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PROLOGUE

London,1866

Across the street, in thelittle park they called No-

Man’s-Land, two girls wereskipping rope. It was awonderful day to be playingoutofdoors,Catherinecouldtell.The sunwas very brighton the green grass, and thegirlslookedhappy.Whenonetripped and fell down, theother pretended to fall, too,collapsinginalaughingheapbesideherfriend.Catherine pressed her

finger on the windowpane,blocking out the spot where

the skipping rope had fallen.Mama said that at the ageofseven,sheshouldknowbetterthan to skip rope in public.Butthosegirlslookednineatleast.Evenfromthreestoriesabove, Catherine could seehowtheygiggled.Itmadeherfeelqueer.She

hadnofriendlikethat.She didn’t need one. She

got to come to her father’sauction rooms. No otherchildren were allowed at

Everleigh’s.Beingheremadeherspecial.“What are you looking at,

dear?”Catherine turned. Her

fatherwasstandingbeforeaneasel, on which sat ahandsomedrawingthatmightbe byMr.Raphael, ormightnot. He was trying to tell.“Nothing,” she said, feelingguilty.Papasmiledather.“Come

here. Tell me what you

think.”She wiped her sweaty

hands on her pinafore beforereaching into her pocket forher loupe. Papa had given itto her for her seventhbirthday. It looked just liketheloupePapaalwayscarriedin his own pocket. It hadcomewithavelvet-linedboxfor safekeeping, butCatherine carried it at allhours. It was, Papa said, the“tool of the trade,” and no

true auctioneer ever let hisloupegofarfromhim.As sheput it toher eye, it

didamagicthing,callingoutthe woolly edges of the ink,revealing the way the artisthad drawn his strokes fromtoptobottom.“Steadynow.”Papa’shand

closed around her wrist,holding her hand steady.“Now, what do you say?Raphael’s,orno?”Anxiety tightened her

throat. It was a veryimportant thing to decide.This drawing could bewortha fortune, but if it was aforgery, putting it to auctionwould bring shame upon thecompany. Nobody wouldtrust an auctioneer who soldforgeries.As she squinted into the

loupe, she answered thequestionshehadtaughthertoaskofanoldItaliandrawing.“Mr. Raphael used iron-gall

ink,”shesaid.“Itgetsdarkerwith time. This ink is verydark,whichisgood.”“Yes,” he murmured.

“Whatelse?”Shehadneverconfessedto

himthatshecheatedonthesetests.Shelistenedtohisvoiceas carefully as she looked atthedrawing,toknowwhathehaddecided.Hisopinionwasthe most important thing intheworld.Butmaybehehadguessed

athercheating,forshecouldtellnothingfromhisvoiceasheproddedher.“Goon,Cate.Speakyourthoughtsaloud,soImighthearthem.”Shefrowned.Shecoulddo

this. She was very smart forher age—smarter even thanher brother, who was threeyears her elder. So Papa hadtold her. “The old mastersdrew very quickly, withoutlifting their quills from thepage.Butsomeoftheselines

are broken, and their edgesare fuzzy. Feathered,” shecorrected quickly. That wasthegrown-upword.He made a happy noise.

She lowered the loupe andfoundhimbeamingather.“Whatdoes that tellyou?”

heasked.“It is not Mr. Raphael’s

work.”Hegrinned.“Shallwe toss

itintotherubbish,then?”Oncebefore,shehadfallen

into this trap. Sheremembered how he hadcorrectedher.Simplybecausean artist was not famous didnot mean his work wasrubbish.Sometimesitwastherole of an auctioneer to steerpublicinterest toitemsworthadmiring.She tucked her loupe back

intoherpocketandpulledouther gloves, which she drewon very quickly beforeturning the drawing upside

downon the easel.Papa saidthis view freed the eye from“the tyranny of the whole,”allowing one to spotimperfections.Even inverted, the figure

looked very fine. His handsand feet were handsomelydrawn, and the shadows ofhisrobewerecrosshatchedina carelessway that remindedherofMr.Raphael’swork.“Maybe it was one of his

students,” she said. “I think

weshouldsellit.”“What a fine eye you

have!”Paparubbedherhead.“Now tell me, dear—howwould we list this in thecatalog?”“By Mr. Raphael’s

surname only,” she said.“That suggests it belongs tohis period and style, butshowswemakenoclaimthathedrewithimself.”He picked her up by the

waist and lifted her into the

wing chair in front of hisdesk. This was where thedealersandprivateclientssatwhen meeting with him. Ashe sat across from her, hesmiled.“You’remydiamond,Cate.Doyouknowthat?”Her spirits rose like

confetti lifted by the wind.She nodded, buoyantlypleased.But his smile faded as he

continued to lookat her.Shewondered if she’d made a

mistake, after all. “Issomethingwrong,Papa?”“No, no. I’m pleased as

punch with you,” he saidsoftly. “I’m only thinking—you’ve got your mother’sface,mylove.Atruebeauty,you’llbe.”She bit her lip. Shewould

rathertakeafterPapa.“You’ll have your pick of

gentlemen to marry,” Papawent on. “But I hope youwon’t ever forget theauction

rooms.”Horrified, she sat forward.

“I would never. Papa, Iwouldn’t!”He chuckled. “Your

husband will want you athome.”“ThenIwon’tmarry!”She

saw no fun in it anyway.Even when Mama was well,shewasfullofcomplaints.“Don’t say that, Cate.”

Papa reachedacross thedeskforherhand.“Bettertosay—

we’ll find you a man ofdiscerning tastes,whoknowsbrilliancewhenheseesit,andknowstotreasureit,too.”She hesitated. “Gentlemen

don’twantaladywhoknowsmorethanthem.”“Your mother told you

that?” When she nodded, hepulledaface.“Well,thatisn’tquite true. Somemen reckonitaveryfinething,tohaveawife with a brain.” His eyesnarrowed. “And you’ve got

one, Cate. A very cleverbrain,andIwon’tlet itgotowaste. What do you say tothis? One day, my love, thisplacewillbeyours.”Her breath caught. Hers?

The thought dazzled her.Nowhere was more magicalthan Everleigh’s, with itscorners and shadows filledwith treasures, and importantpeople in jewels and silksparading through the halls atallhours.

But . . . “Mama said thatPetermusthaveit.”Herolderbrotherwasat schoolnow inHampshire. Mama said hewaslearningimportantthingsthere. But he could not belearning so much. Catherinecould look at a painting andtell whether it was real orfake.Petercouldnotdo that.He was as thickheaded as awallwhenitcametoart.“Yes,” Papa said. “Peter

will share Everleigh’s with

you. Ladies, I’m afraid,cannot be auctioneers. Butyou,mylove,willbethesoulof this place. Peter willmanage the sales—but youwill manage the art. Neverforget,weEverleighs are notmerely tradesmen.Art is ourcalling, and a true auctioneermustunderstanditbetterthaneven the artist himself. Youwill help Peter to do that,won’tyou?”She did not want to help

Peter do anything. When hecame home on holidays, hepinchedheruntilshebruised.Butitseemedasmallpricetopay, to be given the auctionroomsasherown.“Theartistcreates,”shereciteddutifully.“Wegivehisworkvalue.”“Precisely.” He lifted her

handandkissedherknuckles,as though she were a propergrown-up. “My beauty,” hesaid softly. “You make meproud. Do you know that?”

The grandfather clockchimed,causingPapatodropher hand and cast a startledglance toward the time. “Ah,we’ve missed dinner again.Your mother won’t bepleased.”Catherine struggled out of

the chair. Mama hated whentheydidnotarrivefordinner.Sometimes, as a punishment,she kept Catherine home thenext day. “I want to cometomorrow, too,” she said.

“Please,will you bringme?”It was so boring at home.Mama was well, right now,which meant she spent theafternoons visiting friends,who talked of nothing butdresses and troublesomeservants.Papahadrisentoputonhis

coat. “Of course,” he saidoverhisshoulder.“Ifyouareto inherit this place, there’sno time to waste. You mustcome daily, and learn

everythingthereistoknow.”Perfect happiness felt like

theheatfromafireonacoldwinter’s night. “I will learneverything,” she promised.Shewouldmakehimprouderthanheimagined.

***Saturdayswerethebestdays.Provided you found a room,the single night’s rent wouldpurchase you two days ofrest, for no landlord came

calling on Sundays. What aglorious thing itwas tosettleunderarooffortheweekend!Ma had laid down someblanketsforhisbed,andNickhad slept Saturday through,andmost of Sunday besides.Whenhe’dwokenatlast,thevespershadbeentollingfromChrist Church, and a feasthadbeenwaitingonthefloorbesidehisbed.His fever had finally

broken.He’dknownitbythe

hunger he felt. Hardest thinghe’d ever done, to sit there,stomach growling, foranother two hours till Maappearedagain.Shegavehimsassforhavingwaited,buthewould not eat a bite till sheagreedtotakehalfforherself.That feast would keep his

stomach busy for days.Cheese, an entire crusty loafof bread, and two kinds ofmeat, sheep’s head and porktogether—the Lord’s last

supper hadn’t been so grand.Nick relished every bite,trying not to think on whatMa had sold to get it. Thisweekhadpinched.Usuallyhefoundwork at the docks, butthegangerhadseenthefeverin his face on Thursday, andturned him away two daysrunning. That cost sevenshillings, with most of therestgoingtotheweek’srent.What pennies remainedwould not have paid for a

quarterofthisham.It seemed Ma tasted what

she’d done for it. The meatturnedhersour.Shestartedinon him again. Lately she’dtakenit intoherheadtosendhim to his older sister inWhitechapel. Seemed shecould talk of nothing else.Oona would take him in;she’dagreedtoitalready,Masaid.But Whitechapel might as

well be the moon, as far as

Nickcared.He’dgrownupinSpitalfields. His father haddied here, killed in a streetbrawl just outside Lyell’spublic house.He had friendsin these streets; everyoneknew his face. DidMawanthiminpieces?FortheboysinWhitechapel didn’t care fornobody but their own, norshould they. It would makeno difference to them thatOona’s husband was boss ofthose parts. To be related

throughasisterwasbarelytobe related at all. Ma knewthataswellasNickdid.It frightened him a little

that she had startedpretending otherwise. Itseemed a measure ofdesperation,as though thingshad gotten worse, though inhis view, nothing hadchanged. Now the fever wasgone, he’d find work again,easy.Hewas strong, and tallfor his nearly eleven years.

With food in his stomach,he’d be sure to impress theganger.Maybe one day soonhe’dmove into the“Royals,”that rank of men who werealways called first to workwhen a ship docked forunloading.He went to sleep on

Sunday with these hopes inmind. Yet when he woke onMonday,hedidsowithapitin his stomach. Mondaysweretheworstdaysofall.On

Mondays, the landlordresumed his circuit. Nickcouldalreadyhearhimontheother side of the curtain,havingitoutwithMa.“Just an hour more,” she

wassayingtoMr.Bell.“He’sbeensick,yousee.”Nick hated that wheedling

note in her voice. She neveruseditwithanybodyelse.Onthestreet, in roughcompany,shesoundedtoughasaboxer.But with Mr. Bell, she said,

there was no choice but tosnivel. That was what hewanted, even more than therent,andaslongasheownedmost of Spitalfields, snivelshe would. Know when tobox, and when to bow, sheliked to tell Nick.And don’tfeel no shame for either. It’sthe way of the world, if youmeantosurvive.Easy for her to say.

Womencouldgrovelwithoutanylossofface.

Usually Mr. Bell waseasily won over. Nick didn’tlike to think why. But todayhe sounded hard, pissy as awench whose lad had goneroving. “I knowwhat you’reabout,” he said. “Who’s sickhere? You, or the boy? Forit’s clear as day you’rebreeding.”Behind the curtain, Nick

caughthisbreath,andwaitedforhismothertodenyit.Butallshesaidwas,“Well,

and if I am, you’ve cause toknowwhy.”Shock exploded through

him. So this was why she’dchangedher tune, andgrownso eager to ditch Nick inWhitechapel! Why, whatwould she dowith a baby tolook after? How could theyafford it? And by God, whowas the pervert father? Mawas already a grandmothertwiceover!You’vecausetoknowwhy.

No.Itcouldn’tbe!Red rage drove him to rip

aside the curtain. Bellskitteredbackwardasachunkof ceiling came down. “I’llkillyou,”Nickchoked.“No!” His mother caught

himaroundthewaist,haulinghim back. She was strongerthanshelooked,andhedidn’tfight, for he didn’t want tohurther.Buthowcould shenot see

it? Bell was the cause of all

their problems. “Filthybastard. Somebody needs toteach him to keep his handstohisself!”The landlord flushed

purple, like a plum thatwanted popping. A knifewould do it, but with hismother holding him, Nickcouldn’t pull his bladewithoutslicingher,too.“Listen, you guttersnipe,”

Bell said. “If I’ve beenpatientuntilnow,it’sforyour

mother’s sake. But anotherword fromyou,and I’llhaveevery building in this parishclosed to your likes. You’llsleepbeneathabridgebeforeyou’rethrough.”“Please,” his mother said.

“Hedidn’tmeanit!”“I did!” Nick wrenched

free of her, lunging to blockthe landlord’s scurry for thedoor.Theratchangedcourse,circling,andhisbootplungedthrough a rotten floorboard.

For a moment, armswheeling, he looked for hisbalance—thenlostit,andfelltohisarse.Therewasjustice,allright.

Caredmore for his rent thanthe building that supplied it,and now the building hadmade its opinion known.Though he didn’t feelamused, Nick pushed out alaugh. They hated when youmocked them. All these fatpigs disliked nothing worse

than getting what they werereally owed: disrespect andmockery, and spit in theirfaces.Sure enough, Bell’s face

got darker yet as heclambered to his feet. “It’stime someone taught you alesson.” He pulled a daggerfrom his coat, wickedlycurved.“No!”Masteppedbetween

them. “Nicky, no! Put itaway!”Forhehimselfwasno

lessready,hisknifebalancedinhand.“Mr.Bell,Ibegyou—formysake—forourchild—”Nickwould have flinched,

had Bell not been watchingwithasneer,readyforshowsofweakness.“I’llbelieveit’smine when angels pay avisit,” Bell said, neverlooking toward Ma. “Godknows you’ve spread yourlegsforlegions.”“But—you said!” Ma

forgot about Nick, steppedstraight toward Bell. “Youpromisedyou’dtakemein!”Nick could not be hearing

right. “Ma! Are you loony?”Bell was married. He had awifeandchildrenofhisown.Shewastoobusybabbling

to regard him. “He’ll begyour forgiveness, I swear it.Bow,Nicky.Bow!”Andnowshe caught hold of him,pushinghimbytheshoulders,andhecouldnotresistherfor

fearofcuttingher.Butashebraced himself, remainingupright,Bellbegantolaugh.“What use have I for the

bowsofabeggarboy?Makehim kiss my boots, and thenperhapsI’llthinkonmyofferagain.”Offer. What offer? Hands

closed on Nick’s face, Mafighting tomake him look ather. But he twisted free,repelled. “You would go tohim?” he demanded. “Is that

why you’re on aboutWhitechapel? You mean tocastmeoff?”“Nicky,listen,please!”Her

facewasawashintears—she,who had never cried even asthey laid Da into the earth.“I’m a burden to you now.You’reabig,stronglad.Youcanmakeyourownway,butnot with me on your back.Mr. Bell has offered me aplace—”“Had offered,” Bell said

coldly. “But I won’t toleratethisboycominground.”Ma caught hold of his

wrist, gripping him hard. “Ifnot for your own sake,” shesaidurgently,“forthechild’s.Nicky, think. Be wise, besmart.”“‘Smart,’ now, there’s a

word that’ll never apply tothisone,”Bellsaid,thewordscoming dimly through theroarinNick’shead.BellcontrolledSpitalfields.

Wasn’t a hope of survivinghere as his enemy. And theunborn child—why, it wasNick’s charge to protect it.Ma would be helpless onceshe neared her time. Andafterward, before the babecouldbeweaned...He could do it. He could

earn enough. He’d find away, somehow. He’d takecareofherandthechild,too.Bell’s child. He recoiled

fromhismother.“Notforhis

spawn.”He’dnotbow,muchless grovel, for anything thatcameofBell’stouch.“Then for me,” she

whispered.Bell had paid for Da’s

casket. Nick rememberednow with a shudder. Christ!How long had they beencoupling?“Five seconds,” Bell said

flatly. “And then my mercyexpires—alongwithmyoffertoyou,Bridget.”

“Bow, Nicky.” Her greatpleading eyes filled hisvision. “I love you dearerthan my own heart. And ifyoulovemethesame,you’llbow to him. Just this once,and never again. For me,dearest. For me, you willbow.”

CHAPTERONE

London,August1886

His name is WilliamPilcher,” said Catherine’s

brother. “And it’s nowonderif he stares.Hehasproposedtomarryyou.”Catherine choked on her

champagne. From hervantage point across thecrowded room, WilliamPilcher made a very poorpicture.Itwasnothislookstowhichsheobjected;hehadablandly handsome face,square and straight-boned,andafullheadofbrownhair.But he hunched in his seat

with the gangly laxity of ascarecrowleakingitsstuffing.That posturewas probably

intended to convey afashionable insouciance. Butitlookeddistinctlyfoolishona man in his forties. Indeed,Mr. Pilcher’s confidenceannoyed her. At thebeginning of the musicale,she had noticed how fixedlyhegazedather.Thatwasnotunusual; men often stared.But by the third aria,

Pilcher’s look had grownlecherous.Realizingnowthathehadfinallycaughthereye,heofferedherathin,twistingsmile.Hewas congratulatinghimself, no doubt, onencouraging a spinster’sdreams.Catherine snorted and

turnedtoherbrother.At last,she understood his moodtonight—thehighcoloronhisface, the poorly restrainedexcitement. “Peter.” She

spokeinanundertone,as thesopranolaunchedintoVerdi’s“OPatriaMia.”“Forthefinaltime.Youwillnotchoosemyhusband.”It was a matter of private

regret that she resembled herbrother so closely. The crosslook that came into his face,andthetemperthatnarrowedhis lavender eyes, mirroredher own—as did the fall ofblond hair he brusquelyhooked behind his ear. “You

make no effort to find one,”hesaid.“AndMr.Pilcherisafine choice. Assistantchairman in the St. Luke’svestry, with no smallprospects. Besides, he hasagreedtoyourterms.”Astonished,sheopenedher

mouth—then thought betterofitasthesopranodescendedinto a low, soft note thatprovided no cover forarguments. Instead, sheclutched her program very

tightlyandglaredatthesmalltype:“AnEveningofMusicalDelightsfromItaly.”Forweeksnow,ever since

Catherine had broken herengagement to Lord Palmer,Peter had been harassing herto find a new suitor. Heclaimed to think of herhappiness. She was nearlytwenty-seven,hepointedout.Ifshedidnotmarrythisyear,she would remain a spinster.BythetermsofFather’swill,

you cannot assume equalgovernance in the companyuntil you are wed. Isn’t thatyourwish?But her happiness did not

trulyconcernhim—muchlessthe power she might gain,onceshemarriedandbecamehisfullpartneratEverleigh’s.Whathewantedwastomarryher to somemanwhowouldforbid her to work at all.Then, Peter would have freereintoloottheplace.Hewas

already embezzling from thecompanytofundhispoliticalambitions. He imagined shedidn’t notice, that herattention was swallowedwholesale by her duties. Buthewaswrong.And now he’d solicited a

stranger to accepther terms?He could only mean themarriage contract she haddrawn up with Lord Palmer.Butthathadbeentheproductof a different moment:

Palmerhadneededheraidindrawingoutavillain,andshe,havingjustdiscoveredPeter’sembezzlement, had feltdesperate for a powerful allywho might force her brotherintoline.In the end, fate had saved

her from the rash plan tomarry. Palmer had fallen inlovewithherassistant,Lilah.Their elopement had leftCatherine feelingnothingbutrelief. She did not want a

loveless marriage—or anymarriage at all. Itwas not inher nature to be a wife: tosubordinate her own desiresandneeds to aman’s, and toknit patiently by the fire inexpectationofhisreturnfromthe office. She had her ownoffice, her own work, and agentlemanwouldneverallowthat. Better to muddle onindependently, then, and findsome other way to stemPeter’sthieving.

But how? Unless shemarried,shehadnoauthoritytochallengehim.The aria soared to a

crescendo. Peter took theopportunity to speak into herear.“Onlysay theword.Thecontract issigned,thelicenseeasilyacquired.”She snorted. “Lovely. I

wish him luck in finding abride.”“Catherine—”Thesharpnessofhisvoice

drewseverallooksfromthosenearby. Pasting a smile ontoher lips, she roseandwalkedoutofthesalon.In the hallway, Peter

caught up to her, his handclosing on her arm. Shepulled away and faced him,still careful to smile,mindfulof the guests chatting in anadjoining drawing room.“This isn’t the place todiscussthis.”He raked his fingers

through his blond hair, thenwincedandsmootheditdownagain. Always the peacock,ever mindful of hisappearance. “At least meethim.”“No.” She should have

known something was awrywhen he pleaded so sweetlyfor her to accompany himtonight.Likehusbands,politesociety had little use forwomenwhoworked.Norwasthiscrowdknowntoherfrom

the auction house, for itrepresentedthesecondtierofpolitical and social lights inLondon—those who aspiredto bid at Everleigh’s butlacked the funds to merit aninvitation.Thetrulyrichweresummering abroad, or hadgone to their country homesforhuntingseason.Peter, on the other hand,

hadeveryreason toassociatewith this lot. He nurseddreams of a political career.

He had managed to gain aseat on the Municipal Boardof Works, but such powermeant nothing outsideLondon. Among theseminorMPsandpolitical cronies,hehoped to lay thegroundworkforhisfuture.The family business had

never held his interest. Hewaslootingitinserviceofhistrue ambitions. But for her,Everleigh’s was everything.Their father’s legacy. Her

sacred birthright. Everleigh’smade her who she was—which was not merely aspinster,the“IceQueen”thatrude wits had dubbed her.Shewasapersonofbusiness.Anexpert in the fieldof finearts. A learned professional,regardlessofhersex.Andshewasdone looking

for common groundwith herbrother. “I am leaving,” shetold him. “Fetch my coat,please.”

“Youwillmeethim.”She started toward the

cloakroom. He caught herwrist, his grip bruising now.“Listencarefully,Catherine.Ihave practiced patience withyou.Butyouhavemistakenitfor indulgence. I have givenmy word toMr. Pilcher thatyouwill—”“It will not help your

prospects to be seen abusingme.”Peter’shandfellaway.Far

better to quarrel with him inpublic than inprivate, in thisregard.“You have given your

word,” she said in a fierceundertone.“Notme.Whenheasks where I have gone,simply explain to him thearrogance of yourpresumption—if indeed youcan explain it. For it isperfectlyincredible.”Petertookabreaththrough

clenched teeth.“Ifyouwon’t

think of yourself, then thinkof Everleigh’s. Don’t youwish for children to carryforward the company? Whatis the future of the auctionrooms,ifnot—”“Stop it.”Angermade her

hands fist. If Peter had hisway, there would be noauctionhouseforherfictionalchildren to inherit. He wastryingtotapintotheprincipalnow. Did he truly think Mr.Wattier, their chief

accountant, would not haveinformedherofthatattempt?Butshecouldnotconfront

himbeforeshehaddevisedaway to check him. She hadswornMr.Wattiertosecrecy,for surprise was the onlyadvantageshepossessedrightnow. “Think of your ownchildren. Find yourself aspouse.Butyouwillleavemebe.”“I think of your welfare,”

he said flatly. “If you do not

wish to find yourselfhomeless and penniless oneday,youmustmarry.”Now he was speaking

nonsense. “I am far frompenniless. I will remind youthat half of Everleigh’sbelongstome.”Hissmilemadeheruneasy,

foritsmackedofsomesecretsatisfaction.“Butyouarenota partner in its directorship,”he said. “Not until you aremarried.”

That fact never failed toburnher.NodoubtPapahadanticipated that she wouldmarry long before the age oftwenty-six. But he shouldhave foreseen that Peterwould abuse the authoritygrantedtohimintheinterim.What she needed,

Catherine thought bitterly,was a puppet husband—somebody she could control,or somebody so indifferentthathepermittedhertodoas

she pleased. But Mr. Pilcherwould not suit. He wasPeter’s creature. What sheneededwasacreatureallherown. “Regardless,” she said.“Yourthreatsholdnowater.”“I have made no threats,”

Peter said softly. “But I willtell you a fact. If youdonotmarry, you leave me nochoice but to safeguard yourfuturethroughothermeans.”She stared at him. “What

meansthat,precisely?”

Heshrugged.“Ihavebeenthinkingofsellingtheauctionrooms.”Thebreathescapedherina

hoarsegasp.“Naturally,” he went on,

“half the profitswould go toyou.”Had he struck her, here in

public, he could not havestunnedhermorecompletely.“You...you’relying.Thisisa ruse to make me entertainMr.Pilcher.”

As though her words hadsummoned him, thescarecrowcame into thehall.“Ah!”Pilchermanufacturedalook of surprise. “Mr.Everleigh, how good to findyou here tonight. And thislovelyladymustbe—”“IfearIamnoonetoyou,

sir.” Catherine kept her eyeson her brother, whomust bebluffing. But he looked sopleased with himself. Rageroughened her voice. “My

brother, however, has anapology to make.” Sheinclinedherheadtheslightestdegree to Pilcher—the onlycourtesy she could bringherself to pay him—thenturned on her heel for thecloakroom.Peter’s voice reached her

as she rounded the corner.“She is shy,” he said. “Onlygive me a little time topersuadeher.”“For such a vision,” said

the scarecrow, “I will gladlygrant as much time as itrequires.”A chill went through her,

followedbyasurgeofpanic.SheneededamethodtodeterPeter from this mad course.Therewasnotimetowaste.Anideaseizedher.Perfect

madness—but what otherrecourse did she have? Sheknew just the man to bringPeter to heel. All it wouldrequire of her was a great

deal of money . . . and areckless disregard fordecencyandthelaw.

***“Sad sight, to see a grownmanweep.”NicholasO’Shealifted away his blade, thenmotioned to his man by thedoor.Johnson hurried over with

the flask. Alas, a singlemouthfulofalewasn’tgoingtowash this bitter taste from

Nick’s mouth. Nasty work,torturing a pig. He tippedbacktheflagon,drinkinglongand deep. Would havedrained it to thedregs,hadasingle word not interruptedhim.“Please.”He lowered the flask.

“Please,what?”“I’ll thell ’oo. Honeshly, I

will!”There was all he’d been

wanting:aspotof truthamid

the lies.He handed the flaskback to Johnson, thencroucheddown.Theman on the floor was

called Dixon. He’d lookedmuch prettier two hours ago,veryspiffywithhisfinewooltrousers flapping at hisankles. Nick had interruptedhim in themiddleof apoke-and-cuddlewith a girl barelyoldenoughtosportabosom.Whydidswinealwayshaveataste for children? It never

failed to baffle him, thesepatterns to which evil soregularlyinclined.But they were handy in

their own way. Kept hisconscience from troublinghimnowasheyankedupthebastard’shead,andsawwhathis own fists had wrought.Dixon’s face wasn’t prettyany longer. No more littlegirls for him. Now theywouldspothimatfirstglancefor a monster. “You’ll be

needing dentures to eat,” hesaid.“I’llspotyouthecoin,ifyoumakethisquick.”Dixon sniveled.Therewas

nootherwordforthewayhisfacecrumpled,nor the soundthat came from his bloody,foaming mouth. “Jes’ know’afore I tell you, sir. Thebuildings,theyweren’tsafe!Iwas within my rights tocondemnthem!”Scoffing,Nick satbackon

his heels. Here was the

greatest lie yet. “You idiot.You haven’t put it togetheryet. Those properties are inWhitechapel.Iownthem.”“What?” Dixon blinked.

“No,you’re...”“Tricky things, parish

borders. Whitechapel’s pokelike”—he jammed his fingerinto Dixon’s forehead—“thisinto St. Luke’s. Thoseneighboring lots aren’tmine.But the two buildings youcondemned, they’re out of

your jurisdiction.Whitechapel’smine.”Dixon’s jaw sagged. He

looked properly sick now. “Ididn’t—”“Didn’t know,” Nick

finished. He’d imagined asmuch.Forthreeyears,Dixonhad been trotting about theedge of Nick’s territories,exercisinghisauthorityundertheTorrensandCrossActstocondemn hazardousbuildings.

Speculators liked nothingbetterthanthoseacts,fortheygave a man a chance to buyproperty on the cheap. Thelaw required the new ownersto replace the condemnedbuildingswithdecenthousingfor the poor. But speculatorsrarely followed through onthatpart.Whatbuildingstheyconstructed charged rents noordinary man could afford.Thanks to Dixon, thedisplaced had been flooding

into Nick’s territory, placingamighty strain on the parishofWhitechapel.Still, Nick might have

toleratedit,hadDixon’sworkremained honest. Recently,however,Dixonhad taken tocondemning buildings thatwere perfectly sound.Peculiar business for asurveyor.Downrightirritatingwhen the properties hecondemnedbelongedtoNick.“I will ask you one last

time,” Nick said. “Who paidyou to condemn them? Andno more rubbish about acorporation. There’s a manbehind it, and I’ll have hisname.”“He’ll . . .” Dixon

swallowed.“Lookhere,sir—I’ll go to the board. I’llexplainthemistake,tellthemthatIdidn’trealize—”“Somebodyrealized,”Nick

saidflatly.“AndI’llhavehisname.”

“He’ll kill me for tellingyou!”Probablyso.“Gottowatch

who you mix with in thefuture.” He raised his knifeagain. “Assumingyou’vegotone.”Dixonbegantocry,big,fat

tears that mixed with hisbloody snot. “WilliamPilcher.”Thename rangabell. “St.

Luke’sman?”“Yes,” Dixon said.

“And . . . he’s the vestryrepresentative to theMunicipalBoardofWorks.”Brilliant. The very board

that approved petitions undertheTorrensandCrossActs.Nick snorted as he rose to

his full height. Corruptionwas a richman’s game,withthe poor always paying thepriceforit.Dixon grabbed his ankles.

“Please, sir, I’ll do anything.Only protectme fromhim! I

promise, I’ll serve you well—”Nick kicked free. “This is

Whitechapel, lad. We’ve gotstandards hereabouts.” Henodded to Johnson, whopulledopenthedoor.“What should I do with

him?”Johnsonasked.Nick paused. Alas, in this

part of town, men kept theirword. “Let him go, with acoinforthedentist.”The stairs held steady as

Nick descended them bytwos.Thebalustradefeltsolidas rock beneath his hand.He’d no objection to theimprovement acts, inprinciple.Once, this buildinghad deserved condemnation,too. A broken skeleton witheightpeopletoaroom,ithadtrembled in the breeze andfloodedateachrainfall.Onlythe desperate had lived here,knowing it was just amatterof time before the building

collapsed and became theirgrave.But Nick had fixed that

with no interference frommeddling lawmen.He’dwonthedeedinacardgame,thenrebuilt the place himself.He’d started by knockingdown the subdivisions bywhich the former owner hadextracted maximum rent forminimum space. Built newrooms, and allotted two orthree to each family. That

small trick had turned themale tenants into heads ofhouseholds, which in turnqualifiedthemasvoters.Nickhadenteredtheirnamesintheparish lists. Come the nextelection, they had voted forhim.He’d controlled the

Whitechapel vestry for fouryears now. Wasn’t a singlelocalmanwhodidn’t answertohim.Meanwhile,theparishofficers would sooner

condemn their own housesthanoneofNick’s.But those buildings Dixon

had condemned were tricky.Whitechapel’swesternborderpoked like a sore thumb intothe neighboring parish of St.Luke’s.Nocoincidence,Nicksupposed,thattheplotstoleftand right,which stood in St.Luke’s,hadbeenrazedayearago. Pilcher obviously hadplansforthatstreet.Butifhethought he could dip into

Whitechapel to effect them,hehadahardlessoncoming.On the landing, a tenant

stepped aside, bowing. Nicknodded as hepassed, sparinga glance for the polishedwindow that looked onto asea of fine, new roofs. Thisentireblock—andthenineorten streets around it—wouldstand till kingdom come,thankstohim.Asforhowhepaid for the constantimprovements—whether his

coin was earned through fairmeans or foul—his tenantsdid not care. As long as theroofkepttherainoutandtherentstayedreasonable,they’dbow to him gladly, of theirownfreewill.Thatwashowhewantedit.

What good was respectearnedbyforce?Thatwasn’trespectatall.In the street, he came to a

stop,drawingalongbreathofthepungentair.Thesmellof

fried oysters was comingfromNeddie’s,thepubwherehealwaysbrokehis fast.Buttoday,he lacked theappetite.Irritationhadkilledit.Thundering footsteps

approached from behind.Nick didn’t bother to turn,becauseaknotofmenoutsideNeddie’s had raised theirhandsingreeting,andintheirfaces, he saw no alarm.Thisplace, thesepeople,werehis.Ifathreatwascoming,they’d

be charging to meet it,weaponsinhand.Johnson joined him,

breathing heavily. TheEnglishman wasn’t built forspeed, but he could slip intoplaces that an Irishmanfound . . . uncomfortable.Nick had hired him as anexperiment. How far didmoney take you, without thetiesofkinship?So far, it had gone a nice

distance. “Shall I make

inquiries into Pilcher?”Johnsongasped.“Can’t say Iknow the name, butsomebodywill.Atthedocks,maybe.”“No, that’s fine.” Johnson

knew the docks better thanalmost anyone, for he hadbeenoneof theRoyals,once—that group of men chosenfirstforworkeachmorningatthe quays. It was there thatNick had first met him, as aboyoftenoreleven.

So perhaps the experimentwasn’tsopure,afterall.Theysharedakindofkinship,evenif it wasn’t one to cherish.Dock work could be a sightmore brutal than torture,depending on the cargo—orthevictim.Today’s torture should

have brightened his mood.He’d gotten a name, at last.Why, then, did he feel sobefouled?Bloody toffs. They looted

and despoiled without a carefor the cost. Nick hadseventy-six tenants in thosecondemned buildings. Theirfates never troubled a manlikePilcher.“I could follow him,”

Johnson offered. “He’sheadingforthehighroad.”Nick glanced back, spying

Dixon’s hobbling retreat. Alick of humor lightened hismood. “Maybe you couldevencatchhim,atthat.”

Johnsonwentred.Folksinthese parts, now that they’dgrown accustomed to him,had taken to calling himBlushes. It was a naturalwonder that a giant with apiercedearandaheadasbaldasapirate’scouldcolormorebrightly than a girl. “Iwouldn’t let him get away,sir.”“No need.” Pilcher’s

henchman wasn’t theproblem. A vestry or district

could submit petitions underthe Torrens and Cross Actsuntiltheyranoutofink,butittook approval from theMunicipal Board of Worksfor a building to becondemned.Pilcher sat on that board,

butasinglevotecouldnotdoanything. He must havepowerful allies—whichmeantthatNickneededalliesthere,too.Nick faced front again,

surveying the road.Agaggleof children were playing byLola’sAlley—truants,all.Nomatter how many times theschool board rounded themup, they slipped free. “YouseeMrs.Hollisterhereaboutsoflate?”“No,sir.”Itwasherjobtoinvestigate

truancies for the schoolboard, and force childrenback to school. Should thatfail, the new laws gave her

the right to summon parentsbefore the board,where theywould be fined an amounttheycouldnotspare.“Ho!” Nick yelled. “You

lot!” He strode forward, andone of the children, TommyFerguson, took note, callingthe others’ attention in ahurry.They clustered into a

panicked herd at Nick’sapproach. “Who’s keepingyou out of school?” he said.

Sometimes a newcomer, notgrasping the way ofWhitechapel, made themistake of pulling his childfrom class in order to earn.Then, sure as dominoestoppling, the likely suspectsfollowed suit, bunking withglee.“It’s a holiday,” Tommy

Ferguson said, brazen asbrass.Nickeyedhim.“Doesyour

maknowyouforaliar?”

The boy winced. His ma,Mary Ferguson, was asbroad-beamed as a ship, anddidn’tspareasmackforsass.“Don’ttellher,sir!I’llgo!”“Take the rest with you.

Five minutes, Tommy. If Iseeasingleoneofyouintheroad, it’s yourmother I’ll bespeakingwithnext.”Tommy had a talent for

leadership. With gaspedapologies,heharriedthepackdown the road,making them

scramble.“Who’s the little one?”

NickaskedJohnson.Asmallgirl,morebedraggledthantherest, was barely keeping up,herbareheelskickingas shetrailedaroundthecorner.“New to the street,”

Johnsonsaid.“Mother’safurstripper. Don’t know thedad.”“She had a beggar’s bowl

under her arm. And noboots.”Therewasnocallfor

that. He’d seen to it that theWhitechapel vestry coveredtheschoolfeeforparentswhocouldnotpayit,andsuppliedthe boots that the lawrequired schoolchildren towear. “You speak with hermother. Go gentle, though.She may not know there’shelpforher.”“Aye.Iwill.”Satisfied,Nickstraightened

his hat. Nothing else lookedamiss. Brisk business at the

cookshop on the corner,women hanging the washingoutthewindows—hegrinnedat Peggy Malloy’s coygreeting—and men makingsmart progress toward theirdestinations, no loitering insight.Once this quarter of

Whitechapel had lookeddifferent—violent, ugly,chokedwithrubbish.Butnowit boasted orderly streets,solid tenements, quiet nights,

and schools with no seats tospare.He frowned. He’d been

feelingrestlessoflate,uneasyfor reasons he couldn’t quiteplace. Everything was goingvery well—so well, in fact,that he’d left off with pettycrimeentirely.His legitimatebusinesseswere turninga farhandsomer profit, to saynothing of his gamblingpalace. But contentment tooclosely resembled

carelessness. Andcarelessness always led to afall.Perhaps this was where it

started: some upstart tofffromSt.Luke’s.“Do this,” Nick said.

“Gather Malloy and the restof the boys. I’m calling ameeting.”Johnson nodded. “At

Neddie’s?”“No, we’re done with

bloody business for a time. I

needapropermeeting.”Nickbaredhisteethinasmile.TheMunicipal Board of Worksshaped the entire city. Oneseat was reserved forWhitechapel, but he rarelytasked his man to attend themeetings. Malloy lacked theallies required to sway theboard’s decisions, and mostof the votes didn’t interestNickanyway.Hehadnocarefor matters in Southwark orClerkenwell; the East End

washisterritory,nofarther.Butperhapsitwastimehe

didtakeaninterest.Bringtheboard into line, andwhile hewasatit,addressthequestionof water in Whitechapel—these competing companieshad been sabotaging theirrivals’ pipes, making thesupplyunpredictable.“Convene the vestry,” he

said. “I’ve a proposal to puttothecitizens.”

CHAPTERTWO

DearMr.O’Shea,

Yourniece,Lilah,LadyPalmer,speakshighlyofyourbusiness

acumen.Ihaveapropositionthatpromisestoprofityouhandsomely.Pleasereplyatyourearliestconvenience.

CatherineEverleigh

DearMr.O’Shea,

Yoursilencesuggests

thatIhavegivenoffense.Iwouldaskyoutoforgivemyforwardnessinwritingtoyouwithouttheprecedentofaformalintroduction.IhadanticipatedthatwewouldbeintroducedattheweddingofyourniecetoLordPalmer.Inconsequenceoftheirelopement,Ichoseinsteadtocontactyoudirectly.Itwasan

egregiousbreachofetiquette,forwhichIapologize.Ifyouwouldbeso

goodastooverlookmypresumption,Iwouldverymuchappreciatethechancetospeakwithyouaboutaprospectthatpromisesahandsomerevenueforyou.Yourniecehasassuredmethatyouareamanoffinebusiness

sense.Itrustyouwillnotdismissanopportunityforprofitwithoutfirstlearningofthedetails.

Kindregards,

MissCatherineEverleigh

Proprietor,Everleigh’sAuctionHouse

DearMr.O’Shea,

Asaparticularfriendtoyourniece,ViscountessPalmer(whomyouonceknewasLilyMonroe,butwhoservedinmyemployatEverleigh’sunderthenameof“LilahMarshall,”forreasonsthatyouwillnotrequire

areminderof),Ifeelcompelledtoinquireafteryourwell-being.Asyoumayknow,

yourniecehasembarkedonanextendedhoneymoonabroad.Itoccurstomethatinherabsence,youmighthaveenteredintosomedifficultythatpreventsyoufromreplyingtothelettersofherfriends.Forhersake,my

concernmountseachdaythatIdonotreceiveareplyfromyou.Accordingly,IintendtorequestthepolicetopayacalltomorrowonthepublichouseinWhitechapelknownasNeddie’s,whereIamgiventounderstandthatyourwhereaboutswouldbeknown,wereyoustillatlibertytodiscourseuponthem.Ihopevery

muchtoreceivehappynewsfromtheconstablesofyourcontinuedhealth.Again,allowmeto

extendmyapologiesfortheforwardnessofpresumingonanacquaintancethathasyettobeformallyeffected.

Sincerely,

MissCatherineEverleigh

Catherine,Notyetacquainted,

arewe?Icanonlyassumeyou’vetakenahardknocktoyourheadsincewelastsaweachother.Thenagain,youandLilywerefeelingamitefriskyafterescapingthatRussian

bastard,andyouwerechuggingNeddie’salebythebucketful—soperhapsthenighthasslippedrightoutofyourmind.Butsureandcertain

youseemedsoberenoughthetimebeforethat,whenIknockedLordPalmeronhiswell-bredarseatoneofyourauction-houseparties.Perhapsitwasmy

mistaketokissyourhandthatnight,ratherthanyoursweetlittlemouth—otherwiseyouwouldhaverememberedourmeeting.Alas,that’sthegentleman’sway,more’sthepity.Atanyrate,Iconsider

usthoroughlyintroduced.Putyourmindateaseonthatfront.Asforvisiting,don’t

bothertocomeifit’sbusinessthatbringsyou.I’venointerestinthesaleofglitterybits,orwhateveritisthatlurestoffstoyourauctionhouselikechickenstowardacliff.However,ifyou’dlike

anothertasteofWhitechapel’sfinest,thedooralwaysstandsopentoafriendofLily’s—particularlyagirlwho

canputawaysomanypints.Thistime,however,Iwon’tbepickingupthebillforyou—forIam,asyoupointout,amanofbusiness,andIknowapotentialprofitwhenIseeone.(Sixpints,didyoudrink?SoNeddieswears.Butthere’salegendgatheringsteamthatsaysyoudrankten.)

Cheers,

NickO’Shea

P.S.Ireckonyou’llhaveremarkedthatthisnotewasdeliveredbythesuperintendentoftheWhitechapelDivisionoftheMetropolitanPolice.Kindofhim,ain’tit?PeelersinWhitechapel

aretremendouslyfriendlyfellows.Ireckonit’sbecauseIrespectthemso.ImakesureNeddieneverchargesasingleoneforhispints.Butthat’sbusinesssenseforyou!

***“This one’s beyond repair, Ifear.”“Don’t tell me that.”

Catherine stood at a

worktable in thebasementofEverleigh’s, where she hadspent the last hour gentlychafingmastic resin across abegrimedcanvas—afinewaytoworkoutthefrustrationshefelt. Or was it panic? Theletter from Mr. O’Shea hadleft her livid and shaken atonce.What had she been

thinking, to correspond withsucharuffian?Sheknewhimonlythroughhisniece,Lilah,

who had served asCatherine’s assistant beforeher unexpected marriage toLord Palmer. O’Shea was anotoriousfigure,acrimelordwho controlled the roughestparts of the East End. Whatpassing fit of lunacy hadcompelledher to look tohimfor help? She prayed he hadburned her letters. Ifcirculated, they could ruinher.Then again, ruin was

already rushing in upon her.Herbrotherhaddismissedtheaccounting services ofWattier & Company; therewasnobodytowatchwhathedid with the companyfinances now. He continuedto press Mr. Pilcher’s suitupon her, and last night, hehad been waiting at homewiththefamilysolicitor,whohadexplainedthatshehadnogrounds on which to contestPeter’splanofsaleunlessshe

married very quickly andthereby came into thedirectorship.So,shehadlookedintoMr.

Pilcher.Hewasalandlordofmiddling rank, whose familywas too undistinguished topromote Peter’s politicalinterests.ThecauseofPeter’sfondness must lie elsewhere.If she married Pilcher, shehad no doubt that he wouldopposeherrighttoworkhere,andfindsomewaytoprevent

her from overruling Peter’sdecisions,aswellashisown.Shereleasedaslowbreath,

then surveyed the painting.The original varnish hadcrumblednow.Shepickedupher badger-hair brush,brushing away a spot in thecenter of the painting toreveal thewonderbeneath. Itlightened her mood a little.“Look here, Batten. Do youmeantogiveuponthat?”Batten grunted. “Three

centuries of being moppedwithsoapandwater—”“We can fix it.” The

painting was Italianate instyle—not in fashion, atpresent,butwhatdidshecarefor fashion? True collectorswouldrecognizegeniuswhentheysawit.Herresponsibilitywas tomake them look. “Doyou see her face?” In thecenter of the dark tableau,Saint Teresa was beingpierced by the angel’s spear.

She cast her eyes skyward,her expression balancedbetween the great agony oftorture, and the desperatehopeofheavenlyrespite.Frowning, Batten adjusted

his wire spectacles. Some ofthe other employees,particularly the ignorant girlswhom Peter employed ashostesses to flatter theclientele, called him “TheGnome.” He was, indeed,unusually squat and boxy,

with a tangle of gray curlsthatresistedeventhethickestpomade.But Catherine had known

himsincehergirlhood.Whenshe looked at him now, shebarely noticed themisshapenhumpofhisshoulders,orthefiercejutofhisbrow.Insteadshe beheld a man of greatknowledge, able to restorepaintings from centuries ofabuse—and to answer withendless patience all the silly

questions she had posed himas a child, when otheremployees had only waiteduntil her father’s back wasturned to roll their eyes anddismissher.She held her breath now

for his verdict. Shemust notcontaminate it with her ownhopes.Businessdidnotallowforfoolishromanticism.“Ineedmorelight,”hetold

her.Shewent to fetchacandle

fromtheshelf.Thebasementwas a stupid place to havemoved Batten’s workshop,but Peter had insisted onexpanding the public rooms.He did not considerrestoration to be a profitableline of investment; toomuchtime expended for too littleprofit, he claimed. Given hisway, he would have rejectedany antique or artwork thatdidnotarrivereadyforsale.Before, his attitude had

baffled her. If he resented sobitterly being in trade, shehad toldhim,hemight try tobehavelesslikeashopkeeperandmorelikeapatronof thearts.Butnowsheunderstoodhimbetter.Hewasdonewithbeingatradesman.Hewantedtosell theauction roomsandlivelikearichman.Shewouldnotallowit.She

would rather marry Pilcher.Or Batten! A pity his wiferemainedinsuchgoodhealth.

She bit her lip, remorseassailing her as she carriedthe candle back to the table.Mr.Batten’swifewasadearandfriendlycreaturewhodidnotdeservesuchillwishes.Sheheld thecandle steady

at an angle that highlightedSaint Teresa’s strikingexpression.Battenrubbedhischin.“Well,youknowIdon’tliketogiveup,”hesaid.“It’savery rarework . . .orwas,once upon a time. But that

damage in the upper leftquadrant . . .” He sighed.“One almost wishes her facehadn’t been spared. Such ataunt,toglimpsewhatitoncewas!”The canvas had undergone

some very rough handling.Shecouldnotarguethat.Norcould she give up on it.“What of Mr. vonPettenkofer’s method?Mightthatwork?”“It might,” Batten said

hesitantly. “But your brotherwas very clear, miss. Notabove a week on anyparticularpiece.Whatyou’reproposing would take muchlonger.”She grimaced. What a

ridiculous policy to imposewholesale! A few of theirrichest sales had come fromitems restored byMr. Batten—and, increasingly, her. Shehad a talent for spotting thevalue indamaged things,and

thanks to Mr. Batten’stutelage, she sometimesunderstood how to fix them,too. It gave her a fiercesatisfaction to pull beautyfrom rubbish; to restore theimperfect to its original,unblemishedstate.Mr. Batten was gazing at

her very sympathetically.“Areyouallright?”Shebitherlip.Mybrother

has gone mad, Batten. He isthreatening to sell the place.

AndIdon’tknowhowtostophim.But she did know.

Marriage was the way. Sheonly needed the righthusband.Apitytheywerenotsoldatauction!Shemanaged a thin smile.

“I’mfine.”Asagirl,shehadspilled her heart over thisworktable with regularity.Butawomancouldnotspeaksocarelesslyofherfamily.Itwould put Mr. Batten in a

very tenuous position, forPeter was his employer, too.“I simply can’t give up onthis painting. Go ahead withMr. von Pettenkofer’smethod. If my brothercomplains, tellhimthatI leftyou no choice.” Not thatPeter would. He neverbothered to visit theworkshop.She gathered her agenda

and made her way backupstairs toward the public

rooms. It was half three, butsixitemsremainedonherlist.She’d not leave Everleigh’stillteno’clock.The thought made her

smileslightly.Her fatherhadrarely made it home forsupper, either—though notforwantoftrying.She,ontheother hand, had every reasonto linger here. For all sheknew, Mr. Pilcher would beattabletonight.Petermadeahabit lately of bringing him

around.Sheemergedintothelobby

to discover a group ofhostesses—she deplored thecommon nickname given tothem of Everleigh Girls—clustered around a trio offashionably dressedgentlemen, one ofwhom sherecognized as the heir to adukedom. The social aspectsof the business were Peter’scalling,nothers,butshesawnosignofherbrother.

Reluctantly, she wavedover one of the hostesses, afox-faced brunette. “Hassomeone told Mr. Everleighofourguests?”“Oh, he saw them,” Miss

Snow said breathlessly. Hercolor was high; like most ofthe hostesses, she was anincorrigible flirt, and thrivedon the attention of men whowouldneveracknowledgeherin the street. “He said weweretoseetothemourselves,

for he has anotherappointment.”“Is that so?” It was most

unlike Peter to lose theopportunity tohobnobwithafuture duke. Sighing,Catherine girded herself toentertaintheguests.“Hecouldn’thavereceived

them, anyway,” Miss Snowcontinued. “He wasn’tdressedforit.”Heresheliftedoneslim,suggestivebrow.“What do you mean, he

wasn’t dressed for it?” Inmatters of toilette, Peter waspunctilious.“Hewaswearingapatched

coat.”Thegirl’svoiceheldaslynoteofspeculation.“Andhesetoutonfoot,didn’ttakethecarriage.”“That is none of your

concern.” But a pricklemoved down Catherine’sspine, not so much alarm asexcitement. “How long agodidheleave?”

“A minute or two, nomore.”Her duty compelled her to

tour the guests through thecollectionsboundforauction.But this odd behavior onPeter’s part might provide aclue to his secret doings—aquestion on which rested thevery future of the auctionrooms.Forifshecouldcatchhim in some unsavorysituation, itwould give her aweaponagainsthim.

She liftedhervoice.“MissAmes,” she called to aredheaded hostess, the mostlevelheaded of the lot. “Willyouseetoourguests?Imuststepout,Ifear.”

***Catherine’s life had becomean absurdity. She was awoman of business, with anauctionhousetorun.Shehada hundred items on heragenda,noinclinationtoward

adventures,andnointerest inher brother’s private life. Atpresent,heragendainstructedher to be in the receivingroom at Everleigh’s,supervising the unpacking ofthe books from the Cranstonlibrary.Instead, she was prowling

through the East End,sidestepping stray dogs andweedy cracks in thepavement. On WhitechapelRoad, amid the bustle of

traffic and the cries ofchestnutvendors,shehadfeltsafeenough.Butnow,asshepassed into a narrow lane oftenements,the atmosphere shifted. Thebuildingsleanedtogetherherelike tired old pensioners,blockingthesunlightfromtheruttedlane.Inthegutter,abeggar with a scabbed facelayinsensate.She stopped beside him,

noting the spittle that dotted

his beard. Hadn’t her formerassistant assured her thatWhitechapel was not asdangerous as she imagined?But perhaps Lilah hadchangedhermind,afterwhattranspired three months ago.Together, they had beenkidnapped by a Russianlunatic intent on harmingLord Palmer. The Russianhad imprisoned them nearthis very neighborhood, insuch an isolated little shack

that had it not been for theircombined courage andinspiration in effecting anescape, nobody might everhavefoundthem.Well. That was not quite

true. Eventually, Lilah’suncle would have foundthem.NicholasO’Shea ruledthe East End like a tyrant ofold. He’d been keeping aneye on the Russian, as ittranspired. It had simplytaken him and Lord Palmer

longer to get there than sheandLilahhadbeenwillingtowait.Alas that Mr. O’Shea’s

dominion did not extend tonurturing beggars. A happything that Catherine hailedfrom a better part of town,wherepeopletookaninterestinthetroubled.“Sir,”shesaidcrisply.No reply. Was he only

drunk, or did he require amedic?Sofar,Septemberhad

proved unseasonably cold;the newspapers said the chillhad caused a wave ofinfluenza. Nervously, sheglanced around. Ahead, awoman hung out a window,calling incoherently atsomebodyonlyshecouldsee.Not a likely source of aid,should this man require adoctor.“Sir,” she said more

sharply.He loosed a sudden, nasal

snore that reeked of gin, andstartled her into hurryingonward.Half a street ahead, her

brotherwashurrying,too,hismanner no less furtive thanhers.Sofar,shehadmanagedto keep out of his sight, herhood disguising her from hisbackward glances. But italarmedherthatheseemedtoknow where he was going.Peterwasamanoffinetastesand lofty ambitions. Whom

couldhebemeetinghere?Peter drew up at an

undistinguished row house,whose brick face had beenhandsome once, but nowsported several brokenwindows. The front doorswungopen.Anunseenhandadmittedhim,thenclosedthedoor.Catherine came to a stop.

Somebody had beenexpecting him. Watching forhim—here,ofallplaces!

She grew conscious of thecurious looks of two girlsstrolling by, arm in arm—factory girls, she judged bytheir leather-stained hands.To her right, a rutted alleyprovided a place of relativeconcealment.Sheslippedintoit and pressed herself againsta damp wall. Her cloak wasplain enough, for she haddressedtodaywiththeaimofreceiving a cargo shipment.But it sported no patches, no

rips or stains, and that alonemade her stand out in thisneighborhood.Hurry, Peter. She had no

wish to be in Whitechapelwhen twilight fell. Lilah hadspoken highly of her uncle’sability to impose law andorder—but she had warnedCatherine just as volublyaboutthedangersofprowlinghereasanoutsider.She sighed, drawing her

cloak tighter. She might as

well admit it to herself—shemissed Lilah. She could notbegrudge her a honeymoon,particularly since Lilah hadnever traveled outsideEngland before. But now, ofall times, she could use afriend.And she had only theone, really, if one did notcountMr.Batten.Everleigh’shadalwayskepther toobusyto socialize, and even whenshehadtried,shehadlittleincommon with other women

of her rank. She had nointerest in discussing thelatest gossip or fashions, andno time to read novels.Nobody seemed muchinterested in her thoughts ontheartmarket,orhow to tellan old master from a veryconvincingfraud...Well,shewasproudofthe

business she’d helped tobuild. Her work gave herpurpose; it challenged andsustained her. But . . . it did

makeforalonelyroutine.Asa child, she’d longeddesperately for a true friend.And secretly, in some cornerof her soul, she’d neverstoppedwishingforthat.An icydropof rainhither

nose.Alarmed,shelookedupintothecloudedsky.“Hidingfromsomebody?”She jumped. Around the

corner stepped a familiarfigure. Astonishment brieflycaughthertongue.

She was not good withfaces, but it would take ablindwomantoforgetLilah’suncle. He was nature’s crueltrick on the fairer sex, theperfect picture of dark,charming, masculinewickedness. Shining blackhair,highcheekbones,lipsasfull as a woman’s . . . Thatwas surely a flaw. But then,he had that brutal jaw andchintomakeupforit...andthe slight bump to his high-

bridged nose, suggestive ofsome violent fracture in hispast.“Mr. O’Shea.” She spoke

verystiffly,forshehadneverliked his effect on her. Sheherselfwascountedbeautiful,andshehadseenwhatpowershe could wield when shecared to try. She refused tofallpreytoasimilarspell.But what a miserable

coincidence to meet himhere!

Heproppedhisshoulderonthebrickwallandlookedherover.“Dressedforprowling,Isee. Did you steal that cloakfromoneofyourmaids?”She took a strangling hold

on her collar. “It is mine, infact. But I thank you for theinsult.”His black brows arched.

“Don’t think much of yourmaids,doyou?”She opened her mouth,

then thought better of it, and

settled instead on a scowl.She had onlymet him twice,andbothtimeshehadlookedat her in this smug,infuriatingway,asthoughshewere a joke designed for hisprivate amusement.Hemadeher feel . . . judged andridiculed, foundwantingasawoman.As though hewere in any

positiontojudgeher!Hewasimpertinent, boorish, ill-bred,andcriminal.Shemustnever

forget that, even if at presentheworeablacktailcoatfitforaball.She frowned at him. He

was in fact dressed withludicrous elegance, with adiamondstickpinathisneck.“I was unaware thatWhitechapelrequiredeveningdressofitsstrollers,”shesaidtartly.“NexttimeIcome,I’llbesuretowearaballgown.”“Youdothat,darling.And

besuretokeepaneyeoutfor

theweather,too.”“I always do.” As though

in reply, another raindrop hitherchin.“Ienjoytherain.”His laughter had a rich,

ringing note to it,unexpectedlybeautiful.“Aye,you look as pleased as awetcat.”“Thewords of a poet,Mr.

O’Shea.” She peered aroundhim.NosignofPeteryet.“Who are you waiting

for?”

Thatpurringtonedrewherattentionbacktohim.Despitehis formal wear, he waslounging against the brickwall with the slouchingpostureofadockworker.Thesight of such physicalperfection, married to suchcalumny, vexed her in theextreme.She fixed her attention on

the bump in his nose, thesingle imperfection to whichshewoulddirectallherscorn.

Howrudelyhehadrepliedtoher letter! What kind ofcriminalturneddownmoney,anyway? She had thought tohire him to intimidate Peter.It would have made an easyprofit for him. “Is it any ofyourconcernwhatIdo,orforwhomIwait?”“Inmystreets?Yes.”“Your streets?” She lifted

her brows at thismagnificently understatedarrogance. “HasHerMajesty

been informed of yourclaim?”“Oh, I reckonHerMajesty

would be glad to cede thispiece of London,” he saidamiably. “Certainly she’snever bothered to worry forit.”That smacked of

radicalism, which was justwhat she expected from amanlikehim.“IcannotsayIblame her. There is a manlying in the road nearby,

nearlydeadfromthecold.”“Thomas,” he said lightly.

“The gin keeps him warmenough.”She scoffed. “How

unsurprising, that you shouldknow the names of the localdrunkards.”“He’s a relation, in fact.”

His accent had grownabruptlycoarser.“Husbandtomycousin.”“Note my continued lack

ofsurprise.”

“I’ll be surprised for bothofus,”hesaid.“Didn’tfigureyou for a soft touch. Nexttime you see a drunkard inthestreet,bestkeepmoving.”He had seen her stop to

speaktotheman?“Wereyoufollowingme?”“The streets have eyes,

sweetheart. And they allreporttome.”Goodness. She glanced

past him, toward the openlane. “You mean to say you

employ spies? How . . .peculiar.”“HouseofDiamondsisjust

downtheway.”Hewavedinthedirectionofthehighroad,causing themultiple ringsonhislongfingerstoglitter.Hisjewelry was as gaudy as agrocerygirl’s. “Patronsdon’tliketobedisturbed.SoIkeeptrack ofwho’s coming downthelane.”She nodded tightly. The

House of Diamonds was his

gamblingpalace—thoroughlyillegal,althoughitscrapedbyon the pretense of a socialclub. That explained hisapparel, then. She recalledhaving read, in variousscathing editorials by uprightcrusaders, of the dress codeenforcedthere.If he kept track of

passersby,hewouldcertainlyknow all the tenants in thisstreet. “Do you know wholives in that building?” She

pointed toward the tenementinto which her brother hadvanished.He did not follow her

gesture.“ReckonIdo.”“Then—might you share

theirnameswithme?”“No.” His gaze met hers

squarely, forestallingargument.He had remarkable eyes,

the color of quicksilver,thicklyanddarklylashed.Shegazed into them a moment

too long before rememberingherself. She made a noise tosignal her disgust—anddismissal. “You may go,then,”shesaid.“Iamnotinaconversationalmood.”He snorted and shovedoff

thewall,asfastandpowerfulas a spring uncoiling. “Got acoach standing outsideDiamonds.It’lltakeyoubackhome.”In her amazement, she

almost laughed. “Indeed it

won’t.” Decency, and herfriendship with his niece,compelled her to add, “But Idothankyoufortheoffer.”He looked at her now as

though she’d grown anotherhead. “It wasn’t an offer.Something happens to youhere, I’ll have the entireworld poking about toinvestigate. And that won’tsuit the business atDiamonds.”She frowned. Sound logic,

good strategy. He was abusinessman, in his way. Ifonlyhepaidsimilarrespecttoher!Chickens lured towardacliff: that was how he haddescribedherclients.Glitterybits—his view of fine arts.“I’ll go,” she said sourly, “ifyou tellmewho lives in thattenement.”He eyed her. “Thought it

was theale thatmadeyousofrisky. But it seems you’vegot spirit when sober as

well.”Boor. “I cannot imagine

what youmean. I am alwayssober.”His answering snort was

unjustintheextreme.“That night at Mr.

Neddie’s public house,” shesaid sharply, “was anextraordinaryoccasion,whichnogentlemanwouldmention.Indeed, had any gentlemanbeennearby,surelyhewouldhave intervened in a timely

fashion to stop the madmanwhokidnappedme.”“Wasn’tonlyyouwhowas

kidnapped,”hesaidmildly.She let triumph curve her

lips.“Indeed.Yourniecewasalsoendangered.Pitywehadtosaveourselves.Atanyrate,ifeitherofusdidoverindulgeintheaftermath—whichIdidnot—thenitwasnotfromanyinclination to intemperance,but merely from a naturalwish to forget theevents that

precededit.TosaynothingofthecompanyinwhichIfoundmyself afterward!”Here, shegavehimapointedlook.His brows climbed.

“There’s a proper speech. IthinkIpreferredyoudrunk.”“I told you, I was not—”

She cut herself off with ahiss. No use in arguing withthis ruffian. And, truth betold, she had not beenentirely . . . herself thatevening.

