Lawrence didn’t want to participate in this dreadful slave auction. But if the lady went home with one of these men, they would force her to do things she didn’t want, and he couldn’t stand the thought of that.

When he’d been only seventeen, not yet truly a man, he’d ventured into a brothel much like this. He’d thought himself a virile and entitled lad, eager to see himself pleasured for as much as his coin purse would allow. His head had been filled with images of eager maids feeding him berries on a lounge, willingly submitting to his overtures, and everyone partaking in a night none would soon forget.

Instead, he’d watched women selling themselves to survive. It wasn’t hard to see the desperation in the performances of those who didn’t want to be there, or the emptiness of those who had given up and knew no other life. What was worse were the men who treated them no better than cattle.

That night he’d watched a woman, boldly announced by the haggard proprietor as working her very first night, dragged away by some brute who’d paid to be the first to have her. She’d begged him not to, saying that she was there against her will, but he’d struck her across the face before they’d even left the room. He’d heard the men around him laughing at her misfortune. He’d been frozen, unable to intervene, too young and afraid. It had haunted him every moment since then.

He’d run from that place, sickened by everything it stood for and he’d never told a soul about his secret shame. It wasn’t until he learned of the Midnight Garden and its courtesans that he discovered better establishments existed, but nonetheless the experience had soured his taste for paid companionship forever.

“Two thousand pounds!” a man close to the stage called out. The bold offer shook Lawrence back to reality. He moved closer to better see the fellow. With dark hair, olive skin, and a deep accent, he was surely no native to England. The man stared at the woman with a hungry fixation, and Lawrence shuddered. The hint of cruelty that hung about his cold smile made Lawrence’s blood run cold, taking him back to that night in the brothel long ago. He could not let this man have her. He would not.

Lawrence stepped forward and managed a chuckle. “Two thousand? Heavens, this beauty is worth more than that! Seven thousand!”

He pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against and walked over to stand closer to the stage, forcing several others out of his way. Lawrence had to make a statement to the rest of the room or else face a bidding war he might not win.

A hush fell upon the crowd, but Lawrence focused only on the woman sitting on the stage. He had to be the one to take her home and set her free.

“No one brave enough to bid higher, eh?” he said, as confidently as he could possibly present himself. Not one of them responded, not even a murmur. He could have dropped a feather and the sound would have reverberated around the room like cannon fire.

“Any other bids?” the auctioneer asked the room. “Seven thousand going once…” Lawrence hands curled into fists. “Going twice…”

The woman on the stage wasn’t breathing, her face etched in stone. She must be terrified. Hold on, darling. Just a few seconds more.

The auctioneer’s face lit with greed as he pointed to Lawrence. “Sold to the gentleman bidder for seven thousand pounds. Once you have paid for your lady, you may take her with you.”

The woman looked up, seeking him out, and Lawrence stepped closer, wishing she could see his face and not be afraid. The auctioneer grabbed her arm and dragged her off the stage. Lawrence saw her stumble, a flash of fear in those stunning eyes, and he reacted instantly.

“Stop that!” he bellowed and gripped the woman’s other arm gently. He glowered at the auctioneer. “You harm her again and I will cut you down, you understand? I don’t want my property damaged.”

“Of course.” The auctioneer’s face turned ashen, and rightly so. Lawrence’s blood was boiling with fury.

He turned his attention to the woman to let his temper cool. “Are you all right, my dear?”

She squinted up at him, and he realized the bright lights hanging over the stage had likely made it hard for her to see.

“Yes… I…” Her voice was silken, yet each word vibrated with fear.

“Good. Wait for me. I won’t be long. I promise not to let anyone hurt you.”

He reluctantly let go of her arm and strode to the back of the room, where another door led to the madam’s office. A plump woman was seated at a desk, writing names and numbers in a ledger. She barely glanced at him when he entered. “I’ve come to pay for my”—he choked on the next word—“merchandise.”

“Oh?” The woman finally glanced up. Her dark eyes fixed on him, taking in his fine clothes as though assessing his ability to pay.

