“Would it not be prudent for you to tarry awhile? Your home is still several days’ journey north and I cannot be easy about you attempting the journey.

“Perhaps it would be…prudent to stay a bit longer.”

“Y-yes, more prudent,” Belle echoed. Though she knew it was not prudent at all.

Though Jack then spoke of mundane matters, she found herself leaning closer, listening intently as if each word were a clue. His lips fascinated her, and she felt an inexplicable need to touch them.

Have them touch hers.

Mesmerized by the golden flecks dancing in the irises of his dark brown eyes, she didn’t immediately notice that his lips had stilled, his voice had gone silent. His eyes narrowed, darkened with a heat she recognized only too well.

She waited, scarcely breathing, as his lips descended nearer, until his sigh mingled with her own.

She closed her eyes, every nerve tingling with anticiption. Awareness of him spiraled through her body, from her fingertips down.

How would he taste? she wondered.

PRAISE FOR THE BOOKS OF JULIA JUSTISS

Wicked Wager

“This book has everything lovers of Harlequin romances live for!”

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My Lady’s Honor

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My Lady’s Trust

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Julia Justiss
The Courtesan

To the Evelettes for fun, friendship and your

support through all the crises of the

writerly life. I love you!

The Courtesan

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

“C’MON, JACK! You used to be game for any lark!”

Jack Carrington, captain in the 1st Foot Guards, peered over a stack of half-unpacked linen at the young dandy accosting him from his doorway. “I’m happy to see you, too, Aubrey, and while I appreciate the flattering enthusiasm for my company which led you to hunt me down before breakfast, I’m not interested in going anywhere. I didn’t reach London until late last night, and as you can see, I’ve yet to settle into my rooms. Can this excursion not wait?”

Receiving the rebuff with no noticeable dimming of his enthusiasm, Aubrey Ludlowe crossed the room and, pushing aside Jack’s portmanteau, poured himself some ale from the flagon on the desk. “Can’t wait. Besides, why unpack? Leave it for your man.”

“I sent my batman to rejoin his family as soon as we landed and haven’t yet had time to find a replacement.”

Aubrey waved his hand. “Let your new man attend to it after you hire him. The lesson begins shortly, and if we do not arrive soon, all the best seats will be taken.”

Surprised, Jack swallowed his ale in a gulp. “You want to drag me away at barely past dawn to watch a lesson?Since when did you develop such enthusiasm for education? Not while we were at Oxford, to be sure!”

Aubrey set his mug down with a thump, his expression affronted. “’Tisn’t a matter of some rubbishy book-learning! Nay, ’tis more important than that. Indeed, ’tis the most important thing going on now in London, what with the Season not yet begun. Every gentleman of note will be present. Stands to reason there must be a decision soon, and good friend that I am, I don’t wish you to miss having a chance.”

Jack stared at Aubrey. “A lesson is the most important event now taking place in London?” he asked, trying to sift the most intelligible bits from his friend’s speech. A sudden thought occurred and he leaned forward to sniff the air. “Are you sheets-to-the-wind, Aubrey?”

His friend chuckled, seemingly much less offended to be accused of being drunk at seven in the morning than at the suggestion he’d taken up scholarship. “Nay, though I don’t mind a little nip first thing, to revive the spirits. A sirloin wouldn’t come amiss either, but we haven’t time.” Aubrey snatched the folded shirt from Jack’s hands and tossed it on the bed. “Wear regimentals, since you’re half dressed in them already, but we leave now. The fencing master closes the doors promptly at seven-thirty.”

“You’re haranguing me to go to a fencing lesson?” A sudden vision filled Jack’s head—smoke, screams, the rattle of musketry and clang of blades, himself with saber slashing. Shaking it off, he said grimly, “No, thank you, Aubrey. My fencing skills are quite proficient enough. Pray God, I shall never need to hone them again.”

His friend sobered. “Amen to that. Heard Waterloo was a dreadful slaughter. But I’m proposing a different sort of contest—and one you definitely will want to see. Trust me, old fellow! Have I ever led you awry?”

Recalling a long line of dubious exploits stretching from childhood to university, Jack smiled. “Frequently.”

Grinning back, Aubrey protested, “Well, not this time. If you decide I was wrong, you may afterward exact whatever retribution you like, but I’m sure you will be thoroughly grateful I insisted you come along. ’Tis nearly a…a life-altering experience! Or,” he added with a heavy sigh, “so it has proved for many of us. But no more—you must see for yourself. You’ll thank me, I promise you!”

“Oh, very well,” Jack capitulated, his curiosity by now thoroughly piqued. Abandoning the shirts, he shrugged on his uniform jacket. “In compensation for making me leave my kit in such disorder, you may buy me breakfast.”

“Immediately after the match,” Aubrey promised. “Only hurry! I’ve a hackney waiting.”

With the speed of long practice, Jack looped the fasteners as he followed Aubrey into the hall.

“Why are you staying here at Albany anyway?” Aubrey asked as he hustled Jack down the stairs. “Dorrie’s making her come-out, isn’t she? Why not move into the family manse?”

“Mama and Dorothy won’t be coming to London for another month. You know old Quisford won’t stir from Carrington Grove until the family leaves, nor would he trust an underling to properly open the house here. When I mentioned I intended to put up at Grillon’s until they arrive, a fellow officer whose regiment hasn’t yet been ordered home from Paris offered me the use of his rooms at Albany.”

“You’ll stay in London until the family comes?” Aubrey asked as they boarded the waiting hackney.

“I’ll remain just long enough to sell out, purchase new garments and consult our solicitors. Then I’m off to breathe country air and let Mama and Dorrie fuss over me.”

“If they can spare you the time,” Aubrey replied, signaling the driver to start. “When Mama fired off my sister, ’twas such a frenzy of preparations you’d think they were mustering an army. You’ll return with them for the Season, of course?”

“Yes, after I get the spring planting sorted out with Ericson. I promised Dorrie I’d escort her to parties, introduce her to any army chums who happen to be in town and see that only eligible gentlemen are encouraged to call. Which leaves you out,” he added with a grin.

“As if she’d look at me anyway, when we’ve known each other since we were in leading strings,” Aubrey retorted. “Besides, I’ve no desire yet to become a tenant-for-life.”

“Since as Dorrie’s equerry I shall be obliged to go about in society, I plan to keep my eyes open. Perhaps I’ll discover a little charmer who persuades me to settle down.”

When Aubrey chortled in disbelief, Jack continued, “No, I’m serious. There’s something about finding oneself intact, after riding through a hail of musketry and artillery shot, that makes one contemplate one’s own mortality. Perhaps it’s time I do my duty to marry.”

Aubrey stared at him. “I believe you mean it. Thank heaven I’m a younger son! No duties of procreation for me—not of the legitimate variety anyway,” he amended.

“So what illegitimate activity are we pursuing this morning? Must be of some great moment, to get you up at such an hour. Or have you merely not been to bed yet?”

“Got a few hours’ sleep,” Aubrey replied. “Man needs his wits about him for this endeavor.”

“Which is precisely…what?” Jack pressed.

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

And with that, Jack had to be content. During the rest of the drive, Aubrey refused to be coaxed, tricked or bullied into revealing anything further. Mystified and a bit annoyed, Jack was more than happy when his friend had the carriage stop at a modest town house in Soho Square.

They followed several other gentlemen up the stairs to the main floor where Aubrey, after tossing coins into a box beside the door, led him into what appeared to be a converted ballroom. The area by the door was thronged with groups of chatting gentlemen; beyond them was arranged an assortment of chairs, all occupied.

“Blast, I knew we’d tarried too long,” Aubrey grumbled. “Now we shall have to stand.”

After scanning the crowd, Aubrey elbowed a path to a space against the left wall. “This will have to do. Ah, they’re beginning. Is that not magnificent?”

In the sudden hush, Jack heard the clang of steel on steel. Turning his attention to the floor, he noted facing them an older man clad in breeches and shirtsleeves. His opponent, posing en garde with his back to them, appeared to be a mere stripling, but before Jack could glean any further impression, the young man went on the attack.

Although the older gentleman, clearly the instructor, was taller and heavier, the young student seemed nearly his match. The flashing blades struck sparks as the boy thrust and counterthrust, offsetting the master’s advantage in size and experience with superior agility and audacious, risky changes of direction that allowed him to steadily drive the man back.

His distaste for combat forgotten, Jack’s attention riveted on the interplay of blade with blade. When, after checking an advance intended to throw him off balance, the boy countered with a thrust so swift and unexpected Jack barely saw the weapon move, he joined the gallery in a roar of approval as the master’s sword went flying.

“Brilliant!” he said to Aubrey while the student trotted to retrieve the errant foil. “How long has he…”

As the boy untied his mask and turned to face them, the rest of Jack’s sentence went unuttered. Walking toward them, the master’s sword in hand, was not a young lad, but a girl.

A woman, rather, Jack amended, noting with appreciation the curves suggested beneath the loose-fitting linen shirt and breeches. Though with those rounded hips, that delicious curve of bottom, how could he have believed for a moment the student was a boy?

And her face—Jack literally caught his breath as his gaze rose to what must rank as one of the Almighty’s supremest acts of creation. Its shape a perfect oval, the skin luminescent as a China pearl, her countenance was animated by large eyes of deep gentian blue set under arched brows. Though the full, petal-pink lips were unsmiling, the newly minted gold hair pulled severely back and tucked into a knotted queue, she was without question the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld.

Aubrey’s low chuckle pulled him from his rapt contemplation. “Did I not tell you?”

Realizing from the amusement on his friend’s face that his mouth must be hanging open, Jack shut it with a snap. “Who is she?”

“Lady Belle—or at least, that’s what the ton calls her, after her long-time protector, Lord Bellingham.”

“An actress?”

“No, a courtesan—and since Bellingham’s death a month ago, the most sought-after woman in London. Every unattached gentleman in the city has been pressing her to consider his offer, though Lord Rupert—” Aubrey gestured to a tall, thin man in black, his expression as somber as his garb “—has the blunt to outbid all comers. Rumor says he once offered Bellingham two thousand guineas to relinquish his claims to Belle—and doubled the offer to the lady privately, though she never left Bellingham, so it might be all a hum. Thought you might want to enter the running.”

“At a starting bid of four thousand guineas?” Jack laughed. “I haven’t that sort of blunt! She’s ravishing indeed, but—alas,” he said, surprised to feel a genuine pang of regret, “I could never afford her.”

“If ’tis true that she’s turned down Rupert on several occasions, she might be angling for more than just money. You’re a well-favored gent, war hero and all. Might have a chance with her. And if successful, you would upon occasion allow your best friend to worship at her feet.”

Something in Aubrey’s tone made Jack transfer his gaze from Belle back to his friend. “You have a tendre there?”

Aubrey sighed. “She’d never look twice at me—an un-distinguished younger son of modest appearance and fortune. But wait—the most amusing part is beginning. Once Wroxham discovered she was taking lessons—wearing breeches—the news raced through the ton and a crowd began gathering to watch. Hoping to discourage it, I suppose, she told Armaldi to charge admission, but that only seemed to bolster attendance.”

“If she makes enough from that, she’ll not need a new protector.”

“Oh, she don’t keep it—gives it to Armaldi, to reimburse him for his trouble in having such a crowd foisted upon him, she told Montclare. But Ansley—the young cub who’s been dangling after her since last Season—protested that her admirers deserved a boon for their devotion. He induced her to agree that after the lesson, she’ll meet one challenger. Anyone who manages to best her wins a kiss.”

Indeed, as Aubrey spoke, Jack noticed several young men talking with the fencing master, their voices raised as they evidently pressed rival claims to that honor.

While the dispute continued, Lady Belle stood unmoving, the tip of her foil resting on the floor. Jack felt his gaze pulled inexorably back to her—indeed, he expected she would immediately command the attention of all the men and most of the women in any room she occupied.

After subjecting her to a searching second inspection, he found his initial awe magnified. Truly, in appearance she seemed perfection, as if the most skilled of Greek sculptors had crafted the very image of a goddess and then breathed life into it. Though the scandalous man’s attire she wore fitted her loosely, there was no mistaking the amplitude of the curves tantalizingly concealed beneath that excess of cloth.

Jack found himself imagining her garbed in classical draperies, her slender arms and toes bare, the fine linen of the chemise outlining, rather than concealing, the shape of her breasts and thighs. Desire tightened his body, rose in a flush of heat to clog his throat.

Idiot, he chastised, making himself look away. The last thing he needed was to fall under the spell of this courtesan, who probably made demands as limitless as her beauty and possessed a heart as warm as the marble from which that Grecian sculptor would have crafted her.

“She doesn’t appear to be worried,” he said, his tone sharper than he’d intended. “Has anyone ever bested her?”

“Not yet,” Aubrey admitted. “But that doesn’t stop men from fighting for a chance to try. Now, they’re beginning.”

At that moment, the fencing master pointed an imperious thumb at one of the men. Muttering their disappointment, the other contenders quit the floor.

The fencers took their places. In a few moments, with considerably more ease—and decidedly more disdain—than she’d displayed against her instructor, Lady Belle disarmed the challenger and knocked him to the floor.

She looked up from her vanquished opponent, her face expressionless, her intense blue eyes scanning the crowd. By chance, her gaze crossed Jack’s. Connected. Held.

The force of it sent a vibration through Jack, raised the tiny hairs at the back of his neck. For a long moment they simply stared at each other, until abruptly, Lady Belle jerked her gaze away.

