He was the most provoking boy.

DAVIDALEXANDERTIELMANCAMPION,DUKETremontaine, knew that he had annoyed a lot of people. It wasn't fair to blame everything on Lord Ferris. He set his network to make inquiries, first through the usual channels: the University and Riverside. Riversiders got around. Some were virtuoso housebreakers and pickpockets, still others had climbed up the social ladder to become house staff of various kinds. Servants, all but the most disciplined, talked. So did scholars-outrageous gossips all, even those who now worked as tutors and secretaries to the nobility, many of whom Tremontaine had helped out in their starving student days. Spread his nets wide enough and something would turn up that he could use-and, as usual, a number of things he hadn't been looking for that could be useful later would come to light as well.

The question was, how serious were these strikes against his friends? Did his enemy wish only to annoy, or was this the prelude to something worse? It was not the first time Tremontaine had been under attack.

When he'd inherited the duchy quite a few disgruntled contenders had tried to alter the successionthrough means foul and fair. And there had been others since then. He was well defended, now, with swordsmen and lawyers and everything in between. But what was he to defend against?

He made a list of possible serious foes. Heading it was Anthony Deverin, Lord Ferris. It wasn't just that Ferris currently had legitimate grudges against both Tremontaine's lover for spying on him (if he'd found out) and his niece for challenging him. It was also a matter of style. The petty cruelty, particularly directed toward vulnerable women, smelt very familiar.

In the old tales, things always came in threes. So who was next? The duke made his best guess and doubled the guard on certain people who, with luck, need never know that it was there at all. And he sent once last time for the Black Rose, to come in secret and speak to him in his Riverside house, and he asked her to go as his messenger to Highcombe.

ARTEMISIA BEGAN GOING OUT AGAIN TO SELECTEDparties. She held her head high, even when she had to sit out dances without a partner. She refused to flirt with any of her old beaux. If the ones who had once clustered around her begging for a smile now thought themselves too good for her, so much the worse for them. She had won her challenge. She was free and in the right. Lydia Godwin's father always made a point of dancing with her, gracefully and superbly, and so did Armand Lindley.

Lydia would take Artemisia's arm and walk around the ballroom with her in open declaration of affection. Jane Hetley often joined them, though Lavinia Perry, now betrothed to Petrus Davenant, was making herself scarce. It was going to be that way, Artemisia realized: they would be friends in future only if their husbands got along.

She found herself hoping more and more to see Lucius Perry at these events. Lucius would always talk with her, easy and amusing. He made her feel like herself. He was a good dancer, too, and he never failed to claim her for a dance and bow deeply when it was over. Even when he was on his way elsewhere, he seemed to make the effort to drop in where he knew she would be. He would stay long enough to dance with her twice-but the third dance, the one that declared him a serious suitor, that Lucius Perry never gave her.

Once, just once, it almost happened. The music being over, Artemisia held on to his hand that little bit longer, and as the next tune started up they nearly merged back into the dance. She saw him pause, and look at her, and realize. He kept her hand, though, as he guided her back in the direction of her seat, and so doing, he slipped his arm around her waist, drew her a little closer to him-She didn't mean to flinch and pull back, she just did it.

"What a clumsy dolt I am!" Lucius said smoothly. "Always stepping on people's toes..."

She felt a rush of great warmth for him then. Lucius understood. As she watched his back disappear across the ballroom floor, off to whatever his next engagement was that night, Artemisia realized that she would marry him if he asked her. She would take good care of him. She'd make a beautiful home, and invite his friends to dinner, and she would see to it that there were always plates of his favorite biscuits, the brown crispy cinnamon ones. They would attend the theatre together, and give musical afternoons, and on quiet evenings she would sew and he would read to her. And he would never, never do anything to her if she asked him not to. Surely he never would.

ROSE HAD NEVER KNOWN A CARRIAGE RIDE TObe so exhausting. It was ridiculous, really;here she was in the lap of luxury-the duke hated traveling, he said, so tried to make his carriages as comfortable as possible, and as far as she was concerned, he'd succeeded. His footmen, in plain dress (as was the carriage, with the duke's escutcheon covered), were attentive but not presumptuous, and the basket of provisions abundant. It was the opposite of what she usually had to put up with on tour, and she should have been luxuriating in it. But all she wanted to do was sleep.

It was especially annoying because she had lines to learn. Henry had decided to mount a new production of an old romance,Lord Ruthven's Lady . It was a difficult play, seldom performed, being neither wholly tragedy nor comedy; but based on the success ofThe Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death , Henry feltLord Ruthven's Lady would draw crowds.

