Helene had made up her mind that pushing off her hood was the only intimacy Rees was allowed. It hadn't passed her notice that her husband took to marital intimacies in the outdoors like a duck to water. She certainly wasn't going to add to the dismal reputation of Vauxhall Gardens by allowing herself to be intimately handled in Lovers' Walk.

At first he just kissed her. But could one call it just? Something about the way his tongue plunged into hers made her body burn to be near his. Yet when his hand strayed treacherously close to her bosom, Helene pushed him away. He kissed her so hard that at first she didn't notice his hand stealing up her leg, trailing a delicate, fiery caress toward her knees, and only belatedly squealed and pulled away. He followed her, and somehow she ended up half lying on the bench, with him laughing over her, pulling her cloak open and trapping her arms.

"It's only your cloak, Helene!"

"We're in public!" she said, struggling. "Anyone could see us."

"No one has come this way in a good ten minutes." His eyes were black against the sky and the feeble gaslight.

She licked her lips and the heavy droop of his eyelids suddenly became even more pronounced. "One could almost suppose you think that I haven't noticed what you're-you're doing," she managed. For one large thumb was rubbing over her nipple in a way that made her legs tremble.

"Do forgive me if I have disconcerted you," he said tranquilly, taking his hand away. Her nipple stood out against her light gown, and their eyes met as she glanced down. "I wouldn't like to do anything that you didn't enjoy, Helene." His voice was as low as a cello, and as seductive too.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't lie. His smile was pure wickedness. And the sigh that came from her lips when he put his hand back on her breast was pure delight. Yet Helene did not lose sight of her initial thoughts on the matter.

"This is all very well," she said-or rather, gasped-some time later. "But you are not going to bed me in Vauxhall Gardens, Rees, you are not!"

"I'm not bedding you," he said. He had rearranged herself and him so that she was lying across his lap, her body laid like a feast before him. One hand held her tightly against his chest, but the other- The other wandered. From her breast, with an increasingly rough stroke that made the breath catch in her throat and her body arch toward him. To the sleek line of her leg, skimming under her gown, walking his fingers up her thigh so slowly that she started shaking all over and had to hide her face in his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she moaned.

"Just playing," he said, and it seemed to her that his voice was more strained than it had been.

"With what?" she managed, with a fair degree of logic. For his hand had reached above her garter now, and he was swirling little circles on the skin of her thighs.

"With your body, Wife," he whispered into her neck.

"And what if someone comes by?" she demanded.

But he was bending over her and just as his lips captured hers, his fingers slipped into the sweetest space of all. He swallowed her cry with his mouth, and the next, and the next... Quieted her struggles with his body. For it didn't seem to him that she really knew what she wanted.

"No," she cried sharply, "you mustn't..." but her voice disappeared into a wave of pleasure that coursed through her body. He could see that well enough.

"If I hear anyone coming," he told her, "I'll simply drape your cloak over you."

"No!" she said tremblingly, but he tried a little flick of his finger, and was rewarded with a squeak of delight, and after that she stopped worrying about passersby, other revellers not enthralled by fireworks.

It took a bit of experimentation. Rees had never given much thought to women's pleasure. They were there; he was a rakehell, a take-what-you-want-and-leave type of man. He'd known that since he was a youngster. And nowhere in the training of a rakehell did it say anything about touching women for their pleasure.

Nor did it say anything about allowing one's own body to burn with a fierce fire without respite, or feeling oneself shaking with passion-and all from touching a woman.

Not any woman. From touching Helene.

Her face was tipped back in the crook of his arm now, so that every time she came to herself enough to protest, he could swoop down and silence her with his mouth until she succumbed again.

In the first year of their marriage, he told her, with an edge created by his own sense of rage and failure over the whole business of bedding a wife, that her body must be unable to experience women's pleasure. And so warring in Rees's soul was a battle between passion and self-loathing. For Helene's cheeks were tipped rose and her eyes unfocused; her willowy body had turned to plush in his hands, and she was urging herself against his hand, murmuring incoherent things, her breath as ragged as his own.