Ignoring the babble of masculine voices calling out to her, she stepped around her humbled opponent, bowed to the fencing master and strode from the room.

SUPPRESSING A SHIVER, Belle forced herself to walk with calm, even strides to the door. A bold fellow, that tall, thin, dark-haired officer whose scarlet regimentals had drawn her eye—and whose gaze had commanded hers, as if by right. She didn’t recognize him, which meant he must be newly come to London.

Probably another bored hanger-on, amusing himself by watching the latest show. Botheration, how she wished those useless fribbles would leave her in peace!

She’d already refused Lord Rupert half a dozen times and turned down a score of other offers in extremely blunt terms. How could she make it any plainer that she had no intention of accepting carte blanche from any of them?

Not now that she was free. Free! Even after a month, the realization still sent her spirits soaring. After six and a half long, painful, humiliating years, the shreds of what remained of her life now belonged solely to her. Even if she had no clear idea as of yet what she meant to do with it. Except, she thought, smiling with grim satisfaction as she recalled her challenger facedown on the floor, train herself so that she was never again at any man’s mercy.

Her companion, Mae, a plump older woman with faded blond ringlets, cheerful blue eyes and a gown whose scandalously low cut clearly proclaimed her former occupation, waited in the anteroom to help her change. “Good lesson?” Mae asked.

“Yes,” Belle answered as she stripped off her men’s garments. “Armaldi made some suggestions about adjusting my stance that improved my thrust nicely.”

“Must have made quick work of your challenger,” Mae replied, handing Belle her gown. “Who was it this time?”

“Wexley. The man fences like a turnip. Wooden wrists, poor form, no grasp of strategy. Fortunately for the security of England, he was never in the army.”

That comment called up the image of the dark-eyed captain and something stirred in her chest. No, she told herself, pushing the vision away, she was not curious.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Mae said, pulling a sealed note from her reticule. “A boy brought this for you.”

While Mae fastened the buttons down her back, Belle scanned the missive. “It’s from Smithers, my solicitor, requesting that I call at my earliest convenience.” She frowned, wondering what had prompted the unusual summons. “I suppose I can stop on my way home.”

“Whatever do you think he wants, Belle?” Mae asked a bit anxiously. “He handles your finances, don’t he? I hope…I hope there’s nothing amiss.”

“You needn’t worry. I reviewed the accounts with him just last month, and the investments are performing well.”

“You’re so clever, I expect you’re right. Funds and investments!” The older lady shook her head. “In my day, we dealt in jewels, gowns and carriages. Are you sure it wouldn’t be safer to accept another offer? So many you’ve had this month! And some of the gentlemen quite charming.”

Having already responded to this question on numerous occasions, Belle had to struggle to keep a sharp edge out of her voice. “For years I’ve saved every penny and had Smithers place the funds in the most reliable of investments. We shall not run out of blunt, and the house and its furnishings are deeded to me outright. I don’t need another protector.”

“I know you weren’t too happy with Lord B, but surely you could find one more to your liking. You can’t really mean to live without a man.”

Her patience wearing thin, Belle snapped back, “Why do you continue urging me to take a lover? You should know how unreliable are their vows of devotion!”

“Oh, in my youth, ’twas me what was fickle, leaving one for another when I had a better offer. But toward the last…” Mae sighed. “You mustn’t fault Darlington for his lack of constancy. I was getting older, and ’tis the way of the world for men to prefer a younger woman.”

A world I need no longer inhabit, Belle thought defiantly. But contrite now over her loss of temper, she said, “Pray forgive me for chiding you! ’Twas truly Darlington’s loss, for he could have found no one to replace you with so sweet a temper or generous a heart.”

Mae smiled at Belle, her eyes misty. “You’re a dear child, and I don’t know what I should have done, had you not taken me in when he cast me off. I wasn’t as wise as you over the years, and after I’d sold all my jewels…”

“You were the only woman who treated me kindly, that first year Bellingham brought me to town, when I thought I should die of loneliness.” And shame, she added silently. “And have ever been a true friend. Besides, who advised me to make the best of my lot and accept all the gifts Bellingham showered on me, stashing them away for later use? We owe our wealth today to that wise counsel.”

“Well, ’tis good of you to say so,” Mae replied, “but I wouldn’t know a fund from a trust, and that’s a fact.”

“Enough of that! Would you like to stop for ices while I visit the lawyer? I should count it a great favor if you would take the carriage at the front and go to Gunter’s while I slip out the back. As soon as I saw the crush in the ballroom today I asked Meadows to summon me a hackney. I’d rather not have a crowd following me.”

A great lover of sweets, Mae brightened at the suggestion. “Are you sure you’d not like to meet me there? We could stop by the lawyer’s after.”

“No, for wherever my carriage goes now, the most annoying throng gathers. Besides, looking as fetching as you do in that new gown, I image some admirers will stop to flirt with you. Darlington will burn with remorse.”

“Red always did become me, and if I do say so, I’ve kept my figure. The most magnificent breasts in London, they used to say, and you’re still quite handsome, aren’t you, my pretties?” she crooned, patting her ample bosom, the powdered top of which bulged above the low bodice of her scarlet dress. “Seeing how Frederic threw me over for that chit out of the opera—the most grasping, coldhearted little strumpet you could imagine—I like to believe he did come to regret his choice.”

Belle gave her companion a hug. “I’m certain of it! Now, off with you and create my diversion.”

“You, my dear, have taken on the appearance of a—a veritable Quaker!” Mae said frankly, looking Belle up and down as she put on her pelisse. “Not that you ain’t still a beauty, whatever you wear. But with your looks, to garb yourself in a plain gray gown with nary a ribbon, cut so high there’s not a bit of flesh showing!” Mae shook her head, obviously finding Belle’s behavior incomprehensible.

Belle shrugged. “I can dress to please myself now.”

Mae looked at Belle thoughtfully. “Will you please yourself? I don’t mean to vex you by saying it again, and you may call me a foolish old romantic, which I’m sure I am, but I cannot see how you mean to exist without a man in your life, and you so young! It’s…it’s not natural.”

Belle walked to the door, her smile brittle. “You’ve not been listening to my detractors. Have you not heard that I’m the most unnatural woman in England?”

CHAPTER TWO

AS SOON AS Mae left, Belle headed for the servants’ stairs. Enjoying her role, Mae would bandy comments with the gentlemen waiting to accost Belle when she departed, basking in their compliments—and doubtless receiving a coin or two discreetly slipped into the notes she would promise to deliver to her companion. By the time the loitering men realized she was not joining Mae, Belle would be well away.

After tying in place the scarf that masked her gold hair, Belle donned her charcoal traveling cloak and paced to the back gate, where the hackney she’d requested waited. While the vehicle traversed the distance from Soho into the City, she wondered again what business could be so pressing her solicitor believed it required her immediate attention.

Had he encountered some difficulties in changing the terms of Kitty’s trust? Hoping any problems could be speedily resolved, she stepped down at her destination.

As she walked to the door, two clerks in conversation and a tradesman with his cart passed by, ignoring her. She paused, drinking in the wonder of it. Though, toward the end, she’d insisted on wearing gowns even less revealing than those favored by ladies of the ton, in the bright colors Bellingham preferred and that garish blue coach—the first thing she’d replaced after his death, with a new equipage all in black—she could go nowhere unremarked. It was still the sweetest of pleasures to walk down a street outside of Mayfair and attract no more notice than any other Londoner going about her business.

Just what business that was, she would soon discover.

Within a few moments of her arrival, Mr. Smithers’s clerk ushered her into his office, where the solicitor thanked her for answering his summons so promptly.

“My companion fears I must have suffered some grievous financial reverses,” Belle said as she took the seat he indicated. “I hope you are not about to inform me that my investments have taken a sudden fall on the ’Change.”

Returning her smile, the lawyer shook his head. “Quite the contrary, actually. I have the pleasure of informing you that you have been named chief beneficiary in the will of the late Richard Maxwell, Viscount Bellingham. The estate itself, of course, is entailed upon a cousin. However, except for small bequests to his wife and daughter, Lord Bellingham left the whole of his cash assets, the value of which is still being calculated, as well as all his unentailed property—a Suffolk manor, a Lincolnshire hunting box and a London town house—to you.”

Belle stared at the solicitor, unable to credit what she’d just heard. “There must be some mistake!”

“’Tis irregular, given that you had no link by blood or law to the deceased, but nonetheless quite legal. And no mistake. His late lordship’s solicitor spent most of yesterday afternoon with me, expounding on the details.”

“But…why?” Belle asked, more than half to herself. “He knew I had sufficient means to support myself, should anything happen to him.” Her brow knit in perplexity, her shock turned to suspicion as she tried to puzzle out Bellingham’s reasoning. “How much did he leave his wife and daughter?”

“Two hundred pounds each. Whereas his overall cash assets are estimated to be about twenty thousand pounds.”

“Twenty thousand—” Belle echoed. “Why, ’tis infamous!” As an explanation for Bellingham’s extraordinary bequest flashed into her head, irritation gave way to sheer, mindless rage. Jumping to her feet, she began to pace the office, too furious to speak.

“Apparently,” Smithers said blandly, “Lord Bellingham wished to guarantee that you had more than ‘sufficient’ support. You are now an extremely wealthy woman.”

“Who,” Belle said, pausing long enough to glare back at the solicitor, “is therefore much less likely to take a new protector to supplant him.”

As Mr. Smithers prudently refrained from comment, a vivid memory of an angry scene recurred to her. Belle, incensed and guilty at the thought of a sixteen-year-old daughter abandoned by her father, threatening to leave Bellingham if he did not honor his responsibilities to his kin by returning to reside, at least outwardly, with his family. Bellingham countering that if Belle ran away, he would neglect his relations entirely to search for her. They’d reached a stalemate of sorts, Bellingham refusing to give up living with her but agreeing to visit his wife and daughter more regularly.

This, then, was her late protector’s attempt at checkmate—a permanent, legal spurning of his despised wife in preference to her, done in such a manner that she could neither dispute with him over it nor refuse it.

Once again he was trying to take over her life, mark her as his own, and force her to dance by the strings he controlled—even from beyond the grave.

She could almost hear the vicious whispers circulating through the ton when the terms of his will became known.

The sense of lightness that had buoyed her after Bellingham’s death melted away and her chest began to tighten with the same crushing weight of enforced obligation that she’d endured for almost seven years.

Even as she felt she must scream in vexation, an inspiration occurred. Perhaps there was a way to evade checkmate. She whirled to face Mr. Smithers.

“The bequest is legally mine—funds, property, all?”

“Yes. In an effort to protect the widow and daughter, Bellingham’s solicitors spent several weeks trying to find a way around the will’s terms, to no avail. The legacy is definitely legal, and indisputably yours.”

“And ’tis mine to handle as I choose?”

“Yes, though I would recommend, with such a vast sum and numerous properties, that you retain an agent to advise you on the management of it.” Smithers lifted a brow, curiosity in his expression. “Have you something in mind?”

“My own accounts are in good order, as we discussed last month? You did not then foresee any difficulties in my being able to live modestly for the rest of my days.”

The solicitor inclined his head. “You would have been able to live comfortably, but in nothing like the style to which this inheritance will enable you.”

“Kitty’s trust is fully funded until she marries?”

“Your finances remain as I detailed them last month.”

“Very well. Once the estate has been settled and the total assets determined, I wish you to set up a new trust.”

The solicitor nodded. “A wise choice. You may choose to leave some of the cash on deposit—”

“A trust,” she interrupted, “for the benefit of Lady Bellingham and Miss Bellingham, with a portion set aside for Miss Bellingham’s dowry. Consult his lordship’s solicitors on the precise terms—they will doubtless be more cognizant of the family’s needs. And I should like to offer all the properties for sale to the rightful heirs—at the price of one shilling each.”

The solicitor’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure, Lady Belle? ’Tis a very great deal of wealth.”

“What was his should go to his family. I don’t want it, nor is it right that I receive it.” With a touch of defiance she added, “He shall brand me no more.”

The solicitor gave her a smile of genuine warmth. “I shall set about arranging it. His lordship’s solicitors are going to be shocked—and extremely relieved!”

“Make sure you charge them a hefty fee!” Belle recommended with a grin, filled with the euphoria of a great burden lifted. “Send for me when the necessary papers are prepared. And now, if there is nothing else?”

Mr. Smithers’s smile broadened. “I should think inheriting—and giving away—a fortune should be business enough for one day.”

“I shall take my leave, then.” Satisfied to have evaded Bellingham’s last ploy, Belle walked to the door, then paused on the threshold. “I want to thank you for your expertise and counsel over the years, Mr. Smithers. Few men would have agreed to take on so…disreputable a client. I am very grateful you did.”

Mr. Smithers bowed. “’Tis I who have learned from you, lady—that appearances are not always what they seem, and that there is honor to be found in persons of every degree. What you are doing is truly noble.”

“What I am doing is merely proper,” Belle countered. “Which reminds me…If the family has not yet been apprised of the terms of the will, I should prefer that the particulars remain between you and the Bellingham solicitors. Let his family believe Lord Bellingham set up the trust. As he should have done,” she added acerbically.

“Given the, ah, sensitive nature of the bequest, I’m sure his lordship’s solicitors will be happy to honor that request.” Smithers bowed to her. “Good day, Lady Belle.”

“Mr. Smithers.” With a curtsy, feeling once more in control of her fate, Belle swept from the room.