If only she could manageto forget thewholeof it.Butsherememberedsayingsomeveryforwardthingsattheendof the night, to do with Mr.O’Shea’s faceandfigure . . .and the amount he mightbring at auction, were he asculptureforsale...Oh,sherefusedtothinkon

it. She had vowed never todrinkagain.She crossed her arms and

looked over his shoulder

toward the tenement. “Pleasego.”“In a minute, I’m tossing

youovermyshoulder.”She recoiled. “You

wouldn’tdare.”Butperhapshewould.His

smile looked rakish. “Youmight enjoy it. I seem torecall a fine compliment tomy shoulders, last time wemet. I’d put it down to thedrink, but you say you weresober.Well,then.Yoursober

self, Miss Everleigh,adjudged me a handsomelyequippedman.”Mortification crawled

through her. “You’re achurl.”“Maybe. Course, a churl

wouldn’tdriveyouhome.Hemight throw you over hisshoulderandcarryyoutohiscoach, though. Why don’tyou think on it for amoment.”Asanotherspateofrain dampened them, he

grimaced and said, “I’ll giveyoufiveseconds.”She darted another glance

at the tenement. Peter mightbe in that building for hours,yet, and the lightwas fadingnow. “Fine. I will allow youtohailmeahackney.”“It’s a wonder,” he said,

“that you ain’t been robbedyet. You travel much bycab?”“I would sooner trust a

cabman than you,” she said

throughherteeth.“You think you’ve got

anythingIwant?”Ashisgazetrailed over her, she flushedand crossed her arms again.“Ah,” he said, laughtertwitching at his lips. “I see.Youreckonmealecher.”“I see the insult gratifies

you.”“Oh, I’m gratified by

something.” His gaze liftedagain, but his smile hadfaded. “You didn’t get that

idea from my niece,” hemurmured. “Which meansyou cooked it up all byyourself. You think of me,Catherine,whenyou’re lyingin bed at night? God knowsI’ve thought of you, once ortwice.”She gaped at him. Never

hadanymanspokentohersovulgarly.Youflatteryourself:itdidnotseemlikeaproperlysharpretort.The truthwouldnot serve,

either.Godhelpher,howdidhe see it? Since their firstmeeting, she had wonderedabout him. He was sovery . . . free . . . in hisattitudes and behavior. Shehad never met anybody likehim.He made some soft noise,

then stepped towardher.Thealley was not wide. Inchesseparated them now. Shecould feel the warmthradiating from his body, so

welcome in the damp. Sheshrankagainst thebrickwall,her pulse drumming in herthroat. “What—what are youdoing?”“Wondering,” he said

softly. He cupped her cheek,his palm warm and rough.She sucked in a breath, andsmelled coffee and soap,where she’d expected gin.She could see the fine blackgrain of his oncomingstubble; his eyes were the

shade of mist on a meadow,graymixingwith the faintesthintofgreen.She averted her face,

appalled by herself. “Let goofme.”His thumb made a soft,

lingering stroke down theslope of her jaw. “I’m notholding you,” he said.“Seemsapity,don’tit?”Sheswallowed.“Please.”“Please, what?” He spoke

verylowintoherear.Shefelt

his nose brush against herhair. He was nuzzling intoher, and the knowledge, asmuchas the sensation, sentashiveroverherskin.“You’reblushing,” he said, and thesurpriseinhisvoicemadeherblush harder. “Tell me,Catherine. What do youimagineI’lldotoyou,ifIgetyoualoneinacarriage?”She rolled her lips and bit

them. She knew how tohandle men like this. She

took a steadying breath, thenmade herself look at himdirectly.The devil had given his

henchmanafaceandformofspectacular charms—and shewas a woman whoseoccupation required her tofind beauty in unlikelycontexts.Shewouldnot faultherself for noticing hisphysical appeal. Perhaps itwas educational. Looking athim, she understood the

riveting force that drewmentolookather.But a businesswoman

could not afford feminineweaknesses. This shiveringheat in her—she must crushit. “Were we alone in thecarriage,” she said, “Iimagine you’d clutch yourgutsandhowl.”Afrownpinchedhisbrow.

“Andwhyisthat?”“Because I would hit you

sohardthatyou’dtopple.”

With a shout of laughter,he stepped away from her.“Superintendent called youcold as ice,” he said,grinning.“Itoldhimhemusthavedeliveredthatnotetothewrong woman. MissEverleigh, I told him, is thehottest lady you’ll evermeet.”A horrified puff of air

escapedher.“Youdidnotsaythat!”His shrug looked lazy and

raffish. He would never bemistaken for a man ofbreeding. Gentlemen movedstiffly, in a disciplinedfashion,notwiththeslinking,prowling laxity of a feline.“Maybe not,” he said.“Maybe Ihope thatyousaveyour hot little temper all forme.”Shedrewherselftoherfull

height. She was not little.And he was a perverselunatic, if hemistook temper

for something to covet. “Itwas distaste that thesuperintendent saw on myface,” she said sharply. “Ihave no fondness forcorruption. And to see thechief of the Whitechapelpolice playing lackey for aman such as you—it isloathsometome.”He lifted one black brow.

“A man such as me? Whatkindofmanisthat,I’dliketoknow?”

“A criminal, of course.Surely you don’t expectpeople to pretend that you’relaw abiding. Why, youyourselfadmitthatyouownagamblingden!”He made a chiding click

with his tongue. “Suchhorror,” he said. “You’reclearly an upright soul.Which brings me to wonderagain why you’re wanderingthrough Whitechapel. Plentyof dirt here, where a proper

fly like you is generallydrawntonothingbuthoney.”Shesnorted.“SonowIam

a fly, when earlier, I was awet cat. Your thinking isdisordered,Mr.O’Shea.Pity.It must be for want of apropereducation.”“Something isdisordered,”

he said agreeably, “to bringyouhere. If itwas slummingyou wanted, you could havegone south of the river; I’veno stake in what happens to

stupidgirlsinSouthwark.Butyouridiocywon’tbecomemyproblem.” His tone grewbrusque as he held out hishand.“Let’sgo.Timeforyouto toddle back to the politepartoftown.”Was there anything more

galling than malecondescension? Shesidestepped his reach—andthetenementdooropened.At last! And Peter wasn’t

coming out alone. She acted

without thought, grabbingO’Shea’s arm and dragginghim behind the cover of thewall.He was built like an

animal, a muscled beast ofburden. No gentleman’s armfeltso...hard.Peter stepped out. His

companion lingered in thedarkness of the doorway asthey spoke, the shadowsconcealinghis face. “Doyouknow that man?” she

whispered.O’Shea cut her a sardonic

glance. “I believe that’s yourbrother.”“Theotherone!”When he shrugged, she

realizedshewasstillgrippinghis arm.Flushing, shepulledher hand away, and lockedthe errant fingers throughtheirbetter-behavedtwins.“Ifyoudoknowhim,please tellme. I’ll make it worth your—”

But she fell silent as theman emerged, for sherecognizedhis face.Whatonearth was the scarecrowdoinghere?“Ah,” saidO’Shea. “Now,

thatisinteresting.”Shecutastartledglanceat

him. “Do you know Mr.Pilcher?”He turned toward her, a

predatory ruthlessness in hisexpression as he took hermeasure, top to toe. “Seems

we’ve got something todiscuss,afterall.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Gambling was illegal. ButtheHouseofDiamondsmadeno effort to conceal itself.Tucked away in a cobbled

courtadjoiningthehighroad,it towered over thesurrounding buildings, itsfacade of pillowed goldenstoneasumptuouscontrasttothe dinginess around it.Through the arched gatewaythat opened into the court,lacquered carriageswaited inorderly queue, discharginggentlemenineveningdressastheyreached thered-carpetedwalkway. The double doors,painted a brazen scarlet,

swung open almost beforevisitors could lift the brassknocker.ToCatherine’samazement,

a bobby loitered on thenearby corner, swinging hisbaton and looking withperfect indifference on theparadeofpatrons.Beside her, Mr. O’Shea

was gazing at the buildingwithalookofclearaffection.“Handsome,isn’tshe?”Handsome was one word

for the place. Every baywindow was picked out in ashiningblackframe,theviewfrom within blocked byswagsofredvelvetthatsomesecret source of illuminationcaused to glow as lividly aslitcoal.“Didyoudeliberatelychoose the devil’s colors, orwas that a happycoincidence?”O’Shea laughed. “Come,”

he said. “I’ll take you inthroughtherear.”

Relieved,shefollowedhimdown a narrow footpath thatwound between the shabbierbuildings.Itwouldhardlysuither to be seen entering suchan infamous place. Indeed,shecouldscarcelybelieveshewasenteringitatall.But she had wanted a

meeting with O’Shea. Andnowshehadmanagedtowinit.Daredshefallbackonherearlier plan? The interveningmonth had not offered other

solutions. Her situation hadonlygrownmoredire.After three sharp turns,

they arrived at a side door,painted black. O’Shea’sknock was answered by ayoungman in dark livery.Aperfect thug,with a shock ofdisorderly auburn hair, ablack eye, and a split lip.“Callan,”O’Sheasaidbriefly.“Beenbrawling?”“Seems it.” The man

inclined his head to Mr.

O’Shea, but seemed not tosee her as he stepped aside.She had the impression, asshe passed into a dim,carpetedhallway,thathewaspracticed in ignoring Mr.O’Shea’sfemalecompanions.The notion left her

unsettled as she followedO’Shea’s swift progress up anarrow stair. It was difficult,with the muffled sounds ofcarousingandcelebrationthatpenetrated the dark stairwell,

nottofeelasthoughshewerepoised on the precipice ofdisaster.Trawlingtheinnardsof London’s most notoriousclub, with its ringmaster asherguide—weresheaproperlady, she would be feelingfaint.But she had never aspired

to gentility. As they reachedthe second landing, O’Sheaopened an unmarked door.The raucous laughter andrattle of dice abruptly grew

clear,andastrangefeelingofpride surged through her.Herewas proof, she thought,ofherdedicationandresolve.Probably she would followO’Shea into hell itself, if itofferedachanceatsavingtheauctionrooms.They emerged onto a

balconycarpeted in the samelurid crimson nap as thestreet-facingswags.Whatshesaw so amazed her that shedrifted to the balcony railing

toinspectitmoreclosely.The balcony overlooked a

room three stories high,capped by a frescoed ceilingdepicting the heavens. Therobedfigureswerepaintedinthe style of Michelangelo—though these were not saintsor angels, but a pantheon ofGreek deities, whose vicesweregraphicallydepicted.“Shocked?”O’Shea’s voice came very

close to her ear. She shook

herhead.Shehadseenfartoomanypaintingsinhertimetobe mortified by the sight ofbare breasts and genitals.“Irritated,” she said. “Irecognize Mr. Taylor’sbrush.” He was a talentedrogue. “His forgeries oftenfind their way into ourclients’collections. If Iknewhisaddress,Iwouldsendhima bill for all the time I’vewasted weeding out hiscopies.”

“Ididn’tmeantheceiling.”“Oh.” She glanced down

into the gambling hall.Between pillars of ambermarble, thickswagsofcreamand scarlet velvet veiled thewalls. They provided atheatrical backdrop to deep-cushioned sofas andhandsome mahogany endtables, nooks offering a cozyrespiteforfatiguedplayers.Inthe center of the hall,chandeliers suspended on

bronzechainscastanelectricillumination that blazedacross champagne glasses,dice, andcrystal table lamps.The green baize gamingtableswere scattered atwell-spaced intervals, eachsecluded by an encirclingstand of potted ferns. But tothose above, each table wasperfectlyvisible.Withtheaidof binoculars, Catherinecould have read the hand ofeveryplayer.

Editorials fulminatingagainst the House ofDiamonds painted a seedypicture of dilapidation anddecay, the better to evidencethe corruption of the manwhoownedit.Butclearlytheauthors had never set foot inhere. The great resorts ofMonteCarloandNicelookedsimilar.“I’m not shocked,” she

said. “Even children playcards.” What was shocking,

sheexpected,wastheamountgambled and lost here eachnight. It was not yet fiveo’clock, but half the tableswerefull.“Itmustbecrushedintheevenings.”“We’veother,moreprivate

salons,” O’Shea said. “Sixhundred can beaccommodated,easily.”Six hundred! “Has it ever

reachedsuchanumber?”“Come back after supper

andseeforyourself.”

She recognized that easyconfidenceinhisvoice.Onceshe had felt the same wayabout Everleigh’s capacities.How long ago that seemed!Now, as an honorablebusinesswoman, she woulddo better to turn away newclients.Shecouldnotpromisethem a fair auction whenPeter was looting theaccounts—much lessplanningtoselltheplace.O’Shea was her last hope

for fixing things.Hewas thedevil’s minion, but surelytheir meeting had beenarrangedbyProvidence.“You have no partners?”

sheaskedhim.O’Sheaproppedhiselbows

on the rail beside her,watching the floor with thecalm, narrow-eyed attentionof a conscientiousproprietor.“Neversawtheuse.”“But surely you required

investors to fund this place.”

It would have taken a greatdeal of money to constructand furbish such a palace.She could clear his debts forhim.He slid her an unreadable

look.“Ihadthecapital.”She glanced away to hide

her surprise. Lilah had toldher that O’Shea was wellsituated, but Catherine hadnotimaginedthedegreeofit.“Howlonguntilyou’reintheblack?”sheaskedcautiously.

His smile was slow andsatisfied. “Broke even in thefirstyear.”“The first year!” How

disheartening—and also, shebegrudgingly allowed, howimpressive.Thiswasclearlyasuccessful enterprise. Sherecognized some of theplayers below from theirdealingsatEverleigh’s—menwith the deepest pockets inBritain. Why, one of themwas a Cabinet member, who

had made his reputation incrusades against corruptionandcrime.“I’m surprised,” she said,

“that some of these menwould risk being caughthere.”“Hence my eyes on the

streets,” O’Shea said. “Mypatrons know they can trustmefordiscretion.”How odd, that a criminal

shouldhavewhatherbrothermost wanted: the confidence

of important people. “Crimepays,itseems.”Hismouth briefly quirked.

“So it does. Perhaps, insteadof billingTaylor, you shouldhire him to cook up amasterpiece for yourauction.”He was shameless, but

she’d expected no different.“Perhaps I would do, ifmoneywereallIcaredabout.But there is also the smallmatterofhonor.”

“Mm,” he said. “Honor,quiteright.Notasusefulasaha’penny match, when itcomestokeepingthefirelit.”“There aremore important

thingsthankeepingwarm.”“So there are,” he said.

“Power, for one. Those menbelow? They know I havethem . . . here.”He held outhis hand, miming, with hislong figures, the act ofcatching and cuppingsomething.Hisringsglittered

in the glare of thechandeliers.“I suppose that’s how you

keep this place open,” shesaid slowly. “For it certainlydoesn’t look like a socialclub,fromthisvantage.”He offered her a wink.

“Plenty of friendships madeover dice. But, aye . . . ithelps to hold the markers ofmenwhomakethelaws.”Hestraightened off the rail andoffered his arm. When she

pointedly rebuffed it, heshrugged and set a springingpace down the curvingbalcony.“It still seems unwise to

me,”shesaidasshefollowed,“toinvestsomuchinaplacethat could be shut down atanymoment.”“LikeIsaid,Imakesureto

oilthegears.”But superintendents of

police retired, and electionschanged the composition of

Parliament.“Ifthegearsweretochange,thenewmachinerymightnotprove soamenabletoyouroil.”Hegrinnedasheopenedan

unmarkeddoor.“Kindofyoutoworryforme.”Shesteppedpasthimintoa

spacious office, the wallspapered in dark print, thecarpet a fine Smyrnafacsimile. How odd, that thedevil’s den should smellfaintlyoflavender!

As she settled into a wingchair,theleatherreceivedherlike a soft embrace. O’Sheatook a seat behind the desk,whichwasmagnificent in itsownright—carvedornatelyinwalnut,withlegsfashionedtolook like serpentine seadragons.She touched one finely

etched claw. “This is not areproduction,” she said withsurprise.This deskwas threehundredyearsold,atleast.

“Is that so?” O’Sheasounded pleased. “I wasn’tcertain.”Herantheflatofhispalm across the smoothsurface of the desktop. “Ilikedit,though.”A fluke. She imagined his

taste ran more often towardcheap gilt. Nevertheless . . .“Shouldyoueverwishtosellthis, I think it could go foreightypounds.”He grinned. “A good

bargain, then. He only owed

fifty.”She pulled her hand back

into her lap. Evidently thisdesk had been looted fromsome wretch who could notpay his debts. That ratherspoiledherappreciationofit.“And if you hadn’t liked hisdesk?”He met her eyes squarely.

“Then we would have had aproblem.”Shehesitated.Ifshemeant

to propose an arrangement

between them, shemust alsoknowthatshecouldtrusthimnotto. . .abuseher.“Wouldyouhaveharmedhim?”Hetippedhisheadslightly

as he considered her. Thethoughtful angle caused alockofthickblackhairtoslipover one of his gray eyes.Oddly, her hand itched towipethatcurlaway.“I don’t run a charity,” he

said evenly. “But I’ve neverkilledamanoveradebt.”

A chill ran over her,drawing her skin tight. Hehad killed men for otherthings?“Isee.”A flicker of dark humor

curvedhisfulllips.“Ifyou’refeeling faint, I’ll remind youthat you came here of yourown free will—and you’rewelcome to leave that way,too.”“Inever faint.”She loosed

a long breath. “May I ask,then,whatyoudeemaproper

causeformurder?”He quirked one brow.

“Feelingbloodthirsty?”“Merelycurious.”O’Shea studied her, his

dark face impassive. Shesensedherselfbeingassessed,gauged for anxiety orweakness.But hewould findnone.As forhisweaknesses . . .

She had been trained from ayoung age to evaluate itemsforflaws.Onemightfaulthis

cheekbones for their stark,sharp prominence—but hissquare jaw balanced themvery well. His lips werevulgar, full and shockinglycarnal. But the rough line ofhisnosedrewone’sattentionaway before judgment couldcrystallize.Shehadseennowomenon

the gaming floor. That mustbe by policy. Otherwise,she’dnodoubtthatwomenoflow tastewould be lining up

toplay,simplyforthechanceatglimpsinghim.“Violenceisaclumsyway

of solving things,” he said.“But on rare occasions, it’snecessary.”“Andyouconsideryourself

a good judge of when it’sneeded?”He paused. “You had a

proposalformelastmonth.Ifit was a killing you wanted,you’re looking in the wrongdirection.”

She felt the blood drainfromherface.“Ithadnothingtodowithhurtinganybody.”“No?” He laced his hands

together atop the desk,flexing them so his ringsglittered. “What did itconcern, then?Pilcher, I takeit.”She hesitated. Did she

really mean to do this?Proposeanalliancewitha...ruffian, a gambler, and acrimelord?

“Come now, darling. If itain’t murder, it can’t be sobad.”Sheflushed.Perhapsitwas

not his face that drew her.Her memory for faces waspoor, but she never forgot avoice. His was rich andsmooth.Night-dark,resonant.Suddenly she felt reckless.

What did she have to lose?Association with O’Sheamightruinherreputation.Butlosing the auction house

would destroy her. “Pilcherisn’t the problem. It’s mybrother, Peter Everleigh. Idislike to say it, but he’s notfittorunabusiness.”“Certainly he’s got no

talent at cards,” Mr. O’Sheasaidpleasantly.She stared. “He comes

here?”“Onceor twice.Never left

butwithpocketstolet.”Shehadn’tknownthat.The

news embittered her next

words.“Whathelostwasnothis to gamble. He isembezzling profits from ourauction rooms. If hiscorruption were discovered,the scandal would destroyus.”“Pity. And Pilcher? You

knew him. Didn’t like him,from what I saw. How doeshefactor?”“Oh, I . . .” She hesitated,

oddlyflusteredbytheneedtospeak the words aloud. “My

brother has taken it into hismindthatIwillmarryhim.”Henoddedonce.“Andyou

don’twantto.”“Of course not. I’ve no

intention of marryinganybody. But Peter hasthreatened to sell the auctionhouseifIdon’tcomply.AndMr. Pilcher, for his part, isoddlypersistent.”He sat back, a slight smile

workingoverhismouth.“Notso odd, I’d say. You ever

lookinamirror?”She bit her cheek. It was

one thing to play deaf toclients’ smooth compliments,butwhenclosetedalonewitha rogue, such words feltunnerving. “I—I don’t carewhyhe’sinterested.Butwithmy brother’s encouragement,hehasmadehimselfquite...unwelcome.”His expression hardened.

“How?”“Nothing worth your

time.”“I’llbethejudgeofthat.”She frowned. “Very well.

There was one eveningrecently . . . he was waitingformybrotheratourhome.”She had returned home late,andfoundPilcheraloneinthedrawing room. “I had nointerestinspeakingwithhim,butheinsisteduponit.WhenI tried to leave, he grabbedmywrist and . . .” It seemedstupid,suddenly,tocomplain

of being touched so, whenO’Shea had probably provedfar rougher in his time withany number of women. “Itwas nothing,” she muttered.Buthadthebutlernotwalkedpast,shedidnotliketothinkwhatwouldhavehappened.O’Shea was staring at her

throughnarrowedeyes.“Youmakeahabitofdoubtingyourinstincts,MissEverleigh?”“No.”“Good.” His smile was

swiftandsharp,asthoughshehadpassedsomekindoftest.Theapprovalflusteredher.

She dropped her eyes, but itseemed there was nowheresafe to look. At some point,hehadunknottedhisnecktie,and his collar fell open toreveal the powerful cordingofhisneck.Theeveningcoatfit him very closely,emphasizing the heavymusculature of his upperbody.Hewastallenoughthat

onedidnotrealizeatfirstthepowerofhisbuild.She would like to see

Pilcher try tomanhandle thisman.“Never mind that,” she

said.“Iwant tohireyou, sir.To stopmy brother from hisdepredations.Andto...”Shetook a deep breath. “Topersuade him not to sell theauctionrooms.”“And to discourage

Pilcher?”

“Apleasantbonus.ButmymainconcernisEverleigh’s.”He nodded, then drummed

his fingers once. “Stop yourbrother,how?”The show of interest

encouraged her. He mighthave refused outright, afterall.“Idon’twishhiminjured.I simply wish him unable toparticipate in thedirectorshipofEverleigh’s.”“Prettily put,” he said.

“Let’s be plainer. You want

himkickedoutonhisarse.”Something in his easy,

loose posture made herpainfully aware of howrigidly she held herself, andthe nerves she was tryinghard to conceal. “That isanotherwaytoputit,yes.”He grinned. “Not very

sisterly,isit?Castinghimonthelikesofme.”“Myfeelingsdonotfactor.

A businesswoman never actsfromspite.”

His laughterwasshortandstartled.“Isthatso?Youhearthat in somepastor’shomily,or did you make it upyourself?”She leaned forward. “I

believeit,”shesaidheatedly.“The company is my onlyconcern here. My fatherentrusted Everleigh’s to bothofus.ButPetercaresnothingfor it. Politics is all thatinterests him. Very well, heshould be encouraged to

direct the whole of hisinterests to thepolitical field.ThatiswhatIaskofyou.”O’Shea nodded again, his

gaze wandering her face. Heseemed oddly fascinated byher mouth, studying it amoment too long for hercomfort. “Businesswoman,yousay.”“Yes.” His attention made

her feel overwarm andfidgety, as though her bloodwasrushingtooforcefully,or

herskinhadgrowntoo tight.Her heartwas beating faster,suddenly, than theconversation warranted.“Imagine me sexless, if thenotiontroublesyou.”He smiled. “Now, that

wouldbeapity.”“Listen,” she said more

sharply.“Canyouhelpme,ornot?”“What of the courts? If

he’s such a criminal, bringhimuponcharges.”

“Naturally I’ve thought ofit.” Did he imagine her anidiot? “But the courts wouldnot allow for discretion. IwouldhavetopubliclyrevealPeter’s wrongdoings. Thatscandal would destroy thecompany, too.Nobodywantstopatronizeanauctionhousethatcheatsandstealsfromitsclients.”“True enough.” O’Shea’s

eyes unfocused as heconsulted himself; freed of

his unblinking study, she feltlike she could breathe again.“So. No courts, no violence.A tricky proposal. Andwhat’sinitforme?”“Money,ofcourse.”“Ah.”Heglanceddownat

his hand on the desktop,stretchingouthis fingersandflexing them slightly, asthough to admire the luridglitterofthegemstonesonhislongfingers.“Smallproblem.Idon’tneedmoney.”

What he needed, in fact,was taste. “You surpriseme,Mr. O’Shea. Can you everhaveenoughmoney?”He flashed her a swift,

startledgrin.“Agirlaftermyownheart!”“No, that’s not what I

meant.” Money was not hermain concern. “It’s onlythat . . .” He had not struckher as aman to turn down aprofit. A recent politicalcartoon, agitating against

crime and corruption, haddepicted him outside theHouse of Diamonds, sittingatop piles of moneybags.Even his niece had oncesuggested that money wouldsway his interest. “What doyourequire,ifnotmoney?”“Well, now.” His lashes

dropped, veiling his sharpgrayeyesashetiltedhishandtomake a studyof his rings.“Your brother sits on theMunicipalBoardofWorks, I

recall.”She frowned. “Yes, he

does.”“What’shisaim,there?”“A stepping stone for his

politicalcareer.”“Suppose so.Your brother

wasn’t born to a politicalfamily.He’llhavetoclawhiswayup.”“That’s his intention.”

WhatdidthishavetodowithEverleigh’s?“Nodoubthe’susingthose

ill-gotten funds to buyhimself friendships.” Heglanced up. “And he’ll needthem. To make himself aproper goer, he’ll have toensurethosefriendsaregivennocausetoshunhim,either.”She followed him now.

“Blackmail won’t work. Hisreputation is linked toEverleigh’s success. He’dneverbelieveIwouldexposehim, if it meant endangeringthecompany.”

“Slow down.” O’Sheaoffered her a crooked smile,no doubt intended to charmher. “Lovely lass like youwillputmybrainintoknots.”She snorted.A pity ifMr.

O’Sheahadnotyetheardhernickname. Masculineblandishments were wastedon an ice queen. “Thenunknot it,” she said, “andhurryup.Ihaveappointmentstokeep.”His smile faded. “The

Municipal Board of Workshas become a thorn in myside.I’vegottwobuildingstothewest of here, condemnedby an inspector that answersto Pilcher. He’s got noauthority inWhitechapel, butit seems the fine lads atBerkeleyHousewillentertainhispetitionanyway.”“Hispetitionto...?”“Knock down my

buildings. He calls themhazardous.” O’Shea

shrugged. “I’ve put forwardmyownpetitiontostopit,butthat’ll take another vote.When I add up the friendsI’ve got on that board, I’mshort by a single man. Yourbrother’s vote would makethedifferenceforme.”Understanding welled up,

and with it, disgust. TheMunicipal Board of Workshadundertakenacampaigntoraze unsafe buildings andensuredecenthousingforthe

poor. Mr. O’Shea opposedthis, as all slumlords did.Howlow.Howrevolting.But personal sentiments

had no place in business.With difficulty, she checkedher distaste. “I’m afraid Ihavenoinfluenceoverhim.Icould not persuade him tospareyourbuildings.”“I expect not,” he said

dryly. “You can’t even stophimfromrobbingyou.”She bridled. “Yes, thank

you for the reminder. I doenjoy this plain speaking,sir.”“Ain’t it fun?” He took

hold of his fist, cracking hisknucklesnoisily.“Now,whatwerequire,seemstome, isaproper piece of blackmail.Something to bring yourbrother to heel for us both.Yousaythethreatcan’ttouchontheauctionhouse,orhe’dnever believe you meant it.So it must be . . .” He

frowned. “Some informationwhich he knows you mightreveal, at negligible harm toyourself. At the same time,revealing it would ruin hishopesforapoliticalcareer.”“Clever,” she said flatly.

“Pity I know no suchsecrets.”“Mind you, it must serve

my purposes, too. Iwant hisvotes,nowandinthefuture.”“And Iwould likeaworld

in which Everleigh’s

belonged only to me,” shesaid. “But I deal in fact, notfiction.”He leaned forward, his

weightonhiselbows.Hisfulllips canted into a half smilethat made her stomach flip.“Then we’ll have to make afiction into fact,” he said.“Yousharearoof,true?”She nodded, biting her lip

veryhardasapunishmentforthe stupid tripping of herpulse.

“You’ve got all the accesswe need, then. You’ll plantsomething.Proofofascandalthathemusthide,ifhewantsto keep himself in the goodbooksofhisfancyfriends.”She blew out a breath.

“Proof of what?” Petergambled—but who didn’t?Hewasaphilanderer—buthenever took up with marriedwomen.“Youmusthelpme,”she said. Her mind did notwork in such low, corrupt

ways.He sighed. “Well . . .

they’re not ruling on thebuildings for a week or two,yet. Give me some time tothinkonit.”“I don’t have time! I told

you, he means to sell thecompany!”“Pity,”hesaid,notwithout

sympathy. “And here myniecetoldmeyouownedhalftheplace.”“I do, but I can’t oppose

himunlessI’m—”Married.Her mouth fell open. He

arched a brow, but she feltunable to speak. An idea—apreposterous, astounding,utterly unthinkable idea—exploded through her like afirework.No.Shecouldnotpropose

it.ButforEverleigh’s...for

the sake of Everleigh’s, wasthereanything shewouldnot

do?God help her. “I know a

way,”shewhispered.“Oh?” His gaze fixed on

her, intense and unwavering.So a man would look, whensighting his pistol. Acriminal. A beautiful,dangerousman.Heronlyhope.“He wants a political

career.”Thewordsfeltheavyon her clumsy tongue. Herlips had gone numb, her

entire body iced by shock ather own temerity. “I knowhow to make a secret thatwoulddestroyhischances. Itwould be your secret, andmine, too. He would doanything to prevent us fromspeakingit.”O’Shea watched her

narrowly. “You don’t lookthrilledbyit.”“I’mnot,” she said.“It’sa

perfect nightmare. Marriage,Mr.O’Shea.” She choked on

the next words. “Yours, tome.”

***“Now, here’s a properspread,” said Blushes. “I’venothadsucharoastsincemyma’s own passing.” As helooked over the spread, tablegroaningwithadozensavorydishes, a near-religious aweworkedoverhisbroadface.Nickexchangedanamused

look with Patrick Malloy,

who sat to his right. Quite abrawl they’d had beforesitting down to supper;Malloy’s wife, Peggy, hadinsisted that Nick take thehead of the table. WhenMalloy hadmuttered about aman’s rights, she’d twistedhis ear until he squeaked anagreement.NowNick presided over a

table of fourteen, a solid oakslab that he’d gifted to theoldestMalloydaughteronher

wedding day, seven yearsago. Peggy and Patrick andBlushes sat nearest, and theMalloys’ grown childrenranged down the sides, theirspousesbesidethem.Thefootofthetablepoked

outof the room, straight intothe public stairwell. But inNick’s service, the Malloyshad flourished, and so theyowned the upper floor aswell. Their brood had grownexpert in negotiating the

corners of the table as theyran up and down the stairseach day. The youngestgeneration—grandkids, loudand barefooted and gleeful—barelyslowedastheyracedinandout,shovingeachothertofilltheirplatesfastest.Peggywaspassingatureen

heaped with fried potatoes.“Godrestyourmother’ssoul,Mr. Johnson.” One wouldnever guess, by her mellowtone, that she’d pitched a fit

at having an Englishman tosupper.Thewomanhadasoftspot for a man with astomach,andBlusheswasnotdisappointing her. “She’llhavelivedtoaripeoldage,Ihope.”“Oh yes,” he said, tipping

thepotatoesontohisplate inaheapingpile.“Seventy-fouryears, and each of themsharperthanthelast.”“You’ve got brothers and

sisters,Iexpect?”

“Four,” said Johnson. Hespeared a wedge, chewedhappily as hewent on. “Andtwo nephews and threenieces,now,besides.”“Well, now.” Peggy

beamed at him. “You’ll needtocatchup,there.Findalassofyourown.”“A girl of spare appetite,”

Malloy added sourly. “Elsetogether you’ll eatWhitechapeloutofhouseandhome.Pass those spuds,boy.

Therestofusarewaiting.”Johnson hastily complied.

Foraminute,theonlysoundswere the clink of forksagainst stoneware, andmurmurs of satisfaction allaround.“Family is a blessing,”

PeggyMalloy said.Nick felther gaze fix on him, andbraced himself for the usualharangue. “What a manneeds,Ialwayssay,isawife,a decent and steady girl to

lookafterhim—”“Like he needs a hole in

thehead,”Malloymuttered.“Psh.” Peggy’s hair had

turned iron-gray, but hergreen eyes retained all theforce of her girlhood, inwhich,nodoubt,she’dbeenaproper looker, and had putmanymentoshamewiththatfierce glare. “I’ll give you aproper hole, Patrick Malloy.Keepitup,andI’llbashyou,allright.”

“There’s care,” Malloysaid. “You see, lads?Marriage and murder go inhand like meat does withsalt.”Blushes had forgotten to

chew, his jaw slack withconcern. Nick offered areassuring smile. Was easy,as an outsider, to mistakewhattheMalloyshad.Patrickwasatougholdcodger,blackcold eyes and a flat, meanface;helooked,andgrowled,

like a cur gone rabid. In apinch,hefoughtlikeone,too;woe be to the man whothought his white hair andwrinkles betokenedweakness.But he and Peggy had

made a fine life forthemselves, and once ortwice,whenNickhadsteppedthrough a door too quickly,he’d caught them nuzzlinglikelovebirds.“We’d all be so lucky,”

Nick said, “for such abashing.”He lifted his glass,a pint of dark; he alwayscame to supper with a caskfrom Neddie’s. “To goodhealthandgoodluck.”Tankards lifted. “And to

marriage,” said Peggy,looking him dead in the eye.“No use dragging your feetonit.”Inreply,hebusiedhimself

with drinking. Every supperattheMalloys’,Peggystarted

inonhim.Shecouldn’tknowthattodayhehadnothingbutmarriageonhismind.Life had a sweet streak of

perversity, didn’t it? He’dwatched Catherine Everleighforyears,eversincehisniecehad gone to work at thoseauction rooms. Hard not towatch her; she was, in faceand figure, a living myth.You heard about her kind instories, fairy tales told tokids:hairlikespungold,eyes

like violets, skin without ablotch or stray freckle. Aye,he’d watched her, all right,with idle curiosity, neverexpecting in his life to comenearenoughtotouchher.Hisniece had talked of hersometimes, said they calledher an “Ice Queen,” for sheshowednointerestinthefinegentlemenwhodoggedher.He’d liked her for that.

Prettiest woman in London,turninguphernoseatthesoft

swellswho cast their caps ather. A woman of rare sense,he’dthought.But obviously that wasn’t

true,ifsheproposedtomarryhim.Itmustbeatruemarriage.

So she’d told him, yesterdayat Diamonds. At thatmoment,he’drealizedhewasdreamingthewholebusiness.Aman could lie awake for athousand nights, his hand onhis cock, thinking of a

woman. But when sheappeared, and told him he’dneed to bed her? That wasgenerally a fine sign that hewas still in his bed, eyesclosed, lost to the wakingworld.Only it hadn’t been a

dream, after all. And heneeded to decide what to doaboutit.“Mr. O’Shea, Mr.

O’Shea!”Smallhandstuggedathissleeve.

“Let him be,” Peggy saidsharply. “Oi, Mary—manageyourtyke.”ButNickshookhisheadat

Mary,whowasalreadyrisingfrom her seat at the foot ofthe table. “It’s all right,” hesaid. He laid down his forkand turned to the littleboy—Garod, he believed, thoughMary and her husband weredoing their best to confusehim, with a new babe everywinter.“Whatisit?”

Granted full attention,Garod seemed not to knowwhat todowith it.Breathingheavily,hestaredupatNick,hislittlebrowsworkingashetried to sound out histhoughts.“Iwant—Iwant—”“Spit it out,” said Peggy.

“Thenletthemaneat.”“Iwanttoworkforyou!”Laughter around the table.

Nick grinned and laid hishand atop the little boy’shead.

So small. Had he himselfever been so tiny? “Well,that’s a fine compliment tome,” he said gravely. “Butyou’ve got some growing todo, yet. You see Johnson,over there?” He noddedtowardBlushes.The boy looked over. His

eyeswentround.“Aye,he’sabigone,ain’t

he?You think you can growthatbig?”Garod licked his lips. “I

thinkso.Ithink.”Malloysnorted.“With that

midgetofada?”“Hey,”calledMarysharply

downthetable.Nick laughed. “Well, it’ll

take some work,” he toldGarod. “And lots of eating.What say you go eat yoursupper,andputyourmind togrowing?”Garodnoddedandracedto

fetchhisplate.Peggy was staring. “I

won’t say a word,” she saidwhen she caught his eye.“Butwhatamanneeds—”“Godhelpus,”herhusband

cutin.“Lettheladbe.”“He’ll make a fine father,

isall.”“Thankyou,”Nicksaid,to

forestall Malloy’s defense.But as he applied himself tohis food again, his appetitefeltpeaky.He’d never given much

thought to marriage. Maybe

oneday,whenhewasoldandgray—maybe then, he’dimagined, he might thinkaboutsiringafewbratsofhisown. But he wouldn’t do ituntil he knew, in his bones,thathischildrenwouldneverwant for anything. CatherineEverleigh had said it herself:neverenoughmoney.HewasanIrishbastardinaworldofEnglish, and it would takemore than two dozenbuildings,aminorfortune, to

feel ready to bring a childintotheworld.He’dneed...he couldn’t imagine whathe’d need to feel that safe,that certain of the future. Afortress, maybe. A kingdomof his own. But sure andcertain, he wouldn’t bring achildintotheworlduntilhe’dfoundit.That contract Catherine

had sent over to him, it hadspoken of offspring. He’dread through it, sounded it

out, syllable by haltingsyllable.Afteraperiodoffiveyears, this contract will bedissolved through a petitionfordivorceonthegroundsofMr. O’Shea’s adultery anddesertion, per therequirements stipulated bythe law. Or, should bothparties freely consent, themarriage will continue, theparties undertaking toproduce heirs, of which twowillbedeemedsufficient...

Such dry language, toframe such fearsome risks.Fortunes could change in aninstant. Two kids? In theseparts, two was just the start.Illness, bad water, amoment’s carelessness on arickety stair . . . and then, ifyou managed to pull ’emthrough the early years, youtook an injury at work or inthe street, a carriage cuttingtoo close, a moment’s badluck. Arm broken, you

couldn’t earn. Then whathappened?Nickhadseentoomany wives, too manywidows,starvingsotheirkidscouldeat.Andhewasamanwithhisfairshareofenemies,more likely than most tomakeawidowofhiswife.He’d never wish that fate

on any woman. He’d seen ithappen to his own mother.HadDanotdied, forcingherinto desperate measures toearn a coin, shemight never

have gotten mixed up withBell.Shemightbealiverightnow, sitting at this tablebesidehim.He exhaled, pushing away

that bleak thought. No pointinsuchcomparisons,anyway.A woman like CatherineEverleigh wouldn’t behelpless when widowed. Shehad a company of her own,money of her own, and shebelonged to a world wheredangerwasalwaystenstreets

away. In her part of town,folks went strolling in theevenings to celebrate fineweather. They didn’t need tofeartheshadows.“Where’syourmind,lad?”

Malloyhad loweredhis fork.“Is it the board meeting thattroublesyou?”Peggy looked between

them,thenturnedherback,apointed announcement thatshewouldn’teavesdrop.Johnson drew his chair

closer. “You sure you can’tget another vote?” he askedMalloy.Malloy was the

Whitechapel man on theBoardofWorks.“I’vekissedmore English arses than aScotsman after the ’45,” hesnapped.“Notanothervotetobe squeezed or shat out ofthem.”“Then it’s time to start

knocking heads,” Johnsonsaid.

Nick thought of CatherineEverleigh, standing in thebalcony at Diamonds. He’dnointerestinbeingsomerichwoman’ssecret,orinmakingamarriageinwhichhewouldforever fight for the upperhand. He wouldn’t toleratedisrespect; he’d worked toohard to endurecondescension.Butwhatcametohismind

now wasn’t her sneer—though God knew she

wielded it handily enough.Instead, he thought of herexpression as she’d studiedthe gaming floor. She’d notlooked dazzled, as womenusually did when theyrealized his wealth. Instead,she’d asked how much heowed for it. Nothing, he’dtoldher.Then she’d looked

impressed.A businesswoman, she

called herself. Not a lady,

afterall.Andwhenitcametobusiness,she’dlookedtohimwithrespect.He was madder than a

hatter,nodoubtofit.Buthaditnotbeenforawildgambleor two,he’dbedeadnow,orhalf starved, or drunk in agutter, rather than presidingover this table, with therespect of every man in theparish—orfear,depending.And so he cleared his

throat and stabbed his fork

through a potato, for hisappetite had suddenly comeroaring back. “Good news,lads,” he said. “Seems I’vegotthelastvote,afterall.”

CHAPTERFOUR

Nick’s betrothed arrivedpromptlyathalfpastfiveonawet Thursday afternoon. Ashe unlocked the door, Nick

spiedhershakingafistatthecabman,thenstaringafterthehack with an expression ofoutragebeforesheseemed torecall herself. With a start,shehurriedtowardthedoor.He pulled it open. She

stepped inside, lookingsharply around the desertedlobby.“Nobody’sabout?”“Had the registrar send

home his staff,” Nick said.“What was the trouble withthecabman?”

“The rogue thought tooverchargeme.”She thrust apackage at him, the brownwrappingmottledbyrain,andsmartlyuntiedtheknotatherneck. The cloak fell away,revealing a gown of blackbombazine, without even aribbonfortrimming.He made some noise, no

doubt, forherviolet eyes cuttoward his as she folded thecloak over her arm. “Whatamusesyou?”

“Whodied?”heasked.She looked down at

herself. “Oh. My father. Iworethistohisfuneral.”Heregrettedasking.She thrust out her black-

gloved hands, demandingback her package. “What isthis?”he askedashehandeditover.Feltsoft,likecloth.“Something for later. Do

you have the license?” sheasked as she stripped off hergloves.

She wouldn’t make acomfortablewife.Eachwordshe spoke fell like a pearlfromherlips,coldandroundand perfectly smooth, whileallthewhileshewatchedhimwitheyesassharpasknives.Hepulled the license from

his pocket. She seized it forinspection.“Itlooksreal.”“Doesn’t it?” he said

agreeably.She looked up at him,

suspicionnarrowinghergaze.

Her brows were a shadedarker thanherhair,wingingatadramaticangle,likebirdsinflight.Theylentheralookof natural authority, whichshe no doubt relied uponwhen bossing the toffs whopatronizedherauctionrooms.“Thisisnojoke,Mr.O’Shea.If you’re not certain of theauthenticityofthispaper—”“It’s a real license,” he

said.“AndIpaidahandsomepenny to acquire it, from a

manwhoknowsbetterthantocrossme.Ithinkyou’llfinditinorder.”“I had better,” she

muttered. But she took thetime to read through itanyway,standingintherainylight shed from the fanlightovertheentry.Her skin fascinatedhim. It

looked smooth as cream, nosignofsmallpoxoranyoftheother countless ailments thathad swept through his youth

like the regular plague. Howcould a woman look sonewborn?The paper crackled where

shegrippedit.Shewastryingto hide her nerves, herealized. Good to know shehadsome.Certainlytherewasnothingwomanish about her.She put hard work intodiminishing her beauty.Heldherself like a weapon, hershoulders braced at a rigidstraight angle, her jaw set.

Her hands, which once ortwicehehadseendriftinglikepoetry through the air, moreoften stayed locked togetherat her waist. That perfectmouth, with the dimpledpockets on either side, rarelysmiled, while her pointedlittle chin tilted at an anglebettersuitedtobrawlers.She broke the mold, she

did. Then, he was guessing,shestrewedthejaggedshardsin her wake, the better to

ward off the nobs whodoggedafterher,panting.She handed back the

license.“It looksofapiece,”she said, with an edge ofsurprise that lent theacknowledgment the faintwhiff of an insult. “Are youcertain you trust thesuperintendent registrar’sdiscretion?”“Iownhim,”hesaid.She rolled her eyes. “This

isEngland,Mr.O’Shea.You

do not own anybody, I amhappytosay.”He laughed. “Bless you,

child. You’re like a weetoddler let loose in the big,badworld.”His condescension was an

easyway tomakeher stiffenand scowl. A fine trick, forotherwise he found himselfthinking that her mouthwantedsmiles,andhersweetlittle body was wasted,without a man’s hands to

attend to it. Her veryaloofness might beconsidered a taunt and achallenge—even tohim,whopracticedrestraintasamatterofpolicy.But it would take an even

greater pervert than he to belusting after a woman wholookedlikelytoboxhisears.He decided to keep her

rattled, for his own sake.“Aye,” he said, “you’re astender as a spring lamb, no

doubt.”“Wewillagree todisagree

onthedegreeofmynaïveté,”shesaidcoldly.Whatatalentshehadfortalkinginrhymes!“However, if this man ofyours breathes so much as awordof thismarriage, itwillallbefornaught.”She thought him thicker

thanaboard. “Also, twoandtwo is four,” he said. “TellmewhatIdon’tknow.”“I imagine thatwould take

several lifetimes. But howgratifying that you have agrasp of basic arithmetic, atleast.”“Oh, I’m a hand at

counting. Why, it’s only thehighnumbersthattroubleme.Getstrickyafterfifty.”She blinked very rapidly.

God and his saints, shethought he meant it. Heoffered her another grin. Lether stew in herpreconceptions.

“Well, we might as wellget on with it,” she said atlast,andturnedforthestairs.He lagged a pace behind,

not saint enough to resist afree look. Her gown wouldhave suited a widow, butshort of sackcloth, she’d notfind a way to disguise hercurves.Builtslimthroughthewaist and arms, and heavythrough the bottom—praiseGod,wasthereanyfinerformfor a woman? The full swell

ofherhipswouldhavedrawnhootsatamusichall.She glanced over her

shoulder and realized wherehe was staring. Her faceturned pink; she lifted herskirtsandwalkedfaster.Hegrinned and caught up.

“What’sgotyousored?”“I do hope,” she said in a

muffled voice, “that youunderstood that contract yousigned. What happens afterthis ceremony will be a

singularevent.”“For five years,” he said.

“Who knows? Perhaps we’llforgothatdivorce.”She snorted. “If pigs fly.

But at least you paidattention.”“Only to the good parts.”

At her poisonous look, helaughed.“’Twastwenty-eightpages long,” he said. Hersolicitorshaddrawnitupforanother man—the viscountwho had ended up eloping

with Nick’s niece. Most ofthe terms had focused onpreservingCatherine’slibertyto work. “I’m amazed thatPalmersignedit.”Nickcouldadmire a woman determinedto sweat for her living. Buttoffs tended to like theirwomensoftanduseless.GoodlucktoPalmer, ifhe

was hoping the same ofNick’sniece!“The viscount had no

objections,” she said. “That

match,preciselylikethisone,wasdesignedtobeamarriageofconvenience.”Funnyterm,that.Youonly

heard toffs use it. “Marriageof convenience,” he said.“That’slikely.Neverheardofa marriage that remainedconvenientforlong.”Asshereachedthelanding,

shepausedtowaitforhim.“Itake it that you’re a cynic inmattersoflove.”“In every matter,

sweetheart.”“Good.SoamI.”“Why, we’re a perfect

match,then.”She stared at him,

evidently unsure what tomake of his dry tone.Meanwhile, Johnson andMalloy came around thecorner. “Got Whitby in hisoffice,” Johnson said. HenoddedtoCatherine.“Miss.”Withabriefnod,sheswept

past the two men, who had

come to serve as witnessestoday.Nick followed slowly,

wonderinghowlongitwouldtake her to realize she’d noideawheretogo.It tooktenpacesforher to

turn back. In such smallmoments, lessons weretaught. “You passed it,” hesaidpleasantly.“Seconddoorontheright.”Evenfromthisdistance,he

could see how her jaw

squared. She strode backtoward them, yanking openthe door to Whitby’s officewith such force that the insetwindowpaneshuddered.As she disappeared inside,

Malloy muttered, “There’s atemper.Suresheain’tIrish?”Nicklaughed.“She’dopen

her veins to proveotherwise,I expect, if she heard youwondering.”Whitby popped out and

wavedthemforward.Hewas

ascrawnysackofaman,witha bulging belly and spindlylegs, and a sandy crown ofhair that had thinned at thecenter,nodoubtthankstohisnervous habit of tugging onit.They crowded into the

smalloffice.Whitby shut thedoor with an air oftransparent relief. “As yousee, Mr. O’Shea, I had thebuildingclearedandclosed.Ihavealsoobtainedaseparate

register book, which I willkeep under lock and key inmyownresidence.Ihopethatsatisfiesyourconditions.”“That’s what I paid for,”

Nick said easily. No use inpretendingWhitbywasdoinghim a favor; otherwise, themanmighttrytocollectonit,ratherthancontentinghimselfwiththebribe.“Yes, indeed. Well . . .

without preliminaries, then.”Mr.Whitby crossed to stand

behindhisdesk.“If thebrideandgroomwill standnext toeachother,withthewitnessesflanking.”Nicksteppedup.Inthedry

heat of the office, he caughtscent,forthefirsttime,ofhisintended’s perfume—somethingfaintandnotatallflowery. Dark, with notes ofexotic spice, like a man’scologne.Thatdidn’tsurprisehimas

muchas thefact thatshehad

dabbeditonforthisoccasion.It reminded him suddenly ofhis own idiotic impulseearlier.Well, what the hell. He

unbuttoned his jacket,ignoring the faint startlednoisefromthewomanbesidehim.“I understand,” Whitby

wassaying,“that thebride isoftheAnglicantradition,andthegroom—”“No religion,” Catherine

cut in. “I do not believe it isrequired in a register office.Nor, I think, is onemeant toundresshere,Mr.O’Shea.”Nick pulled out the small

bouquet. It had looked betteran hour ago. He thrust ittoward Catherine. She gavehimanamazedlook,thenlaidher package on the groundandtooktheflowersbetweenthumbandforefinger,withallthe eagerness of a womanacceptingarodent.

“Thankyou,”shesaid,andset the bouquet atop theregistrar’s desk, whereseveral browning petalspromptly detached,showering onto the floor.“Mr.Whitby, if youwill gettothepoint.”“Yes, yes.”Whitby placed

a pair of spectacles on hisuptiltednose,thenretrievedasmall, leather-bound bookwith gilt edging. “In suchcases, there is a

nondenominational ceremonywemight—”“Justcut to thequestions,”

Nick said. “We haven’t gotallday.”Whitby cast him, and then

Catherine, awondering look.“Ifyou’recertain...”“I certainly have better

things to do,” Catherine saidcrisply.“Well, then.” Whitby laid

down the volume. “Joinhands,ifyouplease.”

“Must we?” askedCatherine.Whitby stiffened, as

though his spine hadsuddenlygrown.“Ifthisistobealegitimatemarriage—”“Oh, very well.” She

turned toward Nick, hermagnificent eyes fixing on aspace two inches to the rightof his ear. She thrust out herhands, palms downward, herfingers braced into boardlikestiffness.

Ashetookholdofthem,aqueer surprise jolted throughhim. Her hands were muchsmaller than he would haveguessed. Much warmer, too.The skinon thebacksof herhands was soft and smoothbeneaththeunthinkingstrokeof his thumbs. Her fingersflexed slightly within his, areflex of surprise, and by hisownreflex,hesteadiedthem.Hermoistlittlepalms...“You’ve got calluses,” he

said.A tide of color washed

through her cheeks. “Yes,”she said in a rough voice,almost angry. “I work, yousee.”In the periphery of his

vision,hecaught sightof themarvelinglookexchangedbyJohnson and Malloy. But itfelt wrong to join in theirmockery. Evidently somehiddenshredofreverencehadsurvived in him. This might

beashammarriage,butintheeyes of God and state, itwould be as true in theparticularsasanyother.“Finethingforawomanto

work,”he said. “Just thoughtyouwouldhaveusedgloves,isall.”She met his eyes at last,

and her pale brows drewtogether briefly, as thoughshe were hunting for someburiedmeaninginhiswords.He stared back at her.

God’s truth, but her eyeswere the shade of lavenderstalks, a pure, true,uncorrupted color. A weirdfeeling filled him, apresentiment of some kind,borneofthecontrastbetweenher callused palms and thedeceptively fragile, fairbeautyofherface.He didn’t know this

womanintheleast.Nomatterthat he’d casually watchedherforyears,andspentmore

than one lonely night in hisbed, his hand on his cock,thinking of her. Distancehadn’t shown him the trueshadeofhereyes,orthestateof her palms. But mereseconds,upclose,hadprovedthat he knew no category todescribeher.He didn’t like this feeling.

Wasn’t wise to strike abargain with an unknownquantity.“Mr. O’Shea,” said

Whitby, “do you take thiswomantobeyourwife?”He hadn’t guessed that he

would feel discomfort in thismoment.Man’s lawsweren’tsacred.Butashe replied, thewordsfeltweightierthantheyneededtobe:“Ido.”“Miss Everleigh, do you

—”“Yes.” She pulled her

hands free. “I believe thatwill serve, Mr. Whitby.Unless youwill charge extra

forthelackofceremony.”“Forgot something,” Nick

said, and caught her by thewaist.Her eyes flewwide assherealizedhisintention,buthe stopped her protest withhismouth.Her hands closed on his

upper arms; her fingers, asstiffassteelpins,dugintohisbiceps,tryingtoforcehimoffher. But he wouldn’t behurried. His wedding, afterall. He kissed those soft,

warm lips with deliberateleisure before setting herawayfromhim.She stared, eyes huge, her

breath rasping in her throat.Then,withastrangledsound,sheturnedonherheelforthedoor.“Wait!” Whitby slanted

Nick an apologetic lookbefore shoving forward theregister book, which wasindeedfreshandnew,ashe’dpromised. “I will need your

signaturesfirst.”She pivoted back, her

prettymouthcompressedintoa tight, white line. A luckything the pen didn’t snap inhalf, for the jabbingviolencewith which she wielded itacrossthepage.“And Mr. O’Shea’s,”

Whitbyprompted,“aswellasthe signatures of thewitnesses.”“Can’t write,” Johnson

said.

“Yourmarkwilldo.”His new wife made a

contemptuous noise, thenpicked up her package anddashed him a hostile look asshe jerked her head towardthedoor.“Followme.”Already bossing him.

Perhapsshedidhavea touchofIrish,afterall.Whitby wanted another

word—reassurances aboutcompensation, for the lostlabor from giving his

employees a holiday. By thetime Nick stepped into thehall, Catherine was pacing.Theclickofthedoorbroughtherwheelingaround.He’d thought her pale

inside, but she was colorlessnow.“We’llneedprivacyforthelastbit,”shesaidthroughher teeth. “A hotel? Wewould need to enterseparately.”“I’vegota setof roomsat

Diamonds,”hesaid.

“Youpropose todo this inagamblingden?”Hermouthtwisted.“Howfitting.”

***Mr. O’Shea’s apartment atthe House of Diamonds wasasornateasthegamingfloor,although the color scheme,thankfully,wasamoremutedpalette of bronzes andbrowns. Catherine paused inthe sitting room, where ahealthy fire was blazing, to

removehersoddencloak.Thesight of the black bombazinesleeves startled her for amoment; she had forgottenshe was wearing mourning.Perhaps it was disrespectfulto her father’s memory tohaveworn thisgown to sucha charade, but she hadrequired thematching veil toavoid notice from passersbyon her journey toWhitechapel.Asshelaiddownthecloak,

shecaught sightofherself ina mirror across the room.Howpale she looked!Likeamournerintruth.In the distance, a door

closed. Shewaited, listening,but heard no footsteps. Mr.O’Sheahadtakenhimselfoffonsomeprivatemission,andshe was grateful for thechance to compose herself.Therewasnousegivinghimthesatisfactionoffindingherpallid and cowering, like

somefrightenedvirgin.Shewasavirgin,though.She refused, however, to

befrightened.She walked to the mirror,

pausing to smooth down herdamp hair, then to bite herlips and pinch her cheeks.There. Better to look lividthanfearful.Lastnight, lyingalone in her bed inBloomsbury, she had nearlytalked herself out of this bit;had almost reasoned herself

into believing thatconsummation wasunnecessary.But Peter had made a

remarkatdinnerthatlingeredwith her afterward. He hadbeen haranguing her againaboutMr.Pilcher. “It isonlynatural to fear husbandlyattentions,” he’d told her.“But your disinterest inmarriage is unnatural in theextreme. It suggests somedisorderofthebrain.”

If Peter suspected that shehad not consummated thismarriage—if he doubted themarriagewas true—hemightrefuse to bow to blackmail.Shewould have to announcethe marriage to the world,then, so she might claim thedirectorship and prevent himfromsellingEverleigh’s.That announcement would

not profit Mr. O’Shea,however.Hisbuildingswouldstill be imperiled. He might

feel tempted to deny themarriagehimself.There must be no legal

groundsforhimtodoso.She squaredher shoulders,

staring deeply into her owneyes.Thatkissintheregisteroffice—ithadn’tbeensobad.Rude, unnecessary, andunbearably presumptuous,but...His skin had scraped hers.

She touched her chin lightly,remembering the sensation.

That must have been hisstubble—invisible, for he’darrived freshly shaven.But aman’sskinfeltverydifferent,regardless.Therisingcoloronherface

made her scowl. She neededto do this only once. Neveragain. So Mr. O’Shea hadagreed, in signing thebetrothal contract. What ablessed relief that divorcewouldbe!Apitythatcautionbadehertowaitfiveyearsfor

it. But that span of timewould provide ampleopportunity for Peter toadvance in politics, and loseinterest in the auction roomsentirely. By the time thedivorce petition wassubmitted, she hoped, shewouldhavesoleownershipofEverleigh’s.The door opened quietly.

Mr.O’Sheacarriedabottleofwine in one hand, and twoglasses in the other.

Goodness. She looked awayto hide her horrified smile—prayheavenhedidnotintendto make her enjoy this—andher gaze settled on thepackageshe’dbeencarrying.“Bottle of red,” came

O’Shea’s voice. “Fresh fromFrance. Will you take aglass?”Bottle of red? “I don’t

know that varietal,” she saiddryly.“Atanyrate,no,thankyou. I no longer drink.” She

ignored his snort. The lastthing they required wasanother debate on hercommitment to temperance.“Let’s get to this, shallwe?”She picked up the packageand walked toward the onlyother door in the room—relieved, as she opened it, todiscover that the bedroomwas not nearly as lurid asshe’d feared. The walls andbedsheets were brown silk,the pillows tasseled in gold.

The dark carpet felt soft andthick beneath her feet. Hermuddybootswould ruin it—butthatwasnotherconcern.Asinglebranchofcandles

litthesmallroom,lendingitadiscomfortinglycozyquality.The creak of the

floorboards announcedO’Shea’sapproach.Aboltofanxiety sizzled through her.She took a deep breath,willing the cold resolve toreturnas she rippedopen the

package. She had gonehalfway across London tofetch it, wearing thatbombazineveil,whichwassothick that it all but blindedher.“What’sthat?”She flinched. He was

speakingnearlyatherear.“Asheet.” She snapped it open;it billowed across thecounterpane and settled,whiteasafieldofsnow.She frowned. It was not

quite as plain as she’d liked.The white embroideryblended into thewhitecottonbacking, but it still lookedembarrassingly ornate.Againstthedarkcoverlet,thesingleholepiercingthecenterof the sheet becamedisturbinglyconspicuous.“Whatin...”O’Sheawas

staring at the sheet, hisexpression impossible toread.The blush burned through

herlikefire.Shewantedonlyto shrink and hide. No. Shewould not give him thatsatisfaction. A curious angerswam through her, clippingher vowels. “You will makethisquick,Itrust.”He snorted, his attention

stillfixedonthesheet.“Withthat in the way? I hope so.Didyoustitchityourself?”“Certainlynot.”Shesaton

the bed and began to unlaceher boots. “I have no gift at

domestic arts. There arecertain religiouscommunitiesthatsellsuchparaphernalia.”“Notmine,”hesaidflatly.She glanced up, startled.

“Areyoureligious,sir?”Hemether eyes, amuscle

flexinginhisjaw.“PityifI’mnot. I’ve got the devil atmyheels,allright.”She frowned as she pulled

offherboots.“Iwillaskyounot to object. It took me agreat deal of trouble to

procurethatitem.”“Would it matter if I did

object?”She had enough wisdom

nottoanswerthat.Butassherose in her stocking feet toloosen the buttons at herneck,herfingersfeltshaky.Thesheetposedaproblem.

Thiscandlelight,with itssoftandflatteringquality,seemedto cast a mockingromanticism over the scene.She would prefer darkness.

But itwouldrequire light forhim to locate the opening inthesheet.She gritted her teeth, then

turned the dial in the wall.Thelampsblazedtolife.He winced, shielding his

eyeswithonehand.“Arewetoshaginaspotlight,then?”The word was filthy and

unfamiliar to her. She couldguessat itsmeaning, though.“Does it make a difference?Now, please leave so I may

undress and place myselfbeneaththesheet.I’llcalloutwhenI’mprepared.”Hegapedather.Therewas

somethingmildlydivertinginthesightofNicholasO’Shea,soplainlydisconcerted.“Andhere I thought a gently bredvirginmight likesomeprettywordsfirst,ifnotthewine.”Her stomach pitched

nervously.Sheignoredit.Shewas a businesswoman, andthis was only another matter

of business. Emotion had noplaceinit.“Iamgentlybred,and a virgin. But I am notgirlish, and I do not requirepoetry in businesstransactions.”Hisbrowslifted.“Business

transactions? Darling, if thiswerebusiness,we’dbeonthestreetcorner.”She flushed. Why was he

makingthisdifficult?Itwasacomfort to know that hehadn’t guessed the great

turmoil bubbling inside her,buthowmucheasieritwouldhave been had he simplyfollowed her lead! “I do notmeantogiveitsuchavulgargloss,”shesaidstiffly.“ButIseenoneedtopretendatdeepfeeling.Weretheresomewayto avoid this unpleasantness,we would do so. Butconsummation will mitigatethe risk to us. If my brothertries to challenge thismarriage,wewill speakwith

acleanandhonestconsciencetoanyofficerinthelandthatwearelegitimatelymarried.”“And I don’t argue with

that,” he said. “But for myownsake...”“Surelyyoudonot require

candlelight in order toperform,Mr.O’Shea?”His head snapped back.

The churning in her stomachintensified.Hadshegone toofar?“Fine,then,”hepurred.“If

you’reuptoit,thencertainlyIam.”She nodded tersely. “Then

pleasestepoutside,soImightundress.”“No.”Hetookaseatinthe

single wing chair, his smilemocking.“If it’s the law thatconcerns you, seems wise tomind all the particulars. I’llneed to make certain there’sno flaw in you that mightinvalidatethemarriage.”“Flaw?”Shestaredathim.

