It was a flirtation. Nothing more.

Weston passed a glass of brandy into my hands, and I brought it to my lips. The taste of her still lingered on my fingers, overpowering the sweet liquor. I swallowed it in a great gulp, the alcohol burning down my throat. With a small nod, I held my hand out for more.

“Moorland, my good man.” Weston flashed me a scolding glance, but he poured more brandy with a twisted grin. “This is twenty years aged. Pace yourself, please.”

I turned away to face the fire. I had no idea what had come over me to behave in such a fashion with Miss Byrnes. It must have been my costume. The beard. The excitement of performing as someone else.

But no, it was more than that. The way Miss Byrnes had drifted through the room like some otherworldly fae sprite, how her delicate face had turned hard and fierce when that horrible man confronted her. I had felt her spine against my palm, strong and unbreakable. She was a formidable woman. Fearless. And yet, she had come undone beneath my hand. Her body hot and wet. Writhing.

Good heavens.

I resisted the urge to throw back my second glass, my hand gripping tight on the stem.

“That little Audrey Byrnes was quite a delight, don’t you say, Moorland?” Weston sighed and settled himself into a leather chair, the upholstery groaning as he leaned back, legs spread wide. “She could barely keep her eyes off you the whole evening.”

I set my glass down and tore at the fake beard along my jaw. The glue pulled at my skin, and I winced before placing it in my pocket. I massaged my chin. The residue flaked along my fingers and I let out a disgusted sound before returning to my drink. Weston and his ridiculous ideas.

“It was not me she was staring at.” I rose and wandered to the fire. “But the Sultan of Arismia.”

“Serves her right the way the little chit parades around like some Irish princess.”

I whirled around, my brandy sloshing on the floor. “Do not call her that.”

Weston threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Moorland. It takes one to know one, isn’t that what they say?”

“She’s just trying to sell her book. She has…responsibilities.” I leaned against the mantle, glaring at my friend over the rim of my glass. Weston could never conceive of such a thing. I had met the famous poet in Mecca and had attended him as his physician when he suffered from an ague. Sometimes I wondered if I would have done the world a favor to let the man waste away in that brothel, but then I pushed away the thought. Lord Weston was endlessly entertaining—and powerful. He was already circulating my pamphlet on small pox inoculation amongst the orphan population of London, and out of his very vocal praise for my endeavors, I received an invitation to speak with the powerful Marquess of Aberthorne regarding future efforts. Weston may have enjoyed playing the romantic fool, but beneath the literary façade, he was a true man of science.

“And besides, look at you. You have no excuse for that get up,” I said, waving toward his wild Arabian costume, a bright purple monstrosity patched together with castaways from his various courtesans. He resembled more of a circus freak than an actual Arabian man.

“Of course I have an excuse! I’m sick of English dress.” He flicked open his shirt and loosened the sash holding up his pajama pants. “Much more comfortable.”

I played with one of the embroidered buttons on my own costume, thinking of the way Audrey had clawed at the back of my neck when I kissed her, how I had pinned her against the wall and explored her. All of her. I should not have let things go that far, but she was so hungry, so open and willing. It was all I could do not wrap her up in my arms and take her far away from all that noise and posturing. Like some barbarian in a penny dreadful. The lusty sultan. Utterly insane business. What would she say if she could see me now? A poor physician. A liar. A charlatan. My stomach churned at the thought, and I clenched my fist, swallowing the last of my brandy and setting my drink on the table. Weston filled it without asking.

“Anyway,” I said. “I’m done with the sultan. Arismia is not even a real place.”

“Oh, Moorland.” Weston laughed. “To the English, none of the East is a real place.”

I massaged my temples, an ache growing behind my eyes. I needed to return home. So much work tomorrow. Patients to see and research to pore over before my meeting with the marquess.

“Besides,” Weston leaned forward, “tomorrow is the grand Gathering of the Phoenix.”

I shook my head. “No. Weston, I told you—”

“Audrey Byrnes will be there.”

My heart stopped, the air catching in my lungs. Miss Byrnes? At a Phoenix party? With Lady Elliot in tow that could mean nothing but trouble.

“No.” I took a step toward the poet. “Tell them not to admit her.”

Weston threw his hands in the air. “As if I would stand in the way of the Irish goddess. She would likely spear my head on a pike.”

I suppressed a smile, remembering the way she had threatened that cad, Castlevane. “Quite likely.”

“Come now, Sultan Saeed,” Weston pleaded, leaning forward. “One last appearance and then we’ll put him away forever.”

I took out the fake beard and stared at it, rubbing my thumb over the wooly hairs sewn together to look so real, so perfect. Enough to fool an Irish princess. But perhaps she saw only what she wanted to see. A rich and powerful distraction. Something she could play with and discard easily enough. Gritting my teeth, I balled the beard in my hand and stuffed it in my pocket.

I could play games too. Much more intricate games.

Dangerous games.