He didn't show even a flicker of surprise. "That would be my pleasure," he said, holding out his arm.

Really, men were absurdly easy to seduce, if that was the right word. Last spring, she had invited Mr. Fairfax-Lacy into her bedchamber merely by reading a poem. Of course, the whole event hadn't turned out exactly as she planned, but the invitation itself was effortless.

Mayne was just as amenable as Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. They strolled into the music room; he closed the door behind them; she leaned against the polished wood of the Broadwood piano.

Surely he would lunge at her directly? But no, he strolled over to the sideboard and poured them each a glass of wine.

As he handed it to her, he said, "Lady Godwin, you are quite ravishing in that gown."

She said, "Thank you."

And he began kissing her. It was all quite effortless, really.

Five minutes later, he drew a teasing finger down her neck and stopped just at the edge of her bodice. It felt white-hot, as if his very finger blazed a trail on her skin. Helene drained her glass of wine, and Mayne promptly poured her another. Then he put his finger in the glass and put it back on her throat. Helene could feel her eyes growing wider as his wet finger slid across her skin, inside the frail silk of her bodice.

"I should very much like to escort you home," he said, his eyes blazing down into hers.

"Home?" Helene repeated. She was having trouble paying attention. One part of her was absolutely enthralled by his games with the wine. The other side of her (alas for her practicality!) was hoping that he wouldn't stain the silk. She wanted to wear this gown again.

"Yes, home," Mayne said, smiling down at her. "Your home or mine."

Helene gulped. She didn't want to take the man home, for goodness' sake! Didn't he realize that he was supposed to get the job done here and now? "Absolutely not," she snapped, and then realized she didn't sound very agreeable. So she put her hands on her hips and gave him one of Esme's curling, seductive smiles. "Why don't you just kiss me again instead?"

His eyebrow went up. "Why, Lady Godwin, you are growing more surprising by the moment," he murmured, bending to her lips.

Of course, he immediately started plunging about with his tongue. Helene had never liked that sort of kiss. To be honest, it reminded her of the marital act, and both things were just far too intimate for her. But she had to admit that Mayne seemed to be better at it than Rees ever was. His tongue felt rather delicate and enquiring, rather than bullishly trampling. Naturally, he wished to continue kissing long past when she, Helene, would have closed her mouth and moved on to other things. Her mind started wandering. What was it that Esme said she must do? Be encouraging, show enthusiasm, and be intimate. Intimate must mean use of his Christian name. Helene ran her hand up Mayne's shoulder and gasped, "You're so marvelous, Gerard!"

"Garret," he murmured. "And you, Lady Godwin, are a very interesting bundle of womanhood indeed." His hand was running down her back to her-to her bottom! Helene almost jumped out of her skin.

"No corset," he murmured against her cheek.

She shook her head.

"No chemise?" he suggested.

She shook her head again.

"A package wrapped just as I most like them," he murmured, and captured her mouth again. Helene stifled an inward moan. Wasn't he ever going to be done with the kissing? And, "Do call me Helene," she said, once she managed to get some air in her lungs. "Shouldn't you lock the door?"

"In a moment," he said. His hands were stroking her back. It felt rather as if he believed her to be a cat: up and down, his hand sliding against the sleek silk. Helene had to admit that it felt quite nice. Although he did end up touching her bottom quite a few times. The caress made her feel rather wiggly and pleasant, rather than outraged. She took advantage of a moment's pause to gulp her second glass of wine.

Really, she was quite getting into the spirit of the thing now, she thought rather dazedly. He kept kissing her ear. Well, nibbling it really. And although the thought of such an action wasn't very enticing, Helene felt it was something she could definitely live with. If only ear-nibbling gave one a child!

Time to give him some more encouragement. If he were as slow with the rest of it as he was with the kissing, she wouldn't get home until the wee hours of the morning. That was one thing she could say about her husband: he never wasted any time in the bed. "Gareth," she whispered into his ear, running a finger down the side of his cheek. He really did have a lovely lean cheek, and he smelled good too.

"Helene," he whispered back. "My name is Garret." There was something about the slightly husky tone of his voice that gave her the oddest feeling between her legs.

She was about to suggest that he hurry along, but she gasped instead. Because he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the couch in one long stride. A moment after that, she had almost forgotten that she wanted him to hurry. Because Garret, as it turned out, liked her breasts. Adored them, in fact. He said so, several times.

"They're perfect," he said, in his faintly husky accent. His hand ran over her bodice, again and again, shaping the silk against her nipple and running his thumb over it. Helene had to admit that it all made her feel most peculiar.

"Where is your accent from?" she said, and was surprised to hear her voice was slightly breathy.

"My mother was French," he replied. And then: "Helene, I believe it might be time to lock that door. Would you be agreeable if I were to do so?"

And Helene stared at him, knowing that her eyes were as big as saucers, and feeling that odd sparking queasiness between her legs, and whispered, "I would-yes, please, Garret."

