Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12 - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 55

Rosalie was in an old dark castle, where every room was full of sneering soldiers and gaudily dressed whores. She was running along endless passageways in search of Linette, for ever glimpsing her, but unable to reach her; then she was faced with a door which turned out to be not a door, but a mirror. In it she saw herself wearing nothing but a silken underslip, through which her hips and her breasts were outlined. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed, and Alec Stewart was coming up behind her, lithe and dangerous, pulling her to him, kissing her, plundering her mouth with his lips and tongue …

Linette’s destroyer. A rackrenter, who sought out the company of loose women.

Darkness enveloped her again. Flames were burning her. She could hear Katy crying, Mama, Mama, and Rosalie was struggling to get to her, but was powerless to save her. There is no hope, someone was saying, there is no hope.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Weakly she hauled herself up against the pillows, still light-headed, still nauseous. Daylight poured into the room. And she saw that Katy’s bed was empty.

She began to scream.

The door opened and Alec Stewart was there. Instantly he strode to her bedside. ‘Rosalie. You’re having nightmares—my God, you look as though you’re burning up!’

‘Katy.’ The tears were still rolling down her cheeks. ‘What have you done with Katy?’

‘She’s safe. Do you hear me?’

‘I must go to her. I must …’

He sat quickly on the chair by her bed and gripped her hands. ‘She’s downstairs, having breakfast. Mary is looking after her; she’s quite safe. You’re safe.’ He touched her forehead. ‘But you have a fever. You’re not fit to go anywhere.’

She was trying to pull away. ‘I must get up, I must get out of here.’

‘And go where precisely, damn it?’

She sank back, pulse thudding. She had no money. Helen’s house had been destroyed. And she was clad only in a loose nightgown—where were her clothes?

Alec had gone over to the dressing table and was pouring something from a jug into a cup. ‘Here,’ he said, coming back to her, his face strangely shadowed. ‘Drink this. It’s Mary’s barley water.’ He sat on a chair next to the bed, supporting her shoulders with one hand and holding the cup for her with the other hand. She felt as weak as a kitten. Her throat was parched, and the barley water was cold and pure. His hand was unnervingly comforting against her back. But—

‘You will be all right here,’ he emphasised softly. ‘Katy will be all right. Mary has her two young grandchildren here nearly every day while her daughter works at a bakery in Bishopsgate. The little girls are playing with Katy now and Katy is perfectly happy. I’m going to send for the doctor.’

‘No.’

‘I know that you hate this place, and me,’ he said quietly. ‘But unless you can tell me of somewhere else you can go—somewhere safe—you really have no option.’

She hesitated, her stomach pitching. ‘I will find somewhere …’

He shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘If you insist. But I take it you’re going with a bodyguard to accompany you?’

The blood pounded through her veins. ‘What—what nonsense is this?’

‘Not nonsense, unfortunately. This was delivered at the house this morning.’ He passed the crudely written note to her. She took it with trembling fingers.

Stop asking questions, whore. Your friend has already suffered the consequences, and you’re next.

The writing. The notepaper … Her stomach lurched.

He said, ‘Do you know who it’s from?’

‘I think—I think it could be from the same person who has been threatening my friend Helen. The same writing. The same notepaper.’

He drew in a sharp breath. She went on, in a voice that shook despite all her efforts to control it, ‘This is ridiculous! I cannot be threatened like this; I will go to the constables, or a magistrate—they will help me!’

‘Save yourself the trouble,’ he said.

He didn’t need to explain. He’d told her before that no magistrate would take the trouble to listen to her. A courtesan who writes for a gossip rag. That was how he’d described her. ‘Then I am even more determined that we will leave here!’ she cried. ‘Katy and I, we will find somewhere …’ She was trying to push back the bedclothes.

‘No!’ he rasped, flinging out his arm to stop her. ‘Whoever it is, they’ll follow you—you and the child!’ Then, a little gentler, ‘I don’t make a habit of throwing women and children out on the street. Stay here.’

