He dragged up her skirt and petticoats and slid his hand up over the fine muslin drawers. Awareness crackled, electric: of the smooth flesh under his hand... its heat warming the thin fabric... the sweet fullness of her thighs...

But they had no time. He found the opening to the drawers. He heard her sharp inhalation as his fingers slid over the softness there. Then, as he stroked, she gave a little, unwilling cry, which she quickly smothered against his mouth.

He knew what he was doing. A part of him knew where they were and how mad it was. A part of him knew he'd closed the door behind him, but hadn't locked it. A part of him knew this was a room anyone might enter at any moment. All this was in his mind, in the smallest part of his mind. The awareness hovered and nagged, a low, urgent warning: Make haste, make haste.

He was a fool and he ought to be mortified. After all this time, to be no more than a schoolboy, wanting a girl, and stealing a moment for a furtive and hurried coupling.

But he couldn't stop.

She reached down and unb.u.t.toned his trousers, and he gasped against her mouth as she touched him, her hand grasping his swollen shaft, and sliding up and down, and his mind went dark, and there was only need and heat.

He pushed her hand away, and pushed into her. She gave another little cry, again quickly stifled, and then there was only the sound of their breathing, ragged and harsh, as he thrust again and again, merely a brute, possessing, mindless.

Mine.

He felt her nails dig into his arms and he felt her body shudder as pleasure caught her, but that was all. She didn't cry out. He heard only the sound of her breath, quick and shallow.

He wanted more, endless more, but he'd waited too long, wanted too long, and when her muscles contracted about him so fiercely at her climax, his control shattered. Pleasure pounded through him like a live thing, dragging him to a precipice, and over. And down he went, in a surge of triumph so ferocious that he never thought of pulling away. It was too late, too late. He felt her spasms as her pleasure peaked again, and he heard her hoa.r.s.e cry, d.a.m.ning him to h.e.l.l, and happiness flooded him, and he spilled into her, in a fiery rush of relief and raging joy.

Marcelline did not want to cling to him, but she had to, or she'd slide off the table and slither to the floor in a limp heap. Her heart had slowed from its frenzy, and now beat slow and fierce, a sledgehammer at her ribs.

Oh, she was a fool, the greatest fool there ever was! She could have lived in blissful ignorance. She could have supposed all men were the same and coupling was a relief for strong feeling as well as a great pleasure.

Now she knew that the simple act could be volcanic, and the world could begin and end in a few minutes, leaving everything upended, the universe destroyed and rebuilt, and nothing as it had been before.

But the day had offered one injury after another. What was one more catastrophe?

She'd made a fatal mistake, and it wouldn't be the first time. She'd survived others. She'd survive this.

He held her still, so tightly, his powerful arms bracing her back. She needed to push him away. She should have done it long since, at least at the critical moment. She knew one couldn't rely on a man to remember to withdraw at such a time. But she couldn't be relied on, either. She'd wanted him inside her. She'd wanted him to be hers and hers alone, even if it was only for a moment, only for this once. And she hadn't wanted to let go.

Even now.

She let herself wallow for one more moment in the strength and warmth enveloping her. She let herself inhale his scent, purely male and purely his. She let her cheek graze his-and somehow that seemed more intimate than anything they'd done, though he stood between her legs, though she felt his shaft slipping from her and the wetness of his seed... the seed he'd spilled inside her because she hadn't the wit or will to prevent it. And that, too-their savage, desperate coupling, for she wouldn't call it lovemaking, never, never-had seemed a greater intimacy than if they'd lain naked in bed, enjoying each other at their leisure.

But she was a fool, and there was the beginning and end of it.

"You must let go," she said. Her voice was thick.

He tightened his hold, his arms like iron bands.

"You must let go," she said.

"Wait," he said. "Wait."

"We haven't time." She kept her voice low. "They'll want me for dinner, and someone will come. You can't stay, in any case. You can't stay," she repeated. "And you must never come back."

She felt him tense.

"We can't leave it like this," he said.

"We shouldn't have begun it."

"Too late for that."

"It's done," she said, "and I'm done with you and you're done with me." She pushed, and this time he let go. She found her handkerchief and made quick work of cleaning herself, then pushed her petticoat and skirt down.

