Wasn't she thinking of a glissando at the end of the seventh stave? Perhaps it would have more effect repeated as an echo at the end of the fifteenth.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

Vauxhall.

They arrived by water. Tom sat in the rear of the boat, conscious of Lina quietly sitting beside him. She was always quiet when Helene was nearby, almost as if she were trying not to be noticed. He missed her throaty chuckle. But then-and the realization felt like a stab to the chest-perhaps her silence reflected pain, due to seeing Rees with his wife.

The waterman in the front pulled the boat through the waves with one mighty heave of his oars after another. The water was a lightless, lurid black, but rays from the lantern hanging at the prow caught drops sliding from the paddles, turning them silver, like black diamonds. There was a very un-vicarlike excitement in Tom's stomach. He had never been to Vauxhall; men of God didn't normally entertain themselves with such indecorous amusement.

As they neared the steps leading from the Thames he could hear a dim cacophany of noise, the sound of an orchestra in the distance, the humming sound of visitors, the calls of hucksters wandering the grounds. The boat docked before the entrance and they all traipsed through the door, emerging onto a broad walk. Dusk was drawing on quickly now, and the gardens that stretched as far as he could see were lit by gaslights strung through the trees. The lamps looked like small candles, burning uncertainly in a breeze, and certainly providing no proper illumination. No wonder Vauxhall had such a bad reputation, he thought. A young woman could easily get lost in the maze of paths, alone or with a companion.

There was a voluptuous smell in the air too, one that stirred all his senses. Helene's friend Lady Bonnington was exclaiming over the same scent.

"Evening primroses," her husband told her.

Lady Bonnington was wearing a cloak of deep green and a loo mask that emphasized her mouth. But Lina was an easy rival for her, less fleshy, less indecorous, far more beautiful, to Tom's mind. What was he doing, comparing two women's mouths? Had he lost himself, the securely proper self he had always been? Reverend Thomas Holland wasn't interested in comparing women's mouths!

His attention wandered again. Would he be Lina's companion? Would they lose themselves on a path, walking side by side?

"I've reserved a supper alcove," Rees said brusquely. "The fireworks are not until eleven o'clock, so I suggest that we visit the arcades." Then he grabbed his wife's arm and set off down one of the paths. Tom felt a bounding surge of happiness. Lina was his for the evening, at least. He put out his arm to her. Lady Bonnington and her husband had strolled directly after Rees, so they were suddenly alone.

Her large eyes looked almost frightened. "Are you all right?" he said with a sudden pulse of alarm.

"This isn't proper," Lina said in a low voice. "I don't feel right here, not with Lady Godwin. It was different before I met her. I thought this was all rather humorous, the wife who lived with her mother, and I in her bedroom. I must have been mad!"

"You're as much a lady as either of them," he told her.

"No, I'm not," Lina said, shaking her head. Her skin glowed alabaster clear in the light of the gas-lamp hanging from a tree above them.

"And yet, I think you are a lady by birth, are you not?" Tom said, deliberately ignoring the implication of her statement.

"That's hardly the point."

"You are a lady," he insisted.

She shrugged. "My father was well born enough. But I'm not any longer, and I don't feel comfortable with them. I don't."

"Your father?" he asked.

"Just as you said of your position," she said indifferently. "He is a vicar largely because he is the youngest son of a baron. The youngest of four, mind you. But that is beside the point, as the term lady has little to do with kinship, not really. I'm your brother's doxy, Tom, and I don't want to make up a party with his wife. It's not right. I'm ashamed that I ever agreed to Rees's scheme."

He pushed back the hood of her domino. Her hair caught sparks of light from the lamps and glowed a bronzed gold. Tom was conscious of deep happiness. He caught her hands and held them under his chin, kissing first one and then the other. "You're going to be my wife, Lina McKenna," he said.