“Whatdoyoumean?”“I mean, I’ll see you

naked,” he said. “Make surethere’s no false pretenses atwork.See thatyou’vegotallthe necessary bits, and such.Thatsheet,afterall,makes itimpossibletotell.”Shehadnowords.“I...”“And of course, I’ll return

the favor.” His smile tippedinto a roguish slant as hereached for his collar. Withleisurely movements, he

unknotted his necktie. “Goon,” he said pleasantly. “Weneedn’ttaketurns.Willspeedthings up ifwe bothwork atonce.”He began to shrug out of

hisjacket.Shequicklyturnedher back. “I have no need towatch,” she spat at the wall.“I am quite certain that youhave the—necessary bits, asyouputit.”“Oh?” His voice was

muffled, but it grew clearer

again as he continued. “I’lltake that as a compliment.”Muffled thump—from thecornerofhereye,shesawhisjacket hit the ground,followedbyhisboots.“You need some help

there?”heasked.There was a smirk in his

voice. He was enjoyinghimself. No doubt he’dbedded a hundred women inhistime.Wasitanywonderifinnocence,acertaindegreeof

modesty and reserve, struckhimaslaughable?Butshewasnotaspectacle

for his amusement. Shepivoted, facing him, andopened the lastbuttononherbodice.Thepoundingofherheart,

the rushing of blood in herears,mercifully deafened herto whatever word slippedfrom his lips then. But theglare of the lights revealedwithstarkclarity thesurprise

onhisface—andthen,asshelethergownfall to thefloor,theinfinitesimaltighteningofhis expression, the newhardness of his mouth, andthefractionaldropofhislids,so his gaze suddenly lookedslumberousasittraileddownherbody.That look worked some

evilmagic on her, luring outher own awareness from thesafetyofherbrain—pullingitdownintoherbody,alongher

ownlimbs,chasinghisglanceacrossherskin,goosebumpsrising.She swallowed. He was a

handsome man. She was,despite all rumors, a womanofordinaryfleshandblood.Itwas a biological effect,nothing more, that causedeveryinchofhertoflushandtightenbeneathhisregard.She made herself speak.

“Have you seen enough?”Her corset could not contain

the uppermost swell of herbreasts. Her petticoats werenot thick enough to hide anyseveredeformity,surely.His laughter was husky.

“Darling,” he said, “you’llnot get off so easy as that.Why, you could have threelegsbeneaththoselayers.”“Naturally,” she snapped.

Why had she expected anybetterofhim?Shewouldnotgive him another chance tolaugh at her. She fumbled

behindherwaist for theknotthat held up her petticoats. Ityielded suddenly, and thelayersdroppedtothecarpet.Now she wore only a

chemise and bloomers. Andhercorset,ofcourse.Sheputher hands to the clasps, thenhesitated, her stomachflipping. Once she removedthis . . .Herchemisewasallbuttransparent.“That offer to help,” he

drawled,“stillstands.”

Shenarrowedhereyes.Shewas a working woman. Hercorsetfastenedatthefront.“Ican manage,” she said. “Butperhapsit’syouwho’shidinga flaw.” For apart from hisjacket, he remained fullyclothed.Hisgrin spreadashe rose.

“Pardon the delay. Iwas toobusy taking in the sights, Isupp—”“Stoptalking,”shehissed.With a soft, infuriating

laugh, he reached for hiswaistcoat. She crossed herarms—there was no need togetsofaraheadofhim,afterall—and stared at the spotdirectlyoverhisshoulder.No.Shewouldnot lethim

embarrass her. She fixed herattention on his long fingers,watching as they made aclever dance down thebuttons of hiswaistcoat. Theitem fell to the floor. Heshrugged out of his braces,

then pulled his shirt andundervestfromthewaistbandofhistrousersandliftedthemoverhishead.Hermouth went dry.Men

worefewerlayers.“Well?” he asked. He

raised his arms, turning aslowcircletodisplayhisbareupper body. “Anycomplaints?”None, she thought

fervently, thenrecoiledat thethought.Buthewasbuilt...

superbly.Hisbroadshouldersand upper arms werepowerfullysculpted;hisbellywas leanand taut,segmentedinto bands of muscle. Adusting of dark hair framedhis flat nipples—and anotherpatch of hair, a narrow, darkline, began below his navel,leading downward into hiswaistband...“You will do.” She meant

tosayitveryflatly.Buttherewasafracture inhervoice,a

hitchinggulpforair, thatshedidnotrecognize.Shefelt,allatonce,acutelyawareofhowshe stood, how she balancedher weight on her feet, howcertain parts of her body feltthe cool air more keenly,inexperiencedastheyweretoits touch. A shiver skitteredoverher skin. It felt like . . .excitement.Get this over with,

before . . .Beforewhat?Shefelt shaken as she unclasped

the fastenings of her corset.Shecouldnotbeartolookupat him now, not even whenshe heard his breath catch.Justgetthroughthis,shetoldherself. A physical act, thebody means nothing, yourmind is what matters. Sheheardtheslitherofclothfromhisdirection,butshefocusedonly on finishing what mustbe done—the loosening ofher bloomers, the clingingfabric of her chemise that

seemed to resist the scrabbleofherhands...Once naked, she remained

staring at the carpet for amoment. She would notblush, nor flinch, nor givehim any sign of her nerves.Sheliftedherchinandlookedathim.He’d caught up to her.He

was...“Flawless,”hesaidsoftly.Sheclearedher throat.But

no retort, no setdown,

supplied itself. No man hadevergazedonhernude formbefore.Norhadsheseenamanin

hisnaturalstate.“Bit pink, though.” He

lifted his gaze, his smileroguish. “I won’t hold itagainstyou.”Was that an attempt at

humor?Shecouldnottell,forhisexpressionconfusedher—his smile so easy, his gazenarrow and fierce, devouring

asitsweptdownheragain.He’d seen enough. She

should dive for the sheet—butthatwouldlooklikefear.Shehadmorepridethanthat.She forced herself to look

down his body. His thighswere sculpted with muscle,and the appendage betweenthem. . . Itwasgrowingandlengtheningbeforehereyes.God in heaven. If it

continued to enlarge, theywould face another

impedimenttothismarriage.“DoIsuit?”hemurmured.Flawless. She would not

repay him that compliment,evenif it lingeredonher lipsforamoment.Hehad forcedher to this mortifyingreckoning, hadn’t he? Hedeserved no praise. “I don’tknow yet,” she said verycoolly. “Turn around, and Iwilljudge.”With a shout of laughter,

hesweptheralowbow.God

inheaven,shehadnotknownaman’sthighscouldflexso.She would have liked to

find some small fault toremark, but his backsideoffered none. He had not atrace of spare weight on hisbody,buthisbottomwas...fuller and higher and tighterthanshemighthaveexpected.Very different from a femalebottom. Her palms itched tocup it, to see if it felt asmuscularasitlooked.

Why, she was an animal,after all, to behold a man’sbottomwithsuchinterest!He pivoted back. “Well,

mistress?”“You’lldo.”Shebrokefor

the bed, sliding beneath thecover. “Make haste.” Hisironical lookpromptedhertocontinue, “My brother isattending a dinner thisevening, you see.” As hecame prowling forward, shespoke faster, a nervous

babble.“Anditseemswisetospeakwith him before he—”He grabbed the sheet andyanked it off her. “What areyou—”He put one powerful thigh

onto the mattress, bringinghis member into her field ofvision. She turned her headaway,scowlingatthewallasshe scrabbled for the cornerof the sheet. “I will remindyou, sir, this is a matter ofnecessity—”

“Agreed.” His hot handscupped her face, his mouthpressingagainstherear.“Andit will be quick, I fear.” Histonguelickedintoherear.She gasped. What was he

doing? And . . . what wasamiss with her ear? For hislipsfelt...Wonderful. Amazing. She

had never known that an earcouldbeasourceofpleasure,but as his clever lips playedoverherlobe,shesighedand

relaxed.Thefullweightofhisbody

came down atop hers. Thealien sensation riveted her.He was so much larger. Hisskin felt so hot. “Here’s thething,” he said very softly ashe smoothed his knucklesdown her throat. She felt theroughnessofhispalmagainsther shoulder, then her waist.“Necessity or not, there’s nouseinmakingthispainful.”“Itis...alwayspainfulthe

firsttime.Isn’tit?”Sheknewthat much, though painfulwas hardly the word for thestrange feeling shiveringthroughher.He drew back, frowning.

“Itneedn’tbe.”She looked up into his

eyes,soclosetoherown.Hisirises were an extraordinaryshade, the color of winterfrost, the faintest hints ofgreen stippled through bandsof silver. His lashes were

long, ink-black, curled asextravagantlyasagirl’s.Thebump in his noise lookedlargerfromthisproximity.She watched herself reach

up to touch it.Why not?Hewastouchingallofher.“Youbrokeit?”shesaidunsteadily,alittledrunkonhertemerity.Touchingaman;lyingnakedbeneathhim.Buthedidn’tseemtomind

it.“Morethanonce,”hesaid,andkissedherneck.

Shewasnotcertainwhattodo. But there had beennothing malicious or unkindinhisexpression,andhislipswere soft. Besides, theconsummation had to occur.So she closed her eyes andheld still, permitting him todowhathemust.Hissoftbreathwarmedher

mouth as he raised his head.“By God. Your skin tasteslike...magic.”She didn’t need to be

humored. “Soap, youmean.”But her voice wrapped veryraggedlyaroundthewords.His mouth quirked, an

amused little smile. Then heleaned inandkissedher lips.Itwasvery . . .pleasant.Histongue touched the seam ofher mouth—rubbing,coaxing. He seemed to . . .wantinsideofit.Why?Shehadenvisionedacold,

perfunctory bedding. Butwith each unexpected touch,

each startling moment ofpleasure, he was stoking hercuriosity, unseating her vowto remain aloof, even here.“Is this necessary?” shewhispered.“A man can’t perform on

command,Kitty.”Kitty? She scowled. “I do

notappreciatevulgarnick—”Hegrinned, flashingwhite

teeth, and licked into hermouth.Her strangled yelp came

out like a snort. Thisindignity kept her occupiedfor a moment too long—amoment in which his mouthdidsomethingwickedtohers,so their tongues tangled. Assimply as that, she at lastunderstood the way ofkissing. She understood whypeoplefavoredit.Itwas not an assault, after

all.Notgrossorindelicate,asshe had feared. His lipsfelt . . . incantatory. Patient,

persuasive, creating adrugging laxity in her body.Tentatively, she kissed himback. He made anencouraging noise, low andsomehow dirty, which madeher flush. His chest pressedflat against hers, but he heldthemajorityofhisweightonhis elbows, keeping theirlowerhalvesapart.That small consideration

seemed to be amessage: shecould kiss him for however

long she liked. What laybelow—that part of himcurrently canted off to theside, out of contact—wouldpose the real problem, but inthemeantime...sheneedn’tworry.Not to worry.What a rare

andextraordinaryindulgence.Eyes closed, she lost herselfin this wondrous kiss, whichwasteachinghersomuch.Nowonder the maids proved sowayward with the footmen.

No wonder the hostessesconsortedwiththeclients...His hand closed on her

breast.Shegasped.“Shh,”hesaidintohermouth,andthen,with his thumb, he began torub her nipple, chafing andthenpinchinglightly.Nerves fluttered. But he

was allowed to do this, shereminded herself. Just thisonce,itwasnotwrongofhertopermitit.With that thought, the

tethers of tiresome necessity—rejection; resistance; theneed to remain cold andaloof, lest gentlemenmisunderstand—fell away.What remained wassensation: thegentleabrasionof his rough skin; the dampheat of his mouth on herneck. This odd, tighteningdemand inside her. An achein her breasts and betweenherlegs.Notweakening, no.Desire

felt like a new kind ofambition, a rising awarenessof some ineffable goal thatdemanded her effort. Sheneededtotouchhim.Wondering at herself, she

threaded her hands throughhis thick hair. So soft! Thecurve of his skull evoked aweird surprise; he, this greatstrapping man, was just ashuman as she,made of fleshand sinew and bone, just asmortal. She slid her palms

down his broad back, thesmoothhotmuscledthicknessof his upper arms. Had hebeen made of marble, andtwo thousand years old, shewould have touched him so,feeling for flaws—so shewould say—but secretlymarveling at the genius ofwhatshefelt.Nature was an artist, too.

The sharpness of his elbows,chiseledintosuchfinepoints;the prominent veins of his

forearms, irony embodied, adelicate tracery that provedhisstrength...Whatapieceofbeautyamancouldbe!His mouth tracked down

her collarbone, scattering herthoughts. As his handremained busy at her breast,teasingandpulling,hismouthfound her other nipple. Heflickeditwithhistongue.She gasped, for it felt

divine. Her body wanted tosplayopen,toyieldtohim.

Yield.Her eyes opened. Shewas

staring at a white ceilingtrimmed in handsome giltmolding. Gilt. Who pickedout their molding in gilt?Tacky, a gambling den, Godabove, he was nudging herthighs apart, he had read hermind.Atlast,finally,shefeltclearheaded—appalled—thisstranger, this criminal, wascolluding with her bodyagainst her, dividing herwill

fromherdesire—She forced her thighs

closed. “This isn’tnecessary!”Hereleasedhernipplewith

a wet pop as he looked up.“Maybe not for you,” hemurmured. “But if you needmetoperform...”She feltherself turnas red

as a flag. “Surely you’reready by now.” She darted alook down his body, but headjusted his hips to conceal

theproof.“Notyet,”hesaid.“I’ll let

you knowwhen I’mwarmedup.” With a half smile, hetookhernippleintohismouthagain—holdinghereyesashesuckedher.The sight undid something

inher.Once,whilecatalogingthelibraryofacountryestate,she had flipped through apornographic book, veryquickly,horrifiedbyherowncuriosity, andby the feelings

the filthy pictures had stirredinher.But this was even filthier.

Yetshecouldnotlookaway.His long, muscular bodystretchedoverhers,hisblackhairruffled,hisgoldenflankssprawled withunselfconsciousdisregard,hisentirefocusnowonthebreastto which he ministered. Helooked content to stay atopher forever, tasting andsucking and teasing her, as

with one hand he smoothedover the pale slope of herbelly, venturing lower andlower toward the curlsbetweenherlegs...Hisfingersslidthroughher

curls, delving through foldsthat she had barely daredtouchherself.Andshehadnochoice but to let him. Nochoice, God be praised! Nochoice but to accept histouch, to gasp and archupward voluptuously as he

ravished her with small,precise, delicious touches,expertiseandskill,thedevil’sowninstinctforhowtomakeher whimper. He touched aspot that seemed to hold allthe most sensitiveconnectionsofhernervesandsinews, and her entire bodytensedlikeabowdrawntight.Sodelicatelyhe touchedher,again and again and again,rubbing and stroking andmurmuring in a low, hot

voice as she gasped, thisquaking, unbearable pleasurewinding her tighter andtighter, so soon enough, shewouldsnap...“Wetasariver,”sheheard

him say hoarsely, and thenhisbodycamefullyatopher,and she felt the blunt nudgeof his manhood against hersex. Anxiety fractured herdazeandmadeherstiffen.Hekissedhermouthagain.

“Not like that,”hewhispered

intoherear.“Here, feelme.”His hand reached betweenthem, covering her sexcompletely, his clever fingerfindingthatspot,again.“Feelthis.”Shebitbackagroan.“Just

doit.”His tongue curled around

her earlobe, making hershiver.“Don’tbebossingmein bed,” he said, very low.Andthenhepushed.A burning sensation.

Discomfort, yes, but also somuch more . . . Here waswhat she’d wanted, thisanimalfullness,thisprofoundpossession. But he did notcomplete his penetration.Half buried inside her, helooked down at her, as littleribbons of sensation radiatedout, spilling down the backsof her straining thighs, hershaking knees. “Hurry,” shemanaged.“Cry out forme,” he said,

“andI’llfinishit.”She bit her lip hard. She

would not cry out. She hadmoredignity than that. “Thisis—stupid.”“Be that as it may.” His

voice sounded strained now.“You’llcryout,or I’llgonofurther.”“Fine.Ha!”Foramoment,hewentstill

andsilent.Andthenherippedhimself off her so suddenlythat she did cry out, in

surpriseandconfusion.Buthewasgrinningather.

“All right,” he said. “Youasked for it.” And he diveddown, seizing her thighs andopeningthemwide.“What are you—ah!” His

mouth—he had placed hismouthonher,there,thatveryspotthathisfingerhadfoundbefore. “Stop, stop—”Itwastoo much; every muscle inher body was tighteningwithoutherdirection;shewas

nothing but need, her bodilyawarenessfocusedentirelyonhis tongue lickingand lavingherwithfierce,single-mindedintent—The tension snapped. Her

hipsjerked,pleasurecrashingthrough her. Distantly sheheardherownsob.Herhandsscrabbled over his back,dragginghimagainsther;sheopened her mouth on hisshoulder, tasting him, bitinghimassheshudderedbeneath

him.Hetastedlikenothinginthisworld, salt and flesh andwickednessand...“Now there’s a proper

cry,” he said raggedly, andfitted himself to her again,onlynow,whenhepushed,itseemed that his appendagehad been fashioned for her,theresistancegone.Heseatedhimself to the hilt, deepinsideherbody,andbegantomove.She wrapped her arms

around him and cleaved tohim as he thrust. Yes. Thesoles of her feet found thebacks of his calves, and shefelt themflex;she turnedherface into his thick black hairand smelled the essence ofhim, musky and masculineandbeyondanything.Take me. She could think

it; just once, only once. Hisstrong hands gripped herface;heopenedhermouthtohis tongue, and she accepted

it,welcomed it,drinkinghimin.Here, thisnaturalwonder,this unimagined glorious act—forafewblissfulmoments,itwas all that therewas; hermindwasquiet,shewasonlybody,nothingelse.At last, he groaned and

thrustoffher,rollingawaytospill his seed safely. It gaveher a shock; she realized shehad forgotten her plan tospeaktohimaboutthatagain,before unwrapping the sheet.

Shefeltameasureofbelatedpanicatherowncarelessness,and deep gratitude for hisconsideration.His naked back was pale

goldincolor,blemishlessandbroad. When he rolled over,she stared at his body,absorbing his beauty fromthis novel angle.A long scarslashed over his ribs. Histhighs made a sleek andgraceful line . . . Panicflickered through her as he

reached for the abandonedsheet. No doubt he meant tobe courteous as he handed itto her. She covered herselfwith it, butmade no offer tolet him share, for there wasstill somuchmoreof him tosee. And she had only thisoncetolook.Butitisalreadyover.A weird panic swam

through her. Never again?After what she had justexperienced?

Alarm made her avert hereyes. What ailed her? Evewith the apple. Of course.Forbidden knowledge wasalways sweet—andpoisonous.Shesteeledherselfonalongbreath.Shefelthisgentletouchas

he smoothed a lock of hairfromhershoulder.“Yougaveyourself away too cheaply,Kitty.”Hisvoicewashoarse.“You should have asked forthemoon.”

The nickname triggered adifferent kind of unease.Nobody but her father hadever called her by adiminutive. “I asked for theonly thing I want,” she saidstiffly.The only thing I knew to

want.No. She rejected that

thought. Of course bed sportcouldbepleasant.Otherwise,therewouldbenoslatternsintheworld.Thatdidnotmean

that this experience wouldhaunt her. She would notpermitit.But she foresaw, even in

this raw moment, that itwouldtakeeffortnottothinkofwhathehaddonetoher.That was not the worst

part, though. The worst partwas that when his handlingered on her shoulder,massaginglightly,shewantedto lean closer, in case hewishedtokissheragain.

Sheinchedaway.Thiswasno ordinary marriage. Shewas no ordinary woman. Itwas not in her to make aproperwife to anyman. Shedepended on her own self-discipline, and she could notallow him to weaken it, forthere was no future betweenthem.She stood, gathering the

sheet around her. She sensedhimgazingather,thesilenceweighted by a sense of

expectancythatshecouldnotstand.Thiswasdone. Itmustbedone.But a niggling sense of

injustice lingeredwith her asshe walked to the mirror tosmooth her hair. She was afair woman, was she not?Committed to honest andtransparentdealings.She made herself turn to

look at him. “You areflawless,too.”His swift, flashing smile

seemed to snag a hook intoherchest.Again, she felt shecould not breathe, that thispanicwouldcrushher.Sheturnedbacktoscowlat

herreflection.TheIceQueen.That was who she must be.And even if she had been amorefemininewoman...hewas a ruffian. Their worldscouldneverbebridged.

CHAPTERFIVE

Nick was comfortable withsilence. As a boy at thedocks, he’d found out howmuch there was to learn by

keepingone’smouthshutandletting others talk themselvesinto carelessness. Themisplaced brag or theaccidental mention ofexpected good fortune hadled him many times to awindfall thatothershadlinedupforthemselves.Asaman,he’ddiscovered

that silence made a weapon,too.Keepquiet longenough,and brave men lost theircourage.Wisemen lost their

discretion.Tonguesstartedtoflap,defensestocrumble.But God save him if the

silence in the coach wasn’tawkward. Enduring it woreonhis lastnerve.Didn’thelpthat his new wife sat acrossfrom him, swaddled to thethroat in a cloak as dark asnight, her face emerging likeapearlfromvelvet,shiningintheswinginglightof thesidelamp.It aggravated him that she

looked untouched, for hehimself felt . . . rubbed upagainst, disordered, allmessed and tousled inside.What had happened in thatbed today? He was Irishenoughtothinkofwitchcraft,and modern enough todismiss it instantly. But theconviction lingered,unsettling and unwelcome,that something had happenedthat changed him, knockedhim off-kilter the slightest

degree, so her face nowseemed like the only thingworthlookingat.He couldn’t afford that

kindofdistraction.Fiveyears till he’dhave it

again. That term in thecontract was lookingdifferent,suddenly.Nolongerjust a point of amusement,proof that toffs wouldlegislateanything,rightdownto the breath drawn by abody. Now it looked like a

clever piece of torture. Hewas ordered, by a point oflaw, to resist the temptationthathadrisenrightafterhe’dfound his release,when he’dwanted to start touching heralloveragain.IceQueen, theycalledher.

Letthemkeeponthinkingso.He’d made his fortunethrough opportunities thatfools and laggards hadmissed. He’d spotted her,hadn’the,whenhisniecehad

gone towork at Everleigh’s?Watching her, he’d come tounderstand how a goodwomanmightbelikenedtoarare jewel.With such a ladyonhisarm,amanwouldneedno flash to show the worldthathemattered.But theworldwouldn’t be

seeinghimwithCatherine. Itwould never guess that he’dcracked her wide open,proved the Ice Queen wasmadeofbloodandflesh,soft

and pale, flawlessly smooth.If he touched that soft skin,now—ifhestroked thatstraylock of hair from her cheek,andputhislipsatthatsweet,shadowed crook where herneckmethershoulder—she’dthreaten to summon asolicitor.She couldn’t annul the

marriage, though. Didn’t sitright,howsmughefeltaboutthat—or how irritated, at theprospect of five years’ wait

till he could have her again.He felt rattled by it, in fact,andwasgladwhenthecoachslowedandshetoldhimtheyhadarrived.“You will let me handle

this,” she said as he openedthe door and helped herdown.“Sure.”Heletgoofheras

quickly as possible.Cloakorno,heknewthatcurveofherwaistnow,andtheshapeofitmade his palms burn. Or

maybewhat smartedwas hispride,forhowindifferentshesounded to his touch. He’dmade her cry out, all right.Buthercomposuresuggestedshe’dalreadyforgottenit.He wasn’t a man

accustomed to beingforgotten, though he knewbetterthantoexpectanythingelse from her. Swells, fancyfolk, had a talent fordismissinghiskind. Ithadn’tever bothered him before.

He’dtakenadvantageoftheirsnobbery,orlaughedthemoffasshallowfools.But shewasn’t a fool, this

womanhe’dmarried.Andhewasn’tsure,suddenly,thathecould bear her sneers solightly.

***As Catherine walked towardthedrawingroom,shetriedtoschool herself for theconfrontation to come. She

should be relishing themoment,savoringthetasteoflong-awaitedvictory.Instead,allshecouldthinkaboutwasthemanbesideher.Was he relivingwhat they

haddoneinthatbed?Shefeltraw, unsteady on her feet, asacutely, tremulously alive tohis presence as a fox to anearbyhound.Oneaccidentaltouch from him, and shewouldbeundone.No. She would not let

herselfdwellonit.Shewouldmakeherselfnumbtohim.She shoved open the door

with too much force. Peterlooked up from hisnewspaper, his glanceflickering to O’Shea behindher.“What is this?” he asked,

frowningashelaiddownthenewspaper.“Business,” she said

crisply.“You know I receive no

tradesmenintheevening—”“This is no tradesman,”

Catherinesaid.“Indeed,Ihadthought aman like you,whofollows the news so closely,would recognize Mr.O’Shea.”Peterrose.“Idon’t...”“Nicholas O’Shea,” said

hernewhusbandmildlyashejoinedherside.Thedisplacedair carried the scent of hisskin.Shehadtastedthatskin.Shehadbittenhim.

Flushing, she focused onPeter. The first traces of hiscomprehension registered inthe slackness of hisexpression,his jawsaggingafraction. “Nicholas . . .” Heshot Catherine an astonishedlook. “What in the devil doyou mean, to bring such aman—”“We come to have your

congratulations.” How sourshe sounded. How like aspinster. But she wasn’t any

longer.“Wearemarried.”Peter reached for the back

of his chair. Taking awhite-knuckledgriponit,heuttereda short bark, balancedsomewhere between laughterandchoking.“Youwhat?”O’Shea’s broad palm

pressed into the small of herback. She swallowed a gasp.Now he’d done it. But shewas fine! She was notundone. O’Shea meant onlyto encourage her—or to

provokeherbrother.Hecouldnot guess how her hearttripped. He would neverknow.She inched out of reach.

“That’s right,” she said.“Married,legallyandquietly,in the register office inWhitechapel.Soyousee, theserviceentrancewouldhardlydo—foryournewbrother-in-law.”Peter shook his head

slowly. “You’re . . . this

is...”She darted a sidelong

glance atO’Shea. The brightlight of the parlor seemed tosharpen his beauty, makinghimastudyincontrasts:sun-bronzed skin; hair gleamingblack; and those eyes. Theyshouldcallhim the IceKing,forthoseeyes.Idiotic! She pinched

herself.Adevilish smilewastugging at the corner ofO’Shea’s mouth. Was he

privately mocking her? Didhe realize how rattled shewas?He caught her look, and

winked at her before givingan infinitesimal nod towardherbrother.Frowning,shefollowedhis

attention back to Peter, whowasgaping like a fishout ofwater.Why, perhaps O’Sheawas laughing at him. It wasworth some enjoyment. Thiswasboundtobethesweetest

discussion she’d had withPeterinyears.Shebitbackherownswift

smile. “Do you find itpreposterous?” she asked herbrother. “Ludicrous? Boththosewordshavecrossedmymindoflate—butinregardtoyour doings. I watched insilence as you embezzledfromourprofits to fundyourpersonal affairs. But did youreallyimaginethatIwouldletyou sell the company? Our

father’scompany?”Peter was turning purple.

“Thiswon’tstand.”“But it will,” she said.

“The license was legallyacquired. The marriage wasenteredintotheregistry.Andtheunionwas...”Shetookadeepbreath.“Consummated.”She rushed onward, blindingherself to Peter’s grimace.“Thereisnocourtinthelandthat would contest thismarriage. I assume full

directorship of the auctionroomsnow.”“Yougoddamned—”As Peter lunged, O’Shea

stepped in frontofher.As ifshe could not handle Peter!She had managed wellenough on her own, fortwenty-sixyears.Shesteppedaroundhim.“It isdone,” shesaid.Peter fancied himself

athletic. He fenced forpleasureatalocalstudio,and

liked to brag that he couldswim theChannel, ifonlyhehad the time.Butashesizedup O’Shea, he was not foolenough to consider himselfequal to what he saw. Acurioussneerworkedoverhisfeatures, drawing his mouthintoatightlittlesmile.Hesatheavilyonthesofa.

“Well,” he said flatly.“Congratulations. You haveruinedme.”“Your political prospects?

Nodoubt.”SensingO’Shea’ssurprise,sheputahandonhisarm.Hard as iron. Fearsome

strength. But he’d been sogentlewithher...She bit hard on her cheek.

Just a moment longer, shesilently begged himwith herlook. Amoment in which totreasure this victory, and tomake Peter feel the absolutedepthsofmisery.Thatwouldsoftenhimforthebargainshe

meanttopropose.O’Shea gave a fractional

nod, and she returned herattention to her brother,whose expression wasmurderous.“You will regret this,”

Petersaid.“Youimaginethatyou will seize control ofEverleigh’s? Now I willnever be away from it. Youhaveleftmenochoice.Iwilldrive it into the ground tospiteyou.”

Her temper exploded.“How reassuring, that youshould finally admit to howlittleyoucarefortheplace!”He sneered at her. “And

you?Whatcaredoyoushow,bymarryingournametothatofthemostinfamouscriminalinEngland?”“Well, now,” O’Shea said

evenly. “That’s a gratifyingthought.”Peter’s glare snapped to

O’Shea’s face, then slid

away.He slumped, one handbracketinghisbrow to shieldhisexpression.“MyGod,”hemuttered.“MyGod,youhaveruinedme.”Herewasthedespairshe’d

beenawaiting. “In fact, thereisstillahopeforyou.”“It’s done,” he said,

muffled. “You knew it.Whyelsedidyoudoit?”“But you spoke rightly, a

minuteago.Ihavenowishtosee youwithout any aim but

theauctionhouse.AndsoMr.O’SheaandIhavediscovereda way to preserve yourpoliticalaims.”Peter loosed a choked

snort.“It is very simple,” she

said. “You will support Mr.O’Shea’s interests at theMunicipal Board of Works,and give me full control atEverleigh’s.”Peter lifted his head,

staring at her with the

squinting concentration of amanblindedbythesun.“Mr. O’Shea’s buildings

have been wronglycondemned,” she said. “Theyare located in Whitechapel;the inspector fromSt.Luke’shad no right to condemnthem. You will persuade theboard that the petition ofcondemnation is null andvoid. As for Everleigh’s—you will continue with yourdutiesasauctioneerandclient

director. But I will overseethe accounts, and you willconfer with me on anymatters concerning thegeneral operation of thecompany. As long as youmeettheseterms,Mr.O’Sheaand Iwill keep thismarriageprivate.Nobodywill learnofit.Andyoumay go on glad-handing politicians withoutany rumors to trouble you.Butifyourefuse...”He was listening, his

attention fixed andunblinking.“If you refuse tomeet our

terms,”shesaid,“Mr.O’Sheaand I will make a publicannouncement of ourmarriage. Per the terms ofFather’s will, I willimmediately assume equalcontrol over Everleigh’s intheeyesof the law.The salewill be halted, regardless.Meanwhile, I believe yourfuture hopes will be greatly

diminished by the public’sknowledge of your newrelationshiptoMr.O’Shea.”It took Peter a long,

stammering moment to findhis tongue. “This—this is—this is the most heinous,ridiculousblackmail—”“No more ridiculous, I

think,thanathiefwhowishesto become a member ofParliament.” She paused,savoring the moment. “Or—pardon me. That form of

corruption seems a perfectqualification for politics.Indeed, perhaps Mr. O’SheashouldconsidercontestingfortheWhitechapelborough.”At her side, Mr. O’Shea

laughedsoftly.“Now, there’sanidea.”His husky laugh brushed

through her like fingertips,stealing her breath. She didnot permit herself to glanceover. Peter was lookingbetween them as though

evaluating two rabid dogs.“Youwouldkeepitasecret,”he said slowly. “How wouldyou do that? The bloodyregister book is accessible toanyonewho—”“No fear there,” Mr.

O’Shea said. “It’s tuckedawaywherenobodywillfindit.”Peter frowned. “But . . .

yourveryassociation...”“Mr. O’Shea and I do not

intend to associate publicly,”

Catherinesaid.Peter blinked. “So . . . it’s

not to be a true marriage,then?Youwill never share ahousehold?”She willed herself to be

ice-cold, lest the insinuations—and the memory theyevoked, of O’Shea’s mouthtravelingherbody—makeherblush.“As I said, ithasbeenmade true in every way thatpertainstothelaw.Asforourfutureplans,theyarenoneof

yourconcern.”“But they are.” He was

staring at her very narrowlynow. “Assume I accept yourterms. I must do so on theabsolute certainty that thismarriage will never becomepublic knowledge. For myaim is not merely to be amember of Parliament. Thatwill only be the beginning. Iwill not be sabotaged by theeventual revelation of this—thisgrotesquerie!”

“I understand,” she saidevenly.“Wedonot intend toliveasamarriedcouple.”“Ever?”“Ever.” She would not

mention the contractual planfor divorce, which wouldrequireapublichearing.Fiveyears.What a long time thatseemed.Peter shook his head.

“How low you will go tospiteme.”“Howlittlechoiceyou left

me,”shecountered.Hetookadeepbreath,then

rose.“Well,then.IsupposeIhavenochoicebuttoagreetothisatrocity.”“I concur,” she said. But

her brother’s composurestruck a chord of uneasethroughher, as did the slightsmile that flitted over hismouth, gone almost beforeshecouldremarkit.“Glad that’s settled,”

O’Shea said. “I’llbeneeding

to speakwith you about thatmeeting next week of theMunicipalBoard.”“Ofcourse,”saidPeter.Of course? “Mr. O’Shea

will communicate with youthroughme,”shesaidslowly.“Nobodywillhaveanycauseto suspect your alliance.”How odd that Peter had notthought to ask about thathimself.“Very good,” her brother

said.“Iamrelievedtohearit.

Andnow,Iwillthankyoutoget him out of this housebefore anybody remarks thathevisited.”She watched Peter let

himself out of the drawingroom. When O’Shea startedto speak, she held up a handand jerked her head towardthedoor.Eyesnarrowed,henodded.

They stood for a longmomentinsilencebeforeshewhispered, “It’s all right, go

ahead.”“Bit easier than I’d

imagined,” O’Shea saidquietly.“Agreed.” She hesitated,

but her suspicions werenameless. “I suppose he felthehadnochoice.”“No doubt. You’d have

madeafinelawyer.”The compliment startled

her. She allowed herself asmall, gratified smile. Hesmiled aswell.His lower lip

was very full. If he bent tokissherrightnow—Horrified by herself, she

wheeled away. “I’ll see youout.”“Perhaps you should stay

somewhere else, tonight, justincase.”Onehandonthedoorknob,

sheturnedback.Hehadcomeup hard on her heels; heloomed over her, raw powerand protective promise.Another woman would have

counted herself fortunate tohave such a protector, wellcapable of defeating dangerwithhisbroad,barepalms—But his handsome hands

were quite disfigured by thegarish glitter of those rings.He was a criminal, not agentleman, and she did notrequiretheprotectionofsuchaman.Shestaredattheringsas she spoke. “I’ve got threelocks on the door to myapartment,” she said. “But if

anythinggoesawry—”“Threelocks?Why?”Until she’d had them

installed, her brother hadliked to burst in to harangueher at all hours. “It doesn’tmatter.” Five rings, hewore.Five too many. “But ifsomething were to . . .well...I’llsendtotheHouseofDiamondsifI’minneed.”“Lookatme.”She lifted her chin,

bristlingathisscowl.“You’ll

spend the night atDiamonds,” he told her.“There’s a guest suite on thesecondfloor—”“I certainly will not!” She

pulled open the door.“Discretion, Mr. O’Shea, isthekeytooursuccess.Beingseen entering that club again—”Hishandonherarmhalted

her exit. “You won’t beseen.” His face, his tone,wereimplacable.“Butyou’re

not stayinghere.Three locksorno.”His grip caused awave of

small shivers to chase overher skin, percolating into thepitofherbelly...andlower.But he looked whollyunawarethathewastouchingher.She yanked free and drew

herselftoherfullheight.“Wehaveanagreement,youandI.Bythetermsofourcontract,Iamanindependentcreature.”

O’Shea gave her a cuttingsmile. “Don’t mistake me,darling.I’dbegladtoletyoustumble into trouble. But Ineed you alive if thisblackmail’stowork.”She laughed in sheer

astonishment, and then tocover her uneasiness. LastspringshehadbeenpoisonedbychocolatesmeantforLordPalmer. In her delirium, heraddled brain had wronglyseized on the suspicions that

O’Sheanowhintedat.ButPeterwasher brother.

Inasoberframeofmind,shecould not believe himmurderous. “I’m not in thatkindofdanger,”shesaid.Her temporary husband

watched her for a long, levelmoment. “You sure aboutthat? Your brother’s gotreasonsnow.”“Ishould thinkIknowmy

brother better than you do.”Oh,thiswaspointless—andit

threatened to entangle themfurther, besides. “You willnot interfere with me.Regardless of the cause, youhave agreed not to do so. Ifyou cannot keep that part ofthe bargain, then the wholematterisvoid!”Narrow-eyed, he blew out

a sharp breath. Then heclapped his hat on his headandsketchedamockingbow.“Verywell,”hesaid.“I’llbidyougoodevening.Wife.”

***“Fifteen-two going once,fifteen-two going twice . . .”Peterpaused.“Lotsixty,soldtoMr.SnowdenofSussexforfifteen-two!”“Rubbish,” themanbeside

Catherinemuttered.She retreated to the back

wall,wherenobodycouldseeher frown. That lot shouldhavegone for twentypoundsatleast.Sofar,theauctionof

the Cranston library wasprovingawetsquib.At the top of the room,

where he presided over therostrum, Peter lookedunconcerned. All this week,eversincehe’dlearnedofhersecret marriage, he hadseemed unflappable. Hevisited her office daily toconfer on decisions andreviewaccounts.Hehadevensummoned the solicitor toannounce, in her presence,

that he had abandoned thenotionofsellingEverleigh’s.But his calm mood had

fractured for a moment thismorning. “I have doneeverything you asked,” he’dtoldheratbreakfastwhenshehad wondered aloud if sheshould attend the Cranstonauction. “Must you dog myeveryfootstep,too?”Had he shown a sweeter

face, shemight have skippedthe auction after all. She felt

run ragged, exhausted byuneasy dreams. But aninstinct had driven her totableherafternoonagendasoshemightattendthesale.She was glad of it.

Something was amiss here.This auction had beenscheduled for weeks,advertised in all the regularjournalsandnewspapers.Thesoiree organized toaccompany the formalpreview had attracted over

two hundred bibliophiles.What, then, explained thepoor attendance today? Halftheseatswereempty,andthebiddingfeltsluggish.Peter didn’t seem to have

noticed. It was anauctioneer’sdutytobroadcastan almost infectiousexcitement about the lot athand, the better to spur thebidding. But as he watchedthe attendants carry out thenext lot, Peter slouched

against the rostrum like aschoolboy, elbows akimbo,gavel drooping. This lot, averyrarevolumeontheearlyhistory of New York, hadsurvived a century inhandsome condition. Theolive morocco was richlyornamented by gilt dentelleedging that still shonebrightly, despite its age. Itscolor plates had merited agreat deal of interest at thepreview, for they had been

painted by a famouscartographer.The clerk intoned the

conditions of sale. Almostlanguidly, Peter waved hisgaveltoopenthebidding.The reserve was

immediately met and raisedby Sir Wimple, a crotchetycollectorwhoneverletamapgobywithoutbidding.“Ten,”hecalled.“Ten pounds,” Peter

drawled.“DoIhearfifteen?”

“Fifteen,” came the reply,fromnearthewindow.“Fifteen,gentlemen.”Peter

sounded as though he werebattlingayawn.“Twenty?”“Twenty,” said Wimple

sharply.Peter paused briefly,

staring at Wimple, thenseemed to collect himselfwith a slight shake of hishead.“Twenty-five,then?”The ensuing pause seemed

odd. Unlikely. Patrons

exchanged uneasy looks, andno wonder. The volume wasexceedinglyrare,bothintypeand condition. It had beenexpectedtofetchfiftypoundsatminimum.“Twenty-five, then,” Peter

said more pointedly. “Do Iheartwenty-five?”The pause seemed to

stretch interminably. Theaudience looked toWimple’sopponent,aportlyblondwhostood beneath the great

window. As though sensingthe general interest, hewithdrew a copy of thecatalog from his jacketpocket, making a smallnotationbeforeglancingupatthe volume on offer. Hisslight frown, the faintestshake of his head as heflippedtothenextpageofhiscatalog,drewanewroundofmurmurs.Hehad the lookofa man who was waiting onsome upcoming treasure,

which quite overshadowedhisinterestinthecurrentlot.Others pulled out their

catalogs. What did he knowthattheydidn’t?He knew nothing!

Catherine did not recognizehim;hewasnobibliophileofnote. Why was Peter notspeaking, praising thevolume, reminding theaudience of its worth? Shesaw several collectors in theaudience who had the

knowledgetoprizeit, ifonlytheywerenudgedoutoftheiruncertainty—an uncertainty,sheprivately fumed, thathadbeenfueledbysomestrangerwith a penchant formelodramaticflourishes.Peter opened his mouth.

“Twenty-five, goingonce . . .” His quick glancetoward the man by thewindow caused a prickle tomovedownherspine.“Goingtwice...”

The blondman looked up.“Thirty,” he said hesitantly,then grimaced, as thoughalreadyregrettingit.“Thirty,”Petersaid,witha

note of clear surprise. “Do Ihear thirty-five?” He lookedover the crowd, but did nottake special note of SirWimple.He was in on it. He was

conspiring with that man bythe window to slow thebidding.

No. It couldn’t be.A ring,in the saleroom? She lookedsharply through the crowd,ignoringthefamiliarfacesforthose she did not recognize.EvenPeterwouldnotdothis,surely. Rings were a plagueon country sales, butrespectableauctionroomsdidnot tolerate them.Could not,if they wished to remainrespectable.“Thirty-five,” Sir Wimple

said.

But last spring . . . hadn’tshe wondered about a ringthenaswell?AtanauctionofEnglish paintings, she’dsensed collusion at work,strangelysluggishbiddingona portrait by Gainsborough.Rings generally appointed asinglemantobid,andagreednot to challenge him. Thenthey conspired to discouragestrangers from mounting achallenge. They spreadrumors about the legitimacy

of a particular piece; duringthe sale, they undertook anynumber of tricks, like thatcheap showmanship with thecatalog, to convey theirindifferencetoadesirablelot.Once theirman had obtainedit at a cut-rate price, theyreconvenedforanew,privateauction among themselves,bidding on the item’s trueworth. The money saved inthe first, corrupt sale thenwenttotheringasawhole.

In corrupt salesrooms,halftheprofitwentstraight to theauctioneer.Not here. Everleigh’s was

renowned for its honesty.Rumors of a ring at work,supported by the auctioneerhimself, would provedisastrous.“Thirty-five going twice,”

Peterwassaying.“Forty,” said the man by

thewindow.On cue, Peter rushed

through his words. “Fortygoingonce,fortygoingtwice—”Youwillcontinuewithyour

dutiesasauctioneer.Hadshebeen so stupid, sounforgivably naïve, toimagine that Peterwould notfind a way to enrich himselfdespiteher?“Sold,”Peter saidoverSir

Wimple’s outcry. “To Mr.Hastings of Haverford, forfortypounds.”

Hecouldnotbeallowedtodo this. People would talkafterward. He must sell thenext lots without anyappearance of impropriety.Onadeepbreath, she starteddowntheaisle.The clerk stepped forward

toannouncethenextitem.“Acollection of theEncyclopedia Britannica,fourth edition, very rare.Boundin...”Petercaughtsightofheras

she neared the rostrum.“Whatisit?”She climbed the stairs to

speak into her brother’s ear.“You will stop this ring,now.”“I beg your pardon?” He

staredfixedlyattheassistantspositioning the new set ofvolumes.“Getoffmydais.”“You will have Hastings

shown out,” she said in afierce undertone, “and youwill smile as you encourage

honest bids. I will notdisservice Lord Cranston byselling his father’s collectionat half the price it shouldfetch.”He turned on her so

suddenly that she heard agasp frombelow.Perhapshedid, too, for he mustered asickening facsimile of asmile. “Get out,” he saidthrough his teeth. “You arecreatingascene.”“Have him removed.Now.

OrIwillstopthisauction.”His laughter was low and

scornful. “Oh,yes?Thatwilllook very good forEverleigh’s.Getoffthisdais,before you turn into aspectacle.”But that, she realized,was

hersolution.Shecastaprayerheavenward,thenputherheelbackward and screamed asshetoppledofftheplatform.

CHAPTERSIX

Fivemonthsago,thelunatichuntingLordPalmerhadlitabundle of dynamite in theneighboring building. The

explosion had shattered thegreat window in thesaleroom, and driven thepatrons to scramble towardthe exits, dropping catalogsandcanesintheirhaste.As Catherine picked

herself up off the floor, sheremembered thatdayvividly,for catalogs littered thecarpets once more. Thesaleroom stood silent andempty, the crowd havingdepartedsoadoctormightbe

summoned.But none was coming.

Peterknewshehadfakedherswoon.He had said asmuchinto her ear as he’d roughlygripped her shoulders. “Youwill pay for this,” he’dmuttered before announcingto the crowd that the salemustbehalted.He should have thanked

her.Theircustomerswerenotblind. Had she not disruptedthesalesospectacularly,they

would have left gossipingabout corruption in thesaleroom.Instead,theywouldtalkofher.Eitherway,itdidnotmake

foragooddayofbusiness.Her ankle was throbbing.

She hobbled toward the exit,using the backs of chairs tobrace herself. The doubledoorswereheavy;shecaughtherbalanceononefootasshewrestledwiththehandle.It opened abruptly, nearly

knocking her off her feet. Afamiliarfiguresteppedacrossthethreshold,catchingherbythe waist. “Here you are,”O’Sheasaid.Stupefied, she sagged in

his grip. For aweek she haddone her best not to think ofhim, but with his hands onher, his warmth surroundingher, no time might haveelapsed at all. The scent ofhimkindledadeep,churningneed—

Here! She twisted out ofhisgrip,panicked.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”“Justhappenedtobeinthe

neighborhood.”Thatwasalikelystory!“If

Peterseesyou—”“Is the place on fire?”His

luminous gray gaze sweptpast her, taking a quicksurvey of the deserted room.“Half London is spillingdownthefrontsteps.”HalfLondon,indeed!“You

can’t be seen here,” she saidthroughher teeth. “There arestaff—”Hesnorted.“Truants,more

like. Halls are empty. Andyour brother went chasingafter somebloke.Halfway tothemarketbynow.”Hastings, no doubt. Peter

had dropped her back ontothecarpettogohurryingafterthe man. She blew out abreath. They were workingtogether,nodoubtofit.

“What happened?”O’Sheaproppedone shoulder againstthedoorjamb,tappinghistallhat against his thigh.“Stampede?”“Iswooned.”Hislighteyesfixedonher.

“Thought you neverswooned.”“And I thought you didn’t

frequenttheWestEnd.”He shrugged. Clearly he

had no intention ofaccounting for himself. “Hit

yourheadwhenyoufell?”Hereached out to touch hercheek, his fingertipssurprisinglywarm.She jerked her face aside.

His fingers looked brutish.Longandscarred,beringedinBirmingham paste,dramatically thickenedaround the knuckles—asthough brawling had swollenthem permanently. Acriminal’shands.Criminals were probably

clevererwiththeirhandsthananygentleman.A flush crawled over her.

The bedding had beennecessary,contractually.Thatshouldnotmakehimentitledto touch her here, in public.“Has everyone truly gone?”she asked. “Nobody sawyouasyoucameinside?”“Notasoul.”Shehesitated.Herbootfelt

as though it were stranglingher ankle. Swelling, she

supposed. “Can you helpmetomycoach,then?”“Sure,” he said, and

slipped an arm around herwaist.“Leanintome.”Godsaveme.Therewasno

choice for it, was there? Shetried toholdherbreath, triedtoignorethefeelofhisstrongbody as he guided her in aslow,hitchingpacedownthecorridor. He smelled likecoffee. Coffee and . . . thefaint hint of cigar smoke

and...His skin. His naked, bare

skin.She tried to walk faster.

Her ankle immediatelyprotested.Wincing, she drewto a stop. “Perhaps I shouldjuststayheretonight.”“Here?” He drew away

slightly to look intoher face.“Yougotabedhere?”There was nothing

suggestive in his voice, buther stomach fluttered

regardless. “A cot, in myoffice.”He lifted his brows. “You

sleephereoften?”Sheshrugged.“Whenwork

demandsit.”“Noneedforthat tonight.”

Hebent and scooped her up;on a soundless gasp, shethrew her arms around hisneckforbalance.“Put me down,” she

snapped.“Ifsomeoneseesusnow—”

“I’ll say I’m a footman.”He grinned at her. Anotherimperfection!His caninewaschipped.Hislipswereverycloseto

hers.She looked quickly away,

staring over his shoulder atthe rapidly retreatingsaleroom.“I’llsayyou’rethedoctor. Peter was meant tosummonone.”“For your swoon?” He

started down the stairs at a

terrifyingly brisk clip. Shegripped him more tightly,convincedhewoulddropher.“Iwon’tdropyou,”hesaid

on a laugh.Before she couldregister his uncanny knackfor reading her mind, headded,“StartedhaulingcargoatthedockswhenIwasallofnine.Grainbags,that’llteachyoutobalanceproperly.”He’d worked as a

dockhand?Andsoyoung?Perhapshis early exertions

explainedhisbuild, then.Hisdark suit looked like anyother gentleman’s walkingsuit. But surely it was cutfromathinner,cheapercloth.Itfeltassoftasfinewool,buta suit should not translate soclearly the shifting musclesbeneath it. His back, hiswaist,werewhittledlean,andhisarms,wheretheywrappedaround her, bulged withpower. The feel of themfascinated her palms. Her

palmshadnodiscipline.She was very grateful

when they reached the mainfloor, and she could riskeasing her grip on him.“Please hurry,” shewhispered,lookingfranticallyaround.“Ontheoffchancehecalledanactualdoctor—”“Andwhydidn’the?”“He knew I wasn’t truly

sick.”His gray eyes held hers a

thoughtful moment. “So you

fakedit?”“Yes,”shesaidinaclipped

voice.“But—let’snotdiscussithere.”He grunted

acknowledgment, thenshouldered open the frontdoor, carrying her into theautumn chill. She took aquick, deep breath. Autumnhad always been her favoritetime of year—the bite in theair; the scarlet and goldtapestriesmadebytheleaves,

and their pleasant crunchunderfoot. But tonight, itcouldnotsootheher.Perhaps henceforth she

would remember autumn asthe time when everythingended—hopes, dreams, madconspiracies to savecompanies. Thatwas only asit ought to be, she supposed;the leaves, after all, onlyturned because they weredying.At the curb, he carefully

set her on her feet. Shelookedaroundandgroanedasshe sawonly theonevehicle—nothers.“Hesentawaymycoach!” Peter was fond ofthese spiteful littlepunishments.“Fine fellow, he. I’ll drop

youhome.”She wrestled with

temptation.“Thatwouldlookverynice.I’msurenobodyatHenton Court would wonderwhy I accepted a ride from

you.”He tipped his head. “You

thinkthey’drecognizeme?”She hesitated. He had a

point. Who would imaginethatherestoodthekingoftheEast End? The lamplightsilhouetted the elegant cut ofhis suit. It translated hisbrutal muscle into long anddeceptively lean lines, andflattered the breadth of hisshoulders, making themappearless...conspicuous.

Shecouldhardlyhobbletothe cabstand. It was severalblocksaway.“Very well,” she said

grudgingly. “You may—”She fell abruptly silent as agroupofwomenapproached,marketbasketsontheirarms.She knew none of them, ofcourse,andtoherrelief,theyseemed not much interestedin her. Their interest focusedfirmly on O’Shea, whoanswered their smiles with a

wink.Whentheyhadpassed,she

saidstiffly,“Inmycompany,youmight at leastpretend tobeagentleman.”He lifted his brows.

“Who’spretending?”“Gentlemen do not

acknowledge a woman’sleering.”“Leering, you say?” He

glanced after the women.“And here I thought thoseladiesweresimpering.”

“Ladies, sir, do notsimper.”He gave her a cat-in-the-

cream smile. “But they doleer?”She cast a dismissive

glance after the women,notingtheaggressionoftheirstrides. No corseting, normany petticoats, either. “Notifthey’rewellbred.”“It’s a cold heart you’ve

got,madam.”From another man, these

words might have formed areproach. But his smile saidhewasteasingher.She had no notion of how

to reply to such banter, butshe knew it should notmakeher feel so lighthearted andgiddy and . . . girlish.Frowning, she opened thedoortohiscarriageherself.

***Nickhadcomebytheauctionrooms thinking to give

Catherine some good news.Buthisnewwifewasclearlyin nomood to celebrate. Sheretreated to her side of thecoach and curled up there asthough he might throwhimselfatopher.Notthatthethoughthadn’t

crossed his mind. She had asweetheft toher,shedid,allinherbottomhalf.He’ddonehis best to keephismindoffthat half while carrying herout of the building. But her

bottom had a way ofannouncingitselfregardless.Asthoughsheglimpsedhis

thoughts, her eyes narrowed.“Why did you come toEverleigh’s, anyway? Youmustn’tdosoagain.Hadmybrotherseenyou—”“Just wanted to tell you,”

he said. “Your brother kepthis end of the bargain.Pilcher’spetitiongot scuttledtoday.”“What?”

He grinned. “You looksurprised. Don’t say youthoughthe’dgrowaspine.”“I didn’t,” she muttered.

“No, I’m . . . pleased thatheabided by the agreement.Would that he were soamenableinallregards.”“Ah.” He settled more

comfortably against thecushions. “He gave youtroubletoday,Itakeit.”“Hewasrunninga ringon

the saleroom floor.” She

madeanoiseofdisgust.“Atabooksale,noless!Onewouldthink he would save hisshenanigans for a richerauction.Atanyrate,Istoppedhim.”A note of pride in that

statement.“Byswooning?”“Well, yes.” She met his

eyes. “One can hardlyconduct an auction with awoman sprawled on thefloor.”He laughed softly. “Clever

ofyou.”Shewrestledwithherown

laugh, and lost. “I thoughtso.”For a companionable

moment, they smiled at eachother. Then she appeared toremember her role, and gaveasourtugofhermouthassheflicked back the windowshade.“Thiscoach,”shesaidprimly, “looks like abordello.”He lifted a brow. Scarlet

upholstery,goldfringe,blackenamel—he’d thought it agrand vehicle. But she hadsomethingagainstthepalette,he supposed. Devil’s colors,she’d called them whenvisiting Diamonds. “I’ll redoitinblueandwhite,”hesaid,“just for you.He didn’t lookhappy when I saw himleaving. You expect moretroublefromhim?”She shrugged. “I can

managehim.”

“With those three locksonyourdoor.”“Itisn’tyourconcern.”True enough.Yethe felt a

lickoftemperasheeyedher.She sat a foot away, lookingas cool and remote as astranger. He might still bewatchingherfromadistance,the beautiful, untouchableladywho’dhiredhisniece.The difference, of course,

was that he’d touched hernow. He’d bloody married

her.Secretorno,shewashisburdentobear.“You could lodge at

Diamonds,” he said. “Plentyoflocks,andguardsaswell.”She made a low noise, a

sound balanced preciselybetween amusement andscorn. “Yes, that would beverydiscreet,indeed.Nobodywould guess at ourconnectionwhen itcirculatedthat I was living at yourgamblingclub.”

“Nobody would see youcoming and going. There’s atunnel from the high road,entered through a sweet-shop.”“Your offer is kind,” she

said after a pause. “Butthere’s no cause for it. I amperfectly comfortable athome.”They were circling toward

an argument they’d alreadyhad.Beforeshecouldtrotoutthreats about breach of

contract, he said, “I couldmakeitacondition.Youstayat Diamonds, where I cankeep an eye on you, or thegameisup.”She glanced at him

sidelong. “Perhaps I don’twant you keeping an eye onme,” she said evenly. “Whyshould you? There’s no callto pretend that we care foreachother.Yougoyourway,Mr. O’Shea, and allow me,please,togomine.”

Had she spat and hissedfire at him, he might haveargued back. But she spokewith a calm dignity that hewassuddenlyloathetonettle.Please,she’dsaid.She’dhadaroughday.Hid

it well, but he saw proof offatigue.Shadowsbeneathhereyes, and a sag to hershoulders that put him inmindofdiscouragement.She deserved to hold her

chin high tonight. She’d

showed courage and wit,putting an end to that rottenauction. She’d won a round,and deserved to feel thetriumph. But who wouldshareitwithher?She’dbeenall alone in that saleroom,hobbling on her sore ankle.Not even a servant to checkonher.Before he knew what he

wasdoing,he reachedacrossthecompartment tocatchherhand. “Maybe you need a

friend,” he said. All thosecalluses in her damp littlepalm.Anotherwoman in hershoes would have spent herdays eating bonbons andordering servants to do thelifting. “I’m a good one tohave.”She stared at him for a

moment, an odd look on herface. Probably a trick of thesidelamp—itturnedhereyeslargeandluminous,andmadeher expression look oddly

stricken. “A friend,” she saidsoftly.“That’sright.”She took a deep, audible

breath. “But . . . whywouldyoubother?”Good question. It made

him uneasy how much hewanted to look after her. Ormaybe he just disliked thatnobody else cared to do it.He’d been in that position,alone and friendless, nobodyworrying where he laid his

head. But he’d neverimagined that kind oflonelinesscouldafflictpeopleofherrank. “Kindness nevercostmeapenny,”hesaid.“Iseenoneedtohoardit.”She bowed her head, then

pulled her hand from his.“Thank you,” she said, verylow. “But I think friendshipwould only complicatematters.”Odd to feel a sting in her

rejection. A thousand people

would be grateful for hisinterest,butnosurprisethatarich, spoiled girl fromBloomsbury wouldn’t prizeit.Spoiled. No, that didn’t

sound right. Nobody wascoddling this woman. Nor,did it seem,would she allowsomeonetodoso.He slid open the window

and spoke to the driver.“Bloomsbury,” he said.“HentonCourt.”

When he snapped thewindow shut, she said,“Thank you.” Her sighsounded relieved. “I hadfearedyoumight...”“What?” What did she

imagine him capable ofdoing? To a woman—awomanhe’dmarried,noless,andcarried inhisarmswhenher ankle gave way. “WhatdidyouthinkImightdo?”But she only shook her

head. “Never mind. The

newspapers do you aninjustice. You’re a decentman,afterall.”A note of condescension,

there, like she expected himto gobble up the words andwag his tail in gratitude.Decent, was he? And thatsurprisedher?Whomdidshethinkshe’dmarried?God above, but if shewas

surprised to find him decent,she must have been shakingin her boots at that register

office. He rememberedsuddenly the coldness she’dshown in his bedroom, thegreat effort it had taken tocrackherandmakeheryieldto pleasure. No wonder. Allthe time, she’d imaginedherselfbeddingscum.“Sure,” he said, “I’ve no

interest in complicatingmatters. But if you everchange your mind, let meknow. Wouldn’t mindshaggingyouagain.”

Herspinesnappedstraight.“Ibegyourpardon.”He snorted. Clearly she

meanttoforgetthathe’devertouched her—that he’d seenher bare as the day she wasborn, and made her moanfromthepleasureof it.Why,she’d probably scrubbedherselfrawafterward,lesthisfilthytouchleaveamark.“You’reright,thevulgarity

don’t fit,”he said.“Whatwedid in that bed, it was more

than thenormal fuck. I don’texpectyoutorealizeit,beingaproper,prissymiss.ButI’dbegladtoproveitagain.Pitythiscoachissocramped.”She gazed at him in open-

mouthed silence for whatseemed like a promisinglylong moment. Then shesucked in a sharp breath andavertedherface,showinghimone rosy cheek. “You’re aboor.Stopthisvehicleandletmeout.”

“Don’t worry yourself,sweetheart. I’m not going totouchyou.You’lljusthavetotake my word for it. Rarelyhappens that two bodies suiteachother,thewayoursdo.”“Did,”shebitout.“Did,anddo,andwilldo,”

hesaid.“Itdon’tchange,thatkindofchemistry.”“Verygood toknow.”Her

voice had stiffened andthinned, a schoolmistressspeakingtoahopelesslyslow

child. “Is there anything elseyouwishtosay,inthehopesofshockingme?”“Shocking you? No. But

here’sapromise: if Igetyoubeneath me again, you’llenjoy it evenmore. It’ll onlyget better, Kitty. Why, thefifth or sixth time, I expectI’ll make you come just bykissing your sweet littlenipples. I’ll suck them slowand soft, and then hard.Andwhen I usemy teethonyou,

theslightestscrape—”“Stop.” She hissed the

word, her face red as sherounded on him. “This is—youare—”“I’mnottellingyouthisto

insult you.” Maybe it hadstartedasa jab,but suddenlyhe felt as bothered as shelooked. “I mean it as apromise. God’s word,Catherine. You’re a giftwaiting tobeunwrapped. I’llopen you up and make you

glad to be alive, no matterwhat thedaybrings.Becauseyou’ll know that comenightfall, I’ll be laying youdownandspreadingyourlegsand showingyouhownatureintendedyoutofeel.”Her lips moved around a

soundless syllable. Shecleared her throat, then saidhoarsely,“Bythetermsofthecontract—”“We’ll leave the contract

outsidethebedroom,Ithink.”

“Ifyoudaretouchme—”“Haven’t yet,” he said

mildly. “But you’re lookingmightyflushed,allthesame.”“That is shock, Mr.

O’Shea. Shock at yourshamelessness—why, youhaveall thesubtletyofanox—”“Be shocked at my

restraint,” he said. “I’m adecent man, after all.Otherwiseyou’dbeundermebynow.”

The coach slowed. Sheknockedasidetheshade,thengasped in obvious reliefbefore scrambling for thedoorhandle.He caught her wrist,

makingherfreeze.Liftedittohis mouth, and pressed aclose-mouthed kiss to herracingpulse.“You right that I’m no

gentleman,” he murmuredagainstherfragrantskin.“I’dmakeyougratefulforit.Give

itathought.”She wrenched free and

pushed open the door. “I’drather—I’d rather sell mycompany!”Butaftershestumbledout,

she turned back to him, herlips parting as though shemeant to deliver one lastretort. Instead, however, shestared up at him, silent, herslack-jawedexpressiongildedby the mellow glow of thelamp.

“You’reawful,”shesaidatlast,inareedyvoice.He laughed. “Seems

you’ve got a taste for it,” hesaid,andpulledshutthedoor.

***Falling asleep always proveddifficult for Catherine. Shespentthedayonherfeet;shenever laid down but with asense of exhaustion. But hermind kept ticking onward,cataloging the events of the

day, showing her truths thatshe had not perceived in thefrenetic hubbub of routine.This mistake, thatoversight...She’dlearnedatrickforit.

Not counting sheep, nothingso juvenile. She simplyfocused on her breath. Onecould count on the breath tomakeasimplerhythm,inandout. Beneath this simplefocus, her mind grewquiescentanddrowsy.