He must have seen the downright fear shoot through her. ‘I realise the idea doesn’t immediately appeal,’ he said. His eyes darkened. ‘But believe me, as soon as word goes around that you’re under my protection, you’ll be far safer than anywhere else in London. And rest assured I will require nothing of you at all. Except, perhaps, obedience.’

She swallowed, hard. ‘Then—you truly think I’m in danger?’

He pointed at the note. ‘Don’t you?’

She sank back against the pillows. Oh, Lord. Where else could she go? But how could she possibly think herself safe here, of all places?

Alec was mentally cursing himself. If he hadn’t gone to Dr Barnard’s to tackle Stephen, he would never have seen her. She’d have been left to deal with her own problems, which she’d surely brought upon herself. But—was she really used to earning her living on her back, as well as with her vitriolic pen?

She was trouble. Even in that voluminous nightgown, she was treacherously alluring. He remembered her slender waist, the sweet curve of her hips, the warm scent of her skin as he’d hauled her against him in that kiss, the last time she’d paid a visit to Two Crows Castle. The memory sent a nagging ache of need throbbing through his veins.

You fool, Stewart.

‘Have you decided?’ he asked curtly.

Her eyes looked bruised with distress. ‘Will you truly promise me Katy is safe here?’

‘Of course she is,’ he said. Safer than she was with you last night, since you were dragging her around the town. No. He wouldn’t rebuke her—yet—for her idiotic trust in his brother.

She drew herself up and said, with that air of defiant dignity that so confounded all his preconceptions of her, ‘Very well. For as long as the danger stands, I will—accept your protection.’

He nodded, as if it were a matter of as little importance to him as the hiring of a hackney cab. ‘I am overwhelmed by your gratitude,’ he said.

‘Some day you must let me pay you!’

He shrugged. ‘Why? Nobody else does.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Only those poor soldiers!’

‘My soldiers?’ He looked coldly angry now. ‘I’d like to make it quite clear that none of them pays me a penny.’

Oh, God. She bit her lip. For some reason she believed him. ‘I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a—a …’

‘A rackrenter,’ he said tightly. ‘Indeed. As you implied in those scribblings of yours—wait! Where in hell are you going?’

She’d suddenly slid to the side of the bed away from him. Was trying to heave herself out, but was instead doubled up and starting to retch helplessly.

In a couple of strides Alec had pushed the porcelain bowl from the washstand on to the floor beside her. ‘I’ll send Mary up. I’m going for the doctor.’

‘No—’

‘This time,’ he said, ‘I’m giving you no choice.’

Exhausted with sickness and with Mary quietly tidying up around her, Rosalie sagged back against the pillows in despair. Oh, no. She’d made so many dreadful mistakes. She’d been wrong about Helen’s printing press, and the fire, and about his rackrenting. In return he despised her as a cheap little widow, a courtesan. And even though Alec Stewart might be a despicable seducer—my own sister denounced him to me!—just now she’d found comfort and something even more disturbing in his calm voice, his very presence …

You are mad. You are ill, Rosalie.

Ill indeed, because during the course of that morning the fever took her more firmly in its grip. Bed rest, the doctor ordered.

The next few days for Rosalie passed in a haze. She was sometimes aware of Mary serving her with the powders the doctor had prescribed, or bringing her a fresh cotton nightgown. Of Katy being brought up to see her, her little thumb in her mouth, sometimes with Mary, sometimes in Alec’s strong arms, which Rosalie found almost unbearable.

Sometimes, she would hear the physician’s grave voice. ‘The fever lingers … She must have caught a chill on the night you found her.’

Then Alec’s low tones. ‘Mrs Rowland was drenched that night, in the rain. And I’ve reason to believe she was served drinks that had been tampered with.’