Lord Ruthven is a courtier who offends the king's young sister Helena by his callous and predatory conduct toward women. Helena persuades the court wizard to turn Ruthven into a woman, cursed to remain so until he can gain a woman's love. As a woman, Ruthven realizes he loves Helena and must bend all his skills and powers toward seducing her in his woman's form, or perish of terrible, unslakeable desire unlike anything he has ever known. Rose would play Ruthven once he was transformed. She had seen the play done entirely for laughs, but she had no intention of letting that happen here. While there were certainly comic moments to work with, her Ruthven would be troubled and passionate, vulnerable and confused, and ultimately tragic. By the time Helena finally returned Ruthven's love, she wanted all the ladies in the audience to be moaning with need. Her dear friend Jessica Bell was cast as Helena. Jess would give the princess just the right mix of fragility and backbone, and her slender pallor would play well against Rose's robust stature. Never one to leave a profitable thing unexploited, Henry had insisted on writing in a part for Viola Fine: Helena now had a pageboy with a crush on Ruthven-the-woman, which was gilding the lily with a vengeance, in Rose's opinion. But Rose did not doubt that once the show opened, she would have her pick of noble lovers, passionate adoring women who would make a very nice change from the tortuous intrigues of Lord Ferris and the Mad Duke Tremontaine.

She would, at least, if she could ever learn her lines. Rose had begun studying the part and was finding it almost impossible. Long speeches usually gave her no trouble; she loved the rhythm of the words, but these refused to stick in her head. There was a lot of repartee and wordplay, as well, and she kept jumbling phrases. She had to be word-perfect or the comedy would be lost, and you needed the play's wit to balance the poignancy.From the top, dear, she told herself, and put her hand over her playbook and began the transformation scene: What is this heaviness about my chest?

My arms feel lighter, without strength or power.

Have I been sleeping? Ill? I cannot tell.

What, boy! Attend me here!-What is that sound?

That is not mine-my voice! My voice! My voice!

Oh, she was going to have a good time with this. Triple repeats gave you so much to do. The next line was-was-God, she'd lost it already. She'd lost it, and she was going to puke. She should know better than to read in a moving carriage. But it had never given her trouble in the past. She opened the basket, looking for the wine. There was something in there-something that smelt like-quinces. Quince tart. She loved quince tart, and the duke had remembered, how sweet. But not this quince tart. This one wasoverwhelming. It was as if she was choking on the very smell of quinces. It sat in her hand, all crispy and golden. She threw it out the window.

The air made her feel better. She took a sip of wine and lay back. Her corsets were too tight. She'd told her dresser to tie them looser, but Emily must not have been paying attention. Her breasts were popping right out of her bodice. Rose lay back and closed her eyes.

She was asleep when the carriage pulled into Highcombe and came to a halt on the sweeping drive before the house's front door, where torches were already lit, expecting her arrival. The duke had insisted that she travel alone, but he had sent an outrider on ahead, and the household's small staff miraculously included women who could take care of her. Muzzy with fatigue, she let them usher her up to a quiet bedroom and unlace her shoes and coo over her elegant dress and petticoats, hang them up and bring her water to wash away the journey. "Put your feet up, my lady," they said in their thick country accents, and she did not correct their assumption-she'd played great ladies often enough, and could certainly do so now-"that'll help they swelling to go down." She had never enjoyed the unlacing of her corsets quite so much. This was the country, and there was no "adoring public" here, no audience except for the mysterious personage she was to meet, for whom the duke had hired her to read the letter she carried. With that duty discharged, she could go with her laces loose for a couple of days; maybe it would ease the ache in her breasts.

Sitting upright in her chair with her feet on a stool, waiting for a soothing tisane, Rose fell asleep again, and was roused by an elderly maid who, unsure of the etiquette for waking nobility, was holding the steaming mug under her nose. The acrid smell of herbs made her flinch. "Take it away," she said; "I don't want it."

The sharpness in her own voice surprised her. These people were trying to be kind. Rose shook her head and laughed. "I'm sorry! I don't know what's wrong with me!"

"That's all right, my lady," the servant said. "It just takes some women that way, is all."

"Oh, no," Rose laughed, "I'm usually quite a hardy traveler."

The older woman chuckled. "Most every woman finds this journey hard, ma'am," and Rose said, "Oh, no," in quite a different tone.

chapterVI.

AYEAR AGO,ALECCAMPION WOULD HAVE TOSSEDLord Ferris's brief note of invitation on the fire. Let us sit and discuss together,it read,like reasonable men, matters to our mutual advantage.

Now the duke's secretary drafted a reply saying that His Lordship of Tremontaine would call upon Lord Ferris at a particular day and time. Ferris replied that the day would be perfectly convenient, and as to the time, he hoped that His Lordship would not be much delayed.

