at the Temple of Beauty. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t let him get away with his crimes!
Meanwhile—oh, Lord, she was going to be late for the poets.
Sal pulled up her hood and hurried round the corner to where the man waited for her. She looked up at him defiantly. ‘She did have a sister. But she’s dead. That’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it?’
‘Dead! Are you quite sure?’
‘Sure as I’m standin’ here—look, am I gettin’ paid, or what?’
‘When you’ve earned it, slut,’ snarled the man. ‘Did you find out if she has any plans for the next few days?’
Sal hesitated, then muttered, ‘She’ll be at some sort of poetry affair in Piccadilly tonight.’
‘Tonight …’
‘Remember, mister, you swore to me she’d come to no harm!’
The man with the scar on his forehead pushed some coins into her palm with contempt. ‘Take your money, slut. And get out of here.’
Sal gave a shudder of revulsion and ran off into the dark night. She could only pray that the girl would come to no harm …
Rosalie smothered a yawn as she listened to yet another soulful poet describing in verse, to a hushed audience, the joys and agonies of the sensitive heart.
Deciding that Lord Byron—whose Childe Harold she adored—would have given the fellow a crushing set-down, she edged her way to another part of the big reception room above the Piccadilly bookshop where food was being served. Heaping a plate with several small but delicious savoury patties, she found herself a chair in a quiet corner, pulled out her notebook and pencil and began to write.
Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to a literary reception. Who, dear reader, would have guessed that so many London citizens long to express their innermost thoughts in verse? Who would dare to tell these would-be poets that their innermost thoughts are better kept precisely where they are?
She chewed the end of her pencil, frowning as her mood darkened once more. Even if Helen were miraculously to get hold of another printing press, there would be no more Scribblers until Alec Stewart was dealt with …
‘I don’t believe it! My dear girl, what on earth are you doing here?’ The voice came from behind her and she jumped up, quickly slipping her book and pencil into her reticule.
It was Lord Stephen Maybury. Last time she’d seen him, at Dr Barnard’s, he’d had a heated argument with Alec Stewart. And of course Lord Maybury must still think she was one of Dr Barnard’s girls. Fiddlesticks. She swiftly composed herself. ‘Poetry happens to be an interest of mine, my lord!’ she answered lightly.
He drew a little closer. ‘You don’t write the stuff, do you?’
He was wearing a fine blue kerseymere tailcoat with a striped-silk waistcoat and a shirt with a high, starched collar. Rosalie stifled her instinctive dislike of fashionable men. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I have no such talent.’
‘Thank God for that. But—’ she saw Lord Maybury was taking in her plain gown with its long sleeves and high neck ‘—this is rather a different setting from the place where we last met.’ He raised one questioning eyebrow.
She ventured a smile. ‘I can see I must confess to you, my lord. In fact, I was only at Dr Barnard’s for one night …’
‘Ah.’ He was pulling up a chair and beckoned her to sit again. ‘Some kind of challenge?’
She seized on that. ‘Yes. Yes, a challenge! We ladies like to wager occasionally, you know! Although—’ she leaned a fraction closer ‘—some of my more timid friends would be just a little shocked were they to hear of it, so I do hope that it will remain our secret!’
His eyes had fastened on her wedding ring. ‘What about your husband? Would he be shocked, too?’
She’d got into the habit of wearing the ring. So many people assumed Katy was hers that her story of widowhood protected them both. She pretended to dab at her eyes. ‘My husband sadly died some time ago, my lord.’
‘My dear,’ he said sympathetically, ‘you look scarcely old enough to be married, let alone bereaved. Tragic. Well, my lips are sealed about your little adventure at Dr Barnard’s. Indeed, I would not normally visit such a place myself, but certain—circumstances demanded it.’ He looked around. ‘I was, to be honest, about to leave here. Can’t stand much more of this drivel. However— if you were to keep me company for a while, it might be just tolerable. Would you care for a drink? Lemonade is your preference, I believe?’
Before she could reply, he was snapping his fingers for a waiter and murmuring his order.
Then he shifted his chair closer. ‘Do you know,’ he confided, ‘I shall always think of you as Athena, goddess of wisdom. But I would be truly honoured to know your real name.’
‘It’s Rosalie,’ she said.
‘Charming. And here are our drinks.’ He was putting money on the waiter’s tray and passing her a chilled glass. ‘Now, I am so glad,’ he went on with fervour, ‘to learn that you were only at that place for one night! Indeed, my own visit was, as you no doubt noticed, sadly curtailed.’
In the background, the chatter of all the guests rose and fell; her pulse was racing because here, perhaps, was a heaven-sent chance. ‘I noticed you seemed dismayed, my lord, to meet Captain Stewart there. May I ask why you dislike him so very much?’
She saw a shadow cross his features. ‘Do we really have to talk about that dissipated wretch? Couldn’t I just advise you to keep as far away from him as possible? The man is a disgrace.’
Her pulse thudded. A disgrace … ‘I’m aware, of course,’ she said steadily, ‘that he extorts money from former soldiers.’
He’d been sipping his wine, but now he spluttered a little. ‘What?’
‘I know he’s a rackrenter,’ Rosalie explained. ‘Letting out squalid accommodation.’
‘Ah. You’ve heard all about that.’ He ordered fresh drinks from the same waiter, then leaned closer, bringing with him the strong scent of his citrus cologne. ‘You’ll realise, then,’ he went on, ‘that it’s no wonder I and other men of decency cannot tolerate the sight of him! There’s also—no, I really mustn’t talk of it.’
‘Please.’ Rosalie gulped too much lemonade in hope that it would ease the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Please tell me.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Very well, since I see you have no illusions about the scoundrel. I’m afraid that Alec Stewart is an utter reprobate. Ex-soldiers, ladies of the night—he keeps company with the lowest of the low.’
Ladies of the night. Oh, no. If she’d had any doubts, they were banished in that instant. She put her hand to her forehead, which throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Linette …
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Lord Maybury with