AFTER DAWDLING, at Aubrey’s insistence, at the fencing master’s house with the expectation of catching another glimpse of Aubrey’s goddess, Jack was as famished as Aubrey was disappointed when they at last arrived at White’s. Once Lady Belle’s carriage—containing the lady’s companion but not the lady herself—finally departed, there was such a mob of gentlemen seeking vehicles that Jack had to use his most commanding cavalry officer’s voice to snag a hackney.

Having commandeered one of the first vehicles to appear, the friends found the club relatively deserted. After ordering breakfast, they took their seats.

“Well,” Aubrey demanded, smiling broadly, “are you not pleased I insisted you accompany me?”

A vision of vivid blue eyes and a restless, almost feral gaze invaded Jack’s mind, sent a reminiscent shiver over his skin.

He shrugged it off. “Not that I can or will do anything about it but…yes, I suppose I am.”

“You ‘suppose,’” Aubrey echoed. “You only suppose you are happy to have discovered the most unusual and exquisite woman in London—and quite possibly the world! Damn, Jack, what an odd fellow the war’s turned you into!”

“Sorry to be so disappointingly dull,” Jack replied with a grin. “I grant you, Lady Belle is everything you claim. Were I disposed to indulge myself in carnal delights—and had I a bankload of guineas to bolster that aim—I might be tempted to enter the lists. But as I told you earlier, I’m of a mind to settle down.”

Aubrey made a disgusted noise and rolled his eyes.

Chuckling, Jack continued, “Even if I weren’t, there’s Dorrie’s Season to be considered. She’d never forgive me for embarrassing her during the most important time of her life by dangling after a notorious lightskirt.”

“There is that,” Aubrey agreed, somewhat mollified. “You could be discreet, though. Men do it all the time—pay court to the ladies at Almack’s, then stop by the Green Room to meet their favorite actress. Besides, what about calling on her for the benefit of your best, most loyal friend? You can’t convince me you are indifferent, despite that hen-hearted drivel about getting leg-shackled!”

Jack took a sip of his ale. He really did mean to look for a wife. And he really couldn’t afford to contend for the favors of the intriguing Lady Belle. Still…the powerful attraction of that compelling blue gaze called out to him, in defiance of logic, prudence and good sense.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to call,” he conceded.

Aubrey slammed his mug down and gave a crow of triumph. “I knew no man could resist her!”

“Lady Belle?” asked one of a group of gentlemen just entering the room. “Indeed not! You saw her fence, didn’t you? Magnificent! Totally flummoxed poor Wexley.”

“Jack, you’ll remember Montclare,” Aubrey said as they rose to greet the newcomers. “Farnsworth, Higgins—and this young cub is Ansley—too far behind us at Oxford for you to know him.”

After an exchange of greetings, Aubrey said, “Come, gentlemen, help me toast my good friend’s safe return.”

“With pleasure,” Montclare replied. “Far too many of our Oxford mates didn’t come back after Waterloo.”

After drinks all around, Aubrey turned back to Montclare. “Will Wexley make an appearance, or did he slink home after that disgraceful performance?”

“Oh, I expect he’ll turn up to drown his sorrows. Hamhanded clothhead actually thought he had a chance of winning a kiss,” Montclare said with a wry grimace.

“Taking on Lady Belle, he’s lucky he didn’t end up skewered, trussed and ready to roast like a Christmas goose,” Farnsworth observed.

“You’d not seen her before, had you, Carrington?” Higgins asked.

“No, he couldn’t have,” Montclare answered for him. “Went out to the army in—’08, wasn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes. I took leave after Corunna and then between Toulouse and Waterloo, but spent my limited time at Carrington Grove, not in London,” Jack confirmed.

“As I recall, it wasn’t until 1811 that Bellingham brought Belle to town,” Farnsworth said.

“Spring of 1811,” Aubrey said reverently. “The Cyprian’s Ball. Dressed all in virginal white, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever beheld. Still is.”

“Beautiful, yes, but hardly ‘virginal,’” Farnsworth said with a laugh. “She’s got an avaricious heart as hard as the guineas that golden hair rivals in brightness.”

“You only say that because she’s just turned down your offer,” Ansley responded hotly. “She’s as kind as she is lovely. Knowing I could never afford to possess her, when I begged her to allow us to challenge her for the chance of winning a kiss, she graciously granted my request.”

“Probably because she knew you’d never fence well enough to claim one,” Farnsworth answered. “Although you certainly could never afford her. The fortune Bellingham spent on her over the years! Gowns fit for a queen, jewels as impressive as the collection in the Tower, horses, carriages, a house in town as well as a country manor.” Farnsworth shook his head. “The man was besotted.”

“Given the funds and attention he lavished on her, you’d think she would have been content,” Montclare observed. “Yet what must she do two years ago but coax Bellingham to live openly with her! There had long been enmity between Bellingham and his wife, but he owed his family better than so humiliating and public a slight.”

“Can’t expect a creature like Belle to know or care about proper conduct,” Higgins responded. “Besides, we’ve all felt the force that kept Bellingham with her so many years.” With a lascivious look, he added, “You’ve heard about that interlude in Vauxhall, haven’t you?”

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their orders, halting the conversation and giving Jack time to reflect.

Though he knew better than to put much credence in common gossip, he’d felt an irrational disappointment in having his supposition of Belle’s expensive, grasping nature confirmed by Farnsworth. Ansley’s spirited defense of her had inexplicably lightened his heart. Though he was an idiot to expend any emotion on a woman who would never be more to him than a dazzling, seldom-glimpsed stranger.

Before he’d finished berating himself for a fool, his attention was drawn to an approaching figure and he jumped up with a smile. “Edmund! How good to see you!”

Edmund, Lord Darnley, one of Jack’s closest friends from Eton and Oxford, reached out to clasp his hand. “Jack. Praise God, it’s good to have you home.”

“Ah, Darnley, what a magnificent match you missed this morning!” Montclare said. “After actually disarming Armaldi—hard to imagine anyone accomplishing that feat, I know—Belle had poor Wexley facedown on the floor before a cat could lick its ear. Where were you, by the by?”

“While the rest of you fribbles may have nothing better to do than hang about watching Wexley create the newest on-dit, some of us actually work,” Darnley said with a grin, taking the chair Aubrey fetched for him.

“Work—bah!” Higgins dismissed Edmund’s reply with a disdainful wave. “Ever since Lord Riverton appointed him as Cabinet assistant, he’s been promenading about as if he were as crucial to the government as Wellington.”

“The envy of the indolent and incompetent,” Edmund said with a drawl, winking at Jack.

“Never mind Darnley’s baiting,” Farnsworth said. “You were about to tell us about Lady Belle and Vauxhall?”

His quarrel forgotten, Higgins’s eyes took on a prurient gleam. “Ah, yes! I’ll never forget it, though ’twas nearly four years ago. A group of us went to the gardens and spied Bellingham with Belle and some friends, all well in their cups. Belle was sporting a gown fashioned from some sheer material, the bodice so low cut it revealed nearly the whole of those delicious breasts. Indeed,” he continued, his voice thickening, “Bellingham said he would rather savor her, for her plump, pebbled strawberries were sweeter than any Vauxhall had to offer.”

By now, Jack’s entire group—and all the gentlemen sitting within earshot of it—had fallen silent, giving Higgins their undivided attention.

Seeming pleased by his large audience, Higgins continued, “Bellingham leaned over to Belle, and with men and woman of all stations in booths but a few yards away, started suckling her tits—right through her gown!”

After a chorus of indrawn breaths and assorted exclamations, Higgins continued. “When he finished, the bodice was entirely transparent—leaving those strawberries clearly visible for us all to feast our eyes upon—and, ah, how worthy they were of feasting! Before we could look our fill—though I doubt one ever could—Belle suggested a stroll. I felt sure Bellingham would hustle her down one of the dark walks and finish what he’d started, but he invited a group of us to accompany him. Hardly able to imagine what might transpire next, we accepted.”

Though shocked by the idea of so intimate an act being performed in public, within view of decent men and women, Jack was ashamed to admit that he was as titillated as he was revolted. An honorable man, he told himself sternly, would walk away, leaving the rest of Higgins’s ribald story unheard. Jack tried to tell himself to do just that—but his legs didn’t seem to be obeying his brain.

“Bellingham did head for one of the darker paths,” Higgins was continuing, “announcing that he felt the need to dispense with some of the wine he’d drunk. That business concluded, instead of sheathing his standard—its condition already, as you can imagine, at better than half-mast—he bade Belle walk on with him. Advising her to hang on to something firm, he wrapped her hand around his shaft and set off—her fingers caressing him at every step.”

While Higgins paused to take a sip, the entire company sat in a breath-suspended hush. Get up now, Jack instructed. His limbs continued to defy him.

Gaze abstracted, as if focused on the memories he was describing, Higgins resumed, “By the time we reached his carriage, Bellingham wasn’t the only one gasping for breath. The moment the footman opened the door, Bellingham hustled her back against the squabs—and with all of us, including the footman, still looking on, yanked her skirts up to her waist and thrust her legs apart. Such a vision of creamy white thighs and sweet nether lips in a nest of golden curls, I shall never forget! Then Bellingham lifted her breasts out of that excuse of a bodice and mounted her. The footman, too shocked to move, I suppose, never closed the carriage door, so we saw the whole. Belle’s eyes glassy and her mouth open as Bellingham pounded into her—those luscious naked breasts bouncing, barely a handspan away…I must admit, the footman wasn’t the only onlooker who discharged his weapon that night!” Higgins exhaled heavily. “’Twas the most erotic experience of my life.”

In the midst of the groans, sighs and ribald comments, Jack heard young Ansley mutter, “I don’t believe it.”

Though with the cynicism of age, he realized that the broad outlines, if not the coarse details, of Higgins’s tale were probably true, he found himself sympathizing with the infatuated youth’s disinclination to accept that the beautiful creature he obviously worshiped could have been involved in so crude and carnal an episode. Before Jack could decide whether he was more disgusted with Higgins for telling the tale or himself for listening to it, another man entered the room.

“Ah—Lord Rupert!” Higgins exclaimed, gesturing to the newcomer. “Another spellbound witness to the extraordinary events I’ve just described. Indeed, my lord was so enraptured by the, ah, sights and sounds that evening, he has been mad for the wench ever since, eh, Wendell?”

Ignoring him, Lord Rupert walked calmly onward. Turning back to the group, Higgins continued, “Bellingham removed her from town for a time immediately afterward, some alleged because he feared Rupert would try to bribe her away from him. Though, given the sums you’re reputed to have offered and had turned down,” Higgins said, addressing the baron, “it don’t seem she favors you.”

“If Bellingham were still alive,” Rupert said, fixing a chilly silver-eyed gaze on Higgins, “you wouldn’t have dared recite that story, you miserable muckworm. You, I, the others—we all swore to remain silent.”

Higgins’s face colored. “B-but that was only—”

“I think, in honor of his memory, I should take care of you for him,” Rupert interrupted, giving Higgins a thin smile. “Perhaps it might be…healthier if you left town. Now.”

Under Rupert’s unnerving scrutiny, Higgins turned pale, then red again. After a moment’s hesitation, while Rupert continued staring silently at him, Higgins rose and walked out.

“As for the lovely Lady Belle,” Rupert continued, his voice calm as if nothing unusual had transpired, “I have every expectation of her eventually accepting my carte blanche. Make no mistake—sooner or later, that lady will be mine.”

“She is not, however, yours yet,” Ansley reminded doggedly. “Any one of us has the right to approach her.”

“Anyone?” Rupert gave a disparaging bark of laughter. “I’d hardly count on winning yourself a kiss, young pup. ’Twould require a swordsman of far more skill than you’re ever likely to possess.”

“I daresay Carrington might do it,” Aubrey said, startling Jack. “He’s been the best fencer of us all since Eton.”

“So he has,” Montclare agreed. “What do you say, Jack? Shall you have a go at it?”

Recovering from his initial shock, Jack knew he should put an immediate end to the discussion. After all, Higgins’s tawdry story should have inspired him with a firm disinclination to have anything further to do with a woman who had allowed herself to be displayed more crudely than the cheapest prostitute out of Seven Dials.

Except he couldn’t quite reconcile that vision of offensive carnality with the fierce gaze and intense, focused concentration of the woman who had disarmed her fencing instructor, demolished her subsequent opponent and left the room without responding to any of the offers shouted at her by a gallery full of eager supplicants.

Base voluptuary. Scheming, money-hungry jade. A woman of kind heart. Which of those descriptions—if any—reflected the true Lady Belle?

“Of course he’ll do it—won’t you?” Aubrey’s reply pulled Jack’s attention back to the present.

Without having made any conscious decision, Jack heard himself say, “I suppose so.”

“Famous!” Aubrey said. “That kiss is as good as won.”

Jack laughed, but before he could respond, he felt a prickling between his shoulder blades that had, during his years as a soldier, often been a presage of danger. He turned to find Lord Rupert’s gaze on him.

“You might win a kiss,” Rupert conceded after studying him. “But you will never win Belle to your bed.”

“I say, is that a threat?” Aubrey demanded.

“Nay, ’tis more like a dare,” Montclare opined.

“Indeed not, ’tis a wager!” another man cried.

“So it is,” several others agreed. And before Jack could utter another word, calls went out for a waiter to bring the betting book.

Though Jack disavowed interest in anything beyond a contest of blades, the other men, after informing him his participation was unnecessary, duly recorded the wager.

That done, with a cold nod to Jack, Rupert departed. As the other men drifted away, Jack declined Aubrey’s invitation to a hand of whist and accepted Edmund’s offer of a lift back to his rooms. After bidding Aubrey good-bye, the two friends set out.

