not afford a war with the Nawab of Bundilore, but the king’s obsession with the jewel put us in a thorny situation. Your solution, as unconventional as it was, was a stroke of genius. Sir Charles didn’t lie when he told us you were the most brilliant man he’d ever trained. Without your intervention, I fear the king’s obsession with the jewel might have dragged on for many more months.”

It wasn’t his genius but Temperance’s for which they must be grateful. Had he not yielded to her entreaties, his interview with the king would have ended badly. Had he followed his own plan and confessed that the department he served had robbed the king of his jewel, his monarch would have viewed him as a traitor, not a savior. Not to mention how much he owed to Temperance’s ability to reduce any red-blooded male to a helpless slave once she set her mind to it.

“I am glad, sir, to have been able to be of use,” Trev said, trying to keep the irony out of his voice.

“I will commend you to both Mr. Fanshawe and Sir Charles for finding so clever a way to resolve the situation. It caused no one to lose face. You can expect to receive a promotion upon your return to India.”

“I thank you, sir,” he said quietly, as Sir Benjamin seated himself at his desk and began to fill out an elaborately printed document. “But if it is not too much to ask, can I beg you satisfy me on one last particular?”

Sir Benjamin looked up with an expression that flirted with annoyance.

Trev took a deep breath. “Did Major Stanley play a role in your scheme?”

“Why? Do you wish me to reward him, too?” The private secretary’s tone suggested he wished to answer no more questions.

Well, Trev must be grateful that Sir Benjamin had revealed to him as much as he had. That in itself had been a miracle considering the secrecy that surrounded all the department’s operations. But then Sir Benjamin added, “Major Stanley is far too devoted to you for us to have risked involving him in our scheme. He thinks the world of you. We couldn’t trust him not to tip you off if he knew of the role we’d chosen for you to play.”

Trev could not prevent a smile from rising to his lips even if it might further annoy Sir Benjamin. Everything that mattered to him had been preserved, including his most valued friendship.

Sir Benjamin handed him the document. “Here is Miss Smith’s pardon, and here—” He drew out another paper from a drawer in his desk and scribbled on it for a moment before handing it, too, to Trev, “—is a wedding gift from His Majesty, given in appreciation for your service to King and Country.”

Trev glanced at it and his mouth dropped open with surprise. It was a bank draft for a truly eye-popping sum. “I must ask you to thank His Majesty on my behalf for this very generous gift.”

“You earned it,” Sir Benjamin said.

“Yes,” Trev agreed with only a hint of a smile. “I suppose we did.”

Chapter 23

Temperance could barely restrain herself from barging into the office where the king’s private secretary had taken Trev. She had no illusions what must be taking place behind that closed door. The king was a fool, but his private secretary had not been taken in by the way she’d manipulated his master, and now, without doubt, Trev was learning what price he must pay for trying to bamboozle their sovereign. He’d trusted his life to her and allowed her to dictate how they’d make their final desperate bid.

But it had been desperate, and though it might have saved her—it couldn’t save Trev. As much as she might want to burst in and try some new scheme to keep him from making a final, fatal sacrifice, she knew she must not. She had done what she could. They had pitted the strength of what they were together against the forces of the tyrant king. Now she could only honor whatever further sacrifice Trev might make for her by accepting whatever he got for it in return.

She must take the freedom for which he’d given up so much and use it to go to America. Once there, she must rededicate her life to the fight for liberty. It was the least she could do to honor the sacrifice he had made for her.

But she did not look forward to it. Life without him would be filled with dust and ashes. She would have preferred to have joined him in paying that ultimate price, but she couldn’t do that. She must give him this one last pleasure, of knowing he had given his life for hers.

At last, the door cracked open, and he emerged from Sir Benjamin’s office. She arranged her features to give no hint of the anxiety she felt and rose to meet him. His expression was impassive, too. Whatever his fate might be, he would give her no hint of it here, where others might see. He took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and led her silently after the flunky who guided them out of the maze of hallways that comprised Carlton House until he deposited them, at last, on the street.

