"Don't do it," Beckwith said, divining her thoughts. "Are you not eager to see Miss Petty?"

Without conscious thought, Ria took a step forward.

"Very good." Beckwith encouraged her action with a condescending smile. "Another, please. Then another. Truly, Miss Ashby, I cannot be held responsible for what befalls Jane if we are not gone from here soon. Her welfare depends greatly on your cooperation. Do you understand?"

Ria did. She set her glass down and crossed the room, stopping at the precise spot that Beckwith had indicated earlier. "You will take me to see Jane?"

"That is my intention exactly." He did not press when she would not accept his frock coat to thwart the cold, nor when she refused to take his arm. "This way, Miss Ashby. There is a hack waiting for us." He paused just before he opened the doors to leave the salon. "You will not want to call attention to your departure. There is so much more at stake here than the well-being of one of your students. You will want to consider the well-being of all of them."

The threat was so large and so bold that Ria did not want to believe it had any teeth. Too late, she realized that her features were imperfectly schooled and that some measure of her doubt was displayed.

"Would you care to wager on it?" Beckwith asked calmly. "I have already explained the stakes."

Ria shook her head quickly. It was not possible to stave off the shiver that was climbing her spine.

Instead of crossing her arms in front of her, she kept them quietly at her sides and did not try to resist the shudder.

"Good." Beckwith's expression did not change, but his tone was approving. "We should make haste."

He opened the door and ushered Ria outside.

It seemed to her that the evening air was infinitely colder than it had been earlier. She glanced at the portico and saw that not one of the guests had ventured outside. Beckwith hurried through the small enclosed garden, and Ria followed. He pushed aside the servants' gate, waited for Ria to precede him,then caught up and took the lead once more. The hack that Beckwith had hired was near the end of a long line of carriages wailing for the conclusion of the reception. The driver recognized Beckwith and hopped down from his perch to assist in the boarding.

Ria seated herself in the corner. When the driver realized she had no coat, he offered her his own rug.

She did not want to take it, but her teeth would not stop chattering. Refusal was absurdly inappropriate.

She saw, but could not hear, Beckwith give the driver an address before he climbed inside. Ria thought he would choose the bench opposite her, so when he sat beside her she almost recoiled.

Striving for a measure of dignity, Ria told him, "I have no plans to leap from the cab. There is no need to block the door."

"Is that what you think? I meant only to flatter you with my attentions." He chuckled when Ria pressed herself more deeply into the corner. "I am certain you do not mean to be insulting, Miss Ashby, but it is difficult to think of your actions in any other way."

"You must not strain yourself, Mr. Beckwith. I mean to be insulting."

"You smell like a whore come up from the docks. What did you spill on yourself?"

Ria had steeled herself not to flinch, and this time she was successful. "Whiskey. The drink was for Colonel Blackwood."

"So you were the cripple's serving wench."

She did not respond. There was an edge of coarseness in the way Beckwith spoke the words. The odor of whiskey was so strong that she could not tell if he had been drinking.

"A tavern maid," Beckwith said. "Would you enjoy that, do you suppose? Serving drinks to the rough trade. Taking orders from the regiment."

"Where are we going?" Ria struggled not to sound desperate. She was coming to understand that Beckwith liked the idea that she could be made to fear him. Neither did challenging him have the desired effect. He did not respond as West did. Beckwith's amusement was somehow detached, not engaged.

There was no applauding her effort, no appreciation. When Beckwith regarded her, there was pity in his dark glance, but even it was contemptuous. It was the kind of pathos reserved for one who didn't comprehend that struggling was hopeless. The fly in a spider's web. The moth in warm candle wax. The bee in a schoolboy's inverted glass jar.

That was how Beckwith saw her, Ria thought: deserving of his study, his fascination, and finally his cold compassion because there was no more hope for her than the fly, the moth, or the bee.

Beckwith was silent so long that Ria believed he did not mean to answer her. When he finally spoke, his response was a riddle.

"We are going to a place that will be at once familiar and alien. You have seen it many times, yet do not know it."