After tooling his high-perch phaeton down several streets, Edmund turned his attention to Jack. “Do you really intend to challenge Lady Belle?”

“It should prove…interesting. She is quite proficient—amazingly so for a woman.” Jack hesitated. Edmund had always been a steady sort, more detached and observant than the volatile Aubrey. Knowing he could trust his level-headed friend’s opinion, he felt compelled to ask, “What do you think of Lady Belle?”

“Do I believe she actually took part in Higgins’s frolic? Or do I suppose his tale to be a drunkard’s embellishment of a more innocent incident?”

Jack shrugged. “The account was a bit…shocking.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the truth. Lady Belle has always seemed to me to possess too much…dignity to have participated in such a display. Either way, I doubt it has any bearing on her skill with a foil.”

“I suppose not.”

“If you wish to get a better sense of the woman, you might stop by Drury Lane tonight. Lady Belle keeps a box there. When do you mean to challenge her?”

“Aubrey committed me for tomorrow morning.”

Having reached Albany, Edmund pulled up his horses. “I shall have to delay going to the office until after the match, then. May I wish you good luck.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, accepting his friend’s hand down. “For the ride—and the opinion, as well.”

Edmund nodded. “Drury Lane, upper right. I must work tonight, or I’d be tempted to join you. In any event, I hope Rupert, that slimy bastard, doesn’t end up with her.” Flicking the reins, Edmund set his horses in motion.

Jack watched as his friend drove off, then took the stairs with a purposeful stride. He had his rooms to put to rights, his solicitor to consult, a valet to hire, new garments to order and Horse Guards to visit.

And he didn’t want to be late to the theater.

CHAPTER THREE

ALREADY QUESTIONING her wisdom in letting Mae persuade her to attend the theater, Belle asked her companion to precede her out of the carriage. In a bright purple gown of extremely low cut, her cloak left open to display her famous attributes, Mae set off, cutting a path through the throng like the bow of a frigate through dark water.

Thankfully, Mae would distract some of the gawkers—and enjoy every minute of the attention as fiercely as Belle despised it. But if Bellingham’s death was to free her, she couldn’t remain behind the walls of her house in Mount Street. Nor was it fair to continue depriving Mae of the excitement and activities of the London she so enjoyed.

Besides, Kean was to play one of his best roles tonight. Now that she was her own—and only her own—mistress, she could bar the door to her box and with the intense concentration she’d honed over the years, shut out the crowd, the chatter—everything but the action onstage.

Closing her ears and her mind to the shouts and whistles that had begun the moment her coach was recognized, she followed Mae into the theater. Her regal posture and icy dignity, reinforced by the presence beside her of Watson, former bouncer at the bordello where Mae had once worked and now Belle’s bodyguard-cum-butler, served to keep the curious from crowding her as she crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to her box.

A mercifully brief time later, Belle took her seat beside Mae, Watson behind them to guard the door. Mae looked about avidly, plying her fan as she nodded and smiled to acknowledge the greetings called out to them.

Her companion was so obviously in her element that Belle had to smile. She was going to have difficulty embarking on a more retired life with Mae at her side, the woman’s flamboyant presence better than a handbill as an advertisement for the world’s oldest profession. Though her companion had, amazingly, retained a child’s delight in the world and a sunny nature as transparent as clear springwater, there was no disputing the fact that Mae Woods, a whore’s daughter who’d followed in her mother’s footsteps when she was twelve years old, was hopelessly vulgar.

Still, this aging courtesan had been as much mother as friend to Belle in some of her direst hours. She couldn’t imagine dismissing her—even had Mae somewhere other than the streets to go, which she didn’t.

Teach Mae to be more discreet, Belle mentally added to the list she’d begun of Things To Do With My Life Now, and then chuckled at the incongruity of that notion.

A slight diminution in the noise level signaled that the players were about to begin. But as Belle transferred her attention to the stage, her eye was drawn to the glitter of gold on a red uniform tunic. Her gaze rose to the sunburned face above the jacket—the face of the dark-haired, dark-eyed soldier who’d studied her this morning.

He was watching her now, his regard so intense her skin prickled and a shock skittered to the pit of her stomach. She swallowed a gasp, taken aback at the power of that wordless connection. As if he somehow knew the effect he’d caused, the soldier smiled as he bowed to her.

Feeling heat flush her face, Belle looked away without acknowledging him. Mae, ever alert, leaned over to whisper, “Who was that?”

“I have no idea,” Belle replied, pressing a hand over her stomach to quell the flutters and resolutely fixing her eyes on the actor now entering from the wings.

With Kean in excellent form, the supporting cast equally competent and the play engrossing, Belle should have lost herself in the world the players were creating. But to her annoyance, she found the red-coated officer was seated at the periphery of her vision, always just within sight as she followed the events taking place onstage.

Worse, though she never glanced at him to confirm it, somehow she could feel his gaze on her, further eroding her concentration. By the time the interval arrived, she was irritated, restless, and tempted to simply go home.

As the audience began milling about, she turned back to Watson. “Remember, I wish to admit no one.”

Mae put a hand on her arm. “Please, Belle, Lord M and Sidmouth just waved. Can we not let them in?” She added in a low voice, “Darlington and some gents are in the box opposite. I’d hate for ’em to see me here all alone.”

With a sigh, Belle capitulated. “Of course you may receive your friends.”

“Thank you!” Mae said, beaming at her.

But even as Belle resigned herself to an interlude filled with noisy chatter, she felt unaccountably more relaxed. As she suspected, when she cautiously looked in his direction, the soldier was no longer in his seat.

Mae’s two gentlemen appeared promptly and Belle moved to let the men take the seats nearest her. As she settled into a chair near the back rail, she heard a deep, unfamiliar voice addressing Watson.

Once again, sparks sputtered along her nerves, and somehow she knew the speaker must be her soldier. Sternly repressing the impulse to sneak a closer look at the man, she kept her attention on the stage.

Watson’s gravelly reply was followed by another exchange, after which he called to her, “Lady Belle, be ye wishful of receiving a Captain Carrington?”

She felt at once an inexplicable need to flee and a strong desire to tell Watson to let the caller enter. Instead, she said, “I don’t know a Captain Carrington.”

“But she does know me,” a familiar voice interjected. “Will you not allow me in, mon ange?”

“Egremont!” Belle exclaimed with delight, turning instinctively toward the sound of his voice. “I thought you were still in the country. Please, do join me.”

As Watson stepped aside to admit the earl, Belle caught a glimpse of the dark-haired captain behind him. In those few seconds before the door closed, she got an impression of broad shoulders, an intelligent face—and a gaze even more compelling over the short distance now separating them.

With a little shiver, she turned her attention to the gentleman, his dark hair silvered at the temples, taking the chair beside her. “When did you return?”

“Just this morning. You look ravishing, as always, mon ange,” he said, bringing her hand up to kiss. Retaining her fingers in a light grasp, he studied her face. “How are you faring? I didn’t hear of Richard’s death until two weeks ago. I wish I had been here to help.”

“I fare quite well, thank you. And there wasn’t much to do as I was not, of course, involved in the funeral arrangements.” She took a deep breath. “Having been his friend long before you were mine, you may think it despicable of me, but I’m glad he suffered the fatal attack at his club, rather than in Mount Street.”

Egremont squeezed her fingers. “Not despicable at all, my dear. Given how things stood with his family, it would have been most awkward and unpleasant for you, had he breathed his last under your roof. And I hope I’ve always been a good friend to you both.”

Belle’s eyes stung with tears. “Indeed you were. I don’t know what I should have done, had I not had you to discuss literature and art and politics with me, to escort me to the galleries and concerts in which Bellingham had no interest. To laugh with me.” Her throat tight, she added, “You treated me as ‘Belle’s lady’ from the first time we met. I can’t tell you how much that meant.”

“How could I do otherwise? You are elegance and gentility down to your bones, mon ange.” After a moment, he added, “I see you are not wearing black.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “No. I suspect half those watching will censure me for not displaying a proper respect at the death of my protector. Whereas the other half would condemn me for effrontery, did I dare to wear mourning.”

“Would you wear it, could you do as you wish?” he asked, once again studying her face.

“No,” she said bluntly. “Our relationship, as you surely observed, was…complex and often acrimonious.” Lifting her chin, determined to tell the truth even if it lowered her in his regard, she continued, “Though I would not have wished his death, I am not sorry to be free.”

He nodded, apparently pondering that comment. “What do you intend to do now?”

“I’m not certain yet.”

“You have adequate funds?”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

“So you don’t intend to—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not again. Not ever.”

Massaging the hand he still held, he cleared his throat.

Something about his hesitancy, the pressure of his fingers on hers, filled Belle with the dismaying suspicion that this man who had been her one friend among Bellingham’s cronies, the only man who’d not, openly or by innuendo, treated her as Bellingham’s whore, was about to ruin that friendship by offering her carte blanche.

“My wife and I have long had an arrangement,” he began softly. “She despises London. Over the years, she has been content to remain at our country estate, tending to the house and the children, allowing me to go my own way as long as, eventually, I return to her. For an arranged marriage, it hasn’t worked out too badly, and for most of those years, I was content. Until I met you.”

“Please, don’t,” she begged, trying to pull her fingers free, dreading to hear the words.

He let them go. “I don’t mean to distress you, my sweet. I’m not immune to your attraction, despite being several years your senior, and if I thought I could persuade you to become my mistress and make you happy, I should beg you to do me that honor. But I know how much you hated the notoriety Richard thrust upon you.”

He gave her a wry smile. “We have rubbed along comfortably, my wife and I, these many years, and even had I grounds for a divorce, which I do not, I would not do that to her. Since I cannot offer you what you desire most—a legitimate relationship—I beg only that you will allow me to remain your friend.”

He did understand. The poignancy of that affirmation helped to mitigate her discomfort at discovering that even Egremont, whom she’d considered more in the light of an elder brother, felt a carnal attraction to her.

At least he did not intend to act upon his desire, indifferent to her preferences.

“I have few enough friends that I want to lose one—especially not one as dear to me as you,” she replied.

“Good, that’s settled. You will let me know if I can help you in any way? With no obligation, of course.”

“I will, and thank you again.”

“Then I am forgiven?”

Tilting her head in inquiry, she said, “For what?”

He drew one hand back and kissed it. “For not cherishing you with a purely platonic affection. You are so heart-breakingly lovely, a man cannot help but yearn, you know. Now, how are you finding the play?”

Though his avowal left her still a bit uncomfortable, she was addressing herself to his question when raucous laughter from Mae’s group drowned out her words.

Whether because she wished to impress her former lover with her gaiety or because she was in unusually high spirits, Mae, it seemed to Belle, was behaving more outrageously than usual. Giggling at Sidmouth’s extravagant compliments, she allowed him to remove her glove and kiss her wrist, while Lord Mannington, who’d stolen her fan, drew the ivory sticks down over the heavy swell of one breast and was now toying with the nipple. Given the loudness of their laughter and the lewdness of Mannington’s gesture, Belle knew their box was certain to draw the attention of everyone in the theater.

Her cheeks heating to consider what the stern-faced captain would surely be thinking, were he once again watching them from his seat, Belle made another entry to her mental list: When in public, screen Mae’s companions.

Then the actors returned to the stage and Belle directed her attention to the play.

JACK STOOD FOR SOME TIME, observing with distaste the antics of the group along the rail of Lady Belle’s box while trying to glimpse the couple behind them. Having little success, he gave up and stalked out of the theater.

Just as well that he returned to his rooms, he told himself. Tomorrow would begin early. Although it would be wiser, he thought as he hailed a hackney, to dispense with this ridiculous plan of challenging Lady Belle.

He’d been disappointed, but not surprised when, unable to resist approaching Belle, he’d been refused entry to her box. He was, after all, a stranger. When the man she’d hailed so warmly was admitted, however, he was surprised—and considerably disturbed—to discover that he was jealous.

Not just a little jealous, but suddenly, furiously, pistols-for-breakfast jealous of a man he’d never met, for sitting beside a woman he didn’t really know. A woman he couldn’t and shouldn’t possess.

Faith, he was becoming more of a moonling than Aubrey!

Except he knew himself too well. Unlike Aubrey, when he wanted something, he would never be content to simply gaze at it from afar.

And that just wouldn’t do. Despite her breath-stopping beauty of form and face, Lady Belle was nothing but an expensive harlot, perhaps a bit more refined in manner but with morals no better than those of her companion, whose suggestive dress and vulgar behavior in the theater box tonight clearly proclaimed her profession.

Only an idiot would actively seek out such a woman—and chance letting a tart like Belle, who was alleged to have indulged in public lewdness and fornicated for the titillation of leering onlookers, get her harpy’s claws embedded any further into his mind and senses.

In the morning, he decided as he arrived back at his rooms, he would tell Aubrey that he’d changed his mind.

But after he’d drunk a glass of brandy and retired for the night, he could not sleep. An indeterminate amount of tossing and turning later, he crawled back out of bed.

Cursing himself for a fool, he dredged his supplies from a saddlebag and began polishing his sword.

AS SOON AS the final lines were spoken, Belle left Mae with her friends, who’d persuaded her to attend an after-theater party, and proceeded down the stairs, hoping to cross the lobby before the bulk of the audience exited.

She’d just refused Egremont’s offer to escort her home when a young lady in a fashionable evening gown hurried toward them—and halted abruptly, directly in front of Belle.