But, as he said, he was learning.

It took a while, but finally he thought he had a rhythm, a pace, a cadence like a waltz that seemed to drive her farther and farther from logic, and more and more into an incoherent series of little breaths that were like the most beautiful music he ever heard in his life, a medley of "Rees! No! Yes!" and "Oh, oh-" and finally, "Rees!" And then she arched against him, her body shaking in his arms. Rees buried his face in her hair. Self-loathing stopped warring with passion, and was replaced by something infinitely more tender, and more terrifying.

For Helene, it was as if a crescendo-a whole fanfare of trumpets-took over the sweet, arching sounds of a concerto and blew free and clear in the air, the sound tearing to the utmost ends of her fingers, again and again, music crashing over her head so that she was utterly lost in its grip and Rees's warm steady body was her only fulcrum in a spinning world.

And for the Earl of Mayne, who rounded the turn in the path a split second before, recognizing immediately the moonlit gleam of Helene's hair, and then just as suddenly the silver gleam of said moonlight on a slender leg, and finally, with a bitter blow that he felt to his chest, realizing that his Helene, his countess as he had imperceptibly started thinking of her, was shaking in the arms of her husband.

That same husband for whom she felt only mild friendship.

He turned without a sound and walked away, the black sweep of his cape sending stray leaves on the path into a lackadaisical spiral in the air.

Honesty is overrated.

Rage, on the other hand-rage has a good deal to be said for it. Rage coursed through his body with a black inevitability that left a bitter taste in his mouth. She was no more than a woman, like all the rest: faithless, dishonest. No more knowing in her understanding of men and women than any other woman.

Worse, actually. Taking her pleasure wherever she found it, apparently. Masquerading in society as a virtuous matron while she stole off to her husband's house to enjoy whatever attentions he had not given to his resident doxy.

With a faint objective edge, Mayne realized that he was literally shaking with rage. You're a bit out of hand, he thought to himself.

It's only a nuisance, that's all.

Another woman... just another woman. Nothing new there. And if she was rather more devious than many of the ladies he had bedded, that was hardly something for him to grieve over.

He was almost back to the Chinese Pavilion when he saw Lady Felicia Saville prancing toward him, waving her fan and chattering to one of her more foolish friends. Lady Felicia was notorious for two things: her unhappy marriage and her waggling tongue.

His pace slowed to that of a panther.

"Oh, Mayne," Felicia called, as they came into sound of each other. "Your sister awaits you at the Pavilion, sir." But he was moving toward her with a concentrated light in his eyes that she had only seen directed at other women. Felicia gulped. Could it be that Mayne-Mayne!-was finally going to approach her? She had quite despaired of the idea, and yet sometimes she felt as if his lovers were an exclusive gathering to which she had not been invited. And Felicia loathed that idea.

She turned to her friend Bella. "Darling," she said behind her fan, "do make an excuse to return to the Pavilion, will you? As a dear friend?"

Bella looked at her sharply and then at the earl, walking toward them with a little smile on his beautifully cut lips.

"Only if you visit me first thing in the morning!" she said, fluttering her fan as if a sudden tropical breeze had blown through London.

"Without question," Felicia said. She lowered her fan and smiled at Mayne. He didn't seem to notice Bella drifting away, slowly so that she could catch Mayne's greeting.

"I feel as if I never saw you before," he said, and his voice was dark and suggestive. "Do walk with me, Felicia."

"Into Lovers' Walk!" she said with a titter. "Dear me!"

But he tipped up her chin and brushed a kiss across her lips. "Only if you quite, quite wish to," he said, as his mouth came down to hers.

Mayne found it rather disappointing that when he strolled past the secluded little bench where the deceptive countess and her hell-born husband had been, they had disappeared, and so missed the sight of Lady Felicia Saville clinging to his arm, her cloak thrown off and her bodice slipping to the point of indiscretion.