The duke arrived early. Conceding the gesture, Ferris did not make him wait but had him shown directly into his study and insisted on sending for refreshments. With his good eye, he surveyed the younger man.

Tremontaine had taken trouble to dress up for the visit: his lace was very white and there was plenty of it.

Instead of his accustomed black he wore the green of the House of Tremontaine, which also matched his disturbing eyes. The duke did not lack for jewels: prominent among them was the oblong ring of the Tremontaine ruby, set with diamonds. Ferris knew it well; his own abuse of the jewel had helped bring about his humiliation at Tremontaine's hands almost twenty years back. For the boy to choose to wear it to this meeting was either provocation or poor judgment-or possibly both.

The duke refused brandy. "Keeping a clear head?" asked Ferris, delicately sipping his. "Good. This needn't take long, and I want you to remember what was said."

"Stop enjoying yourself, Ferris. I'm here and I'm sober, and I want to know what you think you're doing."

"Consider it an invitation," Ferris said cordially. "This is, after all, the first time you have ever bothered to call on me. If it took making a little trouble for some of your friends to get you here, I suppose it was worth it."

"You admit it? All of it?"

"Why not? An invitation, as I said. To come sit down and discuss our situation together, like noble and reasonable men."

"Which involves threatening my friends?"

"I was afraid you wouldn't take me seriously."

"I did. But I am preparing," the duke said, "to revise that opinion. Stop playing and tell me what you want."

"And you'll give it to me?"

"What do you think? If it's reasonable, I'll consider it. If it's not, I have the resources to annoy you very much as you've been annoying me. It's true I have more scruples-but I'm willing to suspend them. I also have more money, you see-lots more money. I wasn't planning to waste any of it on you, but I could be convinced to change my mind."

"Ah." Ferris rolled his glass between his fingertips. "That answers that question. The interference with my wedding plans was just one of your little pot shots, not the launch of a new campaign."

"I never-" The duke began to say something, but then thought better of it. He settled back in his chair-which Ferris was meanly gratified to note was just a bit too small for the duke's long body-and said simply, "No campaign. Your fiancee wanted out, and it was an easy fix." "Well, that's all right, then," said Ferris smoothly. It was all coming together, in one of the several patterns he'd laid out against this meeting. He felt the almost sexual thrill of being the one in the room with all the power. The words seemed already written for him to speak. "I have now, as you say, an easy fix for both our troubles. You don't really trust me to stop attacking you where you're vulnerable-or you shouldn't, anyway-and I certainly do not trust you not to make such attacks necessary to me. Even with your great supply of scruples, not even you can always be quite sure what you'll do next, can you?"

The duke glared at him, but said nothing. "So," Lord Ferris went on, "you are going to provide me with a very fine token of your goodwill, which will also recompense me for the trouble you've caused already."

"And that is?"

"You are going to contract with me to marry your niece."

The duke turned very pale, right down to his lips. Then his cheeks flushed, making his green eyes appear to glitter.

"Oh, come, Campion, what else were you planning to do with her? It's a generous offer. In one sweep she is reinstated in Society with a position higher than any she might otherwise hope for. Even your crimes against her delicate girlhood-" Tremontaine started to rise; Lord Ferris lifted a manicured hand "-I mean, of course, only the silly masquerade of sword and breeches-are forgotten in the general haze of romance. We'll say I fell in love with her at the Godwin swordfight. It'll delight the entire city, just like a play-like that swordsman one the Rose is doing now, in fact. Lady Katherine likes the theatre, I hear."

The duke said nothing.

"You will provide her with a suitable dowry, of course. I know you are very fond of her. And should the two of us be blessed with issue-well, I would never presume to interfere with the ducal succession (that's not my place, is it?)-but I know you would take them into consideration, being so fond of the Lady Katherine and wanting the best for all of your family."

The duke sat very still, as if he were afraid to move. He wet his lips. "Are you sure," he said, "there isn't some ruling in the books somewhere stating that once you have slept with a woman it's a crime to marry her great-granddaughter?"

"None that I know of."

"Pity. I'll have to put a motion up before the Council to have one passed."

"Oh, no you won't," said the Crescent comfortably. "There's a fine now for frivolous suits."

"I'll pay it," the duke said. "But it might be cheaper for me just to hire a swordsman to settle the matter and put you out of your premarital miseries."

"Well, now." Ferris leaned back, brimming with his own particular kind of happiness. He'd always known he was ten times smarter than this man, but seldom did he get such a good opportunity to display it. "You might want to think that one through. You see, if it turns out that we are not to be wed, I might want to challenge your niece, instead. Having now seen her fight, I admit I misjudged her ability as well asher persistence this last time; but I don't make the same mistake twice. I can find a swordsman with enough superior skill to mop up the floor with her. There are some serious ones left, you know-they can easily skewer a young blade, even one who somehow learned a few of St Vier's tricks."