Stopping short to avoid colliding with the girl, Belle was about to edge around her when she felt Egremont stiffen.

“Helena, what are you doing here all alone?” he said.

“I wanted to look into her eyes when I confronted her,” the girl replied, sending Belle a glance so full of loathing that Belle’s breath caught in her throat. “And why are you with her?” Helena asked, transferring her furious gaze to the earl. “Papa’s been dead barely a month. I thought you were his friend!”

Bellingham’s daughter, Belle realized, dread knotting her stomach.

Egremont took the girl’s arm. “You’re upset—and no wonder, after such a shocking loss! Let me see you home.”

Twisting free of Egremont’s grip, the girl turned back to Belle. “Is there no man you do not try to bewitch?”

“Helena, ’tis highly improper for you to be here unescorted,” Egremont said softly, “or to speak with—”

“My father’s whore?” the girl shrilled.

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle noted the lobby filling with people—people who slowed, stopped, gazed with openmouthed fascination at the new scene being enacted before them. Nausea growing in her gut, Belle’s mind fled to the mental fortress from which she could watch events unfolding around her, her sense and spirit detached from whatever indignities might be inflicted on her body.

“Given my new expectations, Lord Egremont,” Miss Bellingham said, “’tis unnecessary to be concerned for my reputation. I doubt I shall receive any respectable offers of marriage, no matter how blameless my conduct.”

“Excuse me,” Belle murmured, edging away.

“I’m not done with you!” the girl cried, seizing Belle’s wrist and yanking her close.

Belle flinched, half expecting a blow. Instead, Miss Bellingham continued hotly, “Was it not enough that you lured my father from his hearth and family, embarrassed my mother before the ton and her friends? That we had barely enough to maintain a household while you were lavished with gowns and jewels? Is your greed so vast that you must bewitch father into bequeathing you the very bread out of our mouths and the roof from over our heads?”

She’s heard about the will, Belle realized.

As if from a distance, Belle watched herself calmly wrest her arm free. “Miss Bellingham, I appreciate how grief disorders the spirit, but you are mistaken.”

“About what?” the girl demanded. “The extent of your avarice? The fact that you—”

“I advise you to consult your solicitors,” Belle interrupted. “Lord Egremont will see you home.” She stepped around the girl, Watson advancing to take a protective position at her elbow.

Ignoring the amused and accusing and censorious faces, Belle walked out of the theater and down the steps to her waiting carriage. Not until the door closed behind her, shutting out the murmurs and the avid gazes, did she relax, sagging against the cushions while nausea roiled in her belly and her heart thundered.

She didn’t blame Miss Bellingham. Indeed, the girl had shown considerable spirit in confronting her father’s harlot in public, knowing news of the scandalous meeting would surely become the ton’s latest on-dit. Perhaps she hoped that publicizing the provisions of Bellingham’s will would make it more difficult for Belle to entice a new protector, ruining Belle’s future as she perceived Belle’s supposed greed had destroyed her own.

Or perhaps Miss Bellingham was so filled with rage over the injustice of her situation that she no longer cared that addressing a courtesan would soil her own reputation. That Belle could understand even more readily.

Though she tried to dismiss the disturbing confrontation, the emotions she’d repressed while the incident was taking place refused to be banished. A familiar sense of anguished humiliation made her stomach churn, heated her face, summoned tears that trembled at the corners of her eyes.

Enough! she told herself, struggling to rein in her disorderly feelings. ’Twas just that Miss Bellingham’s unexpected attack had caught her off guard, leaving her prey to this atypical excess of sensibility.

She had just about succeeded in squelching the reaction when, with a jerk that nearly unseated her, the carriage squealed to a halt.

CHAPTER FOUR

LAUGHTER AND A BABBLE of loud voices wafted toward Belle as she raised the window shade and looked out, trying to determine the cause of the delay.

Light blazed from the doorway of a house she recognized as one of the more exclusive brothels in the theater district. Highlighted by its glare, several provocatively dressed women had just emerged with a number of fashionably garbed Corinthians, the couples proceeding toward a large barouche whose position in the middle of the street prevented Belle’s carriage from advancing.

Another Corinthian stood on the steps conversing with a sharp-eyed woman Belle took to be the brothel’s owner.

“Hurry up, Fen,” a young buck called to him. “Don’t want our lovelies—” he ran his fingers over the bare shoulders of the wench he held “—to catch their deaths.”

The gentleman on the steps waved a languid hand. “Just settle our, ah, ladies into the coach while I conclude the negotiations with their charming employer.”

“It’ll be fifty pounds and not a tuppence less,” the older woman was saying. “Not with ye taking off the best of me girls at the very start of the evening.”

“A vast sum, ma’am,” the gentleman said, extracting coins from his purse. “But how can I quibble when the company is so lovely? Now, my sweet, don’t be bashful.”

With that, he pulled from the shadows a slender lass who seemed, to Belle’s eye, to be scarcely in her teens. Shrinking from the light, the girl raised a hand, trying to cover the bare skin revealed by her skimpy bodice.

“Please don’t, sir,” she protested when the man, laughing, brushed her hand away and bent to kiss one nipple, clearly visible beneath the gown’s thin material.

Instantly Belle was transported to another time and place, when another young girl had vainly tried to hang on to the last shreds of her modesty.

A wave of heat swept through her, intensifying the lingering nausea in her gut, and for a moment, she feared she might faint. An inexorable need for cool air to clear her head of the memories and her stomach of the queasiness set her feet in motion. Several moments later, she stood at the top of the stairs beside the madam without any recollection of having traveled there.

But she was utterly sure of her purpose. “I, too, require a lady this evening,” she told the woman. “This one—” she pointed to the cowering girl “—will be perfect. Whatever the gentleman is offering, I’ll double it.”

For a moment, the man on the steps sputtered a protest. Then his eyes widened and his indignation faded to a smile. “Lady Belle, a pleasure! We should be delighted to invite you to join our humble gathering.”

“Regretfully, that is not possible, sir. Watson,” she called to the bodyguard who’d trotted up in her wake, “escort the girl to my coach.”

“Right ye be, Lady Belle.”

The gentleman on the steps opened his lips as if to object, but after glancing at Watson’s impressive bulk, he must have realized that, alone, he could not hope to prevail. His smile more forced now, he bowed. “I must cede to your wishes, Lady Belle. But I consider that you owe me a favor—which I hope to redeem later.” He ran a hot, speculative glance over her cloaked figure.

Dismissing him with a noncommittal nod, Belle turned back to the madam. “My man will return to pay you. Good evening, ma’am,” she said and paced back to her coach.

She found the girl huddled at the far corner, arms wrapped around her torso as if trying to take up as little space as possible. The flickering carriage lamp revealed her small, pinched face and large, fearful eyes.

“What…what be ye wanting with me, ma’am?” she asked.

What reprobate would trifle with this child? Belle wondered. But the girl’s wary pose and the arms braced defensively over her body told Belle more eloquently than words how life had treated the lass, despite the her fragile air and apparent youth.

“What is your name, child?”

“J-Jane Parsons, ma’am,” the girl replied.

“Don’t be afraid. I require no, ah, personal, services from you, nor am I taking you to a gathering at which you will be forced to entertain. You know who I am?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Everyone knows the beautiful Lady Belle.” Looking wary, uncertain but resigned, the girl watched her.

Belle smiled wryly. What did she intend to do with this child whose services she had purchased on a whim for an outrageously inflated price?

See to her needs first, she supposed. “Have you supped yet, Jane?”

The girl’s large eyes widened further. “N-no, ma’am. Mrs. Jarvis don’t feed us nothing ’til morning—and then, only if we…we pleased the customers.”

The fierce anger that always smoldered deep within Belle fired up again. Swallowing the curse that sprang to her lips, she silently damned all licentious men and the women who pandered to them.

After signaling the coachman to depart, Belle turned back to the girl. “Then first, you shall eat. After that, you may rest, if you like. My companion, Mae, has gone to a party, so my house will be quiet.”

Though the girl’s disbelief was patent in the dubious nod she returned, she said nothing more. The rest of the short drive was accomplished in silence.

Upon their arrival, Belle ordered food and bore Jane up to her chamber. Meekly the girl followed Belle’s bidding that she wash, seat herself near the fire and wrap up in the thick woolen shawl Belle gave her. Her impassive countenance registered no emotion until Watson bore in a tray laden with cold meats, cheeses and fruit.

A gasp escaping her, she turned to Belle and asked if the meal was meant for her. Upon Belle’s confirmation, she applied herself to the food with the fervor of one kept for too long on near-starvation rations.

Occasionally the girl directed a sidelong glance at Belle, as if she feared at any moment she might change her mind and have the tray removed.

By the time Jane consumed the last crumb, her wariness had vanished. “Thank you, Lady Belle,” she said, her dark eyes glowing with gratitude. “I disremember when I last ate so fine!”

Carefully Jane removed the shawl and handed it back to Belle. “Thank you, too, for the loan of the wrap. Now, whatever it is ye wish me to do, I reckon I’m ready.” Taking a deep breath, she squared her thin shoulders.

The forlorn valor of the gesture went straight to Belle’s heart. “Truly, Jane, I have no other task for you.”

For a long moment the girl stared at her. “No gentleman be waiting to…to sport with me, or with us both?”

Belle couldn’t repress her grimace of distaste. “Certainly not!”

Before Belle could divine her intentions, Jane burst into tears and threw herself at Belle’s feet.

Belle reached down to pull the weeping girl up. “Hush, my dear. Sit down and calm yourself.”

By the time Belle had soothed Jane, the conviction had settled bone deep.

Under no circumstances was Belle going to send this child back to a brothel. Not tonight.

Not ever.

“I’m sorry to weep all over you, ma’am! But…it’s been so long since someone treated me like…like an honest lass.”

“How did you come to be at Mrs. Jarvis’s house?” Belle asked.

“I never looked to do such a shameful thing, I promise you! Last fall, a stranger come to market day in our village, saying he was a London merchant looking for girls wishful of working in the city. I’m right good with a needle, and clever at dressing hair and such. Weren’t much for me at home, so me and two other girls, we signed up. Mr. Harris paid for our tickets and bundled us off on the next mail coach to the City.”

All too conscious of the fate that could befall a young girl stranded alone, Belle asked, “Were you separated from your group on the road?”

Jane shook her head. “No, ma’am, Mr. Harris watched us real careful all the way to London, then turned us over to a lady—the hiring director, he said. She brought us tea and asked us what work we was wanting. I got powerful sleepy then, but I thought ’twas just the trip being so tiring and all…”

Though Belle felt certain she knew what came next, she prodded gently. “And then?”

Jane gave a shuddering sigh. “I woke up later in a strange room with naught of my own but my shift! Afore I could figure out where I was, Mrs. Jarvis come in. She said she would treat me nice, because there’s men what will pay a lot for girls that look as young as me. Well, I was right horrified and told her straight out that I wouldn’t never do such a thing! I begged her to let me work anywhere else, even in the scullery. She just shook her head and had her servant Waldo come in. A big, evil-looking man, he is. She told me if I didn’t agree to do what she wanted, she’d have Waldo…persuade me. She said that, he being one what likes ’em young, with a fancy for rough sport, she don’t let him use her own girls.”

A shudder ran through Jane’s thin frame. “The way he looked at me, Lady Belle! I thought there couldn’t be nothing worse than Waldo. So—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—I…I agreed.”

“Oh, Jane,” Belle murmured, heart aching for her. “Did the other girls suffer the same fate?”

“I dunno, ma’am. They’re not at Mrs. Jarvis’s house, so maybe not all the girls brought to London end up there.”

“Someone should look into this. Whoever is perpetrating this fraud should be transported!”

Jane shook her head doubtfully. “Mrs. Jarvis said if I ever thought to go to a constable, I’d be wasting my breath. I came to London willing enough, and staying at her house were my own choice.”

“Only because you were threatened! I cannot believe such a scheme could be legal. But no more on that now. Do you want to return to Mrs. Jarvis?”

Jane shrugged. “What respectable household or shop would hire me now, however good I be with my needle?”

Belle smiled wryly. “I can’t claim to be a ‘respectable’ household, but the task itself will be honest enough. Would you like to work for me? I have a great many gowns I should like to have remade and ’tis a project beyond my skills. If you have the talent to do so, you would be rendering me a very great service.”

“I should be honored, ma’am!” Jane exclaimed. A moment later, her excited glow faded. “But…I don’t expect Mrs. Jarvis would let me. I bring in a lot of business.”

Belle lifted her brows. “She can hardly force you to stay—unless she wishes to face prosecution. This is still England, and even women such as we cannot be held against our will.”

“Then you think…you think I can stay?”

“Jane Parsons, do you wish to work for me?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!”

“Then consider yourself hired. However, since it is quite probable that Mrs. Jarvis will not rejoice over your decision to pursue a new profession, let me inform her by message.”

Jane paled. “I expect she’ll be fiercesome angry.”

“Never you worry about it! Now, let’s find you some proper clothing and get you settled.”

But once again Jane hesitated. “The rest of your household…they may not much like having a girl such as me thrust among ’em.”

Recalling the range of checkered pasts among her employees, Belle laughed. “’Tis unlikely anyone taking service in the house of the infamous Lady Belle would stand in judgment of a fellow creature—nor would I permit it. Come along now. In the morning, you can begin on those gowns.”

Though Jane rose, she didn’t follow. “What if Mrs. Jarvis sends somebody to…to fetch me back?”