Tonight,however,thetrickfailed her. Perhaps she wascoming down withsomething. Each breath,whichshouldhavepulledherfurther toward sleep, onlypitched her awareness higher—and of such commonplacethings! The sheet, where itlayoverher,closeandsoftasa touch. The braid that layalonghershoulder,heavyandsomehow entrapping, like arope holding her down. She

felt restless, hot, though theairheldachill that thedyingfire had done nothing todispel.If I get you beneath me

again...Shepressedherpalmtoher

cheek.Itdidn’tfeelfeverish.I’ll suck them slow and

soft,andthenhard...Her palm was sweaty,

damp. He had done this toher.Unsettled herwith thosevulgarwords.He’dknownhe

was doing it. She should notgive him the satisfaction ofsucceeding.Butwhenshesqueezedher

eyes shut,what she sawwashis bare, tawny bodystretched over hers, his headlowered at her breast, mouthpulling like a raveningbeast.Anincubus.She cupped her palm over

her breast. But that was notwhere she ached now. Sheslid her palm lower, to the

spotbetweenherlegs.He had put his mouth

there...Thiswaswhywomenwere

cautioned to save theirvirtuefor marriage. She’d neverknown how a man couldmake a woman feel. Theknowledgehadcorruptedher.Itwillonlygetbetter.She touched herself where

he had. A gasp broke fromher. It was not entirely hispower.Hewaswrong to say

that she required a partner.She could make herself feel—not precisely the same.Thatwouldtakethescentandfeel of his skin, the heavydeliciousweightofhim...No. She did not require

those. She could take thispower from him, place it inherowncontrol.Shemustdoit,forshecouldnotaccepthisinvitation.Todosowouldbetorisk...everything.She touched herself

clumsily, frustrated by thecomparison to how expertlyhehaddone it.He’d toucheda thousand women so, nodoubt.Her hand stilled. How

curious that the thoughtshouldsendadarkpoisonousfeelingthroughher.Thiswassome trick of the fact ofmarriage, perhaps. Anydecent spouse would dislikethe idea of a husband’spromiscuity.Butherswasno

true marriage. He was acriminal, who would nevermakeheratruehusband.Andshe was not fit to be anyman’s wife. Jealousy had noplace in their agreement. Hewould laughather ifheeverdiscoveredit.She shoved him from her

mind, rubbing herself hardernow. Her body belonged toher,nothim.Asmuchassheresented him for it, shemustalso thank him for showing

herso.Butwhatharmwastherein

thinking of him in private?She would not allow herselfto be alone with him again.With a sigh, she pictured hisface...thebronzedlengthofhis taut, hard body . . . thefeelofhismouthonherskin,the skilled stroke of hishand . . .Thepleasurebegantobuild.Itwascoming.A squeak came from her

door. A key turning in the

lock!She sat up, blushing so

brightly itwas awonder thattheroomwasnotilluminated.“Bodkin?” Only her lady’smaidhadthatkey.Noanswer.She threw off the covers

and slipped to her feet. Thedead bolt turned. “Bodkin, Idon’t wish to be disturbedtonight.”Now came a scrape. That

was the second dead bolt,

turning.Godinheaven.Bodkindid

nothavethatkey.

***Nicklayawake,staringattheceiling. Fine job he’d done,talking so hot to Catherine.She’d sailed away cool as abreeze, but he just keptburning, visions sparkingstraight from his brain intohisgroin.Heshouldhaveresistedthe

urge to needle her, talkedstraight instead. She’d besafer at Diamonds. Even sheshould see that. She wasvaluable to him. One votedown, but who knew whenothers would come that he’dneed her brother to help himwith?Hehadeveryreasontokeep her safe. But to herbrother, she was only anobstaclenow.With a curse, he threwoff

the covers and stood. If she

found out he’d wasted amoment’s sleep thinkingabout her, she’d only bridleand remind him that per thetermsofthatcontract,hewasbeholden not to think on heratall.So he’d turn his attention

elsewhere.Godownstairsandcheck on business, maybejoin a game. He rarelyindulged himself so—hewasgood enough that he almostalways won, and clients

didn’t come here to betrouncedbytheowner.Butasingle hand of baccarat,maybe.Andashotofwhisky,totaketheedgeoff.He had dressed and was

heading toward the doorwhentheknockingstarted.Knew it. Like any full-

blooded Irishman, he had asense for oncoming trouble.He turned thebolt and threwopenthedoor.His factotum, Callan,

looked harried and flushed.“Begging your pardon, butthatwomanyoubroughtherelast week—she’s downstairs,demanding to be let in. Iwould have tossed her out,butshe’s—”He brushed past Callan,

cutting through the lamp-litpassage into the backstairway, where he took thestepsbytwos.Shewassittingonabench

intherearvestibule,wrapped

up in a horse blanket.Callanmust have lent it to her—ithadtheinsigniaoftheHouseofDiamondsstitchedintoonecorner.She rose, chin high,

evidently oblivious to herequine reek. “Do forgivemyappearance,”shesaid.“Iwasforced to leave in somehaste.”“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I

see that.” Not muchsweetness in this victory.

“Whathappened?”“Nothingsomuch.”Butas

she shifted, the blanketslipped, revealing anotherlayer—acloak,herown—andbeneath it, a frilly collar oftransparentlace.She’d fled in her night-

robe.Nick waved Callan off,

waiting until he’d roundedthe corner to step closer toCatherine.“Whathappened?”She took a deep breath.

“May I stay here, tonight? Iknow it—it seems veryironic, given my earlierobjections.ButIfearnohotelwould receive me in such astate.”Halfdressedandshivering,

shestillmanagedtospeechifylike the Queen. “Of course,”he said. “Come on, let’s getyouabrandy.”“I don’t drink, Mr.

O’Shea.”Hesnorted.

***Catherine was trying veryhardtoremaincomposed.Butshock, to say nothing of thecold, seemed to be sinkinginto her bones, causing herhard-won control to fray, soatlastshebegantoshiver.O’Shea noticed, perhaps,

asheseatedherbythefireinhissuite.Hemadesomedarknoiseand turnedaway.“Staythere.”

As if she had anywhereelse togo.Shestared fixedlyat the handsome Persiancarpet, listening to hisfootsteps retreat into theneighboring room. What aflight she had made.Apparently the dangers oftown at night were vastlyoverstated. She’d had nodifficulty hailing a hack, andthe cabman had seemedthoroughlyunsurprisedatherdestination.Nobodyhadeven

attemptedtomugher.O’Shea returned, carrying

thecounterpanefromhisbed,gold threads glimmering inthe rich brown satin. “Let’strade,”hesaid.“Thisblanketwillbewarmer.”“I’m not c-cold.” The fire

leapt two feet away. Shecould feel its heat along herskin, though it did not seemtopenetratetohermarrow.“Nomatter,”hesaid.“That

onereeks.”

Itdid,infact,haveasmelltoit.Butwhentheothermanhad given it to her, it hadseemed a veritable luxury.Shecouldnotquitebringhergrip to ease now. “That’s allright.”“Catherine.” He went

down on one knee. Thefirelight flattered his angularface.Hehadremarkableeyes,so light, fastened soattentivelytohers.Helookedat this moment like a proper

gentleman, all considerationandcare.Perhaps he was the first

proper gentleman she hadmet, then. She could notrecallmuchchivalryfromtheranksofEverleigh’spatrons.“Give it over,” he said

gently.Butwhenhetuggedatthe horse blanket, sheresisted,shakingherhead.He frowned. Well, she

could not blame him for hispuzzlement. The lateness of

thehour,andtheindignityofher recent experience, hadclearly scattered her wits.Certainly it had eroded herdiscretion, for when sheopenedhermouth,whatcameout was the blunt, bizarretruth:“Ican’tseemtoletgo.”His hands closed on hers.

Large, hot hands, not sodifferent in their feel fromanyotherman’s.Butnoothermanhadevertouchedherlikethis, massaging the delicate

bones of her palms, rubbingthelengthofherfingers,inasoothing, caressing stroke.“It’sall right,”hesaid.“Youcan let go. Nobody here tosee.”That wasn’t true. “There’s

you.”He smiled. “But I don’t

count,doI?”Did he? She studied him.

What an odd twist her lifehad taken. She had fled to agaming hell for safety, and

now found herself inclinednot to regret it. For he wasright.Ofallmen,shehadtheleast to lose with him—themost notorious man inLondon.Did he truly deserve that

reputation? He did not strikeher as cruel. Indeed, he hadshown her far greaterkindnessthanany—No.Shecouldnotaffordto

indulge such thoughts. Theconsummation had already

opened a Pandora’s box ofwaywarddesires.Noneed toadd daydreams about hisdecencytothatmix.But she did let him pull

away the blanket. He settledthe coverlet over her. It feltalmostassolid,asheavyandreassuring,ashisgrip.Almost.Shemissedhis touch,now

that he’d pulled away. Godhelpher.He sat back on his heels,

squatting like a fieldhandashe said, “Clearly three locksweren’tsufficient.”“They held long enough.”

Perhaps her brother was stillfumbling with the third.She’d heard his cursesthroughthedoor.“Heldagainstwho?”“Peter, of course. He was

trying to break in.” A shivertraveled through her. “Hesaid...hesaiditwasnottoolate. That matters could be

undone, that I could make adecent match. That Pilcherstoodready;thathe—Peter,Imean—could takeme tohimtonight.”Here was the face O’Shea

showed his enemies, shesupposed: cold and austere,hismouthagrimslash.“Yourbrother’sgotabigmouth,”hesaid quietly, “for amanwhowants to keep these matterssecret.”She sighed. “I don’t think

Pilcher knows the wholestory. From what Peter wassayingthroughthedoor...Igather he told Pilcher that Iwas planning to elope.” Itmade no sense. Would hehave encouraged bigamy? “Ican’t imagine what he wasthinking. It’s done; we aremarried. I cannot marryagain.”O’Shea blew out a breath,

his silver gaze trailing downher swathed figure. “You

look all right. He didn’t layhandsonyou?”“No. I climbed out the

window before he made itinside.”Hisbrowsshotup.“That’s

atallhouse,Kitty.”She should object to the

nickname. She would, nexttimeheusedit.“Thetrellisissturdy.”“Onatwistedankle?”Startled, she flexed her

foot.“Why. . . it feelsmuch

better, in fact.” Panic, itseemed,madea fineantidotetopain.He smiled faintly. “You’re

abundleofsurprises.Yougotmuchpracticeinclimbingoutwindows?”“No.” She paused, tasting

the bitterness of her nextwordsbeforeshespokethem.“Go ahead and say it: youwereright,andIwaswrong.Iwasafooltogobackhome.Ishouldhaveknownhewould

want revenge. I embarrassedhimbyhaltingthatauction.”He frowned. “Here, now.

It’s not foolish to thinkyourself safe with yourbrother.”She did not deserve his

generosity. “You said ityourself, Mr. O’Shea. Hecares nothing for me. Andwhat I did today—why, ifthere’s anything he won’tforgive, it’s loss of face.”Peter’s concern had always

been for his image, not thecompany. How had sheforgotten that? “Perhaps Ishouldhavelettheauctiongoon,” she whispered. “If I’veruinedthis...ifhemeanstocallourbluff...”Amuscletickedinhisjaw.

“It’s no bluff, though. It’sdone.”True. She’d taken pains to

ensure that thismarriagewaslegitimate. The memory ofhow she had done it rippled

through her, an echo of theheatshehadfeltearlier,lyinginbed.ShetookcaretokeephergazefromstrayingtowardO’Shea’sbedroom.Herose,lightandleanasa

cat.Whatmustitfeellike,tomove through the world insuch a tall, lithe, powerfulbody? Each step must feelweightless, a pleasurableexerciseingrace.Theoddnessofthethought

made her flush. She stared

down at her linked hands ashe said, “You’ll stay heretonight.”“Yes, ifyoudon’tmind it.

Butmybrother—”“I’llspeakwithhim.When

does he usually leave thehouseinthemorning?”“I...itvaries.”Onadeep

breath,she lookedupathim.Itputacrickinherneck.Hestood almost a head tallerthan her brother. No fightbetween themwould be fair.

“Callme foolish.But I can’tcountenance you harminghim.”His jaw squared. “I said I

wouldn’t. But at this point,you’d do better not to wasteconcern on him. Tit for tat,Catherine. Never give morethanyouget.”A brutal but sensible

philosophy. “If that’s yourbelief,”shesaidslowly,“thenwhatdoyouhopetogetfromme now? For the contract

does not require you to helpmeinthisway.”He stared down at her, his

face impossible to read. Itcametoher thathisbedroomwasonlysevenstepsaway.Ifhe demanded she join himthere . . . if that was hisprice...“It’s late,” he said, and

held out his hand. “Let meshow you where you’llsleep.”

***O’Shea proved far morechivalrous than she’danticipated.Hesaidhewouldsendsomeonetotheshopsinthe morning to fetch areadymade gown for her.Heopened the door for her, anddid not touch her as heescorted her into theadjoiningapartment.He played the gentleman

very convincingly. Butwhy?

As shock faded, her brainbegan to click into workingorder again, and hisgentleness began to alarmher.He had no reason to be

kind.Hewasaftersomething.And she . . . was falling forhis trick. This man who hadspoken to her so vulgarly inhis vehicle earlier—she wassoftening toward him,surrendering all her nativedefenses.Longing for him to

touchheragainasheshowedher the points of the suitewhereshewouldstay.She couldn’t allow it. She

let him bow over her handbeforehestartedforthedoor,butshemadeherselfcallafterhim. “Don’t think I don’tknowwhatyou’redoing,”shesaid.“I’mwellawareofyourstrategy.”Heturnedbackatthedoor.

“Whatstrategyisthat?”“Charm, I believe it’s

called.”He widened his eyes,

japing astonishment as heslouched against thedoorframe. “Never say. Andhere I’d heard I had thecharmofanox.”“Isaidyouhadthesubtlety

of an ox,” she said. “But Iknow these tricks. You’re apracticed flirt with ahandsomeface.Nodoubtyouhave good success amongcertain company. But you

won’t find it withme. Spareyourselftheeffort.”“Handsome face.” He

offered her a lopsided smile.“Are we turning tocomplimentsnow?”“Do you imagine me

incapable?”“I had doubted, once or

twice.”“Oh,butIknowthisgame

very well. You’re not theonly handsome face in thisroom.”

“‘Handsome’ isn’t theword for it,” he said evenly.“With a face like yours,darling, you couldhavebeenacourtesantoprinces.”Surprise prickled through

her. She squashed theemotion. “Yes,” she said.“Perhapsso.”His head tipped as he

considered her. “You don’tsoundpleasedaboutit.”“What is there to be

pleased about? Nature

worked a fine trick on myfeatures.”Andthattrickgrewvery inconvenient when itattracted interest from menlike Pilcher. “It was none ofmydoing.”“Well now,” he said

slowly. “Forgive me for athickheadedox,butthat’sthestrangestwaytocallyourselfbeautiful that I’ve everheard.”“Isupposeyouwouldthink

so. There’s the difference

betweenus:Ihavenointerestinmylooks.Ihadratherrelyon my brains.” She forced asharp smile. “But then, thatchoice is reserved for peopleofactualwit,Isuppose.”He laughed! “Be as harsh

asyou like,Kitty. I’d soonerlook to a magistrate forkindness.”“Good,” she said. “We

understand each other. Youwill not try to charm mewhile I’m here. It’s a futile

gamble,anyway.”“Poor Catherine.” She did

not like his idle tone. “I’msurethere’smanyamanwhomighthavecharmedyou.Butthey probably lost interestwhen you opened yourmouth.”She swallowed.Hiswords

struck at some tender part ofher whose existence she haddoneherbesttoforget.“Youimagine so? I have beenadmired by many men.

Dozens.”“Onlydozens?”Heoffered

her a slow smile. “Best notcompareus,afterall.”“There is no comparison,”

she said. “I am a woman ofhonor,whereasyou. . .well.There are words for personswho trade on their physicalappeal—all of them toovulgartospeak.”His brows lifted. “Why

spareme?Ifyouwanttocallmeawhore,sayit.”

She flinched. “Of courseyou wouldn’t mind that.Lewdness is your nativetongue.”“I speak other languages

with that tongue,” he saiddarkly. “Once, recently, Imadeyouspeakback.”“More lewdness. How

unsurprising.”“If you’re wanting me to

surprise you, you need onlyask,darling.”“Idoubtyoucapableof it.

Norisitmydesire.”“Is that so?” He came off

the doorjamb, prowlingtoward her. She folded herarms, thrusting her elbowsout to prevent him fromdrawing too near. A smileflitted over his full lips; helaid his hand on the side ofher neck, his palm flexinglightly.“I’denjoysurprisingyou,”

he said softly. “My nativetongue, as you call it, has

ideas you’ve never dreamedofinyourvirginallittlebed.”Somestrangealchemywas

atwork,forthethreatevokeda hot melting feeling insideher, akinmore to excitementthantofear.Heavens—wasitpossible that she’d provokedhim deliberately, to keep hisattentionalittlewhilelonger?“I’mnovirginnow,”shesaidunsteadily, rattled by howquickly he made her astranger to herself. “I have

tasted what you offer, and Ihave no interest in exploringitfurther.”“You’relyingtoyourself,”

hemurmured.But she wasn’t. She was

lying only to him. Forsuddenlyitwasplaintoher—his touchmade it unbearablyclear—that she could notcount on her ownindifference. Those lips, thatmouth,thelongwarmfingersat her throat, were wicked.

Theymade her thoughts turndarkandheated,swollenwithcuriosity. “I came tonightfrom sheer necessity,” shemanaged.“AndIamgratefultoyoufortakingmein.Butitendsthere.”“Iknowit.”Hegavehera

long,measuredlook.Thenhecaught her hand, pried openher fist finger by fingerbefore folding them closedagain around a small, cold,sharp-edgedobject.

Akey.He said, “That’s the only

keytothisroom.Andthere’sonlyonedoor.Youleaveitinthe lock, nobody will becomingin.Understand?”She stared at the key. No,

she did not understandanything. She understoodnothingabouthim,leastofallhowhemanagedtoleavehershaken and shamed by herownharshwordstohim.As the door closed behind

him, a bitter taste filled hermouth. Again, that hauntingquestion she could not quitedismiss: what if she waswrong about him? What if,despite all evidence to thecontrary—his criminalreputation; thisgamblingden—hewas adecentman,whooffered his kindnesshonestly?Thesharpedgesofthekey

cut into her palm. Shegrimacedand fit thekey into

the lock. Consideration.Kindness.Shedidn’twant it.Oh,betruthful.Godhelpher,but some twisted part of herwould have preferred him toravishher.Betweenthem,sheseemedtheanimal.She distracted herselfwith

atourof thesuite. Itwasnotquite as spacious as his, butthe sitting room washandsomely outfitted inneutral tones of cream andbronze.Onedooropenedinto

a very modern, tiled watercloset. The last room houseda bed that looked to be amuseum piece. From thedoorway, she ogled it. Thecarved oak canopy—theentire fixture was Jacobean.Werehereyesdeceivingher?She approached, placing

onetentativehandagainstthethick poster. This was nofacsimile, she’d wager. Itwould have fetched ahandsome price at auction,

forsuchbedswereveryrare.Slowly she turned. The

chair in the corner looked tobe Chippendale. Shehesitated, but there was nopointtryingtosleepinsucharattled state; she might aswell indulge herself. Sheremoved the Trafalgar seat.Theoutsideedgesofthefrontlegslookedworn,justastheyshould. She tipped the chairforward, and found similarmarks of heavy use on the

back of the rear legs. Thiswasnoreproduction.Amazement prickled

through her. What on earthwas O’Shea doing with suchantiques?Curious now, she returned

to the sitting room. The gilt-mounted clock on themantelpiece boasted asplendid marquetry ofsycamore;itappearedtobeaCromwellian original. Shedriftednearer,reachingoutto

touch themantel that framedthe hearth. Wood overlaidwithplaster.Couldthisbeanoriginal Adam? Ceres,goddess of plenty, presidedover the central panel, whilethe friezes displayed wreathsofwheat.These treasures had been

seized from irresponsiblegamblers, no doubt. Sheshouldnotadmire them.Andyet . . . it took taste toknowwhat to seize in lieu of

payment.She glanced toward the

locked door. She had paidlittle attention to thefurnishings in O’Shea’sprivate quarters. Nerves hadblinded her. Now shewondered what she hadmissed.Apityone couldnotpayavisitathalfpasttwotoask!A pity one could not trust

oneselftopaythatvisit.Were he some other

man . . .Thenotion shockedher,but shedared tovoice ittoherself:werehesomebodyelse,perhaps shewouldhavetaken the riskwithout regardfor the shame. After all,hungerscouldbeslaked,firesdoused; revisiting his bedmighthaveliberatedherfromthisunsettlingfever,allowingher to repossess her once-disciplinedstateofmind.But in theeyesof the law,

he was her husband. What

happened between them in abedroom would haverepercussions outside it. Sheshould not give him anycausetolookonherasatruewife, for she had no interestin playing one—nor anyability.There was another way to

douse a fire: feed it no fuel.As she lay down in bed, sheforced her thoughts tobusiness, and fell asleep tonightmares of accounts that

didnotreconcile.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Nick woke before dawn,taking care in his ablutionsnot to make any noise thatmight penetrate to the

neighboring apartment. Thiswas a task he meant toundertake withoutinterference from innocents,no matter that their tongueswere sharp enough to countthemarmedatalltimes.He frightened her. That

wasclear.Heknewthecause,too.Madeherfeel thingsshedidn’twanttofeel.Hewouldn’tlietohimself.

He enjoyed frightening her.He’dneverknownapleasure

quite as rare and dark, asrattling a creamy girl whothoughtherselfhisbetter,andmaking her blush against herwill.As he dressed, he felt an

old twinge in his left knee,relic of an earlier timewhenbrawls had been dirty andphysical.He’dgrownhardbynecessity, andhewasn’t foolenoughtomissthosedays.Ithad been years since he setout alone on foot, with only

his own knife to back him.But when Nick reached thepointwhereheneededfriendstotakeonasinglesoft-belliedswell,hewouldbeonefootinthe grave already, and wellpasttheneedforkilling.He woke Johnson for a

brief word—Catherineneeded a guard, and Johnsonwould do in a pinch—beforestepping out of the club. Hewalked toward thehighroad,through alleys still sunk in

darkness while dawn grayedoverhead.Ontheomnibus,hestood shoulder to shoulderwith dark-suitedworkers andneatlydressedgirlsboundforthe shops and offices of theWestEnd.Here and therehecaught a glance lingering onhis face, quickly avertedwhen he remarked it. Somepeople recognized him, butnotmost.Thishalf anonymity suited

him. Itmade iteasier topick

out his own people, thosewiththeknowledgetorespector fear him, as theircircumstances required. Anybetter known, and he’d haveto send his men to do thedirty work for him—and inthiscase,particularly,hewaslooking forward to doing forhimself.Two changes later, and he

was in Bloomsbury. Roadsswept neat, fat nabobs stillslumbering.Asheturnedinto

HentonCourt,hecameacrossastreetsweeperdozingonhisfeet, chin propped atop hisbroom handle. The boyopened one eye as Nickpassed.He remembered that kind

of sleep. Never easy, neverdeep. As a child, he’d sweptstreets for a few monthshimself. It had taken owninga roof for him to learn tosleepsoundlyagain.Neddie’shad been his first purchase;

until then, he’d had nothingto show for his ill-gottencoin.Bankerswouldn’ttouchit. He’d run out of places tohidehiscash.WhennewshadtraveledofNeddie’splight—rent raised skyward, ownerputting the public house toauction—he’d thought hardbefore making a bid. Amanlike him owning property?Seemed likepaintinga targetonhisback.Instead,holdingthedeedin

hishand,he’ddiscovered theintoxication of owningsomething real. Having aplace where nobody couldsay he didn’t belong, had norights, wasn’t good enough.He’d never interfered withNeddie’sways;helet theoldman go on as always. Buthe’d taken to sleeping therefor a time—sleeping asdeeply and dreamlessly as ababe.Diamonds was his pride.

But Neddie’s would alwaysbe his first and truest home.Stillwasn’tanywherehesleptbetter.Helistenedtothesoundof

hisownfootstepsechooffthepolished stone faces of thetownhouses. Nodded politelyto a passing bobby, whoyawned as he strolled hisbeat. The curtains were stilldrawnattheEverleighhouse.Hepassedonward,pausingafew houses away to lean

against a scrawny oak andwait.He’d gambled that the

events of last night wouldpull Everleigh from his bedquite early. Indeed, it didn’ttake above an hour until acarriage rolled out from thenearby alley, horses pullingup at the curb before thehouse.Thefrontdooropened;Peter went rushing down thestairs toward the coach, afootman at his heels. Nick

stole up from the other side,waiting until the other doorthumped shut to open thedoor on his own side andspringin.“What the—” Peter

Everleigh slammed himselfbackward against hiscushionsas thecoach rockedintomotion.“Iwouldn’t,”Nicksaid,as

the otherman’s hand rose toraptheceilingforhisdriver’sattention. “This will be a

shortdiscussion.”Slowly, Everleigh lowered

his hand. “What in God’snamedoyouwant?”Bastard lookedwell rested

for a man whose sister haddisappearedintheweehours.Were he smarter, he’d belookingmore alarmed by hispresent company, too.“You’re easy to surprise,”Nicksaid.“Shouldtakebettercarewithyoursafety.”“Some of us live decent

lives,”Everleigh said tightly.“We see no need to belookingoverourshouldersatthecrackofdawn.”Nick smiled. “Perhaps that

was the case before. Thenyougavetroubletomywife.”Everleighcaughtonatlast.

He lunged for the door, butNick was ready for him. Hecaught Everleigh around thethroatandpulledhimontothebenchinachokehold.“Stop thrashing,” he said,

“orImighthurtyou.”“Letgoof—”Everleigh’swordsendedin

a sputter as Nick squeezed.“No need for you to talk.Simplynod.”The man struggled harder.

Nick seized his hair andforced his neck to anawkwardangle.Soonenough,he’d be longing for air.“Nod,”hesaidflatly.At last, Everleigh nodded.

His lips were trembling; he

pressed them into a flat lineand dragged in a chokedbreath.Nickstretchedouthislegs,

making himself comfortable.These cushions were stuffedas plump as a Christmasgoose. “Your sister tells meyou’ve got politicalambitions,” he said amiably.“Itellhershemustbewrong.I say, any politician wouldknowbetterthantobreakintohis sister’s room after

midnight.”Thethoughttastedfoul; he spat onto the floor.“A sister, mind you, who islawfully married to another,and who was, I expect, onlyspendingthenightunderyourroof as a lark, one finalevening in her childhoodhome. Aye, there’s a tale.Would play well in thenewspapers, all right: thepolitician who dreams ofbigamy.”Everleigh looked white as

pasteboard, spit bubbling atthecornersofhismouth.“You’lltellPilchertokeep

his mind off her henceforth.And you’ll keep away fromPilcher. You’ll have himkicked off the municipalboard on charges ofcorruption.Gotit?”Everleigh nodded—then

shookhisheadwildly.Just asNickhad expected.

“Right.What’shegotonyou,then?”

Everleigh’s lips movedsoundlessly. Apparently therat did need to breatheoccasionally.Nicklethimgo.Everleigh hurled himself

onto the opposite bench,drawing his knees up to hischest as an extra defense.“You’re a—” He lookedfrenzied with astonishment.“Howdareyou!You—”“Pilcher,”Nick said flatly.

“What’syourconnectionwithhim?”

“You’rearuffian,a—”Slow learner, this one.

Nicklungedacrossthecoach,catching Everleigh by thehair. Time to introduce hisknife to this discussion. Heset it just so at Everleigh’sthroat.That got the bastard’s

attention. He stammered outsome frantic, babblingapology.Nick let the sharp edge of

his knife give his reply. A

shaving nick, it would looklike.Everleigh’s eyes bulged

wide.Heshutup,finally.“I’m no nob,” Nick said.

“Your rules don’t apply tome. And your blood won’tlookbluewhenIspillit.AskmehowIknow.”Everleigh had a shred of

intelligence, after all. Hedidn’t ask. Only loosed alittlesob.“Tell me, then, what

Pilcher’s got on you.” Heeased the knife away afraction.“I . . . oh, God in

heaven . . . I can’t oustPilcher from the board. He’sgot friends, you see, and Iwon’thavethevotes—”“You’ll have

Whitechapel’s vote. Thevotes of St. George’s-in-the-EastandMileEnd.Andyourown,” Nick added. “That’llgive you a fine start for

politicking.”“No,youdon’tunderstand!

Your buildings—thatinspector had no authority inWhitechapel. Pilcherunderstood that; he knowsthat a man of my ambitionsmust be seen to respect thelaw. Butwhat you’re talkingof now—he would neverforgive me for it! And I’vegot investments with him,you see. Land, properties, agreatdealofmoneysunkinto

his developments. I’d lose itall.Ican’taffordtomakehimanenemy!”So that explained it.

Everleigh and Pilcher werepartnersinlandspeculation.Nick weighed his options.

Tempting to throw this pieceofshittothewolves.Buthe’dnot come up in theworld byindulging his own whims attheexpenseofgoodstrategy.“How much do you havesunkwithhim?”

“Three—four thousandpounds.”“Break with Pilcher, then.

I’ll stand you the sum.” Heshoved Everleigh onto thefloor.Everleighscrambledoffhis

knees to the opposite bench,huddlingas far fromNickasthevehicleallowed.“But...you can’t . . .Why on earthwould you make such anoffer?”“It’s business,” Nick said,

clipped.“You’llbevotingforme,wheneverIrequireit.”“Ofcourse,”Everleighsaid

instantly.“And you’ll handmywife

everyaccountattachedtothatauction house. You’ll putthemintoherhands,andhersalone.”“I—but the law won’t

allow that! By the terms ofthe trust, she cannot assumecontrol unless she ismarried.”Brightcolorroseto

Everleigh’sface.“Orareyourecanting your offer ofsilence?”“No. The accounts will

stay inyourname,butyou’lldesignate her your legalproxy.”Everleigh gawked. “What

onearthdoyouknowofsuchmatters?”Here was what made the

toffs such easy pickings.They imagined, becausethey’d designed the game,

that nobody else could learnthe rules. “You’ll have thatproxy drawn up today. Doyoufollow?”“I . . .” Hesitantly,

Everleigh uncurled himself.Hesetonebooton the floor,then another, his posturehunched, clearly braced foranotherattack.Nick pointedly sheathed

hisknife.Everleigh loosed an

audible breath and sat

straighter. “Then I acceptyourproposal.”Nick paused, letting the

silence tick out, three longbeats. “Wasn’t a proposal.It’s the only chance you’llget.Understand?”The other man recoiled.

“Yes!Yes,Iunderstand.”Nick studied him a

moment, cataloging eachtwitch. “You sure aboutthat?”Everleigh offered a

flinching attempt at aplacating smile. “I dounderstand,”hewhispered.“Ipromise, I won’t be anytrouble to you.” He clearedhisthroat,thensaidinameektone,“ShallIaskthedrivertodropyousomewhere?”“No need.” Nick opened

thedoor,thenleaptneatlyoutinto traffic. His last view ofEverleigh was the man’spallid, astonished face as heleaned out to pull the door

shut.

***En route to Everleigh’sthrough a sunny autumnmorning, Catherine becameaware of how her stomachchurned.Shefullyanticipateda violent quarrel with herbrother over the debacle ofthe Cranston auction. Worseyet, after his bizarre attempttobreakintoherbedchamber,herownanger felt secondary

to nervousness. Peter hadmade her afraid to return toher own auction rooms! Itwasoutrageous.As she emerged from

O’Shea’s unmarked coach,oneofhisservantsdescendedfrom the footman’s step toescortherinside.Amountainofaman,withashiningbaldhead and a bashful smile, heintroduced himself as Mr.Johnson.“I’mtostickbyyoutoday,” he told her, “and

make sure your brotherbehaves,miss.”This presumption on

O’Shea’s part wouldordinarily anger her. Buttoday, it seemed likewelcome news. “Very well,”shesaidstiffly,andonadeepbreath,ledthegiantinside.But her brother was

nowhere in evidence. In heroffice, she discovered aninfuriated letter from LordCranston, the reply to which

keptherbusyformostof themorning. Cranston felt hispridehadbeeninjuredbytheinterruption of the auction,anddemandedassurancesandrecompense.By the time a knock came

at her door, she had all butforgotten her former anxiety,so immersed was she in thetricky politics of soothing anoffended peer. “Come,” shesaidabsently.The door opened. Mr.

Johnson stepped inside, herbrotherathisheels.Her throat tightened, her

pulse tripping into a gallop.Peter looked thin-lipped,flushed, and livid. But withJohnsonloomingbehindhim,she felt well able to matchhiminafight.Shelaiddownherpen,and

rose.“Ihopeyou’vecometoapologize,”shesaid.“Andtoaccount for yourself! Lastnight—”

Peter threw a stack ofpapers onto her desk.“There,”hesaidflatly.“Thatisallyouwillhavefromme.Tellhimitisdone.”“Tellwhom?”Peter grimaced. “Your

gutter rat. Who else?”Turning on his heel, heshoved past Johnson andstalkedout.Mystified, she sat back

downandbrokeopenthesealonthepapers.Foramoment,

looking them over, she losther grip on English. Thewordsmadenosense.Peter had made her his

legalproxy.Gaping, she flipped

throughthepages.Yes,she’dread rightly: she nowcontrolled Everleigh’sfinancial operations.Effectively, she controlledeverything.“Are you all right there,

miss?”

Hadshemadeanoise?Mr.Johnson, still lingering in thedoorway, looked concerned.“I’m.. .verywell,”shesaidfaintly. She carefully laiddownthepapers.“Wouldyoumind stepping outside, Mr.Johnson? I requireamomentof...”As the door shut, she

exhaled—a shuddering,choked breath that broughtthe sudden pressure of tearsto her eyes. She dropped her

face into her hands, pressingtightly to stem the urge toweep.Icontrolthecompany.Her mouth was trembling.

She was not dreaming. Thiswasreal.Shefelther lipscurve into

awide,amazedsmile.Saved! No more

embezzling; no morethievery; no more threats ofselling the business.She wasthesoleeffectiveowner.

Coulditreallybe?She seized the documents

again. The miracle remainedunchanged. I do designateCatherineEverleighmy legalproxy in all matterspertaining to the governanceof this company, its assetsandproperties...A laugh slipped from her.

No wonder Peter looked sopale!He could not touch theprincipal now—nor any oftheclientaccounts!Hewould

need her permission to availhimself of so much as apenny.O’Sheahaddonethis.She shook her head,

wonder prickling over her.How had he done it? Andwhy? Nobody, not even thefamily solicitor who hadknown her from birth, hadtaken her complaints aboutPeter so seriously. ButO’Shea had listened to her.He had acted to save

Everleigh’s,thoughhehadnoreason to concern himselfwithitswelfare.Noreasonexcept...her.The thought triggered a

curious rush of warmththrough her chest. She rose,lockingherhands togetherather waist, and stared blindlyout thewindowinto the littlepark across the road.He hadoffered her friendship. Wasthis how he treated hisfriends? If so, how fortunate

theywere!She swallowed.Hehadno

right to interfere with herbusiness,ofcourse.But how could she resent

himforit?Turning back, she stroked

one finger across the bold,plain print of this legaldocument, the greatest giftshe had ever been given. Acurious feeling flutteredthroughherstomach,softandunbearably sweet. Surely he

had some secret motive. Shewas a businesswoman; sheknew that nothing ever camefor free. He was trying topurchase her trust. But towhatpurpose?She could not trust a man

who offered suchextraordinary gifts withoutdeclaring his price for themfirst. But had he told her thecost beforehand . . . oh,whatever itmight havebeen,she probably would have

acceptedthebargain.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Another bloody note fromPilcher. Callan handed itover, his lean faceexpressionless. But when he

spoke,therewasawarninginhisvoice.“Camehimself,thistime.”“Did he?”Nick glanced at

the letter, snorting. Pilcherhad first written on the veryevening that the board hadoverthrown his petition tocondemn Nick’s buildings.He’d proposed then to meetNick at Speakers’ Corner inHyde Park—under cover ofdarkness, he’d written, asthoughplottingaheist.

Now he’d progressed tooffering dinner at his club inSt. James. Still didn’t saywhat he wanted, though.Perhaps he’d caught on toEverleigh’squietcampaigntounseathim.Ormaybehewasstill stewing over the lots onOrtonStreet.Either way, Nick saw no

profitinreplying.Hereachedagain forhiscards. “Yougotdownstairs in hand?” heasked as he cut the deck.

He’d spent most of theevening at Neddie’s, settlingbusinesswithhis rentagents.When he’d come back, thecrowd had been thick asporridge. Judging by thenoise,itwasthinningnow.“Locked up tight,” said

Callan. He rubbed his eyes.“A crowd at the roulette, ahandful left at baccarat andpoker.”Nick considered him. Lad

wassportingfreshbruiseson

his face. They distorted theline of his jaw, made himlook fuller cheeked, youngerthan his twenty-odd years.PutNick inmind of the firstnight he’d shown up at thedoor, wet to the bone in apouring rain, barelyseventeen, claiming to be along-lostcousin.Callanhadtheheightforit,

maybe, and the rawbonedstrength. But Nick didn’tknowasinglekinsmanwhose

hairhadthatreddishcast,nordidherecognizethenorthernlilt of Callan’s speech.Morelikely, the lad had caughtwind of the advantage inbeing related, and inventedthe kinship while he waitedon Diamonds’s doorstep tobegforajob.As long as the fiction

servedthemboth,Nickwouldcall him a cousin—and treathimso.“Whohityou?”“Nobody.” Callan had a

moody, angular face, and along mouth that telegraphedsullennessbetterthanagirl’s.“Helooksworse.”“Surehedoes.”Boyhada

taste for brawling, all right.Made him a fine patroller ofthe floor—he jumped at thechance to teach cheaters alesson. “As long as hedeservedit.Nouseinriskingyourbonesforsport.”Callan’s jaw tightened.

This was an old dispute

between them. The lad hadused to make a fine incomeon the side, fighting at OldJoe’s in the Nichol for acrowd of wagering swells.“I’venotbeentoOldJoe’sinmonths,” he said bitterly.“NottosayIcouldn’tusethecash.”Nick paid a handsome

wage. But he knew thatCallankept little for himself.Sent most of it direct to hissiblingsinBelfast.

Still, he wouldn’tcountenance cheek. “Youthink you can do better,you’re welcome to walk outthe door,” he said as heshuffledthecards.Callan snapped straight.

“No.Ididn’tmeanthat.”“Good.Becauseas longas

you work here, you’ll keepaway from Old Joe’s.” Nickpaused, fixing Callan in asquare look.“You’renodog,to risk your throat for toffs’

entertainment. No amount ofmoney isworthyourpride—oryourlife.”Callan’s mouth curved.

“Right.”That smirk right there

accounted for most ofCallan’s bruises, Nick didn’tdoubt. If he didn’t know thelad better, he’d be itching toslap itawayhimself. Instead,he cast a pointed glancetowardtheclockonthewall.“Turn ’emout at half three.”

Thatwasthedealhe’dstruckwith the local precinct.Bobbies liked to knowwhenthey could start harassingloiterers in the court, andwhentoturnablindeye.“Willdo.”Nick idly riffled the cards

as he watched Callan walkoff.Distantrelation,sure.TheO’Sheas, for all their faults,had hearts that burned hot,and the boy was cold to thebone.

A flicker of movementdown the balcony caught hiseye.Why,ifitwasn’thisdearwife. He’d expected her todecamp to a hotel after herfirstnighthere.Butitseemedshe’d developed a taste forthe place. Last they’d talkedat any length, she’d thankedhim with a pretty blush forensuringherbrothergaveherthe proxy, and then she’dannounced that he was right—she’d be safer staying

underhisroof,atleastforthetimebeing.He would have liked a

momenttosavorthatvictory.“Right,wasI?”he’ddrawled,but she’d suddenlyremembered some workwaitingforher,andhadtakenherself off before he couldproperlygloat.Sheworkedlonghours,she

did.Sometimes,whenhegotbackathalf ten,shewasstillat the office. Johnson, who

had kept tailing her lest herbrother cause trouble,complained that he wasfalling asleep on his feet,thankstoherschedule.It looked like she’d been

interrupted from bed. Shewore a pale pink nightdressand matching shawl, andshe’d bound her hair backintoagoldenplaitthatswungdown to the small of herback.Shewasprowlingdownthe balcony like a thief on a

rumcatch.He let the cards fall,

watching curiously as shedrew up by a hip-high vasethat stood against the wall.She bent down, running herpalm along the curving lip,and he felt a brief, ruefulenvy for the cold porcelain.To be looked at with suchavid interest, while rubbedlikeacat...anymanwouldtake an interest in theprospect.

He certainly did. Hepushed out a long breath.This, right here, was whyhe’d taken tostayingout latein the evenings. He hadn’tmadeittotheripeoldageofthirty-one in order to beambushed by a constantparade of inconvenient cock-stands.Wasn’t her fault, though.

Notbysomuchasasighoraflutterdidsheencouragehim.Each time they had crossed

paths on the balcony thisweek, she’d done her best tolook right through him asshe’d issued her prim littlegreeting.“Thatinterestyou?”hecallednow.Sheflinched,thenwheeled

towardhim,thefringesofhershawl fluttering around herelbows.“You’rehere!”“I own the place,” he said

agreeably.“Yourealizewe’restill open, aye?” For all thather nightdress covered her

from chin to toes, she’dprobablyfindsomereason tofeelshyaboutit.But after a visible

hesitation, she surprised himbyapproaching.Pitythathe’dhad her wardrobe fetchedfrom Bloomsbury. She’dclearly added several layersbeneaththepinkgown,forhecouldn’t catch a hint of therollofherhips.Onlythetipsof her stockings showed,quickflashesofwhitelace.

Shewore lacestockings tobed.Now,whyshouldthatbethe best news he’d had allday?Should have slept at

Neddie’s,afterall.She drew up at the other

side of the table, frowning.Hekickedout theotherchairin invitation. She glanced atit, but remained standing.“Where do you go eachnight? You’re never here intheevening.”

So she’d noticed.Her lacestockings would probablykeephimawayfor fivemorenights. It wasn’t his way tohire companionship—he’dknown too many whores inhis childhood; even the poshones rarely enjoyed theirwork.Butatthisrate,he’dbewearing out his hand. “I’vegot business elsewhere,” hesaid.“Why?”“No reason. I was only

curious.” She paused,

chewing on her lip. Thatwould not help him get tosleep later. “It seems a poorway to run the House ofDiamonds, though. I’dimagined . . . when I firstvisited, you struck me as amore conscientiousproprietor.”Hegrinned.“You’vegota

talent,” he said, “for insultswrappedincompliments.”She gave a curious little

grimace.“Ididn’tmean...I

supposeyourotherbusinessesdemand your attention aswell.”An apology! Roundabout,

to be sure, but surprising allthe same. “Why are youprowling about so late?”Wasn’t errant lust, he’dwager. He was trying veryhard not to let his pride beinjuredbythat,butdamnedifhe could work out how shedidn’t feel an ounce ofcuriosity, after what they’d

done together in his bed onthefirsttry.Her eyes cut toward the

vase, thenback tohis.Shiftylook, there. In anybody else,hewouldhavecalleditguilt,and looked for the reason. “Ican’tsleep.”He nodded and resumed

shufflingthecards.“What business were you

attendingto?”sheaskedafteramoment.Judging by her stiff tone,

shewasmakingconversationagainst her better instincts.“PropertiesIrent,”hesaid.“Oh yes. Lilah—that is,

your niece mentioned youowned several. She thinksyou...quiteabusinessman.”He glanced up at her,

amusedbytheincongruityofLily befriending this girl.Two more different womenhe couldn’t imagine. Thenagain,Lilyhadchanged,onceshe’dstartedherclimboutof

Whitechapel into the lapofaswell. A bloody viscount, noless. “You heard from hersince she left on thathoneymoon?”She nodded. “A few brief

notes. They’re in New Yorknow,Ithink.”“Imagine that.” Her gaze

haddropped tohishands;heshowed off for her a little,cutting the decksinglehandedly. “Seems a bitmuch,don’tit?Sixmonthsof

travel?”“Lord Palmer asked her

what she most wanted, andshesaid. . .”Herpalebrowsdrewtogetherasheriffledthecards. “She said she wishedto see the world. Where didyoulearntodothat?”“What, this?”Hemadethe

cards explode from hisfingertips, catching them asthey fitted back together intoaneatpile.Her lips formed a perfect

O. Her amazement was sotransparent and childlike, soutterly unlike her usualguarded mien, that helaughed.Recalling herself, she

pulled a face and turnedaway.“Nevermind.”“No, wait.” When she

looked over her shoulder, heshrugged and said, “It’s likeasking where you learned toput your hair in that braid.Pretty, aye? But probably

comes as second nature toyou.”She touched her hair.

God’s glory, it was, a thickrope the width of a man’swrist,gleaming likea freshlypolished guinea. “Plaiting isquitesimple,actually.”“Andsoisthis.”She squinted, looking

doubtful.“Honestly. Looks tricky,

butit’sonlyastepupfromaregularshuffle.”

She put her hand on theback of the chair. She hadslim fingers, small hands;theylookedboneless,herskinopalescentinthelowlight.Alady’s hands, save for hernails,whichwere trimmed tothe quick. Those gratifiedhim, somehow. Calluses andstubbed nails, God love her.DidanyothermaninLondonknowthosedetails?Hehopednot. It was becoming acurious new hobby, a deeply

private pleasure, to collectthesesmallsecretsabouther.Hecouldn’ttouchher.Buthecould learn the quirks of herbody,regardless.“I don’t know how to

shuffle,”sheadmitted.“You said you played

cards, right? That first nightyoucamehere.”Herhandtightened.“Isaid

thatchildrenplaycards.”“I’m thinking you were

one once. Or did you spring

outfullygrown?”A smile flitted over her

mouth.“LikeAthena?”“Don’tknowher.”Her smile faded. “The

goddessonyourceiling.”Shewaved toward the muraloverhead.“Oh.” He shrugged.

“Didn’t cover the classics inschool.”“What did you study,

then?”“I didn’t. School wasn’t

compulsory back then.” Andthe mission schools hadrarelysparedaseatforaboylikehim.Timeshad changedforthebetter, thatway.Eventhenobsadmittednow thatagrubbershouldlearntoread.She looked shocked. “You

havenoeducationatall?”“I’mnotilliterate,”hesaid.

He’d taught himself,painfully,toolatetolearnanycomfort with it. He workeddown a page more slowly

thanBlushescouldrun.That look on her face

bordered too closely on pity.“I knowwhat I need to,” headded.“AndifIfindIdon’t,then I putmyself to learningitrightquickly.”“I’m sure you do,” she

murmured. “To haveaccomplished . . .” Sheglancedtowardtherailing, inthe direction of the gamingfloor.“Well.Manymenwithdegreeshavenotmanagedas

much.”He loosed a low whistle.

“Now, that’s a propercompliment. You feeling allright?”She blushed and looked

downatherhand,runningherthumb along the back of thechair. “It is not acompliment,” she saidstiltedly, “to remark theobvious. I cannot approve ofillegal business operations,but I can certainly admire a

profitableenterprise.”PoorKitty, sodesperate to

reason herself out ofkindness. “I bet you had afancy education,” he said.“Latin,Greek,thewhatnot.”Miracle of miracles, she

pulled out the chair and sat.“Notreally.Mybrotherhadatutor, and then, of course, hewas sent to school. But mygoverness was mostlyconcerned with teachingmanners and deportment.

Socialcharms.”Hesnorted.“Shewasn’tso

good,Itakeit.”Therewas a briefmoment

in which he could see herweighing whether to takeoffenseorbeamused.Atlast,her mouth curved slightly.“Perhaps not,” she said. “Ivery much doubt shereferences me when lookingforwork.”Her dry humor set

something at ease in him.

He’d seen glimpses, once ortwice, of her ability to laugh—but generally only at him.If they could joke together,they would rub along justfine.“Properterror,youwere,Idon’tdoubt.”“She certainlywasn’twith

us for very long,” she said.“Butthen,itwouldhavebeena waste of money. I spentmost of my time atEverleigh’s, tagging alongwithmy father.Thatwasmy

true education.He taughtmeeverythingheknew—or triedto,atleast.”“Ah.Uncommon,”hesaid.

“You don’t see many menbringinguptheirdaughterstorunabusiness.”Now her smile faded. “He

thought I had more promisethanPeter.”Sharptilttoherchin,there.

Did she expect him to arguethe point? “Sounds like yourdadsawthingsclearly.”

“He did.” She relaxed alittle. “He was very good tome. He took me everywhere—into meetings with clients,even. They could hardlybelieve their eyes when theysawme sitting in the corner.But when somebody wouldobject to it,my fatherwouldchallenge them to try todistract me into speaking. Icould stay perfectly quiet forhours.”Sounded like a miserable

time for a child. But hegathered that she meant toboast.“Howoldwereyou?”She propped her elbow on

the table and rested her chinin her hand. “I was sevenwhen he first starting takingme to workwith him. But itwasn’tuntilIwasnineortenthatIsatinonmeetings.”“Nine or ten.” With the

easy way she was leaning,she couldn’t be wearing acorset.He tried to ignore the

notion, the memory of whatshe’d looked like, stretchedacrosshisbed innothingbuther skin. He cut the deckagain, making a complexbridgetodistracthimself.Hereyeswidenedwithdelight.He bit down on a smile.

Thiswomanwasaccustomedto gazing on valuablewonders, which men paidfortunes to own. But shewatched his small tricks likehe was working magic for

her. “Nine’syoung,”he said,“tokeepsostill.”“Ishouldsaynineisafine

ageforit.Farbettersuitedtostudythantoheavylabor.”It took him a moment to

realizehe’dtoldherabouthiswork at the dockyards. Hesnorted. “Given the choice, Iwouldhavepicked thedocksany day. Sitting still wasn’tforme.Whathappenedifyouspoke up, wanted to goplay?”

“Ididn’t.IpreferredPapa’scompany.”“Neveronce?”Her voice thinned. “I was

good at it. At helping him, Imean.Anditinterestedme.”Telling, how being good

wasevidentlymoreimportantthan being interested. “Notimeforcards,then.”“Nobody to play with,

either.” She shrugged. “Thatwouldhavemadeafinesightfor the clients—the staff

gamblingwithachild.”Whatacontrasttohisown

youth—brawling in thestreets, quipping andconspiringwith lads his ownage, some of whom he stillsaw nightly at Neddie’s. Ithadn’t been an easyexistence, but he’d rarelywanted for a friend. “Soundslonely.”Her face went blank. “It

wasn’t.”“Right.”

“Ihadmyfather,”shesaid.“Andthework.”Andnowshehadonly the

work.Hebegantounderstandwhyshewassodesperatenotto lose the auction rooms—and why she might havemarried a man like him, tokeepthem.“Whatofyou?”sheasked.

“Did you—do you havesiblings?Didtheyworkatthedocks,too?”“An older sister,” he said.

“Much older. Lived here inWhitechapel—Lily’s mother,in fact. When my own mapassed, I went to live withher.”“So you grew up with

Lilah—Lily, I mean.” Sheoffered a smile. “I supposeshewasgreatfunasagirl.”Ahellcat,infact.ButNick

wouldn’t disillusion her. Helooked at her carefully as hereshuffled the deck, noticingthe shadows under her eyes,

thewanattitudeofherprettymouth. She had nobody toconfide in,he supposed.Lilywasn’t due back from herhoneymoon for a month ortwo, yet. And Catherine hadleft her lady’s maid inBloomsbury, for fear shecouldn’t trust her to keepsecrets.Lonely, indeed. What she

neededwastohavesomefun.He split the deck and

slapped one of the halves in

frontofher.“Let’splay.”She sighed. “I just told

you,Idon’t—”“This is the easiest game

on theplanet,”hesaid.“Youturnoveryourtopcardatthesame time as I do.Whoeverhas the highest card gets tokeep both. Winner sticksthem into the bottom of hispile, and we both lay downournextcardfromthetop.”“That’sall?”“That’s it. Whoever ends

upwithallthecards,wins.”“But that’s too easy.

What’sthepoint?”He laughed. “Now, that’s

what I like about cards, rightthere. You learn somethingabout the person you’replaying with, regardless ofthegame.”She stiffened. “Fine. Let’s

play.”“No, by all means, let’s

add some savor to it. Fiverounds.Bestoffivewins,and

theloserowesafavor.”“Afavor,”shesaidslowly.

“Whatkindoffavor?”“That’suptothewinner.”“Oh, I think not.” Where

had she gotten those witchyeyes from? Who had taughther to use them so boldly?Even in Whitechapel, girlsbatted their lashes. ButCatherineEverleigh,Lady ofBusiness, stared him downwithout somuch as a flutter.“I never make a contract

without elucidating the termsfirst,”shetoldhim.There was something

deeply fetching about suchbrisk,mannishwords spokenby a rosy, thoroughlyfemininemouth—amouth, ifhewasn’tmistaken, thatwasfighting a smile. Her gazedroppedfromhis,andsheranone finger over the baizetabletop. “Unless,” she said,“you’re having secondthoughtsaboutyourchanceat

winning?”Now,thatwassaucy,orhe

was a priest. She had someidea of her effect, then. Shesimply knew she didn’t needtobatherlashestoachieveit.“All right,” he said,

smiling himself. “How about—”“The favor cannot break

the terms of any priorcontract we have agreedupon.” As she met his eyesagain,colorrosetoherface.

Ah. He bit hard on hischeek, delighted. She didn’tknow it, but she’d justshowed her hand. He knewnow that her thoughts hadbeen turning toward bed aswell. “Fair enough,” he said.The contract forbade sexualcongress that might beget achild. That left a world ofpossibilities.“Let’splay.”She frowned. “Don’t you

haveanytermsofyourown?”“Sweetheart, so long as it

doesn’t involvekillingamanor betraying a friend, I’mgameforit.”Herfrowndeepenedasshe

looked down at her cards.“Verywell.Butmindyou,anoral contract is as binding asany written agreement.You’re leaving me a greatdealofscope.”“I’llsurvive,Ithink.”“Suityourself.”Sheturned

overherfirstcard.He flipped his in reply.

“Lookthere,you’veatalent,”hesaidasshescoopeduphissix of hearts and tucked itinto her pile with a ten ofdiamonds.“Don’t patronize me,” she

saidpleasantly.“Don’t dawdle, then. This

isagameofspeed.”She had a competitive

streak. He should haveguessedthat,maybe;couldn’tbe a woman in business ifyou lacked ambition. She

whipped down the cardsfaster and faster, until hecould barely bother to keepup,much less trackwhowaswinning each round. It wasbetter fun to watch her—theferocious concentration onher face, and the quickglances of annoyance sheflicked at him when sherealized that he wasn’tbothering to look at theresults.“It seems you want to

lose,” she said as shegatheredupthewinningpair,leavinghimempty-handed.“That was only the first

round,” he said. “It’s best offive.”She snorted. “A loser’s

philosophy. The odds havetipped in my favor now. Anenterprising man would beconcerned.”Was she teasing him? He

couldn’t tell. “Ihate tobreakthe news, sweetheart, but

there’s no skill to this game.Itallcomesdowntochance.”She arched one slim brow

as she handed him the cardsto shuffle. “Naturally. Butwe’ll see if your storychanges,intheunlikelyeventyouwin.”His laugh came out

startled. This was banter, allright—pointedand spiky, thekind he’d expect from abloke. A blunt tongue in anangel’s body: it was the

devil’sownrecipe toenamorhim.“You’vefoundmeout,”he said with a grin as heshuffled. “I’ve no talentwhatsoever. Saddest taleyou’ll ever hear—the manwho neverwon a round, anddecided to open a gamblingclubtomakeupforit.”The corner of her mouth

hitched. Shewas biting backasmile.“Nowyou’reanglingfor pity. It’s a wasted effort,sir.Idon’tlose.”

“I’ll bet youdon’t.”Ashedealt out the cards again, heallowed himself theoccasional admiring glance.Intheloweredlight,withherlongbraidhangingheavyandthick over her shoulder, andhercolorhighfromthefunofthe game, she looked like adifferent woman. Tousled.Touchable.She caught him watching,

and held his eyes. “Thatwon’twork,either.”

He lifted his brows.“What?”Her gaze broke from his,

andhercolordeepened.Thatright therewas his own littlevictory.Hegatheredhishand,andthrewdownagain.Shetookthenextpair,and

showed no grace in gloatingabout it. “I can’t imaginewhat your patronswould sayif they knew of your sadrecordtonight.”He was thinking that he

could have chargedadmission. A dozengentlemenwouldgladlyhavepaid to watch her, lording itover him with such cheekyhumor.“Youknowwhattheysay,Kitty.Pridegoethbeforethefall.”“They also say the devil

citesscripture.Howwisetheyare!”“So it’s the Lord you’re

fightingfor tonight,”hesaid.This run of ill luck certainly

began to make him wonderabout divine influence. Thecards had never brokenagainst him so regularly.“Beatthedevilathisgame.”Smiling, she opened her

mouth—then saw the nextcard he threw. Her face fell,and she glumly shoved hernineofheartstowardhisace.“That’s more like it,” he

said. He took the next pair,andtheoneafterthat,andshebestirred herself from her

sulk to give him a narrow,sharplook.“You’re not cheating, are

you?”“I’d like to know how I’d

manage,”hesaid.“Agameofluckcan’tberigged.”The idea seemed to strike

her. “That’s why I neverdependonluck.”“Isthatso?”Hewasoddly

glad when the next roundwenttoher.“Youliketoplanthingsout,Itakeit.”

“Always. To do otherwiseis base foolishness.” Shehesitated. “I imagine we’renot so dissimilar, in thatregard.Surelyyoucan’thavemanagedyour . . . rise in theworld, were you not a manwhoplannedcarefully.”“Planning wasn’t the key

to it,” he said. “I spottedopportunities,Igrabbedthem.Didn’thesitate,didn’tgiveinto fear. And when I saw aproblem brewing, I didn’t

wait for it togrow;Iwent tomeet it head-on. That’s all ittook.Throwdown,then.”She started and looked

downatherhalfof thedeck.“Oh yes.” She laid down thetopcard,atwoofclubs.Thistime the lossdidnot seem totrouble her. “That’s a man’sprivilege, you know. To goout into the world and facethings. A woman doesn’thavethatluxury.”“Bull—” He caught

himself. “Rubbish, and youknow it. What do you callyourproposaltomarryme,ifnot facing the problemhead-on?”Her head bowed,

concealing her expression assheturnedoverhernextcard.“That was . . . unplanned,”she admitted in a low voice.“Entirelyunlikeme.”He studied the part in her

hair, painfully straight andneat. The precision of it, the

tightness with which she’dbraidedbackherhair,seemedsuggestive somehow. Herewas a woman who liked toimagine herself a tightlybuttoned, disciplinedcreature. But he’d seenanother side to her in thatbed. It still haunted hisdreams. She’d fought againstit, but he’d pulled it out ofher,regardless.It had frightened her. He

understood that. Maybe he

understood it all the betternow. Her kind of childhood,the unnatural restraint she’dbeen trained to show, all forthesakeofthatcompanythatseemed bound up with hermemoriesofherdad...Well, no wonder if she

tried to keep her life tightlylaced, planned out, andcontrolled. She’d never beentaught thatgood thingscouldcomeoflettingloose.He threw down his last

card, and she flicked hersover.“I win,” he said, and took

thedeck.“So you do.” Her mood

seemed to have tipped intosomberness; when thegrandfatherclockchimed,sheshiftedinherseat.“It’slate,”she said. “Perhapsweshouldtablethistilltomorrow.”“Only a coincidence, I

suppose,thatyousaysoafterlosingagame.”

Thatgotherattention.Jawfirming, she said, “Deal,then.”Theyplayedthenextgame

quickly, in utter silence.Anothervictorytohim.Ashedealt one final time, sheleaned forward,watching hishands with searingconcentration.At last, he could not help

but chuckle. “You reallythinkI’mcheating.”“Idon’t,infact.Butitpays

tobecertain.”Shepaused.“Itoccurs tome that those ringsyou wear might be designedtodistract the eye fromwhatyourhandisreallydoing.”“Ah, you’ve caught me

out.”Shelookedup,startled.“Is

that really why you wearthem?”Hehesitatedashegathered

up his hand. “No.They’re . . .” A relic of anolder time, when the fact of

having enough money forthree square meals, andplenty besides, had seemedstrange and intoxicating andbound not to last. “When Iwasyounger,”hesaid,“Ihadatasteforflash.AndIneededsomething to spend my coinon.” Something that wouldannouncetotheworldthathehad come into money, andwasnottobediscounted;thathe was aman, in fact, to bereckonedwith.

Something he could sell,too, if circumstanceschanged.He’dneveradmittedthatparttohimselfuntilhe’dfinallyfoundabetterplacetoputhiscoins—intopropertiesandbuildings.She was squinting at the

rings. He stretched out hishand.“Havealook.”Hesitantly, she took his

hand. The contact seemed tospark straight down into hisbones. Her own mouth

tightened a fraction, asthough she felt it, too, andfought it with everything inher.He counted the seconds.

Shewouldn’tmakeittillfive,heexpected.Two,three—She dropped his hand. “I

don’t know much aboutgemstones.” Her voicesounded reedy. “Anyway, Iwould need my loupe to seethemclearly.”“Well,theoneonmyindex

fingerisadiamond,”hesaid.“There’s a ruby on mymiddle. Sapphire and garneton the ring finger, andemeraldonthepinky.”“I don’t believe I’ve ever

seenthemallworntogether.”He snorted. She’d taken

care to say it very neutrally,butitdidn’ttakeasoothsayerto guess at the sentimentbehind that remark. “It’s notforfashionthatIgotthem.”Her gaze lifted to his. In

the dim lighting, her eyeswereadeepviolet.Nogemintheworldthatheknewcouldmatch that shade, nor any ofthe others that her eyesreflected, depending on thehour.But if there had been one,

he’dhavewornit.Nodoubt.“What are they for,” she

said, “if not for fashion? Ithought you said you’dpurchased them when youwere cultivating an attitude

of...flash.”“Well.” He allowed

himself a slight smile. “I’mIrish, after all. Superstitionruns deep in the blood.Diamonds, they’re forcourage. Hard, unbreakable.Sapphires are generallyaccountedtobringwisdomtothewearer. The garnet is forgood health, the ruby forpower.”Her winged brows had

drawntogether.“Youbelieve

inthatfolklore?”“Don’tknowasIbelievein

it. But I’ve done well withtheseringsonmyfingers.SoIseenoharmin letting thembe.”Shenodded slowly. “What

about the emerald? Whatdoesitstandfor?”“Not much,” he said. “I

just like the color.” He laiddownhistopcard.She slowly did the same.

“So it means nothing, then?

How sad for emeralds. Theymust feel very lonely, to beleftoutofthemyths.”“Now who’s sounding

fanciful?” It was her quick,abashedsmile thatmadehimunbend enough to go on.“Emeraldsareforlove.”Her hand paused atop her

deck,hergazebreakingfromhis to wander away into themiddle distance. “I thoughtyoudidn’tbelieveinthat.”“Neversaidso.”

“You did.” She lookedbackathim,scowling.“Inthestairwell, at the registeroffice.”“Ah.” He remembered

now. “I said Iwas a cynic. Idon’t expect to find loveoften.ButIdon’tdoubtthatitexists.Why,doyou?”“No, but . . .” She bit her

lip. “If you hope for love,whydidyoudoit?”“Do what?” He was

winning this game, too, but

shedidn’tseemtonotice.Shewas flipping over cardswithoutlooking,herattentionfocusedonhim.“This marriage,” she said.

“Fiveyears is . . .”She tookan audible breath. “A verylongtime.”Something was upsetting

her. He couldn’t begin towork it out, so he said theonly thing that he knewwouldputher at ease. “Loveneedn’t only concern a

husbandandwife,Kitty.Youlovedyourda,aye?Love foraparent,loveforachild,lovefor a friend . . .” Herexpressionwasindeedeasing.“Theemeraldcangotoworkon those,” he said with asmile.“Of course,” she said after

a moment. “It was a sillyquestion.”“Notparticularly,”hesaid.