“How bad is it?” she asked, when they stood on the broad avenue of Pall Mall, alone at last.

“You are safe,” he said. “Both from His Majesty’s forces and from those I served.”

“And you. Are you safe?”

The moment stretched out intolerably long as she prepared herself to hear his answer. Then she saw the huge smile that swept over his features and the joy that filled his eyes.

“I am safe,” he said. “As safe as you are. Sir Benjamin was aware of Fanshawe’s plotting all along. He, too, wished to send the jewel back to India to prevent the war, so he was grateful that we found a way to get the king to give up his inconvenient obsession with the jewel.”

“Then the nightmare is finally over, and we are both free?”

He nodded.

“Then nothing stands in the way of our going to India together.”

That wiped the smile off his face. He let out a long slow breath and made no answer to her question.

A cold gust of wind made the leaves scuttle along the pavement. She shivered. His deep-set eyes held that shuttered look again, and in a flash she knew what he would tell her next. He knew as well as she did that the dream they had shared together so briefly must remain only that, a dream. Much as she loved him, she could not go with him to India—not after having come face-to-face with the king he served. Not after learning the true character of the men who were his superiors.

In a level voice, he said, “Sir Benjamin will recommend me to Sir Charles for my service to the nation. He gave me a generous gift—a wedding present for the two of us—from the king.”

He would have to give it back. There would be no wedding. She couldn’t go back to India as the bride of a man who was pledged to serve such men. The week they’d spent together so joyfully had made her think she could give up her dream of dedicating her life to liberty. But she’d been wrong. She couldn’t waste her life serving the venal king they’d just tricked. It would require the sacrifice of everything she really was.

Trev must know that, too. How could he not?

He drew in a deep breath, and said, “When I proposed to you, I asked you to come with me when I rejoined my regiment. But now I know I can’t take you with me to India.”

The words knocked the breath out of her even though he had put into words the same truth that had been so clear to her only a moment before. But she had been fooling herself even then. Only now was she forced to admit to herself how desperately she had hoped he would talk her out of her newfound resolve.

But he had not. He would return to India alone and, with him gone, she would be as bereft as she would have been had Sir Benjamin ordered him hanged. She closed her eyes, willing herself to find the strength to survive it.

She must not blame him. He was doing what he had to do. She could not ask him to give up the life he had chosen. He, too, must be true to what he was, and he had already given her so much. He’d been willing to sacrifice his life for her. She could not be selfish now.

“You are right.” She forced the words out. “As much as I love you, it wouldn’t have worked. I couldn’t have made myself into what the wife of an officer must be. It will be so hard to say farewell, but we have no choice. I wish you success in the future. You deserve it.”

The moment had come that she had promised him, when they would say their farewells and cry the tears they must cry. She hoped she had the strength to give him what he would need, so he could survive their parting and move on.

“No,” he protested. “You don’t understand me.” His indigo eyes glowed beneath the slashes of his brows. “I can’t take you to India because I won’t be returning there myself. I can no longer serve this king of ours. I can’t obey men who are willing to sacrifice the lives of innocent women so casually. They have abused my loyalty long enough. I will resign my commission.”

“And after that, what will you do?”

He reached for her hand. “If you will have me, Tem, I should like to go with you to America. We could both start new lives there. Perhaps we could use what it is that we become when we join together to serve a cause more worthy of our loyalty.” He took a step closer to her. “Would you go to the New World with me and live out your life as plain Mrs. Trevelyan?”

She threw herself into his arms. “Oh yes! Nothing would please me more.” She hugged him more tightly, crying, “I’m so happy, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I know exactly what to do with you, if you will allow me,” he said with a grin. His azure pupils sparkled within their circle of coppery fire as he brought his lips down on hers.