Even in the deep shadows of the carriage, Ria observed that he seemed inordinately pleased with his answer. She did not reveal her impatience and managed to keep her voice carefully neutral. "Jane will be there?" "Yes. Oh, yes. You must not believe that I will lie to you, Miss Ashby. Everything that will happen depends upon you knowing that I speak only the truth. If I say I will do it, I will do it."

Ria held herself very still as Beckwith grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He had put on his gloves, and the leather was cold and faintly rough against her skin. There was no hint of gentleness in his grip.

"If I say it will be done, it will be done. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"Yes."

"I wonder." He released her chin. "Show me your hands, Miss Ashby."

Bewildered, Ria turned back the rug. Her elbow-length gloves shone pale as the hack passed a street lantern. She raised her hands in front of her, despising the gesture for its implication of surrender. Now she knew what Beckwith would do before he did it and made no attempt to shake him off when his fingers circled her wrists.

"I will have your mouth now." Lowering his head, he placed his mouth hard on hers and ground his teeth against her closed lips.

Ria tasted blood, though whether it was hers or his was not possible to know. Its presence did not ease the pressure that Beckwith applied. Ria's stomach clenched, then roiled. She wondered what satisfaction Beckwith would find from the taste of the bile rising in her throat. Her last thought before she was sick was that she should have eaten more at supper.

Upon returning to the reception, West was not surprised to find that the colonel was still holding court.

He approached the circle around Blackwood but stopped short of becoming part of it. He listened with half an ear to what the colonel was saying to the appreciative audience, while allowing his eyes to wander about the ballroom. On two occasions he thought he glimpsed Ria on the floor, but each time the women were turned in his direction, his mistake was immediately apparent. It seemed to him that Elizabeth could have approved a color other than the mint-green that Ria was wearing. To his way of thinking, there was far too much of it present this evening. He spotted that cool hue sweeping by once more, but this time on a woman almost half again as wide as Ria. The woman noticed his attention as she passed in front of him and gave him a coquettish smile over the shoulder of her unsuspecting partner.

West winked boldly at her and was gratified to hear her laugh delightedly. Eastlyn's mother did not even pretend to be scandalized. He watched her lightly tap her husband on the cheek to keep him from glancing around to find the cause of her amusement. As Sir James and Lady Winslow moved on in perfect time to the waltz, West realized he had yet to see East or Sophie on the floor.

His eyes wandered over the guests again, this time searching for East's thick shock of chestnut hair.

When he didn't find him, he looked for North. That worthy's bright helmet was the color of sunshine and easily spotted in a crowd-but not this time. Frowning now, West's sharp green glance sought out Southerton and India Parr.

Gone as well. Even the niche beside the potted fern was unoccupied. West stepped back into the entrance hall and eyed the cupboard under the stairs. It had been the subject of some amusement earlier when East's parents had been seen slipping inside. West knew they were no longer using it, but it begged the question of whom might be. He opened it. "I beg your pardon," he said, mentally cursing his lamentably poor timing. The gentleman did not reveal himself from under the spread of the lady's gown, so West could not be certain of his identity, but Grace Powell's exquisite features were perfectly visible-as were her naked breasts, a good expanse of silken calf and thigh, and one polished gold-and-ivory earbob.

Given the circumstances, West thought her ladyship regarded him with considerable aplomb. Although she blushed prettily enough, she made no attempt to cover herself and, for a moment, looked as if she might invite him to join her, or at least watch.

West pointed to the man kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head buried between her thighs. "Not Sir Alex Cotton, is it?" he whispered.

Lady Powell gave a small, negative shake and waved him off.

Uncertain if he could believe her, West gave the gentleman a second glance, and this time noted that he was wearing the livery of their host's servants. A footman? Lady Powell was perhaps fortunate that he was the one to stumble upon them, for she would know she could depend upon his discretion.

"You will want to secure the door," West said by way of taking his leave. He ducked out of the cupboard, closed it, then leaned his shoulder casually against it. Several guests milling at the entrance to the ballroom had taken note of his peculiar behavior. He smiled wanly at them and offered no explanation. When he heard the door being drawn tightly into place, he straightened and left his post. If Lady Powell kept as firm a grip on the door as she had on the hapless footman's head, she would experience no more interruptions.