‘That would not have helped. Rest is what she needs; a little light food, plenty of liquids …’

That threat, that note Alec had shown her, hung over her all the time. Stop asking questions, whore. Your friend has already suffered the consequences, and you’re next.

Who could it be from?

One morning—Rosalie guessed her fourth day here—Alec knocked and came in after the doctor’s daily visit. She had tried getting up earlier, but her legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s.

‘I’ve brought you a letter,’ he said. Her pulse began to race. ‘It’s from your friend Helen.’

Helen. Oh, poor Helen would have been so worried, so angry … ‘How did she know I was here?’

‘I told her,’ Alec said quietly. ‘I went to see her at Mr Wheeldon’s house two days ago to explain that you were ill and had taken shelter at my home. She—expressed her disapproval quite strongly.’

Rosalie could imagine. She opened the letter quickly. Rosalie, my dear. What can you be thinking of, staying at that place? You know you are welcome here, with Francis and his sister! I have news. But first please write, to let me know you and Katy are safe.

‘She wanted to visit you,’ Alec said. ‘More than that, I think she wanted to drag you and your child away from here and tear me limb from limb. Her friend Mr Wheeldon was more reasonable. Do you wish her to visit?’

‘No, I don’t. Because that threat was directed to her, too, wasn’t it, Captain Stewart?’ Rosalie managed to sound calm. ‘So at the moment I imagine it’s best if she has as little as possible to do with me.’

‘Then I’ll tell her that the doctor still advises you to rest. And if you wish to write to her, I’ll see that your letter’s delivered.’

So Rosalie wrote to her.

A reply came the next day from Helen. Alec waited while she read it. Rosalie. I am disappointed that you have chosen to place any trust in that man. Since you don’t wish me to visit, I am obliged to write with my news. Francis has asked Toby and me to travel to Oxford with him for two weeks, because he has been approached to set up a church school in a village there and wants me to help. Just think, it’s not far—ten miles or less—from where you used to live, and I used to teach! I am considering making a permanent move—I don’t think I can be happy in London again. I hope you know, Rosalie, that I will be there whenever you want me. Yours, Helen.

Alec was watching her. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Rowland?’

She pushed some loose strands of hair back from her cheeks. ‘Helen is leaving London for a little while. I—I think she feels I’ve rejected her.’

‘You did so for very good reasons,’ he reminded her quietly. ‘Unselfish reasons. Some day, you’ll be able to tell her so.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ll leave you to rest.’

She lay back against the pillows.

Now, she really was on her own.

Whenever she was by herself she would get up from her bed and try to walk a little further around the room, but Rosalie was frightened by how weak she was after these days of illness. Katy was brought up to her regularly, but was always happy to return to her new friends.

Time for Rosalie hung heavily, until she noticed some books on a shelf by the window. She was surprised by their quality. Several of them, she realised, were sketchbooks that must have belonged to someone in the army. Quickly she became captivated by the swiftly but skilfully drawn portraits of soldiers at rest, or marching, the deft watercolours of mountains and villages, in Spain, she guessed. There were also other, heavier volumes containing reproductions of the work of more famous artists.

Mary had brought her some spare clothes, and on her seventh morning there Rosalie took off her nightgown and pulled on a sleeveless cotton chemise, intending to wear the plain rose-pink cambric dress that lay over the foot of the bed. But it was warm in here with the sun pouring through the window, so she decided to continue reading the book on Boucher she had found while sitting curled on the bed. The doctor had been and there was no danger of any other visitors just yet.

She was fast learning the rhythms of the household. She’d heard from Mary, always willing to chatter, that the soldiers were usually up and about early. Some went off to local places of work, at building sites or timber yards. Others were organised by Sergeant McGrath into doing repair work around this ungainly great building. Alec was often out until his fencing lessons began in the early evening.

