What had he meant?

He certainly couldn't tell her the truth-that her kiss had been like nothing he'd ever experienced. That to hold her in his arms was like being able to contain quicksilver-something elusive, vital and filled with fire. That when he brought his lips to hers all he could hear were the haunting lines of John Donne.

Come live with me and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove.

How was he supposed to tell her that in one kiss, he'd inherited everything he'd disavowed? That havingtasted her lips, the memory of her kiss would haunt his mind, his soul?"Well?" she was asking.He glanced up. "What?"Her eyes widened and she tipped her head, as if prompting him that the next line was his.He shrugged, for he hadn't the vaguest idea what one did in these circumstances.

"Aren't you going to apologize?" she finally asked.

Apologize? Apparently an expression of regret was expected in these situations. Not that he regretted kissing her.

Well, yes he did, he tried to tell himself. It had muddled everything. Still, if an apology was the thing needed to set the situation to rights, apologize he must. He smiled at her, thankful that one of them had experience in this area. He didn't think it was quite necessary, but then again, society's rules had baffled him on more than one instance.

He put his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. "Madame, I offer my sincerest regrets and apology for my lack of restraint a few moments ago. Kissing you was an inexcusable act and completely without merit."

There, he thought. That ought to solve everything.

Her face pinked again, but this time it wasn't from embarrassment. Why the lady looked quite capable ofmurder."Why, you arrogant, doltish, mangy, shallow-hearted-"Mason was only too glad to see Belton and Hashim arrive in the foyer, for he had a feeling she was merely winding up for the real insults."-Ashlin!" she finished.Apparently, being an Ashlin was the worst thing she could come up with. Well, considering his family's reputation, it was probably the worst thing one could cast up.

"Hashim," she said. "We are leaving."

Snatching up her skirt, she turned in a swish of silk and stomped toward the front door like Cleopatra.

"No, not the front door," he said.

Her royal procession of two came to an abrupt halt. Slowly she turned to him, one brow cocked in a

questioning arch.

"Someone might see you, Madame," Belton finished for him.

"I can see how that would be a tragedy to your reputation," she said.

Mason flinched.

"This way, Madame," Belton said, nodding toward the servant's door. "There is a carriage waiting in the

mews."

"My lord," she said stiffly, nodding to Mason.

He bowed back. As he rose, Mason didn't miss the puzzled glance Hashim shot in his direction, as if the

man were trying to figure out what had happened between them in the little time since Lady Delander'sarrival."Tomorrow then," Mason called after her. "At seven.""Yes, my lord," she replied. "We'll be here at seven."He cleared his throat. "We?"

"We," she said firmly. "Hashim and I."

Shaking his head, Mason replied, "I thought we agreed that Mr. Hashim would not be accompanying you."

"I've changed my mind," she told him. "Hashim's services will be indispensable to the girls' first lesson."

He eyed the silent Turk. He was almost afraid to ask the question. "And what lesson would that be?"

She smiled ever so politely. "Why, how to protect themselves from the unwanted and untoward

advances of the lascivious popinjays they are likely to meet among your set." She turned to Belton. "My

carriage awaits me. Lead on, sir."

Mason would have wagered that a more righteous and indignant departure than that performed by Madame Fontaine had ever been seen in a London house or onstage.

In fashionable London, the Ashlin house wasn't the only one receiving unwelcome guests, as a rap at thedoor by a servant brought a frown to the Marquess of Cariston's features. "What?""Milord, that person is here again.""Is anyone about, Sanders?"

"No, milord."

Snapping the paper closed, his lordship waved at the servant. "Show him in. And make sure no one sees him."

Getting up from his favorite chair, he poured himself a drink and tossed it back in one gulp. It must be rare news indeed to warrant the likes of Nutley coming to the house in broad daylight.

And the Marquess knew exactly who was responsible for this unwanted interruption.

Damn her. Damn her to hell, he thought, pouring himself a second measure of brandy. The woman would be the death of him.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

Not if she...

His murderous thoughts trailed off as his visitor strolled into the room.

"Nutley," he said, nodding at a hard chair in the corner, well suited for someone of this man's basebornstation.Anyone looking at the tall, handsome guest entering into the Marquess's private room would never guess that he had been born and raised in the slums of Seven Dials, for he had all the noble characteristics of an

heir to the loftiest of titles.Dressed in the height of fashion, his lean patrician nose, dark, rakish hair, and athletic build gave littleevidence to the man known in London's worst stews as "the Crusher"-a nickname earned for his abilityto wring a man's neck with one hand.

But Nutley hadn't been destined for the dark horrors of an early death at Tyburn, like so many of hislowly peers. With his incredible good looks, and fashionable manners and speech picked up from hisprostitute mother's better clients, he passed, for the most part, as a gentleman-and spent his daysworking for them doing the odd jobs and rather unsavory tasks a true gentleman would never lowerhimself to undertake.