Warmth flowed through her entire body as her heart opened to him. She was filled to bursting with the love that had taken the two of them so far. They stood locked together, their souls joined as one.

After eons had passed, he released her. There remained only one small shadow to cloud their happiness.

“If only I hadn’t thrown away the ring you gave me,” she said, sadly. “I will always reproach myself that I didn’t trust you when it mattered most. I suppose I must accept that its loss is the price that I must pay for that failure.”

He reached into his pocket and fumbled about for a moment before drawing forth a small packet, which he handed to her. She unwrapped it, finding within a ring that looked so much like the one she’d thrown away, she thought for a moment he must have bought her a new one that was the twin of the first. But closer observation revealed the faint scratches and small dent that marred its surface. It was the very ring he’d given her—the one with which they had plighted their troth.

She fought back tears. “You kept it. Despite what I’d done to it—and what you thought I’d done to you.”

“I couldn’t give it up. Just as I couldn’t give you up. Here, give it to me.”

She did, and then held out her left hand so he could slip it on her fourth finger. Healing warmth flooded through her.

She brought the ring closer to her face to inspect it. “It’s sadly scratched,” she said. “How vehement I was.”

“You had ample provocation. But if you like, I will buy you a new ring that won’t bring back such unhappy memories.”

“No. I’d rather keep this one. Its scratches will remind me of the high cost of giving in to suspicion and distrust.”

“Her Ladyship would undoubtedly tell us that distrust is the price we pay for our Scorpionic natures.”

She grinned. “She would, and she would be right. We must not fool ourselves that we will always find it easy to trust each other, even after all we’ve gone through. So though I will treasure your ring as a symbol of our love, I will also wear it to remind me of the trust I must always give you if we are to keep that love alive.”

“We owe so much to Lady Hartwood and her astrological insights,” he said. “And I suspect we will owe her more. For my mother recently informed me of her delight that Her Ladyship had told her she’d found the perfect wife for me. I must assume she meant you. My mother is a great believer in the stars, so that will smooth the path toward our getting her blessing on our union.”

“And my father, did he give you permission to wed me, too?”

“He did, though he vowed in his letter he wouldn’t let you shame him any further by having me marry you in your shift. So you’ll take your inheritance, missy, and there’s an end to it. He’s a hard man, your father, but perhaps when we visit him together, he can be brought to appreciate the real treasure he let slip through his hands.”

She embraced him again. Perhaps, with Trev’s help, she could finally heal that wound, too. When she came up for air, she said, “The least we can do is to ask Her Ladyship to help us set the date for our nuptials. I’m sure her ancestor, Lilly, will have something to say about the matter.”

“Much of it confusing.” He smiled. “But your words remind me of the one thing that puzzled me when we faced the king. How did you know that the topaz’s astrological power would strengthen Queen Caroline? Lady Hartwood had said nothing about that. Did she tell it to you in private?”

“Oh no. I made that up. It didn’t take knowledge of the king’s chart to know that his hatred of the queen was the key to getting power over him. As you say, even love cannot completely free me of my Scorpionic tendencies though I shall take care not to employ them on you.”

“Some of those tendencies I should want you to employ,” he said with a grin. “The famous Scorpio lust, for example. You may indulge in it all you wish. And that thing you do when you flutter your lashes that is so ruthlessly enchanting—I shouldn’t wish you to give that up, either. Though in the future, I humbly implore that you use it only on me.”

A Word to the Reader

While I made up the Jewel of Vadha, many of the elements in this story are based on historical fact. Sir Charles Metcalfe did serve as the head of the Political and Secret Department in India and was instrumental in crafting a policy by which the British were able to annex many small Indian principalities and win the allegiance of many more by using subtle diplomacy rather than making war. The massacre of the sepoys’ women in a battle in the Third Maratha War is also, sadly, a matter of historical record, though Trev’s regiment did not play the part in that slaughter that I assigned them in this story.