“Yes, here’s a banknote.” He set out a hefty sum, knowing he was good for it. As the second son of a marquess, he had learned early on about the importance of investing. He had no desire to beg his older brother, Lucien, for money. Lucien would give him anything he asked for, but Lawrence had his pride.

“Thank you.” The madam collected the note and waved a hand at him in dismissal. It was obvious he merited no more attention than it took to process his purchase. The White House was vastly different from the Midnight Garden—no warm embrace of Madame Chanson as she greeted guests to be found here. She ran her house entirely on referrals and only hired ladies and gentlemen who were professionals, not those desperate for coin. They were true cortigiane oneste, skilled in far more than matters of the flesh. London’s elite chose the Midnight Garden when they wanted their pleasures clean and without what Lawrence called “sullied waters.” This was not in reference to the ladies, but rather the men who frequented those establishments and the diseases they often spread.

Lawrence exited the madam’s office and spotted the dirty-haired blonde who had escorted his woman to the stage.

“Excuse me, miss. Could you please take me to the room of the woman I…” Again he swallowed the distasteful words.

“Bought?” the woman supplied with a knowing grin. Lawrence frowned, but nodded.

“This way, lovey. She’s a real beauty, that one. But keep your knives and pistols out of reach, if you know what I mean. She’s got a fire in her eyes. She’ll likely try to slit your throat the moment you fall asleep.”

Lawrence unconsciously reached up and fussed with his cravat as they came to a door at the end of the hall. The woman slipped an old brass key into the lock, turning it until it clicked, and then she stepped back out of the way, allowing him entrance. He closed the door behind himself and spotted the woman on the opposite side of the room.

She had placed the bed between them. Her hands were slightly raised, as though she would strike out in self-defense at any moment. He was torn between disappointment at her fear and admiration for her fire. A woman who fought for herself was a woman to be respected.

He lifted his own palms. “Be at ease, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t even plan on…” She stared at him, her blue eyes so striking that he lost his train of thought. He recovered himself. “What is your name?” he asked.

The woman was silent for a long moment. “Zehra Darzi.”

“Miss Darzi, I am Lawrence Russell.” He took a step closer, and she stepped back like a skittish colt, but her eyes promised danger if he continued.

“As I said, I have no desire to harm you.”

“So you say.” She spoke English well, but she also had a rich accent he couldn’t quite place. The foreign touch made her voice enchanting and mysterious.

“Rest assured, my word is my bond. I bought you to save you from the other men. I will not take advantage of you. Now or ever.”

Zehra raised a dark brow. “A hot-blooded man with an angelic face wishes not to take me to bed? I do not know if I believe you. Beautiful men such as you always wish to bed women.”

He couldn’t resist grinning. “You think I’m beautiful?” He knew of his appeal to the fairer sex, but to hear it from this woman felt like more than just flattery.

“You know you are, Mr. Russell.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “With hair dark as a raven’s wing, and eyes like polished moonstones, she sweeps me away on dreams of morning mists.” He quoted an old poem, one he barely remembered except for that single line.

“‘The Raven Lass’?” she asked. “William Helms. An obscure poem, is it not?”

“Indeed,” he said, stunned she would even know it. “One of my mother’s favorites. She often recited it to me as a boy, but I’ll be damned if I can remember any more of it.”

“My mother also taught me this poem,” Zehra murmured, her enchanting blue eyes darkened as she stared at him.

“Oh? What a curious thing. I—”

Whatever he’d planned to say was cut short by the sounds of a commotion outside. He opened the door and saw several prostitutes fleeing down the hall. One of them was the blonde who had brought him here. He caught her arm as she ran past.

“What’s the matter?”

“Bow Street Runners! They’re raiding the house. You’d best get out right quick. They’ll send your woman back on the boat if they find her here.” The woman ripped free of his grasp and fled down the hall.

“About damned time!” Lawrence muttered. The Runners would find them, and he could return Zehra to her home—or at least, they would see her back onto a ship that would take her there.

“Please.” Zehra’s voice came from directly behind him. As he turned around, her hand caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Please, do not let them send me back. I will go home with you.” Her imploring gaze was nearly impossible to deny.