That, his lordship told himself, was what would always separate the likes of Nutley from the upper class.

Nutley's gaze flicked over at the hard chair in the corner he'd been offered. He took the more comfortable chair in front of the fire, and glanced up at his host, as if challenging him to say anything.

And though Lord Cariston seethed inside, this nobleman, the son of an aristocratic line that went back to

the victors at Hastings, was too much of a coward to provoke a man as dangerous as Nutley.

So rather than see his own neck snapped like a goose at Christmas, Lord Cariston soothed his vanity bypouring himself another drink and not offering one to his guest.The subtle snub would have to do for now."I don't recall sending for you, Nutley.""Forgive me, your lordship, for coming here without an invitation." For all Nutley's villainy, he was a polite devil. "It's just that I got some news about her that I thought you should hear."Lord Cariston nodded for him to continue."She's taken a protector."The words sank in slowly, like the fine brandy he'd consumed. But the fire it kindled inside him had nothing to do with pleasure, for if she had sought help within the ton, then it would be only a matter of time before she...

"Who?" he whispered, afraid to hear the answer.

At this Nutley laughed, a rarity indeed, but a telling one, for it momentarily reassured his lordship that perhaps all was not lost. "The Earl of Ashlin."

Settling back in his chair, Cariston wished he could share in Nutley's good humor."What the devil is she doing with him?""I'm working on that."

"Not good enough," Cariston snapped, forgetting his earlier fears of the man seated across from him.

Nutley glanced up. "No need to get into a dander. I can handle this. From what I hear, this Ashlin is a milksop."

"If you had handled this correctly from the start, we wouldn't be having this discussion."

Instead of showing anger, Nutley shrugged. "You're the one who wanted her run out of business. If we'd done it my way from the start, she wouldn't be around bothering you now."

The look of disgust on Nutley's face reminded the Marquess of an expression his own father had often worn-one that said they both doubted he had the stomach to do what was necessary.

Getting up from his chair, Lord Cariston poured himself another drink and swallowed it down. The evil warmth gave him the final bit of courage he needed to take this very necessary, but distasteful, next step. To order her demise.

He stared at the almost empty decanter, the amber liquid hypnotic in its warmth.

Demise. Now, there was a word that gave a man comfort when he had such business.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Nutley asked.

"Get rid of her. But it must look like an accident."

Nutley rose. "Accidents are my specialty. But it would be more fun to play with her a bit."

"No!" he barked. "And hire the job out. I won't have this connected to you, and in the rare likelihood, to me. I cannot be associated with her." For a moment, his liquor-induced bravado outweighed his usual cowardice. "If any of this goes awry, I won't pay."

Nutley laughed, crossing the room until he stood nose to nose with him. "You'll pay, gov'ner. Or the fine people around town will be mourning a second unexplainable accident." Nutley's gaze narrowed and he stared at him until Lord Cariston blinked. "That's more like it," Nutley told him. He picked up a glass and helped himself to a drink. "So what about this earl of hers?"

"Move quickly, and keep him well out of it."

"Shouldn't be so hard. I'll do it first thing tomorrow," Nutley said. "But I don't see what you're worried about, this man is hardly a bloke to be concerned about, from what I hear."

If it had been the previous Earl of Ashlin they were discussing, he might have been cheered enough to offer Nutley a second drink with which to toast their shared good fortune. But he saw nothing to celebrate.

Mason St. Clair, the Earl of Ashlin, was no fool, and if anyone could solve the mystery of Riley Fontaine, it was the man determined to be the first saint of Ashlin.

Chapter 6.

"D amnation, here comes Del," Mason muttered early the next morning, as he watched Lord Delander round the square on his best horse, leading an equally well-blooded mount for Mason. Unlike his mother, Del was an amiable sort, loyal to his friends, though unfortunately, not what Cousin Felicity would call a "cornerstone of discretion."

Del liked to share a good story.

"Belton, is that clock wound?" he asked, pacing back across the foyer and stopping in front of the tall, ornate clock that Caro had picked up in Italy on her wedding trip. Standing eye to eye with the gold filigree hands, he could only hope the time was wrong. "It can't be half past seven."

Belton's bushy white eyebrows rose just ever so slightly, an indication that the Earl's statements bordered on impertinence.

"Yes, well, I suppose it is correct," Mason said hastily, not wanting to offend his servant.

"It would seem, my lord," Belton said, "that Lord Delander is early."

Mason shook his head at this calamity. Del being early meant his rakish friend had been up all night and had yet to seek his bed-or had sought it someplace other than his own house. And he'd now expect an invitation to breakfast.

"I clearly told her punctuality was essential for discretion, and now..." Mason stopped himself from going any further as he caught a glance of Belton's expression, a strained look which clearly said that the butler thought Mason's partnership with the notorious lady was sheer folly.

Belton's unholy disdain for those in trade came second only to his utter contempt of the theatre.