But now, as Rosalie sat cross-legged on the bed in that flimsy chemise, engrossed in her book, Alec Stewart walked in, carrying a tray laden with a steaming teapot, china cups and a plate of bread and butter. He almost dropped everything. He clutched the tray and steadied it with a clatter of crockery, but not before one of the cups had rolled off and smashed on the floor.

He said, ‘My God.’

She dropped the book and jumped off the bed, putting it between herself and him. With his tousled dark hair, his rumpled white shirt, black boots and breeches that clung to every inch of his muscular thighs, he looked utterly devastating.

Her pulse was hammering. ‘If you’d knocked first,’ she declared, ‘you might have saved yourself a broken cup! How dare you just march in?’

‘It’s my damned house,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘And Mary asked me to bring your tea. Normally you’re hiding under the sheets. I had no idea you’d be putting on such a display.’ To be truthful, Alec was flummoxed. He knew he should leave. But—he was entranced. He felt lust stroking his loins. In that simple white chemise, she looked exquisite.

Already she was tugging on the rather faded rose-pink gown.

But that was hardly any better at concealing her charms either, thought Alec, cursing under his breath as he picked up pieces of the broken cup, because the soft fabric had moulded itself tightly to her small but rounded breasts. Earlier she must have tied back her hair, but now some blonde tendrils had escaped to cling enchantingly round her face. And as she gazed up at him with those defiant turquoise-blue eyes, he saw that they were shadowed with fear.

He sighed. He poured her some tea. ‘Please sit down again. How are you feeling? I see you were looking at one of my books.’

The big book still lay outspread by her pillow. She struggled to fasten the last button and sat on the edge of the bed because her legs were suddenly unsteady again. ‘I’m feeling a good deal better, thank you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have looked at them without your permission …’

‘Permission? Don’t be ridiculous! What were you looking at?’ He’d pulled up a stool by the bed and was reaching to examine the open pages. ‘These paintings are French, aren’t they? By François Boucher. You told me about Boucher at the Temple of Beauty, remember?’

Rosalie swallowed. Be prim. Be polite. But as she watched his lean brown hand gently lifting and turning the corners of the pages, some sort of inner turmoil set her blood racing.

‘I remember,’ she said as steadily as she could. Oh, Lord, how could she forget? Just before that kiss. ‘And they’re in Boucher’s early style,’ she went on, pointing. ‘In fact, he served his apprenticeship as an engraver, but moved on to historical paintings and portraits—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, I sound as if I’m giving a lecture.’

‘You’re knowledgeable.’

‘Only because my father was an artist. He painted watercolours and studied the French artists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.’

‘Why French artists?’

‘Because he lived for some years in Paris and married my mother there.’

‘She was French?’

‘Yes. My father died when I was seven.’

There is no hope. No hope at all, I’m afraid, madame …

Memories. The doctor, talking to her mother in Paris, at her father’s sickbed. Her father, holding Rosalie close with what little strength he had. ‘Be a brave, good girl, my Rosalie. Look after your mother and your little sister for me …’

Alec said, ‘Was that when you came to England?’

‘Yes. My father had told my mother, often, about a cottage he owned in Oxfordshire.’

‘And is your mother still there?’

She gazed up at him, her blue eyes wide with loss. ‘She is dead, too.’

Alec tried not to look at the slenderness of her neck. The faint pulse beating there. What had happened to her life next? he wondered. An impulsive early marriage, he supposed, and pregnancy followed by her husband’s early demise, leaving her penniless with a child to support. So she’d decided to come to London to seek her fortune—as a writer? As a courtesan? Whatever, somehow she’d made bad enemies.

Yet he found it so damned hard to believe she was capable of selling herself. She’d looked so innocent when he’d come in just now, wearing that pure white bit of nothingness and intently poring over that book …

He forced himself to remember how she’d been parading on stage at Dr Barnard’s—for sale, or as good as. Unfortunately, the memory did nothing to quell the nagging of harsh desire between his thighs. A French mother—perhaps that explained her grace, her allure, her beauty, damn it all.