“What’s your fear? Afraidyou’ll fall in lovewith some

swell before our five yearsareup?”She ran a nervous hand

downherbraid.“Iwon’t.”He didn’t much like the

idea himself. He picturedsome soft-bellied idiot whowouldlikethefact thatshe’dnever played cards before.Probably would count it avirtue, the fool. “Never saynever. Fate takes it as achallenge.”“I’ve already said it.

Severaltimes,infact.”Oh, ho. Bit of arrogance

there. “You mean to sayyou’vebrokensomeheartsinyourtime.”“I have received

proposals,” she said. “Butgentlemen ofmy rank prefertheirwivesnottowork.Ihadno interest in taking ahusband, only to disappointhim.”“Sounds like you’d be the

one disappointed,” he said.

“It’s a right buffoon whowouldmindawomanabletosupportherself.”She slanted him a quick,

odd look. “It isn’t countedfeminine.”He shrugged. “Nor is

starving,Ireckon.Butwhenabloke bites the dust, there’soften a widow who goeshungryafterward,forwantofawaytoearn.”Herhandhesitatedatopher

lastcard.“Isuppose...”She

flipped the card over. “It isgood to know I could standon my own two feet, ifnecessary.”Her words had the shy

flavorofaconfession.“Couldstand?With all the time youspendatthoseauctionrooms,seems like you’re alreadystanding. Pity, though—you’vejustlost.”“What?”Shelookeddown,

gaping at her empty hand. “I—”

“And now I’ll be askingyoumyfavor.”She lookedupwarily.“Go

on.”He let out a soft laugh.

He’dseenstreetchildrenwithmoretrust.“Nothingsobad,”hesaid.“Justakiss.”She swallowed. “How

unsurprising.”He rose, slowly

approaching her. “Is that so?Reckoned it from the start,did you? Yet still you

played.”She stood, jostling the

table. “Of course, I will notpermit it. We agreed at thebeginningthatthefavorcouldnot contravene the terms ofthecontract.”“Hence a kiss,” he said.

“Thecontract,ifyou’llrecall,bars sexual congress thatmight lead to a child. It saysnothingofotherpleasures.”“I...”Herlipsparted;she

lookedstunned.“Thespiritof

theterm...”Sheclearedherthroat. “The spirit is veryclear.”“Spirit won’t win a

lawsuit.” He slid his handaround her waist, feeling thecoolness of the wool, thescratchoftheembroidery,thewarmth of her body beneathit.The soft lineof herwaist.“Yougoingtobackout?”Herbreathhitchedaudibly.

He felt her stiffen, and then,as she sighed, the tension

easedfromhershoulders,andshebowedherhead.“Go ahead, then,” she

mumbled. “But make itquick.”If she wanted it quick,

she’d need tomake it easier.Hetippedherchinup,totakea good view of her prettypink mouth. She wasn’t theclassic beauty she firstappeared. Pink and gold andwhite, to be sure, but thatupper lip was slightly fuller,

slightly longer, than the onebeneath.Nature’ssmallquirk,whichwould have lent her anatural pout if she didn’twork so hard, socontinuously,totameherlipsintoaflat,hardline.Hestrokedhis thumbover

her cheekbone. Like magic,the wash of color that histouch called forth. Shesmelled clean, skin and thefaint lingering scent of soap;noperfume tonight.He lifted

his hand to lightly brush thetight cap of her hair againstherskull,andfeltthesmallesttremor communicate itselfthrough her waist, where hegrippedher.“Quickly, I said,” she

whispered.“Right.”Heputhis tongue

at the seal of her lips,nudging.Tryingtorescuethatupper lip from its cruelrestraint. God, but shesmelled good. Some current

leapt between them, alightning flash ofinformation; he sensed withperfectclarityeachswellandcurve of her body, onlyinchesfromhis.He slipped his hand from

herwaist to the small of herback, drawing her bodyagainst his. In the silence,cloth slithered, rustled. Thefaintestnoisecame fromher.She could feel that he washardeningforher.

Withhistongue,heopenedher lips. Her mouth tastedfresh and cool, like apriceless wine that had justbeen uncorked; untouched,which wasn’t right—he’dbeen here before. He’d beeninside her, with his dark hotways, and he was inside heragain now, and he meant toleave a mark this time. Hekissedherdeeply,anglingherbackoverhisarmtoshowherwho was in charge, and her

hands caught his shouldersfor balance, then hooked inlike claws as she kissed himback.Ifshewasice,thenshewas

the early spring variety—thethinnest veneer, whichcrackedatthefirstnudge.Forsuddenly, in his arms, shewas a hot little wild thing,shovingherhipsagainsthim,knocking into the table. Heheard distantly the sound ofcardsfalling.Helaidherback

atop the scattered remains ofher defeat, and she acceptedhim beautifully, letting himfuckherwithhistongueashelonged,needed,todowithhiscock. Encouraging him byaccident, with her desperategrasping hands on his backandwaist,hisarse,hallelujah;she was making whimperingnoises, and it was beyondGod’sownpowertostophimfrom reaching down andknocking up her skirts,

grasping her damp, hot legbehindonekneeandliftingitso she could wrap herselfaround him, and let him puthimself against the spotwhere they both wanted himtobe.She arched beneath him,

her eyes flying open—wide,blind, the purplish-blue ofsunset over distantmountains, thecolorofaskythat would draw a man ontothe road and keep him there,

determined to walk until hefound the sourceof the light.Wasn’t a man in the worldwho had seen her like this,who’d managed to put thatlook of dazzled, hungeredpleasure on her face, and hemeanttomakesureshedidn’tsleep well tonight, didn’tthinkofanythingbuthim.Herinnerthighwasplump,

sweetly trembling, as hetracked up it. Through thesplit in her bloomers, he

foundher.Cuppedherasshejerked in his hand. Wet andhotandreadyforhim.“ShallI kiss you here?” he askedroughly.Her groan sounded like a

yes—and then, abruptly, ashe stroked her harder, shecriedoutandscrabbledathischest,pushinghimoffher.Somepartofhimhadbeen

waiting for it. That part, theonly corner of his brain stillfunctioning, made him step

backward immediately. Therest of him, instincts andappetite and sheer animallust, remained lockedonher,so when she sat up and methis eyes, whatever she sawcaused her to lookimmediately away and lickherlips.Christ.Thoselips.“Sayit,”

hegroundout.“I’llputyoutobedproperly.”“No.”She foldedherarms

around herself as she stood.

“No. The contract . . .” Shefrowned, as though her ownwords puzzled her. Then sheshook her head, took a longbreath,andlookedathim.“No,”shesaidflatly.His own lungs felt as

though he’d run five miles.He pushed out a breath,waiting forhisheart tocalm.“All right, then.”Wonder ofwonders, thewordscameoutjust fine.Evenaneasy lilt tothem.

She knocked down herskirts, then took a huntedlookaround,asifexpectingacrowd to witness herdishevelment. “Well,” shesaid, then faltered, castinghim a sidelong look hecouldn’t interpret.“Congratulations.”Humorlickedthroughhim,

unexpected and verywelcome. He smiled. “Betyou had a different favor inmind.”

“Oh, I . . .” She flushed.“Yes.Ofcourse.”“But this one wasn’t so

bad,now,wasit?”Herlipspressedtogetherin

that schoolmistress line. “It’sdone.No need to speak of itfurther.”“What was the favor you

wanted?”Shehesitated,thenglanced

behind her, checking thetime.Or,no—itwasthevaseshe was looking at. It had

caught her attention earliertonight, too. “I was going toask . . .” She shrugged. “If Icould have a look throughyourantiques.”“You mean in the

storeroom?”She wheeled back.

“There’s an entire storeroomofthesethings?”“Sure. Plenty of blokes

overextend themselves. Ifthey’ve got something worthoffering, I go easy on them.

Letthempayupastheycan.”“And all of these

furnishings scatteredabout . . . that vase, and thefixtures inmy suite . . . theycomefromthestoreroom?”“No point in buying what

I’vealreadygot,”hesaid.Her eyes widened. “I

would love to see thatstoreroom.”“Tell you what.” If she

would set up the shot soneatly, who was he not to

take it? “You can play meagain tomorrow night. See ifyoucanwinthefavor.”

CHAPTERNINE

Afullset,yousay?”Battenliftedtheteacuptothelight.“Yes,” saidCatherine.The

cup was petite and elegant,

scrolled porcelain decoratedin cobalt blue. Dr. Wallsquare-marked Worcester,very rare. She had stolen itfrom her sitting room in theHouse of Diamonds. “Theentiresetisinmintcondition.I don’t think anybody everusedit.”He set down the cup and

looked over the rest of herspread—today, a Sèvresfigurine and an Elizabethanchalice wrought in silver.

Every morning for ten daysshe had brought him itemspurloined from the House ofDiamonds. Each evening,escortedbyMr.Johnson,shereturned to Diamonds andreplaced the items beforeanybody could remark theirabsence.“All of these come from

the same collection?” Battenasked.Shenodded.“Iknowyoucannottellme

his name,” he said in aleadingtone.“Butsurely,justahint...”“I’ve given my word to

staymum.”Shecouldhardlytell him the truth: that shewas living in a gaming club,andenjoyingitfarmorethansheought.It was wondrous to live

independently. For the firsttime in her life, she couldcome and go as she pleased.Nobutler toharassherabout

dinnermenus, or pout at herindifference to domesticchores.Nolady’smaidtospyon her for Peter. She wouldnever keep a maid again, infact; she was no grand lady,withcomplicatedcorsetryandgowns that requiredassistance to remove. In theevenings, she took hermealsin her sitting room, free towork, with no concern ofPeter ambushing her withimpromptu guests like

Pilcher. And on those rareoccasions when tediumstruck, she need only walkouttothebalcony,andspyonthe bizarre antics of theplayersbelow.EventhestaffatDiamonds

suitedher.The footmen tookno interest in her, for unliketheplayers,shegavethemnotips. The kitchens, trained inproducing feasts for thediscerning palates ofwealthygamblers, routinely delivered

miracles of French highcuisine. Two maids saw toher baths and laundry—cheerful, plainspokencreatures, without airs orpretensions.And then there was Mr.

O’Shea...Hadtheroomgrownhotter

suddenly? She blotted herbrow with her handkerchief.Shehadnot takenhimuponhis invitation to play cardsagain.Infact,shehadkeptto

her rooms for three nightsrunning,toavoidhim.For three nights running,

she had dreamed of whatwouldhappenshouldsheloseagain.“How mysterious!” Batten

exclaimed. He was strokingthe rim of the silver chalice,humming his appreciation ashetracedtheengraving.“Onerarely sees such an eclecticcollection, so expertlycurated. He must have an

unusuallybroadeducation.”“Unusual, yes,” she said

faintly. No gentleman hadever managed to tempt her.But she found herselftormented by thoughts of acardsharp, a criminal, aruffian . . . A curious,unexpectedly kind,alarmingly fascinating,beautifulman.She resolved to lock

herself in her rooms againtonight.

“Doyouthinkhemightbeinterested in selling hisestate?”Battenasked.“Oh, there’s not any

question of that,” she saidhastily. She had brought thefirstlotfromDiamondsoutofconcern, to make sure shehadn’t lost her ability todetect a forgery. Batten’senthusiasmhad ledherdowna dangerous path; now shewas stealing—borrowing—these items for the mere

pleasureofshowingthemoff.“He was only curious aboutvaluation,yousee.”“Perhaps you’ll persuade

himotherwise.”Battenbithislip. “I could imagine a veryinterestedcrowdforthesale.”Shegavehimaglumlook,

for no doubt his thoughtsstrayed down a similar path:suchanauctionwouldbenefitEverleigh’s tremendously, atpresent.The aftermathof theCranston debacle had turned

uglier than Catherine hadforeseen. The new LordCranston had not beensoothed by her apologiesregarding the interruption ofhis sale. He had insisted onbeing released from hiscontract sohemight takehiscollectionelsewhere.Elsewhere, pah. The

gentlemen at Christie’s mustbe toasting one another rightnow.Alas, Cranston had not

been content to break thecontract.Viewingtheepisodeas a bruise to his pride, hehad complained publicly ofgross mismanagement.Lettershadarrivednowfromfour different solicitors,seekingtobreakthecontractsof clients whose collectionshad been slated for wintersales. In each case, thelawyers had cited a “loss offaith”inEverleigh’s.Peter, of course, blamed

her for the entire fracas. Heclaimed she had imagined aring at work in the Cranstonauction. “You’re delusional,”he’d told her. “Not only thisbusiness with the ring, butyour bizarre notion that Ibrought Pilcher to yourbedroom door? One almostpities O’Shea for the burdenofweddingamadwoman.Atanyrate,Iwashmyhandsofyou.Youhavetheproxy;thismessisonyourheadnow.Do

as you like, and sleepwhereyoulike,solongasyoukeepyour sordid little affairs asecretfromthepublic.”A single flight of stairs

separated their offices, buttheycommunicatednowonlyby letter. It made a verycomfortable state of affairs,Catherinethought.“There’sacunningclockI

must show you,” she toldBattenasshegathereduptheborrowed wares. “I’ll try to

bringittomorrow.”“Are you leaving?”Batten

looked startled. “But youhaven’t yet looked at thepainting!”“Goodness!Isitfinished?”

She had forgotten it entirely.“I’m terribly sorry, Batten—my mind was elsewhere.Please,doshowittome.”Beaming,hecrossedtothe

easelinthecorner.Sheknew,bytheflourishwithwhichheremovedtheoilcloth,thatshe

wouldnotbedisappointed.“Oh!” She cupped her

handsoverhermouth.Battenhad rescued the angel fromcenturies of abuse. The greatwinged warrior loomed overSaint Teresa, his robesresplendently white, his darkmane knocked back by aheavenly wind to reveal avisageofimplacabledemand.Asforthesaint,herfigurenolonger faded into a darkmurk. She was writhing in

herbed,heragonysovividlyrendered that she lookedalmost in motion as shegraspedtheangel’sspear—Catherine blinked. Good

heavens! How had she notseen it before? That wasn’tagony on Teresa’s face, butpleasure.Astheangel’sspearpierced her, she writhed involuptuousdelight.“Youdon’tlikeit?”Batten

askedquerulously.She pressed her palms to

her cheeks and felt how theyburned. “No,” she said in achoked voice. The paintingwas not at fault. It was shewhohadchanged.She’dbeenawakenedto...this.Andtothefactthatadevil

might prove as irresistible asanyangel.“It’s lovely,” she said

quickly. “You’ve done amarvelous job! Mr. Clarkewill be very pleased. I amverypleased.”

Batten was giving her avery queer look. Shetightenedhergriparound theantiques and croaked outsome excuse before hurryingfromtheroom.

***A knock came at the door.Startled,Catherine lookedupfrom thewritingdesk. Itwashalf past four, and she wasworking in her suite at theHouse of Diamonds. Since

Peter had granted her powerof attorney, she had seizedeverydocumentrelatedtotheaccounts. Her office atEverleigh’s did not seemsufficiently private to reviewthem.“Whoisit?”shecalled.Nobodyhereever interruptedherduringtheday.Silence. She frowned and

rubbed her temple as sheglanced back to the papersscatteredacrossthedesk.She sat surrounded by

proofofdoom.Her eyeshadstarted to cross from tallyingsums, but no matter howgenerouslysheforecasted,thepredictionremainedidentical:Everleigh’s would not turn aprofit this year. Combinedwith the damage Peter haddonewithhisembezzling,therecent cancellations wouldthrow the company into thered.Despondent, she flipped

againthroughthedescriptions

oftheupcomingsales.Minorestates, furniture ofunfashionably recent make,librariesofno realdepthandrarity—these were theworkaday sales of winter, afar cry from the spectacularevents that characterized theheight of the social season.WhatEverleigh’sneededwasamiracle.The knock came again,

sharper. She stood. “Who isit?”

“Me.”O’Shea’s voice. Ignoring

the nervous flutter in herbelly, she cast down her penandopenedthedoor.O’Shea stood flipping his

beaver hat against his thigh.He must have just steppedindoors, for he wore a longwool coat and muffler, andcoldradiatedoffhim;hishairwaswindblownandhiscolorlooked high. She steeledherselfagainsthiseffect.That

paintingofSaintTeresawasatimely warning. If sheindulged her curiosity anyfurther, she’d no doubt endupgoredforit.“Ineedyourhelp,”hesaid.

“You got an hour? I’ll makeitworthyourwhile.”She glanced back toward

thedesk.“Iwasworking.”“Right. That warehouse

downonWentworthStreet—youwantintoit,right?”“Warehouse?” She caught

her breath. “The storeroom,doyoumean?”“Aye.” His glance shifted

off down the hall briefly.Hesoundeduneasy,slightlystiff,ashewenton. “I’ll giveyoufreerunof theplace.But I’llbeneedingafavorfirst.”A favor! She stepped

backward.“Iwon’tplaycardswithyou.”“Not that,” he said with a

laugh.“Apropergoodcause.Little girl about to be taken

from her sister. No need forit; lass has a proper job in afactory in Back-church-Lane,and it pays well enough tosupport them both. But hersister’sbeenskippingschool,and the board’s about torealizethere’snoadult in thehouse. They’ll remove thelittle one to a workhouse,unless there’s a guardian tospeakforthem.”She frowned. “A . . . you

can’tmeanme.”

“I’m in pinch here,” hesaid. “We need a woman,somebody whose face theydon’tknow.”Hegrimaced.“Ijust learned of it today.Otherwise I wouldn’t beasking.”“Ican’tlietoagovernment

body!”“Why not? I’m not asking

you to give your true name.Comeupwithanalias,ifyoulike.”Shesnorted.“Isthatmeant

toreassureme?”“You want into that

storeroom, don’t you? Up toyou,Isuppose.”She hesitated. Everleigh’s

neededaspectacularsale.Hisstoreroom, the contents of it,could well be that miracle.“This factory girl. You’recertainshe’sfittocareforhersister?”“Not a doubt,” he said.

“Rents a room from me. Italked with my agent just

now. Clean and neat, alwayssomething cooking on thestove, never a late payment.The little one won’t fare sowell in a workhouse, Ipromiseyou.”But to lie before the

authorities! Under a falsename,noless.“Itwouldbe a fine thing,”

hesaid.“Tokeepa littlegirlwithherfamily.”Hegavehera cynical smile. “And thewarehouse, I’ll tell you, is

stackedtotherafters.”She flushed. It felt very

low of her to take that bait.Butabusinesswomandidnotspurn such opportunities.“Would you allowme to putthecontentstoauction?”“Oh, ho!” He clapped his

hat on his head. “Alwaysbusinesswithyou.”Her face got hotter. “You

were the one who suggested—”“Wasn’taninsult,”hesaid

withawink.“You’remykindof woman. Ninety-ten split,yousay?”Now shemust be red as a

cherry. “Hardly! Sixty-fortyisthetypicalarrangement.”His eyes widened.

“Highway robbery, that. I’lltake eighty-five percent, andnoargument.”“I’ll give you seventy-

five,” she shot back.“Everleigh’swill bear all theexpenses of restoration and

transport, and assuming thecollectionmerits it,we’llpayforadvertising,too.”“Eighty,” he said, “and it

all hinges on you telling avery pretty lie. Call yourselfSusie Evans, say you’re thegirls’cousin.”Lying to the government!

But . . . for Everleigh’s.“You’recertainshewouldgototheworkhouseotherwise?”“Bastards will take her

straight from her sister,” he

said tersely. “Governmentcan’tkeepitshandstoitself.”“All right.” She turned to

fetchherwrapperoffthebackofthewingchair.“Leave off those pearls,”

he said. “Susie Evans can’tafford’em.”

***Catherine clutched her cloakcloser to her as O’Shea ledher through the tangledstreets. An icy wind had

shovedthecloudsclearoutofthe sky, and the sunlight fellwith sharp clarity over therutted lane, sparkling offstands of stagnant water inthe gutters. “Rotten pipes,”O’Shea muttered as theypassedagreatcloudofstink.“Fixone,thenextonebreaks.I should put your brother onit, maybe. These watercompanieswon’t lift a fingerwithout some swell proddingthem.”

Catherinecoveredhernosewith her muff, though themen and women sitting onstoops, waiting for childrenscrambling home fromschool, seemed indifferent tothe stench. O’Shea knew allof them, answering eachgreeting by name as hepassed. As they turned acorner, they encountered agreat knot of studentscelebrating the end of theschool day. A line of

squabbling boys congregatedoutsideasweetshop,and twogirlsslammedaballagainstabrickwallwithaferocitythatstruck Catherine as nearlywarlike.The crowd by the

sweetshop fell silent as theyspotted O’Shea, then crowedin delight when he dug intohis pocket and produced ahandfulofcoins.“Sharewiththe girls,” he ordered as thetallest boy snatched up the

money. “Molly, Meg!” heyelled to the girls with theball. “Come over and getyourcakes.”Attheendofthelanestood

a shabby, low building withan arched gateway, letterspicked out in rusting relief:The Ragged Mission. A lineof men and women stoodoutside in silence, theirbowed heads and exhaustedfaces a stark contrast to thechildren’s energy. “Notice B

Meetings,” O’Shea said withdisgust.“Alwaysajoyfortheparents of the parish.Summon them during workhours,forwhoneedstoearnawage?”Catherine triednot tostare

as they passed through thecrowd.Someofthesewomenlooked nearly waxen withexhaustion,anditseemedthathalf the linewaswrackedbydeep, hoarse coughs thatmadeherlong,withamixof

guilt and revulsion, for soapandwaterwithwhichtoscrubherself clean. “Isconsumption a commonproblem?”His brief, sidelong glance

made her feel foolish forhavingasked.“Oneofthem,”hesaid.Theypassedthroughadim

vestibuleintoaroomcoveredin pastoral murals. Theatmosphere was close andwarm, for the crowd was

considerable,notaspareseatat anyof the five long tablesthatfacedthetopoftheroom.At the head table, placedperpendicular to the others,sat four well-dressedgentlemen and a lady,whosesmart brown walking suitmade Catherine regret thelackofherpearls,afterall.“That’s Mrs. Hollister,”

said O’Shea, drawing her upwith a quick touch on herarm. “She’s the one you’ll

address.Niceandpolite,now.Apologetic, like. You didn’tknow the little one wasskippingschool.”She nodded, very uneasy.

Perjuring herself before thelaw! “There’s a clerk,” shewhispered. “Taking notes. Itwillenterthepublicrecord.”“Mrs. Susie Evans won’t

mindthat,”hesaid.“Norwillthey ask for proof of yourname. Hollister plays thebattle-ax, but she’s on our

side.”Ourside?Wasthattheside

oftheperjurers?Yet as they stood, waiting

theirturn,shebegantoregrether sour view. Each of theparentssummonedbefore thepanel offered amore piteoustalethanthelast.Ittooksomeconcentration to understandtheir variety of accents—forthese were country folks, orforeigners,orpeoplewhohadcome of age before public

education had becomecompulsory. Now even thepoorest children, throughtheir schooling, learned therudiments of grammar. Buttheirparents spokecants thathadneverbeenputintoprint.“He lost his leg on the

factory floor,” a womanwasmumbling to the board.“Can’t walk, can’t earn, so’sI’ve got to do it. We’ve gottwowee ones, and . . .” Shetouched the great swelling

mound of her belly,indicatingtheobvious.“Well,I’vegot toearnwhiles Ican,don’t I? So Katie, shewatches the little ’uns whileI’mout.”“That is all very

interesting,” one of thegentlemen droned. “But itdoes not change the fact thatyou are legally obligated tosendyourchildtoschool.”“Ican’t . . .Whatelse’mI

t’do?” The woman’s voice

broke.“Threepenniesaweekfortheschoolfees,and—”“A trifling sum,” the

gentlemandrawled.“AndasIunderstandit,Mr.O’Shea”—Catherine stiffened as a tideof gazes swept toward theman at her side—“will coverthose fees, for those inWhitechapel who can’t paythem.”O’Shea nodded to the

board man, his faceexpressionless.Butshecould

sense,inhistenseposture,theferocityofhisdislike.“Aye, Mr. O’Shea’s our

own angel, I know it.” Thewoman swallowed noisily,thenwipedhernosewith theedgeofhertartanshawl.“Butit ain’t only fees. Children’sgottoeat—”“Andonceagain,”theman

cut in, “I will point out thatMr. O’Shea provides breadand milk to every student inthe hour before school.

Perhapsyourdaughterwouldnotgohungryifyouallowedher to attend, as the lawrequires.”O’Shea spoke in a calm,

carryingvoice. “You’llmakeme rethink that generosity ifyoumean to use it to shameher.”“That was not Mr.

Stewart’s intention,” saidMrs. Hollister, with a sharplook to the gentleman, whoscowled and sat back.

Catherine nervously studiedher opponent. The woman’ssilver-streaked hair, the deepcreases at either side of herpursed lips, lent her amatronly air of authority.Sure enough, the room fellquiet as she leaned forward.“Mrs.Mackle,thelawisveryclear. We cannot excuseMaryfromschool inorder tocare for her siblings. But ifyou were to find her somerespectable form of

employment, we might grantherahalf-timecertificate.”“How?” Mrs. Mackle

askedsoftly.“Hardenoughtofindworkformeself.”Frowning, Mrs. Hollister

glanced toward O’Shea. Henodded once. “Speak to Mr.O’Shea about it,” she said,and smiled slightly as thewoman gasped and pivotedtoward O’Shea, handsclasped at her throat as shecurtseyedverydeeply.

Good heavens. Catherinegave him a wondering look.Hewasthekingoftheseparts—and apparently, his reignwas more benevolent thanrumorsuggested.An unpleasant

embarrassment itchedthrough her. She had castcertain accusations at hishead that now seemedunfounded.But he never defended

himself.Howwasshetohave

known that he played RobinHood?“Once she finds

employment,wewill grant ahalf-time certificate,” Mrs.Hollister was saying. “Butshe will still need to attendregularly.Otherwiseyouwillbe summoned again, andwe’ll have no choice but tosend your case to themagistrate,whowillimposeafine.Doyouunderstand?”Thewomannodded.

“Very good,” Mrs.Hollister said crisply.“Next?” She glanced downthe table, but the clerk withthe appointment bookappeared to have fallenasleep, chin cupped in handashelightlysnored.Atittermoved through the

crowd as his neighborelbowed him awake. “Oh,yes, yes—begging yourpardon,” he said with asheepish look toward Mrs.

Hollister. He consulted thebookbeforehim.“Mrs.TulipPatrick.”“That’s us,” Nick said

softlyasa slim,darkgirl,noolder than sixteen, rose andpushed through the crowd tothe spot in front of the headtable. She looked clean andneat,herplaiddresswithoutarip or stain, if slightly toolargeforherwaifishfigure.“Mrs. Patrick.” Mrs.

Hollister adjusted her

spectacles,peeringoverthemdoubtfully. “You hardly lookold enough to be married,much less stand as yoursister’sguardian.”“I’ve been looking after

her for years, now.”The girlsounded mutinous. “I do afine job of it. She wants fornothing.”“Very admirable,” Mrs.

Hollister said evenly. “I amafraid, however, that Maryhas not been in school this

lastmonth.”“That’snotforwantofme

sendingher!”“Miss . . . Mrs. Patrick.”

The woman’s voice grewgentle.“Haveyousomeproofofyourageandmaritalstate?For if there isnoadult in thehousehold, custody of thechild—”O’Shea gave Catherine a

sharp nudge. She stepped upto the girl and cleared herthroat.God help me. “I live

withthem.Their...cousin.”For all that thegirl looked

decent, she showed nohesitationassheglancedoverto Catherine and addedstridently, “That’s right.Thisonelooksafterus.Andshe’seversoold.”Catherine liftedherbrows.

“Nearlyancient,infact.”Mrs. Hollister dimpled.

“Andyouare,ma’am?”Goodness, what was the

name? “Susie Evans,” she

said.“Mrs.SusieEvans.”“Mm.” Mrs. Hollister’s

sharp gaze flicked towardO’Shea, who stood behindthem. “Well, Mrs. Evans.You serve as these girls’guardian?”“Yes.” God help her, she

was asmuch a criminal nowasO’Shea,lyingtoanofficerofthelaw.Mrs. Hollister gave her a

long, speaking look. “Well,Mrs. Evans, then it is your

responsibility to ensure thatyoung Mary attends school.Doyouunderstandthat?”“She does,” Tulip Patrick

said heatedly. “And Marywon’tmissanotherday.”“Very good, then. Mrs.

Evans,youheardmyremarksto the last petitioner, I hope.You are aware of thepenalties, if Mary continuestoplaytruant?”Catherinenodded.“Very good. I hopewe do

not see each other again,then.” Mrs. Hollister turnedagaintotheclerk.“Next?”Tulip Patrick grabbed her

arm and tugged her throughthe crowd, O’Shea at theirheels.Once theywere safelyback on the street, she said,“God’samercy!Ican’tthankyouenough,ma’am.Fittobesick, I was, with themthreatening to take Mary.”Shesuckedinasharpbreath,hereyesflashing.“Whatright

have they got, I’d like toknow, to separateagirl fromhersister?”“All the rights,” O’Shea

said flatly. “You bear that inmind, girl. And explain toyoursister,too.”“Oh, I mean to. Brattish

dolt!” Tulip lifted her fist.“I’ll leave her ears ringingtonight. You’ll not hear ofany more trouble on heraccount. Thank you, sir!Ma’am.”She flashedanother

smile at Catherine, thenturnedonherheelanddashedaway.“How old is she?”

Catherine asked softly.“Sixteen?”“If that.” O’Shea offered

his elbow, and they startedback down the road. “Fatherdied last year. She’s all hersister’sgot.”As they retraced their

steps,shefeltkeenlyawareofthenodsand respectfulbows

thatfollowedtheirpassage.Itraised the itching feelingagain, a sense that she hadjudgedhimunjustly.“You support that school,”

she blurted at last. “Whydidn’tyoutellme?”“Why would you have

wantedtoknow?”“Because . . .” She had

marriedhimthinkinghimthelowestspeciesofcriminal.“Itseems a good thing to know.You’renotentirely...”

Hegaveherablandsmile.“Thedevil?”She pulled free of him.

“You can’t blame me forthinking so! You make noeffort to advertise yourcharity. Why, the journalistsarealways—”“Thosewhoneedtoknow,

know,” he said. “I’ve got nointerest in proving myself topompousbigots.”He probably counted her

among that group. “But it’s

no wonder if they makeassumptions,” she saidhelplessly. “You break thelaw, publicly, every day.Yourgamblingpalace—”“Is just the start of it,” he

said. “I’ve done farworse inmytime.Italllooksniceandpretty now, but I clawedmyway up—and who’s to saythat a bit of bread and milkmake up for it? Rest easy,then; you can keep thinkingmethedevil,ifithelpsyouto

sleep at night. It would surebe fairer than calling me asaint.”She frowned at the broken

roadaheadofthem.Ifonlyitwere contempt she felt forhim—and if only she slepteasily! The opposite was thecase, but to let him see itwould be mortifying—andprofoundly dangerous. If heknew that what kept herawakeinthedarknesswasthethought of his touch . . . the

hot things he’d told her . . .the prospect of another cardgame . . . hemight press hisadvantage.And she no longer knew

herself well enough to trustherownwill.Shedartedaglanceathim.

Their marriage was abusiness matter. Curiositywas as pointless as desire—but just as pernicious. Howhad he clawed his way up?He wore that emerald for

love,hesaid.Whoselovehadhe known, andwhose did hehopefor?The thought made her go

red. That was none of herbusiness,surely.But this was her husband.

Secret or no, they weremarriedforfiveyears.“Watchout, there.”Heput

outahandtohelpheroverapothole, his grip casual andfamiliar on her elbow. Herheartskippedabeat.

Did he ever think of thefuture?Didhedespair of thebargain he’d been forced tomake, to keep thosebuildings? Surely he mustthink her a cold, unfeelingwoman.The IceQueen,mencalled her. He had betterreasonthanmosttodoso.“Miss Patrick’s situation,”

she said haltingly. “Iwouldn’thave—thatis,ifyouhad explained it in full, Iwould have done it for

nothing.”“Lied forher?”Hecocked

awrybrow.“Toanofficerofthelaw?”She bit her lip. “Yes. I

thinkso.”“Andmissedthechanceto

getintothatstoreroom?”His plain skepticismmade

her laugh. “Well, no,” sheadmitted sheepishly. “Notwhenyou’dalreadymadetheoffer. On the chance you’vegot a collection worth

auctioning? I would havebeenremisstoturnitdown.”“Especiallywhentheprofit

could prove so rich.” Hetipped his head. “Fortypercent of the profit. Is thattrulyyourusualbargain?”She fought her smile, and

lost. “Heavens. You actuallybelievedthat?”Hiseyeswidened.Thenhe

threw back his head andlaughed, a rich ringing shoutthat drew the notice of the

entireblock.“Kitty,”hesaid,grinning, “for all your fineairs, I’d say you’ve got a bitofdevilinyou,too.”

CHAPTERTEN

This is foul work.”Catherine’s voice came fromdeep within the cavernousgloom. Outside, a cold rain

wasfalling,turningthestreetsto mud. The small line ofwindowsshedaswampylightover jumbled piles of bric-a-brac, furniture jammedtogether like ill-fitting jigsawpieces, piles of booksthreateningtotopple.Nickmaneuveredcarefully

down the makeshift aisle,followingthemineralglowofCatherine’s naphtha lamp.She’d been working in thestoreroom for five days, a

punishing schedule that sawher leavingDiamonds beforedawn.Johnsonwentwithher,kept guard at the door. Buttoday, he’d tracked downNickatNeddie’stocomplain.“Amanoccasionallyneedstopiss,” he’d grumbled. “Butwhen I tries it in the corner,she knows somehow. Barksfromthefarsideoftheroom,Don’tbeasavage!”Nick found her crouched

low to the ground, her skirts

hiked carelessly over herknees.Now,herewasasight:she wore lace stockings towork as well. Perhaps he’dbeen wrong to give Johnsonthe oversight. He wouldgladlystandinhimself.She was scowling at a

chest of drawers, pulling atthewoodenknobswithfretfulfingers. As the floorboardscreakedbeneathhisheel, shesnapped, “Do you see this?Somebutcherusedglasspaper

to scrapeoff thepatina!AndthisFrenchvice!”“French vice?” That

soundedpromising.Sheturned,onehandtoher

chest. “Oh! I thought youwere Mr. Johnson. Yes,French polish—though Isupposeit’smoreproperlyanEnglish vice, since I can’trecall any Frenchman foolenough touse it.”Shewipeda stray lock of hair from hereyes, smearing dust across

her cheek. She lookedrumpled, sweaty, thoroughlybegrimed. Nick had seenbeggars in the rainwho keptcleaner.He grinned. A woman

willing to get dirty for herwork. He’d never haveguessedit.“Youneedtoeat,”he said. “Johnson says youskippedluncheon.”“Therewasnotimeforit.”

Asshestartedtorise,awincecrimped her mouth. He took

herelbowtohelpherup.Thefeel of her arm startled him.She had proper little biceps.No doubt she’d earned themthrough labor—Johnson saidshe was stubborn at shiftingfurniture on her own, fearfulthat he might breaksomething.“Thank you,” she said

breathlessly.“I’vebeendowntheresince...why,sinceMr.Johnson left, I suppose. Themind proves willing, but

sometimes the knees don’t.”She drew away to smoothdown her skirts. Then shekickedouther legs,wigglingeach foot, andpulledeachofherelbowsacrossherbodyina long, unself-consciousstretch.Catsmovedlikethat.He’d

never imagined Catherinecapable of it. The sightriveted him. Made his voiceslightly husky as he said,“Findanythinggood?”

“Oh, goodness—where tostart? It’s like Ali Baba’scave of wonders.” Shebeamedupathim,andinthesodium light, she looked likea wonder herself, her hairincandescentlypale,herlargeeyes glittering. He reachedoutandwipedawayasmudgewithhisthumb.Itwasamarkofhersingle-mindedness thatshe did not even protest.“Remind me,” she said, “totell you about the tambour-

topped table tonight. Themost extraordinaryspecimen!”Herskinseemedtoleavea

mark on his, his thumbfeeling branded as he tuckedit back into his pocket. Theyhadmadeapracticeofdiningtogether this week. Seemedshefeltitwasprofessionaltokeep him apprised of hispossessions. In truth, he hadno use for the information;this stuff had been rotting in

here. That she would turn itinto coinwas a favor to him—another,afterherfineworkat the B Meeting on TulipPatrick’sbehalf.Thatpieceofmercyhadn’t

gone unnoticed in theneighborhood. Who wasTulip’s angel, then? Mrs.Sheahen had stopped him inthe street to ask. I hear shespokelikeapoet.Catherinehadn’tsaidmuch

thathecouldrecall.Butshe’d

committed to it, all right, inspite of her reservations. Nodoubt it was the first timeshe’d lied to the law, butshe’d done it in smooth,steady tones that rubbed likebalm across a man’s soreears.Tulip had looked at herin amazement, and half theroomhadgaped.Shehadthatkind of power, though thankGod she didn’t know it. Shehad no idea that she couldlightuparoomlikealampat

midnight.He liked their dinners

together. He liked hercompany, for all that hedidn’t understand half of herinterests. Surprising deal ofpleasure in listening to herspeechify about furniture.Theenthusiasmthatanimatedher face, the ferventappreciation inhervoice,puthim in mind of a girldiscussing her lover. No icequeen, here. Aye, he was

learningagooddealaboutthelies she told—to herself, aswell as others. Business, ha.Wasn’t business that madeher spring out of bed eachmorning, and kept hervibrating well throughsupper. What she calledbusiness,hecalledpassion—and she had it in spades,albeit for dusty relics of thepast.But passion, it seemed to

him, was a native resource.

You had it or you didn’t—and if you had it, it made amoveable talent, durable anddirectable. No man alivewould watch her growflushed and rosy as shepraised a walnut stool, andnotthinkofhowitwouldfeeltobethefocusofthatflushedintensity.He put his hand on her

waistnow,nudgingherdowntheaisle.Shecamewillingly,lampswingingatherside,her

attention darting back andforth as she tracked theshifting beam of light—hunting, no doubt, for whatshe might have overlooked.Shewould havemade a finethief.Shehadthesteelfor it,the discipline, the constantwatchful attention. But hewouldn’t have risked her onit.The thought made him

frown. He’d risked himself,and his family, and any

number of other peoplewhomhecaredfor.Still. It didn’t sit right,

thinking of Catherine chasedbythelaw.“It will take another few

days to make certain I’vecombed through everything,”she was telling him in acheerful, chattering voice.“Then two days, at least, tocrate and transport the itemstoEverleigh’s.Imeantorushthislottoauction.We’llhold

it in early December. Doesthatsoundacceptable?”“Fine,” he said brusquely.

Wasn’tthatshewastoogoodfor danger. He didn’t thinkherbetter thanhimselforhiskin.But for all the luxury ofher upbringing, she’d knownlittle joy, it seemed to him.Treatedillbytheverypeoplewho should have cared forher best. Her brother, sure,butherdad,too.Whatkindoffather asked his little girl to

proveherselfbysittingsilentfor hours at a time? Nick’sowndahadbeennoexampleof fatherhood. But oneimagined that gentswho hadnoneed for a child’s incomemightindulgetheirkidsabit,ratherthan...trainthemlikecircusdogs.She’d kept quiet, though.

She’d told Nick as much,withpride inhervoice.Aye,she’dhavemadea fine thief,too,ifherdadhadaskeditof

her. She’d have obeyed, nodoubt, without a word ofchallenge. Maybe there wasthe difference. Nick had puthis nieces to thieving whentheywerestillgirls,believingfamily stuck together.Training them in the onlyway he could. But he’dalways trusted them to speakup for themselves, tochallenge him and breakaway once they found theirfooting.

Catherine, in their place,would have become the bestthief in England, and neverbrokenfreeofit.Thatwasthedifference. That was whyNickwouldn’thaveputhertoit.It was also why he

wouldn’t listen to her againshould her brother causetrouble. If Peter Everleighmenacedheroncemore,Nickwoulddrawblood.“Are you listening?” she

demanded.“Sorry, lost track, there.

Whatwasthat?”“Decemberwon’tdrawthe

bestcrowd,ofcourse. Iwishwecouldwait.Thiscollectiondeserves a spring auction,when the ton is in town for—”He snorted. “If it’smoney

you want, you should lookoutsidethatlot.They’reuptotheir eyeballs in debt.Otherwise, I’d have no

collection to auction, wouldI?”She paused. “A fine point.

With land prices falling . . .Whom,doyou think,has themoney?”“Tycoons. Industrialists.”

He offered her a sidewayssmile.“Criminals.”She bit her lip to stop her

ownsmile. “Idon’t think thecriminals have postaladdresses.Butperhapsyou’reright. We should expand the

invitationlisttoinclude—”“Why bother with

invitationsatall?Throwopenthe doors. Come one, comeall.”She shook her head.

“Exclusivity is whatdistinguishes us. Otherwise,why not go to Christie’s orSotheby’s?”He drew up by the door.

“Your goods mightdistinguish you. Try tradingonthem.”

“Of course we trade ongoods. But . . .” She handedhimthelampandreachedforthecloakhangingonanearbyhook—then turned back,laughing. “One thing I’ll sayfor it: it would enrage Peter.Worth considering, simplyforthat.”“There you go,” he said.

Therewas thedevilry in her.Justtookanudge.“At any rate, I’ll certainly

take out a grand

advertisement—full page,illustrated. Heaven knowsthat some of these pieceswould draw a crowd all theway fromChina.” She set tobuttoning her cloak. “Howdid you manage to acquirethem? I can’t imagine thatyourdebtorswouldoffertheirfinestwaresstraightaway.”“Generally not.” She was

having trouble with herbuttons, he noticed. Handstired from her work. “But I

know how to read a face.How to tell what a mandoesn’twanttopartwith,andwhat he wouldn’t mindlosing.”Her hands paused. She

tipped her head, lookingstruck. “Very clever. So youdon’t pay attention to theantiques,buttothedemeanorofthemanwhooffersthem?”“That’s right.” And her

demeanor right now waswarm, interested, engaged.

He gently knocked aside herhands, fastening the rest ofthebuttonshimself.He could feel the way her

breathhitched in theriseandsuspended fallofherbreasts.Could hear her noisyswallow, and sense theagitation behind her rush ofcolor. “I . . . am very bad, Ithink,atreadingfaces.”“Oh, I think you’ve got a

fine eye,” hemurmured, andsmoothed her hair back with

his knuckles.Very fine eyes.Impossibly lovely. “I expectyoudon’tneedtobotherwithfaces, though.The tablesandcabinetskeepyouoccupied.”Her lips curved in a

hitching, hesitant smile. Hisknuckles still pressed againsthercheekbone.Butshedidn’tstep away. She was lookingdirectly at him. “My brotheroncesaidthatI’drathersleepwithacabinetthan...”He leaned forward, lips

brushing her ear. “Thanwhat?”“A husband,” she

whispered.He pressed his mouth to

her neck. That tender skinjustbeneathherear.A small gasp escaped her.

“You...shouldn’t.”He lifted his brows,

intrigued.Shouldn’twasafarcryfromcouldn’t.Heopenedhismouthandtastedherskin.Wasrewardedbytheshudder

thatmoved throughher—andthenpunished,asshesteppedbackward,outofreach.Her lipsparted,plumpand

rosy; she looked dazed.“You . . .” She cleared herthroat. “I will remind you.Youaren’tacabinet.”He grinned, delighted by

the banter. “I call that ablessing, in fact.” But whenhe reached forher again, shesidestepped and hauled openthe door. He followed her

intothestreet.The rain had died off, but

the air was cold and moist,piercing his nostrils likeneedles.Shetuggedhercloaktighteraroundherandyankedherhoodoverherhairbeforestrikingabriskpacedowntheroad. “A cabinet,” she saidover her shoulder, “doesn’tcareifaladyspendsherdaysat the office and works lateintothenight.”Hecaughtup toher. “And

ahusbandwould?She snorted. “A husband

generally wishes his wife tobe at home knitting doiliesand waiting like a loyal dogforhisreturn—thencetostripoffhisbootsandrubhisfeet,and murmur sympatheticallywhile he complains of hiswork.”“Thefootrubsoundsnice,”

hesays.“Butdoiliesgocheapat market. Seems a doltishmanindeedwhomindsawife

with ambitions, and has thegutstopursuethem,besides.”With one finger, she

hookedbackherhoodtodarthimasidelongglance.“Mostgentlemendon’tfeelso.”He shrugged. “Well, but

I’mnogentleman.”Shefacedaheadagain,but

after a moment, she said,“Perhaps your tastes willchange, now that you havecomeintomoney.”“I didn’t come into

money,” he said evenly. “Imadeit.Andno,Idon’tthinkmytasteswillchange,sinceInever gave the matter muchthought before a few weeksago.”“Afew...”Hewaited,butsheseemed

unwilling to finish thatsentence. They drew upbefore the side door atDiamonds; he rapped hisknuckles against it. “A fewweeks ago,” he repeated.

“WhenImarriedyou,Kitty.”She looked up at him,

something troubled workingacrossherbrow. “Iwishyouwouldn’t...”He seized her hand and

delivered it a smacking kiss.“Don’tlie,”hesaid.She snatched back her

hand, but before she couldargue, the door opened, andCallan was bowing theminside.

***Was the candlelight morediffuse tonight than usual?Werethelightsturnedlower?AsO’Shea busied himself atthe sideboard, fillingCatherine’s plate from avarietyofdishessentupfromthe kitchens, she took heraccustomed seat by the fireand looked for the cause ofher uneasiness. His sittingroom felt . . . smaller.Or he

seemed larger.She couldnottakehereyesoffhim.Like a solvent applied to

varnish, these dinners hadbegun to erode her defenses.His casual touches, hisgenuine, disarminginterest...Shemadea fist inher lap.

Ladies hold their hands inelegant postures. You musthaveacarewithyourhands,Catherine: they look somannishandragged!

Odd that her mother’svoice was so strong in hermemory tonight. She hadspent long minutes in herbath, scrubbing at her palmswith a pumice stone.But thecalluses were all butpermanentnow.Themaidhadaddedsprigs

of lavender to her bathwater.The scent still clung to herskin. IfO’Sheanoticed it,hemightthinkshehadperfumedherselfforhim.

The notion left herunsettled as he carried overtwoheapingplates.“Outdonehimself again,” he said as heplaced hers on the tablebeforethefire.“Oneofthesedays,we’llgetsnails, I’ll layawageronit.”Shemanagedasmile.They

had developed a small jokeabout his chef, whose namewas Thomas but whopreferred to be called“Pierre.” Thomas, it seemed,

felt himself sorelymistreatedby fate; he was convincedthat he’d been designed aFrenchman. “Have you everhadescargot?”“God be praised,” O’Shea

saidferventlyashesat.“I’vebeensparedthusfar.”“They’re actually quite

tasty.”“That’swhatoldWilsonat

thecookshoponcetoldmeofsquirrel,” he said with agrimace. “But I found a new

sourceofmincepiesthenextday, I promise you.” As shelaughed, he came to his feetagain.“Forgotthewine.”This, too,was becoming a

tradition of sorts. “I won’tdrinkit,”shesaidserenelyasshe picked up her fork.Thomas had indeed outdonehimself. Lobster salad,roasted lamb, plover eggs,andbutter-drenchedartichokeheartscrowdedherplate.Sheglanced to the sideboard to

weigh her strategy: dessertlooked to be a platter ofchocolate profiteroles, creamcustards, and a variety ofhothouse fruit. Shewouldgolightly on the lamb, then. Inheaven, every course wouldincludeprofiteroles.O’Shea returned, carrying

abottle in onehand and twoglasses in the other. “You’llonlyneedone,” she said,pertheusualroutine.He lifted the bottle to

display the label. Shesquinted: Painted PipeMadeira,1790.1790? She choked on a

mouthful of lobster. “Youcan’tmeantoopenthat!”He gave her a cat-in-the-

cream smile as he pulled ajack-knifefromhispocket.Ina showy, one-handed move,heflippedopentheknife.Sherolled her eyes. She wouldnot encourage his penchantfor thuggish talents. “Why

not?”heasked.She sighed. “Do you

remember the Sheratondresserinthestoreroom?”“French vices,” he said, a

purrinhisvoice.“HowcouldIforget?”She bit hard on her cheek,

a punishment for blushing.He made everything soundso . . . suggestive. “Atauction, that bottlewould goformorethanthedresser.”“Oh?”Heturnedthebottle

inhishand,examiningitwithnew interest. “Seems a sightlessusefulthanasturdychestof drawers. You’re runningquite a con at that auctionhouse.”“A con? I beg your . . .”

But he was grinning, so sheabandonedherdudgeon.“It’snot a con,” she said mildly.“Thatmadeira is very rare. Ishould be surprised if tenbottlesstillexisted.”“It’s a con,” he said. “For

one madeira’s much likeanother.Onlyyousayitisn’t,and somehow you cozen thesheep into believing you andspendingasmallfortuneonasinglebottle.”It was impossible to take

offense at his words—notwhen he spoke them soamiably, with that teasinghitch to his mouth. “Thosesheeparemenofgoodtaste,”she said dryly. “I canunderstand how you might

mistake them as a foreignspecies.”He laughed. “So, tell me,

then: what would be thereserve for this bottle atauction?”“I’d have to consult

previous sales. But at aguess?Fiftypounds.”He loosed a low whistle.

“Andthenwhat?”“What do youmean? And

thenitwouldsellforseventy,perhaps, and you’d be”—she

quickly calculated theiragreed percentage—“fifty-sixpoundsthericher.”“Highway robbery, that

split.” He flashed her awolfish grin. “You’re a thiefaswell as a swindler,with apretty face to cover for it.And the man who won thebottle—what do you thinkhe’ddowithit?”“Addittohiscollection.A

great many men”—shenarrowed her eyes—“men of

taste, that is—collectmadeira.”“Wouldn’tdrinkit,then?”“Ofcoursenot!Abottleso

rare? Why, I expect onewould open it only for a—astate dinner, an eveningwiththeroyalfamily—”“Well, then.” He stabbed

his knife into the cork, thenyankeditoutwithaloudpop.“No sense leaving all thegood stuff to thosewho takeitforgranted.”

Her fork clattered to theplate. She sat back in herchair, aghast as he splashedthestraw-coloredwine intoaglass.Hehelditouttoher.“Feel

like making an exceptiontonight?”Temptation battled against

caution. It was a very rarewine. And perhaps, tobroaden her professionalknowledge, it would bewisetosampleit...

He took her hand andwrapped it around the glass,thenguidedittoherlips.Hisgray gaze caught hers overthe rimof theglass,his longblacklashesadramaticframefor the devilish light glintingin his eyes. “Tell me if it’sany good,” he murmured,thendroppedhisglancetohermouth.Awareness fluttered

through her, soft and ticklishas moths’ wings. If he was

the devil, then she was hiswilling victim. She breatheddeeply of the sweet fumes,thenopenedhermouth ashetiltedthecup,pouringasmallbitintohermouth.Heaven. She pushed the

glass away and closed hereyes, rolling the liquid overher tongue. A mild, nuttysweetness, almonds andmaple, yielded to the faint,surprising tangofcitruspeel.When she swallowed, a

creamy, lingering note oftoffee spread across hertongue,ahookthatdemandedanothersipforcertainty.“Oh yes,” she said.

“It’s . . .” The words fellawayassheopenedhereyes.Hewaswatchingher,atensecast to his face, his eyesnarrowedandhismouthhard.He recovered himself

instantly, offering her aquick, curious smile beforesitting down and slinging

backamouthfulfromhisowncup.Hisbroad, tanned throatrippledasheswallowed.Thewayhesat,withhislonglegsstretched out and crossed atthe ankles, drew his trousersintotightdefinitionacrosshisbrawnythighs.She had seen those thighs

naked.Sheknewtheshapeofthe muscle that gripped hisbones; the way that musclenarrowed, so dramaticallyand elegantly, into his neat,

square knees. Awareness,full-bodied and almostpainful, surged through her.Shefeltbreathless.“Not as bold as I

expected,”hesaid.She made herself look

away from him, into thedepthsofhercup.“Theycallit a rainwater madeira. It’sgenerally milder than theothertypes.”“Ah.Didn’tknow.”She tried for a smile. He

was sitting four feet away,behaving with perfectcourtesy. She shouldencourage such behavior.“Let me guess. This camefrom the cellars of anotherhaplessgambler?”“Had it from a client, aye,

buthewasn’tindebt.Neededsomequickcash,hesaid.”Hewas silent for a moment. “Ifavor ale, myself. But everyyear, I open a bottle ofmadeira. This is my sister’s

birthday today. And shefavored it.” He lifted hisglass.“ToOona.”Sheliftedherglassaswell.

“Willshejoinus?”He looked briefly startled.

“Oona was Lily’s mother.Lilah’s,”hecorrected,withawrytugofhismouth.“Guessshe prefers that name, andnow she’s a proper lady, Isuppose she can have it. Shenevertoldyouaboutherma?It’s been years since Oona

passed.Choleratookher.”“No.” Catherine paused,

troubled that she hadn’tknown.“She toldmeofyou,of course, but . . . notmuchabout her childhood.” And Ineverthoughttoask.Itspokeillofher,didn’tit?Itwasonething to be professional,anothertobecalloustothoseshe counted as friends. Howselfish she’d become,wrapped up in her concernsabout the company. “Was

Lilah very young when hermotherdied?”“Eight,” he said. “Or—no,

nine.”Hefrowned.“Iwas...sixteen, just.Hadbeen livingwith them for five years bythen.Raisinghell.”Hissmilewasfaintandfleeting.“It’sawonderOonaputupwithme.I’msureIdidnofavorstohermarriage.Lily’sdacalledmethedevil’sspawn,saidImusthave worn out my welcomewithLucifer.”

Hesoundedamused,but itdidn’t seem safe to smile.“That couldn’t have beencomfortable, to be so judgedbyyourbrother-in-law.”“Oh, he meant nothing by

it.Simplyjoshingme.Hewasa goodman, Lily’s dad.”Heturned his wineglass in hishand,hisgazedistant.“Ruledthese parts before me—notwith any discipline, mindyou. Ran a ragtag band ofthieves and swindlers, and

hadnoplanforthefuture,nointerest in investing his coin.Buthewasagoodman,andakind one. Much loved.Much...missed,afterward.”Something dark had

roughened his voice, there.She sensed an unhappyhistory.Shecouldpassby it,turn the conversation tolighter topics—the Sheratondresser; the tambour-toppedwritingdeskshe’dfound.Butwithher ignoranceofLilah’s

past still fresh in her mind,she took a deep breath andsurrendered to her curiosity.Her desire, God help her, toknow more about this man.“Howdidhedie,then?”“Killed.” The syllablewas

curt. “Rival gang decided tosink its claws intoWhitechapel. Jonathan triedto stop them. Got ambushedone night, by cowards whoknifedhimfrombehind.”“Goodness.” This was the

history Lilah had overcome?Catherine felt dizzied. Lilahlooked, moved, and spokelike a genteel lady. She hadremade herself entirely, andshowed no signs of havingsurvivedsuchtragedy.“Whathappened to his killers? Didthepolicecatchthem?”He lifted his glass, took a

long swallow. “I caughtthem.”Sheopenedhermouth,but

nowordscameout.

His smile looked cold.“Police weren’t lifting afinger. They’d got betterthings to do, they said, thaninterfere in a street brawlbetween a pack of rabiddogs.”He sounded as if he were

quoting them. “How unjust,”shewhispered.He gave a single sharp

shake of his head. “Justicewas done, all right.” Hemether eyes. “I told you once:

violence is clumsy. Butsometimesit’scalledfor.Andwhen me and mine are atstake, I’ll do what I must.Shownoweakness,acceptnoinsult, allow no advantage:that’sthelawofthestreet.”She stared at him. He

lookedbrutalinthismoment,his face dark and lean,stripped of all softness. Asthough the smiling charm hemore often showed wassimplyamask,whichhehad

momentarily set aside toallowhertoseehimclearly.Perhaps therewas a secret

blackness in her soul, for asshe stared back at him, shefeltnorepulsion.Nodistaste.Shecouldrespectamanwhofought for his own. Whoallowednobody to cross himorhis.Why, respect was the lie

here. She envied his own.How differently her lifewould have developed, had

she been able to rely onPeter’sloyaltyandaid,ratherthanalwaysneedingtoguardagainsthim.“Good,” she said roughly.

She raised her glass again,another toast,beforedrainingit.“Iamgladyougotjustice,whateverittook.”He blinked, a curious

expression on his face. Shehadsurprisedhim,maybe.Ashe refilled their glasses, hecut her a look through his

lashes, a speculative glancethatshedidnotknowhowtoanswer.Now that she had decided

to indulge her curiosity, herbrain buzzed with a dozenquestions for him. “What’syouraim,then?”sheaskedasshereclaimedherglass.“Whatdoyoumean?”“You say Lilah’s father

had no plan. But you do, Itakeit?”“Ah.” He leaned back,

kicking one leg over theother, his ankle atop onethigh. At some point he hadunbuttoned his jacket; whereit gaped open, she caught aglimpse of his waistcoat,stretched tightly across hislean, flat belly. “Well, I’m arich man now—so a poormanwouldsay.ButI’vebeenstudying up on your kind.The creamy lot. And I knowthat what a poor man callsrich, a wealthy man calls

middling. What I aim for iswealth that grows itself,without any tending fromme.”“Investments,” she said.

“Do you have a man in theCity?”“Acquired a broker a year

or two ago.” He shrugged.“I’m on my way now. I’llgive it another couple years.And in the meantime, I’llkeepbuildingthewalls.”“The walls? Are you in

property development aswell?”Hesmiled.“Notrealwalls.

Walls to keep theworld out,is what I mean—should Idecide that I’m better offapartfromit.Atpresent,I’vegot—let’s see.” He held upone finger, sapphire andgarnet sparking in thefirelight. “Whitechapel.”Another two fingers, thediamond and ruby. “BethnalGreen, St. George’s-in-the-

East.” A fourth finger,emerald. “Mile End.” Hesnappedhisfingersintoafist.“Limehouse, soon enough.Docks are mine, but thevestry there’s a bit touchy, Ifear.”She realized what he

meant. “You control fourvestries?”He laughed. “Just said so,

didn’tI?”“But that’s . . .” It was a

very large swath of eastern

London. “If you control somuch of the localgovernment . . .” Why, hewasmorepowerfulthansomeLondon MPs. And heanswered to no sponsors, nopatrons—which made himmore powerful by far. “Towhatend?Doyoumeantogointopolitics?”He snorted. “Rich man’s

game.Notimeforthat.”“Thenwhybotherwiththe

vestries?”

“They’re my walls,” hesaidcoolly.“Nota lawnoralawman can operate in fourparishes without myapproval. You try to put thepoliceonme,you’dbesthopethey come from the City,becausenobobbyeastof thesquare mile will cross me.You want to open a shop, apublic house, even a church,you’dbesthopeyouranitbyme,oryou’llfindnojoyfromthelocalauthorities.”

“That sounds like akingship,”shesaidsoftly.“No. I’m no tyrant. I

stopped taking graft yearsago. I don’t demand aprotectionfee.AllIaskforisrespect.”It sounded very seductive.

She resisted the urge toapprove. Law had its place;civilizationhadnotbeenbuiltbymenwho defied a centralauthority. “What you asksounds less like respect than

allegiance.”“Well . . .maybe. I prefer

tocallit...asenseofbeingat home.” He hesitated, hisgaze oddly thoughtful as helooked at her. “A stretch ofterritorywhereIdon’tneedtobe looking overmy shoulderwhenIwalkdownthestreetsatnight.Wherenobodyneedslook, so long as they’re oneof mine. That’s a . . . finething,forfolksraisedinthesestreets.”Hegavea tugofhis

mouth. “For a lad who sleptin ’em, when the coin wasshort.” He reached out,running a finger around therim of his glass. “Whosemaworked in them,” he saidquietly. “Sometimes. Whenthe coin was short. To feedme, shedidwhat shemust, Ithink.”Her breath caught. She

pressed her lips together,terrified of having to loosethat breath, for fear that he

might interpret the sigh asdisgustorcontempt.But . . . to her mild

amazement, she felt onlysorrow for him. After whatshe had seen at the BMeeting, the raggedness andthe talesofpiteouswant, shecould imagine that manywomen in these partssometimes lacked thecoin tofeedtheirchildren.Ofcourseamotherindirestraitswoulddo anything to prevent her

childfromstarving.Evenifitmeant selling her body orsoul.“So you want to be . . .

immune,”shesaidhesitantly.“Immune from uncertainty.Fromdangerandrisk.”His gaze lifted to hers.

“No,”hesaidafteramoment.“That comes when you’redead,Kitty.”“Then . . . what do you

want?”He laid down his glass, a

soft click of glass againstwood.“Iwantthefreedomtolive as I please,” he saidquietly. “By my own rules,nobodyelse’s.Howdoesthatsoundtoyou?”He had not moved off the

chair.But theintensityofhislooksuddenlymadeherflush,as though he had crossed tostand before her, closeenough to touch. Her ownreaction confused her, madeher stammer. “I think it—it

soundsverygrand.Butsurelymost people have thatprivilege.Ido.”“Do you?” He hadn’t

looked away. Hadn’t evenblinked. “Seems like youcould have it. If you paidattention to what you reallywanted.”A frown pulled at her

brow. “I don’t know whatyou mean.” But her mouthfelt dry, and her pulse wassuddenly thrumming, as

though part of her didunderstand.“I’vegottenwhatI want. Thanks—thanks toyou. Everleigh’s, safe. Theaccountsinmyhands—”He did rise off the chair

then.Herheartskippedasheprowled towardher.Hewentdownonhiskneesinfrontofher, so their eyeswere level;he took the wineglass out ofherslackhand,thenliftedherpalm to his mouth, pressinghis lips against her racing

pulse.“I’m not talking of your

company,” he said. “I’mtalkingofyou.Lookatme.”She had averted her face.

She squared her shouldersandliftedherchin,glaringathim. “I came in here to tellyou of what I found in thestoreroom,nottobe—”“Business,” he said. “You

hidebehindit.Youhidefromyourself. What were youthinking earlier, when you

were staring at me? Wasn’tbusinessthatmadeyoublush.Behonestwithyourselfnow.I’llwait.Noneed to speak italoud.”She took a sharp breath

throughhernose.Wasshesotransparent? The possibilitymortified her. She tried topull her hand free. His griptightened.“What keeps you so

afraid?”Hiswordswerelow,hoarse. “That you’ll like it

too much? For if so, you’reright.I’llmakesureofthat.”Her voicewasn’t good for

more than awhisper now. “Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”“Liar,” he said. “Who are

you lying to? The door’sclosed. Not a soul in theworldtohearyou.Nobodytoknow what happens here.Nobodytojudge.”“There’s you,” she said

shakily.He cupped her face, his

thumbsoothing thecornerofhermouth. “Andwhat of it?YouimagineI’llthinklessofyou, for wanting the samethingIdo?”She bit her lip hard. This

wasn’t fair of him. “It’s notyouwhowould stand to payforit!”“AndifIpromisedtomake

sureyoudidn’tpay,”hesaid.“If I had that power. Whatthen?Whatwouldyoudo?”She closed her eyes. That

wasnot aquestion shedaredask herself. She believed hehad the skill to prevent achild.Butifshewentforwardwithtouchinghim...She might pay anyway.