Behind the question, Belle sensed the girl’s fear of the infamous Waldo. “I assure you, even if she dispatches her henchman, Watson is fully capable of handling him. He was once the best prize-fighter in England.”

At that, Jane cast herself once again at Belle’s feet. “Oh, my lady, I shall be forever grateful! And my skill with a needle ain’t empty boasting, neither, you’ll see! Show me any style you favor in a magazine or shop window, and I can make you the very thing!”

“I see we shall deal very well together,” Belle replied, smiling as she shepherded Jane from the room.

After turning her new charge over to her housekeeper, Belle returned to pen the note informing Mrs. Jarvis of her employee’s defection. By the time she’d finished crafting that missive, Belle’s satisfaction at liberating Jane had faded.

Though she knew she’d done all she could, she found herself pacing her chamber, the glass of wine she’d sipped while composing her note unable to quell the agitation she’d felt ever since Miss Bellingham had accosted her at the theater.

Also simmering in her veins was the familiar desire to lash out at the world for the outrages it permitted—and particularly at the villains who preyed on innocents.

It was some time before she tired enough to seek her bed.

How fortunate, she thought as she plumped up her pillow, picturing with sardonic anticipation the arrogant, lustful male faces watching—and then challenging—her from the gallery, that tomorrow she had another fencing lesson.

CHAPTER FIVE

AUBREY MUST HAVE suspected Jack might have second thoughts about challenging Belle, for shortly after Jack rose the following morning, he answered a rap on his door to discover his friend standing in the hallway. “Help yourself to some ale,” Jack invited, suppressing a smile.

“Much obliged,” Aubrey said as he seated himself. “Wanted to arrive early and make sure you were prepared.”

“Or to make sure I went through with it?”

“No question about that,” Aubrey responded as he poured a glass. “Gave your word. Just thought I’d escort you over, me being your second of sorts.”

“Not a second—a principal,” Jack retorted wryly. “You being the one who volunteered me.”

“Could have refused if you’d wanted. But what man could resist the opportunity to win a kiss from Belle—especially one who has an excellent chance of succeeding?”

Jack wanted to protest, but honesty kept him silent. It would be gratifying to succeed where other men had failed, but Jack knew that deep down, what he sought most was a taste of the woman who so intrigued and attracted him. He had tossed restlessly most of the night, sleep eluding him as his mind kept conjuring vivid images of taking her in his arms, her mouth yielding, opening under his. In lieu of replying, he took a long draught of ale.

“I tipped the hackney driver to wait,” Aubrey said after draining his mug. “Given your reputation for swordplay, the gallery should be crowded. We must depart immediately if we wish to secure chairs.”

“I would rather stand at the side, where I can observe the lesson without it being obvious.”

“Search out her weaknesses,” Aubrey agreed, “though not being a fencer of your rank, I’ve yet to note any. You’ll not want to miss even the smallest opening that could allow you to win the wager—and perhaps persuade her that further intimacy would be even more enjoyable, eh?”

Jack laughed. “There’s little chance of that. I can’t meet her price, and I doubt my lovemaking skill is sufficient to impress a woman of Belle’s vast experience.”

“Did those French and Spanish ladies not teach you a trick or two?”

Jack shook his head. “Your vivid imagination again, Aubrey. Soldiers spend much more time slogging through dust, mud and rain to bed down on damp ground or in flea-infested hovels than romping with foreign beauties.”

Aubrey picked up Jack’s uniform jacket. “Please, don’t shatter my boyhood illusions. Your coat, sir. If Belle should take a liking to you, promise you’ll not forget the part I had in bringing you together.”

“I’m unlikely ever to forget,” Jack replied dryly as he fastened the jacket and buckled on his sword. He would not, he told himself as they proceeded to the waiting hackney, let his imagination play with the intoxicating notion of luring Belle into more than a simple kiss.

She’s a wanton who would bed any man for a price, his righteous mind protested. But such a wanton! the part of his brain devoted to pleasure replied. Hadn’t she kept Bellingham’s desire aflame for years? His whole body tightened at the notion of the love tricks she must know…He dare not allow himself to imagine those smooth white hands, those plump pink lips performing their magic on him.

Enough, he brought his thoughts up sternly. Let lust rule his head and, talented fencer that she was, she’d insure he didn’t win so much as one kiss.

As they approached the hackney, Edmund Darnley walked up. “Thought I’d come lend my support.”

“Come along,” Aubrey said. “But if Jack does succeed in winning Belle, he’s promised me the first introduction.”

“Winning Belle?” Edmund echoed with a puzzled look.

“Just Aubrey leaping to unsupported conclusions, as usual,” Jack replied. “There’s no question of anything but a kiss—which, I may add, I’ve yet to win.”

“Then let us take our places so you have maximum time in which to determine how to do so,” Aubrey said.

The three friends piled into the coach. A short time later, they entered the fencing room to find it, as Aubrey had predicted, already crowded. Jack nodded to Montclare and several others, while Rupert gave Jack a glacial glance as he passed to take up a place along the left wall.

A short time later, master and pupil walked in. Belle, dressed again in breeches and shirt, her golden hair pulled tightly back, ignored the assembly, focusing instead on inspecting her sword and testing its balance.

Releasing the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or vexed that this time he hadn’t drawn to himself that compelling, focus-shattering gaze. Though she did not deign to look at him, he was acutely aware of her every movement.

He mustn’t, he reminded himself, become distracted by the shapely derriere hugged by her doeskin breeches as she bent to adjust her foil or the arresting curves outlined beneath the shirt as she raised her arm, lest he be trounced as ignominiously as Wexley.

And Lord help him, he wanted that kiss.

That kiss and more.

Alarmed by the insidious observation that sprang, as powerful as it was unwanted, from somewhere deep within him, Jack turned his attention to the fencing master.

After a brisk review of stance and positioning, master and pupil assumed their places. During the lesson, Belle displayed the same quickness of foot and ingenuity of movement Jack had noted in her previous bout with Armaldi.

She maneuvered the foil as if it were a natural extension of her arm, her hands light and quick, her stance well balanced and her intense concentration evident in the swift countering moves with which she met each of Armaldi’s advances. Though this time she did not disarm him, the match concluded with neither scoring a decisive advantage.

“Buono, mia bella,” Armaldi said. “You fence again?”

“Perhaps not,” Belle said. “I am a bit winded today.”

Already stepping toward the fencing floor, Jack halted, surprised by the refusal. Quelling a ridiculously keen sense of disappointment, he had to compress his lips to keep from adding his objection to the shouts of protest.

“But you must accept a challenge,” Ansley cried, dropping on one knee before her. “You gave your word!”

“Besides, someone particular has pledged to meet you today.” Jack heard Aubrey’s voice and sighed. “A soldier and veteran of Waterloo. Surely you won’t deny this heroic defender of England a chance to win a victory far sweeter than the one he wrested from the brutal fields of battle?”

Belle’s gaze swept the room and found Jack. For a long moment those intense blue eyes focused on his, sending a wave of shivers over his skin.

“You,” she said at last.

Jack bowed. “Captain Jack Carrington, ma’am, at your service. And perhaps later, if you are skillful enough, at your mercy.”

Her lips twitched at that, but in the next moment a man from the gallery strode forward, stripped to his shirtsleeves and obviously intending his own challenge.

As Jack watched the other man approach, the unexpected and disturbingly intense conviction seized him that the chance to fence with her, best her—kiss her—belonged to him and him alone. He had to squelch a strong, primal desire to draw his sword and repel any other contenders.

The other man frowned at Jack. “’Tis not fair for Belle to be challenged by a military man, a professional!” he protested to Armaldi.

“Do you imply ’tis impossible she could match him, Waterfield?” Aubrey shot back. “That’s presumptuous as well as ungentlemanly!”

While Waterfield sputtered that he’d not meant to disparage Belle’s skill, Lord Rupert raised his voice above the clamor of disputing opinions. “Mr. Waterfield speaks the truth, Captain. You have, by your friend’s admission, fought recently and in deadly earnest. To challenge Lady Belle, who fences upon occasion and for sport, would be to take unfair advantage of the terms of Ansley’s wager. I must ask you to decline.”

“You only wish him to step down because you fear he might actually win,” Aubrey inserted hotly.

Rupert ignored him, his gaze fixed on Jack. “Lady Belle, unusual though she be, is still but a woman. Though she has achieved a remarkable level of proficiency, it is hardly possible for one of her sex to acquire the strength and skill necessary to best an accomplished gentleman.”

Belle had been looking into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the argument around her, but at that, she snapped her gaze back. “You think me so paltry an opponent, my lord? ’Tis time, then, that I faced someone of unquestioned skill. Captain, I accept your challenge.”

Exclamations erupted from around the gallery, some protesting against Belle meeting a soldier, some calling for the match to begin. His pulse having leapt in anticipation as soon as Belle accepted the challenge, Jack ignored them all, striding instead to an exuberant Aubrey, who stripped off his jacket and handed him his sword.

Lord Rupert followed, still arguing as Jack readied himself, until at last Armaldi waved his arms and stamped his feet to command the group to silence.

“The lady has spoken,” he pronounced. “So be it.”

After attempting without success to stare down Armaldi, Lord Rupert at last reluctantly took his seat. “We shall have a reckoning over this,” he muttered to Jack.

Every nerve tightened by excitement and the tantalizing prospect of victory, Jack did not reply.

A moment later, he bowed again to Belle. “As eager as these gentlemen are to watch, so am I to test your skill.”

Lady Belle fixed him with a look whose icy coldness surprised him. “I daresay you are. En guarde, Captain!”

SO CARRINGTON’S FIRST name was Jack, Belle thought as she slowly circled him, looking for the opportunity to strike. She’d spotted him immediately, watching her, disturbing her concentration during her lesson as he’d disturbed her during the play last night.

Good that he had challenged her. In her current angry, restless mood, she welcomed the opportunity to strike out with the full fury that raged within her, a fury she always held in check when fencing with Armaldi.

So he wanted to “test her skill”? She could just imagine what sort of expertise he wanted to plumb.

She’d show him the edge of her blade, drive him back…Better yet, she decided, she’d feign the amateur and lure him to a humiliating defeat. Then he would leave her in peace and she could put him and his unsettling effect on her out of mind for good.

But though she tried to play on the disdain she suspected he harbored for her skill, attempted with weak and clumsy thrusts to make him commit to a lunge that would allow her to deliver a blow that knocked him off balance and perhaps off his feet, he refused to comply.

With a dawning respect for his perspicacity, Belle discarded that tactic and reverted to fencing him properly. Within a very few minutes, she began to wonder wryly whether she’d truly wanted this demanding a challenge.

Unlike her opponents thus far, Carrington was a fencer who truly knew the art, handling his blade with more finesse than anyone she’d yet faced, save Armaldi himself.

To have survived the slaughter of Waterloo, he must possess skill as well as luck. But she’d not expected a cavalryman, accustomed to brute slashing with a heavy saber, to be a master of subtle moves and shrewd strategy.

Just then he paused, and seizing that chance, Belle lunged. Their blades caught, forcing Armaldi to step in and untangle them.

Belle went immediately on the offensive again. Though the captain fell back, he never allowed her another opening. Seeming content to counter her moves with only an occasional strike back, he simply did not make any mistakes she could use to deliver the decisive hit.

Back and forth across the floor they continued. Belle’s hands grew sweaty, her breathing labored. Already tired by her lesson, she knew she was flagging. She would have to redouble her efforts before the captain could turn her growing fatigue to his advantage.

Breaking away to gather her breath, Belle caught sight of the gallery. Men stood beside their chairs, waving their fists and shouting, their eyes feverish, their faces distorted by an excitement very much like lust.

The captain paused also, watching her with those bold dark eyes, a slight smile on his face. Aside from the sheen of sweat on his face, he appeared not at all fatigued. Not at all challenged.

The humiliating, infuriating suspicion swept through Belle that the captain was not truly engaging her at all. No, he was merely playing with her, checking her moves to keep from being pricked, but not using his full abilities.

Once again, a man was toying with her—while other men watched and cheered him on.

Frustration, fatigue and anger ignited into a fireball of fury that, intensified by remembered shame and pain, blazed out of control. Her eyes narrowed, her head and body felt suddenly light and her breast filled with a single, murderous desire for vengeance.

On the fencer now taunting her. On all of them.

Teeth clenched in a snarl, she attacked.

PAUSING HIMSELF as Lady Belle paused for a respite, Jack assessed his opponent. She was amazingly good, and he’d been hard-pressed to protect himself without resorting to the dragoon’s killing slash that might have injured her, despite the protective bit of cork attached to their foils.

But not having the stamina he had developed after years of performing this deadly game, she was tiring. A few more turns about the room, he judged, and her arms would weaken, her steps start to falter. Then, he would wait for an opportunity to disarm her…and win that kiss.

His whole body stirring at the notion, he smiled slightly. And then suddenly she sprang at him.

Whipping up his blade to protect his face, he was forced to concentrate all his energies on defending himself as, in a frenzy of thrusts and parries, she drove him hard.

Even as sweat began dripping from his face and soaking his gloves, he wondered what had happened. Between one instant and the next, this match had ceased to be a test of skill. He’d fought in enough battles to recognize in the ferocity of Lady Belle’s attack the blood lust of an adversary bent not on simple victory—but on murder.

As he parried one furious slash, the momentum of her lunge carried the deflected blade to the floor, embedding the tip into the wood. With a growl, Belle yanked the blade free—leaving behind the cork protector.

He should call the match to a halt, he thought as she drove him into a corner and tried to pin him. But before he could bring himself to end this curious, exhilarating contest, he gazed down into her eyes.

