Ria's eyes flew to his, but when he raised his head, he was no longer smiling. Neither was he catching her glance in the mirror. His eyes were on the lowered neckline of her shift. She looked down at herself, then at her reflection. He eased the material over her breasts, first the high, full curve, then the puckered aureoles. The shift fell to her waist, but his hands stayed where they were, cupping her breasts. His thumbs passed over the tender nipples, teasing them to full arousal. She sagged a little in his arms, moaning softly as a measure of heat began to uncurl inside her. Her eyes fluttered closed.

"No," he said. His hands quieted. "Watch."

It was with no small effort that she lifted her lashes and stared at the images in the mirror. Her breasts felt heavy; they fairly filled his palms. She wondered what it would be like to see his mouth there, to watch him suckle her, to feel the draw of his tongue and teeth at the same moment she was seeing his lips on her flesh. Her breath hitched.

His hands slid from her breasts to her waist and rested on the curve of her hips. His ringers were long and slender, the nails buffed and squared off. Her skin pinkened where his fingertips pressed. He made no comment about the bruises that were just becoming visible on her thigh and below her rib cage, but Ria did not miss the way his hand paused as it passed over this evidence of abuse. Afraid of what she might see in his eyes, she did not glance in that direction.

Instead, she watched him lift his hands so that her shift could complete its descent to the floor. She stepped out of the cloud of fabric at her feet when he ordered her to, though she was hardly aware of doing so. She didn't notice that he pushed it away with the toe of his boot.

West's hands dropped to his sides, but he supported Ria solidly when she leaned into him. The curve of her bottom rested snugly against his thighs; the crown of her head fit under his chin. Judging by the darkening centers of her eyes and the vaguely disquieted gaze, West doubted she had ever studied herself in so frank a fashion before.

"Lift your hands."

Ria blinked. She watched threads of her hair ripple as her body fairly vibrated in response to West's uninflected command. She raised her hands slowly to the level of her breasts and crossed them at the wrists in the manner she knew he would ask her to. She saw him rake back his hair with his fingers, then the pin was there in his hand again, and he was slipping it between the cuffs, coupling them just as Sir Alex had.

"Come," he said.

She hesitated, uncertain where he meant for her to go. He had stepped away from her but not indicated a direction. "The bed."

Ria glanced back at the bed, quite certain she could not retrace her steps to it. She gasped softly as the choice was taken from her. West lifted her off her feet and carried her the short distance. He laid her down, then pulled the pillow from under her head.

"Lift your hips."

Biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, Ria concentrated on that pain instead of what she was doing. She did not know the pillow was under her until she felt the gentle, insistent pressure of West's hand on her hip, pushing her down. Her skin retracted as his palm ran up the flat of her abdomen and came to rest between her breasts. He slipped his fingers under her linked wrists and raised them.

"What are you-" Ria cut off her question, craning her head around to see the truth herself. Embedded in the headboard was a hook like all the others in the room. It would be like the illustration in Beckwith's book, she realized. That was how he had known the hook was there. He meant to fix her wrists to the headboard, spread her thighs, and climb between them. Even the pillow was positioned exactly as it had been in the drawing.

Ria understood then that it was Beckwith's specific commands that were guiding West. This performance was for him, perhaps for him alone.

Looking back at West, seeing the small muscle jump in his cheek, Ria offered no resistance as he attached the cuffs. She thought of his purpose again in disrobing her in front of the cheval glass and drawing her attention to his hands at her throat, on her breasts, and caressing the curve of her hip and inner thigh. He had made her the observer, taught her how to watch what he was doing to her almost as if it were happening to someone else. That is how she would survive this, she thought. That was what West had given her, a means to survive.

Seen through the lens of her mind's eye, there would only ever be two of them in this room.

Ria closed her eyes as West ran his fingers along her arm, grazing the soft, sensitive underside of her elbow. A small shiver slipped under her skin. She felt a wave of tension come and go and a certain heaviness, not entirely unpleasant, settle over her limbs. It was as if she was bound by nothing more than his touch now, the weight of his palm on her shoulder, cupping her breast, her heartbeat, laying a trail across her skin that ended with his fingers slipping between her thighs.

"Open for me."

Lifting one knee, Ria did exactly that. She did not try to avoid this caress, but gave herself up to it instead. If it was inevitable that he would be forced to take her, then this was in aid of not hurting her, and she felt herself respond to the steady, insistent pressure of his stroking fingers.