While she attended to herself, he put his clothing in order.

She started to get down from the table, but he must be a glutton for punishment-or, more likely, he truly was done, and touching her again meant nothing to him-because he caught her by the waist and lifted her down in the same easy way he'd lifted her up, as though she weighed nothing.

She remembered how easily and gently he'd lifted Lucie out of his lap and into her arms. She remembered the wistful smile he'd bent on her child. Her throat tightened and she had all she could do not to weep.

She'd heard, she wasn't sure where or when, that he'd lost a sister at a young age...

But what did it matter?

She was starting toward the door, steeling herself to watch him walk out of her life forever, when she heard the thud.

Leonie would have finished locking up the shop long before now, and she would have made sure n.o.body surprised Marcelline with an interruption. No one ought to be downstairs at present. The family ought all to be upstairs, setting out dinner.

"Wait," she said in an undertone.

She went to the door and pressed her ear to it. Nothing.

"I thought I heard something," he said softly. "Erroll? Would she-"

"No. Not after we close up shop. She's not allowed, but she wouldn't come, in any case. She's afraid of the dark." That had started after she recovered from the cholera. That and other anxieties. "Be quiet, will you?"

Another thump. Someone was out there, stumbling about in the darkness.

He reached for the door handle. "I'll deal with-"

"Don't be stupid," she whispered. "You can't be here."

Carefully she opened the door. She looked down the pa.s.sage in the direction the sound had come from. She saw a faint light in the little office where Leonie kept her ledgers. There, lately, they'd been storing Marcelline's designs, in a locked box. And there, today, they'd set out their bait.

Her heart began to race.

She slipped through the door into the gloomy pa.s.sage. She heard his soft footstep behind her. She stopped and gestured at him to stay in the workroom.

"Don't be-"

She put her hand over his mouth. "I have to deal with this," she hissed. "It's business. It's our spy. We've been waiting for her."

He was shattered, still.

That was the only excuse he had for heeding her, and as an excuse, it lasted but a moment.

He ought not to be here, certainly not at this hour, after the shop was closed.

But the shop... A spy? Had not Clara said something about- Clara!

With the thought of her, cold shame washed over him. Betrayal. He'd betrayed his friend, his future wife.

My wife, my wife, he told himself. He smoothed his neckcloth as though he could smooth over what he'd done. He tried to imbed her image in his mind, to engrave the picture of his future, the one he'd always supposed was the right, the only possible one. He would wed the sweet, beautiful girl he'd loved since she was a child, the fair, blue-eyed child he'd met when he was still grieving for his sister. She had a sweet innocence like Alice's and she looked up to him the way Alice had looked up to her big brother. He'd always a.s.sumed he'd marry Clara and take care of her and protect her forever.

But at the first excuse, and with the slightest encouragement, he'd run away from her and stayed away; and after three years of indulging himself, he still wasn't satisfied. No, he must betray her trust within a few days of returning to her.

But the shame wasn't strong enough to wipe out the recollection of what had happened minutes ago or the sensation of the earth having shifted on its axis.

Never mind, never mind.

He'd had Noirot and he was done with her.

And here he was, standing like an idiot, while she- What the devil was she about?

"No!" someone shrieked.

He moved noiselessly into the pa.s.sage. A faint glow a few steps down from the workroom showed an open doorway.

"I hope Mrs. Downes has paid you well for betraying my trust," he heard Noirot say. "Because you'll never work in this trade again. I'll see to it."

"You can't hurt me," the higher-pitched voice answered. "You're finished. Everyone knows you're the duke's wh.o.r.e. Everyone knows you lift your skirts for him, practically under his bride's nose."

"Regardless what anybody knows or doesn't know, I recommend you give me back those patterns, and not make matters worse for yourself. There's only one way in and out, Pritchett. And you won't get past me."

"Won't I?"

Another crash, as of furniture knocked over. A clatter of broken crockery. A screech of rage.

He didn't care what Noirot had said about her dealing with this. He didn't care that he oughtn't to be discovered here. A business problem was none of his affair, but this was getting out of hand. In a minute, the others would hear the noise and come running downstairs. Erroll might well escape her nursemaid and run down with the others, and be hurt by a flying missile.