And encountered a look of such complete, blind hatred that it shocked him to the soul. Unable to imagine what he could possibly have done to have inspired so venomous an expression, for an instant he stood motionless.

In the next instant, he saw light dancing off a flash of blade, felt a blow to the chest followed by a searing, white-hot pain. As he looked down in bemusement, blood began seeping from a hole beneath his left shoulder.

For a long moment, he watched the pulsating flow while the voices from the gallery faded to a hum. His head grew light, his limbs clumsy. Dimly he noted the sword falling from his nerveless fingers.

As the room flickered and dissolved into black, he realized that he wasn’t going to win that kiss after all.

CHAPTER SIX

DEAR LORD in heaven, she’d just killed her soldier.

Her fury washed away with the flow of blood trickling down Jack Carrington’s chest, Belle dropped her foil and tried to brace him as he swayed. Then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, taking her to the floor with him.

She scrambled out from under him to rip open his shirt. “Someone get a physician,” she cried, dimly aware of a chaos of shouts, overturned chairs and running feet.

Hands shaking with dread, she ripped the cuffs off her shirt and clamped them over the neat hole she had punched into Jack Carrington’s chest. Willing away the nausea brought on by fatigue and the scent of blood, she leaned her full weight against him.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and marred her view of Carrington’s face, now drained of all color. “Hold on, Captain!” she urged. “You didn’t survive Waterloo to die on a fencing-room floor.”

A hand closed over hers and she glanced up, startled.

“Edmund Darnley, Lady Belle—a friend of Jack’s. If you will allow me to hold the pads in place? I’ve several stone more than you to bear against them.”

“But I must do something,” she cried, needing some distraction from the horror that had just transpired.

Darnley’s lips curved into a grim smile. “I’d say you’ve done quite enough. But if you can find something to put under his head, ’twill ease his breathing, I think.”

Reluctantly Belle ceded him her place and scurried to grab a cushion from one of the overturned chairs. Dropping on her knees beside Darnley, she wedged the pillow under the captain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Darnley.

The captain’s friend gave her a short nod.

Then another gentleman—blond, exquisitely dressed, a bit stout, whom Belle recognized as one of the crowd that usually attended her lessons—knelt beside them.

“Aubrey Ludlowe, ma’am. How does he, Edmund?”

“Jack’s a tough old trooper. Is a doctor on the way?” Despite the calm words, Darnley looked grim and his gaze remained riveted on the still, white-faced figure whose chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly under his palms.

“Armaldi dispatched his assistant to fetch him,” Ludlowe said. “Damned if I want to see my best friend stick his spoon in the wall right in front of me when he’s scarce returned from battle!” Ludlowe inhaled abruptly, his eyes widening. “Besides, should he…not recover, Lady Belle might be forced to flee to the continent!”

“Unless she had the protection of someone very well connected,” Darnley agreed and then frowned. “Is Rupert still here?”

“The whole crowd is milling about.”

“If you wish to be useful, ma’am,” Darnley said to Belle, “escort Lord Rupert out. I fear he’d snuff Jack in a heartbeat if he thought it would give him an advantage.”

The truth of Darnley’s words made her shudder, but the last person she wished to entice was the persistent baron. “They should all go,” she countered. “The captain needs air and the doctor will need space to work. Armaldi!” she called. “Clear the room, please!”

The wiry Italian nodded. “Subito, Bella. Signore!” Clapping his hands to draw their attention, he waved the crowd toward the door. “You also, my lord Rupert,” he added when that gentleman looked as if he meant to linger.

“I will await the lady, who should be escorted from this distressing scene as soon as possible,” Rupert said.

“I’m not leaving until the captain has been treated,” Belle replied.

“Ah, he arrives, il dottore!” Armaldi cried.

“The doctor had a colleague visiting, a military physician, Major Thompson,” the fencing master’s assistant called to them as he entered. “Thought it might be best to bring him.”

“Oh, yes, Dr. Thompson, we’ll be glad of your experience!” Ludlowe said, relief in his voice.

After having to push his way past several groups of bystanders, the doctor ordered, “Out with you all, now!” Setting down his bag, he knelt beside the captain while Darnley described the injury and Armaldi shepherded out the remaining lingerers. Even Rupert, with a disdainful glance at the physician, walked toward the door. “I shall wait outside to escort you home, Lady Belle.”

“I may be here some time,” Belle warned.

“Nonetheless, I shall wait,” he said, and to her vast relief, finally exited. When she returned her attention to the captain, the doctor had begun examining the wound.

“Why don’t you go change, ma’am?” Darnley asked, glancing at her. “I’m sure you’ll want to…freshen up.”

Only then, following his gaze, did Belle notice the blood spattering her breeches and shirtfront, soaking the ragged edges of her torn sleeves.

Carrington’s blood. Blood, welling still around the doctor’s probing fingers, from a wound her carelessness had caused. A wound that might yet cost Carrington his life.

Despite a sudden dizziness that made her faint, she shook her head. “I can’t leave. Not until we know…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Remain if you wish, ma’am,” the doctor said, “but no attack of the vapors, if you please! There’s a frightful lot of blood, but his pulse is steady. If he’d severed an artery, he’d have bled to death already. Much will depend on how seriously the lung is affected.”

With that not-so-comforting assessment, the doctor continued probing. And so Belle remained in her gore-spattered garments, gaze fixed on the captain’s too-pale face, trying to form a prayer for his recovery out of the tumult of anxious thoughts tumbling about in her head.

She had almost killed a man. Whatever had possessed her to attack him so? The protector must have become dislodged from her blade. She should have noticed it, would have noticed, had she not been in such a rage.

Remembering the ferocity of that anger chilled her. For years she’d felt herself the victim of another’s unfeeling, heedless action. It dismayed her to find within herself a similar strain of thoughtless single-mindedness.

Her mind recoiled from the possibility that Carrington might die. The captain would recover. He must.

His probing apparently complete, the doctor sprinkled a powder over the wound, drew a roll of cotton from his bag and began binding up the wound.

Though she knew the doctor could make no promises, Belle couldn’t prevent herself asking, “Will he recover?”

“Though the lungs appear intact, he will have some difficulty breathing, and I can’t tell yet whether the blade touched anything vital. Of course, there’s always the danger from fever, but he will do for the present.”

The captain wasn’t going to die—yet. Belle almost sagged in relief. “Thanks be to God,” she murmured.

“I’ve bound up the shoulder to keep it immobile. I trust you have lodgings nearby? You’ll need to move him carefully to avoid disturbing the wound. Don’t worry if he takes a while coming to himself. I’ll leave you some laudanum, but on no account administer any until you are sure he is clearheaded. Watch for fever, and if the lungs were damaged, a pleurisy might settle in.”

Belle must have paled, for the doctor patted her hand. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear. Your husband appears to be a strong fellow, and from the looks of that scar on his shoulder, has weathered worse. Send a servant to fetch me in Curzon Street and I’ll check him again this afternoon.”

Belle opened her mouth to deny the relationship, then closed it. There seemed no reason to correct the doctor’s misapprehension and make this incident more embarrassing for the captain than it was already bound to be.

“Thank you very much, Doctor,” she said instead.

Hauling himself to his feet, Thompson laughed and shook his head. “Pricked in a fencing match! You’d think he would have gotten his fill of that in Belgium. Doubtless he’ll soon recover and go haring off on some other fool stunt, causing you to doubt your joy at his deliverance. I shall see you this afternoon, ma’am.”

With Ludlowe and Darnley echoing Belle’s thanks, the doctor departed. “Signore Armaldi, have you anything that can be fashioned into a litter?” Belle asked.

“Sì, mia Bella, I go prepare it,” the fencing master said. Gathering his assistant, he walked out, leaving Belle alone with the injured captain and his friends.

“Where should he be conveyed?” she asked them.

Darnley and Ludlowe exchanged glances. “I’m afraid that’s a bit of a problem, ma’am,” Darnley replied. “Jack just arrived back in England and is staying in borrowed rooms. His family is still at their country home, and at present, he hasn’t even a valet to attend him.”

“I suppose my valet could undertake Jack’s care,” Ludlowe said, “though he has no experience in a sickroom.”

“I’ve nothing better to offer,” Darnley said with a frown. “My mother would gladly take up the task, but she, too, is not yet in London. I suppose we could ask the physician to recommend a competent nurse, but…”

Both men stared at her. A panicky foreboding added to the mix of fear, regret and worry churning in her gut.

Though she would be more than willing to pay for the services of a competent nurse, it would be unconscionable to send the captain back with only a hired stranger to watch over him. ’Twould be best for his own family to supervise his care. But in the absence of his relations, his friends clearly expected her to volunteer for the task.

“I…I have some sickroom experience,” she admitted. “However, I am sure that his family, who will be most distressed to learn of his injuries, would be even more upset to find he was being tended by one of my…reputation.”

“They’d be more upset to find he’d died from lack of care,” Darnley said bluntly.

It isn’t fair, she thought despairingly, torn by guilt and anxiety. Not now, when she could at last begin searching for something that might lay to rest the torments of the past and offer her peace—or absolution. She’d rather introduce a viper into her house than invite the disturbing captain to reside within her walls.

At present, though, his ability to disturb her would be limited. Besides, she could not escape the fact that, having been the cause of his injury, she must do whatever she could to assist in his recovery. Though she dreaded what she must say next, she knew there was no alternative.

“Transport him to my house. I shall manage the captain’s care until the doctor declares him well enough to be moved to a more…suitable location.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Darnley said quietly. “I know how great an imposition this will be, and if there were any other practical alternative, I should embrace it. You will be doing Captain Carrington a very great kindness.”

“I sincerely doubt, when they hear of it, that the ladies of his family will agree,” Belle replied grimly.

To her surprise, Darnley smiled. “His mother, Lady Anne, is a fair and reasonable lady who will feel only appreciation for the kind woman who assisted her son.”

Even the infamous Lady Belle? Belle shook her head. “Let us hope the captain’s sojourn in my care will be brief enough to escape general notice.”

Darnley made no reply, but Belle knew, as his friends must also, that such a hope was vain. The titillating news that Lady Belle had wounded a soldier in a fencing match would by midday have become the ton’s latest on-dit. The information concerning that soldier’s current location probably wouldn’t remain secret much longer.

Captain Carrington would just have to deal with the problem later, Belle thought with a sigh. One could only hope that his mother had the strength of mind Lord Darnley claimed—and that he didn’t have a fiancée waiting somewhere with a tendency to be missish.

Grimacing at the sticky residue of blood on her hands, Belle wiped them on her ruined trousers. “Gentlemen, with your leave, I will go make myself presentable. Ask Armaldi’s staff to have my coach made ready. I’ll return shortly to help you transport Captain Carrington. Thank you again for your prompt assistance.”

Darnley and Ludlowe bowed. “Jack is one of my oldest friends. I would do anything for him,” Darnley affirmed.

Including never forgiving someone who’d done him an injury, Belle thought as she walked out.

Pensively Belle paced back to the small room Armaldi allotted her as a dressing chamber, thankful that an errand had prevented Mae from accompanying her this morning. As she rang for a maid to assist her, another sigh escaped as she considered what her excitable companion would have to say once she learned of this morning’s work.

A few moments later, suitably dressed and outwardly composed, Belle returned to help Armaldi and the captain’s friends carefully convey his still-unconscious body into Belle’s waiting carriage. Settling herself beside him, she ordered the coachman to drive them slowly home.

Though she tried to close her mind to the possible consequences of having the captain under her roof, as she gazed at Carrington’s pale expressionless face, Belle knew the queasiness in her gut was only partly due to the shock of the morning’s events and the stench of blood lingering in her nostrils.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AWAKING GROGGILY to the sensation of his chest aflame, as he struggled to consciousness Jack tried to summon the words to rebuke whichever trooper had been clumsy enough to knock a flaming brand out of the campfire and nearly incinerate his officer.

As he instinctively turned from the heat, a blast of pain engulfed him, so searing that it drove every vestige of sleepiness from his head. His eyes flew open, the half-formed words tumbling out in an unintelligible gasp.

“Awake at last!” said a cool, soft voice. “I was beginning to fear you would never come back to yourself.”

Narrowing his focus against the agony radiating downward from his shoulder, Jack halted his gaze at a candlelit face haloed against the room’s darkness. A face of such perfect, classical beauty he was momentarily distracted from his pain. Then memory flooded back.

Lady Belle. His challenge. The protector on her blade coming loose.

Lady Belle trying to kill him.

As he gritted his teeth and cautiously shifted to see her better, he noted that she had very nearly succeeded.

“You must be thirsty. At least, the doctor said you would be when you finally reached consciousness.”

He was thirsty, he discovered. His tongue seeming too thick for speech, he nodded. As Belle put a glass to his lips, he leaned forward and drank greedily, ignoring the immediate protest from his shoulder. Before he’d barely slaked his thirst, dizziness assailed him and he sagged back against his pillows, his eyes fluttering shut.

Damn and blast, he thought in disgust. He had about as much strength as a newborn kitten.

“Dr. Thompson said I could give you laudanum for pain, once you were fully conscious. You…are conscious?”

He opened his eyes, as much to prove it to himself as to reassure her. “Yes.”

Picking up a spoon and a small brown bottle from a tray beside the bed, she asked, “Do you want—?”

“No,” he said, recalling the nightmarish narcotic-induced sleep he’d endured after being wounded at Corunna. “Pain is…tolerable. Don’t like being cloth-headed.”