“But you will be safe and—”

She shook her head. “No, I will not. I must stay here. With you.”

There was more shouting from outside their door. Lawrence had only seconds to decide what he was going to do.

“You won’t be safe going back?”

She shook her head, but did not explain herself.

“You truly wish to stay with me?”

“Yes. If you are a man of your word.” She gave his palm another squeeze, and he returned it.

“Very well, be quick and quiet. We must get past the men. If we can reach the street, I may be able to get you out without being detected.”

He held her hand, relishing her warm skin against his as they rushed down the corridor in the same direction the flock of lightskirts had gone earlier. Several rooms’ doors were open, and men were rushing to clothe themselves. Some were climbing out windows.

Lawrence found a door that opened to the gardens in the back. “This way.”

“Are you sure?” Zehra asked.

“Positive.” At least he hoped so. He’d had to flee many a house via the gardens ever since he’d been old enough to seduce ladies. This wasn’t the first time he’d scaled a hedge or battled through rosebushes and rhododendrons. He and Zehra crept through the darkened maze of bushes until they found their way into the mews between the White House and the edifice next to it.

“Wait here while I find a hackney.” He nudged her into the shadows, and she flattened herself against the wall. For a moment their eyes locked, and he could see her fear and trust warring with each other.

“Shouldn’t you hurry?” she asked in a shaky whisper.

“Right,” he muttered and rushed down the alley to the street.

* * *

Zehra held her breath as she waited in the shadows. The bushes around her rustled as she listened, fighting the urge to flee. And then she heard his voice.

“The impertinence. The arrogance. It will not go unpunished. I will find her. That man who bought her will have signed his name to the madam’s book. We will come tomorrow, and I will discover his name, and when I find him…” The voice sank to a low growl. “I will cut his throat and take back what is mine.”

“Aye, sir,” another man responded, carrying a rough English accent. “But wouldna that be dangerous? Cuttin’ a man’s throat? You could be caught and hanged.”

Al-Zahrani’s voice rippled through the bushes, and Zehra closed her eyes, fighting the urge to run and give herself away.

“I’ll kill any who stand in my way, do you understand? She has family here. No doubt she will go to them eventually. Have men watch their home, night and day. Report anything unusual. The moment I find her, I will take her by any means necessary.”

No… Zehra’s eyes began to well. He would kill innocent men and women to get to her, her own family. A family who might not even know she existed. Zehra pressed herself deeper into the tall bushes, willing herself to not exist in that moment.

Don’t let him find me, please. She begged the heavens to grant her this one favor if nothing else.

Al-Zahrani and his man moved farther away, but she dared not move. She prayed Lawrence would come and find her soon.

* * *

Lawrence skidded to a halt as he reached the pavement. A number of Bow Street Runners were still on the steps of the White House.

“Bloody hell.” He waited, watching the men for what felt like an eternity before they joined the others inside the brothel.

“About time.” He walked briskly down the street, trying to look inconspicuous, which was difficult at midnight. He found a coach ready to take on passengers and waved for the man to come down the alley to him. Then he slipped back into the alley to find Zehra. She was waiting right where he’d left her. When he got close enough to reach for her hand, he noticed she was trembling.

“You must be freezing.” He removed his coat and slid it over her shoulders before she could protest. “This way. I found a coach. We must move quickly if we are to get inside without being seen.” He slipped her arm in his and led her to the coach. Before they climbed inside, he caught her chin and tilted it up to his. “Understand, you don’t have to come with me. You are free to leave. Do you have friends here? Anyone who could take you in? I’d be happy to take you anywhere you wish to go.”

Zehra reached for his hand, and the gesture made his blood pound. “My lord, I want to come with you. You must believe me—it is far safer this way.”

He shouldn’t be feeling so attached to her. Not like this. Yet her words moved him all the same. “Very well. Quickly, get inside.” He helped her into the coach and gave the driver his address, and it began to rattle down the street. Lawrence breathed a sigh of relief as Zehra sat beside him. Without thinking, he curled an arm around her shoulders and tucked her against his side. She stiffened a moment but then relaxed, and he enjoyed the feel of her feminine form so close to him. Her lips parted and her hands clenched in her skirts as she leaned toward the window, peering through the curtains. Her eyes were fixed on the streets.