Surrendering, she became aware of the first stirrings of wanting. Her hips lifted a fraction. Between her thighs, she was wet. There were times when the heat of his fingertips was almost too much to bear, then his touch would ease and give her a moment's respite.

She opened heavy-lidded eyes and watched him from beneath the fan of her lashes. His features were set, remote, and in startling contrast to the warmth he provoked in her, they were cold. Ria would have reached for him if she'd been allowed the freedom to do so. She would have laid her hand across his cheek and erased the lines at the corners of his grim mouth and the terrible chill from his eyes. What shedid was show him her own naked need; in submitting to him now, lay her strength.

She felt her breath catch as he slipped one finger inside her. She held it for a moment, contracting around him, then did the same a moment later when the first was joined by another. Her heels made small crescents in the sheets as she found purchase there and rocked her hips. It was not always easy to know what she invited and what she could not help, but in the end, Ria supposed it did not matter.

She no longer felt unprotected; West had made her feel desired beyond all reason. It was all she could do not to cry out when he removed his hand and got to his feet.

Standing at the bedside, West began to loosen his stock. He glanced upward as a smattering of raindrops tapped the roof. Through the skylight, starshine caught his eye, and he glimpsed the cluster that was Cassiopeia. More rain pinged lightly off the glass. He glanced back at Ria and saw that her darkening eyes were still vaguely focused on him. She seemed wholly unaware of the approaching storm.

West tossed his neckcloth to the foot of the bed and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He shrugged out of it and let it drop beside the neckcloth. Tugging on his linen shirt, he pulled it free of his trousers, then yanked it over his head. Instead of pitching it aside, he snapped it once, spreading it open, then let it fall so that it draped Ria from her breasts to her thighs.

As his shirt drifted over her, Ria caught the faint change in the tilt of West's mouth. The line of it was still grim, to be sure, but there was something else there as well-a certain dark humor that was finally asserting itself. Like the flicker of candlelight across his face, what she thought she saw there passed very quickly. She wondered at it for all the time it took to come and go, then did not think on it again. She lay under the fine linen fabric of his shirt, wrapped in his fragrance, the very breath of him, and waited for him to come to her in just such a way, so that it was not the linen against her skin, but him.

West unfastened the buttons at his fly, then sat on the edge of the bed. He paused, considering the problem of his boots, and decided against removing them. Stretching out beside Ria, he used his body to shield her from the view of the hidden panel-then, a moment later, from the shattering, splintering, shower of glass.

Shards of the broken skylight scattered across his scarred back, but West had barely any feeling for the pain. He held Ria protectively in his arms, covering her with his broad shoulders and torso until the rain of glass and pebbles ended. In quick succession he heard the panel being slammed shut, the sough of the wind overhead, profanity and pounding in the adjoining room, then a friendly, familiar voice calling from above.

"I say, West, the decent thing to do would be to avert my eyes, but I'll break my neck in the fall if I do."

"South." West identified the voice for Ria in the event she couldn't. To his friend, he called, "Miss Parr will break your neck if you don't."

"Right," South said. "Looking away now."

West sat up and quickly released Ria's wrist cuffs, first from the hook, then from each other. He helped her sit up and briskly massaged her stiff arms before he pulled his shirt over her head. She was shivering now, partly in response to the eddy of cold air that whipped into the room from the opening in the roof, but perhaps more so from the shattering skylight and the astonishing fact that South was standing above them. Dazed, but game, Ria allowed herself to be dressed first in West's shirt, then his frock coat. Holding onto his arm, she got her legs under her and rose to her knees as he swept aside pieces of glass. When he stood, she followed, even though he would have had her stay where she was.

"I'm not letting you go," she said. She wobbled a bit on her bare feet, her long legs as uncertain in their first steps as a foal's.

West lifted her so she would not be cut on the glass and set her down only when he reached the fireplace. "Clear!" he shouted up to South.

Almost immediately, the viscount was tumbling through the opening. He hung from the lip of the skylight's wooden frame for a moment, then released his grip and landed rather lightly on his feet. Except for broken glass crunching beneath his boots, he had swooped as quietly as a bird of prey. He brushed his hands off and regarded West with satisfaction at having accomplished the thing so neatly. Making a small bow to Ria while keeping his eyes politely on her face, he asked, "You are all of a piece, Miss Ashby?"

She blinked widely, but found she had pluck enough left to nod.

"Good." He glanced at West. "You can get us out?"