He stopped for one second to kiss her again. Helene was thinking that perhaps kissing wasn't all that terrible, when there was a noise at the door and someone walked in.

"Merde," he said under his breath and pulled back. But he didn't seem terribly perturbed. "One moment, Cherie, and I will-" Mayne turned to look over the back of the sofa and his body stiffened.

"Who is it?" Helene said, wondering if she should stand up. She would be ruined anyway, once she had a child, so she couldn't bring herself to care overmuch about being caught kissing. Besides, as Esme said, half the women in the ton had kissed Mayne.

"Your husband," he said briskly, putting her on her feet. "Good evening, Lord Godwin," he said pleasantly. "Perhaps you were looking for your wife?"

And there was Rees, looking like an olive-skinned, brawling prizefighter in comparison to Mayne's sleek elegance.

"Yes, I was looking for her," Rees snarled. "I'd be grateful, if you'd give us a moment to speak before you add my wife to the list you keep nailed to your bedside table."

For a moment, Helene thought there would be a fight. The air in the room seemed to have vanished, and the menace on Rees's snarling face was matched by the potent fury on Mayne's. Then she blinked. She had almost forgotten that Rees had relinquished any claim to being her husband, that in fact he had virtually ordered her to find a consort. It'll do you good, wasn't that what he said?

She put a hand on Mayne's arm. "Will you give me a moment to speak to my husband?" she said, giving him a significant glance. "I will rejoin you in a moment."

Mayne had gone white with fury and looked even more amazingly beautiful. Rees's ancestry was just as ancient, but his face looked as if all his ancestors were farmers rather than courtiers. "I dislike the idea of leaving you with a man who may not be able to control his temper," Mayne said.

She gave him Esme's liquorish smile, and this time it didn't even feel like Esme's-it felt like hers. There was something in the smile that thanked him for the tingling feeling she had all over her body. Thanked him and welcomed it again. "My husband is of little concern to me," she said softly, but not so softly that Rees couldn't hear it. "Although I thank you for your concern."

Rees moved backwards with mocking gallantry as Mayne started for the door. But Mayne stopped just beside him. They were of a height, and oddly enough, although Mayne's rippling muscles were so much more in evidence because of his well-fitting clothing, they seemed to be of similar body weights as well. But the comparison ended there. The Earl of Mayne was dressed with a Gallic flare; his neck cloth, for example, was an exquisite snowy white, tied in a complicated fashion. Earl Godwin seemed to have knotted an old kitchen cloth around his neck; the outline of an overly hot iron was face-out, for all the world to see.

"I suggest that you not exercise your temper overmuch," Mayne said, and the French tinge to his voice sounded truly dangerous now.

"The day I take orders from a dissolute frog like yourself is the day I go to my grave," Rees stated.

"I will excuse your passion on the grounds that you appear to have suddenly recognized that Lady Godwin is your wife," Mayne said with precision. "Although you have given very little sign of that in the past few years, and I believe you discovered it too late." Then he walked out.

Helene had to admit that it was a magnificent exit line. "What on earth are you doing?" she demanded of her husband. "You told me-"

"I know I told you to take a consort," Rees bellowed back at her. "I didn't tell you to spawn a child with one!"

"You know that I'm-how do you know that?" she cried.

"Your friend Esme was kind enough to inform me."

Helene felt a red-hot blaze of fury go up her body. Esme-Esme-had betrayed her? Esme, her closest friend in the world?

"I came to tell you that I won't allow it," Rees stated.

"You won't allow it," she said slowly.

"No. I won't allow it. You can't have thought clearly about the fact that any child you carry would become my heir. I can't allow that. Tom, or Tom's son, once he has one, will become the earl when I kick up my heels. I couldn't let a cuckoo take over the estate before Tom's child. It wouldn't be right."

"You're got nothing to say about it," Helene managed. Alarmingly, the fact that Esme had betrayed her was making her feel rather teary.

"I certainly do." Rees strolled over and locked the door. "I'd rather that people don't walk in on us at this moment, if you don't mind."

"I can't see that it matters," Helene said. Why had Esme done such a thing? She had been so close to having her baby, so close to success!

Rees was sitting down. "What are you doing?" she asked with patent scorn.

"Taking my shoes off," he said.

Helene's mouth fell open. "You cannot possibly think-"

"I certainly do. If I understood Lady Bonnington's message appropriately, you came to this ball precisely to find a man to act as stud for you. I'm as available as any other man in London, and a hell of a lot more in your style than the Earl of Mayne."

He pulled down his pantaloons and threw them to the side.

Chapter Ten.

In Which Salome Begins Her Dance.

The Yard at the Pewter Inn.

Stepney, London.

Reverend Thomas Holland, known as Tom to friends and parishioners alike, hadn't been in London for years, but it looked just the same: dirty, crowded, and wretchedly poor. It was early afternoon, but it might as well be stark night for all the sunlight that made it through the sooty air. He got off the mail-coach and stretched his limbs, ignoring the ground-shaking thumps near him as stableboys pulled pieces of luggage from the top of the coach and tossed them to the ground. Shrieks echoed off the wooden walls of the Pewter Inn as passengers protested the ramshackle treatment of their belongings. Tom didn't care. He was mostly carrying books, and they wouldn't break.

