"True enough," Jack said easily. "But I have resolved to take this day by day. I'm happy with my progress. As I told you, she is thawing."

"Your accelerated courting technique might not be accelerated enough." Stratford frowned. "What will you do if you run out of time? Resort to whisking an heiress spinster off to Gretna? Or perhaps give up on the scheme altogether and escape to the Continent?"

"If I escape to the Continent, or anywhere else, I will never be able to return to England." Jack stared moodily into the fire, rubbing his near-empty glass along his lips. He wasn't afraid of losing Becky, but Stratford was right-he was running out of time. Yet he couldn't-he wouldn't-force her to go any faster than she was willing to go. If he forced her, he might lose her.

Nevertheless, if he was too late, if he didn't pay on time, Tom would expose the incriminating evidence, and Jack would either hang or be forced to leave England forever. Jack would accept neither option.

"An heiress, then?" Stratford asked, more lightly than the situation warranted.

"No, damn it. I don't want an heiress, and you know it."

A knock sounded at the door, and both men turned toward it. "Yes?" Stratford asked.

A harried footman entered and looked to Jack. "A gentleman is here asking to see you, sir."

Jack frowned. "Someone for me? At this hour? Who-"

That someone pushed past the footman, and Jack groaned aloud when the man's tall, willowy frame came into view. It was the man he least wanted to see in this world, who had followed him constantly when they were youths and who had pursued him incessantly since his return to England. It was the one man certain to know Jack's every move. This was the man who aimed to extort money from him. Thomas Wortingham, the vicar's son and Jack's boyhood friend from Hambly.

Stratford looked from Tom to Jack, one blond brow raised. When he saw the look on Jack's face, understanding dawned in his expression.

"Ah," he said softly. He rose and held out his hand. "Stratford."

The man swept into a low bow, all foppish propriety, and Jack's stomach twisted. "Tom Wortingham, my lord. A pleasure to meet you, a true pleasure indeed. What a fine home you have here."

Jack had held on to his friendship with Tom during the years he'd been away from Hambly at school. Whenever he returned home on holiday, he'd split his time between Tom and Anne. Often, the three of them had spent their days together. Later, Tom had frequently accompanied Jack to London.

Tom knew everything. Everything. Just that truth was frustrating enough. The fact that Jack's one-time closest friend had now betrayed him made it much worse.

He slid a glance at the earl. Stratford already knew too much, but he didn't know the whole story, and Jack didn't want him to. Hell, he didn't want anyone to know anything. It was bad enough that Tom was privy to that information.

Doubtless the man had lurked at the window all evening, watching Jack and Stratford as they'd settled in the drawing room. Deciding to pay them a visit, he'd probably attempted to use his oily charm on the butler, and then when his efforts had no effect on the man, had sauntered into the house uninvited.

"Tom, this isn't a good time-"

Stratford gave a friendly flick of his wrist. "Nonsense. I'm going out, but please stay as long as you like, Wortingham. Enjoy the brandy." He grinned at Jack. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yes," Jack said, unsettled, half wishing Stratford had thrown Tom out. "Of course."

Tom didn't belong here, and Jack wanted him gone. His desire for him to disappear, however, was overruled by curiosity about what he had come to say-and a wild, unreasonable hope his old friend would call off the entire scheme.

With a pleasant "good evening," Stratford left them alone, closing the door carefully behind him.

Taking the earl's offer to heart, Tom went to the sidebar and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He took a long drink, then lowered the glass, studying Jack over its rim, his gray eyes calculating. "What does he know of our arrangement?"

"Very little. Too much."

Always very pale, Tom looked ghostlike in the flickering firelight. He had a long face and was tall and too slender for his height, and his worn clothes draped loosely over his gaunt frame. He'd never grown out of his days of gawky youth. He smiled, his pale lips stretching wide and thin.

"Still so secretive," he said, "even with your powerful friends. An earl, eh?"

Jack didn't mention that Stratford was a second son who'd never expected to inherit an earldom. "There are some things it will do the world no good to know."