"Now I can." He reached inside his boot and recovered his knife. Handing Ria over to South, West hunkered in front of the door to the adjoining room and slid his blade along the crack in the panel until it caught the latch bolt. He wriggled the slim steel blade back and forth a few times before it smoothly depressed the latch.

The paneled door gave way, opening a few narrow inches. West threw it open the rest of the way.

"Beckwith fled as soon as the skylight shattered," he told South. "Where are North and East?"

"Waiting for us to stir these bishops from their nest."

"You have a weapon?"

South unbuttoned his coat and pointed to the butt of a whip handle poking above the waistband of his trousers. He took it out with something of a flourish, snapping it once to show the long, supple lash. "It seemed fitting somehow."

"Indeed." West looked to Ria. "Give me your wrists."

She held out her hands and marveled at their steadiness as West used his blade to try to remove the cuffs. She concluded before he did that his knife would not do the trick. "It's of no import," she told him, letting one hand fall and waiting for him to release the other. "They present no deterrent to leaving this place."

West looked to South for guidance, but his friend merely shrugged. "Very well," he said reluctantly, knowing they could ill afford to take more time in the task. "You will stay close behind us."

"Of course." Before either of the men could stop her, Ria ducked back into the room where she had been a prisoner and began twisting the nearest hook from the wall. South saw immediately what she was about and began to help her turn the screw.

"Bloody hell," West said. "What are you doing?" "Weapon," Ria told him succinctly. She regarded him pointedly, daring him to tell her she couldn't have it, all the while twisting the hook with South's assistance.

Expecting no sympathy from Southerton, West did not even look for it. Instead, he used his knife to loosen the paneling around the hook so they could turn it more quickly. Once Ria had it in hand, he led them into the adjoining chamber. To be safe, he checked the dark cubicle where he had been forced to watch Sir Alex restrain and fondle Ria. It was empty. Beckwith had indeed not chosen to cower there, running instead.

They moved out of the room with the sapphire chaise and blood-red drapes and into a narrow hallway at the top of the stairwell. There were no other rooms on this attic floor, and the three of them hurried down the steep stairs. In the hall below, West ordered Ria to stay by the landing while he and South went room to room along the corridor looking for Herndon, Cotton, Beckwith, or any other of the bishops who were still about.

They found one girl kneeling at the apron of a fireplace, tethered there by a slim leather collar and chain attached to an iron ring in the bricks. She had been left unattended for so long that her forearms and the back of her hands sported tiny burns and blisters where popping embers had caught her skin. Her chemise was speckled with ash and a host of small holes where flames had licked the fabric. West sawed through the leather collar with his knife, and South escorted the girl to Ria for shelter.

"Sylvia," Ria said gently. She took the dazed young woman into her fiercely protective embrace, and they stood in just that manner until they were joined by Mary Murdoch, then Amanda Kent. "What of Jane?" she asked them.

But none of them knew, or if they did, they were too afraid to say. They huddled around Ria, but she sensed it was a fragile bond. She caught their fearful, darting looks toward the stairs as if they anticipated a sudden surge of bishops from the floor below. Ria realized she could not depend upon them to help themselves. Obedience and fear had been too well ingrained.

When West and Southerton returned, she regarded them more determinedly than before. "What of the bishops?"

West and South exchanged looks. "Two are in hand," West said carefully. South had trussed a corpulent baron over a padded bench so the man's pink arse was raised like the tender hindquarters of a roasted pig. Another bishop caught with pants below his nether regions was now hoisted upon the same hook that had held his much younger victim. "You will not want to see."

Ria was not so certain. "Jane?" she asked.

West shook his head.

"And Sir Alex?"

"Not yet. Nor Beckwith, either. If they fled by the front or rear of the house, North and East will have already reeled them in."

Ria nodded, but she was not as certain of it as West. She took her cue from the young women around her, who still plainly feared some reprisal. She communicated this to West with a single sweeping glance, first at the girls, then in the direction of the stairs. Using his knife to indicate what he wanted South to do, West led the way downstairs, and this time South brought up the rear behind Ria and the girls. It did not take them long to determine that the ground floor had already been abandoned. Ria ushered her charges into the relative sanctuary of the humid conservatory while South and West opened the doors for Eastlyn at the front of the house and Northam at the rear.

Eastlyn had two liveried footmen in tow, but he let them go before he came inside. North had chased all the fleeing servants away once he was certain there were no bishops hiding among them.

"Where is Miss Ashby?" East asked.

"Caring for the girls we found. She is with them in the conservatory."

"Of course," Northam said. "The Flower House."