West returned to the ballroom and discovered the gathering around the colonel had thinned but not moved on entirely. Two directors from the East India Company were present in the group, along with their wives and several of the Prince Regent's representatives. Prinny himself had come and gone, but had permitted many in his entourage to remain behind to continue expressing the Crown's admiration for the colonel's success. Had Prinny been standing at the colonel's side, West would have had to make a more circumspect approach. Since the regent was absent, West forged ahead with all the subtlety of a fishmonger plying his wares.

"The colonel has been expressly forbidden to exhaust himself," West said. "And I am the unfortunate fellow who must enforce his physician's edict. You will excuse us, won't you?" Without giving Blackwood opportunity to mount an argument or permitting his well-wishers to have another word, West grasped the back of the wheeled chair and pushed it resolutely into the hall.

"You have some destination in mind, I collect," the colonel said dryly. "If not, there is a library one can find by this route. The third door, I believe, then through the gallery."

The library was not deserted, as West had hoped. Several guests were idly chatting near the fireplace, another had climbed on a footstool and was examining titles from the room's uppermost shelves. A young man and his pretty companion shared the settee, their fingertips touching. They broke this light contact a shade guiltily when West wheeled the colonel in.

West expected that he would be the one to order them out, but it was Blackwood who explained that he required a few moments of privacy. They were immediately amenable to vacating the room.

"I had no idea what you would tell them," the colonel said when he was alone with West. "But I suspectyou would have them believe I am hammering on death's door." He paused, waiting for West to come around to the other side of his chair. The tumbler of whiskey in his hand prevented him from smooth navigation. "You have seen the others have all gone, then. That accounts for your precipitous actions. It is not well done of you, West. I depend upon your caution and good sense not to call attention to yourself in the manner you just did."

In other circumstances, West would have acknowledged the colonel's dressing-down with a respectful nod, whether or not he thought the rebuke was deserved. It was a sign of the considerable agitation he was still suppressing that he did not do so now. "None of them was supposed to leave until I returned.

That was the plan we agreed upon."

"And like a decent frock coat, it required some alteration," Blackwood said calmly. "East was unable to delay the departure of either of the gentlemen. Lest you think he made a poor attempt, I will tell you that Lady Sophia also tried to occupy their interest. It was clear to us that they were most determined to leave. Since you had not yet arrived, precautions had to be taken. Eastlyn and Lady Sophia left at the same time to divert suspicion. North took up Sir Alex's trail, and South followed Herndon."

West felt the pressure in his chest ease slightly. It was a small enough change in their plans. "What do you make of Herndon and Cotton leaving before the guest of honor? They spoke to you this evening, didn't they?"

"Paid their respects. Thanked me." He shrugged. "The Singapore settlement will add substantially to their coffers. They were, naturally, grateful."

"No mention of the bishops?"

"None."

West knew it was unlikely that they would do so. It presented Herndon and Cotton with a conundrum.

The settlement was achieved because five of their fellow bishops were bested, yet they were made even more wealthy by that defeat. "They do not suspect you know they are members of the Society?"

The colonel shook his head. "There is no reason that they should." He sipped his drink and enjoyed the liquid heat rolling down his throat. "I think it's probable they noted your absence from the reception."

West nodded. His thinking had been turning in that same direction. "It would explain their desire to leave." He permitted himself a slight, mocking grin. "I don't think they trust me."

"I imagine you're right. Tell me, what did your foray yield? You learned something that will be useful, I hope."

"Only proof that they share Beckwith's interest in the erotic arts. Nothing that hints at Miss Petty's whereabouts. Herndon's collection is more varied than the others, but he has been assembling his works over a long period of time. If there is a theme, it is not sexual, or rather it is not only sexual. These men desire to subjugate women. They have made it a ritual, I think, a sadistic rite of passage that they play out again and again as the whim strikes them."

"With Miss Weaver's Academy as their secret garden," the colonel said. He did indeed feel far older than his years. "Forgive me. I should not admit it, perhaps, but I would rather you and I were plotting Napoleon's demise again. There was honor there, at least. These bishops have none. Taking little girls from the workhouses, seeing that they're nurtured, educated, then removing them for their ownpleasures..." Blackwood knocked back what remained of his drink. "I take it you will not want to settle this in a public manner."