She stared up at him. "You're mad," she said flatly. "As mad as your brother." She tried to turn and go, but he wouldn't let her. Then his arms slid around her and she stopped struggling.

"Where would you like to go, Lina mine?" he asked her, his lips skimming hers, tasting delight with restraint. "If you don't wish to join the others in the supper alcove, we shall explore the gardens on our own."

She blinked up at him, her eyes thickly fringed with lashes tipped with the same golden light as her hair. "How can we sit about and pretend to have genteel conversation in a supper alcove? I and your brother's wife? It's absurd!"

"You are a lady, as well as she," he said gently. "And even if that weren't the case, Vauxhall is notorious for being ripe with all sectors of society."

"I don't want to be one doxy among many," she said flatly.

"You're no doxy," he said, pulling her against him. He devoured her with that kiss, trying with every fiber of his body to tell her how he felt: about her, about the two of them, about their impending marriage.

She was cradled in his arms, breathing quickly, melting against him, joy in his arms. It wasn't until some five minutes later, when Tom looked up, breathless, his body on fire- To meet the expressionless eyes of his brother. And behind Rees, the bright, inquisitive face of Lady Esme Bonnington, her mouth frozen in a silent "O."

For one long second, no one said anything. Then Rees said in an utterly normal voice, as if he'd seen nothing and cared for nothing, "Our supper alcove is to the left of the Pavilion, Tom." He turned and offered his arm to Lady Bonnington.

Lina was looking up at him with horror. "Was that who I think it was?" she asked. Her back was turned to the walk and she hadn't known of Rees's presence until he spoke.

"Yes," Tom said. His arms tightened around her. "Did you truly not wish to go to supper, Lina?"

She shook her head violently. Her lips were plump from his kiss; she looked young and utterly defenseless.

"Would you like me to take you home?"

She hesitated.

"I'll take you anywhere you wish to go," he said, tracing one of her eyebrows with a fingertip. "And my only payment is kisses. Would you like to go to the opera tonight? With me?"

Her eyes brightened, but then she shook her head. "I couldn't. What if someone saw us?"

"And what then?" he asked softly. "May I not accompany a beautiful young woman to the opera? I think I may."

"I'd like to go to the Pewter Inn," she said suddenly. "I'd like to meet Mrs. Fishpole."

"Mrs. Fishpole!"

"Yes." She smiled up at him. "Meggin is at home, Tom. I find it very hard to forget that she is alone in the nursery, albeit under Rosy's care."

Shame and wonder are infrequent companions, but Tom knew them both. "You'll be the better part of me, won't you?" he said, his mouth swooping down on hers again.

She pushed him away, but not very resolutely. It wasn't until some minutes later that a rather discomposed looking young lady and her companion hailed a waterman and told him they wanted the Westminster Stairs, for a hackney to the Pewter Inn.

"Of course, I'm going to find her!" the gentleman said irritably to his companion.

"Yes, but what if you can't?" she replied, untangling a long curl from an emerald necklace that she was rather unwisely wearing, given the famed presence of pickpockets at Vauxhall. "Can't we simply enjoy ourselves, Garret? According to the playbill, there's a Spectacular Pyrotechnical Display tonight. I do love fireworks. I don't want to spend the whole evening traipsing around these dark gardens looking for Lady Godwin!"

"She must be here," Mayne told his sister. "Just hush, Griselda. Perhaps we can find her in the supper room."

"I don't want to go all the way over there!" Griselda said in some alarm. "My shoes aren't designed for walking miles and miles, you know. Why don't we sit in the Chinese pavilion? She's certain to turn up. Everyone visits the pavilion; you know that. And if she doesn't, I'm quite certain that some other flame of yours will wander by, and you can amuse yourself."

Mayne drew a reckless hand through his elaborately casual locks. At the moment he didn't give a damn for the effect his valet had achieved after some thirty-five minutes of devout labor. "You don't understand, Grissie," he said with frustration. "Helene is different from the rest."