‘Being left alone with a child to take care of can’t be easy,’ he said. ‘But you must admit you’ve made some rash decisions.’

She closed the book rather abruptly. ‘I have always paid my own way, I assure you, Captain Stewart. And I have never before been forced to stay in a place like this!’

He was angry now. ‘No one is forcing you. And considering you were dragging a small child round London with nowhere to go except Lord Maybury’s on the night I found you, you can hardly claim to be a model parent!’

She’d risen shakily to her feet, her colour high. ‘I’ve done what I could for Katy. How dare you criticise, when you’ve no idea!’

He stood up, too, to make her sit down again. ‘Hush. Hush, I’m sorry. Everyone can see that you adore her.’

‘Everyone can …?’ His warm hands on her shoulders made her fury melt into something far more disturbing. She was struggling for breath.

‘Of course.’ His eyes, she saw, were concerned, Almost—tender.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘it’s just …’ she swallowed and rubbed her hand across her eyes ‘… it’s just that sometimes I think I will go mad if I have to stay trapped in here another day!’

‘You have been ill. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs Rowland.’ He sat next to her and smiled quizzically down at her. ‘Now, I’m going to tell you a secret. Actually, I used to rather enjoy your Ro Rowland articles.’

‘You—you did?’

‘Yes. You have talent and wit. You have—courage.’

‘No. No. I’ve been stupid, I’ve made a mess of everything!’ Bitterly she looked up at him. ‘Oh, if only I had not been ill.’

‘Poor Rosalie. Taking the whole world on your shoulders.’

‘I can look after myself!’ she flared. ‘I—I am in temporary difficulties, that is all.’

He tilted her chin up with his fingers, frowning. Temporary difficulties? The sight of her struggling defiantly against the troubles that life had thrown her way had touched some part of him that he’d long buried. That belonged to a better part of him, perhaps.

But it wasn’t the better part of him that made him ache to kiss her. To feel the softness of her tender body in his arms …

‘Stop fighting the whole world,’ he said quietly. ‘Stop fighting me.’

And he kissed her. My God, he knew he’d regret it, but—he kissed her.

Rosalie went very still at the first brush of his lips against hers. But as his warm mouth cherished hers, her lips parted instinctively, her heart thudded and she felt that in the whole world there was only this man. Only the heady, floating sensation of his slow, deliberate kiss. Only the need to feel his hands, his lips, caressing her body, arousing, promising …

It was as if he cared. ‘Forget it, gal,’ Sal would warn bitterly, ‘forget them all. Once a feller’s got what he wants, he’ll throw you away like rubbish.’

But Rosalie was beginning not to care what Sal had said. This was where she wanted to be, in his arms. It was so good to breathe in his clean male scent and all that mattered now was his mouth on hers, his tongue delicately probing, deliberately possessing her with a skill that was utterly devastating. Her heart was beating quite wildly.

Then she gasped, because he had unbuttoned her dress and slipped aside the shoulder of her chemise and was cupping one breast with his sword-calloused palm, caressing it deliberately, wickedly until the sensitive peak leapt to his touch. She felt an answering pulse at her very core, full of liquid warmth as she realised it would be so easy just to melt into his strong arms. So easy to let him bed her …

A sharp knock, at the door.

Garrett’s voice. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Captain.’

Alec drew slowly back from Rosalie and swore under his breath. ‘Whoever it is, tell him it’s not convenient.’

A pause. Then—’I think you’ll want to see him. Captain. Sir.’

Alec turned to Rosalie, his jaw set. Once more he was tough Captain Stewart, master of a lowlife soldiers’ hostel. ‘I must go. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t even think of leaving.’

He was gone. And she felt desolate. She clutched the bedpost, white-faced. Once more she’d succumbed to this dangerous man—she was surely losing her wits. She pushed herself up from the bed. Despite what he said, she had to get out of here! But—that threat. Stop asking questions, whore …

Talk about being trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. She tried again to get up and walk around the room, but within a few moments she had to sink back on the bed, because her legs felt like cotton wool.