Suddenly the truth was plaintoher:alreadyshewasdrawnto him. She craved hiscompany.Shelongedtomakehimlaugh.Shefeltgratefultohim. And she believed him,despite his history and hissins,agoodanddecentsoul.

There was more at riskhere than the possibility of achild.At riskwas somethingshe could not afford to lose.She could not afford to lovehim.Shecouldnotbeawife.He spoke, again with that

uncanny way of reading hermind. “You’ve got anironclad ticket to freedom,”he murmured. “I signed thatcontract. You’ll have yourdivorce,oneday.Butwhatofthe meantime? We could

enjoyeachother.Live,Kitty.Icouldcutthisgownoffyou.Lick my way from yourmouthtoyourbreasts,putmytonguebetweenyourlegsandkiss you until you screamed.Butnotunlessyouadmityouwant it. What you’ll permitme to do, how far you’ll letme go—it’s up to you,Catherine.Onlyyou.”Withhereyesclosed,those

torrid imageswere toovivid.Sheopenedhereyes,andthe

sightofhisdark,wickedfacewasnoeasiertobear,nolessofanachingtemptation.“Youeverreallyfeltfree?”

he whispered. “Because hereit is: here, you’re free. Myterritory. And yours, if youwantit.”The breath exploded from

herinagasp.Hetooknote.Adangerous smile curved hislips. “I’ll take that as a yes,”he said, and rose on hisknees, coming over her as

soundlessly as a thief. Hisfingers speared through herhair, causing a pinching painasherpinsstabbedherscalp.She braced herself against

thebrutalityofhisgrip—andwas undone by the gentletouch of his mouth. Small,fleeting touches. His lips onher earlobe. Her cheek, herneck. Light as a whisper, hescatteredhiskisses,whilehishand at her hair plucked outpins, soothing now, his

fingers skilled, clever. Herhair came tumbling down, aheavy cool mass, and hesmoothed it away from hershouldersashismouthclosedonhers.The kiss felt familiar.

Wildlystartling,butalso . . .notsurprising.Shehadkissedhim toomany times now forshocktoblindhermindtothedetails: the slight roughnessofhislips.Thehotlickofhistongueashechasedhersinto

her mouth. The firm, steadygrip of his hand around herthroat—a gesture that mighthavemenacedher, had it notbeen for the gentle brush ofhis thumb across her skin,settling at last over the spotwhere her pulse hammered,pressing there as though toremindher:youwantthis.He tilted his head, angling

for a deeper intrusion; hismouth searched hers,ravishing. She was being

devoured . . . but she wasdevouring him, too; she didwantthis.Shedid.An odd sob escaped her.

He fell still, then started toease away. She caught hisupper arms to hold him toher; to feel for the solidstrapping breadth of hisshoulders, toprove toherselfthat shehadnotembroideredthe memory by a singledegree. He felt forged ofsomething tougher, finer,and

hotter than mere flesh. Hewas a long, lethal blade of aman,aweaponthatshecouldtouch, that she could strokenowwithoutanyfearofbeinginjured. Nobody to see;nobody to judge. Freedom,indeed.Hecoaxedhertoleanback

against the chair. Hisexpression was rapt, almostreverent, as he molded hishandsdownherbody,feelingthe shape of her breasts

through the thickimpediments of silk andcotton and corseted canvas.She arched upward, and hishandsslidaroundtoherback,disarming with impossibleeconomy all the devices bywhich a woman was boundup in herself: buttons andhooks, laces and clasps,detestable obstacles, fallingawaybeneathhis fingers likevanquishedenemies.He slid her sleeves from

hershoulders,thenrippedherchemise apart. He parted thelayers like the petals of aflower,baringhertothewaistbeforetakingherbreastinhismouth. The door closed.Nobody to see. Only thisman,whosejudgmentsdidn’tmatter; whose judgmentswouldbesweet,regardless.She clasped his head and

heldhimtoherbreast,desirelikegreed,notsatisfiedbyhissuckling,wanting evermore.

She fumbled blindly for hishand, gripped it firmly,strongly enough to grind hisbones. She wanted this handemployedelsewhere.Hemethereyes,hismouth

glistening, his gaze adamant.“Putitwhereyouwantit,”hesaid.She squeezed her eyes

shut.Shecouldnotdoit.Shewoulddieofembarrassment.Heclosedhis teetharound

her nipple very lightly, then

blew.She gasped, then shoved

his hand into the depths ofher skirts. “There.” Thesyllable was threadbare. Shecouldnotbeartolook.Butoh,thesweetsensation

ofhispalmonherankle—sheheldherbreath, seeing in thedarkness behind her lids thepath his hand traveled. Thetender curve of her calf. Thedamp cove behind her knee.She choked back a noise as

hehookedhisfingersbeneathher drawers, as he flexed hisgrip on the soft flesh of herinnerthigh.Andthen...“Here,” he whispered, as

he found her quim. Thedelicate touch of his fingers,the unbearable nudgingexploration,madehersquirm—and then he found whereshe’dwantedhim,afterall.His thumb toyed with the

seat of her desire, while hisfingers—she gasped. His

fingersslowlypenetratedher,a slow, stretching pressurethatmade her feel fuller andheavierandripeforhim.Sheforgottokeephereyesshut.He watched her as he

petted her, his gazeslumberous,heavy-lidded,hismouth full and loose. Shestared at his mouth,rememberinghispromise.Hewouldputitthere,below.Allsheneeddowasask...The thoughtmagnified her

pleasure. She put her fist tohermouth to stopa soundashis fingers quickened theirrhythm. He seized her hand,pulling it to his own mouth,running his tongue betweenher tightly knotted fingers,sucking her fingertips,making low murmurs now,shameless words. “Tell me,”he said. “After you come,what next?Howwill Imakeyoucome,thesecondtime?”Thewordsshotthroughher

like an electric current. Theylaid the truth bare: the firsttime wouldn’t be enough.Perhaps the second wouldn’tbe,either.Womenwerenotmeant to

enjoy such things—hermotherhadwarnedherofthepainofthemarriagebed.Butitwaspossiblethatherdesirewas like her ambition—limitless, unnatural for awoman. In which case . . .indulging it would only be a

torment, once she lost themeanstosatisfyherself.Onceshelosthim.The pleasure was coming

now, like a torrent building,building toward the lip of adam. It would break—overflow—and she tensedagainstit.Herlipsformedthesyllable once—twice. Thethird time, she managed tosay,“Stop.”He did not pretend to

mishearher.Hishandstilled.

Some low sound came fromhim—a curse she did notknow. She braced herself,still shaking, for his anger.But after amoment, he sankhis forehead against herbosom, breathing raggedlyagainst her as his handslipped away, down her leg.His breath sent a hotwhisperingpleasurealongthetops of her breasts, raising ashivershecouldnotrepress.Shefeltempty,nothingbut

an unsatisfied ache. Had shesaved herself? Or was thispunishmentwasted?His soft, broken laugh

tattooedherskin.“Christ,”hesaid. “You’ve got somerestraint.”Her hands seized the

opportunity to thread throughhis hair, holding him againsther as he breathed her in.Theymadeasilentapologytohim,strokingthecurveofhisskull.

At last, he eased back byslow degrees, then fell ontohis heels with the ease of acat, with that loose limbergrace that no gentlemanpossessed.“Youwant it,”hesaid, the

words ragged. “And Godknows I will give it to you.But for God’s sake, Kitty.Makeupyourmind.”

CHAPTERELEVEN

It was William Pilcher’shabit every Saturday at halfthreetoattendthewashhouse.By rumor, he came to clear

his head and dwell on greatmatters of local governmentin the silence and restorativeheat.No doubt he spared a few

thoughts, too, for womenhe’dliketoharass.AsNicktookaseatonthe

bench beside the man, hisfists fairly itched with theurge to meet Pilcher’s face.“Fine situation you’ve gothere,”hesaid.Pilcherfrownedandshifted

away,evidentlydispleasedbythe interruption of his peace.“Doyouknowme,sir?”Manhadawell-fedlookto

him.Wasn’tjustthehairyrollofguthangingoverhistowel.Certainfolks,generally thosewho had been born intocomfort but had persuadedthemselvesthatthey’dearnedit, carried thisgloating,well-satisfied air, as though theentire world existed to givethemopportunitiestosneer.

Pilcher was sneering now.“Oh,” Nick said, “I shouldimagine everybody knowsMr.WilliamPilcher.”Butnotfor the crime of bigamy,thank God. Then again, hadPeter Everleigh managed totalk Pilcher into forcingCatherine to the altar, themanwouldnolongerlooksosatisfied. He’d be rotting atthe bottom of the Thames.“Vice-chairmanofSt.Luke’sVestry,aren’tyou?”

Pilcher’s glance passedover Nick’s shoulder towardthedoor,whichstoodshut tokeep in the steam. “I do nottalk business here. Make anappointment with mysecretary,shouldyoudesireaword.”The closed door also

blockedthesightofPilcher’sbrawny guard, otherwiseknown as St. Luke’s chiefsanitary inspector. Littleinspection,muchbribery.The

vestry of St. Luke’s wasrottedthrough.“I’ve got no interest in

your vestry,” Nick said. Hisambitions did sharpen,though,asheeyedtheman’sskull. Looked ripe forcrushing. “You’ve beenleavingnotesatmydoorstep,begging for a word.” It hadstarted to annoyhim that theblokehad thepresumption tocall himself to Nick’sattention.“We’llspeakhere.”

Pilcher stared hard. Hislizard’sbrainat lastprovidedtheanswer;hesatupa little.“You—you’re NicholasO’Shea?” He slid anincredulous glance downNick’s form.Godknewwhathe’d expected. Somebodytoothless, with the devil’sbrandonhischeek.Nick settled more

comfortablyon the bench, asthecrowdontheothersideofthe room gawked. “That’s

me,” he said. Those othermen knew their places betterthan they should. Theysqueezed ten to a bench, sotheir vestrymanmight spreadhis bulk in comfort, alone.“Fine windows in thiswashhouse.”Thegraylightlitthe audience’s astonishedfaceswith sharp clarity.ThiswastheonlywashhouseinSt.Luke’s,andforallthatitwasfunded by parish taxes,Nickhad needed to bribe the man

outside to win entry. “Mycomplimentstothevestry.”Frowning,Pilcherscrubbed

hisbrownhead.“Ihadhopedto have this conversation inprivacy. It concerns amatterofsomedelicacy—”“Orton Street, I suppose.”

Pilcherhadsenthisfirstnoteright after the boardmeetingin which his inspector’spetitionhadbeenoverturned.Nick offered a slight smile.“Youshouldgiveyourmena

map. Those parish bordersprovetricky.”“Indeed.” Pilcher hadn’t

blinked.“OnbehalfoftheSt.Luke’svestry, Idoapologizefor theconfusion.Oneof theoddities of our fair London,I’m sure you’ll agree, thatareas of such . . . differentcharacter can abut eachother.”Inshort,thegoodpeopleof

St.Luke’sfanciedthemselvestoo fine to be neighbors to

Whitechapel.Nickshrugged.Pilcher cast anotherglance

over the witnesses on theopposite bench before takingadeepbreathandhitchinghistowel higher. “Those vacantlots on either side of yourproperties—theymustmakeaterrible eyesore for yourtenants.”Nick snorted. Wasn’t the

view that his tenants caredabout.Reasonablerentsandasolid roof were what they

asked.“Whatofthem?”“Naturally . . . as a

representative of this parish,that is . . . I can’t like them,either.” Pilcher mustered athoughtful look. “Howfamiliar are you with theTorrensAct,sir?”Nick had certainly gotten

an education recently.“Passingfamiliar,I’dsay.”“The law has created a

terrible tangle forSt.Luke’s.When a property is

condemned,aswerethethreelots neighboring yours onOrton Street, the Board ofWorks seizes ownership, andhiresanappraisertovaluetheproperty. The man whovaluated the lots on OrtonStreet . . .”Pilchergrimaced.“Idiot.Heassignedapricefarhigher than the market willfetch. In consequence,nobody has offered to buythemfromtheboard.”“Pity,”Nicksaid.“I’veyet

to see how the problemconcernsme.”Pilcher’s mouth tightened.

“Well,Iamcomingtoit.Thelaw requires the parish tocompensatetheformerownerforthefullsumnamedintheappraisal. The promise, ofcourse, is that the land willeventually sell, and therebywill the parish berecompensed.Butnoonewillpaysucharidiculoussumforthose vacant lots. In

consequence, St. Luke’s isteetering on bankruptcy.”Hecleared his throat. “Thoseproperties must be sold—quickly, and for not a pennyless than the previous ownerwas compensated. Thatwould be far easier if wecould offer the entire streetfor sale—all five lots atonce.”IncludingNick’s own lots.

He saw the way of it now.“Shame, then, that half that

streetbelongstome.”“Indeed.”Pilcherleanedin,

lowering his voice. “Mr.O’Shea, I am interested inpurchasing those twobuildingsfromyou.”“They’renotforsale.”Pilcher’s smile looked

strainednow.“Iwillpayyoua very fair price. More thanfair—I will match thevaluation of the adjoiningproperties.”“Now, why would you do

that? You just said theappraiser named an ungodlysum.”Pilcher’s smile faded. He

sat back, eyeing Nick—reevaluatinghisapproach,nodoubt,nowthathismarkhadproved less easy than he’danticipated. “I will take theloss. For the welfare of myparish, I am willing tosuffer.”Rare day that one got a

front-rowseat to sucha self-

righteous performance. Nickbared his teeth in a nice,friendly smile. “And to thinkyou’re only vice-chairman.What does the chairman do?Give St. Luke’s poor thebread from his own kids’mouths?”Pilcher’s palm slammed

onto the bench. Against theopposite wall, several menflinched. “I will not bemockedbyyou,”hesaid.“That’s what you call

mockery? I’ll spare you mynextthought,then.”“I am sure it would be

vulgar in the extreme,”Pilcher snapped. “Much likethe crowds teeming in thosebuildings of yours. Keepingchickens in their flats—stabling donkeys and pigs intheyard!Theyareanaffronttoeverydecentpersoninthisparish, and I will not allowtheirlikestofesteramongus.For the sake of the women

andchildrenofSt.Luke’s—”“But a music hall will

elevatethetone.Thatright?”Pilcher’s jaw sagged. “I

havenoidea—”“Liquorloosenslips,”Nick

said flatly. “And yournephew’sadrinker.Seemshefavors a pub in Spitalfields,where hewas boasting of anuncle who means to set himup handsomely, in a newdevelopment planned forOrtonStreet.Soundsflash,all

right—public house, theater,coupleofdiningrooms.LittleJoe says the builders havebeen throwingmoney at youfor the chance to developthoselots.Pityyoudon’townthem yet. You want to talkabout chickens? Never countthembeforethey’rehatched.”Pilcher lurched to his feet.

Theslipofhis towelraisedasingle startled snicker fromthe other side of the room,quickly quashed. No doubt

that man had expected morefromhislocalcrook.Pilcher yanked the towel

up, doing himself no favors.His scrawny legs couldn’thave kicked a chicken fromthe road. “Lies,” he hissed.“Base slander,whichnobodywillcreditfromyou—”“Doesn’tmatterif theydo.

For you’ll have to tell thebuilders yourself, soonenough: you’re lacking theplots.I’mnotselling.”

Pilcher’s eyes bulged. “Ifyou know what’s good foryou—”Nickmade a chiding click

of his tongue as he stood.“Now, here I thought youwanted to speak to me. Butyou must have me confusedfor somebody else, if youthink I’m a man you canthreaten.”Pilcher’sthroatbobbedina

swallow. He shot a glancetoward the door, then began

to inch backward toward it,Nick matching him step forhobbling step. “Do you—doyou truly imagine you haveany power, outside thatsqualid pit where you live?Youthinkyou’retheonlyonewho knows secrets? I knowall about your plot to forcemeofftheBoardofWorks!”Bloody Peter Everleigh.

Nick shrugged. “Oneway oranother,you’regoing.”Spittle flew as Pilcher

laughed. “Never say you’rebanking on Everleigh. Heknowswhichsidehisbreadisbuttered.” As he slammedsquarely into the door, hetransferred his grip from thetowel to wrestle desperatelywith the handle. The steamhad made it slippery. Nickreachedtoassist.Pilchershrankintohimself,

cringing like a dog from aboot.“Aye,you’reaproperman,

all right,” Nick said softly.“So worried for your parish.Saywhat:I’llsaveitforyou.Buy those lots to either sideof mine. See what thebuildersofferme.”Pilcher glared up at him.

“Try it. See if the boardwillsell them to you. I own thatboard.Andno gutter ratwill—”Nickyankedopenthedoor,

knocking Pilcher onto hisknees. The towel fell to the

ground. Pilcher scrambled toretrieve it, then shot a lividlooktowardtheonlookers.“Ifany of you dare speak ofwhatyousawhere—”Nicksnorted.“Notmuchto

speakof,isit?Getout.”Flushing a violent purple,

Pilcherleft.Nick shut the door, then

turned to the audiencegawping from their benchlike a bunch of brainlesssheep. “What say you, lads?

Has your vestry served yourinterests as handsomely astheyhaveMr.Pilcher’s?”The firstman to shake his

head showed courage thatquickly infected the others.But Nick was not interestedin the followers. It was thefirstman towhomhe lookedashespoke.“Then do something about

it,”hesaid.“Beaman.Standupforyourself.Inthisworld,nobodyelseisgoingtodoit.”

Noreply.Heshruggedandlethimselfout.

***Catherine put down thecrowbarandbrushedsplintersfromherpalmsbeforeseizingthecornerof thecanvas.Herstomach was jumping fromexcitement; she hadanticipated this moment fordays now. “Hold your nose.It’sstillabitdusty.”Batten turned back from

his inspection of the French-polished Sheraton dresser, amournfulcrimptohismouth.“Whatever it is, I pray ithasn’tbeenrestored.”She yanked the canvas off

the writing cabinet. “Voilà!”Overthreehundredyearsold,the cedar still perfumed theair.“Lookattheinitials.Lookatthem!”Battensquintedthroughthe

barsof light that fell throughthe receiving-room windows.

“Praises be,” he whispered.Hisknobbyhandshookashebrushed the scratch-carvedinitials. “E.R. 1590.” Hisfingertips trailed up thedrawers to the centralcupboard, where a cunningimageofapalacewasworkedinmarquetry.“Isthis...”“Yes!” She pressed her

hands tohercheeks; smiling,she’ddiscovered,couldcausea delightful ache. “I spentyesterday combing through

illustrations at the BritishMuseum. This is NonsuchPalace.” One of QueenElizabeth’s favorite abodes.“I’ve booked an appointmentin the archives.Batten.” Shedropped her voice to awhisper; the words were toowondrous to speak casually.“If we can document thatElizabeth was there in1590...”“Goodness.”Hetracedone

wrought-iron handle. “The

furorthiswillcause!”“Iknow.Andaddedtothe

rest . . .” She cast her gazeagain over the spread oftreasures; they had spent allmorning unpacking thecontents of O’Shea’sstoreroom. Queen Annecabinetry, china plate,Sheffield candelabra,Lambeth pottery . . . Thatwarehouse had proved richerthanapalace.Andnowitwasall at Everleigh’s. “What do

you say? Shall we invite thePrinceofWales?”He grinned. “With the

cabinetasourcenterpiece,I’dsay we should invite theQueen.”She laughed just as adoor

slammed nearby. Herbrother’s curse followed; acrate rocked precariously ashe came into view. “What isall this rubbish?” He yankeddownhisjacket.“IfthisistheMandeley estate, we’re not

slated—”“A new estate,” Catherine

said. “The last sale of theautumn. I mean to announceit in the Times, with a fullpageofillustrations.”“For an autumn sale?” He

gave an impatient pull of hismouth.“Whatnonsense.”“Look around you,” she

saidserenely.Scowling,Peter turnedfull

circle. He had never appliedhimself to the studies

required of an appraiser;between a Rembrandt and acopy by Mr. Taylor, he washelpless to spot thedifferences.Butevenheknewaproper

Sheraton when he saw one.As he faced her again, helooked puzzled. “Whoseestate is this? Surely theyinsisted we hold it till theseason.”“No. I contracted for the

firstweekofDecember.”

“December?” His glancestrayed to a group ofChippendale chairs, theoriginal patina intact.“Catherine,” he said slowly,“this collection should besavedforthespring.”“Batten,willyougiveusa

moment?” She held Peter’seyes, waiting until the othermanhadlefttogoon.“Inthenormalcourse,Iwouldagree.This collection is well worththespring.Unfortunately,our

finances don’t allow fordelay. Curious, don’t youthink? It seems someoneembezzledoverfivethousandpounds from our accounts.Andthen,theaftermathofthering at the Cranston auction—”“Enough,” he snapped. “I

won’thearofthatagain.”“And I won’t argue,” she

said, too cheerful to doanything but shrug. “I havepower of attorney now. Full

authority to do as I please.Unlessyoumeantosueforitback, you have no businesstelling me when to hold thisauction.”He laid a hand on the

Sheratondresser, rubbing thehorrid French polish with athoughtfulfrown.“Whoistheclient?”“He prefers to remain

anonymous.”He cast her a sour look.

“Fine,” he said. “Do as you

please. Forego the handsomeprofitwemight have fetchedin May. I was coming tospeak to you on a differentmatter.”“Oh?” She pulled her

handkerchieffromherpocketto dust off the writingcabinet. To imagine thatQueen Bess herself hadstored papers in this chest!There was a properbusinesswoman. She’d runthe country singlehandedly,

freeofmeddlingbrothers.“O’Sheaisoutofhand.He

challenged Pilcher’s bid onthe Orton Street properties.Didyouknowthat?”Mention of his name shot

through her like a current ofelectricity. She carefullywiped the iron handles. “Idon’t know anything of Mr.O’Shea’sprivateaffairs,”shesaid. What a lie! She knewmore now that she had everimagined she would wish to

know.Sheknewthewayshecould kiss a woman—softly,and then savagely, with aroughness that somehowtranslated as the greatestcompliment a woman couldhopefor.Shewilledherbrainaway from that line ofreflection,foritwasboundtomake her blush. “You mustspeak with him directly onsuchmatters.”“We had an agreement,”

Petersaidsharply.“Brokered

byyou. I fulfilledmy end ofthat bargain. But now he ispersecutingme.”She looked up from the

desk. Her brother wasflushed, nearly shaking.“Whatdoyoumean?”“I mean, he has tendered

an offer to the board for theproperties that neighbor his.Properties in St. Luke. Andthe price he offers isludicrous! It is an act ofaggression,I tellyou.Pilcher

willhavethoseproperties!”She frowned. “Do you

meanhisbidisverylow?”“Absurdly high,” he burst

out.“Andsothefoolsontheboardwishtoentertainit!ButI won’t allow that. Do youhearme,Catherine?I’llquashit flat. The tender periodshouldhaveclosedweeksago—it was an oversight onsome idiotic clerk’s part toeven accept O’Shea’s bid.He’s mad if he thinks I’ll

oppose Pilcher so openly.That was never ouragreement!”Shehesitated,thennodded.

“Isthatall?”“All?” He uttered an

outraged laugh. “Yes, byGod. Only your brother’sfuture.Perhapsyoucanspareathoughtforthat,inbetweenpolishing the furniture!” Hepaused,breathingheavily,hisexpression bullish.“Catherine, I have tolerated

yourshenanigans. Ihavemetyourterms.ButIwarnyou—ifyoubackmeintoacorner,I will have no choice but tofight.”“I understand,” she said

slowly.His grim nod alarmed her

more thanhis threat.She felta sinking in her stomach asthe door slammed behindhim. It was not like herbrother to depart withouthavingthelastword.

***Catherine stepped up to therailing that overlooked thegaming floor. Dinner hadcomeandgonewithoutavisitfrom O’Shea. Did he notwonderhowhistreasureshadfaredduringtheirtransporttoEverleigh’s?Didhenotwonderifshe’d

madeadecision?Make up your mind, he’d

instructedherlastweek—and

every day since, in a silentmonologue just beneath herconscious thoughts, she hadbeen battling to do so. Hemade no move to assist her.Hehadnottouchedheragain.He didn’t need to. The wayhewatchedher . . .Even theact of breaking open thecrates today had come toseem strangely portentous.Wood snapping, restraintsshattering...She leaned out, searching

the crowd. Where was he?Had he gone out for theevening?Thepossibilitysankthrough her as sharply as ablade.She clung tighter to the

rail, amazed by herself.Howhadher lifebeensounseatedfrom its steady, disciplinedcourse? The future ofEverleigh’s remainedprecarious. One could nevercounton a single auction,nomatter how promising.

Failing to turn a profit thisyear might be the start of apattern; failure, in the artworld, had a way ofcompounding.Thatwaswhatrequiredherattention.Soshehad told him, stiffly, the dayaftertheirconfrontationinhisrooms. He seemed to haveheededthosewords.Apparentlyshehadn’t.ShespottedO’Sheaat last,

atthetabledirectlybelow.Hesat looking over his hand of

cards as awoman hung overhisshoulder.Catherinerecoiledfromthe

railing, her face stinging asthough she’d been slapped.For a moment, thechandeliers, the brilliantlypainted ceiling, seemed tospinaroundher.Awoman.Whatwoman?She forced herself back to

the railing. That kind ofwoman.Indeed.Notanaturalredhead,no.Herheaddress,a

vulgar disarrangement ofbadly dyed feathers,protruded from hair the lividshadeofanoverriperose.Forsome awful reason—notmerely from a lack of taste,but from an absolute well ofdepravity—shehadchosentowearagownthatmatchedherhair, trimmed in lurid silverlace.People of similarly

depraved tastes wouldprobably count her pretty.

Her face was delicatelyfeatured and dramaticallyheart shaped, broad at thetemples and cheekbones,narrowing to a small, sharpchin. Her nose looked likesomebody had taken a scoopout of it, then patted itupward, the better to displayher neat little nostrils, whichflaredasshelaughed.Catherine could hear her

laughter from two storiesabove: rich, robust, ringing.

Ladies did not throw backtheirheadsandshoutouttheirmirth. But the gentlemen ather table did not seem tomindherlackofdecorum.Toaman, theywere grinning ather. And no wonder! Hernecklinewascut lowenoughto display a good portion ofherbosom.Catherine supposed she

could feel a grudgingadmiration. Yes, why not?Most women were not

encouraged to cultivatetalents apart from femininewiles. At least this one wasplyingherswithdedication.A gentleman does not

admire a woman for hermind,Catherine.Sohermotherhadtoldher,

time and again. But it hadbeen years since she felt thisbitter sense of insufficiency.What did she care if O’Sheafound her wanting? Theirswasnotruemarriage.Hishot

words were lies, of course.Any woman would do forhim. It made her an idiot tohaveimagineddifferently.Still, what poor business

senseonO’Shea’spart!Sucha . . . spectacle . . . posed adistraction to the players,turningthemawayfromtheirgame. Look at them now—their attention was not fortheirwagers.Had she actually ventured

to the railing in the hopes of

drawing his attention? Shetook a step backward. Asleast she knew now why hehadnotjoinedherfordinner.He’d already foundcompanionship for the night—somebody far betterequipped to flatter, admire,andcossethim.Buthowdareheflaunther

here?Thismarriagemightbea sham, but must he rub hisdebaucheryinherface?Why, that contravened the

terms of the contract! Inpublic situations, he waslegally obliged to accord herall due measures of respect!Furious, Catherine resolvedtoconfronthim.

CHAPTERTWELVE

Halfway down the backstairs,justasCatherinebeganto doubt the wisdom of hercourse, O’Shea came around

thecorner,haltingafewstepsbelow. “There you are,” hesaid,onehandonthebanisterashesmiledupather.“Iwascoming to have a word withyou.Dideverythingarrive toEverleigh’sinonepiece?”Very relaxed, he looked.

Very windblown, as thoughsomebodyhadbeendraggingher fingers throughhis thick,black hair. “Kind of you tocome ask,” she said stiffly.“Particularly when you

looked so very contentdownstairs.”Heeyedherashecameup

thesteps.“What’sgotyousosour?”She turned and preceded

him up to the balcony.“Lemons are sour,” she said.“I am—uncomfortable,irritated, offended—when Imustwatch you consortwithharlots.”“Harlots?” He caught her

arm, turningherback toward

him.His frown annoyed her.

“Don’t pretend to beconfused. That woman withthe cheap red hair, who washanging over you at the cardtable.”He let go, sweeping a

marvelinglookfromherheadtohertoes.“Jesus,Mary,andJoseph. Looks like we’remarried,afterall.Willyoubedraggingmeoff to the priestnowformypenance?”

Bloodrushedintoherface.“Don’tmockme.”A grin tugged at his lips,

infuriatingly smug. “DeirdreMahoney’s no whore,although I’ll grant you thatshe flirts like one. And aye,I’ll admit it—she wasn’t aredheadasachild.”She would not be

distracted by his charm. “Soyou admit that you wereflirting with her, in plainview.”

He lifted a brow. “You’drather I flirt with her inprivate?”She gritted her teeth. “I

have no interest in what youdoinprivate.Nor,Iimagine,doyoucarewhatIdobehindcloseddoors.Butthecontractwasvery clear: inpublic,wewillaccordeachotheralldue—”“Here, now,” he

interrupted in a dangeroustone. “I’ll be damned if

you’redoinganythingbehindclosed doors that doesn’tinvolveme.”“I . . .”Theshiverthatran

through her felt oddlydelicious. She crossed herarms tightly. “We’re notspeakingofme.”“Now we are,” he said

grimly. “You won’t beconsorting with other men.We’remarried in the eyesofthe law, and I won’t beraising another man’s

bastard.”She gasped. “How dare

youimply—well,andIwon’tbe touching a man whoconsortswithotherwomen!”“Allright,then.”His easy tone disconcerted

her.“Allright,what?”“I said, all right, then.

We’ve revised ouragreement.”She hesitated, hunting

throughtheir lastremarksforclarity. “What do youmean?

Ididn’trevise—”“Binding oral contract.”

His smile looked wolfish.“Just as good as written.Looks like you’re stuckwithmeuntilthatdivorce.”“I didn’t . . .” She bit her

lip.What had just happened,here? Why did he look sopleasedaboutit?He gave her no chance to

workitout,takingherarmashe started toward herapartment. “I’ll be needing a

meeting with your brother.Shall I arrange it, or willyou?”She should pull away, but

his hand made a pleasantwarmth on her elbow. Shehadn’t realized she was colduntil now. “Is this about thebuildings on Orton Street?”she asked as she opened herdoor.“Hementionedit,didhe?”

He followed her into thesitting room, releasing her to

take a seat by the dying fire.“Well, Pilcher did make anoffer for my buildings. Theones on the St. Luke’sborder.”Confused, she sat down

across from him. “Did youaccept?”“Of course not. I don’t

need his money. But thoseother properties, whichsurroundmylots.I’vesentanoffertotheboardforthem.”Shenodded.“Why?”

His brows drew together,twoinkyslashes.Heroseandwalked to the sideboard,uncappingabottleofbrandy.“BecauseIcan.”“But . . . those buildings

aren’tinWhitechapel.”He carried the drink back

tohisseat.“Brilliant,”hesaidflatly. “Just what I need—another swell telling me toknow my place. Only thistime,it’smyownwife.”“Thatwasn’twhatImeant!

I simply don’t understand.This will only anger Mr.Pilcher.”He lifted his brows. “And

do I give a good goddamnwhetherPilcher’sinasnit?”“There is no need to

curse,” she said stiffly. “Isimply don’t understand howyou mean to profit by thispurchase.Thelotsareempty.You’re a landlord, not adeveloper.”His jaw set in a hard line.

“I’ll profit by teaching thatbastard a lesson. Thinks hisprecious parish is too goodfor the likes of me? Well,he’ll have to change hismind.” He took a largeswallowofhisdrink.“So you want to provoke

him.”Whatidiocy!“Whynotask a fortune for yourbuildings? That would hithimwhereithurts.”He slammed down his

glass. “And the seventy-odd

people who live in thosebuildings?”“Whatofthem?”“Pilcher would toss them

out like—” He snapped hisfingers.“There are other

buildings,” she said. “Theycan find somewhere else tolive.”His mouth twisted. “Aye,

youwould think it that easy.Never had to worry forfinding a roof in your life,

have you? When yourbrother’s got too hot, youcamestraighttomine.”She recoiled. “You invited

me.And—whathasitdowithme, anyway? This is abusinessmatter—”“Fuck business. They’re

my people,” he said darkly.“AndItakecareofmine.”She bit her tongue. He

glaredintohisdrink.Thefirecrackled; a log collapsed,throwingsparks.

“Verywell,”shesaid.“GotowarwithPilcher,then.”Hespearedherwithahard

look. “It would be war, ifPilcher had his way. Themoment I was seen to rollover for him, let him throwmyownintothestreet—why,everyotherman I’vecrossedwould think I’d gone soft.Wolves at my throat: thatshould mean something toyou, even if seventy-sixinnocentsdon’t.”

Why was he speaking toher as though she were theenemy?“You’rebeingunfair.Ineversaid thatyour tenantsdon’tmatter—”“Unfair, sweetheart, is

being tossed out on your earbecausesomesilver-suithasacrooked dealwith his vestry.But you’re right, aye, whybother with the seventy-sixwho would pay most dearlyforit?Poorwretches.Factoryworkers and dockhands. I

doubt their fate would keepyou up at night, for all thattheir hands don’t look sodifferentthanyours.”Shetookasharpbreath.“I

amnosnob—”Hisharshcrackoflaughter

silenced her. “You? That’srich.”“WhenhaveIeversaid—”Herose,thedrinkclenched

in his hand. “You say it in ahundred ways, Catherine.You think I didn’t see your

face, when we walkedthrough that crowd at the BMeeting? You asked aboutconsumption. That sidewayslook, the lift of your brow—you think I don’t speak thatlanguage? I learned it as alad. I learned it in the street,sweepingthepathsothelikesof you could cross withoutdirtyingyourskirts.”He’d been a crossing

sweep?“Pennies,” he said. He set

hisglassonthetablewithoutmaking a sound, andsomehow the carehe took todo so was more unnervingthan his anger had been.“Folkscrossingtheroad,theytossed their coins atmy feet,because they didn’t want torisk touchingmyhand, lest Icarrysomesickness.AnddidIblamethemforit?Notonce.I knew there was a betterworld, where babes didn’tcough in their cradles, and

sickness didn’t come regularaschurchonSunday.Ididn’tblame you for asking abouttheconsumption.WhywouldI? It’s a wonder you camewithmeatall.Inyourshoes,I would never have done it.Never would have left theWest End. For I know whatit’s like. I saw it as a boy.Peeked into your windows,when the street was empty.Made a fine sight for a boylikeme.Chairs foreveryone.

Pianointhecorner.Alwaysafireinthehearth—realwood,nocoaltofumeuptheplace.Youever stayedupallnight,Catherine, struggling tobreathe? Choking on thesmokethatkeepsyouwarm?”“No,” she whispered. “I

don’t . . .whyareyouangrywithme?”He ranahanduphis face,

clawedthroughhishair.“I’mnot,” he said on a sigh. “It’snot your fault. Nor your

brother’s,either.”Hepulledaquick grimace. “Not evenPilcher’s. You think I blameyour kind for tossing theirpennies? No.Why risk whatyou’ve got? Why risk thatlittlepieceofheaven?”She shook her head.

Whatever heaven he referredto, it did not encompass herexperience. A wood fire andsufficient chairs could notmakeaparadise.She’dgrownuptakingforgrantedtheroof

over her head—she couldn’targue that. But there hadnever been peace beneath it.The only peace she’d everfoundwasatEverleigh’s.He misread her silence,

perhaps. A curious smiletwisted his lips. “And nowyou’ve got no words,” hesaid.“Thatlookonyourface—it’spity,Iexpect.”She recoiled. “No,” she

said.“Notforyou.”“Notforme.”Histonewas

sarcastic. “I’m not poorenough, I reckon. Ordeserving. It’s the fashion,ain’t it, to save your pity forthedeservingpoor.”She felt the first lick of

temper. She would not bechided by him. “If so, thenyou’re right, you certainlydon’t deserve a trace ofsympathyoneitheraccount.”“Good,” he said coolly.

“And don’t bother with thepeople you see in the streets

here, either.Theydon’twantyourpity,andtheydon’tcarethat you won’t touch them.Theydon’twantyourrespect,either. What they want iswhat you’ve got. And that’swhat scares you the most,ain’t it? Because you knowyou’ve got more than yourfair share.Youknow it’snotright.TheBibletellsyouso.”“I have earned my keep,”

shesaid,verylow.He snorted. “Sure, you lot

will say that, won’t you? Sitaround your fine wood firesat night, come up withreasons for why you deservewhat you have. And that,Catherine, iswhatburnedmeasa lad.Ineverwantedyourrespect.Inevercaredforyourpity. But with God as mywitness, I wanted you toknow that the only thingseparatinguswasluck.WhenI swept the road, I wasn’tscrambling to do it out of

respect. I was only doing itfor money. Thatwas what Iwanted the toffs to realize,justforasecond.”Hetookadeepbreath,then

issued a curt laugh as he satdownagain.“Ofcourse, thenI grew up.” He pressed hispalms together against hislips for a long moment, hisrings glittering in thefirelight. “I grew up andrealized it ain’t so simple.Manners and family and

whatnot—bloody aristocracy,breeding—the lies are piledthickashail.AndIsawIwasnever going to prove themwrong. The con had beengoingontoolong.FightingitwouldtakeagreatermanthanI.”He lowered his hands and

fixed her in a cold, steadygaze. “So I decided not toplay that game. I made agameofmyowninstead.AndI decided noman was going

tobeatmeatit.Pilcherwantsto try? Good luck to him.He’snotthefirst.Andhesureas hell won’t win.” Hepaused. “So. Your brothersayshewon’thelpme?ThenI’ll find anotherway.Awayto make him, maybe. Youunderstand?”Her hands, knotted

together at her waist, weretrembling. She tightenedthem,willingthemtosteady.He noticed. His gaze

dropped to her lap, and hisexpression gentled. Hereached out, laid his palmover her knuckles.“Catherine,”hesaid.“You’reone of mine now, too. Sothere’snocalltoshake.”“I’mnotshaking,”shelied.He studied her a long,

silentmoment.Thenheeasedoutofthechair,kneelingwithlithe grace in front of herchair. “You’re safe here,” hesaid. His thumb stroked

lightly over her knuckles.“Youbelievethat?”“Yes.” She felt no

hesitation in saying so.Afterhis heated, radical speech,thatseemedaproperwonder.Butshedidnotshakeforfear.His pale eyes were steady

and unfathomably beautiful.He lifted her hands, pressinghis lips softly against them.Perhaps he felt her breathcatch, for as he glanced up,the taut line of his mouth

eased. He slipped his handthroughtheheavymassofherchignon. “No dye for thiscolor,”hesaidhuskily.“No,”shewhispered.Very slowly,hepulledher

toward him. Their lips met.The kiss was slow,impossibly strange—himkneelingbeforeher,herheartstillthuddingfromshock.Hereyes drifted shut. His mouthwas soft, almost tender. Shefelt herself sag, tension

melting from her back as henuzzledher.At last, she made herself

avert her face. “What poortasteyouhave,”shesaidverysoftly.“Tokissoneofthelotwhom you damned asunchristian.”Hislaughwassoundless,a

soft puff of air. “Maybe Ithinkthere’shopeforyou.”She looked at him. “Or

maybe you’re the hypocrite.You’rethesnob.”

A curious look came overhisface.“Youthinkso?”“Yes.Oracoward.I’mnot

surewhich.”He sat back from her, his

expression impenetrable.“Now,there’ssomethingI’veneverbeencalled.”“I’m sure no one dared to

say it. That doesn’t make ituntrue.”Hemadealow,sharpnoise

that probably wanted tosound like amusement. “You

caretoexplainyourself?”“Certainly. You’re glad to

talkof theinjusticesyousee.But rather than doinganythingaboutthem,youusethem to justify your ownabusesofthelaw—yourownenrichment.Whatwould youcall that? Certainly notcourage.”His eyes narrowed. Now,

atlast,shesawtruetemperinhis face. He shoved to hisfeet. “Politics is for those

who think they can make adifference for strangers. Inever cared about anythingbutmine.”“That’s not true,” she said

steadily. “Just lookwhat youdid for Tulip Patrick, and allthosestudents—”“For Whitechapel,” he

spat.“Whitechapelismine.”“Very well. But you

choose to sell yourself short.Your ambitions, yourabilities.”

“No.Isimplyconfinethemtowhatmatters.”“I don’t believe you,” she

said with a shrug. “I thinkyou’reafraid.”He offered her a

disbelieving smile. “Is thatright?”She ignored the scorn in

his voice. “You’re afraid toaimhigher.Youcall itarichman’s game, but that’s onlyan excuse. You’re afraid totry—andfail.AndIthinkyou

did want the passersby tolookyouintheeye,asaboy.Otherwise,whywouldyoubesoangryatmenow?”He stared at her. “That’s a

fine question. Maybe I’m afool, after all. Maybe Iimagined that marrying youmeant something. That wecould treat each other likehumans, for all that I sweptyourdad’sstreetsasaboy.”She clambered to her feet.

“Indeed?Youmean that you

could see me as more thansome spoiled doll from theWest End? Tell me. Howmany of my letters did youignorebeforeyoubroughtmehere? Would you have everbothered to speak to me, ifyou thought I couldn’t helpyou save those preciousbuildings?”“Two buildings,” he said

softly. “If that’s all you’llprofitme, you’re the poorestgambleIevertook.”

“What...”Shepushedouta sharp laugh. “Come now.Am I— Surely you’re notsuggesting you wantedsomething else all along.Fromme?Iwon’tbelieveit.”His smile was brief and

dark.“Whynot?Youthinkaman can’t covet what he’stold he doesn’t deserve? Aboy can look into a windowand covet a wood fire. Youthink a man can’t look intoyourauctionroomsandcovet

awoman?”Stunned, she fumbled for

words.“I . . .Younevermetme.Webarelyspoke—”“I watched you,” he said

quietly. “From the momentLily first showedup on yourdoorstep. I always had myeyeonyou.”She crossed her arms

against a strange feeling,tremulous and unbalancing.“You . . . worried for her, Isuppose.”

“Iwatchedyou.”“No.”Sheshookherhead,

panic bolting through her.She didn’twant to hear suchthings. This was business!This arrangement had notbeenborneofanything todowith feeling, with curiosity,with...desire...Butitdid.Hisfaceshowed

herso.Hedidn’tlookpleasedto have made his admission.Hisexpressionwas stark, thelook of a man beholding a

fatalmistake.And suddenly she could

not bear to be his mistake.“Why did you watch me?”she whispered. And howfoolish was she, to feel thismomentary, fragile hope?She’d caught a hundredmengawpingather.Her face . . .my beauty, her father hadcalled her. You have yourmother’s face. But she’dalwayswishedtobesomuchmore than that—not only to

her father but also, perhaps,tosomeoneelse...“Ican’tsay.”Hespokeina

low, rough voice. “Maybebecause I’d never seen awomanlikeyou.Outofplacein that world. Owning it,regardless. Maybe I admiredthat. Or maybe you simplylooked like the next rung onthe ladder. Or it was evensimpler—and you’re right; IwantedwhatI’dneverhadasaboy.Forawoman likeyou

—foryou,Catherine—tolookat me, and see . . . not acrook.Not agutter rat raisedhigh.Butaman.”Hesteppedtoward her. “A man whocould do more for you thanthat bloody auction houseever could. Simple, sure.Simple aswhatwe shared ina bed together.Maybe that’swhatIwantedallalong.”He called that simple?

“I’m . . . I can’t give that toyou.I’vetoldyou,I’mnotfit,

thatway.”Ashadowcrossedhisface,

tightened his mouth, and itstung her like the lash of awhip.Shehadwarnedhimofthis. How dare he lookdisappointed in her!“Bollocks,” he said flatly.“Whatdoesthatmean?”“That auction house may

seemlikenothingtoyou,butit’sallIeverwanted—”He gripped her cheek.

“Now you’re lying,” he said

softly,“andhereIthoughtwewere being so honest. I sawyouwantit.Iheardyouwantit, the other night. If you’reafraid, thensayso.Butdon’tyoubloodylietome.”She lifted her chin. He

would not bully her. “It hasnothing to do with fear—orour stations, either.” Ascynicism sharpened hismouth,shecastcautiontothewind and spoke in a rush.“It’s me. I would disappoint

you.”Andshecouldnotbearthat thought. She, CatherineEverleigh, did not fail. Shedidnothingbyhalfmeasures.She would not allow herselfto aim for what she couldneverhopetodowell.“What nonsense is that?”

Whensheshookherhead,heturned her face back towardhim. “Look at me,” he said.“Howareyouunfit?Whoputthat idea into your head?Yourgoddamnedbrother?”

“Hehasnothingtodowithit,” she said bitterly. “Somethings one knows from ayoung age.Mymother . . .”So unhappy with her life.Squandering her energies ongossip and backbiting, sillyfeuds among her friends.Takingtoherbedatanysignof Papa’s wrath. Quarreling,always quarreling with him.She had warned Catherinethatawoman’s lotwas tobedependent on the pleasure of

a man.Marriage, Catherine,is the most perilous risk awomanever takes.Takecarewhomyouchoose.Makesureyoucankeephimhappy.But the only man whom

Catherine had known how tokeep happywas her father—for she excelled at herwork.And what other man wouldbecontentwiththat?“Idon’twantthatlife,”she

saidfiercely.“Idon’twanttobe . . . beholden . . . to an

ideal I can’t achieve. Andyes, I enjoy your touch. Iwantit.Iwilladmitthat.I...thinkofyou,atnight,andtoooften during the day, andI . . . But it means nothing!Yousaidityourself,once—ithappensonstreetcorners!”“Like hell this does,” he

growled, and caught her bythewaist.

***Had she resisted, he would

haveletgo.ButasNickdrewher toward him, somethingchanged. Her face, so tautfrom her inward struggle,suddenly relaxed. She closedher eyes and took a deep,audiblebreath,thenthrewherarmsaroundhim,likeachildleaping from the edge of ahigh wall, aiming for theunknown.He held her tight, gripped

her waist as she buried herface against his neck. Some

powerful emotion rockedthroughhim,aferociousneedleavenedbydeeprelief.Evenasaboy,hehadneverbeggedbut once.He’d swept streets,blacked boots, ducked theoccasional swing of aganger’s fist at the docks—but begging, no. There, he’ddrawn the line. And hadCatherine pushed him awayjustnow,hemightneverhavereached for her again. For ithad come to that, hadn’t it?

He wouldn’t take what shedidn’t give freely, and byGod,hewouldn’tbeg.But she had come to him.

Hallelujah.Shestoodpressedagainst him, her breathwarming his throat inunsteady puffs, somelingering effect of the fearsthatwrackedher.Nick didn’t hope to

understandthosefears.Didn’texpect he could reason themawayforher,either.Thatwas

her battle. But he could sureas hell give her a reason tofight.Hekissedthecrownofher

hair,softandsilken.Thekissseemed to jar her from hertrance. Her hands scrabbledon his waist, tightening asthough to keep him againsther. He swallowed a raggedlaugh.Asthough,evenwithagunathishead,hewouldstepaway. Given practice, she’dcometounderstandthat.

He meant to give her agreatdealofpracticenow.He smoothed a path down

her arms, pulling her handsfree of their grip on him,lacing his fingers throughhers. He eased down to kissher neck.Her pulsewas stilldrumming. She turned herface away, either fromshyness or to give him abetterangle.He tracked his mouth

slowlydownher throat, right

totheedgeofhergown,high-necked,unadornedbluewool.Dozensofbuttonsfastened itclosed; he had noticed themas he’d followed her up thestairsearlier.God help her if she liked

thedress.Hereachedintohispocket and pulled out hisknife. Felt her tense as shesawit.“Holdstill,”hesaid.She did better. She turned

for him, bowing her head as

shepresentedherback.Wealth had given him a

thousandpleasureshe’dneveranticipated. But he’d neverknownanysweeter than this:to cut Catherine free of herclothing, without regard forthecost.To feel her trust, her

unflinching faith, as sheheldstillbeneathhisknife.The dress split and fell

away easily enough. Thecorset laces were no trick to

cut.Butashethrewitacrossthe room, the sight of herunderlinens struck a flintdeep in his belly, animpatience that made hishandshake.Hecastdowntheknife and used his hands ontherest.Thewayofasavage,no doubt. He felt so.Desirewas toopretty aword.She’dheld herself away too long.His entire life, she’d beenheldaway.Butshewashere,now.

Naked,beforehim.She turned back, the

shredded layers mounded ather feet, God’s own gloryemerging from the ruins ofwhat had separated them.Straight-spined,everyinchofher skin gilded by thecandlelight. The slope of hershoulders,likewaterflowing.Her waist dipping, thenswelling into her full hips,like a crescendo of song.Helaid his palm along that

curve, touched her bare skin,andfelttheshockofrightnesssingthroughhisbones.How could she not know?

How could she doubt, evenfor amoment?He lookedupinto her face for the answer.She was watching him. Notblushing. Not bashful, nordefiant,either.Hereyeswerewide and awake to him, herlipstremblingattheedgeofasmile.They looked at each other

in the silence. Elsewhere,penetratingdimlythroughthewalls,werethesoundsof theordinary world—muffledlaughter, gleeful cries fromthegamingfloor,therattleofdishes, mundane routine.Here,insideherrooms,asshestood naked before him, anenchanted silence enclosedthem,profoundanddeep,likethe hush in a church duringprayer.He trailed his hand up her

body,skatingovertheweightof her breast, the delicatewingedlineofhercollarbone,the graceful column of herneck.He touched her face very

gently. “How can you knowwhat youmight be?Withouttrying,howcanyouknow?”A sheen filled her eyes.

“I . . . suppose I can’t.”Andthenshesteppedforwardandkissedhim.Hiseyesclosed.He’dbeen

novirginwhenhe’dtakenhertohisbed.Butitcametohimnow,ashekissedherback—as her arms wrapped aroundhim like vines, and shemoaned and tilted her head,to encourage him to godeeper—that he’d beeninnocent all the same. Ablessed kind of innocence:he’d not known a kiss couldtake him like a hard blow tohischest.Allthebreathwentfromhimashekissedher.All

hisambitions,theyseemedtospiral through him, toconcentrate into one aim: tomake her never let go. Forshe tasted . . . like all themoney in thecity.Walls thatreached to the heavens. Aviewthatspannedtheworld.He picked her up, swung

herintohisarms,andcarriedher into the bedroom. Laidher on the bed and stoodanother moment to look ather, sprawled across the

sheets like Christmasmorning.Herewas the view.He would sear it into hisbrain,eachdetail:thesunlightspill of her unraveling braid;the gentle curves of her bentlegs; the heavy sway of herbreasts; the shadow betweenher thighs, calling to him,calling...Shestartedtositup.Heput

one knee on the mattress,holding her down by theshoulder. “Let me look,” he

said.“Lookwhileyouundress,”

shesaidsoftly.Afaintsoundescapedhim.

Maybe the beginning of alaugh, for he meant toencourage such brazenness.But the sound broke apart asshe reached for his shirt,fumblingwiththefirstbutton.“No.” He had no patience

for this, either. He stood,quickly shedding his ownlayers. Dropping them

without regard, so he couldjoinheronthatbed.She opened her arms for

him. He wanted to go slow.Some distant corner of hismind, canny and conspiring,urged him to take care. Totakeher so thoroughly, leavehersolimpandsatisfied,thatshe would never againquestion that she belongedbeneath him,with nothing tokeepthemapart.Butforonceinhislife,his

discipline failed him. Whenherhands—cool,small,rough—touched his bare chest,somethingsnapped.He fell on her mouth.

Drankher inashe sweptherbodywith long, firmstrokes.Greedy, he felt greedy;panicked in the old way, thedesperation of a boy whodidn’t know when the nextfeastwouldcome.Ifitwouldevercomeagain.He’dgrownup with want, need, as his

main companion. He felt itnow, deep in his gut, as hebroke from her mouth tosuckle her breast. Take allyou can, now. For you mayneverhavethisagain.She seemed to catch his

mood. She reached down hisbody, her palm sliding overhischest,hisbelly.Hecaughther hand before she couldfindhiscock;hehadnofaithin his restraint; he refused tospillhimselfbeforehe’dbeen

inside her. He placed herhandbesideherhead,holdingit firmly there, and then felther teeth: she had turned herhead, caught hold of histhumb. He groaned as shesucked his finger into hermouth; their eyes met, hersheavy lidded, frank andunashamed.He stared at her, riveted.

Here,this,herfacenow—thatlook would be his aim, Godwilling, every night

henceforth.Untilfiveyearsisup.He pushed the thought

away too late; it made himsnarl.Hepulledhishandfree,strokinghernippleashe sliddownherbody.Tookholdofher thighs and pushed themopen.Blondcurls,soft to thetouch; he brushed them withhis hand and felt her hipsshudder.He lowered his head,

kissing the plumpness of her

inner thigh. She smelled likethe ocean; she whimperedonceashesplayedherwider,ignoring the token resistanceofherthighs.Here, the other beating

heart of her. He laid histongue against her, and feltherjerk.Slidhishandsupherbelly, the gently roundedsatin-soft flesh, thismiraculouswork ofGod thatwas her womanly flesh, andwith a choked noise, she

subsided, her thighs relaxingforhim.It was a gift. He felt, for

the briefest moment,overwhelmed by it—the feelofher, the smell, the tasteoftheheartofher,thesurrender,laying herself open for him,vulnerableandtrusting.And then he licked into

her,and thesoundshemade,the way her thighs clutchedaroundhim,madehimgroandeepinhisthroat.Hetongued

heragainandagain, listeninghard, waiting for the strokethatmadeherbodyjerkmostsharply—there,thatwaswhatshewanted.Hegave it toher, ignoring

theclutchofherhands inhishair, the broken murmur shemade. It wasn’t too much.He’dseetothat.He’dseeherthroughit,andwhenshewasbroken, when she could notshudder again, he would fithimselfintohersoftness,hard

as a bloody rock he wouldsink himself into her sodeeply that she’d cry outanew—Shegaspedandkeened,her

hips shuddering beneath his.He felt through her folds,pushed a finger inside her ashe blew on her, a violentsatisfaction at the feel of hercontractions. He could giveher that.Hewould give it toheragain.He rose over her, aching

and swollen, sucking in hisbreathastheheadofhiscockbrushed her slippery quim.She was flushed, frantic, asshe scattered kisses over hisface.“Please,”shewhispered.He pressed into her, filled

hertothehilt.Shepushedhertongue into his mouth,grippedhimagainstherashebegan to move. It wasancient. It felt ancient, withher. It felt like somethingbegun in a dream, long ago,

andresumednowbytheforceof inevitable fate, that heshouldstrainnowagainst thefierceness of his own need,that he should kiss herdeeply,andstrokehercheek,andfocusontheshapeofherear beneath his hand, thetender flex of her lobebeneath his thumb, as hefought against his ownclimax. He rotated his hips,and she gasped. She liked it.He did it again, and she

clutched onto his shoulders,nailsdigginghard.Alaughghostedfromhim,

hoarse soundless triumphantdelight. He reached betweenthem, finding her spot as hetwistedhishipsagain.“Oh—” She gaped up at

him, thenher lashes flutteredshut as she arched to meethim.“Oh...Ithink...”Not yet. He slammed his

palm into the headboard,sharp carved edge digging

intohisskin,focusingonthat,on giving her what sheneeded, strokingher steadily,deeply. God but she was themost beautiful sight on thisearth as she writhed beneathhim,strugglingtofindit—“Ah . . .”Thebreathburst

from her as he felt herclutching,deepinside,aroundhim.Andassimplyasthat—hewasdonefor.Ripping free of her then

was the hardest, the sweetest

bloody punishment he’d evertaken. With one hard strokeof his hand, he broughthimself to completion. Thenheturnedbacktokissher.Her lips felt lazy on his.

Her hand brushed over hisface, her thumb stroking hischeekbone.Foralongminutethey lay together. And then,witharuefulsmile,herosetofindhisdiscardedshirt.Whenhe’dcleanedhimself

off, he turned back to her—

and saw the remoteness thathadgatheredinherfacelikeashadowasshewatchedhim.He took a hard breath,

preparing himself for whatcame next—her withdrawal.Aresumptionofthequarrel.But when she spoke, she

sounded thoughtful. “I knowhowyoumustdoit.”He didn’t follow. “Do

what?”“How to get those lands

fromPilcher.”Shesatup,her

hair a shimmering fall downherback.“Mybrothermeansto argue that your bid cametoo late.Youmust go beforethe board, insist that thetender period was notadequately advertised. Thatthe board should put the lotsto public auction, in order toensure the process is fair.Make an argument about thepolitics of it. How the boardwill made to appear in thepress, if they deny you the

chancetobid.”Hesatdownontheedgeof

the bed, a bit rattled by howquicklyshehadmovedon tobusiness. “That gives him achancetooutbidme,”hesaidslowly.“Hemaytry,butwewon’t

allow it.” She swallowed,thenreachedoutand laidherhandoverhis.Suchasmallthing,suchan

ordinarysight,toseemso...important. When he looked

up, he caught her own gazeliftingfromthesamespot.“Ifyou truly want those lands,”she said, “we’ll run a ring.We’ll ensure nobody canoutbidyou.”Heturnedhishandinhers,

threading their fingerstogether. “A ring.” But therewas a more surprising wordyet,inthatsentenceshe’djustspoken.“We.”“Yes,”shesaidsoftly.“I’ll

showyouhow. I’ll help.But

first, you must persuade theboardtoholdtheauction.”Hesmiled.Butshedidnot

smile back. Her expressionlookedvery sobernow.Verypale.Ah. It might have been a

victory, thisofferof aid.Buthesensedsuddenlythatitwasthe opposite. A woman sofierce—unique in all hisexperience—in hercommitment to honorablebusiness,wouldnotmakethis

offerlightly.But she would do it for

him.Hergift, tomakeupforeverythingshefeltshelackedtheabilitytogive.Heconsideredher.Lovely,

proud, stubborn, infuriatinglydeluded woman. He was toomuchthebusinessmantoturndown the opportunity sheoffered. But he was also acrook.Heknewhow to stealwhat wasn’t on offer. Hewouldn’t lose those lands.

But between those lots andher, he knew the betterinvestment. The one morelikely to yield a lifetime ofriches.“All right,” he said.

“Whateverittakes,Imeantodoit.”She gave him a relieved

smile.Hesmiledbackather,noeffortrequired.Her naïveté was his best

advantage.You’re one of myown, he’d told her. And he

didn’tletgoofwhatwashis.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

Nick squinted at the page.“Inclosing,then,Itendermy

petition—” He broke off,irritated as somebody in thefar corner, oldBurkemaybe,yowled for another pint. “Ican’tdo thishere.Toomanydistractions.”Catherine sat in front of

him, her own pint of aleuntouched, looking serenelyoblivious to the squawking,boozy men at the tablesaround her. “Neddie’s is theperfect setting in which topractice. If you can remain

unshaken by all the noisehere,youcancertainly—”“That boardroomwon’t be

fullofmenthreesheetstothewind,willit?”“Of course not. Instead

your audiencewill be full ofquarrelsomeswellswhothinkyou’rewastingtheirtime.”Hesmiled.“Swells,isit?”“That is thewordyouuse,

I believe.” He saw her catchherselfsmilingathim;shesatstraighter and fixed a serious

look on her face, every inchthe schoolmistress now.“Perhapsweshould takeyoutoSpeakers’Corner.Nothinglike the threatofashowerofrotten fruit to focus one’smind.”“Godforbid.”Hesatdown,

sheepishly aware of thedisappointed hoots that wentup.“Was just getting good!”

calledNateHooley.“Couldn’t understand the

half of it, but sounded veryfancy,” Nate’s cousin KipHooleyagreed.“Bugger yourself,” Nick

muttered as the arses toastedeachotherandcackled.“Mr. O’Shea,” his wife

said coolly. “Such language—”“One day you’ll call me

Nick.”“Oneday Imight call you

Beelzebub. What of it? TheMunicipal Board of Works

does not allow ladies into itsmeetings. Take heart, then: Iwon’tbetheretoharassyou.”“Or to prompt me,” he

muttered.He lookedover thespeech,threepageswritteninher finely flowing script. Itmight as well have beengibberish, though her handwas clear. “I’ll need tomemorizethis.”“You don’t have time for

that.”She didn’t understand. He

took a breath to school hisfrustration,butthewordsstillcameoutsharp:“Don’tgotachoice,do I? If Idon’tmeantomakeanassofmyself—”Her hand closed on his,

startling him. When helooked up into her face, herealized thatshe’dseenmorethan he intended to show.Sympathy softened herfeatures.“The marriage contract,”

she said. “Twenty-eight

pages.Youseemedtoknowitwellenough.”“Aye.” His pulse was

drumming, a sick feeling inhis stomach. Curious. Hewasn’t ashamed of anything.Hadvowedasaboy tocarryhisheadhigh,anduntilnow,he’d always succeeded. “Idon’t sign a contractwithoutknowingwhat’sinit.”“Someonereadittoyou?”No judgment in her voice.

Only thatsteady,unwavering

pressure of her grip aroundhishand.He loosed a breath. The

admission came out easierthanhe’dfeared.“HadCallanreadmost of it. Otherwise itwouldhavetakenmedays.”Shenodded.“Thenreading

this speech will not work,”shesaidbrusquely.“Wemustfind another way.” Shewithdrew her hand, but itdidn’tfeellikearejection;heknewherwellenoughnowto

understand that frown on herface betokened the spinningofwheelsinherbrain.She turned her frown on

the various oglers aroundthem. “Have you nothingbetter to do?” she said in araised voice. “Talk amongyourselves.” And then, as ahubbub of chatter hastilybroke out, she glanced backtohim,her frowndeepening.“Whatareyoulaughingat?”“You,” he said. “Queen o’

Neddie’s. Tell ’em to dofftheirhatsandtaketheirbootsoff thebenches,whileyou’reat it. Neddie’ll thank you;he’sbeentryingforyears.”She folded her lips

together, her typical trick forhiding a smile. But her eyesgave her away, turning intohalf-moonsover thecrestsofher rosy cheeks. She hadmorelaughterinherthansheknew how to manage. Thereal sin was that she’d been

taught to trammel it. Andwasn’t it a wonder, hethought, that they could sitacross the table from oneanother, easy and friendly asyou please, as though hehadn’t had her naked andmoaningbeneathhimjustthismorning,with plans to do soagaintonight?For she wasn’t a coward.