“As you wish. The doctor also said you might have difficulty breathing, if the injury affected the lung.”

“Hard to tell,” he said with a grimace, “but I can breathe.” Inhaling deeply enough to utter more than a few words at a time, however, was a different matter.

“Praise heaven!” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then hesitated.

Jack might be in a sorry state, but he wasn’t half-dead enough not to feel a spark of masculine response as she ran the tip of her tongue over those plump lips. “Do you remember…how you became injured?” she said at last.

Why she had tried to kill him? he asked himself. A disturbing vision of her lovely face contorted with hate flickered through his mind and he inhaled sharply, then gasped as another surge of pain seared his chest.

He struggled to regain his concentration. If he could induce her to describe what had happened, maybe he could find out what had prompted her violent response.

“It’s all…rather hazy.”

“It cannot possibly be sufficient, given the injuries you’ve suffered, but I owe you an enormous apology. You had challenged me to a fencing match—you remember that?”

He nodded, prompting her to continue.

“Sometime during the match,” she said, moistening her lips again, “the protector on my blade became dislodged. Being unaware of this, when you chanced to drop your guard and I saw a chance to score a hit, I took it. I never dreamed…!” She stopped again, her eyes and expression mirroring a clear distress. “The fault is entirely mine.”

“Had I done you some injury,” he asked, gritting his teeth against the increasing pain of each inhaled breath, “that you felt moved to attack?”

Her face coloring, she didn’t immediately reply. So she knew her response had been disproportionate. Why? he wondered anew.

“Of course you had done me no injury,” she said after a moment. “I—I merely wished to test my skill against one who was accounted a superb swordsman.”

“Our relative positions now…argue against that,” he observed wryly.

“There is no way I can make restitution for all you have suffered, but I have arranged to oversee your care until you are sufficiently recovered to be transported to your family’s estate, which Lord Darnley assured me you would wish as soon as possible. At the moment, you are lodged in my house on Mount Street. Not a very…respectable arrangement, I realize, but there seemed no other recourse, you being far too ill to be left—”

“Nay, madam, don’t apologize! I should be…in bad case indeed had you returned me to Albany. Only hope I’ve not been…too much of a charge.” He attempted a smile. “Many a gentleman would consider…a sword wound a trifling cost…to lie where I do now.”

“Not if theirs were the chest pierced by the blade,” she retorted, ignoring his attempt at gallantry. “In any event, I shall arrange for your journey as soon as the physician allows. Though I fear,” she added with a sigh, “that shall not be soon enough to prevent the troubling news of your present…situation from reaching your family.”

“My family will thank you,” Jack replied, surprised that Lady Belle seemed aware of the distress his mother might well experience upon hearing her only son was being nursed by the ton’s most celebrated Fashionable Impure. Odd, he thought, that a woman who had embraced a calling like Belle’s would spare a thought over how an association with her would be viewed by respectable people.

“Do you feel up to drinking some broth?”

At her question, he realized he was indeed hungry, though broth didn’t appeal. “Feel like having the steak…I didn’t finish for breakfast.”

“Beefsteak might be a tad ambitious,” she replied with a smile.

Despite the pain, Jack’s breath caught at how the sudden warmth of that expression, seen for the first time up close, magnified the natural beauty of her face. Though she was garbed in a high-necked, plain gray gown, her hair once again pulled severely back, the Quaker austerity of dress and coiffure seemed to emphasize rather than detract from the perfection of her features.

A smiling Botticelli angel, bending over his sickbed.

Extraordinary that a woman of her profession could exude such an aura of innocence. He felt that he might be content to spend the rest of his days simply gazing at her.

No wonder Bellingham had been so besotted.

And you, Carrington, had best keep a tight hold over your senses during the time you spend under her roof.

“Besides, that would have been breakfast yesterday,” she continued while he remained speechless, staring like a lackwit. “’Tis evening now, so you were unconscious nearly a day and a half. Indeed, I was beginning to feel I must call Dr. Thompson back to check you again.”

“That long?” Jack asked, shocked. As he studied her, recovering now from his bedazzlement, he noticed shadows beneath her eyes…and pulled up by the bed, a chair with a shawl draped over its back. “You tended me…all that time?”

“My companion Mae, though she possesses the kindest heart imaginable, turned queasy at the sight of you, the footman was little better, and I feared that my butler, a former prize-fighter, might not be gentle enough. But now that you are awake, I shall send Watson in and rest.”

“Please do! I apologize for being…such a burden.”

“Having been the instrument of your injury, ’twas only right that I do everything possible to assist you. In any case, I should not have been able to sleep until you regained your senses, giving me more confidence in your eventual recovery. Now, the doctor tells me rest and quiet are essential for healing, and I know you—and your family—will wish to have you on your way as quickly as possible.”

With that, she offered him another sip of water, bracing his shoulder as he leaned forward to drink. This time, Jack found his meager strength fading even more quickly—and now that he’d had time to sort out the gradations of pain and pressure in his chest, he discovered that breathing was becoming more difficult, as well.

He couldn’t stifle a groan as she eased him back against his pillows. There was so much more he wanted to ask her, but the words seemed to elude his grasp. “Sleep…might be…wise,” he admitted.

“You’re sure about the laudanum? Sleep, then.”

For the few moments before the vortex of pain and fatigue sucked him down to oblivion, he savored the feel of her fingers, gently stroking his face.

FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Jack dozed and woke and dozed again, except when roused for the doctor’s periodic visits, experiences uncomfortable enough that afterward he several times accepted Belle’s offer for a bit of laudanum. Mercifully, a small dose dulled the agony enough for him to sleep without filling his dreams with nightmarish visions.

Or perhaps being wounded in the safety of London, rather than in the middle of a grim winter retreat through the wilderness, allowed him to rest undisturbed. Whatever the reason, he awoke on the fifth day to find his mind and senses had at last escaped the haze of pain and laudanum.

Except for an itchy tickle of beard, he was reasonably comfortable, his soiled garments having been removed at some point in favor of a plain nightshirt, and his body washed. He gazed about him, able now that a tepid daylight illuminated the room and he was finally lucid to take stock of his surroundings.

He lay in a handsomely carved canopy bed, its hangings and the curtains at the windows a rich blue damask, a hue mirrored in the Turkish carpet upon the floor. The room itself, its walls painted a pale blue, boasted a fine plastered cornice, classical broken pediments over the windows and a doorway flanked by inset pilasters.

’Twas a bedchamber such as one might find in the home of any ton aristocrat of superior taste and unlimited funds. Lady Belle’s late protector had obviously been endowed with both, Jack decided.

Though the constant pain had eased, he still possessed very little strength, and moving even a small distance remained a teeth-gritting endeavor.

His vain effort to reach his water glass was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, hulking man whose dark livery proclaimed his status even as his crooked nose and huge fists spoke of a previous occupation. This must be Belle’s former prize-fighter-turned-butler.

“The maid what built up the fire said you was awake,” the man said. “Lady Belle sent me to ask iff’n you was wishful of having a shave. She done washed you off some when you first come, but she didn’t trifle none with them whiskers. I’m Watson, by the way, Lady Belle’s butler.”

“Jaimie Watson?” Jack said, a memory beginning to surface. “Defeated Molynieu back in ’09, in one of the best bouts of fisticuffs ever seen?”

The big man’s face brightened. “You saw the match?”

“No, I was on the Peninsula at the time, but troopers who witnessed the event talked of it for months.”

Watson smiled. “’Twas my best fight.”

“Don’t start him talking about the Fancy, or you’ll never get your shave,” Lady Belle said as she entered.

Conversation ceased as Jack let the beauty of her wash over his senses. She was garbed today in a plain, high-necked gown of a medium blue that underscored the brilliance of her deep blue eyes. With her golden hair pulled back in a simple chignon, her cheeks and lips devoid of artificial enhancement and her rigidly upright stance, she might be taken for a governess. Yet the sheer loveliness of her unadorned beauty still caused him to suck in a painful breath.

“Good morning, ma’am. How charming you look!” Jack said—and immediately regretted it, for at the banal compliment, he saw her almost physically withdraw.

“You seem better, Captain,” she said coolly.

Forewarned now, he copied her matter-of-fact demeanor. “Much better, thank you.”

“Should you like a shave before breakfast?”

Jack had never considered himself vain, but in the face of her luminous beauty he was feeling decidedly unkempt. Bad enough, he thought, to have practically cocked up your toes in front of a lady you hoped to impress without looking like a hooligan who’d ended up on the wrong side of an altercation with the Watch.

“That would be wonderful. I understand I have you to thank for making me more presentable.”

She shrugged. “You needed to be stripped out of those bloody garments—which are ruined, I’m afraid, so that I insist you allow me to replace them. It seemed best to do so while you were still unconscious.”

The idea of her stripping him down, laying hands on his naked skin, even for the prosaic purpose of cleansing it, sent a ripple of arousal through him. After spending several days in an enfeebled state, he thanked his body for this hard evidence that he was finally on the mend.

“Watson, you have the shaving utensils ready?” Belle interrupted his wandering thoughts.

“Aye, Lady Belle.” While Belle helped Jack to a sip of water, the butler brought in water, soap and razor.

While Watson shaved him, Belle recounted the doctor’s findings and informed him that both Darnley and Ludlowe had called to check on him and would return in the afternoon.

After Watson finished, a boy trotted in carrying a covered dish. “Mornin’, Miss Belle, Cap’n,” he said, fixing a curious and entirely undeferential gaze on Jack.

Scrawny and obviously undernourished, the child had hair that stuck up at odd angles, as if barbered by a blind man. With his narrow face, sharp nose and small, gleaming eyes that reminded Jack of a rodent, the child was one of the ugliest specimens of boyhood Jack had ever beheld. Where, Jack wondered, had this little street rat come from?

“Thank you for bringing up the tray so quickly, Jem. You may return to assist Watson—in the kitchen.”

The boy groaned. “Be I still in the kitchen?”

“For another week, Jem.”

“But Miss Belle—”

“No arguing, Jem,” Belle cut him off.

If the child weren’t too old—and far too unattractive—to make such a relationship possible, Jack could almost suspect the boy was Belle’s son rather than her servant. Though from what he’d seen, while Lady Belle’s house was similar to those of London’s ton, the appearance of her staff and the familiarity of their behavior was decidedly not.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Cap’n,” the boy said. His face mournful, he walked with dragging steps toward the door.

On impulse Jack called out, “Wait, Jem.” To Lady Belle’s sharp look, he said blandly, “If the boy isn’t needed now, perhaps he can keep me company while I eat.”

The lad hastened back, his thin, homely face turned toward Belle. “Couldn’t I, Miss Belle? I be very good company when I wants to.”

Belle bent her penetrating regard on the boy for a long moment before sighing. “I have some work that really needs attention. I suppose you can remain, if the captain will allow you to assist him with his breakfast.”

“I won’t hurt him none, ma’am! And I’ll get his gruel into him faster’n a fly lighting on a sticky bun.”

“Is that arrangement agreeable to you, Captain?”

Jack would much prefer Belle’s to be the hands that assisted him, but since so far he’d learned little about Belle from the lady herself, maybe he could discover more from the boy—especially if Belle were not present. “If it will not inconvenience the household, ma’am.”

She lifted an eyebrow at that and turned to the boy. “Don’t tease him with too much chatter, Jem. He should rest and converse as little as possible.”

Jack watched her graceful glide of a walk as she exited. Meanwhile Jem removed the cover from the tray, unveiling a pot that wafted the siren scent of fresh coffee and a surprisingly appealing bowl of gruel.

“Don’t you stir them nabsters, Cap’n,” Jem advised as Jack tried to lift a hand to reach the spoon. “Jem’ll feed you right and proper.”

Surmising that Jem meant he was good with his hands, Jack subsided back against the pillows. He’d best hope the boy didn’t spill his breakfast all over him, since his own feeble attempt to feed himself had failed dismally. Silently cursing his recurrent weakness and the pain that skewered him every time he moved, Jack said, “I’d be much obliged for your help, Jem.”

“Don’t wonder you need it, Lady Belle sticking you like she done. Watson says your togs was soaked right through in blood. Here’s your broth, now.”

For a few minutes Jack contented himself with slurping down all the soup that Jem spooned in as handily as promised. His immediate hunger subsiding, Jack decided to see what information he could eke from the boy.

Before his stint in the army, where men from all ranks and walks of life were obligated to work together, Jack might have felt awkward, attempting to converse with a servant. Having long since mastered any such discomfort—and certainly the erstwhile servant seemed to feel none, Jack said, “You don’t like working in the kitchen, Jem?”

“It ain’t my usual lay, helping old Watson. I’d rather be back at the mews, learning to tend the bits of blood and hoof and swabbing the tinkle and jangle.”

“You prefer working with horses and tack?” Jack guessed.

Jem paused for a minute and gave Jack a gap-toothed grin. “You be right smart, for a toff.”

Jack felt the urge to chuckle and, mindful of his chest, restrained it. “I am moved by your accolade.”

“Watson says you was in the cavalry. Did you have a bloody great horse? Did you slash the Frogs to bits with your sword?”

Jack’s smile turned grim as he suppressed the memories. “Yes, I had a fine, big horse. I’d rather not talk about the slashing, if you please. How did you—”

“But that be the best part!” Jem interrupted, clearly disappointed. “Here’s your last sip, anyways.”

As Jem spoke, Lady Belle entered. Though she moved silently, the almost palpable change in the air telegraphed her presence to him instantly, even before Jack caught her faint scent of lavender.

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