The duke said, "I could send her away. Back to her mother's house."

"Oh? Do you think the mother would refuse my suit? I don't. There's some bad blood between you, isn't there? Just what did your noble sister do, exactly?"

"She married," the duke said dryly. "Against my will."

"I am sure you have given her ample opportunity to regret it." Lord Ferris rose, and stretched, and pulled on the bell by the hearth. "You act quickly," he told his visitor, "but you don't always think very quickly. So I'll give you a little time to think over my offer and its ramifications."

"How little?"

Ferris cocked his head. "One day should be sufficient. After that, I will expect your answer, or I may well extend another of my invitations. I will go well guarded until then." A footman answered his summons. "His Grace of Tremontaine requires his carriage. Will you pass the word and see him out? I've Council business to attend to. Good night, my lord."

It was a dismissal, and not a very civil one, from one great lord to another. Lord Ferris's footman was therefore very surprised when the Mad Duke not only tipped him handsomely but gave him a schoolboy's wink before getting up into his splendid carriage. He wasn't called the Mad Duke for nothing, then. The footman couldn't see anything to wink about. Neither could the duke, if truth be told, but he was damned if he'd let Ferris know it.

THEBLACKROSE COUNTED ON HER FINGERS, AND DIDnot like the results. The thing was possible, and it certainly explained a lot. She could play Ruthven to the hilt, now, understanding what it was to feel sudden changes in one's body-transformation unwelcome, undesired, imposed from outside her by another person.... But could she get through the rest of the Season before she started to show?

Could she keep awake? Could she remember her lines? Her breasts felt huge, now that she knew; they were like someone else's, darker and bigger than her own.What is this heaviness about my chest, indeed?

The Rose composed herself for her morning meeting with Highcombe's mysterious resident. She was a professional, after all, and Tremontaine was paying her well just to read a letter to some person here, an aged relative, perhaps, and to answer any questions he might have. Whatever her own situation, she could execute this not particularly demanding role with grace, dignity and ease.

When Richard St Vier walked into the room, she let out something between a squawk and a full-blown shriek.

He was unarmed, but she saw him start to make a move to defend himself, and then to realize, and stop, and smile. "He didn't tell you," he said.

"No." Her hands were shaking. She fumbled in her bodice. "Oh, god-I have a letter-I had no idea-" "Sit down," he said. "It's all right. He's just being cautious, or theatrical, or something."

Rose grimaced. "Well, why not?"

"Or maybe he's annoyed with you."

"He is, a little." Rose sank into the chair by the window, looking up at the swordsman anxiously. "But he told me he trusted my absolute discretion." She laughed shakily. "He must be desperate."

"Do you think he is?" Richard St Vier asked her.

"Annoyed, or desperate?" She tried to recapture her usual lightness. She was not a Riverside tavern girl anymore. She was the Black Rose, the toast of the city, the honor of the stage.

"They go together sometimes," St Vier said; "especially with him." He pulled up a chair. He sat so close that when he breathed deeply, his knee ruffled her skirts. "What does he want?"

She thought of the Mad Duke's plots, his vices and excesses, his quiet rages and his enemies. "You,"

she said.

"Ah," St Vier said. "What's in the letter?"

That morning, with defiant panache, she had folded it carefully so that it nestled in the cleft of her bosom, planning to whip it out with two fingers and present it to the mysterious resident. If she hadn't squawked before with so much force, it might not have slipped down that little extra way, causing her to have to fish for it with those same two fingers while her other hand kept her stays in place.

"You don't even know who I am," she said.

"Nor do I. You didn't introduce yourself, and I don't like to pry."

That sobered her up. "I'm an actress. I'm Rose." It reminded her, too, that even the neatest stage business sometimes misfired and costumes misbehaved, and then all it took was a quick hoist and a tug to bring the letter out into the light.

Rose broke the seal, and then she stopped. Shouldn't she just hand it to him? "I'm sorry," she explained; "he said to read it to you."

"Yes, please do."

She looked down at the page. "It's short," she said. "One line:Will you come for Katherine, if not for me? "

She cleared her throat. "That's all."

"That's discreet," St Vier said. He did not ask her anything else.

"Katherine's a nice girl," she said.

"Yes. I know." He stood very still in the middle of the room. "He's made a lot of enemies. He doesn't mind it, but they do. I don't think he'd ask if-if it weren't..."

Shut up, Rose, she thought.

He looked out the window for a while, and then he looked at her.

"Yes," he said. "I will go. He didn't say how soon?"

"He didn't say anything. But I would make it soon."

"I can be ready in a day or two."