Once she admitted herdesires, she didn’t disownthem—not even when he’d

shown up with the breakfasttrayandfoundheronlyinhershift.She’d dropped her robe as

she’d stood to receive him.“As long as we’re clear,”she’d saidunsteadily, “that itdoesn’t mean . . . anythingmore.”Tonightseemedawfullyfar

away. Why wait? He foldedthespeechandslippedit intohis jacket. “Let’s go back toDiamonds,” he said. “Clear

our...heads.”Her eyes narrowed; she

avertedher facea fractionofaninch,thebettertogivehimone of those skeptical,sidelong glances. But therising color on her faceshowed that she’d followedhis thoughts well enough.“Not just yet. You don’trequireanypracticeatthat.”He grinned, delighted.

“Nice to have it confirmed,”he said. “But if you don’t

mean to drink, or to takethese hooligans to task, then—”“That’s it!” She slapped

the table. “Why, we’ve goneabout this allwrong. I’mnotthe one whom thesehooligans will listen to. Butyou’ve ages of experience inbringing themtoheel.Forgeta scripted speech; you don’tneed one. You shall flyimpromptu, relying on thepowersofyouroratory.”

“Thepowersof...No,”hesaid flatly. “I need a script.I’m not going into thatmeetingwithnothing.”“Butyouwon’t,” she said.

“Yourwit,thetalentsofyourbrain, are all you require.You’ve a magnificent waywithwords,Mr.O’Shea.Youwillsimplyspeaktotheboardas though they’re the menhereatNeddie’s,inneedofalesson in fairness anddecency.”

He snorted. “Look aroundyou. You think I’ve everlectured these lads ondecency?”Asshetookasurveyofthe

shabby, noisome groupsaround them, her smilebriefly faltered. But itbrightened again as she methis eyes, and God save him,he wasn’t cold enough toresist it, all that confidenceand glee directed solely athim.“You’llproveitforme,”

she said. “Stand, anddiscoursetothemontheneedtodoff theirhatsandremovetheirbootsfromthetable.”“Iwillnot.”“Do it!” She rose, coming

tohissideof the table to tugonhisarm,soafterasecond,he was forced to get to hisfeet,lestthecrowdgetafineshowforfree.But once standing, he

realized that the crowd hadalready punched its tickets

anyway. For the noisedimmed immediately, andevery eye in the place fixedonhim.“Goahead,”sheurgedhim

quietly.“You’vethegiftof—of blarney, sir. Use it! Oryour Irish forebears will nodoubt disown you from theirgraves.”He cut her a wry look.

“Andyou’ve theEnglishgiftforscheming.”With a serene smile, she

retook her seat—leaving himalone, beneath the press of ahundredexpectanteyes.He took a deep breath,

feeling foolish. What did itmatter if Neddie’s benchesgot a heel-scuffing? But shewas watching himexpectantly now, her pointedlittle chin cupped in onehand, her eyes bright andwide.Very well. He’d ordered

men to far more dangerous

pursuitsthanthis.“Lads,” he began—then

paused at her slight frown.“Gentlemen,” he amended,andachorusofhootswentupfromthefarcorner.“Gen’lman,arewe?Y’hear

that,boys?”Hepaused,scowling.“Don’t permit that,”

Catherine whispered.“Pilcher’s men will try tomockyou,too.”He fixed his glare on the

Hooleys,whoknewonwhichsidetheirbreadwasbuttered.Theyquietedabruptly.Aye, he’d given speeches

before, and they’d concerneduglier things by far. He’dpersuaded men to risk theirthroats for him, fighting byhis side against theMcGowans after that crewhad slain Lily’s dad. Andhe’dput the fearofGod intomenwith flapping lips—menwhowouldgototheirgraves

now without breathing asingle word of what he’daskedofthem.Besidethat,bootsandland

parcelsweresmallfry.“Gentlemen,” he said, “it

hascometomyattentionthatwe live in grim times. Thisfine, fair city, which you’llknow from the newspapershasgotmorewealththananyother place in the world—which you’ll have seen,withyour own two eyes, has got

moreswells,moretoffs,morenobs living in high-flyingstyle than any kingdom fromthebooksofhistory—inthesesame streets, where nabobsandsilversuitsrentaninchofspace to your loved ones forhalf theirweeklypay,peopleare dying for want. They’redying for want of bread.They’re dying for want ofspace and air. Dying for adrop of milk to give to aninfant who cries for his

mother’s breast, when sheperishedfivedaysagoonthefactoryfloor.”Silence now. From the

corner of his eye, he couldsee Catherine’s pallor. Aye,he’d takeherona fewtwistsbefore he got to thestraightaway.“You step outside this

pub,” he said, “you walksouth toward Clerkenwell.You walk farther, tillSouthwark. Or you walk

west, to St. Giles. And whatdo you see? Darkness,gen’lmen. Beggars dead inthe lane. Rubbish andfoulness and water toobrackish to drink—but theydrinkit,don’tthey?”“Poor souls,” someone

muttered,toamutedroundofagreement.“They drink it ’cause

they’ve got no choice,”Nicksaid fiercely. “’Cause thewater pipes don’t work. A

dyingman,dyingofthirst,helifts that pump and whatcomes out but flakes of rust.WhileinMayfair,they’retoogood for water. It’s allchampagneand fancyFrenchwines, and thewater collectsin their bathtubs larger thansixmenaround.”Catherine shifted uneasily.

He caught a whisper fromher:“Don’tstartarevolution,please.”He bit his cheek and

pressed onward. “Aye, lads,there’s darkness all around.Misery and suffering.Grievous injustice, childrenborn only to pass in theircradles. Thirst and hunger,endless want. Dying likeanimals—liketheanimalsthetoffs call us, as they walkdowngold-pavedlanes.”Scowls, angry grumbles.

George Flaherty wiped hiseyes.“But not here,” Nick said.

“Not here in Whitechapel.Nothere.”“Not here,” someone

called.Nick liftedhis voice. “Not

hereinWhitechapel!”“Not bloody here,” came

anothervoice.“Here in Whitechapel,”

Nick thundered, “we lookafterourown!”Somebody slammed a

table. Stamping of boots, athunderouswaveofapplause.

Nickpausedtoletitdrawout.In such aworld as this,menlooked for reasons tocelebrate.When the applause began

to fade, Nick continued.“Here,”hesaidinaspeakingvoice, “here the streets areswept clean. Here, when thewaterstopsrunning,weraiseour shouts, and neighborscome running with a pitcherto spare! Here, when ourchildrenclutchtheirstomachs

and call for bread, we tellthem,‘Gettoschool,andfindout how many rolls you caneat!’Here,whenwomen fallin the street, men stop tohelp.”“PraiseGod.”“Damnedright.”“And here,” he said, his

voicefallingtoahush,“whenwe come to Neddie’s after ahard day of work, we knowwe’ve earned the right to sitback, to let the sweat of

honest labor cool, to lift ourpintsandlookourfellowmenin the eye—for we ain’tanimals, nomatterwhat theysay!”“Fuckthem!”“Fuckthelotofthem!”“Andasweain’tanimals,”

Nick shouted, “as we knowwhat decency is, as weunderstand it far better thanany of them ever will, so Iask you, lads—why thebloody hell are you all still

wearingyourhats?”In the sudden silence, he

could hear Catherine’s slow,shakingbreath.“No, you heardme right,”

he said to George Flaherty,who was scratching his earand lookingpuzzled. “We’vegotapreciousplaceofpeaceand decency here, lads. Sotake your goddamned bootsoff the benches and put yourhatsaside.Doit!”Across the room, hands

slowly lifted to heads. Bootshesitantly lifted frombenches, hitting thefloorboardswithdullthuds.“’Causewedidn’tcomeby

this decency by accident,”Nicksaid.“Andyoudon’tgetrespectforfree.Soprizewhatyou’vegothere, lads.Nodtoyour neighbor, and hold hiseye like the proud man youare. Don’t show him lessrespect than you’d show abloody toff.When you come

into Neddie’s to drink withyour neighbors—sit straight,andtakeoffyourgoddamnedhats.”That did it. All the hats

came flying off now. Nickcast another narrow lookaroundtheroom,noddedtoafew men here and there,beforeretakinghisseat.“Well,” said his wife,

looking very pale indeed.“Thatwas...abittoomuchfoullanguage,but...”

Maybe he’d have made afine schoolboy after all. Hisbloody heart was in hisgoddamned throat as hewaited for the conclusion ofherjudgment.“All the same, itwas very

effective.”Shesmiledathim,and his spirit burst loose,soared straight up into therafters. “I almost pity theBoardofWorks.”

***

Catherine snorted as sheglanced down the page. “‘Straw colored’? Why notcall it hay colored? Indeed,why not praise the chest’salfalfa-likesheen?”Silence from the group

ranged before her. Catherinesighed. The sun had beenpouring through the officewindows when she hadarrived to review the catalogfor O’Shea’s treasures. Butthescarletlightofsunsetnow

spilled through the longwindow that overlooked thestreet, and her copywriters—two of them so young as tobarely sport whiskers—slumped inavarietyofglumpostures behind their desks,their pens abandoned, theirink-stained hands tuckedsheepishlyintotheirpockets.“Gentlemen,” she said

more gently as she laid thedraft onto a nearby desk. “Idon’t require poetry. But if

youwerelookingtoacquireachestofdrawers,wouldthesedescriptions light a fire inyour pockets? There is noneed to abuse yourthesauruses. ‘Golden’ and‘amber’ will serve nicely,even if they appear twice onthesamepage.”A rustle ofmovement: the

men’s shoulders abruptlystraightened; chins lifted andspines stiffened. For amoment, Catherine fancied

that she had inspired them.Then the sound of a clearedthroat drew her attentiontowardthedoor.The redheaded hostess—

MissAmes—blushed prettilyatfindingherselfthecenterofsomuchmasculine attention.“MissEverleigh,”shesaid ina soft, apologetic voice.“Your brother requires awordwithyou.”Catherine took a careful

breath. O’Shea had intended

tointerrupttheboardmeetingthisafternoon.NodoubtPeterhad come straight fromBerkeley House—fuming,she hoped, over the results.But he might as easily havecometogloat.“Verywell,” she said, and

reached for her wrap.“Gentlemen, I will returntomorrow. I hope to see allagricultural similes strippedfromthistext.”She stepped out into the

hallway, but Miss Amesstopped her from walkingonward.“You should know,” the

hostess said tentatively,before trailing off, her colordeepening.Nobody blushed as

violently as a redhead. ButCatherine had never seenMiss Ames lose hercomposure quite so vividly.Shefrowned.“Whatisit?Goon.”

Miss Ames ducked herhead. “Miss, I know youdon’t appreciate us tospeculate on what doesn’tconcern us. But . . .” Shelooked up, hooking a curlaway from her elfin face.“Lilah,sheaskedmetowatchafteryouwhileshewasgone—”“Did she?” Catherine’s

first instinct was to bridle.Before her promotion toassistant,Lilahhadworkedas

ahostess—apositionthathadleft Catherine very skeptical,at first, of her capacity tomake herself useful in anymeaningfulregard.But Lilah had proved her

wholly wrong. Mindfulsuddenlyoftheprejudicethathad blinded her for so long,Catherinesoftenedhertone.“Speak frankly, Miss

Ames.Whattroublesyou?”“Yourbrotherisn’twaiting

in his office alone,” Miss

Ames said in a low, rapidvoice.“Andthetwomenwithhim—they don’t look likeclientstome.”Catherinestudiedher fora

moment. Among thehostesses, Lavender Amesstood out for her elegantcomposure.Granted,shetookevery opportunity to acceptmoney from advertisers; herfacewasplasteredacrossanynumber of cheapadvertisements for soap and

whatnot.Butinherdemeanorwiththeclients,shedisplayeda tasteful reserve that quitecontrasted with the othergirls’ silly flirtations andchatter. Catherine suspectedshecamefromadifferentsortof background than the othergirls; that her position hererepresenteda fall, rather thana rise. Moreover, she wassharp, often making savvysuggestions about where acollector’s interests might be

steered—andwhetherornotaclient’s claims aboutprovenancemightbetrusted.“Miss Ames,” she said,

“tellmeplainly.Whatisyourconcern?”“It . . . perhaps I should

accompany you into theoffice,miss.”AlarmgoadedCatherineto

a quick calculation. Shewalked to the broad windowandglancedoutatthestreet.Severalcoachesloiteredon

the curb. One stood out:unmarked, peculiarly boxy.Windowless.“That’s the one they came

in,” Miss Ames said,touching her finger to theglass to indicate thewindowlessvehicle.Catherine took a deep

breath. This panic wasbaseless,ofcourse.ButMissAmeshadnevercarried suchconcerns to her before. Shefrowned down at the coach.

There were three exits fromthis building. It gratedunbearablytoslipawaylikeathief from her own buildingon some half-formulatedsuspicion,butperhaps...MissAmescaughtherarm,

gripping very tightly. “Don’tturn around,” she whispered.“But they’ve just come intothe hall. They’re walkingtowardus.”Catherine laid her hand

over the woman’s. “Listen,”

she said very quietly. “Ifsomething seems odd to you—send word to Mr. O’Sheaat theHouseofDiamonds inWhitechapel.”MissAmesknewthename.

She gave Catherine a slack-jawed, marveling look. Butshenoddedonce,toshowsheunderstood.Catherine wheeled. Her

brother was indeed comingdownthehall,flankedbytwomen of such burly

proportions that they madePeterappearachild.She understood, in one

glance,MissAmes’sconcern.The men wore sober graysuits of identical cuts andfabric. They had bowler hatstuckedbeneaththeirarms.They came to a stop. The

stairwell, and her path to theexits,laybeyondthem.“Catherine,” her brother

called.“Thereyouare.Come,speak with me a moment. I

have a most interestingpropositionforyou.”Catherine squared her

shoulders and walkedforward. “I am busy,” shesaid, acutely aware of MissAmes behind her, steppinginto the office to removeherselffromthemen’snotice.“The catalog for theDecemberauction—”“It’s urgent,” Peter said.

He came forward, smilingblandly, but the grip he took

on her armwas firm enoughto give her cause to pullaway.Hedidnotlether.Hisgrip

tightened. “Come to myoffice,” he said. “We’llwalktogether.”She gave a sharp yank.

“Letgoofme.”“It’s urgent,” he said

mildly. “These gentlemen,yousee—”She did see. She saw the

impersonal way they

compassed Peter’s grip onher, and the lack of surprise,the absence of discomfort,whichanyclientwouldsurelyevince, at the sight of theproprietors wrestling eachotherinthehall.That was all she needed.

She threw her weight intoPeter,causinghimtostumbleand let go. She whirled forthe copywriters’ office,desperate to reach the safetyofonlookers—

Andanewgripcaughther,abrutalarmaroundherwaist,while a hand shoved a ragagainst her nose, a sicklysweet odor invading hernostrils.Shechokedinabreath,and

the world began to soften attheedges,dimming...Her last glimpse was the

wideeyesofLavenderAmesas the girl peered out inhorrorather.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

Her tongue felt like cotton.Parched.Swallowinghurt.

Dimsoundsnatteredat theedge of her awareness. Shelayindarkness,spinning,oddvisions flashing through herbrain. The jolting noise of acarriage on unpaved road.Some liquid, sharp andnoxious, forced down herthroat,chokingher.Fear. Why had she been

afraid? What had the dreamconcerned? She couldn’trecall.Gradually, the murmuring

sounds clarified into voices.That was her brother,speaking: “The delusionsworsened recently. Sheaccusedmeoftryingtobreakintoherbedroom.Isaybreak,for she had three dead boltsinstalled, quite without myknowledge.”“Paranoia,” a stranger said

inconcernedtones.“I suppose so, yes. She

claimedthatIwasconspiringwith one of my business

partners—I’m not sure whatreasonsheinventedforit.Butshe felt convinced that Iwould force her to marryhim.”It came to her that she

should be alarmed. That thiswas no dream; that she waslying, trapped in her body,unable to open her eyes.Herlimbs did not respond. Shecould feel them like deadweights,pinningherdown.“A common brand of

fantasy,”saidtheothervoice.“Particularly in unmarriedwomenofanadvancedage.”“Perhaps. But it makes no

sense.WereIsuchavillain,Iwould never wish her tomarry!Shehasnorightsoverthecompany,yousee,aslongassheremainsaspinster.”“Delusions of this kind

rarely make sense. Hysteriahas its own logics,whichwecanonlybegintoglimpse.”Memorysharpened,slicing

cleanlyoutofthemurkofherbrain:Peterstridingdownthehall.Ruffiansflankinghim.Acloth at her face, somedrug...Her heart began to

hammer. She managed toopen her eyes a crack—wasblinded by light before theyfellshutagain.“Ididnotwant towrite to

you,” Peter said quietly. “Ithought I could manage heronmyown.Butthenshefled

thehouse.I’venoideawhereshe’sliving,now.Sherefusesto tellme. I’mconcerned forhersafety.Sheisadanger toherself.”“Your concern does you

justice, sir. Now, youmentioned in your letter thatherhealthhasbeenfailing?”“Yes, that was the most

recent development. Thesefainting fits comeonwithoutwarning.Why,shepassedoutinpublic,recently—atoneof

ourauctions,no less.Quiteascene,asyoucanimagine.”“I’mnotsurpriseditshould

have happened in theworkplace. The femininetemperament is not suited tosuchexertions.”“So I told her. But it

seemedabreakingpoint.Shehasgonebeyondreasonnow.Imagine this: she hasinvented a husband forherself.”“A husband? Not your

businessassociate,Itakeit?”She wrenched open her

eyes. The ceiling above herwasplasteredsmooth,paintedasunnyyellow.Oh, God. This was not

Everleigh’s.Thiswasnot thehouse in Henton Court,either.Thatcarriageridehadbeen

nodream.Wherewasshe?“No,no,”Peterwassaying.

“Far wilder than that. Somecommon criminal, whose

namesheglimpsedonce inanewspaper, no doubt. SomeEast End thug. She swearsshe is married to him. Canyoucreditit?”The other man chuckled.

“Veryinventive.”“Of course, if I thought

marriage would cure her, Iwouldgladly try toarrangeasuitable match, but in hercurrentstate...”“Oh no, Mr. Everleigh.

From everything you’ve told

me,shehasgonewellbeyondsuch simple cures. For thatmatter,Idoubtanymagistratewould recognize the legalityof such a union. A womanmust be of sound mind, youknow, to properly consent towed.”Horror burned away the

vestigialparalysisofthedrug.She managed to bend herfingers.Toturnherhead.Shelayonacotinasmall,

bare-walled room. A single

stool. A sturdy writing desk.A window that showed adarkening sky, stars alreadyemerging.Those stars shone too

clearly tooverlook thebrightcityofLondon.She tried to push to her

feet.Fellbackheavily,withagasp she swallowed lest themen overhear. Theymust bestandingjustoutsidethedoor,which was ajar. “I hadwondered as much,” Peter

wassaying.“So—ifshewereto be married, the unionwould not stand? Due toher...mentalinstability?”Everythingbecameclearto

her in one single, ice-coldmoment.He had brought hertoanasylum.Hehadfoundaway,afterall, tooverturnhermarriage.“In her current state,

certainlynot.”Thatmanmustbe a doctor. “Based onwhatyou’ve told me, I can’t

imagine any officer of thecourt would judge hercomposmentis.Anymarriagecontracted in such a state isdeemed invalid, and rightlyso.” He chuckled again.“Even an imaginary speciesofit.”“Well,thankGodforthat,”

Peter said with a greatwarmththat triggeredafloodof hatred through her, hatredso black that it gave her thestrength,atlast,topushtoher

feet.She lurched toward the

door,catchingherbalanceonthe doorjamb. “He’s lying,”she said hoarsely. The twomen turned towardher,Peterwith his hands hookedcasually in his pockets, hissmilesharpeningashecaughtsight of her. But it was theother man to whom shespoke, placing faith in hisprofessional, kindly face,with its well-groomed

mustache and wire-rimmedspectacles. “Don’t believehim,”shesaid.“Hehaseverycause to wish to invalidatemy marriage. He ismanipulating you. I amperfectly”—she paused forbreath, clutched thedoorframe against a wave ofdizziness—“perfectly sane,andhe—”Tsking, Peter stepped

forward to brace her by thewaist. “Again with that

nonsense?” he said gently.She jerked her face away ashe stroked her hair behindherear;theviolentmovementunbalanced her, caused herstomachtolurchwithnausea,and she sagged into Peter’sarms.“You see,” she heard him

say over her head, “she isquiteinvestedinthisstory.”“I do see.” The doctor

gazed at her sympathetically.“Wouldyoulikeanotherrest,

Miss Everleigh? A soundnight of sleep, before yourtreatmentbeginstomorrow?”She swallowed bile,

clawing at Peter’s loathsomegrip. “He is lying to you! Idon’t require treatment!Sendto my husband—he’ll bringthe register book to prove it!By law, my brother has noright—”“Yes,”Petercutin,hisgrip

tightening around her ribcage, causing her to wheeze.

“Byallmeans,Mr.Denbury,send to the gambling palacewhere she imagines herhusbandtolive.”“A gambling palace!” Mr.

Denburystaredathernowasthough she had sproutedanotherhead.In that moment, she

realized thatnothingshesaidwould persuade him. He didnot see her as a reasoningperson. He saw her as awoman—a feebleminded,

wayward girl in the grip offeminine madness. Whatevershe said now, it would onlyfortifythatopinion.Nevertheless, she had to

try. “Please,” shegasped, “atleast make sure of the facts!Sir, I beg you, as a man ofscience—”Peter hauled her back

inside the room. She shovedhim away—but not hardenoughtoaccountforhowhestumbled backward and

crashedintothedesk.“She’llgrowviolentnow,”

hesaidurgently,edgingawayfromhertowardthedoor.She lunged—too late. The

door slammed and bolted.“Peter!” She would not beg.Buthervoicedidbreakasshesaid, “For our father’s sake,please—”“Letusmoveaway,”Peter

said loudly. “It pains me tohearherinthissadstate.”“I’ll see to it that she is

calmed,” came Mr.Denbury’s reply. “In themeantime, take heart: we’vehad excellent results withelectrotherapy. Why, by thistime next month, she mightseem like a new woman toyou.”She trapped her sob with

one hand, straining to hearPeter’sfadingvoice:“No need to rush through

the treatment,” he toldDenbury. “Money is no

object. For my sister, I amwillingtotakeall thetimeintheworld.”

***“Canyouhearme?”Catherine stirred, hastily

wiping tears from her face.That was not the coarse slurof the male nurse who hadassaulted her earlier, but thelilting, well-modulated voiceof a lady, speaking throughthe bolted door. “Yes.

Heavens, yes.” Sheclamberedtoherfeet,battlingwith rash desperation, andlost. “Oh, please—can youhelpme?”“Itdepends.”The breath exploded from

her.“Onwhat?”“Onemoment.”Something

scratched across the door.The knob rattled. It came toCatherine,asshewaited, thatshehadnoideawhostoodonthe other side. This was a

madhouse,afterall.She took a step backward

as the door swungopen.Hervisitor was a blond womanswathed in a white lacewrapperthatmadeherappearghostly. She had deep, large,shadowed eyes ofindeterminate color. Shehesitated in the doorway,looking Catherine over asthoughshe feltdoubtful, too.“You mustn’t try to get pastme,” she said. “If I scream,

they’ll be on you in amoment.”Catherineslowlynodded.“I heard you crying out

before,”thewomansaid.In the sane, civilized

world, Catherinewould havebeen mortified by this news.But tonight, she had beenstrapped toabedand forced,by a giant brutewith clumsyhands, to drink a poison thathad paralyzed her body butnotherbrain.

She had feared she wouldsuffocate. When she hadfinally regained theability totwitch her fingers, it had notseemed so important tomufflehersobs.The woman seemed to

compass all of this in onesympathetic glance. “Theygave you a treatment, didthey?” When Catherinenodded, she sighed andsteppedinside,softlyshuttingthe door. “Ever since

Denbury took over fromMr.Collins, he has grown morebrutal than Iwouldwish.Hewasasoldier,youknow—nota medic. His notions ofhealingare...unpleasant.”“Not for you, apparently.”

For the woman carried withherthescentsoforangewaterand roses, and an air,moreover,ofperfectserenity.Her pale hair was neatlydressed, threaded throughwithwhitesilkribbons.

“He would never crossme,” the woman said. “Heknowsbetter.”In the opening silence,

Catherine weighed herstrategies. Was this womanallowed to wander freely, ordid she have a way withlocks, as Lilah did?Moreover,didsheknowhowtoslipoutofthisplace?As though sensing these

thoughts, the woman shiftedsquarely in frontof thedoor.

“All the main doors arelocked,” she said, notunkindly.“AndIdonothavethekeystothose.”Catherine swallowed and

opened her mouth—but didnot trust her voice. After amoment, sheputahandoverher eyes.Don’t cry again. Itwon’thelp.“My name is Stella,” the

womanwent on. “And yoursis Catherine, I believe? Iheard the nurses speaking of

you, earlier. May I sit,Catherine?”On a deep breath,

Catherine lowered her handandnodded toward the stool.Thewomaneasedontoitwiththe grace of a dancer,perching there with animpeccably straight posture.“The key,” she toldCatherine,“istoremaincalm.Resistanceisseenasproofofillness. If you don’twish thetreatment, you must give

themnoreasontouseit.”Easiersaidthandone!“He

intendstouseanelectroshockdevice on me,” Catherineburstout.“AndIratherprefermybrainasitis!”“Do you? How lovely for

you.” The woman looked upather.“Won’tyousit,too?”Thatwasthelast thingshe

wishedtodo.WhenDenburyor his nurses came throughthatdooragain,shewishedtobe ready to meet them. The

room offered no weapons—the stool and even thechamber pot were locked inplace by bolts in the floor.But she had her nails. Andherteeth.Just like a proper

madwoman,infact.“None of the men will

come back tonight,” Stellasaid. “They like their sleeptoo much. A nurse mightcome, but she won’t abuseyou. Simply drink the

medicine,ifsheinsists.”That serene tone was

beginning to grate onCatherine’s nerves. Shegrudgingly sat on her cot.“Do you know where weare?”“The hospital is called

Kenhurst.”“Hospital!” Catherine felt

hermouthtwist.“Prison,youmean.”Stella sighed. “Well, once

itwasahospital.But Iagree

withyou;ithaschangedsinceMr.Collinsleft.”Catherinehadnointerestin

the golden days of yore.“Where are we?” From thegreat silenceoutside, and thecrystallineclarityofthestars,Catherine judged them to beinthecountryside.“Five miles from the

railwaystationatKedston.”Five miles. She could get

therebyfoot.“Even if you made it into

the entry hall, youwould gonofarther,”Stellasaidgently.How resigned she seemed

to the situation! “Whatbrought you here? Let meguess: some man took adislikingtoyou,too?”The woman smiled

slightly. “Rather, I took adisliking to him. The courtssentmehereforkillinghim.”Horror snapped through

Catherine’s chest. A strongwindrattledthewindows,and

she found herself grabbingfor the rough bedspread,drawing it over her lap asthough it might serve asarmor to protect her from amurderess.“I hate to see you afraid.”

Stella sounded ruefullyamused. “There’s no causefor it—not withme, at least.Myhusband,yousee,likedtouse his fists on me. And soone day when he lifted hishand,Ipushedhimdownthe

stairs.” She leaned forward,bringing her face into thewash of moonlight. “Theresultwasnotbymydesign.”She was younger than

Catherinehadfirstrealized—thirty at the most. Her eyeswere a bright, vibrant blue,herheavylidslendingthemasensual look, quite at oddswiththedelicatecupid’s-bowofhermouth.Herewasafacethat would cause men tostare. She was not pretty,

precisely, but she wascertainlystriking.She also looked familiar,

somehow. “Who are you?”Catherinewhispered.The woman frowned.

“Nevermind that.You don’twanttobehere,doyou?Thattroublesme.”“Who would want to be

here?”“Mostoftheresidents.But

as I’ve said, times havechanged.You’re not the first

womanbroughtinrecentlytobemistreated.”“I’m sane,” Catherine said

fiercely. “And Denburymeans to torture me. Toshockme,inthemorning.”Stellastudiedher.“Igather

it was not a magistrate whodispatchedyouhere.”“It was my brother. He

wantstostealmycompany.”“Oh dear.” The woman

pressedherpalms togetheratherlips.“Oneexpectsitfrom

a husband—but a brother?Howterriblydistressing.”This conversation was

beginning to feel ludicrous.Tositcommiseratingpolitelyaboutwhohadlandedtheminthe madhouse! “Listen,”Catherine said through herteeth.“Youseemtohavefullliberties here.” If only shehad asked Lilah to teach herhow to pick locks! Instead,she would make do withsecondhand hopes. “Can you

postaletterforme?Imustletsomeone know what mybrotherhasdone.”Stella shook her head. “I

could have done it, before.ButIfearDenburyisreadingmy letters now before hepoststhem.”Catherine swallowed hard.

“ThenIamdoomed.”Stella seemed to sense her

fight against tears. She cameoff her stool and settledbesideCatherineinafragrant

floral cloud. Catherinebreathed deeply of thecivilized scent as Stellaclosed one soft hand overhers. “Take heart,” Stellasaid.“Ihaveabrother,too—afarkinderone thatyours. I’llwritetohim,askhimtocomevisit. Denbury shan’t opposethat. James will be herewithinhoursof receivingmyletter.Andoncehe’shere,I’lltell him to carry a messagefor you. Whom would you

likehimtocontact?”Catherine opened her

mouth—then hesitated as thepiecesclickedtogether.Stellaand James. James, ViscountSanburne. Stella, LadyBoland. This was thenotorious murderess,daughter of the Earl ofMoreland, whose trial hadbeen in all the newspapersyearsago.Catherine stared at her,

unable to square it. Lady

Bolandhardlystruckherasaviciousmadwoman.“You must tell me now,”

said Stella with a softsqueeze. “I have seen whatelectrotherapy can do. It’spossibleyouwon’trememberthe name or addressafterward.”Fear passed like an icy

draft through her bones. Shehadneverknownsuch terror.God above, who would shebewithouthermind?Without

herlearning,herknowledge?“Nicholas,”shesaidasher

tears spilled over. The veryfeel of his name seared her;shehadnevergottenachancetospeakitaloudtohim.Andshe might never do so now.Heavens, how had she takenhis attentions for granted?And how had she imaginedthathistouchwashisgreatestallure?He listened toher;herespected her opinions; heconsulted with her as an

equal. He would never lookaskance on her for working;never imagine that labormight imbalance her mind.Hewas...amiracle,andshehad squandered him.“Nicholas O’Shea,” shemanaged. “Write to him atthe House of Diamonds,Whitechapel,London.”“I will ask James to carry

themessagehimself.”Stella’sgrip tightened. “Look at me,Catherine.” Her gaze was

steadyandresolute.“Youarestronger than you think.Youcanbearthis.”Footsteps sounded in the

hall, heavy from the weightof clogs. Stella rose,tightening the knot on herwrapper.“Iwilldomybest,”she whispered rapidly, “tokeep Denbury distracted,tomorrow.Theelectrotherapycannotbeundertakenwithouthis—”Thedoorflewopen.“Lady

Boland!” The nurse in herwhitesmocklookedshocked.“You can’t be mixing withthese likes. This one’sdangerous!”“Sheseemsverycomposed

tome,”Stellasaid.“Ibelieveyoumight skip hermedicinetonight.”“Mr. Denbury’s orders,

m’lady. I can’t cross him.Youknowhowhe’sgotten.”Stella cast her an

apologetic glance before

brushingpastthenurse.Catherine rose. “Lady

Boland is correct,” she toldthe woman. “I don’t require—”But the nurse’s deference

haddisappearedwithStella’sdeparture.“Yourchoice,”shesaidwithasourtwitchofhermouth.“Youtakeit,orIcallthe men to hold you downwhile I pour it into yourgullet.” She lifted her brows.“And it getshard tomeasure

thatway,mindyou.”Catherine’s glance fell to

the bottle in the woman’shand.Laudanum,perhaps.Orchloral. Toomuch could killaperson.She tried twice before

managing the words. “I willtakeit,”shesaidnumbly.“Noneedtocallanyone.”

***The gates had posed nochallenge. Spike-topped

wrought iron, they were forshow.Thedoors,too,yieldedafter a round of brute forcefromJohnson’scrowbar.But now that they were

inside, finding her would bethe trick. For this was noordinary madhouse, but agranite palace, three storieshigh, sixty rooms across.Nick had counted thewindows earlier as they hadtied up the horses andplanned their attack. As he

prowled down the dark hall,Johnson at his heels, the tickofanearbygrandfatherclockseemed to amplify hisurgency. The moon hadalready set. Three hours tilldawn—less than that, beforetheservantsstirred.Ithadtakentoolongtoget

here. Johnson had staggeredinto Diamonds with a nastygash on his head, and nomemory of how he’dacquired it. Amy, the

domestic Nick had beenbribing to keep an eye onEverleigh’s ever since Lilahhad gone to work there, hadmarried last month and wasno longer in his employ.Hisonly cluehadcome from thered-haired lass who’d burstinto Diamonds in a panic,babbling of brutes and akidnapping. “Kenhurst,”she’d said. “I heard themmention a place calledKenhurst.”

Hewasn’t a man given tonerves. At knifepoint andgunpoint, he’d never felt hisheart skip a beat.But as thatgirl had spoken, his visionhad grayed, a buzzing fillinghis ears as the world tiltedunderfoot.He’d reached out to the

wall to catch his balance.Sothisisterror,he’dthought.His fear didn’t matter.

Only her safety. That singlemoment ofweaknesswas all

he’d allowed himself beforelaunchingintoaction.Kenhurst. Nick had never

heard mention of such aplace. The name didn’tappear in any of the railwayschedules. Nobody atNeddie’s knew of it. And sohe’d convened a meeting inMalloy’s flat to plan akidnapping of his own.Ambush Everleigh andmakehimtalk,beforeNickensuredhe’dnevertalkagain.

Everleigh would beprepared for such an attack.Had he any interest insurvival, hewouldnot returnhome. He’d be far fromLondonrightnow,hidinglikearat.But the land auction was

slatedintwodays’time.AndNickhadseenenoughinthatboard meeting he’dinterrupted—had seenEverleigh pale as themembersvotedtoendorsethe

auction.Hadseenhimscurryover to Pilcher, whisperingfrantically before excusinghimself. He was a manbeholden. He dared not skipthat auction, for fear ofdispleasing his master.Pilcher would expect hissupport.Everleigh would return to

town, all right. And Nickwould be waiting, armed totheteeth.They had been planning

their respective roles whenPeggy Malloy had passedthroughthekitchen.Catchingwind of their conversation,she’d stopped dead.“Kenhurst, did you say?”Peggy had always been anavid one for tales ofmurder,particularly when a womanwas the villain. Kenhurst, ittranspired, was home to themostfamousmurderessofthedecade. “Locked her up inKenhurst,theydid.Madhouse

up Kedston way. Four hoursinthesaddle—nofarther.”Ithad taken three.Nobody

was stirring. The hallwayswere empty. Once, distantfootstepscalledthemtoahaltwhere two corridors crossed;Johnson drew his knife, andNicktightenedhisgriponhisgarrote.But the footsteps faded,

mountingthestairs.And so they continued

their prowl. Place tried to

lookfancy,withtapestriesonthe walls and a thick carpetunderfoot.Buteachdoorboreapadlockandan insetpanel,which could be unlatched tospy on the inmatewithin.Atoddmoments, curiousmoansfloated through the walls,causing Johnson to flinch,andNicktowalkfaster,teethgritted.Thefirstcorridorheldonly

men,slumberinginnightcapsontheircots.Butthenexthall

proved more promising.Women. Nick openedshuttersinrapidsuccession—then startled backward afterhe pulled one open todiscover a woman peeringbackathim.He wheeled toward

Johnson to warn him—but itprovedunnecessary.Thedoorbegantoopen.Damn it. He’d missed a

detail: this door had nopadlockon it.Thesequarters

didn’tbelongtoapatient.He caught Johnson’s eye,

laid a finger to his lips, andsteppedaside.Thewomanleanedoutinto

the hall. He hooked his armaround her throat, pulled herback against his body, andmuffled her gasp with hispalm.“Stayquiet,”he said, “and

youwon’tbehurt.”“All right.” Her voice,

muffledbyhishand,sounded

surprisingly steady. “I’ve nointerestintroublingyou.”HecaughtJohnson’swide-

eyed look. The woman’scomposure seemed odd,given the circumstances.Perhaps working here hadprepared her for this kind ofsurprise.Hedidn’ttrustherpromise,

though.Hekeptherlockedinhis grip as he said, “I’mlooking for someone.Catherine—” Catherine

O’Shea. That was her name,by all rights. He silentlycursed this bloody charadethey’dundertaken.“CatherineEverleigh.”“Oh.”Hefeltherrelax,and

realizedshe’dnotfeltascalmas she’d appeared after all.“AreyouNicholasO’Shea?”Heexchangedafrownwith

Johnson. If Peter Everleighwas trying to blot out thismarriage,hewasgoingaboutit the wrong way, bandying

Nick’s name about. “Doesn’tmatter,” he said flatly.“You’re going to show mewhere she is. Nod if youunderstand.”She nodded readily.

“Around the corner,” shesaid. “In the . . . receivingwing, they call it. It’s notquite as nice as the ladies’department,I’llwarnyou.”He nudged her forward,

intoashufflinghalfstepasheheld her tight against him.

But at the corner, shesuddenly balked, twisting inhis arms and dragging at hishand.“Stopit.Stopit!”Her sudden panic baffled

him. He tightened his grip,heedless now of whether ornothehurther.“Be—”“Iwon’tbemanhandled!”Fromthecornerofhiseye,

he saw Johnson raise hisknife, a silentoffer todo thedirty work. But after amoment, he shook his head.

Instinct,maybe,nudginghim.“Make a shout,” he said

into her ear, “and you’llregret it.”Slowlyhe releasedher.She took a long, shaking

breathbeforefacinghim.Talland pale, with hair a shadedarker than Catherine’s.Didn’tlooklikeaprisoner,inher fine lace nightgown.Nordid she look like somehumblypaidnurse.“You are Mr. O’Shea, I

think.Catherinewastryingtoget word to you. I promisedtohelpher.”“Did you, now?” He had

no interest in whether it wastrue or not. All he cared forwas finding her. “Then I’llspare you that effort. Showmewheresheis.”“Shewon’tbeawake.They

druggedheragain.”Hegrittedhisteethagainst

a red haze of rage.He couldnot afford to indulge it. He

blinked until he got a clearview of her again. Shemattered not a whit. Nurse,madwoman, innocent, shematterednothing.He’dneverhurt a woman, but in theplace where his scruplesshould be, he felt nothing atall.“Showme,”hesaid,verylow, and sawher realize thathewasdonewithtalking.Her gaze dropped to the

wire wrapped around hisknuckles. “All right,” she

whispered,andliftedthehemof her robe to walk quicklydownthehall.Around the corner,

flagstones changed tocreaking wooden boards;handsomely carpeted wallsgave way to rough plaster.She drewup beside the thirddoor,graspingthepadlockfora moment before turning tohim, an apologetic twist tohermouth.“Ican’topenthis.The nurse took away my

skeletonkey,aftershecaughtmevisiting.”He opened the shutter,

peeredin.Impossibletotellifthat huddled figure wasCatherine. The womanlooked too small, curled uplikeachildonherside...His breath caught. He

glimpsed her braid, peekingoutbeneaththeblanket.He snapped at Johnson,

who stepped up, slammingthe crowbar down on the

padlock with a smashingbang.The woman jumped.

“Quiet!Iftheyhearyou—”“Give me that.” Nick

seized the iron bar, fitted itinto the door, and threw hisweightintoit.Woodbegantosplinter. He eased off,breathing raggedly for amoment, before throwinghimselfagainstitagain.The door groaned, but

wouldn’tbudge.

“Don’t,” the woman said,asheraisedthecrowbaroverhis head. “I’m telling you—theguardsarearmed.”“So are we,” Johnson told

her,andliftedhispistol.Nickbroughtthebardown

—once, and then again,allowing himself to imagine,for a sweet black moment,that the lock was PeterEverleigh’sskull.

***

They were coming for her.Comingtoshockher,towipeher mind clean, to destroyher. She pushed them away,butherhands flopped, lax asdamp rags. “No,” shemanaged.“No—”“Catherine.Shh.It’sme.”She was dreaming. That

was O’Shea’s voice. Maybeshe had dreamed the wholething,andshewassafeinhisbed at the House ofDiamonds—

She managed to open hereyes.Sawtheloathsomebarewall, the chair bolted to thefloor.She’ddreamedhim.Her eyes fell shut. Tears

came tooeasily.She felt . . .exhausted, hollowed out,heavy and . . . so dizzy.Theworldwasfallingaway—She was being lifted. She

summoned her will, all thepower that remained to her,and managed to hook her

nails into skin, this time. Toclaw.“Bloody— Kitty!” His

voice came at her ear now,urgent. “I am taking you outofhere.Keepquiet.”Features swam before her.

Eyes rippling, crossing, anose swimming by amouth...Shetookashallowbreath and blinked, and thefeaturesreassembled.Hisface.Hewashere.

“You came,” shewhispered.Hegatheredhertighter,his

hand cradling her skull,pushing her face into hisshoulder.Wool,softandfine.He smelled like horses. Likesmokeandacoldnight.“Quiet,” he said, but she

felt his hand stroke over herhaironceandagreatwaveofreliefmovedthroughher,andshesobbedintohisshoulder.She was dizzy because he

was carrying her. He wascarrying her out of thisprison,tosafety.She lost consciousness for

a moment—or a minute, orseveral. When she regainedawareness, he had ceased towalk; he grasped her tightlyas he spoke in low tones tosomebodyelse.“All right,” he said,

“there’s a man in the entryhall. Do you know anotherwayout?”

“Through the back,” camea cool feminine voice.Stella’s.“Butitleadspasttheguardroom. The front is ourbestchance.”“Ourbestchance?”“Yes, I’m coming with

you.This place once seemedsafer than the world outside.Butclearlythathaschanged.”O’Shea swore softly.

“Lady, you’ve got meconfused with someone else.I’vegotnotimefor—”

“Wait.”Thewordsweresohard to shape. She wasdrooling, and could not care.“Let...her.”Catherine felt him tense,

theminuteadjustmentsofhisposture as he leaned to lookinto her face. She could notmanagetokeephereyesopentomeethis,butshemanagedto speak again. “Let her . . .come.” Stella had been kind.Shewasowedthis.Shefelthishandframeher

cheek, a brief firm pressure.Thenhe said, “Fine.Quietly.Johnson,you’ll—”“Gotit.Onecleanshot.”“Don’t kill him,” Stella

said.“Letmespeakwithhimfirst.”“Bloody—” O’Shea was

squeezing her very tightly.Shewascomingfullyawake,now, alert enough to registerthat his grip was iron hard.“LikehellIwill.”“You want his blood on

your hands?” Stella asked.“Have you ever killedsomeone,sir?”“I have,” he said flatly.

“AndI’llnothesitatetoputabullet through you, if youbetrayus.”Catherine’s eyes came

open. Stella was staring atO’Shea, the wall sconcebehind her shining throughherdarkblondhair,creatingafrowsy halo around her pale,resoluteface.“Iinviteyouto

shootme,”shesaid.“I’msureI wouldn’t mind. But thenyouwould have to dealwithmybrother,whowould.”Sheturnedonherheelandwalkedintotheentryhall.“Wait,”O’Sheasnapped—

notatStella.CatherinecaughtsightofJohnsonloweringhispistol,hismouthpressedintoafuriousline.“She’ll...keepherword,”

Catherinewhispered.He glanced down at her.

His expression briefly eased,the faintest smile ghostingover his mouth. “Hey.” Herubbed his thumb over hercheek and gently said, “Shutyour eyes again,Kitty.”Andthen he looked back towardthe entry hall. On a deepbreath, he shifted her weightinhisarms.Shefelthishandmakeafistatherback.Hewascarryingaweapon.

Heintendednowtouseit.A strange feeling swept

through her. She closed hereyes, surrendering to thisqueer, curious peace. Thissudden, intense certainty thatallwouldbewell.Hisheartdrummedbeneath

her ear. A solid, poundingbeat. She felt enfolded. Shefelt...protected.For the first time in her

life,here,inthisawfulplace,shefeltsafe.“All right.” Stella sounded

breathless. “He’s gone to the

water closet. We’ve got fiveminutes, no more. Hurry,now.”Catherine tightened her

arms around O’Shea. Herhusband. Who carried hernowinlongstrides,onehandon his weapon, the otherholding her to him. Theycrossed the entry hall andexitedintothecoolnightair.She heard the whicker of

horses, and smiled into hisshoulder.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

SomenoisewokeCatherinefromslumber.Sheopenedhereyes. O’Shea sat on a chairdrawnup beside her bed, his

face grave, shadows beneathhis beautiful eyes. He waswatching her, and themomentshesmiledathim,heleanedovertocupherface.“Howareyou?”heasked.She put her fists over her

head in a long stretch, thenyawned. “Much better. Myhead feels clearer now.” Sheglanced toward the drawncurtains.“Whattimeisit?”“Seven thirty, eight

o’clock.”

“Intheevening?”Whenhenodded, she pushed herselfupright. They had arrivedback at Diamonds aftersunrise. It was very odd tohave slept the entire dayaway.“WhereisStella?”“Herbrothercametofetch

her.”Concern pricked her. “He

won’t send her back,willhe?”O’Shea laughed. “From

whathesaid?I’dwagerhe’d

sooner blow that asylum tokingdom come. Didn’t seemhalfbad,foratoff.”“Oh.” As she relaxed

again, his hand smootheddown her braid, tracing thepath of her spine. She had avague recollection of hishands at her nape,fumbling . . . She reachedbehind her for her plait, andlaughed at the stragglingmesssheuncovered.“You’rebetteratshufflingcards.”

“Hair’sasighttrickierthancards.” He was smiling, too.“You seemed quite fed upwith me, this morning. Ithought you were going togivemeapropersmack.”She pulled an apologetic

face. “I was so tired. I’msorry,IhopeIdidn’t—”“Catherine.” He nudged

her face toward his, meetingher eyes. “Stop.” He drew ahardbreath.“It’s Iwhomustapologize. I should have

foreseenthatEverleighwould—”“Don’t.” She caught his

hand, holding it hard againsther cheek. Then, with adaring thatshehadn’tknownshe possessed, she kissed hisfingers. “You came for me.Thankyou.”He sat back slowly,

withdrawing his hand. Aflickerofhurtmovedthroughher.Shefrowneddownatthecounterpane,strokingthesilk,

feeling suddenly, oddly shy.That moment, in theasylum . . . the absolutecertainty she had felt, thesenseofelatedconviction...She couldn’t quite recall thenature of it. But it hadcentered on him. She wascertainofit.“There’sadoctoroutside,”

hesaidquietly.“Hesaid...”Hepaused,clearedhisthroat.“He said if youwoke, you’dbe in the clear. But just in

case,Ithinkhe’llhavealookatyou.Allright?”She nodded, then watched

himriseandcrosstothedoor.He looked . . . travel worn.Dust on the cuffs of histrousers.Why, he hadn’t changed

his clothing since their maddash from Kenhurst. Had hesatbyherbedtheentiretime?The doctor entered. A

slight, rabbit-faced man witha courtly manner and a faint

stammer, he listened to herlungs, then looked into hereyes and asked her to followhis finger as he moved itaroundherfieldofvision.Hetested her reflexes, andjudgedthemsatisfactory.Didher head hurt? No, but shewasprofoundlythirsty.“Fluids,”hesaiddecisively

ashesnappedhisbagclosed.“Andrest.ButasIsaid,sheiswell out of danger, Mr.O’Shea. Shemay have some

lingering moments ofconfusion—dependingon thedosage,opiatescanbefeltforseveral days thereafter.But Iwill be glad to proclaim herinfinehealth.”Catherinewantedtoprotest

thatshefeltquiteclearheadednow. But as she lay backagainstthepillows,shefoundherself dreamily content toconsider the pattern on theceiling—onlyitwas,afterall,notapattern,but the random

stippling of shadows cast bythecandlelight.Still, it made for fine

entertainment. It kept herquite ensorcelled untilO’Shea returned, this timebearing a tray full of severalbowls.“Fluids,”hesaidindisgust

as he retook his seat by thebed. “I toldThomas that youwanted fluids, andwhat do Iget?Frenchsoups.”She took a deep breath.A

momentago,shewouldhavedenied that she was hungry.ButThomashadararetalent.The smell of something richand savory awoke a beast inher stomach, which growledloudly enough to catchO’Shea’sattention.“Well, now,” he said, one

dark eyebrow rising. “Seemsmy wife fancies a Frenchbroth.”“Yes, she does.” She

reachedfor thespoon,buthe

tskedandtookitfromher.“Lie back,” he said, and

carefully ladledsoup into thespoon.Perhaps she was dreaming

again. “You’re going to . . .feedme?”She certainly was

dreaming.Inreallife,O’Sheawas incapable of blushing.“It’s a fine counterpane,” hemuttered.“And inyourstate,you’relikelytospill.”“Oh.” That made sense.

She nestled happily into thepillows and opened hermouth. He carried the spoonto her lips, tipping carefully.Ah,butThomashadoutdonehimself. The broth was lightand perfectly seasoned, amedley of greens with theslightsavorofapoultrybase.“Give him a raise,” she

saidonceshe’dswallowed.Hesmiled.“Another?”She nodded. But as she

watched him spoon up

anothermouthful,thatstrangeshynesscameoverheragain.Had anybody ever fed her?Not since she was veryyoung. There was a peculiarvulnerability in allowing himtofitthespoontoherlips;tofeel his eyes on her,monitoring her so closely,waitingforhertoswallow.Itmade her feel . . . fragile.Quiteunlikeherself.Itmadeherfeel...loved.Buthedidn’tloveher.Her

brain was muzzy. She wasinventing fantasies. Worse,shewaspersuadingherselftobelievethem.Whenhecarriedthespoon

toward her again, she caughthiswrist,grippingitasawayto trammel the panic thatwanted to bubble up withinher.Sheshouldtellhimnottohelp her. She could do forherself;shealwayshaddone.“What is it?” he asked

gently.

She looked into his eyes,hisbeautifuldarkface,whichshe had once imagined theproduct of the devil’s owngenius, designed to ensnareher. She’d been partly right.God help her. She wasensnared.He tilted his head slightly.

“Haveyouhadenough?”“No,”shesaidsoftly.“Not

yet.”She would blame this

foolish contentment on the

opiates. With any luck, shemight not think clearly fordays yet. A doctor had saidso.

***“Likehellyou’regoingout.”Thisbelligerentdeclaration

came from the doorway,which O’Shea was currentlyblocking.Catherinecontinuedtowrestlewiththebuttonsonher glove. She had fallenasleep beside him, but this

morning, she had wokenalone.He’dintendedtoleavewithout a word to her; thatmuchwasclear. “I’m feelingmuch better,” she saidcalmly. “Quite myself now.AndIunderstandthatthereisanauctiontoattend.Apublicauction.”He stepped into the room

andpulledthedoorshutonabang. “God as my witness,you’re not going. You’regoing nowhere near your

brother.Givemeaweek,andI’ll make sure you have freerunofthiscity.Butuntilthen—”“Youdon’tcommandme,”

shesaidgently.Heleanedbackagainst the

door, pinning her in a fierceglare.What a contrast to thetender solicitousness he’dshown her yesterday! Nodoubthewasvexedthatshe’dfound out about the landauction. Alas, he had

forgotten to inform Johnsonof his secrecy, and that manhad popped by to askCatherine a quick questionabout themanner inwhich abidwassignaled.“I am going,” she said

now, aiming for a calm,reasonable tone. “The plot ismydesign.SurelyIdeserveatasteofthevictory.Andyes,”sheaddedasO’Sheascowledand opened his mouth tospeak. “I know my brother

will be there. Hasn’t itoccurred to you that that’spart of my reason forattending?” To her ownamazement,shefeltcuriouslyatpeacewithwhatPeterhaddone to her. At last, he hadbehavedinamannerthat leftno room for lingeringdoubtsabout his motives. He hadrevealed his true nature soplainly that she would neverhope for better from himagain. It was freeing,

somehow, to be liberatedfrom any lingering sense offamilial obligation. He washer opponent, nothing more.“Iwant to see his facewhenhespiesme.Whenherealizeshehasn’tmanagedtocowmean inch. And I trust you tokeepmesafe,”shesaidmoresoftly. “I won’t feel amoment’s unease, besideyou.”He frowned, slouching a

little as he turned his beaver

hat round and round, hisberinged hands squeezing.“This isn’t your battle tofight.”Shelookeddirectlyathim,

letting the silence draw on amomenttoolong.“Isn’tit?”He loosed a long breath.

“Catherine, I . . . need myheadaboutme, today.Andifyou’rethere—”“Stop.”Sheabandonedher

gloves and crossed to him,taking his face in her hands.

“Surely you have thediscipline to resistmy lures.”Shewentontiptoetokisshislips, and felt his surprise inhismomentarystillness.Thenhe caught her by the

waist and swung her around,settingheragainstthedoorashe took control of the kiss.Histongueplungeddeep,andshe opened her mouth forhim, pulling him as hardagainst her as their bodiesallowed.

It was as though she hadtouchedamatchtoafuse.Hismouth ravaged hers, hishands moving feverishlydown her body, smoothingharddownher ribsandwaistand hips, palming the shapeof her as though to persuadehimself of her solidity, thatshewasherewithhim.Foramoment,hisravening

intensity frightened her.There was no courtesy, notentativeness, in the way he

feltforherbreastthroughthethick layers of her gown.Hegave no warning, asked nopermission,ashegrabbedherskirts, hauled them upwardpastherknees,thenthrusthishand beneath, reachingbetween her legs. He foundthe split in her drawers,delvedunerringlythroughherfolds,andcuppedherhardashe kissed her more deeplyyet. It was predatory. Itwas . . . overwhelming. She

brokefreetocatchherbreathin a gasp, and he seemed tosense her confusion; hegrasped her chin and pulledher facearoundsohe lookedinto her eyes as he strokedbetween her legs, his gazeadamant, bright and fierce,hismouthagrim,hardline.She kept her gaze steady

onhis, liftedonehand tohischeek, bit back the gasp thathis touches pulled from her,the groan of pleasure as his

fingers breached her andpenetrated,widening.He leaned forward and

licked her mouth. “Let mein,” he said in a low, fiercevoice.Yes. She nodded—a brief,

strained jerkofherhead thatdrew a low noise from him,something between a groanand a snarl. He gathered herskirts ingreatwads,crushingthewool, shoving it away aswith his other hand he

unbuttoned his trousers andfreedhimself.She caught her breath as

she felt the swollen head ofhis member nudging againsther.Hishandsdroppedtoherhips, grasped her hard as heenteredher.In silence, holding her in

place against the door, hethrust into her, deep, steadystrokesthatmadeherheadtipback;madeher eyes roll andher lashes flutter shut. So

many sensations, all of themsuffused with this growing,building physical hunger—even the unyielding press ofthe door, cool against herbare upper arms, seemedsensual . . . the crush ofclothing between them, thewayitwhispered...theheatofhismouthonherthroat,histongue stroking her . . . andbelow, this unyielding,rhythmicinvasion...Hewhisperedsomethingin

her ear, garbled,unintelligible. Then hepushed down on her hips,forcinghertobendherkneesthe slightest fraction, and thenewangle—She moaned. He was

hitting that spot now,somehow—every strokebrushedagainst it, teasedandthen tormented her; she feltherselfswell,growhotterandwetter and needier . . . Heshowedno signsof flagging;

heseemedtogodeeper,tohitsomethinginsideaswell,andher thighs loosened; herknees gave way. He grippedher now to hold her on herfeet as the pleasure brokethroughher,washeddownthebacks of her knees, prickleddown her spine, her innermuscles contracting aroundhim.The noise hemade burned

her ears. He sank into her,trapping her against the door

with the weight of his body,remaining there a longmoment before he steppedback.Whenheletgoofher,she

sagged. Would have fallen,had he not caught her again,liftedher,andswungherintoanearbychair.Only minutes had passed.

Ormaybenotevenaminute.Shehadnosenseoftime.Shefelt . . . boneless, as she satwatching him. He leaned

back against the door, hisface dark as he studied her.His expression, paired withthe rigid setofhis shoulders,gradually made her frown.Made her cast her thoughtsback.She caught her breath.

“You didn’t . . . withdraw,didyou?”“No.”“I’m sure . . .” She

swallowed, bestirred herselfto sit upright. “I’m sure

nothingwillcomeofit.Thereare couples, married coupleswho have lived together in aregularfashionforyears,whostilldon’tconceive—”“And some that conceive

on their wedding night,” hesaidcurtly.She stiffened. Was that

anger in his voice? “Youcan’tblamemeforthis.”He sighed. “I don’t.” He

came toward her, kneelingdowntolookintoherface.“I

don’t,”hesaidverysoftly.“Itwas my own damnedcarelessness. That’s whatangersme,Kitty.Notyou.”She let him gather her

hands, confused by her ownreaction. It would indeed beruinoustoconceiveachildinthis situation. She should behorrified. She should beangry,even—notonlyathim,but at herself. Suchinexcusable recklessness, tocontinue to take this risk

againandagain.But the horror that should

have assailed her wascuriously difficult to locate.Instead, as she looked at hisbroad hands enfolding hers,curiositywisped throughher,stealingherbreath.Hewasnotherkind.Born

in the gutter, raised with aknife between his teeth.Whenangeredoramazed,helostholdofhisgrammar,andspokelikeacommonthug.A

criminal—reformed, mostly,butwhile he still owned thisgamblingden,hecouldneverbe counted on the right sideof the law. He was no fitmatchforawoman.Andyet...hewaskeenly

intelligent. Honorable, in hisown peculiar style. Wise inways she wasn’t. Ambitious,disciplined—save when itcametoher.A flush warmed her face.

She bowed her head to hide

it, amazed that she shouldfeel such gratification at thisrevelation: she alone had thepowertoundohim.Forwhatgoodcouldcome

of that? This marriage hadbeen forged as a dark secret,to wield like a weapon. Shemust be mad to entertain,even for a second, what achildoftheirswouldlooklike—act like—what talents itmight inherit, in the curiouscombination of her reserve

and restraint and savvy, andhis more daring, roguishcunning.“What’sgotyousopink?”

he asked softly. “You know,if itcame to that,we’dmakedo,Catherine.AndGodsavethe world from any child ofours.GodsavetheQueen,fornodoubtthetykewouldhaveambitions for a crown, erelong.”Her smile startled her. It

felt so easy to hold. She felt

peculiarly vulnerable; shefoldedherlipstogether,madeherself stand. “We shouldgo.”“You’renotgoing.”“Yes,Iam.”“I said it, Catherine. I

won’t have you there.Especially not now,” headdedinamutterasheturnedawaytofastenhisfly.She stared at his broad

back, struck dumb by thatstatement. “Not now? Now,

you mean, that you mighthave...”“Yes,”hesnappedoverhis

shoulder.Her teeth clamped

together. Now that he mighthaveseededachildinher,hewouldbullyherfor it?“No,”she said, her voice ragged.“That does not give yourights over me. If I wish togo,Iamgoing.”Hefacedher,lookeddown

at her from his great height,

his face impassive. Remoteand cold. She felt, as hestared at her, the differencebetweentheirsizes—and,inahorribleprickleofawareness,thefactthathestoodbetweenherandthedoor.“I’dratherbearyouranger

thantherisktoyou,”hesaid.“That isn’t your choice to

make!” She started for thedoor, and he steppedsideways,blockingher.“Don’t make me do this,”

hesaid.“Waithere.I’ll—”“Makeyoudowhat?Keep

me locked here against mywill?” A wild laugh rippedfrom her. “Don’t you see?This is exactly what I toldyou I wouldn’t allow. I amnotyourward,yourproperty,to boss as you see fit—I amnotyourwife,O’Shea!”“Today you are,” he said

grimly, and reached for thedoorknob.“No!” She lunged for the

door, but itwas too late—hehadalreadysteppedout.Thelockturned.Hehad taken thekeywith

him.

***She should have raged. Hehadrescuedherfromaprisonyesterday, only to makeanother forher. Instead,aftershock had subsided, she feltonlyaweird,numbgrief,toodeepfortears.

Did he knowwhat he haddone? She felt as thoughsome light inside her, brieflyflickering, had been crushedby a careless boot heel. Hehad used her desires to trickher.Hehadshownhedidnotrespect her judgment. Or,even worse, he had shownthat his judgments wouldtrump hers, regardless of hisesteemforher.By trapping her here, he

had all but admitted that he

wanted doilies after all. Awoman who waited by thefire like a lapdog, eager forthe sound of her master’sfootsteps after a day spenttendingthehearth.Bythetimefootstepscame

at the door two hours later,shehadpackedupherthings.She was waiting, primlyerect, in the wing chair, herhands locked tightly in herlap.Shewouldnotweep.Shewould not raise her voice.

She would simply go. Themoment he opened the door,she would walk through it—and if he stopped her thistime, she would make himpayforit.Theknobrattled.Butitdid

not immediately turn. Shefrowned. Now came ascratchingatthekeyhole.She rose, uneasy. “Who’s

there?”“God in heaven,” a

familiar, femininevoice said.

“Catherine?”That voice! She gasped,

thenhurriedovertothedoor,tugging angrily at the knob.“Lilah?” She sank to herknees, peering through thekeyhole. “Can that really beyou?Ithought...”Darknessfilledthekeyhole

—Lilah kneeling, too. “SoCallanwasn’tlying,”shesaidin marveling tones. “Let mein,then!”“Hetookthekey.”

“Hewhat?”A brief pause.“All right, stand back, then.I’llpickitopen.”

***“AndthenwevisitedBoston,which was the coldest placethis side of the North Pole,and if you thought Londonwasbadforsnobbery—”“Oh, I can’t imagine

anybody was rude to you,”Catherine murmured. Theysat in the Palmers’ drawing

room, chairs drawn togetherby the fire, knees nearlybrushing,adiscardedteatrayshoved off to one side. Theroom was very grand, avaulted ceiling painted inrococo style, cherubsgambolingintheheavens;thefurniture was powder blueandwhite,thecarpetpaleasanewborn’s cheek, not a stainupon it. That shade spoke ofextravagant wealth, no carewhatsoever for the cost of

replacement, once mud wastracked in, or soot, or themere dust of everyday life.YetLilah looked perfectly athome amid the splendor,dressedinabronzesilkgowntailored expertly to hercurving body. French,Catherineguessed.Pingat,theveryneweststyle;sheherselfhad never worn anything sofashionableorrare.“You’re a proper lady

now,” Catherine said.

NobodywouldmistakeLilahforanythingelse.Sheworeanecklace of emeralds at herthroat, French lace at hercuffs and collar. The bronzegown flattered her rosycomplexion, and contrastedwith the deep, inky shine ofherhair,coiledsoelegantlyatthe crown of her head.“Surely the Bostoniansbowed.”“Well,ofcoursetheydid.”