“It is so different here,” she murmured.

“Different?” he asked, curious.

“Yes.” She pointed at the moonlit streets, and despite her blush, there was a fire and steadiness in her voice and gaze as she spoke.

“Please, tell me what you meant to say.” He wanted her to speak. That soft voice of hers was heaven-sent, and he could’ve listened to her talk for hours. He usually liked to hear women sigh or moan his name, but from Zehra he wanted conversation. He sensed that anything she said would have meaning.

“It’s so cold and harsh here. My home was warm and colorful.”

“Where is your home?” he asked, half afraid she wouldn’t tell him.

“Persia,” she replied softly.

He blinked. “Wait, the auctioneer wasn’t lying? You really are from Persia?” She nodded, and he smiled. “Does that mean you are a princess too?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, a soft twinkle in her eyes.

She seemed so afraid, so hesitant around him, but he understood. She was a brave woman facing a life as a slave if she couldn’t trust him. He was about to ask her why she wanted to stay here with him, but the coach rolled to a stop and the driver announced his address. He moved to get out first and relished lifting her down from the coach. Nothing seemed more wonderful than holding her close in his arms, and he hated having to set her down on the ground and let go.

With a furtive glance about, he saw the street was empty, so they rushed up the steps to his door. His butler, Mr. MacTavish, was waiting for him. The old stout Scotsman’s eyes widened at the sight of Zehra, but he did not question her presence. Lawrence had kept a fair number of mistresses in recent years, which meant a lady after midnight was not completely unexpected. They didn’t usually stay for more than a night, so MacTavish would likely be surprised by Zehra staying longer.

“MacTavish, this is Miss Zehra Darzi, and she is my esteemed guest. Please have a chamber prepared for her.”

The old Scotsman blinked in momentary confusion. “Not your room?” he queried, his tone polite and careful.

“No. Miss Darzi will have her own chambers. She will advise you what her needs are with regard to meals and anything else.”

Lawrence paused at the base of the stairs, Zehra at his side as he looked at her. “You do not have a maid… I’ve only just realized you must have nothing. How foolish of me.”

Zehra shook her head. “I had a maid back home, of course, but she was…” Her words trailed off. She seemed to consider her next words carefully. “She is no longer with me.”

MacTavish interjected. “Er… Shall I make inquiries first thing in the morning to procure a maid for the lady?”

Lawrence replied, “Yes,” at the same time Zehra said, “No.”

“You will have need of a maid while you remain here,” Lawrence explained. “I can’t ask my upstairs maids to spend time away from their duties to assist you. I would much prefer you have a maid ready to see to your every need, not to mention your changes of clothes.”

Her cheeks pinkened, and she glanced away. “I have only this gown. A maid shall not be needed.”

Lawrence gaped at her. “Zehra, you wound me.” He was teasing, but the flash of panic in her eyes made him move on hastily. “You have met me under the least reputable circumstances, I know, but rest assured you will be treated properly under my roof.” He stroked her cheek, loving the way her eyes dilated. “That means, I’m afraid, that you must endure a new wardrobe.”

Zehra stared at him in disbelief as he led her upstairs. Below them, MacTavish called for servants to attend to them.

“You may rest in my chambers for now until they have your room prepared.” He escorted her to his own room and ushered her inside. A fire was lit, and Lawrence knew a tray of food would soon be sent up, but for now at least, he could get Zehra settled. She lingered by the door, her elegant fingers twining in the silk of her gown. Lawrence longed to reach out and touch those hands again, to reassure her that all was well, but he feared she still did not trust him.

“Please, sit. I can offer you wine or a bit of brandy?” He started toward the decanters on his side table, then his face turned a ruddy red. “I suppose you don’t drink spirits do you? I apologize if I caused any offense.

“No, it’s fine. I do drink occasionally. My mother wasn’t Persian and I was raised in two different cultures. I would like a glass of wine please,” Zehra replied as she seated herself in the first chair by the fire. He poured her a glass and handed it to her, then sat in the chair watching her. She gulped heavily. Her father would have disapproved but her mother had often let her have a glass of wine in secret when it was just the two of them and Zehra was quite partial to it.