Tom studied his hands. They were long and pale like the rest of him, and the shadows of his fingers stretched even longer across the ivory-wallpapered wall behind him. "You know I might disagree with that, Jack."

"I know." Jack could kill this man right here, right now, despite the fact that Tom had warned him that if any harm should come to him, his agent would simply hand the evidence over to the authorities.

It didn't matter. Jack was no murderer. Not anymore. He just wanted this to be over.

"What do you want? Why have you followed me here?"

Tom shrugged. "You know I've been watching you. I've come because I'm worried, Jack. I'm worried that you won't pull through. I'm still hoping you will, for your sake and for mine, but nevertheless, I am deeply concerned."

"You'll get your damned blood money."

"Will I?" Tom's pale eyes focused on him. "I don't know, Jack. The woman has refused you. I know she has more than enough, but it's crystal clear that she doesn't want you."

"She will."

"Are you certain this is the best way to deliver me my fifteen thousand pounds? Because I need it, Jack. And so do you."

Tom turned slightly, and Jack saw the bulge in his oversized coat pocket. The man carried a gun. Had he expected Jack to try to kill him? Or did he carry it for self-defense from those who truly meant him harm?

Jack had a strong suspicion that there were some farless savory characters than himself after Tom Wortingham. He didn't want to know who or why. He didn't want to know anything about Tom. He just wanted to give him the damned money and wash his hands of the matter.

It had become almost symbolic to him. The handing over of the fifteen thousand pounds would close this chapter in Jack's life. He could begin to live again, without all the damn regrets and guilt from the past that had plagued him for so many years.

The pale gray stare focused unerringly on him. "Perhaps if you can't get it from her, I can."

Every muscle in Jack's body went hard and brittle as ice. "You will not touch her."

Tom shrugged. "You must know that I will go to whatever lengths necessary. I won't hesitate to use her to achieve my ends. I must have that money, Jack. Your life is at stake, and..."

His voice dwindled, but Jack knew what he'd been about to say. "... and mine is, too."

"Look," Jack said through his teeth. "I am aware of the date you require the funds, but if you touch the lady in the interim..." He paused, knowing he could not be responsible for his actions if Tom went after Becky. When he continued, his words were chillingly quiet. "If you go near her, if you speak to her, communicate with her in any way, you will regret it."

Tom waved his hand dismissively. "You have less than four weeks."

"I will hand over the funds in time," Jack said, his voice cold. "Now leave."

"Are you sure? Because everything is in place, Jack. You know I hate to do this to you-"

"There is no need to lie to me."

Tom hesitated and then nodded, his eyes flat, almost reptilian, in their coldness. "Very well. I just came to warn you. I'll be watching you, Jack. Don't do anything stupid."

Jack, Jack, Jack. Why did Tom say his name over and over? It was as if he was trying to reiterate the fact that they had once been-and would always be-close enough to call each other by their Christian names.

Jack raised his hand. He wasn't going to overcomplicate this by dragging his own guilt into it. Nor was he going to dwell on Tom's belief that Jack owed him not only for his years of silence, but for stealing Anne from him.

Only one thing mattered: If he did not give Tom the blackmail money, Tom would take his damning evidence to the authorities, and Jack would hang.

He wanted to live. He wanted a life in England. With Becky.

He'd known Tom since they were in swaddling clothes. Tom often lacked common sense, but he wasn't a fool, and he would have thought of every contingency. The incriminating evidence was in the form of signed, witnessed statements, stored in a secret location. Nobody knew where it was but Tom and his agent-a man whose identity Tom had kept secret. And if Tom was hurt or killed, or if Jack didn't deliver the money on time, the agent would reveal everything.

"Go away," Jack said. "I don't need your distraction here. Get out of my life. Your funds will be delivered on the fifteenth of December, as promised."

Fifteen thousand on the fifteenth.

Tom's lips flattened. "You should pursue someone else."

"No," Jack bit out.

"What's so special about her? She's nothing like Anne. Anne was a voluptuous beauty. That lady is skinny and insipid, with nothing in the way of titties-"

"Get the hell out of here, Tom," Jack growled. His hands shook. Suddenly glass exploded, and a sharp, stinging pain sliced through his palm. He opened his hand, releasing shards of his brandy glass onto the carpet.