She closed her eyes and surrendered briefly to despair. And the worst thing was—she was just starting to realise how very much she wanted to be wrong about Alec Stewart and Linette.

* * *

Garrett was waiting for Alec out on the landing. ‘Listening at keyholes, Garrett?’ queried Alec caustically.

‘No!’ Garrett looked hurt. ‘No, God’s truth … Captain, Lord Conistone’s waitin’ in the fencing hall for you!’

Lucas. Indeed, this was the first good news Alec had had for a long time. And his friend had called at the right moment, because a few more minutes with Mrs Rosalie Rowland and he’d have been hard put to stop himself seducing her there and then. My God, whether she intended it or not, everything about her was an erotic enticement: the defiant flash of her eyes; the way she tossed her hair to face up to him; the stubborn pout of her full, rosy lips.

Alec was no stranger to female enticements and he’d enjoyed many a willing bed companion. Yet something about her was so damned vulnerable. If she was playing games, she excelled at them, because she was driving him wild.

He’d longed, how he’d longed just then to caress her into submission with his lips and hands. He was possessed by an image of her naked, her slender legs wrapping around his as he sheathed himself in her again and again …

God, Alec, don’t. She’s dangerous. A whore and a scandalmonger. A dousing of cold water for you, man.

That threatening note had been nasty. Someone vicious was after her—the same person doubtless who’d made her homeless through the fire. She would make enemies easily, with the mixed messages she sent out. One minute all erotic allure, the next, prim as a young school miss …

You can’t take her as your mistress. You mustn’t.

Physical pleasure for a man of Alec’s station was easy to come by, but intimacy of any other sort he’d sworn to avoid for good. His mind wandered back to the painful memories of a spell of home leave when he’d become betrothed to a pretty young heiress who thought herself in love with him. She’d been an innocent, of course, well chaperoned because of all that money. She’d kept asking about the battlefields of the Peninsula, but she’d not wanted to know the harsh reality, so he kept it from her. Kept himself from her, until in a fit of petulance she’d broken their betrothal last spring. Which was as well, considering the dark secrets already unfolding at the heart of his family.

Now Alec’s thoughts ran riot as he made his way to the fencing hall. What the hell was he to do with Rosalie Rowland? He cursed anew when he saw that some of the plaster-and-lath ceiling had fallen in overnight thanks to a spell of heavy rain; cursed again when he had to push aside that great mutt of a dog who leapt up eagerly to greet him. ‘Garrett, I thought I said—’

‘Aye, Captain. I’ll find a new home for him soon enough.’

Alec sighed and went to greet his oldest, his truest friend.

Lucas Conistone, Earl of Stancliffe, looked just the same as ever: effortlessly elegant, his clothes exquisite. Alec clasped his hand. ‘Lucas, by God! I thought you’d become a rustic, never to grace the city again. When did you arrive in town?’

‘Late yesterday.’ Lucas smiled. ‘Even Verena felt it was time to catch up on the gossip of the ton.’

Alec noted how his friend’s handsome features lit up as he spoke his wife’s name. ‘How are Verena and the children?’

‘Well, all well; the children cannot wait to see Hyde Park, and the Tower, and so on. Verena—oh, she pretends, you know, to take an interest in clothes and balls and such, but really …’

‘Really, she’s just happy wherever you are, Lucas, admit it!’

‘Indeed.’ Lucas’s elegant drawl softened. ‘I’m a lucky man, Alec.’

Garrett came in, grinning all over his face because he thought the world of Lucas Conistone. He carried freshly polished glasses and a bottle of burgundy. Alec glanced at the label and whistled.

‘Brought by his lordship, Captain,’ explained Garrett, expertly wielding the corkscrew.

‘Are we celebrating something?’