There was a disappointing lack of revenge about it. He wanted to see Helene's eyes widen; he wanted her to know-absolutely know-that he had decided she wasn't worth waiting a month for.

He wanted her to know that he had never believed her in the first place. Never. He'd known immediately that it was all a Maygame, that talk about mild friendship. He had never believed her. He wasn't taken in.

Yet it wasn't until he was rather expertly, if with a dismaying lack of interest, sampling Lady Felicia's charms, that he realized just how to make Helene Godwin understand that he never, for a moment, believed her nor considered waiting for her to leave her husband's house.

"Felicia," he said, his voice as syrupy smooth as devil's broth.

"Yes?" she said, her voice quite steady and clear. Alas, Felicia was finding the famed Earl of Mayne rather less enthralling than she had been led to believe. But there you are. Reality, particularly when it pertained to men, was always rather disappointing.

"I heard the most dismaying piece of news today," he said into her ear, easing her bodice back over her breast.

"No, what?" Felicia asked, instantly revived.

So he told her. As her eyes grew bigger and bigger, he brought her to her feet and brushed a few spare leaves from the back of her cloak, and then they began their stroll back toward the lightened areas of the Gardens.

For Mayne understood as well as anyone that his duty, that evening, was to accompany Felicia wherever she wished to go, whispering intimately into her ear, and making it quite clear to all her acquaintances that she was one of his chosen lovers.

And Felicia didn't have to think twice to know what her duty was, since it came as naturally to her as breathing. She almost began trotting in her haste to return to her friends.

"I just can't believe it!" she kept saying, half to herself and half to Mayne. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

Garret Langham, Earl of Mayne, smiled down at her. Had she the perspicuity to notice it, she would have seen a murderous gleam in his eyes.

No one crossed Mayne.

No one.

Chapter Thirty-two.

Mother Is a Relative Term.

"I'm just not certain that we should have brought Meggin," Lina said quietly, as she, Tom, and Meggin climbed out of the coach onto Halcrow Street the next morning. "What if this is a disappointment?"

"If Mrs. Fishpole is here, she'll wish to see her," Tom said again. "And look at Meggin!"

Meggin had been like a child transformed, ever since they told her after breakfast that they were going to find Mrs. Fishpole. She was dressed in an enchanting little pinafore and gown, with a pelisse to match. She was clutching Lina's fur tippet, even though it was far too warm for that sort of clothing. But it wasn't her external appearance that mattered; it was the way her eyes were glowing and her little body was rigid with excitement.

Halcrow Street must have been in the district of London devoted to the cloth-dying trade, because everywhere they looked there were huge tubs of bubbling reddish or bluish water and women dumping in armfuls of old clothing. Each load would send a choking cloud of colored smoke into the air, adding to the pungent stench of rotting vegetables and horse dung.

Mrs. Fishpole wasn't hard to find. An old man dozing in the sun nodded across the street. "Number Forty-Two, she's at," he said. "Though I do hear tell that she's leaving Londontown and going back to somewhere else. I don't know but what she might have left already." And: "I thank you kindly, sir," as he tucked the coin that Tom gave him into an inner pocket.

They walked up three flights of stairs to the very top level. Meggin was clutching Lina's hand fiercely and Lina-for the first time in years-found herself praying. "Please let her be there," she said to that silent presence whom she used to know, but had put away with her childhood things. "Please, please, please, let Mrs. Fishpole still be here."

Tom knocked on the narrow door, while Lina and Meggin stood behind him on the stairs. There was no answer. Lina clenched her teeth and prayed harder. Tom knocked again, louder, and this time they heard the noise of feet approaching. Finally the door snapped open.

Mrs. Fishpole wasn't wearing a white apron anymore; she was dressed from head to foot in gray bombazine, and a shabby bonnet was jammed rather precariously on top of her hair. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but at that moment a sturdy little body scrabbled past Tom and butted the gray bombazine skirt. And then it was just a flurry of tears and exclamations.

"My fiancee, Miss McKenna, told me the truth of it," Tom explained, a good five minutes later. They were all seated around Mrs. Fishpole's sister-in-law's table, there being no sitting room or extra room of that nature.