When Lilah smiled, her full

cheeks turned her azure eyesinto laughing half-moons.“Doesn’t mean I felt likebowingback.Sourpusses,thelot of them. At any rate, wewere meant to go on toPhiladelphia, but whensomebody mentioned theyexpectedsnow,thatdiditforme. I said to Christian thatsummer was a fine time totravel, but in the autumn, Iliked nothing better than aproper scone. He went

looking for one, and cameback with some wretchedbiscuit that a baker hadconned him into buying.Wetookonebiteandbookedourpassagebackhome.”Catherinesmiled.Marriage

had not diminished Lilah inthe least; if anything, itseemedtohaveamplifiedhercheeky, laughing charm. Sheseemed...easierinherskin,more relaxed. That slightwariness which Catherine

remembered in her wasnowhereinevidencenow.Perhaps love did that. It

madeonefeelathome,atlast—evenwithoneself.The velvet nap of her

armchair was very fine. Shedrewapatternintoit,achainof diamonds. The auctionwould be concluded by now.O’Shea would havediscovered her absence. Sheshouldhaveleftanote.Whatifhe imagined thatPeterhad

found her again? But no,Callan would tell him ofLilah’svisit,surely.She scowled. Why should

she trouble herself for hisfeelings,whenhehad shownhis complete disregard forhers?Silence intruded into her

thoughts. She looked up anddiscovered herself the objectofintensescrutiny.“I’mnot theonlyonehere

withataletotell,”Lilahsaid.

She cleared her throat.“But first, you must finishyours. How was the voyageback?Smooth,Ihope?”Lilah pulled a face.

“Lovely,Iatemyselfsick,wemade record time. Enoughwiththehoneymoon.Explainwhy I had to spring you outof my uncle’s gaming den.”She arched one dark brow.“Callan said you’d beenstaying there. Wouldn’t tellmewhy.”

“Oh,I...”Catherineblewout a breath, then locked herhands together in her lap,hunting for a neat summary.But the challengeoverwhelmed her. Had Lilahappeared a day ago, howmuch simpler the tale wouldhavebeen!Shefeltapangofloss for the possibility shehadglimpsed—the sweetnessofasimplerconclusion.A...happyeverafter,even.The opiates must have

accountedfor thatwildhope.Theyhad investedherwithaforeign optimism, spinning afledgling dream that nowseemed bizarre andembarrassingly foolish. Butyesterday, she might havesaid...She might have said that

for the first time in her life,shehaddonesomethingwild,andshehadnoregrets.None.“I married your uncle to

saveEverleigh’s.”Thatwasa

fineplacetostart.“Married him!” Lilah

pressed herself back in herchair,asthoughtophysicallydistance herself from thesetidings.“Youmarriedhim?”“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Asperity seemed to open aroadforher,showherhowtoadvance.“Peter,yousee,wasplanning to sell the auctionrooms. And unless I wasmarried,Ihadnoauthoritytoopposehim.”

“And you thought Nickwas the best choice?” Lilahcovered her mouth with oneslim hand, a diamond bandglinting on her weddingfinger.Buthersnortsoundedsuspiciouslylikealaugh.Catherine scowled. “It

seemedaveryfinechoice.Hepromisednottointerferewithme. He signed the verycontract that—” Shehesitated,suddenlyconsciousof the delicacy of this

tangent.With her usual bluntness,

Lilah pushed right throughthepause.“Thesamecontractmy husband signed for you.It’s all right, Catherine; thatwas a strange time, back inthespring.”“So itwas.” She offered a

grateful smile. “And I ratherthought the arrangementwas . . . perfect, after all.Peter,yousee,hadeverythingtolosefromsuchamarriage.

We told him we’d keep it asecret from the public,provided he . . . behavedhimself.”“Blackmail!” As Lilah

arched her dark brows, shelooked, briefly andpowerfully, like her uncle,and the resemblance raisedsuchastrongwaveoffeelingthat Catherine turned awayfrom it, fumbling for herteacup.It would be lukewarm by

now.Sheblewon itanyway.“I hope . . .” She took a sipand winced. Oolong did notprofitbycooling.“Ihopewecanremainfriends.”“What?”Lilah leanedover

to touch her arm. “What’sthis? Why wouldn’t we befriends?”She turned the cup in her

hands.Nohandle,floralmotifin cobalt blue against white.Deep saucers, too. Dresden,eighteenth century. Five

poundsatauctionforthiscupalone.Lilah was waiting.

Catherinereturned thecup toitssaucer.“Iknowyourunclehas not always been a friendto you.” Indeed, he haddemanded certain favors ofLilahduringher employmentatEverleigh’sthatmightwellhave cost her position.Catherine swallowed,surprisedbyherself.Howhadshe forgotten that? O’Shea

had cast a spell on her,maybe,butnow that shewasfree of the enchantedatmosphereofDiamonds,sherememberedagain.Sheclungtothefacts.“Heforcedyoutothieve for him. Had anyonediscovered it—why, I wouldhave sacked you.” Thethought amazed her. “Had Ilearned of it before I knewyou, you would have beenthrown onto the street. Younever would have met Lord

Palmer,and...”Lilah’s face had darkened.

“I don’t like to think on it,”she said slowly. “Of course,Nick’sthereasonImadeittoEverleigh’s in the first place.He fundedmy education.Hetookmeinaftermydaddied.So . . . I’ve made my peacewith him. He’s the onlyfamilyI’vegot.”Sheblinked,then brought her handstogether inaclap.“Why,butthat’snottrue,now.Ifyou’re

married to him—we’refamily.”Catherinesmiled.“Aunt to

a viscountess? How I’vecome up in the world,” shesaid dryly, with a wavearoundthegrandchamber.Lilahfollowedhergesture,

and burst into a laugh. “Isn’titridiculous?Acreamcarpet!I can’t imagine whereChristianfoundit.”But after a moment of

shared laughter, Catherine

sobered again. “Youremember the betrothalcontract,Ithink.Therewasaprovision in it. You and Ishan’t stay family forever. Ionly wish . . . your unclerememberedtheterms.”“All right, then.” Lilah

looked grim suddenly.“What’shedone?”Chairlegsthumped as she dragged herseat closer. “Why were youlockedinthatroom?”Catherine hesitated. “He

hasneverabusedme—”“No,ofcoursenot.It’snot

in him to abuse a woman,”Lilah said readily. “But itisn’t likehim to lockherup,either.”Catherinesighed.“IthinkI

must tell you the wholestory.”And so she did—omitting

nothing, not even the factthey had been intimate,though shementioned this ina delicate euphemism,which

Lilah showed she understoodonlybytheslightwideningofher eyes. By the timeCatherine finished, the lighthad faded from the longwindows overlooking thepark across the street, andLilah sat in slack-jawedsilence, her astonishment soclear that it almostembarrassed Catherine tolookonher.“I’ve made a hash of

things,” she admitted softly.

“Our . . . entanglement wasnever meant to be so . . .profound.”“Catherine.” Lilah shook

herhead.“I’venever . . . theway you speak of him. Yousure it’s justaboutacontractnow?”Shetookadeepbreathand

reached for her courage.“Perhaps it . . . might nothave been. But the terms ofthat contract are notincidental. Lilah, I won’t

have my will suborned, myfreedom compromised. Andhe has shown now that hewill do so. That he willoverride my judgment whenhe sees fit.” She bit her lip,frustrated by how flimsy herobjection seemed whenspokenaloud.Afterallhehaddone for her, it would be nowonderifanonlookerfaultedherfortakingexceptiontohisattempttokeephersafe.But . . . “You know me,

Lilah.HowcanI trustamanwho would do that? Fornothing about my life seemssafe and civil to an ordinaryman. I deal with strangersconstantly at my work.Sometimes I speak withgentlemen inprivate,withoutchaperonage. I travel thestreets without escort.Everything else I hold deardependsonmyindependence—”“Everything else?” Lilah

askedsoftly.She grimaced. “A slip of

thetongue.”Butperhapsatellingone.“Catherine.” Lilah was

gazingatherwithtransparentsympathy. “I can’t tell youthat my uncle will be boundby a contract. He’s got acode, all right, but it wasnever one and the samewiththelaw’s.”“I know that,” she said

quietly.

“And he’s stubborn as amule.Ifhedecidessomethingistherightthingtodo—ifhesees a way to make thingsworkoutashewantsthemto—he’ll take it. He won’tpause to ask your feelingsaboutit.”“That is very clear to me

now.”Howbitterthosewordstasted!“But it will always be in

yourfavor,”Lilahadded.“Hetalksahardbusiness.Butfor

all that he’s twisted my armin his time, he’s never doneme wrong in the end.Why . . . he even helpedChristian,when itcame to it,though there’s no love lostbetweenthem.Hedidthatforme.He’ddoanythingfor thepeopleheloves.”Catherine crossed her

arms.Theroomsuddenlyfeltverycold. “Hehasn’t spokenthatword.I’mnotsureit’sinhisvocabulary.”

“Isitinyours?”Sheclosedhereyes.Itwas

there.Itsatinherthroatlikeahard knot she could notswallow.Shehadnopracticeinspeakingitanymore.Inherchildhood home, that wordhad been measured out liketoxic medicine, used only inmoments of direst necessity—savewithherfather.Butshehadknownhowto

earnhislove.She’dbeenwellequipped for that. And she’d

askednothinginreturnforit.Achildhadnorighttodoso.But if a woman had any

respect for herself, she mustmakesuchdemands.“You look tired,” Lilah

murmured.“You’llstayhere,won’t you? For as long asyou like. It’s safehere.Yourbrotherwon’tguessit.”“I’ll have to confront him.

I need back intoEverleigh’s.Ihaveanauctiontoarrange.”Sheopenedhereyes.“Unless

your uncle withdraws hisestatetopunishme.”Lilah’s face softened.

“That’s not his way,Catherine. And I think youknowit.”“Yes,” she said after a

moment.“Ido.”“I’lltalktoChristianabout

arranging a guard for you.”Lilah rose, taking Catherineby the hand to draw her up.“But what should I say ifNickcomesknocking?”

The thought caused athousand butterflies to flutterthroughCatherine’s stomach.“Youthinkhewill?”Lilah rolled her eyes.

“Withwhatyou’vetoldme?Igivehimanothertwohoursatmost.”The butterflies, this solid

lump in her throat . . . sheneeded time to digest them.“I’ll speak to him when I’mready,” she said. “But itwillbemyowndecision, nothis.

Anditwon’tbetonight.”

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

Five days in a row, NickwentknockingonthedooratPalmer’s townhouse inGrosvenor Square. Five days

in a row, hat under his arm,clothes brushed, collarstarched, every buttonfastened, like a goddamnedidiothewalkedupthosestepsand let Lily’s bloody butlerturnhimawayliketrash.On the sixth day, he kept

himself in Whitechapel. Aman’s pride could onlyendure so much. It didn’tstretch to sending her theletterhe’dtriedtowrite—halfa ream of paper in the

rubbish, his chicken-scratchscrawlgrowingmoreillegibleateachpass.He wouldn’t apologize for

what he’d done. He’d doneenough, damn it, to provehimself to her. He’d brokenher out of amadhouse.He’dmade love to her until shecouldn’t stand. He’d lainawake long nightsbeforehand, keeping hishands to himself while hereyes all but begged him to

takeher,butherlipsstillsaidno.And he was restraining

himself from killing herbrother, to the wonder ofevery man in his service, allof them rotating by lotsthrough the watch they kepton Everleigh’s comings andgoings, making clear to him,throughtheirverypresenceathis heels, that he wasn’t toapproach the auction rooms.Aye, Nick was keeping his

finger off the trigger for hersakealone,thoughGodknewthe dog needed to be putdown, because if locking herin a room for a couple ofhourswasenough tocastherinto a cold, distant silence,then no doubt of it, puttingher brother into the gravewoulddriveherawayforever.He distracted himself. He

met again with Pilcher, thistimeatagentleman’sclub inSt. James, a snooty place

where you could hear a pindrop, or, for that matter, aman’s stifled belch—and byGod, but these toffs were abean-eating lot, by the soundofthem.He’doutbidPilcherbyfive

hundred pounds in the end,andhadbeenpreparedtotakeit to the streets afterward ifthat was what Pilcherrequired. But the swell hadsurprisedhim.He’dwrittentoNickthenextday.

Youhavenoreasontotakemercyonme.Ionlylayoutthefactsforyounow:Ihaverashlycommittedmyselftoacertaingroupofbuilders,acceptingmoneyfromthemthatIcannotrepay.Theyexpectthoseparcelstobemadeavailablefordevelopment.Iamruined;verywell.Buttheythreatenmyfamily

now,andthisisnotsomethingIknowhowtoface.Theyhaveexpressed

aninterestindealingwithyou.Accordingly,andonlywithyourpermission,Iwouldoffertomakeyouracquaintancewiththesebuilders,soyoumightconsidertheiroffer.Ibelievetheywouldbewillingtorevisetheir

plansforOrtonStreetinawaythataccommodatedthetwobuildingsyoucurrentlyofferonlease.Thearrangement

wouldprofityouhandsomely.Infullhonesty,whileInolongerbearanyhopeofrepairingmyownfinances,Iwouldalsostandtoprofit,bythealleviationofthe

dangerscurrentlyposedtomyfamily.

In short, Pilcher wantedprotection.At his club, they dined on

anoverdoneroastthatNick’sowncookwouldhave tossedinto the rubbish. Pilcher, itwas clear from the start,wanted to pretend that theywere gentlemen, diningtogetherasamatterofcourse.Nick had no use for the

pretense.“Afewthingsfirst,”he said flatly. “CatherineEverleigh.”“Catherine . . .” Pilcher

blinked. “Peter’s sister, doyoumean?”“Aye.You had designs on

her. I want those scrubbedfromyourbrain.”“Designs?” Pilcher’s fork

sagged; he looked honestlybaffled. “Peter did speakof . . . That is, for a time, Iconsidered courting her. But

thatwaswhen it seemed thather brother would make aprofitablepartnerinbusiness.Of course, if he pushesthrough the sale of thatauction house, he may havethemoney—”“He won’t,” Nick said.

“That’sbeenoff thetableforawhile.”“Indeed?” Pilcher’s eyes

narrowed.“Typical that Ididnot know it.Well, then.”Heshrugged.“She’dbeofnouse

to me now. Money is thething,oldfellow.”It was the coldness of his

assessment that persuadedNick. Just like a toff toevaluateawomanthewayhewould a stock. “All right,then.Thesebuilders.Whoarethey?”Gradually theyworkedout

a deal. Nick knew thecorporation; St. Giles men,whohadbuiltamusichallinSeven Dials that was doing

brisk business. Pilcher wasrighttofeeloutofhisdepths,but Nick understood theirkind. He proposed to cut adeal that spared Pilcher theirthreats; evenoffered to standPilcher the money to repaythem, though his rate ofinterest caused Pilcher tochoke. Or perhaps that wasonly the fault of theovercookedroast.In return, he wanted one

thing. “You put Peter

Everleigh off the Board ofWorks.”Pilcher considered this for

a moment as he took up hisbrandy. “I might be able toarrange it,” he said slowly,swirling the glass. “He’s notpopular; I believe I couldmuster thevotes.Buthewillfight,ofcourse.He’llclingtohis position like a cat to awall.” He smirked. “Henurses political ambitions,yousee.”

Nick did see. Suddenly hesaw a solution for the wholemess. “Then you take himthis proposal,” he said. “Canyou get a pen and paperaroundhere?”Pilcher snapped at a

passing server, who fetchedover a sheet. Then, in slow,methodical detail, NickexplainedwhatherequiredifPilcher wished to be sparedthe further attentions of theSt.Gilescrew.

He’d always preferredstrategy to bloodshed. In thepast, finding that kind ofsolutionwouldhaveleftNickwell satisfied with his day’swork. But his mood wasoddlybleakashereturned toDiamonds. Never countchickensbeforetheyhatched.He wouldn’t celebratetriumph,justyet.And maybe it would ring

emptyanyway.Hehungovertherailingas

hewaited for his supper, butthe usual comforts—theresplendent luxury of theinterior; the sight of thecrowds, jammed shoulder toshoulderonthefloorbelow—left him unmoved. He didn’ttry to kid himself about thereason for it. Hewas a fool,butcountlessmenbeforehimhadbeen struckdownby thesame idiocy. He might havestood there all night, staringat nothing, had Callan not

interruptedhim.“Notecame,”Callansaid.“Putitonmydesk.”“NotefromMayfair.”Nick turned. “What’s

that?”Callan passed over the

envelope, handsomelystamped in wax. “Lily’sfootman.Wore livery, if youcancreditit.She’srisenhigh,ain’tshe?Makesonewonder—”But Nick didn’t hear the

rest. He was already makingfortheexit.

***Nick had never steppedbeyond Palmer’s entry hall.No interest in it. If Lilywanted to see him, he’dthought, they could meet atDiamonds or Neddie’s.Mayfair wore on his nerves.Wasn’t that he felt out ofplace here—he’d belonganywherehecaredtosetfoot,

damn it. But the house feltlifeless. Too much marble,carpets threadbare. The richin these parts liked to flauntthe age of their money.Nothing new, nothing bright.This house felt dead to him,cold and joyless, a testamentto power with no care forcomfort.But Lily seemed not to

mind it. As she guided himdown the hall, she evenpointed out things to like.

“That was Christian’sgrandfather,” she said,gesturing to an oversizedpainting of a beady-eyedbloke perched stiffly on ahorse.“Hewasagreatracingman.SixwinsatAscot.”He grunted. “Palmer’s

donealotofbragging,Isee.”She looked over her

shoulder to show him thetwist of her mouth. “It’scalled conversation, Nick.Somepeoplespeakopenlyof

their family’s history, havingnothingtohide.”“Thatright?”Hecaughtup

with her as she rounded acorner, disliking the feel ofdogging her heels. “So whatdo you say when Palmer’sfinefriendsaskafteryours?”She drew up by a set of

folding-doors, facing him. “Itell them I don’t have muchfamilytospeakof,”shesaid.“But I have an uncle, whoraised me as best he knew

how. And then I throw in ajoke about hopelessbachelors, and everyonelaughs,andthesubjectpassesonward.”Heallowedhimself a faint

smile. That was a kinderreply than he deserved.“Hopeless,amI?”“Until recently.” She

hesitated, searching his face.“But maybe you’ll surpriseme. You toldme once, Nick—I remember it like

yesterday—that life willalways give you a reason tolook away fromopportunities. But couragemeans grabbing them, nomatter the circumstances.Doyourememberthat?”He did. She’d been

seventeen,strickenwithgrieffor her late sister.He’d beenmourning, himself—battlingwith guilt over not havingdone more. Not havingnoticed Fiona’s pain earlier,

whenthesurgeonmighthavemadeadifference.He’d been at a loss as to

how to help Lily. Finally,he’d reenrolled her at thattyping school that she andFionahad favored.But she’dturned it down, saying therewas no point in aiminghigher, now that Fiona wasgone.“You took thatadvice,”he

said. By God, had she ever.“You took it further than I

everguessedyouwould.”Helooked beyond her, at themarblewalls, the statuary. Inthe distance, somewhere, afountain made a musicalsplashing. “This place suitsyou, I guess. It’s what youdeserved.”She smiled, the kind of

soft, secretive,satisfiedsmilethat belonged to a ladywithout any sharp edges.She’dbeennothingbut,onceupon a time. If Palmer had

smoothed those edges away,then Nick would find a wayto rub along with him, nomatterwhatittook.“This house is nothing,”

she said. “Christian iswhat Ideserve. I hope you’ll giveCatherineareasontofeelthesameaboutyou.”Sheopenedthe door before he couldreply, then turned away, herheels tapping off down thehall.

***Hiswifesatacross theroom,swaddled in a thick blanketthat she dropped as she rose.“Congratulations,” she said.“Youwon the land auction.”She tossed the newspaperonto the chiffonier, pagesflutteringbeforetheysettled.He eyed her as he

approached.She lookedcool,tightlybuttoned,hair scrapedback, expression

impenetrable. She waswearing armor, all right. Shewasn’t intending areconciliation.He glanced down at the

newspaper. Caught sight ofthesmallarticleonthesaleofthe lots onOrton Street. Butoneof thepagespeekingoutinterested him more. Heflipped to it. “You took outthe advertisement.” A full-page spread, featuringillustrations of pieces he

recognized from herrhapsodic descriptionsduringtheir dinners at Diamonds.The tambour-topped writingtable. Clocks and chairs andwhatnot.“Yes. Come Friday, we’ll

seehoweffectiveitwas.”He frowned down at the

print. He trusted herjudgment; if she said thesethingswerevaluable, thennodoubt they’d fetch a fineprofit.Anditcertainlywasn’t

the artist’s fault that theylooked so ordinary, now, tohis eyes. But he couldn’tsquare them, theseworkadaythings, with the way she’dspoken of them in his sittingroomatDiamonds.Listeningto her, he’d imaginedfantastical treasures. Herwords,hervoice,herattitudehadconjuredvisionstowhichmere objects could nevermatchup.Shedidthat.Shemadehim

think outside himself. Not asmall thing, for a manwithout formal learning.Whenreadingwasastruggle,when books wereimpenetrable, you got yourknowledge from firsthandexperience, mainly. Youlearned through trial anderror. You focused on whatlay around you, visible,tangible,real.But she had a way of

leading him into dreaming.

Shemadehim imagine,hopefor, ideas and realities he’dneverhimselfknown.She’d done it before she

even knewhim.He’d startedto dream the first time he’dseen her, but at least, backthen, he’d known it wasimpossible.Somewherealongtheline,he’dlosttrackofthatfact. Once he’d touched her,he’d begun to persuadehimself that maybeimpossible, fantastic

outcomescouldhappen.He wrestled with himself,

still staring at theadvertisement, seeingnothing. He didn’t beg. Hewouldn’t.Nothingwasworththat. Nobody worth it wouldeverdemanditofhim.Theairshifted,tookonthe

faintscentofbergamotasshejoined his side. She’dperfumed herself like a managain, for the first time thathe could recall since their

weddingday.Strapping her armor back

on.“Look,”shesaid.Shedrew

alinewithherfingerbeneaththeboldtypeatthebottomofthepage:

OpentoPublic—FirstTimeinCompany

History—AllAreInvitedtoThis

HistoricAuction

“Well, now.” A foolishsense of pleasure suffusedhim. “So you took myadvice.”“Idid.”Heheardherdeep

breath. “It seemed sensible.The regular crowd would bethinner at this time of year.Christie’s opens its doors toall and sundry. And . . . Ithought I would take thischancetotweakPeter’snose.TheonlyoneImighthave.”Hecaughttheaccusationin

her voice. Slid a sidelonglook at her. “I won’tapologize for leaving youbehindthatday.”“No.”Shewas still gazing

in the direction of theadvertisement, but perhapsshe was seeing somethingelse, too.Herexpressionwasverydistant,herhandslockedtightly at herwaist. “I didn’texpect you would apologize.But at least you admit that itwould be . . . appropriate,

wereyouable.”Hedidn’tlikethesoundof

those words. The resignationinthem.Hefacedher.“Look.He threw you into amadhouse—”“Yes.”“And the fact he’s still

breathing is my gift to you,forit’sGod’sowntruththatIwould slit his throat in asecondifIdidn’tthinkyou’dfeeltheguiltforit.”Sheliftedherchin.Looked

directlyintohiseyes.“That’strue.Hemeansnothingtomenow. But I draw the line atmurder.”“Well,then.”“He’s suing for his proxy

back.”It took him a moment to

follow.“Christ.He—”“He has petitioned the

courttogivehimsolecustodyof the auction rooms. Healleges me to be of unsoundmind.Mr.Denbury, fromthe

asylum,haswrittenaletterinsupportofhisbid.Hefurtherclaims that he is beingmenaced and forced intohiding by thugs in myemploy.Isthattrue?”He gauged his reply

carefully.“I’veputsomemento watch his comings andgoings.”“Have they threatened

him?”“Idon’tseehow.Hehasn’t

comebacktoHentonCourt.”

“That’snotananswer,”shesaidevenly.“Catherine.” He hadn’t

intended tomention this, notuntil he felt certain it wouldwork. “I may have found away to get him out of yourhair forgood.Butuntil Icanbecertain—”“The contract,” she cut in,

“laid out the terms bywhichyou and Iwere to rub along.You have overstepped thoseboundsagainandagain.”

“Overstepped.”Shewasnosolicitor, and he was noschoolboy to be lectured byher.But words were her

weapons.Hewouldn’tbotherfighting on that ground.Instead he grasped her face,felther flinchat the touchofskin to skin. He held her inplace, watching the colorbloom in her cheeks,registeringthewayherbreathhitched, waiting in silence

until she found the spine tolookintohiseyesagain.“You want to pretend like

that contract guided us for amoment?Ifyouwerehonest,”he said, “you would haveceased speaking of it rightafter you rose from my bedthat day we were married.Because you knew then—Isaw it in your face—youknew it wasn’t going to besimple. You knew you werealreadyinoveryourhead.”

She licked her lips, thenspokevery rapidly. “If I loseEverleigh’stohim—”“What?” Here was the

main fear, which she keptcircling back to, which sheheldbeforeherlikeaflamingsword to keep him at bay.“What if you did lose it?God’s name, Catherine—what if you stopped fightingfor it? Imagine this: what ifyousimplyletitgo?”Her jaw sagged. For a

moment, she gaped at him,struck speechless. Then shetwisted out of his grip,writhing like a snapping cat.“Howdareyou—”“I asked you a question,”

hesaid.“Answerit,foronce.Whatwould you lose?Apartfromacompany?”“You—youcan’timagine,”

she whispered. “You . . . Ithought you knew. It isn’tsimply a company. It’s . . .me.”

At least she had said itnow. Put it into words. Hesaw, by the way her gazebroke from his, darted to theside, that she heard thefoolishnessofherownwords.And that alone killed his

temper, and stirredcompassioninitsplace.“Idoknow you feel so,” he said.“It’s howyoumade sense ofthe world, and your place init.And it’s so deep a part ofyou that you’re not sure you

can lose it and still remainwhole.”She nodded once, then bit

her knuckle and bowed herhead.“Then...howcanyouask?”shesaidraggedly.“Because I’m telling you

that you’re wrong. You’restrongerthanyouknow.”Her voice emerged

muffled. “IknowhowstrongIam.”“Then you should know

that you’re bigger than the

company. Everleigh’s isn’tyou, Catherine. You areEverleigh’s. And far morebesides. If you can’t keephold of this version, thenyou’ll make another. A newEverleigh’s, grander andgreaterthantheonethatcamebefore it.” He hesitated. “Icouldhelpyoudoit.I’vegotthefunds.”

***The offer caught her off

guard. For a wild, staggeredmoment, Catherine dared toenvision it.Anauctionhouselike none other, specializinginartworkthatnootherhousewould touch. A center ofrestoration and rare curation,for the most select andknowledgeablepatrons.But at the next moment,

the very prospect made herfeeldizzyanddisorientedandexhausted, as though staringup an endless cliff that she

must scalewithout amap. “Icouldn’t, though. It wouldneverbethesame.Icouldn’tmakeitthesame.”Heloosedalongbreath.“I

never thought to see youdoubtyourself.”She flinched. “I don’t.” It

was the world she doubted.“Don’t you see? WithoutEverleigh’s behindme . . . Iwould be nobody.” Withoutthe respectabilityofaknowninstitutionashercallingcard

—acredentialthatevidenced,even to skeptics, her claimsof professionalism—shewould be nothing but anordinary woman, subject tothe typical condescension ofthemale-governedworld.“You’d be somebody to

me,”hesaid.The tender note in his

voice, the somberness in histhickly lashed gray eyes,struckherlikeanarrowtotheheart. It made her chest feel

full, and choked her breath.“Asyourwife,youmean.”He stepped toward her.

“Yes,” he said in a fiercevoice.“CatherineO’Shea.”She put her hand to the

backofherchair,clawedintothe silk fabric, searching forher will. “Your wife, whomyou will overrule wheneveryou deem it fit. Your wife,whom you will lock awaywhenherdesiresstrikeyouasinconvenient.”

“To hell with that,” hesnarled. “If I think you indanger, yes. That’s what aman does—for his wife, forhis friends, for anyone heloves. You think I give adamnifyou’reangrynow,solongasyou’resafetonight?”Shebarelyheardtherestof

his words, after he’d spokentheone.Loves.Sheblinkedathim,but it didnotbringhimintoclearer focus.Hervisionseemedtohavecloudedover.

He’d not confessed anythingjust then. He’d said justenough to knock her off herbalance, to unsettle her fromthe tight, swaddling layersofindignation...“You promised,” she

whispered.“Youpromised torespectme.”Hestaredather.“Andyou

thinkIdon’t.”“I . . .” Her gut, her

instinct,hadneverbeensoatodds with her clamoring

brain.Youshowedyoudidn’t,her brain nattered, when allshe wished to do was reachout and brush away thatsingle black curl fallingacrosshischeek.Totracetherough lineofhisnose.Thesebattling influences held hermotionless, mute andagonizedwithindecision.Marriage,Catherine,isthe

most perilous risk a womanevertakes.Hegavea sharp tugofhis

mouth.Turnedaway,clawinghisfingersthroughhishairashe stared at the mantel.“Maybe I’m the fool here,”he muttered. “Swallowingyour nonsense, hook, line,andsinker.”Hepivotedback,his face harder, his voiceimplacable. “Well, I won’tbite. I’m done listening toyou.Becausewhatmatters iswhat I see, and that’s acoward,hidingbehindlies.”She sucked in a breath,

stung beyond measure. “Ifyourefertome—”“That’s right. A

businesswoman, you callyourself.” His voice drilled,cold as iron. “But abusinesswomanwouldn’tturnawayfromopportunities.Shewouldn’t shrink from risk.Youcan’t trustme to respectyou? You can’t build a newcompany? Bollocks. Bloodyexcuses. You said it to meonce—afraid to try and fail.

Well, that’s you. It’s gotnothing to do with me. Yousayyoudon’tbelieve inme?Youdon’tbelieveinyourself.That’s what ails you,Catherine—in the end, it’syouwhom you lack faith in.Your own ability. Yourjudgment.What you actuallywant.”Sheopenedhermouth,but

nothing came out. Fear. Hewasaccusingheroffear.AndGod above, but . . . it could

be no coincidence that herheart was pounding; that shefeltunabletodefendherself.He made some noise. It

sounded like contempt. Heturned on his heel for thedoor.Suddenly she was lunging

for him, catching his elbowand dragging him around.“You want to talk of fear?”She glared up at him, at hisstony face, that spaceof saferemove he’d created for

himself. “Then tell me.Whosits on the Board of WorksforWhitechapel?Isityou?”He shrugged out of her

hold. “You’ll not duck thismatterwithaccusations—”“I’mnotaccusingyou.I’m

only speaking the facts. Youspokebeforethatboard—youbrought them to heel, youmade themhold that auction.What else could you do, ifyoumadethemlistentoyourvoiceeveryday?Perhapsyou

could get the sewers fixed.Youoncesaidthatyouwouldtellmybrothertoargueforit.But why should a man fromBloomsbury care for yourstreets?Whywouldyouforceothers to fight your battles,when you’ve proved youcould do it better? What’sstoppingyou?It’snot lackofcare.Would you call it fear?For if I’mafraid,soareyou!And if I’m a coward—areyoulessofone?”

Amuscleinhis jawtickedashestaredather.“Fine,”hesaidatlast.“Fine.Afinepairwemake.I’llnotargueit.”His reply frustrated her. It

provided her no inroad, nogrounds on which to arguewithhimfurther.Andshesaw,inthewayhe

shifted his weight andglanced toward thedoor, thatinamoment,hewould leaveanyway.So she looked for her

courage and gave him whatshecould.“Iwant tobeableto trust you,” she saidroughly.“Iwant...tobethewoman who would take thatrisk.AndIwantyoutobetheman who deserves it. Whodeservesme.ButI...Imustknow, inmy head aswell asmy heart, that the risk isworthit.Thatit’swise.”His mouth softened. Not

quiteasmile.“Youidiot,”hesaid gently. “This . . .

between us . . . it isn’tsupposedtofeelwise.EvenIknow that. And nobody evercalledmearomantic.”He leaned down. His lips

brushed hers softly—toosoftly; he didn’t try to openher mouth, to clasp heragainst him or deepen thekiss, even when she caughthisshouldersandsqueezedinasilentpetition.Andwhen he pulled away

fromher,shecouldnotwork

outthegroundsbywhichshemightpullhimback.Shewastheone,afterall,whohadlefthim.He still stood before her,

but the distance seemedunbridgeable, widening witheachsecondthatshewrestledforwhattosay.Whenshedidspeak, the words emergedunbearably stiff, all wrong.“You’llcometotheauction,Ihope.”And by the shadow that

passed over his face, sherealized that she had proved,at last, that she had nofeminine wiles in her. Notricks bywhich to keep him,no art that might make herfaceandbodycommunicateamessage contrary to herwords.Never had she regretted

thatdeficiencysokeenly.“Do you want me there?”

hesaid.Shefloundered.“Yes,I...

it’s important that it go offwell, for . . . Everleigh’ssake.”His smile was brief and

humorless. “For yours, youmean.”“Well—yes. It would go

far to proving I’m in fullpossession of my faculties,”she said hesitantly. “If I amseen to coordinate asuccessfulsale.”Heclappedhishatontohis

head and said, “I’ll come,

then.”She stood there watching

as he walked out. Such coldwordsonwhichtopart.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Wassheafraid?Coulditbethat he was right? Catherine

askedherselfthisasshestoodbefore the littlemirror inheroffice the morning of theauction.Thethickdoor,hewnof Berkshire walnut—herfather had been so proud ofthat;he’dalwaysinsistedthatno place in the world couldrival Berkshire for walnut—usually proved stalwartagainst thenoises in thehall.Today, however, the tumultseeped through. Downstairs,the doors had been thrown

open,andforthefirsttimeinthe company’s history, thefootmen were not takingnames to check against a listthat had been pruned to anelite and exclusive number.She had already looked outthe window once and felt atfirst sick, and then thrilled,and then sick again at thecrushintheroad.The advertisements had

worked. All of London, itseemed, had turned out to

attend the auction. Whetherany of them had money tospendwasanotherquestion.She looked at her face

now, so pale and tight in themirror. What had she done,inviting the public? If theauction failed, if the salesweremeager,Peterwouldnodoubt use this as evidenceagainsther.Shehadnodoubthe was plotting in somehidey-hole. That they werelocked in a battle now that

would not end until one ofthemhadwonsolecontrolofEverleigh’s.Let it go, O’Shea had

suggested.And then, as though to

showherhowitwasdone,hehad left her.Not a backwardglance. Not a visit in theintervening days. Lilah,noting her wan mood, hadofferedtovisithim,toinquireafterhishealth.But Catherine had refused

the offer. She knew he washale. She had no fear for hiswell-being.Shehadfull faithinhimtolookafterhimself.She thought of him every

wakingmoment.She also thought of her

father. What would he havethought ofNicholasO’Shea?Tooeasily,shecouldimaginehis horror. A man who puthimself above the law. Whorananillegalclub,andboldlyownedhiscrimes.

But . . . she could alsoimagine a different story, inwhich her father saw hisambitions. Hisaccomplishments. Her fatherhad made a wish for her,once, which she had neverforgotten. A man ofdiscerning tastes,who knowsbrilliance when he sees it,andknowstotreasureit,too.Aman.He had not said a

gentleman.Aknockcameat thedoor.

She opened it. Mr. Hastingsstood before her, attiredsmartly in his formal blacks.“I believe we are ready,miss.”She blew out a breath.

“Haveyoutakenaglimpseofthecrowd?”He shifted his weight, his

leathershoescreaking.“A...mixedlot,miss.ButI thinkIseesomegoers.LordHamblyand Lord Monteford areamong them. And Sir

Wimple. Also, I believe,some new faces, verypromising. Come, see foryourself.”Shefollowedhimdownthe

stairs, her heart drummingharder with each step. Herfather seemed to be walkingbesideher.Hehadurgedhernever to forget the auctionrooms. Would he haveapprovedthisinnovation?Artisourcalling.Youwillbethesoulofthisplace.

They entered the saleroomthrough a private door. Shelost her breath at the crowdjammed inside it. The crushspilled out into the hall. Thebalcony, so rarely used, hadbeen opened, the screensthrown back. People leanedover, some only to gawk,otherstoexaminethefirstlot,the tambour-topped writingtable, which two assistantswere arranging on the daisbesidetherostrum.

A seat had been kept forher, on the other side of thepodium. But she foundherself standing behind it,gripping the chair tightly asshescannedthecrowd.There. At the back wall,

standing beside Lilah andLord Palmer. She metO’Shea’seyes.Henoddedtoher.“Good morning,” said

Hastings from the lectern.“Mythankstoyou,ladiesand

gentlemen, for attending thishistoric occasion, the firstpublic auction to be held inthis establishment. Thecollection today isa rareandvaried one, spanningcenturiesandcontinentsinitsexcellence...”His words faded as she

stared atO’Shea.He did notlook away from her. Thecrowd, the noise, might nothaveexisted.He smiled slightly. She

smiled back, a tremblingsmilethatseemedtodislodgesome piece of her heart. Itplummeted straight into herstomach as Hastings openedthebidding.The reserve was met and

instantly raised. A buzz rose—sherecognized theedgeoftitillation; the excitement atsuch rich figures. It had noplaceinasaleroom,properly;someofthecrowdhadclearlycome only to ogle the

wealthy. For a moment, thebiddingpaused, and thebuzzseemed to assume a sour,snidetone.“Fifty going once,”

Hastings intoned. “Fifty forthis rare specimen, thiseighteenth-century tambour-topped writing table, finemahogany, the bestworkmanship you’ll find,fiftygoingtwice—”It should go for eighty at

least. She squeezed the back

of the chair, anxious. If thefirst lot went low, the restwould be sure to follow thatsad suit. It was no way toopen; that was why she’dslottedthetablefirst,hoping,counting, on it to start theauctionbriskly—“Sixty,” came a coarse

malevoice—onesuspiciouslyfamiliar to her. She frowned,hunting through the crowd,and barely mastered herreactionasshecaughtsightof

Johnson, boldly lifting hishand.“I have sixty,” said

Hastings, “sixty, very good,sir.DoIhear—”“Sixty-five.”And thatwas

Malloy!“Seventy,” Johnson

barked,scowling.She bowed her head and

rubbedherbrow,maskingherexpression lest it betray her.O’Sheawasrunningaringinher auction—a ring in

reverse, to drive up thebidding!Itcertainlywasn’tethical.Her swelling heart did not

care.“Seventy-five.” That was

Lilah’svoice,cool, feminine.Another first: a formerhostess, bidding in thesaleroom!“Eighty,” someone else

called—a stranger, whomCatherine did not recognize.Atlast!

“Eighty-five,” Lilah shotback.From there, the figure

mountedwithdizzyingspeed.Amid the mounting clamor,the shifting of the throng, itwas impossible to tell whowas bidding, but none of thevoices were familiar to her.Above, Hastings had a clearview,andwasglancingaboutthe room, pointing andnodding, beckoning with hishand.

“Hundred twenty-fivegoingonce,”he said. “Goingtwice—sold, to LordMontefordinthecorner!”The crowd burst into

applause, and Catherine’sknees seemed to weaken. Ithadtakenoffnow.Thecrowdwas warmed up; bids wereflowing.The next lot was brought

out—the Sheraton dresser,looking, thanks toBatten, farmoreelegantthanwhenshe’d

first glimpsed it in O’Shea’sstoreroom. Hastings hadbarely finished describing itbeforethefirstbidwascalled—and the second and thirdfollowedinswiftsuccession.Onlythendidshefeelable

to take her seat. This time,when she bowed her head, itwastohideasmile.

***“Success,wasit?”Startled, she turned.

O’Sheastood in thedoorwaytoheroffice,aparcelbeneathhis arm. He was not dressedtolinger;healreadyworehishat and gloves, and a graymuffler around his neck thatmade his eyes flash likesilver.She cleared her throat. “A

smashing success. Beyondmywildesthope,even.”Howstiltedshesounded.She triedfor humor. “Congratulations,sir.You’ve justmadeagreat

dealofmoney.”He shook his head. “For

once,Ididn’tmakeit.Icameinto it, like a propergentleman.”Her smile kept slipping

away. “I’m not sure moneyhas anything to do withgentlemanliness,” she saidquietly. “Either way, you fitthepart.”He gave her an odd look,

as though unsure of what tomakeof thecompliment.His

reactionmadeherfeelall themore miserable and tongue-tied.Iwasafraid,shewantedto

say.Youwereright.Butbeforeshecouldshape

thewords, he had pulled theparcel from beneath his arm,offering it to her. “I broughtthisforyou.”She took it hesitantly. It

feltlikeabook,averyheavyone. She could feel the ridgeof the spine through the

brown paper wrapping.“Should I . . . Do you wishmetoopenit?”“No need. You’ve seen it

before. Ours are the onlysignaturesinit.”It took a moment to

understand. There was onlyone book they had signedtogether. “The registerbook?”“One and the same, with

thecertificate tucked inside.”Heheldhergaze.“There’sno

otherproof,mindyou.Imadesureofthat.”“But . . . why are you

givingthistome?”He tookadeepbreath and

retreated a pace toward thedoor. “Here’s the thing,Catherine. You asked meonce if my nose had beenbroken.Youremember?”Jarred, she cast her mind

back. She located themoment, found it embeddedamid some of the most

startling, heated minutes ofherlife.Their wedding day. His

bed.Theveryfirsttimeshehad

daredtotouchhim.Her gaze fell to the parcel

in her hands, the edges socrisply folded, so neatlytucked. Somebody had takengreatcarewiththis.Theyhadbound it in twine severalmore times than necessary.“Yes,” she said. “I

remember.”“I’dhopeso.”Therewasa

smile in his voice, but whensheglancedup,hopingtoseeit, she found him looking ather with a curiously soberconcentration. “I never toldyou how it happened,” hesaid. “The first time, Imean.No wonder there. I’ve neverspoken of it to a soul. NorhaveIthoughtonit,I’mgladtosay,foraverylongtime—not until today, when I was

wrapping up that book foryou.”She clutched the parcel

tightly.Hehadwrapped this.Hehadtakencarewithit,hadspentmoretimethanrequiredoncreasingthefolds,tyingitupintwine.Suddenly thebook seemed

toweighfiftypounds.Itcameto her to lean againstsomething—or to sit down;such was the silence settlingbetween them, a brooding,

heavy weight that foretold ablowtocome.Instead, she straightened

her shoulders, braced herselfagainst it. That strained lookonhisfacewassounfamiliar.Whateverhemeanttotellherobviously came at a cost tohim. She could bear thehearing, if he could bear thetelling.“Tellme,”shewhispered.He brushed his fingers

along the bridge of his nose,

then lowered his hand to hisside—trying,perhaps,tohidethefistitmade.“Itwasamanwho broke it.” He spokeevenly. “A landlord, thoughthe title is too kind. Aslumlord,let’ssay.Heownedmost of the buildings inSpitalfieldsback then—that’swhere my ma raised me.She’d never married, ofcourse—but there was afondnessbetweenherandmyfather. He dropped by every

now and then. Spared coinwhenhehadit,tomakesureIwas well kept. And my ma,she did her best, too. Thisroom we’d landed in, thefloorboards were rotting, theroof leaked in the rain,but itwas a step up. The rent, shesaid, was wondrous. Shecould afford it, barely. Withthe help from my da, shecould pay for it. Sometimeswe even ate meat on aSunday.”

Hisspeechhadfallenintoadifferent rhythm, choppedand coarse. She doubted heknew it. His gaze shiftedaway from hers, fixedsomewhere in the middledistanceashewenton.“Now,whenmydadied,it

got rougher topay therent. IguessshetookupwithBell—thatwasthenameofthemanwhoownedtheplace.Tradedwhatshecouldtohim,inlieuof coin. Only then it

happened again—she foundherself belly full, I mean. Ireckon she despaired whenshe found out—anothermouth to feed, when shecould barely fill mine.” Hefocused on her then, anunblinking stare. “I dounderstand, Kitty, why awoman might fear to betrapped.Thereareallsortsoftraps in life. And women,theyfacemorethantheirfairshare.”

She sucked in a sharpbreath.Shehadno ideawhattosay.But he seemed not to

require a reply. After asecond,heshruggedandsaid,“So one day, Bell comesknocking, looking for hisrent. Only this time, shedoesn’t have it—not enough,at any rate. So they have itout, while I’m on the otherside of the curtain. I hearsomething that tipsme off—

realize she’s breeding, andBell is the dad. And being aproper young hothead, Idecide to confront him.” Anuglysmiletwistedhismouth.“Defendherhonor,Isuppose.Stupid.Soyoung.”She did not like the

contempt in his voice. Thatyoungboyhe’dbeendidnotdeservehisscorn.“Don’tsaythat.Ofcourseyouwishedtodefendher.”He sighed. “See, that’s a

fine aim for lads raised inyourworld.But inmine, it’ssheer foolishness. Honormeans nothing once you’restarving. And my motherknew that. She knew I wasruining her chances. For itseemedBellhadmadeheranoffer. He’d a hankering foranother son, didn’t matterwhereby he got it. So they’dstruck a deal; he’d supporther until the babe came, andset her up nicely if it

happened to be a boy. Onlythen Iwent at him like a curgone rabid, andknockedhimonhisarse,andhethreatenedtoleaveMaflat.Saidthedealwas off, until I kissed hisbootsandbegged.Otherwise,hewasdonewithher.”Godinheaven.Shesetthe

packagedownveryslowlyonthe desk, for fear she woulddropit.“Whatdidyoudo?”His face looked bleak, but

his voice leveled, recovering

the usual polish of hisvowels. “I did it. For hersake, I did it. Took somepersuasion, of course. Sometears.Butforhersake,Iwentdown on my knees and Ikissed that bastard’s boot.”His mouth curved. “And helostnot amoment inkickingmestraightintheface.Brokemy nose, chipped off a nicepieceofonetooth.”Her hands were over her

mouth. How they’d gotten

there, she didn’t know. Shefelt the ragged rush of herbreath, shockingly hot in thechilloftheroom.Heshrugged.“Hetookher

in,though.Notthatitmadeadifference. Babe came tooearly. Took her along to thegrave.”Itwastoomuch.Shefound

herself stepping toward him,reaching for him, her handsclosing on the soft wool ofhis sleeve. “Mr. O’Shea—”

But no, thatwas not right. Itwas profane. “Nicholas. I’mso—”“Don’t say you’re sorry,”

hecutinsoftly.“LikeIsaid,Ihaven’t dwelled on it inyears.Butthelessonittaughtme, I’ll never forget. Youdon’t beg for anyone. For itnever comes to good.Nothing’s worth that price.AndIdon’tmeanthepriceishonor or pride. I mean, it’sgot to dowith knowing your

own worth. The world willcrush you, if you let it. Soyou don’t. You stand tall.Andyouneverstoop,becausethere’s nothing worth havingthatrequiresyoutogrovel.”For a brief, blessed

moment,hecuppedhercheekinhisglovedhand.And thenhe stepped backward,removing himself from hertouch, so her own handsclosed on empty air. Henodded toward the desk, the

registerbookshe’dleftthere.“I won’t keep you

trapped,” he said. “Not evenfor five years.You burn thatbook, and nobody can saythis marriage ever happened.You’re free as a bird, Kitty.AndIwon’tbegyoutocomeback to me, even if I wantto.” He exhaled. “And I do.There’s the hell of it. Youalmostmademebeg.Instead,I’llspeakplainly:Iwantyou.I love you. But you’ll come

freely, of your own choice.Oryouwon’t.”“I...”Say it.“I’llcome,”

shesaidhoarsely.“Ithink...Iwillcome.”He made a convulsive

move, as though to grab her—butthenhedecidedagainstit.Instead,handsfistingathis

sides, he withdrew anotherpace. “I don’t want you tothink,” he said quietly. “Iwant you to know. I won’t

have you uncertain. And Iwon’t have you in secret,either. I’ll have you in frontof theworld, andyou’ll holdyourheadhighbesideme.OrI’llnothaveyouatall.”He turnedonhisheel.Her

heart leapt into her throat,choking her, uncontainable.She opened her mouth—andheturnedback.“Onemore thing,” he said

gruffly. “I’m taking over theseat for Whitechapel on the

Board of Works. You wereright,Iguess.Itwastime.”The breath left her. “You

were right, too,” shewhispered.Buthedidnothearher.Or

he pretended not to.Withoutanotherword,heleft.

***It was one of those raremornings that rightfullybelonged toOctober,buthadsomehow found its way into

December by mistake. Thesun shone brightly throughthe bare-branched trees, andthe park was full of nanniesin black gowns, overseeingthe games of children inneatly starched pinafores andsmartly-pressedtrousers.Catherine paused to watch

the scene. To draw anotherdeep lungful of the bracingair. Winter was upon them.Shewould longsoonenoughfor the days when she had

walked down the pavementwithout regard for the chill.This moment in particularwouldcometomind—oneofthe rarest in her life, for shenever acted rashly, withoutfirst feeling certain of theoutcome.Shehadonlydoneit twice

before, in fact. The publicauction.AndthedayshehadwedNicholas.The sound of children’s

laughter followed her up the

short flight of stairs. Auniformedservantopenedthedoorforher,bowingsmartly.The lobby was mostly

empty. One desk sat vacant;at the other, a singlegentleman waited to speakwith the clerk. The sightbaffled her, brought her to astop. She had counted on alonger queue. She hadcounted on a few moreminutes,atleast.She found herself turning

back toward the door, thesunlit scene without. Thefalse promise of autumn,when winter was alreadyhere.She caught herself with

onehandonthedoor.Wavedoff the doorman and turnedbackintotheroom.Shecouldnot be sure of the outcome.Thewaitingwouldbepainful.The result might shatter her.Itmightbetoolate.Butnopartofherdoubted

hercourse.“Madam?”A new clerk had entered

thelobby,wastakinghisseatat the desk. “May I helpyou?”heasked.He looked very young,

though she noticed a ringshining on his finger as sheapproached, which mighthave been a wedding band.Some men had taken towearing them of late.But helooked too young to be a

husband. She saw no sign ofwhiskers, and his cheekslooked plump, as though hestill sat at his mother’s tableevery night, cosseted andurgedtoeatmore.Butmaybe itwas hiswife

whocossetedhim.Maybehewaswiserthanhisyears,andhe had met a rare girl, andleapt tomarry her, before helost his chance to somebodyquicker, bolder. Morecourageous. Rare chances,

wondrous chances, did notcomeoften.“Ma’am?” He was

frowningupather,hissandybrowsknitted.“Areyouquiteallright?”“Iamverywell,”shesaid,

and she sounded well; shesounded bold, decisive, awoman who knew how toseizeanopportunitybeforeitgot away. “I would like totake out an announcement inyournewspaper.”

“What kind ofannouncement?”heasked.She smiled. “An

announcement of marriage,”she said. “Mine, to Mr.NicholasO’Shea.”

***“You’llwearout thecarpet,”Lilah drawled. “And I ratherlike it, for all that it’s themostimpracticalcolor.”Catherine wheeled. Lilah

looked intolerably

comfortable, stretched acrossthe chaise longue beneath acashmere throw, a book inherhand.Shedidnotseematall alarmed by the fact thatthe marriage announcementhad been published to theworld eight hours ago, plainas day, in stark black andwhite, albeit tucked inabominablysmallprintinthevery last page of the Times.Regardless, it was publicknowledge now. Anyone

mightreadofit.Yet no visitors had called.

Notasinglerapatthedoor.Nicholas O’Shea was

nowhereinevidence.“He’s not coming.” For

hours she had battled thisawful suspicion, and now itcame rushing out, acidic likebile. Like fear, fear such asshe’d never known. “He’schanged his mind. He gaveme that register bookhopingI’dburnit.”

“I very much doubt that.”Lilahcastasideherbookandstretched,armsoverherhead,lolling with shamelessabandon. Was she evenwearingacorset?Herposturemade Catherine verysuspicious suddenly. “He’scanny, I’ll give you thatmuch. But if he wanted itburned, he’d have burned ithimself.”“How can you be so

calm?”

Lilahshovedherselfupononeelbow.“Mencanbeverystubborn,” she said. “Perhapsyoushouldcallonhim.”“What? I can’t!” The

notionleftheraghast.“Don’tyou see? He walked awayfromme.He said—he said Imustprovemyself.Well,I’vedoneit.MustIdoalltherestaswell?”Lilah sighed, then sat up

fully. “Catherine,” she said.“You’ve lived at Diamonds.

You’ve been to Neddie’s.Haveyoueverseenamanineitherofthoselocalesmakinga study of marriageannouncements in theTimes?”Spoken aloud, the idea

seemed ludicrous. Mouthagape, she shook her head.“Youcan’t . . .Doyouthinkhehasn’tseenit?”“I think it possible that he

has no idea what you’vedone. So perhaps you should

gomakeitcleartohim.”She stood indecisively for

amoment.Goingtohimwasnot at all what she’dimagined. Going to himmeant...possiblyfacinghisrejection in person. If theannouncementwasn’tenough—ifhewasnotpersuaded, ifhe had changed his mind—why, she did not think shecouldbeartowitnessthelookon his facewhen he told herso.

“Considerthis,”Lilahsaid.“Doyouwanttoremainhere,waiting, another day? Orpossiblyfive,orten?”“You couldwrite to him,”

Catherinewhispered.“No,” Lilah said gently.

“Thatwouldbewrong,and Ithinkyouknowit.”She pushed out a breath,

then nodded. “May I borrowyourcoach?”“Ofcourse.”Lilahlayback

again, smiling. “Oh, and if

youpassChristianinthehallon your way out, tell him Ihave . . . something to showhim.”Catherine snorted. No

doubt, then—Lilah wascertainlynotwearingacorset.

***Without Johnson’s key, shehad noway to use the secretpassagethroughtheshop.Forthat matter, she needn’tbotherwith secrecy,did she?

Not when the rest of theworld now knew of hermarriage—even if, so sheprayed, the other party hadyettorealizeit.All the same, it was very

odd to approach the frontdoor of Diamonds and bearthe mystified looks of twoyoung swells waiting to beadmitted. They gawkedoutright when Callan openedthe door and admitted herstraightaway, while leaving

them to cool their heels onthe grounds that theestablishment did not opentillhalfthree.“Isheupstairs?”sheasked

tenselyasCallanledherpasttheemptybaizetables.“His office,” he said. “I

don’t think he’s expectingyou.”The words scored her like

claws. She bit her lip hardand summoned her courage.“That’s all right,” she said.

“I’llshowmyselfup.”His door stood ajar. She

did not bother to knock,throwing it open andspeaking at the same time.“Do you not read thenewspaper?”Nicholaswas seated at his

desk,workingthroughathicksheafofpapers.Atthesoundofhervoice,hecastdownhispen, but she saw hisshoulders square before helookedupather.

“No,”hesaidevenly.“Notonregularoccasion.”Her throat filled. Some

knot she could not quiteswallow. Nerves, maybe;hopes and fears and anxietyall tangled up in one lump.Howwellhe looked.Notyetinhiseveningwear,notevenfully dressed; his waistcoatwas unbuttoned, butshirtsleevesbecamehisbroadshouldersverywell.“Perhapsyoushould,”shewhispered.

His jaw tightened.“Reading is not my strongsuit.”She pressed a hand to her

mouth. Lilah had been right.Whatanidiotshewas!“Doesnobody around here read thenewspapers?Have a care forthe state of the country?Thestocks, the gossip, the . . .fashions?”Hisbrowlifted.“Istherea

reasontheyshould?”Histonewasallwrong.So

polite,sodistant,wheninherdreams he was rushingtoward her, wrapping her inhisarms,puttingheragainstadoor the way he had doneonce, showing her withlanguage deeper than wordshow much he wanted her.The disjuncture betweenfantasy and reality left herstrangely off-balance,confused and dizzy. She felttrapped inside some poorlyscripted farce, while he was

following a different script,cold and refined. “I wouldimagine one of your—yourcustomers might havementioned it,” she said. But—of course; the clubdidnotopenuntilhalf three.Perhapshe’d met no customers yettoday.He rose from his desk,

frowning. “Was there somestory printed about theauction, then? Did word getout that the collection was

mine?”A disbelieving laugh

spilledfromher.“No!Thatis—yes! The Times didmention the sale. But therewasalsothis.”Shetossedhernewspaper onto the desk andcrossed her arms to hold herheart in her chest, for it wasknocking hard enough tobreakfree.Helookeddownatit.Back

upather.“Youmightaswelltellme,”hesaidflatly.

“No.” Suddenly she feltmutinous. He’d obviouslyhad a very calm, collectedmorning.Meanwhile,shehadbeen stewing in that house,stretchedonaprivaterackofnerves, straining for thesoundofaknockthathadnotcome,agonizing—She huffed out a breath.

“Look for yourself. I don’tcare how long it takes you.I’llwait.”Shedroppedintoachair.“Goon.Ihaveallday.”

“Allday?”Heliftedabrowas he came around the desk.“Workdoesn’tkeepyou?”“Forget the auction

rooms,”shesnapped.“Read.”“Forget the . . .” He gave

her a marveling look, whichnarrowed as he reached forthe newspaper. He leanedback against the desktop,lookingdownthefrontpage.“Not that page,” she

blurted.“Theveryback.”Heflippeditover.Shesaw

the effort he took, squintingashescannedtheprint.Foramannoteasywithreading, itwas no small task to lookover the crowded columns,the crammed typeset, for asingleunknownitem.Shesawthemomentwhen

he reached her weddingannouncement. The paperabruptly crumpled beneaththe clench of his fist. Helooked up at her, mouthagape. For one moment, she

thought she saw a world ofemotion in his face. Shethought she saw a happyending,afterall.Andthenheclawedahand

throughhishairandburstintolaughter. “By God,” he said,choking out the syllables.“He’s done for, after all.Killedinonesentence.”“What?”Shesprangtoher

feet.“Who?”“Your brother. You’ve

finishedhim.”

Hewould talk now of herbrother?“Isthatallyouhaveto say?” She feltunaccountably furious,suddenly.Forshehadshowedcourage—shehadprovedthatshehadnodoubts;that,ratherthan hiding, she wouldtrumpet theirmarriage to theworld. And he was laughingatherforit?He shook his head,

strugglingforcomposure;puthisfistagainsthismouthand

draggedinahoarsebreath.“Iwas going to send word toyou,”hesaid,hisvoiceoddlyrough. “Your brother—I hadPilcherbroker thedeal.Peterkeepshisseatontheboard,inexchange for selling his halfof the auction rooms. ButPilcher and I mean to keephim useless, as far as theboard goes. It’s all done,Catherine.”Hegropedbehindhim, not taking his eyes offher as he found andheldout

thestackofpapershe’dbeenlookingthrough.“Everleigh’sis yours. I had a solicitordrawupthetransferofsale.”She stared at him.Then at

the contract. Hers?Everleigh’s,entirelyhers?No.Thiswasn’t right. She

didn’t want this gift now, ofall times.Theauctionrooms,overshadowing what she’ddone today—what thatnewspaperannounced—“Forgetthat,”shesaidvery

softly.“ForgetEverleigh’s.”Hestaredatherforasilent

moment,shocktighteninghisfeatures. Then he opened hishand.Thecontractthuddedtothefloor.“What did you just say?”

heasked.Sheclearedherthroat.Said

it louder. “ForgetEverleigh’s.”“Did you . . .” Now he

cleared his throat. “Did youtake out that announcement

formysake?”Herstomachjumped.“Yes,

of course.Why else would Ihavedoneit?”“To . . . check your

brother.” He blinked, thenstraightened off the desk.“You took out thatannouncement for me,” hesaid, but this time there wasnoquestioninhiswords,onlywonder. And there, at last,was what she had wanted tosee inhis face—the look she

hadbeenenvisioning,willing,prayingtobehold.Hesteppedtoward her, a prowlingmovement, full of design.Seized her hands, then liftedeach to his mouth, kissingthem in turn. “For me,” hewhispered.“Yes,yes,yes.”Shepulled

her hands freeof his only soshe could grasp his face. “Itook it out. I wanted theworldtoknow.”“That we’re married,” he

said huskily. He turned hisface,kissedherpalm.“That we’re married,” she

agreed. “That you’re myhusband. That I . . . dobelieveIloveyou.”“Believe?”Hefixedher in

anarrowgaze.“Know,” she whispered.

“Butperhaps...perhapsyouhad better make sure of itnow. Against . . .” Sheswallowed, feeling the blushsteal over her. He noticed it.

His gaze dropped to hermouth, and the heat in hislookloosenedhernextwords,brought them out in a rush:“Againstthedoor.”“Against the . . .”A smile

slowly widened his mouth.“Youlikedthat,didyou?”“I seem”—her voice was

breathless, ragged—“I seemto be more wanton than Iknew.”“Oh, you don’t know the

half of it yet.” He lifted her

beneathherarms,carriedherup against the door, held herthereasheburiedhis face inher neck. “You’ve got . . .”Byherhandonhisback,shefeltthedeepbreathhetookofher.“Alot to learn,”hesaid,lips brushing over her skin.“Happily, seems we’ve gotthetime.”“All the time,” she said.

“All the time in the world.”But after a long moment, inwhich his grip tightened, but

he seemed content only tohold her, she frowned. “Iwouldn’t mind hurrying upwiththislesson,though.”He lifted his head,

laughing, his dark faceimpossibly beautiful, morebeautiful than she had everrealized, for there were noshadowsinitnow,nothinginhis look but the kind ofwonder, the open unveiledadoration, that she had seenonly in dreams—and never

daredenvisionforherself.“I hate to disappoint my

wife,” he murmured, “but Idon’t mean to hurry thistime.”She almost argued. But as

he kissed her, a deep,leisurely kiss that madepleasurepurldownherspine,she changed her mind andthreaded her hands throughhis hair. No need to rush,after all. She was exactlywhere she wished to be. He

couldtakeaslongasheliked.

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ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

AuthorphotographbyShelleyMcGuire

MEREDITH DURAN is the

author of eight previousnovels,includingTheDukeofShadows (winner of theGather.com First ChaptersRomance WritingCompetition), WickedBecomes You (included onthe Woman’s World list ofBest Beach Reads forSummer 2010), and theUSAToday bestseller Fool MeTwice.She blames Anne Boleyn

for sparking her lifelong

obsession with Britishhistory, and for convincingher that princely love is noprizeifitdoesn’tcomewithahappily-ever-after.Sheenjoyscollecting old etiquettemanuals, guidebooks tonineteenth-century London,and travelogues by intrepidVictorianwomen.Visitheratwww.meredithduran.com, orcatch upwith her onTwitterandFacebook.

FORMOREONTHISAUTHOR:authors.simonandschuster.com/Meredith-

Duran

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TheDukeofShadowsBoundbyYourTouchWrittenonYourSkinWickedBecomesYou

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LadyBeGood

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Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orrealplacesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andeventsareproductsoftheauthor’simagination,andanyresemblancetoactualeventsorplacesorpersons,livingordead,isentirely

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Copyright©2015byMeredithDuran

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CoverartbyAlanAyers

ISBN978-1-4767-4136-9ISBN978-1-4767-4139-0(ebook)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

ChapterOne

ChapterTwo

ChapterThree

ChapterFour

ChapterFive

ChapterSix

ChapterSeven

ChapterEight

ChapterNine

ChapterTen

ChapterEleven

ChapterTwelve

ChapterThirteen

ChapterFourteen

ChapterFifteen

ChapterSixteen

ChapterSeventeen

AbouttheAuthor