"Poppycock," Griselda said, making her way toward the Chinese pavilion, whose delicate spires made patterns against the London sky. "You may feel that way now, but it will wear off. Contain yourself, please. And do remember that you're a man on the cusp of marriage. All these extremes of emotion are so tedious."

She waved to the attendant, who took one look at Mayne and his sister and escorted them to a prime table where they could both see and be seen.

"There, you see," Griselda said with satisfaction once she had arranged her reticule, fan, gloves and shawl just as she liked them, and checked her emeralds in a small mirror. "You can snap up your little countess as she passes, and I do promise not to giggle at her shorn locks. Though I must say, darling, that I begin to wonder at your taste. All this enthusiasm for Helene Godwin? I remember her in school as being just too, too tedious. All braids, restraint and pale skin. And no more interesting on further acquaintance, I assure you, unless you have a passionate interest in music."

"You're quite wrong," Mayne snapped at her. He was a fool to have brought his sister. He itched to be out strolling the paths. At this rate, he would miss Helene. She was probably walking down a shadowy path, and he could be next to her, enticing her into meeting him at his little house in Golden Square.

"Here!" Griselda called, waving her reticule and hooting until Mayne longed to shake her. "It's Cornelius," she said. "Cornnneeelius!"

An exquisite sprig of fashion strolled in their direction, peering at them through his quizzing glass. His hair frothed above his forehead as if he'd been struck by curly lighting, but Griselda seemed to find nothing amiss.

"I thought you dropped that fop based on his poetic failures," Mayne remarked.

"Not yet," she said complacently. "I told him to write me another poem. Then I shall give the poem to you, darling, and we will discover who he stole it from. That is much more fun. What's to be gained from discarding the acquaintance?"

But Mayne had suddenly realized there was, indeed, something to be gained from the presence of Cornelius Bamber. "Good to see you, Bamber," he said rather shortly. "I would be most grateful if you would accompany my sister for a short time while I attempt to find an acquaintance."

"My pleasure," Bamber said languidly. "Who would not grasp at such a chance? She walks in beauty, like the night..."

"Didn't Spenser say that?" Mayne asked acidly. "Or wait, wasn't that Byron?"

Bamber ignored him, since he was in the midst of an elaborate bow that involved three or four hand flourishes, so Mayne strode off. He was conscious of a surge of desire at the very thought of Helene that felt like electricity going from his toes to his hair. He hadn't felt this way since he was a mere adolescent. With her clear, thoughtful eyes and her sophisticated, urbane view of men and women, Helene was his twin. A gloriously feminine, beautiful version of himself.

Behind him, his sister had been joined by Lady Petunia Gemmel. They were squealing at each other in a way that promised Lady Petunia had brought a luscious piece of gossip to the table. That should keep Griselda occupied for an hour at least; the two of them were positively savage when they began running down reputations, particularly if the people being discussed were near and dear acquaintances.

Helene walks in beauty, like the night, he thought to himself. Perhaps Byron wasn't such a bad poet after all.

Chapter Thirty.

In Which a Songbird Develops Talons.

The Pewter Inn was bustling with every kind of coach that trundled the streets of London: phaetons, barouches, landaus, and even a chariot. Postboys were shouting and running in all directions. Just as Tom and Lina walked through the gates (over which Pewter Inn was spelled out in flaking silver letters), the mail coach careened in, narrowly missing the left column, which would have brought the whole gate down on their heads.

"Meggin offered me an apple as I descended from the mail," Tom told Lina. "She was trying to sell apples to the passengers."

Shrieks reverberated around them as the boys began their game of throwing all the passengers' luggage to the ground, including a crate of chickens that promptly burst open and sent fowl fluttering in all directions.

"I see what you mean," Lina said, holding Tom's arm rather tightly. "She's very small to find herself amidst all this-"

She didn't finish because Tom abruptly dragged her to the right to avoid a landau being backed through the gates by a fine young gentleman who obviously felt that lowly persons should give way before his vehicle, and not vice versa.