Lucas nodded. ‘Remind him, Garrett. And pour yourself a drink also, man. You were there, too.’

Garrett lifted his head proudly. ‘Two years ago to the day, the garrison at Bordeaux surrendered to Lord Wellington! There was still Toulouse and Waterloo to come, of course. But Bordeaux was the beginning of the end for Mister Nap!’

‘Indeed,’ affirmed Lucas, lifting his glass. ‘Here’s to victory.’

‘And here’s to those who didn’t make it back,’ added Alec softly. Suddenly serious, all three raised their glasses, thinking of the dead and wounded. Then Garrett, a broad smile once more splitting his face to see these old friends together again, left them with the wine.

They talked for a while about the war and mutual acquaintances. Then Alec wryly indicated Lucas’s fine clothes. ‘You said you were a lucky man, Lucas. You’re also a damned expensively dressed one—now, let me guess—boots by Hoby, coat tailored by Weston? I wonder what it’s worth to keep quiet about the filthy clothes you wore to play the spy in Portugal? My God, you used to go unwashed for days on end!’

Lucas pointed at him, laughing. ‘You, too, Alec—you were with me on some of my most dangerous adventures, remember? We were ragamuffins, both of us! But that’s all behind us. And your father’s not well, I hear.’

‘My father’s not well and I’ve got a brother I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.’ Alec finished off his wine. ‘My father’s gone to Carrfields, though that’s not the solution. Lucas, I’d do anything for him—you know how close we used to be. But he won’t have me near!’

‘Then he’s his own worst enemy,’ said Lucas levelly. ‘Look, Alec, you need a change of scene. We’re opening up our Mayfair house and we want you to visit us—in fact, we’ll be offended if you don’t. Though you seem to have your hands pretty full here, from what I’ve seen …’

They talked on, about Two Crows Castle and a parliamentary bill that was going forwards to secure better rights for the injured soldiers. Then it was time for Lucas to leave, but out in the hallway he paused.

‘Alec, tell me if this is none of my business, but I was in Rundell’s yesterday—you know, the art dealers on Ludgate Hill? And I noticed two rather fine oil paintings there that I’d swear I’d last seen in your father’s drawing room. Were you aware that he was putting some of his collection on the market?’

‘No,’ breathed Alec, suddenly tensing. ‘No, by God, I wasn’t. And I wonder if my father is!’

As soon as Lucas had gone, Alec clenched his fists. That painting, of Blenheim. Sent to specialists, to be cleaned? His suspicions ran riot. But how to go about this? How to tackle this new, damnable problem without letting the whole world—especially his father—know?

His mind flew to Rosalie Rowland.

He’d been a fool to kiss her again; that had helped nothing. If he’d been hoping to breach her defences, he’d learned not a fragment more about the enigmatic little widow from the Temple of Beauty—except that she knew rather a lot about art.

Then Garrett came in. ‘You know you told the lads to ask round careful-like about Mrs Rowland, Captain? Well, they’ve found out that when she arrived in London last autumn, she stayed with that printer friend of hers, in Clerkenwell.’

Alec nodded tiredly. Helen Fazackerley.

‘And she spent most of her time,’ went on Garrett, ‘goin’ round theatres.’

‘Going round theatres! With her infant?’

‘She didn’t have the infant with her then, see?’ said Garrett patiently. ‘The little ‘un—Katy—seemed to turn up some time in December. Mrs Rowland left ‘er then for an hour or two at a time with her printer friend, or a neighbour of theirs. And she carried on traipsing each day from one playhouse to another. Askin’ about someone called—Linette.’

With that, Garrett nodded and left.

Alec frowned, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck.

Who the deuce was Linette?

He’d gone easy on the questions so far, because of Rosalie’s sickness. But now, perhaps, the time for soft-footing it was over.

She’d just told him that she was going mad, confined to her room, hadn’t she? Well, he’d thought of rather an interesting outing for her—and a way to put her secretly to the test.