Tom eyed the cut on Jack's hand and took a wary step backward. He knew all about Jack's weakness when it came to blood, but Jack ground his teeth and stood firm.

"Very well, then. But I'll be close, Jack. To make sure you don't bungle it. Like you have everything else."

He hurried out of the room, leaving Jack dripping blood onto the carpet. Jack's head reeled, and he steeled himself, diligently keeping his gaze off his cut hand. The sight of blood always made him faint. The crew of the Gloriana joked that once Jack had completed his first voyage, nothing could ruffle his feathers except for a "sight o' the red stuff." He'd suffered a hazing or two in which the sailors had dragged him to the infirmary to view someone's broken head or cut-up arm. The Gloriana's surgeon had revived him from a dead faint more than once. Even on the last voyage they'd made from Jamaica, a midshipman had knocked at the door to his cabin one night, and when he'd opened it the man's face had split into a wide grin. "Cap'n Calow's got 'imself a scratched knee," he'd said, "would yer like to come up to see it, Mister Fulton?"

Jack took out his handkerchief, and cursing the day he'd befriended Tom Wortingham, he stared at the dying fire while he wrapped the cloth around the stinging cut in his hand.

Chapter Eleven.

The masquerade was not an event attended by those whom most persons would consider at the pinnacle of society, but the attendees were nevertheless a fashionable set. The bulk of the guests had been scraped together from genteel society remaining in Town, but some had traveled from as far as Devonshire to attend Mrs. Pionchet's annual event.

Cecelia had explained that the masquerade party consisted of gentlemen and ladies willing to tread on the cusp of scandal but unwilling to overtly flaunt their adventurousness to the world. The failure to disguise oneself could lead to disparaging gossip, but those whose identities remained a mystery could be topics of intrigue, sometimes for months.

Cecelia described the costume as a fairly simple affair. There was no need to spend a fortune designing the perfect sultana or Grecian goddess costume, she said. Instead, most of the attendees wore evening wear with complementing dominos and hats to disguise themselves. The most important accessory was the mask, which hid a person's features and kept everyone guessing. Cecelia explained that the different levels of anonymity provided the bulk of the evening's entertainment, though she warned that Becky might be shocked by some of the behavior she witnessed.

The masquerade took place on the twenty-third of November, two days after Becky and Jack's visit to the Egyptian Hall. Cecelia wore a dress of amber silk trimmed with dozens of bows, and Becky wore a tulle dress over a satin slip of soft blue. A wide sash was clasped about her waist with an offset bow with long ribbons that fell all the way to her shins. Silk buttons adorned the dress's long, full sleeves, and brilliant white kidskin gloves covered her arms. She wore two golden bracelets around her wrists, a necklace of Egyptian pebbles, and a black velvet hat festooned with gold feathers sat jauntily askew atop her head. Matching black velvet lined her blue silk domino.

The party was held in a sprawling mansion outside London. As Cecelia's carriage rattled along in the dark-the days were so short this time of year-Cecelia explained that Georgianna Pionchet was the widow of a French diplomat. She had been born into a distinguished British family and had resided with her father, one of Wellington's officers, in Brussels during the Hundred Days. In the midst of the war, she'd eloped with a Frenchman. Her family had disowned her in the ensuing scandal, but she and her husband had thrived beyond the war's end, and he was soon assigned to service in London. Since her husband had died five years ago, their home had become the site of some of the most exciting and anticipated parties in England.

"Why is it that I have never heard of her?" Becky asked.

Cecelia chuckled. "You've been too young and sheltered to have heard of her, but I assure you, she becomes known to everyone sooner or later. Her masquerade is the most wickedly intriguing event of the season. You'll soon see why."

The coach lumbered down a long drive and finally halted in a brightly lit clearing cluttered with other conveyances. Seeing a footman approach, Becky prepared to exit the carriage, but Cecelia laid a hand on her arm. "Wait," she whispered. "Your mask."