All this raced through his mind while he moved quietly toward the doorway. An object-a bowl or vase or pot or some such-sailed through the door and crashed against the wall inches from his head. He burst into the room in time to see a woman throw an inkstand at Noirot. As she dodged, Noirot tripped over a toppled chair and fell. He heard another crash. Looking that way, he saw an overturned lantern on the desk and the flames licking over the stacks of papers there. In the blink of an eye, the flames leapt to the window curtains and raced upward.

The woman ran past him. She was carrying something, but he did not try to stop her. Noirot was struggling to get up, and the fire was racing from the window curtains to shelves of books and papers. One corner of the room was in flames already. His mind flashed over the materials he'd seen in the showroom. There would be more materials of their trade elsewhere, in storerooms and workrooms: heaps of highly combustible wrapping papers and boxes as well as cloth of all kinds.

Already the flames were too high for him to smother easily.

He made his decision in a fraction of a heartbeat. He couldn't chance fighting the fire. In minutes they'd be trapped in an inferno.

Clutching the precious portfolio, Pritchett pushed through the rear door into the yard, and ran without once looking back, all the way to Cary Street. Only then did she stop to catch her breath. She saw the smoke rising from the shop, and she felt a pang. She hoped the child wasn't hurt. She'd planned so carefully, then madame had thrown everything into disarray with her abrupt decision to send the seamstresses home early. Pritchett had chased them out, saying she'd tidy the workroom. When the duke came, she'd breathed a prayer of thanks. She'd thought he'd keep madame occupied for a time.

But it had all gone wrong, and now not only madame but his grace knew what she'd done.

Never mind, never mind. She had the patterns, and Mrs. Downes's money would allow her to start fresh elsewhere. Frances Pritchett would take a new name, and n.o.body would be the wiser.

She glanced upward again. Above the rooftops, against the starry sky, the smoke hovered like a black thundercloud.

Marcelline saw the flames, and stared for a moment in shocked disbelief. Then, "Lucie!" she screamed.

Clevedon was dragging her up from the floor, dragging her to the door. She heard shouts from upstairs. They'd heard the noise or smelled the smoke "Out!" Clevedon shouted. "Everybody out! Now!"

A thumping and clatter from above. More shouting.

"Everybody!" he roared.

Marcelline started toward the stairs. He pulled her back.

"Lucie!" she cried. She heard more noise from above. "Why don't they come?" Had the fire risen so fast? Were they trapped? "Lucie!"

But he was dragging and pushing her down the pa.s.sage toward the front door. "No!" she cried. "My daughter!"

"They're coming," he said.

Then she heard the footsteps on the stairs and the voices.

Behind her came his voice: "Out, out, everybody. Quickly. Noirot, for G.o.d's sake, take them all outside."

In the dark, smoke-filled pa.s.sage, she couldn't see them. But she heard Lucie's voice, and her sisters' and Millie's.

Clevedon shoved her. "Out!" he shouted, his voice savage.

She went out, and it was only then, when they were all out of the smoke and confusion that she discovered Lucie wasn't with them after all.

"Where's Lucie?" Marcelline shouted over the din of panicked neighbors and the clatter of carriages and neighing horses.

"But she was with us."

"She was just here."

"I had her, ma'am," Millie said. "But she broke away-and I thought she was running to you."

No. No. Marcelline's gaze went to the burning building. Her mind shrank from the thought.

"Lucie!" she shouted. Her sisters echoed her. The street was filling with gawkers. Her gaze raced over the crowd but no, there was no sign of her. There wouldn't be. Lucie wasn't brave at night. She wouldn't run into a crowd of strangers.

"The doll!" Sophy cried. "She wanted to take the doll. There wasn't time."

"But she couldn't have gone back," Leonie said, her voice high, panicked.

Marcelline started to run back into the shop. Her sisters grabbed her. She fought.

"Marcelline, look," Sophy said in a hard voice.

Flames boiled in the windows. The showroom was a bonfire of garish colors made of silks and satins and laces and cottons.

"Lucie!" Marcelline screamed. "Lucie!"