Mrs. Fishpole had Meggin on her lap and her arms around her as if she would never let her go. "I can't believe I did that," she kept repeating. "I must have been out of me mind. Clear out of me mind. Mr. Sigglet had been carrying on about the child, and then you appeared, and it seemed like Providence. But I knew within two minutes that I'd made a mistake. And then I was too late." Her arms tightened around Meggin until it looked as if she might suffocate the child. Not that Meggin seemed to mind. Lina's fur tippet, which she had carried with her every minute of the day and even slept with, was forgotten on the floor.

"Too late," Mrs. Fishpole kept repeating. "I'll never get over it in my life, I won't. I ran out into that street like a demented woman, but no one could tell me where you'd gone. I'd given my Meggin away, and I didn't even remember your name for sure. Not even your name!"

"I'm truly sorry to have caused you distress," Tom said.

"Well, as to that, you shan't have her, of course," Mrs. Fishpole said, narrowing her eyes and looking as if she wished that she had her giant rolling pin at hand. "I've left my position, and I'll care for Meggin myself."

"Mr. Holland made a mistake," Lina said, smiling at Mrs. Fishpole. "But he meant no harm to you or Meggin."

"I can see that," Mrs. Fishpole said grudgingly, "but you shouldn't as taken her," she told Tom.

"I gather you were planning to travel to the North Country to find Meggin?" Tom asked. "May I enquire whether you wish to continue to East Riding now that you two are reunited, or will you find another position in London?"

"I'm going back," Mrs. Fishpole said decisively. "I've given it a lot of thought over the past few days. London is no place for us. I'm going back and I'm taking Meggin with me. She's to be Meggin Fishpole now, and anyone who says differently will have a taste of my tongue."

Lina was nodding encouragingly. "That's a marvelous plan," she said warmly. "Meggin is a very lucky little girl to have you as a mother, Mrs. Fishpole."

Mrs. Fishpole was blinking rather rapidly. "As to mother, well I never thought to be such a thing. But I suppose-"

"You are definitely Meggin's mother," Lina said cheerfully.

Meggin peeped out from the iron circle of Mrs. Fishpole's arms like a sparrow waiting for a plump worm.

"I believe that Father Rumwold in the Minster Church is in need of a housekeeper who can cook," Tom said, not thinking it necessary to add that Father Rumwold had never had a housekeeper and showed few signs of needing one. "You would be an excellent candidate. If you are interested, I could send a note, suggesting your services to the father. It's a small household, just himself and two clerics." And, he thought to himself, Rumwold is just the sort to enjoy a good fish and sausage pie.

"I'd be grateful," Mrs. Fishpole said with a sharp nod. "I've never done any housekeeping, but I wouldn't mind putting my hand in."

"Excellent," Tom said, scribbling a note for Reverend Rumwold and giving it to Mrs. Fishpole. "May I pay for Meggin's passage to the North Country, Mrs. Fishpole? I feel responsible for the distress that I caused both of you in the past few days."

"As to that, I won't say no," Mrs. Fishpole said. "Things are a bit tight, and I meant to borrow some from my brother-in-law, but he's not a ready man."

"It's my pleasure," Tom said. Lina was kneeling next to Mrs. Fishpole's chair and saying something in Meggin's ear without disturbing her snug place on Mrs. Fishpole's lap. The little girl was smiling and then Lina put something in Meggin's hand and closed her fingers around it. Mrs.

Fishpole didn't notice; she was busy pushing back all the money Tom had given her except one guinea.

"This'll be enough to get us to East Riding, and I thank you for that.

I'm not taking any charity, not if my name's Elsa Fishpole. Meggin and me will make our way with what we have, and a deal of hard work, and that'll be enough. Right, Meggin?"

Meggin looked up at her and then suddenly burst into tears.

"We'll be fine," Mrs. Fishpole told her roughly. But she was rocking her back and forth with a manner that belied her curt words. "No crying, now.