you.’
He responded with a wink. ‘I hope I shall be a tolerable neighbour.’
Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, putting Sloane in mind of how she might look flushed with passion. Such thoughts were not going to make living next to her easier.
Her grandmother twisted to look at a curricle that had passed by in the street. When she turned back towards Sloane, her eyes lit up. ‘How delightful to have you call, dear. We are off to the shops.’
‘Yes.’ Miss Hart nodded shakily. ‘We must be off.’
She and Lady Hart made slow progress. They had barely reached the pavement in front of the next house when Sloane called back to her. ‘Miss Hart?’
Still holding her grandmother’s arm, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘May I be so bold as to inquire who lives with you?’
Her eyebrows twitched and she paused a moment too long before speaking. ‘Lady Hart and her companion, Miss Moore.’
He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’
She maintained a perfectly bland expression. ‘Why, my grandmother, of course.’ Without waiting to see his response, she turned back and proceeded down the street with all the speed of a lame snail.
Sloane watched her with sinking dismay. Not only would he be living next to a single female about whom he harboured lecherous thoughts, he would be living next to an unchaperoned one.
There had been no invitations for that night, so Morgana was forced to remain at home. Ordinarily that posed no difficulty at all—she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself—but this night it was nearly impossible to refrain from gazing out of the front window in the hope that she might glimpse her new neighbour. Would he go out? Or would he relish an evening at home in his new house?
And how long would it take for her to give him as little mind as she did the Viscount and Viscountess on the other side?
She had not yet seen him leave the premises, but the thought of him walking around the rooms on the other side of her wall was nearly as distracting as the window.
Her grandmother and Miss Moore had retired early, as was their habit, so she was alone. She brought her mending to the drawing room, but her eyes were too tired to focus on the stitches in the flickering light. She picked up a book instead, but found it equally tiresome. She wandered to the window and looked out. When she caught herself there, she whirled about and determinedly marched away.
She settled at the pianoforte and played the music she knew by heart. Morgana loved to play, loved the feeling that the action of her fingers brought out the melodies. She did not mind that her skills at the keyboard were passable at best. She enjoyed the music anyway.
She played every piece of music she knew, from common ballads to snatches of Mozart. Then she played them all over again, but she remained restless. She rose and found herself back at the window.
This time her vigil was at an end. She saw Sloane leave his house and walk briskly down the street. Even though he was no more than a shadow, she could not mistake that tall frame, that gait so smooth and graceful, yet infused with masculine power. He soon disappeared into the darkness as if the darkness were welcoming back a missing piece of itself.
She sighed. They had almost regained their friendly banter. It had been such a relief to converse pleasantly with him after their other recent cool encounters. In some ways it was easier to have him avoid her. But now that their relationship had regained some of its ease, she longed to be in his company again.
Voices sounded outside the drawing-room door, several female voices. There was a knock and Morgana swung around. ‘Come in.’
The door opened only a crack, and Lucy poked her head in. ‘Might I have a word with you, miss? If I am not disturbing you, I mean.’
Lucy actually wished to speak with her? This was puzzling behaviour indeed. ‘Certainly, Lucy. Come in and sit down with me.’
Lucy lifted a plain mahogany chair from against the wall and moved it next to the sofa where Morgana had settled herself. Lucy perched primly on the edge of the seat.
The pretty maid finally spoke. ‘Miss Hart, you remember how you said you would teach me to be a courtesan? And I would have a house and money of my own and pretty clothes?’
‘I have not forgotten, Lucy. I have been trying to work out what to do next. Did you look through my Ladies Monthly Museum and read the article on comportment?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’
‘I promise I shall discover how we may learn the other lessons we need.’ Morgana held out a faint hope that she would have the opportunity to speak with Harriette Wilson. Miss Wilson could answer her prayers.
Lucy stood up suddenly. ‘Miss, I’ve something I must tell you.’
Morgana’s spirits plummeted, certain Lucy had decided to go to Mrs Rice after all. ‘What is it?’
Lucy held up one finger, gesturing for Morgana to wait. She hurried to the door and opened it. She leaned halfway out of the room for a moment, then stepped aside. Three young women entered.
They stood in a line in front of Morgana. All were strangers to her. Two wore brightly coloured dresses. One showed revealing décolletage, the other wrapped a shawl around her. Morgana could not decipher the expressions on their faces. Wary? Eager? Defiant?
‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.
Lucy joined the line. ‘Miss Hart, these girls heard you talkin’ to that Mrs Rice. The lady in the glove shop? They want to be courtesans. They want you to teach them.’
Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’
Lucy gave her an imploring look. ‘Please, miss. They said Mrs Rice is not a nice lady. They don’t want to work for her no more. They want to be on their own, like you told me.’
What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened?
One of the girls swiped a lock of red hair off her forehead. ‘The shop ain’t no good place to be, miss, begging your pardon for speaking. Mrs Rice, she makes us see as many customers as come. Sometimes we have to do as many as—’
Morgana’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Yes, I quite understand.’
The red-haired girl went on. ‘We could do better on our own. Me and Mary, we talked about it, and, if you teach us how to be high-fliers, we’ll be willin’ to give you a portion of our money.’
‘Oh!’ Morgana knew her cheeks were flaming now. She stood. ‘I think you misunderstood. I am not a… a procuress. I merely wanted something better for Lucy.’
‘We want something better, too, miss,’ the third girl said. She had raven black hair set off by skin so pale it was almost white, but her lips, perhaps tinted, were coloured rose. She gave a graceful toss of her neck. ‘And we want it enough to pay you for it.’
‘No.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘It is not possible—I cannot—It does not bear thinking