"The kitchen is around the back," he said, taking Lina to safety under the covered walkway that ran around the yard.

Lina looked up and said something, but he couldn't hear it, due to the fracas (the owner of the chickens had taken in very bad part the fate of his chicken-coop, not to mention his fowl, who were comfortably roosting on the second-story balcony). So Tom shook his head at Lina and just brought her around the path that Meggin had taken, leading to the kitchens.

But when they walked through the door, Mrs. Fishpole had been replaced by a hatchet-faced individual wearing a dirty white apron. He had a bad-tempered look about him, as if he'd toss a pot of boiling water at the slightest provocation.

"No gentry coves in the kitchens," he growled, giving a ferocious stir to a pan of pale gray water, graced with a few bobbing vegetables. "Get around the front then, where your sort belongs." Without looking at them again, he grabbed a wine glass from the table and sucked a long draught of red down his throat.

"We're looking for Mrs. Fishpole," Tom said politely, removing his hat. "I wonder if you could tell me when she might be on duty again."

"Never, and that'll be too soon," the man growled, pouring himself another swig of wine. "Now be off with you. She weren't owed any wages, and if she's taken off without paying your tick, it's nothing to me."

"We merely wish to find her direction," Tom explained. "She owes us nothing."

But the man turned back to his pot as if he weren't even going to bother to answer. A potboy dashed in, calling "Mr. Sigglet, Mr. Sigglet! Mr. Harper has arrived for his regular and wants the fish and sausage pie as always, what should I tell him?"

"Tell him that the harpy's gone this afternoon, and left me without a fish pie to my name," Mr. Sigglet snarled. "He'll eat vegetable soup and be glad with it, or he can take himself off somewhere else. I'll have another cook by tomorrow."

He swung around and waved the wooden spoon so that greasy drops flew, landing on his beard and hair. "You all can make your way out of here," he said. "That Fishpole has done a bunk on me, left her job without a word of warning, and all to go back to her family. Who would have thought the woman had a family? Family!" It was clear that Sigglet, at least, had no faith in the institution.

Without another word, Tom drew Lina backwards out of the kitchen; he was a little worried that Sigglet would lose his patience and launch vegetable soup in their direction.

"Where could she have gone?" Lina asked. "Oh, this is the worst of all situations!"

"No, it's not," Tom replied, hating the look of distress in her eyes. "It means you were right. You were absolutely right, and I was a blunderhead not to consider other options."

Lina shook her head. "No, you were right. That inn yard is no place for a little girl. And what sort of a mother could Mrs. Fishpole be, if she up and leaves her position without a word of warning? Meggin needs a reliable family."

He cupped her face in her hands. "Hush, you," he said, grinning down at her. "Mrs. Fishpole quit her position because she's gone to find Meggin. All she knows of me is that I'm the vicar of St. Mary's Church in Beverley. Her family lives a few counties over. And that's where she's gone; I'll bet my last shilling on it!"

She was so beautiful that he had to kiss her. And the kiss was so delicious that they likely would have kept kissing all night, bundled up in their loo cloaks and leaning against the back wall of an inn, except Lina had an idea.

"She only just left the inn this afternoon, Tom," she said, rather breathlessly. "Perhaps Mrs. Fishpole hasn't set out for the North Country yet. Perhaps we could find her in London."

For a moment he didn't catch her meaning. His whole body was aching to make her his. "Will you marry me?" he asked rather thickly.

"No," she said. "Let's go find Mrs. Fishpole!"

"Not until you agree to marry me," he said, pulling her back against him.

"I could never marry a vicar!" The horror in her voice was genuine enough.

"Can we pretend that I'm not a vicar?" he asked.

"Ah, but you are."

"If I weren't a vicar, would you marry me?"

She hesitated.