“Did they provide you with enough sustenance at the White House?”

“The White House?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, the brothel where you…”

“Oh.” Her cheeks turned dark red. “A little. I had a glass of water and a piece of bread around midday—”

“God’s teeth!” Lawrence cursed. The poor woman had been starved. She jumped at his outburst. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that the more I learn of this place the more furious it makes me.” That wasn’t nearly a strong enough word, but he wasn’t about to tell this poor frightened woman he wanted to go back and raze the place to the ground.

Zehra sipped her wine more slowly, her eyes locked on his as though seeking to ascertain if he was still a threat. She ought to have a minute alone, even from him. It might give her time to adjust and feel safer.

“I think I’ll go down and have some extra food brought up. Please stay here and warm yourself by the fire.”

He left her alone, feeling she could do with a bit of quiet after the horrors she’d suffered. It was clear from her speech that she was a highborn lady and not used to the treatment she’d endured. Not that any woman should be used to it. MacTavish was in the hallway waiting for him, his dark brows drawn together in concern.

“My lord, is she… Does she need anything?”

“Yes. Food. Have everything Cook can make sent up at once.”

His butler nodded, and by MacTavish’s hesitation it was clear that he sensed Zehra was not a typical guest.

“I shall explain everything to you once it’s safe. It is for her sake, not mine, that we must have secrecy.”

MacTavish nodded. He’d served Lawrence since Lawrence had turned twenty and was no stranger to taking orders of a peculiar nature. “The maids will see to her room, and I will let everyone know that this guest is special and her presence a secret.”

“Thank you. Apologize to everyone for the late hour.” Lawrence walked downstairs to his study, where he pulled out a bit of parchment and prepared a quill and fresh ink pot. He hesitated, however, when he put his quill tip down.

What would he say to his brother? Apologize for buying a woman when he’d vowed he would not interfere? Yet what should he have done? Sit idly by as a woman had her freedom stripped from her? If anything, it was his brother’s fault for not properly warning him.

He had taken one look at Zehra and knew he couldn’t let her be taken by another man. There was something about her eyes and how she moved. It brought back memories so far in the recesses of his mind, and they seemed to whisper to him, but he couldn’t pull them into the light, couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing—or half remembering.

Yes, there was something about Zehra that he could not get out of his mind. She reminded him too much of the young woman from the brothel years before, though not directly in looks, of course. It was the situation as a whole. It felt as though he’d been given a second chance to right a past wrong.

He stared hard at the parchment. With a curse, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire. As he watched the embers eat away at it, he sighed and looked up at the ceiling to where Zehra sat now, one floor above.

She was a lovely woman who’d been through a horrifying ordeal, and he was moved by her in ways that were far too dangerous. He’d never considered himself a true gentleman—he took after his older brother, Lucien, far too much. As his mother had said more than once, “Rogues run in the family.” If he kept Zehra under his roof for very long, he would have trouble remaining a gentleman.

Yet he was not a man who ever forced seduction on any woman, either. He did have some scruples he still clung to, by God. But if she gave him any indication she wished to share his bed, he most certainly would not turn her down. The problem would be in determining if such a request was genuine or out of some sense of obligation. He wouldn’t abide the latter.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, frowning. This week his entire family was to be present for various summer parties in London, and he would no doubt be forced to attend these events as well, but what of Zehra?

He would have to keep his Persian princess safely tucked away for now. He could still see the look of fear in her eyes as she begged him to keep her, even though he’d promised her freedom. Something had frightened her about being returned home. It was a mystery—one he had every intention of getting to the bottom of once she had a chance to rest.

Lord, he was thankful no other man had bid against him. Seven thousand was an unbelievable sum, one he would have trouble explaining should anyone question his accounts—that was assuming the White House was able to use it, which was unlikely given that the Bow Street Runners were tearing the brothel apart. But he had won, and he was relieved she’d come home with him. She was safe now and would remain so under his watch.