"Herndon's idea," West told them. "I've learned more than I want to know about this place since I left you. The academy's board of governors made a point of educating me, but you will have to wait to hear it. South and I only came upon two. They're secured above stairs, but every one of them was here earlier. Beckwith was in the garret when South made his theatrical entrance."

South shrugged. "Miss Parr's influence." He pointed to North. "And when we realized it was the best way to gain admittance, he dared me."

West held up his hand, enough said. "The girls are frightened. One of them has burns that require attention-all of them have been hurt in ways that defy explanation and reason. I don't know if they can be persuaded to give up the bishops, but it is probably true that they know where they've gone. Jane Petty is still missing." He regarded the others frankly. "Beckwith wanted to negotiate for the colonel. That was the price the Society was asking for Miss Ashby's release." His voice grew a shade rougher. "That, and something else besides." West said nothing else regarding the other demand and knew that South would never repeat any part of what he had witnessed through the skylight. "Give me a moment to speak to Miss Ashby. Then we will plan a strategy to search the house a second time."

When West was out of hearing, Northam said, "He looks as if he's seen hell."

"He has," South said quietly. "And leaving here won't put the demons behind him."

Ria met West just as he entered the conservatory. He looked past her shoulder to where Mary and Amanda shared a stone bench, surrounded by pots of orchids and tall grasses. They were also sharing his frock coat. He frowned at that, but knew better than to suppose Ria could have done differently.

Sylvia Jenner sat on a cushion at the feet of the other two, her legs drawn up to her chest. She had the back of one burned hand pressed to her lips and the other deep inside a watering can. There was a ragged bandage around one forearm, and the uneven tail of West's shirt flapping just above Ria's knees told the rest of the story.

She held out her hands to him, and he took them in his, squeezing lightly, rubbing the backs with his thumbs. Reassurance, though, was not one-sided, but mutual.

"What have they told you?" he asked. "Precious little. They think the governors will return for them."

"Return? Do you mean there was a way out we didn't know existed?"

"I'm not certain. I have the sense the girls think they're still here. There are more girls missing than Jane.

Sylvia told me there are six others. I know she is just as afraid of what will become of them."

"Ria." West said her name firmly, brooking no argument. "You must discover where they think the bishops have gone. If you can't, I will."

"No," she said quickly. "No, I'll do it. They're afraid of you."

"Me?"

Ria's faint smile was gentle. "You're half naked," she reminded him, "and you're carrying a knife. It gives one pause."

He hauled her against him hard and buried his face in her hair. He whispered at her ear, his voice low and urgent, and the words that tumbled from his lips were barely intelligible, even to him. It didn't matter if she understood what he said-the embrace communicated all of that and more.

Across the conservatory, Mary and Amanda exchanged glances, then shared the same with Sylvia. If Miss Ashby trusted the bedlamite so completely that she would risk being crushed in his arms, could they do any less?

West disengaged himself from the embrace reluctantly. He could feel the pressure of time passing in the quickening of his heartbeat. Here was urgency that could not be dismissed. "Talk to them," he said. "I will be outside with the others."

She nodded and waited for him to go.

The rest of the Compass Club had come to stand in the hall on the other side of the door. South held out a shirt to West. "Courtesy of the baron. It will be too big, of course-the man is a swine in so many ways-but it will serve."

West thanked him and handed over his blade until he put the shirt on and tucked it in. It billowed around his waist anyway. "Ria says the young ladies are afraid of me."

"I shouldn't wonder," Eastlyn told him. "I'm afraid of you."

With some effort, West managed a wry smile. He glanced at the pistol East held in his hand. "Primed?"

"It doesn't do much good if it isn't."

Nodding, West's attention swiveled to North. "You won't get shot, will you?"

Northam merely grinned and revealed his own pistol. "Where do we begin our search?"

"A moment yet," West told him. "Ria is questioning the girls again. If they do not tell..." He let his voice trail off. They knew well enough what he would be forced to do if that was the case. It seemed that a long time passed before the door to the conservatory opened, but the true reckoning was that it was less than two minutes. Ria felt the expectant eyes of every one of them as she stepped into the hallway.

South saw she had given up West's frock coat, and he quickly stripped off his and offered it to her.

"Where are they?"

"Below stairs," she said, pulling the coat around her shoulders like a cape.

"The kitchen?" West asked.

"No. Below that. The girls say there is a large room deeper underground."

"Another way out?"

"They don't think so. They have never seen anyone leave by any means except the way they entered."