Someone tugged on his coat and he turned.

"Would you like to buy an apple, mister?"

She couldn't be more than five years old. She had on a grimy pinafore but her face was clean, and the little collection of apples she carried in a basket seemed to be clean, too. "Where's your mum?" he asked, squatting down before her.

She blinked. "Would you like to buy an apple?" she repeated.

"Yes, I would. Shall I give the money to your mother?" He took the apple. "How much is it?"

"Tuppence," she said, holding out a small hand for the payment. There was a bruise on her wrist.

This is why he didn't come to London. He simply couldn't bear it.

"Damnation," Tom muttered to himself. "Where's your mother, Sweetheart?"

She looked away again. But Tom had some practice talking to children in the village; he took her hand and said, "Take me home, please."

She didn't move. "I don't go places with men."

"And you're absolutely right," he said, dropping her hand. "Going home is not the same as going places, though, is it?"

She thought about this for a moment. She had a sweet, rosy little face, although her eyes were terribly serious. Tom had a familiar feeling, as if his chest-bone were pressing into his stomach.

"I don't go home until I sells all my apples."

Tom got out four pence, for which he received two more apples. There was almost a smile in her eyes: almost. Then she started walking away, so he tossed all three apples to a stableboy and asked him to keep an eye on his luggage. She didn't head out into the series of twisting little streets that surrounded the Pewter Inn, but straight around to the back and into the kitchen.

"I've told you not to come back in here until you've sold them all!" he heard someone say, as he pushed open the door.

A red-faced, middle-aged woman was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, scowling down at the apple-seller.

"I did sell them all," the little girl said, giving the woman her money. "To him." She pointed at Tom.

The woman swung around and her face changed instantly from irritated to menacing. Tom almost took a step back, as she reached behind her and palmed an enormous rolling pin, as long and wide as his arm. "You get out of here," she ordered. "I've had your kind around here before, and we don't hold with them." She grabbed the girl and pulled her behind her apron. "Meggin is not going anywhere with you, no matter the money you offer!"

"I'm a vicar," Tom said, loosening his traveling cloak so that his collar showed. "I was merely worried about little Meggin being by herself in the posting yard."

"She's not by herself. The posting yard is safe enough. And I never heard that being a vicar stopped nobody from being wicked." Mrs. Fishpole had heard enough stories about the roguery of men in black to distrust the very sight of a collar.

"I'm not one of them, Madam. I'm from the North Country, though, and not used to seeing children as small as this earning their living. But obviously you are taking excellent care of Meggin, and I apologize for disturbing you."

Mrs. Fishpole narrowed her eyes. He was a good-looking man, for a vicar. Nice eyes, he had. "Whereabouts in the North Country?"

"Beverley, East Riding," Tom said cheerfully. The odd tightness in his chest was easing. "I've a small parish there. I'm only in London to visit my brother."

A huge smile spread across the woman's face. "Beverley, eh? I'm Mrs. Fishpole, Reverend, originally from Driffield meself, though I haven't seen it in years. So you must be in the Minster, isn't that what it's called? My dad took me to Beverley once when I was a youngster and we delivered a load of sand to the Minster. It's a beautiful church. I've never forgotten it. I do think that it rivals Paul's."

"Perhaps the sand was used when they were refurbishing the west transect," Tom said. "I'm actually not the reverend of the Minster, but of an adjoining parish, St. Mary's. Reverend Rumwald is the vicar of the Beverley Minster."

"Lord Almighty, is old Rumwald still alive, then?" Mrs. Fishpole's whole face had softened. "He taught me my catechism, he did. He used to come over to Driffield once a month, seeing as we didn't have a parish priest. Too small, we were."

"I'll give him your best," Tom said. "I'll tell him of your happy situation here, as cook in this excellent establishment. And about your lovely daughter as well." He smiled at Meggin but she looked away.

Mrs. Fishpole pursed her lips. "Meggin isn't my daughter. And she doesn't earn her living with these apples, either. I have to feed her from the servants' scraps."

"Meggin isn't your daughter?"

"No," Mrs. Fishpole said, pushing Meggin out from behind her skirts now that she seemed to be in no imminent danger. "Her mum was no better than she should be, I've no doubt. We found her here one night, all but set to have the child on me own kitchen doorstep. The poor woman didn't survive the birth, God bless her soul."

"In that case, Meggin is doubly lucky to have you," Tom said. "I shall have to congratulate Reverend Rumwald on how well he taught you the catechism."

But Mrs. Fishpole was looking at him like a dog that's found a string of sausages on a street corner. "And what if you had found Meggin in a bad situation, Reverend? What was you planning to do next?"

Tom hesitated. "I'm not certain."