‘Remember,’ he called out softly, ‘watch out for Maybury.’
She made no acknowledgement. But halfway down, where the staircase turned so he could see her no more, she leaned her back against the wall. Oh—fiddlesticks. The man called Lord Stephen Maybury posed no threat whatsoever as far as she was concerned. But dear God, the Captain was another matter altogether.
She felt dazed. She’d been out of her mind, to let him caress her like that. She had been pressed so close to his body that the potent force of his manhood had been all too evident in the heat of their embrace—and he had been the one to move away first!
She felt shattered. She felt bereft.
And his kiss had been the most magical moment of her life.
She hurried on down the stairs, ashamed because her legs were shaking. If those brutes caught her … But he was right. None of Dr Barnard’s men were to be seen in the back room she emerged into.
The dressing room first. No time to get changed, so she thrust the clothes she’d arrived in into a bag, rammed on her cloak and bonnet, and stole into Dr Barnard’s silent office. Back to business, you fool. Reaching up, she heaved down that heavy tome—The Myths of Apollodorus—then laid it on the desk and opened it.
As Helen had said, the pages had been carved away to form a cavity. Inside was a book bound in green morocco, where the names of Dr Barnard’s many customers were listed by the dates of their visits, together with their addresses.
But the name her dying sister had whispered was not here. She flicked to and fro, her agitation increasing. She checked all through the spring and early summer of 1813, but there was no sign of it at all. All this effort, all this risk, and she was no nearer in her search. For a few moments the disappointment crushed her.
But towards the back of the book, she found a list of the girls who’d been employed here. June 1813. Linette Lavalle. She caught her breath. That was the name Linette had used at Marchmont’s theatre. Their mother’s maiden name. She read on hurriedly. From the country … The girl has fancy ideas above her station. Refused to do anything except the stage show—then one day just didn’t turn up. Found herself a rich protector, I suspect …
Her throat aching with sadness, Rosalie carefully replaced the book in its hiding place, then stole from the house, using the door the Captain had told her was unguarded. Outside it was starting to rain, heavily. Rosalie hailed a hackney cab—her one concession to Helen’s concern for her safety—and the driver gave her a look indicating what he thought of young women out on their own at this time of night. She tossed her head defiantly as she gave him directions.
But all the way back to Clerkenwell the usual questions tormented her. When had Linette realised that she was pregnant? Was that when her—protector discarded her? Had her poor sister lived for a while in the agonised hope that her seducer might marry her?
Oh, Linette.
Alec Stewart rode back to Two Crows Castle as the rain poured down on London’s dark streets. Those damned footmen would have been paid to attack him by his brother, as Stephen’s cowardly revenge for Alec’s ultimatum tonight.
As revenge on Alec for existing.
When Stephen went away to boarding school, distance had temporarily eased their relationship. But Alec’s arrival at the same school two years later had sparked off the old jealousy, especially since Alec, as ever, had excelled at sports and had a light-hearted manner that made him friends far more easily than Stephen did.
A crisis came when Stephen, aged fifteen, had set up a secret gambling clique and, when discovery threatened, had slipped the evidence—cards, dice and money—under Alec’s dormitory bed.
Alec had silently taken the blame and the beating for it. But since then Alec had not troubled to show his contempt for Stephen on the rare occasions on which they met. A year ago Alec had been utterly disowned by their father—told he was no longer part of the family, in effect—and Alec had thought Stephen would be satisfied. No danger now of Alec supplanting Stephen in the Earl’s affections.
Yet still his brother diced with fate.
Why had Stephen come here, to idle away his time in a place like the Temple of Beauty, picking up girls like blonde Athena?
Alec felt his insides clenching again. That girl. The girl who knew about French watercolours, with her exquisite face and her clouds of silver-gold hair and that meltingly slender body … He remembered how, as he drew her close, her warm breath had feathered his cheek and the delicate scent of lavender had risen sweetly from her skin. Remembered how her fingers had almost shyly stolen up to his shoulders, how her lips had parted for his kiss.
But then had come the moment of pure shock. For as he took the kiss deeper, as he prised her lips further apart, she’d registered almost utter innocence. Her exquisite, thick-lashed blue eyes had flown wide open in surprise as he tasted the soft flesh of her mouth and, when he’d cupped her tender breast and felt it peak, he would swear she’d shuddered in his arms and clung to him as if she’d never experienced a man’s caress before.
He’d only pursued her because he wanted to know what Stephen’s business was with her. That kiss had been part of his strategy to wrongfoot her. Yet he, Alec, had been the one to leave that place with all his convictions shaken.
Be sensible, you fool. The rouge was still fresh on her face. Innocent? Impossible. Yet his body still raged for her.
His mouth set in a hard line. Just a clever act on her part, down to the detail of denying any interest in his rich brother’s attentions. And she was in trouble with Dr Barnard—probably for arranging appointments with clients on the side and keeping all the profits for herself, a common trick.
His mind flew on in conjecture. Yes, she had an air of innocence that would draw men to her like moths to a candle flame. But she worked at the Temple of Beauty where she was attracting the likes of Stephen, damned Stephen, who, having spent years of debauchery with professionals like her, was now, whenever he could, secretly pleasuring the woman who just happened to be their father the Earl’s beautiful young wife.
Chapter Six
By the time that Rosalie let herself into Helen’s house in Clerkenwell, it was almost midnight. Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, she made a pot of tea quietly so as not to wake anyone. Then she sat down by the embers of the fire, still huddled in her cloak. Tonight had been a disaster—not least her encounter with the Captain, who’d managed to disturb her peace of mind in a manner that she guessed would cause her more than one sleepless night.
Why was he there?
Be honest with yourself, Rosalie. Why did any men go there? They went, of course, be they lords or tradesmen, to ogle the girls and pick out one for an hour of lechery upstairs. And at a place like that, her sister’s seducer would have found it easy to spot Linette, with her head full of fanciful dreams.
She drew some blank paper from a nearby table towards her and by the light of the lamp started writing, assuming the easy-going tones of her alter ego, Ro Rowland. Since childhood, she’d found that it helped to write. Her earliest stories had been fantasies, a way of escaping into a place where happy endings existed. Later she’d found that wit was an even more effective weapon against the cruelty of strangers and this was now Ro Rowland’s world—a world not one of heartbreak, but of wry, almost cynical humour.
Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed … The Captain. Damn him, damn him. She stared into the distance, her thoughts unravelling once more. A fencing master, Sal had said.
It had been a long time since Rosalie allowed herself to think of any man with anything other