"No. Too many innocents would be hurt. Any public accounting will have grave consequences for the young women."

"You cannot call all the governors out."

"No, although it is tempting." West raked his hair with his fingertips. "I must find Jane Petty first," he reminded Blackwood. "Then I can demand their resignations. It is an imperfect solution, I know, and not nearly as satisfying as relieving them of their ballocks, but it is what is left to me if Ria and the school are not to be touched by scandal."

"You will wait to hear from Northam and South?" the colonel asked.

West nodded faintly. "I am not as hopeful that either Herndon or Cotton will lead them to Jane. If they left because they were aware I was gone, then it is likely they merely returned to their homes."

"You left everything in order?"

"I did." They would never know with certainty that he was there-until he told them.

"The meeting in two days' time..." The colonel paused, adjusting his spectacles. "They mean to spring a trap, you know."

"I know."

"I don't like it."

West grinned. "I am gratified to hear it."

"Daniel into the lion's den," the colonel muttered. He regarded West with a keen eye. "And do not flatter yourself that the lion will not make a meal of you. God is not necessarily on your side."

"Then it is a good thing that you are."

Blackwood grunted softly. "Push me back to the ballroom. I can assure you that my absence has been duly noted, and there are upwards of half a dozen men planning what they will say over my grave."

West chuckled. "Perhaps I did exaggerate the state of your health."

Setting his empty tumbler between his knees, the colonel began to turn his chair for West to take it up.

"You will have to collect Miss Ashby before you leave," he said, "unless you want me to deliver her to Oxford Street."

"Pardon?" West grasped the colonel's chair and pulled it sharply around. "What do you mean, that I should collect Miss Ashby? Isn't she with North and Elizabeth?"

"Steady, West. She is all of a piece, or at least she is making herself so." Blackwood saw he was making things worse with his explanation, not improving them. West's jaw was rigid with the control he was exerting; a muscle ticked in his cheek. "She went for refreshment." He held up his tumbler. "You knowyourself that it was a squeeze to get there. She bumped into Lady Powell in the hall and spilled my whiskey on her dress. Lady Powell says it was a generous pour and that Miss Ashby retired to the salon to repair the damage as best she could. She is waiting for you there. Under the circumstances, I did not think she would want to accompany North and Elizabeth, but would rather return directly to your residence."

"You have this from Lady Powell?"

"Yes. When she delivered my drink."

"Where is the salon?"

"I couldn't say."

West kept his frustration in check, but only just. He pushed the colonel back to the ballroom, made certain he was comfortable, then found a footman to show him the salon. Not wanting to create a stir, West knocked softly, then called Ria's name. When there was no response, he tried the door. He stepped aside to allow the footman to try.

"It appears to be locked, Your Grace. I will find the first butler. He will have the key."

West hunkered down and peered at the lock. "Do not trouble yourself. Stand here so I am not disturbed. Something has been jammed inside."

Contrary to what the rest of the Compass Club thought, West did not always carry a knife in his boot.

On occasion, he carried it in the sleeve of his frock coat. To the footman who was watching over his shoulder, the blade appeared as if snatched from the air. West ignored the man's startled murmur and applied himself to picking the lock. Only a few seconds passed before he had the offending piece dangling from the tip of his knife.

"Why, it's an earbob," the footman said. "What do you make of that?"

West knew precisely what to make of it. He'd glimpsed one just like it earlier-and only one. He glanced down the hallway to the cupboard under the stairs. Pocketing the gold-and-ivory earring, but not his blade, West dismissed the footman. As soon as the servant had turned his back, he slipped inside the salon.

His heart slammed hard against his chest. Preparing himself to discover that it was empty was not the same as finding it so. He looked around quickly and saw there was no exit from the room except the door he had come through and those leading to the outside. If Ria had truly been here-and the glass of sherry that he found made him suspect she had been-then she could have only left by the French doors.

He tried to imagine what cause she would have to do that. Nothing occurred to him except that he was perhaps squandering valuable time. There was little to be gained by puzzling it out when he possessed such scant information.

West fingered the earring in his pocket, then went in search of the owner. Lady Powell had a great deal to answer for.