The portraits of Henry VIII by Holbein show him to have worn many jewels that do, indeed, appear to be dark oriental topazes, a different jewel than the Brazilian topaz most of us are more familiar with. And the oriental topaz would, indeed, have been the jewel contemporary astrologers would have advised Henry to wear because of his Virgo Ascendant.

Though I did not know this when I first plotted this story, George IV broke with tradition at his coronation in July of 1820 and replaced the traditional ruby coronation ring used by his predecessors with a new ring of his own design. That ring featured a sapphire, which is, indeed, the jewel an astrologer would have prescribed for him based on his Aquarius Ascendant.

Whether that sapphire helped him achieve his ends, the reader must decide. The facts are these: Not only did George IV succeed in keeping his hated queen, Caroline, from being crowned with him in July of 1820, but immediately after she was barred from attending the coronation, Caroline keeled over with intense stomach pains. She died shortly afterward. Many people at the time believed she had been poisoned. It is also a matter of historical fact that the erstwhile Prince Regent maintained a collection of the hair of hundreds of beautiful women.

For readers who wish to cast their own charts for my characters, Temperance was born on October 26, 1802, at 2:00 P.M. local mean time in Bath, England, where her mother had gone to take the waters. Trev was born at sea while his mother journeyed back to England, where she hoped to give birth to him. Though Lady Hartwood couldn’t have known the exact coordinates of his birth, we can. Trev was born on November 2, 1795, at 5:10 P.M. GMT. The location of his birth was 19˚N33’ 28˚W56’, which gives him an Ascendant of 00 Aries—the so-called Aries point often found on the charts of people who have an impact on world history.

As you will see if you cast these charts, both Trev and Temperance not only were born with their Suns in Scorpio but with those Suns and other planets in the Eighth House, a position that would increase their tendency to keep secrets and manipulate others, though it would also make their sexual natures highly compatible, as of course they were.

The chart Lady Hartwood used to solve the mystery surrounding the jewel is a real one, too. It was cast for December 4, 1820, at 10:37 A.M. The delineation Lady Hartwood gave comes straight out of Chapter 50 of William Lilly’s classic, Christian Astrology, first published in 1647 and still in print today.

Contemporary astrologers now believe the sign Scorpio to be ruled by the new planet, Pluto, rather than by “night Mars” which was the traditional ruler assigned by ancient astrologers. Since Lady Hartwood would have had no knowledge of Pluto, I have naturally had her use Mars as the ruler of Scorpio. This wouldn’t make her readings any the less accurate. Many modern astrologers have returned to the use of the traditional rulerships for Scorpio, Aquarius, and Pisces because they continue to produce valid results. Others use them along with the modern rulerships.

For those who want to improve their understanding of the sign Scorpio and the challenges it poses to those born with planets placed in it, I recommend Donna Cunningham’s excellent book, Healing Pluto Problems. Despite its title, this book is as much about the sign Scorpio as it is about the influence of the astrological planet Pluto.

About the Author

JENNY BROWN earned a graduate degree in 19th-century history. Her very first professional sale as a writer was a biographical piece about Louisa May Alcott’s childhood. Years later, her favorite hobby continues to be reading biographies of people who lived in the 18th and 19th centuries. She has earned her living in many different ways: performing as a singer-songwriter in Western Massachusetts and Nashville, writing nonfiction, and, for the past fifteen years, running a successful small press.

Jenny has been a student of astrology since her teens. This ancient art helps her make sense of her life and accept that the way she is, with all her oddities, is the way she’s supposed to be. Though she has always loved reading love stories set in the past, what got her writing them was finding, at last, the Hero of Her Own Romance.

To learn more, visit Jenny’s web site and blog at www.jennybrown.net.

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By Jenny Brown

Star Crossed Seduction

Lord Lightning

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

K.I.S.S. and Teal is a trademark of the Ovarian Cancer National Alliance.

STAR CROSSED SEDUCTION. Copyright © 2011 by Janet Ruhl. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062092625

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