"Oh, yes." Becky reached for her half-mask, which lay with Cecelia's on the seat across from them. The mask was made of stiff silk the same color as her dress, trimmed in black velvet. Sapphire chips encircled the whole, and the almond-shaped eye cutouts tilted up strongly at their edges. Cat's eyes, Becky had thought when she'd first seen it.

Cecelia tied the ribbons behind Becky's head, and then Becky returned the favor. Cecelia's mask was a ghostly white abomination that completely covered her face, but Cecelia adored it-when they'd seen it in the shop, she'd exclaimed with glee that no one could possibly identify her when she wore it.

A footman met them at the door and led them down a carpeted corridor lined with blazing gilt wall sconces. He opened a door and bowed as they slipped into the ballroom unannounced.

Guests thronged the cavernous room, the majority dressed as Cecelia had described-in colorful, flowing capes with complementing hats or hoods. All wore masks. Many were plain half-masks dyed black or in colors complementing their clothing, but others were far more elaborate than Becky's: gilded, painted, and encrusted with jewels. People stood in groups, where they chatted and laughed, and the noise level was very high. This was certainly no subdued ton party.

Scattered elaborate gold wall sconces and an enormous chandelier in the center of the room provided the light, but the room was not well lit at all. In fact, Becky found it rather gloomy and shadowy, more like a theater box during an opera than a ballroom. The thick, pungent smell of warm bodies in close proximity steamed from the dense crowd. Servants wearing stiff black and white clothing and simple black half-masks slipped through the mass of bodies, balancing trays of wine and champagne. Through the noises of revelry, Becky discerned the strains of music drifting across the vast space.

Cecelia squeezed her hand. "Well, let's find Georgianna, shall we?"

"How on earth will we find anyone in this crowd?"

She hadn't expected Cecelia to hear her over the din, so she was surprised when her friend answered with a chuckle, "Oh, we'll find her."

A giggling woman in a flowing cape pushed past them, nearly trampling Becky. As Becky struggled to regain her balance, a masked gentleman wearing a puce domino brushed past her, in hot pursuit of the woman.

"Goodness," Becky murmured.

Cecelia gave her a knowing smile. "Oh, it hasn't even begun. You'll see."

Becky had never been in the midst of such boisterous cheerfulness before and found it all rather overwhelming. She allowed Cecelia to tug her along, and they weaved through the crowd together, hand in hand.

Suddenly, Cecelia came to such an abrupt halt that Becky nearly slammed into her from behind. A man stood a few feet in front of them-a tall, dark-haired man wearing a black half-mask over a straight Roman nose. He was staring directly at Cecelia.

"Oh, drat," Cecelia muttered.

The man's lush lips curled into a sinful smile, and his dark eyes flared with recognition. The three of them gazed at one another for a protracted moment, and then the man gave a mocking bow before returning his attention to his companions.

Cecelia blew out a breath through pursed lips. Grasping Becky's hand again, she pulled her forward. "Isn't it lovely," she said with more than a hint of sarcasm, "that he should be the one to recognize me in this mask."

"Who is he?" Becky asked.

"Oh, I dare not say his name aloud here. You wouldn't know him, in any case. Over the summer we had a liaison. It is quite over, but he hasn't acknowledged that yet. Ah, there is our esteemed hostess. Come, let us go pay our respects."

They came to a halt before a tall and generously proportioned woman wearing rust-colored silk and a matching mask bedecked with rubies. Her hat was at least two feet tall, with plumes of dark red feathers bursting from the brim. No wonder she'd been easy to find-with her height and the hat combined, she towered over everyone here.

The woman turned to them, smiling through a wide, generous mouth. Behind the mask, dancing eyes observed them, and Becky instantly realized that the woman had already perceived her identity. Becky curtsied, and Mrs. Pionchet returned the gesture.

"Good evening," their hostess said, her voice low, rich, and husky.

"Good evening," Cecelia said. "I'd like to introduce my good friend."

The dark eyes glinted at her. "Welcome, my dear."

"Thank you," Becky said. The fact that none of them used names made her feel slightly disoriented.